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. …
XIII
Month by month the time rolled slowly by for Mimi. She slept late in the morning, went out for walks in the afternoon or to a moving-picture show, retired early every evening. On Sundays she stole unobtrusively into the Catholic church near where she lived, varying this occasionally with attendance at the Methodist church to which the elderly couple with which she boarded belonged. They were simple, kindly people who made a comfortable living from a small catering business which kept them away from home a great deal. Mimi thus had the house to herself a large part of the time, for which she was grateful, as it relieved her of the strain of meeting and talking to people and answering embarrassing questions.
The old couple frequently speculated to themselves who and what she might be. To the woman’s indirect and friendly questions Mimi gave evasive answers which seemed to satisfy the simple and uninquisitive nature of the elderly woman. To her neighbours she said that Mimi was a young widow grieving for her dead husband, which explanation, in view of the mourning garments Mimi yet wore for Jean, was accepted in good faith. Mimi often wept at the expressions, either by word or unobtrusive actions, of sympathy which came to her from the elderly couple and their friends. And often, too, guilt assailed her, for she felt she was accepting these ministrations under false colours. There were moments when she felt she could not accept them any longer, that she must tell them the true story. Always before taking such a step, however, she restrained her impulses. She knew no one else in Philadelphia who would take her in, she was paying for her room and excellent food a ridiculously low sum, and her little store of money which had seemed so large when Mr. Hunter had given it to her, was shrinking with dismaying speed.
When the long, dreary, slushy days of winter had given way to the invigorating and friendly warmth of an early spring, she spent most of her days sitting in the park. Used to the tropical heat of New Orleans, the biting winds and driving snows of the North made her miserable and depressed, though her years
