"He says he'll take me over in the launch, and you can go too, and the
children. We'll have a beautiful picnic some day very soon, and, if you
thought she would go, we might ask Miss Crewe, and----"
"She couldn't leave her gran'ma for so long. P'raps if you'd put it off
till the fall----"
Miss Claire shook her head. "No, I'm going now," she said determinedly.
"Well, I'll go any day you say, then--so Lord Ronald's willin'. I can
help'm with the la'nch. I know all about _The Moth's_ machinery, if I
don't about the cow's. An' when it comes to that, I could milk all
right, all right, if I only knew what to turn on to make the milk come.
It's on account o' the cow's not havin' her gear arranged so's a body
can push a button, or pull a crank like a Christian, I have so much
differculty. You can take it from me, autos an' la'nchs is simple by
comparising. But what's really on my mind to say is, any mornin' you
wish to see your red herrin', just say the word, an' I'll take you,
though I tell you frank an' honest, if I was you, beggin' your pardon
for the liberty, I'd stay on dry land myself, these days, an' not be
botherin' my head over delicatessens, which you can get'm sent up,
canned, by Park an' Tilford any day, with your next order."
"Mother! Mother!"
Francie's shrill, childish voice announced her but a second before she
herself appeared around the tangle of bushes hedging the mouth of the
ravine.
"Mother, mother!" she repeated, even after she saw the familiar form she
sought.
"Well?"
Martha spoke calmly, undisturbed either by the child's heated face or
manner.
"Mother--say--Mr. Ronald, he was over to our house, huntin' for Miss
Claire. I guess he's fearful worried."
"Did he say he was worried?"
"No, he didn't, but he ast if I seen her, an' he said it was past
breakfast-time."
"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Martha. "Francie's a little
woman, ain't you, Francie? She knows, when a gen'lman thinks it's past
meal time, it's up to ladies to get a move on."
Claire laughed. "I'll go at once," she returned obediently.
As Martha and Francie made their slow way back to the Lodge, Francie
caught hold of her mother's hand in a sudden access of childish
affection.
"Say, mother, I'm glad I'm your little girl, instead of anybody else's,"
she brought out impulsively.
"'Thank you, thank you, sir, she sayed. Your kindness I never shall
forget!' I return the compliment," Martha announced with much manner.
"Mother, why does God want His name to be Hallow?"
"I didn't know He did."
"Yes, He does. At the beginning of the Lord's prayer, it says, 'Hallow
would be thy name.' Don't you remember?"
"Certaintly I do, now you mention it. But if you ask me why, Robin, I
got to give in, I can't tell you."
"I thought mothers knew everything," Francie said pensively. Martha's
response was prompt.
"Well, be this an' be that, they do. Takin' mothers all together, they
certaintly do. But, each one has her own speciality, _an'_ if you ask
_me_ questions about God, I tell you, truly, I ain't got the answer,
like I would have if I'd been to college, an' belonged to the lemon-eye,
same's Miss Claire. On the other hand, _I_ may know things _she_ don't,
about other matters nearer home. You never can tell."
"Cora says you don't know what's stylish. She says our clo'es are awful
plain."
"Now, what do you think o' that! So Cora says I don't know what's
stylish. Well, if _I_ don't know what's stylish, I don't know who does,
seein' I was in an' out o' the toniest houses in New York City, an' was
personally acquainted with their dresses an' their hats. That same Cora
is called after one of the stylishest ladies ever you saw, Mrs.
Underwood, which she is dead now, but, when she was alive, looked like a
duchess. An' you, yourself, are called after her daughter, Miss
Frances, who married a l'yer, Judge Granville, but _could_ 'a' had the
pick o' the land. Never fear, I know what stylish is. Only, I know the
differnce between _ladies'_ stylish an' ladies'-_maid's_ stylish. I
seen both. Style's one thing. Loud's another. I want my childern to
be seen but not heard."
"Mother, are you sorry Ma's gone away for good? She told Cora, 'fore
she went, that you didn't know she ain't comin' back, but she ain't. She
said her heart was broke with the quiet up here. She said she's goin'
to live with Uncle Dennis after this, or Uncle Andy, where it's lively,
an' there's more comin' an' goin'."
Mrs. Slawson suffered the full significance of Francie's revelation to
sink into her consciousness, before she attempted to reply.
"Well, well," she said at last, with an air of brave resignation, "so,
Ma's gone away for good, has she? An' she didn't want for me to be
breakin' my heart with the news o' it. It certaintly is a shock an' no
mistake. But a body must do the best she can, when she can't do no
differnt. I'll try to bear up under it, Francie, much as I mourn my
loss. In this life we got to go about with a smilin' countenance, no
matter what our private sorras are. It won't do to let the world see
your sufferin'. The world has troubles of its own. By the way, I
wonder if Sammy's got back from takin' the mornin's milk to Madam
Crewe's yet?"
Not only had Sammy got back, but he was the bearer of news.
"Say, mother, they got comp'ny to ol' lady Crewe's. A gen'lman, he come
up with a bag. In a rig, from over to Burbank. The fella drove the
rig, he was comin' back our road, an' he saw me, an' he says: 'Say,
bubby, jump in an' I'll carry you a ways,' an' I did, an' he did."
"My, my, but ain't you lucky? To get a free ride so early in the
mornin'. That was a kind ac' to do, wasn't it? Now, it's up to you to
return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Keep your eye
out for that young fella, Sammy, so's if he goes past again, on his way
back to fetch ol' lady Crewe's comp'ny an' carry'm to the station, you
can call me, an' I'll give'm a glass o' cold lemonade to cool'm off."
"He ain't comin' back. The comp'ny ain't from Burbank. He's from New
York. He come up last night on the Express, an' he's goin' back when
he's ready, but he don't know when he'll be ready, so he couldn't tell
the fella with the rig. An' the fella with the rig, he couldn't wait
anyhow. He has to go back to Burbank, an' then 'way out another way,
miles an' miles, to get a party wants to catch a north-bound train goes
out the middle o' the night. One o'clock it goes out, the fella said.
An' if they don't catch it, there ain't another till to-morra mornin',
so they got to catch it. The fella with the rig tol' me, he guessed ol'
lady Crewe's comp'ny was a lawyer. He said he could tell by the cut of
his jib. What's the cut of his jib, mother?"
Mrs. Slawson shook her head. "That's a lazy, shif'less way o' learnin'
knowledge, Sammy, to be askin' it off'n parties that had to work hard
themselves to get it. Since we got that grand dickshunerry-book Lord
Ronald give your father, there ain't no excuse for any of us not knowin'
things any more. Lord Ronald said: 'The dickshunerry habit is a good
thing. When you don't know a word, look it up.'"
"How do you spell _jib_?"
The glance Mrs. Slawson cast on Sammy sent him off flushed with shame at
having exposed an ignorance so dense.
At Crewesmere, meanwhile, the newcomer was calmly eating his breakfast,
Katherine doing the honors with what grace she could.
Mr. Norris was no stranger to her. She knew him, had always known him,
in fact, as her grandmother's man of affairs, a lawyer of repute. While
she had no cause to distrust him, the fact that he was in a position to
advise in questions closely affecting herself, affairs she was kept in
total ignorance of, gave her a feeling of resentment toward him, as
toward one who, voluntarily or not, held an unfair advantage.
"See he has a good breakfast," her grandmother had directed. "Let him
eat and smoke his fill, but don't send him up to me with any unsatisfied
cravings. A man's mind is a little less apt to be vacant if his stomach
is full."
During the succeeding long hours of the forenoon, the two were closeted
in Madam Crewe's sitting-room. Katherine could hear the incessant, low
drone of their voices as she sat on the shaded veranda, trying to employ
her mind so it would not dwell on the enervating heat and the fact that
now, at this moment, her grandmother might be creating conditions that
would irrevocably cripple her future and she was powerless to prevent
it.
At luncheon-time Madam Crewe summoned Eunice Youngs.
"While Miss Crewe and the gentleman are at table, I want you to go to
Mrs. Slawson's and tell her I must see her at once. Understand? _Madam
Crewe says she must see Mrs. Slawson at once_. Say, she's to come in
that motor-car Mr. Ronald gives her and her husband the use of. Say,
Madam Crewe wishes her to take a gentleman to the railroad station in
time for the five-forty-five train. Have you brains enough to repeat
that straight? Or, shall Miss Katherine write it down for you?"
"Oh, grandmother," expostulated Katherine, when Eunice had gone to "tidy
up" for her errand, "I don't think we can order Mrs. Slawson about like
that. She's done a lot for us, already, but we have no claim on her,
and to send for her to come, in all this heat, and bring her motor, and
take Mr. Norris to the station--it's exactly as if----"
"My dear, don't bother your head over what doesn't concern you. Slawson
and I understand each other--which is more than you and I do, I'm
afraid," the old woman pronounced with biting distinctness.
The meal was barely over when Martha arrived.
"Now, Slawson," Madam Crewe greeted her, "I've sent for you on
_business_, so I want you to stop looking benevolent, if you can, and
attend to what this gentleman has to say."
"Yes'm," said Martha.
Mr. Norris adjusted his eye-glasses with professional precision. "Have
you ever had any experience with the law, or lawyers?" he asked,
regarding her steadfastly through his polished lenses.
"Certaintly, I have. Oncet, I worked out for a lady who got a divorce
off'n her husband, on what they call statuary grounds, an' the first she
knew, he up an' off, an' married the--statue. He was a railroad magnet.
The kind draws more'n more to'm, all the time. So, o' course, the law
never so much as laid a finger on'm. An' about two years ago, my little
girl, she got run over by a auta, but, though Mr. Frank Ronald he tried
to get'm to pay us a little somethin' for our trouble, we ain't seen a
cent o' money yet. Oh, yes. I know about the _law_!"
"I mean, do you understand that when you are brought as a witness before
the law, you are held responsible for the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth?"
Martha cogitated. "No, sir. I can't say I do, that is, _did_. I never
knew the law had so much to do with _truth_ before. But, if you say so,
I'm willin' to take your word for it."
Mr. Norris pulled a long upper lip.
"My client, Madam Crewe, has called you here for two purposes. First,
she wishes you to be present whilst I ask her granddaughter a few
important questions. Second, you and the maid--a--Eunice Youngs, are to
write your names as witnesses upon a certain paper I have drawn up for
my client. Are you willing to act for Madam Crewe in these matters?"
Martha shot a quick, inquiring glance at Katherine. The girl nodded in
response.
"Yes, sir!" Mrs. Slawson answered promptly.
"Then, see that you charge your mind seriously with what you have
undertaken. Your memory must be exact. Now, Miss Crewe----"
Katherine inclined her head, smiling faintly. But Martha noticed she
was very pale.
"Your grandmother would like to know, from your own lips, the extent of
your acquaintance with Dr. Ballard, the physician who has been in
attendance on Madam Crewe since her late illness."
Katherine hung fire a moment, while the blood slowly mounted to her
cheeks, her temples.
"My grandmother forbade me to have anything whatever to do with Dr.
Ballard," she parried the question.
"Did you obey her injunction?--Attend, Mrs. Slawson!"
"No!"
"Why not?"
"I didn't think she had any right to control me so."
"Not when she intimated there were reasons?"
"She told me things about Dr. Ballard--his people, rather, but I didn't,
and I don't, consider them _reasons_. She has no proof, or, if she has,
she certainly hasn't presented it. I don't consider it worthy of notice
when a person says things about another which are not backed up by
proof."
"As a matter of fact, then, you do know Dr. Ballard, in spite of your
grandmother's prohibition?"
"Yes."
"You know him very well?"
"Quite well."
"My next question, Miss Crewe, you will answer notwithstanding its
peculiarly personal and intimate character, because (I am authorized to
tell you) upon your answer important issues hang. If Dr. Ballard asks
you to marry him, is it your intention to accept him?"
For a long moment there was no sound in the room, except such as came,
muted, from out-of-doors, and the leisurely ticking of the tall clock in
the corner.
Then Katherine, rising, impetuously faced the lawyer and Madam Crewe.
"I will _not_ answer that question, no matter what issues hang on it,"
she retorted hotly.
"Miss Crewe, I have your interest at heart, believe me. I strongly
advise you to answer."
"No."
"You mean you will not accept him."
"I mean no such thing. I mean I refuse to answer."
"Why?"
"You ought to know. The question is--indelicate. When--_if_ Dr. Ballard
says he wishes to marry me, it will be time enough for me to
answer--_him_."
"He has already said so."
Miss Crewe started. "What do you mean?" she demanded imperiously.
"Dr. Ballard has already told your grandmother he wishes to marry you.
Madam Crewe would like to know your intentions."
"I wish my grandmother had chosen a different way of obtaining my
confidence," the girl broke out, almost broke down. "It seems very
strange to me that she should choose such a method as this. It
seems--almost--disgraceful."
The old woman, sitting erect in her high-backed chair, did not attempt
to defend herself.
The lawyer, ignoring Katherine's outburst, continued his dry-voiced
interrogation.
"You would accept him?"
"If Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me," the girl answered with marked quiet
of voice and manner, in strong contrast to her outbreak of a moment ago,
"if Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me--I will marry him."
"In opposition to your grandmother?"
"I don't _want_ to oppose my grandmother, but if she tries to spoil my
life for the sake of a groundless prejudice I will--yes--I will marry
him _in opposition_ to her."
"Think well, Miss Crewe. Take your time. Answer cautiously. If you
were told Dr. Ballard is a struggling young doctor, with no present
means of support, to speak of, and a perfectly problematic future. If
you were told that he would never be able to provide you with more than
a bare living income----"
"I would marry him."
"If you were told that, in case you do so, your grandmother would divert
her property from you (as she has a perfect legal right to do) and
dispose of it elsewhere----?"
"Still--I would marry him."
"Nothing would dissuade you?"
"Nothing."
"The inquisition is over."
It was the old woman who spoke. Her face was as impassive as ever, but
Martha Slawson noticed that her tiny, emaciated fingers clutched the
arms of her chair with a vise-like grip.
"For all the world like a bird I seen last Spring," Martha mused, "which
somethin' had broke its wing, an' its claws was holdin' on fierce, for
dear life, to the branch o' the bush it was clingin' to--as if _that_'d
save it!"
"May I go now?"
As Katherine made the appeal, she turned toward her grandmother, but her
eyes were kept resolutely averted.
Mr. Norris raised a detaining hand. "One moment, please. I assume you
entertain no doubt of Madam Crewe's mental competency? That she is of
sound mind, capable of acting rationally on her own behalf? That any
will and testament she might choose to execute at this time would be
above suspicion of mistake, fraud, or undue influence?"
For a moment Katherine seemed to consider. Then her lip curled.
"If you mean, am I likely in the future to contest any will my
grandmother may now make to my disadvantage, I say no. I will never
dispute her course, whatever direction it may take. All I ask is that
she will not dispute mine. I am only sorry that they seem to diverge so
completely. I am sick of the name of money. I would say I am sick of
the sight of it--but I have never seen any----" with which parting
thrust, the girl turned on her heel, and left the room.
She went none too soon, for the moment the door closed upon her, her
self-control gave way, and she groped stumblingly to her own chamber
blinded by tears, choking back the sobs that were in themselves a
humiliation.
The three she had left, were silent when she had gone, until Mr. Norris
drew an important-looking sheet from under a mass of papers at his
elbow, and addressed Mrs. Slawson.
"As a general rule I strongly advise you, or any one, against placing
your signature to any instrument which you have not previously read and
do not fully understand. In this case, however, there is absolutely no
harm. Please call the other witness."
Martha took a step toward the door.
"If I put my writin' on that paper, it won't mean I'm
injurin'--anybody?" she demanded firmly.
"You have my word as to that."
"I'd never sign it, if it was to hurt Miss Katherine."
"Your placing your signature there cannot affect Miss Crewe's interests
one way or the other."
Martha summoned Eunice Youngs, and the two, in their best manner,
literally with great pains, proceeded to affix their names as witnesses
to the last and testament of Idea Stryker Crewe.
*CHAPTER IX*
It was late one evening at the end of the week, when Sam came back, to
Martha's surprise, alone.
"Ma just wouldn't leave the city," he explained. "She's staying at
Dennis's now, but Sarah told me she couldn't keep her above a week or
so, at the longest. She said Andy, or Hughey, or one of the girls would
be better able to look after her than Dennis and herself, who have all
they can manage paying off on their house in Yonkers, and the children
to educate besides. Sarah was quite short with me on account of Ma.
She said she was real put out. We'd no business leaving an old woman,
Ma's age, away from the country such hot weather, especially when we
were just getting on our feet now, and were well able to give her a home
without feeling it."
Martha smiled tolerantly. "There'd be no time o' year'd suit Sarah for
takin' any more trouble than she's got to," she observed, pouring her
husband's tea.
"It's a nice little place they've bought," Sam informed her, between
bites of cold ham and potato. "Dennis travels down and up every day,
which is, what you might call a stunt, but he has the satisfaction of
knowing the roof over his head is his own."
Martha set an ice-cold cup-custard at Sam's plate.
"From Yonkers to the Battery _is_ a kind o' long stretch, but--where
there's a will there's a--sub-way, I s'pose. Would he be with the same
steamship company he was with, since I first knew'm, I wonder?"
"Yes, and they gave him a raise last month. He's doing _all right_,
Dennis is. You ought to see the way Sarah's got the house fixed. They
pay off for the new furniture every month, so they don't feel it, Sarah
says."
"Well, Sarah mayn't feel it, but you can take it from me, _I_ certaintly
would, in her place," Martha observed. "Gettin' things on the
excitement plan, would wrack my health. I hate the thought o' owin'.
Payin' for a dead horse never did _appeal_ to me, as Mrs. Sherman says.
How's Andy doin'?"
"Andy _was_ succeeding great, but something went wrong, somehow, all of
a sudden, and his scheme fell through. He explained it to me, but I
forgot the particulars, to tell the truth. He'll be on his feet again
in no time. Andy always was the smart one of the family."
Martha ruminated. "Wouldn't you wonder how anythin' gets done in this
world, when nothin' anybody ever tries seems to succeed? Is Nora as
gallus-lookin' as ever? Or is she holdin' in her horses some, now her
husban's kind o' down an' out, for the time bein'?"
"Nora's just the same, as far as I can see. _Our_ Nora says Nora-Andy
is distroying Andy with her extravagance. She says the way she dresses,
alone, it's no wonder he is always in and out of some get-rich-quick
scheme, that'll land him in the poor-house, or worse, if he don't look
out. But then, our Nora never did have the appearance of Nora-Andy, I
must say that, if I am her own brother. Our Nora is kind of sharp, and
she looks it."
"Well, I guess marriage'll bevel some of the edges off'n her, all right,
all right," said Martha. "Were you surprised when you heard she was
keepin' company with McKenna?"
"Yes, I was. I never thought Nora'd marry now--at her age."
"Nora always wanted to marry, an' when she saw her chance she grabbed it
by both horns."
Sam's serious expression relaxed a little. "That sounds as if McKenna
was the devil and all of a fellow. He's not that at all, and he
certainly ain't much to look at."
"Oh, well," Martha responded, "nobody but her'll have a call to look
at'm much, oncet he's married."
"I told her I thought she was taking a risk, throwing up a good place
she'd been in, for so many years, parlor-maid, to live out
general-housework with a stranger," said Sam. "I thought that was a
joke. But it made her mad. She said, 'God knows it's no joke!' She
said she had as much of a right to live her life as I have, which of
course it's true. She said 'every dog has its day!'"
"True for you. So he has, just like s'ciety ladies. But that ain't to
say there'll be anybody'll come. An' I sometimes think there's more
dogs, 'n days, anyhow."