Part 6

Emily used to compare that picture, chuckling, to the picture of Boston which one of her neighbors had made for herself, upon her return from a memorable visit there. Mrs. Jennings was chairman of the art committee and a busy woman, and hadn't time to "do" many pictures, she said. So she just put everything she wanted to remember into one. And Lexington and Concord, Bunker Hill and the Common, Longfellow's house and Faneuil Hall, jostled one another in a staggered and staggering row all across the foreground. And there was Mrs. Johnson's parlor. Every time Emily went into it she used to say: "Well, my aunt might have been worse. She didn't paint at least, thank God!" She had left no bilious works of her brush behind her, and she deserved credit for it, considering the fashion of her day. She had left a cherished large framed photograph of the door of St. Mark's. Emily could recall exactly the tone in which she used to say "The portal of St. Mark's," for she had always added "by the sea," which mystified the child. The geography said plainly that all Venice was by the sea. Besides Italy and Mt. Vernon, there were what Emily considered two perfectly lovely large "studies" of Martha's head. A cousin who played with photography had done them when the child was seven years old. She was the cousin who had gathered the child into her arms, on one occasion and cried, "Oh, twinkle, twinkle, little star!" Martha hated them, and pleaded for their banishment, but Emily would not listen to her, not for a minute. There sat a photo of Jim on the desk, and one of his mother, and an early one of his father. And there was, of course, that first seal of a D.A.R. invulnerability, a framed sampler. Altogether, Emily had always been secure that her living room was not just a common small-town room.

But after Martha's--well, what was wrong with it, she sat wondering that morning, a bit ruefully. Some way it was tamed and tolerating. Those high-handed colors upstairs dared the world, and demanded. These young things went raging, commanding, soaring into life. "Not like me," she thought, vaguely. "I just hesitated--and submitted--and got along, some way. How puny I was, and--sort of helpless. That book--I shrank from it as if it had been some great thing. But Eve snubs it. She ignores it. They fly, these children--they just fly. But I rode just a bicycle. And this room wabbles along on a bicycle. I must speed it up. I must--get these things done over--or else I ought to get some new pictures, or something. I better ask Martha, perhaps, to freshen it up a little."

Certainly that stranger had asked Martha's advice. The memory of her respectful tone was wine to Emily. She had to speak to Bob about it. She couldn't just let him go on thinking that Martha "amounted" to nothing.

"I could see that they thought it was wonderful for a girl of her age to have planned it all," she told him. "That woman asked Martha definitely to come and see the plans for her house!"

But he said: "The dickens she did! The kid's got her head swelled enough now, without anybody asking her advice. The dame must be hard up if she's got to come to Martha for advice!"

The girls played golf that afternoon. Emily's mind, when it had intervals of leisure, dwelt upon the question of new furniture--somewhat reluctantly. After all, maybe it would be better to suffer the old faded colors than to flee to others that you know not of. Such a lot of trouble, going to the city to select things, and then, maybe, when you get them home, they don't fit in, as you had intended them to. And she even realized her reluctance. "That's the point about being young. Martha would just jump into the shopping fray. She would dive right in, without hesitation." These meditations kept Emily from giving "that man" even a thought, until almost supper time. Then, as she passed into the hall, Marion Wright, giving her arms a sturdy swing, almost struck her, and drew back, apologizing.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you! I was just practicing that drive. I didn't want to forget it, such a classy one! Richard Quin was just teaching us, you know, Mrs. Kenworthy."

"Who's Richard Quin?" Emily asked.

"Oh, that's Eve's brother-in-law. Marion likes him. Don't you, Marion?" Martha asked.

"Well, I can't say I'm crazy about him. But still, he can play. I'm not particular who coaches me. I do prefer them not so fat."

"Fat!" murmured Martha. "He isn't fat. He's just a large man. He's well built."

"Of course they're more fun married," Marion went on, trying to shock Emily. And then she asked, suddenly curious, "Do you like him, Mrs. Kenworthy?"

"Do I like him? Goodness, no! He's greasy looking."

Martha said with dignity: "Mother doesn't know him. She never said a word to him in her life. He's not greasy at all, if you see him close. He shaves twice a day."

"How do you know he does?" Emily demanded.

"He's not reticent, anyway," Marion said laughing.

"He just happened to mention it."

"Did you see his wife?" Emily asked them both.

"Eve told you she wasn't well. She wasn't there."

Martha looked at her mother, perplexed. Emily looked at her daughter uneasily. It was annoying of Martha to defend that man! If Emily had known he was to be on the links, she wouldn't have let Martha go to play. But now, of course the wisest would be just to let the matter drop. Martha was always so trustworthy. Certainly her good taste could be trusted.

Yet for some reason, when Johnnie Benton came that evening to take the three adorned girls to the dance, Emily was more impressed by him than ever. She felt so safe when Martha was under his care. She watched them drive away, and then went out to potter about as usual in the garden, just at dark. A neighbor came bringing her, in a strawberry box, a few rare seedling pansies, and together they made a little place protected from the heat in which they might be nursed. And then they went and sat down inside the screened veranda to escape the mosquitoes.

They were still talking there when Bob came. But he took his magazine and sat down a few chairs away, and they talked on as if no one was within hearing of their voices. And indeed no one was, for Bob habitually absented himself in the print before his eyes. He was unconscious of everything around him. Energetic, insistent demands and clamors could get only a muttered "Uh-uh!" from him. He really didn't know when the neighbor left, although he had sort of muttered at her.

So Emily sat still and alone in the darkness, and glad of the quietness. She thought over one by one the dozen men--Martha called them men, though they scarcely deserved the name--who would be dancing with the girls at the club. Emily knew every one of them; some of them she had known for years. She knew the families of most of them. Every time she thought of Martha's partner of the evening before, they seemed more acceptable to her. They were--decent. They were--secure. They had no foreign accent, and they had not pretended to know Tchekhoff. People gossiped about them, but Emily believed their relationships with bootleggers were merest flirtations. Their scrapes were ridiculous--like Johnnie's opera---but they were not vicious--often. Bob called them "nail-polishers," and "shiny Johnnies," and thought pessimistically about their chances of success in this competitive life. But Emily, musing away, liked them all that night.

Bob threw down his magazine, after a while, and returned to Emily's presence. He got up and lit a cigar, and went into the house. Emily heard him there talking to some one by 'phone about insurance. He came out and sat down on the railing in front of her.

"Let's go to bed," he said.

She looked at him. There he sat, a heavy, rather sluggish man with a growth of black beard which he conspicuously did not shave twice a day. His hair was not as thick as it had been ten years ago, but not less unruly, and his digestion was decidedly poorer. He was working hard, and making money, and usually tired. He was still more even-tempered than most men. From the time Martha went away to school till she came home for holiday he scarcely spoke an irritable word.

"I thought I'd wait till the girls come home."

"You're dead tired."

"I know it, but they'll be here soon. It's nearly twelve now."

"Let's go out and get them."

"All right. Let's."

They had done that more than once. Bob was always ready for a drive even over that road which they must take along the river. Two miles of that sinuous and uncertain byway had been the cause, like the rest of the country club, of a great wave of hard feeling in the community. Were the taxpayers going to keep it up for a few rich "sporty" families? asked the indignant, so successfully that now the handful of members had either to repair it themselves or endure its flooded ruts. The country club had not been well managed. Mrs. Benton had washed her hands of it in the beginning, prophesying its downfall. The founders had not counted the cost. The less wealthy couldn't stand the assessments and had dropped out. Those who remained had to pay more. And it was all a muddle and a burden and a quarrel--a perfect example of how Mrs. Benton did not manage things. Emily was one of those who still kept membership. She seldom used the place, but she wanted Martha to have a place to play golf. The more Martha danced there, the less she would disturb her father by dancing at home. And really, it was a very nice crowd of young people who gathered there. By night, as Bob and Emily drove in, it looked gay and lovely, lit all up, among the trees, with the dancers gliding about. By day, of course, its appearance justified the scorn which neighboring towns poured upon it. However, those towns, since last night's event, would be less boastful.

Bob stopped the car and they sat looking in. Now Martha had had on a little dress faintly pink at the neck and deeply carmine at the hem, so that, if she had been there, Emily would have seen her in a moment.

"Where _is_ the kid?" Bob grumbled. Emily looked about under the trees, and saw Johnnie Benton leave the couple with whom he was smoking and come over to them. Bob repeated his question immediately. And Johnnie said, indifferently, looking in towards the lighted floor:

"Isn't she there? I guess she's out having a petting party somewhere with that dago necker."

Emily was thoroughly annoyed by the boy's impertinence. The idea of his daring to say a thing to her of Martha.

"Who d'you mean?" Bob demanded.

"You know, that bearded guy she's falling for."

"Eve's brother-in-law?"

"Yes."

"Is she with that----" Emily nudged Bob violently.

"She generally is!" So Johnnie wasn't so indifferent, after all, to the fact as he had wanted them to believe. And then the music stopped, and the girls came nocking out to the drive like butterflies. Marion Wright called upon Johnnie to witness that there was just one more dance, and then they would all go home, and Martha, she said, had already gone, walking home.

Emily asked in reply, unconcernedly, if they were having a good time, and told them not to hurry, and said, "No, they wouldn't wait for an ice--the night was so hot they had thought they would drive out to cool off." But here the ice was--and she ate it hurriedly, fearing what Bob might say about Martha before them, nudging him mentally, as it were, into silence.

No sooner was the car turned towards home than Bob broke out:

"Well, I'll be damned! I won't have this, Emily."

"Funny we didn't see them, if they're walking home."

"I thought she had _some_ sense. What's he doing out here? Did you know he was coming?"

"No. I never thought of it. Of course the family belongs."

"The nerve of him! Does anyone else come uninvited?"

"Oh, Bob, we must be careful! Did you hear what Johnnie said?"

"I'll settle that girl to-night. She isn't going to be running around at midnight with any married man."

"Now, Bob, we mustn't be hasty. You must think this over. We don't want to--seem to take this--too seriously. He'll be leaving, likely, in a day or two."

"How do you know he will?"

"I _suppose_ he will. Didn't Eve say so?"

"I didn't hear her. And it's the principle of the thing. She thinks it's smart to be flirting with a married man."

"Oh, I don't think she does, Bob. He's so different--from these boys here." And then suddenly she begged: "Look, Bob! Oh, let me do the talking to her!" For walking slowly along, side by side, were the two of them, little rosy Martha and the man that seemed always bending over her. So near they were that Bob stopped the car with a jerk.

"We'll give you a lift," he said, unceremoniously. "Get in!"

Martha introduced her companion. Bob gave the shortest possible sign of being aware of his existence. He was opening the car door.

"Get in!" he said to his daughter.

"It's a glorious night for walking," Mr. Quin remarked, standing still.

"It's too late. Get in!" Bob again spoke directly to Martha.

She turned to her escort. "It is rather muddy here. Let's ride a little." And she got serenely in, and bade him follow her. The car started.

Emily turned around in her seat.

"You staying long in town, Mr. Quin? I meant to call. But Eve said your wife isn't well."

"Oh--I'm not sure yet. It's all so interesting to me. A Western town like this. It's quite surprised me." Hadn't Eve said the man was brought up in Indiana? His tone annoyed Emily so that she turned abruptly about in her seat. Martha leaned forward to her.

"He thinks it's the most ripping dance hall he ever saw, of the kind, mother." Ripping, was it? Such a distinguished word, so unlike this West, Emily was saying to herself. Where was Bob going? Why didn't he take them directly home? He had turned, and in a minute, before they knew it almost, they had stopped in front of Eve's home.

"We'll drop you here," said Bob.

The stranger looked at Martha.

She said, surprised: "No---- Oh--well----"

"It's the way we have in these Western towns," Bob remarked, shortly. The man said good night reluctantly and as meaningly as possible, with Emily's eye upon him.

In the light of the living room, Emily said: "Look at your slippers, Martha! What made you walk home in them?"

"Oh, mother, it was such moonlight. You were absolutely rude to him, mother. I never saw you act so before," Martha spoke grievedly.

"I know a snubbing when I get one. He didn't ask me to call on his wife."

"But, mother, you know she isn't well. Eve said so."

"If she isn't well I think he'd better devote himself exclusively to her. Martha, I don't like this. He ought to know better, if you don't. You'll get yourself talked about, if this keeps on."

Martha opened her eyes in unfeigned surprise.

"That's a funny way for you to talk, mother. You always say people have no right to go gossiping around about girls!"

"Well, I certainly said girls oughtn't to do silly things to start people talking."

"I get sick of this town! It's only in a little crude hole of a place like this a girl can't look at a man after he's married. He knows more in a minute than all the boys in this place know in a year. And just because he's got a wife I'm not to listen to him, I suppose!"

"You are certainly not to--to let him spend all his time with you. You went with Johnnie. Why didn't you come home with him? Did you know that he--this Quin person--was to be there, Martha?"

Martha stood there looking straight at her mother, as if she had seen in her something new and perplexing.

"What's the matter, mother? What's all the fuss about, anyway?"

"About this man. He's married. He oughtn't to be following you about when his wife's at home sick. I'm disgusted with you, Martha."

"Because he happens to be married?"

"He doesn't _happen_ to be married; he _is_ married."

"I don't follow you, mother."

Martha spoke, with her head held high, in the lazy tone she used to infuriate her father.

Emily said, gently smiling: "There's no use your trying that on me, Martha. You follow me exactly. You know exactly what I mean, and you're to remember what I say."

"You never spoke like this to me before, mother." She would try being hurt.

"I never had occasion to, thank goodness! And I'm not going to speak to you this way again, either." They both heard Bob coming in. "Now go to bed," Emily said, kissing her, "and be a good girl." Martha kissed her in return, without any sign of annoyance, and ran quickly upstairs.

"Where is she?" Bob demanded.

"She's gone to bed."

"Just like her. She crawls out of everything. Did you settle her once for all?"

"I spoke to her about it. I told her we didn't like it."

"You're too easy with her, Emily. I'm going to settle her in the morning. I'm going to lay down the law to her!"

He was going to lay down the law to her, was he, when he had never in his life laid down his work for an hour for her sake! Emily, that placid woman, for the third time in one evening, was ruffled and resentful. Johnnie had disturbed her. "That man" had annoyed her. And now, all of a sudden, Bob, who had never done anything but stand aside and watch her manage Martha, was going to take her in hand. He had literally had no time for the girl since she was born; and now he seemed to think she ought to listen to him.

She said nothing, being wise, and he went up to bed. The Wright girls came in, presently, with Johnnie and Chris Phillips, all of them together making a little eddying whirlpool of youth in the quiet room. Emily, moved by some instinct of security for Martha, called up to her to come down. "Oh," they said, "is Martha home?" Emily replied carelessly that they had picked her up near the bridge, and instantly she happened to look at Helen Wright. She had not been thinking of the effect of her remark, but she saw Helen wink--yes, undoubtedly just wink--at Johnnie, and she saw he didn't want to be winked at on the subject. She felt a sharp mistrust of that girl--her expressive, cynical face. What did she mean? Did she know with whom Martha had chosen to walk home? She thanked goodness that Helen Wright wasn't staying long. She didn't like her.

Martha had only tarried a minute--long enough to have paid, perhaps, her tribute to the mirror, but by the time she came down the boys had left. Johnnie said it would be a change to go once before he got sent home. Martha didn't deign to notice his absence. She talked serenely to her guests.

But Emily, in her bed, remembered, sighing more than once, how that horrid Helen had sat looking at Martha, with cynical, initiated amusement. Perhaps that girl was encouraging her in her naughtiness. If Martha wasn't careful--and she probably wouldn't be--she would be getting into a horrible row with her father. That consummation Emily Kenworthy would do anything to avoid. If Bob "bawled her out" in the morning, the world underneath their feet would be splitting. Martha and that odious stranger would be on one side, and Bob would be on the other. And Emily--well, there was never a moment's doubt in her mind where she would be!

She remembered, indignant at the thought of it, that perfectly absurd situation of her friend, Mrs. Harding, whose daughter had married, to the utter rage and final alienation of her father. One day, months after that, Mrs. Harding had come creeping into the Kenworthys' house, almost a stranger then, and had begged for the loan of two hundred dollars, just begged for it, ashamed and whispering, because her daughter was ill, and without a penny, in a rooming house demanding its rent. A girl friend of hers had seen her there, and had come back to urge her mother to help her. In all her life Emily had never had to consider the state of a woman living comfortably without one cent of her own to put a finger on. "If I were you," she had exclaimed to Mrs. Harding, "I would go straight to her. I would bring her home, or take her some place and take care of her." But Mrs. Harding dared not defy her husband. He was an old man, and delicate, and it might kill him. And Emily had been on the point of saying: "I don't believe it! And if it does, he deserves it!" She had entered heartily into that conspiracy, and it had all turned out so well, and the two women had become friends. Yet Emily essentially disapproved of her "kowtowing" to her husband. There would be nothing like that in her house! If any great, deep chasm was to come splitting across the ground on which the Kenworthy family stood, Emily was going to be on the side of her daughter! Was it likely that she would give up that Jim Kenworthy--that she would have allowed her dear lover to go away to die alone--for that child's sake, and now give up the child merely for Bob Kenworthy?

"Bob," she said, emphatically.

"What's the matter?" He was sleepy.

"You aren't to 'settle' Martha in the morning! You are to leave her to me!"

"What?"

"I say you aren't to scold Martha in the morning about--that man. I've talked to her about it, and that's enough."

"She won't mind you, Emily."

"She'll mind me at least as much as she would you. And more, too. And I'm not going to have you two--quarreling and arguing about--this--person. Do you understand that, Bob? If you--speak to her about it, she'll get to thinking that she's on one side with that man, and you and I are on the other side."

"She's on his side now."

"No, Bob, she isn't. She is just--playing; she wants a little rope."

"She's got enough to hang herself now."

"You won't speak to her, will you, Bob, now?"

"Oh, well," Bob grumbled, "she's your kid, Emily. You've got to manage her. She won't listen to anything I say, anyway."

"But I mean, don't you just begin to--don't you forget and bring the subject up, at all, will you, Bob?"

"I won't say a word to her if you make her quit it. If you don't, I'll take her in hand. I won't stand for her getting talked about all over town!"

"She's not going to get talked about, Bob!"

"Oh, well. Manage her to suit yourself."