MARTHA—Three years and two—both girls. [She goes on sadly.] We had a nice little house in Goldfield. [Forcing a smile.] We were very respectable home folks then. The wandering came later, after—It was a Sunday in winter when Curt and I had gone visiting some friends. The nurse girl fell asleep—or something—and the children sneaked out in their underclothes and played in the snow. Pneumonia set in—and a week later they were both dead.
BIGELOW—[Shocked.] Good heavens!
MARTHA—We were real lunatics for a time. And then when we'd calmed down enough to realize—how things stood with us—we swore we'd never have children again—to steal away their memory. It wasn't what you thought—romanticism—that set Curt wandering—and me with him. It was a longing to lose ourselves—to forget. He flung himself with all his power into every new study that interested him. He couldn't keep still, mentally or bodily—and I followed. He needed me—then—so dreadfully!
BIGELOW—And is it that keeps driving him on now?
MARTHA—Oh, no. He's found himself. His work has taken the place of the children.
BIGELOW—And with you, too?
MARTHA—[With a wan smile.] Well, I've helped—all I could. His work has me in it, I like to think—and I have him.
BIGELOW—[Shaking his head.] I think people are foolish to stand by such an oath as you took—forever. [With a smile.] Children are a great comfort in one's old age, I've tritely found.
MARTHA—[Smiling.] Old age!
BIGELOW—I'm knocking at the door of fatal forty.