Making Over Martha 13

Making Over Martha 13

"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.

 

"Decent creature. Comes to thank at once. That’s mannerly, beyond her

station," she observed to Katherine. "Have her up."

 

Not for the world would Madam Crewe have admitted to herself, much less

to her granddaughter, that she had grown to like this "creature" made of

such different clay from herself. She was willing, not glad to see her,

but her willingness caused a gentle glow to permeate her cold little

frame.

 

"So you like the cow? That’s good. I hope you’ll treat her well."

 

Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Certaintly, I’ll treat her well, providin’ she

gives me a show," she promised cordially. "I’ll treat her well, an’ I

hope she’ll treat me the same."

 

"You’re not afraid of her?"

 

"No’m. Certaintly not. But, by the same token, she ain’t afraid o’ me.

Till the one gets the upper hand o’ the other, neither of us won’t know

where we’re at. An’, meanwhile, we’re both lyin’ low. I guess animals

is some like childern. They like to try it on, oncet in a while, an’

if, be this or be that, you don’t master’m at the first go-off, they’ll

be no earthly good to you. Even when you got’m trained, they’re like as

not to get skittish. Take my girl, Cora, or our small dog, for

instance. Now, Flicker’s as steady a little fella as ever drew breath.

But this mornin’, if he didn’t suddently get gay, an’ lep’ right through

one o’ the curtains I was mendin’ for Miss Claire—I _should_ say, Mrs.

Ronald. Now, it’s up to me to buy a new half o’ bobbinet, an’ all for

the sake o’ Flicker dreamin’ he’d like to go on a tear."

 

Madam Crewe drew down her lips primly.

 

"I have no doubt repairing the damage will cause you considerable

trouble," she said.

 

"I don’t mind the trouble. It’s the bobbinet _I_ mind. I wonder, now,

how much you’d have to give a yard for fine, acrow bobbinet."

 

"Katherine," exclaimed Madam Crewe, summoning the girl to her so

abruptly that Martha was alarmed.

 

Miss Crewe was at her grandmother’s side in an instant, bending her head

to catch the whispered words the old woman strained forward to breathe

in her ear.

 

"I guess I must be movin’," said Martha, after Katherine had left the

room. "The childern need me, an’ I’ve already tired you out with my

long tongue."

 

"No. Stay. Sit down!"

 

Mrs. Slawson sat, though after her little fusillade of commands, Madam

Crewe did not deign to address another syllable to her, and made plain

that she could dispense with conversation on Martha’s part.

 

The silence had become oppressive when, at last, Miss Crewe reappeared.

With her was Eunice Youngs, and between them they laboriously lugged a

sizable chest. Madam Crewe waited until the box had been set down

before her, then imperiously waved Eunice away as if she had been a

bothersome fly. As soon as she had disappeared, fresh commands rapped

out thick and fast.

 

"My keys. In the basket hanging behind the hamper in my closet. On the

first hook. Yes, that bunch. Now, _that_ key. No, not that one,

_that_ one!"

 

Before Katherine could fit the key in the lock, Madam Crewe stopped her

with a gesture.

 

"Wait. I’ve something to say. When I was young, a girl got proper

plenishing," she observed dryly. "In those days a bride’s outfit didn’t

consist of bows of ribbon on rags of lace—layers on layers of

nothingness, as if she were a ballet-dancer, or worse. My outfit—(’twas

a good English outfit, no flimsy French trousseau!) my outfit will

outlast me and you, young lady, will reap the benefit of it, if you

marry to please me. But not a yard or an inch, mind you (Slawson is

here to bear witness to what I say!), not a yard, not an inch, nor a

penny of my money, if you marry otherwise. And that reminds me."

 

The old woman’s eyes grew shrewd.

 

"Sometimes wills are contested. Attempts are made to break them on the

ground of the testator being old, sick, of unsound mind. If any such

thing were to happen in my case, I’d like you to be able to speak up for

me, Slawson. Do you see that chest? It has not been opened for

sixty-eight years, yet I can tell you, to the last yard, what’s in it.

I was seventeen when I locked it fast, and the key’s never been turned

in it since. Now, listen! so you can prove if my mind’s intact, my

memory good."

 

She reeled off a long table of contents, with hardly a pause. "Now

open!" she dictated.

 

The raised lid revealed a mine of treasure, corresponding in character,

if not precisely in order, to the given list. India mull, fine as a

web, creamy as ivory. Matchless napery in rare old weaves. Bed-linen in

uncut lengths.

 

"Enough to make you shiver to think o’ lyin’ between’m," Martha

ruminated.

 

Katherine’s hands were almost reverent as, obeying her grandmother’s

silent bidding, she lifted bolt after bolt, and laid it aside.

 

"There! That’s what I’m after," exclaimed the old woman at last. "Now,

unwrap that blue paper. Careful! Don’t tear it! Is this the sort of

_bobbinet_ you mean, Slawson?"

 

Martha leaned forward, her eyes glowed. "I guess Miss Claire’s ain’t

the quality this is, but——"

 

"Probably not. _This_ quality isn’t made nowadays." Madam Crewe spoke

proudly. "But if you think you can use it (it’s what you call _acrow_

with age instead of dye) you may have enough for one window, and save

your money. Katherine, get my yardstick, and the shears, and measure it

off where I can see. Give good measure, as I tell you, but no waste.

If one window is complete, the difference from the others won’t be

noticed."

 

For once, Martha was fairly silenced. The madam appeared too occupied

to notice.

 

"Girls are fools," she ruminated. "When I shut that chest I was a girl.

I vowed to myself I’d never open it again. I thought it was the coffin

in which my happiness was buried. Well, I haven’t opened it. My

granddaughter has opened it. Rather a joke, when one thinks of it!

Dear, dear, how it all comes back! The anger, the disappointment,

the——" her voice grew vague. She pulled herself up sharply. "Before

you replace that mull, child, if you’d like enough for a frock, you can

have it. In for a penny, in for a pound. ’Twas a fool-girl vow,

anyway, made in passion—a lifetime ago.... They’re decking themselves

out in lank draperies now, so you’ll be in the style, Katherine. This

mull is better and costlier than most of the shoddy silks the shoddy

people are wearing these days. It will prove you are no _nouveau

riche_. You don’t know what _nouveau riche_ means, do you, Slawson?"

 

Martha paused. "No’m. But I always thought I wouldn’t mind bein’ the

_nouveau_, whatever it is, if I just had a try at the _riche_."

 

Madam Crewe drew down her lips in what Mrs. Slawson had grown to call

her "Foxy gran’ma" __EXPRESSION__. She turned again to Katherine. "I’ll

give you a fichu to wear with the mull. A French thing, handworked,

trimmed with Mechlin, rather good Mechlin, as it happens. I never wore

it. ’Twas too large. Swallowed me up. But the long ends won’t trail

on _you_. There, there! Don’t thank me. I hate sentimentality. And

I’ve almost been sentimental myself—after sixty-eight years. I know

you’re pleased. I understand my sex. We’re sirens, all of us, at

heart—when we have any heart. I’ve not the slightest doubt, now, but if

Slawson put on a pair of silk stockings and a lace petticoat, she’d feel

as coquettish as any of us. No matter how plain we are, we all have the

_instincts_ of beautiful women. We’re made that way.... Now close down

the lid. See you turn the key all the way ’round. I recollect the lock

is tricky. Slawson, help Miss Katherine carry the chest back where it

came from. Put it away where you found it, and be sure to fasten the

trunk-room door, and bolt it securely. And, Slawson, you needn’t come

back here, when you’ve done. Just take your acrow bobbinet, and march

home to your husband and children, where you belong. I’m tired."