ELLEN ENCOUNTERS AN ENIGMA
Nevertheless, in spite of this bellicose admonition, Lucy had no
opportunity during the next few weeks to deliver to the Howes her aunt's
message, for Ellen, feeling that she was now blessed with an able
assistant whose time must not be wasted, seized upon the mild May weather
to deluge her home from top to bottom with soapsuds, sapolio, and fresh
paint. From morning until night Lucy worked, scrubbing and scouring,
brushing and beating.
As she toiled up the stairs, carrying pails of steaming water, she caught
through the windows glimpses of the valley, its verdant depths threaded by
the river's silvery windings. The heavens had never been bluer. Everywhere
gladness was in the air, and the thrill of it filled the girl with longing
to be in the heart of its magic.
Ellen, however, was entirely oblivious to the miracle taking place in the
universe about her. The glory of the awakening season, with its hosts of
unfurling leaves and opening buds, was nothing to her. Had she not been
dependent on the sun to make her garden grow, she would probably never
have lifted her face to its golden rays. Only as nature furthered her
projects did she acknowledge its presence.
The Howes seemed, to some extent at least, to share this disregard for the
out-of-door world, for like Ellen they, too, surrendered themselves to a
household upheaval quite as merciless as that of the Websters. No sooner
would Martin disappear with horse and plow in the direction of the garden
than the three sisters could be seen feverishly dragging mattresses on to
the piazza roof for a sunning; shaking blankets; and beating rugs.
Now and then, when the sound of their measured blows reached Ellen's ears,
she would leap to close the windows on the side of the house where there
was danger of the Howe germs drifting in and polluting the Webster Lares
and Penates.
It was one day after being thus impelled that Lucy was surprised to see
her linger and stare intently.
"What are them women a-doin'?" she exclaimed at last. "Do come here,
Lucy."
Discarding her mop, the girl crossed the room.
Through the gaps in the trees Mary, Eliza, and Jane Howe were plainly
visible. They had shovels in their hands and were struggling with the turf
at the foot of the big linden tree beside the house.
"They seem to be digging a hole," Lucy said, after watching a moment.
"What for, do you suppose?"
Ellen fidgeted at the casement for a short time and then disappeared, only
to return with an old pair of field glasses. Adjusting them to her eyes,
she stared at her neighbors with unconcealed curiosity.
"They _are_ diggin' a hole," she declared presently. "A good deep one;
whatever can they be settin' out to do?"
For an interval she looked on with interest. Then suddenly she exclaimed
in an excited voice:
"They're goin' to bury somethin'! My land! What do you s'pose it is?
Somethin' all done up in a bag!" She forced the binoculars into Lucy's
hand. "You look and see if you can't make out."
Lucy scanned the scene with mild inquisitiveness.
"They have a canvas sack," she said, "and evidently they are trying to
bury it."
She handed the glass back to Ellen.
"They act as if they were in an almighty hurry," observed Ellen, as she
looked. "They keep watchin' to see if anybody's comin'. Likely they're
afraid Martin will catch 'em. I wish he would. What do you reckon is in
that bag? I'd give worlds to know."
"I can't imagine."
Lucy had returned to her cleaning and was busy wringing out the mop. The
doings of the women next door failed to interest her. But not so Ellen
who, tense with speculation, hovered at the casement.
"They've got the hole dug," she announced triumphantly, "an' they're
lowerin' the bag into it. It must be heavy 'cause they seem to be havin' a
hard time lettin' it down in. They act as if they were afraid to touch the
thing. What can it be?" she repeated for the twentieth time.
"I don't know," Lucy replied wearily.
She was tired and hungry and wished Ellen would abandon spying on her
neighbors and give her a helping hand.
"Yes," commented Ellen from the window, "those women handle that bag as if
they had a chiny image in it. I can't for the life of me figger out what
can be in it."
For an interval there was silence. Lucy set the mop and pail out in the
hall and began to clean the paint.
"They've started to cover it up," chronicled Ellen, after a pause.
"They're shovelin' in the dirt--at least Mary and Jane are; Eliza's
stopped helpin' 'em an' gone to see if anybody's comin'. There's somethin'
dretful queer about it all. Don't you think so?"
"I don't know," answered Lucy a trifle impatiently.
Again Ellen studied the distance.
"Look!" she cried an instant later. "Look! 'Liza's callin' an' motionin'
to 'em. They're droppin' their shovels and runnin' for the house like a
lot of scared sheep. Probably Martin's comin', an' they don't want him to
catch 'em. There! What did I tell you? It _is_ Martin. I can see him
drivin' over the hill. Watch 'em skitter!"
Lured more by the desire to see Martin than to observe his panic-stricken
sisters, Lucy went to the window. It was even as Ellen had said. There
were the retreating forms of the three female Howes disappearing in at the
side door; and there was Martin, his tall figure looming in sight at the
heels of his bay mare.
"He's a fine looking man, isn't he?" Lucy remarked with thoughtless
impulsiveness.
"What!"
"I say he is fine looking," repeated the girl. "What broad shoulders he
has, and how magnificently he carries his head!"
"You call that fine looking, do you?" sniffed her aunt.
"Yes. Don't you?"
"Martin Howe ain't my style of man."
"But he's so strong and splendid!"
"I never saw a splendid Howe yet," was Ellen's icy retort.
She turned from the window, took up a cloth, and went to scrubbing the
paint viciously.
Lucy, realizing the tactlessness of her observation, tried by light,
good-humored chatter to efface its memory; but all attempts to blot it
from her aunt's mind were useless, and the relations between the two
women remained strained for the rest of the day. So strained and
uncomfortable were they that Lucy, wearied out by her hard work, was only
too glad to bid Ellen good night and seek her own room early.
Through its windows long shafts of moonlight fell across the floor,
flecking it with jagged, grotesque images of the trees outside. Once
alone, she did not immediately start to undress, but lingered thoughtfully
looking out into the night. Every muscle in her body ached, and in her
heart was a sinking loneliness. For the first time since her arrival at
Sefton Falls she surrendered herself to the distaste she felt toward her
aunt and her surroundings. Could she stay, she asked herself. The
narrowness of the environment raised an issue vital enough; nevertheless,
grave as it was, it sank into insignificance when weighed against the
vastly more potent factor of Ellen's personality. The girl had come east
with the intention of nursing and caring for her father's sister. She felt
he would have wished her to come; and casting every other inclination
aside, she had obeyed what seemed to her the voice of duty. But she had
been misled, disappointed. None of her father's kindliness lurked in this
embittered, malicious-matured woman, toward whom, although bound by ties
of blood, she felt neither respect nor affection. Nor did her aunt need
her. After all, was it her duty to remain and waste her youth to no
purpose? Could she face the horror of a stretch of years that held in them
no human sympathy? What should she do? What ought she to do? Should she go
or stay?
As she lingered in the darkness, her weary head heavy against the window
frame, she wrestled with the future and conscientiously tried to reach
some conclusion. She was eager to do what was right. Had Ellen been sick
or feeble, as she had been led to suppose, she would not have questioned
leaving her, querulous and tyrannical though she was. But this woman was
all-sufficient and needed no one. Why should she bury her life in this
cruel, rancorous atmosphere? Would her own sweetness survive the daily
companionship of such a person; rather, dominated by Ellen's powerful
character, might she not become inoculated by its poison and herself
harden into a being as merciless and self-centered? So deep was her
reverie that she did not hear the tap upon the door. A second afterward
the knob turned softly and her aunt entered.
"You ain't in bed?" she inquired in a high-pitched whisper.
"No."
"That's lucky, I hoped you wouldn't be. Come in my room quick. I want you
should see what the Howes are doin'. They're out fussin' again over that
thing they buried this afternoon." Ellen was obviously excited.
Sure enough! From the window that looked toward the Howe farm, three
figures could be seen in the silvery light, grouped together beneath the
old linden. They were armed, as before, with shovels, and all of them were
digging.
"It doesn't look as if they were filling in the hole," Lucy remarked,
interested in spite of herself. "They seem to be digging up what they
buried."
"That's just what I thought," responded Ellen.
"Yes, they are shoveling the dirt out again," declared the girl.
For quite a while the two stood watching the frenzied movements of their
neighbors.
Then Ellen gave a cry.
"See! See!" she ejaculated. "They're histin' the bag out. Did you ever see
such doin's? I'd give my soul to know what they're up to. Nothin' good,
you may be sure of that--or they wouldn't take the dead of night to do it.
There, they've got the thing out now, and two of 'em are tugging it off
between 'em. The other one's fillin' in the hole and trampin' down the
earth. Seem's if I'd simply have to go over there an' find out what it's
all about!"
Lucy smiled at her aunt's exasperated tone.
"Why don't you?" she asked mischievously.
Ellen gave a short laugh.
"The only way the Howes will ever get me on their land will be to
chloroform me," said she grimly. "But I should like to know before I go to
bed what they've been doin'. I s'pose it's no use to set up any longer,
though, tryin' to figure it out. We'd both better go to sleep. Good
night."
"Good night," Lucy returned.
Only too glad to escape, she hurried back to her own room, slipped out of
her clothes, and was soon lost in heavy, dreamless slumber.
The day had been a strenuous one, and she was very tired, so tired that
she might not have been awakened promptly had she not stirred in her
sleep and become dimly conscious of a flood of radiance upon her pillow.
The morning sunshine was brilliant in the chamber, and standing in its
circle of gold she beheld Ellen.
"It's six o'clock," she announced breathlessly, "an' I want you should get
right up. Martin Howe's gone off to the village in his wagon, an' I can't
help a-thinkin' that now he's out of the way them sisters of his will
start doin' somethin' more with that bag."
"What bag?" yawned Lucy sleepily.
"Why, the bag they were buryin' last night."
"Oh, yes."
Slowly the girl's latent faculties aroused themselves.
"You hurry up and dress while I go and watch," panted Ellen. "Be quick's
you can, or we may miss somethin'."
She went out, closing the door; but in a few moments her niece heard her
shrill call:
"They're comin' out with it! What'd I tell you? Two of 'em have got it,
carryin' it across the lawn. Ain't you 'most dressed?"
"Yes, I'm coming."
Fastening her belt as she went, Lucy hurried to her aunt's side.
Amid the sparkling, dew-kissed glory of early morning, she could plainly
see the three Howes making their way through the wet grass in the
direction of their pasture.
"Bless me! if they don't mean to sink it in the brook!" whispered Ellen.
"Oh, I never can stand this. I've got to foller 'em an' find out what
they're doin'."
"You wouldn't!" exclaimed Lucy in dismay.
"Indeed I would," her aunt retorted. "I'd go to any length to see what's
in that bag. If they were younger----" she broke off abruptly. "Anyhow,
it's somethin' they're ashamed of, I'm certain of that. They couldn't 'a'
murdered anybody, I s'pose. Bad's I hate 'em, I'd hardly think they're
that wicked. Still what can it be?"
"I can't imagine."
"Well, I'm goin' to track 'em down, anyhow," Ellen announced. "Ain't you
comin'?"
"No."
To spy on the actions of others did not appeal to the younger woman's
honest mind.
"You can get breakfast while I'm gone then," Ellen said, catching up her
coat, "and if I don't come back pretty soon, you go ahead and eat yours.
I'd a thousand times rather ferret out what those Howes are tryin' to bury
than eat. I'd be willin' to starve to do it."