Presently Martha felt a quiver of muscles beneath her fingers. Madam
Crewe's eyelids lifted. She made an effort to raise herself.
"What's all this--to-do?" she taxed her strength to demand.
Dr. Ballard laid a restraining hand upon her shoulder.
"Nothing. That is, nothing serious. You'd been over-exerting. Nature
stepped in and shut down the shop for a moment."
"Meaning--I lost consciousness? For how long? How came Slawson here?
Did you send?"
Martha answered in the doctor's stead.
"No'm. I just happened along. My Sabina, she took it into her head
this afternoon there was no place like home--an' she was glad of it.
Her an' me disagreed on some triflin' matters, an' she threatened she'd
leave if I didn't come to terms. I tol' her: 'I'm sorry you feel that
way, but if you concluded you must go, why, I s'pose you must. We all
enjoyed your s'ciety for the last five years, but the best o' friends
must part, an' far be it from me to stand in your way, if you perfer to
look for another situation, an' think you can better yourself. I'll do
up your things for you, for luck!' So I did an' out she stepped, as
bold as brass, with her clo'es done up in a bundle slung on the end of a
old gulf-stick Mr. Ronald he give her brother Sammy, to carry over her
shoulder. She ain't been gone above three hours, but I thought while I
was bringin' up the evenin's milk, I'd ask if, maybe, she'd blew in
here?"
Madam Crewe compressed her lips. "No. Even your baby would know better
than to come here for a happy home," she said with a caustic smile. "On
your way back, you'd better look for _my_ child, who, also, has probably
run away. It seems to be the fashion nowadays for youngsters to defy
their elders."
Dr. Ballard gave Martha a look.
"Well, I must be movin'. I took the liberty to bring you a form o'
Spanish cream I made this afternoon. It's kind o' cool an' refreshin',
when you ain't an appetite for substantialler things."
Passing Katherine's door she paused and lightly tapped on the panel.
There was no answer. She dared not take it on herself to turn the knob,
so went slowly downstairs, and, finally, out of the house and grounds.
Once in the road she saw, a short distance ahead of her, an easily
recognizable figure.
"Oh--Miss Katherine!" she called softly.
For a moment the girl seemed undecided what to do. She walked on as if
she had not heard the call, then suddenly wheeled about and stopped.
"I was afraid I'd missed you," Mrs. Slawson said casually. "All I
wanted, was to tell you that if your gran'ma shouldn't be so well after
her faintin'-spell, why, I'm ready to come an' help any time, be it
night or day."
Katherine looked up, her face changing quickly.
"Fainting-spell?" She echoed the words vaguely.
"Yes. She come out o' this one all right, but if she had another you
couldn't tell, at her age, poor ol' lady! Thanks be! it wasn't a
stroke. Anyhow, I'd advise you keep Eunice Youngs overnight, to run an'
carry, if need be."
The struggle was short and sharp. Martha pretended not to see. She
pretended not to be aware that Miss Katherine had on her traveling hat,
carried her coat over her arm, a bag in her hand.
"I'll go back!" the girl said at last, as if ending a debate.
"Be sure you send if you need me," Martha repeated.
They parted without another word, and Mrs. Slawson, resuming her
homeward way, summed up the case to herself.
"Yes, she's gone back this time. But come another tug o' war between
her an' the ol' lady, an' I wouldn't be so certain. I wonder now, how
my young vagabone is doin', which her brothers an' sisters are all out
on the still-hunt, searchin' for her this minute."
She had barely reached the house, and was busying herself with
preliminary supper preparations, before starting out again to look for
her stray lamb, when the screen-door was gently opened from without, and
a small person, very grimy as to outward visible signs, very chastened
as to inward spiritual grace, entered the kitchen quietly.
Martha appeared totally unconscious of any other presence than her own,
until Sabina's mind became vaguely troubled with doubts of her own
substantiality. Her pilgrim's pack slipped from her shoulder, the
"gulf-stick" fell clattering to the floor. Even then Mrs. Slawson made
no sign.
The suspense was fast becoming unendurable. The child's under-lip thrust
out, her chin began to quiver, but she controlled herself gallantly.
Nixcomeraus, the cat, rose from where he had been lying curled up in a
doze, humped a lazy back, stretched, yawned, and, with dignified mien,
crossed the floor to rub against his little friend's familiar legs.
That something, at least, recognized her, and knew she had come home,
after her long, weary absence, almost upset Sabina's equilibrium. She
bent down to stroke pussy's fur.
"I see," she essayed, with a superb effect of nonchalance, "I see you
still have the same old cat!"
At the sound of her voice Martha turned.
"My, my!" she exclaimed, one hand clasping the other in surprise, "you
don't mean to say this is Sabina! How glad I am to see you! Won't you
sit down an' stay a little while? Cora an' Francie an' Saromy've gone
out strollin', but they'll be back before long, an' they'd be
disappointed if you'd 'a' went before they got home, so's they'd miss
your call."
Sabina's eyes rolled. She gulped hard once, twice, three times. Then
with a roar, her "austere control" gave way, she cast herself bodily
upon her mother, clasping the maternal massive knees.
"I ain't goin' to stay _a lit-tle whi-ile_," she sobbed. "I'm goin' to
stay _always_. I want C-Cora! 'n' I want F-Francie! 'n' I want S-Sammy!
'n' YOU!"
Martha bent to lift the giant-child so the stout little arms could
clutch her neck.
"Now, what do you think o' that!" she ejaculated, holding the shaken
traveler close.
Appeared Sammy in the doorway, troubled at first but brightening
suddenly at sight of his recovered sister.
"Hey, Sabina's home!" he shouted ecstatically back to the others. Then
all came trooping in with a rush, clinging about the youngest, hugging
her, kissing her as if she had been gone a year.
"Why, it's just like the Prodigal's son, ain't it?" suggested Martha, in
whose lap Sabina sat enthroned, refusing to leave it for even a moment.
"Who's he?" asked Sammy.
Mrs. Slawson cast a look of reproach at her son.
"Shame on you, to ask such a question, at your age! Don't you remember
the old prodigal gen'lman lived in the Bible, which his son had a rovin'
disposition an' went off gallivantin' till his pervisions give out, an'
he had to come home to get a square meal? When his father saw'm afar
off, he got up, an' went out, an' called'm a fatted calf, an'--no I I'm
wrong, he asked'm wouldn't he _like_ some fatted calf, which, his son,
bein' fond o' young veal, _did_, an' so they killed'm--I mean the calf.
Now I'm wonderin' which one o' you three I better do it to for Sabina!
There, there, Sabina! Don't holla so! O' course I don't mean I'd reely
hurt your brothers an' sisters. Come, you're all tired out, or you
wouldn't be so foolish! Cheer up, now! You're back home, after all
your wanderin's, an' you won't be naughty any more--_if you can help
it_, will you?"
*CHAPTER XI*
Whatever had been the cause of disagreement between Madam Crewe and her
granddaughter, Martha noticed that a negative peace, at least, had been
restored by the time she had occasion to go to Crewesmere again.
"And so you've been aiding and abetting a run-away girl, eh?" the old
lady accosted her sharply.
Mrs. Slawson had almost forgotten the Ellen Hinckley episode, in the
quick succession of events nearer home.
"You mean----" she pondered.
"You know perfectly well what I mean. The Hinckley girl. You assisted
her to make her escape from that Buller brute. I hope you thought well,
before you took the risk."
"Risk?" repeated Martha.
"Yes, _risk_. Evidently you don't know the difference between courage
and recklessness."
"No'm, I don't. But I'll look'm up in the dickshunerry."
Madam Crewe brought her teeth together with a snap.
"Slawson, you're a strange specimen. I sometimes wonder if you're
_plus_ or _minus_. You certainly are not a simple equation, that's
sure."
Martha smiled. "Speakin' o' the Hinckley girl--Ellen--I'd a letter from
the uncle she went to, sayin' she landed there safe an' sound. So
_she's_ off'n my mind."
"And Buller?"
"He never was on it. _I_ don't mind _him_. His name ought to been
spelled with a Y 'stead of the R. Them kind's never dangerous."
"Well, I hope not. All the same, I wish you'd kept your finger out of
that pie for your own safety's sake."
Martha laughed. "I got two good fists of my own with me, that shoots
out fine when required. Warranted to hit the bull's eye every time. I
used to tell my husband, when we lived down in the city, I was afraid I
might be arrested for carryin' unconcealed weapons."
Madam Crewe's stern little visage did not relax. "You'd need a more
effective weapon than your two fists, if you had Buller to deal with,"
she said. "I've a mind to give you my son's revolver. Will you take
it?"
Martha drew back quickly. "No'm, thank you, bein' much obliged, all the
same. My husband an' me, we don't believe in settlin' disputes that
way. Shootin', be it by one, or be it by many, is murder, an' nothin'
else. I'd like to put a stop to it, if I could. I'm dead set against
it. They talk about puttin' a stop to war, an' some says you couldn't
do it. But you _could_ do it. If every man who was 'listed, just
crossed his arms, an' said respectful but firm: 'No, siree! Not on your
life I won't shoot!' an' stuck to his word--where'd they get their
armies? You can't _square_ anythin' with _round_ bullets. I wouldn't
mind cuffin' Buller a good lick or two, but I wouldn't _shoot_'m. I've
too much respec' for my own peace o' mind."
"Well, at least take the precaution to keep off these country roads
after nightfall. Get yourself home now. And when you come here again,
if it's at night like this, bring that dog of yours, that you talk so
much about, along with you."
"Flicker? Goodness! Flicker's the peaceablest party of us all. He
wouldn't be a mite o' perfection, even if we'd let'm out. Since we
first took'm off'n the street, Flicker thinks everybody means well by'm.
He'd never get over the shock if somebody treated'm low down. He just
wouldn't _believe_ it, that's all. But anyhow, Sam (my husband) he's
been obliged to set some traps for the foxes that prowels 'round after
Mr. Ronaldses hens an' ours, an' we're afraid Flicker might get caught
in one, if we'd leave'm run free nights."
Acting on Madam Crewe's gentle hint, Martha proceeded to take herself
off. She had not really thought of Buller with any apprehension, but as
she walked along the dark, lonely road, the suggestion worked, and she
fancied him lying in wait for her behind "any old ambush growin' by the
way, ready to spring," as she told herself.
This did not prevent her from tramping on when, at last, she reached her
own door, and realized she was out of yeast, and Cora had need of some
for the night's "raisin'."
Mrs. Lentz "admired" to let her have the loan of a cake. Martha chatted
a while, then started away, this time headed directly for home. She had
gone but a short distance, the length of a city block perhaps, when,
suddenly, she came to a standstill.
"Who's there?" she demanded sternly. Her voice sounded unfamiliar, even
to her own ears. She attempted to flash her lantern-light into the inky
blackness of the thicket hedging the road-bank. "Who's there?" she
repeated.
Silence.
For a second, she doubted her own instinct, and was on the point of
passing sheepishly on, ashamed of her childishness, when a sinister
rustle in the shadow brought her, as it were, up standing again,
instantly alert, on the defensive.
"Who's there?" rang out for the third time. "If you don't speak or show
this minute, I'll come an' fetch you."
The rustle increased. A blotch of shadow detached itself from its vague
background, and a huddled shape inched forward, like a magnified beetle.
Martha held her lantern up as she took a step forward to meet the thing.
"MA!" she exploded. Then---- "Well, what do you think o' that!"
"O--oh, Martha!"
The next minute the magnified beetle was passionately clinging to "me
son Sammy's wife," as if there were no other anchorage in all the world.
"But for the love o' Mike, Ma, how come you here? You're shakin' like
an ash-pan. You're all done up. Never mind tellin' me now. When we're
home is time enough."
Fairly carrying the poor, limp creature, heartening her, soothing her,
Martha got her, at last, to the Lodge, set her in Sam's chair, with the
comforting _pilla_ to rest the _holla_ in her back, brought her the
reinforcing _cuppertee_ which, in hot weather or cold, was Ma's greatest
solace and, to crown all, sat down and listened, while she told of the
dangers she had passed.
"It's a thrawn lot they are, down there," she began, sniffing
vigorously. "You wouldn't believe the way they do be goin' on. I bided
wit' Dennis an' Sarah for a bit, but there was no peace in the house at
all. Every time I'd open me mouth, Sarah she'd be for jumpin' down me
throat. There's no livin' wit' the likes of her, let alone himself, an'
the childern. Nora-Andy told me they've the hearts of stone in their
breast, the way they'd be never carin' how you'd get along. 'Twas two
weeks I bided wit'm, an' then Sarah she brought me in the subway down to
Hughey's. 'Twas the baby there had whoopin'-cough, an' Hughey says
'twould be very unlucky for one so old as me to be catchin' it off her.
Liza says: 'It would that. I wouldn't have it on me conscience,' says
she. I says, 'How would I be catchin' the whoopin'-cough, when I had
it, itself, an' all the young 'uns here had it, long ago, an' me by, an'
never a touch of it on me.' But they was that set on keepin' me safe
from contagion, they wouldn't so much as let me stay the night under the
roof. Sarah was as mad, as mad. Her an' Liza had it hot an' heavy
between'm. They fairly had me killed wit' their sparrin'. 'Twas to
Mary-Ellen's they took me at last. An' when Sarah told Mary-Ellen of
Liza's behavior, Mary-Ellen was fit to slay her. 'If it's to Liza
Slawson my mother has to look for a home, her own daughters must be
under the sod,' says she. I was wit' Mary-Ellen one week, come Tuesda',
an' I would 'a' be contented to settle down there, only for Owen havin'
a letter from his rich uncle, sayin' he'd come to visit'm for a bit.
They couldn't be after offendin' him, explainin' they'd no room itself.
So Mary-Ellen ast me would I shift over to Nellie's till she'd have the
uncle in my bed. An' to Nellie's I went. But, you know as good as me,
the sorta man is himself. You could search the world over, an' not find
a contrarier. Me heart was sore for Nellie, but at the same time she'd
no call to say I drew the temper out of her Michael, the like she never
see equaled. 'He's never so gusty when we're alone,' says she. Well,
well! Be this an' be that, I couldn't be sure I'd a roof to lay me head
on, the night. Nora's new man has a tongue in'm, would scare you off,
before you'd ever set foot in it, at all. Like a surly dog! An' all
the while, the city as hot as hot! The heart of me did be oozin' out in
sweat, every day. An' not one o' them to take me to the Park, or set
foot in Coney Island, itself, let alone back home. The cravin' took
holt o' me, till I could thole it no longer. I had the thrifle in me
purse Sam give me when he left, for to spend, if I needed it. (God
knows the rest never showed me so much as the face of a penny!) I
packed me little bag, an', be meself, I wanda'ed to the railroad
station--the cops tellin' me how to get there, itself. An' so I come
back. Travelin' all the da', from airly dawn. I'd to wait at Burbank
for the trolley to bring me here. Then I started for to walk afoot.
But the dark come down, an' every sound I heard, it stopped the tickin'
of me heart, like a clock. When I heard the steps of one along the
road, I crep' into the bushes, to hide till they'd pass. Your voice,
Martha, was never your own at all. 'Twas like a man's voice. The
height of you showed like a tower itself, back o' the lantren. I'd
never know 'twas a female. I'd no stren'th to resist a wild tramp. So,
when you ast me, 'answer who it is,' the tongue in me head was dumb.
But, 'tis glad I am to be home again, surely."
Sam went to the front door to shake out the ashes from his pipe. When
he came back Martha was helping Ma up the stairs to her own room.
"Won't the childern be surprised an' pleased to see you back, in the
mornin'," she was saying heartily.
Cora, bringing up the rear, remarked with importance, "Mother sent'm to
bed sooner'n usual 'cause to-morrow morning we all got to get up early.
We're going with Miss Claire, in the la'nch, across the lake, to see a
blue herring, she's got there in a cove."
"A blue herring, is it? Well, well!" said Ma abstractedly.
Cora went on. "Mother said when Francie told her, firstoff, you'd gone
away for good, an' wasn't coming back--Mother said, 'No matter how much
I feel my loss, I must try to be cheerful.' Mother said it was a shock,
but you mustn't let the world see your suffering. The world's got
troubles of its own."
Ma's dull eyes brightened. She gazed up searchingly into her
daughter-in-law's face. "And, did you say that indeed, Martha?" she
questioned.
Martha punched a pillow pugilistically. "Very likely," she answered
holding the ticking with her teeth, while she pulled the clean slip over
it. "Yes, I said it."
The old woman slowly, tremulously undressed.
After Cora had gone, and Ma was in bed, Martha lingered a moment, before
turning out the light.
"I'm sorry you had such disappointment," she said. "But doncher care,
Ma. Sometime us two'll go down to New York together, an' I'll give you
the time o' your life."
For a moment Ma made no response. Then her quavering voice shook out
the words, as if they had been stray atoms, falling from a sieve: "It
ain't the disappointment I'm after mindin' so much," she lamented. "I
could thole that, itself--but--(perhaps it's a silly old woman I am)!
but the notion it's got into me head that--that--maybe the lot o'
them--_didn't want me!_"
Martha extinguished the light with a jerk. "Oh, go to sleep, Ma, an'
quit your foolishness. I'll say to you what I say to the childern. If
you cry about nothin', look out lest the Lord'll be givin' you somethin'
to cry _for_."
"Then you don't think----?"
"Oh, _go_ to sleep, Ma," repeated Martha, as if the question were not
debatable.
The sun was barely up when the children began to stir.
"Say, Sabina," Cora whispered, "I bet you don't know what's in Ma's
room."
A quick sortie, and Sabina did know. Then Sammy knew, and Francie knew.
"Come, come!" cried Martha, appearing on the threshold, "get yourselves
dressed, the whole of you. Don't use up all your joy at the first
go-off. Leave some to spread over the rest of the time. Ma's goin' to
stop, you know. Besides--we can't keep Miss Claire waitin'."
"In my da'," observed Ma thoughtfully, "it wouldn't 'a' been thought
well of, for a lady like that to be la'nchin' out, just before----"
"It's not my picnic," Martha interrupted. "I said all I could to
pervent it in the first place. But her heart's fixed, an' I couldn't
say her no, 'specially when Lord Ronald said he saw no harm, an'd go
along too."
"Well, if _he_ sees no harm--and is goin' along too----" Ma murmured, as
if her consent were to be gained on no other grounds.
"Certaintly," said Martha.
Everything was in readiness in and about the trim little _Moth_, when
Claire Ronald appeared on the dock.
"Where's Mr. Frank?" Mrs. Slawson asked.
"He got a message late last night from Boston, about some stuff for the
electric-plant. They've sent it on, and he had to go to Burbank to
examine it, so, in case it wasn't right, it could be shipped straight
back. He said it would save time and cartage, and he wants the work put
through as soon as possible."
"Then, o' course we'll put off our trip!"
"Oh, no!"
"Did he say we could go, an' him not here to go along too?"
"No--but----"
"Then, I guess we'll call it off."
Claire's mouth set, in quite an uncharacteristic way.
"No, indeed! We'll _go_! We couldn't have a better morning."
"Well, I do' know, but I wisht I had my long-handled feather-duster here
to brush away some o' them flims o' dust off'n the ceilin'."
"Why, those are darling little clouds!" Miss Claire exclaimed
reproachfully. "When the sun gets high, it will draw them out of sight
entirely, and the sky will be as clear as crystal."
"It's as you think, not as I do," Mrs. Slawson rejoined. "If you're
shooted, I'm shot!"
"In with you, children. Steady now!" commanded Claire.
Martha being already at the wheel, her husband had only to stow Mrs.
Ronald and the girls safely amidships, see Sammy stationed in the stern
in charge of the rudder-ropes, release the boat from its moorings, and
_The Moth_ was ready for flight.
"Take care of yourselves!" he called after them.
"Sure!" Martha shouted back, and they were off.
Now she was fairly in the line of having her own way, Claire was
radiant.
"The idea of finding fault with this day!" she taunted laughingly.
"Why, I couldn't have made it better, myself!"
"Why don't those birds fly up in the sky, mother?" asked Francie. "What
makes 'em fly so low down, right over the water?"
"They are gulls," Mrs. Ronald answered, as if that explained the
mystery.
It was a tremendous surprise to find the blue heron a bird instead of "a
delicatessen."
For a couple of hours after her first introduction to the new
acquaintance Martha kept exclaiming at intervals. "Well, what do you
think o' that!" as a sort of gentle indication of her amazement.
"Say, mother, the way the herring walks, it'd make you think o' folks
goin' up the church-aisle to get married--steppin' as slow, as slow.
Bridesmaids an' things."
Martha winked solemnly across at Claire.
"Nothin' interests Cora so much these days, as the loverin' business.
She's got it on the brain."
"Dear me! But there are no lovers around here, I'm sure," Claire said,
amused.
"Oh, yes, there are. There's you an' Lord Ronald, an' there's Dr.
Ballard an' Miss Katherine--an'----"
"Say, young lady, you talk too much----"
"Well, mother, it's true. I know he likes her a lot, 'cause----"
"That's enough, Cora. You're too tonguey. Go along an' play with your
little brothers an' sisters."
When they were alone Mrs. Ronald turned to Martha. "Is it really true,
Martha? Is Dr. Ballard interested in Miss Crewe?"
Mrs. Slawson laughed. "Like that _advertisement_ says the baby's
_interested_ in the soap: 'He won't be happy till he gets it!'"
"And does she----?"
"Certaintly. You couldn't help it. But the little ol' lady has her
face set against it. _You_ got such pretty, tackful ways with
you--sometime, when you're with the little Madam you might kind o' work
around to help the young folks some, if you'd be so good."
Cora came wandering back. The play of the younger children did not
divert her. She watched the blue heron as it silently, delicately paced
up and down the beach, picking its way among the submerged stones,
suddenly darting its head beneath the surface of the water, bringing up
a bull-head, perhaps, and swallowing it whole.
"Ain't he perfectly killin'?" she murmured. "The way he acts like he's
too dainty to live? And see that yellow flower over there! We had
loads and loads of it last fall, and I used to take it to the teacher
till one of the girls laughed at me 'cause she said the woods's full o'
them, an' besides it gave the teacher _hey?_ fever. That's a joke. It
means, it'd make her ask more questions than she does already. Ann Upton
said that. Ann is awful smart. Once, when her composition was all
marked up with red ink, 'cause the teacher had corrected it so much, Ann
said 'she didn't care. It was the pink of perfection.'"
"That yellow weed is goldenrod," explained Miss Claire. "Do you
remember the names of any of the other wild-flowers I taught you a year
ago, Martha?"
"Well, not so's you'd notice it. Lemme see! P'raps I do. Wasn't there
a sort o' purple flower you called Johnny-pie-plant?"