Part 8

Mr. Norris was no stranger to her. She knew him, had always known him, in fact, as her grandmother's man of affairs, a lawyer of repute. While she had no cause to distrust him, the fact that he was in a position to advise in questions closely affecting herself, affairs she was kept in total ignorance of, gave her a feeling of resentment toward him, as toward one who, voluntarily or not, held an unfair advantage.

"See he has a good breakfast," her grandmother had directed. "Let him eat and smoke his fill, but don't send him up to me with any unsatisfied cravings. A man's mind is a little less apt to be vacant if his stomach is full."

During the succeeding long hours of the forenoon, the two were closeted in Madam Crewe's sitting-room. Katherine could hear the incessant, low drone of their voices as she sat on the shaded veranda, trying to employ her mind so it would not dwell on the enervating heat and the fact that now, at this moment, her grandmother might be creating conditions that would irrevocably cripple her future and she was powerless to prevent it.

At luncheon-time Madam Crewe summoned Eunice Youngs.

"While Miss Crewe and the gentleman are at table, I want you to go to Mrs. Slawson's and tell her I must see her at once. Understand? _Madam Crewe says she must see Mrs. Slawson at once_. Say, she's to come in that motor-car Mr. Ronald gives her and her husband the use of. Say, Madam Crewe wishes her to take a gentleman to the railroad station in time for the five-forty-five train. Have you brains enough to repeat that straight? Or, shall Miss Katherine write it down for you?"

"Oh, grandmother," expostulated Katherine, when Eunice had gone to "tidy up" for her errand, "I don't think we can order Mrs. Slawson about like that. She's done a lot for us, already, but we have no claim on her, and to send for her to come, in all this heat, and bring her motor, and take Mr. Norris to the station--it's exactly as if----"

"My dear, don't bother your head over what doesn't concern you. Slawson and I understand each other--which is more than you and I do, I'm afraid," the old woman pronounced with biting distinctness.

The meal was barely over when Martha arrived.

"Now, Slawson," Madam Crewe greeted her, "I've sent for you on _business_, so I want you to stop looking benevolent, if you can, and attend to what this gentleman has to say."

"Yes'm," said Martha.

Mr. Norris adjusted his eye-glasses with professional precision. "Have you ever had any experience with the law, or lawyers?" he asked, regarding her steadfastly through his polished lenses.

"Certaintly, I have. Oncet, I worked out for a lady who got a divorce off'n her husband, on what they call statuary grounds, an' the first she knew, he up an' off, an' married the--statue. He was a railroad magnet. The kind draws more'n more to'm, all the time. So, o' course, the law never so much as laid a finger on'm. An' about two years ago, my little girl, she got run over by a auta, but, though Mr. Frank Ronald he tried to get'm to pay us a little somethin' for our trouble, we ain't seen a cent o' money yet. Oh, yes. I know about the _law_!"

"I mean, do you understand that when you are brought as a witness before the law, you are held responsible for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

Martha cogitated. "No, sir. I can't say I do, that is, _did_. I never knew the law had so much to do with _truth_ before. But, if you say so, I'm willin' to take your word for it."

Mr. Norris pulled a long upper lip.

"My client, Madam Crewe, has called you here for two purposes. First, she wishes you to be present whilst I ask her granddaughter a few important questions. Second, you and the maid--a--Eunice Youngs, are to write your names as witnesses upon a certain paper I have drawn up for my client. Are you willing to act for Madam Crewe in these matters?"

Martha shot a quick, inquiring glance at Katherine. The girl nodded in response.

"Yes, sir!" Mrs. Slawson answered promptly.

"Then, see that you charge your mind seriously with what you have undertaken. Your memory must be exact. Now, Miss Crewe----"

Katherine inclined her head, smiling faintly. But Martha noticed she was very pale.

"Your grandmother would like to know, from your own lips, the extent of your acquaintance with Dr. Ballard, the physician who has been in attendance on Madam Crewe since her late illness."

Katherine hung fire a moment, while the blood slowly mounted to her cheeks, her temples.

"My grandmother forbade me to have anything whatever to do with Dr. Ballard," she parried the question.

"Did you obey her injunction?--Attend, Mrs. Slawson!"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"I didn't think she had any right to control me so."

"Not when she intimated there were reasons?"

"She told me things about Dr. Ballard--his people, rather, but I didn't, and I don't, consider them _reasons_. She has no proof, or, if she has, she certainly hasn't presented it. I don't consider it worthy of notice when a person says things about another which are not backed up by proof."

"As a matter of fact, then, you do know Dr. Ballard, in spite of your grandmother's prohibition?"

"Yes."

"You know him very well?"

"Quite well."

"My next question, Miss Crewe, you will answer notwithstanding its peculiarly personal and intimate character, because (I am authorized to tell you) upon your answer important issues hang. If Dr. Ballard asks you to marry him, is it your intention to accept him?"

For a long moment there was no sound in the room, except such as came, muted, from out-of-doors, and the leisurely ticking of the tall clock in the corner.

Then Katherine, rising, impetuously faced the lawyer and Madam Crewe.

"I will _not_ answer that question, no matter what issues hang on it," she retorted hotly.

"Miss Crewe, I have your interest at heart, believe me. I strongly advise you to answer."

"No."

"You mean you will not accept him."

"I mean no such thing. I mean I refuse to answer."

"Why?"

"You ought to know. The question is--indelicate. When--_if_ Dr. Ballard says he wishes to marry me, it will be time enough for me to answer--_him_."

"He has already said so."

Miss Crewe started. "What do you mean?" she demanded imperiously.

"Dr. Ballard has already told your grandmother he wishes to marry you. Madam Crewe would like to know your intentions."

"I wish my grandmother had chosen a different way of obtaining my confidence," the girl broke out, almost broke down. "It seems very strange to me that she should choose such a method as this. It seems--almost--disgraceful."

The old woman, sitting erect in her high-backed chair, did not attempt to defend herself.

The lawyer, ignoring Katherine's outburst, continued his dry-voiced interrogation.

"You would accept him?"

"If Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me," the girl answered with marked quiet of voice and manner, in strong contrast to her outbreak of a moment ago, "if Dr. Ballard wishes to marry me--I will marry him."

"In opposition to your grandmother?"

"I don't _want_ to oppose my grandmother, but if she tries to spoil my life for the sake of a groundless prejudice I will--yes--I will marry him _in opposition_ to her."

"Think well, Miss Crewe. Take your time. Answer cautiously. If you were told Dr. Ballard is a struggling young doctor, with no present means of support, to speak of, and a perfectly problematic future. If you were told that he would never be able to provide you with more than a bare living income----"

"I would marry him."

"If you were told that, in case you do so, your grandmother would divert her property from you (as she has a perfect legal right to do) and dispose of it elsewhere----?"

"Still--I would marry him."

"Nothing would dissuade you?"

"Nothing."

"The inquisition is over."

It was the old woman who spoke. Her face was as impassive as ever, but Martha Slawson noticed that her tiny, emaciated fingers clutched the arms of her chair with a vise-like grip.

"For all the world like a bird I seen last Spring," Martha mused, "which somethin' had broke its wing, an' its claws was holdin' on fierce, for dear life, to the branch o' the bush it was clingin' to--as if _that_'d save it!"

"May I go now?"

As Katherine made the appeal, she turned toward her grandmother, but her eyes were kept resolutely averted.

Mr. Norris raised a detaining hand. "One moment, please. I assume you entertain no doubt of Madam Crewe's mental competency? That she is of sound mind, capable of acting rationally on her own behalf? That any will and testament she might choose to execute at this time would be above suspicion of mistake, fraud, or undue influence?"

For a moment Katherine seemed to consider. Then her lip curled.

"If you mean, am I likely in the future to contest any will my grandmother may now make to my disadvantage, I say no. I will never dispute her course, whatever direction it may take. All I ask is that she will not dispute mine. I am only sorry that they seem to diverge so completely. I am sick of the name of money. I would say I am sick of the sight of it--but I have never seen any----" with which parting thrust, the girl turned on her heel, and left the room.

She went none too soon, for the moment the door closed upon her, her self-control gave way, and she groped stumblingly to her own chamber blinded by tears, choking back the sobs that were in themselves a humiliation.

The three she had left, were silent when she had gone, until Mr. Norris drew an important-looking sheet from under a mass of papers at his elbow, and addressed Mrs. Slawson.

"As a general rule I strongly advise you, or any one, against placing your signature to any instrument which you have not previously read and do not fully understand. In this case, however, there is absolutely no harm. Please call the other witness."

Martha took a step toward the door.

"If I put my writin' on that paper, it won't mean I'm injurin'--anybody?" she demanded firmly.

"You have my word as to that."

"I'd never sign it, if it was to hurt Miss Katherine."

"Your placing your signature there cannot affect Miss Crewe's interests one way or the other."

Martha summoned Eunice Youngs, and the two, in their best manner, literally with great pains, proceeded to affix their names as witnesses to the last and testament of Idea Stryker Crewe.

*CHAPTER IX*

It was late one evening at the end of the week, when Sam came back, to Martha's surprise, alone.

"Ma just wouldn't leave the city," he explained. "She's staying at Dennis's now, but Sarah told me she couldn't keep her above a week or so, at the longest. She said Andy, or Hughey, or one of the girls would be better able to look after her than Dennis and herself, who have all they can manage paying off on their house in Yonkers, and the children to educate besides. Sarah was quite short with me on account of Ma. She said she was real put out. We'd no business leaving an old woman, Ma's age, away from the country such hot weather, especially when we were just getting on our feet now, and were well able to give her a home without feeling it."

Martha smiled tolerantly. "There'd be no time o' year'd suit Sarah for takin' any more trouble than she's got to," she observed, pouring her husband's tea.

"It's a nice little place they've bought," Sam informed her, between bites of cold ham and potato. "Dennis travels down and up every day, which is, what you might call a stunt, but he has the satisfaction of knowing the roof over his head is his own."

Martha set an ice-cold cup-custard at Sam's plate.

"From Yonkers to the Battery _is_ a kind o' long stretch, but--where there's a will there's a--sub-way, I s'pose. Would he be with the same steamship company he was with, since I first knew'm, I wonder?"

"Yes, and they gave him a raise last month. He's doing _all right_, Dennis is. You ought to see the way Sarah's got the house fixed. They pay off for the new furniture every month, so they don't feel it, Sarah says."

"Well, Sarah mayn't feel it, but you can take it from me, _I_ certaintly would, in her place," Martha observed. "Gettin' things on the excitement plan, would wrack my health. I hate the thought o' owin'. Payin' for a dead horse never did _appeal_ to me, as Mrs. Sherman says. How's Andy doin'?"

"Andy _was_ succeeding great, but something went wrong, somehow, all of a sudden, and his scheme fell through. He explained it to me, but I forgot the particulars, to tell the truth. He'll be on his feet again in no time. Andy always was the smart one of the family."

Martha ruminated. "Wouldn't you wonder how anythin' gets done in this world, when nothin' anybody ever tries seems to succeed? Is Nora as gallus-lookin' as ever? Or is she holdin' in her horses some, now her husban's kind o' down an' out, for the time bein'?"

"Nora's just the same, as far as I can see. _Our_ Nora says Nora-Andy is distroying Andy with her extravagance. She says the way she dresses, alone, it's no wonder he is always in and out of some get-rich-quick scheme, that'll land him in the poor-house, or worse, if he don't look out. But then, our Nora never did have the appearance of Nora-Andy, I must say that, if I am her own brother. Our Nora is kind of sharp, and she looks it."

"Well, I guess marriage'll bevel some of the edges off'n her, all right, all right," said Martha. "Were you surprised when you heard she was keepin' company with McKenna?"

"Yes, I was. I never thought Nora'd marry now--at her age."

"Nora always wanted to marry, an' when she saw her chance she grabbed it by both horns."

Sam's serious expression relaxed a little. "That sounds as if McKenna was the devil and all of a fellow. He's not that at all, and he certainly ain't much to look at."

"Oh, well," Martha responded, "nobody but her'll have a call to look at'm much, oncet he's married."

"I told her I thought she was taking a risk, throwing up a good place she'd been in, for so many years, parlor-maid, to live out general-housework with a stranger," said Sam. "I thought that was a joke. But it made her mad. She said, 'God knows it's no joke!' She said she had as much of a right to live her life as I have, which of course it's true. She said 'every dog has its day!'"

"True for you. So he has, just like s'ciety ladies. But that ain't to say there'll be anybody'll come. An' I sometimes think there's more dogs, 'n days, anyhow."

Sam looked up. "Say, mother, you ain't down-hearted, are you?"

"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----?"

Martha nodded. "The pasture?"

"Yes, he's my minister. He knows all about me. He told me to do my best, but if the time came when I just couldn't bear it another minute I might go. He said _he_ couldn't help me run away, because--because----"

"Certaintly he couldn't!" said Martha.

"But he said, if ever I _had_ to do it, the Lord would raise up some one who could. Mother's never liked me. I've not been happy a minute since my father died. _He_ wasn't happy. He had no peace of his life. He used to tell mother she'd get her come-uppance some day, and she's got it now, for Buller, that's her second husband, he beats her. He's got her money and mine too, what father left us, and he's afraid I'll law him, now I'm of age and can. I tried to run off yesterday, but he caught me and took away my clothes, and locked me in my room. I had some money I'd got hold of. 'Twas my own--and when he caught me, and he and mother stripped me and locked me up, I held on to it, all through, though he beat me black and blue with his belt-strap."

She spread her poor little trembling palm, disclosing a fistful of crumpled bills.

"See? And here's where he beat me--and _she_ stood by and let him!"

As she spoke, the girl drew back the coarse night-dress from her breast, displaying shoulders and back seamed across with cruel wales.

Martha drew in her breath shudderingly, shielding her eyes with her elbow in a quick, instinctive defensive gesture.

"I'd know you speak the truth without--_that_!" she said.

"After they left me, and locked me in--when I could _think_--I remembered what Mr. Wedall said about the Lord raising up help for me, and it made me mad, for there was no one to lift a hand for me. And then, all at once, somehow, you came into my mind. I saw you help a dog once, nobody else would touch. D'you remember? All the rest were afraid. They said he might be mad. But you said, 'Of course he ain't mad.' And you took him up, and took him home, and--you weren't afraid."

"No, I'm not afraid," said Martha.

"After you came into my mind I never rested till I found a way to get out. I waited till everything was quiet. They'd gone to bed. Then I managed it--through the window--down the grapevine trellis--I----"

Martha made her way to the corner cupboard. "I'll fix you up with arnica an' water inside and out," she explained. "An', while I'm doin' it, you tell me what you've planned."