The painted room

by Margaret Wilson

"Last year," she would say to herself, resentfully, "I enjoyed just sitting at this window mending socks. Anything made me happy last year." But now, when she sat down with her sewing, she wasn't seeing what was before her—the hedge, or anything else. The fingers of one hand would be intertwined tensely with the fingers of the other, and she would be sitting as it were, screwed up tight against herself, seeing that face bending down over Martha, that hateful, alienating face. She was seeing Martha in a gingham frock standing at that table, saying in a voice like the angel of some heavenly annunciation, "Richard Quin is getting a divorce." "I'm a fool!" she would say angrily to herself over and over, resolving not to worry. When one day some child with bitter-sweet had reminded her of a promise to Martha made early in June, she had got Bob to drive her out to where the vine grew heavily on a barbed wire fence. She and Martha had been chattering just there in July, as they drove along, and Martha had made her promise to gather some of it for the painted room. And that afternoon, after she had arranged it in the red copper bowls, she had lain down on a day bed and just cried and cried like a silly girl, so that, in spite of her precautions, Bob had eyed her at supper and laid another charge against Martha in his memory.

Martha would not come home for Thanksgiving. Emily had never suggested it to her before. They had agreed that it wasn't worth while coming so far for so few days. But this year Emily had hoped that some way, if she came, they might come to some understanding. But Martha refused to come. Her letters arrived as regularly as ever, as if she had determined that in this disagreement she was to be found in the wrong not at all. She was going to do her duty to her mother, however unsatisfactory that mother might be. She wrote regularly, therefore, such noncommittal and indifferent letters as she might have written to her father had necessity arisen. And Emily counted the weeks wearily till she would have the child with her again. Surely the separation, if nothing else, would bring her to her senses; and she tried not to worry. Martha had given her her word of honor that she would not see the man again. She had always been a truthful child; there was no gainsaying that.

Then one day, shortly before the Christmas holiday, Emily got a most disturbing letter from Eve. She wrote loyally in a very storm of perplexity. She had promised Martha faithfully that she would not write this to her mother, she began. And the more she thought about it, the more certain she was that she must write it. Martha scarcely spoke to her—she never did if she could manage not to without being noticed. Martha had said two days ago to her that she was not going home for Christmas. And everybody was saying how bad Martha looked. She was sick; she had no color; and all the girls said she was changed. And Eve had to cry about it, because she believed it was that horrid affair of last summer. Martha had never been the same since. And if she wasn't going home for Christmas, certainly some one ought to tell her mother how bad she looked. Eve begged Emily never to tell Martha she had written—to deny it up and down, if Martha guessed. But she was just sick about Martha. "After all, I'm older than she is, and I have more sense," Eve wrote. "And I can't help feeling that it's our fault. I would wish with all my heart we had never gone to Illinois—only then I wouldn't have known you."

And the next day Martha's letter had come, announcing her intention of spending the vacation in New York. Just New York, if you please, no address given, no intimation of her company. "You know what will happen if I come home," she wrote. "I'll just quarrel with father and you'll be miserable. It's better for me to stay away."

Martha had left this announcement, naturally, to the very last minute. But Eve's letter had prepared Emily. She telegraphed at once, knowing she had likely just time to reach Martha before she left college, that she was to meet her in a certain hotel in New York the next afternoon. She said nothing to Bob about Eve's letter. Eve's anxiety and Martha's impertinence between them had upset her completely. Did Martha imagine she was going to be allowed to announce her departure for unknown places and companies in this high-handed manner? What was the child thinking of? Was it possible—that she might not get the telegram? Was it possible that if she did, she wouldn't obey?

Emily had chosen that hotel hastily. She usually stayed with cousins in New York. But at Christmas time they might be having a house full. Besides, she couldn't endure the thought that Martha might be indifferent to her before them.

So she moved about the room she had taken in the hotel. She arranged the things she had unpacked, and rearranged them. She looked at the time, and she looked out of the window to the crowded street very far below. Martha was already a little bit late. Suppose she never came at all! Suppose she hadn't come by dinner time, by bed time! Emily couldn't sit still.

And then she heard some one; she opened the door; Martha was there, in her racoon coat, in a rosy little hat of many colors, pulled down over a sallow face; Martha was in her arms, and crying; in a second Martha, coat and all, was lying on the bed, her face in her mother's lap, repenting with bitter tears.

"Oh, I've been so horrid to you, mammie! I've been so horrid to you! I'm so sorry!" She was hugging her, clinging to her, imploring her pardon.

So Emily cried, too, for surprise and relief, and comforted her, and urged her to stop crying. This was better than anything she had dared to hope for. But she had known all the time Martha would come to herself. The child hadn't meant anything, really. She had always been such a good girl. Emily in a second could have forgotten every minute that had not been satisfactory. This was well worth having come to New York for.