Emily understood then. The shock brought a cry of horror from her.
"Oh, Martha!"
Martha knew pain when she heard it.
"Oh, mammie!" she cried back, running to Emily, sitting down close to
her. "Mammie, don't cry! Don't think I care! I'd a million times
rather have him for my father! I never loved you, really, before! I
didn't pry into it. Honestly, mammie, it just came to me, like the
morning; like light flashing into me, mammie!"
Emily had drawn away from her and covered her face with her hands.
Martha thought she was crying. She besought her tenderly:
"Mammie, don't you mind my understanding it. Oh, if you knew how I
felt about it! When I think of you living here all these years! I
started to come home to you the minute I realized it. It came to me
like a flash in front of Woolworth's in State Street, there. I was
walking along, blue enough to die; I just wanted to die, I was so
sore. And I saw that front and I remembered going into Woolworth's
_here_, between you and Uncle Jim. I don't mind calling him that;
it's a dear name for him. I remembered all of a sudden just how you
looked at each other. Mammie, it just stunned me when I understood.
I hadn't gone a block before I saw it all. I don't know why I didn't
always understand it. Because he always was just naturally my
father, wasn't he? Nobody ever had to teach me to love HIM! Dad
never felt that way about me, naturally. It wasn't his fault he
never had any interest in me. I knew why you stood Bronson, then! I
remembered how you looked after the funeral! I was so excited I just
couldn't stand up. I sat down on a bench in the public library
lobby, and just sat there! Oh, I never appreciated you till now,
mammie! I'm going to take care of you now. When I think of you
living year in and year out in this house with dad--I'll call him
that! I don't care about names! The way you've put it across right
here, in this dirty gossipy little town, and nobody DARED to suspect
you of anything! Not ANYTHING! Why do you look at me that way? You
intended to tell me some time, surely!"
Now for the first time in her life Emily had drawn away from her
child in repulsion. She had started to speak; she had started to cry
out her denial. But that young, eager, relit face was close to hers.
No matter how illuminating the mistake was, the poor distorted child
must know the truth. But as Emily opened her lips to speak, the poor
distorted child went on; she had seized Emily's hand in both her own:
"Oh, now I know what they mean, being born again. I was just born
again, mammie! I know now why you never scolded me--why you stood by
me; you understood. You've been through it! And everybody loves
you; they just bless you! You aren't afraid they'll find it out.
You just go on! I'm going on, too! My God! how I'm going on! If
you can put this across, so can I! You never were afraid of dad
finding it out, even, were you?"
Emily Kenworthy murmured, "No." She meant to add, "There was never
anything to find out, you bad, silly girl!" but she didn't.
She could find no excuse for her conduct, as she thought it over,
that night. She had simply been hypnotized by the beauty of that
child's eagerness. It had been such a long time since she had seen
eagerness, hopefulness, twinkling out of that little sweet face of
hers, that she hadn't had courage to darken it again. Martha had
just sat there, caressing her, babbling out her enjoyment of her
mother's infamy, until Greta's older sister had come in. Emily had
made her entrance an excuse for getting away to her room. And there
she had sat dazedly, hurt, ashamed of her daughter, more ashamed of
herself. How could I have hesitated a minute! I ought to have
corrected her the minute she dared to suggest that to me! But what
difference does it make? It's good enough for Bob! He never
appreciated her! What do I care what she thinks, if it does her any
good? I'm not high and holy any longer! I understand her! Hasn't
she any sense of honor at all, that she's so pleased? Why should I
be so shocked? Didn't I plan often enough to leave Bob and go to
Jim? She only accused me of what I often wanted to do! I gave that
up, and this is what I get for it! She wishes she was Jim's. She
thinks I went on living with Bob! "My God!" cried Emily. "But she
can't help it; she has to suspect somebody. It's her luck, after
what she's done. Why should I feel so sick about this?"
And even while she sat there feeling sick at heart, Martha's voice
came dancing up the stairs.
"Mammie, what are you doing? Can't you come down a minute?"
And Emily had gone down, hardening her heart. "I'm never going to
tell her the truth," she was vowing. "Let her think that, if it does
her any good!" And all that evening she had talked and listened to
talking, like one in a dream. Whatever she said, it was of Martha's
base accusation that she was conscious. "Surely," she was thinking,
"if I gave Jim up once for this child, I can give up Bob and my
scruples, just in her mind, for a little while." She was so
preoccupied with her thoughts that she scarcely spoke during supper.
Bob noticed her quietness. She had been gay at dinner. He was the
more affable to Martha.
"Where's Miss Curtis now? Is she coming down for Christmas?"
"No. She's gone to Ruth--to Indiana."
"Well, she's a nice sort of a woman, for a school-teacher." Emily
saw the cynical smile that came about Martha's mouth.
"You bet she is!" she replied, enthusiastically. "But you ought to
see the doctor. Dad, she'd show you a thing or two."
"That's what I like about Miss Curtis. You can trust her to mind her
own business. You feel safe with her."
"Don't you, though? You can trust her absolutely, couldn't you, dad?
You could always be sure she'd be upright, couldn't you?"
Upright was a strange adjective. Bob looked up to see if Martha had
begun spoofing him again. She looked innocent, but he changed the
subject. Martha looked knowingly across at her mother. Emily wanted
to spank her.
Later in the evening again she experienced the same desire. She came
into the sitting room to hear Martha cajoling over the 'phone the
most conventional, conservative, disapproving woman who ever eyed
bobbed hair and short skirts maliciously. "But we want you so, Mrs.
Mason. Everybody says there's no one who can get as much work done
in one afternoon as you." And on she talked, till she hung up the
'phone triumphantly.
"Martha, why in the world did you invite _her_ here?" Emily asked.
Martha winked at her naughtily. "I just asked her because she's so
extra holy!" she answered, and she laughed. She had the upper hand
of life now, that girl!
She ought to have been pitifully spanked, but now that she had got
things under way, there was scarcely time to reprove her. Emily
remembered the days when Bob had complained that he could never get
her alone long enough to "settle her." The house was bustling and
hurrying about, as Martha used to make it stir, full of her girl
friends coming and going, confused by committee women of inspired
importance. School children were singing their parts at the piano;
angels were adjusting their feathers in the hall; the 'phone was
ringing. Emily watched Martha "putting it across," each day a little
more naughtily, a little more triumphantly. She apparently intended
to be as highly respected in the town as her deceitful mother. It
was not pleasant, to say the least, to see her sitting deferring with
studied docility to the opinion of women whom Emily knew she was
scorning with all her might. Never before had she been quite such a
"nice girl." She was demure; she was discreet; she gave someone else
credit for every good idea she put forth quietly, graciously; she
made her elderly neighbors smile at her mother as if to say "What a
clever child this is of yours." And, when they left, she would hug
her mother, grinning, chuckling. Thick as two thieves they were,
together in conspiracy.
The only thing that seemed difficult to explain about Martha was the
absence of admirers who had formerly beset her father round about.
Johnnie, of course, had not come home from the East, but there were
numbers of young collegians who had returned for Christmas. Why,
Emily wondered, did they avoid the Kenworthy house? She understood
one evening when she overheard a conversation between Greta and her
daughter.
"I told Hally I was coming here. I asked him to come along, but he
wouldn't." A giggle. "Do you know what he said about you, Martha?"
"What?" The tone was wholly indifferent.
"He said: 'No; I'm not going there. Martie's mad. She's taken to
biting.'"
Then Martha's voice, full of interest, "Did he honestly say that?"
She seemed gratified.
"Yes, honest he did."
"I didn't suppose he had that much sense," Martha said, simply.