The Wall Between

by Sara Ware Bassett

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE GREAT ALTERNATIVE

  After Lucy left the office, Mr. Benton sat for an interval thinking. Thenhe yawned, stretched his arms, went to his desk drawer, and took out thewill which he slipped into his waistcoat pocket.

  With hands behind him he took a turn or two across the room.

  He was a man not lacking in feeling, and impulses of sympathy and mercyuntil now had deterred him from the execution of his legal duties. Since,however, it was Lucy Webster who had rung up the curtain on the drama inwhich an important part had been assigned him, there was no need for himto postpone longer the playing of his role. He had received his cue.

  His lines, he admitted, were not wholly to his liking--not, in fact, tohis liking at all; he considered them cruel, unfair, vindictive.Notwithstanding this, however, the plot was a novel one, and he was toohuman not to relish the fascinating uncertainties it presented. In all hisprofessional career no case so remarkable had fallen to his lot before.

  When as a young man he had attacked his calling, he had been thrilled withenthusiasm and hope. The law had seemed to him the noblest of professions.But the limitations of a small town had quickly dampened his ardor, andinstead of righting the injustices of the world as he had once dreamed ofdoing, he had narrowed into a legal machine whose mechanism was neveraccelerated by anything more stirring than a round of petty will-makings,land-sellings, bill collections and mortgage foreclosures.

  But at last here was something out of the ordinary, a refreshing andunique human comedy that would not only electrify the public but whosechief actors balked all speculation. He could not help owning that EllenWebster's bequest, heartily as he disapproved of it, lent a welcome bit ofcolor to the grayness of his days. Ever since he had drawn up thefantastic document it had furnished him with riddles so interesting andunsolvable that they rendered tales of Peter Featherstone and MartinChuzzlewit tame reading. These worthies were only creations of paper andink; but here was a living, breathing enigma,--the enigma of Martin Howe!

  What would this hero of the present situation do? For undoubtedly it wasMartin who was to be the chief actor of the coming drama.

  The lawyer knocked the ashes from his pipe, thrust it into his pocket and,putting on his hat and coat, stepped into the hall, where he lingered onlylong enough to post on his office door the hastily scrawled announcement:"Will return to-morrow." Then he hurried across the town green to the shedbehind the church where he always hitched his horse. Backing the wagon outwith care, he jumped into it and proceeded to drive off down the highroad.

  Martin Howe was in the field when Mr. Benton arrived. Under ordinaryconditions the man would have joined him there, but to-day such a courseseemed too informal, and instead he drew up his horse at the front doorand sent Jane to summon her brother.

  Fortunately Martin was no great distance away and soon entered, a flickerof curiosity in his eyes.

  The lawyer began with a leisurely introduction.

  "I imagine, Howe, you are a trifle surprised to have a call from me," hesaid.

  "Yes, I am a bit."

  "I drove over on business," announced Mr. Benton.

  Nevertheless, although he prefaced his revelation with this remark, he didnot immediately enlighten his listener as to what the business was. Intruth, now that the great moment for breaking silence had arrived, Mr.Benton found himself obsessed with a desire to prolong its flavor ofmystery. It was like rolling the honied tang of a cordial beneath histongue. A few words and the secret would lay bare in the light of commonday, its glamor rent to atoms.

  Martin waited patiently.

  "On business," repeated Mr. Benton at last, as if there had been no breakin the conversation.

  "I'm ready to hear it," Martin said, smiling.

  "I came, in fact, to acquaint you with the contents of a will."

  Yet again the lawyer's tongue, sphinxlike from habit, refused to utterthe tidings it guarded.

  "The will," he presently resumed, "of my client, Miss Ellen Webster."

  He was rewarded by seeing a shock of surprise run through Martin's frame.

  "I don't see how Miss Webster's will can be any concern of mine," Martinreplied stiffly.

  The attorney ignored the observation. Continuing with serenity, heobserved:

  "As I understand it, you and Miss Webster were not----" he coughedhesitatingly behind his hand.

  "No, we weren't," cut in Martin. "She was a meddling, aggravating oldharridan. I hated her, and I'm glad she's gone."

  "That is an unfortunate sentiment," remarked Mr. Benton, "unfortunate anddisconcerting, because, you see, Miss Ellen Webster has left you all herproperty."

  "_Me_! Left _me_ her property!"

  The dynamic shock behind the words sent the man to his feet.

  Mr. Benton nodded calmly.

  "Yes," he reiterated, "Miss Webster has made you her sole legatee."

  Martin regarded his visitor stupidly.

  "I reckon there's some mistake, sir," he contrived to stammer.

  "No, there isn't--there's no mistake. The will was legally drawn up only afew days before the death of the deceased. No possible question can beraised as to her sanity, or the clearness of her wishes concerning herproperty. She desired everything to come to you."

  "Let me see the paper!" cried Martin.

  "I should prefer to read it to you."

  Slowly Mr. Benton took out his spectacles, polished, and adjusted them.Then with impressive deliberation he drew forth and unfolded with a mightyrustling the last will and testament of Ellen Webster, spinster. Many atime he had mentally rehearsed this scene, and now he presented it with adignity that amazed and awed. Every _whereas_ and _aforesaid_ rolled outwith due majesty, its resonance echoing to the ceiling of the chillylittle parlor.

  As Martin listened, curiosity gave place to wonder, wonder to indignation.But when at last the concluding condition of the bequest was reached, therebuilding of the wall, an oath burst from his lips.

  "The harpy!" he shouted. "The insolent hell hag!"

  "Softly, my dear sir, softly!" pleaded Mr. Benton in soothing tones.

  "I'll have nothin' to do with it--nothin'!" stormed Martin. "You canbundle your paper right out of here, Benton. Rebuild that wall! Good God!Why, I wouldn't do it if I was to be flayed alive. Ellen Webster knew thatwell enough. She was perfectly safe when she left me her property withthat tag hitched to it. She did it as a joke--a cussed joke--out of puredeviltry. 'Twas like her, too. She couldn't resist giving me one last jab,even if she had to wait till she was dead and gone to do it."

  Like an infuriated beast Martin tramped the floor. Mr. Benton did notspeak for a few moments; then he observed mildly:

  "You understand that if you refuse to accept the property it will beturned over to the county for a poor farm."

  "I don't care who it's turned over to, or what becomes of it," blusteredMartin.

  The attorney rubbed his hands. Ah, it was a spirited drama,--quite asspirited as he had anticipated, and as interesting too.

  "It's pretty rough on the girl," he at last remarked casually.

  "The girl?"

  "Miss Webster."

  Violently Martin came to himself. The fury of his anger had until nowswept every other consideration from his mind.

  "It will mean turning Miss Webster out of doors, of course," continued Mr.Benton impassively. "Still she's a thoroughbred, and I fancy nothing heraunt could do would surprise her. In fact, she as good as told me that,when she was at my office this morning."

  "She knows, then?"

  "Yes, I had to tell her, poor thing. I imagine, too, it hit her prettyhard, for she had been given to understand that everything was to be hers.She hasn't much in her own right; her aunt told me that."

  An icy hand suddenly gripped Martin's heart. He stood immovable, as ifstunned. Lucy! Lucy penniless and homeless because of him!

  Little by little Ellen's evil scheme unfolded itself before hisconsciousness. He saw the cunning of the
intrigue which the initialoutburst of his wrath had obscured. There was more involved in hisdecision than his own inclinations. He was not free simply to flout thelegacy and toss it angrily aside. Ellen, a Richelieu to the last, had himin a trap that wrenched and wrecked every sensibility of his nature. Themore he thought about the matter, the more chaotic his impulses became.Justice battled against will; pity against vengeance; love against hate;and as the warring factors strove and tore at one another, and grappled inan anguish of suffering, from out the turmoil two forces roseunconquerable and stubbornly confronted one another,--the opposing forcesof Love and Pride. There they stood, neither of them willing to yield.While Love pleaded for mercy, Pride urged the destruction of every gentleremotion and clamored for revenge.

  Mr. Benton was not a subtle interpreter of human nature, but in the faceof the man before him he saw enough to realize the fierceness of thespiritual conflict that raged within Martin Howe's soul. It was likewitnessing the writhings of a creature in torture.

  He did not attempt to precipitate a decision by interfering. When,however, he had been a silent spectator of the struggle so long that heperceived Martin had forgotten his very existence, he ventured to speak.

  "Maybe I'd better leave you to reconsider your resolution, Howe," heremarked.

  "I--yes--it might be better."

  "Perhaps after you've thought things out, you'll change your mind."

  Martin did not reply. The lawyer rose and took up his hat.

  "How long before you've got to know?" inquired Martin hoarsely.

  "Oh, I can give you time," answered Mr. Benton easily. "A week, say--howwill that do?"

  "I shan't need as long as that," Martin replied, looking before him withset face. "I shall know by to-morrow what I am going to do."

  "There's no such hurry as all that."

  "I shall know by to-morrow," repeated the younger man in the same dullvoice. "All the time in the universe won't change things after that."

  Mr. Benton made no response. When in his imaginings he had pictured thescene, he had thought that after the first shock of surprise was over, heand Martin would sit down together sociably and discuss each petty detailof the remarkable comedy. But comedy had suddenly become tragedy--atragedy very real and grim--and all desire to discuss it had ebbed away.

  As he moved toward the door, he did not even put out his hand; on thecontrary, whispering a hushed good night and receiving no reply to it, hesoftly let himself out and disappeared through the afternoon shadows.

  If Martin were conscious of his departure, he at least gave no sign ofbeing so, but continued to stand motionless in the same spot where Mr.Benton had left him, his hands gripped tightly behind his back, and hishead thrust forward in thought.

  Silently the hours passed. The sun sank behind the hills, tinting theridge of pines to copper and leaving the sky a sweep of palest blue inwhich a single star trembled.

  Still Martin did not move. Once he broke into a smothered cry:

  "I cannot! My God! I cannot!"

  The words brought Jane to the door.

  "Martin!" she called.

  There was no answer and, turning the knob timidly, she came in.

  "Oh!" she ejaculated. "How you frightened me! I didn't know there wasanybody here. Don't you want a light?"

  "No."

  "Has--has Mr. Benton gone?"

  "Yes."

  "That's good. Supper's ready."

  "I don't want anything."

  "Mercy, Martin! You ain't sick?"

  "No."

  "But you must be hungry."

  "No. I'm not."

  Still the woman lingered; then making a heroic plunge, she faltered:

  "There--there ain't nothin' the matter, is there?"

  So genuine was the sympathy beneath the quavering inquiry that it broughtto Martin's troubled heart a gratifying sense of warmth and fellowship.

  "No," he said, his impatience melting to gentleness. "Don't worry, Jane.I've just got to do a little thinking by myself, that's all."

  "It ain't money you're fussin' over then," said his sister, with a sigh ofrelief.

  "No--no, indeed. It's nothin' to do with money."

  "I'm thankful for that."

  Nevertheless as he mounted to his room, Martin reflected that after all itwas money which was at the storm center of his difficulties. He had notthought at all of the matter from its financial aspect. Yet even if he haddone so in the first place, it would have had no influence upon hisdecision. He didn't care a curse for the money. To carry his point, hewould have tossed aside a fortune twice as large. The issue he confronted,stripped of all its distractions, was simply whether his love were potentenough to overmaster his pride and bring it to its knees.

  Even for the sake of Lucy Webster, whom he now realized he loved with apassion more deep-rooted than he had dreamed, could he compel himself todo the thing he had staked his oath he would not do?

  Until this moment he had never actually examined his affection for thegirl. Events had shaped themselves so naturally that in cowardly fashionhe had basked in the joy of the present and not troubled his mind toinquire whither the phantasies of this lotus-eater's existence wereleading him. When a clamoring conscience had lifted up its voice, he hadstilled it with platitudes. The impact of the crisis he now faced had,however, jarred him out of his tranquillity and brought him to anappreciation of his position.

  He loved Lucy Webster with sincere devotion. All he had in the world hewould gladly cast at her feet,--his name, his heart, his worldlypossessions; only one reservation did he make to the completeness of hissurrender. His pride he could not bend. It was not that he did not wish tobend it. The act was impossible. Keenly as he scorned himself, he couldnot concede a victory to Ellen Webster,--not for any one on earth.

  The jests of the townsfolk were nothing. He did not lack courage to laughback into the faces of the jeering multitude. But to own himself beaten bya mocking ghost, a specter from another sphere; to relinquish for hergratification the traditions of his race and the trust of his fathers; toleave her triumphant on the field,--this he could not do for any womanliving--or dead.

  Ah, it was a clever net the old woman had spun to ensnare him, more cleverthan she knew, unless by some occult power she was cognizant of hisaffection for Lucy. Could it be? The thought arrested him.

  Had Ellen guessed his secret, and, armed with the knowledge, shaped herrevenge accordingly? If so, she was a thousand times more cruel than hehad imagined her capable of being, and it gave quite a different slant toher perfidy. Suppose she had suspected he loved Lucy and that Lucy lovedhim. Then her plot was one to separate them, and the very course he wasfollowing was the result she had striven to bring about. She had meant towreck his happiness and that of the woman he loved; she had planned,schemed, worked to do so.

  Martin threw back his head and laughed defiantly up at the ceiling. Well,she should not succeed. He would marry Lucy, and he would rebuild thewall: and with every stone he put in place he would shout to the confinesof the universe, to the planets where Ellen Webster's spirit lurked, tothe grave that harbored her bones:

  _Amor Vincit Omnia!_

  With jubilant step he crossed to the window and looked out. A slender arcof silver hung above the trees, bathing the fields in mystic splendor. Itwas not late. Only the maelstrom of torture through which he had passedhad transformed the minutes to hours, and the hours to years. Why, theevening was still young, young enough for him to go to Lucy and speak intoher ear all the love that surged in his heart. They had been made for oneanother from the beginning. He would wed her, and the old homestead shevenerated should be hers indeed. It was all very simple, now.

  With the abandon of a schoolboy he rushed downstairs, pausing only aninstant to put his head in at the kitchen door and shout to Jane:

  "I'm goin' over to the Websters'. I may be late. Don't sit up for me."

  Then he was gone. Alone beneath the arching sky, his happiness mounted tothe stars. How delicious was the
freshness of the cool night air! Howsweet the damp fragrance of the forest! The spires of the pines richlydark against the fading sky were already receding into the mists oftwilight.

  He went along down the road, his swinging step light as the shimmer of amoonbeam across a spangled pool.

  The Webster house was in darkness. Nevertheless this discovery did notdisconcert him, for frequently Lucy worked until dusk among her flowers,or lingered on the porch in the peace of the evening stillness.

  To-night, however, he failed to find her in either of her favorite hauntsand, guided by the wailing music of a harmonica, he came at last upon Tonyseated on an upturned barrel at the barn threshold, striving to banish hisloneliness by breathing into the serenity of the twilight the refrain of"Home, Sweet Home."

  "Hi, Tony!" called Martin. "Do you know where Miss Lucy is?"

  "I don't, sir," replied the boy, rising. "She didn't 'xactly say where shewas goin'."

  "I s'pose she's round the place somewhere."

  "Land, no, sir! Didn't she tell you? Why, she went away on the train thisafternoon."

  "On the train?" Martin repeated automatically.

  "Yes, sir."

  "When is she comin' back?"

  "She ain't comin' back," announced the Portuguese. "She's goin' out Westor somewheres to live."

  A quick shiver vibrated through Martin's body, arresting the beat of hispulse. Scarcely knowing what he did, he caught the lad roughly by theshoulder.

  "When did she go?" he demanded. "What time? What did she say?"

  Tony raised a frightened glance to his questioner's face.

  "She went this afternoon," gasped he, "about five o'clock it was. She tookthe Boston train. She said she guessed she'd go back out West 'cause shedidn't want to stay here any more. She was afraid of ghosts."

  "Ghosts!"

  Tony nodded.

  "I'm to leave the key of the house at Mr. Benton's in the mornin' an' tellhim everythin's cleaned up an' in order. An' Miss Lucy said I was to stayhere an' go on with the work till you or somebody else told me to stop."

  Without comment Martin listened. Slowly the truth made its impress on hismind. Lucy had gone! Gone!

  With the knowledge, all the latent affection he felt for her crystallizedinto a mighty tide that rushed over and engulfed him in its current.Hatred, revenge, pride were no more; only love persisted,--love theall-powerful, the all-conquering, the all-transforming.

  Lucy, dearer to him than his own soul, had gone. Either in anger, ordriven forth by maiden shyness, she had fled from him; and until she wasbrought back and was safe within the shelter of his arms, nothing remainedfor him in life.

  Tony saw him square his shoulders and turn away.

  "Good night, Mr. Howe," he called.

  "Good night, Tony."

  "Any orders for to-morrow?"

  "No. Go on with your work as usual. Just be sure to water Miss Lucy'sflowers."

  "I will, sir."

  "An' by the way. You needn't drive into town with that key. I'm goin' toMr. Benton's myself, an' I'll take it."

  "All right."

  The boy watched Martin go down the driveway; but at the gate the manwheeled about and shouted back:

  "You'll be sure not to forget Miss Lucy's flowers, Tony."

  "I'll remember 'em."

  "An' if I should have to be away for a while--a week, or a month, or evenlonger--you'll do the best you can while I'm gone."

  "I will, sir."

  "That's all. Good night."

  With a farewell gesture of his hand Martin passed out of the gate. To havewitnessed the buoyancy of his stride, one would have thought himvictorious rather than defeated. The truth was, the scent of battle was inhis nostrils. For a lifetime he had been the champion of Hate. Now, allthe energies of his manhood suddenly awakened, he was going forth to fightin the cause of Love.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  LOVE TRIUMPHANT

  Serene in spirit, Martin turned into the road, his future plain beforehim. He would search Lucy out, marry her, and bring her back to her ownhome. How blind he had been that he should not have seen his path from thebeginning! Why, it was the only thing to do, the only possible thing!

  There might be, there undoubtedly would be difficulties in tracing hissweetheart's whereabouts, but he did not anticipate encountering anyinsurmountable obstacle to the undertaking: and should he be balked bycircumstance it was always possible to seek assistance from those whosebusiness it was to untangle just such puzzles. Therefore, with head heldhigh, he hastened toward home, formulating his plans as he went along.

  With the dawning of to-morrow's sun he must set forth for the western townwhich, if Tony's testimony was to be trusted, was Lucy's ultimatedestination. It was a pity his fugitive lady had twelve hours' start ofhim. However, he must overtake her as best he might.

  It was unquestionably unfortunate too, that it was such a bad season ofthe year for him to be absent from home. Harvest time was fastapproaching, and he could ill be spared. But of what consequence werecrops and the garnering of them when weighed against an issue of such lifeimport as this? To plant and gather was a matter of a year, while alleternity was bound up in his and Lucy's future together.

  In consequence, although he realized the probable financial loss thatwould result from his going on this amorous pilgrimage, the measure of hislove was so great that everything else, even the patient toil of months,was as nothing beside it.

  It came to him that perhaps, if he confided his present dilemma to hissisters, they might come to his rescue, and in the exigency of suddenfrosts save at least a portion of his crops from loss. They were fond ofLucy. Sometimes he had even thought they guessed his secret and weredesirous of helping on the romance. At least, he felt sure they would notoppose it, for they had always been eager that he should marry and leavean heir to inherit the Howe acreage; they had even gone so far as to urgeit upon him as his patriotic duty. Moreover, they were very desirous ofdemolishing the barrier that for so many years had estranged Howe andWebster.

  The more he reflected on taking them into his confidence, the moredesirable became the idea, and at length he decided that before he went tobed he would have a frank talk with the three women of his household andlay before them all his troubles. If he were to do this he must hasten,for Sefton Falls kept early hours.

  When, however, he reached his own land, he found the lights in the housestill burning, and he was surprised to see Jane, a shawl thrown over herhead, coming to meet him.

  "Martin!" she called, "is that you?"

  The words contained a disquieting echo of anxiety.

  "Yes, what's the matter?"

  "Oh, I'm so glad you've got back!" she exclaimed. "I was just goin' overto the Websters' to find you. A telephone message has just come whileyou've been gone. Lucy----"

  "Yes, yes," interrupted Martin breathlessly.

  "There's been an accident to the Boston train, an' they telephoned fromthe hospital at Ashbury that she'd been hurt. They wanted I should comedown there!"

  She saw Martin reel and put out his hand.

  "Martin!" she cried, rushing to his side.

  "Is she much hurt? When did the message come?" panted the man.

  "Just now," Jane answered. "The doctor said her arm was broken an' thatshe was pretty well shaken up an' bruised. He didn't send for me so muchbecause she was in a serious condition as because her bag with all hermoney an' papers was lost, an' she was worryin' herself sick over beingwithout a cent, poor child. He didn't tell her he'd sent for me. He justdid it on his own responsibility. Oh, Martin, you will let me go an' bringher back here, won't you? Mary an' 'Liza an' I want to nurse her,ourselves. We can't bear to think of her bein' a charity patient in ahospital."

  Jane's voice trembled with earnestness.

  "Yes, you shall go, Jane," Martin answered quickly. "We'll both go. I'llsee right away if we can get Watford to take us in his touring car. Weought to make the distance in four hours in a high-power machine."
/>   "Mercy, you're not goin' to-night?"

  "I certainly am."

  "But there's no need of that," protested Jane. "The doctor said Lucy wasgettin' on finely, an' he hoped she'd quiet down an' get some sleep, whichwas what she needed most."

  "But I'd rather go now--right away," Martin asserted.

  "'Twould do no good," explained the practical Jane. "We wouldn't get toAshbury until the middle of the night, an' we couldn't see Lucy. Youwouldn't want 'em to wake her up."

  "N--o."

  "It'll be much wiser to wait till mornin', Martin."

  "Perhaps it will."

  The brother and sister walked silently across the turf.

  "I'm--I'm glad you're willin' we should take care of Lucy," murmured Jane,after an awkward pause. "Mary, 'Liza, an' I love her dearly."

  "An' I too, Jane."

  The confession came in a whisper. If Martin expected it to be greetedwith surprise, he was disappointed.

  Jane did not at first reply; then she said in a soft, happy tone:

  "I guessed as much."

  "You did."

  The man laughed in shamefaced fashion.

  "I ain't a bat, Martin."

  Again her brother laughed, this time with less embarrassment. It hadsuddenly become very easy to talk with Jane.

  Welcoming her companionship and sympathy, he found himself pouring intoher listening ear all his difficulties. He told her of Ellen's will; ofthe wall; of Lucy's flight; of his love for the girl. How good it was tospeak and share his troubles with another!

  "How like Lucy to go away!" mused Jane, when the recital was done. "Anyself-respectin' woman would have done the same, too. She warn't goin' tohang round here an' make you marry her out of pity."

  "But I love her."

  "Yes, but how was she to know that?"

  "She must have known it."

  "You never had told her so."

  "N--o, not in so many words."

  "Then what right, pray, had she to think so?" argued Jane with warmth."She warn't the sort of girl to chance it."

  "I wish I'd told her before."

  "I wish you had," was Jane's brief retort. "You may have trouble nowmakin' her see you ain't marryin' her 'cause you're sorry for her."

  "Sorry for her!"

  Jane could not but laugh at the fervor of the exclamation.

  "My land! Martin," she said, "I never expected to live to see you so headover ears in love."

  "I am."

  "I ain't questionin' it," was Jane's dry comment.

  When, however, he set foot on the porch, his lover's confidence suddenlydeserted him, and he was overwhelmed with shyness.

  "You tell Mary an' 'Liza," he pleaded. "Somehow, I can't. Tell 'em aboutthe will an' all. You'll do that much for me, won't you?"

  "You know I will."

  The words spoke volumes.

  "That's right. An' be ready to start for Ashbury on the mornin' train.We'd better leave here by six, sharp."

  "I'll be on hand. Don't worry."

  "Good night, Jane."

  "Good night."

  Still Jane lingered. Then drawing very close to her brother's side, sheadded bashfully:

  "I can't but think, Martin, that instead of puttin' up walls, EllenWebster's will has broken some of 'em down."

  For answer Martin did something he had never done before within the spanof his memory; he bent impulsively and kissed his sister's cheek.

  Then as if embarrassed by the spontaneity of the deed, he sped upstairs.

  * * * * *

  In the morning he and Jane started for Ashbury. The day was just waking asthey drove along the glittering highway. Heavy dew silvered field andmeadow, and the sun, flashing bars of light across the valley, transformedevery growing thing into jeweled splendor.

  Martin was in high spirits and so was Jane. While the man counted thehours before he would be once more at the side of his beloved, the womanwas thinking that whatever changes the future held in store, she wouldalways have it to remember that in this supreme moment of his life it hadbeen to her that Martin had turned. She had been his confidant and helper.It was worth all that had gone before and all that might come after. Therewas no need for conversation between them. The reveries of each weresatisfying and pregnant with happiness.

  Even after they had boarded the train, Jane was quite content to lapseinto meditation and enjoy the novelty of the journey. Traveling was notsuch a commonplace event that it had ceased to be entertaining. Shestudied her fellow passengers with keenest interest, watched the picturesthat framed themselves in the car window, and delighted in a locomotionthat proceeded from no effort of her own. It was not often that she wasgranted the luxury of sitting still.

  They reached Ashbury amid a clamor of noontide whistles, and took a cab tothe hospital. Here the nurse met them.

  "Miss Webster has had her arm set and is resting comfortably," announcedthe woman. "There is not the slightest cause for alarm. We telephonedmerely because she was fretting and becoming feverish, and the doctorfeared she would not sleep. The loss of her purse and bank books worriedher. We found your address in her coat pocket. She was too dazed andconfused to tell who her friends were."

  "Is she expectin' us?" inquired Jane.

  "No," the nurse answered. "The doctor decided not to tell her, after all,that we had telephoned. For some reason she seemed unwilling for people toknow where she was. To be frank, we rather regretted calling you up, whenwe discovered how she felt about it. But the mischief was done then----"

  "It warn't no mischief," Jane put in with a smile. "It was the best thingthat could 'a' happened."

  "I'm glad of that."

  "Could I see her, do you think?" demanded the visitor presently.

  "Yes, indeed. She is much better this morning. Perhaps, however, onecaller at a time will be enough; she still has some fever."

  "Of course."

  Jane turned to Martin; but he shook his head.

  "You go," he said.

  "I'll do whatever you want me to."

  "I'd rather you went first."

  "Just as you say. I won't stay long though."

  After watching the two women disappear down the long, rubber-carpetedcorridor, he began to pace the small, spotlessly neat office in which hehad been asked to wait. It was a prim, barren room, heavy with the fumesof iodoform and ether. At intervals, the muffled tread of a doctor ornurse passing through the hall broke its stillness, but otherwise therewas not a sound within its walls.

  Martin walked back and forth until his solitude became intolerable. Therewere magazines on the table but he could not read. Would Jane neverreturn? The moments seemed hours.

  In his suspense he fell to every sort of pessimistic imagining. SupposeLucy were worse? Suppose she declined to see him? Suppose she did not lovehim?

  So sanguine had been his hopes, he had not seriously considered the latterpossibility. The more he meditated on the thought of failing in his suit,the more wretched became his condition of mind. The torrent of words thathe had come to speak slowly deserted his tongue until when Jane entered,a quarter of an hour later, wreathed in smiles, he was dumb with terror.

  "She's ever so much better than I expected to find her," began his sisterwithout preamble. "An' she was so glad to see me, poor soul! You can go upnow with the nurse; only don't stay too long."

  "Did you tell her----" began the discomfited Martin.

  "I didn't tell her anything," Jane replied, "except that I was going totake her home with me in a day or two."

  "Doesn't she know I'm here?"

  "No."

  "You don't know, then, whether she----"

  "I don't know anything, Martin," Jane replied, nevertheless beaming on himwith a radiant smile. "An' if I did I certainly shouldn't tell you. Youan' Lucy must settle your affairs yourselves."

  With this dubious encouragement and palpitating with uneasiness, Martinwas forced to tiptoe out of the room in the wake of his w
hite-robedconductor. As he walked down the long, quiet hall, he said to himself thatevery step was bringing him nearer to the crisis when he must speak, andstill no words came to his lips. When, however, he turned from thedinginess of the passageway into the sunny little room where Lucy lay, heforgot everything but Lucy herself.

  She was resting against the pillows, her hair unbound, and her cheeksflushed to crimson. Never had she looked so beautiful. He stopped on thethreshold, awed by the wonder of her maidenhood. Then he heard her voice.

  "Martin!"

  It was only a single word, but the yearning in it told him all he soughtto know. In an instant he was on his knees beside her, kissing the brownhand that rested on the coverlid, touching his lips to the glory of herhair.

  Jane, waiting in the meantime alone in the dull, whitewashed office, hadample opportunity to study every nail in its floor, count the slats in theslippery, varnished chairs, and speculate as to the identity of thespectacled dignitaries whose portraits adorned the walls.

  She planned her winter's wardrobe, decided what Mary, Eliza and herselfshould wear at the wedding, and mentally arranged every detail of thecoming domestic upheaval. Having exhausted all these subjects, she beganin quite indecent fashion to select names for her future nieces andnephews. The first boy should be Webster Howe. What a grand old name itwould be! She prayed he would be tall like Martin, and have Lucy's eyesand hair. Ah, what a delight she and Mary and Eliza would have bringing upMartin's son and baking cookies for him!

  It was just when she was mapping out the educational career of this sameWebster Howe and was struggling to decide what college should be honoredby his presence that Martin burst into the room. A guilty blush dyedJane's virgin cheek.

  Martin, however, took no notice of her abstraction. In fact he couldscarcely speak coherently.

  "It's all right, Jane," he cried. "I'm the happiest man on earth. Lucyloves me. Isn't it wonderful, unbelievable? We are goin' to be marriedright away, an' I'm to start buildin' the wall, so'st it will be donebefore the cold weather comes. We're goin' to leave a little gate in itfor you an' Mary an' 'Liza to come through. An' we're goin' to put up astone in the cemetery to Lucy's aunt with: _In grateful remembrance ofEllen Webster_ on it."

  Jane sniffed.

  "I can think of a better inscription than that," she remarked withunwonted tartness, lapsing into Scripture. "Carve on it:

  "He that soweth iniquity shall reap vanity; and the rod of his anger shallfail."