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!"