"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-cla.s.s 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 m.u.f.f 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 subst.i.toots_. 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 gla.s.s.

"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 verd.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.kens 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 n.o.body 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. Blennerha.s.set, Mr. Ronald's secretary, Mr. Ronald, in the most unemotional and business-like manner, having a.s.sumed 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.