"You're so young."
"Oh, I am, am I? Well, I'll tell you a secret: I'm not quite so young
as, apparently, I look. I don't wear my hair a little thin on top
because I like that style, particularly. But, even if she's right, and
I have no practice--no income--how could that----?"
Katherine turned her face away, unable to meet his searching eyes.
He spoke again at once. "The fact is, you're not giving it to me
straight. You're trying to soften the dull thud, or something. Now, be
honest. Speak the truth, like a little man. What's the reason I'm
_persona non grata_ with Madam Crewe? Speak out. It'll be over in a
minute, and then you'll feel much better, and so shall I."
"It's too humiliating to have to repeat it," Katherine fairly wailed.
"She's old. She doesn't realize how things sound. She said--I'm
quoting, word for word--repeating every foolish syllable, but you _will_
have it. She said: 'I know the Ballard tribe. I knew it, when I was
young. It injured me and mine, and it will you, if you don't leave it
alone. Leave this fellow alone, and see he leaves you. Understand?'"
"So! Well, that sounds 'kinda moreish,' as Mrs. Slawson says. I wish
you'd go on. She didn't tell you what _the Ballard tribe_ was guilty
of? No? Then I'll have to look into it, and find out for myself. I
never was much on genealogy, but if we've a real, sure-nuff villain in
the family--a villain whose yellow streak is like to crop out unto the
third and fourth generations--why, I'm on to his trail. I'm going to
hunt him down. It'll be something to amuse me, while, as you say, I'm
_waiting for patients_."
*CHAPTER VI*
"You take up every little point in the edge, an' pin it down to the
frame, like this. See! Doncher stretch the lace so tight it'll tear on
you. Gentle now! Watch me, an' then you folla suit."
Martha had pressed Cora into service, to do apprentice-duty; and was
instructing her in the gentle art of curtain-cleansing.
From a far corner of the garret-room, where, for convenience and safety,
the frames had been set, Flicker, the dog, sat watching with intent
expression. Occasionally, when one or the other of his friends seemed on
the point of noticing him, he wagged an impartial, responsive tail.
"I want to do this job so good it couldn't be done better," Mrs. Slawson
observed, her skilful fingers plying away busily as she spoke. Cora
sniffed.
"Seems to me you always want to do every job 'so good it couldn't be
done better,'" she grumbled. "I never saw anybody so particular as you.
Ann Upton's mother ain't. Ann Upton's mother says it's wastin' time.
That's the reason she can make Ann such stylish clo'es, 'cause she don't
waste time. She says she does things _good enough_, an' if folks don't
like it, they can lump it."
"Well, Mrs. Upton certaintly's got a right to her own opinion. Far be
it from me to deprive her of it. But her opinion an' mine don't gee,
that's all. One thing I know--if you only try to do _good enough_,
you're goin' to get left in the end, an' don't you forget it. You can
take it from me, you won't find any admirin' crowds lingerin' 'round
_your_ doorstep, young lady. Did you never hear the sayin': Leave good
enough alone? Well, that's how they leave it, because everybody is
hurryin' to get the fella can be depended on to do the _best_ work for
the money. If you're satisfied to do things _good enough_, you're goin'
to be left alone, an' if _you_ like that kind o' solitary granjer,
you're welcome to it. That's all I got to say--on this subjec'."
For a time there was silence, while Martha worked industriously, and
Cora fumbled along with just enough appearance of energy to escape being
"hauled over the coals" for laziness. Presently, however, Mrs. Slawson
paused.
"Do you know," she announced cheerfully, "I believe you'd feel a whole
lot more like attendin' strickly to business if I kinda relieved you o'
what you got under your apron."
Cora looked scared. "Wha-at?" she stammered.
Her mother's expression continued bland. "Yes. It won't trouble _me_ a
mite, an' it's just a-burdenin' you. Nobody can give her mind to a job
when she's hankerin' after somethin' else. Is it a book, now, or what
is it?"
Cora began to cry. "I think you're real mean. I ain't doin' any harm.
I'm workin' all right. I can't have a single thing, but you want to see
it."
"Sure you can't," admitted Martha imperturbably. "You mayn't believe it,
but a mother's got a reel sorta friendly interest in her childern. If a
mother _keeps in touch_, as Mrs. Sherman says, with her childern's
minds, it saves her a lot o' keepin' in touch with their bodies, by the
aid of a switch, or the flat of her hand, as the case may be. Now, your
mind's on what you got under your apron, so let me get right in touch
with it, like a little lady."
With a dismal wail that caused Flicker's ears to prick up
apprehensively, Cora thrust her hand under her apron, and brought forth
an illustrated periodical.
"Hand it over!" commanded her mother serenely.
Cora handed it over.
Martha examined the title-page.
"'THE INGLE-NOOK'! Now what under the sun is a Ingle-Nook, I should
like to know! 'THE INGLE-NOOK. Containing Dora Dean Beebe's Greatest
Story: SWEET SIBYL OF THE SWEAT-SHOP, or, THE MILLIONAIRE'S MATE.' Dear
me! Where'd you get aholt o' this treasure? Sund' School Lib'ry?"
"No!" blubbered Cora, recognizing the fact that her mother's question
was meant to be answered.
"Where?"
"Ann Upton. Ann found it up to her house. It b'longs to her mother."
"Ho!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "No wonder Mrs. Upton makes Ann stylish
clo'es. If this is the sorta litherchure she improves her mind on, I
can see why she feels about a good many things the way she does. The
name of it, alone, is enough to make you neglect your work. I don't
wonder you're longin' to shake Miss Claire's curtains, for to be findin'
out about sweet Sibyl an' how she got a-holt o' one o' them grand
millionaire gen'lmen, that's always hangin' 'round sweat-shops, huntin'
for mates. It's bound to be a movin' story. It couldn't help it. Lemme
see! What's this?
"'The ruffian eyed sweet Sibyl men'"--Martha hesitated before the
elaborate, unfamiliar word confronting her--"'men-_ac_ingly. "Have a
care!" he hissed through his clinch-ed teeth.' (Doncher worry, I got
one, an' then some! I'd 'a' said, if I'd 'a' been Sweet Sibyl.)
"'Sibyl turned, tears gushin' to her violet eyes, an' coursin' down her
blush-rose cheeks. "I will not do it!" she cried, her lovely, musical
voice tremblin' with emotion. "I will not do it. Even a worm will
turn."' (Well, what's the matter with that, so long as the worm's got
plenty o' room to turn in, an' turnin' don't make it dizzy?) Do you
know what _I_ think? I think this little story is 'most too excitin'
for young girls like us, Cora. I think your father wants to read it,
instead of _The New England Farmer_, an' if he finds it won't keep us
awake nights or won't harm our morals none, maybe he'll give it back to
us."
Cora wept.
"In the meantime, now this curtain's stretched good an' firm, let's
kinda go over it careful, to see does it need a stitch anywheres, just
to take our minds off'n Sweet Sibyl, an' that Millionaire Mate o' hers
with the gen'lmanly taste for sweat-shops. Say, Cora, come to think,
p'raps he ran the sweat-shop. P'raps that's how he come to be a
millionaire. You never can tell. My! but ain't this a lovely job! I
never stretched a curtain smoother, or straighter, in my life. It's as
even as----"
In her enthusiasm Martha's arm swung out, in a vigorous gesture, which,
somehow or other, Flicker's alert intelligence interpreted as a command.
With a bound he leaped from his sequestered corner, landed, with
geometrical precision, in the center of the curtain, and went through,
as if it had been a paper-covered hoop.
For a second Cora was so dumbfounded that her sobs caught in her throat.
Martha gazed at the destruction of her lovely job in silence. Then,
Cora, scared by the suddenness of the performance, seeing in the
accident only another avenue of bondage for herself, began to cry
afresh, aloud.
Her mother lifted an undaunted chin. "Well, what do you think o' that!"
she ejaculated. "Don't cry, Cora. You ain't hurt. You're just
flabbergasted. Flicker didn't mean no harm, did you, Flicker? He was
just dreamin' he was one o' them equestrienne bareback ladies, that
rides horses four abreast in the circus, an' jumps through hoops.
Flicker's prob'ly got ambitions, same's the rest o' us. An' it's all
right to have ambitions, only you wanta be sure you're suited to the
part, if you got it. Sometimes the ideas _we_ got on that subjec' an'
the ideas God's got don't kinda gee. That's why, when we get to
hankerin' after what we wasn't intended for, we so frequent land in the
middle an' fall through. Readin' such little stories as Sweet Sibyl,
gives a body wrong notions o' that very kind. Now, it wouldn't be
healthy for me, or for you either, to dream we was Sweet Sibyls. We
ain't that typical type at all, so's even if we got a gait on, an'
caught up with the millionaire before he got away from the sweat-shop
(which it would be a stunt to do it, outside o' THE INGLE-NOOK), he
wouldn't reco'nize us for his mate, on account o' our eyes not bein'
vi'let, or our cheeks blush-rose, or our voices musical with 'motion.
Looka here, Cora, d'you know what we're in? We're in luck! The lace
part ain't harmed a mite. It's just the bobbinet Flicker went through.
Acrow bobbinet can't be hard to match. I'll get a len'th of it, when I
go to the city, an' sew the lace on again, as easy as can be. _We're_
in luck!"
But, even as she spoke, Martha was calculating how much the _len'th_
would cost, and to just what extent her precious fifteen dollars would
be depleted thereby.
"You goin' to tell Miss Claire?" asked Cora inquisitively.
"No, ma'am. What'd be the use? What she don't know won't fret her, an'
it wasn't nobody's fault. When I've made it right, it'll _be_ right.
The less said, the sooner it'll be mended. 'S that Sammy callin'?"
"Mother! Mother!" the boy's strident voice was heard shouting through
the house.
Martha composedly made her way to the stairhead.
"Say, Sammy," she addressed him, "I ain't dead, but if I was you'd 'a'
waked me, sure. Now, what is it?"
"Mother! Whatcher think! You got a cow! Ol' lady Crewe she made you a
present of a cow! A man, name o' Peter, he's brought the cow. 'With the
compliments o' Madam Crewe,' an' she's light yella, an' she switches her
tail like anything."
Martha sat down upon the top step of the flight. "Well, what do you
think o' that!" she murmured. "This is my busy day, an' no mistake. But
who'd 'a' thought I'd 'a' had two such blows comin' on top of another
before noon? P'raps it ain't true."
But when she got downstairs she found it was true. She regarded the cow
dubiously.
"If it was a question o' givin' her a good scrubdown," she observed, "I
wouldn't hesitate a minute. Or even layin' a hand to her horns, to
polish'm up a bit, which they certaintly do look sorta like they needed
it. But _milk_ her! I'm afraid her an' me won't understand each other
on the milk question. There might be differculties, meanin' no offense
on either side."
"She's a good cow," declared the Swedish Peter. "She is what they call
Alderney, and her milk it is boss milk, thick mit cream. You will
relish her milk."
Martha's face was grave. "I don't doubt your word, young fella," she
assured him meditatively. "What I'm wonderin' is, when her an' me has
wrastled through our first round, will my injuries be such as I'll ever
relish anything, any more?"
Sam senior smiled. "I'm afraid you're taking her hard, mother. You'll
soon get the hang of her."
"No sooner than she's like to get the hang o' me," returned Martha.
"She ain't like hens. You can tell by their slopin'-back foreheads,
hens ain't much of any, on intellec'. But this cow's differ'nt. I
wouldn't like to bet, now, I got a mite more sense'n her, if it come to
a argument between us. An' she certaintly has the best o' me, so far as
fightin' qualifercations goes."
"Well, anyhow, you've got to thank Madam Crewe," Sam Slawson mildly
dictated. "She's given you a big present, and you must show her you're
grateful."
"Certaintly. I'll go out there this very afternoon, an' show her,"
replied his wife obediently.
So it was, that the tiny old lady, sitting up that afternoon for the
first time since her seizure, saw through the open window, beside which
her chair had been placed, Mrs. Slawson advancing along the driveway. A
quick gleam of satisfaction lit up the unanimated little mask for an
instant, while the Madam gave a low grunt of approbation.
"Decent creature. Comes to thank at once. That's mannerly, beyond her
station," she observed to Katherine. "Have her up."
Not for the world would Madam Crewe have admitted to herself, much less
to her granddaughter, that she had grown to like this "creature" made of
such different clay from herself. She was willing, not glad to see her,
but her willingness caused a gentle glow to permeate her cold little
frame.
"So you like the cow? That's good. I hope you'll treat her well."
Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Certaintly, I'll treat her well, providin' she
gives me a show," she promised cordially. "I'll treat her well, an' I
hope she'll treat me the same."
"You're not afraid of her?"
"No'm. Certaintly not. But, by the same token, she ain't afraid o' me.
Till the one gets the upper hand o' the other, neither of us won't know
where we're at. An', meanwhile, we're both lyin' low. I guess animals
is some like childern. They like to try it on, oncet in a while, an'
if, be this or be that, you don't master'm at the first go-off, they'll
be no earthly good to you. Even when you got'm trained, they're like as
not to get skittish. Take my girl, Cora, or our small dog, for
instance. Now, Flicker's as steady a little fella as ever drew breath.
But this mornin', if he didn't suddently get gay, an' lep' right through
one o' the curtains I was mendin' for Miss Claire--I _should_ say, Mrs.
Ronald. Now, it's up to me to buy a new half o' bobbinet, an' all for
the sake o' Flicker dreamin' he'd like to go on a tear."
Madam Crewe drew down her lips primly.
"I have no doubt repairing the damage will cause you considerable
trouble," she said.
"I don't mind the trouble. It's the bobbinet _I_ mind. I wonder, now,
how much you'd have to give a yard for fine, acrow bobbinet."
"Katherine," exclaimed Madam Crewe, summoning the girl to her so
abruptly that Martha was alarmed.
Miss Crewe was at her grandmother's side in an instant, bending her head
to catch the whispered words the old woman strained forward to breathe
in her ear.
"I guess I must be movin'," said Martha, after Katherine had left the
room. "The childern need me, an' I've already tired you out with my
long tongue."
"No. Stay. Sit down!"
Mrs. Slawson sat, though after her little fusillade of commands, Madam
Crewe did not deign to address another syllable to her, and made plain
that she could dispense with conversation on Martha's part.
The silence had become oppressive when, at last, Miss Crewe reappeared.
With her was Eunice Youngs, and between them they laboriously lugged a
sizable chest. Madam Crewe waited until the box had been set down
before her, then imperiously waved Eunice away as if she had been a
bothersome fly. As soon as she had disappeared, fresh commands rapped
out thick and fast.
"My keys. In the basket hanging behind the hamper in my closet. On the
first hook. Yes, that bunch. Now, _that_ key. No, not that one,
_that_ one!"
Before Katherine could fit the key in the lock, Madam Crewe stopped her
with a gesture.
"Wait. I've something to say. When I was young, a girl got proper
plenishing," she observed dryly. "In those days a bride's outfit didn't
consist of bows of ribbon on rags of lace--layers on layers of
nothingness, as if she were a ballet-dancer, or worse. My
outfit--('twas a good English outfit, no flimsy French trousseau!) my
outfit will outlast me and you, young lady, will reap the benefit of it,
if you marry to please me. But not a yard or an inch, mind you (Slawson
is here to bear witness to what I say!), not a yard, not an inch, nor a
penny of my money, if you marry otherwise. And that reminds me."
The old woman's eyes grew shrewd.
"Sometimes wills are contested. Attempts are made to break them on the
ground of the testator being old, sick, of unsound mind. If any such
thing were to happen in my case, I'd like you to be able to speak up for
me, Slawson. Do you see that chest? It has not been opened for
sixty-eight years, yet I can tell you, to the last yard, what's in it.
I was seventeen when I locked it fast, and the key's never been turned
in it since. Now, listen! so you can prove if my mind's intact, my
memory good."
She reeled off a long table of contents, with hardly a pause. "Now
open!" she dictated.
The raised lid revealed a mine of treasure, corresponding in character,
if not precisely in order, to the given list. India mull, fine as a
web, creamy as ivory. Matchless napery in rare old weaves. Bed-linen in
uncut lengths.
"Enough to make you shiver to think o' lyin' between'm," Martha
ruminated.
Katherine's hands were almost reverent as, obeying her grandmother's
silent bidding, she lifted bolt after bolt, and laid it aside.
"There! That's what I'm after," exclaimed the old woman at last. "Now,
unwrap that blue paper. Careful! Don't tear it! Is this the sort of
_bobbinet_ you mean, Slawson?"
Martha leaned forward, her eyes glowed. "I guess Miss Claire's ain't
the quality this is, but----"
"Probably not. _This_ quality isn't made nowadays." Madam Crewe spoke
proudly. "But if you think you can use it (it's what you call _acrow_
with age instead of dye) you may have enough for one window, and save
your money. Katherine, get my yardstick, and the shears, and measure it
off where I can see. Give good measure, as I tell you, but no waste.
If one window is complete, the difference from the others won't be
noticed."
For once, Martha was fairly silenced. The madam appeared too occupied
to notice.
"Girls are fools," she ruminated. "When I shut that chest I was a girl.
I vowed to myself I'd never open it again. I thought it was the coffin
in which my happiness was buried. Well, I haven't opened it. My
granddaughter has opened it. Rather a joke, when one thinks of it!
Dear, dear, how it all comes back! The anger, the disappointment,
the----" her voice grew vague. She pulled herself up sharply. "Before
you replace that mull, child, if you'd like enough for a frock, you can
have it. In for a penny, in for a pound. 'Twas a fool-girl vow,
anyway, made in passion--a lifetime ago.... They're decking themselves
out in lank draperies now, so you'll be in the style, Katherine. This
mull is better and costlier than most of the shoddy silks the shoddy
people are wearing these days. It will prove you are no _nouveau
riche_. You don't know what _nouveau riche_ means, do you, Slawson?"
Martha paused. "No'm. But I always thought I wouldn't mind bein' the
_nouveau_, whatever it is, if I just had a try at the _riche_."
Madam Crewe drew down her lips in what Mrs. Slawson had grown to call
her "Foxy gran'ma" expression. She turned again to Katherine. "I'll
give you a fichu to wear with the mull. A French thing, handworked,
trimmed with Mechlin, rather good Mechlin, as it happens. I never wore
it. 'Twas too large. Swallowed me up. But the long ends won't trail
on _you_. There, there! Don't thank me. I hate sentimentality. And
I've almost been sentimental myself--after sixty-eight years. I know
you're pleased. I understand my sex. We're sirens, all of us, at
heart--when we have any heart. I've not the slightest doubt, now, but
if Slawson put on a pair of silk stockings and a lace petticoat, she'd
feel as coquettish as any of us. No matter how plain we are, we all
have the _instincts_ of beautiful women. We're made that way.... Now
close down the lid. See you turn the key all the way 'round. I
recollect the lock is tricky. Slawson, help Miss Katherine carry the
chest back where it came from. Put it away where you found it, and be
sure to fasten the trunk-room door, and bolt it securely. And, Slawson,
you needn't come back here, when you've done. Just take your acrow
bobbinet, and march home to your husband and children, where you belong.
I'm tired."
Something "Slawson" could not have analyzed kept her silent after she
and Miss Crewe left the room. Katherine was singularly mute. Martha
had waved the girl aside, and, grappling with the chest single-handed,
triumphantly had carried it off, the little madam watching the
performance covertly, with eyes glistening appreciation.
Her feat successfully accomplished, Martha went her way, clasping her
precious bundle. She was home before she was aware. Sam met her at the
door, his face revealing, to her who knew it, a secret delight.
"I'm to go to the city next week, mother. So, pack your bag and get
ready for your _wedding-tour_," he greeted her with sober fun.
"Have you told Ma and the childern?"
"No. I thought you'd better."
"Good. No hurry. Time enough later. I hope Ma won't kick. It'll mean
some work for her, while I'm gone--_if she does it_, but nothing she
can't reel off easy enough, if her spirit is willin'. I got a present,
Sam. From the ol' lady."
"Yes, I know. The cow."
"No, I mean somethin' else. The ol' lady give me a surprise. She give
me a front seat to see her do a new turn, an' she passed out soovenirs
to the audience, besides. I got mine here."
"What is it?"
"What'll take me with you down home. I mean, New York."
"Money?"
"As good as. It'll be money, when I'm done with it. Only, from now on,
for some days to come, I'm goin' to be _Little Martha the Lace Mender_,
or, _The Postponed Bride_, an' a buzz-saw will be safe for anybody to
monkey with by comparising."
It was a proud day for Martha when, her stint completed, she was able to
carry the curtains, exquisitely cleansed and mended, to Miss Claire.
"Now I've the money ackchelly in my pocket, I'll tell Ma an' the
childern," she said to Sam, who was washing his hands at the sink,
preparatory to sitting down to his midday meal.
"I wonder if Ma'll kick?" he pondered solemnly.
"Nothin' like tryin', an' findin' out," Martha returned, "dishing up,"
with energy, as one after the other of her hungry brood appeared,
responding to her resounding call of "Dinner!"
"Say, Cora, doncher attempt to come to the table with that
shaggy-lookin' head on you. Go smooth your hair back proper, like you
always wear it. I don't mind most things, but to set down to eat
alongside somethin' looks like a sky-tearer dog, _I will not_! Sammy,
take your hands outa your pockets, like a little gen'lman, an' help
Sabina tie her napkin on an' get into her high chair. Sabina, you leave
your brother tie your napkin on, when he offers to do it! I'm busy.
Say, Francie, when I told you trim the lamp this mornin', I didn't mean
cut the wick in _scollops_. Lucky I happened to see it, or we'd 'a'
been smoked out o' house an' home. Now, Ma, if you're ready, we'll
sit."
Ma being ready, they sat, and the meal progressed, notwithstanding the
fact that Cora, reappearing, shorn of her modish coiffure, was in no
mood for merry-making.
"I hate my hair this way!" she announced for the benefit of whom it
might concern.
"Ringlets is one thing, _stringlets_ is another," said Martha,
unreproachfully. "At least, _now_ you don't look like somebody'd been
woolin' the head of you. Have some stew?"
"No, I hate the very name o' stew."
"Call it rag-goo, then, same's Miss Claire's grand chef-cook does. Have
some, anyhow, for luck. Here, cheer up, Cora! When I was a kid, I was
one o' nine childern, an' you can take it from me, we wasn't thinkin'
half so much, in them days, what we'd eat as _where we'd get it_. When
I was twelve--two years younger than you--I went to live out
scullery-maid with Mrs. Underwood, God bless her! where my mother'd been
cook before me. From that day, I never went hungry no more, nor the
ones at home either. But I don't like to see my childern turn up their
noses at good food. It ain't becomin'. Now, eat your rag-goo like a
lady, an' we'll call it square. Say, Ma, you know what Sam an' me's
goin' to do?"
Ma shook her head, after the fashion of a mild bovine chewing the
meditative cud.
"We're goin' to play hookey. We're goin' to fly the coop, for a couple
o' days, an' go back home, to New York. Sam's gotta--on business, an'
I'm goin' ta, on pleasure."
The moment following Martha's announcement was one of intense silence.
The children and Ma were too amazed to speak. The idea of _Mother_
deserting, even for a few days, was hardly conceivable. Then, as the
monstrousness of it began to percolate, there rose a chorus of protest.
"O--oh, mother-r! What'll we do?"
"I wanta go too!"
"No, take _me_, mother!"
Cora's voice, at last, dominated the rest.
"Hush! Mother, can't you make them hush? _I_ wanta say something!"
Martha checked the tumult with a warning hand. "Cora has the floor,
childern. Let her have her say, an' then you can have yours."
"Silence in the court-house, the cat's goin' to preach!" Sammy
disrespectfully whispered in Francie's ear.
"I think it's _nice_ mother'n father 're goin' down to New York," Cora
announced. "It seemed kinda funny, firstoff, but I think it's _nice_.
An' they'll have a good time. I'm glad they're goin'."
Sam senior and Martha exchanged a look.
"Good for you, Cora! You're a good girl!" said Sam.
With the eldest sister approving, and praised for doing so, the ground
was cut from under the younger children's feet. They had nothing to
say.
"Well, Ma?" suggested Martha.
"_I'm_ glad you're goin' too," observed the old woman, "for I ben
thinkin', a long time, I do be needin' a change meself, an' I wouldn't
dare for to be venturin' on the r-railroad alone. So, when the two of
youse goes down, why, I'll just fare along wit' chu."
"But Ma," objected Sam gently, "we can't make out to take you. We've
barely enough to take ourselves. Mr. Ronald pays my expenses, but
Martha's goin' to buy her own ticket with the money Miss Claire paid her
for the curtains."
"You got somethin' laid by," suggested Ma shrewdly.
"But we can't touch it. It's the first we ever been able to save, an' I
wouldn't lay finger on it for anythin'." Martha answered with unusual
feeling.
Ma was not disturbed.
"Well, between youse be it!" she declared. "I d'kno' how you'll settle
it, but this I kno'--I've bided here the longest I'm abl'. I can thole
it no longer. I'm goin' to the city. The heart in me is wastin' awa' to
see me dear sons an' daughters down there. So let there be no
colloguin'. I'm goin' to the city."
*CHAPTER VII*
It was late that night, and Martha and her husband were still engaged in
whispered conference.
"Ma's mind's like a train," Mrs. Slawson observed at length, "when it's
oncet _made up_, you can take it or leave it, but _it's_ goin' its way,
weather or no. There's no use strivin' with her, Sam. We're bound to
give in, in the end, an' we may as well do it firstoff, an' save our
faces. What's the good kickin' against the bricks?"
"But for her to use your hard-earned money just to gratify a whim!" Sam
fairly groaned.
"Well, wasn't that what _I_ was goin' to use it for? An' after all,
she's old. Let her have her bit o' fun. God knows I don't begrutch it
to her. She don't get much joy outa her life."
"She has as much as you have."
A wonderful look irradiated Martha's face. "I have you, Sam," she said
in a voice that matched the look. An instant, and both were gone.
Martha was her old self again. "An' I've the childern--an' the
hens--an' the--_cow_!"
"Ma acts like a child sometimes, and a bad child at that."
"Certaintly she does. I sometimes think it's a kinda pity a body can't
lick her good, an' put her to bed 'to await the results of her
injuries,' as the papers says. But what's the use o' growin' old, if
your white hairs don't bring you the respec' your black ones didn't?
No, we gotta bear with Ma, Sam, an' it's better grin than groan, while
we're doin' it."
So, when the appointed day arrived, it was Ma, not Martha, who
accompanied Sam to New York on his "wedding-tour."
"My! I bet it's hot on the train!" exclaimed Cora, appearing after a
prolonged absence, seating herself on the doorstep, from which the late
afternoon sun had just departed, fanning her flushed face with her hat.
For the first time during the busy day, Martha paused long enough to
listen.
"I guess it's a hunderd in the shade," she observed. "But then, o'
course, you don't have to stay in the shade, less you wanta."
Literal Cora, taking her seriously, came in out of the shade. "Mother,
do you know something?"
Martha considered. "Well, when I was your age, I thought I did. But
now, the only thing I know, is, I _don't_."
Cora pursed her lips. "Do you know, I think Dr. Ballard likes Miss
Crewe a lot."
"What makes you think so?"
"Well, the other day, I saw'm walkin' together down Cherry Lane. An'
to-day I saw'm again. An' I think it looks awful loverish to be walkin'
in Cherry Lane, where the trees branch over so, an' it's all quiet, an'
green, an' lonesome, an' nobody hardly ever comes, exceptin'----"
"Snoopy little girls who've no business there," supplied her mother
genially.
Cora sniffed. "Well, I guess you'll be glad I was there, when you see
what I got. An' I guess they'll be glad too. One of'm dropped it an'
never noticed, an' went off, an' left it lyin' in the middle o' the
lane. After they'd gone, I saw somethin' kind o' like a yellow spot
sittin' up in the grass, an' I went an' picked it up, an' it was a bunch
o' letters, tied with a pink ribbon. The ribbon's so old it most frays
away before you touch it."