Mary Marie Part 9

And in my most superb, haughty, and disdainful manner I told Carrie Heywood to dry her tears; that she needn't trouble herself any further, nor worry about losing any more ice-cream nor parties. That I would hereto declare our friendship null and void, and this day set my hand and seal to never speak to her again, if she liked, and considered that necessary to keeping the acquaintance of the precious Stella.

But she cried all the more at that, and flung herself upon me, and, of course, I began to cry, too--and you can't stay superb and haughty and disdainful when you're all the time trying to hunt up a handkerchief to wipe away the tears that are coursing down your wan cheeks. And of course I didn't. We had a real good cry together, and vowed we loved each other better than ever, and n.o.body could come between us, not even bringing a chocolate-fudge-marshmallow college ice--which we both adore. But I told her that she would be all right, just the same, for of course I should never step my foot inside of that schoolhouse again. That I couldn't, out of respect to Mother. That I should tell Aunt Jane that to-morrow morning. There isn't any other school here, so they can't send me anywhere else. But it's 'most time for school to close, anyway. There are only two weeks more.

But I don't think that will make any difference to Aunt Jane. It's the principle of the thing. It's always the principle of the thing with Aunt Jane. She'll be very angry, I know. Maybe she'll send me home.

Oh, I _hope_ she will!

Well, I shall tell her to-morrow, anyway. Then--we'll see.

_One day later_.

And, dear, dear, what a day it has been!

I told her this morning. She was very angry. She said at first: "Nonsense, Mary, don't be impertinent. Of course you'll go to school!"

and all that kind of talk. But I kept my temper. I did not act angry.

I was simply firm and dignified. And when she saw I really meant what I said, and that I would not step my foot inside that schoolroom again--that it was a matter of conscience with me--that I did not think it was _right_ for me to do it, she simply stared for a minute, as if she couldn't believe her eyes and ears. Then she gasped:

"Mary, what do you mean by such talk to me? Do you think I shall permit this sort of thing to go on for a moment?"

I thought then she was going to send me home. Oh, I did so hope she was. But she didn't. She sent me to my room.

"You will stay there until your father comes home this noon," she said. "This is a matter for him to settle."

_Father_! And I never even thought of her going to _him_ with it. She was always telling me never to bother Father with anything, and I knew she didn't usually ask him anything about me. She settled everything herself. But _this_--and the very thing I didn't want her to ask him, too. But of course I couldn't help myself. That's the trouble. Youth is _so_ helpless in the clutches of old age!

Well, I went to my room. Aunt Jane told me to meditate on my sins. But I didn't. I meditated on other people's sins. _I_ didn't have any to meditate on. Was it a sin, pray, for me to stand up for my mother and refuse to a.s.sociate with people who wouldn't a.s.sociate with _me_ on account of _her_? I guess not!

I meditated on Stella Mayhew and her mother, and on those silly, faithless girls that thought more of an ice-cream soda than they did of justice and right to their fellow schoolmate. And I meditated on Aunt Jane and her never giving me so much as a single kiss since I came. And I meditated on how much better Father liked stars and comets than he did his own daughter; and I meditated on what a cruel, heartless world this is, anyway, and what a pity it was that I, so fair and young, should have found it out so soon--right on the bank, as it were, or where that brook and river meet. And I wondered, if I died if anybody would care; and I thought how beautiful and pathetic I would look in my coffin with my lily-white hands folded on my breast.

And I _hoped_ they 'd have the funeral in the daytime, because if it was at night-time Father'd be sure to have a star or something to keep _him_ from coming. And I _wanted_ him to come. I _wanted_ him to feel bad; and I meditated on how bad he would feel--when it was too late.

But even with all this to meditate on, it was an awfully long time coming noon; and they didn't call me down to dinner even then. Aunt Jane sent up two pieces of bread without any b.u.t.ter and a gla.s.s of water. How like Aunt Jane--making even my dinner a sin to meditate on!

Only she would call it _my_ sin, and I would call it hers.

Well, after dinner Father sent for me to come down to the library. So I knew then, of course, that Aunt Jane had told him. I didn't know but she would wait until night. Father usually spends his hour after dinner reading in the library and mustn't be disturbed. But evidently to-day Aunt Jane thought I was more consequence than his reading.

Anyhow, she told him, and he sent for me.

My, but I hated to go! Fathers and Aunt Janes are two different propositions. Fathers have more rights and privileges, of course.

Everybody knows that.

Well, I went into the library. Father stood with his back to the fireplace and his hands in his pockets. He was plainly angry at being disturbed. Anybody could see that. He began speaking at once, the minute I got into the room--very cold and dignified.

"Mary, your aunt tells me you have been disobedient and disrespectful to her. Have you anything to say?"

I shook my head and said, "No, sir."

What could I say? Old folks ask such senseless questions, sometimes.

Naturally I wasn't going to say I _had_ been disrespectful and disobedient when I hadn't; and of course, I couldn't say I _hadn't_ been when Aunt Jane said I _had_. That would be just like saying Aunt Jane lied. So, of course, I had nothing to say. And I said so.

"But she declares you refused to go back to school, Mary," said Father then.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you did refuse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you may go and tell her now, please, that you are sorry, and that you will go to school this afternoon. You may go now." And he turned to the table and picked up his book.

I didn't go, of course. I just stood there twisting my handkerchief in my fingers; and, of course, right away he saw me. He had sat down then.

"Mary, didn't you hear me?" he demanded.

"Yes, sir, but--Father, I _can't_ go back to that school," I choked.

And I began to cry.

"But I tell you that you must."

I shook my head.

"I can't."

"Do you mean that you defy me as you did your Aunt Jane this morning?--that you refuse to go back to school?"

"Yes, sir."

For a minute he sat and stared at me just as Aunt Jane had done; then he lifted his head and threw back his shoulders as if he was throwing off a heavy weight.

"Come, come, Mary," he said sternly. "I am not a patient man, and my temper has reached the breaking point. You will go back to school and you will go now. I mean that, Mary."

"But, Father, I _can't_" I choked again; and I guess there was something in my face this time that made even him see. For again he just stared for a minute, and then said:

"Mary, what in the world does this mean? Why can't you go back? Have you been--expelled?"

"Oh, no, sir."

"Then you mean you won't go back."

"I mean I _can't_--on account of Mother."

I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't had to. I didn't want to tell him, but I knew from the very first that I'd have to tell him before I got through. I could see it in his face. And so, now, with his eyes blazing as he jumped almost out of his chair and exclaimed, "Your mother!" I let it out and got it over as soon as possible.

"I mean, on account of Mother--that not for you, or Aunt Jane, or anybody will I go back to that school and a.s.sociate with folks that won't a.s.sociate with me--on account of Mother."

And then I told it--all about the girls, Stella Mayhew, Carrie, and how they acted, and what they said about my being Dr. Jekyll and Mr.

Hyde because I was a Mary and a Marie, and the ice-cream, and the parties they had to give up if they went with _me_. And I know I was crying so I could hardly speak before I finished; and Father was on his feet tramping up and down the room muttering something under his breath, and looking--oh, I can't begin to tell how he looked. But it was awful.

"And so that's why I wish," I finished chokingly, "that it would hurry up and be a year, so Mother could get married."