9
Julie crouched in the corner of the car, her dark pupils contracting, dilating; she was going home to prepare her mother. The contempt in that letter she had written to Martin was awful, but she had promised and she braced herself for the fight. She was used to battles, bitter, uncompromising; used to the struggle of antagonistic spirits; but she had always been kept out of all that agony, pampered, spoilt, worshipped by her mother, indulged by her grandfather—and now she must fight them both, and she would. If they stood out against Martin, she would keep her word and go away with him; this was her determination. She stepped out of the car and found her mother waiting for her in the hall; she knew what was coming. Mrs. Gonzola led the way upstairs to her bedroom—watched Julie take off her hat and coat, and smooth down her hair.
“How long have you been meeting this man without my knowledge?”
“You mean Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Since you forbade him the house.”
“This is the first time in your life that you have openly disobeyed me. Why did you do it?”
“I love him, Mother, and he loves me, and I am going to marry him.” She had rehearsed it in the car.
Mrs. Gonzola implored her not to marry that “ruffian” who had intrigued to get her affection. No man of honor would have acted like that. He was not the man for her—she was too young to realize it—she would hate him in the end. She begged, entreated her to wait a year. Julie burst into convulsed sobs.
“He won’t wait, Mother—I’ve been through all that with him. Mother! Mother! Don’t stop it, don’t, I must marry him! I must!”