Part 55 (1/2)

”I didn't know but it would be a good place to hide our plate and other treasures,” said Marta, offering rather methodically the first invention that came to mind as she threw open-the reflector of the lantern and turned down the wick. She was ashamed of the excuse. It warned her how easy it was becoming for her to lie--yes, lie was the word.

”Don't blow out the light, please,” said Mrs. Galland. ”I should like to see for myself if the tunnel is a good hiding-place for the plate.”

”It's too damp for you down there--it's--” Marta blew out the flame with a sudden gust of breath and bolted across the room and into her chamber, closing the door and taking the lantern with her. In utter fatigue she dropped on the bed. Then came a gentle, prolonged knocking on the door.

”You forgot to leave the lantern,” called Mrs. Galland. ”I have come to get it, if you please.”

Marta did not answer. Her head had sunk forward; her hands, bearing the weight of her body, were resting on her knees. All she could think was that one more lie would break the camel's back.

”Marta, please mayn't I come in?” rose the gentle voice on the other side of the door. ”Marta, don't you hear me? I asked if I might come in.”

”It's too childish and silly to remain silent any longer,” thought Marta. Tired nerves revived spasmodically under another call to action.

”Yes, certainly, mother--yes, do!” she said in a forced, metallic tone.

Mrs. Galland entered to find her daughter before the mirror brus.h.i.+ng her hair with hectic vigor. She did not take up the lantern, which Marta had left in the middle of the floor, but seated herself. Her nice deliberation in smoothing out a wrinkle of her skirt over her knees indicated that she meant to stay a while. She folded her plump, white hands; a faint touch of color came into her round, pink cheeks; a trace of a smile knitted itself into the corners of her mouth. She was as she had been--_J'y suis! J'y reste_!--when the captain of engineers had pleaded with her at the outset of the war to leave the house. In the reflection of the mirror Marta's glance caught hers, which was without reproach or complaint, but very resolute.

”Do you like best to keep it all to yourself, Marta?” Mrs. Galland inquired solicitously.

”What? Keep what?” asked Marta crossly.

”Even if you have been all the way around the world, it might be easier if you allowed me to help you a little,” pursued Mrs. Galland.

”Help! Help about what?” said Marta.

That reply, as Marta knew now as an expert in deceit, was a mistake. She was hedging and petulant when she ought to have whirled around gayly and kissed her mother on the cheek, while laughing at such solemnity over a trip of exploration through the tunnel. Mrs. Galland had caught her prevaricating. Not since Marta was a little girl of seven had she ”fibbed” to her mother; and on that memorable and ethically instructive occasion her mother had regarded her in this same calm fas.h.i.+on.

”At all events,” said Mrs. Galland, ”I could help you a little if you would let me comb your hair. You are combing in a most unsystematic way, I must say. Systematic, gentle combing is very good for headaches and--”

There was a twinkle in Mrs. Galland's eye that was not exactly humor; a persistent twinkle that seemed to s.h.i.+ne out of every part of the mirror.

Her curiosity had come to stay; there was no escaping it. Marta brought her brush down with a bang on the bureau, only to be disgusted with this show of temper which the persistent twinkle had not missed. Her next impulse, una.n.a.lyzed because it was one of the oldest and simplest of impulses, made her spin round and drop on her knees at her mother's feet, which was just what had happened when she had started to brave out the last lie--the childhood lie.

Her head buried in her mother's lap, she was sobbing. It was many years since Mrs. Galland had known Marta to sob and she was glad that Marta had not forgotten how. She believed in the value of the law of overflow.

When Marta looked up with eyes still moist, it was with the joyous satisfaction that begins a confession. Not once during the recital did the smile fade from Mrs. Galland's lips. She was too well fortified for any kind of a shock to exhibit surprise.

”You see, I could not tell you--I--” Marta concluded, still uncertain what conclusion lay behind her mother's att.i.tude.

”Of course you could not,” said Mrs. Galland. ”As grandfather--my father, the premier--said; a man action cannot stop to explain everything he does. He must strike while the iron is hot. If you had stopped to discuss every step you would not have gone far--Yes, I should have argued and protested. It was best that I, being as I am--that I should not have been told--not until now.”

”And I must go on!” added Marta.

”Of course you must!” replied Mrs. Galland. ”You must for the sake of the Browns--the flag your father and grandfather served. They would not have approved of petty deceit, but anything for the cause, any sacrifices, any immolation of self and personal sensibilities. Yes, your father would have been happy, though he had no son, to know that his daughter might do such a service. And we must tell Minna,” she added.

”Minna! You think so? Every added link may mean weakness.”

”But Minna will see you going and coming from the tunnel, too. She is for the Browns with all her heart. They are her people and, besides,”

Mrs. Galland smiled rather broadly, ”that giant Stransky is with the Browns!” So Minna was told.

”I'd like to kiss your skirt, Miss Galland!” exclaimed Minna in admiration.

”Better kiss me!” said Marta, throwing her arms around the girl. ”We must stand together and think together in any emergency.”