A few minutes before eight he drove up to the cottage where Mamie
lived. It was even more terrible than he had imagined it, a crooked
little cottage with a funny, sagging porch, the paint peeled off, the
lumber turned grey. There had been no attempt to beautify the small
grey yard.
As he stepped out of the car Mamie came out on the porch, walked
hurriedly toward him. She had on pink, a thin, delicate pink, made very
plain. Her complexion looked quite pale, her hair softer and brighter
than ever.
She came up to him, put her hand on his arm, drew it back again.
The gesture that had been affectation with Sophie became genuine
embarrassment here.
“You—can’t—call,” she said nervously. “I told father at dinner. He’s
just stepped out. He’d get furious—if he found you here. He—he keeps
on harping on what that man told him—about my being seen with you—he
says—I’m not in your class—that you don’t mean—aren’t—that I shouldn’t
go with you.”
He saw that she was trembling. How soft she was and little. He wouldn’t
be cheated out of a ride with her—this evening—hadn’t seen her for a
long, long time. How he’d missed her!
“Jump in the car,” he said. “Hurry up, before your father gets back.
He’ll never know.”
“I can’t. You don’t know how angry he’d be. Girls don’t ride at night,
in Millersville, this way. It will make things worse.”
She drew back.
“You don’t want to go?”
“Oh, I do, I do! You don’t know how much.”
“Then jump in.”
“It wouldn’t be right. You wouldn’t respect me. Other girls—”
“My dear child, you don’t know the world. Other girls go driving at
night—and do worse things than that. Only night before last I took a
girl out driving—Sophie Redding—Miss Redding and I—”
“I know, but she’s—you know—I told you what I heard.”
“There’s no truth in that. I told you so. Now come on, be a nice girl,
jump in. It’s too perfect an evening to waste. We’ll drive down Rock
Road. No one will see us.”
“I don’t know—I—”
“Please come. You’ll please me, won’t you?”
He felt bold, masterful, put his hand on her arm. He saw that he had
done the wrong thing, been too hasty. She drew away, frightened.
“I—maybe—I’d better not see you any more, ever. That’s what I’d
planned—”
“Please come on, won’t you, dear? Don’t talk like that. Come on.”
He let his voice grow tender—he was surprised to find how much he meant
the tenderness. What if she wouldn’t go?
She hesitated a moment, then:
“All right,” she nodded, and jumped into the car.
She had ordered her parents to keep away from the front of the house,
but she knew them. She was eager to get away before they peered out of
the window or slouched out on the porch.
They left Gillen Row and were soon out in the country.
Mamie sighed, a pleasant sigh of happiness.
“I suppose I oughtn’t to be here,” she said. “It’s wrong, I know, but
it seems right when I’m with you. I’ve been so lonely lately. It seems
wonderful.”
“You’ve missed me a little, then?”
“Missed you—of course.”
The moon came out. They drove along the Sulpulpa River, and the moon
rippled a path on the water. Embury stopped the car.
“This is great, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Wonderful. I almost lose my breath at it. I’m that way about scenery—I
can’t say much. And to be here, now—”
He looked at her. She seemed almost ethereal in the moonlight, the pale
pink of her dress, the soft gleam of her hair.
He put his arm around her, very gently, drew her close to him, held up
her chin, looked at her. She was lovely, her fragrant, soft complexion,
her big eyes. He kissed her.
She gave a little gasp. But there was no pulling away, none of the
“how-dare-yous” which he had feared. As simply as a child she put her
arms around his neck, kissed him, gave little whispers of contentment.
“You dear, you dear!” Embury whispered over and over again.
Then she drew away from him, turned her back, broke into a paroxysm of
sobbing.
“What’s the matter?” Embury asked, genuinely perplexed.
He hadn’t quite understood her kissing him, though the kisses had been
very pleasant. He understood her now least of all.
“I—I shouldn’t have come with you,” she sobbed. “Don’t you see—I—I—let
you kiss me—I kissed you—I wanted to kiss you—I’m as much to blame as
you—more. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t have come with you—now, you can’t
respect me any more. After this you’ll think—”
“Now, now,” he soothed, “don’t carry on this way. Honest, it’s all
right. It really is. Of course I respect you, honey. You’re the dearest
girl I know. Why—I—love you!”
He stumbled over the word—he had never told a girl that he loved
her, before. He was quite sincere, now. Marriage—of course that was
different. He knew that. But this little girl—she was a dear—lovely, as
she lay in his arms, soft and yielding, her lips against his. Still,
now he wanted her to stop crying—he had made her cry—
“Why, dear, kisses aren’t anything, really. Lots of girls—You don’t
know the ways of the world, that’s all. Now, cheer up—I didn’t mean to
frighten you.”
“It—it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have come. Of course, when I
came, you thought—and I—I _wanted_ to kiss you. That’s the worst of
it. Only—I did want to come—I never have anything. I’m—only nothing
at all—and live in Gillen Row and you’re Marlin Embury—and now—I’ve
kissed you.”
He drove her home. All the way home she sobbed softly. There was a
light in the little cottage.
“Don’t drive me to the house,” she said. “Father’s home—it’s late—if he
saw you—I don’t know what he’d do. I’ll be all right—if I go in alone.
My mother will be waiting, too. She’ll keep him from being too angry—if
I explain to her. I—I think she’ll understand.”
He let her out at the corner, pressing her hand as he told her good-bye.
“Now don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll see you to-morrow, dear. A kiss
is nothing to worry over, really it isn’t.”
She watched his car as he drove away, sent a tiny little wave of
farewell to him as he looked back.
Her mother had gone to bed. Her father was playing cards with three
cronies in the dining-room.
“That’s right, come trailing in at all hours—running around with some
one else—got some one new?” he growled, as she passed them.
“That’s my business,” she answered curtly.
Her father might have detected a new tone in her voice if he hadn’t
been too busy seeing that he got the best of his friends before they
took advantage of him.
X
Embury worried about the kisses pretty much that night after he got
home.
After all, Mamie was such a little thing and awfully young, not more
than eighteen, probably, and not worldly, sophisticated, like the
girls he went with. He oughtn’t to have—well, taken advantage of her.
She had said she would never see him again—and then, after he had said
he’d see her to-morrow, he had seen her wave farewell. If he didn’t
see her—perhaps that would be best, after all. Still,—her kisses were
sweet—she was a dear—he remembered the touch of her soft lips.
In the morning Embury still thought only of Mamie’s arms around his
neck, her kisses. Of course he’d see her again. Why, he loved her. She
was smarter, prettier, than Sophie. Sophie wouldn’t have cried had
he kissed her—she would have thought he had proposed and put their
engagement in the papers. She probably thought they were even now.
Wouldn’t it be a joke on Sophie if he didn’t marry her, after all? His
parents—why should they rule his life?
Of course, marrying Mamie was out of the question—still, with pretty
clothes, she’d beat any girl in Millersville on looks and brains. Why,
she had them beat already. Hadn’t she gone to High School until she
had to stop to help out at home? Working every day, selling candy,
luxuries—to others. Dear little thing—and now she was probably worrying
because he had kissed her. Of course he’d see her—keep on seeing her....
At ten o’clock he peered into the windows of the Busy Bee. Mamie was
not there. At eleven he looked in again. He went to the office and
attempted to work. He looked into the shop windows both going to and
coming from luncheon. He couldn’t keep his mind on what he was trying
to do in the afternoon. Before three, he left for the day and went to
the Busy Bee, looked in, went inside. It was almost a relief not to
see Mamie—a relief, and yet it worried him.
A brown-haired girl he had never seen asked for his order. Embarrassed,
he told her he wanted to speak to Miss Carpenter. What a fool he was.
What else could he do?
Miss Carpenter hadn’t been down all day—no, she didn’t know what was
the matter. Something she could do for him? Mechanically he ordered a
box of candy.
He was glad he hadn’t found Mamie there. After last night he didn’t
like to think of her clerking—waiting on people. He’d take her
away—some place. Where? That was it—take her away. Still, he had to
stay in Millersville—a town like Millersville! And she—why she cried
when he kissed her—she was such a fragile, dainty little thing—like a
lily—that was it—a lily, who had grown up in the muck of Gillen Row.
Even too dainty for him. She wasn’t at the store. What was the matter?
What if—
He drove to Gillen Row as rapidly as he could, stopped his car in front
of the forlorn cottage. What if her father was at home? Well, he could
manage him—must manage him.
He ran up the front walk, up the broken steps, knocked at the door—the
bell seemed out of order. He waited. No answer. He couldn’t believe
that the house was empty. He would wait. He stood on the porch,
hesitating, wondering what to do. Then the door opened. It was Mamie.
She had on a blue suit, a plain little suit, with a white collar and a
little black hat, turned up all around. He had never seen her except
in summer things. How well she looked, with her bright hair showing
below the hat-brim.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “You mustn’t come. Go away—I
never—was going to see you again.”
“What’s the matter? You aren’t ill? You weren’t at the Busy Bee?”
“I’m not going back again, ever. I—I can’t stand it.”
“What are you going to do, Mamie?”
She looked so little and tragic.
“Last night father was waiting for me when I got home. You don’t know
my father. He’s cruel, brutal, sometimes. He seemed to know, before
I told him—that I’d been driving with you. So—I’m going away—I can’t
stand—this—any more.”
“Going—where?”
He came inside, closed the door. What a mean little house it was.
“I don’t know. Away from this—any place. I’ve enough money to get to—to
Giffordsville. I can find something to do there. I’ve got to have peace
and contentment—something. And you must hate me—after I kissed you last
night. You can’t care for me—respect me—and your respect was all I had.”
“My dear, my dear little girl. Why, I—I—”
His arms were around her again. But this time she did not meet his lips
with hers. She dropped her head, struggled a little, then sighed.
“You see,” she said, “I can’t struggle against you. I must go away. I
can’t stand it—any longer. This house, everything—and now—”
“Mamie.”
“Yes?”
“Look at me.”
“I can’t.”
He forced her face upward.
“Do you love me?”
“Don’t ask me to say it. You—know. Please don’t be cruel to me. Let me
go while I can.”
“Cruel to you? Mamie, I love you. You know that. You mustn’t go away
from Millersville.”
“I _must_ go. After the quarrel with father, I can’t stay here. That’s
settled.”
“You _mustn’t_ go.”
He repeated it over and over. He couldn’t let her go. Without her,
Millersville would be worse than oil-soaked Oklahoma. He dared not
imagine it, even.
“I’m going now—I’m all ready for travelling. How can anything stop me?”
She pointed to a little packed bag.
In his arms she was fragrant, sweet. How could she get along—what could
she do, alone in the world? Why—she was his girl—he could take care of
her. She understood him—his family—he wouldn’t let his parents ruin his
life.
Marry her, of course. Wasn’t she better, nobler than the rest of
the girls—a cruel father who misunderstood her—alone in the world,
really—little and sweet and dear. Going away? Why, if he married her he
could keep her here. Of course.
“I’m glad you’re ready,” he said, “because you’re going with me.”
“What—what do you mean?”
She drew away.
“What could I mean? We—we love each other. We can drive right down to
the court-house this minute. You—you won’t mind—marrying me, will you?”
She snuggled close to him and hid her head. From the sounds she made,
he couldn’t tell whether she was sobbing or giggling. But it didn’t
matter. Surely a girl could have her own method of accepting a proposal
of marriage.