Making Over Martha 40

Making Over Martha 40

"Say, stop that nonsense, Miss Katherine. Stop it right now, before you

say another word. There ain’t any truth in it, to begin with, an’ _I_

say it’s wicked to _think_ such things. Just you answer me a couple o’

questions, will you?"

 

Martha’s unaccustomed severity startled Katherine out of her hysteria.

She nodded acquiescence.

 

"Why did you tell me, firstoff, when you’d took the pocket?"

 

"Because I loathed myself so. I couldn’t bear it alone."

 

"Why did you clap the name o’ thief to yourself? Are you proud o’ it?"

 

"It’s the truth. I have to tell the truth!"

 

"Why have you?"

 

"Because it’s _right_ to."

 

"Then, on your own say-so, you ain’t any o’ those things you said.

Don’t you see you ain’t? A thief don’t hate what he does, so he’s

afraid to be alone with himself. A liar don’t _have_ to stick to the

truth, does he? A coward won’t stand up, an’ face the music, ’cause

it’s _right_ to—not so you’d notice it, he won’t. All this hangin’ on

to your antsisters’ shirt-tails an’ apern-strings, for good, or for bad,

makes me sick on my back. I’m tired seein’ crooked sticks tryin’ to

pull glory down on themselves off’n what they call their Family-trees.

Don’t you fool yourself. It’s every man for himself these days—_thank

God_! It don’t folla you’re what your gran’pa is, any more’n your

gran’ma. You got a mind o’ your own, an’ a conscience o’ your own, an’

if you did, in a way o’ speakin’, lose your grip on yourself, an’ done

what tempted you—to do it oncet, ain’t to say you’ll ever do it again.

It’s just the very reason why you _won’t_ ever do it again!"

 

Katherine shook her head. "That may be true. All I can say is, it

doesn’t seem true to me now. Anyway, I can’t change my feeling about

grandmother. I want never to see her again. She hates me and—I——"

 

"Now, easy! Go easy, Miss Katherine. What makes you think the ol’ lady

hates you?"

 

"Everything she has ever done. She’s never kissed me in her life, that

I can remember."

 

"Kissin’ ain’t all there is to lovin’. What did your gran’ma want to

save her money for? What did she scrimp an’ screw for, after bein’ used

to live in the lap o’ lucksherry all her days——? I’m a ignorant woman,

but it seems to me, she could ’a’ paid up all was owin’, and lived off’n

her capital, an’ said to herself: ’Hooray! A short life, an’ a merry

one! Let the grandchild I hate, look out for herself. What do _I_

care?’"

 

"Perhaps she don’t mind saving and denying herself, any more. She’s got

used to it," suggested Katherine. "Maybe she likes it."

 

"I wouldn’t be too sure," Martha admonished, "Think it over."

 

"I have thought it over—and over and over. Nothing will change me. I’ll

not go back, Mrs. Slawson."

 

"Where are you goin’?"

 

"To Boston."

 

"What for, to Boston?"

 

"First, to tell Dr. Ballard just what and who I am. Grandmother thought

it was _lying_ for me to hold back that story, when I should have made a

clean breast of it, at once. She acts as if she had to protect Dr.

Ballard against me. She acts as if _he_ is the one who’s dear to her

and I’m the stranger. Well, I’ll show her! I’d never marry him now,

if—if——"

 

"An’, after you got through throwin’ down Dr. Ballard?"

 

"I’ll go somewhere else. To another town—and earn my living."

 

"Doin’ what?"

 

"I don’t know yet. But the way will open."

 

"You bet it will. Good an’ big, the way’ll open," Martha echoed her

words with scoffing emphasis. "It’ll make you dizzy lookin’ at it gapin’

at you!"

 

Katherine’s pale cheeks flushed. "I’m not a fool, Mrs. Slawson. There

are some things I can do, as it is. I can learn to do more."

 

"Certaintly. There’s lots o’ lovely things you can do in this world—_if

you don’t charge anythin’ for’m_."

 

Katherine rose.

 

"I came to you, Mrs. Slawson, because I felt you were my friend."

 

"So I am."

 

"I came to you because I knew what you’d done for the Hinckley girl. I

want you to do the same for me. There’s a train leaves Burbank Junction

for Boston at eleven-thirty-three. Will you take me over there in your

motor?"

 

"No, ma’am!"

 

Katherine stared at her, out of astonished eyes.

 

"No, ma’am!" repeated Martha. "When I took Ellen Hinckley to Burbank,

it was outa harm’s way. If I took _you_ it’d be into it. Ellen Hinckley

was a poor, weak sister, which runnin’ away was all there was _for_ her.

_You_ are strong as they make’m, an’ stayin’ ’s all there is for you.

Ellen owed it to herself to leave her mother. You owe it to yourself to

stand by yours."

 

"Then I’ll go to Mr. Ronald. He’ll take me—when I tell him."

 

"Don’t you believe it. An’ you won’t tell’m either, Miss Katherine.

You’re too proud, an’ he’s too _fair_. It wouldn’t take him a minute to

tell you, ’Stay by the poor little ol’ lady, till she’s no need o’ you

no more, which it won’t be long, now, anyhow.’ It wouldn’t take’m a

minute to tell you that, Miss Katherine—not for Madam Crewe’s sake—but

for yours."

 

"I’ll never go back," the girl reiterated determinedly. "Whatever I do,

I’ll never go back. If you won’t take me to Burbank, I’ll wait here at

the station, for the trolley. There’ll be another train out sometime.

I’ll get to Boston somehow."

 

"Miss Katherine," Martha pleaded, but the girl stopped her with an

impatient gesture.

 

"It’s no use, Mrs. Slawson. I feel as if there were nothing but

ugliness and horror in all the world. It’s come out—even in _you_!"

 

Martha turned her face away quickly, as if she had been struck.

 

"I’ve not gone back on you, Miss Katherine. Take my word for it, till

you can see for yourself what I say’s true. You think everything’s ugly

now. That’s because you got knocked, same as if it was, flat on your

back. You’re just bowled clean over. You’re lookin’ at things upside

down. But let me tell you somethin’—there’s been good in all the knocks

ever I got in my life, if I had the sense to see."

 

"I don’t believe it!" said Katherine passionately.

 

Martha smiled. "Certaintly you don’t, at the present moment. But you

will, in the course o’ time. Why, the hardest knock a party’d land you,

right between the eyes, you’d see _stars_."

 

Katherine turned quickly away, stooped to pick up her bag, and without

another word, passed to the door.

 

"Say, Miss Katherine," called Martha, "I want to tell you somethin’.

Now, listen! Dr. Ballard, he tol’ me oncet——" she was talking to empty

air.

 

Katherine had gone.

 

Martha followed at far as the doorstep, to look after the girlish figure

marching so resolutely out into the cold gray of the early autumn

morning. She stood watching it, until it passed out of sight, around

the bend of the road that led to the village.

 

Then, with all her day’s work still before her, Martha Slawson

deliberately sat down to think.

 

"Between the two o’ them, they’ve made a mess of it, for fair," she told

herself. "But I’ll give the ol’ lady this credit, I do b’lieve she

started in _wantin’_ to do the right thing. The trouble with her is,

she waited too long, an’ in the meantime, Miss Katherine’s been bottlin’

in her steam, an’ gettin’ bitterer an’ bitterer, till all it took was

the first word from the little Madam, to bust her b’iler, an’ send the

pieces flyin’. Miss Katherine says they talked all night. I bet ’twas

her done the talkin’. I can jus’ see her takin’ the bit between her

teeth, an’ lettin’ rip, for all she was worth, same’s Sam wipin’ up the

floor with Mrs. Peckett, which he’d never raised his hand to a soul in

his life before, an’ prob’ly never will again. Just for oncet the both

of’m, him an’ her, had their fling, more power to’m! In the meantime,

the fat’s in the fire. If I’d ’a’ had the book-learnin’ I’d oughta, an’

not been the ignorant woman I am, I’d ’a’ been able to speak the wise

word to Miss Katherine, that would ’a’ cooled her off, an’ ca’med her

down, till she’d have her reason back, an’ could see the right an’ wrong

of it for herself. But I haven’t, an’ she ain’t, an’ while I’m sittin’

here thinkin’ about it, she’s makin’ tracks for Boston, an’ Dr. Ballard.

Bein’ a man, he’ll welcome her with open arms. Bein’ a girl, she’ll

forget all about her good intentions to throw’m down, the minute she

claps eyes on’m. An’ then, when it’s all over, an’ Time has fanned the

first flush off’n ’m, he’ll get to thinkin’ how she ain’t the woman he

thought her, because she left her gran’ma in the lurch, which he tol’ me

with his own lips he’d never ask her do it. In fac’, he wouldn’t respec’

her if she did do it, an’ the poor ol’ lady so sick, ’n’ old, ’n’

lonesome. An’, with one like Dr. Ballard, a girl’d want to think twice

before she’d risk lowerin’ herself, to do what he couldn’t respec’. No,

Dr. Ballard mustn’t know Miss Katherine’s left her gran’ma alone. He

mustn’t know it, even if she _does_ it! But how is he goin’ not to know

it, I should like to know?"

 

For a few moments Martha painfully pondered the problem, without any

sign of untangling its knotted thread. Then suddenly she rose and,

going to the foot of the stairway, called up to Sam:

 

"Say, Sam—come here a minute, will you? I wisht you’d wake up Cora, an’

tell her get busy fixin’ the breakfast. An’ when you come down, set

Sammy feedin’ the hens, an’ turnin’ the cow out. I ain’t able to do my

chores, because I got suddently called away. I prob’ly won’t be back

till dinnertime, or maybe night. Don’t wait for me, an’ don’t be

uneasy. I’ll tell you about it later."

 

She caught up her coat and hat, hanging on a hook on the entry closet

door, and put them on while she was making her way across the grounds,

in the direction of the big house.

 

She knew, before she crossed the kitchen doorsill, that Mr. Ronald would

not be up at this hour of the morning; nevertheless, she got Tyrrell to

take a message for her to his door.

 

"Tell’m I got somethin’ very important I wanta say. Ask’m will he let

me telefoam it up to’m."

 

Mr. Frank sent down word, "Certainly!"