"Drink it down, hungry or not!" commanded Martha authoritatively.
Katherine obeyed.
"You must have been at the house late, yesterday afternoon," she said,
between her absent sips. "For, I wasn't there, and I'd been at home all
day except for an hour or so toward evening, when I went to the
Ronalds'. When I came in grandmother called me, and, now I come to
think of it, she did seem milder, kinder. She told me to take my dinner
and then, after dinner, to come to her. It always scares me when
grandmother summons me to appear before her--like a pensioner, or a
criminal. It's always been that way, ever since I can remember. The
sight of her, sitting there, cold and distant as a marble image, always
freezes me to ice. I can't help it. I know I'm a coward, but I can't
help it.
"I couldn't eat my dinner, for thinking what she had to say, so, by the
time I went up to her, I was all of a tremble inside, though I probably
didn't show it.
"Then she told me--told me--about her life. About my grandfather--my
father. If you knew what I've sprung from, Mrs. Slawson, you'd turn me
out of your house."
"Rot!" said Martha, "askin' pardon for the liberty."
Katherine went on--"Think of being watched, day after day--always under
suspicion.--Think of having some one always being in fear and trembling
because the time'll surely come when you'll show what you've sprung
from. And, of course, it comes. I did the things my grandfather and my
father had done before me. That was why, when I told her about the
pocket, she sent me away from her. The thing she had dreaded, had
happened."
"It always does," said Martha.
"So that's what I am," the girl went on shudderingly, "a coward, and a
liar, and a thief. The child, and the grandchild, of cowards, thieves,
liars. There's no hope for me! I can never be anything else."
Martha's hand upon her shoulder shook her, none too gently.
"Say, stop that nonsense, Miss Katherine. Stop it right now, before you
say another word. There ain't any truth in it, to begin with, an' _I_
say it's wicked to _think_ such things. Just you answer me a couple o'
questions, will you?"
Martha's unaccustomed severity startled Katherine out of her hysteria.
She nodded acquiescence.
"Why did you tell me, firstoff, when you'd took the pocket?"
"Because I loathed myself so. I couldn't bear it alone."
"Why did you clap the name o' thief to yourself? Are you proud o' it?"
"It's the truth. I have to tell the truth!"
"Why have you?"
"Because it's _right_ to."
"Then, on your own say-so, you ain't any o' those things you said.
Don't you see you ain't? A thief don't hate what he does, so he's
afraid to be alone with himself. A liar don't _have_ to stick to the
truth, does he? A coward won't stand up, an' face the music, 'cause
it's _right_ to--not so you'd notice it, he won't. All this hangin' on
to your antsisters' shirt-tails an' apern-strings, for good, or for bad,
makes me sick on my back. I'm tired seein' crooked sticks tryin' to
pull glory down on themselves off'n what they call their Family-trees.
Don't you fool yourself. It's every man for himself these days--_thank
God_! It don't folla you're what your gran'pa is, any more'n your
gran'ma. You got a mind o' your own, an' a conscience o' your own, an'
if you did, in a way o' speakin', lose your grip on yourself, an' done
what tempted you--to do it oncet, ain't to say you'll ever do it again.
It's just the very reason why you _won't_ ever do it again!"
Katherine shook her head. "That may be true. All I can say is, it
doesn't seem true to me now. Anyway, I can't change my feeling about
grandmother. I want never to see her again. She hates me and--I----"
"Now, easy! Go easy, Miss Katherine. What makes you think the ol' lady
hates you?"
"Everything she has ever done. She's never kissed me in her life, that
I can remember."
"Kissin' ain't all there is to lovin'. What did your gran'ma want to
save her money for? What did she scrimp an' screw for, after bein' used
to live in the lap o' lucksherry all her days----? I'm a ignorant
woman, but it seems to me, she could 'a' paid up all was owin', and
lived off'n her capital, an' said to herself: 'Hooray! A short life,
an' a merry one! Let the grandchild I hate, look out for herself. What
do _I_ care?'"
"Perhaps she don't mind saving and denying herself, any more. She's got
used to it," suggested Katherine. "Maybe she likes it."
"I wouldn't be too sure," Martha admonished, "Think it over."
"I have thought it over--and over and over. Nothing will change me.
I'll not go back, Mrs. Slawson."
"Where are you goin'?"
"To Boston."
"What for, to Boston?"
"First, to tell Dr. Ballard just what and who I am. Grandmother thought
it was _lying_ for me to hold back that story, when I should have made a
clean breast of it, at once. She acts as if she had to protect Dr.
Ballard against me. She acts as if _he_ is the one who's dear to her
and I'm the stranger. Well, I'll show her! I'd never marry him now,
if--if----"
"An', after you got through throwin' down Dr. Ballard?"
"I'll go somewhere else. To another town--and earn my living."
"Doin' what?"
"I don't know yet. But the way will open."
"You bet it will. Good an' big, the way'll open," Martha echoed her
words with scoffing emphasis. "It'll make you dizzy lookin' at it gapin'
at you!"
Katherine's pale cheeks flushed. "I'm not a fool, Mrs. Slawson. There
are some things I can do, as it is. I can learn to do more."
"Certaintly. There's lots o' lovely things you can do in this
world--_if you don't charge anythin' for'm_."
Katherine rose.
"I came to you, Mrs. Slawson, because I felt you were my friend."
"So I am."
"I came to you because I knew what you'd done for the Hinckley girl. I
want you to do the same for me. There's a train leaves Burbank Junction
for Boston at eleven-thirty-three. Will you take me over there in your
motor?"
"No, ma'am!"
Katherine stared at her, out of astonished eyes.
"No, ma'am!" repeated Martha. "When I took Ellen Hinckley to Burbank,
it was outa harm's way. If I took _you_ it'd be into it. Ellen Hinckley
was a poor, weak sister, which runnin' away was all there was _for_ her.
_You_ are strong as they make'm, an' stayin' 's all there is for you.
Ellen owed it to herself to leave her mother. You owe it to yourself to
stand by yours."
"Then I'll go to Mr. Ronald. He'll take me--when I tell him."
"Don't you believe it. An' you won't tell'm either, Miss Katherine.
You're too proud, an' he's too _fair_. It wouldn't take him a minute to
tell you, 'Stay by the poor little ol' lady, till she's no need o' you
no more, which it won't be long, now, anyhow.' It wouldn't take'm a
minute to tell you that, Miss Katherine--not for Madam Crewe's sake--but
for yours."
"I'll never go back," the girl reiterated determinedly. "Whatever I do,
I'll never go back. If you won't take me to Burbank, I'll wait here at
the station, for the trolley. There'll be another train out sometime.
I'll get to Boston somehow."
"Miss Katherine," Martha pleaded, but the girl stopped her with an
impatient gesture.
"It's no use, Mrs. Slawson. I feel as if there were nothing but
ugliness and horror in all the world. It's come out--even in _you_!"
Martha turned her face away quickly, as if she had been struck.
"I've not gone back on you, Miss Katherine. Take my word for it, till
you can see for yourself what I say's true. You think everything's ugly
now. That's because you got knocked, same as if it was, flat on your
back. You're just bowled clean over. You're lookin' at things upside
down. But let me tell you somethin'--there's been good in all the
knocks ever I got in my life, if I had the sense to see."
"I don't believe it!" said Katherine passionately.
Martha smiled. "Certaintly you don't, at the present moment. But you
will, in the course o' time. Why, the hardest knock a party'd land you,
right between the eyes, you'd see _stars_."
Katherine turned quickly away, stooped to pick up her bag, and without
another word, passed to the door.
"Say, Miss Katherine," called Martha, "I want to tell you somethin'.
Now, listen! Dr. Ballard, he tol' me oncet----" she was talking to
empty air.
Katherine had gone.
Martha followed at far as the doorstep, to look after the girlish figure
marching so resolutely out into the cold gray of the early autumn
morning. She stood watching it, until it passed out of sight, around
the bend of the road that led to the village.
Then, with all her day's work still before her, Martha Slawson
deliberately sat down to think.
"Between the two o' them, they've made a mess of it, for fair," she told
herself. "But I'll give the ol' lady this credit, I do b'lieve she
started in _wantin'_ to do the right thing. The trouble with her is,
she waited too long, an' in the meantime, Miss Katherine's been bottlin'
in her steam, an' gettin' bitterer an' bitterer, till all it took was
the first word from the little Madam, to bust her b'iler, an' send the
pieces flyin'. Miss Katherine says they talked all night. I bet 'twas
her done the talkin'. I can jus' see her takin' the bit between her
teeth, an' lettin' rip, for all she was worth, same's Sam wipin' up the
floor with Mrs. Peckett, which he'd never raised his hand to a soul in
his life before, an' prob'ly never will again. Just for oncet the both
of'm, him an' her, had their fling, more power to'm! In the meantime,
the fat's in the fire. If I'd 'a' had the book-learnin' I'd oughta, an'
not been the ignorant woman I am, I'd 'a' been able to speak the wise
word to Miss Katherine, that would 'a' cooled her off, an' ca'med her
down, till she'd have her reason back, an' could see the right an' wrong
of it for herself. But I haven't, an' she ain't, an' while I'm sittin'
here thinkin' about it, she's makin' tracks for Boston, an' Dr. Ballard.
Bein' a man, he'll welcome her with open arms. Bein' a girl, she'll
forget all about her good intentions to throw'm down, the minute she
claps eyes on'm. An' then, when it's all over, an' Time has fanned the
first flush off'n 'm, he'll get to thinkin' how she ain't the woman he
thought her, because she left her gran'ma in the lurch, which he tol' me
with his own lips he'd never ask her do it. In fac', he wouldn't respec'
her if she did do it, an' the poor ol' lady so sick, 'n' old, 'n'
lonesome. An', with one like Dr. Ballard, a girl'd want to think twice
before she'd risk lowerin' herself, to do what he couldn't respec'. No,
Dr. Ballard mustn't know Miss Katherine's left her gran'ma alone. He
mustn't know it, even if she _does_ it! But how is he goin' not to know
it, I should like to know?"
For a few moments Martha painfully pondered the problem, without any
sign of untangling its knotted thread. Then suddenly she rose and,
going to the foot of the stairway, called up to Sam:
"Say, Sam--come here a minute, will you? I wisht you'd wake up Cora,
an' tell her get busy fixin' the breakfast. An' when you come down, set
Sammy feedin' the hens, an' turnin' the cow out. I ain't able to do my
chores, because I got suddently called away. I prob'ly won't be back
till dinnertime, or maybe night. Don't wait for me, an' don't be
uneasy. I'll tell you about it later."
She caught up her coat and hat, hanging on a hook on the entry closet
door, and put them on while she was making her way across the grounds,
in the direction of the big house.
She knew, before she crossed the kitchen doorsill, that Mr. Ronald would
not be up at this hour of the morning; nevertheless, she got Tyrrell to
take a message for her to his door.
"Tell'm I got somethin' very important I wanta say. Ask'm will he let
me telefoam it up to'm."