Part 34 (2/2)

Somehow she got through the cold, silent afternoon. She felt as if she were bleeding internally; as if the crimson stain from her shaken heart might ooze through her faded gingham. She must get the children into the fresh air before the snow fell.

Out of doors a silence reigned. A steady, cold wind, tasting already of snow, was blowing. The streets were almost deserted. Martie pushed the carriage briskly, and the sharp air brought colour to her cheeks, and a sort of desperate philosophy to her thoughts. Waiting for the prescription for Margar's croup, with the baby in her lap, Martie saw herself in a long mirror. The blooming young mother, the rosy, lovely children, could not but make a heartening picture. Margar's little gaitered legs, her bright face under the shabby, fur-rimmed cap; Teddy's st.u.r.dy straight little shoulders and his dark blue, intelligent eyes; these were Martie's riches. Were not comfort and surety well lost for them at twenty-seven? At thirty-seven, at forty-seven, there would be a different reckoning.

No woman's life was affected, surely, by a trifle like the tourist fare to California, she told herself sensibly. If the money was not to come from John, it must be forthcoming in some other way, if not this month, then next month, or the next still. Perhaps she would still go to John, and tell him the whole story.

Pondering, planning, she went back to the house, her spirits sinking as the warm air smote her, the odour of close rooms, and of the soaking little garments in the kitchen tub. Wallace had come in, had flung himself across his bed, and was asleep.

Martie merely glanced at him before she set about the daily routine of undressing the baby, setting the table, getting a simple supper for Teddy and herself. No matter! It was only a question of a little time, now. In ten days, in two weeks, she would be on the train; the new fortune hazarded. The snoring sleeper little dreamed that some of her things were packed, some of the children's things packed, that Margar's best coat had been sent to the laundry, with the Western trip in view; that a furniture man had been interviewed as to the disposal of the chairs and tables.

At six o'clock Margar, with her bottle, was tucked away in the front room, and Martie and Teddy sat down to their meal. Roused perhaps by the clatter of dishes, Wallace came from the bedroom to the kitchen door, and stood looking in.

”Wallace,” Martie said without preamble, ”why did you never tell me that you borrowed money from Mr. Dryden?”

He stared at her stupidly, still sleepy, and taken unawares.

”He told you, huh?” he said heavily, after a pause.

”I found his note!” Martie said, beginning to breathe quickly.

Without glancing at Wallace, she put a b.u.t.tered slice of bread before Teddy.

”I didn't want to distress you with it, Mart,” Wallace said weakly.

”Distress me!” his wife echoed with a bitter laugh.

”Of course, some of it is paid back,” Wallace added unconvincingly.

Martie shot him a quick, distrustful glance. Ah, if she could believe him! ”I have his note acknowledging half of it, seventy-five,” added Wallace more confidently. ”I'll show it to you!”

”I wish you would!” Martie said in cold incredulity. Teddy, deceived by his mother's dispa.s.sionate tone, gave Wallace a warm little smile, embellished by bread and milk.

”I guess you've been wondering where I was?” ventured Wallace, rubbing one big bare foot with the other, and hunching his shoulders in his disreputable wrapper. Unshaven, unbrushed, he gave a luxurious yawn.

”No matter!” Martie said, shrugging. She poured her tea, noticed that her fingernails were neglected, and sighed.

”I don't see why you take that att.i.tude, Mart,” Wallace said mildly, sitting down. ”In the first place, I sent you a letter day before yesterday, which Thompson didn't mail--”

”Really!” said Martie, the seething bitterness within her making hand and voice tremble.

”I have the deuce of a cold!” Wallace suggested tentatively. His wife did not comment, or show in any way that she had heard him. ”I know what you think I've been doing,” he went on. ”But for once, you're wrong. A lot of us have just been down at Joe's in the country. His wife's away, and we just cooked and walked and played cards--and I sat in luck, too!” He opened the wallet he held in his hands, showing a little roll of dirty bills, and Martie was ashamed of the instant softening of her heart. She wanted money so badly! ”I was coming home Monday,” pursued Wallace, conscious that he was gaining ground, ”but this d.a.m.n cold hit me, and the boys made me stay in bed.”

”Will you have some tea?” Martie asked reluctantly. He responded instantly to her softened tone.

”I WOULD like some tea. I've been feeling rotten! And say, Mart,” he had drawn up to the table now, and had one wrappered arm about Teddy, ”say, Mart,” he said eagerly, ”listen! This'll interest you. Thompson's brother-in-law, Bill Buffington, was there; he's an awfully nice fellow; he's got coffee interests in Costa Rica. We talked a lot, we hit it off awfully well, and he thinks there's a dandy chance for me down there! He says he could get me twenty jobs, and he wants me to go back when he goes--”

”But, Wallace--” Martie's quick enthusiasm was firing. ”But what about the children?”

”Why, they'd come along. Buff says piles of Americans down there have children, you just have to dress 'em light--”

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