Martha By the Day by Julie M. Lippmann

J >> Julie M. Lippmann >> Martha By the Day

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

"Do about it!" repeated Mrs. Slawson. "Why, there ain't nothin' _to_ do
about it, but let the good work go on. I'm in luck, if it's true what
you say. Believe _me_, there's lots o' ladies in this town, is starvin'
their stummicks an' everythin' else about 'em, an' payin' the doctors
high besides, just to get delicate-complected, an' airy-fairy figgers,
same's I'm doin' without turnin' a hand. Did you never hear o' bantin'?
It's what the high-toned doctors recommend to thin down ladies who have
it so comfortable they're uncomfortable. The doctors prescribes exercise
for'm, an' they take it, willin' as doves, whereas if their husbands
said, 'Say, old woman, while you're restin', just scrub down the
cellar-stairs good--that'll take the flesh off'n you quicker'n anythin'
else _I_ know!' they'd get a divorce from him so quick you couldn't see
'em for dust. No, they'd not do anythin' so low as cellar-stairs, to
save their lives. You couldn't please 'em better'n to see another woman
down on her marra-bones workin' for 'em, but get down themselves? Not on
your sweet life, they wouldn't. They'd rather _bant_. Bantin' sounds so
much more stylisher than scrubbin'."

Claire smiled, but her eyes were very serious as she said, "All the
same, Martha, I believe you are grieving your heart out for Sam. I've
been watching you when you didn't know it, and I've seen the signs and
the tokens. Your heart has the hunger-ache in it!"

"Now, what do you think o' that!" exclaimed Mrs. Slawson. "What do _you_
know about hearts an' hunger-aches, I should like to know. You, an
unmarried maiden-girl, without so much as the shadder or the skelegan of
a beau, as far as _I_ can see. What do _you_ know about a woman
hungerin' an' cravin' for her own man? You have to have reelly felt them
things yourself, to know the signs of 'em in other folks."

Claire's lip trembled, but she did not reply.

When Martha spoke again it was as if she had replied.

"O, go 'way! _You_ ain't never had a leanin' in any gen'l'man's
direction, I'd be willin' to wager. An' yet, I may as well tell you, you
been gettin' kinder white an' scrawny yourself lately, beggin' your
pardon for bein' so bold as notice it. Mind, I ain't the faintest notion
of holdin' it against you! I know better than think you been settin'
your affections on anybody. There's other things _besides_ love gives
you that tired feelin'. What you need is somethin' to brace you up, an'
clear your blood, like Hoodses Sassperilla. Everybody feels the way you
do, this time o' year. I heard a young saleslady (she wasn't a woman,
mind you, she was a sales_lady_), I heard a young saleslady in the car
the other mornin' complain--she was the reel dressy kind, you know, with
more'n a month's pay of hair, boilin' over on the back of her head in
puffs an' things--the gallus sort that, if you want to buy a yard o'
good flannen off her, will sass you up an' down to your face, as fresh
as if she was your own daughter--she was complainin' 'the Spring always
made her feel so sorter, kinder, so awful la-anguid.'"

"Martha, dear," broke in Claire irrelevantly, "I wonder if you'd mind
very much if I told Mr. Ronald the truth. He thinks you were an old
family servant. He thinks you nursed me till I was able to walk."

Martha considered. "Well, ain't that the truth?" she asked blandly. "I
lived out from the time I was twelve years old. That was in Mrs.
Granville's mother's house. When I was sixteen I went to Mrs.
Granville's. I was kitchen-maid there first-off, an' gradjelly she
promoted me till I was first housemaid. I never left her till I got
married. If that don't make me an old family servant, I'd like to know."

"But he thinks you were an old family servant in _our_ house."

"Well, bless your heart, that's _his_ business, not mine. How can I help
what he thinks?"

"Didn't you tell him, Martha dear, that you nursed me till I was able to
walk?"

"Shoor I did! An' it's the livin' truth. What's the matter with that?
Believe _me_, you wasn't good for more than a minit or two more on your
legs, when I got you into your bed that blessed night. You was clean
bowled over, an' you couldn't 'a' walked another step if you'd been
killed for it. Didn't I nurse you them days you was in bed, helplesslike
as a baby? Didn't I nurse you till you could walk?"

"Indeed you did. And that's precisely the point!" said Claire. "If Mr.
Ronald--if Mrs. Sherman knew the truth, that I was poor, homeless,
without a friend in New York the night you picked me up on the street,
and carried me home and cared for me without knowing a thing about me,
they mightn't--they _wouldn't_ have taken me into their house and given
me their little boy to train. And because they wouldn't, I want to tell
them. I want to square myself. I ought to have told them long ago. I
want--"

"You want 'em to bounce you," observed Mrs. Slawson calmly. "Well,
there's always more'n one way of lookin' at things. For instance
any good chambermaid, _with experience_, will tell you there's three
ways of dustin'. The first is, do it thora, wipin' the rungs o' the
chairs, an' the backs o' the pictures, an' under the books on the
table like. The second is, just sorter flashin' your rag over the places
that shows, an' the third is--pull down the shades. They're all good
enough ways in their own time an' place, an' you foller them accordin'
to your disposition or, if you're nacherelly particular, accordin' to
the other things you got to do, in the time you got to do 'em _in_.
Now, _I'm_ particular. I'm the nacherelly thora kind, but if I'm
pressed, an' there's more important things up to me than the dustin',
I give it a lick an' a promise, same as the next one, an' let it go at
that, till the time comes I can do better. Life's too short to fuss an'
fidget your soul out over trifles. It ain't always what you _want_, but
what you _must_. You sometimes got to cut short at one end so's you can
piece out at another, an' you can take it from me, you only pester folks
by gettin' 'm down where they can't resist you, an' forcin' a lot of
hard facks down their throats, which ain't the _truth_ anyhow, an' which
they don't want to swaller on no account. What do they care about the
machinery, so long as it turns out the thing they want? Believe _me_,
it's foolishness to try to get 'em back into the works, pokin' about
among the inside wheels an' springs, an' so forth. You likely get
knocked senseless by some big thing-um-bob you didn't know was there.
Now I know just eggsackly what's in your mind, but you're wrong. You
think I told Mr. Ronald fibs. I didn't tell'm fibs. I just give'm the
truth the way he'd take it, like you give people castor-oil that's too
dainty to gullup it down straight. Some likes it in lemon, an' some
in grobyules, but it's castor-oil all the same. He wanted to know the
truth about you, an' I let him have it, the truth bein' you're as fine
a lady as any in the land. If I'd happened to live in Grand Rapids at
the time, I'd most likely of lived out with your grandmother, an' been
an old family servant in your house like I was at Mrs. Granville's,
an' I certainly would of nursed you if I'd had the chanct. It was just
a case o' happenso, my _not_ havin' it. The right kind o' folks here
in New York is mighty squeamish about strangers. They want
recommendations--they want 'em because they want to be sure the ones
they engage is O.K. That's all recommendations is for, ain't it? Now I
knew the minit I clapped eye to you, that, as I say, you was as grand a
lady as any in the land, an' that bein' the case, what was the use o'
frettin' because I hadn't more than your sayso to prove it. But if I'd
pulled a long face to Mrs. Sherman, an' told her, hesitatin'-like an'
nervous, about--well, about what took place that night, she, not havin'
much experience of human nature (only the other kind that's more common
here in New York City), she'd have hemmed, an' hawed, an' thought she'd
better not try it, seein' Radcliffe is such an angel-child an' not to be
trained except by a A-I Lady."

"But the truth," persisted Claire.

"I tell the truth," Mrs. Slawson returned with quiet dignity. "I only
don't waste time on trifles."

"It is not wasting time on trifles to be exact and accurate. An
architect planning a house must make every little detail _true_, else
when the house goes up, it won't stand."

"Don't he have to reckon nothin' on the _give_ or _not-give_ of the
things he's dealin' with?" demanded Martha. "I'm only a ignorant woman,
an' I ask for information. When you're dress-makin' you have to allow
for the seams, an' when you're makin'--well, other things, you have to
do the same thing, only spelled a little different--you have to allow
for the _seems_. Most folks don't do it, an' that's where a lot o'
trouble comes in, or so it appears to me."

Claire twisted her ring in silence, gazing down at it the while as if
the operation was, of all others, the most important and absorbing.

"We may not agree, Martha dear," she said at last, "but anyway I know
you're good, good, _good_, and I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the
world."

"Shoor! I know you wouldn't! An' they ain't hurt. Not in the least. You
got one kinder conscience an' I got another, that's all. Consciences is
like hats. One that suits one party would make another look like a guy.
You got to have your own style. You got to know what's best for you, an'
then _stick to it_!"

"And you won't object if I tell Mr. Ronald?"

"Objeck? Certainly not! Tell'm anything you like. _I_ always was fond o'
Mr. Ronald myself. I never thought he was as hard an' stern with a body
as some thinks. Some thinks he's as hard as nails, but--"

"O, I'm _sure_ he's not," cried Claire with unexpected loyalty. "His
manner may seem a little cold and proud sometimes, but I know he's very
kind and generous."

"Certaintly. So do I know it," said Mrs. Slawson. "I don't say I mayn't
be mistaken, but I have the highest opinion o' Lor--Mr. Ronald. I think
you could trust'm do the square thing, no matter what, an' if he was
kinder harsh doin' it, it's only because he expects a body to be perfect
like he is himself."

In the next room Sabina was shouting at the top of her lungs--"Come back
to ear-ring, my voornean, my voornean!"

"Ain't it a caution what lungs that child has--considerin'?" Martha
reflected. "Just hear her holler! She'd wake the dead. I wonder if she's
tryin' to beat that auta whoopin' it up outside. Have you ever noticed
them autas nowadays? Some of them has such croupy coughs, before I know
it I'm huntin' for a flannen an' a embrercation. 'Xcuse me a minit while
I go answer the bell."

A second later she returned. A step in advance of her was Mr. Ronald.

"I am lucky to find you at home, Martha," were the first words Claire
heard him say.

Martha, by dint of a little unobservable maneuvering, managed to
superimpose her substantial shadow upon Claire's frail one.

"Yes, sir. When I get a day to lay off in, you couldn't move me outer
the house with a derrick," she announced. "Miss Lang's here, too. Bein'
so dim, an' comin' in outer the sunlight, perhaps you don't make out to
see her."

"She ain't had time yet to pull herself together," Mrs. Slawson inwardly
noted. "But, Lord! I couldn't stand in front of her forever, an' even if
a girl _is_ dead in love with a man (more power to her!), that's no
reason she should go to the other extreme to hide it, an' pertend she's
a cold storage, warranted to freeze'm stiff, like the artificial ice
they're makin' these days, in the good old summertime."

The first cold greetings over, Claire started to retreat in the
direction of the door.

"Excuse me, please--I promised Francie--She's expecting me--she's
waiting--"

"Pshaw now, let her wait!" said Martha.

"Don't let me detain Miss Lang if she wishes to go," interposed Mr.
Ronald. "My business is really with you, Martha."

"Thank you, sir. But I'd like Miss Lang to stay by, all the same--that
is, if you don't objeck."

"As a witness? You think I need watching, eh?"

"I think it does a body good to watch you, sir!"

"I didn't know before, you were a flatterer, Martha. But I see you're a
lineal descendant of the Blarney Stone."

Claire felt herself utterly ignored. She tried again to slip away, but
Martha's strong hand detained her, bore her down into the place she had
just vacated.

"How is Francie?" inquired Mr. Ronald, taking the chair Mrs. Slawson
placed for him.

"_Fine_--thank you, sir. The doctors says they never see a child get
well so fast. She's grown so fat an' big, there ain't a thing belongs to
her will fit her any longer, they're all shorter, an' she has to go
whacks with Cora on her clo'es."

"Perhaps she'd enjoy a little run out into the country this afternoon in
my car. The other children, too? And--possibly--Miss Lang."

"I'm sure they'd all thank you kindly, sir," began Martha, when--"I'm
sorry," said Claire coldly, "I can't go."

Mr. Ronald did not urge her. "It is early. We have plenty of time to
discuss the ride later," he observed quietly. "Meanwhile, what I have in
mind, Martha, is this: Mr. Slawson has been at the Sanatorium now
for--?"

"Goin' on five months," said Martha.

"And the doctors think him improved?"

"Well, on the whole, yes, sir. His one lung (sounds kinder Chineesy,
don't it?), his one lung ain't no worse--it's better some--only he keeps
losin' flesh an' that puzzles'm."

"Do you think he is contented there?"

"He says he is. He says it's the grand place, an' they're all as good
to'm as if he was the king o' Harlem. _You_ seen to that, sir--he says.
An' Sam, he's always pationate, no matter what comes, but--"

"Well--_but_?"

"But--only just, it ain't _home_, you know, sir!"

"I see. And the doctors think he ought to stay up there? Not return
home--_here_, I mean?"

"That's what they say."

"Have you--the means to keep him at the Sanatorium over the five months
we settled for in January?"

"No, sir. That is, not--not _yet_."

"Would you like to borrow enough money to see him through the rest of
the year?"

Martha deliberated. "I may _have_ to, sir," she said at last with a
visible effort. "But I don't like to borrer. I notice when folks gets
the borrerin'-habit they're slow payin' back, an' then you don't get
thanks for a gift or you don't get credit for a loan."

This time it was Mr. Ronald who seemed to be considering. "Right!" he
announced presently. "I notice you go into things rather deep, Martha."

Mrs. Slawson smiled. "Well, when things _is_ deep, that's the way you
got to go into them. What's on your plate you got to chew, an' if you
don't like it, you can lump it, an' if you don't like to lump it, you
can cut it up finer. But there it _is_, an' there it stays, till you
swaller it, somehow."

"Do you enjoy or resent the good things that are, or seem to be, heaped
on other people's plates?"

"Why, yes. Certaintly I enjoy 'em. But, after all, the things taste best
that we're eatin' ourselves, don't they? An' if I had money enough like
some, so's I didn't have to borrer to see my man through, why, I don't
go behind the door to say I'd be glad an' grateful."

"Would you take the money as a gift, Martha?"

"You done far more than your share already, sir."

"Then, if you won't _take_, and you'd rather not borrow, we must find
another way. A rather good idea occurred to me last night. I've an
uncommonly nice old place up in New Hampshire--in the mountains. It was
my father's--and my grandfather's. It's been closed for many years, and
I haven't given it a thought, except when the tax-bills came due, or the
caretaker sent in his account. It's so far away my sister won't live
there, and--it's too big and formidable for one lone man to summer in by
himself. Now, why wouldn't it be a capital idea for you to pack up your
goods and chattels here, and take your family right up there--make that
your home? The lodge is comfortable and roomy, and I don't see why Mr.
Slawson couldn't recover there as well, if not better, than where he is.
I'd like to put the place in order--make some improvements, do a little
remodeling. I need a trusty man to oversee the laborers, and keep an eye
and close tab on the workmen I send up from town. If Mr. Slawson would
act as superintendent for me, I'd pay him what such a position is worth,
and you would have your house, fuel, and vegetables free. Don't try to
answer now. You'd be foolish to make a decision in a hurry that you
might regret later. Write to your husband. Talk it over with him. He
might prefer to choose a job for himself. And remember--it's 'way out in
the country. The children would have to walk some distance to school."

"Give 'em exercise, along of their exercises," said Martha.

"The church in the village is certainly three miles off."

"My husband don't go to church as reg'lar as I might wish," Mrs. Slawson
observed. "I tell'm, the reason men don't be going to church so much
these days, is for fear they might hear something they believe."

"You would find country life tame, perhaps, after the city."

"Well, the city life ain't been that _wild_ for me that I'd miss the
dizzy whirl. An' anyhow--we'd be _together_!" Martha said. "We'd be
together, maybe, come our weddin'-day. The fourth o' July. We never been
parted oncet, on that day, all the fifteen years we been married," she
mused, "but--"

"Well?"

"But, come winter, an' Mis' Sherman opens the house again, an' wants
Miss Claire back, who's goin' to look out for _her_?"

"Why--a--as to _that_--" said Mr. Ronald, so vaguely it sounded almost
supercilious to Claire.

In an instant her pride rose in revolt, rebelling against the notion he
might have, that she could possibly put forth any claim upon his
consideration.

"O, please, _please_ don't think of me, Martha," she cried vehemently.
"I have entirely other plans. You mustn't give me, or my affairs, a
thought, in settling your own. You must do what's best for _you_. You
mustn't count for, or _on_, me in the least. I have not told you before,
but I've made up my mind I must resign my position at Mrs. Sherman's,
anyway. I'll write her at once. I'll tell her myself, of course, but I
tell you now to show that you mustn't have me in mind, at all, in making
your plans."

Martha's low-pitched voice fell upon Claire's tense, nervous one with
soothing calmness.

"Certaintly not, Miss Claire," she said.

"And you'll write to your husband and report to him what I propose,"
suggested Mr. Ronald, as if over Claire's head.

"Shoor I will, sir!"

"And if he likes the idea, my secretary will discuss the details with
him later. Wages, duties--all the details."

"Yes, sir."

"And you may tell the children I'll leave orders that the car be sent
for them some other day. I find it's not convenient, after all, for me
to take them myself this afternoon. I spoke too fast in proposing it.
But they'll not be disappointed. Mr. Blennerhasset will see to that. I
leave town to-night to be gone--well, indefinitely. In any case, until
well on into the autumn or winter. Any letter you may direct to me, care
of Mr. Blennerhasset at the office, will be attended to at once.
Good-by, Martha!--Miss Lang--" He was gone.

When the car had shot out of sound and sight, Martha withdrew from the
window, from behind the blinds of which she had been peering eagerly.

"He certainly _is_ a little woolly wonder, meaning no offense," she
observed with a deep-drawn sigh. "Yes, Mr. Ronald is as good as they
make 'em, an' dontcher forget it!"

She seated herself opposite Claire, drawing her chair quite close.

"Pity you an' him is so on the outs. I'm not speakin' o' _him_, s'much,
but anybody with half an eye can see _you_ got a reg'lar hate on'm. _Any
one_ can see that!"

A moment of silence, and then Claire flung herself, sobbing and
quivering, across Martha's lap, ready to receive her.

"O, _Martha_!" she choked.

CHAPTER XVII

"Well now, what do you think o' that! Ain't it the end o' the law? The
high-handed way he has o' doin' things! Think o' the likes o' _me_
closin' up my '_town-house' _an' takin' my fam'ly (includin' Flicker an'
Nixcomeraus) 'to the country-place'--for all the world like I was a
lady, born an' bred.--Sammy, you sit still in your seat, an' eat the
candy Mr. Blennerhasset brought you, an' quit your rubberin', or the
train'll start suddently, an' give you a twist in your neck you won't
get over in a hurry.... Ma, you comfortable?.... Cora an' Francie, see
you behave like little ladies, or I'll attend to you later. See how
quiet Sabina is--Say, Sabina, what you doin'? Now, what do you think o'
that! If that child ain't droppin' off to sleep, suckin' the red plush
o' the seat! For all the world like she didn't have a wink o' rest last
night, or a bite or a sup this mornin'--an' she slep' the clock 'round,
an' et a breakfast fit for a trooper. Say, Sabina--here, wake up! An'
take your tongue off'n that beautiful cotton-backed plush, d'you hear?
In the first place, the gen'l'men that owns this railroad don't want
their upholsterry et by little girls, an', besides, it's makin' your
mouth all red--an', second-place, the cars isn't the time to
sleep--leastwise, not so early in the mornin'. Miss Claire, child, don't
look so scared! You ain't committin' no crime goin' along with us, an'
_he_'ll never suspicion anyhow. He's prob'ly on the boundin' biller by
this time, an' Mr. Blennerhasset he don't know you from a hole in the
ground. Besides, whose business is it, anyway? You ain't goin' as _his_
guest, as I told you before. You're _my_ boarder, same's you've always
been, an' it's nobody's concern if you board down here or up there...

"Say, ain't these flowers just grand? The box looks kinder like a young
coffin, but never mind that...

"A body would think all that fruit an' stuff was enough of a send-off,
but Lor--_Mr_. Ronald, he don't do things by halves, does he? It
wouldn't seem so surprisin' now, if he'd 'a' knew you was comin' along
an' all this (Mr. Blennerhasset himself helpin' look after us, an' see
us off--as if I was a little tender flower that didn't know a railroad
ticket from a trunk-check), I say, it wouldn't seem so surprisin' if
he'd 'a' knew _you_ was comin' along. I'd think it was on your account.
What they calls _delicate attentions_. The sorter thing a gen'l'man does
when he's got his eye on a young lady for his wife, an' is sorter
breakin' it to her gently--kinder beckonin' with a barn-door, as the
sayin' is.

"But Mr. Ronald ain't the faintest notion but you've gone back to your
folks in Grand Rapids, an' so all these favors is for _me_, of course.
Well, I certainly take to luckshurry like a duck takes to water. I never
knew it was so easy to feel comfortable. I guess I been a little hard on
the wealthy in the past. Now, if _you_ should marry a rich man, I don't
believe--"

Claire sighed wearily. "I'll never marry anybody, Martha. And besides, a
rich man wouldn't be likely to go to a cheap boarding-house for a wife,
and next winter I--O, isn't it warm? Don't you _wish_ the train would
start?"

At last the train did start, and they were whirled out of the steaming
city, over the hills and far away, through endless stretches of sunlit
country, and the long, long hours of the hot summer day, until, at
night, they reached their destination, and found Sam Slawson waiting
there in the cool twilight to welcome them.

Followed days of rarest bliss for Martha, when she could marshal out her
small forces, setting each his particular task, and seeing it was done
with thoroughness and despatch, so that in an inconceivably short time
her new home shone with all the spotless cleanliness of the old, and
added comeliness beside.

"Ain't it the little palace?" she inquired, when all was finished. "I
wouldn't change my lodge for the great house, grand as it is, not for
anything you could offer me! Nor I wouldn't call the queen my cousin now
we're all in it together. I'm feelin' that joyful I'd like to have what
they calls a house-swarmin', only there ain't, by the looks of it, any
neighbors much, to swarm."

"No," said Ma regretfully, "I noticed there ain't no neighbors--to speak
of."

"Well, then, we can't speak o' them," returned Martha. "Which will save
us from fallin' under God's wrath as gossips. There's never any great
loss without some small gain."

"But we must have some sort of jollification," Claire insisted. "Doesn't
your wedding-day--the anniversary of it, I mean--come 'round about this
time? You said the Fourth, didn't you?"

Martha nodded. "Sam Slawson an' me'll be fifteen years married come
Fourth of July," she announced. "We chose that day, because we was so
poor we knew we couldn't do nothin' great in the line o' celebration
ourselves, so we just kinder managed it, so's without inconveniencin'
the nation any or addin' undooly to its expenses, it would do our
celebratin' for us. You ain't no notion how grand it makes a body feel
to be woke up at the crack o' dawn on one's weddin' mornin' with the
noise o' the bombardin' in honor o' the day! I'm like to miss it this
year, with only my own four young Yankees spoilin' my sleep settin' off
torpeders under my nose."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10