Part 5

"Pooh! That's nonsense. You've altogether too big notions. They'll get you into trouble, if you don't take care. I can see you making ducks and drakes of a fortune in no time, if you didn't have some one to hold a tight rein over you. By the way, how about those preserves?"

"I'll put them up to-morrow, grandmother."

"See you do. Else, first thing you know, the fruit will be gone. Rotted on the trees."

"I promise you, I'll put it up to-morrow without fail," Katherine repeated very distinctly.

Back in her own room she laughed bitterly, while two hot tears slipped down her cheeks. "_Promise_! Poor thing! and she believes me! She thinks my word is as good as my bond. So it is--and neither of them is worth a rush," she assailed herself. No, she had forgotten. She was telling the truth about the preserves, at least. Mrs. Stewson was going to let her have a "rule." But the false impression she had deliberately conveyed about the caller still "stuck in her crop," as Martha would have said. And yet, what right had her grandmother or any one else, to tie her hand and foot, so she must resort to subterfuge if she wanted to move a muscle?

It wasn't fair that one life should be crippled to serve the whim of another. If her grandmother insisted on cutting her off from all natural pleasures, let her take the consequences. She fell asleep at last, nursing her sense of injury, brooding over her wrongs.

The next morning, while the casual Eunice was clearing the breakfast table, Katherine heard a sound outside, which caused her to hurry to the window. The sound was familiar, but the time for it unusual. The doctor's car was not due at Crewesmere so early in the day. Yet there it was, and, as Katherine gazed, from it issued, as if in installments, Mrs. Slawson, a small boy, a big girl, and--a huge, granite-ware preserving-kettle.

In less than a minute the _tempo_ of the house was changed. Things moved _vivace_.

"Sammy, you go out with this basket, an' strip them trees as fast as you can put. Cora, you show'm where to go, after Miss Crewe she tells you, that's a good girl. Eunice, get me every one o' them perserve-jars off'n the top pantry-shelf, an' when you wash'm, see the water's good an' hot, but not so's it'll crack the glass. We'll need them scales, Miss Katherine. I knew you had'm, or I'd 'a' brought my own. If you watch me measurin', an' write down what the perportions are, an' how I handle'm, you'll have a 'rule' for future use, which, if it never took a prize like Mrs. Peckett's, certaintly never poisoned anybody yet, that ever et it, so far as _I_ know."

It was wonderful how the load lifted from Katherine's heart.

"I don't know how it is, Mrs. Slawson," she said at length, "but whenever you're here, I feel about twice as strong and brave, as at any other time. It isn't alone that you _do_ so much, but you make me think I can do things too; things I know I'm not equal to, otherwise."

Martha smiled. "Believe _me_, you don't know what you're equal to, an' don't you forget it. No more do I. We ain't done up in bags, like seven pounds o' sugar, we human bein's, so's we know what we're equal to. The heft of us comes out, accordin' to the things in life we got to measure up to. When I was married, firstoff, I thought I wasn't _equal_ to livin' with my mother-in-law, an' puttin' up with her peculiar-rarities. But, laws o' man! I found I was. An', what's more, I found I been equal to one or two other little things since, worse than her, by a good sight. What helped me some, was realizin' I got peculiar-rarities of my own other folks has to be equal to."

Katherine caught her under lip between her teeth, as if to hold back words trying to come out. A minute, and they came.

"But, I don't see why some people have a right to make others unhappy."

"They haven't. No more than a body has a right to make herself unhappy. But they do it, all the same."

"One wouldn't mind making one big sacrifice, or two, or three, in a lifetime, if that were all. But, it seems, nothing is ever enough. You think you've vanquished one thing, and, before you know it, you've got it all to do over again. Has your life been that way, Mrs. Slawson? Does one never get through having to give up one's own wishes and will to the wishes and will of others?"

Mrs. Slawson stirred in silence for a moment the delicious brew simmering on the stove.

"Did you ever scrub a floor?" she asked, at length. "No, o' course you didn't. Mostly, ladies thinks scrubbin' floors is dretful low work. Well, it ain't. Scrubbin' floors'll learn you a lot o' other things, if you let it. In the first place, there's a right an' wrong way to it, same's there is to tonier jobs. If you're goin' to begrutch your elbow grease, an' ain't willin' to get down on your marra-bones, an' attend strictly to business, you ain't goin' to succeed. Well, we'll say, you scrubbed a spot, good an' clean. That ain't all. You got to keep goin' back on yourself, scrubbin' back over the places where you left off, else there'll be streaks, an' when your floor dries on you, the streaks'll show up, for all they're worth, an' give you dead away. As I make it out, it's just the same with livin'. If you begrutch takin' pains, an' keep your eye out, all the time, for fear you'll do a little more'n your share, why, you can take it from me, you're goin' to show streaks. You better never done it at all, than done it so's it'll be a dead give-away on you. You can't scrub clean with dirty water, an' you can't _live_ clean, 'less you keep turnin' out all the messy feelin's you got in you, an' refillin' your heart with fresh, same's you would your water-pail. But, even when you've done your job right, oncet ain't goin' to be enough. You couldn't keep clean with one scrub-down, no matter how thora. It's got to be done over to-morra, an' the next day, an' so on. If a body don't like it, why, that don't change the fax any."

"But all of us don't have to scrub floors. And I don't see why, if one had what you call a _job_ one didn't like, he couldn't change it. Just say: I won't live like this any longer. I'll have something better. If there aren't ways of breaking loose from things one hates, and making happiness for one's self, there ought to be. We should invent them."

"Well, p'raps you're right. They certaintly do a lot o' inventin' these days. They invented a way o' flyin' above the earth. But there's no way _I_ know of you can sail over your own particular place in the world. After all's said an' done, you gotta come back home, an' just stand flat, with your two little feet planted square in the middle o' that state o' life onto which it's pleased the Lord to call you."

"Then you don't believe people have the right to make their own happiness?"

"Certaintly I do. I don't only think they have the right to, I think they gotta. People have the right to make their happiness out o' every last thing comes in their way. Every last scrap an' drop they find anywheres about. Same's you'd make a perfectly good patch-quilt out o' the rag-bag, an' A1 soap out o' drippin's. Any gener'l houseworker at five dollars _per_, can make a roast out o' a prime cut o' beef. Any fool can be happy, if they're handed out happiness in chunks. But it takes a chef-cook to gather up all the sort o' queer little odds an' ends in the pantry, an' season'm here, an' whip'm up there, an' put'm on a dish, garnished with parsley, or smothered in cream, an' give'm a fancy French name on a menoo-card, so's when they come on the table, you smack your lips, an' say 'dee-licious!' an' feel you got your money's worth."

"But if one has tried and tried? And it was no use? Things only got more tangled?"

Martha pondered for a moment. "Sometimes, with a new spool o' thread, you get aholt o' the wrong end, an' then you can pull an' pull, an' tug an' tug, till you're black in the face, an' the more you do, the more your cotton gets tangled on you. But if you'll go easy, an' wait till you find the right end, it'll run off as smooth as grease. D'you mind takin' a sip o' this licka, to see if you think it's sweet enough to suit? Taste differs, an' some likes more sugar'n others."

* * * * *

"Well," said Dr. Ballard as, toward the close of the day, he was taking leave of Katherine, having fulfilled his professional duty to his patient upstairs. "Well, mademoiselle, was Mrs. Slawson of any use? Was she a help?"

Katherine threw him a grateful glance. "A help? Rather. More of a help than you'll ever know."

"The preserves are made?"

"You should view the shelves. They're a wonder. I believe we've a stock that'll last us for the rest of our natural lives."

"And, you say, the Preserver has gone home? I expected to take her with me."

"That's what she expected. But, about an hour ago, Mrs. Frank Ronald drove up. She came to call, though, of course, it was my place to go see her first, as she's a bride, and a stranger. She brought grandmother an armful of roses. The loveliest things! Long-stemmed ones, almost as tall as she is herself. Have you ever seen her? Mrs. Ronald? She's the daintiest creature! She makes me feel a giantess. And so unaffected, and cordial. So different from Mrs. Sherman, who was Katherine Ronald. Somehow, I feel as if her being here, were going to make things pleasanter. I'm happier, more contented, and hopeful, than I've been for ever so long."

"And Mrs. Ronald sent her car for Mrs. Slawson?"

Katherine Crewe laughed. "'Not on your life,' as Mrs. Slawson says. Mrs. Ronald just took her along in the car with her, preserving-kettle and all. You should have seen the footman's expression! I had told Mrs. Ronald about the preserving, and, as soon as she heard, she proposed taking 'Martha,' as she calls her, back with her when she went. She's evidently a democratic little person. I wonder how such goings-on will please Mrs. Ronald, senior, and Katherine Sherman. They're so frightfully what, when we were children, we used to call 'stuck up.' I know grandmother would be horrified. She, also, is stuck-up, as perhaps you may have gathered."

"Yes, she has made no attempt to hide it. But, I'd really like to know why _I_ come in for such a large share of her disapproval. To forbid you to have anything to say to me, now, is really---- If she weren't such a poor, helpless little old body, I'd have it out with her. Have you any idea what the trouble is?"

Katherine flushed. "It's all too absurd. A man by the name of Ballard was bailiff to her father, when she was a girl."

"I know that. My grandfather. What then? A bailiff's is a perfectly good job. Look at Slawson. He's all right, isn't he? But, anyway, things haven't stood still since those days. _I'm_ not a bailiff. I'm a physician. What's the matter with that?"

"Nothing--only----"

"Only--what?"

"She says----" Katherine hesitated.

"Out with it," urged Dr. Ballard.

"She says you've no practice. No income."

He laughed aloud. "How the deuce does she know?"

"You're so young."

"Oh, I am, am I? Well, I'll tell you a secret: I'm not quite so young as, apparently, I look. I don't wear my hair a little thin on top because I like that style, particularly. But, even if she's right, and I have no practice--no income--how could that----?"

Katherine turned her face away, unable to meet his searching eyes.

He spoke again at once. "The fact is, you're not giving it to me straight. You're trying to soften the dull thud, or something. Now, be honest. Speak the truth, like a little man. What's the reason I'm _persona non grata_ with Madam Crewe? Speak out. It'll be over in a minute, and then you'll feel much better, and so shall I."

"It's too humiliating to have to repeat it," Katherine fairly wailed. "She's old. She doesn't realize how things sound. She said--I'm quoting, word for word--repeating every foolish syllable, but you _will_ have it. She said: 'I know the Ballard tribe. I knew it, when I was young. It injured me and mine, and it will you, if you don't leave it alone. Leave this fellow alone, and see he leaves you. Understand?'"

"So! Well, that sounds 'kinda moreish,' as Mrs. Slawson says. I wish you'd go on. She didn't tell you what _the Ballard tribe_ was guilty of? No? Then I'll have to look into it, and find out for myself. I never was much on genealogy, but if we've a real, sure-nuff villain in the family--a villain whose yellow streak is like to crop out unto the third and fourth generations--why, I'm on to his trail. I'm going to hunt him down. It'll be something to amuse me, while, as you say, I'm _waiting for patients_."

*CHAPTER VI*

"You take up every little point in the edge, an' pin it down to the frame, like this. See! Doncher stretch the lace so tight it'll tear on you. Gentle now! Watch me, an' then you folla suit."

Martha had pressed Cora into service, to do apprentice-duty; and was instructing her in the gentle art of curtain-cleansing.

From a far corner of the garret-room, where, for convenience and safety, the frames had been set, Flicker, the dog, sat watching with intent expression. Occasionally, when one or the other of his friends seemed on the point of noticing him, he wagged an impartial, responsive tail.

"I want to do this job so good it couldn't be done better," Mrs. Slawson observed, her skilful fingers plying away busily as she spoke. Cora sniffed.

"Seems to me you always want to do every job 'so good it couldn't be done better,'" she grumbled. "I never saw anybody so particular as you. Ann Upton's mother ain't. Ann Upton's mother says it's wastin' time. That's the reason she can make Ann such stylish clo'es, 'cause she don't waste time. She says she does things _good enough_, an' if folks don't like it, they can lump it."

"Well, Mrs. Upton certaintly's got a right to her own opinion. Far be it from me to deprive her of it. But her opinion an' mine don't gee, that's all. One thing I know--if you only try to do _good enough_, you're goin' to get left in the end, an' don't you forget it. You can take it from me, you won't find any admirin' crowds lingerin' 'round _your_ doorstep, young lady. Did you never hear the sayin': Leave good enough alone? Well, that's how they leave it, because everybody is hurryin' to get the fella can be depended on to do the _best_ work for the money. If you're satisfied to do things _good enough_, you're goin' to be left alone, an' if _you_ like that kind o' solitary granjer, you're welcome to it. That's all I got to say--on this subjec'."

For a time there was silence, while Martha worked industriously, and Cora fumbled along with just enough appearance of energy to escape being "hauled over the coals" for laziness. Presently, however, Mrs. Slawson paused.

"Do you know," she announced cheerfully, "I believe you'd feel a whole lot more like attendin' strickly to business if I kinda relieved you o' what you got under your apron."

Cora looked scared. "Wha-at?" she stammered.

Her mother's expression continued bland. "Yes. It won't trouble _me_ a mite, an' it's just a-burdenin' you. Nobody can give her mind to a job when she's hankerin' after somethin' else. Is it a book, now, or what is it?"

Cora began to cry. "I think you're real mean. I ain't doin' any harm. I'm workin' all right. I can't have a single thing, but you want to see it."

"Sure you can't," admitted Martha imperturbably. "You mayn't believe it, but a mother's got a reel sorta friendly interest in her childern. If a mother _keeps in touch_, as Mrs. Sherman says, with her childern's minds, it saves her a lot o' keepin' in touch with their bodies, by the aid of a switch, or the flat of her hand, as the case may be. Now, your mind's on what you got under your apron, so let me get right in touch with it, like a little lady."

With a dismal wail that caused Flicker's ears to prick up apprehensively, Cora thrust her hand under her apron, and brought forth an illustrated periodical.

"Hand it over!" commanded her mother serenely.

Cora handed it over.

Martha examined the title-page.

"'THE INGLE-NOOK'! Now what under the sun is a Ingle-Nook, I should like to know! 'THE INGLE-NOOK. Containing Dora Dean Beebe's Greatest Story: SWEET SIBYL OF THE SWEAT-SHOP, or, THE MILLIONAIRE'S MATE.' Dear me! Where'd you get aholt o' this treasure? Sund' School Lib'ry?"

"No!" blubbered Cora, recognizing the fact that her mother's question was meant to be answered.

"Where?"

"Ann Upton. Ann found it up to her house. It b'longs to her mother."

"Ho!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "No wonder Mrs. Upton makes Ann stylish clo'es. If this is the sorta litherchure she improves her mind on, I can see why she feels about a good many things the way she does. The name of it, alone, is enough to make you neglect your work. I don't wonder you're longin' to shake Miss Claire's curtains, for to be findin' out about sweet Sibyl an' how she got a-holt o' one o' them grand millionaire gen'lmen, that's always hangin' 'round sweat-shops, huntin' for mates. It's bound to be a movin' story. It couldn't help it. Lemme see! What's this?

"'The ruffian eyed sweet Sibyl men'"--Martha hesitated before the elaborate, unfamiliar word confronting her--"'men-_ac_ingly. "Have a care!" he hissed through his clinch-ed teeth.' (Doncher worry, I got one, an' then some! I'd 'a' said, if I'd 'a' been Sweet Sibyl.)

"'Sibyl turned, tears gushin' to her violet eyes, an' coursin' down her blush-rose cheeks. "I will not do it!" she cried, her lovely, musical voice tremblin' with emotion. "I will not do it. Even a worm will turn."' (Well, what's the matter with that, so long as the worm's got plenty o' room to turn in, an' turnin' don't make it dizzy?) Do you know what _I_ think? I think this little story is 'most too excitin' for young girls like us, Cora. I think your father wants to read it, instead of _The New England Farmer_, an' if he finds it won't keep us awake nights or won't harm our morals none, maybe he'll give it back to us."

Cora wept.

"In the meantime, now this curtain's stretched good an' firm, let's kinda go over it careful, to see does it need a stitch anywheres, just to take our minds off'n Sweet Sibyl, an' that Millionaire Mate o' hers with the gen'lmanly taste for sweat-shops. Say, Cora, come to think, p'raps he ran the sweat-shop. P'raps that's how he come to be a millionaire. You never can tell. My! but ain't this a lovely job! I never stretched a curtain smoother, or straighter, in my life. It's as even as----"

In her enthusiasm Martha's arm swung out, in a vigorous gesture, which, somehow or other, Flicker's alert intelligence interpreted as a command. With a bound he leaped from his sequestered corner, landed, with geometrical precision, in the center of the curtain, and went through, as if it had been a paper-covered hoop.

For a second Cora was so dumbfounded that her sobs caught in her throat.

Martha gazed at the destruction of her lovely job in silence. Then, Cora, scared by the suddenness of the performance, seeing in the accident only another avenue of bondage for herself, began to cry afresh, aloud.

Her mother lifted an undaunted chin. "Well, what do you think o' that!" she ejaculated. "Don't cry, Cora. You ain't hurt. You're just flabbergasted. Flicker didn't mean no harm, did you, Flicker? He was just dreamin' he was one o' them equestrienne bareback ladies, that rides horses four abreast in the circus, an' jumps through hoops. Flicker's prob'ly got ambitions, same's the rest o' us. An' it's all right to have ambitions, only you wanta be sure you're suited to the part, if you got it. Sometimes the ideas _we_ got on that subjec' an' the ideas God's got don't kinda gee. That's why, when we get to hankerin' after what we wasn't intended for, we so frequent land in the middle an' fall through. Readin' such little stories as Sweet Sibyl, gives a body wrong notions o' that very kind. Now, it wouldn't be healthy for me, or for you either, to dream we was Sweet Sibyls. We ain't that typical type at all, so's even if we got a gait on, an' caught up with the millionaire before he got away from the sweat-shop (which it would be a stunt to do it, outside o' THE INGLE-NOOK), he wouldn't reco'nize us for his mate, on account o' our eyes not bein' vi'let, or our cheeks blush-rose, or our voices musical with 'motion. Looka here, Cora, d'you know what we're in? We're in luck! The lace part ain't harmed a mite. It's just the bobbinet Flicker went through. Acrow bobbinet can't be hard to match. I'll get a len'th of it, when I go to the city, an' sew the lace on again, as easy as can be. _We're_ in luck!"

But, even as she spoke, Martha was calculating how much the _len'th_ would cost, and to just what extent her precious fifteen dollars would be depleted thereby.

"You goin' to tell Miss Claire?" asked Cora inquisitively.

"No, ma'am. What'd be the use? What she don't know won't fret her, an' it wasn't nobody's fault. When I've made it right, it'll _be_ right. The less said, the sooner it'll be mended. 'S that Sammy callin'?"

"Mother! Mother!" the boy's strident voice was heard shouting through the house.

Martha composedly made her way to the stairhead.

"Say, Sammy," she addressed him, "I ain't dead, but if I was you'd 'a' waked me, sure. Now, what is it?"

"Mother! Whatcher think! You got a cow! Ol' lady Crewe she made you a present of a cow! A man, name o' Peter, he's brought the cow. 'With the compliments o' Madam Crewe,' an' she's light yella, an' she switches her tail like anything."

Martha sat down upon the top step of the flight. "Well, what do you think o' that!" she murmured. "This is my busy day, an' no mistake. But who'd 'a' thought I'd 'a' had two such blows comin' on top of another before noon? P'raps it ain't true."

But when she got downstairs she found it was true. She regarded the cow dubiously.

"If it was a question o' givin' her a good scrubdown," she observed, "I wouldn't hesitate a minute. Or even layin' a hand to her horns, to polish'm up a bit, which they certaintly do look sorta like they needed it. But _milk_ her! I'm afraid her an' me won't understand each other on the milk question. There might be differculties, meanin' no offense on either side."

"She's a good cow," declared the Swedish Peter. "She is what they call Alderney, and her milk it is boss milk, thick mit cream. You will relish her milk."

Martha's face was grave. "I don't doubt your word, young fella," she assured him meditatively. "What I'm wonderin' is, when her an' me has wrastled through our first round, will my injuries be such as I'll ever relish anything, any more?"

Sam senior smiled. "I'm afraid you're taking her hard, mother. You'll soon get the hang of her."

"No sooner than she's like to get the hang o' me," returned Martha. "She ain't like hens. You can tell by their slopin'-back foreheads, hens ain't much of any, on intellec'. But this cow's differ'nt. I wouldn't like to bet, now, I got a mite more sense'n her, if it come to a argument between us. An' she certaintly has the best o' me, so far as fightin' qualifercations goes."

"Well, anyhow, you've got to thank Madam Crewe," Sam Slawson mildly dictated. "She's given you a big present, and you must show her you're grateful."

"Certaintly. I'll go out there this very afternoon, an' show her," replied his wife obediently.

So it was, that the tiny old lady, sitting up that afternoon for the first time since her seizure, saw through the open window, beside which her chair had been placed, Mrs. Slawson advancing along the driveway. A quick gleam of satisfaction lit up the unanimated little mask for an instant, while the Madam gave a low grunt of approbation.