FullReads

“Murray always talks–long.” Anne was yawning.

“Please be serious, Anne. He wants to marry you.”

“Marry me!” incredulously. “I thought it was you; or Ethel.”

“Well, it isn’t,” wearily. “And it’s a great opportunity–for you, Anne.”

“Opportunity for what?”

Amy had a sense of the futility of trying to explain.

“There aren’t many men like him.”

“Fortunately.”

“Anne, how can you? He’s really paying you a great compliment.”

“Why didn’t he ask me himself?”

“He didn’t want to startle you. You’re so young. Murray has extreme fineness of feeling.”

Anne tilted her chin. “I don’t see what he finds in me.”

“You’re young”–with a tinge of bitterness–“and he says you are beautiful.”

Anne threw off the covers and set her bare feet on the floor. “Beautiful!” she scoffed, but went to the mirror. “I’m thin,” she meditated, “but I’ve got nice hair.”

“We all have nice hair,” said Amy; “but you’ve got Ethel’s complexion and my figure.”

“I don’t think I want to be loved for my complexion.” Anne turned suddenly and faced her sister. “Or my figure. I’d rather be loved for my mind.”

“Men don’t love women for their minds,” said Amy wearily. “You’ll learn that when you have lived as long as I have. Get back into bed, Anne. You’ll freeze.”

But Anne, shivering in the cotton kimono, argued the question hotly: “I should think Murray would want to marry someone with congenial tastes. He hates everything that I like.”

“He’ll make an excellent husband. You ought to be happy to know that he–cares.”

She began to cough–a racking cough that left her exhausted.

Anne, bending over her, said, “Why, Amy, are you sick?”

“I’m–I’m rather wretched, Anne.”

“Are you taking anything for your cough?”

“Yes.”

“You ought to have a doctor.”

“I have had one.”

“What did he say?”

Amy put her off. “I’ll feel better in the morning, Anne. Don’t worry.” Again the cough tore her. Anne flew to Ethel.

“See what you can do for her. There is blood on her handkerchief! I am going to call a doctor.”

The doctor, arriving, checked the cough. Later he told Anne that Amy must have a change and strengthening food.

“At once. She’s in a very serious state. I’ve told her, but she won’t listen.”

In the days that followed Anne arraigned herself hotly. “I’ve been a selfish pig–eating up everything–and Amy needed it.”

In this state of mind she fasted–and was famished.

Maxwell, noting her paleness, demanded, “What’s the matter? Aren’t you well?”

She wanted to cry out, “I’m hungry.” But she, too, had her pride.

“Amy’s ill.”

He got it out of her finally. “The doctor is much worried about her. He says she needs a change.”

“You need it too.”

She needed food, but she couldn’t tell him that. The state of their exchequer was alarming. It had been revealed to her since Amy’s illness that there was really nothing coming in until the next quarter.

“Why didn’t you let Charlotte go, Ethel?”

“We’ve always had a maid. What would people think?”

“And because of what people think, Amy is to starve?”

“Anne, how can you?”

“Well, it comes to that. She needs things; and we don’t need Charlotte.”

But when they spoke to Amy of sending Charlotte away she was feverishly excited. “There’s nobody to do the work.”

“I can do it,” said Anne.

“We Merrymans have never worked,” Amy began to cry. “I’d rather die,” she said, “than have people think we are–poor.”

V

Maxwell was a man of action. When he saw Anne pale he sought a remedy. “Look here, why can’t you and your sisters come out to my farm?”

Anne, remembering certain things–broilers and fresh eggs–was thrilled by the invitation. “I’d love it! But Amy won’t accept.”

“Why not?”

“She’s terribly stiff.”

He laughed. “Perhaps I can talk her over.”

Amy, lying on her couch, very weary, facing a shadowy future, felt his magnetism as he talked to her. It was as if life spoke through his lips. Murray had sat there beside her only an hour before. He had brought her roses but he had brought no hope.

Fear had for weeks kept Amy company. Through her nights and days it had stalked, a pale spectre. And now Maxwell was saying: “You’ll be well in a month. Of course you’ll come! There’s room for half a dozen. You three won’t half fill the house.”