The Wall Between Part 41

"I'm--I'm glad you're willin' we should take care of Lucy," murmured Jane, after an awkward pause. "Mary, 'Liza, an' I love her dearly."

"An' I too, Jane."

The confession came in a whisper. If Martin expected it to be greeted with surprise, he was disappointed.

Jane did not at first reply; then she said in a soft, happy tone:

"I guessed as much."

"You did."

The man laughed in shamefaced fashion.

"I ain't a bat, Martin."

Again her brother laughed, this time with less embarra.s.sment. It had suddenly become very easy to talk with Jane.

Welcoming her companionship and sympathy, he found himself pouring into her listening ear all his difficulties. He told her of Ellen's will; of the wall; of Lucy's flight; of his love for the girl. How good it was to speak and share his troubles with another!

"How like Lucy to go away!" mused Jane, when the recital was done. "Any self-respectin' woman would have done the same, too. She warn't goin' to hang round here an' make you marry her out of pity."

"But I love her."

"Yes, but how was she to know that?"

"She must have known it."

"You never had told her so."

"N--o, not in so many words."

"Then what right, pray, had she to think so?" argued Jane with warmth.

"She warn't the sort of girl to chance it."

"I wish I'd told her before."

"I wish you had," was Jane's brief retort. "You may have trouble now makin' her see you ain't marryin' her 'cause you're sorry for her."

"Sorry for her!"

Jane could not but laugh at the fervor of the exclamation.

"My land! Martin," she said, "I never expected to live to see you so head over ears in love."

"I am."

"I ain't questionin' it," was Jane's dry comment.

When, however, he set foot on the porch, his lover's confidence suddenly deserted him, and he was overwhelmed with shyness.

"You tell Mary an' 'Liza," he pleaded. "Somehow, I can't. Tell 'em about the will an' all. You'll do that much for me, won't you?"

"You know I will."

The words spoke volumes.

"That's right. An' be ready to start for Ashbury on the mornin' train.

We'd better leave here by six, sharp."

"I'll be on hand. Don't worry."

"Good night, Jane."

"Good night."

Still Jane lingered. Then drawing very close to her brother's side, she added bashfully:

"I can't but think, Martin, that instead of puttin' up walls, Ellen Webster's will has broken some of 'em down."

For answer Martin did something he had never done before within the span of his memory; he bent impulsively and kissed his sister's cheek.

Then as if embarra.s.sed by the spontaneity of the deed, he sped upstairs.

In the morning he and Jane started for Ashbury. The day was just waking as they drove along the glittering highway. Heavy dew silvered field and meadow, and the sun, flashing bars of light across the valley, transformed every growing thing into jeweled splendor.

Martin was in high spirits and so was Jane. While the man counted the hours before he would be once more at the side of his beloved, the woman was thinking that whatever changes the future held in store, she would always have it to remember that in this supreme moment of his life it had been to her that Martin had turned. She had been his confidant and helper.

It was worth all that had gone before and all that might come after. There was no need for conversation between them. The reveries of each were satisfying and pregnant with happiness.

Even after they had boarded the train, Jane was quite content to lapse into meditation and enjoy the novelty of the journey. Traveling was not such a commonplace event that it had ceased to be entertaining. She studied her fellow pa.s.sengers with keenest interest, watched the pictures that framed themselves in the car window, and delighted in a locomotion that proceeded from no effort of her own. It was not often that she was granted the luxury of sitting still.

They reached Ashbury amid a clamor of noontide whistles, and took a cab to the hospital. Here the nurse met them.

"Miss Webster has had her arm set and is resting comfortably," announced the woman. "There is not the slightest cause for alarm. We telephoned merely because she was fretting and becoming feverish, and the doctor feared she would not sleep. The loss of her purse and bank books worried her. We found your address in her coat pocket. She was too dazed and confused to tell who her friends were."

"Is she expectin' us?" inquired Jane.

"No," the nurse answered. "The doctor decided not to tell her, after all, that we had telephoned. For some reason she seemed unwilling for people to know where she was. To be frank, we rather regretted calling you up, when we discovered how she felt about it. But the mischief was done then----"

"It warn't no mischief," Jane put in with a smile. "It was the best thing that could 'a' happened."

"I'm glad of that."

"Could I see her, do you think?" demanded the visitor presently.

"Yes, indeed. She is much better this morning. Perhaps, however, one caller at a time will be enough; she still has some fever."