Making Over Martha 21

Making Over Martha 21

"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."

 

"Nothing. I’ve planned nothing. Buller says I’m looney. Perhaps I am.

I can’t seem to think."

 

"Have you got any folks anywheres? I mean, on your father’s side?"

 

"I’ve an uncle. Father’s brother. But he lives in Montreal."

 

"Montreal! Where would that be, I wonder?"

 

"In Canada. Up north."

 

Mrs. Slawson bound on her soothing compresses in silence. Suddenly she

paused, alert, listening. Then, quick as a flash, she caught her visitor

by the sleeve, drew her back in to the entry and pushed her into a small

closet under the stairs.

 

"Hush! I hear a horse. Don’t you breathe till I come an’ tell you."

 

A moment later she was lying in bed, as still as though she, like Sam,

were fast asleep and dreaming.

 

Presently Sam stirred, sat up drowsily, and listened.

 

"Say, mother, you asleep?"

 

No answer.

 

A voice from below in the garden called up hoarsely:

 

"Hullo, there!"

 

"What’s wanted?" demanded Sam.

 

"I’m Buller, from Milby’s Corners. My wife’s daughter has wandered off

in the night. I’m out hunting for her, to take her home. She ain’t all

there in the upper story. I thought, maybe, she’d come in here. The

last I saw of her, she was making this way. She’s in her night-shift.

I could see her plain as day, far ahead of me."

 

Sam was so obviously but just-awakened, that Buller from Milby’s Corners

turned his horse’s head, as if to make a quick departure, when Mrs.

Slawson, yawning, leaned over the rail of the sleeping-porch and spoke.

 

"Say, wait a minute. The poor thing! Wanderin’ about in the night,—an’

her light-headed—away from your pertectin’ love an’ care! Ain’t it

awful! My husban’ an’ me’ll get up, an’ be dressed in no time, for we’d

like to help her, if we can, poor creature! In the meantime, seein’ you

ain’t found her here, I s’pose you’ll be goin’ further. Out in her

night-clo’es! My! I wonder—— Say, Sam—do _you_ see somethin’ white

flitterin’ along towards the south—down the valley road d’rection?

Seems to me _I_ do!"

 

Sam thought maybe he did.

 

Buller kicked a heel into his horse.

 

"G’long! I’m off down the valley road. I bet ’tis her. I’ll have her

yet, the d—the poor dear!"

 

The instant he was gone, Martha dragged Sam into the house.

 

"Quick! Dress you! An’ go down get the auta. I have the girl hid in

the entry closet. I’m goin’ to take her out o’ harm’s way, which is

that brute beast’s."

 

"But, Martha——" remonstrated Sam.

 

"Sam Slawson, do as I tell you! Or you’ll have to _shove_ us into

Burbank in your present gob, which, believe _me_, it ain’t bewitchin’.

You can take it from me, lad, I’m goin’ to catch that north-bound

express that leaves Burbank at one o’clock this night, which, if we

don’t make it, there ain’t another till to-morra mornin’. So we _got_

to make it, or I’ll know the reason why!"

 

Impelled by a motive power so irresistible, Sam dressed and went about

his business without venturing another word.

 

Martha clothed herself in the brief intervals when she was not attending

Ellen Hinckley, giving her bread to eat, milk to sip, enveloping her in

garments gathered from everywhere, anywhere, a conglomerate assortment

that would have been grotesque if it had not been touching.

 

"No one’ll mind your looks," Martha reassured her. "Just you sit tight,

an’ keep your own counsel, an’ not a dog’ll bark after you. Ma’s veil

tied down over Cora’s hat is quite stylish, an’, be this an’ be that,

you’ve got as good a motorin’ costume as any. They all look like Sam

Hill. So now, I guess, we might be movin’!"

 

"It’s a crazy scheme," Sam whispered in his wife’s ear, as she bent to

him to deliver last instructions, while he was cranking up. "Suppose a

tire bursts?"

 

"It ain’t goin’ to," she assured him with perfect confidence.

 

Out of the gate they sped, then along the hard, white high-road. Even

Martha’s garrulous tongue was stilled.

 

The world, bathed in this silver, ethereal light, seemed unfamiliar,

remote, the sky to have withdrawn, in infinite cool reaches, beyond the

burning little tragedy they were enacting. After a considerable period

of silence, Martha turned to ask Ellen Hinckley if she were comfortable.

The poor creature had fallen asleep, lulled by the motion of the car,

the soft night air, but more than all by the sense of blessed security

under Mrs. Slawson’s protecting wing.

 

Martha was about to nudge Sam to look, when he turned a three-quarters

profile toward her.

 

"I hear something back of us. Can you see?"

 

"No. If I stir she’ll wake. You don’t think it’s him?"

 

"It may be. Joe Harding’s place is down the valley road. He has a car.

Buller mayn’t suspect we’re helping the girl, but when he didn’t find

her in that direction, Harding may have offered to take a hand in the

game."

 

"Would any man o’ conscience help a fella like Buller, who all the

neighborhood knows the life he’s led this poor creature—him an’ the

mother, which she’s a disgrace to the name."

 

"No, but Harding ain’t a man of conscience,—not so you’d notice it, as

you say. If Buller’s out on the still-hunt, Harding’d join in for the

pleasure of the chase."

 

"Put on power," directed Martha.

 

Again that swift, silent progress through the night.

 

Once Sam whispered: "I guess we were stung. I can’t hear anything back

of us any more, can you?"

 

"No," said Martha. "But stung or no stung, keep a-goin’. We ain’t

takin’ no risks."

 

Ellen Hinckley slept fitfully, but even in her waking moments she was

not aware of the dangers the others had feared.

 

"Let her rest," Martha meditated. "After she’s made a clean getaway,

she’ll have all that’s comin’ to her, in the line o’ excitement an’

strain. I don’t believe’m when he says she ain’t all there in the upper

story. But that’s not meanin’ I think she’s furnished as handsome as

some. She may have all her buttons, an’ yet not be the brainiest party

I ever come in contract with. Why didn’t she up an’ open her mind an’

give Buller a piece o’ it long ago? There’s many things a married

woman’s got to shoulder, God knows, but chas*tise*ment, hot off’n his

griddle, as you might say, not on your life, even a married woman

needn’t stand, much less a unmarried maiden-girl. It ain’t decent. If

a man oncet took the strap to me, I’d fix’m so’s the doctor’d have to

hunt for the buckle o’ his belt behind his internal workin’s, in back

among his spine. An’ I’d be proud o’ the job."

 

When they were within about five miles of Burbank Sam gave a low

whistle.

 

"I was wonderin’ if you heard it too," Martha responded promptly.

"Firstoff I thought ’twas my imagination, but it ain’t. Somethin’

certaintly’s follain’ along in our tracks."

 

"The first was a false alarm. So may this be," said Sam.

 

"Sure. But, could you speed up some? Just for luck?"

 

Presently Martha heard another sound.

 

"Now, Ellen," she announced firmly, "you got to brace up. Cryin’ won’t

do you a mite o’ good."

 

"He’s following. I know it. He’s got a car. He’ll get me and take me

back and—_kill_ me!"

 

"He will if you don’t do as I say. But not on your life he won’t, if

you mind your aunt Martha. Firstoff, have you got your money safe an’

handy?"

 

"Yes. Here."

 

"That’s right. See you don’t lose it, when I assist you onto the train.

There mayn’t be much time to spare, but if the brakeman’s any good on

the catch, I’m up to handin’m a neat throw, an’ between us you’ll get

there!"

 

"But my ticket——"

 

"This is no time for thinkin’ o’ tickets. Let the conductor be glad if,

after the train is on its way, you got the price o’ one o’ them long,

floatin’ streamer-effec’s he carries in his vest-pocket, to amuse ’mself punchin’ holes in it."