Part 11

"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?"

Mrs. Ronald laughed. "Joepyeweed, yes. You got the idea."

"An' then, there was wild buckwheat, an' Jewel-weed an'--now, what's the matter with me, for a farmer? Don't I know a thing or two about the country?"

"You certainly do."

"An' _I_ know the name o' some too," asserted Cora. "Brides-lace, and Love-in-a-mist, and----"

"Sweet Sibyl of the Sweat-shop, or----"

"Mother, I think you're real mean!" Cora cried, anxious to prevent further betrayal.

"Say, ladies an' gen'lmen, I hate to break up this pleasant ent'tainment, but I guess you don't realize how long we been dreamin' the happy hours away, like Miss Frances Underwood used to sing, before she married Judge Granville--which they ain't so _happy_ now, not on your life, poor dear! I think we better get a move on, or we'll get soaked good and plenty. It's my opinion we're goin' to have a shower."

Claire did not attempt to argue the point. It was too evident that something was really going to happen.

"Yes, let's hurry," was all she said. "It's later than I thought."

Martha summoned her straying flock, and they made for the boat.

The little clouds, no bigger than a man's hand, had turned gray. Francie's friends, the gulls, were darting excitedly to and fro, as if without direction, very close to the face of the water. Here and there the lake showed a white-cap.

Martha stood at the wheel, in the bow, and steered straight for the opposite shore.

For a while Mrs. Ronald kept up a careless chatter with the children, then, as if by common consent, there was silence.

A sharp wind had risen out of nowhere, apparently, and begun to lash the water into frothy fringes that tossed their beads of spray high over the side of the boat. Suddenly Francie screamed. This time it was not the spray, but the wave itself that the blast rushed before it to break full upon _The Moth_, drenching the child to the skin.

Martha glanced around to see what the trouble was.

"There's some tarpaulin under the seats," she shouted back over her shoulder, "wrap it about you an'--dry up!"

Again there was silence, while the clouds massed themselves into granite barricades, shutting out the light, and the gale gathered force and fury with every second. It was impossible, now, to see the farther shore. The little _Moth_ seemed blindly fluttering in a dense mesh of gray mist impossible to penetrate.

"We're going every _which way_!" moaned Cora.

At the same instant--"The rudder-ropes, Sammy!" shouted Martha.

The boy slipped from his place, and, by sense of touch alone, found the cause of the obstruction, and freed the ropes.

_The Moth_ gave a leap forward into the mist.

"I'm afraid!" roared Sabina in no uncertain voice.

"What you afraid of?" came back from the bow. "Don't you know, if there was any danger _I'd get out_!"

To the children, accustomed as they were to accept their mother's word without question, the statement carried instant reassurance. Sabina stopped roaring, and Francie only screamed when each new wave broke over her, threatening to swamp the boat.

"Hush, Francie!" called Miss Claire at length in a tense, strained voice. "You'll make your mother nervous."

Martha, hearing, answered back, "She don't make me nervous. There's nothing to be nervous about. Let her scream, if it makes her happy."

Francie stopped screaming.

All the while the throbbing of the little engine had been steady, incessant. But now Martha noticed that, at intervals, it missed a beat. She waited to see if it would right itself. A minute, and it had ceased altogether.

"Sammy!"

It only needed that to send the boy crawling, on his hands and knees, to start it up afresh, if he could--working, as his father had taught him to work.

_The Moth_ spun around and around, in the trough of the waves.

Martha "knew what she knew," but her hands never left the wheel for an instant. What if the engine could not be made to go? What could she say to Mr. Frank if----? No, there was this comfort, if the worst came to the worst _she_ would be the last to have a chance to say anything, to any of those waiting on the shore....

She heard the steady heart-beat start afresh.... The boy was back in his place. Martha, with new courage, strained her vision to pierce through the curtain of mist and rain, could see nothing, but clung to her wheel.

At length she realized she was steering toward something that she, alone of all the little group, could see--a faint adumbration, showing dark through the pall of enveloping gray.

But now the wind and the water were so high it was impossible to steer straight for the home-shore--she could only make it by slow degrees.

The storm had whipped her thick hair out of its customary coils. It blew about her face and shoulders in long, wet strands, buffeting her, blinding her. She never lifted a hand to save herself the stinging strokes.

Little by little the dark line widened, the way was made plain. Little by little Martha wheedled _The Moth_ shoreward.

"I see somepn'," shouted Francie, at last. "I see our dock!" After an interval: "I see folks on our dock!" Later still: "I see father, 'n' Mr. Ronald, 'n' Ma, 'n'--oh! lots o' folks!"

_The Moth_ fluttered forward. The waves beat her back. She seemed to submit with meekness, but a second later, seeing her chance, she dodged neatly, and sped on again, so, at last, gaining the quiet water of the little bay.

Mr. Ronald and Sam Slawson, in silence, made her fast to her moorings. In silence, Martha gave Claire into her husband's arms. He wrapped the shaking little figure about, in warm dry coverings, and carried her home, as he would a child.

The second they were out of sight and hearing, a babel of voices rose, Ma's shrill, high treble piping loud above the rest:

"When we saw the tempest gatherin', an' youse out in it, on the deep, an' not a boat could make to get to youse, the fear was in me heart, I didn't have a limb to move."

A burly form shoved her unceremoniously aside,

Joe Harding approached Martha, implanted a sounding kiss on her cheek.

"By gum, you're a cracker-jack, Mrs. Slawson, and no mistake!" he announced.

One by one the little knot of men and women followed suit, Fred Trenholm, Nancy Lentz, Mr. Peckett--all who, by the wireless telegraph that, in the country, flashes the news from house to house, had heard of _The Moth's_ danger, and had come over to help if they could, and--couldn't.

Martha looked from one to the other in surprise.

"Well, what do you think o' that!" she managed to articulate through her chattering teeth, and then could say no more.

"Come along home, Martha," urged Sam gently.

*CHAPTER XII*

At first it seemed as if no one was to be any the worse for the morning's adventure.

As soon as she had attended to the children, had changed her own cold, drenched garments for dry, Martha hastened over to the big house.

Tyrrell, the butler, informed her that Mrs. Ronald was resting quietly enough now, but they had been uncommonly anxious about her at the start. The shock had unnerved her. When her husband carried her in, she was crying like a baby.

"Well, you know where to find me, if, when she wakes, she seems the least bit ailin'. All you have to do is ring me up, an' I'll be over in the shake of a lamb's tail."

But when the day passed, and there was no summons, when supper was over and the children, including Cora and Ma, in bed, Martha could stand it no longer.

"I just _got_ to go over, an' see for myself how the land lays," she explained to Sam. "I know it's silly, but I just _got_ to."

"All right. Come along," said Sam.

Martha shook her head. "No, you don't. Somebody's needed here in case, while I'm between this an' the big house, the telephone'd ring."

Patient Sam acquiesced at once. "Have it your own way. You've earned the right to have notions, and be fidgety if you want to. But no news is good news, an' what you'll make by running over there at this hour of night, when they said they'd 'phone if anything was needed, I don't know."

"I'll sleep better if I see for myself," was all the explanation Martha could give.

It was very dark, outside, once she got beyond the light from the Lodge windows. In her haste she had forgotten to bring the lantern with her, but she did not go back for it, because she felt she knew every inch of the ground, and, moreover, the impulse that drew her forth was so strong that she could not endure the idea of delay for a moment. She had discovered a short-cut across the grounds and meant to use it, though she knew Sam disapproved any trespassing on his adored lawns, hedges, and shrubberies, and, as a general rule, she respected his wishes. But now she made straight for the thicket of bushes walling in her kitchen-garden, meaning to push through it, at the point of least resistance, strike across the roadway and so slice off a good quarter of a mile, by bisecting the lawn sweeping up to the big house. Just within the thicket she stood as if at attention. For the life of her she could not have said what brought her to a standstill, but also, for the life of her, she could not go on until she knew what was on the other side of that wall of bushes.

Listening, she could hear nothing but the common-place night-sounds, now grown familiar to her ears. The stirrings of leaves, when the wind sighed through them, the surreptitious whirr of wings aloft, up over the tree-tops, the lowly meanderings of insects among the grass, the soft pad-pad of tiny, furry feet scampering to safety. But there was still another sound, an unusual, unfamiliar sound. It came to Martha in a flash what it was. A fox, caught in one of Sam's traps.

"Oh, you poor devil, you!" she heard herself exclaim.

The words were echoed by a human groan, so close at hand, she fairly started.

"Who are you?" Her question rang out sharply.

"None of your damned business!" came back in instant answer. "But since you're here, curse you! come, and get me out of this ---- ---- trap."

A light flashed, by which Martha made out a man's figure crouching on the ground the other side of the hedge. His face was completely hidden, not alone by the drooping brim of his soft hat, but by a sort of black mask he wore. Without a moment's hesitation she forced her way through the hedge. Now she could see more plainly, she made out that the man was on his hands and knees. One hand was free--the other, caught in the fox-trap, was bleeding cruelly. On the ground, within easy reach lay a pistol, a bundle of fagots, and a bull's-eye electric torch. The man's uninjured left hand was clutching the torch.

"Doncher stir a muscle, Mr. Buller," Martha said imperatively, "till I make out how this thing works. I don't want to hurt you more than I got to, unspringin' the trap."

Buller swore violently as he bade her, "Go ahead then, and be quick about it!"

A moment, and the mangled hand was free. Instantly, its owner listed over on the grass in a dead faint, in total darkness.

Martha felt about in the darkness for the torch, set it glowing and, by aid of its light, found a flask in Buller's pocket, some of the contents of which she forced between his lips. When he was fully conscious, she bade him pick up his belongings, and come along home with her, where she could look after his hand, and, if necessary, telephone for the doctor.

Clutching at her shoulder, he staggered to his feet.

"Don't forget your gun," warned Martha drily.

"Damn the gun!" returned Buller.

Somehow they reached the Lodge. Sam, hearing footsteps, came to the door with an anxious face.

"Martha," he whispered, before he had made out she was not alone, "hurry back to the big house. Mr. Ronald's just called you up this minute. His wife wants you, and--I'm going for the doctor."

Martha pushed Buller forward into the entry.

"Look after'm, Sam. He was on his way to give us a call. With his pistol an' a bunch o' kindlin's to fire the house. He heard me comin', an' lay low for a minute, an' got caught in the trap you set for--the other fox. But take care of'm," she said, and vanished into the night.

Neither Sam nor Buller spoke for a moment. Then Sam opened the sitting-room door.

"Come in," he invited the other. "Let's take a look at your hand."

The tortured Buller thrust it forward where the lamplight could fall upon it. Sam shook his head.