CHAPTER VIII
WHEN 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 Amazonin garden and hay-field. Against the homely background of stubble or brownearth, his sturdy form stood out with the beauty of a Millet painting. Buthis sisters held themselves aloof, avoiding all possibility of contactwith their neighbors.
Doubtless the encounter with Ellen had left its scar; for against theirwill they had been compelled to take up the sack of powder and tug ithomeward; and then, in compliance with their promise, deliver it over toMartin who had first ridiculed their adventure; then berated them; and inthe end set the explosive off so near the Webster border line that itsdefiant boom had rattled every pane of glass in the old house.
Ellen had chuckled at this spirited climax to the episode. It was likeMartin, she said. But Lucy regretted the whole affair and found difficultyin applauding her aunt's dramatic imitation of the affrighted Howes andtheir final ignominious retreat. Of course it was only to be expected thatthe women next door should resent the incident and that they shouldinclude her, innocent though she was, in this resentment. Nevertheless, itwas a pity that the avenue to further friendly advances between herselfand them should be so summarily closed.
Lucy was very lonely. Having been the center of a large and noisyhousehold and received a disproportionate degree of homage from herfather's employees, the transition from sovereign to slave wasoverwhelming. She did not, however, rebel at the labor her new environmententailed, but she did chafe beneath its slavery. Nevertheless, hercaptivity, much as it irked her, was of only trivial importance whencompared with the greater evil of being completely isolated from allsympathetic companionship. Between herself and her aunt there existed suchan utter lack of unity of principle that the chasm thereby created wasone which she saw with despair it would never be possible to bridge. Hadthe gulf been merely one of tastes and inclinations, it would not havebeen so hopeless. But to realize they had no standards in common and thatthe only tie that bound them together was the frail thread of kinship wasa disheartening outlook indeed.
It was true that as time went on this link strengthened, for Ellendeveloped a brusque liking for her niece, even a shamefaced andunacknowledged respect. Notwithstanding this, however, the fundamentalsthat guided the actions of the two remained as divergent as before, andbeyond discussions concerning garden and home, a few anecdotes relating tothe past, and a crisp and not too delicate jest when the elder woman wasin the humor, their intercourse glanced merely along the shallows.
Over and over, when alone, Lucy asked herself why she stayed on at SeftonFalls to sacrifice her life on the altar of family loyalty. Was not heryouth being spent to glorify an empty fetish which brought to no one anyreal good?
But the query always brought her back to the facts of her aunt'sfriendlessness and infirmity. For defy Time as she would, Ellen was oldand was rapidly becoming older. Whether with the arrival of a younger andmore energetic person she was voluntarily relinquishing her hold on hercustomary tasks, or whether a sudden collapse of her vitality forced herto do so, Lucy could not determine; nevertheless, it was perfectlyapparent that she daily attacked her duties more laggingly and complainedless loudly when things were left undone.
When, however, Lucy tried to supplement her diminishing strength by offersof aid, Ellen was quick to resent the imputation that she was any lessrobust than she had been in the past, and in consequence the girlconfronted the delicate problem of trying to help without appearing to doso.
Parallel with this lessening of physical zeal ran an exaggerated nervousirritability very hard to bear. Beneath the lash of her aunt's crueltongue Lucy often writhed, quivered, and sometimes wept; but she struggledto keep her hold on her patience. Ellen was old, she told herself, and theself-centered life she had led had embittered her. Moreover, she wasapproaching the termination of her days, and to a nature like hers therealization that there was no escape from her final surrender to Deathfilled her with impotent rage. She had always conquered; but now somethingloomed in her path which it was futile and childish to seek to defy.
Therefore, difficult as was Lucy's present existence, she put behind herall 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 tobe loyal to the trust it had fallen to her to fulfill? Was she not, as aWebster, in honor bound to do so?
In the meantime, as if to intensify this sense of family obligation, Lucydiscovered that she was acquiring a growing affection for the home whichfor generations had been the property of her ancestors. The substantialmansion, with its colonial doorways surmounted by spreading fans of glass,its multi-paned windows and its great square chimney, must once havebreathed the very essence of hospitality, and it did so still, even thoughclosed blinds and barred entrances combined to repress its originalspirit. Already the giant elm before the door had for her a significancequite different from that of any other tree; so, too, had the valley withits shifting lights. She loved the music of the brook, the rock-piercedpasture land, the minarets of the spruces that crowned the hills. Thefaintly definable mountains, blue against the far-off sky, endearedthemselves to her heart, weakening her allegiance to the barren country ofher birth and binding her to this other home by the magic of theirenchantment.
Here was the spot where her forefathers had lived and toiled. Here werethe orchards they had planted, the fields they had tilled, the streamsthey had fished, the hills they had climbed; and here was the house builtby their hands, the chairs in which they had rested, the beds in whichthey had slept. Her former life had contained none of these elements ofpermanence. On the contrary, much of the time she had been a nomad, themining settlements that gave her shelter being frankly regarded astemporary halting places to be abandoned whenever their usefulness shouldbecome exhausted.
But here, with the everlasting hills as a foundation, was a home that hadbeen and should be. Tradition breathed from the very soil, and Lucy'sveneration for the past was deep-rooted. Therefore, despite her aunt'sacrimonious disposition, the opposition of their ideals, despite drudgeryand loneliness, she stayed on, praying each day for increased patience andstruggling to magnify every trace of virtue she could discover in Ellen.
Now that the planting was done, the weeding well in hand, thehouse-cleaning finished, the girl contrived to so systematize her workthat she should have intervals of leisure to escape into the sunshine and,beneath the vastness of the arching heaven, forget for the time being atleast all that was rasping and petty.
It was absurd to be lonely when on every hand Nature's voices spoke withunderstanding. Was she joyous? The birds caroled, the leaves danced, thebrook sang. Was she sad? The whisper of the great pines brought peace andbalm to her spirit.
It was in search of this sympathy that she had set forth along the highwayto-day. The late afternoon was a poem of mystic clouds and mysteriousshadows. Far off against the distant horizon, mountains veiled in mistslifted majestic peaks into the air, their summits lost amid swiftlytraveling masses of whiteness; rifts of purple haze lengthened over thevalley; and the fields, dotted with haycocks, breathed forth the perfumeof drying grass.
As Lucy walked along she began singing softly to herself. Her day's workwas done; and her aunt, who had driven with Tony to bring home a load oflumber from the sawmill, would not return until late in the evening. Sixdelicious hours were her own to be spent in whatever manner her fancypleased. It was an unheard-of freedom. Never since she had come to SeftonFalls had she known such a long stretch of liberty. What wonder that sheswung along with feet scarce touching the earth!
A redwing called from the bracken bordering the brook, and the girl calledback, trying to mimic its glad note. She snatched a flower from theroadside and tucked it in her hair; she laughed audaciously into thegolden face of the sun. Her exuberance was
mounting to ecstasy when sherounded a curve and suddenly, without warning, came face to face with JaneHowe.
The woman was proceeding with extreme care, carrying in either hand alarge and well-heaped pail of berries.
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 thatthey'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 ifyou would. After trampin' miles to pick raspberries, you ain't so keen onlosin' 'em when you're within sight of home."
"Indeed you're not," Lucy assented. "These are beauties. Where did you gofor them?"
"Most up to the pine ridge you see yonder. I took my lunch an' have beengone since mornin'."
"How I wish I could have gone with you!"
"Would you have liked to?" queried Jane incredulously. "Then I wish youmight 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.
"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 allthe time. When it ain't one thing, it's another. There never seems to beany end to it. But I did steal off to-day. The berries were really anexcuse. Of course we can make 'em into jam. Still, what I really wantedwas to get out in the air."
"I've stolen off too," said Lucy, with a smile. "My aunt and Tony havegone over to the Crossing for lumber and won't be back until dark, so I amhaving a holiday."
Jane was silent a moment.
"Why shouldn't you come over and have tea with us then?" she askedabruptly. "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'dlove to come."
They walked along, balancing their burden of berries and chatting ofgarden, weather, and housework.
As they turned in at the Howe gate, Jane motioned proudly toward threerows of flourishing vines that were clambering up a network of sustainingbrush.
"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'tplant his over here. He has 'em longside of the barn, an' they're allcolors mixed together. We don't like 'em that way, but he does. He's awfulfond of flowers, an' he has great luck with 'em, too. He seems to have agreat way with flowers. But he never cuts one blossom he raises. Ain'tthat 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 muchneighboring, have we?"
"No," returned Lucy quickly, "and I've been sorry. It seems a pity weshouldn't be friends even if----" she stopped, embarrassed.
"Even if your aunt an' Martin do act like a pair of fools," interruptedJane. "Senseless, ain't it! Besides, it ain't Christian livin' at oddswith 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 theday you come for the eggs. 'She ain't like her aunt,' I says to Mary, 'nota mite; an' you can be pretty sure she won't be in sympathy with all thissquabblin' an' back-bitin'.'"
"Indeed I'm not."
"We ain't either, not one of us. We'd like nothin' better'n to beneighborly an' run in. It's the only decent way of doin' when folks liveside by side. But Martin wouldn't listen to our doin' it, even if youraunt would--which I know she wouldn't. He's awful set against theWebsters."
"How silly it seems!"
"That's what I tell him," Jane declared. "Of course your aunt's an oldwoman, an' 'tain't surprisin' she should harbor a grudge against us. ButMartin's younger, an' had oughter be more forgivin'. It's nonsensicalfeelin' 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 the peace.But Mary an' 'Liza hang on to every word Martin utters. If he was to sayblue was green, they'd say so too. They'd no more do a thing he wouldn'tlike 'em to than they'd cut off their heads. They wouldn't dare. I 'spectthey'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 aquarrel 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 askedyou," retorted Jane bluntly. "Mary an' 'Liza will likely be scat to deathat 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 excitementtinting her cheek. "You see, my aunt wouldn't like my being here any morethan Mar--than your brother would."
"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 turnedand automatically gasped the one phrase that always sprang to their lipsin every emergency:
"Oh, Jane!"
"Martin's away an' so's Ellen Webster," went on Jane recklessly. "Whyshouldn'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'llsoon be ready, I guess."
The phrase was a fortunate one, for it brought back to the disconcertedHowes the memory of their domestic prowess, a thing in which they tookgreat pride. By nature they were hospitable, and here was a chance toexercise 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 withwhat rapidity the Howe sisters increased the warmth of their welcome. Fromthe top shelf in the pantry they brought forth the _company preserves_;fruit cake was unearthed from the big stone crock in the dining-roomcloset; and, as a final touch to the feast, Jane beat up a foamy omeletand 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 ifto the tales of Sir John Mandeville. The hours passed, twilight deepened,night fell, but the revelers heeded it not. What a sweet, wholesomeevening it was! And how kindly, Lucy thought, were these simple soulswhose feeling toward every breathing creature was so benign andsympathetic. Contrasted with the antagonistic atmosphere of the Websterhouse, this home was like paradise. It restored her faith in human natureand in Sefton Falls. Every one in the place was not, then, bitter andsuspicious. What a comfort to know it!
In the meantime Mary, having reached a pitch of hilarity almostunprecedented, was starting to tell a story when suddenly her facestiffened and, t
urning white, she half rose from her chair.
There was a scuffling of feet in the hall and in another instant MartinHowe entered.
"The fair wasn't worth my stayin' to," he explained from the doorsill, "soI came along home to-night instead of waitin' till to-morrow. Looks to meas if I was just in time for a snack of supper."
Standing in the lamplight, his stern face softened by a smile and a glowof good humor, he was attractive to look upon. The firm countenance waslined, it is true, but the lines gave it strength and brought into harmonythe clear eyes, resolute mouth, and well-molded chin. He had a finesmooth forehead from which his black hair, lightly sprinkled with gray,was tossed aside in picturesque abandon. Health and power spoke in everycurve 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 conspiratorsbeen unexpectedly confronted with their own crimes, they could not havebeen more abashed than were the four women seated at the table.
Jane was the first to recover herself. In a voice that trembled but didnot 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 appealinglyto the man's face; but she found in it no answering sympathy. In the shortinterval it had changed from geniality to a sternness almost incredible ofbelief. It was hard now--merciless.
Perhaps, to do Martin justice, he could not have spoken at that moment hadhe tried. This creature, with her wealth of golden hair, her radianteyes, flashed upon his vision with the glory of a new star. She was aphenomenon hitherto unknown. No matter what her name, the simple fact ofher presence would have put to flight every other thought and left himdumb. The proudly poised head, the rounded white throat, the flushed cheekwith its elusive dimples, the tiny hands were all marvels unfamiliar toMartin Howe.
Could this nymph, this dryad be a product of the same planet that hadgiven birth to Mary, Eliza, and Jane?
With no attempt to conceal his artless scrutiny, he looked, and before hisingenuous wonder Lucy felt her pulse bound.
"I must go home," she said, struggling to appear composed and ignoring thespeechless Martin as if he were in reality as many miles away as she hadsupposed him. "I had no idea it was so late. Good night and thank you formy pleasant evening."
None of the Howes attempted to stay her departure, although Jane followedher with feigned imperturbability to the door, remarking by way ofconversation:
"It's dretful dark outside, ain't it?"
Lucy smiled.
"Yes, but I don't mind."
To have escaped Martin Howe's eyes, which continued to rest upon her, shewould have plunged into a den of lions. The beating of her heart, theburning 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 nevermind the rain."
"But this is a regular downpour. You'll get wet to your skin," Janeobjected. "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 impressthemselves on her dull mind. Only one thought possessed her brain,--thesinking dread of the moment when Lucy should be gone and Martin wouldempty the vials of his waiting wrath on all their heads.
"Indeed I don't in the least need an umbrella," Lucy protested. "I'll runright along. Please do not bother."
"You'll get wet an' be sick," Mary declared, launching into theconversation 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 stepswhen 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 paidno attention to her protests. With a lighted lantern in one hand and anumbrella in his other, he set forth with Lucy down the driveway.
Overhead the trees wrenched and creaked, and above the lashings of theirbranches the rain could be heard beating with fury upon the tossingfoliage. Once in the blackness Lucy stumbled and, following the instinctfor self-preservation, put out her hand and caught Martin's arm; then shedrew her hand quickly away. They proceeded in silence until they reachedthe 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 thelantern. 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 ratherhave the lantern."
"That's nonsense!" Martin returned.
"What use was there in my bringin' you home if you get soaked now?"
"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 backthe umbrella.
"But you certainly are not going to leave me to go up that long avenue inthe 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 tobe working convulsively.
Lucy, who could not believe that in the present emergency his stubbornnesswould 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'tcomin'."
The touch of her hand still vibrated upon his arm, and he could feel theflutter 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 thestorm. "I _can't_ go with you," he suddenly burst out. "Don't you see Ican't?"
A wailing cry from the wind seemed to echo the pain in his voice. The girldid not answer. Refusing both the light and shelter he offered her, shestepped resolutely forth into the blackness of the night. Helplessly hewatched 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 brightenthe rough path. Unheeding him, the girl stumbled through the darkness, therain 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 shemounted the porch and turned to look behind her. At the foot of the drivestood Martin, the lantern high in his hands.
Now that Lucy was safely within the shelter of her own domain, her senseof humor overcame her, and with an irresistible desire to torment him, shecalled mischievously from her vantage ground on the veranda:
"Thank you so much for bringing me home, Mr. Howe. Can't I persuade you tocome in?"
There was a smothered exclamation of wrath in the distance, and she saw agleam of light precipitate itself hastily in
to the road, where, for amoment, 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 youmight 'a' come back in time to start the fire up an' get supper. It'sawful late. Was it Tony you was talkin' to outside?"
"No."
"It warn't?" she turned a hawklike glance on her niece. "Who was it?" sheasked inquisitively.
"Mr. Howe."
"Mr. Ho---- Not _Martin_ Howe!"
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 wasseeing me home. I've been there to supper."
"What!"
Never had the girl heard so many sensations crowded into one word. Therewas surprise, unbelief, scorn, anger. But anger predominated.
"An' how long, pray tell me, have you been goin' backwards an' forrads tothe Howes, an' consortin' with their brother?"
"Only to-night."
Ellen looked at her niece as if, had she dared, she would have torn her inpieces. "I s'pose it never entered your head it was a mean advantage foryou to take when I was gone," she said shrilly. "You wouldn't 'a' dared doit 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 handdown on the table with such force that every dish rattled. "You ain't torepeat this night's performance! If you ain't got pride enough not to gohob-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. Then the cornersof her mouth twitched and curved upward.
"So Martin Howe saw you home, did he?" she observed sarcastically. "Muchgood his comin' did! Had you tramped ten miles you couldn't 'a' got muchwetter. I guess he needs some lessons in totin' ladies round same's hedoes in most everything else. I always said he didn't have no manners--thepuppy!"