Chapter IV: Part 4

"Well, then--I'm going _to discover the secret of me life_. In other words, I'm going to see if I can get a line on my grandfather--the unfortunate gentleman--no, of course he couldn't have been a _gentleman_, because he was a bailiff!--the unfortunate beggar who got himself disliked by his employer, and Madam Crewe. Personally, I've no social use for defunct forbears. It's a bit curious, because I'm a Bostonian. But professionally I'm all right on them. They have their uses scientifically. If my grandfather had a bug--I mean _germ_ (disease or vice germ) I needn't necessarily inherit that particular insect, but there's no denying that if it happens along, I'm more open to infection, than a fellow whose grandad hadn't specialized as an entomologist. I've a notion I'd like to read my title clear. So I'm going to Boston to dig up dead deeds--in both senses, and see what I have back of me."

"I'd much rather see what I have ahead," Katherine laughed mirthlessly.

Dr. Ballard's chin went up with a jerk.

"Oh, I'm not afraid of what's before me. I'm willing to stand and face the future. If a fellow's straight goods on his own account, he has nothing to fear. He'll win out, somehow. But I wouldn't care to look forward, if I'd lied, or was a coward, or taken what belonged to some other fellow, or had any other sort of dirty rag of memory trailing after me. You never can tell when such a thing will trip you up. I say, you're not cold this broiling night, are you?"

"No. Why?"

"You shivered."

"Did I? It makes me nervous to hear you talk about 'dirty rags of memory.' I didn't suppose any one lived who hadn't regrets. I know _I_ have."

"No doubt. I can imagine what for. _I'm_ talking of real offenses. The sort of thing Madam Crewe hints at in connection with my grandfather. By Jove, I wonder what the poor old duffer was guilty of. Perhaps, to put it euphemistically, he appropriated funds not his own--swiped from _your_ great-grandfather's till. Seriously, that's no joke! I can imagine that even if a chap didn't care much about his family-tree, it might be a rather scorching reflection to know you'd descended--_fallen_--from a rotten apple of a thief, or something. You'd be forever looking for some taint of it to crop out in you. I confess, it wouldn't rejoice even my democratic soul. But that's what I'm going out for to discover. So, when next you see me, perhaps you won't."

Katherine's hand went toward him in an impulse too strong to resist.

"You know better than that," she said in a voice not wholly steady.

Dr. Ballard's large, firm grasp closed about her slender trembling fingers.

"I know better than that," he repeated gravely. "But there's something else, not your friendship, I can't be so confident of. When I come back, if everything's all right, as I believe it will be, I hope you'll be kind to me, and set my heart at rest about that too."

Katherine could not answer. After a moment of silent waiting, the doctor gently released her hand.

"I met Mrs. Slawson as I came along," he said in his usual manner. "She's a trump, that woman. The most normal human creature I've ever met."

"Her English isn't normal," Katherine said, trying to control the helpless trembling that was shaking her from head to foot.

"She's an impressionist. That's what's the matter with Hannah!--I should say, Martha. She gets and produces her effects in the large. She doesn't trouble with details. After all, I wonder if we'd like her better, given the possibility of making a grammarian of her."

Katharine smiled.

"She told me, the other day, that she was being made over. She mentioned the people concerned in it, and the different things they were making her over into. I don't recollect that grammarian was in the list."

"If the rest succeed as well in their efforts as I would in mine, if I attempted to make a Lindley Murray of her, I don't think we need worry. She'll progress along her own lines. But she's not various. You can't make a complex organism out of an elemental creature like Mrs. Slawson, any more than you could make a contemporaneous 'new woman' out of Brunnhilde."

"Fancy _Martha_ mounted on a celestial steed, bearing the souls of dead heroes to Walhalla!"

Dr. Ballard laughed.

"Well, I can tell you this, if she saw 'twas for the good of the souls, not the celestial steed, nor the dead heroes, nor Walhalla itself, would faze her. If you ever should need some one to stand by in an emergency, I couldn't think of a better than Martha Slawson. I hope you'll remember that, when I'm gone."

A moment, and he was gone, had turned abruptly, and left her without even so much as good-by.

Katherine bent her head to look down at the hand he had held, on which presently two tears plashed.

"She'll shut me off from that, too," she murmured bitterly. "She'll shut me off from that too--_if she can_!"

*CHAPTER VIII*

"Say, mother," Francie called in through the kitchen screen-door, "Miss Claire, she wants you to come on out. She says she wants to show you a very ol'."

"A very ol' _what_?" inquired Martha, turning from her stack of washed breakfast dishes, to wipe her hands on the roller-towel.

"I d'know. Only it's up a tree, an' she wants to show you it."

Martha went out at once.

Mrs. Ronald was standing, not far away, gazing intently up into the branches of a splendid spruce.

"Sh!" she cautioned, as Mrs. Slawson drew near.

"What is it?" asked Martha.

"Look!"

Martha's eyes, taking the direction indicated by Miss Claire's pointing finger, saw nothing.

"Do you see?"

"No."

"Quick! Look! O--oh! There he goes! He's flown away!"

"You mean that--bird?"

"Yes--a vireo."

Mrs. Slawson's interest relaxed. "Oh," she said with obvious disappointment.

"What did you think I wanted to show you? Didn't Francie tell you 'twas a vireo?"

"Certaintly she did. But she didn't say 'twas a very ol' _bird_. Nacherly, I kinda pictured to myself somethin' like Gran'pa Trenholm, or ol' lady Crewe a-sittin' up there, needin' immediate assistance. I thought to myself, that I never have clumb a tree, but if the need was great, there's no knowin' what I _could_ do."

Mrs. Ronald laughed. "Oh, Martha," she said, "I don't believe you'll ever make an ornithologist."

"Without knowin' what that may be," Mrs. Slawson returned affably, "I don't believe I ever will, though I'm ready to try."

"Yesterday, early, early, I got up, and went out, before any one else in the house was awake. I went down to the ravine, and oh! I wish you could have been there with me. It was so beautiful! It's not quite so early now, but, still, I think, maybe, we might hear the veery. Do you want to come?"

"Certaintly," said Martha.

For a time they walked on in silence, through the fragrant freshness of the new day. The full chorus of ecstatic bird voices had somewhat diminished, but, even so, the air seemed set to music.

Mrs. Ronald gave a great sigh. "Oh, Martha, isn't it lovely? When I think what happiness life holds, and how beautiful the world is, I wonder anybody can be discontented, or restless, or sorrowful."

Martha seemed to ponder it.

"Well, I guess a good deal depends on the body," she brought out at length. "As I make it out, the world it goes a-grindin' 'round steady an' sure, like a great, big coffee-grinder. We all got to feel the twist, first or last, before we're turned out fine enough to suit. Some folks feels the twist more'n others. I suppose it's nice to live easy, but there's this about not bein' too soft: you ain't likely to get hurt so much. D'you remember, oncet or twice, when I wasn't by, you tried to pull up the dumb-waiter, down to a Hundred and Sixteenth Street? An' the coarse rope, it got splinters into your soft little hands. Now, mine's so hard I could pull till the cows come home, an' nary a splinter. Yes, it's good not to be too sens'tive. If you are, you're bound to get all that's comin' to you, an' then some."

"Do you know anybody in particular, who is feeling the _twist_ especially, just now?" asked Mrs. Ronald with interest.

Martha nodded. "I was thinkin' of Miss Katherine," she replied. "She's right up here, in the middle of all this, same as you and yet--you're happy, an' she ain't."

"Could I help?"

"I don't know _yet_. I'm keepin' my eye out. If I find you can I'll let you know."

"Good!" Claire approved. She walked on a step, then suddenly stood at attention. "Hark!" she whispered. "The veery! the Wilson thrush!"

Mrs. Slawson, halting too, strained her ear to listen. At first her face expressed only the gentle interest of one willing to be pleased, but presently her eyes became luminous, her great chest rose and fell to deep, full breaths of keenest appreciation.

When the wonderful performance was at an end, and the veery had taken wing, Claire turned to her silent, but questioning.

Martha considered a moment. "When a cow lifts up his head, an' gets ready to bella, what with its size an' stren'th, you're prepared for the worst, an'--you get it. But when a tiny little fella, as innercent-lookin' as that very bird you say is the Wilson's thrush, when _he_ sits up an' lets a flute-sola out of'm, as elegant as the man in the band, down to the movies, well, it certaintly _is_ surprisin'. It somehow hits you right in the pit of the stummick. My! but I bet the Wilsons is sorry he flew away on'm."

Mrs. Ronald turned quickly to examine a bit of lichen, decorating a tree-trunk near at hand. When she faced Martha again, her cheeks were quite crimson.

"Say, you hadn't ought to bend down like that a hot day like this," cautioned Mrs. Slawson. "You got a rush o' brains to the head, I should say blood. You want to go easy such hot wather. I guess the walkin' took it out o' you."

"Oh, no," Claire assured her heartily. "I'm not a bit tired. And I tell you what I want to do some day soon. I want to go across the lake to the South cove. They say there's a blue heron there. I'm crazy to see him."

Martha nodded. "Well, if Lord Ronald is willin'----"

"He says he'll take me over in the launch, and you can go too, and the children. We'll have a beautiful picnic some day very soon, and, if you thought she would go, we might ask Miss Crewe, and----"

"She couldn't leave her gran'ma for so long. P'raps if you'd put it off till the fall----"

Miss Claire shook her head. "No, I'm going now," she said determinedly.

"Well, I'll go any day you say, then--so Lord Ronald's willin'. I can help'm with the la'nch. I know all about _The Moth's_ machinery, if I don't about the cow's. An' when it comes to that, I could milk all right, all right, if I only knew what to turn on to make the milk come. It's on account o' the cow's not havin' her gear arranged so's a body can push a button, or pull a crank like a Christian, I have so much differculty. You can take it from me, autos an' la'nchs is simple by comparising. But what's really on my mind to say is, any mornin' you wish to see your red herrin', just say the word, an' I'll take you, though I tell you frank an' honest, if I was you, beggin' your pardon for the liberty, I'd stay on dry land myself, these days, an' not be botherin' my head over delicatessens, which you can get'm sent up, canned, by Park an' Tilford any day, with your next order."

"Mother! Mother!"

Francie's shrill, childish voice announced her but a second before she herself appeared around the tangle of bushes hedging the mouth of the ravine.

"Mother, mother!" she repeated, even after she saw the familiar form she sought.

"Well?"

Martha spoke calmly, undisturbed either by the child's heated face or manner.

"Mother--say--Mr. Ronald, he was over to our house, huntin' for Miss Claire. I guess he's fearful worried."

"Did he say he was worried?"

"No, he didn't, but he ast if I seen her, an' he said it was past breakfast-time."

"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Martha. "Francie's a little woman, ain't you, Francie? She knows, when a gen'lman thinks it's past meal time, it's up to ladies to get a move on."

Claire laughed. "I'll go at once," she returned obediently.

As Martha and Francie made their slow way back to the Lodge, Francie caught hold of her mother's hand in a sudden access of childish affection.

"Say, mother, I'm glad I'm your little girl, instead of anybody else's," she brought out impulsively.

"'Thank you, thank you, sir, she sayed. Your kindness I never shall forget!' I return the compliment," Martha announced with much manner.

"Mother, why does God want His name to be Hallow?"

"I didn't know He did."

"Yes, He does. At the beginning of the Lord's prayer, it says, 'Hallow would be thy name.' Don't you remember?"

"Certaintly I do, now you mention it. But if you ask me why, Robin, I got to give in, I can't tell you."

"I thought mothers knew everything," Francie said pensively. Martha's response was prompt.

"Well, be this an' be that, they do. Takin' mothers all together, they certaintly do. But, each one has her own speciality, _an'_ if you ask _me_ questions about God, I tell you, truly, I ain't got the answer, like I would have if I'd been to college, an' belonged to the lemon-eye, same's Miss Claire. On the other hand, _I_ may know things _she_ don't, about other matters nearer home. You never can tell."

"Cora says you don't know what's stylish. She says our clo'es are awful plain."

"Now, what do you think o' that! So Cora says I don't know what's stylish. Well, if _I_ don't know what's stylish, I don't know who does, seein' I was in an' out o' the toniest houses in New York City, an' was personally acquainted with their dresses an' their hats. That same Cora is called after one of the stylishest ladies ever you saw, Mrs. Underwood, which she is dead now, but, when she was alive, looked like a duchess. An' you, yourself, are called after her daughter, Miss Frances, who married a l'yer, Judge Granville, but _could_ 'a' had the pick o' the land. Never fear, I know what stylish is. Only, I know the differnce between _ladies'_ stylish an' ladies'-_maid's_ stylish. I seen both. Style's one thing. Loud's another. I want my childern to be seen but not heard."

"Mother, are you sorry Ma's gone away for good? She told Cora, 'fore she went, that you didn't know she ain't comin' back, but she ain't. She said her heart was broke with the quiet up here. She said she's goin' to live with Uncle Dennis after this, or Uncle Andy, where it's lively, an' there's more comin' an' goin'."

Mrs. Slawson suffered the full significance of Francie's revelation to sink into her consciousness, before she attempted to reply.

"Well, well," she said at last, with an air of brave resignation, "so, Ma's gone away for good, has she? An' she didn't want for me to be breakin' my heart with the news o' it. It certaintly is a shock an' no mistake. But a body must do the best she can, when she can't do no differnt. I'll try to bear up under it, Francie, much as I mourn my loss. In this life we got to go about with a smilin' countenance, no matter what our private sorras are. It won't do to let the world see your sufferin'. The world has troubles of its own. By the way, I wonder if Sammy's got back from takin' the mornin's milk to Madam Crewe's yet?"

Not only had Sammy got back, but he was the bearer of news.

"Say, mother, they got comp'ny to ol' lady Crewe's. A gen'lman, he come up with a bag. In a rig, from over to Burbank. The fella drove the rig, he was comin' back our road, an' he saw me, an' he says: 'Say, bubby, jump in an' I'll carry you a ways,' an' I did, an' he did."

"My, my, but ain't you lucky? To get a free ride so early in the mornin'. That was a kind ac' to do, wasn't it? Now, it's up to you to return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Keep your eye out for that young fella, Sammy, so's if he goes past again, on his way back to fetch ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny an' carry'm to the station, you can call me, an' I'll give'm a glass o' cold lemonade to cool'm off."

"He ain't comin' back. The comp'ny ain't from Burbank. He's from New York. He come up last night on the Express, an' he's goin' back when he's ready, but he don't know when he'll be ready, so he couldn't tell the fella with the rig. An' the fella with the rig, he couldn't wait anyhow. He has to go back to Burbank, an' then 'way out another way, miles an' miles, to get a party wants to catch a north-bound train goes out the middle o' the night. One o'clock it goes out, the fella said. An' if they don't catch it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin', so they got to catch it. The fella with the rig tol' me, he guessed ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny was a lawyer. He said he could tell by the cut of his jib. What's the cut of his jib, mother?"

Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "That's a lazy, shif'less way o' learnin' knowledge, Sammy, to be askin' it off'n parties that had to work hard themselves to get it. Since we got that grand dickshunerry-book Lord Ronald give your father, there ain't no excuse for any of us not knowin' things any more. Lord Ronald said: 'The dickshunerry habit is a good thing. When you don't know a word, look it up.'"

"How do you spell _jib_?"

The glance Mrs. Slawson cast on Sammy sent him off flushed with shame at having exposed an ignorance so dense.

At Crewesmere, meanwhile, the newcomer was calmly eating his breakfast, Katherine doing the honors with what grace she could.

Mr. Norris was no stranger to her. She knew him, had always known him, in fact, as her grandmother's man of affairs, a lawyer of repute. While she had no cause to distrust him, the fact that he was in a position to advise in questions closely affecting herself, affairs she was kept in total ignorance of, gave her a feeling of resentment toward him, as toward one who, voluntarily or not, held an unfair advantage.

"See he has a good breakfast," her grandmother had directed. "Let him eat and smoke his fill, but don't send him up to me with any unsatisfied cravings. A man's mind is a little less apt to be vacant if his stomach is full."

During the succeeding long hours of the forenoon, the two were closeted in Madam Crewe's sitting-room. Katherine could hear the incessant, low drone of their voices as she sat on the shaded veranda, trying to employ her mind so it would not dwell on the enervating heat and the fact that now, at this moment, her grandmother might be creating conditions that would irrevocably cripple her future and she was powerless to prevent it.

At luncheon-time Madam Crewe summoned Eunice Youngs.

"While Miss Crewe and the gentleman are at table, I want you to go to Mrs. Slawson's and tell her I must see her at once. Understand? _Madam Crewe says she must see Mrs. Slawson at once_. Say, she's to come in that motor-car Mr. Ronald gives her and her husband the use of. Say, Madam Crewe wishes her to take a gentleman to the railroad station in time for the five-forty-five train. Have you brains enough to repeat that straight? Or, shall Miss Katherine write it down for you?"

"Oh, grandmother," expostulated Katherine, when Eunice had gone to "tidy up" for her errand, "I don't think we can order Mrs. Slawson about like that. She's done a lot for us, already, but we have no claim on her, and to send for her to come, in all this heat, and bring her motor, and take Mr. Norris to the station--it's exactly as if----"

"My dear, don't bother your head over what doesn't concern you. Slawson and I understand each other--which is more than you and I do, I'm afraid," the old woman pronounced with biting distinctness.

The meal was barely over when Martha arrived.

"Now, Slawson," Madam Crewe greeted her, "I've sent for you on _business_, so I want you to stop looking benevolent, if you can, and attend to what this gentleman has to say."

"Yes'm," said Martha.

Mr. Norris adjusted his eye-glasses with professional precision. "Have you ever had any experience with the law, or lawyers?" he asked, regarding her steadfastly through his polished lenses.

"Certaintly, I have. Oncet, I worked out for a lady who got a divorce off'n her husband, on what they call statuary grounds, an' the first she knew, he up an' off, an' married the--statue. He was a railroad magnet. The kind draws more'n more to'm, all the time. So, o' course, the law never so much as laid a finger on'm. An' about two years ago, my little girl, she got run over by a auta, but, though Mr. Frank Ronald he tried to get'm to pay us a little somethin' for our trouble, we ain't seen a cent o' money yet. Oh, yes. I know about the _law_!"

"I mean, do you understand that when you are brought as a witness before the law, you are held responsible for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

Martha cogitated. "No, sir. I can't say I do, that is, _did_. I never knew the law had so much to do with _truth_ before. But, if you say so, I'm willin' to take your word for it."

Mr. Norris pulled a long upper lip.

"My client, Madam Crewe, has called you here for two purposes. First, she wishes you to be present whilst I ask her granddaughter a few important questions. Second, you and the maid--a--Eunice Youngs, are to write your names as witnesses upon a certain paper I have drawn up for my client. Are you willing to act for Madam Crewe in these matters?"

Martha shot a quick, inquiring glance at Katherine. The girl nodded in response.

"Yes, sir!" Mrs. Slawson answered promptly.

"Then, see that you charge your mind seriously with what you have undertaken. Your memory must be exact. Now, Miss Crewe----"

Katherine inclined her head, smiling faintly. But Martha noticed she was very pale.

"Your grandmother would like to know, from your own lips, the extent of your acquaintance with Dr. Ballard, the physician who has been in attendance on Madam Crewe since her late illness."

Katherine hung fire a moment, while the blood slowly mounted to her cheeks, her temples.

"My grandmother forbade me to have anything whatever to do with Dr. Ballard," she parried the question.

"Did you obey her injunction?--Attend, Mrs. Slawson!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I didn't think she had any right to control me so."

"Not when she intimated there were reasons?"

"She told me things about Dr. Ballard--his people, rather, but I didn't, and I don't, consider them _reasons_. She has no proof, or, if she has, she certainly hasn't presented it. I don't consider it worthy of notice when a person says things about another which are not backed up by proof."

"As a matter of fact, then, you do know Dr. Ballard, in spite of your grandmother's prohibition?"

"Yes."

"You know him very well?"

"Quite well."

"My next question, Miss Crewe, you will answer notwithstanding its peculiarly personal and intimate character, because (I am authorized to tell you) upon your answer important issues hang. If Dr. Ballard asks you to marry him, is it your intention to accept him?"

For a long moment there was no sound in the room, except such as came, muted, from out-of-doors, and the leisurely ticking of the tall clock in the corner.

Then Katherine, rising, impetuously faced the lawyer and Madam Crewe.

"I will _not_ answer that question, no matter what issues hang on it," she retorted hotly.

"Miss Crewe, I have your interest at heart, believe me. I strongly advise you to answer."

"No."

"You mean you will not accept him."

"I mean no such thing. I mean I refuse to answer."

"Why?"

"You ought to know. The question is--indelicate. When--_if_ Dr. Ballard says he wishes to marry me, it will be time enough for me to answer--_him_."

"He has already said so."

Miss Crewe started. "What do you mean?" she demanded imperiously.

"Dr. Ballard has already told your grandmother he wishes to marry you. Madam Crewe would like to know your intentions."

"I wish my grandmother had chosen a different way of obtaining my confidence," the girl broke out, almost broke down. "It seems very strange to me that she should choose such a method as this. It seems--almost--disgraceful."

The old woman, sitting erect in her high-backed chair, did not attempt to defend herself.

The lawyer, ignoring Katherine's outburst, continued his dry-voiced interrogation.

"You would accept him?"

"If Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me," the girl answered with marked quiet of voice and manner, in strong contrast to her outbreak of a moment ago, "if Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me--I will marry him."

"In opposition to your grandmother?"

"I don't _want_ to oppose my grandmother, but if she tries to spoil my life for the sake of a groundless prejudice I will--yes--I will marry him _in opposition_ to her."

"Think well, Miss Crewe. Take your time. Answer cautiously. If you were told Dr. Ballard is a struggling young doctor, with no present means of support, to speak of, and a perfectly problematic future. If you were told that he would never be able to provide you with more than a bare living income----"

"I would marry him."

"If you were told that, in case you do so, your grandmother would divert her property from you (as she has a perfect legal right to do) and dispose of it elsewhere----?"

"Still--I would marry him."

"Nothing would dissuade you?"

"Nothing."

"The inquisition is over."

It was the old woman who spoke. Her face was as impassive as ever, but Martha Slawson noticed that her tiny, emaciated fingers clutched the arms of her chair with a vise-like grip.

"For all the world like a bird I seen last Spring," Martha mused, "which somethin' had broke its wing, an' its claws was holdin' on fierce, for dear life, to the branch o' the bush it was clingin' to--as if _that_'d save it!"

"May I go now?"

As Katherine made the appeal, she turned toward her grandmother, but her eyes were kept resolutely averted.

Mr. Norris raised a detaining hand. "One moment, please. I assume you entertain no doubt of Madam Crewe's mental competency? That she is of sound mind, capable of acting rationally on her own behalf? That any will and testament she might choose to execute at this time would be above suspicion of mistake, fraud, or undue influence?"

For a moment Katherine seemed to consider. Then her lip curled.

"If you mean, am I likely in the future to contest any will my grandmother may now make to my disadvantage, I say no. I will never dispute her course, whatever direction it may take. All I ask is that she will not dispute mine. I am only sorry that they seem to diverge so completely. I am sick of the name of money. I would say I am sick of the sight of it--but I have never seen any----" with which parting thrust, the girl turned on her heel, and left the room.

She went none too soon, for the moment the door closed upon her, her self-control gave way, and she groped stumblingly to her own chamber blinded by tears, choking back the sobs that were in themselves a humiliation.

The three she had left, were silent when she had gone, until Mr. Norris drew an important-looking sheet from under a mass of papers at his elbow, and addressed Mrs. Slawson.

"As a general rule I strongly advise you, or any one, against placing your signature to any instrument which you have not previously read and do not fully understand. In this case, however, there is absolutely no harm. Please call the other witness."

Martha took a step toward the door.

"If I put my writin' on that paper, it won't mean I'm injurin'--anybody?" she demanded firmly.

"You have my word as to that."

"I'd never sign it, if it was to hurt Miss Katherine."

"Your placing your signature there cannot affect Miss Crewe's interests one way or the other."

Martha summoned Eunice Youngs, and the two, in their best manner, literally with great pains, proceeded to affix their names as witnesses to the last and testament of Idea Stryker Crewe.

*CHAPTER IX*

It was late one evening at the end of the week, when Sam came back, to Martha's surprise, alone.

"Ma just wouldn't leave the city," he explained. "She's staying at Dennis's now, but Sarah told me she couldn't keep her above a week or so, at the longest. She said Andy, or Hughey, or one of the girls would be better able to look after her than Dennis and herself, who have all they can manage paying off on their house in Yonkers, and the children to educate besides. Sarah was quite short with me on account of Ma. She said she was real put out. We'd no business leaving an old woman, Ma's age, away from the country such hot weather, especially when we were just getting on our feet now, and were well able to give her a home without feeling it."

Martha smiled tolerantly. "There'd be no time o' year'd suit Sarah for takin' any more trouble than she's got to," she observed, pouring her husband's tea.

"It's a nice little place they've bought," Sam informed her, between bites of cold ham and potato. "Dennis travels down and up every day, which is, what you might call a stunt, but he has the satisfaction of knowing the roof over his head is his own."

Martha set an ice-cold cup-custard at Sam's plate.

"From Yonkers to the Battery _is_ a kind o' long stretch, but--where there's a will there's a--sub-way, I s'pose. Would he be with the same steamship company he was with, since I first knew'm, I wonder?"

"Yes, and they gave him a raise last month. He's doing _all right_, Dennis is. You ought to see the way Sarah's got the house fixed. They pay off for the new furniture every month, so they don't feel it, Sarah says."

"Well, Sarah mayn't feel it, but you can take it from me, _I_ certaintly would, in her place," Martha observed. "Gettin' things on the excitement plan, would wrack my health. I hate the thought o' owin'. Payin' for a dead horse never did _appeal_ to me, as Mrs. Sherman says. How's Andy doin'?"

"Andy _was_ succeeding great, but something went wrong, somehow, all of a sudden, and his scheme fell through. He explained it to me, but I forgot the particulars, to tell the truth. He'll be on his feet again in no time. Andy always was the smart one of the family."

Martha ruminated. "Wouldn't you wonder how anythin' gets done in this world, when nothin' anybody ever tries seems to succeed? Is Nora as gallus-lookin' as ever? Or is she holdin' in her horses some, now her husban's kind o' down an' out, for the time bein'?"

"Nora's just the same, as far as I can see. _Our_ Nora says Nora-Andy is distroying Andy with her extravagance. She says the way she dresses, alone, it's no wonder he is always in and out of some get-rich-quick scheme, that'll land him in the poor-house, or worse, if he don't look out. But then, our Nora never did have the appearance of Nora-Andy, I must say that, if I am her own brother. Our Nora is kind of sharp, and she looks it."

"Well, I guess marriage'll bevel some of the edges off'n her, all right, all right," said Martha. "Were you surprised when you heard she was keepin' company with McKenna?"

"Yes, I was. I never thought Nora'd marry now--at her age."

"Nora always wanted to marry, an' when she saw her chance she grabbed it by both horns."

Sam's serious expression relaxed a little. "That sounds as if McKenna was the devil and all of a fellow. He's not that at all, and he certainly ain't much to look at."

"Oh, well," Martha responded, "nobody but her'll have a call to look at'm much, oncet he's married."

"I told her I thought she was taking a risk, throwing up a good place she'd been in, for so many years, parlor-maid, to live out general-housework with a stranger," said Sam. "I thought that was a joke. But it made her mad. She said, 'God knows it's no joke!' She said she had as much of a right to live her life as I have, which of course it's true. She said 'every dog has its day!'"

"True for you. So he has, just like s'ciety ladies. But that ain't to say there'll be anybody'll come. An' I sometimes think there's more dogs, 'n days, anyhow."

Sam looked up. "Say, mother, you ain't down-hearted, are you?"

"No. Why? What'd make me downhearted, I should like to know?"

"I just thought you might be," her husband answered. "I never heard you speak that doubting kind of way before. And, we've no call to think ill of the world, with all the luck that's come to us."

"Certaintly. An' if luck don't stay with us, itself, it won't be because we ain't set her a chair, an' done every mortal thing we know of to make her comfortable. I've no kick comin', nor ever had. I like life all right, the hard part along with the soft part. If you didn't have the one you wouldn't know how to relish the other. But, speakin' o' Nora, I never looked to see her sportin' a 'finity of her own, I can tell you that!"

"''Finity'?" questioned Sam.

"Genteel for fella," Martha answered. "I often heard Mrs. Sherman speakin' of'm. You can take it from me, I never looked to see that same Nora get a-holt o' one."

"Nor I. And I said as much to Ma. Ma told it back to Nora, and Nora was as mad as could be. She said if it came to that, she didn't see as she was the worst-looking one in the family, when a body counted in what some of us had married."

"Meanin' me," observed Martha appreciatively.

"She said she 'didn't see why folks should be so monstrous surprised that she got a husband. Every Joan has her Jack.' The very words she said."

"Sure they have. But only it ain't told what kind o' Jack. So did Balaam have a jack, if she wants _that_ kind. But, p'raps McKenna is a prize-package. _We_ don't know. I wonder will he take kindly to Ma?"

Sam shook his head. "One of the first things he told me was, 'We couldn't look to him to give my mother a home. He had troubles of his own.' It stirred me up so, I almost lost my temper. I said I didn't look to him to give my mother a home. If he gave my sister one, now he'd contracted to marry her, I'd be glad."

"Why, Sam," said Martha looking at him with mock-reproach, "I wonder at you, I do so! To speak up that fierce! You hadn't ought to be so violent, an' use such strong language to a party just gettin' ready to come into the fam'ly. It might scare'm off. He must think you're a dretful bully."

"Nora told Ma, before I left, that Ma was foolish to stay back in New York. She said she and McKenna, starting out, young married folks----"

"God save the mark!" murmured Martha.

"She said they couldn't offer her a home, much as they'd like to. But Ma said her heart was broke with the country. She wanted to live in the city where something was going on."

"It's one thing what you _want_, and another what you _must_. Poor Ma! I'm sorry for her. When she comes back she'll know a thing or two more'n she does now. We'll have to be kind o' gentle with her, to make up. But come on now, Sam. If you've et all you can, I'll do my dishes, while you lock up, an' then we can go to bed. You look plain wore out."

"I'm glad to get home," Sam answered her, and though he said no more Martha understood him.

Long after he was asleep she lay awake in the white moonlight, thinking. "Down home," she knew it was stifling. Sam had told her that the hot wave was breaking all records for intensity and duration. And yet, somehow, her soul yearned for the stretches of sun-softened "ashfalt" with its smell of mingled dust and tar, for all the common city sounds and sights amid which she had been born and bred; all the noise and commotion that spelt _Home_ for her. She could understand Ma's feeling, and her heart softened to the poor old woman.

"It's all right up here," she admitted to herself. "I like the folks first rate, such as they are an' what there is of'm, only they ain't what a body is used to. I never see nicer parties than the Trenholms, an' the Coleses, an' the Moores. That time Hiram Black's house burned down, if every mother's son of'm didn't turn out an' lend a hand. Got the Blacks fixed up fine an' dandy, in no time, in a new place, with what they called 'donations.' Down home you wouldn't find your neighbors givin' you furnitur', an' bricky-braw things like that, not on your life! An' when you'd paid the insurance money itself, the Company'd kick before it'd give you the price o' your losin's. An' yet, I know how Ma feels. If young Luther Coles had 'a' had the fever down home he had up here last fall, they'd a-yanked'm away from his own flesh an' blood to the pest-house. An' here his mother was let take care of'm, an' the meals was got by the neighbors, which she hauled'm up in a basket, three times a day, an' et'm hot an' fresh from the oven, without havin' to raise her hand, only take'm out from under a clean napkin. You'd go hungry a long time in New York City, before the folks acrost the air-shaft from you, would know your boy was dyin' on you, much less sneak in a bite an' a sup, from time to time, through the dumb-waiter. But--all the same--_I know how Ma feels._"

Martha had reached this stage in her musings when a faint knock sounded on the door below. She waited, listening. The knock was repeated. As quietly as she could, which was not very quietly, she slipped from her bed, threw on her light cotton kimono, which always lay ready at hand in case of emergency, and hastened downstairs, leaving Sam asleep and snoring, worn out by the city heat, his sense of responsibility in connection with Mr. Ronald's commissions, and the long day's journey home, with its fatiguing delays and tiresome changes.

She shot the bolt back, turned the key with resolute hand. She could not imagine what had happened that would account for this unusual disturbance, but whatever it might be, she braced herself to meet it.

On the doorstep stood the shivering figure of a girl, clad only in her night-dress. She was shivering with excitement, not chill.

"Mrs. Slawson," she managed to bring out, before words became impossible, drowned in the torrent of her tears and sobbing.

Martha placed a motherly hand about the frail shoulders.

"Come now, come now! Don't cry like that. You'll shake yourself to pieces. I don't know what's the matter, but it'll be all right, anyhow, never fear. You're Ellen Hinckley, ain't you? I think I seen you a couple o' times at church."

As Martha talked, she drew her visitor into the house, automatically locked and bolted the door, and settled the girl in Sam's chair in the sitting-room.

The moonlight, streaming in through the windows, made the place almost as light as day, but for some purpose of her own, Martha was about to strike a match, when Ellen Hinckley stopped her with a quick cry.

"No, no! Don't do it! I've run away. I've left my mother's. My stepfather'll follow me when he finds I'm gone."

She drew a long painful breath, then panted out her story in short, labored gasps.

"I've never had a home. You mayn't believe it, but mother don't care a scrap about me, except for the work I can do. I've tried and tried for years to bear it, but it's got to be too hard. I can't live that way any longer. You know,--Mr. Wedall----?"

Martha nodded. "The pasture?"

"Yes, he's my minister. He knows all about me. He told me to do my best, but if the time came when I just couldn't bear it another minute I might go. He said _he_ couldn't help me run away, because--because----"

"Certaintly he couldn't!" said Martha.

"But he said, if ever I _had_ to do it, the Lord would raise up some one who could. Mother's never liked me. I've not been happy a minute since my father died. _He_ wasn't happy. He had no peace of his life. He used to tell mother she'd get her come-uppance some day, and she's got it now, for Buller, that's her second husband, he beats her. He's got her money and mine too, what father left us, and he's afraid I'll law him, now I'm of age and can. I tried to run off yesterday, but he caught me and took away my clothes, and locked me in my room. I had some money I'd got hold of. 'Twas my own--and when he caught me, and he and mother stripped me and locked me up, I held on to it, all through, though he beat me black and blue with his belt-strap."

She spread her poor little trembling palm, disclosing a fistful of crumpled bills.

"See? And here's where he beat me--and _she_ stood by and let him!"

As she spoke, the girl drew back the coarse night-dress from her breast, displaying shoulders and back seamed across with cruel wales.

Martha drew in her breath shudderingly, shielding her eyes with her elbow in a quick, instinctive defensive gesture.

"I'd know you speak the truth without--_that_!" she said.

"After they left me, and locked me in--when I could _think_--I remembered what Mr. Wedall said about the Lord raising up help for me, and it made me mad, for there was no one to lift a hand for me. And then, all at once, somehow, you came into my mind. I saw you help a dog once, nobody else would touch. D'you remember? All the rest were afraid. They said he might be mad. But you said, 'Of course he ain't mad.' And you took him up, and took him home, and--you weren't afraid."

"No, I'm not afraid," said Martha.

"After you came into my mind I never rested till I found a way to get out. I waited till everything was quiet. They'd gone to bed. Then I managed it--through the window--down the grapevine trellis--I----"

Martha made her way to the corner cupboard. "I'll fix you up with arnica an' water inside and out," she explained. "An', while I'm doin' it, you tell me what you've planned."

"Nothing. I've planned nothing. Buller says I'm looney. Perhaps I am. I can't seem to think."

"Have you got any folks anywheres? I mean, on your father's side?"

"I've an uncle. Father's brother. But he lives in Montreal."

"Montreal! Where would that be, I wonder?"

"In Canada. Up north."

Mrs. Slawson bound on her soothing compresses in silence. Suddenly she paused, alert, listening. Then, quick as a flash, she caught her visitor by the sleeve, drew her back in to the entry and pushed her into a small closet under the stairs.

"Hush! I hear a horse. Don't you breathe till I come an' tell you."

A moment later she was lying in bed, as still as though she, like Sam, were fast asleep and dreaming.

Presently Sam stirred, sat up drowsily, and listened.

"Say, mother, you asleep?"

No answer.

A voice from below in the garden called up hoarsely:

"Hullo, there!"

"What's wanted?" demanded Sam.

"I'm Buller, from Milby's Corners. My wife's daughter has wandered off in the night. I'm out hunting for her, to take her home. She ain't all there in the upper story. I thought, maybe, she'd come in here. The last I saw of her, she was making this way. She's in her night-shift. I could see her plain as day, far ahead of me."

Sam was so obviously but just-awakened, that Buller from Milby's Corners turned his horse's head, as if to make a quick departure, when Mrs. Slawson, yawning, leaned over the rail of the sleeping-porch and spoke.

"Say, wait a minute. The poor thing! Wanderin' about in the night,--an' her light-headed--away from your pertectin' love an' care! Ain't it awful! My husban' an' me'll get up, an' be dressed in no time, for we'd like to help her, if we can, poor creature! In the meantime, seein' you ain't found her here, I s'pose you'll be goin' further. Out in her night-clo'es! My! I wonder---- Say, Sam--do _you_ see somethin' white flitterin' along towards the south--down the valley road d'rection? Seems to me _I_ do!"

Sam thought maybe he did.

Buller kicked a heel into his horse.

"G'long! I'm off down the valley road. I bet 'tis her. I'll have her yet, the d--the poor dear!"

The instant he was gone, Martha dragged Sam into the house.

"Quick! Dress you! An' go down get the auta. I have the girl hid in the entry closet. I'm goin' to take her out o' harm's way, which is that brute beast's."

"But, Martha----" remonstrated Sam.

"Sam Slawson, do as I tell you! Or you'll have to _shove_ us into Burbank in your present gob, which, believe _me_, it ain't bewitchin'. You can take it from me, lad, I'm goin' to catch that north-bound express that leaves Burbank at one o'clock this night, which, if we don't make it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin'. So we _got_ to make it, or I'll know the reason why!"

Impelled by a motive power so irresistible, Sam dressed and went about his business without venturing another word.

Martha clothed herself in the brief intervals when she was not attending Ellen Hinckley, giving her bread to eat, milk to sip, enveloping her in garments gathered from everywhere, anywhere, a conglomerate assortment that would have been grotesque if it had not been touching.

"No one'll mind your looks," Martha reassured her. "Just you sit tight, an' keep your own counsel, an' not a dog'll bark after you. Ma's veil tied down over Cora's hat is quite stylish, an', be this an' be that, you've got as good a motorin' costume as any. They all look like Sam Hill. So now, I guess, we might be movin'!"

"It's a crazy scheme," Sam whispered in his wife's ear, as she bent to him to deliver last instructions, while he was cranking up. "Suppose a tire bursts?"

"It ain't goin' to," she assured him with perfect confidence.

Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even Martha's garrulous tongue was stilled.

The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar, remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable. The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car, the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security under Mrs. Slawson's protecting wing.

Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters profile toward her.

"I hear something back of us. Can you see?"

"No. If I stir she'll wake. You don't think it's him?"

"It may be. Joe Harding's place is down the valley road. He has a car. Buller mayn't suspect we're helping the girl, but when he didn't find her in that direction, Harding may have offered to take a hand in the game."

"Would any man o' conscience help a fella like Buller, who all the neighborhood knows the life he's led this poor creature--him an' the mother, which she's a disgrace to the name."

"No, but Harding ain't a man of conscience,--not so you'd notice it, as you say. If Buller's out on the still-hunt, Harding'd join in for the pleasure of the chase."

"Put on power," directed Martha.

Again that swift, silent progress through the night.

Once Sam whispered: "I guess we were stung. I can't hear anything back of us any more, can you?"

"No," said Martha. "But stung or no stung, keep a-goin'. We ain't takin' no risks."

Ellen Hinckley slept fitfully, but even in her waking moments she was not aware of the dangers the others had feared.

"Let her rest," Martha meditated. "After she's made a clean getaway, she'll have all that's comin' to her, in the line o' excitement an' strain. I don't believe'm when he says she ain't all there in the upper story. But that's not meanin' I think she's furnished as handsome as some. She may have all her buttons, an' yet not be the brainiest party I ever come in contract with. Why didn't she up an' open her mind an' give Buller a piece o' it long ago? There's many things a married woman's got to shoulder, God knows, but chas*tise*ment, hot off'n his griddle, as you might say, not on your life, even a married woman needn't stand, much less a unmarried maiden-girl. It ain't decent. If a man oncet took the strap to me, I'd fix'm so's the doctor'd have to hunt for the buckle o' his belt behind his internal workin's, in back among his spine. An' I'd be proud o' the job."

When they were within about five miles of Burbank Sam gave a low whistle.

"I was wonderin' if you heard it too," Martha responded promptly. "Firstoff I thought 'twas my imagination, but it ain't. Somethin' certaintly's follain' along in our tracks."

"The first was a false alarm. So may this be," said Sam.

"Sure. But, could you speed up some? Just for luck?"

Presently Martha heard another sound.

"Now, Ellen," she announced firmly, "you got to brace up. Cryin' won't do you a mite o' good."

"He's following. I know it. He's got a car. He'll get me and take me back and--_kill_ me!"

"He will if you don't do as I say. But not on your life he won't, if you mind your aunt Martha. Firstoff, have you got your money safe an' handy?"

"Yes. Here."

"That's right. See you don't lose it, when I assist you onto the train. There mayn't be much time to spare, but if the brakeman's any good on the catch, I'm up to handin'm a neat throw, an' between us you'll get there!"

"But my ticket----"

"This is no time for thinkin' o' tickets. Let the conductor be glad if, after the train is on its way, you got the price o' one o' them long, floatin' streamer-effec's he carries in his vest-pocket, to amuse 'mself punchin' holes in it."

They sped into Burbank under all the power Sam dared put on.

"Thank God!" sobbed Ellen Hinckley.

But when they reached the station, no train was in sight, the place was virtually deserted.

Sam drew up beside the platform and, for a moment sat quite still, evidently cogitating.

"No such thing! The train ain't gone!" said Martha, as if he had maintained it had. "It's only five minutes to one."

"It might have been ahead of time."

"Did you ever know one was?" inquired his wife.

He got out and made his way to the waiting-room. A moment and he was back.

"There's been delays back along the road. The train's two hours late. It won't be here till three, or after."

"Well, what do you think o' that!" said Martha.

The next instant she was dragging Ellen Hinckley into the waiting-room, through it, and on into the telegraph-operator's booth.