JANE MAKES A DISCOVERY
Martin Howe moved home as if in a trance, the voice of Lucy Webster
ringing in his ears. He recalled every glance, every smile, every gesture
of this enslaving creature, who, like a meteorite, had shot across his
firmament, rocking its serenity with the shock of her presence. How
exquisite she was! How wonderful! He had never realized there were women
like that. Was it to be marveled at that men pursued such enchantresses to
the borderland of eternity? That they were spurred to deeds of courage;
abandoned home, friends, their sacred honor; even tossed their lives away
for such?
Lucy's advent seemed to mark a new era in existence. All that went before
was not; and all that came after, apart from her, mattered not. Only the
vivid, throbbing present was of consequence, and the intensity of it swept
him out of his balance with a force that was appalling.
He was not the Martin Howe of yesterday, nor could he ever again be that
happy, emotionless being. Within him warred a tumult of new sensations
that seethed, flamed, maddened, consumed. The fact that they were the
fires of a volcano that must forever smolder its passion out did not at
first impress his consciousness. All that he knew was that Lucy Webster
was to him what no other woman had ever been or could be; she was his
ideal, his mate, his other soul; the completing element of his incomplete
nature. The emptiness of his life, of which he had hitherto been only
vaguely aware, now translated itself into the concrete terms of heart,
mind, and sex. He had been struggling to make of himself a whole when in
truth he was but a half; to construct from imperfect parts a unit; and not
sensing the hopelessness of the attempt, he had reaped only failure and
disappointment.
How blind he had been not to understand that alone he could never hope to
still loneliness, heartache, and the stirrings of his physical nature. He
had lived a life in which no one shared and with which no one sympathized.
His fostering instincts had lain dormant until they had reverted to the
receptivity of the protected rather than serving their natural functions
and making of him a protector. All the masculinity of his being had been
dwarfed, stifled. Now it awakened, clamoring to possess, guard, cherish,
worship.
What an amazing miracle it was--what a glad, transforming touch of magic!
He laughed in delight! Years slipped from him, and his youth surged up in
all its warmth and eagerness. Why, he was a boy again! A boy at the
threshold of life's wonderland. He was looking open-eyed into a garden of
beauty where his foot had never trod. Mystic realms were there, mazes of
fairy dreams, lights and colors he had never seen. At last the place of
his desire was before him.
This other self, this woman, Lucy Webster,--the name brought with it an
arresting chill that fell upon the fever of his passion with the breath of
a glacier. The girl was a Webster! She was of the blood of those he
scorned and hated; of a kin with an ancestry he had been brought up to
loathe with all his soul. Had he not been taught that it was his mission
to thwart and humble them? Had he not continually striven to do so? He
must have been bewitched to have forgotten the fact for an instant. No
doubt this creature with her rare beauty was a decoy brought hither to
tempt him to betray his heritage.
Ellen Webster was quite capable of formulating such a scheme and setting
it in motion, if only for the cruel pleasure of seeing him ensnared in its
toils. Perhaps even Lucy herself was an accomplice in the plot. Who could
tell? To be sure she appeared artless enough; but what Webster was to be
trusted? And were she only the innocent tool of a more designing hand it
redeemed her but little for, blameless or guilty, she was nevertheless a
Webster. No power under heaven could wipe out her inheritance; for the
penalty of her blood she must pay the price.
Ah, how near he had come to playing the fool! Was it not Delilah who had
shorn Samson of his might? He, Martin Howe, to be false to his traditions,
forfeit his pride, and become a spiritless weakling, forgetting his
manhood in the smile of a woman!
"Bah!" He cried the word aloud into the teeth of the gale. To think he had
almost walked blindfolded into the trap Ellen Webster had baited for him!
Ah, she should see he was not to be enticed away from the stronghold of
his principles by any such alluring snare.
What a sly old schemer Ellen was! She would have liked nothing better than
to behold him on his knees at the feet of this niece of hers and then
wreck his hopes by snatching away every possibility of their fulfillment.
Perhaps she expected that with the girl's beauty as a bribe she could make
him forget his dignity to the extent of rebuilding the wall.
She was mistaken! He was not to be thus cajoled. He had already, to some
extent, betrayed his vows that night by befriending Lucy. Bitterly he
repented of his weakness. Doubtless at this very moment Ellen Webster was
exulting that he had so easily been duped and hoodwinked.
Hot anger sent the blood to his cheek. He had been blind to be thus caught
off his guard. Into what madness had this woman beguiled him! Well, in the
future the siren should chant her Lorelei songs to deaf ears. Her spell
would be in vain.
He had found himself now. His wayward feet had recovered their stand upon
the solid rock of principle, from which for the moment they had been
tempted into straying. He would demonstrate to this Lucy Webster that any
friendliness between them was done and over.
What an ass a clever woman could make of a man! That any one could so
circumvent him was unbelievable. Shaking the rain viciously from his
umbrella, he mounted the steps, blew out the lantern, and stalked into the
house.
Mary, Eliza, and Jane looked up expectantly as he entered. It was evident
that a multitude of questions trembled on their lips.
He hoped they would offer an apology or explanation for their conduct and
thereby furnish him with the opportunity for berating them and relieving
his soul of the bitterness that rankled there. To lash somebody, anybody,
with his tongue would have been a solace.
But although Jane faced him defiantly, and Mary and Eliza with
anticipatory timidity, no one of the three spoke. They seemed to be
waiting for him to strike the first blow. Twice he attempted it, assuming
first an injured then an outraged attitude. But on second thought, he
abandoned the attack. After all, what was there to say? Should he rail at
them for asking Lucy to the house?
The fair face with its uplifted eyes came before his vision. No, he was
not sorry the girl had come. Though he must never see her again, must
never speak to her or touch her hand, he was glad he had been vouchsafed
this one glimpse into Paradise.
He might forbid his sisters ever to have anything more to do with her. But
he could not bring himself to do that either. And even suppose he were to
make the demand. Jane might refuse to comply with it. There was mutiny in
her eyes, a mutiny he might not be able to suppress unless he resorted to
drastic measures; and, smarting as he was from the scorn and humiliation
of his recent defeat, he was in no mood to cut himself off from the only
sympathy within his reach by creating a breach between himself and his
sisters.
Therefore he loitered self-consciously before the stove as if to dry his
wet clothing and then ambled across the room, remarking in offhand
fashion:
"It's settin' in for quite a rain."
"Yes, it's a hard shower," Mary ventured, turning a puzzled glance upon
her brother. "We need it though."
"Yes, the ground was like chalk," agreed Martin.
Thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he took a few nervous
strides around the room and, prompted by an impulse he could not have
explained, he stopped and absently drew down the window shade on the side
of the kitchen toward the Webster homestead.
"You didn't get any supper after all, did you, Martin?" Jane remarked
presently. "Why don't you let me bring you a piece of fruit cake an' a
glass of milk?"
"It would taste kinder good."
Although he had no wish for the food, the solicitude that accompanied the
suggestion was just then very soothing.
"We could cook you somethin'," Jane said, rising.
"No, no," broke out the man impatiently. "Don't go fussin'. I don't want
much. Just get me anything you have handy."
Jane went to the pantry and returned with two thick slices of "war cake"
and a tumbler of creamy milk.
"This is the sort of cake you liked so much the other day," she said,
putting it upon the table. "It's somethin' amazin' how it keeps moist. I
s'pose it's the apple sauce in it."
She watched him while he broke it listlessly into fragments. It was
obvious that he was not hungry.
"You're tired, Martin," she murmured at last, in a gentle tone.
"I guess I am a little."
"The trip to the fair was a hard one, I'm afraid."
Again the man found comfort in her voice.
"Oh, no; not particularly hard," he answered with gruff kindness, "but the
train was close an' dusty."
There was a quality in the tone that caused Jane to ponder. Furtively she
studied the bowed head, the twitching fingers, the contracted brow; nor
did the jaded, disheartened droop of the mouth escape her. She could not
recall ever having seen Martin like this before.
Something must be weighing on his mind, something that had not been there
when he had left home in the morning and had not been there when he
returned. The shadow, whatever it was, had fallen since, and she felt it
had some connection with the happenings of the evening. This unprecedented
forbearance of his was a part of it. Of that she was sure. What did it
portend? Was he angry? Or had Lucy Webster dropped some remark that had
shown him the folly and uselessness of his resentment? Jane would have
given a great deal to know just what had occurred on that walk in the
rain. Perhaps Lucy had openly attacked Martin's codes and forced a
quarrel. She was fearless enough to do so; or perhaps she had simply
reproached him and set him thinking.
Well, it was useless to ask questions. Jane knew her brother too well to
presume to do this. If he had come to his senses, so much the better. It
was not to be expected that he would admit it. That was not his way. Any
change in his mental attitude would be quickly apparent, however, in his
actions, his deeds confessing the faults his lips were too proud to utter.
She must await developments.
Hence when he rose, she offered him her customary casual good night and
listened to his slow tread upon the stairs. That unelastic step only
served to further convince her that something recent and deep-acting had
taken hold on the man and was tormenting him.
She was roused from her musings by Eliza's voice:
"What can be the matter with Martin?" she said in a tense whisper. "He
never said a word. Here I was shakin' in my shoes, dreadin' every minute
to have him launch out in one of his tirades. You could 'a' knocked me
over when he didn't do it."
"Maybe he's goin' to wait until to-morrow," Mary replied.
"No. He never waits," Eliza declared. "When he's mad he lets fly while his
temper is up. You know that as well as I do. There's no coolin' off with
him an' then warmin' up the leavin's of his rage the next mornin'. He
believes in servin' things hot an' fresh."
"I never knew him to be so sort of cowed down," reflected Mary. "You don't
s'pose he's sick, do you, Jane?"
Mary turned anxious eyes toward her sister.
"Of course not," Jane retorted promptly. "Don't go worryin', Mary, an'
start to brew him some thoroughwort in the hope of havin' him down with a
fever."
"I don't hope he'll have a fever," objected Mary in an injured tone.
Jane laughed.
"Now you know you'd love to have Martin sick so you could take care of
him," said Jane provokingly. "Don't deny it."
"Jane Howe!"
"Well, you would. But he isn't sick, Mary. He's just tired. I wouldn't
bother him about it if I was you. He hates bein' fussed over."
A sudden light of understanding had broken in on Jane's soul.
It came like a revelation, in an intuitive flash, backed neither by
evidence nor by logic. Had she tried to give a reason for the astonishing
conviction that overwhelmed her, she could not have done so. Nevertheless
she was as certain of it as she was that the night would follow the day.
Martin was neither hungry, angry, tired, worried, nor ill.
_He was in love!_