Making Over Martha 23

Making Over Martha 23

Dr. Ballard had been absent a fortnight or more, and July was drawing to

its close, when one afternoon Katherine heard the sound she had been

longing for all these days, the familiar musical notes of his

motor-horn.

 

Looking ahead expectantly, he spied her at once, and gave salute, as the

car swept up to the porch, a silent military salute. Alighting, he

passed directly upstairs to Madam Crewe’s sitting-room.

 

Katherine followed after, drawn as if by the sense of something pending,

something too interesting to miss.

 

Madam Crewe glanced around as the doctor entered.

 

"Oho, so _you’re_ back, are you?"

 

Dr. Ballard took a chair without waiting to be invited and said lightly,

as he seated himself facing his patient:

 

"You speak the truth."

 

The old woman raised her chin. "Thank you, young man. You flatter me!"

 

"Not in the least," came the prompt retort. "I haven’t come with any

such intention. I’ve come—and I may as well out with it at once—I’ve

come to tell you that I have found the reason for your dislike of ’the

Ballard tribe.’ I’ve discovered the case you have against us. I’ve

been ferreting about among my grandfather’s effects, and I’ve unearthed

his Journal. Curious, isn’t it, that a _bailiff_ should have kept a

Journal?"

 

Madam Crewe deigned no response.

 

After a pause lasting several seconds, Dr. Ballard continued: "I presume

you would feel seriously affronted if I were to take the liberty of

supposing you might be interested."

 

"Fudge! Have you the Journal there?"

 

"Yes."

 

"You have read it?"

 

"Quite so."

 

"Then you—know?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Well? And what then? What are you going to do about it?"

 

"I am going to read my grandfather’s Journal aloud, now, here—I mean,

that portion of it that relates to you."

 

Madam Crewe straightened to a military stiffness. "You are going to do

nothing of the sort," she averred stoutly.

 

"Indeed I am."

 

"I’ll not permit it. I’ll send Katherine from the room."

 

"Oh, no you won’t. You are too just to do that. You have made certain

charges against my grandfather; now, the only fair thing, is to give him

a show—to let him state his case, from his side."

 

"No. He wouldn’t tell the truth. He falsified once. He’d falsify

again."

 

"You haven’t proved it."

 

"You have my word."

 

"Your word is all very well, as far as it goes. But even you would

hardly claim that it goes all the way ’round the truth, and then tucks

under, like Dick’s hatband. My grandfather has a word too, and I’m

going to see that he has a chance to get it in edgewise, and—what’s

more, that you listen."

 

Madam Crewe turned her body stiffly toward Katherine.

 

"Come here. Sit down!" she commanded autocratically.

 

Dr. Ballard took up his book, opening it at an obviously marked point.

 

"The first entry bearing any reference to you or yours was written in

1844. In the spring of that year he mentions going to see one Squire

Stryker, in connection with the stewardship of his estate. I’ll skip

all the non-essentials and——"

 

"Skip nothing. Since you _will_ read, read!"

 

"Very well.

 

"’Boston, February 6th, 1844. This morning saw Squire Stryker. He

wishes to engage a bailiff. A hard man, I judge him to be. Not easy to

please, because he is exacting, arbitrary, without judgment or justice.

He is ruled by passion, not principle.

 

"’Feb. 10th. I have made my decision. For good or ill, I go to Squire

Stryker’s, in New Hampshire, to-morrow.’

 

"Following are several pages given over to notes and data connected with

the estate. Its acreage, its possibilities, its limitations. Nothing

else. They carry one to April, and—this:

 

"’A strange thing has happened. No, not a strange thing. The thing is

simple, the strangeness is in its effect on me. There is a lane hard

by, called Cherry Lane. ’Tis part of the estate. At this season the

trees are in full blossom. I went there to estimate the probable yield

of fruit, and the condition of the trees, and—underneath the white and

pink boughs stood a white and pink maid. She looked at me and smiled.

She told me she was Squire Stryker’s daughter. She knew I was the new

bailiff, she said.

 

"’April 14. I have seen the child again. Yes, again and again. Many

times, in fact. I call her child because so indeed she seems to me, who

am, at least, fifteen years older. She tells me she is seventeen. ’Tis

hard to believe for that in stature she’s no higher than my heart, and

her eyes are as open and unconscious as a child’s except when—— But

that is my fancy! I am sure ’tis my fancy.

 

"’June 1st. ’Tis many weeks since that was written. Not that I have

naught to say. Rather, too much. I find I cannot set down what is in

my heart. _Idea Stryker and I are betrothed!_

 

"’June 14. Every afternoon towards sundown my little sweetheart and I

walk in Cherry Lane. I wish she had a mother. I do not like these

clandestine meetings. Sometimes I doubt myself. Not my love for Idea,

God knows, but my power to make it tell for her best good. To-day I

told her my conscience troubled me. I am no friend to untruth or

furtive acts. Idea put on a look of high contempt, aping her father.

She scowled at me, folded her arms across her bosom and, measuring me up

and down, in his own manner to the life, said: "Deuce take your

conscience, sir! I’ll have none of it." Then, suddenly changing, she

clung to me crying, "I’ll have nothing but your love, Daniel! But, your

love I’ll die to have, and to hold." I let my heart direct me rather

than my head, and gave way to her. But I still feel the better course

would be to tell her father and make an end of this deceit.

 

* * * * *

 

"’’Tis many a long day since I have taken up this book to write in it.

Now that I do, ’tis in a different year and place. Yet I have often

thought ’twas cowardly to shun the setting down in black and white of

what will always be the deepest record of my heart. I have said Idea

and I were at variance upon the point of telling her father what was

between us. Again and again I tried to tell her ’twas unworthy of us

both. But she always overruled me. I gave way. Then, one day when I

spoke of it, she suddenly burst forth in such a passion as I have never

seen. Poor child! ’Twas her father’s fury, but not, this time, done in

mimicry. She told me she was weary of being preached to about the

truth, deceit, and duty. She would have me know she’d as good a sense

of propriety as I. Nay, better, for, after all, who was I but her

father’s servant, she would like to know. "How dare you criticise me?"

she blazed. "You forget I am your master’s daughter."

 

"’I can see her now, standing there stamping her foot at me, her eyes

flashing, her cheeks like flame. The rage in her flared up, then died

down as quickly. That was her way. The heat in _me_ has a different

habit. It smolders and grows until it seems to freeze me with its white

intensity. It is my bosom-enemy which I am trying to conquer. I had

not done it then. "You are right," I said. "I had forgotten. I had

forgotten everything except that you are the girl I loved, who I thought

loved me. You have done well to remind me of my place. I will never

forget it again, or that you are _my master’s daughter_."

 

"’With that I turned, and left her standing, stunned, bewildered, in

Cherry Lane. I could see she did not realize what had happened. She

thought I would come back. She waited for me. And so I did come back,

but not to let her see me. Only to watch over her, that no harm should

befall, for the spot was lonely and far from the house, and dusk was

about to fall. When the first star showed, she went home. I could hear

her crying softly, all the way. She would cry, then stop to dry her

tears, and call me names through her sobbing.

 

"’There were no more meetings after that, though she _got in my way_

more than once, as I went about my duties. I knew very well what she

wanted, but I could not relent. What my dear mother used to call my

dumb demon had taken possession of me. It would not let me speak. Would

not let me write to answer any of the letters Idea sent me begging me to

meet her when the sun went down.

 

"’Then, one day, I was summoned before the Squire. She had told him.

 

"’He was waiting for me in his library, clad in his riding-clothes just

as he had come from horseback. He carried a riding-crop. His face was

of a dull reddish color, his eyes green. He began, the moment I entered

the door, to assail me, standing with his back to it, his legs planted

wide.

 

"’"You miserable beggar!" he brandished his crop in my face. "First,

you have the insolence to make love to my daughter, then you insult her

by refusing, when she _stoops_ to offer you her hand in reconciliation."

 

"’"That is precisely the point," I heard myself say. "’Tis because she

_stoops_."

 

The words were no sooner out, than Idea was clinging to me. "I’m not

proud any more, Daniel," she cried. "I’ll never stoop again. If you’ll

only forgive me this once, I’ll promise never to vex you any more.

Please, Daniel, please!"

 

"’The Squire snatched her wrist. "Silence!" he thundered, and would

have swung her violently aside, but I prevented it. I saw the old look

in her eyes.

 

"’"Then come with me," I said, "now—this hour. Marry me and——"

 

"’Her father flung himself between us, when she would have come to me.

He swore he would disown her. No shilling of his should she ever get.

She should be a beggar—married to a beggar.