Making Over Martha 12

Making Over Martha 12

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.