CHAPTER III
LUCY
In the meantime the being whom Martin had dismissed with this majesticwave of his hand stood in the middle of the Webster kitchen, confrontingthe critical eyes of its mistress.
"Yes, Aunt Ellen," the girl was saying, catching the elder woman's stifffingers in hers, "I'm Lucy. Do you think I look like Dad? And am I at allwhat you expected?"
Ellen drew her hands uncomfortably from the impulsive grasp but did notreply immediately. She was far too bewildered to do so.
Lucy was not in the least what she had expected,--that was certain. In thedelicate oval face there was no trace of Thomas's heavily modeledfeatures; nor was Lucy indebted to the Websters for her aureole of goldenhair, the purity of her blond skin, or her grave brown eyes. Thomas hadbeen a massively formed, kindly, plain-featured man; but his daughter wasbeautiful. Even Ellen, who habitually scoffed at all that was fair andbanished the aesthetic world as far from her horizon as possible, wasforced to acknowledge this.
In the proudly poised head, the small, swiftly moving hands, and the tinyfeet there was a birdlike alertness which was the epitome of action. Thesupple body, however, lacked the bird's fluttering uncertainty; rather thefigure bespoke a control that had its birth in an absence of allself-consciousness and the obedience of perfectly trained muscles to acompelling will.
Without a shadow of embarrassment Lucy endured her aunt's inspection.
"Anybody'd think," commented Ellen to herself in a mixture of indignationand amusement, "that she was a princess comin' a-visitin' instead of bein'a charity orphan."
Yet although she fumed inwardly at the girl's attitude, she did not reallydislike it. Spirit flashed in the youthful face, and Ellen admired spirit.She would have scorned a cringing, apologetic Webster. Unquestionably inher niece's calm assurance there was no hint of the dependent.
As she stood serenely in the center of the room, Lucy's gaze wandered overher aunt's shoulder and composedly scanned every detail of the kitchen,traveling from ceiling to floor, examining the spotless shelves, theprimly arranged pots and pans, the gleaming tin dipper above the sink.Then the roving eyes came back to the older woman and settled withunconcealed curiosity upon her lined and sharply cut features.
Beneath the intentness of the scrutiny Ellen colored uneasily.
"Well?" she demanded tartly.
Lucy started.
"You seem to have made up your mind about me," went on the rasping voice."Am I what _you_ expected?"
"No."
The monosyllable came quietly.
"What sort of an aunt were you lookin' for?"
Lucy waited a moment and then replied with childlike directness:
"I thought you'd be more like Dad. And you don't look in the least like aninvalid."
"You're disappointed I ain't sicker, eh?" commented Ellen grimly.
"No, indeed," answered Lucy. "I'm glad to find you so strong. But it makesme feel you do not need me as much as I thought you did. You areperfectly able to take care of yourself without my help."
"Oh, I can take care of myself all right, young woman," Ellen returnedwith an acid smile. "I don't require a nurse--at least not yet."
Lucy maintained a thoughtful silence.
"I don't quite understand why you sent for me," she presently remarked.
"Didn't I write you I was lonesome?"
"Yes. But you're not."
Ellen laughed in spite of herself.
"What makes you so sure of that?"
"You don't look lonesome."
Again the elder woman chuckled.
"Mebbe I do, an' mebbe I don't," she responded. "Anyhow, you can't alwaysjudge of how folks feel by the way they look."
"I suppose not."
The reply was spoken politely but without conviction.
"An' besides, I had other reasons for gettin' you here," her aunt went on."I mentioned 'em in my letter."
"I don't remember the other reasons."
Ellen stared, aghast.
"Why--why--the property," she managed to stammer.
"Oh, that."
The words were uttered with an indifference too genuine to be questioned.
"Yes, the property," repeated Ellen with cutting sarcasm. "Ain't youinterested in money; or have you got so much already that you couldn'tfind a use for any more?"
The thrust told. Into the girl's cheek surged a flame of crimson.
"I haven't any money," she returned with dignity. "Dad left me almostpenniless. His illness used up all we had. Nevertheless, I was glad tospend it for his comfort, and I can earn more when I need it."
"Humph."
"Yes," went on Lucy, raising her chin a trifle higher, "I am perfectlycapable of supporting myself any time I wish to do so."
"Mebbe you'd rather do that than stay here with me," her aunt suggestedderisively.
"Maybe," was the simple retort. "I shall see."
Ellen bit her lip and then for the second time her sense of humor overcameher.
"I guess there's no doubtin' you're a genuine Webster," she repliedgood-humoredly. "I begin to think we shall get on together nicely."
"I hope so."
There was a reservation in the words that nettled Ellen.
"Why shouldn't we?" she persisted.
"I don't know."
"Don't you like your aunt?"
"Not altogether."
The audacity of the reply appealed to the older woman, and her eyestwinkled. "Not altogether, eh?" she echoed. "Now I'm sorry to hear thatbecause I like you very much."
Lucy smiled. It was a radiant smile, disclosing prettily formed whiteteeth and a lurking dimple.
"That's nice."
"But you ain't a-goin' to return the compliment?"
"Not yet."
It was long since Ellen had been so highly entertained.
"Well," she observed with undiminished amusement, "I've evidently got tobe on my good behavior if I want to keep such an independent young lady asyou in the house."
"Why shouldn't I be independent?"
A few moments before Ellen would have met the challenge with derision; butnow something caused her to restrain the retort that trembled on hertongue and say instead:
"Of course you've got a right to be independent. The folks that ain'tought to be made way with."
Her affirmation surprised her. She would not have confessed it, but astrange sense of respect for the girl before her had driven her to utterthem.
Lucy greeted the remark graciously.
"That's what I think," she replied.
"Then at least we agree on somethin'," returned Ellen dryly, "an' mebbebefore I put my foot in it an' lose this bit of your good opinion, I'dbetter take you up to your room."
She caught up the heavy satchel from the floor.
"Oh, don't," Lucy protested. "Please let me take it. I'm used to carryingheavy things. I am very strong."
"Strong, are you?" questioned Ellen, without, however, turning her head oroffering to surrender the large leather holdall. "An' how, pray, did youget so strong?" She passed into the hall and up the stairs as she spoke,Lucy following.
"Oh, driving horses, doing housework, cooking, cleaning, and shooting,"the girl replied. Then as if a forgotten activity had come to her mind asan afterthought, she added gaily: "And sawing wood, I guess."
"You can do things like that?"
"Yes, indeed. I had to after Mother died and we moved to Bald Mountainwhere Dad's mine was. I did all the work for my father and ten Mexicans."
"You? Why didn't your father get a woman in?"
Lucy broke into a merry laugh.
"A woman! Why, Aunt Ellen, there wasn't a woman within twenty miles. Itwas only a mining camp, you see; just Dad and his men."
"An' you mean to tell me you were the sole woman in a place like that?"
Lucy's silvery laughter floated upward.
"The ten Mexicans who boarded with us were engineers and bosses," sheexplained. "There were over fifty mine
rs in the camp besides."
Stopping midway up the staircase Ellen wheeled and said indignantly:
"An' Thomas kep' you in a settlement like that?"
"Who?"
"Your father."
"Why not?"
"'Twarn't no place for a girl."
"It was the place for me."
"Why?"
"Because Dad was there."
Something in the reply left Ellen wordless and made her continue her wayupstairs without answering. When she did speak, it was to say in a gentlertone:
"Mebbe you'll like the room I'm going to give you. It used to belong toyour Dad when he was a little boy."
She lifted the latch of a paneled door and stood looking into a largebedroom. The sun slanted across a bare, painted floor, which was coveredby a few braided rugs, old and worn; there was a great four-poster aboutwhich were draped chintz curtains, yellowed by age, and between thewindows stood a mahogany bureau whose brasses were tarnished by years ofservice; two stiff ladder-back chairs, a three-cornered washstand, and afew faded photographs in pale gilt frames completed the furnishings.
With swift step Lucy crossed the room and gazed up at one of thepictures.
"That's Dad!"
Ellen nodded.
"I'd no idea he was ever such a chubby little fellow. Look at his babyhands and his drum!"
She paused, looking intently at the picture. Then in a far-away tone sheadded:
"And his eyes were just the same."
For several minutes she lingered, earnest and reminiscent.
"And is this you, Aunt Ellen?" she asked, motioning toward anothertime-dimmed likeness hanging over the bed.
"Yes."
A silence fell upon the room. Ellen fidgeted.
"I've changed a good deal since then," she observed, after waitingnervously for some comment.
"You've changed much more than Dad."
"How?"
Curiosity impelled her to cross to Lucy's side and examine thephotograph.
"Your eyes--your mouth."
"What about 'em?"
"I--I--don't believe I could explain it," responded Lucy slowly.
"Mebbe you'd have liked me better as a little girl," grinned her auntwhimsically.
"I--yes. I'm sure I should have liked you as a little girl."
The reply piqued Ellen. She bent forward and scrutinized the likeness morecritically. The picture was of a child in a low-cut print dress andpantalettes,--a resolute figure, all self-assurance and self-will.
It was easy to trace in the face the features of the woman who confrontedit: the brows of each were high, broad, and still bordered by smoothlyparted hair; the well-formed noses, too, were identical; but the eyes ofthe little maiden in the old-fashioned gown sparkled with an unmaliciousmerriment and frankness the woman's had lost, and the curving mouth of thechild was unmarred by bitter lines. Ellen stirred uncomfortably.
As she looked she suddenly became conscious of a desire to turn her glanceaway from the calm gaze of her youthful self. Yes, the years had indeedleft their mark upon her, she inwardly confessed. She did not look likethat now. Lucy was right. Her eyes had changed, and her mouth, too.
"Folks grow old," she murmured peevishly. "Nobody can expect to keep onlooking as they did when they were ten years old."
Abruptly she moved toward the door.
"There's water in the pitcher, an' there's soap and towels here, I guess,"she remarked. "When you get fixed up, come downstairs; supper'll be on thetable."
The door banged and she was gone. But as she moved alone about the kitchenshe was still haunted by the clear, questioning eyes of the child in thephotograph upstairs. They seemed to follow her accusingly, reproachfully.
"Drat old pictures!" she at last burst out angrily. "They'd ought to beburnt up--the whole lot of them! They always set you thinkin'."