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MMA 1 eleanorI | IUBSTRA' 1U1.UVJU |-r-?r ' Pk, I (Copyright by ELEi > ESSHSmSSSSSMBS ^ MARY MARIE SrfCv ; v \ By Eleanor H. Porter fe;'.' V Illustrations by % H. Livingstone SfTd.. i ??- * OtNiWhtkrtlNMi H. Pitte 8YNOP8I8 / . PREFACE.?*Mary Maria" explains her apparent "double personality" and just why she is a "cross-current and a contradiction;" she also tells her reasons for writing the diary?later to be a novel. The diary is commenced at Andersonville. CHAPTER L?Mary begins with Nurse 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 mail friends, and was puzzled thereat. Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival at Asdersonville 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 II ? V ' Nurse Sarah's Story. And this is Nurse Sarah's story. As I said, I'm going to tell it straight through as near as I can in her own words. And I can remember most of it, I think, for I paid very close ^v-;> attention. "Well, yes, Miss Mary Marie, things did begin to change right there an' then, an' so you could notice it. We saw it, though maybe your pa an' ma & di^t at the first "You see, the first month after the =, came, it was vacation time, an' he ' could give her all the time she wanted. An' she wanted it all. An' she took it An' he was just as glad to give - it as she was to take it. An' so from mornin' till night they was together, 1 traipsin' ail over the house an' garden, an' trampin' off through the woods and' up on the mountain every other day with their lunch. "You see she was city-bred, an' not used to woods an' flowers growin' wild; an' she went crazy over them. He showed her the stars, too, through x his telescope; but she hadn't a mite of | use for them, an' let him see it good an' plain. She told him?I heard her with my own ears?that his eyes, when they laughed, was all the tars she wanted ; ?n' that she'd had stars all her lor breakfast an' luncheon an' dinner, anyway, an' all the time bejtween; an' rhe'd rather have somethin* else, now?somethin' alive, that she could love an' live with an' touch an* play with, like she could the flowers an' rocks and' grass an' trees. "Angry? Your pa? Not much he was! He Just laughed an' caught her 'round the waist an' kissed her, an' said she herself was the brightest star nt nil Thon thav ran off hand in hand. like two kids, too. All through those first few weeks your pa was just a great big baby with a new plaything. Then when college began he turned all at once Into a full-grown man. An' just naturally your ma didn't know what to make of It "He couldn't explore the attic an' rig up in the old clothes there any more, nor romp through the garden, nor gb lunchin' In the woods, nor none of the things she wanted him to do. He didn't h^ve time. An' what made things worse, one of them comet-tails was cotnhi' up in the sky, an' your pa didn't take no rest for watchin' fpr : it, an' then studyin' of it when it got t here. ? 1?*+l.n. tklni,) T " AU your LUU.?pwr unit? * *. coaldnl think of anything but a d<*l that was thrown in the corner because ! somdbody'd got tired of her. She was , lonesome, a?' no mistake. Anybody'd be sorry for her, to see her mopln' ; rcgnd the house, nothin' to do, Oh, j she read, an' sewe<*with them bright- : colored silks an' worste4s; but 'course j there -wasn't no real work for her to , do. Ther^was good help in the kftchcto, | a$' I took what care of your grand- j ma was needed; an' she always gave i her orders through me, so I practically run- the house, an' there wasn't anything there for her to do. "An' so your ma just had to mope it lomt alone. . Oh, I don't mean your pa Was unkind. He was always nice an' lRYJI| RIEF 5 PORTER rT/we w nui^g u 1 1GST0NE. f- ! KNOR H. PORTER) polite, wEen E~e was in "the house, an' I'm sure he meant to treat her all right. He said yes, yes, to be sure, of course she was lonesome, an' he was sorry,- 'Twas too bad he was so busy. An' he kissed her an' patted her. But he always began right away to talk of the comet; an' ten to one he didn't disappear Into the observatory within the next five minutes. Then your ma would look so grieved an' sorry an' go off an' cry, an' maybe not come down to dinner, at all. "Well then, one day things got so bad your grandma took a hand. She was up an' around the house, though she kept mostly to her own rooms. But of course she saw how things was goin'. Besides, ' I told her?some. 'Twas no more than my duty, as I looked at it. She Just worshiped your da. an' naturally she'd want things right for him. So one day she told me to tell her son's wife to come to her in her room. "An' I did, an' she came. Poor little thing! I couldn't help bein' sorry for her. She didn't know a thing of what was wanted of her, an' she was so glad an' happy to come. Yon see, she was lonesome, I suppose. "'Me? Want me??Mother Anderson?' she cried. 'Oh, I'm so glad!' Then she made it worse by runnin' up the stairs an' bouncin' into the room like a rubber ball, an' cryin': 'Now, what shall I do. read to you, or sing to you, or shall we play games? Td love to do any of them!' Just like that, she said it. I, heard her. Then I went out. of course, an' left them. But I heard 'most everything that was said, just the same, for I was right in the next room dustin,' and the door wasn't quite shut. "First your grandmother said real polite?she was always polite?but in a cold little voice that made even me shiver in the other room, that she did not desire to be read to or sung to, and that she did not wish to play games. She had called her daughterin-law in to have a serious talk with her: Then she told her, still very polite, that she was noisy an' childish, an' undignified, an' that it was not wily silly, but very wrong for her to expect to have her husband's entire attention.; that he had his own work, an' it was a very Important one. He was going to be president of the college some day, like his father before ; - - * ? i ?i i.. 1- -1? I mm; an' it was ner piaee iu ueip uuu in every way she could?help him to be popular an' weiL-liked Juy all?the college people an' students; an' he couldn't be that if she insisted all the time on keepin' him to herself, or lookin' sour an' cross 4f she couldn't have him. "Of course that ain't all she said; but I remember this part particular on account of what happened afterward. You see?j\>ur ma?she felt awful bad. She cried a- little, an' sighed a lot, an* said she'd try, she really would try to help her husband in every way she could; an' she wouldn't ask him another mice, not once, to stay with her. An' she wouldn't look sour an' cross, either. She'd promise she wouldn't. An' she'd try, she'd try, oh, so hard, to be proper an' dignified. "She got up then an' went out of the room so quiet an' still you wouldn't know she was movin'. But I heard her up in her room eryin' half an hour later, when I stopped a minute at her door to /see if she was there. An' she was. ! "But she wasn't cryin' by night. Not much she was! She'd washed her face an' dressed herself up as pretty as could be, an' she never so much as looked as if she wanted her husband to stay with her, when he said right after supper that he guessed he'd go out to the observatory. An' 'twas that way right along after that. I know, 'cause I watched. You see, I knew what she'd said she'd do. Well, she did it. "Then, pretty quick after that, she began to get acquainted in the town. Folks called, an' there was parties an' receptions where she met folks, an' thav hocan to comb here to the house, 'specially them students, an' two or three of them young, unmarried professors. An' she began to go out a lot with them?skatin' an' sleighridin' an' snowshoein'. "Like it? ^ Of course she liked It! Who wouldn't? Why, child, you never saw such a fuss as they made over yoir ma in them days. She was all the. row an' nf' fhiirSf &he liked It. What woman wouldn't, that was gay an' lively air' young, an' had been so lonesome like your ma had* Rut some other folks didn't like it. ' An' your pa was one of thep. This?time 'twas him that made the trouble, I knpw, 'cause I heard what he said o$e day to hkr in the library. "Yes, I guess'I was in the next ipom that day, too?er-rdustln', probably. Anyway, I heard him tell your ma good *w "Yea, I Guess I Was in the Next Room That Day, Too?er?DustinV an' plain what he thought of her gal1 Ivan tin' 'round from -mornln' till night with them young students an' professors, an' havin' them here, too, such a lot, till the house was fairly overrun hom Ha ooM ha wnn ahnHrari an4 scandalized, an' didn't she have any regard for his honor an' decency, if she didn't for herself! An' oh. a whole lot more. "Cry? No, your ma didn't ery this time. I met her in the hall right after they got through talkin', an' she was white as a sheet, an' her eyes was like two blazin' stars. So I know how she must have looked while she was in the library. An' I must say she give it to him good an' plain, straight from the shoulder. She told him she was shocked an' scandalized that he could talk to his v^fe like that; an' didn't he have any more regard for her honor an' decency than to accuse her of run rin' arter any man jivmg?mucn less a dozen of them' An' then she told him a lot of what his mother had said to her, an' she said she had been merely tryln' to carry out those Instructions. She was tryln' to make her husband an' her husband's wife an' her husband's home popular with the college folks, so she could help him to be president, if he wanted to be. But he answered back, cold an' chilly, that he thanked her,- of course, but he didn't care for any more of that kind of assistance; an' if she would give a little more time to her home an' her housekeepln', as she ought to, he\ would be considerably better pleased. An' she said, very well, she would see that he had no further cause to complain. An' the next minute I met her in the hall, as I just said, her head high and her eyes blazln'. "An' things did change then, a lot, I'll own. Right away she began to refuse to go out with the students an' young professors, an' she sent down word she wasn't to home when they called. And pretty quick, of -course, they stopped comin'. "Housekeepin'? Attend to that? Well, y-yes, she did try to at first, a little; but of course your grandma had always given the orders?through me, I mean; an' there really wasn't anything your ma could do. An' I told her so, plain. Her ways were new an' different an' queer, an' we liked ours better, anyway. So she didn't bother us much that way very long. Besides, she wasn't feelin' very well, anyway, an' for the next few months she stayed in her room a lot, an' we didn't see much of her. Then by an' by you came, an'?well, I guess that's all?too much, you little chatterbox !" CHAPTER III The Break Is Made. And that's the way Nurse Sarah finished her story, only she shrugged her shoulders again, and looked back, first one way, then another. As for her calling me "chatterbox"?she always calls me that when she's been doing all the talking. As near as I can remember, I have told Nurse Sarah's story exactly as she told it to me, in her own words. But of course I know I didn't get it right all the time, and I know I've left out quite a Jot. But, anyway, it's told a whole lot more than I could have told why they got married in the first place, and it brings my story right up to the point where I was born; and I've already told about naming me, and what a time they bad over that. Of oourse what's happened since, up to now, I don't know all about, for I was crdy * child for the first few years. Now I'm almost a youag lady: "standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river, meet." (I read that last night. I think it's perfectly beautiful. So kind of sad and sweet. It makes me want to cry every, time I think of it.) But even if I don't know air of what's happened sin'ce I was born, I know a good deal, for IVe seen quite a lot, and I've made Nurse tell me a lot more. I know that ever slncp I can remejnber I've had tb keep as still as a mouse the minute Father comes into the house; and' I know that I never could imagine the kind of a mother that Nurse tells about, if It wasn't that sometimes when Father hhs gone off on a trip, Mother and I have romped all over the^house, and had the most beautiful time. I know that .Father says that Mother Is always trying to ' make me a "Marie,T' and nothing else"; and that Mother says she knows Father'Il never be happy until he's made me into a stupid little "Mary," with never an atom of life of my own. And, do you know? it does seem sometimes, as if Mary and Marie were fighting inside of me, and I wonder which is going to beat. Funny, isn't it? Father is president of the college now, and I don't know how many stars and comets and things he's discovered since the night the star and I were born together. But I know he's very famous, and that he's written up in the papers and magazines, and is in the big fat red "Who's Who" in the library, and has lots of noted men come to see him. Nurse says that Grandma Anderson died very soon after I was born, but4j that it didn't make any particular dif- j ference in the housekeeping; for things went right on just as they had done, with her giving the orders as before; that she'd given them all alone anyway, mostly, the last year Grandma Anderson lived, and she knew just how Father liked things. She said j Mother tried once or twice to take the reins herself, and once Nurse let her, just to see what would happen. But things got in an awful muddle right away, so that even Father noticed it and said things. \After that Mother never tried again, I guess. Anyhow, cho'c nftvcr trlAd it filnrp T pfln remem W**v KJ MVf V* W* v ^-w ? ? ? her. She's always stayed most of the time up in her rooms in the east wing, except during meals, or when she went out with me, or went to the things she and Father had to go to together. For they did go to lots of things, Nurse says. It seems that for a long time they didn't want folks to know there was going to be a divorce. So before folks they tried to be Just as usual. But Nurse Sarah said she knew there was going to be one long ago. The first I ever heard of it was Nurse telling Nora, toe gin we naa in rue Kircnen then; and the minute I got a chance I asked Nurse what It was?a divorce. My, I can remember now how scared she looked, and how she clapped her hand over my mouth. She wouldn't tell me?not a word. And that's the first time I ever saw her give that quick little look over each shoulder. She's done it lots of times since. As I said, she wouldn't tell me, so I had to ask some one else. I wasn't going to let it go by and not find out ?not when Nurse Sarah looked so scared, and when it was something my father and mother were going to have some day. I didn't like to ask Mother. Some way, I had a feeling, from the way Nurse Sarah looked, that it was something Mother wasn't going to like. And I thought if maybe she didn't know yet she was going to have it, that certainly I didn't want to be the one to tell her. So I didn't ask Mother what a divorce was. I didn't even think of asking Father, of course. I never ask Father questions. Nurse says I did ask him once wfcy he didn't love me like other papas loved their little girls. But I was very little then, and I don't remember it at all. But Nurse said Father didn't like it very well, and maybe I did remember that part, without really knowing it. Anyhow, I never think of' asking Father questions. I asked the doctor first. I thought maybe 'twas some kind of a disease, and if he knew it was coming, he could give them some sort of a medicine to keep it away?like being vaccinated so's not to have smallpox, you know. And I told him so. He gave a funny little laugh, that somehow dWn't sound like a laugh at all. Then he grew very, very sober, and said: 'Tm sorry, little girl, but I'm afraid I haven't got any medicine that will prevent?a divorce. If I did have, there'd be no eating or drinking or sleeping for me, I'm thinking?I'd be so busy answering my calls." "Then it is a disease!" I cried. And I can remember Just how frightened I felt. "But isn't there any doctor anywhere that can stop it?" He shook his head and. gave that queer little laugh again. "I'm afraid not," he sighed. "As for it's being a disease?there are people that call it a disease, and there are others who call it a cure; and there are still others who say it's a remedy worse than the disease it tries to cure. But, there, you baby! What am I saying? Come, come, my dear, just forget it. It's nothing you should bother your little head over now. Wait till you're older." Till I'm older, indeed! How I hate to have folks talk to me like that! And they do?they do It all the time. As if I was a child now, when I'm almost standing there where the brook and river meet! Dili- 4-hcit- it/oo inct thp klnri of talk UUL luai ?f UU jwww ~ ? ? I got, everywhere, nearly every time I asked any one what a divorce was. Som? lacghed, and some sighed. Some looked real worried 'cause I'd . asked It, and one got mad. (That was the dressmaker. I found out afte#ward that she'd had a divorce already, so probably she thought I asked the question on purpose to plague her.) But nobody would ahswer me?realiy answer me sensibly, so I'd know what It meant; and 'most everybody said, "Run away, child," or "You shouldn't talk^ of such things," or, "Wait, my dear, till you're older"; and all that. * ? *- - - V- l i, T yn, now 1 nate such Lain nucu ? really want to know something! How do they expect *us to get our education If they won't answer our questions? I don't know which made me angriest?I mean angrier. (I'm speakirig of two things, so I must, I suppose. I hate grammar!) To have theqj g^lk Hke thfct?not answer * me, you know ?or have them do_as Mr. Jones, the storekeeper, did, and the men there with him. It was one day when I was in there buying some white thread for Nurse Sarah, and it was a little, while after I had asked the doctor if a divorce was a disease. Somebody had said something that made me think you could buy divorces, and I had suddenly determined to ask Mr. Jones if he had them for sale. (Of course all this sounds very silly to me now, for I know that a divorce is very simple and very common. It's Just like a marriage certificate, only it unmarrles you instead of marrying you; hut I didn't know it then. And if I'm going to tell this story I've got to tell It just as It happened, of course.) Well, I asked Mr. Jones If you could buy divorces, and if he had them for Well, I Asked Mr. Jones If You Could Buy Divorces, and If He Had Them for Sale. * sale; and you ought to have heard those men laugh. There were six of them sitting around the stove behind [ me. I "Oh, yea, my little maid" (above all things I abhor to be called a little maid!) one of them cried. "You can buy tnem ir you ve goi mtmejr cuvugu, but I don't reckon our friend Jones here has got them for sale." Then they all laughed again, and winked at each other. (That's another disgusting thing?winks when you ask a perfectly civil question! But what can you do? Stand it, that's all. There's such a lot of things we poor women have to stand!) Then they quieted down and looked very sober ?the kind of sober you know is faced with laughs in the back?and began to tell me what a divorce really was. I can't remember them all, but I can some of them. Of course I understand now that these men were trying to be smart, and were talking for each other, not for me. And I knew it then?a little. We know a lot more ^llra 4-Klnlr nr^i tilings sometimes mau iuiuo kumu nv do. Well, as near as I can remember It was like this: ; j "A divorce is a knife that cuts a knot that hadn't ought to ever been tied," said one. "A divorce is a jump in the dark," said another. "No, it ain't It's a jump from the frying pan into the fire," piped up Mr. Jones. "A divorce is the comedy of the rich and the tragedy of the poor," said a little man who wore glasses. "Divorce is a nice smushy poultice that may help but won't heal," cut in a new voice. "Divorce is a guidepost marked, 'H^l to Heaven,' but lots of folks miss the way, just the same, I notice," spoke up somebody with a chuckle. "Divorce is a coward's retreat from the battle of life." Captain Harris said this. He spoke slow and decided. Captain Harris is old and rich, and not married. He's the hotel's star boarder, and what he says, goes, 'most always. " JlJ-'?- T non rampm J3UI 1L U1U11 L tiUO ULLH,. i vw. . ber just how old Mr. Carlton snapped out the next. "Speak from your own experience, Tom Harris, an' I'm thlnkln' you ain't fit ter judge. I tell you divorce is what three fourths of the husbands an' wives in the world wish was waitin' for 'em at home this very night. But it ain't there." I knew, of course, he was thinking of his wife. She's some cross, I guess, and has two warts on her nose. There was more, quite a lot more, said. But I've forgotten the rest. Besides, they weren't talking to me then. anyway. So I picked up my thread and slipped out of the store, glad to escape. But, as I said before, I didn't find runny like them. Of course I know now?what divorce Is, T mean. And it's all settled. They granted us some kind of a decree or' degree, and we're going to Boston next Monday. It's been awful, though?this last year. First we had to g* to that horrid place out west, and stay ages and ages. And I hated it. Mother did, tooc I know she did. I went to-school, and there were quite a lot of girls my age, and some bojas; but I didn't care much for them. J couldn't even have the fun of surpri&ng them with the divorce we were going to have. I found they were going tOihave cme, foo?every last one of them. 'And when everybody has a thing, you know there's no particular fui> in having it yourself. Besides, they were very unkind arM disagreeable, and bragged a lot about their divorces. They said mine was tame, ! and "had no sort of snap to lt,? when they found Mother didn't have a lover waiting in the next town, or Father hadn't run off with his stenographer, or nobody had shot anybody, or anything. That made me mad, and I let them see it, good and plain. I told them our divorce was perfectly all right and genteel and respectable; that Nurse Sarah said it was. Ours was going to be incompatibility, for one thing, which meant that you got on each other's nerves, and just naturally didn't care for each other any more. But they only laughed, and said even more disagreeable things, so that I didn't want to go to school any longer, and I told Mother so, and the reason, too, of course. But, dear me, I wished right off that I hadn't. I supposed she was going to be superb and haughty and disdainful, and sav things that wonld nut those girls where they belonged. But, my stars! How could I know that she was going to burst into such a storm of sobs and clasp me to her bosom, and get my face all wet and cry out: "Oh, my baby, my baby?to think I have subjected you to this, my baby, my baby!" And I couldn't say a thing to comfort her, or make her stop, even when I told her over and over again that I wasn't a baby. I was almost a young lady; and I wasn't being subjected to anything bad. I liked it?only I didn't like to have those girls brag so, when our divorce was away ahead of theirs, anyway. But she only cried more and more, and held me tighter and tighter, rocking back and forth in her chair. Sh# took me out of school, though, and had a lady come to teach me all by myself, so I didn't have to hear those girls brag any more, anyway. That was better. But she wasn't any happier herself. I could see that. There were lots vof other ladies there ? beautiful ladies ? only she didn't seem to like them any better than I . ' did the girls, l wonaerea 11 umyue they bragged, too, and I asked her; but she only began to cry again, and moan, "What have I (fone, what have I done?"?and I had to try all over again to comfort her. But I couldn't She got so she just stayed in her room lots and lots. I tried to make her put on her pretty clothes, and do ais the other ladies did, and go out and walk and sit on the big piazzas, and dance, and eat at the pretty little tables. She did, some, when we first came, and took me, and I just loved it. They were such beautiful ladies, with their bright eyes, and their red cheeks and jolly ways; and their dresses were so perfectly lovely, all silks and satins and sparkly spangles, and diamonds and rubies and emeralds, \nd silk stockings, and Mttle bits of golc and silver slippers. . ! And once I saw two of them smoking. They had the cutest little ciga- * r?lies ViU^UiCi saiu Uicj nwv/ B holders, and I knew then that I was seeing life?real life; not the stupid kind you get back in a country town \ like Andersonville. And I said so to * J Mother; and I was going to ask her if Boston was litoe that. But I didn't get the chance. ' She jumped up so ? quick I thought something had hurt her, and cried, "Good Heavens, Baby I" (How I hate to be called "Baby" I) Then she just threw some money on to the table to pay the bill and hurried me away. It was after that that she began to stay in her room so much, and not take me anywhere except for walks at the other end of the town where 11 . anH atnnfd and no 11 V?iM au tuiu ? ?T music or lights or anything. And though I teased and teased to go back to the pretty, Jolly places, she wouldn't ever take me; not once. Then by and by, one day we met a little black-haired woman with white cheeks and very big sad-eyes. There weren't any spangly dresses and gold slippers about her, I can tell you!, She was crying on a bench in the park, and Mother told me to stay back and watch the swans while she went up and spoke to her. (Why do old folks / always make us watch swans or read books or look into store windows or run and play all the time? Don't they suppose we understand perfectly well m what it means?that they're going to say something they don't want us to ^ hea>3) .Well, Mother and the lady on the bench talked and talked ever so long, and then Mother called me up, and the lady cried a little over me, and said, "Now, perhaps, if I'd had a little girl like that?!" Then she stopped and cried some more. We saw this lady real often after that She was nice and pretty and weet, and I liked her; but she was T always awfully sad, and I don't believe * it was half so good for Mother to be with her as it would have been for hei a* k* with those lolly, laughing ladies that were always having such good times. B^t I couldn't make Mother sec it that way at all. There are times when it seems as if mother just couldn't see things the way I do. Honestly, it' ,-eems sometimes almost as ii she was the cross-current and contradiction instead (ft ma. It does. M (To he continued next week.) NOTICE OF APPLICATION FOR f FINAL DISCHARGE. ml VT-Xi-"- J - "-nVitr crirrar, fViof fha 3P J iMJLlUC IS XIG1 cu; i i uu wuv vuw undersigned Administrator of the estate of Mrs. Elise B. Walker, de- v-J ceased, will on Thursday, April 6th, ^ 1922,file his final return and accounting in the Probate Court of Bamberg county, and at said time make application to said court for his Letters Dismissory and Final Discharge as v-sjj Administrator of said estate. G. FRANK BAMBERG, >M, 4-6-n Administrator. , Bamberg, S. March 10th, 1922. j If you want to buy or sell anything use The Herald Want column.