"If I was you I'd have it papered, mammie. Make it into a good guest
room."
"I will not!" said Emily, emphatically. Did Martha suppose she would
just agree to the idea that there should be no daughter's room any
longer in the house?
"I'm afraid Ruth might spoil something, Martha. You don't mean to
let her turn your stove on. Ruth, don't do that!"
"She can't hurt anything. The first day it rains I'll show her how
to make candy up here, or maybe we'll cook a little supper up here
and invite your aunt and my mammie." And Martha smiled gravely at
the happy child. "Nice days like this it's better to play out in the
yard. I'm going to show you how to make a beautiful kind of a
playhouse out there."
They were running in and out of the house, collecting their
house-building material. They were up in the tree. Emily could have
imagined that Jim Kenworthy was playing there in the garden with his
little niece. For, after a little, four pieces of rope came dangling
down from certain limbs of that tree. Presently they were weighted
down taut by four bricks tied to them, just missing the grass. These
ropes were the four corners of the house. In a few minutes the walls
of old sheets were being safety-pinned into place. And a fifth taut
rope came down for the side of the door. And the rag rugs were being
spread on the grass inside. "And where are those old little chairs,
mammie? Where are my old things? Where's my little table been put?"
They were running up and down from the attic, dustily. At dinner
time Ruth was more talkative than ever before. Nobody else knew how
to build as nice playhouses as Uncle Jim, she told her auntie as they
sat down. He had invented that kind of playhouse.
"Uncle Jim who?" asked Bob, suddenly.
Ruth looked blank. "I don't know Uncle Jim who," she said. "I just
mean Martha's Uncle Jim."
"Oh," said Bob. He looked at her keenly. He looked at Emily.
"Funny," his face seemed to say, "to hear this child of a stranger
talking about Jim."
Ruth babbled on. She seemed to know a surprising lot about Uncle
Jim. She had appropriated him along with the painted room and the
playhouse. After lunch she took Bob by the hand and led him out to
see it.
Emily hoped Martha saw the two of them walking down the path
together. The sight some way made her think of Bob in the graveyard
on Decoration Day--standing looking at the tombstone he had erected
there for his beloved brother. In spite of Emily's protest he had
engraved on it: "In memory also of his son James Kenworthy,
1903-1918--who died an unnecessary death, alone and unafraid."
Mrs. Benton, of course, had been in and seen Ruth. At once she had
given orders to the guard that the child was to have special swimming
lessons. And she was at the beach with her aunt, the fourth day of
their visit, when Martha, having driven Emily about the town on some
errands, turned the car towards the country.
"I want to tell you something, mammie!" she had said.
Emily was gratified that Martha cared to talk to her alone, for
although she had been polite, always when Miss Curtis was there, she
had been distant. Now she chose a road little traveled, and,
settling down to drive slowly, she burst abruptly into intimacy.
"Mother, I want to tell you something! It's the most surprising
thing you ever heard in your life! You won't believe it!"
"Of course I will."
"Well, guess who Ruth _is_! _Guess_, mammie!"
"Why? Isn't she Miss Curtis's brother's child?"
"She's Miss Curtis's own child. She's her mother, mammie!"
Emily was dazed. She murmured her incredulity.
"I _told_ you you wouldn't believe it! You could have knocked me
down with a feather when she told me. Did you ever hear of such a
thing in your life? It's too funny, mother. Why did we take so to
each other, in the first place? Why did she understand me so?
Because she'd been through the same hell herself! It's too strange!"
"Why Martha! How old is she?"
"I don't know how old she is, exactly. I don't think she's more than
thirty-five. She kept the child with her for four years; then she
had to have more money, and she came to Chicago to teach, and left
her there, not at her own house, but in Iowa. She was a very
delicate child, and she couldn't leave her and go teaching, with just
anybody. She has an awfully good home for her, and she's going to
bring her to Chicago when she starts high school, if she keeps well.
Imagine, mammie! It makes me boiling mad when I think of that woman
slaving away to support that child, and some damned man running
around not caring. Isn't she magnificent, mammie? Being good to all
those dirty kids in her school! That's why she never has a cent to
spend; that's why she eats thirty-cent suppers. And when I think how
I came along, and just took care of her and helped her all I could,
not knowing, I could just sing! You see those dresses Ruth has got?
I bought them all for her; she had only--sort of plain little things,
and not enough. They had to be washed out. Makes me so mad to think
about it."
"But, Martha, how--how did you find this out?"
"She _told_ me herself. You see--she wouldn't say what she was going
to do when her school was out, at first. She sort of hung off--she
wouldn't say who was coming into the flat, or when she'd rented it
for. Then when I insisted on staying--the other girls were
leaving--she said she wanted to keep it a few days, because she was
having company from the country. I knew she was tired out, so I said
I'd help her entertain them. I'd drive them around. But she didn't
want me to. I thought, maybe, they were--sort of funny country
people, or something. And, anyway, she didn't intend having any real
vacation. She said she was going to spend her vacation with her
sister, whose husband has T.B. of the bones, and she has a whole
family of children, and she does her own washing and everything.
Miss Curtis was going to take care of that man sick in bed, and of
the kids, and give her sister a rest. That's just like her, mother.
And I just put my foot down and said she had to come here and have a
few days' rest herself first. And then she hummed and hawed, and
said her niece wanted to come and see Chicago. And then, when all
the girls were gone, she told me. She said, 'She's my very own
child, Martha.' Just like that! I'd begun to suspect something
funny by that time; and even then I thought maybe she had adopted her
or something. I couldn't believe it. How could I believe that of a
woman like Miss Curtis? And then, mammie, I wish you'd have seen
those two when Ruth got there. They just sat down together and cried
for joy! You know me, mammie; I'm not sentimental, but I went into
my room and cried my eyes out when I remembered how they looked at
each other!"
"Well, of all things!"
"Yes! To _think_ that I found her! She said once to me that she'd
lived in that flat with students for six years, and she'd never let
anybody share her meals with her but me. She doesn't make friends
easily--naturally. We understood each other; I didn't know why, of
course! And I suppose the reason she talked to me about all her
relations so much was so I wouldn't suspect she was hiding anything!
Think what she's been through, mammie! Ruth doesn't live near her
people, you know. They're in Iowa. They must know about her, of
course, but apparently she doesn't take Ruth to them. She just goes
out there to see her, or takes her some place. And, mammie, that
family that keep her, they love her; they want to adopt her; they do
everything for her. Miss Curtis won't be jealous of them, but they
have her nearly all the time. My God! Mammie, when I think of it!
She can always come here, can't she, mammie? We can be friends to
her, mammie!" And when Martha turned to her mother her eyes were
swimming with tears. "Think of that child's future! Isn't she a
sweet little thing? She doesn't do very well in school; she's so
happy, she's lazy. Miss Curtis says she absolutely refused to bring
her here until I told her Mrs. Bissel and May had gone to the lakes."
"Of course she can come here! We'll make a home for Ruth here!"
"But we can't do much, mammie. Miss Curtis is so independent, I can
hardly manage her. You see, she won't accept anything from me,
hardly. But she can't refuse to let me get Ruth things. I got her
that doll, of course. I'd like to get hold of that child's father a
little while! I bet I'd put the fear of God into him! Mammie, I
can't tell you how worked up I've been over this, this last week.
When I look at that woman, I just sort of shiver with admiration.
She breaks me up so. Isn't she sporting? Isn't she a brick? Look
what she is and what she's been through! I look at her and wonder if
there's anything in the world a woman can't do! And like as not the
school board will find it all out, some day, and fire her! I'm never
going to lose track of that child; I'm going to keep friends with
her! Mammie, I've been--excited all week! I had to tell you! It
seems too strange!"
"It does seem too strange," Emily repeated.
"By heck! what a novel I'm going to write! This--sets me up; this
eggs me on so! I'm going to change a lot of it; I'm going to make it
hotter!"
"Does Miss Curtis know about the novel?"
"Yes. She knows I'm writing it; but she doesn't know why."
Emily marveled; she kept on marveling. She was as excited as Martha
was the next few days. She had to keep from looking at Miss Curtis
too intently; that woman had become almost too poignantly
interesting. It was as if she was living Emily Kenworthy's life and
Martha's. It seemed impossible to believe Martha's story. Miss
Curtis was unromantic, so dull, so sensible. She seemed almost
stupidly passionless--except when the child came running to her. And
when Emily saw her draw little Ruth to herself, and push her fringe
of hair away from her forehead, and look at her, she had to believe
that Martha had stumbled upon the truth of the situation. The woman,
undoubtedly, was maternity itself. Had she some way guessed what
Martha had been through, and told her this secret for some unselfish
purpose? Could she have loved some one beyond all reason? How had
she managed to hide her shame? How had she endured the pity and the
jeerings of the secure and holy? Emily found herself in Martha's
state. She quivered with curiosity and reverence, and a desire to
befriend those two. Could that woman be living in fear that some day
when her secret would become known, she would be without a means of
earning her living? "I must pretend not to be very much interested
in her!" Emily kept saying. But she understood why Martha had felt
so lifted up by her discovery.
_Chapter Nine_
Mrs. Benton stepped in for a minute one afternoon, on her way home.
"Where's Bob?" she asked, cautiously.
"He's gone downtown."
"I just thought I'd tell you about Johnnie. He's going to be home in
about three weeks, I think, or maybe four. So it would have to come
out, anyway. Do you know what he's doing this summer?"
"No. You didn't tell me."
"Well, he got a job as a steward on a boat going to South America; a
steward, Emily. Carrying coffee around on a little tray; and from
there he went to Hong-Kong on some sort of a ship."
"Goodness! What a lot of the world he's seeing!"
"Yes; carrying coffee into women's staterooms, and they won't have
their hair combed!"
"Still, he's seeing the world! How did he get the job?"
"Oh, I don't know. Went with some of his boon companions to New
York, and there was a strike, and they just got jobs and went away.
He didn't wait to ask my advice, of course."
Emily hesitated.
"What's he planning to do next year?"
"He won't be planning anything. I'm planning to have him go back and
get his degree. I'm going to my sister's for a little rest before he
gets home."
"You haven't been away at all all summer."
"Well, if I'm going to manage the beach, I've got to be on the job.
You haven't been away, either."
"I couldn't think of leaving Bob."
Mrs. Benton's glance spoke disagreeing volumes.
A month later, Emily met Johnnie with his mother coming out of the
post office. Just the same old Johnnie, happy-go-lucky and careless,
grinning and frank. The Orient had conferred upon him no subtlety,
Spanish America had taught him no guile. A small chance they had
had, to be sure. A longer one would have been as ineffective. He
came to see Emily that same day. She looked at him curiously,
envying him his experience. To have smelled China! to have blinked
at Brazil!
All he said was: "Sure I had a good time; I earned my own living,
anyway. And there's no garbage can in the world I can't eat out of
now, after what I lived on across the Pacific. When's Martha to be
home?"
Emily didn't know. She gave him, rather reluctantly, her address.
He drove up to Chicago the next day, in the new car his mother had
ordered as soon as he left Hong-Kong for San Francisco. Cora Benton
said he had gone to see Martha, she felt sure, because he refused to
take her with him. But what happened when their children met neither
mother knew. Presently Johnnie went back East to college, driving
the new car. Mrs. Benton said she really didn't need it. She wasn't
well, and she was going to California early, for all the winter. Her
tone implied that the town would just have to worry along without her
as best it might. She hated, she said, having the children's
Christmas party in the hall fall through.
Emily was drawing all the comfort about her that she could get from
the fact that she was still, at any rate, with Miss Curtis, when
Martha wrote that she had left her flat. She had got a better place
in the apartment of a woman doctor in the neighborhood. The
announcement upset whatever peace of mind Emily had achieved. Could
Martha have quarreled with her friend? A woman doctor, Emily would
have thought, was the last person she would have taken up with.
There came a dull day when she said to herself that she didn't care
whether Martha wanted her or not, she was going to Chicago to see
where she was living.
But in the train her heart grew heavier. Martha had said distinctly
that she had no room for company. She must have written that to warn
her mother not to come investigating. This doctor person wasn't one
you could just disturb. So Emily shopped all the afternoon,
dispiritedly. Once she tried in vain to get Martha by 'phone. She
sat in Field's tea-room an hour, determined not to go back home
without seeing her child, yet dreading to find herself unwelcome.
That would be more than she could endure. She felt tears coming into
her eyes, at length. "I can't stay here and make a fool of myself!"
she thought, angrily. She went down to the street into the darkness
and got into a taxicab. And, after a long time, during which Emily
commanded herself repeatedly not to be silly, the taxi stopped in
front of a very smart new apartment house.
Emily announced herself up the speaking tube meekly, half expecting a
rebuff. "This is Martha Kenworthy's mother. Is Martha in?"
"Ho!" cried an exuberant voice in surprise. "Wait a moment!"
Some one was running down the stairs to show her the way up. Emily
was conscious of a richly carpeted hall, a large gay room, a stunning
seal-brown frock on a woman as large as herself, with a fine head, a
high color, a heart-warming sort of person of great vitality.
"Mrs. Kenworthy! Do come in! I know all about you. Sit down. I'm
Isobel Stevenson. No, Martha isn't here just now; I'll 'phone her.
She's getting dinner at Miss Curtis's. I am glad to see you; I've
been curious about you, after all I've heard."
She picked up the 'phone from a desk in the room, asked for the
number without looking it up, and went on talking all the time she
waited for her connection.
"Jennie Curtis told me all about you, of course, about your husband
and the garden. I'd like to take her home for week-ends myself, but
it's too far. She doesn't stand driving well.--Hello, Martha! Your
mother's here.... I said your mother.... Why didn't you tell me she
was coming? ... Never mind, drop it. Come on over.... Well, come
and have supper with me. Tell Jennie to come.... Of course she'll
come. Tell her I said she was to come.... Leave a note for her,
then.... Oh, put them in water and let them stand till to-morrow; or
bring them along and cook them here.... She told me Martha bought
that car just to take her out home with. That's some girl of yours,
Mrs. Kenworthy. Of course, Jennie Curtis is pure gold, but you don't
often get a girl of Martha's age who knows gold when she sees it.
She came over the other day and asked me to take Martha in till my
friend comes back." She had seated herself near Emily, who had not
had a chance to say one word. She pointed now with a large gesture
at the pictures on the walls, the interesting-looking things which
Emily had only vaguely realized were about her. "I live here with a
friend who travels a great deal. All these things are hers, really.
So I took her in, just to please Jennie. And I must say I like her.
She's an awfully nice girl for her age. I find her companionable.
But tell me, Mrs. Kenworthy--there isn't much time; she'll be here in
a minute--hasn't she had some sort of affair, some disappointment, or
something?"
The fact that she paused for an answer was as surprising as the
question she had asked, professionally, as it were. Her praise of
Martha, her vigor, the richness of the setting, her friendliness, all
of it was so contrary to Emily's mood and expectations that she was
overwhelmed. She felt tears coming into her eyes.
"Oh yes!" she cried. "And you're a doctor. Do something for her.
She's been through--terrible things; she's so young!"
"I knew it!" said the doctor, complacently. "I knew it the first
time I really talked to her. But she's getting over it; she don't
need any help; she's got stuff in her. Don't you worry."
"No," murmured Emily, "I'm not worried, of course. I--I'm tired, I
guess. I--can't--I--may I go and wash my face? I don't know what
made me--do this."
Emily was shown into Martha's bedroom. A white-tiled bath opened off
it. No comfort was lacking in that bedroom, which seemed to have
aspired originally to feminine austerity. Martha's familiar things
made it homelike. And in that room Martha found her mother, before
Emily had had time to powder her nose.
Martha's greeting was warmer because of those tears.
"What on earth's the matter, mammie?" she said, hugging her. "Why
didn't you let me know you were coming? You've been crying! What's
the matter?"
Emily's impulse was to shout out the truth. "I've been so lonely for
you, so worried about you!" But she said, instead: "Oh, nothing's
wrong. I just got--bored. I--just felt--I couldn't stay in that
house a minute longer! I just had to get away or shriek." Emily had
heard women say things like that. Unwittingly she had touched Martha
deeply.
"Well, you poor old thing! I always knew you must feel that way,
living with--in that house. But you'd never acknowledge it. How did
you find this place? Quite an apartment, isn't it? I was sick of a
rooming house! Have you seen the doctor?"
"Yes."
"She seemed pleased, didn't you think so? She didn't look annoyed.
I was told I couldn't have company here. It isn't often----"
The doctor was there with them.
"We're going to have a spread, Martha! The maid's out. You go and
get the lettuce, get two heads, get good ones; and some whipping
cream; and some bronze chrysanthemums. Oh, it's no trouble, Mrs.
Kenworthy! I feel just like it to-day. The time and place and the
loved ones to bother. If you can't get the chrysanthemums, get
some--something that color. And hurry back."
The doctor had on a white apron, and the kitchen had made her cheeks
rosier. She set Emily down to rest for a little in the interesting
living room. Miss Curtis came in, and was ordered to sit and talk to
her. But every minute or two the doctor came in from the kitchen,
and with her a flood and whirlpool of words. Emily scarcely had a
chance to say a word all that evening; but the house excited her
until her color was almost as bright as the doctor's.
Everything on the dining table was like the hostess. The table mats
were of a strong and superior unbleached linen; the vivid dishes
called aloud for admiration; the candle-light was flattering. Emily
sat excitedly studying the doctor. Whoever put herself into that
woman's care would never afterwards dare to call either body or soul
her own. But if she was high handed, she was also high hearted. She
talked almost without ceasing; and whatever little thing she talked
of, she enjoyed so merrily that the three women watching her, shared
her delight to some extent. And when she laughed a hearty laugh,
every time Emily thought surprisedly: "What a good time I'm having!
This is the best possible place for Martha!"
"Did you ever taste any sort of canned meat as good as this chicken
in your life? Lobster simply isn't in it! It's fatted calf for me.
My mother keeps me in it; but I never open a jar when I'm alone; I'm
not _that_ selfish, anyway. Cold pack, of course, as you know, Mrs.
Kenworthy. We had a family scrap about it the last time I went home.
My sister Isobel--she's an awful woman as far as she can manage to
be--she said to me, 'Now look here, Isobel' (she's always trying to
boss me around), 'you can just find a deadly germ in canned chicken.
I'm not going to have mother worried to death canning chicken for you
to guzzle any longer. She's too old, and so are you. You can just
tell her you've got poisoned by it and you aren't going to eat it any
longer.' 'I'll be damned if I'll find a deadly germ in it,' I told
her. 'If you don't want mother doing it for me, you can do it
yourself.' After all you can't just stand your relations imposing on
you forever, can you? Not if you have as many as I have! I just
made an announcement then and there. My fees for removing appendices
are canned fat chicken, and those strawberry preserves they make in
the sun so they keep the right color of red. I'm not going to eat
city chickens that have been shut up in a little coop on
Fifty-seventh Street. I want contented hens that have crowed in the
barns I have played in. Nice sunny barn doors! Don't you love barn
doors on spring days when all the hens are cackling? What do I
practically keep a bed in the Presbyterian Hospital full of my
fifty-two first cousins for, anyway, if I have to eat canned salmon
on occasions of haste? There are limits to my patience. What are
you snickering at, Martha? That's not a pun!"
With such banalities she kept them aroused, expectant. There was no
constraint; no one of the three was thinking of something amusing to
say; each knew very well she would have no chance to say anything
amusing, however well prepared she might be. The doctor never ceased
for a minute.
Finally she folded up her tongue for the night and left them together
there.
"Is she always like that?" Emily murmured.
"Oh no, I don't think so. I don't know her very well. I never had a
meal here before. You've made a hit with her, mammie! She sort of
owns Miss Curtis. Maybe she took care of her through--THAT--or
something. Anyway, Miss Curtis told her about you, and that's why
she asked you to stay here. Of course, she just took me in because
Miss Curtis has been fussing about me studying in the kitchen ever
since she saw our house. She's made up her mind--the doctor
has--that Miss Curtis has got to put those girls out, when she can,
because they're so thoughtless about her, and everything, and that
I'm to have those front rooms and do them over to suit myself. She
bosses everybody around. I guess she thinks she's got a lot more
sense than most people, and so she ought to tell them where to get
off. You can see why she's got such a practice. Can't you just see
her sailing into somebody's sick-room with her tail up, that way, and
making them wild to get up and be strong as a horse, like she is?
Miss Curtis says she's the only woman who ever got through medical
school and got a practice without losing her color. She doesn't pay
very much attention to me. She's busy, 'most always. Sometimes she
gets to talking about some interesting case, and goes on half the
night. I never get a word in edgewise. I just listen."
Emily, as she lay waiting for sleep, said to herself: "Well, if
horrible things happen to us when we don't expect them, so do lovely
things. If I'd searched this city over for two friends for Martha,
I'd never have found any equal to these two. The doctor's just a
clean gale blowing through Martha. She'll clean out her mind; she'll
do for her what I never could. Why should I want to do everything in
the world that's done for her? Why can't I be satisfied to see those
women helping her along?"
She went back to her home more happy about Martha than she had been
for months. Mrs. Benton had already gone East and it promised to be
a quiet winter for club-women in general The one great event of it
was to be the annual Christmas party for children. Mrs. Benton had
instituted the custom the winter before, the first year of the new
dance hall. She had given a splendid party that once. She left a
committee behind her to try to follow her example.
They were discussing it at lunch. Emily had realized that the women
across from her were talking about ways of finding good jobs for
girls who had to leave high school, when Mrs. Bissel leaned across
towards her and asked:
"Mrs. Kenworthy, by the way, what's this new job Martha's got?
What's she planning to do?"
There were four women who might be supposed to be listening in that
pause with more or less curiosity for Emily's reply.
She had heard nothing of Martha's job. She smiled. "Oh, I don't
know," she replied, lightly. "I don't think it's anything
very--purposeful."
"But do you approve of her leaving the university to take it up?"
Emily had heard not a hint of Martha leaving the university. She
must have left in the middle of a quarter.
She said, "Not altogether." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'm afraid
her heart's never really been in the university. I wish she could
have gone on, in her own college, with her own class. But I do think
girls of her age have to decide these things for themselves."
She left the meeting early. She had a notion to go straight to
Chicago. What job could Martha possibly have got? And why? And had
she left her two good friends? And did she mean deliberately to hurt
her mother's feelings by having her learn this through Mrs. Bissel?
"Perhaps," thought Emily, longingly, "she's taking somebody's place
for a few weeks. Perhaps just at Christmas; perhaps the doctor's
office girl has got ill, or something. I expect she's helping some
one. And she's been too busy to write. I ought to do some Christmas
shopping. I'll go up to-morrow and 'phone her, at least. I'll see
for myself what's she into."
And after supper Martha called her by 'phone. The connection was
poor. Some operator had to relay the unsatisfactory message. All
that Emily understood was that Martha would meet her for tea the next
day at the usual place.
But the next afternoon Martha led her to a new-found tea-room in an
office building--a remote place, one secure corner of which the two
of them had quite to themselves. Emily had to feel her way towards
her daughter carefully, for she saw at once that Martha was in an
evil mood. Around her eyes were the hollows and shadows of tears.
She began directly: "I got a job; I didn't write you--because I've
been too blue. I've just felt like crying my eyes out every minute
the last week. I just had to 'phone you. I knew I ought to tell
you; I just thought I couldn't write. I'm working in a shop; it's a
classy place, believe me. Interior decorators, on Mich. Boul."
"Do you like it?"
"Well, I'm not mad about it by any means. It'll do."
"You go to your lectures still at the U? You don't stay in this shop
all day?"
"No. I'm done with that place. I'm going to smoke. You needn't
make a fuss; everyone's used to it here."
"Perhaps this will be better than writing away on a novel," Emily was
thinking. She didn't want to seem to look too inquisitively at
Martha. She played about with her tea; she called Martha's attention
to the couple who had entered. "Why is it," she asked, to break the
silence, "that the more expensive the fur coat, the fatter the woman
inside it?"