"She can read just the same."

"I haven't a man's strength," returned Lucy, shaking her head gravely. "It's such a pity."

"Maybe not."

The words slipped from his lips before it was possible for him to recover them. He flushed.

"What!" exclaimed Lucy.

"Maybe it's as well for you to stay as you were made," he explained in a strangely gentle voice.

The girl turned her head away. They had reached the foot of the Webster driveway, and unbidden the horse halted. But as Lucy prepared to climb out of the wagon, the man stayed her.

"I reckon there's some place I could turn round, ain't there, if I was to drive in?" he said recklessly.

"Oh, there's plenty of room," Lucy answered, "only hadn't you better drop me here? My—my—aunt is at home."

"I don't care," Martin retorted with the same abandon. "I ain't goin' to have you plod up that long driveway in the broilin' sun—aunt or no aunt."

He laughed boyishly.

"It's awfully good of you. But please, if you mind coming, don't; for indeed I——"

"You ain't your aunt," asserted Martin with a shy glance into her face.

Lucy met the glance with a blush and a whimsical smile.

"No, I'm not," she responded, "and sometimes I wish you weren't your father and your grandfather."

"What do you mean?"

"Because if you were just you, you'd be more forgiving—I know you would."

She saw him bite his lips and a dull red tinge his cheek. Without answering he turned into the long avenue and presently drew up before the side door.

"There you are!" he remarked stiffly.

Lucy did not need to look at him to sense that the kindliness had left his countenance, and his jaw had become grim and set.

Had she been able to read his thoughts, she would have realized that the short detour into Ellen Webster's territory had brought Martin to himself, and that he was already deploring with inward scorn the weakness that had led him to do the thing he had pledged his word never to do. He could not even shunt off the blame for his act and say, as did his illustrious ancestor: "The woman tempted me and I did eat." No, he had open-eyed stalked voluntarily into temptation,—willingly, gladly, triumphantly. He had sinned against his conscience, his traditions, his forbears, and behold, angry as he was with himself for yielding to it, the sin was sweet.



CHAPTER XII

THE TEST

Martin had guided his horse round the triangle of sweet-williams and, still torn by conflicting emotions of ecstasy and self-reproach, was proceeding down the driveway when a cry of distress reached his ear:

"Martin—Mr. Howe!"

He turned to see Lucy Webster beckoning frantically to him from the door.

"Come back, please," she cried. "Hurry!"

That she was excited was evident. Indeed she must have been quite out of her mind to have called him Martin in that shameless fashion. The fact that the name had slipped so spontaneously from her lips and that she hastened to correct her mistake caused the man to speculate with delight as to whether she was wont to think of him by this familiar cognomen. This thought, however, was of minor importance, the flash of an instant. What chiefly disturbed Martin was the girl's agitation.

Bringing his horse to a stop, he sped back to where she was standing, and on reaching her side he was startled to see that the face but a short interval before so radiant had blanched to a deathly pallor.

"My aunt!" she whispered in a frightened tone. "Something terrible has happened to her!"

If Lucy entertained any doubts as to whether he would aid her in the present emergency she had either cast them aside or was determined to ignore such a possibility, for she held the door open with the obvious expectation that he would follow her into the house.

A year ago, a month, nay—a week, he would never have consented to cross the Webster threshold, let alone offer any assistance to its mistress; but the siren who beckoned him on had cast such a potent spell over his will that now without open protest, although with a certain inward compunction, he followed her through the hall into the kitchen.

Upon the floor was stretched Ellen Webster—crumpled, helpless, inert—her eyes closed and her stern face set as in a death mask. How long she had lain there it was impossible to tell. If she had called for succor it had been to empty walls.

As with mingled sensations Martin stood looking down upon her unconscious form, Lucy threw herself upon her knees beside the woman and gently touched her wrists and heart.

"She isn't dead," she murmured presently. "She must either have had a fall or some sort of shock. We must get her upstairs and send for a doctor."

The "we" told Martin that the girl had not even considered the chance of his refusing to come to her assistance.

"Tony is in the village," she went on, "and I don't know what I should have done but for you. How fortunate that you were here!"

Was it fortunate? Martin asked himself.

At last the moment for which he had longed and prayed had come,—the moment when the fate of his enemy lay in his hands, and it was within his power to grant or deny succor. There had never been a question in his mind what he would do should this opportunity arise. Had he not declared over and over again that Ellen Webster might die before he would lift a finger to help her? He had meant it too. All the bitterness of his soul had gone into the vow. And now here he was confronted by the very emergency he had craved from Fortune. The woman he hated was at his mercy. What should he do? Should he stand stanchly by his word and let her life go out into the Beyond when he might perhaps stay its flight? Or should he weakly repudiate his word and call her from the borderland to continue to taunt and torment him? If a doctor were not summoned quickly she might die, and her death be upon his soul. Did he wish to stain himself with this crime,—for crime it would be. Was the revenge worth the hours of self-condemnation that might follow? Who was he that he should judge Ellen Webster and cut off her life before its time? Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord.

The phrase rang insistently in Martin's ears. He tried to stifle it—ignore it—but still the assertion continued to repeat itself within his consciousness. Suppose, tempted by his weaker nature and the appealing eyes of Lucy, he were to yield to his better self and adopt a merciful attitude, might not Ellen be restored to health and jeer at him to the end of his days for his magnanimity? Hers was not the creed "If thine enemy hunger." She would call him coward and accuse him of a feeble, intimidated will. Were the case to be reversed, she would never curb her hatred to prolong his existence; of that he was certain. He could see her now bending over him, her thumb turned down with the majestic fearlessness of a Caesar. She would term her act justice, and she would carry out the sentence without a tremor.

But now that the same chance had come to him, and he saw the old woman stretched before him, her thin white hair snowy against the wooden flooring, a vague pity stirred in his heart. Death must come to us all sometime; but how tragic to have its approach unheralded, granting not an instant in which to raise a prayer to Heaven. No, he could not let his worst foe go down to the grave thus. He was the captain of his own soul, but not of Ellen Webster's.

He glanced up to find Lucy's gaze fixed upon him. There was horror and anguish in her eyes, and he realized that she had read aright the temptation that assailed him. She did not speak, she seemed scarcely to breathe: but the pleading face told him that should he yield to his darker passions and show no pity, she would forever loathe him for his cruelty. Plainly as he saw this, however, it was not to her silent entreaty that he surrendered. Something deeper than love was calling him.

"Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not charity——" How persistently the sentences came to him! They seemed to echo from out his memory—in his mother's voice—the voice of a vanished past. She had taught him the words when he was a boy, and he had not thought of them since. Why did they now surge into his mind to weaken his resolve and cause him to waver in his intention? He wished he could get away from Lucy's eyes and the sight of the woman upon the floor. Had his mother lived, she might sometime have been as frail as this and had hair as white. A sob broke from him, and he stooped over his fallen foe.

"Where do you want I should carry her?" he asked, raising the limp body in his arms.

Lucy did not answer at once, and when she did her reply was unsteady.

"The room is at the head of the stairs," she said, struggling to speak in her customary tone. "Maybe I'd better go first."

The hushed intimacy of the tragedy suddenly brought the man and the woman very close together.

She led the way and he followed with his helpless burden. The form he bore was not heavy. In fact, it was so fragile that it seemed impossible that it could harbor so much venom and hatred.

Ellen Webster was, after all, nothing but an old, old woman. Perhaps, he reflected, in a wave of regret, he should have realized this and made allowance for it. Then a reaction from his tense emotion swept over him, and he thought with amusement how angry she would be should she suddenly regain consciousness and find herself within his grasp.

But she did not come to herself, and when he laid her on the bed that Lucy had prepared, she was still as unmindful of his touch as she would have been had the spirit within her really taken flight.

Martin did not linger now. His decision was made.

"I'll step over home an' get the other horse an' team, an' fetch the doctor back," he said quietly.

"I wish you would."

She did not thank him, accepting the favor with the simplicity of a weaker nature that leans unabashed on a stronger. Her dependence and her confession of it thrilled him with pleasure. She heard him creep cautiously down over the stairs and go out at the side door.

Then she turned her attention to making more comfortable the helpless woman upon the bed. When at length there was nothing more she could do, she sat down to wait the doctor's coming. The time dragged on. It seemed an eternity before help came.

In the meantime Ellen lay immovable as she had done from the first, her hard, sharp-cut features harder and more sharply defined in their pallor than the girl had realized them to be. In the furrowed brow, the deep-set eyes, the pitiless mouth there was not one gentle line which death could borrow to soften the stamp with which revenge and bitterness had branded her. So she would look in her coffin, Lucy thought with awe. Majesty might come into her face in the last great moment; but it would be the majesty of hate, not of love.

What a sad, sad ending to a life!

As the girl sat thinking of the friendless, isolated existence of the woman before her, she wondered idly what her aunt would have been, if, while her nature was still plastic, she had married and sacrificed her ego in years of service for others. Ah, she would never then have come to this lonely, embittered old age! Children would have prattled at her knee, and their children would have made glad the silent house. How full of joy and opportunity such an existence would have been!

But these blessings, alas, had not been granted Ellen. Perhaps it had been her own fault. She may deliberately have thrust the gentle visitant, Love, from her dwelling, and once repulsed he may never have sought again for entrance.

Or it might be the woman was one at whose door the god had never knocked. Oh, the pity of it!

For after all did life hold any gift so rare, so supreme, as the perfect devotion of a man and woman who loved one another. It must be a wonderful thing, that divine miracle of Love.

Dreamily Lucy's gaze wandered off to the sunny fields, and with solemn realization it came to her that should Ellen die, they and all the Webster lands would be hers, to do with as she pleased. There were so many things she had been powerless to get her aunt to do. The house needed repairs if it were to be preserved for coming generations: certain patches of soil had been worked too long and should be allowed to lie fallow; there were scores of other improvements she would like to see carried out. Now she would be free to better the property as she saw fit. She would talk with Martin Howe about it. He was brimming with all the latest farming methods. She would get him to buy her a cultivator such as he used in his own garden, and a wheel-hoe. He could advise her, too, about plowing buckwheat into the soil. And Martin would know what to do about shingling the barn and cementing the cellar.

In fact, it was amazing to discover how inseparable Martin seemed to be from her plans. He was so strong, so wise, just the type of man a woman could depend upon for sympathy and guidance. Absently she twisted the ring on her finger.

Her mind had traveled to the events of the morning, to his battle with himself and final victory. How appealing had been his surrender! The stern personality had melted into a tenderness as winning as a child's.

If he loved a woman and she loved him—— She started guiltily to find Ellen staring at her with vague, troubled eyes.

"Where—where—am—I—?" asked the woman in a weak, quavering voice.

"Upstairs in your own room, Aunt Ellen," replied Lucy gently.

"How'd I come here?"

"You didn't feel very well."

"Yes. I remember now. I fell, didn't I?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I was fussin' at somethin', an' it made me dizzy. 'Twas the heat, I guess. Where'd you find me?"

"In the kitchen."

"An' you managed to bring me here?"

Her niece hesitated.

"Yes," she answered firmly.

Ellen paused and with dread the girl awaited her next question. But no question came. Either the clouded mind was in too vague a mood to grasp details, or the invalid did not care. She seemed to be thinking.

"So I fell," she repeated at last.

"Yes."

Again there was a pause, and during the stillness Lucy plainly heard the sound of approaching wagon wheels. It must be Martin with the doctor. She rose softly.

"Where you goin'?" demanded her aunt.

"Just downstairs a minute. I think the doctor——"

"You didn't send Tony for the doctor!" the invalid exclaimed, a feeble querulousness vibrating in the words.

"Yes; I didn't know what else to do."

"He can't help any."

"Perhaps he can."

"I tell you he can't," snapped Ellen. "I know well enough what's the matter with me without bein' told. I've had a shock. My feet are all cold and numb: I can't feel nothin' in 'em, nor move 'em. There ain't no remedy for that. You're only wastin' money gettin' the man here to tell me what I already know. I shan't see him."

Lucy waited a moment.

"I'm sorry I sent for him if you don't want him," she said. "But now that he is here, don't you think he'd better come up? We don't need to have him come again."

Ellen did not respond at once. Then with more animation than she had exhibited, she said:

"I s'pose we'll have to pay him whether he comes up or not, so I may's well get my money's worth out of him. Go and fetch him. He'll likely be tickled to death to see with his own eyes how bad off I am so'st he can go back an' blab the news in the village. Folks will be thankful to have something new to talk about."

Lucy could not but smile at the characteristic remark. She went out and soon returned with Doctor Marsh tiptoeing gingerly behind her.

He was a heavy, florid man whom the combination of heat and speed had transformed into a panting mechanism. Mopping the beads of perspiration from his brow, he started to seat himself at Ellen's bedside, but the woman waved him off.

"Don't come any nearer," she called, "and don't bring that bag of pills and plasters in here, either. I shan't need nothin' you've got. I know that well's you do; an' I know better'n you do that there ain't no help for me. You needn't stay, an' you needn't come in. Good mornin'."

Having delivered herself of this ultimatum at a single breath, Ellen turned her head and closed her eyes.

The doctor looked at her in astonishment but did not move.

"Clip right along home," reiterated the sick woman without looking at the physician. "My niece'll pay you as you go out. I reckon you won't charge more'n half price, since you ain't done nothin'."

"I usually have——"

"Mebbe. But this call ain't like your usual ones, is it?"

"No," responded the doctor with dignity, "I can't say that it is."

"Then you can't expect to get so much for it," piped Ellen triumphantly. "My niece will settle with you. Give him a dollar, Lucy—not a cent more. He'll have fun enough gossipin' about me to make up the rest of the fee."

Doctor Marsh, his face a study in outraged decorum, stalked indignantly from the room. Ellen, peeping from beneath her lids, watched him with satisfaction.

"Has he gone?" she demanded, when Lucy returned.

"Yes."

"Thank the Lord. The fool doesn't know anything, anyway. Now you go back downstairs an' finish up your work. There ain't no call for you to be idlin' the day out, even if I am."

"I don't like to leave you alone."

"Pooh, pooh! I can't no more'n die, an' if I was to start doin' that you couldn't stop me."

Lucy moved toward the door; then turning she remarked gently:

"I'm so sorry, Aunt Ellen."

"Eh?"

"I'm sorry you're ill."

"Are you?" questioned the old woman, searching the girl's face with her small, flinty eyes. "Mebbe you are. You generally tell the truth. I guess if you do feel so, you're the only one; an' I don't quite see how even you can be."

"I am."

Her aunt fingered the sheet nervously.

"You're a good girl, Lucy," she presently observed in a weary tone. "You won't lose nothin' by it, neither."

Embarrassed, her niece started from the room.

"Come back here a minute," muttered the woman drowsily. "I want to speak to you."

Lucy recrossed the threshold and bent over Ellen, who had sunk back on the pillows and was beckoning to her with a feeble, exhausted hand.

"You'll stay by me, won't you?" she pleaded in a whisper, for the first time displaying a consciousness of her helpless, dependent condition. "Promise you won't desert me. I'm leavin' you the place an' ten thousand dollars."



CHAPTER XIII

MELVINY ARRIVES

When Lucy descended to the kitchen she was surprised to be confronted by Jane Howe.

"Martin told us your aunt was sick, so I came over to see what I could do," said the visitor softly. "I reckon you're all up in a heap. Sickness makes a sight of trouble. I know what it is 'cause I've had it. Let me take right hold and put the kitchen to rights for you."

The words were hearty with sincerity, and the woman's intention of rendering neighborly assistance genuine, for she promptly produced a large pinafore from under her arm and proceeded to put it on.

"You're just as good as you can be," Lucy exclaimed. "But indeed I couldn't think of letting you do my work, especially on such a hot day as this."

"Why not? Didn't I just tell you I came to help? If you wasn't to let me lend a hand when you were in a tight place, I'd feel it warn't kind of you," protested Jane, aggrieved. "Fetch the broom, an' I'll go straight to sweepin' up. My, but you have a fine big kitchen here, haven't you?"

As she rolled up her sleeves she glanced about.

"It's a monstrous house though," she went on a minute later. "You'll never be able to do all there'll be to do now, unless you have help. Let alone the work, you never can manage to lift your aunt by yourself. I reckon you'll have to send for Melviny Grey."

"And who, pray, is she?"

"Melviny? Ain't you never heard of Melviny?"

Jane regarded Lucy with astonishment.

"No."

"Oh, well, that's because you warn't born and raised here," she explained. "Why, Melviny's one of the institutions of Sefton Falls. Nothin' goes on in the way of tribulation without Melviny bein' to it."

"Oh, I see. She's a nurse."

"No, you couldn't really call her that," replied Jane thoughtfully. "An' still I don't know but you might as well tag her that way as any. 'Twould be hard to tell just what Melviny is. She ain't only a nurse, 'cause she's a dressmaker; an' she ain't exactly a dressmaker, 'cause she makes bonnets; besides that she cleans house for folks, puts up pickles, and tends all the new babies. Melviny's just a sort of present help in time of trouble."

Lucy smiled.

"I believe, too, she ain't busy just now—not more'n ordinarily busy, I mean," Jane hastened to add quickly. "As I remember it, the Bartons' baby's just come, an' the Wheeler one ain't due yet; so I guess Melviny's yours for the askin'. An' if you can get her, you'll have a whole team."

"I don't know whether Aunt Ellen——" began Lucy uneasily, but Jane interrupted her:

"Oh, it ain't to be expected your aunt will want her," she cut in serenely. "She won't want anybody. 'Twill drive her well-nigh crazy to think of spendin' the money. But 'tain't right for you to try to do all there is to be done alone, an' you mustn't undertake it. Just go right ahead an' get somebody in, whether your aunt likes it or not. That's the way I'd do if it was Martin. Besides, 'tain't as if Melviny was different. She fits in anywhere. She warn't ever known not to. She asks no questions an' has got no opinions. She just sorter goes along as if she was walkin' in her sleep, turnin' neither to the right nor to the left. Whatever house she's in, it's all the same to her. I believe she'd jog up to a patient with a breakfast tray if the stairs was burnin' under her. Nothin' moves her."

There was a rippling laugh from Lucy.

"We'd have to have somebody like that," she said.

"You certainly would," agreed Jane. "That's why I feel Melviny's just the one for you."

"It is so good of you to be interested."

"Bless your heart, I reckon the whole town's interested in Miss Webster bein' took down," confessed Jane naively. "But I don't deserve no credit for this plan; 'twas Martin's idea."

"Mar—your brother's?"

"Yes. Martin's awful upset 'bout your aunt bein' sick," announced Jane. "He must 'a' heard it in the village when he was there this mornin', for the minute he got back he sent me over to urge you to get somebody in. 'Course he wouldn't come himself. That would be too much to expect. But he actually said that if you decided to fetch Melviny he'd go and get her—an' from him that means a heap. I 'most fell over backwards when he suggested it, for you know how Martin feels toward your aunt."

Lucy nodded in confusion. She had an uncomfortable sense that she was not being quite frank with Jane.

"Martin would do 'bout anything for you, Miss Lucy," the woman asserted in a sudden burst of confidence. "I——"

A cry from upstairs cut short the sentence.

"Lucy!"

"Yes, Aunt Ellen, I'll be right there."

"Go right up: I'll finish things here," whispered Jane hurriedly. "All is, if you want Martin to go for Melviny, you have only to say the word. You can wave a handkerchief out of the window, an' he'll understand."

"Where does Miss Grey——"

"For the land sake don't call her that. Nobody'd know who you meant, an' she wouldn't, either."

"Well, Melviny, then—where does she live?"

"Down in the valley—King's Hollow, they call it."

"Why, it's miles!" protested Lucy in dismay. "I can't send your brother way down there. He's been doing nothing but errands all day."

"I know it," Jane replied. "He's been to town twice already. He came home this noon with a load of grain an' then changed horses an' went right back to the village again 'cause he forgot something. Likely you noticed him drivin' past."

The girl colored before Jane's friendly glance. She longed to tell the whole truth, for by nature she was a person of great frankness. Since, however, Martin had not seen fit to enlighten his sisters, perhaps it was wiser that she should not do so. He may have had his own reasons for keeping them in ignorance.

"Lucy!"

"Yes, I'm coming, Aunt Ellen."

"Do go along," implored Jane; "she may suspect something. I'll leave the house all picked up, tidy as a pin. You won't forget to wave to Martin if you want him."

"No. Thank you a thousand times, Ja—Miss Howe."

"Jane'll do," smiled the woman kindly. "I'm more used to it."

Catching her visitor's hand in a quick grasp, Lucy pressed it warmly and then sped up the stairs.

"Whatever have you been putterin' about so long?" queried Ellen petulantly.

"I was clearing up."

"That's good. I guess the place needed it," sighed her aunt. "I warn't half through straightenin' things in the kitchen. I thought I heard you talkin'."

"Heard me?"

"Probably 'twas a notion. My head kinder buzzes." Then she suddenly turned suspiciously on the girl, adding sharply:

"You ain't been over to the Howes'?"

"No."

"That's right. An' don't you go, neither. We don't need no help from them."

A pause followed.

"Did you want me for something?" Lucy at last inquired, after waiting for her aunt to speak.

"Yes, I did."

Nevertheless Ellen made no further remark for some time. Finally she burst out fretfully:

"I'm almighty afraid I'll have to hire in somebody, after all."

The last two words were peculiarly illuminating.

"You mean somebody to help?"

"Yes," grumbled the older woman with peevish shrillness. "We've got a pull ahead of us; I know that well enough. An' I s'pose you ain't got enough muscle to lift me. Likely you couldn't even raise me up on the pillows if you was to try. How you ever got me upstairs beats all."

Lucy hastily turned her head aside.

"They do say, though," continued Ellen, "that sometimes when folks are scat to death they can do things they can't do any other time. You were scat, I s'pose."

"Yes, I was."

"Mebbe you was scat worse when you found I warn't dead," chuckled the sick woman disagreeably.

The girl did not reply. Ellen paused; then seemed to regret her ill humor.

"Now 'bout a woman——" She halted abruptly.

"Have you any one in mind?" Lucy asked timidly.

"No," returned Ellen emphatically, "I haven't. I hate all the folks in this town about equally—that is, all except the Howes," she concluded with significant emphasis.

"Isn't there a nurse in the village?"

"There's Melviny Grey."

"Is she a nurse?" the girl inquired innocently.

"Melviny ain't never been classified," retorted Ellen grimly. "She's neither fish, flesh nor fowl. She's taught school; laid out the dead; an' done the Lord only knows what durin' her lifetime. She can turn her hand to most anything; an' they do say she's mum as an oyster, which is a virtue out of the common in a woman."

"Suppose I see if we can get her?" suggested Lucy.

"Well," returned Ellen, with a reluctant groan, "I reckon you'll have to. You can send Tony for her when he gets back, though how he'll find her I don't know. You might's well hunt for a needle in a haystack as to track down Melviny. She's liable to be most anywheres tendin' babies or trimmin' bunnits; an' Tony's such a numskull."

"I guess we can locate her."

"Well, pack him off anyhow, the minute he gets home; an' tell him not to do any unnecessary travelin', an' to keep where the ground is smooth if he can. There's no use wearin' out Dolly's new shoes by trapesin' over the stones in 'em the first thing. Don't be afraid to speak up good and sharp to Tony. He's used to it an' understands it better. Ain't it the devil's own luck I should be chained down here like this!"

"Maybe you'll be better before long."

"Don't be a fool," snarled Ellen. "Of course I shan't."

She closed her eyes, and Lucy saw her face first harden into a rebellious frown, then relax into sleep. As soon as the girl was quite sure she would not be heard, she went to the window and, drawing aside the curtain, waved her handkerchief.

Evidently Martin Howe was awaiting the signal, for on receiving it he sprang up from the chopping block where he was sitting and, returning the salute, disappeared into the barn from which he presently emerged with his surrey and bay mare.

Lucy lingered to see him rattle out of the yard and pass over the crest of the hill. Then with a strange sense of comfort and companionship she went back to her aunt's room. She sat there until dusk, watching the sleeping woman upon the bed.

Then Melvina arrived. She proved to be a large, placid-faced woman with a countenance from which every human emotion had been eliminated until it was as expressionless as a bronze Buddha. If she had ever known sorrow, delight, affection, surprise, it was so long ago that her reactionary system had forgotten how to reflect these sensations. It was obvious that nothing concerned her outside her immediate calling and that she accepted this with a stoical immovability which was neither to be diverted nor influenced.

Taking Lucy's hand in a loose, pudgy grasp she remarked:

"A shock?"

"Yes, you see, my aunt——"

"How old is she?"

"A little over seventy-five. I was away and when I——"

"First shock?"

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"Upstairs. But before you see her I want to explain that she is a little—well, peculiar. You may find that she——"

"I shan't pay no attention," replied Melvina indifferently. "I've seen all sorts—fretters, groaners, whiners, scolders; they're all one to me. So you needn't give yourself any uneasiness."

She spoke in a voice as humdrum and colorless as was her round, flabby face, and Lucy smiled in spite of herself.

"I fancy it isn't really necessary for me to tell you anything then," she answered good-humoredly. "Of course you have had a wonderful chance to study personalities."

"I never had a chance to study anything," responded Melvina in a matter-of-fact manner. "All I know I've picked up as I went along."

"By study I mean that you have had a wide opportunity to observe human nature," explained Lucy.

"If by human nature you mean folks, I have," Melvina said in her habitual monotone.

After answering the remark, however, she made no further attempt at conversation but lapsed into a patient silence, regarding Lucy with her big, faded blue eyes. As she stood there, one gained an impression that she could have stood thus for an indefinite length of time—forever, if necessary. Not once did her gaze wander to her surroundings, and when Lucy conducted her to the room that had been assigned her she entered it without curiosity.

"I hope you will be comfortable here," the girl murmured with a hostess's solicitude.

"I shall be."

"And if there is anything you want——"

"I'll ask for it."

Although there was no rebuke in the utterance, before this monument of composure, Lucy, like David Copperfield in the presence of the waiter, suddenly felt very young.

"Thank you; I wish you would," she managed to stammer, hastily closing the door.

She reflected with amusement, as she made her retreat, that there were several things she had intended to caution the new nurse not to mention, one being that it was Martin Howe who had brought her hither. But after having once seen Melvina Grey, such warnings became superfluous and absurd. There was no more probability of Melvina's imparting to Ellen the circumstances of her coming than there was of the rocks on the mountain side breaking into speech and voicing their past history. Therefore she crept downstairs to the kitchen to prepare supper, pondering as she went as to how Ellen and this strangely stolid attendant would get on together.

"It will be like a storm dashing against granite cliffs," she thought whimsically. "Well, there is one merciful thing about it—I shall not have to worry about Melviny gossiping or telling tales."

In this assumption Lucy was quite right. Melvina Grey proved not only to be as dumb as an oyster but even more uncommunicative than that traditionally self-contained bivalve. Notwithstanding her cheery conversation about the weather, the crops, Sefton Falls, the scenery, she never trespassed upon personalities, or offered an observation concerning her immediate environment; nor could she be beguiled into narrating what old Herman Cole died of, or whether he liked his son's wife or not. This was aggravating, for Melvina had been two years a nurse in the Cole family and was well qualified to clear up these vexed questions. Equally futile, too, were Ellen's attempts to wring from her lips any confidential information about the Hoyles' financial tangles, despite the fact that she had been in the house during the tragedy of Samuel Hoyle's failure and had welcomed the Hoyle baby into the world.

"Why, the woman's a clam—that's what she is!" announced the exasperated patient. "You can get nothin' out of her. She might as well not know anything if she's going to be that close-mouthed. I don't believe hot irons would drag the words out of her. Anyhow, she won't go retailin' our affairs all over town after she goes from here; that's one comfort!"

Lucy endorsed the observation with enthusiasm. It was indeed just as well that Melvina did not report in the sick room all that went on downstairs.

What, for example, would have been Ellen's feeling had she known that every morning some one of the Howe sisters came stealing across the fields to help with the Webster housework? And what would she have said on discovering that it was her hereditary enemy Martin himself who not only directed the cultivation of her garden but assumed much of its actual work.

Ah, Ellen would have writhed in her bed had such tidings been borne to her. She would, in truth, probably have done far more than writhe had she been cognizant that every evening this same Mr. Martin Howe, arrayed with scrupulous care, leaped the historic wall and came to sit on the Webster doorstep and discuss problems relative to plowing and planting. And if, as frequently happened, the talk wandered off from cabbages and turnips to sunsets and moon glades, and if sometimes there were conscious intervals when there was no talk at all, who was the wiser? Certainly not Ellen, who in her dim chamber little suspected that the pair who whispered beneath her window had long since become as oblivious to the fact that they were Howe and Webster as were Romeo and Juliet that they were Montague and Capulet.

No, the weeks passed, and Ellen lay in blissful ignorance that the shuttle of Fate, ever speeding to and fro, was subtly entangling in its delicate meshes these heirs of an inherited hatred.

Martin's sisters saw the romance and rejoiced; and although she gave no sign, Melvina Grey must also have seen it.

As for the man and his beloved, they dwelt apart in an ephemeral world where only the prosaic hours when they were separated were unreal. Their realities were smiles, sighs, glances,—the thousand and one nothings that make up the joys and agonies of a lover's existence. Thus the weeks passed.

In the meanwhile, as a result of rest and good care, Ellen steadily became stronger and soon reached a point where it was no empty platitude to assure her that she was really better.

"I do believe we shall have you downstairs yet, Aunt Ellen," said Lucy gaily. "You are gaining every minute."

"It's time I gained," Ellen retorted with acidity.

"You're gainin' all right," echoed Melvina. "I plan to have you settin' up soon. Sometime, when you're havin' a good day an' feel real spry, I mean to hist you into a chair an' let you take a look at the view."

The date for this innovation came sooner than either Lucy or the optimistic nurse foresaw, for Ellen continued to mend so rapidly that one afternoon, when twilight was deepening into purple, Melvina proposed to attempt the experiment of moving the invalid.

"How'd you like to try settin' up a spell to-night?" she inquired without preamble. "I'll get a chair ready, and fix you in it, an' shove you over to the window so'st you can look out. There ain't much to see, to be sure; still the change will rest you, an' mebbe you'll sleep better after it."

Ellen did not demur. Melvina had proved herself a trustworthy pilot and demonstrated that her suggestions were worth considering.

"All right," she replied. "Only hadn't you better call Lucy?"

"What for?"

"To help you."

A contemptuous smile curled Melvina's lips.

"Bless your soul an' body, I've no need of help," was her answer. "You don't weigh nothin', an' even if you did, I've moved so many folks that I wouldn't hesitate. You ain't afraid, are you?"

"Mercy, no."

"There's no cause for you to be," went on the nurse reassuringly. "I know what I'm about. All you've got to do is to mind what I tell you."

Ellen's jaw squared itself.

"I 'spect that's about all I'll ever do again," she returned in a biting tone.

The proposed adventure subsequently resolved itself into a much simpler undertaking than it had promised, for Ellen was light as a feather and Melvina strong, deft, and experienced. Hence without mishap the invalid was transferred to the big chair and rolled to the window, where she could look out on the valley melting into the shadows of evening.

Had she restricted her observations to the scenery she might have returned to her couch refreshed both in mind and body; but unluckily she chanced to let her glance wander to the garden, and there an astonishing sight met her eyes.

In the seclusion of the lilac hedge stood two figures, that of a man and a woman. The man held in his hand a trowel and was transplanting in the rich brown soil some tender green things which the woman was handing him from a basket. The presence of a stranger who was apparently so much at home within her boundaries was in itself sufficient to arouse Ellen's curiosity; but what whetted curiosity to indignation was the manner in which the pair were performing the simple task. Even a person blind to romance and deaf to sentiment could not help realizing that the planting was a very immaterial part of the pastoral tableau, and there was much more significance in the drama than the setting out of young seedlings.

Fascinated, Ellen gazed, her wrath rising.

"Melviny!" she burst out at last, "come here!"

"Yes, Miss Webster."

"Who's that out in the garden?"

"Where?"

"Over there near the lilac hedge," specified Ellen impatiently.

Melvina rubbed her glasses then smothered a little gasp; but she quickly recovered her wonted stolidity.

"It's Miss Lucy, I reckon," she said slowly.

"But the man—the man!" persisted Ellen. "Who is he?"

"Oh, the man. That's Mr. Howe—the one that lives next door."

"Martin Howe?"

"Yes, I believe they do call him Martin," responded Melvina imperturbably, resuming her interrupted task of turning the mattress and plumping its feathers into luxurious billows of softness.

Ellen did not speak immediately. When she did it was to ask:

"What's Martin Howe doin' on my land?"

"Helpin', I s'pose," Melvina replied with indifference. "He often does."

"He comes over here an' works?"

"Yes, marm."

Ellen brought her fist down on the arm of the chair with an exclamation of anger. Her lips were white, and she trembled. Raising her unsteady finger, she pointed toward the unconscious culprits.

"You go straight out there, Melvina," she cried, "an' tell Lucy I want her."

"Yes, marm."

"Hurry!"

"Yes."

She watched while Melvina plodded across the grass and delivered her message. Instantly Lucy dropped the basket and hastened toward the house. Another moment the girl stood before her.

"You're worse, Aunt Ellen?" she said, panting for breath.

But Ellen ignored the question.

"What's Martin Howe doin' in my garden?" she demanded fiercely.

Lucy paled.

"He came over to help me transplant the larkspur."

"By what right does he come over here, I'd like to know?"

No reply came.

"Has he been over before?" interrogated Ellen ruthlessly.

"Yes."

"When?"

"Oh, off an' on. He's been trying to help out since you've been ill."

"Help out!" repeated Ellen scornfully. "The coward! He wouldn't have dared set foot on the place if I'd been well."

"He isn't a coward!"

Lucy had drawn herself to her full height and now confronted her aunt with blazing eyes. Ellen, however, was not to be deterred.

"He is a coward!" she reiterated. "A coward an' a blackguard! A curse on the Howes—the whole lot of 'em!"

"Stop!"

The intonation of the single word brought Ellen's harangue to an abrupt cessation.

"You shan't speak so of Martin Howe or of his family," cried the girl. "He is no coward. If he had been as small-minded and cruel as you, he would have left you to die on the floor the day you fell, instead of bringing you upstairs and going for a doctor—you, who have cursed him! You had better know the truth. Did you think it was I who placed you on this bed? I couldn't have done it. I am not strong enough. It was Martin—Martin Howe!"

Ellen stared stupidly.

"I'd rather have died!" she muttered between clinched teeth.

"Yes, you would," retorted Lucy. "You would rather have gone down to your grave with bitterness in your soul and a curse upon your lips than to have accepted aid from Martin Howe. You would not have helped him had he been in trouble. You would have been glad to see him suffer—glad!"

The woman listened as if spellbound.

"But Martin Howe is too much of a Christian for that. Yes, you can sneer. He is a Christian and a gentleman. You are not worthy to touch the ground beneath his feet. He would not leave you without help. Since you have been ill, he has given part of each day to working in your garden; and he is busy and tired, too. He's done it that your crops might not fail. It is Martin Howe that you have to thank for your harvest, whether you like it or not—Martin Howe!"

Breathlessly she paused.

"You seem to have a terrible high opinion of Martin Howe," scoffed Ellen, with scathing sarcasm.

"I have."

"Likely you're in love with him," jibed the tormentor.

"Yes, I love him."

The simple confession came proudly from the girl's lips.

"An' he loves you, no doubt," continued the old woman with a laugh. "At least he's probably told you so."

"No, he hasn't."

"Oh-ho! He hasn't, eh?"

"No."

"An' never will," shouted the harpy triumphantly. "He ain't marryin' no Websters—don't you think it for one minute. He's just makin' a fool of you. That's his idea of revenge—your Christian gentleman!"

She rubbed her dank hands together.

"I don't believe it."

"You wouldn't be likely to," returned Ellen sharply. "I didn't expect it. No girl is ever willin' to believe her lover's a scoundrel. But mark my words—Martin Howe is playin' with you—playin'—just the way a cat plays with a mouse. He's aimin' to get you into his clutches an' ruin you—wait an' see if he ain't. Oh, he's a deep one, this gentleman you seem to think so much of!"

"I'll not believe it," repeated Lucy hotly.

"You'd marry him, I s'pose," Ellen hissed.

"If he asked me, yes."

"You traitor! An' you a Webster!"

"I don't care."

The woman surveyed her niece in silence.

"Well," she said finally, "you can put your soul at rest. Martin Howe will never marry you—never! He would no more marry anybody of the Webster blood than he'd hang himself. Go on lovin' him if you want to. No good will come of it."

With this parting prophecy Ellen shut her lips, and Lucy, throbbing from the stripes of the encounter and seeing further parley fruitless, slipped from the room and fled to the quiet of the still night's solitude.

After she had gone and Ellen was once more in bed, Melvina tried in vain to quiet the increasing restlessness of her patient, but all attempts to soothe the invalid were without avail. Tossing from side to side on the pillows, her fingers picking nervously at the coverings, Ellen stared into the darkness, breaking from time to time into fragments of angry dialogue.

The benediction of the evening's peace, musical with the rustling of leaves and laden with the perfume of blossoming vines, brought no solace to her heart. Presently, unable to endure the silence longer, she started up.

"Melviny," she called to the woman sitting beside her.

The nurse rose from the deepening gloom and stood erect in the moonlight, her figure throwing upon the whitewashed wall a distorted, specterlike silhouette.

"Yes, marm."

"Is Lucy still outdoors?"

"Yes."

Ellen waited an instant; then she said:

"There's somethin' in her room I want you should get for me."

"All right, Miss Webster."

"It's a long white envelope. You'll find it somewheres. It'll likely be in her desk or the table drawer. It's sealed with red wax. You'll know it when you come across it."

Although Melvina nodded, she did not move.

"You needn't be afraid to fetch it," explained Ellen querulously. "It's mine. I gave it to Lucy to keep for me."

"I see."

Melvina started promptly on her quest.

"Don't be all night about it," was Ellen's parting admonition.

While the messenger was gone, the invalid gave vent to her impatience by drumming rhythmically on the wooden edge of the bedstead, and this measured tattoo increased in speed until it beat time with the feverish bounding of her pulse and the throbbing of her heart.

"Ain't you found it yet?" she shouted at last.

"Yes, I've just come on it. It was under——"

"No matter where it was. Bring it here."

"I'm comin'."

Bearing the envelope, Melvina appeared in the doorway.

"Let me see it," said Ellen.

She took it in her hand and, while Melvina held the candle, examined the package critically.

"Humph!" she muttered. "It's good as new."

For some unaccountable reason she seemed disappointed at the discovery.

"Now run downstairs and put it in the stove," she commanded excitedly. "Wait till every smitch of it's burned up an' then come back."

"Yes, marm."

But again Melvina loitered.

"I tell you the thing is mine to do with as I please," declared Ellen angrily.

"Yes, marm."

"Ain't you going?"

"Y-e-s."

As she heard the nurse's reluctant step on the stairs, an evil light came into the old woman's face.

"I'll fix that!" she whispered aloud.

It took Melvina some time to fulfill her errand, but at length she returned, and the moment she was inside the door Ellen's shrill query greeted her:

"Well, did you burn it?"

"Yes, marm."

"Every scrap of it?"

"Yes."

"You didn't leave nothin'?"

"No."

The woman in the bed drew a satisfied breath.

"That's all right then. Now get me a drink of water, an' I'll go to sleep."

The sleep she craved, however, did not come, for throughout the night she continued to move unceasingly.

"Your aunt didn't so much as close her eyes," announced Melvina to Lucy the next morning, while the two sat at breakfast. Nevertheless, although she advanced this information, with characteristic secretiveness she said nothing of the happenings of the previous evening.

Truly if "Whoso keepeth his mouth and his tongue keepeth his soul from troubles," Melvina's eternal serenity of spirit was assured.



CHAPTER XIV

A PIECE OF DIPLOMACY

When Lucy, radiant in her own happiness, entered her aunt's room, she was surprised to find that all Ellen's recent anger had apparently vanished, and that she had dropped into a lethargic mood from which it was difficult to rouse her. It was not so much that the elder woman was out of temper—that was to be expected—as that she seemed to be turning over in her mind some problem which was either unsolved or unpleasant, and which knitted her brow into a web of wrinkles, forcing her lips together with an ominous curl.

Lucy, who stood at the table arranging a vase of freshly gathered pansies, furtively studied the invalid's sullen reverie.

"How are you feeling to-day, Aunt Ellen?" she at last inquired with courageous effort.

"No different."

"Melvina said she was afraid you did not have a comfortable night."

The blue eyes flashed a suspicious glance of inquiry over the questioner's countenance, then closed wearily.

"I didn't," was all she said.

"I am sorry to hear that."

The regret was uttered with gentle sincerity. In an existence cloudless as her own, magnanimousness required little effort. Moreover, Lucy was forgiving by nature; and had she not been, the helplessness and friendlessness of the lonely soul before her would have presented a powerful plea for pity.

Ellen did not respond to the words.

"What was the trouble?" went on Lucy, after waiting a suitable length of time and sensing that no answer was to be forthcoming. "Were you in pain?"

At the interrogation a flame of hatred leaped into the woman's face, flickered there, and then died down, leaving it cold and hard as marble.

"I got to thinkin'," she returned briefly.

"I hope what I said did not worry you, Aunt Ellen."

"It did last night; but it don't now," responded Ellen, with a disagreeable laugh.

"That's good. I should be sorry to have been the cause of your lying here fretting."

"I ain't doin' no frettin' now," repeated Ellen. Then, changing a subject both seemed to regard as a delicate one, she asked in a more natural tone: "What were you plannin' to do this mornin'?"

"Oh, just the regular things," Lucy said cordially, glad to be once more on safer ground. "Why?"

"'Cause I'm possessed of a hankerin' for some raspberries," said Ellen. "I like 'em, an' I ain't had any for a long time. Somehow it seems as if they'd taste awful good."

Lucy's face lighted.

"Why, I'd be glad to try and get some for you, Aunt Ellen," she cried. "You know I'd love to get anything you wanted if I could. I'm so pleased that you mentioned it."

Ellen twisted her head on the pillow and began outlining the figures on the counterpane with her long, misshapen finger.

"I s'pose you couldn't find enough for a shortcake, could you?" she ventured skeptically.

"I don't know but I could. At least, I could try. Of course it's late in the season for them."

The lean finger continued to follow the flowered design of the bedcovering.

"There used to be some late ones up at the top of Pine Ridge," remarked the invalid casually. "That would be quite a walk though, an' likely further than you'd care to go."

"No, indeed it wouldn't!"

There was fervor in the protest. Already visions of a morning in the blue and gold world were shaping themselves in the girl's mind. No doubt Jane Howe would go with her; probably Martin would be too busy to leave his work; but if he were not, what a bit of Paradise they could have together!

Ellen, who read her niece's thoughts almost as readily as if they had been openly expressed, smiled a malevolent smile.

"It's a good four miles to the Ridge," she remarked. "Goin', comin', an' pickin' would take you the whole mornin', I reckon."

"I'm afraid it would," agreed Lucy. "Could you spare me as long as that?"

"Yes. I don't need nothin'; an' if I do, Melviny can get it. I'd rather have you go than not. If you could get me enough berries for a shortcake it would be worth it."

The note of suppressed eagerness in the words caused Lucy to regard her aunt with quick, indefinable suspicion.

But Ellen met the glance unflinchingly, and with a baffled sense of being mistaken the girl hurried from the room. When she returned shortly afterward and paused in the doorway, she presented a winning picture.

She had donned a short khaki skirt and a pair of riding leggings such as she had been accustomed to wear in the West, and the broad sombrero crowning her golden hair outlined it like a halo. A simple blouse turned away to give freedom to the firm white throat completed the costume. Dimpling with anticipation, she held up her tin pail.

"I'm off, Aunt Ellen," she called. "You shall have your shortcake if there is a berry within five miles."

The woman listened to the fall of the light step on the stairs and the fragment of a song that came from the girl's lips until the last note of the music died away; then she called Melvina.

"Melviny!"

"Yes, marm."

"I want you should find Tony and tell him to harness up. There's somethin' I need done in the village."

"All right, Miss Webster."

"Bring me a sheet of paper an' a pencil before you go."

The nurse entered with the desired articles.

"I'm sendin' to town for Lawyer Benton," announced the patient with elaborate carelessness.

Neither Melvina's voice nor her face expressed the slightest curiosity.

"There's some business I must see to right away, an' I reckon I may's well get it fixed up this mornin'."

"Yes, marm."

"Give Tony this note for Mr. Benton and tell him to fetch him back soon's he can."

Nodding acquiescence, Melvina disappeared.

During the interval between the time the wheels rattled out of the yard and rattled in again, Ellen fidgeted at a high-pitched excitement, starting nervously at every sound. Sometimes she scowled; and once she burst into a harsh, cracked peal of laughter. Her thoughts, whatever they were, seemed to amuse her vastly.

The moment the tramp of the horse's hoofs sounded on the gravel outside, she was alert and called to Melvina, stationed at the window:

"Is that Tony?"

"Yes, marm."

"Has he got Mr. Benton with him?"

"Yes, Miss Webster. An' there's somebody else, too."

"That's good. Show Mr. Benton right up here. You needn't wait. I'll call you when I need you. Let the other man sit in the kitchen 'til we want him."

Whatever the mysterious business was, it took no great while, for before an hour had passed Melvina, waiting in the hall outside the chamber door, heard a shrill summons.

"You can come in now, Melviny," Ellen said. "There's something here I want you should put your name to; an' you can fetch that man who's downstairs, an' Tony."

"All right."

When, however, a few seconds later Melvina, accompanied by the stranger and the wondering Portuguese boy, entered the patient's room, it was Mr. Benton who stepped into the foreground and who came obsequiously forward, pen in hand, to address the attendant.

"The paper which you are about to sign, Miss Grey," he began pompously, "is——" But Ellen cut short his peroration.

"It don't make no difference to Melviny what it is, Mr. Benton," she said impatiently. "All she's got to do is to watch me write my name, an' then put hers down where you tell her, together with Tony an' the other witness. That will end it."

"But don't you think, Miss Webster, that in justice to Miss Grey, you should inform her——"

"No, I don't," snapped Ellen. "Melviny don't care nothin' about my affairs. I'll write my name. Then you can give her the pen an' let her sign. That's all she's got to do."

Although Mr. Benton was a man of heavy, impressive appearance, he was in reality a far less effectual person to combat opposition than he seemed, and sensing that in the present instance it was easier to yield than to argue, he allowed himself to be cowed into submission and meekly gave the pen to Melvina who with blind faith inscribed her name on the crisp white paper in a small cramped hand. Caleb Saunders, the witness Mr. Benton had brought with him, next wrote his name, forming each letter with such conscientiousness that Ellen could hardly wait until the painstaking and elaborate ceremonial was completed.

"Now let Tony sign," she ordered imperiously. "He needn't stop to wash his hands. A little dirt won't be no hindrance, an' I'm in a hurry to get this thing out of the way so Mr. Benton can go back."

Yet notwithstanding Ellen's haste, for Tony to affix his name to the document in question proved to be little short of a life work. Six times he had to be instructed on which line to write; and when on the seventh admonition his mind but vaguely grasped what was required of him, the lawyer took his stand at his elbow and with finger planted like a guidepost on the paper indicated beyond all chance of error where the signature was to be placed. When, however, the pen was redipped and upraised for the final legal touch, again it faltered. This time the delay was caused by uncertainties of spelling, which, it must be confessed, also baffled the combined intellects of the lawyer and the two women. Paponollari was not a name commonly encountered in New England. The three wrestled with it valiantly, but when a vote was taken, and it was set down in accordance with the ruling of the majority, it was disheartening to discover that, when all was said and done, the Portuguese lad was not at all sure whether Tony was his Christian name or not.

"Good Lord!" ejaculated Ellen when, after more debating, the signature was finally inscribed, "I'm clean beat out. Why, I could have deeded away the whole United States in the time it's taken this lout of a boy to scribble his name. Is it any wonder that with only a stupid idiot like this for help, my garden's always behind other folks', an' my chores never done?"

Then to the bewildered, nerve-wracked alien she thundered:

"Don't blot it, you fool!—don't blot it! Can't you keep your fingers out of the wet ink? Heavens, Melviny, do get him out of here!"

Tony was only too ready to retire. The ordeal had strained his patience and had left his brain feeling the stress of unaccustomed exercise. Therefore, allowing Melvina to drive him before her much as she would have driven a docile Jersey from a cabbage patch, he made his way downstairs, followed by the perspiring lawyer.

It was not until both of them were safely on the road to the village, and the house had assumed its customary calm that Lucy arrived, her hair tumbled by the wind and her eyes glowing like stars.

"I've got your berries, Aunt Ellen," she said, holding aloft a pail heaped with fruit. "See what beauties they are! You shall have a royal shortcake."

Ellen's appreciation for some reason was, however, scanty and confused. She averted her glance from her niece's face, and even at noontime when the girl appeared bearing a marvelously baked and yet more marvelously decorated masterpiece of culinary art, she had not regained sufficient poise to partake of the delicacy in any mood save that of furtive and guilty silence.

Lucy, ever sympathetic, ventured the fear that the invalid was over-tired, and after the meal drew the shades that her aunt might rest.

In the dim light Ellen seemed more at ease and presently fell into a deep slumber that lasted until midnight and was broken only by some phantasy of her dreams which intermittently brought from her lips a series of muttered execrations and bitter, insinuating laughs.

Toward morning she roused herself and gave a feeble cry of pain. Instantly alert, Melvina hastened to her bedside. But by the time a candle was lighted all human aid was vain. Ellen Webster was dead.



CHAPTER XV

ELLEN'S VENGEANCE

It was useless to pretend that Ellen's death did not bring to Lucy Webster a sense of relief and freedom. It was as if some sinister, menacing power that had suppressed every spontaneous impulse of her nature had suddenly been removed and left her free at last to be herself. Until now she had not realized how tired she was,—not alone physically tired but tired of groping her way to avoid the constant friction which life with her aunt engendered.

For the first few days after the funeral she kept Melvina with her and did nothing but rest. Then returning energy brought back her normal desire for action, and she began to readjust her plans. Together the two women cleaned the house from top to bottom, rooting into trunks, chests, and cupboards, and disposing of much of the litter that Ellen had accumulated. Afterward Melvina took her leave, and Lucy turned her mind to renovations.

She would have new paper and fresh paint, she decided; also the long-coveted chintz hangings; and to this end she would make an expedition to the village to see what could be procured there in the way of artistic materials. It might be necessary for her to go to Concord, or even to Boston for the things she wanted.

In the meantime, since she was driving to town, perhaps she had better take along her aunt's will. There must be formalities to be observed regarding it, and although she was not at all sure what they were, Mr. Benton would of course know.

But search as she would, the white envelope with its imposing red seal was nowhere to be found. She went through every drawer in her bureau, every pigeonhole in her desk; she ransacked closet and bookshelf; she even emptied all her belongings upon the bed and examined each article carefully to see if the missing document had by any chance strayed into a fantastic hiding place; but the paper failed to come to light.

What could have become of it? The envelope had been there, that she knew. Only a week ago she had seen it in the top drawer of her desk. She would stake her oath that she had not removed it. Vague disquietude took possession of her. Tony had always been honest, and of Melvina's integrity there could be no question. As for Ellen, had she not herself put the will into the girl's keeping—as a weapon with which to meet this very emergency? It was incredible, preposterous to assume that she had taken it back, especially when one considered her helplessness to do so unaided. That solution might as well be dismissed as ridiculous.

The paper was lost, that was all there was to it. Lost!

In her own absent-mindedness, or in a moment of confusion and weariness, she had either accidentally destroyed it, or she had removed it from its customary place to a safer spot and forgotten where she had put it.

Yet, after all, how foolish it was of her to worry. Doubtless Mr. Benton had a copy of the document, and if she made full confession of her stupidity he would know what to do. Didn't lawyers always keep copies of every legal paper they drew up? They must of course do so.

Therefore without breathing a word of her troubles to the Howes—not even to Martin—she set forth to the village, her dreams of redecorating the house being thrust, for the time being, entirely into the background by this disquieting happening.

Mr. Benton was alone in his stuffy little office when she arrived. Evidently his professional duties were not pressing, for he was hunched up over a small air-tight stove and amid a smudge of tobacco smoke was reading "Pickwick Papers." At the entrance of a client, however, and this client in particular, he rose in haste, and slipping simultaneously into his alpaca coat and his legal manner—the two seemed to be a one-piece garment—held out his hand with a mixture of solicitude and pleasure.

"My dear Miss Webster," he began. "I hope you are well. You have sustained a great loss since I last beheld you, a great loss."

He drew forward a second armchair similar to the one in which he had been sitting and motioned Lucy to accept it.

"Your aunt was a worthy woman who will be profoundly missed in the community," he continued in a droning voice.

Lucy did not answer. In fact the lawyer did not seem to expect she would. He was apparently delivering himself of a series of observations which came one after the other in habitual sequence, and which he preferred should not be interrupted.

"Death, however, is the common lot of mankind and must come to us all," he went on in the same singsong tone, "and I hope that in the thought of your devotion to the deceased you will find comfort."

Having now terminated the introduction with which he was accustomed to preface his remarks on all such occasions, he regarded the girl in the chair opposite him benignly.

"I was intending to come to see you," he went on more cheerfully, and yet being careful to modulate his words so that they might still retain the bereavement vibration, "but you have forestalled me, I see. I did not wish to hurry you unduly."

"I have been tired," Lucy replied simply, "but I am rested now and quite ready to do whatever is necessary."

"I am glad to hear that, very glad," Mr. Benton returned. "Of course there is no immediate haste; nevertheless it is well to straighten out such matters as soon as it can conveniently be done. When do you contemplate leaving town?"

Lucy met the question with a smile.

"Oh, I don't intend to leave Sefton Falls," she said quickly. "I have grown very fond of the place and mean to remain here."

"Indeed," nodded Mr. Benton. "That is interesting. I am glad to hear we are not to lose you from the village."

He rubbed his hands and continued to nod thoughtfully.

"About how soon, if I might ask so personal a question, do you think you could be ready to hand over the house to the new tenant?" he at last ventured with hesitation.

"I'm afraid I don't understand you."

The lawyer seemed surprised.

"You knew of your aunt's will?"

"I knew she had made a will, yes, sir. She gave it to me to keep for her."

"You were familiar with the contents of it?"

"Not entirely so," Lucy answered. "I knew she had left me the house and some money. She told me that much."

"U—u—m!" observed Mr. Benton. "But the second will—she spoke to you of that also?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You were not cognizant that a few days before the deceased passed—shall we say, away"—he paused mournfully,—"that she made a new will and revoked the previous one?"

"No."

"No one told you that?"

"No, sir."

The lawyer straightened himself. Matters were becoming interesting.

"There was a second will," he declared with deliberation. "It was drawn up one morning in your aunt's room, with Miss Melvina Grey, Mr. Caleb Saunders, and the boy Tony as witnesses."

Lucy waited breathlessly.

"This will," went on Mr. Benton, "provides for quite a different disposition of the property. I must beg you to prepare yourself for a disappointment."

The girl threw back her head.

"Go on, please," she commanded.

"Quite a different disposition of the property," repeated Mr. Benton, dwelling on the cadence of the phrase.

"What is it?"

The man delayed.

"Have you any reason to suppose, Miss Webster, that your aunt was—shall we say annoyed, with you?"

"I knew she did not like the way I felt about some things," admitted Lucy.

"But did not some vital difference of opinion arise between you recently?" Mr. Benton persisted.

"I spoke my mind to Aunt Ellen the other day," confessed the girl. "I had to."

"Ah! Then that explains matters!"

"What matters?"

"The somewhat strange conditions of the will."

Having untangled the enigma to his own satisfaction, Mr. Benton proceeded to sit back and enjoy its solution all by himself.

"Can't you tell me what they are?" Lucy at last inquired impatiently.

"I can enlighten you, yes. In fact, it is my duty to do so."

Rising, he went to the desk drawer and made a pretense of fumbling through his papers; but it was easy to see that the document he sought had been carefully placed on the top of the sparse, untidy pile that cluttered the interior of the rickety piece of furniture.

"Perhaps," he remarked, "there is no real need to burden your mind with legal formalities; nevertheless——"

"Oh, don't bother to read me the whole will," broke out Lucy sharply. "Just tell me in plain terms what Aunt Ellen has done."

It was obvious that Mr. Benton did not at all relish the off-handedness of the request.

He depended not a little on his professional pomposity to bolster up a certain lack of confidence in himself, and stripped of this legal regalia he shriveled to a very ordinary person indeed.

"Your aunt," he began in quite a different tone, "has left her property to Mr. Martin Howe."

Lucy recoiled.

"To whom?"

"To Martin Howe."

There was an oppressive pause.

"To Martin Howe?" the girl stammered at length. "But there must be some mistake."

Mr. Benton met her gaze kindly.

"I fear there is no mistake, my dear young lady," he said.

"Oh, I don't mean because my aunt has cut me off," Lucy explained with pride. "She of course had a right to do what she pleased. But to leave the property to Martin Howe! Why, she would scarcely speak to him."

"So I have gathered," the lawyer said. "That is what makes the will so remarkable."

"It is preposterous! Martin will never accept it in the world."

"That contingency is also provided for," put in Mr. Benton.

"How?"

"The property is willed to the legatee—house, land, and money—to be personally occupied by said beneficiary and not sold, deeded, or given away on the conditions—a very unusual condition this second one——" Again Mr. Benton stopped, his thumbs and finger neatly pyramided into a miniature squirrel cage, over the top of which he regarded his client meditatively. His reverie appeared to be intensely interesting.

"Very unusual indeed," he presently concluded absently.

"Well?" demanded Lucy.

"Ah, yes, Miss Webster," he continued, starting at the interrogation. "As I was saying, the conditions made by the deceased are unusual—peculiar, in fact, if I may be permitted to say so. The property goes to Mr. Martin Howe on the condition that in six months' time he personally rebuilds the wall lying between the Howe and Webster estates and now in a state of dilapidation."

"He will never do it," burst out Lucy indignantly, springing to her feet.

"In that case the property goes unreservedly to the town of Sefton Falls," went on Mr. Benton in an even tone, "to be used as a home for the destitute of the county."

The girl clinched her hands. It was a trap,—a last, revengeful, defiant act of hatred.

The pity that any one should go down into the grave with such bitterness of heart was the girl's first thought.

Then the cleverness of the old woman's plot began to seep into her mind. All unwittingly Martin Howe was made a party in a diabolical scheme to defraud her—the woman who loved him—of her birthright, of the home that should have been hers.

The only way he could restore to her what was her own was to marry her, and to do that he must perform the one deed he had pledged himself never to be tempted into: he must rebuild the wall. Otherwise the property would pass into other hands.

Nothing could so injure the Howe estate as to have a poor farm next door. Ellen of course knew that. Ah, it was a vicious document—that last Will and Testament of Ellen Webster.

Mr. Benton's voice broke in upon Lucy's musings.

"The deceased," he added with a final grin of appreciation, "appoints Mr. Elias Barnes as executor, he being," the lawyer quoted from the written page, "the meanest man I know."

Thus did the voice of the dead speak from the confines of the grave! Death had neither transformed nor weakened the intrepid hater. From her aunt's coffin Lucy could seem to hear vindictive chuckles of revenge and hatred, and a mist gathered before her eyes.

She had had no regrets for the loss of Ellen's body; but she could not but lament with genuine grief the loss of her soul.



CHAPTER XVI

LUCY COMES TO A DECISION

Slowly Lucy drove homeward, her dreams of rosy wall papers and gay chintz hangings shattered. Thrusting into insignificance these minor considerations, however, was the thought of Martin Howe and what he would say to the revelation of Ellen's cupidity.

She would not tell him about the will, on that she was determined. She would not mention it to anybody. Instead she would go promptly to work packing up her few possessions and putting the house in perfect order. Fortunately it had so recently been cleaned that to prepare it for closing would be a simple matter.

As for herself and Martin, the dupes of an old woman's vengeance, both of them were of course blameless. Nevertheless, the present twist of Fate had entirely changed their relation to one another.

When she had defied her aunt and voiced with such pride her love for the man of her heart, it had been in a joyous faith that although he had not made similar confession, he would ultimately do so. The possibility that he was making of her affection a tool for vengeance had never come into her mind until Ellen had put it there, and then with involuntary loyalty she had instantly dismissed the suggestion as absurd. But here was a different situation. She was no longer independent of circumstances. She was penniless in the world, all the things that should have been hers having been swept away by the malicious stroke of a pen. It was almost as tragic to be married out of spite as out of pity.

She knew Martin's standards of honor. He would recognize, as she did, the justice of the Webster homestead and lands remaining in her possession; and since the will stipulated that he must personally occupy these properties and could neither sell, transfer, nor give them to their rightful owner, she felt sure he would seize upon the only other means of making her freehold legally hers. Whether he loved her or not would not now be in his eyes the paramount issue. In wedding her he would feel he was carrying out an act of justice which under the guise of affection it would be quite legitimate to perform.

This solution of the difficulty, however, cleared away but the minor half of the dilemma. Had she been willing to accept Martin's sacrifice of himself and marry him, there still remained the wall,—the obstacle that for generations had loomed between the peace of Howe and Webster and now loomed 'twixt her and her lover with a magnitude it had never assumed before.

Martin would never rebuild that wall—never!

Had he not vowed that he would be burned at the stake first? That he would face persecution, nakedness, famine, the sword before he would do it? All the iron of generations of Howe blood rung in the oath. He had proclaimed the decree throughout the county. Everybody for miles around knew how he felt. Though he loved her as man had never loved woman (a miracle which she had no ground for supposing) he would never consent to such a compromise of principles. The being did not exist for whom Martin Howe would abandon his creed of honor.

She knew well that strata of hardness in his nature, the adamantine will that wrought torture to its possessor because it could not bend. Even the concessions he had thus far made, had, she recognized, cost him a vital struggle. On the day of her aunt's seizure had she not witnessed the warfare between pity and hatred, generosity and revenge? The powers of light had triumphed, it is true; but it had been only after the bitterest travail; and ever since she had been conscious that within his soul Martin had viewed his victory with a smoldering, unformulated contempt. Even his attentions to her had been paid with a blindfolded, lethargic unwillingness, as if he offered them against the dictates of his conscience and closed his eyes to a crisis he would not, dared not face.

It was one thing for her to light-heartedly announce that she loved Martin Howe and would marry him; but it was quite another matter for him to reach a corresponding conclusion. To her vengeance was an antiquated creed, a remnant of a past decade, which it cost her no effort to brush aside. Martin, on the contrary, was built of sterner stuff. He hated with the vigor of the red-blooded hater, fostering with sincerity the old-fashioned dogmas of justice and retribution. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" was a matter of right; and the mercy that would temper it was not always a virtue. More often it was a weakness.

To be caught in Ellen Webster's toils and own himself beaten would, Lucy well understood, be to his mind a humiliating fate.

Only a compelling, unreasoning love that swept over him like some mighty tidal wave, wrenching from its foundations every impeding barrier, could move him to surrender; and who was she to arouse such passion in any lover? She was only a woman human and faulty. She had indeed a heart to bestow, and without vain boasting it was a heart worth the winning; she held herself in sufficient esteem to set a price on the treasure. But was it jewel enough to prompt a man to uproot every tradition of his moral world for its possession?

Sadly she shook her head. No, Martin would never be lost in a mood of such over-mastering love as this for her. If he made a proposal of marriage, it would be because he was spurred by impulses of justice and pity; and no matter how worthy these motives, he would degenerate into the laughing stock of the community the instant he began to carry out the terms of the will and reconstruct the wall. She could hear now the taunts and jests of the townsfolk. Some of them would speak in good-humored banter, some with premeditated malice; but their jibes would sting.

"So you're tacklin' that wall in spite of all you said, are you, Martin?"

"Ellen Webster's got you where she wanted you at last, ain't she, Martin?"

"This would be a proud day for the Websters, Martin!"

There would even be those who would meanly assert that a man could be made to do anything for money.

Ah, she knew what the villagers would say, and so, too, would Martin. How his proud spirit would writhe and smart under the lash of their tongues! Neither pity nor love for her should ever place him in a position of such humiliation.

Before he was confronted by the choice of turning her out of doors, or marrying her and making himself the butt of the county wits, she must clear his path from embarrassment and be gone. She had a pittance of her own that would support her until she could find employment that would render her independent of charity. Her future would unquestionably be lonely, since she must leave behind her not only the man she loved but the home about which her fondest dreams centered. Nevertheless, she had never lacked courage to do what must be done; and in the present emergency the pride of the Websters came surging to re-enforce her in her purpose.

Nobody must know she was going away—nobody. There must be no leave-takings and no tears. The regrets she had at parting with all she held dear she would keep to herself, nor should any of her kindly acquaintances have the opportunity to offer to her a sheltering roof as they had to old Libby Davis, the town pauper.

Laughing hysterically, she dashed aside the tears that gathered in her eyes. Would it not be ironic if the Webster mansion became a poor farm and she its first inmate?

As for Martin—a quick sob choked her. Well, he should be left free to follow whatever course he ordained. Perhaps he would scornfully turn Ellen's bequest back to the town; perhaps, on the other hand, he would conquer his scruples, rebuild the wall, and become rich and prosperous as a result. With an augmented bank account and plenty of fertile land, what might he not accomplish? Why, it would make him one of the largest land-owners in the State!

A glow of pleasure thrilled her. She hoped he would accept the legacy; she prayed he would.

Then, even though she were lonely and penniless, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that what she had forfeited had been for his betterment. There would be some joy in that. To give over her ancestral homestead for a pauper institution that was neither needed nor necessary, and was only a spiteful device of Ellen's to outwit her was an empty charity.

Having thus formulated her future action, Lucy hastened to carry out her plans with all speed. Before Mr. Benton imparted to Martin the terms of the will, before any hint of them reached his ears, she must be far from Sefton Falls; otherwise he might anticipate her determination and thwart her in it.

How fortunate it was that there was so little to impede her flight! All she owned in the world she could quickly pack into the small trunk she had brought with her from the West. Not to one article in the house had she any claim; Mr. Benton had impressed that upon her mind. Even the family silver, the little dented mug from which her father had drunk his milk had been willed away.

However, what did it matter now? Sentiment was a foolish thing. There would never be any more Websters to inherit these heirlooms. She was the last of the line; and she would never marry.

Having reached this climax in her meditations, she turned into the driveway and, halting before the barn door, called to Tony to come and take the horse. Afterward she disappeared into the house.

All the afternoon she worked feverishly, putting everything into irreproachable order. Then she packed her few belongings into the little brown trunk. It was four o'clock when she summoned the Portuguese boy from the field.

"I want you to take me and my trunk to the station, Tony," she said, struggling to make the order a casual one. "Then you are to come back here and go on with your work as usual until Mr. Howe or some one else asks you to do otherwise. I will pay you a month in advance, and by that time you will be told what you are to do."

Tony eyed her uncomprehendingly.

"You ain't leavin' for good, Miss Lucy?" he inquired at last.

"Yes."

"B—u—t—t—how can you? Ain't this your home?"

"Not now, Tony."

The bewildered foreigner scratched his head.

The girl had been kind to him, and he was devoted to her.

"I don't see——" he began.

"By and by you will understand," said Lucy gently. "It is all right. I want to go away."

"To go away from here?" gasped the lad.

Lucy nodded.

"Is it that you're lonely since Miss Ellen died?"

"I guess so."

Tony was thoughtful; then with sudden inspiration he ventured the remark:

"Mebbe you're afraid to stay alone by yourself in the house nights."

"Maybe."

"You ain't seen a ghost?" he whispered.

"I'm going away because of a ghost, yes," Lucy murmured half to herself.

"Then I don't blame you," exclaimed Tony vehemently. "You wouldn't ketch me stayin' in a house that was haunted by spirits. Where you goin'—back out West?"

"Perhaps so."

She helped him to carry the trunk out to the wagon and strap it in; then she got in herself.

As they drove in silence out of the yard, not a soul was in sight; nor was there any delay at the station to give rise to gossip. She had calculated with such nicety that the engine was puffing round the bend in the track when she alighted on the platform.

Hurriedly she bought her ticket, checked her trunk, and put her foot on the step as the train started.

Waving a good-by to the faithful servant, who still lingered, she passed into the car and sank down into a seat. She watched the valley, beautiful in amethyst lights, flit past the window; then Sefton Falls, flanked by misty hills, came into sight and disappeared. At last all the familiar country of the moving panorama was blotted out by the darkness, and she was alone.

Her eyes dropped to the ticket in her lap. Why she had chosen that destination she could not have told. It would, however, serve as well as another. If in future she was to be forever cut off from all she loved on earth, what did it matter where she went?



CHAPTER XVII

THE GREAT ALTERNATIVE

After Lucy left the office, Mr. Benton sat for an interval thinking. Then he yawned, stretched his arms, went to his desk drawer, and took out the will which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket.

With hands behind him he took a turn or two across the room.

He was a man not lacking in feeling, and impulses of sympathy and mercy until now had deterred him from the execution of his legal duties. Since, however, it was Lucy Webster who had rung up the curtain on the drama in which an important part had been assigned him, there was no need for him to postpone longer the playing of his role. He had received his cue.

His lines, he admitted, were not wholly to his liking—not, in fact, to his liking at all; he considered them cruel, unfair, vindictive. Notwithstanding this, however, the plot was a novel one, and he was too human not to relish the fascinating uncertainties it presented. In all his professional career no case so remarkable had fallen to his lot before.

When as a young man he had attacked his calling, he had been thrilled with enthusiasm and hope. The law had seemed to him the noblest of professions. But the limitations of a small town had quickly dampened his ardor, and instead of righting the injustices of the world as he had once dreamed of doing, he had narrowed into a legal machine whose mechanism was never accelerated by anything more stirring than a round of petty will-makings, land-sellings, bill collections and mortgage foreclosures.

But at last here was something out of the ordinary, a refreshing and unique human comedy that would not only electrify the public but whose chief actors balked all speculation. He could not help owning that Ellen Webster's bequest, heartily as he disapproved of it, lent a welcome bit of color to the grayness of his days. Ever since he had drawn up the fantastic document it had furnished him with riddles so interesting and unsolvable that they rendered tales of Peter Featherstone and Martin Chuzzlewit tame reading. These worthies were only creations of paper and ink; but here was a living, breathing enigma,—the enigma of Martin Howe!

What would this hero of the present situation do? For undoubtedly it was Martin who was to be the chief actor of the coming drama.

The lawyer knocked the ashes from his pipe, thrust it into his pocket and, putting on his hat and coat, stepped into the hall, where he lingered only long enough to post on his office door the hastily scrawled announcement: "Will return to-morrow." Then he hurried across the town green to the shed behind the church where he always hitched his horse. Backing the wagon out with care, he jumped into it and proceeded to drive off down the high road.

Martin Howe was in the field when Mr. Benton arrived. Under ordinary conditions the man would have joined him there, but to-day such a course seemed too informal, and instead he drew up his horse at the front door and sent Jane to summon her brother.

Fortunately Martin was no great distance away and soon entered, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

The lawyer began with a leisurely introduction.

"I imagine, Howe, you are a trifle surprised to have a call from me," he said.

"Yes, I am a bit."

"I drove over on business," announced Mr. Benton.

Nevertheless, although he prefaced his revelation with this remark, he did not immediately enlighten his listener as to what the business was. In truth, now that the great moment for breaking silence had arrived, Mr. Benton found himself obsessed with a desire to prolong its flavor of mystery. It was like rolling the honied tang of a cordial beneath his tongue. A few words and the secret would lay bare in the light of common day, its glamor rent to atoms.

Martin waited patiently.

"On business," repeated Mr. Benton at last, as if there had been no break in the conversation.

"I'm ready to hear it," Martin said, smiling.

"I came, in fact, to acquaint you with the contents of a will."

Yet again the lawyer's tongue, sphinxlike from habit, refused to utter the tidings it guarded.

"The will," he presently resumed, "of my client, Miss Ellen Webster."