FullReads

“Is it for fun you’re scaring me out of my wits, young man?”

“Scaring you, Martha?” His face was innocent of any guile.

“Where do you think you’re going, and when do you think you’re comin’ back–and me all alone in the house?”

Now his eyes gleamed way down in their brown depths with a spark apiece of malice.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” he said, “but I know that I’m not coming back until a little bird tells me that you have hired some one to help you with the housework.”

She was furious.

“Faith, then,” she said, “you’ll not come back till Doom’s Day.”

He concluded his preparations in silence, and carried his skis outdoors to put them on.

“I say, Martha,” he called, “hand me my pack and things, will you?”

“I will not.”

He laughed, and managed, with more laughter and some peril, to come up the steps and into the kitchen on his skis.

He adjusted the pack to his shoulder, put on his mittens, and took up his rifle and his axe. Malice still gleamed in his eyes.

He went out as he had entered, but with more difficulty and peril. He crossed the kitchen-yard with long, easy strides.

But Martha was running after him, bareheaded. She lost a carpet slipper in the deep snow.

“Only come back, darlint”–she fought against tears–“and I’ll fill the house with helpers from attic to cellar.”

“One,” said the Poor Boy judicially, “will do. The nearest employment bureau will be in Quebec. Isn’t there somebody in the village?”

“In the village! In Quebec!”

Her indignation was tremendous.

“This side of New York there’s not a gentleman’s servant to be had,” said she, “and but few there. I’ll have to go meself.”

“Couldn’t you write?”

“Full well you know that I can only make me mark, and never the twicet alike.”

“Well,” said the Poor Boy, “the change will do you good, and I’ll camp out in the house instead of in the woods till you come back. It will be easier, and ever so much safer.”

The next day, looking very grand in her furs and feathers, old Martha started for New York. As the man from the village drove her through the woods to the little railroad station the tears froze on her veil.

VI

Old Martha was longer in New York than she had intended to be. There were plenty of servants out of work on the lists of the various employment agencies which she visited. But Martha’s requirements were such as the average servant can not meet or will not face, and candidates for the place and wages she offered asked questions and were not satisfied with her answers.

“And where is the house?”

“Canada.”

“Is it a city?”

“It’s country.”

“Are there neighbors?”

“No.”

“What manner of man is the master?”

“A fine, kind man.”

“Married?”

“Single.”

“An old man?”

“A young man. But you’ll not see the master.”

“Me work for a man I don’t see?”

“He don’t see nobody but me.”

“What ails him?”

“Nothing. ‘Tis his way. He’s shy o’ people.”

“There’ll be no company, then?”

“None.”

“What men will there be to help about the place?”

“The men that drive in from the village with supplies.”

“How far off is the village?”

“Twelve miles. When they can’t drive they come in on snow-shoes.”

“Hum!”

“What more can I tell you?”

“You’ve told enough. I would not touch the place with a pole, not for twice the wages. I’d rather be dead than twelve miles from everywhere and never a man in the house.”

Girls who seemed able and willing wouldn’t go, two were willing to try the place for a month, but Martha did not like their faces or their voices. She was in despair, until one day, far from any employment agency, a chance meeting settled the matter.

“Why, Martha!”

“If it isn’t Miss Joy!”

And for a moment old Martha was dazed, for except in the pursuit of sport, tennis or golf, Miss Joceylin Grey was not the sort of girl who is met walking. And here she was crossing Madison Square on the long diagonal, in shoes that had not been blacked that day, and furthermore she was not headed for the avenue but away from it, and dusk was descending upon the city. And furthermore the color that had been her chiefest glory in the old Palm Beach and Newport days was all gone, and she looked very thin and delicate, and tired and discouraged. And where, oh where, were the gardenias that she always wore during the time of year when they are rarest and most expensive? Where even were the child’s gloves, old Martha asked herself, her sables? Her pearls?