Martin was indeed in love! Before a week had passed no one knew it better than he.

During the solitary hours when his hands were busy thinning lettuce or weeding young corn, his mind had abundant leisure for reflection, and the theme on which his thoughts turned with increasing activity was always the same. Defy Fate as he would, he faced the realization that he loved Lucy Webster with every fiber of his being.

It was a mad and hopeless affection,—one which, for the sake of his own peace of mind if for no other reason, it would be wiser to strangle at its birth. Nevertheless, he did not strangle it; on the contrary, he hugged the romance to his breast and fed it upon all the tender imaginings of a man’s first dream of love, conjuring before his vision one empty fantasy after another. 148

It was evening, and under the silver light of a thin crescent hanging low in the heaven he paced beneath the trees, Lucy upon his arm. Or lovely with the freshness of early morning, she stood with him in the field, the brightness of her eyes as sparkling as the flash of the dew-drops on the grass. Again she came before him, gliding quietly amid a maze of humble domestic tasks, transforming each with the grace of her presence. Or perhaps she sat quietly watching the embers of a winter’s fire that touched her hair to a glory of glinting copper.

But wherever she moved, the land upon which she trod was his land; the home where she toiled his home; the hearth that warmed her his hearth.

There were long hours when he was alone in the twilight with only his pipe for company, when through the smoke he seemed to see her close beside him. Sometimes she smiled down into his eyes; sometimes she raised her sweet lips to his; and once she came to him with madonna-like holiness, a sleeping child in her arms,—her child—and his.

Then Martin would rouse himself to find his pipe smoldering, the lamp dim, and the chill 149 of the night upon him. With an impatient shrug he would spring to his feet and tramp upstairs, hoping to find in slumber an escape from these fair but tormenting reveries. Sleep, however, came but fitfully, and even from the sacred confines of its privacy it was impossible to banish subconscious mirages of the day. There was no place to which he could flee where thoughts of Lucy Webster did not pursue him.

He saw her often now, very often, tripping buoyantly from house to barn, from barn to garden and back again, her round young arms bearing baskets of vegetables, or laden with shining milk pails.

How proud her head! How light her step!

One morning she skirted the wall so close that his whisper might have reached her had he chosen to speak. He could see the fringe of dark lashes against her skin, the rise and fall of her round bosom, the lilacs that filled her hands. But he did not speak and neither did she. In fact, she seemed not to see him, so busy was she toying with her flowers. She must be fond of flowers, for she was seldom without one tucked in her gown.

These glimpses, however, were fleeting, and 150 after he had yielded to the temptation of indulging in them he was wont to tax himself severely for his folly. Was he not already tortured with pain too poignant to be endured? Why rivet more tightly the fetters that goaded him?

He had fled once and for all from Circe’s magic, vowing that never again should the sorceress work her charm upon him; and that vow he intended to keep. Nevertheless, it did not prevent him from stealing an occasional peep at the enchantress, if only to assure himself that her spell was as potent and deadly as he had supposed it. Surely, if he did not consort with her, looking could do no harm. Therefore he indulged his fancy, watching Lucy whenever she was within sight and each time becoming more helplessly entangled in her fascinations, until any escape from the thralldom of her beauty became impossible. His days were a cycle of tantalizing visions which ceased only with the coming of darkness; and when with the night he would have found release from their misery, it was only to discover that night an endless stretch of hours that intervened betwixt him and the moment when the visions might return again. 151

Poor Martin! He endured a hell of suffering during those radiant summer days. He was melancholy, ecstatic, irritable by turns, ascending to the heights and plunging into the depths with an abruptness and unaccountability that was not only enigmatic to himself but to every one else with whom he came in contact. He kept Mary in a ferment of excitement trying to devise remedies for his successive ills. One day she would be sure he needed a tonic to dispel his listlessness and with infinite pains would brew the necessary ingredients together; but before the draught could be cooled and administered, Martin had rebounded to an unheard-of vitality. Ah, she would reason, it must be his appetite that was at the bottom of the trouble. She must stimulate his desire for food. No sooner, however, was her concoction of herbs simmering on the stove than her erratic patient was devouring everything within sight with the zest of a cannibal. So it went, the affliction which oppressed him one day giving place to a new collection of symptoms on the morrow.

“I’d have Doctor Marsh to him if I had any opinion of the man,” remarked Mary one night. “But I ain’t ever been able to muster up my 152 respect for that critter’s principles since he left that medicine for ’Liza marked ‘Keep in a Dark Place.’ That was enough to shake my confidence in him forever. It was so under-handed. I’d rather had ’Liza sick for the rest of her life than that she should ’a’ been dosed up on some stuff we had to keep hidden away lest somebody see it. If he was ashamed of the medicine, or it was anything we’d hadn’t ought to had, he shouldn’t ’a’ given it to us. I never said nothin’ to nobody ’bout it, but I poured the whole bottleful down the sink, and told Doctor Marsh that he needn’t come again. He pretended he couldn’t see why, but I guess he understood, an’ I hope the lesson did him good,” concluded Mary with righteous zeal.

“So that was the reason Doctor Marsh stopped comin’!” Jane exclaimed. “I always wondered. You never told me that before.”

“No,” said Mary with dignity, “I never did.”

“But, Mary,”—Jane broke into a laugh.

“You needn’t laugh, Jane. It was a very serious matter.”

“If you’d only explained it, Mary, I could have told you——”

“That is precisely why I didn’t explain it, 153 Jane,” Mary answered. “I knew you would interfere, an’ I felt it was somethin’ that laid between me an’ my conscience. No matter what you’d ’a’ said, I should ’a’ felt the same way about it. Matters of right an’ wrong are the affairs of me an’ my Maker. Nobody else on earth can settle ’em.”

There were instances when it was useless to argue with Mary, and Jane saw that this was one of them.

Had she so willed she could not only have cleared up the mystery about Doctor Marsh’s medicine, but she could have furnished her sister with the key to Martin’s caprices, and thereby saved the metaphysician not only much worry but also much physical labor.

Mary and Eliza, however, lived in such a miniature world that Jane knew if Martin’s secret were divulged it would become the unending topic of conversation from that moment on. Moreover, so intense would be his sisters’ excitement concerning the affair, and so keen their interest and curiosity that they might blunder into destroying the delicate fabric of the romance altogether. Hence Jane kept her own council, speculating with amusement as to how long it would be before his two solicitous 154 but blinded relatives should stumble upon the truth.

In the meantime the neighboring between the two families, so bravely begun, was not continued. Mary and Eliza Howe had not the courage or the initiative to attempt a second clandestine tea-party, much as they would have enjoyed it; and Jane saw no use in urging Lucy to the house. If Martin decreed to further the affair, he was quite capable of doing so without any aid of hers; and if he ordained to abandon it, as he evidently did, wild horses could not turn him from his purpose. Therefore Jane gave up all her aggressive attempts to heal the breach between Howe and Webster, and contented herself with waving to Lucy over the wall and calling a cheery greeting to the girl whenever she came within hailing distance.

Lucy was disappointed by this retreat of her neighbors into their former aloofness. Of course their action was traceable to Martin. It was his fault. No doubt he had gone home and berated his sisters for their friendliness and had so intimidated them that they had no choice but to bow to his will. Jane was the only one of them anyway who had the spirit to defy her 155 brother, and presumably she had decided that the game was not worth the candle. Perhaps, too, she was right. To live in a daily purgatory made of life a sorry existence. She herself had found that out.

Her aunt was continually becoming more irritable and less sound of judgment, and there were times when Lucy feared that the warped mind would give way under the strain of repeated paroxysms of anger. Could Ellen have been persuaded to surrender the management of her affairs entirely into her niece’s hands, she might have been spared much annoyance; but frail as she was, she persisted in retaining to the last her scepter of supremacy.

She went each day into the garden and put Tony out of humor by finding fault with everything he did; having demoralized his temper, she would return to the house to rasp Lucy’s patience by heaping upon the girl’s blameless head such remnants of wrath as she still cherished toward the long-suffering Portugese.

For sometime she had contented herself with this daily programme, not varying it by venturing away from the place, even to carry her garden truck to market. Therefore Lucy was 156 astounded when one morning her aunt appeared at breakfast, dressed in her shabby black cashmere and wearing her cameo pin, and announced she was going to drive to town.

“I’ve an errand to do,” she said without preamble, “an’ I shan’t be home till noon. You needn’t go falutin’ over to the Howes’, neither, the minute my back is turned, as you did the last time I went off.”

Lucy smiled good-humoredly.

“I’m goin’ to see a lawyer,” her aunt went on. “Lawyer Benton.”

No reply appearing necessary, Lucy did not speak.

“Well!” piped Ellen, after waiting a moment.

“Well, what?” Lucy asked.

“Ain’t you got no interest in what I’m goin’ for?” the woman demanded querulously.

“I’m always interested in anything you wish to tell me,” answered the girl, “but I thought it was not my place to inquire into your business.”

“It is my business, an’ I can keep it to myself,” said Ellen tartly. “But I’ll tell you this much—I’m goin’ to get my will made.” 157

The hard blue eyes fixed themselves on Lucy’s face narrowly.

“My will!” repeated Ellen, a challenge in her tone. “I s’pose you thought it was all made long ago; but it warn’t. I’m goin’ to make it to-day.”

At a loss how to reply, Lucy nodded.

“You don’t seem much concerned ’bout it,” observed her aunt peevishly. “Ain’t you curious to know who I’m goin’ to leave my property to?”

“No.”

“You ain’t!”

“No.”

“S’pose I was to give it all to you.”

“That would be very kind.”

“Yes, it would be—it would be kind,” agreed Ellen. “But mebbe I ain’t a-goin’ to. Mebbe I’m goin’ to will it to somebody else.”

“That’s your affair.”

“I’ll bet, for all your indifference, you’d be mad as a wet hen if I was to leave it to somebody else,” went on the woman provokingly.

“No, I shouldn’t. Why should I?”

“’Cause you’re my next of kin. By rights it had oughter come to you, hadn’t it?”

“I don’t know the New Hampshire laws.” 158

With an admiring glance at her niece, Ellen broke into an unpleasant laugh.

“There’s no trappin’ you, Miss Lucy Webster, is there?” she exclaimed, rising from her chair and clapping on her hat. “You’re a cute one, an awful cute one!”

“Why?”

“Oh, you don’t need to be told,” chuckled Ellen. “Anybody as cute as you are, knows.”

With that she was gone.

All the morning the girl busied herself within doors, exchanging one duty for another. Toward noon, however, she made an excursion to the garden for lettuce and radishes. Her pathway lay close to the wall, and on her return to the house she was amazed to see lying on the topmost stone of the ruined heap a mammoth bunch of sweet peas. There was no mistaking the fact that the flowers were intended for her, for her name had been hastily scrawled on a bit of crumpled paper and placed beside them. Nothing could have surprised her more than to stumble upon this offering.

Evidently the blossoms had just been gathered, for the raindrops of the previous night still sparkled among their petals, jeweling with brilliancy their kaleidoscopic riot of color. 159

She caught them up with delight, burying her face in their cool fragrance. Where had they come from? She knew no one who raised sweet peas,—no one except the Howes, and of course——she halted and blushed. Could it have been the Howes?

“Mary’s are white” she heard herself automatically repeating in Jane’s phrases. “’Liza’s pink, an’ mine are purple. Martin has his in another place, ’cause he likes all the colors mixed together. But he never picks his nor lets us. He says he likes to see ’em growin’.”

And now, by some miracle, here were the blossoms of Martin’s raising, their prismatic tints exquisite as a sunset. It was like holding the rainbow in one’s hands. She knew the Howes too well to cherish for an instant the illusion that any of the three sisters had cut the flowers from the vines. They would not have dared. No. No hand but Martin’s had plucked them.

With a strange fluttering of her heart, Lucy carried the bouquet to her own room, a corner of the house where Ellen seldom intruded. There she bent over it with a happy, triumphant little smile. Then, from behind the shelter of the muslin curtain, she blew a kiss from her 160 finger tips to Mr. Martin Howe, who was hoeing potatoes on the hill, with his back set squarely toward the Webster mansion.

When Ellen returned at noon, there was still a shell-like flush of pink on the girl’s cheek and on her lips a smile for which her aunt could not account.

“Where you been?” inquired the woman suspiciously.

“Nowhere. Why?”

“You look as if somebody’d sent you a Christmas tree full of presents.”

Lucy laughed softly.

“You ain’t been to the Howes’?”

“I haven’t been anywhere,” repeated Lucy, throwing up her chin. “I’m telling the truth.”

Ellen eyed her shrewdly.

“Yes, I reckon you are,” she observed slowly. “I ain’t never caught you lyin’ yet.” Then as if an afterthought had occurred to her, she added: “Likely you’ve been thinkin’ ’bout the will I’ve been makin’.”

She saw Lucy open her lips, then close them.

“I’ve got it all done,” went on Ellen audaciously. “It’s drawn up, signed, an’ 161 sealed. In fact, I brought it home with me. Here it is.”

Tossing a large white envelope fastened with a splash of red wax upon the table, she peered at her niece.

“I’m goin’ to give it to you to keep,” continued she in a hectoring tone. “It’ll be like havin’ Pandora’s box around. You can’t open it, an’ you’ll have the continual fun of wonderin’ what’s inside.”

“I’d rather not take it.”

“But I want you to,” asserted Ellen. “I’m givin’ it to you to take care of. It’ll help to make life interestin’. Besides, who knows but you may be tempted to break it open some night an’ have a peep inside.”

Craftily the old woman watched the girl.

“Or mebbe you’ll tear it up,” she mused. “Who knows? Then if I was to die, you could pretend I hadn’t made no will.”

“Take it back. I shan’t keep it,” Lucy cried, moving toward the door.

“Afraid of yourself, eh?”

“No.”

The monosyllable rang with scorn.

“Then prove it,” sneered Ellen.

“Give it to me.” 162

Smiling evilly, her aunt pushed the packet across the table. There was a leer of triumph in the sharp-featured face.

“I ’magine that ’twas gettin’ as mad as you are now that kep’ the Websters from ever buildin’ up that wall,” she called after her niece, as Lucy with crimson cheeks fled up the stairs, the long white envelope in her hand.