The Wall Between Part 16

"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 the memory 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 att.i.tude, 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 pa.s.sed, 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 the _company 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 pa.s.sed, twilight deepened, night fell, but the revelers heeded it 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 the clear 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, her radiant 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.

"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," a.s.serted 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 an umbrella," 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, and 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.