CHAPTER IXIt was late one evening at the end of the week, when Sam came back, to Martha's surprise, alone."Ma just wouldn't leave the city," he explained. "She's staying at Dennis's now, but Sarah told me she couldn't keep her above a week or so, at the longest. She said Andy, or Hughey, or one of the girls would be better able to look after her than Dennis and herself, who have all they can manage paying off on their house in Yonkers, and the children to educate besides. Sarah was quite short with me on account of Ma. She said she was real put out. We'd no business leaving an old woman, Ma's age, away from the country such hot weather, especially when we were just getting on our feet now, and were well able to give her a home without feeling it."Martha smiled tolerantly. "There'd be no time o' year'd suit Sarah for takin' any more trouble than she's got to," she observed, pouring her husband's tea."It's a nice little place they've bought," Sam informed her, between bites of cold ham and potato. "Dennis travels down and up every day, which is, what you might call a stunt, but he has the satisfaction of knowing the roof over his head is his own."Martha set an ice-cold cup-custard at Sam's plate."From Yonkers to the Batteryisa kind o' long stretch, but—where there's a will there's a—sub-way, I s'pose. Would he be with the same steamship company he was with, since I first knew'm, I wonder?""Yes, and they gave him a raise last month. He's doingall right, Dennis is. You ought to see the way Sarah's got the house fixed. They pay off for the new furniture every month, so they don't feel it, Sarah says.""Well, Sarah mayn't feel it, but you can take it from me,Icertaintly would, in her place," Martha observed. "Gettin' things on the excitement plan, would wrack my health. I hate the thought o' owin'. Payin' for a dead horse never didappealto me, as Mrs. Sherman says. How's Andy doin'?""Andywassucceeding great, but something went wrong, somehow, all of a sudden, and his scheme fell through. He explained it to me, but I forgot the particulars, to tell the truth. He'll be on his feet again in no time. Andy always was the smart one of the family."Martha ruminated. "Wouldn't you wonder how anythin' gets done in this world, when nothin' anybody ever tries seems to succeed? Is Nora as gallus-lookin' as ever? Or is she holdin' in her horses some, now her husban's kind o' down an' out, for the time bein'?""Nora's just the same, as far as I can see.OurNora says Nora-Andy is distroying Andy with her extravagance. She says the way she dresses, alone, it's no wonder he is always in and out of some get-rich-quick scheme, that'll land him in the poor-house, or worse, if he don't look out. But then, our Nora never did have the appearance of Nora-Andy, I must say that, if I am her own brother. Our Nora is kind of sharp, and she looks it.""Well, I guess marriage'll bevel some of the edges off'n her, all right, all right," said Martha. "Were you surprised when you heard she was keepin' company with McKenna?""Yes, I was. I never thought Nora'd marry now—at her age.""Nora always wanted to marry, an' when she saw her chance she grabbed it by both horns."Sam's serious expression relaxed a little. "That sounds as if McKenna was the devil and all of a fellow. He's not that at all, and he certainly ain't much to look at.""Oh, well," Martha responded, "nobody but her'll have a call to look at'm much, oncet he's married.""I told her I thought she was taking a risk, throwing up a good place she'd been in, for so many years, parlor-maid, to live out general-housework with a stranger," said Sam. "I thought that was a joke. But it made her mad. She said, 'God knows it's no joke!' She said she had as much of a right to live her life as I have, which of course it's true. She said 'every dog has its day!'""True for you. So he has, just like s'ciety ladies. But that ain't to say there'll be anybody'll come. An' I sometimes think there's more dogs, 'n days, anyhow."Sam looked up. "Say, mother, you ain't down-hearted, are you?""No. Why? What'd make me downhearted, I should like to know?""I just thought you might be," her husband answered. "I never heard you speak that doubting kind of way before. And, we've no call to think ill of the world, with all the luck that's come to us.""Certaintly. An' if luck don't stay with us, itself, it won't be because we ain't set her a chair, an' done every mortal thing we know of to make her comfortable. I've no kick comin', nor ever had. I like life all right, the hard part along with the soft part. If you didn't have the one you wouldn't know how to relish the other. But, speakin' o' Nora, I never looked to see her sportin' a 'finity of her own, I can tell you that!""''Finity'?" questioned Sam."Genteel for fella," Martha answered. "I often heard Mrs. Sherman speakin' of'm. You can take it from me, I never looked to see that same Nora get a-holt o' one.""Nor I. And I said as much to Ma. Ma told it back to Nora, and Nora was as mad as could be. She said if it came to that, she didn't see as she was the worst-looking one in the family, when a body counted in what some of us had married.""Meanin' me," observed Martha appreciatively."She said she 'didn't see why folks should be so monstrous surprised that she got a husband. Every Joan has her Jack.' The very words she said.""Sure they have. But only it ain't told what kind o' Jack. So did Balaam have a jack, if she wantsthatkind. But, p'raps McKenna is a prize-package.Wedon't know. I wonder will he take kindly to Ma?"Sam shook his head. "One of the first things he told me was, 'We couldn't look to him to give my mother a home. He had troubles of his own.' It stirred me up so, I almost lost my temper. I said I didn't look to him to give my mother a home. If he gave my sister one, now he'd contracted to marry her, I'd be glad.""Why, Sam," said Martha looking at him with mock-reproach, "I wonder at you, I do so! To speak up that fierce! You hadn't ought to be so violent, an' use such strong language to a party just gettin' ready to come into the fam'ly. It might scare'm off. He must think you're a dretful bully.""Nora told Ma, before I left, that Ma was foolish to stay back in New York. She said she and McKenna, starting out, young married folks——""God save the mark!" murmured Martha."She said they couldn't offer her a home, much as they'd like to. But Ma said her heart was broke with the country. She wanted to live in the city where something was going on.""It's one thing what youwant, and another what youmust. Poor Ma! I'm sorry for her. When she comes back she'll know a thing or two more'n she does now. We'll have to be kind o' gentle with her, to make up. But come on now, Sam. If you've et all you can, I'll do my dishes, while you lock up, an' then we can go to bed. You look plain wore out.""I'm glad to get home," Sam answered her, and though he said no more Martha understood him.Long after he was asleep she lay awake in the white moonlight, thinking. "Down home," she knew it was stifling. Sam had told her that the hot wave was breaking all records for intensity and duration. And yet, somehow, her soul yearned for the stretches of sun-softened "ashfalt" with its smell of mingled dust and tar, for all the common city sounds and sights amid which she had been born and bred; all the noise and commotion that speltHomefor her. She could understand Ma's feeling, and her heart softened to the poor old woman."It's all right up here," she admitted to herself. "I like the folks first rate, such as they are an' what there is of'm, only they ain't what a body is used to. I never see nicer parties than the Trenholms, an' the Coleses, an' the Moores. That time Hiram Black's house burned down, if every mother's son of'm didn't turn out an' lend a hand. Got the Blacks fixed up fine an' dandy, in no time, in a new place, with what they called 'donations.' Down home you wouldn't find your neighbors givin' you furnitur', an' bricky-braw things like that, not on your life! An' when you'd paid the insurance money itself, the Company'd kick before it'd give you the price o' your losin's. An' yet, I know how Ma feels. If young Luther Coles had 'a' had the fever down home he had up here last fall, they'd a-yanked'm away from his own flesh an' blood to the pest-house. An' here his mother was let take care of'm, an' the meals was got by the neighbors, which she hauled'm up in a basket, three times a day, an' et'm hot an' fresh from the oven, without havin' to raise her hand, only take'm out from under a clean napkin. You'd go hungry a long time in New York City, before the folks acrost the air-shaft from you, would know your boy was dyin' on you, much less sneak in a bite an' a sup, from time to time, through the dumb-waiter. But—all the same—I know how Ma feels."Martha had reached this stage in her musings when a faint knock sounded on the door below. She waited, listening. The knock was repeated. As quietly as she could, which was not very quietly, she slipped from her bed, threw on her light cotton kimono, which always lay ready at hand in case of emergency, and hastened downstairs, leaving Sam asleep and snoring, worn out by the city heat, his sense of responsibility in connection with Mr. Ronald's commissions, and the long day's journey home, with its fatiguing delays and tiresome changes.She shot the bolt back, turned the key with resolute hand. She could not imagine what had happened that would account for this unusual disturbance, but whatever it might be, she braced herself to meet it.On the doorstep stood the shivering figure of a girl, clad only in her night-dress. She was shivering with excitement, not chill."Mrs. Slawson," she managed to bring out, before words became impossible, drowned in the torrent of her tears and sobbing.Martha placed a motherly hand about the frail shoulders."Come now, come now! Don't cry like that. You'll shake yourself to pieces. I don't know what's the matter, but it'll be all right, anyhow, never fear. You're Ellen Hinckley, ain't you? I think I seen you a couple o' times at church."As Martha talked, she drew her visitor into the house, automatically locked and bolted the door, and settled the girl in Sam's chair in the sitting-room.The moonlight, streaming in through the windows, made the place almost as light as day, but for some purpose of her own, Martha was about to strike a match, when Ellen Hinckley stopped her with a quick cry."No, no! Don't do it! I've run away. I've left my mother's. My stepfather'll follow me when he finds I'm gone."She drew a long painful breath, then panted out her story in short, labored gasps."I've never had a home. You mayn't believe it, but mother don't care a scrap about me, except for the work I can do. I've tried and tried for years to bear it, but it's got to be too hard. I can't live that way any longer. You know,—Mr. Wedall——?"Martha nodded. "The pasture?""Yes, he's my minister. He knows all about me. He told me to do my best, but if the time came when I just couldn't bear it another minute I might go. He saidhecouldn't help me run away, because—because——""Certaintly he couldn't!" said Martha."But he said, if ever Ihadto do it, the Lord would raise up some one who could. Mother's never liked me. I've not been happy a minute since my father died.Hewasn't happy. He had no peace of his life. He used to tell mother she'd get her come-uppance some day, and she's got it now, for Buller, that's her second husband, he beats her. He's got her money and mine too, what father left us, and he's afraid I'll law him, now I'm of age and can. I tried to run off yesterday, but he caught me and took away my clothes, and locked me in my room. I had some money I'd got hold of. 'Twas my own—and when he caught me, and he and mother stripped me and locked me up, I held on to it, all through, though he beat me black and blue with his belt-strap."She spread her poor little trembling palm, disclosing a fistful of crumpled bills."See? And here's where he beat me—andshestood by and let him!"As she spoke, the girl drew back the coarse night-dress from her breast, displaying shoulders and back seamed across with cruel wales.Martha drew in her breath shudderingly, shielding her eyes with her elbow in a quick, instinctive defensive gesture."I'd know you speak the truth without—that!" she said."After they left me, and locked me in—when I couldthink—I remembered what Mr. Wedall said about the Lord raising up help for me, and it made me mad, for there was no one to lift a hand for me. And then, all at once, somehow, you came into my mind. I saw you help a dog once, nobody else would touch. D'you remember? All the rest were afraid. They said he might be mad. But you said, 'Of course he ain't mad.' And you took him up, and took him home, and—you weren't afraid.""No, I'm not afraid," said Martha."After you came into my mind I never rested till I found a way to get out. I waited till everything was quiet. They'd gone to bed. Then I managed it—through the window—down the grapevine trellis—I——"Martha made her way to the corner cupboard. "I'll fix you up with arnica an' water inside and out," she explained. "An', while I'm doin' it, you tell me what you've planned.""Nothing. I've planned nothing. Buller says I'm looney. Perhaps I am. I can't seem to think.""Have you got any folks anywheres? I mean, on your father's side?""I've an uncle. Father's brother. But he lives in Montreal.""Montreal! Where would that be, I wonder?""In Canada. Up north."Mrs. Slawson bound on her soothing compresses in silence. Suddenly she paused, alert, listening. Then, quick as a flash, she caught her visitor by the sleeve, drew her back in to the entry and pushed her into a small closet under the stairs."Hush! I hear a horse. Don't you breathe till I come an' tell you."A moment later she was lying in bed, as still as though she, like Sam, were fast asleep and dreaming.Presently Sam stirred, sat up drowsily, and listened."Say, mother, you asleep?"No answer.A voice from below in the garden called up hoarsely:"Hullo, there!""What's wanted?" demanded Sam."I'm Buller, from Milby's Corners. My wife's daughter has wandered off in the night. I'm out hunting for her, to take her home. She ain't all there in the upper story. I thought, maybe, she'd come in here. The last I saw of her, she was making this way. She's in her night-shift. I could see her plain as day, far ahead of me."Sam was so obviously but just-awakened, that Buller from Milby's Corners turned his horse's head, as if to make a quick departure, when Mrs. Slawson, yawning, leaned over the rail of the sleeping-porch and spoke."Say, wait a minute. The poor thing! Wanderin' about in the night,—an' her light-headed—away from your pertectin' love an' care! Ain't it awful! My husban' an' me'll get up, an' be dressed in no time, for we'd like to help her, if we can, poor creature! In the meantime, seein' you ain't found her here, I s'pose you'll be goin' further. Out in her night-clo'es! My! I wonder—— Say, Sam—doyousee somethin' white flitterin' along towards the south—down the valley road d'rection? Seems to meIdo!"Sam thought maybe he did.Buller kicked a heel into his horse."G'long! I'm off down the valley road. I bet 'tis her. I'll have her yet, the d—the poor dear!"The instant he was gone, Martha dragged Sam into the house."Quick! Dress you! An' go down get the auta. I have the girl hid in the entry closet. I'm goin' to take her out o' harm's way, which is that brute beast's.""But, Martha——" remonstrated Sam."Sam Slawson, do as I tell you! Or you'll have toshoveus into Burbank in your present gob, which, believeme, it ain't bewitchin'. You can take it from me, lad, I'm goin' to catch that north-bound express that leaves Burbank at one o'clock this night, which, if we don't make it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin'. So wegotto make it, or I'll know the reason why!"Impelled by a motive power so irresistible, Sam dressed and went about his business without venturing another word.Martha clothed herself in the brief intervals when she was not attending Ellen Hinckley, giving her bread to eat, milk to sip, enveloping her in garments gathered from everywhere, anywhere, a conglomerate assortment that would have been grotesque if it had not been touching."No one'll mind your looks," Martha reassured her. "Just you sit tight, an' keep your own counsel, an' not a dog'll bark after you. Ma's veil tied down over Cora's hat is quite stylish, an', be this an' be that, you've got as good a motorin' costume as any. They all look like Sam Hill. So now, I guess, we might be movin'!""It's a crazy scheme," Sam whispered in his wife's ear, as she bent to him to deliver last instructions, while he was cranking up. "Suppose a tire bursts?""It ain't goin' to," she assured him with perfect confidence.Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even Martha's garrulous tongue was stilled.The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar, remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable. The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car, the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security under Mrs. Slawson's protecting wing.Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters profile toward her."I hear something back of us. Can you see?""No. If I stir she'll wake. You don't think it's him?""It may be. Joe Harding's place is down the valley road. He has a car. Buller mayn't suspect we're helping the girl, but when he didn't find her in that direction, Harding may have offered to take a hand in the game.""Would any man o' conscience help a fella like Buller, who all the neighborhood knows the life he's led this poor creature—him an' the mother, which she's a disgrace to the name.""No, but Harding ain't a man of conscience,—not so you'd notice it, as you say. If Buller's out on the still-hunt, Harding'd join in for the pleasure of the chase.""Put on power," directed Martha.Again that swift, silent progress through the night.Once Sam whispered: "I guess we were stung. I can't hear anything back of us any more, can you?""No," said Martha. "But stung or no stung, keep a-goin'. We ain't takin' no risks."Ellen Hinckley slept fitfully, but even in her waking moments she was not aware of the dangers the others had feared."Let her rest," Martha meditated. "After she's made a clean getaway, she'll have all that's comin' to her, in the line o' excitement an' strain. I don't believe'm when he says she ain't all there in the upper story. But that's not meanin' I think she's furnished as handsome as some. She may have all her buttons, an' yet not be the brainiest party I ever come in contract with. Why didn't she up an' open her mind an' give Buller a piece o' it long ago? There's many things a married woman's got to shoulder, God knows, but chas*tise*ment, hot off'n his griddle, as you might say, not on your life, even a married woman needn't stand, much less a unmarried maiden-girl. It ain't decent. If a man oncet took the strap to me, I'd fix'm so's the doctor'd have to hunt for the buckle o' his belt behind his internal workin's, in back among his spine. An' I'd be proud o' the job."When they were within about five miles of Burbank Sam gave a low whistle."I was wonderin' if you heard it too," Martha responded promptly. "Firstoff I thought 'twas my imagination, but it ain't. Somethin' certaintly's follain' along in our tracks.""The first was a false alarm. So may this be," said Sam."Sure. But, could you speed up some? Just for luck?"Presently Martha heard another sound."Now, Ellen," she announced firmly, "you got to brace up. Cryin' won't do you a mite o' good.""He's following. I know it. He's got a car. He'll get me and take me back and—killme!""He will if you don't do as I say. But not on your life he won't, if you mind your aunt Martha. Firstoff, have you got your money safe an' handy?""Yes. Here.""That's right. See you don't lose it, when I assist you onto the train. There mayn't be much time to spare, but if the brakeman's any good on the catch, I'm up to handin'm a neat throw, an' between us you'll get there!""But my ticket——""This is no time for thinkin' o' tickets. Let the conductor be glad if, after the train is on its way, you got the price o' one o' them long, floatin' streamer-effec's he carries in his vest-pocket, to amuse 'mself punchin' holes in it."They sped into Burbank under all the power Sam dared put on."Thank God!" sobbed Ellen Hinckley.But when they reached the station, no train was in sight, the place was virtually deserted.Sam drew up beside the platform and, for a moment sat quite still, evidently cogitating."No such thing! The train ain't gone!" said Martha, as if he had maintained it had. "It's only five minutes to one.""It might have been ahead of time.""Did you ever know one was?" inquired his wife.He got out and made his way to the waiting-room. A moment and he was back."There's been delays back along the road. The train's two hours late. It won't be here till three, or after.""Well, what do you think o' that!" said Martha.The next instant she was dragging Ellen Hinckley into the waiting-room, through it, and on into the telegraph-operator's booth."Say, young fella," she addressed him bluntly, "this party here's in danger of her life. Me an' my husban' is gettin' her out o' harm's way, which he's hot on our track. He'll be along any minute. Think o' your mother, if you ever had one. An if not, think o' some other female o' the same sect, only younger. Lend a hand, anyhow, to help us out, will you?"The youth eyed Mrs. Slawson dubiously."How do I know——?" he began objecting."You don't. But, by the time I get through with you, you will. Only this ain't thetime, see? Come now, step lively, like they say in New York. Put this party away, out o' sight. No matter how crampin' the place. An' be quick about it!"The young man gazed about his booth helplessly, shook his head, then got upon his feet. He drew a key from his pocket, as if acting under hypnotic suggestion."I'm taking your word for it," he grumbled. "If it gets me into trouble——""I'llget you out," answered Martha confidently.Without further ado he led them through the waiting-room, unlocked the baggage-room door and, in the semi-darkness, he and Martha walled their captive in behind a barricade of freight and baggage."Try to be contented till train-time," Mrs. Slawson admonished Ellen. "Don't you be scared. We won't forget you, nor we won't let your stepfather get you, 'less it's over this young-man-here's dead body an'——""Oh, I say!" objected the telegraph-operator plaintively.Martha shook her head at him. "I only wanted to cheer her up," she whispered, as they passed out into the waiting-room, he locking the door behind them.Sam came forward to meet her."I guess we had our scare for nothing," he observed. "If that'd been Buller behind us, he'd have got here before now.""Not if he'd had tire-troubles. But prob'ly you're right," said Martha.Sam considered. "Then what's the use of keeping the poor girl hid?""It won't hurt her. An' a ounce o' pervention is worth a pound o' cure."Later the telegraph-operator took the trouble to shove up his window and address Martha through it. His tone was loftily supercilious, ironically facetious."Nothing doing! You've been stringing me, I guess!" he sagely opined.Mrs. Slawson regarded him blandly."Certaintly. My husban' an' me, we come twenty-five miles streakin' through the night on purpose to do it. Such a precious jewel of a fella as you, anybody'd want to string'm, for safe-keepin', so's he wouldn't fall down an' roll away an' be lost in a crack o' the floor."The telegraph-operator grimaced."Say, now, no joke! You said you'd tell me the whole story, so I'd know what I was in for. I ain't hankering to be called down by the Company for outdoing my duty."Mrs. Slawson smoothed her dress over her knees. "Come an' sit on my lap, sonny-boy, an' I'll tell you all about it. Only bein' so young, an' havin' such a tender conscience with you, it might keep you awake in your crib nights. Did you ever see weels, as thick as my thumb, on the white skin of a young girl's shoulders? Well, I could turn back the waist o' that one in there, an' show you such. Raised by the leather-belt o' her mother's second husban', which they're perfect ladies an' gen'lmen, o' course, bless their hearts. They will be after her like mad, when they know she's given'm the slip. Good lan'! If young fellas was reely young fellas nowadays, you'd be glad of the chancet to pour some o' the Widow Cruse's oil on a poor ill-used child's troubled waters. An' not be thinkin' o' yourself all the time—if it'd harmyouto help her, or if the Comp'ny would objec'."The youth regarded her with level eyes."You can count on me," he said. "I'm with you in this, no matter what.""Good bey!" said Martha.The hours dragged wearily along. One by one disappointed travelers who had strayed off to kill time at the hotel, returned to meet their delayed train.Martha had advance information concerning its coming, the lad at the wire furnishing it gratuitously."It'll be along now in five minutes," he said, "and I've put the baggage-man wise, so he's ready to help you get her off, as fine as silk, even if——"Just then Martha saw Sam approaching. Though his step and manner were, to all outward appearances as usual, she instantly knew something was amiss."What is it?" she asked calmly."He's come. Him and Harding are here. They haven't seen me nor the car yet. I put that beyond, under a shed, where it wouldn't be conspicuous. But we can't dodge them long, and——""This way, ma'am!" summoned the baggage-man, touching Martha's elbow. "I got the young lady ready for you—and the train's coming.""Take care of yourself, Sam," Martha cautioned him, following her leader.The train thundered up. Before it had fairly come to a halt, Buller sighted Sam. He made a rush toward him, brandishing a menacing arm."Keep cool," advised Sam. "And keep off!""You've got the girl!" Buller roared. "We know you have, from them as saw you coming over here, three in the car. Where is she?""Find her," said Sam.Buller turned to Harding. "Youhandle him, Joe. I'll tackle the woman."Martha stood at the baggage-room door, as Buller came pounding down the platform."Hand over that girl!" He spoke with sinister calmness."Certaintly," said Martha. "That's just what I'm waitin' to do."The engine whistled. Buller started toward Martha, getting in the way of the baggage-man, who was pushing a loaded hand-truck before him. His elbow sent Buller reeling. In that instant, through a maze, Buller saw Martha lift what had looked like a piece of burlap-covered baggage from the truck, and toss it, with sure aim, to the brakeman on the platform of the slow-moving car. The brakeman caught it deftly, and set it on its feet. The train slid past."Ellen!" Buller cried. Then, turning on Martha, "You—devil!"Mrs. Slawson bowed civilly. "Same to you, sir.""I'll—I'll do you up yet. You're not done with me, not by a long shot.""I haven't a doubt o' it. I'm ready for you, any time. LikewiseMisterSlawson. Only, I advise you, take it out on me. My husband might hurt you too much, if he got goin'."As they were driving home through the waning light, Sam told Martha he faintly remembered hearing Ellen's knock on the door—"only he was too tired to get up.""You were smart to hear it through your own snores," she returned pleasantly. "But when we get home, you must turn in, an' take a real sleep. I'll wake you when Buller comes."CHAPTER XDr. Ballard had been absent a fortnight or more, and July was drawing to its close, when one afternoon Katherine heard the sound she had been longing for all these days, the familiar musical notes of his motor-horn.Looking ahead expectantly, he spied her at once, and gave salute, as the car swept up to the porch, a silent military salute. Alighting, he passed directly upstairs to Madam Crewe's sitting-room.Katherine followed after, drawn as if by the sense of something pending, something too interesting to miss.Madam Crewe glanced around as the doctor entered."Oho, soyou'reback, are you?"Dr. Ballard took a chair without waiting to be invited and said lightly, as he seated himself facing his patient:"You speak the truth."The old woman raised her chin. "Thank you, young man. You flatter me!""Not in the least," came the prompt retort. "I haven't come with any such intention. I've come—and I may as well out with it at once—I've come to tell you that I have found the reason for your dislike of 'the Ballard tribe.' I've discovered the case you have against us. I've been ferreting about among my grandfather's effects, and I've unearthed his Journal. Curious, isn't it, that abailiffshould have kept a Journal?"Madam Crewe deigned no response.After a pause lasting several seconds, Dr. Ballard continued: "I presume you would feel seriously affronted if I were to take the liberty of supposing you might be interested.""Fudge! Have you the Journal there?""Yes.""You have read it?""Quite so.""Then you—know?""Yes.""Well? And what then? What are you going to do about it?""I am going to read my grandfather's Journal aloud, now, here—I mean, that portion of it that relates to you."Madam Crewe straightened to a military stiffness. "You are going to do nothing of the sort," she averred stoutly."Indeed I am.""I'll not permit it. I'll send Katherine from the room.""Oh, no you won't. You are too just to do that. You have made certain charges against my grandfather; now, the only fair thing, is to give him a show—to let him state his case, from his side.""No. He wouldn't tell the truth. He falsified once. He'd falsify again.""You haven't proved it.""You have my word.""Your word is all very well, as far as it goes. But even you would hardly claim that it goes all the way 'round the truth, and then tucks under, like Dick's hatband. My grandfather has a word too, and I'm going to see that he has a chance to get it in edgewise, and—what's more, that you listen."Madam Crewe turned her body stiffly toward Katherine."Come here. Sit down!" she commanded autocratically.Dr. Ballard took up his book, opening it at an obviously marked point."The first entry bearing any reference to you or yours was written in 1844. In the spring of that year he mentions going to see one Squire Stryker, in connection with the stewardship of his estate. I'll skip all the non-essentials and——""Skip nothing. Since youwillread, read!""Very well."'Boston, February 6th, 1844. This morning saw Squire Stryker. He wishes to engage a bailiff. A hard man, I judge him to be. Not easy to please, because he is exacting, arbitrary, without judgment or justice. He is ruled by passion, not principle."'Feb. 10th. I have made my decision. For good or ill, I go to Squire Stryker's, in New Hampshire, to-morrow.'"Following are several pages given over to notes and data connected with the estate. Its acreage, its possibilities, its limitations. Nothing else. They carry one to April, and—this:"'A strange thing has happened. No, not a strange thing. The thing is simple, the strangeness is in its effect on me. There is a lane hard by, called Cherry Lane. 'Tis part of the estate. At this season the trees are in full blossom. I went there to estimate the probable yield of fruit, and the condition of the trees, and—underneath the white and pink boughs stood a white and pink maid. She looked at me and smiled. She told me she was Squire Stryker's daughter. She knew I was the new bailiff, she said."'April 14. I have seen the child again. Yes, again and again. Many times, in fact. I call her child because so indeed she seems to me, who am, at least, fifteen years older. She tells me she is seventeen. 'Tis hard to believe for that in stature she's no higher than my heart, and her eyes are as open and unconscious as a child's except when—— But that is my fancy! I am sure 'tis my fancy."'June 1st. 'Tis many weeks since that was written. Not that I have naught to say. Rather, too much. I find I cannot set down what is in my heart.Idea Stryker and I are betrothed!"'June 14. Every afternoon towards sundown my little sweetheart and I walk in Cherry Lane. I wish she had a mother. I do not like these clandestine meetings. Sometimes I doubt myself. Not my love for Idea, God knows, but my power to make it tell for her best good. To-day I told her my conscience troubled me. I am no friend to untruth or furtive acts. Idea put on a look of high contempt, aping her father. She scowled at me, folded her arms across her bosom and, measuring me up and down, in his own manner to the life, said: "Deuce take your conscience, sir! I'll have none of it." Then, suddenly changing, she clung to me crying, "I'll have nothing but your love, Daniel! But, your love I'll die to have, and to hold." I let my heart direct me rather than my head, and gave way to her. But I still feel the better course would be to tell her father and make an end of this deceit.* * * * *
CHAPTER IX
It was late one evening at the end of the week, when Sam came back, to Martha's surprise, alone.
"Ma just wouldn't leave the city," he explained. "She's staying at Dennis's now, but Sarah told me she couldn't keep her above a week or so, at the longest. She said Andy, or Hughey, or one of the girls would be better able to look after her than Dennis and herself, who have all they can manage paying off on their house in Yonkers, and the children to educate besides. Sarah was quite short with me on account of Ma. She said she was real put out. We'd no business leaving an old woman, Ma's age, away from the country such hot weather, especially when we were just getting on our feet now, and were well able to give her a home without feeling it."
Martha smiled tolerantly. "There'd be no time o' year'd suit Sarah for takin' any more trouble than she's got to," she observed, pouring her husband's tea.
"It's a nice little place they've bought," Sam informed her, between bites of cold ham and potato. "Dennis travels down and up every day, which is, what you might call a stunt, but he has the satisfaction of knowing the roof over his head is his own."
Martha set an ice-cold cup-custard at Sam's plate.
"From Yonkers to the Batteryisa kind o' long stretch, but—where there's a will there's a—sub-way, I s'pose. Would he be with the same steamship company he was with, since I first knew'm, I wonder?"
"Yes, and they gave him a raise last month. He's doingall right, Dennis is. You ought to see the way Sarah's got the house fixed. They pay off for the new furniture every month, so they don't feel it, Sarah says."
"Well, Sarah mayn't feel it, but you can take it from me,Icertaintly would, in her place," Martha observed. "Gettin' things on the excitement plan, would wrack my health. I hate the thought o' owin'. Payin' for a dead horse never didappealto me, as Mrs. Sherman says. How's Andy doin'?"
"Andywassucceeding great, but something went wrong, somehow, all of a sudden, and his scheme fell through. He explained it to me, but I forgot the particulars, to tell the truth. He'll be on his feet again in no time. Andy always was the smart one of the family."
Martha ruminated. "Wouldn't you wonder how anythin' gets done in this world, when nothin' anybody ever tries seems to succeed? Is Nora as gallus-lookin' as ever? Or is she holdin' in her horses some, now her husban's kind o' down an' out, for the time bein'?"
"Nora's just the same, as far as I can see.OurNora says Nora-Andy is distroying Andy with her extravagance. She says the way she dresses, alone, it's no wonder he is always in and out of some get-rich-quick scheme, that'll land him in the poor-house, or worse, if he don't look out. But then, our Nora never did have the appearance of Nora-Andy, I must say that, if I am her own brother. Our Nora is kind of sharp, and she looks it."
"Well, I guess marriage'll bevel some of the edges off'n her, all right, all right," said Martha. "Were you surprised when you heard she was keepin' company with McKenna?"
"Yes, I was. I never thought Nora'd marry now—at her age."
"Nora always wanted to marry, an' when she saw her chance she grabbed it by both horns."
Sam's serious expression relaxed a little. "That sounds as if McKenna was the devil and all of a fellow. He's not that at all, and he certainly ain't much to look at."
"Oh, well," Martha responded, "nobody but her'll have a call to look at'm much, oncet he's married."
"I told her I thought she was taking a risk, throwing up a good place she'd been in, for so many years, parlor-maid, to live out general-housework with a stranger," said Sam. "I thought that was a joke. But it made her mad. She said, 'God knows it's no joke!' She said she had as much of a right to live her life as I have, which of course it's true. She said 'every dog has its day!'"
"True for you. So he has, just like s'ciety ladies. But that ain't to say there'll be anybody'll come. An' I sometimes think there's more dogs, 'n days, anyhow."
Sam looked up. "Say, mother, you ain't down-hearted, are you?"
"No. Why? What'd make me downhearted, I should like to know?"
"I just thought you might be," her husband answered. "I never heard you speak that doubting kind of way before. And, we've no call to think ill of the world, with all the luck that's come to us."
"Certaintly. An' if luck don't stay with us, itself, it won't be because we ain't set her a chair, an' done every mortal thing we know of to make her comfortable. I've no kick comin', nor ever had. I like life all right, the hard part along with the soft part. If you didn't have the one you wouldn't know how to relish the other. But, speakin' o' Nora, I never looked to see her sportin' a 'finity of her own, I can tell you that!"
"''Finity'?" questioned Sam.
"Genteel for fella," Martha answered. "I often heard Mrs. Sherman speakin' of'm. You can take it from me, I never looked to see that same Nora get a-holt o' one."
"Nor I. And I said as much to Ma. Ma told it back to Nora, and Nora was as mad as could be. She said if it came to that, she didn't see as she was the worst-looking one in the family, when a body counted in what some of us had married."
"Meanin' me," observed Martha appreciatively.
"She said she 'didn't see why folks should be so monstrous surprised that she got a husband. Every Joan has her Jack.' The very words she said."
"Sure they have. But only it ain't told what kind o' Jack. So did Balaam have a jack, if she wantsthatkind. But, p'raps McKenna is a prize-package.Wedon't know. I wonder will he take kindly to Ma?"
Sam shook his head. "One of the first things he told me was, 'We couldn't look to him to give my mother a home. He had troubles of his own.' It stirred me up so, I almost lost my temper. I said I didn't look to him to give my mother a home. If he gave my sister one, now he'd contracted to marry her, I'd be glad."
"Why, Sam," said Martha looking at him with mock-reproach, "I wonder at you, I do so! To speak up that fierce! You hadn't ought to be so violent, an' use such strong language to a party just gettin' ready to come into the fam'ly. It might scare'm off. He must think you're a dretful bully."
"Nora told Ma, before I left, that Ma was foolish to stay back in New York. She said she and McKenna, starting out, young married folks——"
"God save the mark!" murmured Martha.
"She said they couldn't offer her a home, much as they'd like to. But Ma said her heart was broke with the country. She wanted to live in the city where something was going on."
"It's one thing what youwant, and another what youmust. Poor Ma! I'm sorry for her. When she comes back she'll know a thing or two more'n she does now. We'll have to be kind o' gentle with her, to make up. But come on now, Sam. If you've et all you can, I'll do my dishes, while you lock up, an' then we can go to bed. You look plain wore out."
"I'm glad to get home," Sam answered her, and though he said no more Martha understood him.
Long after he was asleep she lay awake in the white moonlight, thinking. "Down home," she knew it was stifling. Sam had told her that the hot wave was breaking all records for intensity and duration. And yet, somehow, her soul yearned for the stretches of sun-softened "ashfalt" with its smell of mingled dust and tar, for all the common city sounds and sights amid which she had been born and bred; all the noise and commotion that speltHomefor her. She could understand Ma's feeling, and her heart softened to the poor old woman.
"It's all right up here," she admitted to herself. "I like the folks first rate, such as they are an' what there is of'm, only they ain't what a body is used to. I never see nicer parties than the Trenholms, an' the Coleses, an' the Moores. That time Hiram Black's house burned down, if every mother's son of'm didn't turn out an' lend a hand. Got the Blacks fixed up fine an' dandy, in no time, in a new place, with what they called 'donations.' Down home you wouldn't find your neighbors givin' you furnitur', an' bricky-braw things like that, not on your life! An' when you'd paid the insurance money itself, the Company'd kick before it'd give you the price o' your losin's. An' yet, I know how Ma feels. If young Luther Coles had 'a' had the fever down home he had up here last fall, they'd a-yanked'm away from his own flesh an' blood to the pest-house. An' here his mother was let take care of'm, an' the meals was got by the neighbors, which she hauled'm up in a basket, three times a day, an' et'm hot an' fresh from the oven, without havin' to raise her hand, only take'm out from under a clean napkin. You'd go hungry a long time in New York City, before the folks acrost the air-shaft from you, would know your boy was dyin' on you, much less sneak in a bite an' a sup, from time to time, through the dumb-waiter. But—all the same—I know how Ma feels."
Martha had reached this stage in her musings when a faint knock sounded on the door below. She waited, listening. The knock was repeated. As quietly as she could, which was not very quietly, she slipped from her bed, threw on her light cotton kimono, which always lay ready at hand in case of emergency, and hastened downstairs, leaving Sam asleep and snoring, worn out by the city heat, his sense of responsibility in connection with Mr. Ronald's commissions, and the long day's journey home, with its fatiguing delays and tiresome changes.
She shot the bolt back, turned the key with resolute hand. She could not imagine what had happened that would account for this unusual disturbance, but whatever it might be, she braced herself to meet it.
On the doorstep stood the shivering figure of a girl, clad only in her night-dress. She was shivering with excitement, not chill.
"Mrs. Slawson," she managed to bring out, before words became impossible, drowned in the torrent of her tears and sobbing.
Martha placed a motherly hand about the frail shoulders.
"Come now, come now! Don't cry like that. You'll shake yourself to pieces. I don't know what's the matter, but it'll be all right, anyhow, never fear. You're Ellen Hinckley, ain't you? I think I seen you a couple o' times at church."
As Martha talked, she drew her visitor into the house, automatically locked and bolted the door, and settled the girl in Sam's chair in the sitting-room.
The moonlight, streaming in through the windows, made the place almost as light as day, but for some purpose of her own, Martha was about to strike a match, when Ellen Hinckley stopped her with a quick cry.
"No, no! Don't do it! I've run away. I've left my mother's. My stepfather'll follow me when he finds I'm gone."
She drew a long painful breath, then panted out her story in short, labored gasps.
"I've never had a home. You mayn't believe it, but mother don't care a scrap about me, except for the work I can do. I've tried and tried for years to bear it, but it's got to be too hard. I can't live that way any longer. You know,—Mr. Wedall——?"
Martha nodded. "The pasture?"
"Yes, he's my minister. He knows all about me. He told me to do my best, but if the time came when I just couldn't bear it another minute I might go. He saidhecouldn't help me run away, because—because——"
"Certaintly he couldn't!" said Martha.
"But he said, if ever Ihadto do it, the Lord would raise up some one who could. Mother's never liked me. I've not been happy a minute since my father died.Hewasn't happy. He had no peace of his life. He used to tell mother she'd get her come-uppance some day, and she's got it now, for Buller, that's her second husband, he beats her. He's got her money and mine too, what father left us, and he's afraid I'll law him, now I'm of age and can. I tried to run off yesterday, but he caught me and took away my clothes, and locked me in my room. I had some money I'd got hold of. 'Twas my own—and when he caught me, and he and mother stripped me and locked me up, I held on to it, all through, though he beat me black and blue with his belt-strap."
She spread her poor little trembling palm, disclosing a fistful of crumpled bills.
"See? And here's where he beat me—andshestood by and let him!"
As she spoke, the girl drew back the coarse night-dress from her breast, displaying shoulders and back seamed across with cruel wales.
Martha drew in her breath shudderingly, shielding her eyes with her elbow in a quick, instinctive defensive gesture.
"I'd know you speak the truth without—that!" she said.
"After they left me, and locked me in—when I couldthink—I remembered what Mr. Wedall said about the Lord raising up help for me, and it made me mad, for there was no one to lift a hand for me. And then, all at once, somehow, you came into my mind. I saw you help a dog once, nobody else would touch. D'you remember? All the rest were afraid. They said he might be mad. But you said, 'Of course he ain't mad.' And you took him up, and took him home, and—you weren't afraid."
"No, I'm not afraid," said Martha.
"After you came into my mind I never rested till I found a way to get out. I waited till everything was quiet. They'd gone to bed. Then I managed it—through the window—down the grapevine trellis—I——"
Martha made her way to the corner cupboard. "I'll fix you up with arnica an' water inside and out," she explained. "An', while I'm doin' it, you tell me what you've planned."
"Nothing. I've planned nothing. Buller says I'm looney. Perhaps I am. I can't seem to think."
"Have you got any folks anywheres? I mean, on your father's side?"
"I've an uncle. Father's brother. But he lives in Montreal."
"Montreal! Where would that be, I wonder?"
"In Canada. Up north."
Mrs. Slawson bound on her soothing compresses in silence. Suddenly she paused, alert, listening. Then, quick as a flash, she caught her visitor by the sleeve, drew her back in to the entry and pushed her into a small closet under the stairs.
"Hush! I hear a horse. Don't you breathe till I come an' tell you."
A moment later she was lying in bed, as still as though she, like Sam, were fast asleep and dreaming.
Presently Sam stirred, sat up drowsily, and listened.
"Say, mother, you asleep?"
No answer.
A voice from below in the garden called up hoarsely:
"Hullo, there!"
"What's wanted?" demanded Sam.
"I'm Buller, from Milby's Corners. My wife's daughter has wandered off in the night. I'm out hunting for her, to take her home. She ain't all there in the upper story. I thought, maybe, she'd come in here. The last I saw of her, she was making this way. She's in her night-shift. I could see her plain as day, far ahead of me."
Sam was so obviously but just-awakened, that Buller from Milby's Corners turned his horse's head, as if to make a quick departure, when Mrs. Slawson, yawning, leaned over the rail of the sleeping-porch and spoke.
"Say, wait a minute. The poor thing! Wanderin' about in the night,—an' her light-headed—away from your pertectin' love an' care! Ain't it awful! My husban' an' me'll get up, an' be dressed in no time, for we'd like to help her, if we can, poor creature! In the meantime, seein' you ain't found her here, I s'pose you'll be goin' further. Out in her night-clo'es! My! I wonder—— Say, Sam—doyousee somethin' white flitterin' along towards the south—down the valley road d'rection? Seems to meIdo!"
Sam thought maybe he did.
Buller kicked a heel into his horse.
"G'long! I'm off down the valley road. I bet 'tis her. I'll have her yet, the d—the poor dear!"
The instant he was gone, Martha dragged Sam into the house.
"Quick! Dress you! An' go down get the auta. I have the girl hid in the entry closet. I'm goin' to take her out o' harm's way, which is that brute beast's."
"But, Martha——" remonstrated Sam.
"Sam Slawson, do as I tell you! Or you'll have toshoveus into Burbank in your present gob, which, believeme, it ain't bewitchin'. You can take it from me, lad, I'm goin' to catch that north-bound express that leaves Burbank at one o'clock this night, which, if we don't make it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin'. So wegotto make it, or I'll know the reason why!"
Impelled by a motive power so irresistible, Sam dressed and went about his business without venturing another word.
Martha clothed herself in the brief intervals when she was not attending Ellen Hinckley, giving her bread to eat, milk to sip, enveloping her in garments gathered from everywhere, anywhere, a conglomerate assortment that would have been grotesque if it had not been touching.
"No one'll mind your looks," Martha reassured her. "Just you sit tight, an' keep your own counsel, an' not a dog'll bark after you. Ma's veil tied down over Cora's hat is quite stylish, an', be this an' be that, you've got as good a motorin' costume as any. They all look like Sam Hill. So now, I guess, we might be movin'!"
"It's a crazy scheme," Sam whispered in his wife's ear, as she bent to him to deliver last instructions, while he was cranking up. "Suppose a tire bursts?"
"It ain't goin' to," she assured him with perfect confidence.
Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even Martha's garrulous tongue was stilled.
The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar, remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable. The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car, the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security under Mrs. Slawson's protecting wing.
Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters profile toward her.
"I hear something back of us. Can you see?"
"No. If I stir she'll wake. You don't think it's him?"
"It may be. Joe Harding's place is down the valley road. He has a car. Buller mayn't suspect we're helping the girl, but when he didn't find her in that direction, Harding may have offered to take a hand in the game."
"Would any man o' conscience help a fella like Buller, who all the neighborhood knows the life he's led this poor creature—him an' the mother, which she's a disgrace to the name."
"No, but Harding ain't a man of conscience,—not so you'd notice it, as you say. If Buller's out on the still-hunt, Harding'd join in for the pleasure of the chase."
"Put on power," directed Martha.
Again that swift, silent progress through the night.
Once Sam whispered: "I guess we were stung. I can't hear anything back of us any more, can you?"
"No," said Martha. "But stung or no stung, keep a-goin'. We ain't takin' no risks."
Ellen Hinckley slept fitfully, but even in her waking moments she was not aware of the dangers the others had feared.
"Let her rest," Martha meditated. "After she's made a clean getaway, she'll have all that's comin' to her, in the line o' excitement an' strain. I don't believe'm when he says she ain't all there in the upper story. But that's not meanin' I think she's furnished as handsome as some. She may have all her buttons, an' yet not be the brainiest party I ever come in contract with. Why didn't she up an' open her mind an' give Buller a piece o' it long ago? There's many things a married woman's got to shoulder, God knows, but chas*tise*ment, hot off'n his griddle, as you might say, not on your life, even a married woman needn't stand, much less a unmarried maiden-girl. It ain't decent. If a man oncet took the strap to me, I'd fix'm so's the doctor'd have to hunt for the buckle o' his belt behind his internal workin's, in back among his spine. An' I'd be proud o' the job."
When they were within about five miles of Burbank Sam gave a low whistle.
"I was wonderin' if you heard it too," Martha responded promptly. "Firstoff I thought 'twas my imagination, but it ain't. Somethin' certaintly's follain' along in our tracks."
"The first was a false alarm. So may this be," said Sam.
"Sure. But, could you speed up some? Just for luck?"
Presently Martha heard another sound.
"Now, Ellen," she announced firmly, "you got to brace up. Cryin' won't do you a mite o' good."
"He's following. I know it. He's got a car. He'll get me and take me back and—killme!"
"He will if you don't do as I say. But not on your life he won't, if you mind your aunt Martha. Firstoff, have you got your money safe an' handy?"
"Yes. Here."
"That's right. See you don't lose it, when I assist you onto the train. There mayn't be much time to spare, but if the brakeman's any good on the catch, I'm up to handin'm a neat throw, an' between us you'll get there!"
"But my ticket——"
"This is no time for thinkin' o' tickets. Let the conductor be glad if, after the train is on its way, you got the price o' one o' them long, floatin' streamer-effec's he carries in his vest-pocket, to amuse 'mself punchin' holes in it."
They sped into Burbank under all the power Sam dared put on.
"Thank God!" sobbed Ellen Hinckley.
But when they reached the station, no train was in sight, the place was virtually deserted.
Sam drew up beside the platform and, for a moment sat quite still, evidently cogitating.
"No such thing! The train ain't gone!" said Martha, as if he had maintained it had. "It's only five minutes to one."
"It might have been ahead of time."
"Did you ever know one was?" inquired his wife.
He got out and made his way to the waiting-room. A moment and he was back.
"There's been delays back along the road. The train's two hours late. It won't be here till three, or after."
"Well, what do you think o' that!" said Martha.
The next instant she was dragging Ellen Hinckley into the waiting-room, through it, and on into the telegraph-operator's booth.
"Say, young fella," she addressed him bluntly, "this party here's in danger of her life. Me an' my husban' is gettin' her out o' harm's way, which he's hot on our track. He'll be along any minute. Think o' your mother, if you ever had one. An if not, think o' some other female o' the same sect, only younger. Lend a hand, anyhow, to help us out, will you?"
The youth eyed Mrs. Slawson dubiously.
"How do I know——?" he began objecting.
"You don't. But, by the time I get through with you, you will. Only this ain't thetime, see? Come now, step lively, like they say in New York. Put this party away, out o' sight. No matter how crampin' the place. An' be quick about it!"
The young man gazed about his booth helplessly, shook his head, then got upon his feet. He drew a key from his pocket, as if acting under hypnotic suggestion.
"I'm taking your word for it," he grumbled. "If it gets me into trouble——"
"I'llget you out," answered Martha confidently.
Without further ado he led them through the waiting-room, unlocked the baggage-room door and, in the semi-darkness, he and Martha walled their captive in behind a barricade of freight and baggage.
"Try to be contented till train-time," Mrs. Slawson admonished Ellen. "Don't you be scared. We won't forget you, nor we won't let your stepfather get you, 'less it's over this young-man-here's dead body an'——"
"Oh, I say!" objected the telegraph-operator plaintively.
Martha shook her head at him. "I only wanted to cheer her up," she whispered, as they passed out into the waiting-room, he locking the door behind them.
Sam came forward to meet her.
"I guess we had our scare for nothing," he observed. "If that'd been Buller behind us, he'd have got here before now."
"Not if he'd had tire-troubles. But prob'ly you're right," said Martha.
Sam considered. "Then what's the use of keeping the poor girl hid?"
"It won't hurt her. An' a ounce o' pervention is worth a pound o' cure."
Later the telegraph-operator took the trouble to shove up his window and address Martha through it. His tone was loftily supercilious, ironically facetious.
"Nothing doing! You've been stringing me, I guess!" he sagely opined.
Mrs. Slawson regarded him blandly.
"Certaintly. My husban' an' me, we come twenty-five miles streakin' through the night on purpose to do it. Such a precious jewel of a fella as you, anybody'd want to string'm, for safe-keepin', so's he wouldn't fall down an' roll away an' be lost in a crack o' the floor."
The telegraph-operator grimaced.
"Say, now, no joke! You said you'd tell me the whole story, so I'd know what I was in for. I ain't hankering to be called down by the Company for outdoing my duty."
Mrs. Slawson smoothed her dress over her knees. "Come an' sit on my lap, sonny-boy, an' I'll tell you all about it. Only bein' so young, an' havin' such a tender conscience with you, it might keep you awake in your crib nights. Did you ever see weels, as thick as my thumb, on the white skin of a young girl's shoulders? Well, I could turn back the waist o' that one in there, an' show you such. Raised by the leather-belt o' her mother's second husban', which they're perfect ladies an' gen'lmen, o' course, bless their hearts. They will be after her like mad, when they know she's given'm the slip. Good lan'! If young fellas was reely young fellas nowadays, you'd be glad of the chancet to pour some o' the Widow Cruse's oil on a poor ill-used child's troubled waters. An' not be thinkin' o' yourself all the time—if it'd harmyouto help her, or if the Comp'ny would objec'."
The youth regarded her with level eyes.
"You can count on me," he said. "I'm with you in this, no matter what."
"Good bey!" said Martha.
The hours dragged wearily along. One by one disappointed travelers who had strayed off to kill time at the hotel, returned to meet their delayed train.
Martha had advance information concerning its coming, the lad at the wire furnishing it gratuitously.
"It'll be along now in five minutes," he said, "and I've put the baggage-man wise, so he's ready to help you get her off, as fine as silk, even if——"
Just then Martha saw Sam approaching. Though his step and manner were, to all outward appearances as usual, she instantly knew something was amiss.
"What is it?" she asked calmly.
"He's come. Him and Harding are here. They haven't seen me nor the car yet. I put that beyond, under a shed, where it wouldn't be conspicuous. But we can't dodge them long, and——"
"This way, ma'am!" summoned the baggage-man, touching Martha's elbow. "I got the young lady ready for you—and the train's coming."
"Take care of yourself, Sam," Martha cautioned him, following her leader.
The train thundered up. Before it had fairly come to a halt, Buller sighted Sam. He made a rush toward him, brandishing a menacing arm.
"Keep cool," advised Sam. "And keep off!"
"You've got the girl!" Buller roared. "We know you have, from them as saw you coming over here, three in the car. Where is she?"
"Find her," said Sam.
Buller turned to Harding. "Youhandle him, Joe. I'll tackle the woman."
Martha stood at the baggage-room door, as Buller came pounding down the platform.
"Hand over that girl!" He spoke with sinister calmness.
"Certaintly," said Martha. "That's just what I'm waitin' to do."
The engine whistled. Buller started toward Martha, getting in the way of the baggage-man, who was pushing a loaded hand-truck before him. His elbow sent Buller reeling. In that instant, through a maze, Buller saw Martha lift what had looked like a piece of burlap-covered baggage from the truck, and toss it, with sure aim, to the brakeman on the platform of the slow-moving car. The brakeman caught it deftly, and set it on its feet. The train slid past.
"Ellen!" Buller cried. Then, turning on Martha, "You—devil!"
Mrs. Slawson bowed civilly. "Same to you, sir."
"I'll—I'll do you up yet. You're not done with me, not by a long shot."
"I haven't a doubt o' it. I'm ready for you, any time. LikewiseMisterSlawson. Only, I advise you, take it out on me. My husband might hurt you too much, if he got goin'."
As they were driving home through the waning light, Sam told Martha he faintly remembered hearing Ellen's knock on the door—"only he was too tired to get up."
"You were smart to hear it through your own snores," she returned pleasantly. "But when we get home, you must turn in, an' take a real sleep. I'll wake you when Buller comes."
CHAPTER X
Dr. Ballard had been absent a fortnight or more, and July was drawing to its close, when one afternoon Katherine heard the sound she had been longing for all these days, the familiar musical notes of his motor-horn.
Looking ahead expectantly, he spied her at once, and gave salute, as the car swept up to the porch, a silent military salute. Alighting, he passed directly upstairs to Madam Crewe's sitting-room.
Katherine followed after, drawn as if by the sense of something pending, something too interesting to miss.
Madam Crewe glanced around as the doctor entered.
"Oho, soyou'reback, are you?"
Dr. Ballard took a chair without waiting to be invited and said lightly, as he seated himself facing his patient:
"You speak the truth."
The old woman raised her chin. "Thank you, young man. You flatter me!"
"Not in the least," came the prompt retort. "I haven't come with any such intention. I've come—and I may as well out with it at once—I've come to tell you that I have found the reason for your dislike of 'the Ballard tribe.' I've discovered the case you have against us. I've been ferreting about among my grandfather's effects, and I've unearthed his Journal. Curious, isn't it, that abailiffshould have kept a Journal?"
Madam Crewe deigned no response.
After a pause lasting several seconds, Dr. Ballard continued: "I presume you would feel seriously affronted if I were to take the liberty of supposing you might be interested."
"Fudge! Have you the Journal there?"
"Yes."
"You have read it?"
"Quite so."
"Then you—know?"
"Yes."
"Well? And what then? What are you going to do about it?"
"I am going to read my grandfather's Journal aloud, now, here—I mean, that portion of it that relates to you."
Madam Crewe straightened to a military stiffness. "You are going to do nothing of the sort," she averred stoutly.
"Indeed I am."
"I'll not permit it. I'll send Katherine from the room."
"Oh, no you won't. You are too just to do that. You have made certain charges against my grandfather; now, the only fair thing, is to give him a show—to let him state his case, from his side."
"No. He wouldn't tell the truth. He falsified once. He'd falsify again."
"You haven't proved it."
"You have my word."
"Your word is all very well, as far as it goes. But even you would hardly claim that it goes all the way 'round the truth, and then tucks under, like Dick's hatband. My grandfather has a word too, and I'm going to see that he has a chance to get it in edgewise, and—what's more, that you listen."
Madam Crewe turned her body stiffly toward Katherine.
"Come here. Sit down!" she commanded autocratically.
Dr. Ballard took up his book, opening it at an obviously marked point.
"The first entry bearing any reference to you or yours was written in 1844. In the spring of that year he mentions going to see one Squire Stryker, in connection with the stewardship of his estate. I'll skip all the non-essentials and——"
"Skip nothing. Since youwillread, read!"
"Very well.
"'Boston, February 6th, 1844. This morning saw Squire Stryker. He wishes to engage a bailiff. A hard man, I judge him to be. Not easy to please, because he is exacting, arbitrary, without judgment or justice. He is ruled by passion, not principle.
"'Feb. 10th. I have made my decision. For good or ill, I go to Squire Stryker's, in New Hampshire, to-morrow.'
"Following are several pages given over to notes and data connected with the estate. Its acreage, its possibilities, its limitations. Nothing else. They carry one to April, and—this:
"'A strange thing has happened. No, not a strange thing. The thing is simple, the strangeness is in its effect on me. There is a lane hard by, called Cherry Lane. 'Tis part of the estate. At this season the trees are in full blossom. I went there to estimate the probable yield of fruit, and the condition of the trees, and—underneath the white and pink boughs stood a white and pink maid. She looked at me and smiled. She told me she was Squire Stryker's daughter. She knew I was the new bailiff, she said.
"'April 14. I have seen the child again. Yes, again and again. Many times, in fact. I call her child because so indeed she seems to me, who am, at least, fifteen years older. She tells me she is seventeen. 'Tis hard to believe for that in stature she's no higher than my heart, and her eyes are as open and unconscious as a child's except when—— But that is my fancy! I am sure 'tis my fancy.
"'June 1st. 'Tis many weeks since that was written. Not that I have naught to say. Rather, too much. I find I cannot set down what is in my heart.Idea Stryker and I are betrothed!
"'June 14. Every afternoon towards sundown my little sweetheart and I walk in Cherry Lane. I wish she had a mother. I do not like these clandestine meetings. Sometimes I doubt myself. Not my love for Idea, God knows, but my power to make it tell for her best good. To-day I told her my conscience troubled me. I am no friend to untruth or furtive acts. Idea put on a look of high contempt, aping her father. She scowled at me, folded her arms across her bosom and, measuring me up and down, in his own manner to the life, said: "Deuce take your conscience, sir! I'll have none of it." Then, suddenly changing, she clung to me crying, "I'll have nothing but your love, Daniel! But, your love I'll die to have, and to hold." I let my heart direct me rather than my head, and gave way to her. But I still feel the better course would be to tell her father and make an end of this deceit.
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