CHAPTER IV
It did not take long, once Claire was fairly on her feet again, toadjust herself to her new surroundings, to find her place and part inthe social economy of the little family-group where she was never for amoment made to feel an alien. She appropriated a share in the work ofthe household at once, insisting, to Martha's dismay, upon lending ahand mornings with the older children, who were to be got off to school,and with the three-year-old Sabina, who was to stay at home. Sheassisted with the breakfast preparations, and then, when the busy swarmhad flown for the day, she "turned to," to Ma's delight, and got theplace "rid up" so it was "clean as a whistle an' neat as a pin."
Ma was not what Martha approvingly called "a hustler."
"Ma ain't thorer," her daughter-in-law confided to Claire, withoutreproach. "She means well, but, as she says, her mind ain't fixed onthings below, an' when that's the case, the dirt is bound to settle. Mathinks you can run a fam'ly, readin' the Bible an' singin' hymns. Well,p'raps you can, only I ain't never dared try. When I married Sammy helooked dretful peaky, the fack bein' he hadn't never been properly fed,an' it's took me all of the goin'-on fifteen years now, we been livin'together, to get'm filled up accordin' to his appetite, which is heavy.You see, Ma never had any time to attend to such earthly matters ascookin' a square meal--but she's settin' out to have a lot of leisurewith the Lord."
As for Ma, she found it pleasant to watch, from a comfortable distance,the work progressing satisfactorily, without any draft on her ownenergies.
"Martha's a good woman, miss," she observed judicially, in her detachedmanner, "but she is like the lady of her name we read about in theblessed Book. When _I_ set out in life, I chose the betther part, an'now I'm old, I have the faith to believe I'll have a front seat inheaven. I've knew throuble in me day. I raised ten childern, an' I hadthree felons, an' God knows I think I earned a front seat in heaven."
Claire's pause, before she spoke, seemed to Ma to indicate she wasgiving the subject the weighty consideration it deserved.
"According to that, it would certainly seem so. You have rheumatism,too, haven't you?" as if that might be regarded as an added guarantee ofspecial celestial reservation.
Ma paled visibly. "No, miss. I don't never have the rheumatiz now--notso you'd notice it," she said plaintively. "Oncet I'd it thurrbl, an' meson Sammy had it, too, loikewoise, fierce. I'd uster lay in bed moanin'an' cryin' till you'd be surprised, an' me son Sammy, he was a'most asbad. Well, for a week or two, Martha, she done for us the best she cud,I s'pose, but she didn't make for to stop the pain, an' at last onenight, when me son Sammy was gruntin', an' I was groanin' to beat theband, Martha, she up, all of a suddint, an' says she, she was goin' forto cure us of the rheumatiz, or know the reason why. An' she went, an'got the karrysene-can, an' she poured out two thurrbl big doses, an' shestood over me son Sammy an' I, till we swalleyed it down, an' since everwe tuk it, me an' Sammy ain't never had a retur-rn. Sometimes I have asharp twinge o' somethin' in me leg or me arrm, but it ain't rheumatiz,an' I wouldn't like for me son Sammy's wife to be knowin' it, for thevery sight of her startin' for the karrysene--if it's only to fill thelamp, is enough to make me gullup, an' I know it's the same wit' me sonSammy, though we never mention the subjeck between us."
"But if your son didn't want to take the stuff," Claire said, trying tohide her amusement, "why didn't he stand up and say so? He's a man. He'smuch bigger and stronger than his wife. How could she make him do whathe didn't want to?"
The question was evidently not a new one to Ma.
"That's what annywan'd naturrly think," she returned promptly. "Butthat's because they wouldn't be knowin' me son Sammy's wife. It ain'tsize, an' it ain't stren'th--it's just, well, _Martha_. There's thatabout her you wouldn't like to take any chances wit'. Perhaps it's thething manny does be talkin' of these days. Perhaps it's _that_ got aholt of her. Annyhow, she says she's _in_ for't. They does be callin' itWoman Sufferrich, I'm told. In my day a dacint body'd have thought shameto be discoursin' in public to the men. They held their tongues, an' lettheir betthers do the colloguein', but Martha says some of the ladiesshe works for says, if they talk about it enough the men will give themtheir rights, an' let 'em vote. I'm an old woman, an' I never had muchbook-learnin', but I'm thinkin' one like me son Sammy's wife has all therights she needs wit'out the votin'. She goes out worrkin', same's meson Sammy, day in, day out. She says Sammy could support _her_ goodenough, but she won't raise her childern in a teniment, along wit' th'low companions. Me son Sammy, he has it harrd these days. He'd not beable to pay for such a grrand flat as this, in a dacint, quietneighborhood, an' so Martha turrns to, an' lends a hand. An' wance, whenme son Sammy was sick, an' out av a job entirely, Martha, she run thewhole concern herself. She wouldn't let me son Sammy give up, or getdown-hearted, like he mighta done. She said it was her _right_ to carefor us all, an' him, too, bein' he was down an' out, like he was. Itseems to me that's fairrly all the rights anny woman'd want--to look outfor four childern, an' a man, an' a mother-in-law. But if Martha wantsto vote, too, why, I'm thinkin' she will."
It was particularly encouraging to Claire, just at this time, to viewMartha in the light of one who did not know the meaning of the wordfail, for Mrs. Slawson had assured her that if she would give up allattempt to find employment on her own account, she, Mrs. Slawson, feltshe could safely promise to get her "a job that would be satisfacktryall round, only one must be a little pationate."
But a week, ten days, had gone by, since Martha announced she had _anidea_, and still the idea had not materialized. Meanwhile, Claire hadample time to unpack her trunk and settle her belongings about her, so"the pretty lady's room" took on a look of real comfort, and thechildren never passed the door without pausing before the threshold,waiting with bated breath for some wonderful chance that would givethem a "peek" into the enchanted chamber. As a matter of fact, thetransformation was effected with singularly few "properties." Some goodphotographs tastefully framed in plain, dark wood. A Baghdad rug leftover from her college days, some scraps of charming old textiles, andsuch few of the precious home trifles as could be safely packed in hertrunk. There was a daguerreotype of her mother, done when she was agirl. "As old-fashioned as your grandmother's hoopskirt," Martha calledit. A sampler wrought by some ancient great-aunt, both aunt and samplerlong since yellowed and mellowed by the years. A della Robbia plaque,with its exquisite swaddled baby holding out eager arms, as if to betaken. A lacquer casket, a string of Egyptian mummy-beads--what seemedto the children an inexhaustible stock of wonderful, mysterioustreasures.
But the object that appeared to interest their mother more than anythingelse in the whole collection, was a book of unmounted photographs,snap-shots taken by Claire at college, during her travels abroad, somefew, even, here in the city during those first days when she had dreamedit was easy to walk straight into an art-editorship, and no questionsasked.
Mrs. Slawson scrutinized the prints with an earnestness so eager thatClaire was fairly touched, until she discovered that here was no achinghunger for knowledge, no ungratified yearning "for to admire and for tosee, for to be'old this world so wide," but just what looked like aperfectly feminine curiosity, and nothing more.
"Say, ain't it a pity you ain't any real good likeness of you?" Marthadeplored. "These is so aggeravatin'. They don't show you up at all. Justa taste-like, an' then nothin' to squench the appetite."
"That sounds as if I were an entree or something," laughed Claire. "But,you see, I don't want to be _shown up_, Martha. I couldn't abear it, asmy friend, Sairy Gamp, would say. When I was little, my naughty bigbrother used to tease me dreadfully about my looks. He invented the mostembarrassing nicknames for me; he alluded to my features with every sortof disrespect. It made me horribly conscious of myself, a thing noproperly-constituted kiddie ought ever to be, of course. And I've neverreally got over the feeling that I am a 'sawed-off,' that my nose is'curly,' and my hair's a wig, and that the least said about the rest ofme, the better. But if you'd
actually like to see something my people athome consider rather good, why, here's a little tinted photograph I haddone for my dear Daddy, the last Christmas he was with us. He liked it,and that's the reason I carry it about with me--because he wore it onhis old-fashioned watch-chain."
She put into Martha's hand a thin, flat, dull-gold locket.
Mrs. Slawson opened it, and gave a quick gasp of delight--the sound oftriumph escaping one who, having diligently sought, has satisfactorilyfound. "Like it!" Martha ejaculated.
Claire deliberated a moment, watching the play of expression on Martha'smobile face. "If you like it as much as all that," she said at last, "Iwish you'd take it and keep it. It seems conceited--priggish--to supposeyou'd care to own it, but if you really _would_ care to--"
Mrs. Slawson closed one great, finely-formed, work-hardened fist overthe delicate treasure, with a sort of ecstatic grab of appropriation."Care to own it! You betcher life! There's nothin' you could give me I'dcare to own better," she said with honest feeling, then and there tyingits slender ribbon about her neck, and slipping the locket inside herdress, as if it had been a precious amulet.
The day following saw her started bright and early for work at theShermans'. When she arrived at the area-gate and rang, there was noresponse, and though she waited a reasonable time, and then rang andrang again, nobody answered the bell.
"They must be up," she said, settling down to business with a steadythumb on the electric button. "What ails the bunch o' them in thekitchen, I should like to know. It'd be a pity to disturb Eliza. Shemight be busy, gettin' herself an extry cup o' coffee, an' couple o'fried hams-an'-eggs, to break her fast before breakfast. But that gayyoung sprig of a kitchen-maid, _she_ might answer the bell an' open thedoor to an honest woman."
The _gay young sprig_ still failing of her duty, and Martha's patiencegiving out at last, the _honest woman_ began to tamper with thespring-lock of the iron gate. For any one else, it would never haveyielded, but it opened to Martha's hand, as with the dull submission ofthe conquered.
Mrs. Slawson closed the gate after her with care. "I'll just steplight," she said to herself, "an' steal in on 'em unbeknownst, an' give'em as good a scare as ever they had in their lives--the whole lazy lotof 'em."
But, like Mother Hubbard's cupboard, the kitchen was bare, and no soulwas to be found in the laundry, the pantry or, in fact, anywherethroughout the basement region. Softly, and with some real misgivingnow, Martha made her way upstairs. Here, for the first time, shedistinguished the sound of a human voice breaking the early morning hushof the silent house. It was Radcliffe's voice issuing, evidently, fromthe dining-room, in which imposing apartment he chose to have hisbreakfast served in solitary grandeur every morning, what time the restof his family still slept.
Martha, pausing on her way up, peeped around the edge of the half-closeddoor, and then stopped short.
Along the wall, ranged up in line, like soldiers facing their captain,or victims of a hold-up their captor, stood the householdservants--portly Shaw the butler, Beatrice the parlor-maid, Eliza the"chef-cook"--all, down to the gay young sprig, aforesaid, who, as Marthahad explained to her family in strong disapproval, "was engaged to doscullerywork, an' then didn't even know how to scull." Before them, inan attitude of command, not to say menace, stood Radcliffe, brandishinga carving-knife which, in his cruelly mischievous little hand, became aweapon full of dangerous possibilities.
"Don't dare to budge, any one of you," he breathed masterfully to hiscowed regiment. "Get back there, you Shaw! An', Beetrice, if you don'tmind me, I'll carve your ear off. You better be afraid of me, all ofyou, an' mind what I say, or I'll take this dagger, an' dag the lifeout of you! You're all my servants--you're all my slaves! D'you hearme!"
Evidently they did, and not one of them cared or dared to stir.
For a second Radcliffe faced them in silence, before beginning to marchNapoleonically back and forth, his savage young eye alert, his naughtyhand brandishing the knife threateningly. A second, and then, suddenly,without warning, the scene changed, and Radcliffe was a squirming,wriggling little boy, shorn of his power, grasped firmly in a grip fromwhich there was no chance of escape.
"Shame on you!" exclaimed Martha indignantly, addressing the spellboundline, staring at her blankly. "Shame on you! To stand there gawkin', an'never raisin' a finger to this poor little fella, an' him just perishin'for the touch of a real mother's hand. Get out of this--the whole crowdo' you," and before the force of her righteous wrath they fled as chaffbefore the wind. Then, quick as the automatic click of a monstrousspring, the hitherto unknown--the supposed-to-be-impossible--befellRadcliffe Sherman. He was treated as if he had been an iron girder onwhich the massive clutch of a steam-lift had fastened. He was raised,lowered, laid across what seemed to be two moveless iron trestles, andthen the weight as of a mighty, relentless paddle, beat down upon himonce, twice, thrice--and he knew what it was to suffer.
The whole thing was so utterly novel, so absolutely unexpected, that forthe first instant he was positively stunned with surprise. Then theknowledge that he was being spanked, that an unspeakable indignity washappening him, made him clinch his teeth against the sobs that rose inhis throat, and he bore his punishment in white-faced, shiveringsilence.
When it was over, Martha stood him down in front of her, holding himfirmly against her knees, and looked him squarely in the eyes. Hiscolorless, quivering lips gave out no sound.
"You've got off easy," observed Mrs. Slawson benevolently. "If you'dbeen my boy Sammy, you'd a got about twict as much an' three times asthora. As it is, I just kinder favored you--give you a lick an' apromise, as you might say, seein' it's you and you ain't used toit--_yet_. Besides, I reely like you, an' want you to be a good boy.But, if you should need any more at any other time, why, you can take itfrom me, I keep my hand in on Sammy, an' practice makes perfect."
She released the two small, trembling hands, rose to her feet, and madeas if to leave the room. Then for the first time Radcliffe spoke.
"S-say," he breathed with difficulty, "s-say--are you--are you goin' to_t-tell?_"
Martha paused, regarding him and his question with due concern. "Tell?"
"Are y-you going to--t-tell on me, t-to ev-everybody? Are y-you going tot-tell--S-Sammy?"
"Shoor I'm not! I'm a perfect lady! I always keep such little affairswith my gen'lemen friends strickly confidential. Besides--Sammy hastroubles of his own."
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