Making Over Martha 35

Making Over Martha 35

"No, he did not."

 

"I thought surely he would be tellin’ you, that are his wife, even if he

kep’ his old mother in ignorance. That’s the way it is wit’ childern,

these times."

 

"For the love o’ Mike!" Martha murmured beneath her breath.

 

When Sam came in, shortly after, had silently eaten his supper, and was

preparing to settle down for a bout with _The New England Farmer_, she

proceeded to take him to task on his mother’s behalf.

 

"Ma feels kind o’ sore because you didn’t show her the letter you got

this mornin’ from Andy."

 

Sam pulled off his shoes with a jerk. "How’d she know I got a letter

from Andy?"

 

"I d’know. But you did, didn’t you?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Well, why didn’t you read it to her? She’s gettin’ old, an’ the older

she gets, the crankier she gets. I guess it’s up to us to humor her,

for, one thing’s certain, she won’t humor _us_, an’ there might as well

be some fun in the house for some one."

 

Sam caught his lower lip between his teeth and held it there for a

moment.

 

"There was nothing in Andy’s letter would interest her. That is, there

was no family news, or anything. ’Twas a business letter."

 

Martha proceeded with her work, dropping her questioning at once.

 

"Well, an’ why wouldn’t I be interested in me own son Andy’s venturin’,

no matter if it _is_ business, itself?" insisted the old woman

querulously, when Martha repeated what Sam had said. "If that same Andy

does be makin’ a fortune, surely his own mother should be hearin’ tell

of it, first; leastwise, so she should in any God-fearin’ fam’ly. But

it’s more like a heathen I’m treated now, than a Christian woman, that’s

raised a big crop o’ childern till they’d be able fend for themselves.

Andy is likeliest of the lot, an’ now, when he’s made his fortune, an’

would be writin’ his brother of his luck, his own mother would be told,

’It’s only business!’ the way she’ll not take a natural joy in his

triumphin’, or, maybe, look to’m for a stray dollar, itself."

 

To all of which Martha made no reply.

 

But later, when Ma and the children were abed and asleep, she looked up

from her mending to find Sam’s eyes fixed on her in a stare of grim

desperation.

 

"For a fella whose brother has just made his everlastin’ fortune, you’re

the mournfullest party I ever struck," she quietly observed. "You’re as

glum-lookin’ as one o’ them ball-bearer undertakers at a funer’l. Cheer

up! It ain’t your funer’l! An’ if _you_ ain’t made the fortune, your

brother has, so it’s all in the fam’ly, anyhow."

 

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

 

"Why, Ma says Andy’s letter was to tell you he’s made a fortune."

 

Sam groaned.

 

"Well, hasn’t he?"

 

"No."

 

"What was his letter about, then? He ain’t after money, to borrow it

off’n you, is he?"

 

Sam shook his head.

 

"Because, if Andy wants to try any of his get-rich-quick games on us, he

better guess again. He’s got to take his chances with all the other

fancy dancers, that’s all there is to it. It’s a poor pie won’t grease

its own tin."

 

"He don’t want to borrow, Martha. He——"

 

"Well——?"

 

Sam swallowed hard, laid _The New England Farmer_ on the table, and drew

himself in his chair a step nearer his wife.

 

"When I was down in New York, Andy was fairly beset with the idea of

going into a scheme with a man he knew, who’d offered him a chance, if

he could raise the cash, or as-good-as. Andy could talk of nothing

else. The same with Nora-Andy. They told me all about it, and I’m

bound to say it did sound good to me. But I’d no money to give or lend,

and I told them so. Ma’d been blabbing about our having a bit saved,

and Nora-Andy reproached me with withholding it from my own brother,

when it was only a loan he needed, with good interest for the one loaned

it, to take the chance of a lifetime. I told them the money wasn’t mine,

but yours and the children’s. You’d saved it, not I. And then Andy

said, he’d never lay hand on it, if it was the last penny he’d ever hope

to see. ’Twas not money he wanted of me at all, and he brought out a

paper, that, if I would set my name to it, would help him out, as fine

as money, and nobody hurt by the transaction a hair."

 

Martha dropped her sewing to her lap.

 

"You never signed it, Sam?" she entreated. "Of course, you never signed

it. You know better’n me that it’s wrong to set your name to any

tool—(ol’ lady Crewe’s l’yer’s very words)—wrong to set your name to any

tool——"

 

"Instrument," suggested Sam drearily.

 

"Well, instrument, then. It’s wrong to set your name to any instrument

unless you know what you’re up against."

 

"I know it," confessed Sam humbly.

 

"Well?" Martha plied him.

 

"I did it, mother. And now, the note’s come due, and Andy can’t meet

it, and——"

 

"Well, what do you think o’ that!" sighed Martha.

 

Sam had been leaning forward on his elbows, his palms propping his chin.

Now his face dropped into his hands, as he hid his haggard eyes from her

clear, searching ones.

 

"How much, Sam?"

 

"All we got. The whole two-hundred-and-fifty."

 

For a moment Martha was dumb. Then, straightening back in her chair,

taking up her sewing again, she said, "Well, at least we _got_ it.

There’s that to be thankful for. An’ doncher break your heart, Sam,

worryin’ about your bein’ such a fool as sign that tool—I should say

instrument. I done the same thing myself, now I come to think of it.

The pot can’t call the kettle black. I set my name to a paper, ol’ lady

Crewe ast me to, an’ God only knows how much I’ll be stung for it, for

_I_ don’t.—But wouldn’t it kinda discourage you from puttin’ by for a

rainy day, when the money you scrimped an’ scringed to save, has to go

for a umbrella to keep some other fella dry, which all _you_ get, is the

drippin’s—_right in the neck_!"

 

 

 

 

*CHAPTER XV*

 

 

After many days of serious pondering Martha decided that the only way to

relieve her mind was to "march straight up to the captain’s office," and

ask Madam Crewe point-blank, precisely what the liabilities would be, in

the event of the paper she had signed, falling due, and failing to be

met by the old lady herself.

 

"But if she said ’twas her _will_?" argued Sam. "You’re all right if it

was her will. You couldn’t lose out on that, you know. Unless you were

the kind that’d be looking for yourself. And, of course, if you sign

one as witness, you’re sure you can’t be left anything in it."

 

"I don’t want to be left anything in it. But, by the same token, I

don’t want to be _left_ other ways, either. That’s to say, I wouldn’t

want to have to cough up a couple o’ hunderd now, _just to oblige_.

Especially when I ain’t got’m. Besides, it wasn’t _her_ told me ’twas a

will. ’Twas the l’yer—which is quite another pair o’ shoes. Anyhow,

I’m goin’ up there to find out what I’m libel for in case she can’t pay,

like Andy."

 

Sam saw there was nothing to do but stand aside and let her go.

 

The moment she entered the room, Martha realized that a change had taken

place in "ol’ lady Crewe." It was not anything she could "put her

finger on," as she would have expressed it, but it was there

unmistakably, to be felt, to be—feared.

 

At the sound of her step upon the floor, the little Madam looked up

quickly. A faint smile curled the corners of her mouth for a second,

then vanished.

 

"Well, and what’s brought you here, after all these weeks? I thought

you had fallen into the well."

 

"I been stayin’ with Miss Claire, I should say, Mrs. Ronald. An’ since

a week or ten days, when I went home, I been so took up with my house

an’ the fam’ly in gener’l, I ain’t had a chance," Martha explained

eagerly.

 

"Never mind apologizing. What’s been the trouble with ’the house and

the family in general’?"

 

"They got kind o’ loose-jointed while I was away, so’s I had to lick’m

into shape again,—bring’m up to time. An’ it kep’ me hoppin’."

 

"You have _hopped_ to some purpose, I hear. You and Dr. Ballard have

been making a record for yourselves."

 

"Me?" repeated Martha, amazed. "I ain’t done nothin’. But pshaw! I

forgot! You’re just tryin’ to take a rise out o’ me, as ushal."

 

"A _what_?"

 

"A rise. You know what I mean, ma’am. Tryin’ to take my measure.

That’s what you’re mostly up to—only folks ain’t on to you."

 

Madam Crewe regarded her fixedly for a moment.

 

"Do you know, Slawson," she pronounced thoughtfully at length, "I’ve an

idea I’d quite enjoy some of the things you say—_if you spoke English_.

The trouble is, I don’t understand your patois."

 

Martha smiled blandly. "Askin’ your pardon, for the liberty, I often

thought the same thing o’ you. I don’t understand _your_

what-you-may-call-it, either. Nor most of us don’t understand each

other’s, an’ that’s what’s the trouble with us, I guess. I sometimes

wonder how we get along as good as we do, with the gibberish we talk,

makin’ hash o’ what we mean, an’ sometimes, not meanin’ anythin’."