The painted room
Date: 2022-12-15T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: First loves -- Fiction; Mate selection -- Fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction; Middle West -- Fiction; Families -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The painted room

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Title: The painted room

Author: Margaret Wilson

Release date: December 15, 2022 [eBook #69549]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Harper & Brothers, Publishers, 1926

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69549

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PAINTED ROOM ***

The Painted Room

By

Margaret Wilson

Author of "THE KENWORTHYS"
and
"THE ABLE MCLAUGHLINS"

Harper & Brothers, Publishers
New York and London
1926

THE PAINTED ROOM

Copyright, 1926, by
Harper & Brothers
Printed in the U. S. A.

THE PAINTED ROOM

Chapter One

Little Martha Kenworthy, to use her own careless expression, was "in bad with her dad," as usual. But she was not a girl to be disturbed by a trifle of that sort. She had been home only a few days from her college in the east for her second summer holiday, and had been followed too closely by official comments on her term's work. The only explanation she saw fit to give to her father on that subject was to the effect that he should forget it. Her mother had taken him aside and said privately, firmly, and coaxingly:

"Now, Bob, I'm not going to have that child's life made miserable by somebody else's brilliance. It isn't Martha's fault that she hasn't phenomenal brains. I'm not going to have her scolded for being like me."

"Miserable! Huh! There's a fat chance of her being miserable. It would be a mighty good thing if some one could make her miserable a few minutes. That's what I'm trying to get at! She's got enough brains, if she wasn't too lazy to use them. She'll be fired next term if she isn't careful, and then where'll you be? I'm going to make her quit this eternal fooling around."

"Bronson's spoiled you, Bob. That's all the matter with you. You're always wishing Martha would dazzle people, sort of make them sit up and blink, the way he used to. It's all right for a boy to be so terribly clever, but it would be awkward for a woman. It would make her conspicuous, Bob."

"Well, I wouldn't care so much, Emily, if I could even get a rise out of her about it. I light into her, and you know what she says! 'Yes, daddy! Yes, daddy!' like a little angel. And she hasn't the least idea of doing anything about it. If she'd get good and mad about it once, we could get some place. She just goes on like a little mule!"

"No one but you ever calls her a mule, Bob," Emily cajoled him. "Other people seem to lead her about easy enough."

"Yes! Toward a dance, they do. But how about a trigonometry?"

"You ought to have married a Phi Beta Kappa, Bob, with a golden key. You never asked to see my school reports when you married me; that's where you made your mistake. She's her mother's own child, you know."

"I never saw a kid less like her mother in my life! I never saw anybody like her. I know I only got through exams. by the skin of my teeth, but I did work now and then."

"Martha works hard enough when anything interests her. You ought to see people look at her room, Bob. Grace, Mrs. Phillips, said to me day before yesterday, 'Goodness, Emily, you've got a clever daughter. How old is Martha? I thought she was only nineteen.' She doesn't think she's stupid, Bob. You just wait. Martha'll make you proud of her yet!"

"Oh, I'm waiting, all right. I've always been waiting. You might hurry her along a bit, old girl!"

So Bob had waited all that day, without seizing more than two or three fleeting opportunities to "roast" her about that report, and he was still waiting the next noon in a rather abused mood for some of those signs of promise that his wife was always talking about. He was thinking about it as he walked up to dinner, when he suddenly shuddered to recognize his car, that he ought to have been riding home in, disguised by loads of flowers, overflowing with bobbed heads, young arms and joys and shriekings, turned violently—to escape crashing into a milk truck—up over the curb into a neighbor's lawn, just missing an altogether unyielding elm.

Martha was clever enough at least to avoid her father until dinner was on the table. Emily, helping the crippled old maid-of-all-work in the dining room, heard them at it as they came in toward the table.

"I say you were coming around that corner at forty miles an hour!" Then suddenly stopping: "What's this, Emily! No company for dinner? Where's all the gang? My g-o-oodness! this is a treat! I told you, Martha——!"

Bob spoke with the abruptness of a man who sells hundreds of cars a year, and repairs thousands while their drivers wait. And Martha, when she bothered to reply to him, spoke like a siren from some island of lotus eaters. Her sentences, instead of ending crisply, trailed away rather, and were lost in indifference. Emily scarcely knew what to make of her, at times, nowadays. She had always been a quiet child. On the occasions of high delight in her childhood, which made other children laugh and shout and dance about with glee, little Martha had always stood still, her hands clasped together, and shone all over, with her gray eyes, her little pursed-up mouth, her whole little soft face. The shouting, squealing, roaring sort of little rejoicers are lovely, too, Emily had often thought. But this distinctive rising into shining quietness which was so characteristically Martha, had been a rare and fascinating kind of infant charm. And now, in the blossom of her maidenhood, Martha seemed instinctively to have chosen quietness, and passivity for her weapon of defense and conquest. When she flirted, and when she quarreled with her father, her voice was like the falling of "tired eyelids on tired eyes." Emily had said to Bob, perplexed by Martha's unconciliatory behavior to one whom Emily would have called in her youth an admirer, "Johnnie just wants to grab Martha and give her a shaking when she looks at him like that." And Bob replied, indignantly: "You bet your bottom dollar he does! That's why she does it!"

And now Martha, consuming a chop with haste, displeased with her father's outburst, lifted her eyes slowly toward him and looked at him casually for a moment, and then, letting her eyelashes fall, devoted herself to the chop, as she might have given a moment's careless attention to an English sparrow perched on the window sill of the house across the road. And she drawled, unperturbed to the last degree:

"I think you're mistaken, dad. I don't believe I was driving that fast. And, anyway, I stopped in time. A miss is as good as a mile, I suppose."

"Not with my car, it isn't. Not by a damned sight! You'd think it was a Lizzie the way you treat it. A mile is better than a miss with you, and don't you forget it! If this happens again, I won't let you drive the car all summer!"

"I said I was sorry, didn't I? I said I wouldn't do it again. You never saw me do a thing like that before, did you?"

"No, I didn't, young lady. You didn't imagine I was anywhere about, or I wouldn't have seen you this time, either! I give you credit for that much sense, at least!"

"How sweet of you, daddy!"

"Can't you see what you did?" Bob demanded, excited by her indifference. "Can't you see that if——"

"You talk as if I'd plowed up all Parker's lawn. By the way, why don't you get that bridge on Whinney's road fixed, father? Have we got to go that dusty detour all summer every time we want a game of golf, when we're only here three months?"

"Do you hear that, Emily? I try to put a little sense into her head, and she begins blaming me because that road isn't mended. Do you think the roads in this county are made for you kids? 'You haven't had that car a year,' Perkins says to me yesterday, 'and it looks like a bootleggers' express.' 'Bootleggers nothing! It's the women,' I said. 'They may be frail, but fenders crumble under them.' I remember I said to you——"

"Mother, why don't you speak up? You aren't functioning. After all, we worked all morning getting you those flowers, and this is all the thanks we get for it. I tell you, mommie, there are absolute tubs of delphiniums in Carson's cellar. Heavenly blues! They'll look cooler than anything to-night. This afternoon we're——"

"How could you expect to see anything with all that stuff piled in front of you?"

"Stuff! He calls them 'stuff.' They're all named varieties," she said, "with pedigrees behind them."

"Emily, I tell you the car looked like a florist's moving. That young fool of a Johnnie Benton riding clear home on the running board with his arms full of——"

"I wouldn't let him inside, mother." Martha spoke virtuously. "I knew you didn't want them all crushed."

"And if he hadn't seen that truck, and hollered and jumped——"

"Well, anyway, he saved the flowers, I'll say that for him. It's more than I expected him to do, if he did get a fall."

"And he didn't even have a shirt on, Emily. His coat flew open as he fell——"

"Oh, Bob, surely he must have had a shirt on! What did he have on, Martha?"

"I'm sorry I don't know, mother. I didn't understand father wanted me to examine all the fellows' B.V.D.'s. He'd been playing tennis, and he just grabbed some sweater when we hollered to him to come along. Next time I pick up a man, I'll say to him, 'If you haven't got a nice proper undershirt on, you can't go riding in my father's car.'"

Bob snorted.

"Who said anything about undershirts? A nice thing for a girl like you to be talking about!"

"You mean he didn't have an undershirt on? He wasn't certainly stark naked, mother." Martha suddenly had become prim.

"All I say is, he wasn't dressed right to go riding with girls. You listen to what I'm saying, Martha! If you had gone bang into the truck, not a bone in your body——"

And what happened then to interrupt him, Bob said happened every time he tried to "settle" Martha. A hooting and a tooting of horns, and laughing and whistles, from the street intervened. Martha jumped up.

"There they are," she said to her mother. "Send the car up by three, dad. I suppose you can trust the old bus to me if mother is along. It isn't a Rolls-Royce, after all." She stood gobbling down the dessert. With her fork she pushed together the last crumbs on her plate, and lifting it, she turned her smooth bobbed head halfway towards her father, and practically winking one gray eye towards her mother, she remarked, demurely, with an indifference that made the words absurd:

"My God! That was some cherry pie!"

Bob watched her depart, wilting, and turned to his wife.

"There you are, Emily!" he protested. It was as if he said, "Look how your child acts." She was, in fact, still Emily's child, as she had always been. Bob accepted responsibility now for her no more than ever. "She talks as if I was a Long Island millionaire. As if she couldn't waste her precious time saving a mere Packard from a smash-up. How many times have I told her not to pile more than eight people into the car? And thirteen of them piled out. One after another. Sitting on one another's laps. Just sitting on one another. A fat chance of the boys using their own cars when they can get a girl to hold on their knees. And when I bawled her out, she said there were only two in the front seat! If Johnnie hadn't happened to see that truck——!" Bob shrugged. "And all she says, in the end, is, 'Send up the old bus. My God! What a pie!'"

"Well, Bob, I've told you that she's reached years of discretion——"

"Discretion! That's a good one!"

"She chooses to use your expressions. I'm not going to say anything. I spanked her often enough for it when she was a baby. Anyway, she only does it to annoy you. She never uses it with me."

"God alone knows what she uses when she's with that gang!"

"Oh, well, they're having a good time, Bob. She won't be home many more summers."

"Why won't she? Where's she going?"

"I don't know—exactly. I mean—she'll be getting married. She'll be taking up some work."

And Emily, sitting there enjoying her juicy sweet cherries thoroughly, found some pleasure in the situation. At least, it had its elements of satisfaction in it, even though the growing—what should she call it?—misunderstanding between Martha and Bob made her sigh, often. For twenty years she had been annoyed, inwardly and ineffectively, by Bob's choice of expletives. And this chit of a child, by her occasional use of them that made her father shudder, kept him free from them for weeks together. If in her childhood he had ignored her, at least undervalued her, he was getting well paid for it just at present.

"Just as if I hadn't said a word to her! 'Send up the car at three,' she says, just like that, as if it was her car. You'd think the only reason a father existed was to keep a car in repair for her."

"Well, that is one reason for them existing. Besides, she did say she was sorry. She said it two or three times. She promised not to do it again. I'm never afraid when she's driving, Bob. She never seems to me to lose her head."

"Oh no. Of course not. She's mighty careful to keep you on her side. She wouldn't——"

"On her side, old silly," Emily said, soothingly. "You talk as if there was some quarrel between you two. You know very well that if there was I'd never let her know I was, for a second. She's worked like a Trojan for to-night. I didn't see how I could possibly get over to Elgin this afternoon. And she offered to drive me over."

"Never you mind about that! She'll not miss anything. She'll go shopping while you call, if she can find anything worth buying. Or else she's made a date to meet somebody. I bet three minutes after she leaves you there, she'll have some young idiot making eyes at her in that car. I'll bet you a dollar she's 'phoned some of them she's coming over."

"Well, suppose she has, Bob. What do you expect of a girl? Do you want her to sit in the car with her eyes shut till I'm ready to come home? Why shouldn't she call up her friends?"

"Oh, I know it, Emily. But it's the principle of the thing. They're such a lazy bunch. They never do a thing but spend money and dance. That's what Fielding was saying to me."

Emily giggled perversely—effectively.

"Oh, well; have it your own way. They're all angels, if you say they are. I never interfere with them. Give them enough rope and they'll all hang themselves."

"Have some more pie," Emily urged. "A little more pie won't hurt you. I've got to begin canning cherries to-morrow."

"Oh, can the canning! What do you want to stew in the kitchen for, weather like this?"

When Emily left the table she went quickly to the kitchen. Strange how the maid's conscience could prick the mistress! Old Maggie now was crippled and Emily had promised to take the ironed clothes yesterday from the clothes horse and put them away. She had forgotten, almost cruelly forgotten, for to have something done on Thursday that should have been done on Wednesday was pain to Maggie. To that pathetic sensitiveness her years of faithful service had brought her. No woman in town but Emily would have endured the crankiness of the old thing, the neighbors said. But Emily from infancy had been used to her tyranny, and to her any servant was better than none at all. She apologized for having forgotten. And Maggie, hobbling around, demanded that she look at Martha's best "chimmey." The woman had scorched it, burned it, and doubled her fault carefully in so Emily wouldn't see it. And Emily looked at it, and grumbled a little, sympathizingly, and then spoiled the effect of her good deed by saying the garment was almost worn out, anyway. Whereat Maggie snorted. Did that excuse the careless, lazy, sneaky woman for folding it in so deceitfully? Certainly not, Emily hurried to assure her, trying to sound efficient and superior, and knowing as she went through the living room with an armful of mending that she had seemed as usual but a broken reed to the old thing who needed something strong, now, to lean on.

Bob saw her task, and said, of course:

"Why don't you make Martha do that for you?"

"You know she's gone to work on the committee, getting things ready for to-night. She's busy."

"Busy! Huh!" remarked Bob.

Emily had intended to get a lot of work done before Martha came back for her. Those bathroom sash curtains really must be changed. But a neighbor "ran in" for a minute. She wanted to talk about her grandchild, and Emily forgot her hurry. And then she thought she would take some of those lovely columbines to her friend's mother in Elgin. And so she went out and cut some, and wasn't at all ready to go when Martha came for her, calling up to her to hurry if she wanted to get back by five. But Emily seized her and made her wait.

"Martha, sit down a minute. Listen to me. You're a bad child. You ought to be spanked. I wish——"

"Oh, I know it, mother," Martha answered, sincerely. "I'm the limit. Can you imagine me talking that way to anyone else? But dad does get my goat, some way. What does he want to keep on after me for, after I've told him I'm sorry? He's just got into the habit of ya-ya-ya-ing at me, and he'll just have to get out of it. I'm not going to have it. Did you see him writhe, mother, when I mygodded him?" And Martha chuckled.

"We've had enough of that now, Martha! You can stop that just now. You know I don't think you're the one to correct your father!"

"But if I don't, who will? You're no good at it. You're too good-natured with him, you old precious lamb. He knows you don't like his godding. Does he stop? I know he doesn't like mine. Do I stop? We've got to be logical."

Emily smiled witheringly.

"Your logic is always so unexpected. Do behave yourself. You might at least ask him to send up the car, instead of ordering him to. He doesn't keep it for your benefit, you know."

"Oh, I don't know about that. If he keeps it just for himself, he's a selfish pig. If he keeps it partly for ours, why should we hesitate to acknowledge it? You're always defending him."

"Defending him from whom? He doesn't need any defense that I know of. He hasn't got any enemies."

"Well, maybe I shouldn't have said defense. That's not the word, maybe. But you'll have to acknowledge that he needs a good deal of—ahem—explanation, mother. You see for yourself he stops swearing like a sailor when I take him in hand. Everybody says 'My God.' But when he uses it you'd think he was a drunken sailor. Mother, come along. There's all that decoration to do when we get back. You can't trust them to do anything unless somebody's there to boss them. Get your hat."

They went out of the door together, and down the front walk to where the car waited in thick shade. The famous barberry hedge that divides the Kenworthy front lawn from the street dozes faintly in June, waking really only in October. But the lindens whose branches almost met across the narrow street were in the murmurous climax of leaf and blossom that day. Emily climbed into the car. Martha jumped in, slipped into the driving seat, and banged the door after her. Now Emily, when necessity compelled her to manipulate Bob's car, approached it humbly and coaxed it into action, praying it would get around the next corner safely. But Martha just seized it, and slapped it into obedience, and imperiously commanded it hither and thither hastily. Emily never saw her take charge of it without a sort of impulse of awe. The car, like everything else expensive, seemed to become the girl. She moved her hands on the large steering wheel with that surprising composure which Emily had admired from her babyhood. She always drove bareheaded. The breeze scarcely disturbed her hair, which was cut and combed almost as it had been ten years ago, when Jim Kenworthy used to sit and stroke it thoughtfully. There was never a day when Martha was at home that Emily didn't notice how distinguished the absolute straightness and fineness of that black hair seemed among shingled and marcelled heads. Bob didn't like bobbed hair, but he didn't make such an absolute fool of himself on the subject as some men did. Emily herself liked to think that there had never been any "putting up" of hair for her daughter. There had never been a day when a box of hairpins definitely divided her maturity from her childhood. There had never been any letting down of skirts for Martha. Her frocks, still cut simply, hung from her shoulders to—well, why should a man go fussing on indefinitely about the length of his daughter's skirts, after they had been determined! Of course, if Martha had had fat legs, and shaky hips, like some girls whose names might be mentioned, Emily might not have admired the prevailing styles so sincerely. But Martha was built slenderly enough, gracefully enough, to justify them, Emily thought, looking at her sitting there like a little child, in that pink gingham frock, uncorseted, unrestrained, all delicately and subtly blooming with color.

And Emily, though she enjoyed her daughter in perfect whiffs of satisfaction, looked at her not without uneasiness. For she knew, when she sat looking at that child, that she was seeing bodily before her eyes nineteen years of her life; and not the quantity of it only, but the very quality, the very flavor of it. Everything she had done she had done for that child; all that she had left undone she had left undone for her. Even Jim, the brother of her husband, whom she had loved, she had given up, she had kept distant from, for this child's sake. Often since he had died, six years ago, she had regretted that renunciation. She had thought bitterly at times that if she had gone to him, divorced or not divorced, child or no child, he might—who knew?—be living still. But generally, when she thought of it all, when Martha was with her, she had been glad of her decision. Martha was surely reward enough for any sacrifice a woman could make.

Because Martha was happy. That was the whole point. If her mother had divorced her father, or deserted him, surely there must have been something like a shadow, a sort of dimness, over the child's consciousness. But now how gay she was, how perfectly gay and light-hearted. For Emily, who had been an unhappy lonely young girl, that was enough. She fervently now loved the months when the whole house rose up to the zest of youth, when the rugs were rolled up and the victrola going, when the refrigerator was raided nightly, when the clothes lines were always adorned with swimming suits, the bathroom overflowing with girls, the railings even of the veranda lined with lads, cigarettes gleaming in the darkness of the garden—why ask whether feminine or masculine cigarettes—when there was no sleep till the last lingering car departing had made the night strident. Bob grumbled incessantly about Martha's company. But must not an only child, most of all, have friends about? "You'd think the house was run for that girl," Bob complained. And Emily answered to herself, for she was a wise one: "If this house of mine is run eight months of the year for you, why shouldn't it be run four months of the year for her?" But she said only: "Too bad! It's just a shame."

For physically, she got tired of it herself. Thank Heaven the rush which had been accumulating for weeks would be over this evening! It was an added misfortune that the old friend visiting in Elgin had 'phoned that Emily must come to see her this very afternoon, or miss her altogether. So here she and Martha, in the midst of the preparations, were slipping across counties together, as if distance was nothing. And truly to Martha Kenworthy it was nothing worth raising an eyelash excitedly about. They slipped silently by cornfields, with straight little lines of green checking away geometrically for level miles. They slipped by alfalfa-green fields, clover-green fields, oat-green fields, wheat-green fields, farmhouses, high loads of balancing hay, milk trucks. The sun was hot. The air was clear. The sky was blue. And on the horizon magnificently distant, beyond those subtle sloping fields, rose towering white and blooming higher, in puff upon puff and fold upon fold, huge white culminating clouds of dreams. Emily, lulled almost to unconsciousness, saw a black one rising ominously among them.

* * * * * * * * *

"Look at that!" she murmured, breaking a fragrant silence.

Martha looked.

"We should worry!" she replied. She was right, of course. Nothing less than an earthquake could spoil the climax of the women's triumph now.

The growth of their conception, the building of their dream into concrete foundations and that perfect dancing floor, was a thing that every woman who had had a hand in it was wondering over this week, and Emily had more reason than most of them to wonder. For she was by nature less a committee woman than any of them. She had to think out every step of her participation in it, to believe she was really part of it. She always forgot even her most important motives, and puzzled afterwards over all the reasons for her actions which at the time had seemed obvious. In her early married life she had been too poor and too busy to consider the women's club. Besides, it had been bullied then by the aunt whose house Emily had escaped from by marriage. And after the aunt died, and Emily moved again into the good house her grandfather and aunt had been rebuilding for some seventy years, she had not wanted to take her place in the circle which might, she suspected, be discussing the gossip about her husband's speculation with some money her aunt had intrusted to him. And she had had a baby then, soon after she had come back to the house, a poor little starving son who kept her and Bob bending over him night and day for nearly two years. And then Jim had come to them, bringing his tragic son. And her old girlish love for him had risen like a flood, like a flood that never burst its dam, but pushed and pounded there against it—till Jim died.

Life had collapsed then. Just collapsed. It had no content at all. She had come to realize that most of the years of her married life had been given their value by her love of her first lover, her husband's brother. From the day he took his departure from town until the next time he came to see his mother, she had lived in anticipation of the days when he would be about the house, "jollying" in his charming way, his frail and doting mother, and playing about with Martha, and every minute, under his discreet and brotherly words, loving her, the girl he had so incredibly missed marrying. There had been for her then that certainty, and besides that, some place in the depth of her mind a vague, foolish, romantic, unacknowledged hope of some time, some place, loving him altogether. She had to believe that that little hope had been the mainspring of her life. For, after his death, without it, she couldn't go on, she had thought desperately. Life had stopped.

And just then that woman, Mrs. Benton, who had lived in the next block for years, suddenly strode into Emily's consciousness, in the same way that a few years before she had landed with a running jump in the defenseless mind of the community. Mrs. Benton had had an only daughter who had been drowned. She had brooded over the fact for a while, and then risen and said she was going to have every child in that inland town taught to swim. As a memorial to that daughter she would make the town a swimming beach. She had bought a wooded stretch of the river bank. She had dammed the river. She had made a great dark bottomless swimming place for the strong lads, and little clear wading pools for the toddlers. She had made sunny diving places and shady diving places and steep gravel banks and grassy inclines, and dressing rooms of varieties. And all summer she stationed guards there and instructors, and got Johnnie Weismuller to come down to her yearly water festivals, to do his stunts and encourage the winners of all the water races. It was impossible to imagine a swimming beach more skillfully managed. The Rotarians had to acknowledge that the beach was the town's best booster. Who could deny that farmers came now to trade in that town, with their Fords and their Cadillacs packed full of eager bathing suits who had been kept in order the whole week by the promise of a swim on Saturday?

After that, she had gone on to improve the city and ruin the temper of the taxpayers. She had built and she had paved and she had investigated, she had reformed and she had tested laws, and she had hoisted taxes. Men said horrid things about Mrs. Benton. They said, "she was out to raise municipal hell," and that she was "just too damned efficient to live." And when a small boy, a mere little unconsidered Hicks child, quarreling with his playmate, cried, "You needn't think you can go Bentoning around my back yard," they took up the verb derisively and put it into all the male mouths of the county, where it lives to this day.

No sooner had the beach become a success beyond any expectation, than Mrs. Benton had addressed the women's club. "Our children," she said, "swim now from June to October de luxe; and from October to June they dance—how? Behind the Greek's candyshop, where those obscene pictures were found, in the old hall that has no ventilation, or the old opera house controlled by bootleggers. Why should the women not build a winter gathering-place for their children equal to the summer center?" The women had said, "We will." "I wish I could afford to do it all myself," she said. And the plan they made knocked the breath out of their menfolk. Why, demanded husbands, couldn't they listen to common sense and build an ordinary hall? They didn't want a cheap hall. Why couldn't they build it in the town park? It was too low there, and hot and crowded. Why must it be built on the hill across the river from the beach, to which no paved road led, and no bridge was convenient? They some way liked that hill. Why not pave a road and build a bridge and make a great new municipal parking place, which had to be done sooner or later? The city council refused to have any such white elephant forced upon them. White elephant, indeed, the women echoed, Mrs. Benton leading them. A mere kitten for the baby to play with.

If the council wouldn't accept it, very well. The women's club would build it to suit itself, would manage it, and endow it. And through four years of opposition and complications they had worked steadily on, straight to the dedication of the hall which now, full of the morning delphiniums, waited for its evening christening. And Emily was very tired.

For Mrs. Benton was clever enough to realize her own weaknesses, and in launching the dancing-center plan she had felt the need of some one to pour oil on the waters she troubled. And there was Emily Kenworthy, just at hand, who was, as Johnnie Benton said, a "natural born oil-can," an easy-going woman who got along with anyone, even that cranky old servant that bossed her around. So Mrs. Benton had pounced upon Emily. And Emily had submitted, with misgivings, welcoming any relief from the vacancy of life she had suffered since Jim's death. The strife of it all was nothing to Emily. She had never found stimulus in overcoming opposition. She had no respect for committees, no interest in rules of order. Blue prints made her yawn, and the very idea of signing her name to a contract oppressed her. From the first she had seen the project merely as a toy for Martha, a patch of sunlight in her daughter's background. It had been only her interest in Martha and all those children about her that had kept Emily working away these five years, while one woman after another had resigned in fury.

Emily had been so unhappy as a child that her mind enjoyed playing with the idea of a beautiful gathering-place all lighted and shining by a multitude of happy boys and girls. She had always liked the children who played about with Martha. And since that summer during the war, when Jim's son, that dear, befuddled, tragic Bronson, had carried the burden of his unnecessary sorrow all those weeks unsuspected beneath her very eyes, she had never passed a half-grown lad on the street without a second wondering look at him. How could a town be stupid, she often wondered, having in it a world esoteric, unexplored, unimagined for the most part by adults, very jungles of young terror hiding adolescent beds of precious ore. "How do you come to know all the children in town?" women asked Emily more than once. "They can't all come to see Martha." But if you're interested, you do get to know them some way. They run errands, they deliver groceries, they come about selling tickets to high-school plays, they spray the apple trees in the spring, they borrow books—they just some way hang about. At least that was Emily's explanation.

The whole community she had come to think of as a nursery for Martha and her kind. Her grandfather, to be sure, had laid out the main street of the town, and Bob had adorned one corner of it recently with a huge yawning garage, but the real importance to Emily of those streets was the fact that Martha and her friends strolled along them towards their sundaes. Her grandfather had planted the trees about the house. But Emily had come to esteem them because they had afforded high swings for little girls. Emily had first seen Jim Kenworthy under the willow that leaned out over the river where her back yard meets the water. Bob had proposed to her in that very spot. But now that tree was precious because Martha's boat was generally anchored there. And when Bob talked of sawing off that lower limb, to build a new garage, she had risen in arms because Martha had as a child spent hours in that broad seat it made. She had never been allowed herself to climb trees, but Martha had spent whole mornings there, and soon, in not many years, well—who could tell, maybe Martha's own boys and girls would be hiding their treasures in those lovely soft hollow places within reach of young hands. She couldn't just say to Bob that she was saving that very low limb for her grandchildren, could she? And she never exactly said to Mrs. Benton that she was working for the community hall because she didn't want Martha to dance only out there in the country club aloof from the life of the town. Emily had been taught to consider the Western town a place scarcely worthy of her Eastern breeding. She wasn't going to have any such nonsense as that with Martha. She'd send her East to school, but she was to feel herself altogether Western. And it was high time she did, too, since she was the fourth generation to live in the West.

However, whatever the motives, whatever the difficulties, the work had been accomplished. Day by day, all the spring putting in whole mornings over the finishing of it, they had labored away, and they would be infinitely relieved when it was over to-morrow. Emily was weary with it all. The car rolled along, smoothly, as usual, when Martha took it over the bad roads, and, musing sleepily, she thought of all the women had done, and wondered pleasantly why this old friend she was going to see had decided so suddenly to return to her home that Emily must come to see her a few minutes that very afternoon. She was almost asleep when she heard Martha's voice, a rather stern tone of it:

"Mother!"

"Well?"

"I don't often criticize you, do I now?"

"Not very often. I suppose you're a rather tolerant daughter, as daughters go. What have I done now?" Emily yawned.

"I was just thinking about things. Both dad and Uncle Jim lived in this town when you were a girl, didn't they?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Why didn't you marry Uncle Jim, then?"

Emily sat up.

"Why, Martha Kenworthy! What put such an idea into your head?"

"Dad puts it there, of course. It's been there for years, off and on. I didn't tell you what was in my head, when I was a kid."

"Oh, you didn't, didn't you?" The idea of her saying that!

"No, I didn't dare. I——"

"Martha!" Emily expostulated.

"Well, I didn't. I've often wondered about it. I told Maggie once I liked Uncle Jim most, and she said bad little girls who said things like that died in their sleep. It seems to me—of course I was just a little kid then—some way, I had sort of an affinity for Uncle Jim. Funny you never had. I wonder sometimes—— Do you suppose if he was living now I would still be so crazy about him?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"Oh, well, you know, mother, you do feel different about your forbears when you're grown up. Dad didn't used to seem—so—odious when I was a kid."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Martha," Emily answered, carelessly. She would not seem to take this seriously.

"I don't see why. Maybe Uncle Jim would have bored me just as much. Of course you always taught me to love dad when I was little. I simply had to, you might say. You used to say he never had any time to play with me. But when you come to think of it, he had loads more time than ever Uncle Jim did. He was only here sometimes, when he came to see grandma. But some way, when I look back at it, it seems as if he played with me for years, almost."

"Well, of course he did play with you whenever he came. He said it was a rest for him. He was always tired. He enjoyed fooling about with you."

"I know it. Do you remember the day he rolled up his trousers and took me wading on his shoulder? There could have been hardly any water in the river then, before it was dammed, but I thought I would have drowned if I went near it. And he played he was sinking, and ran round and round splashing, and told me I had saved his life. I didn't know whether I really had or not. Gee! mother!" Martha chuckled reminiscently. "I'll bet I would just love him if he was living."

"I'm sure you would."

"I asked you, in the first place, why you didn't marry him instead of father. You would have if you'd consulted me about it, all right. I bet I wasn't more than eight when I began to think about that. He wouldn't have been always jawing me every time I came in sight."

Emily was wide awake now.

"Why, child, I don't know, exactly. He was older than I was—a little bit. What you remember of him—all his ways of playing with you—wouldn't necessarily make a girl prefer him. You don't ever think what sort of fathers these lads would make for children, do you? These boys that play about with you."

Martha looked at her mother in indignation.

"Well, I should say I do! I'm going to have a first-class father for my children!" This was what Emily delighted in, Martha's frank way of discussing things unembarrassed with her. There was never a grown woman she could have said a thing like that to when she was a girl! "If anybody asks me to marry him," Martha continued—-"I don't mean like Johnnie and these boys—I mean in earnest——"

"Do these boys ask you to marry them?"

"Oh, you know, mother. They'd ask anybody just to try it. Johnnie's got to practice on someone——

"But suppose someone should accept him—now—I mean——"

"Oh, well, the risk would be all her own," Martha said, serenely. "If anybody asked me seriously, I'd say to him: 'Let me hear you sing backwards. Let me see you go upstairs rabbit and come down alligator.' And if he couldn't play games nicely, like Uncle Jim, I'd say there's nothing doing."

Emily laughed at the absurdity of the child.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said railingly. And then she added: "You'll wait a long time before you come across one like him. There isn't one in a million."

Martha turned and looked at her mother with deliberate curiosity.

"I should have thought you would just love him, mother!"

"I did. We all did. He had such lovely ways."

"You'd never imagine dad belonged to the same family."

"Anybody could see they did. They're very much alike. Martha, you don't do your father justice. You wait till you get into trouble and you'll see whether he's a good friend or not."

"Yes. Well, maybe I won't get into trouble. There's no certainty. I know now very well what he'd do. He'd do anything he could for me because I'm your little pet."

"You're a ridiculous child, Martha."

"I know that. You say that whenever you don't want to acknowledge I've hit the nail on the head."

"I said plainly your dad is of another temperament."

"I'll say he is!"

"Isn't life too funny?" thought Emily. "Jim's boy has spoiled Bob for Martha, and Jim makes Bob seem uninteresting to Martha. Things go too much in circles in the family," she thought to herself. And Emily sat there, not listening closely to Martha's chatter. She was thinking about her startling question. Could Martha really have wondered about that when she was eight? What was the use of imagining one saw into a child's mind! Had the child ever seen things on the face of her uncle or her mother that had made her wonder things she didn't yet dare to ask about? After all, Martha had been twelve when Jim died. An hour before Emily would have laughed at such an idea. And after all, suppose the child did understand! If she did, she understood nothing dishonorable—nothing a girl nowadays might not meditate upon.

For girls nowadays—well, Bob the other night came into the dining room declaring violently he couldn't sit on the veranda with them. That Ellis girl had been saying—and Johnnie was there, and that beach guard he runs about with—she had said right in front of those men that she had to dramatize some part of the Bible next fall term, and she had chosen the fall of Jericho because of the harlot in it. And Martha had said, "Goodness! You can find a story with more than one harlot in it. Can't she, Johnnie?" And Johnnie had had the decency to say he didn't know. He hadn't been to Sunday school for a long time. Emily had been sure Martha had done it simply to shock Bob. She defended the girls. "I don't care what you say, Bob. It's a lot better than the way I was brought up. It's just a good thing that they talk so frankly with me about such things." And yet—once in a while—she had misgivings—not so much about Martha, of course—who was a good child—but about Eve, for instance, and other girls.

Chapter Two

"You go right over to the hall," Emily had said to Martha as they arrived home after five, "and I'll do your shoulder straps for you." She had gone upstairs, and presently hurried, in a comfortable mature way, to Martha's room. She opened the door, and almost blinked, for the uncompromising afternoon sun made even yet a startling welter of the purples and greens and creamy yellows before her. And then she said: "Oh! You here, Eve?" For in that whirl of gaudiness an auburn-haired, hawk-nosed, thin-faced girl sat in flesh-colored B.V.D.'s, on a black stool, with a dishpan half full of pitted cherries on the floor beside her, and in her lap a green bowl half full of moist seeds.

"I got tired of hanging around over there. I wasn't doing anything. They're just fooling around for somebody to come and make them get to work." It was no concession to Emily's sense of propriety that made her hitch a fallen shoulder strap into decorum. Eve could have pitted cherries in Martha's sitting room stark naked with serenity. She had gone into shrieks of laughter the other day when Emily had described the careful way in which she in her girlhood, in her own room, with no man in the house, had put her arms into her wrapper in her bed, and had the essential garment all ready to pull about her as soon as she had put her first foot on the floor.

Emily said to her now, "You needn't have done those cherries, Eve."

"Oh, well, I thought I'd better be doing something to make myself popular. Everybody else is working—or pretending to." Eve grinned ingratiatingly. "Somebody called up, too, just now. That friend of Martha's. That Wilton, I think his name is."

"Oh! Is HE here?"

"Yes. Came out for to-night. Don't you like him?"

"Yes. I like him. He's a nice boy. Clever, too."

"That's what Martha said." Eve seemed always incredulous about masculine brilliancy.

"Well, he's always got scholarships. He's earned his way, really, through college."

"Hum!" commented Eve. College honors were nothing to her.

"His father is the best barber in town, too," Emily continued.

Eve turned and looked at her quickly.

"The best what?"

"Barber. You know that shop all plate glass and shining enamel that makes all the rest of the street look dirty? That's his shop. That's where we go for shampoos."

Eve had been looking at Emily curiously, and the little grin had grown into a spreading smile.

"You're the limit, Mrs. Kenworthy!" she said, admiringly. Then she saw Emily's purpose in coming, and got up. She stretched up an arm, spread her dripping fingers gingerly apart, and brushed back her hair with the inside of her elbow. "I'll do those straps. I've almost finished. Wait a minute." And she started, apparently, towards the bathroom.

"Eve! Wait! I'll put your kimona on for you!"

"Oh! I'm sorry I forgot!"

"It's almost supper time. Bob may be home any time now."

And Emily wrapped about her shoulders a wisp of georgette. And when the girl took a step forward with all the sunlight shining through her, and Emily saw through the sheer thing long pink legs, she suddenly realized why Bob had said indignantly that he would as soon meet her naked in the hall as in that thing.

She laughed and said, "Eve, you really ought to have a thicker dressing gown!"

"I have got one," Eve assured her. "I had to get one. Dad wouldn't go on the Pullman with me till he saw I had one. I hate a lot of cotton flannels."

"Crêpe de Chine would do."

"I know it. But it's sort of dowdy—crêpe de Chine. Put Martha's on me. I'll bring my own Victorian down to-morrow."

Very quick to take a suggestion, properly made, Eve was. A gratifying girl to befriend, if a puzzling one. When Bob had grumbled that he didn't see any use sending a girl to college who didn't know enough to wear clothes, Emily had replied:

"Oh, that girl is as good as gold, Bob. They all wear thin things in the halls, Martha says." Emily liked her. To be sure, the ease with which she had taken up her permanent abode at the Kenworthys' was somewhat—nonplusing. Emily had asked her, when Martha first brought her home, where she had been brought up. And she had said: "Oh, I never was brought up at all. I'm just the little prairie flower, growing wilder every hour. Just hauled about from aunt to boarding-school—between the devil and the deep sea all my tender days." Though she had said it so frankly, so seriously, Emily had thought it scarcely sufficient. But Martha had hooted at Emily's quizzings. "It's too funny the way you act, mother, as if maybe she wasn't fit to associate with your precious child. At school I'm simply nothing. I'm the least worm in the apple. But Eve's everything. The profs just eat out of her hands. She's chairman of the student council—you know—the gang that makes us all behave. She edits the magazine, and she'll be president of her class next year, as like as not. At school everybody wants to get a stand in with Eve. She'd never looked at me if her dad hadn't moved to this town. And now you don't know whether I better make her acquaintance or not!"

"You know I didn't mean that, child. I simply asked who she was and where she had lived. That's only natural. I think she's a dear."

And Emily had been reassured because it was her theory that women never again have such a capacity for judging one another rightly, and choosing friends wisely, as they have in college. No girl, she thought, looking at Eve's thin, rather over-bred face, fools a campusful of her companions. Bob said her father was always well spoken of. No one knew him very well. He had bought a great elevator in town some time ago, one of several he had in the state, and recently had bought a large old house and settled his family in it. That had consisted of his old bedridden mother and her nurse—until Eve's vacation had begun. Martha had gone at once to see her there, and, coming back, had said to Emily: "It's a funny sort of house, mother. It's furnished all right, and everything. But it looks like an orphan asylum." She had asked Eve to come and stay the night, and Eve had accepted gladly. Her grandmother, she told Emily, had been "out of her head, mildly" for months. Her nurses weren't very easy to get along with. "Dad had a hard enough time getting any he can trust grandma to," she had said, very sensibly. "He's away so much. These two are awfully good to her. I'll say that for them. They're sisters. So why should I come home for three months and ball everything up? I just keep still as a mouse and let them have their own way. Grandma never knows me. I never go into the room."

Well, that was a nice sort of place for a young girl to spend her holiday, Emily had thought. "Stay with us," she had suggested. And she hadn't had to suggest it twice. Bob grumbled every day about this steady boarder, but that didn't excite Emily unduly. She liked Eve better and better. How sweet of her now, to think of doing those cherries! She was always doing little things that Martha would never have thought of.

In fact, Emily had almost to acknowledge to herself that Eve had certain traits that Martha might well have had. Bob, of course, talked about them openly. Eve had a proper attitude towards her father, for one thing. She had said, quite naturally, that her dad was a lamb, a perfect duck, and a good old sport. And the fourth evening she had been at Emily's, the four of them, with another girl, Johnnie Benton, and another lad of the town, had been sitting on the veranda, waiting for the third lad to come in his car, so that the six of them could drive over to the lake to dance. They had heard some one come in, and called to him to come out, thinking it was the dilatory sixth. And Eve's father had come out to them.

Bob couldn't get over that scene. Eve had sprung up and hugged him and kissed him and patted him. Emily, seeing even that greeting, would have been sure that Eve's rather shocking sophistication was only a pose. For she had started at once to get her things together to go home with him. And when Johnnie Benton had protested she had turned to him indignantly. "I like your nerve!" she had cried to him. "Do you suppose I'm going to a dance with you when I haven't seen my dad for six weeks?" And she wouldn't go. They couldn't persuade her. Bob, sitting there, had seen her father relishing the situation. The man obviously overflowed with pride in his "Evelyn."

"Now, can you beat that?" Bob had demanded of Emily afterwards. "Can you imagine Martha cutting a dance for me? Maybe Eve'll do her some good. Can you beat that?"

Emily couldn't possibly imagine Martha preferring her father to a dance, or to very much else. But she wouldn't acknowledge it.

"Oh, well, Bob, that's another matter. It was sweet, the way she did it. But Eve hadn't seen him for weeks. And then, she hasn't got a mother. She's had to depend on him always. It's much more normal, I must say, for a girl to prefer a dance to her parents. You can't deny that."

"I know it. But it's the principle of the thing." And he had liked Eve, till he had met her coming from the bathroom in what he called, "an obscene Mother Hubbard."

And now, getting ready for supper, Emily wished she knew why Eve had, once, mentioned father-in-law in connection with Wilton. Bob would have laughed at her, if he had known, for she thought every man in town was in love with Martha, he said. A fat chance she had of getting near her as hard-headed a man as Wilton. He had too much sense to fall for any such kid as Martha, Bob had assured her. But how could she help thinking about it when Wilton's father had told her that he absolutely refused to leave his hospital work to come home for any dance? He was interned already, by what he called a streak of luck, but Emily knew it was rather his ability. And now he was coming out to see Martha—and his father was a barber. How could a mother help thinking about her child's matrimonial possibilities, a lovely girl of that age? "When I was her age," thought Emily, "I fell in love with Jim." And it was because she had been thinking of the possibility, any time now, of Martha's marriage, that she had tolerated the painted room.

One thing Emily Kenworthy was sure of. She had almost gritted her teeth in the intensity of her resolutions on this subject for years, whenever she had had to think over the surprising course of her own life. She had married really to get out of this very house, made intolerable to her by the tyranny of her aunt. But her daughter wouldn't ever marry to get away from her. She would never marry for freedom! Not while Emily Kenworthy knew what she was doing! Emily had few strong convictions, but that one was unalterable.

Emily loved every meal when Martha was home. That evening at supper she sat cherishing her enjoyment. Afterwards it was so amusing to be running in and out of the painted room, where Eve and Martha were dressing. No sooner had they gone up to dress, ready for the evening, than Martha called to her from the bathroom, above the noise of water steaming into the tub:

"Mother!"

When Emily went to her, there she stood, twinkling importantly.

"Got a secret to tell you, mother. Wilton said I might tell you. You're not to tell a soul, yet. Not dad!"

Emily's heart gave a protesting leap. She didn't manage to speak indifferently.

"Tell me what it is!" she commanded.

"He's engaged, mother. He came out to break the news to his dad. She's a nurse. That's good, isn't it? And he's crazy as a loon about her. He said I could tell you. He's been rushing that girl all summer, and his dad thinks he's working himself to death!" Martha smiled cynically.

What a relief! What a fine young man that Wilton was! Emily wished him every happiness she could think of. Martha didn't care a rap about him. Of course not! Trust Martha to choose exactly the right man! "Wasn't I just silly to worry about it?" Emily thought.

The pleasure of this assurance was added to the excitement of their preparations. Martha looked too sweet in that simple little flesh-colored frock. Emily kissed her impulsively. Eve looked lovely, too, but one didn't just kiss Eve on the impulse, even if she did take one's part stanchly against tender derision. Martha had been making her mother turn round and round to display her new gown. "If you know the trouble I had getting her to get it, Eve!" Martha had murmured. "It took me all the spring vacation to persuade her. I never saw a human being cling to old rags the way that woman does." And they surveyed her. She was as large, almost, as the two of them, of flowing line and generous bosom, gray-eyed, with soft brown hair. But her color, Martha said falsely, was ghastly. "You're tired out, mother. Now stand still. I bought this specially for you this afternoon. Mine don't suit you. Now don't be such a snob, mother. Stop rubbing it off! A little rouge isn't going to corrupt your morals. You'll come home as pure as you went! Mother! Oh, you're hopeless! When I try so hard to make you look presentable!" Wasn't that delicious, when one understood it? And wouldn't Bob have been annoyed to hear the child's impertinence? "Eve, look at her!" Martha begged, tragically. But Eve said: "Let her alone. You'd paint a lily, Martha. You'd marcel Thomas Hardy himself, if you got a chance. You look just sweet now, Mrs. Kenworthy!" And they turned their attention again to their own long-considered faces.

Martha certainly managed her adorning skillfully. No crude blotches of color for her. She knew what subtly became her. Her mother hadn't thought she used rouge until a few days before, when she came upon her in the act. "Why, Martha Kenworthy!" she had protested, "where did you get that stuff?" And Martha, turning to Eve, had imitated her very tone fondly. "Where did I get that stuff? Isn't she priceless, Eve? Isn't she a sort of an old treasure? I got it, to be precise, in a drug store in Madison Avenue. Not far from the station." And since then more than once she had turned her faintly tinted cheeks naughtily up for her mother's inspection. "Am I pure, mammie? Or am I painted?" she would ask. The doubt was scarcely as objectionable as the question. Pure wasn't a word girls ought to be throwing about just carelessly, it seemed to Emily. But both the girls failed to see her point. "What's the matter with 'pure,' mother? Do you like 'virgin' better?" They were just naughty, trying to shock her. And she would do better to keep her Victorian scruples, as they called them, to herself.

Or if she didn't want to keep them to herself, wrapped in paper and stored away on some upper shelf, let her discard them altogether. That was what the dancing, balloon-entangled mass of youth seemed to say to the Emily and Mrs. Benton who looked down upon it that evening from the platform. But Cora Benton, that lordly and distinguished daughter of the American Revolution, by her very presence retorted, as it were, "Yes! Lay aside Victorian scruples and New England tradition. Have I not Georgian scruples and Illinois decorum sufficient unto the day?" The city band, in brand-new maroon uniforms, was playing worse than ever, but they played—that was the point, for they had said they would never play if wireless music was to be chiefly used. The mayor and the councilors looked down on the dancers—those gentlemen who had refused to accept this hall as a gift—determined not to admit what their eyes saw, but unable to refrain. The Presbyterian minister and the Catholic priest, who planned to bless it by their presence but momentarily, still tarried, wondering. The representatives of the farm bureau and the granges were trying to estimate the number of people on the floor. All the reluctant admirers, all the gossipers, the obstructionists, the knockers, might stand on that platform, and look down over that rhythmic mass, right away to the farther side, where the dancers were swinging out on to the wide verandas to the starlight, and back again into the pink-shaded electric light—they might all gaze continually, eager to find some impropriety, anxious to see, as they had foretold, some daring lad come dripping in, in bathing suit from the adjacent swimming-place—but in it all, nothing, nothing could they find to shudder over.

For Mrs. Benton had reinforced herself, as it were, by the American Legion. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, bull-necked, yellow-haired, low-foreheaded, somebody's Dutch hired man. He had redeemed the Legion from the hands of the disreputable and he rallied about it the decent element of the community, re-established it financially—after its treasurers had absconded—made its dances popular again, and started to build it a permanent home. Mrs. Benton had wanted her hall to have the added prestige of being a sort of memorial to the county's soldiers. She had laid her plan before him, and when he had considered it and announced publicly that he had "no use for guys that was always knocking the dames," she thought she had persuaded him, although, really, a pretty farmer's daughter had put into the Legion's mind thoughts of settling down and renting a farm of his own. So he was weary of his public work. Why should he devote his evenings to running around trying to collect money when the dames were willing to leave him free to sit close to the farmer's daughter? He backed Mrs. Benton to the limit of his great ability. He had allowed no one, of late, to "dance vulgar" at his dances. And now he stood on the platform with Mrs. Benton, who knew that if he gave an order for the mayor himself to leave the floor, the whole crowd would applaud him. He was the community hero. But Mrs. Benton had no delusions about him. "A young Lincoln" the sentimental called him. But she remarked, grimly, "Easy enough to begin where Lincoln did, in Illinois. The trick is to finish where he finished."

The invited and distinguished guests began departing. The oldest G.A.R. had hobbled away, and the representatives of the Chamber of Commerce had left the platform in a body, giving Mrs. Benton magnanimous congratulations which she had received but impatiently for the dancing crowd kept still increasing, and the committee in charge of the refreshments had summoned her to a conference. They said cars were parked one against the other right down to Main Street, and were still arriving by dozens. All the ice cream in the town had been eaten, and a dozen freezers were on their way from the nearest source of relief. And as they spoke, all the women breathed their success in deeply, wallowing in their sense of victory. They consulted, and they gloated. They stood looking down over the work of their hands, eying one another significantly. They said to one another, "I told you so!" They added, "But I never told you so much!" Mrs. Benton and Emily were standing together when Johnnie made his way to the platform. Presently Emily was standing between mother and son.

She had been standing between mother and son intermittently for years.

People who said that Mrs. Benton was queenly belittled her. She was kingly. She was nearly six feet tall—Johnnie was an inch or two taller. She had the neck and head of a Roman Emperor—imperial, magnificent. She was wearing that night a smart black net frock, girded about and corseted as regally as usual. She had artificial pearls about her thick neck. She wore, moreover, a crown. It was largely that coronation of great black braids round her head that made the bobbed-hair femininity near her seem to be bowing their insignificant heads, their thin and modish shoulders before her like groveling subjects. She had a habit of pulling one of those braids up to a sort of point exactly above the middle of her forehead, because it became her—that is—it suggested more vividly a crown.

Seen from behind, the mother and the son were not unlike. Johnnie had the same beautifully shaped head—and no line of his was hidden beneath the billows of hair—beautifully set on broad, thin shoulders. Seen from the side, he had the advantage of her. He had a good chin. If Mrs. Benton's chin had matched her crowned forehead, democracy probably would not have tolerated her. Fortunately, it fell away and folded into her neck—somewhat fatly. But a clever observer, studying mother and son from the front, might have guessed the sorrow of the mother. There was a gentleness, a sort of ease, about the son's mouth, though a woman who had "inside information" later called it the sweetest mouth in the world. She said, in fact, that it was so sweet that his false teeth looked beautiful even in a glass of water. He was certainly not effeminate. How could a lad born of two male parents manage to be girlish! He lacked what is called "push" perhaps. The engine of his life had not been started. Hers was never turned off. One could see it pounding impatiently away as she stood there. Her eyes, as they looked, lorded it over the scene; when they roved about, they reigned. They were even now seizing upon the scene to command it. Johnnie looked at it and grinned, hoping to see another pretty girl come dancing into his ken. He was shockingly content with the world as he found it. Nature had given him dancing feet, and "the dames" had made a perfect floor for him. The tailor made him pockets and the banker gave him check books. His mother had been sore with him ever since he got home from college. And now he had squared himself with her by getting such a crowd to come to the opening of the hall. He reminded her and Emily that he deserved credit for the multitude as he stood with them, a manicured sum of frustration to maternal ambition.

"You mustn't ask me to do anything for you if you don't want it well done," he said to them.

For Johnnie had posted announcements of this great opening dance on the telephone poles of six counties, rising early and coming home from his work late practically every day for two weeks. This unusual industry was prompted by the most noble filial reason possible. He wanted to please his mother. And he had good reason for wanting to please her. Emily realized that keenly, for not more than half an hour ago she had thought she heard some wag in the crowd around the hall whistling one of those absurd tunes. She wasn't sure it was one of those tunes of Johnnie's "opera." All tunes sound so much alike, nowadays. But she feared it, uneasily, right in the midst of their triumph. For this Johnnie Benton had inadvertently brought half their club committee, as well as his mother, into humming derision. He had held up their past to jazzy scorn. Doggedly he insisted that it was an accident. He had never intended writing a comic opera for his college class. It had just happened. It never entered his head that if he wrote up one of his mother's activities, away down East, the news of it would ever get back home. He acknowledged to Emily he had known that the editor of the town daily "had it in" for the club women; that he had been biding his time ever since they had bought the vacant lots next to his dwelling for a parking place for the cars of the dancers who came to their hall. The committee had openly regretted the necessity of doing anything to spoil the peace of his home. But as towns grow, apparently some provision for cars must be made. They had not wanted to antagonize the press. But they had been forced to. They had regretted it at the time, but they had regretted it more two weeks ago. For then, one day—Martha had just got home from college and Johnnie Benton was to arrive the following morning—the town had been startled at the horrid, leering headlines:

SCHOLASTIC HONORS OF OUR TOWNSMAN

And beneath it, in smaller letters:

VERSE ON FAMILIAR TOPICS

Each verse was commented upon, with a sort of mock literary criticism.

The needs of the poor
For garden manure.

That was bad enough.

The lack of barn litter
Makes poverty bitter.

That was worse.

Let her give us fertilizer
If she wants us not to prize her.

That was intolerable, almost.

Our need of land dressing
Is truly distressing.

That was absolutely and unpardonably intolerable.

For Miss Sisson, poor old thing, who had moved in the committee that perhaps the more elegant term of "land dressing" might be substituted for "manure," which seemed coarse, had made herself ridiculous at the time in the club. And now, when she was mourning her sister, she was made ridiculous publicly. Well, Johnnie Benton had a great deal to answer for! All the women said that.

For it had happened some years after Mrs. Benton had bought one whole freight car full of peony plants at reduced prices and had sold them off cheap to the women of her county. She had been driving through the western suburbs of Chicago, and had noticed certain sterile spots that during the war had been used as allotment gardens. It was pitiful to her to see those poor hard-working foreigners were still trying to grow a few vegetables on sandy rubbish heaps. It made her consider what a lot of manure was piled up in the barnyards around her town. She laid the matter before the garden committee of the club at once. If every farmer's wife who had bought a peony would give one sackful of manure, the committee would see that it was distributed among the needy allotments of Cook County. The county adviser had opposed the scheme bitterly. The Farm Bureau had condemned it. Every ounce of manure was needed at home, the county bulletin said. But Mrs. Benton asked how farmers working on their distant forties were going to know how many sacks of manure their wives gave away. Did they ever count them, wasteful managers that they were? She would let the women know when the truck would call for it.

But this generous plan had been balked by Johnnie and his kind. They said it had been all right enough to get the loan of the family cars when they were freshmen in high school, and to go driving about distributing peonies. But they drew the line at manure. Mrs. Benton said to Emily that she had told Johnnie he was a selfish boy, and that he had said: "Well, maybe I'm selfish. But I'm certainly fragrant." Emily had never believed Johnnie capable of that retort. She thought his mother had made it up for the story. But now—well—she was beginning to think maybe he had made it.

Johnnie had arrived home from college two days after the headline appeared, and his mother had been ready to receive him. She said he had to apologize to the whole club publicly. He refused. And Emily was trying to arbitrate between them. "Honestly, Mrs. Kenworthy," he said, "it never entered my mind that you'd ever hear of it in this town. Mother ought to believe me when I say I wouldn't have done it for anything if I'd known that man French was ever going to get hold of it. I was in bad with the dean, sitting there in his office waiting to get hauled over the coals about my work, as usual, and I couldn't help hearing what he was saying. He was raving. He told the class committee that if they couldn't get something better than the drivel they had submitted, the annual play was off. I was feeling low when he got through with me, believe me. And I knew what I'd get at this end if I came home flunking again. And that night when I was lying in bed it all came to me at once, and I got right up and wrote it down." Johnnie spoke now without awe of his inspiration. "There was the chorus of high-brow old maids singing about the need of the poor for garden manure. It isn't my fault they rhyme, is it, now? I might have said that, Mrs. Kenworthy, but you know I never would have poked fun publicly at old Miss Sisson. I'd never have put in about land dressing. Would I, now?" And Emily, considering the shyness of the poor elegant old thing, believed that Johnnie would have had more mercy. "And then," he went on, "I had that chorus of farmers, regular stage hayseeds, with long gray beards and pitchforks, resisting them. And the Bolshevists singing." Johnnie hummed:

"'Tis the lack of horse litter
Makes poverty bitter.

"It just all does rhyme. And I had a hero like me, refusing to drive a truck, and eloping with a farmer's daughter in a manure spreader. And every farmer in the chorus was leading a calf or a pig with him as he danced. I told them not to have those kids as animals. And when the audience began to applaud, one of the little fiends rose up on his hind legs and began to dance. And then they all did, of course. The people nearly went into spasms, they laughed so. Oh, boy! It was a hot show! I was popular for a while. The skirts just clung to me at the dance afterwards. And everybody was wondering what else might be in me. And I was going to strike mother for a new car the minute I got home. Now, oh, Lordie, what a life I lead!"

And Emily, standing as usual, between mother and son, had maintained to Mrs. Benton that Johnnie might have been deplorably thoughtless, but he certainly hadn't been deliberately malicious. How could he suppose that that man French could get hold of it? It was simply brutal, as Emily realized, for that horrid person to entitle his derision "Scholastic Honors." It was rubbing salt into the deep wound of Cora Benton's soul. For Johnnie most conspicuously lacked not only scholastic honors, but even mediocre class attainments of common town children. He had been pulled and shoved along from one grade to another by the skin of his teeth. He had always been the most careless boy in every class. Mrs. Benton was right when she said it was because of his health. When he was nine he had had infantile paralysis, and, recovering, had been sent South. Mrs. Benton, a passionate mother, had thrown down her Red Cross work and taken him to a Southern town in which a cousin of hers was living. And that choice had changed, she averred, the course of the boy's life.

For the White Sox had been wintering there. And the weary little boy, too uninterested in life to turn his thin hand over, was carried out into the sun and coaxed into watching them. Some of them noticed the pale child and spoke to him. Presently Johnnie was no longer a pitiful invalid; he had become an active humble little mortal peeping up at the great gods who strode about this Parnassus upon which he had been thrown. Like an eager disciple he watched their ways. He knew what blessed street cars they took and at what hours. He knew the hallowed spot they had their hair cut. Lying in his bed at night, he could identify their manager's car by the sound. In his dreams he was steadying his arm to send a terrible curve. His nightmares were missed bases. Books and reading were forbidden him. But at the end of that year he knew the names and the positions of practically all the players in the League.

It took a woman like his mother to get him into the schoolhouse the next year. But even she could not induce his mind to consider text-books. By the time he was sixteen he was in a class with thirteen-year-old boys, and he looked small and delicate among them. And then he began growing. His heart was weak. He got pneumonia. The doctor said he would never be well unless he was taken out of school again and let "run wild." The year Bronson came to his Aunt Emily, Mrs. Benton spent part of the winter in New Mexico and moved from there because she couldn't endure the sight of her son playing ball with lazy Mexicans whom he had inspired to the game. She went to a vineyard in California, and there she had to see him rally enough young Japs for his nine. She left him that summer on a ranch in Arizona, safe from a baseball atmosphere, she supposed. He found a camp of Boy Scouts by riding not too many score of miles, and played with them till he came back in the autumn, less inclined to sit at a desk than ever before, and much stronger physically. And if people said truly that only Mrs. Benton's incorrigible determination had kept that boy alive to grow into a strong man, they might also have said the same force finally got him into college. And all he had ever done there, as she remarked bitterly to Emily, who condoned his accidental operatic career, was to short-stop for the second nine, and make his mother ridiculous in that disgusting "opera."

And now, Johnnie, having put in a good word for himself, having diplomatically repeated every complimentary remark he had heard all the evening about the extraordinary superiority of the floor, intended going back to his play. Mrs. Benton kept him standing there, however. Emily wondered if she had determined to have the whole town see mother and son chatting pleasantly together. For the whole town, like Emily Kenworthy, often wondered, too curiously, exactly what the relationship between the two was. Mrs. Benton kept her own counsel like the proverbially close-lipped male. People could only imagine what she thought of Johnnie's dancing every evening at the country club from which she had withdrawn in rage. The elders were known to have welcomed her withdrawal like a gift from heaven. The young fry, it was commonly said, couldn't have a single dance without Johnnie, who danced "divinely." (Martha Kenworthy had said once, holding a long-legged columbine swaying in her hand, that it looked exactly like Johnnie Benton.) He was hail-fellow-well-met to most of his mother's sworn enemies. Emily sometimes thought I that must require determination almost equal to his mother's. He just simply was a "nice boy," the town said. He had a good disposition, and Bob Kenworthy was not the only one who, saying that, added, "And the Lord knows he needed it!"

"Whoever could have believed it?" Emily was saying. "Where have they all come from?" they were thinking together. You could count the faces you knew. The youth of the town had been pushed aside by the youth of the whole state, apparently. In a way, the very success was failure, for the committee had enlarged their plans time after time to provide against this indecent modern crowding. And now people were simply wriggling about like fishing worms thick in a can. Suddenly:

"EMILY!" exclaimed Cora Benton. "WHAT'S MARTHA DOING?" Sharply she had spoken, commandingly.

"Martha?" exclaimed Emily, shocked. "Where? I don't see her." She had scarcely seen her all evening.

"Over there. Look!" She pointed with her eye to the farther side of the crowd, where it was overflowing to the veranda.

Johnnie said—he spoke shortly, "She's dancing!"

"Well! Well! Maybe she is." Mrs. Benton was condoning already her tone of reproof.

But Emily had at first sight thought it appropriate, because—well, what in the world WAS Martha doing? Emily had fairly started with annoyance when she saw her. To her first glance it was disgusting. And then, as she looked, chagrined, perplexed,—well—it wasn't disgusting. Really, perhaps, the position in which Martha and her partner were obviously worming their way about was not one which, after long deliberations on the subject, the committee had thought best to forbid on the floor. It was that man—his face—the way he was bending down, being tall, to look at her. It was, most of all, Emily realized in a flash, angrily, the way Martha was holding her sweet little face, entranced, up to him. What in the world were those two talking about?

"Who is that man?" Emily asked Johnnie. She was too annoyed to observe how keenly Johnnie was watching the sight.

"I don't know. Never saw him before."

"There's nothing we can take exception to in THAT!" Mrs. Benton seemed almost to regret the fact.

Johnnie looked at her indignantly and ineffectively.

Emily resented the suggestion sharply. The very idea that anyone might take exception to her daughter, that the committee might disapprove of her child's attitude, hurt her deeply. For Martha Kenworthy was distinctly a nice girl. Everybody had always known that she was a very superior, quiet, well-behaved, dear child. Mothers consulted her mother about their naughty children. And now Cora Benton—but just the same, it did look as if Martha in that little flesh-colored frock, was almost cuddling up against—that—somebody—whom Emily at first shocked sight heartily disliked.

"Go and tell her I want to see her." Emily spoke to Johnnie and regretted it. Mrs. Benton let no one know when she corrected her son. But Emily Kenworthy's intention of reproving her daughter was revealed to the world.

"I wouldn't say anything to her. Look, there's a couple—lots of them are dancing that way. It does leave something to be desired," Cora Benton counseled.

"I hadn't thought of saying anything about that to her," Emily said, carelessly. She was surprised at the sharpness of her resentment. After all, hadn't she often told even Cora Benton how to manage her child!

It seemed a long time before Johnnie came back, more or less dutifully. She suspected him of having had several dances in the meantime.

"I can't find her," he reported. "It's like a needle in a haystack. The river is as crowded as the floor. Pete McGill says this is the largest crowd that was ever in this town. He says there are five hundred more cars than there were on Armistice Day. I'll keep my eye open for her. They're not allowing any more cars across the bridge. Would I do—for what you wanted her for?"

"It doesn't matter," said Emily. "It wasn't anything, really, thank you."

But it was something, when presently she saw Martha again, dancing that same way, with that same man, listening with her face tilted up to him exactly as before. It made Emily think of the time Martha had sat absorbed before some story that Jim Kenworthy wove fantastically for her. That man—he must be an old friend. Emily racked her memory. Some girl's older brother, would it be, or some household where Martha had stayed? She tried to fit him in, and as she watched the two, she saw Martha suddenly sort of double down with amusement, shrugging her shoulders, chuckling, while the man, encouraged, peered more boldly into her face.

"I'll put an end to that!" Emily said. And she hurried down and sought out a place from which she might catch Martha's eye. It was difficult to catch an eye so intent upon its interest. She waited persistently till she had got her attention, and signified to her that she wanted to speak to her at once.

Martha came to her presently—alone—on to the platform, flushed, shining, unashamed.

"Oh, mother!" she ejaculated. She sighed with unspeakable satisfaction. "What a night! Could you have believed it!"

But Emily said, "Martha, who was that awful man you were dancing with?"

Her tone surprised Martha.

"Oh," she said, "that was Sandy. You know Sandy Powers. I had to dance with him. He was in my high school——"

"I don't mean him! I know Sandy! I mean that dark person you had this last dance with!"

Martha gave a giggle of amusement.

"Don't you know who that was?" she demanded. She seemed to think it a great joke. "Why, mother, that's Eve's brother-in-law!"

"I didn't know her brother-in-law was here. When did he come?"

"He just came to-day. I thought, of course, she would have introduced him. Oh, mother, he's an interesting man. He's been everywhere. I'll bring him over to you."

"I don't like him!"

Emily ruffled was so rare a sight that Martha seemed to enjoy it.

"Well, you will when you've seen him. You don't know him," she assured her mother, critically, and adjusted a little lock of hair.

"Is his wife here?"

"I don't know. I don't suppose so."

"Well," grumbled Emily, "don't be dancing with him all evening. Where's Johnnie?"

"I haven't danced with him all evening! We've had two dances." Martha was really surprised.

Emily felt she had been foolish. "Oh, all right," she said, lightly. "I thought I didn't know——"

Martha studied her.

"I promised him another. Oh, he dances divinely! You're tired out, mother. Have you been working every minute? Why don't you go home?"

"No. I'm staying till the end to-night. I'm not going home." She might have added, "I'm not going to leave you."

But the evening had wilted for her. The hours dragged on. Bob came to her at one. Even Bob was full of congratulations. "You ought to be satisfied, old girl," he said. "I heard Wilkinson say that you ought to have credit for the whole thing. He said really if it hadn't been for you——"

"Where's Martha? Have you seen her?"

"I saw her a while ago, up at the house. She had a new Johnnie in tow."

"Who? A large dark man?"

And Bob, struck with an idea, said, "Well, if he's Eve's brother-in-law, he must be a married man."

"He certainly must!"

Bob turned and looked at her.

"He wasn't acting particularly married."

"What do you mean?"

"Where's his wife?"

"I don't know. I don't even know whether she's here or not. I told Martha not to dance with him again!"

"She's minding as she usually does!" Bob commented.

"Why didn't you stay at the house?"

"They didn't seem to want me. Let's go home, Emily. Cut out the rest of it."

"No. I'm staying to-night until the end. We all are."

They were home again, finally, towards morning, sinking down deeply into the living-room cushions, spreading themselves out, breathing out great sighs of contentment. Emily, on the sofa, was adjusting hairpins in the coils of her brown hair. Eve sat beside her, resting in the position she had fallen into, her legs stretched out, her skirts up to her knees, her thin arms extended limply, with dark little frail-looking shadows beneath her eyes. Martha had paused to adjust her color before the hall mirror, and then seated herself, fresh as a morning flower, erect in an easy chair, her hands crossed in her lap, her shoulders tilted slightly, light from the hall on the smoothness of her black hair, dreaming, slight, detached. When her father, who had insisted on going to the kitchen to make lemonade, called out to Emily to know where the sugar had been put, Martha, realizing, as it were, the group, joined them without excitement.

"Sit still, Eve. Don't go and get it for him. It's sitting just where it has sat ever since I was born, and he can't help seeing it. Well, anyway, you ought to be content, mother. It's really your hall, and everyone knows it. Where'd Mrs. Benton been, everybody wants to know, if it hadn't been for you? Johnnie's just like her. He makes me tired. He went about saying he'd got all that crowd there by his old posters. I told him it would have been a lot nicer party if he hadn't got so many to come."

Bob came in just then, Martha's prophecy having been fulfilled about the sugar. He heard Eve's remark: "I think the Legion was by far the most interesting man there. I offered to dance with him. He takes himself seriously, of course."

Bob was feeling facetious.

"You needn't set your heart on that man, Eve. What he wants is a wife that'll do the midnight milking. Yes, midnight! Didn't you even know the farmers around here milk four times a day? To get more milk, of course. Twice at twelve, and twice at six. That's the kind he is. And say, Martha, can't you get a single man to lead around? Eve's sister will be pulling your hair the next thing you know."

Emily spoke up hastily.

"Was your sister there, Eve? I didn't see her. Where do they live?"

"No. She isn't well. They're like the rest of us. They don't live any place." She spoke reluctantly, and then, as if she felt that something more was expected of her, she added: "They have been abroad awhile. In Paris, mostly."

But Martha took up Bob's challenge. "He's so distinguished," she drawled. "Doesn't he dance divinely, Eve?"

"I don't know," Eve replied, shortly. "I don't dance with him." And then she added, abruptly, "Look here, Martha, you needn't dance with him to please me!"

"Don't worry about that. I dance with him to please myself. You ought to hear him talk, mother. He's got the loveliest foreign accent, hasn't he?"

"Hasn't he! And he was brought up in Indiana!" Eve murmured.

"He's been everywhere. I'm going abroad myself next summer. He knew Tchekhoff. He was telling me about him."

Eve sat up. Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "That's a new one to me," she commented. "I don't believe it." The silence became awkward. She broke it abruptly. "He's a four-flusher, Martha. Take it from me. From the ground up. If he ever saw a Russian in Paris, he'd have known Tolstoy himself, and been bosom friend with Dostoieffsky. He's a journalist, to put it mildly."

It was painful, this way Eve had of saying nasty things about her relations, as if it were a noble duty. She had spoken so doggedly that her face was flushed an unbecoming dark red. Martha grew pinker. The silence grew longer. Emily said, carelessly, rising:

"What pests these in-laws are! Let's go to bed. You've ripped your hem, Martha. Did you know it? You're both to sleep till noon."

"Don't you worry about that!" Bob jeered.

But Eve replied: "I've got to be home for lunch. Dad's going to be home."

If Emily didn't sleep at once, it wasn't because from the painted room came those stifled whispers and gigglings which so often annoyed Bob after dances. The girls seemed to have gone to sleep at once. But Emily kept thinking about Martha, and Mrs. Benton's sharp voice. The man, of course, would be leaving town at once. What would a journalist from Paris, a friend of Tchekhoff find to amuse him in a little Illinois city? And supposing he chose to stay all the summer, Martha could be trusted. She had such common sense. And such good taste, always. "It's just silly of me to worry about Martha," Emily thought, not once only but many times, till she was thoroughly tired of her foolish, wide-awake mind. "Thank goodness it's over!" she said to herself again and again. "Thank goodness that chapter's ended!"

A long interesting chapter had indeed ended that evening, more suddenly than Emily realized.

Chapter Three

The next day at first seemed like any other morning of the year, for Emily didn't get up as early as she had intended. There still was heavy dew lying on the thick greenness of the lawn when she sat down on the veranda to finish pitting the cherries. Afterwards she pattered about in the kitchen, tending the ruby mixture in the kettle till her cheeks were rosy red. And then she had filled the Mason jars, and screwed on the lids, and tested their inverted security, one by one, and put them in rows on the shelf to cool, interrupted from time to time by friends at the 'phone who must count over one by one the evening's triumphs. She was busy thinking that she really must take those fresh sash curtains up to the bathroom—it was scandalous, the condition of those hanging there—when the boy brought the raspberries she had ordered—far the best ones she had seen all the season. The girls, she thought, would love them for their breakfast. She prepared two saucerfuls, and got the pitcher of cream ready on the tray, and went up towards their room. Of course that was the way, Bob said, she spoiled Martha, always waiting on her, carrying something delicious up to her in the middle of the morning, when the girl ought to have been up and doing all the housework herself. Bob couldn't understand what a child Martha was, how unfit yet for responsibility. Wait till she had a house of her own. Just think of that painted room of hers, for instance. That showed what the child could do when she wanted to.

Emily opened the painted door quietly. On a day bed at one end of the room Eve was lying on her back reading, in sea-green figured silk pajamas which must have cost a good deal, one knee crossed over the other. Books were piled on the floor beside her, nearly as high as her low pillow.

She turned her head, and caught sight of the tray, and gave a shriek of delight. She called to Martha, who lay asleep on her bed-like device at the other end of the room, curled up like a child, not even a sheet over her. And Martha, sitting up in flesh-colored voile pajamas on the edge of the bed, stretching, yawning, pink and sweet, began:

"Oh, you rare lamb, mother! Isn't she a gem, Eve? No wonder dad says she spoils me! Where did you get them?" Eve had put a low table at Martha's side, and seated herself on the other side of it. But Emily maturely sought out the chair that was kept in the room as a concession to her dislike of floor cushions. She sat watching them gobble daintily, chattering away. Martha, who had made herself comfortable against a pile of cushions, her knees drawn up, and the saucer balancing on them, began wiggling her toes. She hadn't outgrown that infant habit yet, Emily enjoyed noticing. How she had watched this child's awakening with an impulse of delight every day, almost from her first week, till this morning, when she woke even yet delicately rosy and vividly red-lipped. Poor old Bob never got any fun out of it. Martha had disturbed him by waking too early, for years, and now she annoyed him by sleeping too late. But Emily wouldn't stop to sigh long over that, not these few summer mornings when she could enjoy it, now that the child was grown, and away months together. And just then Martha almost unconsciously bestirred herself and with the saucer in one hand and the spoon in the other, almost without ceasing to feed herself, went and pulled down a blind to shut the glare of the sunshine away from that rug of hers that tended to look too violently cerise. The girl, it seemed, couldn't sit up in bed eating berries for breakfast without thinking how the room might look if she should change it just a little.

It sobered Emily to see the ancestry driving her defenseless daughter hither and thither like a slave. Would it not be ironical, now, if this girl "turned out" like that aunt whom Emily's childhood had so futilely resented! It seemed to Emily that never in her young days had that house been free a week from the sound of hammers or the smell of paint. She had wondered, sometimes, in her maturity, whether she turned instinctively away from the thought of "improving" her house because she had so continually in her childhood revolted against her aunt, or whether it was simply laziness that made her tolerate any closet shelf, however inconvenient, rather than bestir herself to alter it. Since she had inherited the house, it had had peace. She had merely kept it in repair, and tolerated the electric devices with which Bob filled it. But now, looking at Martha, she saw again all her aunt's zeal for change overflowing again.

She had not suspected the child of any such constructive inclinations until one day of the last Christmas vacation. They had been talking carelessly together, when suddenly she had heard:

"Do you know what I'm going to do the first thing, mammie, as soon as I get my money?"

That was a question naturally never far from Emily's mind then, because in fifteen months Martha would be twenty, and, according to the terms of her great-aunt's will, she would then receive the first monthly installment of an income of nearly four thousand dollars. Emily had hated that will when she first heard its terms, because it had been drawn up, she understood, so as to keep the least control of the money away from Bob Kenworthy. Exactly what grounds her aunt had had for these suspicions, Emily never knew. She could have discovered only by asking her husband, and it was the very essence of her character that she would not ask him. The very vagueness of that suspicion had been a wound that years of Bob's respectability and kindness had healed. He had not complained about the will at first—Emily had wondered why he had not. Did he not dare? But now that the child had grown up, without much regard for him, he thought it outrageous that that old woman should have made her independent of him. Emily herself, who loved ease with all her heart, who was no manager, in the local sense of the term, had tried faithfully to prepare her daughter to use her money wisely—if not wisely, exactly, at least not too foolishly at first. So when Martha brought up the subject, her mother had asked her once, curiously:

"What will be the first thing you do with it?"

"I'll chuck all that junk out of my bedroom and do it all over."

Emily had been shocked, but she had to smile presently; for wasn't that the very thing she had done first herself, when she had returned to the house after her aunt's death? To be sure, she had later brought down from the attic the old pieces she had especially hated in her childhood. But she remembered with what joy she had stored them away, how she had taken off shutters, and thrown away faded carpets, and gloried in rugs. But Martha's was rather unreasonable, for her bedroom Emily had furnished only six years ago, and most daintily. She had given Martha some of the best things in the house; a dear little chest of drawers that had been before in the spare room, and two little old tables, and gone to great pains to get a bed to suit them. And Martha now had called it "junk"!

"What sort of furniture would you get?"

"Oh mother—it doesn't matter." Martha was apologetic. "You wouldn't let me, anyway."

"How do you know I wouldn't?" Emily had retorted. "I don't know that I'm so tyrannical!"

"I never said you were any such thing. But you know, mother, you'd just sort of persuade me to get what you liked."

"Why Martha! Maybe I would let you get what you wanted!"

Martha went on with the subject hesitatingly. She spoke wistfully, but without hope.

"I'd throw all that junk out and paint it all over. I'd do the floor a nice dull bluey purple—

"A purple floor?"

"Yes. And the woodwork I'd do all creamy yellow, like good fresh butter, or a sort of sea green."

"But, Martha, that floor's oak!"

"Oak takes paint."

"Mine doesn't."

"But I'm just saying what I would do if it was mine. I knew you wouldn't let me. I'd get a little pine chest made, to paint just like my little old one. Oh, wouldn't I love to do it, though! The girls have such lovely rooms, mother. You ought to see Grace Richmond's. It's all vermilion and blue. But she's an orphan, of course." Martha sighed.

"Oh, Martha!" Emily had exclaimed, "what a lot you have to look forward to! You'll be an orphan some day, and you can paint the whole house purple!"

"Now, mammie, that's just plain nasty of you. You egged me on to say what I would do, and now you make fun of me!" But Martha, mollified, had gone on to tell of the staggering sights she had seen in other girls' homes, reeling colors, threatening emerald ceilings, and cubistic ornamentations.

And Emily had pondered the matter, Martha's sigh rankling. "Her room is all vermilion and blue. But she's an orphan, of course." Did her child, in spite of her mother's long determination to the contrary, feel hampered, thwarted of joy by parental preferences? Was she getting eager to get out of the home, away some place to freedom, as her mother had run once? After all, that floor wasn't so very valuable, and the paper needed renewing. Martha wouldn't be at home months together now, to get tired of her gaudiness. It wouldn't cost such a lot, and no one would have to see it. The door into the outer hall could be kept shut.

A day or two later she had said:

"Do you know what I'm going to give you for your birthday?"

Martha guessed extravagantly:

"A car, mammie? A little runabout to take back to school?"

"Not much! I'm going to let you do your bedroom over to suit yourself."

And Martha had looked blank for a moment, and then murmured:

"Oh no! It wouldn't do, mother. We couldn't. We'd—mother—we'd quarrel, as sure as you live. I'd get started, and I'd want my own way, and you wouldn't approve."

"But I say I will approve. After all, it's your room. I don't have to live in it. You can have it blue and vermilion, if you want to!"

And Martha had sat there for a moment without saying a word, her eyes beginning to twinkle, her dimples all chuckling, just shining and beaming, all her pleasure intensified by her quietness. Then she had hugged Emily after that and had run up to her room straight away. And up and down she ran, hunting for scissors, for yardsticks, measuring, planning, 'phoning to carpenters, twinkling, utterly happy. It had been Emily's sense of her utter happiness that had enabled her to stifle her impulses to interfere.

Once things had got rather serious. The child wouldn't have a bed in the room. She wanted to turn it into a sitting room. And when Emily had pointed out that she didn't need a sitting room, Martha had hugged her and, warningly, "I told you we'd quarrel, mother!" Emily had given way, and Martha had gone on, working like a beaver. She had dyed, and she had shopped in Chicago; she had "jollied" painters whole mornings, and gone back to school in the end, leaving her mother sewing balls of silken high-brow carpet rags. Her very letters had been full of instructions about the room. And during her spring vacation the whole house seemed to be an orgy of renewal, so that Martha hadn't been far wrong when she said that her mother only endured her nowadays through gritted teeth. She had said it from her "studio" in the attic, where she was painting tables, for there alone could she be found that holiday. She had planned so well that in that fortnight she had almost completed her purposes, and she had hated leaving it to go back to college. And to that room she had flown home again, not eager, as she generally was, to go away for the summer. Not once had she mentioned the Rockies or Canada, or even Europe. And her heart was so absorbed in it that now, on awakening to raspberries and cream, she had to go and adjust that blind and study the way the light fell on the cerise—practically—rug.

And Emily looked around, and smiled cautiously. It had been the girl's idea to make the room "amusing." That was the adjective she had continually used of her plan. And certainly she had succeeded in inciting mirth at least in the elders who beheld it. To be sure, with the blind down, the darkly gleaming floor wasn't so bad after one had got used to it. The sand-colored walls were matched by woodwork with little green lines on it. And the rosy silken oval rugs and those black day beds—hateful objects, which kept the edges of the bedding always on the floor, piled by day with cushions like shrieking parrots—all this was almost laughable. She had told Martha firmly the beds ought to be side by side between the windows. But Martha ignored the suggestion. The bookshelves had absurd little cupboards at each end, which Martha opened to show her friends, and an electric stove on a little tray which you stood, so, on this little shelf which pulled out, so. She had gathered a primitive sort of crockery bowls from New York, which were called "just too quaint," and the coffee things from the Chicago Ghetto. Emily had almost protested against this miniature kitchen. Martha never would be making fudge up there, she was sure. But then she had got to thinking of Martha's outgrown playhouse under the willow. "I used to let her have dishes and everything out there," she remembered. And she had not only stifled her objections; she had come heartily to admire this adolescent playhouse.

For there, opening off this room, was the amazing dressing room Martha had made from that large closet where formerly clothes had hung drably. People in the town used to say that, for the sake of having daylight in that closet and preserving the symmetry of the outside of the house, Emily's aunt had torn out and built over that wall seven times. Now Emily had to take visitors up to see that closet, many and insistent visitors, for all Martha's chums were bringing their mothers enviously to show them "Martha's apartment." When she heard their exclamations, she would look at her daughter with that feeling which she experienced when the child, blowing her horn, adjusting her brakes, watching the traffic "cop," drove that panting great headstrong car so calmly, without hurrying one eyelash, through the tangle of vehicles of any city that might lie in her path. For Martha quietly had taken that long narrow closet and lined it on both mirrored sides with hanging wardrobes, and a great total and variety of cunningly planned shelves, shallow and deep drawers, great and small, pulling out on patent rollers; she had packed away a beautifully lighted dressing table, with a stool that pushed back into its own "ducky nook." She had painted all the drawers a dull gold on the inside, and a creamy yellow on the outside, and made them gold knobs and handles. The purple floor and the glow of the rug, less violent than those of the larger room, left her visitors quite mad with envy and surprise.

"It's just Martha all over!" one girl sighed, and Emily had pondered that. Was Martha then to be a lover of perfect places to stow away things? There had been plenty of drawers and closets in the house before, Emily had said to herself. And when she had seen the child's delight in that huge big topmost drawer, she had let her have a great pile of old soft pieced quilts to pack away in it, just as she had given her old hats years before for the games in the willow playhouse. Was that dressing closet "just Martha all over"? Was the child going to be an architect, as she had carelessly suggested once, or an "interior decorator," possibly? Perhaps she was yet going to be brilliant, and do many things as successfully as she had done this, so that Bob would yet be proud of her. Or perhaps she was going to be a furious housewife, delighting in a family of children. And Emily grew serious thinking of that. She had every reason to distrust too great interest in housekeeping. She would see that Martha never loved furniture more than children's ease of mind, never put order of a room before its usefulness. She did hope Martha wouldn't carry these things to excess, as her heredity might urge her to. Here the child hadn't got all the rugs for this room home from the woman who was making them, and she had already begun to talk about enlarging the garage. It disfigured the whole house, as it was, she had told her father. If she might be allowed to double the size of it, making room for two cars——

Then Bob had interrupted: "I'm not going to keep two cars!"

"But I'll have a car next year," she had suggested.

"You don't need a car!" Bob had asserted, hotly.

"Maybe I don't," Martha had answered, softly, infuriatingly, for her lazily lifted eyes had added, defiantly, "But I'm going to have one, anyway!"

"If I could add another part to the garage and change that hideous entrance so we could hide it with some—lilacs and—things, mother, then I could change the west window of my room into a door, and have the whole roof of the garage for a veranda of my own, with an adjustable awning kind of over it, and some roses up the supports of it. And how much nicer it would be in the summer to sit there without a roof over us. We'd get all the breeze there was there, don't you think, mammie?"

"Oh, Martha, give us a rest. Let's have some peace. There's no reason why you should have a car, I tell you, anyway at your age." Thus Bob received her suggestion.

"We'll have to think it all over," Emily had replied. It would have to stop some place. Martha couldn't just be allowed to "express herself" all over the house whenever it suited her fancy. If Bob would only stop threatening to forbid her to use his car, maybe she wouldn't insist so frequently on having one of her own next year.

The raspberries stimulated Martha to action, for she dressed as Eve and Emily sat discussing the evening. She had to go and get some flowers for her room, before her guests came, she said, departing. And Eve began spreading those day beds into order. Emily bestirred herself to help. She had a notion to move those beds into the middle of the room together. But she refrained. She had to reflect that, though Martha decorated with fury, she dusted with less zeal. In that, too, she resembled her mother. She returned presently with her hands full of lilacs for her red-copper bowls. She threw them down on the bed and when Emily suggested arranging them she said, "Wait, mother. I've 'phoned Johnnie to get me some blue ones from the high-school garden." Emily began a faint protest, knowing Mrs. Benton didn't allow anyone to gather the flowers of that young hedge of hybrid lilacs which she had given to the high school. Martha said: "Oh, I wanted one or two. Mother, we've just got to have a place in the garden for a very late lilac like that, because it makes the bouquets for this room." And Johnnie came in immediately. With half a dozen great blossoms right up the stairs he walked, and into that—no, it wasn't a bedroom, but it still seemed strange to have him making himself at home among the bedrooms. Martha scolded him for bringing so many branches, but she had to have at least two of those dark purply ones. "You can see that for yourself," she insisted to Johnnie. Emily could see it for herself. The flow of color melted and shifted about those darkest blues as Martha lowered one shade and pushed up another, grumbling because mignonette couldn't be got to bloom earlier. If she had ever thought those delphiniums would have been all crushed up that way the first dance last night, she would have saved some for her room.

Emily had told Johnnie to hand her the pile of books that lay on the floor beside Eve's bed. Eve, to judge from the literature with which she surrounded herself continually, couldn't enjoy one book unless there were ten others as good waiting at her elbow for their turn. She came out of the dressing room while Johnnie was looking over the books he had put on the shelf for Emily.

He said, "Hello! You still here?"

"You can't say anything. You're here again."

"I was invited. I was 'phoned for."

"But I'm leaving soon, and that's more than you're likely to do."

"I'm expecting to be kicked out any minute," he replied, looking at Emily. "Nobody appreciates me here. Is this any good?" he asked, carelessly fingering a book.

"What is it?"

He read the name out. Emily stood listening. It was the book that had shocked her so entirely years ago—the book about which she and Jim Kenworthy had quarreled so destructively.

"Haven't you read that?"

"No. I've heard of it."

"How intellectual of you! They make you read it, in most schools, that is, if you're interested in technique. You'd call it a thousand miles of sand. I haven't got any Robert Chambers," Eve went on, looking over possibilities. "You might try Michael Arlen, there. His style would be lost on you, but the subject would appeal to your heart. There's the Kreutzer Sonata. Have you read Crime and Punishment?"

"Can't stand Russian stuff."

"Does seem difficult, after the Saturday Evening Post," Eve remarked. Skirts may have clung to Johnnie, but Eve wasn't one of them. She had commented, on hearing of his masterpiece, that its music was hackneyed, the verse was rot and the theme disgusting. Martha had retorted that the theme, rather, was rot. Johnnie and Eve quarreled on till Eve departed.

"You're going to stay for lunch, Johnnie?" Emily asked.

"I won't if you don't want me to."

"How truly magnanimous!" Emily murmured. "No. You stay and talk to the girls, but don't stay for lunch. You know your mother wants you." Emily wondered then, and she wondered later, why Martha had wanted Johnnie to stay. Did she want him to hear what the Wright girls' mother was sure to say about the dressing room? Did Martha care really what Johnnie thought—Johnnie, who was always asking her to marry him?

And what did he think, as he stood lazily leaning against the door into the dressing room, watching the women examine the drawers? Mrs. Wright had brought with her a friend who was planning a new house, a prosperous-looking person, and who listened thoughtfully to Martha's answers to her questions. This person was impressed. She kept looking at Martha when they were seated at length in the painted room.

"How much of this did you do yourself?" she asked. "Hadn't you seen something like it somewhere?"

Martha was sitting on a cushion at Emily's feet.

"Oh yes. I'd seen one in New York. And I just told the old Dane, the carpenter, how many drawers I wanted, and how big, and he did it all himself. I couldn't measure them, or anything like that. He had them all ready to put in when I got home. I'd like to do over all the closets in the house." She looked at her mother, against whom she was leaning.

The guests looked at Emily. She had to say something.

"But if all the closets in this house had so many drawers, we wouldn't have enough to put into them."

"I know it. Isn't that funny?" Martha turned to the other. "People are so silly. The closets are so big there's nothing to fill them with. Same way with our basement. It's a horror!" Martha spoke with such conviction that her hearers laughed. "Well, it is," she insisted to Emily. "There's a wood room and a coal room, and drying room, and storeroom with nothing but the hose and two old barrels in it. I could put all those things into one room nicely, and have three great big rooms. They could be billiard rooms, or play rooms, or nice workshops. If I had a lot of children in this house I could give them all two rooms apiece."

Emily included Johnnie in her glance. He had his eyes fixed hard on Martha—who avoided them innocently but persistently.

And that thoughtful and prosperous-looking stranger said:

"Wouldn't you like to drive over and look at my plans? Our basement is going to cost an awful lot."

Martha twinkled at the invitation.

"Oh, I just love to look at plans!" she said. "I just love to think about people's houses. I was thinking, if ever I'm a reformer, do you know what I'm going to reform? Everybody's closets!"

Wasn't she lovely, sitting there innocently, Emily thought. No wonder they admired her, all of them.

"You come and reform all my closets," the stranger said. But Mrs. Wright said: "Don't look at mine till I've had a chance to go over them. You've made me a lot of trouble, Martha. The girls won't give me a minute's peace now till I let them start doing their rooms over."

When Emily, having dismissed the visitors, turned from the hall into her living room, the sight of these familiar things almost shocked her. They stirred her, at least, to question the very room she had for years taken for granted. The glamour of that room upstairs seemed to make the rest of the house faded, some way. The living room she had always sat down in with satisfaction. Now it looked—timid—meager—insipid—unexpectant. Its walls and its woodwork were almost the color of its neutral light pongee curtains. Those were good rugs on the oak floor. They were rich, and they were mellow. Emily had bought them recklessly with a large share of the first installment of her inheritance, when she had moved back to the house when Martha was a small girl, and she had never regretted her fling. The davenport and the two chairs that went with it, those most comfortable monstrosities, had been done once in blue corduroy. Well, it was still corduroy. That was about all that could be said for it. But its blue dullness some way had seemed to match the rugs. That was a good table. No one bought a table like that in any town in Illinois. Nor was there a desk like that, which plainly had been cherished for some generations. And how infinitely superior were the pictures on the wall to most of the pictures on the walls of that town. Emily's grandfather, once the Governor of the sprawling infant state of Illinois, had brought that engraving of Mt. Vernon sentimentality to the wilderness because he remembered his mother holding her successive babies up to see the dogs and horses that surrounded the father of his country, who stood in a declamatory attitude on the very brink of the Potomac, with his women folk and youthful intimates hovering pictorially about him.

Emily used to compare that picture, chuckling, to the picture of Boston which one of her neighbors had made for herself, upon her return from a memorable visit there. Mrs. Jennings was chairman of the art committee and a busy woman, and hadn't time to "do" many pictures, she said. So she just put everything she wanted to remember into one. And Lexington and Concord, Bunker Hill and the Common, Longfellow's house and Faneuil Hall, jostled one another in a staggered and staggering row all across the foreground. And there was Mrs. Johnson's parlor. Every time Emily went into it she used to say: "Well, my aunt might have been worse. She didn't paint at least, thank God!" She had left no bilious works of her brush behind her, and she deserved credit for it, considering the fashion of her day. She had left a cherished large framed photograph of the door of St. Mark's. Emily could recall exactly the tone in which she used to say "The portal of St. Mark's," for she had always added "by the sea," which mystified the child. The geography said plainly that all Venice was by the sea. Besides Italy and Mt. Vernon, there were what Emily considered two perfectly lovely large "studies" of Martha's head. A cousin who played with photography had done them when the child was seven years old. She was the cousin who had gathered the child into her arms, on one occasion and cried, "Oh, twinkle, twinkle, little star!" Martha hated them, and pleaded for their banishment, but Emily would not listen to her, not for a minute. There sat a photo of Jim on the desk, and one of his mother, and an early one of his father. And there was, of course, that first seal of a D.A.R. invulnerability, a framed sampler. Altogether, Emily had always been secure that her living room was not just a common small-town room.

But after Martha's—well, what was wrong with it, she sat wondering that morning, a bit ruefully. Some way it was tamed and tolerating. Those high-handed colors upstairs dared the world, and demanded. These young things went raging, commanding, soaring into life. "Not like me," she thought, vaguely. "I just hesitated—and submitted—and got along, some way. How puny I was, and—sort of helpless. That book—I shrank from it as if it had been some great thing. But Eve snubs it. She ignores it. They fly, these children—they just fly. But I rode just a bicycle. And this room wabbles along on a bicycle. I must speed it up. I must—get these things done over—or else I ought to get some new pictures, or something. I better ask Martha, perhaps, to freshen it up a little."

Certainly that stranger had asked Martha's advice. The memory of her respectful tone was wine to Emily. She had to speak to Bob about it. She couldn't just let him go on thinking that Martha "amounted" to nothing.

"I could see that they thought it was wonderful for a girl of her age to have planned it all," she told him. "That woman asked Martha definitely to come and see the plans for her house!"

But he said: "The dickens she did! The kid's got her head swelled enough now, without anybody asking her advice. The dame must be hard up if she's got to come to Martha for advice!"

The girls played golf that afternoon. Emily's mind, when it had intervals of leisure, dwelt upon the question of new furniture—somewhat reluctantly. After all, maybe it would be better to suffer the old faded colors than to flee to others that you know not of. Such a lot of trouble, going to the city to select things, and then, maybe, when you get them home, they don't fit in, as you had intended them to. And she even realized her reluctance. "That's the point about being young. Martha would just jump into the shopping fray. She would dive right in, without hesitation." These meditations kept Emily from giving "that man" even a thought, until almost supper time. Then, as she passed into the hall, Marion Wright, giving her arms a sturdy swing, almost struck her, and drew back, apologizing.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you! I was just practicing that drive. I didn't want to forget it, such a classy one! Richard Quin was just teaching us, you know, Mrs. Kenworthy."

"Who's Richard Quin?" Emily asked.

"Oh, that's Eve's brother-in-law. Marion likes him. Don't you, Marion?" Martha asked.

"Well, I can't say I'm crazy about him. But still, he can play. I'm not particular who coaches me. I do prefer them not so fat."

"Fat!" murmured Martha. "He isn't fat. He's just a large man. He's well built."

"Of course they're more fun married," Marion went on, trying to shock Emily. And then she asked, suddenly curious, "Do you like him, Mrs. Kenworthy?"

"Do I like him? Goodness, no! He's greasy looking."

Martha said with dignity: "Mother doesn't know him. She never said a word to him in her life. He's not greasy at all, if you see him close. He shaves twice a day."

"How do you know he does?" Emily demanded.

"He's not reticent, anyway," Marion said laughing.

"He just happened to mention it."

"Did you see his wife?" Emily asked them both.

"Eve told you she wasn't well. She wasn't there."

Martha looked at her mother, perplexed. Emily looked at her daughter uneasily. It was annoying of Martha to defend that man! If Emily had known he was to be on the links, she wouldn't have let Martha go to play. But now, of course the wisest would be just to let the matter drop. Martha was always so trustworthy. Certainly her good taste could be trusted.

Yet for some reason, when Johnnie Benton came that evening to take the three adorned girls to the dance, Emily was more impressed by him than ever. She felt so safe when Martha was under his care. She watched them drive away, and then went out to potter about as usual in the garden, just at dark. A neighbor came bringing her, in a strawberry box, a few rare seedling pansies, and together they made a little place protected from the heat in which they might be nursed. And then they went and sat down inside the screened veranda to escape the mosquitoes.

They were still talking there when Bob came. But he took his magazine and sat down a few chairs away, and they talked on as if no one was within hearing of their voices. And indeed no one was, for Bob habitually absented himself in the print before his eyes. He was unconscious of everything around him. Energetic, insistent demands and clamors could get only a muttered "Uh-uh!" from him. He really didn't know when the neighbor left, although he had sort of muttered at her.

So Emily sat still and alone in the darkness, and glad of the quietness. She thought over one by one the dozen men—Martha called them men, though they scarcely deserved the name—who would be dancing with the girls at the club. Emily knew every one of them; some of them she had known for years. She knew the families of most of them. Every time she thought of Martha's partner of the evening before, they seemed more acceptable to her. They were—decent. They were—secure. They had no foreign accent, and they had not pretended to know Tchekhoff. People gossiped about them, but Emily believed their relationships with bootleggers were merest flirtations. Their scrapes were ridiculous—like Johnnie's opera—-but they were not vicious—often. Bob called them "nail-polishers," and "shiny Johnnies," and thought pessimistically about their chances of success in this competitive life. But Emily, musing away, liked them all that night.

Bob threw down his magazine, after a while, and returned to Emily's presence. He got up and lit a cigar, and went into the house. Emily heard him there talking to some one by 'phone about insurance. He came out and sat down on the railing in front of her.

"Let's go to bed," he said.

She looked at him. There he sat, a heavy, rather sluggish man with a growth of black beard which he conspicuously did not shave twice a day. His hair was not as thick as it had been ten years ago, but not less unruly, and his digestion was decidedly poorer. He was working hard, and making money, and usually tired. He was still more even-tempered than most men. From the time Martha went away to school till she came home for holiday he scarcely spoke an irritable word.

"I thought I'd wait till the girls come home."

"You're dead tired."

"I know it, but they'll be here soon. It's nearly twelve now."

"Let's go out and get them."

"All right. Let's."

They had done that more than once. Bob was always ready for a drive even over that road which they must take along the river. Two miles of that sinuous and uncertain byway had been the cause, like the rest of the country club, of a great wave of hard feeling in the community. Were the taxpayers going to keep it up for a few rich "sporty" families? asked the indignant, so successfully that now the handful of members had either to repair it themselves or endure its flooded ruts. The country club had not been well managed. Mrs. Benton had washed her hands of it in the beginning, prophesying its downfall. The founders had not counted the cost. The less wealthy couldn't stand the assessments and had dropped out. Those who remained had to pay more. And it was all a muddle and a burden and a quarrel—a perfect example of how Mrs. Benton did not manage things. Emily was one of those who still kept membership. She seldom used the place, but she wanted Martha to have a place to play golf. The more Martha danced there, the less she would disturb her father by dancing at home. And really, it was a very nice crowd of young people who gathered there. By night, as Bob and Emily drove in, it looked gay and lovely, lit all up, among the trees, with the dancers gliding about. By day, of course, its appearance justified the scorn which neighboring towns poured upon it. However, those towns, since last night's event, would be less boastful.

Bob stopped the car and they sat looking in. Now Martha had had on a little dress faintly pink at the neck and deeply carmine at the hem, so that, if she had been there, Emily would have seen her in a moment.

"Where is the kid?" Bob grumbled. Emily looked about under the trees, and saw Johnnie Benton leave the couple with whom he was smoking and come over to them. Bob repeated his question immediately. And Johnnie said, indifferently, looking in towards the lighted floor:

"Isn't she there? I guess she's out having a petting party somewhere with that dago necker."

Emily was thoroughly annoyed by the boy's impertinence. The idea of his daring to say a thing to her of Martha.

"Who d'you mean?" Bob demanded.

"You know, that bearded guy she's falling for."

"Eve's brother-in-law?"

"Yes."

"Is she with that——" Emily nudged Bob violently.

"She generally is!" So Johnnie wasn't so indifferent, after all, to the fact as he had wanted them to believe. And then the music stopped, and the girls came nocking out to the drive like butterflies. Marion Wright called upon Johnnie to witness that there was just one more dance, and then they would all go home, and Martha, she said, had already gone, walking home.

Emily asked in reply, unconcernedly, if they were having a good time, and told them not to hurry, and said, "No, they wouldn't wait for an ice—the night was so hot they had thought they would drive out to cool off." But here the ice was—and she ate it hurriedly, fearing what Bob might say about Martha before them, nudging him mentally, as it were, into silence.

No sooner was the car turned towards home than Bob broke out:

"Well, I'll be damned! I won't have this, Emily."

"Funny we didn't see them, if they're walking home."

"I thought she had some sense. What's he doing out here? Did you know he was coming?"

"No. I never thought of it. Of course the family belongs."

"The nerve of him! Does anyone else come uninvited?"

"Oh, Bob, we must be careful! Did you hear what Johnnie said?"

"I'll settle that girl to-night. She isn't going to be running around at midnight with any married man."

"Now, Bob, we mustn't be hasty. You must think this over. We don't want to—seem to take this—too seriously. He'll be leaving, likely, in a day or two."

"How do you know he will?"

"I suppose he will. Didn't Eve say so?"

"I didn't hear her. And it's the principle of the thing. She thinks it's smart to be flirting with a married man."

"Oh, I don't think she does, Bob. He's so different—from these boys here." And then suddenly she begged: "Look, Bob! Oh, let me do the talking to her!" For walking slowly along, side by side, were the two of them, little rosy Martha and the man that seemed always bending over her. So near they were that Bob stopped the car with a jerk.

"We'll give you a lift," he said, unceremoniously. "Get in!"

Martha introduced her companion. Bob gave the shortest possible sign of being aware of his existence. He was opening the car door.

"Get in!" he said to his daughter.

"It's a glorious night for walking," Mr. Quin remarked, standing still.

"It's too late. Get in!" Bob again spoke directly to Martha.

She turned to her escort. "It is rather muddy here. Let's ride a little." And she got serenely in, and bade him follow her. The car started.

Emily turned around in her seat.

"You staying long in town, Mr. Quin? I meant to call. But Eve said your wife isn't well."

"Oh—I'm not sure yet. It's all so interesting to me. A Western town like this. It's quite surprised me." Hadn't Eve said the man was brought up in Indiana? His tone annoyed Emily so that she turned abruptly about in her seat. Martha leaned forward to her.

"He thinks it's the most ripping dance hall he ever saw, of the kind, mother." Ripping, was it? Such a distinguished word, so unlike this West, Emily was saying to herself. Where was Bob going? Why didn't he take them directly home? He had turned, and in a minute, before they knew it almost, they had stopped in front of Eve's home.

"We'll drop you here," said Bob.

The stranger looked at Martha.

She said, surprised: "No—— Oh—well——"

"It's the way we have in these Western towns," Bob remarked, shortly. The man said good night reluctantly and as meaningly as possible, with Emily's eye upon him.

In the light of the living room, Emily said: "Look at your slippers, Martha! What made you walk home in them?"

"Oh, mother, it was such moonlight. You were absolutely rude to him, mother. I never saw you act so before," Martha spoke grievedly.

"I know a snubbing when I get one. He didn't ask me to call on his wife."

"But, mother, you know she isn't well. Eve said so."

"If she isn't well I think he'd better devote himself exclusively to her. Martha, I don't like this. He ought to know better, if you don't. You'll get yourself talked about, if this keeps on."

Martha opened her eyes in unfeigned surprise.

"That's a funny way for you to talk, mother. You always say people have no right to go gossiping around about girls!"

"Well, I certainly said girls oughtn't to do silly things to start people talking."

"I get sick of this town! It's only in a little crude hole of a place like this a girl can't look at a man after he's married. He knows more in a minute than all the boys in this place know in a year. And just because he's got a wife I'm not to listen to him, I suppose!"

"You are certainly not to—to let him spend all his time with you. You went with Johnnie. Why didn't you come home with him? Did you know that he—this Quin person—was to be there, Martha?"

Martha stood there looking straight at her mother, as if she had seen in her something new and perplexing.

"What's the matter, mother? What's all the fuss about, anyway?"

"About this man. He's married. He oughtn't to be following you about when his wife's at home sick. I'm disgusted with you, Martha."

"Because he happens to be married?"

"He doesn't happen to be married; he is married."

"I don't follow you, mother."

Martha spoke, with her head held high, in the lazy tone she used to infuriate her father.

Emily said, gently smiling: "There's no use your trying that on me, Martha. You follow me exactly. You know exactly what I mean, and you're to remember what I say."

"You never spoke like this to me before, mother." She would try being hurt.

"I never had occasion to, thank goodness! And I'm not going to speak to you this way again, either." They both heard Bob coming in. "Now go to bed," Emily said, kissing her, "and be a good girl." Martha kissed her in return, without any sign of annoyance, and ran quickly upstairs.

"Where is she?" Bob demanded.

"She's gone to bed."

"Just like her. She crawls out of everything. Did you settle her once for all?"

"I spoke to her about it. I told her we didn't like it."

"You're too easy with her, Emily. I'm going to settle her in the morning. I'm going to lay down the law to her!"

He was going to lay down the law to her, was he, when he had never in his life laid down his work for an hour for her sake! Emily, that placid woman, for the third time in one evening, was ruffled and resentful. Johnnie had disturbed her. "That man" had annoyed her. And now, all of a sudden, Bob, who had never done anything but stand aside and watch her manage Martha, was going to take her in hand. He had literally had no time for the girl since she was born; and now he seemed to think she ought to listen to him.

She said nothing, being wise, and he went up to bed. The Wright girls came in, presently, with Johnnie and Chris Phillips, all of them together making a little eddying whirlpool of youth in the quiet room. Emily, moved by some instinct of security for Martha, called up to her to come down. "Oh," they said, "is Martha home?" Emily replied carelessly that they had picked her up near the bridge, and instantly she happened to look at Helen Wright. She had not been thinking of the effect of her remark, but she saw Helen wink—yes, undoubtedly just wink—at Johnnie, and she saw he didn't want to be winked at on the subject. She felt a sharp mistrust of that girl—her expressive, cynical face. What did she mean? Did she know with whom Martha had chosen to walk home? She thanked goodness that Helen Wright wasn't staying long. She didn't like her.

Martha had only tarried a minute—long enough to have paid, perhaps, her tribute to the mirror, but by the time she came down the boys had left. Johnnie said it would be a change to go once before he got sent home. Martha didn't deign to notice his absence. She talked serenely to her guests.

But Emily, in her bed, remembered, sighing more than once, how that horrid Helen had sat looking at Martha, with cynical, initiated amusement. Perhaps that girl was encouraging her in her naughtiness. If Martha wasn't careful—and she probably wouldn't be—she would be getting into a horrible row with her father. That consummation Emily Kenworthy would do anything to avoid. If Bob "bawled her out" in the morning, the world underneath their feet would be splitting. Martha and that odious stranger would be on one side, and Bob would be on the other. And Emily—well, there was never a moment's doubt in her mind where she would be!

She remembered, indignant at the thought of it, that perfectly absurd situation of her friend, Mrs. Harding, whose daughter had married, to the utter rage and final alienation of her father. One day, months after that, Mrs. Harding had come creeping into the Kenworthys' house, almost a stranger then, and had begged for the loan of two hundred dollars, just begged for it, ashamed and whispering, because her daughter was ill, and without a penny, in a rooming house demanding its rent. A girl friend of hers had seen her there, and had come back to urge her mother to help her. In all her life Emily had never had to consider the state of a woman living comfortably without one cent of her own to put a finger on. "If I were you," she had exclaimed to Mrs. Harding, "I would go straight to her. I would bring her home, or take her some place and take care of her." But Mrs. Harding dared not defy her husband. He was an old man, and delicate, and it might kill him. And Emily had been on the point of saying: "I don't believe it! And if it does, he deserves it!" She had entered heartily into that conspiracy, and it had all turned out so well, and the two women had become friends. Yet Emily essentially disapproved of her "kowtowing" to her husband. There would be nothing like that in her house! If any great, deep chasm was to come splitting across the ground on which the Kenworthy family stood, Emily was going to be on the side of her daughter! Was it likely that she would give up that Jim Kenworthy—that she would have allowed her dear lover to go away to die alone—for that child's sake, and now give up the child merely for Bob Kenworthy?

"Bob," she said, emphatically.

"What's the matter?" He was sleepy.

"You aren't to 'settle' Martha in the morning! You are to leave her to me!"

"What?"

"I say you aren't to scold Martha in the morning about—that man. I've talked to her about it, and that's enough."

"She won't mind you, Emily."

"She'll mind me at least as much as she would you. And more, too. And I'm not going to have you two—quarreling and arguing about—this—person. Do you understand that, Bob? If you—speak to her about it, she'll get to thinking that she's on one side with that man, and you and I are on the other side."

"She's on his side now."

"No, Bob, she isn't. She is just—playing; she wants a little rope."

"She's got enough to hang herself now."

"You won't speak to her, will you, Bob, now?"

"Oh, well," Bob grumbled, "she's your kid, Emily. You've got to manage her. She won't listen to anything I say, anyway."

"But I mean, don't you just begin to—don't you forget and bring the subject up, at all, will you, Bob?"

"I won't say a word to her if you make her quit it. If you don't, I'll take her in hand. I won't stand for her getting talked about all over town!"

"She's not going to get talked about, Bob!"

"Oh, well. Manage her to suit yourself."

That was the most he could say. He could offer her no help. All she could ask of him was that he would refrain from interfering. But if Jim had been in Bob's place, Jim would have known what to do. Martha would have listened if Jim could have spoken to her. And Jim would have listened if Emily had gone to him in perplexity about the girl. Hadn't she and Jim sat together for hours discussing their children, enjoying them together, having them in common, almost, in spite of the barrier between them? Because Jim had always appreciated little Martha Kenworthy. That was the essential wrong Bob had done the child since birth. He had failed to appreciate her. He had never in his life understood a woman. He had never even given the proper value to his own mother. And Jim's adulterous wife he had simply cursed whenever he thought of her. It was only men that Bob could evaluate. There was no use expecting him to judge Martha fairly. But Jim had enjoyed every phase of her little girlhood, just as he had played tenderly, reverently with his mother's heroisms and weaknesses, just as he had so well understood every shade of the service Emily had unconsciously rendered him when she had loved his son. If Martha had a man like Jim about familiarly, she wouldn't be impressed as she seemed to be with the first pretentious masher that came her way. Jim would have set a standard for the child, given her a taste for masculine worth. And it all went back again to the old, old question: Why didn't I marry Jim in the first place? Why did I ever quarrel with him? Why was I brought up so that I could quarrel with him, about a book, merely a book that is this minute lying neglected on the shelf in the painted room because the girls were bored with old classics? I married Bob to get away from this house, said Emily. But Martha will never marry to get away from that, Emily vowed again.

Chapter Four

Afterwards, when Emily, thinking those summer weeks over, used to ask herself again and again why she hadn't prevented their climax, she could scarcely recall how her realization of the situation had come about. She had told Martha that she didn't want Eve's brother-in-law singling her out for his attention. She had supposed that was sufficient. She had gone with Martha to take the Wrights home the next day, and all very merrily the afternoon had gone, just as afternoons usually went before that man came rumbling on the horizon. There had been no mention of him till towards supper time. Martha's chum, Greta, had come in then, asking her to go for a swim. Emily liked Greta, with reservations and allowances, thinking her too pretty to be judged severely. She had dazzling eyes: light-blue eyes when she wore light blue; dark-blue eyes when she wore dark blue; gray eyes when she had on a gray suit; and when she pulled that wicked little mauve hat down over her forehead, her eyes were purple as dark pansies. One had to forgive that girl for somewhat too deliberately flashing those glances into male consciousness, Emily argued. But Greta didn't—quite tell the very truth—always. Just lately in a crisis she had told one tale, and Martha had told another of what happened, and it had all had to come out, Martha justified, a truthful child, and Greta—well, perhaps she had learned her lesson. Emily believed so.

Now that afternoon when she came in on her way to the beach, Martha was indiscreet, to say the least. She said demurely enough, when Greta urged her:

"Oh, I don't know whether I'm allowed to go swimming. Am I, mammie?"

Emily had asked innocently, "Why not?"

"Well, there's sure to be some married men about, some place." And Greta had smiled, as if she understood Martha's cause for complaint.

"Don't be silly!" Emily had replied. They had gone swimming. Afterwards Emily wondered if Martha had known that man would be there, if she had taken that way of warding off subsequent reproof. She wondered, but she could reach no conclusion. She could never make out clearly how it had gone on. She hadn't even known for certain that Martha was seeing the man. She had thought it better to trust her.

Eve had returned the next day, and Emily had been glad, feeling that Eve would be a protection. The girls had gone together to spend the week-end at Geneva with friends. That had been planned days ago. Bob had remarked uneasily, looking up from the daily at noon on Monday:

"That bird's in Geneva, Emily!"

"Who?"

"Quin, that brother-in-law of Eve's."

"Why shouldn't he be?" Emily had asked, carelessly. And she asked herself the same question, but not so carelessly. What was more natural than that he should have gone fishing? Didn't everybody go fishing? Wasn't there a long list in the paper every Monday of all the men from the town who had gone, even though they went regularly every Saturday of the season? The editor had to have something to fill up his columns, and that list, and the list of those who went to Chicago daily to shop, could always be depended upon. Still——

Afterwards she sometimes thought that she should have said to Martha: "Did you see Mr. Quin at Geneva? Did you know he was going to be there?" She might have asked that question the following Wednesday. Perhaps that was where she had made her great mistake. She should have asked Martha directly what had happened there.

For Eve came home that day from the links alone, and announced she was going to Chicago at once to her father; that she had thought when she came to live in this town that at least she wouldn't have her sister hanging around, and her brother-in-law. She wasn't going to come back till they cleared out, she said, angrily red. Afterwards Emily knew that she ought to have asked her exactly what the quarrel had been about. She had, however, practically asked Martha later. Martha had said indifferently she supposed Eve was tired of the little town. It wasn't good enough for her, perhaps. She had spoken sarcastically. She didn't regret Eve's departure. She had gone on her way undisturbed. Perhaps she had spent more time with her friends than she usually did. At home she was quiet; but she had always been that. She had always sat excited, as it were, by her thoughts, chuckling to herself about what was in her mind. Her Uncle Jim had said of her child that it was herself she seemed always to be enjoying. She had seemed to have a hidden source of delight to muse on. Johnnie was no longer about the house. When Emily commented on this fact, Martha had explained indifferently that he had an awful case on a De Kalb girl.

One afternoon Emily sat talking to an old, trustworthy friend. "When's Eve coming back? You know her sister?" Grace Phillips had asked.

Emily couldn't believe she had asked it in malice. She thought afterwards it might have been a well-meant warning. Emily had said she had not even seen the sister. She wasn't receiving callers.

"You see more of him, I suppose?"

Emily had repressed her surprise, and answered, vaguely, "No; that is, not a great deal. Eve—not when Eve isn't here."

What did Mrs. Phillips mean? Had she seen Martha with that man?

"I hear the old grandmother gets worse all the time," Mrs. Phillips had innocently continued. Emily had said she didn't know.

It was after four then; soon after that there had come a long-distance 'phone call: four friends in the next county were driving up to dance in Chicago. Would Martha go with them? They'd be along soon after seven. As Emily hung up the receiver she saw a sort of chance. She would go out to the golf course and bring Martha home to get ready for the evening, and take occasion to see exactly who was playing there, and then she would be rid of this uneasiness. She hated taking the car herself, but it was time she made sure of what was going on.

So she drove out, inch by inch around by the dusty detour, over the well-known ruts. She turned the car anxiously through the gates, which always looked so narrow when she was driving that to miss their post seemed almost miraculous. She chose her place of stopping very carefully, a large place easy to turn around in, in case Martha wasn't there and she had to go back by herself.

She shut off the engine, congratulating herself the more upon the neatness of her achievement because some other woman had stopped her car—but not her engine—wrong way about, at some distance, so that she sat almost facing Emily. A stranger she was. With a swanky little scarlet hat on, and rouged; waiting for some one, looking intently towards the path through the trees by which the players came up to the shack of a clubhouse.

And then it occurred to Emily that that woman must be Eve's sister, because that must be the car that Eve drove. She looked, naturally, with renewed interest. The face was in some ways like Eve's. But it was no wonder Eve didn't like her. She was a discontented woman, ill-natured, with hollows about her eyes, like Eve, but more accentuated; altogether hard faced. She was probably waiting for her husband.

"Shall I go and speak to her, or shall I not?" Emily wondered. The woman hadn't once looked in her direction. Either she was intent upon the path and had not heard anyone coming, or purposely avoided chances of being intruded upon.

Emily had not been sitting there undecided one minute when the woman leaned suddenly forward, shifting her position to get a better view of something. Emily's eyes turned, naturally, to see what she was so eagerly looking at. There were four people walking towards them at a little distance, two in front, young Mr. and Mrs. Williams, two behind, little Martha Kenworthy and that man. Martha had on a pleated white skirt and a belted overblouse of pale yellow crêpe de Chine, with a square neck, and she was walking along, slight and young, bareheaded, of course, with her face all flushed pink, looking up, all smiling and interested, to that man, who seemed, as always, to be leaning down over her. They came walking towards her. They were talking about something so amusing, so intimately interesting, that they paid no attention to the two cars. Emily sitting there, sickening, saw Mrs. Williams call Martha's attention to her mother. She saw the absorbed two turn from their topic and look towards her.

She had looked again quickly at the woman. She knew what she had been waiting for. She saw the discontented face flush angrily, as Eve's did sometimes; and then, just as that man drew near, when he had seen his wife sitting there, she started her car and drove hastily away.

Martha was coming up to her mother. Mrs. Williams was with her. The men had stopped to talk together about something, a few steps away. Had the Williamses seen that woman? Would they know who she was?

"Hello, mother!" Martha said, quite naturally. And Emily, she hoped undismayed, explained to her and Mrs. Williams why she had come. "I thought I'd better come and get you, so you'd have time enough to get ready," she said.

Martha jumped in, taking her place at the wheel. She had come out with Greta, whom Emily saw at some distance, coming towards her. She asked Mrs. Williams to tell her she had gone home. They whirled away.

"Martha!" Emily said, sternly, "I came out here to get you. And this is what I find. Do you know who was in that car?"

"What car?"

"That one ahead, that just drove out." Martha looked down the road.

"Eve?" she asked.

"Her sister. She came out here to see if her husband was with you," Emily's voice trembled with dismay.

"Why, mother!" Martha was indignant. "What makes you say such a thing?"

"I saw her expression. She was waiting to catch him with you. Do the Williamses know her? Oh, I wonder if they saw that—if they understood? Mr. Jenkinson was sitting on the porch there. Martha, this is the end of that. I didn't like you being with that man before; but, now I've seen her, I simply won't have it. She's jealous. Why, Martha, a girl might get into an awful mess, this way! That woman—driving away in that way. Quarreling in public—that way!"

"She quarrels with everybody, Eve says," Martha commented, indifferently.

"Well, she's not going to have any excuse for quarreling with us. You hear what I say, Martha? You're not to play golf, or swim or ride or walk or dance or even smile at that man in public, any place, where anybody can see you."

"It'll look sort of funny, mother, when he's everywhere I am."

"I don't care how it looks. It'll look a lot better than having his wife watching him flirting with you."

Martha raised her head proudly.

"I don't know why you should say a thing like that to me! I was NOT flirting, I was just talking to him, mammie! This seems so—unworthy of you."

"Very well, then. You aren't to talk to him any more. You've got to obey me! You've got to do exactly what I say in this, Martha!"

"I don't know why you get so worked up over this! You never talk so about anybody else!"

"You never look that way at any other man!"

"No. I never find anyone so interesting!"

"It's disgusting. You ought to be spanked!"

"I'm not a child!"

"You certainly are!"

"I'm twenty in April."

"Can she know how that threat—yes, sheer threat of independence—hurts me?" Emily wondered.

"Oh, Martha, you mustn't be—you mustn't! It isn't fair. That woman is unhappy! She's haggard! She's sick, and she sees him playing about with you!"

"Am I so dangerous? Can't she even let him talk to a child?"

"I'm not going to argue with you. I've simply laid down the law, for once. You're not to be seen even talking with that man again. Do you understand that?"

"Yes."

"Didn't you understand it before?"

"I never thought you'd act this way about it."

"I never thought for a minute you'd go on, after what I said to you."

"Do you want me to tell him I'm not allowed to speak to him?"

"I don't care what you tell him. You're able to make a man understand when he's not welcome, I hope, at your age."

"A mere child like me, mammie?" Martha asked. But Emily didn't deign to notice her sarcasm. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Martha went directly to her room. She came down for supper, and ate in silence. When it was over she began clearing away the dishes. Was she going to be a martyr? She passed through the living room, when she had finished them, on the way to her room.

"If they call for me, you can tell them I'm not going," she told Emily.

But the girls, when they came, wouldn't take any such answer. They ran into the house and up to the painted room. They must have persuaded her, for she came down with them, all dressed and ready, and, after they had told Emily they were going to keep her till the next afternoon, she said good-by coolly and departed with them.

And Emily was glad. Anything to get the child's mind away from the afternoon, from "that man." She wished Martha would stay with those nice young girls and go playing about with the lads they played with for a week. Perhaps that man would have left town by that time. Perhaps Eve would come back. And there was Mary Carr, who was to come for a visit some time during the holiday, and other girls. If Martha would only invite them for next week! Emily, sitting on the dark veranda, clung eagerly to these hopes. Remembering the expression of that woman's face, she planned almost frantically. She would take Martha and go—to Estey's Park—or—to Banff; she would go to Alaska or—Italy—Norway—any place. Home had become—not a refuge, not a playground of happy security, but a dangerous, threatening place. She wished devoutly that Eve and her family had never come to the town.

However, when Emily suggested Colorado, Martha said it was too hot to travel. Trains would be horrible such nights. And that was true. "This house," Martha remarked, truly, "is cooler than any place else is." When Emily asked about the visit Martha had been looking forward to, she replied: "Dorothy's father has broken his leg. I don't think they want me now." When Emily asked, after a discreet interval, when Mary Carr was to be expected, Martha said: "I don't know yet—exactly. It's such a lot of work for you now, company, in the heat. It's sort of nice to have a rest, for a change." This was something new. And there was something new about the atmosphere of the house. Martha had stopped baiting her father. She had stopped chattering with her mother. She sat through the meals a well-behaved and silent child. She offered to help about the house more thoughtfully than she sometimes had. And when she had finished her tasks, she withdrew to the painted room.

She had said she wanted a sitting room, and she had got one. But Emily had never foreseen that she meant to withdraw from the family altogether. When her friends came now, they went upstairs to her. Emily felt strangely alone, deprived of their chatter. When she went up to them, the girls received her as usual. Their tongues wagged on still. They seemed not to notice Martha's withdrawal, but Emily did. She told herself that she had been trying always to get Martha to rest. And now when Martha was going to bed early, when she was lying on her bed reading, or pretending to, sleeping, or pretending to, all the afternoons, Emily was uncomfortable. Even Bob said: "What's got into the kid? Where's the gang?"

Emily wouldn't ask Bob about "that man." She saw him one day on the street. The next day Martha announced she was going to Chicago. She had to get something for cushions, and a tray. Emily offered to go with her. Martha expressed no eagerness for her company, but showed a desire to go alone. She went, and came back with her purchases.

She went again the next week. Emily was glad to have her away, for a change. She had never gone to play golf since that afternoon. She went about with her girl friends when she couldn't avoid going. She went nearly every evening for a swim with some of them. When she came back, sometimes she went and sat alone in the boat tied under the willow until bedtime. Emily's heart smote her when she saw the girl sitting alone there, in the starlight, a dimmed firefly among the shining ones. That boat, that willow—were for two. She had to think soberly about the deserted veranda, where Bob sat now without blushing. And where were the boys that had been "hanging about" before? Martha had said more than once that they came just to "jolly" her mother. They weren't coming now for that purpose. Johnnie passed back and forth every day up and down the street, but he never came in, unless his mother had sent him on an errand.

The first week of August Emily met Eve downtown. That was a jolt. "Have you been back long?" she asked, carelessly. And Eve hurried to say that she had been back a few days, but she was trying to help at home. Her grandmother was very bad. The nurses were busy every minute. But Eve was going to find time to come down. "I meant to come and see YOU," she asserted, with eager sincerity, with just a little stress on the "you." "I'm going to be here all the time now. My sister's gone," she added cheerfully.

When she went on her way, Emily sighed with deep relief. Those people and their shadow over the Kenworthys had left, finally. Maybe things would be gay now, as they used to be. But Martha, who had given no sign and never mentioned either of them again to Emily, seemed to be unaware of their departure. She was tired, and it was hot, and she wanted to rest. She stated her case with dignity, gently. There was nothing Emily could object to in her bearing.

There was nothing they could object to in her manner the next week, when she refused to drive to Springfield with her father and mother. Bob would do the driving, and she had never liked riding alone in the back seat. So the Kenworthys went alone, and spent the day, and came driving back towards home through the country darkness about midnight.

The day had added to the burden on Emily's mind, instead of lightening it. She had been visiting a friend while Bob had been hurrying through his business. They had been silent for miles, when Emily began talking, wearily:

"Fanny was telling me about her niece, Bob. She wondered if we could get her a job in town here. Her husband has left her with those two children. She learned typing, but she hasn't had any experience. She wants to get some place where she can make a home for them. She'll have to divorce him. I wondered—if she could get some work here, maybe I could help her with the children, sometimes. I said we'd look round and see if we could do anything," Emily sighed.

"She married that Grey, didn't she? Who vamped him?" That was the way Bob WOULD put it, of course. Everything he thought of as some woman's fault.

"I don't know. He's no good. They tried every way to get her not to marry him." Emily sighed again. These daughters—these tragedies. The rumbling of incredible possibilities on the horizon—Emily fell silent, sighing sometimes.

The car drew up to the house, and Emily reproved herself for worrying. It was lighted up; the victrola was playing. It would be gay with dancing within. But the blinds were down, strange to say. Never mind that—Martha was happy again. She was having a party of friends. Bob and Emily went up the walk and into the front hall, both of them relieved and eager, and through it into the living room, to put down their parcels on the table.

And there Emily stopped by the table, without unloading her hands. Bob stopped behind her. They just stood looking for a critical second—looking at Martha and "that man," who were stopping their dance, drawing away from each other, returning their gaze.

"You're late," said Martha, quite naturally, unperturbed.

The man spoke to them. Emily murmured something. She didn't know what to say. Martha went to the victrola and stood there, turning it off. Bob said nothing. Richard Quin looked at Martha inquiringly.

"It's late," he said. "Really, I'd better be going."

Bob took a step towards the table and divested himself of three large bottles of choice olives and a long sprayer for roses. He strode towards the man.

"Yes, you'd better be going," he said. "If you're wise, you'll be staying away." He stood glaring at him, threateningly.

Emily came and stood close to Bob. And Martha came towards "that man," with her head held high. She spoke to him with the most gentle sweetness, looking straight at her father.

"You didn't have a hat, did you?" she asked him. "It was so nice of you to think of coming in." She was going with him towards the door. She went with him into the hall. "Good night," they heard her say. "Good night." She stood in the hall after the door had shut behind the man. She waited there. Emily called her. And when she came into the light from the darkness of the hall, it was plain that for once in his life Bob Kenworthy had "got a rise" out of Martha. She came straight at him. She was white with anger.

"How dare you do such a thing! How dare you speak to my friends that way!" Emily had never seen her so furious.

"Martha!" she cried, warningly.

"I won't stand this! I'll never ask another friend to this house as long as I live!"

"Don't talk that way to me!" Bob exclaimed. "Don't say dare to me!"

And Emily said, soothingly, "Martha, didn't I tell you not to let that man come here?"

"You did not! You told me not to appear in public with him. Is this public? We've been up in my room till just now. I pulled the blinds down as soon as we came down!"

"My God!" cried Bob. "You pulled the blinds down! You haven't any sense at all. Have those blinds been down before all summer? You're a perfect fool!"

"I'm not going to be cursed, mother." She started towards the stairs proudly.

"You took him up to your bedroom?" Bob exploded.

"It's not her bedroom, Bob," Emily was saying.

He cried, "Come here and listen to me!"

"I won't," replied Martha. "You can't talk to me in that condition. I'm going to bed."

Emily saw Bob start towards Martha. She thought he was intending seizing her by the arm, pulling her into the room, making her listen. So she sank down into a chair.

"Bob!" she cried, "come here!" and she began crying.

He let Martha go up the stairs. He came and stood raging near Emily.

"Don't you worry! I'll put an end to this. I'll settle her yet. Don't cry. I'll put some sense into that girl's head. She's not going to take married men up to her bedroom in this house!"

"Bob, stop it! That's not her bedroom! You just make things worse!"

"I make things worse, do I?"

"Yes, you do! It's bad enough to have this thing going on! But you go and quarrel with her. You never can stop it this way! The sillier she is, the wiser we have to be. Oh, we must be careful! I won't have you saying such things to each other!"

"What are you blaming me for? You said you'd tell her to quit this, and that's all the good it's done us. Everybody'll be wondering why the blinds were down when we're away."

"Oh, I wish you hadn't done that! I wish—you looked as if you were intending to knock him down, Bob!"

"I did intend to! He's lucky! If he comes hanging around here, I will beat him up. What business has he got in this house at midnight?"

Emily was rising. She wiped her eyes. "I'll go up and talk to her," she said.

When she came into the painted room, Martha, who was sitting on a day bed, looked at her in surprise, and said, shortly: "What are you crying about? Did he do anything to you?" She spoke as if her father might have struck her mother.

"I was crying because you're so—because you speak that way to your father. I can't stand it, Martha!"

"You ought to have got me a civilized father, then—a human being. I get so mad at him!"

"You've got to stop it! I'm not going to live in a house with you two quarreling all the time."

"Oh, I'll clear out! I'm not anxious to stay. You wait till I'm twenty!"

"Martha, you needn't act this way. You needn't try to make out you're the offended one. Did you know he was coming here to-night?"

Martha looked at her mother defiantly. She hesitated. She was a truthful child, at least. She said, shortly, after a second, "Yes, I did."

"Did you ask him? Did you arrange to have him come when we were away?"

"You never asked me questions like this about other people."

"I want to know, Martha."

"Yes, I did. I asked him."

"You know I didn't want you to do that."

"You told me not to appear in public with him, mother. I didn't appear in public. I minded you. I don't see anything to be ashamed of. I don't see why we should keep it secret. He wanted to see me, and I wanted to talk to him. I knew you wouldn't understand it. You just insist on misjudging him. You won't try to get acquainted with him. I knew dad would make a fool of himself if he saw him here."

"What did he need to see you about?"

"Well, I—I don't know why—I don't know what right—— If I'd been ashamed of myself, I could have sent him home before you came, and you'd never even have known he'd been here."

Emily went over and sat down by Martha. She put her arm around her. She tried to pull her close against her, but Martha was for sitting erect, stiffly. Her attitude made Emily's coaxing tone futile.

"Martha, he didn't have any business here. He knew he wasn't welcome here. Unless he's absolutely stupid, he understood that before daddy said a word to him. If he was a decent man he would never have come or he would have gone earlier."

Martha bristled. "He did have business here. He had to see me."

"Why?"

The girl rose. She walked about the room excitedly. She began once, and stopped. She came and stood in front of Emily.

"Now look here, mother. I don't think you ought to ask me questions like that. As though you don't believe me. But if you'll stop all this fuss, I'll tell you the whole thing next week."

"What whole thing?"

"I'll tell you why he came to-night."

"Why don't you tell me now, Martha?"

"No. I'm not going to tell you now. I'll tell you next week. I'll tell you on Monday or Tuesday. It isn't anything to be ashamed of, mother." Martha spoke with dignity, reprovingly.

"I don't suppose it is."

"Then what makes you look at me like a thief? Why do you let dad swear at me and curse me?"

"That's just silly of you! He wasn't cursing you, and you know it. That's just his way."

"I'm tired of his way. I won't have him using my friends like that."

"He never spoke like that to any other friend, Martha. He's patient with them all. He never——

"Well, I don't want him sitting round to be PATIENT with my friends. I can never tell when he'll fly off the handle and beat some of them up."

"You know why he doesn't like this man. No father would like to see his daughter——"

"What?" Martha challenged.

"Having her name connected with a married man."

"There you go, mother. You can't find any objection to him but that."

"That's enough for us."

"We don't seem to agree."

"We've got to, Martha." Emily felt herself trembling. She felt that she was calling to her very child across a great gulf. The living room with its hideous tableau stretched out distantly, and Martha and "that man" stood together by the victrola there, away, away beyond an alienating stretch, and she and Bob stood together by the door, trying to speak to her. She felt it so vividly that her voice touched the angry girl; for Martha came and sat down by her and said, earnestly:

"Oh, mammie, I—I wouldn't quarrel with you for anything. It doesn't matter about dad. But you—mother—you always understood me before. What is the matter now? Can't you trust me? What do you think I'm going to do—to commit some crime?"

"Martha, you are a child. You are a young girl, with no experience. And I tell you you must be careful. You mustn't run risks. You—— There are so many dangers, child!"

"That's just saying those nasty things about him—to talk like that—about danger. Do you think I'm a fool? Dad does!"

"I think you're—young, Martha."

"That's the same thing when you say it that way, mother. Honestly, it'll be all right when I tell you! If you'll call dad off till next week!"

With that much comfort Emily went back to Bob. And she lived till the next Monday a trembling flag of truce between two armies furious to spring into combat.

On Friday Martha stayed in bed till late in the morning, and then came down and said to her mother:

"I'm going to Elgin. Do you want to go with me?"

Emily couldn't well go.

"I won't be back till three or four. And I'm going to have supper with Greta. You needn't worry about me. Richard Quin went to Chicago last night. I don't want to stay in the house all day Sunday with father, so I'm going over to-morrow to Wrights'. They've asked me. You don't mind if I go? I won't be seeing anybody you object to. They'll bring me back Sunday evening."

The prospect of another scene between Bob and Martha was more frightful to Emily than whatever explanation was forthcoming next week. She couldn't help believing that in some way Martha would clear herself from blame. She wanted to believe that she was unreasonable, that her daughter was right. But she would insist on Martha apologizing to Bob as soon as they both cooled down. She could always manage Bob, some way—by tears, if by nothing else, because she had never exercised their authority over him; he wasn't used to them. She knew he surrendered when one tear showed in her eyes. And now since this burden of fear for the child weighed her down, no feigning was required. Tears were just there, waiting to come. Why couldn't Martha appreciate Bob? And why should Bob be irritable only with his poor little daughter? A man who was so successful in managing a lot of overalled workmen. If only Martha had been a boy! Emily, like Bob, had never before been sorry she was a girl. Never! That is—except just now, when she wouldn't get on with her father.

By Monday Emily had practically convinced herself that Martha, by some simple explanation, was about to set everything right. They were together in the living room, waiting for Bob, who was late coming up to dinner. When he came in he laid the mail on the table, paper and letters, and immediately Martha was there, taking hers.

"Who're those letters from?" Bob said.

"I'll be able to tell after I've opened them," she replied, because, even with Emily there, their tones said, "Do you get letters from that damned masher?" and, "What's it to you whom I get letters from!"

Emily interposed. "Dinner's ready, Bob." Her presence begged them not to quarrel. So Martha took her letters and went out to the veranda, and Bob went to wash. And they sat down at the table without more conflict. Martha's face was pink and she ate little. But she hadn't for some days had much appetite, as Emily had silently marked. When they rose and went into the living room again, Martha shut the dining room door behind her. Bob had taken up the daily, and sat down on the davenport, lighting a cigar.

"Mother," said Martha. At the stillness of her voice Bob had looked up at her. She was standing erect at the living-room table. She had taken a letter from the front of her little lavender gingham frock. Emily sank down beside Bob.

"I said I'd tell you something to-day." Both hands were clasped breast-high about that letter. Her shoulders were atilt. Her eyes were gleaming. "I'm afraid you won't like it."

She had spoken gently, with sincerity, with dignity. She paused. She swallowed, trying to go on quietly, but the words came rushing out.

"Richard Quin is getting a divorce!"

The joy of the girl sang out in that sentence. It sang out through the tenseness of the room as if all the lovers of the world were there to listen and chorus. Emily and Bob, for a second, sat dumfounded, just staring at her. Then Emily, from very pity, gave a sort of moan. And at that sound Bob got up ominously. He could hardly find his voice.

"What's that to you? Let me see that letter!" He reached out for it.

Martha stuffed it hastily down the square neck of her frock, for safety.

"It's my letter." She faced him, and not one of her scornful eyelashes fluttered at all, though he was glaring at her as if he would like to tear her into bits.

"So this is what you fixed up Friday night, with the blinds down. The God-damned scoundrel! You think you're going to marry him when he's got one wife?"

"I'm not discussing it with you. I won't have him called names."

Emily sobbed, "Bob!" entreatingly.

He turned sharply round and looked at her. And then he turned passionately towards Martha.

"Look at there!" he cried, with a gesture. "Look at your mother! You can't make her cry!" He was helpless. He had to entreat his child. "You can't do this, Martha!"

Martha had gone to her mother while Bob was speaking. She had thrown herself down against her, caressingly, trying to creep into her arms. But Emily's head was buried in her hands. She would not let her tear-stained face be uncovered.

"I don't want her to cry! I wouldn't make her cry for worlds. I was afraid you wouldn't like it—at first. Don't cry, mammie! It'll be all right when you know him." But Emily wept on. "He hasn't been happy, mother!" Martha entreated her.

Her words seemed to mock Bob. He spluttered out his fury.

"Happy! Who gives a damn whether he's happy or not?" he cried, as if he couldn't believe that his ears had heard such an inopportune suggestion. "Emily! Don't you cry, Emily! I'll stop this!"

"Oh, Martha!" Emily moaned.

Then Bob cried, suddenly, "Let me see that letter!"

Martha got up and spoke quietly.

"Mother doesn't want us quarreling," she said. "You know that. It makes her feel worse. That's my letter and I'm not going to let you see it. I won't talk to you now. You're too mad. I'm going upstairs. You can talk it over together."

Bob sat helplessly down near his wife. He wanted so greatly, so clumsily to comfort her, that she lifted her face to him. She wiped her eyes, but her thoughts were too painful.

"Oh, did you hear how she said that? She's in LOVE with him, Bob!" She wept again.

He answered, shortly: "Well, don't you worry. If she is, she'll have to get over it. What business has she got being in love with a married man?"

"It's too horrible! It makes me sick. I see it all now. She has been infatuated with him since that first night. The way she looked at him—even then!"

"He's a skunk, Emily. He's a damned skunk. The nerve of him, coming down here to tell her he was getting a divorce! She thinks she's going to marry him. Why, the girl's a perfect fool! I'm going to see Fairbanks about this! Who is he, anyway? I'll get the goods on him! I'll put an end to this, once for all. Don't you cry, old girl! We can't have this going on any longer!"

That was true. They could not have this going on. They considered what to do. But every time Emily thought of the child saying that—of those words "Richard Quin is getting a divorce"—as if the words came fresh out of glory, she had to hold her breath to keep from sobbing. The poor, silly, inexperienced girl, caught in this trap of pain. They sat there bewilderedly, trying to plan—to hope—

Then Johnnie Benton knocked on the screen and walked into the room, as he often did. He was embarrassed about something and dead in earnest. He saw at once that Emily had been crying.

"Oh!" he began apologetically. "I didn't—— I want to see Martha."

Bob, intending naturally to hide the family sorrow from sight, got up and went to the stairs and called up:

"Martha, here's Johnnie."

He got no answer, and repeated it shouting.

Martha opened her door and answered:

"I'm busy. I haven't got time to see him."

"Come in again later," Bob said to him. "She's dressing, or something."

But Johnnie wasn't satisfied.

"Well—I want to—— No. This is important. I can't wait. I'm in a hurry."

Bob shouted up again:

"Martha! Johnnie's in a hurry! It's something important. Come on down."

Johnnie heard her answer. Emily heard it. There was no misunderstanding it.

"I'm not coming down. I don't want to see him."

"I'm not going away till I see her."

"What's the matter?" asked Emily, annoyed by his persistence. He stood there as if he was planted deep in the rug.

"Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, I want this announced. We're engaged. Maybe we ought to have told you before, but it's going to be announced right now."

"Who's engaged?" Bob exclaimed.

"Martha and I."

"Why, Johnnie!" Emily babbled. She had suddenly leaned forward, and was sitting up, looking at the boy.

He grew red, but his eyes never wavered under her scrutiny. He was dead in earnest, for once. "You ask her to come down," he begged.

Emily got up slowly. Was she, then, waking from a hideous nightmare? Oh, if it was only some nice boy like Johnnie that could make the girl's voice shake!

"Martha!" she called up, and her voice was so alive with excitement that Martha came to the top of the stairs.

"What is it, mother?" she asked, eager for conciliation.

"Come down here, Martha!"

So Martha came down. She came into the living room slowly, warily. She looked at Johnnie. She looked at her mother inquiringly.

"Martha," said Emily, quietly, "Johnnie says—— You tell her," she said to him.

"Martha, we're going to announce our engagement to-day. Right now!"

The girl stood looking at him steadily in composed disapproval. "Whom are you engaged to? Why the excitement?"

"I'm engaged to you, Martha." He wasn't going to be fooled with.

"What a——" It seemed plain that she was about to say "lie," but she thought better of dignifying his statement by emphasis.

"What makes you say a thing like that?" she asked.

"You know very well what makes me say it."

Bob could not tolerate her indifference.

"Are you engaged to him or not?" he demanded.

"I certainly am not," she said. "Is that all you wanted?" she asked her mother.

"Now look here, Martha," Johnnie burst out with determination, "it's time to stop this fooling. That other thing's announced. That's in the paper. This is going to be announced."

"What's in the paper?" Bob cried, suspiciously.

"Everything except her name. Everybody knows who it is." And Johnnie stopped short in confusion, looking at Emily. "You were crying——" he pleaded for his excuse, lamely. "I thought you knew."

Bob had jumped for the paper. "What is it?" he cried.

"I thought, of course, you had seen it." And as Bob urged him, he pointed to it almost without looking, as if he knew by heart the very place the words had in their column. And Bob read, spluttering, gurgling:

"Mrs. Richard Quin, who has been visiting her father, returned this morning to Chicago to start divorce proceedings against her husband. She names as corespondent the daughter of a prominent family of this town."

"I thought, of course, you knew," Johnnie murmured.

"He did," said Martha. "I told them."

Emily had been to look over Bob's shoulder. She was taking the paper into her own hands, as if, unless she looked at it closely, she could not believe the words.

"You didn't tell us THIS! You said HE was getting the divorce!" She had reduced Bob again to spluttering.

"What difference does it make?" she murmured. And Bob could only echo her words dazedly. But Johnnie was challenging her.

"As soon as I saw you were in trouble, I made up my mind. I'm not going to wait any longer." There was no mistaking either his words or his tone.

"Oh!" And then, "Am I in trouble?" She spoke with indifferent curiosity, as if the idea was unimportant to her. "What trouble am I in?"

"My God!" Bob shouted at her. "Are you in trouble! Cut that out, I tell you. You ought to be thankful to get a decent man to marry you, after this."

She paid no attention to him. She was still looking imperturbably at Johnnie.

"You think it is a disgrace, I suppose, to have my name connected with his. So you come over and offer to marry me. To give me your precious name! Are you going into the movies, Johnnie?"

It is altogether likely that Bob, at this point, would have seized her by the arm and given her that shaking she had been so long inviting, if into the room just then had not stalked the cause of Johnnie's haste. His mother seemed to be perfectly in tune with the occasion, for she demanded, excitedly, having looked about and fixed her eyes on Emily:

"What has he been saying? I told you I'd tell the Kenworthys! Emily, what has Johnnie been saying to you?"

Before Emily could answer, Bob, to save her the trouble, exclaimed:

"He says he's engaged to her!" And then from those four, Emily being at one side, in less than a minute there came a volley of sharp sentences, as if they were standing in a circle firing at a target in the center.

Instantly Mrs. Benton exploded:

"Well, he isn't! He can't be! I will NOT give my consent! He can't stop school. He never earned a cent in his life. I won't allow him to marry! Understand that!"

Johnnie, ignoring her, cried to Bob, "I CAN earn my living!"

"You can't!" Mrs. Benton fired on him. "I will NOT support your wife!"

"Who asked you to?" Bob demanded. "I'll give you a job, Johnnie! I'll see you don't starve!"

And crack! crack! Martha spoke quietly, scornfully, to Mrs. Benton: "You needn't worry! I have not the least intention of marrying him!"

"You will marry him!" Bob popped. "You'll drop that skunk and marry him, or you'll get out of this house. I'm not going to stand any more nonsense from you!"

A fusillade from the heavy artillery.

"Whose house is this, anyway, Bob Kenworthy? What right have you got to turn anyone out of it? If I was Emily I'd turn YOU out for saying such a thing! I tell you I won't have Martha to support!"

"Don't you worry! I don't feel the need of you for my mother-in-law!" Martha Kenworthy dared to turn directly to her father. "This'll be my house some day, and I'll turn you all out if I want to!"

Emily, still holding that staggering newspaper in her hand, heard these dangerous sentences bursting around her child; they weren't saving her—they were destroying her. A panic took possession of her—and fury. And she rose with almost a jump and seized Martha by the arm. These four sharpshooters saw something that they had never seen before. Anger unused for many years cuts sharp. Emily, with it, mowed them down.

"Keep still!" she cried to Martha. "Don't say another word! I'm ashamed of you! Go up to your room, and don't you come down till you apologize!" But she stood holding her tightly by the arm and glaring about her. Her eyes were fixed on Mrs. Benton. "You stand there saying things as if you could unsay them! A nice example you set these children!" She turned to Bob. "Isn't this MY house?" Bob Kenworthy had never been asked in all his married life before to acknowledge that fact. "And you come here," she went on, furiously, to Cora Benton, "and turn people out of it!"

She stopped, and from sheer amazement no one uttered a word. She glared at them all.

"Johnnie, you go home! You're the only one that seems to have any sense left! I don't know whether we're fit for you to associate with! You better turn Bob out of the garage, and I'll turn your mother out of her house, and we'll be done with it!" And she sent her dumfounded daughter upstairs with an unmistakable gesture.

Johnnie went slowly out of the front door.

Chapter Five

Emily turned upon the subdued adults in front of her. She spoke first to Bob.

"You call Martha a fool! You say that she's foolish! If I ever saw anything in my life to equal you two! I should think you'd be glad Johnnie wants to marry a nice girl like Martha!" she cried to Mrs. Benton.

"I'm not objecting to Martha, Emily; you know that. He hasn't any business to begin talking about marriage at his age! A nice husband he would make for anybody. He never earned a cent in his life; you know that." She spoke guardedly now.

"Why shouldn't he be thinking about marriage at his age? It's exactly the age he would think about it! I tell you they could both do a lot worse than this. I wish she would marry him. But you went and told her to, Bob. You're a perfect idiot, sometimes. She'll never marry him now."

"She'll never get anybody to marry her if she don't watch her step. Getting mixed up in cases like this!"

"You don't need to worry about this case, Emily," Mrs. Benton announced. "I'll settle that. I told Johnnie he needn't get so excited. Everybody in town will know, the minute they see that item, that French put it there for spite, because we did build our parking place there. I'm going to make him apologize. I'm going to call my committee together at once. The family of every woman on it is not going to be at the mercy of that unscrupulous man. First Johnnie's play; then this about Martha. Johnnie says she's only played golf a little with him. I'm going straight down to his office. I've got to go before Johnnie gets there. He wants to fight him, of course!" She actually started towards the door.

"You keep your hands off this case!" Bob cried at her, looking at Emily.

She faced about angrily towards him.

"I'm going to have an understanding with that man!" But she too stopped to look at Emily.

"You leave this to me! It's none of your business!" Bob commanded, excitedly.

"It certainly is my business, and I'm going to see about it!" She turned defiantly to go.

But Emily rushed between her and the door, and she was desperate. If Cora Benton knew all the truth, would she dare to ask for an apology?

"This is my case!" she cried, "If you take it up I'll never speak to you again as long as I live! I'll go over to French! I'll go over to the other side! And if you promise me now—that you won't—not say a word to him till we think it over, I tell you I'll never let Martha marry Johnnie! I'll get him to go back to college! I'll persuade him! Honestly, Cora! Bob, go and stop Johnnie! Find out where he is! Don't let him do anything!"

He obeyed. Standing at the screen door, the two women watched him hurry down the street. Emily turned her head suddenly, hearing a strange noise. Could Mrs. Benton be sniffling? Yes. Into those kingly black eyes suddenly tears came springing.

"Emily—I feel—bad about this! I'm sorry for you! I know how I felt when I saw—about Johnnie—in that paper. And it's worse for a girl!"

"Cora, honestly, I don't think Martha intends marrying Johnnie. I only wish she did!"

"You aren't worried about her, Emily?"

"Oh yes! I'm worried. I'm—sick—about this, Cora. Don't say a word to anyone yet! I'll tell you all about it. I'll tell you what to say to people for me—as soon as I can! I haven't had time—even to talk to her yet—since I saw it in the paper! Martha'll apologize to you, Cora; I'm sure she will!"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Emily! I know just how you feel! Haven't I cried myself to sleep often enough about that boy to understand!"

Emily had opened her red eyes in astonishment at this statement.

"You might be thankful she's a girl. I'll tell you now, Emily, since this has happened—that I've told Johnnie plainly if he doesn't settle down and do some work next term, I'll never leave him a cent. I'll leave my money to charity. I'd rather leave it to the town council to manage. When I think of the man my father was——" She spoke sniffling, wiping her eyes angrily. Emily had to comfort her.

"Oh, well, Cora, he's young yet."

"No, he isn't young. He's at least two years behind most boys. He ought to have finished college two years ago. Look at Jim Black. Look at Wilton! I tried to have a serious talk with him when he came home. If only he'd take something seriously. Why can't he take up medicine? I asked him why he wouldn't take up law and go into politics. And he said maybe he would. He said, Emily, 'Look where Landis got to by being a lawyer!'" She almost sobbed. "He meant that horrid federation of baseball clubs. He was serious about that."

"But, Cora, he is a good boy. He has a nice disposition."

"Oh yes. I know what people say. He needs it, they say, to live with me. But they never think what patience I need. Emily, I'd be ashamed to tell you how much he spent last year. I don't know what to do with him. I can't threaten to take him out of college—he doesn't want to go back, anyway. He'll have to go back! He's just got to get his degree. And now Bob goes and encourages him. He says he'll support him!"

"Cora, Bob was just excited. He didn't mean that. He wouldn't support him a minute, really. He lost his head, really."

"Well, so did I. I acknowledge that. But it's a nice thing to have him telling me not to interfere. As if it was none of my business when my own boy married. I've got a headache, Emily. I had a bad night. He brought me my breakfast himself and was so nice about everything. And then—I was napping—he tore into the room with the paper in his hand and said he was going to get married right away—the first I'd heard of it. And he wouldn't listen to me. He acted awful. I just got up and dressed and came over this way." She made a gesture towards the old blue foulard she had slipped on. Her hair wasn't so brushed and shining as usual, and her face was lined now, and her eyes red. "I thought I ought to tell you."

"Cora, why don't you go and see a doctor in Chicago? You aren't well. You are tired out, and he oughtn't to have excited you this way. I think you ought to go home and go to bed, and I'll come over and tell you later everything Bob says to French. I'll talk to Johnnie, too. I think Bob will be sorry he said such things, Cora, when he cools down."

"He'd better cool down. The idea of him speaking to Martha that way! I felt sorry for her, and for you too, Emily. It's bad enough to have to try to raise a child without a father to interfere all the time. You've got them both on your hands to manage."

"I don't know about that!" Emily started to protest, loyally. They were standing face to face in front of the screen door, and they saw Eve drive up and come towards them. She had been crying, too. She spoke to them quietly, going into the living room. Mrs. Benton went away, and Emily came in and sat down by her, and almost at once Eve had insinuated herself into Emily's arms, crying:

"Oh, don't blame me for this, Mrs. Kenworthy. I told Martha this would happen. I told her as sure as she lived something like this would happen."

"Something like what? Don't cry, child!"

Bob was coming in.

"We——, I've settled Johnnie," he announced. And then he saw Eve, and the sight displeased him.

"What do you know about this?" he demanded, shortly.

"Don't blame me! I did tell her! I told her it would happen. Maybe I didn't tell her enough."

"Enough what?"

"I mean—I didn't tell her, really, it had happened before."

"What had?" Bob scorned vagueness.

"I told her my sister was—jealous. I told her she couldn't stand that pig even looking at a woman. I told her if he did, she was sure to make a row. She's done this before."

"What has she done before?"

"Once before she got jealous—of a girl—and she threatened to—divorce him."

"You mean—she named her—as a corespondent?" Bob had no scruples about cross-examining this witness.

"She threatened to. She hadn't any case, really. Oh!" Eve cried to Emily. "You didn't like me for not liking her. You thought I—said—nasty things about her—because she was my sister. If you knew what I might have said, you wouldn't have always been looking at me that way—as if I was a sort of underbred scrub! I tell you she's despicable!"

"Oh, Eve!" Emily protested.

"What's she done?" cried Bob, eagerly.

"Oh, she's awful! Look at this dirty work. Dad'll make her apologize. I know he will, Mrs. Kenworthy. I've telegraphed for him to come home. He'll come right away. He'll think grandma's dying."

"What?" cried Bob. "What'll he do, Eve?"

"I know dad'll settle it. I know he will. She never meant to divorce him. She just wants to frighten Martha because she's got money."

"You mean—— Isn't she going to divorce him?" Bob insisted.

"No. Don't you ever think she is! Oh——" cried Eve, in bitter humiliation, as if now she was compelled to confess the worst, "Mrs. Kenworthy, she—she LOVES that pig! You Wouldn't believe it, maybe. She cries herself sick if he looks at anybody! And ever since she heard that Martha's got money she's been just wild."

"What's that got to do with it?"

An outraged parent on either side of Eve was trying to grasp the situation.

"She knows he won't—leave her, or anything, for anybody without any money. She thinks Martha's going to be awfully rich. I didn't know how much she was going to have. I couldn't tell her."

Emily sat silenced by the very vileness of life. To think of Martha's money, her great-grandfather's hard-earned money, lying there accumulating through those years of her sweet childhood, to become now a factor in this—pollution of her. Pollution, pollution, said Emily to herself.

Bob demanded, suddenly, "Has she got a lot of money?"

"Only what she squeezes out of dad. She gets a lot. I don't know how much he gives her. She just bleeds him," she cried, angrily. "Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, YOU know dad. You know what a darling he is! I get so mad at her I could just kill her, the way she treats him. You wouldn't believe it. Didn't you ever read 'King Lear'? Didn't you read Père Goriot? You wouldn't think there were such men in the world. But dad's just like them. He's worse. Look how he lives. He was rich when I was a little girl; he had a great business exporting flour. My grandfather had had it, and it went bust after the war. He hadn't a cent. And now look at him starting all over, knocking around from town to town, buying grain and elevators, in these filthy hotels. He never has one comfort! He never spends one cent on himself. He keeps that house—an asylum it is, for grandma. He keeps me, but I don't spend a lot of money. I'm going to work the very minute I get out of school. SHE spends it all; she comes home with a new lie whenever she's hard up. He brought her up to have a lot of money, he says. He's sorry for her. She hadn't a mother and she didn't get started right, he says. She divorced her first husband."

"She did, did she!" Bob cried.

"Yes. Of course, dad took her part in that, too. I don't know the truth of it; I was a little girl!"

"Eve," said Emily, hesitating, "I wish—you'd tell us what happened—how this happened before, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I don't mind. It was after the war. We didn't have any home at all. I was in a boarding school, and my aunt asked me there for the vacation summer. She wasn't my own aunt; she was the wife of my mother's brother. Oh, they had the loveliest house, and all just full of fun; and they were so gentle and so kind—just like you, Mrs. Kenworthy. My cousins were all grown up, and they were just lovely to me. And then my sister turned up, for a week or two, with HIM. And of course she couldn't stand one of the girls even looking at her precious pig. And there was one of those girls, the one I liked best of all, of course. And she—sort of named her—just like this, so she wouldn't get into trouble—-didn't mention her name. And of course dad came and denied it—but what good did that do? All of them were furious, naturally. It's a little old town of Friends. It wasn't my fault. I've never been invited back since. People like me when they don't know my sister. But I can't get away from her any place. This'll be all over school. It'll get back to that town. I know the girls from there at college. I tell you honestly—poor dad'll feel just sick about this. And the next time she turns up with a hard-luck story he'll take it all in again. He bought them a house—a good one—because she hadn't any home—in Philadelphia. And she sold it—and went to Paris. He told me they wouldn't be here this summer, if I came out to him. He's so sentimental. He just begins talking about mother when I try to get him to kick them out I'm never going to speak to her again, or stay one night in the same house with her. You mark my words, he'll have to choose between having her or me."

"Don't you worry, Eve. Nobody's going to blame you for anything." Bob spoke kindly because her sincere little tribute to Emily had, of course, touched him. "I'll see your father about this. What time will he be here?"

"Oh, you don't need to see him. He'll do it himself. I know he will. We'll come down and see you about it. Don't say anything to hurt his feelings, will you, Mr. Kenworthy? Because it isn't his fault. He's a good, good man. I mean—he'll feel worse about this than anyone"——she looked at Emily—and added, "almost."

After she had gone, Emily roused herself.

"It doesn't seem as if that could be true, does it, Bob? How would a woman DARE to do a thing like that? She might get into trouble—sued."

"She didn't use anybody's name. If Martha hadn't—been running around with that man, this couldn't have hurt her."

"But—why, maybe she doesn't intend to divorce him at all! Eve said she didn't, didn't she?" And then Emily remembered Martha's exalted announcement. "Suppose she doesn't divorce him!" she moaned.

"Well, that'd settle it. I think I'll go downtown—as if nothing had happened. As if I didn't know who was meant. I'll go and see what Mrs. Benton's doing. I better make sure she isn't—balling it all up."

"Let her alone, Bob. She promised me not to do anything; not ANYthing. I'm sure she won't. She isn't feeling well enough to do anything. She's sick, for one thing. She isn't well enough to go downtown."

"Well, that's one piece of luck!"

"You were hard on her, Bob."

"Well, what did she want to walk in here for? Why can't she mind her own business?"

"It is her business. As she said Johnnie's her boy."

"I haven't got anything against that kid, Emily. But I'd hate to have her for my mother-in-law. My God! What would the boy do between those two—Martha and that woman?"

"You needn't worry about that. Martha'll never marry him now."

"What you going to do with her now, Emily?"

"I don't know."

"'Tisn't as if she had good sense!"

"Well, maybe she hasn't. But I'll tell you one thing, Bob. We're not going to have any more melodrama about turning anybody out of this house. If Martha goes out of it, I go with her. You might as well understand that. She needs me more than you do. And she's going to have me, no matter what she does. No matter who she marries. If people talk about her, they've got to talk about me."

"You don't mean that, Emily. You'd never leave me. You're just talking wild."

"I'll never leave her! That's sure."

"I guess I got sort of excited, Emily. I know this is your home. I didn't mean anything—much. I'm going to see Fairbanks. I'll do all I can, Emily. It's a dirty mess for you, that she's got herself in."

"But the worst of it is—she's in love, Bob!"

"She'll have to get over it; that's all there is to it."

It seemed so simple to Bob. Emily sat still for a minute, thinking batteredly, after he went. She was thinking that she must be careful. She would think it all over, all this sickening confusion, before she went up to talk to Martha. But Martha apparently had been listening for her father's departure. For no sooner had his car started away than she called down, eagerly:

"Mammie! Come up here."

And she met her at the top of the stairs, and they went together into Emily's room, the nearer one. Inside the door Martha came close to her mother, taking her hand, and saying, gently:

"I'm sorry I was so nasty to Mrs. Benton, mammie. I'll go and tell her so, if you want me to. You aren't really ashamed of me, are you? Mammie, now that everything's settled, will you do something for me? Will you ask him down here? Won't you try to get acquainted with him, mother? Won't you stop crying about it? You'll just love him, mother!"

They had sat down together on the bed. Emily was dazed by this beginning.

"Don't look at me that way; it isn't fair, mammie. I'll even— Look here! I'll apologize to Johnnie, if you want me to. I suppose he meant well." And when Emily still said nothing: "Mother, if you make me, I'll even tell dad I'm sorry. But you heard what he said! You heard him tell me I HAD to marry Johnnie. You see now what sort of a man he is! But if you really want me to, of course, I'll—forgive him. I don't want to make you—miserable. You'd understand, if you knew him—if you'd ask him to come down here so you could get to know him."

The child WAS crazy! To ask a thing like that! To suppose for a moment that her mother—— What shall I say to her? Emily wondered. What's the use of trying to talk to her? The gulf between them seemed to be widening every minute.

"You don't know what you're saying, child! Why, Martha——!"

"Well, what, mammie?"

"Why, he—is married! He isn't divorced. I don't know that he ever will be! And you ask me—NOW—to invite him——" Emily was unable to go on.

"Yes, of course he is married—in a way, mother. But that isn't anything. If you knew how unhappy he'd been with her, mammie! She isn't a nice woman. You don't call THAT any marriage, do you? Why, it's nothing but a legal contract!"

"But, Martha, a legal contract is SOMETHING—if it is only that."

"It's only the law of marriage, mother. There's no heart in it. It isn't real! It—isn't—mother—when they don't love each other."

"Eve says she does love him! Her heart may be in it."

"Eve!"

"Eve doesn't think she intends to divorce him at all, Martha."

"She doesn't know anything about it." Martha lifted her head proudly again.

"Martha, tell me what you know about it. Did he tell you your name was going to be mentioned?"

"No. He didn't know that. But you needn't worry about that, mother. I consider it an honor. I don't mind it, if it gets him his freedom—if it makes him happy."

"He must have known this was liable to happen. Eve says it has happened before."

"What business is it of Eve's? She's trying to make trouble. What did she come down here for, anyway now, mother?"

What was the use of talking to this undone child?

"She says her father will stop it. He'll make her apologize."

"Stop what?"

"The divorce. Having your name in it."

"Mother!" Martha cried out, poignantly. And then she recovered herself instantly. "It doesn't matter; he'll have his freedom. He can divorce her, if she won't divorce him. Maybe she won't; it would be just like her. But, look here, mother, why can't Eve let it alone? What's she got against him? She has it in for him. She's got to let this alone."

"She was thinking of you—of us all."

"Why doesn't some one think of him? You never think of him. You never care what happens to him. You're just afraid of people talking!"

"Yes, I'm afraid of it—of people talking—about you."

"But you always understood before. You always said—Oh, I can't make you understand!" she cried, and was silent.

"Martha, if it was any other man, any unmarried man—you were—your name was—connected with, I wouldn't mind. If it was even a—married man—I—could—have any respect for, I wouldn't have cared so much. Not even if it had been the Legion! But I don't want you to—think about this man, even. I don't care how much he's divorced and single! If he was a decent man, he would have come to us about this first—if he had to speak to anybody about it while he's still—bound to his wife. If he was a straightforward man, or honest, he would have asked us!"

"Mother, that's bunk! That's not fair. Whoever asks a girl's people first now? That's Victorian. You didn't even do it yourself, when you were young. You told me you went to Chicago and married dad when your aunt didn't even know where you were! Did dad ever ask your aunt first if he could marry you?"

"That's different."

"Did he, now?"

"No, he didn't. But I knew him; I knew his mother; I knew his family, and everything."

"Well, come with me to Chicago and ask him about his family," Martha pleaded. "If you think there's anything disgraceful about it, we could go to some place—some hotel—on the west side—where nobody'd have to know anything about it."

"Why, Martha Kenworthy!"

"Look here, mammie! I'm not going to quarrel with you! I've quarreled with everybody else. If you'll just try to be reasonable. I'm not asking you to promise you'll like him, or anything; I just ask you to get acquainted with him. I know you'd like him. Just hear his side of it once. You said you felt sorry for people that were unhappy—with their wives. You said you thought Mrs. Green ought to get a divorce, mother. That night Helen was here, when we were sitting on the porch. You said yourself that such a marriage wasn't anything. Mother, you always said that. You pitied other people."

"I pity Eve's sister, too."

"Yes, but why don't you pity HIM? Because you don't know him! You won't even try to get to know him. It isn't fair, mother!"

"How can I think of him? I'm thinking of you!"

"I suppose that's natural." Martha was determined to be conciliatory. She searched about for some effective argument. "Mammie," she said, lovingly, "you just look tired out. I just hate to see you worrying this way. Especially when you don't really need to. Mammie, do you want me to go now to Mrs. Benton's?"

"No, no! Wait a little; wait till—Mr. Fairbanks gets home."

"What's he got to do with it?"

"Eve says—he'll take your name out of it."

"My name wasn't in the paper."

"Eve said—if she really meant to—go on with it—she could name some one else—if she needed to."

"That's just like Eve to say that." Martha left the room with dignity.

And Emily sat on her bed, too stunned to change her position. All her life her lazy body had turned away from emotional necessities. She had never been able to get really angry without feeling physically exhausted afterwards. And now she couldn't think clearly. She was conscious only of horror—of the pain of fear. Martha wasn't going to be happy. Martha was going to suffer over this. Martha was running eagerly, irrevocably, into the arms of tragedy. Surely this couldn't have happened to HER child—to that good little, sweet, dear child who had always been just pure joy. She sat there crying out against the truth—she sat there, not moving—groping about—-praying to Fate.

She sat there till Martha came in again, fresh and beautiful from her bath. She gave a little cry of protest, catching sight of her mother.

"Don't sit there that way. Don't look that way, mammie. The world isn't coming to an end because of any old dirty newspaper." She stroked her mother's head entreatingly. And then she said—the foolish child—"It's really beginning, if you look at it right." Again her voice quivered with its ecstasy. She stood trying to coax Emily. "You lie down awhile, mother. And go and wash your face. Shall I bring you some water? Do you mind, mammie, if I go and play golf?"

"Yes, I do. Wait, Martha, until Mr. Fairbanks comes back—until it's settled."

"All right, if you'd rather. Is there anything you want me to do for supper?"

Supper! What was supper? The details of ordinary life seemed to have faded into nothing.

"I think everything is—ready," Emily murmured, getting up.

Martha came upstairs after a little while.

"Mr. Fairbanks is downstairs, mammie. He wants to see us all. Mammie, don't!" She thought better of protesting against her mother's expression. "Go and wash up; put on something. I'll 'phone dad."

Emily, bestirring herself, heard Martha at the upper 'phone saying to Bob that her mother wanted to see him a minute. She refrained from mentioning Mr. Fairbanks' name. Her voice suggested anything but scandal and tears. She waited in her mother's room, and when Emily would have gone down she urged her to wait till Bob came. Emily was too tired to protest, and went down with Martha only when they heard the car arrive.

She looked at Eve's father with intensified curiosity, since he was the man who seemed to hold Martha's destiny carelessly in his hand. His appearance flatly denied his daughter's account of him. Could a red-faced, hawk-nosed, round-chinned, jovial-looking bald-head be a cursing Lear or a bleeding Goriot? He was extremely well dressed. His rotundity suggested pleasure in steaks and chops. His voice belied his appearance as surprisingly as his daughter had. For when he began to speak—he remained standing, and he kept stroking the back of his shiny head—-Emily immediately thought he must be a man of extraordinary reserve, of powerful self-control. "Martha must respect what he says!" she thought. "He CAN help us."

"This is a very unpleasant affair, Kenworthy," he began, smoothly. "I left Eve crying her eyes out. She wanted to come with me, but I wouldn't have it. I don't know what she's said to you, but it probably wasn't—correct—altogether. You HAVE been good to her, Mrs. Kenworthy. My girls—Eve especially—have got to depend too much on friends like you. I mean—I was worried, I was—uncomfortable because I couldn't arrange—something for her here, in this town—like what you've meant to her, but she's so hard to suit. I can't arrange anything for her—I can't buy or rent her friends. I can't make her like any sensible woman. I can't tell you how relieved I was to have her take to you so—from the first. She says now—she says people will see some—reference to you—to Martha—in this—item in the paper. I don't see that that follows. I don't see why they should. But of course I went to see the editor at once—just in case—you were—upset." He looked closely at Emily. He saw she had been crying. He looked at Martha, more shrewdly, and felt relieved that she showed no sign of concern. "I must say he was decent about it. Very reasonable, I found him. Though young Benton said there was some sort of spite work behind it."

"What's he done about it?" Bob demanded.

"He's denying it in to-morrow's paper. He's saying it was a mistake."

He could not help realizing how intently the three of them were waiting his words.

"I ought to explain—I suppose I ought to tell you—how things are with my married daughter—with Elinor—Mrs. Kenworthy. You'll understand my situation. She's a very sick woman. She suffers——" the pain in his voice told too well how she suffered. "She walks the floor for hours together at night. Eve can't understand it. She's never had a pain in her life. I know positively that for three days and nights before she went to Chicago she hadn't an hour's sleep. If you could see—the fight she—puts up—against—drugs—against things to relieve her, Mrs. Kenworthy!"

Emily had to murmur, moved by his voice, "Oh, I didn't realize she was so bad!"

"I told the paper man. I explained it to him—I didn't mention your name, even, or any women's clubs. I told him she had been—just beside herself with pain, and if she ever said any such thing, she didn't know what she was doing. Because, you understand, Mrs. Kenworthy," he cried, eagerly, "she isn't that sort of woman. She never would have published such a statement if she had intended doing anything. I told him that if she ever saw such a thing in his paper, I didn't know what she might do. It would drive her crazy. I told him he would be responsible—for a great deal—too much harm, perhaps. He understood at once. He said he was sorry. He let me word it. I'll show you."

He took a folded sheet of paper out of an inside pocket of his coat, and handed it to Emily. Bob went to her, bending over her chair, and read with her:

There is no truth whatever in the rumor that Mrs. Richard Quin contemplates divorce proceedings. The editor regrets its publication the more because Mrs. Quin is in very poor health and in no condition to bear the annoyance caused by such rumors. She and her husband left the first of the week for Rochester, where she will be under the care of the Mayos for some weeks.

"I don't know—what more you could have done," Emily murmured.

"Are you satisfied, Martha?" Mr. Fairbanks was taking the paper from Emily and handing it to the girl.

"Oh, me?" she asked, innocently, as if he had surprised her by supposing she was concerned in the matter. Emily, looking quickly across at her, marked the way her eyes were shining, and murmured, "Martha!" imploringly.

But Martha paid no heed to her. She tilted her head dangerously and, looking straight at him, drawled with utter contempt and scorn:

"I suppose you never consider his happiness at all!"

Mr. Fairbanks grew redder. He fairly blinked. He stood looking at her indignantly for a moment of silence. Emily wondered if he now would break forth and give Martha a thoroughly good "dressing down."

But when he began speaking, his words were soft and suave.

"Well, I'm more or less responsible for HER happiness, Martha. I'm not for his. I pay him. He's necessary to her—she's very affectionate, really. I pay him to contribute to her happiness, just as I pay for my mother's nurses." He spoke slowly. Obviously he wanted to consider himself a fair man, always. "And I can't say," he went on, carefully, "that he always plays the game. Sometimes I think she would be happier without him. He doesn't—— Sometimes, that is, I wonder if he's worth——" He hesitated.

So Martha completed his sentence for him.

"What you pay him?" she asked, and the finish of her insolence made even Emily, harassed as she was, wonder where she had ever learned the tone. For, looking straight at him, she got up and deliberately started to leave the room. Mr. Fairbanks, it seemed, was not afraid of girls, for he put out his arm and took hold of hers, intending to detain her. She broke away angrily as he spoke her name gently, and, standing in the door into the hall, he watched her sail defiantly up the stairs.

He turned around; he looked from Emily to Bob. They, watching him sharply, saw consternation slowly gain control of his face.

"Oh!" he murmured. "He hasn't—you don't think——"

He could no longer look at Emily. He addressed his mumblings to Bob. "I didn't realize—— Eve said something, but I didn't—think it amounted to anything."

"Oh, what can we do now?" Emily moaned.

Then Bob cried, "The damned skunk!"

"Kenworthy! You must be—careful! That's why Elinor's teeth ache!" His earnestness startled them. "Elinor's teeth are all out, but they all still ache! It's nerves. They call it hysteria! They can't do anything for her. Not in Europe, even. It's because she fell in love with that first scoundrel. He broke her heart, as they say. She lived with him two years, and there was nothing left of her. They mean he broke her nerve, her temper, her character—everything! I tell you she was a magnificent girl, Kenworthy! She had more common sense than any girl I ever saw! She was a partner to me, more than a daughter. And there's nothing left of her but toothache! I wouldn't have—anything—happen to Martha!"

He was so distressed that Emily heard herself saying: "Oh, she'll be all right. Martha's all right. Don't worry."

"But they take it so hard. They fall so in earnest. Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, you don't want him around—in town, do you? You want him to clear out?"

"Oh yes!"

"Very well, then. He won't come back. I won't let him set foot in this town again. There are some limits to what I'll stand from him."

"Are you going to see him? Where is he now?" Bob asked.

"I think he's with Elinor. You never can know, exactly. But I'll see him."

"Tell him for me that if he doesn't let Martha alone, I'll kill him—married or divorced."

"I'll tell him something worse than that! You needn't worry." He spoke grimly. A smile that was surprisingly evil came over his round face. "I'd like to tell you what I did to the first man. It would comfort you. But it's a secret."

Emily shivered. She didn't like Eve's "sweet old lamb." He was a wolf, perhaps, at heart, and she was afraid of his cruelty. "He'll make that man afraid, too, if he looks at him like that!" she thought.

He left abruptly, and Emily went upstairs to Martha. What she saw in the painted room terrified her. She had to realize that the fire in Martha's heart burned passionately enough to make everything its fuel. For when she shut the door behind her, Martha raised herself up angrily from the day bed crying furiously:

"Mother! I hope you're satisfied now! I don't know how you could sit there with that vile man! Did you ever hear anything so—vile—vile!" She sobbed. "He talks as if Richard was a dog to amuse that dirty woman! You'd think he was a slave! Nobody takes his part! Nobody cares for him! And YOU aren't sorry for him, even! Oh, it makes me so mad!"

After a little Emily said, "I felt sorry for HER, Martha!"

"Yes, you would! You know what a liar she is. Even Eve said she was a liar. Even Eve said she pretended to be sick so she could get money out of her father! Why do you believe them? Oh!" cried Martha, "he's a vile man! Vile! When I think of Richard having to live with those people——" When her sobs let her speak, she went on, "Mother, can't you see what a position he is in?"

"It doesn't seem a position that does any man any credit, Martha."

"All right!" cried Martha. "All right, let it go at that. I'll never speak to you about him again, never." She never did.

It was well that there was a painted room in the house, those four weeks before she went back to college. There was nothing else bright about it. Bob waited to intercept letters from "that skunk" who, Mr. Fairbanks said, was to be for some time in Rochester with his wife; but no letters seemed to come. Martha appeared not to be humiliated by the fact that she had practically declared her love for a man hopelessly, permanently married. In her secluded room she bided her time, a smile on her lips, the sweetest dream in her eyes. She was ignoring her mother not only purposefully, but unconsciously. She had greater things than a mother's anxiety to think about.

Her coldness sickened Emily every minute of the day. She scarcely knew how to get through the hours, so burdened were they with yearning over the silly girl. Never had the garden bloomed so hilariously before in August and September. Never had it had such care before. Emily watered her dahlias sometimes till midnight, dreading a sleepless bed when she went into the house. She rose up early and watered them under stars she had seldom seen setting. Once out there, hoping, praying, she had looked up and in the very early dawn seen Martha sitting dreaming at her window. And the sight of that distant, alienated child took all the color from the dawn and heaven.

Life indeed had assumed the color of dread and heart-sickness. Johnnie had waited a few days, and then departed. Emily was glad she had seized an occasion to say to him secretly, hurriedly, "Johnnie, I'm very fond of you!" He had given her a surprised and precious look. But he had not even said he was leaving. His mother said he had gone down to have some coaching in philosophy—it was his last year in college. Eve never came to the house. Emily met her occasionally on the street, in the stores. And once she said, passionately: "Oh, I hate to run into you this way! I'm ashamed to look you in the face!" And in her own house the atmosphere was either very cold, when she and Martha were together, or very sultry, when Bob was with them, so that she lived in terror of some further deadly burst of thunder.

Martha announced one day that she was going to Chicago for shopping. She would naturally do that several times, getting her clothes ready for the school year.

Emily said to her: "Before you go, Martha, you must promise me one thing. You must promise me you will NOT see—at all—that man."

"You don't trust me any more?"

"No, Martha. It's your judgment. I don't trust your judgment."

"No, I suppose not. I see."

"Will you promise me that, Martha?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't think I will."

"What am I to do now?" thought Emily. "Shall I say that she can't leave this house till she promises me that?"

Martha was looking at her hostilely, steadily. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll think it over. I'll tell you to-morrow what I'll do," she said.

On the morrow, she said, "Mother, if it will do you any good, I'll promise—what you want me to."

"Oh, Martha!" Emily cried to her, "you must promise me that, absolutely! Martha, I just couldn't let you go away to school again, unless you promise me that!"

"All right, I promise you. If you can't trust my—judgment, as you say"—she spoke sarcastically—"I suppose you can—believe—what I say."

Bob's eyes dwelt resentfully upon his daughter, and loyally on his distressed wife, all those painful last days before Martha left for the East.

"I'll bet you lost twenty pounds this summer, Emily!" he said, ruefully, when they were alone at length.

"Well, thank goodness for that!" she retorted, loyal to the child. "I wish I'd lost twenty more." She knew he would count grudgingly all the ounces she suffered. Yet it was no great thing to him if Martha had lost her very heart.

Chapter Six

They gathered their green tomatoes, to save them from the frost. Emily and Maggie, in the delicious kitchen, made chilli sauces and the good kind of vegetarian mincemeat. The house was filled with the excellent odors of the ends of the earth. Java and Jamaica were stirred into Illinois, and sealed away in sturdy bottles which took their places chronologically in the cupboard next to the wild grape and the crab-apple jelly below the spiced peaches. The bottles had to be pushed close against one another, now, to make room for them in the crowded shelves.

But when Emily looked into the cupboard of her heart, it was bare.

She had dug the gladiolas; she had cut the last of the lavender statice, which she had sown in happier days to make glamour in the painted room, and hung it head downward to dry with the rosy strawflowers. The frosts came and turned the hard maples gaudy. The old Fiske place seemed always to lose its head completely in the fall. There grew a barberry hedge along the front walk, which Emily's father had planted when he took down the white picket fence. He had simply put those little dry-looking shoots into the ground one rainy spring morning years ago, never imagining what riot he was planting. For years now, on every brilliant Sunday afternoon, while the leaves were falling, townspeople had walked out to see that hedge, to hear its rejoicings. The knowing had taken cuttings of it, to their disappointment, for even that offspring hedge just across the road had never been able to achieve quite such giddiness. Some people said it was the soil that did it. Others maintained it was the way in which the water soaked down to the river just there. Such cherries of ripeness, such roses and purple grapes and bleeding pomegranates of hues, such plums and persimmons and exotic luminous loquats glowing together, such oranges and oracles of color, no other hedge could summon. People got joy out of it according to their moods and natures. But Emily, for once, could take no pleasure in it.

"Last year," she would say to herself, resentfully, "I enjoyed just sitting at this window mending socks. Anything made me happy last year." But now, when she sat down with her sewing, she wasn't seeing what was before her—the hedge, or anything else. The fingers of one hand would be intertwined tensely with the fingers of the other, and she would be sitting as it were, screwed up tight against herself, seeing that face bending down over Martha, that hateful, alienating face. She was seeing Martha in a gingham frock standing at that table, saying in a voice like the angel of some heavenly annunciation, "Richard Quin is getting a divorce." "I'm a fool!" she would say angrily to herself over and over, resolving not to worry. When one day some child with bitter-sweet had reminded her of a promise to Martha made early in June, she had got Bob to drive her out to where the vine grew heavily on a barbed wire fence. She and Martha had been chattering just there in July, as they drove along, and Martha had made her promise to gather some of it for the painted room. And that afternoon, after she had arranged it in the red copper bowls, she had lain down on a day bed and just cried and cried like a silly girl, so that, in spite of her precautions, Bob had eyed her at supper and laid another charge against Martha in his memory.

Martha would not come home for Thanksgiving. Emily had never suggested it to her before. They had agreed that it wasn't worth while coming so far for so few days. But this year Emily had hoped that some way, if she came, they might come to some understanding. But Martha refused to come. Her letters arrived as regularly as ever, as if she had determined that in this disagreement she was to be found in the wrong not at all. She was going to do her duty to her mother, however unsatisfactory that mother might be. She wrote regularly, therefore, such noncommittal and indifferent letters as she might have written to her father had necessity arisen. And Emily counted the weeks wearily till she would have the child with her again. Surely the separation, if nothing else, would bring her to her senses; and she tried not to worry. Martha had given her her word of honor that she would not see the man again. She had always been a truthful child; there was no gainsaying that.

Then one day, shortly before the Christmas holiday, Emily got a most disturbing letter from Eve. She wrote loyally in a very storm of perplexity. She had promised Martha faithfully that she would not write this to her mother, she began. And the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that she must write it. Martha scarcely spoke to her—she never did if she could manage not to without being noticed. Martha had said two days ago to her that she was not going home for Christmas. And everybody was saying how bad Martha looked. She was sick; she had no color; and all the girls said she was changed. And Eve had to cry about it, because she believed it was that horrid affair of last summer. Martha had never been the same since. And if she wasn't going home for Christmas, certainly some one ought to tell her mother how bad she looked. Eve begged Emily never to tell Martha she had written—to deny it up and down, if Martha guessed. But she was just sick about Martha. "After all, I'm older than she is, and I have more sense," Eve wrote. "And I can't help feeling that it's our fault. I would wish with all my heart we had never gone to Illinois—only then I wouldn't have known you."

And the next day Martha's letter had come, announcing her intention of spending the vacation in New York. Just New York, if you please, no address given, no intimation of her company. "You know what will happen if I come home," she wrote. "I'll just quarrel with father and you'll be miserable. It's better for me to stay away."

Martha had left this announcement, naturally, to the very last minute. But Eve's letter had prepared Emily. She telegraphed at once, knowing she had likely just time to reach Martha before she left college, that she was to meet her in a certain hotel in New York the next afternoon. She said nothing to Bob about Eve's letter. Eve's anxiety and Martha's impertinence between them had upset her completely. Did Martha imagine she was going to be allowed to announce her departure for unknown places and companies in this high-handed manner? What was the child thinking of? Was it possible—that she might not get the telegram? Was it possible that if she did, she wouldn't obey?

Emily had chosen that hotel hastily. She usually stayed with cousins in New York. But at Christmas time they might be having a house full. Besides, she couldn't endure the thought that Martha might be indifferent to her before them.

So she moved about the room she had taken in the hotel. She arranged the things she had unpacked, and rearranged them. She looked at the time, and she looked out of the window to the crowded street very far below. Martha was already a little bit late. Suppose she never came at all! Suppose she hadn't come by dinner time, by bed time! Emily couldn't sit still.

And then she heard some one; she opened the door; Martha was there, in her racoon coat, in a rosy little hat of many colors, pulled down over a sallow face; Martha was in her arms, and crying; in a second Martha, coat and all, was lying on the bed, her face in her mother's lap, repenting with bitter tears.

"Oh, I've been so horrid to you, mammie! I've been so horrid to you! I'm so sorry!" She was hugging her, clinging to her, imploring her pardon.

So Emily cried, too, for surprise and relief, and comforted her, and urged her to stop crying. This was better than anything she had dared to hope for. But she had known all the time Martha would come to herself. The child hadn't meant anything, really. She had always been such a good girl. Emily in a second could have forgotten every minute that had not been satisfactory. This was well worth having come to New York for.

Martha wasn't succeeding in regaining her composure. Emily attempted to take her coat off, but thought it better not to bother her. She just lay and cried. And she had never been a crying child. Emily had seen to that. All these tears, all this passion of repentance, showed what a loving little heart she had. "How I have wronged the child!" Emily mused, wiping her eyes. "I thought she might not come at all!" And she caressed her, and waited patiently. "Don't cry any more now, Martha," she said. "We'll forget all about it."

"Oh, I wish I'd been a good girl!" And having said that, she wept on.

She cried too long.

Emily said, presently: "Your feet are making a mark on the bedspread. Get up. Take off your coat."

"I'm cold, mammie." She sat up, fumbled about, and kicked off her low shoes, and lay down again, trying to cuddle her feet up under her coat.

"Cold?" The room had been so hot a moment ago that Emily had the windows both opened. She got up and went and shut them.

"Where's your baggage?" she asked in a matter-of-fact way, to stop the tears.

"I had it taken to my room."

"Your room?"

"I took a room for myself. I didn't know you would have two beds in here."

Emily was on the point of saying, "You might at least have inquired." But Martha went on:

"I'm so tired, mammie, I just had to have a room for myself. I could sleep a week straight off."

"Well," said Emily, doubtfully. She turned on the light. Martha hadn't even taken her little hat off. It was crushed down over an ear. Her nose was red. She looked like a wreck. She didn't like her mother's scrutiny.

"Turn off that light," she pleaded.

Emily turned it off.

"Get up and wash your face," she said.

But Martha cried, "Oh, mammie, honestly, I never meant—to hurt you!" and threw herself down, sobbing, her face buried in her hands.

Emily remembered Eve's letter, and grew more pitiful. "I never would have thought this would prey on her mind so much," she thought. "How am I going to make Bob understand this? I wish he could hear her now." It was very bad for her to cry so deeply, however.

"Where is your room, Martha? I want to see it. Brace up."

"I'll show it to you—after a while." She still was sobbing aloud. She seemed hysterical.

"Martha," said Emily, with some sternness, "stop that; stop crying. Get up. You must get ready for dinner."

Martha sat up, huddled together on the edge of the bed. She spoke very humbly.

"I don't want any supper, mammie. Honestly, I don't feel like eating. I'm tired. I want to go to my room. I'd rather go to bed."

Emily stood looking at her wiping her eyes. Poor Lamb! Poor tender-hearted child! She did look wretched. Perhaps she ought to be humored—just for this once.

"All right. We'll have our supper up here. We'll have a regular spread."

"Honestly, I don't want anything to eat."

"Well, you've got to eat something. That's all there is to it."

"All right, mammie."

They went together to look at Martha's room, two floors above Emily's. Martha was repressing sobs, now, like a threatened child. Emily asked about the college, to compose her. Had she done good work this term? But she said meekly she didn't think she had done very well, not lately, anyway, when she had been so sort of tired. Emily was eager to question her, but thought it better to wait. She offered to help unpack the suitcase, but Martha was jealous of it, as if it was filled with Christmas presents.

Emily went back to her room, to wait for the supper she had ordered. She sang to herself. "O come, all ye faithful," she hummed, "joyful and triumphant." She was infinitely relieved and lifted up. She had an impulse to telegraph Bob that everything was right again. No, but as soon as supper was over, she would write him a long letter. She would explain the child's repentance, her sweet, humble coming back. She was so happy that, when Martha came in, she just naturally took her in her arms and kissed her.

Martha had come in steady and composed, but wearing the coat of a suit. Emily said, naturally, "Why have you got that on?" Her remark upset Martha entirely. She sobbed again. Emily reproved herself and scolded Martha lightly. Here was their supper. What a lot of dishes! Oh, what a good time they would have, cozily here, together. She called Martha's attention to the pink lamp-shade. "Not bad," she said, "for a hotel room."

But Martha sat like a punished child, not whimpering aloud, but shaking from time to time with stifled sobs. When Emily had insisted, she had ordered coffee and an alligator-pear salad, and it seemed to Emily that the salad was mentioned hurriedly, as an afterthought, to propitiate a mother. When the salad was set before her, she wasn't eating it. She said apologetically that the oil wasn't quite fresh. Emily had offered her some chicken, and insisted on her taking some. And so she did, and swallowed it obediently. And she asked for more coffee. No wonder she was thin, if this was the way she had been eating. Emily was about to refuse her more coffee. But, surely, to-morrow, after a night's sleep, she would be herself again.

"I'm going to stay in bed till noon to-morrow, mammie," she said.

"Aren't we going home to-morrow?"

"Oh no, not to-morrow! Let's wait—a little while—till I—feel rested," she begged. So that was agreed. And there seemed nothing else to say. For Martha sat looking at her mother wistfully, wiping away tears that kept flowing. And Emily refrained from talking because she seemed to be making matters worse. They were perfectly silent while their supper was being carried away. And when the door shut behind the waiter, Martha said—she had been standing looking down out of the window, and she turned about towards Emily:

"Are the bulbs in the window, mammie?"

"What bulbs? At home?"

"Yes. The Poet's narcissi in the hall window."

"Yes. They're almost out—the first ones. I've got a surprise for you, Martie!"

"What?"

"I've got three purple hyacinths almost ready to bloom, for your room—in glasses, you know!"

Now did not that seem an innocent remark? Yet Martha began simply to boo-hoo.

"I'm going to bed," she sobbed.

"I think you'd better." Emily wouldn't be sarcastic, but she spoke dryly. She insisted on going up and helping her get to bed. She kissed her shortly, for fear of more bewailings, and promised not to waken her in the morning.

"I'm nervous, because I can't sleep always," Martha apologized. "I'd rather sleep than do anything else. I'll never forgive you if you wake me up in the morning. I'll get up and come down to you just as soon as I wake up. Nobody ever had a better mother than I've got!"

"Oh, cut out the sobby stuff, Martie!" Emily exhorted her. "Don't be crying yourself to sleep. Have you got anything to read, if you don't think you'll sleep?"

"Oh yes. I don't need anything. Nothing."

After twelve the next day Emily returned from a morning's shopping. The Christmas crowds had thrust her about. They had pushed her and jostled her and jammed her into corners. But she was in a mood for it all. She could take it light-heartedly. They couldn't take the song from her. "O come, all ye faithful!" she kept humming to herself. Wasn't she prepared for Christmas? Wasn't she eager to kneel and worship the Eternal Child! It was almost as if Martha had been born to her again. She tipped the elevator boy exuberantly just because she was so happy, as she went up to her room.

Martha wasn't there. She couldn't be sleeping, surely, at that hour. She would go up to her room. She stood close to Martha's door. She called her softly; she called her not quite so softly, but carefully. Martha was awake inside. Martha was coming to the door.

Martha had on her fur coat, and her rosy hat, ready to go out. She drew her mother in. They kissed. "She's been crying again!" Emily thought. "She looks ghastly! She must have cried all night." Her eyes were dry, but ringed about with sunken circles. She spoke quietly. She seemed to be speaking from a great depth of—what?—not worry—a depth of hopelessness, Emily thought, quickly.

"You been shopping, mammie? Weren't the crowds terrible?"

"Yes, terrible! But I did want to get a few things before we go home. Are you feeling better? Shall we go to-morrow? if we can get reservations?"

Martha sat thinking.

"Yes. I think we'd better go to-morrow, if you can get them."

"You're ready to go for lunch?"

"Yes; if you—— Yes, I'm ready."

"Have you had breakfast?"

"I had enough."

"What did you have, Martha?"

"I—didn't feel like much. I had coffee and toast."

But when they sat in the darkest corner of a crowded, noisy restaurant, she only pretended to be eating. She scarcely spoke, and when she did her voice was—strange, so that Emily sat thoughtfully watching her.

"Can you go and get the reservations after we've finished?"

"Yes, I can. Aren't you coming with me?"

"I want to go out for just a thing or two, mammie. But look here, can't you just—pay part of the tickets? You don't have to pay it all to-day, do you?"

"Why? Why not?"

"I mean—if I don't feel well enough to go to-morrow."

"This is no place to begin to catechise her," Emily thought, "but I've got to find out what's the trouble with her, some way, before long."

"I don't know whether they will reserve them that way or not. I'll ask, if you want me to."

"I think it would be—a good plan."

Martha was sitting with her back to the room, her elbow on the table, and her head on her hand—not in a correct way, nor a graceful way. Emily looked at her. After all, look how other people sat—well-dressed people, but not nice-looking people. Horrid-looking girls, some of these were. Who, she wondered, were they? If Martha preferred not to talk, there was much for a small-town woman to be looking about at, in the room: smart clothes, painted faces. It was absolutely a thrill to see a woman so shamelessly vicious-looking, with some sort of green paint to make shadows under her eyes. Emily's unsophisticated glance was intent upon the person. The waiter was putting her parfait before her, when a bomb, thrown from Martha's colorless lips, made her almost jump.

"Tell father—- I mean—he doesn't know how much I appreciate him, mammie. He's been a good father to me, always."

Goodness gracious me! What in the world? The child must be out of her mind!

"Martha!" said Emily, sharply, "what is the matter with you?"

"I'm sorry I've always been so—horrid to him."

"Now look here, Martha, let that drop! You mustn't be morbid about this. I'll explain everything to him for you, if you want me to."

"Yes, do, mammie."

"I'll take that child to a doctor to-morrow!" Emily resolved.

They parted abruptly when they rose from the table. Martha went out to get her few things. Emily went to the station for her reservations, curiously. And she dallied about. They were to have tea together at four-thirty. It was Emily's suggestion. Anything to get Martha to eat, she had thought.

She came back to the hotel carrying a large box of the most tempting chocolates she could find, and candied fruits, which Martha had been eager for. She didn't like the hotel she had chosen. The lobby, the whole floor, was full of groups of men, business men, perhaps, standing around importantly pretending to be discussing affairs of moment, and covertly eying every woman who entered. Well, thank goodness, she was no longer either young or conspicuous. But how they must look at Martha! She went to the desk and asked for her key.

Now the sleek-haired young man standing there, instead of handing it to her promptly, went and spoke to a more important young man somewhat older. This man heard what he said and looked curiously at Emily, while the second one approached her.

"Are you Mrs. Kenworthy?" he asked, suavely.

She said she was.

"Will you step this way, please?"

She hadn't time to ask why. He had come out from behind the counter-like desk and was showing her the way—a few steps down a passage.

"Just here," he was saying. "The manager wants to speak to you."

And he threw open a door into a lighted office, and said, "This is Mrs. Kenworthy," and went out, and closed the door behind him.

Emily, wondering mildly, saw in a glance a sort of office; a room in which, perhaps temporarily, a good deal of extra furniture was crowded—several easy chairs pushed close together, beyond a long bare oak table, with shaded desk lamps. Three men were standing there, by the table, the shadow of the lamp-shade hiding their faces.

"Are you Mrs. Kenworthy?" one of them asked her.

"Yes," she said. She didn't like this.

"Has your daughter a dog?"

The man didn't seem facetious.

"Pardon me!" Emily spoke coldly.

The man was looking at her keenly.

"I said, has your daughter here a dog?" He made a gesture and——

Why, there was Martha, sunken down in the farther one of those crowded armchairs—that was her coat and hat, at least; her face was hidden. Emily moved quickly towards her.

"What do you mean?"

"Madame, this young lady has been trying to buy poison for her dog."

"There is some mistake about this." Emily felt herself begin to tremble. "My daughter hasn't a dog."

"We didn't think she had."

"What happened, Martha?" Emily's hand was on her shoulder, but Martha never lifted her head.

"What—do you mean?" Emily faltered. They looked so ominous—so excited. Nobody spoke.

"Oh, will you tell me what you mean?" Emily cried out. Something frightful was here.

"Madame, we have to protect ourselves. We can't have some one—taking her own life—in our rooms every month in the year. This girl—we kept her here—we didn't think she had a dog. She was trying to buy poison, madame!"

"You're mistaken! Martha, what were you doing?" She tried to get her to speak.

"Madame, we have had to offer a reward—to any employee who prevents—such a thing. This bell-boy"—he was actually indicating a negro standing near him—"just happened to be in a drug store, and saw your daughter refused—this poison. He recognized her; he followed her into another drug store. Who'd sell a girl with that face—anything? He called this policeman."

"I think you're all mistaken. She hasn't been well. I'll take her up and put her to bed," Emily babbled. She was kneeling on the floor by Martha, shaking Martha's arm, and urging her to explain.

"No, madame, not to the ninth floor, not a girl in that condition. We have to defend ourselves. We'll let you talk to her here." He started towards the door. "Just ring here, I'll come back for you."

"Martha! Baby! What is this? What were you doing? What happened after I left you? Tell me! Tell me, Martha! Why didn't you explain to those men?"

When Emily tried to pull her hands away from her face, Martha stirred and jerked back, and buried it in her coat sleeve. Her little thin voice came out, muffled, gasping:

"I've got to die."

Could it be that the child still loved that man so? What else could it be?

"You mustn't say such things, Martie! Martha, why didn't you say to them you weren't trying to buy—anything. Were you?"

"Yes, yes. I've got to die."

Emily's hand was stroking her arms tenderly.

Suddenly Martha simply cried out, "Oh, can't you understand?"

"I may be stupid. I don't know what this means!"

"I'll say it, then. I'll say it to you!"

Finally she did say it.

"I'm going to have a baby. I can't——"

The arm that was around Martha fell away. The hand that was stroking her ceased its motion. Emily knelt there, against the coat, against the chair; she went on kneeling there, and moments passed.

Martha was stirring herself. She was trying to rise.

"Let me go," she moaned.

Emily's arms tightened around her knees. She held her fast.

"Where you going?"

"I've got to die, some way."

"Martha, you don't know what you're saying. It isn't true. You're not going to have——"

"It is true. Let me go."

"I won't let you go. You can't die. I'm saving you." Emily didn't really know what she was saying.

"Let me go!"

"I'm going with you everywhere. I'm going to see you through it, then. I won't let them hurt you."

Martha began sobbing. "Won't you let me go?"

"No, I won't."

"Will you stay with me?"

"You are my child." Martha's sobs reassured her. "Don't ever say that—promise me not to think of—dying. Martha, promise me. I'll take care of you, Martha, if you promise."

"How can I live?"

"How can I let you—die? Oh, how awful of you, to think of such things. Is this why you came to New York?"

"Yes. I ought to, mammie. You don't want me—living now. Dad won't."

Emily rose up. She was recovering from the shock—the stunning.

"I'll take care of you. Don't worry. We must go upstairs. We must talk it over. I don't know."

She led the child towards the door. She opened it. The policeman stood there, guarding it. He would not let them out. "I'll call the manager," she said.

But Martha had recoiled, moaning: "Don't let that man touch me! That man caught hold of my arm, mother!"

And the moment the manager entered, Emily spoke to him composedly.

"I'm taking this child to my room. She isn't well. I must put her to bed."

"I'm sorry, madame; you can't take her to the ninth floor—not in that condition."

How could he see her condition, when she was hidden behind her mother? Emily was annoyed. She controlled her voice.

"Can we have another room at once, then, lower down?"

"No, madame; we have no empty room."

"What do you mean? Can't we have a room?"

"No, madame; we're full."

"You mean you want us to leave?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to."

Emily couldn't believe him.

"You mean you don't want us to stay here?"

"It comes to that. We've had unfortunate things—too many of them—lately. Leave the young lady here. I'll take charge of her while you pack your things. Or shall I have them brought down for you?"

She went out of the door, into Martha's shame, into the lobby where all eyes seemed to be upon her, into the elevator. The negro youth seemed to be pointing her out, a disreputable woman being turned out of the hotel. She got her things together; she went to Martha's room; she sent their luggage down; she went down and paid her bill at the desk window. Years afterwards she could feel those men looking at her curiously. She went to the room where Martha sat a prisoner. The manager was solicitous. He told the boy to have her things put in a taxi at the less conspicuous entry. She took Martha out, therefrom, down a quiet hall.

"Where to?" asked the chauffeur.

"To the Pennsylvania Station," she said.

It was almost dark, and very cold, and the taxi seemed not to move at all through the crowds.

"What are you going to do with me now?" Martha moaned.

"I don't know," said Emily.

At the station she put Martha down where she could watch her from a telephone booth. She daren't turn towards the mouthpiece to speak for more than a second. Suppose Martha should disappear. She 'phoned one hotel after another. None of them had a room on the second floor. A horror was in her mind—a girl falling, falling, to destruction. By the time she had heard her fourth refusal she felt faint. She went back out to the waiting room. Everyone was going home. Everyone was loaded down with Christmas gayety. She sat there. And Martha sat there. They had no place to go. It was Christmas time, but there was no room for them in any inn, because of a baby.

Some place to hide; some place to plan and think. She remembered a country hotel on Long Island. Would it be open at this season? But no, it was on the Sound. She was afraid of water and that desperate girl. After a little she thought of the right place. There was a little hotel in a small New Jersey town. Years ago she and her aunt had gone there, quite unannounced, for a night, to visit an old cemetery in the neighborhood. They could go there.

Jostled and pushed about in the jam of the local train, Emily got back some of her presence of mind. She got out, with Martha, at the station, and stood looking about. She didn't remember the place at all. Cars were waiting for most of those who arrived. She asked a newsboy about the hotels. He would carry her things up and show her the way.

They turned into the quiet little main street. Yellow lights from the shops were shining out across the snow. People were hurrying along in one direction. The boy was talkative. It was only a little way to the hotel. When they drew near it, he said: "Look! Look at the Christmas tree!"

A little way farther down the street, across from the hotel, a crowd was gathered around an old lighted-up tree just near the sidewalk, in what seemed to be the front yard of a dwelling house.

"It's a real tree. It's not a cut-down one!" he informed them. "They sing there."

"I always remembered what a quiet place you had here," Emily said to the clerk. "I've always been wanting to get back." She wanted to make their arrival—on Christmas Eve—a natural thing. Would the man be suspicious?

But no. He took them in; they had a roof over them again, a room, comfortless enough, but a room, and one double bed, on which Martha had thrown herself down. They must have supper in their room to-night. Emily had begged something, anything hot. She pulled the curtains down and opened the bags, and started to get Martha to bed.

When the maid came with the supper tray, outside there, under the great glimmering tree, the crowd was singing praise to God become Baby through a woman's body; and inside Emily was looking at Martha's little breast, and her sobbing white abdomen, and a girl's flesh seemed to have become hell.

Emily had to probe her ignominy that night, for the thought kept coming to her, even after what she had seen, that Martha couldn't know what she was talking about. She had to ask her—terrible things; there was no help for that. She had to realize that her daughter had lied to her directly, thoughtfully, and cunningly. This affair had begun in the summer, before Martha had promised her never to see that man again. She had promised not to see him, knowing when they were to meet next, in Chicago. "I was so sure, mammie!" she sobbed. "I knew it would be all right when you knew him! I just loved him so!" Martha had gone back to college to lie cunningly there, to get permission to spend every week-end in New York, to study dancing, which her mother was so keen to have her take up, she had averred. Well, she had been punished, punished by having to look in the terrible face of Death. Suppose that colored bell-boy hadn't been in the drug store, there—— Emily's arms tightened about her.

"Oh, what are you going to do with me now?" Well might little Martha Kenworthy ask that. There seemed no good reason why she shouldn't go on crying indefinitely, forever. But Emily, drawing her close against her in bed, tucking the covers about her, trying to get her warm, hoped doggedly to find comfort for her, to get her quiet. There were worse things than having a baby, she told her once, crooning over her.

And Martha said, "What?" And then added, "Oh, you mean being discarded!"

Discarded? Martha Kenworthy discarded?

"She is beyond me in knowledge," Emily thought. "I've never known bitterness."

She had to ask her, "Does that man know about this?"

"I—told him. He said——" She couldn't say it for weeping.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter."

But after a while Martha did say it:

"He said I'd got him into a dirty mess."

Emily reproached herself. She wouldn't ask, even, where he was now, where his wife was, whether he was divorced. She wouldn't have Martha marry that man now, if he was able to marry her a hundred times over.

"Martha, you mustn't cry this way. You mustn't. You'll make yourself sick."

"No, it won't; it can't. Nothing makes me sick enough. I've tried everything."

"What? What have you tried?"

And Martha, lying cuddled against her there, recounted horrors. "At school," she sobbed, once resentfully, "there isn't any privacy. Those girls just come singing and laughing right into your room. I tried things week-ends, when I was in the city."

"Alone?"

"Yes, mammie. I thought I'd killed myself once—two weeks ago. When I tried to get up I fainted. I fell on the floor, and I thought I was dying; and I couldn't ring for anybody—they might find out."

Emily had to hear all that—to imagine it.

She said, after a while, "I'm going to take you to a doctor to-morrow—-day after to-morrow. The best one I can find."

"I'll go to Mexico; I'll hide somewhere; I'll go to South America!"

"We could never be sure we had hidden ourselves."

"No, I know it. Oh, I've thought of everything. In books they do it; in books no one ever finds out. There's 'The Old Maid.' We could do it."

"We'd always be afraid. We'd never have any peace of mind again."

"You don't need to go with me. I can go."

"I'm going to see you through this. I think home would be the best place, Martha."

"No, I won't go home! Never, mother. Oh, imagine what dad would say to me!"

Emily had thought of that. She had decided. "That's my house!" she had said as they came out on the train. "I'll take my child home to it. If Bob wants to leave, he can leave."

"You don't appreciate your father. If we should go home,—this way—to him, he would stand by us. There's no use saying he wouldn't."

"He would stand by you, mother. I'll say that much for him. He wouldn't leave you when you're in trouble. He's not like—— But he would be always hating me; if he didn't scold me, he would be wanting to. I couldn't stand that. I won't go home. I won't let you tell him this. I'd rather——"

"Don't say that!" Emily moaned.

"We can go abroad. We could go to Sweden, or the Philippines."

"Yes, all right. Now stop crying, Martha. Try to go to sleep. I'll make arrangements. I'll fix it all up for you."

The girl dozed at length, moaning. The clock struck, and the hours passed, and Emily lay there, open-eyed, fleeing in vain terror from one corner of her consciousness to the other, whacked and battered through the soul by fact after brutal fact. She was in no condition to think clearly. It was her habit of mind to blame herself for a great deal that was never her fault, perhaps because all her tender years she had had the sense of her aunt's disapproving eyes upon her. And now she shouldered all the blame of this tragedy. This child was what she had made her; she had spoiled her indeed. She had only wanted her to be happy, and where was happiness now? Her child, the work of her hands, the fruit of her body and soul, had lowered herself to deliberate lying. Yes, and even that Emily Kenworthy could have pardoned if the child had lied for a worthy man. She had been found lacking the essential womanly instincts of self-preservation—of child preservation. She hadn't known how to make herself cherished. She had failed fundamentally. "What was it I neglected?" Emily moaned. "What didn't I teach her? Bob always said I spoiled her. Bob knew. I have failed. I have failed more than she has. I thought only about her being happy. What am I going to do for her now?"

After a long while—it was towards morning, though Emily had no thought of time—Martha rose with a start. She began scrambling hastily out of bed.

"I'm sick!" she murmured.

"Lie down! Wait! I'll get you something!"

"A towel! Hand me a towel!"

Emily jumped up and felt for the light. The room was bitterly cold. She looked about for something to serve Martha's need. She searched hastily for her dressing gown.

"Get back into bed," she commanded. "Cover up!" She sat down on the bed beside her, shivering violently, trying to help her. For Martha was leaning out over the side of the bed, retching, choking, trying to stifle the sound of her misery by covering her face with the towel. Paroxysm after paroxysm of nausea followed. Between them Martha lay back in bed, shivering, blue-lipped, sweat on her forehead, tears in her eyes, harrowing to behold.

"Try to lie still, Martha! Lie flat on your back!"

"Can't. Oh——" And on went the sickening sounds.

She was so blue, so frightening to look at, that Emily started to go to the door.

"What are you doing?" Martha cried.

"I'm going to wake somebody up! I'm going to get some hot water—a hot-water bag for you."

But the girl was in terror, and cried out:

"I never have anything, mammie. Don't! They might guess! I'll be all right, mammie. Come into bed with me; that'll warm me up!"

So Emily made the room as decent as she could.

"Hide that, hide it! I'll manage in the morning. I don't want anybody to suspect anything!"

Emily got into bed, sickened, and gathered the child to her. She was passionate with hate. A man, any man, who inflicted one such hour on a girl——"I could just kill that man!" she was raging. If a decent boy had given her child a box of sickening chocolates, by accident, what a fuss there would have been! How he would have had to grovel! And as she raged in her mind, she heard Martha imploring comfort.

"Oh, how long is this going to go on, mammie?"

"How long has it gone on?"

"Oh, weeks! From the first! Oh, I was so afraid they would hear, at school!"

Suddenly a memory flashed over Emily. She felt the hours she had suffered such discomfort—for the sake of this undone child. She and Bob had been living in their wretched little rooms over the drug store on Main Street. And she could see Bob standing there, in his nightshirt, a lamp in his hand, solicitous and dumfounded, because she lay sick and laughing, tears in her eyes, and singing on her lips, shaken with delight over the significance of her symptoms. She had been beside herself with happiness at the prospect of a baby. Certainly never before in her life, and seldom since, had she known such heavenly satisfaction as during those weeks. The very sensation of that dear expectancy came back to her.

And Martha, in her arms, moaned wearily.

Then Emily turned away from her, towards the wall, and, covering herself up to the eyes, began an utterly sick and bitter weeping. At every gasp some new phase of her misery came to contrast its horror with the former loveliness. The years came all tumbling down in great crushing masses upon her, and the beauty of that baby, her little parties, her sweet little coats. It was Christmas morning, she remembered, and she could see the little thing in her footed sleeping suit standing twinkling in ecstasy about a stocking from which a red-headed doll peeped out.—Dolls, what lots of dolls, to teach her motherhood—and Jim playing with her! It was for this child's sake that her mother had refrained from all the life she might have had with her dear Jim. And now—— This was the end of it all. "If I had left her—deserted her—gone with him, could she have been worse off than she is now?" Emily asked; and she went on weeping. She saw the painted room from which the child had shut herself out. She had made herself a dark house of regret now, this house-loving girl who had destroyed herself. Where should they go now? "To whom can I go for help?" Emily cried. If Jim were living, if she could go to New York and tell Jim all this, so he could help her—— There was no one living to whom she could turn. "I'll take her to Wilton," she moaned; "he'll know what to do!" Home was impossible. Could she take her lovely daughter there—this child whom she had watched them admire? That woman would find them there, that jealous, married, wild woman, who had open, unquestioned cause now for scandals and fury. She heard Martha speaking to her, imploring her, crying with her, but she paid no heed to her. The heat in the steam pipes began pounding. Daylight came into the room. Martha got up to conceal what signs she might find of her sickness. Martha showed strange skill in furtiveness now. She seemed to have acquired habits of cunning. Presently she was standing there, lying glibly to the wondering chambermaid. Her mother was ill; her mother had had news of bereavement. She must have some breakfast brought up.

Emily had been forty-three years old when she had left home last. But after Christmas Day, it was months before she thought of herself as anything but an old woman. It was not so much a day, the twenty-fifth of December, as an epoch—a desert of disappointment from which she was never likely to recover fully. She got up and dressed that morning, scarcely knowing what she did. She sat down in desperation and just looked at Martha. She rallied after a while, enough to suggest that they go out together for a walk. But Martha refused. There were lots of girls in her college who lived in New Jersey. She might meet somebody who would ask what in the world she was doing in that little hotel upon such an occasion. She lay down, and Emily covered her warmly.

She sat watching her sleep. The afternoon faded away. The darkness came, and they went to bed. There they lay. Martha slept till the evil hour of morning came, and passed distressfully.

They got up, and Emily began to put her things into her bag. As she moved about, peace came to her some way. It was as if she realized at length that she was sentenced to death and there was no escape possible. She must die quietly. Afterwards, she used to marvel over that strange consciousness that came to her, that she could go through this horror, and any other that might be coming to her, without frenzy, without any outcry. She knew that whichever hideous alternative she had to go through, as long as Martha was saved alive to her, she was able some way, quietly, to bear it. She had never experienced before such an exalted feeling of strength. Even Martha felt it. She grew quieter. She listened without a murmur to her mother's plans, because Emily's voice was smooth again.

She had decided that as soon as they got to New York she would 'phone from the station to the head nurse of a hospital to which she had once gone to see a friend. She remembered vividly the assured and adequate manner in which those nurses had moved about. She was loath to trouble them. She would say that she was a stranger in the city, without friends, suddenly in need of a gynecologist. She wanted a woman, and the very best one. Would the nurse recommend a perfectly reliable one?

There was no hitch in the plan. The nurse recommended three, for she thought it likely that some of them might be away for the holidays. Emily was able to get an appointment with the first one, but only late in the afternoon, after the other patients had been seen. She turned calmly from that 'phone, and took Martha to the Brevoort Hotel. She got a room on the third floor. She wouldn't have been afraid then of any height. It was no wonder that Martha had to exclaim, as soon as the door was shut behind the porter with their luggage:

"How could you do it, mammie?"

"Let's not talk about it," she answered.

There was an hour to wait for lunch. Only once did she have that feeling of panic. Her strength almost failed her when she picked up the morning paper defensively and saw the advertisements of "white sales." Baby clothes were illustrated there. She threw the paper hastily down. She mustn't think of such a child in her house, playing in her willow tree. She would hate that child; she wanted Martha to hate it. Yet they would have to make some sort of hateful preparations for it.

After a while they rose and went down into the restaurant, and found a place among untrapped, unmaddened men and women, who didn't look as if they felt their lives reeling through destruction. Mother and daughter said but little. If anyone near had looked at them attentively, he would have thought, probably, of two women who looked rather bored with life and in need of diversion.

When the coffee came, Martha, who had chosen to sit with her back to the room, was leaning on the table, her hand over her eyes. She had been looking in grim dejection at her mother's hands. She stirred, and said, nervously:

"Nobody would ever suspect you of anything, mother."

"Let's not talk about it," Emily almost whispered.

"I mean—I mean—I don't suppose you will have to take your gloves off, will you?"

"Where?"

"I mean—in the doctor's office." She looked around her slyly to see if she might be overheard.

"No, I don't suppose so." Emily thought best not to question her.

But Martha persisted.

"Mammie, no one could suspect you of anything! Lend me your ring—your wedding ring." Her voice died away.

Emily's voice never faltered. "All right, if you want it." She spoke as if she had been asked for a nickel for the telephone. She put her hands down under the table and tugged away at the ring. Her fingers were larger now than they had been the day Bob put the ring on, in the City Hall in Chicago, in that room where, she still remembered, the spittoons sat in rows. She hadn't taken that ring off for years. She was handing it over now, with another one—a diamond one—which Bob had given her two years ago, at Christmas time, to her deserted daughter. Bob seemed, just then, not so bad a husband, after all. Martha reached over for the rings, closed her fingers about them, and put them furtively away in her purse.

After an interminable afternoon the two of them, with their story ready, came into the doctor's waiting room—a large office which served the patients of several doctors; it was so full that people were standing. Yet as soon as the Kenworthys entered, a woman older than her mother, after one glance at Martha, rose hastily to offer her a place to sit down. The women made a place for Emily, crowding together. Emily didn't even wonder how many, like herself, were dreading a death sentence—a sentence of life. She sat there, in the unspeakable intensity of consciousness of her wound, realizing nothing of the room but the fact that Martha was sitting huddled down in the next sofa, her hat pulled down to hide her shrunken face. Her lips only could be seen, from where her mother sat, but they were not trembling. And they sat there, hour after hour, year after year; they had to sit waiting till almost every one had been called in through one or another of those doors.

The day was over, the night was on them. It was half past six when Emily finally took Martha into the room before the judge. They sat down before her in the full light. She sat behind that little desperately business-like desk, her face half hidden by the lamp-shade. She looked from one to the other of them with shrewd, cynical, prosaic eyes. Emily, as the words came out of her mouth, knew every one of them was being weighed. She was being cross-questioned. What made her think her daughter wasn't strong enough to have a child? What made Emily suppose she was a delicate young woman? The whole slender history of Martha Kenworthy's child illnesses was brought forth and examined. The doctor's very questions seemed to pronounce her a most rugged person. Emily hadn't thought to prepare any lying account of previous illnesses. She hadn't been skilled enough in deceit for that.

The woman got up and turned on pitiless lights. She made preparations; she gave Martha directions, shortly. Emily sat there. She heard her heart pounding.

Once Martha moaned, lying on that white table.

"Don't do that. Don't make that noise."

"You hurt me," Martha apologized.

"Not at all," answered the doctor. She went poking on. Her manner was not ingratiating. If she scented any tragedy before her, she had no sympathy—no one ever need to cry to that woman for help, Emily realized.

The doctor had finished. She turned away to a basin and stood washing her hands. She reached for an immaculate towel, and with it in her hands she turned about and stood looking at her patient. Martha was sitting up on that hospital-like table. The doctor went on drying her hands. Finger after finger she dried, one at a time, studying Martha mercilessly. By the time she had finished that fourth finger, Emily could stand the suspense no longer. She managed to ask with only ordinary concern:

"What do you find?"

The doctor kept her eyes steadily on Martha as she answered:

"As a matter of fact, though you get your mother to do all the talking, the truth is that you are scared out of your wits at the mere thought of a baby. Don't look at your mother; answer me yourself!"

"Yes," Martha murmured, faintly. "I didn't—I don't want——"

The doctor spoke grimly: "Well, don't worry. You're not going to have one."

She was still drying those hands.

Emily and Martha babbled together almost incoherently.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not pregnant at all. There's not a sign of pregnancy."

And as neither of the women moved, she added:

"Get down and dress."

Emily gasped, at length: "How can this be? How——"

The doctor spoke more kindly as soon as she turned to Emily to answer: "It's hysteria. It's nothing but hysteria."

"But those symptoms—those——"

Emily was incredulous.

"I've had three cases of this this week. They distrust their precautions and get panicky. They lose their heads."

"I never heard of such a thing in my life," Emily babbled.

"I don't suppose you have!" The doctor spoke tartly. "When you had this child, women had nerve enough to carry them through!" She turned and looked almost scornfully at Martha.

Martha had sat down abruptly on a chair. Emily helped her into her coat. The doctor had been explaining to Emily: the girl ought to be put to bed early for a while, well fed, allowed no dances, no theaters, and kept much out-of-doors. And when Martha had sat down abruptly, after putting her coat on, she said:

"If you feel faint, you'd better get out into the air." And she dismissed them from her presence.

Falling, being hurled down, those sensations had been bad enough—but the shock of this crashing landing! Those two women went out of that office, down the elevator, out on to the street so dazed that their minds seemed blank, so "taken aback" they were, so strongly jerked back from the edge of destruction. Martha, standing pressed close against her mother, one arm around her, staring into her face, stood stuttering there in the winter darkness, on the curb.

"D-d-d-do you believe it, mammie?" She began laughing and crying. "Mammie! mammie!" she kept stuttering. "Do you believe it?"

In the taxi they found, Martha gave way to hysterics. She laughed and she sobbed crazily. "Oh, mammie, if she could be right! Can she be right? Am I all right? She don't know what she's talking about. Oh, tell me, can it be true?" She was shaking Emily, trying to shake assurance out of her. "Tell me if it can be true, mammie!"

"Why, Martha—a doctor—must know——"

"No! She doesn't understand! How could it not be? Mammie, tell me. Oh, suppose it's true; I can live! Mammie, I can see you don't believe her! We can go home now. You won't tell dad! Oh, I will be good to you. Didn't they say she was a good doctor? Mammie, what did that nurse say about her? But I did try every day to think it wasn't true. And it was. Why was I so sick every morning? Maybe I've only got a cancer, mammie!" Crying out a phrase like that, the child was in such a madness of hope. "Oh, suppose she's right!"

"Martha, I feel like giving you the awfulest spanking anybody ever got!"

"Oh yes! Oh, I don't mind. Mammie, imagine if it isn't true; if I'm saved. Here, here's your rings; I don't need rings!"

When they drew up in front of the hotel, Emily forced her to be quiet. But Martha, in their room, threw off her coat and her hat and all restraint in a great gesture. She was lit up, she was drunk with hope. She walked around the room babbling, her face ghastly pale and bright, stopping to hug her mother, stretching out her arms, stretching them above her towards the ceiling.

"Suppose it's true! Suppose it's all right! Suppose I'm safe! I can live now. No operation, mammie! That woman must have been fifty! She must know what she's talking about. Didn't you think she looked like a good doctor? She must have examined thousands of women. I'm free; I'm safe!" She stopped and looked at herself in the mirror. "Oh, look at me!" she cried. "That's how I feel." And Emily, who had sunk down on to the bed in her bewilderment, watching Martha, suddenly began to cry. That superhuman strength seemed to have abandoned her. For the girl had looked for a moment intently at her reflection, and then turned, half crazy with joy, to her suitcase. She had snatched out her toilet things, she was powdering her nose, she was rubbing something on her white cheeks, herself again. "Oh, I can live now! Live! Live!" And she turned away from the glass and ran to Emily—she had heard her sniffling—and began consoling kisses and penitential hugs and tears.

"Let's go and get something to eat!" she said at length. She got up and washed away signs of tears. She brushed her hair, she powdered her nose, she got out a smarter pair of shoes. "Let's walk and walk," she said. "I could walk all night." Out on the street there, Emily felt Martha's strong arm impelling her along by the passion of her relief. She walked with her head held high, she walked fiercely, like an arrow sure of its target. When they stopped at a crossing, her feet could not stop their triumph. Emily could feel her dancing. She kept babbling, singing, running on. Emily said at length: "I can't go any farther. I'm too tired." And then in a minute or two they were turning into an opportune restaurant.

It was a large, uncarpeted room, with two rows of white-tiled tables on either side of a central aisle. Martha walked down that aisle ahead of her mother. Her head was held that tense way, her eyes were shining positively black against her white face, her air was wild. People looked and started and continued staring at her as if they had seen a pretty young lunatic at large, or an aggressive and beautiful girl-ghost. And Martha, not thinking of them, walked straight to the farthest table and would have sat down facing the crowd, if Emily had not chosen that seat for herself. Emily was conscious of the sensation their entrance had made. She was wondering how Martha's excited pallor had triumphed over all the color she had applied, for certainly she had stood dabbing rouge on—before her mirror. Martha grabbed the menu. She had been talking of turkey, of lobster. She was hungry enough to eat anything. She ordered a large steak for two, with mushrooms. She ordered asparagus and fried potatoes, and bread—a plateful of brown bread. She ordered coffee. She would order a lobster later, she told the waiter. When he had gone, she began whispering to Emily:

"Mammie, did you get our reservations? Oh, I thought I would be going home in a——!"

"Don't!" murmured Emily.

"Can we go and change them on our way home? Let's go on the eleven o'clock. But no, we must go to another doctor to-morrow."

Emily tried to calm her. It was herself the child was enjoying now, as if her years of enjoying her thoughts had been preparing her for this climax. She looked as if she might burst into flame. She did burst forth when dinner was being set before her. The waiter was arranging her great feast, when she cried out, suddenly unable to smother the joy of some thought. She cried out, with a gesture of her hands below the table, "Oh, my God!" so that the waiter fairly jumped. People about were watching them. They smiled unanimously. Martha didn't seem even to know she was in a restaurant.

The next morning Martha said she hadn't slept well, but Emily had watched her sleeping through the early morning, and when she commented on the significance of that fact, Martha was elated again above her weariness by happiness. She went for a walk in the morning alone. Emily felt too exhausted to go with her. She ate more heartily than she had been able to eat the evening before. That great steak and those mushrooms she had not been able to give any real attention to. She appealed to her mother every few minutes to tell her the truth about the doctor's verdict, to comfort her about the probable outcome of their visit to the next doctor. She walked about excitedly.

Late that afternoon the second doctor pronounced her free.

They came back to their hotel almost without a word. In their room they sat down; they looked at each other dazed; they each felt the other trying to fathom the experience through which they had gone. "How could that have happened?" Martha demanded. "Do they think—I IMAGINED that vomiting? Do they think I didn't try to believe I was all right?"

It seemed to Emily best to pass as lightly as possible over even the word "hysteria."

"You were worried, Martha. You were afraid."

"Well, of course I was afraid! All the time I thought, suppose anything should happen to me. I was thinking all the time about you, mother! Do you think I wanted to disgrace you? That's why I wanted to—I thought I couldn't live. Oh, when your wire came, mammie, I just had to see you again, once, before—— I didn't want to come. I was afraid you might find out! But I had to come and see you again once! How did you happen to come, mammie?"

"Did you suppose I was going to let you wander around New York alone?"

"Didn't you suspect anything?"

"Martha! No!"

"No, you couldn't believe it. Oh, I never wanted YOU to know. I'd rather have told all the rest of the world, mother. I'll never forgive myself for this as long as I live. You look—sick as a dog, mammie!"

"I'm all right. You needn't worry about me."

"You just say that. You don't even scold me! I've learned my lesson. You don't have to say anything! My God!" cried little Martha Kenworthy. "What I've been through! And those filthy women at school nosing around trying to find out what was the matter with me!"

"Oh, Martha!"

"They were. They went sneaking around! They know too much, those old hens, pretending they're so holy. I'm finished with that place!"

"Well, now—everything is all right." It seemed better to her to take that line. "We can go wherever we want to. You need a rest. We'll go South, if you want to."

"Yes. Let's not go home. Let's go South from here."

"Oh, well—I don't know. I'd have to get some more clothes. You'd—we'd better go home first. And we have our tickets; it's not much shorter from here."

"Dad might want to go with us—or drive us down."

"I think we better go by train. It's much better to go home first."

"You mean—so people can see me? So nobody can suspect anything?"

"Martha, I didn't mean any such thing. Who's going to suspect us of anything?"

"Not you, of course. But I'll go home if you want me to. I'll do anything you want me to, after this. You've been a brick; you've stuck by me; you're the one that needs a rest. I don't look as ghastly as you do, mammie."

"Well, we can do anything we want to now; we can go any place."

"I don't want to do anything. I just want to sleep a year."

So they left for home that night. And the next day, as the train hurried West, Martha's gloom and her humility deepened mile by mile. She sat looking steadily out of the window, and Emily realized that it could not be the scenery that fixed the expression of her face. When her thoughts were recalled from some unhappy distance, she considered her mother meekly, with solicitude. Her gratitude, the sort of indebtedness, was painful to Emily. After they had changed at Chicago into the train for home, Emily realized, even before Martha spoke, that she was hardening herself for an ordeal.

"Mammie," she said, "I don't want to—I mean—will you let me have the guest room this time? I think I could sleep better in the guest room."

Emily Kenworthy had never taken a journey of any sort whose very climax and last ineffable thrill had not been getting back again into her very own house. She was that sort of woman. But never before had she felt the joy of being at home and of waking up in her own bedroom quite so keenly as she did that morning. She opened her closet and took down her customary morning frock. It was a brown jersey. It had a bit of tan-colored jersey down the front of it. On the tan-colored jersey were rows of little brown jersey buttons, and those top two buttons were hanging loosely; those two loose and familiar buttons were reality, surely. They proved that New York had been only a dream. She put the verifying frock on, and went out of her room, and in the hall the radiator was burbling out its confirming burbles. She sat down at her own breakfast table; Bob was there, no phantom. And the percolator lid still had to be managed. Its awkwardness had been a family failing for months now. Bob couldn't apparently improve it. Emily began pouring coffee, with her hands held as that percolator must be held, and she could scarcely believe she had been in New York. Martha's hallucination was a nightmare, and the percolator was truth and awakening.

She could indeed have believed that morning that the days of terror had been a delirium if, in the guest room, the pitiful stranger had not been lying in bed. She was glad that Martha seemed willing to stay there the first day or two, for it made her story more impressive.

"It's this quarrel with us, Bob, that's worked on her mind till she couldn't eat. I wish you could have heard her that first night. She just cried and cried, because she was so sorry about last summer, and ashamed. She says she don't know what possessed her to act so—naughty. I had just to make her stop crying. I told her it was morbid; but I couldn't get her to eat. I ordered everything, but she wouldn't take anything. The doctor says it's her nerves; she's got to have a long rest."

"But how'll you keep her from dancing, if you take her South?"

"She won't want to dance; she's too sick."

Bob seemed scarcely able to credit that, although he acknowledged that she looked bad.

Emily went on: "She's so ashamed of the things she said to you last summer, Bob. She wanted me to apologize; or rather I said I would, because she gets so worked up if she begins to talk about it. She said no girl ever had a better father than you, Bob."

"Did she say that, honestly, now, Emily?" Bob looked troubled.

"Yes, she did, sitting at a table, not eating a thing. She'd have burst out crying if I hadn't made her stop it."

"By heck! Emily, the kid must be sick!"

"Yes, she is. The doctor said I have to take good care of her and keep her out of doors. When you go in to see her, Bob, just pretend nothing's happened. Don't let her get started apologizing."

"All right. Do you think—is she over that—that business with that damned skunk?"

"Oh yes, I think so. I think she's ashamed of it all."

"Well, that's something, anyway."

It was the neighbors who began coming in at once to inquire sympathetically about Martha, who kept Emily uneasy. Each woman's solicitude seemed to necessitate the hurried invention of new details, and Emily, not used to deceit, could scarcely be sure her stories tallied. Johnnie Benton gave her a moment of difficulty. He wouldn't be content with vagueness.

"Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, what is the matter with her, when you get right down to brass tacks?"

"Tut, tut, Johnnie! Do you think I haven't been right down to brass tacks all the time?"

"Nervous breakdown, that's just a sort of excuse for anything, I thought."

"You better think again. A nervous breakdown isn't anything to joke about."

"But isn't she going to get up? Aren't we going to see her at all?"

"She'll be up in a day or two. But, look here, Johnnie, if she prefers not to see you, I won't insist. I'm not going to have her annoyed—not a bit, just now."

"I'm not planning to annoy her."

"Now don't get fussy. You know very well what I mean. She must be humored."

The next day he sent in a great bunch of roses.

"These would go with the room, I thought," he said, meekly, to Emily.

She hesitated about taking them in to Martha. She decided to do it, and regretted her decision, for Martha read the message with them and tore it up angrily and began to cry.

Wilton ran in just to call, and asked about the New York doctor. He was very tactful, very kind. Mrs. Benton came in and gave Emily a terrible shock.

"I have half a notion to go South with you, Emily. I can't wait forever for my sister. I was going to California with her, but she keeps putting it off. And, anyway, I don't know but what I'd rather go with you."

Emily would not urge her to go with them. She didn't dare even mention such a possibility to Martha. She thanked her lucky stars that Mrs. Benton's sister was going to be terribly angry if Mrs. Benton went with Emily.

When the girls came in, Martha said, wearily:

"Oh, let them come up if they want to. I suppose they've got to see me, if they want to. Hand me that vanity case, mammie, please." And she sat up and rouged a little bit, to defy detection, as it were.

The third day she was home she got up and came downstairs for lunch and supper. "I won't have you carrying all those things up to me," she said to Emily. On Friday she happened to be in the living room when Greta came in. She received her with little cordiality, and presently, as they sat there, Emily doing most of the talking, two more girls came in. Emily was breathing a sigh of relief that the afternoon had passed so smoothly, as they left. But when she turned into the living room from seeing them out, Martha burst out:

"Oh, for the love of Heaven, let's get away, mammie! I can't stand this. This house; this town. Let's go to-night, please, mammie!"

"We aren't ready."

"I am. I'm packed. I'll do your packing. Let's get out of this!"

Emily wondered when she had got her things out of her painted room. She had never seen her open the door of it. She said: "I thought you didn't mind seeing the girls. You could have excused yourself."

"Yes, I could, and they would have been wondering why. They make me so sick. They just come prying about to see what they can find out!"

"That's nonsense. You oughtn't to talk that way. They came just naturally, because you weren't well."

"Yes, and asked all those questions!"

Martha wasn't to be humored in this.

"I didn't see anything objectionable in what they asked," Emily responded dryly.

"You didn't? Didn't you hear Greta asking where Eve was? 'What's become of Eve this vacation?' she said, just like that."

"Well, child, why shouldn't she ask you where Eve is spending her holiday? You've been in school with her all term. You'd be supposed to know. You forget that Eve about lived in this house last summer."

"I forget it, do I? Oh, look here, mammie, if I finish your packing, won't you go to-night?"

"Our reservations are for to-morrow night. You know that."

"They'll change them; and if they won't, let's stay in Chicago a night. I'd rather stay any place in the world than here, mammie." She was pleading now, not resentfully, but humbly.

"All right," said Emily, "if daddy agrees."

Martha turned away impatiently. In the presence of death Bob Kenworthy had appeared a good father. But Martha, having now to face life, already found him only an irritation. "It isn't Bob's fault this time that she wants to get away," Emily thought.

"And, besides, you've told everybody that we're going to-morrow. And it would be just like—Johnnie and everybody to be down to the station to see us off—with a band."

Chapter Seven

They traveled directly south until they came to a town which, stretching out along a blue-and-golden bay, had gone to sleep before the Revolution and has never been disturbed since. They found it all ease and dreams and laziness. The shadows of live oaks were its swiftest motion, and the dancing of oyster schooners over its sea was all its din. The Kenworthys arrived in the middle of a sunny afternoon at the sort of hotel to which they had been recommended. Although they had written they were coming, no one in authority was in sight to receive them. A slovenly negro maid didn't know what rooms they were to be in. Leaving their baggage on the veranda, where the taxi driver had deposited it, they walked down through a little garden to the snow-white sands and the golden clear water of the bay. An old man sitting on a bench, his legs wrapped around in a traveling rug, was sleeping, his bald head nodding, nodding, helplessly. They walked out to the end of the little pier. They sat down, and looked into the crystal shallows as jellyfish lapped about softly. The sun on the water was a lullaby. Emily presently felt her eyelids growing heavy.

"This'll be a good place to sleep, anyway," Martha said. The trouble was, in the days that followed, that Emily could never be sure that Martha was sleeping. Sometimes when the girl went to her room and, closing the door, begged not to be disturbed, Emily felt sure, as she sat listening involuntarily, that she was lying sobbing heart-brokenly. She never caught her in the act—she avoided that—but the curves of Martha's cheeks had the shadows and shape of many tears.

Emily had helplessly to sit and watch her progressing into bitterness. The first few days Martha said nothing; she watched the sea by day; by night she sat and stared into the fire. When Emily spoke to her, she would turn and bring herself into her mother's presence bewilderedly. She would look about her wonderingly, like a lost child in a strange world. Emily's remarks seemed scarcely to reach her. Her silence was unnatural. Certainly, Emily reflected, if she could utter the thoughts that seemed to be grinding her down, she would feel better. She longed to have her begin talking again.

Hints came out from time to time. Sometimes Martha was not able to refrain from groaning. The first afternoon they walked away down the beach, they came to an old cemetery with broken gnarled cypresses in it, and violets ready to bloom on old French graves.

Emily said, instinctively, "Let's go in." The gate stood open before them.

But Martha cried, "NO! I've had enough of THAT!" She shuddered.

What Martha said, when she began talking, was frightful. She resorted to speech only when her sense of outrage had become intolerable. She burst forth with noise and fury. It happened one evening that Emily had tarried, partly because Martha had refused so curtly from the first to pass even the time of day with anyone in the hotel, to be civil to an old and frail woman who sat alone at an adjoining table. When she went into her room, she found Martha in tears on her knees before the fire. She was always poking the fire; often she poked it viciously. But now she seemed to have attacked it brutally. She was tearing up papers, or something.

"What are you doing?" Emily exclaimed. And then she saw.

"Why, don't do that! That's a library book!"

But Martha was in a rage. "I don't care if it is! I'll burn up every copy I ever get my hands on!" She wouldn't let Emily rescue it. The tears were running down her face. "Such lies!" she raved. "How can you stand it? Dirty, filthy, rotten, vile lies! That's what's the matter! Books like that! I could kill that man!"

There was something sobering in the mere sight of a book being torn to bits. It was a strong book, powerfully written, and it resisted its destruction. The pages had to be jerked out, almost one by one. Martha kept tearing and poking, and urging the flames on.

"Martha," Emily remonstrated, "you mustn't do that! Don't make it flame up more!" She had never seen Martha in such a rage. She stood helplessly watching her folly.

"Didn't you read it?" Martha cried to her. There was scarcely anything left of the book now, but the covers.

"Yes, I read part of it," Emily began, protesting.

"You believed it, I suppose?"

"Well, I—I didn't care for it all, much."

"You didn't care for it! My God! I'm never going to read a book written by a man again as long as I live! It isn't that they're fools only; it isn't possible for them to learn anything, even, dirty fumbling idiots!"

"That's not very nice language, Martha."

"Language? What's language? Language isn't anything. Look at the facts. Are they nice? Look what that rotten man wrote down for people to read!"

Emily sat down, and Martha turned around and leaned her head against her mother's knee and wept. She kept trying to express her contempt for the book and its author; she felt the need of curses, but her vocabulary failed her. "That horrid, rotten person," she cried two or three times. "That nasty brutal old pig." And Emily stroked her hair and wondered whether to command her to keep still or to encourage her to talk it out. "He says——" Martha sputtered at length, crying bitterly.

"Never mind, child," Emily said quietly.

But Martha would mind. She controlled her sobs.

"He says—the filthy old rotten—idiot—that man in the book, he just went around—you know—mother—falling in love, they call it—and then he threw one woman away, mammie, because—he said—she didn't enjoy it! Oh, I could kill that man! Enjoy it, he said, mother! He said she was always afraid! My God! He hadn't anything to lose. He ran no risk! They just try to make out that women are like men, mother, so that they can get them. You'd think women would tell the truth, wouldn't you, mammie? I'd just like to see Mrs. Wharton be an old maid and try to hide that child that way! She'd learn a thing or two. It isn't fair, it's too cruel! They just try to make girls believe lies like that so they won't be afraid. I was afraid, all the time. But why wasn't I afraid enough? I must have been crazy last summer. Honestly, mother, I must have been out of my mind, to do that. It's women that are fools. It was my own fault. Does it seem possible, mother, that women can love such—such filthy, rotten messes as men? I couldn't have been in my right mind. So it couldn't have been my fault, and look what happened to me! It makes me so mad to think about it. It isn't fair! Why can't a woman just turn over and go to sleep, too? Why should she have two lives to risk, and a rotten, dirty man none at all? Mammie, you don't think I was in my right mind last summer, do you? I never would have done that if I'd had any sense. Were any of your people crazy, mammie? Were daddy's people insane? I mean, two or three generations back?"

"No, not so far as I know; not one of them. You've got sane people behind you. Don't cry so, child. It's going to be all right yet."

"There's no use saying things like that. I WAS crazy, mother. I couldn't have—— It doesn't seem possible. If I hadn't been out of my head, I never could have—loved him—a man. Didn't you ever notice anything strange about me last summer, honestly?"

"I—I couldn't understand it, but—girls do fall in love. Your father thought, though——"

"What did he think?" she urged.

"He sometimes thought you must be——"

"Crazy! Did he say crazy?" She was eager to have that lesser sentence passed on herself.

"He did say crazy, but you know, Martha, how we say it. Not meaning literally crazy."

"No, but I was crazy. Look at the mess I got you into, mother. What would we ever have done with that——"

"We don't need to talk about that now. Don't mention it."

"Yes, we do need to talk about it. I AM a woman. I WILL think about it. It isn't fair! It's cruel!"

And on she raved, groaning out the old old groanings. Emily sat overwhelmed and yearning, trying from time to time to ease her hurt with the words of her happier experience. Her arguments were less threadbare, having been used from the first only by women who felt themselves tenderly loved.

"It is hard luck to be a woman, if you're unlucky, Martha. But if you're lucky, it's not women you're sorry for, but men."

"How can you say that?"

"Well, they haven't children; they can't have children; they miss that, the realest joy. After all, children do belong to women. You belong to me more than to your father."

"Do you think I don't see through that? I'm not a fool NOW! I do belong to you. It's you I got into a mess. Dad sits home, not worrying. And if he did know about it, he'd blame you; he'd say you spoiled me. It's lovely to have a child like me!"

"I don't care, Martha. Whatever has happened to you—to us—you've been my happiness all these years. I don't care what you say, that's a fact. This time will pass, and we'll be happy again. If you had a child, you'd understand."

"If! Don't say 'if' to me! Haven't I had a child?"

"No, you haven't. You certainly haven't!"

"I certainly have! Look here, mother, don't you really think I go crazy, that I've been crazy twice now? It's insane to be hysterical! Maybe I'll go stark crazy and get put in——"

"Martha! Martha!"

They sat there till long after midnight. Emily argued that what Martha had done was not a symptom of insanity. What, then, was it, Martha demanded, sorely. And Emily explained the brutal fact that nothing in life is so perplexing, so inexplicable to look back upon, as one's own conduct. She found the girl was full of the dread of publicity. "If he could get his wife to divorce him because of—me, he'd tell her in a minute!" she cried once.

"Oh, surely not!" expostulated Emily. She was on the point of saying that Mr. Fairbanks would never allow that. Then she remembered bitterly that Mr. Fairbanks had promised to prevent—other things, and had not been able to keep his promise.

After all these dregs and outpourings, Emily took her into her own bed, and realized, as she thought them over, that the girl was lying sleepless beside her. What, she wondered, wearily, was there left for her now? She had lost faith in her lover and all mankind. She had lost faith in herself; she had lost confidence and security from fear. But what she hated most violently was her own self, that sweet little bathed and powdered body which Emily had adored every day since her birth. The flowering of her body, its natural fruitfulness, was what she resented unto death. She was utterly undone. She had to be made anew. It was a bitter task to take up. "I'm too old for it," Emily thought.

Martha rose in a business-like manner the next morning, earlier than usual. Usually from their beds they saw the schooner they had called their own because it had castellated patches on its sail, move like a dream of a castle through the misty distance. This morning they saw it together from their place in the dining room.

"I'm going to ask them to put a writing table in my room this morning," Martha announced. And when they were walking, later, she suggested that they go down to the little stores on Main Street. She wanted, she said, to buy some paper.

Emily was curious because of the quality and quantity of paper she ordered.

"What are you going to do with all that?" she asked, naturally, as they left the shop.

Then Martha made her announcement, grimly: "I'm going to write a novel."

Emily had supposed nothing could really surprise her ever again. She found she had been mistaken. She was thoroughly "taken aback."

Martha was suspicious of her silence. "Why shouldn't I write a novel?" she challenged.

"Why, how can you? How can you begin? I'd as soon—why, I'd as soon try to make a whole train!"

"I can begin. Don't you worry! It's no trick to write a novel!"

"Well——" murmured Emily, unable to agree.

"I made up my mind in the night; if nobody else will tell the truth, I will! Girls will know a thing or two when they get through with my novel, I'll bet!"

Emily held her peace tightly.

Martha went on defiantly: "I've got its name and everything. I'm going to call it 'Blistered Women'—like 'Flaming Youth,' you know, or else, 'Vomiting Love'!"

"Oh, Martha!"

"Yes, you'll say 'Oh, Martha!' all right, when you read it! They used to sit and lecture us about Romance and Realism by the hour! It took them hours! Idiots! Why couldn't they just say: Romance is what men think about 'affairs,' the pigs; and Realism is what women know. Mine's going to be a realistic novel!"

Emily looked at her and repressed her sighs. She had on that racoon coat and that small rosy hat. She strode along with her chin up, defying anyone to stop her.

After that morning Emily was free to do whatever she might fancy. She might sit in the sun on the veranda and knit, or she might sit on the end of the pier and watch the waves. She might walk oyster-shell roads or sandy paths through turpentine groves. No plan of hers could entice Martha away from that writing table. She rose early, and she sat there day after day from nine till one-o'clock lunch. When Emily ventured occasionally to go into her room, she would see her writing away, and often her mouth was screwed up into hatred. Her face seemed to say that if scribbling could kill, there would be wide slaughter—not of innocents. And sometimes she would be writing savagely, with tears running down her cheeks.

Emily might like this novel-writing—and sometimes she thought it would do Martha good to get this resentment all out of her mind, expressed in words—of she might disapprove—for certainly Martha was working as she had never worked before to Emily's knowledge—which couldn't be good for her shattered nerves. But she was helpless. She knew if she commanded Martha to stop it, Martha would refuse. She had a call now; she had a mission in life. Somebody had to tell the truth. And men, of course, didn't even know what truth was, and they wouldn't tell it if they did know. Oh, they did make her sick at her stomach! Emily had to register her protest at times against Martha's description of what she was writing.

"It's NOT a nice novel, I know that. I never intended it should be; but I'll tell you right now, it's a lot nicer than things are in this world, mammie!"

In February Bob began writing of their coming home. He threatened—that was the word Martha used—to come down and see them. Emily would have welcomed him; she was lonely and unhappy. She said miserably to herself more than once that what she needed was some wise and sympathetic person with whom she might talk over Martha's plight. If Bob was neither wise nor sympathetic, he was always solicitous and tender at heart. And Martha was often irritable and unreasonable, and sometimes unconsciously cruel. She seemed at times to look upon her mother as one of the wrongs life had done her. One afternoon they were standing together at the end of the pier, looking at the opalescent sea and the flowery clouds about the sunset.

She had begun, apropos of nothing but her constant musings, "Mother, wasn't there something funny about Grandma Kenworthy?"

"Funny? No. What do you mean?"

"But she was terribly religious, wasn't she?"

"She was—religious, certainly."

"But wasn't she sort of fanatical?"

"No, she wasn't! Don't you remember her? She was the dearest old thing that I ever knew—the most companionable woman."

"But somebody told me—or, anyway, I heard she used to pray, when she was poor, and she used to believe her prayers were answered, too."

"Well, that doesn't prove she was—funny. You meant—not quite right in her mind, didn't you?"

"Yes. And people say—it's all sort of the same thing, being too religious—or—you know—like me, mammie."

"Martha! She was as sane as any woman! What could she do but pray? She hadn't any health. She hadn't any money for her little boys. All that woman went through—if she hadn't had a strong mind, she would have gone crazy! She must have been far better balanced than most women, let me tell you. And look here, child——"

"Well?"

"Why do you go on thinking about insanity? Don't you see you only did what every woman does? After all, every woman who ever bore a child submitted to the preliminaries. Didn't she, now?"

"Preliminaries! My God, mother! How you do talk! You're so high and holy you never know what I mean! Sometimes I feel as if there was a gulf between us—a great wide ocean!"

"Oh, Martha!"

"I do. You can't understand, mammie, you're so good. I don't know how you could have had a child like me!"

That statement explained a good deal of Martha's conduct. She had been acting exactly as if she had been acutely and unhappily conscious of her separation from her mother, and Emily tried to reason her out of it.

"We are infinitely nearer each other than we were last summer, child!"

But that was an unfortunate way of putting it. "Oh, don't say last summer to me, please!" Martha cried.

A day or two later she announced, dryly: "There's no use of my writing away at that novel. I don't know how. But I'm going to learn how. It isn't so easy as I thought. I'm going to start in at the University of Chicago the first of April. I'm going to study English."

She plainly wasn't asking permission; she wasn't going to tolerate advice; she had made up her mind. And Emily, who had been wondering what in the world to suggest for the immediate future, was relieved. It might be a very good thing. It would be so great a change of life; it would supply new food for thought. She had not the vaguest idea that the novel would ever come to completion.

She said, "Well, that's an idea. But you must come home for a few days, child! To get your things, at least."

"No, I don't want to. You can send them to me, if I need anything. I never want to go back to that house again as long as I live!"

"Well, if you feel that way——"

"You mean I ought to go back, so people won't talk, so they won't suspect anything?"

"I didn't mean any such thing! People don't suspect you of anything. Get that idea out of your head!"

"I don't see why they shouldn't!" she retorted, cynically. She was so unhappy, so abrupt and almost brutal, that Emily forgot her good resolutions, after she was in bed that night, and just wept. She had to go home without her child. In spite of all that she had planned to prevent such a climax, Martha hated that house now more vindictively than her mother had ever hated it. It wasn't Bob, either, that had driven her away from it; it wasn't Bob that had alienated her from her mother; it was just luck, it was fate. There was no appeal. "It's because I stood by her through all this that she can't stand the sight of me now!" Emily wept. "She's left me. She's going to a hotel in Chicago alone, to get away from me."

The day of their departure Martha was all but intolerably irritable. Emily's patience was almost at an end. She wasn't sure but that her daughter needed at this late date a thoroughly good spanking; but she held her peace. It was fortunate indeed that Emily had cultivated a good grasp on the peace of her mind, for that day she clung to it desperately. And then it nearly got away from her, more than once. However, as they were getting into their train at New Orleans, Martha began, abruptly:

"Look here, mother, it does make me sore to have you act as if I couldn't go to a hotel and take care of myself without you. Don't you think I've learned my lesson yet? Do you think I'm as much of a fool yet as I was last summer? What can hurt a girl alone in a hotel but men? I'm as safe as if I was in a desert, or locked in a cell. If all the men in Chicago were on the bridge, and I got a chance, I'd push them into the river, filthy little rats! I'd watch them sink. I should think you'd understand that by now. But you've been good to me, I know that. And if it will make you any happier, I'll go to the Y.W.C.A. and stay there till I get a flat. Does that satisfy you?"

It was so magnificent a concession that Emily blinked. "Oh yes, I think that would be much better. I'd like that, Martha."

"All right, then. I won't like it; lots of old cats there; but I don't want you to be worrying about me. I can take care of myself, I should hope."

Chapter Eight

Wherever Emily went, at home again, she was beset by loquacious pilgrims returned from a winter in the South or in the West. At every gathering of women, the hum and babble held to that subject.

"Well, my brothers have cleared three hundred thousand on their Florida deals. And we're selling our house and leaving in October. After all, as I said to John, what's the use of slaving at housework in Illinois when you can get colored girls in Florida to do your work?"

"Well, I'd rather freeze scrubbing floors in Illinois than have those horrid black women slopping around my house. Do you know, Emily, what one of them actually said to me? There were no knobs or handles or anything on the bureau drawers in my room. Shiftless things! And when I protested, the maid said: 'Well, you don't need no handles. Leave a stocking hanging out, and give it a jerk and the drawer will come open.' I wouldn't stay in that hotel a day longer. I just told Peter I'd stood enough. That's why we went to Daytona."

"I can tell you a place where everything isn't swimming in cold grease. They have a Northern cook. Deliver me from Southern fried cooking."

"And I found that all the cream that was to be had was shipped in from Kentucky. That's three or four hundred miles. Imagine a town that has to ship in cream! They have to paint their cows, or something, and it don't agree with them."

"Well, if you'd gone to California in the first place. We've got our rooms reserved for next year. The view is superb. It scarcely rains at all there."

"I never was so sick of glare in my life. I just thought, let me get back to Illinois. That's good enough for me."

"The trouble with them is, they won't tip enough. It pays to hand out money, on the coast, to be comfortable."

And then they would turn upon Emily, to insist gluttonously upon details of Martha's health. She had acquired a skill in suave evasion that surprised her continually. It had all worked out very well, she would tell them. Martha was much better. She hadn't her color back, but that would come. Of course, Emily had thought it would have been better for her not to go back into college so soon; but she was so ambitious. After she had fallen behind her classmates in her college, she thought she would stay nearer home, in Chicago. So lucky that they had the quarter system in the university there. And if Martha didn't seem able to do the work, Emily would take her out at once. It was easier to keep an eye on her health if she studied in Chicago, and she was living just now at the Y.W.C.A. No one could detect a flaw in the Kenworthy respectability. "Why should I suppose anyone suspects us of anything?" Emily asked herself. "I've just got that habit from Martha!"

She wanted every single passing day that spring to go and see her daughter. And every day she had to remind herself that her daughter was not anxious to be reminded of her folly. Her letters were short and not frequent. And then she wrote briefly that she had taken a room in an apartment of May Bissel's. Emily pondered that information dejectedly. Martha must be a very lonely girl if she had been forced back on to May Bissel for comradeship, for certainly at home she would have scorned her.

She abased herself to seek out Mrs. Bissel, to make inquiry about the news. Mrs. Bissel gushed and reassured her. May hadn't an apartment alone. No, indeed! Her mother wouldn't allow that, not for a moment. She and two other girls had a sitting room and two bedrooms which they rented by the month in the apartment of a grammar-school teacher. This Miss Curtis used her kitchen from six-thirty until seven-thirty in the morning, and allowed the girls to use it for their breakfast for an hour after seven-thirty. They had their lunches and their dinners out. Miss Curtis kept an eye on May. Not that May tolerated any real chaperonage, of course, but Mrs. Bissel felt always that, if May really got sick, or anything happened to her, Miss Curtis would be there to let her mother know. Miss Curtis was a thoroughly dependable woman, and she came from a town in western Iowa where Mrs. Bissel's sister lived.

And that was all the comfort Emily had. Every day she said to herself time and again: "No, I must not go. She doesn't want to see me; she told me so flatly." Finally—it seemed finally—though it was only six low-spirited weeks after they had parted in Chicago, Martha wrote and asked her mother to come and see her. The letter was not affectionate; it was scarcely cordial. Either Martha was ashamed of the way she was treating her mother, or she was intolerably lonely. Emily didn't know which.

When she saw the place her daughter of the painted room was living in, she marveled at her endurance. It was an apartment building which had been got ready hastily and cheaply for the Columbian Exposition. On the second floor front was a muddily tempestuous living room which Martha shared with the two girls. She showed it to her mother contemptuously. "Imagine sitting in a place like this. The art student did it—the one whose place I took. When they offer anybody a chair, they dump its contents out on to the floor. They're simply pigs." Out of this front room a tiny front bedroom opened, which was Martha's. It was the most comfortable room in the house. "I bought those curtains and the bedspread; but feel them, mammie. They've been up three weeks now, and they're grimy. That smoke comes in from across the street." She spoke dispiritedly. Behind the living room was a bedroom with one window which the two girls shared; behind that, off a dark hall, another bedroom, rented to a "medic"; behind that, the dining room where Miss Curtis lived; behind that, the kitchen. It was only at second sight that the bathroom seemed disgusting. It was all dark, smoke discolored, meager.

Her work in the university wasn't bad, she said. She wrote a theme every day, and it was good practice. She had to read a lot of trash in her literature courses. "I have to read every day a novel some silly flea or other wrote." (Males had been pigs a few months ago in her estimation. They had shrunk to rats, and now what less could they become than fleas? Emily wondered.) "I don't finish them. I get too sick. They revolt me. I tabulate them. Look, mammie!" She showed Emily a large notebook. "Here's seventeen what they call great novelists, and only two of them know anything, really. If they show any signs of knowing the difference between men and women, I put them in this column. 'Brass-tackers' I call them. Funny they're both Russian, isn't it? All the rest of the idiots are here." She had labeled them "Preliminaries," because they think that's all there is to it. "Oh, mammie, you must read Crime and Punishment. Dostoieffsky knew. That poor little Sonia, mother! I'll lend you this. She just covered herself up with a green shawl and shuddered when she came in. You could just see her shudder, if you were in that room." But in that room on Fifty-seventh Street no one saw Emily Kenworthy shuddering. "And that!" Martha pointed scornfully to a volume of Wells. "They make me read even that sort of stuff. You wait till people read my novel; I'll bet you they'll begin to see through those men. Why does Wells have all his maternal women sort of freaks, or something, and all his heroines not maternal? There's a reason, believe me!"

"Are you still working on the novel?"

Martha turned on her indignantly. "Well, I like that! What did you think I was putting up with this filthy place for?"

Emily suggested timidly at least occasional week-ends at home.

"Don't talk to me about that!" Martha pleaded.

Emily went back thoroughly discouraged. Was that any place of healing for the child? It was no change, if Martha was to go on working on that volume of hate. She was as hard as ever; she was thinner and she was yellow. All the comfort Emily found was in saying over and over to herself a line which had no connection in her mind with anything. She thought vaguely perhaps it came from the Bible. "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" She tried often to think of what followed; of another wording for it. It was that line, which she felt she was not saying correctly, that she lived by. And sometimes, there in her living room, she thought of Mr. Fairbanks' unfortunate daughter. Her wound, he said, had never healed; it had corrupted and poisoned her. "I spoiled her," Emily would muse. "She's been taken away from me; I've got to stand aside." And then she would say again, because she couldn't help it, "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?"

She went on despising life. She would not desist from protesting against it. She said, "If only Martha had quarreled with Bob, I could go to her, sometimes. I could live with her in Chicago. I don't suppose she will come back to this house now, if I should die. I never thought she would hate both me and the house. I must do something now, to keep from thinking. I better adopt a child for a while. I ought to write and ask somebody to come and stay with me this summer. There's that old Miss Jenson; but Bob would never stand her. Or we might do over all the rooms downstairs. If Martha would only come and help me. But if she would come and help me, I wouldn't need to do it! I believe I'll try hybridizing hemorocalis. Or what in the world will I do? If only I had had a house full of children! If Bob would only take an hour or two off, now and then! I've got to settle down to this. I mustn't fuss because Martha can't endure the sight of me. It's my own fault. I spoiled her, some way. But I never meant to! ... Thank God, it's time to clean house!"

But now, as always, she entered that festival with no high-hearted challenge to mess and accumulation. She followed Maggie from room to room loyally but without enthusiasm. The idea of leaving the abandoned painted room stagnant never entered the head of the old servant. She attacked it so furiously that Emily hadn't the heart to say to her that all her burnishings would be futile. She shut its door at last with the feeling of spineless hope she had when she looked, for some justifiable reason, at the baby clothes she had folded away. There they were, all ready at hand, in case she ever by some good luck might need them again—not that there was much hope, of course. She loitered along after Maggie into the next battlefield.

And then, when it was all done, when on the newly painted veranda every summer chair had its freshest garments tied on, Emily, being finished with dust, washed her hair one day and dried it in the sun in the garden, remembering how Martha always protested against the waste of time which so much long thick hair took for drying. It seemed almost as if the spring and weather, pleased with the way the brown hair rippled in its dampness, laid a trap to catch the little girl who had played in that garden. For then a shower came up, after noon, and passed over, and the sun came out with a dazzling soft afternoon brilliance. In the blossoming apple trees orioles were calling, and robins were hopping about in the wet petals below them. The grass was all young, and heavenly green, and the air had a soft and glittering cleanness. It was an afternoon to make even the dull feel that to forget its very quality was to have lived in vain. Emily had played about in the garden all the afternoon. She came into the house to get some labels stowed away in a drawer in her desk. She sat down and began sorting them——

And into the living room, bareheaded, laden with coats and bags, walked Miss Martha.

She came in quietly, as if it had been an ordinary coming. She was bringing some one to her mother.

"This is Miss Curtis, mother," she explained. "We drove out. It was such a nice day. I suppose you can put us up? Gee! It smells good here! How long till supper? We're starved, mammie. Sit down, Miss Curtis, I'll bring the things in myself!"

Emily saw a large and flabby-looking woman, in a nondescript tan-colored coat and a small black hat, who might have been fifty. She pulled off her hat and apologized for the untidiness of her stringy hair, and good reason she had for apologizing. She had a rather fine square face; she had kindly eyes. But the most impressive thing about her was her utter weariness.

And Martha came in again, with more bags and parcels.

"Can't we have asparagus for supper, if I go out and cut it?" she asked.

Miss Curtis was eager to get out into the garden. There was not a moment to be lost. The immortal afternoon was wearing away. They would only run up to their rooms.

"Can I have the little guest room, mammie?" Martha had asked. "I want her to have the big one."

And presently there she was, just as if nothing had happened, coming out of the house and down the path towards her mother and Miss Curtis, under the willow tree, bareheaded and carrying the very old colander and the very old knife she had used for cutting asparagus ever since, as a little girl, she had been allowed that privilege.

"You've never eaten asparagus unless you've cut it," she was explaining to her guest. "Ten minutes from the garden to the kettle, that's when it's good, really."

She was better, Emily said to herself. She was subdued; she was thoughtful of her guest. She had ceased, for the moment, to rail. She was showing Miss Curtis all the garden. The asparagus had already been cut once that day, for Bob was fond of it. But there was enough just for two. And this warm rain would bring more on by to-morrow. And she took what she had found into the house, and returned to show her wild-flower bed.

"Look what a little cultivation does for violets here. They aren't really modest, under mossy stones. They're only starved. They get swanky enough when you give them a place to grow," she said. "And look at the Dutchman's breeches! And here's my old jack-in-the-pulpit. And look at the peonies! Gee, mammie! Mrs. Benton will be budding all over the county before long." She made Miss Curtis admire her willow tree, and the clear water gurgling along beneath it.

"You're a glutton for education, Martha," Miss Curtis sighed, "to be living with me in the city when you might be out here at home!" And she went in to get ready for supper.

Left alone for a moment with her mother, Martha stood sniffling.

"I had forgotten it smelled so good, so clean!" she said, wistfully. "I simply hate Chicago. It's just sickening when spring comes. Everybody goes out of town for week-ends. All the teachers go down to the dunes, and bring nice little mossy things back with them, mammie. That's why I came out here. They wanted Miss Curtis to go with them; and she wanted to, too. But she can't afford it; it costs two or three dollars, she says. It would cost me ten!—to go away for a week-end. She's such a good old dear, isn't she, mammie? I tried to get her to go some place with me for the week-end. But she wouldn't hear of me paying the bills. I did want her to get away. And then she said I could come down and visit her school; and I did. My God! mammie! If you could see that room of hers on a spring afternoon. Close is no word for it. Smelling of all the dirty little wops that have never been bathed in their lives. All wiggling and squirming and wanting to get out of doors, of course. I tell you I could hardly stand it for an hour. And to see her sticking shut up in there, day after day, for six years! It made me so mad! I just made up my mind to bring her out here for the week-ends. That wouldn't cost her even the price of a bed. I went and bought a car, and she hadn't an excuse left. I'm going to put her to bed after supper. She's ready to collapse. She had a chill the other evening, she was so done up. We had to get the doctor. If you'd seen that room, you'd wonder why she isn't dead. Isn't she a sort of nice old thing, mammie?"

"It is for this woman's sake she has come home," Emily was trying not to think. "She never realizes I'm lonely. I'm only her mother, after all!"

"I'm sure she needs a change, Martha. Are you still getting her suppers?"

"You wait till you see what a good cook I'm getting to be! There is stuff you can get to eat for thirty cents, if you hunt round. Oh!" exclaimed Martha Kenworthy. "There's dad home. I heard the car stop," she sighed.

In the living room she confronted him.

"Hello, kiddo!" he cried. "You here?" He looked at Emily, and then he grew cordial. He knew he couldn't have made his wife's face shine so. "It's pretty good to see you again!" He kissed her. "You drove down? Did you borrow the car from the fire department? Whose is it?"

"It's mine," said Martha.

"No!"

"Yes, it's mine."

"Huh! I'd have given you one at wholesale."

Emily knew Bob felt brutally slighted. If there was one subject on which he might expect a daughter to ask his advice, surely it was on the purchase of a car. Emily felt that, but Bob never uttered one word of complaint. It was unexpected nobleness of him. She knew why: he had been worried by her dejection and loneliness. If having that girl at home made Emily gay again, he was determined not to antagonize her.

So peace reigned over the asparagus at the supper table. Emily got the candles out, because Martha loved them. And when the fragrant dusk deepened, it was Martha who rose to light them, as usual.

"Don't they make just a sweet light here?" she asked Miss Curtis. She sat looking at them flickering; she watched the shadows of them, and the way they lit up the apple-blossom bouquet she had brought in.

She studied the room wistfully. "I'd forgotten the dining room was so large," she remarked. She seemed reluctant to leave the candle-light when supper was over. So the three women sat on; Martha sat with her elbows on the table, dreaming towards the little flames, as she had always done, but taking her part in the conversation thoughtfully. Her one thought seemed to be for Miss Curtis's enjoyment.

Miss Curtis was interested in Mrs. Benton, and Martha rehearsed the history of the swimming park, with now and then a twinkling comment, not spontaneous, a remark calculated to entertain her guest, who questioned her. Emily occasionally took her eyes from Martha's face long enough to glance at Miss Curtis. Even dusk and twilight failed to make her interesting. She looked now only like complete fag. But Martha was mysterious, tantalizing to maternal interest. She was thin, still. She was hushed; but she was steady. She was safe. Miss Curtis wasn't sitting apprehensively waiting for outbursts of bitterness.

Martha had planned to drive Miss Curtis and her mother on Saturday some distance down the river, and have a picnic. The day was fine enough, but Miss Curtis found herself extremely tired from her ride of the day before; besides, as she said, the garden itself was a picnic for her; she would be content to stay there for months. Martha had come downstairs that morning dressed for the day, as soon as Bob had left the house, and had proceeded to the kitchen, where she had got a tray daintily ready for her guest; and she had carried it up to her as if she had always been in the habit of preparing early breakfast for people. Then she had carried an easy chair and cushions and rugs out almost to the river; and in the sun she had prepared a sleeping-place for their morning, where they could all three watch the orioles in the apple trees, and Martha could lie about on the grass, now and then exerting herself to dig up a dandelion. In the afternoon Miss Curtis, with a book, slept there, while Martha, putting in the later "glads" with her mother, watched the untidy head nodding towards rest with obvious satisfaction. When she woke, after a few minutes, she recalled her duty.

"Really, I ought to 'phone Mrs. Bissel that I'm here," she told Martha.

But Martha said: "We should worry. You can call her up—next week—or the next time we're down."

Emily heard that with satisfaction. She had known all the day that Martha avoided even the front garden, where the neighbors would the more surely learn of her return. It was lucky, the way everyone happened to be too busy to "run in" that Saturday or Sunday.

When the unworthy red car drove away on Sunday afternoon, both its passengers declared it had been a most successful week-end. Emily understood why Martha could say that truthfully. She had wanted Miss Curtis to enjoy it, and Miss Curtis had enjoyed it, and that was enough justification for it. It had been, in a way, a triumph for the house. Martha had said she never wanted to see it again as long as she lived, and she had seen it, not unhappily. She had even acknowledged its dearness, she had stayed in the house with her father, and she must have seen that when they both tried to, they could get along without disagreement. She had promised, moreover, chuckling over her success, to bring Miss Curtis back just as soon as possible. Miss Curtis had asked her to, cunningly. For Emily had taken Miss Curtis aside, and begged her, some way, to get Martha out again soon for a week-end. Martha needed the change so much, Emily had pleaded. Miss Curtis had agreed to that.

"And she won't leave that work of hers for a day, as you know, unless she thinks she's doing you a great favor," Emily had insisted.

Miss Curtis was eager to do Mrs. Kenworthy whatever favor she could.

"Only get Martha to bring you down; bring her home some way!" Emily had pleaded, not adding, "That's more than I can do!"

So for four week-ends the unequal pair arrived. Martha brought all sorts of treats out for her guest, thick steaks and expensive chocolates. "I'm not going to have you doing it all, mammie!" she had answered to Emily's protests. She was always in the kitchen now, helping Maggie. Emily understood that the kitchen was the part of the house least tainted by memories. She was still rising to take breakfast up to Miss Curtis. Emily scarcely ever got her to stay late in bed, although she was herself distressingly thin and yellow.

From Sunday till Friday Emily spent every free moment thinking over all that her daughter had said, all the expressions of her face; all the gestures of her significant little hands. It had been impossible, of course, for Martha to avoid her old friends altogether. She received them patiently, gravely. "That poor old thing's got to have these days in the country," her manner seemed to her mother to say, "so I just have to put up with these silly, giggling girls for her sake." She felt separated from them by a great distance; she got on better with people of Miss Curtis's age, even with Mrs. Benton. That neighbor was showing Martha unusual attention. Emily couldn't help wondering if Mrs. Benton was coming to wish Martha would marry her boy. Why should she have made a point of showing Martha's guest such kindness? She had a little lunch in her honor. Emily marveled to see how Martha seemed to belong to that tableful of women in their forties. Mrs. Benton wanted Miss Curtis to come out for the annual opening of the beach. She suggested that Martha take a class of little girls who wanted to learn dancing during the summer.

At that suggestion Martha announced flatly that she wasn't going to be home for the summer. She had decided to go on studying during the summer quarter. "I lost such a lot of time last winter, when I wasn't well, that I've got to make it up," she announced, seriously, looking straight and frankly at Mrs. Benton.

This zeal for education led Cora Benton to say later to Emily, "You ought to be thankful Martha wants to study all summer." And she gave such a sigh that Emily said, quietly:

"What's the news from Johnnie? When's he to be home?"

"He's flunked. He isn't going to get his degree. He's not coming home!"

"Oh, Cora, that's too bad!"

"Oh, I was prepared for it. Charles Fenton got a traveling scholarship. I wish you'd spread the news, Emily. I don't enjoy announcing it, especially."

"Oh, well, Cora."

"I knew you'd say that."

"What else can I say?" retorted Emily.

"I know it. There isn't anything to be said; but people will find enough to talk about, you know that."

"Has he got a job?"

"Yes; that is—a sort of a job." Her voice forbade even friendly inquiry.

Martha said, when Emily told her of it, "I bet he's gone into the movies."

Emily was annoyed by her cynical comment.

"Why should you think Johnnie's gone into the movies!"

"Well, it would be just like him; and he's got such lovely ears. People who can move their ears the way he can never have nice ones, really. Or else he's playing baseball, or rubbing them down, or something."

Later Emily ventured timidly to protest against Martha's plan for the summer. Although in Miss Curtis's quieting presence Martha never railed, still, when she was with her mother alone, there came forth at times spurtings of molten resentment and red-hot bitterness against the nature of things in general, and her nature in particular, so that Emily was never sure what the effect of her words might be. On this occasion Martha turned upon her quickly, in a manner which cried, "Get thee behind me, Satan!"

"I suppose you want me to give up my novel altogether! It's not so easy as I thought. I've started to do it all over. I didn't even know what form was, when I began. It's all out of proportion! And you want me just to loaf. If I don't tell the truth about things, who's going to, I'd like to know? Do you think I'm going to let all these idiots that call themselves realists just go on spoofing girls, and never say a word to them? I'm going to have it all done by Christmas, and send it to some publisher."

One day the second week of July she called Emily up from Chicago by 'phone. Could she bring Miss Curtis and a little niece down for a week or two? Could she, indeed! When Emily told Bob about that 'phone message, he looked at her. She thought it pitiful that he should say with exaggerated eagerness:

"Good! That's fine, Emily."

Emily thought at first sight that Saturday morning, that the child was quite as commonplace as her aunt. She was inclined to be fat; she was shy; she had a featureless little soft face, and blue eyes, and brown bobbed hair and a husky voice; but by noon Emily loved her. Her disposition evoked admiration. She had a way of going suddenly to her aunt and kissing her heartily, that was very spontaneous and endearing. Without warning, as they all sat at the dinner table, she rose from her place and went and threw her fat arms about Miss Curtis's neck and gave her a resounding kiss, as though it was the only thing to do, and then quietly went back to her chair. Bob was amused by her lack of self-consciousness; and, during dessert, he acquired quite suddenly an admiration that was all but awe for Miss Curtis.

She had happened to say that she had never, as a matter of fact, been so well at the end of a school year.

"But of course I was never so well taken care of in my life." She was speaking towards Emily. "Never in my life, before, Mrs. Kenworthy, have I happened to—be living—so that anybody brought my breakfast to me in bed. That's never happened to me before." It wasn't a complaint; it was merely a fact, stated impersonally.

Emily knew perfectly what she meant, but she had to ask the question to enlighten Bob.

"Your colored girl comes early, then, now?" she asked.

"Not the colored girl; this little white girl," she said, indicating Martha affectionately. "This girl simply bosses me about I don't dare to get up and get my breakfast, in my own house."

Martha said: "Oh, that's nothing. Mother always did that for me."

Emily saw that Bob was on the point of crying, "My God!" She blessed him for refraining.

But afterwards he said to her: "Well, you wouldn't think it, to look at her, but there's something in that woman, Emily; she's a great woman! I didn't suppose anybody in the world could get that girl up in the morning. Don't you think the kid's sort of different?"

"Improved, you mean?"

"Well, yes, I guess so."

"She's found somebody who needs her help. She always was a tender-hearted child, and she's sorry for Miss Curtis. She just about runs her flat for her."

"Well, I hope she'll stick around awhile. She'll do the kid good."

Emily was on the point of retorting, "She does you good yourself!" for Bob's somewhat tentative forebearance was in part due to the stranger's presence. When there had been young girls at the table, Bob could "roast" Martha and them all together in one breath. And Martha, who had established herself as a protector and commander of a woman like Miss Curtis, couldn't act like a baby before her when she was with her father. Emily was beginning to see that Miss Curtis, pretending to be so docile, managed Martha by means of the slightest little hints of ridicule. By one smile she could take all the wind out of Martha's naughty sails.

Emily was moved by the grave and tender manner in which Martha took charge of the child, to relieve the aunt. She had told her on the way down that there was in her mother's house a rainbow room prepared for little girls, so that the child went into it eagerly, and accepted it as gravely as Martha gave it to her. Its builder and maker opened all its drawers and cupboards, displayed the electric stove and the fudge-making dishes.

Miss Curtis was on the point of expressing surprise that she hadn't seen the room before.

"Oh, we keep it locked; we never show it to anybody. It's too awful. Mother let me have it done over to suit myself, and I can't endure the sight of it!"

"Well, I don't know; I think it's—rather—a nice room—after you've looked at it a little."

Emily was there. She felt Martha was annoyed for the moment by her presence.

She said, "It's a lovely room; it grows on you."

"If I was you I'd have it papered, mammie. Make it into a good guest room."

"I will not!" said Emily, emphatically. Did Martha suppose she would just agree to the idea that there should be no daughter's room any longer in the house?

"I'm afraid Ruth might spoil something, Martha. You don't mean to let her turn your stove on. Ruth, don't do that!"

"She can't hurt anything. The first day it rains I'll show her how to make candy up here, or maybe we'll cook a little supper up here and invite your aunt and my mammie." And Martha smiled gravely at the happy child. "Nice days like this it's better to play out in the yard. I'm going to show you how to make a beautiful kind of a playhouse out there."

They were running in and out of the house, collecting their house-building material. They were up in the tree. Emily could have imagined that Jim Kenworthy was playing there in the garden with his little niece. For, after a little, four pieces of rope came dangling down from certain limbs of that tree. Presently they were weighted down taut by four bricks tied to them, just missing the grass. These ropes were the four corners of the house. In a few minutes the walls of old sheets were being safety-pinned into place. And a fifth taut rope came down for the side of the door. And the rag rugs were being spread on the grass inside. "And where are those old little chairs, mammie? Where are my old things? Where's my little table been put?" They were running up and down from the attic, dustily. At dinner time Ruth was more talkative than ever before. Nobody else knew how to build as nice playhouses as Uncle Jim, she told her auntie as they sat down. He had invented that kind of playhouse.

"Uncle Jim who?" asked Bob, suddenly.

Ruth looked blank. "I don't know Uncle Jim who," she said. "I just mean Martha's Uncle Jim."

"Oh," said Bob. He looked at her keenly. He looked at Emily. "Funny," his face seemed to say, "to hear this child of a stranger talking about Jim."

Ruth babbled on. She seemed to know a surprising lot about Uncle Jim. She had appropriated him along with the painted room and the playhouse. After lunch she took Bob by the hand and led him out to see it.

Emily hoped Martha saw the two of them walking down the path together. The sight some way made her think of Bob in the graveyard on Decoration Day—standing looking at the tombstone he had erected there for his beloved brother. In spite of Emily's protest he had engraved on it: "In memory also of his son James Kenworthy, 1903-1918—who died an unnecessary death, alone and unafraid."

Mrs. Benton, of course, had been in and seen Ruth. At once she had given orders to the guard that the child was to have special swimming lessons. And she was at the beach with her aunt, the fourth day of their visit, when Martha, having driven Emily about the town on some errands, turned the car towards the country.

"I want to tell you something, mammie!" she had said.

Emily was gratified that Martha cared to talk to her alone, for although she had been polite, always when Miss Curtis was there, she had been distant. Now she chose a road little traveled, and, settling down to drive slowly, she burst abruptly into intimacy.

"Mother, I want to tell you something! It's the most surprising thing you ever heard in your life! You won't believe it!"

"Of course I will."

"Well, guess who Ruth is! Guess, mammie!"

"Why? Isn't she Miss Curtis's brother's child?"

"She's Miss Curtis's own child. She's her mother, mammie!"

Emily was dazed. She murmured her incredulity.

"I told you you wouldn't believe it! You could have knocked me down with a feather when she told me. Did you ever hear of such a thing in your life? It's too funny, mother. Why did we take so to each other, in the first place? Why did she understand me so? Because she'd been through the same hell herself! It's too strange!"

"Why Martha! How old is she?"

"I don't know how old she is, exactly. I don't think she's more than thirty-five. She kept the child with her for four years; then she had to have more money, and she came to Chicago to teach, and left her there, not at her own house, but in Iowa. She was a very delicate child, and she couldn't leave her and go teaching, with just anybody. She has an awfully good home for her, and she's going to bring her to Chicago when she starts high school, if she keeps well. Imagine, mammie! It makes me boiling mad when I think of that woman slaving away to support that child, and some damned man running around not caring. Isn't she magnificent, mammie? Being good to all those dirty kids in her school! That's why she never has a cent to spend; that's why she eats thirty-cent suppers. And when I think how I came along, and just took care of her and helped her all I could, not knowing, I could just sing! You see those dresses Ruth has got? I bought them all for her; she had only—sort of plain little things, and not enough. They had to be washed out. Makes me so mad to think about it."

"But, Martha, how—how did you find this out?"

"She told me herself. You see—she wouldn't say what she was going to do when her school was out, at first. She sort of hung off—she wouldn't say who was coming into the flat, or when she'd rented it for. Then when I insisted on staying—the other girls were leaving—she said she wanted to keep it a few days, because she was having company from the country. I knew she was tired out, so I said I'd help her entertain them. I'd drive them around. But she didn't want me to. I thought, maybe, they were—sort of funny country people, or something. And, anyway, she didn't intend having any real vacation. She said she was going to spend her vacation with her sister, whose husband has T.B. of the bones, and she has a whole family of children, and she does her own washing and everything. Miss Curtis was going to take care of that man sick in bed, and of the kids, and give her sister a rest. That's just like her, mother. And I just put my foot down and said she had to come here and have a few days' rest herself first. And then she hummed and hawed, and said her niece wanted to come and see Chicago. And then, when all the girls were gone, she told me. She said, 'She's my very own child, Martha.' Just like that! I'd begun to suspect something funny by that time; and even then I thought maybe she had adopted her or something. I couldn't believe it. How could I believe that of a woman like Miss Curtis? And then, mammie, I wish you'd have seen those two when Ruth got there. They just sat down together and cried for joy! You know me, mammie; I'm not sentimental, but I went into my room and cried my eyes out when I remembered how they looked at each other!"

"Well, of all things!"

"Yes! To think that I found her! She said once to me that she'd lived in that flat with students for six years, and she'd never let anybody share her meals with her but me. She doesn't make friends easily—naturally. We understood each other; I didn't know why, of course! And I suppose the reason she talked to me about all her relations so much was so I wouldn't suspect she was hiding anything! Think what she's been through, mammie! Ruth doesn't live near her people, you know. They're in Iowa. They must know about her, of course, but apparently she doesn't take Ruth to them. She just goes out there to see her, or takes her some place. And, mammie, that family that keep her, they love her; they want to adopt her; they do everything for her. Miss Curtis won't be jealous of them, but they have her nearly all the time. My God! Mammie, when I think of it! She can always come here, can't she, mammie? We can be friends to her, mammie!" And when Martha turned to her mother her eyes were swimming with tears. "Think of that child's future! Isn't she a sweet little thing? She doesn't do very well in school; she's so happy, she's lazy. Miss Curtis says she absolutely refused to bring her here until I told her Mrs. Bissel and May had gone to the lakes."

"Of course she can come here! We'll make a home for Ruth here!"

"But we can't do much, mammie. Miss Curtis is so independent, I can hardly manage her. You see, she won't accept anything from me, hardly. But she can't refuse to let me get Ruth things. I got her that doll, of course. I'd like to get hold of that child's father a little while! I bet I'd put the fear of God into him! Mammie, I can't tell you how worked up I've been over this, this last week. When I look at that woman, I just sort of shiver with admiration. She breaks me up so. Isn't she sporting? Isn't she a brick? Look what she is and what she's been through! I look at her and wonder if there's anything in the world a woman can't do! And like as not the school board will find it all out, some day, and fire her! I'm never going to lose track of that child; I'm going to keep friends with her! Mammie, I've been—excited all week! I had to tell you! It seems too strange!"

"It does seem too strange," Emily repeated.

"By heck! what a novel I'm going to write! This—sets me up; this eggs me on so! I'm going to change a lot of it; I'm going to make it hotter!"

"Does Miss Curtis know about the novel?"

"Yes. She knows I'm writing it; but she doesn't know why."

Emily marveled; she kept on marveling. She was as excited as Martha was the next few days. She had to keep from looking at Miss Curtis too intently; that woman had become almost too poignantly interesting. It was as if she was living Emily Kenworthy's life and Martha's. It seemed impossible to believe Martha's story. Miss Curtis was unromantic, so dull, so sensible. She seemed almost stupidly passionless—except when the child came running to her. And when Emily saw her draw little Ruth to herself, and push her fringe of hair away from her forehead, and look at her, she had to believe that Martha had stumbled upon the truth of the situation. The woman, undoubtedly, was maternity itself. Had she some way guessed what Martha had been through, and told her this secret for some unselfish purpose? Could she have loved some one beyond all reason? How had she managed to hide her shame? How had she endured the pity and the jeerings of the secure and holy? Emily found herself in Martha's state. She quivered with curiosity and reverence, and a desire to befriend those two. Could that woman be living in fear that some day when her secret would become known, she would be without a means of earning her living? "I must pretend not to be very much interested in her!" Emily kept saying. But she understood why Martha had felt so lifted up by her discovery.

Chapter Nine

Mrs. Benton stepped in for a minute one afternoon, on her way home. "Where's Bob?" she asked, cautiously.

"He's gone downtown."

"I just thought I'd tell you about Johnnie. He's going to be home in about three weeks, I think, or maybe four. So it would have to come out, anyway. Do you know what he's doing this summer?"

"No. You didn't tell me."

"Well, he got a job as a steward on a boat going to South America; a steward, Emily. Carrying coffee around on a little tray; and from there he went to Hong-Kong on some sort of a ship."

"Goodness! What a lot of the world he's seeing!"

"Yes; carrying coffee into women's staterooms, and they won't have their hair combed!"

"Still, he's seeing the world! How did he get the job?"

"Oh, I don't know. Went with some of his boon companions to New York, and there was a strike, and they just got jobs and went away. He didn't wait to ask my advice, of course."

Emily hesitated.

"What's he planning to do next year?"

"He won't be planning anything. I'm planning to have him go back and get his degree. I'm going to my sister's for a little rest before he gets home."

"You haven't been away at all all summer."

"Well, if I'm going to manage the beach, I've got to be on the job. You haven't been away, either."

"I couldn't think of leaving Bob."

Mrs. Benton's glance spoke disagreeing volumes.

A month later, Emily met Johnnie with his mother coming out of the post office. Just the same old Johnnie, happy-go-lucky and careless, grinning and frank. The Orient had conferred upon him no subtlety, Spanish America had taught him no guile. A small chance they had had, to be sure. A longer one would have been as ineffective. He came to see Emily that same day. She looked at him curiously, envying him his experience. To have smelled China! to have blinked at Brazil!

All he said was: "Sure I had a good time; I earned my own living, anyway. And there's no garbage can in the world I can't eat out of now, after what I lived on across the Pacific. When's Martha to be home?"

Emily didn't know. She gave him, rather reluctantly, her address.

He drove up to Chicago the next day, in the new car his mother had ordered as soon as he left Hong-Kong for San Francisco. Cora Benton said he had gone to see Martha, she felt sure, because he refused to take her with him. But what happened when their children met neither mother knew. Presently Johnnie went back East to college, driving the new car. Mrs. Benton said she really didn't need it. She wasn't well, and she was going to California early, for all the winter. Her tone implied that the town would just have to worry along without her as best it might. She hated, she said, having the children's Christmas party in the hall fall through.

Emily was drawing all the comfort about her that she could get from the fact that she was still, at any rate, with Miss Curtis, when Martha wrote that she had left her flat. She had got a better place in the apartment of a woman doctor in the neighborhood. The announcement upset whatever peace of mind Emily had achieved. Could Martha have quarreled with her friend? A woman doctor, Emily would have thought, was the last person she would have taken up with. There came a dull day when she said to herself that she didn't care whether Martha wanted her or not, she was going to Chicago to see where she was living.

But in the train her heart grew heavier. Martha had said distinctly that she had no room for company. She must have written that to warn her mother not to come investigating. This doctor person wasn't one you could just disturb. So Emily shopped all the afternoon, dispiritedly. Once she tried in vain to get Martha by 'phone. She sat in Field's tea-room an hour, determined not to go back home without seeing her child, yet dreading to find herself unwelcome. That would be more than she could endure. She felt tears coming into her eyes, at length. "I can't stay here and make a fool of myself!" she thought, angrily. She went down to the street into the darkness and got into a taxicab. And, after a long time, during which Emily commanded herself repeatedly not to be silly, the taxi stopped in front of a very smart new apartment house.

Emily announced herself up the speaking tube meekly, half expecting a rebuff. "This is Martha Kenworthy's mother. Is Martha in?"

"Ho!" cried an exuberant voice in surprise. "Wait a moment!"

Some one was running down the stairs to show her the way up. Emily was conscious of a richly carpeted hall, a large gay room, a stunning seal-brown frock on a woman as large as herself, with a fine head, a high color, a heart-warming sort of person of great vitality.

"Mrs. Kenworthy! Do come in! I know all about you. Sit down. I'm Isobel Stevenson. No, Martha isn't here just now; I'll 'phone her. She's getting dinner at Miss Curtis's. I am glad to see you; I've been curious about you, after all I've heard."

She picked up the 'phone from a desk in the room, asked for the number without looking it up, and went on talking all the time she waited for her connection.

"Jennie Curtis told me all about you, of course, about your husband and the garden. I'd like to take her home for week-ends myself, but it's too far. She doesn't stand driving well.—Hello, Martha! Your mother's here.... I said your mother.... Why didn't you tell me she was coming? ... Never mind, drop it. Come on over.... Well, come and have supper with me. Tell Jennie to come.... Of course she'll come. Tell her I said she was to come.... Leave a note for her, then.... Oh, put them in water and let them stand till to-morrow; or bring them along and cook them here.... She told me Martha bought that car just to take her out home with. That's some girl of yours, Mrs. Kenworthy. Of course, Jennie Curtis is pure gold, but you don't often get a girl of Martha's age who knows gold when she sees it. She came over the other day and asked me to take Martha in till my friend comes back." She had seated herself near Emily, who had not had a chance to say one word. She pointed now with a large gesture at the pictures on the walls, the interesting-looking things which Emily had only vaguely realized were about her. "I live here with a friend who travels a great deal. All these things are hers, really. So I took her in, just to please Jennie. And I must say I like her. She's an awfully nice girl for her age. I find her companionable. But tell me, Mrs. Kenworthy—there isn't much time; she'll be here in a minute—hasn't she had some sort of affair, some disappointment, or something?"

The fact that she paused for an answer was as surprising as the question she had asked, professionally, as it were. Her praise of Martha, her vigor, the richness of the setting, her friendliness, all of it was so contrary to Emily's mood and expectations that she was overwhelmed. She felt tears coming into her eyes.

"Oh yes!" she cried. "And you're a doctor. Do something for her. She's been through—terrible things; she's so young!"

"I knew it!" said the doctor, complacently. "I knew it the first time I really talked to her. But she's getting over it; she don't need any help; she's got stuff in her. Don't you worry."

"No," murmured Emily, "I'm not worried, of course. I—I'm tired, I guess. I—can't—I—may I go and wash my face? I don't know what made me—do this."

Emily was shown into Martha's bedroom. A white-tiled bath opened off it. No comfort was lacking in that bedroom, which seemed to have aspired originally to feminine austerity. Martha's familiar things made it homelike. And in that room Martha found her mother, before Emily had had time to powder her nose.

Martha's greeting was warmer because of those tears.

"What on earth's the matter, mammie?" she said, hugging her. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming? You've been crying! What's the matter?"

Emily's impulse was to shout out the truth. "I've been so lonely for you, so worried about you!" But she said, instead: "Oh, nothing's wrong. I just got—bored. I—just felt—I couldn't stay in that house a minute longer! I just had to get away or shriek." Emily had heard women say things like that. Unwittingly she had touched Martha deeply.

"Well, you poor old thing! I always knew you must feel that way, living with—in that house. But you'd never acknowledge it. How did you find this place? Quite an apartment, isn't it? I was sick of a rooming house! Have you seen the doctor?"

"Yes."

"She seemed pleased, didn't you think so? She didn't look annoyed. I was told I couldn't have company here. It isn't often——"

The doctor was there with them.

"We're going to have a spread, Martha! The maid's out. You go and get the lettuce, get two heads, get good ones; and some whipping cream; and some bronze chrysanthemums. Oh, it's no trouble, Mrs. Kenworthy! I feel just like it to-day. The time and place and the loved ones to bother. If you can't get the chrysanthemums, get some—something that color. And hurry back."

The doctor had on a white apron, and the kitchen had made her cheeks rosier. She set Emily down to rest for a little in the interesting living room. Miss Curtis came in, and was ordered to sit and talk to her. But every minute or two the doctor came in from the kitchen, and with her a flood and whirlpool of words. Emily scarcely had a chance to say a word all that evening; but the house excited her until her color was almost as bright as the doctor's.

Everything on the dining table was like the hostess. The table mats were of a strong and superior unbleached linen; the vivid dishes called aloud for admiration; the candle-light was flattering. Emily sat excitedly studying the doctor. Whoever put herself into that woman's care would never afterwards dare to call either body or soul her own. But if she was high handed, she was also high hearted. She talked almost without ceasing; and whatever little thing she talked of, she enjoyed so merrily that the three women watching her, shared her delight to some extent. And when she laughed a hearty laugh, every time Emily thought surprisedly: "What a good time I'm having! This is the best possible place for Martha!"

"Did you ever taste any sort of canned meat as good as this chicken in your life? Lobster simply isn't in it! It's fatted calf for me. My mother keeps me in it; but I never open a jar when I'm alone; I'm not that selfish, anyway. Cold pack, of course, as you know, Mrs. Kenworthy. We had a family scrap about it the last time I went home. My sister Isobel—she's an awful woman as far as she can manage to be—she said to me, 'Now look here, Isobel' (she's always trying to boss me around), 'you can just find a deadly germ in canned chicken. I'm not going to have mother worried to death canning chicken for you to guzzle any longer. She's too old, and so are you. You can just tell her you've got poisoned by it and you aren't going to eat it any longer.' 'I'll be damned if I'll find a deadly germ in it,' I told her. 'If you don't want mother doing it for me, you can do it yourself.' After all you can't just stand your relations imposing on you forever, can you? Not if you have as many as I have! I just made an announcement then and there. My fees for removing appendices are canned fat chicken, and those strawberry preserves they make in the sun so they keep the right color of red. I'm not going to eat city chickens that have been shut up in a little coop on Fifty-seventh Street. I want contented hens that have crowed in the barns I have played in. Nice sunny barn doors! Don't you love barn doors on spring days when all the hens are cackling? What do I practically keep a bed in the Presbyterian Hospital full of my fifty-two first cousins for, anyway, if I have to eat canned salmon on occasions of haste? There are limits to my patience. What are you snickering at, Martha? That's not a pun!"

With such banalities she kept them aroused, expectant. There was no constraint; no one of the three was thinking of something amusing to say; each knew very well she would have no chance to say anything amusing, however well prepared she might be. The doctor never ceased for a minute.

Finally she folded up her tongue for the night and left them together there.

"Is she always like that?" Emily murmured.

"Oh no, I don't think so. I don't know her very well. I never had a meal here before. You've made a hit with her, mammie! She sort of owns Miss Curtis. Maybe she took care of her through—THAT—or something. Anyway, Miss Curtis told her about you, and that's why she asked you to stay here. Of course, she just took me in because Miss Curtis has been fussing about me studying in the kitchen ever since she saw our house. She's made up her mind—the doctor has—that Miss Curtis has got to put those girls out, when she can, because they're so thoughtless about her, and everything, and that I'm to have those front rooms and do them over to suit myself. She bosses everybody around. I guess she thinks she's got a lot more sense than most people, and so she ought to tell them where to get off. You can see why she's got such a practice. Can't you just see her sailing into somebody's sick-room with her tail up, that way, and making them wild to get up and be strong as a horse, like she is? Miss Curtis says she's the only woman who ever got through medical school and got a practice without losing her color. She doesn't pay very much attention to me. She's busy, 'most always. Sometimes she gets to talking about some interesting case, and goes on half the night. I never get a word in edgewise. I just listen."

Emily, as she lay waiting for sleep, said to herself: "Well, if horrible things happen to us when we don't expect them, so do lovely things. If I'd searched this city over for two friends for Martha, I'd never have found any equal to these two. The doctor's just a clean gale blowing through Martha. She'll clean out her mind; she'll do for her what I never could. Why should I want to do everything in the world that's done for her? Why can't I be satisfied to see those women helping her along?"

She went back to her home more happy about Martha than she had been for months. Mrs. Benton had already gone East and it promised to be a quiet winter for club-women in general The one great event of it was to be the annual Christmas party for children. Mrs. Benton had instituted the custom the winter before, the first year of the new dance hall. She had given a splendid party that once. She left a committee behind her to try to follow her example.

They were discussing it at lunch. Emily had realized that the women across from her were talking about ways of finding good jobs for girls who had to leave high school, when Mrs. Bissel leaned across towards her and asked:

"Mrs. Kenworthy, by the way, what's this new job Martha's got? What's she planning to do?"

There were four women who might be supposed to be listening in that pause with more or less curiosity for Emily's reply.

She had heard nothing of Martha's job. She smiled. "Oh, I don't know," she replied, lightly. "I don't think it's anything very—purposeful."

"But do you approve of her leaving the university to take it up?"

Emily had heard not a hint of Martha leaving the university. She must have left in the middle of a quarter.

She said, "Not altogether." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm afraid her heart's never really been in the university. I wish she could have gone on, in her own college, with her own class. But I do think girls of her age have to decide these things for themselves."

She left the meeting early. She had a notion to go straight to Chicago. What job could Martha possibly have got? And why? And had she left her two good friends? And did she mean deliberately to hurt her mother's feelings by having her learn this through Mrs. Bissel? "Perhaps," thought Emily, longingly, "she's taking somebody's place for a few weeks. Perhaps just at Christmas; perhaps the doctor's office girl has got ill, or something. I expect she's helping some one. And she's been too busy to write. I ought to do some Christmas shopping. I'll go up to-morrow and 'phone her, at least. I'll see for myself what's she into."

And after supper Martha called her by 'phone. The connection was poor. Some operator had to relay the unsatisfactory message. All that Emily understood was that Martha would meet her for tea the next day at the usual place.

But the next afternoon Martha led her to a new-found tea-room in an office building—a remote place, one secure corner of which the two of them had quite to themselves. Emily had to feel her way towards her daughter carefully, for she saw at once that Martha was in an evil mood. Around her eyes were the hollows and shadows of tears.

She began directly: "I got a job; I didn't write you—because I've been too blue. I've just felt like crying my eyes out every minute the last week. I just had to 'phone you. I knew I ought to tell you; I just thought I couldn't write. I'm working in a shop; it's a classy place, believe me. Interior decorators, on Mich. Boul."

"Do you like it?"

"Well, I'm not mad about it by any means. It'll do."

"You go to your lectures still at the U? You don't stay in this shop all day?"

"No. I'm done with that place. I'm going to smoke. You needn't make a fuss; everyone's used to it here."

"Perhaps this will be better than writing away on a novel," Emily was thinking. She didn't want to seem to look too inquisitively at Martha. She played about with her tea; she called Martha's attention to the couple who had entered. "Why is it," she asked, to break the silence, "that the more expensive the fur coat, the fatter the woman inside it?"

But Martha broke forth abruptly, "I've burned my novel up!"

Emily was sharply stung by the bitterness of that confession. She had always wanted that novel burned up, but she hadn't wanted Martha to be so hurt by its destruction.

"Why, Martie? What did you do that for?"

"I needn't have been so hasty! I've got most of it—in rough form. I could put it all together again; but it would be an awful lot of work."

"You worked on it nearly a year."

"Yes, I had. And if I'd known everything then I know now, I wouldn't have burned it up, you can bet! I typed it all over without a mistake, from beginning to end; it had seventy thousand words."

"Goodness!" Emily murmured, impressed.

"And I couldn't hardly sleep, I was so anxious to see what that old idiot of a prof. would think of it. I might have known, handing it in to an old rake of a man!"

Emily let her go on unreproved.

"And it was the funniest thing! I just happened to find out what he meant. You hand your work in, mammie, and then you go and have a consultation with the prof. about it. Well, I'd never had any old consultation before. And everybody says he is a horrid man; to women, especially. He don't think women can write novels, of course. He thinks it's his business to discourage them. I was scared out of my wits to go and talk to him about my novel, to tell the truth. I might have known something was wrong, for he was as nice to me as you please. He was surprised to see me when I came in. He didn't know me from Adam, before, of course. I suppose he thought I'd be foaming at the mouth, or something. He jollied me along, the oily old rake; said my work was interesting and everything; that I'd put a lot of work in on it. And then he said: 'You know sometimes we think it well—to refer these themes to other departments. The last one before you,' he said, all smooth and gentle, 'I referred to the biologist under whom the student works. And I had yours read by Doctor Parson, Doctor Edith Parson; she is more able than I am—to judge of the worth of this material,' he said. 'So I had her read it over, and I suggest you go and consult her first, and then come and talk it over with me.' All hemming and hawing, he was, the flea. So I swallowed it all. I didn't know any better. I knew they did send theses and things for grad. degrees around to a lot of profs. I asked somebody there waiting to see him, a girl from the class, who this Doctor Parson was, but she didn't know. So then, mammie, I went home. This was a week ago last Thursday. I was in Doctor Stevenson's living room that evening, and I naturally asked her if she knew who Doctor Parson was. I didn't tell her WHY I was asking, or anything. And, mammie, what do you think she said!"

Tears came flooding into Martha's eyes.

"What difference does it make what she said, child!"

"Well, it may not make any difference to YOU, but it did to ME. 'I know her,' she said, and she smiled sort of funny. So I said, 'Who is she?' And she said, 'Oh, every little while some crazy woman gets into the U, and Doctor Parson is the one that gets them into the asylum. I had to help her once, one summer. She called me in because I was near and strong.'" And suddenly Martha turned away, shuddering in uncontrollable repulsion. She covered her face with her hands, just for a second, and went on:

"I had to sit there, mammie, not saying a word to give myself away, and take it all. She said that woman—the one that went crazy—she wanted to go right out in the street without any clothes on, and everything. I thought she'd never get through talking. They had to have three policemen that night. I thought I'd just die, I was so scared. And I got away from her as soon as I could, and I got the novel and went right down to the janitor and asked him to let me put something into the furnace. So he did, and I saw it burning. I saw it all curling up burned. And then I went and stayed with Miss Curtis. She let me have a bed in her room; she was just sweet to me, mammie. I told her I was sick. She wanted me to go home; she said I needed a rest."

"Martha, you do need a rest, my dear. You've worked so steadily. Why don't you come home with me?"

"Mammie—no. I went and got a job. I had—to have something—else to think about. I couldn't go home; I couldn't bear to go back to the doctor's. I stayed with Miss Curtis for more than a week."

"And now? Where are you now?"

"Oh, I'm back at the doctor's, all right now. I'm not a bit more—out of my head than she is, anyway. It doesn't always follow that if a girl—or a woman—falls in love, as they say, that she's crazy. Look at that Doctor Stevenson. Wouldn't you say she was sane, mammie? Wouldn't you say that if anybody in the world is in her right mind, it's that woman?"

"Yes, I would certainly call her a well-balanced woman."

"Well!" cried Martha, triumphantly. "You say she's sane, and she keeps a lover—there—in that apartment—all the time!"

"Martha! You mustn't say that! Not so loud!" Emily looked around her hurriedly. "You must not say things like that—gossip, like that!"

"I'm not repeating any gossip. You needn't get so excited. I'm not telling anybody but you, and I saw it with my own eyes."

Emily said, sharply, "I don't believe you know what you're talking about."

"I know exactly what I'm talking about! She told me when I went to live with her that she had a friend that came to stay with her, and that when that friend came I had to clear out. Naturally, when a single woman says a friend is coming to stay with her, you suppose it's a woman. But it isn't. It's a man. I saw him!"

"When? How?" Emily was intent upon refuting this mistake.

"Well, he comes for Saturday and Sunday, and I had been staying all week with Miss Curtis. And, anyway, they always go to the concert Saturday night. I had to go and get some underwear out of my room. I thought they would be at the concert, so I went in."

"Well?"

"Well, she heard me opening the door with my key, and she called to me: 'Martha, is that you? Come in here!' she said to me. And I went into her living room; and there was that man. A great big, tall man, walking around with his hands in his pockets. She was sitting at her desk, pretending to be looking at an account book. 'This is my brother,' she said to me. And he never took his hands out of his pockets. He said to me, growling, 'I am not her brother!' just like that. And she said, 'Oh, all right, then, you aren't. You aren't any relation to me!' You know how she thinks she can carry anything off, that way. Of course I felt terribly embarrassed. I just got my stuff and fled. That man was staying in my bedroom. His things were there. Did you ever hear anything like that in your life, mother? The nerve of her! With all that practice, and everybody thinking she's so respectable! Nobody thinks she's crazy. I'm glad I didn't burn up the first copy of my book."

"But, Martha, look here! That doesn't prove that he's—that doesn't prove anything."

"Don't you fool yourself! I saw the man; I saw his face. You can't tell me what a man means when he looks like that. And, anyway, Miss Curtis saw me coming in. I bet she's in cahoots with her! She said, 'You haven't been at the doctor's, have you?' like that, sort of excited. I said: 'Yes, I have. I thought she would have been at the concert.' She said, 'You oughtn't to have gone there when she has company.' And she didn't know whether to go on and say any more to me, or not. But she didn't. So now I stay there, just as I always did. If I'm mad, she's mad."

"But you're just silly. I don't think either of you is the least speck insane!"

"Well, what did that oily old bird send me to that—woman for then?"

"I don't know. Maybe she was a psychologist—or a—a psychoanalyst, or something. What was in the novel? You must be reasonable, Martha. The university isn't keeping a woman just to send students to asylums. She has something else to do, surely?"

"I don't think she has; not for a minute! If you'd seen that campus, you'd think it kept a dozen specialists to weed out the nuts. And, anyway, why did that prof. act so sort of gentle to me? Why did he ask me so carefully if I was Martha Kenworthy, as if he couldn't believe I was? Anyway, I'll tell you one thing, mammie; if the doctor can keep a lover and a practice in the same apartment, I should hope I can learn interior decoration without anybody saying anything to me! Just imagine if anybody tried to make things uncomfortable for the doctor; wouldn't she tell them where to get off, though! If she can put that across, why can't I?"

"Martha, really, I don't believe this. She doesn't look like that sort of woman."

"Well, of COURSE she doesn't! That's the whole point! Look at the women that go parading around Hyde Park. None of them look it; neither do I, for that matter. I don't suppose there's one of them that's any better than I am; and they're not making any fuss about what's happened! I can be as hardboiled as any of them; I can put on holy airs with the rest of them; I'm understudying the doctor!"

"Well, my opinion is that you're both of you good women and useful women, and you don't need to put on airs!"

"But you'll never understand either of us, if you do mean well; you're too good, that's what's the matter with you. That's why I feel—so much more at home—with Miss Curtis, and the doctor, especially the doctor. Honestly, you can't imagine how blue I was. I wanted to—well, I didn't know—whatever I was going to do, but this bucked me up. Imagine, mammie! I'd like to see a doctor like Doctor Stevenson, only more so—the best surgeon in Chicago—so that people would just HAVE to have her operate to save them; and then I wish she'd just go on living with all the men she wanted to—and snap her finger at the whole bunch of them. I'm going into business. The doctor said for me not to invest a cent with the boss; she was the one that looked him up, and found he'd failed in New York. I told her I hadn't any capital of my own, and I don't give a damn what anybody suspects me of!"

Martha was wearing long thin jade earrings, and she gave her head a little jerk as she announced her intentions. She had on a green hat, of a hard color. Could it be just the shadow of that green over her eyes that made them seem ringed and bitter?

"Oh, very well. But how about Christmas? You'll have a few days off, I suppose?"

"No, I won't have any. I'm going into this business. I've got to stick at it. Look here, mammie, if you'll stay for dinner, I'll get Mrs. Blacksley from my shop to meet us some place. I didn't want to take you to the shop, for I knew her husband was to have dinner with us. He's an idiot, but she's all right. I get along with her; she's divorced one husband. If she'd consult me, I'd tell her to divorce another."

Mrs. Blacksley, Martha said, seldom spent even thirty cents on her dinner. For that reason they awaited her in the Drake Café, and planned to nourish her weariness with a thick rich dinner, and beefsteaks were the one thing you could get better in Chicago than anywhere else in the world, Martha declared, ignoring magnificently her inexperience in most other places in the world. Mrs. Blacksley joined them there.

She joined them languidly, softly. She threw off a short black fur coat, and a little black hat, carelessly, as if all the other women in the crowded room were sitting bareheaded. She stood up for a moment, regardless perhaps of the attention she was attracting. She had on a little soft black wool frock, full skirted, with the waist fitted cunningly over her delicate breast. It was a right little frock; it was a bit too devilishly right for her.

It made Emily think, even as Mrs. Blacksley chose to sit with her back to the room: "Well, if what helps Martha in her friends is a scandalous past or a compromising present, this woman is going to be very useful to her." Nothing less like those utilitarian mentors of Hyde Park could a girl have happened upon. Mrs. Blacksley was still young—but her eyes had a past. Her lips had a history; her smooth hair, drawn back so severely from those beautiful temples, so cleverly from those little ears, had a beguiling present challenge. Surely, for fifty generations, those gray eyes had been looking cynically at eager lovers. Her mouth was soft and lovely; lips like hers must have kissed only with mental reservations for centuries. She was exotic, she was alluring. She had divorced one husband, had she? She aroused a question then, immediately. How many men had wanted to be her second?

She said to Martha, later, as they were going together to her train—she spoke suddenly, struck by an interesting thought:

"Look here, isn't the doctor's name Isobel?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, but Martha, she said her sister's name was Isobel."

"Did she? I didn't notice."

"I did! She did say her sister's name was Isobel!"

"Well, what of it?" Martha was curious.

"Well, don't you see, there couldn't be two Isobels in one family? They must be half-sisters, or step sisters, or something. Maybe that man WAS a brother—of some kind."

Then Martha laughed. She laughed just like Mrs. Blacksley, softly, jeeringly.

"You're the limit, mammie!" She laughed again, more naturally, from sheer amusement. "You can't believe what I say, can you? You're too good for this world, mammie! The doctor'll take care of herself. Don't you worry about her!"

"You can laugh at me, if you want to; but I don't believe it. Anyway, why shouldn't a woman doctor have a man patient, if she wants one?"

"To be sure!" agreed Martha, "if she wants one," she added, in another tone. "I don't admire her taste; but I'm willing to let her have as many as she wants."

Chapter Ten

"Do a deed," they say, "and make a proverb." But why, Emily mused more than once, should Martha, having done but one deed, go on making proverbs indefinitely. Must she interpret life forever by that one bitter mistake of hers? The more Emily thought of the doctor, the more deeply she was convinced that Martha was mistaken about her lover. She would have been a magnificent mother of a family of rollicking boys. Was it likely that a hard-headed professional woman, with a practice to maintain, was going to entangle herself with awkward amorous relationships? Emily decided it was not.

It was possible, too, that Martha had misunderstood Miss Curtis. Emily longed to prove it. She wanted to go and ask Mrs. Bissel all she knew of Miss Curtis's history. If a woman as conventional as Mrs. Bissel knew anything of that discrediting sort, would she have allowed her daughter to live in her flat? Certainly not, Emily said to herself. But just suppose Martha could be right? The least possibility of such a thing made it out of the question for Emily to broach the gossipy subject to Mrs. Bissel. So she held her tongue.

Then Martha walked in one snowy morning, like a normal child, home for the holidays, happy to be home. She walked in unannounced, alone, undefended by any stranger from intimacy with her mother! She walked in and she gave Emily a hug—an old little-girl hug, the like of which she had not had, since—THAT happened. Emily's neck could scarcely believe the feeling of those arms about it. Emily's eyes had to blink. Here now was that first little old Martha, the dear one that had been away from her for so long. Martha had recovered her real self; she was looking better; she was looking—bright, again; she was looking—excited. Yes, that was the word; she was excited through and through. Could she have fallen in love? Alas! that was too much to hope for. When she went upstairs Emily stood and listened. She half expected her to walk into the painted room.

She went into the guest room, however. She wasn't quite completely a daughter yet, then.

When she came down and saw Maggie's condition, she took the preparations for dinner out of her hands. The kitchen, some way, seemed to belong to Martha. Even Maggie, who had never relinquished it to Emily for a second, seemed conscious that it had changed owners. Emily stood about, talking to her.

"What," Martha cried, "the costumes aren't made! They haven't rehearsed for a month! Why didn't you write to me, mammie? I'd have come to help you."

Had she forgotten how shortly she had refused to come home at all for Christmas? Was she offering now, really, to plunge into the affairs of this town whose very existence she seemed of late to have resented?

"I'll go and get them. Let's have a seamstress to come here, and have a bee, and get them all done. I'll bet Miss Trent would train the children, mammie. She loathes Mrs. Benton."

"You mustn't talk that way, Martie!"

"Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" Martha derided, making faces. "That's what you mean, really. Only you don't say it. You know you don't want to fall down now—just because of what Mrs. Benton would say! I'd like to show her a thing or two myself. I bet I could get a dozen women into this, who'd work just for spite!"

"That's not a nice way to work!"

"But it cooks the hash, mammie!"

Martha chuckled toward her mother. She kept repeating it—that new gesture toward her. A perplexing sort of amused understanding of her mother kept shining out of her eyes all the time she sat at dinner, talking to her father.

As soon as she had washed the dishes she took the car and set forth twinkling to rally workers. She came back about five with two suit cases full of cut or basted costumes. These she deposited on the floor of the living room, and proceeded to examine them, talking all the time of her success. White wings she shook out, and curious red calico legs she unfolded. Emily was sitting on the sofa. And Martha was standing by the living-room table—where she had stood, exactly, when she announced, "Richard Quin is getting a divorce." She bent down and lifted up a cerise crinoline sort of wide ruche.

"Now, what do you make of this, mammie? This must be for a villain!" And she put it around her neck—it had no fastening, yet—and holding it tightly together, she danced across the room, and looked at herself absurdly in a mirror.

"Believe me, mammie, this is going to be a play!"

Her manner was so triumphant, that Emily was overcome by her impulse.

"Martha!" she exclaimed, "What HAS happened to you? What's the matter?"

The girl faced about abruptly. She stared intently at her mother. And as she looked her face changed. It lost that new expression of admiration with which she had warmed her mother's heart all day. And when she spoke her voice was almost bitter.

"Well, YOU'RE a nice one to ask me that!"

"Why am I a nice one? What have I done now?"

Martha spoke with an effort. "I suppose it doesn't matter; or you think it doesn't matter. I suppose you did what you thought best for me. I'm not judging you, but it would have made things a great deal easier for me if you could have told me the truth."

"The truth about what?"

Martha was annoyed by the question. She hesitated, but decided to go on.

"I can understand you don't want to discuss it; neither would I, but you must have meant to tell me eventually. After all, I have a right to know, mother."

Emily saw she was desperately in earnest. "What are you talking about?" she asked, puzzled.

Martha spoke slowly. "I mean—about my father—about Uncle Jim."

Emily understood then. The shock brought a cry of horror from her. "Oh, Martha!"

Martha knew pain when she heard it.

"Oh, mammie!" she cried back, running to Emily, sitting down close to her. "Mammie, don't cry! Don't think I care! I'd a million times rather have him for my father! I never loved you, really, before! I didn't pry into it. Honestly, mammie, it just came to me, like the morning; like light flashing into me, mammie!"

Emily had drawn away from her and covered her face with her hands. Martha thought she was crying. She besought her tenderly:

"Mammie, don't you mind my understanding it. Oh, if you knew how I felt about it! When I think of you living here all these years! I started to come home to you the minute I realized it. It came to me like a flash in front of Woolworth's in State Street, there. I was walking along, blue enough to die; I just wanted to die, I was so sore. And I saw that front and I remembered going into Woolworth's here, between you and Uncle Jim. I don't mind calling him that; it's a dear name for him. I remembered all of a sudden just how you looked at each other. Mammie, it just stunned me when I understood. I hadn't gone a block before I saw it all. I don't know why I didn't always understand it. Because he always was just naturally my father, wasn't he? Nobody ever had to teach me to love HIM! Dad never felt that way about me, naturally. It wasn't his fault he never had any interest in me. I knew why you stood Bronson, then! I remembered how you looked after the funeral! I was so excited I just couldn't stand up. I sat down on a bench in the public library lobby, and just sat there! Oh, I never appreciated you till now, mammie! I'm going to take care of you now. When I think of you living year in and year out in this house with dad—I'll call him that! I don't care about names! The way you've put it across right here, in this dirty gossipy little town, and nobody DARED to suspect you of anything! Not ANYTHING! Why do you look at me that way? You intended to tell me some time, surely!"

Now for the first time in her life Emily had drawn away from her child in repulsion. She had started to speak; she had started to cry out her denial. But that young, eager, relit face was close to hers. No matter how illuminating the mistake was, the poor distorted child must know the truth. But as Emily opened her lips to speak, the poor distorted child went on; she had seized Emily's hand in both her own:

"Oh, now I know what they mean, being born again. I was just born again, mammie! I know now why you never scolded me—why you stood by me; you understood. You've been through it! And everybody loves you; they just bless you! You aren't afraid they'll find it out. You just go on! I'm going on, too! My God! how I'm going on! If you can put this across, so can I! You never were afraid of dad finding it out, even, were you?"

Emily Kenworthy murmured, "No." She meant to add, "There was never anything to find out, you bad, silly girl!" but she didn't.

She could find no excuse for her conduct, as she thought it over, that night. She had simply been hypnotized by the beauty of that child's eagerness. It had been such a long time since she had seen eagerness, hopefulness, twinkling out of that little sweet face of hers, that she hadn't had courage to darken it again. Martha had just sat there, caressing her, babbling out her enjoyment of her mother's infamy, until Greta's older sister had come in. Emily had made her entrance an excuse for getting away to her room. And there she had sat dazedly, hurt, ashamed of her daughter, more ashamed of herself. How could I have hesitated a minute! I ought to have corrected her the minute she dared to suggest that to me! But what difference does it make? It's good enough for Bob! He never appreciated her! What do I care what she thinks, if it does her any good? I'm not high and holy any longer! I understand her! Hasn't she any sense of honor at all, that she's so pleased? Why should I be so shocked? Didn't I plan often enough to leave Bob and go to Jim? She only accused me of what I often wanted to do! I gave that up, and this is what I get for it! She wishes she was Jim's. She thinks I went on living with Bob! "My God!" cried Emily. "But she can't help it; she has to suspect somebody. It's her luck, after what she's done. Why should I feel so sick about this?"

And even while she sat there feeling sick at heart, Martha's voice came dancing up the stairs.

"Mammie, what are you doing? Can't you come down a minute?"

And Emily had gone down, hardening her heart. "I'm never going to tell her the truth," she was vowing. "Let her think that, if it does her any good!" And all that evening she had talked and listened to talking, like one in a dream. Whatever she said, it was of Martha's base accusation that she was conscious. "Surely," she was thinking, "if I gave Jim up once for this child, I can give up Bob and my scruples, just in her mind, for a little while." She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she scarcely spoke during supper. Bob noticed her quietness. She had been gay at dinner. He was the more affable to Martha.

"Where's Miss Curtis now? Is she coming down for Christmas?"

"No. She's gone to Ruth—to Indiana."

"Well, she's a nice sort of a woman, for a school-teacher." Emily saw the cynical smile that came about Martha's mouth.

"You bet she is!" she replied, enthusiastically. "But you ought to see the doctor. Dad, she'd show you a thing or two."

"That's what I like about Miss Curtis. You can trust her to mind her own business. You feel safe with her."

"Don't you, though? You can trust her absolutely, couldn't you, dad? You could always be sure she'd be upright, couldn't you?"

Upright was a strange adjective. Bob looked up to see if Martha had begun spoofing him again. She looked innocent, but he changed the subject. Martha looked knowingly across at her mother. Emily wanted to spank her.

Later in the evening again she experienced the same desire. She came into the sitting room to hear Martha cajoling over the 'phone the most conventional, conservative, disapproving woman who ever eyed bobbed hair and short skirts maliciously. "But we want you so, Mrs. Mason. Everybody says there's no one who can get as much work done in one afternoon as you." And on she talked, till she hung up the 'phone triumphantly.

"Martha, why in the world did you invite her here?" Emily asked.

Martha winked at her naughtily. "I just asked her because she's so extra holy!" she answered, and she laughed. She had the upper hand of life now, that girl!

She ought to have been pitifully spanked, but now that she had got things under way, there was scarcely time to reprove her. Emily remembered the days when Bob had complained that he could never get her alone long enough to "settle her." The house was bustling and hurrying about, as Martha used to make it stir, full of her girl friends coming and going, confused by committee women of inspired importance. School children were singing their parts at the piano; angels were adjusting their feathers in the hall; the 'phone was ringing. Emily watched Martha "putting it across," each day a little more naughtily, a little more triumphantly. She apparently intended to be as highly respected in the town as her deceitful mother. It was not pleasant, to say the least, to see her sitting deferring with studied docility to the opinion of women whom Emily knew she was scorning with all her might. Never before had she been quite such a "nice girl." She was demure; she was discreet; she gave someone else credit for every good idea she put forth quietly, graciously; she made her elderly neighbors smile at her mother as if to say "What a clever child this is of yours." And, when they left, she would hug her mother, grinning, chuckling. Thick as two thieves they were, together in conspiracy.

The only thing that seemed difficult to explain about Martha was the absence of admirers who had formerly beset her father round about. Johnnie, of course, had not come home from the East, but there were numbers of young collegians who had returned for Christmas. Why, Emily wondered, did they avoid the Kenworthy house? She understood one evening when she overheard a conversation between Greta and her daughter.

"I told Hally I was coming here. I asked him to come along, but he wouldn't." A giggle. "Do you know what he said about you, Martha?"

"What?" The tone was wholly indifferent.

"He said: 'No; I'm not going there. Martie's mad. She's taken to biting.'"

Then Martha's voice, full of interest, "Did he honestly say that?" She seemed gratified.

"Yes, honest he did."

"I didn't suppose he had that much sense," Martha said, simply.

Later: "But why? Tell me the truth, Martie! Why aren't you dancing?"

"I have told you the truth. I've learned my lesson; I can't stand late hours. I don't want another breakdown like that one last winter. I tell you I go to bed regularly early. I'm in bed every night at half past ten."

A silence.

Then: "That'll do to tell! I bet if Johnnie Benton was here to dance with, your health would be all right!"

"Johnnie Benton?" Scorn and derision at such a suggestion. "Excuse me if I seem to yawn. Anyway, he's engaged to somebody down East."

"Who said so? You're making that up! I don't believe it."

"Nobody told me. It's likely, you know that. The way he goes round proposing to everybody."

"He never proposed to me."

"Oh, get out! He must have!"

Martha was rejoicing in her own hypocrisy. She was guzzling down the impression she made. People said it was too sweet of her to have thought of bringing old Miss Knight to the party tenderly in her car. For Miss Knight was a decrepit old primary teacher of Martha's infancy, who seldom went out, and she had beamed every minute of the afternoon upon the dancing children, and blessed Martha loudly for her kindness in bringing her, as Martha had counted on her doing. Martha had remembered the poor. The poor, now, were hard to find in that town. But Martha had sought out a family whose house had been burned recently, and bestirred even protesting Greta to help her to succor them.

"You mustn't be such a lazy selfish pig, Greta!" she had gurgled when the room was fullest of listeners. She had talked, too, cunningly of the turkey she was roasting for Christmas dinner.

"I never had a chance to roast a turkey before," she said to mothers whose daughters were known to be indifferent to cook-stoves, "but I've always wanted to. I adore making mince pies; I'm making a lot of mincemeat, all myself, to take back with me. Yes, I'm fond of cooking. I get my own dinners with Miss Curtis, my friend in Chicago. I have more time than she does. She teaches school; but, of course, now that I'm in business, I'm busier." And she would look at the neighbors simply, quietly. She even dared to say innocently to her mother, just when the gossips might be supposed to be listening:

"Did I tell you, mammie, I met Eve the other day? She's given up New York. Her father isn't well and she's going to stay in Chicago. She's coming down for a week-end soon, if he's better."

And when the neighbors would be gone she would run and give her mother gloating hugs, which asked as plainly as her voice could have spoken, "Don't I just get it across?"

Emily had asked, afterwards: "Did you really meet Eve? When?"

And she pretended to be indignant. "Did I meet her? I like your nerve! Do you suppose I'm not telling you the truth? She is coming down to see you. She said to me, right out, as soon as I saw her, 'Are you still sore about—that?' I just said: 'About what? Where've you been all the time? Why don't you write mother oftener? She wants to see you. Come on down with me.' This was at the station, mammie, just when I was coming home the other day. If she comes down here to stay with us, what can anybody say about——?"

She held the situation in a tight grasp now. If any minute of those busy days she had suffered one pang, remembering the desperate Christmas a year ago, she had never once given a sign of it. Since the day of her first accusation of her mother she had avoided the subject of her paternity excessively. Emily, too, had been afraid of it. She had told Martha firmly that she was not going to Chicago to live with her. Martha, for fear she might make explanations, had not argued the subject very far.

"I never would be content to live in Chicago, you know that, Martha. Our roots are here; I'm too old to be transplanted. I won't leave this house."

"But you get bored to death, mammie. You want to shriek sometimes. You said you did yourself that night, at the doctor's. I hate to go away and leave you here."

"Stay here then. This is your home."

"No. I've got to do something. It's all right here, when there's a party on, or something. But I couldn't stand it all the time. I'd get to scrapping with dad, you know I would."

The very mention of Bob brought up possibilities of uncomfortable remarks.

Martha hastened to continue.

"I'll come back just as often as I can. And you come and stay with me as much as you can. And in June we'll go to Europe together. Nobody can talk about that! And maybe you'll like it well enough to stay a year or two with me there; lots of people do. And that's the only place really to learn about furnishings and furniture."

Emily lay in her bed that night, ashamed and unhappy. "It's as if I had told her the most enormous and fundamental lie," she reflected. "Nothing good can ever come of this. Strange," she thought, "that I can't remember ever going into Woolworth's with Jim! She remembers something of him that I don't. How old would she have been then? The five-and-ten must have come to town—well—before Bronson came. She loved that store at first, when she was little." She grudged Martha a memory that belonged essentially to her; she thought greedily over every look of his she had ever treasured. She remembered their early love; she recalled still how his dear hands had gone longing, discreetly up inside her stiff cuffs. She remembered his kisses; she remembered how he had come back in the days of his weariness to his mother, and how they had looked across at each other, with that innocent old woman between them. She remembered how he used to sit with little Martha on his knee, in the days of his ill health and bitterness, stroking her hair and looking into her face, trying some way to get close to the mother through the child. She thought of that summer, and of Bronson, and of Jim's irrepressible crying-out to her. She stopped there. She tried always not to think of his death. "He just kissed me," she said, "and went away."

"Oh," she cried to herself, "I'm going to Chicago to-morrow and tell Martha the truth! He was too sweet, too dear. This isn't fair to him. I don't care about Bob; but I won't have her thinking such things of Jim. He was too good for such—baseness. He never forgot I was his brother's wife. He did kiss me, but he went away then. That's the point—he went away. I'll tell her that.

"And if I tell her, she'll never believe me. She thinks I'm sly and sneaking and adulterous now, and if I tell her the truth, she'll think I'm lying to her. She hasn't enough experience yet to believe the truth; she doesn't know enough to believe it. That's why she hates it all so! herself, and passion. All she knows of passion is its roots, in the dark ground; its blossom in the air, its sweet lovely blossom in the sun she hasn't seen. She doesn't know forbearance or tenderness, and that's the best part of it—for us. She wouldn't believe me if I told her what sort of man he was. I don't know what's going to become of her now; she'll never marry now. Probably that way such a lot of women don't marry; the roots of it all look so ugly, so brutal to them. If I could make Martha believe in some one like Jim now! The whole tragedy is that she can't."

When she fell asleep at last, she was thinking still of her lover—not, however, that he went away, but that he kissed her.

Martha hadn't been gone two weeks when that most astonishing news came. Nothing could have stunned the town more than that. The telegram came first to Emily. She heard it over the 'phone.

Mrs. Benton had died suddenly, while motoring in California.

People gathered in groups on the street to discuss it. It seemed a thing that could not be true. To be sure, when you thought it over, you realized that Mrs. Benton was but mortal; but it seemed so unlike her, just to die, to quit, to lay things down. Her body, lifeless, was to be sent home for burial.

Recovering by degrees from the shock of the news; the cruder ones began asking under their breaths what the more sentimental ones had but pondered. Had she lived to hear of the success of the Christmas party? They could not believe that she had. It didn't seem likely.

Mrs. Benton's body was to arrive on a Thursday, from the West. Johnnie arrived from the East on Tuesday morning, to find his home swept and garnished and in possession of an old and silent aunt and a young and gushing one. He came to Emily for refuge that evening. He seemed almost stupefied by the event. Emily had never thought of him as a nervous man before. He talked in a way unnaturally incoherent, and he stirred about nervously, unable to sit down. The second time she noticed his hand refrain spasmodically from a cigarette, she said:

"Smoke if you want to."

But he burst out: "No. I won't have people laughing—about THIS. I won't have them talking about her."

"But no one is going to talk about her if you smoke here with me."

"Don't you think so? Nobody would see me?"

"No. Nobody could find anything to laugh at in that."

He was already lighting a match. "I thought they looked at me funny when I went to light up," he said. Emily knew he spoke of his aunts. "I want everything done right for her. I won't have people talking about THIS. They say I have to be the chief mourner, Mrs. Kenworthy."

"Well, you are that, Johnnie; you're nearest her."

"I know it; but they made me stay in there to see the minister. He asked me what chapter I wanted read! I felt like a fool, Mrs. Kenworthy. I felt like a dirty hypocrite!"

"I wouldn't feel that way. These things have got to be done, apparently."

"Do you think 'Jesus, Lover of my Soul' is better than 'Lead, Kindly Light'? One wants one and the other wants the other, and they say I can decide! Look here, Mrs. Kenworthy, did you ever hear that mother hadn't but a year to live? Did she ever tell YOU that?"

"No, never. Why, dear?"

"Aunt Ethel said the doctor in Chicago told somebody yesterday that he told her last summer she hadn't a year to live. Didn't she tell you that?"

"No."

"She never told me; she never told anybody."

"Maybe she didn't believe it."

He seemed relieved at the thought. He said, "Maybe that's it. But she never told you where I was last summer, did she, until I was about coming home? Do you know why?"

"I didn't know why. Never mind, Johnnie!"

"Yes, she didn't know where I was; I didn't tell her! I just lit out; I never told her till I got to Hong-Kong. I knew she'd worry; I didn't care if she did. I never thought of it coming out like this, Mrs. Kenworthy! I made enough to come home on at Macao. You know, gambling, she'd call it; it was, too. I won five hundred dollars, almost—-four hundred and seventy—so then I cabled her. Oh, I don't know why I did that!"

"There's no use grieving over it now, Johnnie."

"But by the time I got her answer I had lost it all again. I came home on the money she cabled me. She met me at the depot with a new car! She never told me she wasn't well; she never told ME she hadn't long to live! I'm glad I went back to college; she wanted me to do that. I nearly didn't, I nearly lit out again. If they insist on having the coffin open in church and me looking—in front of everybody—I don't care. I'll do it; I won't have people laughing at her now!"

Then Emily remembered a certain hour. "Oh, Johnnie!" she began. And, as she understood the significance of what she recalled, she hesitated.

"She told me once, not so very long ago, that she'd written out directions for her funeral. She hated sensational funerals—and people fainting. She wanted hers very simple."

"When was this?"

Now Emily remembered too distinctly, all of a sudden.

"It was after somebody's funeral, as we were walking home from the cemetery. I don't remember—when, exactly." Why should she tell the boy it had happened when he was sailing away towards Brazil and his deserted mother had learned her fate in loneliness? "I imagine if you go down to Johnson and Larned's, they'll have her directions put away with her will."

"Oh, do you think—I ought to do that? I mean—I don't want to seem to be grabbing her will in a hurry!"

"Ask your aunts about it. I'll go over and tell them with you, if you want me to."

"Will you? Oh, do! But wait a little. Can't I have another smoke here, first? It seems—strange, over there, this way."

And as he walked around smoking, Emily thought: "Yes, and she knew all the time as we walked home together that day that she'd be there in the cemetery soon, and she never told me. She wanted me to know she had given directions for her funeral, and she let me think she had no special reason for giving them; and she didn't know where this boy was, or whether she would ever see him again, and she never said a word to me about it. And she pointed out to me Mrs. Johnson's red lilies as we passed, and said she was going to move hers into the sun!"

Martha came down for the funeral, which was delayed with absolute cruelty, Emily thought, by the aunts, until Saturday. Emily told her of Mrs. Benton's stoicism, but not of Johnnie's unconscious hardness.

And Martha sighed and said, merely, "Well, I suppose everybody has something up their sleeve, mammie!"

Johnnie came in on Friday evening, harassed and red eyed.

"You here, Martie!" he exclaimed, touched by the sight of her. "For the love of Mike, don't let anyone know I'm here. Let's go up to your sitting room! Somebody'll be coming in. I want to smoke; I got to have a smoke!"

A pitiful Johnnie made Martha kind.

"It isn't heated up," she said. "We don't heat it now, weather like this. But you can come and wash dishes with me. You can smoke there; nobody'll see you."

It was the usual thing for Martha to insist on Emily's staying in the living room when Martha was washing the evening dishes. So she remained there, and people came in, as Johnnie had foreseen they would. One hour passed, and another, and the supper dishes still apparently detained the young things. After another half-hour Emily went to the kitchen. She opened the door.

The scene was scarcely what she had expected. The room was thick with smoke; and there, huddled over the stove, sat old Maggie, who was supposed to have gone to bed hours ago, and across her old rough face her mouth stretched from ear to ear in one great beaming smile, while her eyes looked straight at the chief mourner. He sat on the kitchen table, near the prunes soaking in the bowl overnight. He still had on the blue-gingham apron some one had tied about his slender body. He was leaning forward alertly, and in his hand he held a cigarette all lit and ready to go into his mouth the moment the flow of his eager narrative ceased for an instant. His eyes were fixed upon Martha, who sat on the high kitchen stool with her feet on its upper rungs. She had on a red jersey frock; she sported a very long purple-and-black cigarette holder and she sat listening intently, her chin atilt.

"And the chief—he was a good old sport—he says to the captain, 'It's the first time I was ever ordered to get a lady out of a——'"

He saw the door opening. He saw Emily. She knew at once that she had spoiled a perfect hour. Johnnie's normal light-heartedness collapsed. Emily saw him recalling horribly the coffin and its contents, and the hushed and exaggerated reverence of those that waited about it.

"Oh!" he groaned. "Oh, I forget!"

But Martha had heard nothing of his quarrel with his mother and his passionate desire to atone as far as he could by all conventional decencies.

"Well, go on!" she commanded. "Was the man dead?"

But Johnnie had no gusto for the rest of his tale. "I was just telling Martha about what happened on the Pomona," he murmured to Emily, apologetically. "There was a woman drunk, and she locked the door of her cabin and wouldn't open it; they couldn't hear the man with her and they thought maybe she had done something to him."

"But what happened in the end?" Martha insisted.

"The captain broke in, and there was the man, reading in his bunk. He said he wasn't going to try to get her to open the door; he knew her. He'd been reading the History of Poland, with nothing but biscuit to eat. He said he was used to it. I didn't know it was so late. I got to be going."

"Don't go yet," Emily urged. "We've never really heard anything about your trip."

"I didn't mean to stay so long. I don't want to make them sore at me," he said, nervously. "They look at me so funny all the time."

He went back to them. Bob and Martha sat for a while talking, and Emily sat looking at them and thinking wistfully of what she had seen in the kitchen. How happy those children had been together in their young forgetfulness, a forgetfulness somewhat too facile, on Johnnie's part, perhaps. Yet what a fine relief it had been for him from the strain and depression of those unnatural days. Surely each of them must be thinking how snugly, how cozily they had together thrown off their burdens. If only it could have gone on! Martha would have married him now, likely, since the maternal handicap was removed—if that other thing had never happened. Johnnie, free and with an income, wouldn't be long in marrying—someone, Emily was convinced of that. But it would be a long time, a deplorably long time, before Martha would be settling down. There was no use hoping for so happy an ending to that story.

It was perhaps her kindness to Johnnie that cleansed Martha's mind, for the time, from its chilling cynicism. She was lovely that evening and gentle, and subdued. Emily lingered about with her in the guest room, and sat on her bed a long time with her, yearning over her. She had never felt so sure and mature a sort of oneness with her daughter before. Martha wouldn't let her get away. She clung to her; her trivial words were little caresses. It was an hour to be remembered, to be tasted carefully in memory, and relished indefinitely.

Emily's conscience smote her the more that night. How terrible this deception of her was! All at once there came to her a thought cuttingly vivid. People did die suddenly; no doubt about that; even an extremely living woman like Cora Benton ceased without warning. "Suppose I'd die suddenly, myself!" Emily gasped. "Suppose I should die without ever telling her the truth! She'd have this house for herself then; she might quarrel with her father; she might turn him out of it in some evil moment. She might even tell him some time what I let her think. To-morrow morning," Emily decided, "first thing, I'll tell her the truth." She lay unhappily trying to screw herself up to the necessary intensity of determination.

In the morning, however, Martha didn't come down to breakfast. Emily went up to her room. She said she was tired, and Emily saw at once she had been crying. She offered to bring her up something, but Martha refused shortly. She said she was going to get up; she wouldn't stay in bed. Not one least hint of the conciliatory mood of the evening before was left. Emily was afraid of her, afraid of the bitter things that might come slashing out of her mouth. If only she knew what she had been crying about! Was it because the companionship of the evening had seemed as pleasant as unattainable? Had she been by any chance thinking how happy she might have been with Johnnie? Or had she been mourning the lover who had destroyed himself in her mind? Emily came downstairs and set about her morning work hesitant, cautious, and perplexed.

Even as they sat side by side in the crowded church, Emily was conscious of the hardness of her mood. Mrs. Benton might reasonably have asked to have a sermon preached over her body in the great hall she had built, but she had commanded that the service should be in the small Congregational church. Emily, when she went to that church, always thought of Jim's mother—rather than Bob's—and of his father, whose heroic death was but a mildly interesting tale to Martha. The crowded service promised at first to be all that Mrs. Benton had hoped it never would be, but the minister, when he began speaking, showed more sense than Emily had ever thought him capable of. She saw Johnnie almost immediately lift his bewildered head to listen.

"Our sister," he said, "lies here silent. Her works praise her. Which one of us," he asked, "can lift a voice to contradict them? Dare we dispute with the bathing beach? Shall we try arguing with the memorial hall?" He named over her civic accomplishments, scarcely mentioning the flowers that were to bloom all over the county in the spring—they, Emily thought, might have suggested to the scoffing, or the conscience-smitten, a certain joyous derision. "There had been women more gentle than she," he said, frankly, "But the gentle women had dammed no river. There had been women more popular, but the popular had built no bridges. What she had built, she had built well. Let the town, now, if it could, reach the standard of excellence which she had set. Her example of doing things exactly right was a heritage not to be despised in these shoddy days."

But of all her works, he averred, the beach had the clearest voice and the holiest. "Wash ye! Make ye clean!" the prophets of God had been crying, through all the generations. And now the beach took up the song, inviting all the children to throw themselves into the cleanness of joy and to dive deep into the transparency of living. It was the element of cleanness that she had made precious to the children of the town. How many small boys of the town cared where their winter clothes were put away for the summer? But how many of them would there be who weren't conscious all the winter just where their bathing suits were put away waiting for the summer? The snow would scarcely be melted on the south slopes of the lawns until children began shaking out their bathing suits and counting the weeks until swimming began. The dancing feet of the young, and the music of their youth, praised this woman all the winter months. And in the summer, tanned and barefooted memorials of her would soon be running down all the shaded streets to the river. And healthy dripping tributes to her wisdom would be trudging home late to meals. When there were no longer any children to love swimming, he said suddenly, he hoped the town would build a stone memorial to its benefactress.

He sat down.

The church sighed its agreement.

The coffin, unopened, was carried away. Johnnie said afterwards that the minister had sense.

Chapter Eleven

That night Bob Kenworthy sat unsuspectingly reading a coon story in a popular weekly, in his own living room, in the light of a lamp his daughter had given him for Christmas. His wife sat at her desk near the window, pretending to write letters, and every once in a while she glanced slyly over at him to see if he was conscious of what she was doing; and sometimes she even looked suspiciously at the curtains to make sure no one was peeping in at the words she had guiltily written. She had sat there more than an hour, and she was beginning that letter in vain. A more distasteful task she had seldom decided upon. To put down in black and white a denial of the grotesque mistake she had suffered to continue in Martha's thought seemed impossible. An acknowledgment of her complicity in the misunderstanding seemed too humiliating. How could she be sure, besides, into whose hands her written words might not come? Might not that complacent husband of hers, sitting there, never imagining how thankfully he had been discarded by his child, sometime come upon the letter that must seem to him treacherous? Emily didn't intend sending the letter to Martha; that course was too perilous to consider. She intended to put it away, in case of such an emergency as this last one of Cora Benton's. It seemed, however, the right thing altogether for Cora Benton to have given directions for her funeral. The community expected her to do that. But for Emily Kenworthy to do it seemed silly melodrama.

She sat with her arm hiding the words she had written, now that she had begun for the fifth time, though there was no eye in the room to behold them. She had finished.

"My dear Child." She had got down a further sentence or two. "I couldn't collect my wits in time the other day to tell you what a mistaken idea you had of your father and me. I have never been unfaithful to him in my life." She glanced again guiltily at Bob. Poor old harmless thing! He had been certainly—good and a patient husband. And, sitting there, he did look like Jim. The elusive likeness between the two had always fascinated her; Jim's head had been like that. His face was longer, finer, more delicate. It was for Jim's sake, of course, and not Bob's she was writing this. She would not have Martha thinking Jim a common old love pirate! She took her arms from across the paper; she re-read what she had written. "I have never been unfaithful to him in my life." Then she added, impulsively, "I never had a chance to be." She studied her achievement, and covered it up with a blotter and sat thinking. Then she went at it again for a few minutes. "I am writing this to you the day of Mrs. Benton's funeral in case I haven't an opportunity to tell you personally." She was on the point of adding, "Your uncle wasn't that sort of man." But suppose Bob should sometime see those words? She might say, "The Kenworthy men are too good for that sort of thing." Yes, that might do.

Bob threw down his paper. Emily jumped.

"Some coon story!" he yawned. "Let's go to bed."

"You go on up, Bob," she said, earnestly. "I'm just coming."

When he came up from "fixing the furnace" she was rearranging her desk. In the center of it was a little compartment that could be locked but seldom was. It was full of rather useless trifles. She had found the little key to it now in a small adjoining drawer, and she had locked away a small envelope inclosed in the very center of several larger ones. It was addressed to Martha, "to be opened after my death." As she went upstairs wondering where to hide that key, she felt more like a perfect fool than she had felt in years. She looked about the room. At one side of her bureau there hung an enlarged snapshot of Martha as a four-year-old, hugging a puppy. Emily had always thought it a perfectly beautiful picture. When Bob was in the bathroom, she went cautiously over to it and tied the key to the wire by which the picture hung. "Nobody would ever find it there if I should die," she said to herself; "and besides I probably won't." But later, when she heard Bob sleeping, she got up gently and hid the key in the bottom drawer of the bureau beneath some summer underthings, for, of course, Maggie would dust that picture as soon as she was able to be about, and demand to be told what key that was.

Afterwards she would say to herself, waking in the night: "Well, suppose anyone should find that key and open the desk and see the letter. It's a very sensible thing to leave directions for your funeral. Everybody ought to do it. Still..."

And Johnnie Benton was about from time to time, reminding her of the possibility of sudden death. He wouldn't go back to school. He might have agreed, in the shock of his grief, to conform to all burial conventions out of respect for his mother. But to go back and try for a degree, he refused absolutely and confidently.

"I haven't told THEM," he said to Emily, nodding his head towards the house where his aunts still tarried. "Aunt Grace wants to keep house for me!" The tone of his voice suggested she had proposed at least to murder him. "I told them I'd go back as soon as it's settled, all the business; but I couldn't get a degree in ten years if I did go back. And goodness knows when things will be settled." The delay wasn't annoying Johnnie.

Even Emily grew uneasy about Johnnie as the weeks passed. She wondered sometimes, remembering a sort of threat, if his mother had really disinherited him. Her lawyers, whom he was always going to consult in Chicago, were saying now that Mrs. Benton had gone to California for the express purpose of investigating investments there, and presently the results would come to light. Emily didn't see clearly why Johnnie should have to drive up to Chicago three days a week to learn such meager facts. He stayed in Chicago so much that his aunts closed the house and went home. And then when he came home he stayed with the Kenworthys.

He stayed with them depressed, silent, and inactive. Emily was troubled about his laziness; but, after all, she had been his mother's stanchest friend and she owed him some sympathy and patience. She was as kind to him as possible.

But not so Martha. She came down suddenly for a week-end, the last of February. Emily told her to go into the small guest room; Johnnie's things were in the other.

"Good night!" she cried. "Is he here, too?"

Was he then so much in Martha's Chicago?

"Now look here, mammie, I don't approve of this. He's taking advantage of you. Why can't he stay at the hotel?"

"Martha, if you like the hotel so well, you'd better go down and try a meal there! It isn't a comfortable place, and you know it."

"But why doesn't he stay at the Kendalls' or at the Johnsons'? Why can't he stay with his friends?"

"Those boys aren't at home now, you know that."

"Well, he needn't try to—get a stand-in here just because his mother is dead. Why don't he live in his own house, like anybody else would?"

"I didn't know you were coming down, child. I didn't know you would object. After all, you can't live in Chicago and dictate who's to stay with me here."

"No, I suppose not. But you have enough to do without taking care of Johnnie Benton. Why doesn't he go to work?"

"He does work—sometimes. He works in the garage."

Martha turned about, flabbergasted. "You mean—dad's garage?"

"Yes."

"Well, of all the nerve! Look here, mammie, I tell you just now there's no use of dad trying to put that over on me. You can just tell him——"

"My dear child, don't be silly! Nobody's trying to put anything over on you."

"Of course, I can marry anybody I want to, as well as not! Women do it all the time and never say a word! But you needn't think I'm going to; you can get that idea out of your head right now!"

"Oh, come out of it, Martha! Nobody's trying to make you do anything you don't want to."

It would, perhaps, have been foolish to try that. For Martha seemed able to manage. Emily didn't know exactly how she had done it, but Johnnie came up presently from down-town, saw her there, greeted her quite undisturbed and casually, and announced he was going to Chicago for the week-end.

And all Martha said was, "I'll let you know next time before I come, mammie."

Emily felt encouraged about Martha in those days. About Johnnie she grew less and less certain as the spring came on.

Once she had to say to him: "Johnnie, I want to ask you something. I want you to tell me what your plans are. What are you going to do?"

He was walking about her living room gloomily, with his hands in his pockets. He stopped and looked at her. She liked him, and she saw she had hurt him deeply.

"You getting sore at me, too?" he asked.

"No," she said, "but you are going to work sometime, of course?"

"I'm working now," he said. He stopped in front of her. He stroked his hair nervously. "I'm trying to persuade Martha to marry me!" he said, bluntly.

"Oh, Johnnie!" she exclaimed.

"You mean she won't?" he asked.

"Johnnie, no! I don't think she will. I don't think Martha'll marry—young. It doesn't seem to me—that it's likely."

"You mean—that affair—last summer—the summer before last?"

If she had meant it she had not meant him to refer to it. "That affair?" How could Johnnie Benton know about it?

"Well—yes," she acknowledged, "and other things. She isn't very domestic."

"I beg to differ with you!" Johnnie spoke with some heat. "She is domestic. She loves houses. You know she loves houses and—things."

"Well, anyway, Johnnie, I think—she'd be just as apt to marry you—if you went to work; maybe more so. Not that I think——"

Johnnie lifted his head, as if to ward off her reproof. "I'm sick of this," he burst out. "People think I ought to settle down. Well, I would settle down—if Martha'd agree. I'd settle down here, or any place. It doesn't much matter what business I go into; I'll likely be a failure in any of 'em. I'll have enough to live on for us both. But if Martha won't, I'm going to pull out of this for a year or so; let them settle the estate to suit themselves. I can't be bothered with it. I'm going to sea for a year—till I get things into my own hands."

"Oh, Johnnie, what do you want to go to sea for? There's something better than that, surely?"

"Well, I'll have to earn my living—for a while, if things don't get settled up. The bank's howling about advancing me any more money. As if there wasn't plenty coming to me, some place! They won't let me sell the house, even, till the estate's settled.".

"Oh, were you thinking of that?"

"Why not, Mrs. Kenworthy? Martha—wouldn't want to live in it."

"Johnnie, I'd give that up, if I were you. I wouldn't count on that."

"That's what I won't give up. I mean I don't give a—cent—what else happens."

Emily exclaimed. "You know there's nothing I would have liked so well."

"If what?"

"If it—were—possible," she contented herself with saying. "We can't force these things, Johnnie."

"But—it was all right once, Mrs. Kenworthy."

Emily wondered.

"Look here, what's Martha living with all those suffragettes for—those school-teachers, and doctor women?"

And then he said, bitterly: "It's natural she'd prefer them to—some people. Martha's been stung once, and she's afraid. That's what's the trouble with her."

"Good heavens!" thought Emily. "This boy is too wise! What does he know? And how does he come to know it?"

After a minute she said, "Well, Johnnie, dear, I would like to see you—all happy—and settled down, but I don't know—that Martha's the woman for you; and I tell you frankly I think you ought to stop this loafing about."

"I'll ask Mr. Kenworthy for a steady job for a month, if you want me to."

"That's not good enough for you, Johnnie; you can't work in a garage. But it's better than nothing."

He stuck to the garage for three weeks, and then he threw it up and departed abruptly on the spring day that Emily noticed the first tall white iris blooming. She was rather out of patience with him. But Bob—an amazing lot of sympathy Bob had for everything masculine—he just grinned.

"He's in love, the poor devil!" he said, and winked a sort of familiar grimace across the table at Emily. It annoyed her. All he had ever said of Martha was: "Well, if she's in love, she'll have to get over it; that's all." It gave her almost satisfaction to get a letter from Martha.

"Johnnie's turned up again. I'm leaving the city for a holiday. I'll write you about it next week."

Not another word from that child for two weeks. No sign of Johnnie; he might at least have had the decency to write whether or not he had taken to the sea. And Martha, Emily planned as the days passed, was going to get a thorough dressing down when she came back. Two weeks without writing was a little too much of a good thing. Two weeks and five days now, still no word had come. Emily was in the garden. She was, in fact, exactly at the side of the house which Martha had suggested adorning with a garage. She had been digging about her "bleeding heart" and looking down towards the river, because she had seen orioles for the first time that morning and planning what she would say to Martha when she got a chance. She turned around suddenly to see what car had stopped in front of the house. It was a brand-new little blue runabout, and expensive-looking.

And then Johnnie Benton jumped out of it, and turned about to give a hand to some one—and Martha Kenworthy jumped out! All dressed up in a new suit of rose color, with a lovely bit of soft fur and a new and nifty hat. And new shoes and a new bag—glorious and smart entirely. And she had caught sight of her mother, and came half running up to her. Johnnie, too, dressed to kill—and beaming—was hurrying to her. They were looking at each other.

"You two are married!" Emily cried to them; and her heart sank in a great pity for Johnnie.

"Mammie, mammie!" Martha was crying, hugging her. They had pulled her into the hall with cries and kisses.

"Oh, Martha!" Emily murmured.

The two were babbling.

"What she's wanted all the time, and she's pretending to scold us. Look at her, Johnnie." Martha was laughing at her mother's consternation. "We wanted to surprise you. How did you know? I suppose we do look married, maybe."

"I'm glad," said Emily.

"You're not; you're crying! Didn't we surprise you? Did you get my letter? Rather smooth of me, wasn't it—'Johnnie's turned up and I'm leaving the city!' We'd only been married an hour when I wrote that, mammie!"

She shone, she twinkled, like not one star—but the whole canopy of heaven. She adored her husband with her married eyes. She stood the loveliest blossom of the season. Johnnie was explaining. Emily sat breathless looking from one to the other of them. "They're utterly married," she thought. "Martha isn't pretending. She isn't putting something across now." She couldn't believe it. But the bridal garments would have convinced her. Martha's very stockings were shining bridally. She had taken off her rosy hat; her frock matched her coat; she was powdering her nose before the hall glass; she was cavorting about, and shining. She called upon her mother to admire poor Johnnie.

"Isn't he a dear?" she chuckled. "Don't you think he's a lamb, mammie?"

"Cut that out, kiddo!" he cried, enjoying it.

"You bring the stuff in, my son. Mammie, we're going to open up the room. But Johnnie can have the little guest room—just for his things, can't he? I told you so, Johnnie. He's got to go down and break the news softly to dad. You go on, Johnnie; I want to talk to mammie. But don't you stay more than half an hour, I tell you. We're going to turn out that room, mammie. I knew it wouldn't be ready. I'll get out of my glad rags right away. Johnnie can help me. He's good at housework."

The door had finally scarcely closed behind the bridegroom when Emily cried; "Are you happy, Martie? Why did you do this?"

Side by side they placed themselves on the sofa instinctively; and Martha threw her arms about her mother ecstatically.

"Am I happy?" she repeated. "Can't you see I'm happy? Oh, mammie, I've got so much to tell you. Oh, ain't I lucky, mammie? I didn't know when I married him—I was just—mad, inside—I was hardboiled. I didn't intend to be good to Johnnie. I didn't know what else to do. I was sick of being called an old maid! I thought he could just run the risk, if he would keep on asking me. I didn't intend being nice to him, or anything. Mammie, people don't appreciate Johnnie. I didn't. Not at first, and then I found out how SWEET he was! He was just sweet to me, mammie, and I went and told him everything the other night. I could just kiss the ground that man walks on, with his dear old feet!"

Tears came springing into little Mrs. Benton's eyes.

"I told him everything about New York. I told him I'd been crazy. He said we'd be a pair of nuts, then. Fifty fifty, he said, I told him, no, mammie. A thousand to one, I told him. I tried to make him see, but he said I just thought that because I was such a good little kid! He said I was a good little kid, mammie. Those were his very words! I tell you right now, mammie, nobody's ever going to say a word about his mother to me! Because she WAS part of him, after all, and he hates it. I never knew there was anything in the world so darling as that man! You just ought to see him in his pajamas! He's too sweet! Blue and white striped they are. I'll let you see them, mammie!"

"Rare treat," thought Emily, dazedly.

"Don't you think he's a lamb, mammie? Don't you think he's too dear?"

"I always liked Johnnie."

"Oh, I don't mean that way! You just wait till you know him better! But nobody can appreciate Johnnie till she's married to him!"

"That seems too bad!"

"Oh, I don't know. It suits me!" she retorted, immediately. "Nobody wants a lot of women sitting around appreciating her husband. Mammie, it was too funny the way it happened. You know, Mrs. Blacksley and I had an awful row. She practically put me out of the shop."

"Oh?"

"Yes, she did. It was too funny, when you think about it. You see——"

She chuckled. She could enjoy any joke herself in her high mood. "She had to have some money to go on with, and she asked me straight out if there was any chance of me putting some in. And I said no, not unless she got rid of that man of hers. Mother, you can't imagine what a temper that woman's got! I thought she was going to pull my hair or slap me. I kept backing out towards the door, and she kept coming after me. She called me——" Martha giggled. "She called me an evil-minded little old maid! She said she'd like to see me groveling—groveling, it was she said—before some man. And here I am already just groveling! She said she hoped I'd have enough sense some day to appreciate a real man. It was pretty rotten of me to say that to her, because she is fond of him. She said his very cough was precious to her; she said she hoped I'd fall in love till I'd kiss somebody's false teeth when he wasn't there himself!" Martha snickered and added, "But, of course, he'd take them with him, his teeth, but I didn't think of that in time to answer her. I was afraid of her. And I was mad, I can tell you. And then, of course, Johnnie came along again. I was hardboiled and I went and married him. Because, after all, you've got to marry or be called an old maid in this world, haven't you, mammie? Let's ask her down now after a while, for a week. Mrs. Blacksley, I mean. But maybe she won't come. She's got such an awful temper."

Emily cried, the moment there was a pause—suddenly:

"Martha, I was never unfaithful to your father in my life—your father, I mean Bob Kenworthy!"

"You weren't?" She stared at her mother, taken aback. "Well, that's sort of funny."

"I ought to have told you that at once that day when you told me—what you thought! But I didn't."

Martha was looking at her thoughtfully.

"Well, that's sort of funny. I was just thinking of that this morning!" She had spoken slowly, but a thought quickened her pace again. "Mammie, you just ought to see Johnnie in the morning! He's too sweet! His hair never gets mussed up a bit, it's so short, and sort of soft in the morning. And I was just thinking this morning about what you said, or what I said to you, rather, and it would have been a raw deal for dad, after all. Because really, if a woman's got a good husband, she ought to treat him right, I think. Don't you?"

"I CERTAINLY DO!"

"I wouldn't want anybody treating Johnnie that way, I know that." And her tongue wagged happily on. Mother's vices or virtues were dismissed as slight things, in this new joy. They sat still there, Emily listening to Johnnie's praises till he came back into the room with Bob.

The paternal blessing detained them only for a minute. They hurried away to their housekeeping. A hurricane of happiness; seemed to be moving the furniture in the painted room about, judging from the noise. Bob and Emily sat side by side listening to the chortles of mirth that came down to them. Bob couldn't stop grinning.

"I always said this would happen, Emily. I always knew it would."

"Right as usual!" said Emily. If a woman has a good husband, what's the use of reminding him of all he doesn't know? she mused, happily.

She scarcely knew the painted room itself when she went up to it later. It was noon, but the curtains were pushed back as far as possible, and the blinds rolled to the top, so that the sunshine came crashing down like thunder from paradise on the roused and choral colors. The Victrola was grinding out:

Two for tea,
And tea for two.
A girl for me,
And a boy for you.

Johnnie cried out, "Come in, Mrs. Kenworthy!"

Martha gurgled, jeering. "Mrs. Kenworthy! the nerve of you! Call her mother!"

They hadn't ceased dancing. Martha had a gaudy printed purple silk thing, a man's belongings, pinned about her head, turban-wise, and her arms were clasped firmly around her husband's waist. She made a gesture with her head about the room.

"It never looked better, did it, mammie? You always wanted it this way."

The beds were standing together, at length, where they had always belonged.

"I just let Johnnie arrange everything else to suit himself," she said.

THE END

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Table of Contents

- The Painted Room
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE