The Wall Between

by Sara Ware Bassett

  CHAPTER XII

  THE TEST

  Martin had guided his horse round the triangle of sweet-williams and,still torn by conflicting emotions of ecstasy and self-reproach, wasproceeding down the driveway when a cry of distress reached his ear:

  "Martin--Mr. Howe!"

  He turned to see Lucy Webster beckoning frantically to him from the door.

  "Come back, please," she cried. "Hurry!"

  That she was excited was evident. Indeed she must have been quite out ofher mind to have called him Martin in that shameless fashion. The factthat the name had slipped so spontaneously from her lips and that shehastened to correct her mistake caused the man to speculate with delightas to whether she was wont to think of him by this familiar cognomen. Thisthought, however, was of minor importance, the flash of an instant. Whatchiefly disturbed Martin was the girl's agitation.

  Bringing his horse to a stop, he sped back to where she was standing, andon reaching her side he was startled to see that the face but a shortinterval before so radiant had blanched to a deathly pallor.

  "My aunt!" she whispered in a frightened tone. "Something terrible hashappened to her!"

  If Lucy entertained any doubts as to whether he would aid her in thepresent emergency she had either cast them aside or was determined toignore such a possibility, for she held the door open with the obviousexpectation that he would follow her into the house.

  A year ago, a month, nay--a week, he would never have consented to crossthe Webster threshold, let alone offer any assistance to its mistress; butthe siren who beckoned him on had cast such a potent spell over his willthat now without open protest, although with a certain inward compunction,he followed her through the hall into the kitchen.

  Upon the floor was stretched Ellen Webster--crumpled, helpless, inert--hereyes closed and her stern face set as in a death mask. How long she hadlain there it was impossible to tell. If she had called for succor it hadbeen to empty walls.

  As with mingled sensations Martin stood looking down upon her unconsciousform, Lucy threw herself upon her knees beside the woman and gentlytouched her wrists and heart.

  "She isn't dead," she murmured presently. "She must either have had a fallor some sort of shock. We must get her upstairs and send for a doctor."

  The "_we_" told Martin that the girl had not even considered the chance ofhis refusing to come to her assistance.

  "Tony is in the village," she went on, "and I don't know what I shouldhave done but for you. How fortunate that you were here!"

  Was it fortunate? Martin asked himself.

  At last the moment for which he had longed and prayed had come,--themoment when the fate of his enemy lay in his hands, and it was within hispower to grant or deny succor. There had never been a question in his mindwhat he would do should this opportunity arise. Had he not declared overand over again that Ellen Webster might die before he would lift a fingerto help her? He had meant it too. All the bitterness of his soul had goneinto the vow. And now here he was confronted by the very emergency he hadcraved from Fortune. The woman he hated was at his mercy. What should hedo? Should he stand stanchly by his word and let her life go out into theBeyond when he might perhaps stay its flight? Or should he weaklyrepudiate his word and call her from the borderland to continue to tauntand torment him? If a doctor were not summoned quickly she might die, andher death be upon his soul. Did he wish to stain himself with thiscrime,--for crime it would be. Was the revenge worth the hours ofself-condemnation that might follow? Who was he that he should judge EllenWebster and cut off her life before its time? Vengeance is mine: I willrepay, saith the Lord.

  The phrase rang insistently in Martin's ears. He tried to stifleit--ignore it--but still the assertion continued to repeat itself withinhis consciousness. Suppose, tempted by his weaker nature and the appealingeyes of Lucy, he were to yield to his better self and adopt a mercifulattitude, might not Ellen be restored to health and jeer at him to theend of his days for his magnanimity? Hers was not the creed "If thineenemy hunger." She would call him coward and accuse him of a feeble,intimidated will. Were the case to be reversed, she would never curb herhatred to prolong his existence; of that he was certain. He could see hernow bending over him, her thumb turned down with the majestic fearlessnessof a Caesar. She would term her act justice, and she would carry out thesentence without a tremor.

  But now that the same chance had come to him, and he saw the old womanstretched before him, her thin white hair snowy against the woodenflooring, a vague pity stirred in his heart. Death must come to us allsometime; but how tragic to have its approach unheralded, granting not aninstant in which to raise a prayer to Heaven. No, he could not let hisworst foe go down to the grave thus. He was the captain of his own soul,but not of Ellen Webster's.

  He glanced up to find Lucy's gaze fixed upon him. There was horror andanguish in her eyes, and he realized that she had read aright thetemptation that assailed him. She did not speak, she seemed scarcely tobreathe: but the pleading face told him that should he yield to hisdarker passions and show no pity, she would forever loathe him for hiscruelty. Plainly as he saw this, however, it was not to her silententreaty that he surrendered. Something deeper than love was calling him.

  "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have notcharity----" How persistently the sentences came to him! They seemed toecho from out his memory--in his mother's voice--the voice of a vanishedpast. She had taught him the words when he was a boy, and he had notthought of them since. Why did they now surge into his mind to weaken hisresolve and cause him to waver in his intention? He wished he could getaway from Lucy's eyes and the sight of the woman upon the floor. Had hismother lived, she might sometime have been as frail as this and had hairas white. A sob broke from him, and he stooped over his fallen foe.

  "Where do you want I should carry her?" he asked, raising the limp body inhis arms.

  Lucy did not answer at once, and when she did her reply was unsteady.

  "The room is at the head of the stairs," she said, struggling to speak inher customary tone. "Maybe I'd better go first."

  The hushed intimacy of the tragedy suddenly brought the man and the womanvery close together.

  She led the way and he followed with his helpless burden. The form he borewas not heavy. In fact, it was so fragile that it seemed impossible thatit could harbor so much venom and hatred.

  Ellen Webster was, after all, nothing but an old, old woman. Perhaps, hereflected, in a wave of regret, he should have realized this and madeallowance for it. Then a reaction from his tense emotion swept over him,and he thought with amusement how angry she would be should she suddenlyregain consciousness and find herself within his grasp.

  But she did not come to herself, and when he laid her on the bed that Lucyhad prepared, she was still as unmindful of his touch as she would havebeen had the spirit within her really taken flight.

  Martin did not linger now. His decision was made.

  "I'll step over home an' get the other horse an' team, an' fetch thedoctor back," he said quietly.

  "I wish you would."

  She did not thank him, accepting the favor with the simplicity of a weakernature that leans unabashed on a stronger. Her dependence and herconfession of it thrilled him with pleasure. She heard him creepcautiously down over the stairs and go out at the side door.

  Then she turned her attention to making more comfortable the helplesswoman upon the bed. When at length there was nothing more she could do,she sat down to wait the doctor's coming. The time dragged on. It seemedan eternity before help came.

  In the meantime Ellen lay immovable as she had done from the first, herhard, sharp-cut features harder and more sharply defined in their pallorthan the girl had realized them to be. In the furrowed brow, the deep-seteyes, the pitiless mouth there was not one gentle line which death couldborrow to soften the stamp with which revenge and bitterness had brandedher. So she would look in her coffin, Lucy thought with awe. Majesty mightcome into her face in the
last great moment; but it would be the majestyof hate, not of love.

  What a sad, sad ending to a life!

  As the girl sat thinking of the friendless, isolated existence of thewoman before her, she wondered idly what her aunt would have been, if,while her nature was still plastic, she had married and sacrificed her egoin years of service for others. Ah, she would never then have come to thislonely, embittered old age! Children would have prattled at her knee, andtheir children would have made glad the silent house. How full of joy andopportunity such an existence would have been!

  But these blessings, alas, had not been granted Ellen. Perhaps it had beenher own fault. She may deliberately have thrust the gentle visitant, Love,from her dwelling, and once repulsed he may never have sought again forentrance.

  Or it might be the woman was one at whose door the god had never knocked.Oh, the pity of it!

  For after all did life hold any gift so rare, so supreme, as the perfectdevotion of a man and woman who loved one another. It must be a wonderfulthing, that divine miracle of Love.

  Dreamily Lucy's gaze wandered off to the sunny fields, and with solemnrealization it came to her that should Ellen die, they and all the Websterlands would be hers, to do with as she pleased. There were so many thingsshe had been powerless to get her aunt to do. The house needed repairs ifit were to be preserved for coming generations: certain patches of soilhad been worked too long and should be allowed to lie fallow; there werescores of other improvements she would like to see carried out. Now shewould be free to better the property as she saw fit. She would talk withMartin Howe about it. He was brimming with all the latest farming methods.She would get him to buy her a cultivator such as he used in his owngarden, and a wheel-hoe. He could advise her, too, about plowing buckwheatinto the soil. And Martin would know what to do about shingling the barnand cementing the cellar.

  In fact, it was amazing to discover how inseparable Martin seemed to befrom her plans. He was so strong, so wise, just the type of man a womancould depend upon for sympathy and guidance. Absently she twisted thering on her finger.

  Her mind had traveled to the events of the morning, to his battle withhimself and final victory. How appealing had been his surrender! The sternpersonality had melted into a tenderness as winning as a child's.

  If he loved a woman and she loved him---- She started guiltily to findEllen staring at her with vague, troubled eyes.

  "Where--where--am--I--?" asked the woman in a weak, quavering voice.

  "Upstairs in your own room, Aunt Ellen," replied Lucy gently.

  "How'd I come here?"

  "You didn't feel very well."

  "Yes. I remember now. I fell, didn't I?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "I was fussin' at somethin', an' it made me dizzy. 'Twas the heat, Iguess. Where'd you find me?"

  "In the kitchen."

  "An' you managed to bring me here?"

  Her niece hesitated.

  "Yes," she answered firmly.

  Ellen paused and with dread the girl awaited her next question. But noquestion came. Either the clouded mind was in too vague a mood to graspdetails, or the invalid did not care. She seemed to be thinking.

  "So I fell," she repeated at last.

  "Yes."

  Again there was a pause, and during the stillness Lucy plainly heard thesound of approaching wagon wheels. It must be Martin with the doctor. Sherose softly.

  "Where you goin'?" demanded her aunt.

  "Just downstairs a minute. I think the doctor----"

  "You didn't send Tony for the doctor!" the invalid exclaimed, a feeblequerulousness vibrating in the words.

  "Yes; I didn't know what else to do."

  "He can't help any."

  "Perhaps he can."

  "I tell you he can't," snapped Ellen. "I know well enough what's thematter with me without bein' told. I've had a shock. My feet are all coldand numb: I can't feel nothin' in 'em, nor move 'em. There ain't no remedyfor that. You're only wastin' money gettin' the man here to tell me what Ialready know. I shan't see him."

  Lucy waited a moment.

  "I'm sorry I sent for him if you don't want him," she said. "But now thathe is here, don't you think he'd better come up? We don't need to have himcome again."

  Ellen did not respond at once. Then with more animation than she hadexhibited, she said:

  "I s'pose we'll have to pay him whether he comes up or not, so I may'swell get my money's worth out of him. Go and fetch him. He'll likely betickled to death to see with his own eyes how bad off I am so'st he can goback an' blab the news in the village. Folks will be thankful to havesomething new to talk about."

  Lucy could not but smile at the characteristic remark. She went out andsoon returned with Doctor Marsh tiptoeing gingerly behind her.

  He was a heavy, florid man whom the combination of heat and speed hadtransformed into a panting mechanism. Mopping the beads of perspirationfrom his brow, he started to seat himself at Ellen's bedside, but thewoman waved him off.

  "Don't come any nearer," she called, "and don't bring that bag of pillsand plasters in here, either. I shan't need nothin' you've got. I knowthat well's you do; an' I know better'n you do that there ain't no helpfor me. You needn't stay, an' you needn't come in. Good mornin'."

  Having delivered herself of this ultimatum at a single breath, Ellenturned her head and closed her eyes.

  The doctor looked at her in astonishment but did not move.

  "Clip right along home," reiterated the sick woman without looking at thephysician. "My niece'll pay you as you go out. I reckon you won't chargemore'n half price, since you ain't done nothin'."

  "I usually have----"

  "Mebbe. But this call ain't like your usual ones, is it?"

  "No," responded the doctor with dignity, "I can't say that it is."

  "Then you can't expect to get so much for it," piped Ellen triumphantly."My niece will settle with you. Give him a dollar, Lucy--not a cent more.He'll have fun enough gossipin' about me to make up the rest of the fee."

  Doctor Marsh, his face a study in outraged decorum, stalked indignantlyfrom the room. Ellen, peeping from beneath her lids, watched him withsatisfaction.

  "Has he gone?" she demanded, when Lucy returned.

  "Yes."

  "Thank the Lord. The fool doesn't know anything, anyway. Now you go backdownstairs an' finish up your work. There ain't no call for you to beidlin' the day out, even if I am."

  "I don't like to leave you alone."

  "Pooh, pooh! I can't no more'n die, an' if I was to start doin' that youcouldn't stop me."

  Lucy moved toward the door; then turning she remarked gently:

  "I'm so sorry, Aunt Ellen."

  "Eh?"

  "I'm sorry you're ill."

  "Are you?" questioned the old woman, searching the girl's face with hersmall, flinty eyes. "Mebbe you are. You generally tell the truth. I guessif you do feel so, you're the only one; an' I don't quite see how even youcan be."

  "I am."

  Her aunt fingered the sheet nervously.

  "You're a good girl, Lucy," she presently observed in a weary tone. "Youwon't lose nothin' by it, neither."

  Embarrassed, her niece started from the room.

  "Come back here a minute," muttered the woman drowsily. "I want to speakto you."

  Lucy recrossed the threshold and bent over Ellen, who had sunk back on thepillows and was beckoning to her with a feeble, exhausted hand.

  "You'll stay by me, won't you?" she pleaded in a whisper, for the firsttime displaying a consciousness of her helpless, dependent condition."Promise you won't desert me. I'm leavin' you the place an' ten thousanddollars."