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A Miracle Play
by
“You told Mrs. Glenn?” prompted Emmy, a flame in either cheek.
“I told her that–sss! sss!–I thought the sooner that engagement was broke the better it would be for–u-r-r-r!–all concerned–e-hee! ee-e! ee-e-e-e! Oh my head! my head! Oh, I got to scratch my nose again. You ain’t rubbing the right place!”
“And what did Mrs. Glenn say?” asked Emmy. A ripple ran over her face, and she swallowed before she spoke.
“She said you wouldn’t give Albert up, real spiteful. Ah-rr-r! Oh, I am so sick! I said you would ruther than have your mother so insulted–and if you don’t I guess I’ll give up trying to live. She was so topping. Much as telling me it would be better for my own child if I died. Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear! And Albert looked as cross last night–“
“Did Albert come last night?”
“Yes, he did. You needn’t jump out of the chair! I told him you wasn’t home, and you had gone out to the Collins spring. He said when would you be home, and I said I didn’t know. And he went off mad. Oh-h! oh-h-h! Jinny says Carrie March says she saw him down-town riding on his bicycle with Susan Baker. O-h-h-h-h! How can I talk when I’m so sick? Girls don’t know about young men. Bert wouldn’t like you to see him sometimes, be sure of that!” She paused to moan, and Emmy looked at her in a misery of doubt. Was she telling the truth? It had come to that, since Mrs. Darter had grown to take her soothing drops in every ailment–there was no surety that she either saw things straight or told them straight.
“I guess I’ll go make you some coffee, mother,” said Emmy; “you need it.”
The girl’s self-control was like tinder to the woman’s fire. Mrs. Darter flared out: “You needn’t make any coffee. I won’t drink it. What’s more, I won’t eat one bite until you promise me to break with Bert Glenn–not if I starve to death! If you’re willing to let those Glenns insult me and triumph over me, I ain’t willing to live to see it.” Her feeble accents shrilled to a scream, as she flung out her arms with a reminiscence of the behavior of her favorite heroines in novels. “Go, Emmeline Darter, marry him if you dare; but you will pass to the altar over your only mother’s grave!” She had a confused sense that her syntax had played her false and that she had not gotten the words precisely right; but she covered any embarrassment by sinking back and moaning.
Emmy looked at her with a mounting terror in her heart. She told herself that it was impossible that her mother could carry out such a hideous threat; but she knew that mucilaginous obstinacy which had not a place firm enough for a reason to get a hold. “And she won’t want to eat, either,” mused Emmy, wretchedly, “for that nasty medicine has made her awful sick. She’s got a fever now; that will burn away her strength. And if it comes to a choice between letting my mother starve and giving up Bert, I shall have to give him up!”
Emmy sprang out of her chair. The thought was like a lash on a raw wound.
She ran to the window; it seemed to her that she couldn’t breathe; and her mother’s whimpering irritated her past patience. She knew if she spoke that she would let the bars down for her anger, and if she were angry her mother would be upset physically, and grow so much worse that she would feel like a murderer. She felt the goading of that furious petulance which torments a woman often into sacrificing herself out of very anger. It was on her tongue to say, “I’d rather die myself than give up Bert, and you know it; and I’ll never forgive you as long as I live, but rather than see you die before my eyes I will give him up.”