Through all the days of suspense and doubt, Claire swung like a faithful
little pendulum between home, the Shermans, and the hospital.
Then, as hope strengthened, she was the bearer of gifts, flowers, fruit,
toys from Mr. Ronald and his sister, which Martha acknowledged in her
own characteristic fashion.
"Tell'm the Slawson fam'ly is bound to be _in it._ It seems it's the
whole style for ladies to go under a operation, an' as I ain't eggsackly
got the time, Francie, she's keepin' up the tone for us. If you wanter
folla the fashions these days, you got to gather your skirts about you,
tight as they are, an' run. But what's a little inconvenience, compared
with knowin' you're cuttin' a dash!
"Tell'm I thank'm, an' tell Lor'--Mister Ronald, it's good of'm to be
tryin' to get damages for Francie out o' the auta that run her down, an'
if there was somethin' comin' to us to pay the doctors an' suchlike,
it'd be welcome. But, somehow, I always was shy o' monkeyin' with the
law. It's like to catch a body in such queer places, where you'd least
expect. Before a fella knows it, he's _up_ for liable, or breaches o'
promise, an' his private letters to the bosom of his fam'ly (which
nowadays they're mostly ruffles), his letters to the bosom of his fam'ly
is read out loud in court, an' then printed in the papers next mornin',
an' everybody's laughin' at'm, because he called his wife 'My darlin'
Tootsie,' which she never been accustomed to answer to anythin' but the
name o' Sarah. An' it's up to him to pay the costs, when ten to one it's
the other party's to blame. I guess p'raps we better leave good enough
alone. If we begin to get the l'yers after us, no tellin' where we'll
end. Who knows but they might find the accident injured the auto, 'stead
o' Francie. If we work hard, an' they give us time, me an' Sammy can,
maybe, make out to pay the doctors. But add to that, to have to buy a
brand-new machine for the fella that run over Francie--that'd be sorter
discouragin'."
She paused, and Claire began to pull on her gloves.
"By the way," said Martha, "how's things down to the Shermans'? Seems
like a hunderd years since I was there. The las' time I laid eyes on
Eliza, she was in excellent spirits--I seen the bottle. I wonder if
she's still--very still, takin' a sly nip on the side, as she calls it,
which means a sly nip off the sideboard. You can take it from me, if she
don't let up, before she knows it she'll be a teetotal wrack."
"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Eliza," observed Claire, smiling.
"Why, of course, you haven't, which it wouldn't be a pleasure, anyhow.
But what I reely want to know is, how you makin' out with Radcliffe? I
been so took up with Francie all this while, I clean forgot to ask
before. Is he behavin' all right? Does he mind what you say? Does he do
his lessons good?"
Claire's brows drew together in a troubled little frown, as she labored
over the clasp of her glove.
"O, Radcliffe," she let fall carelessly. "Radcliffe's an unruly little
Hessian, of course, but I suppose all boys are mischievous at times."
Martha pondered. "Well, not all boys are mischievous in just the same
way, thank God! This trouble o' Francie's has threw me all out in more
ways than one. If everything had 'a' went as I'd expected, I'd been
workin' at the Shermans' straight along these days, an' you wouldn't 'a'
had a mite o' trouble with the little fella. Him an' I understands each
other perfeckly, an' with me a loomin' up on the landscape, he kinder
sees the sense o' walkin' a chalk-line, not kickin' up his heels too
frisky. I'd calculated on being there, to sorter back you up, till you'd
got uster the place, an' made 'em understand you mean business."
Claire laughed, a quick, sharp little laugh.
"O, I think I'm gradually making them understand I mean business," she
said. "And I'm sure it is better, since I have to be there at all, that
I should be there without you, independent of any help. I couldn't make
Radcliffe respect my authority, if I depended on some one else to
enforce it. It's just one of those cases where one has to fight one's
own battle alone."
"Then it _is_ a battle?" Martha inquired quietly.
"O, it's a battle, 'all right,'" laughed Claire mirthlessly, and before
Mrs. Slawson could probe her further, she managed to make her escape.
She did not wish to burden Martha with her vexations. Martha had
troubles of her own. Moreover, those that were most worrisome to Claire,
Martha, in the very nature of things, would not understand.
Claire's first few weeks at the Shermans' had been uneventful enough.
Radcliffe had found amusement in the novelty of the situation, had
deigned to play school with her, and permitted her to "make believe" she
was "the teacher." He was willing to "pretend" to be her "scholar," just
as he would have been willing to pretend to be the horse, if he and
another boy had been playing, and the other boy had chosen to be driver
for a while. But turn about is fair play, and when the days passed, and
Claire showed no sign of relinquishing her claim, he grew restless,
mutinous, and she had all she could do to keep him in order.
Gradually it began to dawn upon him that this very little person, kind
and companionable as she seemed, suffered under the delusion that he was
going to obey her--that, somehow, she was going to constrain him to obey
her. Of course, this was the sheerest nonsense. How could she make him
do anything he didn't want to do, since his mother had told her, in his
presence, that he was to be governed by love alone, and, fortunately,
her lack of superior size and strength forbade her _love_ from
expressing itself as, he shudderingly remembered, Martha's had done on
one occasion. No, plainly he had the advantage of Miss Lang, but until
she clearly understood it, there were apt to be annoyances. So, without
taking the trouble to make the punishment fit the crime, he casually
locked her in the sitting-room closet one morning. She had stepped
inside to hang up her hat and coat as usual, and it was quite easy,
swiftly, noiselessly, to close the door upon her, and turn the key.
He paused a moment, choking back his nervous laughter, waiting to hear
her bang on the panel, and clamor to be let out. But when she made no
outcry, when, beyond one or two futile turnings of the knob, there was
no further attempt on her part to free herself, he stole upstairs to
the schoolroom, and made merry over his clever exploit.
For a full minute after she found herself in darkness, Claire did not
realize she was a prisoner. The door had swung to after her, she
thought, that was all. But, when she turned the knob, and still it did
not open, she began to suspect the truth. Her first impulse was to call
out, but her better judgment told her it would be better to wait with
what dignity she might until Radcliffe tired of his trick, or some one
else came and released her. Radcliffe would tire the more quickly, she
reasoned, if she did not raise a disturbance. When he saw she was not to
be teased, he would come and let her out. She stood with her hot cheek
pressed against the cool wood of the closet-door, waiting for him to
come. And listening for his steps, she heard other steps--other steps
which approached, and entered the sitting-room. She heard the voices of
Mrs. Sherman and Mr. Ronald in earnest conversation.
"If I thought such a thing were possible I'd send her away to-morrow,"
Mrs. Sherman was saying in a high-pitched, excited voice.
"Why such delay? Why not to-day?" inquired Mr. Ronald ironically.
"But, of course," continued his sister, ignoring his interruption, "I
know there's nothing to be really afraid of."
"Well, then, if you know there's nothing to be afraid of, what _are_ you
afraid of?"
"I'm not really afraid. I'm just talking things over. You see, she's so
uncommonly pretty, and--men are men, and you're no exception."
"I hope not. I don't want to be an exception."
"Don't you think she's uncommonly pretty?"
"No, I don't think I should call her--_pretty_," said Mr. Ronald with an
emphasis his sister might well have challenged, if she had not been so
preoccupied with her own thoughts that she missed its point.
"Well, _I_ do. I think she's quite pretty enough to excuse, I mean,
_explain_ your having a passing fancy for her."
"I haven't a passing fancy for her."
"Well, I'm much relieved to hear you say so, for even if it were only a
passing fancy, I'd feel I ought to send her away. You never can tell how
such things will develop."
"You certainly can't."
"And you may rest assured mother and I don't want you to ruin your life
by throwing yourself away on a penniless, unknown little governess, when
you might have your choice from among the best-born, wealthiest girls
in town."
"Miss Lang is as well-born as any one we know."
"We have only her word for it."
"No, her nurse, an old family servant, Martha Slawson, corroborates
her--if you require corroboration."
"Don't you? Would you be satisfied to pick some one off the street, as
it were, and take her into your house and give her your innocent child
to train?"
"My innocent children being so extremely vague, I am not concerning
myself as to their education. But I certainly accept Miss Lang's word,
and I accept Martha's."
"You're easily satisfied. Positively, Frank, I believe you _have_ a
fancy for the girl, in spite of what you say. And for all our sakes, for
mother's and mine and yours and--yes--even hers, it will be best for me
to tell her to go."
"I rather like the way you rank us. Mother and you first--then I come,
and last--_even_ the poor little girl!"
"Well, you may laugh if you want to, but when a child like Radcliffe
notices that you're not indifferent to her, there must be some truth in
it. He confided to me last night, 'Uncle Frank likes Miss Lang a lot. I
guess she's his best girl! Isn't she his best girl?' I told him
_certainly not_. But I lay awake most of the night, worrying about it."
Mr. Ronald had evidently had enough of the interview. Claire could hear
his firm steps, as he strode across the floor to the door.
"I advise you to quit worrying, Catherine," he said. "It doesn't pay.
Moreover, I assure you I've no _passing fancy_ (I quote your words) for
Miss Lang. I hope you won't be so foolish as to dismiss her on my
account. She's an excellent teacher, a good disciplinarian. It would be
difficult to find another as capable as she, one who, at the same time,
would put up with Radcliffe's waywardness, and your--_our_--(I'll put it
picturesquely, after the manner of Martha) our indiosincrazies. Take my
advice. Don't part with Miss Lang. She's the right person in the right
place. Good-morning!"
"Frank, Frank! Don't leave me like that. I know I've terribly annoyed
you. I can't bear to feel you're provoked with me, and yet I'm only
acting for your good. Please kiss me good-by. I'm going away. I won't
see you for two whole days. I'm going to Tuxedo this morning to stay
over night with Amy Pelham. There's a man she's terribly interested in,
and she wants me to meet him, and tell her what I think of him. He's
been attentive to her for ever so long, and yet he doesn't--his name is
Mr. Robert--" Her words frayed off in the distance, as she hurriedly
followed her brother out into the hall and downstairs.
How long Claire stood huddled against the closet-door she never knew.
The first thing of which she was clearly conscious was the feel of a key
stealthily moved in the lock beneath her hand. Then the sounds of
footsteps lightly tiptoeing away. Mechanically she turned the knob, the
door yielded, and she staggered blindly out from the darkness into the
sunlit room. It was deserted.
If Mrs. Sherman had been there, Claire would have given way at once,
letting her sense of outraged pride escape her in a torrent of tears, a
storm of indignant protest. Happily, there being no one to cry to, she
had time to gather herself together before going up to face Radcliffe.
When she entered the schoolroom, he pretended to be studiously busied
with his books, and so did not notice that she was rather a long time
closing the door after her, and that she also had business with the lock
of the door opposite. He really only looked up when she stationed
herself behind her desk, and summoned him to recite.
"I do' want to!" announced Radcliffe resolutely.
"Very well," said Claire, "then we'll sit here until you do."
Radcliffe grinned. It seemed to him things were all going his way, this
clear, sunny morning. He began to whistle, in a breathy undertone.
Claire made no protest. She simply sat and waited.
Radcliffe took up his pencil, and began scrawling pictures over both
sides of his slate, exulting in the squeaking sounds he produced. Still
_the teacher_ did not interfere. But when, tired of his scratching, he
concluded the time had arrived for his grand demonstration, his crowning
declaration of independence, he rose, carelessly shoved his books aside,
strode to the door, intending masterfully to leave the room,
and--discovered he was securely locked and bolted in. In a flash he was
across the room, tearing at the lock of the second door with frantic
fingers. That, too, had been made fast. He turned upon Claire like a
little fiend, his eyes flashing, his hands clenched.
"You--you--you two-cent Willie!" he screamed.
Claire pretended not to see or hear. In reality she was acutely
conscious of every move he made, for, small as he was, his pent-in rage
gave him a strength she might well fear to put to the test. It was the
tug of war. The question was, who would be conqueror?
Through the short hours of the winter forenoon, hours that seemed as
interminable to Claire as they did to Radcliffe, the battle raged. There
was no sign of capitulation on either side.
In the course of the morning, and during one of Radcliffe's fiercest
outbreaks, Claire took up the telephone instrument and quietly
instructed Shaw to bring no luncheon-trays to the schoolroom at
mid-day.
"Two glasses of hot milk will be all we need," she said, whereupon
Radcliffe leaped upon her, trying to wrest the transmitter from her
hand, beating her with his hard little fists.
"I won't drink milk! I won't! I won't!" he shouted madly. "An' I'll
_kill_ you, if you won't let me have my lunch, you--you--you
_mizzer'ble_ two-cent Willie!"
As the day drew on, his white face grew flushed, her fevered one white,
and both were haggard and lined from the struggle. Then, at about three
o'clock, Mr. Ronald telephoned up to say he wished Radcliffe to go for a
drive with him.
Claire replied it was impossible.
"Why?" came back to her over the wire.
"Because he needs punishment, and I am going to see that he gets it."
"And if I interfere?"
"I resign at once. Even as it is--"
"Do you think you are strong enough--strong enough _physically_, to
fight to the finish?"
"I am strong enough for anything."
"I believe you. But if you should find him one too many for you, I shall
be close at hand, and at a word from you I will come to the rescue."
"No fear of my needing help. Good-by!"
She hung up the receiver with a click of finality.
Outside, the sky grew gray and threatening. Inside, the evening shadows
began to gather. First they thickened in the corners of the room; then
spread and spread until the whole place turned vague and dusky.
The first violence of his rage was spent, but Radcliffe, sullen and
unconquered still, kept up the conflict in silent rebellion. He had not
drunk his milk, so neither had Claire hers. The two glasses stood
untouched upon her desk, where she had placed them at noon. It was so
still in the room Claire would have thought the boy had fallen asleep,
worn out with his struggles, but for the quick, catching breaths that,
like soundless sobs, escaped him every now and then. It had been dark a
long, long time when, suddenly, a shaft of light from a just lit window
opposite, struck over across to them, reflecting into the shadow, and
making visible Radcliffe's little figure cowering back in the shelter
of a huge leather armchair. He looked so pitifully small and appealing,
that Claire longed to gather him up in her arms, but she forebore and
sat still and waited.
Then, at last, just as the clock of a nearby church most solemnly boomed
forth eight reverberating strokes, a chastened little figure slid out of
the great chair, and groped its way slowly, painfully along until it
reached Claire's side.
"I will--be--good!" Radcliffe whispered chokingly, so low she had to
bend her head to hear.
Claire laid her arms about him and he clung to her neck, trembling.