Part 11

They went together to look at Martha's room, two floors above Emily's. Martha was repressing sobs, now, like a threatened child. Emily asked about the college, to compose her. Had she done good work this term? But she said meekly she didn't think she had done very well, not lately, anyway, when she had been so sort of tired. Emily was eager to question her, but thought it better to wait. She offered to help unpack the suitcase, but Martha was jealous of it, as if it was filled with Christmas presents.

Emily went back to her room, to wait for the supper she had ordered. She sang to herself. "O come, all ye faithful," she hummed, "joyful and triumphant." She was infinitely relieved and lifted up. She had an impulse to telegraph Bob that everything was right again. No, but as soon as supper was over, she would write him a long letter. She would explain the child's repentance, her sweet, humble coming back. She was so happy that, when Martha came in, she just naturally took her in her arms and kissed her.

Martha had come in steady and composed, but wearing the coat of a suit. Emily said, naturally, "Why have you got that on?" Her remark upset Martha entirely. She sobbed again. Emily reproved herself and scolded Martha lightly. Here was their supper. What a lot of dishes! Oh, what a good time they would have, cozily here, together. She called Martha's attention to the pink lamp-shade. "Not bad," she said, "for a hotel room."

But Martha sat like a punished child, not whimpering aloud, but shaking from time to time with stifled sobs. When Emily had insisted, she had ordered coffee and an alligator-pear salad, and it seemed to Emily that the salad was mentioned hurriedly, as an afterthought, to propitiate a mother. When the salad was set before her, she wasn't eating it. She said apologetically that the oil wasn't quite fresh. Emily had offered her some chicken, and insisted on her taking some. And so she did, and swallowed it obediently. And she asked for more coffee. No wonder she was thin, if this was the way she had been eating. Emily was about to refuse her more coffee. But, surely, to-morrow, after a night's sleep, she would be herself again.

"I'm going to stay in bed till noon to-morrow, mammie," she said.

"Aren't we going home to-morrow?"

"Oh no, not to-morrow! Let's wait--a little while--till I--feel rested," she begged. So that was agreed. And there seemed nothing else to say. For Martha sat looking at her mother wistfully, wiping away tears that kept flowing. And Emily refrained from talking because she seemed to be making matters worse. They were perfectly silent while their supper was being carried away. And when the door shut behind the waiter, Martha said--she had been standing looking down out of the window, and she turned about towards Emily:

"Are the bulbs in the window, mammie?"

"What bulbs? At home?"

"Yes. The Poet's narcissi in the hall window."

"Yes. They're almost out--the first ones. I've got a surprise for you, Martie!"

"What?"

"I've got three purple hyacinths almost ready to bloom, for your room--in glasses, you know!"

Now did not that seem an innocent remark? Yet Martha began simply to boo-hoo.

"I'm going to bed," she sobbed.

"I think you'd better." Emily wouldn't be sarcastic, but she spoke dryly. She insisted on going up and helping her get to bed. She kissed her shortly, for fear of more bewailings, and promised not to waken her in the morning.

"I'm nervous, because I can't sleep always," Martha apologized. "I'd rather sleep than do anything else. I'll never forgive you if you wake me up in the morning. I'll get up and come down to you just as soon as I wake up. Nobody ever had a better mother than I've got!"

"Oh, cut out the sobby stuff, Martie!" Emily exhorted her. "Don't be crying yourself to sleep. Have you got anything to read, if you don't think you'll sleep?"

"Oh yes. I don't need anything. Nothing."

After twelve the next day Emily returned from a morning's shopping. The Christmas crowds had thrust her about. They had pushed her and jostled her and jammed her into corners. But she was in a mood for it all. She could take it light-heartedly. They couldn't take the song from her. "O come, all ye faithful!" she kept humming to herself. Wasn't she prepared for Christmas? Wasn't she eager to kneel and worship the Eternal Child! It was almost as if Martha had been born to her again. She tipped the elevator boy exuberantly just because she was so happy, as she went up to her room.

Martha wasn't there. She couldn't be sleeping, surely, at that hour. She would go up to her room. She stood close to Martha's door. She called her softly; she called her not quite so softly, but carefully. Martha was awake inside. Martha was coming to the door.

Martha had on her fur coat, and her rosy hat, ready to go out. She drew her mother in. They kissed. "She's been crying again!" Emily thought. "She looks ghastly! She must have cried all night." Her eyes were dry, but ringed about with sunken circles. She spoke quietly. She seemed to be speaking from a great depth of--what?--not worry--a depth of hopelessness, Emily thought, quickly.

"You been shopping, mammie? Weren't the crowds terrible?"

"Yes, terrible! But I did want to get a few things before we go home. Are you feeling better? Shall we go to-morrow? if we can get reservations?"

Martha sat thinking.

"Yes. I think we'd better go to-morrow, if you can get them."

"You're ready to go for lunch?"

"Yes; if you---- Yes, I'm ready."

"Have you had breakfast?"

"I had enough."

"What did you have, Martha?"

"I--didn't feel like much. I had coffee and toast."

But when they sat in the darkest corner of a crowded, noisy restaurant, she only pretended to be eating. She scarcely spoke, and when she did her voice was--strange, so that Emily sat thoughtfully watching her.

"Can you go and get the reservations after we've finished?"

"Yes, I can. Aren't you coming with me?"

"I want to go out for just a thing or two, mammie. But look here, can't you just--pay part of the tickets? You don't have to pay it all to-day, do you?"

"Why? Why not?"

"I mean--if I don't feel well enough to go to-morrow."

"This is no place to begin to catechise her," Emily thought, "but I've got to find out what's the trouble with her, some way, before long."

"I don't know whether they will reserve them that way or not. I'll ask, if you want me to."

"I think it would be--a good plan."

Martha was sitting with her back to the room, her elbow on the table, and her head on her hand--not in a correct way, nor a graceful way. Emily looked at her. After all, look how other people sat--well-dressed people, but not nice-looking people. Horrid-looking girls, some of these were. Who, she wondered, were they? If Martha preferred not to talk, there was much for a small-town woman to be looking about at, in the room: smart clothes, painted faces. It was absolutely a thrill to see a woman so shamelessly vicious-looking, with some sort of green paint to make shadows under her eyes. Emily's unsophisticated glance was intent upon the person. The waiter was putting her parfait before her, when a bomb, thrown from Martha's colorless lips, made her almost jump.

"Tell father--- I mean--he doesn't know how much I appreciate him, mammie. He's been a good father to me, always."

Goodness gracious me! What in the world? The child must be out of her mind!

"Martha!" said Emily, sharply, "what is the matter with you?"

"I'm sorry I've always been so--horrid to him."

"Now look here, Martha, let that drop! You mustn't be morbid about this. I'll explain everything to him for you, if you want me to."

"Yes, do, mammie."

"I'll take that child to a doctor to-morrow!" Emily resolved.

They parted abruptly when they rose from the table. Martha went out to get her few things. Emily went to the station for her reservations, curiously. And she dallied about. They were to have tea together at four-thirty. It was Emily's suggestion. Anything to get Martha to eat, she had thought.

She came back to the hotel carrying a large box of the most tempting chocolates she could find, and candied fruits, which Martha had been eager for. She didn't like the hotel she had chosen. The lobby, the whole floor, was full of groups of men, business men, perhaps, standing around importantly pretending to be discussing affairs of moment, and covertly eying every woman who entered. Well, thank goodness, she was no longer either young or conspicuous. But how they must look at Martha! She went to the desk and asked for her key.

Now the sleek-haired young man standing there, instead of handing it to her promptly, went and spoke to a more important young man somewhat older. This man heard what he said and looked curiously at Emily, while the second one approached her.

"Are you Mrs. Kenworthy?" he asked, suavely.

She said she was.

"Will you step this way, please?"

She hadn't time to ask why. He had come out from behind the counter-like desk and was showing her the way--a few steps down a passage.

"Just here," he was saying. "The manager wants to speak to you."

And he threw open a door into a lighted office, and said, "This is Mrs. Kenworthy," and went out, and closed the door behind him.

Emily, wondering mildly, saw in a glance a sort of office; a room in which, perhaps temporarily, a good deal of extra furniture was crowded--several easy chairs pushed close together, beyond a long bare oak table, with shaded desk lamps. Three men were standing there, by the table, the shadow of the lamp-shade hiding their faces.

"Are you Mrs. Kenworthy?" one of them asked her.

"Yes," she said. She didn't like this.

"Has your daughter a dog?"

The man didn't seem facetious.

"Pardon me!" Emily spoke coldly.

The man was looking at her keenly.

"I said, has your daughter here a dog?" He made a gesture and----

Why, there was Martha, sunken down in the farther one of those crowded armchairs--that was her coat and hat, at least; her face was hidden. Emily moved quickly towards her.

"What do you mean?"

"Madame, this young lady has been trying to buy poison for her dog."

"There is some mistake about this." Emily felt herself begin to tremble. "My daughter hasn't a dog."

"We didn't think she had."

"What happened, Martha?" Emily's hand was on her shoulder, but Martha never lifted her head.

"What--do you mean?" Emily faltered. They looked so ominous--so excited. Nobody spoke.

"Oh, will you tell me what you mean?" Emily cried out. Something frightful was here.

"Madame, we have to protect ourselves. We can't have some one--taking her own life--in our rooms every month in the year. This girl--we kept her here--we didn't think she had a dog. She was trying to buy poison, madame!"

"You're mistaken! Martha, what were you doing?" She tried to get her to speak.

"Madame, we have had to offer a reward--to any employee who prevents--such a thing. This bell-boy"--he was actually indicating a negro standing near him--"just happened to be in a drug store, and saw your daughter refused--this poison. He recognized her; he followed her into another drug store. Who'd sell a girl with that face--anything? He called this policeman."

"I think you're all mistaken. She hasn't been well. I'll take her up and put her to bed," Emily babbled. She was kneeling on the floor by Martha, shaking Martha's arm, and urging her to explain.

"No, madame, not to the ninth floor, not a girl in that condition. We have to defend ourselves. We'll let you talk to her here." He started towards the door. "Just ring here, I'll come back for you."

"Martha! Baby! What is this? What were you doing? What happened after I left you? Tell me! Tell me, Martha! Why didn't you explain to those men?"

When Emily tried to pull her hands away from her face, Martha stirred and jerked back, and buried it in her coat sleeve. Her little thin voice came out, muffled, gasping:

"I've got to die."

Could it be that the child still loved that man so? What else could it be?

"You mustn't say such things, Martie! Martha, why didn't you say to them you weren't trying to buy--anything. Were you?"

"Yes, yes. I've got to die."

Emily's hand was stroking her arms tenderly.

Suddenly Martha simply cried out, "Oh, can't you understand?"

"I may be stupid. I don't know what this means!"

"I'll say it, then. I'll say it to you!"

Finally she did say it.

"I'm going to have a baby. I can't----"

The arm that was around Martha fell away. The hand that was stroking her ceased its motion. Emily knelt there, against the coat, against the chair; she went on kneeling there, and moments passed.

Martha was stirring herself. She was trying to rise.

"Let me go," she moaned.

Emily's arms tightened around her knees. She held her fast.

"Where you going?"

"I've got to die, some way."

"Martha, you don't know what you're saying. It isn't true. You're not going to have----"

"It is true. Let me go."

"I won't let you go. You can't die. I'm saving you." Emily didn't really know what she was saying.

"Let me go!"

"I'm going with you everywhere. I'm going to see you through it, then. I won't let them hurt you."

Martha began sobbing. "Won't you let me go?"

"No, I won't."

"Will you stay with me?"

"You are my child." Martha's sobs reassured her. "Don't ever say that--promise me not to think of--dying. Martha, promise me. I'll take care of you, Martha, if you promise."

"How can I live?"

"How can I let you--die? Oh, how awful of you, to think of such things. Is this why you came to New York?"

"Yes. I ought to, mammie. You don't want me--living now. Dad won't."

Emily rose up. She was recovering from the shock--the stunning.

"I'll take care of you. Don't worry. We must go upstairs. We must talk it over. I don't know."

She led the child towards the door. She opened it. The policeman stood there, guarding it. He would not let them out. "I'll call the manager," she said.

But Martha had recoiled, moaning: "Don't let that man touch me! That man caught hold of my arm, mother!"

And the moment the manager entered, Emily spoke to him composedly.

"I'm taking this child to my room. She isn't well. I must put her to bed."

"I'm sorry, madame; you can't take her to the ninth floor--not in that condition."

How could he see her condition, when she was hidden behind her mother? Emily was annoyed. She controlled her voice.

"Can we have another room at once, then, lower down?"

"No, madame; we have no empty room."

"What do you mean? Can't we have a room?"

"No, madame; we're full."

"You mean you want us to leave?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to."

Emily couldn't believe him.

"You mean you don't want us to stay here?"

"It comes to that. We've had unfortunate things--too many of them--lately. Leave the young lady here. I'll take charge of her while you pack your things. Or shall I have them brought down for you?"

She went out of the door, into Martha's shame, into the lobby where all eyes seemed to be upon her, into the elevator. The negro youth seemed to be pointing her out, a disreputable woman being turned out of the hotel. She got her things together; she went to Martha's room; she sent their luggage down; she went down and paid her bill at the desk window. Years afterwards she could feel those men looking at her curiously. She went to the room where Martha sat a prisoner. The manager was solicitous. He told the boy to have her things put in a taxi at the less conspicuous entry. She took Martha out, therefrom, down a quiet hall.

"Where to?" asked the chauffeur.

"To the Pennsylvania Station," she said.

It was almost dark, and very cold, and the taxi seemed not to move at all through the crowds.

"What are you going to do with me now?" Martha moaned.

"I don't know," said Emily.

At the station she put Martha down where she could watch her from a telephone booth. She daren't turn towards the mouthpiece to speak for more than a second. Suppose Martha should disappear. She 'phoned one hotel after another. None of them had a room on the second floor. A horror was in her mind--a girl falling, falling, to destruction. By the time she had heard her fourth refusal she felt faint. She went back out to the waiting room. Everyone was going home. Everyone was loaded down with Christmas gayety. She sat there. And Martha sat there. They had no place to go. It was Christmas time, but there was no room for them in any inn, because of a baby.

Some place to hide; some place to plan and think. She remembered a country hotel on Long Island. Would it be open at this season? But no, it was on the Sound. She was afraid of water and that desperate girl. After a little she thought of the right place. There was a little hotel in a small New Jersey town. Years ago she and her aunt had gone there, quite unannounced, for a night, to visit an old cemetery in the neighborhood. They could go there.

Jostled and pushed about in the jam of the local train, Emily got back some of her presence of mind. She got out, with Martha, at the station, and stood looking about. She didn't remember the place at all. Cars were waiting for most of those who arrived. She asked a newsboy about the hotels. He would carry her things up and show her the way.

They turned into the quiet little main street. Yellow lights from the shops were shining out across the snow. People were hurrying along in one direction. The boy was talkative. It was only a little way to the hotel. When they drew near it, he said: "Look! Look at the Christmas tree!"

A little way farther down the street, across from the hotel, a crowd was gathered around an old lighted-up tree just near the sidewalk, in what seemed to be the front yard of a dwelling house.

"It's a real tree. It's not a cut-down one!" he informed them. "They sing there."

"I always remembered what a quiet place you had here," Emily said to the clerk. "I've always been wanting to get back." She wanted to make their arrival--on Christmas Eve--a natural thing. Would the man be suspicious?

But no. He took them in; they had a roof over them again, a room, comfortless enough, but a room, and one double bed, on which Martha had thrown herself down. They must have supper in their room to-night. Emily had begged something, anything hot. She pulled the curtains down and opened the bags, and started to get Martha to bed.

When the maid came with the supper tray, outside there, under the great glimmering tree, the crowd was singing praise to God become Baby through a woman's body; and inside Emily was looking at Martha's little breast, and her sobbing white abdomen, and a girl's flesh seemed to have become hell.

Emily had to probe her ignominy that night, for the thought kept coming to her, even after what she had seen, that Martha couldn't know what she was talking about. She had to ask her--terrible things; there was no help for that. She had to realize that her daughter had lied to her directly, thoughtfully, and cunningly. This affair had begun in the summer, before Martha had promised her never to see that man again. She had promised not to see him, knowing when they were to meet next, in Chicago. "I was so sure, mammie!" she sobbed. "I knew it would be all right when you knew him! I just loved him so!" Martha had gone back to college to lie cunningly there, to get permission to spend every week-end in New York, to study dancing, which her mother was so keen to have her take up, she had averred. Well, she had been punished, punished by having to look in the terrible face of Death. Suppose that colored bell-boy hadn't been in the drug store, there---- Emily's arms tightened about her.

"Oh, what are you going to do with me now?" Well might little Martha Kenworthy ask that. There seemed no good reason why she shouldn't go on crying indefinitely, forever. But Emily, drawing her close against her in bed, tucking the covers about her, trying to get her warm, hoped doggedly to find comfort for her, to get her quiet. There were worse things than having a baby, she told her once, crooning over her.

And Martha said, "What?" And then added, "Oh, you mean being discarded!"

Discarded? Martha Kenworthy discarded?

"She is beyond me in knowledge," Emily thought. "I've never known bitterness."

She had to ask her, "Does that man know about this?"

"I--told him. He said----" She couldn't say it for weeping.

"Never mind. It doesn't matter."

But after a while Martha did say it:

"He said I'd got him into a dirty mess."

Emily reproached herself. She wouldn't ask, even, where he was now, where his wife was, whether he was divorced. She wouldn't have Martha marry that man now, if he was able to marry her a hundred times over.

"Martha, you mustn't cry this way. You mustn't. You'll make yourself sick."

"No, it won't; it can't. Nothing makes me sick enough. I've tried everything."

"What? What have you tried?"

And Martha, lying cuddled against her there, recounted horrors. "At school," she sobbed, once resentfully, "there isn't any privacy. Those girls just come singing and laughing right into your room. I tried things week-ends, when I was in the city."

"Alone?"

"Yes, mammie. I thought I'd killed myself once--two weeks ago. When I tried to get up I fainted. I fell on the floor, and I thought I was dying; and I couldn't ring for anybody--they might find out."

Emily had to hear all that--to imagine it.

She said, after a while, "I'm going to take you to a doctor to-morrow---day after to-morrow. The best one I can find."

"I'll go to Mexico; I'll hide somewhere; I'll go to South America!"

"We could never be sure we had hidden ourselves."

"No, I know it. Oh, I've thought of everything. In books they do it; in books no one ever finds out. There's 'The Old Maid.' We could do it."

"We'd always be afraid. We'd never have any peace of mind again."

"You don't need to go with me. I can go."

"I'm going to see you through this. I think home would be the best place, Martha."

"No, I won't go home! Never, mother. Oh, imagine what dad would say to me!"

Emily had thought of that. She had decided. "That's my house!" she had said as they came out on the train. "I'll take my child home to it. If Bob wants to leave, he can leave."

"You don't appreciate your father. If we should go home,--this way--to him, he would stand by us. There's no use saying he wouldn't."

"He would stand by you, mother. I'll say that much for him. He wouldn't leave you when you're in trouble. He's not like---- But he would be always hating me; if he didn't scold me, he would be wanting to. I couldn't stand that. I won't go home. I won't let you tell him this. I'd rather----"

"Don't say that!" Emily moaned.

"We can go abroad. We could go to Sweden, or the Philippines."

"Yes, all right. Now stop crying, Martha. Try to go to sleep. I'll make arrangements. I'll fix it all up for you."