University of South Carolina Libraries
ELEANOR H. PORTER wi lUOSTRATfONS BY RJH.LIVINGSTONE. | ^ r (Copyright by ELEANOR H. PORTER) SYNOPSIS what happened. \*7/>Il fi?of lira rrai- Infrt RflCtnn fit PfcEFACEL-'Maxy M&rle" explains her B|H|^b&rezit "double personality" and just gH^H^HKy she is a "cross-current and a contra^^^^'ulction;" she also tells her reasons for wilting the diary?later to be a novel. The * \ diary is commenced at Andersonvilie. CHAPTER I.?Mary begins with Nurse N Sarah's account of her (Mary's) birth, which seemingly interested her father, who is a famous astronomer, less than a new star which was discovered the same night Her name is a compromise, her mother wanted to call her Viola and her father insisting on Abigail Jane. The child quickly learned that her home was In some way different from those of her small friends, and was puzzled thereat Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival at Andersonvilie as a bride and how astonished they all were at the sight of the dainty eighteen-year old girl whom the sedate professor had chosen for a wife. CHAPTER IL?Continuing her story, ^ Nurse Sarah makes it plain why the r household seemed a strange one to the child and howher father and mother ~ drifted apart through misunderstanding, each too proud to in any way attempt to smooth over the situation. CHAPTER III.?Mary tells of the time spent "out west" where the "perfectly ail right and genteel and respectable" . divorce was being arranged for, and her i. mother's (to her) unacount&ble behavior. IL- By the court's decree the child is to spend W Blx months of the year with her mother IS and six months with her father. Boston I is Mother's home, ana sne ana juary leave Andersonville for that city to spend the first six months. Well, as I said before, l didn't like it very well out there, and I doa't believe Mother did, either. But it's all over now, and we're back home packl . ing up to go to Boston. Everything seems awfully queer. Maybe because Father isn't here, for N one thing. He wrote very polite and 7 asked us to come to get our things, * and he said he was going to New York on buslnesi for several days, so Mother need not fear he should annoy her With his presence. Then, another thing, Mother's queer. This morning she was singing away at the top of her a voice and running all over the house L picking np things she wanted; and ^seemed so happy. But this afternoon ^ . f- found her down on the floor in the library crying as if her heart would 7 l>*?eak, with her head in Father's big 7 chair before the fireplace. But she >^jiimped up the minute I came in and said, no, no, she didn't want anything. J She was just tired; that'^ all. And when I asked her if she was sorry, ... after all, that she was going to Boston to live, she * said, no, no, no, indeed, j she guessed she wasn't. She was just *'as elad as ?lad could be that she was going only she wished Mo&day would hurry up anh come so we could be _ gone. \ ' And that's ail. It's a Saturday now, and we go just day after tomorrow. . Our trunks are 'most packed, and Mother says she wishes she'd planned to go today. I've said good-bye to all the girls, and promised to write loads of letters about Boston and everything. They are almost as excited hs ^ I am; and I've'-promised, "cross my heart and hbpe to die," that I won't love those Boston girls better thah I ! do them?specially Carrie Heywood of course, my dearest friend, f Nurse Sarah is hovering around v everywhere, asking to help, and pretending she's sorry we're going. But she isn't sorry. She's glad. I know she . is. She never did appreciate Mother, and she thinks she'll have everything her own way now. But she won't. I could tell Her a thing or two if I wanted to. But I shan't. " ' Father's sister, Aunt Jane Anderson, from St. Jfaui, is coming ip Keep uuuse for him, partly on account of Father, and partly on account of me. "If that child is going to be with her father six months of the time, she's got to have some woman there beside a meddling old nurse and a nosey servant girl!" They didn't know I heard that. But I did. And now Aunt Jane is coming. My! how mad Nurse Sarah would be if she knew. But she doesn't. I guess I'll end this chapter here and begin a fresh one down In Boston. Oh, I do so wonder what it'll be like? Boston, Mother's home, Grandpa Desmond, and all the rest. I'm so excited I can hardly wait. You see, Mother never took me home with her but once, and then I was a very small child. I don't know why, but I guess Father didn't want me to go. It's safe to say he didn't, anyway. He never wants . me to do anything, hardly. That's why I suspect him of not wanting me to go down to Grandpa Desmond's. And Mother didn't go only once, in ages. ? Now this will be the end. And when . I begin again it will be in Boston. Only think of it?really, truly Boston! CHAPTER IV. When I Am Marie. Boston. Yes, Tm here. I've been here a ^jpeek. But this is the first minute Tve ^^f^a chance to write a word. Tve busy just being hy^, And so HB0HHbother. There's a let H^HB^nsint^^toe. ?at]TU try m cu, ulol gvv iuwv .? | four o'clock Monday afternoon, and Well, First We Got Into Boston at Four O'clock Monday Afternoon, and There Was Grandpa Desmond to Meet Us. there was Grandpa Desmond to meet us. He's lovely?tall and dignified, with grayish hair and merry eyes like Mother's, only his are behind glassy. At the station he just kissed Mother and me and said he was glad to see us, and led us to the place where Peter was waiting with the car. (Peter drives Grandpa's automobile, and he's lovely, too.) Mother and Grandpa talked very fast and very lively all the way home, and Mother laughed quite a lot. "But in the r.all she cried a little, and Grandpa patted her shoulder, and said, "There there!" and told her how glad he was to get his little girl back, ano that they were going to be very happj now and forget the past. And Mothei said, yes, yes, indeed, she knew sh was,* and she was so glad to be there, and that everything was going to be just the same, wasn't it? Only?then all of-a sudden she looked over at me and began to cry again?only, ol course, things couldn't be "just the sho r>hn!r<=*1 hiirrvinsr over tfl me and putting both arms around me, and crying harder than ever. Then Grandpa came and hugged us both, and patted us, and said, There, there!" apd pulled off his glasses and wiped them very fast and very hard. But it wasn't only a minute or two before Mother was laughing again, and saying, "Nonsense!" and "The idea!" and this was .a pretty way to introduce ; her little Marie to her new home! Then she hurried me to the dearest little room I ever saw, right out, ot hers, and took off my things. Then we went all over the house. And itV Just as lovely as can be?not at all like Father's in Andersonville. Oh, Father's is fine and big and handsome, and all that, of course; but not like this. His is just a nice place to eat and sleep in, and go to when it rains. But this?this you just want to live in all the time. Here there are curtains 'way up and sunshine, and flowers in pots, and magazines, and cozy nooks with cushions everywhere; and books that you've just been reading laid down. (All Father's books are in bookcases, always, except while ""o'n ? frtn. Vion/^C! hafnor punH \ VUC3 111 JUU1 uaiiuo . V?V*; Grandpa's other daughter. Mother's sister, Hattie, lives here and keeps house for Grandpa. She has a little boy named Lester, six years old; and her husband is dead. They were away for what they called a week-end when we came, but they got here a little after we did Monday afternoon; and they're lovely, too. The house is a straight-up-and-down j one With a bad* and front, but no j sides except the one snug up to you on the right and left. And there isn't any yard except a little bit of a square brick one at the ba<-k where they have clothes and ash barrels, and a little grass spot in front at one side of the steps, not big enough for our old to take a nap in, hardly. But it's perfectly lovely inside: and it's the Insides of houses that really count, just as it is the insides of people?their hearts, I mean; whether they're go<?< and kind or hateful and disagreeable. 1 We have dinner at night here, and I've been to the theater twice already in the afternoon. I've got to go to school next week, Mother says, but so far I've just been having a good has "Just seemed as if Mother couldn't crowd the days full enough. She hasn't been still a minute. Lots of her old friends have been to . see her; and when there hasn't been anybody else around she's taken Peter and had him drive us all over Boston to see things?all kinds of things; Bunker hill and museums, and moving pictures, and one play. But we didn't stay at the play. It started out all right, but pretty soon a man and a woman on the stage began to quarrel. They were married (not really, but in tfie play, I meap), and I guess it was some' more of that incompatibility stuff. Anyhow, as they began to talk more and more, Mother began to fidget, and pretty soon I saw she was gathering up our things; and the minute the curtain went down" after the first act. she says: "Come, dear, we're going home. It? it isn't very warm here." As If I didn't know what she was really leaving for! Do old folks honestly think they are fooling us all the time, I wonder? But even if I hadn't known then, I'd have known it later, for that evening I heard Mother and Aunt Hattie talking in the library. j No, I didn't listen. I heard. And that's a very different matter. You listen when you mean to, and that's sneaking. You hear when you can't j help yourself, and that you can't be blamed for. Sometimes It's your good luck, and sometimes it's your bad luck?just according to what you hear! Well, I was in the window-seat in the library reading when Mother and Aunt Hattie came in; and Mother was saying : "Of course I came out! Do you suppose Td have had that child see that play, after I-realized what it was? As If she hasn't had enough of such wretched stuff already in her short life! Oh, Hattie, Hattie, I want that child to laugh, to sing, to fairly tingle with the joy of living every minute j that she is with me. I know so we1 ? ? t-.j ~ - ?in wnat sne nas nau, anu wnat ?ntr win have?in that?tomb. You know In six months she goes back?" Mother saw me then, I know; for she stopped right off short, and after a moment began to talk of something else, very fast And pretty quick went out into the hall again. Dear little Mother! Bless her old heart! Isn't she the ducky dear to want me to have all the good timespossible now so as to make up for the six months I've got to be with Father? You see, she knows what It is to live with Father even better than I do. Well. .1 guess she doesn't dread it for me any more than I do for myself. Still, I'll have the girls there, and I'm dying to see them again?and I won't have to stay home much, only nights and meals, of course, and Father's always pretty busy with his stars and comets and things. Besides it's only for six months, then I can come back to Boston. I can keep thinking of o f mau But I know now why I've been having sudi a perfectly beautiful time all this week, and why Mother has, been filling every minute so full o fun and good times. Why, even when we're at home here, she's always hunting up little Lester and getting him to have a romp with us. But of course next week I've got to go to school, and it can't be quite so J jolly then. Well, I guess that's all foi this time. ABOUT A MONTH LATER I didn't make a chapter of that last It wasn't long enough. And, really, I don't know as I've got much to add to It now. There's nothing much happened. I go to school now, and don't have so much time for fun. School's pretty good, and there are two or three girls 'most ns nice as the ones at Anderson vllle. But not quite. Out of school Mother keeps things just as lively as ever, and we have beautiful times. Mother is having a lovely time with her own friends, too. Seems as if there is always some one here when I get home, and lots of times there are teas and parties, and people to dinner. There are gentlemen, too. I suppose one of them will be Mother's lover by and by; but of course I don't know which one yet. I'm"*awfully interested In them, though. And of course It's perfectly natural that I should be. Wouldn't you be interested in the man that was going to be your new father? Well, I just guess you would! Anybody would. Why, most folks have only one father, you know, and they have to take that one Just as he Is; and it's all a matter of chance whether they get one that's cross or pleasant; or homely.or fine and grand-looking; or the common kind you can hug and kiss and hang round his neck, or the stand - off - don't-touch-me-I-mustn't-bedisturbed kind like mine. I mean the one I did have. But, there! that doesn't snnnd trichf either- fnr a? ennrsp he's still my father just the same, only? .well, he isn't Mother's husband any more, so I suppose he's only my father by order of the court, same as I'm his daughter. Well, anyhow, he's the father I've grown up with, and of course I'm used to him now. And it's an altogether different matter to think of having a brand-new father thrust upon you, all ready-made, as you might say, and of course I am interested. There's such a whole lot depends on the father. Why, only thipk how different things would have been at home if mj- father had been different! There were such a lot of things I had to be careful not to do?and just as many I had.to be careful to do?on account of Father. And so now, when I see all these nice young gentlemen (only they aren't all young; some of them are quite old) coming to the house and talking to Mother, and hanging over the back of Jieruchair, and handing her tea and lltm ? fcA-A'-M* r i t A tie cakesTl can't lielp wondering which, If any, is going to be her lover and my new father. And I am also wondering what I'll have to do on account of him when I get him, if I get him. Thebe are quite a lot of them, and they're all different. They'd make very different kinds of fathers, I'm sure, and I'm afraid I wouldn't like some of them. But. after all, it's Mother that ought to settle which to have? not me. She's the one to be pleased. 'Twould be such a pity to have to change again. Though she could, of course, same as she did Father, I suppose. As I said, they're all different. There are only "two that are anywhere near alike, and they aren't quite the same, for one's a lawyer and the other's in a bank. But they both carry canes rtrt ^ 11 nil "Knf n n n r*n fli uuu wcai iau sun. uais, tiuu pan men hair in the middle, and look at you through the kind of big round eyeglasses with dark rims that would make you look awfully homely if they didn't make you look so stylish. But I don't think Mother cares very much for either the lawyer or the bank man, and I'm glad. I wouldn't like to live with those glasses every day, even If they are stylish. I'd much rather have Father's kind. Then there's the man that paints pictures. He's tall and slim, and wears queer ties and long hair. He's always standing back and looking at things with his head on one side, and exclaiming "Oh!" and "Ah!" with a long breath. He says Mother's coloring is wonderful. I heard him. And I didn't like it very well, either. Why, It sounded as if she put it on herself out of a box on her bureau, same as some other ladies do! Still, he's not so bad, maybe; though I'm not sure but what his paints and pictures would be just as tiresome to live with as Father's stars, when it came right down to wanting a husband to live with you and talk to you every day in the year. You know you have to think of such n.Vion If rtnmoe fr, ohnncinff o UlIIl^O V> iitii it tv^uvg tv u new father?I mean a new husband. (I keep forgetting that it's Mother and not me that's doing the choosing.) Well, to resume and go on. There's the violinist. I mustn't forget him. But, then, nobody could forget him. He's lovely: so handsome and distinguished-looking with his perfectly beautiful dark eyes and white teeth. And he plays?well, I'm simply crazy. , over his playing. I only wish Carrie Heywood cpuld hear him. She thinks her brother can play. He's a traveling violinist with a show; and he came home once to Andersonville. And I heard him. But he's not the real thing at all. Not a bit. Why, he might be anybody, our grocer, or the butcher, up there playing that violin. His eyes are little and blue, and his hair is red and very short. I wish she could hear our violinist play! And there's another man that comes to the parties and teas;?oh. of course there are others, lots of them, married men with wives, and unmarried men with and without sisters. But I mean another man specially. His name is Harlow. He's a little man with a brow? pointed beard and big soft brown eyes. He's really awfully goodlooking, too. I don't know what he does do; but he's married. I know that. He never brings his wife, though; but Mother's always asking for her, clear and distinct, and she always smiles, and her voice kind of tinkles like little silver bells. But just the same he never brings her. He never takes her anywhere. I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother so at ii'han ha mp She LUC YCIJf uioh nutu. UV said they weren't a bit happy together, and that there'd probably be a divorce before long. But Mother asked for her just the same the very next time. And she's done it ever since. I think I Tcnow now why she does. I found out, and I was simply thrilled. It was so exciting! You see, they. I were lovers once themselves-?-Mother j and this Mr. Harlow. Then something happened and they quarreled. That ! was just before Father came. Of course Mother didn't tell me this, nor Aunt Hattie. It was two ladles. I heard them talking at a tea one day. I was right behind them, and I couldn't get away, so I just couldn't help hearI - ? ? ?^ nn i rl lUg WilUL tlicj saiu. f They were looking across the room at Mother. Mr. Harlow was talking to her. He was leaning forward in his chair and talking so earnestly to Mother; and he looked just as ifvhe thought there wasn't another soul in the room b.ut just they two. But Mother?Mother was just listening to | be polite to company. Anybody could see I that. And the very first chance she got she turned and began to talk to a lady who was standing near. And she never so much as looked toward Mr. Harlow again. > The ladies in front of me laughed then, and one of them said, with a little nod of her head, "I guess Madge DesAond Anderson can look out for I herself all right." I Then they got up and went away | without seeing me. And all of a sudden I felt almost sorry, for I wanted them to see me. I wanted them to see that I knew my mother could take care of herself, too, and that I was proud ! of it. If they had turned I'd have said ! so. But they didn't turn. I shouldn't like Mr. Harlow for a I .V T l.nstn- T clmillHn'f But then. lUlUVi. X IVUUH X uuvu.u~. _ there's no danger, of course, even if he and Mother were lovers once. He's got a wife now, and even if he got a divorce, I don't believe Mother would choose him. But of course there's no telling which one she will take. As I said . before, I don't know. It's too soon, anyway, to tell. I suspect it isn't any more proper to hurry up about getting < mar.Hed again when you've been unmarried by a divorce than it is when you've been unmarried by your hus band's dying. 7 asked Peter one day how soon folks did get married after a divorce, but he didn't seem to know. Anyway, all he said was to stammer: "Er?yes, miss?no. miss, I mean, I don't know, miss." Peter is awfully funny. But he's nice. I like him, only I can't find out much by him. He's very good-looking, though he's quite old. He's almost thirty. He told me. I asked him. He takes me back and forth to school every day, so I see quite a lot of him. And, really, he's about the only one I can ask questions of here, anyway. Tlierb isn't anybody like Nurse Sarah used to be./Olga, the cook, talks so funny I eafi't understand a word she says, hardly. Besides, the only two times I've been down to the kitchen Aunt Hattie sent for me, and she told me the last time, not to go any more. She didn't say why. Aunt Hattie never says why not to do things. She just says, "Don't." Sometimes It seems to me as if my whole life had been mad^ up of "don'ts." If they'd only tell us part of the time things to "do," maybe we wouldn't have so much time to do the 'don'ts." (That OAiin /I a Pimnv Kut t cnipsa folks'!! know OV/UUUO lUUiijf V **v A 0 what I mean.) Well, what was I saying? Oh, I know?about asking questions. As I said, there isn't anybody like Nurse Sarah here. I can't understand Olga. and Theresa, the other maid, is just about as bad. Aunt Hattie's lovely, but I can't ask questions of her. She isn't the kind.. Besides, Lester's always there, too; and you can't-discuss family affairs before children. Of course there's Mother and Grandpa Desmond. But questions like when ifs proper for Mother to have lovers I can't ask of them, of course. So there's no one but Peter left to ask. Peter's all right and very nice, but he doesn't seem to know anything that I want to know. So he doesn't amount to so very much, after all. I'm not sure, anyway, that Mother'U want to get married again. From little things she says I rather guess she doesn't think much of marriage, anyway. One day I heard her say to Aunt Hattie that it was a very pretty theory that marriages were made in heaven, but that the real facts of the case were that they were made on earth. And another day I heard her say that one trouble with marriage was that the husband and wife didn't know how to play together and to rest together. And lots of times I've heard her say little things to Aunt Hattie that showed how unhappy Yier marriage had been. But last night a funny thing happened. We were all in the library reading aft^r dinner, and Grandpa looked up from his paper and said something about a woman that was sentenced to be hanged and how a whole lot of men were writing letters protesting against having a woman hanged; but there were only one or two letters from women. And Grandpa said that only went to prove how much more lacking in a sense of fitness of things women were than men. And he was just going to say more when Aunt Hattie bristled up and tossed her chin, and said, real Indignantly : "A sense ?f fitness of things. Indeed! Oil, yes, that's all very well to say. There are plenty of men, no doubt, who are shocked beyond anything at the idea of hanging a woman; but those same men will think nothing of going straight home and making life for some other woman so absolutely miserable that she'd think hanging would be a luckyt escape from something worse." "Harriet!" exclaimed Grandpa in a shocked voice. "Well, I mean it!" declared Aunt Hattie emphatically. "Look at poor Madge here, and that wretch of a husband of hers!" And just here is where the funny thing happened. Mother bristled up? Mother!?and even more than Aunt Hattie had. She turned red and then white, and her eyes blazed. "That will do, Hattie, please, in my presence, sne said, very coia, nae ice. "That Will Do, Hattie, Please, in My Presence," She Said, Very Cold, Like Ice. "Dr. Anderson is not a wretch at all. He is an honorable, scholarly gentleman. Without doubt he meant to be k4nd and considerate. He simply did not understand me. We weren't suited to each other. That's all." And she got up and swept out of the v - . room. Now, wasn't that funny? But I Just loved it, all the same, I always love Mother when she's superb and haughty and disdainful. Well, after she had gone Aunt Hattie looked at Grandpa and Grandpa looked at Aunt " Hattie. Grandpa shrugged his shoulders, and gave his hands a funny little flourish; and Aunt Hattie lifted her eyebrows and said: "Well, what do you know about that?" (Aunt Hattie forgot I was in the room, I know, or she'd never in tha world have used slang like that!) "And after all the things she's said about how unhappy she was!" finished Aunt name. Grandpa didn't say anything, but Just gave his funny little shrug again. And it was kind of queer, when you come to think of it?about Mother, I mean, wasn't It? ONE MONTH LATER Well, I've been here another whole month, and it's growing nicer all the time, I Just love it here. I love the sunshine everywhere, and the curtains up to iet it in. And the flowers in the rooms, and the little fern-dish on the dining-room table, the books and magazines Just lying around ready to be picked up; Baby Lester laughing and singing all over the house, and lovely ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room having music and tea and little cakes when I come home from school in the afternoon. And I love it not to have to look up and watch and listen for fear Father's coming in and I'll be making a noise. And beat of all I love Mother with her dancing eyes and her laugh, and her Just being happy, with no going in and finding her crying or looking long and fixedly at nothing, and then turning to rae with a great big sigh, and a "Well, dear?" that just makes you want to go and cry because it's so hurt and heart-broken. Oh, I do just lore it all! And Mother is happy, I'm sure she is. Somebt y is doing something for her every moment?seems so. They are so glad to get her back again. I know they are. I heard two ladies talking one day, and they said they were. They called her "Poor Madge,'* and "Dear Madge," and they said it was a shame that she shofcld have had such a wretched experience, and that they for one should try to do everything they could to make her for get. And that's what they all seem to be trying to do?to make her forget There isn't a day goes by but that somebody sends flowers or books or candy, or ifivites her somewhere, or takes her to ride or to the theater, or comes to see her, so that Mother is in just one whirl of good times from m morning till night. Why, she'd just have to forget. She doesn't have any time to remember. I think she is forgetting, too. Oh, of course she gets tired, and sometimes rainy days or twilight^ I find her on the sofa in her room not reading or anything, and her face looks 'most as it used to sometimes after they'd been having one of . their incompatibility times. But I don't find her that way very often, and It doesn't last long. So I really think she is forgetting. About the prospective suitors?I foand that "prospective suitor" In a story a week ago, and I just love it It means you probably will want to marry her, you know. I use it all the time now.?in my mind?when Fm thinking about those gentlemen that come here (the unmarried ones). I forgot and used it out loud one day to Aunt Hattie; but I shan't again. She said, "Mercy!" and threw up her hands and looked over to Grandpa the way she does when I've said something she thinks is perfectly awful. But I was firm and dignified?but very polite and pleasant?and I said that I didn't see why she should act like that, for of course they were prospective suitors, the unmarried ones, anyway, and even some of the married ones, maybe, like Mr. Harlow, for or course they could get divorces, and? "Marie!" interrupted Aunt Hattie thenv before I could say another word, or go on to explain that of course Mother couldn't be expected to stay unmarried always, though I was very sure she wouldn't get married again until it was perfectly proper and genteel for her to take unto herself another husband. But Aunt Hattie wouldn't even listen. And jshe threw up her hands and said, "Marie!" again with the emphasis on the last part of the name the way I simply loathe. And she told me never, never to let her hear me make such a speech as that again. And I said I would be very careful not to. And you may be sure I ahall. I don't want to go through a scene like that again! She told Mother about it, though, I think. Anyhow, they were talking very busily together when they came into the library after dinner that night, jmu JlOLHtri IWUCU suit Vi uuoucu ouu plagued, and I heard her say, "Per- 9 haps the child- does read too many M novels, Hattie." i* And Aunt Hattie answered, "Of * I course she does !" Then she said some- || thing else which I didn't catch, only H the words "silly" and "romantid" and 9 "pre-co-shus." (I don't know what that gj last means, but I put it down the way 9 It sounded, and I'm going to look it _ Then they turned and saw me, and IS they didn't say anything more. But H the next morning the perfectly lovely JS story I was reading, that Theresa let ffiH me^take, called "The Hidden Secret," |B I couldn't find anywhere. And when I asked Mother if she'd seen it, she said she'd given it back to Theresa, @9 and that I mustn't ask for it again. fag That I wasn't old enough yet to read such stories. _ __ UK (To be continued next week.) nl