CHAPTER VThe day had been sultry, and sunset brought no relief. Evening fell windstill, breathless.For once Katherine was glad to obey her little martinet grandmother's arbitrary regulation: Lights out at nine. She sat by her bedroom window looking out over a white, moonlit world, thinking black thoughts. Suddenly she rose, for no better reason, apparently, than that a quick, inner impulse of impatience against herself, must find vent in some outward act."It's dreadful! I'm growing bitter, hard, deceitful. I'm living a lie. Acting as if I were obedient, and respectful to her, and—feeling like a rebel every minute in the day. I've got to end it, somehow. I can't go on like this any longer."Just outside her window a little balcony (the railed-in roof of the porte-cochère) shone like a silver patch against the darker foliage. The shadows of leaves cast an intricate pattern upon the moonlit space, and Katherine gazed at it abstractedly until a moving speck in the motionless night caught her attention, and fixed it. As she watched, the speck became a shape, the shape an automobile moving rapidly, almost noiselessly, toward the house, along the white ribbon of a driveway. Just before her window it stopped."Hello!" called Dr. Ballard softly.Katherine hid a radiant smile in the folds of her shadowy curtain. "Sh!" she cautioned. "You'll wake grandmother.""Then come down. I've something to tell you.""No. Too late!""Nonsense!""I can't.""Oh, very well."His instant acceptance of her negative was not altogether agreeable.One moment, and he was bending over his steering-wheel, busying himself with the gear, probably preparatory to driving on and away. The next, he was out of the car, had scaled the porch-pillar, vaulted the low railing, and was calmly sitting not two feet away from her, Turk-fashion, upon the balcony floor.Katherine laughed. "I didn't know you could climb like that.""I can't. That wasn't a climb. 'Twas a scramble. Bad work. But I'm out of practice.""You mustn't stay. Grandmother wouldn't like it. Remember, she forbade my having anything to do with you.""Sorry, but I don't feel obliged to conform, on that account. Ifyoudon't like it, that's another story."Katherine was silent.Dr. Ballard did not press the point."You said you had something to tell me.""On second thought I'll postpone it.""Why?""The moonlight suggests mystery. Let's leave it a mystery.""I hate mysteries.""As I diagnose your case, you're by way of 'hating' most things, nowadays. Come. Confess. Aren't you?"Katherine nodded mutely."Don't do it," advised Dr. Ballard."I can't help it," she burst out with quite uncharacteristic impetuosity. "So much in life is hateful. Sometimes, I feel one isn't bound to endure things, when they make one so detestable. I was thinking about it just before you came. Thinking about the sort of thing life can make of one. Everything one oughtn't to be. I hatemyself, along with all the rest."Dr. Ballard sat with his hands clasped around his knees, and gazed straight up above him into the great stretch of dusky sky, spangled over with constellations."I wonder what Mrs. Slawson would say to that?" he ruminated.Katherine started. "Mrs. Slawson?""Yes. I've made it out that she's rather a specialist, when it comes to life, and that sort of thing. Really, I think it might pay you to consult her. By the way, she asked me to say that you 'can heave the perserve trouble off'n your chest.' She is going to see you get a 'rule,' or something.""Oh, good! Thatisa load off one's mind. And, speaking of chests, it can't be very good for yours, to be doing heavy gymnastics, such as climbing porch-posts. Can it?""Why not? My chest's O.K. Nothing in the least 's the matter with my chest.""Oh,—I thought——" blundered Katherine awkwardly."What?""Somebody told me—I don't recollect who—that you had a 'spot' or something, on your lung. I'm so sorry."Dr. Ballard flung back his head with a low, boyish chuckle."Somebody's got hold of the wrong case. My nerves, mixed with another chap's bellows. No, I'm not up here on account of any onespot—it's the whole rundown machine that needs repairing. I'm used up. Tired out.""Tired out—waiting for patients?" asked Katherine mischievously.Dr. Ballard gave her a quick look. "That's it. Waiting for patients," he quoted with perfect good humor."I suppose it's hard work building up a practice in a city as big as Boston.""Quite hard work.""Don't you get discouraged?""Why should I?""Oh, there must be so many obstacles, hindrances. Even if you are clever, there must be so many older men with established reputations. Great physicians, great surgeons.""Precisely. That's the fun of it. The game wouldn't be worth playing, if 'twas easy to win out. It's hard. That's why I like it."Katherine rose slowly, and stood in the window embrasure, looking down upon him thoughtfully."You've given me something to sleep on," she said. "I'll remember what you've said. 'The game wouldn't be worth playing, if 'twas easy.' And I have been whining because it is hard.""Katherine!" shrilled a petulant voice, breaking rudely through the soft evening hush."Coming, grandmother.""Goodnight!" exclaimed Dr. Ballard with slangy intention.The next moment, Katherine saw his agile figure disappear over the rim of the balustrade. She turned quickly to answer the imperative call, all the old miserable feelings returning in a rush."I want a drink of water."If Martha Slawson had been in Katherine's place, the mother-heart in her would have understood that childish call at once. But the girl had no experience that would help her to interpret the meaning of it. She supplied the drink with as much promptness, and as little sentiment, as a nickel-in-the-slot machine.Madam Crewe drained the glass thirstily."It's a warm night," she observed socially."Very warm.""Queer the way my head acts," continued the lonely old woman, obviously making conversation to detain Katherine. "Sometimes it seems full of sounds, so I think I hear real voices speaking. A little while ago, I heard a man's laugh, as clear as could be. You weren't downstairs with a caller, were you?""I haven't been out of my room since supper-time, grandmother."The words seemed to Katherine to burn her lips, as she uttered them. She turned abruptly to the door. Her grandmother called her back."You know what I've been thinking?"Katherine stood at attention, but silent, unequal to the task of counterfeiting interest."I've been thinking, I'm going to give the cow to Slawson. It bothers me when I can't pay my debts, and the woman won't take a cent for what she's done. Besides, it's expensive keeping live-stock these days, with fodder so high, and labor even worse. We don't need a cow, just you and I. Cheaper to buy milk than feed the creature through the winter, and hire Peter to come and milk. It counts up. Slawson can keep her, and turn an honest penny letting us have milk at lowest price. See?""Yes, grandmother.""You don't like the plan?""Giving the cow to Mrs. Slawson is very nice, I think, but I always hate presents with strings to them. Having to supply us with milk takes the cream off the cow.""Pooh! That's nonsense. You've altogether too big notions. They'll get you into trouble, if you don't take care. I can see you making ducks and drakes of a fortune in no time, if you didn't have some one to hold a tight rein over you. By the way, how about those preserves?""I'll put them up to-morrow, grandmother.""See you do. Else, first thing you know, the fruit will be gone. Rotted on the trees.""I promise you, I'll put it up to-morrow without fail," Katherine repeated very distinctly.Back in her own room she laughed bitterly, while two hot tears slipped down her cheeks. "Promise! Poor thing! and she believes me! She thinks my word is as good as my bond. So it is—and neither of them is worth a rush," she assailed herself. No, she had forgotten. She was telling the truth about the preserves, at least. Mrs. Stewson was going to let her have a "rule." But the false impression she had deliberately conveyed about the caller still "stuck in her crop," as Martha would have said. And yet, what right had her grandmother or any one else, to tie her hand and foot, so she must resort to subterfuge if she wanted to move a muscle?It wasn't fair that one life should be crippled to serve the whim of another. If her grandmother insisted on cutting her off from all natural pleasures, let her take the consequences. She fell asleep at last, nursing her sense of injury, brooding over her wrongs.The next morning, while the casual Eunice was clearing the breakfast table, Katherine heard a sound outside, which caused her to hurry to the window. The sound was familiar, but the time for it unusual. The doctor's car was not due at Crewesmere so early in the day. Yet there it was, and, as Katherine gazed, from it issued, as if in installments, Mrs. Slawson, a small boy, a big girl, and—a huge, granite-ware preserving-kettle.In less than a minute thetempoof the house was changed. Things movedvivace."Sammy, you go out with this basket, an' strip them trees as fast as you can put. Cora, you show'm where to go, after Miss Crewe she tells you, that's a good girl. Eunice, get me every one o' them perserve-jars off'n the top pantry-shelf, an' when you wash'm, see the water's good an' hot, but not so's it'll crack the glass. We'll need them scales, Miss Katherine. I knew you had'm, or I'd 'a' brought my own. If you watch me measurin', an' write down what the perportions are, an' how I handle'm, you'll have a 'rule' for future use, which, if it never took a prize like Mrs. Peckett's, certaintly never poisoned anybody yet, that ever et it, so far asIknow."It was wonderful how the load lifted from Katherine's heart."I don't know how it is, Mrs. Slawson," she said at length, "but whenever you're here, I feel about twice as strong and brave, as at any other time. It isn't alone that youdoso much, but you make me think I can do things too; things I know I'm not equal to, otherwise."Martha smiled. "Believeme, you don't know what you're equal to, an' don't you forget it. No more do I. We ain't done up in bags, like seven pounds o' sugar, we human bein's, so's we know what we're equal to. The heft of us comes out, accordin' to the things in life we got to measure up to. When I was married, firstoff, I thought I wasn'tequalto livin' with my mother-in-law, an' puttin' up with her peculiar-rarities. But, laws o' man! I found I was. An', what's more, I found I been equal to one or two other little things since, worse than her, by a good sight. What helped me some, was realizin' I got peculiar-rarities of my own other folks has to be equal to."Katherine caught her under lip between her teeth, as if to hold back words trying to come out. A minute, and they came."But, I don't see why some people have a right to make others unhappy.""They haven't. No more than a body has a right to make herself unhappy. But they do it, all the same.""One wouldn't mind making one big sacrifice, or two, or three, in a lifetime, if that were all. But, it seems, nothing is ever enough. You think you've vanquished one thing, and, before you know it, you've got it all to do over again. Has your life been that way, Mrs. Slawson? Does one never get through having to give up one's own wishes and will to the wishes and will of others?"Mrs. Slawson stirred in silence for a moment the delicious brew simmering on the stove."Did you ever scrub a floor?" she asked, at length. "No, o' course you didn't. Mostly, ladies thinks scrubbin' floors is dretful low work. Well, it ain't. Scrubbin' floors'll learn you a lot o' other things, if you let it. In the first place, there's a right an' wrong way to it, same's there is to tonier jobs. If you're goin' to begrutch your elbow grease, an' ain't willin' to get down on your marra-bones, an' attend strictly to business, you ain't goin' to succeed. Well, we'll say, you scrubbed a spot, good an' clean. That ain't all. You got to keep goin' back on yourself, scrubbin' back over the places where you left off, else there'll be streaks, an' when your floor dries on you, the streaks'll show up, for all they're worth, an' give you dead away. As I make it out, it's just the same with livin'. If you begrutch takin' pains, an' keep your eye out, all the time, for fear you'll do a little more'n your share, why, you can take it from me, you're goin' to show streaks. You better never done it at all, than done it so's it'll be a dead give-away on you. You can't scrub clean with dirty water, an' you can'tliveclean, 'less you keep turnin' out all the messy feelin's you got in you, an' refillin' your heart with fresh, same's you would your water-pail. But, even when you've done your job right, oncet ain't goin' to be enough. You couldn't keep clean with one scrub-down, no matter how thora. It's got to be done over to-morra, an' the next day, an' so on. If a body don't like it, why, that don't change the fax any.""But all of us don't have to scrub floors. And I don't see why, if one had what you call ajobone didn't like, he couldn't change it. Just say: I won't live like this any longer. I'll have something better. If there aren't ways of breaking loose from things one hates, and making happiness for one's self, there ought to be. We should invent them.""Well, p'raps you're right. They certaintly do a lot o' inventin' these days. They invented a way o' flyin' above the earth. But there's no wayIknow of you can sail over your own particular place in the world. After all's said an' done, you gotta come back home, an' just stand flat, with your two little feet planted square in the middle o' that state o' life onto which it's pleased the Lord to call you.""Then you don't believe people have the right to make their own happiness?""Certaintly I do. I don't only think they have the right to, I think they gotta. People have the right to make their happiness out o' every last thing comes in their way. Every last scrap an' drop they find anywheres about. Same's you'd make a perfectly good patch-quilt out o' the rag-bag, an' A1 soap out o' drippin's. Any gener'l houseworker at five dollarsper, can make a roast out o' a prime cut o' beef. Any fool can be happy, if they're handed out happiness in chunks. But it takes a chef-cook to gather up all the sort o' queer little odds an' ends in the pantry, an' season'm here, an' whip'm up there, an' put'm on a dish, garnished with parsley, or smothered in cream, an' give'm a fancy French name on a menoo-card, so's when they come on the table, you smack your lips, an' say 'dee-licious!' an' feel you got your money's worth.""But if one has tried and tried? And it was no use? Things only got more tangled?"Martha pondered for a moment. "Sometimes, with a new spool o' thread, you get aholt o' the wrong end, an' then you can pull an' pull, an' tug an' tug, till you're black in the face, an' the more you do, the more your cotton gets tangled on you. But if you'll go easy, an' wait till you find the right end, it'll run off as smooth as grease. D'you mind takin' a sip o' this licka, to see if you think it's sweet enough to suit? Taste differs, an' some likes more sugar'n others."* * * * *"Well," said Dr. Ballard as, toward the close of the day, he was taking leave of Katherine, having fulfilled his professional duty to his patient upstairs. "Well, mademoiselle, was Mrs. Slawson of any use? Was she a help?"Katherine threw him a grateful glance. "A help? Rather. More of a help than you'll ever know.""The preserves are made?""You should view the shelves. They're a wonder. I believe we've a stock that'll last us for the rest of our natural lives.""And, you say, the Preserver has gone home? I expected to take her with me.""That's what she expected. But, about an hour ago, Mrs. Frank Ronald drove up. She came to call, though, of course, it was my place to go see her first, as she's a bride, and a stranger. She brought grandmother an armful of roses. The loveliest things! Long-stemmed ones, almost as tall as she is herself. Have you ever seen her? Mrs. Ronald? She's the daintiest creature! She makes me feel a giantess. And so unaffected, and cordial. So different from Mrs. Sherman, who was Katherine Ronald. Somehow, I feel as if her being here, were going to make things pleasanter. I'm happier, more contented, and hopeful, than I've been for ever so long.""And Mrs. Ronald sent her car for Mrs. Slawson?"Katherine Crewe laughed. "'Not on your life,' as Mrs. Slawson says. Mrs. Ronald just took her along in the car with her, preserving-kettle and all. You should have seen the footman's expression! I had told Mrs. Ronald about the preserving, and, as soon as she heard, she proposed taking 'Martha,' as she calls her, back with her when she went. She's evidently a democratic little person. I wonder how such goings-on will please Mrs. Ronald, senior, and Katherine Sherman. They're so frightfully what, when we were children, we used to call 'stuck up.' I know grandmother would be horrified. She, also, is stuck-up, as perhaps you may have gathered.""Yes, she has made no attempt to hide it. But, I'd really like to know whyIcome in for such a large share of her disapproval. To forbid you to have anything to say to me, now, is really—— If she weren't such a poor, helpless little old body, I'd have it out with her. Have you any idea what the trouble is?"Katherine flushed. "It's all too absurd. A man by the name of Ballard was bailiff to her father, when she was a girl.""I know that. My grandfather. What then? A bailiff's is a perfectly good job. Look at Slawson. He's all right, isn't he? But, anyway, things haven't stood still since those days.I'mnot a bailiff. I'm a physician. What's the matter with that?""Nothing—only——""Only—what?""She says——" Katherine hesitated."Out with it," urged Dr. Ballard."She says you've no practice. No income."He laughed aloud. "How the deuce does she know?""You're so young.""Oh, I am, am I? Well, I'll tell you a secret: I'm not quite so young as, apparently, I look. I don't wear my hair a little thin on top because I like that style, particularly. But, even if she's right, and I have no practice—no income—how could that——?"Katherine turned her face away, unable to meet his searching eyes.He spoke again at once. "The fact is, you're not giving it to me straight. You're trying to soften the dull thud, or something. Now, be honest. Speak the truth, like a little man. What's the reason I'mpersona non gratawith Madam Crewe? Speak out. It'll be over in a minute, and then you'll feel much better, and so shall I.""It's too humiliating to have to repeat it," Katherine fairly wailed. "She's old. She doesn't realize how things sound. She said—I'm quoting, word for word—repeating every foolish syllable, but youwillhave it. She said: 'I know the Ballard tribe. I knew it, when I was young. It injured me and mine, and it will you, if you don't leave it alone. Leave this fellow alone, and see he leaves you. Understand?'""So! Well, that sounds 'kinda moreish,' as Mrs. Slawson says. I wish you'd go on. She didn't tell you whatthe Ballard tribewas guilty of? No? Then I'll have to look into it, and find out for myself. I never was much on genealogy, but if we've a real, sure-nuff villain in the family—a villain whose yellow streak is like to crop out unto the third and fourth generations—why, I'm on to his trail. I'm going to hunt him down. It'll be something to amuse me, while, as you say, I'mwaiting for patients."CHAPTER VI"You take up every little point in the edge, an' pin it down to the frame, like this. See! Doncher stretch the lace so tight it'll tear on you. Gentle now! Watch me, an' then you folla suit."Martha had pressed Cora into service, to do apprentice-duty; and was instructing her in the gentle art of curtain-cleansing.From a far corner of the garret-room, where, for convenience and safety, the frames had been set, Flicker, the dog, sat watching with intent expression. Occasionally, when one or the other of his friends seemed on the point of noticing him, he wagged an impartial, responsive tail."I want to do this job so good it couldn't be done better," Mrs. Slawson observed, her skilful fingers plying away busily as she spoke. Cora sniffed."Seems to me you always want to do every job 'so good it couldn't be done better,'" she grumbled. "I never saw anybody so particular as you. Ann Upton's mother ain't. Ann Upton's mother says it's wastin' time. That's the reason she can make Ann such stylish clo'es, 'cause she don't waste time. She says she does thingsgood enough, an' if folks don't like it, they can lump it.""Well, Mrs. Upton certaintly's got a right to her own opinion. Far be it from me to deprive her of it. But her opinion an' mine don't gee, that's all. One thing I know—if you only try to dogood enough, you're goin' to get left in the end, an' don't you forget it. You can take it from me, you won't find any admirin' crowds lingerin' 'roundyourdoorstep, young lady. Did you never hear the sayin': Leave good enough alone? Well, that's how they leave it, because everybody is hurryin' to get the fella can be depended on to do thebestwork for the money. If you're satisfied to do thingsgood enough, you're goin' to be left alone, an' ifyoulike that kind o' solitary granjer, you're welcome to it. That's all I got to say—on this subjec'."For a time there was silence, while Martha worked industriously, and Cora fumbled along with just enough appearance of energy to escape being "hauled over the coals" for laziness. Presently, however, Mrs. Slawson paused."Do you know," she announced cheerfully, "I believe you'd feel a whole lot more like attendin' strickly to business if I kinda relieved you o' what you got under your apron."Cora looked scared. "Wha-at?" she stammered.Her mother's expression continued bland. "Yes. It won't troublemea mite, an' it's just a-burdenin' you. Nobody can give her mind to a job when she's hankerin' after somethin' else. Is it a book, now, or what is it?"Cora began to cry. "I think you're real mean. I ain't doin' any harm. I'm workin' all right. I can't have a single thing, but you want to see it.""Sure you can't," admitted Martha imperturbably. "You mayn't believe it, but a mother's got a reel sorta friendly interest in her childern. If a motherkeeps in touch, as Mrs. Sherman says, with her childern's minds, it saves her a lot o' keepin' in touch with their bodies, by the aid of a switch, or the flat of her hand, as the case may be. Now, your mind's on what you got under your apron, so let me get right in touch with it, like a little lady."With a dismal wail that caused Flicker's ears to prick up apprehensively, Cora thrust her hand under her apron, and brought forth an illustrated periodical."Hand it over!" commanded her mother serenely.Cora handed it over.Martha examined the title-page."'THE INGLE-NOOK'! Now what under the sun is a Ingle-Nook, I should like to know! 'THE INGLE-NOOK. Containing Dora Dean Beebe's Greatest Story: SWEET SIBYL OF THE SWEAT-SHOP, or, THE MILLIONAIRE'S MATE.' Dear me! Where'd you get aholt o' this treasure? Sund' School Lib'ry?""No!" blubbered Cora, recognizing the fact that her mother's question was meant to be answered."Where?""Ann Upton. Ann found it up to her house. It b'longs to her mother.""Ho!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "No wonder Mrs. Upton makes Ann stylish clo'es. If this is the sorta litherchure she improves her mind on, I can see why she feels about a good many things the way she does. The name of it, alone, is enough to make you neglect your work. I don't wonder you're longin' to shake Miss Claire's curtains, for to be findin' out about sweet Sibyl an' how she got a-holt o' one o' them grand millionaire gen'lmen, that's always hangin' 'round sweat-shops, huntin' for mates. It's bound to be a movin' story. It couldn't help it. Lemme see! What's this?"'The ruffian eyed sweet Sibyl men'"—Martha hesitated before the elaborate, unfamiliar word confronting her—"'men-acingly. "Have a care!" he hissed through his clinch-ed teeth.' (Doncher worry, I got one, an' then some! I'd 'a' said, if I'd 'a' been Sweet Sibyl.)"'Sibyl turned, tears gushin' to her violet eyes, an' coursin' down her blush-rose cheeks. "I will not do it!" she cried, her lovely, musical voice tremblin' with emotion. "I will not do it. Even a worm will turn."' (Well, what's the matter with that, so long as the worm's got plenty o' room to turn in, an' turnin' don't make it dizzy?) Do you know whatIthink? I think this little story is 'most too excitin' for young girls like us, Cora. I think your father wants to read it, instead ofThe New England Farmer, an' if he finds it won't keep us awake nights or won't harm our morals none, maybe he'll give it back to us."Cora wept."In the meantime, now this curtain's stretched good an' firm, let's kinda go over it careful, to see does it need a stitch anywheres, just to take our minds off'n Sweet Sibyl, an' that Millionaire Mate o' hers with the gen'lmanly taste for sweat-shops. Say, Cora, come to think, p'raps he ran the sweat-shop. P'raps that's how he come to be a millionaire. You never can tell. My! but ain't this a lovely job! I never stretched a curtain smoother, or straighter, in my life. It's as even as——"In her enthusiasm Martha's arm swung out, in a vigorous gesture, which, somehow or other, Flicker's alert intelligence interpreted as a command. With a bound he leaped from his sequestered corner, landed, with geometrical precision, in the center of the curtain, and went through, as if it had been a paper-covered hoop.For a second Cora was so dumbfounded that her sobs caught in her throat.Martha gazed at the destruction of her lovely job in silence. Then, Cora, scared by the suddenness of the performance, seeing in the accident only another avenue of bondage for herself, began to cry afresh, aloud.Her mother lifted an undaunted chin. "Well, what do you think o' that!" she ejaculated. "Don't cry, Cora. You ain't hurt. You're just flabbergasted. Flicker didn't mean no harm, did you, Flicker? He was just dreamin' he was one o' them equestrienne bareback ladies, that rides horses four abreast in the circus, an' jumps through hoops. Flicker's prob'ly got ambitions, same's the rest o' us. An' it's all right to have ambitions, only you wanta be sure you're suited to the part, if you got it. Sometimes the ideaswegot on that subjec' an' the ideas God's got don't kinda gee. That's why, when we get to hankerin' after what we wasn't intended for, we so frequent land in the middle an' fall through. Readin' such little stories as Sweet Sibyl, gives a body wrong notions o' that very kind. Now, it wouldn't be healthy for me, or for you either, to dream we was Sweet Sibyls. We ain't that typical type at all, so's even if we got a gait on, an' caught up with the millionaire before he got away from the sweat-shop (which it would be a stunt to do it, outside o' THE INGLE-NOOK), he wouldn't reco'nize us for his mate, on account o' our eyes not bein' vi'let, or our cheeks blush-rose, or our voices musical with 'motion. Looka here, Cora, d'you know what we're in? We're in luck! The lace part ain't harmed a mite. It's just the bobbinet Flicker went through. Acrow bobbinet can't be hard to match. I'll get a len'th of it, when I go to the city, an' sew the lace on again, as easy as can be.We'rein luck!"But, even as she spoke, Martha was calculating how much thelen'thwould cost, and to just what extent her precious fifteen dollars would be depleted thereby."You goin' to tell Miss Claire?" asked Cora inquisitively."No, ma'am. What'd be the use? What she don't know won't fret her, an' it wasn't nobody's fault. When I've made it right, it'llberight. The less said, the sooner it'll be mended. 'S that Sammy callin'?""Mother! Mother!" the boy's strident voice was heard shouting through the house.Martha composedly made her way to the stairhead."Say, Sammy," she addressed him, "I ain't dead, but if I was you'd 'a' waked me, sure. Now, what is it?""Mother! Whatcher think! You got a cow! Ol' lady Crewe she made you a present of a cow! A man, name o' Peter, he's brought the cow. 'With the compliments o' Madam Crewe,' an' she's light yella, an' she switches her tail like anything."Martha sat down upon the top step of the flight. "Well, what do you think o' that!" she murmured. "This is my busy day, an' no mistake. But who'd 'a' thought I'd 'a' had two such blows comin' on top of another before noon? P'raps it ain't true."But when she got downstairs she found it was true. She regarded the cow dubiously."If it was a question o' givin' her a good scrubdown," she observed, "I wouldn't hesitate a minute. Or even layin' a hand to her horns, to polish'm up a bit, which they certaintly do look sorta like they needed it. Butmilkher! I'm afraid her an' me won't understand each other on the milk question. There might be differculties, meanin' no offense on either side.""She's a good cow," declared the Swedish Peter. "She is what they call Alderney, and her milk it is boss milk, thick mit cream. You will relish her milk."Martha's face was grave. "I don't doubt your word, young fella," she assured him meditatively. "What I'm wonderin' is, when her an' me has wrastled through our first round, will my injuries be such as I'll ever relish anything, any more?"Sam senior smiled. "I'm afraid you're taking her hard, mother. You'll soon get the hang of her.""No sooner than she's like to get the hang o' me," returned Martha. "She ain't like hens. You can tell by their slopin'-back foreheads, hens ain't much of any, on intellec'. But this cow's differ'nt. I wouldn't like to bet, now, I got a mite more sense'n her, if it come to a argument between us. An' she certaintly has the best o' me, so far as fightin' qualifercations goes.""Well, anyhow, you've got to thank Madam Crewe," Sam Slawson mildly dictated. "She's given you a big present, and you must show her you're grateful.""Certaintly. I'll go out there this very afternoon, an' show her," replied his wife obediently.So it was, that the tiny old lady, sitting up that afternoon for the first time since her seizure, saw through the open window, beside which her chair had been placed, Mrs. Slawson advancing along the driveway. A quick gleam of satisfaction lit up the unanimated little mask for an instant, while the Madam gave a low grunt of approbation."Decent creature. Comes to thank at once. That's mannerly, beyond her station," she observed to Katherine. "Have her up."Not for the world would Madam Crewe have admitted to herself, much less to her granddaughter, that she had grown to like this "creature" made of such different clay from herself. She was willing, not glad to see her, but her willingness caused a gentle glow to permeate her cold little frame."So you like the cow? That's good. I hope you'll treat her well."Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Certaintly, I'll treat her well, providin' she gives me a show," she promised cordially. "I'll treat her well, an' I hope she'll treat me the same.""You're not afraid of her?""No'm. Certaintly not. But, by the same token, she ain't afraid o' me. Till the one gets the upper hand o' the other, neither of us won't know where we're at. An', meanwhile, we're both lyin' low. I guess animals is some like childern. They like to try it on, oncet in a while, an' if, be this or be that, you don't master'm at the first go-off, they'll be no earthly good to you. Even when you got'm trained, they're like as not to get skittish. Take my girl, Cora, or our small dog, for instance. Now, Flicker's as steady a little fella as ever drew breath. But this mornin', if he didn't suddently get gay, an' lep' right through one o' the curtains I was mendin' for Miss Claire—Ishouldsay, Mrs. Ronald. Now, it's up to me to buy a new half o' bobbinet, an' all for the sake o' Flicker dreamin' he'd like to go on a tear."Madam Crewe drew down her lips primly."I have no doubt repairing the damage will cause you considerable trouble," she said."I don't mind the trouble. It's the bobbinetImind. I wonder, now, how much you'd have to give a yard for fine, acrow bobbinet.""Katherine," exclaimed Madam Crewe, summoning the girl to her so abruptly that Martha was alarmed.Miss Crewe was at her grandmother's side in an instant, bending her head to catch the whispered words the old woman strained forward to breathe in her ear."I guess I must be movin'," said Martha, after Katherine had left the room. "The childern need me, an' I've already tired you out with my long tongue.""No. Stay. Sit down!"Mrs. Slawson sat, though after her little fusillade of commands, Madam Crewe did not deign to address another syllable to her, and made plain that she could dispense with conversation on Martha's part.The silence had become oppressive when, at last, Miss Crewe reappeared. With her was Eunice Youngs, and between them they laboriously lugged a sizable chest. Madam Crewe waited until the box had been set down before her, then imperiously waved Eunice away as if she had been a bothersome fly. As soon as she had disappeared, fresh commands rapped out thick and fast."My keys. In the basket hanging behind the hamper in my closet. On the first hook. Yes, that bunch. Now,thatkey. No, not that one,thatone!"Before Katherine could fit the key in the lock, Madam Crewe stopped her with a gesture."Wait. I've something to say. When I was young, a girl got proper plenishing," she observed dryly. "In those days a bride's outfit didn't consist of bows of ribbon on rags of lace—layers on layers of nothingness, as if she were a ballet-dancer, or worse. My outfit—('twas a good English outfit, no flimsy French trousseau!) my outfit will outlast me and you, young lady, will reap the benefit of it, if you marry to please me. But not a yard or an inch, mind you (Slawson is here to bear witness to what I say!), not a yard, not an inch, nor a penny of my money, if you marry otherwise. And that reminds me."The old woman's eyes grew shrewd."Sometimes wills are contested. Attempts are made to break them on the ground of the testator being old, sick, of unsound mind. If any such thing were to happen in my case, I'd like you to be able to speak up for me, Slawson. Do you see that chest? It has not been opened for sixty-eight years, yet I can tell you, to the last yard, what's in it. I was seventeen when I locked it fast, and the key's never been turned in it since. Now, listen! so you can prove if my mind's intact, my memory good."She reeled off a long table of contents, with hardly a pause. "Now open!" she dictated.The raised lid revealed a mine of treasure, corresponding in character, if not precisely in order, to the given list. India mull, fine as a web, creamy as ivory. Matchless napery in rare old weaves. Bed-linen in uncut lengths."Enough to make you shiver to think o' lyin' between'm," Martha ruminated.Katherine's hands were almost reverent as, obeying her grandmother's silent bidding, she lifted bolt after bolt, and laid it aside."There! That's what I'm after," exclaimed the old woman at last. "Now, unwrap that blue paper. Careful! Don't tear it! Is this the sort ofbobbinetyou mean, Slawson?"Martha leaned forward, her eyes glowed. "I guess Miss Claire's ain't the quality this is, but——""Probably not.Thisquality isn't made nowadays." Madam Crewe spoke proudly. "But if you think you can use it (it's what you callacrowwith age instead of dye) you may have enough for one window, and save your money. Katherine, get my yardstick, and the shears, and measure it off where I can see. Give good measure, as I tell you, but no waste. If one window is complete, the difference from the others won't be noticed."For once, Martha was fairly silenced. The madam appeared too occupied to notice."Girls are fools," she ruminated. "When I shut that chest I was a girl. I vowed to myself I'd never open it again. I thought it was the coffin in which my happiness was buried. Well, I haven't opened it. My granddaughter has opened it. Rather a joke, when one thinks of it! Dear, dear, how it all comes back! The anger, the disappointment, the——" her voice grew vague. She pulled herself up sharply. "Before you replace that mull, child, if you'd like enough for a frock, you can have it. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'Twas a fool-girl vow, anyway, made in passion—a lifetime ago.... They're decking themselves out in lank draperies now, so you'll be in the style, Katherine. This mull is better and costlier than most of the shoddy silks the shoddy people are wearing these days. It will prove you are nonouveau riche. You don't know whatnouveau richemeans, do you, Slawson?"Martha paused. "No'm. But I always thought I wouldn't mind bein' thenouveau, whatever it is, if I just had a try at theriche."Madam Crewe drew down her lips in what Mrs. Slawson had grown to call her "Foxy gran'ma" expression. She turned again to Katherine. "I'll give you a fichu to wear with the mull. A French thing, handworked, trimmed with Mechlin, rather good Mechlin, as it happens. I never wore it. 'Twas too large. Swallowed me up. But the long ends won't trail onyou. There, there! Don't thank me. I hate sentimentality. And I've almost been sentimental myself—after sixty-eight years. I know you're pleased. I understand my sex. We're sirens, all of us, at heart—when we have any heart. I've not the slightest doubt, now, but if Slawson put on a pair of silk stockings and a lace petticoat, she'd feel as coquettish as any of us. No matter how plain we are, we all have theinstinctsof beautiful women. We're made that way.... Now close down the lid. See you turn the key all the way 'round. I recollect the lock is tricky. Slawson, help Miss Katherine carry the chest back where it came from. Put it away where you found it, and be sure to fasten the trunk-room door, and bolt it securely. And, Slawson, you needn't come back here, when you've done. Just take your acrow bobbinet, and march home to your husband and children, where you belong. I'm tired."Something "Slawson" could not have analyzed kept her silent after she and Miss Crewe left the room. Katherine was singularly mute. Martha had waved the girl aside, and, grappling with the chest single-handed, triumphantly had carried it off, the little madam watching the performance covertly, with eyes glistening appreciation.Her feat successfully accomplished, Martha went her way, clasping her precious bundle. She was home before she was aware. Sam met her at the door, his face revealing, to her who knew it, a secret delight."I'm to go to the city next week, mother. So, pack your bag and get ready for yourwedding-tour," he greeted her with sober fun."Have you told Ma and the childern?""No. I thought you'd better.""Good. No hurry. Time enough later. I hope Ma won't kick. It'll mean some work for her, while I'm gone—if she does it, but nothing she can't reel off easy enough, if her spirit is willin'. I got a present, Sam. From the ol' lady.""Yes, I know. The cow.""No, I mean somethin' else. The ol' lady give me a surprise. She give me a front seat to see her do a new turn, an' she passed out soovenirs to the audience, besides. I got mine here.""What is it?""What'll take me with you down home. I mean, New York.""Money?""As good as. It'll be money, when I'm done with it. Only, from now on, for some days to come, I'm goin' to beLittle Martha the Lace Mender, or,The Postponed Bride, an' a buzz-saw will be safe for anybody to monkey with by comparising."It was a proud day for Martha when, her stint completed, she was able to carry the curtains, exquisitely cleansed and mended, to Miss Claire."Now I've the money ackchelly in my pocket, I'll tell Ma an' the childern," she said to Sam, who was washing his hands at the sink, preparatory to sitting down to his midday meal."I wonder if Ma'll kick?" he pondered solemnly."Nothin' like tryin', an' findin' out," Martha returned, "dishing up," with energy, as one after the other of her hungry brood appeared, responding to her resounding call of "Dinner!""Say, Cora, doncher attempt to come to the table with that shaggy-lookin' head on you. Go smooth your hair back proper, like you always wear it. I don't mind most things, but to set down to eat alongside somethin' looks like a sky-tearer dog,I will not! Sammy, take your hands outa your pockets, like a little gen'lman, an' help Sabina tie her napkin on an' get into her high chair. Sabina, you leave your brother tie your napkin on, when he offers to do it! I'm busy. Say, Francie, when I told you trim the lamp this mornin', I didn't mean cut the wick inscollops. Lucky I happened to see it, or we'd 'a' been smoked out o' house an' home. Now, Ma, if you're ready, we'll sit."Ma being ready, they sat, and the meal progressed, notwithstanding the fact that Cora, reappearing, shorn of her modish coiffure, was in no mood for merry-making."I hate my hair this way!" she announced for the benefit of whom it might concern."Ringlets is one thing,stringletsis another," said Martha, unreproachfully. "At least,nowyou don't look like somebody'd been woolin' the head of you. Have some stew?""No, I hate the very name o' stew.""Call it rag-goo, then, same's Miss Claire's grand chef-cook does. Have some, anyhow, for luck. Here, cheer up, Cora! When I was a kid, I was one o' nine childern, an' you can take it from me, we wasn't thinkin' half so much, in them days, what we'd eat aswhere we'd get it. When I was twelve—two years younger than you—I went to live out scullery-maid with Mrs. Underwood, God bless her! where my mother'd been cook before me. From that day, I never went hungry no more, nor the ones at home either. But I don't like to see my childern turn up their noses at good food. It ain't becomin'. Now, eat your rag-goo like a lady, an' we'll call it square. Say, Ma, you know what Sam an' me's goin' to do?"Ma shook her head, after the fashion of a mild bovine chewing the meditative cud."We're goin' to play hookey. We're goin' to fly the coop, for a couple o' days, an' go back home, to New York. Sam's gotta—on business, an' I'm goin' ta, on pleasure."The moment following Martha's announcement was one of intense silence. The children and Ma were too amazed to speak. The idea ofMotherdeserting, even for a few days, was hardly conceivable. Then, as the monstrousness of it began to percolate, there rose a chorus of protest."O—oh, mother-r! What'll we do?""I wanta go too!""No, takeme, mother!"Cora's voice, at last, dominated the rest."Hush! Mother, can't you make them hush?Iwanta say something!"Martha checked the tumult with a warning hand. "Cora has the floor, childern. Let her have her say, an' then you can have yours.""Silence in the court-house, the cat's goin' to preach!" Sammy disrespectfully whispered in Francie's ear."I think it'snicemother'n father 're goin' down to New York," Cora announced. "It seemed kinda funny, firstoff, but I think it'snice. An' they'll have a good time. I'm glad they're goin'."Sam senior and Martha exchanged a look."Good for you, Cora! You're a good girl!" said Sam.With the eldest sister approving, and praised for doing so, the ground was cut from under the younger children's feet. They had nothing to say."Well, Ma?" suggested Martha."I'mglad you're goin' too," observed the old woman, "for I ben thinkin', a long time, I do be needin' a change meself, an' I wouldn't dare for to be venturin' on the r-railroad alone. So, when the two of youse goes down, why, I'll just fare along wit' chu.""But Ma," objected Sam gently, "we can't make out to take you. We've barely enough to take ourselves. Mr. Ronald pays my expenses, but Martha's goin' to buy her own ticket with the money Miss Claire paid her for the curtains.""You got somethin' laid by," suggested Ma shrewdly."But we can't touch it. It's the first we ever been able to save, an' I wouldn't lay finger on it for anythin'." Martha answered with unusual feeling.Ma was not disturbed."Well, between youse be it!" she declared. "I d'kno' how you'll settle it, but this I kno'—I've bided here the longest I'm abl'. I can thole it no longer. I'm goin' to the city. The heart in me is wastin' awa' to see me dear sons an' daughters down there. So let there be no colloguin'. I'm goin' to the city."
CHAPTER V
The day had been sultry, and sunset brought no relief. Evening fell windstill, breathless.
For once Katherine was glad to obey her little martinet grandmother's arbitrary regulation: Lights out at nine. She sat by her bedroom window looking out over a white, moonlit world, thinking black thoughts. Suddenly she rose, for no better reason, apparently, than that a quick, inner impulse of impatience against herself, must find vent in some outward act.
"It's dreadful! I'm growing bitter, hard, deceitful. I'm living a lie. Acting as if I were obedient, and respectful to her, and—feeling like a rebel every minute in the day. I've got to end it, somehow. I can't go on like this any longer."
Just outside her window a little balcony (the railed-in roof of the porte-cochère) shone like a silver patch against the darker foliage. The shadows of leaves cast an intricate pattern upon the moonlit space, and Katherine gazed at it abstractedly until a moving speck in the motionless night caught her attention, and fixed it. As she watched, the speck became a shape, the shape an automobile moving rapidly, almost noiselessly, toward the house, along the white ribbon of a driveway. Just before her window it stopped.
"Hello!" called Dr. Ballard softly.
Katherine hid a radiant smile in the folds of her shadowy curtain. "Sh!" she cautioned. "You'll wake grandmother."
"Then come down. I've something to tell you."
"No. Too late!"
"Nonsense!"
"I can't."
"Oh, very well."
His instant acceptance of her negative was not altogether agreeable.
One moment, and he was bending over his steering-wheel, busying himself with the gear, probably preparatory to driving on and away. The next, he was out of the car, had scaled the porch-pillar, vaulted the low railing, and was calmly sitting not two feet away from her, Turk-fashion, upon the balcony floor.
Katherine laughed. "I didn't know you could climb like that."
"I can't. That wasn't a climb. 'Twas a scramble. Bad work. But I'm out of practice."
"You mustn't stay. Grandmother wouldn't like it. Remember, she forbade my having anything to do with you."
"Sorry, but I don't feel obliged to conform, on that account. Ifyoudon't like it, that's another story."
Katherine was silent.
Dr. Ballard did not press the point.
"You said you had something to tell me."
"On second thought I'll postpone it."
"Why?"
"The moonlight suggests mystery. Let's leave it a mystery."
"I hate mysteries."
"As I diagnose your case, you're by way of 'hating' most things, nowadays. Come. Confess. Aren't you?"
Katherine nodded mutely.
"Don't do it," advised Dr. Ballard.
"I can't help it," she burst out with quite uncharacteristic impetuosity. "So much in life is hateful. Sometimes, I feel one isn't bound to endure things, when they make one so detestable. I was thinking about it just before you came. Thinking about the sort of thing life can make of one. Everything one oughtn't to be. I hatemyself, along with all the rest."
Dr. Ballard sat with his hands clasped around his knees, and gazed straight up above him into the great stretch of dusky sky, spangled over with constellations.
"I wonder what Mrs. Slawson would say to that?" he ruminated.
Katherine started. "Mrs. Slawson?"
"Yes. I've made it out that she's rather a specialist, when it comes to life, and that sort of thing. Really, I think it might pay you to consult her. By the way, she asked me to say that you 'can heave the perserve trouble off'n your chest.' She is going to see you get a 'rule,' or something."
"Oh, good! Thatisa load off one's mind. And, speaking of chests, it can't be very good for yours, to be doing heavy gymnastics, such as climbing porch-posts. Can it?"
"Why not? My chest's O.K. Nothing in the least 's the matter with my chest."
"Oh,—I thought——" blundered Katherine awkwardly.
"What?"
"Somebody told me—I don't recollect who—that you had a 'spot' or something, on your lung. I'm so sorry."
Dr. Ballard flung back his head with a low, boyish chuckle.
"Somebody's got hold of the wrong case. My nerves, mixed with another chap's bellows. No, I'm not up here on account of any onespot—it's the whole rundown machine that needs repairing. I'm used up. Tired out."
"Tired out—waiting for patients?" asked Katherine mischievously.
Dr. Ballard gave her a quick look. "That's it. Waiting for patients," he quoted with perfect good humor.
"I suppose it's hard work building up a practice in a city as big as Boston."
"Quite hard work."
"Don't you get discouraged?"
"Why should I?"
"Oh, there must be so many obstacles, hindrances. Even if you are clever, there must be so many older men with established reputations. Great physicians, great surgeons."
"Precisely. That's the fun of it. The game wouldn't be worth playing, if 'twas easy to win out. It's hard. That's why I like it."
Katherine rose slowly, and stood in the window embrasure, looking down upon him thoughtfully.
"You've given me something to sleep on," she said. "I'll remember what you've said. 'The game wouldn't be worth playing, if 'twas easy.' And I have been whining because it is hard."
"Katherine!" shrilled a petulant voice, breaking rudely through the soft evening hush.
"Coming, grandmother."
"Goodnight!" exclaimed Dr. Ballard with slangy intention.
The next moment, Katherine saw his agile figure disappear over the rim of the balustrade. She turned quickly to answer the imperative call, all the old miserable feelings returning in a rush.
"I want a drink of water."
If Martha Slawson had been in Katherine's place, the mother-heart in her would have understood that childish call at once. But the girl had no experience that would help her to interpret the meaning of it. She supplied the drink with as much promptness, and as little sentiment, as a nickel-in-the-slot machine.
Madam Crewe drained the glass thirstily.
"It's a warm night," she observed socially.
"Very warm."
"Queer the way my head acts," continued the lonely old woman, obviously making conversation to detain Katherine. "Sometimes it seems full of sounds, so I think I hear real voices speaking. A little while ago, I heard a man's laugh, as clear as could be. You weren't downstairs with a caller, were you?"
"I haven't been out of my room since supper-time, grandmother."
The words seemed to Katherine to burn her lips, as she uttered them. She turned abruptly to the door. Her grandmother called her back.
"You know what I've been thinking?"
Katherine stood at attention, but silent, unequal to the task of counterfeiting interest.
"I've been thinking, I'm going to give the cow to Slawson. It bothers me when I can't pay my debts, and the woman won't take a cent for what she's done. Besides, it's expensive keeping live-stock these days, with fodder so high, and labor even worse. We don't need a cow, just you and I. Cheaper to buy milk than feed the creature through the winter, and hire Peter to come and milk. It counts up. Slawson can keep her, and turn an honest penny letting us have milk at lowest price. See?"
"Yes, grandmother."
"You don't like the plan?"
"Giving the cow to Mrs. Slawson is very nice, I think, but I always hate presents with strings to them. Having to supply us with milk takes the cream off the cow."
"Pooh! That's nonsense. You've altogether too big notions. They'll get you into trouble, if you don't take care. I can see you making ducks and drakes of a fortune in no time, if you didn't have some one to hold a tight rein over you. By the way, how about those preserves?"
"I'll put them up to-morrow, grandmother."
"See you do. Else, first thing you know, the fruit will be gone. Rotted on the trees."
"I promise you, I'll put it up to-morrow without fail," Katherine repeated very distinctly.
Back in her own room she laughed bitterly, while two hot tears slipped down her cheeks. "Promise! Poor thing! and she believes me! She thinks my word is as good as my bond. So it is—and neither of them is worth a rush," she assailed herself. No, she had forgotten. She was telling the truth about the preserves, at least. Mrs. Stewson was going to let her have a "rule." But the false impression she had deliberately conveyed about the caller still "stuck in her crop," as Martha would have said. And yet, what right had her grandmother or any one else, to tie her hand and foot, so she must resort to subterfuge if she wanted to move a muscle?
It wasn't fair that one life should be crippled to serve the whim of another. If her grandmother insisted on cutting her off from all natural pleasures, let her take the consequences. She fell asleep at last, nursing her sense of injury, brooding over her wrongs.
The next morning, while the casual Eunice was clearing the breakfast table, Katherine heard a sound outside, which caused her to hurry to the window. The sound was familiar, but the time for it unusual. The doctor's car was not due at Crewesmere so early in the day. Yet there it was, and, as Katherine gazed, from it issued, as if in installments, Mrs. Slawson, a small boy, a big girl, and—a huge, granite-ware preserving-kettle.
In less than a minute thetempoof the house was changed. Things movedvivace.
"Sammy, you go out with this basket, an' strip them trees as fast as you can put. Cora, you show'm where to go, after Miss Crewe she tells you, that's a good girl. Eunice, get me every one o' them perserve-jars off'n the top pantry-shelf, an' when you wash'm, see the water's good an' hot, but not so's it'll crack the glass. We'll need them scales, Miss Katherine. I knew you had'm, or I'd 'a' brought my own. If you watch me measurin', an' write down what the perportions are, an' how I handle'm, you'll have a 'rule' for future use, which, if it never took a prize like Mrs. Peckett's, certaintly never poisoned anybody yet, that ever et it, so far asIknow."
It was wonderful how the load lifted from Katherine's heart.
"I don't know how it is, Mrs. Slawson," she said at length, "but whenever you're here, I feel about twice as strong and brave, as at any other time. It isn't alone that youdoso much, but you make me think I can do things too; things I know I'm not equal to, otherwise."
Martha smiled. "Believeme, you don't know what you're equal to, an' don't you forget it. No more do I. We ain't done up in bags, like seven pounds o' sugar, we human bein's, so's we know what we're equal to. The heft of us comes out, accordin' to the things in life we got to measure up to. When I was married, firstoff, I thought I wasn'tequalto livin' with my mother-in-law, an' puttin' up with her peculiar-rarities. But, laws o' man! I found I was. An', what's more, I found I been equal to one or two other little things since, worse than her, by a good sight. What helped me some, was realizin' I got peculiar-rarities of my own other folks has to be equal to."
Katherine caught her under lip between her teeth, as if to hold back words trying to come out. A minute, and they came.
"But, I don't see why some people have a right to make others unhappy."
"They haven't. No more than a body has a right to make herself unhappy. But they do it, all the same."
"One wouldn't mind making one big sacrifice, or two, or three, in a lifetime, if that were all. But, it seems, nothing is ever enough. You think you've vanquished one thing, and, before you know it, you've got it all to do over again. Has your life been that way, Mrs. Slawson? Does one never get through having to give up one's own wishes and will to the wishes and will of others?"
Mrs. Slawson stirred in silence for a moment the delicious brew simmering on the stove.
"Did you ever scrub a floor?" she asked, at length. "No, o' course you didn't. Mostly, ladies thinks scrubbin' floors is dretful low work. Well, it ain't. Scrubbin' floors'll learn you a lot o' other things, if you let it. In the first place, there's a right an' wrong way to it, same's there is to tonier jobs. If you're goin' to begrutch your elbow grease, an' ain't willin' to get down on your marra-bones, an' attend strictly to business, you ain't goin' to succeed. Well, we'll say, you scrubbed a spot, good an' clean. That ain't all. You got to keep goin' back on yourself, scrubbin' back over the places where you left off, else there'll be streaks, an' when your floor dries on you, the streaks'll show up, for all they're worth, an' give you dead away. As I make it out, it's just the same with livin'. If you begrutch takin' pains, an' keep your eye out, all the time, for fear you'll do a little more'n your share, why, you can take it from me, you're goin' to show streaks. You better never done it at all, than done it so's it'll be a dead give-away on you. You can't scrub clean with dirty water, an' you can'tliveclean, 'less you keep turnin' out all the messy feelin's you got in you, an' refillin' your heart with fresh, same's you would your water-pail. But, even when you've done your job right, oncet ain't goin' to be enough. You couldn't keep clean with one scrub-down, no matter how thora. It's got to be done over to-morra, an' the next day, an' so on. If a body don't like it, why, that don't change the fax any."
"But all of us don't have to scrub floors. And I don't see why, if one had what you call ajobone didn't like, he couldn't change it. Just say: I won't live like this any longer. I'll have something better. If there aren't ways of breaking loose from things one hates, and making happiness for one's self, there ought to be. We should invent them."
"Well, p'raps you're right. They certaintly do a lot o' inventin' these days. They invented a way o' flyin' above the earth. But there's no wayIknow of you can sail over your own particular place in the world. After all's said an' done, you gotta come back home, an' just stand flat, with your two little feet planted square in the middle o' that state o' life onto which it's pleased the Lord to call you."
"Then you don't believe people have the right to make their own happiness?"
"Certaintly I do. I don't only think they have the right to, I think they gotta. People have the right to make their happiness out o' every last thing comes in their way. Every last scrap an' drop they find anywheres about. Same's you'd make a perfectly good patch-quilt out o' the rag-bag, an' A1 soap out o' drippin's. Any gener'l houseworker at five dollarsper, can make a roast out o' a prime cut o' beef. Any fool can be happy, if they're handed out happiness in chunks. But it takes a chef-cook to gather up all the sort o' queer little odds an' ends in the pantry, an' season'm here, an' whip'm up there, an' put'm on a dish, garnished with parsley, or smothered in cream, an' give'm a fancy French name on a menoo-card, so's when they come on the table, you smack your lips, an' say 'dee-licious!' an' feel you got your money's worth."
"But if one has tried and tried? And it was no use? Things only got more tangled?"
Martha pondered for a moment. "Sometimes, with a new spool o' thread, you get aholt o' the wrong end, an' then you can pull an' pull, an' tug an' tug, till you're black in the face, an' the more you do, the more your cotton gets tangled on you. But if you'll go easy, an' wait till you find the right end, it'll run off as smooth as grease. D'you mind takin' a sip o' this licka, to see if you think it's sweet enough to suit? Taste differs, an' some likes more sugar'n others."
* * * * *
"Well," said Dr. Ballard as, toward the close of the day, he was taking leave of Katherine, having fulfilled his professional duty to his patient upstairs. "Well, mademoiselle, was Mrs. Slawson of any use? Was she a help?"
Katherine threw him a grateful glance. "A help? Rather. More of a help than you'll ever know."
"The preserves are made?"
"You should view the shelves. They're a wonder. I believe we've a stock that'll last us for the rest of our natural lives."
"And, you say, the Preserver has gone home? I expected to take her with me."
"That's what she expected. But, about an hour ago, Mrs. Frank Ronald drove up. She came to call, though, of course, it was my place to go see her first, as she's a bride, and a stranger. She brought grandmother an armful of roses. The loveliest things! Long-stemmed ones, almost as tall as she is herself. Have you ever seen her? Mrs. Ronald? She's the daintiest creature! She makes me feel a giantess. And so unaffected, and cordial. So different from Mrs. Sherman, who was Katherine Ronald. Somehow, I feel as if her being here, were going to make things pleasanter. I'm happier, more contented, and hopeful, than I've been for ever so long."
"And Mrs. Ronald sent her car for Mrs. Slawson?"
Katherine Crewe laughed. "'Not on your life,' as Mrs. Slawson says. Mrs. Ronald just took her along in the car with her, preserving-kettle and all. You should have seen the footman's expression! I had told Mrs. Ronald about the preserving, and, as soon as she heard, she proposed taking 'Martha,' as she calls her, back with her when she went. She's evidently a democratic little person. I wonder how such goings-on will please Mrs. Ronald, senior, and Katherine Sherman. They're so frightfully what, when we were children, we used to call 'stuck up.' I know grandmother would be horrified. She, also, is stuck-up, as perhaps you may have gathered."
"Yes, she has made no attempt to hide it. But, I'd really like to know whyIcome in for such a large share of her disapproval. To forbid you to have anything to say to me, now, is really—— If she weren't such a poor, helpless little old body, I'd have it out with her. Have you any idea what the trouble is?"
Katherine flushed. "It's all too absurd. A man by the name of Ballard was bailiff to her father, when she was a girl."
"I know that. My grandfather. What then? A bailiff's is a perfectly good job. Look at Slawson. He's all right, isn't he? But, anyway, things haven't stood still since those days.I'mnot a bailiff. I'm a physician. What's the matter with that?"
"Nothing—only——"
"Only—what?"
"She says——" Katherine hesitated.
"Out with it," urged Dr. Ballard.
"She says you've no practice. No income."
He laughed aloud. "How the deuce does she know?"
"You're so young."
"Oh, I am, am I? Well, I'll tell you a secret: I'm not quite so young as, apparently, I look. I don't wear my hair a little thin on top because I like that style, particularly. But, even if she's right, and I have no practice—no income—how could that——?"
Katherine turned her face away, unable to meet his searching eyes.
He spoke again at once. "The fact is, you're not giving it to me straight. You're trying to soften the dull thud, or something. Now, be honest. Speak the truth, like a little man. What's the reason I'mpersona non gratawith Madam Crewe? Speak out. It'll be over in a minute, and then you'll feel much better, and so shall I."
"It's too humiliating to have to repeat it," Katherine fairly wailed. "She's old. She doesn't realize how things sound. She said—I'm quoting, word for word—repeating every foolish syllable, but youwillhave it. She said: 'I know the Ballard tribe. I knew it, when I was young. It injured me and mine, and it will you, if you don't leave it alone. Leave this fellow alone, and see he leaves you. Understand?'"
"So! Well, that sounds 'kinda moreish,' as Mrs. Slawson says. I wish you'd go on. She didn't tell you whatthe Ballard tribewas guilty of? No? Then I'll have to look into it, and find out for myself. I never was much on genealogy, but if we've a real, sure-nuff villain in the family—a villain whose yellow streak is like to crop out unto the third and fourth generations—why, I'm on to his trail. I'm going to hunt him down. It'll be something to amuse me, while, as you say, I'mwaiting for patients."
CHAPTER VI
"You take up every little point in the edge, an' pin it down to the frame, like this. See! Doncher stretch the lace so tight it'll tear on you. Gentle now! Watch me, an' then you folla suit."
Martha had pressed Cora into service, to do apprentice-duty; and was instructing her in the gentle art of curtain-cleansing.
From a far corner of the garret-room, where, for convenience and safety, the frames had been set, Flicker, the dog, sat watching with intent expression. Occasionally, when one or the other of his friends seemed on the point of noticing him, he wagged an impartial, responsive tail.
"I want to do this job so good it couldn't be done better," Mrs. Slawson observed, her skilful fingers plying away busily as she spoke. Cora sniffed.
"Seems to me you always want to do every job 'so good it couldn't be done better,'" she grumbled. "I never saw anybody so particular as you. Ann Upton's mother ain't. Ann Upton's mother says it's wastin' time. That's the reason she can make Ann such stylish clo'es, 'cause she don't waste time. She says she does thingsgood enough, an' if folks don't like it, they can lump it."
"Well, Mrs. Upton certaintly's got a right to her own opinion. Far be it from me to deprive her of it. But her opinion an' mine don't gee, that's all. One thing I know—if you only try to dogood enough, you're goin' to get left in the end, an' don't you forget it. You can take it from me, you won't find any admirin' crowds lingerin' 'roundyourdoorstep, young lady. Did you never hear the sayin': Leave good enough alone? Well, that's how they leave it, because everybody is hurryin' to get the fella can be depended on to do thebestwork for the money. If you're satisfied to do thingsgood enough, you're goin' to be left alone, an' ifyoulike that kind o' solitary granjer, you're welcome to it. That's all I got to say—on this subjec'."
For a time there was silence, while Martha worked industriously, and Cora fumbled along with just enough appearance of energy to escape being "hauled over the coals" for laziness. Presently, however, Mrs. Slawson paused.
"Do you know," she announced cheerfully, "I believe you'd feel a whole lot more like attendin' strickly to business if I kinda relieved you o' what you got under your apron."
Cora looked scared. "Wha-at?" she stammered.
Her mother's expression continued bland. "Yes. It won't troublemea mite, an' it's just a-burdenin' you. Nobody can give her mind to a job when she's hankerin' after somethin' else. Is it a book, now, or what is it?"
Cora began to cry. "I think you're real mean. I ain't doin' any harm. I'm workin' all right. I can't have a single thing, but you want to see it."
"Sure you can't," admitted Martha imperturbably. "You mayn't believe it, but a mother's got a reel sorta friendly interest in her childern. If a motherkeeps in touch, as Mrs. Sherman says, with her childern's minds, it saves her a lot o' keepin' in touch with their bodies, by the aid of a switch, or the flat of her hand, as the case may be. Now, your mind's on what you got under your apron, so let me get right in touch with it, like a little lady."
With a dismal wail that caused Flicker's ears to prick up apprehensively, Cora thrust her hand under her apron, and brought forth an illustrated periodical.
"Hand it over!" commanded her mother serenely.
Cora handed it over.
Martha examined the title-page.
"'THE INGLE-NOOK'! Now what under the sun is a Ingle-Nook, I should like to know! 'THE INGLE-NOOK. Containing Dora Dean Beebe's Greatest Story: SWEET SIBYL OF THE SWEAT-SHOP, or, THE MILLIONAIRE'S MATE.' Dear me! Where'd you get aholt o' this treasure? Sund' School Lib'ry?"
"No!" blubbered Cora, recognizing the fact that her mother's question was meant to be answered.
"Where?"
"Ann Upton. Ann found it up to her house. It b'longs to her mother."
"Ho!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "No wonder Mrs. Upton makes Ann stylish clo'es. If this is the sorta litherchure she improves her mind on, I can see why she feels about a good many things the way she does. The name of it, alone, is enough to make you neglect your work. I don't wonder you're longin' to shake Miss Claire's curtains, for to be findin' out about sweet Sibyl an' how she got a-holt o' one o' them grand millionaire gen'lmen, that's always hangin' 'round sweat-shops, huntin' for mates. It's bound to be a movin' story. It couldn't help it. Lemme see! What's this?
"'The ruffian eyed sweet Sibyl men'"—Martha hesitated before the elaborate, unfamiliar word confronting her—"'men-acingly. "Have a care!" he hissed through his clinch-ed teeth.' (Doncher worry, I got one, an' then some! I'd 'a' said, if I'd 'a' been Sweet Sibyl.)
"'Sibyl turned, tears gushin' to her violet eyes, an' coursin' down her blush-rose cheeks. "I will not do it!" she cried, her lovely, musical voice tremblin' with emotion. "I will not do it. Even a worm will turn."' (Well, what's the matter with that, so long as the worm's got plenty o' room to turn in, an' turnin' don't make it dizzy?) Do you know whatIthink? I think this little story is 'most too excitin' for young girls like us, Cora. I think your father wants to read it, instead ofThe New England Farmer, an' if he finds it won't keep us awake nights or won't harm our morals none, maybe he'll give it back to us."
Cora wept.
"In the meantime, now this curtain's stretched good an' firm, let's kinda go over it careful, to see does it need a stitch anywheres, just to take our minds off'n Sweet Sibyl, an' that Millionaire Mate o' hers with the gen'lmanly taste for sweat-shops. Say, Cora, come to think, p'raps he ran the sweat-shop. P'raps that's how he come to be a millionaire. You never can tell. My! but ain't this a lovely job! I never stretched a curtain smoother, or straighter, in my life. It's as even as——"
In her enthusiasm Martha's arm swung out, in a vigorous gesture, which, somehow or other, Flicker's alert intelligence interpreted as a command. With a bound he leaped from his sequestered corner, landed, with geometrical precision, in the center of the curtain, and went through, as if it had been a paper-covered hoop.
For a second Cora was so dumbfounded that her sobs caught in her throat.
Martha gazed at the destruction of her lovely job in silence. Then, Cora, scared by the suddenness of the performance, seeing in the accident only another avenue of bondage for herself, began to cry afresh, aloud.
Her mother lifted an undaunted chin. "Well, what do you think o' that!" she ejaculated. "Don't cry, Cora. You ain't hurt. You're just flabbergasted. Flicker didn't mean no harm, did you, Flicker? He was just dreamin' he was one o' them equestrienne bareback ladies, that rides horses four abreast in the circus, an' jumps through hoops. Flicker's prob'ly got ambitions, same's the rest o' us. An' it's all right to have ambitions, only you wanta be sure you're suited to the part, if you got it. Sometimes the ideaswegot on that subjec' an' the ideas God's got don't kinda gee. That's why, when we get to hankerin' after what we wasn't intended for, we so frequent land in the middle an' fall through. Readin' such little stories as Sweet Sibyl, gives a body wrong notions o' that very kind. Now, it wouldn't be healthy for me, or for you either, to dream we was Sweet Sibyls. We ain't that typical type at all, so's even if we got a gait on, an' caught up with the millionaire before he got away from the sweat-shop (which it would be a stunt to do it, outside o' THE INGLE-NOOK), he wouldn't reco'nize us for his mate, on account o' our eyes not bein' vi'let, or our cheeks blush-rose, or our voices musical with 'motion. Looka here, Cora, d'you know what we're in? We're in luck! The lace part ain't harmed a mite. It's just the bobbinet Flicker went through. Acrow bobbinet can't be hard to match. I'll get a len'th of it, when I go to the city, an' sew the lace on again, as easy as can be.We'rein luck!"
But, even as she spoke, Martha was calculating how much thelen'thwould cost, and to just what extent her precious fifteen dollars would be depleted thereby.
"You goin' to tell Miss Claire?" asked Cora inquisitively.
"No, ma'am. What'd be the use? What she don't know won't fret her, an' it wasn't nobody's fault. When I've made it right, it'llberight. The less said, the sooner it'll be mended. 'S that Sammy callin'?"
"Mother! Mother!" the boy's strident voice was heard shouting through the house.
Martha composedly made her way to the stairhead.
"Say, Sammy," she addressed him, "I ain't dead, but if I was you'd 'a' waked me, sure. Now, what is it?"
"Mother! Whatcher think! You got a cow! Ol' lady Crewe she made you a present of a cow! A man, name o' Peter, he's brought the cow. 'With the compliments o' Madam Crewe,' an' she's light yella, an' she switches her tail like anything."
Martha sat down upon the top step of the flight. "Well, what do you think o' that!" she murmured. "This is my busy day, an' no mistake. But who'd 'a' thought I'd 'a' had two such blows comin' on top of another before noon? P'raps it ain't true."
But when she got downstairs she found it was true. She regarded the cow dubiously.
"If it was a question o' givin' her a good scrubdown," she observed, "I wouldn't hesitate a minute. Or even layin' a hand to her horns, to polish'm up a bit, which they certaintly do look sorta like they needed it. Butmilkher! I'm afraid her an' me won't understand each other on the milk question. There might be differculties, meanin' no offense on either side."
"She's a good cow," declared the Swedish Peter. "She is what they call Alderney, and her milk it is boss milk, thick mit cream. You will relish her milk."
Martha's face was grave. "I don't doubt your word, young fella," she assured him meditatively. "What I'm wonderin' is, when her an' me has wrastled through our first round, will my injuries be such as I'll ever relish anything, any more?"
Sam senior smiled. "I'm afraid you're taking her hard, mother. You'll soon get the hang of her."
"No sooner than she's like to get the hang o' me," returned Martha. "She ain't like hens. You can tell by their slopin'-back foreheads, hens ain't much of any, on intellec'. But this cow's differ'nt. I wouldn't like to bet, now, I got a mite more sense'n her, if it come to a argument between us. An' she certaintly has the best o' me, so far as fightin' qualifercations goes."
"Well, anyhow, you've got to thank Madam Crewe," Sam Slawson mildly dictated. "She's given you a big present, and you must show her you're grateful."
"Certaintly. I'll go out there this very afternoon, an' show her," replied his wife obediently.
So it was, that the tiny old lady, sitting up that afternoon for the first time since her seizure, saw through the open window, beside which her chair had been placed, Mrs. Slawson advancing along the driveway. A quick gleam of satisfaction lit up the unanimated little mask for an instant, while the Madam gave a low grunt of approbation.
"Decent creature. Comes to thank at once. That's mannerly, beyond her station," she observed to Katherine. "Have her up."
Not for the world would Madam Crewe have admitted to herself, much less to her granddaughter, that she had grown to like this "creature" made of such different clay from herself. She was willing, not glad to see her, but her willingness caused a gentle glow to permeate her cold little frame.
"So you like the cow? That's good. I hope you'll treat her well."
Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Certaintly, I'll treat her well, providin' she gives me a show," she promised cordially. "I'll treat her well, an' I hope she'll treat me the same."
"You're not afraid of her?"
"No'm. Certaintly not. But, by the same token, she ain't afraid o' me. Till the one gets the upper hand o' the other, neither of us won't know where we're at. An', meanwhile, we're both lyin' low. I guess animals is some like childern. They like to try it on, oncet in a while, an' if, be this or be that, you don't master'm at the first go-off, they'll be no earthly good to you. Even when you got'm trained, they're like as not to get skittish. Take my girl, Cora, or our small dog, for instance. Now, Flicker's as steady a little fella as ever drew breath. But this mornin', if he didn't suddently get gay, an' lep' right through one o' the curtains I was mendin' for Miss Claire—Ishouldsay, Mrs. Ronald. Now, it's up to me to buy a new half o' bobbinet, an' all for the sake o' Flicker dreamin' he'd like to go on a tear."
Madam Crewe drew down her lips primly.
"I have no doubt repairing the damage will cause you considerable trouble," she said.
"I don't mind the trouble. It's the bobbinetImind. I wonder, now, how much you'd have to give a yard for fine, acrow bobbinet."
"Katherine," exclaimed Madam Crewe, summoning the girl to her so abruptly that Martha was alarmed.
Miss Crewe was at her grandmother's side in an instant, bending her head to catch the whispered words the old woman strained forward to breathe in her ear.
"I guess I must be movin'," said Martha, after Katherine had left the room. "The childern need me, an' I've already tired you out with my long tongue."
"No. Stay. Sit down!"
Mrs. Slawson sat, though after her little fusillade of commands, Madam Crewe did not deign to address another syllable to her, and made plain that she could dispense with conversation on Martha's part.
The silence had become oppressive when, at last, Miss Crewe reappeared. With her was Eunice Youngs, and between them they laboriously lugged a sizable chest. Madam Crewe waited until the box had been set down before her, then imperiously waved Eunice away as if she had been a bothersome fly. As soon as she had disappeared, fresh commands rapped out thick and fast.
"My keys. In the basket hanging behind the hamper in my closet. On the first hook. Yes, that bunch. Now,thatkey. No, not that one,thatone!"
Before Katherine could fit the key in the lock, Madam Crewe stopped her with a gesture.
"Wait. I've something to say. When I was young, a girl got proper plenishing," she observed dryly. "In those days a bride's outfit didn't consist of bows of ribbon on rags of lace—layers on layers of nothingness, as if she were a ballet-dancer, or worse. My outfit—('twas a good English outfit, no flimsy French trousseau!) my outfit will outlast me and you, young lady, will reap the benefit of it, if you marry to please me. But not a yard or an inch, mind you (Slawson is here to bear witness to what I say!), not a yard, not an inch, nor a penny of my money, if you marry otherwise. And that reminds me."
The old woman's eyes grew shrewd.
"Sometimes wills are contested. Attempts are made to break them on the ground of the testator being old, sick, of unsound mind. If any such thing were to happen in my case, I'd like you to be able to speak up for me, Slawson. Do you see that chest? It has not been opened for sixty-eight years, yet I can tell you, to the last yard, what's in it. I was seventeen when I locked it fast, and the key's never been turned in it since. Now, listen! so you can prove if my mind's intact, my memory good."
She reeled off a long table of contents, with hardly a pause. "Now open!" she dictated.
The raised lid revealed a mine of treasure, corresponding in character, if not precisely in order, to the given list. India mull, fine as a web, creamy as ivory. Matchless napery in rare old weaves. Bed-linen in uncut lengths.
"Enough to make you shiver to think o' lyin' between'm," Martha ruminated.
Katherine's hands were almost reverent as, obeying her grandmother's silent bidding, she lifted bolt after bolt, and laid it aside.
"There! That's what I'm after," exclaimed the old woman at last. "Now, unwrap that blue paper. Careful! Don't tear it! Is this the sort ofbobbinetyou mean, Slawson?"
Martha leaned forward, her eyes glowed. "I guess Miss Claire's ain't the quality this is, but——"
"Probably not.Thisquality isn't made nowadays." Madam Crewe spoke proudly. "But if you think you can use it (it's what you callacrowwith age instead of dye) you may have enough for one window, and save your money. Katherine, get my yardstick, and the shears, and measure it off where I can see. Give good measure, as I tell you, but no waste. If one window is complete, the difference from the others won't be noticed."
For once, Martha was fairly silenced. The madam appeared too occupied to notice.
"Girls are fools," she ruminated. "When I shut that chest I was a girl. I vowed to myself I'd never open it again. I thought it was the coffin in which my happiness was buried. Well, I haven't opened it. My granddaughter has opened it. Rather a joke, when one thinks of it! Dear, dear, how it all comes back! The anger, the disappointment, the——" her voice grew vague. She pulled herself up sharply. "Before you replace that mull, child, if you'd like enough for a frock, you can have it. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'Twas a fool-girl vow, anyway, made in passion—a lifetime ago.... They're decking themselves out in lank draperies now, so you'll be in the style, Katherine. This mull is better and costlier than most of the shoddy silks the shoddy people are wearing these days. It will prove you are nonouveau riche. You don't know whatnouveau richemeans, do you, Slawson?"
Martha paused. "No'm. But I always thought I wouldn't mind bein' thenouveau, whatever it is, if I just had a try at theriche."
Madam Crewe drew down her lips in what Mrs. Slawson had grown to call her "Foxy gran'ma" expression. She turned again to Katherine. "I'll give you a fichu to wear with the mull. A French thing, handworked, trimmed with Mechlin, rather good Mechlin, as it happens. I never wore it. 'Twas too large. Swallowed me up. But the long ends won't trail onyou. There, there! Don't thank me. I hate sentimentality. And I've almost been sentimental myself—after sixty-eight years. I know you're pleased. I understand my sex. We're sirens, all of us, at heart—when we have any heart. I've not the slightest doubt, now, but if Slawson put on a pair of silk stockings and a lace petticoat, she'd feel as coquettish as any of us. No matter how plain we are, we all have theinstinctsof beautiful women. We're made that way.... Now close down the lid. See you turn the key all the way 'round. I recollect the lock is tricky. Slawson, help Miss Katherine carry the chest back where it came from. Put it away where you found it, and be sure to fasten the trunk-room door, and bolt it securely. And, Slawson, you needn't come back here, when you've done. Just take your acrow bobbinet, and march home to your husband and children, where you belong. I'm tired."
Something "Slawson" could not have analyzed kept her silent after she and Miss Crewe left the room. Katherine was singularly mute. Martha had waved the girl aside, and, grappling with the chest single-handed, triumphantly had carried it off, the little madam watching the performance covertly, with eyes glistening appreciation.
Her feat successfully accomplished, Martha went her way, clasping her precious bundle. She was home before she was aware. Sam met her at the door, his face revealing, to her who knew it, a secret delight.
"I'm to go to the city next week, mother. So, pack your bag and get ready for yourwedding-tour," he greeted her with sober fun.
"Have you told Ma and the childern?"
"No. I thought you'd better."
"Good. No hurry. Time enough later. I hope Ma won't kick. It'll mean some work for her, while I'm gone—if she does it, but nothing she can't reel off easy enough, if her spirit is willin'. I got a present, Sam. From the ol' lady."
"Yes, I know. The cow."
"No, I mean somethin' else. The ol' lady give me a surprise. She give me a front seat to see her do a new turn, an' she passed out soovenirs to the audience, besides. I got mine here."
"What is it?"
"What'll take me with you down home. I mean, New York."
"Money?"
"As good as. It'll be money, when I'm done with it. Only, from now on, for some days to come, I'm goin' to beLittle Martha the Lace Mender, or,The Postponed Bride, an' a buzz-saw will be safe for anybody to monkey with by comparising."
It was a proud day for Martha when, her stint completed, she was able to carry the curtains, exquisitely cleansed and mended, to Miss Claire.
"Now I've the money ackchelly in my pocket, I'll tell Ma an' the childern," she said to Sam, who was washing his hands at the sink, preparatory to sitting down to his midday meal.
"I wonder if Ma'll kick?" he pondered solemnly.
"Nothin' like tryin', an' findin' out," Martha returned, "dishing up," with energy, as one after the other of her hungry brood appeared, responding to her resounding call of "Dinner!"
"Say, Cora, doncher attempt to come to the table with that shaggy-lookin' head on you. Go smooth your hair back proper, like you always wear it. I don't mind most things, but to set down to eat alongside somethin' looks like a sky-tearer dog,I will not! Sammy, take your hands outa your pockets, like a little gen'lman, an' help Sabina tie her napkin on an' get into her high chair. Sabina, you leave your brother tie your napkin on, when he offers to do it! I'm busy. Say, Francie, when I told you trim the lamp this mornin', I didn't mean cut the wick inscollops. Lucky I happened to see it, or we'd 'a' been smoked out o' house an' home. Now, Ma, if you're ready, we'll sit."
Ma being ready, they sat, and the meal progressed, notwithstanding the fact that Cora, reappearing, shorn of her modish coiffure, was in no mood for merry-making.
"I hate my hair this way!" she announced for the benefit of whom it might concern.
"Ringlets is one thing,stringletsis another," said Martha, unreproachfully. "At least,nowyou don't look like somebody'd been woolin' the head of you. Have some stew?"
"No, I hate the very name o' stew."
"Call it rag-goo, then, same's Miss Claire's grand chef-cook does. Have some, anyhow, for luck. Here, cheer up, Cora! When I was a kid, I was one o' nine childern, an' you can take it from me, we wasn't thinkin' half so much, in them days, what we'd eat aswhere we'd get it. When I was twelve—two years younger than you—I went to live out scullery-maid with Mrs. Underwood, God bless her! where my mother'd been cook before me. From that day, I never went hungry no more, nor the ones at home either. But I don't like to see my childern turn up their noses at good food. It ain't becomin'. Now, eat your rag-goo like a lady, an' we'll call it square. Say, Ma, you know what Sam an' me's goin' to do?"
Ma shook her head, after the fashion of a mild bovine chewing the meditative cud.
"We're goin' to play hookey. We're goin' to fly the coop, for a couple o' days, an' go back home, to New York. Sam's gotta—on business, an' I'm goin' ta, on pleasure."
The moment following Martha's announcement was one of intense silence. The children and Ma were too amazed to speak. The idea ofMotherdeserting, even for a few days, was hardly conceivable. Then, as the monstrousness of it began to percolate, there rose a chorus of protest.
"O—oh, mother-r! What'll we do?"
"I wanta go too!"
"No, takeme, mother!"
Cora's voice, at last, dominated the rest.
"Hush! Mother, can't you make them hush?Iwanta say something!"
Martha checked the tumult with a warning hand. "Cora has the floor, childern. Let her have her say, an' then you can have yours."
"Silence in the court-house, the cat's goin' to preach!" Sammy disrespectfully whispered in Francie's ear.
"I think it'snicemother'n father 're goin' down to New York," Cora announced. "It seemed kinda funny, firstoff, but I think it'snice. An' they'll have a good time. I'm glad they're goin'."
Sam senior and Martha exchanged a look.
"Good for you, Cora! You're a good girl!" said Sam.
With the eldest sister approving, and praised for doing so, the ground was cut from under the younger children's feet. They had nothing to say.
"Well, Ma?" suggested Martha.
"I'mglad you're goin' too," observed the old woman, "for I ben thinkin', a long time, I do be needin' a change meself, an' I wouldn't dare for to be venturin' on the r-railroad alone. So, when the two of youse goes down, why, I'll just fare along wit' chu."
"But Ma," objected Sam gently, "we can't make out to take you. We've barely enough to take ourselves. Mr. Ronald pays my expenses, but Martha's goin' to buy her own ticket with the money Miss Claire paid her for the curtains."
"You got somethin' laid by," suggested Ma shrewdly.
"But we can't touch it. It's the first we ever been able to save, an' I wouldn't lay finger on it for anythin'." Martha answered with unusual feeling.
Ma was not disturbed.
"Well, between youse be it!" she declared. "I d'kno' how you'll settle it, but this I kno'—I've bided here the longest I'm abl'. I can thole it no longer. I'm goin' to the city. The heart in me is wastin' awa' to see me dear sons an' daughters down there. So let there be no colloguin'. I'm goin' to the city."