LUCY COMES TO A DECISION
Slowly Lucy drove homeward, her dreams of rosy wall papers and gay chintz
hangings shattered. Thrusting into insignificance these minor
considerations, however, was the thought of Martin Howe and what he would
say to the revelation of Ellen's cupidity.
She would not tell him about the will, on that she was determined. She
would not mention it to anybody. Instead she would go promptly to work
packing up her few possessions and putting the house in perfect order.
Fortunately it had so recently been cleaned that to prepare it for closing
would be a simple matter.
As for herself and Martin, the dupes of an old woman's vengeance, both of
them were of course blameless. Nevertheless, the present twist of Fate had
entirely changed their relation to one another.
When she had defied her aunt and voiced with such pride her love for the
man of her heart, it had been in a joyous faith that although he had not
made similar confession, he would ultimately do so. The possibility that
he was making of her affection a tool for vengeance had never come into
her mind until Ellen had put it there, and then with involuntary loyalty
she had instantly dismissed the suggestion as absurd. But here was a
different situation. She was no longer independent of circumstances. She
was penniless in the world, all the things that should have been hers
having been swept away by the malicious stroke of a pen. It was almost as
tragic to be married out of spite as out of pity.
She knew Martin's standards of honor. He would recognize, as she did, the
justice of the Webster homestead and lands remaining in her possession;
and since the will stipulated that he must personally occupy these
properties and could neither sell, transfer, nor give them to their
rightful owner, she felt sure he would seize upon the only other means of
making her freehold legally hers. Whether he loved her or not would not
now be in his eyes the paramount issue. In wedding her he would feel he
was carrying out an act of justice which under the guise of affection it
would be quite legitimate to perform.
This solution of the difficulty, however, cleared away but the minor half
of the dilemma. Had she been willing to accept Martin's sacrifice of
himself and marry him, there still remained the wall,--the obstacle that
for generations had loomed between the peace of Howe and Webster and now
loomed 'twixt her and her lover with a magnitude it had never assumed
before.
Martin would never rebuild that wall--never!
Had he not vowed that he would be burned at the stake first? That he would
face persecution, nakedness, famine, the sword before he would do it? All
the iron of generations of Howe blood rung in the oath. He had proclaimed
the decree throughout the county. Everybody for miles around knew how he
felt. Though he loved her as man had never loved woman (a miracle which
she had no ground for supposing) he would never consent to such a
compromise of principles. The being did not exist for whom Martin Howe
would abandon his creed of honor.
She knew well that strata of hardness in his nature, the adamantine will
that wrought torture to its possessor because it could not bend. Even the
concessions he had thus far made, had, she recognized, cost him a vital
struggle. On the day of her aunt's seizure had she not witnessed the
warfare between pity and hatred, generosity and revenge? The powers of
light had triumphed, it is true; but it had been only after the bitterest
travail; and ever since she had been conscious that within his soul Martin
had viewed his victory with a smoldering, unformulated contempt. Even his
attentions to her had been paid with a blindfolded, lethargic
unwillingness, as if he offered them against the dictates of his
conscience and closed his eyes to a crisis he would not, dared not face.
It was one thing for her to light-heartedly announce that she loved Martin
Howe and would marry him; but it was quite another matter for him to reach
a corresponding conclusion. To her vengeance was an antiquated creed, a
remnant of a past decade, which it cost her no effort to brush aside.
Martin, on the contrary, was built of sterner stuff. He hated with the
vigor of the red-blooded hater, fostering with sincerity the old-fashioned
dogmas of justice and retribution. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a
tooth" was a matter of right; and the mercy that would temper it was not
always a virtue. More often it was a weakness.
To be caught in Ellen Webster's toils and own himself beaten would, Lucy
well understood, be to his mind a humiliating fate.
Only a compelling, unreasoning love that swept over him like some mighty
tidal wave, wrenching from its foundations every impeding barrier, could
move him to surrender; and who was she to arouse such passion in any
lover? She was only a woman human and faulty. She had indeed a heart to
bestow, and without vain boasting it was a heart worth the winning; she
held herself in sufficient esteem to set a price on the treasure. But was
it jewel enough to prompt a man to uproot every tradition of his moral
world for its possession?
Sadly she shook her head. No, Martin would never be lost in a mood of such
over-mastering love as this for her. If he made a proposal of marriage, it
would be because he was spurred by impulses of justice and pity; and no
matter how worthy these motives, he would degenerate into the laughing
stock of the community the instant he began to carry out the terms of the
will and reconstruct the wall. She could hear now the taunts and jests of
the townsfolk. Some of them would speak in good-humored banter, some with
premeditated malice; but their jibes would sting.
"So you're tacklin' that wall in spite of all you said, are you, Martin?"
"Ellen Webster's got you where she wanted you at last, ain't she,
Martin?"
"This would be a proud day for the Websters, Martin!"
There would even be those who would meanly assert that a man could be made
to do anything for money.
Ah, she knew what the villagers would say, and so, too, would Martin. How
his proud spirit would writhe and smart under the lash of their tongues!
Neither pity nor love for her should ever place him in a position of such
humiliation.
Before he was confronted by the choice of turning her out of doors, or
marrying her and making himself the butt of the county wits, she must
clear his path from embarrassment and be gone. She had a pittance of her
own that would support her until she could find employment that would
render her independent of charity. Her future would unquestionably be
lonely, since she must leave behind her not only the man she loved but the
home about which her fondest dreams centered. Nevertheless, she had never
lacked courage to do what must be done; and in the present emergency the
pride of the Websters came surging to re-enforce her in her purpose.
Nobody must know she was going away--nobody. There must be no
leave-takings and no tears. The regrets she had at parting with all she
held dear she would keep to herself, nor should any of her kindly
acquaintances have the opportunity to offer to her a sheltering roof as
they had to old Libby Davis, the town pauper.
Laughing hysterically, she dashed aside the tears that gathered in her
eyes. Would it not be ironic if the Webster mansion became a poor farm and
she its first inmate?
As for Martin--a quick sob choked her. Well, he should be left free to
follow whatever course he ordained. Perhaps he would scornfully turn
Ellen's bequest back to the town; perhaps, on the other hand, he would
conquer his scruples, rebuild the wall, and become rich and prosperous as
a result. With an augmented bank account and plenty of fertile land, what
might he not accomplish? Why, it would make him one of the largest
land-owners in the State!
A glow of pleasure thrilled her. She hoped he would accept the legacy; she
prayed he would.
Then, even though she were lonely and penniless, she would have the
satisfaction of knowing that what she had forfeited had been for his
betterment. There would be some joy in that. To give over her ancestral
homestead for a pauper institution that was neither needed nor necessary,
and was only a spiteful device of Ellen's to outwit her was an empty
charity.
Having thus formulated her future action, Lucy hastened to carry out her
plans with all speed. Before Mr. Benton imparted to Martin the terms of
the will, before any hint of them reached his ears, she must be far from
Sefton Falls; otherwise he might anticipate her determination and thwart
her in it.
How fortunate it was that there was so little to impede her flight! All
she owned in the world she could quickly pack into the small trunk she had
brought with her from the West. Not to one article in the house had she
any claim; Mr. Benton had impressed that upon her mind. Even the family
silver, the little dented mug from which her father had drunk his milk had
been willed away.
However, what did it matter now? Sentiment was a foolish thing. There
would never be any more Websters to inherit these heirlooms. She was the
last of the line; and she would never marry.
Having reached this climax in her meditations, she turned into the
driveway and, halting before the barn door, called to Tony to come and
take the horse. Afterward she disappeared into the house.
All the afternoon she worked feverishly, putting everything into
irreproachable order. Then she packed her few belongings into the little
brown trunk. It was four o'clock when she summoned the Portuguese boy from
the field.
"I want you to take me and my trunk to the station, Tony," she said,
struggling to make the order a casual one. "Then you are to come back here
and go on with your work as usual until Mr. Howe or some one else asks you
to do otherwise. I will pay you a month in advance, and by that time you
will be told what you are to do."
Tony eyed her uncomprehendingly.
"You ain't leavin' for good, Miss Lucy?" he inquired at last.
"Yes."
"B--u--t--t--how can you? Ain't this your home?"
"Not now, Tony."
The bewildered foreigner scratched his head.
The girl had been kind to him, and he was devoted to her.
"I don't see----" he began.
"By and by you will understand," said Lucy gently. "It is all right. I
want to go away."
"To go away from here?" gasped the lad.
Lucy nodded.
"Is it that you're lonely since Miss Ellen died?"
"I guess so."
Tony was thoughtful; then with sudden inspiration he ventured the remark:
"Mebbe you're afraid to stay alone by yourself in the house nights."
"Maybe."
"You ain't seen a ghost?" he whispered.
"I'm going away because of a ghost, yes," Lucy murmured half to herself.
"Then I don't blame you," exclaimed Tony vehemently. "You wouldn't ketch
me stayin' in a house that was haunted by spirits. Where you goin'--back
out West?"
"Perhaps so."
She helped him to carry the trunk out to the wagon and strap it in; then
she got in herself.
As they drove in silence out of the yard, not a soul was in sight; nor was
there any delay at the station to give rise to gossip. She had calculated
with such nicety that the engine was puffing round the bend in the track
when she alighted on the platform.
Hurriedly she bought her ticket, checked her trunk, and put her foot on
the step as the train started.
Waving a good-by to the faithful servant, who still lingered, she passed
into the car and sank down into a seat. She watched the valley, beautiful
in amethyst lights, flit past the window; then Sefton Falls, flanked by
misty hills, came into sight and disappeared. At last all the familiar
country of the moving panorama was blotted out by the darkness, and she
was alone.
Her eyes dropped to the ticket in her lap. Why she had chosen that
destination she could not have told. It would, however, serve as well as
another. If in future she was to be forever cut off from all she loved on
earth, what did it matter where she went?