"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.