CHAPTER XIIAt first it seemed as if no one was to be any the worse for the morning's adventure.As soon as she had attended to the children, had changed her own cold, drenched garments for dry, Martha hastened over to the big house.Tyrrell, the butler, informed her that Mrs. Ronald was resting quietly enough now, but they had been uncommonly anxious about her at the start. The shock had unnerved her. When her husband carried her in, she was crying like a baby."Well, you know where to find me, if, when she wakes, she seems the least bit ailin'. All you have to do is ring me up, an' I'll be over in the shake of a lamb's tail."But when the day passed, and there was no summons, when supper was over and the children, including Cora and Ma, in bed, Martha could stand it no longer."I justgotto go over, an' see for myself how the land lays," she explained to Sam. "I know it's silly, but I justgotto.""All right. Come along," said Sam.Martha shook her head. "No, you don't. Somebody's needed here in case, while I'm between this an' the big house, the telephone'd ring."Patient Sam acquiesced at once. "Have it your own way. You've earned the right to have notions, and be fidgety if you want to. But no news is good news, an' what you'll make by running over there at this hour of night, when they said they'd 'phone if anything was needed, I don't know.""I'll sleep better if I see for myself," was all the explanation Martha could give.It was very dark, outside, once she got beyond the light from the Lodge windows. In her haste she had forgotten to bring the lantern with her, but she did not go back for it, because she felt she knew every inch of the ground, and, moreover, the impulse that drew her forth was so strong that she could not endure the idea of delay for a moment. She had discovered a short-cut across the grounds and meant to use it, though she knew Sam disapproved any trespassing on his adored lawns, hedges, and shrubberies, and, as a general rule, she respected his wishes. But now she made straight for the thicket of bushes walling in her kitchen-garden, meaning to push through it, at the point of least resistance, strike across the roadway and so slice off a good quarter of a mile, by bisecting the lawn sweeping up to the big house. Just within the thicket she stood as if at attention. For the life of her she could not have said what brought her to a standstill, but also, for the life of her, she could not go on until she knew what was on the other side of that wall of bushes.Listening, she could hear nothing but the common-place night-sounds, now grown familiar to her ears. The stirrings of leaves, when the wind sighed through them, the surreptitious whirr of wings aloft, up over the tree-tops, the lowly meanderings of insects among the grass, the soft pad-pad of tiny, furry feet scampering to safety. But there was still another sound, an unusual, unfamiliar sound. It came to Martha in a flash what it was. A fox, caught in one of Sam's traps."Oh, you poor devil, you!" she heard herself exclaim.The words were echoed by a human groan, so close at hand, she fairly started."Who are you?" Her question rang out sharply."None of your damned business!" came back in instant answer. "But since you're here, curse you! come, and get me out of this —— —— trap."A light flashed, by which Martha made out a man's figure crouching on the ground the other side of the hedge. His face was completely hidden, not alone by the drooping brim of his soft hat, but by a sort of black mask he wore. Without a moment's hesitation she forced her way through the hedge. Now she could see more plainly, she made out that the man was on his hands and knees. One hand was free—the other, caught in the fox-trap, was bleeding cruelly. On the ground, within easy reach lay a pistol, a bundle of fagots, and a bull's-eye electric torch. The man's uninjured left hand was clutching the torch."Doncher stir a muscle, Mr. Buller," Martha said imperatively, "till I make out how this thing works. I don't want to hurt you more than I got to, unspringin' the trap."Buller swore violently as he bade her, "Go ahead then, and be quick about it!"A moment, and the mangled hand was free. Instantly, its owner listed over on the grass in a dead faint, in total darkness.Martha felt about in the darkness for the torch, set it glowing and, by aid of its light, found a flask in Buller's pocket, some of the contents of which she forced between his lips. When he was fully conscious, she bade him pick up his belongings, and come along home with her, where she could look after his hand, and, if necessary, telephone for the doctor.Clutching at her shoulder, he staggered to his feet."Don't forget your gun," warned Martha drily."Damn the gun!" returned Buller.Somehow they reached the Lodge. Sam, hearing footsteps, came to the door with an anxious face."Martha," he whispered, before he had made out she was not alone, "hurry back to the big house. Mr. Ronald's just called you up this minute. His wife wants you, and—I'm going for the doctor."Martha pushed Buller forward into the entry."Look after'm, Sam. He was on his way to give us a call. With his pistol an' a bunch o' kindlin's to fire the house. He heard me comin', an' lay low for a minute, an' got caught in the trap you set for—the other fox. But take care of'm," she said, and vanished into the night.Neither Sam nor Buller spoke for a moment. Then Sam opened the sitting-room door."Come in," he invited the other. "Let's take a look at your hand."The tortured Buller thrust it forward where the lamplight could fall upon it. Sam shook his head."That's beyond me," he explained. "But I tell you what, I'm going for Dr. Driggs, anyhow. You get in the car and come along with me. Only, I better take that black dingus off your face, hadn't I?"Buller made a clumsy effort to detach it himself, but his left hand alone could not manage it. Sam did it for him."Now, as soon as I get the car," he explained, "we can start."While he was gone Buller paced the floor like a caged animal, writhing with pain, crying, cursing. Sam was gone but a few minutes. It seemed an eternity to the poor, waiting wretch. Then away they sped through the cool, calming darkness of the night.In the extremity of his anguish, nothing really signified to Buller, yet again and again he found himself wondering if Slawson would "split" on him. As a matter of fact, Sam never opened his lips, beyond delivering his message to the doctor from Mr. Ronald, then turning Buller over to him for immediate attention.The old physician scowled through his spectacles when he saw the wound."How did you managethisjob?" he asked in his blunt, uncompromising way.Buller winced. "Trap. Foxes after my hens. I set a trap to catch them.""And got caught in it yourself! Huh! That's sometimes the way. Here, swallow this down. It'll dull the pain some. Now is the time you may wish you weren't a drinking man, Buller. I'll do the best I can for you, but you've given yourself a nasty hurt, and your blood's not in a state to help the healing along much. However, we'll see what we'll see. I'll give you these extra drops to take home with you. Use them if the pain comes back. Don't meddle with my bandage, d'you hear. Leave it alone. And, let me see you in the morning. Now, Mr. Slawson—— Ready!"Again that swift, almost silent speeding through the night.Since Buller's torture had ceased, the motion seemed for him part of a blissful dream, by which he was being gradually lulled to deeper and deeper peace. At first he started in to babble fatuously, but Dr. Driggs brusquely bade him, "Shut up! This is no time for merrymaking!" and he dropped back into himself, subdued but not suppressed.At the big house Sam stopped his car."I'll take Buller home, and come back for you," he explained to Dr. Driggs."Better dump him out on the road," was the harsh, whispered rejoinder. "I know him from the ground up. He lied to me about his hand. He was up to deviltry of some kind, other than trapping foxes, depend upon it! Between you and me, that's a fierce hand he's got. I don't envy him his dance with it."In the meantime, Martha had found Claire Ronald feverish and excited. It did not take her long to decide she would not leave the big house that night. When Sam returned to take him home, Dr. Driggs was not ready to go. Neither was Martha."Butyou'dbetter turn in, Slawson," advised Mr. Ronald. "No use in everybody's getting worn out. If I should need you, I'll call you up."Early next morning the young kitchen-maid from the big house appeared at the Lodge door for certain necessaries Martha wanted and could not be spared long enough to come, herself, and fetch."Eh, now! You don't say so! Things must be pretty bad over there!" observed Ma.The girl nodded dumbly. She adored Mrs. Ronald."If I was you, beggin' pardon for the liberty," Martha addressed Mr. Frank, "I'd get a-holt of those doctors an' nurses from the city you have engaged. They was comin' up in two weeks, anyhow. You never can tell. This might be a false alarm, but then again it mightn't. Either way, we don't want to take no risks.""I'll telegraph," said Francis Ronald dully."What's the matter with the telefoam? Ain't you got a long-distance connection here?"While Central was clearing the wire, Katherine Crewe was ushered in. She hesitated on the library threshold, then came forward rapidly, her face more lovely than Martha had ever seen it, in its softened expression of human sympathy."I'm so sorry—I've just heard—I came to see if I could do something—be of any help," she stammered shyly.Frank Ronald had risen and was about to reply, when Dr. Driggs pushed through the doorway, interrupting gruffly."I'm not quite satisfied with the way things are going. Nothing to be uneasy about, you know, but, under the circumstances, I'd like another man to talk the case over with.""I've just called up the New York specialist. He and the nurses——""Lord! I don't meanthat! It'll takethema full day to get here. We can't wait that long. I want some onenow.""Now?" Frank Ronald echoed, without any appearance of understanding what the word meant."Now," repeated Dr. Driggs. "I'd like to call in——"Tinkled the telephone-bell with irritating insistence.Frank Ronald's cold hand gripped the thing as if he would choke it."Hello! Is this New York? Is this Dr. Webster? 'Morning, Dr. Webster! This is F. B. Ronald speaking. Yes—I've called you up, because my wife—— Can you hear menow? Is this better?—My wife—I'm worried about my wife. I've called in Dr. Driggs of this village. He wants more advice.... Yes, by all means come on at once, and bring the nurses. But Driggs says he can't wait. Must have some one immediately.... Eh? ...Who, do you say? ... Boston? Yes, I get that ... Ballard of Boston? ... There's a young fellow here from Boston named Ballard, but he ... I don't believe he's the man. Wait a minute.... Please repeat that! ... You say he's the best skill in New England? National repute? ... I'm afraid.... Hello! Dr. Webster ... Driggs, here, says'tisthe man you mean. He says he was just trying to tell me, when ... yes ... I'm sure we can get him. Yes, wearein luck! ... Very well ... Burbank Junction ... midnight.... Good-by!"Francis Ronald's words and manner were painfully precise.Thought Martha, "I've seen parties none too steady on their pins, just that kind o' mincin' about their steps. As if they'd dare you say they couldn't walk a chalk-line. Poor fella. He's so crazed with worry he can't see straight, but he's goin' to prove anybody thinks so, is another!"When Katherine reached home she found Madam Crewe awaiting her."Well, and how are things going? You had your tramp for nothing, eh? Young Sammy's account of Mrs. Ronald's danger was hocus-pocus, of course!""No. Dr. Driggs is very anxious. He wants a consultation. While I was there Mr. Ronald called up Dr. Webster—ElihuWebster, from home. He's coming up with two nurses——""And Mrs. Ronald is going towaitfor him? That's obliging of her, I'm sure!""Dr. Driggs had asked Mr. Ronald to let him have Dr. Ballard. He had asked, before they got Dr. Webster on the wire. Then, the first name Dr. Webster suggested was Dr. Ballard's. He called him 'the best skill in New England.' Said he was of 'national repute.'""You mean Driggs did. Well, what then? Driggs is getting old. He sometimes muddles. He's probably got this young sprig here confused with the great one.""No, grandmother. Dr. Webster said it. Dr. Driggs only repeated what Dr. Webster said."During the pause following Katherine's statement, Madam Crewe sat quite still, apparently absorbed in contemplation of her two, tiny hands, lying folded and motionless in her lap. When, at length, she looked up, a curious ghost of a smile curled the corners of her mouth."Really I am uncommonly gratified. You see, I can't help thinking, how barely I missed the honor of being this young man's grandmother. I'd havelikedto have a grandchild of whom I could be proud."Katherine winced. "I'm sorry I've disappointed you," she said bitterly."Don't mention it. It's not the first disappointment I've had in my life. It probably won't be the last. Moreover, now that youknow, undoubtedly you'll think better of your decision to give him up. You'll marry him, after all, in spite of the loss of me and my money. So I'll have myeminentgrandson, whether I want him or not.""Grandmother!""Well, won't I? It seems to me, you have quite a keen eye for the main chance. At least, that's how I've made it out, judging from your behavior. At first, you were all for marrying him, when you thought you could do it on the sly, without sacrificing your interests with me. Then, on the impulse of the moment, for Norris's benefit, maybe, you played tragedy-queen and forswore your fortune for the sake of the man you love. All of which would have been very pretty and romantic—if you had stuck to it. But, when you had had time to calculate—presto! it's your lover you repudiate, to hang on to the money. Now you're fairly certain he's got all you'll need—doctors fleece one abominably, nowadays! Come and feel your pulse, and give you a soothing-syrup, and send in a bill for ten dollars, andthat'sno placebo, I tell you! Oh, there's no doubt you'll be rich, if you marry adoctor—— Where was I?""You were running down doctors, grandmother, and I don't see how you can, when you know what those you've had have done for you. I——""There, there! I don't needyouto inform me, young miss. What I was saying is, nobody would doubt, for a minute, you'll take him now.Idon't.""Grandmother," the girl began, with the same kind of exaggerated punctilio Martha had observed in Mr. Ronald. "Grandmother, I want to be very respectful to you. I don't want to say one word that will excite you, or make you ill. But I think you take unfair advantage of me. You taunt me, and jeer at me because you know I can't hit back, without being an unutterable coward."Madam Crewe made a clicking sound with her tongue."On the whole, I think I'd like it better if youdidhit back, providing you hit back in the right way. No temper, you understand. No rage, no rumpus and that sort of vulgarity. But real dexterous thrusting and parrying. Now, for example, you missed an opportunity a few moments ago. When I said I'd have liked to have a grandchild I could be proud of, you might have retorted, 'I'm sorry I disappoint you, grandmother, but, perhaps, ifyouhad been Dr. Ballard's grandmother, his distinction might not have been so great.' That would have been a silencer, because,—it would have been true. I'm afraid you're not very clever, my dear.""If that sort of thing—slashing people with one's tongue, is clever, I'm glad I'm stupid.""There! That's not so bad! Try again!" applauded the old woman.Katherine turned away, with a gesture of discouragement."It never occurred to me before," Madam Crewe meditated, "but what you really need is a sense of humor. You're quite without humor. You've brains enough, but you have about as much dash and sparkle as one of your husband-that-is-to-be's mustard-plasters. Only the mustard-plaster has the advantage of you in sharpness."The girl wheeled about abruptly. "He is not my husband that-is-to-be. I have told you that before.""But the circumstances have changed. Now you know he is distinguished—probably well-to-do——""It only makes another barrier. Can't you see? Can't you understand?""Perhaps I might, if you'd have the goodness to explain. But you must remember, I'm an old woman. It's a great many years since I had heroics.""Perhaps you never had them," Katherine retorted. "Perhaps you never wereyoung—never cared for any one with all your heart. Perhaps you never had a heart.""Perhaps," agreed Madam Crewe. "In which case, don't appeal to it. Appeal to my imagination. That, at least, I can vouch for.""I took your word for it, that Dr. Ballard was a young struggling doctor, poor—with, at best, no more than a problematic future—that's what you said—a problematic future.""Well?""When I began to suspect he cared for me, I was glad he hadn't a lot of advantages, to emphasize my want of them. It didn't seem to me, then, so impossible, that as poor as I should be, and as dull as you've always said I am, I might marry him some day, if he loved me. I never cared a rush about that nonsense connected with his grandfather. I wouldn't have cared, if it had been true. So when you threw mud atmygrandfather and father, I didn't supposehe'dcare—or believe it—either. And, he didn't and—doesn't. So far, we stood about equal. I could give him as true a love as he could give me. But——""Oho! So that's your idea. I see your point now. You've got the kind of love that weighs and balances, have you? You won't take more than you can give! Why, young miss, let me tell you, you may think that's high-flown and noble—it's no such thing! If you want to know what it is, it's your great-grandfather's arrogance turned inside out, that's all! If you refuse to marry the man you love, because you have nothing to offer him, you're as bad as I was when I refused because my lover had nothing to offer me. There's a pride of poverty that's as detestable as the pride of riches. You talk about love! You don't know what the word means. If you did, you'd see that the real thing is beyond such mean dickering. In lovefair exchange is low snobbery."The girl stared silently into her grandmother's face. Two bright spots were glowing in the withered cheeks, the old woman's eyes shot forth the fire of youth.For the second time Katherine felt that the drawbridge was down. Impulsively, she took a step forward, grasping one of the little old hands, folding it tight in both her own."Grandmother, I want to tell you something—I see what you mean and—I know it's true. But—but—there's something else——"Madam Crewe did not withdraw her hand. It almost seemed to Katherine as if its clasp tightened on hers."What else?""When he—when Dr. Ballard first spoke to me about his grandfather, he said, 'But after all, the only thing that really counts is character.' He said: 'One can afford to whistle at family-trees if one's own record is clean!' He said: 'After all, what's most important, is to be straight goods one's self. If I'd lied, or was a coward or had taken what belonged to some one else, or had any other dirty rag of memory trailing after me, I'd hesitate to ask any one to share my life with me, but——'""Well?""Grandmother—I'vethe kind of dirty rag of memory, he spoke about. I'm a coward—I've lied—I've taken what belonged to some one else."CHAPTER XIIIMadam Crewe said nothing.She gazed into Katherine's face blankly for a moment, then gradually withdrew her eyes to fix them on a bit of sky visible through the bowed shutters of the open window.When the silence became unendurable, "Won't you speak to me, grandmother?" the girl pleaded. "Won't you let me feel you understand?"There was a long pause before any answer came."Understand? No, I don't understand. How could one understand one's own flesh and blood being, doing—what you describe? That story would be perpetually new—perpetually incomprehensible. But perhaps you're vaporing. Using big words for insignificant things. A child's trick. Tell me the truth, and be quick about it."There was something so formidable in the tiny old woman sitting there, coldly withdrawn into herself again, controlling any show of natural emotion with a fairly uncanny skill, that Katherine quailed before her.In as few words as possible, she sketched the story of the recovered pocket.Madam Crewe heard her through, in silence. In silence, received the object that had, at one time, been such a determining factor in her life. Katherine could not see that she betrayed, by so much as the quiver of an eyelash, the natural interest one might be conceived as feeling in so significant a link with the past."Be good enough to leave me," the old woman said at last. "And don't open this subject again, unless I bid you. If I need any one I'll ring for Eunice. Don'tyoucome—for the present. Oh, before you go, see that you keep a close mouth about this thing, not alone to me, but toevery one. Understand?"Katherine nodded dumbly. She felt like a child dismissed in disgrace, or a prisoner returned to his cell. She did not know how long she remained in her room, but when Eunice came to announce luncheon, she sent her away, merely explaining that she was not hungry. And would Eunice kindly answer if Madam Crewe should ring?Within her, a hundred impulses of revolt urged to some act of self-deliverance. She fought them down with appeals to her own better nature, her grandmother's need of her. It was to escape from herself, as much as from her environment, that, at last, in desperation, she caught up her hat and left the house.She had been gone several hours, and it was twilight, when a low tap sounded on Madam Crewe's door.Without waiting for permission to come in, Dr. Ballard did so. The old woman started up, as if his presence roused her from sleep, but he could see she had been fully awake."You look as if you had been through the wars," she observed dryly, examining his face with her searching eyes.He dropped heavily into the chair she indicated."I have," he answered."You've saved two souls alive? Mother and child?"He nodded. "But the war's not over. The fight's still on. I've done allIcan. The rest lies with——"The old woman took him up sharply. "Don't try to talk. Touch that bell."Then, when Eunice, responding, stood on the threshold: "Bring me the leathern case you'll find standing beside the clothes-press in my dressing-room. Yes ... that's the one. Bring it here to me! Now, go downstairs and fetch a plateful of hard biscuits. Hurry! ... Stop! ... Before you go, hand me that glass from my table."When the girl was gone, Madam Crewe unlocked the case before her, took from it a flask, and with surprisingly steady hands, poured a share of its contents into the glass Eunice had placed on the wide arm of her chair."Wine?" asked Dr. Ballard doubtfully, hesitating to drink."No, not wine. Drink it down. Now, the biscuits. Don't talk."She pretended to busy herself with the leathern case upon her knees—replacing the flask, turning the key in the lock, rather elaborately fingering the smooth surface, as if all her attention was concentrated on some imaginary fleck or flaw she had just discovered.When, watching covertly, she saw the haggard lines slowly fade from her companion's face, the blood gradually mount to his cheeks, she drew an audible breath."That's great stuff!" Daniel Ballard observed appreciatively. "What do you call it?"Madam Crewe raised her eyebrows. "I don't call it. It has no name, so far as I know. It's an old stimulant my father picked up somewhere in the far East. He treasured it like gold.""It's certainly done the trick. I was all in, and now I feel quite fit. Mrs. Slawson and I have beenon the jobsince morning. She's a wonder, that woman! No end of nerve and pluck. I could make a corking good nurse of her! She's back there now, watching. Firm as Gibraltar. I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to get away for a moment, to catch a breath of fresh air, and a glimpse of——""Me?" Madam Crewe caught him up.He corrected her gravely. "No, the evening star.""Katherine came home from the Ronalds' this morning much disturbed.""Over the case?""Yes—that, and—the fact of your being what she hadn't supposed."Dr. Ballard looked his question."She feels overawed, now she's awarewhat a great man are you. A bit sheepish, too, I fancy, because, if I remember right, she has twitted you, more than once, on being worn out waiting for patients.""Well, what of it? Suppose she has? I can stand chaffing, I hope. And besides, she was right. Iamworn out waiting for patients—waiting for patients to 'do the rest' after I've, so to speak, 'pressed the button.'""It's hard to believe you're the Daniel Ballard of Boston there's so much fuss about. Are you sure you're the man Elihu Webster meant? The man he called a celebrated specialist—the best skill in New England—and so forth and so forth?""I'm the only M.D. of my name in Boston," the young man said simply. "But I don't call myself a specialist, much less and-so-forth and-so-forth!""What do you call yourself, then?""A physician.""I wish I had married your grandfather," Madam Crewe announced.Daniel Ballard bent his head, acknowledging what was more than mere compliment, by a silence sincerer than words."I must go. Where's Katherine?" he asked, after a moment."I don't know. Not at home, I fancy. Will you do me a favor?""If I can.""Don't try to see her for a while. Leave her alone."He had risen to go, but her words checked him."I can't give you any such promise," he said. "It seems a strange request for you to make.""You don't trust me?""No. Not in this.""You may."He hesitated. "Perhaps. Still—I give no promise. I'll think it over. When I have more time, you'll explain?""Perhaps," she echoed.The next minute she was alone.However she accomplished it, Madam Crewe had her way. Katherine did not see Dr. Ballard again before he left for Boston. He left a brief note explaining that Mr. Ronald refused to release him, even after Dr. Webster arrived with his brace of nurses.Katherine read the letter with a bitter smile. Technically, she had nothing to complain of. She had definitely said she would never marry him. He had taken her at her word—and yet, his easy acquiescence hurt her cruelly. It did notexplainanything, that Mr. Ronald himself confessed his dependence on Dr. Ballard.The saving of his wife and baby (a miracle, Dr. Webster called it) made Frank Ronald feel that, whoever came or went, "Ballard" and Martha Slawson could not be spared from Claire's bedside, until the danger was over, recovery absolutely certain.It was all perfectly plausible, and yet—Then came an urgent recall to Boston, which "the best skill in New England" felt obliged to respond to in person."If you didn't have a family, Mrs. Slawson," he said to Martha, the last evening, as they sat in Claire's sitting-room, gratifying Frank Ronald's whim that they remain within call,—"If you didn't have a family I'd urge you to take up nursing. You have an excellent knack for it. I could make a capital nurse of you."Martha nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, sir. But there's so many things I'm, as you might say, billed to be made over into first, I guess I'll have to cut out the trained nurse. Besides, I might fall down on a case I was a stranger to. It's dead easy do for anybody you love, but to go an' pick'm up off'n the roadside——! Well, that's a differnt proposition. The dirt an' the smell o' some o' them! You wouldn't believe it!""Do you love that scamp Buller?""Not on your life! That is,—not so you'd notice it.""Yet you stood by him like a soldier, when Driggs and I took his hand off, last night. How's that?"Martha pondered a moment. "Well, you see, sir, to tell the truth, I feel kind o' responsible for Buller. 'Twas me made'm mad in the first place, an' then, when he wanted to get back at me, 'twas our trap give'm the nip. Poor fella! You couldn't help be sorry for'm, he'll miss that strong right hand o' his so, which it used to be a reg'lar pretidigiagitator with the licka—— 'Now you see it an' now you don't effec'.'"Dr. Ballard laughed. "His left hand's in training already. Between the whiskey and the ether, last night, I was almost anesthetized myself. But joking aside, I'm going to leave Buller in your care. I'll show you about the bandaging, so when Driggs gets through with the patient, you can take him up. I wouldn't like to trust to Mrs. Buller. She's a slipshod creature, sure to neglect. Dr. Driggs tells me, Buller dreadshimlike the mischief, so he won't go there any longer than he has to. May I trust you to keep your eye on him, follow him up, and let me know if there's any hitch in the healing?""Certaintly you may," said Martha."Another thing," Dr. Ballard paused. "I'd be glad to feel you are keeping an eye on—a—Crewesmere."Mrs. Slawson nodded. "Certaintly, again. But you don't think—that is, you ain't in doubt about the ol' lady, are you? I'd hate to think she might have somethin' I ain't used to. I kinda got accustomed tostrokesnow, so's if she'd have any more, I'd know just how to take a-holt, but if she set about gettin' up somethin'new, it'd sorta rattle me, maybe. You never can tell.""No, that's it! You never can tell.Ican't tell.""It ain't as if she didn't have a sympton to show you," pleaded Martha, "so's you'd be workin' in the dark. When ladies is that way, the doctors says to'mselves: 'Her color's good, an' her pulse is strong, which proves she's far from a well woman. While I'm waitin' for somethin' to happen, I'll remove her appendicitis.' Folks has such funny furbelows inside'm nowadays, I don't wonder the doctors is puzzled. What's the use o' adenoids now, an' appendicitises, I should like to know, if it's only to go to the trouble an' expense of havin' 'm cut out?""Quite so," acquiesced Dr. Ballard gravely. "No, I'm not anxious about Madam Crewe's appendix. I'm anxious about her—granddaughter.""Oh!" said Martha. "It'sheryou want to remove."Dr. Ballard flushed. "Yes, Mrs. Slawson. That is—I wish to marry Miss Crewe. You already know of Madam's opposition. I don't mind that—any more. But something has happened—I don't know what—to change Miss Crewe, herself. I would never ask her to desert her grandmother. In fact, I would not respect her if she did desert her, leave her alone in her infirmity and old age. But I don't want her mind to be embittered. She is not happy. I wish you'd look after her—lend her a helping hand, once in a while. Lend her a helpingheart.""I'll do my best," promised Martha solemnly."I've grown attached to this place. I'd like to hear about—everybody, once in a while. I'd like, so to speak, to keep my finger on the pulse of the public."Martha looked up perplexed. "The pulse o' the public? I don't know as I exacklygetwhat you mean. But, if you want to feel the pulse o' the public, why—you'rethe doctor! Anyhow, I'll let you know how things is goin', if you'll excuse the liberty, and won't mind my spellin', which Sam says it's fierce.""I'll deeply appreciate any line you may take the trouble to write me," Dr. Ballard assured her, with hearty sincerity.It was September before Mrs. Slawson was actually settled at home again. The nurses, over at the big house, were altogether capable and trustworthy, but even after all need of her had passed, Mr. Ronald liked to feel Martha was within call. He fancied his wife felt more content when she was by, and, certainly, the baby slept better on her ample bosom than anywhere else.It was a tiny creature, very delicate and fragile, a mere scrap of humanity that Martha could hold in the hollow of her hand.In the privacy of their own sitting-room, the two trained nurses confided to Mrs. Slawson: "It's too bad the parents' hearts are so set on the child. They'll never raise it,never!""Now, what do you think o' that!" Martha said mournfully, and the two uniformed ones never knew that, in her heart, she despised them, "and their mizrable Bildadin' talk, which nobody could stand up against it, anyhow, much less a innocent little lamb that hasn't the stren'th to call'm liars to their faces.""O'coursewe'll raise her," she assured Mr. Ronald confidently. "There's no doubt about it. Yes, I know she ain't very hefty, an' she ain't very robustic. But what do you expec'? You ain't give her a fair show yet. You can't take a baby, a few weeks old, 'specially if it had the tough time gettin' in on the game at all, that this one had, an' expec' her to be as big an' husky as my Sabina. It wouldn't be sensible. Besides, look at her mother! Miss Claire's no giantess, nor ever was, but she's as sound as a nut, an' so'll the baby be, when she gets her gait on, an' knows it's up to her to keep in step with the percession. Don't you let nobody discourage you. Believin's half the battle. You can take it from me, that baby's goin' to live, an' thrive, like the little thorabred she is.Shewouldn't give us all this trouble for nothin'."Her invincible confidence was like a tonic to Francis Ronald. It reinforced his own more flickering faith, so he could meet Claire's hungrily questioning eyes with reassurance.And, as the weeks went by, Martha's prediction seemed less and less preposterous."Didn't Itellyou?" she exulted. "That baby's a winner! She's goin' to be standard weight, all right, all right, an' measure up to requirements too, give her time. But between you an' me, all this new-fangled business with scales, an' tape-measures, an' suchlike, is enough to discourage the best-intentioned infant. There's more notions, nowadays, than you can shake a stick at—an' I'd like to shake a stick at most of'm, believeme!"At the time, she was thinking rather more of Miss Crewe, than of the nurses, whose "queer fandangoes" she never could become reconciled to.She was frankly anxious about Katherine."If I could do with her, like I do with Buller, I wouldn't say a word," she ruminated. "I just keep a kinda gener'l line on him, an' when the time comes, I get a-holt of his collar-band, an' march'm up to the captain's office, as brave as a lion. He's got so the minute I tip'm the wink, he comes for his washin' an' ironin'—I should say, bandidgin', as meek as a lamb to the slaughterhouse. But you can take it from me, there's no gettin' a line on Miss Katherine. She's devotin' all her time an' attention to puttin' off flesh an' color. The trouble is, she's got nothin' to do, an' she does it so thora, she ain't got time for anything else. Dear me! I wisht I could sort o' set her an' Buller at each other. It might help'm both to forget their losses. He certaintly is a queer dick, an' no mistake!""In spite o' his sportin' a G.A.R. one, you can take it fromme, Buller ain't got all his buttons!" she told Miss Katherine. "Do you know what he says? He says everybody's gone back on'm because he's in trouble. He says, nobody'll look at'm now he's mangled. They was his friends before, when he had all the limbs was comin' to'm, but—now he's shy a hand—they're too proud to notice'm. He says the world's a hard place for cripples."A faint smile flitted across Katherine's face"What a perverted point of view," she said, for the sake of saying something."Do you know what I think?" Mrs. Slawson continued. "I think now is the zoological moment to catch Buller, an' see what kind o' animal he is—ifhe's got the makin' of a man in'm. If he could be got to give up the drink, I do believe he might amount to somethin' yet. You can't know what a fella reely is, when he's always steepin' in licka. It's like pickles. You wouldn't know if they're dill, or sweet or what they are, till you take'm out o' soak an' test'm.""I should thinkyoumight influence him," suggested Miss Crewe impersonally. "You're so strong and wholesome and steady.""Land, no! Buller wouldn't listen to me," said Martha. "How wouldIbe reformin' anybody, when so many is reformin' me?""Mrs. Peckett, then?""Mrs. Peckett's way o' doin' things makes some folks nervous. It's like as if she said: 'I'm goin' to raise the tone o' this town, if I have to raise it by the scruff of its neck!' She's a good woman, Mrs. Peckett is, more power to her! Yes, she's as good as old gold, and—just as dull."Katherine was amused. "Does Mr. Buller require people to be so very brilliant, then?""Land, no!Hedon't. But hiscasedoes. There's a differnce. The fella that gets the whip-hand of'm is the fella he's goin' to respec'. No others need apply. If there was anybody in this town could kinda give'm the fright of his life on the licka question, it'd be dead easy tame him to'm afterwords."Miss Crewe's face lost its apathetic expression. A light of interest shone in her eyes."I wonder if an idea that has just occurred to me would be of any use? Last winter I attended a course of lectures at Columbia College, and one of the lectures was illustrated by lantern-slides, showing the effect of alcohol on the body and mind of habitual drunkards. They were enough to give one the horrors! If Buller could see those pictures——!"Mrs. Slawson brought her hands down upon her knees with a sounding slap. "There, didn't I know you'd strike on just the right idea, quicker'n, sure'n anybody else? An' you've done it!""But it would cost a lot of money to get that lecturer here. We might not be able to get him at all, even if we could raise the money to pay——""Raise nothin'—beggin' your pardon!" Martha exclaimed. "Mr. Frank Ronald is always doin' things for everybody. Why couldn't you go to him, an' tell'm what you've just told me—that you're interested in savin' Buller's soul from destruction, not to speak o' the rest of'm, an' that you know a gen'lman down to Columbia with slidin' pictures, can do it, if he got the price of his ticket, an' somethin' to boot? I betcher Mr. Frank'd have'm up in no time, an' thank you for givin'm the chance."Katherine shrank back. "Oh, no! I'd never dare," she said. "Mr. Ronald is dreadfully unapproachable, I think. His eyes are so stern, and he is so silent. He doesn't help you out at all—just seems always to be looking you through and through, and finding you very inferior.""Have you see'm smile?""No.""Well, you go down there, an' get'm to smile for you oncet. An' if you don't swear by'm ever after, my name ain't Martha Slawson. You can take it from me, Mr. Frank is true blue, like his eyes are. D'you think, if he wasn't, Miss Claire'd ever have married'm? Not on your life! She took'm for first choice, when she'd the refusal o' the pick o' the land, an' I know what I'm talkin' about."By the time Martha was ready to go, Miss Crewe had decided that she really must see Mr. Ronald, and find if it were possible to interest him in her village-improvement plan.If Mrs. Slawson would take her down to the big house, she could easily walk back before dinner-time, she said."Say, you make a chance, an' ask about Mrs. Ronald an' the baby. You'll get'm quickest, that way. An' even if you ain't used to infants, it won't be no lie to show you're dead stuck on this one, for she's a beauty on a small scale, an' no mistake," Martha dropped as they drove along.Before Katherine was really aware, she found herself being escorted upstairs to his wife's sitting-room by Francis Ronald himself.Burning logs were glowing on the open hearth, the place was warm and bright, and fragrant with hothouse blooms. Claire Ronald, looking like a delicate flower, of a very human variety, rose from her low chair before the fire, to greet her guest, and from that moment Katherine's constraint was gone.She told of her plan, and the Ronalds were interested from the first."I think it's a capital idea, don't you, Frank?" Claire cried, in her quick, impulsive way."There is something in it, no doubt," he admitted cautiously, smiling down at her with very different eyes from those Katherine had dreaded. "But I don't think much could be accomplished by one lecture. If these people are to get anything, they've got to get it in good doses, 'repeat when necessary.' You can't be sure you've made your point, until you've hammered it in, given it what the journalists call 'a punch.' This can only be done by repetition, emphasis. But acourseof lectures—with lantern-slides—a course extending through the winter—that would be a great scheme, I think."Katherine's face fell. "We could never hope to have acourse," she mourned."Why not?""The expense. Think what the cost would be!""It would be cheaper, in proportion, than one.""In proportion, yes. But I doubt if we could raise the money for one, much less the course."Mr. Ronald's eyes scanned her quizzically. "You should drill under Martha Slawson," he said with a touch of seriousness in his lighter manner. "She would never recognize the obstacle. She leaps it, or she mounts it, or she kicks it out of her way—but she neveradmitsit,—and the consequence is,—it isn't there. Now, suppose you were not required to raise the price of the course. Suppose the price were guaranteed? Would you guarantee to raise the audience? Get enough people to pledge themselves to attend, so the lecturer would come up with the fair assurance that he'd face something beside empty benches?""I could try.""How would you go about it?""There's a man named Buller——""Yes, I know him. A bad lot! Got his hand chewed up in a fox-trap, while he was on his way to my Lodge, to fire it, for the purpose of revenging himself on my superintendent's wife, Martha Slawson. Dr. Driggs told me about it. Gangrene set in, and the fellow'd have lost his arm, if not his life, if Dr. Ballard hadn't operated as promptly and skilfully as he did. Yes, I know Buller."Katherine, considerably dashed, took up her theme again, notwithstanding."He's very ignorant, very debased, of course. Yet, I think, as Mrs. Slawson does, that he could be helped. He's very low in his mind just now, because he thinks his neighbors shun him on account of his accident."For the first time she heard the hearty ring of Frank Ronald's laugh."Well, and this poor, abused soul is to aid you?—How?""He owns a horse and buckboard. It occurred to me he might be willing to help us, to the extent of taking me about from house to house, when I go to canvass. Incidentally, if the people see he's engaged in work we are interested in, it may re-establish him with them—with himself. He's lost all self-respect, all self-reliance. Mightn't it help him to get them back, if he felt he were concerned in some worthy enterprise, connected with reputable people?""It might."The early autumn twilight had fallen before what Martha Slawson would have called theirconflabended.While Mr. Ronald was giving orders for the motor to be brought around, his little wife displayed the wonderful baby, and Katherine, holding the tiny soft creature to her cheek, suddenly felt her heart melt toward that other tiny creature, not so soft, but almost as helpless, who was sitting solitary and alone in the chill and dreariness of what she called, by courtesy,home.
CHAPTER XII
At first it seemed as if no one was to be any the worse for the morning's adventure.
As soon as she had attended to the children, had changed her own cold, drenched garments for dry, Martha hastened over to the big house.
Tyrrell, the butler, informed her that Mrs. Ronald was resting quietly enough now, but they had been uncommonly anxious about her at the start. The shock had unnerved her. When her husband carried her in, she was crying like a baby.
"Well, you know where to find me, if, when she wakes, she seems the least bit ailin'. All you have to do is ring me up, an' I'll be over in the shake of a lamb's tail."
But when the day passed, and there was no summons, when supper was over and the children, including Cora and Ma, in bed, Martha could stand it no longer.
"I justgotto go over, an' see for myself how the land lays," she explained to Sam. "I know it's silly, but I justgotto."
"All right. Come along," said Sam.
Martha shook her head. "No, you don't. Somebody's needed here in case, while I'm between this an' the big house, the telephone'd ring."
Patient Sam acquiesced at once. "Have it your own way. You've earned the right to have notions, and be fidgety if you want to. But no news is good news, an' what you'll make by running over there at this hour of night, when they said they'd 'phone if anything was needed, I don't know."
"I'll sleep better if I see for myself," was all the explanation Martha could give.
It was very dark, outside, once she got beyond the light from the Lodge windows. In her haste she had forgotten to bring the lantern with her, but she did not go back for it, because she felt she knew every inch of the ground, and, moreover, the impulse that drew her forth was so strong that she could not endure the idea of delay for a moment. She had discovered a short-cut across the grounds and meant to use it, though she knew Sam disapproved any trespassing on his adored lawns, hedges, and shrubberies, and, as a general rule, she respected his wishes. But now she made straight for the thicket of bushes walling in her kitchen-garden, meaning to push through it, at the point of least resistance, strike across the roadway and so slice off a good quarter of a mile, by bisecting the lawn sweeping up to the big house. Just within the thicket she stood as if at attention. For the life of her she could not have said what brought her to a standstill, but also, for the life of her, she could not go on until she knew what was on the other side of that wall of bushes.
Listening, she could hear nothing but the common-place night-sounds, now grown familiar to her ears. The stirrings of leaves, when the wind sighed through them, the surreptitious whirr of wings aloft, up over the tree-tops, the lowly meanderings of insects among the grass, the soft pad-pad of tiny, furry feet scampering to safety. But there was still another sound, an unusual, unfamiliar sound. It came to Martha in a flash what it was. A fox, caught in one of Sam's traps.
"Oh, you poor devil, you!" she heard herself exclaim.
The words were echoed by a human groan, so close at hand, she fairly started.
"Who are you?" Her question rang out sharply.
"None of your damned business!" came back in instant answer. "But since you're here, curse you! come, and get me out of this —— —— trap."
A light flashed, by which Martha made out a man's figure crouching on the ground the other side of the hedge. His face was completely hidden, not alone by the drooping brim of his soft hat, but by a sort of black mask he wore. Without a moment's hesitation she forced her way through the hedge. Now she could see more plainly, she made out that the man was on his hands and knees. One hand was free—the other, caught in the fox-trap, was bleeding cruelly. On the ground, within easy reach lay a pistol, a bundle of fagots, and a bull's-eye electric torch. The man's uninjured left hand was clutching the torch.
"Doncher stir a muscle, Mr. Buller," Martha said imperatively, "till I make out how this thing works. I don't want to hurt you more than I got to, unspringin' the trap."
Buller swore violently as he bade her, "Go ahead then, and be quick about it!"
A moment, and the mangled hand was free. Instantly, its owner listed over on the grass in a dead faint, in total darkness.
Martha felt about in the darkness for the torch, set it glowing and, by aid of its light, found a flask in Buller's pocket, some of the contents of which she forced between his lips. When he was fully conscious, she bade him pick up his belongings, and come along home with her, where she could look after his hand, and, if necessary, telephone for the doctor.
Clutching at her shoulder, he staggered to his feet.
"Don't forget your gun," warned Martha drily.
"Damn the gun!" returned Buller.
Somehow they reached the Lodge. Sam, hearing footsteps, came to the door with an anxious face.
"Martha," he whispered, before he had made out she was not alone, "hurry back to the big house. Mr. Ronald's just called you up this minute. His wife wants you, and—I'm going for the doctor."
Martha pushed Buller forward into the entry.
"Look after'm, Sam. He was on his way to give us a call. With his pistol an' a bunch o' kindlin's to fire the house. He heard me comin', an' lay low for a minute, an' got caught in the trap you set for—the other fox. But take care of'm," she said, and vanished into the night.
Neither Sam nor Buller spoke for a moment. Then Sam opened the sitting-room door.
"Come in," he invited the other. "Let's take a look at your hand."
The tortured Buller thrust it forward where the lamplight could fall upon it. Sam shook his head.
"That's beyond me," he explained. "But I tell you what, I'm going for Dr. Driggs, anyhow. You get in the car and come along with me. Only, I better take that black dingus off your face, hadn't I?"
Buller made a clumsy effort to detach it himself, but his left hand alone could not manage it. Sam did it for him.
"Now, as soon as I get the car," he explained, "we can start."
While he was gone Buller paced the floor like a caged animal, writhing with pain, crying, cursing. Sam was gone but a few minutes. It seemed an eternity to the poor, waiting wretch. Then away they sped through the cool, calming darkness of the night.
In the extremity of his anguish, nothing really signified to Buller, yet again and again he found himself wondering if Slawson would "split" on him. As a matter of fact, Sam never opened his lips, beyond delivering his message to the doctor from Mr. Ronald, then turning Buller over to him for immediate attention.
The old physician scowled through his spectacles when he saw the wound.
"How did you managethisjob?" he asked in his blunt, uncompromising way.
Buller winced. "Trap. Foxes after my hens. I set a trap to catch them."
"And got caught in it yourself! Huh! That's sometimes the way. Here, swallow this down. It'll dull the pain some. Now is the time you may wish you weren't a drinking man, Buller. I'll do the best I can for you, but you've given yourself a nasty hurt, and your blood's not in a state to help the healing along much. However, we'll see what we'll see. I'll give you these extra drops to take home with you. Use them if the pain comes back. Don't meddle with my bandage, d'you hear. Leave it alone. And, let me see you in the morning. Now, Mr. Slawson—— Ready!"
Again that swift, almost silent speeding through the night.
Since Buller's torture had ceased, the motion seemed for him part of a blissful dream, by which he was being gradually lulled to deeper and deeper peace. At first he started in to babble fatuously, but Dr. Driggs brusquely bade him, "Shut up! This is no time for merrymaking!" and he dropped back into himself, subdued but not suppressed.
At the big house Sam stopped his car.
"I'll take Buller home, and come back for you," he explained to Dr. Driggs.
"Better dump him out on the road," was the harsh, whispered rejoinder. "I know him from the ground up. He lied to me about his hand. He was up to deviltry of some kind, other than trapping foxes, depend upon it! Between you and me, that's a fierce hand he's got. I don't envy him his dance with it."
In the meantime, Martha had found Claire Ronald feverish and excited. It did not take her long to decide she would not leave the big house that night. When Sam returned to take him home, Dr. Driggs was not ready to go. Neither was Martha.
"Butyou'dbetter turn in, Slawson," advised Mr. Ronald. "No use in everybody's getting worn out. If I should need you, I'll call you up."
Early next morning the young kitchen-maid from the big house appeared at the Lodge door for certain necessaries Martha wanted and could not be spared long enough to come, herself, and fetch.
"Eh, now! You don't say so! Things must be pretty bad over there!" observed Ma.
The girl nodded dumbly. She adored Mrs. Ronald.
"If I was you, beggin' pardon for the liberty," Martha addressed Mr. Frank, "I'd get a-holt of those doctors an' nurses from the city you have engaged. They was comin' up in two weeks, anyhow. You never can tell. This might be a false alarm, but then again it mightn't. Either way, we don't want to take no risks."
"I'll telegraph," said Francis Ronald dully.
"What's the matter with the telefoam? Ain't you got a long-distance connection here?"
While Central was clearing the wire, Katherine Crewe was ushered in. She hesitated on the library threshold, then came forward rapidly, her face more lovely than Martha had ever seen it, in its softened expression of human sympathy.
"I'm so sorry—I've just heard—I came to see if I could do something—be of any help," she stammered shyly.
Frank Ronald had risen and was about to reply, when Dr. Driggs pushed through the doorway, interrupting gruffly.
"I'm not quite satisfied with the way things are going. Nothing to be uneasy about, you know, but, under the circumstances, I'd like another man to talk the case over with."
"I've just called up the New York specialist. He and the nurses——"
"Lord! I don't meanthat! It'll takethema full day to get here. We can't wait that long. I want some onenow."
"Now?" Frank Ronald echoed, without any appearance of understanding what the word meant.
"Now," repeated Dr. Driggs. "I'd like to call in——"
Tinkled the telephone-bell with irritating insistence.
Frank Ronald's cold hand gripped the thing as if he would choke it.
"Hello! Is this New York? Is this Dr. Webster? 'Morning, Dr. Webster! This is F. B. Ronald speaking. Yes—I've called you up, because my wife—— Can you hear menow? Is this better?—My wife—I'm worried about my wife. I've called in Dr. Driggs of this village. He wants more advice.... Yes, by all means come on at once, and bring the nurses. But Driggs says he can't wait. Must have some one immediately.... Eh? ...Who, do you say? ... Boston? Yes, I get that ... Ballard of Boston? ... There's a young fellow here from Boston named Ballard, but he ... I don't believe he's the man. Wait a minute.... Please repeat that! ... You say he's the best skill in New England? National repute? ... I'm afraid.... Hello! Dr. Webster ... Driggs, here, says'tisthe man you mean. He says he was just trying to tell me, when ... yes ... I'm sure we can get him. Yes, wearein luck! ... Very well ... Burbank Junction ... midnight.... Good-by!"
Francis Ronald's words and manner were painfully precise.
Thought Martha, "I've seen parties none too steady on their pins, just that kind o' mincin' about their steps. As if they'd dare you say they couldn't walk a chalk-line. Poor fella. He's so crazed with worry he can't see straight, but he's goin' to prove anybody thinks so, is another!"
When Katherine reached home she found Madam Crewe awaiting her.
"Well, and how are things going? You had your tramp for nothing, eh? Young Sammy's account of Mrs. Ronald's danger was hocus-pocus, of course!"
"No. Dr. Driggs is very anxious. He wants a consultation. While I was there Mr. Ronald called up Dr. Webster—ElihuWebster, from home. He's coming up with two nurses——"
"And Mrs. Ronald is going towaitfor him? That's obliging of her, I'm sure!"
"Dr. Driggs had asked Mr. Ronald to let him have Dr. Ballard. He had asked, before they got Dr. Webster on the wire. Then, the first name Dr. Webster suggested was Dr. Ballard's. He called him 'the best skill in New England.' Said he was of 'national repute.'"
"You mean Driggs did. Well, what then? Driggs is getting old. He sometimes muddles. He's probably got this young sprig here confused with the great one."
"No, grandmother. Dr. Webster said it. Dr. Driggs only repeated what Dr. Webster said."
During the pause following Katherine's statement, Madam Crewe sat quite still, apparently absorbed in contemplation of her two, tiny hands, lying folded and motionless in her lap. When, at length, she looked up, a curious ghost of a smile curled the corners of her mouth.
"Really I am uncommonly gratified. You see, I can't help thinking, how barely I missed the honor of being this young man's grandmother. I'd havelikedto have a grandchild of whom I could be proud."
Katherine winced. "I'm sorry I've disappointed you," she said bitterly.
"Don't mention it. It's not the first disappointment I've had in my life. It probably won't be the last. Moreover, now that youknow, undoubtedly you'll think better of your decision to give him up. You'll marry him, after all, in spite of the loss of me and my money. So I'll have myeminentgrandson, whether I want him or not."
"Grandmother!"
"Well, won't I? It seems to me, you have quite a keen eye for the main chance. At least, that's how I've made it out, judging from your behavior. At first, you were all for marrying him, when you thought you could do it on the sly, without sacrificing your interests with me. Then, on the impulse of the moment, for Norris's benefit, maybe, you played tragedy-queen and forswore your fortune for the sake of the man you love. All of which would have been very pretty and romantic—if you had stuck to it. But, when you had had time to calculate—presto! it's your lover you repudiate, to hang on to the money. Now you're fairly certain he's got all you'll need—doctors fleece one abominably, nowadays! Come and feel your pulse, and give you a soothing-syrup, and send in a bill for ten dollars, andthat'sno placebo, I tell you! Oh, there's no doubt you'll be rich, if you marry adoctor—— Where was I?"
"You were running down doctors, grandmother, and I don't see how you can, when you know what those you've had have done for you. I——"
"There, there! I don't needyouto inform me, young miss. What I was saying is, nobody would doubt, for a minute, you'll take him now.Idon't."
"Grandmother," the girl began, with the same kind of exaggerated punctilio Martha had observed in Mr. Ronald. "Grandmother, I want to be very respectful to you. I don't want to say one word that will excite you, or make you ill. But I think you take unfair advantage of me. You taunt me, and jeer at me because you know I can't hit back, without being an unutterable coward."
Madam Crewe made a clicking sound with her tongue.
"On the whole, I think I'd like it better if youdidhit back, providing you hit back in the right way. No temper, you understand. No rage, no rumpus and that sort of vulgarity. But real dexterous thrusting and parrying. Now, for example, you missed an opportunity a few moments ago. When I said I'd have liked to have a grandchild I could be proud of, you might have retorted, 'I'm sorry I disappoint you, grandmother, but, perhaps, ifyouhad been Dr. Ballard's grandmother, his distinction might not have been so great.' That would have been a silencer, because,—it would have been true. I'm afraid you're not very clever, my dear."
"If that sort of thing—slashing people with one's tongue, is clever, I'm glad I'm stupid."
"There! That's not so bad! Try again!" applauded the old woman.
Katherine turned away, with a gesture of discouragement.
"It never occurred to me before," Madam Crewe meditated, "but what you really need is a sense of humor. You're quite without humor. You've brains enough, but you have about as much dash and sparkle as one of your husband-that-is-to-be's mustard-plasters. Only the mustard-plaster has the advantage of you in sharpness."
The girl wheeled about abruptly. "He is not my husband that-is-to-be. I have told you that before."
"But the circumstances have changed. Now you know he is distinguished—probably well-to-do——"
"It only makes another barrier. Can't you see? Can't you understand?"
"Perhaps I might, if you'd have the goodness to explain. But you must remember, I'm an old woman. It's a great many years since I had heroics."
"Perhaps you never had them," Katherine retorted. "Perhaps you never wereyoung—never cared for any one with all your heart. Perhaps you never had a heart."
"Perhaps," agreed Madam Crewe. "In which case, don't appeal to it. Appeal to my imagination. That, at least, I can vouch for."
"I took your word for it, that Dr. Ballard was a young struggling doctor, poor—with, at best, no more than a problematic future—that's what you said—a problematic future."
"Well?"
"When I began to suspect he cared for me, I was glad he hadn't a lot of advantages, to emphasize my want of them. It didn't seem to me, then, so impossible, that as poor as I should be, and as dull as you've always said I am, I might marry him some day, if he loved me. I never cared a rush about that nonsense connected with his grandfather. I wouldn't have cared, if it had been true. So when you threw mud atmygrandfather and father, I didn't supposehe'dcare—or believe it—either. And, he didn't and—doesn't. So far, we stood about equal. I could give him as true a love as he could give me. But——"
"Oho! So that's your idea. I see your point now. You've got the kind of love that weighs and balances, have you? You won't take more than you can give! Why, young miss, let me tell you, you may think that's high-flown and noble—it's no such thing! If you want to know what it is, it's your great-grandfather's arrogance turned inside out, that's all! If you refuse to marry the man you love, because you have nothing to offer him, you're as bad as I was when I refused because my lover had nothing to offer me. There's a pride of poverty that's as detestable as the pride of riches. You talk about love! You don't know what the word means. If you did, you'd see that the real thing is beyond such mean dickering. In lovefair exchange is low snobbery."
The girl stared silently into her grandmother's face. Two bright spots were glowing in the withered cheeks, the old woman's eyes shot forth the fire of youth.
For the second time Katherine felt that the drawbridge was down. Impulsively, she took a step forward, grasping one of the little old hands, folding it tight in both her own.
"Grandmother, I want to tell you something—I see what you mean and—I know it's true. But—but—there's something else——"
Madam Crewe did not withdraw her hand. It almost seemed to Katherine as if its clasp tightened on hers.
"What else?"
"When he—when Dr. Ballard first spoke to me about his grandfather, he said, 'But after all, the only thing that really counts is character.' He said: 'One can afford to whistle at family-trees if one's own record is clean!' He said: 'After all, what's most important, is to be straight goods one's self. If I'd lied, or was a coward or had taken what belonged to some one else, or had any other dirty rag of memory trailing after me, I'd hesitate to ask any one to share my life with me, but——'"
"Well?"
"Grandmother—I'vethe kind of dirty rag of memory, he spoke about. I'm a coward—I've lied—I've taken what belonged to some one else."
CHAPTER XIII
Madam Crewe said nothing.
She gazed into Katherine's face blankly for a moment, then gradually withdrew her eyes to fix them on a bit of sky visible through the bowed shutters of the open window.
When the silence became unendurable, "Won't you speak to me, grandmother?" the girl pleaded. "Won't you let me feel you understand?"
There was a long pause before any answer came.
"Understand? No, I don't understand. How could one understand one's own flesh and blood being, doing—what you describe? That story would be perpetually new—perpetually incomprehensible. But perhaps you're vaporing. Using big words for insignificant things. A child's trick. Tell me the truth, and be quick about it."
There was something so formidable in the tiny old woman sitting there, coldly withdrawn into herself again, controlling any show of natural emotion with a fairly uncanny skill, that Katherine quailed before her.
In as few words as possible, she sketched the story of the recovered pocket.
Madam Crewe heard her through, in silence. In silence, received the object that had, at one time, been such a determining factor in her life. Katherine could not see that she betrayed, by so much as the quiver of an eyelash, the natural interest one might be conceived as feeling in so significant a link with the past.
"Be good enough to leave me," the old woman said at last. "And don't open this subject again, unless I bid you. If I need any one I'll ring for Eunice. Don'tyoucome—for the present. Oh, before you go, see that you keep a close mouth about this thing, not alone to me, but toevery one. Understand?"
Katherine nodded dumbly. She felt like a child dismissed in disgrace, or a prisoner returned to his cell. She did not know how long she remained in her room, but when Eunice came to announce luncheon, she sent her away, merely explaining that she was not hungry. And would Eunice kindly answer if Madam Crewe should ring?
Within her, a hundred impulses of revolt urged to some act of self-deliverance. She fought them down with appeals to her own better nature, her grandmother's need of her. It was to escape from herself, as much as from her environment, that, at last, in desperation, she caught up her hat and left the house.
She had been gone several hours, and it was twilight, when a low tap sounded on Madam Crewe's door.
Without waiting for permission to come in, Dr. Ballard did so. The old woman started up, as if his presence roused her from sleep, but he could see she had been fully awake.
"You look as if you had been through the wars," she observed dryly, examining his face with her searching eyes.
He dropped heavily into the chair she indicated.
"I have," he answered.
"You've saved two souls alive? Mother and child?"
He nodded. "But the war's not over. The fight's still on. I've done allIcan. The rest lies with——"
The old woman took him up sharply. "Don't try to talk. Touch that bell."
Then, when Eunice, responding, stood on the threshold: "Bring me the leathern case you'll find standing beside the clothes-press in my dressing-room. Yes ... that's the one. Bring it here to me! Now, go downstairs and fetch a plateful of hard biscuits. Hurry! ... Stop! ... Before you go, hand me that glass from my table."
When the girl was gone, Madam Crewe unlocked the case before her, took from it a flask, and with surprisingly steady hands, poured a share of its contents into the glass Eunice had placed on the wide arm of her chair.
"Wine?" asked Dr. Ballard doubtfully, hesitating to drink.
"No, not wine. Drink it down. Now, the biscuits. Don't talk."
She pretended to busy herself with the leathern case upon her knees—replacing the flask, turning the key in the lock, rather elaborately fingering the smooth surface, as if all her attention was concentrated on some imaginary fleck or flaw she had just discovered.
When, watching covertly, she saw the haggard lines slowly fade from her companion's face, the blood gradually mount to his cheeks, she drew an audible breath.
"That's great stuff!" Daniel Ballard observed appreciatively. "What do you call it?"
Madam Crewe raised her eyebrows. "I don't call it. It has no name, so far as I know. It's an old stimulant my father picked up somewhere in the far East. He treasured it like gold."
"It's certainly done the trick. I was all in, and now I feel quite fit. Mrs. Slawson and I have beenon the jobsince morning. She's a wonder, that woman! No end of nerve and pluck. I could make a corking good nurse of her! She's back there now, watching. Firm as Gibraltar. I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to get away for a moment, to catch a breath of fresh air, and a glimpse of——"
"Me?" Madam Crewe caught him up.
He corrected her gravely. "No, the evening star."
"Katherine came home from the Ronalds' this morning much disturbed."
"Over the case?"
"Yes—that, and—the fact of your being what she hadn't supposed."
Dr. Ballard looked his question.
"She feels overawed, now she's awarewhat a great man are you. A bit sheepish, too, I fancy, because, if I remember right, she has twitted you, more than once, on being worn out waiting for patients."
"Well, what of it? Suppose she has? I can stand chaffing, I hope. And besides, she was right. Iamworn out waiting for patients—waiting for patients to 'do the rest' after I've, so to speak, 'pressed the button.'"
"It's hard to believe you're the Daniel Ballard of Boston there's so much fuss about. Are you sure you're the man Elihu Webster meant? The man he called a celebrated specialist—the best skill in New England—and so forth and so forth?"
"I'm the only M.D. of my name in Boston," the young man said simply. "But I don't call myself a specialist, much less and-so-forth and-so-forth!"
"What do you call yourself, then?"
"A physician."
"I wish I had married your grandfather," Madam Crewe announced.
Daniel Ballard bent his head, acknowledging what was more than mere compliment, by a silence sincerer than words.
"I must go. Where's Katherine?" he asked, after a moment.
"I don't know. Not at home, I fancy. Will you do me a favor?"
"If I can."
"Don't try to see her for a while. Leave her alone."
He had risen to go, but her words checked him.
"I can't give you any such promise," he said. "It seems a strange request for you to make."
"You don't trust me?"
"No. Not in this."
"You may."
He hesitated. "Perhaps. Still—I give no promise. I'll think it over. When I have more time, you'll explain?"
"Perhaps," she echoed.
The next minute she was alone.
However she accomplished it, Madam Crewe had her way. Katherine did not see Dr. Ballard again before he left for Boston. He left a brief note explaining that Mr. Ronald refused to release him, even after Dr. Webster arrived with his brace of nurses.
Katherine read the letter with a bitter smile. Technically, she had nothing to complain of. She had definitely said she would never marry him. He had taken her at her word—and yet, his easy acquiescence hurt her cruelly. It did notexplainanything, that Mr. Ronald himself confessed his dependence on Dr. Ballard.
The saving of his wife and baby (a miracle, Dr. Webster called it) made Frank Ronald feel that, whoever came or went, "Ballard" and Martha Slawson could not be spared from Claire's bedside, until the danger was over, recovery absolutely certain.
It was all perfectly plausible, and yet—
Then came an urgent recall to Boston, which "the best skill in New England" felt obliged to respond to in person.
"If you didn't have a family, Mrs. Slawson," he said to Martha, the last evening, as they sat in Claire's sitting-room, gratifying Frank Ronald's whim that they remain within call,—"If you didn't have a family I'd urge you to take up nursing. You have an excellent knack for it. I could make a capital nurse of you."
Martha nodded appreciatively. "Thank you, sir. But there's so many things I'm, as you might say, billed to be made over into first, I guess I'll have to cut out the trained nurse. Besides, I might fall down on a case I was a stranger to. It's dead easy do for anybody you love, but to go an' pick'm up off'n the roadside——! Well, that's a differnt proposition. The dirt an' the smell o' some o' them! You wouldn't believe it!"
"Do you love that scamp Buller?"
"Not on your life! That is,—not so you'd notice it."
"Yet you stood by him like a soldier, when Driggs and I took his hand off, last night. How's that?"
Martha pondered a moment. "Well, you see, sir, to tell the truth, I feel kind o' responsible for Buller. 'Twas me made'm mad in the first place, an' then, when he wanted to get back at me, 'twas our trap give'm the nip. Poor fella! You couldn't help be sorry for'm, he'll miss that strong right hand o' his so, which it used to be a reg'lar pretidigiagitator with the licka—— 'Now you see it an' now you don't effec'.'"
Dr. Ballard laughed. "His left hand's in training already. Between the whiskey and the ether, last night, I was almost anesthetized myself. But joking aside, I'm going to leave Buller in your care. I'll show you about the bandaging, so when Driggs gets through with the patient, you can take him up. I wouldn't like to trust to Mrs. Buller. She's a slipshod creature, sure to neglect. Dr. Driggs tells me, Buller dreadshimlike the mischief, so he won't go there any longer than he has to. May I trust you to keep your eye on him, follow him up, and let me know if there's any hitch in the healing?"
"Certaintly you may," said Martha.
"Another thing," Dr. Ballard paused. "I'd be glad to feel you are keeping an eye on—a—Crewesmere."
Mrs. Slawson nodded. "Certaintly, again. But you don't think—that is, you ain't in doubt about the ol' lady, are you? I'd hate to think she might have somethin' I ain't used to. I kinda got accustomed tostrokesnow, so's if she'd have any more, I'd know just how to take a-holt, but if she set about gettin' up somethin'new, it'd sorta rattle me, maybe. You never can tell."
"No, that's it! You never can tell.Ican't tell."
"It ain't as if she didn't have a sympton to show you," pleaded Martha, "so's you'd be workin' in the dark. When ladies is that way, the doctors says to'mselves: 'Her color's good, an' her pulse is strong, which proves she's far from a well woman. While I'm waitin' for somethin' to happen, I'll remove her appendicitis.' Folks has such funny furbelows inside'm nowadays, I don't wonder the doctors is puzzled. What's the use o' adenoids now, an' appendicitises, I should like to know, if it's only to go to the trouble an' expense of havin' 'm cut out?"
"Quite so," acquiesced Dr. Ballard gravely. "No, I'm not anxious about Madam Crewe's appendix. I'm anxious about her—granddaughter."
"Oh!" said Martha. "It'sheryou want to remove."
Dr. Ballard flushed. "Yes, Mrs. Slawson. That is—I wish to marry Miss Crewe. You already know of Madam's opposition. I don't mind that—any more. But something has happened—I don't know what—to change Miss Crewe, herself. I would never ask her to desert her grandmother. In fact, I would not respect her if she did desert her, leave her alone in her infirmity and old age. But I don't want her mind to be embittered. She is not happy. I wish you'd look after her—lend her a helping hand, once in a while. Lend her a helpingheart."
"I'll do my best," promised Martha solemnly.
"I've grown attached to this place. I'd like to hear about—everybody, once in a while. I'd like, so to speak, to keep my finger on the pulse of the public."
Martha looked up perplexed. "The pulse o' the public? I don't know as I exacklygetwhat you mean. But, if you want to feel the pulse o' the public, why—you'rethe doctor! Anyhow, I'll let you know how things is goin', if you'll excuse the liberty, and won't mind my spellin', which Sam says it's fierce."
"I'll deeply appreciate any line you may take the trouble to write me," Dr. Ballard assured her, with hearty sincerity.
It was September before Mrs. Slawson was actually settled at home again. The nurses, over at the big house, were altogether capable and trustworthy, but even after all need of her had passed, Mr. Ronald liked to feel Martha was within call. He fancied his wife felt more content when she was by, and, certainly, the baby slept better on her ample bosom than anywhere else.
It was a tiny creature, very delicate and fragile, a mere scrap of humanity that Martha could hold in the hollow of her hand.
In the privacy of their own sitting-room, the two trained nurses confided to Mrs. Slawson: "It's too bad the parents' hearts are so set on the child. They'll never raise it,never!"
"Now, what do you think o' that!" Martha said mournfully, and the two uniformed ones never knew that, in her heart, she despised them, "and their mizrable Bildadin' talk, which nobody could stand up against it, anyhow, much less a innocent little lamb that hasn't the stren'th to call'm liars to their faces."
"O'coursewe'll raise her," she assured Mr. Ronald confidently. "There's no doubt about it. Yes, I know she ain't very hefty, an' she ain't very robustic. But what do you expec'? You ain't give her a fair show yet. You can't take a baby, a few weeks old, 'specially if it had the tough time gettin' in on the game at all, that this one had, an' expec' her to be as big an' husky as my Sabina. It wouldn't be sensible. Besides, look at her mother! Miss Claire's no giantess, nor ever was, but she's as sound as a nut, an' so'll the baby be, when she gets her gait on, an' knows it's up to her to keep in step with the percession. Don't you let nobody discourage you. Believin's half the battle. You can take it from me, that baby's goin' to live, an' thrive, like the little thorabred she is.Shewouldn't give us all this trouble for nothin'."
Her invincible confidence was like a tonic to Francis Ronald. It reinforced his own more flickering faith, so he could meet Claire's hungrily questioning eyes with reassurance.
And, as the weeks went by, Martha's prediction seemed less and less preposterous.
"Didn't Itellyou?" she exulted. "That baby's a winner! She's goin' to be standard weight, all right, all right, an' measure up to requirements too, give her time. But between you an' me, all this new-fangled business with scales, an' tape-measures, an' suchlike, is enough to discourage the best-intentioned infant. There's more notions, nowadays, than you can shake a stick at—an' I'd like to shake a stick at most of'm, believeme!"
At the time, she was thinking rather more of Miss Crewe, than of the nurses, whose "queer fandangoes" she never could become reconciled to.
She was frankly anxious about Katherine.
"If I could do with her, like I do with Buller, I wouldn't say a word," she ruminated. "I just keep a kinda gener'l line on him, an' when the time comes, I get a-holt of his collar-band, an' march'm up to the captain's office, as brave as a lion. He's got so the minute I tip'm the wink, he comes for his washin' an' ironin'—I should say, bandidgin', as meek as a lamb to the slaughterhouse. But you can take it from me, there's no gettin' a line on Miss Katherine. She's devotin' all her time an' attention to puttin' off flesh an' color. The trouble is, she's got nothin' to do, an' she does it so thora, she ain't got time for anything else. Dear me! I wisht I could sort o' set her an' Buller at each other. It might help'm both to forget their losses. He certaintly is a queer dick, an' no mistake!"
"In spite o' his sportin' a G.A.R. one, you can take it fromme, Buller ain't got all his buttons!" she told Miss Katherine. "Do you know what he says? He says everybody's gone back on'm because he's in trouble. He says, nobody'll look at'm now he's mangled. They was his friends before, when he had all the limbs was comin' to'm, but—now he's shy a hand—they're too proud to notice'm. He says the world's a hard place for cripples."
A faint smile flitted across Katherine's face
"What a perverted point of view," she said, for the sake of saying something.
"Do you know what I think?" Mrs. Slawson continued. "I think now is the zoological moment to catch Buller, an' see what kind o' animal he is—ifhe's got the makin' of a man in'm. If he could be got to give up the drink, I do believe he might amount to somethin' yet. You can't know what a fella reely is, when he's always steepin' in licka. It's like pickles. You wouldn't know if they're dill, or sweet or what they are, till you take'm out o' soak an' test'm."
"I should thinkyoumight influence him," suggested Miss Crewe impersonally. "You're so strong and wholesome and steady."
"Land, no! Buller wouldn't listen to me," said Martha. "How wouldIbe reformin' anybody, when so many is reformin' me?"
"Mrs. Peckett, then?"
"Mrs. Peckett's way o' doin' things makes some folks nervous. It's like as if she said: 'I'm goin' to raise the tone o' this town, if I have to raise it by the scruff of its neck!' She's a good woman, Mrs. Peckett is, more power to her! Yes, she's as good as old gold, and—just as dull."
Katherine was amused. "Does Mr. Buller require people to be so very brilliant, then?"
"Land, no!Hedon't. But hiscasedoes. There's a differnce. The fella that gets the whip-hand of'm is the fella he's goin' to respec'. No others need apply. If there was anybody in this town could kinda give'm the fright of his life on the licka question, it'd be dead easy tame him to'm afterwords."
Miss Crewe's face lost its apathetic expression. A light of interest shone in her eyes.
"I wonder if an idea that has just occurred to me would be of any use? Last winter I attended a course of lectures at Columbia College, and one of the lectures was illustrated by lantern-slides, showing the effect of alcohol on the body and mind of habitual drunkards. They were enough to give one the horrors! If Buller could see those pictures——!"
Mrs. Slawson brought her hands down upon her knees with a sounding slap. "There, didn't I know you'd strike on just the right idea, quicker'n, sure'n anybody else? An' you've done it!"
"But it would cost a lot of money to get that lecturer here. We might not be able to get him at all, even if we could raise the money to pay——"
"Raise nothin'—beggin' your pardon!" Martha exclaimed. "Mr. Frank Ronald is always doin' things for everybody. Why couldn't you go to him, an' tell'm what you've just told me—that you're interested in savin' Buller's soul from destruction, not to speak o' the rest of'm, an' that you know a gen'lman down to Columbia with slidin' pictures, can do it, if he got the price of his ticket, an' somethin' to boot? I betcher Mr. Frank'd have'm up in no time, an' thank you for givin'm the chance."
Katherine shrank back. "Oh, no! I'd never dare," she said. "Mr. Ronald is dreadfully unapproachable, I think. His eyes are so stern, and he is so silent. He doesn't help you out at all—just seems always to be looking you through and through, and finding you very inferior."
"Have you see'm smile?"
"No."
"Well, you go down there, an' get'm to smile for you oncet. An' if you don't swear by'm ever after, my name ain't Martha Slawson. You can take it from me, Mr. Frank is true blue, like his eyes are. D'you think, if he wasn't, Miss Claire'd ever have married'm? Not on your life! She took'm for first choice, when she'd the refusal o' the pick o' the land, an' I know what I'm talkin' about."
By the time Martha was ready to go, Miss Crewe had decided that she really must see Mr. Ronald, and find if it were possible to interest him in her village-improvement plan.
If Mrs. Slawson would take her down to the big house, she could easily walk back before dinner-time, she said.
"Say, you make a chance, an' ask about Mrs. Ronald an' the baby. You'll get'm quickest, that way. An' even if you ain't used to infants, it won't be no lie to show you're dead stuck on this one, for she's a beauty on a small scale, an' no mistake," Martha dropped as they drove along.
Before Katherine was really aware, she found herself being escorted upstairs to his wife's sitting-room by Francis Ronald himself.
Burning logs were glowing on the open hearth, the place was warm and bright, and fragrant with hothouse blooms. Claire Ronald, looking like a delicate flower, of a very human variety, rose from her low chair before the fire, to greet her guest, and from that moment Katherine's constraint was gone.
She told of her plan, and the Ronalds were interested from the first.
"I think it's a capital idea, don't you, Frank?" Claire cried, in her quick, impulsive way.
"There is something in it, no doubt," he admitted cautiously, smiling down at her with very different eyes from those Katherine had dreaded. "But I don't think much could be accomplished by one lecture. If these people are to get anything, they've got to get it in good doses, 'repeat when necessary.' You can't be sure you've made your point, until you've hammered it in, given it what the journalists call 'a punch.' This can only be done by repetition, emphasis. But acourseof lectures—with lantern-slides—a course extending through the winter—that would be a great scheme, I think."
Katherine's face fell. "We could never hope to have acourse," she mourned.
"Why not?"
"The expense. Think what the cost would be!"
"It would be cheaper, in proportion, than one."
"In proportion, yes. But I doubt if we could raise the money for one, much less the course."
Mr. Ronald's eyes scanned her quizzically. "You should drill under Martha Slawson," he said with a touch of seriousness in his lighter manner. "She would never recognize the obstacle. She leaps it, or she mounts it, or she kicks it out of her way—but she neveradmitsit,—and the consequence is,—it isn't there. Now, suppose you were not required to raise the price of the course. Suppose the price were guaranteed? Would you guarantee to raise the audience? Get enough people to pledge themselves to attend, so the lecturer would come up with the fair assurance that he'd face something beside empty benches?"
"I could try."
"How would you go about it?"
"There's a man named Buller——"
"Yes, I know him. A bad lot! Got his hand chewed up in a fox-trap, while he was on his way to my Lodge, to fire it, for the purpose of revenging himself on my superintendent's wife, Martha Slawson. Dr. Driggs told me about it. Gangrene set in, and the fellow'd have lost his arm, if not his life, if Dr. Ballard hadn't operated as promptly and skilfully as he did. Yes, I know Buller."
Katherine, considerably dashed, took up her theme again, notwithstanding.
"He's very ignorant, very debased, of course. Yet, I think, as Mrs. Slawson does, that he could be helped. He's very low in his mind just now, because he thinks his neighbors shun him on account of his accident."
For the first time she heard the hearty ring of Frank Ronald's laugh.
"Well, and this poor, abused soul is to aid you?—How?"
"He owns a horse and buckboard. It occurred to me he might be willing to help us, to the extent of taking me about from house to house, when I go to canvass. Incidentally, if the people see he's engaged in work we are interested in, it may re-establish him with them—with himself. He's lost all self-respect, all self-reliance. Mightn't it help him to get them back, if he felt he were concerned in some worthy enterprise, connected with reputable people?"
"It might."
The early autumn twilight had fallen before what Martha Slawson would have called theirconflabended.
While Mr. Ronald was giving orders for the motor to be brought around, his little wife displayed the wonderful baby, and Katherine, holding the tiny soft creature to her cheek, suddenly felt her heart melt toward that other tiny creature, not so soft, but almost as helpless, who was sitting solitary and alone in the chill and dreariness of what she called, by courtesy,home.