"I never thought you'd act this way about it."
"I never thought for a minute you'd go on, after what I said to you."
"Do you want me to tell him I'm not allowed to speak to him?"
"I don't care what you tell him. You're able to make a man understand when he's not welcome, I hope, at your age."
"A mere child like me, mammie?" Martha asked. But Emily didn't deign to notice her sarcasm. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Martha went directly to her room. She came down for supper, and ate in silence. When it was over she began clearing away the dishes. Was she going to be a martyr? She passed through the living room, when she had finished them, on the way to her room.
"If they call for me, you can tell them I'm not going," she told Emily.
But the girls, when they came, wouldn't take any such answer. They ran into the house and up to the painted room. They must have persuaded her, for she came down with them, all dressed and ready, and, after they had told Emily they were going to keep her till the next afternoon, she said good-by coolly and departed with them.
And Emily was glad. Anything to get the child's mind away from the afternoon, from "that man." She wished Martha would stay with those nice young girls and go playing about with the lads they played with for a week. Perhaps that man would have left town by that time. Perhaps Eve would come back. And there was Mary Carr, who was to come for a visit some time during the holiday, and other girls. If Martha would only invite them for next week! Emily, sitting on the dark veranda, clung eagerly to these hopes. Remembering the expression of that woman's face, she planned almost frantically. She would take Martha and go—to Estey's Park—or—to Banff; she would go to Alaska or—Italy—Norway—any place. Home had become—not a refuge, not a playground of happy security, but a dangerous, threatening place. She wished devoutly that Eve and her family had never come to the town.
However, when Emily suggested Colorado, Martha said it was too hot to travel. Trains would be horrible such nights. And that was true. "This house," Martha remarked, truly, "is cooler than any place else is." When Emily asked about the visit Martha had been looking forward to, she replied: "Dorothy's father has broken his leg. I don't think they want me now." When Emily asked, after a discreet interval, when Mary Carr was to be expected, Martha said: "I don't know yet—exactly. It's such a lot of work for you now, company, in the heat. It's sort of nice to have a rest, for a change." This was something new. And there was something new about the atmosphere of the house. Martha had stopped baiting her father. She had stopped chattering with her mother. She sat through the meals a well-behaved and silent child. She offered to help about the house more thoughtfully than she sometimes had. And when she had finished her tasks, she withdrew to the painted room.
She had said she wanted a sitting room, and she had got one. But Emily had never foreseen that she meant to withdraw from the family altogether. When her friends came now, they went upstairs to her. Emily felt strangely alone, deprived of their chatter. When she went up to them, the girls received her as usual. Their tongues wagged on still. They seemed not to notice Martha's withdrawal, but Emily did. She told herself that she had been trying always to get Martha to rest. And now when Martha was going to bed early, when she was lying on her bed reading, or pretending to, sleeping, or pretending to, all the afternoons, Emily was uncomfortable. Even Bob said: "What's got into the kid? Where's the gang?"