Part 55 (1/2)
This was her last week at the Library; Daisy David was coming in to take her place. Already Miss f.a.n.n.y 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 s.p.a.ce. 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' cla.s.ses, and they were wild with the joy of unexpected holiday.
Martie presently found herself telling Miss f.a.n.n.y 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 k.n.o.bs, 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses 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 astonis.h.i.+ng decision?” Malcolm asked, again interrupting Lydia's wild rush of words.
”Cliff was very generous, Pa. He feels that it is only a pa.s.sing feeling, and that I must have time to think things over if I want it,”