“What a fool I’ve been,” she cried. “I’ve always wondered why Martin Moreland was so friendly to you, why he was constantly urging you to accept his offers of loans and trying to induce you to spend more money than you really should for subscriptions and things. I’ve wondered and now I understand. Junior has sent me word that he’s coming here to-night, and he’s exactly like his father. He thinks that if he has enough money, he can buy anything in the world that he wants. Well, he is destined to learn that he hasn’t got enough money to buy me!”
In a panic, Mr. Spellman grasped her arm. He implored her to think of her mother; to think of him; to think of herself. He tried to put into cold words that would make very clear to her understanding, the exact result of the ruin that would face them unless she prevented it. She laughed at him and told him it was lucky that her mother had forced her to learn to perform miracles with her needle.
“Only think, Papa,” she cried, “how very capable I am! I can earn enough money with fancy embroidering and with sewing or millinery, to keep us all three in comfort. Lift up your head. Go tell Martin Moreland to take what belongs to him. Thank God that I don’t belong to him. He can’t buy either my body or my soul!”
In the midst of this Mrs. Spellman opened the door. Her husband and her daughter were so engrossed that they did not notice her. She stepped back and stood listening, first in amazement, then in sickening fear, at the end in rising defiance. At Mahala’s last words, she came into the room. She took a stand beside her. She put her arm around her and told her that she was right.
She said to her husband: “No, Mahlon, Martin Moreland shall not force Mahala to marry Junior unless she has given him her love. Much as I should like to see her Junior’s wife and presiding in the lovely home that he would provide for her, I say that she shall not be forced to take the step in order to insure comfort for us.”
Mahlon Spellman held up a shaking hand.
“For God’s sake, Elizabeth, be quiet!” he panted. “You don’t know. You don’t understand. Are you contemplating what being forced from the store, from this house, of being stripped of the greater part of its furnishings, is going to mean? How am I to face the world bankrupt, ruined, with not a penny for your care?”
Hopefully his eyes clung to the face of his wife; and in slow bewilderment, he saw her desert him. She only tightened her grip on Mahala. She only lifted her delicate head higher, and looked at him with calm deliberation.
“Don’t feel so badly, my dear,” she said. “All our lives together you have taken beautiful care of me and we’ve done our best for Mahala. If you have allowed yourself to fall into the clutches of a man like Martin Moreland, it’s nothing more than hundreds, yes, thousands of other men in this village and this county, and many adjoining, have done. It is very possible that some other man in exactly your position is represented by nearly every transfer of real estate to the name of Martin Moreland that the county recorder makes. Let him take the store, let him take this house, let him take these furnishings, if we owe him that amount of money. He cannot take Mahala unless she is willing, unless she loves and hopefully desires to marry Junior.”
Deserted by his wife, Mahlon Spellman’s head dropped once more on the table before him. Sick, afraid, defeated, he groaned in anguish. He allowed his wife and Mahala to help him to the sofa where they put a pillow under his head and covered him warmly. They brought him a cup of strong tea; and after a time, when he lay quiet as they tiptoed from the room, they decided that he had gone to sleep, so they went upstairs to talk the situation over.