CHAPTER XI
THE CROSSING OF THE RUBICON
"I want you should go to the village to-day," announced Ellen, making herappearance in Lucy's room on a hot August morning a few weeks later."Tony's got to get the scythe mended an' have Dolly shod. Don't it beatall how somethin's always wearin' out? Long's he's goin', you might's welldrive along with him an' take the eggs an' corn I promised Elias Barnes.There's some more errands at the store I want done, too."
"All right, Aunt Ellen."
But the woman loitered.
"If you don't want to hang 'round town till Tony gets ready to come back,mebbe you could find somebody comin' this way who would give you a lifthome. It seems sort of a shame to stay there wastin' the time you could beusin' here."
Lucy smiled at the characteristic remark.
"An' if you didn't happen on any one," went on Ellen, "likely youwouldn't mind walkin'; 'twould get you home quicker."
"No, indeed. I always like a walk."
"I reckon 'twill be warm."
"I don't mind."
"That's good."
Ellen was always gracious when her plans went to her satisfaction.
"I want you to be ready to start right after breakfast," she added, as shewent out the door. "The earlier you get off the earlier you'll be backagain. I wish I could go myself an' dicker with Elias. I would if itwarn't that I have to tinker with that pesky cream separator."
"Is the cream separator out of order?"
"Yes," said Ellen wearily. "Trust that Tony to bust everythin' hetouches."
She closed Lucy's door with a spirited bang.
The girl listened to her retreating footsteps and smiled softly. It wasnothing new for Ellen to be sending her to the village to transact thebusiness she no longer felt able to attend to herself, but the subterfugesto which she resorted to conceal her real motive were amusing. Lucy knewwell that to-day, if it had not been the cream separator, something elseequally important would have furnished the excuse for keeping her aunt athome. It seemed so foolish not to be honest about the matter. To pursueany other method, however, would have been quite foreign to Ellen'spolicy, and therefore Lucy, although not blinded by these devices to hidethe truth, always pretended she was, and earnestly condoned with the oldwoman about the rebellious potato sprayer, the obstinate pump, or whateverother offending object chanced to be selected as the plea for casting hercares on younger shoulders.
The trip to the village was tiresome; of that there was nodoubt,--especially on a day that promised to be as hot as this one.Already tremors of heat vibrated upward in waves from the piazza roof, andthe sun's scorching rays pierced between the closed blinds. Nevertheless,Lucy did not regret the prospect of the morning's excursion. She so seldomhad an opportunity to leave the house that any break in the monotony ofher days, uncomfortable though it might be, was a welcome diversion.
Therefore she hurried her dressing and breakfast, and while dawn was stillon the threshold, set off with Tony in the dust-covered surrey thatcreaked its way along behind the stumbling gray mare.
The coolness of night was over the awakening earth, although the mountingsun was speedily drinking up the dew and rousing the locusts into droningsong. Not a leaf stirred. Through the shimmering atmosphere the valley,with its river yellow as a band of molten gold, lay listless in drowsyhaze; but the birds, butterflies, and bees flitted among the flowers thatbordered the roadside with an alertness which proved that they, at least,felt no lessening of zest for their honey gathering.
"It's goin' to be an almighty hot day," observed Tony who, after slappingDolly's broad back several times with the reins, had decided that furtherattempts to accelerate the mare's pace was useless.
"Yes, very hot."
"I hope your aunt won't go pullin' that separator all to pieces whilewe're gone," the boy grumbled. "In the first place she ain't got a notionof how to put it together again; an' in the next place she ain't fit to goliftin' an' haulin' things about the way she does. She's gettin' to be anold woman. Ain't she most eighty?"
"She's not far from it," answered Lucy.
"Well, if I was her age an' had her money, you wouldn't see me workin' asif a slave driver was standin' over me," the Portuguese lad declared."What good is it doin' her bein' rich, I'd like to know."
"Oh, I don't think she is rich," said Lucy quickly.
"Folks say she is; that's all I know 'bout it," replied Tony. "EliasBarnes was calculatin' one day down to the store that she must be worththousands. I can believe it, too," added the boy significantly."Everything we've got on the farm is tied up with string, or hitchedtogether with a scrap of wire. Your aunt ain't fur gettin' a thing mendedlong's it can be made to hold together. 'Bout everything on the farm wantsoverhaulin'. I'd give a fortune to see a smart man come in here an' setthe place to rights. There's a lot of truck in the barn oughter be heavedout an' burned. 'Tain't fit for nothin'. But Miss Webster would no morehear to partin' with one stick nor stone she owned than she'd cut off herhead. She'd keep everything that belonged to her if it was dropping tobits."
The boy paused.
"Well, there's one good thing," he added, smiling, "she can't take thestuff she's hoarded with her into the next world, an' when it falls to youyou can do as you like with it."
"Falls to me?"
"Why, yes. 'Course all your aunt's property'll be yours some day."
"What makes you think so?" Lucy asked, a suggestion of reserve in hertone.
"Who else is there to have it?" inquired Tony, opening his eyes very wide."Ain't she already left it to you in her will?"
"I don't know."
"You don't!"
Lucy laughed at his incredulousness.
"No."
"Well, they say down to the town that your aunt made her will 'bout threeweeks ago. Even Lawyer Benton himself admitted that much. Folks saw MissWebster goin' into his office an' questioned him. He warn't for tellin'anything 'til they nagged at him; then he did own that the farm an'everything else was left to _relatives_. Elias Barnes an' some of theothers were mighty quick to hunt up who the Webster relatives were. Theywere pretty sure you were the only one, an' it 'pears you are. So it'syou will get the place an' the money, an' goodness knows, Miss Lucy,you've earnt it. The men all agreed to that."
"You know, Tony, Miss Webster is my aunt," began Lucy in a warning voice,loyalty resenting this criticism.
"Yes, but there's aunts--an' aunts," interrupted the lad with a grin."It's no use pretendin' you ain't drawn the devil of a one, 'cause I know.Don't I live close at hand, an' ain't I got eyes?"
Lucy did not answer. They were nearing the village and to put an end tothe conversation, she took out her list of errands and began to read itabsently. But in the back of her mind she was turning over Tony's remarks.She had never allowed herself to dwell on the time when the Websterhomestead would actually be her own. It seemed unfitting to plan onacquiring property that could only come to her through the death ofanother person. Now, however, she suddenly gave her imagination rein andbegan to consider what changes she would make when the farm was really inher hands.
The barn must be cleared out the first thing and be re-shingled. Then shewould strip the farm of its litter of rubbish and repair some of thetools and household furniture. What a delight it would be to renovate theold home with chintz hangings and fresh paint and paper! There were greatpossibilities for making the interior of the house attractive on a smallexpenditure of money. The time-worn mahogany was good, the proportions ofthe rooms pleasing, and the great fireplaces, several of which were nowboarded up, were a distinct asset.
Of course she would have to have help with the work. It would be well toget a capable man to manage the garden for her--some strong, intelligentperson, familiar with the problems of soil, fertilizer, and horticulture;a person, for example, like, well--like Martin Howe. A flood of colorcrept into her cheek.
Although she had never addressed a remark to Martin since the night whenhe had abandoned her at the foot of the
Howe driveway to face theonslaughts of that drenching storm, she was perfectly aware that hergoings and comings had become a matter of no little concern to the austeregentleman who dwelt on the other side of the wall. That he watched her sheknew, for she had been feminine enough to trap him into changing hisposition that he might keep her in view.
Besides, was there not the miraculous bunch of flowers? She had, to besure, never acknowledged them even by the lifting of an eyelash, nor hadshe proof that Martin's hand had really put them within her reach;nevertheless, she could have staked her oath upon it.
Once she had almost defied his silence by thanking him; in fact, she hadactually ventured to the confines of the Webster land with this intention;but on arriving within range of his presence, her courage had desertedher. He looked so forbidding that a foolish agitation had swept over her,and compelled her to drop her eyes, and walk away in silence.
She had never known herself to be so nervous before. One would almostthink she was afraid of Martin Howe. How absurd! He was nothing to her,less than nothing.
If she liked to study his fine, athletic figure and the free swing of hismagnificent body as he worked, it was solely from an aesthetic standpoint.One seldom had an opportunity to see a man as perfectly molded as he. Hisface was interesting, too; not handsome, perhaps, but attractive. It was apity it was so stern and set, for she was sure he could smile if hechose; indeed he had smiled that night when he had come home and beenunconscious of her presence in the house. It had been a compelling smile,charming for its very rareness. She had often thought of it since andwished she might behold it again. Of course she never would. Yet it wouldbe pleasant to do so. Probably he smiled often at home,--even laughedsometimes. How she would like to hear him laugh,--just once.
He was a very fascinating person,--purely as a character study, of course,nothing more. Since, however, she was indulging in speculations concerninghim, it would be amusing to know what he thought of her; for he did thinkof her, that was obvious. What motive prompted him to do it? Perhaps headmired her, thought her pretty. If he did, why didn't he make somefurther effort to talk with her? Usually men were only too eager toimprove the acquaintance of girls they liked. It surely could do Mr.Martin Howe no harm to call a good morning to her over the wall, as hissisters did, even if he did deplore the existence of the Websters.
Then the tenor of Lucy's arguments shifted. Probably Martin neitheradmired nor liked her. Doubtless, along with her aunt and all thatpertained to the hated blood, he despised her and simply watched her indisgust. But if so, why did he bother to send flowers to her?
Lucy shook her head. She was back at the point from which she had startedand was no nearer a solution of Martin Howe and his baffling mentaloutlook. What did it matter anyway? What he thought or felt was no concernof hers, and she was silly to burden her mind with speculations thatreally interested her so little.
By this time Tony, who had lapsed into a silence as unbroken as her own,drew up at the smooth stone flagging before Elias Barnes's store and,leaping out over the wheel, helped his companion to dismount from thewagon and unload the farm produce they had brought with them for sale.
"I'll get home somehow, Tony," the girl said to him, as he prepared todrive off. "You needn't come for me."
"All right, Miss Lucy, only I do hope you won't have to foot it back inthis heat."
"I shan't mind."
"It's going to be a terrible day," insisted the lad. "Them buzzin'locusts is enough to prove that. They're good as a thermometer."
Lucy laughed.
"Don't worry about me," she remarked kindly. "Just as soon as I finish myerrands I shall start home."
"You'd be wise to."
As the mare scuffed off down the road, amid a cloud of dust, Lucy enteredthe store.
A stuffy odor of coffee, molasses, and calico greeted her; so, too, didElias Barnes, who came forward from behind the counter, extending his dampand sticky palm and showing every tooth that an expansive smilepermitted.
"So it's you, Miss Lucy," he observed with pleasure. "I was expecting tosee your aunt. She was here the other day."
"Yes, she drove to town last Friday."
"Came on an interestin' errand, too," chirped Elias. "Leastwise, I 'magine'twas interestin' to you." He grinned slyly.
"Why?"
"Why?" repeated the man, taken aback. "Because--well, ain't such thingsalways interestin'?"
"What things?"
Elias stared, uncertain as to how to proceed.
Was it possible the girl was ignorant of her aunt's mission?
"Mebbe you didn't know Miss Webster's errand in town," he began eagerly.
"I know she went to see Mr. Benton and get her will made, if that is whatyou mean."
"An' don't you call that interestin'?" demanded the discomfited Elias.
"Not particularly."
The storekeeper gasped.
"Likely the matter was all cut an' dried an' nothin' new to you,"persisted he, with a wan, disappointed smile. "There warn't much choiceleft your aunt, fur as relatives went, was there? Still, I reckon shecouldn't 'a' found a better one to pass her property on to than you,"concluded the man with a leer.
"What makes you so sure she has passed it on to me?" inquired Lucy,annoyed.
"Well, ain't she?"
"I don't know."
"You don't--by thunder! She ain't told you nothin'?"
"Certainly not."
Elias looked puzzled.
"Why," he said, "most folks thought that was the condition that broughtyou to Sefton Falls. Surely nothin' but some sort of a reward, an' a bigone, too, would coax a body to come an' live with such a----"
"You forget you are speaking of my aunt, Mr. Barnes."
"I guess I did forget it a mite, Miss Lucy," mumbled Elias awkwardly. "Ibeg your pardon."
The girl inclined her head.
"Suppose we leave personal matters now and settle our business," sheanswered, motioning toward the boxes, baskets, and egg cases Tony had setinside the shop door. "Here is the corn and the butter my aunt promisedyou, and here are twelve dozen eggs. If you will pay me for them, I willstart back home before it grows any warmer."
"Lemme see," ruminated Elias, "eggs is bringing----"
"Seventy cents."
"Ain't it sixty-nine?"
"No."
"I seem to have sixty-nine fixed awful firm in my head," protested Eliastenaciously.
Lucy laughed.
"You'll have to get it out then," she retorted good-humoredly, "forseventy cents is the market price."
The firm answer told the shopkeeper that further bickering would beuseless.
"Seventy cents then," he said reluctantly, opening his cash drawer. "It'srobbery, though."
"You're not often robbed, Mr. Barnes."
"Ain't I? Well, if I ain't, it's 'cause folks know better than to try todo me. 'Tain't often I'm beat in a bargain--only when I'm dealin' with apretty woman an' give her the advantage." Again he displayed his rows ofteeth. "Ladies first is my motto; an' heiresses----"
"You haven't paid me for the corn or butter yet," cut in Lucy impatiently."Five dozen ears of early corn and ten pounds of print butter."
For a second time Elias took from an infinitesimal crack in his moneydrawer another handful of change which he grudgingly counted into thegirl's extended hand.
"There you are!" he asserted, as if wiping some disagreeable thoughttriumphantly from his memory. "Now we're square an' can talk of somethin'else."
"I'm afraid I can't stop to talk to-day, Mr. Barnes, for I've got to gethome. Good-by and thank you," and with a smile that dazzled the confoundedstorekeeper, Lucy sped out the door.
Elias, who was a widower and "well-to-do," was considered the catch of thetown and was therefore unaccustomed to receiving such scant appreciationof his advances.
"I'll be buttered!" he declared, chagrined. "If she ain't gone!"
Lucy was indeed far down the level road, laughing to herself as shethought of
the discomfited Elias. This was not the first time he had shownan inclination to force his oily pleasantries upon her; but it was thefirst time she had so pointedly snubbed him.
"I hope it will do him good," she murmured half aloud. "I'd like toconvince him that every woman in Sefton Falls isn't his for the asking."
As she went on her way between the bordering tangle of goldenrod andscarlet-tinted sumach, she was still smiling quietly. The sun had risenhigher, and a dry heat rose in waves from the earth. Already her shoeswere white, and moist tendrils of hair curled about her brow. Before herloomed three miles of parching highway as barren of shade as thewoodsman's axe could make it. The picture of Ellen's cool kitchen andbreezy porch made the distance at that moment seem interminable. There wasnot a wagon in sight, and unless one came along, she would have to trudgeevery step of the way home.
Well, there was no use in becoming discouraged at the outset of herjourney, and she was not, although she did halt a moment to draw a crisp,white handkerchief from her pocket and fan her burning cheeks. She had noidea the walk was going to be so hot a one. Despite her aunt's objections,she almost wished she had waited for Tony. If only she could have the goodluck to be overtaken by somebody! Hark, did she hear wheels?
Yes, as good fortune would have it, from around the curve in the roadbehind her a wagon was coming into sight, the measured _clop, clop_ of thehorse's feet reaching her distinctly. The cloud of dust that enveloped theapproaching Jehu made it impossible for her to see who he was;nevertheless, it did not much matter, for country etiquette stipulatedthat those traveling on foot were always welcome to the hospitality of apassing vehicle.
Therefore Lucy sat down on the wall to await her oncoming rescuer.
Meanwhile the wagon came nearer.
It contained a single occupant who was perched with careless grace astridea barrel of flour and appeared to be very much hedged in by a multifariousassortment of small packages and sacks of grain. It did not look as ifthere were room in the carriage for an additional ounce, and when the girlsaw how crowded it was, her heart sank; then as she looked again, itbounded with sudden emotion, for the man who so jauntily urged forward hissteed from his pinnacle on the barrel was none other than Martin Howe.
Resolutely Lucy rose from the wall and, without a glance in the traveler'sdirection, set out at a sharp pace along the highway.
She would not ask a favor of Martin Howe if she had to plod every step ofthe three scorching miles; and if he were brute enough to let her toilalong in the heat--to walk while he rode--well, that was all she everwanted to know about him. Her heart beat tumultuously as she heard thewheels coming closer.
The horse was beside her now, and the whirl-wind of dust his hoofs raisedmade her choke. Would the wagon stop or go on? The horse's head passedabreast of her, then his white, lathered body. Next the wagon came intosight, with Martin sitting proudly and stiffly on his perch. Afterwardhorse, wagon, and man rolled past, and the girl was left alone.
Her lip trembled. Would he really leave her like this in the dust andheat? Would he leave even his worst enemy? It was incredible a human beingcould be so heartless. And the humiliation of it! To tag along behind himon foot, smothering in his dust!
Rage possessed her. That should be the end of Mr. Martin Howe! He was nogentleman. He was not even human.
She sat down on the stone wall once more, waiting for him to disappear andthe dust from his wheels settle.
But to her surprise she saw him come to a stop in the road and, pivotingaround on his perch, face her.
Lucy did not move. She watched him hesitate, waver, then dismount and comeback through the dust.
"If you're on your way home----" he began with clumsy gravity.
The girl smiled up into his face.
"If you're goin' back----" he repeated, and again got no further.
She came to his rescue.
"Have you room to take me in?"
"There ain't much room." She saw the flicker of a smile shadow his face."Still, if you don't mind bein' a mite cramped----"
"I don't mind it at all unless it crowds you too much," answered Lucy. "Itis very kind of you." Then she heard herself add without forethought: "Iwas afraid you were goin' by."
"I ain't that much of a heathen, I hope," Martin returned gruffly.
Although it was plain he was ill at ease, he helped her into the wagon,arranging the bags of meal solicitously that she might be as comfortableas possible. Then he touched the horse with his whip, and they startedoff.
"I'm so thankful to have a ride home," sighed Lucy, after waiting a secondor two and finding he had no intention of speaking. "It is very hotto-day."
"So 'tis. But it is great weather for corn."
"I suppose so," assented the girl. "How is yours coming on?"
"Pretty well. Some blasted crow got a little of it at the beginnin'; butthe rest of it is all right."
"It was a shame you lost any of it."
"I was a good deal put out myself. Still, 'twarn't much, considerin' thesize of the field."
Lucy dimpled.
"Your field is a wonderful sight from our house," she answered,"especially when the wind blows. You have a fine lot of oats, too. I loveto watch the breeze sweep across it."
"I do myself," agreed Martin with increasing cordiality. "It's a prettypicture. There's lots of pretty pictures on a farm if you're lookin' for'em," he added, stealing a glance at her.
"Your sweet peas were a pretty picture," ventured Lucy mischievously.
Martin colored with confusion. He seemed at a loss how to reply. Then,gathering courage, he remarked shyly:
"You like flowers?"
"I love them!"
"Some folks do," said he hurriedly. "I prefer to see 'em growin'."
"Yet you do cut them sometimes," persisted Lucy playfully.
"Mighty seldom. Only when it's good for the vines."
Again the glint of a smile brightened his countenance, and she saw himblush sheepishly.
"I wish it would be good for them again sometime," said she, peeping upinto his eyes. "Don't you think there's danger of their goin' to seed?"
She heard a short laugh, but he did not answer. Instead, as if to change adangerous topic, he asked:
"How are you likin' Sefton Falls?"
"Oh, I think the place is beautiful. Already I have become very fond ofit. You must love every stick and stone within sight."
"There was one while I didn't," Martin drawled slowly. "But afterward,when I saw 'twas my duty to stay here, I got to feelin' different. I'd 'a'liked to have gone to the war. I was too old, though; besides, I had mysisters."
"I know," murmured Lucy with quiet sympathy. "You see, I had to make mychoice, too. My aunt wrote that she needed me. It wouldn't have beenright for me to desert her and go to France to nurse other people."
"So it's because of her you're stayin' here?"
"Yes."
Martin did not speak again for some time; then he said in a tense, unevenvoice that struggled to be casual:
"If she was to die then, I s'pose you'd start back West where you camefrom."
"I'm--not--sure."
He waited as if expecting her to explain herself, and presently she didso.
"I might decide to make my home here," she went on. "That is, if I couldget some one to help me with the farm."
There was no intimation of coquetry in the remark; merely simple fact. Butthe words wrought a miracle in the face of the man beside her.
"Do you like it that much?" he demanded eagerly.
"I love it!"
"Miss Webster has a fine place," ventured Martin at length.
"Both of them are fine old places."
He nodded.
"But yours has been kept up better than ours," continued Lucy. "You see,Aunt Ellen isn't strong like a man; and besides, she hasn't studied intonew ways of doing things as you have. That's the interesting part offarming, I think, to use your brains and make two things grow where onlyone grew befo
re. If I were a man----"
She broke off, embarrassed by her own girlish enthusiasm.
"What would you do?" inquired Martin eagerly.
"I'd do with our farm what you've done with yours. I'd get new tools, andI'd find out how to use them. It would be fascinating. But a womancan't----"
"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 recoverthem. He flushed.
"What!" exclaimed Lucy.
"Maybe it's as well for you to stay as you were made," he explained in astrangely gentle voice.
The girl turned her head away. They had reached the foot of the Websterdriveway, and unbidden the horse halted. But as Lucy prepared to climb outof the wagon, the man stayed her.
"I reckon there's some place I could turn round, ain't there, if I was todrive in?" he said recklessly.
"Oh, there's plenty of room," Lucy answered, "only hadn't you better dropme here? My--my--aunt is at home."
"I don't care," Martin retorted with the same abandon. "I ain't goin' tohave you plod up that long driveway in the broilin' sun--aunt or noaunt."
He laughed boyishly.
"It's awfully good of you. But please, if you mind coming, don't; forindeed 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 yourfather and your grandfather."
"What do you mean?"
"Because if you were just _you_, you'd be more forgiving--I know youwould."
She saw him bite his lips and a dull red tinge his cheek. Withoutanswering he turned into the long avenue and presently drew up before theside door.
"There you are!" he remarked stiffly.
Lucy did not need to look at him to sense that the kindliness had left hiscountenance, and his jaw had become grim and set.
Had she been able to read his thoughts, she would have realized that theshort detour into Ellen Webster's territory had brought Martin to himself,and that he was already deploring with inward scorn the weakness that hadled him to do the thing he had pledged his word never to do. He could noteven shunt off the blame for his act and say, as did his illustriousancestor: "The woman tempted me and I did eat." No, he had open-eyedstalked voluntarily into temptation,--willingly, gladly, triumphantly. Hehad sinned against his conscience, his traditions, his forbears, andbehold, angry as he was with himself for yielding to it, the sin wassweet.