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."