She was my uncle's second cousin, and as he always called her Martha, so did I, without rebuke: every one else about the place called her Miss Martha.
Of much greater worth and much more genuine refinement than tens of thousands the world calls ladies, she never claimed the distinction. Indeed she strongly objected to it. If you had said or implied she was a lady, she would have shrunk as from a covert reflection on the quality of her work. Had she known certain of such as nowadays call themselves lady-helps, I could have understood her objection. I think, however, it came from a stern adherence to the factness--if I may coin the word--of things. She never called a lie a fib.
When she was angry, she always held her tongue; she feared being unfair. She had indeed a rare power of silence. To this day I do not _know_, but am nevertheless sure that, by an instinct of understanding, she saw into my uncle's trouble, and descried, more or less plainly, the secret of it, while yet she never even alluded to the existence of such a trouble. She had a regard for woman's dignity as profound as silent. She was not of those that prate or rave about their rights, forget their duties, and care only for what they count their victories.
She declared herself dead against marriage. One day, while yet hardly more than a child, I said to her thoughtfully,
“I wonder why you hate gentlemen, Martha!”
“Hate 'em! What on earth makes you say such a wicked thing, Orbie?” she answered. “Hate 'em, the poor dears! I love 'em! What did you ever see to make you think I hated your uncle now?”
“Oh! of course! uncle!” I returned; for my uncle was all the world to me. “Nobody could hate uncle!”
“She'd be a bad woman, anyhow, that did!” rejoined Martha. “But did anybody ever hate the person that couldn't do without her, Orbie?”
My name--suggested by my uncle because my mother died at my birth--was a curious one; I believe he made it himself. _Belorba_ it was, and it means _Fair Orphan_.
“Well, you watch and see!” she returned. “Do you think I would stay here and work from morning to night if I hadn't some reason for it?--Oh, I like work!” she went on; “I don't deny that. I should be miserable if I didn't work. But I'm not bound to this sort of work. I have money of my own, and I'm no beggar for house-room. But rather than leave your uncle, poor man! I would do the work of a ploughman for him.”