III
Six weeks had dropped off the calendar since the night at Martin'shouse.
Facing Grandmother Ludlow in the morning with her last handful ofcourage Joan had told her that she had been called back to town. Shehad left immediately after breakfast in spite of the protests andentreaties of every one, including her grandfather, down whose wrinkledcheeks the tears had fallen unashamed. With a high head and her bestwilful manner she had presented to them all in that old house the bluffof easy-mindedness only to burst like a bubble as soon as the car hadturned the corner into the main road. She had gone to the little housein New York, and with a numbed heart and a constant pain in her soul,had packed some warm-weather clothes and, leaving her maid behind,hidden herself away in the cottage, on the outskirts of Greenwich, ofan old woman who had been in the service of her school. As along-legged girl of twelve she had stayed there once with her motherfor several days before going home for the holidays. She felt like awounded animal, and her one desire was to drag herself into a quietplace to die.
It seemed to her then, under the first stupendous shock of finding thatMarty was with that girl, that death was the next certain thing. Dayafter day and night after night, cut to the quick, she waited for it tolay its cold hand upon her and snuff her out like a tired candle, whoselittle light was meaningless in a brutal world. Marty, even Marty, wasno longer a knight, and she had put him into broadcloth.
Not in the sun, but in the shadow of a chestnut all big with bloom, herdays had passed in lonely suffering. Death was in the village, that wascertain. She had seen a little procession winding along the road to thecemetery the morning after her arrival. She was ready. Nothing matterednow that Marty, even Marty, had done this thing while she had beenwaiting for him to come and take her across the bridge, anxious to playthe game to the very full, eager to prove to him that she was no longerthe kid that he thought her who had coolly shown him her door. "I amhere, Death," she whispered, "and I want you. Come for me."
All her first feelings were that she ought to die, that she had failedand that her disillusion as to Marty had been directly brought about byherself. She saw it all honestly and made no attempt to hedge. By day,she sat quietly, big-eyed, amazingly childlike, waiting for herpunishment, watched by the practical old woman, every moment of whosetime was filled, with growing uneasiness and amazement. By night shelay awake as long as she could, listening for the soft footstep of theone who would take her away. At meals, the old woman bullied for shewas of the school that hold firmly to the belief that unless the peoplewho partake of food do not do so to utter repletion a personal insultis intended. At other times she went out into the orchard and sat withJoan and, burning with a desire to cheer her up, gave her, in thegreatest detail, the story of all the deaths, diseases and quarrelsthat had ever been known to the village. And every day the good sunwarmed and encouraged the earth, drew forth the timid heads of plantsand flowers, gave beauty even to the odd corners once more and did hisallotted task with a generosity difficult to praise too highly. AndDeath paid visits here and there but passed the cottage by. At thebeginning of the second week, Nature, who has no patience with anyattempt to refute her laws, especially on the part of those who areyoung and vigorous, took Joan in hand. "What is all this, my girl?" shesaid, "sitting here with your hands in your lap while everybody andeverything is working and making and preparing. Stir yourself, bustleup, get busy, there's lots to be done in the springtime if the autumnis to bear fruit. You're sound and whole for all that you've been hurt.If you were not, Death would be here without your calling him. Up youget, now." And, with good-natured roughness, she laid her hand underJoan's elbow, gave a hoist and put her on her feet.
Whereupon, in the natural order of things, Joan turned from self-blameto find a victim who should be held responsible for the pain that shehad suffered, and found the girl with the red lips and the white faceand the hair that came out of a bottle. Ah, yes! It was she who hadcaught Marty when he was hurt and disappointed. It was she who hadtaken advantage of his loneliness and dragged him clown to her ownlevel, this girl whom she had called Fairy and who had had theeffrontery to go up to the place on the edge of the woods that was thespecial property of Marty and herself. And for the rest of the week,with the sap running eagerly in her veins once more, she movedrestlessly about the orchard and the garden, heaping coals of fire onto the all too golden head of Tootles.
Then came the feeling of wounded pride, the last step towardsconvalescence. Marty had chosen between herself and this girl. Withoutgiving her a real chance to put things right he had slipped awaysilently and taken Tootles with him. Not she, but the girl with the redlips and the pale face and the hair that came out of a bottle hadstripped Marty of his armor, and the truth of it was that Marty, yes,even Marty, was not really a knight but a very ordinary man.
Out of the orchard and the garden she went, once she had arrived atthis stage, and tramped the countryside with her ears tuned to catchthe alluring strains of the mechanical music of the Round-about. Shehad not only been making a fool of herself but had been made to look afool, she thought. Her pain and suffering and disillusion had beenwasted. All these dull and lonely days had been wasted and thrown away.Death must have laughed to see her sitting in the shadow of the appletrees waiting for a visit that was undeserved. Marty could live andenjoy himself without her. That was evident. Very well, then, she couldlive and enjoy herself without Marty. The earth was large enough forthem both, and if he could find love in the person of that small girlshe could surely find it in one or other of the men who had whisperedin her ear. Also there was Gilbert Palgrave, who had gone down upon hisknees.
And that was the end of her isolation, her voluntary retirement. Backshe went to the City of Dreadful Nonsense, bought clothes and shoes andhats, found an invitation to join a house party at Southampton, made noeffort to see or hear from Marty, and sprang back into her seat in theMerry-go-round. "Who Cares?" she cried again. "Nobody," she answered."What I do with my life matters to no one but myself. Set the pace, mydear, laugh and flirt and play with fire and have a good time. A shortlife and a merry one."
And then she joined the Hosacks, drank deep of the wine of adulation,and when, at odd times, the sound of Marty's voice echoed in hermemory, she forced it out and laughed it away. "Who Cares?" was hismotto too,--red lips and white face and hair that came out of a bottle!
And now here was Gilbert Palgrave with the fire of love in his eyes.
Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence Page 22