Part 11 (1/2)
She handed the gla.s.s back to Ellen.
”They act as if they were in an almighty hurry,” observed Ellen, as she looked. ”They keep watchin' to see if anybody's comin'. Likely they're afraid Martin will catch 'em. I wish he would. What do you reckon is in that bag? I'd give worlds to know.”
”I can't imagine.”
Lucy had returned to her cleaning and was busy wringing out the mop. The doings of the women next door failed to interest her. But not so Ellen who, tense with speculation, hovered at the cas.e.m.e.nt.
”They've got the hole dug,” she announced triumphantly, ”an' they're lowerin' the bag into it. It must be heavy 'cause they seem to be havin' a hard time lettin' it down in. They act as if they were afraid to touch the thing. What can it be?” she repeated for the twentieth time.
”I don't know,” Lucy replied wearily.
She was tired and hungry and wished Ellen would abandon spying on her neighbors and give her a helping hand.
”Yes,” commented Ellen from the window, ”those women handle that bag as if they had a chiny image in it. I can't for the life of me figger out what can be in it.”
For an interval there was silence. Lucy set the mop and pail out in the hall and began to clean the paint.
”They've started to cover it up,” chronicled Ellen, after a pause.
”They're shovelin' in the dirt--at least Mary and Jane are; Eliza's stopped helpin' 'em an' gone to see if anybody's comin'. There's somethin'
dretful queer about it all. Don't you think so?”
”I don't know,” answered Lucy a trifle impatiently.
Again Ellen studied the distance.
”Look!” she cried an instant later. ”Look! 'Liza's callin' an' motionin'
to 'em. They're droppin' their shovels and runnin' for the house like a lot of scared sheep. Probably Martin's comin', an' they don't want him to catch 'em. There! What did I tell you? It _is_ Martin. I can see him drivin' over the hill. Watch 'em skitter!”
Lured more by the desire to see Martin than to observe his panic-stricken sisters, Lucy went to the window. It was even as Ellen had said. There were the retreating forms of the three female Howes disappearing in at the side door; and there was Martin, his tall figure looming in sight at the heels of his bay mare.
”He's a fine looking man, isn't he?” Lucy remarked with thoughtless impulsiveness.
”What!”
”I say he is fine looking,” repeated the girl. ”What broad shoulders he has, and how magnificently he carries his head!”
”You call that fine looking, do you?” sniffed her aunt.
”Yes. Don't you?”
”Martin Howe ain't my style of man.”
”But he's so strong and splendid!”
”I never saw a splendid Howe yet,” was Ellen's icy retort.
She turned from the window, took up a cloth, and went to scrubbing the paint viciously.
Lucy, realizing the tactlessness of her observation, tried by light, good-humored chatter to efface its memory; but all attempts to blot it from her aunt's mind were useless, and the relations between the two women remained strained for the rest of the day. So strained and uncomfortable were they that Lucy, wearied out by her hard work, was only too glad to bid Ellen good night and seek her own room early.