When I Am Both Together

BOSTON AGAIN.

Well, I came last night. Mother and Grandfather and Aunt Hattie and Baby Lester all met me at the station. And, my! wasn’t I glad to see them? Well, I just guess I was!

I was specially glad on account of having such a dreadful time with Father that morning. I mean, I was feeling specially lonesome and homesick, and not-belonging-anywhere like.

You see, it was this way: I’d been sort of hoping, I know, that at the last, when I came to really go, Father would get back the understanding smile and the twinkle, and show that he really did care for me, and was sorry to have me go. But, dear me! Why, he never was so stern and solemn, and you’re-my-daughter-only-by-the-order-of-the-court sort of way as he was that morning.

He never even spoke at the breakfast-table. (He wasn’t there hardly long enough to speak, anyway, and he never ate a thing, only his coffee—I mean he drank it.) Then he pushed his chair back from the table and stalked out of the room.

He went to the station with me; but he didn’t talk there much, only to ask if I was sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, and was I warmly clad. Warmly clad, indeed! And there it was still August, and hot as it could be! But that only goes to show how absent-minded he was, and how little he was really thinking of me!

Well, of course, he got my ticket and checked my trunk, and did all those proper, necessary things; then we sat down to wait for the train. But did he stay with me and talk to me and tell me how glad he had been to have me with him, and how sorry he was to have me go, and all the other nice, polite things ‘most everybody thinks they’ve got to say when a visitor goes away? He did not. He asked me again if I was sure I had not left anything, and was I warmly clad; then he took out his newspaper and began to read. That is, he pretended to read; but I don’t believe he read much, for he never turned the sheet once; and twice, when I looked at him, he was looking fixedly at me, as if he was thinking of something. So I guess he was just pretending to read, so he wouldn’t have to talk to me.

But he didn’t even do that long, for he got up and went over and looked at a map hanging on the wall opposite, and at a big time-table near the other corner. Then he looked at his watch again with a won’t-that-train-ever-come? air, and walked back to me and sat down.

And how do you suppose I felt, to have him act like that before all those people—to show so plainly that he was just longing to have me go? I guess he wasn’t any more anxious for that train to come than I was. And it did seem as if it never would come, too. And it didn’t come for ages. It was ten minutes late.

Oh, I did so hope he wouldn’t go down to the junction. It’s so hard to be taken care of “because it’s my duty, you know”! But he went. I told him he needn’t, when he was getting on the train with me. I told him I just knew I could do it beautifully all by myself, almost-a-young lady like me. But he only put his lips together hard, and said, cold, like ice: “Are you then so eager to be rid of me?” Just as if I was the one that was eager to get rid of somebody!

Well, as I said, he went. But he wasn’t much better on the train than he had been in the station. He was as nervous and fidgety as a witch, and he acted as if he did so wish it would be over and over quick. But at the junction—at the junction a funny thing happened. He put me on the train, just as Mother had done, and spoke to the conductor. (How I hated to have him do that! Why, I’m six whole months older, ‘most, than I was when I went up there!) And then when he’d put me in my seat (Father, I mean; not the conductor), all of a sudden he leaned over and kissed me; kissed me—Father! Then, before I could speak, or even look at him, he was gone; and I didn’t see him again, though it must have been five whole minutes before that train went.

I had a nice trip down to Boston, though nothing much happened. This conductor was not near so nice and polite as the one I had coming up; and there wasn’t any lady with a baby to play with, nor any nice young gentleman to loan me magazines or buy candy for me. But it wasn’t a very long ride from the junction to Boston, anyway. So I didn’t mind. Besides, I knew I had Mother waiting for me.

And wasn’t I glad to get there? Well, I just guess I was! And they acted as if they were glad to see me—Mother, Grandfather, Aunt Hattie, and even Baby Lester. He knew me, and remembered me. He’d grown a lot, too. And they said I had, and that I looked very nice. (I forgot to say that, of course, I had put on the Marie clothes to come home in—though I honestly think Aunt Jane wanted to send me home in Mary’s blue gingham and calfskin shoes. As if I’d have appeared in Boston in that rig!)

My, but it was good to get into an automobile again and just go! And it was so good to have folks around you dressed in something besides don’t-care black alpaca and stiff collars. And I said so. And Mother seemed so pleased.

“You did want to come back to me, darling, didn’t you?” she cried, giving me a little hug. And she looked so happy when I told her all over again how good it seemed to be Marie again, and have her and Boston, and automobiles, and pretty dresses and folks and noise again.

She didn’t say anything about Father then; but later, when we were up in my pretty room alone, and I was taking off my things, she made me tell her that Father hadn’t won my love away from her, and that I didn’t love him better than I did her; and that I wouldn’t rather stay with him than with her.

Then she asked me a lot of questions about what I did there, and Aunt Jane, and how she looked, and Father, and was he as fond of stars as ever (though she must have known ‘most everything, ‘cause I’d already written it, but she asked me just the same). And she seemed real interested in everything I told her.

And she asked was he lonesome; and I told her no, I didn’t think so; and that, anyway, he could have all the ladies’ company he wanted by just being around when they called. And when she asked what I meant, I told her about Mrs. Darling, and the rest, and how they came evenings and Sundays, and how Father didn’t like them, but would flee to the observatory. And she laughed and looked funny, for a minute. But right away she changed and looked very sober, with the kind of expression she has when she stands up in church and says the Apostles’ Creed on Sunday; only this time she said she was very sorry, she was sure; that she hoped my father would find some estimable woman who would make a good home for him.

Then the dinner-gong sounded, and she didn’t say any more.

There was company that evening. The violinist. He brought his violin, and he and Mother played a whole hour together. He’s awfully handsome. I think he’s lovely. Oh, I do so hope he’s the one! Anyhow, I hope there’s some one. I don’t want this novel to all fizzle out without there being any one to make it a love story! Besides, as I said before, I’m particularly anxious that Mother shall find somebody to marry her, so she’ll stop being divorced, anyway.

A month later.

Yes, I know it’s been ages since I’ve written here in this book; but there just hasn’t been a minute’s time.

First, of course, school began, and I had to attend to that. And, of course, I had to tell the girls all about Andersonville—except the parts I didn’t want to tell, about Stella Mayhew, and my coming out of school. I didn’t tell that. And right here let me say how glad I was to get back to this school—a real school—so different from that one up in Andersonville! For that matter, everything’s different here from what it is in Andersonville. I’d so much rather be Marie than Mary. I know I won’t ever be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde here. I’ll be the good one all the time.

It’s funny how much easier it is to be good in silk stockings and a fluffy white dress than it is in blue gingham and calfskin. Oh, I’ll own up that Marie forgets sometimes and says things Mary used to say; like calling Olga a hired girl instead of a maid, as Aunt Hattie wants, and saying dinner instead of luncheon at noon, and some other things.

I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother one day that it was going to take about the whole six months to break Mary Marie of those outlandish country ways of hers. (So, you see, it isn’t all honey and pie even for Marie. This trying to be Mary and Marie, even six months apart, isn’t the easiest thing ever was!) I don’t think Mother liked it very well—what Aunt Hattie said about my outlandish ways. I didn’t hear all Mother said, but I knew by the way she looked and acted, and the little I did hear, that she didn’t care for that word “outlandish” applied to her little girl—not at all.

Mother’s a dear. And she’s so happy! And, by the way, I think it is the violinist. He’s here a lot, and she’s out with him to concerts and plays, and riding in his automobile. And she always puts on her prettiest dresses, and she’s very particular about her shoes, and her hats, that they’re becoming, and all that. Oh, I’m so excited! And I’m having such a good time watching them! Oh, I don’t mean watching them in a disagreeable way, so that they see it; and, of course, I don’t listen—not the sneak kind of listening. But, of course, I have to get all I can—for the book, you know; and, of course, if I just happen to be in the window-seat corner in the library and hear things accidentally, why, that’s all right.

And I have heard things.

He says her eyes are lovely. He likes her best in blue. He’s very lonely, and he never found a woman before who really understood him. He thinks her soul and his are tuned to the same string. (Oh, dear! That sounds funny and horrid, and not at all the way it did when he said it. It was beautiful then. But—well, that is what it meant, anyway.)

She told him she was lonely, too, and that she was very glad to have him for a friend; and he said he prized her friendship above everything else in the world. And he looks at her, and follows her around the room with his eyes; and she blushes up real pink and pretty lots of times when he comes into the room.

Now, if that isn’t making love to each other, I don’t know what is.
I’m sure he’s going to propose. Oh, I’m so excited!
Oh, yes, I know if he does propose and she says yes, he’ll be my new father. I understand that. And, of course, I can’t help wondering how I’ll like it. Sometimes I think I won’t like it at all. Sometimes I almost catch myself wishing that I didn’t have to have any new father or mother. I’d never need a new mother, anyway, and I wouldn’t need a new father if my father-by-order-of-the-court would be as nice as he was there two or three times in the observatory.

But, there! After all, I must remember that I’m not the one that’s doing the choosing. It’s Mother. And if she wants the violinist I mustn’t have anything to say. Besides, I really like him very much, anyway. He’s the best of the lot. I’m sure of that. And that’s something. And then, of course, I’m glad to have something to make this a love story, and best of all I would be glad to have Mother stop being divorced, anyway.

Mr. Harlow doesn’t come here any more, I guess. Anyway, I haven’t seen him here once since I came back; and I haven’t heard anybody mention his name.

Quite a lot of the others are here, and there are some new ones. But the violinist is here most, and Mother seems to go out with him most to places. That’s why I say I think it’s the violinist.

I haven’t heard from Father.

Now just my writing that down that way shows that I expected to hear from him, though I don’t really see why I should, either. Of course, he never has written to me; and, of course, I understand that I’m nothing but his daughter by order of the court. But, some way, I did think maybe he’d write me just a little bit of a note in answer to mine—my bread-and-butter letter, I mean; for of course, Mother had me write that to him as soon as I got here.

But he hasn’t.

I wonder how he’s getting along, and if he misses me any. But of course, he doesn’t do that. If I was a star, now—!

Two days after Thanksgiving.

The violinist has got a rival. I’m sure he has. It’s Mr. Easterbrook. He’s old—much as forty—and bald-headed and fat, and has got lots of money. And he’s a very estimable man. (I heard Aunt Hattie say that.) He’s awfully jolly, and I like him. He brings me the loveliest boxes of candy, and calls me Puss. (I don’t like that, particularly. I’d prefer him to call me Miss Anderson.) He’s not nearly so good-looking as the violinist. The violinist is lots more thrilling, but I shouldn’t wonder if Mr. Easterbrook was more comfortable to live with.

The violinist is the kind of a man that makes you want to sit up and take notice, and have your hair and finger nails and shoes just right; but with Mr. Easterbrook you wouldn’t mind a bit sitting in a big chair before the fire with a pair of old slippers on, if your feet were tired.

Mr. Easterbrook doesn’t care for music. He’s a broker. He looks awfully bored when the violinist is playing, and he fidgets with his watch-chain, and clears his throat very loudly just before he speaks every time. His automobile is bigger and handsomer than the violinist’s. (Aunt Hattie says the violinist’s automobile is a hired one.) And Mr. Easterbrook’s flowers that he sends to Mother are handsomer, too, and lots more of them, than the violinist’s. Aunt Hattie has noticed that, too. In fact, I guess there isn’t anything about Mr. Easterbrook that she doesn’t notice.

Aunt Hattie likes Mr. Easterbrook lots better than she does the violinist. I heard her talking to Mother one day. She said that any one that would look twice at a lazy, shiftless fiddler with probably not a dollar laid by for a rainy day, when all the while there was just waiting to be picked an estimable gentleman of independent fortune and stable position like Mr. Easterbrook—well, she had her opinion of her; that’s all. She meant Mother, of course. I knew that. I’m no child.

Mother knew it, too; and she didn’t like it. She flushed up and bit her lip, and answered back, cold, like ice.

“I understand, of course, what you mean, Hattie; but even if I acknowledged that this very estimable, unimpeachable gentleman was waiting to be picked (which I do not), I should have to remind you that I’ve already had one experience with an estimable, unimpeachable gentleman of independent fortune and stable position, and I do not care for another.”

“But, my dear Madge,” began Aunt Hattie again, “to marry a man without any money—”

“I haven’t married him yet,” cut in Mother, cold again, like ice. “But let me tell you this, Hattie. I’d rather live on bread and water in a log cabin with the man I loved than in a palace with an estimable, unimpeachable gentleman who gave me the shivers every time he came into the room.”