Making Over Martha 24

Making Over Martha 24

"’I saw her shrink. She could not face it. When I saw that, I turned

to go, but the Squire stopped me.

 

"’"Not so fast, my fine fellow! You’ve not returned the letters, yet.

D’you think I’d let you keep them, you low dog, to use against her fair

name, for a price?"

 

"’I had forgotten the letters. I turned to Idea, and it was as if I had

not seen her before, so clear her image stood out, now. She was clad in

some flowery stuff ("dimity," she had once told me ’twas) with a sash

about her waist, and on the sash a pocket hung suspended by a strap.

’Twas to hold her handkerchief, but her handkerchief had to hold her

tears now—and the pocket hung empty. I went to her and held out the

letters. She would not take them.

 

"’"Here are your letters," I said.

 

"’Still she would not touch them.

 

"’Her father cursed us both. I felt my self-control slipping from me.

If I let it go to lay my hand upon the man—God help him—and me. But I

could not escape until Idea had the letters. Again, she would not take

them. With a quick movement I thrust them in her pocket. She did not

seem to understand what I was doing. She thought I was trying to grasp

her hand, I think, for she flung it out to me imploringly. But I only

dimly saw that as I wheeled about, and so, off and away. That day I

left the place. Later, I learned, the Squire and Idea went too. But

before they did so he caused his man of law to follow me, again

demanding the letters.

 

"’"The letters have already been returned," was all I could say. "She

has them. I gave them back. When she would not take them, I thrust them

in her pocket."

 

"’With that the lawyer had, perforce, to be content. At least he has

not troubled me since. So I close this book. A closed book, too, the

story of my love. A book I know I must never open if ever I am to be at

peace with life. For I will say it once and so be done, Idea is my

mate—the one woman in the world whom only I love, or ever shall. I have

lost her, but the memory of her I must keep until I die—my passionate,

headstrong, struggling, loving child. May God be with her, true and

loyal little heart, wherever she may go.’"

 

Dr. Ballard looked up, as he closed down the cover.

 

"You see, he _did_ give back the letters," he said.

 

Madam Crewe clutched the arms of her chair, sitting forward, gazing

fixedly into space. When she spoke it was as if she spoke in a dream,

filling out the bailiff’s tale.

 

"I had no letters and, as for the pocket, ’twas never seen from that day

on. My father insisted ’twas a ruse on my—the bailiff’s part, his

offering to return them. He said he had kept them to use as a means of

blackmail. I was too desperate to care. My father swore the man would

presently show his hand, but he did not, nor his face either. I never

saw him again. At first I would hear no ill of him, but my father and

the attorney told me I was too young, too ignorant of the world, to know

how base the creature was, what a narrow escape I had had. There were

nights—many and many of them—when, here and abroad, I cried myself to

sleep, regretting my _escape_ hadn’t been narrower.

 

"Now, sir, you know the story of your grandfather and me. It is all

very long ago. The wonder is, the memory has stayed by me all these

years."

 

For the first time within her recollection, Katherine felt herself drawn

to her grandmother. It was as if a means of communication had been

opened up between them. She would have liked to go to her and lay her

arms about her shoulders lovingly.

 

Dr. Ballard broke the silence.

 

"The truth lies between your word, and my grandfather’s. _I_ believe he

was honest. You believe the contrary."

 

Madam Crewe was silent.

 

The doctor continued. "Now, as you say, all that took place very long

ago. Even granting my grandfather’s motives to have been the worst, I

count myself out of the tangle. I stand on my own feet, don’t I? If I

have built up my life on honest principle, I can’t see how you can

reasonably hold me to account for the sins or fancied sins of my

forbears. Our democracy isn’t worth the name, if it doesn’t admit a

man’s a man for a’ that. I love your granddaughter. I wish to marry

her. I ask your consent."

 

Katherine could not see her grandmother’s face for the sudden mist that

had gathered to trouble her vision. But she heard the familiar voice

distinctly enough.

 

"Wait a moment. Hear me out. Then repeat your declaration, if you

choose. They say I’m avaricious. Rich, grasping, penurious. Suppose I

told you I’m poor? That the bulk of my fortune was squandered long ago?

That I’ve had a hard time to keep my nose, and this girl’s here, above

water? Would you wish to marry her, still?"

 

"Certainly. Why not?"

 

"You say that because you don’t believe it’s true."

 

"I say it because, saving your presence, I don’t care a continental

whether it’s true or not. Your money or the lack of it, is nothing to

me. I care for _Katherine_!"

 

"Suppose I told you Katherine’s grandfather, the man I married, was a

coward and a liar, as they said your grandfather was? Suppose I told

you her father, my son, followed in his father’s footsteps?"

 

Dr. Ballard shrugged impatiently. "It’s Katherine I want for my wife.

It’s not her dead and buried ancestors. I have to deal with Katherine’s

faults and virtues, not those of her family."

 

"You hear that, Katherine? It’s _your_ faults and virtues he——"

 

Madam Crewe put the question with a sort of bravado, but her utterance

was slightly unsteady. She did not conclude her sentence.

 

Katherine had grown very white.

 

When she did not respond, the old woman demanded peevishly, "Well, well?

What have you to say for yourself? Can’t you speak?"

 

"I say—I can’t marry—Dr. Ballard." The girl rose and stood holding on

to the back of her chair with two cold, trembling hands.

 

Her grandmother fairly raised herself up in her seat. "What do you

mean——? ’You can’t marry Dr. Ballard?’" Her voice rose to a sharp

falsetto.

 

Katherine shook her head.

 

"Nonsense! Whim!" The old woman spoke with unaccountable passion.

 

Dr. Ballard laid a firm, warm hand on Katherine’s cold ones. His face

was rather pale, but his tone, when he spoke, was quite composed.

 

"Forgive me," he said. "I see I’ve got in all wrong on this. I didn’t

mean to distress you. Let us drop it now, and later, some time, when we

two are alone together, we’ll thresh it out, eh?"

 

Again Katherine shook her head. "No, I want never to talk about it

again," she said tremulously.

 

"Why?" The old woman asked the question almost fiercely, bending

forward to peer searchingly into her granddaughter’s face.

 

For a moment it looked as if Katherine were in danger of being swept off

her feet by the intensity of her hidden feeling. She opened her lips,

then resolutely closed them again. Her grandmother did not seem to see,

or, at all events, did not regard her effort at self-control.

 

"Have you no tongue in your head?"

 

"Say it isn’t true—what you’ve just hinted, about my father and his.

Say it isn’t true, and I’ll—_tell_——"

 

"Ho! Do you think I’m to be called to account by you, young miss?"

Madam Crewe interrupted testily. "If Dr. Ballard is ready to marry you,

in the face of the conditions I asked him to suppose, why, get down on

your knees, and thank God for such a disinterested lover. But don’t

flatter yourself you can oblige me to do as you choose. I am

sixty-eight years old and I will not be forced."

 

Dr. Ballard laughed out.

 

"Don’t you see it’s all nonsense, Katherine? The whole thing isn’t

worth a serious thought. If your grandmother likes to have her little

joke, why, let us try to see the humor of it. Perhaps she doesn’t want

you to marry me. But now she sees it’s inevitable, she’ll——"

 

"No," said Katherine. "It’s not inevitable. I can’t marry you."

 

Dr. Ballard was silent, but Madam Crewe’s words snapped out like sparks

from a live wire.

 

"The day Norris was here, you said you would. You _insisted_ you would.

Does your refusal now mean you’ve reconsidered the conditions he

suggested? You’ve thought better of your first decision?"

 

Katharine gave her a long look. It seemed to her, her humiliation was

complete. And still she managed to hold herself in check.

 

"You make it very hard for me—you force me to say things—I—— Very well,

then listen! I _do_ love Dr. Ballard and—I’d have married him if—I

could!"

 

He was on his feet in a second, the chair he had sat in crashing

backward with the violence of the sudden spring he made from it. But

Katherine was quicker than he. She turned and had run from the room

before he could prevent her.

 

Madam Crewe let her breath escape in a long sigh of fatigue.

 

"Dear me! What tiresome things the young are! As Slawson says, they’re

hard as nails. You’d better reconsider, and ask _me_ to marry you

instead of Katherine. I’m seasoned, if not mellowed. Yes, you’d much

better marry me."

 

Dr. Ballard smiled grimly. "Where my handsomer grandfather failed, how

could _I_ hope to win?" he retorted, throwing her a glance of mock

gallantry. But even as he looked, he saw her face blench, her figure

sag together like a wilted plant. In a second he had her in his arms,

carrying her to the couch, forgetting the personal in the professional, working over her with a will.