THE CROSSING OF THE RUBICON
"I want you should go to the village to-day," announced Ellen, making her
appearance in Lucy's room on a hot August morning a few weeks later.
"Tony's got to get the scythe mended an' have Dolly shod. Don't it beat
all how somethin's always wearin' out? Long's he's goin', you might's well
drive along with him an' take the eggs an' corn I promised Elias Barnes.
There's some more errands at the store I want done, too."
"All right, Aunt Ellen."
But the woman loitered.
"If you don't want to hang 'round town till Tony gets ready to come back,
mebbe you could find somebody comin' this way who would give you a lift
home. It seems sort of a shame to stay there wastin' the time you could be
usin' here."
Lucy smiled at the characteristic remark.
"An' if you didn't happen on any one," went on Ellen, "likely you
wouldn't mind walkin'; 'twould get you home quicker."
"No, indeed. I always like a walk."
"I reckon 'twill be warm."
"I don't mind."
"That's good."
Ellen was always gracious when her plans went to her satisfaction.
"I want you to be ready to start right after breakfast," she added, as she
went out the door. "The earlier you get off the earlier you'll be back
again. I wish I could go myself an' dicker with Elias. I would if it
warn't that I have to tinker with that pesky cream separator."
"Is the cream separator out of order?"
"Yes," said Ellen wearily. "Trust that Tony to bust everythin' he
touches."
She closed Lucy's door with a spirited bang.
The girl listened to her retreating footsteps and smiled softly. It was
nothing new for Ellen to be sending her to the village to transact the
business she no longer felt able to attend to herself, but the subterfuges
to which she resorted to conceal her real motive were amusing. Lucy knew
well that to-day, if it had not been the cream separator, something else
equally important would have furnished the excuse for keeping her aunt at
home. It seemed so foolish not to be honest about the matter. To pursue
any other method, however, would have been quite foreign to Ellen's
policy, and therefore Lucy, although not blinded by these devices to hide
the truth, always pretended she was, and earnestly condoned with the old
woman about the rebellious potato sprayer, the obstinate pump, or whatever
other offending object chanced to be selected as the plea for casting her
cares on younger shoulders.
The trip to the village was tiresome; of that there was no
doubt,--especially on a day that promised to be as hot as this one.
Already tremors of heat vibrated upward in waves from the piazza roof, and
the sun's scorching rays pierced between the closed blinds. Nevertheless,
Lucy did not regret the prospect of the morning's excursion. She so seldom
had an opportunity to leave the house that any break in the monotony of
her days, uncomfortable though it might be, was a welcome diversion.
Therefore she hurried her dressing and breakfast, and while dawn was still
on the threshold, set off with Tony in the dust-covered surrey that
creaked its way along behind the stumbling gray mare.
The coolness of night was over the awakening earth, although the mounting
sun was speedily drinking up the dew and rousing the locusts into droning
song. Not a leaf stirred. Through the shimmering atmosphere the valley,
with its river yellow as a band of molten gold, lay listless in drowsy
haze; but the birds, butterflies, and bees flitted among the flowers that
bordered the roadside with an alertness which proved that they, at least,
felt no lessening of zest for their honey gathering.
"It's goin' to be an almighty hot day," observed Tony who, after slapping
Dolly's broad back several times with the reins, had decided that further
attempts to accelerate the mare's pace was useless.
"Yes, very hot."
"I hope your aunt won't go pullin' that separator all to pieces while
we're gone," the boy grumbled. "In the first place she ain't got a notion
of how to put it together again; an' in the next place she ain't fit to go
liftin' an' haulin' things about the way she does. She's gettin' to be an
old woman. Ain't she most eighty?"
"She's not far from it," answered Lucy.
"Well, if I was her age an' had her money, you wouldn't see me workin' as
if a slave driver was standin' over me," the Portuguese lad declared.
"What good is it doin' her bein' rich, I'd like to know."
"Oh, I don't think she is rich," said Lucy quickly.
"Folks say she is; that's all I know 'bout it," replied Tony. "Elias
Barnes was calculatin' one day down to the store that she must be worth
thousands. I can believe it, too," added the boy significantly.
"Everything we've got on the farm is tied up with string, or hitched
together with a scrap of wire. Your aunt ain't fur gettin' a thing mended
long's it can be made to hold together. 'Bout everything on the farm wants
overhaulin'. I'd give a fortune to see a smart man come in here an' set
the place to rights. There's a lot of truck in the barn oughter be heaved
out an' burned. 'Tain't fit for nothin'. But Miss Webster would no more
hear to partin' with one stick nor stone she owned than she'd cut off her
head. She'd keep everything that belonged to her if it was dropping to
bits."
The boy paused.
"Well, there's one good thing," he added, smiling, "she can't take the
stuff she's hoarded with her into the next world, an' when it falls to you
you can do as you like with it."
"Falls to me?"
"Why, yes. 'Course all your aunt's property'll be yours some day."
"What makes you think so?" Lucy asked, a suggestion of reserve in her
tone.
"Who else is there to have it?" inquired Tony, opening his eyes very wide.
"Ain't she already left it to you in her will?"
"I don't know."
"You don't!"
Lucy laughed at his incredulousness.
"No."
"Well, they say down to the town that your aunt made her will 'bout three
weeks ago. Even Lawyer Benton himself admitted that much. Folks saw Miss
Webster goin' into his office an' questioned him. He warn't for tellin'
anything 'til they nagged at him; then he did own that the farm an'
everything else was left to _relatives_. Elias Barnes an' some of the
others were mighty quick to hunt up who the Webster relatives were. They
were pretty sure you were the only one, an' it 'pears you are. So it's
you will get the place an' the money, an' goodness knows, Miss Lucy,
you've earnt it. The men all agreed to that."
"You know, Tony, Miss Webster is my aunt," began Lucy in a warning voice,
loyalty resenting this criticism.
"Yes, but there's aunts--an' aunts," interrupted the lad with a grin.
"It's no use pretendin' you ain't drawn the devil of a one, 'cause I know.
Don't I live close at hand, an' ain't I got eyes?"
Lucy did not answer. They were nearing the village and to put an end to
the conversation, she took out her list of errands and began to read it
absently. But in the back of her mind she was turning over Tony's remarks.
She had never allowed herself to dwell on the time when the Webster
homestead would actually be her own. It seemed unfitting to plan on
acquiring property that could only come to her through the death of
another person. Now, however, she suddenly gave her imagination rein and
began to consider what changes she would make when the farm was really in
her hands.
The barn must be cleared out the first thing and be re-shingled. Then she
would strip the farm of its litter of rubbish and repair some of the
tools and household furniture. What a delight it would be to renovate the
old home with chintz hangings and fresh paint and paper! There were great
possibilities for making the interior of the house attractive on a small
expenditure of money. The time-worn mahogany was good, the proportions of
the rooms pleasing, and the great fireplaces, several of which were now
boarded up, were a distinct asset.
Of course she would have to have help with the work. It would be well to
get a capable man to manage the garden for her--some strong, intelligent
person, familiar with the problems of soil, fertilizer, and horticulture;
a person, for example, like, well--like Martin Howe. A flood of color
crept into her cheek.
Although she had never addressed a remark to Martin since the night when
he had abandoned her at the foot of the Howe driveway to face the
onslaughts of that drenching storm, she was perfectly aware that her
goings and comings had become a matter of no little concern to the austere
gentleman who dwelt on the other side of the wall. That he watched her she
knew, for she had been feminine enough to trap him into changing his
position that he might keep her in view.
Besides, was there not the miraculous bunch of flowers? She had, to be
sure, never acknowledged them even by the lifting of an eyelash, nor had
she proof that Martin's hand had really put them within her reach;
nevertheless, she could have staked her oath upon it.
Once she had almost defied his silence by thanking him; in fact, she had
actually ventured to the confines of the Webster land with this intention;
but on arriving within range of his presence, her courage had deserted
her. He looked so forbidding that a foolish agitation had swept over her,
and compelled her to drop her eyes, and walk away in silence.
She had never known herself to be so nervous before. One would almost
think she was afraid of Martin Howe. How absurd! He was nothing to her,
less than nothing.
If she liked to study his fine, athletic figure and the free swing of his
magnificent body as he worked, it was solely from an aesthetic standpoint.
One seldom had an opportunity to see a man as perfectly molded as he. His
face was interesting, too; not handsome, perhaps, but attractive. It was a
pity it was so stern and set, for she was sure he could smile if he
chose; indeed he had smiled that night when he had come home and been
unconscious of her presence in the house. It had been a compelling smile,
charming for its very rareness. She had often thought of it since and
wished she might behold it again. Of course she never would. Yet it would
be pleasant to do so. Probably he smiled often at home,--even laughed
sometimes. How she would like to hear him laugh,--just once.
He was a very fascinating person,--purely as a character study, of course,
nothing more. Since, however, she was indulging in speculations concerning
him, it would be amusing to know what he thought of her; for he did think
of her, that was obvious. What motive prompted him to do it? Perhaps he
admired her, thought her pretty. If he did, why didn't he make some
further effort to talk with her? Usually men were only too eager to
improve the acquaintance of girls they liked. It surely could do Mr.
Martin Howe no harm to call a good morning to her over the wall, as his
sisters did, even if he did deplore the existence of the Websters.
Then the tenor of Lucy's arguments shifted. Probably Martin neither
admired nor liked her. Doubtless, along with her aunt and all that
pertained to the hated blood, he despised her and simply watched her in
disgust. But if so, why did he bother to send flowers to her?
Lucy shook her head. She was back at the point from which she had started
and was no nearer a solution of Martin Howe and his baffling mental
outlook. What did it matter anyway? What he thought or felt was no concern
of hers, and she was silly to burden her mind with speculations that
really interested her so little.
By this time Tony, who had lapsed into a silence as unbroken as her own,
drew up at the smooth stone flagging before Elias Barnes's store and,
leaping out over the wheel, helped his companion to dismount from the
wagon and unload the farm produce they had brought with them for sale.
"I'll get home somehow, Tony," the girl said to him, as he prepared to
drive off. "You needn't come for me."
"All right, Miss Lucy, only I do hope you won't have to foot it back in
this heat."
"I shan't mind."
"It's going to be a terrible day," insisted the lad. "Them buzzin'
locusts is enough to prove that. They're good as a thermometer."
Lucy laughed.
"Don't worry about me," she remarked kindly. "Just as soon as I finish my
errands I shall start home."
"You'd be wise to."
As the mare scuffed off down the road, amid a cloud of dust, Lucy entered
the store.
A stuffy odor of coffee, molasses, and calico greeted her; so, too, did
Elias Barnes, who came forward from behind the counter, extending his damp
and sticky palm and showing every tooth that an expansive smile
permitted.
"So it's you, Miss Lucy," he observed with pleasure. "I was expecting to
see your aunt. She was here the other day."
"Yes, she drove to town last Friday."
"Came on an interestin' errand, too," chirped Elias. "Leastwise, I 'magine
'twas interestin' to you." He grinned slyly.
"Why?"
"Why?" repeated the man, taken aback. "Because--well, ain't such things
always interestin'?"
"What things?"
Elias stared, uncertain as to how to proceed.
Was it possible the girl was ignorant of her aunt's mission?
"Mebbe you didn't know Miss Webster's errand in town," he began eagerly.
"I know she went to see Mr. Benton and get her will made, if that is what
you mean."
"An' don't you call that interestin'?" demanded the discomfited Elias.
"Not particularly."
The storekeeper gasped.
"Likely the matter was all cut an' dried an' nothin' new to you,"
persisted he, with a wan, disappointed smile. "There warn't much choice
left your aunt, fur as relatives went, was there? Still, I reckon she
couldn't 'a' found a better one to pass her property on to than you,"
concluded the man with a leer.
"What makes you so sure she has passed it on to me?" inquired Lucy,
annoyed.
"Well, ain't she?"
"I don't know."
"You don't--by thunder! She ain't told you nothin'?"
"Certainly not."
Elias looked puzzled.
"Why," he said, "most folks thought that was the condition that brought
you to Sefton Falls. Surely nothin' but some sort of a reward, an' a big
one, too, would coax a body to come an' live with such a----"
"You forget you are speaking of my aunt, Mr. Barnes."
"I guess I did forget it a mite, Miss Lucy," mumbled Elias awkwardly. "I
beg your pardon."
The girl inclined her head.
"Suppose we leave personal matters now and settle our business," she
answered, motioning toward the boxes, baskets, and egg cases Tony had set
inside the shop door. "Here is the corn and the butter my aunt promised
you, and here are twelve dozen eggs. If you will pay me for them, I will
start back home before it grows any warmer."
"Lemme see," ruminated Elias, "eggs is bringing----"
"Seventy cents."
"Ain't it sixty-nine?"
"No."
"I seem to have sixty-nine fixed awful firm in my head," protested Elias
tenaciously.
Lucy laughed.
"You'll have to get it out then," she retorted good-humoredly, "for
seventy cents is the market price."
The firm answer told the shopkeeper that further bickering would be
useless.
"Seventy cents then," he said reluctantly, opening his cash drawer. "It's
robbery, though."
"You're not often robbed, Mr. Barnes."
"Ain't I? Well, if I ain't, it's 'cause folks know better than to try to
do me. 'Tain't often I'm beat in a bargain--only when I'm dealin' with a
pretty woman an' give her the advantage." Again he displayed his rows of
teeth. "Ladies first is my motto; an' heiresses----"
"You haven't paid me for the corn or butter yet," cut in Lucy impatiently.
"Five dozen ears of early corn and ten pounds of print butter."
For a second time Elias took from an infinitesimal crack in his money
drawer another handful of change which he grudgingly counted into the
girl's extended hand.
"There you are!" he asserted, as if wiping some disagreeable thought
triumphantly from his memory. "Now we're square an' can talk of somethin'
else."
"I'm afraid I can't stop to talk to-day, Mr. Barnes, for I've got to get
home. Good-by and thank you," and with a smile that dazzled the confounded
storekeeper, Lucy sped out the door.
Elias, who was a widower and "well-to-do," was considered the catch of the
town and was therefore unaccustomed to receiving such scant appreciation
of his advances.
"I'll be buttered!" he declared, chagrined. "If she ain't gone!"
Lucy was indeed far down the level road, laughing to herself as she
thought of the discomfited Elias. This was not the first time he had shown
an inclination to force his oily pleasantries upon her; but it was the
first time she had so pointedly snubbed him.
"I hope it will do him good," she murmured half aloud. "I'd like to
convince him that every woman in Sefton Falls isn't his for the asking."
As she went on her way between the bordering tangle of goldenrod and
scarlet-tinted sumach, she was still smiling quietly. The sun had risen
higher, and a dry heat rose in waves from the earth. Already her shoes
were white, and moist tendrils of hair curled about her brow. Before her
loomed three miles of parching highway as barren of shade as the
woodsman's axe could make it. The picture of Ellen's cool kitchen and
breezy porch made the distance at that moment seem interminable. There was
not a wagon in sight, and unless one came along, she would have to trudge
every step of the way home.
Well, there was no use in becoming discouraged at the outset of her
journey, and she was not, although she did halt a moment to draw a crisp,
white handkerchief from her pocket and fan her burning cheeks. She had no
idea the walk was going to be so hot a one. Despite her aunt's objections,
she almost wished she had waited for Tony. If only she could have the good
luck to be overtaken by somebody! Hark, did she hear wheels?
Yes, as good fortune would have it, from around the curve in the road
behind her a wagon was coming into sight, the measured _clop, clop_ of the
horse's feet reaching her distinctly. The cloud of dust that enveloped the
approaching Jehu made it impossible for her to see who he was;
nevertheless, it did not much matter, for country etiquette stipulated
that those traveling on foot were always welcome to the hospitality of a
passing vehicle.
Therefore Lucy sat down on the wall to await her oncoming rescuer.
Meanwhile the wagon came nearer.
It contained a single occupant who was perched with careless grace astride
a barrel of flour and appeared to be very much hedged in by a multifarious
assortment of small packages and sacks of grain. It did not look as if
there were room in the carriage for an additional ounce, and when the girl
saw how crowded it was, her heart sank; then as she looked again, it
bounded with sudden emotion, for the man who so jauntily urged forward his
steed from his pinnacle on the barrel was none other than Martin Howe.
Resolutely Lucy rose from the wall and, without a glance in the traveler's
direction, set out at a sharp pace along the highway.
She would not ask a favor of Martin Howe if she had to plod every step of
the three scorching miles; and if he were brute enough to let her toil
along in the heat--to walk while he rode--well, that was all she ever
wanted to know about him. Her heart beat tumultuously as she heard the
wheels coming closer.
The horse was beside her now, and the whirl-wind of dust his hoofs raised
made her choke. Would the wagon stop or go on? The horse's head passed
abreast of her, then his white, lathered body. Next the wagon came into
sight, with Martin sitting proudly and stiffly on his perch. Afterward
horse, wagon, and man rolled past, and the girl was left alone.
Her lip trembled. Would he really leave her like this in the dust and
heat? Would he leave even his worst enemy? It was incredible a human being
could be so heartless. And the humiliation of it! To tag along behind him
on foot, smothering in his dust!
Rage possessed her. That should be the end of Mr. Martin Howe! He was no
gentleman. He was not even human.
She sat down on the stone wall once more, waiting for him to disappear and
the dust from his wheels settle.
But to her surprise she saw him come to a stop in the road and, pivoting
around on his perch, face her.
Lucy did not move. She watched him hesitate, waver, then dismount and come
back through the dust.
"If you're on your way home----" he began with clumsy gravity.
The girl smiled up into his face.
"If you're goin' back----" he repeated, and again got no further.
She came to his rescue.
"Have you room to take me in?"
"There ain't much room." She saw the flicker of a smile shadow his face.
"Still, if you don't mind bein' a mite cramped----"
"I don't mind it at all unless it crowds you too much," answered Lucy. "It
is very kind of you." Then she heard herself add without forethought: "I
was afraid you were goin' by."
"I ain't that much of a heathen, I hope," Martin returned gruffly.
Although it was plain he was ill at ease, he helped her into the wagon,
arranging the bags of meal solicitously that she might be as comfortable
as possible. Then he touched the horse with his whip, and they started
off.
"I'm so thankful to have a ride home," sighed Lucy, after waiting a second
or two and finding he had no intention of speaking. "It is very hot
to-day."
"So 'tis. But it is great weather for corn."
"I suppose so," assented the girl. "How is yours coming on?"
"Pretty well. Some blasted crow got a little of it at the beginnin'; but
the rest of it is all right."
"It was a shame you lost any of it."
"I was a good deal put out myself. Still, 'twarn't much, considerin' the
size of the field."
Lucy dimpled.
"Your field is a wonderful sight from our house," she answered,
"especially when the wind blows. You have a fine lot of oats, too. I love
to watch the breeze sweep across it."
"I do myself," agreed Martin with increasing cordiality. "It's a pretty
picture. There's lots of pretty pictures on a farm if you're lookin' for
'em," he added, stealing a glance at her.
"Your sweet peas were a pretty picture," ventured Lucy mischievously.
Martin colored with confusion. He seemed at a loss how to reply. Then,
gathering courage, he remarked shyly:
"You like flowers?"
"I love them!"
"Some folks do," said he hurriedly. "I prefer to see 'em growin'."
"Yet you do cut them sometimes," persisted Lucy playfully.
"Mighty seldom. Only when it's good for the vines."
Again the glint of a smile brightened his countenance, and she saw him
blush sheepishly.
"I wish it would be good for them again sometime," said she, peeping up
into his eyes. "Don't you think there's danger of their goin' to seed?"
She heard a short laugh, but he did not answer. Instead, as if to change a
dangerous topic, he asked:
"How are you likin' Sefton Falls?"
"Oh, I think the place is beautiful. Already I have become very fond of
it. You must love every stick and stone within sight."
"There was one while I didn't," Martin drawled slowly. "But afterward,
when I saw 'twas my duty to stay here, I got to feelin' different. I'd 'a'
liked to have gone to the war. I was too old, though; besides, I had my
sisters."
"I know," murmured Lucy with quiet sympathy. "You see, I had to make my
choice, too. My aunt wrote that she needed me. It wouldn't have been
right for me to desert her and go to France to nurse other people."
"So it's because of her you're stayin' here?"
"Yes."
Martin did not speak again for some time; then he said in a tense, uneven
voice that struggled to be casual:
"If she was to die then, I s'pose you'd start back West where you came
from."
"I'm--not--sure."
He waited as if expecting her to explain herself, and presently she did
so.
"I might decide to make my home here," she went on. "That is, if I could
get some one to help me with the farm."
There was no intimation of coquetry in the remark; merely simple fact. But
the words wrought a miracle in the face of the man beside her.
"Do you like it that much?" he demanded eagerly.
"I love it!"
"Miss Webster has a fine place," ventured Martin at length.
"Both of them are fine old places."
He nodded.
"But yours has been kept up better than ours," continued Lucy. "You see,
Aunt Ellen isn't strong like a man; and besides, she hasn't studied into
new ways of doing things as you have. That's the interesting part of
farming, I think, to use your brains and make two things grow where only
one grew before. If I were a man----"
She broke off, embarrassed by her own girlish enthusiasm.
"What would you do?" inquired Martin eagerly.
"I'd do with our farm what you've done with yours. I'd get new tools, and
I'd find out how to use them. It would be fascinating. But a woman
can't----"
"She can read just the same."
"I haven't a man's strength," returned Lucy, shaking her head gravely.
"It's such a pity."
"Maybe not."
The words slipped from his lips before it was possible for him to recover
them. He flushed.
"What!" exclaimed Lucy.
"Maybe it's as well for you to stay as you were made," he explained in a
strangely gentle voice.
The girl turned her head away. They had reached the foot of the Webster
driveway, and unbidden the horse halted. But as Lucy prepared to climb out
of the wagon, the man stayed her.
"I reckon there's some place I could turn round, ain't there, if I was to
drive in?" he said recklessly.
"Oh, there's plenty of room," Lucy answered, "only hadn't you better drop
me here? My--my--aunt is at home."
"I don't care," Martin retorted with the same abandon. "I ain't goin' to
have you plod up that long driveway in the broilin' sun--aunt or no
aunt."
He laughed boyishly.
"It's awfully good of you. But please, if you mind coming, don't; for
indeed I----"
"You ain't your aunt," asserted Martin with a shy glance into her face.
Lucy met the glance with a blush and a whimsical smile.
"No, I'm not," she responded, "and sometimes I wish you weren't your
father and your grandfather."
"What do you mean?"
"Because if you were just _you_, you'd be more forgiving--I know you
would."
She saw him bite his lips and a dull red tinge his cheek. Without
answering he turned into the long avenue and presently drew up before the
side door.
"There you are!" he remarked stiffly.
Lucy did not need to look at him to sense that the kindliness had left his
countenance, and his jaw had become grim and set.
Had she been able to read his thoughts, she would have realized that the
short detour into Ellen Webster's territory had brought Martin to himself,
and that he was already deploring with inward scorn the weakness that had
led him to do the thing he had pledged his word never to do. He could not
even shunt off the blame for his act and say, as did his illustrious
ancestor: "The woman tempted me and I did eat." No, he had open-eyed
stalked voluntarily into temptation,--willingly, gladly, triumphantly. He
had sinned against his conscience, his traditions, his forbears, and
behold, angry as he was with himself for yielding to it, the sin was
sweet.