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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14854-8.txt b/14854-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f01c59e --- /dev/null +++ b/14854-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5323 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Martha By-the-Day, by Julie M. Lippmann + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Martha By-the-Day + +Author: Julie M. Lippmann + +Release Date: February 1, 2005 [EBook #14854] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARTHA BY-THE-DAY *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Mary Meehan and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + MARTHA BY-THE-DAY + + By JULIE M. LIPPMANN + + 1912 + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +If you are one of the favored few, privileged to ride in chaises, you +may find the combination of Broadway during the evening rush-hour, in a +late November storm, stimulating--you may, that is, provided you have a +reliable driver. If, contrariwise, you happen to be of the class whose +fate it is to travel in public conveyances (and lucky if you have the +price!) and the car, say, won't stop for you--why-- + +Claire Lang had been standing in the drenching wet at the +street-crossing for fully ten minutes. The badgering crowd had been +shouldering her one way, pushing her the other, until, being a stranger +and not very big, she had become so bewildered that she lost her head +completely, and, with the blind impulse of a hen with paresis, darted +straight out, in amidst the crush of traffic, with all the chances +strong in favor of her being instantly trampled under foot, or ground +under wheel, and never a one to know how it had happened. + +An instant, and she was back again in her old place upon the curbstone. +Something like the firm iron grip of a steam-derrick had fastened on her +person, hoisted her neatly up, and set her as precisely down, exactly +where she had started from. + +It took her a full second to realize what had happened. Then, quick as a +flash, anger flamed up in her pale cheeks, blazed in her tired eyes. +For, of course, this was an instance of "insult" described by "the +family at home" as common to the experience of unprotected girls in New +York City. She groped about in her mind for the formula to be applied in +such cases, as recommended by Aunt Amelia. "Sir, you are no gentleman! +If you were a gentleman, you would not offer an affront to a young, +defenseless girl who--" The rest eluded her; she could not recall it, +try as she would. In desperate resolve to do her duty anyway, she tilted +back her umbrella, whereat a fine stream of water poured from the tip +directly over her upturned face, and trickled cheerily down the bridge +of her short nose. + +"Sir--" she shouted resolutely, and then she stopped, for, plainly, her +oration was, in the premises, a misfit--the person beside her--the one +of the mortal effrontery and immortal grip, being a--woman. A woman of +masculine proportions, towering, deep-chested, large-limbed, but with a +face which belied all these, for in it her sex shone forth in a +motherliness unmistakable, as if the world at large were her family, and +it was her business to see that it was generously provided for, along +the pleasantest possible lines for all concerned. + +"What car?" the woman trumpeted, gazing down serenely into Claire's +little wet, anxious, upturned face at her elbow. + +"Columbus Avenue." + +The stranger nodded, peering down the glistening, wet way, as if she +were a skipper sighting a ship. + +"My car, too! First's Lexin'ton--next Broadway--then--here's ours!" +Again that derrick-grip, and they stood in the heart of the maelstrom, +but apparently perfectly safe, unassailable. + +"They won't stop," Claire wailed plaintively. "I've been waiting for +ages. The car'll go by! You see if it won't!" + +It did, indeed, seem on the point of sliding past, as all the rest had +done, but of a sudden the motorman vehemently shut off his power, and +put on his brake. By some hidden, mysterious force that was in her, or +the mere commanding dimensions of her frame, Claire's companion had +brought him to a halt. + +She lifted her charge gently up on to the step, pausing herself, before +she should mount the platform, to close the girl's umbrella. + +"Step lively! Step lively!" the conductor urged insistently, reaching +for his signal-strap. + +The retort came calmly, deliberately, but with perfect good nature. "Not +on your life, young man. I been steppin' lively all day, an' for so +long's it's goin' to take this car to get to One-hundred-an'-sixteenth +Street, my time ain't worth no more'n a settin' hen's." + +The conductor grinned in spite of himself. "Well, mine _is_," he +declared, while with an authoritative finger he indicated the box into +which Claire was to drop her fare. + +"So all the other roosters think," the woman let fall with a tolerant +smile, while she diligently searched in her shabby purse for five cents. + +Claire, in the doorway, lingered. + +"Step right along in, my dear! Don't wait for me," her friend advised, +closing her teeth on a dime, as she still pursued an elusive nickel. +"Step right along in, and sit down anywheres, an' if there ain't +nowheres to sit, why, just take a waltz-step or two in the direction o' +some of them elegant gen'lemen's feet, occupyin' the places meant for +ladies, an' if they don't get up for love of _you_, they'll get up for +love of their shins." + +Still the girl did not pass on. + +"Fare, please!" There was a decided touch of asperity in the +conductor's tone. He glared at Claire almost menacingly. + +Her lip trembled, the quick tears sprang to her eyes. She hesitated, +swallowed hard, and then brought it out with a piteous gulp. + +"I _had_ my fare--'twas in my glove. It must have slipped out. It's +gone--lost--and--" + +A tug at the signal-strap was the conductor's only comment. He was +stopping the car to put her off, but before he could carry out his +purpose the woman had dropped her dime into the box with a sounding +click. + +"Fare for two!" she said, "an' if I had time, an' a place to sit, I'd +turn you over acrost my knee, an' give you two, for fair, young man, for +the sake of your mother who didn't learn you better manners when you was +a boy!" With which she laid a kind hand upon Claire's heaving shoulder, +and impelled her gently into the body of the car, already full to +overflowing. + +For a few moments the girl had a hard struggle to control her rising +sobs, but happily no one saw her working face and twitching lips, for +her companion had planted herself like a great bulwark between her and +the world, shutting her off, walling her 'round. Then, suddenly, she +found herself placed in a hurriedly vacated seat, from which she could +look up into the benevolent face inclined toward her, and say, without +too much danger of breaking down in the effort: + +"I really _did_ have it--the money, you know. Truly, I'm not a--" + +"O, pooh! Don't you worry your head over a little thing like that. Such +accidents is liable to occur in the best-reggerlated fam'lies. They do +in mine, shoor!" + +"But, you see," quavered the uncertain voice, "I haven't any more. +That's all I had, so I can't pay you back, and--" + +It was curious, but just here another passenger hastily rose, vacating +the seat next Claire's, and leaving it free, whereat her companion +compressed her bulky frame into it with a sigh, as of well-earned rest, +and remarked comfortably, "_Now_ we can talk. You was sayin'--what was +it? About that change, you know. It was all you had. You mean _by_ you, +of course." + +Claire's pale, pinched face flushed hotly. "No, I don't," she confessed, +without lifting her downcast eyes. + +Her companion appeared to ponder this for a moment, then quite abruptly +she let it drop. + +"My name's Slawson," she observed. "Martha Slawson. I go out by the day. +Laundry-work, housecleaning, general chores. I got a husband an' four +children, to say nothing of a mother-in-law who lives with us, an' keeps +an eye on things while me an' Sammy (that's Mr. Slawson) is out +workin', an' lucky if it's an eye itself, for it's not a hand, I can +tell you that. What's your name, if I may make so bold?" + +"Claire Lang. My people live in Grand Rapids--where the furniture and +carpet-sweepers come from," with a wistful, faint little attempt at a +smile. "My father was judge of the Supreme Court, but he had losses, and +then he died, and there wasn't much of anything left, and so--" + +"You come to New York to make your everlastin' fortune, an' you--" + +Claire Lang shook her head, completing the unfinished sentence. "No, I +haven't made it, that is, not yet. But I'm not discouraged. I don't mean +to give up. Things look pretty dark just now, but I'm not going to let +that discourage me--No, indeed! I'm going to be brave and courageous, +and never say die, even if--even if--" + +"Turn 'round, an' pertend you're lookin' out of the winder," suggested +Mrs. Slawson confidentially. "The way folks stare, you'd think the world +was full of nothin' but laughin' hyeenyas. Dontcher care, my dear! Well +for some of 'em, if they could shed an honest tear or two themselves, +oncet in a while, instead of bein' that brazen; 'twouldn't be water at +all, but Putzes Pomady it'd take to make an impression on 'em, an' +don't you forget it. There! That's right! Now, no one can observe what's +occurrin' in your face, an' I can talk straight into your ear, see? What +I was goin' to say _is_, that bein' a mother myself an' havin' children +of my own to look out for, I couldn't recommend any lady, let alone one +so young an' pretty as you, to take up with strangers, here in New York +City, be they male or be they female. No, certaintly not! But in this +case, you can take it from me, I'm O.K. I can give the highest +references. I worked for the best fam'lies in this town, ever since I +was a child. You needn't be a mite afraid. I'm just a plain mother of a +fam'ly an', believe _me_, you can trust me as you would trust one of +your own relations, though I do say it as shouldn't, knowin' how queer +_own relations_ can be and _is_, when put to it at times. So, if you +happen to be in a hole, my dear, without friends or such things in the +city, you feel free to turn to, or if you seem to stand in need of a +word of advice, or--anything else, why, dontcher hesitate a minute. It'd +be a pretty deep hole Martha Slawson couldn't see over the edge of, be +sure of that, even if she did have to stand on her toes to do it. Holes +is my specialty, havin' been in an' out, as you might say, all my +life--particularly _in_." + +Judicious or not, Claire told her story. It was not a long one. Just +the everyday experience of a young girl coming to a strange city, +without influence, friends, or money, expecting to make her way, and +finding that way beset with difficulties, blocked by obstacles. + +"I've done everything I could think of, honestly I have," she concluded +apologetically. "I began by trying for big things; art-work in editorial +offices (everybody liked my art-work in Grand Rapids!). But 'twas no +use. Then I took up commercial drawing. I got what looked like a good +job, but the man gave me one week's pay, and that's all I could ever +collect, though I worked for him over a month. Then I tried real estate. +One firm told me about a woman selling for them who cleared, oh, I don't +know how-much-a-week, in commissions. Something queer must be the matter +with me, I guess, for I never got rid of a single lot, though I walked +my feet off. I've tried writing ads., and I've directed envelopes. I've +read the Wants columns, till it seems as if everybody in the world was +looking for a _job_. But I can't get anything to do. I guess God doesn't +mean me to die of starvation, for you wouldn't believe how little I've +had to eat all summer and fall, and yet I'm almost as strong and hearty +as ever. But lately I haven't been able to make any money at all, not +five cents, so I couldn't pay my board, and they--they told me at the +house where I live, that I'd have to square up to-night, or I couldn't +keep my room any longer. They took my trunk a week ago. I haven't had +anything to wear except these clothes I have on, since, and they're +pretty wet now--and--and--I've nowhere to go, and it _is_ pouring so +hard, and I should have been put off the car if you hadn't--" + +Mrs. Slawson checked the labored flow with a hand upon the girl's knee. +"Where did you say your boardin'-house is?" she inquired abruptly. + +"Ninety-fifth Street--West--Two-hundred-and-eighty-five-and-a-half." + +"Good gracious! An' we're only three blocks off there now!" + +"But you said," expostulated Claire helplessly, feeling herself +propelled as by the hand of fate through the crowd toward the door. "You +said you live on One-hundred-and-sixteenth Street." + +"So I do, my dear, so I do! But I've got some business +to transack with a lady livin' in Ninety-fifth +Street--West--Two-hunderd-an'-eighty-five-an'-a-half. Come along. +'Step lively,' as my friend, _this nice young man out here on the +rear platform_, says." + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +They plodded along the flooded street in silence, Claire following after +Martha Slawson like a small child, almost clutching at her skirts. It +was not easy to keep pace with the long, even strides that covered so +much ground, and Claire fell into a steady pony-trot that made her +breath come short and quick, her heart beat fast. She dimly wondered +what was going to happen, but she did not dare, or care, to ask. It was +comfort enough just to feel this great embodiment of human sympathy and +strength beside her, to know she was no longer alone. + +Before the house Martha paused a moment. + +"Now, my dear, there ain't goin' to be nothin' for you to do but just +sit tight," she vouchsafed reassuringly. "Don't you start to butt in (if +you'll pardon the liberty), no matter what I say. I'm goin' to be a +perfect lady, never fear. I know my place, an' I know my dooty, an' if +your boardin'-house lady knows hers, there'll be no trouble +whatsomedever, so dontcher worry." + +She descended the three steps leading from the street-level down into +the little paved courtyard below, and rang the basement bell. A moment +and an inner door was unlocked, flung open, and a voice from just +within the grating of the closed iron area-gate asked curtly, "Well, +what's wanted?" + +"Is this Mrs.----? I should say, is this the lady of the house?" Martha +Slawson's voice was deep, bland, prepossessing. + +"I'm Mrs. Daggett, yes, if that's what you mean." + +"That's what I mean. My name's Slawson. Mrs. Sammy Slawson, an' I come +to see you on a little matter of business connected with a young lady +who's been lodgin' in your house--Miss Lang." + +Mrs. Daggett stepped forward, and unlatched the iron gate. "Come in," +she said, in a changed voice, endeavoring to infuse into her acrid +manner the grace of a belated hospitality. + +Claire, completely hidden from view behind Martha Slawson's heroic +proportions, followed in her wake like a wee, foreshortened shadow as, +at Mrs. Daggett's invitation, Mrs. Slawson passed through the area +gateway into the malodorous basement hall, and so to the dingy +dining-room beyond. Here a group of grimy-clothed tables seemed to have +alighted in sudden confusion, reminding one of a flock of pigeons +huddled together in fear of the vultures soon to descend on them with +greedy, all-devouring appetites. + +"We can just as well talk here as anywhere," announced Mrs. Daggett. +"It's quarter of an hour before dinnertime, but if you'd rather go up to +the parlor we can." + +"O, dear, no!" said Martha Slawson suavely. "_Any_ place is good enough +for me. Don't trouble yourself. I'm not particular _where_ I am." +Unbidden, she drew out a chair from its place beside one of the +uninviting tables, and sat down on it deliberately. It creaked beneath +her weight. + +"O--oh! Miss Lang!" said Mrs. Daggett, surprised, seeing her young +lodger now, for the first time. + +Martha nodded. "Yes, it's Miss Lang, an' I brought her with me, through +the turrbl storm, Mrs.--a--?" + +"Daggett," supplied the owner of the name promptly. + +"That's right, Daggett," repeated Martha. "I brought Miss Lang with me, +Mrs. Daggett, because I couldn't believe my ears when she told me she +was goin' to be--to be _turned out_, if she didn't pay up to-night, +_weather_ or no. I wanted to hear the real truth of it from you, ma'am, +straight, with her by." + +Mrs. Daggett coughed. "Well, business is business. I'm not a capitalist. +I'm not keeping a boarding-house for my health, you know. I can't +afford to give credit when I have to pay cash." + +"But, of course, you don't mean you'd ackchelly refuse the young lady +shelter a night like this, if she come to you, open an' honest, an' said +she hadn't the price by her just at present, but she would have it +sooner or later, an' then you'd be squared every cent. You wouldn't turn +her down if she said that, would you?" + +"Say, Mrs. Slawson, or whatever your name is," broke in Mrs. Daggett +sharply, "I'm not here to be cross-questioned. When you told me you'd +come on business for Miss Lang, I thought 'twas to settle what she owes. +If it ain't--I'm a busy woman. I'm needed in the kitchen this minute, to +see to the dishing-up. Have the goodness to come to the point. Is Miss +Lang going to pay? If she is, well and good. She can keep her room. If +she isn't--" The accompanying gesture was eloquent. + +Mrs. Slawson's chair gave forth another whine of reproach as she settled +down on it with a sort of inflexible determination that defied argument. + +"So that's your ultomato?" she inquired calmly. "I understand you to say +that if this young lady (who any one with a blind eye can see she's +_quality_), I understand you to say, that if she don't pay down every +cent she owes you, here an' now, you'll put her out, bag an' baggage?" + +"No, not bag and baggage, Mrs. Slawson," interposed the boarding-house +keeper with a wry smile, bridling with the sense that she was about to +say something she considered rather neat, "I am, as you might say, +holding her bag and baggage--as security." + +"Now what do you think o' that!" ejaculated Martha Slawson. + +"It's quite immaterial to me what anybody thinks of it," Mrs. Daggett +snapped. "And now, if that's all you've got to suggest, why, I'm sure +it's all I have, and so, the sooner we end this, the sooner I'll be at +liberty to attend to my dinner." + +Still Mrs. Slawson did not stir. + +"I suppose you think you're a lady," she observed without the faintest +suggestion of heat. "I suppose you think you're a lady, but you +certainly ain't workin' at it now. What takes my time, though, is the +way you ackchelly seem to be meanin' what you say! Why, I wouldn't turn +a dog out a night like this, an' you'd let a delicate young girl go into +the drivin' storm, a stranger, without a place to lay her head--that is, +for all _you_ know. I could bet my life, without knowin' a thing about +it, that the good Lord never let you have a daughter of your own. He +wouldn't trust the keepin' of a child's body, not to speak of her soul, +to such as you. That is, He wouldn't if He could help Himself. But, +thanks be! Miss Lang ain't dependent. She's well an' able to pay all she +owes. Supposin' she _has_ been kinder strapped for a little while back, +an' had to economize by comin' to such a place as this! I've knowed +others, compelled to economize with three trunks alongside a +hall-bedroom wall, for a while, too, an' by an' by their circumstances +was such that they had money to burn. It's not for the likes of Miss +Lang to try to transack business with your sort. It would soil her lips +to bandy words, so I, an old fam'ly servant, an' proud of it! am +settlin' up her affairs for her. Be kind enough to say how much it is +you are ready to sell your claim to Christian charity for? How much is +it you ain't willin' to lend to the Lord on Miss Lang's account?" She +plucked up her skirts, thrust her hand, unembarrassed, into her +stocking-leg, and brought forth from that safe depository a roll of +well-worn _greenbacks_. + +Mrs. Daggett named the amount of Claire's indebtedness, and Martha +Slawson proceeded to count it out in slow, deliberate syllables. She did +not, however, surrender the bills at once. + +"I'll take a receipt," she quietly observed, and then sat back with an +air of perfect imperturbability, while the boarding-house keeper +nervously fussed about, searching for a scrap of paper, hunting for a +pen, trying to unearth, from the most impossible hiding-places, a bottle +of ink, her indignation at Martha's _cheek_ escaping her in audible +mumblings. + +"Impudence! What right have you to come here, holding me to account? +I've my own way of doing good--" + +Mrs. Slawson shrugged. "Your own way? I warrant you have! Nobody else'd +recognize it. I'd like to bet, you don't give a penny to charity oncet +in five years. Come now, do you?" + +"God doesn't take into account the amount one gives," announced Mrs. +Daggett authoritatively. + +"P'raps not, but you can take it from _me_, He keeps a pretty close +watch on what we have left--or I miss my guess. An' now, Miss Claire +darlin', if you'll go an' get what belongin's you have, that this +generous lady ain't stripped off'n you, to hold for _security_, as she +calls it, we'll be goin'. An expressman will be 'round here the first +thing in the mornin' for Miss Lang's trunk, an' it's up to you, Mrs. +Daggett, to see it's ready for'm when he comes. Good-night to you, +ma'am, an' I wish you luck." + +Never after could Claire recall in detail what followed. She had a dim +vision of glistening pavements on which the rain dashed furiously, only +to rebound with resentful force, saturating one to the skin. Of fierce +blasts that seemed to lurk around every corner. Of street-lamps gleaming +meaninglessly out of the murk, curiously suggesting blinking eyes set in +a vacant face, and at last--at last--in blessed contrast--an open door, +the sound of cheery voices, the feel of warmth and welcome, the sight of +a plain, wholesome haven--rest. + +Martha Slawson checked her children's vociferous clamor with a word. +Then her orders fell thick and fast, causing feet to run and hands to +fly, causing curiosity to give instant way before the pressure of +busy-ness, and a sense of cooperation to make genial the task of each. + +"Hush, everybody! Cora, you go make up the bed in the boarder's room. +Turn the mattress, mind! An' stretch the sheets good an' smooth, like I +learned you to do. Francie, you get the hot-water bottle, quick, so's I +can fill it! Sammy, you go down to the cellar, an' tell Mr. Snyder your +mother will be much obliged if he'll turn on a' extra spark o' +steam-heat. Tell'm, Mrs. Slawson has a lady come to board with her for a +spell, that's fixin' for chills or somethin', onless she can be kep' +warm an' comfortable, an' the radianator in the boarder's room don't +send out much heat to speak of. Talk up polite, Sammy; d'you hear me? +An' be sure you don't let on Snyder might be keepin' a better fire in +his furnace if he didn't begrutch the coal so. It's gospel truth, o' +course, but landlords is _supposed_ to have feelin's, same as the rest +of us, an' a gentle word turneth aside wrath. Sabina, now show what a +big girl you are, an' fetch mother Cora's nicest nightie out o' the +drawer in my beaurer--the nightie Mrs. Granville sent Cora last +Christmas. Mother wants to hang it in front of the kitchen-range, so's +the pretty lady can go by-bye all warm an' comfy, after she's took her +supper off'n the tray, like Sabina did when she had the measles." + +Huge Sam Slawson, senior, overtopping his wife by fully half a head, +gazed down upon his little hive, from shaggy-browed, benevolent eyes. He +uttered no complaint because his dinner was delayed, and he, hungry as a +bear, was made to wait till a stranger was served and fed. Instead, he +wandered over to where Martha was supplementing "Ma's" ministrations at +the range, and patted her approvingly on the shoulder. + +"Another stray lamb, mother?" he asked casually. + +Martha nodded. "Wait till the rush is over, an' the young uns abed an' +asleep, an' I'll tell you all about it. Stray lamb! I should say as +much! A little white corset-lamb, used to eat out o' your hand, with a +blue ribbon round its neck. Goin' to be sent out to her death--or +worse, by a sharp-fangled wolf of a boardin'-house keeper, who'd gnaw +the skin off'n your bones, an' then crack the bones to get at the +marrer, if you give her the chanct. I'll tell you all about it later, +Sammy." + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +For days Claire lay in a state of drowsy quiet. + +She hardly realized the fact of her changed condition, that she was +being cared for, ministered to, looked after. She had brief, waking +moments when she seemed to be aware that Martha was bringing in her +breakfast, or sitting beside her while she ate her dinner, but the +intervening spaces, when "Ma" or Cora served, were dim, indistinct +adumbrations of no more substantial quality than the vagrant dreams that +ranged mistily across her relaxed brain. + +The thin walls of the cheaply-built flat did not protect her from the +noise of the children's prattling tongues and boisterous laughter, but +the walls of her consciousness closed her about, as in a muffled +security, and she slept on and on, until the exhausted body was +reinforced, the overtaxed nerves infused with new strength. + +Then, one evening, when the room in which she lay was dusky with +twilight shadows, she realized that she was awake, that she was alive. +She had gradually groped her way through the dim stretches lying between +the region of visions and that of the actual, but the step into a full +sense of reality was abrupt. She heard the sound of children's voices in +the next room. So clear they were, she could distinguish every syllable. + +"Say, now, listen, mother! What do you do when you go out working every +day?" It was Cora speaking. + +"I work." + +"Pooh, you know what I mean. What kinder work do you do?" + +For a moment there was no answer, then Claire recognized Martha's voice, +with what was, undeniably, a chuckle tucked away in its mellow depths, +where no mere, literal child would be apt to discern it. + +"Stenography an' typewritin'!" + +"Are you a stenographer an' typewriter, mother? Honest?" + +"Well, you can take it from me, if I was _it_ at all, I'd be it honest. +What makes you think there's any doubt o' my being one? Don't I have the +appearance of a high-toned young lady stenographer an' typewriter?" + +A pause, in which Martha's substantial steps were to be heard busily +passing to and fro, as she went about her work. Her mother's reply +evidently did not carry conviction to Cora's questioning mind, for a +second later she was up and at it afresh. + +"Say, now, listen, mother--if you do stenography an' typewritin', what +makes your apron so wet an' dirty, nights when you come home?" + +"Don't you s'pose I clean my machine before I leave? What kinder +typewriter d'you think I am? To leave my machine dirty, when a good +scrub-down, with a pail o' hot water, an' a stiff brush, an' Sapolio, +would put it in fine shape for the next mornin'." + +"Mother--say, now, listen! I don't _believe_ that's the way they clean +typewriters. Miss Symonds, she's the Principal's seckerterry to our +school, an' she sits in the office, she cleans her machine with oil and +a little fine brush, like you clean your teeth with." + +"What you been doin' in the Principal's office, miss, I should like to +know? Been sent up to her for bad behavior, or not knowin' your lessons? +Speak up now! Quick!" + +"My teacher, she sends me on errands, an' I got a credit-card last week +an', say, mother, I don't _believe_ you're a young lady stenographer an' +typewriter. You're just trying to fool me." + +"Well, Miss Smarty, supposin' I am. So long's I don't succeed you've no +kick comin'." + +"Say, now listen, mother." + +"Hush! You'll wake the pretty lady. Besides, too many questions before +dinner is apt to spoil the appetite, to say nothin' of the temper. Turn +to, an' lend a hand with them potatoes. Smash 'em good first, an' then +beat 'em with a fork until they're light an' creamy, an' you won't have +so much gimp left for snoopin' into things that don't concern you!" + +"Say, now listen, mother!" + +"Well?" + +"Say, mother, something awful funny happened to me last night?" + +"Are you tellin' what it was?" + +"Something woke me up in the middle of the night, 'n' I got up out of +bed, an' the clock struck four, 'n' then I knew it was mornin'. 'N' I +heard a noise, 'n' I thought it was robbers, 'n' I went to the door, 'n' +it was open, 'n' I went out into the hall, 'n'--" + +"Well?" + +"An' there was _you_, mother, on the stairs--kneelin'!" + +"Guess you had a dream, didn't you?" + +"No, I didn't." + +"What'd I be kneelin' on the stairs for, at four o'clock in the mornin', +I should like to know?" + +"It looked like you was brushin' 'em down." + +"_Me_ brushin' down _Snyder's_ stairs! Well, now what do you think o' +that?" Her tone of amazement, at the mere possibility, struck Cora, and +there was a pause, broken at length by Martha, in a preternaturally +solemn voice. "I s'pose you never tumbled to it I might be _prayin'_." + +Cora's eyes grew wide. "Prayin'!" she repeated in an awed whisper. "But, +mother, what'd you want to go out in the hall for, to pray on the +_stairs_, at four o'clock in the mornin'?" + +"Prayin' is a godly ack. Wheresomedever, an' _when_somedever you do it." + +"But, mother, I don't _believe_ you were prayin'. I heard the knockin' +o' your whis'-broom. You was brushin' down the stairs." + +"Well, what if I was? Cleanliness is next to godliness, ain't it? +Prayin' an' cleanin', it amounts to the same thing in the end--it's just +a question of what you clean, outside you or _in_." + +"But say, now, listen, mother, you never cleaned down Mr. Snyder's +stairs before. An' you been making shirtwaists for Mrs. Snyder, after +you get home nights. I saw her with one of 'em on." + +"Cora, do you know what happened to a little girl oncet who asked too +many questions?" + +"No." + +"Well, I won't tell you now. It might spoil your appetite for dinner. +But you can take it from me, the end she met with would surprise you." + +Shortly after, Claire's door quietly opened, and Cora, with a lighted +taper in her hand, tiptoed cautiously in, like a young torch-bearing +_avant-courrière,_ behind whom Mrs. Slawson, laden with a wonderful +tray, advanced processionally. + +"Light the changelier, an' then turn it low," Martha whispered. "An' +then you, yourself, light out, so's the pretty lady can eat in comfort." + +The pretty lady, sitting up among her pillows, awake and alert, almost +brought disaster upon the taper, and the tray, by exclaiming brightly, +"Good-evening! I'm wide awake for good! You needn't tiptoe or hush any +more. O, I feel like new! All rested and well and--_ready_ again. And I +owe it, every bit, to you! You've been so _good_ to me!" + +It was hard on Cora to have to obey her mother's injunction to "clear +out," just when the pretty lady was beginning to demonstrate her right +to the title. But Martha's word in her little household was not to be +disputed with impunity, and Cora slipped away reluctantly, carrying with +her a dazzling vision of soft, dark hair, starry blue-gray eyes, +wonderful changing expressions, and, in and over all, a smile that was +like a key to unlock hearts. + +"My, but it's good to see you so!" said Mrs. Slawson heartily. "I was +glad to have you sleep, for goodness knows you needed it, but if you'd +'a' kep' it up a day or so longer, I'd 'a' called in a doctor--shoor! +Just as a kind of nacherl percaution, against your settlin' down to a +permanent sleepin'-beauty ack, for, you can take it from me, I haven't +the business address of any Beast, here in New York City, could be +counted on to do the Prince-turn, when needed. There's plenty of +beasts, worse luck! but they're on the job, for fair. No magic, +lightenin'-change about _them_. They stay beasts straight through the +performance." + +Claire laughed. + +"But, as it happened, I didn't need a Prince, did I? I didn't need a +Prince or any one else, for I had a good fairy godmother who--O, Mrs. +Slawson, I--I--can't--" + +"You don't have to. An' I'm not Mrs. Slawson to you. I'm just Martha, +for I feel like you was my own young lady, an' if you call me Mrs. +Slawson, I won't feel so, an' here--now--see if you can clear up this +tray so clean it'll seem silly to wash the dishes." + +For a moment there was silence in the little room, while Claire tried to +compose herself, and Martha pretended to be busy with the tray. Then +Claire said, "I'll be very glad to call you Martha if you'll let me, and +there's something I'd like to say right off, because I've been lying +here quite a while thinking about it, and it's very important, indeed. +It's about my future, and--" + +"You'll excuse my interruckting, but before you reely get your steam +up, let me have a word on my own account, an' then, if you want to, you +can fire away--the gun's your own. What I mean _is_--I don't believe in +lyin' awake, thinkin' about the future, when a body can put in good +licks o' sleep, restin' from the past. It's against my principles. I'm +by the day. I work by the day, an' I live by the day. I reasoned it out +so-fashion: the past is over an' done with, whatever it may be, an' you +can't change it, for all you can do, so what's the use? You can bet on +one thing, shoor, whatever ain't dead waste in your past is, somehow, +goin' to get dished up to you in your present, or your future. You ain't +goin' to get rid of it, till you've worked it into your system _for +health_, as our dear old friend, Lydia Pinkham, says. As to the future, +the future's like a flea--when you can put your finger on the future, +it's time enough to think what you'll do with it. Folkes futures'd be +all right, if they'd just pin down a little tighter to _to-day_, an' +make that square up, the best they can, with what they'd oughter do. +Now, as to _your_ future, there's nothin' to fret about for a minute in +it. Jus' now, you're here, safe an' sound, an' here you're goin' to stay +until you're well an' strong an' fed up, an' the chill o' Mrs. Daggett +is out o' your body an' soul. You can take it from me, that woman is +worse than any line-storm _I_ ever struck for dampenin'-down purposes, +an' freeze-out, an' generl cussedness. Your business to-day--now--is to +get well an' strong. Then the future'll take care of itself." + +"But meanwhile," Claire persisted, "I'm living on you. Eating food for +which I haven't the money to pay, having loving care for which I +couldn't pay, if I had all the money in the world. I guess I know how +you settled my account with Mrs. Daggett. You gave her money you had +been saving for the rent, and now you are working, slaving overtime, at +four o'clock mornings, sweeping down the stairs, and late nights, making +shirtwaists for Mrs. Snyder, to help supply what's lacking." + +"Just you wait till I see that Cora," observed Mrs. Slawson +irrelevantly. "That's the time _her_ past will have slopped over on her +present, so's she can't tell which is which. Just you wait till I see +that Cora!" + +"No, no--_please_! Martha _dear_! It wasn't Cora! She's not to blame. +I'd have known sooner or later anyway. I always reason things out for +myself. Please promise not to scold Cora." + +"Scold Cora? Not on your life, my dear; I won't scold Cora. I'm +old-fashioned in my ways with childern. I don't believe in scoldin'. It +spoils their tempers, but a good _lickin'_ oncet in a while, helps 'em +to remember, besides bein' good for the circulation." + +Claire was ready to cry. "It's all my fault," she lamented. "I was +clumsy. I was tactless. And now Cora will be punished for it, and--I +make nothing but trouble for you all." + +"There, there! For mercy sake, don't take on like that. I promise I'll +let Cora go free, if you'll sit back quiet an' eat your dinner in peace. +So now! That's better!" + +"What I was going to say, Martha dear, is, I'm quite well and strong +now, and I want to set about immediately looking for something to do. I +ought to be able to support myself, you know, for I'm able-bodied, and +not so stupid but that I managed to graduate from college. Once, two +summers ago, I tutored--I taught a young girl who was studying to take +the Wellesley entrance exams. And I coached her so well she went through +without a condition, and she wasn't very quick, either. I wonder if I +couldn't teach?" + +"Shoor, you could!" + +"If I could get a position to teach in some school or some family, I +could, maybe, live here with you--rent this room--unless you have some +other use for it." + +"Lord, no! I _call_ it the boarder's room because this flat is really +too rich for my blood, but you see I don't want the childern brought up +in a bad neighborhood with low companions. Well, Sammy argued the rent +was too high, till I told'm we'd let a room an' make it up that way, +but what with this, an' what with that, we ain't had any boarders +exceptin' now an' then some friend of himself out of a job, or one o' +the girls, livin' out in the houses where I work, gettin' bounced +suddent, an' in want of a bed, an' none of 'em ever paid us a cent or +was asked for it." + +"Well, if I could get a position as teacher or governess, I'd soon be +able to pay back what you've laid out for me, and more besides, and--In +the houses where you work, are there any children who need a governess? +Any young girls who need a tutor? That's what I wanted to ask you, +Martha." + +Mrs. Slawson deliberated in silence for a moment. + +"There's the Livingstons," she mused, "but they ain't any childern. Only +a childish brother-in-law. He's not quite _all there,_ as you might say. +It'd be no use tryin' to learn him nothin', seein' he's so +odd--seventy-odd--an' his habits like to be fixed. Then, there's the +Farrands. But the girls goes to Miss Spenny's school, an' the son's at +Columbia. It might upset their plans, if I was to suggest their givin' +up where they're at, an' havin' you. Then there's the Grays, an' the +Granvilles, an' the Thornes. Addin' 'em all together for childern, +they'd come to about half a child a pair. Talk about your race suicide! +They say they 'can't afford to have childern.' You can take it from me, +it's the poor people are rich nowadays. _We_ can afford to have +childern, all right, all right. Then there's Mrs. Sherman--She's got one +boy, but he--Radcliffe Sherman--well, he's a limb! A reg'lar young +villain. You couldn't manage _him_. Only Lord Ronald can manage +Radcliffe Sherman, an' he--" + +"Lord Ronald?" questioned Claire, when Mrs. Slawson's meditation +threatened to become static. + +"Why, he's Mrs. Sherman's brother, Mr. Frank Ronald, an' no real lord +could be handsomer-lookin', or grander-behavin', or richer than him. +Mrs. Sherman is a widder, or a divorcy, or somethin' stylish like that. +Anyhow, I worked for her this eight years an' more--almost ever since +Radcliffe was born, an' I ain't seen hide nor hair o' any Mr. Sherman +yet, an' they never speak o' him, so I guess he was either too good or +too bad to mention. Mr. Frank an' his mother lives with Mrs. Sherman, +an' what Mr. Frank says _goes_. His word is law. She thinks the world +of'm, an' well she may, for he's a thorerbred. The way he treats me, for +instants. You'd think I was the grandest lady in the land. He never sees +me but it's, 'How d'do, Martha?' or, 'How's the childern an' Mr. Slawson +these days?' He certainly has got grand ways with'm, Mr. Frank has. An' +yet, he's never free. You wouldn't dare make bold with'm. His eyes has +a sort o' _keep-off-the-grass_ look gener'ly, but when he smiles down at +you, friendly-like, why, you wouldn't call the queen your cousin. +Radcliffe knows he can't monkey with his uncle Frank, an' when he's by, +butter wouldn't melt in that young un's mouth. But other times--my! You +see, Mrs. Sherman is dead easy. She told me oncet, childern ought to be +brought up 'scientifically.' Lord! She said they'd ought to be let +_express their souls_, whatever she means by that. I told her I thought +it was safer not to trust too much to the childern's souls, but to help +along some occasional with your own--the sole of your slipper. It was +then she said she 'abserlootly forbid' any one to touch Radcliffe. She +wanted him 'guided by love alone.' Well, that's what he's been guided +with, an', you can take it from me, love's made a hash of it, as it +ushally does when it ain't mixed with a little common sense. You'd +oughta see that fella's anticks when his mother, an' Lord Ronald, ain't +by. He'd raise the hair offn your head, if you hadn't a spear of it +there to begin with. He speaks to the help as if they was dirt under his +feet, an' he'd as lief lie as look at you, an' always up to some new +devilment. It'd take your time to think fast enough to keep up with'm. +But he ain't all bad--I don't believe no child _is_, not on your life, +an' my idea is, he'd turn out O.K. if only he'd the right sort o' +handlin'. Mr. Frank could do it--but when Lord Ronald is by, Radcliffe +is a pet lamb--a little woolly wonder. You ast me why I call Mr. Frank +Lord Ronald. I never thought of it till one time when Cora said a piece +at a Sund'-School ent'tainment. I can't tell you what the piece was, +for, to be perfectly honest, I was too took up, at the time, watchin' +Cora's stockin', which was comin' down, right before the whole +churchful. It reely didn't, but I seen the garter hangin', an' I thought +it would, any minute. I remember it was somethin' about a fella called +Lord Ronald, who was a reel thorerbred, just like Mr. Frank is. I +recklect one of the verses went: + +"'Lord Ronald had the lily-white dough--' + +(to my way o' thinkin' it's no matter about the color, white or gold or +just plain, green paper-money, so long's you've _got_ it), anyhow, +that's what it said in the piece-- + +"'Lord Ronald had the lily-white dough, +Which he gave to his cousin, Lady Clare.' + +Say, wasn't he generous?--'give to his cousin--Lady Clare'--an'--good +gracious! O, excuse me! I didn't mean to jolt your tray like that, but I +just couldn't help flyin' up, for I got an idea! True as you live, I got +an idea!" + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +It did not take long, once Claire was fairly on her feet again, to +adjust herself to her new surroundings, to find her place and part in +the social economy of the little family-group where she was never for a +moment made to feel an alien. She appropriated a share in the work of +the household at once, insisting, to Martha's dismay, upon lending a +hand mornings with the older children, who were to be got off to school, +and with the three-year-old Sabina, who was to stay at home. She +assisted with the breakfast preparations, and then, when the busy swarm +had flown for the day, she "turned to," to Ma's delight, and got the +place "rid up" so it was "clean as a whistle an' neat as a pin." + +Ma was not what Martha approvingly called "a hustler." + +"Ma ain't thorer," her daughter-in-law confided to Claire, without +reproach. "She means well, but, as she says, her mind ain't fixed on +things below, an' when that's the case, the dirt is bound to settle. Ma +thinks you can run a fam'ly, readin' the Bible an' singin' hymns. Well, +p'raps you can, only I ain't never dared try. When I married Sammy he +looked dretful peaky, the fack bein' he hadn't never been properly fed, +an' it's took me all of the goin'-on fifteen years now, we been livin' +together, to get'm filled up accordin' to his appetite, which is heavy. +You see, Ma never had any time to attend to such earthly matters as +cookin' a square meal--but she's settin' out to have a lot of leisure +with the Lord." + +As for Ma, she found it pleasant to watch, from a comfortable distance, +the work progressing satisfactorily, without any draft on her own +energies. + +"Martha's a good woman, miss," she observed judicially, in her detached +manner, "but she is like the lady of her name we read about in the +blessed Book. When _I_ set out in life, I chose the betther part, an' +now I'm old, I have the faith to believe I'll have a front seat in +heaven. I've knew throuble in me day. I raised ten childern, an' I had +three felons, an' God knows I think I earned a front seat in heaven." + +Claire's pause, before she spoke, seemed to Ma to indicate she was +giving the subject the weighty consideration it deserved. + +"According to that, it would certainly seem so. You have rheumatism, +too, haven't you?" as if that might be regarded as an added guarantee of +special celestial reservation. + +Ma paled visibly. "No, miss. I don't never have the rheumatiz now--not +so you'd notice it," she said plaintively. "Oncet I'd it thurrbl, an' me +son Sammy had it, too, loikewoise, fierce. I'd uster lay in bed moanin' +an' cryin' till you'd be surprised, an' me son Sammy, he was a'most as +bad. Well, for a week or two, Martha, she done for us the best she cud, +I s'pose, but she didn't make for to stop the pain, an' at last one +night, when me son Sammy was gruntin', an' I was groanin' to beat the +band, Martha, she up, all of a suddint, an' says she, she was goin' for +to cure us of the rheumatiz, or know the reason why. An' she went, an' +got the karrysene-can, an' she poured out two thurrbl big doses, an' she +stood over me son Sammy an' I, till we swalleyed it down, an' since ever +we tuk it, me an' Sammy ain't never had a retur-rn. Sometimes I have a +sharp twinge o' somethin' in me leg or me arrm, but it ain't rheumatiz, +an' I wouldn't like for me son Sammy's wife to be knowin' it, for the +very sight of her startin' for the karrysene--if it's only to fill the +lamp, is enough to make me gullup, an' I know it's the same wit' me son +Sammy, though we never mention the subjeck between us." + +"But if your son didn't want to take the stuff," Claire said, trying to +hide her amusement, "why didn't he stand up and say so? He's a man. He's +much bigger and stronger than his wife. How could she make him do what +he didn't want to?" + +The question was evidently not a new one to Ma. + +"That's what annywan'd naturrly think," she returned promptly. "But +that's because they wouldn't be knowin' me son Sammy's wife. It ain't +size, an' it ain't stren'th--it's just, well, _Martha_. There's that +about her you wouldn't like to take any chances wit'. Perhaps it's the +thing manny does be talkin' of these days. Perhaps it's _that_ got a +holt of her. Annyhow, she says she's _in_ for't. They does be callin' it +Woman Sufferrich, I'm told. In my day a dacint body'd have thought shame +to be discoursin' in public to the men. They held their tongues, an' let +their betthers do the colloguein', but Martha says some of the ladies +she works for says, if they talk about it enough the men will give them +their rights, an' let 'em vote. I'm an old woman, an' I never had much +book-learnin', but I'm thinkin' one like me son Sammy's wife has all the +rights she needs wit'out the votin'. She goes out worrkin', same's me +son Sammy, day in, day out. She says Sammy could support _her_ good +enough, but she won't raise her childern in a teniment, along wit' th' +low companions. Me son Sammy, he has it harrd these days. He'd not be +able to pay for such a grrand flat as this, in a dacint, quiet +neighborhood, an' so Martha turrns to, an' lends a hand. An' wance, when +me son Sammy was sick, an' out av a job entirely, Martha, she run the +whole concern herself. She wouldn't let me son Sammy give up, or get +down-hearted, like he mighta done. She said it was her _right_ to care +for us all, an' him, too, bein' he was down an' out, like he was. It +seems to me that's fairrly all the rights anny woman'd want--to look out +for four childern, an' a man, an' a mother-in-law. But if Martha wants +to vote, too, why, I'm thinkin' she will." + +It was particularly encouraging to Claire, just at this time, to view +Martha in the light of one who did not know the meaning of the word +fail, for Mrs. Slawson had assured her that if she would give up all +attempt to find employment on her own account, she, Mrs. Slawson, felt +she could safely promise to get her "a job that would be satisfacktry +all round, only one must be a little pationate." + +But a week, ten days, had gone by, since Martha announced she had _an +idea_, and still the idea had not materialized. Meanwhile, Claire had +ample time to unpack her trunk and settle her belongings about her, so +"the pretty lady's room" took on a look of real comfort, and the +children never passed the door without pausing before the threshold, +waiting with bated breath for some wonderful chance that would give +them a "peek" into the enchanted chamber. As a matter of fact, the +transformation was effected with singularly few "properties." Some good +photographs tastefully framed in plain, dark wood. A Baghdad rug left +over from her college days, some scraps of charming old textiles, and +such few of the precious home trifles as could be safely packed in her +trunk. There was a daguerreotype of her mother, done when she was a +girl. "As old-fashioned as your grandmother's hoopskirt," Martha called +it. A sampler wrought by some ancient great-aunt, both aunt and sampler +long since yellowed and mellowed by the years. A della Robbia plaque, +with its exquisite swaddled baby holding out eager arms, as if to be +taken. A lacquer casket, a string of Egyptian mummy-beads--what seemed +to the children an inexhaustible stock of wonderful, mysterious +treasures. + +But the object that appeared to interest their mother more than anything +else in the whole collection, was a book of unmounted photographs, +snap-shots taken by Claire at college, during her travels abroad, some +few, even, here in the city during those first days when she had dreamed +it was easy to walk straight into an art-editorship, and no questions +asked. + +Mrs. Slawson scrutinized the prints with an earnestness so eager that +Claire was fairly touched, until she discovered that here was no aching +hunger for knowledge, no ungratified yearning "for to admire and for to +see, for to be'old this world so wide," but just what looked like a +perfectly feminine curiosity, and nothing more. + +"Say, ain't it a pity you ain't any real good likeness of you?" Martha +deplored. "These is so aggeravatin'. They don't show you up at all. Just +a taste-like, an' then nothin' to squench the appetite." + +"That sounds as if I were an entrée or something," laughed Claire. "But, +you see, I don't want to be _shown up_, Martha. I couldn't abear it, as +my friend, Sairy Gamp, would say. When I was little, my naughty big +brother used to tease me dreadfully about my looks. He invented the most +embarrassing nicknames for me; he alluded to my features with every sort +of disrespect. It made me horribly conscious of myself, a thing no +properly-constituted kiddie ought ever to be, of course. And I've never +really got over the feeling that I am a 'sawed-off,' that my nose is +'curly,' and my hair's a wig, and that the least said about the rest of +me, the better. But if you'd actually like to see something my people at +home consider rather good, why, here's a little tinted photograph I had +done for my dear Daddy, the last Christmas he was with us. He liked it, +and that's the reason I carry it about with me--because he wore it on +his old-fashioned watch-chain." + +She put into Martha's hand a thin, flat, dull-gold locket. + +Mrs. Slawson opened it, and gave a quick gasp of delight--the sound of +triumph escaping one who, having diligently sought, has satisfactorily +found. "Like it!" Martha ejaculated. + +Claire deliberated a moment, watching the play of expression on Martha's +mobile face. "If you like it as much as all that," she said at last, "I +wish you'd take it and keep it. It seems conceited--priggish--to suppose +you'd care to own it, but if you really _would_ care to--" + +Mrs. Slawson closed one great, finely-formed, work-hardened fist over +the delicate treasure, with a sort of ecstatic grab of appropriation. +"Care to own it! You betcher life! There's nothin' you could give me I'd +care to own better," she said with honest feeling, then and there tying +its slender ribbon about her neck, and slipping the locket inside her +dress, as if it had been a precious amulet. + +The day following saw her started bright and early for work at the +Shermans'. When she arrived at the area-gate and rang, there was no +response, and though she waited a reasonable time, and then rang and +rang again, nobody answered the bell. + +"They must be up," she said, settling down to business with a steady +thumb on the electric button. "What ails the bunch o' them in the +kitchen, I should like to know. It'd be a pity to disturb Eliza. She +might be busy, gettin' herself an extry cup o' coffee, an' couple o' +fried hams-an'-eggs, to break her fast before breakfast. But that gay +young sprig of a kitchen-maid, _she_ might answer the bell an' open the +door to an honest woman." + +The _gay young sprig_ still failing of her duty, and Martha's patience +giving out at last, the _honest woman_ began to tamper with the +spring-lock of the iron gate. For any one else, it would never have +yielded, but it opened to Martha's hand, as with the dull submission of +the conquered. + +Mrs. Slawson closed the gate after her with care. "I'll just step +light," she said to herself, "an' steal in on 'em unbeknownst, an' give +'em as good a scare as ever they had in their lives--the whole lazy lot +of 'em." + +But, like Mother Hubbard's cupboard, the kitchen was bare, and no soul +was to be found in the laundry, the pantry or, in fact, anywhere +throughout the basement region. Softly, and with some real misgiving +now, Martha made her way upstairs. Here, for the first time, she +distinguished the sound of a human voice breaking the early morning hush +of the silent house. It was Radcliffe's voice issuing, evidently, from +the dining-room, in which imposing apartment he chose to have his +breakfast served in solitary grandeur every morning, what time the rest +of his family still slept. + +Martha, pausing on her way up, peeped around the edge of the half-closed +door, and then stopped short. + +Along the wall, ranged up in line, like soldiers facing their captain, +or victims of a hold-up their captor, stood the household +servants--portly Shaw the butler, Beatrice the parlor-maid, Eliza the +"chef-cook"--all, down to the gay young sprig, aforesaid, who, as Martha +had explained to her family in strong disapproval, "was engaged to do +scullerywork, an' then didn't even know how to scull." Before them, in +an attitude of command, not to say menace, stood Radcliffe, brandishing +a carving-knife which, in his cruelly mischievous little hand, became a +weapon full of dangerous possibilities. + +"Don't dare to budge, any one of you," he breathed masterfully to his +cowed regiment. "Get back there, you Shaw! An', Beetrice, if you don't +mind me, I'll carve your ear off. You better be afraid of me, all of +you, an' mind what I say, or I'll take this dagger, an' dag the life +out of you! You're all my servants--you're all my slaves! D'you hear +me!" + +Evidently they did, and not one of them cared or dared to stir. + +For a second Radcliffe faced them in silence, before beginning to march +Napoleonically back and forth, his savage young eye alert, his naughty +hand brandishing the knife threateningly. A second, and then, suddenly, +without warning, the scene changed, and Radcliffe was a squirming, +wriggling little boy, shorn of his power, grasped firmly in a grip from +which there was no chance of escape. + +"Shame on you!" exclaimed Martha indignantly, addressing the spellbound +line, staring at her blankly. "Shame on you! To stand there gawkin', an' +never raisin' a finger to this poor little fella, an' him just perishin' +for the touch of a real mother's hand. Get out of this--the whole crowd +o' you," and before the force of her righteous wrath they fled as chaff +before the wind. Then, quick as the automatic click of a monstrous +spring, the hitherto unknown--the supposed-to-be-impossible--befell +Radcliffe Sherman. He was treated as if he had been an iron girder on +which the massive clutch of a steam-lift had fastened. He was raised, +lowered, laid across what seemed to be two moveless iron trestles, and +then the weight as of a mighty, relentless paddle, beat down upon him +once, twice, thrice--and he knew what it was to suffer. + +The whole thing was so utterly novel, so absolutely unexpected, that for +the first instant he was positively stunned with surprise. Then the +knowledge that he was being spanked, that an unspeakable indignity was +happening him, made him clinch his teeth against the sobs that rose in +his throat, and he bore his punishment in white-faced, shivering +silence. + +When it was over, Martha stood him down in front of her, holding him +firmly against her knees, and looked him squarely in the eyes. His +colorless, quivering lips gave out no sound. + +"You've got off easy," observed Mrs. Slawson benevolently. "If you'd +been my boy Sammy, you'd a got about twict as much an' three times as +thora. As it is, I just kinder favored you--give you a lick an' a +promise, as you might say, seein' it's you and you ain't used to +it--_yet_. Besides, I reely like you, an' want you to be a good boy. +But, if you should need any more at any other time, why, you can take it +from me, I keep my hand in on Sammy, an' practice makes perfect." + +She released the two small, trembling hands, rose to her feet, and made +as if to leave the room. Then for the first time Radcliffe spoke. + +"S-say," he breathed with difficulty, "s-say--are you--are you goin' to +_t-tell?_" + +Martha paused, regarding him and his question with due concern. "Tell?" + +"Are y-you going to--t-tell on me, t-to ev-everybody? Are y-you going to +t-tell--S-Sammy?" + +"Shoor I'm not! I'm a perfect lady! I always keep such little affairs +with my gen'lemen friends strickly confidential. Besides--Sammy has +troubles of his own." + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +All that day, Martha held herself in readiness to answer at headquarters +for what she had done. + +"He'll shoor tell his mother, the young villyan," said Eliza. "An' then +it'll be Mrs. Slawson for the grand bounce." + +But Mrs. Slawson did not worry. She went about her work as usual, and +when, in the course of her travels, she met Radcliffe, she greeted him +as if nothing had happened. + +"Say, did you know that Sammy has a dog?" + +No answer. + +"It's a funny kind o' dog. If you begged your head off, I'd never tell +you where he come from." + +"Where did he come from?" + +"Didn't you hear me say I'd never tell you? I do' know. He just picked +Sammy's father up on the street, an' follered him home, for all the +world the same's he'd been a Christian." + +"What kind of dog is he?" + +"Cur-dog." + +"What kind's that?" + +"Well, a full-blooded cur-dog is somethin' rare in these parts. You +wouldn't find him at an ordinary dog-show, like your mother goes to. +Now, Sammy's dog is full-blooded--leastways, he will be, when he's fed +up." + +"My mother's dog is a _pedigree-dog_. Is Sammy's that kind?" + +"I ain't ast him, but I shouldn't wonder." + +"My mother's got a paper tells all about where Fifi came from. It's in a +frame." + +"Fifi is?" + +"No, the paper is. The paper says Fifi is out of a deller, sired by +Star. I heard her read it off to a lady that came to see her one day. +Say, Martha, what's a _deller?_" + +"I do' know." + +"Fifi has awful long ears. What kind of ears has Sammy's dog got?" + +"I didn't notice partic'lar, I must say. But he's got two of 'em, an' +they can stand up, an' lay down, real natural-like, accordin' to +taste--the dog's taste, which wouldn't be noways remarkable, if it was +his tongue, but is what _I_ call extraordinary, seein' it's his _ears_. +An' his tail's the same, exceptin' it has even more education still. It +can wag, besides standin' up an' layin' down. Ain't that pretty smart +for a pup, that prob'ly didn't have no raisin' to speak of, 'less you +count raisin' on the toe of somebody's boot?" + +"D'you mean anybody kicked him?" + +"Well, he ain't said so, in so many words, but I draw my own +conclusions. He's an honorable, gentlemanlike dog. He keeps his own +counsel. If it so happened that he'd needed to be punished at any time, +he'd bear it like a little man, an' hold his tongue. You don't catch a +reel thorerbred whinin'." + +"I wish I could see Sammy's dog." + +"Well, p'raps you can. But I'll tell you confidential, I wouldn't like +Flicker to 'sociate with none but the best class o' boys. I'm goin' to +see he has a fine line of friends from this time on, an' if Sammy ain't +what he'd oughter be, why, he just can't mix with Flicker, that's all +there is _to_ it!" + +"Who gave him that name?" + +"'His sponsers in baptism--' Ho! Hear me! Recitin' the Catechism! I'm +such a good 'Piscopalian I just can't help it! A little lady-friend of +mine gave him that name, 'cause he flickers round so--so like a little +yeller flame. Did I mention his color was yeller? That alone would show +he's a true-breed cur-dog." + +"Say, I forgot--my mother she--she sent me down to tell you she wants to +see you right away up in her sittin'-room. I guess you better go quick." + +Mrs. Slawson ceased plying her polishing-cloth upon the hardwood floor, +sat back upon her heels, and calmly gathered her utensils together. + +"Say, my mother she said tell you she wanted to see you right off, for +something particular. Ain't you goin' to hurry?" + +"Shoor I am. Certaintly." + +"You don't look as if you was hurrying." + +"When you get to be a big boy, and have a teacher to learn you +knowledge, you'll find that large bodies moves slowly. I didn't have as +much schoolin' as I'd like, but what I learned I remember, an' I put it +into practice. That's where the use of books comes in--to be put in +practice. Now, I'm a large body, an' if I tried to move fast I'd be +goin' against what's printed in the books, which would be wrong. Still, +if a lady sends for me post-haste, why, of course, I makes an exception +an' answers in the same spirit. So long! See you later!" + +Radcliffe had no mind to remain behind. Something subtly fascinating in +Martha seemed to draw him after her, and he followed on upstairs, +swinging himself athletically along, hand over hand, upon the +baluster-rail, almost at her heels. + +"Say, don't you wonder what it is my mother's goin' to say to you?" he +demanded disingenuously. + +Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "Wonderin' is a habit I broke myself off +of, when I wasn't knee-high to a grasshopper," she replied. "I take +things as they come, not to mention as they go. Either way suits me, +an' annyhow I don't wonder about 'em. If it's somethin' good, why, it'll +keep. An' if it's somethin' bad, wonderin' won't make it any better. So +what's the use?" + +"Guess I'll go on up, an' see my grandmother in her room," observed +Radcliffe casually, as they reached Mrs. Sherman's door. "I won't go in +here with you." + +"Dear me, how sorry I am!" Martha returned with feeling. "I'd kinder +counted on you for--for what they calls moral support, that bein' the +kind the male gender is mainly good for, these days. But, of course, if +you ain't been invited, it wouldn't be genteel for you to press +yourself. I can understand your feelin's. They does credit to your head +an' to your heart. As I said before--so long! See you later." + +The door having closed her in, Radcliffe lingered aimlessly about, +outside. Without, of course, being able to analyze it, he felt as if +some rare source of entertainment had been withdrawn from him, leaving +life flat and tasteless. He felt like being, what his mother called, +"fractious," but--he remembered, as in a flash, "you never catch a +thorerbred whinin'," and he snapped his jaws together with manly +determination. + +At Martha's entrance, Mrs. Sherman glanced up languidly from the book +she was reading, and inquired with pointed irony, "You didn't find it +convenient to come to me directly I sent for you, did you, Martha?" + +Mrs. Slawson closed the door behind her gently, then stood planted like +some massive caryatid supporting the frame. Something monumental in the +effect of her presence made the question just flung at her seem petty, +impudent, and Mrs. Sherman hastened to add more considerately, "But I +sent Radcliffe with my message. No doubt he delayed." + +"No'm," admitted Martha, "he told me all right enough, but I was in the +middle o' polishin'. It took me a minute or two to get my things +collected, an' then it took me a couple more to get _me_ collected, +but--better late than never, as the sayin' goes, which, by the same +token, I don't believe it's always true." + +There was not the faintest trace of apology or extenuation in her tone +or manner. If she had any misgivings as to the possibility of +Radcliffe's having complained, she gave no evidence of it. + +"What I want to say is this," announced Mrs. Sherman autocratically, +making straight for the point. "I absolutely forbid any one in my +household to touch--" + +Martha settled herself more firmly on her feet and crossed her arms with +unconscious dignity upon her bosom, bracing herself against the coming +blow. + +"I absolutely forbid any one in my household to touch the new marble +slabs and nickel fittings in my dressing-rooms with cleaning stuffs +containing acids, after this. I have gone to great expense to have the +house remodeled this summer, and the bathrooms have all been tiled and +fitted up afresh, from beginning to end. I know that, in the past, you +have used acid, gritty soaps on the basins and tubs, Martha, and my +plumber tells me you mustn't do it. He says it's ruinous. He recommends +kerosene oil for the bath-tubs and marble slabs. He says it will take +any stain out, and is much safer than the soaps. So please use kerosene +to remove the stains--" + +Mrs. Slawson relaxed. Without the slightest hint of incivility she +interrupted cheerfully, "An' does your plumber mention what'll remove +the stink--I _should_ say, _odor_, of the karrysene?" + +Mrs. Sherman laughed. "Dear me, no. I'm afraid that's _up to_ you, as +Radcliffe says." + +"O, I ain't no doubt it can be done, an' even if it can't, the smell o' +karrysene is healthy, an' you wouldn't mind a faint whifft of it now an' +then, clingin' to you, comin' outer your bath, would you? Or if you did, +you might set over against the oil-smell one o' them strong bath-powders +that's like the perfumery-counter in a department-store broke loose, +an' let 'em fight it out between 'em. To my way o' thinkin', it'd be a +_tie_, an' no thanks to your nose." + +"Well, I only follow the plumber's directions. He guarantees his work +and materials, but he says acids will roughen the surface of +anything--enamel or marble or whatever it may be. I'm sure you'll be +careful in the future, now I have spoken, and--er--how are you getting +on these days? How are you and your husband and the children?" + +"Tolerable, thank you. Sammy, my husband, he ain't been earnin' as much +as usual lately, but I says to him, when he's downhearted-like because +he can't hand out the price o' the rent, 'Say, you ain't fished up much +of anythin' certaintly, but count your blessin's. You ain't fell in the +river either.' An' be this an' be that, we make out to get along. We +never died a winter yet." + +"Dear me, I should think a great, strapping man ought to be able to +support his family without having to depend on his wife to go out by the +day." + +"My husband does his best," said Martha with simple dignity. "He does +his best, but things goes contrairy with some, no doubt o' that." + +"O, the thought of the day would not bear you out there, I assure you!" +Mrs. Sherman took her up quickly. "Science teaches us that our +condition in life reflects our character. We get the results of what we +are in our environment. You understand? In other words, each receives +his desert. I hope I am clear? I mean, what he deserves." + +Martha smiled, a slow, calm, tolerant smile. "You are perfeckly clear," +she said reassuringly. "Only I ain't been educated up to seein' things +that way. Seems to me, if everybody got their dessert, as you calls it, +some o' them that's feedin' so expensive now at the grand hotels +wouldn't have a square meal. It's the ones that ain't _earned_ 'em, +_havin'_ the square meal _and_ the dessert, that puts a good man, like +my Sammy, out o' a job. But that's neither here nor there. It's all +bound to come right some day--only meanwhiles, I wish livin' wasn't so +high. What with good steak twenty-eight cents a pound, an' its bein' as +much as your life is worth to even ast the price o' fresh vegetables, it +takes some contrivin' to get along. Not to speak o' potatas twenty-five +cents the half-peck, an' every last one o' my fam'ly as fond of 'em as +if they was fresh from Ireland, instead o' skippin' a generation on both +sides." + +"But, my good woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, shocked, "what _do_ you +mean by talking of porterhouse steak and fresh vegetables this time of +year? Oughtn't you to economize? Isn't it extravagant for you to use +such expensive cuts of meat? I'm sure there are others that are +cheaper--more suited to your--your income." + +"Certaintly there is. Chuck steak is cheap. Chuck steak's so cheap that +about all it costs you is a few cents to the butcher, an' the price of +the store teeth you need, after you've broke your own tryin' to chew it. +But, you see, my notion is, to try to give my fam'ly the sort o' stuff +that's nourishin'. Not just somethin' to _eat_, but _food_. I don't +believe their stummicks realize they belong to poor folks. I'm not +envyin' the rich, mind you. Dear no! I wouldn't be hired to clutter up +my insides with the messes I see goin' up to the tables of some I work +for. Cocktails, an' entrys, an' foody-de-gra-gra, an' suchlike. No! I +believe in reel, straight nourishment. The things that builds up your +bones, an' gives you red blood, an' good muscle, so's you can hold down +your job, an' hold up your head. I believe in payin' for that kind o' +food, if I _do_ have to work for it." + +Mrs. Sherman took up the book she had dropped at Martha's entrance. + +"You certainly are a character," she observed. + +"Thank you, 'm," said Martha. + +"O, and by the way, before you go--I want you to see that Mr. Ronald's +rooms are put in perfect order to-day. I don't care to trust it to the +girls, but you can have one of them to help you, if you like, provided +you are sure to oversee her. You know how particular I am about my +brother Frank's rooms. Be sure nothing is neglected." + +"Yes'm," said Martha. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +The next morning Eliza met her at the area-gate, showing a face of +ominous sympathy, wagging a doleful head. + +"What'd I tell you?" she exclaimed before she had even unlatched the +spring-lock. "That young villyan has a head on him old enough to be his +father's, if so be he ever had one. He's deep as a well. He didn't tell +his mother on ye yesterday mornin', but he done worse--the little fox! +He told his uncle Frank when he got home last night. Leastways, Mr. Shaw +got a message late in the evenin' from upstairs, which was, to tell Mrs. +Slawson, Mr. Ronald wanted to see her after his breakfast this mornin', +an' be sure she didn't forget." + +Mrs. Slawson received the news with a smile as of such actual welcome, +that Eliza, who flattered herself she knew a thing or two about human +nature, was rather upset in her calculations. + +"You look like you _relish_ bein' bounced," she observed tartly. + +"Well, if I'm goin' to get my walkin'-papers, I'd rather get 'em from +Mr. Frank than from anybody else. There's never any great loss without +some small gain. At least, if Mr. Frank is dischargin' me, he's noticin' +I'm alive, an' that's somethin' to be thankful for." + +"That's _as_ you look at it!" snapped Eliza. "Mr. Frank is all right +enough, but I must say I'd rather keep my place than have even him kick +me out. An' you look as if his sendin' for you was to say you'd come in +for a fortune." + +"P'raps it is," said Martha. "You never can tell." + +"Well, if _I_ was makin' tracks for fortunes, I wouldn't start in on Mr. +Frank Ronald," Eliza observed cuttingly. + +"Which might be exackly where you'd slip up on it," Martha returned with +a bland smile. + +And yet, in reality, she was by no means so composed as she appeared. +She felt as might one who, moved by a great purpose, had rashly usurped +the prerogative of fate and set in motion mighty forces that, if they +did not make for success, might easily make for disaster. She had very +definitely stuck her thumb into somebody else's pie, and if her laudable +intention was to draw forth a plum, not for herself but for the other, +why, that was no proof that, in the end, she might not get smartly +scorched for her pains. + +When the summons to the dining-room actually came, Martha felt such an +unsubstantiality in the region of her knee-joints, that for a moment she +almost believed the bones had turned into breadcrumbs. Then +energetically she shook herself into shape, spurning her momentary +weakness from her, with an almost visible gesture, and marched forward +to meet what awaited her. + +Shaw had removed the breakfast dishes from the table beside which "Lord +Ronald" sat alone. It was all very imposing, the place, the particular +purpose for which she had been summoned, and which was, as yet, +unrevealed to her, the _person_, most of all. + +Martha thought that perhaps she had been a little hard on Cora, "the +time she give her the tongue-lashin' for stumblin' over the first lines +of her piece, that evenin' of the Sund'-School ent'tainment. It wasn't +so dead easy as a body might think, to stand up to a whole churchful o' +people, or even one person, when he was the kind that's as good (or as +bad) as a whole churchful." + +Martha could see her now, as she stood then, announcing to the assembled +multitude in a high, unmodulated treble: + +_"It was the t-time when l-lilies bub-blow"_ + +"an' her stockin' fixin' to come down any min'ute!" + +"Ah, Martha, good-morning!" + +At the first sound of his voice Mrs. Slawson recovered her poise. That +_wouldn't-call-the-queen-your-cousin_ feeling came over her again, and +she was ready to face the music, whatever tune it might play. So +susceptible is the foolish spirit of mortal to those subtle, impalpable +influences of atmosphere that we try to describe, in terms of inexact +science, as personality, vibration, aura, magnetism. + +"I asked to see you, Martha, because Radcliffe tells me--" + +Martha's heart sank within her. So it was Radcliffe and the _grand +bounce_ after all, and not--Well, it was a pity! After all her thinkin' +it out, an' connivin', an' contrivin', to have nothin' come of it! To be +sent off before she had time to see the thing through! + +"Radcliffe tells me," continued the clear, mellow voice, penetrating the +mist of her meditations, "that you own a very rare, a very unusual breed +of dog. I couldn't make out much from Radcliffe's description, but +apparently the dog is a pedigree animal." + +Mrs. Slawson's shoulders, in her sudden revulsion of feeling, shook with +soundless mirth. + +"Pedigree animal!" she repeated. "Certaintly! Shoor, he's a pedigree +animal. He's had auntsisters as far back as any other dog, an' that's a +fack. What's the way they put it? 'Out of' the gutter, 'sired by' +Kicks. You never see a little yeller, mongol, cur-dog, sir, that's +yellerer or cur-er than him. I'd bet my life his line ain't never been +crossed by anythin' different, since the first pup o' them all set out +to run his legs off tryin' to get rid o' the tin-can tied to his tail. +But Flicker's a winner, for all that, an' he's goin' to keep my boy +Sammy in order, better'n I could ever do it. You see, I just has to hint +to Sammy that if he ain't proper-behaved I won't let Flicker 'sociate +with'm, an' he's as good as pie. I wouldn't be without that dog, sir, +now I got intimately acquainted with him, for--" + +"That touches the question I was intending to raise," interposed Mr. +Ronald. "You managed to get Radcliffe's imagination considerably stirred +about Flicker, and the result is, he has asked me to see if I can't come +to an understanding with you. He wants me to buy Flicker." + +Martha's genial smile faded. "Why, goodness gracious, Lor--I _should_ +say, _Mr._ Ronald, the poor little rascal, dog rather, ain't worth two +cents. He's just a young flagrant pup, you wouldn't be bothered to +notice, 'less you had the particular likin' for such things we got." + +"Radcliffe wants Flicker. I'll give you ten dollars for him." + +"I--I couldn't take it, Mr. Ronald, sir. It wouldn't be fair to you!" + +"Fifteen dollars." + +"It ain't the money--" + +"Twenty!" + +"I--I can't!" + +"Twenty-five dollars, Martha. Radcliffe's heart is set on the dog." + +A quick observer, looking attentively at Mrs. Slawson's face, could have +seen something like a faint quiver disturb the firm lines of her lips +and chin for a moment. A flash, and it was gone. + +"I'd _give_ you the dog, an' welcome, Mr. Ronald," she said presently, +"but I just can't do it. The little feller, he never had a square deal +before, an' because my husband an' the rest of us give it to him, he +loves us to death, an' you'd think he'd bark his head off for joy when +the raft o' them gets home after school. An' then, nights--(I ben +workin' overtime lately, doin' outside jobs that bring me home +late)--nights, when I come back, an' all in the place is abed an' +asleep, an' I let myself in, in the black an' the cold, the only livin' +creature to welcome me is Flicker. An' there he stands, up an' ready for +me, the minute he hears my key in the lock, an' when I open the door, +an' light the changelier (he don't dare let a bark out of'm, he knows +better, the smart little fella!), there he stands, a-waggin' his stump +of a tail like a Christian, an'--Mr. Ronald, sir--that wag ain't for +sale!" + +For a moment something akin in both held them silent. Then Mr. Ronald +slowly inclined his head. "You are quite right, Martha. I understand +your feeling." + +Martha turned to go. She had, in fact, reached the door when she was +recalled. + +"O--one moment, please." + +She came back. + +"My sister tells me you worked in my rooms yesterday. Was any one there +with you at the time?" + +"No, sir. Mrs. Sherman said I might have one of the girls, but I perfer +to see to your things myself." + +"Then you were quite alone?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Do you know if any one else in the household had occasion to go into my +rooms during the day?" + +"Of course I can't be pos'tive. But I don't think so, sir." + +"Then I wonder if this belongs to you?" He extended his hand toward her. +In his palm lay a small, flat, gold locket. + +Something like the faintest possible electric shock passed up Mrs. +Slawson's spine, and contracted the muscles about her mouth. For a +second she positively grinned, then quickly her face regained its +customary calm. With a clever, if slightly tardy, movement, her hand +went up to her throat. + +"Yes, sir--shoor, it's mine! Now what do you think of that! Me losin' +somethin' I think the world an' all of, an' have wore for, I do' know +how long, an' never missin' it!" + +Mr. Ronald's eyes shot out a quick, quizzical gleam. + +"O, you have been accustomed to wear it?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Mrs. Sherman tells me she never remembers to have seen you with any +sort of ornament, even a gold pin. She thought the locket could not +possibly belong to you." + +"Well, it does. An' the reason she hasn't noticed me wearin' it is, I +wear it under my waist, see?" + +Again Mr. Ronald fixed her with his keen eyes. "I see. You wear it under +your waist. Of course, that explains why she hasn't noticed it. Yet, +_if_ you wear it under your waist, how came it to get out from under and +be on my desk?" + +Martha's face did not change beneath his scrutiny. During a rather long +moment she was silent, then her answer came glibly enough. + +"When I'm workin' I'm ap' to get het-up, an' then I sometimes undoes the +neck o' my waist, an' turns it back to give me breathin'-room." + +Mr. Ronald accepted it gravely. "Well, it is a very pretty locket, +Martha--and a very pretty face inside it. Of course, as the trinket was +in my room, and as there was no name or sign on the outside to identify +it, I opened it. I hope you don't mind." + +"Certainly not," Martha assured him. "Certainly not!" + +"The inscription on the inside puzzles me. 'Dear Daddy, from Claire.' +Now, assuredly, you're not _dear Daddy,_ Martha." + +Mrs. Slawson laughed. "Not on your life, I ain't _Dear Daddy,_ sir. Dear +Daddy was Judge Lang of Grand Rapids--you know, where the furnitur' an' +the carpet-sweepers comes from--He died about a year ago, an' Miss +Claire, knowin' how much store I set by her, an' how I'd prize her +picture, she give me the locket, as you see it." + +"You say Grand Rapids?--the young lady, Miss Claire, as you call her, +lives in Grand Rapids?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"I suppose you think I am very inquisitive, asking so many questions, +but the fact is, I am extremely interested. You will see why, when I +explain that several weeks ago, one day downtown, I saw a little girl--a +young lady--who might have been the original of this very picture, the +resemblance is so marked. But, of course, if your young lady lives in +Grand Rapids, she can't be my little girl--I should say, the young woman +I saw here in New York City. But if they were one and the same, they +couldn't look more alike. The only difference I can see, is that the +original of your picture is evidently a prosperous 'little sister of the +rich,' and the original of mine--the one I've carried in my mind--is a +breadwinner. She was employed in an office where I had occasion to go +one day on business. The next time I happened to drop in there--a few +days later--she was gone. I was sorry. That office was no place for her, +but I would have been glad to find her there, that I might have placed +her somewhere else, in a safer, better position. I hope she has come to +no harm." + +Martha hung fire a moment. Then, suddenly, her chin went up, as with the +impulse of a new resolve. + +"I'll be open an' aboveboard with you, sir," she said candidly. "The +world is certaintly small, an' the way things happen is a caution. Now, +who'd ever have thought that you'd 'a' seen my Miss Claire, but I truly +believe you have. For after her father died she come to New York, the +poor lamb! for to seek her fortune, an' her as innercent an' +unsuspectin' as my Sabina, who's only three this minit. She tried her +hand at a lot o' things, an' thank God an' her garden-angel for keepin' +her from harm, for as delicate an' pretty as she is, she can't _help_ +attractin' attention, an' you know what notions some as calls themselves +gen'lemen has, in this town. Well, Miss Claire is livin' under my roof, +an' you can betcher life I'm on the job--relievin' her garden-angel o' +the pertectin' end o' the business. But Miss Claire's that proud an' +inderpendent-like she ain't contented to be idle. She's bound to make +her own livin', which, she says, it's everybody's dooty to do, some ways +or other. So my eye's out, as you might say, for a place where she can +teach, like she's qualified to do. Did I tell you, she's a college lady, +an' has what she calls a 'degree,' which I didn't know before anythin' +but Masons like himself had 'em. + +"You oughter see how my boy Sammy gets his lessons, after she's learned +'em to him. She's a wizard at managin' boys. My Sammy useter to be up to +all sorts o' mischief. They was a time he took to playin' hookey. He'd +march off mornin's with his sisters, bold as brass, an' when lunchtime +come, in he'd prance, same as them, an' nobody ever doubtin' he hadn't +been to his school. An' all the time, there he was playin' in the open +lots with a gang o' poor little neglected dagos. I noticed him comin' in +evenin's kinder dissipated-lookin', but I hadn't my wits about me enough +to be onto'm, till his teacher sent me a note one day, by his sister +Cora, askin' what was ailin' Sammy. That night somethin' ailed Sammy for +fair. He stood up to his dinner, an' he wouldn't 'a' had a cravin' to +set down to his breakfast next mornin', only Francie put a pilla in his +chair. But Miss Claire, she's got him so bewitched, he'd break his heart +before he'd do what she wouldn't like. The thought of her goin' away +makes him sick to his stummick, the poor fella! Yet, it ain't to be +supposed anybody so smart, an' so good-lookin' as her, but would be +snapped up quick by them as has the sense to see the worth of her. +There's no question about her gettin' a job, the only worry _I_ have is +her gettin' one that will take her away from this, out of New York City, +where I can't see her oncet in a while. She's the kind you'd miss, like +you would a front tooth. You feel you can't get on without her, an' true +for you, you can't. But, beggin' your pardon, sir, for keepin' you so +long with my talkin'. If that's all, I'll get to my work." + +"That is all," said Mr. Ronald, "except--" He rose and handed her the +locket. + +She took it from him with a smile of perfect good-fellowship, and passed +from the room. Once outside the threshold, with the door closed upon +her, she drew a long, deep breath of relief. + +"Well, I'm glad _that's_ over, an' I got out of it with a whole skin," +she ruminated. "Lord, but I thought he had me shoor, when he took me up +about how the thing got out o' me dress, with his gimlet eyes never +stirrin' from my face, an' me tremblin' like an ashpan. If I hadn't 'a' +had my wits about me, I do' know where I'd 'a' come out. But all's well +that ends swell, as Miss Claire says, an' bless her heart, it's her +as'll end swell, if what I done this day takes root, an' I believe it +will." + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +When Martha let herself into her flat that night, she was welcomed by +another beside Flicker. + +"You _naughty_ Martha!" whispered Claire. "What do you mean by coming +home so late, all tired out and worked to death! It is shameful! But +here's a good cup of hot chocolate, and some big plummy buns to cheer +you up. And I've got some good news for you besides. I didn't mean to +tell right off, but I just can't keep in for another minute. _I've got a +job!_ A fine, three-hundred-dollars-a-year-and-home-and-laundry job! And +a raise, as soon as I show I'm worth it! Now, what do you think of that? +Isn't it splendid? Isn't it--_bully_?" + +She had noiselessly guided Martha into her own room, got her things off, +and seated her in a comfortable Morris chair before the lighted +oil-stove, from whose pierced iron top a golden light gleamed cheerily, +reflecting on the ceiling above in a curious pattern. + +"Be careful of the chocolate, it's burning hot. I kept it simmering till +I heard you shut the vestibule door. And--O, yes! No danger in sipping +it that way! But you haven't asked a single thing about my job. How I +came to know of it in the first place, and how I was clever enough to +get it after I'd applied! You don't look a bit pleased and excited over +it, you bad Martha! And you ought to be so glad, because I won't need to +spend anything _like_ all the money I'll get. I'm to have my home and +laundry free, and one can't make many outside expenses in a +boarding-school 'way off in Schoharie--and so I can send you a lot and a +lot of dollars, till we're all squared up and smoothed out, and you +won't have to work so hard any more, and--" + +"Say now, Miss Claire, you certaintly are the fastest thing on record. +If you'd been born a train, you'd been an express, shoor-pop an' no +mistake. Didn't I tell you to hold on, pationate an' uncomplainin', till +I giv' you the sign? Didn't I say I had my eye on a job for you that was +a job worth talkin' about? One that'd be satisfactry all around. Well, +then! An' here you are, tellin' me about you goin' to the old Harry, or +some such, with home an' laundry thrown in. Not on your life you ain't, +Miss Claire, an' that (beggin' your pardon!) is all there is _to_ it!" + +"But, Martha--" + +"Don't let's waste no more words. The thing ain't to be thought of." + +"But, Martha, it's over two weeks since you said that, about having an +idea about a certain job for me that was going to be so splendid. Don't +you know it is? And I thought it had fallen through. I didn't like to +speak about it, for fear you'd think I was hurrying you, but two weeks +are two weeks, and I can't go on indefinitely staying here, and getting +so deep in debt I'll never be able to get out again. And I saw this +advertisement in _The Outlook._ 'Twas for a college graduate to teach +High School English in a girls' boarding-school, and I went to the +agency, and they were very nice, and told me to write to the Principal, +and I did--told her all about myself, my experience tutoring, and all +that, and this morning came the letter saying she'd engage me. I can +tell you all about Schoharie, Martha. It's 'up-state' and--" + +"Miss Claire, child, no! It won't do. I can't consent. I can't have you +throwin' away golden opportoonities to work like a toojan for them as'll +stint you in the wash, an' prob'ly give you oleo-margerine instead of +butter, an' cold-storage eggs that had forgot there was such a thing as +a hen, long before they ever was laid away. I wasn't born yesterday, +myself, an' I know how they treat the teachers in some o' them schools. +The young-lady scholars, so stylish an' rich, as full of airs as a +music-box, snubbin' the teacher because they're too ignorant to know how +smart _she_ has to be, to get any knowledge into their stupid heads, +an' the Principal always eyein' you like a minx, 'less you might be +wastin' her precious time an' not earnin' the elegant sal'ry she gives +you, includin' your home an' laundry. O my! I know a thing or two about +them schools, an' a few other places. No, Miss Claire, dear, it won't +do. An' besides, I have you bespoke for Mrs. Sherman. The last thing +before I come away from the house this night, she sent for me upstairs, +an' ast me didn't I know some one could engage with her for +Radcliffe--to learn him his lessons, an' how to be a little lady, an' +suchlike. She wants, as you might say, a trained mother for'm, while his +own untrained one is out gallivantin' the streets, shoppin', an' playin' +bridge, an' attendin' the horse-show. + +"I hemmed an' hawed an' scratched my head to see if, happen, I did know +anybody suitable, an' after a while (not to seem to make you too cheap, +or not to look like I was jumpin' down her throat) I told her: 'Curious +enough, I do know just the one I think will please you--_if_ you can get +her.' + +"Then she ast me a lot about you, an' I told her what I know, an' for +the rest I trusted to Providence, an' in the end we made a sorter +deal--so's it's all fixed you're to go there day after to-morrer, to +talk to her, an' let her look you over. An' if you're the kind o' stuff +she wants, she'll take a half-a-dozen yards o' you, which is the kind o' +way those folks has with people they pay money to. I promised Mrs. +Sherman you'd come, an' I couldn't break my word to her, now could I? +I'd be like to lose my own job if I did, an' I'm sure you wouldn't ast +that o' me!" + +"But," said Claire, troubled, "you told me Radcliffe is so +unmanageable." + +Mrs. Slawson devoted herself to her chocolate and buns for a moment or +two. "O, never you fear about Radcliffe," she announced at length. "He's +a good little fella enough, as little fellas goes. When you know how to +handle'm--which is _right side up_ with care. Him an' me come to an +understandin' yesterday mornin', an' he's as meek an' gentle as a +baa-lamb ever since. I'll undertake you'll have no trouble with +Radcliffe." + +"Is this the wonderful plan you spoke of? Is _this_ the job you said was +going to be so satisfactory all 'round?" inquired Claire, her +misgivings, in connection with her prospective pupil, by no means +allayed. + +"Well, not eggsackly. I can't say it is. _That_ job will come later. But +we got to be pationate, an' not spoil it by upsettin' our kettles o' +fish with boardin'-schools, an' such nonsense. Meanwhile we can put in +time with Mrs. Sherman, who'll pay you well, an' won't be too skittish +if you just keep a firm hand on her. This mornin' she got discoursin' +about everythin' under the canopy, from nickel-plated bathroom fixin's, +an' marble slobs, to that state o' life unto which it has pleased God to +call me. She told me just what I'd oughter give my fam'ly to eat, an' +how much I'd oughter pay for it, an'--I say, but wasn't she grand to +have give me all that good advice free?" + +Claire laughed. "She certainly was, and now you've just _got_ to go to +bed. I don't dare look at the clock, it's so late. Good-night, you +_good_ Martha! And thank you, from way deep down, for all you've done +for me." + +But long after Mrs. Slawson had disappeared, the girl sat in the +solitude of her shadowy room thinking--thinking--thinking. Unable to get +away from her thoughts. There was something about this plan, to which +Martha had committed her, that frightened, overawed her. She felt a +strange impulse to resist it, to follow her own leading, and go to the +school instead. She knew her feeling was childish. Suppose Radcliffe +were to be unruly, why, how could she tell that the girls in the +Schoharie school might not prove even more so? The fact was, she argued, +she had unconsciously allowed herself to be prejudiced against Mrs. +Sherman and the boy, by Martha's whimsical accounts of them, +good-natured as they were. And this strange, premonitory instinct was +no premonitory instinct at all, it was just the natural reluctance of a +shy nature to face a new and uncongenial situation. And yet--and +yet--and yet, try as she would, she could not shake off the impression +that, beyond it all, there loomed something a hidden inner sense made +her hesitate to approach. + +Just that moment, a dim, untraceable association of ideas drew her back +until she was face-to-face with a long-forgotten incident in her +very-little girlhood. Once upon a time, there had been a moment when she +had experienced much the same sort of feeling she had now--the feeling +of wanting to cry out and run away. As a matter of fact, she _had_ cried +out and run away. Why, and from what? As it came back to her, not from +anything altogether terrible. On the contrary, something rather +alluring, but so unfamiliar that she had shrunk back from it, +protesting, resisting. What was it? Claire suddenly broke into a +smothered little laugh and covered her face with her hands, before the +vision of herself, squawking madly, like a startled chicken, and running +away from "big" handsome, twelve-year-old Bobby Van Brandt, who had just +announced to the world at large, that "he liked Claire Lang a lot, 'n' +she was his best girl, 'n' he was goin' to kiss her." She had been +mortally frightened, had screamed, and run away, but (so unaccountable +is the heart of woman) she had never liked Bobby quite so well after +that, because he had shown the white feather and hadn't carried out his +purpose, in spite of her. + +But if she should scream and run away now, there would be none to +pursue. Her foolish outburst would disturb no one. She could cry and +cry, and run and run, and there would be no big Bobby Van Brandt, or any +one else to hear and follow. + +An actual echo of the cries she had not uttered seemed to mock her +foolish musing. She paused and listened. Again and again came the +muffled sounds, and, at last, so distinct they seemed, she went to her +door, unlatched it, and stood, listening, on the threshold. + +From Martha's room rose a deep rumble, as of a distant murmurous sea. + +"Mr. Slawson. He's awake. He must have heard the crying, too. O, it's +begun again! How awful! Martha, what is it, O, what is it?" for Mrs. +Slawson had appeared in her own doorway, and was standing, night-robed +and ghostly, listening attentively to the intermittent signs of +distress. + +"It's that bloomin' Dutchman, Langbein, acrost the hall. Every time he +goes on a toot, he comes back an' wallops his wife for it. Go to bed, +Miss Claire, child, an' don't let it worry you. It ain't _your_ +funeral." + +Came the voice of big Sam Slawson from within his chamber: + +"Just what I say to _you_, my dear. It ain't your funeral. Come back, +Martha, an' go to bed." + +"Well, that's another pair o' shoes, entirely, Sammy," whispered Martha. +"This business has been goin' on long enough, an' I ain't proposin' to +put up with it no longer. Such a state o' things has nothin' to +recommend it. If it'd help such a poor ninny as Mrs. Langbein any to +beat her, I'd say, 'Go ahead! Never mind _us!_' But you couldn't pound +sense inter a softy like her, no matter what you done. In the first +place, she lets that fella get away from her evenin's when, if she'd an +ounce o' sense, she could keep him stickin' so close at home, a capcine +plaster wouldn't be in it. Then, when he comes home, a little the worse +for wear, she ups an' reproaches 'm, which, God knows, that ain't no +time to argue with a man. You don't want to _argue_ with a fella when +he's so. You just want to _tell_m'. Tell'm with the help of a broomstick +if you want to, but _tell'_m, or leave'm alone. An' it's bad for the +childern--all this is--it's bad for Cora an' Francie. What idea'll they +get o' the holy estate o' matrimony, I should like to know? That the +_man_ has the upper hand? That's a _nice_ notion for a girl to grow up +with, nowadays. Hark! My, but he's givin' it to her good an' plenty this +time! Sammy Slawson, shame on ye, man! to let a poor woman be beat like +that, an' never raise a hand to save your own childern from bein' old +maids. Another scream outer her, an' I'll go in myself, in the face of +you." + +"Now, Martha, be sensible!" pleaded Sam Slawson. "You can't break into a +man's house without his consent." + +"Can't I? Well, just you watch me close, an' you'll see if I can't." + +"You'll make yourself liable to the law. He's her husband, you know. She +can complain to the courts, if she's got any kick comin'. But it's not +_my_ business to go interferin' between husband and wife. 'What God hath +joined together, let no man put asunder.'" + +Martha wagged an energetic assent. + +"Shoor! That certaintly lets _you_ out. But there ain't no mention made +o' _woman_ not bein' on the job, is there?" + +She covered the narrow width of the hall in a couple of strides, and +beat her knuckles smartly against the panel of the opposite door. + +By this time the baluster-railing, all the way up, was festooned with +white-clad tenants, bending over, looking down. + +"Martha," protested Sam Slawson, "you're in your nightgown! You can't +go round like that! Everybody's lookin' at you!" + +"Say, you--Mr. Langbein in there! Open the door. It's me! Mrs. Slawson! +Let me in!" was Martha's only reply. Her keen ear, pressed against the +panel, heard nothing in response but an oath, following another even +more ungodly sound, and then the choking misery of a woman's convulsive +sobs. + +Mrs. Slawson set her shoulder against the door, braced herself for a +mighty effort, and-- + +"Did you ever see the like of her?" muttered Sam, as, still busy +fastening the garments he had hurriedly pulled on, he followed his wife +into the Langbeins' flat, into the Langbeins' bedroom. There he saw her +resolutely march up to the irate German, swing him suddenly about, and +send him crashing, surprised, unresisting, to the opposite side of the +room. For a second she stood regarding him scornfully. + +"You poor, low-lived Dutchman, you!" she brought out with deliberation. +"What d'you mean layin' your hand to a woman who hasn't the stren'th or +the spirit to turn to, an' lick you back? Why don't you fight a fella +your own size an' sect? That's fair play! A fine man _you_ are! A fine +neighbor _you_ are! Just let me hear a peep out of you, an' I'll thrash +you this minit to within a inch of your life. _I_ don't need no law nor +no policeman to keep the peace in any house where I live. I can keep the +peace myself, if I have to lick every tenant in the place! I'm the law +an' the policeman on my own account, an' if you budge from that floor +till I tell you get up, I'll come over there an' set down on ye so hard, +your wife won't know you from a pancake in the mornin'. I'll show you +the power o' the _press!"_ + +Sam Slawson was no coward, but his face was pallid with consternation at +Martha's hardihood. His mighty bulk, however, seeming to supplement +hers, had its effect on the sobered German. He did not attempt to rise. + +"As to you, you poor weak sister," said Mrs. Slawson, turning to the +wife, "you've had your last lickin' so long as you live in this house. +Believe _me!_ I'm a hard-workin' woman, but I'm never too tired or too +busy to come in an' take a round out of your old man, if he should ever +dare lay finger to you again. _I_ don't mind a friendly scrap oncet in a +while with a neighbor. My muscles is good for more than your fat, +beer-drinkin' Dutchman's any day. Let him up an' try 'em oncet, an' +he'll see. Why don't you have some style about you an' land him one, +where it'll do the most good, or else--_leave_ him? But no, you wouldn't +do that--I _know_ you wouldn't! Some women has to cling to somethin', +no matter if they have to support it themselves." + +Mrs. Langbein's inarticulate sobbing had passed into a spasmodic +struggle for breathless utterance. + +"He--don't mean--no harm, Mis' Slawson. He's all right--ven he's soper. +Only--it preaks my heart ven he vips me, und I don't deserve it." + +"Breaks your heart? It ain't your _heart I'm_ worryin' about. If he +don't break your bones you're in luck!" + +"Und I try to pe a goot vife to him. I tend him hand und foot." + +"Ye-es, I know you do," returned Martha dryly. "But suppose you just try +the _foot_ in the future. See how it works." + +"I to my pest mit dryin' to pe a goot cook. I geep his house so glean as +a bin. Vat I _don't_ do, Gott weiss, I don't know it. I ain't esk him +for ein tcent already. I ain't drouble him mit pills off of de grocer +oder de putcher, oder anny-von. I makes launtry efery veek for some +liddle peoples, und mit mine own money I bays my pills. Ven you dell me +how it iss I could make eferyting more smoother for him, I do it!" + +"That's eggsackly the trouble," proclaimed Mrs. Slawson conclusively. +"You make 'em too smooth. You make 'em so smooth, they're ackchelly +slippery. No wonder the poor fella falls down. No man wants to spend +all his life skatin' round, doin' fancy-figger stunts, because his +wife's a dummy. Let'm get down to hard earth, an' if he kicks, heave a +rock at'm. He'll soon stand up, an' walk straight like a little man. Let +_him_ lend a hand with the dooty-business, for a change. It'll take his +attention off'n himself, give'm a rest from thinkin' he's an angel, an' +that you hired out, when you married'm, to shout 'Glory!' every time he +flaps a wing! That sort o' thing ain't healthy for men. It don't agree +with their constitutions--An' now, good-night to you, an' may you have +sweet dreams! Mr. Langbein, I ain't the slightest objeckshun to your +gettin' up, if you want to. You know me now. I'm by the day, as you may +have heard. But I can turn my hand to an odd job like this now an' then +by the night, if it's necess'ry, so let me hear no more from you, sir, +an' then we'll all be good friends, like we're partin' now. Good-night!" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +Before setting out for his work the next morning, Sam Slawson tried to +prepare Ma and Miss Lang for the more than probable appearance, during +the day, of the officer of the law, he predicted Friedrich Langbein +would have engaged to prosecute Martha. + +"He has a clear case against you, mother, no doubt o' that. You'd no +business in his place at all, let alone that you assaulted an' battered +him. He can make it hot for us, an' I don't doubt he will." + +Mrs. Slawson attended with undivided care to the breakfast needs of such +of her flock as still remained to be fed. The youngsters had all +vanished. + +"If he wants to persecute me, let him persecute me. I guess I +got a tongue in my head. I can tell the judge a thing or two which, +bein' prob'ly a mother himself, he'll see the sense of. Do you think +I want Sammy growin' up under my very eyes, a beer-drinkin' +wife-beater?--because he seen the eggsample of it set before'm by a +Dutchman, when he was a boy? Such things makes an impression on the +young--which they ain't sense enough to know the difference between a +eggsample an' a warnin'. An' the girls, too! As I told you las' night, +it's bad for the country when matrimony ain't made to look like a +prize-package, no matter what it _reely_ is. What's goin' to become o' +the population, I should like to know? Here's Cora now, wantin' to be a +telefoam-girl when she grows up, an' there's no knowin' what Francie'll +choose. But you can take it from me, they'll both of 'em drop their +votes for the single life. They'll perfer to thump a machine o' their +own, with twelve or fifteen _per_, comin' to 'em, rather than be the +machine that's thumped, an' pay for the privilege out'n their own +pockets besides." + +As fate would have it, the day went placidly by, in spite of Mr. +Slawson's somber prognostications. No one came to disturb the even tenor +of its way. Then, at eveningfall, while Martha was still absent, there +was a gentle rap upon the door, and Claire, anxious to anticipate Ma, +made haste to answer it, and saw a stranger standing on the threshold. +It was difficult, at first, to distinguish details in the dusk of the +dim hallway, but after a moment she made out the rotund figure of Mr. +Langbein. She could not see his face, but his voice was more than +conciliatory. + +"Eggscoose me, lady!" he began apologetically. "I haf for Mis' Slawson a +liddle bresent here. I tink she like it. She look so goot-netchered, und +I know she iss kind to bum animals. My vife, her Maltee cat vas having +some liddle kittens already, a mont' ago. I tink Mis' Slawson, she lige +to hef von off dem pussies, ja? Annyhow, I bring her von here, und I esk +you vill gif it to her mit my tanks, und my kint regarts, und pest +vishes und annyting else you tink I could do for her. You tell Mis' +Slawson I lige her to esk me to do someting whenefer she needs it--yes?" + +"Now what do you think of that?" was Martha's only comment, when Claire +related the incident, and great Sam Slawson shook with laughter till his +sides ached, and a fit of coughing set in, and said it was "a caution, +but Mother always did have a winning way about her with the men." + +"It's well I have, or I wouldn't 'a' drew you, Sammy--an' you shoor are +a trump--only I wisht you'd get rid o' that cough--You had it just about +long enough," Martha responded, half in mockery, half in affectionate +earnest. + +"An' now, me lad, leave us be, me an' Miss Claire. We has things of +importance to talk over. It's to-morrow at ten she's to go see Mrs. +Sherman. Miss Claire, you must be lookin' your best, for the first minit +the madam claps eyes to you, that'll be the decidin' minit for _you_. +Have you everything you need, ready to your hand? Is all your little +laces an' frills done up fresh an' tidy, so's you can choose the +becomingest? Where's that lace butterfly for your neck, I like so much? +I washed it as careful as could be, a couple o' weeks ago, but have you +wore it since?" + +Claire hesitated. "I think I'll put on the simplest things I've got, +Martha," she replied evasively. "Just one of my linen shirtwaists, with +the stiff collar and cuffs. No fluffy ruffles at all." + +"But that scrap o' lace at your throat, ain't fluffy ruffles. An' stiff, +starched things don't kinder become you, Miss Claire. They ain't your +style. You don't wanter look like you been dressed by your worst enemy, +do you? You're so little an' dainty, you got to have delicate things to +go _with_ you. Say, just try that butterfly on you now. I want to see if +it'll do, all right." + +By this time Claire knew Martha well enough to realize it was useless to +attempt to temporize or evade. + +"I can't wear the butterfly, Martha dear," she said. + +"Why can't you?" + +"Well, now please, _please_ don't worry, but I can't wear it, because I +can't find it. I dare say it'll turn up some day when I least expect, +but just now, it seems to be lost." + +Martha looked grave. "It come out o' the wash all right, didn't it?" she +inquired anxiously. "I remember distinkly leavin' it soak in the suds, +so's there wouldn't be no strain-like, rubbin' it, an' the dust'd just +drop out natural. But now I come to think of it, I don't recklect +ironin' it. Now honest, did it come outer the wash, Miss Claire?" + +"No, Martha--but--" + +"There ain't no _but_ about it. I musta gone an' lost your pretty lace +for you, an' it was reel at that!" + +"Never mind! It's of no consequence. Truly, please don't--" + +"Worry? Shoor I won't worry. What's the use worryin'? But I'll make it +right, you betcher life, which is much more to the purpose. Say, I +shouldn't wonder but it got into the tub someways, an' then, when I let +the water out, the suckage drew it down the pipe. Believe _me,_ that's +the very thing that happened, and--'I'll never see sweet Annie any +more!'" + +"It doesn't make a particle of difference, Martha. I never liked that +butterfly as much as you did, you know." + +"Perhaps you did an' perhaps you didn't, but all the same you're _out_ a +neck-fixin', an' it's _my_ fault, an' so you're bound to let me get +square, to save my face, Miss Claire. You see how it is, don't you? +Well, last Christmas, Mrs. Granville she give me a lace jabbow--reel +Irish mull an' Carrickmacross (that's lace from the old country, as you +know as well as me). She told me all about it. Fine? It'd break your +heart to think o' one o' them poor innercent colleens over there +pricklin' her eyes out, makin' such grandjer for the like o' me, when no +doubt she thought she was doin' it for some great dame, would be +sportin' it out loud, in her auta on Fifth Avenoo. What use have I, in +my business, for that kinder decoration, I should like to know! It'd +only be distractin' me, gettin' in me pails when I'm scrubbin'. An' by +the time Cora an' Francie is grown up, jabbows will be _out_. I'd much +more use for the five-dollar-bill was folded up in the box alongside. +_That_, now, was becomin' to my peculiar style o' beauty. But the +jabbow! There ain't no use talkin', Miss Claire, you'll have to take it +off'n my hands, I mean my chest, an' then we'll be quits on the +butterfly business, an' no thanks to your nose on either side." + +It was useless to protest. + +The next morning when Claire started forth to beard the lioness in her +den, she was tricked out in all the bravery of Martha's really beautiful +"jabbow," and looked "as pretty as a picture, an' then some," as Mrs. +Slawson confidentially assured Sam. + +But the heart beneath the frilly lace and mull was anything but brave. +It felt, in fact, quite as white and fluttery as the _jabbow_ looked, +and when Claire found herself being actually ushered into the boudoir of +the august _presence_, and told to "wait please," she thought it would +stop altogether for very abject fright. + +Martha had tried, in a sort of casual, matter-of-course way, to prepare +her little lady for the trial, by dropping hints every now and then, as +to the best methods of dealing with employers--the proper way to carry +oneself, when one "went to live out in private fam'lies." + +"You see, you always been the private fam'ly yourself, Miss Claire, so +it'll come kinder strange to you first-off, to look at things the other +way. But it won't be so bad after you oncet get used to it. There's one +thing it's good to remember. Them high-toned folks has somehow got it +fixed in their minds that _the rich must not be annoyed,_ so it'll be +money in your pocket, as the sayin' is, if you can do your little stunt +without makin' any fuss about it, or drawin' their attention. Just saw +wood an' say nothin', as my husband says. + +"Mrs. Sherman she told me, when I first went there, an' Radcliffe was a +little baby, she 'strickly forbid anybody to touch'm.' It was on account +o' what she called _germs_ or somethin'. Well, I never had no particular +yearnin' to inflect him with none o' my germs, but when she was off +gallivantin', an' that poor little lonesome fella used to cry, an' put +out his arms to be took, I'd take'm, an' give'm the only reel +mother-huggin' he ever had in his life, an' no harm to any of us--to me +that give it, or him that got it, or her that was no wiser. Then, later, +when he was four or five, an' around that, she got a notion he was a +angel-child, an' she'd useter go about tellin' the help, an' other +folks, 'he must be guided by love alone.' I remember she said oncet he'd +be 'as good as a kitten for hours at a time if you only give'm a ball of +twine to play with.' Well, his nurse, she give'm the ball of twine one +day when she had somethin' doin' that took up all her time an' attention +on her own account, an' when she come back from her outin', you couldn't +walk a step in the house without breakin' your leg (the nurse she did +sprain her ankle), on account o' the cat's-cradle effect the young +villain had strung acrost the halls, an' from one doorknob to the other, +so there wasn't an inch o' the place free. An' he'd got the tooth-paste +toobs, an' squoze out the insides, an' painted over every bit o' +mahogany he could find--doors, an' furnitur', an' all. You can take it +from me, that house was a sight after the angel-child got through with +it. The girls an' me--the whole push--was workin' like mad clearin' up +after'm before the madam'd come home, an' the nurse cryin' her eyes out +for the pain, an' scared stiff 'less she'd be sent packin'. Also, 'if +Radcliffe asked questions, we was to answer them truthful,' was another +rule. An' the puzzles he'd put to you! One day, I remember, he got me +cornered with a bunch that was such fierce propositions, Solomon in all +his glory couldn't 'a' give him their truthful answers. Says +he--Radcliffe, not Solomon--says he: 'I want another leg.' + +"'You can't have it,' says I. + +"'Why?' says he. + +"'They ain't pervided,' I says. 'Little boys that's well-reggerlated, +don't have but two legs.' + +"'Why don't they?' + +"'Because God thought two was enough for'm.' + +"'Why did God think tho?' + +"'You ask too many questions.' + +"'Well, but--juth lithen--I want to know--now lithen--doth puthy-caths +lay eggth?' + +"'No!' + +"'Why don't puthy-caths lay eggth?' + +"'Because hens has a corner on the egg business.' + +"'Why have they?' + +"'Because they're born lucky, like Mr. Carnegie an' Mr. Rockefella.' + +"'Doth Mr. Carnegie an' Mr. Rockefella--' + +_"'No!'_ + +"'Why don't they?' + +"'Say, Radcliffe, I ain't had a hard day,' says I. 'But _you_ make me +tired.' + +"'Why do I? Now--juth wonth more--now--now lithen wonth more--ith God a +lady?'" + +As Claire sat waiting for Mrs. Sherman, stray scraps of recollection, +such as these, flitted through her mind and helped to while the time +away. Then, as she still waited, she grew gradually more composed, less +unfamiliar with her surroundings, and the strange predicament in which +she found herself. She could, at length, look at the door she supposed +led into Mrs. Sherman's room, without such a quick contraction of the +heart as caused her breath to come in labored gasps, could make some +sort of sketchy outline of the part she was foreordained to take in the +coming interview, and not find herself barren of resource, even if Mrs. +Sherman _should_ say so-and-so, instead of so-and-so. + +She had waited so long, had had such ample time to get herself well in +hand, that when, at last, a door opened (not Mrs. Sherman's door at all, +but another), and a tall, upright masculine figure appeared in the +doorway, she at once jumped to the conclusion it was Shaw, the butler, +come to summon her into _the presence,_ and rose to follow, without too +much inner perturbation. + +"Mrs. Sherman is prevented from keeping her appointment with you this +morning," descended to her from an altitude far above her own. "She +hopes you will excuse her. She has asked me to talk with you in her +stead. You are Miss Lang, I believe? I am Mrs. Sherman's brother. My +name is Ronald." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +It is hard to readjust all one's prearranged plans in the twinkling of +an eye. Claire felt as if she had received a sudden dash of cold water +square in the face. She quite gulped from the shock of it. How in the +world was she to adapt herself to this brand-new set of conditions on +such short notice--on no notice at all? How was she to be anything but +awkwardly monosyllabic? + +"Sit down, please." + +Obediently she sat. + +"Martha--Mrs. Slawson--tells me, your father was Judge Lang of +Michigan?" + +"Yes--Grand Rapids." + +"You are a college graduate?" + +"Wellesley." + +"You have taught before?" + +"I tutored a girl throughout a whole summer. Prepared her for her +college entrance exams." + +"She passed creditably?" + +"She wasn't conditioned in anything." + +"How are you on discipline?" + +"I don't know." + +"You have had no experience? Never tried your hand at training a boy, +for example?" + +Claire's blue-gray eyes grew suddenly audacious, and the bridge of her +short nose wrinkled up delightfully in a roguish smile. + +"I trained my father. He was a dear old boy--the dearest in the world. +He used to say he had never been brought up, until I came along. He used +to say I ruled him with a rod of iron. But he was very well-behaved +before I got through with him. He was quite a model boy, really." + +Glancing quickly up into the steadfast eyes that had, at first, seemed +to her so stern as to be almost forbidding, she met an expression so +mild, so full of winning kindness, that she suddenly remembered and +understood what Martha had meant when she said once: "A body wouldn't +call the queen her cousin when he looks at you like that!" + +"Your father was a credit to your bringing-up, certainly. I never had +the honor of meeting Judge Lang, but I knew him by reputation. I +remember to have heard some one say of him once--'He was a judge after +Socrates' own heart. He heard courteously, he answered wisely, he +considered soberly, he decided impartially. Added to this, he was one +whom kings could not corrupt.' That is an enviable record." + +Claire's eyes filled with grateful moisture, but she did not allow them +to overflow. She nodded rapidly once or twice in a quaint, +characteristic little fashion, and then sat silent, examining the links +in her silver-meshed purse, with elaborate attention. + +"Perhaps Mrs. Slawson has told you that my young nephew is something of +a pickle." + +The question restored Claire at once. "I'm fond of pickles." + +"Good! I believe there are said to be fifty-eight varieties. Are you +prepared to smack your lips over him, whichever he may be?" + +"Well, if I can't smack my lips, there's always the alternative of +smacking _him_." + +Mr. Ronald laughed. "Not allowed," he announced regretfully. "My sister +won't have it. Radcliffe is to be guided 'by love alone.'" + +"Whose love, please? His or mine?" + +Again Mr. Ronald laughed. "Now you've got me!" he admitted. "Perhaps a +little of both. Do you think you could supply your share? I have no +doubt of your being able to secure his." + +"I like children. We've always managed to hit it off pretty well, the +kiddies and I, but, of course, I can't guarantee anything definite in +connection with your little boy, because, you see, I've never been a +governess before. I've only had to do with youngsters who've come +a-visiting, or else the small, lower East-siders at the Settlement. But +I'll promise to do my best." + +"'Who does the best his circumstance allows, does well, acts nobly. +_Angles_ could no more,' as I wrote in my sister's autograph-album when +I was a boy," announced Mr. Ronald gravely. + +Claire smiled over at him with appreciation. "I'd love to come and try," +she said heartily. + +She did not realize she had lost all sensation of alarm, had forgotten +her altered position, that she was no longer one whom these people would +regard as their social equal. She was talking as one talks to a friend. + +"And if Radcliffe doesn't get on--if he doesn't improve, I should +say--if you don't _like_ me, you can always send me away, you know." + +For a very long moment Mr. Ronald sat silent. So long a moment, indeed, +that Claire, waiting in growing suspense for his answer, suddenly +remembered all those things she had forgotten, and her earlier +embarrassment returned with a wave of bitter self-reproach. She accused +herself of having been too free. She had overstepped her privilege. It +was not apparent to her that he was trying to visualize the picture she +had drawn, the possibility of his _not liking her and sending her away, +you know,_ and that, to his utter consternation, he found it was +something he could not in the least conceive of himself as doing. That, +on the contrary, the vision of her going away for any reason, of her +passing out of his life, now she had once stepped into it, left him with +a chill sensation in the cardiac region that was as unexpected as it was +disturbing. When he spoke at last, it was with a quick, authoritative +brevity that seemed to Claire to bear out her apprehension, and prove he +thought she had forgotten her place, her new place as "hired help," and +must be checked lest she presume on good nature and take a tone to her +employers that was not to be tolerated. + +"You will come without fail on Monday morning." + +"Very well." + +Her manner was so studiously cold and ceremonious, so sharply in +contrast with her former piquant friendliness, that Mr. Ronald looked up +in surprise. + +"It is convenient for you to come on Monday, I hope?" + +"Perfectly." + +"I presume my sister, Mrs. Sherman, will take up with you the question +of--er--compensation." + +"O--" quickly, with a little shudder, "that's all right!" + +"If it isn't all right, it shall be made so," said Mr. Ronald cordially. + +Claire winced. "It is quite, it is perfectly all right!" she repeated +hurriedly, anxious to escape the distasteful subject, still smarting +under the lash of her own self-condemnation--her own wounded pride. + +How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that she was no longer +in a position to deal with these people on equal terms? That now, +kindness on their part meant patronage, on hers presumption. Of course, +she deserved the snub she had received. But, all the same, it hurt! O, +but it hurt! She knew her George Eliot well. It was a pity she did not +recall and apply a certain passage in Maggie Tulliver's experience. + +"It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to the pleasanter +emotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with a sense of +glowing warmth, an innocent drop of cold water may fall upon us with a +sudden smart." + +Mr. Ronald, searching her face for some clue to the abrupt change in her +voice and manner, saw her cheeks grow white, her lips and chin quiver +painfully. + +"You are not well?" he asked, after a second of troubled groping in the +dark. + +"O, perfectly." She recollected Martha's injunction, "Never you let on +to 'em, any of your worries. The rich must not be annoyed," and pulled +herself together with a determined mental grip. + +"It is good that, being so far away from home, you can be under the +care of your old nurse," observed Mr. Ronald thoughtfully. + +"My old nurse," Claire mechanically repeated, preoccupied with her own +painful meditations. + +"Martha. It is good, it certainly must be comforting to those who care +for you, to know you are being looked after by so old and trusted a +family servant." + +Claire did not reply. She was hardly conscious he was speaking. + +"When Martha first mentioned you to me--to Mrs. Sherman, rather--she +described you as her young lady. She has a very warm feeling for you. I +think she considers you in the light of personal property, like a child +of her own. That's excusable--it's commendable, even, in such a case as +this. I believe she said she nursed you till you were able to walk." + +With a shock of sudden realization, Claire waked to the fact that +something was wrong somewhere--something that it was _up to_ her to make +right at once. And yet, it was all so cloudy, so confused in her mind +with her duty to Martha, her duty to herself, and to these people--her +fear of being again kindly but firmly put back in her _place_ if she +ventured the merest fraction of an inch beyond the boundary prescribed +by this grandee of the autocratic bearing and "keep-off-the-grass +expression," that she hesitated, and her opportunity was lost. + +"I think I must go now," she announced abruptly, and rose, got past him +somehow, and made blindly for the door. Then there was the dim vista of +the long hall stretching before her, like a path of escape, and she fled +its length, and down that of the staircase. Then out at the street-door, +and into the chill of the cold December noonday. + +When she had vanished, Francis Ronald stood a moment with eyes fixed in +the direction she had taken. Then, abruptly, he seized the telephone +that stood upon the table beside him, switched it to connect with the +basement region, and called for Mrs. Slawson. + +"This is Mr. Ronald speaking. Is Martha there?" + +"Yes, sir. Please hold the wire, and I'll call her." + +"Be quick!" + +"Yes, sir!" + +A second, and Martha's voice repeated his name. "Mr. Ronald, this is +Martha!" + +"Good! I want you to put on your things at once, and follow Miss Lang," +he directed briefly. "I do not think she's sick, but as she was talking +to me, I noticed she grew suddenly quite pale, and seemed troubled and +anxious. Waste no time! Go at once!" + +The only answer was a sharp click over the wire, as Mrs. Slawson snapped +the receiver into its crotch. + +But though Claire was not five minutes in advance of her, Martha was +unable to make up the distance between them, and by the time she had +mounted the stairs leading to the Elevated, and stood panting for breath +on the platform, the train she had hoped to catch was to be seen +disappearing around the curve at Fifty-third Street. + +All the way uptown she speculated as to the why and wherefore of Mr. +Ronald's immediate concern about Claire. + +"It's kinder previous, his gettin' so stirred up over her at this stage +o' the game," she pondered. "It ain't natural, or it ain't lucky. I'd +much liefer have it go slower, an' be more thora. A thing like this +affair I'm tryin' to menoover, is like some o' the things you cook. You +want to leave 'em get good an' het-up before the stirrin' begins. If +they're stirred up too soon, they're ap' to cruddle on you, an' never +get that nice, smooth, thick, _gooey_ look you like to see in rich +custuds, same as love-affairs. I hope she didn't go an' have a scare on, +an' give 'em to think she ain't healthy. She's as sound as a nut, but if +Mis' Sherman once is fixed with the notion she's subjeck to +faint-spells, nothin' on earth will change her mind, an' then it'll be +nit, not, nohow for Martha's little scheme. I must caution Miss Claire +about showin' the white feather. No matter how weak-kneed she feels, +she's just _got_ to buck up an' ack like she's a soldier. That's how--" + +Martha had reached her own street, and was turning the corner, when she +stopped with a sensation as of a quick, fierce clutching at her heart. +Evidently there had been some sort of accident, for a great crowd was +gathered on the sidewalk, and beside the gutter-curbstone, just ahead of +her, stood waiting an ambulance. Her healthy, normal mind did not easily +jump at tragic conclusions. She did not, as a general thing, fear the +worst, did not even accept it when it came, but now, somehow, a close +association of ideas suggested Claire in an instant, and before ever she +had stirred a step, she saw in her mind's eye the delicate little form +she loved, lying injured, maybe mangled, stretched out upon the asphalt, +in the midst of the curious throng. + +She hurried, hurried faster than any of the others who were also +hurrying, and pushed her way on through the press to the very edge of +the crowd. A crying woman caught wildly at her arm, as she stood for a +second struggling to advance. + +"It's a child!--A little girl--run over by an automobile! O God help +the poor mother!" the stranger sobbed hysterically. + +Martha freed herself from the clinging fingers and pressed forward. "A +child--Miss Claire's such a little thing, no wonder they think she's a +child," she murmured. "True for you, my good woman, God help the poor +mother!" + +"You know her?" + +"I know Miss Claire." + +For some reason the crowd made way, and let her through to the very +heart of it, and there--sure enough, there was Claire, but Claire crying +and kneeling over an outstretched little form, lying unconscious on the +pavement. + +"Why, it's--my Francie!" said Martha quietly. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Through all the days of suspense and doubt, Claire swung like a faithful +little pendulum between home, the Shermans, and the hospital. + +Then, as hope strengthened, she was the bearer of gifts, flowers, fruit, +toys from Mr. Ronald and his sister, which Martha acknowledged in her +own characteristic fashion. + +"Tell'm the Slawson fam'ly is bound to be _in it._ It seems it's the +whole style for ladies to go under a operation, an' as I ain't eggsackly +got the time, Francie, she's keepin' up the tone for us. If you wanter +folla the fashions these days, you got to gather your skirts about you, +tight as they are, an' run. But what's a little inconvenience, compared +with knowin' you're cuttin' a dash! + +"Tell'm I thank'm, an' tell Lor'--Mister Ronald, it's good of'm to be +tryin' to get damages for Francie out o' the auta that run her down, an' +if there was somethin' comin' to us to pay the doctors an' suchlike, +it'd be welcome. But, somehow, I always was shy o' monkeyin' with the +law. It's like to catch a body in such queer places, where you'd least +expect. Before a fella knows it, he's _up_ for liable, or breaches o' +promise, an' his private letters to the bosom of his fam'ly (which +nowadays they're mostly ruffles), his letters to the bosom of his fam'ly +is read out loud in court, an' then printed in the papers next mornin', +an' everybody's laughin' at'm, because he called his wife 'My darlin' +Tootsie,' which she never been accustomed to answer to anythin' but the +name o' Sarah. An' it's up to him to pay the costs, when ten to one it's +the other party's to blame. I guess p'raps we better leave good enough +alone. If we begin to get the l'yers after us, no tellin' where we'll +end. Who knows but they might find the accident injured the auto, 'stead +o' Francie. If we work hard, an' they give us time, me an' Sammy can, +maybe, make out to pay the doctors. But add to that, to have to buy a +brand-new machine for the fella that run over Francie--that'd be sorter +discouragin'." + +She paused, and Claire began to pull on her gloves. + +"By the way," said Martha, "how's things down to the Shermans'? Seems +like a hunderd years since I was there. The las' time I laid eyes on +Eliza, she was in excellent spirits--I seen the bottle. I wonder if +she's still--very still, takin' a sly nip on the side, as she calls it, +which means a sly nip off the sideboard. You can take it from me, if she +don't let up, before she knows it she'll be a teetotal wrack." + +"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Eliza," observed Claire, smiling. + +"Why, of course, you haven't, which it wouldn't be a pleasure, anyhow. +But what I reely want to know is, how you makin' out with Radcliffe? I +been so took up with Francie all this while, I clean forgot to ask +before. Is he behavin' all right? Does he mind what you say? Does he do +his lessons good?" + +Claire's brows drew together in a troubled little frown, as she labored +over the clasp of her glove. + +"O, Radcliffe," she let fall carelessly. "Radcliffe's an unruly little +Hessian, of course, but I suppose all boys are mischievous at times." + +Martha pondered. "Well, not all boys are mischievous in just the same +way, thank God! This trouble o' Francie's has threw me all out in more +ways than one. If everything had 'a' went as I'd expected, I'd been +workin' at the Shermans' straight along these days, an' you wouldn't 'a' +had a mite o' trouble with the little fella. Him an' I understands each +other perfeckly, an' with me a loomin' up on the landscape, he kinder +sees the sense o' walkin' a chalk-line, not kickin' up his heels too +frisky. I'd calculated on being there, to sorter back you up, till you'd +got uster the place, an' made 'em understand you mean business." + +Claire laughed, a quick, sharp little laugh. + +"O, I think I'm gradually making them understand I mean business," she +said. "And I'm sure it is better, since I have to be there at all, that +I should be there without you, independent of any help. I couldn't make +Radcliffe respect my authority, if I depended on some one else to +enforce it. It's just one of those cases where one has to fight one's +own battle alone." + +"Then it _is_ a battle?" Martha inquired quietly. + +"O, it's a battle, 'all right,'" laughed Claire mirthlessly, and before +Mrs. Slawson could probe her further, she managed to make her escape. + +She did not wish to burden Martha with her vexations. Martha had +troubles of her own. Moreover, those that were most worrisome to Claire, +Martha, in the very nature of things, would not understand. + +Claire's first few weeks at the Shermans' had been uneventful enough. +Radcliffe had found amusement in the novelty of the situation, had +deigned to play school with her, and permitted her to "make believe" she +was "the teacher." He was willing to "pretend" to be her "scholar," just +as he would have been willing to pretend to be the horse, if he and +another boy had been playing, and the other boy had chosen to be driver +for a while. But turn about is fair play, and when the days passed, and +Claire showed no sign of relinquishing her claim, he grew restless, +mutinous, and she had all she could do to keep him in order. + +Gradually it began to dawn upon him that this very little person, kind +and companionable as she seemed, suffered under the delusion that he was +going to obey her--that, somehow, she was going to constrain him to obey +her. Of course, this was the sheerest nonsense. How could she make him +do anything he didn't want to do, since his mother had told her, in his +presence, that he was to be governed by love alone, and, fortunately, +her lack of superior size and strength forbade her _love_ from +expressing itself as, he shudderingly remembered, Martha's had done on +one occasion. No, plainly he had the advantage of Miss Lang, but until +she clearly understood it, there were apt to be annoyances. So, without +taking the trouble to make the punishment fit the crime, he casually +locked her in the sitting-room closet one morning. She had stepped +inside to hang up her hat and coat as usual, and it was quite easy, +swiftly, noiselessly, to close the door upon her, and turn the key. + +He paused a moment, choking back his nervous laughter, waiting to hear +her bang on the panel, and clamor to be let out. But when she made no +outcry, when, beyond one or two futile turnings of the knob, there was +no further attempt on her part to free herself, he stole upstairs to +the schoolroom, and made merry over his clever exploit. + +For a full minute after she found herself in darkness, Claire did not +realize she was a prisoner. The door had swung to after her, she +thought, that was all. But, when she turned the knob, and still it did +not open, she began to suspect the truth. Her first impulse was to call +out, but her better judgment told her it would be better to wait with +what dignity she might until Radcliffe tired of his trick, or some one +else came and released her. Radcliffe would tire the more quickly, she +reasoned, if she did not raise a disturbance. When he saw she was not to +be teased, he would come and let her out. She stood with her hot cheek +pressed against the cool wood of the closet-door, waiting for him to +come. And listening for his steps, she heard other steps--other steps +which approached, and entered the sitting-room. She heard the voices of +Mrs. Sherman and Mr. Ronald in earnest conversation. + +"If I thought such a thing were possible I'd send her away to-morrow," +Mrs. Sherman was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice. + +"Why such delay? Why not to-day?" inquired Mr. Ronald ironically. + +"But, of course," continued his sister, ignoring his interruption, "I +know there's nothing to be really afraid of." + +"Well, then, if you know there's nothing to be afraid of, what _are_ you +afraid of?" + +"I'm not really afraid. I'm just talking things over. You see, she's so +uncommonly pretty, and--men are men, and you're no exception." + +"I hope not. I don't want to be an exception." + +"Don't you think she's uncommonly pretty?" + +"No, I don't think I should call her--_pretty_," said Mr. Ronald with an +emphasis his sister might well have challenged, if she had not been so +preoccupied with her own thoughts that she missed its point. + +"Well, _I_ do. I think she's quite pretty enough to excuse, I mean, +_explain_ your having a passing fancy for her." + +"I haven't a passing fancy for her." + +"Well, I'm much relieved to hear you say so, for even if it were only a +passing fancy, I'd feel I ought to send her away. You never can tell how +such things will develop." + +"You certainly can't." + +"And you may rest assured mother and I don't want you to ruin your life +by throwing yourself away on a penniless, unknown little governess, when +you might have your choice from among the best-born, wealthiest girls +in town." + +"Miss Lang is as well-born as any one we know." + +"We have only her word for it." + +"No, her nurse, an old family servant, Martha Slawson, corroborates +her--if you require corroboration." + +"Don't you? Would you be satisfied to pick some one off the street, as +it were, and take her into your house and give her your innocent child +to train?" + +"My innocent children being so extremely vague, I am not concerning +myself as to their education. But I certainly accept Miss Lang's word, +and I accept Martha's." + +"You're easily satisfied. Positively, Frank, I believe you _have_ a +fancy for the girl, in spite of what you say. And for all our sakes, for +mother's and mine and yours and--yes--even hers, it will be best for me +to tell her to go." + +"I rather like the way you rank us. Mother and you first--then I come, +and last--_even_ the poor little girl!" + +"Well, you may laugh if you want to, but when a child like Radcliffe +notices that you're not indifferent to her, there must be some truth in +it. He confided to me last night, 'Uncle Frank likes Miss Lang a lot. I +guess she's his best girl! Isn't she his best girl?' I told him +_certainly not_. But I lay awake most of the night, worrying about it." + +Mr. Ronald had evidently had enough of the interview. Claire could hear +his firm steps, as he strode across the floor to the door. + +"I advise you to quit worrying, Catherine," he said. "It doesn't pay. +Moreover, I assure you I've no _passing fancy_ (I quote your words) for +Miss Lang. I hope you won't be so foolish as to dismiss her on my +account. She's an excellent teacher, a good disciplinarian. It would be +difficult to find another as capable as she, one who, at the same time, +would put up with Radcliffe's waywardness, and your--_our_--(I'll put it +picturesquely, after the manner of Martha) our indiosincrazies. Take my +advice. Don't part with Miss Lang. She's the right person in the right +place. Good-morning!" + +"Frank, Frank! Don't leave me like that. I know I've terribly annoyed +you. I can't bear to feel you're provoked with me, and yet I'm only +acting for your good. Please kiss me good-by. I'm going away. I won't +see you for two whole days. I'm going to Tuxedo this morning to stay +over night with Amy Pelham. There's a man she's terribly interested in, +and she wants me to meet him, and tell her what I think of him. He's +been attentive to her for ever so long, and yet he doesn't--his name is +Mr. Robert--" Her words frayed off in the distance, as she hurriedly +followed her brother out into the hall and downstairs. + +How long Claire stood huddled against the closet-door she never knew. +The first thing of which she was clearly conscious was the feel of a key +stealthily moved in the lock beneath her hand. Then the sounds of +footsteps lightly tiptoeing away. Mechanically she turned the knob, the +door yielded, and she staggered blindly out from the darkness into the +sunlit room. It was deserted. + +If Mrs. Sherman had been there, Claire would have given way at once, +letting her sense of outraged pride escape her in a torrent of tears, a +storm of indignant protest. Happily, there being no one to cry to, she +had time to gather herself together before going up to face Radcliffe. +When she entered the schoolroom, he pretended to be studiously busied +with his books, and so did not notice that she was rather a long time +closing the door after her, and that she also had business with the lock +of the door opposite. He really only looked up when she stationed +herself behind her desk, and summoned him to recite. + +"I do' want to!" announced Radcliffe resolutely. + +"Very well," said Claire, "then we'll sit here until you do." + +Radcliffe grinned. It seemed to him things were all going his way, this +clear, sunny morning. He began to whistle, in a breathy undertone. + +Claire made no protest. She simply sat and waited. + +Radcliffe took up his pencil, and began scrawling pictures over both +sides of his slate, exulting in the squeaking sounds he produced. Still +_the teacher_ did not interfere. But when, tired of his scratching, he +concluded the time had arrived for his grand demonstration, his crowning +declaration of independence, he rose, carelessly shoved his books aside, +strode to the door, intending masterfully to leave the room, +and--discovered he was securely locked and bolted in. In a flash he was +across the room, tearing at the lock of the second door with frantic +fingers. That, too, had been made fast. He turned upon Claire like a +little fiend, his eyes flashing, his hands clenched. + +"You--you--you two-cent Willie!" he screamed. + +Claire pretended not to see or hear. In reality she was acutely +conscious of every move he made, for, small as he was, his pent-in rage +gave him a strength she might well fear to put to the test. It was the +tug of war. The question was, who would be conqueror? + +Through the short hours of the winter forenoon, hours that seemed as +interminable to Claire as they did to Radcliffe, the battle raged. There +was no sign of capitulation on either side. + +In the course of the morning, and during one of Radcliffe's fiercest +outbreaks, Claire took up the telephone instrument and quietly +instructed Shaw to bring no luncheon-trays to the schoolroom at +mid-day. + +"Two glasses of hot milk will be all we need," she said, whereupon +Radcliffe leaped upon her, trying to wrest the transmitter from her +hand, beating her with his hard little fists. + +"I won't drink milk! I won't! I won't!" he shouted madly. "An' I'll +_kill_ you, if you won't let me have my lunch, you--you--you +_mizzer'ble_ two-cent Willie!" + +As the day drew on, his white face grew flushed, her fevered one white, +and both were haggard and lined from the struggle. Then, at about three +o'clock, Mr. Ronald telephoned up to say he wished Radcliffe to go for a +drive with him. + +Claire replied it was impossible. + +"Why?" came back to her over the wire. + +"Because he needs punishment, and I am going to see that he gets it." + +"And if I interfere?" + +"I resign at once. Even as it is--" + +"Do you think you are strong enough--strong enough _physically_, to +fight to the finish?" + +"I am strong enough for anything." + +"I believe you. But if you should find him one too many for you, I shall +be close at hand, and at a word from you I will come to the rescue." + +"No fear of my needing help. Good-by!" + +She hung up the receiver with a click of finality. + +Outside, the sky grew gray and threatening. Inside, the evening shadows +began to gather. First they thickened in the corners of the room; then +spread and spread until the whole place turned vague and dusky. + +The first violence of his rage was spent, but Radcliffe, sullen and +unconquered still, kept up the conflict in silent rebellion. He had not +drunk his milk, so neither had Claire hers. The two glasses stood +untouched upon her desk, where she had placed them at noon. It was so +still in the room Claire would have thought the boy had fallen asleep, +worn out with his struggles, but for the quick, catching breaths that, +like soundless sobs, escaped him every now and then. It had been dark a +long, long time when, suddenly, a shaft of light from a just lit window +opposite, struck over across to them, reflecting into the shadow, and +making visible Radcliffe's little figure cowering back in the shelter +of a huge leather armchair. He looked so pitifully small and appealing, +that Claire longed to gather him up in her arms, but she forebore and +sat still and waited. + +Then, at last, just as the clock of a nearby church most solemnly boomed +forth eight reverberating strokes, a chastened little figure slid out of +the great chair, and groped its way slowly, painfully along until it +reached Claire's side. + +"I will--be--good!" Radcliffe whispered chokingly, so low she had to +bend her head to hear. + +Claire laid her arms about him and he clung to her neck, trembling. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It was almost ten o'clock when Claire left the house. She waited to see +Radcliffe properly fed, and put to bed, before she went. She covered him +up, and tucked him in as, in all his life, he had never been covered up, +and tucked in, before. Then, dinnerless and faint, she slipped out into +the bleak night. + +She was too exhausted to feel triumphant over her conquest. The only +sensations she realized were a dead weariness that hung on her spirit +and body like a palpable weight, and, far down in her heart, something +that smouldered and burned like a live ember, ready to burst forth and +blaze at a touch. + +She had walked but a block or two when, through her numbness, crept a +dim little shadow of dread. At first it was nothing more than an inner +suggestion to hasten her steps, but gradually it became a conscious +impulse to outstrip something or some one behind her--some one or +something whose footfalls, resounding faintly through the deserted +street, kept such accurate pace with her own, that they sounded like +their echo. + +It was not until she had quickened her steps, and found that the +other's steps had quickened, too, not until she had slowed down to +almost a saunter, only to discover that the one behind was lagging also, +that she acknowledged to herself she was being followed. + +Then, from out the far reaches of her memory, came the words of Aunt +Amelia's formula: "Sir, you are no gentleman. If you were a gentleman--" +But straightway followed Martha's trenchant criticism. + +"Believe _me_, that's rot! It might go all right on the stage, for a +girl to stop, an' let off some elercution while the villain still +pursued her, but here in New York City it wouldn't work. Not on your +life it wouldn't. Villains ain't pausin' these busy days, in their mad +careers, for no recitation-stunts, I don't care how genteel you get 'em +off. If they're on the job, you got to step lively, an' not linger +'round for no sweet farewells. Now, you got your little temper with you, +all right, all right! If you also got a umbrella, why, just you make a +_com_bine o' the two an'--aim for the bull's eye, though his nose will +do just as good, specially if it's the bleedin' v'riety. No! P'licemen +ain't what I'd reckmend, for bein' called to the resquer. In the first +place, they ain't ap' to be there. An', besides, they wouldn't know what +to do if they was. P'licemen is funny that way. + +"They mean well, but they get upset if anythin' 's doin' on their beat. +They like things quiet. An' they don't like to _run in_ their friends, +an' so, by the time you think you made 'em understand what you're +drivin' at, _the villain_ has got away, an' you're like to be hauled up +before the magistrate for disturbin' the peace, which, bein' so shy an' +bashful before high officials, p'licemen don't like to blow in at court +without somethin' to show for the way they been workin'." + +It all flashed across Claire's mind in an instant, like a picture thrown +across a screen. Then, without pausing to consider what she meant to do, +she halted, turned, and--was face to face with Francis Ronald. + +Before he could speak, she flashed upon him two angry eyes. + +"What do you mean by following me?" + +"It is late--too late for you to be out in the streets alone," he +answered quietly. + +Claire laughed. "You forget I'm not a society girl. I'm a girl who works +for her living. I can't carry a chaperon about with me wherever I go. I +must take care of myself, and--I know how to do it. I'm not afraid." + +"I believe you." + +"Then--good-night!" + +"I intend to see you home." + +"I don't need you." + +"Nevertheless, I intend to see you home." + +"I don't--_want_ you." + +"Notwithstanding which--" + +He hailed a passing motor-taxi, gave the chauffeur Martha's street and +number, after he had succeeded in extracting them from Claire, and then, +in spite of protests, helped her in. + +For a long time she sat beside him in silence, trying to quell in +herself a weak inclination to shed tears, because--because he had +compelled her to do something against her will. + +He did not attempt any conversation, and when, at last, she spoke, it +was of her own accord. + +"I've decided to resign my position." + +"Is it permitted me to know why?" + +"I can't stay." + +"That is no explanation." + +"I don't feel I can manage Radcliffe." + +"Pardon me, you know you can. You have proved it. He is your bond-slave, +from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer." + +Claire laughed, a sharp, cutting little laugh that was like a keen knife +turned on herself. + +"O, it would have to be for poorer--'all right, all right,' as Martha +says," she cried scornfully. "But it has been too hard--to-day. I can't +endure any more." + +"You won't have to. Radcliffe is conquered, so far as you are concerned. +'Twill be plain sailing, after this." + +"I'd rather do something else. I'd like something different." + +"I did not think you were a quitter." + +"I'm not." + +"O, yes, you are, if you give up before the game is done. No good sport +does that." + +"I've no ambition to be a good sport." + +"Perhaps not. But you _are_ a good sport. A thorough good sport. _And +you won't give up till you've seen this thing through_." + +"Is that a prediction, or a--command? It sounds like a command." + +"It is whatever will hold you to the business you've undertaken. I want +you to conquer the rest, as you've conquered Radcliffe." + +"The rest?" + +"Yes." + +"What do you mean by the rest?" + +"I mean circumstances. I mean obstacles. I mean, my mother--my sister." + +"I don't--understand." + +"Perhaps not." + +"And suppose (forgive me if I seem rude), suppose I don't consider _the +rest_ worth conquering? Why should I? What one has to strive so for--" + +"Is worth the most. One has to strive for everything in this world, +everything that is really worth while. One has to strive to get it, one +has to strive to keep it." + +"Well, I don't think I care very much to-night, if I never get anything +ever again in all my life to come." + +"Poor little tired girl!" + +Claire's chin went up with a jerk. "I don't need your pity, I won't have +it. I am a stranger to you and to your friends. I am--" The defiant chin +began to quiver. + +"If you were not so tired," Francis Ronald said gravely, "I'd have this +thing out with you, here and now. I'd _make_ you tell me why you so +wilfully misunderstand. Why you seem to take pleasure in saying things +that are meant to hurt me, and must hurt you. As it is--" + +Claire turned on him impetuously. "I don't ask you to make allowances +for me. If I do what displeases you, I give you perfect liberty to find +fault. I'm not too tired to listen. But as to your _making_ me do or say +anything I don't choose, why--" + +He shook his head. "I'm afraid you are a hopeless proposition, at least +for the present. Perhaps, some time I may be able to make you +understand--Forgive me! I should say, perhaps, some time you may be +willing to understand." + +Their chauffeur drew up beside the curbstone in front of Martha's door, +then sprang down from his seat to prove to his lordly-looking "fare" +that he knew his business, and was deserving of as large a tip as a +correct estimate of his merit might suggest. + +Francis Ronald took Claire's key from her, fitted it into the lock of +the outer door, and opened it for her. + +"And you will stand by Radcliffe? You won't desert him?" he asked, as +she was about to pass into the house. + +"I'll show you that, at least, I'm not a quitter, even if I _am_ a +hopeless proposition, as you say." + +A faint shadow of a smile flitted across his face as, with head held +proudly erect, she turned and left him. + +"No, you're not a quitter," he muttered to himself, "but--neither am I!" + +The determined set of his jaw would have rekindled that inner rebellious +fire in Claire, if she had seen it. But she was seeing nothing just at +that moment, save Martha, who, to her amazement, stood ready to receive +her in the inner hall. + +"Ain't it just grand?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "They told me yesterday, +'all things bein' equal,' they'd maybe leave us back soon, but I didn't +put no stock in it, knowin' they never _is_ equal. So I just held me +tongue an' waited, an' this mornin', like a bolster outer a blue sky, +come the word that at noon we could go. Believe _me_, I didn't wait for +no old shoes or rice to be threw after me. I got into their old +amberlance-carriage, as happy as a blushin' bride bein' led to the +halter, an' Francie an' me come away reji'cin'. Say, but what ails +_you?_ You look sorter--sorter like a--strained relation or somethin'. +What you been doin' to yourself to get so white an' holler-eyed? What +kep' you so late?" + +"I had a tussle with Radcliffe." + +"Who won out?" + +"I did, but it took me all day." + +"Never mind. It'd been cheap at the price, if it had 'a' took you all +week. How come the madam to give you a free hand?" + +"She was away." + +"Anybody else know what was goin' on? Any of the fam'ly?" + +"Yes, Mr. Ronald. He brought me home. I didn't want him to, but he did. +He just _made_ me let him, and--O, Martha--I can't bear--I can't bear--" + +"You mean you can't bear _him?"_ + +Claire nodded, choking back her tears. + +"Now, what do you think o' that!" ejaculated Mrs. Slawson pensively. +"An' he so _pop'lar_ with the ladies! Why, you'd oughter hear them +stylish lady-friends o' Mrs. Sherman praisin' 'm to her face. It'd make +you blush for their modesty, which they don't seem to have none, an' +that's a fac'. You can take it from me, you're the only one he ever come +in contract with, has such a hate on'm. I wouldn't 'a' believed it, +unless I'd 'a' had it from off of your own lips. But there's no use +tryin' to argue such things. Taste is different. What pleases one, +pizens another. In the mean time--an' it _is_ a mean time for you, you +poor, wore-out child--I've some things here, hot an' tasty, that'll +encourage your stummick, no matter how it's turned on some other things. +As I says to Sammy, it's a poor stummick won't warm its own bit, but all +the same, there's times when somethin' steamin' does your heart as much +good as it does your stummick, which, the two o' them bein' such near +neighbors, no wonder we get 'em mixed up sometimes, an' think the one is +starved when it's only the other." + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +It proved altogether easier for Martha, now Francie was at home again. + +"You see, I can tend her an' sandwich in some work besides," Mrs. +Slawson explained cheerfully. "An' Ma's a whizz at settin' by bedsides +helpin' patients get up their appetites. Says she, 'Now drink this nice +glass o' egg-nog, Francie, me child,' she says. 'An' if you'll drink it, +I'll take one just like it meself.' An' true for you, she does. The +goodness o' Ma is astonishin'." + +Then one day Sam Slawson came home with a tragic face. + +"I've lost my job, Martha!" he stated baldly. + +For a moment his wife stood silent under the blow, and all it entailed. +Then, with an almost imperceptible squaring of her broad shoulders, she +braced herself to meet it, as she herself would say, like a soldier. +"Well, it's kinder hard on _you_, lad," she answered. "But there's no +use grievin'. If it had to happen, it couldn't 'a' happened at a better +time, for you bein' home, an' able to look after Francie, will give me a +chance to go out reg'lar to my work again. An' before you know it, +Francie, she'll be running about as good as new, an' you'll have +another job, an' we'll be on the top o' the wave. Here's Miss Claire, +bless her, payin' me seven dollars a week board, which she doesn't eat +no more than a bird, an' Sammy singin' in the surplus choir, an' gettin' +fifty cents a week for it, an' extra for funer'ls (it'd take your time +to hear'm lamentin' because business ain't brisker in the funer'l +line!). Why, _we_ ain't no call to be discouraged. You can take it from +me, Sammy Slawson, when things seem to be kinder shuttin' down on ye, +an' gettin' black-like, same's they lately been doin' on us, that ain't +no time to be chicken-hearted. Anybody could fall down when they're +knocked. That's too dead-easy! No, what we want, is buck up an' have +some style about us. When things shuts down an' gets dark at the +movin'-picture show, then it's time to sit up an' take notice. That +means somethin's doin'--you're goin' to be showed somethin' interestin'. +Well, it's the same with us. But if you lose your sand at the first +go-off, an' sag down an' hide your face in your hands, well, you'll miss +the show. You won't see a bloomin' thing." + +And Martha, sleeves rolled up, enveloped in an enormous blue-checked +apron, returned to her assault on the dough she was kneading, with +redoubled zeal. + +"Bread, mother?" asked Sam dully, letting himself down wearily into a +chair by the drop-table, staring indifferently before him out of blank +eyes. + +"Shoor! An' I put some currants in, to please the little fella. I give +in, my bread is what you might call a holy terror. Ain't it the caution +how I can't ever make bread fit to be eat, the best I can do? An' yet, I +can't quit tryin'. You see, home-made bread, _if it's good_, is cheaper +than store. Perhaps some day I'll be hittin' it right, so's when you ask +me for bread I won't be givin' you a stone." + +She broke off abruptly, gazed a moment at her husband, then stepped to +his side, and put a floury hand on his shoulder. "Say, Sam, what you +lookin' so for? You ain't lost your sand just because they fired you? +What's come to you, lad? Tell Martha." + +For a second there was no sound in the room, then the man looked up, +gulped, choked down a mighty sob, and laid his head against her breast. + +"Martha--there's somethin' wrong with my lung. That's why they thrown me +down. They had their doctor from the main office examine me--they'd +noticed me coughin'--and he said I'd a spot on my lung or--something. I +shouldn't stay here in the city, he said. I must go up in the mountains, +away from this, where there's the good air and a chance for my lung to +heal, otherwise--" + +Martha stroked the damp hair away from his temples with her powdery +hand. + +"Well, well!" she said reflectively. "Now, what do you think o' that!" + +"O, Martha--I can't stand it! You an' the children! It's more than I can +bear!" + +Mrs. Slawson gave the head against her breast a final pat that, to +another than her husband, might have felt like a blow. + +"More'n you can bear? Don't flatter yourself, Sammy my lad! Not by no +means it ain't. I wouldn't like to have to stand up to all I could +ackchelly bear. It's God, not us, knows how much we can stand, an' when +He gets in the good licks on us, He always leaves us with a little +stren'th to spare--to last over for the next time. Now, I'm not a bit +broke down by what you've told me. I s'pose you thought you'd have me +sobbin' on your shoulder--to give you a chanct to play up, an' do the +strong-husband act, comfortin' his little tremblin' wife. Well, my lad, +if you ain't got on to it by now, that I'm no little, tremblin' wife, +you never will. Those kind has nerves. I only got nerve. That's where +I'm _singular_, see? A joke, Sammy! I made it up myself. Out of my own +head, just now. But to go back to what I was sayin'--why should I sob on +your shoulder? There ain't no reason for't. In the first place, even if +you _have_ got a spot on your lung, what's a spot! It ain't the whole +lung! An' _one_ lung ain't _both_ lungs, an' there you are! As I make it +out, even grantin' the worst, you're a lung-an'-then-some to the good, +so where's the use gettin' blue? There's always a way out, somehow. If +we can't do one way, we'll do another. Now you just cheer up, an' don't +let Ma an' the childern see you kinder got a knock-outer in the solar +plexus, like Jeffries, an' before you know it, there'll be a suddent +turn, an' we'll be atop o' our worries, 'stead o' their bein' atop o' +us. See! Say, just you cast your eye on them loaves! Ain't they grand? +Appearances may be deceitful, but if I do say it as shouldn't, my bread +certainly looks elegant this time. Now, Sammy, get busy like a good +fella! Go in an' amuse Francie. The poor child is perishin' for +somethin' to distrack her. What with Cora an' Sammy at school, an' Miss +Claire havin' the Shermans so bewitched, they keep her there all day, +an' lucky for us if they leave her come home nights at all, the house is +too still for a sick person. Give Francie a drink o' Hygee water to cool +her lips, an' tell her a yarn-like. An', Sammy, I wisht you'd be good to +yourself, an' have a shave. Them prickles o' beard reminds me o' the +insides o' Mrs. Sherman's big music-box. I wonder what tune you'd play +if I run your chin in. Go on, now, an' attend to Francie, like I told +you to. She needs to have her mind took off'n herself." + +When he was gone, Martha set her loaves aside under cover to rise, never +pausing a moment to take breath, before giving the kitchen a +"scrub-down" that left no corner or cranny harboring a particle of dust. +It was twilight when she finished, and "time to turn to an' get the +dinner." + +Cora and Sammy had long since returned from school. Sammy had gone out +again to play, and had just come back to find his mother taking her +bread-pans from the oven. She regarded them with doleful gaze. + +"I fairly broke my own record this time for a bum bread-maker!" she +muttered beneath her breath. "This batch is the worst yet." + +"Say--mother!" said Sammy. + +"Well?" + +"Say, mother, may I have a slice of bread? I'm awfully hungry." + +"Shoor you may! This here's just fresh from the oven, an' it has +currants in it." + +"Say, mother, a feller I play with, Joe Eagan, _his_ mother's hands +ain't clean. Would you think he'd like to eat the bread she makes?" + +"Can she make _good_ bread?" + +"I dunno. She give me a piece oncet, but I couldn't eat it, 'count o' +seein' her fingers. I'm glad your hands are so clean, mother. Say, this +bread tastes awful good!" + +Martha chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you like it. It might be worse, if I do +say it! Only," she added to herself, "it'd have a tough time managin' +it." + +"Say, mother, may I have another slice with butter on, an' sugar +sprinkled on top, like this is, to give it to Joe Eagan? He's +downstairs. I want to show him how _my_ mother can make the boss bread!" + +"Certainly," said Martha heartily. "By all means, give Joe Eagan a +slice. I like to see you thoughtful an' generous, my son. Willin' to +share your good things with your friends," and as Sammy bounded out, +clutching his treasures, she winked solemnly across at her husband, who +had just re-entered. + +"Now do you know what'll happen?" she inquired. "Sammy'll always have +the notion I make the best bread ever. An' when he grows up an' marries, +if his wife is a chef-cook straight out of the toniest kitchen in town, +at fifty dollars a month, he'll tell her she ain't a patch on me. An' +he'll say to her: 'Susan, or whatever-her-name-is, them biscuits is all +right in their way, but I wisht I had a mouthful o' bread like mother +used to make.' An' the poor creature'll wear the life out o' her, tryin' +to please'm, an' reach my top-notch, an' never succeed, an' all the +time--Say, Sammy, gather up the rest o' the stuff, like a good fella, +an' shove it onto the dumb-waiter, so's it can go down with the +sw--There's the whistle now! That's him callin' for the garbage." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +"Hullo, Martha!" said Radcliffe. + +Mrs. Slawson bowed profoundly. "Hullo yourself! I ain't had the pleasure +of meetin' you for quite some time past, an' yet I notice my absents +ain't made no serious alteration for the worst in your appearance. You +ain't fell away none, on account of my not bein' here." + +"Fell away from what?" asked Radcliffe. + +"Fell away from nothin'. That's what they call a figger o' speech. Means +you ain't got thin." + +"Well, _you've_ got thin, haven't you, Martha? I don't 'member your +cheeks had those two long lines in 'em before." + +"Lines?" repeated Martha, regarding herself in the mirror of an étagère +she was polishing. "Them ain't _lines_. Them's dimples." + +Radcliffe scrutinized her critically for a moment. "They're not like +Miss Lang's dimples," he observed at last. "Miss Lang's dimples look +like when you blow in your milk to cool it--they're there, an' then they +ain't there. She vanishes 'em in, an' she vanishes 'em out, but those +lines in your face, they just stay. Only they weren't there before, +when you were here." + +"The secret is, my dimples is the kind that takes longer to vanish 'em +out when you once vanished 'em in. Mine's way-train dimples. Miss Lang's +is express. But you can take it from me, dimples is faskinatin', +whatever specie they are." + +"What's _faskinatin'?"_ + +"It's the thing in some things that, when it ain't in other things, you +don't care a thing about 'em." + +"Are _you_ faskinatin'?" + +"That's not for me to say," said Martha, feigning coyness. "But this +much I will confess, that some folks which shall be nameless, considers +me so. An' they'd oughter know." + +"Is Miss Lang faskinatin'?" + +"Ask your Uncle Frank." + +"Why must I ask him?" + +"If you wanter know." + +"Does he know?" + +"Prob'ly. He's a very well-informed gen'l-man on most subjecks." + +"I do' want to ask my Uncle Frank anything about Miss Lang. Once I asked +him somethin' about her, an' he didn't like it." + +"What'd you ask him?" + +"I asked him if she wasn't his best girl." + +"What'd he say?" + +"He said 'No!' quick, just like that--'No!' I guess he was cross with +me, an' I know he didn't like it. When I asked my mother why he didn't +like it, she said because Miss Lang's only my governess. An' when I told +Miss Lang what my mother, she told me, Miss Lang, she didn't like it +either." + +"Now, what do you think o' that?" ejaculated Martha. "Nobody didn't seem +to like nothin' in that combination, did they? You was the only one in +the whole outfit that showed any tack." + +"What means that--_tack?"_ + +"It's a little thing that you use when you want to keep things in +place--keep 'em from fallin' down. There's two kinds. One you must +hammer in, an' the other you mustn't." + +"I wisht Miss Lang _was_ my Uncle Frank's best girl. But I guess she's +somebody else's." + +"Eh?" said Martha sharply, sitting back on her heels and twisting her +polishing-cloth into a rope, as if she were wringing it out. "Now, whose +best girl do you think she is, if I may make so bold?" + +Radcliffe settled down to business. + +"Yesterday Miss Lang an' me was comin' home from the Tippydrome, an' my +mother she had comp'ny in the drawin'-room. An' I didn't know there was +comp'ny first-off, coz Shaw he didn't tell us, an' I guess I talked +kinder loud in the hall, an' my mother she heard me, an' she wasn't +cross or anythin', she just called to me to come along in, an' see the +comp'ny. An' I said, 'No, I won't! Not less Miss Lang comes too.' An' my +mother, she said, 'Miss Lang, come too.' An' Miss Lang, she didn't +wanter, but she hadter. An' the comp'ny was a gen'l'man an' a lady, an' +the minit the gen'l'man, he saw Miss Lang, he jumped up outer his chair +like a jumpin'-jack, an' his eyes got all kinder sparkly, an' he held +out both of his hands to her, an' sorter shook her hands, till you'd +think he'd shake 'em off. An' my mother, she said, 'I see you an' Miss +Lang are already 'quainted, Mr. Van Brandt.' An' he laughed a lot, the +way you do when you're just tickled to death, an' he said, ''Quainted? +Well, I should say so! Miss Lang an' I are old, old friends!' An' he +kep' lookin' at her, an' lookin' at her, the way you feel when there's +somethin' on the table you like, an' you're fearful 'fraid it will be +gone before it's passed to you. An' my mother she said to the other +comp'ny, 'Miss Pelham, this is Radcliffe.' An' Miss Pelham, she was +lookin' sideways at Miss Lang an' Mr. What's-his-name, but she pertended +she was lookin' at me, an' she said (she's a Smarty-Smarty-gave-a-party, +Miss Pelham is), she said, 'Radcliffe, Radcliffe? I wonder if you're +any relation to Radcliffe College?' An' I said, 'No. I wonder if you are +any relation to Pelham Manor?' An' while they was laughin', an' my +mother she was tellin' how percoshus I am, my Uncle Frank he came in. He +came in kinder quiet, like he always does, an' he stood in the door, an' +Mr. What's-his-name was talkin' to Miss Lang so fast, an' lookin' at her +so hard, they didn't neither of 'em notice. An' when my Uncle Frank, he +noticed they didn't notice, coz they was havin' such fun by themselves, +he put his mouth together like this--like when your tooth hurts, an' you +bite on it to make it hurt some more, an' then he talked a lot to Miss +Pelham, an' didn't smile pleasant an' happy at Mr. What's-his-name an' +Miss Lang, when my mother, she interdooced 'em. An' soon Miss Lang, she +took me upstairs an' she didn't look near so tickled to death as Mr. Van +Brandt, he looked. An' when I asked her if she wasn't, she said: 'O' +course I am. Mr. Van Brandt was a friend o' mine when I was a little +girl. An' when you're a stranger in a strange land, anybody you knew +when you was at home seems dear to you.' But she didn't look near so +pleased as he did. She looked more like my Uncle Frank, he did before he +got talkin' so much to Miss Pelham. An' now I guess the way of it is, +Miss Pelham's my Uncle Frank's best girl an' Miss Lang's Mr. +What's-his-name's." + +"Well, now! Who'd believed you could 'a' seen so much? Why, you're a +reg'ler Old Sleuth the Detective, or Sherlock Holmes, or somebody like +that, for discoverin' things, ain't you?" + +"I don't want Miss Pelham to be my Uncle Frank's best girl, an' I don't +see why that other man he don't have her for his, like she was +first-off, an' leave my Miss Lang alone." + +"It all is certainly very dark an' mysterious," said Mrs. Slawson, +shaking her head. "You don't know where you're at, at all. Like when you +wake up in the black night, an' hear the clock give one strike. You +couldn't tell, if your life hung in the ballast, if it's half-past +twelve, or one, or half-past." + +Radcliffe pondered this for a space, but was evidently unable to fathom +its depth, for presently he let it go with a sigh, and swung off to +another topic. + +"Say, do you know our cook, 'Liza--the one we uster have--has gone +away?" + +"So I gathered from not havin' saw her fairy-figger hoverin' round the +kitchen as I come in, an' meetin' another lady in her place--name of +Augusta, Beetrice said." + +"Yes, sir! Augusta's the new one. I guess Augusta don't drink." + +"Which, you are suggesting 'Liza does?" + +"Well, my mother, she don't know I know, but I do. I heard Shaw tellin' +'bout it. It was 'Liza's day out, an' she went an' got 'toxicated, an' a +p'liceman he took her up, an' nex' mornin' my Uncle Frank, they sent to +him out of the station-house to have him _bail her out_." + +"My, my! She was as full as that?" + +"What's bail her out?" inquired Radcliffe. + +Mrs. Slawson considered. "When a boat gets full of water, because o' +leakin' sides or heavy rains or shippin' seas, or whatever they calls +it, you bail her out with a tin can or a sponge or anythin' you have by +you." + +"Was Liza full of water?" + +"I was describin' _boats_," said Martha. "An' talkin' o' boats, did I +tell you we got a new kitten to our house? He's a gray Maltee. His name +is Nixcomeraus." + +"Why is his name Nix--why is his name _that_?" + +"Nixcomeraus? His name's Nixcomeraus because he's from the Dutchman's +house. If you listen good, you'll see that's poetry-- + +"'Nixcomeraus from the Dutchman's house!' + +"I didn't make it up, but it's poetry all the same. A Dutchman gen'l'man +who lives nex' door to me, made him a present to our fam'ly." + +"Do you like him?" + +"The Dutchman gen'l'man?" + +"No, the--the Nix--the _cat_?" + +"Certaintly we like him. He's a decent, self-respectin' little fella +that 'tends to his own business, an' keeps good hours. An' you'd oughter +see how grand him an' Flicker gets along! Talk o' a cat-and-dog +existence! Why, if all the married parties I know, not to speak o' some +others that ain't, hit it off as good as Flicker an' Nixcomeraus, there +wouldn't be no occasion for so many ladies takin' the rest-cure at +Reno." + +"What's Reno?" + +"Reno? Why, Reno's short for merino. Like I'd say, Nix for Nixcomeraus, +which is a kinder woolen goods you make dresses out of. There! Did you +hear the schoolroom bell? I thought I heard it ringin' a while ago, but +I wasn't sure. Hurry now, an' don't keep Miss Lang waitin'. She wants +you to come straight along up, so's she can learn you to be a big an' +handsome gen'l'man like your Uncle Frank." + +When Radcliffe had left her, Martha went over in her mind the items he +had guilelessly contributed to her general fund of information. Take it +all in all, she was not displeased with what they seemed to indicate. + +"Confidence is a good thing to have, but a little wholesome doubt don't +hurt the masculine gender none. I guess, if I was put to it, I could +count on one hand with no fingers, the number o' gen'l'men, no matter +how plain, have died because 'way down in their hearts they believed +they wasn't reel _A-1 Winners._ That's one thing it takes a lot o' hard +usage to convince the sect of. They may feel they ain't gettin' their +doos, that they're misunderstood, an' bein' sold below cost. But that +they're ackchelly shopworn, or what's called 'seconds,' or put on the +_As Is_ counter because they're cracked, or broke, or otherwise slightly +disfigured, but still in the ring--why, _that_ never seems to percolate +through their brains, like those coffee-pots they use nowadays, that +don't make no better coffee than the old kind, if you know how to do it +good, in the first place. + +"On the other hand, ladies is dretful tryin'! They act like they're the +discoverers of perpetchal emotion, an' is _on the job_ demonstratin'. +You can't count on 'em for one minit to the next, which they certaintly +was never born to be aromatic cash-registers. An' p'raps that's the +reason, bein' natchelly so poor at figgers, they got to rely to such a +extent on corsets. I'm all for women myself. I believe they're the +comin' man, but I must confess, if I'm to speak the truth, it ain't for +the simple, uninfected, childlike mind o' the male persuasion to foller +their figaries, unless he's some of a trained acrobat. + +"Now, the harsh way Miss Claire has toward Mr. Ronald! You'd think he +had give himself dead away to her, an' was down on his knee-pans humble +as a 'Piscerpalian sayin' the Literny in Lent, grubbin' about among the +dust she treads on, to touch the hem o' her garment. Whereas, in some +way unbeknownst to me, an' prob'ly unbeknownst to him, he's touched her +pride, which is why she's so up in arms, not meanin' his--worse luck! +An' it would have all worked out right in the end, an' will yet, _if_ +this new party that Radcliffe mentioned ain't Mr. Buttinsky, an' she +don't foller the dictates of her _art_ an' flirt with him too +outrageous, or else marry him to spite herself, which is what I mean to +pervent if I can, but which, of course, it may be I can't." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +"Frank," said Mrs. Sherman one Sunday morning, some weeks later, +stopping her brother on his way to the door, "can you spare me a few +moments? I've something very important I want to discuss with you. I +want you to help me with suggestions and advice in a matter that very +closely concerns some one in whom I'm greatly interested." + +Mr. Ronald paused. "Meaning?" he suggested. + +"I don't know that I ought to tell you. You see, it's--it's +confidential." + +"Suggestions and advice are foolish things to give, Catherine. They are +seldom taken, never thanked for." + +"Well, in this case mine have been actually solicited. And I feel I +ought to do something, because, in a way, I'm more or less responsible +for the--the imbroglio." + +Slipping her hand through his arm, she led him back into the library. + +"You see, it's this way. Perhaps, after all, it will be better, simpler, +if I don't try to beat about the bush. Amy Pelham has been terribly +devoted to Mr. Van Brandt for ever so long--oh, quite six months. And +he has been rather attentive, though I can't say he struck me as very +much in love. You know she asked me out to Tuxedo not long ago. She +wanted me to watch him and tell her if I thought he was _serious._ Well, +I watched him, but I couldn't say I thought he was _serious._ However, +you never can tell. Men are so extraordinary! They sometimes masquerade +so, their own mothers wouldn't know them." + +"Or their sisters." + +"What did you say?" + +"Nothing worth repeating. Go on with your story." + +"Well, then, one evening she brought him here, you remember. I'd asked +him to come, when I was in Tuxedo, and he evidently wanted to do so, for +he proposed to Amy that she bring him. Of course, I'd no idea he and +Miss Lang had ever met before, and when I innocently ordered her in, I +did it simply because Radcliffe was refractory and refused to come +without her, and I couldn't have a scene before guests." + +"Well?" + +"I didn't know Mr. Van Brandt came from Grand Rapids. How should I? One +never thinks of those little, provincial towns as having any _society_." + +"You dear insular, insolent New Yorker." + +"Well, you may jeer as much as you like, but that's the way one feels. I +didn't know that, as Martha says, he was 'formerly born' in Michigan. I +just took him for granted, as one does people one meets in our best +houses. He's evidently of good stock, he has money (not a fortune, +perhaps, but enough), he's handsome, and he's seen everywhere with the +smartest people in town." + +"Well?" + +"Well, naturally Amy doesn't want to lose him, especially as she's +really awfully fond of him and he _is_ uncommonly attractive, you know." + +"Well?" + +"It looks as if that one glimpse of Miss Lang had been enough to upset +everything for Amy. He's hardly been there since." + +"And what does she propose to do about it?" + +"She doesn't know what to do about it. That's where my suggestions and +advice are to come in." + +"I see." + +"Of course, we can't be certain, but from what Bob Van Brandt has +dropped and from what Amy has been able to gather from other sources, +from people who knew Miss Lang and him in their native burg, he was +attached to her when she was no more than a kiddie. Then, when they grew +up, he came East and she went abroad, and they lost sight of each +other. But, as I say, that one glimpse of her was enough to ignite the +old flame. You must have seen yourself how frankly, openly he showed his +feeling that night." + +"Well?" + +"What is one to do about it?" + +"Do about what?" + +"Why--the whole thing! Don't you see, I'm responsible in a way. If I +hadn't called Miss Lang in, Bob Van Brandt wouldn't have known she was +here, and then he would have kept on with Amy. Now he's dropped her it's +up to me to make it up to her somehow." + +"It's up to you to make _what_ up to Amy?" + +"How dense you are! Why, the loss of Bob Van Brandt." + +"But if she didn't have him, how could she lose him?" + +"She didn't exactly have him, but she had a fighting chance." + +"And she wants to fight?" + +"I think she'd be willing to fight, if she saw her way to winning out." + +"Winning out against Miss Lang?" + +"Yes, if you want to put it so brutally." + +"I see you are assuming that Miss Lang is keen about Van Brandt." + +"Would you wonder if she were? It would be her salvation. Of course, I +don't feel about her any longer as I did once. I know _now_ she's a +lady, but the fact of her poverty remains. If she married Bob Van +Brandt, she'd be comfortably settled. She'd have ease and position and, +oh, of course she'll marry him if he asks her." + +"So the whole thing resolves itself down to--" + +"To this--if one could only devise a way to prevent his asking her." + +"Am I mistaken, or did I hear you say something about putting it +brutally, a few moments ago." + +"Well, I know it sounds rather horrid, but a desperate case needs +desperate medicine." + +"Catherine, you have asked for suggestions and advice. My suggestion to +Miss Pelham is that she gracefully step down and out. My advice to you +is that you resist the temptation to meddle. If Mr. Van Brandt wishes to +ask Miss Lang to marry him, he has a man's right to do so. If Miss Lang +wishes to marry Mr. Van Brandt after he has asked her, she has a woman's +right to do so. Any interference whatsoever would be intolerable. You +can take my advice or leave it. But _if_ you leave it, if you attempt to +mix in, you will regret it, for you will not be honorably playing the +game." + +Mrs. Sherman's lips tightened. "That's all very well," she broke out +impatiently. "That's the sort of advice men always give to women, and +never act on themselves. It's not the masculine way to sit calmly by and +let another carry off what one wants. If a man _cares,_ he fights for +his rights. It's only when he isn't interested that he's passive and +speaks of _honorably playing the game_. All's fair in love and war! If +you were in Amy's place--if the cases were reversed--and you saw +something you'd set your heart on being deliberately taken away from +you, I fancy _you_ wouldn't gracefully step down and out. At least I +don't see you doing it, in my mind's eye, Horatio!" + +"Ah, but you miss the point! There's a great difference between claiming +one's own and struggling to get possession of something that is lawfully +another's. If I were in Miss Pelham's place, and were _sure_ the one I +loved belonged to me by divine right, I'd have her--I'd have her in +spite of the devil and all his works. But the thing would be to be +_sure_. And one couldn't be sure so long as another claimant hadn't had +his chance to be thrown down. When he'd had his chance, and the decks +were cleared--_then_--!" + +"Goodness, Frank! I'd no idea you could be so intense. And I'll confess +I've never given you credit for so much imagination. You've been talking +of what you'd do in Amy's place quite as if you actually felt it. Your +performance of the determined lover is really most convincing." + +Francis Ronald smiled. "A man who's succeeded in _convincing_ a woman +has not lived in vain," he said. "Well, I must be off, Catherine. Good +luck to you and to Miss Pelham--but bad luck if either of you dares +stick her mischievous finger in other people's pies." + +He strode out of the room and the house. + +Meanwhile, Martha, industriously engaged in brushing Miss Lang's hair, +was gradually, delicately feeling her way toward what was, in reality, +the same subject. + +"Well, of course, you can have Cora if you want her. She'll be only too +glad o' the ride, but _do_ you think--now do you _reelly_ think it's +advisable to lug a third party along when it's clear as dish-water he +wants you alone by himself an' _yourself_? It's this way with men. If +they set out to do a thing, they gener'ly do it. But believe _me_, if +you put impederments in their way, they'll shoor do it, an' then some. +Now all them flowers an' candy that's been comin' here lately so +reg'ler, they means business on Mr. Van Brandt's part _if_ pleasure on +yours. He's strewin' your path with roses an' pavin' it with Huyler's +chocolates, so's some day in the near future he can come marchin' along +it, an' walk straight up to the captain's office an' hand in his +applercation for the vacancy. Now, the question is as plain as the nose +on your face. Do you want him to do it first or do you want him to do it +last? It's up to you to decide the time, but you can betcher life it's +goin' to be some time, Cora or no Cora, _ohne oder mit_ as our Dutch +friend acrost the hall says." + +Claire's reflection in the mirror she sat facing, showed a pair of sadly +troubled eyes. + +"O, it's very puzzling, Martha," she said. "Somehow, life seems all +topsy-turvy to me lately. So many things going wrong, so few right." + +"Now what, if I may make so bold, is wrong with your gettin' a +first-class offer from a well-off, good-lookin' gen'l'man-friend, that's +been keepin' comp'ny with you, off an' on, as you might say, ever since +you was a child, which shows that his heart's in the right place an' his +intentions is honorable. You know, you mustn't let the percession get by +you. Life's like standin' on the curbstone watching the parade--at +least, that's how it seems to young folks. They hear the music an' they +see the banners an' the floats an' they think it's goin' to be a +continuous performance. After a while they've got so used to the band +a-playin' an' the flags a-wavin' that it gets to be an old story, an' +they think that's what it'll be right along, so they don't trouble to +keep their eye peeled for the fella with the water-can, which he asked +'em to watch out for him. No, they argue he's good enough in his way, +but--'_Think_ o' the fella with the drum!' Or even, it might be, who +knows?--the grand one with his mother's big black muff on his head, +doin' stunts with his grandfather's gold-topped club, his grandpa havin' +been a p'liceman with a pull in the ward. An' while they stand a-waitin' +for all the grandjer they're expectin', suddenly it all goes past, an' +they don't see nothin' but p'raps a milk-wagon bringin' up the rear, an' +the ashfalt all strewed with rag-tag-an'-bobtail, an' there's nothin' +doin' in their direction, except turn around an' go home. Now, what's +the matter with Mr. Van Brandt? If you marry him you'll be all to the +good. No worry about the rent, no pinchin' here an' plottin' there to +keep the bills down. No goin' out by the day, rain or shine, traipsin' +the street on your two feet when you're so dead tired you could lay down +an' let the rest walk over you. Why, lookin' at it from any +standpoint-of-view I can't see but it's a grand oppertoonity. An' you're +fond of him, ain't you?" + +"O, yes, I'm very fond of Mr. Van Brandt. But I'm fond of him as a +friend. I couldn't--couldn't--couldn't ever marry him." + +"What for you couldn't? It ain't as if you liked some other fella +better! If you liked some other fella better, no matter how little you +might think you'd ever get the refusal of'm, I'd say, _stick to the reel +article: don't be put of with substitoots_. It ain't no use tryin' to +fool your heart. You can monkey with your brain, an' make it believe all +sorts of tommyrot, but your heart is dead on to you, an' when it once +sets in hankerin' it means business." + +Claire nodded unseeingly to her own reflection in the glass. + +"Now _my_ idea is," Martha continued, "my idea is, if you got somethin' +loomin', why, don't hide your face an' play it isn't there. There ain't +no use standin' on the ragged edge till every tooth in your head +chatters with cold an' fright. You don't make nothin' _by_ it. If you +love a man like a friend or if you love a friend like a man, my advice +is, take your seat in the chair, grip a-holt o' the arms, brace your +feet, an'--let'er go, Gallagher! It'll be over in a minit, as the +dentists say." + +"But suppose you had something else on your heart. Something that had +nothing to do with--with that sort of thing?" Claire asked. + +"What sorter thing?" + +"Why--love. Suppose you'd done something unworthy of you. Suppose the +sense of having done it made you wretched, made you want to make others +wretched? What would you do--then?" + +"Now, my dear, don't you make no mistake. I ain't goin' to be drew into +no blindman's grab-bag little game, not on your sweet life. I ain'ter +goin' to risk havin' you hate me all the rest o' your nacherl life +becoz, to be obligin' an' also to show what a smart boy am I, I give a +verdick without all the everdence in. If you wanter tell me plain out +what's frettin' you, I'll do my best accordin' to my lights, but +otherwise--" + +"Well--" began Claire, and then followed, haltingly, stumblingly, the +story of her adventure in the closet. + +"At first I felt nothing but the wound to my pride, the sting of what +he--of what _they_ said," she concluded. "But, after a little, I began +to realize there was something else. I began to see what _I_ had done. +For, you know, I had deliberately listened. I needn't have listened. If +I had put my hands over my ears, if I had crouched back, away from the +door, and covered my head, I need not have overheard. But I pressed as +close as I could to the panel, and hardly breathed, because I wanted not +to miss a word. And I didn't miss a word. I heard what it was never +meant I should hear, and--I'm nothing but a common--_eavesdropper_!" + +"Now, what do you think of that?" observed Mrs. Slawson. "Now, what do +you think of that?" + +"I've tried once or twice to tell him--" continued Claire. + +"Tell who? Tell Mr. Van Brandt?" + +"No, Mr. Ronald." + +"O! You see, when you speak o' _he_ an' _him_ it might mean almost any +gen'l'man. But I'll try to remember you're always referrin' to Mr. +Ronald." + +"I've tried once or twice to tell him, for I can't bear to be +untruthful. But, then, I remember I'm 'only the governess'--'the right +person in the right place'--of so little account that--that he doesn't +even know whether I'm pretty or not! And the words choke in my throat. I +realize it wouldn't mean anything to him. He'd only probably gaze down +at me, or he'd be kind in that lofty way he has--and put me in my place, +as he did the first time I ever saw him. And so, I've never told him. I +couldn't. But sometimes I think if I did--if I just _made_ myself do it, +I could hold up my head again and not feel myself growing bitter and +sharp, because something is hurting me in my conscience." + +"That's it!" said Martha confidently. "It's your conscience. Believe +_me_, consciences is the dickens an' all for makin' a mess o' things, +when they get right down to business. Now, if I was you, I wouldn't +bother Mr. Ronald with my squalms o' conscience. Very prob'ly when it +comes to consciences he has troubles of his own--at least, if he ain't, +he's an exception an' a rare curiosity, an' Mr. Pierpont Morgan oughter +buy him for the Museum. When your conscience tells you you'd oughter +tell, ten to one you'd oughtn't. Give other folks a chance. What they +don't know can't worry 'em. Besides, your just _tellin_' a thing don't +let you out. You can't get clear so easy as that. It's up to you to work +it out, so what's wrong is made _right_, an' do it _yourself_--not trust +to nobody else. You can't square up by heavin' your load offn your own +shoulders onto another fella's. You think you feel light coz you done +your dooty, when ten to one you _done_ your friend. No! I wouldn't +advise turnin' state's everdence on yourself unless it was to save +another from the gallus. As it is, you can take it from me, the best +thing you can do for that--conscience o' yours, is get busy in another +direction. Dress yourself up as fetchin' as you can, go out motorin' +with your gen'l'man friend like he ast you to, let him get his perposal +offn his chest, an' then tell'm--you'll be a sister to'm." + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +Sam Slawson had gone to the Adirondacks in January, personally conducted +by Mr. Blennerhasset, Mr. Ronald's secretary, Mr. Ronald, in the most +unemotional and business-like manner, having assumed all the +responsibilities connected with the trip and Sam's stay at the +Sanatorium. + +It was Claire who told Mr. Ronald of the Slawsons' difficulty. How +Martha saw no way out, and still was struggling gallantly on, trying +single-handed to meet all obligations at home and, in addition, send her +husband away. + +"That's too much--even for Martha," he observed. + +"If I only knew how to get Sam to the mountains," Claire said in a sort +of desperation. + +"You have just paved the way." + +"How?" + +"You have told me." + +"You are going to help?" + +"Yes." + +"O, how beautiful!" + +"I am glad that, for once, I have the good fortune to please you." + +Claire's happy smile faded. She turned her face away, pretending to +busy herself with Radcliffe's books. + +"I see I have offended once more." + +She hesitated a moment, then faced him squarely. + +"There can be no question of your either pleasing or offending me, Mr. +Ronald. What you are doing for Martha makes me glad, of course, but that +is only because I rejoice in any good that may come to her. I would not +take it upon myself to praise you for doing a generous act, or to blame +you if you didn't do it." + +"'Cr-r-rushed again!'" observed Francis Ronald gravely, but with a +lurking, quizzical light of laughter in his eyes. + +For an instant Claire was inclined to be resentful. Then, her sense of +humor coming to the rescue, she dropped her heroics and laughed out +blithely. + +"How jolly it must be to have a lot of money and be able to do all sorts +of helpful, generous things!" she said lightly. + +"You think money the universal solvent?" + +"I think the lack of it the universal _in_solvent." + +"I hope you don't lay too much emphasis on it." + +"Why?" + +"Because it might lead you to do violence to your better impulses, your +higher instincts." + +"Why should a man think he has the right to say that sort of thing to a +woman? Would you consider it a compliment if I suggested that your +principles were hollow--negotiable? That they were For Sale or To Let, +like an empty house?" + +"I suppose most men would tell you they have no use for principle in +their business--only principal." + +"And you think women--" + +"Generally women have both principle and interest in the business of +life. That's why we look to them to keep up the moral standard. That's +why we feel it to be unworthy of her when a girl makes a mercenary +marriage." + +The indignant blood sprang to Claire's cheeks. What business had he to +interfere in her affairs, to warn her against marrying Bob Van Brandt, +assuming that, if she did marry him, it would be only for money. She was +glad that Radcliffe bounded in just then, throwing himself upon her in +his eagerness to tell her all that had befallen him during their long +separation of two hours, when he had been playing on the Mall under +Beetrice's unwatchful eye. + +In spite of Martha, Claire had just been on the point of confessing to +Mr. Ronald. He had seemed so friendly, so much less formidable than at +any time since that first morning. But she must have been mistaken, for +here were all the old barriers up in an instant, and with them the +resentful fire in her heart. + +Perhaps it was the memory of this conversation that made her feel so ill +at ease with Robert Van Brandt. She could not understand herself. Why +should she feel so uncomfortable with her old friend? She could not help +being aware that he cared for her, but why did the thought of his +telling her so make her feel like a culprit? Why should he not tell her? +Why should she not listen? One thing she felt she knew--if he did tell +her, and she refused to listen, he would give it up. He would not +persist. + +She remembered how, as a little girl, she had looked up to him +reverentially as "big Robby Van Brandt." He was a hero to her in those +days, until--he had let himself be balked of what he had started out to +get. If he had only persisted, _in_sisted, who knows--maybe--. + +She was sure that if he offered her his love and she refused to accept +it, he would not, like the nursery-rhyme model, try, try again. He would +give up and go away--and in her loneliness she did not want him to go +away. Was she selfish? she wondered. Selfish or no, she could not bring +herself to follow Martha's advice and "let'm get his perposal offn his +chest." + +It was early in April before he managed to do it. + +She and Radcliffe had gone to the Park. Radcliffe was frisking about in +the warm sunshine, while Claire watched him from a nearby bench, when, +suddenly, Mr. Van Brandt dropped into the seat beside her. + +He did not approach his subject gradually. He plunged in desperately, +headlong, heartlong, seeming oblivious to everything and every one save +her. + +When, at last, he left her, she, knowing it was for always, was sorely +tempted to call him back. She did care for him, in a way, and the life +his love opened up to her would be very different from this. And yet-- + +She closed her cold fingers about Radcliffe's little warm ones, and rose +to lead him across the Plaza. She did not wonder at his being so +conveniently close at hand, nor at his unwonted silence all the way +home. She had not realized, until now that it was snapped, how much the +link between this and her old home-life had meant to her. It meant so +much that tears were very near the surface all that day, and even at +night, when Martha was holding forth to her brood, they were not +altogether to be suppressed. + +"Easter comes early this year," Mrs. Slawson observed. + +"'M I going to have a new hat?" inquired Cora. + +"What for do you need a new hat, I should like to know? I s'pose you +think you'll walk up Fifth Avenoo in the church parade, an' folks'll +stare at you, an' nudge each other an' whisper--'Looka there! That's +Miss Cora Slawson that you read so much about in the papers. That one on +the right-hand side, wearin' the French _shappo_, with the white ribbon, +an' the grand vinaigrette onto it. Ain't she han'some?'" + +"I think you're real mean to make fun of me!" pouted Cora. + +"I got a dollar an' a half for the Easter singin'," announced Sammy. +"Coz I'm permoted an' I'm goin' to sing a solo!" + +"Careful you don't get your head so turned you sing outer the other side +o' your mouth," cautioned Martha. "'Stead o' crowin' so much, you better +make sure you know your colic." + +"What you goin' to do with your money?" inquired Francie, unable to +conceive of possessing such vast riches. + +"I do' know." + +"Come here an' I'll tell you," said his mother. "Whisper!" + +At first Sammy's face did not reveal any great amount of satisfaction at +the words breathed into his ear, but after a moment it fairly glowed. + +"Ain't that grand?" asked Martha. + +Sammy beamed, then went off whistling. + +"He's goin' to invest it in a hat for Cora as a s'prise, me addin' my +mite to the fun' an' not lettin' him be any the wiser. An' Cora, she's +goin' to get _him_ a pair o' shoes with her bank pennies, an' be this +an' be that, the one thinks he's clothin' the other, an' is proud as +Punch of it, which they're learnin' manners the same time they're bein' +dressed," Martha explained to Claire later. + +"I wish you'd tell that to Radcliffe," Claire said. "He loves to hear +about the children, and he can learn so much from listening to what is +told of other kiddies' generosities and self-denials." + +Martha shook her head. "There's nothin' worth tellin'," she said. "An' +besides, if I told'm, he might go an' tell his mother or his Uncle +Frank, an' they might think I was puttin' in a bid for a Easter-egg on +my own account. Radcliffe is a smart little fella! He knows a thing or +two--an' sometimes three, an' don't you forget it." + +That Radcliffe "knew a thing or two--an' sometimes three," he proved +beyond a doubt to Martha next day when, as she was busy cleaning his +Uncle Frank's closet, he meandered up to her and casually observed: + +"Say, you know what I told you once 'bout Miss Lang bein' Mr. Van +Brandt's best girl?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, she ain't!" + +"Why ain't she?" + +"I was lookin' out o' the window in my mother's sittin'-room yesterday +mornin', an' when my mother an' my Uncle Frank they came up from +breakfast, they didn't see me coz I was back o' the curtains. My mother +she had a letter Shaw, he just gave her, and when she read it she +clapped her hands together an' laughed, an' my Uncle Frank he said, 'Why +such joy?' an' she said, 'The greatest news! Amy Pelham is engaged to +Mr. Van Brandt!' An' my Uncle Frank, his face got dark red all at once, +an' he said to my mother, 'Catherine, are you 'sponsible for that?' an' +she said, 'I never lifted a finger. I give you my word of honor, Frank!' +An' then my Uncle Frank he looked better. An' my mother she said, 'You +see, he couldn't have cared for Miss Lang, after all--I mean, the way we +thought.' An' he said, 'Why not?' An' she said, 'Coz if he had asked +her, she would have taken him, for no poor little governess is going to +throw away a chance like that. No sensible girl would say _no_ to Bob +Van Brandt with all his 'vantages. She'd jump at him, an' you couldn't +blame her.' + +"An' then my mother an' my Uncle Frank _they_ jumped, for I came out +from behind the curtains where I'd been lookin' out, an' I said, 'She +would too say _no_! My Miss Lang, she's sensible, an' one time in the +Park, when Mr. Van Brandt he asked her to take him an' everything he had +(that's what he said! "Take me an' everything I have, an' do what you +want with me!"), Miss Lang she said, "No, Bob, I can't! I wish I could, +for your sake, if you want me so--but--I can't." An' Mr. Van Brandt he +felt so bad, I was sorry. When I thought Miss Lang was his best girl, I +didn't like him, but I didn't want him to feel as bad as that. An' he +went off all alone by himself, an' Miss Lang--'Only I couldn't tell any +more, for my Uncle Frank, he said reel sharp, 'That's enough, +Radcliffe!' But last night he brought me home a dandy boat I can sail on +the Lake, with riggin' an' a center-board, an', O, lots o' things! An' +so I guess he wasn't so very mad, after all." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +"Most like it's the Spring," said Martha. It was Memorial Day. She and +Miss Lang were at home, sitting together in Claire's pretty room, +through the closed blinds of which the hot May sun sent tempered shafts +of light. + +Claire regarded Mrs. Slawson steadily for a moment, seeming to make some +sort of mental calculation meanwhile. + +"Well, if it _is_ the Spring," she observed at length with a whimsical +little frown knitting her brows, "it's mighty forehanded, for it began +to get in its fine work as far back as January. Ever since the time Sam +went to the Sanatorium you've been losing flesh and color, Martha, +and--I don't know what to do about it!" + +"Do about it!" repeated Mrs. Slawson. "Why, there ain't nothin' _to_ do +about it, but let the good work go on. I'm in luck, if it's true what +you say. Believe _me_, there's lots o' ladies in this town, is starvin' +their stummicks an' everythin' else about 'em, an' payin' the doctors +high besides, just to get delicate-complected, an' airy-fairy figgers, +same's I'm doin' without turnin' a hand. Did you never hear o' bantin'? +It's what the high-toned doctors recommend to thin down ladies who have +it so comfortable they're uncomfortable. The doctors prescribes exercise +for'm, an' they take it, willin' as doves, whereas if their husbands +said, 'Say, old woman, while you're restin', just scrub down the +cellar-stairs good--that'll take the flesh off'n you quicker'n anythin' +else _I_ know!' they'd get a divorce from him so quick you couldn't see +'em for dust. No, they'd not do anythin' so low as cellar-stairs, to +save their lives. You couldn't please 'em better'n to see another woman +down on her marra-bones workin' for 'em, but get down themselves? Not on +your sweet life, they wouldn't. They'd rather _bant_. Bantin' sounds so +much more stylisher than scrubbin'." + +Claire smiled, but her eyes were very serious as she said, "All the +same, Martha, I believe you are grieving your heart out for Sam. I've +been watching you when you didn't know it, and I've seen the signs and +the tokens. Your heart has the hunger-ache in it!" + +"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "What do _you_ +know about hearts an' hunger-aches, I should like to know. You, an +unmarried maiden-girl, without so much as the shadder or the skelegan of +a beau, as far as _I_ can see. What do _you_ know about a woman +hungerin' an' cravin' for her own man? You have to have reelly felt them +things yourself, to know the signs of 'em in other folks." + +Claire's lip trembled, but she did not reply. + +When Martha spoke again it was as if she had replied. + +"O, go 'way! _You_ ain't never had a leanin' in any gen'l'man's +direction, I'd be willin' to wager. An' yet, I may as well tell you, you +been gettin' kinder white an' scrawny yourself lately, beggin' your +pardon for bein' so bold as notice it. Mind, I ain't the faintest notion +of holdin' it against you! I know better than think you been settin' +your affections on anybody. There's other things _besides_ love gives +you that tired feelin'. What you need is somethin' to brace you up, an' +clear your blood, like Hoodses Sassperilla. Everybody feels the way you +do, this time o' year. I heard a young saleslady (she wasn't a woman, +mind you, she was a sales_lady_), I heard a young saleslady in the car +the other mornin' complain--she was the reel dressy kind, you know, with +more'n a month's pay of hair, boilin' over on the back of her head in +puffs an' things--the gallus sort that, if you want to buy a yard o' +good flannen off her, will sass you up an' down to your face, as fresh +as if she was your own daughter--she was complainin' 'the Spring always +made her feel so sorter, kinder, so awful la-anguid.'" + +"Martha, dear," broke in Claire irrelevantly, "I wonder if you'd mind +very much if I told Mr. Ronald the truth. He thinks you were an old +family servant. He thinks you nursed me till I was able to walk." + +Martha considered. "Well, ain't that the truth?" she asked blandly. "I +lived out from the time I was twelve years old. That was in Mrs. +Granville's mother's house. When I was sixteen I went to Mrs. +Granville's. I was kitchen-maid there first-off, an' gradjelly she +promoted me till I was first housemaid. I never left her till I got +married. If that don't make me an old family servant, I'd like to know." + +"But he thinks you were an old family servant in _our_ house." + +"Well, bless your heart, that's _his_ business, not mine. How can I help +what he thinks?" + +"Didn't you tell him, Martha dear, that you nursed me till I was able to +walk?" + +"Shoor I did! An' it's the livin' truth. What's the matter with that? +Believe _me_, you wasn't good for more than a minit or two more on your +legs, when I got you into your bed that blessed night. You was clean +bowled over, an' you couldn't 'a' walked another step if you'd been +killed for it. Didn't I nurse you them days you was in bed, helplesslike +as a baby? Didn't I nurse you till you could walk?" + +"Indeed you did. And that's precisely the point!" said Claire. "If Mr. +Ronald--if Mrs. Sherman knew the truth, that I was poor, homeless, +without a friend in New York the night you picked me up on the street, +and carried me home and cared for me without knowing a thing about me, +they mightn't--they _wouldn't_ have taken me into their house and given +me their little boy to train. And because they wouldn't, I want to tell +them. I want to square myself. I ought to have told them long ago. I +want--" + +"You want 'em to bounce you," observed Mrs. Slawson calmly. "Well, +there's always more'n one way of lookin' at things. For instance +any good chambermaid, _with experience_, will tell you there's three +ways of dustin'. The first is, do it thora, wipin' the rungs o' the +chairs, an' the backs o' the pictures, an' under the books on the +table like. The second is, just sorter flashin' your rag over the places +that shows, an' the third is--pull down the shades. They're all good +enough ways in their own time an' place, an' you foller them accordin' +to your disposition or, if you're nacherelly particular, accordin' to +the other things you got to do, in the time you got to do 'em _in_. +Now, _I'm_ particular. I'm the nacherelly thora kind, but if I'm +pressed, an' there's more important things up to me than the dustin', +I give it a lick an' a promise, same as the next one, an' let it go at +that, till the time comes I can do better. Life's too short to fuss an' +fidget your soul out over trifles. It ain't always what you _want_, but +what you _must_. You sometimes got to cut short at one end so's you can +piece out at another, an' you can take it from me, you only pester folks +by gettin' 'm down where they can't resist you, an' forcin' a lot of +hard facks down their throats, which ain't the _truth_ anyhow, an' which +they don't want to swaller on no account. What do they care about the +machinery, so long as it turns out the thing they want? Believe _me_, +it's foolishness to try to get 'em back into the works, pokin' about +among the inside wheels an' springs, an' so forth. You likely get +knocked senseless by some big thing-um-bob you didn't know was there. +Now I know just eggsackly what's in your mind, but you're wrong. You +think I told Mr. Ronald fibs. I didn't tell'm fibs. I just give'm the +truth the way he'd take it, like you give people castor-oil that's too +dainty to gullup it down straight. Some likes it in lemon, an' some +in grobyules, but it's castor-oil all the same. He wanted to know the +truth about you, an' I let him have it, the truth bein' you're as fine +a lady as any in the land. If I'd happened to live in Grand Rapids at +the time, I'd most likely of lived out with your grandmother, an' been +an old family servant in your house like I was at Mrs. Granville's, +an' I certainly would of nursed you if I'd had the chanct. It was just +a case o' happenso, my _not_ havin' it. The right kind o' folks here +in New York is mighty squeamish about strangers. They want +recommendations--they want 'em because they want to be sure the ones +they engage is O.K. That's all recommendations is for, ain't it? Now I +knew the minit I clapped eye to you, that, as I say, you was as grand a +lady as any in the land, an' that bein' the case, what was the use o' +frettin' because I hadn't more than your sayso to prove it. But if I'd +pulled a long face to Mrs. Sherman, an' told her, hesitatin'-like an' +nervous, about--well, about what took place that night, she, not havin' +much experience of human nature (only the other kind that's more common +here in New York City), she'd have hemmed, an' hawed, an' thought she'd +better not try it, seein' Radcliffe is such an angel-child an' not to be +trained except by a A-I Lady." + +"But the truth," persisted Claire. + +"I tell the truth," Mrs. Slawson returned with quiet dignity. "I only +don't waste time on trifles." + +"It is not wasting time on trifles to be exact and accurate. An +architect planning a house must make every little detail _true_, else +when the house goes up, it won't stand." + +"Don't he have to reckon nothin' on the _give_ or _not-give_ of the +things he's dealin' with?" demanded Martha. "I'm only a ignorant woman, +an' I ask for information. When you're dress-makin' you have to allow +for the seams, an' when you're makin'--well, other things, you have to +do the same thing, only spelled a little different--you have to allow +for the _seems_. Most folks don't do it, an' that's where a lot o' +trouble comes in, or so it appears to me." + +Claire twisted her ring in silence, gazing down at it the while as if +the operation was, of all others, the most important and absorbing. + +"We may not agree, Martha dear," she said at last, "but anyway I know +you're good, good, _good_, and I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the +world." + +"Shoor! I know you wouldn't! An' they ain't hurt. Not in the least. You +got one kinder conscience an' I got another, that's all. Consciences is +like hats. One that suits one party would make another look like a guy. +You got to have your own style. You got to know what's best for you, an' +then _stick to it_!" + +"And you won't object if I tell Mr. Ronald?" + +"Objeck? Certainly not! Tell'm anything you like. _I_ always was fond o' +Mr. Ronald myself. I never thought he was as hard an' stern with a body +as some thinks. Some thinks he's as hard as nails, but--" + +"O, I'm _sure_ he's not," cried Claire with unexpected loyalty. "His +manner may seem a little cold and proud sometimes, but I know he's very +kind and generous." + +"Certaintly. So do I know it," said Mrs. Slawson. "I don't say I mayn't +be mistaken, but I have the highest opinion o' Lor--Mr. Ronald. I think +you could trust'm do the square thing, no matter what, an' if he was +kinder harsh doin' it, it's only because he expects a body to be perfect +like he is himself." + +In the next room Sabina was shouting at the top of her lungs--"Come back +to ear-ring, my voornean, my voornean!" + +"Ain't it a caution what lungs that child has--considerin'?" Martha +reflected. "Just hear her holler! She'd wake the dead. I wonder if she's +tryin' to beat that auta whoopin' it up outside. Have you ever noticed +them autas nowadays? Some of them has such croupy coughs, before I know +it I'm huntin' for a flannen an' a embrercation. 'Xcuse me a minit while +I go answer the bell." + +A second later she returned. A step in advance of her was Mr. Ronald. + +"I am lucky to find you at home, Martha," were the first words Claire +heard him say. + +Martha, by dint of a little unobservable maneuvering, managed to +superimpose her substantial shadow upon Claire's frail one. + +"Yes, sir. When I get a day to lay off in, you couldn't move me outer +the house with a derrick," she announced. "Miss Lang's here, too. Bein' +so dim, an' comin' in outer the sunlight, perhaps you don't make out to +see her." + +"She ain't had time yet to pull herself together," Mrs. Slawson inwardly +noted. "But, Lord! I couldn't stand in front of her forever, an' even if +a girl _is_ dead in love with a man (more power to her!), that's no +reason she should go to the other extreme to hide it, an' pertend she's +a cold storage, warranted to freeze'm stiff, like the artificial ice +they're makin' these days, in the good old summertime." + +The first cold greetings over, Claire started to retreat in the +direction of the door. + +"Excuse me, please--I promised Francie--She's expecting me--she's +waiting--" + +"Pshaw now, let her wait!" said Martha. + +"Don't let me detain Miss Lang if she wishes to go," interposed Mr. +Ronald. "My business is really with you, Martha." + +"Thank you, sir. But I'd like Miss Lang to stay by, all the same--that +is, if you don't objeck." + +"As a witness? You think I need watching, eh?" + +"I think it does a body good to watch you, sir!" + +"I didn't know before, you were a flatterer, Martha. But I see you're a +lineal descendant of the Blarney Stone." + +Claire felt herself utterly ignored. She tried again to slip away, but +Martha's strong hand detained her, bore her down into the place she had +just vacated. + +"How is Francie?" inquired Mr. Ronald, taking the chair Mrs. Slawson +placed for him. + +"_Fine_--thank you, sir. The doctors says they never see a child get +well so fast. She's grown so fat an' big, there ain't a thing belongs to +her will fit her any longer, they're all shorter, an' she has to go +whacks with Cora on her clo'es." + +"Perhaps she'd enjoy a little run out into the country this afternoon in +my car. The other children, too? And--possibly--Miss Lang." + +"I'm sure they'd all thank you kindly, sir," began Martha, when--"I'm +sorry," said Claire coldly, "I can't go." + +Mr. Ronald did not urge her. "It is early. We have plenty of time to +discuss the ride later," he observed quietly. "Meanwhile, what I have in +mind, Martha, is this: Mr. Slawson has been at the Sanatorium now +for--?" + +"Goin' on five months," said Martha. + +"And the doctors think him improved?" + +"Well, on the whole, yes, sir. His one lung (sounds kinder Chineesy, +don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse--it's better some--only he keeps +losin' flesh an' that puzzles'm." + +"Do you think he is contented there?" + +"He says he is. He says it's the grand place, an' they're all as good +to'm as if he was the king o' Harlem. _You_ seen to that, sir--he says. +An' Sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but--" + +"Well--_but_?" + +"But--only just, it ain't _home_, you know, sir!" + +"I see. And the doctors think he ought to stay up there? Not return +home--_here_, I mean?" + +"That's what they say." + +"Have you--the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five months +we settled for in January?" + +"No, sir. That is, not--not _yet_." + +"Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of +the year?" + +Martha deliberated. "I may _have_ to, sir," she said at last with a +visible effort. "But I don't like to borrer. I notice when folks gets +the borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't get +thanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan." + +This time it was Mr. Ronald who seemed to be considering. "Right!" he +announced presently. "I notice you go into things rather deep, Martha." + +Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Well, when things _is_ deep, that's the way you +got to go into them. What's on your plate you got to chew, an' if you +don't like it, you can lump it, an' if you don't like to lump it, you +can cut it up finer. But there it _is_, an' there it stays, till you +swaller it, somehow." + +"Do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heaped +on other people's plates?" + +"Why, yes. Certaintly I enjoy 'em. But, after all, the things taste best +that we're eatin' ourselves, don't they? An' if I had money enough like +some, so's I didn't have to borrer to see my man through, why, I don't +go behind the door to say I'd be glad an' grateful." + +"Would you take the money as a gift, Martha?" + +"You done far more than your share already, sir." + +"Then, if you won't _take_, and you'd rather not borrow, we must find +another way. A rather good idea occurred to me last night. I've an +uncommonly nice old place up in New Hampshire--in the mountains. It was +my father's--and my grandfather's. It's been closed for many years, and +I haven't given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or the +caretaker sent in his account. It's so far away my sister won't live +there, and--it's too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in by +himself. Now, why wouldn't it be a capital idea for you to pack up your +goods and chattels here, and take your family right up there--make that +your home? The lodge is comfortable and roomy, and I don't see why Mr. +Slawson couldn't recover there as well, if not better, than where he is. +I'd like to put the place in order--make some improvements, do a little +remodeling. I need a trusty man to oversee the laborers, and keep an eye +and close tab on the workmen I send up from town. If Mr. Slawson would +act as superintendent for me, I'd pay him what such a position is worth, +and you would have your house, fuel, and vegetables free. Don't try to +answer now. You'd be foolish to make a decision in a hurry that you +might regret later. Write to your husband. Talk it over with him. He +might prefer to choose a job for himself. And remember--it's 'way out in +the country. The children would have to walk some distance to school." + +"Give 'em exercise, along of their exercises," said Martha. + +"The church in the village is certainly three miles off." + +"My husband don't go to church as reg'lar as I might wish," Mrs. Slawson +observed. "I tell'm, the reason men don't be going to church so much +these days, is for fear they might hear something they believe." + +"You would find country life tame, perhaps, after the city." + +"Well, the city life ain't been that _wild_ for me that I'd miss the +dizzy whirl. An' anyhow--we'd be _together_!" Martha said. "We'd be +together, maybe, come our weddin'-day. The fourth o' July. We never been +parted oncet, on that day, all the fifteen years we been married," she +mused, "but--" + +"Well?" + +"But, come winter, an' Mis' Sherman opens the house again, an' wants +Miss Claire back, who's goin' to look out for _her_?" + +"Why--a--as to _that_--" said Mr. Ronald, so vaguely it sounded almost +supercilious to Claire. + +In an instant her pride rose in revolt, rebelling against the notion he +might have, that she could possibly put forth any claim upon his +consideration. + +"O, please, _please_ don't think of me, Martha," she cried vehemently. +"I have entirely other plans. You mustn't give me, or my affairs, a +thought, in settling your own. You must do what's best for _you_. You +mustn't count for, or _on_, me in the least. I have not told you before, +but I've made up my mind I must resign my position at Mrs. Sherman's, +anyway. I'll write her at once. I'll tell her myself, of course, but I +tell you now to show that you mustn't have me in mind, at all, in making +your plans." + +Martha's low-pitched voice fell upon Claire's tense, nervous one with +soothing calmness. + +"Certaintly not, Miss Claire," she said. + +"And you'll write to your husband and report to him what I propose," +suggested Mr. Ronald, as if over Claire's head. + +"Shoor I will, sir!" + +"And if he likes the idea, my secretary will discuss the details with +him later. Wages, duties--all the details." + +"Yes, sir." + +"And you may tell the children I'll leave orders that the car be sent +for them some other day. I find it's not convenient, after all, for me +to take them myself this afternoon. I spoke too fast in proposing it. +But they'll not be disappointed. Mr. Blennerhasset will see to that. I +leave town to-night to be gone--well, indefinitely. In any case, until +well on into the autumn or winter. Any letter you may direct to me, care +of Mr. Blennerhasset at the office, will be attended to at once. +Good-by, Martha!--Miss Lang--" He was gone. + +When the car had shot out of sound and sight, Martha withdrew from the +window, from behind the blinds of which she had been peering eagerly. + +"He certainly _is_ a little woolly wonder, meaning no offense," she +observed with a deep-drawn sigh. "Yes, Mr. Ronald is as good as they +make 'em, an' dontcher forget it!" + +She seated herself opposite Claire, drawing her chair quite close. + +"Pity you an' him is so on the outs. I'm not speakin' o' _him_, s'much, +but anybody with half an eye can see _you_ got a reg'lar hate on'm. _Any +one_ can see that!" + +A moment of silence, and then Claire flung herself, sobbing and +quivering, across Martha's lap, ready to receive her. + +"O, _Martha_!" she choked. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +"Well now, what do you think o' that! Ain't it the end o' the law? The +high-handed way he has o' doin' things! Think o' the likes o' _me_ +closin' up my '_town-house' _an' takin' my fam'ly (includin' Flicker an' +Nixcomeraus) 'to the country-place'--for all the world like I was a +lady, born an' bred.--Sammy, you sit still in your seat, an' eat the +candy Mr. Blennerhasset brought you, an' quit your rubberin', or the +train'll start suddently, an' give you a twist in your neck you won't +get over in a hurry.... Ma, you comfortable?.... Cora an' Francie, see +you behave like little ladies, or I'll attend to you later. See how +quiet Sabina is--Say, Sabina, what you doin'? Now, what do you think o' +that! If that child ain't droppin' off to sleep, suckin' the red plush +o' the seat! For all the world like she didn't have a wink o' rest last +night, or a bite or a sup this mornin'--an' she slep' the clock 'round, +an' et a breakfast fit for a trooper. Say, Sabina--here, wake up! An' +take your tongue off'n that beautiful cotton-backed plush, d'you hear? +In the first place, the gen'l'men that owns this railroad don't want +their upholsterry et by little girls, an', besides, it's makin' your +mouth all red--an', second-place, the cars isn't the time to +sleep--leastwise, not so early in the mornin'. Miss Claire, child, don't +look so scared! You ain't committin' no crime goin' along with us, an' +_he_'ll never suspicion anyhow. He's prob'ly on the boundin' biller by +this time, an' Mr. Blennerhasset he don't know you from a hole in the +ground. Besides, whose business is it, anyway? You ain't goin' as _his_ +guest, as I told you before. You're _my_ boarder, same's you've always +been, an' it's nobody's concern if you board down here or up there... + +"Say, ain't these flowers just grand? The box looks kinder like a young +coffin, but never mind that... + +"A body would think all that fruit an' stuff was enough of a send-off, +but Lor--_Mr_. Ronald, he don't do things by halves, does he? It +wouldn't seem so surprisin' now, if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' along +an' all this (Mr. Blennerhasset himself helpin' look after us, an' see +us off--as if I was a little tender flower that didn't know a railroad +ticket from a trunk-check), I say, it wouldn't seem so surprisin' if +he'd 'a' knew _you_ was comin' along. I'd think it was on your account. +What they calls _delicate attentions_. The sorter thing a gen'l'man does +when he's got his eye on a young lady for his wife, an' is sorter +breakin' it to her gently--kinder beckonin' with a barn-door, as the +sayin' is. + +"But Mr. Ronald ain't the faintest notion but you've gone back to your +folks in Grand Rapids, an' so all these favors is for _me_, of course. +Well, I certainly take to luckshurry like a duck takes to water. I never +knew it was so easy to feel comfortable. I guess I been a little hard on +the wealthy in the past. Now, if _you_ should marry a rich man, I don't +believe--" + +Claire sighed wearily. "I'll never marry anybody, Martha. And besides, a +rich man wouldn't be likely to go to a cheap boarding-house for a wife, +and next winter I--O, isn't it warm? Don't you _wish_ the train would +start?" + +At last the train did start, and they were whirled out of the steaming +city, over the hills and far away, through endless stretches of sunlit +country, and the long, long hours of the hot summer day, until, at +night, they reached their destination, and found Sam Slawson waiting +there in the cool twilight to welcome them. + +Followed days of rarest bliss for Martha, when she could marshal out her +small forces, setting each his particular task, and seeing it was done +with thoroughness and despatch, so that in an inconceivably short time +her new home shone with all the spotless cleanliness of the old, and +added comeliness beside. + +"Ain't it the little palace?" she inquired, when all was finished. "I +wouldn't change my lodge for the great house, grand as it is, not for +anything you could offer me! Nor I wouldn't call the queen my cousin now +we're all in it together. I'm feelin' that joyful I'd like to have what +they calls a house-swarmin', only there ain't, by the looks of it, any +neighbors much, to swarm." + +"No," said Ma regretfully, "I noticed there ain't no neighbors--to speak +of." + +"Well, then, we can't speak o' them," returned Martha. "Which will save +us from fallin' under God's wrath as gossips. There's never any great +loss without some small gain." + +"But we must have some sort of jollification," Claire insisted. "Doesn't +your wedding-day--the anniversary of it, I mean--come 'round about this +time? You said the Fourth, didn't you?" + +Martha nodded. "Sam Slawson an' me'll be fifteen years married come +Fourth of July," she announced. "We chose that day, because we was so +poor we knew we couldn't do nothin' great in the line o' celebration +ourselves, so we just kinder managed it, so's without inconveniencin' +the nation any or addin' undooly to its expenses, it would do our +celebratin' for us. You ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feel +to be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with the +noise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! I'm like to miss it this +year, with only my own four young Yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' off +torpeders under my nose." + +"You won't miss anything," said Claire reassuringly, "but you mustn't +say a word to Sam. And you mustn't ask any questions yourself, for what +is going to happen is to be a _wonderful_ surprise!" + +"You betcher life it is!" murmured Martha complacently to herself, after +Claire had hastened off to confer with the children and plan a program +for the great day. + +Ma to make the wedding-cake! Cora to recite her "piece." Francie and +Sammy to be dressed as pages and bear, each, a tray spread with the +gifts it was to be her own task and privilege to contrive. Sabina to +hover over all as a sort of Cupid, who, if somewhat "hefty" as to +avoirdupois, was in all other respects a perfect little Love. + +It seemed as if the intervening days were winged, so fast they flew. +Claire never could have believed there was so much to be done for such a +simple festival, and, of course, the entire weight fell on her +shoulders, for Ma was as much of a child in such matters as any, and +Martha could not be appealed to, being the _bride_, and, moreover, being +away at the great house, where tremendous changes were in progress. + +But at last came the wonderful day, and everything was in readiness. + +First, a forenoon of small explosive delights for the children--then, as +the day waned, a dinner eaten outdoors, picnic-fashion on the grass, +under the spreading trees, beneath the shadows of the mighty +mountain-tops. + +What difference if Ma's cake, crowning a perfect feast, had suffered a +little in the frosting and its touching sentiment, traced in snowy +lettering upon a bridal-white ground, _did_ read + +FIFTEEN YEARS OF MARRED LIFE. + +It is sometimes one's ill-luck to misspell a word, and though a +wedding-cake is usually large and this was no exception, the space was +limited, and, besides, no one but Sam senior and Miss Lang noticed it +anyhow. + +A quizzical light in his eye, Mr. Slawson scrawled on a scrap of paper +which he passed to Claire (with apologies for the liberty) the words: + +"She'd been nearer the truth if she'd left out the two _rr_s while she +was about it, and had it: + +FIFTEEN YEARS OF MA'D LIFE." + +Then came Cora's _piece_. + +Her courtesy, right foot back, knees suddenly bent, right hand on left +side (presumably over heart, actually over stomach), chin diving into +the bony hollow of her neck--Cora's courtesy was a thing to be +remembered. + +LADY CLARE + +She announced it with ceremony, and this time, Martha noticed, the +recalcitrant garter held fast to its moorings. + +"''Twas the time when lilies blow +And clouds are highest up in air, +Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe--'" + +_"His!"_ prompted Martha in a loud stage-whisper. _"His_--not 'a'--" + +Cora accepted the correction obediently, but her self-confidence was +shaken. She managed to stammer, + +"'Give t-to--his c-cousin, L-Lady C-Clare,'" + +and then a storm of tears set in, drowning her utterance. + +"Well, what do you think o' _that_?" exclaimed Martha, amazed at the +undue sensitiveness of her offspring. "Never mind, Cora! You done it +grand!--as far as you went." + +To cover this slight mishap, Claire gave a hurried signal to the pages, +who appeared forthwith in splendid form, if a little overweighted by the +burdens they bore. In some strange way Claire's simple gifts had been +secretly augmented until they piled up upon the trays, twin-mountains of +treasure. + +When the first surprise was past, and the wonders examined and exclaimed +over, Martha bent toward Claire, from her seat of honor on the grass. + +"Didn't I think to tell you Mr. Blennerhasset come up on the early +train? Sammy, he drove down to the station himself to meet'm. Mr. +Blennerhasset brought up all them grand things--for Mr. Ronald. Ain't +he--I mean Mr. Ronald--a caution to 've remembered the day? I been so +took up with things over there to the great house, I musta forgot to +tell you about Mr. Blennerhasset. Ain't everything just elegant?-- + +"It's pretty, the way the night comes down up here. With the sharp +pin-heads o' stars prickin' through, one by one. They don't seem like +that in the city, do they? An' the moon's comin' up _great_!" + +Claire's eyes were fixed on the grassy slope ahead. + +"Who are those three men over there?" she asked. "What are they doing? I +can't make out in the dusk anything but shadow-forms." + +"Sam, an' Mr. Blennerhasset, an'--an'--another fella from the +neighborhood. Mr. Blennerhasset he brought up some fire-works to +surprise the young uns, an' they're goin' to set 'em off. It's early +yet, but the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep. An' the kids has had +a excitin' day." + +Up shot a rocket, drawing the children's breaths skyward with it in +long-drawn "A-ahs!" of perfect ecstasy. + +Then pin-wheels, some of which, not to belie their nature, balked +obstinately, refusing to be coerced or wheedled into doing their duty. + +"Say, now, mother," cried Francie excitedly--"that pin-wheel--in the +middle of it was a cork. When it got over spinning fast, I saw the +cork." + +"Don't you never do that no more," cautioned Martha. "Never you see the +cork. It's the _light_ you want to keep your eye on!" which, as Claire +thought it over, seemed to her advice of a particularly shrewd and +timely nature. + +She was still pondering this, and some other things, when she felt Mrs. +Slawson's hand on her shoulder. + +"It's over now, an' I'm goin' to take the young 'uns in, an' put 'em to +bed. But don't you stir. Just you sit here a while in the moonlight, an' +enjoy the quiet in peace by yourself. You done a hard day's work, an' +you give me an' Sammy what we won't forget in a hurry. So you just stay +out here a few minits--or as long as you wanter--away from the +childern's clatter, an'--God bless you!" + +Claire's gaze, following the great form affectionately, saw it pass into +the darker shadows, then forth--out into the light that shone from the +open door of the lodge. + +"She's _home_--and they're _together_!" Unconsciously, she spoke her +grateful thought aloud. + +"Yes, she's _home_--and they're _together_!" + +The words were repeated very quietly, but there was that in the +well-known voice, so close at hand, that seemed to Claire to shake the +world. In an instant she was upon her feet, gazing up speechless, into +Francis Ronald's baffling eyes. + +"You are kind to every one," he said, "but for me you have only a sting, +and yet--I love you." + + * * * * * + +Martha was still busy wrestling with the pyramid of dishes left over +from the feast, when at last Claire came in alone. + +"Did you get a chance to compose yourself, an' quiet down some under the +stars?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "It's been a noisy day, with lots doin'. +I don't wonder you're so tired--your cheeks is fairly blazin' with it, +an' your eyes are shinin' like lit lamps." + +"You knew--you knew he was here!" said Claire accusingly. + +"_He?_ Who? O, you mean Mr. Ronald? Didn't I think to tell you, he come +up along with Mr. Blennerhasset? I been so flustrated with all the +unexpected surprises of the day, it musta slipped my mind." + +"I've seen Mr. Ronald!" Claire said." I've spoken with him!" + +"Now, what do you think o' that! Wonders never cease!" + +"Do you know what I did?" + +"Search me!" + +"I told him--the _truth_." + +"We-ell?" + +"And--_I'm going to marry him!"_ + +Mrs. Slawson sat down hard upon the nearest chair, as if the happy shock +had deprived her of strength to support her own weight. + +"No!" she fairly shouted. + +"_Yes!" _cried Claire. "And, O, Martha! I'm _so_ happy! And--did you ever +_dream_ such a thing could possibly happen?" + +"Well, you certaintly have give me a start. I often thought how I'd +_like_ to see Mr. Ronald your _financiay_ or your _trosso_, or whatever +they call it. But, that it would really come to pass--" She paused. + +"O, you don't know how I dreaded next winter," Claire said, as if she +were thinking aloud. "I went over it--and I went over it, in my +mind--what I'd do--where I'd go--and now--_Now!_... I couldn't take that +fine job you had your eye on for me, not even if it had come to +something. Don't you remember? I mean, the splendid job you had the idea +about, that first night I was sick. I shan't need it now, shall I, +Martha?" + +"You got it!" said Martha. + +Claire's wide eyes opened wider in wonderment. She stared silently at +Mrs. Slawson for a moment. Then the light began to break in upon her +slowly, but with unmistakable illumination. + +"You--don't--mean?" she stammered. + +"Certaintly!" said Martha. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Martha By-the-Day, by Julie M. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Martha By-the-Day + +Author: Julie M. Lippmann + +Release Date: February 1, 2005 [EBook #14854] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARTHA BY-THE-DAY *** + + + + +Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Mary Meehan and the PG Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + MARTHA BY-THE-DAY + + By JULIE M. LIPPMANN + + 1912 + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +If you are one of the favored few, privileged to ride in chaises, you +may find the combination of Broadway during the evening rush-hour, in a +late November storm, stimulating--you may, that is, provided you have a +reliable driver. If, contrariwise, you happen to be of the class whose +fate it is to travel in public conveyances (and lucky if you have the +price!) and the car, say, won't stop for you--why-- + +Claire Lang had been standing in the drenching wet at the +street-crossing for fully ten minutes. The badgering crowd had been +shouldering her one way, pushing her the other, until, being a stranger +and not very big, she had become so bewildered that she lost her head +completely, and, with the blind impulse of a hen with paresis, darted +straight out, in amidst the crush of traffic, with all the chances +strong in favor of her being instantly trampled under foot, or ground +under wheel, and never a one to know how it had happened. + +An instant, and she was back again in her old place upon the curbstone. +Something like the firm iron grip of a steam-derrick had fastened on her +person, hoisted her neatly up, and set her as precisely down, exactly +where she had started from. + +It took her a full second to realize what had happened. Then, quick as a +flash, anger flamed up in her pale cheeks, blazed in her tired eyes. +For, of course, this was an instance of "insult" described by "the +family at home" as common to the experience of unprotected girls in New +York City. She groped about in her mind for the formula to be applied in +such cases, as recommended by Aunt Amelia. "Sir, you are no gentleman! +If you were a gentleman, you would not offer an affront to a young, +defenseless girl who--" The rest eluded her; she could not recall it, +try as she would. In desperate resolve to do her duty anyway, she tilted +back her umbrella, whereat a fine stream of water poured from the tip +directly over her upturned face, and trickled cheerily down the bridge +of her short nose. + +"Sir--" she shouted resolutely, and then she stopped, for, plainly, her +oration was, in the premises, a misfit--the person beside her--the one +of the mortal effrontery and immortal grip, being a--woman. A woman of +masculine proportions, towering, deep-chested, large-limbed, but with a +face which belied all these, for in it her sex shone forth in a +motherliness unmistakable, as if the world at large were her family, and +it was her business to see that it was generously provided for, along +the pleasantest possible lines for all concerned. + +"What car?" the woman trumpeted, gazing down serenely into Claire's +little wet, anxious, upturned face at her elbow. + +"Columbus Avenue." + +The stranger nodded, peering down the glistening, wet way, as if she +were a skipper sighting a ship. + +"My car, too! First's Lexin'ton--next Broadway--then--here's ours!" +Again that derrick-grip, and they stood in the heart of the maelstrom, +but apparently perfectly safe, unassailable. + +"They won't stop," Claire wailed plaintively. "I've been waiting for +ages. The car'll go by! You see if it won't!" + +It did, indeed, seem on the point of sliding past, as all the rest had +done, but of a sudden the motorman vehemently shut off his power, and +put on his brake. By some hidden, mysterious force that was in her, or +the mere commanding dimensions of her frame, Claire's companion had +brought him to a halt. + +She lifted her charge gently up on to the step, pausing herself, before +she should mount the platform, to close the girl's umbrella. + +"Step lively! Step lively!" the conductor urged insistently, reaching +for his signal-strap. + +The retort came calmly, deliberately, but with perfect good nature. "Not +on your life, young man. I been steppin' lively all day, an' for so +long's it's goin' to take this car to get to One-hundred-an'-sixteenth +Street, my time ain't worth no more'n a settin' hen's." + +The conductor grinned in spite of himself. "Well, mine _is_," he +declared, while with an authoritative finger he indicated the box into +which Claire was to drop her fare. + +"So all the other roosters think," the woman let fall with a tolerant +smile, while she diligently searched in her shabby purse for five cents. + +Claire, in the doorway, lingered. + +"Step right along in, my dear! Don't wait for me," her friend advised, +closing her teeth on a dime, as she still pursued an elusive nickel. +"Step right along in, and sit down anywheres, an' if there ain't +nowheres to sit, why, just take a waltz-step or two in the direction o' +some of them elegant gen'lemen's feet, occupyin' the places meant for +ladies, an' if they don't get up for love of _you_, they'll get up for +love of their shins." + +Still the girl did not pass on. + +"Fare, please!" There was a decided touch of asperity in the +conductor's tone. He glared at Claire almost menacingly. + +Her lip trembled, the quick tears sprang to her eyes. She hesitated, +swallowed hard, and then brought it out with a piteous gulp. + +"I _had_ my fare--'twas in my glove. It must have slipped out. It's +gone--lost--and--" + +A tug at the signal-strap was the conductor's only comment. He was +stopping the car to put her off, but before he could carry out his +purpose the woman had dropped her dime into the box with a sounding +click. + +"Fare for two!" she said, "an' if I had time, an' a place to sit, I'd +turn you over acrost my knee, an' give you two, for fair, young man, for +the sake of your mother who didn't learn you better manners when you was +a boy!" With which she laid a kind hand upon Claire's heaving shoulder, +and impelled her gently into the body of the car, already full to +overflowing. + +For a few moments the girl had a hard struggle to control her rising +sobs, but happily no one saw her working face and twitching lips, for +her companion had planted herself like a great bulwark between her and +the world, shutting her off, walling her 'round. Then, suddenly, she +found herself placed in a hurriedly vacated seat, from which she could +look up into the benevolent face inclined toward her, and say, without +too much danger of breaking down in the effort: + +"I really _did_ have it--the money, you know. Truly, I'm not a--" + +"O, pooh! Don't you worry your head over a little thing like that. Such +accidents is liable to occur in the best-reggerlated fam'lies. They do +in mine, shoor!" + +"But, you see," quavered the uncertain voice, "I haven't any more. +That's all I had, so I can't pay you back, and--" + +It was curious, but just here another passenger hastily rose, vacating +the seat next Claire's, and leaving it free, whereat her companion +compressed her bulky frame into it with a sigh, as of well-earned rest, +and remarked comfortably, "_Now_ we can talk. You was sayin'--what was +it? About that change, you know. It was all you had. You mean _by_ you, +of course." + +Claire's pale, pinched face flushed hotly. "No, I don't," she confessed, +without lifting her downcast eyes. + +Her companion appeared to ponder this for a moment, then quite abruptly +she let it drop. + +"My name's Slawson," she observed. "Martha Slawson. I go out by the day. +Laundry-work, housecleaning, general chores. I got a husband an' four +children, to say nothing of a mother-in-law who lives with us, an' keeps +an eye on things while me an' Sammy (that's Mr. Slawson) is out +workin', an' lucky if it's an eye itself, for it's not a hand, I can +tell you that. What's your name, if I may make so bold?" + +"Claire Lang. My people live in Grand Rapids--where the furniture and +carpet-sweepers come from," with a wistful, faint little attempt at a +smile. "My father was judge of the Supreme Court, but he had losses, and +then he died, and there wasn't much of anything left, and so--" + +"You come to New York to make your everlastin' fortune, an' you--" + +Claire Lang shook her head, completing the unfinished sentence. "No, I +haven't made it, that is, not yet. But I'm not discouraged. I don't mean +to give up. Things look pretty dark just now, but I'm not going to let +that discourage me--No, indeed! I'm going to be brave and courageous, +and never say die, even if--even if--" + +"Turn 'round, an' pertend you're lookin' out of the winder," suggested +Mrs. Slawson confidentially. "The way folks stare, you'd think the world +was full of nothin' but laughin' hyeenyas. Dontcher care, my dear! Well +for some of 'em, if they could shed an honest tear or two themselves, +oncet in a while, instead of bein' that brazen; 'twouldn't be water at +all, but Putzes Pomady it'd take to make an impression on 'em, an' +don't you forget it. There! That's right! Now, no one can observe what's +occurrin' in your face, an' I can talk straight into your ear, see? What +I was goin' to say _is_, that bein' a mother myself an' havin' children +of my own to look out for, I couldn't recommend any lady, let alone one +so young an' pretty as you, to take up with strangers, here in New York +City, be they male or be they female. No, certaintly not! But in this +case, you can take it from me, I'm O.K. I can give the highest +references. I worked for the best fam'lies in this town, ever since I +was a child. You needn't be a mite afraid. I'm just a plain mother of a +fam'ly an', believe _me_, you can trust me as you would trust one of +your own relations, though I do say it as shouldn't, knowin' how queer +_own relations_ can be and _is_, when put to it at times. So, if you +happen to be in a hole, my dear, without friends or such things in the +city, you feel free to turn to, or if you seem to stand in need of a +word of advice, or--anything else, why, dontcher hesitate a minute. It'd +be a pretty deep hole Martha Slawson couldn't see over the edge of, be +sure of that, even if she did have to stand on her toes to do it. Holes +is my specialty, havin' been in an' out, as you might say, all my +life--particularly _in_." + +Judicious or not, Claire told her story. It was not a long one. Just +the everyday experience of a young girl coming to a strange city, +without influence, friends, or money, expecting to make her way, and +finding that way beset with difficulties, blocked by obstacles. + +"I've done everything I could think of, honestly I have," she concluded +apologetically. "I began by trying for big things; art-work in editorial +offices (everybody liked my art-work in Grand Rapids!). But 'twas no +use. Then I took up commercial drawing. I got what looked like a good +job, but the man gave me one week's pay, and that's all I could ever +collect, though I worked for him over a month. Then I tried real estate. +One firm told me about a woman selling for them who cleared, oh, I don't +know how-much-a-week, in commissions. Something queer must be the matter +with me, I guess, for I never got rid of a single lot, though I walked +my feet off. I've tried writing ads., and I've directed envelopes. I've +read the Wants columns, till it seems as if everybody in the world was +looking for a _job_. But I can't get anything to do. I guess God doesn't +mean me to die of starvation, for you wouldn't believe how little I've +had to eat all summer and fall, and yet I'm almost as strong and hearty +as ever. But lately I haven't been able to make any money at all, not +five cents, so I couldn't pay my board, and they--they told me at the +house where I live, that I'd have to square up to-night, or I couldn't +keep my room any longer. They took my trunk a week ago. I haven't had +anything to wear except these clothes I have on, since, and they're +pretty wet now--and--and--I've nowhere to go, and it _is_ pouring so +hard, and I should have been put off the car if you hadn't--" + +Mrs. Slawson checked the labored flow with a hand upon the girl's knee. +"Where did you say your boardin'-house is?" she inquired abruptly. + +"Ninety-fifth Street--West--Two-hundred-and-eighty-five-and-a-half." + +"Good gracious! An' we're only three blocks off there now!" + +"But you said," expostulated Claire helplessly, feeling herself +propelled as by the hand of fate through the crowd toward the door. "You +said you live on One-hundred-and-sixteenth Street." + +"So I do, my dear, so I do! But I've got some business +to transack with a lady livin' in Ninety-fifth +Street--West--Two-hunderd-an'-eighty-five-an'-a-half. Come along. +'Step lively,' as my friend, _this nice young man out here on the +rear platform_, says." + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +They plodded along the flooded street in silence, Claire following after +Martha Slawson like a small child, almost clutching at her skirts. It +was not easy to keep pace with the long, even strides that covered so +much ground, and Claire fell into a steady pony-trot that made her +breath come short and quick, her heart beat fast. She dimly wondered +what was going to happen, but she did not dare, or care, to ask. It was +comfort enough just to feel this great embodiment of human sympathy and +strength beside her, to know she was no longer alone. + +Before the house Martha paused a moment. + +"Now, my dear, there ain't goin' to be nothin' for you to do but just +sit tight," she vouchsafed reassuringly. "Don't you start to butt in (if +you'll pardon the liberty), no matter what I say. I'm goin' to be a +perfect lady, never fear. I know my place, an' I know my dooty, an' if +your boardin'-house lady knows hers, there'll be no trouble +whatsomedever, so dontcher worry." + +She descended the three steps leading from the street-level down into +the little paved courtyard below, and rang the basement bell. A moment +and an inner door was unlocked, flung open, and a voice from just +within the grating of the closed iron area-gate asked curtly, "Well, +what's wanted?" + +"Is this Mrs.----? I should say, is this the lady of the house?" Martha +Slawson's voice was deep, bland, prepossessing. + +"I'm Mrs. Daggett, yes, if that's what you mean." + +"That's what I mean. My name's Slawson. Mrs. Sammy Slawson, an' I come +to see you on a little matter of business connected with a young lady +who's been lodgin' in your house--Miss Lang." + +Mrs. Daggett stepped forward, and unlatched the iron gate. "Come in," +she said, in a changed voice, endeavoring to infuse into her acrid +manner the grace of a belated hospitality. + +Claire, completely hidden from view behind Martha Slawson's heroic +proportions, followed in her wake like a wee, foreshortened shadow as, +at Mrs. Daggett's invitation, Mrs. Slawson passed through the area +gateway into the malodorous basement hall, and so to the dingy +dining-room beyond. Here a group of grimy-clothed tables seemed to have +alighted in sudden confusion, reminding one of a flock of pigeons +huddled together in fear of the vultures soon to descend on them with +greedy, all-devouring appetites. + +"We can just as well talk here as anywhere," announced Mrs. Daggett. +"It's quarter of an hour before dinnertime, but if you'd rather go up to +the parlor we can." + +"O, dear, no!" said Martha Slawson suavely. "_Any_ place is good enough +for me. Don't trouble yourself. I'm not particular _where_ I am." +Unbidden, she drew out a chair from its place beside one of the +uninviting tables, and sat down on it deliberately. It creaked beneath +her weight. + +"O--oh! Miss Lang!" said Mrs. Daggett, surprised, seeing her young +lodger now, for the first time. + +Martha nodded. "Yes, it's Miss Lang, an' I brought her with me, through +the turrbl storm, Mrs.--a--?" + +"Daggett," supplied the owner of the name promptly. + +"That's right, Daggett," repeated Martha. "I brought Miss Lang with me, +Mrs. Daggett, because I couldn't believe my ears when she told me she +was goin' to be--to be _turned out_, if she didn't pay up to-night, +_weather_ or no. I wanted to hear the real truth of it from you, ma'am, +straight, with her by." + +Mrs. Daggett coughed. "Well, business is business. I'm not a capitalist. +I'm not keeping a boarding-house for my health, you know. I can't +afford to give credit when I have to pay cash." + +"But, of course, you don't mean you'd ackchelly refuse the young lady +shelter a night like this, if she come to you, open an' honest, an' said +she hadn't the price by her just at present, but she would have it +sooner or later, an' then you'd be squared every cent. You wouldn't turn +her down if she said that, would you?" + +"Say, Mrs. Slawson, or whatever your name is," broke in Mrs. Daggett +sharply, "I'm not here to be cross-questioned. When you told me you'd +come on business for Miss Lang, I thought 'twas to settle what she owes. +If it ain't--I'm a busy woman. I'm needed in the kitchen this minute, to +see to the dishing-up. Have the goodness to come to the point. Is Miss +Lang going to pay? If she is, well and good. She can keep her room. If +she isn't--" The accompanying gesture was eloquent. + +Mrs. Slawson's chair gave forth another whine of reproach as she settled +down on it with a sort of inflexible determination that defied argument. + +"So that's your ultomato?" she inquired calmly. "I understand you to say +that if this young lady (who any one with a blind eye can see she's +_quality_), I understand you to say, that if she don't pay down every +cent she owes you, here an' now, you'll put her out, bag an' baggage?" + +"No, not bag and baggage, Mrs. Slawson," interposed the boarding-house +keeper with a wry smile, bridling with the sense that she was about to +say something she considered rather neat, "I am, as you might say, +holding her bag and baggage--as security." + +"Now what do you think o' that!" ejaculated Martha Slawson. + +"It's quite immaterial to me what anybody thinks of it," Mrs. Daggett +snapped. "And now, if that's all you've got to suggest, why, I'm sure +it's all I have, and so, the sooner we end this, the sooner I'll be at +liberty to attend to my dinner." + +Still Mrs. Slawson did not stir. + +"I suppose you think you're a lady," she observed without the faintest +suggestion of heat. "I suppose you think you're a lady, but you +certainly ain't workin' at it now. What takes my time, though, is the +way you ackchelly seem to be meanin' what you say! Why, I wouldn't turn +a dog out a night like this, an' you'd let a delicate young girl go into +the drivin' storm, a stranger, without a place to lay her head--that is, +for all _you_ know. I could bet my life, without knowin' a thing about +it, that the good Lord never let you have a daughter of your own. He +wouldn't trust the keepin' of a child's body, not to speak of her soul, +to such as you. That is, He wouldn't if He could help Himself. But, +thanks be! Miss Lang ain't dependent. She's well an' able to pay all she +owes. Supposin' she _has_ been kinder strapped for a little while back, +an' had to economize by comin' to such a place as this! I've knowed +others, compelled to economize with three trunks alongside a +hall-bedroom wall, for a while, too, an' by an' by their circumstances +was such that they had money to burn. It's not for the likes of Miss +Lang to try to transack business with your sort. It would soil her lips +to bandy words, so I, an old fam'ly servant, an' proud of it! am +settlin' up her affairs for her. Be kind enough to say how much it is +you are ready to sell your claim to Christian charity for? How much is +it you ain't willin' to lend to the Lord on Miss Lang's account?" She +plucked up her skirts, thrust her hand, unembarrassed, into her +stocking-leg, and brought forth from that safe depository a roll of +well-worn _greenbacks_. + +Mrs. Daggett named the amount of Claire's indebtedness, and Martha +Slawson proceeded to count it out in slow, deliberate syllables. She did +not, however, surrender the bills at once. + +"I'll take a receipt," she quietly observed, and then sat back with an +air of perfect imperturbability, while the boarding-house keeper +nervously fussed about, searching for a scrap of paper, hunting for a +pen, trying to unearth, from the most impossible hiding-places, a bottle +of ink, her indignation at Martha's _cheek_ escaping her in audible +mumblings. + +"Impudence! What right have you to come here, holding me to account? +I've my own way of doing good--" + +Mrs. Slawson shrugged. "Your own way? I warrant you have! Nobody else'd +recognize it. I'd like to bet, you don't give a penny to charity oncet +in five years. Come now, do you?" + +"God doesn't take into account the amount one gives," announced Mrs. +Daggett authoritatively. + +"P'raps not, but you can take it from _me_, He keeps a pretty close +watch on what we have left--or I miss my guess. An' now, Miss Claire +darlin', if you'll go an' get what belongin's you have, that this +generous lady ain't stripped off'n you, to hold for _security_, as she +calls it, we'll be goin'. An expressman will be 'round here the first +thing in the mornin' for Miss Lang's trunk, an' it's up to you, Mrs. +Daggett, to see it's ready for'm when he comes. Good-night to you, +ma'am, an' I wish you luck." + +Never after could Claire recall in detail what followed. She had a dim +vision of glistening pavements on which the rain dashed furiously, only +to rebound with resentful force, saturating one to the skin. Of fierce +blasts that seemed to lurk around every corner. Of street-lamps gleaming +meaninglessly out of the murk, curiously suggesting blinking eyes set in +a vacant face, and at last--at last--in blessed contrast--an open door, +the sound of cheery voices, the feel of warmth and welcome, the sight of +a plain, wholesome haven--rest. + +Martha Slawson checked her children's vociferous clamor with a word. +Then her orders fell thick and fast, causing feet to run and hands to +fly, causing curiosity to give instant way before the pressure of +busy-ness, and a sense of cooperation to make genial the task of each. + +"Hush, everybody! Cora, you go make up the bed in the boarder's room. +Turn the mattress, mind! An' stretch the sheets good an' smooth, like I +learned you to do. Francie, you get the hot-water bottle, quick, so's I +can fill it! Sammy, you go down to the cellar, an' tell Mr. Snyder your +mother will be much obliged if he'll turn on a' extra spark o' +steam-heat. Tell'm, Mrs. Slawson has a lady come to board with her for a +spell, that's fixin' for chills or somethin', onless she can be kep' +warm an' comfortable, an' the radianator in the boarder's room don't +send out much heat to speak of. Talk up polite, Sammy; d'you hear me? +An' be sure you don't let on Snyder might be keepin' a better fire in +his furnace if he didn't begrutch the coal so. It's gospel truth, o' +course, but landlords is _supposed_ to have feelin's, same as the rest +of us, an' a gentle word turneth aside wrath. Sabina, now show what a +big girl you are, an' fetch mother Cora's nicest nightie out o' the +drawer in my beaurer--the nightie Mrs. Granville sent Cora last +Christmas. Mother wants to hang it in front of the kitchen-range, so's +the pretty lady can go by-bye all warm an' comfy, after she's took her +supper off'n the tray, like Sabina did when she had the measles." + +Huge Sam Slawson, senior, overtopping his wife by fully half a head, +gazed down upon his little hive, from shaggy-browed, benevolent eyes. He +uttered no complaint because his dinner was delayed, and he, hungry as a +bear, was made to wait till a stranger was served and fed. Instead, he +wandered over to where Martha was supplementing "Ma's" ministrations at +the range, and patted her approvingly on the shoulder. + +"Another stray lamb, mother?" he asked casually. + +Martha nodded. "Wait till the rush is over, an' the young uns abed an' +asleep, an' I'll tell you all about it. Stray lamb! I should say as +much! A little white corset-lamb, used to eat out o' your hand, with a +blue ribbon round its neck. Goin' to be sent out to her death--or +worse, by a sharp-fangled wolf of a boardin'-house keeper, who'd gnaw +the skin off'n your bones, an' then crack the bones to get at the +marrer, if you give her the chanct. I'll tell you all about it later, +Sammy." + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +For days Claire lay in a state of drowsy quiet. + +She hardly realized the fact of her changed condition, that she was +being cared for, ministered to, looked after. She had brief, waking +moments when she seemed to be aware that Martha was bringing in her +breakfast, or sitting beside her while she ate her dinner, but the +intervening spaces, when "Ma" or Cora served, were dim, indistinct +adumbrations of no more substantial quality than the vagrant dreams that +ranged mistily across her relaxed brain. + +The thin walls of the cheaply-built flat did not protect her from the +noise of the children's prattling tongues and boisterous laughter, but +the walls of her consciousness closed her about, as in a muffled +security, and she slept on and on, until the exhausted body was +reinforced, the overtaxed nerves infused with new strength. + +Then, one evening, when the room in which she lay was dusky with +twilight shadows, she realized that she was awake, that she was alive. +She had gradually groped her way through the dim stretches lying between +the region of visions and that of the actual, but the step into a full +sense of reality was abrupt. She heard the sound of children's voices in +the next room. So clear they were, she could distinguish every syllable. + +"Say, now, listen, mother! What do you do when you go out working every +day?" It was Cora speaking. + +"I work." + +"Pooh, you know what I mean. What kinder work do you do?" + +For a moment there was no answer, then Claire recognized Martha's voice, +with what was, undeniably, a chuckle tucked away in its mellow depths, +where no mere, literal child would be apt to discern it. + +"Stenography an' typewritin'!" + +"Are you a stenographer an' typewriter, mother? Honest?" + +"Well, you can take it from me, if I was _it_ at all, I'd be it honest. +What makes you think there's any doubt o' my being one? Don't I have the +appearance of a high-toned young lady stenographer an' typewriter?" + +A pause, in which Martha's substantial steps were to be heard busily +passing to and fro, as she went about her work. Her mother's reply +evidently did not carry conviction to Cora's questioning mind, for a +second later she was up and at it afresh. + +"Say, now, listen, mother--if you do stenography an' typewritin', what +makes your apron so wet an' dirty, nights when you come home?" + +"Don't you s'pose I clean my machine before I leave? What kinder +typewriter d'you think I am? To leave my machine dirty, when a good +scrub-down, with a pail o' hot water, an' a stiff brush, an' Sapolio, +would put it in fine shape for the next mornin'." + +"Mother--say, now, listen! I don't _believe_ that's the way they clean +typewriters. Miss Symonds, she's the Principal's seckerterry to our +school, an' she sits in the office, she cleans her machine with oil and +a little fine brush, like you clean your teeth with." + +"What you been doin' in the Principal's office, miss, I should like to +know? Been sent up to her for bad behavior, or not knowin' your lessons? +Speak up now! Quick!" + +"My teacher, she sends me on errands, an' I got a credit-card last week +an', say, mother, I don't _believe_ you're a young lady stenographer an' +typewriter. You're just trying to fool me." + +"Well, Miss Smarty, supposin' I am. So long's I don't succeed you've no +kick comin'." + +"Say, now listen, mother." + +"Hush! You'll wake the pretty lady. Besides, too many questions before +dinner is apt to spoil the appetite, to say nothin' of the temper. Turn +to, an' lend a hand with them potatoes. Smash 'em good first, an' then +beat 'em with a fork until they're light an' creamy, an' you won't have +so much gimp left for snoopin' into things that don't concern you!" + +"Say, now listen, mother!" + +"Well?" + +"Say, mother, something awful funny happened to me last night?" + +"Are you tellin' what it was?" + +"Something woke me up in the middle of the night, 'n' I got up out of +bed, an' the clock struck four, 'n' then I knew it was mornin'. 'N' I +heard a noise, 'n' I thought it was robbers, 'n' I went to the door, 'n' +it was open, 'n' I went out into the hall, 'n'--" + +"Well?" + +"An' there was _you_, mother, on the stairs--kneelin'!" + +"Guess you had a dream, didn't you?" + +"No, I didn't." + +"What'd I be kneelin' on the stairs for, at four o'clock in the mornin', +I should like to know?" + +"It looked like you was brushin' 'em down." + +"_Me_ brushin' down _Snyder's_ stairs! Well, now what do you think o' +that?" Her tone of amazement, at the mere possibility, struck Cora, and +there was a pause, broken at length by Martha, in a preternaturally +solemn voice. "I s'pose you never tumbled to it I might be _prayin'_." + +Cora's eyes grew wide. "Prayin'!" she repeated in an awed whisper. "But, +mother, what'd you want to go out in the hall for, to pray on the +_stairs_, at four o'clock in the mornin'?" + +"Prayin' is a godly ack. Wheresomedever, an' _when_somedever you do it." + +"But, mother, I don't _believe_ you were prayin'. I heard the knockin' +o' your whis'-broom. You was brushin' down the stairs." + +"Well, what if I was? Cleanliness is next to godliness, ain't it? +Prayin' an' cleanin', it amounts to the same thing in the end--it's just +a question of what you clean, outside you or _in_." + +"But say, now, listen, mother, you never cleaned down Mr. Snyder's +stairs before. An' you been making shirtwaists for Mrs. Snyder, after +you get home nights. I saw her with one of 'em on." + +"Cora, do you know what happened to a little girl oncet who asked too +many questions?" + +"No." + +"Well, I won't tell you now. It might spoil your appetite for dinner. +But you can take it from me, the end she met with would surprise you." + +Shortly after, Claire's door quietly opened, and Cora, with a lighted +taper in her hand, tiptoed cautiously in, like a young torch-bearing +_avant-courriere,_ behind whom Mrs. Slawson, laden with a wonderful +tray, advanced processionally. + +"Light the changelier, an' then turn it low," Martha whispered. "An' +then you, yourself, light out, so's the pretty lady can eat in comfort." + +The pretty lady, sitting up among her pillows, awake and alert, almost +brought disaster upon the taper, and the tray, by exclaiming brightly, +"Good-evening! I'm wide awake for good! You needn't tiptoe or hush any +more. O, I feel like new! All rested and well and--_ready_ again. And I +owe it, every bit, to you! You've been so _good_ to me!" + +It was hard on Cora to have to obey her mother's injunction to "clear +out," just when the pretty lady was beginning to demonstrate her right +to the title. But Martha's word in her little household was not to be +disputed with impunity, and Cora slipped away reluctantly, carrying with +her a dazzling vision of soft, dark hair, starry blue-gray eyes, +wonderful changing expressions, and, in and over all, a smile that was +like a key to unlock hearts. + +"My, but it's good to see you so!" said Mrs. Slawson heartily. "I was +glad to have you sleep, for goodness knows you needed it, but if you'd +'a' kep' it up a day or so longer, I'd 'a' called in a doctor--shoor! +Just as a kind of nacherl percaution, against your settlin' down to a +permanent sleepin'-beauty ack, for, you can take it from me, I haven't +the business address of any Beast, here in New York City, could be +counted on to do the Prince-turn, when needed. There's plenty of +beasts, worse luck! but they're on the job, for fair. No magic, +lightenin'-change about _them_. They stay beasts straight through the +performance." + +Claire laughed. + +"But, as it happened, I didn't need a Prince, did I? I didn't need a +Prince or any one else, for I had a good fairy godmother who--O, Mrs. +Slawson, I--I--can't--" + +"You don't have to. An' I'm not Mrs. Slawson to you. I'm just Martha, +for I feel like you was my own young lady, an' if you call me Mrs. +Slawson, I won't feel so, an' here--now--see if you can clear up this +tray so clean it'll seem silly to wash the dishes." + +For a moment there was silence in the little room, while Claire tried to +compose herself, and Martha pretended to be busy with the tray. Then +Claire said, "I'll be very glad to call you Martha if you'll let me, and +there's something I'd like to say right off, because I've been lying +here quite a while thinking about it, and it's very important, indeed. +It's about my future, and--" + +"You'll excuse my interruckting, but before you reely get your steam +up, let me have a word on my own account, an' then, if you want to, you +can fire away--the gun's your own. What I mean _is_--I don't believe in +lyin' awake, thinkin' about the future, when a body can put in good +licks o' sleep, restin' from the past. It's against my principles. I'm +by the day. I work by the day, an' I live by the day. I reasoned it out +so-fashion: the past is over an' done with, whatever it may be, an' you +can't change it, for all you can do, so what's the use? You can bet on +one thing, shoor, whatever ain't dead waste in your past is, somehow, +goin' to get dished up to you in your present, or your future. You ain't +goin' to get rid of it, till you've worked it into your system _for +health_, as our dear old friend, Lydia Pinkham, says. As to the future, +the future's like a flea--when you can put your finger on the future, +it's time enough to think what you'll do with it. Folkes futures'd be +all right, if they'd just pin down a little tighter to _to-day_, an' +make that square up, the best they can, with what they'd oughter do. +Now, as to _your_ future, there's nothin' to fret about for a minute in +it. Jus' now, you're here, safe an' sound, an' here you're goin' to stay +until you're well an' strong an' fed up, an' the chill o' Mrs. Daggett +is out o' your body an' soul. You can take it from me, that woman is +worse than any line-storm _I_ ever struck for dampenin'-down purposes, +an' freeze-out, an' generl cussedness. Your business to-day--now--is to +get well an' strong. Then the future'll take care of itself." + +"But meanwhile," Claire persisted, "I'm living on you. Eating food for +which I haven't the money to pay, having loving care for which I +couldn't pay, if I had all the money in the world. I guess I know how +you settled my account with Mrs. Daggett. You gave her money you had +been saving for the rent, and now you are working, slaving overtime, at +four o'clock mornings, sweeping down the stairs, and late nights, making +shirtwaists for Mrs. Snyder, to help supply what's lacking." + +"Just you wait till I see that Cora," observed Mrs. Slawson +irrelevantly. "That's the time _her_ past will have slopped over on her +present, so's she can't tell which is which. Just you wait till I see +that Cora!" + +"No, no--_please_! Martha _dear_! It wasn't Cora! She's not to blame. +I'd have known sooner or later anyway. I always reason things out for +myself. Please promise not to scold Cora." + +"Scold Cora? Not on your life, my dear; I won't scold Cora. I'm +old-fashioned in my ways with childern. I don't believe in scoldin'. It +spoils their tempers, but a good _lickin'_ oncet in a while, helps 'em +to remember, besides bein' good for the circulation." + +Claire was ready to cry. "It's all my fault," she lamented. "I was +clumsy. I was tactless. And now Cora will be punished for it, and--I +make nothing but trouble for you all." + +"There, there! For mercy sake, don't take on like that. I promise I'll +let Cora go free, if you'll sit back quiet an' eat your dinner in peace. +So now! That's better!" + +"What I was going to say, Martha dear, is, I'm quite well and strong +now, and I want to set about immediately looking for something to do. I +ought to be able to support myself, you know, for I'm able-bodied, and +not so stupid but that I managed to graduate from college. Once, two +summers ago, I tutored--I taught a young girl who was studying to take +the Wellesley entrance exams. And I coached her so well she went through +without a condition, and she wasn't very quick, either. I wonder if I +couldn't teach?" + +"Shoor, you could!" + +"If I could get a position to teach in some school or some family, I +could, maybe, live here with you--rent this room--unless you have some +other use for it." + +"Lord, no! I _call_ it the boarder's room because this flat is really +too rich for my blood, but you see I don't want the childern brought up +in a bad neighborhood with low companions. Well, Sammy argued the rent +was too high, till I told'm we'd let a room an' make it up that way, +but what with this, an' what with that, we ain't had any boarders +exceptin' now an' then some friend of himself out of a job, or one o' +the girls, livin' out in the houses where I work, gettin' bounced +suddent, an' in want of a bed, an' none of 'em ever paid us a cent or +was asked for it." + +"Well, if I could get a position as teacher or governess, I'd soon be +able to pay back what you've laid out for me, and more besides, and--In +the houses where you work, are there any children who need a governess? +Any young girls who need a tutor? That's what I wanted to ask you, +Martha." + +Mrs. Slawson deliberated in silence for a moment. + +"There's the Livingstons," she mused, "but they ain't any childern. Only +a childish brother-in-law. He's not quite _all there,_ as you might say. +It'd be no use tryin' to learn him nothin', seein' he's so +odd--seventy-odd--an' his habits like to be fixed. Then, there's the +Farrands. But the girls goes to Miss Spenny's school, an' the son's at +Columbia. It might upset their plans, if I was to suggest their givin' +up where they're at, an' havin' you. Then there's the Grays, an' the +Granvilles, an' the Thornes. Addin' 'em all together for childern, +they'd come to about half a child a pair. Talk about your race suicide! +They say they 'can't afford to have childern.' You can take it from me, +it's the poor people are rich nowadays. _We_ can afford to have +childern, all right, all right. Then there's Mrs. Sherman--She's got one +boy, but he--Radcliffe Sherman--well, he's a limb! A reg'lar young +villain. You couldn't manage _him_. Only Lord Ronald can manage +Radcliffe Sherman, an' he--" + +"Lord Ronald?" questioned Claire, when Mrs. Slawson's meditation +threatened to become static. + +"Why, he's Mrs. Sherman's brother, Mr. Frank Ronald, an' no real lord +could be handsomer-lookin', or grander-behavin', or richer than him. +Mrs. Sherman is a widder, or a divorcy, or somethin' stylish like that. +Anyhow, I worked for her this eight years an' more--almost ever since +Radcliffe was born, an' I ain't seen hide nor hair o' any Mr. Sherman +yet, an' they never speak o' him, so I guess he was either too good or +too bad to mention. Mr. Frank an' his mother lives with Mrs. Sherman, +an' what Mr. Frank says _goes_. His word is law. She thinks the world +of'm, an' well she may, for he's a thorerbred. The way he treats me, for +instants. You'd think I was the grandest lady in the land. He never sees +me but it's, 'How d'do, Martha?' or, 'How's the childern an' Mr. Slawson +these days?' He certainly has got grand ways with'm, Mr. Frank has. An' +yet, he's never free. You wouldn't dare make bold with'm. His eyes has +a sort o' _keep-off-the-grass_ look gener'ly, but when he smiles down at +you, friendly-like, why, you wouldn't call the queen your cousin. +Radcliffe knows he can't monkey with his uncle Frank, an' when he's by, +butter wouldn't melt in that young un's mouth. But other times--my! You +see, Mrs. Sherman is dead easy. She told me oncet, childern ought to be +brought up 'scientifically.' Lord! She said they'd ought to be let +_express their souls_, whatever she means by that. I told her I thought +it was safer not to trust too much to the childern's souls, but to help +along some occasional with your own--the sole of your slipper. It was +then she said she 'abserlootly forbid' any one to touch Radcliffe. She +wanted him 'guided by love alone.' Well, that's what he's been guided +with, an', you can take it from me, love's made a hash of it, as it +ushally does when it ain't mixed with a little common sense. You'd +oughta see that fella's anticks when his mother, an' Lord Ronald, ain't +by. He'd raise the hair offn your head, if you hadn't a spear of it +there to begin with. He speaks to the help as if they was dirt under his +feet, an' he'd as lief lie as look at you, an' always up to some new +devilment. It'd take your time to think fast enough to keep up with'm. +But he ain't all bad--I don't believe no child _is_, not on your life, +an' my idea is, he'd turn out O.K. if only he'd the right sort o' +handlin'. Mr. Frank could do it--but when Lord Ronald is by, Radcliffe +is a pet lamb--a little woolly wonder. You ast me why I call Mr. Frank +Lord Ronald. I never thought of it till one time when Cora said a piece +at a Sund'-School ent'tainment. I can't tell you what the piece was, +for, to be perfectly honest, I was too took up, at the time, watchin' +Cora's stockin', which was comin' down, right before the whole +churchful. It reely didn't, but I seen the garter hangin', an' I thought +it would, any minute. I remember it was somethin' about a fella called +Lord Ronald, who was a reel thorerbred, just like Mr. Frank is. I +recklect one of the verses went: + +"'Lord Ronald had the lily-white dough--' + +(to my way o' thinkin' it's no matter about the color, white or gold or +just plain, green paper-money, so long's you've _got_ it), anyhow, +that's what it said in the piece-- + +"'Lord Ronald had the lily-white dough, +Which he gave to his cousin, Lady Clare.' + +Say, wasn't he generous?--'give to his cousin--Lady Clare'--an'--good +gracious! O, excuse me! I didn't mean to jolt your tray like that, but I +just couldn't help flyin' up, for I got an idea! True as you live, I got +an idea!" + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +It did not take long, once Claire was fairly on her feet again, to +adjust herself to her new surroundings, to find her place and part in +the social economy of the little family-group where she was never for a +moment made to feel an alien. She appropriated a share in the work of +the household at once, insisting, to Martha's dismay, upon lending a +hand mornings with the older children, who were to be got off to school, +and with the three-year-old Sabina, who was to stay at home. She +assisted with the breakfast preparations, and then, when the busy swarm +had flown for the day, she "turned to," to Ma's delight, and got the +place "rid up" so it was "clean as a whistle an' neat as a pin." + +Ma was not what Martha approvingly called "a hustler." + +"Ma ain't thorer," her daughter-in-law confided to Claire, without +reproach. "She means well, but, as she says, her mind ain't fixed on +things below, an' when that's the case, the dirt is bound to settle. Ma +thinks you can run a fam'ly, readin' the Bible an' singin' hymns. Well, +p'raps you can, only I ain't never dared try. When I married Sammy he +looked dretful peaky, the fack bein' he hadn't never been properly fed, +an' it's took me all of the goin'-on fifteen years now, we been livin' +together, to get'm filled up accordin' to his appetite, which is heavy. +You see, Ma never had any time to attend to such earthly matters as +cookin' a square meal--but she's settin' out to have a lot of leisure +with the Lord." + +As for Ma, she found it pleasant to watch, from a comfortable distance, +the work progressing satisfactorily, without any draft on her own +energies. + +"Martha's a good woman, miss," she observed judicially, in her detached +manner, "but she is like the lady of her name we read about in the +blessed Book. When _I_ set out in life, I chose the betther part, an' +now I'm old, I have the faith to believe I'll have a front seat in +heaven. I've knew throuble in me day. I raised ten childern, an' I had +three felons, an' God knows I think I earned a front seat in heaven." + +Claire's pause, before she spoke, seemed to Ma to indicate she was +giving the subject the weighty consideration it deserved. + +"According to that, it would certainly seem so. You have rheumatism, +too, haven't you?" as if that might be regarded as an added guarantee of +special celestial reservation. + +Ma paled visibly. "No, miss. I don't never have the rheumatiz now--not +so you'd notice it," she said plaintively. "Oncet I'd it thurrbl, an' me +son Sammy had it, too, loikewoise, fierce. I'd uster lay in bed moanin' +an' cryin' till you'd be surprised, an' me son Sammy, he was a'most as +bad. Well, for a week or two, Martha, she done for us the best she cud, +I s'pose, but she didn't make for to stop the pain, an' at last one +night, when me son Sammy was gruntin', an' I was groanin' to beat the +band, Martha, she up, all of a suddint, an' says she, she was goin' for +to cure us of the rheumatiz, or know the reason why. An' she went, an' +got the karrysene-can, an' she poured out two thurrbl big doses, an' she +stood over me son Sammy an' I, till we swalleyed it down, an' since ever +we tuk it, me an' Sammy ain't never had a retur-rn. Sometimes I have a +sharp twinge o' somethin' in me leg or me arrm, but it ain't rheumatiz, +an' I wouldn't like for me son Sammy's wife to be knowin' it, for the +very sight of her startin' for the karrysene--if it's only to fill the +lamp, is enough to make me gullup, an' I know it's the same wit' me son +Sammy, though we never mention the subjeck between us." + +"But if your son didn't want to take the stuff," Claire said, trying to +hide her amusement, "why didn't he stand up and say so? He's a man. He's +much bigger and stronger than his wife. How could she make him do what +he didn't want to?" + +The question was evidently not a new one to Ma. + +"That's what annywan'd naturrly think," she returned promptly. "But +that's because they wouldn't be knowin' me son Sammy's wife. It ain't +size, an' it ain't stren'th--it's just, well, _Martha_. There's that +about her you wouldn't like to take any chances wit'. Perhaps it's the +thing manny does be talkin' of these days. Perhaps it's _that_ got a +holt of her. Annyhow, she says she's _in_ for't. They does be callin' it +Woman Sufferrich, I'm told. In my day a dacint body'd have thought shame +to be discoursin' in public to the men. They held their tongues, an' let +their betthers do the colloguein', but Martha says some of the ladies +she works for says, if they talk about it enough the men will give them +their rights, an' let 'em vote. I'm an old woman, an' I never had much +book-learnin', but I'm thinkin' one like me son Sammy's wife has all the +rights she needs wit'out the votin'. She goes out worrkin', same's me +son Sammy, day in, day out. She says Sammy could support _her_ good +enough, but she won't raise her childern in a teniment, along wit' th' +low companions. Me son Sammy, he has it harrd these days. He'd not be +able to pay for such a grrand flat as this, in a dacint, quiet +neighborhood, an' so Martha turrns to, an' lends a hand. An' wance, when +me son Sammy was sick, an' out av a job entirely, Martha, she run the +whole concern herself. She wouldn't let me son Sammy give up, or get +down-hearted, like he mighta done. She said it was her _right_ to care +for us all, an' him, too, bein' he was down an' out, like he was. It +seems to me that's fairrly all the rights anny woman'd want--to look out +for four childern, an' a man, an' a mother-in-law. But if Martha wants +to vote, too, why, I'm thinkin' she will." + +It was particularly encouraging to Claire, just at this time, to view +Martha in the light of one who did not know the meaning of the word +fail, for Mrs. Slawson had assured her that if she would give up all +attempt to find employment on her own account, she, Mrs. Slawson, felt +she could safely promise to get her "a job that would be satisfacktry +all round, only one must be a little pationate." + +But a week, ten days, had gone by, since Martha announced she had _an +idea_, and still the idea had not materialized. Meanwhile, Claire had +ample time to unpack her trunk and settle her belongings about her, so +"the pretty lady's room" took on a look of real comfort, and the +children never passed the door without pausing before the threshold, +waiting with bated breath for some wonderful chance that would give +them a "peek" into the enchanted chamber. As a matter of fact, the +transformation was effected with singularly few "properties." Some good +photographs tastefully framed in plain, dark wood. A Baghdad rug left +over from her college days, some scraps of charming old textiles, and +such few of the precious home trifles as could be safely packed in her +trunk. There was a daguerreotype of her mother, done when she was a +girl. "As old-fashioned as your grandmother's hoopskirt," Martha called +it. A sampler wrought by some ancient great-aunt, both aunt and sampler +long since yellowed and mellowed by the years. A della Robbia plaque, +with its exquisite swaddled baby holding out eager arms, as if to be +taken. A lacquer casket, a string of Egyptian mummy-beads--what seemed +to the children an inexhaustible stock of wonderful, mysterious +treasures. + +But the object that appeared to interest their mother more than anything +else in the whole collection, was a book of unmounted photographs, +snap-shots taken by Claire at college, during her travels abroad, some +few, even, here in the city during those first days when she had dreamed +it was easy to walk straight into an art-editorship, and no questions +asked. + +Mrs. Slawson scrutinized the prints with an earnestness so eager that +Claire was fairly touched, until she discovered that here was no aching +hunger for knowledge, no ungratified yearning "for to admire and for to +see, for to be'old this world so wide," but just what looked like a +perfectly feminine curiosity, and nothing more. + +"Say, ain't it a pity you ain't any real good likeness of you?" Martha +deplored. "These is so aggeravatin'. They don't show you up at all. Just +a taste-like, an' then nothin' to squench the appetite." + +"That sounds as if I were an entree or something," laughed Claire. "But, +you see, I don't want to be _shown up_, Martha. I couldn't abear it, as +my friend, Sairy Gamp, would say. When I was little, my naughty big +brother used to tease me dreadfully about my looks. He invented the most +embarrassing nicknames for me; he alluded to my features with every sort +of disrespect. It made me horribly conscious of myself, a thing no +properly-constituted kiddie ought ever to be, of course. And I've never +really got over the feeling that I am a 'sawed-off,' that my nose is +'curly,' and my hair's a wig, and that the least said about the rest of +me, the better. But if you'd actually like to see something my people at +home consider rather good, why, here's a little tinted photograph I had +done for my dear Daddy, the last Christmas he was with us. He liked it, +and that's the reason I carry it about with me--because he wore it on +his old-fashioned watch-chain." + +She put into Martha's hand a thin, flat, dull-gold locket. + +Mrs. Slawson opened it, and gave a quick gasp of delight--the sound of +triumph escaping one who, having diligently sought, has satisfactorily +found. "Like it!" Martha ejaculated. + +Claire deliberated a moment, watching the play of expression on Martha's +mobile face. "If you like it as much as all that," she said at last, "I +wish you'd take it and keep it. It seems conceited--priggish--to suppose +you'd care to own it, but if you really _would_ care to--" + +Mrs. Slawson closed one great, finely-formed, work-hardened fist over +the delicate treasure, with a sort of ecstatic grab of appropriation. +"Care to own it! You betcher life! There's nothin' you could give me I'd +care to own better," she said with honest feeling, then and there tying +its slender ribbon about her neck, and slipping the locket inside her +dress, as if it had been a precious amulet. + +The day following saw her started bright and early for work at the +Shermans'. When she arrived at the area-gate and rang, there was no +response, and though she waited a reasonable time, and then rang and +rang again, nobody answered the bell. + +"They must be up," she said, settling down to business with a steady +thumb on the electric button. "What ails the bunch o' them in the +kitchen, I should like to know. It'd be a pity to disturb Eliza. She +might be busy, gettin' herself an extry cup o' coffee, an' couple o' +fried hams-an'-eggs, to break her fast before breakfast. But that gay +young sprig of a kitchen-maid, _she_ might answer the bell an' open the +door to an honest woman." + +The _gay young sprig_ still failing of her duty, and Martha's patience +giving out at last, the _honest woman_ began to tamper with the +spring-lock of the iron gate. For any one else, it would never have +yielded, but it opened to Martha's hand, as with the dull submission of +the conquered. + +Mrs. Slawson closed the gate after her with care. "I'll just step +light," she said to herself, "an' steal in on 'em unbeknownst, an' give +'em as good a scare as ever they had in their lives--the whole lazy lot +of 'em." + +But, like Mother Hubbard's cupboard, the kitchen was bare, and no soul +was to be found in the laundry, the pantry or, in fact, anywhere +throughout the basement region. Softly, and with some real misgiving +now, Martha made her way upstairs. Here, for the first time, she +distinguished the sound of a human voice breaking the early morning hush +of the silent house. It was Radcliffe's voice issuing, evidently, from +the dining-room, in which imposing apartment he chose to have his +breakfast served in solitary grandeur every morning, what time the rest +of his family still slept. + +Martha, pausing on her way up, peeped around the edge of the half-closed +door, and then stopped short. + +Along the wall, ranged up in line, like soldiers facing their captain, +or victims of a hold-up their captor, stood the household +servants--portly Shaw the butler, Beatrice the parlor-maid, Eliza the +"chef-cook"--all, down to the gay young sprig, aforesaid, who, as Martha +had explained to her family in strong disapproval, "was engaged to do +scullerywork, an' then didn't even know how to scull." Before them, in +an attitude of command, not to say menace, stood Radcliffe, brandishing +a carving-knife which, in his cruelly mischievous little hand, became a +weapon full of dangerous possibilities. + +"Don't dare to budge, any one of you," he breathed masterfully to his +cowed regiment. "Get back there, you Shaw! An', Beetrice, if you don't +mind me, I'll carve your ear off. You better be afraid of me, all of +you, an' mind what I say, or I'll take this dagger, an' dag the life +out of you! You're all my servants--you're all my slaves! D'you hear +me!" + +Evidently they did, and not one of them cared or dared to stir. + +For a second Radcliffe faced them in silence, before beginning to march +Napoleonically back and forth, his savage young eye alert, his naughty +hand brandishing the knife threateningly. A second, and then, suddenly, +without warning, the scene changed, and Radcliffe was a squirming, +wriggling little boy, shorn of his power, grasped firmly in a grip from +which there was no chance of escape. + +"Shame on you!" exclaimed Martha indignantly, addressing the spellbound +line, staring at her blankly. "Shame on you! To stand there gawkin', an' +never raisin' a finger to this poor little fella, an' him just perishin' +for the touch of a real mother's hand. Get out of this--the whole crowd +o' you," and before the force of her righteous wrath they fled as chaff +before the wind. Then, quick as the automatic click of a monstrous +spring, the hitherto unknown--the supposed-to-be-impossible--befell +Radcliffe Sherman. He was treated as if he had been an iron girder on +which the massive clutch of a steam-lift had fastened. He was raised, +lowered, laid across what seemed to be two moveless iron trestles, and +then the weight as of a mighty, relentless paddle, beat down upon him +once, twice, thrice--and he knew what it was to suffer. + +The whole thing was so utterly novel, so absolutely unexpected, that for +the first instant he was positively stunned with surprise. Then the +knowledge that he was being spanked, that an unspeakable indignity was +happening him, made him clinch his teeth against the sobs that rose in +his throat, and he bore his punishment in white-faced, shivering +silence. + +When it was over, Martha stood him down in front of her, holding him +firmly against her knees, and looked him squarely in the eyes. His +colorless, quivering lips gave out no sound. + +"You've got off easy," observed Mrs. Slawson benevolently. "If you'd +been my boy Sammy, you'd a got about twict as much an' three times as +thora. As it is, I just kinder favored you--give you a lick an' a +promise, as you might say, seein' it's you and you ain't used to +it--_yet_. Besides, I reely like you, an' want you to be a good boy. +But, if you should need any more at any other time, why, you can take it +from me, I keep my hand in on Sammy, an' practice makes perfect." + +She released the two small, trembling hands, rose to her feet, and made +as if to leave the room. Then for the first time Radcliffe spoke. + +"S-say," he breathed with difficulty, "s-say--are you--are you goin' to +_t-tell?_" + +Martha paused, regarding him and his question with due concern. "Tell?" + +"Are y-you going to--t-tell on me, t-to ev-everybody? Are y-you going to +t-tell--S-Sammy?" + +"Shoor I'm not! I'm a perfect lady! I always keep such little affairs +with my gen'lemen friends strickly confidential. Besides--Sammy has +troubles of his own." + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +All that day, Martha held herself in readiness to answer at headquarters +for what she had done. + +"He'll shoor tell his mother, the young villyan," said Eliza. "An' then +it'll be Mrs. Slawson for the grand bounce." + +But Mrs. Slawson did not worry. She went about her work as usual, and +when, in the course of her travels, she met Radcliffe, she greeted him +as if nothing had happened. + +"Say, did you know that Sammy has a dog?" + +No answer. + +"It's a funny kind o' dog. If you begged your head off, I'd never tell +you where he come from." + +"Where did he come from?" + +"Didn't you hear me say I'd never tell you? I do' know. He just picked +Sammy's father up on the street, an' follered him home, for all the +world the same's he'd been a Christian." + +"What kind of dog is he?" + +"Cur-dog." + +"What kind's that?" + +"Well, a full-blooded cur-dog is somethin' rare in these parts. You +wouldn't find him at an ordinary dog-show, like your mother goes to. +Now, Sammy's dog is full-blooded--leastways, he will be, when he's fed +up." + +"My mother's dog is a _pedigree-dog_. Is Sammy's that kind?" + +"I ain't ast him, but I shouldn't wonder." + +"My mother's got a paper tells all about where Fifi came from. It's in a +frame." + +"Fifi is?" + +"No, the paper is. The paper says Fifi is out of a deller, sired by +Star. I heard her read it off to a lady that came to see her one day. +Say, Martha, what's a _deller?_" + +"I do' know." + +"Fifi has awful long ears. What kind of ears has Sammy's dog got?" + +"I didn't notice partic'lar, I must say. But he's got two of 'em, an' +they can stand up, an' lay down, real natural-like, accordin' to +taste--the dog's taste, which wouldn't be noways remarkable, if it was +his tongue, but is what _I_ call extraordinary, seein' it's his _ears_. +An' his tail's the same, exceptin' it has even more education still. It +can wag, besides standin' up an' layin' down. Ain't that pretty smart +for a pup, that prob'ly didn't have no raisin' to speak of, 'less you +count raisin' on the toe of somebody's boot?" + +"D'you mean anybody kicked him?" + +"Well, he ain't said so, in so many words, but I draw my own +conclusions. He's an honorable, gentlemanlike dog. He keeps his own +counsel. If it so happened that he'd needed to be punished at any time, +he'd bear it like a little man, an' hold his tongue. You don't catch a +reel thorerbred whinin'." + +"I wish I could see Sammy's dog." + +"Well, p'raps you can. But I'll tell you confidential, I wouldn't like +Flicker to 'sociate with none but the best class o' boys. I'm goin' to +see he has a fine line of friends from this time on, an' if Sammy ain't +what he'd oughter be, why, he just can't mix with Flicker, that's all +there is _to_ it!" + +"Who gave him that name?" + +"'His sponsers in baptism--' Ho! Hear me! Recitin' the Catechism! I'm +such a good 'Piscopalian I just can't help it! A little lady-friend of +mine gave him that name, 'cause he flickers round so--so like a little +yeller flame. Did I mention his color was yeller? That alone would show +he's a true-breed cur-dog." + +"Say, I forgot--my mother she--she sent me down to tell you she wants to +see you right away up in her sittin'-room. I guess you better go quick." + +Mrs. Slawson ceased plying her polishing-cloth upon the hardwood floor, +sat back upon her heels, and calmly gathered her utensils together. + +"Say, my mother she said tell you she wanted to see you right off, for +something particular. Ain't you goin' to hurry?" + +"Shoor I am. Certaintly." + +"You don't look as if you was hurrying." + +"When you get to be a big boy, and have a teacher to learn you +knowledge, you'll find that large bodies moves slowly. I didn't have as +much schoolin' as I'd like, but what I learned I remember, an' I put it +into practice. That's where the use of books comes in--to be put in +practice. Now, I'm a large body, an' if I tried to move fast I'd be +goin' against what's printed in the books, which would be wrong. Still, +if a lady sends for me post-haste, why, of course, I makes an exception +an' answers in the same spirit. So long! See you later!" + +Radcliffe had no mind to remain behind. Something subtly fascinating in +Martha seemed to draw him after her, and he followed on upstairs, +swinging himself athletically along, hand over hand, upon the +baluster-rail, almost at her heels. + +"Say, don't you wonder what it is my mother's goin' to say to you?" he +demanded disingenuously. + +Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "Wonderin' is a habit I broke myself off +of, when I wasn't knee-high to a grasshopper," she replied. "I take +things as they come, not to mention as they go. Either way suits me, +an' annyhow I don't wonder about 'em. If it's somethin' good, why, it'll +keep. An' if it's somethin' bad, wonderin' won't make it any better. So +what's the use?" + +"Guess I'll go on up, an' see my grandmother in her room," observed +Radcliffe casually, as they reached Mrs. Sherman's door. "I won't go in +here with you." + +"Dear me, how sorry I am!" Martha returned with feeling. "I'd kinder +counted on you for--for what they calls moral support, that bein' the +kind the male gender is mainly good for, these days. But, of course, if +you ain't been invited, it wouldn't be genteel for you to press +yourself. I can understand your feelin's. They does credit to your head +an' to your heart. As I said before--so long! See you later." + +The door having closed her in, Radcliffe lingered aimlessly about, +outside. Without, of course, being able to analyze it, he felt as if +some rare source of entertainment had been withdrawn from him, leaving +life flat and tasteless. He felt like being, what his mother called, +"fractious," but--he remembered, as in a flash, "you never catch a +thorerbred whinin'," and he snapped his jaws together with manly +determination. + +At Martha's entrance, Mrs. Sherman glanced up languidly from the book +she was reading, and inquired with pointed irony, "You didn't find it +convenient to come to me directly I sent for you, did you, Martha?" + +Mrs. Slawson closed the door behind her gently, then stood planted like +some massive caryatid supporting the frame. Something monumental in the +effect of her presence made the question just flung at her seem petty, +impudent, and Mrs. Sherman hastened to add more considerately, "But I +sent Radcliffe with my message. No doubt he delayed." + +"No'm," admitted Martha, "he told me all right enough, but I was in the +middle o' polishin'. It took me a minute or two to get my things +collected, an' then it took me a couple more to get _me_ collected, +but--better late than never, as the sayin' goes, which, by the same +token, I don't believe it's always true." + +There was not the faintest trace of apology or extenuation in her tone +or manner. If she had any misgivings as to the possibility of +Radcliffe's having complained, she gave no evidence of it. + +"What I want to say is this," announced Mrs. Sherman autocratically, +making straight for the point. "I absolutely forbid any one in my +household to touch--" + +Martha settled herself more firmly on her feet and crossed her arms with +unconscious dignity upon her bosom, bracing herself against the coming +blow. + +"I absolutely forbid any one in my household to touch the new marble +slabs and nickel fittings in my dressing-rooms with cleaning stuffs +containing acids, after this. I have gone to great expense to have the +house remodeled this summer, and the bathrooms have all been tiled and +fitted up afresh, from beginning to end. I know that, in the past, you +have used acid, gritty soaps on the basins and tubs, Martha, and my +plumber tells me you mustn't do it. He says it's ruinous. He recommends +kerosene oil for the bath-tubs and marble slabs. He says it will take +any stain out, and is much safer than the soaps. So please use kerosene +to remove the stains--" + +Mrs. Slawson relaxed. Without the slightest hint of incivility she +interrupted cheerfully, "An' does your plumber mention what'll remove +the stink--I _should_ say, _odor_, of the karrysene?" + +Mrs. Sherman laughed. "Dear me, no. I'm afraid that's _up to_ you, as +Radcliffe says." + +"O, I ain't no doubt it can be done, an' even if it can't, the smell o' +karrysene is healthy, an' you wouldn't mind a faint whifft of it now an' +then, clingin' to you, comin' outer your bath, would you? Or if you did, +you might set over against the oil-smell one o' them strong bath-powders +that's like the perfumery-counter in a department-store broke loose, +an' let 'em fight it out between 'em. To my way o' thinkin', it'd be a +_tie_, an' no thanks to your nose." + +"Well, I only follow the plumber's directions. He guarantees his work +and materials, but he says acids will roughen the surface of +anything--enamel or marble or whatever it may be. I'm sure you'll be +careful in the future, now I have spoken, and--er--how are you getting +on these days? How are you and your husband and the children?" + +"Tolerable, thank you. Sammy, my husband, he ain't been earnin' as much +as usual lately, but I says to him, when he's downhearted-like because +he can't hand out the price o' the rent, 'Say, you ain't fished up much +of anythin' certaintly, but count your blessin's. You ain't fell in the +river either.' An' be this an' be that, we make out to get along. We +never died a winter yet." + +"Dear me, I should think a great, strapping man ought to be able to +support his family without having to depend on his wife to go out by the +day." + +"My husband does his best," said Martha with simple dignity. "He does +his best, but things goes contrairy with some, no doubt o' that." + +"O, the thought of the day would not bear you out there, I assure you!" +Mrs. Sherman took her up quickly. "Science teaches us that our +condition in life reflects our character. We get the results of what we +are in our environment. You understand? In other words, each receives +his desert. I hope I am clear? I mean, what he deserves." + +Martha smiled, a slow, calm, tolerant smile. "You are perfeckly clear," +she said reassuringly. "Only I ain't been educated up to seein' things +that way. Seems to me, if everybody got their dessert, as you calls it, +some o' them that's feedin' so expensive now at the grand hotels +wouldn't have a square meal. It's the ones that ain't _earned_ 'em, +_havin'_ the square meal _and_ the dessert, that puts a good man, like +my Sammy, out o' a job. But that's neither here nor there. It's all +bound to come right some day--only meanwhiles, I wish livin' wasn't so +high. What with good steak twenty-eight cents a pound, an' its bein' as +much as your life is worth to even ast the price o' fresh vegetables, it +takes some contrivin' to get along. Not to speak o' potatas twenty-five +cents the half-peck, an' every last one o' my fam'ly as fond of 'em as +if they was fresh from Ireland, instead o' skippin' a generation on both +sides." + +"But, my good woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Sherman, shocked, "what _do_ you +mean by talking of porterhouse steak and fresh vegetables this time of +year? Oughtn't you to economize? Isn't it extravagant for you to use +such expensive cuts of meat? I'm sure there are others that are +cheaper--more suited to your--your income." + +"Certaintly there is. Chuck steak is cheap. Chuck steak's so cheap that +about all it costs you is a few cents to the butcher, an' the price of +the store teeth you need, after you've broke your own tryin' to chew it. +But, you see, my notion is, to try to give my fam'ly the sort o' stuff +that's nourishin'. Not just somethin' to _eat_, but _food_. I don't +believe their stummicks realize they belong to poor folks. I'm not +envyin' the rich, mind you. Dear no! I wouldn't be hired to clutter up +my insides with the messes I see goin' up to the tables of some I work +for. Cocktails, an' entrys, an' foody-de-gra-gra, an' suchlike. No! I +believe in reel, straight nourishment. The things that builds up your +bones, an' gives you red blood, an' good muscle, so's you can hold down +your job, an' hold up your head. I believe in payin' for that kind o' +food, if I _do_ have to work for it." + +Mrs. Sherman took up the book she had dropped at Martha's entrance. + +"You certainly are a character," she observed. + +"Thank you, 'm," said Martha. + +"O, and by the way, before you go--I want you to see that Mr. Ronald's +rooms are put in perfect order to-day. I don't care to trust it to the +girls, but you can have one of them to help you, if you like, provided +you are sure to oversee her. You know how particular I am about my +brother Frank's rooms. Be sure nothing is neglected." + +"Yes'm," said Martha. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +The next morning Eliza met her at the area-gate, showing a face of +ominous sympathy, wagging a doleful head. + +"What'd I tell you?" she exclaimed before she had even unlatched the +spring-lock. "That young villyan has a head on him old enough to be his +father's, if so be he ever had one. He's deep as a well. He didn't tell +his mother on ye yesterday mornin', but he done worse--the little fox! +He told his uncle Frank when he got home last night. Leastways, Mr. Shaw +got a message late in the evenin' from upstairs, which was, to tell Mrs. +Slawson, Mr. Ronald wanted to see her after his breakfast this mornin', +an' be sure she didn't forget." + +Mrs. Slawson received the news with a smile as of such actual welcome, +that Eliza, who flattered herself she knew a thing or two about human +nature, was rather upset in her calculations. + +"You look like you _relish_ bein' bounced," she observed tartly. + +"Well, if I'm goin' to get my walkin'-papers, I'd rather get 'em from +Mr. Frank than from anybody else. There's never any great loss without +some small gain. At least, if Mr. Frank is dischargin' me, he's noticin' +I'm alive, an' that's somethin' to be thankful for." + +"That's _as_ you look at it!" snapped Eliza. "Mr. Frank is all right +enough, but I must say I'd rather keep my place than have even him kick +me out. An' you look as if his sendin' for you was to say you'd come in +for a fortune." + +"P'raps it is," said Martha. "You never can tell." + +"Well, if _I_ was makin' tracks for fortunes, I wouldn't start in on Mr. +Frank Ronald," Eliza observed cuttingly. + +"Which might be exackly where you'd slip up on it," Martha returned with +a bland smile. + +And yet, in reality, she was by no means so composed as she appeared. +She felt as might one who, moved by a great purpose, had rashly usurped +the prerogative of fate and set in motion mighty forces that, if they +did not make for success, might easily make for disaster. She had very +definitely stuck her thumb into somebody else's pie, and if her laudable +intention was to draw forth a plum, not for herself but for the other, +why, that was no proof that, in the end, she might not get smartly +scorched for her pains. + +When the summons to the dining-room actually came, Martha felt such an +unsubstantiality in the region of her knee-joints, that for a moment she +almost believed the bones had turned into breadcrumbs. Then +energetically she shook herself into shape, spurning her momentary +weakness from her, with an almost visible gesture, and marched forward +to meet what awaited her. + +Shaw had removed the breakfast dishes from the table beside which "Lord +Ronald" sat alone. It was all very imposing, the place, the particular +purpose for which she had been summoned, and which was, as yet, +unrevealed to her, the _person_, most of all. + +Martha thought that perhaps she had been a little hard on Cora, "the +time she give her the tongue-lashin' for stumblin' over the first lines +of her piece, that evenin' of the Sund'-School ent'tainment. It wasn't +so dead easy as a body might think, to stand up to a whole churchful o' +people, or even one person, when he was the kind that's as good (or as +bad) as a whole churchful." + +Martha could see her now, as she stood then, announcing to the assembled +multitude in a high, unmodulated treble: + +_"It was the t-time when l-lilies bub-blow"_ + +"an' her stockin' fixin' to come down any min'ute!" + +"Ah, Martha, good-morning!" + +At the first sound of his voice Mrs. Slawson recovered her poise. That +_wouldn't-call-the-queen-your-cousin_ feeling came over her again, and +she was ready to face the music, whatever tune it might play. So +susceptible is the foolish spirit of mortal to those subtle, impalpable +influences of atmosphere that we try to describe, in terms of inexact +science, as personality, vibration, aura, magnetism. + +"I asked to see you, Martha, because Radcliffe tells me--" + +Martha's heart sank within her. So it was Radcliffe and the _grand +bounce_ after all, and not--Well, it was a pity! After all her thinkin' +it out, an' connivin', an' contrivin', to have nothin' come of it! To be +sent off before she had time to see the thing through! + +"Radcliffe tells me," continued the clear, mellow voice, penetrating the +mist of her meditations, "that you own a very rare, a very unusual breed +of dog. I couldn't make out much from Radcliffe's description, but +apparently the dog is a pedigree animal." + +Mrs. Slawson's shoulders, in her sudden revulsion of feeling, shook with +soundless mirth. + +"Pedigree animal!" she repeated. "Certaintly! Shoor, he's a pedigree +animal. He's had auntsisters as far back as any other dog, an' that's a +fack. What's the way they put it? 'Out of' the gutter, 'sired by' +Kicks. You never see a little yeller, mongol, cur-dog, sir, that's +yellerer or cur-er than him. I'd bet my life his line ain't never been +crossed by anythin' different, since the first pup o' them all set out +to run his legs off tryin' to get rid o' the tin-can tied to his tail. +But Flicker's a winner, for all that, an' he's goin' to keep my boy +Sammy in order, better'n I could ever do it. You see, I just has to hint +to Sammy that if he ain't proper-behaved I won't let Flicker 'sociate +with'm, an' he's as good as pie. I wouldn't be without that dog, sir, +now I got intimately acquainted with him, for--" + +"That touches the question I was intending to raise," interposed Mr. +Ronald. "You managed to get Radcliffe's imagination considerably stirred +about Flicker, and the result is, he has asked me to see if I can't come +to an understanding with you. He wants me to buy Flicker." + +Martha's genial smile faded. "Why, goodness gracious, Lor--I _should_ +say, _Mr._ Ronald, the poor little rascal, dog rather, ain't worth two +cents. He's just a young flagrant pup, you wouldn't be bothered to +notice, 'less you had the particular likin' for such things we got." + +"Radcliffe wants Flicker. I'll give you ten dollars for him." + +"I--I couldn't take it, Mr. Ronald, sir. It wouldn't be fair to you!" + +"Fifteen dollars." + +"It ain't the money--" + +"Twenty!" + +"I--I can't!" + +"Twenty-five dollars, Martha. Radcliffe's heart is set on the dog." + +A quick observer, looking attentively at Mrs. Slawson's face, could have +seen something like a faint quiver disturb the firm lines of her lips +and chin for a moment. A flash, and it was gone. + +"I'd _give_ you the dog, an' welcome, Mr. Ronald," she said presently, +"but I just can't do it. The little feller, he never had a square deal +before, an' because my husband an' the rest of us give it to him, he +loves us to death, an' you'd think he'd bark his head off for joy when +the raft o' them gets home after school. An' then, nights--(I ben +workin' overtime lately, doin' outside jobs that bring me home +late)--nights, when I come back, an' all in the place is abed an' +asleep, an' I let myself in, in the black an' the cold, the only livin' +creature to welcome me is Flicker. An' there he stands, up an' ready for +me, the minute he hears my key in the lock, an' when I open the door, +an' light the changelier (he don't dare let a bark out of'm, he knows +better, the smart little fella!), there he stands, a-waggin' his stump +of a tail like a Christian, an'--Mr. Ronald, sir--that wag ain't for +sale!" + +For a moment something akin in both held them silent. Then Mr. Ronald +slowly inclined his head. "You are quite right, Martha. I understand +your feeling." + +Martha turned to go. She had, in fact, reached the door when she was +recalled. + +"O--one moment, please." + +She came back. + +"My sister tells me you worked in my rooms yesterday. Was any one there +with you at the time?" + +"No, sir. Mrs. Sherman said I might have one of the girls, but I perfer +to see to your things myself." + +"Then you were quite alone?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Do you know if any one else in the household had occasion to go into my +rooms during the day?" + +"Of course I can't be pos'tive. But I don't think so, sir." + +"Then I wonder if this belongs to you?" He extended his hand toward her. +In his palm lay a small, flat, gold locket. + +Something like the faintest possible electric shock passed up Mrs. +Slawson's spine, and contracted the muscles about her mouth. For a +second she positively grinned, then quickly her face regained its +customary calm. With a clever, if slightly tardy, movement, her hand +went up to her throat. + +"Yes, sir--shoor, it's mine! Now what do you think of that! Me losin' +somethin' I think the world an' all of, an' have wore for, I do' know +how long, an' never missin' it!" + +Mr. Ronald's eyes shot out a quick, quizzical gleam. + +"O, you have been accustomed to wear it?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Mrs. Sherman tells me she never remembers to have seen you with any +sort of ornament, even a gold pin. She thought the locket could not +possibly belong to you." + +"Well, it does. An' the reason she hasn't noticed me wearin' it is, I +wear it under my waist, see?" + +Again Mr. Ronald fixed her with his keen eyes. "I see. You wear it under +your waist. Of course, that explains why she hasn't noticed it. Yet, +_if_ you wear it under your waist, how came it to get out from under and +be on my desk?" + +Martha's face did not change beneath his scrutiny. During a rather long +moment she was silent, then her answer came glibly enough. + +"When I'm workin' I'm ap' to get het-up, an' then I sometimes undoes the +neck o' my waist, an' turns it back to give me breathin'-room." + +Mr. Ronald accepted it gravely. "Well, it is a very pretty locket, +Martha--and a very pretty face inside it. Of course, as the trinket was +in my room, and as there was no name or sign on the outside to identify +it, I opened it. I hope you don't mind." + +"Certainly not," Martha assured him. "Certainly not!" + +"The inscription on the inside puzzles me. 'Dear Daddy, from Claire.' +Now, assuredly, you're not _dear Daddy,_ Martha." + +Mrs. Slawson laughed. "Not on your life, I ain't _Dear Daddy,_ sir. Dear +Daddy was Judge Lang of Grand Rapids--you know, where the furnitur' an' +the carpet-sweepers comes from--He died about a year ago, an' Miss +Claire, knowin' how much store I set by her, an' how I'd prize her +picture, she give me the locket, as you see it." + +"You say Grand Rapids?--the young lady, Miss Claire, as you call her, +lives in Grand Rapids?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"I suppose you think I am very inquisitive, asking so many questions, +but the fact is, I am extremely interested. You will see why, when I +explain that several weeks ago, one day downtown, I saw a little girl--a +young lady--who might have been the original of this very picture, the +resemblance is so marked. But, of course, if your young lady lives in +Grand Rapids, she can't be my little girl--I should say, the young woman +I saw here in New York City. But if they were one and the same, they +couldn't look more alike. The only difference I can see, is that the +original of your picture is evidently a prosperous 'little sister of the +rich,' and the original of mine--the one I've carried in my mind--is a +breadwinner. She was employed in an office where I had occasion to go +one day on business. The next time I happened to drop in there--a few +days later--she was gone. I was sorry. That office was no place for her, +but I would have been glad to find her there, that I might have placed +her somewhere else, in a safer, better position. I hope she has come to +no harm." + +Martha hung fire a moment. Then, suddenly, her chin went up, as with the +impulse of a new resolve. + +"I'll be open an' aboveboard with you, sir," she said candidly. "The +world is certaintly small, an' the way things happen is a caution. Now, +who'd ever have thought that you'd 'a' seen my Miss Claire, but I truly +believe you have. For after her father died she come to New York, the +poor lamb! for to seek her fortune, an' her as innercent an' +unsuspectin' as my Sabina, who's only three this minit. She tried her +hand at a lot o' things, an' thank God an' her garden-angel for keepin' +her from harm, for as delicate an' pretty as she is, she can't _help_ +attractin' attention, an' you know what notions some as calls themselves +gen'lemen has, in this town. Well, Miss Claire is livin' under my roof, +an' you can betcher life I'm on the job--relievin' her garden-angel o' +the pertectin' end o' the business. But Miss Claire's that proud an' +inderpendent-like she ain't contented to be idle. She's bound to make +her own livin', which, she says, it's everybody's dooty to do, some ways +or other. So my eye's out, as you might say, for a place where she can +teach, like she's qualified to do. Did I tell you, she's a college lady, +an' has what she calls a 'degree,' which I didn't know before anythin' +but Masons like himself had 'em. + +"You oughter see how my boy Sammy gets his lessons, after she's learned +'em to him. She's a wizard at managin' boys. My Sammy useter to be up to +all sorts o' mischief. They was a time he took to playin' hookey. He'd +march off mornin's with his sisters, bold as brass, an' when lunchtime +come, in he'd prance, same as them, an' nobody ever doubtin' he hadn't +been to his school. An' all the time, there he was playin' in the open +lots with a gang o' poor little neglected dagos. I noticed him comin' in +evenin's kinder dissipated-lookin', but I hadn't my wits about me enough +to be onto'm, till his teacher sent me a note one day, by his sister +Cora, askin' what was ailin' Sammy. That night somethin' ailed Sammy for +fair. He stood up to his dinner, an' he wouldn't 'a' had a cravin' to +set down to his breakfast next mornin', only Francie put a pilla in his +chair. But Miss Claire, she's got him so bewitched, he'd break his heart +before he'd do what she wouldn't like. The thought of her goin' away +makes him sick to his stummick, the poor fella! Yet, it ain't to be +supposed anybody so smart, an' so good-lookin' as her, but would be +snapped up quick by them as has the sense to see the worth of her. +There's no question about her gettin' a job, the only worry _I_ have is +her gettin' one that will take her away from this, out of New York City, +where I can't see her oncet in a while. She's the kind you'd miss, like +you would a front tooth. You feel you can't get on without her, an' true +for you, you can't. But, beggin' your pardon, sir, for keepin' you so +long with my talkin'. If that's all, I'll get to my work." + +"That is all," said Mr. Ronald, "except--" He rose and handed her the +locket. + +She took it from him with a smile of perfect good-fellowship, and passed +from the room. Once outside the threshold, with the door closed upon +her, she drew a long, deep breath of relief. + +"Well, I'm glad _that's_ over, an' I got out of it with a whole skin," +she ruminated. "Lord, but I thought he had me shoor, when he took me up +about how the thing got out o' me dress, with his gimlet eyes never +stirrin' from my face, an' me tremblin' like an ashpan. If I hadn't 'a' +had my wits about me, I do' know where I'd 'a' come out. But all's well +that ends swell, as Miss Claire says, an' bless her heart, it's her +as'll end swell, if what I done this day takes root, an' I believe it +will." + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +When Martha let herself into her flat that night, she was welcomed by +another beside Flicker. + +"You _naughty_ Martha!" whispered Claire. "What do you mean by coming +home so late, all tired out and worked to death! It is shameful! But +here's a good cup of hot chocolate, and some big plummy buns to cheer +you up. And I've got some good news for you besides. I didn't mean to +tell right off, but I just can't keep in for another minute. _I've got a +job!_ A fine, three-hundred-dollars-a-year-and-home-and-laundry job! And +a raise, as soon as I show I'm worth it! Now, what do you think of that? +Isn't it splendid? Isn't it--_bully_?" + +She had noiselessly guided Martha into her own room, got her things off, +and seated her in a comfortable Morris chair before the lighted +oil-stove, from whose pierced iron top a golden light gleamed cheerily, +reflecting on the ceiling above in a curious pattern. + +"Be careful of the chocolate, it's burning hot. I kept it simmering till +I heard you shut the vestibule door. And--O, yes! No danger in sipping +it that way! But you haven't asked a single thing about my job. How I +came to know of it in the first place, and how I was clever enough to +get it after I'd applied! You don't look a bit pleased and excited over +it, you bad Martha! And you ought to be so glad, because I won't need to +spend anything _like_ all the money I'll get. I'm to have my home and +laundry free, and one can't make many outside expenses in a +boarding-school 'way off in Schoharie--and so I can send you a lot and a +lot of dollars, till we're all squared up and smoothed out, and you +won't have to work so hard any more, and--" + +"Say now, Miss Claire, you certaintly are the fastest thing on record. +If you'd been born a train, you'd been an express, shoor-pop an' no +mistake. Didn't I tell you to hold on, pationate an' uncomplainin', till +I giv' you the sign? Didn't I say I had my eye on a job for you that was +a job worth talkin' about? One that'd be satisfactry all around. Well, +then! An' here you are, tellin' me about you goin' to the old Harry, or +some such, with home an' laundry thrown in. Not on your life you ain't, +Miss Claire, an' that (beggin' your pardon!) is all there is _to_ it!" + +"But, Martha--" + +"Don't let's waste no more words. The thing ain't to be thought of." + +"But, Martha, it's over two weeks since you said that, about having an +idea about a certain job for me that was going to be so splendid. Don't +you know it is? And I thought it had fallen through. I didn't like to +speak about it, for fear you'd think I was hurrying you, but two weeks +are two weeks, and I can't go on indefinitely staying here, and getting +so deep in debt I'll never be able to get out again. And I saw this +advertisement in _The Outlook._ 'Twas for a college graduate to teach +High School English in a girls' boarding-school, and I went to the +agency, and they were very nice, and told me to write to the Principal, +and I did--told her all about myself, my experience tutoring, and all +that, and this morning came the letter saying she'd engage me. I can +tell you all about Schoharie, Martha. It's 'up-state' and--" + +"Miss Claire, child, no! It won't do. I can't consent. I can't have you +throwin' away golden opportoonities to work like a toojan for them as'll +stint you in the wash, an' prob'ly give you oleo-margerine instead of +butter, an' cold-storage eggs that had forgot there was such a thing as +a hen, long before they ever was laid away. I wasn't born yesterday, +myself, an' I know how they treat the teachers in some o' them schools. +The young-lady scholars, so stylish an' rich, as full of airs as a +music-box, snubbin' the teacher because they're too ignorant to know how +smart _she_ has to be, to get any knowledge into their stupid heads, +an' the Principal always eyein' you like a minx, 'less you might be +wastin' her precious time an' not earnin' the elegant sal'ry she gives +you, includin' your home an' laundry. O my! I know a thing or two about +them schools, an' a few other places. No, Miss Claire, dear, it won't +do. An' besides, I have you bespoke for Mrs. Sherman. The last thing +before I come away from the house this night, she sent for me upstairs, +an' ast me didn't I know some one could engage with her for +Radcliffe--to learn him his lessons, an' how to be a little lady, an' +suchlike. She wants, as you might say, a trained mother for'm, while his +own untrained one is out gallivantin' the streets, shoppin', an' playin' +bridge, an' attendin' the horse-show. + +"I hemmed an' hawed an' scratched my head to see if, happen, I did know +anybody suitable, an' after a while (not to seem to make you too cheap, +or not to look like I was jumpin' down her throat) I told her: 'Curious +enough, I do know just the one I think will please you--_if_ you can get +her.' + +"Then she ast me a lot about you, an' I told her what I know, an' for +the rest I trusted to Providence, an' in the end we made a sorter +deal--so's it's all fixed you're to go there day after to-morrer, to +talk to her, an' let her look you over. An' if you're the kind o' stuff +she wants, she'll take a half-a-dozen yards o' you, which is the kind o' +way those folks has with people they pay money to. I promised Mrs. +Sherman you'd come, an' I couldn't break my word to her, now could I? +I'd be like to lose my own job if I did, an' I'm sure you wouldn't ast +that o' me!" + +"But," said Claire, troubled, "you told me Radcliffe is so +unmanageable." + +Mrs. Slawson devoted herself to her chocolate and buns for a moment or +two. "O, never you fear about Radcliffe," she announced at length. "He's +a good little fella enough, as little fellas goes. When you know how to +handle'm--which is _right side up_ with care. Him an' me come to an +understandin' yesterday mornin', an' he's as meek an' gentle as a +baa-lamb ever since. I'll undertake you'll have no trouble with +Radcliffe." + +"Is this the wonderful plan you spoke of? Is _this_ the job you said was +going to be so satisfactory all 'round?" inquired Claire, her +misgivings, in connection with her prospective pupil, by no means +allayed. + +"Well, not eggsackly. I can't say it is. _That_ job will come later. But +we got to be pationate, an' not spoil it by upsettin' our kettles o' +fish with boardin'-schools, an' such nonsense. Meanwhile we can put in +time with Mrs. Sherman, who'll pay you well, an' won't be too skittish +if you just keep a firm hand on her. This mornin' she got discoursin' +about everythin' under the canopy, from nickel-plated bathroom fixin's, +an' marble slobs, to that state o' life unto which it has pleased God to +call me. She told me just what I'd oughter give my fam'ly to eat, an' +how much I'd oughter pay for it, an'--I say, but wasn't she grand to +have give me all that good advice free?" + +Claire laughed. "She certainly was, and now you've just _got_ to go to +bed. I don't dare look at the clock, it's so late. Good-night, you +_good_ Martha! And thank you, from way deep down, for all you've done +for me." + +But long after Mrs. Slawson had disappeared, the girl sat in the +solitude of her shadowy room thinking--thinking--thinking. Unable to get +away from her thoughts. There was something about this plan, to which +Martha had committed her, that frightened, overawed her. She felt a +strange impulse to resist it, to follow her own leading, and go to the +school instead. She knew her feeling was childish. Suppose Radcliffe +were to be unruly, why, how could she tell that the girls in the +Schoharie school might not prove even more so? The fact was, she argued, +she had unconsciously allowed herself to be prejudiced against Mrs. +Sherman and the boy, by Martha's whimsical accounts of them, +good-natured as they were. And this strange, premonitory instinct was +no premonitory instinct at all, it was just the natural reluctance of a +shy nature to face a new and uncongenial situation. And yet--and +yet--and yet, try as she would, she could not shake off the impression +that, beyond it all, there loomed something a hidden inner sense made +her hesitate to approach. + +Just that moment, a dim, untraceable association of ideas drew her back +until she was face-to-face with a long-forgotten incident in her +very-little girlhood. Once upon a time, there had been a moment when she +had experienced much the same sort of feeling she had now--the feeling +of wanting to cry out and run away. As a matter of fact, she _had_ cried +out and run away. Why, and from what? As it came back to her, not from +anything altogether terrible. On the contrary, something rather +alluring, but so unfamiliar that she had shrunk back from it, +protesting, resisting. What was it? Claire suddenly broke into a +smothered little laugh and covered her face with her hands, before the +vision of herself, squawking madly, like a startled chicken, and running +away from "big" handsome, twelve-year-old Bobby Van Brandt, who had just +announced to the world at large, that "he liked Claire Lang a lot, 'n' +she was his best girl, 'n' he was goin' to kiss her." She had been +mortally frightened, had screamed, and run away, but (so unaccountable +is the heart of woman) she had never liked Bobby quite so well after +that, because he had shown the white feather and hadn't carried out his +purpose, in spite of her. + +But if she should scream and run away now, there would be none to +pursue. Her foolish outburst would disturb no one. She could cry and +cry, and run and run, and there would be no big Bobby Van Brandt, or any +one else to hear and follow. + +An actual echo of the cries she had not uttered seemed to mock her +foolish musing. She paused and listened. Again and again came the +muffled sounds, and, at last, so distinct they seemed, she went to her +door, unlatched it, and stood, listening, on the threshold. + +From Martha's room rose a deep rumble, as of a distant murmurous sea. + +"Mr. Slawson. He's awake. He must have heard the crying, too. O, it's +begun again! How awful! Martha, what is it, O, what is it?" for Mrs. +Slawson had appeared in her own doorway, and was standing, night-robed +and ghostly, listening attentively to the intermittent signs of +distress. + +"It's that bloomin' Dutchman, Langbein, acrost the hall. Every time he +goes on a toot, he comes back an' wallops his wife for it. Go to bed, +Miss Claire, child, an' don't let it worry you. It ain't _your_ +funeral." + +Came the voice of big Sam Slawson from within his chamber: + +"Just what I say to _you_, my dear. It ain't your funeral. Come back, +Martha, an' go to bed." + +"Well, that's another pair o' shoes, entirely, Sammy," whispered Martha. +"This business has been goin' on long enough, an' I ain't proposin' to +put up with it no longer. Such a state o' things has nothin' to +recommend it. If it'd help such a poor ninny as Mrs. Langbein any to +beat her, I'd say, 'Go ahead! Never mind _us!_' But you couldn't pound +sense inter a softy like her, no matter what you done. In the first +place, she lets that fella get away from her evenin's when, if she'd an +ounce o' sense, she could keep him stickin' so close at home, a capcine +plaster wouldn't be in it. Then, when he comes home, a little the worse +for wear, she ups an' reproaches 'm, which, God knows, that ain't no +time to argue with a man. You don't want to _argue_ with a fella when +he's so. You just want to _tell_m'. Tell'm with the help of a broomstick +if you want to, but _tell'_m, or leave'm alone. An' it's bad for the +childern--all this is--it's bad for Cora an' Francie. What idea'll they +get o' the holy estate o' matrimony, I should like to know? That the +_man_ has the upper hand? That's a _nice_ notion for a girl to grow up +with, nowadays. Hark! My, but he's givin' it to her good an' plenty this +time! Sammy Slawson, shame on ye, man! to let a poor woman be beat like +that, an' never raise a hand to save your own childern from bein' old +maids. Another scream outer her, an' I'll go in myself, in the face of +you." + +"Now, Martha, be sensible!" pleaded Sam Slawson. "You can't break into a +man's house without his consent." + +"Can't I? Well, just you watch me close, an' you'll see if I can't." + +"You'll make yourself liable to the law. He's her husband, you know. She +can complain to the courts, if she's got any kick comin'. But it's not +_my_ business to go interferin' between husband and wife. 'What God hath +joined together, let no man put asunder.'" + +Martha wagged an energetic assent. + +"Shoor! That certaintly lets _you_ out. But there ain't no mention made +o' _woman_ not bein' on the job, is there?" + +She covered the narrow width of the hall in a couple of strides, and +beat her knuckles smartly against the panel of the opposite door. + +By this time the baluster-railing, all the way up, was festooned with +white-clad tenants, bending over, looking down. + +"Martha," protested Sam Slawson, "you're in your nightgown! You can't +go round like that! Everybody's lookin' at you!" + +"Say, you--Mr. Langbein in there! Open the door. It's me! Mrs. Slawson! +Let me in!" was Martha's only reply. Her keen ear, pressed against the +panel, heard nothing in response but an oath, following another even +more ungodly sound, and then the choking misery of a woman's convulsive +sobs. + +Mrs. Slawson set her shoulder against the door, braced herself for a +mighty effort, and-- + +"Did you ever see the like of her?" muttered Sam, as, still busy +fastening the garments he had hurriedly pulled on, he followed his wife +into the Langbeins' flat, into the Langbeins' bedroom. There he saw her +resolutely march up to the irate German, swing him suddenly about, and +send him crashing, surprised, unresisting, to the opposite side of the +room. For a second she stood regarding him scornfully. + +"You poor, low-lived Dutchman, you!" she brought out with deliberation. +"What d'you mean layin' your hand to a woman who hasn't the stren'th or +the spirit to turn to, an' lick you back? Why don't you fight a fella +your own size an' sect? That's fair play! A fine man _you_ are! A fine +neighbor _you_ are! Just let me hear a peep out of you, an' I'll thrash +you this minit to within a inch of your life. _I_ don't need no law nor +no policeman to keep the peace in any house where I live. I can keep the +peace myself, if I have to lick every tenant in the place! I'm the law +an' the policeman on my own account, an' if you budge from that floor +till I tell you get up, I'll come over there an' set down on ye so hard, +your wife won't know you from a pancake in the mornin'. I'll show you +the power o' the _press!"_ + +Sam Slawson was no coward, but his face was pallid with consternation at +Martha's hardihood. His mighty bulk, however, seeming to supplement +hers, had its effect on the sobered German. He did not attempt to rise. + +"As to you, you poor weak sister," said Mrs. Slawson, turning to the +wife, "you've had your last lickin' so long as you live in this house. +Believe _me!_ I'm a hard-workin' woman, but I'm never too tired or too +busy to come in an' take a round out of your old man, if he should ever +dare lay finger to you again. _I_ don't mind a friendly scrap oncet in a +while with a neighbor. My muscles is good for more than your fat, +beer-drinkin' Dutchman's any day. Let him up an' try 'em oncet, an' +he'll see. Why don't you have some style about you an' land him one, +where it'll do the most good, or else--_leave_ him? But no, you wouldn't +do that--I _know_ you wouldn't! Some women has to cling to somethin', +no matter if they have to support it themselves." + +Mrs. Langbein's inarticulate sobbing had passed into a spasmodic +struggle for breathless utterance. + +"He--don't mean--no harm, Mis' Slawson. He's all right--ven he's soper. +Only--it preaks my heart ven he vips me, und I don't deserve it." + +"Breaks your heart? It ain't your _heart I'm_ worryin' about. If he +don't break your bones you're in luck!" + +"Und I try to pe a goot vife to him. I tend him hand und foot." + +"Ye-es, I know you do," returned Martha dryly. "But suppose you just try +the _foot_ in the future. See how it works." + +"I to my pest mit dryin' to pe a goot cook. I geep his house so glean as +a bin. Vat I _don't_ do, Gott weiss, I don't know it. I ain't esk him +for ein tcent already. I ain't drouble him mit pills off of de grocer +oder de putcher, oder anny-von. I makes launtry efery veek for some +liddle peoples, und mit mine own money I bays my pills. Ven you dell me +how it iss I could make eferyting more smoother for him, I do it!" + +"That's eggsackly the trouble," proclaimed Mrs. Slawson conclusively. +"You make 'em too smooth. You make 'em so smooth, they're ackchelly +slippery. No wonder the poor fella falls down. No man wants to spend +all his life skatin' round, doin' fancy-figger stunts, because his +wife's a dummy. Let'm get down to hard earth, an' if he kicks, heave a +rock at'm. He'll soon stand up, an' walk straight like a little man. Let +_him_ lend a hand with the dooty-business, for a change. It'll take his +attention off'n himself, give'm a rest from thinkin' he's an angel, an' +that you hired out, when you married'm, to shout 'Glory!' every time he +flaps a wing! That sort o' thing ain't healthy for men. It don't agree +with their constitutions--An' now, good-night to you, an' may you have +sweet dreams! Mr. Langbein, I ain't the slightest objeckshun to your +gettin' up, if you want to. You know me now. I'm by the day, as you may +have heard. But I can turn my hand to an odd job like this now an' then +by the night, if it's necess'ry, so let me hear no more from you, sir, +an' then we'll all be good friends, like we're partin' now. Good-night!" + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +Before setting out for his work the next morning, Sam Slawson tried to +prepare Ma and Miss Lang for the more than probable appearance, during +the day, of the officer of the law, he predicted Friedrich Langbein +would have engaged to prosecute Martha. + +"He has a clear case against you, mother, no doubt o' that. You'd no +business in his place at all, let alone that you assaulted an' battered +him. He can make it hot for us, an' I don't doubt he will." + +Mrs. Slawson attended with undivided care to the breakfast needs of such +of her flock as still remained to be fed. The youngsters had all +vanished. + +"If he wants to persecute me, let him persecute me. I guess I +got a tongue in my head. I can tell the judge a thing or two which, +bein' prob'ly a mother himself, he'll see the sense of. Do you think +I want Sammy growin' up under my very eyes, a beer-drinkin' +wife-beater?--because he seen the eggsample of it set before'm by a +Dutchman, when he was a boy? Such things makes an impression on the +young--which they ain't sense enough to know the difference between a +eggsample an' a warnin'. An' the girls, too! As I told you las' night, +it's bad for the country when matrimony ain't made to look like a +prize-package, no matter what it _reely_ is. What's goin' to become o' +the population, I should like to know? Here's Cora now, wantin' to be a +telefoam-girl when she grows up, an' there's no knowin' what Francie'll +choose. But you can take it from me, they'll both of 'em drop their +votes for the single life. They'll perfer to thump a machine o' their +own, with twelve or fifteen _per_, comin' to 'em, rather than be the +machine that's thumped, an' pay for the privilege out'n their own +pockets besides." + +As fate would have it, the day went placidly by, in spite of Mr. +Slawson's somber prognostications. No one came to disturb the even tenor +of its way. Then, at eveningfall, while Martha was still absent, there +was a gentle rap upon the door, and Claire, anxious to anticipate Ma, +made haste to answer it, and saw a stranger standing on the threshold. +It was difficult, at first, to distinguish details in the dusk of the +dim hallway, but after a moment she made out the rotund figure of Mr. +Langbein. She could not see his face, but his voice was more than +conciliatory. + +"Eggscoose me, lady!" he began apologetically. "I haf for Mis' Slawson a +liddle bresent here. I tink she like it. She look so goot-netchered, und +I know she iss kind to bum animals. My vife, her Maltee cat vas having +some liddle kittens already, a mont' ago. I tink Mis' Slawson, she lige +to hef von off dem pussies, ja? Annyhow, I bring her von here, und I esk +you vill gif it to her mit my tanks, und my kint regarts, und pest +vishes und annyting else you tink I could do for her. You tell Mis' +Slawson I lige her to esk me to do someting whenefer she needs it--yes?" + +"Now what do you think of that?" was Martha's only comment, when Claire +related the incident, and great Sam Slawson shook with laughter till his +sides ached, and a fit of coughing set in, and said it was "a caution, +but Mother always did have a winning way about her with the men." + +"It's well I have, or I wouldn't 'a' drew you, Sammy--an' you shoor are +a trump--only I wisht you'd get rid o' that cough--You had it just about +long enough," Martha responded, half in mockery, half in affectionate +earnest. + +"An' now, me lad, leave us be, me an' Miss Claire. We has things of +importance to talk over. It's to-morrow at ten she's to go see Mrs. +Sherman. Miss Claire, you must be lookin' your best, for the first minit +the madam claps eyes to you, that'll be the decidin' minit for _you_. +Have you everything you need, ready to your hand? Is all your little +laces an' frills done up fresh an' tidy, so's you can choose the +becomingest? Where's that lace butterfly for your neck, I like so much? +I washed it as careful as could be, a couple o' weeks ago, but have you +wore it since?" + +Claire hesitated. "I think I'll put on the simplest things I've got, +Martha," she replied evasively. "Just one of my linen shirtwaists, with +the stiff collar and cuffs. No fluffy ruffles at all." + +"But that scrap o' lace at your throat, ain't fluffy ruffles. An' stiff, +starched things don't kinder become you, Miss Claire. They ain't your +style. You don't wanter look like you been dressed by your worst enemy, +do you? You're so little an' dainty, you got to have delicate things to +go _with_ you. Say, just try that butterfly on you now. I want to see if +it'll do, all right." + +By this time Claire knew Martha well enough to realize it was useless to +attempt to temporize or evade. + +"I can't wear the butterfly, Martha dear," she said. + +"Why can't you?" + +"Well, now please, _please_ don't worry, but I can't wear it, because I +can't find it. I dare say it'll turn up some day when I least expect, +but just now, it seems to be lost." + +Martha looked grave. "It come out o' the wash all right, didn't it?" she +inquired anxiously. "I remember distinkly leavin' it soak in the suds, +so's there wouldn't be no strain-like, rubbin' it, an' the dust'd just +drop out natural. But now I come to think of it, I don't recklect +ironin' it. Now honest, did it come outer the wash, Miss Claire?" + +"No, Martha--but--" + +"There ain't no _but_ about it. I musta gone an' lost your pretty lace +for you, an' it was reel at that!" + +"Never mind! It's of no consequence. Truly, please don't--" + +"Worry? Shoor I won't worry. What's the use worryin'? But I'll make it +right, you betcher life, which is much more to the purpose. Say, I +shouldn't wonder but it got into the tub someways, an' then, when I let +the water out, the suckage drew it down the pipe. Believe _me,_ that's +the very thing that happened, and--'I'll never see sweet Annie any +more!'" + +"It doesn't make a particle of difference, Martha. I never liked that +butterfly as much as you did, you know." + +"Perhaps you did an' perhaps you didn't, but all the same you're _out_ a +neck-fixin', an' it's _my_ fault, an' so you're bound to let me get +square, to save my face, Miss Claire. You see how it is, don't you? +Well, last Christmas, Mrs. Granville she give me a lace jabbow--reel +Irish mull an' Carrickmacross (that's lace from the old country, as you +know as well as me). She told me all about it. Fine? It'd break your +heart to think o' one o' them poor innercent colleens over there +pricklin' her eyes out, makin' such grandjer for the like o' me, when no +doubt she thought she was doin' it for some great dame, would be +sportin' it out loud, in her auta on Fifth Avenoo. What use have I, in +my business, for that kinder decoration, I should like to know! It'd +only be distractin' me, gettin' in me pails when I'm scrubbin'. An' by +the time Cora an' Francie is grown up, jabbows will be _out_. I'd much +more use for the five-dollar-bill was folded up in the box alongside. +_That_, now, was becomin' to my peculiar style o' beauty. But the +jabbow! There ain't no use talkin', Miss Claire, you'll have to take it +off'n my hands, I mean my chest, an' then we'll be quits on the +butterfly business, an' no thanks to your nose on either side." + +It was useless to protest. + +The next morning when Claire started forth to beard the lioness in her +den, she was tricked out in all the bravery of Martha's really beautiful +"jabbow," and looked "as pretty as a picture, an' then some," as Mrs. +Slawson confidentially assured Sam. + +But the heart beneath the frilly lace and mull was anything but brave. +It felt, in fact, quite as white and fluttery as the _jabbow_ looked, +and when Claire found herself being actually ushered into the boudoir of +the august _presence_, and told to "wait please," she thought it would +stop altogether for very abject fright. + +Martha had tried, in a sort of casual, matter-of-course way, to prepare +her little lady for the trial, by dropping hints every now and then, as +to the best methods of dealing with employers--the proper way to carry +oneself, when one "went to live out in private fam'lies." + +"You see, you always been the private fam'ly yourself, Miss Claire, so +it'll come kinder strange to you first-off, to look at things the other +way. But it won't be so bad after you oncet get used to it. There's one +thing it's good to remember. Them high-toned folks has somehow got it +fixed in their minds that _the rich must not be annoyed,_ so it'll be +money in your pocket, as the sayin' is, if you can do your little stunt +without makin' any fuss about it, or drawin' their attention. Just saw +wood an' say nothin', as my husband says. + +"Mrs. Sherman she told me, when I first went there, an' Radcliffe was a +little baby, she 'strickly forbid anybody to touch'm.' It was on account +o' what she called _germs_ or somethin'. Well, I never had no particular +yearnin' to inflect him with none o' my germs, but when she was off +gallivantin', an' that poor little lonesome fella used to cry, an' put +out his arms to be took, I'd take'm, an' give'm the only reel +mother-huggin' he ever had in his life, an' no harm to any of us--to me +that give it, or him that got it, or her that was no wiser. Then, later, +when he was four or five, an' around that, she got a notion he was a +angel-child, an' she'd useter go about tellin' the help, an' other +folks, 'he must be guided by love alone.' I remember she said oncet he'd +be 'as good as a kitten for hours at a time if you only give'm a ball of +twine to play with.' Well, his nurse, she give'm the ball of twine one +day when she had somethin' doin' that took up all her time an' attention +on her own account, an' when she come back from her outin', you couldn't +walk a step in the house without breakin' your leg (the nurse she did +sprain her ankle), on account o' the cat's-cradle effect the young +villain had strung acrost the halls, an' from one doorknob to the other, +so there wasn't an inch o' the place free. An' he'd got the tooth-paste +toobs, an' squoze out the insides, an' painted over every bit o' +mahogany he could find--doors, an' furnitur', an' all. You can take it +from me, that house was a sight after the angel-child got through with +it. The girls an' me--the whole push--was workin' like mad clearin' up +after'm before the madam'd come home, an' the nurse cryin' her eyes out +for the pain, an' scared stiff 'less she'd be sent packin'. Also, 'if +Radcliffe asked questions, we was to answer them truthful,' was another +rule. An' the puzzles he'd put to you! One day, I remember, he got me +cornered with a bunch that was such fierce propositions, Solomon in all +his glory couldn't 'a' give him their truthful answers. Says +he--Radcliffe, not Solomon--says he: 'I want another leg.' + +"'You can't have it,' says I. + +"'Why?' says he. + +"'They ain't pervided,' I says. 'Little boys that's well-reggerlated, +don't have but two legs.' + +"'Why don't they?' + +"'Because God thought two was enough for'm.' + +"'Why did God think tho?' + +"'You ask too many questions.' + +"'Well, but--juth lithen--I want to know--now lithen--doth puthy-caths +lay eggth?' + +"'No!' + +"'Why don't puthy-caths lay eggth?' + +"'Because hens has a corner on the egg business.' + +"'Why have they?' + +"'Because they're born lucky, like Mr. Carnegie an' Mr. Rockefella.' + +"'Doth Mr. Carnegie an' Mr. Rockefella--' + +_"'No!'_ + +"'Why don't they?' + +"'Say, Radcliffe, I ain't had a hard day,' says I. 'But _you_ make me +tired.' + +"'Why do I? Now--juth wonth more--now--now lithen wonth more--ith God a +lady?'" + +As Claire sat waiting for Mrs. Sherman, stray scraps of recollection, +such as these, flitted through her mind and helped to while the time +away. Then, as she still waited, she grew gradually more composed, less +unfamiliar with her surroundings, and the strange predicament in which +she found herself. She could, at length, look at the door she supposed +led into Mrs. Sherman's room, without such a quick contraction of the +heart as caused her breath to come in labored gasps, could make some +sort of sketchy outline of the part she was foreordained to take in the +coming interview, and not find herself barren of resource, even if Mrs. +Sherman _should_ say so-and-so, instead of so-and-so. + +She had waited so long, had had such ample time to get herself well in +hand, that when, at last, a door opened (not Mrs. Sherman's door at all, +but another), and a tall, upright masculine figure appeared in the +doorway, she at once jumped to the conclusion it was Shaw, the butler, +come to summon her into _the presence,_ and rose to follow, without too +much inner perturbation. + +"Mrs. Sherman is prevented from keeping her appointment with you this +morning," descended to her from an altitude far above her own. "She +hopes you will excuse her. She has asked me to talk with you in her +stead. You are Miss Lang, I believe? I am Mrs. Sherman's brother. My +name is Ronald." + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +It is hard to readjust all one's prearranged plans in the twinkling of +an eye. Claire felt as if she had received a sudden dash of cold water +square in the face. She quite gulped from the shock of it. How in the +world was she to adapt herself to this brand-new set of conditions on +such short notice--on no notice at all? How was she to be anything but +awkwardly monosyllabic? + +"Sit down, please." + +Obediently she sat. + +"Martha--Mrs. Slawson--tells me, your father was Judge Lang of +Michigan?" + +"Yes--Grand Rapids." + +"You are a college graduate?" + +"Wellesley." + +"You have taught before?" + +"I tutored a girl throughout a whole summer. Prepared her for her +college entrance exams." + +"She passed creditably?" + +"She wasn't conditioned in anything." + +"How are you on discipline?" + +"I don't know." + +"You have had no experience? Never tried your hand at training a boy, +for example?" + +Claire's blue-gray eyes grew suddenly audacious, and the bridge of her +short nose wrinkled up delightfully in a roguish smile. + +"I trained my father. He was a dear old boy--the dearest in the world. +He used to say he had never been brought up, until I came along. He used +to say I ruled him with a rod of iron. But he was very well-behaved +before I got through with him. He was quite a model boy, really." + +Glancing quickly up into the steadfast eyes that had, at first, seemed +to her so stern as to be almost forbidding, she met an expression so +mild, so full of winning kindness, that she suddenly remembered and +understood what Martha had meant when she said once: "A body wouldn't +call the queen her cousin when he looks at you like that!" + +"Your father was a credit to your bringing-up, certainly. I never had +the honor of meeting Judge Lang, but I knew him by reputation. I +remember to have heard some one say of him once--'He was a judge after +Socrates' own heart. He heard courteously, he answered wisely, he +considered soberly, he decided impartially. Added to this, he was one +whom kings could not corrupt.' That is an enviable record." + +Claire's eyes filled with grateful moisture, but she did not allow them +to overflow. She nodded rapidly once or twice in a quaint, +characteristic little fashion, and then sat silent, examining the links +in her silver-meshed purse, with elaborate attention. + +"Perhaps Mrs. Slawson has told you that my young nephew is something of +a pickle." + +The question restored Claire at once. "I'm fond of pickles." + +"Good! I believe there are said to be fifty-eight varieties. Are you +prepared to smack your lips over him, whichever he may be?" + +"Well, if I can't smack my lips, there's always the alternative of +smacking _him_." + +Mr. Ronald laughed. "Not allowed," he announced regretfully. "My sister +won't have it. Radcliffe is to be guided 'by love alone.'" + +"Whose love, please? His or mine?" + +Again Mr. Ronald laughed. "Now you've got me!" he admitted. "Perhaps a +little of both. Do you think you could supply your share? I have no +doubt of your being able to secure his." + +"I like children. We've always managed to hit it off pretty well, the +kiddies and I, but, of course, I can't guarantee anything definite in +connection with your little boy, because, you see, I've never been a +governess before. I've only had to do with youngsters who've come +a-visiting, or else the small, lower East-siders at the Settlement. But +I'll promise to do my best." + +"'Who does the best his circumstance allows, does well, acts nobly. +_Angles_ could no more,' as I wrote in my sister's autograph-album when +I was a boy," announced Mr. Ronald gravely. + +Claire smiled over at him with appreciation. "I'd love to come and try," +she said heartily. + +She did not realize she had lost all sensation of alarm, had forgotten +her altered position, that she was no longer one whom these people would +regard as their social equal. She was talking as one talks to a friend. + +"And if Radcliffe doesn't get on--if he doesn't improve, I should +say--if you don't _like_ me, you can always send me away, you know." + +For a very long moment Mr. Ronald sat silent. So long a moment, indeed, +that Claire, waiting in growing suspense for his answer, suddenly +remembered all those things she had forgotten, and her earlier +embarrassment returned with a wave of bitter self-reproach. She accused +herself of having been too free. She had overstepped her privilege. It +was not apparent to her that he was trying to visualize the picture she +had drawn, the possibility of his _not liking her and sending her away, +you know,_ and that, to his utter consternation, he found it was +something he could not in the least conceive of himself as doing. That, +on the contrary, the vision of her going away for any reason, of her +passing out of his life, now she had once stepped into it, left him with +a chill sensation in the cardiac region that was as unexpected as it was +disturbing. When he spoke at last, it was with a quick, authoritative +brevity that seemed to Claire to bear out her apprehension, and prove he +thought she had forgotten her place, her new place as "hired help," and +must be checked lest she presume on good nature and take a tone to her +employers that was not to be tolerated. + +"You will come without fail on Monday morning." + +"Very well." + +Her manner was so studiously cold and ceremonious, so sharply in +contrast with her former piquant friendliness, that Mr. Ronald looked up +in surprise. + +"It is convenient for you to come on Monday, I hope?" + +"Perfectly." + +"I presume my sister, Mrs. Sherman, will take up with you the question +of--er--compensation." + +"O--" quickly, with a little shudder, "that's all right!" + +"If it isn't all right, it shall be made so," said Mr. Ronald cordially. + +Claire winced. "It is quite, it is perfectly all right!" she repeated +hurriedly, anxious to escape the distasteful subject, still smarting +under the lash of her own self-condemnation--her own wounded pride. + +How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that she was no longer +in a position to deal with these people on equal terms? That now, +kindness on their part meant patronage, on hers presumption. Of course, +she deserved the snub she had received. But, all the same, it hurt! O, +but it hurt! She knew her George Eliot well. It was a pity she did not +recall and apply a certain passage in Maggie Tulliver's experience. + +"It did not occur to her that her irritation was due to the pleasanter +emotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with a sense of +glowing warmth, an innocent drop of cold water may fall upon us with a +sudden smart." + +Mr. Ronald, searching her face for some clue to the abrupt change in her +voice and manner, saw her cheeks grow white, her lips and chin quiver +painfully. + +"You are not well?" he asked, after a second of troubled groping in the +dark. + +"O, perfectly." She recollected Martha's injunction, "Never you let on +to 'em, any of your worries. The rich must not be annoyed," and pulled +herself together with a determined mental grip. + +"It is good that, being so far away from home, you can be under the +care of your old nurse," observed Mr. Ronald thoughtfully. + +"My old nurse," Claire mechanically repeated, preoccupied with her own +painful meditations. + +"Martha. It is good, it certainly must be comforting to those who care +for you, to know you are being looked after by so old and trusted a +family servant." + +Claire did not reply. She was hardly conscious he was speaking. + +"When Martha first mentioned you to me--to Mrs. Sherman, rather--she +described you as her young lady. She has a very warm feeling for you. I +think she considers you in the light of personal property, like a child +of her own. That's excusable--it's commendable, even, in such a case as +this. I believe she said she nursed you till you were able to walk." + +With a shock of sudden realization, Claire waked to the fact that +something was wrong somewhere--something that it was _up to_ her to make +right at once. And yet, it was all so cloudy, so confused in her mind +with her duty to Martha, her duty to herself, and to these people--her +fear of being again kindly but firmly put back in her _place_ if she +ventured the merest fraction of an inch beyond the boundary prescribed +by this grandee of the autocratic bearing and "keep-off-the-grass +expression," that she hesitated, and her opportunity was lost. + +"I think I must go now," she announced abruptly, and rose, got past him +somehow, and made blindly for the door. Then there was the dim vista of +the long hall stretching before her, like a path of escape, and she fled +its length, and down that of the staircase. Then out at the street-door, +and into the chill of the cold December noonday. + +When she had vanished, Francis Ronald stood a moment with eyes fixed in +the direction she had taken. Then, abruptly, he seized the telephone +that stood upon the table beside him, switched it to connect with the +basement region, and called for Mrs. Slawson. + +"This is Mr. Ronald speaking. Is Martha there?" + +"Yes, sir. Please hold the wire, and I'll call her." + +"Be quick!" + +"Yes, sir!" + +A second, and Martha's voice repeated his name. "Mr. Ronald, this is +Martha!" + +"Good! I want you to put on your things at once, and follow Miss Lang," +he directed briefly. "I do not think she's sick, but as she was talking +to me, I noticed she grew suddenly quite pale, and seemed troubled and +anxious. Waste no time! Go at once!" + +The only answer was a sharp click over the wire, as Mrs. Slawson snapped +the receiver into its crotch. + +But though Claire was not five minutes in advance of her, Martha was +unable to make up the distance between them, and by the time she had +mounted the stairs leading to the Elevated, and stood panting for breath +on the platform, the train she had hoped to catch was to be seen +disappearing around the curve at Fifty-third Street. + +All the way uptown she speculated as to the why and wherefore of Mr. +Ronald's immediate concern about Claire. + +"It's kinder previous, his gettin' so stirred up over her at this stage +o' the game," she pondered. "It ain't natural, or it ain't lucky. I'd +much liefer have it go slower, an' be more thora. A thing like this +affair I'm tryin' to menoover, is like some o' the things you cook. You +want to leave 'em get good an' het-up before the stirrin' begins. If +they're stirred up too soon, they're ap' to cruddle on you, an' never +get that nice, smooth, thick, _gooey_ look you like to see in rich +custuds, same as love-affairs. I hope she didn't go an' have a scare on, +an' give 'em to think she ain't healthy. She's as sound as a nut, but if +Mis' Sherman once is fixed with the notion she's subjeck to +faint-spells, nothin' on earth will change her mind, an' then it'll be +nit, not, nohow for Martha's little scheme. I must caution Miss Claire +about showin' the white feather. No matter how weak-kneed she feels, +she's just _got_ to buck up an' ack like she's a soldier. That's how--" + +Martha had reached her own street, and was turning the corner, when she +stopped with a sensation as of a quick, fierce clutching at her heart. +Evidently there had been some sort of accident, for a great crowd was +gathered on the sidewalk, and beside the gutter-curbstone, just ahead of +her, stood waiting an ambulance. Her healthy, normal mind did not easily +jump at tragic conclusions. She did not, as a general thing, fear the +worst, did not even accept it when it came, but now, somehow, a close +association of ideas suggested Claire in an instant, and before ever she +had stirred a step, she saw in her mind's eye the delicate little form +she loved, lying injured, maybe mangled, stretched out upon the asphalt, +in the midst of the curious throng. + +She hurried, hurried faster than any of the others who were also +hurrying, and pushed her way on through the press to the very edge of +the crowd. A crying woman caught wildly at her arm, as she stood for a +second struggling to advance. + +"It's a child!--A little girl--run over by an automobile! O God help +the poor mother!" the stranger sobbed hysterically. + +Martha freed herself from the clinging fingers and pressed forward. "A +child--Miss Claire's such a little thing, no wonder they think she's a +child," she murmured. "True for you, my good woman, God help the poor +mother!" + +"You know her?" + +"I know Miss Claire." + +For some reason the crowd made way, and let her through to the very +heart of it, and there--sure enough, there was Claire, but Claire crying +and kneeling over an outstretched little form, lying unconscious on the +pavement. + +"Why, it's--my Francie!" said Martha quietly. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +Through all the days of suspense and doubt, Claire swung like a faithful +little pendulum between home, the Shermans, and the hospital. + +Then, as hope strengthened, she was the bearer of gifts, flowers, fruit, +toys from Mr. Ronald and his sister, which Martha acknowledged in her +own characteristic fashion. + +"Tell'm the Slawson fam'ly is bound to be _in it._ It seems it's the +whole style for ladies to go under a operation, an' as I ain't eggsackly +got the time, Francie, she's keepin' up the tone for us. If you wanter +folla the fashions these days, you got to gather your skirts about you, +tight as they are, an' run. But what's a little inconvenience, compared +with knowin' you're cuttin' a dash! + +"Tell'm I thank'm, an' tell Lor'--Mister Ronald, it's good of'm to be +tryin' to get damages for Francie out o' the auta that run her down, an' +if there was somethin' comin' to us to pay the doctors an' suchlike, +it'd be welcome. But, somehow, I always was shy o' monkeyin' with the +law. It's like to catch a body in such queer places, where you'd least +expect. Before a fella knows it, he's _up_ for liable, or breaches o' +promise, an' his private letters to the bosom of his fam'ly (which +nowadays they're mostly ruffles), his letters to the bosom of his fam'ly +is read out loud in court, an' then printed in the papers next mornin', +an' everybody's laughin' at'm, because he called his wife 'My darlin' +Tootsie,' which she never been accustomed to answer to anythin' but the +name o' Sarah. An' it's up to him to pay the costs, when ten to one it's +the other party's to blame. I guess p'raps we better leave good enough +alone. If we begin to get the l'yers after us, no tellin' where we'll +end. Who knows but they might find the accident injured the auto, 'stead +o' Francie. If we work hard, an' they give us time, me an' Sammy can, +maybe, make out to pay the doctors. But add to that, to have to buy a +brand-new machine for the fella that run over Francie--that'd be sorter +discouragin'." + +She paused, and Claire began to pull on her gloves. + +"By the way," said Martha, "how's things down to the Shermans'? Seems +like a hunderd years since I was there. The las' time I laid eyes on +Eliza, she was in excellent spirits--I seen the bottle. I wonder if +she's still--very still, takin' a sly nip on the side, as she calls it, +which means a sly nip off the sideboard. You can take it from me, if she +don't let up, before she knows it she'll be a teetotal wrack." + +"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Eliza," observed Claire, smiling. + +"Why, of course, you haven't, which it wouldn't be a pleasure, anyhow. +But what I reely want to know is, how you makin' out with Radcliffe? I +been so took up with Francie all this while, I clean forgot to ask +before. Is he behavin' all right? Does he mind what you say? Does he do +his lessons good?" + +Claire's brows drew together in a troubled little frown, as she labored +over the clasp of her glove. + +"O, Radcliffe," she let fall carelessly. "Radcliffe's an unruly little +Hessian, of course, but I suppose all boys are mischievous at times." + +Martha pondered. "Well, not all boys are mischievous in just the same +way, thank God! This trouble o' Francie's has threw me all out in more +ways than one. If everything had 'a' went as I'd expected, I'd been +workin' at the Shermans' straight along these days, an' you wouldn't 'a' +had a mite o' trouble with the little fella. Him an' I understands each +other perfeckly, an' with me a loomin' up on the landscape, he kinder +sees the sense o' walkin' a chalk-line, not kickin' up his heels too +frisky. I'd calculated on being there, to sorter back you up, till you'd +got uster the place, an' made 'em understand you mean business." + +Claire laughed, a quick, sharp little laugh. + +"O, I think I'm gradually making them understand I mean business," she +said. "And I'm sure it is better, since I have to be there at all, that +I should be there without you, independent of any help. I couldn't make +Radcliffe respect my authority, if I depended on some one else to +enforce it. It's just one of those cases where one has to fight one's +own battle alone." + +"Then it _is_ a battle?" Martha inquired quietly. + +"O, it's a battle, 'all right,'" laughed Claire mirthlessly, and before +Mrs. Slawson could probe her further, she managed to make her escape. + +She did not wish to burden Martha with her vexations. Martha had +troubles of her own. Moreover, those that were most worrisome to Claire, +Martha, in the very nature of things, would not understand. + +Claire's first few weeks at the Shermans' had been uneventful enough. +Radcliffe had found amusement in the novelty of the situation, had +deigned to play school with her, and permitted her to "make believe" she +was "the teacher." He was willing to "pretend" to be her "scholar," just +as he would have been willing to pretend to be the horse, if he and +another boy had been playing, and the other boy had chosen to be driver +for a while. But turn about is fair play, and when the days passed, and +Claire showed no sign of relinquishing her claim, he grew restless, +mutinous, and she had all she could do to keep him in order. + +Gradually it began to dawn upon him that this very little person, kind +and companionable as she seemed, suffered under the delusion that he was +going to obey her--that, somehow, she was going to constrain him to obey +her. Of course, this was the sheerest nonsense. How could she make him +do anything he didn't want to do, since his mother had told her, in his +presence, that he was to be governed by love alone, and, fortunately, +her lack of superior size and strength forbade her _love_ from +expressing itself as, he shudderingly remembered, Martha's had done on +one occasion. No, plainly he had the advantage of Miss Lang, but until +she clearly understood it, there were apt to be annoyances. So, without +taking the trouble to make the punishment fit the crime, he casually +locked her in the sitting-room closet one morning. She had stepped +inside to hang up her hat and coat as usual, and it was quite easy, +swiftly, noiselessly, to close the door upon her, and turn the key. + +He paused a moment, choking back his nervous laughter, waiting to hear +her bang on the panel, and clamor to be let out. But when she made no +outcry, when, beyond one or two futile turnings of the knob, there was +no further attempt on her part to free herself, he stole upstairs to +the schoolroom, and made merry over his clever exploit. + +For a full minute after she found herself in darkness, Claire did not +realize she was a prisoner. The door had swung to after her, she +thought, that was all. But, when she turned the knob, and still it did +not open, she began to suspect the truth. Her first impulse was to call +out, but her better judgment told her it would be better to wait with +what dignity she might until Radcliffe tired of his trick, or some one +else came and released her. Radcliffe would tire the more quickly, she +reasoned, if she did not raise a disturbance. When he saw she was not to +be teased, he would come and let her out. She stood with her hot cheek +pressed against the cool wood of the closet-door, waiting for him to +come. And listening for his steps, she heard other steps--other steps +which approached, and entered the sitting-room. She heard the voices of +Mrs. Sherman and Mr. Ronald in earnest conversation. + +"If I thought such a thing were possible I'd send her away to-morrow," +Mrs. Sherman was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice. + +"Why such delay? Why not to-day?" inquired Mr. Ronald ironically. + +"But, of course," continued his sister, ignoring his interruption, "I +know there's nothing to be really afraid of." + +"Well, then, if you know there's nothing to be afraid of, what _are_ you +afraid of?" + +"I'm not really afraid. I'm just talking things over. You see, she's so +uncommonly pretty, and--men are men, and you're no exception." + +"I hope not. I don't want to be an exception." + +"Don't you think she's uncommonly pretty?" + +"No, I don't think I should call her--_pretty_," said Mr. Ronald with an +emphasis his sister might well have challenged, if she had not been so +preoccupied with her own thoughts that she missed its point. + +"Well, _I_ do. I think she's quite pretty enough to excuse, I mean, +_explain_ your having a passing fancy for her." + +"I haven't a passing fancy for her." + +"Well, I'm much relieved to hear you say so, for even if it were only a +passing fancy, I'd feel I ought to send her away. You never can tell how +such things will develop." + +"You certainly can't." + +"And you may rest assured mother and I don't want you to ruin your life +by throwing yourself away on a penniless, unknown little governess, when +you might have your choice from among the best-born, wealthiest girls +in town." + +"Miss Lang is as well-born as any one we know." + +"We have only her word for it." + +"No, her nurse, an old family servant, Martha Slawson, corroborates +her--if you require corroboration." + +"Don't you? Would you be satisfied to pick some one off the street, as +it were, and take her into your house and give her your innocent child +to train?" + +"My innocent children being so extremely vague, I am not concerning +myself as to their education. But I certainly accept Miss Lang's word, +and I accept Martha's." + +"You're easily satisfied. Positively, Frank, I believe you _have_ a +fancy for the girl, in spite of what you say. And for all our sakes, for +mother's and mine and yours and--yes--even hers, it will be best for me +to tell her to go." + +"I rather like the way you rank us. Mother and you first--then I come, +and last--_even_ the poor little girl!" + +"Well, you may laugh if you want to, but when a child like Radcliffe +notices that you're not indifferent to her, there must be some truth in +it. He confided to me last night, 'Uncle Frank likes Miss Lang a lot. I +guess she's his best girl! Isn't she his best girl?' I told him +_certainly not_. But I lay awake most of the night, worrying about it." + +Mr. Ronald had evidently had enough of the interview. Claire could hear +his firm steps, as he strode across the floor to the door. + +"I advise you to quit worrying, Catherine," he said. "It doesn't pay. +Moreover, I assure you I've no _passing fancy_ (I quote your words) for +Miss Lang. I hope you won't be so foolish as to dismiss her on my +account. She's an excellent teacher, a good disciplinarian. It would be +difficult to find another as capable as she, one who, at the same time, +would put up with Radcliffe's waywardness, and your--_our_--(I'll put it +picturesquely, after the manner of Martha) our indiosincrazies. Take my +advice. Don't part with Miss Lang. She's the right person in the right +place. Good-morning!" + +"Frank, Frank! Don't leave me like that. I know I've terribly annoyed +you. I can't bear to feel you're provoked with me, and yet I'm only +acting for your good. Please kiss me good-by. I'm going away. I won't +see you for two whole days. I'm going to Tuxedo this morning to stay +over night with Amy Pelham. There's a man she's terribly interested in, +and she wants me to meet him, and tell her what I think of him. He's +been attentive to her for ever so long, and yet he doesn't--his name is +Mr. Robert--" Her words frayed off in the distance, as she hurriedly +followed her brother out into the hall and downstairs. + +How long Claire stood huddled against the closet-door she never knew. +The first thing of which she was clearly conscious was the feel of a key +stealthily moved in the lock beneath her hand. Then the sounds of +footsteps lightly tiptoeing away. Mechanically she turned the knob, the +door yielded, and she staggered blindly out from the darkness into the +sunlit room. It was deserted. + +If Mrs. Sherman had been there, Claire would have given way at once, +letting her sense of outraged pride escape her in a torrent of tears, a +storm of indignant protest. Happily, there being no one to cry to, she +had time to gather herself together before going up to face Radcliffe. +When she entered the schoolroom, he pretended to be studiously busied +with his books, and so did not notice that she was rather a long time +closing the door after her, and that she also had business with the lock +of the door opposite. He really only looked up when she stationed +herself behind her desk, and summoned him to recite. + +"I do' want to!" announced Radcliffe resolutely. + +"Very well," said Claire, "then we'll sit here until you do." + +Radcliffe grinned. It seemed to him things were all going his way, this +clear, sunny morning. He began to whistle, in a breathy undertone. + +Claire made no protest. She simply sat and waited. + +Radcliffe took up his pencil, and began scrawling pictures over both +sides of his slate, exulting in the squeaking sounds he produced. Still +_the teacher_ did not interfere. But when, tired of his scratching, he +concluded the time had arrived for his grand demonstration, his crowning +declaration of independence, he rose, carelessly shoved his books aside, +strode to the door, intending masterfully to leave the room, +and--discovered he was securely locked and bolted in. In a flash he was +across the room, tearing at the lock of the second door with frantic +fingers. That, too, had been made fast. He turned upon Claire like a +little fiend, his eyes flashing, his hands clenched. + +"You--you--you two-cent Willie!" he screamed. + +Claire pretended not to see or hear. In reality she was acutely +conscious of every move he made, for, small as he was, his pent-in rage +gave him a strength she might well fear to put to the test. It was the +tug of war. The question was, who would be conqueror? + +Through the short hours of the winter forenoon, hours that seemed as +interminable to Claire as they did to Radcliffe, the battle raged. There +was no sign of capitulation on either side. + +In the course of the morning, and during one of Radcliffe's fiercest +outbreaks, Claire took up the telephone instrument and quietly +instructed Shaw to bring no luncheon-trays to the schoolroom at +mid-day. + +"Two glasses of hot milk will be all we need," she said, whereupon +Radcliffe leaped upon her, trying to wrest the transmitter from her +hand, beating her with his hard little fists. + +"I won't drink milk! I won't! I won't!" he shouted madly. "An' I'll +_kill_ you, if you won't let me have my lunch, you--you--you +_mizzer'ble_ two-cent Willie!" + +As the day drew on, his white face grew flushed, her fevered one white, +and both were haggard and lined from the struggle. Then, at about three +o'clock, Mr. Ronald telephoned up to say he wished Radcliffe to go for a +drive with him. + +Claire replied it was impossible. + +"Why?" came back to her over the wire. + +"Because he needs punishment, and I am going to see that he gets it." + +"And if I interfere?" + +"I resign at once. Even as it is--" + +"Do you think you are strong enough--strong enough _physically_, to +fight to the finish?" + +"I am strong enough for anything." + +"I believe you. But if you should find him one too many for you, I shall +be close at hand, and at a word from you I will come to the rescue." + +"No fear of my needing help. Good-by!" + +She hung up the receiver with a click of finality. + +Outside, the sky grew gray and threatening. Inside, the evening shadows +began to gather. First they thickened in the corners of the room; then +spread and spread until the whole place turned vague and dusky. + +The first violence of his rage was spent, but Radcliffe, sullen and +unconquered still, kept up the conflict in silent rebellion. He had not +drunk his milk, so neither had Claire hers. The two glasses stood +untouched upon her desk, where she had placed them at noon. It was so +still in the room Claire would have thought the boy had fallen asleep, +worn out with his struggles, but for the quick, catching breaths that, +like soundless sobs, escaped him every now and then. It had been dark a +long, long time when, suddenly, a shaft of light from a just lit window +opposite, struck over across to them, reflecting into the shadow, and +making visible Radcliffe's little figure cowering back in the shelter +of a huge leather armchair. He looked so pitifully small and appealing, +that Claire longed to gather him up in her arms, but she forebore and +sat still and waited. + +Then, at last, just as the clock of a nearby church most solemnly boomed +forth eight reverberating strokes, a chastened little figure slid out of +the great chair, and groped its way slowly, painfully along until it +reached Claire's side. + +"I will--be--good!" Radcliffe whispered chokingly, so low she had to +bend her head to hear. + +Claire laid her arms about him and he clung to her neck, trembling. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It was almost ten o'clock when Claire left the house. She waited to see +Radcliffe properly fed, and put to bed, before she went. She covered him +up, and tucked him in as, in all his life, he had never been covered up, +and tucked in, before. Then, dinnerless and faint, she slipped out into +the bleak night. + +She was too exhausted to feel triumphant over her conquest. The only +sensations she realized were a dead weariness that hung on her spirit +and body like a palpable weight, and, far down in her heart, something +that smouldered and burned like a live ember, ready to burst forth and +blaze at a touch. + +She had walked but a block or two when, through her numbness, crept a +dim little shadow of dread. At first it was nothing more than an inner +suggestion to hasten her steps, but gradually it became a conscious +impulse to outstrip something or some one behind her--some one or +something whose footfalls, resounding faintly through the deserted +street, kept such accurate pace with her own, that they sounded like +their echo. + +It was not until she had quickened her steps, and found that the +other's steps had quickened, too, not until she had slowed down to +almost a saunter, only to discover that the one behind was lagging also, +that she acknowledged to herself she was being followed. + +Then, from out the far reaches of her memory, came the words of Aunt +Amelia's formula: "Sir, you are no gentleman. If you were a gentleman--" +But straightway followed Martha's trenchant criticism. + +"Believe _me_, that's rot! It might go all right on the stage, for a +girl to stop, an' let off some elercution while the villain still +pursued her, but here in New York City it wouldn't work. Not on your +life it wouldn't. Villains ain't pausin' these busy days, in their mad +careers, for no recitation-stunts, I don't care how genteel you get 'em +off. If they're on the job, you got to step lively, an' not linger +'round for no sweet farewells. Now, you got your little temper with you, +all right, all right! If you also got a umbrella, why, just you make a +_com_bine o' the two an'--aim for the bull's eye, though his nose will +do just as good, specially if it's the bleedin' v'riety. No! P'licemen +ain't what I'd reckmend, for bein' called to the resquer. In the first +place, they ain't ap' to be there. An', besides, they wouldn't know what +to do if they was. P'licemen is funny that way. + +"They mean well, but they get upset if anythin' 's doin' on their beat. +They like things quiet. An' they don't like to _run in_ their friends, +an' so, by the time you think you made 'em understand what you're +drivin' at, _the villain_ has got away, an' you're like to be hauled up +before the magistrate for disturbin' the peace, which, bein' so shy an' +bashful before high officials, p'licemen don't like to blow in at court +without somethin' to show for the way they been workin'." + +It all flashed across Claire's mind in an instant, like a picture thrown +across a screen. Then, without pausing to consider what she meant to do, +she halted, turned, and--was face to face with Francis Ronald. + +Before he could speak, she flashed upon him two angry eyes. + +"What do you mean by following me?" + +"It is late--too late for you to be out in the streets alone," he +answered quietly. + +Claire laughed. "You forget I'm not a society girl. I'm a girl who works +for her living. I can't carry a chaperon about with me wherever I go. I +must take care of myself, and--I know how to do it. I'm not afraid." + +"I believe you." + +"Then--good-night!" + +"I intend to see you home." + +"I don't need you." + +"Nevertheless, I intend to see you home." + +"I don't--_want_ you." + +"Notwithstanding which--" + +He hailed a passing motor-taxi, gave the chauffeur Martha's street and +number, after he had succeeded in extracting them from Claire, and then, +in spite of protests, helped her in. + +For a long time she sat beside him in silence, trying to quell in +herself a weak inclination to shed tears, because--because he had +compelled her to do something against her will. + +He did not attempt any conversation, and when, at last, she spoke, it +was of her own accord. + +"I've decided to resign my position." + +"Is it permitted me to know why?" + +"I can't stay." + +"That is no explanation." + +"I don't feel I can manage Radcliffe." + +"Pardon me, you know you can. You have proved it. He is your bond-slave, +from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer." + +Claire laughed, a sharp, cutting little laugh that was like a keen knife +turned on herself. + +"O, it would have to be for poorer--'all right, all right,' as Martha +says," she cried scornfully. "But it has been too hard--to-day. I can't +endure any more." + +"You won't have to. Radcliffe is conquered, so far as you are concerned. +'Twill be plain sailing, after this." + +"I'd rather do something else. I'd like something different." + +"I did not think you were a quitter." + +"I'm not." + +"O, yes, you are, if you give up before the game is done. No good sport +does that." + +"I've no ambition to be a good sport." + +"Perhaps not. But you _are_ a good sport. A thorough good sport. _And +you won't give up till you've seen this thing through_." + +"Is that a prediction, or a--command? It sounds like a command." + +"It is whatever will hold you to the business you've undertaken. I want +you to conquer the rest, as you've conquered Radcliffe." + +"The rest?" + +"Yes." + +"What do you mean by the rest?" + +"I mean circumstances. I mean obstacles. I mean, my mother--my sister." + +"I don't--understand." + +"Perhaps not." + +"And suppose (forgive me if I seem rude), suppose I don't consider _the +rest_ worth conquering? Why should I? What one has to strive so for--" + +"Is worth the most. One has to strive for everything in this world, +everything that is really worth while. One has to strive to get it, one +has to strive to keep it." + +"Well, I don't think I care very much to-night, if I never get anything +ever again in all my life to come." + +"Poor little tired girl!" + +Claire's chin went up with a jerk. "I don't need your pity, I won't have +it. I am a stranger to you and to your friends. I am--" The defiant chin +began to quiver. + +"If you were not so tired," Francis Ronald said gravely, "I'd have this +thing out with you, here and now. I'd _make_ you tell me why you so +wilfully misunderstand. Why you seem to take pleasure in saying things +that are meant to hurt me, and must hurt you. As it is--" + +Claire turned on him impetuously. "I don't ask you to make allowances +for me. If I do what displeases you, I give you perfect liberty to find +fault. I'm not too tired to listen. But as to your _making_ me do or say +anything I don't choose, why--" + +He shook his head. "I'm afraid you are a hopeless proposition, at least +for the present. Perhaps, some time I may be able to make you +understand--Forgive me! I should say, perhaps, some time you may be +willing to understand." + +Their chauffeur drew up beside the curbstone in front of Martha's door, +then sprang down from his seat to prove to his lordly-looking "fare" +that he knew his business, and was deserving of as large a tip as a +correct estimate of his merit might suggest. + +Francis Ronald took Claire's key from her, fitted it into the lock of +the outer door, and opened it for her. + +"And you will stand by Radcliffe? You won't desert him?" he asked, as +she was about to pass into the house. + +"I'll show you that, at least, I'm not a quitter, even if I _am_ a +hopeless proposition, as you say." + +A faint shadow of a smile flitted across his face as, with head held +proudly erect, she turned and left him. + +"No, you're not a quitter," he muttered to himself, "but--neither am I!" + +The determined set of his jaw would have rekindled that inner rebellious +fire in Claire, if she had seen it. But she was seeing nothing just at +that moment, save Martha, who, to her amazement, stood ready to receive +her in the inner hall. + +"Ain't it just grand?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "They told me yesterday, +'all things bein' equal,' they'd maybe leave us back soon, but I didn't +put no stock in it, knowin' they never _is_ equal. So I just held me +tongue an' waited, an' this mornin', like a bolster outer a blue sky, +come the word that at noon we could go. Believe _me_, I didn't wait for +no old shoes or rice to be threw after me. I got into their old +amberlance-carriage, as happy as a blushin' bride bein' led to the +halter, an' Francie an' me come away reji'cin'. Say, but what ails +_you?_ You look sorter--sorter like a--strained relation or somethin'. +What you been doin' to yourself to get so white an' holler-eyed? What +kep' you so late?" + +"I had a tussle with Radcliffe." + +"Who won out?" + +"I did, but it took me all day." + +"Never mind. It'd been cheap at the price, if it had 'a' took you all +week. How come the madam to give you a free hand?" + +"She was away." + +"Anybody else know what was goin' on? Any of the fam'ly?" + +"Yes, Mr. Ronald. He brought me home. I didn't want him to, but he did. +He just _made_ me let him, and--O, Martha--I can't bear--I can't bear--" + +"You mean you can't bear _him?"_ + +Claire nodded, choking back her tears. + +"Now, what do you think o' that!" ejaculated Mrs. Slawson pensively. +"An' he so _pop'lar_ with the ladies! Why, you'd oughter hear them +stylish lady-friends o' Mrs. Sherman praisin' 'm to her face. It'd make +you blush for their modesty, which they don't seem to have none, an' +that's a fac'. You can take it from me, you're the only one he ever come +in contract with, has such a hate on'm. I wouldn't 'a' believed it, +unless I'd 'a' had it from off of your own lips. But there's no use +tryin' to argue such things. Taste is different. What pleases one, +pizens another. In the mean time--an' it _is_ a mean time for you, you +poor, wore-out child--I've some things here, hot an' tasty, that'll +encourage your stummick, no matter how it's turned on some other things. +As I says to Sammy, it's a poor stummick won't warm its own bit, but all +the same, there's times when somethin' steamin' does your heart as much +good as it does your stummick, which, the two o' them bein' such near +neighbors, no wonder we get 'em mixed up sometimes, an' think the one is +starved when it's only the other." + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +It proved altogether easier for Martha, now Francie was at home again. + +"You see, I can tend her an' sandwich in some work besides," Mrs. +Slawson explained cheerfully. "An' Ma's a whizz at settin' by bedsides +helpin' patients get up their appetites. Says she, 'Now drink this nice +glass o' egg-nog, Francie, me child,' she says. 'An' if you'll drink it, +I'll take one just like it meself.' An' true for you, she does. The +goodness o' Ma is astonishin'." + +Then one day Sam Slawson came home with a tragic face. + +"I've lost my job, Martha!" he stated baldly. + +For a moment his wife stood silent under the blow, and all it entailed. +Then, with an almost imperceptible squaring of her broad shoulders, she +braced herself to meet it, as she herself would say, like a soldier. +"Well, it's kinder hard on _you_, lad," she answered. "But there's no +use grievin'. If it had to happen, it couldn't 'a' happened at a better +time, for you bein' home, an' able to look after Francie, will give me a +chance to go out reg'lar to my work again. An' before you know it, +Francie, she'll be running about as good as new, an' you'll have +another job, an' we'll be on the top o' the wave. Here's Miss Claire, +bless her, payin' me seven dollars a week board, which she doesn't eat +no more than a bird, an' Sammy singin' in the surplus choir, an' gettin' +fifty cents a week for it, an' extra for funer'ls (it'd take your time +to hear'm lamentin' because business ain't brisker in the funer'l +line!). Why, _we_ ain't no call to be discouraged. You can take it from +me, Sammy Slawson, when things seem to be kinder shuttin' down on ye, +an' gettin' black-like, same's they lately been doin' on us, that ain't +no time to be chicken-hearted. Anybody could fall down when they're +knocked. That's too dead-easy! No, what we want, is buck up an' have +some style about us. When things shuts down an' gets dark at the +movin'-picture show, then it's time to sit up an' take notice. That +means somethin's doin'--you're goin' to be showed somethin' interestin'. +Well, it's the same with us. But if you lose your sand at the first +go-off, an' sag down an' hide your face in your hands, well, you'll miss +the show. You won't see a bloomin' thing." + +And Martha, sleeves rolled up, enveloped in an enormous blue-checked +apron, returned to her assault on the dough she was kneading, with +redoubled zeal. + +"Bread, mother?" asked Sam dully, letting himself down wearily into a +chair by the drop-table, staring indifferently before him out of blank +eyes. + +"Shoor! An' I put some currants in, to please the little fella. I give +in, my bread is what you might call a holy terror. Ain't it the caution +how I can't ever make bread fit to be eat, the best I can do? An' yet, I +can't quit tryin'. You see, home-made bread, _if it's good_, is cheaper +than store. Perhaps some day I'll be hittin' it right, so's when you ask +me for bread I won't be givin' you a stone." + +She broke off abruptly, gazed a moment at her husband, then stepped to +his side, and put a floury hand on his shoulder. "Say, Sam, what you +lookin' so for? You ain't lost your sand just because they fired you? +What's come to you, lad? Tell Martha." + +For a second there was no sound in the room, then the man looked up, +gulped, choked down a mighty sob, and laid his head against her breast. + +"Martha--there's somethin' wrong with my lung. That's why they thrown me +down. They had their doctor from the main office examine me--they'd +noticed me coughin'--and he said I'd a spot on my lung or--something. I +shouldn't stay here in the city, he said. I must go up in the mountains, +away from this, where there's the good air and a chance for my lung to +heal, otherwise--" + +Martha stroked the damp hair away from his temples with her powdery +hand. + +"Well, well!" she said reflectively. "Now, what do you think o' that!" + +"O, Martha--I can't stand it! You an' the children! It's more than I can +bear!" + +Mrs. Slawson gave the head against her breast a final pat that, to +another than her husband, might have felt like a blow. + +"More'n you can bear? Don't flatter yourself, Sammy my lad! Not by no +means it ain't. I wouldn't like to have to stand up to all I could +ackchelly bear. It's God, not us, knows how much we can stand, an' when +He gets in the good licks on us, He always leaves us with a little +stren'th to spare--to last over for the next time. Now, I'm not a bit +broke down by what you've told me. I s'pose you thought you'd have me +sobbin' on your shoulder--to give you a chanct to play up, an' do the +strong-husband act, comfortin' his little tremblin' wife. Well, my lad, +if you ain't got on to it by now, that I'm no little, tremblin' wife, +you never will. Those kind has nerves. I only got nerve. That's where +I'm _singular_, see? A joke, Sammy! I made it up myself. Out of my own +head, just now. But to go back to what I was sayin'--why should I sob on +your shoulder? There ain't no reason for't. In the first place, even if +you _have_ got a spot on your lung, what's a spot! It ain't the whole +lung! An' _one_ lung ain't _both_ lungs, an' there you are! As I make it +out, even grantin' the worst, you're a lung-an'-then-some to the good, +so where's the use gettin' blue? There's always a way out, somehow. If +we can't do one way, we'll do another. Now you just cheer up, an' don't +let Ma an' the childern see you kinder got a knock-outer in the solar +plexus, like Jeffries, an' before you know it, there'll be a suddent +turn, an' we'll be atop o' our worries, 'stead o' their bein' atop o' +us. See! Say, just you cast your eye on them loaves! Ain't they grand? +Appearances may be deceitful, but if I do say it as shouldn't, my bread +certainly looks elegant this time. Now, Sammy, get busy like a good +fella! Go in an' amuse Francie. The poor child is perishin' for +somethin' to distrack her. What with Cora an' Sammy at school, an' Miss +Claire havin' the Shermans so bewitched, they keep her there all day, +an' lucky for us if they leave her come home nights at all, the house is +too still for a sick person. Give Francie a drink o' Hygee water to cool +her lips, an' tell her a yarn-like. An', Sammy, I wisht you'd be good to +yourself, an' have a shave. Them prickles o' beard reminds me o' the +insides o' Mrs. Sherman's big music-box. I wonder what tune you'd play +if I run your chin in. Go on, now, an' attend to Francie, like I told +you to. She needs to have her mind took off'n herself." + +When he was gone, Martha set her loaves aside under cover to rise, never +pausing a moment to take breath, before giving the kitchen a +"scrub-down" that left no corner or cranny harboring a particle of dust. +It was twilight when she finished, and "time to turn to an' get the +dinner." + +Cora and Sammy had long since returned from school. Sammy had gone out +again to play, and had just come back to find his mother taking her +bread-pans from the oven. She regarded them with doleful gaze. + +"I fairly broke my own record this time for a bum bread-maker!" she +muttered beneath her breath. "This batch is the worst yet." + +"Say--mother!" said Sammy. + +"Well?" + +"Say, mother, may I have a slice of bread? I'm awfully hungry." + +"Shoor you may! This here's just fresh from the oven, an' it has +currants in it." + +"Say, mother, a feller I play with, Joe Eagan, _his_ mother's hands +ain't clean. Would you think he'd like to eat the bread she makes?" + +"Can she make _good_ bread?" + +"I dunno. She give me a piece oncet, but I couldn't eat it, 'count o' +seein' her fingers. I'm glad your hands are so clean, mother. Say, this +bread tastes awful good!" + +Martha chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you like it. It might be worse, if I do +say it! Only," she added to herself, "it'd have a tough time managin' +it." + +"Say, mother, may I have another slice with butter on, an' sugar +sprinkled on top, like this is, to give it to Joe Eagan? He's +downstairs. I want to show him how _my_ mother can make the boss bread!" + +"Certainly," said Martha heartily. "By all means, give Joe Eagan a +slice. I like to see you thoughtful an' generous, my son. Willin' to +share your good things with your friends," and as Sammy bounded out, +clutching his treasures, she winked solemnly across at her husband, who +had just re-entered. + +"Now do you know what'll happen?" she inquired. "Sammy'll always have +the notion I make the best bread ever. An' when he grows up an' marries, +if his wife is a chef-cook straight out of the toniest kitchen in town, +at fifty dollars a month, he'll tell her she ain't a patch on me. An' +he'll say to her: 'Susan, or whatever-her-name-is, them biscuits is all +right in their way, but I wisht I had a mouthful o' bread like mother +used to make.' An' the poor creature'll wear the life out o' her, tryin' +to please'm, an' reach my top-notch, an' never succeed, an' all the +time--Say, Sammy, gather up the rest o' the stuff, like a good fella, +an' shove it onto the dumb-waiter, so's it can go down with the +sw--There's the whistle now! That's him callin' for the garbage." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +"Hullo, Martha!" said Radcliffe. + +Mrs. Slawson bowed profoundly. "Hullo yourself! I ain't had the pleasure +of meetin' you for quite some time past, an' yet I notice my absents +ain't made no serious alteration for the worst in your appearance. You +ain't fell away none, on account of my not bein' here." + +"Fell away from what?" asked Radcliffe. + +"Fell away from nothin'. That's what they call a figger o' speech. Means +you ain't got thin." + +"Well, _you've_ got thin, haven't you, Martha? I don't 'member your +cheeks had those two long lines in 'em before." + +"Lines?" repeated Martha, regarding herself in the mirror of an etagere +she was polishing. "Them ain't _lines_. Them's dimples." + +Radcliffe scrutinized her critically for a moment. "They're not like +Miss Lang's dimples," he observed at last. "Miss Lang's dimples look +like when you blow in your milk to cool it--they're there, an' then they +ain't there. She vanishes 'em in, an' she vanishes 'em out, but those +lines in your face, they just stay. Only they weren't there before, +when you were here." + +"The secret is, my dimples is the kind that takes longer to vanish 'em +out when you once vanished 'em in. Mine's way-train dimples. Miss Lang's +is express. But you can take it from me, dimples is faskinatin', +whatever specie they are." + +"What's _faskinatin'?"_ + +"It's the thing in some things that, when it ain't in other things, you +don't care a thing about 'em." + +"Are _you_ faskinatin'?" + +"That's not for me to say," said Martha, feigning coyness. "But this +much I will confess, that some folks which shall be nameless, considers +me so. An' they'd oughter know." + +"Is Miss Lang faskinatin'?" + +"Ask your Uncle Frank." + +"Why must I ask him?" + +"If you wanter know." + +"Does he know?" + +"Prob'ly. He's a very well-informed gen'l-man on most subjecks." + +"I do' want to ask my Uncle Frank anything about Miss Lang. Once I asked +him somethin' about her, an' he didn't like it." + +"What'd you ask him?" + +"I asked him if she wasn't his best girl." + +"What'd he say?" + +"He said 'No!' quick, just like that--'No!' I guess he was cross with +me, an' I know he didn't like it. When I asked my mother why he didn't +like it, she said because Miss Lang's only my governess. An' when I told +Miss Lang what my mother, she told me, Miss Lang, she didn't like it +either." + +"Now, what do you think o' that?" ejaculated Martha. "Nobody didn't seem +to like nothin' in that combination, did they? You was the only one in +the whole outfit that showed any tack." + +"What means that--_tack?"_ + +"It's a little thing that you use when you want to keep things in +place--keep 'em from fallin' down. There's two kinds. One you must +hammer in, an' the other you mustn't." + +"I wisht Miss Lang _was_ my Uncle Frank's best girl. But I guess she's +somebody else's." + +"Eh?" said Martha sharply, sitting back on her heels and twisting her +polishing-cloth into a rope, as if she were wringing it out. "Now, whose +best girl do you think she is, if I may make so bold?" + +Radcliffe settled down to business. + +"Yesterday Miss Lang an' me was comin' home from the Tippydrome, an' my +mother she had comp'ny in the drawin'-room. An' I didn't know there was +comp'ny first-off, coz Shaw he didn't tell us, an' I guess I talked +kinder loud in the hall, an' my mother she heard me, an' she wasn't +cross or anythin', she just called to me to come along in, an' see the +comp'ny. An' I said, 'No, I won't! Not less Miss Lang comes too.' An' my +mother, she said, 'Miss Lang, come too.' An' Miss Lang, she didn't +wanter, but she hadter. An' the comp'ny was a gen'l'man an' a lady, an' +the minit the gen'l'man, he saw Miss Lang, he jumped up outer his chair +like a jumpin'-jack, an' his eyes got all kinder sparkly, an' he held +out both of his hands to her, an' sorter shook her hands, till you'd +think he'd shake 'em off. An' my mother, she said, 'I see you an' Miss +Lang are already 'quainted, Mr. Van Brandt.' An' he laughed a lot, the +way you do when you're just tickled to death, an' he said, ''Quainted? +Well, I should say so! Miss Lang an' I are old, old friends!' An' he +kep' lookin' at her, an' lookin' at her, the way you feel when there's +somethin' on the table you like, an' you're fearful 'fraid it will be +gone before it's passed to you. An' my mother she said to the other +comp'ny, 'Miss Pelham, this is Radcliffe.' An' Miss Pelham, she was +lookin' sideways at Miss Lang an' Mr. What's-his-name, but she pertended +she was lookin' at me, an' she said (she's a Smarty-Smarty-gave-a-party, +Miss Pelham is), she said, 'Radcliffe, Radcliffe? I wonder if you're +any relation to Radcliffe College?' An' I said, 'No. I wonder if you are +any relation to Pelham Manor?' An' while they was laughin', an' my +mother she was tellin' how percoshus I am, my Uncle Frank he came in. He +came in kinder quiet, like he always does, an' he stood in the door, an' +Mr. What's-his-name was talkin' to Miss Lang so fast, an' lookin' at her +so hard, they didn't neither of 'em notice. An' when my Uncle Frank, he +noticed they didn't notice, coz they was havin' such fun by themselves, +he put his mouth together like this--like when your tooth hurts, an' you +bite on it to make it hurt some more, an' then he talked a lot to Miss +Pelham, an' didn't smile pleasant an' happy at Mr. What's-his-name an' +Miss Lang, when my mother, she interdooced 'em. An' soon Miss Lang, she +took me upstairs an' she didn't look near so tickled to death as Mr. Van +Brandt, he looked. An' when I asked her if she wasn't, she said: 'O' +course I am. Mr. Van Brandt was a friend o' mine when I was a little +girl. An' when you're a stranger in a strange land, anybody you knew +when you was at home seems dear to you.' But she didn't look near so +pleased as he did. She looked more like my Uncle Frank, he did before he +got talkin' so much to Miss Pelham. An' now I guess the way of it is, +Miss Pelham's my Uncle Frank's best girl an' Miss Lang's Mr. +What's-his-name's." + +"Well, now! Who'd believed you could 'a' seen so much? Why, you're a +reg'ler Old Sleuth the Detective, or Sherlock Holmes, or somebody like +that, for discoverin' things, ain't you?" + +"I don't want Miss Pelham to be my Uncle Frank's best girl, an' I don't +see why that other man he don't have her for his, like she was +first-off, an' leave my Miss Lang alone." + +"It all is certainly very dark an' mysterious," said Mrs. Slawson, +shaking her head. "You don't know where you're at, at all. Like when you +wake up in the black night, an' hear the clock give one strike. You +couldn't tell, if your life hung in the ballast, if it's half-past +twelve, or one, or half-past." + +Radcliffe pondered this for a space, but was evidently unable to fathom +its depth, for presently he let it go with a sigh, and swung off to +another topic. + +"Say, do you know our cook, 'Liza--the one we uster have--has gone +away?" + +"So I gathered from not havin' saw her fairy-figger hoverin' round the +kitchen as I come in, an' meetin' another lady in her place--name of +Augusta, Beetrice said." + +"Yes, sir! Augusta's the new one. I guess Augusta don't drink." + +"Which, you are suggesting 'Liza does?" + +"Well, my mother, she don't know I know, but I do. I heard Shaw tellin' +'bout it. It was 'Liza's day out, an' she went an' got 'toxicated, an' a +p'liceman he took her up, an' nex' mornin' my Uncle Frank, they sent to +him out of the station-house to have him _bail her out_." + +"My, my! She was as full as that?" + +"What's bail her out?" inquired Radcliffe. + +Mrs. Slawson considered. "When a boat gets full of water, because o' +leakin' sides or heavy rains or shippin' seas, or whatever they calls +it, you bail her out with a tin can or a sponge or anythin' you have by +you." + +"Was Liza full of water?" + +"I was describin' _boats_," said Martha. "An' talkin' o' boats, did I +tell you we got a new kitten to our house? He's a gray Maltee. His name +is Nixcomeraus." + +"Why is his name Nix--why is his name _that_?" + +"Nixcomeraus? His name's Nixcomeraus because he's from the Dutchman's +house. If you listen good, you'll see that's poetry-- + +"'Nixcomeraus from the Dutchman's house!' + +"I didn't make it up, but it's poetry all the same. A Dutchman gen'l'man +who lives nex' door to me, made him a present to our fam'ly." + +"Do you like him?" + +"The Dutchman gen'l'man?" + +"No, the--the Nix--the _cat_?" + +"Certaintly we like him. He's a decent, self-respectin' little fella +that 'tends to his own business, an' keeps good hours. An' you'd oughter +see how grand him an' Flicker gets along! Talk o' a cat-and-dog +existence! Why, if all the married parties I know, not to speak o' some +others that ain't, hit it off as good as Flicker an' Nixcomeraus, there +wouldn't be no occasion for so many ladies takin' the rest-cure at +Reno." + +"What's Reno?" + +"Reno? Why, Reno's short for merino. Like I'd say, Nix for Nixcomeraus, +which is a kinder woolen goods you make dresses out of. There! Did you +hear the schoolroom bell? I thought I heard it ringin' a while ago, but +I wasn't sure. Hurry now, an' don't keep Miss Lang waitin'. She wants +you to come straight along up, so's she can learn you to be a big an' +handsome gen'l'man like your Uncle Frank." + +When Radcliffe had left her, Martha went over in her mind the items he +had guilelessly contributed to her general fund of information. Take it +all in all, she was not displeased with what they seemed to indicate. + +"Confidence is a good thing to have, but a little wholesome doubt don't +hurt the masculine gender none. I guess, if I was put to it, I could +count on one hand with no fingers, the number o' gen'l'men, no matter +how plain, have died because 'way down in their hearts they believed +they wasn't reel _A-1 Winners._ That's one thing it takes a lot o' hard +usage to convince the sect of. They may feel they ain't gettin' their +doos, that they're misunderstood, an' bein' sold below cost. But that +they're ackchelly shopworn, or what's called 'seconds,' or put on the +_As Is_ counter because they're cracked, or broke, or otherwise slightly +disfigured, but still in the ring--why, _that_ never seems to percolate +through their brains, like those coffee-pots they use nowadays, that +don't make no better coffee than the old kind, if you know how to do it +good, in the first place. + +"On the other hand, ladies is dretful tryin'! They act like they're the +discoverers of perpetchal emotion, an' is _on the job_ demonstratin'. +You can't count on 'em for one minit to the next, which they certaintly +was never born to be aromatic cash-registers. An' p'raps that's the +reason, bein' natchelly so poor at figgers, they got to rely to such a +extent on corsets. I'm all for women myself. I believe they're the +comin' man, but I must confess, if I'm to speak the truth, it ain't for +the simple, uninfected, childlike mind o' the male persuasion to foller +their figaries, unless he's some of a trained acrobat. + +"Now, the harsh way Miss Claire has toward Mr. Ronald! You'd think he +had give himself dead away to her, an' was down on his knee-pans humble +as a 'Piscerpalian sayin' the Literny in Lent, grubbin' about among the +dust she treads on, to touch the hem o' her garment. Whereas, in some +way unbeknownst to me, an' prob'ly unbeknownst to him, he's touched her +pride, which is why she's so up in arms, not meanin' his--worse luck! +An' it would have all worked out right in the end, an' will yet, _if_ +this new party that Radcliffe mentioned ain't Mr. Buttinsky, an' she +don't foller the dictates of her _art_ an' flirt with him too +outrageous, or else marry him to spite herself, which is what I mean to +pervent if I can, but which, of course, it may be I can't." + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +"Frank," said Mrs. Sherman one Sunday morning, some weeks later, +stopping her brother on his way to the door, "can you spare me a few +moments? I've something very important I want to discuss with you. I +want you to help me with suggestions and advice in a matter that very +closely concerns some one in whom I'm greatly interested." + +Mr. Ronald paused. "Meaning?" he suggested. + +"I don't know that I ought to tell you. You see, it's--it's +confidential." + +"Suggestions and advice are foolish things to give, Catherine. They are +seldom taken, never thanked for." + +"Well, in this case mine have been actually solicited. And I feel I +ought to do something, because, in a way, I'm more or less responsible +for the--the imbroglio." + +Slipping her hand through his arm, she led him back into the library. + +"You see, it's this way. Perhaps, after all, it will be better, simpler, +if I don't try to beat about the bush. Amy Pelham has been terribly +devoted to Mr. Van Brandt for ever so long--oh, quite six months. And +he has been rather attentive, though I can't say he struck me as very +much in love. You know she asked me out to Tuxedo not long ago. She +wanted me to watch him and tell her if I thought he was _serious._ Well, +I watched him, but I couldn't say I thought he was _serious._ However, +you never can tell. Men are so extraordinary! They sometimes masquerade +so, their own mothers wouldn't know them." + +"Or their sisters." + +"What did you say?" + +"Nothing worth repeating. Go on with your story." + +"Well, then, one evening she brought him here, you remember. I'd asked +him to come, when I was in Tuxedo, and he evidently wanted to do so, for +he proposed to Amy that she bring him. Of course, I'd no idea he and +Miss Lang had ever met before, and when I innocently ordered her in, I +did it simply because Radcliffe was refractory and refused to come +without her, and I couldn't have a scene before guests." + +"Well?" + +"I didn't know Mr. Van Brandt came from Grand Rapids. How should I? One +never thinks of those little, provincial towns as having any _society_." + +"You dear insular, insolent New Yorker." + +"Well, you may jeer as much as you like, but that's the way one feels. I +didn't know that, as Martha says, he was 'formerly born' in Michigan. I +just took him for granted, as one does people one meets in our best +houses. He's evidently of good stock, he has money (not a fortune, +perhaps, but enough), he's handsome, and he's seen everywhere with the +smartest people in town." + +"Well?" + +"Well, naturally Amy doesn't want to lose him, especially as she's +really awfully fond of him and he _is_ uncommonly attractive, you know." + +"Well?" + +"It looks as if that one glimpse of Miss Lang had been enough to upset +everything for Amy. He's hardly been there since." + +"And what does she propose to do about it?" + +"She doesn't know what to do about it. That's where my suggestions and +advice are to come in." + +"I see." + +"Of course, we can't be certain, but from what Bob Van Brandt has +dropped and from what Amy has been able to gather from other sources, +from people who knew Miss Lang and him in their native burg, he was +attached to her when she was no more than a kiddie. Then, when they grew +up, he came East and she went abroad, and they lost sight of each +other. But, as I say, that one glimpse of her was enough to ignite the +old flame. You must have seen yourself how frankly, openly he showed his +feeling that night." + +"Well?" + +"What is one to do about it?" + +"Do about what?" + +"Why--the whole thing! Don't you see, I'm responsible in a way. If I +hadn't called Miss Lang in, Bob Van Brandt wouldn't have known she was +here, and then he would have kept on with Amy. Now he's dropped her it's +up to me to make it up to her somehow." + +"It's up to you to make _what_ up to Amy?" + +"How dense you are! Why, the loss of Bob Van Brandt." + +"But if she didn't have him, how could she lose him?" + +"She didn't exactly have him, but she had a fighting chance." + +"And she wants to fight?" + +"I think she'd be willing to fight, if she saw her way to winning out." + +"Winning out against Miss Lang?" + +"Yes, if you want to put it so brutally." + +"I see you are assuming that Miss Lang is keen about Van Brandt." + +"Would you wonder if she were? It would be her salvation. Of course, I +don't feel about her any longer as I did once. I know _now_ she's a +lady, but the fact of her poverty remains. If she married Bob Van +Brandt, she'd be comfortably settled. She'd have ease and position and, +oh, of course she'll marry him if he asks her." + +"So the whole thing resolves itself down to--" + +"To this--if one could only devise a way to prevent his asking her." + +"Am I mistaken, or did I hear you say something about putting it +brutally, a few moments ago." + +"Well, I know it sounds rather horrid, but a desperate case needs +desperate medicine." + +"Catherine, you have asked for suggestions and advice. My suggestion to +Miss Pelham is that she gracefully step down and out. My advice to you +is that you resist the temptation to meddle. If Mr. Van Brandt wishes to +ask Miss Lang to marry him, he has a man's right to do so. If Miss Lang +wishes to marry Mr. Van Brandt after he has asked her, she has a woman's +right to do so. Any interference whatsoever would be intolerable. You +can take my advice or leave it. But _if_ you leave it, if you attempt to +mix in, you will regret it, for you will not be honorably playing the +game." + +Mrs. Sherman's lips tightened. "That's all very well," she broke out +impatiently. "That's the sort of advice men always give to women, and +never act on themselves. It's not the masculine way to sit calmly by and +let another carry off what one wants. If a man _cares,_ he fights for +his rights. It's only when he isn't interested that he's passive and +speaks of _honorably playing the game_. All's fair in love and war! If +you were in Amy's place--if the cases were reversed--and you saw +something you'd set your heart on being deliberately taken away from +you, I fancy _you_ wouldn't gracefully step down and out. At least I +don't see you doing it, in my mind's eye, Horatio!" + +"Ah, but you miss the point! There's a great difference between claiming +one's own and struggling to get possession of something that is lawfully +another's. If I were in Miss Pelham's place, and were _sure_ the one I +loved belonged to me by divine right, I'd have her--I'd have her in +spite of the devil and all his works. But the thing would be to be +_sure_. And one couldn't be sure so long as another claimant hadn't had +his chance to be thrown down. When he'd had his chance, and the decks +were cleared--_then_--!" + +"Goodness, Frank! I'd no idea you could be so intense. And I'll confess +I've never given you credit for so much imagination. You've been talking +of what you'd do in Amy's place quite as if you actually felt it. Your +performance of the determined lover is really most convincing." + +Francis Ronald smiled. "A man who's succeeded in _convincing_ a woman +has not lived in vain," he said. "Well, I must be off, Catherine. Good +luck to you and to Miss Pelham--but bad luck if either of you dares +stick her mischievous finger in other people's pies." + +He strode out of the room and the house. + +Meanwhile, Martha, industriously engaged in brushing Miss Lang's hair, +was gradually, delicately feeling her way toward what was, in reality, +the same subject. + +"Well, of course, you can have Cora if you want her. She'll be only too +glad o' the ride, but _do_ you think--now do you _reelly_ think it's +advisable to lug a third party along when it's clear as dish-water he +wants you alone by himself an' _yourself_? It's this way with men. If +they set out to do a thing, they gener'ly do it. But believe _me_, if +you put impederments in their way, they'll shoor do it, an' then some. +Now all them flowers an' candy that's been comin' here lately so +reg'ler, they means business on Mr. Van Brandt's part _if_ pleasure on +yours. He's strewin' your path with roses an' pavin' it with Huyler's +chocolates, so's some day in the near future he can come marchin' along +it, an' walk straight up to the captain's office an' hand in his +applercation for the vacancy. Now, the question is as plain as the nose +on your face. Do you want him to do it first or do you want him to do it +last? It's up to you to decide the time, but you can betcher life it's +goin' to be some time, Cora or no Cora, _ohne oder mit_ as our Dutch +friend acrost the hall says." + +Claire's reflection in the mirror she sat facing, showed a pair of sadly +troubled eyes. + +"O, it's very puzzling, Martha," she said. "Somehow, life seems all +topsy-turvy to me lately. So many things going wrong, so few right." + +"Now what, if I may make so bold, is wrong with your gettin' a +first-class offer from a well-off, good-lookin' gen'l'man-friend, that's +been keepin' comp'ny with you, off an' on, as you might say, ever since +you was a child, which shows that his heart's in the right place an' his +intentions is honorable. You know, you mustn't let the percession get by +you. Life's like standin' on the curbstone watching the parade--at +least, that's how it seems to young folks. They hear the music an' they +see the banners an' the floats an' they think it's goin' to be a +continuous performance. After a while they've got so used to the band +a-playin' an' the flags a-wavin' that it gets to be an old story, an' +they think that's what it'll be right along, so they don't trouble to +keep their eye peeled for the fella with the water-can, which he asked +'em to watch out for him. No, they argue he's good enough in his way, +but--'_Think_ o' the fella with the drum!' Or even, it might be, who +knows?--the grand one with his mother's big black muff on his head, +doin' stunts with his grandfather's gold-topped club, his grandpa havin' +been a p'liceman with a pull in the ward. An' while they stand a-waitin' +for all the grandjer they're expectin', suddenly it all goes past, an' +they don't see nothin' but p'raps a milk-wagon bringin' up the rear, an' +the ashfalt all strewed with rag-tag-an'-bobtail, an' there's nothin' +doin' in their direction, except turn around an' go home. Now, what's +the matter with Mr. Van Brandt? If you marry him you'll be all to the +good. No worry about the rent, no pinchin' here an' plottin' there to +keep the bills down. No goin' out by the day, rain or shine, traipsin' +the street on your two feet when you're so dead tired you could lay down +an' let the rest walk over you. Why, lookin' at it from any +standpoint-of-view I can't see but it's a grand oppertoonity. An' you're +fond of him, ain't you?" + +"O, yes, I'm very fond of Mr. Van Brandt. But I'm fond of him as a +friend. I couldn't--couldn't--couldn't ever marry him." + +"What for you couldn't? It ain't as if you liked some other fella +better! If you liked some other fella better, no matter how little you +might think you'd ever get the refusal of'm, I'd say, _stick to the reel +article: don't be put of with substitoots_. It ain't no use tryin' to +fool your heart. You can monkey with your brain, an' make it believe all +sorts of tommyrot, but your heart is dead on to you, an' when it once +sets in hankerin' it means business." + +Claire nodded unseeingly to her own reflection in the glass. + +"Now _my_ idea is," Martha continued, "my idea is, if you got somethin' +loomin', why, don't hide your face an' play it isn't there. There ain't +no use standin' on the ragged edge till every tooth in your head +chatters with cold an' fright. You don't make nothin' _by_ it. If you +love a man like a friend or if you love a friend like a man, my advice +is, take your seat in the chair, grip a-holt o' the arms, brace your +feet, an'--let'er go, Gallagher! It'll be over in a minit, as the +dentists say." + +"But suppose you had something else on your heart. Something that had +nothing to do with--with that sort of thing?" Claire asked. + +"What sorter thing?" + +"Why--love. Suppose you'd done something unworthy of you. Suppose the +sense of having done it made you wretched, made you want to make others +wretched? What would you do--then?" + +"Now, my dear, don't you make no mistake. I ain't goin' to be drew into +no blindman's grab-bag little game, not on your sweet life. I ain'ter +goin' to risk havin' you hate me all the rest o' your nacherl life +becoz, to be obligin' an' also to show what a smart boy am I, I give a +verdick without all the everdence in. If you wanter tell me plain out +what's frettin' you, I'll do my best accordin' to my lights, but +otherwise--" + +"Well--" began Claire, and then followed, haltingly, stumblingly, the +story of her adventure in the closet. + +"At first I felt nothing but the wound to my pride, the sting of what +he--of what _they_ said," she concluded. "But, after a little, I began +to realize there was something else. I began to see what _I_ had done. +For, you know, I had deliberately listened. I needn't have listened. If +I had put my hands over my ears, if I had crouched back, away from the +door, and covered my head, I need not have overheard. But I pressed as +close as I could to the panel, and hardly breathed, because I wanted not +to miss a word. And I didn't miss a word. I heard what it was never +meant I should hear, and--I'm nothing but a common--_eavesdropper_!" + +"Now, what do you think of that?" observed Mrs. Slawson. "Now, what do +you think of that?" + +"I've tried once or twice to tell him--" continued Claire. + +"Tell who? Tell Mr. Van Brandt?" + +"No, Mr. Ronald." + +"O! You see, when you speak o' _he_ an' _him_ it might mean almost any +gen'l'man. But I'll try to remember you're always referrin' to Mr. +Ronald." + +"I've tried once or twice to tell him, for I can't bear to be +untruthful. But, then, I remember I'm 'only the governess'--'the right +person in the right place'--of so little account that--that he doesn't +even know whether I'm pretty or not! And the words choke in my throat. I +realize it wouldn't mean anything to him. He'd only probably gaze down +at me, or he'd be kind in that lofty way he has--and put me in my place, +as he did the first time I ever saw him. And so, I've never told him. I +couldn't. But sometimes I think if I did--if I just _made_ myself do it, +I could hold up my head again and not feel myself growing bitter and +sharp, because something is hurting me in my conscience." + +"That's it!" said Martha confidently. "It's your conscience. Believe +_me_, consciences is the dickens an' all for makin' a mess o' things, +when they get right down to business. Now, if I was you, I wouldn't +bother Mr. Ronald with my squalms o' conscience. Very prob'ly when it +comes to consciences he has troubles of his own--at least, if he ain't, +he's an exception an' a rare curiosity, an' Mr. Pierpont Morgan oughter +buy him for the Museum. When your conscience tells you you'd oughter +tell, ten to one you'd oughtn't. Give other folks a chance. What they +don't know can't worry 'em. Besides, your just _tellin_' a thing don't +let you out. You can't get clear so easy as that. It's up to you to work +it out, so what's wrong is made _right_, an' do it _yourself_--not trust +to nobody else. You can't square up by heavin' your load offn your own +shoulders onto another fella's. You think you feel light coz you done +your dooty, when ten to one you _done_ your friend. No! I wouldn't +advise turnin' state's everdence on yourself unless it was to save +another from the gallus. As it is, you can take it from me, the best +thing you can do for that--conscience o' yours, is get busy in another +direction. Dress yourself up as fetchin' as you can, go out motorin' +with your gen'l'man friend like he ast you to, let him get his perposal +offn his chest, an' then tell'm--you'll be a sister to'm." + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +Sam Slawson had gone to the Adirondacks in January, personally conducted +by Mr. Blennerhasset, Mr. Ronald's secretary, Mr. Ronald, in the most +unemotional and business-like manner, having assumed all the +responsibilities connected with the trip and Sam's stay at the +Sanatorium. + +It was Claire who told Mr. Ronald of the Slawsons' difficulty. How +Martha saw no way out, and still was struggling gallantly on, trying +single-handed to meet all obligations at home and, in addition, send her +husband away. + +"That's too much--even for Martha," he observed. + +"If I only knew how to get Sam to the mountains," Claire said in a sort +of desperation. + +"You have just paved the way." + +"How?" + +"You have told me." + +"You are going to help?" + +"Yes." + +"O, how beautiful!" + +"I am glad that, for once, I have the good fortune to please you." + +Claire's happy smile faded. She turned her face away, pretending to +busy herself with Radcliffe's books. + +"I see I have offended once more." + +She hesitated a moment, then faced him squarely. + +"There can be no question of your either pleasing or offending me, Mr. +Ronald. What you are doing for Martha makes me glad, of course, but that +is only because I rejoice in any good that may come to her. I would not +take it upon myself to praise you for doing a generous act, or to blame +you if you didn't do it." + +"'Cr-r-rushed again!'" observed Francis Ronald gravely, but with a +lurking, quizzical light of laughter in his eyes. + +For an instant Claire was inclined to be resentful. Then, her sense of +humor coming to the rescue, she dropped her heroics and laughed out +blithely. + +"How jolly it must be to have a lot of money and be able to do all sorts +of helpful, generous things!" she said lightly. + +"You think money the universal solvent?" + +"I think the lack of it the universal _in_solvent." + +"I hope you don't lay too much emphasis on it." + +"Why?" + +"Because it might lead you to do violence to your better impulses, your +higher instincts." + +"Why should a man think he has the right to say that sort of thing to a +woman? Would you consider it a compliment if I suggested that your +principles were hollow--negotiable? That they were For Sale or To Let, +like an empty house?" + +"I suppose most men would tell you they have no use for principle in +their business--only principal." + +"And you think women--" + +"Generally women have both principle and interest in the business of +life. That's why we look to them to keep up the moral standard. That's +why we feel it to be unworthy of her when a girl makes a mercenary +marriage." + +The indignant blood sprang to Claire's cheeks. What business had he to +interfere in her affairs, to warn her against marrying Bob Van Brandt, +assuming that, if she did marry him, it would be only for money. She was +glad that Radcliffe bounded in just then, throwing himself upon her in +his eagerness to tell her all that had befallen him during their long +separation of two hours, when he had been playing on the Mall under +Beetrice's unwatchful eye. + +In spite of Martha, Claire had just been on the point of confessing to +Mr. Ronald. He had seemed so friendly, so much less formidable than at +any time since that first morning. But she must have been mistaken, for +here were all the old barriers up in an instant, and with them the +resentful fire in her heart. + +Perhaps it was the memory of this conversation that made her feel so ill +at ease with Robert Van Brandt. She could not understand herself. Why +should she feel so uncomfortable with her old friend? She could not help +being aware that he cared for her, but why did the thought of his +telling her so make her feel like a culprit? Why should he not tell her? +Why should she not listen? One thing she felt she knew--if he did tell +her, and she refused to listen, he would give it up. He would not +persist. + +She remembered how, as a little girl, she had looked up to him +reverentially as "big Robby Van Brandt." He was a hero to her in those +days, until--he had let himself be balked of what he had started out to +get. If he had only persisted, _in_sisted, who knows--maybe--. + +She was sure that if he offered her his love and she refused to accept +it, he would not, like the nursery-rhyme model, try, try again. He would +give up and go away--and in her loneliness she did not want him to go +away. Was she selfish? she wondered. Selfish or no, she could not bring +herself to follow Martha's advice and "let'm get his perposal offn his +chest." + +It was early in April before he managed to do it. + +She and Radcliffe had gone to the Park. Radcliffe was frisking about in +the warm sunshine, while Claire watched him from a nearby bench, when, +suddenly, Mr. Van Brandt dropped into the seat beside her. + +He did not approach his subject gradually. He plunged in desperately, +headlong, heartlong, seeming oblivious to everything and every one save +her. + +When, at last, he left her, she, knowing it was for always, was sorely +tempted to call him back. She did care for him, in a way, and the life +his love opened up to her would be very different from this. And yet-- + +She closed her cold fingers about Radcliffe's little warm ones, and rose +to lead him across the Plaza. She did not wonder at his being so +conveniently close at hand, nor at his unwonted silence all the way +home. She had not realized, until now that it was snapped, how much the +link between this and her old home-life had meant to her. It meant so +much that tears were very near the surface all that day, and even at +night, when Martha was holding forth to her brood, they were not +altogether to be suppressed. + +"Easter comes early this year," Mrs. Slawson observed. + +"'M I going to have a new hat?" inquired Cora. + +"What for do you need a new hat, I should like to know? I s'pose you +think you'll walk up Fifth Avenoo in the church parade, an' folks'll +stare at you, an' nudge each other an' whisper--'Looka there! That's +Miss Cora Slawson that you read so much about in the papers. That one on +the right-hand side, wearin' the French _shappo_, with the white ribbon, +an' the grand vinaigrette onto it. Ain't she han'some?'" + +"I think you're real mean to make fun of me!" pouted Cora. + +"I got a dollar an' a half for the Easter singin'," announced Sammy. +"Coz I'm permoted an' I'm goin' to sing a solo!" + +"Careful you don't get your head so turned you sing outer the other side +o' your mouth," cautioned Martha. "'Stead o' crowin' so much, you better +make sure you know your colic." + +"What you goin' to do with your money?" inquired Francie, unable to +conceive of possessing such vast riches. + +"I do' know." + +"Come here an' I'll tell you," said his mother. "Whisper!" + +At first Sammy's face did not reveal any great amount of satisfaction at +the words breathed into his ear, but after a moment it fairly glowed. + +"Ain't that grand?" asked Martha. + +Sammy beamed, then went off whistling. + +"He's goin' to invest it in a hat for Cora as a s'prise, me addin' my +mite to the fun' an' not lettin' him be any the wiser. An' Cora, she's +goin' to get _him_ a pair o' shoes with her bank pennies, an' be this +an' be that, the one thinks he's clothin' the other, an' is proud as +Punch of it, which they're learnin' manners the same time they're bein' +dressed," Martha explained to Claire later. + +"I wish you'd tell that to Radcliffe," Claire said. "He loves to hear +about the children, and he can learn so much from listening to what is +told of other kiddies' generosities and self-denials." + +Martha shook her head. "There's nothin' worth tellin'," she said. "An' +besides, if I told'm, he might go an' tell his mother or his Uncle +Frank, an' they might think I was puttin' in a bid for a Easter-egg on +my own account. Radcliffe is a smart little fella! He knows a thing or +two--an' sometimes three, an' don't you forget it." + +That Radcliffe "knew a thing or two--an' sometimes three," he proved +beyond a doubt to Martha next day when, as she was busy cleaning his +Uncle Frank's closet, he meandered up to her and casually observed: + +"Say, you know what I told you once 'bout Miss Lang bein' Mr. Van +Brandt's best girl?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, she ain't!" + +"Why ain't she?" + +"I was lookin' out o' the window in my mother's sittin'-room yesterday +mornin', an' when my mother an' my Uncle Frank they came up from +breakfast, they didn't see me coz I was back o' the curtains. My mother +she had a letter Shaw, he just gave her, and when she read it she +clapped her hands together an' laughed, an' my Uncle Frank he said, 'Why +such joy?' an' she said, 'The greatest news! Amy Pelham is engaged to +Mr. Van Brandt!' An' my Uncle Frank, his face got dark red all at once, +an' he said to my mother, 'Catherine, are you 'sponsible for that?' an' +she said, 'I never lifted a finger. I give you my word of honor, Frank!' +An' then my Uncle Frank he looked better. An' my mother she said, 'You +see, he couldn't have cared for Miss Lang, after all--I mean, the way we +thought.' An' he said, 'Why not?' An' she said, 'Coz if he had asked +her, she would have taken him, for no poor little governess is going to +throw away a chance like that. No sensible girl would say _no_ to Bob +Van Brandt with all his 'vantages. She'd jump at him, an' you couldn't +blame her.' + +"An' then my mother an' my Uncle Frank _they_ jumped, for I came out +from behind the curtains where I'd been lookin' out, an' I said, 'She +would too say _no_! My Miss Lang, she's sensible, an' one time in the +Park, when Mr. Van Brandt he asked her to take him an' everything he had +(that's what he said! "Take me an' everything I have, an' do what you +want with me!"), Miss Lang she said, "No, Bob, I can't! I wish I could, +for your sake, if you want me so--but--I can't." An' Mr. Van Brandt he +felt so bad, I was sorry. When I thought Miss Lang was his best girl, I +didn't like him, but I didn't want him to feel as bad as that. An' he +went off all alone by himself, an' Miss Lang--'Only I couldn't tell any +more, for my Uncle Frank, he said reel sharp, 'That's enough, +Radcliffe!' But last night he brought me home a dandy boat I can sail on +the Lake, with riggin' an' a center-board, an', O, lots o' things! An' +so I guess he wasn't so very mad, after all." + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +"Most like it's the Spring," said Martha. It was Memorial Day. She and +Miss Lang were at home, sitting together in Claire's pretty room, +through the closed blinds of which the hot May sun sent tempered shafts +of light. + +Claire regarded Mrs. Slawson steadily for a moment, seeming to make some +sort of mental calculation meanwhile. + +"Well, if it _is_ the Spring," she observed at length with a whimsical +little frown knitting her brows, "it's mighty forehanded, for it began +to get in its fine work as far back as January. Ever since the time Sam +went to the Sanatorium you've been losing flesh and color, Martha, +and--I don't know what to do about it!" + +"Do about it!" repeated Mrs. Slawson. "Why, there ain't nothin' _to_ do +about it, but let the good work go on. I'm in luck, if it's true what +you say. Believe _me_, there's lots o' ladies in this town, is starvin' +their stummicks an' everythin' else about 'em, an' payin' the doctors +high besides, just to get delicate-complected, an' airy-fairy figgers, +same's I'm doin' without turnin' a hand. Did you never hear o' bantin'? +It's what the high-toned doctors recommend to thin down ladies who have +it so comfortable they're uncomfortable. The doctors prescribes exercise +for'm, an' they take it, willin' as doves, whereas if their husbands +said, 'Say, old woman, while you're restin', just scrub down the +cellar-stairs good--that'll take the flesh off'n you quicker'n anythin' +else _I_ know!' they'd get a divorce from him so quick you couldn't see +'em for dust. No, they'd not do anythin' so low as cellar-stairs, to +save their lives. You couldn't please 'em better'n to see another woman +down on her marra-bones workin' for 'em, but get down themselves? Not on +your sweet life, they wouldn't. They'd rather _bant_. Bantin' sounds so +much more stylisher than scrubbin'." + +Claire smiled, but her eyes were very serious as she said, "All the +same, Martha, I believe you are grieving your heart out for Sam. I've +been watching you when you didn't know it, and I've seen the signs and +the tokens. Your heart has the hunger-ache in it!" + +"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "What do _you_ +know about hearts an' hunger-aches, I should like to know. You, an +unmarried maiden-girl, without so much as the shadder or the skelegan of +a beau, as far as _I_ can see. What do _you_ know about a woman +hungerin' an' cravin' for her own man? You have to have reelly felt them +things yourself, to know the signs of 'em in other folks." + +Claire's lip trembled, but she did not reply. + +When Martha spoke again it was as if she had replied. + +"O, go 'way! _You_ ain't never had a leanin' in any gen'l'man's +direction, I'd be willin' to wager. An' yet, I may as well tell you, you +been gettin' kinder white an' scrawny yourself lately, beggin' your +pardon for bein' so bold as notice it. Mind, I ain't the faintest notion +of holdin' it against you! I know better than think you been settin' +your affections on anybody. There's other things _besides_ love gives +you that tired feelin'. What you need is somethin' to brace you up, an' +clear your blood, like Hoodses Sassperilla. Everybody feels the way you +do, this time o' year. I heard a young saleslady (she wasn't a woman, +mind you, she was a sales_lady_), I heard a young saleslady in the car +the other mornin' complain--she was the reel dressy kind, you know, with +more'n a month's pay of hair, boilin' over on the back of her head in +puffs an' things--the gallus sort that, if you want to buy a yard o' +good flannen off her, will sass you up an' down to your face, as fresh +as if she was your own daughter--she was complainin' 'the Spring always +made her feel so sorter, kinder, so awful la-anguid.'" + +"Martha, dear," broke in Claire irrelevantly, "I wonder if you'd mind +very much if I told Mr. Ronald the truth. He thinks you were an old +family servant. He thinks you nursed me till I was able to walk." + +Martha considered. "Well, ain't that the truth?" she asked blandly. "I +lived out from the time I was twelve years old. That was in Mrs. +Granville's mother's house. When I was sixteen I went to Mrs. +Granville's. I was kitchen-maid there first-off, an' gradjelly she +promoted me till I was first housemaid. I never left her till I got +married. If that don't make me an old family servant, I'd like to know." + +"But he thinks you were an old family servant in _our_ house." + +"Well, bless your heart, that's _his_ business, not mine. How can I help +what he thinks?" + +"Didn't you tell him, Martha dear, that you nursed me till I was able to +walk?" + +"Shoor I did! An' it's the livin' truth. What's the matter with that? +Believe _me_, you wasn't good for more than a minit or two more on your +legs, when I got you into your bed that blessed night. You was clean +bowled over, an' you couldn't 'a' walked another step if you'd been +killed for it. Didn't I nurse you them days you was in bed, helplesslike +as a baby? Didn't I nurse you till you could walk?" + +"Indeed you did. And that's precisely the point!" said Claire. "If Mr. +Ronald--if Mrs. Sherman knew the truth, that I was poor, homeless, +without a friend in New York the night you picked me up on the street, +and carried me home and cared for me without knowing a thing about me, +they mightn't--they _wouldn't_ have taken me into their house and given +me their little boy to train. And because they wouldn't, I want to tell +them. I want to square myself. I ought to have told them long ago. I +want--" + +"You want 'em to bounce you," observed Mrs. Slawson calmly. "Well, +there's always more'n one way of lookin' at things. For instance +any good chambermaid, _with experience_, will tell you there's three +ways of dustin'. The first is, do it thora, wipin' the rungs o' the +chairs, an' the backs o' the pictures, an' under the books on the +table like. The second is, just sorter flashin' your rag over the places +that shows, an' the third is--pull down the shades. They're all good +enough ways in their own time an' place, an' you foller them accordin' +to your disposition or, if you're nacherelly particular, accordin' to +the other things you got to do, in the time you got to do 'em _in_. +Now, _I'm_ particular. I'm the nacherelly thora kind, but if I'm +pressed, an' there's more important things up to me than the dustin', +I give it a lick an' a promise, same as the next one, an' let it go at +that, till the time comes I can do better. Life's too short to fuss an' +fidget your soul out over trifles. It ain't always what you _want_, but +what you _must_. You sometimes got to cut short at one end so's you can +piece out at another, an' you can take it from me, you only pester folks +by gettin' 'm down where they can't resist you, an' forcin' a lot of +hard facks down their throats, which ain't the _truth_ anyhow, an' which +they don't want to swaller on no account. What do they care about the +machinery, so long as it turns out the thing they want? Believe _me_, +it's foolishness to try to get 'em back into the works, pokin' about +among the inside wheels an' springs, an' so forth. You likely get +knocked senseless by some big thing-um-bob you didn't know was there. +Now I know just eggsackly what's in your mind, but you're wrong. You +think I told Mr. Ronald fibs. I didn't tell'm fibs. I just give'm the +truth the way he'd take it, like you give people castor-oil that's too +dainty to gullup it down straight. Some likes it in lemon, an' some +in grobyules, but it's castor-oil all the same. He wanted to know the +truth about you, an' I let him have it, the truth bein' you're as fine +a lady as any in the land. If I'd happened to live in Grand Rapids at +the time, I'd most likely of lived out with your grandmother, an' been +an old family servant in your house like I was at Mrs. Granville's, +an' I certainly would of nursed you if I'd had the chanct. It was just +a case o' happenso, my _not_ havin' it. The right kind o' folks here +in New York is mighty squeamish about strangers. They want +recommendations--they want 'em because they want to be sure the ones +they engage is O.K. That's all recommendations is for, ain't it? Now I +knew the minit I clapped eye to you, that, as I say, you was as grand a +lady as any in the land, an' that bein' the case, what was the use o' +frettin' because I hadn't more than your sayso to prove it. But if I'd +pulled a long face to Mrs. Sherman, an' told her, hesitatin'-like an' +nervous, about--well, about what took place that night, she, not havin' +much experience of human nature (only the other kind that's more common +here in New York City), she'd have hemmed, an' hawed, an' thought she'd +better not try it, seein' Radcliffe is such an angel-child an' not to be +trained except by a A-I Lady." + +"But the truth," persisted Claire. + +"I tell the truth," Mrs. Slawson returned with quiet dignity. "I only +don't waste time on trifles." + +"It is not wasting time on trifles to be exact and accurate. An +architect planning a house must make every little detail _true_, else +when the house goes up, it won't stand." + +"Don't he have to reckon nothin' on the _give_ or _not-give_ of the +things he's dealin' with?" demanded Martha. "I'm only a ignorant woman, +an' I ask for information. When you're dress-makin' you have to allow +for the seams, an' when you're makin'--well, other things, you have to +do the same thing, only spelled a little different--you have to allow +for the _seems_. Most folks don't do it, an' that's where a lot o' +trouble comes in, or so it appears to me." + +Claire twisted her ring in silence, gazing down at it the while as if +the operation was, of all others, the most important and absorbing. + +"We may not agree, Martha dear," she said at last, "but anyway I know +you're good, good, _good_, and I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the +world." + +"Shoor! I know you wouldn't! An' they ain't hurt. Not in the least. You +got one kinder conscience an' I got another, that's all. Consciences is +like hats. One that suits one party would make another look like a guy. +You got to have your own style. You got to know what's best for you, an' +then _stick to it_!" + +"And you won't object if I tell Mr. Ronald?" + +"Objeck? Certainly not! Tell'm anything you like. _I_ always was fond o' +Mr. Ronald myself. I never thought he was as hard an' stern with a body +as some thinks. Some thinks he's as hard as nails, but--" + +"O, I'm _sure_ he's not," cried Claire with unexpected loyalty. "His +manner may seem a little cold and proud sometimes, but I know he's very +kind and generous." + +"Certaintly. So do I know it," said Mrs. Slawson. "I don't say I mayn't +be mistaken, but I have the highest opinion o' Lor--Mr. Ronald. I think +you could trust'm do the square thing, no matter what, an' if he was +kinder harsh doin' it, it's only because he expects a body to be perfect +like he is himself." + +In the next room Sabina was shouting at the top of her lungs--"Come back +to ear-ring, my voornean, my voornean!" + +"Ain't it a caution what lungs that child has--considerin'?" Martha +reflected. "Just hear her holler! She'd wake the dead. I wonder if she's +tryin' to beat that auta whoopin' it up outside. Have you ever noticed +them autas nowadays? Some of them has such croupy coughs, before I know +it I'm huntin' for a flannen an' a embrercation. 'Xcuse me a minit while +I go answer the bell." + +A second later she returned. A step in advance of her was Mr. Ronald. + +"I am lucky to find you at home, Martha," were the first words Claire +heard him say. + +Martha, by dint of a little unobservable maneuvering, managed to +superimpose her substantial shadow upon Claire's frail one. + +"Yes, sir. When I get a day to lay off in, you couldn't move me outer +the house with a derrick," she announced. "Miss Lang's here, too. Bein' +so dim, an' comin' in outer the sunlight, perhaps you don't make out to +see her." + +"She ain't had time yet to pull herself together," Mrs. Slawson inwardly +noted. "But, Lord! I couldn't stand in front of her forever, an' even if +a girl _is_ dead in love with a man (more power to her!), that's no +reason she should go to the other extreme to hide it, an' pertend she's +a cold storage, warranted to freeze'm stiff, like the artificial ice +they're makin' these days, in the good old summertime." + +The first cold greetings over, Claire started to retreat in the +direction of the door. + +"Excuse me, please--I promised Francie--She's expecting me--she's +waiting--" + +"Pshaw now, let her wait!" said Martha. + +"Don't let me detain Miss Lang if she wishes to go," interposed Mr. +Ronald. "My business is really with you, Martha." + +"Thank you, sir. But I'd like Miss Lang to stay by, all the same--that +is, if you don't objeck." + +"As a witness? You think I need watching, eh?" + +"I think it does a body good to watch you, sir!" + +"I didn't know before, you were a flatterer, Martha. But I see you're a +lineal descendant of the Blarney Stone." + +Claire felt herself utterly ignored. She tried again to slip away, but +Martha's strong hand detained her, bore her down into the place she had +just vacated. + +"How is Francie?" inquired Mr. Ronald, taking the chair Mrs. Slawson +placed for him. + +"_Fine_--thank you, sir. The doctors says they never see a child get +well so fast. She's grown so fat an' big, there ain't a thing belongs to +her will fit her any longer, they're all shorter, an' she has to go +whacks with Cora on her clo'es." + +"Perhaps she'd enjoy a little run out into the country this afternoon in +my car. The other children, too? And--possibly--Miss Lang." + +"I'm sure they'd all thank you kindly, sir," began Martha, when--"I'm +sorry," said Claire coldly, "I can't go." + +Mr. Ronald did not urge her. "It is early. We have plenty of time to +discuss the ride later," he observed quietly. "Meanwhile, what I have in +mind, Martha, is this: Mr. Slawson has been at the Sanatorium now +for--?" + +"Goin' on five months," said Martha. + +"And the doctors think him improved?" + +"Well, on the whole, yes, sir. His one lung (sounds kinder Chineesy, +don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse--it's better some--only he keeps +losin' flesh an' that puzzles'm." + +"Do you think he is contented there?" + +"He says he is. He says it's the grand place, an' they're all as good +to'm as if he was the king o' Harlem. _You_ seen to that, sir--he says. +An' Sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but--" + +"Well--_but_?" + +"But--only just, it ain't _home_, you know, sir!" + +"I see. And the doctors think he ought to stay up there? Not return +home--_here_, I mean?" + +"That's what they say." + +"Have you--the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five months +we settled for in January?" + +"No, sir. That is, not--not _yet_." + +"Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of +the year?" + +Martha deliberated. "I may _have_ to, sir," she said at last with a +visible effort. "But I don't like to borrer. I notice when folks gets +the borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't get +thanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan." + +This time it was Mr. Ronald who seemed to be considering. "Right!" he +announced presently. "I notice you go into things rather deep, Martha." + +Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Well, when things _is_ deep, that's the way you +got to go into them. What's on your plate you got to chew, an' if you +don't like it, you can lump it, an' if you don't like to lump it, you +can cut it up finer. But there it _is_, an' there it stays, till you +swaller it, somehow." + +"Do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heaped +on other people's plates?" + +"Why, yes. Certaintly I enjoy 'em. But, after all, the things taste best +that we're eatin' ourselves, don't they? An' if I had money enough like +some, so's I didn't have to borrer to see my man through, why, I don't +go behind the door to say I'd be glad an' grateful." + +"Would you take the money as a gift, Martha?" + +"You done far more than your share already, sir." + +"Then, if you won't _take_, and you'd rather not borrow, we must find +another way. A rather good idea occurred to me last night. I've an +uncommonly nice old place up in New Hampshire--in the mountains. It was +my father's--and my grandfather's. It's been closed for many years, and +I haven't given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or the +caretaker sent in his account. It's so far away my sister won't live +there, and--it's too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in by +himself. Now, why wouldn't it be a capital idea for you to pack up your +goods and chattels here, and take your family right up there--make that +your home? The lodge is comfortable and roomy, and I don't see why Mr. +Slawson couldn't recover there as well, if not better, than where he is. +I'd like to put the place in order--make some improvements, do a little +remodeling. I need a trusty man to oversee the laborers, and keep an eye +and close tab on the workmen I send up from town. If Mr. Slawson would +act as superintendent for me, I'd pay him what such a position is worth, +and you would have your house, fuel, and vegetables free. Don't try to +answer now. You'd be foolish to make a decision in a hurry that you +might regret later. Write to your husband. Talk it over with him. He +might prefer to choose a job for himself. And remember--it's 'way out in +the country. The children would have to walk some distance to school." + +"Give 'em exercise, along of their exercises," said Martha. + +"The church in the village is certainly three miles off." + +"My husband don't go to church as reg'lar as I might wish," Mrs. Slawson +observed. "I tell'm, the reason men don't be going to church so much +these days, is for fear they might hear something they believe." + +"You would find country life tame, perhaps, after the city." + +"Well, the city life ain't been that _wild_ for me that I'd miss the +dizzy whirl. An' anyhow--we'd be _together_!" Martha said. "We'd be +together, maybe, come our weddin'-day. The fourth o' July. We never been +parted oncet, on that day, all the fifteen years we been married," she +mused, "but--" + +"Well?" + +"But, come winter, an' Mis' Sherman opens the house again, an' wants +Miss Claire back, who's goin' to look out for _her_?" + +"Why--a--as to _that_--" said Mr. Ronald, so vaguely it sounded almost +supercilious to Claire. + +In an instant her pride rose in revolt, rebelling against the notion he +might have, that she could possibly put forth any claim upon his +consideration. + +"O, please, _please_ don't think of me, Martha," she cried vehemently. +"I have entirely other plans. You mustn't give me, or my affairs, a +thought, in settling your own. You must do what's best for _you_. You +mustn't count for, or _on_, me in the least. I have not told you before, +but I've made up my mind I must resign my position at Mrs. Sherman's, +anyway. I'll write her at once. I'll tell her myself, of course, but I +tell you now to show that you mustn't have me in mind, at all, in making +your plans." + +Martha's low-pitched voice fell upon Claire's tense, nervous one with +soothing calmness. + +"Certaintly not, Miss Claire," she said. + +"And you'll write to your husband and report to him what I propose," +suggested Mr. Ronald, as if over Claire's head. + +"Shoor I will, sir!" + +"And if he likes the idea, my secretary will discuss the details with +him later. Wages, duties--all the details." + +"Yes, sir." + +"And you may tell the children I'll leave orders that the car be sent +for them some other day. I find it's not convenient, after all, for me +to take them myself this afternoon. I spoke too fast in proposing it. +But they'll not be disappointed. Mr. Blennerhasset will see to that. I +leave town to-night to be gone--well, indefinitely. In any case, until +well on into the autumn or winter. Any letter you may direct to me, care +of Mr. Blennerhasset at the office, will be attended to at once. +Good-by, Martha!--Miss Lang--" He was gone. + +When the car had shot out of sound and sight, Martha withdrew from the +window, from behind the blinds of which she had been peering eagerly. + +"He certainly _is_ a little woolly wonder, meaning no offense," she +observed with a deep-drawn sigh. "Yes, Mr. Ronald is as good as they +make 'em, an' dontcher forget it!" + +She seated herself opposite Claire, drawing her chair quite close. + +"Pity you an' him is so on the outs. I'm not speakin' o' _him_, s'much, +but anybody with half an eye can see _you_ got a reg'lar hate on'm. _Any +one_ can see that!" + +A moment of silence, and then Claire flung herself, sobbing and +quivering, across Martha's lap, ready to receive her. + +"O, _Martha_!" she choked. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +"Well now, what do you think o' that! Ain't it the end o' the law? The +high-handed way he has o' doin' things! Think o' the likes o' _me_ +closin' up my '_town-house' _an' takin' my fam'ly (includin' Flicker an' +Nixcomeraus) 'to the country-place'--for all the world like I was a +lady, born an' bred.--Sammy, you sit still in your seat, an' eat the +candy Mr. Blennerhasset brought you, an' quit your rubberin', or the +train'll start suddently, an' give you a twist in your neck you won't +get over in a hurry.... Ma, you comfortable?.... Cora an' Francie, see +you behave like little ladies, or I'll attend to you later. See how +quiet Sabina is--Say, Sabina, what you doin'? Now, what do you think o' +that! If that child ain't droppin' off to sleep, suckin' the red plush +o' the seat! For all the world like she didn't have a wink o' rest last +night, or a bite or a sup this mornin'--an' she slep' the clock 'round, +an' et a breakfast fit for a trooper. Say, Sabina--here, wake up! An' +take your tongue off'n that beautiful cotton-backed plush, d'you hear? +In the first place, the gen'l'men that owns this railroad don't want +their upholsterry et by little girls, an', besides, it's makin' your +mouth all red--an', second-place, the cars isn't the time to +sleep--leastwise, not so early in the mornin'. Miss Claire, child, don't +look so scared! You ain't committin' no crime goin' along with us, an' +_he_'ll never suspicion anyhow. He's prob'ly on the boundin' biller by +this time, an' Mr. Blennerhasset he don't know you from a hole in the +ground. Besides, whose business is it, anyway? You ain't goin' as _his_ +guest, as I told you before. You're _my_ boarder, same's you've always +been, an' it's nobody's concern if you board down here or up there... + +"Say, ain't these flowers just grand? The box looks kinder like a young +coffin, but never mind that... + +"A body would think all that fruit an' stuff was enough of a send-off, +but Lor--_Mr_. Ronald, he don't do things by halves, does he? It +wouldn't seem so surprisin' now, if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' along +an' all this (Mr. Blennerhasset himself helpin' look after us, an' see +us off--as if I was a little tender flower that didn't know a railroad +ticket from a trunk-check), I say, it wouldn't seem so surprisin' if +he'd 'a' knew _you_ was comin' along. I'd think it was on your account. +What they calls _delicate attentions_. The sorter thing a gen'l'man does +when he's got his eye on a young lady for his wife, an' is sorter +breakin' it to her gently--kinder beckonin' with a barn-door, as the +sayin' is. + +"But Mr. Ronald ain't the faintest notion but you've gone back to your +folks in Grand Rapids, an' so all these favors is for _me_, of course. +Well, I certainly take to luckshurry like a duck takes to water. I never +knew it was so easy to feel comfortable. I guess I been a little hard on +the wealthy in the past. Now, if _you_ should marry a rich man, I don't +believe--" + +Claire sighed wearily. "I'll never marry anybody, Martha. And besides, a +rich man wouldn't be likely to go to a cheap boarding-house for a wife, +and next winter I--O, isn't it warm? Don't you _wish_ the train would +start?" + +At last the train did start, and they were whirled out of the steaming +city, over the hills and far away, through endless stretches of sunlit +country, and the long, long hours of the hot summer day, until, at +night, they reached their destination, and found Sam Slawson waiting +there in the cool twilight to welcome them. + +Followed days of rarest bliss for Martha, when she could marshal out her +small forces, setting each his particular task, and seeing it was done +with thoroughness and despatch, so that in an inconceivably short time +her new home shone with all the spotless cleanliness of the old, and +added comeliness beside. + +"Ain't it the little palace?" she inquired, when all was finished. "I +wouldn't change my lodge for the great house, grand as it is, not for +anything you could offer me! Nor I wouldn't call the queen my cousin now +we're all in it together. I'm feelin' that joyful I'd like to have what +they calls a house-swarmin', only there ain't, by the looks of it, any +neighbors much, to swarm." + +"No," said Ma regretfully, "I noticed there ain't no neighbors--to speak +of." + +"Well, then, we can't speak o' them," returned Martha. "Which will save +us from fallin' under God's wrath as gossips. There's never any great +loss without some small gain." + +"But we must have some sort of jollification," Claire insisted. "Doesn't +your wedding-day--the anniversary of it, I mean--come 'round about this +time? You said the Fourth, didn't you?" + +Martha nodded. "Sam Slawson an' me'll be fifteen years married come +Fourth of July," she announced. "We chose that day, because we was so +poor we knew we couldn't do nothin' great in the line o' celebration +ourselves, so we just kinder managed it, so's without inconveniencin' +the nation any or addin' undooly to its expenses, it would do our +celebratin' for us. You ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feel +to be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with the +noise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! I'm like to miss it this +year, with only my own four young Yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' off +torpeders under my nose." + +"You won't miss anything," said Claire reassuringly, "but you mustn't +say a word to Sam. And you mustn't ask any questions yourself, for what +is going to happen is to be a _wonderful_ surprise!" + +"You betcher life it is!" murmured Martha complacently to herself, after +Claire had hastened off to confer with the children and plan a program +for the great day. + +Ma to make the wedding-cake! Cora to recite her "piece." Francie and +Sammy to be dressed as pages and bear, each, a tray spread with the +gifts it was to be her own task and privilege to contrive. Sabina to +hover over all as a sort of Cupid, who, if somewhat "hefty" as to +avoirdupois, was in all other respects a perfect little Love. + +It seemed as if the intervening days were winged, so fast they flew. +Claire never could have believed there was so much to be done for such a +simple festival, and, of course, the entire weight fell on her +shoulders, for Ma was as much of a child in such matters as any, and +Martha could not be appealed to, being the _bride_, and, moreover, being +away at the great house, where tremendous changes were in progress. + +But at last came the wonderful day, and everything was in readiness. + +First, a forenoon of small explosive delights for the children--then, as +the day waned, a dinner eaten outdoors, picnic-fashion on the grass, +under the spreading trees, beneath the shadows of the mighty +mountain-tops. + +What difference if Ma's cake, crowning a perfect feast, had suffered a +little in the frosting and its touching sentiment, traced in snowy +lettering upon a bridal-white ground, _did_ read + +FIFTEEN YEARS OF MARRED LIFE. + +It is sometimes one's ill-luck to misspell a word, and though a +wedding-cake is usually large and this was no exception, the space was +limited, and, besides, no one but Sam senior and Miss Lang noticed it +anyhow. + +A quizzical light in his eye, Mr. Slawson scrawled on a scrap of paper +which he passed to Claire (with apologies for the liberty) the words: + +"She'd been nearer the truth if she'd left out the two _rr_s while she +was about it, and had it: + +FIFTEEN YEARS OF MA'D LIFE." + +Then came Cora's _piece_. + +Her courtesy, right foot back, knees suddenly bent, right hand on left +side (presumably over heart, actually over stomach), chin diving into +the bony hollow of her neck--Cora's courtesy was a thing to be +remembered. + +LADY CLARE + +She announced it with ceremony, and this time, Martha noticed, the +recalcitrant garter held fast to its moorings. + +"''Twas the time when lilies blow +And clouds are highest up in air, +Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe--'" + +_"His!"_ prompted Martha in a loud stage-whisper. _"His_--not 'a'--" + +Cora accepted the correction obediently, but her self-confidence was +shaken. She managed to stammer, + +"'Give t-to--his c-cousin, L-Lady C-Clare,'" + +and then a storm of tears set in, drowning her utterance. + +"Well, what do you think o' _that_?" exclaimed Martha, amazed at the +undue sensitiveness of her offspring. "Never mind, Cora! You done it +grand!--as far as you went." + +To cover this slight mishap, Claire gave a hurried signal to the pages, +who appeared forthwith in splendid form, if a little overweighted by the +burdens they bore. In some strange way Claire's simple gifts had been +secretly augmented until they piled up upon the trays, twin-mountains of +treasure. + +When the first surprise was past, and the wonders examined and exclaimed +over, Martha bent toward Claire, from her seat of honor on the grass. + +"Didn't I think to tell you Mr. Blennerhasset come up on the early +train? Sammy, he drove down to the station himself to meet'm. Mr. +Blennerhasset brought up all them grand things--for Mr. Ronald. Ain't +he--I mean Mr. Ronald--a caution to 've remembered the day? I been so +took up with things over there to the great house, I musta forgot to +tell you about Mr. Blennerhasset. Ain't everything just elegant?-- + +"It's pretty, the way the night comes down up here. With the sharp +pin-heads o' stars prickin' through, one by one. They don't seem like +that in the city, do they? An' the moon's comin' up _great_!" + +Claire's eyes were fixed on the grassy slope ahead. + +"Who are those three men over there?" she asked. "What are they doing? I +can't make out in the dusk anything but shadow-forms." + +"Sam, an' Mr. Blennerhasset, an'--an'--another fella from the +neighborhood. Mr. Blennerhasset he brought up some fire-works to +surprise the young uns, an' they're goin' to set 'em off. It's early +yet, but the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep. An' the kids has had +a excitin' day." + +Up shot a rocket, drawing the children's breaths skyward with it in +long-drawn "A-ahs!" of perfect ecstasy. + +Then pin-wheels, some of which, not to belie their nature, balked +obstinately, refusing to be coerced or wheedled into doing their duty. + +"Say, now, mother," cried Francie excitedly--"that pin-wheel--in the +middle of it was a cork. When it got over spinning fast, I saw the +cork." + +"Don't you never do that no more," cautioned Martha. "Never you see the +cork. It's the _light_ you want to keep your eye on!" which, as Claire +thought it over, seemed to her advice of a particularly shrewd and +timely nature. + +She was still pondering this, and some other things, when she felt Mrs. +Slawson's hand on her shoulder. + +"It's over now, an' I'm goin' to take the young 'uns in, an' put 'em to +bed. But don't you stir. Just you sit here a while in the moonlight, an' +enjoy the quiet in peace by yourself. You done a hard day's work, an' +you give me an' Sammy what we won't forget in a hurry. So you just stay +out here a few minits--or as long as you wanter--away from the +childern's clatter, an'--God bless you!" + +Claire's gaze, following the great form affectionately, saw it pass into +the darker shadows, then forth--out into the light that shone from the +open door of the lodge. + +"She's _home_--and they're _together_!" Unconsciously, she spoke her +grateful thought aloud. + +"Yes, she's _home_--and they're _together_!" + +The words were repeated very quietly, but there was that in the +well-known voice, so close at hand, that seemed to Claire to shake the +world. In an instant she was upon her feet, gazing up speechless, into +Francis Ronald's baffling eyes. + +"You are kind to every one," he said, "but for me you have only a sting, +and yet--I love you." + + * * * * * + +Martha was still busy wrestling with the pyramid of dishes left over +from the feast, when at last Claire came in alone. + +"Did you get a chance to compose yourself, an' quiet down some under the +stars?" inquired Mrs. Slawson. "It's been a noisy day, with lots doin'. +I don't wonder you're so tired--your cheeks is fairly blazin' with it, +an' your eyes are shinin' like lit lamps." + +"You knew--you knew he was here!" said Claire accusingly. + +"_He?_ Who? O, you mean Mr. Ronald? Didn't I think to tell you, he come +up along with Mr. Blennerhasset? I been so flustrated with all the +unexpected surprises of the day, it musta slipped my mind." + +"I've seen Mr. Ronald!" Claire said." I've spoken with him!" + +"Now, what do you think o' that! Wonders never cease!" + +"Do you know what I did?" + +"Search me!" + +"I told him--the _truth_." + +"We-ell?" + +"And--_I'm going to marry him!"_ + +Mrs. Slawson sat down hard upon the nearest chair, as if the happy shock +had deprived her of strength to support her own weight. + +"No!" she fairly shouted. + +"_Yes!" _cried Claire. "And, O, Martha! I'm _so_ happy! And--did you ever +_dream_ such a thing could possibly happen?" + +"Well, you certaintly have give me a start. I often thought how I'd +_like_ to see Mr. Ronald your _financiay_ or your _trosso_, or whatever +they call it. But, that it would really come to pass--" She paused. + +"O, you don't know how I dreaded next winter," Claire said, as if she +were thinking aloud. "I went over it--and I went over it, in my +mind--what I'd do--where I'd go--and now--_Now!_... I couldn't take that +fine job you had your eye on for me, not even if it had come to +something. Don't you remember? I mean, the splendid job you had the idea +about, that first night I was sick. I shan't need it now, shall I, +Martha?" + +"You got it!" said Martha. + +Claire's wide eyes opened wider in wonderment. She stared silently at +Mrs. Slawson for a moment. Then the light began to break in upon her +slowly, but with unmistakable illumination. + +"You--don't--mean?" she stammered. + +"Certaintly!" said Martha. + + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Martha By-the-Day, by Julie M. 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