Maggie: Her Marriage Read online

  “I don’t believe it!” Ralph cried harshly. “I don’t believe it! It was someone else! You only saw Margaret once!”

  “I tell you I’m not mistaken!” Lydia snapped. “I was at the wedding. And I did too see her more than once. We all called on her and her mother just before the wedding! In their horrible, dirty, filthy little hut!”

  Ralph’s heart turned over; there was an enormous sickness in him. He sat down slowly and continued to stare at Lydia. His lips moved but no sound came from them.

  “Well, now, that’s too bad, Ralph, my boy,” Holbrooks said sympathetically. “Just when you get a job, too! Well, that’s women for you; you can’t trust them. Just as soon as you’re out of sight, they’re up to their tricks.”

  But Ralph did not hear him. He still stared at Lydia but now he did not see her. Then he put a hand over his eyes.

  Lydia had paled a little; she touched Ralph’s shoulder timidly.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Yes ma’am,” said Susie Blodgett, as she arrogantly refolded Ralph’s letter. “That’s what he says; he’s got a good job with Miss Lydia’s father. Newspaper work. He likes it fine. He’ll go far, my boy. Why, Miss Lydia’s sweet as pie to him. Sees him often in her Pa’s office, and gossips with him whenever she can. She’s a real lady, Miss Lydia.” She looked at Margaret with venom.

  Margaret sat opposite, pale and quiet, in violet silk and new fur jacket. On her beaver hat nodded several plumes, and she wore furred boots. Outside waited her buggy with its big black horse and silvered harness.

  It was just two days before Christmas; a thick gray snow was falling silently over the fields and the black hills, and a sharp wind moaned down the chimney. The fire crackled and leapt and gleamed on the old horsehair furniture of Susan Blodgett’s parlor.

  “Does—does Ralph know I am married?” asked Margaret in a low voice. “Does he say anything about me?” She thought, it’s going the way we always planned, Ralph and I, only now I belong to John.

  Susan squinted as though trying to remember.

  “No, don’t remember that he did. Wal, let me see.” She unfolded the letter again, mouthed the words inaudibly. “Oh, yes, right here, at the bottom, he does.”

  She read, “‘Heard from Miss Lydia some time ago that Margaret married John Hobart. Tell her when you see her that I hope she will be very happy.’ That’s all.”

  Margaret’s lips seemed to grow ashen. She looked steadily at the fire. She had come today to this house, as she had done several times in the last few weeks, merely to hear news of Ralph. A week ago, according to his mother, his first letter had arrived.

  Susan Blodgett regarded her niece with malicious dislike.

  “Mark my words, my boy’ll amount to somethin’. You’ll see.”

  “Yes, of course he will,” replied Margaret gently, still without looking at her aunt. “It was the best thing in the world for Ralph to leave the country.”

  Susan bridled. “You can bet your bottom dollar on that!” she shrilled. “If he’d a stayed here he might’ve got tangled up with some iggerent gal hereabouts and married her! And that would have been the last of him!”

  Margaret raised her muff and rubbed her cheek with it, as though her thoughts were far away. She was thinking intensely of Ralph. Beyond the curtness of the few words in his letter to his mother, she read his shock, his despair at his cousin’s treachery, and his repudiation of her.

  She had a sensation that inevitability had taken hold of her, that everything was done, that there would never be anything more. The door between herself and Ralph had closed for all time; it would never open again. Somehow, she had never thought of that. Mingled with her sadness was a hopeless pain.

  She was about to ask her aunt for his address, but she stopped. Explanations were useless. He would just have to go on believing what he wanted to believe. She would have to get what news she could of him through his mother, whom she suspected would give her as little as possible.

  She rose with a rustle of silk; against the richness of her furs her face was still calm and pale, under the brim of her hat her eyes were unreadable.

  “It’s getting late, Aunt Susie. I’d best be going.”

  It was the first snow of the season, wet and clinging. When it was packed down, and freezing, Margaret thought, she would use a sleigh. Every farmhouse that she passed was shrouded and huddled, a mere blur of smoke hanging over its eaves, the windows bleak. She shivered in her furs. The harness jingled, but the horse’s hoofs made no sound on the cushioned road.

  As she drove along, Margaret had a weird feeling that the old Margaret Hamilton was dead, that she had mysteriously bequeathed to a stranger her memories. This woman in this buggy, comfortable, furclad, was that stranger. Surely it was only a memory of weariness and grief that she was suffering; between herself and poignancy was a wall.

  I’m useless; I’m inadequate. I’m not living at all, she thought.

  It was almost dark when she sighted the row of pointed poplars that stood near the “old house.” Every window was dark except for a dim light in the kitchen, where the hired girl was getting supper. But from the house came a prolonged murmur of organ music. Margaret shivered. She knew now that Miss Betsy was her enemy, that in some strange and inexplicable way she had lost a friendship, that it had died before it had hardly begun.

  The “new house” was brightly warm and reassuring in the night. Voices, borne clearly on the silence, came from the barn, John’s voice and those of his half-dozen hired men. She would have time to slip in before he came to the house. She drove to the separate barn where the horses were kept, and was pleased to find a youth there, feeding the other horses. She spoke to him brightly, though he did not reply. She knew that she was not popular with the help, that they feared her, though she was too indifferent to wonder why. She leaped from the buggy, and then ran swiftly to the house.

  Inside all was warm fires, comfort, and even luxury. The new walnut furniture gleamed; the gaily flowered walls were covered with bright pictures; brass glimmered everywhere. John had spared no expense in making himself as pleasant a home as possible. The house, square and solid, was as he had wanted it.

  He had told Margaret that she was to be a lady. So two hired girls lived in the house, and Margaret had nothing much to do. She could sew if she wanted to, but he desired her only to look after her household, to dress herself richly and soberly, to sit at his table and delight his eyes. This revolutionary manner of living had scandalized the countryfolk, who believed that women were made for labor, for the kitchen, and for the bedroom.

  “So he’s made Maggie Hamilton a lady!” they jeered. “Wal, Johnny Hobart will soon find out he can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!”

  As “Pete Hamilton’s zany” Margaret has always been a refreshing local joke, as were all the Hamiltons. But it had been indulgent ridicule, even affectionate occasionally. Now the ridicule remained, but grown harder, full of envy and obscure indignation.

  Margaret had never been hated before, except by her mother and her aunt Susan; now almost everyone hated her, would have been delighted at any disaster that might strike at her.

  She was at first amused by the hatred, then indifferent. The farm women came to her new house to admire, to stare. They clucked obsequiously to Margaret, listened attentively when she spoke. But out of the corner of her eye she saw their glances at each other, the poisonous smiles, the lightning of hate in their watchful eyes. Once she said to herself, I’m Margot Hamilton’s great-granddaughter. She was Lady Margot of London, of the greatest nation on the earth. Who are these descendants of convicts, of bondsmen and bondswomen, of farmers? And hated herself that she could debase herself by thinking of them. Her only consolation was that John knew nothing of this universal hatred. In his presence, the hatred was silent; he was too powerful, he held too many mortgages.

  He was not displeased that Margaret paid few visits to their neig
hbors, that her only friend was old Mis’ Holbrooks, that his house was not “tracked up by womenfolk.” He and Margaret went to church with Miss Betsy on Sunday, sat together decorously, left in a compact body, nodding and smiling distantly to acquaintances. Margaret and his aunt never attended the “meetin’s,” never were present at quilting bees and church suppers, John went to them merely to keep an eye on the activities of his miniature kingdom. He was afraid that if he mingled with the county people, whose farms were his natural prey, he might relent to a basic kindness in him, and John Hobart considered sentiment a dangerous thing.

  He had anticipated some trouble with Margaret about her family, but as time went on he was gratified that none of the family visited. He had a suspicion that Peter came occasionally, but as he did not see him personally, he said nothing. When his children were born he did not want them to know much about the Hamiltons, except old Margot. He already had plans which would have been grandiose in a lesser man.

  Margaret ran up the white circular staircase to the huge front bedroom which she shared with John. The small fire licked at the grate, burnished the rich walnut and the silver candlesticks. She patted her hair into place, glanced at her dark features in the glass and ran downstairs again. She heard John’s whistle outside and hurried into the dining room. She had barely seated herself when he entered.

  “Brr-rr!” he said as he came in, shuddering strongly. “Gettin’ cold as hell out. Hope there’s somethin’ fit to eat.”

  He went to the white-tiled hearth and rubbed his fingers appreciatively. The firelight glimmered on his face, revealing the harsh lines of strength and the shadows of fatigue. Margaret watched him calmly, studying the mighty breadth of shoulder, the power of hard thigh. Her face showed no expression.

  “There’s always something fit to eat,” she said equably.

  “Huh. Wonder if there is, with you sashayin’ all over the county. Where you been today? Thought I wouldn’t see you run in, didn’t you?”

  He came to the table, eying her without kindness. There was resentment in his expression, an old resentment which had been born the day after their marriage.

  “I wasn’t trying to hide,” said Margaret indifferently. “Why should I?” She gestured to the girl to lay the platter of ham in a certain position. “I went to see my aunt, that’s all.”

  “Your aunt!” he barked, and the hired girl recoiled. “Goin’ there to hear news of that weakling cousin of yours, weren’t you!”

  Margaret was silent. She passed the bowl of winter cabbage to John. He helped himself with a hand unsteady with anger. The girl listened avidly.

  “If you was so damn crazy about Ralph Blodgett, whyn’t you marry him ’stead of me?” he continued. The old bewildered resentment found voice at last. “Ever since we been married I’ve felt somethin’. Somethin’ hidin’ back in your mind. And it’s Ralph, isn’t it?”

  “Ralph is my cousin; I’ve known him all my life. Naturally, I want to know what he’s doing in town,” replied Margaret very quietly. She was sickened; this would be all over the county tomorrow, whispered among her gleeful enemies. “If I’d wanted to marry him instead of you, I could have done it. You have no right to say such things to me.”

  “No right! That’s fine talk from a wife!” John glared at her; behind his rage was his almost pathetic desire to find his way back. She saw it and smiled a little, indulgently.

  “He’s got a job with the father of Lydia Holbrooks; you remember, the girl who tried so hard to marry you,” she said lightly.

  Despite himself, John grinned. He became interested. “He did, eh? Bet he’s runnin’ errands. Well, I ain’t interested.” He thrust a huge slice of ham into his mouth. “Know what I did today? Two things. Took a mortgage out on Ezra King’s farm; two thousand dollars! And bought that prize bull they was showin’ at the Fair last summer, bought it for a song! Now we’ll have some real cattle!”

  “Is there any farm in the county you haven’t taken a mortgage on?” asked Margaret, smiling.

  Well pleased, his good temper returned. “Hardly any. I’ll soon have this county where I want it, in the palm of my hand. Then I’ll show folks hereabouts somethin’ about agriculture, how farms should be run. They have to be beat over the head with newfangled methods, before they accept them. If it ain’t like their fathers used to do it, then it’s wrong. Well, I’ll get them so they’ll have to listen to John Hobart, and then we’ll make this countryside somethin’ to see.”

  His smile broadened. He felt that the air had cleared between them. He beamed on her appreciatively, and she smiled in return.

  “Say, Maggie! Heard somethin’ good today. The railroad is thinkin’ o’ buying land around here, to run a branch line down to Kensington. Or maybe farther. Only way they can go is down beyond the old mill, touchin’ my land. D’ye know what that means? Thousands! ’Spect it’ll run along your pa’s farm, too, and he’ll make a sight of money. Well, we don’t know about it, yet. Have to wait and see.”

  “Do you mean Pa might be asked to sell his farm?”

  “His farm!” John snorted. “D’ye call them piddlin’ little acres a farm? God Almighty! It’s just a front yard! Chance of a lifetime for him; sell it for thousands. Ought to get down on his knees and pray to the Lord to make it come true.”

  “Pa’d never sell that farm, John. It’s been in the family since Great-grandpa Sam Hamilton.”

  “What are you talkin’ about! The whole thing ain’t worth two hundred dollars. Land all wore out, full of stones and old stumps. Can’t raise nothin’ on it but a few pertatoes and weeds. Fences all broken down, brook all choked up. Good-for-nothin’.”

  “Still, Pa won’t sell it. It’s our land.”

  John was about to speak again, but his eyes suddenly narrowed as he stared at his wife.

  “Say, ain’t that farm your’n, Maggie? Didn’t the ole girl leave it to you? By God!” His fist banged down on the table. “Then, it’s mine! That’s the law, Maggie, and you can’t get away from it!”

  Margaret looked at him, the muscles of her face rigid.

  John was more excited, and somewhat angry. “Why, my land wouldn’t be worth nothin’ to the railroad without that strip of stony ole land. They wouldn’t buy. And by God, I ain’t goin’ to let a lot of foolish ideas get in my way, ’bout land belongin’ to the family.”

  Margaret tried to speak, then closed her mouth. She felt suddenly weary. “We’ll see,” she said at last.

  They went into the sitting room where a batch of fresh newspapers awaited John. They sat down before the fire. The night wind was rising; it rushed down the chimney, scattered sparks. From the dining room came the subdued clatter of dishes. The lamps flared a little. The house basked in its richness and warmth. Margaret glanced through some of the papers idly. Her thoughts ran about like distracted small animals.

  Was Ralph thinking of her tonight, thinking of her treachery? Tears rose to her eyes. All at once the house became a prison with walls of iron and stone, from which she would never escape, in which she would smother. She belonged with Ralph, helping him, talking over his work with him at night, reading his newest poem, pouring tea for the circle of cultured people who would be his friends. She looked at John, half dozing in his big chair, the newspapers sliding on his knees. Suddenly she hated him, shrank from him. His blundering attempts to approach her seemed no longer pathetic to her, but greedy.

  Ralph’s face rose before her, pale and delicate. She clenched her hands in her lap. It could not be possible that she would never see him again, never talk to him, never hear that light and eager voice. The full realization of her loss swept over her, closing her throat in anguish. What had she done? Had she been mad? Unable to endure her suffering any longer, she started up. John did not stir.

  She crept from the room, softly opened the door, and closed it behind her. She did not feel the rush of cold damp air through the silk of her arms. The wind leaped at her, lifted her hair, choked back her breath for a moment
. She looked out into the night.

  It had stopped snowing, and a pale moon scurried through ragged clouds. The whole world was white and utterly silent. She could see the black hills beyond, like a monster lying prone upon the horizon. There was dolorous dripping in the eaves from the melting snow. She looked at the sky; here and there a pointed star peered through the clouds, and then was swallowed up.

  Even as she thought of Ralph, the farm smells assaulted her.

  She began to cry as she stood there, with slow and catching breaths. When she went in, she did not know whether she was resigned or merely numb.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The April rains had been long and chilly, and now, though they had ceased, the sun did not shine; under a sky like gloomy gray glass the world was a mist of swimming greenness. Under the sadness of the still and sunless air was a promise, a stirring.

  “I declare to goodness, this here dampness gets into everythin’,” said Mrs. Holbrooks to Margaret as they sat by the smoldering fire of the new house “settin’ room.” “Only this mornin’ I tried to open Seth’s chest to put away his winter socks and I had to pry the drawers loose. I always say t’aint healthy to sleep on the ground floor, but Seth likes it, and now he barks like an old dog.”

  Margaret knitted quietly. In the firelight her needles flashed; her face was calm and expressionless. The gray and heavy daylight flooded the room, for the saplings were not yet tall and thick enough to press their green gloom against the windows.

  “How you feelin’, Maggie?” went on the old woman, who was knitting, too.

  “Very well.”

  “Can’t get around much, though, can ye? Well, that’s the price we pay for young uns, and sometimes I think it’s too much of a price. Folks say we must feel right bad, not havin’ any of our own, but I say when they’re little, they tread on your toes, and when they’re grown, they tread on your heart. Anyways, it’s the Lord’s will, either way,” she added with a comfortable sigh that had no regret in it.