Emily was sharply stung by the bitterness of that confession. She
had always wanted that novel burned up, but she hadn't wanted Martha
to be so hurt by its destruction.
"Why, Martie? What did you do that for?"
"I needn't have been so hasty! I've got most of it--in rough form.
I could put it all together again; but it would be an awful lot of
work."
"You worked on it nearly a year."
"Yes, I had. And if I'd known everything _then_ I know _now_, I
wouldn't have burned it up, you can bet! I typed it all over without
a mistake, from beginning to end; it had seventy thousand words."
"Goodness!" Emily murmured, impressed.
"And I couldn't hardly sleep, I was so anxious to see what that old
idiot of a prof. would think of it. I might have known, handing it
in to an old rake of a man!"
Emily let her go on unreproved.
"And it was the funniest thing! I just _happened_ to find out what
he meant. You hand your work in, mammie, and then you go and have a
consultation with the prof. about it. Well, I'd never had any old
consultation before. And everybody says he is a horrid man; to
women, especially. He don't think women can write novels, of course.
He thinks it's his business to discourage them. I was scared out of
my wits to go and talk to him about my novel, to tell the truth. I
might have known something was wrong, for he was as nice to me as you
please. He was surprised to see me when I came in. He didn't know
me from Adam, before, of course. I suppose he thought I'd be foaming
at the mouth, or something. He jollied me along, the oily old rake;
said my work was interesting and everything; that I'd put a lot of
work in on it. And then he said: 'You know sometimes we think it
well--to refer these themes to other departments. The last one
before you,' he said, all smooth and gentle, 'I referred to the
biologist under whom the student works. And I had yours read by
Doctor Parson, Doctor Edith Parson; she is more able than I am--to
judge of the worth of this material,' he said. 'So I had her read it
over, and I suggest you go and consult her first, and then come and
talk it over with me.' All hemming and hawing, he was, the flea. So
I swallowed it all. I didn't know any better. I knew they did send
theses and things for grad. degrees around to a lot of profs. I
asked somebody there waiting to see him, a girl from the class, who
this Doctor Parson was, but she didn't know. So then, mammie, I went
home. This was a week ago last Thursday. I was in Doctor
Stevenson's living room that evening, and I naturally asked her if
she knew who Doctor Parson was. I didn't tell her WHY I was asking,
or anything. And, mammie, what do you think she said!"
Tears came flooding into Martha's eyes.
"What difference does it make what she said, child!"
"Well, it may not make any difference to YOU, but it did to ME. 'I
know her,' she said, and she smiled sort of funny. So I said, 'Who
is she?' And she said, 'Oh, every little while some crazy woman gets
into the U, and Doctor Parson is the one that gets them into the
asylum. I had to help her once, one summer. She called me in
because I was near and strong.'" And suddenly Martha turned away,
shuddering in uncontrollable repulsion. She covered her face with
her hands, just for a second, and went on:
"I had to sit there, mammie, not saying a word to give myself away,
and take it all. She said that woman--the one that went crazy--she
wanted to go right out in the street without any clothes on, and
everything. I thought she'd never get through talking. They had to
have three policemen that night. I thought I'd just die, I was so
scared. And I got away from her as soon as I could, and I got the
novel and went right down to the janitor and asked him to let me put
something into the furnace. So he did, and I saw it burning. I saw
it all curling up burned. And then I went and stayed with Miss
Curtis. She let me have a bed in her room; she was just sweet to me,
mammie. I told her I was sick. She wanted me to go home; she said I
needed a rest."
"Martha, you _do_ need a rest, my dear. You've worked so steadily.
Why don't you come home with me?"
"Mammie--no. I went and got a job. I had--to have something--else
to think about. I couldn't go home; I couldn't bear to go back to
the doctor's. I stayed with Miss Curtis for more than a week."
"And now? Where are you now?"
"Oh, I'm back at the doctor's, all right now. I'm not a bit
more--out of my head than she is, anyway. It doesn't always follow
that if a girl--or a woman--falls in love, as they say, that she's
crazy. Look at that Doctor Stevenson. Wouldn't you say she was
sane, mammie? Wouldn't you say that if anybody in the world is in
her right mind, it's that woman?"
"Yes, I would certainly call her a well-balanced woman."
"Well!" cried Martha, triumphantly. "You say _she's_ sane, and she
keeps a lover--there--in that apartment--all the time!"
"Martha! You mustn't say that! Not so loud!" Emily looked around
her hurriedly. "You must not say things like that--gossip, like
that!"
"I'm not repeating any gossip. You needn't get so excited. I'm not
telling anybody but you, and I saw it with my own eyes."
Emily said, sharply, "I don't believe you know what you're talking
about."
"I know _exactly_ what I'm talking about! She told me when I went to
live with her that she had a friend that came to stay with her, and
that when that friend came I had to clear out. Naturally, when a
single woman says a friend is coming to stay with her, you suppose
it's a woman. But it isn't. It's a man. I saw him!"
"When? How?" Emily was intent upon refuting this mistake.
"Well, he comes for Saturday and Sunday, and I had been staying all
week with Miss Curtis. And, anyway, they always go to the concert
Saturday night. I had to go and get some underwear out of my room.
I thought they would be at the concert, so I went in."
"Well?"
"Well, she heard me opening the door with my key, and she called to
me: 'Martha, is that you? Come in here!' she said to me. And I went
into her living room; and there was that man. A great big, tall man,
walking around with his hands in his pockets. She was sitting at her
desk, pretending to be looking at an account book. 'This is my
brother,' she said to me. And he never took his hands out of his
pockets. He said to me, growling, 'I am _not_ her brother!' just
like that. And she said, 'Oh, all right, then, you aren't. You
aren't any relation to me!' You know how she thinks she can carry
anything off, that way. Of course I felt terribly embarrassed. I
just got my stuff and fled. That man was staying in my bedroom. His
things were there. Did you ever hear anything like that in your
life, mother? The nerve of her! With all that practice, and
everybody thinking she's so respectable! Nobody thinks _she's_
crazy. I'm glad I didn't burn up the first copy of my book."
"But, Martha, look here! That doesn't prove that he's--that doesn't
prove anything."
"Don't you fool yourself! I saw the man; I saw his face. You can't
tell me what a man means when he looks like that. And, anyway, Miss
Curtis saw me coming in. I bet she's in cahoots with her! She said,
'You haven't been at the doctor's, have you?' like that, sort of
excited. I said: 'Yes, I have. I thought she would have been at the
concert.' She said, 'You oughtn't to have gone there when she has
company.' And she didn't know whether to go on and say any more to
me, or not. But she didn't. So now I stay there, just as I always
did. If I'm mad, she's mad."
"But you're just silly. I don't think either of you is the least
speck insane!"
"Well, what did that oily old bird send me to that--woman for then?"
"I don't know. Maybe she was a psychologist--or a--a psychoanalyst,
or something. What was in the novel? You must be reasonable,
Martha. The university isn't keeping a woman just to send students
to asylums. She has something else to do, surely?"
"I don't think she has; not for a minute! If you'd seen that campus,
you'd think it kept a dozen specialists to weed out the nuts. And,
anyway, why did that prof. act so sort of gentle to me? Why did he
ask me so carefully if I was Martha Kenworthy, as if he couldn't
believe I was? Anyway, I'll tell you one thing, mammie; if the
doctor can keep a lover and a practice in the same apartment, I
should hope I can learn interior decoration without anybody saying
anything to me! Just imagine if anybody tried to make things
uncomfortable for the doctor; wouldn't she tell them where to get
off, though! If she can put that across, why can't I?"
"Martha, really, I don't believe this. She doesn't look like that
sort of woman."
"Well, of COURSE she doesn't! That's the whole point! Look at the
women that go parading around Hyde Park. None of them look it;
neither do I, for that matter. I don't suppose there's one of them
that's any better than I am; and they're not making any fuss about
what's happened! I can be as hardboiled as any of them; I can put on
holy airs with the rest of them; I'm understudying the doctor!"
"Well, my opinion is that you're both of you good women and useful
women, and you don't need to put on airs!"
"But you'll never understand either of us, if you do mean well;
you're too good, that's what's the matter with you. That's why I
feel--so much more at home--with Miss Curtis, and the doctor,
especially the doctor. Honestly, you can't imagine how blue I was.
I wanted to--well, I didn't know--whatever I was going to do, but
this bucked me up. Imagine, mammie! I'd like to see a doctor like
Doctor Stevenson, only more so--the best surgeon in Chicago--so that
people would just HAVE to have her operate to save them; and then I
wish she'd just go on living with all the men she wanted to--and snap
her finger at the whole bunch of them. I'm going into business. The
doctor said for me not to invest a cent with the boss; she was the
one that looked him up, and found he'd failed in New York. I told
her I hadn't any capital of my own, and I don't give a damn what
anybody suspects me of!"
Martha was wearing long thin jade earrings, and she gave her head a
little jerk as she announced her intentions. She had on a green hat,
of a hard color. Could it be just the shadow of that green over her
eyes that made them seem ringed and bitter?
"Oh, very well. But how about Christmas? You'll have a few days
off, I suppose?"
"No, I won't have any. I'm going into this business. I've got to
stick at it. Look here, mammie, if you'll stay for dinner, I'll get
Mrs. Blacksley from my shop to meet us some place. I didn't want to
take you to the shop, for I knew her husband was to have dinner with
us. He's an idiot, but she's all right. I get along with her; she's
divorced one husband. If she'd consult me, I'd tell her to divorce
another."
Mrs. Blacksley, Martha said, seldom spent even thirty cents on her
dinner. For that reason they awaited her in the Drake Café, and
planned to nourish her weariness with a thick rich dinner, and
beefsteaks were the one thing you could get better in Chicago than
anywhere else in the world, Martha declared, ignoring magnificently
her inexperience in most other places in the world. Mrs. Blacksley
joined them there.
She joined them languidly, softly. She threw off a short black fur
coat, and a little black hat, carelessly, as if all the other women
in the crowded room were sitting bareheaded. She stood up for a
moment, regardless perhaps of the attention she was attracting. She
had on a little soft black wool frock, full skirted, with the waist
fitted cunningly over her delicate breast. It was a right little
frock; it was a bit too devilishly right for her.
It made Emily think, even as Mrs. Blacksley chose to sit with her
back to the room: "Well, if what helps Martha in her friends is a
scandalous past or a compromising present, this woman is going to be
very useful to her." Nothing less like those utilitarian mentors of
Hyde Park could a girl have happened upon. Mrs. Blacksley was still
young--but her eyes had a past. Her lips had a history; her smooth
hair, drawn back so severely from those beautiful temples, so
cleverly from those little ears, had a beguiling present challenge.
Surely, for fifty generations, those gray eyes had been looking
cynically at eager lovers. Her mouth was soft and lovely; lips like
hers must have kissed only with mental reservations for centuries.
She was exotic, she was alluring. She had divorced one husband, had
she? She aroused a question then, immediately. How many men had
wanted to be her second?
She said to Martha, later, as they were going together to her
train--she spoke suddenly, struck by an interesting thought:
"Look here, isn't the doctor's name Isobel?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Well, but Martha, she said her sister's name was Isobel."
"Did she? I didn't notice."
"I did! She did say her sister's name was Isobel!"
"Well, what of it?" Martha was curious.
"Well, don't you see, there couldn't be two Isobels in one family?
They must be half-sisters, or step sisters, or something. Maybe that
man WAS a brother--of some kind."
Then Martha laughed. She laughed just like Mrs. Blacksley, softly,
jeeringly.
"You're the limit, mammie!" She laughed again, more naturally, from
sheer amusement. "You can't believe what I say, can you? You're too
good for this world, mammie! The doctor'll take care of herself.
Don't you worry about her!"
"You can laugh at me, if you want to; but I don't believe it.
Anyway, why shouldn't a woman doctor have a man patient, if she wants
one?"
"To be sure!" agreed Martha, "if she wants one," she added, in
another tone. "I don't admire her taste; but I'm willing to let her
have as many as she wants."
_Chapter Ten_
"Do a deed," they say, "and make a proverb." But why, Emily mused
more than once, should Martha, having done but one deed, go on making
proverbs indefinitely. Must she interpret life forever by that one
bitter mistake of hers? The more Emily thought of the doctor, the
more deeply she was convinced that Martha was mistaken about her
lover. She would have been a magnificent mother of a family of
rollicking boys. Was it likely that a hard-headed professional
woman, with a practice to maintain, was going to entangle herself
with awkward amorous relationships? Emily decided it was not.
It was possible, too, that Martha had misunderstood Miss Curtis.
Emily longed to prove it. She wanted to go and ask Mrs. Bissel all
she knew of Miss Curtis's history. If a woman as conventional as
Mrs. Bissel knew anything of that discrediting sort, would she have
allowed her daughter to live in her flat? Certainly not, Emily said
to herself. But just suppose Martha could be right? The least
possibility of such a thing made it out of the question for Emily to
broach the gossipy subject to Mrs. Bissel. So she held her tongue.
Then Martha walked in one snowy morning, like a normal child, home
for the holidays, happy to be home. She walked in unannounced,
alone, undefended by any stranger from intimacy with her mother! She
walked in and she gave Emily a hug--an old little-girl hug, the like
of which she had not had, since--THAT happened. Emily's neck could
scarcely believe the feeling of those arms about it. Emily's eyes
had to blink. Here now was that first little old Martha, the dear
one that had been away from her for so long. Martha had recovered
her real self; she was looking better; she was looking--bright,
again; she was looking--excited. Yes, that was the word; she was
excited through and through. Could she have fallen in love? Alas!
that was too much to hope for. When she went upstairs Emily stood
and listened. She half expected her to walk into the painted room.
She went into the guest room, however. She wasn't quite completely a
daughter yet, then.
When she came down and saw Maggie's condition, she took the
preparations for dinner out of her hands. The kitchen, some way,
seemed to belong to Martha. Even Maggie, who had never relinquished
it to Emily for a second, seemed conscious that it had changed
owners. Emily stood about, talking to her.
"What," Martha cried, "the costumes aren't made! They haven't
rehearsed for a month! Why didn't you write to me, mammie? I'd have
come to help you."
Had she forgotten how shortly she had refused to come home at all for
Christmas? Was she offering now, really, to plunge into the affairs
of this town whose very existence she seemed of late to have resented?
"I'll go and get them. Let's have a seamstress to come here, and
have a bee, and get them all done. I'll bet Miss Trent would train
the children, mammie. She loathes Mrs. Benton."
"You mustn't talk that way, Martie!"
"Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" Martha derided, making faces. "That's what you
mean, really. Only you don't say it. You know you don't want to
fall down now--just because of what Mrs. Benton would say! I'd like
to show her a thing or two myself. I bet I could get a dozen women
into this, who'd work just for spite!"
"That's not a nice way to work!"
"But it cooks the hash, mammie!"
Martha chuckled toward her mother. She kept repeating it--that new
gesture toward her. A perplexing sort of amused understanding of her
mother kept shining out of her eyes all the time she sat at dinner,
talking to her father.
As soon as she had washed the dishes she took the car and set forth
twinkling to rally workers. She came back about five with two suit
cases full of cut or basted costumes. These she deposited on the
floor of the living room, and proceeded to examine them, talking all
the time of her success. White wings she shook out, and curious red
calico legs she unfolded. Emily was sitting on the sofa. And Martha
was standing by the living-room table--where she had stood, exactly,
when she announced, "Richard Quin is getting a divorce." She bent
down and lifted up a cerise crinoline sort of wide ruche.
"Now, what do you make of this, mammie? This must be for a villain!"
And she put it around her neck--it had no fastening, yet--and holding
it tightly together, she danced across the room, and looked at
herself absurdly in a mirror.
"Believe me, mammie, this is going to be a play!"
Her manner was so triumphant, that Emily was overcome by her impulse.
"Martha!" she exclaimed, "What HAS happened to you? What's the
matter?"
The girl faced about abruptly. She stared intently at her mother.
And as she looked her face changed. It lost that new expression of
admiration with which she had warmed her mother's heart all day. And
when she spoke her voice was almost bitter.
"Well, YOU'RE a nice one to ask me that!"
"Why am I a nice one? What have I done now?"
Martha spoke with an effort. "I suppose it doesn't matter; or you
think it doesn't matter. I suppose you did what you thought best for
me. I'm not judging you, but it would have made things a great deal
easier for me if you could have told me the truth."
"The truth about what?"
Martha was annoyed by the question. She hesitated, but decided to go
on.
"I can understand you don't want to discuss it; neither would I, but
you must have meant to tell me eventually. After all, I have a right
to know, mother."
Emily saw she was desperately in earnest. "What are you talking
about?" she asked, puzzled.