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."