"No. Why? What'd make me downhearted, I should like to know?"
"I just thought you might be," her husband answered. "I never heard you
speak that doubting kind of way before. And, we've no call to think ill
of the world, with all the luck that's come to us."
"Certaintly. An' if luck don't stay with us, itself, it won't be
because we ain't set her a chair, an' done every mortal thing we know of
to make her comfortable. I've no kick comin', nor ever had. I like
life all right, the hard part along with the soft part. If you didn't
have the one you wouldn't know how to relish the other. But, speakin'
o' Nora, I never looked to see her sportin' a 'finity of her own, I can
tell you that!"
"''Finity'?" questioned Sam.
"Genteel for fella," Martha answered. "I often heard Mrs. Sherman
speakin' of'm. You can take it from me, I never looked to see that same
Nora get a-holt o' one."
"Nor I. And I said as much to Ma. Ma told it back to Nora, and Nora
was as mad as could be. She said if it came to that, she didn't see as
she was the worst-looking one in the family, when a body counted in what
some of us had married."
"Meanin' me," observed Martha appreciatively.
"She said she 'didn't see why folks should be so monstrous surprised
that she got a husband. Every Joan has her Jack.' The very words she
said."
"Sure they have. But only it ain't told what kind o' Jack. So did
Balaam have a jack, if she wants _that_ kind. But, p'raps McKenna is a
prize-package. _We_ don't know. I wonder will he take kindly to Ma?"
Sam shook his head. "One of the first things he told me was, 'We
couldn't look to him to give my mother a home. He had troubles of his
own.' It stirred me up so, I almost lost my temper. I said I didn't
look to him to give my mother a home. If he gave my sister one, now
he'd contracted to marry her, I'd be glad."
"Why, Sam," said Martha looking at him with mock-reproach, "I wonder at
you, I do so! To speak up that fierce! You hadn't ought to be so
violent, an' use such strong language to a party just gettin' ready to
come into the fam'ly. It might scare'm off. He must think you're a
dretful bully."
"Nora told Ma, before I left, that Ma was foolish to stay back in New
York. She said she and McKenna, starting out, young married folks----"
"God save the mark!" murmured Martha.
"She said they couldn't offer her a home, much as they'd like to. But
Ma said her heart was broke with the country. She wanted to live in the
city where something was going on."
"It's one thing what you _want_, and another what you _must_. Poor Ma!
I'm sorry for her. When she comes back she'll know a thing or two
more'n she does now. We'll have to be kind o' gentle with her, to make
up. But come on now, Sam. If you've et all you can, I'll do my dishes,
while you lock up, an' then we can go to bed. You look plain wore out."
"I'm glad to get home," Sam answered her, and though he said no more
Martha understood him.
Long after he was asleep she lay awake in the white moonlight, thinking.
"Down home," she knew it was stifling. Sam had told her that the hot
wave was breaking all records for intensity and duration. And yet,
somehow, her soul yearned for the stretches of sun-softened "ashfalt"
with its smell of mingled dust and tar, for all the common city sounds
and sights amid which she had been born and bred; all the noise and
commotion that spelt _Home_ for her. She could understand Ma's feeling,
and her heart softened to the poor old woman.
"It's all right up here," she admitted to herself. "I like the folks
first rate, such as they are an' what there is of'm, only they ain't
what a body is used to. I never see nicer parties than the Trenholms,
an' the Coleses, an' the Moores. That time Hiram Black's house burned
down, if every mother's son of'm didn't turn out an' lend a hand. Got
the Blacks fixed up fine an' dandy, in no time, in a new place, with
what they called 'donations.' Down home you wouldn't find your
neighbors givin' you furnitur', an' bricky-braw things like that, not on
your life! An' when you'd paid the insurance money itself, the
Company'd kick before it'd give you the price o' your losin's. An' yet,
I know how Ma feels. If young Luther Coles had 'a' had the fever down
home he had up here last fall, they'd a-yanked'm away from his own flesh
an' blood to the pest-house. An' here his mother was let take care of'm,
an' the meals was got by the neighbors, which she hauled'm up in a
basket, three times a day, an' et'm hot an' fresh from the oven, without
havin' to raise her hand, only take'm out from under a clean napkin.
You'd go hungry a long time in New York City, before the folks acrost
the air-shaft from you, would know your boy was dyin' on you, much less
sneak in a bite an' a sup, from time to time, through the dumb-waiter.
But--all the same--_I know how Ma feels._"
Martha had reached this stage in her musings when a faint knock sounded
on the door below. She waited, listening. The knock was repeated. As
quietly as she could, which was not very quietly, she slipped from her
bed, threw on her light cotton kimono, which always lay ready at hand in
case of emergency, and hastened downstairs, leaving Sam asleep and
snoring, worn out by the city heat, his sense of responsibility in
connection with Mr. Ronald's commissions, and the long day's journey
home, with its fatiguing delays and tiresome changes.
She shot the bolt back, turned the key with resolute hand. She could
not imagine what had happened that would account for this unusual
disturbance, but whatever it might be, she braced herself to meet it.
On the doorstep stood the shivering figure of a girl, clad only in her
night-dress. She was shivering with excitement, not chill.
"Mrs. Slawson," she managed to bring out, before words became
impossible, drowned in the torrent of her tears and sobbing.
Martha placed a motherly hand about the frail shoulders.
"Come now, come now! Don't cry like that. You'll shake yourself to
pieces. I don't know what's the matter, but it'll be all right, anyhow,
never fear. You're Ellen Hinckley, ain't you? I think I seen you a
couple o' times at church."
As Martha talked, she drew her visitor into the house, automatically
locked and bolted the door, and settled the girl in Sam's chair in the
sitting-room.
The moonlight, streaming in through the windows, made the place almost
as light as day, but for some purpose of her own, Martha was about to
strike a match, when Ellen Hinckley stopped her with a quick cry.
"No, no! Don't do it! I've run away. I've left my mother's. My
stepfather'll follow me when he finds I'm gone."
She drew a long painful breath, then panted out her story in short,
labored gasps.
"I've never had a home. You mayn't believe it, but mother don't care a
scrap about me, except for the work I can do. I've tried and tried for
years to bear it, but it's got to be too hard. I can't live that way
any longer. You know,--Mr. Wedall----?"