Chapter Ten
"Do a deed," they say, "and make a proverb." But why, Emily mused more than once, should Martha, having done but one deed, go on making proverbs indefinitely. Must she interpret life forever by that one bitter mistake of hers? The more Emily thought of the doctor, the more deeply she was convinced that Martha was mistaken about her lover. She would have been a magnificent mother of a family of rollicking boys. Was it likely that a hard-headed professional woman, with a practice to maintain, was going to entangle herself with awkward amorous relationships? Emily decided it was not.
It was possible, too, that Martha had misunderstood Miss Curtis. Emily longed to prove it. She wanted to go and ask Mrs. Bissel all she knew of Miss Curtis's history. If a woman as conventional as Mrs. Bissel knew anything of that discrediting sort, would she have allowed her daughter to live in her flat? Certainly not, Emily said to herself. But just suppose Martha could be right? The least possibility of such a thing made it out of the question for Emily to broach the gossipy subject to Mrs. Bissel. So she held her tongue.
Then Martha walked in one snowy morning, like a normal child, home for the holidays, happy to be home. She walked in unannounced, alone, undefended by any stranger from intimacy with her mother! She walked in and she gave Emily a hug—an old little-girl hug, the like of which she had not had, since—THAT happened. Emily's neck could scarcely believe the feeling of those arms about it. Emily's eyes had to blink. Here now was that first little old Martha, the dear one that had been away from her for so long. Martha had recovered her real self; she was looking better; she was looking—bright, again; she was looking—excited. Yes, that was the word; she was excited through and through. Could she have fallen in love? Alas! that was too much to hope for. When she went upstairs Emily stood and listened. She half expected her to walk into the painted room.
She went into the guest room, however. She wasn't quite completely a daughter yet, then.
When she came down and saw Maggie's condition, she took the preparations for dinner out of her hands. The kitchen, some way, seemed to belong to Martha. Even Maggie, who had never relinquished it to Emily for a second, seemed conscious that it had changed owners. Emily stood about, talking to her.
"What," Martha cried, "the costumes aren't made! They haven't rehearsed for a month! Why didn't you write to me, mammie? I'd have come to help you."
Had she forgotten how shortly she had refused to come home at all for Christmas? Was she offering now, really, to plunge into the affairs of this town whose very existence she seemed of late to have resented?
"I'll go and get them. Let's have a seamstress to come here, and have a bee, and get them all done. I'll bet Miss Trent would train the children, mammie. She loathes Mrs. Benton."
"You mustn't talk that way, Martie!"