He could not help realizing how intently the three of them were waiting his words.
"I ought to explain—I suppose I ought to tell you—how things are with my married daughter—with Elinor—Mrs. Kenworthy. You'll understand my situation. She's a very sick woman. She suffers——" the pain in his voice told too well how she suffered. "She walks the floor for hours together at night. Eve can't understand it. She's never had a pain in her life. I know positively that for three days and nights before she went to Chicago she hadn't an hour's sleep. If you could see—the fight she—puts up—against—drugs—against things to relieve her, Mrs. Kenworthy!"
Emily had to murmur, moved by his voice, "Oh, I didn't realize she was so bad!"
"I told the paper man. I explained it to him—I didn't mention your name, even, or any women's clubs. I told him she had been—just beside herself with pain, and if she ever said any such thing, she didn't know what she was doing. Because, you understand, Mrs. Kenworthy," he cried, eagerly, "she isn't that sort of woman. She never would have published such a statement if she had intended doing anything. I told him that if she ever saw such a thing in his paper, I didn't know what she might do. It would drive her crazy. I told him he would be responsible—for a great deal—too much harm, perhaps. He understood at once. He said he was sorry. He let me word it. I'll show you."
He took a folded sheet of paper out of an inside pocket of his coat, and handed it to Emily. Bob went to her, bending over her chair, and read with her:
There is no truth whatever in the rumor that Mrs. Richard Quin contemplates divorce proceedings. The editor regrets its publication the more because Mrs. Quin is in very poor health and in no condition to bear the annoyance caused by such rumors. She and her husband left the first of the week for Rochester, where she will be under the care of the Mayos for some weeks.
"I don't know—what more you could have done," Emily murmured.
"Are you satisfied, Martha?" Mr. Fairbanks was taking the paper from Emily and handing it to the girl.
"Oh, me?" she asked, innocently, as if he had surprised her by supposing she was concerned in the matter. Emily, looking quickly across at her, marked the way her eyes were shining, and murmured, "Martha!" imploringly.
But Martha paid no heed to her. She tilted her head dangerously and, looking straight at him, drawled with utter contempt and scorn: