*      *      *      *      *—"By your own say-so you ain't any of those things.—You got a mind o' your own an' a conscience o' your own.... You're strong as they make'm.... This hangin' on your antsisters, for good or for bad, makes me sick.... Don't you fool yourself: It's every man for himself, these days, thank God! ... Somethin' beautiful in all your blows, if you only had sense to see. The hardest knock you ever got, you'd seestars...."*      *      *      *      *Once, when she was a child, Katherine had been given a toy which, more than all of her others, had filled her with delight and wonderment.It was a large, circular box, set on a pedestal, revolving on a pin. Perpendicular slits were cut, at regular intervals, all around its lower wall, and within were coiled long, colored picture-scrolls, facing outward. When the box, or drum, revolved, the scene depicted suddenly sprang into motion.She could not have followed, had she tried, the subtle, involuted train of association that led her back to her experience with the long disremembered plaything. But, even as she thought of it, she saw herself, as she had so often sat, a disappointed, bewildered child, staring at the stupid, tiresome lengths of crude, static prints, which her inexperienced hand had not learned to adjust, so they would become significant, entertaining.Like a sudden flash of light, came the suggestion that, up to this, she had sat just so, regarding life. Seeing it in the flat, finding it dull, stale, unprofitable. What if it were possible to learn the trick of adjustment! What if it were possible to discover the dynamic pivot, by which the great revolution would take place, the revolution that would make life interesting, give it meaning? Had any one ever found either?Instantly, she thought of two persons—the two who, more than any others she had ever known, had got the most good pleasure out of life. Daniel Ballard—Martha Slawson. Two very different personalities, in widely different situations, yet with the same invincible courage, the same curious capacity for inspiring others with their own faith in all that is best. These two had the same wide vision, the same high purpose. They both had looked on life, and found it good.Long before her car reached Burbank, Katherine had determined to go home.She heard, with composure, the Junction "starter's" announcement, that her car had gone out three minutes before. She must wait an hour, if she wanted to take the next. In her present mood, she was glad of the opportunity to try her new-found strength. Out of her depths of depression she had leaped in one miraculous moment, to a height of exaltation such as she had never known before. She was ready to fight the world, in order to prove she could come out conqueror."No, ma'am, there ain't any other way of getting back, excepting the trolley, unless you take an automobile. But I tell you what! The Boston train'll be along presently. There'll be rigs here then, and motors come to meet it, and probably some of them'll be going back your way. They'd give you a lift, I dare say, if you're in a great hurry and asked them."Katherine considered. To sit in the station, tamely waiting for things to come her way, was out of all line with her present impulse. She could not endure inaction. She had a flagellant's ecstatic eagerness to begin her own castigation. She wouldwalk.The starter did not confide to her his private opinion of her plan, when she indicated what she proposed to do by asking directions as to the way."There's a goodish stretch out of here, where the walking's easy. But you'd have to get beyond that, before you'd be likely to be come up with, by a rig, or a car, going your way. You see, the trolley-line and the motors both use the road. Foot passengers ain't allowed to, where there's so much traveling. It'd be dangerous. But once you get off the main beat, going in the direction of your town, all you have to do is stick to the road and you'llget there!"Looking after her, as she started off gallantly enough, his skepticism found vent in a long, low whistle and a muttered—"You'll get there—ifyou have luck."But Katherine felt no doubt of herself. It was only after she had covered "the goodish stretch," and come out on the road where the walking was "heavy," that her elation dropped a trifle, her bag began to prove itself subject to the law of gravitation. Still she plodded on resolutely.She had no hope that she would be able to outstrip the trolley, but at least she was not meekly submitting to overmastering forces, as she had done in the past. And if nothing better offered, she would take the trolley, when it should come along, and so accomplish her purpose in the end.She did not know how far she had walked, when her ears caught the sound of an approaching automobile.The way, at that point, was narrow, and for a moment she hesitated. Would it be better to step up on the bank, or proceed, as she was doing, trusting to the chauffeur to guide and control his car so as not to run her down? She chose the first course, glad that she had done so, when, looking back the way she had come, she saw what an immense machine it was bearing down upon her. Then all at once, her heart gave a leap.It was the Ronalds' car.A minute, and the chauffeur had seen, recognized her. The car came to a halt.The next thing she knew, Francis Ronald had sprung from the limousine, taken her bag, given it to his driver, handed her into the car, and, himself, taken his place beside his man. It was only then, that she realized he had closed the door upon her, and a companion. A man. She looked up. The car started into motion. She was in Daniel Ballard's arms, being held very close.She tried to wrench herself away."No, no!" she panted. "You don't understand! You don't know!"Recapturing the hand she had freed, he pressed it to his lips, smiling at her reassuringly."I know everything. It's all right. What do you think I care?""But youdon'tknow," she insisted. "I was coming to tell you. I was on my way. And then I remembered how old she is, and weak and forlorn and—I am going back to her—to comfort her. But I had been on my way to you—to tell you—tell you what I am—what I've done. I'm——""Hush!" commanded Dr. Ballard gently. "Be still, and you'll find it's all right.Shemade it right, before I left to go to Boston. She told me everything. What you had told her, what, I suppose, she has told you. Everything. She asked me to wait until you had found yourself. She said, you were an idealist—'Up in the clouds,' she put it. She feared you would draw a storm down on yourself and me, if you were trusted with your own life, at this juncture. She begged me not to press on you any more problems than you already had. She wanted you to profit by her mistakes, to have what she had missed—and to have it untarnished by regrets. It was for that she tested you. It was for that she denied herself necessaries, that, in the end, you might have plenty. She said, she must make sure you did not set money above love, as she, as—othershad done before you. Talk about idealists! She managed it all very clumsily, but, at least, she tried to do right by you, according to her lights. I told her, 'twas wrong to tamper with human hearts. I told her, she had no right to try to direct human destinies. But I'd better have held my tongue. The mischief was already done. She had tampered. She hadtried.... She was always hoping you would come to see she had acted in good faith. You see it now, don't you, sweetheart? You'll show her you do, when we gethome, won't you—if it's not too late?""Too late?"The syllables rang out with cruel sharpness."You don't know, then, that she is—dying?"Katherine gave him a terrified look."Oh, let us go fast—fast! Dan—darling—don't let it be too late!"It was nearing sunset when the car drove into Crewesmere.Martha heard it, but the sound carried no comfort to her heart. At best, it could only mean that Dr. Ballard had arrived and—Dr. Ballard was not Katherine! Katherine for whom her grandmother had been vainly calling all through the day."She'll be here presently," Martha had answered. "She's gone out." "She'll come in pretty soon, now." "I expect her any minute."Once, the little old woman had made a mighty effort, gathered her forces together, and brought out the question,"Has she left me? Gone to Boston?"Martha could not have escaped her searching eyes, if she had tried. She met them squarely, and told her untruth as convincingly as if it had been the truth. In the depths of her soul, she "had the faith to believe" it was the truth. "Only, I'm bound to confess, it don't look like it.""Leave you? Gone to Boston? Not on your life. Miss Katherine's agoodchild. Even if she'd got kinda bewizzled-like, an' started off, meanin' to go, she wouldn't 'a' went. She'd turn back, an' come home. You can take it from me! I know Miss Katherine."But the hands of the clock had slipped around, and Katherine had not come home.Dr. Driggs dropped in, like the rest of the neighbors, to "inquire." He did not venture inside the sick-room, but when Martha described the situation, Madam Crewe's hungry longing to keep up until she could see her grandchild, he left something to be administered that, he thought, "might help along, some, maybe."It did.After she had taken it, the wonderful little soul revived amazingly. She beckoned Martha to her with a look, whispering out the difficult syllables, as if on her last breath—"If Katherine shouldn't come——""She will come, never fear," Martha reassured her."I've left you—a little keepsake. A thousand dollars.... It's down ... black-and-white ... in letter to Katherine. Promise ... take some, and go ... with your Sam ... to New York ... alone ... honeymoon.""Certaintly," said Martha, humoring her soothingly, without the slightest suspicion she was listening to anything but the babbling of aged weakness."Certaintly, ma'am. An' thank you kindly for the thought. Sam an' me'll have the time of our lives.""See ... you do!" ordered the little Madam.The western sky was a blaze of glory when she spoke again."I'll meet you ... dearest Daniel ... when the sun goes down!""What, ma'am?" inquired Martha, instantly on the alert.The lowered lids lifted. The lapsing mind leaped back to consciousness."Katherine!""She'll be here right off. She's on her way!"An automobile drove up before the house."Dr. Ballard's come all the way from Boston to see you, ma'am," Martha said.A moment, and the door opened. A girlish figure flew across the room."Grandmother! Dear,deargrandmother!"Katherine knelt by the bedside, gathering up the little body in her loving arms.Dr. Ballard bent to lift the tiny wrist.There was a gentle sigh, a flicker of the eyelids. Madam Crewe looked up contentedly, over Katherine's bowed head, and her eyes fixed themselves full on Martha.The look said, "Slawson, you're a good woman!"THE END*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKMAKING OVER MARTHA***
*Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *
—"By your own say-so you ain't any of those things.—You got a mind o' your own an' a conscience o' your own.... You're strong as they make'm.... This hangin' on your antsisters, for good or for bad, makes me sick.... Don't you fool yourself: It's every man for himself, these days, thank God! ... Somethin' beautiful in all your blows, if you only had sense to see. The hardest knock you ever got, you'd seestars...."
*Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *
Once, when she was a child, Katherine had been given a toy which, more than all of her others, had filled her with delight and wonderment.
It was a large, circular box, set on a pedestal, revolving on a pin. Perpendicular slits were cut, at regular intervals, all around its lower wall, and within were coiled long, colored picture-scrolls, facing outward. When the box, or drum, revolved, the scene depicted suddenly sprang into motion.
She could not have followed, had she tried, the subtle, involuted train of association that led her back to her experience with the long disremembered plaything. But, even as she thought of it, she saw herself, as she had so often sat, a disappointed, bewildered child, staring at the stupid, tiresome lengths of crude, static prints, which her inexperienced hand had not learned to adjust, so they would become significant, entertaining.
Like a sudden flash of light, came the suggestion that, up to this, she had sat just so, regarding life. Seeing it in the flat, finding it dull, stale, unprofitable. What if it were possible to learn the trick of adjustment! What if it were possible to discover the dynamic pivot, by which the great revolution would take place, the revolution that would make life interesting, give it meaning? Had any one ever found either?
Instantly, she thought of two persons—the two who, more than any others she had ever known, had got the most good pleasure out of life. Daniel Ballard—Martha Slawson. Two very different personalities, in widely different situations, yet with the same invincible courage, the same curious capacity for inspiring others with their own faith in all that is best. These two had the same wide vision, the same high purpose. They both had looked on life, and found it good.
Long before her car reached Burbank, Katherine had determined to go home.
She heard, with composure, the Junction "starter's" announcement, that her car had gone out three minutes before. She must wait an hour, if she wanted to take the next. In her present mood, she was glad of the opportunity to try her new-found strength. Out of her depths of depression she had leaped in one miraculous moment, to a height of exaltation such as she had never known before. She was ready to fight the world, in order to prove she could come out conqueror.
"No, ma'am, there ain't any other way of getting back, excepting the trolley, unless you take an automobile. But I tell you what! The Boston train'll be along presently. There'll be rigs here then, and motors come to meet it, and probably some of them'll be going back your way. They'd give you a lift, I dare say, if you're in a great hurry and asked them."
Katherine considered. To sit in the station, tamely waiting for things to come her way, was out of all line with her present impulse. She could not endure inaction. She had a flagellant's ecstatic eagerness to begin her own castigation. She wouldwalk.
The starter did not confide to her his private opinion of her plan, when she indicated what she proposed to do by asking directions as to the way.
"There's a goodish stretch out of here, where the walking's easy. But you'd have to get beyond that, before you'd be likely to be come up with, by a rig, or a car, going your way. You see, the trolley-line and the motors both use the road. Foot passengers ain't allowed to, where there's so much traveling. It'd be dangerous. But once you get off the main beat, going in the direction of your town, all you have to do is stick to the road and you'llget there!"
Looking after her, as she started off gallantly enough, his skepticism found vent in a long, low whistle and a muttered—"You'll get there—ifyou have luck."
But Katherine felt no doubt of herself. It was only after she had covered "the goodish stretch," and come out on the road where the walking was "heavy," that her elation dropped a trifle, her bag began to prove itself subject to the law of gravitation. Still she plodded on resolutely.
She had no hope that she would be able to outstrip the trolley, but at least she was not meekly submitting to overmastering forces, as she had done in the past. And if nothing better offered, she would take the trolley, when it should come along, and so accomplish her purpose in the end.
She did not know how far she had walked, when her ears caught the sound of an approaching automobile.
The way, at that point, was narrow, and for a moment she hesitated. Would it be better to step up on the bank, or proceed, as she was doing, trusting to the chauffeur to guide and control his car so as not to run her down? She chose the first course, glad that she had done so, when, looking back the way she had come, she saw what an immense machine it was bearing down upon her. Then all at once, her heart gave a leap.
It was the Ronalds' car.
A minute, and the chauffeur had seen, recognized her. The car came to a halt.
The next thing she knew, Francis Ronald had sprung from the limousine, taken her bag, given it to his driver, handed her into the car, and, himself, taken his place beside his man. It was only then, that she realized he had closed the door upon her, and a companion. A man. She looked up. The car started into motion. She was in Daniel Ballard's arms, being held very close.
She tried to wrench herself away.
"No, no!" she panted. "You don't understand! You don't know!"
Recapturing the hand she had freed, he pressed it to his lips, smiling at her reassuringly.
"I know everything. It's all right. What do you think I care?"
"But youdon'tknow," she insisted. "I was coming to tell you. I was on my way. And then I remembered how old she is, and weak and forlorn and—I am going back to her—to comfort her. But I had been on my way to you—to tell you—tell you what I am—what I've done. I'm——"
"Hush!" commanded Dr. Ballard gently. "Be still, and you'll find it's all right.Shemade it right, before I left to go to Boston. She told me everything. What you had told her, what, I suppose, she has told you. Everything. She asked me to wait until you had found yourself. She said, you were an idealist—'Up in the clouds,' she put it. She feared you would draw a storm down on yourself and me, if you were trusted with your own life, at this juncture. She begged me not to press on you any more problems than you already had. She wanted you to profit by her mistakes, to have what she had missed—and to have it untarnished by regrets. It was for that she tested you. It was for that she denied herself necessaries, that, in the end, you might have plenty. She said, she must make sure you did not set money above love, as she, as—othershad done before you. Talk about idealists! She managed it all very clumsily, but, at least, she tried to do right by you, according to her lights. I told her, 'twas wrong to tamper with human hearts. I told her, she had no right to try to direct human destinies. But I'd better have held my tongue. The mischief was already done. She had tampered. She hadtried.... She was always hoping you would come to see she had acted in good faith. You see it now, don't you, sweetheart? You'll show her you do, when we gethome, won't you—if it's not too late?"
"Too late?"
The syllables rang out with cruel sharpness.
"You don't know, then, that she is—dying?"
Katherine gave him a terrified look.
"Oh, let us go fast—fast! Dan—darling—don't let it be too late!"
It was nearing sunset when the car drove into Crewesmere.
Martha heard it, but the sound carried no comfort to her heart. At best, it could only mean that Dr. Ballard had arrived and—Dr. Ballard was not Katherine! Katherine for whom her grandmother had been vainly calling all through the day.
"She'll be here presently," Martha had answered. "She's gone out." "She'll come in pretty soon, now." "I expect her any minute."
Once, the little old woman had made a mighty effort, gathered her forces together, and brought out the question,
"Has she left me? Gone to Boston?"
Martha could not have escaped her searching eyes, if she had tried. She met them squarely, and told her untruth as convincingly as if it had been the truth. In the depths of her soul, she "had the faith to believe" it was the truth. "Only, I'm bound to confess, it don't look like it."
"Leave you? Gone to Boston? Not on your life. Miss Katherine's agoodchild. Even if she'd got kinda bewizzled-like, an' started off, meanin' to go, she wouldn't 'a' went. She'd turn back, an' come home. You can take it from me! I know Miss Katherine."
But the hands of the clock had slipped around, and Katherine had not come home.
Dr. Driggs dropped in, like the rest of the neighbors, to "inquire." He did not venture inside the sick-room, but when Martha described the situation, Madam Crewe's hungry longing to keep up until she could see her grandchild, he left something to be administered that, he thought, "might help along, some, maybe."
It did.
After she had taken it, the wonderful little soul revived amazingly. She beckoned Martha to her with a look, whispering out the difficult syllables, as if on her last breath—
"If Katherine shouldn't come——"
"She will come, never fear," Martha reassured her.
"I've left you—a little keepsake. A thousand dollars.... It's down ... black-and-white ... in letter to Katherine. Promise ... take some, and go ... with your Sam ... to New York ... alone ... honeymoon."
"Certaintly," said Martha, humoring her soothingly, without the slightest suspicion she was listening to anything but the babbling of aged weakness.
"Certaintly, ma'am. An' thank you kindly for the thought. Sam an' me'll have the time of our lives."
"See ... you do!" ordered the little Madam.
The western sky was a blaze of glory when she spoke again.
"I'll meet you ... dearest Daniel ... when the sun goes down!"
"What, ma'am?" inquired Martha, instantly on the alert.
The lowered lids lifted. The lapsing mind leaped back to consciousness.
"Katherine!"
"She'll be here right off. She's on her way!"
An automobile drove up before the house.
"Dr. Ballard's come all the way from Boston to see you, ma'am," Martha said.
A moment, and the door opened. A girlish figure flew across the room.
"Grandmother! Dear,deargrandmother!"
Katherine knelt by the bedside, gathering up the little body in her loving arms.
Dr. Ballard bent to lift the tiny wrist.
There was a gentle sigh, a flicker of the eyelids. Madam Crewe looked up contentedly, over Katherine's bowed head, and her eyes fixed themselves full on Martha.
The look said, "Slawson, you're a good woman!"
THE END
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKMAKING OVER MARTHA***