WHEN I AM BOTH TOGETHER
BOSTON AGAIN.
Well, I came last night. Mother and Grandfather and Aunt Hattie and
Baby Lester all met me at the station. And, my! wasn't I glad to see
them? Well, I just guess I was!
I was specially glad on account of having such a dreadful time with
Father that morning. I mean, I was feeling specially lonesome and
homesick, and not-belonging-anywhere like.
You see, it was this way: I'd been sort of hoping, I know, that at
the last, when I came to really go, Father would get back the
understanding smile and the twinkle, and show that he really _did_
care for me, and was sorry to have me go. But, dear me! Why, he
never was so stern and solemn, and
you're-my-daughter-only-by-the-order-of-the-court sort of way as he
was that morning.
He never even spoke at the breakfast-table. (He wasn't there hardly
long enough to speak, anyway, and he never ate a thing, only his
coffee--I mean he drank it.) Then he pushed his chair back from the
table and stalked out of the room.
He went to the station with me; but he didn't talk there much, only to
ask if I was sure I hadn't forgotten anything, and was I warmly clad.
Warmly clad, indeed! And there it was still August, and hot as it
could be! But that only goes to show how absent-minded he was, and how
little he was really thinking of _me_!
Well, of course, he got my ticket and checked my trunk, and did all
those proper, necessary things; then we sat down to wait for the
train. But did he stay with me and talk to me and tell me how glad he
had been to have me with him, and how sorry he was to have me go, and
all the other nice, polite things 'most everybody thinks they've got
to say when a visitor goes away? He did not. He asked me again if I
was sure I had not left anything, and was I warmly clad; then he took
out his newspaper and began to read. That is, he pretended to read;
but I don't believe he read much, for he never turned the sheet once;
and twice, when I looked at him, he was looking fixedly at me, as if
he was thinking of something. So I guess he was just pretending to
read, so he wouldn't have to talk to me.
But he didn't even do that long, for he got up and went over and
looked at a map hanging on the wall opposite, and at a big time-table
near the other corner. Then he looked at his watch again with a
won't-that-train-ever-come? air, and walked back to me and sat down.
And how do you suppose _I_ felt, to have him act like that before all
those people--to show so plainly that he was just longing to have me
go? I guess he wasn't any more anxious for that train to come than _I_
was. And it did seem as if it never would come, too. And it didn't
come for ages. It was ten minutes late.
Oh, I did so hope he wouldn't go down to the junction. It's so hard to
be taken care of "because it's my duty, you know"! But he went. I told
him he needn't, when he was getting on the train with me. I told him I
just knew I could do it beautifully all by myself, almost-a-young lady
like me. But he only put his lips together hard, and said, cold, like
ice: "Are you then so eager to be rid of me?" Just as if _I_ was the
one that was eager to get rid of somebody!
Well, as I said, he went. But he wasn't much better on the train than
he had been in the station. He was as nervous and fidgety as a witch,
and he acted as if he did so wish it would be over and over quick. But
at the junction--at the junction a funny thing happened. He put me on
the train, just as Mother had done, and spoke to the conductor. (How
I hated to have him do that! Why, I'm six whole months older, 'most,
than I was when I went up there!) And then when he'd put me in my
seat (Father, I mean; not the conductor), all of a sudden he leaned
over and kissed me; _kissed me--Father_! Then, before I could speak,
or even look at him, he was gone; and I didn't see him again, though
it must have been five whole minutes before that train went.
I had a nice trip down to Boston, though nothing much happened. This
conductor was not near so nice and polite as the one I had coming up;
and there wasn't any lady with a baby to play with, nor any nice young
gentleman to loan me magazines or buy candy for me. But it wasn't a
very long ride from the junction to Boston, anyway. So I didn't mind.
Besides, I knew I had Mother waiting for me.
And wasn't I glad to get there? Well, I just guess I was! And _they_
acted as if they were glad to see me--Mother, Grandfather, Aunt
Hattie, and even Baby Lester. He knew me, and remembered me. He'd
grown a lot, too. And they said I had, and that I looked very nice. (I
forgot to say that, of course, I had put on the Marie clothes to come
home in--though I honestly think Aunt Jane wanted to send me home in
Mary's blue gingham and calfskin shoes. As if I'd have appeared in
Boston in _that_ rig!)
My, but it was good to get into an automobile again and just _go_! And
it was so good to have folks around you dressed in something besides
don't-care black alpaca and stiff collars. And I said so. And Mother
seemed so pleased.
"You did want to come back to me, darling, didn't you?" she cried,
giving me a little hug. And she looked so happy when I told her all
over again how good it seemed to be Marie again, and have her and
Boston, and automobiles, and pretty dresses and folks and noise again.
She didn't say anything about Father then; but later, when we were up
in my pretty room alone, and I was taking off my things, she made me
tell her that Father _hadn't_ won my love away from her, and that I
_didn't_ love him better than I did her; and that I _wouldn't_ rather
stay with him than with her.
Then she asked me a lot of questions about what I did there, and Aunt
Jane, and how she looked, and Father, and was he as fond of stars as
ever (though she must have known 'most everything, 'cause I'd already
written it, but she asked me just the same). And she seemed real
interested in everything I told her.
And she asked was he lonesome; and I told her no, I didn't think so;
and that, anyway, he could have all the ladies' company he wanted by
just being around when they called. And when she asked what I meant, I
told her about Mrs. Darling, and the rest, and how they came evenings
and Sundays, and how Father didn't like them, but would flee to the
observatory. And she laughed and looked funny, for a minute. But right
away she changed and looked very sober, with the kind of expression
she has when she stands up in church and says the Apostles' Creed on
Sunday; only this time she said she was very sorry, she was sure; that
she hoped my father would find some estimable woman who would make a
good home for him.
Then the dinner-gong sounded, and she didn't say any more.
There was company that evening. The violinist. He brought his violin,
and he and Mother played a whole hour together. He's awfully handsome.
I think he's lovely. Oh, I do so hope he's _the_ one! Anyhow, I hope
there's _some_ one. I don't want this novel to all fizzle out without
there being _any_ one to make it a love story! Besides, as I said
before, I'm particularly anxious that Mother shall find somebody to
marry her, so she'll stop being divorced, anyway.
* * * * *
_A month later_.
Yes, I know it's been _ages_ since I've written here in this book; but
there just hasn't been a minute's time.
First, of course, school began, and I had to attend to that. And, of
course, I had to tell the girls all about Andersonville--except the
parts I didn't want to tell, about Stella Mayhew, and my coming out of
school. I didn't tell _that_. And right here let me say how glad I was
to get back to this school--a real school--so different from that one
up in Andersonville! For that matter, _everything's_ different here
from what it is in Andersonville. I'd so much rather be Marie than
Mary. I know I won't ever be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde here. I'll be the
good one all the time.
It's funny how much easier it is to be good in silk stockings and a
fluffy white dress than it is in blue gingham and calfskin. Oh, I'll
own up that Marie forgets sometimes and says things Mary used to say;
like calling Olga a hired girl instead of a maid, as Aunt Hattie
wants, and saying dinner instead of luncheon at noon, and some other
things.
I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother one day that it was going to take
about the whole six months to break Mary Marie of those outlandish
country ways of hers. (So, you see, it isn't all honey and pie even
for Marie. This trying to be Mary and Marie, even six months apart,
isn't the easiest thing ever was!) I don't think Mother liked it very
well--what Aunt Hattie said about my outlandish ways. I didn't hear
all Mother said, but I knew by the way she looked and acted, and the
little I did hear, that she didn't care for that word "outlandish"
applied to her little girl--not at all.
Mother's a dear. And she's so happy! And, by the way, I think it _is_
the violinist. He's here a lot, and she's out with him to concerts
and plays, and riding in his automobile. And she always puts on her
prettiest dresses, and she's very particular about her shoes, and her
hats, that they're becoming, and all that. Oh, I'm so excited! And I'm
having such a good time watching them! Oh, I don't mean watching them
in a disagreeable way, so that they _see_ it; and, of course, I don't
listen--not the sneak kind of listening. But, of course, I have to get
all I can--for the book, you know; and, of course, if I just happen
to be in the window-seat corner in the library and hear things
accidentally, why, that's all right.
And I have heard things.
He says her eyes are lovely. He likes her best in blue. He's very
lonely, and he never found a woman before who really understood him.
He thinks her soul and his are tuned to the same string. (Oh, dear!
That sounds funny and horrid, and not at all the way it did when _he_
said it. It was beautiful then. But--well, that is what it meant,
anyway.)
She told him she was lonely, too, and that she was very glad to
have him for a friend; and he said he prized her friendship above
everything else in the world. And he looks at her, and follows her
around the room with his eyes; and she blushes up real pink and pretty
lots of times when he comes into the room.
Now, if that isn't making love to each other, I don't know what _is_.
I'm sure he's going to propose. Oh, I'm so excited!
Oh, yes, I know if he does propose and she says yes, he'll be my new
father. I understand that. And, of course, I can't help wondering how
I'll like it. Sometimes I think I won't like it at all. Sometimes I
almost catch myself wishing that I didn't have to have any new father
or mother. I'd _never_ need a new mother, anyway, and I wouldn't need
a new father if my father-by-order-of-the-court would be as nice as he
was there two or three times in the observatory.
But, there! After all, I must remember that I'm not the one that's
doing the choosing. It's Mother. And if she wants the violinist I
mustn't have anything to say. Besides, I really like him very much,
anyway. He's the best of the lot. I'm sure of that. And that's
something. And then, of course, I'm glad to have something to make
this a love story, and best of all I would be glad to have Mother stop
being divorced, anyway.
Mr. Harlow doesn't come here any more, I guess. Anyway, I haven't seen
him here once since I came back; and I haven't heard anybody mention
his name.
Quite a lot of the others are here, and there are some new ones. But
the violinist is here most, and Mother seems to go out with him most
to places. That's why I say I think it's the violinist.
I haven't heard from Father.
Now just my writing that down that way shows that I _expected_ to hear
from him, though I don't really see why I should, either. Of course,
he never _has_ written to me; and, of course, I understand that I'm
nothing but his daughter by order of the court. But, some way, I did
think maybe he'd write me just a little bit of a note in answer to
mine--my bread-and-butter letter, I mean; for of course, Mother had me
write that to him as soon as I got here.
But he hasn't.
I wonder how he's getting along, and if he misses me any. But of
course, he doesn't do _that_. If I was a star, now--!
* * * * *
_Two days after Thanksgiving_.
The violinist has got a rival. I'm sure he has. It's Mr. Easterbrook.
He's old--much as forty--and bald-headed and fat, and has got lots of
money. And he's a very estimable man. (I heard Aunt Hattie say that.)
He's awfully jolly, and I like him. He brings me the loveliest boxes
of candy, and calls me Puss. (I don't like _that_, particularly. I'd
prefer him to call me Miss Anderson.) He's not nearly so good-looking
as the violinist. The violinist is lots more thrilling, but I
shouldn't wonder if Mr. Easterbrook was more comfortable to live with.
The violinist is the kind of a man that makes you want to sit up and
take notice, and have your hair and finger nails and shoes just right;
but with Mr. Easterbrook you wouldn't mind a bit sitting in a big
chair before the fire with a pair of old slippers on, if your feet
were tired.
Mr. Easterbrook doesn't care for music. He's a broker. He looks
awfully bored when the violinist is playing, and he fidgets with his
watch-chain, and clears his throat very loudly just before he
speaks every time. His automobile is bigger and handsomer than the
violinist's. (Aunt Hattie says the violinist's automobile is a hired
one.) And Mr. Easterbrook's flowers that he sends to Mother are
handsomer, too, and lots more of them, than the violinist's. Aunt
Hattie has noticed that, too. In fact, I guess there isn't anything
about Mr. Easterbrook that she doesn't notice.
Aunt Hattie likes Mr. Easterbrook lots better than she does the
violinist. I heard her talking to Mother one day. She said that any
one that would look twice at a lazy, shiftless fiddler with probably
not a dollar laid by for a rainy day, when all the while there was
just waiting to be picked an estimable gentleman of independent
fortune and stable position like Mr. Easterbrook--well, she had her
opinion of her; that's all. She meant Mother, of course. _I_ knew
that. I'm no child.
Mother knew it, too; and she didn't like it. She flushed up and bit
her lip, and answered back, cold, like ice.
"I understand, of course, what you mean, Hattie; but even if I
acknowledged that this very estimable, unimpeachable gentleman was
waiting to be picked (which I do not), I should have to remind you
that I've already had one experience with an estimable, unimpeachable
gentleman of independent fortune and stable position, and I do not
care for another."
"But, my dear Madge," began Aunt Hattie again, "to marry a man without
_any_ money--"
"I haven't married him yet," cut in Mother, cold again, like ice. "But
let me tell you this, Hattie. I'd rather live on bread and water in
a log cabin with the man I loved than in a palace with an estimable,
unimpeachable gentleman who gave me the shivers every time he came
into the room."
And it was just after she said this that I interrupted. I was right in
plain, sight in the window-seat reading; but I guess they'd forgotten
I was there, for they both jumped a lot when I spoke. And yet I'll
leave it to you if what I said wasn't perfectly natural.
"Of course, you would, Mother!" I cried. "And, anyhow, if you did
marry the violinist, and you found out afterward you didn't like him,
that wouldn't matter a mite, for you could _un_marry him at any time,
just as you did Father, and--"
But they wouldn't let me finish. They wouldn't let me say anything
more. Mother cried, "_Marie_!" in her most I'm-shocked-at-you voice;
and Aunt Hattie cried, "Child--child!" And she seemed shocked, too.
And both of them threw up their hands and looked at each other in the
did-you-ever-hear-such-a-dreadful-thing? way that old folks do when
young folks have displeased them. And them they both went right out of
the room, talking about the unfortunate effect on a child's mind, and
perverted morals, and Mother reproaching Aunt Hattie for talking about
those things before that child (meaning me, of course). Then they got
too far down the hall for me to hear any more. But I don't see why
they needed to have made such a fuss. It wasn't any secret that Mother
got a divorce; and if she got one once, of course she could again.
(That's what I'm going to do when I'm married, if I grow tired of
him--my husband, I mean.) Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Mayhew and her crowd
don't seem to think divorces are very nice; but there needn't anybody
try to make me think that anything my mother does isn't perfectly nice
and all right. And _she_ got a divorce. So, there!
* * * * *
_One week later_.
There hasn't much happened--only one or two things. But maybe I'd
better tell them before I forget it, especially as they have a good
deal to do with the love part of the story. And I'm always so glad to
get anything of that kind. I've been so afraid this wouldn't be much
of a love story, after all. But I guess it will be, all right. Anyhow,
I _know_ Mother's part will be, for it's getting more and more
exciting--about Mr. Easterbrook and the violinist, I mean.
They both want Mother. Anybody can see that now, and, of course,
Mother sees it. But which she'll take I don't know. Nobody knows. It's
perfectly plain to be seen, though, which one Grandfather and Aunt
Hattie want her to take! It's Mr. Easterbrook.
And he is awfully nice. He brought me a perfectly beautiful bracelet
the other day--but Mother wouldn't let me keep it. So he had to take
it back. I don't think he liked it very well, and I didn't like it,
either. I _wanted_ that bracelet. But Mother says I'm much too young
to wear much jewelry. Oh, will the time ever come when I'll be old
enough to take my proper place in the world? Sometimes it seems as if
it never would!
Well, as I said, it's plain to be seen who it is that Grandfather
and Aunt Hattie favor; but I'm not so sure about Mother. Mother acts
funny. Sometimes she won't go with either of them anywhere; then she
seems to want to go all the time. And she acts as if she didn't care
which she went with, so long as she was just going--somewhere. I
think, though, she really likes the violinist the best; and I guess
Grandfather and Aunt Hattie think so, too.
Something happened last night. Grandfather began to talk at the
dinner-table. He'd heard something he didn't like about the violinist,
I guess, and he started in to tell Mother. But they stopped him.
Mother and Aunt Hattie looked at him and then at me, and then back to
him, in their most see-who's-here!--you-mustn't-talk-before-her way.
So he shrugged his shoulders and stopped.
But I guess he told them in the library afterwards, for I heard them
all talking very excitedly, and some loud; and I guess Mother didn't
like what they said, and got quite angry, for I heard her say, when
she came out through the door, that she didn't believe a word of it,
and she thought it was a wicked, cruel shame to tell stories like that
just because they didn't like a man.
This morning she broke an engagement with Mr. Easterbrook to go
auto-riding and went with the violinist to a morning musicale instead;
and after she'd gone Aunt Hattie sighed and looked at Grandfather and
shrugged her shoulders, and said she was afraid they'd driven her
straight into the arms of the one they wanted to avoid, and that Madge
always _would_ take the part of the under dog.
I suppose they thought I wouldn't understand. But I did, perfectly.
They meant that by telling stories about the violinist they'd been
hoping to get her to give him up, but instead of that, they'd made her
turn to him all the more, just because she was so sorry for him.
Funny, isn't it?
* * * * *
_One week later_.
Well, I guess now something has happened all right! And let me say
right away that _I_ don't like that violinist now, either, any better
than Grandfather and Aunt Hattie. And it's not entirely because of
what happened last night, either. It's been coming on for quite a
while--ever since I first saw him talking to Theresa in the hall when
she let him in one night a week ago.
Theresa is awfully pretty, and I guess he thinks, so. Anyhow, I heard
him telling her so in the hall, and she laughed and blushed and looked
sideways at him. Then they saw me, and he stiffened up and said, very
proper and dignified, "Kindly hand my card to Mrs. Anderson." And
Theresa said, "Yes, sir." And she was very proper and dignified, too.
Well, that was the beginning. I can see now that it was, though, I
never thought of its meaning anything then, only that he thought
Theresa was a pretty girl, just as we all do.
But four days ago I saw them again. He tried to put his arm around her
that time, and the very next day he tried to kiss her, and after a
minute she let him. More than once, too. And last night I heard him
tell her she was the dearest girl in all the world, and he'd be
perfectly happy if he could only marry her.
Well, you can imagine how I felt, when I thought all the time it was
Mother he was coming to see! And now to find out that it was Theresa
he wanted all the time, and he was only coming to see Mother so he
could see Theresa!
At first I was angry,--just plain angry; and I was frightened, too,
for I couldn't help worrying about Mother--for fear she would mind,
you know, when she found out that it was Theresa that he cared for,
after all. I remembered what a lot Mother had been with him, and the
pretty dresses and hats she'd put on for him, and all that. And I
thought how she'd broken engagements with Mr. Easterbrook to go with
him, and it made me angry all over again. And I thought how _mean_ it
was of him to use poor Mother as a kind of shield to hide his courting
of Theresa! I was angry, too, to have my love story all spoiled, when
I was getting along so beautifully with Mother and the violinist.
But I'm feeling better now. I've been thinking it over. I don't
believe Mother's going to care so very much. I don't believe she'd
_want_ a man that would pretend to come courting her, when all the
while he was really courting the hired girl--I mean maid. Besides,
there's Mr. Easterbrook left (and one or two others that I haven't
said much about, as I didn't think they had much chance). And so far
as the love story for the book is concerned, _that_ isn't spoiled,
after all, for it will be ever so much more exciting to have the
violinist fall in love with Theresa than with Mother, for, of course,
Theresa isn't in the same station of life at all, and that makes it
a--a mess-alliance. (I don't remember exactly what that word is; but
I know it means an alliance that makes a mess of things because the
lovers are not equal to each other.) Of course, for the folks who have
to live it, it may not be so nice; but for my story here this makes it
all the more romantic and thrilling. So _that's_ all right.
Of course, so far, I'm the only one that knows, for I haven't told it,
and I'm the only one that's seen anything. Of course, I shall warn
Mother, if I think it's necessary, so she'll understand it isn't her,
but Theresa, that the violinist is really in love with and courting.
_She_ won't mind, I'm sure, after she thinks of it a minute. And won't
it be a good joke on Aunt Hattie and Grandfather when they find out
they've been fooled all the time, supposing it's Mother, and worrying
about it?
Oh, I don't know! This is some love story, after all!
* * * * *
_Two days later._
Well, I should say it was! What do you suppose has happened now? Why,
that wretched violinist is nothing but a deep-dyed villain! Listen
what he did. He proposed to Mother--actually proposed to her--and
after all he'd said to that Theresa girl, about his being perfectly
happy if he could marry _her_. And Mother--Mother all the time not
knowing! Oh, I'm so glad I was there to rescue her! I don't mean at
the proposal--I didn't hear that. But afterward.
It was like this.
They had been out automobiling--Mother and the violinist. He came for
her at three o'clock. He said it was a beautiful warm day, and maybe
the last one they'd have this year; and she must go. And she went.
I was in my favorite window-seat, reading, when they came home and
walked into the library. They never looked my way at all, but just
walked toward the fireplace. And there he took hold of both her hands
and said:
"Why must you wait, darling? Why can't you give me my answer now, and
make me the happiest man in all the world?"
"Yes, yes, I know," answered Mother; and I knew by her voice that
she was all shaky and trembly. "But if I could only be sure--sure of
myself."
"But, dearest, you're sure of me!" cried the violinist. "You _know_
how I love you. You know you're the only woman I have ever loved, or
ever could love!"
Yes, just like that he said it--that awful lie--and to my mother. My
stars! Do you suppose I waited to hear any more? I guess not!
[Illustration: "WHY MUST YOU WAIT, DARLING?"]
I fairly tumbled off my seat, and my book dropped with a bang, as I
ran forward. Dear, dear, but how they did jump--both of them! And I
guess they _were_ surprised. I never thought how 'twas going to affect
them--my breaking in like that. But I didn't wait--not a minute. And
I didn't apologize, or say "Excuse me," or any of those things that
I suppose I ought to have done. I just started right in and began to
talk. And I talked hard and fast, and lots of it.
I don't know now what I said, but I know I asked him what he meant by
saying such an awful lie to my mother, when he'd just said the same
thing, exactly 'most, to Theresa, and he'd hugged her and kissed her,
and everything. I'd _seen_ him. And--
But I didn't get a chance to say half I wanted to. I was going on to
tell him what I thought of him; but Mother gasped out, "Marie! _Marie!
Stop_!"
And then I stopped. I had to, of course. Then she said that would do,
and I might go to my room. And I went. And that's all I know about it,
except that she came up, after a little, and said for me not to talk
any more about it, to her, or to any one else; and to please try to
forget it.
I tried to tell her what I'd seen, and what I'd heard that wicked,
deep-dyed villain say; but she wouldn't let me. She shook her head,
and said, "Hush, hush, dear"; and that no good could come of talking
of it, and she wanted me to forget it. She was very sweet and very
gentle, and she smiled; but there were stern corners to her mouth,
even when the smile was there. And I guess she told him what was what.
Anyhow, I know they had quite a talk before she came up to me, for I
was watching at the window for him to go; and when he did go he
looked very red and cross, and he stalked away with a
never-will-I-darken-this-door-again kind of a step, just as far as I
could see him.
I don't know, of course, what will happen next, nor whether he'll ever
come back for Theresa; but I shouldn't think even _she_ would want
him, after this, if she found out.
And now where's _my_ love story coming in, I should like to know?
* * * * *
_Two days after Christmas_.
Another wonderful thing has happened. I've had a letter from
Father--from _Father_--a _letter_--ME!
It came this morning. Mother brought it in to me. She looked queer--a
little. There were two red spots in her cheeks, and her eyes were very
bright.
"I think you have a letter here from--your father," she said, handing
it out.
She hesitated before the "your father" just as she always does. And
'tisn't hardly ever that she mentions his name, anyway. But when she
does, she always stops a funny little minute before it, just as she
did to-day.
And perhaps I'd better say right here, before I forget it, that Mother
has been different, some way, ever since that time when the violinist
proposed. I don't think she _cares_ really--about the violinist, I
mean--but she's just sort of upset over it. I heard her talking to
Aunt Hattie one day about it, and she said:
"To think such a thing could happen--to _me_! And when for a minute I
was really hesitating and thinking that maybe I _would_ take him. Oh,
Hattie!"
And Aunt Hattie put her lips together with her most I-told-you-so air,
and said:
"It was, indeed, a narrow escape, Madge; and it ought to show you the
worth of a real man. There's Mr. Easterbrook, now--"
But Mother wouldn't even listen then. She pooh-poohed and tossed her
head, and said, "Mr. Easterbrook, indeed!" and put her hands to her
ears, laughing, but in earnest just the same, and ran out of the room.
And she doesn't go so much with Mr. Easterbrook as she did. Oh, she
goes with him some, but not enough to make it a bit interesting--for
this novel, I mean--nor with any of the others, either. In fact, I'm
afraid there isn't much chance now of Mother's having a love story to
make this book right. Only the other day I heard her tell Grandfather
and Aunt Hattie that _all_ men were a delusion and a snare. Oh, she
laughed as she said it. But she was in earnest, just the same. I could
see that. And she doesn't seem to care much for any of the different
men that come to see her. She seems to ever so much rather stay with
me. In fact, she stays with me a lot these days--almost all the time
I'm out of school, indeed. And she talks with me--oh, she talks with
me about lots of things. (I love to have her talk with me. You know
there's a lot of difference between talking _with_ folks and _to_
folks. Now, Father always talks _to_ folks.)
One day it was about getting married that Mother talked with me, and
I said I was so glad that when you didn't like being married, or got
tired of your husband, you could get _un_married, just as she did, and
go back home and be just the same as you were before.
But Mother didn't like that, at all. She said no, no, and that I
mustn't talk like that, and that you _couldn't_ go back and be the
same. And that she'd found it out. That she used to think you could.
But you couldn't. She said it was like what she read once, that you
couldn't really be the same any more than you could put the dress you
were wearing back on the shelf in the store, and expect it to turn
back into a fine long web of cloth all folded up nice and tidy, as it
was in the first place. And, of course, you couldn't do that--after
the cloth was all cut up into a dress!
She said more things, too; and after Father's letter came she said
still more. Oh, and I haven't told yet about the letter, have I? Well,
I will now.
As I said at first, Mother brought it in and handed it over to me,
saying she guessed it was from Father. And I could see she was
wondering what could be in it. But I guess she wasn't wondering any
more than _I_ was, only I was gladder to get it than she was, I
suppose. Anyhow, when she saw _how_ glad I was, and how I jumped for
the letter, she drew back, and looked somehow as if she'd been hurt,
and said:
"I did not know, Marie, that a letter from--your father would mean so
much to you."
I don't know what I did say to that. I guess I didn't say anything.
I'd already begun to read the letter, and I was in such a hurry to
find out what he'd said.
I'll copy it here. It wasn't long. It was like this:
MY DEAR MARY:
Some way Christmas has made me think of you. I wish I had sent you
some gift. Yet I have not the slightest idea what would please
you. To tell the truth, I tried to find something--but had to give
it up.
I am wondering if you had a good time, and what you did. After
all, I'm pretty sure you did have a good time, for you are
Marie now. You see I have not forgotten how tired you got of
being--Mary. Well, well, I do not know as I can blame you.
And now that I have asked what you did for Christmas, I suspect it
is no more than a fair turnabout to tell you what I did. I suppose
I had a very good time. Your Aunt Jane says I did. I heard her
telling one of the neighbors that last night. She said she left no
stone unturned to give me a good time. So, of course, I must have
had a good time.
She had a very fine dinner, and she invited Mrs. Darling and Miss
Snow and Miss Sanborn to eat it with us. She said she didn't want
me to feel lonesome. But you can feel real lonesome in a crowd
sometimes. Did you know that, Mary?
But I left them to their chatter after dinner and went out to the
observatory. I think I must have fallen asleep on the couch there,
for it was quite dark when I awoke. But I didn't mind that,
for there were some observations I wanted to take. It was a
beautifully clear night, so I stayed there till nearly morning.
How about it? I suppose Marie plays the piano every day now,
doesn't she? The piano here hasn't been touched since you went
away. Oh, yes, it was touched once. Your aunt played hymns on it
for a missionary meeting.
Well, what did you do Christmas? Suppose you write and tell
Your
FATHER
I'd been reading the letter out loud, and when I got through Mother
was pacing up and down the room. For a minute she didn't say anything;
then she whirled 'round suddenly and faced me, and said, just as if
something inside of her was _making_ her say it:
"I notice there is no mention of your mother in that letter, Marie. I
suppose--your father has quite forgotten that there is such a person
in the world as--I."
But I told her no, oh, no, and that I was sure he remembered her,
for he used to ask me questions often about what she did, and the
violinist and all.
"The violinist!" cried Mother, whirling around on me again. (She'd
begun to walk up and down once more.) "You don't mean to say you ever
told your father about _him_!"
"Oh, no, not everything," I explained, trying to show how patient I
was, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn't work.) "I couldn't
tell him everything because everything hadn't happened then. But I
told about his being here, and about the others, too; but, of course,
I said I didn't know which you'd take, and--"
"You told him you didn't know _which I'd take_!" gasped Mother.
Just like that she interrupted, and she looked so shocked. And she
didn't look much better when I explained very carefully what I did
say, even though I assured her over and over again that Father was
interested, very much interested. When I said that, she just muttered,
"Interested, indeed!" under her breath. Then she began to walk again,
up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden, she flung herself on
the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. And
when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for she
threw her arms around me and cried:
"Oh, my darling, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, how
dreadful it is?"
And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and
_un_married as we were. She held me close again and began to sob and
cry.
"Oh, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it all is--how unnatural
it is for us to live--this way? And for you--you poor child!--what
could be worse for you? And here I am, jealous--jealous of your own
father, for fear you'll love him better than you do me!
"Oh, I know I ought not to say all this to you--I know I ought not to.
But I can't--help it. I want you! I want you every minute; but I have
to give you up--six whole months of every year I have to give you up
to him. And he's your father, Marie. And he's a good man. I know he's
a good man. I know it all the better now since I've seen--other men.
And I ought to tell you to love him. But I'm so afraid--you'll love
him better than you do me, and want to leave--me. And I can't give you
up! I can't give you up!"
Then I tried to tell her, of course, that she wouldn't have to give
me up, and that I loved her a whole lot better than I did Father. But
even that didn't comfort her, 'cause she said I _ought_ to love _him_.
That he was lonesome and needed me. He needed me just as much as
she needed me, and maybe more. And then she went on again about how
unnatural and awful it was to live the way we were living. And she
called herself a wicked woman that she'd ever allowed things to get to
such a pass. And she said if she could only have her life to live over
again she'd do so differently--oh, so differently.
Then she began to cry again, and I couldn't do a thing with her; and
of course, that worked me all up and I began to cry.
She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely with
her wet ball of a handkerchief. And she asked what was she thinking
of, and didn't she know any better than to talk like this to me. Then
she said, come, we'd go for a ride.
And we did.
And all the rest of that day Mother was so gay and lively you'd think
she didn't know how to cry.
Now, wasn't that funny?
Of course, I shall answer Father's letter right away, but I haven't
the faintest idea _what_ to say.
* * * * *
_One week later._
I answered it--Father's letter, I mean--yesterday, and it's gone now.
But I had an awful time over it. I just didn't know what in the world
to say. I'd start out all right, and I'd think I was going to get
along beautifully. Then, all of a sudden, it would come over me, what
I was doing--_writing a letter to my father_! And I could imagine just
how he'd look when he got it, all stern and dignified, sitting in
his chair in the library, and opening the letter _just so_ with his
paper-cutter; and I'd imagine his eyes looking down and reading what I
wrote. And when I thought of that, my pen just wouldn't go. The idea
of _my_ writing anything my father would want to read!
And so I'd try to think of things that I could write--big things--big
things that would interest big men: about the President, and
our-country-'tis-of-thee, and the state of the weather and the crops.
And so I'd begin:
"Dear Father: I take my pen in hand to inform you that--"
Then I'd stop and think and think, and chew my pen-handle. Then I'd
put down _something_. But it was awful, and I knew it was awful. So
I'd have to tear it up and begin again. Three times I did that; then I
began to cry. It did seem as if I never could write that letter. Once
I thought of asking Mother what to say, and getting her to help me.
Then I remembered how she cried and took on and said things when the
letter came, and talked about how dreadful and unnatural it all was,
and how she was jealous for fear I'd love Father better than I did
her. And I was afraid she'd do it again, and so I didn't like to ask
her. And so I didn't do it.
Then, after a time, I got out his letter and read it again. And all of
a sudden I felt all warm and happy, just as I did when I first got it;
and some way I was back with him in the observatory and he was telling
me all about the stars. And I forgot all about being afraid of him,
and about the crops and the President and my-country-'tis-of-thee.
And I just remembered that he'd asked me to tell him what I did on
Christmas Day; and I knew right off that that would be easy. Why, just
the easiest thing in the world! And so I got out a fresh sheet of
paper and dipped my pen in the ink and began again.
And this time I didn't have a bit of trouble. I told him all about the
tree I had Christmas Eve, and the presents, and the little colored
lights, and the fun we had singing and playing games. And then how, on
Christmas morning, there was a lovely new snow on the ground, and Mr.
Easterbrook came with a perfectly lovely sleigh and two horses to take
Mother and me to ride, and what a splendid time we had, and how lovely
Mother looked with her red cheeks and bright eyes, and how, when we
got home, Mr. Easterbrook said we looked more like sisters than mother
and daughter, and wasn't that nice of him. Of course, I told a little
more about Mr. Easterbrook, too, so Father'd know who he was--a new
friend of Mother's that I'd never known till I came back this time,
and how he was very rich and a most estimable man. That Aunt Hattie
said so.
Then I told him that in the afternoon another gentleman came and took
us to a perfectly beautiful concert. And I finished up by telling
about the Christmas party in the evening, and how lovely the house
looked, and Mother, and that they said I looked nice, too.
And that was all. And when I had got it done, I saw that I had written
a long letter, a great long letter. And I was almost afraid it was
too long, till I remembered that Father had asked me for it; he had
_asked_ me to tell him all about what I did on Christmas Day.
So I sent it off.
* * * * *
_March_.
Yes, I know it's been quite a while, but there hasn't been a thing to
say--nothing new or exciting, I mean. There's just school, and the
usual things; only Mr. Easterbrook doesn't come any more. (Of course,
the violinist hasn't come since that day he proposed.) I don't know
whether Mr. Easterbrook proposed or not. I only know that all of a
sudden he stopped coming. I don't know the reason.
I don't overhear so much as I used to, anyway. Not but that I'm in the
library window-seat just the same; but 'most everybody that comes in
looks there right off, now; and, of course, when they see me they
don't hardly ever go on with what they are saying. So it just
naturally follows that I don't overhear things as I used to.
Not that there's much to hear, though. Really, there just isn't
anything going on, and things aren't half so lively as they used to be
when Mr. Easterbrook was here, and all the rest. They've all stopped
coming, now, 'most. I've about given up ever having a love story of
Mother's to put in.
And mine, too. Here I am fifteen next month, going on sixteen. (Why,
that brook and river met long ago!) But Mother is getting to be almost
as bad as Aunt Jane was about my receiving proper attentions from
young men. Oh, she lets me go to places, a little, with the boys at
school; but I always have to be chaperoned. And whenever are they
going to have a chance to say anything really _thrilling_ with Mother
or Aunt Hattie right at my elbow? Echo answers never! So I've about
given up _that's_ amounting to anything, either.
Of course, there's Father left, and of course, when I go back to
Andersonville this summer, there may be something doing there. But I
doubt it.
I forgot to say I haven't heard from Father again. I answered his
Christmas letter, as I said, and wrote just as nice as I knew how, and
told him all he asked me to. But he never answered, nor wrote again. I
am disappointed, I'll own up. I thought he would write. I think Mother
did, too. She's asked me ever so many times if I hadn't heard from him
again. And she always looks so sort of funny when I say no--sort of
glad and sorry together, all in one.
But, then, Mother's queer in lots of ways now. For instance: One
week ago she gave me a perfectly lovely box of chocolates--a whole
two-pound box all at once; and I've never had more than a half-pound
at once before. But just as I was thinking how for once I was going to
have a real feast, and all I wanted to eat--what do you think she told
me? She said I could have three pieces, and only three pieces a day;
and not one little tiny one more. And when I asked her why she gave me
such a big box for, then, if that was all I could have, she said it
was to teach me self-discipline. That self-discipline was one of the
most wonderful things in the world. That if she'd only been taught it
when she was a girl, her life would have been very, very different.
And so she was giving me a great big box of chocolates for my very
own, just so as to teach me to deny myself and take only three pieces
every day.
Three pieces!--and all that whole big box of them just making my
mouth water all the while; and all just to teach me that horrid old
self-discipline! Why, you'd think it was Aunt Jane doing it instead of
Mother!
* * * * *
_One week later._
It's come--Father's letter. It came last night. Oh, it was short, and
it didn't say anything about what _I_ wrote. But I was proud of it,
just the same. I just guess I was! There wasn't much in it but just
that I might stay till the school closed in June, and then come. But
_he wrote it_. He didn't get Aunt Jane to write to Mother, as he did
before. And then, besides, he must have forgotten his stars long
enough to think of me a _little_--for he remembered about the school,
and that I couldn't go there in Andersonville, and so he said I had
better stay here till it finished.
And I was so glad to stay! It made me very happy--that letter. It made
Mother happy, too. She liked it, and she thought it was very, very
kind of Father to be willing to give me up almost three whole months
of his six, so I could go to school here. And she said so. She said
once to Aunt Hattie that she was almost tempted to write and thank
him. But Aunt Hattie said, "Pooh," and it was no more than he ought to
do, and that _she_ wouldn't be seen writing to a man who so carefully
avoided writing to _her_. So Mother didn't do it, I guess.
But I wrote. I had to write three letters, though, before I got one
that Mother said would do to send. The first one sounded so _glad_ I
was staying that Mother said she was afraid he would feel hurt, and
that would be too bad--when he'd been so kind. And the second one
sounded as if I was so _sorry_ not to go to Andersonville the first of
April that Mother said that would never do in the world. He'd think
I didn't _want_ to stay in Boston. But the third letter I managed to
make just glad enough to stay, and just sorry enough not to go. So
that Mother said it was all right. And I sent it. You see I _asked_
Mother to help me about this letter. I knew she wouldn't cry and moan
about being jealous this time. And she didn't. She was real excited
and happy over it.
* * * * *
_April_.
Well, the last chocolate drop went yesterday. There were just
seventy-six pieces in that two-pound box. I counted them that first
day. Of course, they were fine and dandy, and I just loved them; but
the trouble is, for the last week I've been eating such snippy little
pieces. You see, every day, without thinking, I'd just naturally pick
out the biggest pieces. So you can imagine what they got down to
toward the last--mostly chocolate almonds.
As for the self-discipline--I don't see as I feel any more disciplined
than I did before, and I _know_ I want chocolates just as much as
ever. And I said so to Mother.
But Mother _is_ queer. Honestly she is. And I can't help wondering--is
she getting to be like Aunt Jane?
Now, listen to this:
Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect
darling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match.
And I knew I'd look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would have
got it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin with
dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child--for any child.
Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it--some. In
fact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot. Mother didn't say anything
_then_; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and
said:
"I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But it
was not suitable at all for you--not until you're older, dear."
She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug:
"Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't getting
to be vain, and too fond of dress."
I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that
self-discipline business.
But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline.
_Is_ she getting to be like Aunt Jane?
* * * * *
_One week later._
She is.
I _know_ she is now.
I'm learning to cook--_to cook_! And it's Mother that says I must. She
told Aunt Hattie--I heard her--that she thought every girl should
know how to cook and to keep house; and that if she had learned those
things when she was a girl, her life would have been quite different,
she was sure.
Of course, I'm not learning in Aunt Hattie's kitchen. Aunt Hattie's
got a new cook, and she's worse than Olga used to be--about not
wanting folks messing around, I mean. So Aunt Hattie said right off
that we couldn't do it there. I am learning at a Domestic Science
School, and Mother is going with me. I didn't mind so much when she
said she'd go, too. And, really, it is quite a lot of fun--really it
is. But it _is_ queer--Mother and I going to school together to learn
how to make bread and cake and boil potatoes! And, of course, Aunt
Hattie laughs at us. But I don't mind. And Mother doesn't, either.
But, oh, how Aunt Jane would love it, if she only knew!
* * * * *
_May_.
Something is the matter with Mother, certainly. She's acting queerer
and queerer, and she _is_ getting to be like Aunt Jane. Why, only this
morning she hushed me up from laughing so loud, and stopped my
romping up and down the stairs with Lester. She said it was noisy and
unladylike--and only just a little while ago she just loved to have me
laugh and play and be happy! And when I said so to her this morning,
she said, yes, yes, of course, and she wanted me to be happy now, only
she wished to remind me that very soon I was going back to my father
in Andersonville, and that I ought to begin now to learn to be more
quiet, so as not to trouble him when I got there.
Now, what do you think of that?
And another thing. What _do_ you suppose I am learning about _now_?
You'd never guess. Stars. Yes, _stars_! And that is for Father, too.
Mother came into my room one day with a book of Grandfather's under
her arm. She said it was a very wonderful work on astronomy, and she
was sure I would find it interesting. She said she was going to read
it aloud to me an hour a day. And then, when I got to Andersonville
and Father talked to me, I'd _know_ something. And he'd be pleased.
She said she thought we owed it to Father, after he'd been so good and
kind as to let me stay here almost three whole months of his six, so
I could keep on with my school. And that she was very sure this would
please him and make him happy.
And so, for 'most a week now, Mother has read to me an hour a day
out of that astronomy book. Then we talk about it. And it _is_
interesting. Mother says it is, too. She says she wishes _she'd_ known
something about astronomy when she was a girl; that she's sure it
would have made things a whole lot easier and happier all around, when
she married Father; for then she would have known something about
something _he_ was interested in. She said she couldn't help that
now, of course; but she could see that _I_ knew something about such
things. And that was why she was reading to me now. Then she said
again that she thought we owed it to Father, when he'd been so good to
let me stay.
It seems so funny to hear her talk such a lot about Father as she
does, when before she never used to mention him--only to say how
afraid she was that I would love him better than I did her, and to
make me say over and over again that I didn't. And I said so one day
to her--I mean, I said I thought it was funny, the way she talked now.
She colored up and bit her lip, and gave a queer little laugh. Then
she grew very sober and grave, and said:
"I know, dear. Perhaps I am talking more than I used to. But, you see,
I've been thinking quite a lot, and I--I've learned some things. And
now, since your father has been so kind and generous in giving you up
to me so much of his time, I--I've grown ashamed; and I'm trying to
make you forget what I said--about your loving me more than him. That
wasn't right, dear. Mother was wrong. She shouldn't try to influence
you against your father. He is a good man; and there are none too many
good men in the world--No, no, I won't say that," she broke off.
But she'd already said it, and, of course, I knew she was thinking of
the violinist. I'm no child.
She went on more after that, quite a lot more. And she said again that
I must love Father and try to please him in every way; and she cried a
little and talked a lot about how hard it was in my position, and
that she was afraid she'd only been making it harder, through her
selfishness, and I must forgive her, and try to forget it. And she
was very sure she'd do better now. And she said that, after all, life
wasn't in just being happy yourself. It was in how much happiness you
could give to others.
Oh, it was lovely! And I cried, and she cried some more, and we
kissed each other, and I promised. And after she went away I felt all
upraised and holy, like you do when you've been to a beautiful church
service with soft music and colored windows, and everybody kneeling.
And I felt as if I'd never be naughty or thoughtless again. And that
I'd never mind being Mary now. Why, I'd be glad to be Mary half the
time, and even more--for Father.
But, alas!
Listen. Would you believe it? Just that same evening Mother stopped me
again laughing too loud and making too much noise playing with Lester;
and I felt real cross. I just boiled inside of me, and said I hated
Mary, and that Mother _was_ getting to be just like Aunt Jane. And
yet, just that morning--
Oh, if only that hushed, stained-window-soft-music feeling _would_
last!
* * * * *
_June_.
Well, once more school is done, my trunk is all packed, and I'm ready
to go to Andersonville. I leave to-morrow morning. But not as I left
last year. Oh, no. It is very, very different. Why, this year I'm
really _going_ as Mary. Honestly, Mother has turned me into Mary
_before I go_. Now, what do you think of that? And if I've got to be
Mary there and Mary here, too, when can I ever be _Marie_? Oh, I know
I _said_ I'd be willing to be Mary half, and maybe more than half, the
time. But when it comes to really _being_ Mary out of turn extra time,
that is quite another thing.
And I am Mary.
Listen:
I've learned to cook. That's Mary.
I've been studying astronomy. That's Mary.
I've learned to walk quietly, speak softly, laugh not too loudly, and
be a lady at all times. That's Mary.
And now, to add to all this, Mother has had me _dress_ like Mary. Yes,
she began two weeks ago. She came into my room one morning and said
she wanted to look over my dresses and things; and I could see, by the
way she frowned and bit her lip and tapped her foot on the floor, that
she wasn't suited. And I was glad; for, of course, I always like to
have new things. So I was pleased when she said:
"I think, my dear, that on Saturday we'll have to go in town shopping.
Quite a number of these things will not do at all."
And I was so happy! Visions of new dresses and hats and shoes rose
before me, and even the pink beaded silk came into my mind--though I
didn't really have much hopes of that.
Well, we went shopping on Saturday, but--did we get the pink silk? We
did not. We did get--you'd never guess what. We got two new gingham
dresses, very plain and homely, and a pair of horrid, thick low shoes.
Why, I could have cried! I did 'most cry as I exclaimed:
"Why, Mother, those are _Mary_ things!"
"Of course, they're Mary things," answered Mother, cheerfully--the
kind of cheerfulness that says: "I'm being good and you ought to be."
Then she went on. "That's what I meant to buy--Mary things, as you
call them. Aren't you going to be Mary just next week? Of course, you
are! And didn't you tell me last year, as soon as you got there, Miss
Anderson objected to your clothing and bought new for you? Well, I am
trying to see that she does not have to do that this year."
And then she bought me a brown serge suit and a hat so tiresomely
sensible that even Aunt Jane will love them, I know. And to-morrow
I've got to put them on to go in.
Do you wonder that I say I am Mary already?