CHAPTER VII
When Martha let herself into her flat that night, she was welcomed byanother beside Flicker.
"You _naughty_ Martha!" whispered Claire. "What do you mean by cominghome so late, all tired out and worked to death! It is shameful! Buthere's a good cup of hot chocolate, and some big plummy buns to cheeryou up. And I've got some good news for you besides. I didn't mean totell right off, but I just can't keep in for another minute. _I've got ajob!_ A fine, three-hundred-dollars-a-year-and-home-and-laundry job! Anda raise, as soon as I show I'm worth it! Now, what do you think of that?Isn't it splendid? Isn't it--_bully_?"
She had noiselessly guided Martha into her own room, got her things off,and seated her in a comfortable Morris chair before the lightedoil-stove, from whose pierced iron top a golden light gleamed cheerily,reflecting on the ceiling above in a curious pattern.
"Be careful of the chocolate, it's burning hot. I kept it simmering tillI heard you shut the vestibule door. And--O, yes! No danger in sippingit that way! But you haven't asked a single thing about my job. How Icame to know of it in the first place, and how I was clever enough toget it after I'd applied! You don't look a bit pleased and excited overit, you bad Martha! And you ought to be so glad, because I won't need tospend anything _like_ all the money I'll get. I'm to have my home andlaundry free, and one can't make many outside expenses in aboarding-school 'way off in Schoharie--and so I can send you a lot and alot of dollars, till we're all squared up and smoothed out, and youwon't have to work so hard any more, and--"
"Say now, Miss Claire, you certaintly are the fastest thing on record.If you'd been born a train, you'd been an express, shoor-pop an' nomistake. Didn't I tell you to hold on, pationate an' uncomplainin', tillI giv' you the sign? Didn't I say I had my eye on a job for you that wasa job worth talkin' about? One that'd be satisfactry all around. Well,then! An' here you are, tellin' me about you goin' to the old Harry, orsome such, with home an' laundry thrown in. Not on your life you ain't,Miss Claire, an' that (beggin' your pardon!) is all there is _to_ it!"
"But, Martha--"
"Don't let's waste no more words. The thing ain't to be thought of."
"But, Martha, it's over two weeks since you said that, about having anidea about a certain job for me that was going to be so splendid. Don'tyou know it is? And I thought it had fallen through. I didn't like tospeak about it, for fear you'd think I was hurrying you, but two weeksare two weeks, and I can't go on indefinitely staying here, and gettingso deep in debt I'll never be able to get out again. And I saw thisadvertisement in _The Outlook._ 'Twas for a college graduate to teachHigh School English in a girls' boarding-school, and I went to theagency, and they were very nice, and told me to write to the Principal,and I did--told her all about myself, my experience tutoring, and allthat, and this morning came the letter saying she'd engage me. I cantell you all about Schoharie, Martha. It's 'up-state' and--"
"Miss Claire, child, no! It won't do. I can't consent. I can't have youthrowin' away golden opportoonities to work like a toojan for them as'llstint you in the wash, an' prob'ly give you oleo-margerine instead ofbutter, an' cold-storage eggs that had forgot there was such a thing asa hen, long before they ever was laid away. I wasn't born yesterday,myself, an' I know how they treat the teachers in some o' them schools.The young-lady scholars, so stylish an' rich, as full of airs as amusic-box, snubbin' the teacher because they're too ignorant to know howsmart _she_ has to be, to get any knowledge into their stupid heads,an' the Principal always eyein' you like a minx, 'less you might bewastin' her precious time an' not earnin' the elegant sal'ry she givesyou, includin' your home an' laundry. O my! I know a thing or two aboutthem schools, an' a few other places. No, Miss Claire, dear, it won'tdo. An' besides, I have you bespoke for Mrs. Sherman. The last thingbefore I come away from the house this night, she sent for me upstairs,an' ast me didn't I know some one could engage with her forRadcliffe--to learn him his lessons, an' how to be a little lady, an'suchlike. She wants, as you might say, a trained mother for'm, while hisown untrained one is out gallivantin' the streets, shoppin', an' playin'bridge, an' attendin' the horse-show.
"I hemmed an' hawed an' scratched my head to see if, happen, I did knowanybody suitable, an' after a while (not to seem to make you too cheap,or not to look like I was jumpin' down her throat) I told her: 'Curiousenough, I do know just the one I think will please you--_if_ you can gether.'
"Then she ast me a lot about you, an' I told her what I know, an' forthe rest I trusted to Providence, an' in the end we made a sorterdeal--so's it's all fixed you're to go there day after to-morrer, totalk to her, an' let her look you over. An' if you're the kind o' stuffshe wants, she'll take a half-a-dozen yards o' you, which is the kind o'way those folks has with people they pay money to. I promised Mrs.Sherman you'd come, an' I couldn't break my word to her, now could I?I'd be like to lose my own job if I did, an' I'm sure you wouldn't astthat o' me!"
"But," said Claire, troubled, "you told me Radcliffe is sounmanageable."
Mrs. Slawson devoted herself to her chocolate and buns for a moment ortwo. "O, never you fear about Radcliffe," she announced at length. "He'sa good little fella enough, as little fellas goes. When you know how tohandle'm--which is _right side up_ with care. Him an' me come to anunderstandin' yesterday mornin', an' he's as meek an' gentle as abaa-lamb ever since. I'll undertake you'll have no trouble withRadcliffe."
"Is this the wonderful plan you spoke of? Is _this_ the job you said wasgoing to be so satisfactory all 'round?" inquired Claire, hermisgivings, in connection with her prospective pupil, by no meansallayed.
"Well, not eggsackly. I can't say it is. _That_ job will come later. Butwe got to be pationate, an' not spoil it by upsettin' our kettles o'fish with boardin'-schools, an' such nonsense. Meanwhile we can put intime with Mrs. Sherman, who'll pay you well, an' won't be too skittishif you just keep a firm hand on her. This mornin' she got discoursin'about everythin' under the canopy, from nickel-plated bathroom fixin's,an' marble slobs, to that state o' life unto which it has pleased God tocall me. She told me just what I'd oughter give my fam'ly to eat, an'how much I'd oughter pay for it, an'--I say, but wasn't she grand tohave give me all that good advice free?"
Claire laughed. "She certainly was, and now you've just _got_ to go tobed. I don't dare look at the clock, it's so late. Good-night, you_good_ Martha! And thank you, from way deep down, for all you've donefor me."
But long after Mrs. Slawson had disappeared, the girl sat in thesolitude of her shadowy room thinking--thinking--thinking. Unable to getaway from her thoughts. There was something about this plan, to whichMartha had committed her, that frightened, overawed her. She felt astrange impulse to resist it, to follow her own leading, and go to theschool instead. She knew her feeling was childish. Suppose Radcliffewere to be unruly, why, how could she tell that the girls in theSchoharie school might not prove even more so? The fact was, she argued,she had unconsciously allowed herself to be prejudiced against Mrs.Sherman and the boy, by Martha's whimsical accounts of them,good-natured as they were. And this strange, premonitory instinct wasno premonitory instinct at all, it was just the natural reluctance of ashy nature to face a new and uncongenial situation. And yet--andyet--and yet, try as she would, she could not shake off the impressionthat, beyond it all, there loomed something a hidden inner sense madeher hesitate to approach.
Just that moment, a dim, untraceable association of ideas drew her backuntil she was face-to-face with a long-forgotten incident in hervery-little girlhood. Once upon a time, there had been a moment when shehad experienced much the same sort of feeling she had now--the feelingof wanting to cry out and run away. As a matter of fact, she _had_ criedout and run away. Why, and from what? As it came back to her, not fromanything altogether terrible. On the contrary, something ratheralluring, but so unfamiliar that she had shrunk back from it,protesting, resisting. What was it? Claire suddenly broke into asmothered little laugh and covered her face with her hands, before thevision of herself, squawkin
g madly, like a startled chicken, and runningaway from "big" handsome, twelve-year-old Bobby Van Brandt, who had justannounced to the world at large, that "he liked Claire Lang a lot, 'n'she was his best girl, 'n' he was goin' to kiss her." She had beenmortally frightened, had screamed, and run away, but (so unaccountableis the heart of woman) she had never liked Bobby quite so well afterthat, because he had shown the white feather and hadn't carried out hispurpose, in spite of her.
But if she should scream and run away now, there would be none topursue. Her foolish outburst would disturb no one. She could cry andcry, and run and run, and there would be no big Bobby Van Brandt, or anyone else to hear and follow.
An actual echo of the cries she had not uttered seemed to mock herfoolish musing. She paused and listened. Again and again came themuffled sounds, and, at last, so distinct they seemed, she went to herdoor, unlatched it, and stood, listening, on the threshold.
From Martha's room rose a deep rumble, as of a distant murmurous sea.
"Mr. Slawson. He's awake. He must have heard the crying, too. O, it'sbegun again! How awful! Martha, what is it, O, what is it?" for Mrs.Slawson had appeared in her own doorway, and was standing, night-robedand ghostly, listening attentively to the intermittent signs ofdistress.
"It's that bloomin' Dutchman, Langbein, acrost the hall. Every time hegoes on a toot, he comes back an' wallops his wife for it. Go to bed,Miss Claire, child, an' don't let it worry you. It ain't _your_funeral."
Came the voice of big Sam Slawson from within his chamber:
"Just what I say to _you_, my dear. It ain't your funeral. Come back,Martha, an' go to bed."
"Well, that's another pair o' shoes, entirely, Sammy," whispered Martha."This business has been goin' on long enough, an' I ain't proposin' toput up with it no longer. Such a state o' things has nothin' torecommend it. If it'd help such a poor ninny as Mrs. Langbein any tobeat her, I'd say, 'Go ahead! Never mind _us!_' But you couldn't poundsense inter a softy like her, no matter what you done. In the firstplace, she lets that fella get away from her evenin's when, if she'd anounce o' sense, she could keep him stickin' so close at home, a capcineplaster wouldn't be in it. Then, when he comes home, a little the worsefor wear, she ups an' reproaches 'm, which, God knows, that ain't notime to argue with a man. You don't want to _argue_ with a fella whenhe's so. You just want to _tell_m'. Tell'm with the help of a broomstickif you want to, but _tell'_m, or leave'm alone. An' it's bad for thechildern--all this is--it's bad for Cora an' Francie. What idea'll theyget o' the holy estate o' matrimony, I should like to know? That the_man_ has the upper hand? That's a _nice_ notion for a girl to grow upwith, nowadays. Hark! My, but he's givin' it to her good an' plenty thistime! Sammy Slawson, shame on ye, man! to let a poor woman be beat likethat, an' never raise a hand to save your own childern from bein' oldmaids. Another scream outer her, an' I'll go in myself, in the face ofyou."
"Now, Martha, be sensible!" pleaded Sam Slawson. "You can't break into aman's house without his consent."
"Can't I? Well, just you watch me close, an' you'll see if I can't."
"You'll make yourself liable to the law. He's her husband, you know. Shecan complain to the courts, if she's got any kick comin'. But it's not_my_ business to go interferin' between husband and wife. 'What God hathjoined together, let no man put asunder.'"
Martha wagged an energetic assent.
"Shoor! That certaintly lets _you_ out. But there ain't no mention madeo' _woman_ not bein' on the job, is there?"
She covered the narrow width of the hall in a couple of strides, andbeat her knuckles smartly against the panel of the opposite door.
By this time the baluster-railing, all the way up, was festooned withwhite-clad tenants, bending over, looking down.
"Martha," protested Sam Slawson, "you're in your nightgown! You can'tgo round like that! Everybody's lookin' at you!"
"Say, you--Mr. Langbein in there! Open the door. It's me! Mrs. Slawson!Let me in!" was Martha's only reply. Her keen ear, pressed against thepanel, heard nothing in response but an oath, following another evenmore ungodly sound, and then the choking misery of a woman's convulsivesobs.
Mrs. Slawson set her shoulder against the door, braced herself for amighty effort, and--
"Did you ever see the like of her?" muttered Sam, as, still busyfastening the garments he had hurriedly pulled on, he followed his wifeinto the Langbeins' flat, into the Langbeins' bedroom. There he saw herresolutely march up to the irate German, swing him suddenly about, andsend him crashing, surprised, unresisting, to the opposite side of theroom. For a second she stood regarding him scornfully.
"You poor, low-lived Dutchman, you!" she brought out with deliberation."What d'you mean layin' your hand to a woman who hasn't the stren'th orthe spirit to turn to, an' lick you back? Why don't you fight a fellayour own size an' sect? That's fair play! A fine man _you_ are! A fineneighbor _you_ are! Just let me hear a peep out of you, an' I'll thrashyou this minit to within a inch of your life. _I_ don't need no law norno policeman to keep the peace in any house where I live. I can keep thepeace myself, if I have to lick every tenant in the place! I'm the lawan' the policeman on my own account, an' if you budge from that floortill I tell you get up, I'll come over there an' set down on ye so hard,your wife won't know you from a pancake in the mornin'. I'll show youthe power o' the _press!"_
Sam Slawson was no coward, but his face was pallid with consternation atMartha's hardihood. His mighty bulk, however, seeming to supplementhers, had its effect on the sobered German. He did not attempt to rise.
"As to you, you poor weak sister," said Mrs. Slawson, turning to thewife, "you've had your last lickin' so long as you live in this house.Believe _me!_ I'm a hard-workin' woman, but I'm never too tired or toobusy to come in an' take a round out of your old man, if he should everdare lay finger to you again. _I_ don't mind a friendly scrap oncet in awhile with a neighbor. My muscles is good for more than your fat,beer-drinkin' Dutchman's any day. Let him up an' try 'em oncet, an'he'll see. Why don't you have some style about you an' land him one,where it'll do the most good, or else--_leave_ him? But no, you wouldn'tdo that--I _know_ you wouldn't! Some women has to cling to somethin',no matter if they have to support it themselves."
Mrs. Langbein's inarticulate sobbing had passed into a spasmodicstruggle for breathless utterance.
"He--don't mean--no harm, Mis' Slawson. He's all right--ven he's soper.Only--it preaks my heart ven he vips me, und I don't deserve it."
"Breaks your heart? It ain't your _heart I'm_ worryin' about. If hedon't break your bones you're in luck!"
"Und I try to pe a goot vife to him. I tend him hand und foot."
"Ye-es, I know you do," returned Martha dryly. "But suppose you just trythe _foot_ in the future. See how it works."
"I to my pest mit dryin' to pe a goot cook. I geep his house so glean asa bin. Vat I _don't_ do, Gott weiss, I don't know it. I ain't esk himfor ein tcent already. I ain't drouble him mit pills off of de groceroder de putcher, oder anny-von. I makes launtry efery veek for someliddle peoples, und mit mine own money I bays my pills. Ven you dell mehow it iss I could make eferyting more smoother for him, I do it!"
"That's eggsackly the trouble," proclaimed Mrs. Slawson conclusively."You make 'em too smooth. You make 'em so smooth, they're ackchellyslippery. No wonder the poor fella falls down. No man wants to spendall his life skatin' round, doin' fancy-figger stunts, because hiswife's a dummy. Let'm get down to hard earth, an' if he kicks, heave arock at'm. He'll soon stand up, an' walk straight like a little man. Let_him_ lend a hand with the dooty-business, for a change. It'll take hisattention off'n himself, give'm a rest from thinkin' he's an angel, an'that you hired out, when you married'm, to shout 'Glory!' every time heflaps a wing! That sort o' thing ain't healthy for men. It don't agreewith their constitutions--An' now, good-night to you, an' may you havesweet dreams! Mr. Langbein, I ain't the slightest objeckshun to yourgettin' up, if you want to. You know me now. I'm by the day, as you mayhave heard. But I can turn my
hand to an odd job like this now an' thenby the night, if it's necess'ry, so let me hear no more from you, sir,an' then we'll all be good friends, like we're partin' now. Good-night!"
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