The Wall Between Part 11

She handed the gla.s.s 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 cas.e.m.e.nt.

"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.

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? It _is_ Martin. I can see him drivin' over the hill. Watch 'em skitter!"

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 the relations 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. None 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 the door. A second afterward the k.n.o.b 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.

"See! See!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "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 stirred in 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."