Chapter X

Embury worried about the kisses pretty much that night after he got home.

After all, Mamie was such a little thing and awfully young, not more than eighteen, probably, and not worldly, sophisticated, like the girls he went with. He oughtn’t to have—well, taken advantage of her. She had said she would never see him again—and then, after he had said he’d see her to-morrow, he had seen her wave farewell. If he didn’t see her—perhaps that would be best, after all. Still,—her kisses were sweet—she was a dear—he remembered the touch of her soft lips.

In the morning Embury still thought only of Mamie’s arms around his neck, her kisses. Of course he’d see her again. Why, he loved her. She was smarter, prettier, than Sophie. Sophie wouldn’t have cried had he kissed her—she would have thought he had proposed and put their engagement in the papers. She probably thought they were even now. Wouldn’t it be a joke on Sophie if he didn’t marry her, after all? His parents—why should they rule his life?

Of course, marrying Mamie was out of the question—still, with pretty clothes, she’d beat any girl in Millersville on looks and brains. Why, she had them beat already. Hadn’t she gone to High School until she had to stop to help out at home? Working every day, selling candy, luxuries—to others. Dear little thing—and now she was probably worrying because he had kissed her. Of course he’d see her—keep on seeing her....

At ten o’clock he peered into the windows of the Busy Bee. Mamie was not there. At eleven he looked in again. He went to the office and attempted to work. He looked into the shop windows both going to and coming from luncheon. He couldn’t keep his mind on what he was trying to do in the afternoon. Before three, he left for the day and went to the Busy Bee, looked in, went inside. It was almost a relief not to see Mamie—a relief, and yet it worried him.

A brown-haired girl he had never seen asked for his order. Embarrassed, he told her he wanted to speak to Miss Carpenter. What a fool he was. What else could he do?

Miss Carpenter hadn’t been down all day—no, she didn’t know what was the matter. Something she could do for him? Mechanically he ordered a box of candy.

He was glad he hadn’t found Mamie there. After last night he didn’t like to think of her clerking—waiting on people. He’d take her away—some place. Where? That was it—take her away. Still, he had to stay in Millersville—a town like Millersville! And she—why she cried when he kissed her—she was such a fragile, dainty little thing—like a lily—that was it—a lily, who had grown up in the muck of Gillen Row. Even too dainty for him. She wasn’t at the store. What was the matter? What if—

He drove to Gillen Row as rapidly as he could, stopped his car in front of the forlorn cottage. What if her father was at home? Well, he could manage him—must manage him.

He ran up the front walk, up the broken steps, knocked at the door—the bell seemed out of order. He waited. No answer. He couldn’t believe that the house was empty. He would wait. He stood on the porch, hesitating, wondering what to do. Then the door opened. It was Mamie.

She had on a blue suit, a plain little suit, with a white collar and a little black hat, turned up all around. He had never seen her except in summer things. How well she looked, with her bright hair showing below the hat-brim.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “You mustn’t come. Go away—I never—was going to see you again.”

“What’s the matter? You aren’t ill? You weren’t at the Busy Bee?”

“I’m not going back again, ever. I—I can’t stand it.”

“What are you going to do, Mamie?”

She looked so little and tragic.

“Last night father was waiting for me when I got home. You don’t know my father. He’s cruel, brutal, sometimes. He seemed to know, before I told him—that I’d been driving with you. So—I’m going away—I can’t stand—this—any more.”

“Going—where?”

He came inside, closed the door. What a mean little house it was.

“I don’t know. Away from this—any place. I’ve enough money to get to—to Giffordsville. I can find something to do there. I’ve got to have peace and contentment—something. And you must hate me—after I kissed you last night. You can’t care for me—respect me—and your respect was all I had.”

“My dear, my dear little girl. Why, I—I—”

His arms were around her again. But this time she did not meet his lips with hers. She dropped her head, struggled a little, then sighed.

“You see,” she said, “I can’t struggle against you. I must go away. I can’t stand it—any longer. This house, everything—and now—”

“Mamie.”

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

He forced her face upward.

“Do you love me?”

“Don’t ask me to say it. You—know. Please don’t be cruel to me. Let me go while I can.”

“Cruel to you? Mamie, I love you. You know that. You mustn’t go away from Millersville.”

“I _must_ go. After the quarrel with father, I can’t stay here. That’s settled.”

“You _mustn’t_ go.”

He repeated it over and over. He couldn’t let her go. Without her, Millersville would be worse than oil-soaked Oklahoma. He dared not imagine it, even.

“I’m going now—I’m all ready for travelling. How can anything stop me?” She pointed to a little packed bag.

In his arms she was fragrant, sweet. How could she get along—what could she do, alone in the world? Why—she was his girl—he could take care of her. She understood him—his family—he wouldn’t let his parents ruin his life.

Marry her, of course. Wasn’t she better, nobler than the rest of the girls—a cruel father who misunderstood her—alone in the world, really—little and sweet and dear. Going away? Why, if he married her he could keep her here. Of course.

“I’m glad you’re ready,” he said, “because you’re going with me.”

“What—what do you mean?”

She drew away.

“What could I mean? We—we love each other. We can drive right down to the court-house this minute. You—you won’t mind—marrying me, will you?”

She snuggled close to him and hid her head. From the sounds she made, he couldn’t tell whether she was sobbing or giggling. But it didn’t matter. Surely a girl could have her own method of accepting a proposal of marriage.