CHAPTER VIIIt was late that night, and Martha and her husband were still engaged in whispered conference."Ma's mind's like a train," Mrs. Slawson observed at length, "when it's oncetmade up, you can take it or leave it, butit'sgoin' its way, weather or no. There's no use strivin' with her, Sam. We're bound to give in, in the end, an' we may as well do it firstoff, an' save our faces. What's the good kickin' against the bricks?""But for her to use your hard-earned money just to gratify a whim!" Sam fairly groaned."Well, wasn't that whatIwas goin' to use it for? An' after all, she's old. Let her have her bit o' fun. God knows I don't begrutch it to her. She don't get much joy outa her life.""She has as much as you have."A wonderful look irradiated Martha's face. "I have you, Sam," she said in a voice that matched the look. An instant, and both were gone. Martha was her old self again. "An' I've the childern—an' the hens—an' the—cow!""Ma acts like a child sometimes, and a bad child at that.""Certaintly she does. I sometimes think it's a kinda pity a body can't lick her good, an' put her to bed 'to await the results of her injuries,' as the papers says. But what's the use o' growin' old, if your white hairs don't bring you the respec' your black ones didn't? No, we gotta bear with Ma, Sam, an' it's better grin than groan, while we're doin' it."So, when the appointed day arrived, it was Ma, not Martha, who accompanied Sam to New York on his "wedding-tour.""My! I bet it's hot on the train!" exclaimed Cora, appearing after a prolonged absence, seating herself on the doorstep, from which the late afternoon sun had just departed, fanning her flushed face with her hat.For the first time during the busy day, Martha paused long enough to listen."I guess it's a hunderd in the shade," she observed. "But then, o' course, you don't have to stay in the shade, less you wanta."Literal Cora, taking her seriously, came in out of the shade. "Mother, do you know something?"Martha considered. "Well, when I was your age, I thought I did. But now, the only thing I know, is, Idon't."Cora pursed her lips. "Do you know, I think Dr. Ballard likes Miss Crewe a lot.""What makes you think so?""Well, the other day, I saw'm walkin' together down Cherry Lane. An' to-day I saw'm again. An' I think it looks awful loverish to be walkin' in Cherry Lane, where the trees branch over so, an' it's all quiet, an' green, an' lonesome, an' nobody hardly ever comes, exceptin'——""Snoopy little girls who've no business there," supplied her mother genially.Cora sniffed. "Well, I guess you'll be glad I was there, when you see what I got. An' I guess they'll be glad too. One of'm dropped it an' never noticed, an' went off, an' left it lyin' in the middle o' the lane. After they'd gone, I saw somethin' kind o' like a yellow spot sittin' up in the grass, an' I went an' picked it up, an' it was a bunch o' letters, tied with a pink ribbon. The ribbon's so old it most frays away before you touch it."Martha extended a quiet, but coercive palm. "Hand it over."Cora obeyed, craning her neck to see the last of the fascinating sheaf."Ain't it funny writin'?" she inquired. "'Mifter Daniel Ballard.' What doesMiftermean, mother? She don't call himMifterinside. She calls him, 'Beloved Daniel.'""How do you know?"Cora hung her head. "I peeked," she confessed."How many of the letters did you peek at?""All of 'em. An', oh, mother, it wasn't any harm, 'cause they're fearful old. Eighteen-hundred and forty-four, they have written on 'em. An' the one who wrote 'em, her name was Idea Stryker. She must be dead an' buried long ago, mustn't she, mother? I guess p'raps she died because her beau, he didn't answer her letters, or come to meet her 'down Cherry Lane' like she begged him to. She felt simply terrible about it. She liked him a whole lot, but he got mad at her, or something, and wouldn't answer her letters, or meet her, or anything. When I get to be a grown-up young lady, I'd like to write such elegant love-letters to somebody.""He'd prob'ly go back on you, if you did. You see what happened to this poor lady, an' hist'ry repeats itself, like Mrs. Peckett. But what I wanta tell you, Cora, is this: You done a wrong thing. You had no business snoopin' into what wasn't your concern. Never you do so, no more."Cora's voice sank. "I didn't know 'twas wrong, mother.""Did you know 'twasright?" Martha demanded. "A good way to do, when you don't know a thing's wrong, is, stop a minute, an' make sure it'sright. See you folla that rule after this. Meanwhile, doncher let a hint out o' you, to Ann Upton, or anybody else, about these letters. D'you hear?""Why?" asked Cora inquisitively.Martha cast about for a reason potent enough to silence the childish, chattering tongue."You don't want to be disgraced, do you? Havin' folks know you pried into things wasn't meant for you? Such scandals is sure to leak out, if you whisper'm broadcast. If Mrs. Peckett oncet got a wind of it, you'd never hear the last."As a matter of fact, Mrs. Slawson's mind was concerned much less with Cora's reputation, just at that moment, than with the letters she had obliged that reluctant young lady to hand over. Now they were in her own possession what should she do with them? To whom, by, rights, did they belong?"The letters's signed Idea Stryker, which, I remember, Mr. Ronald said that was ol' lady Crewe's queer name, before she was married. But she wrote'm to somebody by the name o' Ballard, which, I bet, he was the doctor's gran'pa, or somethin'. Now, who the lawful owner of them letters is, it certaintly takes my time to decide. P'raps I better wanda over to Miss Katherine after supper, an' give'm toher. An'then, I may be wrong."The children, properly fed, cautioned "not to light the lamp, but set outdoors like little ladies an' gen'lmen, an' get the air, an' cool off, an' listen to the katy-dids doin', till I come back," Martha proceeded to wander over to Crewesmere.Katherine had not yet gone upstairs, when she spied the familiar form approaching through the waning light."Oh, Mrs. Slawson," she said, going down the garden-path to meet her. "I'm so glad you've come. I've been thinking about you, ever since you were here last, because I'm in trouble, and, I feel, somehow, you can help me out. You've helped me out before, you know."Her wistful attempt at a smile went to Martha's heart."Well, my dear, helpin' out is my speciality. Reg'lar service I have not done since I was married, but helped out by the day, as there was need. So, here I am, an' if I can be of use, I never counted mydayby the clock, an' if the childern fall asleep on the grass itself, it won't hurt'm none. It's too hot to rest indoors, anyhow.""We'll go to the back porch, where our voices won't disturb grandmother," explained Miss Crewe, leading the way."P'raps I better tell you right off what brought me," Martha began, taking the lower porch step to sit upon in preference to the more comfortable chair, on the level with her own, which Katherine indicated."No, please don't!" Miss Crewe protested. "Let me speak first. I'm so afraid something may happen to interrupt, and I know mine is more important. Imusttell some one."The girl did not pause, except to take breath between her difficult sentences."You remember the day grandmother had me bring her her linen-chest? It all dates from that day, I mean my trouble. I thought I knew before, what trouble was, butrealtrouble is only what one has to account for to one's own conscience."Martha pretended not to notice the sobbing breath, on which the last syllables caught, and were choked out."Grandmother never took her eyes off the chest while I unpacked it," Katherine labored on gallantly. "Never, except once. She said she knew everything that was in it. But she didn't. There was something she didn't mention. I came on it, lying almost at the bottom of the chest. An odd, old-fashioned pocket, hung on a strap, as if it had been suspended from a belt or a sash, and the strap was snapped—torn. A tiny bit of a shred was caught in the lock of the chest. I saw it, as soon as I opened the lid. As my fingers touched the pocket, something inside it crackled. My heart fairly leaped, for I thought 'twas money. And—oh, Mrs. Slawson, I need money! You mayn't believe it, but I do. I never have a cent I can call my own, and I'm not allowed to try to earn anything. You know—my father had plenty, and I ought to have plenty, if I had my rights. I've sat here evening after evening, thinking, thinking, what I could do in case of need—in case a time came, when I couldn't endure it any longer. And when I felt what was inside that pocket, when I felt it crackle, I thought it was money, and—it was like a gleam of hope. I watched for my chance. It came at last—the one time when grandmother glanced away. I grabbed the pocket, and hid it in my dress. I didn't stop to think what I was doing. But if I had, I don't believe it would have made any difference. I didn't care if Iwasstealing. Ijust wanted that money! It's shameful to sit here, and face you, and tell about it, but—I guess I'm past shame. And then she gave me the mull, and was kind. I'd have put the money back then, but it was too late. She never took her eyes off me again, nor the chest. And then—later—after you'd gone, I stole away to my room, and—what was in the pocket wasn't money at all, but letters! Old, useless, miserable letters!""Did you read'm?" asked Martha to cover the painful effort the girl was making at self-control."No, I didn't read them. After I'd taken the pocket, believing it held money, and found only letters, I was toohonorableto read the letters."She spoke with bitterest self-contempt."I carried them in my dress, because I didn't dare leave them anywhere else. And to-day I—I—lost them. I know they were letters written by my grandmother, when she was a girl. Her handwriting hasn't changed much, and I know if she dreamed they were lying about loose, lost, perhaps had been found by some busybody, who would publish them all over town, she'd——""That's just what I come to tell you," Mrs. Slawson announced with a breath of relief. "Thanks be! 'twas my girl, Cora, found the letters, an' she brought'm home to me. Not a soul besides us two has laid eyes on'm. Cora don't know any more than the angels above, that the one wrote'm ain't dead an' gone, with a antapsie held over her remains, this many a year. So, for all I see, your troubles are over, you poor child, an' you can lay your head on your pilla, an' sleep sound this night, if the heat, which it certaintlyisprosteratin', don't pervent. Here's the letters."Katherine smiled faintly as she took the little packet."If I may make so bold, did you mean to be givin' the letters to Dr. Ballard?" Martha inquired, after a thoughtful pause. "I own up to you, I ain't been so fussy as not to read the name on the envelopes."Miss Crewe winced. "Of course. That was right. No, I hadn't planned to give him the letters. At first I thought I would, but then I was afraid I might be obliged to tell him how I came to have them, and—I'm a coward. I couldn't bear to risk it. Do you think it's my duty to tell Dr. Ballard, Mrs. Slawson? Tell me what you think I ought to do.""When a body sets out to tell another body what she'd ought to do, he better be careful," replied Martha gravely. "You never know what you're up against. For instance, if you're tellin' a fellalove his neighbor like himself, that's all right, only you wouldn't be countin' on his bein' one o' the kind thinks he's a little tin god on wheels. Bein' as he was that sort, you'd be tellin' 'm make a graven image of his neighbor, which he'd be constantly fallin' down before'm, an' worshippin' 'm, like a heathen idol. You can take it from me, tellin' people what they'd ought to do is a delicate job—too fine for the likes of Martha Slawson. But I'd just as liefs tell you what you hadn't ought to do, one o' which is, lie awake grievin' over spilled milk that's past an' gone. You mustn't lug your mistakes along with you, every place you go, like they was a basket o' dirty clo'es. Now lots besides laundryesses has dirty clo'es to wash, believe me. But if you pack'm up respectable in nice, clean wrappin' paper, with a stout string, or a decent telescope bag, nobody'll be the wiser, an' your neighbors won't objec' sittin' beside you in the cars. It's when you force your dirty clo'es under the noses of the other passengers, an' make'm uncomfortable, they've a kick comin'. No, if I was you (beggin' your pardon for the liberty) I wouldn't tell Dr. Ballard a thing 'twouldn't be a pleasure to'm to hear. I worked for a lady, Mrs. Sherman, an' she used ta wait to do things for, what she called—now, do you believe me, I can't remember the name of it! It was some kind o'moment. She talked about it frequent. The—the—sy——" Martha racked her brains laboriously."Could it possibly have been the psychological moment?" suggested Miss Crewe."The very one!" Mrs. Slawson took her up triumphantly. "The sykeylogical moment! Mrs. Sherman was dead stuck on it. She used to talk to her brother, Mr. Frank Ronald, about the sykeylogical moment, till you'd think it'd stop the clock. Now if you know what a sykeylogical moment is, an' reco'nize it when it comes along, why, you can take it from me, that'll be a good chance for you to give the doctor the letters in, but not before."Katherine laughed. "I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Slawson," she said. "I'll wait for the psychological moment. And I'll wash my soiled linen alone, too. You've given me a lot of good advice. I'm much,muchhappier than I was before you came.""Well, good-night then, an' God bless you!" said Martha, rising. "Now I'll go back to my—otherchildern."Halfway between Crewesmere, and the main road, she came to a standstill."Hello!" exclaimed Dr. Ballard. "What are you doing so far from home at the witching hour of eight o'clock? It looks suspicious. Don't you think you'd better stand and deliver?"Martha beamed, as she always did at sight of those she liked."I'llstand, all right, all right, sir, but you can searchmefor anything to deliver. My husban' he went to New York this mornin', an' before he went, with all my worldly goods I he endowed, accordin' to Scripture, as Mrs. Peckett says.""Ho! Slawson's gone to New York, has he?" Dr. Ballard exclaimed. "Well, I'm off for Boston, myself, to-morrow. I'm on my way now to tell—Madam Crewe."Martha nodded."Certaintly you are. You'll find Miss Katherine on the back porch, if you hurry. But the ol' lady makes her close the house at nine sharp, so you've not much time to waste on me. Good luck to you, sir. A safe journey, an' quick return."The doctor chuckled as she left him."That woman's acase!" he said to himself, but under the stimulus of her suggestion he hurried his steps."Going to Boston?" Katherine repeated, her brows contracting in a troubled, triangular way which always gave a touching, childlike look to her fine eyes. "Isn't that rather sudden? You didn't tell me anything about it this afternoon—down Cherry Lane.""No, I'd not made up my mind then. The resolve came later.""You'll return?""Oh, yes. Very soon, if I get what I'm going after. Less soon, if I don't."Katherine turned her face away."That sounds mysterious. But I remember you like mysteries.""'Sure I do,' as Mrs. Slawson would say. I like mysteries for the fun of clearing them up. It's to clear up a mystery I'm going to Boston."Katherine withheld the question on her lips."You don't ask what mystery.""If you wanted me to know, you'd tell me.""Well, then—I'm goingto discover the secret of me life. In other words, I'm going to see if I can get a line on my grandfather—the unfortunate gentleman—no, of course he couldn't have been agentleman, because he was a bailiff!—the unfortunate beggar who got himself disliked by his employer, and Madam Crewe. Personally, I've no social use for defunct forbears. It's a bit curious, because I'm a Bostonian. But professionally I'm all right on them. They have their uses scientifically. If my grandfather had a bug—I meangerm(disease or vice germ) I needn't necessarily inherit that particular insect, but there's no denying that if it happens along, I'm more open to infection, than a fellow whose grandad hadn't specialized as an entomologist. I've a notion I'd like to read my title clear. So I'm going to Boston to dig up dead deeds—in both senses, and see what I have back of me.""I'd much rather see what I have ahead," Katherine laughed mirthlessly.Dr. Ballard's chin went up with a jerk."Oh, I'm not afraid of what's before me. I'm willing to stand and face the future. If a fellow's straight goods on his own account, he has nothing to fear. He'll win out, somehow. But I wouldn't care to look forward, if I'd lied, or was a coward, or taken what belonged to some other fellow, or had any other sort of dirty rag of memory trailing after me. You never can tell when such a thing will trip you up. I say, you're not cold this broiling night, are you?""No. Why?""You shivered.""Did I? It makes me nervous to hear you talk about 'dirty rags of memory.' I didn't suppose any one lived who hadn't regrets. I knowIhave.""No doubt. I can imagine what for.I'mtalking of real offenses. The sort of thing Madam Crewe hints at in connection with my grandfather. By Jove, I wonder what the poor old duffer was guilty of. Perhaps, to put it euphemistically, he appropriated funds not his own—swiped fromyourgreat-grandfather's till. Seriously, that's no joke! I can imagine that even if a chap didn't care much about his family-tree, it might be a rather scorching reflection to know you'd descended—fallen—from a rotten apple of a thief, or something. You'd be forever looking for some taint of it to crop out in you. I confess, it wouldn't rejoice even my democratic soul. But that's what I'm going out for to discover. So, when next you see me, perhaps you won't."Katherine's hand went toward him in an impulse too strong to resist."You know better than that," she said in a voice not wholly steady.Dr. Ballard's large, firm grasp closed about her slender trembling fingers."I know better than that," he repeated gravely. "But there's something else, not your friendship, I can't be so confident of. When I come back, if everything's all right, as I believe it will be, I hope you'll be kind to me, and set my heart at rest about that too."Katherine could not answer. After a moment of silent waiting, the doctor gently released her hand."I met Mrs. Slawson as I came along," he said in his usual manner. "She's a trump, that woman. The most normal human creature I've ever met.""Her English isn't normal," Katherine said, trying to control the helpless trembling that was shaking her from head to foot."She's an impressionist. That's what's the matter with Hannah!—I should say, Martha. She gets and produces her effects in the large. She doesn't trouble with details. After all, I wonder if we'd like her better, given the possibility of making a grammarian of her."Katharine smiled."She told me, the other day, that she was being made over. She mentioned the people concerned in it, and the different things they were making her over into. I don't recollect that grammarian was in the list.""If the rest succeed as well in their efforts as I would in mine, if I attempted to make a Lindley Murray of her, I don't think we need worry. She'll progress along her own lines. But she's not various. You can't make a complex organism out of an elemental creature like Mrs. Slawson, any more than you could make a contemporaneous 'new woman' out of Brunnhilde.""FancyMarthamounted on a celestial steed, bearing the souls of dead heroes to Walhalla!"Dr. Ballard laughed."Well, I can tell you this, if she saw 'twas for the good of the souls, not the celestial steed, nor the dead heroes, nor Walhalla itself, would faze her. If you ever should need some one to stand by in an emergency, I couldn't think of a better than Martha Slawson. I hope you'll remember that, when I'm gone."A moment, and he was gone, had turned abruptly, and left her without even so much as good-by.Katherine bent her head to look down at the hand he had held, on which presently two tears plashed."She'll shut me off from that, too," she murmured bitterly. "She'll shut me off from that too—if she can!"CHAPTER VIII"Say, mother," Francie called in through the kitchen screen-door, "Miss Claire, she wants you to come on out. She says she wants to show you a very ol'.""A very ol'what?" inquired Martha, turning from her stack of washed breakfast dishes, to wipe her hands on the roller-towel."I d'know. Only it's up a tree, an' she wants to show you it."Martha went out at once.Mrs. Ronald was standing, not far away, gazing intently up into the branches of a splendid spruce."Sh!" she cautioned, as Mrs. Slawson drew near."What is it?" asked Martha."Look!"Martha's eyes, taking the direction indicated by Miss Claire's pointing finger, saw nothing."Do you see?""No.""Quick! Look! O—oh! There he goes! He's flown away!""You mean that—bird?""Yes—a vireo."Mrs. Slawson's interest relaxed. "Oh," she said with obvious disappointment."What did you think I wanted to show you? Didn't Francie tell you 'twas a vireo?""Certaintly she did. But she didn't say 'twas a very ol'bird. Nacherly, I kinda pictured to myself somethin' like Gran'pa Trenholm, or ol' lady Crewe a-sittin' up there, needin' immediate assistance. I thought to myself, that I never have clumb a tree, but if the need was great, there's no knowin' what Icoulddo."Mrs. Ronald laughed. "Oh, Martha," she said, "I don't believe you'll ever make an ornithologist.""Without knowin' what that may be," Mrs. Slawson returned affably, "I don't believe I ever will, though I'm ready to try.""Yesterday, early, early, I got up, and went out, before any one else in the house was awake. I went down to the ravine, and oh! I wish you could have been there with me. It was so beautiful! It's not quite so early now, but, still, I think, maybe, we might hear the veery. Do you want to come?""Certaintly," said Martha.For a time they walked on in silence, through the fragrant freshness of the new day. The full chorus of ecstatic bird voices had somewhat diminished, but, even so, the air seemed set to music.Mrs. Ronald gave a great sigh. "Oh, Martha, isn't it lovely? When I think what happiness life holds, and how beautiful the world is, I wonder anybody can be discontented, or restless, or sorrowful."Martha seemed to ponder it."Well, I guess a good deal depends on the body," she brought out at length. "As I make it out, the world it goes a-grindin' 'round steady an' sure, like a great, big coffee-grinder. We all got to feel the twist, first or last, before we're turned out fine enough to suit. Some folks feels the twist more'n others. I suppose it's nice to live easy, but there's this about not bein' too soft: you ain't likely to get hurt so much. D'you remember, oncet or twice, when I wasn't by, you tried to pull up the dumb-waiter, down to a Hundred and Sixteenth Street? An' the coarse rope, it got splinters into your soft little hands. Now, mine's so hard I could pull till the cows come home, an' nary a splinter. Yes, it's good not to be too sens'tive. If you are, you're bound to get all that's comin' to you, an' then some.""Do you know anybody in particular, who is feeling thetwistespecially, just now?" asked Mrs. Ronald with interest.Martha nodded. "I was thinkin' of Miss Katherine," she replied. "She's right up here, in the middle of all this, same as you and yet—you're happy, an' she ain't.""Could I help?""I don't knowyet. I'm keepin' my eye out. If I find you can I'll let you know.""Good!" Claire approved. She walked on a step, then suddenly stood at attention. "Hark!" she whispered. "The veery! the Wilson thrush!"Mrs. Slawson, halting too, strained her ear to listen. At first her face expressed only the gentle interest of one willing to be pleased, but presently her eyes became luminous, her great chest rose and fell to deep, full breaths of keenest appreciation.When the wonderful performance was at an end, and the veery had taken wing, Claire turned to her silent, but questioning.Martha considered a moment. "When a cow lifts up his head, an' gets ready to bella, what with its size an' stren'th, you're prepared for the worst, an'—you get it. But when a tiny little fella, as innercent-lookin' as that very bird you say is the Wilson's thrush, whenhesits up an' lets a flute-sola out of'm, as elegant as the man in the band, down to the movies, well, it certaintlyissurprisin'. It somehow hits you right in the pit of the stummick. My! but I bet the Wilsons is sorry he flew away on'm."Mrs. Ronald turned quickly to examine a bit of lichen, decorating a tree-trunk near at hand. When she faced Martha again, her cheeks were quite crimson."Say, you hadn't ought to bend down like that a hot day like this," cautioned Mrs. Slawson. "You got a rush o' brains to the head, I should say blood. You want to go easy such hot wather. I guess the walkin' took it out o' you.""Oh, no," Claire assured her heartily. "I'm not a bit tired. And I tell you what I want to do some day soon. I want to go across the lake to the South cove. They say there's a blue heron there. I'm crazy to see him."Martha nodded. "Well, if Lord Ronald is willin'——""He says he'll take me over in the launch, and you can go too, and the children. We'll have a beautiful picnic some day very soon, and, if you thought she would go, we might ask Miss Crewe, and——""She couldn't leave her gran'ma for so long. P'raps if you'd put it off till the fall——"Miss Claire shook her head. "No, I'm going now," she said determinedly."Well, I'll go any day you say, then—so Lord Ronald's willin'. I can help'm with the la'nch. I know all aboutThe Moth'smachinery, if I don't about the cow's. An' when it comes to that, I could milk all right, all right, if I only knew what to turn on to make the milk come. It's on account o' the cow's not havin' her gear arranged so's a body can push a button, or pull a crank like a Christian, I have so much differculty. You can take it from me, autos an' la'nchs is simple by comparising. But what's really on my mind to say is, any mornin' you wish to see your red herrin', just say the word, an' I'll take you, though I tell you frank an' honest, if I was you, beggin' your pardon for the liberty, I'd stay on dry land myself, these days, an' not be botherin' my head over delicatessens, which you can get'm sent up, canned, by Park an' Tilford any day, with your next order.""Mother! Mother!"Francie's shrill, childish voice announced her but a second before she herself appeared around the tangle of bushes hedging the mouth of the ravine."Mother, mother!" she repeated, even after she saw the familiar form she sought."Well?"Martha spoke calmly, undisturbed either by the child's heated face or manner."Mother—say—Mr. Ronald, he was over to our house, huntin' for Miss Claire. I guess he's fearful worried.""Did he say he was worried?""No, he didn't, but he ast if I seen her, an' he said it was past breakfast-time.""Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Martha. "Francie's a little woman, ain't you, Francie? She knows, when a gen'lman thinks it's past meal time, it's up to ladies to get a move on."Claire laughed. "I'll go at once," she returned obediently.As Martha and Francie made their slow way back to the Lodge, Francie caught hold of her mother's hand in a sudden access of childish affection."Say, mother, I'm glad I'm your little girl, instead of anybody else's," she brought out impulsively."'Thank you, thank you, sir, she sayed. Your kindness I never shall forget!' I return the compliment," Martha announced with much manner."Mother, why does God want His name to be Hallow?""I didn't know He did.""Yes, He does. At the beginning of the Lord's prayer, it says, 'Hallow would be thy name.' Don't you remember?""Certaintly I do, now you mention it. But if you ask me why, Robin, I got to give in, I can't tell you.""I thought mothers knew everything," Francie said pensively. Martha's response was prompt."Well, be this an' be that, they do. Takin' mothers all together, they certaintly do. But, each one has her own speciality,an'if you askmequestions about God, I tell you, truly, I ain't got the answer, like I would have if I'd been to college, an' belonged to the lemon-eye, same's Miss Claire. On the other hand,Imay know thingsshedon't, about other matters nearer home. You never can tell.""Cora says you don't know what's stylish. She says our clo'es are awful plain.""Now, what do you think o' that! So Cora says I don't know what's stylish. Well, ifIdon't know what's stylish, I don't know who does, seein' I was in an' out o' the toniest houses in New York City, an' was personally acquainted with their dresses an' their hats. That same Cora is called after one of the stylishest ladies ever you saw, Mrs. Underwood, which she is dead now, but, when she was alive, looked like a duchess. An' you, yourself, are called after her daughter, Miss Frances, who married a l'yer, Judge Granville, butcould'a' had the pick o' the land. Never fear, I know what stylish is. Only, I know the differnce betweenladies'stylish an' ladies'-maid'sstylish. I seen both. Style's one thing. Loud's another. I want my childern to be seen but not heard.""Mother, are you sorry Ma's gone away for good? She told Cora, 'fore she went, that you didn't know she ain't comin' back, but she ain't. She said her heart was broke with the quiet up here. She said she's goin' to live with Uncle Dennis after this, or Uncle Andy, where it's lively, an' there's more comin' an' goin'."Mrs. Slawson suffered the full significance of Francie's revelation to sink into her consciousness, before she attempted to reply."Well, well," she said at last, with an air of brave resignation, "so, Ma's gone away for good, has she? An' she didn't want for me to be breakin' my heart with the news o' it. It certaintly is a shock an' no mistake. But a body must do the best she can, when she can't do no differnt. I'll try to bear up under it, Francie, much as I mourn my loss. In this life we got to go about with a smilin' countenance, no matter what our private sorras are. It won't do to let the world see your sufferin'. The world has troubles of its own. By the way, I wonder if Sammy's got back from takin' the mornin's milk to Madam Crewe's yet?"Not only had Sammy got back, but he was the bearer of news."Say, mother, they got comp'ny to ol' lady Crewe's. A gen'lman, he come up with a bag. In a rig, from over to Burbank. The fella drove the rig, he was comin' back our road, an' he saw me, an' he says: 'Say, bubby, jump in an' I'll carry you a ways,' an' I did, an' he did.""My, my, but ain't you lucky? To get a free ride so early in the mornin'. That was a kind ac' to do, wasn't it? Now, it's up to you to return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Keep your eye out for that young fella, Sammy, so's if he goes past again, on his way back to fetch ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny an' carry'm to the station, you can call me, an' I'll give'm a glass o' cold lemonade to cool'm off.""He ain't comin' back. The comp'ny ain't from Burbank. He's from New York. He come up last night on the Express, an' he's goin' back when he's ready, but he don't know when he'll be ready, so he couldn't tell the fella with the rig. An' the fella with the rig, he couldn't wait anyhow. He has to go back to Burbank, an' then 'way out another way, miles an' miles, to get a party wants to catch a north-bound train goes out the middle o' the night. One o'clock it goes out, the fella said. An' if they don't catch it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin', so they got to catch it. The fella with the rig tol' me, he guessed ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny was a lawyer. He said he could tell by the cut of his jib. What's the cut of his jib, mother?"Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "That's a lazy, shif'less way o' learnin' knowledge, Sammy, to be askin' it off'n parties that had to work hard themselves to get it. Since we got that grand dickshunerry-book Lord Ronald give your father, there ain't no excuse for any of us not knowin' things any more. Lord Ronald said: 'The dickshunerry habit is a good thing. When you don't know a word, look it up.'""How do you spelljib?"The glance Mrs. Slawson cast on Sammy sent him off flushed with shame at having exposed an ignorance so dense.At Crewesmere, meanwhile, the newcomer was calmly eating his breakfast, Katherine doing the honors with what grace she could.Mr. Norris was no stranger to her. She knew him, had always known him, in fact, as her grandmother's man of affairs, a lawyer of repute. While she had no cause to distrust him, the fact that he was in a position to advise in questions closely affecting herself, affairs she was kept in total ignorance of, gave her a feeling of resentment toward him, as toward one who, voluntarily or not, held an unfair advantage."See he has a good breakfast," her grandmother had directed. "Let him eat and smoke his fill, but don't send him up to me with any unsatisfied cravings. A man's mind is a little less apt to be vacant if his stomach is full."During the succeeding long hours of the forenoon, the two were closeted in Madam Crewe's sitting-room. Katherine could hear the incessant, low drone of their voices as she sat on the shaded veranda, trying to employ her mind so it would not dwell on the enervating heat and the fact that now, at this moment, her grandmother might be creating conditions that would irrevocably cripple her future and she was powerless to prevent it.At luncheon-time Madam Crewe summoned Eunice Youngs."While Miss Crewe and the gentleman are at table, I want you to go to Mrs. Slawson's and tell her I must see her at once. Understand?Madam Crewe says she must see Mrs. Slawson at once. Say, she's to come in that motor-car Mr. Ronald gives her and her husband the use of. Say, Madam Crewe wishes her to take a gentleman to the railroad station in time for the five-forty-five train. Have you brains enough to repeat that straight? Or, shall Miss Katherine write it down for you?""Oh, grandmother," expostulated Katherine, when Eunice had gone to "tidy up" for her errand, "I don't think we can order Mrs. Slawson about like that. She's done a lot for us, already, but we have no claim on her, and to send for her to come, in all this heat, and bring her motor, and take Mr. Norris to the station—it's exactly as if——""My dear, don't bother your head over what doesn't concern you. Slawson and I understand each other—which is more than you and I do, I'm afraid," the old woman pronounced with biting distinctness.The meal was barely over when Martha arrived."Now, Slawson," Madam Crewe greeted her, "I've sent for you onbusiness, so I want you to stop looking benevolent, if you can, and attend to what this gentleman has to say.""Yes'm," said Martha.Mr. Norris adjusted his eye-glasses with professional precision. "Have you ever had any experience with the law, or lawyers?" he asked, regarding her steadfastly through his polished lenses."Certaintly, I have. Oncet, I worked out for a lady who got a divorce off'n her husband, on what they call statuary grounds, an' the first she knew, he up an' off, an' married the—statue. He was a railroad magnet. The kind draws more'n more to'm, all the time. So, o' course, the law never so much as laid a finger on'm. An' about two years ago, my little girl, she got run over by a auta, but, though Mr. Frank Ronald he tried to get'm to pay us a little somethin' for our trouble, we ain't seen a cent o' money yet. Oh, yes. I know about thelaw!""I mean, do you understand that when you are brought as a witness before the law, you are held responsible for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"Martha cogitated. "No, sir. I can't say I do, that is,did. I never knew the law had so much to do withtruthbefore. But, if you say so, I'm willin' to take your word for it."Mr. Norris pulled a long upper lip."My client, Madam Crewe, has called you here for two purposes. First, she wishes you to be present whilst I ask her granddaughter a few important questions. Second, you and the maid—a—Eunice Youngs, are to write your names as witnesses upon a certain paper I have drawn up for my client. Are you willing to act for Madam Crewe in these matters?"Martha shot a quick, inquiring glance at Katherine. The girl nodded in response."Yes, sir!" Mrs. Slawson answered promptly."Then, see that you charge your mind seriously with what you have undertaken. Your memory must be exact. Now, Miss Crewe——"Katherine inclined her head, smiling faintly. But Martha noticed she was very pale."Your grandmother would like to know, from your own lips, the extent of your acquaintance with Dr. Ballard, the physician who has been in attendance on Madam Crewe since her late illness."Katherine hung fire a moment, while the blood slowly mounted to her cheeks, her temples."My grandmother forbade me to have anything whatever to do with Dr. Ballard," she parried the question."Did you obey her injunction?—Attend, Mrs. Slawson!""No!""Why not?""I didn't think she had any right to control me so.""Not when she intimated there were reasons?""She told me things about Dr. Ballard—his people, rather, but I didn't, and I don't, consider themreasons. She has no proof, or, if she has, she certainly hasn't presented it. I don't consider it worthy of notice when a person says things about another which are not backed up by proof.""As a matter of fact, then, you do know Dr. Ballard, in spite of your grandmother's prohibition?""Yes.""You know him very well?""Quite well.""My next question, Miss Crewe, you will answer notwithstanding its peculiarly personal and intimate character, because (I am authorized to tell you) upon your answer important issues hang. If Dr. Ballard asks you to marry him, is it your intention to accept him?"For a long moment there was no sound in the room, except such as came, muted, from out-of-doors, and the leisurely ticking of the tall clock in the corner.Then Katherine, rising, impetuously faced the lawyer and Madam Crewe."I willnotanswer that question, no matter what issues hang on it," she retorted hotly."Miss Crewe, I have your interest at heart, believe me. I strongly advise you to answer.""No.""You mean you will not accept him.""I mean no such thing. I mean I refuse to answer.""Why?""You ought to know. The question is—indelicate. When—ifDr. Ballard says he wishes to marry me, it will be time enough for me to answer—him.""He has already said so."Miss Crewe started. "What do you mean?" she demanded imperiously."Dr. Ballard has already told your grandmother he wishes to marry you. Madam Crewe would like to know your intentions.""I wish my grandmother had chosen a different way of obtaining my confidence," the girl broke out, almost broke down. "It seems very strange to me that she should choose such a method as this. It seems—almost—disgraceful."The old woman, sitting erect in her high-backed chair, did not attempt to defend herself.The lawyer, ignoring Katherine's outburst, continued his dry-voiced interrogation."You would accept him?""If Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me," the girl answered with marked quiet of voice and manner, in strong contrast to her outbreak of a moment ago, "if Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me—I will marry him.""In opposition to your grandmother?""I don'twantto oppose my grandmother, but if she tries to spoil my life for the sake of a groundless prejudice I will—yes—I will marry himin oppositionto her.""Think well, Miss Crewe. Take your time. Answer cautiously. If you were told Dr. Ballard is a struggling young doctor, with no present means of support, to speak of, and a perfectly problematic future. If you were told that he would never be able to provide you with more than a bare living income——""I would marry him.""If you were told that, in case you do so, your grandmother would divert her property from you (as she has a perfect legal right to do) and dispose of it elsewhere——?""Still—I would marry him.""Nothing would dissuade you?""Nothing.""The inquisition is over."It was the old woman who spoke. Her face was as impassive as ever, but Martha Slawson noticed that her tiny, emaciated fingers clutched the arms of her chair with a vise-like grip."For all the world like a bird I seen last Spring," Martha mused, "which somethin' had broke its wing, an' its claws was holdin' on fierce, for dear life, to the branch o' the bush it was clingin' to—as ifthat'd save it!""May I go now?"As Katherine made the appeal, she turned toward her grandmother, but her eyes were kept resolutely averted.Mr. Norris raised a detaining hand. "One moment, please. I assume you entertain no doubt of Madam Crewe's mental competency? That she is of sound mind, capable of acting rationally on her own behalf? That any will and testament she might choose to execute at this time would be above suspicion of mistake, fraud, or undue influence?"For a moment Katherine seemed to consider. Then her lip curled."If you mean, am I likely in the future to contest any will my grandmother may now make to my disadvantage, I say no. I will never dispute her course, whatever direction it may take. All I ask is that she will not dispute mine. I am only sorry that they seem to diverge so completely. I am sick of the name of money. I would say I am sick of the sight of it—but I have never seen any——" with which parting thrust, the girl turned on her heel, and left the room.She went none too soon, for the moment the door closed upon her, her self-control gave way, and she groped stumblingly to her own chamber blinded by tears, choking back the sobs that were in themselves a humiliation.The three she had left, were silent when she had gone, until Mr. Norris drew an important-looking sheet from under a mass of papers at his elbow, and addressed Mrs. Slawson."As a general rule I strongly advise you, or any one, against placing your signature to any instrument which you have not previously read and do not fully understand. In this case, however, there is absolutely no harm. Please call the other witness."Martha took a step toward the door."If I put my writin' on that paper, it won't mean I'm injurin'—anybody?" she demanded firmly."You have my word as to that.""I'd never sign it, if it was to hurt Miss Katherine.""Your placing your signature there cannot affect Miss Crewe's interests one way or the other."Martha summoned Eunice Youngs, and the two, in their best manner, literally with great pains, proceeded to affix their names as witnesses to the last and testament of Idea Stryker Crewe.
CHAPTER VII
It was late that night, and Martha and her husband were still engaged in whispered conference.
"Ma's mind's like a train," Mrs. Slawson observed at length, "when it's oncetmade up, you can take it or leave it, butit'sgoin' its way, weather or no. There's no use strivin' with her, Sam. We're bound to give in, in the end, an' we may as well do it firstoff, an' save our faces. What's the good kickin' against the bricks?"
"But for her to use your hard-earned money just to gratify a whim!" Sam fairly groaned.
"Well, wasn't that whatIwas goin' to use it for? An' after all, she's old. Let her have her bit o' fun. God knows I don't begrutch it to her. She don't get much joy outa her life."
"She has as much as you have."
A wonderful look irradiated Martha's face. "I have you, Sam," she said in a voice that matched the look. An instant, and both were gone. Martha was her old self again. "An' I've the childern—an' the hens—an' the—cow!"
"Ma acts like a child sometimes, and a bad child at that."
"Certaintly she does. I sometimes think it's a kinda pity a body can't lick her good, an' put her to bed 'to await the results of her injuries,' as the papers says. But what's the use o' growin' old, if your white hairs don't bring you the respec' your black ones didn't? No, we gotta bear with Ma, Sam, an' it's better grin than groan, while we're doin' it."
So, when the appointed day arrived, it was Ma, not Martha, who accompanied Sam to New York on his "wedding-tour."
"My! I bet it's hot on the train!" exclaimed Cora, appearing after a prolonged absence, seating herself on the doorstep, from which the late afternoon sun had just departed, fanning her flushed face with her hat.
For the first time during the busy day, Martha paused long enough to listen.
"I guess it's a hunderd in the shade," she observed. "But then, o' course, you don't have to stay in the shade, less you wanta."
Literal Cora, taking her seriously, came in out of the shade. "Mother, do you know something?"
Martha considered. "Well, when I was your age, I thought I did. But now, the only thing I know, is, Idon't."
Cora pursed her lips. "Do you know, I think Dr. Ballard likes Miss Crewe a lot."
"What makes you think so?"
"Well, the other day, I saw'm walkin' together down Cherry Lane. An' to-day I saw'm again. An' I think it looks awful loverish to be walkin' in Cherry Lane, where the trees branch over so, an' it's all quiet, an' green, an' lonesome, an' nobody hardly ever comes, exceptin'——"
"Snoopy little girls who've no business there," supplied her mother genially.
Cora sniffed. "Well, I guess you'll be glad I was there, when you see what I got. An' I guess they'll be glad too. One of'm dropped it an' never noticed, an' went off, an' left it lyin' in the middle o' the lane. After they'd gone, I saw somethin' kind o' like a yellow spot sittin' up in the grass, an' I went an' picked it up, an' it was a bunch o' letters, tied with a pink ribbon. The ribbon's so old it most frays away before you touch it."
Martha extended a quiet, but coercive palm. "Hand it over."
Cora obeyed, craning her neck to see the last of the fascinating sheaf.
"Ain't it funny writin'?" she inquired. "'Mifter Daniel Ballard.' What doesMiftermean, mother? She don't call himMifterinside. She calls him, 'Beloved Daniel.'"
"How do you know?"
Cora hung her head. "I peeked," she confessed.
"How many of the letters did you peek at?"
"All of 'em. An', oh, mother, it wasn't any harm, 'cause they're fearful old. Eighteen-hundred and forty-four, they have written on 'em. An' the one who wrote 'em, her name was Idea Stryker. She must be dead an' buried long ago, mustn't she, mother? I guess p'raps she died because her beau, he didn't answer her letters, or come to meet her 'down Cherry Lane' like she begged him to. She felt simply terrible about it. She liked him a whole lot, but he got mad at her, or something, and wouldn't answer her letters, or meet her, or anything. When I get to be a grown-up young lady, I'd like to write such elegant love-letters to somebody."
"He'd prob'ly go back on you, if you did. You see what happened to this poor lady, an' hist'ry repeats itself, like Mrs. Peckett. But what I wanta tell you, Cora, is this: You done a wrong thing. You had no business snoopin' into what wasn't your concern. Never you do so, no more."
Cora's voice sank. "I didn't know 'twas wrong, mother."
"Did you know 'twasright?" Martha demanded. "A good way to do, when you don't know a thing's wrong, is, stop a minute, an' make sure it'sright. See you folla that rule after this. Meanwhile, doncher let a hint out o' you, to Ann Upton, or anybody else, about these letters. D'you hear?"
"Why?" asked Cora inquisitively.
Martha cast about for a reason potent enough to silence the childish, chattering tongue.
"You don't want to be disgraced, do you? Havin' folks know you pried into things wasn't meant for you? Such scandals is sure to leak out, if you whisper'm broadcast. If Mrs. Peckett oncet got a wind of it, you'd never hear the last."
As a matter of fact, Mrs. Slawson's mind was concerned much less with Cora's reputation, just at that moment, than with the letters she had obliged that reluctant young lady to hand over. Now they were in her own possession what should she do with them? To whom, by, rights, did they belong?
"The letters's signed Idea Stryker, which, I remember, Mr. Ronald said that was ol' lady Crewe's queer name, before she was married. But she wrote'm to somebody by the name o' Ballard, which, I bet, he was the doctor's gran'pa, or somethin'. Now, who the lawful owner of them letters is, it certaintly takes my time to decide. P'raps I better wanda over to Miss Katherine after supper, an' give'm toher. An'then, I may be wrong."
The children, properly fed, cautioned "not to light the lamp, but set outdoors like little ladies an' gen'lmen, an' get the air, an' cool off, an' listen to the katy-dids doin', till I come back," Martha proceeded to wander over to Crewesmere.
Katherine had not yet gone upstairs, when she spied the familiar form approaching through the waning light.
"Oh, Mrs. Slawson," she said, going down the garden-path to meet her. "I'm so glad you've come. I've been thinking about you, ever since you were here last, because I'm in trouble, and, I feel, somehow, you can help me out. You've helped me out before, you know."
Her wistful attempt at a smile went to Martha's heart.
"Well, my dear, helpin' out is my speciality. Reg'lar service I have not done since I was married, but helped out by the day, as there was need. So, here I am, an' if I can be of use, I never counted mydayby the clock, an' if the childern fall asleep on the grass itself, it won't hurt'm none. It's too hot to rest indoors, anyhow."
"We'll go to the back porch, where our voices won't disturb grandmother," explained Miss Crewe, leading the way.
"P'raps I better tell you right off what brought me," Martha began, taking the lower porch step to sit upon in preference to the more comfortable chair, on the level with her own, which Katherine indicated.
"No, please don't!" Miss Crewe protested. "Let me speak first. I'm so afraid something may happen to interrupt, and I know mine is more important. Imusttell some one."
The girl did not pause, except to take breath between her difficult sentences.
"You remember the day grandmother had me bring her her linen-chest? It all dates from that day, I mean my trouble. I thought I knew before, what trouble was, butrealtrouble is only what one has to account for to one's own conscience."
Martha pretended not to notice the sobbing breath, on which the last syllables caught, and were choked out.
"Grandmother never took her eyes off the chest while I unpacked it," Katherine labored on gallantly. "Never, except once. She said she knew everything that was in it. But she didn't. There was something she didn't mention. I came on it, lying almost at the bottom of the chest. An odd, old-fashioned pocket, hung on a strap, as if it had been suspended from a belt or a sash, and the strap was snapped—torn. A tiny bit of a shred was caught in the lock of the chest. I saw it, as soon as I opened the lid. As my fingers touched the pocket, something inside it crackled. My heart fairly leaped, for I thought 'twas money. And—oh, Mrs. Slawson, I need money! You mayn't believe it, but I do. I never have a cent I can call my own, and I'm not allowed to try to earn anything. You know—my father had plenty, and I ought to have plenty, if I had my rights. I've sat here evening after evening, thinking, thinking, what I could do in case of need—in case a time came, when I couldn't endure it any longer. And when I felt what was inside that pocket, when I felt it crackle, I thought it was money, and—it was like a gleam of hope. I watched for my chance. It came at last—the one time when grandmother glanced away. I grabbed the pocket, and hid it in my dress. I didn't stop to think what I was doing. But if I had, I don't believe it would have made any difference. I didn't care if Iwasstealing. Ijust wanted that money! It's shameful to sit here, and face you, and tell about it, but—I guess I'm past shame. And then she gave me the mull, and was kind. I'd have put the money back then, but it was too late. She never took her eyes off me again, nor the chest. And then—later—after you'd gone, I stole away to my room, and—what was in the pocket wasn't money at all, but letters! Old, useless, miserable letters!"
"Did you read'm?" asked Martha to cover the painful effort the girl was making at self-control.
"No, I didn't read them. After I'd taken the pocket, believing it held money, and found only letters, I was toohonorableto read the letters."
She spoke with bitterest self-contempt.
"I carried them in my dress, because I didn't dare leave them anywhere else. And to-day I—I—lost them. I know they were letters written by my grandmother, when she was a girl. Her handwriting hasn't changed much, and I know if she dreamed they were lying about loose, lost, perhaps had been found by some busybody, who would publish them all over town, she'd——"
"That's just what I come to tell you," Mrs. Slawson announced with a breath of relief. "Thanks be! 'twas my girl, Cora, found the letters, an' she brought'm home to me. Not a soul besides us two has laid eyes on'm. Cora don't know any more than the angels above, that the one wrote'm ain't dead an' gone, with a antapsie held over her remains, this many a year. So, for all I see, your troubles are over, you poor child, an' you can lay your head on your pilla, an' sleep sound this night, if the heat, which it certaintlyisprosteratin', don't pervent. Here's the letters."
Katherine smiled faintly as she took the little packet.
"If I may make so bold, did you mean to be givin' the letters to Dr. Ballard?" Martha inquired, after a thoughtful pause. "I own up to you, I ain't been so fussy as not to read the name on the envelopes."
Miss Crewe winced. "Of course. That was right. No, I hadn't planned to give him the letters. At first I thought I would, but then I was afraid I might be obliged to tell him how I came to have them, and—I'm a coward. I couldn't bear to risk it. Do you think it's my duty to tell Dr. Ballard, Mrs. Slawson? Tell me what you think I ought to do."
"When a body sets out to tell another body what she'd ought to do, he better be careful," replied Martha gravely. "You never know what you're up against. For instance, if you're tellin' a fellalove his neighbor like himself, that's all right, only you wouldn't be countin' on his bein' one o' the kind thinks he's a little tin god on wheels. Bein' as he was that sort, you'd be tellin' 'm make a graven image of his neighbor, which he'd be constantly fallin' down before'm, an' worshippin' 'm, like a heathen idol. You can take it from me, tellin' people what they'd ought to do is a delicate job—too fine for the likes of Martha Slawson. But I'd just as liefs tell you what you hadn't ought to do, one o' which is, lie awake grievin' over spilled milk that's past an' gone. You mustn't lug your mistakes along with you, every place you go, like they was a basket o' dirty clo'es. Now lots besides laundryesses has dirty clo'es to wash, believe me. But if you pack'm up respectable in nice, clean wrappin' paper, with a stout string, or a decent telescope bag, nobody'll be the wiser, an' your neighbors won't objec' sittin' beside you in the cars. It's when you force your dirty clo'es under the noses of the other passengers, an' make'm uncomfortable, they've a kick comin'. No, if I was you (beggin' your pardon for the liberty) I wouldn't tell Dr. Ballard a thing 'twouldn't be a pleasure to'm to hear. I worked for a lady, Mrs. Sherman, an' she used ta wait to do things for, what she called—now, do you believe me, I can't remember the name of it! It was some kind o'moment. She talked about it frequent. The—the—sy——" Martha racked her brains laboriously.
"Could it possibly have been the psychological moment?" suggested Miss Crewe.
"The very one!" Mrs. Slawson took her up triumphantly. "The sykeylogical moment! Mrs. Sherman was dead stuck on it. She used to talk to her brother, Mr. Frank Ronald, about the sykeylogical moment, till you'd think it'd stop the clock. Now if you know what a sykeylogical moment is, an' reco'nize it when it comes along, why, you can take it from me, that'll be a good chance for you to give the doctor the letters in, but not before."
Katherine laughed. "I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Slawson," she said. "I'll wait for the psychological moment. And I'll wash my soiled linen alone, too. You've given me a lot of good advice. I'm much,muchhappier than I was before you came."
"Well, good-night then, an' God bless you!" said Martha, rising. "Now I'll go back to my—otherchildern."
Halfway between Crewesmere, and the main road, she came to a standstill.
"Hello!" exclaimed Dr. Ballard. "What are you doing so far from home at the witching hour of eight o'clock? It looks suspicious. Don't you think you'd better stand and deliver?"
Martha beamed, as she always did at sight of those she liked.
"I'llstand, all right, all right, sir, but you can searchmefor anything to deliver. My husban' he went to New York this mornin', an' before he went, with all my worldly goods I he endowed, accordin' to Scripture, as Mrs. Peckett says."
"Ho! Slawson's gone to New York, has he?" Dr. Ballard exclaimed. "Well, I'm off for Boston, myself, to-morrow. I'm on my way now to tell—Madam Crewe."
Martha nodded.
"Certaintly you are. You'll find Miss Katherine on the back porch, if you hurry. But the ol' lady makes her close the house at nine sharp, so you've not much time to waste on me. Good luck to you, sir. A safe journey, an' quick return."
The doctor chuckled as she left him.
"That woman's acase!" he said to himself, but under the stimulus of her suggestion he hurried his steps.
"Going to Boston?" Katherine repeated, her brows contracting in a troubled, triangular way which always gave a touching, childlike look to her fine eyes. "Isn't that rather sudden? You didn't tell me anything about it this afternoon—down Cherry Lane."
"No, I'd not made up my mind then. The resolve came later."
"You'll return?"
"Oh, yes. Very soon, if I get what I'm going after. Less soon, if I don't."
Katherine turned her face away.
"That sounds mysterious. But I remember you like mysteries."
"'Sure I do,' as Mrs. Slawson would say. I like mysteries for the fun of clearing them up. It's to clear up a mystery I'm going to Boston."
Katherine withheld the question on her lips.
"You don't ask what mystery."
"If you wanted me to know, you'd tell me."
"Well, then—I'm goingto discover the secret of me life. In other words, I'm going to see if I can get a line on my grandfather—the unfortunate gentleman—no, of course he couldn't have been agentleman, because he was a bailiff!—the unfortunate beggar who got himself disliked by his employer, and Madam Crewe. Personally, I've no social use for defunct forbears. It's a bit curious, because I'm a Bostonian. But professionally I'm all right on them. They have their uses scientifically. If my grandfather had a bug—I meangerm(disease or vice germ) I needn't necessarily inherit that particular insect, but there's no denying that if it happens along, I'm more open to infection, than a fellow whose grandad hadn't specialized as an entomologist. I've a notion I'd like to read my title clear. So I'm going to Boston to dig up dead deeds—in both senses, and see what I have back of me."
"I'd much rather see what I have ahead," Katherine laughed mirthlessly.
Dr. Ballard's chin went up with a jerk.
"Oh, I'm not afraid of what's before me. I'm willing to stand and face the future. If a fellow's straight goods on his own account, he has nothing to fear. He'll win out, somehow. But I wouldn't care to look forward, if I'd lied, or was a coward, or taken what belonged to some other fellow, or had any other sort of dirty rag of memory trailing after me. You never can tell when such a thing will trip you up. I say, you're not cold this broiling night, are you?"
"No. Why?"
"You shivered."
"Did I? It makes me nervous to hear you talk about 'dirty rags of memory.' I didn't suppose any one lived who hadn't regrets. I knowIhave."
"No doubt. I can imagine what for.I'mtalking of real offenses. The sort of thing Madam Crewe hints at in connection with my grandfather. By Jove, I wonder what the poor old duffer was guilty of. Perhaps, to put it euphemistically, he appropriated funds not his own—swiped fromyourgreat-grandfather's till. Seriously, that's no joke! I can imagine that even if a chap didn't care much about his family-tree, it might be a rather scorching reflection to know you'd descended—fallen—from a rotten apple of a thief, or something. You'd be forever looking for some taint of it to crop out in you. I confess, it wouldn't rejoice even my democratic soul. But that's what I'm going out for to discover. So, when next you see me, perhaps you won't."
Katherine's hand went toward him in an impulse too strong to resist.
"You know better than that," she said in a voice not wholly steady.
Dr. Ballard's large, firm grasp closed about her slender trembling fingers.
"I know better than that," he repeated gravely. "But there's something else, not your friendship, I can't be so confident of. When I come back, if everything's all right, as I believe it will be, I hope you'll be kind to me, and set my heart at rest about that too."
Katherine could not answer. After a moment of silent waiting, the doctor gently released her hand.
"I met Mrs. Slawson as I came along," he said in his usual manner. "She's a trump, that woman. The most normal human creature I've ever met."
"Her English isn't normal," Katherine said, trying to control the helpless trembling that was shaking her from head to foot.
"She's an impressionist. That's what's the matter with Hannah!—I should say, Martha. She gets and produces her effects in the large. She doesn't trouble with details. After all, I wonder if we'd like her better, given the possibility of making a grammarian of her."
Katharine smiled.
"She told me, the other day, that she was being made over. She mentioned the people concerned in it, and the different things they were making her over into. I don't recollect that grammarian was in the list."
"If the rest succeed as well in their efforts as I would in mine, if I attempted to make a Lindley Murray of her, I don't think we need worry. She'll progress along her own lines. But she's not various. You can't make a complex organism out of an elemental creature like Mrs. Slawson, any more than you could make a contemporaneous 'new woman' out of Brunnhilde."
"FancyMarthamounted on a celestial steed, bearing the souls of dead heroes to Walhalla!"
Dr. Ballard laughed.
"Well, I can tell you this, if she saw 'twas for the good of the souls, not the celestial steed, nor the dead heroes, nor Walhalla itself, would faze her. If you ever should need some one to stand by in an emergency, I couldn't think of a better than Martha Slawson. I hope you'll remember that, when I'm gone."
A moment, and he was gone, had turned abruptly, and left her without even so much as good-by.
Katherine bent her head to look down at the hand he had held, on which presently two tears plashed.
"She'll shut me off from that, too," she murmured bitterly. "She'll shut me off from that too—if she can!"
CHAPTER VIII
"Say, mother," Francie called in through the kitchen screen-door, "Miss Claire, she wants you to come on out. She says she wants to show you a very ol'."
"A very ol'what?" inquired Martha, turning from her stack of washed breakfast dishes, to wipe her hands on the roller-towel.
"I d'know. Only it's up a tree, an' she wants to show you it."
Martha went out at once.
Mrs. Ronald was standing, not far away, gazing intently up into the branches of a splendid spruce.
"Sh!" she cautioned, as Mrs. Slawson drew near.
"What is it?" asked Martha.
"Look!"
Martha's eyes, taking the direction indicated by Miss Claire's pointing finger, saw nothing.
"Do you see?"
"No."
"Quick! Look! O—oh! There he goes! He's flown away!"
"You mean that—bird?"
"Yes—a vireo."
Mrs. Slawson's interest relaxed. "Oh," she said with obvious disappointment.
"What did you think I wanted to show you? Didn't Francie tell you 'twas a vireo?"
"Certaintly she did. But she didn't say 'twas a very ol'bird. Nacherly, I kinda pictured to myself somethin' like Gran'pa Trenholm, or ol' lady Crewe a-sittin' up there, needin' immediate assistance. I thought to myself, that I never have clumb a tree, but if the need was great, there's no knowin' what Icoulddo."
Mrs. Ronald laughed. "Oh, Martha," she said, "I don't believe you'll ever make an ornithologist."
"Without knowin' what that may be," Mrs. Slawson returned affably, "I don't believe I ever will, though I'm ready to try."
"Yesterday, early, early, I got up, and went out, before any one else in the house was awake. I went down to the ravine, and oh! I wish you could have been there with me. It was so beautiful! It's not quite so early now, but, still, I think, maybe, we might hear the veery. Do you want to come?"
"Certaintly," said Martha.
For a time they walked on in silence, through the fragrant freshness of the new day. The full chorus of ecstatic bird voices had somewhat diminished, but, even so, the air seemed set to music.
Mrs. Ronald gave a great sigh. "Oh, Martha, isn't it lovely? When I think what happiness life holds, and how beautiful the world is, I wonder anybody can be discontented, or restless, or sorrowful."
Martha seemed to ponder it.
"Well, I guess a good deal depends on the body," she brought out at length. "As I make it out, the world it goes a-grindin' 'round steady an' sure, like a great, big coffee-grinder. We all got to feel the twist, first or last, before we're turned out fine enough to suit. Some folks feels the twist more'n others. I suppose it's nice to live easy, but there's this about not bein' too soft: you ain't likely to get hurt so much. D'you remember, oncet or twice, when I wasn't by, you tried to pull up the dumb-waiter, down to a Hundred and Sixteenth Street? An' the coarse rope, it got splinters into your soft little hands. Now, mine's so hard I could pull till the cows come home, an' nary a splinter. Yes, it's good not to be too sens'tive. If you are, you're bound to get all that's comin' to you, an' then some."
"Do you know anybody in particular, who is feeling thetwistespecially, just now?" asked Mrs. Ronald with interest.
Martha nodded. "I was thinkin' of Miss Katherine," she replied. "She's right up here, in the middle of all this, same as you and yet—you're happy, an' she ain't."
"Could I help?"
"I don't knowyet. I'm keepin' my eye out. If I find you can I'll let you know."
"Good!" Claire approved. She walked on a step, then suddenly stood at attention. "Hark!" she whispered. "The veery! the Wilson thrush!"
Mrs. Slawson, halting too, strained her ear to listen. At first her face expressed only the gentle interest of one willing to be pleased, but presently her eyes became luminous, her great chest rose and fell to deep, full breaths of keenest appreciation.
When the wonderful performance was at an end, and the veery had taken wing, Claire turned to her silent, but questioning.
Martha considered a moment. "When a cow lifts up his head, an' gets ready to bella, what with its size an' stren'th, you're prepared for the worst, an'—you get it. But when a tiny little fella, as innercent-lookin' as that very bird you say is the Wilson's thrush, whenhesits up an' lets a flute-sola out of'm, as elegant as the man in the band, down to the movies, well, it certaintlyissurprisin'. It somehow hits you right in the pit of the stummick. My! but I bet the Wilsons is sorry he flew away on'm."
Mrs. Ronald turned quickly to examine a bit of lichen, decorating a tree-trunk near at hand. When she faced Martha again, her cheeks were quite crimson.
"Say, you hadn't ought to bend down like that a hot day like this," cautioned Mrs. Slawson. "You got a rush o' brains to the head, I should say blood. You want to go easy such hot wather. I guess the walkin' took it out o' you."
"Oh, no," Claire assured her heartily. "I'm not a bit tired. And I tell you what I want to do some day soon. I want to go across the lake to the South cove. They say there's a blue heron there. I'm crazy to see him."
Martha nodded. "Well, if Lord Ronald is willin'——"
"He says he'll take me over in the launch, and you can go too, and the children. We'll have a beautiful picnic some day very soon, and, if you thought she would go, we might ask Miss Crewe, and——"
"She couldn't leave her gran'ma for so long. P'raps if you'd put it off till the fall——"
Miss Claire shook her head. "No, I'm going now," she said determinedly.
"Well, I'll go any day you say, then—so Lord Ronald's willin'. I can help'm with the la'nch. I know all aboutThe Moth'smachinery, if I don't about the cow's. An' when it comes to that, I could milk all right, all right, if I only knew what to turn on to make the milk come. It's on account o' the cow's not havin' her gear arranged so's a body can push a button, or pull a crank like a Christian, I have so much differculty. You can take it from me, autos an' la'nchs is simple by comparising. But what's really on my mind to say is, any mornin' you wish to see your red herrin', just say the word, an' I'll take you, though I tell you frank an' honest, if I was you, beggin' your pardon for the liberty, I'd stay on dry land myself, these days, an' not be botherin' my head over delicatessens, which you can get'm sent up, canned, by Park an' Tilford any day, with your next order."
"Mother! Mother!"
Francie's shrill, childish voice announced her but a second before she herself appeared around the tangle of bushes hedging the mouth of the ravine.
"Mother, mother!" she repeated, even after she saw the familiar form she sought.
"Well?"
Martha spoke calmly, undisturbed either by the child's heated face or manner.
"Mother—say—Mr. Ronald, he was over to our house, huntin' for Miss Claire. I guess he's fearful worried."
"Did he say he was worried?"
"No, he didn't, but he ast if I seen her, an' he said it was past breakfast-time."
"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Martha. "Francie's a little woman, ain't you, Francie? She knows, when a gen'lman thinks it's past meal time, it's up to ladies to get a move on."
Claire laughed. "I'll go at once," she returned obediently.
As Martha and Francie made their slow way back to the Lodge, Francie caught hold of her mother's hand in a sudden access of childish affection.
"Say, mother, I'm glad I'm your little girl, instead of anybody else's," she brought out impulsively.
"'Thank you, thank you, sir, she sayed. Your kindness I never shall forget!' I return the compliment," Martha announced with much manner.
"Mother, why does God want His name to be Hallow?"
"I didn't know He did."
"Yes, He does. At the beginning of the Lord's prayer, it says, 'Hallow would be thy name.' Don't you remember?"
"Certaintly I do, now you mention it. But if you ask me why, Robin, I got to give in, I can't tell you."
"I thought mothers knew everything," Francie said pensively. Martha's response was prompt.
"Well, be this an' be that, they do. Takin' mothers all together, they certaintly do. But, each one has her own speciality,an'if you askmequestions about God, I tell you, truly, I ain't got the answer, like I would have if I'd been to college, an' belonged to the lemon-eye, same's Miss Claire. On the other hand,Imay know thingsshedon't, about other matters nearer home. You never can tell."
"Cora says you don't know what's stylish. She says our clo'es are awful plain."
"Now, what do you think o' that! So Cora says I don't know what's stylish. Well, ifIdon't know what's stylish, I don't know who does, seein' I was in an' out o' the toniest houses in New York City, an' was personally acquainted with their dresses an' their hats. That same Cora is called after one of the stylishest ladies ever you saw, Mrs. Underwood, which she is dead now, but, when she was alive, looked like a duchess. An' you, yourself, are called after her daughter, Miss Frances, who married a l'yer, Judge Granville, butcould'a' had the pick o' the land. Never fear, I know what stylish is. Only, I know the differnce betweenladies'stylish an' ladies'-maid'sstylish. I seen both. Style's one thing. Loud's another. I want my childern to be seen but not heard."
"Mother, are you sorry Ma's gone away for good? She told Cora, 'fore she went, that you didn't know she ain't comin' back, but she ain't. She said her heart was broke with the quiet up here. She said she's goin' to live with Uncle Dennis after this, or Uncle Andy, where it's lively, an' there's more comin' an' goin'."
Mrs. Slawson suffered the full significance of Francie's revelation to sink into her consciousness, before she attempted to reply.
"Well, well," she said at last, with an air of brave resignation, "so, Ma's gone away for good, has she? An' she didn't want for me to be breakin' my heart with the news o' it. It certaintly is a shock an' no mistake. But a body must do the best she can, when she can't do no differnt. I'll try to bear up under it, Francie, much as I mourn my loss. In this life we got to go about with a smilin' countenance, no matter what our private sorras are. It won't do to let the world see your sufferin'. The world has troubles of its own. By the way, I wonder if Sammy's got back from takin' the mornin's milk to Madam Crewe's yet?"
Not only had Sammy got back, but he was the bearer of news.
"Say, mother, they got comp'ny to ol' lady Crewe's. A gen'lman, he come up with a bag. In a rig, from over to Burbank. The fella drove the rig, he was comin' back our road, an' he saw me, an' he says: 'Say, bubby, jump in an' I'll carry you a ways,' an' I did, an' he did."
"My, my, but ain't you lucky? To get a free ride so early in the mornin'. That was a kind ac' to do, wasn't it? Now, it's up to you to return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Keep your eye out for that young fella, Sammy, so's if he goes past again, on his way back to fetch ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny an' carry'm to the station, you can call me, an' I'll give'm a glass o' cold lemonade to cool'm off."
"He ain't comin' back. The comp'ny ain't from Burbank. He's from New York. He come up last night on the Express, an' he's goin' back when he's ready, but he don't know when he'll be ready, so he couldn't tell the fella with the rig. An' the fella with the rig, he couldn't wait anyhow. He has to go back to Burbank, an' then 'way out another way, miles an' miles, to get a party wants to catch a north-bound train goes out the middle o' the night. One o'clock it goes out, the fella said. An' if they don't catch it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin', so they got to catch it. The fella with the rig tol' me, he guessed ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny was a lawyer. He said he could tell by the cut of his jib. What's the cut of his jib, mother?"
Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "That's a lazy, shif'less way o' learnin' knowledge, Sammy, to be askin' it off'n parties that had to work hard themselves to get it. Since we got that grand dickshunerry-book Lord Ronald give your father, there ain't no excuse for any of us not knowin' things any more. Lord Ronald said: 'The dickshunerry habit is a good thing. When you don't know a word, look it up.'"
"How do you spelljib?"
The glance Mrs. Slawson cast on Sammy sent him off flushed with shame at having exposed an ignorance so dense.
At Crewesmere, meanwhile, the newcomer was calmly eating his breakfast, Katherine doing the honors with what grace she could.
Mr. Norris was no stranger to her. She knew him, had always known him, in fact, as her grandmother's man of affairs, a lawyer of repute. While she had no cause to distrust him, the fact that he was in a position to advise in questions closely affecting herself, affairs she was kept in total ignorance of, gave her a feeling of resentment toward him, as toward one who, voluntarily or not, held an unfair advantage.
"See he has a good breakfast," her grandmother had directed. "Let him eat and smoke his fill, but don't send him up to me with any unsatisfied cravings. A man's mind is a little less apt to be vacant if his stomach is full."
During the succeeding long hours of the forenoon, the two were closeted in Madam Crewe's sitting-room. Katherine could hear the incessant, low drone of their voices as she sat on the shaded veranda, trying to employ her mind so it would not dwell on the enervating heat and the fact that now, at this moment, her grandmother might be creating conditions that would irrevocably cripple her future and she was powerless to prevent it.
At luncheon-time Madam Crewe summoned Eunice Youngs.
"While Miss Crewe and the gentleman are at table, I want you to go to Mrs. Slawson's and tell her I must see her at once. Understand?Madam Crewe says she must see Mrs. Slawson at once. Say, she's to come in that motor-car Mr. Ronald gives her and her husband the use of. Say, Madam Crewe wishes her to take a gentleman to the railroad station in time for the five-forty-five train. Have you brains enough to repeat that straight? Or, shall Miss Katherine write it down for you?"
"Oh, grandmother," expostulated Katherine, when Eunice had gone to "tidy up" for her errand, "I don't think we can order Mrs. Slawson about like that. She's done a lot for us, already, but we have no claim on her, and to send for her to come, in all this heat, and bring her motor, and take Mr. Norris to the station—it's exactly as if——"
"My dear, don't bother your head over what doesn't concern you. Slawson and I understand each other—which is more than you and I do, I'm afraid," the old woman pronounced with biting distinctness.
The meal was barely over when Martha arrived.
"Now, Slawson," Madam Crewe greeted her, "I've sent for you onbusiness, so I want you to stop looking benevolent, if you can, and attend to what this gentleman has to say."
"Yes'm," said Martha.
Mr. Norris adjusted his eye-glasses with professional precision. "Have you ever had any experience with the law, or lawyers?" he asked, regarding her steadfastly through his polished lenses.
"Certaintly, I have. Oncet, I worked out for a lady who got a divorce off'n her husband, on what they call statuary grounds, an' the first she knew, he up an' off, an' married the—statue. He was a railroad magnet. The kind draws more'n more to'm, all the time. So, o' course, the law never so much as laid a finger on'm. An' about two years ago, my little girl, she got run over by a auta, but, though Mr. Frank Ronald he tried to get'm to pay us a little somethin' for our trouble, we ain't seen a cent o' money yet. Oh, yes. I know about thelaw!"
"I mean, do you understand that when you are brought as a witness before the law, you are held responsible for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
Martha cogitated. "No, sir. I can't say I do, that is,did. I never knew the law had so much to do withtruthbefore. But, if you say so, I'm willin' to take your word for it."
Mr. Norris pulled a long upper lip.
"My client, Madam Crewe, has called you here for two purposes. First, she wishes you to be present whilst I ask her granddaughter a few important questions. Second, you and the maid—a—Eunice Youngs, are to write your names as witnesses upon a certain paper I have drawn up for my client. Are you willing to act for Madam Crewe in these matters?"
Martha shot a quick, inquiring glance at Katherine. The girl nodded in response.
"Yes, sir!" Mrs. Slawson answered promptly.
"Then, see that you charge your mind seriously with what you have undertaken. Your memory must be exact. Now, Miss Crewe——"
Katherine inclined her head, smiling faintly. But Martha noticed she was very pale.
"Your grandmother would like to know, from your own lips, the extent of your acquaintance with Dr. Ballard, the physician who has been in attendance on Madam Crewe since her late illness."
Katherine hung fire a moment, while the blood slowly mounted to her cheeks, her temples.
"My grandmother forbade me to have anything whatever to do with Dr. Ballard," she parried the question.
"Did you obey her injunction?—Attend, Mrs. Slawson!"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"I didn't think she had any right to control me so."
"Not when she intimated there were reasons?"
"She told me things about Dr. Ballard—his people, rather, but I didn't, and I don't, consider themreasons. She has no proof, or, if she has, she certainly hasn't presented it. I don't consider it worthy of notice when a person says things about another which are not backed up by proof."
"As a matter of fact, then, you do know Dr. Ballard, in spite of your grandmother's prohibition?"
"Yes."
"You know him very well?"
"Quite well."
"My next question, Miss Crewe, you will answer notwithstanding its peculiarly personal and intimate character, because (I am authorized to tell you) upon your answer important issues hang. If Dr. Ballard asks you to marry him, is it your intention to accept him?"
For a long moment there was no sound in the room, except such as came, muted, from out-of-doors, and the leisurely ticking of the tall clock in the corner.
Then Katherine, rising, impetuously faced the lawyer and Madam Crewe.
"I willnotanswer that question, no matter what issues hang on it," she retorted hotly.
"Miss Crewe, I have your interest at heart, believe me. I strongly advise you to answer."
"No."
"You mean you will not accept him."
"I mean no such thing. I mean I refuse to answer."
"Why?"
"You ought to know. The question is—indelicate. When—ifDr. Ballard says he wishes to marry me, it will be time enough for me to answer—him."
"He has already said so."
Miss Crewe started. "What do you mean?" she demanded imperiously.
"Dr. Ballard has already told your grandmother he wishes to marry you. Madam Crewe would like to know your intentions."
"I wish my grandmother had chosen a different way of obtaining my confidence," the girl broke out, almost broke down. "It seems very strange to me that she should choose such a method as this. It seems—almost—disgraceful."
The old woman, sitting erect in her high-backed chair, did not attempt to defend herself.
The lawyer, ignoring Katherine's outburst, continued his dry-voiced interrogation.
"You would accept him?"
"If Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me," the girl answered with marked quiet of voice and manner, in strong contrast to her outbreak of a moment ago, "if Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me—I will marry him."
"In opposition to your grandmother?"
"I don'twantto oppose my grandmother, but if she tries to spoil my life for the sake of a groundless prejudice I will—yes—I will marry himin oppositionto her."
"Think well, Miss Crewe. Take your time. Answer cautiously. If you were told Dr. Ballard is a struggling young doctor, with no present means of support, to speak of, and a perfectly problematic future. If you were told that he would never be able to provide you with more than a bare living income——"
"I would marry him."
"If you were told that, in case you do so, your grandmother would divert her property from you (as she has a perfect legal right to do) and dispose of it elsewhere——?"
"Still—I would marry him."
"Nothing would dissuade you?"
"Nothing."
"The inquisition is over."
It was the old woman who spoke. Her face was as impassive as ever, but Martha Slawson noticed that her tiny, emaciated fingers clutched the arms of her chair with a vise-like grip.
"For all the world like a bird I seen last Spring," Martha mused, "which somethin' had broke its wing, an' its claws was holdin' on fierce, for dear life, to the branch o' the bush it was clingin' to—as ifthat'd save it!"
"May I go now?"
As Katherine made the appeal, she turned toward her grandmother, but her eyes were kept resolutely averted.
Mr. Norris raised a detaining hand. "One moment, please. I assume you entertain no doubt of Madam Crewe's mental competency? That she is of sound mind, capable of acting rationally on her own behalf? That any will and testament she might choose to execute at this time would be above suspicion of mistake, fraud, or undue influence?"
For a moment Katherine seemed to consider. Then her lip curled.
"If you mean, am I likely in the future to contest any will my grandmother may now make to my disadvantage, I say no. I will never dispute her course, whatever direction it may take. All I ask is that she will not dispute mine. I am only sorry that they seem to diverge so completely. I am sick of the name of money. I would say I am sick of the sight of it—but I have never seen any——" with which parting thrust, the girl turned on her heel, and left the room.
She went none too soon, for the moment the door closed upon her, her self-control gave way, and she groped stumblingly to her own chamber blinded by tears, choking back the sobs that were in themselves a humiliation.
The three she had left, were silent when she had gone, until Mr. Norris drew an important-looking sheet from under a mass of papers at his elbow, and addressed Mrs. Slawson.
"As a general rule I strongly advise you, or any one, against placing your signature to any instrument which you have not previously read and do not fully understand. In this case, however, there is absolutely no harm. Please call the other witness."
Martha took a step toward the door.
"If I put my writin' on that paper, it won't mean I'm injurin'—anybody?" she demanded firmly.
"You have my word as to that."
"I'd never sign it, if it was to hurt Miss Katherine."
"Your placing your signature there cannot affect Miss Crewe's interests one way or the other."
Martha summoned Eunice Youngs, and the two, in their best manner, literally with great pains, proceeded to affix their names as witnesses to the last and testament of Idea Stryker Crewe.