"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.