Miss Thorne wrote an apology to Winfield, and then tore it up, thereby gaining comparative peace of mind, for, with some natures, expression is the main thing, and direction is but secondary. She was not surprised because he did not come; on the contrary, she had rather expected to be left to her own devices for a time, but one afternoon she dressed with unusual care and sat in state in the parlour, vaguely expectant. If he intended to be friendly, it was certainly time for him to come again.
Hepsey, passing through the hall, noted the crisp white ribbon at her throat and the bow in her hair. “Are you expectin' company, Miss Thorne?” she asked, innocently.
“I am expecting no one,” answered Ruth, frigidly, “I am going out.”
Feeling obliged to make her word good, she took the path which led to Miss Ainslie's. As she entered the gate, she had a glimpse of Winfield, sitting by the front window of Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, in such a dejected attitude that she pitied him. She considered the virtuous emotion very praiseworthy, even though it was not deep enough for her to bestow a cheery nod upon the gloomy person across the way.
Miss Ainslie was unaffectedly glad to see her, and Ruth sank into an easy chair with something like content. The atmosphere of the place was insensibly soothing and she instantly felt a subtle change. Miss Ainslie, as always, wore a lavender gown, with real lace at the throat and wrists. Her white hair was waved softly and on the third finger of her left hand was a ring of Roman gold, set with an amethyst and two large pearls.
There was a beautiful serenity about her, evident in every line of her face and figure. Time had dealt gently with her, and except on her queenly head had left no trace of his passing. The delicate scent of the lavender floated from her gown and her laces, almost as if it were a part of her, and brought visions of an old-time garden, whose gentle mistress was ever tranquil and content. As she sat there, smiling, she might have been Peace grown old.
“Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, suddenly, “have you ever had any trouble?”
A shadow crossed her face, and then she answered, patiently, “Why, yes—I've had my share.”
“I don't mean to be personal,” Ruth explained, “I was just thinking.”
“I understand,” said the other, gently. Then, after a little, she spoke again:
“We all have trouble, deary—it's part of life; but I believe that we all share equally in the joy of the world. Allowing for temperament, I mean. Sorrows that would crush some are lightly borne by others, and some have the gift of finding great happiness in little things.
“Then, too, we never have any more than we can bear—nothing that has not been borne before, and bravely at that. There isn't a new sorrow in the world—they're all old ones—but we can all find new happiness if we look in the right way.”
The voice had a full music, instinct with tenderness, and gradually Ruth's troubled spirit was eased. “I don't know what's the matter with me,” she said, meditatively, “for I'm not morbid, and I don't have the blues very often, but almost ever since I've been at Aunt Jane's, I've been restless and disturbed. I know there's no reason for it, but I can't help it.”
“Don't you think that it's because you have nothing to do? You've always been so busy, and you aren't used to idleness.”
“Perhaps so. I miss my work, but at the same time, I haven't sense enough to do it.”
“Poor child, you're tired—too tired to rest.”
“Yes, I am tired,” answered Ruth, the tears of nervous weakness coming into her eyes.
“Come out into the garden.”
Miss Ainslie drew a fleecy shawl over her shoulders and led her guest outdoors. Though she kept pace with the world in many other ways, it was an old-fashioned garden, with a sun-dial and an arbour, and little paths, nicely kept, that led to the flower beds and circled around them. There were no flowers as yet, except in a bed of wild violets under a bay window, but tiny sprigs of green were everywhere eloquent with promise, and the lilacs were budded.
“That's a snowball bush over there,” said Miss Ainslie, “and all that corner of the garden will be full of roses in June. They're old-fashioned roses, that I expect you wouldn't care for-blush and cinnamon and sweet briar—but I love them all. That long row is half peonies and half bleeding-hearts, and I have a bed of columbines under a window on the other side of the house. The mignonette and forget-me-nots have a place to themselves, for I think they belong together—sweetness and memory.
“There's going to be lady-slippers over there,” Miss Ainslie went on, “and sweet william. The porch is always covered with morning-glories—I think they're beautiful and in that large bed I've planted poppies, snap-dragon, and marigolds. This round one is full of larkspur and bachelor's buttons. I have phlox and petunias, too—did you ever see a petunia seed?”
Ruth shook her head.
“It's the tiniest thing, smaller than a grain of sand. When I plant them, I always wonder how those great, feathery petunias are coming out of those little, baby seeds, but they come. Over there are things that won't blossom till late—asters, tiger-lilies and prince's feather. It's going to be a beautiful garden, deary. Down by the gate are my sweet herbs and simples—marjoram, sweet thyme, rosemary, and lavender. I love the lavender, don't you?”
“Yes, I do,” replied Ruth, “but I've never seen it growing.”
“It's a little bush, with lavender flowers that yield honey, and it's all sweet—flowers, leaves, and all. I expect you'll laugh at me, but I've planted sunflowers and four-o'clocks and foxglove.”
“I won't laugh—-I think it's lovely. What do you like best, Miss Ainslie?”
“I love them all,” she said, with a smile on her lips and her deep, unfathomable eyes fixed upon Ruth, “but I think the lavender comes first. It's so sweet, and then it has associations—”
She paused, in confusion, and Ruth went on, quickly: “I think they all have associations, and that's why we love them. I can't bear red geraniums because a cross old woman I knew when I was a child had her yard full of them, and I shall always love the lavender,” she added, softly, “because it makes me think of you.”
Miss Ainslie's checks flushed and her eyes shone. “Now we'll go into the house,” she said, “and we'll have tea.”
“I shouldn't stay any longer,” murmured Ruth, following her, “I've been here so long now.”
“'T isn't long,” contradicted Miss Ainslie, sweetly, “it's been only a very few minutes.”
Every moment, the house and its owner took on new beauty and charm. Miss Ainslie spread a napkin of finest damask upon the little mahogany tea table, then brought in a silver teapot of quaint design, and two cups of Japanese china, dainty to the point of fragility.
“Why, Miss Ainslie,” exclaimed Ruth, in surprise, “where did you get Royal Kaga?”
Miss Ainslie was bending over the table, and the white hand that held the teapot trembled a little. “They were a present from—a friend,” she answered, in a low voice.
“They're beautiful,” said Ruth, hurriedly.
She had been to many an elaborate affair, which was down on the social calendar as a “tea,” sometimes as reporter and often as guest, but she had found no hostess like Miss Ainslie, no china so exquisitely fine, nor any tea like the clear, fragrant amber which was poured into her cup.
“It came from China,” said Miss Ainslie, feeling the unspoken question. “I had a whole chest of it, but it's almost all gone.”
Ruth was turning her cup and consulting the oracle. “Here's two people, a man and a woman, from a great distance, and, yes, here's money, too. What is there in yours?”
“Nothing, deary, and besides, it doesn't come true.”
When Ruth finally aroused herself to go home, the old restlessness, for the moment, was gone. “There's a charm about you,” she said, “for I feel as if I could sleep a whole week and never wake at all.”
“It's the tea,” smiled Miss Ainslie, “for I'm a very commonplace body.”
“You, commonplace?” repeated Ruth; “why, there's nobody like you!”
They stood at the door a few moments, talking aimlessly, but Ruth was watching Miss Ainslie's face, as the sunset light lay caressingly upon it. “I've had a lovely time,” she said, taking another step toward the gate.
“So have I—you'll come again, won't you?” The sweet voice was pleading now, and Ruth answered it in her inmost soul. Impulsively, she came back, threw her arms around Miss Ainslie's neck, and kissed her. “I love you,” she said, “don't you know I do?”
The quick tears filled Miss Ainslie's eyes and she smiled through the mist. “Thank you, deary,” she whispered, “it's a long time since any one has kissed me—a long time!”
Ruth turned back at the gate, to wave her hand, and even at that distance, saw that Miss Ainslie was very pale.
Winfield was waiting for her, just outside the hedge, but his presence jarred upon her strangely, and her salutation was not cordial.
“Is the lady a friend of yours?” he inquired, indifferently.
“She is,” returned Ruth; “I don't go to see my enemies—do you?”
“I don't know whether I do or not,” he said, looking at her significantly.
Her colour rose, but she replied, sharply: “For the sake of peace, let us assume that you do not.”
“Miss Thorne,” he began, as they climbed the hill, “I don't see why you don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to live with yourself all the time, you know, and, occasionally, it must be very difficult. A rag, now, wet in cold water, and tied around your neck—have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good.”
“I have one on now,” she answered, with apparent seriousness, “only you can't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry and I think I'd better hurry home to wet it again, don't you?”
Winfield laughed joyously. “You'll do,” he said.
Before they were half up the hill, they were on good terms again. “I don't want to go home, do you?” he asked.
“Home? I have no home—I'm only a poor working girl.”
“Oh, what would this be with music! I can see it now! Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission, I will endeavour to give you a little song of my own composition, entitled: 'Why Has the Working Girl No Home!'”
“You haven't my permission, and you're a wretch.”
“I am,” he admitted, cheerfully, “moreover, I'm a worm in the dust.”
“I don't like worms.”
“Then you'll have to learn.”
Ruth resented his calm assumption of mastery. “You're dreadfully young,” she said; “do you think you'll ever grow up?”
“Huh!” returned Winfield, boyishly, “I'm most thirty.”
“Really? I shouldn't have thought you were of age.”
“Here's a side path, Miss Thorne,” he said, abruptly, “that seems to go down into the woods. Shall we explore? It won't be dark for an hour yet.”
They descended with some difficulty, since the way was not cleat, and came into the woods at a point not far from the log across the path. “We mustn't sit there any more,” he observed, “or we'll fight. That's where we were the other day, when you attempted to assassinate me.”
“I didn't!” exclaimed Ruth indignantly.
“That rag does seem to be pretty dry,” he said, apparently to himself. “Perhaps, when we get to the sad sea, we can wet it, and so insure comparative calm.”
She laughed, reluctantly. The path led around the hill and down from the highlands to a narrow ledge of beach that lay under the cliff. “Do you want to drown me?” she asked. “It looks very much as if you intended to, for this ledge is covered at high tide.”
“You wrong me, Miss Thorne; I have never drowned anything.”
His answer was lost upon her, for she stood on the beach, under the cliff, looking at the water. The shimmering turquoise blue was slowly changing to grey, and a single sea gull circled overhead.
He made two or three observations, to which Ruth paid no attention. “My Lady Disdain,” he said, with assumed anxiety, “don't you think we'd better go on? I don't know what time the tide comes in, and I never could look your aunt in the face if I had drowned her only relative.”
“Very well,” she replied carelessly, “let's go around the other way.”
They followed the beach until they came to the other side of the hill, but found no path leading back to civilisation, though the ascent could easily be made.
“People have been here before,” he said; “here are some initials cut into this stone. What are they? I can't see.”
Ruth stooped to look at the granite boulder he indicated. “J. H.,” she answered, “and J. B.”
“It's incomplete,” he objected; “there should be a heart with an arrow run through it.”
“You can fix it to suit yourself,” Ruth returned, coolly, “I don't think anybody will mind.” She did not hear his reply, for it suddenly dawned upon her that “J. H.” meant Jane Hathaway.
They stood there in the twilight for some little time, watching the changing colours on the horizon and then there was a faint glow on the water from the cliff above. Ruth went out far enough to see that Hepsey had placed the lamp in the attic window.
“It's time to go,” she said, “inasmuch as we have to go back the way we came.”
They crossed to the other side and went back through the woods. It was dusk, and they walked rapidly until they came to the log across the path.
“So your friend isn't crazy,” he said tentatively, as he tried to assist her over it.
“That depends,” she replied, drawing away from him; “you're indefinite.”
“Forgot to wet the rag, didn't we?” he asked. “I will gladly assume the implication, however, if I may be your friend.”
“Kind, I'm sure,” she answered, with distant politeness.
The path widened, and he walked by her side. “Have you noticed, Miss Thorne, that we have trouble every time we approach that seemingly innocent barrier? I think it would be better to keep away from it, don't you?”
“Perhaps.”
“What initials were those on the boulder? J. H. and—”
“J. B.”
“I thought so. 'J. B.' must have had a lot of spare time at his disposal, for his initials are cut into the 'Widder' Pendleton's gate post on the inner side, and into an apple tree in the back yard.”
“How interesting!”
“Did you know Joe and Hepsey were going out to-night?”
“No, I didn't—they're not my intimate friends.”
“I don't see how Joe expects to marry on the income derived from the village chariot.”
“Have they got that far?”
“I don't know,” replied Winfield, with the air of one imparting a confidence. “You see, though I have been in this peaceful village for some little time, I have not yet arrived at the fine distinction between 'walking out, 'settin' up,' and 'stiddy comp'ny.' I should infer that 'walking out' came first, for 'settin' up' must take a great deal more courage, but even 1, with my vast intellect, cannot at present understand 'stiddy comp'ny.'”
“Joe takes her out every Sunday in the carriage,” volunteered Ruth, when the silence became awkward.
“In the what?”
“Carriage—haven't you ridden in it?”
“I have ridden in them, but not in it. I walked to the 'Widder's,' but if it is the conveyance used by travellers, they are both 'walking out' and 'settin' up.'”
They paused at the gate. “Thank you for a pleasant afternoon,” said Winfield. “I don't have many of them.”
“You're welcome,” returned Ruth, conveying the impression of great distance.
Winfield sighed, then made a last desperate attempt. “Miss Thorne,” he said, pleadingly, “please don't be unkind to me. You have my reason in your hands. I can see myself now, sitting on the floor, at one end of the dangerous ward. They'll smear my fingers with molasses and give me half a dozen feathers to play with. You'll come to visit the asylum, sometime, when you're looking for a special, and at first, you won't recognise me. Then I'll say: 'Woman, behold your work,' and you'll be miserable all the rest of your life.”
She laughed heartily at the distressing picture, and the plaintive tone of his voice pierced her armour. “What's the matter with you?” she asked.
“I don't know—I suppose it's my eyes. I'm horribly restless and discontented, and it isn't my way.”
Then Ruth remembered her own restless weeks, which seemed so long ago, and her heart stirred with womanly sympathy. “I know,” she said, in a different tone, “I've felt the same way myself, almost ever since I've been here, until this very afternoon. You're tired and nervous, and you haven't anything to do, but you'll get over it.”
“I hope you're right. I've been getting Joe to read the papers to me, at a quarter a sitting, but his pronunciation is so unfamiliar that it's hard to get the drift, and the whole thing exasperated me so that I had to give it up.”
“Let me read the papers to you,” she said, impulsively, “I haven't seen one for a month.”
There was a long silence. “I don't want to impose upon you,” he answered—“no, you mustn't do it.”
Ruth saw a stubborn pride that shrank from the slightest dependence, a self-reliance that would not falter, but would steadfastly hold aloof, and she knew that in one thing, at least, they were kindred.
“Let me,” she cried, eagerly; “I'll give you my eyes for a little while!”
Winfield caught her hand and held it for a moment, fully understanding. Ruth's eyes looked up into his—deep, dark, dangerously appealing, and alight with generous desire.
His fingers unclasped slowly. “Yes, I will,” he said, strangely moved. “It's a beautiful gift—in more ways than one. You are very kind—thank you—good night!”
“Isn't fair',” said Winfield to himself, miserably, “no sir, 't isn't fair!”
He sat on the narrow piazza which belonged to Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, and took stern account of his inner self. The morning paper lay beside him, unopened, though his fingers itched to tear the wrapper, and his hat was pulled far down over his eyes, to shade them from the sun.
“If I go up there I'm going to fall in love with her, and I know it!”
That moment of revelation the night before, when soul stood face to face with soul, had troubled him strangely. He knew himself for a sentimentalist where women were concerned, but until they stood at the gate together, he had thought himself safe. Like many another man, on the sunny side of thirty, he had his ideal woman safely enshrined in his inner consciousness.
She was a pretty little thing, this dream maiden—a blonde, with deep blue eyes, a rosy complexion, and a mouth like Cupid's bow. Mentally, she was of the clinging sort, for Winfield did not know that in this he was out of fashion. She had a dainty, bird-like air about her and a high, sweet voice—a most adorable little woman, truly, for a man to dream of when business was not too pressing.
In almost every possible way, Miss Thorne was different. She was dark, and nearly as tall as he was; dignified, self-possessed, and calm, except for flashes of temper and that one impulsive moment. He had liked her, found her interesting in a tantalising sort of way, and looked upon her as an oasis in a social desert, but that was all.
Of course, he might leave the village, but he made a wry face upon discovering, through laboured analysis, that he didn't want to go away. It was really a charming spot—hunting and fishing to be had for the asking, fine accommodations at Mrs. Pendleton's, beautiful scenery, bracing air—in every way it was just what he needed. Should he let himself be frightened out of it by a newspaper woman who lived at the top of the hill? Hardly!
None the less, he realised that a man might firmly believe in Affinity, and, through a chain of unfortunate circumstances, become the victim of Propinquity. He had known of such instances and was now face to face with the dilemma.
Then his face flooded with dull colour. “Darn it,” he said to himself, savagely, “what an unmitigated cad I am! All this is on the assumption that she's likely to fall on my neck at any minute! Lord!”
Yet there was a certain comfort in the knowledge that he was safe, even if he should fall in love with Miss Thorne. That disdainful young woman would save him from himself, undoubtedly, when he reached the danger point, if not before.
“I wonder how a fellow would go about it anyway,” he thought. “He couldn't make any sentimental remarks, without being instantly frozen. She's like the Boston girls we read about in the funny papers. He couldn't give her things, either, except flowers or books, or sweets, or music. She has more books than she wants, because she reviews'em for the paper, and I don't think she's musical. She doesn't look like the candy fiends, and I imagine she'd pitch a box of chocolates into the sad sea, or give it to Hepsey. There's nothing left but flowers—and I suppose she wouldn't notice'em.
“A man would have to teach her to like him, and, on my soul, I don't know how he'd do that. Constant devotion wouldn't have any effect—I doubt if she'd permit it; and a fellow might stay away from her for six months, without a sign from her. I guess she's cold—no, she isn't, either—eyes and temper like hers don't go with the icebergs.
“I—that is, he couldn't take her out, because there's no place to go. It's different in the city, of course, but if he happened to meet her in the country, as I've done—
“Might ask her to drive, possibly, if I could rent Alfred and Mamie for a few hours—no, we'd have to have the day, for anything over two miles, and that wouldn't be good form, without a chaperone. Not that she needs one—she's equal to any emergency, I fancy. Besides, she wouldn't go. If I could get those two plugs up the hill, without pushing 'em, gravity would take'em back, but I couldn't ask her to walk up the hill after the pleasure excursion was over. I don't believe a drive would entertain her.
“Perhaps she'd like to fish—no, she wouldn't, for she said she didn't like worms. Might sail on the briny deep, except that there's no harbour within ten miles, and she wouldn't trust her fair young life to me. She'd be afraid I'd drown her.
“I suppose the main idea is to cultivate a clinging dependence, but I'd like to see the man who could woo any dependence from Miss Thorne. She holds her head like a thoroughbred touched with the lash. She said she was afraid of Carlton, but I guess she was just trying to be pleasant. I'll tell him about it—no, I won't, for I said I wouldn't.
“I wish there was some other girl here for me to talk to, but I'll be lucky if I can get along peaceably with the one already here. I'll have to discover all her pet prejudices and be careful not to walk on any of 'em. There's that crazy woman, for instance—I mustn't allude to her, even respectfully, if I'm to have any softening feminine influence about me before I go back to town. She didn't seem to believe I had any letter from Carlton—that's what comes of being careless.
“I shouldn't have told her that people said she had large feet and wore men's shoes. She's got a pretty foot; I noticed it particularly before I spoke—I suppose she didn't like that—most girls wouldn't, I guess, but she took it as a hunter takes a fence. Even after that, she said she'd help me be patient, and last night, when she said she'd read the papers to me—she was awfully sweet to me then.
“Perhaps she likes me a little bit—I hope so. She'd never care very much for anybody, though—she's too independent. She wouldn't even let me help her up the hill; I don't know whether it was independence, or whether she didn't want me to touch her. If we ever come to a place where she has to be helped, I suppose I'll have to put gloves on, or let her hold one end of a stick while I hang on to the other.
“Still she didn't take her hand away last night, when I grabbed it. Probably she was thinking about something else, and didn't notice. It's a particularly nice hand to hold, but I'll never have another chance, I guess.
“Carlton said she'd take the conceit out of me, if I had any. I'm glad he didn't put that in the letter, still it doesn't matter, since I've lost it. I wish I hadn't, for what he said about me was really very nice. Carlton is a good fellow.
“How she lit on me when I thought the crazy person might make a good special! Jerusalem! I felt like the dust under her feet. I'd be glad to have anybody stand up for me, like that, but nobody ever will. She's mighty pretty when she's angry, but I'd rather she wouldn't get huffy at me. She's a tremendously nice girl—there's no doubt of that.”
At this juncture, Joe came out on the porch, hat in hand. “Mornin', Mr. Winfield.”
“Good morning, Joe; how are your troubles this morning?”
“They're ill right, I guess,” he replied, pleased with the air of comradeship. “Want me to read the paper to yer?”
“No, thank you, Joe, not this morning.”
The tone was a dismissal, but Joe lingered, shifting from one foot to the other. “Ain't I done it to suit yer?”
“Quite so,” returned Winfield, serenely.
“I don't mind doin' it,” Joe continued, after a long silence. “I won't charge yer nothin'.”
“You're very kind, Joe, but I don't care about it to-day.” Winfield rose and walked to the other end of the porch. The apple trees were in bloom, and every wandering wind was laden with sweetness. Even the gnarled old tree in Miss Hathaway's yard, that had been out of bearing for many a year, had put forth a bough of fragrant blossoms. He saw it from where he stood; a mass of pink and white against the turquoise sky, and thought that Miss Thorne would make a charming picture if she stood beneath the tree with the blown petals drifting around her.
He lingered upon the vision till Joe spoke again. “Be you goin' up to Miss Hathaway's this mornin'?”
“Why, I don't know,” Winfield answered somewhat resentfully, “why?”
“'Cause I wouldn't go—not if I was in your place.”
“Why?” he demanded, facing him.
“Miss Hathaway's niece, she's sick.”
“Sick!” repeated Winfield, in sudden fear, “what's the matter!”
“Oh, 't ain't nothin' serious, I reckon, cause she's up and around. I've just come from there, and Hepsey said that all night Miss Thorne was a-cryin', and that this mornin' she wouldn't eat no breakfast. She don't never eat much, but this mornin' she wouldn't eat nothin', and she wouldn't say what was wrong with her.”
Winfield's face plainly showed his concern.
“She wouldn't eat nothin' last night, neither,” Joe went on. “Hepsey told me this mornin' that she thought p'raps you and her had fit. She's your girl, ain't she?”
“No,” replied Winfield, “she isn't my girl, and we haven't 'fit.' I'm sorry she isn't well.”
He paced back and forth moodily, while Joe watched him in silence. “Well,” he said, at length, “I reckon I'll be movin' along. I just thought I'd tell yer.”
There was no answer, and Joe slammed the gate in disgust. “I wonder what's the matter,” thought Winfield. “'T isn't a letter, for to-day's mail hasn't come and she was all right last night. Perhaps she isn't ill—she said she cried when she was angry. Great Heavens! I hope she isn't angry at me!
“She was awfully sweet to me just before I left her,” he continued, mentally, “so I'm not to blame. I wonder if she's angry at herself because she offered to read the papers to me?”
All unknowingly he had arrived at the cause of Miss Thorne's unhappiness. During a wakeful, miserable night, she had wished a thousand times that she might take back those few impulsive words.
“That must be it,” he thought, and then his face grew tender. “Bless her sweet heart,” he muttered, apropos of nothing, “I'm not going to make her unhappy. It's only her generous impulse, and I won't let her think it's any more.”
The little maiden of his dreams was but a faint image just then, as he sat down to plan a course of action which would assuage Miss Thorne's tears. A grey squirrel appeared on the gate post, and sat there, calmly, cracking a nut.
He watched the little creature, absently, and then strolled toward the gate. The squirrel seemed tame and did not move until he was almost near enough to touch it, and then it scampered only a little way.
“I'll catch it,” Winfield said to himself, “and take it up to Miss Thorne. Perhaps she'll be pleased.”
It was simple enough, apparently, for the desired gift was always close at hand. He followed it across the hill, and bent a score of times to pick it up, but it was a guileful squirrel and escaped with great regularity.
Suddenly, with a flaunt of its bushy tail and a daring, backward glance, it scampered under the gate into Miss Ainslie's garden and Winfield laughed aloud. He had not known he was so near the other house and was about to retreat when something stopped him.
Miss Ainslie stood in the path just behind the gate, with her face ghastly white and her eyes wide with terror, trembling like a leaf. There was a troubled silence, then she said, thickly, “Go!”
“I beg your pardon,” he answered, hurriedly, “I did not mean to frighten you.”
“Go!” she said again, her lips scarcely moving, “Go!”
“Now what in the mischief have I done;” he thought, as he crept away, feeling like a thief. “I understood that this was a quiet place and yet the strenuous life seems to have struck the village in good earnest.
“What am I, that I should scare the aged and make the young weep? I've always been considered harmless, till now. That must be Miss Thorne's friend, whom I met so unfortunately just now. She's crazy, surely, or she wouldn't have been afraid of me. Poor thing, perhaps I startled her.”
He remembered that she had carried a basket and worn a pair of gardening gloves. Even though her face was so changed, for an instant he had seen its beauty—the deep violet eyes, fair skin, and regular features, surmounted by that wonderful crown of silvered hair.
Conflicting emotions swayed him as he wended his way to the top of the hill, with the morning paper in his pocket as an excuse, if he should need one. When he approached the gate, he was seized by a swift and unexplainable fear, and would have turned back, but Miss Hathaway's door was opened.
Then the little maiden of his dreams vanished, waving her hand in token of eternal farewell, for as Ruth came down the path between the white and purple plumes of lilac, with a smile of welcome upon her lips, he knew that, in all the world, there was nothing half so fair.
The rumble of voices which came from the kitchen was not disturbing, but when the rural lovers began to sit on the piazza, directly under Ruth's window, she felt called upon to remonstrate.
“Hepsey,” she asked, one morning, “why don't you and Joe sit under the trees at the side of the house? You can take your chairs out there.”
“Miss Hathaway allerss let us set on the piazzer,” returned Hepsey, unmoved.
“Miss Hathaway probably sleeps more soundly than I do. You don't want me to hear everything you say, do you?”
Hepsey shrugged her buxom shoulders. “You can if you like, mum.”
“But I don't like,” snapped Ruth. “It annoys me.”
There was an interval of silence, then Hepsey spoke again, of her own accord. “If Joe and me was to set anywheres but in front, he might see the light.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Miss Hathaway, she don't want it talked of, and men folks never can keep secrets,” Hepsey suggested.
“You wouldn't have to tell him, would you?”
“Yes'm. Men folks has got terrible curious minds. They're all right if they don't know there's nothin', but if they does, why they's keen.”
“Perhaps you're right, Hepsey,” she replied, biting her lips. “Sit anywhere you please.”
There were times when Ruth was compelled to admit that Hepsey's mental gifts were fully equal to her own. It was unreasonable to suppose, even for an instant, that Joe and Hepsey had not pondered long and earnestly upon the subject of the light in the attic window, yet the argument was unanswerable. The matter had long since lost its interest for Ruth—perhaps because she was too happy to care.
Winfield had easily acquired the habit of bringing her his morning papers, and, after the first embarrassment, Ruth settled down to it in a businesslike way. Usually, she sat in Miss Hathaway's sewing chair, under a tree a little way from the house, that she might at the same time have a general supervision of her domain, while Winfield stretched himself upon the grass at her feet. When the sun was bright, he wore his dark glasses, thereby gaining an unfair advantage.
After breakfast, which was a movable feast at the “Widder's,” he went after his mail and brought hers also. When he reached the top of the hill, she was always waiting for him.
“This devotion is very pleasing,” he remarked, one morning.
“Some people are easily pleased,” she retorted. “I dislike to spoil your pleasure, but my stern regard for facts compels me to say that it is not Mr. Winfield I wait for, but the postman.”
“Then I'll always be your postman, for I 'do admire' to be waited for, as they have it at the 'Widder's.' Of course, it's more or less of an expense—this morning, for instance, I had to dig up two cents to get one of your valuable manuscripts out of the clutches of an interested government.”
“That's nothing,” she assured him, “for I save you a quarter every day, by taking Joe's place as reader to Your Highness, not to mention the high tariff on the Sunday papers. Besides, the manuscripts are all in now.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” he replied, sitting down on the piazza. “Do you know, Miss Thorne, I think there's a great deal of joyous excitement attached to the pursuit of literature. You send out a story, fondly believing that it is destined to make you famous. Time goes on, and you hear nothing from it. You can see your name 'featured' on the advertisements of the magazine, and hear the heavy tread of the fevered mob, on the way to buy up the edition. In the roseate glow of your fancy, you can see not only your cheque, but the things you're going to buy with it. Perhaps you tell your friends, cautiously, that you're writing for such and such a magazine. Before your joy evaporates, the thing comes back from the Dead Letter Office, because you hadn't put on enough postage, and they wouldn't take it in. Or, perhaps they've written 'Return' on the front page in blue pencil, and all over it are little, dark, four-fingered prints, where the office pup has walked on it.”
“You seem to be speaking from experience.”
“You have guessed it, fair lady, with your usual wonderful insight. Now let's read the paper—do you know, you read much better than Joe does?”
“Really?” Ruth was inclined to be sarcastic, but there was a delicate colour in her cheeks, which pleased his aesthetic sense.
At first, he had had an insatiable thirst for everything in the paper, except the advertisements. The market reports were sacrificed inside of a week, and the obituary notices, weather indications, and foreign despatches soon followed. Later, the literary features were eliminated, but the financial and local news died hard. By the end of June, however, he was satisfied with the headlines.
“No, thank you, I don't want to hear about the murder,” he said, in answer to Ruth's ironical question, “nor yet the Summer styles in sleeves. All that slop on the Woman's Page, about making home happy, is not suited to such as I, and I'll pass.”
“There's a great deal here that's very interesting,” returned Ruth, “and I doubt if I myself could have crammed more solid knowledge into one Woman's Page. Here's a full account of a wealthy lady's Summer home, and a description of a poor woman's garden, and eight recipes, and half a column on how to keep a husband at home nights, and plans for making a china closet out of an old bookcase.”
“If there's anything that makes me dead tired,” remarked Winfield, “it's that homemade furniture business.”
“For once, we agree,” answered Ruth. “I've read about it till I'm completely out of patience. Shirtwaist boxes from soap boxes, dressing tables from packing boxes, couches from cots, hall lamps from old arc light globes, and clothes hampers from barrels—all these I endured, but the last straw was a 'transformed kitchen.'”
“Tell me about it,” begged Winfield, who was enjoying himself hugely.
“The stove was to be set into the wall,” began Ruth, “and surrounded with marble and white tiling, or, if this was too expensive, it was to be hidden from view by a screen of Japanese silk. A nice oak settle, hand carved, which 'the young husband might make in his spare moments,' was to be placed in front of it, and there were to be plate racks and shelves on the walls, to hold the rare china. Charming kitchen!”
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone like stars. “You're an awfully funny girl,” said Winfield, quietly, “to fly into a passion over a 'transformed kitchen' that you never saw. Why don't you save your temper for real things?”
She looked at him, meaningly, and he retreated in good order. “I think I'm a tactful person,” he continued, hurriedly, “because I get on so well with you. Most of the time, we're as contented as two kittens in a basket.”
“My dear Mr. Winfield,” returned Ruth, pleasantly, “you're not only tactful, but modest. I never met a man whose temperament so nearly approached the unassuming violet. I'm afraid you'll never be appreciated in this world—you're too good for it. You must learn to put yourself forward. I expect it will be a shock to your sensitive nature, but it's got to be done.”
“Thank you,” he laughed. “I wish we were in town now, and I'd begin to put myself forward by asking you out to dinner and afterward to the theatre.”
“Why don't you take me out to dinner here?” she asked.
“I wouldn't insult you by offering you the 'Widder's' cooking. I mean a real dinner, with striped ice cream at the end of it.”
“I'll go,” she replied, “I can't resist the blandishments of striped ice cream.”
“Thank you again; that gives me courage to speak of something that has lain very near my heart for a long time.”
“Yes?” said Ruth, conventionally. For the moment she was frightened.
“I've been thinking fondly of your chafing-dish, though I haven't been allowed to see it yet, and I suppose there's nothing in the settlement to cook in it, is there?”
“Nothing much, surely.”
“We might have some stuff sent out from the city, don't you think so?”
“Canned things?”
“Yes—anything that would keep.”
Aided and abetted by Winfield, she made out a list of articles which were unknown to the simple-minded inhabitants of the village.
“I'll attend to the financial part of it,” he said, pocketing the list, “and then, my life will be in your hands.”
After he went away, Ruth wished she knew more about the gentle art of cooking, which, after all, is closely allied to the other one—of making enemies. She decided to dispense with Hepsey's services, when Winfield came up to dinner, and to do everything herself.
She found an old cook book of Aunt Jane's and turned over its pages with new interest. It was in manuscript form, and seemed to represent the culinary knowledge of the entire neighbourhood. Each recipe was duly accredited to its original author, and there were many newspaper clippings, from the despised “Woman's Page” in various journals.
Ruth thought it would be an act of kindness to paste the loose clippings into Aunt Jane's book, and she could look them over as she fastened them in. The work progressed rapidly, until she found a clipping which was not a recipe. It was a perfunctory notice of the death of Charles Winfield, dated almost eighteen years ago.
She remembered the various emotions old newspapers had given her when she first came to Aunt Jane's. This was Abigail Weatherby's husband—he had survived her by a dozen years. “I'm glad it's Charles Winfield instead of Carl,” thought Ruth, as she put it aside, and went on with her work.
“Pantry's come,” announced Winfield, a few days later; “I didn't open it, but I think everything is there. Joe's going to bring it up.”
“Then you can come to dinner Sunday,” answered Ruth, smiling.
“I'll be here,” returned Winfield promptly. “What time do we dine?”
“I don't know exactly. It's better to wait, I think, until Hepsey goes out. She always regards me with more or less suspicion, and it makes me uncomfortable.”
Sunday afternoon, the faithful Joe drove up to the gate, and Hepsey emerged from her small back room, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. She was radiant in a brilliant blue silk, which was festooned at irregular intervals with white silk lace. Her hat was bending beneath its burden of violets and red roses, starred here and there with some unhappy buttercups which had survived the wreck of a previous millinery triumph. Her hands were encased in white cotton gloves, which did not fit.
With Joe's assistance, she entered the vehicle and took her place proudly on the back seat, even while he pleaded for her to sit beside him.
“You know yourself that I can't drive nothin' from the back seat,” he complained.
“Nobody's askin' you to drive nothin' from nowhere,” returned Hepsey, scornfully. “If you can't take me out like a lady, I ain't a-goin'.”
Ruth was dazzled by the magnificence of the spectacle and was unable to take her eyes away from it, even after Joe had turned around and started down hill. She thought Winfield would see them pass his door and time his arrival accordingly, so she was startled when he came up behind her and said, cheerfully:
“They look like a policeman's, don't they?”
“What—who?”
“Hepsey's hands—did you think I meant yours?”
“How long have you been here?”
“Nearly thirty years.”
“That wasn't what I meant,” said Ruth, colouring. “How long have you been at Aunt Jane's?”
“Oh, that's different. When Joe went out to harness his fiery steeds to his imposing chariot, I went around through the woods, across the beach, climbed a vertical precipice, and came up this side of the hill. I had to wait some little time, but I had a front seat during the show.”
He brought out her favourite chair, placing it under the maple tree, then sat down near her. “I should think you'd get some clothes like Hepsey's,” he began. “I'll wager, now, that you haven't a gown like that in your entire wardrobe.”
“You're right—I haven't. The nearest approach to it is a tailored gown, lined with silk, which Hepsey thinks I should wear wrong side out.”
“How long will the coast be clear?”
“Until nine o'clock, I think. They go to church in the evening.”
“It's half past three now,” he observed, glancing at his watch. “I had fried salt pork, fried eggs, and fried potatoes for breakfast. I've renounced coffee, for I can't seem to get used to theirs. For dinner, we had round steak, fried, more fried potatoes, and boiled onions. Dried apple pie for dessert—I think I'd rather have had the mince I refused this morning.”
“I'll feed you at five o'clock,” she said, smiling.
“That seems like a long time,” he complained.
“It won't, after you begin to entertain me.”
It was after five before either realised it. “Come on,” she said, “you can sit in the kitchen and watch me.”
He professed great admiration while she put on one of Hepsey's white aprons, and when she appeared with the chafing-dish, his emotion was beyond speech. He was allowed to open the box and to cut up some button mushrooms, while she shredded cold chicken. “I'm getting hungry every minute,” he said, “and if there is undue postponement, I fear I shall assimilate all the raw material in sight—including the cook.”
Ruth laughed happily. She was making a sauce with real cream, seasoned delicately with paprika and celery salt. “Now I'll put in the chicken and mushrooms,” she said, “and you can stir it while I make toast.”
They were seated at the table in the dining-room and the fun was at its height, when they became aware of a presence. Hepsey stood in the door, apparently transfixed with surprise, and with disapproval evident in every line of her face. Before either could speak, she was gone.
Though Ruth was very much annoyed, the incident seemingly served to accentuate Winfield's enjoyment. The sound of wheels on the gravel outside told them that she was continuing her excursion.
“I'm going to discharge her to-morrow,” Ruth said.
“You can't—she is in Miss Hathaway's service, not yours. Besides, what has she done? She came back, probably, after something she had forgotten. You have no reasonable ground for discharging her, and I think you'd be more uncomfortable if she went than if she stayed.”
“Perhaps you're right,” she admitted.
“I know how you feel about it,” he went on, “but I hope you won't let her distress you. It doesn't make a bit of difference to me; she's only amusing. Please don't bother about it.”
“I won't,” said Ruth, “that is, I'll try not to.”
They piled the dishes in the sink, “as a pleasant surprise for Hepsey,” he said, and the hours passed as if on wings. It was almost ten o'clock before it occurred to Winfield that his permanent abode was not Miss Hathaway's parlour.
As they stood at the door, talking, the last train came in. “Do you know,” said Winfield, “that every night, just as that train comes in, your friend down there puts a candle in her front window?”
“Well,” rejoined Ruth, sharply, “what of it? It's a free country, isn't it?”
“Very. Untrammelled press and highly independent women. Good night, Miss Thorne. I'll be up the first thing in the morning.”
She was about to speak, but slammed the door instead, and was displeased when she heard a smothered laugh from outside.