XII

She would not have believed that so soon after Jean’s death she could find herself settling back into a routined life. At first there had been the long, empty days and the longer nights when the house seemed a vast, empty place from which the spirit or thing or whatever it might be called which had made it different from other places had fled. But Mrs. Daquin had removed most of the things which too vividly brought back memories of Jean.

“There’s no use of keeping things that only make you sad,” she had said. “I get the creeps every time I go to see Mrs. Simpkins⁠—those dried flowers from her husband’s funeral hanging in the frame in her parlour. There’ll be nothing like that around here⁠—a dead person’s dead and you can’t bring him back, no matter how much you loved him.”

At first Mimi had objected strenuously to Mrs. Daquin’s seemingly ruthless disposal of all the things which to her were so intimately associated with Jean. They had, however, brought little furniture from New Orleans, only Jean’s books and a few odds and ends. These latter Mimi removed to her own room and then she willingly consented to whatever changes her stepmother desired. A new parlour set was purchased as soon after the funeral as was decently possible. New wallpaper appeared in the long dark hall and in Mrs. Daquin’s bedroom. Out, too, went the bedroom furniture of mottled walnut. A brass bed with frolicsome curves and angles of shiny metal contrasting with the cloudy dullness of the heavier portions took its place. The imperfect set of plain white china with the narrow border of gold and blue was stored in the attic. In its stead appeared china of awe-inspiring combinations of bluebirds kissing on the wing, many cupolaed pagodas, sampans rowed by fat-bellied Chinamen, and trees of a design never produced even by a profligate Nature. Mimi took only a perfunctory interest in these changes other than vouchsafing a listless “They’re pretty,” when pressed for comment by Mrs. Daquin.

Mimi at times was amazed at her ready acceptance of the uneventful life. She was grateful that she had apparently been wrong in her estimation of her stepmother. Mrs. Daquin seemed changed, chastened by Jean’s death. She had really loved her husband in her own fashion even when she had been most irritated by what to her seemed his lack of intelligence in grasping opportunities for advancement or gain. Now that he was dead, she found herself regarding him not in the light of the later years but more as she had during their short courtship and the first year of their marriage. This mood was sustained by the very evident advantages which she found coming to her as a recently bereaved widow. She knew that in time this too would pass. In time Jean would be but a faint memory to most of those with whom she associated.

It was not conscious dishonesty nor was she a deliberate poseuse when she accepted the little attentions, the deference which they bestowed on her. Mrs. Daquin found herself for the first time a personage in her own right. All her youth she had lived under the dominating influence of her father, and even after her marriage to so retiring a person as Jean, she found that her handicap in being a woman in a conventional society was very great. Her father had not attended the funeral but he had wired and written her repeatedly urging her to return to Chicago. This she resolved not to do⁠—at least not unless circumstances compelled such a step⁠—for she was enjoying too greatly for immediate surrender her new importance.

The mood thus engendered worked to Mimi’s advantage though she did not fully understand the reasons for that good fortune. Mrs. Daquin was kindly in her manner, far more so than she had ever been before. When after a few weeks they began to be seen on the streets, Mimi was always to be seen with her stepmother, both clad in the depressingly sombre blacks of sorrow which custom demanded. Mimi’s oval, cream-coloured face topped by its aureole of reddish gold peeped out with startling beauty from the black bonnet tied under her chin with strings of the same colour. Mrs. Daquin did not fare so well in her melancholy raiment, her brown skin and hair offering not so marked a contrast as in Mimi’s case. She suffered the loss of comeliness cheerfully, however, for its added advantages in sympathetic attention.

Careless as usual of material things, they found Jean had not made a will. Mr. Hunter had volunteered to relieve them of the burdens of settling the estate and his report had shown that not much had been left. Jean had not secured the full value of his property in New Orleans and the cash he had secured had been invested largely in purchasing stock in the Lincoln Mutual Insurance Company. This would in time prove a sound investment, but at present there was little return from it. The deeds to the house given them by Mr. Robertson had been made out in Mrs. Daquin’s name. Mr. Robertson volunteered to contribute a definite sum each month to their support when he saw that his daughter had no intentions of returning to Chicago as he wished. Mimi, trained to do no work which would bring her appreciable income or which she could have accepted without lowering their social status, found herself faced with the Hobson’s choice of teaching school or enduring the loss of many little comforts and even a few necessities which before had seemed to her so natural she had never given thought to their source. She did not grumble but began at once to prepare for the examination as a schoolteacher in the spring. In fact, she was glad to find a definite thing on which to concentrate⁠—it served as an opiate when Jean’s loss seemed too great to bear.⁠ ⁠…

Into this new life Carl came with much larger importance than Mimi had supposed was possible. In time Mrs. Daquin, who had never been able to find out from Mimi the purpose of Mrs. Hunter’s mysterious call but who had linked it up after a fashion with Carl and Mimi, offered no objection to Carl’s visits to the house. This lack of hostility changed in time to actual welcome due to the increased cordiality of Mrs. Hunter towards Mrs. Daquin which the latter sensed was in large measure because of his visits. This welcome was strengthened by Carl’s evident reformation. No longer was he seen with questionable companions. He had not been seen under the influence of liquor since he had begun again to visit Mimi, and every Sunday now he was to be seen with his parents and sister at church.

The old comradeship, deepened and enriched in a subtle but unmistakable way, was returning. Memory of that night during which so much had taken place, their reunion, Jean’s death and all the rest, had kept them from the torridity of feeling which had swept over them then. Instead there was a comforting sense of unity which ripened and deepened through the unspoken avowals of their love that flashed between them whenever they met.

This feeling was always deepest as they walked out in the evening. During the latter part of September and the early part of October there had been many crisply cold nights. Dying October and budding November brought that year balmy nights and pleasant days that were reminiscent of late summer. Through the darkened streets they strolled arm in arm. Here and there were street lamps which shed little light more than to a radius of fifteen or twenty feet. Back in tidy little yards sat squat little houses or imposing two-storied ones with an occasional light peeping from them in friendly manner. Up above, a moon, slender and graceful like a fragile, spreading horseshoe of coruscation, or full-bodied and vigorous in its yellowish brilliance. Mimi always liked the new moon best⁠—it stirred her by its slender grace. But Carl preferred the full ones⁠—“no wonder the Greeks and Romans gave a ‘corona’ as a badge of victory⁠—those old boys were poets, and real ones⁠—they saw that there could be no greater beauty and splendour than in an award resembling that band of light up yonder.”

It was not long before they were accepted as “going together.” With the ready forgiveness accorded a man who has transgressed against local codes of conduct, Carl’s derelictions of the past were forgotten, or, if not forgotten, thrust into that indefinite realm of things not to be mentioned again save in most intimate conversations. It was assumed that, now Jean was dead, Mimi would soon be marrying, and the assumption more or less naturally followed that she would marry Carl.

Between them, however, there was no thought of tomorrow nor, for some inexplicable reason, did there come to their ears the now friendly discussions regarding what they would do which were going on. They floated along happily on the stream of their newfound contentment, as oblivious of the future as two bits of wood held together by a string on the bosom of some placid pond. On rainy nights or evenings when Mimi did not feel like walking or going to a moving-picture show, they sat at home, Carl talking or reading some bit of verse, or some story he had come across, while Mimi sat and sewed or just sat. Carl’s restlessness had almost left him, he seemed more contented, he now actually took a deeper interest in the work his father wanted him to do. More and more there entered his conversations his plans, his hopes, his eagerness to please his father. Mimi learned that even under his former discontent there was a deep respect and a sort of affection that Carl had for his father. She saw that the older man’s will worked with great effect upon that of his son⁠—too much so, she feared.⁠ ⁠…

Early in November she found that this was even more true than she had suspected. One morning she was awakened by a dream. In it she saw Jean again, standing beside her bed, his eyes sad, his finger pointing accusingly at her. No word came from his lips, but his face had on it an expression she had never seen in life, one that made her shrink from it into the warm, comforting embrace of the bedclothes. She lay awake and then fell again into troubled slumber.

When she awoke she felt a violent nausea and a dizziness that made her glad to lie down again. She called Mrs. Daquin, who listened to her recital of her ailments and then gave her some medicine, advising her to remain in bed. Later Mrs. Daquin brought her breakfast and sat with her as she toyed with it, eating little. It’s nice of her to do this, thought Mimi. She’s getting more lovable every day.

As she still felt badly in the afternoon, Mimi went at her stepmother’s suggestion to see Dr. Adams. A few questions, an examination, and then Dr. Adams looked gravely at Mimi.

“You’re going to have a baby, Mimi,” he told her.

Mimi gasped, echoing his words. A great happiness filled her, happiness mingled with a sweeping flame of love for Carl. A baby! Hers and Carl’s! Her face shone with a great light, the light of contentment and love. There was no feeling of shame nor could she clearly understand why Dr. Adams’ face should remain so grave and worried. On that eventful night she and Carl had been caught up and swept on by a great tide of passion, an emotion overwhelming, beautiful, sacred. She had given of herself freely, without thought of consequences and without any sense of shame. To her it had been a magnificent, a pure and holy giving. Her smile puzzled Dr. Adams.

“Mimi, I’m afraid you don’t realize how serious a thing this is. Do you know what’ll happen to you and your reputation? And who’s the man?”

She told him simply and freely. Still her manner was a source of wonder to him. Ordinarily such a message would have brought forth tears, protestations of innocence, pleas for help. Mimi did none of these.

His face was set in grim lines as she told of Carl.

“The scoundrel! We’ll make him marry you and save your name from being dragged in the mud.”

“No⁠—no, Doctor, you don’t understand. We’ve done nothing wrong, and if we have I’m as much to blame as Carl. Please don’t say anything about this until I see him.⁠ ⁠…”

She telephoned Carl, who came over to her house at once. She greeted him happily, the light of love yet shining in her face.

“Carl,” she cried as soon as he entered, “I’m going to have a baby!”

“You’re what?”

“I’m going to have a baby⁠—Dr. Adams told me so this afternoon⁠—I’m so happy,” she ended, a puzzled tone creeping into her voice.

“Did he ask you who was the father?”

“Yes, of course he did.”

“Who did you tell him?”

“Why, you, of course.”

He turned on her roughly.

“You little fool, what did you want to do that for?”

She gazed at him in dismay. She had expected a happiness equal to her own. Instead Carl glared at her as though he wanted to spring at her throat. With his anger was mingled fear⁠—humiliation⁠—she knew not what emotions passed rapidly over his countenance.

“Don’t you tell anybody else,” he demanded. “And tomorrow I’ll take you to a doctor who’ll fix you up⁠—”

“Fix me up?”

“Yes⁠—fix you up! Don’t you understand?”

Realization of what he meant came slowly to her. A bitterness filled her, bitterness that knew no end, bitterness worse than any she had ever known before. This, then, was the Carl she had loved, a shriveling coward. What a fool she had been to have believed that to him their love was the beautiful thing which it had been to her.

“My dad’ll kill me for this⁠—he’ll drive me away like a dog⁠ ⁠…” Carl was saying hoarsely.

He straightened up, fear leaving him.

“No⁠—no⁠—Mimi. We’ll go straight to mother and she’ll help us. We’ll go away and get married⁠—pretend we eloped.”

He sought to put his arms around her. In his gesture there was a new note of possessiveness, his indecisiveness of the minutes before now gone.

She shrank from his touch. Her head went high and in her eyes was a look that frightened him.

“We’ll do nothing of the kind!” she cried. “I was a fool⁠—you are right. I thought you were fine⁠—clean⁠—different from the others. You’re not. You’re just the same weak, vile sort that you were always hating and denouncing.”

“That’s all right, Mimi,” he sought to quiet her. “You’re all unstrung now. We’ll get married and give the kid a clean name⁠—”

Mimi looked at him and in that glance was something that silenced him.

“Unstrung? Give the baby a clean name? After what you just suggested? You’ll do nothing of the sort! I’m going to have this baby, do you hear me? I’m going to have him and he’s going to be all mine. I guess he can get along lots easier with just a bad name than he can with a cowardly father⁠—”

“Mimi, you don’t know what you’re saying!” Carl, now thoroughly alarmed, pleaded. “We’ve got to get married!”

“Got to? Well, we haven’t got to and we won’t! I’ll get along somehow, don’t you worry, but all the love I had for you has turned to black hate! This baby’ll be mine⁠—all mine!”

She rushed from the room, leaving him standing there.⁠ ⁠…

Safe in her room, she let the tears she had fought so hard to check in the parlour below flow without hindrance. As from a distance, she heard the front door slam and she breathed more easily, knowing Carl was no longer in the house.

She wondered why she had acted as she had, knowing as she did the full reason. Bitterness filled her as she went again and again over the scene just ended. Faith, deep, unlimited, had been killed. A bitter laugh mingled with her tears. She saw Carl now for the insincere poseur that he was⁠—him whom she had thought decent and clean. For the first time there came over her a sense of shame⁠—a feeling of guilt. She wondered how Mrs. Daquin would take it. Mimi determined resolutely that if there were a scene or recriminations of any sort she would leave and never return.

From below came the sound of Mrs. Daquin’s voice, calling her. Mimi dried her tears away and went down. Mr. and Mrs. Hunter sat in the parlour. Behind them stood Carl, his head down. Mrs. Hunter rose and attempted to take Mimi in her arms. Mimi evaded her.

“You poor, dear child!” Mrs. Hunter consoled her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hunter, but I don’t need any pity⁠—it’s your son who needs it more,” Mimi told her. Her voice was hard, flat, cold.

Mrs. Hunter was not to be deterred. “But you and Carl must get married right away and save your name. When the baby’s nearly here, you two can go off on a long trip. Oh, dear, I’m so terribly upset⁠—I almost feel like I’m the guilty one, pleading with you to save him⁠—”

Back and forth the discussion raged. Mr. Hunter urged. His wife pleaded. Mrs. Daquin stormed. But Mimi remained firm.⁠ ⁠…

After they had gone Mrs. Daquin took her turn.

“You silly little fool. You’re crazy. You’re going to get these crazy notions out of your head and marry Carl. I never in all my life heard of so silly a thing as this idea of yours. What if Carl is a weak and worthless scamp? Any kind of a man for a husband is better than none when a girl’s in your fix.⁠ ⁠…”

On and on she went, denouncing, pleading, scorning, appealing.

Mimi listened to the Niagara of words but they served only to make her more determined to do as she had declared she would. Jean’s words came to her⁠—the advice he had given her long ago as they were about to leave New Orleans⁠—“decide in your own mind the wisest, the best thing to be done, and then do it.” As she looked at the four faces she wondered what Jean would say if he were here now. Even as Mrs. Daquin stormed, Mimi knew there was much right in what she said. She would be condemned, her name derided. She knew she could not remain in Atlanta. Even if she could, the looks of disdain, the insults, would be unbearable. They had done that for years to the girl Carl had been going to see and they had had no definite proof on her of wrong doing.

She wondered what she could do. Where could she go? She had no training by which she could earn a living. And she certainly would not go to any city where she was liable to meet anybody who knew her. She thought of Aunt Sophie and her invitation to come and live with her in New York. No, she couldn’t accept that invitation now. Aunt Sophie would be just like these people here, would hate her for her misdeed. Suppose she did marry Carl. His parents would see that they wanted nothing. But always there would be in their minds, she was sure, the thought that she had come to them under a cloud⁠—that she had done something disgraceful and by that means had married into their family. Mimi felt sure in time they too would hate her as much as she now hated Carl. No, her mind was made up. Whatever she might have to suffer, it was better that she keep her own soul free. That would certainly not be true if she married Carl now.

Wearily she faced her stepmother and spoke. The words came slowly, painstakingly, as though she were explaining a complex matter to a rather stupid child.

“Yes, I know all that you say is true. I am foolish. I am bringing on myself a terrible responsibility. But I can’t marry Carl⁠—not now. He wanted me to go to a doctor⁠—to fix me up⁠—those were his very words. I hate him⁠—and if I live to be a thousand years old I’ll hate him more every day I live. Don’t you worry⁠—I’ll go away⁠—I don’t know where, but anyway you won’t be bothered with me anymore. But I won’t marry Carl. My mind’s made up and I won’t change it.⁠ ⁠…”

A few weeks later Mimi boarded a train for Philadelphia. She could give no reason why she chose that city to which to go. The nearest she could explain her choice was that Philadelphia was large, she knew no one there and she was sure she could lose herself in its vastness. Mr. Hunter offered her money but she took only that which was due her through his purchase of half, her half, of the stock Jean had owned. Mrs. Daquin pleaded with her to the hour of departure to marry Carl, but Mimi’s determination grew stronger with her pleading. As the train wound its way through the maze of tracks and puffed its way northward through the bare red hills of Georgia, she gazed from the car-window with the feeling that she had definitely closed the pages of the first book of her life. She stared at the darkening landscape long after the lights in the car were turned on, and wondered what was written on the pages of that second book whose cover she now was lifting.⁠ ⁠…