Books: Martie The Unconquered
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Kathleen Norris >> Martie The Unconquered
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Sally laughed in spite of herself. Martie turned from the dimness of
the doorway, and came into the hot, clean little room. She sat down
at the table, and spread her arms across it, locking her white
hands.
"It's all so funny. Sally," she said childishly. "A week ago, I was
sailing along, humbly grateful and happy because Cliff loved me. To-
day John Dryden sails for a year in the Orient. And between those
few days he drifts in here just long enough to bring my plans all
tumbling about my ears."
"I'm sorry!" Sally, busily setting bread, could say nothing more
significant. But as Martie remained silent, brooding eyes on her own
fingers, the older sister added timidly: "Do--do you think perhaps
you'll get over that--that feeling?"
"That is my only hope!" Martie said courageously.
"And after all," Sally went on, eagerly, "what could he offer you?
Cliff is--he's devoted to you, and he's steadiness itself! And I do
believe you would be perfectly contented if you just put the other
thing out of your mind, and tried to make the greatest happiness
possible out of your new life! Lydia and Pa, and all of us, and Ruth
and Teddy are all so happy about it And you know there's no safety
like the safety of being married to a good man!"
Martie laughed.
"You're quite right, Sally! But," she added, her face growing
serious again, "the terrible thing is this: If I marry Cliff, I do
it--just a LITTLE--with other things in view. The children, as you
say, and the good opinion of the town, and Pa's happiness, and Len's
prosperity, and the pleasure of being mistress of the old house, and
dear knows what! Of course I LIKE Cliff--but I tell you frankly that
I'm looking even now to the time when our honeymoon shall be over,
and the first strangeness of--well, of belonging to him is over!"
Sally's face was flaming. She had stopped working, and both sisters
faced each other consciously.
"In other words," smiled Martie, "I wish I had been married to him
ten years ago, and by this time had little Sally and Cliffy--"
"Oh, dearest, I do hope there are children!" Sally said eagerly.
"I hope so, too!" Martie said simply. And with suddenly misting eyes
Sally heard her say softly, half to herself, "I want another girl!"
Then her lip trembled, and to the older sister's consternation she
began to cry, with her shining head laid on her arms. "I don't know
w-w-what to do, Sally!" she sobbed. "I don't know what is right! I
know I'm desperately tired of worrying and fretting and being
criticised! I don't see why it should be my life that is always
being upset and disorganized, while other women go on placidly
having children and giving dinners!"
"Perhaps because you are so different from other? women?" Sally
suggested, somewhat timidly. She was not sure that Martie would like
this.
But Martie gave her a grateful glance, and immediately dried her
eyes with a brisk evidence of returning self-control.
"Well!" she said sensibly. "It is that way, anyhow, and I have to
make the best of it. I married foolishly, in some ways, and I paid
the price--nobody knows what it was! Then I came back here, and had
really worked out a happy life for myself, when Cliff came along,
and no sooner was I adjusted to Cliff--to the thought of marriage
again, when John upset it all!"
"The happiness of the woman who marries Cliff ought to be pretty
safe," offered Sally.
"Yes, I know it. But Sally," Martie said, looking at her sister
questioningly, "sometimes I feel that I don't dare risk it! I can't
marry John, but I can't seem to--to let him go, either. I know what
madness that visit was, and yet--and yet every minute that we were
together was like--I don't know--like swimming in a sea of gold! I
didn't know what I wore or ate in those days! Pa and Lyd--other
people didn't seem to exist! I never believed before that any one
could feel as strange--as bewildered and excited and happy--as I did
then. It was like being hungry and satisfied at the same time. It
was just like being under a spell! His voice, Sally, and the way he
speaks of men and books--so surely, and yet in that boyish way--and
his hands, and the way he smiles through his lashes--I can't forget
one instant of it! We got breakfast together; I can't go into the
kitchen now without remembering it, and longing to have him there
again, whipping eggs and hunting about for the butter, while all the
time we were laughing and talking so wonderfully! It's that--loving
that way, that makes life worth while, Sally. Nothing else counts!
Nothing that we did together seemed insignificant, and nothing that
I do without him is worth while--I can't--can't--can't let him go!"
Sally was frightened as her sister's head went down again. She could
think of nothing to say. "I can't help thinking that our life would
be that," Martie went on presently, raising her sombre face to rest
it on one hand, her elbows propped on the table. "Everything would
be wonderful, just because we love each other so! He writes, and I
would write---"
"Feeling as you do," Sally said after a troubled silence, "I would
really say that you oughtn't to marry any one else, Mart. But even
if Cliff gave you up, how could you marry a divorced man?"
"Oh, Sally--don't keep reiterating that it's impossible!" Martie
said with a flash of impatience. "I know it--I know it--but that
doesn't make it any easier to bear! You women who have so much can't
realize---"
"You have Teddy," Sally suggested, in the silence.
"Yes, I have Teddy--God bless him!" his mother said, with a sudden
tender smile. And she seemed to see a line of little Teddies,
playing with Grandma Curley's spools, glancing fearfully at the
"Cold Lairs," walking sturdily beside Margar's shabby coach,
chattering to a quiet, black-clad mother on the overland train. She
had her gallant, gay little Teddy still. "I don't know why I talk so
recklessly, Sally," she said sensibly. "It's only that I am so
worried--and troubled. I don't know what I ought to do! Suppose I
tell Cliff frankly, and we break the engagement? Then John will come
back, and there'll be all that to go over and over!"
"But that's--just selfishness," said Sally, spreading a checked blue
towel neatly over her pan of dough, and adding last touches to the
now orderly kitchen.
"Oh, men are all selfish!" Martie conceded. "Every one's selfish!
Cliff quite placidly broke Lydia's heart years ago; Rose and Rodney
between them nearly broke mine. But now Cliff wants something from
me, and Rose realizes that she has something to gain, and it's
roses, roses all the way."
"Well, that's life, Mart," submitted the older sister.
"If I had it all to do over again," Martie mused, "I wouldn't come
back after Wallace's death. Teddy and I could have made our way
comfortably in New York. By coming, I have more or less obliged
myself to accept the Monroe point of view---"
"Oh, but Mart, we've had such wonderful times together, and it means
so much to me to have you like Joe and the children!" said Sally.
"Yes," Martie's arm went about her sister, "that's been the one
definite gain, Sally, to see you so happy and prosperous, and to
realize that life is going so pleasantly for you. As the years go
by, Joe'll gain steadily; he's that sort; and Dr. Hawkes's children
won't have to envy any children in Monroe. But, oh, Sis--if I could
get away!"
The old cry, Sally thought, as she anxiously studied the beautiful,
discontented face.
Presently Clifford came, to take his future wife home, and Joe came
back from the hospital in the Ford, and there was much friendly talk
and laughter. But Sally watched her sister a little wistfully that
evening; didn't Martie think this was all pleasant--all worth while?
CHAPTER VII
Rose's little daughter, pawn that she was in the game of Martie's
fortunes, was pushed into play the following day. For Rose
telephoned Martie at the Library, in the foggy early morning, that
Doris was not well: there was a rather suspicious rash on the baby's
chest, and if it really were measles, there must be no announcement
luncheon to-day.
Martie had been eagerly awaiting that luncheon, when a dozen of the
prominent young matrons of Monroe should learn of her engagement.
She put up the telephone thoughtfully. Another delay. Another
respite, when she might still say to herself over and over: "I COULD
end it now. It isn't too late yet!"
In her hand to-day was a brief note brought to land by the tender of
the Nippon Maru. Dean Silver and John had duly sailed, they were far
out on the ocean now. That was settled. Now there was nothing to do
but go on serenely with her interrupted plans.
And yet the restless excitement caused by his coming was still about
her, she could not make herself forget. Everything that his odd and
vibrant personality had touched was changed to her. The wallflowers
he had twisted unseeingly in his nervous fingers, the kitchen where
their eager, ardent talk had gone on over the boiling of coffee and
the mixing of muffins, the hill they had climbed in gray, warm
moonlight, these things belonged to him now. Martie touched the
books he had praised tenderly, hearing his words again.
He had not written her: she knew why. She must be all or nothing to
John now. He had not spoken of her to Dean, he was trying in his
blundering boyish way to forget.
The novelist's note was short, and written in a tone of
disappointment and reproach. Martie read it, and winced as she
crumpled it in her hand. Presently she straightened it out, and read
it again. She flattened it on the desk before her, and studied it
resolutely, with reddened cheeks, and with a little pang at her
heart.
Sally came in, full of happy plans. There was talk now of making Joe
resident physician at the hospital, with a little house up there
right near the big building. It would be so dignified, bubbled
Sally, setting little Mary on the desk, where she and Aunt Mart
could each tie a small, dragging shoe-lace.
"Of course, this won't be for a year or two, Mart--but think of the
fun! A pretty house with a big porch, to match the main building, I
suppose--"
"But you'll be a mile out of town, Sis!"
"Oh, I know--but I can run the children in to school in the Ford,
and you'll have your own car, and that's all I really care about!
This is only a possibility, you know. What are you thinking about,
Mart?"
Martie laughed guiltily.
"I don't know what I was thinking," she confessed. Sally flushed,
studying her with bright eyes.
"Have you heard--"
"From John? No, but he sailed. I have a note from Mr. Silver here.
He was anxious to get him away, and they left suddenly. The sailing
list was in the paper, too, with a little notice of them both. It's
better so, I'm glad it's settled. But I wish I was a little more
sure of what the next step should be."
"I don't believe Rose's Doris has the measles at all," Sally said
thoughtfully, "and in that case, the luncheon will be in a day or
two, and won't that be rather--rather a relief to you? Oh, and
Mart," she broke off suddenly to say, "I have a letter for you here-
-Teddy and Billy called for the mail yesterday, and they left this
with mine."
Martie took the big envelope, smiling. The smile deepened as she
read. After a minute she turned the letter about on the desk, so
that Sally might read it too.
"From the editor of the magazine that took my other article," Martie
explained. "I sent them another, two weeks ago."
Sally read:
MY DEAR MRS. BANNISTER:
Your second article has been read with much interest in this office,
and we are glad to use it. Enclosed is a check for $100, which we
hope will be satisfactory to you. Our readers have taken so
continued an interest in your first article that we are glad to give
them something more from your pen.
If you are ever in New York, will you favor us with a call? It is
possible that we might interest you with an offer of permanent work
on our staff. We make a special feature, as perhaps you know, of
articles of interest to growing girls, and when we find a writer
whose work has this appeal, we feel that she belongs to us.
In any case, let us hear from you soon again.
"A hundred dollars!" Sally said proudly, handing the letter back.
"You smart thing! That's a nice letter, isn't it? Don't you think it
is? I do. Listen, Mart, don't say anything about Joe's plans, will
you? That's all in the air. I've got to go now, it's eleven. And
Mart, don't worry too much about anything. It will all seem
perfectly natural and pleasant once it's DONE. Good-bye, dear, I
wish I could have been some help to you about it all!"
"You have been, Sally--I believe you've been the greatest help in
the world!" Martie answered enigmatically, kissing Mary's soft
little neck where the silky curls showed under the little scalloped
bonnet. "Good-bye, dear--don't walk too fast in this sun!"
When Sally had tripped away, Martie sat on at the Library desk,
staring vaguely into space. Outside, the village hummed with the
peaceful sounds of a mild autumn morning. A soft fog had earlier
enveloped it; it was rising now; every hour showed more of the
encircling brown hills; by noon the school children would rush into
a sunshiny world. Shopping women pushed baby-carriages over the
crossings; a new generation of boys and girls would swarm to
Bonestell's in the late afternoon. Time was always moving, under it
all; in a few weeks the Clifford Frosts would be home again; in a
few months the High School would stand on the ground where little
Sally and Martie Monroe had played dolls' house a few years ago.
This was her last week at the Library; Daisy David was coming in to
take her place. Already Miss Fanny suspected the truth, and her
manner had changed toward Martie a little, already she was something
of a personage in Monroe.
Women and children and old men came out and in, their whispers
sounding in the quiet, airy space. Len's wife came in, with the
third daughter who should have been a son. Teddy and Billy came in;
they wanted five cents for nails; they had run out of nails. Measles
had closed the little boys' classes, and they were wild with the joy
of unexpected holiday.
Martie presently found herself telling Miss Fanny that she would
like a few hours' freedom that afternoon: she had shopping to do.
She ate her basket lunch as usual, then she walked out into the
glaring afternoon light of Main Street. A summer wind was blowing,
the warm air was full of grit and dust.
The Bank first, then Clifford's office, then a long, silent hour
praying, in the empty little church, where the noises of Main Street
were softened, as was the very daylight that penetrated the cheap
coloured windows. Then Martie went to Dr. Ben's, and last of all to
Sally's house.
She was to take Teddy home and Sally came with them to the gate. It
was sunset and the wind had fallen. There was a sweet, sharp odour
of dew on the dust.
"Be good to my boy, Sally!"
"Martie--as if he was mine!" Sally's eyes filled with tears at her
sister's tone: she was to have Teddy during the honeymoon.
Martie suddenly kissed her, an unusually tender kiss.
"And love me, Sis!"
"Martie," Sally said troubled, "I always DO!"
"I know you do!"
Martie laughed, with her own eyes suddenly wet, caught Teddy's
little hand, and walked away. Sally watched the tall, splendid
figure out of sight.
At the supper-table she was unusually thoughtful. Her eyes travelled
about the familiar room, the room where her high-chair had stood
years ago, the room where the Monroes had eaten tons of
uninteresting bread and butter, and had poured gallons of weak cream
into strong tea, and had cut hundreds of pies to Ma's or Lydia's
mild apologies for the crust or the colour. How often had the
windows of this room been steamy with the breath of onions and
mashed potatoes, how many; limp napkins and spotted tablecloths had
had their day there! Martie remembered, as long as she remembered
anything, the walnut chairs, with their scrolls and knobs, and the
black marble fireplace, with an old engraving, "Franklin at the
Court of France," hanging above it. Mould had crept in and had
stained the picture, which was crumpled in deep folds now, yet it
would always be a work of art to Pa and to Lydia.
She looked at Lydia; gentle, faded, dowdy in her plum-coloured cloth
dress, with imitation lace carefully sewed at neck and sleeves; at
Lydia's flat cheeks and rather prim mouth. She was like her mother,
but life had perforce broadened Ma, and it was narrowing Lydia.
Lydia was young no longer, and Pa was old.
He sat chewing his food uncomfortably, with much working of the
muscles of his face; some teeth were missing now, and some replaced
with unmanageable artificial ones. The thin, oily hair was iron-
gray, and his moustache, which had stayed black so much longer, was
iron-gray, too, and stained yellow from the tobacco of his cigars.
His eyes were set in bags of wrinkles; it was a discontented face,
even when Pa was amiable and pleased by chance. Martie knew its
every expression as well as she knew the brown-and-white china, and
the blue glass spoon holder, and the napkin-ring with "Souvenir of
Santa Cruz" on it. She could not help wondering what they would make
of the new house when they got into it, and how the clumsy, shabby
old furniture would look.
"Pa and Lyd," she said suddenly in a silence. Her tone was
sufficiently odd to arrest their immediate attention. "Pa--Lyd--I
went in to see Clifford this afternoon, and told him that I wanted
to--to break our engagement!"
An amazed silence followed. Teddy, chewing steadily on raisin
cookies, turned his eyes smilingly to his mother. He didn't quite
understand, but whatever she did was all right. Malcolm settled his
glasses with one lean, dark hand, and stared at his daughter. Lydia
gave a horrified gasp, and looked quickly from her father to her
sister: a look that was intended to serve the purpose of a fuse.
"How do you mean?" Malcolm asked painfully, at last.
"Well!" said Lydia, whose one fear was that she would not be able to
fully express herself upon this outrage.
"I mean that I--I don't truly feel that I love him," Martie said,
fitting her phraseology to her audience. "I respect him, of course,
and I like him, but--but as the time came nearer, I COULDN'T feel--"
Her voice dropped in an awful silence.
"You certainly waited some time to make up your mind, Martie," said
her father then, catching vaguely for a weapon and using it at
random.
"But, Martie, what's your REASON?" Lydia overflowed suddenly. "What
earthly reason can you have--you can't just say that you don't want
to, now--you can't just suddenly--I never heard of anything so--so
inconsiderate! Why, what do you suppose everybody--"
"This is some of your heady nonsense, Martie," said her father's
heavy voice, drowning down Lydia's clatter. "This is just the sort
of mischief I expected to follow a visit from men as entirely
irresponsible as these New York friends of yours. I expected
something of this sort. Just as you are about to behave like a
sensible woman, they come along to upset you--"
"Exactly!" Lydia added, quivering. "I never said a word to you, Pa,"
she went on hurriedly, "but _I_ noticed it! I think it's perfectly
amazing that you should; of COURSE it's that! Martie listened to
him, and Martie walked with him, and several people noticed it, and
spoke to me about it! It's none of my business, of course, and I'm
not going to interfere, but all I can say is THIS, if Martie Monroe
plays fast and loose with a man like Cliff Frost, it will hurt us in
this village more than she has ANY idea! What are people going to
think, that's all! I certainly hope you will use your authority to
bring her to her senses--just a few days before the wedding, with
everybody expecting--"
"Perhaps you will tell me what Clifford thinks of this astonishing
decision?" Malcolm asked, again interrupting Lydia's wild rush of
words.
"Cliff was very generous, Pa. He feels that it is only a passing
feeling, and that I must have time to think things over if I want
it," Martie began.
"Ha! I should think so!" Lydia interpolated scornfully.
"At first he was inclined to laugh about it, and to think that it
was nothing," Martie said almost timidly, glancing from one to the
other, and keeping one hand over Teddy's hand.
"What makes you feel that you HAVEN'T given the thing due
consideration, Martie?" her father asked darkly, with the air of
humouring a child's fantastic whims.
"Yes! You've been engaged for months!" Lydia shot in.
"Well, it's only lately, Pa," Martie confessed mildly.
"Exactly! Since somebody came along to upset you!" said Lydia. "All
I can say is, that I think it would break Ma's heart!" she added
violently. "You give up a fine man like Cliff Frost, and now I
suppose we'll have some of your divorced friends hanging about--"
"Lyd, dear, don't be so bitter," Martie said gently, almost
maternally. "Mr. Dryden has gone off for a long tour; he may not be
back for years. What I plan to do now is go to New York. I told
Cliff that--that I wanted to go."
"May I ask how you intend to live there?" Malcolm asked, with
magnificent and obvious restraint.
"By writing, Pa."
"You plan to take your child, and reenter--"
"I think I would leave Teddy, Pa, for a while at least." They had
all left the table now, and gone into the parlour, and Martie,
sinking into a chair, rested her chin on her hand, and looked
bravely yet a trifle uncomfortably at her interlocutors. Teddy had
dashed out into the yard.
"Now, I think we have heard about enough of this nonsense, Martie,"
said her father, in a changed and hostile tone. Lydia gave a
satisfied nod; Pa was taking a stand at last. "You didn't have to
say that you would marry Clifford," he went on sternly. "You did so
as a responsible woman, of your own accord! Now you propose to make
him and your family ridiculous, just for a whim. I sent you money to
come on here, after your husband's death, and all your life I have
tried to be a good father to you. What is my reward? You run away
and marry the first irresponsible scamp that asks you; you show no
sign of repentance or feeling until you are in trouble; you come
back, at my invitation, and are made as welcome here as if you had
been the most dutiful daughter in the world, and then--THEN--you
propose to bring fresh sorrow and disgrace upon the parent who
lifted you out of your misery, and offered you a home, and forgot
and forgave the past! I am not a rich man, but what I have has been
freely yours, your child has been promised a home for my lifetime.
What more can you ask? But no," said Malcolm, pacing the floor, "you
turn against me; yours is the hand that strikes me down in my age!
Now I tell you, Martie, that things have gone far enough. If you
follow your own course in this affair, you do so at your own risk.
The day you break your engagement, you are no longer my daughter.
The day you let it be known that you are acting in this flighty and
irresponsible way, that DAY your welcome here is withdrawn! I will
not be made the laughing-stock of this town!"
Lydia was in tears; Martie pale. But the younger woman did not
speak. She had been watching her father with slightly dilated eyes
and a rising breast, while he spoke.
"Cliff generous?" Malcolm went on. "Of course he's generous! He
probably doesn't know what to make of it; responsible people don't
blow hot and cold like this! The idea of your going in to him with
any such cock-and-bull story as this! You'll break your engagement,
eh?--and go on to New York for a while, eh?--and then come smiling
back, I suppose, and marry him when it suits your own sweet will?
Well, now, I'll tell you something, young lady," he added, with a
sort of confident menace, "you'll do nothing of the kind! You sit
down now and write Clifford a note, and tell him you were a fool.
And don't let me ever hear another word of this New York nonsense!
Upon my word, I don't know how I ever came to have such children!
Other people's children seem to have some sense, and act like
reasonable human beings, but mine--however, you know what I feel
now, Martie. Going into the Bank indeed, and telling the man you're
going to marry that you are 'afraid' this and you 'fancy' that! I'll
not have it, I tell you!"
"I told him that I knew I was acting badly," Martie said, "I said
that I felt terribly about it. I even cried--I'm not proud of
myself, Pa! And he asked me to think it over, and not to worry about
postponing the wedding, and--I think he was tremendously surprised,
but he didn't say one unkind word!"
"Well, he should have, then," Malcolm said harshly. "And you are a
fortunate woman if, when it suits your high-and-mightiness to come
to your senses, he doesn't take his turn to jilt YOU! On my word, I
never heard anything like it! What possesses you is more than I can
understand. You deliberately bring unhappiness down on your family,
and act as if you were proud of yourself! I don't pretend to be
perfect, but all my life I have given my children generously--"
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