Martha By the Day by Julie M. Lippmann

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"Or their sisters."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing worth repeating. Go on with your story."

"Well, then, one evening she brought him here, you remember. I'd asked
him to come, when I was in Tuxedo, and he evidently wanted to do so, for
he proposed to Amy that she bring him. Of course, I'd no idea he and
Miss Lang had ever met before, and when I innocently ordered her in, I
did it simply because Radcliffe was refractory and refused to come
without her, and I couldn't have a scene before guests."

"Well?"

"I didn't know Mr. Van Brandt came from Grand Rapids. How should I? One
never thinks of those little, provincial towns as having any _society_."

"You dear insular, insolent New Yorker."

"Well, you may jeer as much as you like, but that's the way one feels. I
didn't know that, as Martha says, he was 'formerly born' in Michigan. I
just took him for granted, as one does people one meets in our best
houses. He's evidently of good stock, he has money (not a fortune,
perhaps, but enough), he's handsome, and he's seen everywhere with the
smartest people in town."

"Well?"

"Well, naturally Amy doesn't want to lose him, especially as she's
really awfully fond of him and he _is_ uncommonly attractive, you know."

"Well?"

"It looks as if that one glimpse of Miss Lang had been enough to upset
everything for Amy. He's hardly been there since."

"And what does she propose to do about it?"

"She doesn't know what to do about it. That's where my suggestions and
advice are to come in."

"I see."

"Of course, we can't be certain, but from what Bob Van Brandt has
dropped and from what Amy has been able to gather from other sources,
from people who knew Miss Lang and him in their native burg, he was
attached to her when she was no more than a kiddie. Then, when they grew
up, he came East and she went abroad, and they lost sight of each
other. But, as I say, that one glimpse of her was enough to ignite the
old flame. You must have seen yourself how frankly, openly he showed his
feeling that night."

"Well?"

"What is one to do about it?"

"Do about what?"

"Why--the whole thing! Don't you see, I'm responsible in a way. If I
hadn't called Miss Lang in, Bob Van Brandt wouldn't have known she was
here, and then he would have kept on with Amy. Now he's dropped her it's
up to me to make it up to her somehow."

"It's up to you to make _what_ up to Amy?"

"How dense you are! Why, the loss of Bob Van Brandt."

"But if she didn't have him, how could she lose him?"

"She didn't exactly have him, but she had a fighting chance."

"And she wants to fight?"

"I think she'd be willing to fight, if she saw her way to winning out."

"Winning out against Miss Lang?"

"Yes, if you want to put it so brutally."

"I see you are assuming that Miss Lang is keen about Van Brandt."

"Would you wonder if she were? It would be her salvation. Of course, I
don't feel about her any longer as I did once. I know _now_ she's a
lady, but the fact of her poverty remains. If she married Bob Van
Brandt, she'd be comfortably settled. She'd have ease and position and,
oh, of course she'll marry him if he asks her."

"So the whole thing resolves itself down to--"

"To this--if one could only devise a way to prevent his asking her."

"Am I mistaken, or did I hear you say something about putting it
brutally, a few moments ago."

"Well, I know it sounds rather horrid, but a desperate case needs
desperate medicine."

"Catherine, you have asked for suggestions and advice. My suggestion to
Miss Pelham is that she gracefully step down and out. My advice to you
is that you resist the temptation to meddle. If Mr. Van Brandt wishes to
ask Miss Lang to marry him, he has a man's right to do so. If Miss Lang
wishes to marry Mr. Van Brandt after he has asked her, she has a woman's
right to do so. Any interference whatsoever would be intolerable. You
can take my advice or leave it. But _if_ you leave it, if you attempt to
mix in, you will regret it, for you will not be honorably playing the
game."

Mrs. Sherman's lips tightened. "That's all very well," she broke out
impatiently. "That's the sort of advice men always give to women, and
never act on themselves. It's not the masculine way to sit calmly by and
let another carry off what one wants. If a man _cares,_ he fights for
his rights. It's only when he isn't interested that he's passive and
speaks of _honorably playing the game_. All's fair in love and war! If
you were in Amy's place--if the cases were reversed--and you saw
something you'd set your heart on being deliberately taken away from
you, I fancy _you_ wouldn't gracefully step down and out. At least I
don't see you doing it, in my mind's eye, Horatio!"

"Ah, but you miss the point! There's a great difference between claiming
one's own and struggling to get possession of something that is lawfully
another's. If I were in Miss Pelham's place, and were _sure_ the one I
loved belonged to me by divine right, I'd have her--I'd have her in
spite of the devil and all his works. But the thing would be to be
_sure_. And one couldn't be sure so long as another claimant hadn't had
his chance to be thrown down. When he'd had his chance, and the decks
were cleared--_then_--!"

"Goodness, Frank! I'd no idea you could be so intense. And I'll confess
I've never given you credit for so much imagination. You've been talking
of what you'd do in Amy's place quite as if you actually felt it. Your
performance of the determined lover is really most convincing."

Francis Ronald smiled. "A man who's succeeded in _convincing_ a woman
has not lived in vain," he said. "Well, I must be off, Catherine. Good
luck to you and to Miss Pelham--but bad luck if either of you dares
stick her mischievous finger in other people's pies."

He strode out of the room and the house.

Meanwhile, Martha, industriously engaged in brushing Miss Lang's hair,
was gradually, delicately feeling her way toward what was, in reality,
the same subject.

"Well, of course, you can have Cora if you want her. She'll be only too
glad o' the ride, but _do_ you think--now do you _reelly_ think it's
advisable to lug a third party along when it's clear as dish-water he
wants you alone by himself an' _yourself_? It's this way with men. If
they set out to do a thing, they gener'ly do it. But believe _me_, if
you put impederments in their way, they'll shoor do it, an' then some.
Now all them flowers an' candy that's been comin' here lately so
reg'ler, they means business on Mr. Van Brandt's part _if_ pleasure on
yours. He's strewin' your path with roses an' pavin' it with Huyler's
chocolates, so's some day in the near future he can come marchin' along
it, an' walk straight up to the captain's office an' hand in his
applercation for the vacancy. Now, the question is as plain as the nose
on your face. Do you want him to do it first or do you want him to do it
last? It's up to you to decide the time, but you can betcher life it's
goin' to be some time, Cora or no Cora, _ohne oder mit_ as our Dutch
friend acrost the hall says."

Claire's reflection in the mirror she sat facing, showed a pair of sadly
troubled eyes.

"O, it's very puzzling, Martha," she said. "Somehow, life seems all
topsy-turvy to me lately. So many things going wrong, so few right."

"Now what, if I may make so bold, is wrong with your gettin' a
first-class offer from a well-off, good-lookin' gen'l'man-friend, that's
been keepin' comp'ny with you, off an' on, as you might say, ever since
you was a child, which shows that his heart's in the right place an' his
intentions is honorable. You know, you mustn't let the percession get by
you. Life's like standin' on the curbstone watching the parade--at
least, that's how it seems to young folks. They hear the music an' they
see the banners an' the floats an' they think it's goin' to be a
continuous performance. After a while they've got so used to the band
a-playin' an' the flags a-wavin' that it gets to be an old story, an'
they think that's what it'll be right along, so they don't trouble to
keep their eye peeled for the fella with the water-can, which he asked
'em to watch out for him. No, they argue he's good enough in his way,
but--'_Think_ o' the fella with the drum!' Or even, it might be, who
knows?--the grand one with his mother's big black muff on his head,
doin' stunts with his grandfather's gold-topped club, his grandpa havin'
been a p'liceman with a pull in the ward. An' while they stand a-waitin'
for all the grandjer they're expectin', suddenly it all goes past, an'
they don't see nothin' but p'raps a milk-wagon bringin' up the rear, an'
the ashfalt all strewed with rag-tag-an'-bobtail, an' there's nothin'
doin' in their direction, except turn around an' go home. Now, what's
the matter with Mr. Van Brandt? If you marry him you'll be all to the
good. No worry about the rent, no pinchin' here an' plottin' there to
keep the bills down. No goin' out by the day, rain or shine, traipsin'
the street on your two feet when you're so dead tired you could lay down
an' let the rest walk over you. Why, lookin' at it from any
standpoint-of-view I can't see but it's a grand oppertoonity. An' you're
fond of him, ain't you?"

"O, yes, I'm very fond of Mr. Van Brandt. But I'm fond of him as a
friend. I couldn't--couldn't--couldn't ever marry him."

"What for you couldn't? It ain't as if you liked some other fella
better! If you liked some other fella better, no matter how little you
might think you'd ever get the refusal of'm, I'd say, _stick to the reel
article: don't be put of with substitoots_. It ain't no use tryin' to
fool your heart. You can monkey with your brain, an' make it believe all
sorts of tommyrot, but your heart is dead on to you, an' when it once
sets in hankerin' it means business."

Claire nodded unseeingly to her own reflection in the glass.

"Now _my_ idea is," Martha continued, "my idea is, if you got somethin'
loomin', why, don't hide your face an' play it isn't there. There ain't
no use standin' on the ragged edge till every tooth in your head
chatters with cold an' fright. You don't make nothin' _by_ it. If you
love a man like a friend or if you love a friend like a man, my advice
is, take your seat in the chair, grip a-holt o' the arms, brace your
feet, an'--let'er go, Gallagher! It'll be over in a minit, as the
dentists say."

"But suppose you had something else on your heart. Something that had
nothing to do with--with that sort of thing?" Claire asked.

"What sorter thing?"

"Why--love. Suppose you'd done something unworthy of you. Suppose the
sense of having done it made you wretched, made you want to make others
wretched? What would you do--then?"

"Now, my dear, don't you make no mistake. I ain't goin' to be drew into
no blindman's grab-bag little game, not on your sweet life. I ain'ter
goin' to risk havin' you hate me all the rest o' your nacherl life
becoz, to be obligin' an' also to show what a smart boy am I, I give a
verdick without all the everdence in. If you wanter tell me plain out
what's frettin' you, I'll do my best accordin' to my lights, but
otherwise--"

"Well--" began Claire, and then followed, haltingly, stumblingly, the
story of her adventure in the closet.

"At first I felt nothing but the wound to my pride, the sting of what
he--of what _they_ said," she concluded. "But, after a little, I began
to realize there was something else. I began to see what _I_ had done.
For, you know, I had deliberately listened. I needn't have listened. If
I had put my hands over my ears, if I had crouched back, away from the
door, and covered my head, I need not have overheard. But I pressed as
close as I could to the panel, and hardly breathed, because I wanted not
to miss a word. And I didn't miss a word. I heard what it was never
meant I should hear, and--I'm nothing but a common--_eavesdropper_!"

"Now, what do you think of that?" observed Mrs. Slawson. "Now, what do
you think of that?"

"I've tried once or twice to tell him--" continued Claire.

"Tell who? Tell Mr. Van Brandt?"

"No, Mr. Ronald."

"O! You see, when you speak o' _he_ an' _him_ it might mean almost any
gen'l'man. But I'll try to remember you're always referrin' to Mr.
Ronald."

"I've tried once or twice to tell him, for I can't bear to be
untruthful. But, then, I remember I'm 'only the governess'--'the right
person in the right place'--of so little account that--that he doesn't
even know whether I'm pretty or not! And the words choke in my throat. I
realize it wouldn't mean anything to him. He'd only probably gaze down
at me, or he'd be kind in that lofty way he has--and put me in my place,
as he did the first time I ever saw him. And so, I've never told him. I
couldn't. But sometimes I think if I did--if I just _made_ myself do it,
I could hold up my head again and not feel myself growing bitter and
sharp, because something is hurting me in my conscience."

"That's it!" said Martha confidently. "It's your conscience. Believe
_me_, consciences is the dickens an' all for makin' a mess o' things,
when they get right down to business. Now, if I was you, I wouldn't
bother Mr. Ronald with my squalms o' conscience. Very prob'ly when it
comes to consciences he has troubles of his own--at least, if he ain't,
he's an exception an' a rare curiosity, an' Mr. Pierpont Morgan oughter
buy him for the Museum. When your conscience tells you you'd oughter
tell, ten to one you'd oughtn't. Give other folks a chance. What they
don't know can't worry 'em. Besides, your just _tellin_' a thing don't
let you out. You can't get clear so easy as that. It's up to you to work
it out, so what's wrong is made _right_, an' do it _yourself_--not trust
to nobody else. You can't square up by heavin' your load offn your own
shoulders onto another fella's. You think you feel light coz you done
your dooty, when ten to one you _done_ your friend. No! I wouldn't
advise turnin' state's everdence on yourself unless it was to save
another from the gallus. As it is, you can take it from me, the best
thing you can do for that--conscience o' yours, is get busy in another
direction. Dress yourself up as fetchin' as you can, go out motorin'
with your gen'l'man friend like he ast you to, let him get his perposal
offn his chest, an' then tell'm--you'll be a sister to'm."

CHAPTER XV

Sam Slawson had gone to the Adirondacks in January, personally conducted
by Mr. Blennerhasset, Mr. Ronald's secretary, Mr. Ronald, in the most
unemotional and business-like manner, having assumed all the
responsibilities connected with the trip and Sam's stay at the
Sanatorium.

It was Claire who told Mr. Ronald of the Slawsons' difficulty. How
Martha saw no way out, and still was struggling gallantly on, trying
single-handed to meet all obligations at home and, in addition, send her
husband away.

"That's too much--even for Martha," he observed.

"If I only knew how to get Sam to the mountains," Claire said in a sort
of desperation.

"You have just paved the way."

"How?"

"You have told me."

"You are going to help?"

"Yes."

"O, how beautiful!"

"I am glad that, for once, I have the good fortune to please you."

Claire's happy smile faded. She turned her face away, pretending to
busy herself with Radcliffe's books.

"I see I have offended once more."

She hesitated a moment, then faced him squarely.

"There can be no question of your either pleasing or offending me, Mr.
Ronald. What you are doing for Martha makes me glad, of course, but that
is only because I rejoice in any good that may come to her. I would not
take it upon myself to praise you for doing a generous act, or to blame
you if you didn't do it."

"'Cr-r-rushed again!'" observed Francis Ronald gravely, but with a
lurking, quizzical light of laughter in his eyes.

For an instant Claire was inclined to be resentful. Then, her sense of
humor coming to the rescue, she dropped her heroics and laughed out
blithely.

"How jolly it must be to have a lot of money and be able to do all sorts
of helpful, generous things!" she said lightly.

"You think money the universal solvent?"

"I think the lack of it the universal _in_solvent."

"I hope you don't lay too much emphasis on it."

"Why?"

"Because it might lead you to do violence to your better impulses, your
higher instincts."

"Why should a man think he has the right to say that sort of thing to a
woman? Would you consider it a compliment if I suggested that your
principles were hollow--negotiable? That they were For Sale or To Let,
like an empty house?"

"I suppose most men would tell you they have no use for principle in
their business--only principal."

"And you think women--"

"Generally women have both principle and interest in the business of
life. That's why we look to them to keep up the moral standard. That's
why we feel it to be unworthy of her when a girl makes a mercenary
marriage."

The indignant blood sprang to Claire's cheeks. What business had he to
interfere in her affairs, to warn her against marrying Bob Van Brandt,
assuming that, if she did marry him, it would be only for money. She was
glad that Radcliffe bounded in just then, throwing himself upon her in
his eagerness to tell her all that had befallen him during their long
separation of two hours, when he had been playing on the Mall under
Beetrice's unwatchful eye.

In spite of Martha, Claire had just been on the point of confessing to
Mr. Ronald. He had seemed so friendly, so much less formidable than at
any time since that first morning. But she must have been mistaken, for
here were all the old barriers up in an instant, and with them the
resentful fire in her heart.

Perhaps it was the memory of this conversation that made her feel so ill
at ease with Robert Van Brandt. She could not understand herself. Why
should she feel so uncomfortable with her old friend? She could not help
being aware that he cared for her, but why did the thought of his
telling her so make her feel like a culprit? Why should he not tell her?
Why should she not listen? One thing she felt she knew--if he did tell
her, and she refused to listen, he would give it up. He would not
persist.

She remembered how, as a little girl, she had looked up to him
reverentially as "big Robby Van Brandt." He was a hero to her in those
days, until--he had let himself be balked of what he had started out to
get. If he had only persisted, _in_sisted, who knows--maybe--.

She was sure that if he offered her his love and she refused to accept
it, he would not, like the nursery-rhyme model, try, try again. He would
give up and go away--and in her loneliness she did not want him to go
away. Was she selfish? she wondered. Selfish or no, she could not bring
herself to follow Martha's advice and "let'm get his perposal offn his
chest."

It was early in April before he managed to do it.

She and Radcliffe had gone to the Park. Radcliffe was frisking about in
the warm sunshine, while Claire watched him from a nearby bench, when,
suddenly, Mr. Van Brandt dropped into the seat beside her.

He did not approach his subject gradually. He plunged in desperately,
headlong, heartlong, seeming oblivious to everything and every one save
her.

When, at last, he left her, she, knowing it was for always, was sorely
tempted to call him back. She did care for him, in a way, and the life
his love opened up to her would be very different from this. And yet--

She closed her cold fingers about Radcliffe's little warm ones, and rose
to lead him across the Plaza. She did not wonder at his being so
conveniently close at hand, nor at his unwonted silence all the way
home. She had not realized, until now that it was snapped, how much the
link between this and her old home-life had meant to her. It meant so
much that tears were very near the surface all that day, and even at
night, when Martha was holding forth to her brood, they were not
altogether to be suppressed.

"Easter comes early this year," Mrs. Slawson observed.

"'M I going to have a new hat?" inquired Cora.

"What for do you need a new hat, I should like to know? I s'pose you
think you'll walk up Fifth Avenoo in the church parade, an' folks'll
stare at you, an' nudge each other an' whisper--'Looka there! That's
Miss Cora Slawson that you read so much about in the papers. That one on
the right-hand side, wearin' the French _shappo_, with the white ribbon,
an' the grand vinaigrette onto it. Ain't she han'some?'"

"I think you're real mean to make fun of me!" pouted Cora.

"I got a dollar an' a half for the Easter singin'," announced Sammy.
"Coz I'm permoted an' I'm goin' to sing a solo!"

"Careful you don't get your head so turned you sing outer the other side
o' your mouth," cautioned Martha. "'Stead o' crowin' so much, you better
make sure you know your colic."

"What you goin' to do with your money?" inquired Francie, unable to
conceive of possessing such vast riches.

"I do' know."

"Come here an' I'll tell you," said his mother. "Whisper!"

At first Sammy's face did not reveal any great amount of satisfaction at
the words breathed into his ear, but after a moment it fairly glowed.

"Ain't that grand?" asked Martha.

Sammy beamed, then went off whistling.

"He's goin' to invest it in a hat for Cora as a s'prise, me addin' my
mite to the fun' an' not lettin' him be any the wiser. An' Cora, she's
goin' to get _him_ a pair o' shoes with her bank pennies, an' be this
an' be that, the one thinks he's clothin' the other, an' is proud as
Punch of it, which they're learnin' manners the same time they're bein'
dressed," Martha explained to Claire later.

"I wish you'd tell that to Radcliffe," Claire said. "He loves to hear
about the children, and he can learn so much from listening to what is
told of other kiddies' generosities and self-denials."

Martha shook her head. "There's nothin' worth tellin'," she said. "An'
besides, if I told'm, he might go an' tell his mother or his Uncle
Frank, an' they might think I was puttin' in a bid for a Easter-egg on
my own account. Radcliffe is a smart little fella! He knows a thing or
two--an' sometimes three, an' don't you forget it."

That Radcliffe "knew a thing or two--an' sometimes three," he proved
beyond a doubt to Martha next day when, as she was busy cleaning his
Uncle Frank's closet, he meandered up to her and casually observed:

"Say, you know what I told you once 'bout Miss Lang bein' Mr. Van
Brandt's best girl?"

"Yes."

"Well, she ain't!"

"Why ain't she?"

"I was lookin' out o' the window in my mother's sittin'-room yesterday
mornin', an' when my mother an' my Uncle Frank they came up from
breakfast, they didn't see me coz I was back o' the curtains. My mother
she had a letter Shaw, he just gave her, and when she read it she
clapped her hands together an' laughed, an' my Uncle Frank he said, 'Why
such joy?' an' she said, 'The greatest news! Amy Pelham is engaged to
Mr. Van Brandt!' An' my Uncle Frank, his face got dark red all at once,
an' he said to my mother, 'Catherine, are you 'sponsible for that?' an'
she said, 'I never lifted a finger. I give you my word of honor, Frank!'
An' then my Uncle Frank he looked better. An' my mother she said, 'You
see, he couldn't have cared for Miss Lang, after all--I mean, the way we
thought.' An' he said, 'Why not?' An' she said, 'Coz if he had asked
her, she would have taken him, for no poor little governess is going to
throw away a chance like that. No sensible girl would say _no_ to Bob
Van Brandt with all his 'vantages. She'd jump at him, an' you couldn't
blame her.'

"An' then my mother an' my Uncle Frank _they_ jumped, for I came out
from behind the curtains where I'd been lookin' out, an' I said, 'She
would too say _no_! My Miss Lang, she's sensible, an' one time in the
Park, when Mr. Van Brandt he asked her to take him an' everything he had
(that's what he said! "Take me an' everything I have, an' do what you
want with me!"), Miss Lang she said, "No, Bob, I can't! I wish I could,
for your sake, if you want me so--but--I can't." An' Mr. Van Brandt he
felt so bad, I was sorry. When I thought Miss Lang was his best girl, I
didn't like him, but I didn't want him to feel as bad as that. An' he
went off all alone by himself, an' Miss Lang--'Only I couldn't tell any
more, for my Uncle Frank, he said reel sharp, 'That's enough,
Radcliffe!' But last night he brought me home a dandy boat I can sail on
the Lake, with riggin' an' a center-board, an', O, lots o' things! An'
so I guess he wasn't so very mad, after all."

CHAPTER XVI

"Most like it's the Spring," said Martha. It was Memorial Day. She and
Miss Lang were at home, sitting together in Claire's pretty room,
through the closed blinds of which the hot May sun sent tempered shafts
of light.

Claire regarded Mrs. Slawson steadily for a moment, seeming to make some
sort of mental calculation meanwhile.

"Well, if it _is_ the Spring," she observed at length with a whimsical
little frown knitting her brows, "it's mighty forehanded, for it began
to get in its fine work as far back as January. Ever since the time Sam
went to the Sanatorium you've been losing flesh and color, Martha,
and--I don't know what to do about it!"

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