The Wall Between Part 14

"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.

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 trespa.s.sing on my land?"

"Oh, Jane!"

The horrified voices of Mary and Jane greeted 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.

"Mebbe _you'd_ like 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 Martin an' 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.

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 Amazon in garden and hay-field. Against the homely background of stubble or brown earth, his st.u.r.dy 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 gla.s.s in the old house.

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 thereby created 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 and infirmity. 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 to a 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 gla.s.s, 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 different from 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 very soil, 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 ma.s.ses of whiteness; rifts of purple haze lengthened over the valley; and the fields, dotted with hayc.o.c.ks, breathed forth the perfume of drying gra.s.s.

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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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.