82CHAPTER VIELLEN ENCOUNTERS AN ENIGMA
Nevertheless, in spite of this bellicose admonition, Lucy had no opportunity during the next few weeks to deliver to the Howes her aunt’s message, for Ellen, feeling that she was now blessed with an able assistant whose time must not be wasted, seized upon the mild May weather to deluge her home from top to bottom with soapsuds, sapolio, and fresh paint. From morning until night Lucy worked, scrubbing and scouring, brushing and beating.
As she toiled up the stairs, carrying pails of steaming water, she caught through the windows glimpses of the valley, its verdant depths threaded by the river’s silvery windings. The heavens had never been bluer. Everywhere gladness was in the air, and the thrill of it filled the girl with longing to be in the heart of its magic.
Ellen, however, was entirely oblivious to the83miracle taking place in the universe about her. The glory of the awakening season, with its hosts of unfurling leaves and opening buds, was nothing to her. Had she not been dependent on the sun to make her garden grow, she would probably never have lifted her face to its golden rays. Only as nature furthered her projects did she acknowledge its presence.
The Howes seemed, to some extent at least, to share this disregard for the out-of-door world, for like Ellen they, too, surrendered themselves to a household upheaval quite as merciless as that of the Websters. No sooner would Martin disappear with horse and plow in the direction of the garden than the three sisters could be seen feverishly dragging mattresses on to the piazza roof for a sunning; shaking blankets; and beating rugs.
Now and then, when the sound of their measured blows reached Ellen’s ears, she would leap to close the windows on the side of the house where there was danger of the Howe germs drifting in and polluting the Webster Lares and Penates.
It was one day after being thus impelled that Lucy was surprised to see her linger and stare intently.84
“What are them women a-doin’?” she exclaimed at last. “Do come here, Lucy.”
Discarding her mop, the girl crossed the room.
Through the gaps in the trees Mary, Eliza, and Jane Howe were plainly visible. They had shovels in their hands and were struggling with the turf at the foot of the big linden tree beside the house.
“They seem to be digging a hole,” Lucy said, after watching a moment.
“What for, do you suppose?”
Ellen fidgeted at the casement for a short time and then disappeared, only to return with an old pair of field glasses. Adjusting them to her eyes, she stared at her neighbors with unconcealed curiosity.
“Theyarediggin’ a hole,” she declared presently. “A good deep one; whatever can they be settin’ out to do?”
For an interval she looked on with interest. Then suddenly she exclaimed in an excited voice:
“They’re goin’ to bury somethin’! My land! What do you s’pose it is? Somethin’ all done up in a bag!” She forced the binoculars85into Lucy’s hand. “You look and see if you can’t make out.”
Lucy scanned the scene with mild inquisitiveness.
“They have a canvas sack,” she said, “and evidently they are trying to bury it.”
She handed the glass back to Ellen.
“They act as if they were in an almighty hurry,” observed Ellen, as she looked. “They keep watchin’ to see if anybody’s comin’. Likely they’re afraid Martin will catch ’em. I wish he would. What do you reckon is in that bag? I’d give worlds to know.”
“I can’t imagine.”
Lucy had returned to her cleaning and was busy wringing out the mop. The doings of the women next door failed to interest her. But not so Ellen who, tense with speculation, hovered at the casement.
“They’ve got the hole dug,” she announced triumphantly, “an’ they’re lowerin’ the bag into it. It must be heavy ’cause they seem to be havin’ a hard time lettin’ it down in. They act as if they were afraid to touch the thing. What can it be?” she repeated for the twentieth time.
“I don’t know,” Lucy replied wearily.86
She was tired and hungry and wished Ellen would abandon spying on her neighbors and give her a helping hand.
“Yes,” commented Ellen from the window, “those women handle that bag as if they had a chiny image in it. I can’t for the life of me figger out what can be in it.”
For an interval there was silence. Lucy set the mop and pail out in the hall and began to clean the paint.
“They’ve started to cover it up,” chronicled Ellen, after a pause. “They’re shovelin’ in the dirt—at least Mary and Jane are; Eliza’s stopped helpin’ ’em an’ gone to see if anybody’s comin’. There’s somethin’ dretful queer about it all. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know,” answered Lucy a trifle impatiently.
Again Ellen studied the distance.
“Look!” she cried an instant later. “Look! ’Liza’s callin’ an’ motionin’ to ’em. They’re droppin’ their shovels and runnin’ for the house like a lot of scared sheep. Probably Martin’s comin’, an’ they don’t want him to catch ’em. There! What did I tell you? ItisMartin. I can see him drivin’ over the hill. Watch ’em skitter!”87
Lured more by the desire to see Martin than to observe his panic-stricken sisters, Lucy went to the window. It was even as Ellen had said. There were the retreating forms of the three female Howes disappearing in at the side door; and there was Martin, his tall figure looming in sight at the heels of his bay mare.
“He’s a fine looking man, isn’t he?” Lucy remarked with thoughtless impulsiveness.
“What!”
“I say he is fine looking,” repeated the girl. “What broad shoulders he has, and how magnificently he carries his head!”
“You call that fine looking, do you?” sniffed her aunt.
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“Martin Howe ain’t my style of man.”
“But he’s so strong and splendid!”
“I never saw a splendid Howe yet,” was Ellen’s icy retort.
She turned from the window, took up a cloth, and went to scrubbing the paint viciously.
Lucy, realizing the tactlessness of her observation, tried by light, good-humored chatter to efface its memory; but all attempts to blot it from her aunt’s mind were useless, and the88relations between the two women remained strained for the rest of the day. So strained and uncomfortable were they that Lucy, wearied out by her hard work, was only too glad to bid Ellen good night and seek her own room early.
Through its windows long shafts of moonlight fell across the floor, flecking it with jagged, grotesque images of the trees outside. Once alone, she did not immediately start to undress, but lingered thoughtfully looking out into the night. Every muscle in her body ached, and in her heart was a sinking loneliness. For the first time since her arrival at Sefton Falls she surrendered herself to the distaste she felt toward her aunt and her surroundings. Could she stay, she asked herself. The narrowness of the environment raised an issue vital enough; nevertheless, grave as it was, it sank into insignificance when weighed against the vastly more potent factor of Ellen’s personality. The girl had come east with the intention of nursing and caring for her father’s sister. She felt he would have wished her to come; and casting every other inclination aside, she had obeyed what seemed to her the voice of duty. But she had been misled, disappointed.89None of her father’s kindliness lurked in this embittered, malicious-matured woman, toward whom, although bound by ties of blood, she felt neither respect nor affection. Nor did her aunt need her. After all, was it her duty to remain and waste her youth to no purpose? Could she face the horror of a stretch of years that held in them no human sympathy? What should she do? What ought she to do? Should she go or stay?
As she lingered in the darkness, her weary head heavy against the window frame, she wrestled with the future and conscientiously tried to reach some conclusion. She was eager to do what was right. Had Ellen been sick or feeble, as she had been led to suppose, she would not have questioned leaving her, querulous and tyrannical though she was. But this woman was all-sufficient and needed no one. Why should she bury her life in this cruel, rancorous atmosphere? Would her own sweetness survive the daily companionship of such a person; rather, dominated by Ellen’s powerful character, might she not become inoculated by its poison and herself harden into a being as merciless and self-centered? So deep was her reverie that she did not hear the tap upon the90door. A second afterward the knob turned softly and her aunt entered.
“You ain’t in bed?” she inquired in a high-pitched whisper.
“No.”
“That’s lucky, I hoped you wouldn’t be. Come in my room quick. I want you should see what the Howes are doin’. They’re out fussin’ again over that thing they buried this afternoon.” Ellen was obviously excited.
Sure enough! From the window that looked toward the Howe farm, three figures could be seen in the silvery light, grouped together beneath the old linden. They were armed, as before, with shovels, and all of them were digging.
“It doesn’t look as if they were filling in the hole,” Lucy remarked, interested in spite of herself. “They seem to be digging up what they buried.”
“That’s just what I thought,” responded Ellen.
“Yes, they are shoveling the dirt out again,” declared the girl.
For quite a while the two stood watching the frenzied movements of their neighbors.
Then Ellen gave a cry.91
“See! See!” she ejaculated. “They’re histin’ the bag out. Did you ever see such doin’s? I’d give my soul to know what they’re up to. Nothin’ good, you may be sure of that—or they wouldn’t take the dead of night to do it. There, they’ve got the thing out now, and two of ’em are tugging it off between ’em. The other one’s fillin’ in the hole and trampin’ down the earth. Seem’s if I’d simply have to go over there an’ find out what it’s all about!”
Lucy smiled at her aunt’s exasperated tone.
“Why don’t you?” she asked mischievously.
Ellen gave a short laugh.
“The only way the Howes will ever get me on their land will be to chloroform me,” said she grimly. “But I should like to know before I go to bed what they’ve been doin’. I s’pose it’s no use to set up any longer, though, tryin’ to figure it out. We’d both better go to sleep. Good night.”
“Good night,” Lucy returned.
Only too glad to escape, she hurried back to her own room, slipped out of her clothes, and was soon lost in heavy, dreamless slumber.
The day had been a strenuous one, and she was very tired, so tired that she might not have been awakened promptly had she not stirred92in her sleep and become dimly conscious of a flood of radiance upon her pillow. The morning sunshine was brilliant in the chamber, and standing in its circle of gold she beheld Ellen.
“It’s six o’clock,” she announced breathlessly, “an’ I want you should get right up. Martin Howe’s gone off to the village in his wagon, an’ I can’t help a-thinkin’ that now he’s out of the way them sisters of his will start doin’ somethin’ more with that bag.”
“What bag?” yawned Lucy sleepily.
“Why, the bag they were buryin’ last night.”
“Oh, yes.”
Slowly the girl’s latent faculties aroused themselves.
“You hurry up and dress while I go and watch,” panted Ellen. “Be quick’s you can, or we may miss somethin’.”
She went out, closing the door; but in a few moments her niece heard her shrill call:
“They’re comin’ out with it! What’d I tell you? Two of ’em have got it, carryin’ it across the lawn. Ain’t you ’most dressed?”
“Yes, I’m coming.”
Fastening her belt as she went, Lucy hurried to her aunt’s side.93
Amid the sparkling, dew-kissed glory of early morning, she could plainly see the three Howes making their way through the wet grass in the direction of their pasture.
“Bless me! if they don’t mean to sink it in the brook!” whispered Ellen. “Oh, I never can stand this. I’ve got to foller ’em an’ find out what they’re doin’.”
“You wouldn’t!” exclaimed Lucy in dismay.
“Indeed I would,” her aunt retorted. “I’d go to any length to see what’s in that bag. If they were younger——” she broke off abruptly. “Anyhow, it’s somethin’ they’re ashamed of, I’m certain of that. They couldn’t ’a’ murdered anybody, I s’pose. Bad’s I hate ’em, I’d hardly think they’re that wicked. Still what can it be?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Well, I’m goin’ to track ’em down, anyhow,” Ellen announced. “Ain’t you comin’?”
“No.”
To spy on the actions of others did not appeal to the younger woman’s honest mind.
“You can get breakfast while I’m gone then,” Ellen said, catching up her coat, “and if I don’t come back pretty soon, you go ahead94and eat yours. I’d a thousand times rather ferret out what those Howes are tryin’ to bury than eat. I’d be willin’ to starve to do it.”
95CHAPTER VIITHE UNRAVELING OF THE MYSTERY
LEFT to herself Lucy stood for an instant watching her aunt’s resolute figure make its way under the fringe of lilacs that bordered the driveway. Then she turned her attention to preparing breakfast, and the Howes and their mysterious doings were forgotten.
In the meantime Ellen walked on, skirting the shelter of the hedge until she came into the lee of a clump of elder bushes growing along the margin of the brook at the juncture of the Howe and Webster land. Here she secreted herself and waited.
The brook was quite deep at this point and now, swollen by the snows that had recently melted on the hillsides, purled its path down to the valley in a series of cascades that rippled, foamed, and tinkled merrily.
As she stood concealed beside it, its laughter so outrivaled every other sound that she had difficulty in discerning the Howes’ approaching96tread, and it was not until the distinct crackle of underbrush reached her ear that she became aware they were approaching. She peered through the bushes.
Yes, there they were, all three of them; and there, firm in their grasp, was the mysterious bag.
It was not large, but apparently it was heavy, and they handled it with extreme care.
“Let’s put it down,” puffed Mary, who was flushed and heated, “an’ look for a good deep place. Ain’t you tired, ’Liza?”
“I ain’t so tired as hot,” Eliza answered. “Warn’t it just providential Martin took it into his head to go to the village this mornin’? I can’t but think of it.”
“It was the luckiest thing I ever knew,” assented Mary. “I don’t know what we’d ’a’ done with this thing round the house another day. I’d ’a’ gone clean out of my mind.”
“I still can’t understand why we couldn’t ’a’ left it buried,” Eliza fretted.
“I explained why to you last night,” Jane answered, speaking for the first time. “There warn’t a spot on the place that Martin might not go to diggin’ or plowin’ up sometime. He97might even ’a’ dug round the roots of the linden for somethin’. Ain’t he always fertilizin’ an’ irrigatin’? I didn’t dare leave the bag there. If he’d ’a’ gone stickin’ a pick or a shovel into it sudden——”
“I see,” interrupted Eliza. “’Twas stupid of me not to understand before. ’Course that wouldn’t do. Yes, I guess you were right. There ain’t much to do but sink it in the brook. Would you ’a’ dreamed there could be anything in the world so hard to get rid of? All I’ve got to say is I hope neither Martin nor old Miss Webster finds it. What do you s’pose they’d say?”
“I wouldn’t want Martin to come on to it unexpected. ’Twould worry me to death.” Eliza shuddered.
“But you don’t care about old Miss Webster,” Jane observed with a laugh.
“I never wished Miss Webster ill, goodness knows that,” returned Eliza gravely. “None of us ever did ’cept Martin, an’ he’s got no business to. I s’pose he’d like nothin’ better than to have her run across this thing. You don’t s’pose there’s any danger that she will, do you, Jane?”
“Danger of her findin’ it?”98
“No. I mean danger of her gettin’ hurt with it,” explained Eliza timidly.
“Mercy, no. How could it harm her if it was wet?”
“I dunno,” whimpered Eliza. “I’m so scat of such things.”
“Well, it’s certainly made us trouble enough!” put in Mary, with a sigh. “I’ve felt like a criminal ever since the thing came to light. It’s seemed as if we’d never get rid of it.”
Jane smiled. “I know it,” she said. “Who’d ’a’ believed ’twould be so hard. When I think what we’ve been through tryin’ to make way with it, I wonder folks ever are wicked. It’s so much trouble. ’Tain’t half as easy as it looks. You’ve got to have your wits about you every second. This affair’s taught me that. Ain’t I been all over the face of the earth tryin’ to find a safe place to hide this pesky bag! First I tried the mountain. Then I was afraid the woodcutters might find it, so I had to cart it home again. Then it come to me to drive down to the river and dump it in. Anybody’d have said that was simple enough. But halfway there, I met Elias Barnes walkin’ to the village, an’ he asked for a ride. I s’pose99he couldn’t see why I couldn’t take him in; I had an empty seat an’ had often done it before, so I had to. But when he started lightin’ up his pipe——”
“What did you do, Jane?” cried Mary.
“I guess I nearly screamed,” answered Jane, laughing. “He looked some surprised; anyhow, I told him I just remembered somethin’ I’d left behind, an’ I drew up an’ put him down quicker’n chain lightnin’. Then I turned round and drove off lickety-split for home, leaving him stock still in the middle of the road starin’ after me.”
“You showed good nerve, Jane, I’ll say that,” Mary declared with open admiration.
“Now if it had been me, I’d ’a’ just given the whole thing away. I ain’t no good at thinkin’ quick.”
“Well, we ain’t got to think about it any more, thank goodness,” Jane exclaimed, rising from the grass and laying a hand on the bag. “Let’s put an end to the whole thing now and go home. Take a holt of the other end, and we’ll flop it in.”
“Wait!” Eliza protested, seized by a sudden idea.
“Well.”100
“You don’t s’pose there’ll be any danger ’bout the cows drinkin’ here, do you?” Eliza inquired anxiously. “They do drink here, you know, and in the summer, when the water’s low, they often wade right in. If they was to——”
She stopped.
“I never thought of that,” Jane said in a discouraged tone. “Oh, my land, what are we going to do with it?”
She let the bag sink to the ground and, straightening herself up, confronted her sisters. “We’ve simply got to get it off our hands before Martin gets back.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” pleaded Mary, affrighted. “Do something with it, Jane, no matter what. I never could stand it to have it carted back to the house and hidden there. ’Tain’t safe. Besides, in these days of German spies, ’twould be an awful thing to be found on us. S’pose the house was to be searched. We never could make the police believe how we came to have it. They might take us and shut us all up in prison—Martin and all.”
Her voice shook with terror.
“I guess they wouldn’t go arrestin’ us, Mary,” declared Jane soothingly. “Still, I101agree with you that it’s just as well for us to be clear of such a thing; let me think.”
While she stood meditating her two sisters watched her with perturbed faces.
“Ellen Webster’s cows don’t come up to this end of the pasture much, do they?” she remarked at last.
“No. Leastways I’ve never seen ’em here,” replied Mary.
“Then why don’t we sink the bag just across the wall?”
“On her land?” gasped Eliza.
“It wouldn’t do any harm,” argued Jane. “She never comes up here, nor her cows nor horses either. We’ll climb right over and dump the thing in. That’ll settle Martin’s ever finding it, an’ everythin’.”
“But s’pose——” Eliza objected once more.
“Oh, ’Liza, we can’t stay here s’posin’ all day!” Jane declared decisively. “We got to put this bag somewheres, an’ there ain’t any spot that ain’t got some out about it. We must take a chance on the best one we can find.”
“I’m frightened to death!” wailed Eliza.
“So’m I!” Mary echoed. “Oh, Jane!”
“No matter. Pull yourself together,”102ordered Jane sharply. “You two take a hold of the bag an’ bring it along, while I climb the wall.”
Ellen, stooping behind the elderberry bushes, held her breath. She saw Jane clamber over the barrier and help Mary and Eliza to mount it and lower the sack into her hands; then, just when the three invaders were all ready to drop their mysterious gray burden into the stream, she stepped noiselessly into the open and said loudly:
“What you doin’ in my brook?”
A cry rose from the two more timorous Howes, and even Jane paled a little.
“What are you sinkin’ in my brook?” repeated Ellen.
No answer came. Angered by their silence, the woman stepped nearer.
“What you got in that bag?” she demanded sternly.
Still there was no reply.
“You ain’t got nothin’ good in it, I’ll be bound,” went on the tormentor. “If you had, you wouldn’t be so mighty anxious to get rid of it. Come now, long’s you’re intendin’ to heave it into the water on my side of the wall, s’pose you let me have a peep inside it.”103
Striding forward, she seized a corner of the canvas roughly in her hand.
There was a scream from the three Howes.
“Don’t touch it!”
“Keep away!”
“You’d better leave it be, Miss Webster,” Jane said in a warning voice. “It’s gunpowder.”
“Gunpowder!” repeated Ellen.
“Yes.”
“An’ what, may I ask, are you doin’ with a bag of gunpowder in my brook? Plannin’ to blow up my cows, I reckon.”
“No! No, indeed we’re not!” protested Mary.
“We wouldn’t hurt your cows for anything, Miss Webster,” put in Eliza.
“Humph! You wouldn’t? Still you don’t hesitate to dam my brook up with enough gunpowder to blow all my cattle higher’n a kite.”
“We were only tryin’ to——” began Mary; but Jane swept her aside.
“Hush, Mary,” she said. “You an’ ’Liza keep still an’ let me do the talkin’.”
Drawing herself to her full height she faced Ellen’s evil smile.
“The day before yesterday, when we were104cleanin’ the attic, we found a little door under the eaves that we’d never come across before,” she began desperately. “We discovered it when we were movin’ out a big chest that’s always stood there. We were sweepin’ behind all the trunks an’ things, an’ long’s we were, we decided to sweep behind that. ’Twas then we spied the door. Of course we were curious to know where it went to, an’ so we pried it open, an’ inside we found this bag together with an old rusty rifle. It must ’a’ been there years, judgin’ from the dust an’ cobwebs collected on it. We were pretty scared of the gun,” declared Jane, smiling reminiscently, “but we were scared a good sight worse when after draggin’ the bag out we saw ’twas markedGunpowder.”
She waited an instant.
“We didn’t know what to do with it,” she went on, speaking more hesitatingly, “because you see my brother doesn’t like us to turn the house upside-down with cleanin’; he hates havin’ things disturbed; an’ we were afraid he would be put out to find what we’d done. So we decided to wait till some time when he wasn’t round an’ make way with it.”
Jane caught her breath.105
“We’ve tried lots of ways,” she confessed wearily, “but none of ’em seemed to work. First I thought of hidin’ it up near Pine Ridge, but I was afraid some woodsman might happen on it; then I started to take it down to the river in our wagon; but Elias Barnes would get in an’ light his pipe, and I was so afraid a spark from it might——”
“I wish it had!” interpolated Ellen Webster with fervor.
“In order to get rid of him I had to turn round an’ come back,” narrated Jane, paying no heed to the interruption. “Then we tried to bury it, but afterward we dug it up for fear Martin might plow it up sometime an’ get——”
“’Twould ’a’ been an almighty good joke if he had!” again piped Ellen.
“So there didn’t seem to be any other way,” concluded Jane with dignity, “but to drop it in the brook; an’, as you never seemed to use this end of your pasture, we decided to sink it here.”
The narrative was true, every word of it. Ellen knew that. No one who looked into Jane Howe’s frank face could have doubted the story.106
But Ellen was an ungenerous enemy who saw in the present happening an opportunity to put a screw upon those who had been thus compelled to throw themselves upon her mercy.
“So! That’s how you lie out of it, is it?” she cried scornfully. “An’ you expect me to believe a yarn like that! Do you s’pose I don’t know this country’s at war, an’ that the authorities are on the lookout for folks concealin’ gunpowder in their houses? How do I know you weren’t goin’ to make the stuff into bombs, or carry it somewheres an’ blow up somethin’ or other with it?”
“Indeed, oh, indeed we weren’t,” Mary cried, thoroughly alarmed.
“Oh, what shall we do!” Eliza sobbed, wringing her hands.
“Nonsense,” cut in Jane. “You know perfectly well, Miss Webster, we ain’t no German plotters. I’m sorry——”
“You’re sorry I caught you before you had a chance to drop that bag in my brook,” said Ellen, a twinkle in her eye. “I’ll bet you are. Have you thought that I can have you arrested for trespassing on my land?”
“Oh, Jane!”
The horrified voices of Mary and Jane107greeted with concern this new danger. Ellen was exulting in her triumph.
“You can, of course, have us arrested if you wish to,” said Jane.
“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to—at least I ain’t, on one condition. An’ I’ll promise not to give you over to the police as spies, neither, if you do as I say.”
“What do you want us to do?” inquired Mary and Eliza breathlessly.
Jane was silent.
“Mebbeyou’dlike to know the condition,” sneered the old woman, addressing Jane.
She waited for a reply, but none came. Ellen looked baffled.
“You’d better accept the chance I give you to buy yourself off,” she said.
“That is my affair.”
“Do, Jane! Do promise,” begged Mary and Eliza. “Please do, for our sakes.”
“Very well,” Jane returned. “But I only do it to protect my sisters. What is the condition?”
With head thrown back she faced Ellen coldly.
“The condition is that you take that bag of gunpowder back home to your brother Martin108an’ tell him Ellen Webster sent it to him with her compliments. He can use it blastin’ out stones to fix up his stone wall.”
Then, with a taunting laugh, the woman turned and without more adieu disappeared in the direction of the Webster homestead, leaving a speechless trio of chagrined Howes behind her.
109CHAPTER VIIIWHEN THE CAT’S AWAY
May came and went, and June, rich in days of splendor, made its advent, and still Lucy caught only fleeting glimpses of the Howes.
Martin, to be sure, was daily abroad, toiling with the zest of an Amazon in garden and hay-field. Against the homely background of stubble or brown earth, his sturdy form stood out with the beauty of a Millet painting. But his sisters held themselves aloof, avoiding all possibility of contact with their neighbors.
Doubtless the encounter with Ellen had left its scar; for against their will they had been compelled to take up the sack of powder and tug it homeward; and then, in compliance with their promise, deliver it over to Martin who had first ridiculed their adventure; then berated them; and in the end set the explosive off so near the Webster border line that its defiant boom had rattled every pane of glass in the old house.110
Ellen had chuckled at this spirited climax to the episode. It was like Martin, she said. But Lucy regretted the whole affair and found difficulty in applauding her aunt’s dramatic imitation of the affrighted Howes and their final ignominious retreat. Of course it was only to be expected that the women next door should resent the incident and that they should include her, innocent though she was, in this resentment. Nevertheless, it was a pity that the avenue to further friendly advances between herself and them should be so summarily closed.
Lucy was very lonely. Having been the center of a large and noisy household and received a disproportionate degree of homage from her father’s employees, the transition from sovereign to slave was overwhelming. She did not, however, rebel at the labor her new environment entailed, but she did chafe beneath its slavery. Nevertheless, her captivity, much as it irked her, was of only trivial importance when compared with the greater evil of being completely isolated from all sympathetic companionship. Between herself and her aunt there existed such an utter lack of unity of principle that the chasm thereby111created was one which she saw with despair it would never be possible to bridge. Had the gulf been merely one of tastes and inclinations, it would not have been so hopeless. But to realize they had no standards in common and that the only tie that bound them together was the frail thread of kinship was a disheartening outlook indeed.
It was true that as time went on this link strengthened, for Ellen developed a brusque liking for her niece, even a shamefaced and unacknowledged respect. Notwithstanding this, however, the fundamentals that guided the actions of the two remained as divergent as before, and beyond discussions concerning garden and home, a few anecdotes relating to the past, and a crisp and not too delicate jest when the elder woman was in the humor, their intercourse glanced merely along the shallows.
Over and over, when alone, Lucy asked herself why she stayed on at Sefton Falls to sacrifice her life on the altar of family loyalty. Was not her youth being spent to glorify an empty fetish which brought to no one any real good?
But the query always brought her back to the facts of her aunt’s friendlessness and112infirmity. For defy Time as she would, Ellen was old and was rapidly becoming older. Whether with the arrival of a younger and more energetic person she was voluntarily relinquishing her hold on her customary tasks, or whether a sudden collapse of her vitality forced her to do so, Lucy could not determine; nevertheless, it was perfectly apparent that she daily attacked her duties more laggingly and complained less loudly when things were left undone.
When, however, Lucy tried to supplement her diminishing strength by offers of aid, Ellen was quick to resent the imputation that she was any less robust than she had been in the past, and in consequence the girl confronted the delicate problem of trying to help without appearing to do so.
Parallel with this lessening of physical zeal ran an exaggerated nervous irritability very hard to bear. Beneath the lash of her aunt’s cruel tongue Lucy often writhed, quivered, and sometimes wept; but she struggled to keep her hold on her patience. Ellen was old, she told herself, and the self-centered life she had led had embittered her. Moreover, she was approaching the termination of her days, and to113a nature like hers the realization that there was no escape from her final surrender to Death filled her with impotent rage. She had always conquered; but now something loomed in her path which it was futile and childish to seek to defy.
Therefore, difficult as was Lucy’s present existence, she put behind her all temptation to desert this solitary woman and leave her to die alone. Was not Ellen her father’s sister, and would he not wish his daughter to be loyal to the trust it had fallen to her to fulfill? Was she not, as a Webster, in honor bound to do so?
In the meantime, as if to intensify this sense of family obligation, Lucy discovered that she was acquiring a growing affection for the home which for generations had been the property of her ancestors. The substantial mansion, with its colonial doorways surmounted by spreading fans of glass, its multi-paned windows and its great square chimney, must once have breathed the very essence of hospitality, and it did so still, even though closed blinds and barred entrances combined to repress its original spirit. Already the giant elm before the door had for her a significance quite different114from that of any other tree; so, too, had the valley with its shifting lights. She loved the music of the brook, the rock-pierced pasture land, the minarets of the spruces that crowned the hills. The faintly definable mountains, blue against the far-off sky, endeared themselves to her heart, weakening her allegiance to the barren country of her birth and binding her to this other home by the magic of their enchantment.
Here was the spot where her forefathers had lived and toiled. Here were the orchards they had planted, the fields they had tilled, the streams they had fished, the hills they had climbed; and here was the house built by their hands, the chairs in which they had rested, the beds in which they had slept. Her former life had contained none of these elements of permanence. On the contrary, much of the time she had been a nomad, the mining settlements that gave her shelter being frankly regarded as temporary halting places to be abandoned whenever their usefulness should become exhausted.
But here, with the everlasting hills as a foundation, was a home that had been and should be. Tradition breathed from the very115soil, and Lucy’s veneration for the past was deep-rooted. Therefore, despite her aunt’s acrimonious disposition, the opposition of their ideals, despite drudgery and loneliness, she stayed on, praying each day for increased patience and struggling to magnify every trace of virtue she could discover in Ellen.
Now that the planting was done, the weeding well in hand, the house-cleaning finished, the girl contrived to so systematize her work that she should have intervals of leisure to escape into the sunshine and, beneath the vastness of the arching heaven, forget for the time being at least all that was rasping and petty.
It was absurd to be lonely when on every hand Nature’s voices spoke with understanding. Was she joyous? The birds caroled, the leaves danced, the brook sang. Was she sad? The whisper of the great pines brought peace and balm to her spirit.
It was in search of this sympathy that she had set forth along the highway to-day. The late afternoon was a poem of mystic clouds and mysterious shadows. Far off against the distant horizon, mountains veiled in mists lifted majestic peaks into the air, their summits lost amid swiftly traveling masses of whiteness;116rifts of purple haze lengthened over the valley; and the fields, dotted with haycocks, breathed forth the perfume of drying grass.
As Lucy walked along she began singing softly to herself. Her day’s work was done; and her aunt, who had driven with Tony to bring home a load of lumber from the sawmill, would not return until late in the evening. Six delicious hours were her own to be spent in whatever manner her fancy pleased. It was an unheard-of freedom. Never since she had come to Sefton Falls had she known such a long stretch of liberty. What wonder that she swung along with feet scarce touching the earth!
A redwing called from the bracken bordering the brook, and the girl called back, trying to mimic its glad note. She snatched a flower from the roadside and tucked it in her hair; she laughed audaciously into the golden face of the sun. Her exuberance was mounting to ecstasy when she rounded a curve and suddenly, without warning, came face to face with Jane Howe.
The woman was proceeding with extreme care, carrying in either hand a large and well-heaped pail of berries.117
Before Lucy thought, she stepped forward and exclaimed impulsively:
“Do let me help you! They must be dreadfully heavy.”
“’Tain’t so much that they’re heavy,” Jane answered, smiling, “as that they’re full. I’m afraid I’ll spill some.”
“Give me one pail.”
“Do you really mean it?”
“Of course. I’d be glad to take it.”
“All right,” replied Jane simply. “I’m sure I’d be only too thankful if you would. After trampin’ miles to pick raspberries, you ain’t so keen on losin’ ’em when you’re within sight of home.”
“Indeed you’re not,” Lucy assented. “These are beauties. Where did you go for them?”
“Most up to the pine ridge you see yonder. I took my lunch an’ have been gone since mornin’.”
“How I wish I could have gone with you!”
“Would you have liked to?” queried Jane incredulously. “Then I wish you might have. It was just the sort of a day to walk. I don’t s’pose, though, your aunt would have spared you for an all-day picnic.”
There was a hint of scorn in the words.118
“I don’t often have time to go far from the house,” replied Lucy gently, ignoring Miss Howe’s challenge. “There is so much to do.”
“So there is,” agreed Jane hastily. “Certainly we manage to keep busy all the time. When it ain’t one thing, it’s another. There never seems to be any end to it. But I did steal off to-day. The berries were really an excuse. Of course we can make ’em into jam. Still, what I really wanted was to get out in the air.”
“I’ve stolen off too,” said Lucy, with a smile. “My aunt and Tony have gone over to the Crossing for lumber and won’t be back until dark, so I am having a holiday.”
Jane was silent a moment.
“Why shouldn’t you come over and have tea with us then?” she asked abruptly. “We’re all alone, too. My brother’s gone to the County Fair an’ ain’t comin’ back ’til to-morrow.”
Lucy’s eyes lighted with pleasure.
“You’re very kind,” she cried, a tremor of happiness in her tone. “I’d love to come.”
They walked along, balancing their burden of berries and chatting of garden, weather, and housework.119
As they turned in at the Howe gate, Jane motioned proudly toward three rows of flourishing vines that were clambering up a network of sustaining brush.
“Those are our sweet peas,” she remarked. “The first row is Mary’s; they’re white. Then come Eliza’s—pink ones. Mine are purple. Martin won’t plant his over here. He has ’em longside of the barn, an’ they’re all colors mixed together. We don’t like ’em that way, but he does. He’s awful fond of flowers, an’ he has great luck with ’em, too. He seems to have a great way with flowers. But he never cuts one blossom he raises. Ain’t that queer? He says he likes to see ’em growin’.”
They were nearing the house.
“I reckon Mary an’ ’Liza will be surprised enough to have me come bringin’ you home,” observed Jane a trifle consciously. “We ain’t done much neighboring, have we?”
“No,” returned Lucy quickly, “and I’ve been sorry. It seems a pity we shouldn’t be friends even if——” she stopped, embarrassed.
“Even if your aunt an’ Martin do act like a pair of fools,” interrupted Jane. “Senseless, ain’t it! Besides, it ain’t Christian livin’120at odds with people. I never did approve of it.”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
Jane nodded.
“We imagined you were like that,” she said. “I told Mary an’ ’Liza so the day you come for the eggs. ‘She ain’t like her aunt,’ I says to Mary, ‘not a mite; an’ you can be pretty sure she won’t be in sympathy with all this squabblin’ an’ back-bitin’.’”
“Indeed I’m not.”
“We ain’t either, not one of us. We’d like nothin’ better’n to be neighborly an’ run in. It’s the only decent way of doin’ when folks live side by side. But Martin wouldn’t listen to our doin’ it, even if your aunt would—which I know she wouldn’t. He’s awful set against the Websters.”
“How silly it seems!”
“That’s what I tell him,” Jane declared. “Of course your aunt’s an old woman, an’ ’tain’t surprisin’ she should harbor a grudge against us. But Martin’s younger, an’ had oughter be more forgivin’. It’s nonsensical feelin’ you’ve got to be just as sour an’ crabbed as your grandfather was. I don’t humor him in it—at least not more’n I have to to keep the121peace. But Mary an’ ’Liza hang on to every word Martin utters. If he was to say blue was green, they’d say so too. They’d no more do a thing he wouldn’t like ’em to than they’d cut off their heads. They wouldn’t dare. I ’spect they’ll have a spasm when they see you come walkin’ in to-night.”
“Maybe I ought not to come,” Lucy murmured in a disappointed voice.
“Yes, you ought,” Jane said with decision. “Why should we keep up a quarrel none of us approve of? Martin ain’t home. It’s nothin’ to him.”
“Well, if you’re sure you want me,” Lucy laughed and dimpled.
“If I hadn’t wanted you, you may be pretty sure I shouldn’t have asked you,” retorted Jane bluntly. “Mary an’ ’Liza will likely be scat to death at first, but they’ll get over it an’ thaw out. Don’t pay no attention to ’em.”
Jane had ascended the steps and her hand was on the latch.
“I feel like a child playing truant,” said Lucy, a flush of excitement tinting her cheek. “You see, my aunt wouldn’t like my being here any more than Mar—than your brother would.”122
“What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em,” was Jane’s brief answer.
“Oh, I shall tell Aunt Ellen.”
“I shan’t tell Martin. He’d rage somethin’ awful.”
She threw open the door. Lucy saw her stiffen with resolution.
“I picked up Miss Lucy Webster on the road an’ brought her home to tea!” she called from the threshold.
Mary and Eliza were busy at the kitchen table. At the words they turned and automatically gasped the one phrase that always sprang to their lips in every emergency:
“Oh, Jane!”
“Martin’s away an’ so’s Ellen Webster,” went on Jane recklessly. “Why shouldn’t we do a bit of neighborin’ together, now we’ve got the chance?”
“But—but Martin!” Eliza managed to stammer.
“He’ll never be the wiser—unless you tell him,” replied Jane merrily. “Come, Miss Lucy, take off your hat an’ make yourself at home. Supper’ll soon be ready, I guess.”
The phrase was a fortunate one, for it brought back to the disconcerted Howes the123memory of their domestic prowess, a thing in which they took great pride. By nature they were hospitable, and here was a chance to exercise that long unexercised faculty.
Mary bustled to the stove.
“Yes,” she answered, “the biscuits are in the oven, an’ I was just makin’ the tea.” Then, as if emboldened by Jane’s attitude, she added timidly: “We’re real glad to see you, Miss Webster; don’t think we ain’t.”
“Yes,” Eliza echoed, “we really are.”
The first shock of the adventure having passed, it was amazing to see with what rapidity the Howe sisters increased the warmth of their welcome. From the top shelf in the pantry they brought forth thecompany preserves; fruit cake was unearthed from the big stone crock in the dining-room closet; and, as a final touch to the feast, Jane beat up a foamy omelet and a prune whip. In their enjoyment they were like a group of children, an undercurrent of delight in the forbidden tinging their mirth.
Lucy told stories of her western life, and the three women listened as if to the tales of Sir John Mandeville. The hours passed, twilight deepened, night fell, but the revelers heeded124it not. What a sweet, wholesome evening it was! And how kindly, Lucy thought, were these simple souls whose feeling toward every breathing creature was so benign and sympathetic. Contrasted with the antagonistic atmosphere of the Webster house, this home was like paradise. It restored her faith in human nature and in Sefton Falls. Every one in the place was not, then, bitter and suspicious. What a comfort to know it!
In the meantime Mary, having reached a pitch of hilarity almost unprecedented, was starting to tell a story when suddenly her face stiffened and, turning white, she half rose from her chair.
There was a scuffling of feet in the hall and in another instant Martin Howe entered.
“The fair wasn’t worth my stayin’ to,” he explained from the doorsill, “so I came along home to-night instead of waitin’ till to-morrow. Looks to me as if I was just in time for a snack of supper.”
Standing in the lamplight, his stern face softened by a smile and a glow of good humor, he was attractive to look upon. The firm countenance was lined, it is true, but the lines gave it strength and brought into harmony the125clear eyes, resolute mouth, and well-molded chin. He had a fine smooth forehead from which his black hair, lightly sprinkled with gray, was tossed aside in picturesque abandon. Health and power spoke in every curve of the lithe frame and in the boyish grace with which he moved.
With his coming a hush fell upon the room. Had a group of conspirators been unexpectedly confronted with their own crimes, they could not have been more abashed than were the four women seated at the table.
Jane was the first to recover herself. In a voice that trembled but did not falter she said courageously:
“Miss Lucy Webster’s havin’ tea with us, Martin.”
There was an awkward pause.
Lucy, whose glance had dropped to the floor, raised her eyes appealingly to the man’s face; but she found in it no answering sympathy. In the short interval it had changed from geniality to a sternness almost incredible of belief. It was hard now—merciless.
Perhaps, to do Martin justice, he could not have spoken at that moment had he tried. This creature, with her wealth of golden hair, her126radiant eyes, flashed upon his vision with the glory of a new star. She was a phenomenon hitherto unknown. No matter what her name, the simple fact of her presence would have put to flight every other thought and left him dumb. The proudly poised head, the rounded white throat, the flushed cheek with its elusive dimples, the tiny hands were all marvels unfamiliar to Martin Howe.
Could this nymph, this dryad be a product of the same planet that had given birth to Mary, Eliza, and Jane?
With no attempt to conceal his artless scrutiny, he looked, and before his ingenuous wonder Lucy felt her pulse bound.
“I must go home,” she said, struggling to appear composed and ignoring the speechless Martin as if he were in reality as many miles away as she had supposed him. “I had no idea it was so late. Good night and thank you for my pleasant evening.”
None of the Howes attempted to stay her departure, although Jane followed her with feigned imperturbability to the door, remarking by way of conversation:
“It’s dretful dark outside, ain’t it?”
Lucy smiled.127
“Yes, but I don’t mind.”
To have escaped Martin Howe’s eyes, which continued to rest upon her, she would have plunged into a den of lions. The beating of her heart, the burning of her cheek angered and disconcerted her.
Jane unfastened the door. Then she started back in consternation.
“Mercy!” she cried. “It’s rainin’!”
“Rainin’?” Eliza exclaimed.
“Yes, pourin’. It’s an awful shower.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” asserted Lucy, impatient to be gone. “I never mind the rain.”
“But this is a regular downpour. You’ll get wet to your skin,” Jane objected. “I ain’t a-goin’ to let you go out in it in that thin dress. Ain’t we got an umbrella somewheres, ’Liza?”
“I dunno,” Eliza answered vaguely.
The sudden shower and the furious tossing of the trees did not impress themselves on her dull mind. Only one thought possessed her brain,—the sinking dread of the moment when Lucy should be gone and Martin would empty the vials of his waiting wrath on all their heads.
“Indeed I don’t in the least need an128umbrella,” Lucy protested. “I’ll run right along. Please do not bother.”
“You’ll get wet an’ be sick,” Mary declared, launching into the conversation at the mention of possible chills and fevers.
Lucy laughed unsteadily.
“Oh, no, I shan’t. Good night.”
She had crossed the veranda and was at the brink of the flight of steps when heavy feet came striding after her.
“Wait! I’m goin’ with you,” said a tense voice. It was Martin.
“Thank you very much, but I really don’t need anybody.”
“I’m goin’,” repeated the man doggedly.
“I don’t want you to,” Lucy returned curtly, nettled into irritability.
“Likely not,” observed Martin with stolid determination.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” fretted Lucy angrily. “I’d much rather——”
It was like a child helplessly dashing itself against a wall. Martin paid no attention to her protests. With a lighted lantern in one hand and an umbrella in his other, he set forth with Lucy down the driveway.
Overhead the trees wrenched and creaked,129and above the lashings of their branches the rain could be heard beating with fury upon the tossing foliage. Once in the blackness Lucy stumbled and, following the instinct for self-preservation, put out her hand and caught Martin’s arm; then she drew her hand quickly away. They proceeded in silence until they reached the gate at the foot of the long Webster driveway; then the man spoke:
“’Tain’t fur now,” he said, halting short. “I’ll give you the umbrella.” He held it out to her.
“But you’ll get drenched.”
“No, indeed!”
“But you will,” insisted Lucy with spirit.
“No matter.”
“It is matter. Besides, I can’t see my way to the house without the lantern. It’s dark as pitch.”
“Take ’em both, then.”
“Of course I shan’t,” replied the girl indignantly. “And anyway, if I did, I couldn’t carry the two in this wind. If I can’t have but one, I’d rather have the lantern.”
“That’s nonsense!” Martin returned.
“What use was there in my bringin’ you home if you get soaked now?”130
“But I can’t see an inch before my face without a light.”
“Just as you say, then. Here it is.” Holding out the lantern, he took back the umbrella.
“But you certainly are not going to leave me to go up that long avenue in the rain,” burst out Lucy.
“You said you didn’t mind rain,” retorted the man ironically.
He stood immovable in the torrent, but the lantern glow showed his face to be working convulsively.
Lucy, who could not believe that in the present emergency his stubbornness would persist, waited.
“I ain’t comin’,” he remarked half to himself with dogged determination, as if he were bolstering up some inward wavering of principle. “I ain’t comin’.”
The touch of her hand still vibrated upon his arm, and he could feel the flutter of her dress against his body.
“I ain’t comin’,” he repeated between his closed teeth.
“Very well.”
With dignity, Lucy picked up her limp skirts, preparatory to breasting the storm.131“Ican’tgo with you,” he suddenly burst out. “Don’t you see I can’t?”
A wailing cry from the wind seemed to echo the pain in his voice. The girl did not answer. Refusing both the light and shelter he offered her, she stepped resolutely forth into the blackness of the night. Helplessly he watched her go, the lantern’s rays reflecting her white gown.
“I shan’t bother you again, Mr. Howe,” she called bitterly.
Martin made no reply but raised the lantern higher that it might brighten the rough path. Unheeding him, the girl stumbled through the darkness, the rain beating down upon her.
As she neared the house a faint glow flickered through the shrubbery, making it evident that her aunt had already arrived home. Nervously she mounted the porch and turned to look behind her. At the foot of the drive stood Martin, the lantern high in his hands.
Now that Lucy was safely within the shelter of her own domain, her sense of humor overcame her, and with an irresistible desire to torment him, she called mischievously from her vantage ground on the veranda:
“Thank you so much for bringing me home, Mr. Howe. Can’t I persuade you to come in?”132
There was a smothered exclamation of wrath in the distance, and she saw a gleam of light precipitate itself hastily into the road, where, for a moment, it flashed along the tree trunks, then disappeared.
Lucy laughed.
Ellen was in the kitchen when she entered.
“Where on earth have you been?” she demanded. “I should ’a’ thought you might ’a’ come back in time to start the fire up an’ get supper. It’s awful late. Was it Tony you was talkin’ to outside?”
“No.”
“It warn’t?” she turned a hawklike glance on her niece. “Who was it?” she asked inquisitively.
“Mr. Howe.”
“Mr. Ho—— NotMartinHowe!”
Lucy nodded.
“Yes.”
“Martin Howe here—on my land! What was he doin’?”
“He wasn’t on your land,” Lucy said. “He left me at the gate. He was seeing me home. I’ve been there to supper.”
“What!”
Never had the girl heard so many sensations133crowded into one word. There was surprise, unbelief, scorn, anger. But anger predominated.
“An’ how long, pray tell me, have you been goin’ backwards an’ forrads to the Howes, an’ consortin’ with their brother?”
“Only to-night.”
Ellen looked at her niece as if, had she dared, she would have torn her in pieces. “I s’pose it never entered your head it was a mean advantage for you to take when I was gone,” she said shrilly. “You wouldn’t ’a’ dared do it if I’d been here.”
“I’m not so sure.”
The fearless response was infuriating to Ellen.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” she shouted, bringing her clenched hand down on the table with such force that every dish rattled. “You ain’t to repeat this night’s performance! If you ain’t got pride enough not to go hob-nobbin’ with my enemies, I’ll forbid it for good an’ all—forbid it, do you hear? I ain’t a-goin’——”
Something in the quiet dignity of the girl before her arrested her tongue. Her eye traveled over the white, rain-drenched figure.134Then the corners of her mouth twitched and curved upward.
“So Martin Howe saw you home, did he?” she observed sarcastically. “Much good his comin’ did! Had you tramped ten miles you couldn’t ’a’ got much wetter. I guess he needs some lessons in totin’ ladies round same’s he does in most everything else. I always said he didn’t have no manners—the puppy!”