: The book of Martha by Dowdall Mrs John Augustus Illustrator -

@FreeBooksWed 11 Oct, 2023

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This book ought by rights to have borne Ruth's name on the cover instead of mine. Of the fifty years I have lived the first twenty were scattered and lost. The remaining thirty were gathered as they came, and threaded on a wire which formed them into a serviceable chain; that wire was Ruth. She has now broken off and formed other ties, therefore the years that remain will probably be scattered like the first, for there can be no second Ruth. It may be, even, that I shall be driven to spend my declining days in an hotel. Meantime I have a record of experiences common to many Marthas.

When I decided on the title it happened to be Ruth's day out. I had intended, as a matter of course, to submit the name to her, and then, suddenly, a wave of mutiny swept over me.

"The book at least shall be mine," I said to myself. "Ruth has taken possession of my house, my tradespeople, my children, and, what was dearer still, my leisure. What little freedom I have enjoyed has been procured by a wearisome amount of guile, but my pen is still my own and shall remain in my possession."

It is true that David would never have burst into immortal song had it not been for his persecutors who goaded him to lament yet his works are published under his name and not under that of the Bulls of Bashan. Therefore I call this the Book of Martha and not of Ruth.

"Don't go away," I said pleasantly, and gathering up my blotting-pad and papers I returned to the drawing-room to write. I was in the full swing of inspiration when the door was burst open by a third skirmisher in the hated uniform. She made her offence far worse by pretending that her visit was only one of wanton light-heartedness.

"It's all right, Miss," she said, "I can come back by and by; it was only to do the grate."

I swallowed the word that rose to my lips--Elizabeth says it doesn't do for the servants to know we say these things--and took my papers to the garden; but my letter was no longer witty. It was full of short disjointed sentences and tedious information. In a few minutes I was startled by a terrific rumbling on the gravel. The odd man was approaching to mow the lawn.

"Sorry to disturb you, Miss; I shan't be above 'alf an hour," was the way he put it. There are many possible variations of the same crime.

"Elizabeth," I said as politely as I could when she came out on her way to the shops, "have you a wine-cellar?"

"Yes, a beauty. Why?"

"Do you mind telling me--is this the day for cleaning it out?"

"What nonsense; we don't clean it out."

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