WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY
May came and went, and June, rich in days of splendor, made its advent,
and still Lucy caught only fleeting glimpses of the Howes.
Martin, to be sure, was daily abroad, toiling with the zest of an Amazon
in garden and hay-field. Against the homely background of stubble or brown
earth, his sturdy form stood out with the beauty of a Millet painting. But
his sisters held themselves aloof, avoiding all possibility of contact
with their neighbors.
Doubtless the encounter with Ellen had left its scar; for against their
will they had been compelled to take up the sack of powder and tug it
homeward; and then, in compliance with their promise, deliver it over to
Martin who had first ridiculed their adventure; then berated them; and in
the end set the explosive off so near the Webster border line that its
defiant boom had rattled every pane of glass in the old house.
Ellen had chuckled at this spirited climax to the episode. It was like
Martin, she said. But Lucy regretted the whole affair and found difficulty
in applauding her aunt's dramatic imitation of the affrighted Howes and
their final ignominious retreat. Of course it was only to be expected that
the women next door should resent the incident and that they should
include her, innocent though she was, in this resentment. Nevertheless, it
was a pity that the avenue to further friendly advances between herself
and them should be so summarily closed.
Lucy was very lonely. Having been the center of a large and noisy
household and received a disproportionate degree of homage from her
father's employees, the transition from sovereign to slave was
overwhelming. She did not, however, rebel at the labor her new environment
entailed, but she did chafe beneath its slavery. Nevertheless, her
captivity, much as it irked her, was of only trivial importance when
compared with the greater evil of being completely isolated from all
sympathetic companionship. Between herself and her aunt there existed such
an utter lack of unity of principle that the chasm thereby created was
one which she saw with despair it would never be possible to bridge. Had
the gulf been merely one of tastes and inclinations, it would not have
been so hopeless. But to realize they had no standards in common and that
the only tie that bound them together was the frail thread of kinship was
a disheartening outlook indeed.
It was true that as time went on this link strengthened, for Ellen
developed a brusque liking for her niece, even a shamefaced and
unacknowledged respect. Notwithstanding this, however, the fundamentals
that guided the actions of the two remained as divergent as before, and
beyond discussions concerning garden and home, a few anecdotes relating to
the past, and a crisp and not too delicate jest when the elder woman was
in the humor, their intercourse glanced merely along the shallows.
Over and over, when alone, Lucy asked herself why she stayed on at Sefton
Falls to sacrifice her life on the altar of family loyalty. Was not her
youth being spent to glorify an empty fetish which brought to no one any
real good?
But the query always brought her back to the facts of her aunt's
friendlessness and infirmity. For defy Time as she would, Ellen was old
and was rapidly becoming older. Whether with the arrival of a younger and
more energetic person she was voluntarily relinquishing her hold on her
customary tasks, or whether a sudden collapse of her vitality forced her
to do so, Lucy could not determine; nevertheless, it was perfectly
apparent that she daily attacked her duties more laggingly and complained
less loudly when things were left undone.
When, however, Lucy tried to supplement her diminishing strength by offers
of aid, Ellen was quick to resent the imputation that she was any less
robust than she had been in the past, and in consequence the girl
confronted the delicate problem of trying to help without appearing to do
so.
Parallel with this lessening of physical zeal ran an exaggerated nervous
irritability very hard to bear. Beneath the lash of her aunt's cruel
tongue Lucy often writhed, quivered, and sometimes wept; but she struggled
to keep her hold on her patience. Ellen was old, she told herself, and the
self-centered life she had led had embittered her. Moreover, she was
approaching the termination of her days, and to a nature like hers the
realization that there was no escape from her final surrender to Death
filled her with impotent rage. She had always conquered; but now something
loomed in her path which it was futile and childish to seek to defy.
Therefore, difficult as was Lucy's present existence, she put behind her
all temptation to desert this solitary woman and leave her to die alone.
Was not Ellen her father's sister, and would he not wish his daughter to
be loyal to the trust it had fallen to her to fulfill? Was she not, as a
Webster, in honor bound to do so?
In the meantime, as if to intensify this sense of family obligation, Lucy
discovered that she was acquiring a growing affection for the home which
for generations had been the property of her ancestors. The substantial
mansion, with its colonial doorways surmounted by spreading fans of glass,
its multi-paned windows and its great square chimney, must once have
breathed the very essence of hospitality, and it did so still, even though
closed blinds and barred entrances combined to repress its original
spirit. Already the giant elm before the door had for her a significance
quite different from that of any other tree; so, too, had the valley with
its shifting lights. She loved the music of the brook, the rock-pierced
pasture land, the minarets of the spruces that crowned the hills. The
faintly definable mountains, blue against the far-off sky, endeared
themselves to her heart, weakening her allegiance to the barren country of
her birth and binding her to this other home by the magic of their
enchantment.
Here was the spot where her forefathers had lived and toiled. Here were
the orchards they had planted, the fields they had tilled, the streams
they had fished, the hills they had climbed; and here was the house built
by their hands, the chairs in which they had rested, the beds in which
they had slept. Her former life had contained none of these elements of
permanence. On the contrary, much of the time she had been a nomad, the
mining settlements that gave her shelter being frankly regarded as
temporary halting places to be abandoned whenever their usefulness should
become exhausted.
But here, with the everlasting hills as a foundation, was a home that had
been and should be. Tradition breathed from the very soil, and Lucy's
veneration for the past was deep-rooted. Therefore, despite her aunt's
acrimonious disposition, the opposition of their ideals, despite drudgery
and loneliness, she stayed on, praying each day for increased patience and
struggling to magnify every trace of virtue she could discover in Ellen.
Now that the planting was done, the weeding well in hand, the
house-cleaning finished, the girl contrived to so systematize her work
that she should have intervals of leisure to escape into the sunshine and,
beneath the vastness of the arching heaven, forget for the time being at
least all that was rasping and petty.
It was absurd to be lonely when on every hand Nature's voices spoke with
understanding. Was she joyous? The birds caroled, the leaves danced, the
brook sang. Was she sad? The whisper of the great pines brought peace and
balm to her spirit.
It was in search of this sympathy that she had set forth along the highway
to-day. The late afternoon was a poem of mystic clouds and mysterious
shadows. Far off against the distant horizon, mountains veiled in mists
lifted majestic peaks into the air, their summits lost amid swiftly
traveling masses of whiteness; rifts of purple haze lengthened over the
valley; and the fields, dotted with haycocks, breathed forth the perfume
of drying grass.
As Lucy walked along she began singing softly to herself. Her day's work
was done; and her aunt, who had driven with Tony to bring home a load of
lumber from the sawmill, would not return until late in the evening. Six
delicious hours were her own to be spent in whatever manner her fancy
pleased. It was an unheard-of freedom. Never since she had come to Sefton
Falls had she known such a long stretch of liberty. What wonder that she
swung along with feet scarce touching the earth!
A redwing called from the bracken bordering the brook, and the girl called
back, trying to mimic its glad note. She snatched a flower from the
roadside and tucked it in her hair; she laughed audaciously into the
golden face of the sun. Her exuberance was mounting to ecstasy when she
rounded a curve and suddenly, without warning, came face to face with Jane
Howe.
The woman was proceeding with extreme care, carrying in either hand a
large and well-heaped pail of berries.
Before Lucy thought, she stepped forward and exclaimed impulsively:
"Do let me help you! They must be dreadfully heavy."
"'Tain't so much that they're heavy," Jane answered, smiling, "as that
they're full. I'm afraid I'll spill some."
"Give me one pail."
"Do you really mean it?"
"Of course. I'd be glad to take it."
"All right," replied Jane simply. "I'm sure I'd be only too thankful if
you would. After trampin' miles to pick raspberries, you ain't so keen on
losin' 'em when you're within sight of home."
"Indeed you're not," Lucy assented. "These are beauties. Where did you go
for them?"
"Most up to the pine ridge you see yonder. I took my lunch an' have been
gone since mornin'."
"How I wish I could have gone with you!"
"Would you have liked to?" queried Jane incredulously. "Then I wish you
might have. It was just the sort of a day to walk. I don't s'pose, though,
your aunt would have spared you for an all-day picnic."
There was a hint of scorn in the words.
"I don't often have time to go far from the house," replied Lucy gently,
ignoring Miss Howe's challenge. "There is so much to do."
"So there is," agreed Jane hastily. "Certainly we manage to keep busy all
the time. When it ain't one thing, it's another. There never seems to be
any end to it. But I did steal off to-day. The berries were really an
excuse. Of course we can make 'em into jam. Still, what I really wanted
was to get out in the air."
"I've stolen off too," said Lucy, with a smile. "My aunt and Tony have
gone over to the Crossing for lumber and won't be back until dark, so I am
having a holiday."
Jane was silent a moment.
"Why shouldn't you come over and have tea with us then?" she asked
abruptly. "We're all alone, too. My brother's gone to the County Fair an'
ain't comin' back 'til to-morrow."
Lucy's eyes lighted with pleasure.
"You're very kind," she cried, a tremor of happiness in her tone. "I'd
love to come."
They walked along, balancing their burden of berries and chatting of
garden, weather, and housework.
As they turned in at the Howe gate, Jane motioned proudly toward three
rows of flourishing vines that were clambering up a network of sustaining
brush.
"Those are our sweet peas," she remarked. "The first row is Mary's;
they're white. Then come Eliza's--pink ones. Mine are purple. Martin won't
plant his over here. He has 'em longside of the barn, an' they're all
colors mixed together. We don't like 'em that way, but he does. He's awful
fond of flowers, an' he has great luck with 'em, too. He seems to have a
great way with flowers. But he never cuts one blossom he raises. Ain't
that queer? He says he likes to see 'em growin'."
They were nearing the house.
"I reckon Mary an' 'Liza will be surprised enough to have me come bringin'
you home," observed Jane a trifle consciously. "We ain't done much
neighboring, have we?"
"No," returned Lucy quickly, "and I've been sorry. It seems a pity we
shouldn't be friends even if----" she stopped, embarrassed.
"Even if your aunt an' Martin do act like a pair of fools," interrupted
Jane. "Senseless, ain't it! Besides, it ain't Christian livin' at odds
with people. I never did approve of it."
"I'm sure I don't."
Jane nodded.
"We imagined you were like that," she said. "I told Mary an' 'Liza so the
day you come for the eggs. 'She ain't like her aunt,' I says to Mary, 'not
a mite; an' you can be pretty sure she won't be in sympathy with all this
squabblin' an' back-bitin'.'"
"Indeed I'm not."
"We ain't either, not one of us. We'd like nothin' better'n to be
neighborly an' run in. It's the only decent way of doin' when folks live
side by side. But Martin wouldn't listen to our doin' it, even if your
aunt would--which I know she wouldn't. He's awful set against the
Websters."
"How silly it seems!"
"That's what I tell him," Jane declared. "Of course your aunt's an old
woman, an' 'tain't surprisin' she should harbor a grudge against us. But
Martin's younger, an' had oughter be more forgivin'. It's nonsensical
feelin' you've got to be just as sour an' crabbed as your grandfather was.
I don't humor him in it--at least not more'n I have to to keep the peace.
But Mary an' 'Liza hang on to every word Martin utters. If he was to say
blue was green, they'd say so too. They'd no more do a thing he wouldn't
like 'em to than they'd cut off their heads. They wouldn't dare. I 'spect
they'll have a spasm when they see you come walkin' in to-night."
"Maybe I ought not to come," Lucy murmured in a disappointed voice.
"Yes, you ought," Jane said with decision. "Why should we keep up a
quarrel none of us approve of? Martin ain't home. It's nothin' to him."
"Well, if you're sure you want me," Lucy laughed and dimpled.
"If I hadn't wanted you, you may be pretty sure I shouldn't have asked
you," retorted Jane bluntly. "Mary an' 'Liza will likely be scat to death
at first, but they'll get over it an' thaw out. Don't pay no attention to
'em."
Jane had ascended the steps and her hand was on the latch.
"I feel like a child playing truant," said Lucy, a flush of excitement
tinting her cheek. "You see, my aunt wouldn't like my being here any more
than Mar--than your brother would."
"What they don't know won't hurt 'em," was Jane's brief answer.
"Oh, I shall tell Aunt Ellen."
"I shan't tell Martin. He'd rage somethin' awful."
She threw open the door. Lucy saw her stiffen with resolution.
"I picked up Miss Lucy Webster on the road an' brought her home to tea!"
she called from the threshold.
Mary and Eliza were busy at the kitchen table. At the words they turned
and automatically gasped the one phrase that always sprang to their lips
in every emergency:
"Oh, Jane!"
"Martin's away an' so's Ellen Webster," went on Jane recklessly. "Why
shouldn't we do a bit of neighborin' together, now we've got the chance?"
"But--but Martin!" Eliza managed to stammer.
"He'll never be the wiser--unless you tell him," replied Jane merrily.
"Come, Miss Lucy, take off your hat an' make yourself at home. Supper'll
soon be ready, I guess."
The phrase was a fortunate one, for it brought back to the disconcerted
Howes the memory of their domestic prowess, a thing in which they took
great pride. By nature they were hospitable, and here was a chance to
exercise that long unexercised faculty.
Mary bustled to the stove.
"Yes," she answered, "the biscuits are in the oven, an' I was just makin'
the tea." Then, as if emboldened by Jane's attitude, she added timidly:
"We're real glad to see you, Miss Webster; don't think we ain't."
"Yes," Eliza echoed, "we really are."
The first shock of the adventure having passed, it was amazing to see with
what rapidity the Howe sisters increased the warmth of their welcome. From
the top shelf in the pantry they brought forth the _company preserves_;
fruit cake was unearthed from the big stone crock in the dining-room
closet; and, as a final touch to the feast, Jane beat up a foamy omelet
and a prune whip. In their enjoyment they were like a group of children,
an undercurrent of delight in the forbidden tinging their mirth.
Lucy told stories of her western life, and the three women listened as if
to the tales of Sir John Mandeville. The hours passed, twilight deepened,
night fell, but the revelers heeded it not. What a sweet, wholesome
evening it was! And how kindly, Lucy thought, were these simple souls
whose feeling toward every breathing creature was so benign and
sympathetic. Contrasted with the antagonistic atmosphere of the Webster
house, this home was like paradise. It restored her faith in human nature
and in Sefton Falls. Every one in the place was not, then, bitter and
suspicious. What a comfort to know it!
In the meantime Mary, having reached a pitch of hilarity almost
unprecedented, was starting to tell a story when suddenly her face
stiffened and, turning white, she half rose from her chair.
There was a scuffling of feet in the hall and in another instant Martin
Howe entered.
"The fair wasn't worth my stayin' to," he explained from the doorsill, "so
I came along home to-night instead of waitin' till to-morrow. Looks to me
as if I was just in time for a snack of supper."
Standing in the lamplight, his stern face softened by a smile and a glow
of good humor, he was attractive to look upon. The firm countenance was
lined, it is true, but the lines gave it strength and brought into harmony
the clear eyes, resolute mouth, and well-molded chin. He had a fine
smooth forehead from which his black hair, lightly sprinkled with gray,
was tossed aside in picturesque abandon. Health and power spoke in every
curve of the lithe frame and in the boyish grace with which he moved.
With his coming a hush fell upon the room. Had a group of conspirators
been unexpectedly confronted with their own crimes, they could not have
been more abashed than were the four women seated at the table.
Jane was the first to recover herself. In a voice that trembled but did
not falter she said courageously:
"Miss Lucy Webster's havin' tea with us, Martin."
There was an awkward pause.
Lucy, whose glance had dropped to the floor, raised her eyes appealingly
to the man's face; but she found in it no answering sympathy. In the short
interval it had changed from geniality to a sternness almost incredible of
belief. It was hard now--merciless.
Perhaps, to do Martin justice, he could not have spoken at that moment had
he tried. This creature, with her wealth of golden hair, her radiant
eyes, flashed upon his vision with the glory of a new star. She was a
phenomenon hitherto unknown. No matter what her name, the simple fact of
her presence would have put to flight every other thought and left him
dumb. The proudly poised head, the rounded white throat, the flushed cheek
with its elusive dimples, the tiny hands were all marvels unfamiliar to
Martin Howe.
Could this nymph, this dryad be a product of the same planet that had
given birth to Mary, Eliza, and Jane?
With no attempt to conceal his artless scrutiny, he looked, and before his
ingenuous wonder Lucy felt her pulse bound.
"I must go home," she said, struggling to appear composed and ignoring the
speechless Martin as if he were in reality as many miles away as she had
supposed him. "I had no idea it was so late. Good night and thank you for
my pleasant evening."
None of the Howes attempted to stay her departure, although Jane followed
her with feigned imperturbability to the door, remarking by way of
conversation:
"It's dretful dark outside, ain't it?"
Lucy smiled.
"Yes, but I don't mind."
To have escaped Martin Howe's eyes, which continued to rest upon her, she
would have plunged into a den of lions. The beating of her heart, the
burning of her cheek angered and disconcerted her.
Jane unfastened the door. Then she started back in consternation.
"Mercy!" she cried. "It's rainin'!"
"Rainin'?" Eliza exclaimed.
"Yes, pourin'. It's an awful shower."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," asserted Lucy, impatient to be gone. "I never
mind the rain."
"But this is a regular downpour. You'll get wet to your skin," Jane
objected. "I ain't a-goin' to let you go out in it in that thin dress.
Ain't we got an umbrella somewheres, 'Liza?"
"I dunno," Eliza answered vaguely.
The sudden shower and the furious tossing of the trees did not impress
themselves on her dull mind. Only one thought possessed her brain,--the
sinking dread of the moment when Lucy should be gone and Martin would
empty the vials of his waiting wrath on all their heads.
"Indeed I don't in the least need an umbrella," Lucy protested. "I'll run
right along. Please do not bother."
"You'll get wet an' be sick," Mary declared, launching into the
conversation at the mention of possible chills and fevers.
Lucy laughed unsteadily.
"Oh, no, I shan't. Good night."
She had crossed the veranda and was at the brink of the flight of steps
when heavy feet came striding after her.
"Wait! I'm goin' with you," said a tense voice. It was Martin.
"Thank you very much, but I really don't need anybody."
"I'm goin'," repeated the man doggedly.
"I don't want you to," Lucy returned curtly, nettled into irritability.
"Likely not," observed Martin with stolid determination.
"I wish you wouldn't," fretted Lucy angrily. "I'd much rather----"
It was like a child helplessly dashing itself against a wall. Martin paid
no attention to her protests. With a lighted lantern in one hand and an
umbrella in his other, he set forth with Lucy down the driveway.
Overhead the trees wrenched and creaked, and above the lashings of their
branches the rain could be heard beating with fury upon the tossing
foliage. Once in the blackness Lucy stumbled and, following the instinct
for self-preservation, put out her hand and caught Martin's arm; then she
drew her hand quickly away. They proceeded in silence until they reached
the gate at the foot of the long Webster driveway; then the man spoke:
"'Tain't fur now," he said, halting short. "I'll give you the umbrella."
He held it out to her.
"But you'll get drenched."
"No, indeed!"
"But you will," insisted Lucy with spirit.
"No matter."
"It is matter. Besides, I can't see my way to the house without the
lantern. It's dark as pitch."
"Take 'em both, then."
"Of course I shan't," replied the girl indignantly. "And anyway, if I did,
I couldn't carry the two in this wind. If I can't have but one, I'd rather
have the lantern."
"That's nonsense!" Martin returned.
"What use was there in my bringin' you home if you get soaked now?"
"But I can't see an inch before my face without a light."
"Just as you say, then. Here it is." Holding out the lantern, he took back
the umbrella.
"But you certainly are not going to leave me to go up that long avenue in
the rain," burst out Lucy.
"You said you didn't mind rain," retorted the man ironically.
He stood immovable in the torrent, but the lantern glow showed his face to
be working convulsively.
Lucy, who could not believe that in the present emergency his stubbornness
would persist, waited.
"I ain't comin'," he remarked half to himself with dogged determination,
as if he were bolstering up some inward wavering of principle. "I ain't
comin'."
The touch of her hand still vibrated upon his arm, and he could feel the
flutter of her dress against his body.
"I ain't comin'," he repeated between his closed teeth.
"Very well."
With dignity, Lucy picked up her limp skirts, preparatory to breasting the
storm. "I _can't_ go with you," he suddenly burst out. "Don't you see I
can't?"
A wailing cry from the wind seemed to echo the pain in his voice. The girl
did not answer. Refusing both the light and shelter he offered her, she
stepped resolutely forth into the blackness of the night. Helplessly he
watched her go, the lantern's rays reflecting her white gown.
"I shan't bother you again, Mr. Howe," she called bitterly.
Martin made no reply but raised the lantern higher that it might brighten
the rough path. Unheeding him, the girl stumbled through the darkness, the
rain beating down upon her.
As she neared the house a faint glow flickered through the shrubbery,
making it evident that her aunt had already arrived home. Nervously she
mounted the porch and turned to look behind her. At the foot of the drive
stood Martin, the lantern high in his hands.
Now that Lucy was safely within the shelter of her own domain, her sense
of humor overcame her, and with an irresistible desire to torment him, she
called mischievously from her vantage ground on the veranda:
"Thank you so much for bringing me home, Mr. Howe. Can't I persuade you to
come in?"
There was a smothered exclamation of wrath in the distance, and she saw a
gleam of light precipitate itself hastily into the road, where, for a
moment, it flashed along the tree trunks, then disappeared.
Lucy laughed.
Ellen was in the kitchen when she entered.
"Where on earth have you been?" she demanded. "I should 'a' thought you
might 'a' come back in time to start the fire up an' get supper. It's
awful late. Was it Tony you was talkin' to outside?"
"No."
"It warn't?" she turned a hawklike glance on her niece. "Who was it?" she
asked inquisitively.
"Mr. Howe."
"Mr. Ho---- Not _Martin_ Howe!"
Lucy nodded.
"Yes."
"Martin Howe here--_on my land_! What was he doin'?"
"He wasn't on your land," Lucy said. "He left me at the gate. He was
seeing me home. I've been there to supper."
"What!"
Never had the girl heard so many sensations crowded into one word. There
was surprise, unbelief, scorn, anger. But anger predominated.
"An' how long, pray tell me, have you been goin' backwards an' forrads to
the Howes, an' consortin' with their brother?"
"Only to-night."
Ellen looked at her niece as if, had she dared, she would have torn her in
pieces. "I s'pose it never entered your head it was a mean advantage for
you to take when I was gone," she said shrilly. "You wouldn't 'a' dared do
it if I'd been here."
"I'm not so sure."
The fearless response was infuriating to Ellen.
"Well, I'll tell you one thing," she shouted, bringing her clenched hand
down on the table with such force that every dish rattled. "You ain't to
repeat this night's performance! If you ain't got pride enough not to go
hob-nobbin' with my enemies, I'll forbid it for good an' all--forbid it,
do you hear? I ain't a-goin'----"
Something in the quiet dignity of the girl before her arrested her tongue.
Her eye traveled over the white, rain-drenched figure. Then the corners
of her mouth twitched and curved upward.
"So Martin Howe saw you home, did he?" she observed sarcastically. "Much
good his comin' did! Had you tramped ten miles you couldn't 'a' got much
wetter. I guess he needs some lessons in totin' ladies round same's he
does in most everything else. I always said he didn't have no manners--the
puppy!"