THE EPISODE OF THE EGGS
The next morning while Ellen stood at the kitchen table slicing bread for
breakfast, Lucy, her figure girlish in a blue and white pinafore, appeared
in the doorway.
"Good morning, Aunt Ellen," she said. "You will have to forgive me this
once for being late. Everything was so still I didn't wake up. Your nice
feather bed was too comfortable, I'm afraid. But it shan't happen again.
After this I mean to be prompt as the sun, for I'm going to be the one to
get the breakfast. You must promise to let me do it. I'd love to. I am
quite accustomed to getting up early, and after serving breakfast for
twelve, breakfast for two looks like nothing at all." As she spoke she
moved with buoyant step across the room to the table.
"Shan't I toast the bread?" she inquired.
"I ain't a-goin' to toast it," returned Ellen in a curt tone. "Hot bread
an' melted butter's bad for folks, 'specially in the mornin'."
Lucy smiled. "It never hurts me," she replied.
"Nor me," put in her aunt quickly. "I don't give it a chance to. But
whether or no, I don't have it. When you melt butter all up, you use twice
as much, an' there ain't no use wastin' food."
"I never thought about the butter."
"Them as has the least in the world is the ones that generally toss the
most money away," the elder woman observed.
The transient kindliness of the night before had vanished, giving place to
her customary sharpness of tone. Lucy paid no heed to the innuendo.
"I might make an omelet while I'm waiting," she suggested pleasantly. "Dad
used to think I made quite a nice one."
"I don't have eggs in the mornin', either," replied Ellen.
"Don't you like eggs?"
"I don't eat 'em."
"How funny! I always have an egg for breakfast."
"You won't here," came crisply from her aunt.
Lucy failed to catch the gist of the remark.
"Why, I thought you kept hens," she said innocently.
"I do."
"Oh, I see. They're not laying."
"Yes, they are. I get about four dozen eggs every day," retorted Ellen.
"But I sell 'em instead of eatin' 'em."
As comprehension dawned upon Lucy, she was silent.
"Folks don't need eggs in the mornin' anyway," continued Ellen, still on
the defensive. "This stuffin' yourself with food is all habit. Anybody can
get into the way of eatin' more 'n' more, an' not know where to stop.
Bread an' coffee an' oatmeal is all anybody needs for breakfast."
If she expected a reply from her niece, she was disappointed, for Lucy did
not speak.
"When you can get sixty-six cents a dozen for eggs, it's no time to be
eatin' 'em," Ellen continued irritably. "You ain't come to live with a
Rockefeller, Miss."
Receiving no answer to the quip, she drew a chair to the table and sat
down.
"You'd better come an' get your coffee while it's hot," she called to
Lucy.
Slowly the girl approached the table and seated herself opposite her
aunt.
The window confronting her framed a scene of rare beauty. The Webster farm
stood high on a plateau, and beneath it lay a broad sweep of valley, now
half-shrouded in the silver mists of early morning. The near-at-hand field
and pasture that sloped toward it were gemmed with dew. Every blade of
tall grass of the mowing sparkled. Even the long rows of green shoots
striping the chocolate earth of the garden flashed emerald in the morning
sunlight; beyond the plowed land, through an orchard whose apple boughs
were studded with ruby buds, Lucy caught a glimpse of a square brick
chimney.
"Who lives in the next house?" she inquired, in an attempt to turn the
unpleasant tide of the conversation. If she had felt resentment at her
aunt's remarks, she at least did not show it.
"What?"
"I was wondering who lived in the next house."
"The Howes."
"I did not realize last night that you had neighbors so near at hand,"
continued the girl brightly. "Tell me about them."
"There's nothin' to tell."
"I mean who is in the family?"
"There's Martin Howe an' his three sisters, if that's what you want to
know," snapped Ellen.
Lucy, however, was not to be rebuffed. She attributed her aunt's
ungraciousness to her irritation about the breakfast and, determining to
remain unruffled, she went on patiently:
"It's nice for you to have them so near, isn't it?"
"It don't make no difference to me, their bein' there. I don't know 'em."
For some reason that Lucy could not fathom, the woman's temper seemed to
be rising, and being a person of tact she promptly shifted the subject.
"No matter about the Howes any more, Aunt Ellen," she said, smiling into
the other's frowning face. "Tell me instead what you want me to do to help
you to-day? Now that I'm here you must divide the work with me so I may
have my share."
Although Ellen did not return the smile, the scowl on her forehead
relaxed.
"You'll find plenty to keep you busy, I guess," she returned. "There's all
the housework to be done--dishes, beds, an' sweepin'; an' then there's
milk to set an' skim; eggs to collect an' pack for market; hens to feed;
an'----"
"Goodness me!"
"You ain't so keen on dividin' up, eh?"
"Oh, it isn't that," returned Lucy quickly. "I was only thinking what a
lot you had to do. No wonder you sent for me."
It was a random remark, but it struck Ellen's conscience with such aplomb
that she flushed, dismayed.
"What do you mean?" she faltered.
As Lucy looked at her aunt, she observed the shifting glance, the crafty
smile, the nervous interlacing of the fingers.
"Mean?" she returned innocently. "Why, nothing, Aunt Ellen. We must all
work for a living one way or another, I suppose. If I prefer to stay here
with you and earn my board there is no disgrace in it, is there?"
"No."
Nevertheless Ellen was obviously disconcerted. There was an uncanny
quality in Lucy that left her with a sense that every hiding place in her
heart was laid bare. Were the girl's ingenuous observations as ingenuous
as they seemed? Or were they the result of an abnormal intuition, a
superhuman power for fathoming the souls of others?
Eager to escape the youthful seer, the woman pushed back her chair and
rose.
"I must go out an' see what that boy Tony's up to," she said. "While I'm
gone you might tidy up round here a bit. There's the dishes an' the beds;
an' in the pantry you'll find the eggs with the cases to pack 'em in. An'
if you get round to it you might sweep up the sittin' room."
"All right."
Drawing on a worn coat Ellen moved toward the door; when, however, her
hand was on the knob, she turned and called over her shoulder:
"The washin's soakin' in the tubs in the shed. You can hang it out if you
like."
Lucy waited until she saw the angular figure wend its way to the barn.
Then she broke into a laugh.
"The old fox! She did get me here to work for her," she murmured aloud.
"Anyway, I don't have to stay unless I like; and I shan't, either. So,
Aunt Ellen Webster, you'd better be careful how you treat me."
With a defiant shake of her miniature fist in the direction her aunt had
taken, Lucy turned to attack the duties before her. She washed the dishes
and put them away; tripped upstairs and kneaded the billowy feather beds
into smoothness; and humming happily, she swept and polished the house
until it shone. She did such things well and delighted in the miracles her
small hands wrought.
"Now for the eggs!" she exclaimed, opening the pantry door.
Yes, there were the empty cases, and there on the shelf were the eggs that
waited to be packed,--dozens of them. It seemed at first glance as if
there must be thousands.
"And she wouldn't let me have one!" ejaculated the girl. "Well, I don't
want them. But I'm going to have an egg for breakfast whether she likes it
or not. I'll buy some. Then I can eat them without thanks to her. I have a
little money, and I may as well spend part of it that way as not. I
suppose it will annoy her; but I can't help it. I'm not going to starve to
death."
During this half-humorous, half-angry soliloquy, Lucy was packing the
eggs for market, packing them with extreme care.
"I'd love to smash them all," she declared, dimpling. "Wouldn't it be fun!
But I won't. I'll not break one if I can help it."
The deft fingers successfully carried out this resolution. When Ellen
returned from the garden at noontime, not only was the housework done, but
the eggs were in the cases; the clothes swaying on the line; and the
dinner steaming on the table. She was in high good humor.
"I forgot to ask you what you had planned for us to have this noon,"
explained Lucy. "So I had to rummage through the refrigerator and use my
own judgment."
"Your judgment seems to have been pretty good."
"I'm glad you think so."
"The Websters always had good judgment," the woman observed, as she
dropped wearily into a chair. "Yes, you've got together a very good meal.
It's most too good, though. Next time you needn't get so much."
Lucy regarded her aunt mischievously.
"Probably if I'd been all Webster I shouldn't have," she remarked
demurely. "But half of me, you see, is Duquesne, and the Duquesnes were
generous providers."
If Ellen sensed this jocose rebuke, she at least neither resented it nor
paid the slightest heed to its innuendo.
"The Duquesnes?" she questioned.
"My mother was a Duquesne."
"Oh, she was?"
"Didn't you know that?"
"Yes, I reckon I did at the time your father married, but I'd forgot about
it. Thomas an' I didn't write much to one another, an' latterly I didn't
hear from him at all."
"It was a pity."
"I dunno as it made much difference," Ellen said. "Likely he didn't
remember much about his home an' his relations."
"Yes, indeed he did," cried Lucy eagerly. "He used to speak often of my
grandparents and the old house, and he hoped I'd come East sometime and
see the place where he had lived as a boy. As he grew older and was sick,
I think his early home came to mean more to him than any other spot on
earth."
"Queer how it often takes folks to their dyin' day to get any sense,"
declared Ellen caustically. "Where'd your father pick up your mother,
anyway?"
Lucy did not answer.
"I mean where did he get acquainted with her?" amended Ellen hastily.
"You never heard the story?"
"No."
"Oh, it was the sweetest thing," began Lucy enthusiastically. "You see,
Grandfather Duquesne owned a coal mine up in the mountains, and Dad worked
for him. One day one of the cages used in going down into the mine got out
of order, and Grandfather gave orders that it was to be fixed right away
lest some accident occur and the men be injured. But through a
misunderstanding the work was not done, and the next day the cage dropped
and killed nine of the miners. Of course the men blamed poor Grandfather
for the tragedy, and they marched to his house, intending to drag him out
and lynch him. Dad knew the truth, however, and he rushed to the place and
held the mob back with his pistol until he could tell them the real facts.
At first they were so angry they refused to listen, but by and by they
did, and instead of killing Grandfather they went and found the engineers
who were to blame."
Ellen waited.
"What did they do to them?" she demanded at last.
"Oh, they hung them instead of Grandfather," answered Lucy simply.
"How many of them?"
"I don't know. Three or four, I guess."
It was evident that Lucy was quite indifferent to the fate of the unlucky
engineers.
"Mercy on us!" Ellen gasped.
"But their carelessness caused the death of the other men. It was only
fair."
"So that's the way you settle things in the West?"
"Yes. At least, they did then."
The mountain-bred girl obviously saw nothing amiss in this swift-footed
justice.
"And where did your mother come in?" asked her aunt.
"Why, you see, Grandfather Duquesne afterward made Dad the boss of the
mine, and when Mother, a girl of sixteen, came home from the California
convent, where she had been at school, she saw him and fell in love with
him. Grandfather Duquesne made an awful fuss, but he let her marry him."
Lucy threw back her head with one of her rippling laughs.
"He had to," she added merrily. "Mother'd have married Dad anyway."
Ellen studied the tea grounds in the bottom of her cup thoughtfully.
How strange it was to picture Thomas the hero of a romance like this! She
had heard that once in his life every man became a poet; probably this was
Thomas's era of transformation.
Her reverie was broken by the gentle voice of Lucy, who observed:
"And that's what I'd do, too."
"What?" inquired Ellen vaguely. In her reverie about Thomas she had lost
the connection.
"Marry the man I loved no matter what anybody said. Wouldn't you?"
"I--I--don't know," stammered Ellen, getting to her feet with
embarrassment at having a love affair thrust so intimately upon her.
"Mebbe. I must go back now to Tony an' the weedin'. When you get cleared
up round here, there's plenty of mendin' to be done. You'll find that
hamper full of stockin's to be darned."
After Ellen had gone out, Lucy did not rise immediately from the table,
but sat watching the clouds that foamed up behind the maples on the crest
of the nearby hill. A glory of sunshine bathed the earth, and she could
see the coral of the apple buds sway against the sky. It was no day to sit
within doors and darn socks. All Nature beckoned, and to Lucy, used from
birth to being in the open, the alluring gesture was irresistible.
With sudden resolve she sprang up, cleared away the confused remnants of
the meal before her, dashed to her room for a scarlet sweater, and fled
into the radiant world outside.
She followed the driveway until it joined the road, and then, after
hesitating an instant, turned in the direction of the Howe farm. A
mischievous light danced in her brown eyes, and a smile curved her lips.
The road along which she passed was bordered on either side by walls of
gray stone covered with shiny-leaved ivy and flanked by a checkerboard of
pastures roughly dotted with clumps of hardback and boles of protruding
rock. Great brakes grew in the shady hollows, and from the woods beyond
came the cool, moist perfume of moss and ferns.
The girl looked about her with delight. Then she began to sing softly to
herself and jingle rhythmically the coins in her pocket.
It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the Howes' gate, and by the time she
reached it, her swinging step had given to her cheek a color that even the
apple orchard could not rival.
A quick tap on the knocker brought Mary Howe to the door. She was tall,
angular, and short-sighted, and she stood regarding her visitor
inquisitively, her forehead lined by a network of wrinkles.
"Could you let me have a dozen eggs?" asked Lucy.
Mary looked at the girl in waiting silence.
"I am Miss Webster's niece," explained Lucy, with an appealing smile. "We
live next door, you know. Aunt Ellen didn't seem to have any eggs to
spare, so----" she stopped, arrested by Mary's expression.
"Maybe you don't sell eggs," she ventured.
"Yes, we do," Mary contrived to articulate, "but I don't know--I'm
afraid----" She broke off helplessly in the midst of the disjointed
sentence and, raising her voice, called: "Eliza, is Jane there?"
"She's upstairs. I'll fetch her down," responded Eliza, coming to the
door. "What is it?"
"It's Miss Webster's niece askin' for eggs."
"Miss Webster's niece! Ellen Webster's?"
The explanation had in it an intonation of terror.
"Yes."
"My land, Mary! What shall we do? Martin will never----" the awed whisper
ceased. "I'll call Jane," broke off Eliza hurriedly.
Lucy heard the messenger speed across the floor and run up the stairs.
"I'm afraid I'm making you a great deal of trouble," she remarked
apologetically.
"No."
"Perhaps you haven't any eggs to spare."
Mary did not reply to the words; instead she continued to look with
bewilderment at the girl on the doorstep.
"Did Miss Webster send you?" she at last inquired.
Lucy laughed.
"No, indeed," she answered. "She didn't even know I was coming. You see, I
only arrived from Arizona last night. I've come to live with my aunt. We
didn't seem to agree very well about breakfast this morning so I----"
"Oh!"
The explanation was pregnant with understanding.
"I just thought I'd feel more independent if I----"
A swish of skirts cut short the sentence, and in another moment all three
of the Howe sisters were framed in the doorway.
Although a certain family resemblance was characteristic of them, they
looked little alike. Eliza, it was true, was less angular than Mary and
lacked her firmness of mouth and chin; but nevertheless the Howe stamp was
upon her black hair, heavy, bushy brows, and noble cast of forehead. It
was Jane's face, touched by a humor the others could not boast, that
instantly arrested Lucy's attention. It was a fine, almost classic
countenance which bespoke high thinking and a respect for its own soul.
The eyes were gray and kindly, and in contrast to the undisguised dismay
of her sisters, Jane's attitude was one of unruffled composure.
"You want some eggs?" she began with directness.
"If you can spare a dozen."
"I reckon we can."
"Now, Jane----" interrupted Mary nervously.
"Do be careful, Jane," chimed in Eliza.
"I have a right to----" but the resolute Jane was not permitted to finish
her declaration.
"Martin won't----" interpolated Mary.
"You know Martin will be dretful put out," protested Eliza at the same
instant.
"I can't help it if he is," asserted Jane impatiently. "I ain't obliged to
think as he does, am I?"
"He'll be--oh, Jane!" Eliza implored.
"I'll take all the blame."
"I don't know what he'll say," pleaded Mary.
"Well, I'm going to get the eggs, anyhow," announced Jane, cutting short
further argument by moving away.
During this enigmatic dialogue, Lucy's mystified gaze traveled from the
face of one woman to that of another. What was it all about? And who was
this Martin that he should inspire such terror?
"I'm afraid," she called to the retreating Jane, "you'd rather not----"
"It's all right, my dear," replied Jane cordially. "We're glad to let you
have the eggs. I'll get them right away. It won't take me a second."
She disappeared behind the paneled door at the end of the hall, and
presently Mary and Eliza, who had loitered irresolutely, uncertain whether
to go or stay, followed her.
Left to herself, Lucy looked idly across the sunny landscape. Against the
sky line at the top of the hill she could see a tall, masculine figure
delving in the garden.
"That must be Martin-the-Terrible," she observed. "He doesn't look like
such an ogre."
The banging of the door heralded Jane's approach. She held in her hand a
neatly tied package, and over her shoulders peered Mary and Eliza.
"The eggs will be sixty-seven cents," Jane said in a businesslike tone.
"That is the regular market price. I'd carry the box this side up if I
were you."
Lucy counted the change into the woman's palm.
"You have such a pretty home," she murmured as she did so.
"We like it," replied Jane pleasantly.
"I don't wonder. The view from this porch is beautiful. Sometime I hope
you'll let me come over and see you."
Lucy heard two faint simultaneous gasps.
"I'd be glad to have you," came steadily from Jane.
"And I'd like you to come over and see me some day, too--all of you," went
on the girl.
"We don't have much time for goin' out," returned Jane. "There's such a
lot to do that----" she stopped, appearing for the first time to be
confused.
"I know there is," Lucy assented serenely. "I am afraid I have kept you
too long from your work as it is. You must forgive me. Thank you very much
for the eggs."
She extended a slender hand, which Jane grasped warmly. A smile passed
between the two.
But as Lucy turned down the driveway and the door of the Howe homestead
closed, a tragic babel of voices reached her ear, piping in shrill
staccato the single word:
"Jane!"