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diff --git a/1266-0.txt b/1266-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5a72fa3 --- /dev/null +++ b/1266-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6098 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1266 *** + +LAVENDER AND OLD LACE + +By Myrtle Reed + +1902 + + + + + I. THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW + II. THE ATTIC. + III. MISS AINSLIE + IV. A GUEST + V. THE RUMOURS OF THE VALLEY + VI. THE GARDEN + VII. THE MAN WHO HESITATES + VIII. SUMMER DAYS + IX. BY HUMBLE MEANS + X. LOVE LETTERS + XI. THE ROSE OF ALL THE WORLD + XII. BRIDE AND GROOM + XIII. PLANS + XIV. “FOR REMEMBRANCE” + XV. THE SECRET AND THE DREAM + XVI. SOME ONE WHO LOVED HER + XVII. DAWN + + + + +I. The Light in the Window + +A rickety carriage was slowly ascending the hill, and from the place of +honour on the back seat, the single passenger surveyed the country +with interest and admiration. The driver of that ancient chariot was +an awkward young fellow, possibly twenty-five years of age, with sharp +knees, large, red hands, high cheek-bones, and abundant hair of a shade +verging upon orange. He was not unpleasant to look upon, however, for +he had a certain evident honesty, and he was disposed to be friendly to +every one. + +“Be you comfortable, Miss?” he asked, with apparent solicitude. + +“Very comfortable, thank you,” was the quiet response. He urged his +venerable steeds to a gait of about two miles an hour, then turned +sideways. + +“Be you goin' to stay long, Miss?” + +“All Summer, I think.” + +“Do tell!” + +The young woman smiled in listless amusement, but Joe took it for +conversational encouragement. “City folks is dretful bashful when they's +away from home,” he said to himself. He clucked again to his unheeding +horses, shifted his quid, and was casting about for a new topic when a +light broke in upon him. + +“I guess, now, that you're Miss Hathaway's niece, what's come to stay in +her house while she goes gallivantin' and travellin' in furrin parts, be +n't you?” + +“I am Miss Hathaway's niece, and I have never been here before. Where +does she live?” + +“Up yander.” + +He flourished the discarded fish-pole which served as a whip, and +pointed out a small white house on the brow of the hill. Reflection +brought him the conviction that his remark concerning Miss Hathaway was +a social mistake, since his passenger sat very straight, and asked no +more questions. + +The weary wheels creaked, but the collapse which Miss Thorne momentarily +expected was mercifully postponed. Being gifted with imagination, +she experienced the emotion of a wreck without bodily harm. As in a +photograph, she beheld herself suddenly projected into space, followed +by her suit case, felt her new hat wrenched from her head, and saw +hopeless gravel stains upon the tailored gown which was the pride of her +heart. She thought a sprained ankle would be the inevitable outcome of +the fall, but was spared the pain of it, for the inability to realise an +actual hurt is the redeeming feature of imagination. + +Suddenly there was a snort of terror from one of the horses, and the +carriage stopped abruptly. Ruth clutched her suit case and umbrella, +instantly prepared for the worst; but Joe reassured her. + +“Now don't you go and get skeered, Miss,” he said, kindly; “'taint +nothin' in the world but a rabbit. Mamie can't never get used to +rabbits, someways.” He indicated one of the horses--a high, raw-boned +animal, sketched on a generous plan, whose ribs and joints protruded, +and whose rough white coat had been weather-worn to grey. + +“Hush now, Mamie,” he said; “'taint nothin'.” + +“Mamie” looked around inquiringly, with one ear erect and the other at +an angle. A cataract partially concealed one eye, but in the other was +a world of wickedness and knowledge, modified by a certain lady-like +reserve. + +“G' long, Mamie!” + +Ruth laughed as the horse resumed motion in mincing, maidenly steps. +“What's the other one's name?” she asked. + +“Him? His name's Alfred. Mamie's his mother.” + +Miss Thorne endeavoured to conceal her amusement and Joe was pleased +because the ice was broken. “I change their names every once in a +while,” he said, “'cause it makes some variety, but now I've named'em +about all the names I know.” + +The road wound upward in its own lazy fashion, and there were trees +at the left, though only one or two shaded the hill itself. As they +approached the summit, a girl in a blue gingham dress and a neat white +apron came out to meet them. + +“Come right in, Miss Thorne,” she said, “and I'll explain it to you.” + +Ruth descended, inwardly vowing that she would ride no more in Joe's +carriage, and after giving some directions about her trunk, followed her +guide indoors. + +The storm-beaten house was certainly entitled to the respect accorded to +age. It was substantial, but unpretentious in outline, and had not been +painted for a long time. The faded green shutters blended harmoniously +with the greyish white background, and the piazza, which was evidently +an unhappy afterthought of the architect, had two or three new shingles +on its roof. + +“You see it's this way, Miss Thorne,” the maid began, volubly; “Miss +Hathaway, she went earlier than she laid out to, on account of the folks +decidin' to take a steamer that sailed beforehand--before the other one, +I mean. She went in sech a hurry that she didn't have time to send you +word and get an answer, but she's left a letter here for you, for she +trusted to your comin'.” + +Miss Thorne laid her hat and jacket aside and settled herself +comfortably in a rocker. The maid returned presently with a letter which +Miss Hathaway had sealed with half an ounce of red wax, presumably in a +laudable effort to remove temptation from the path of the red-cheeked, +wholesome, farmer's daughter who stood near by with her hands on her +hips. + +“Miss Ruth Thorne,” the letter began, + +“Dear Niece: + +“I am writing this in a hurry, as we are going a week before we expected +to. I think you will find everything all right. Hepsey will attend to +the house-keeping, for I don't suppose you know much about it, coming +from the city. She's a good-hearted girl, but she's set in her ways, and +you'll have to kinder give in to her, but any time when you can't, just +speak to her sharp and she'll do as you tell her. + +“I have left money enough for the expenses until I come back, in a +little box on the top shelf of the closet in the front room, under a +pile of blankets and comfortables. The key that unlocks it is hung on +a nail driven into the back of the old bureau in the attic. I believe +Hepsey is honest and reliable, but I don't believe in tempting folks. + +“When I get anywhere where I can, I will write and send you my address, +and then you can tell me how things are going at home. The catnip is +hanging from the rafters in the attic, in case you should want some tea, +and the sassafras is in the little drawer in the bureau that's got the +key hanging behind it. + +“If there's anything else you should want, I reckon Hepsey will know +where to find it. Hoping that this will find you enjoying the great +blessing of good health, I remain, + +“Your Affectionate Aunt, + +“JANE HATHAWAY. + +“P. S. You have to keep a lamp burning every night in the east window of +the attic. Be careful that nothing catches afire.” + +The maid was waiting, in fear and trembling, for she did not know what +directions her eccentric mistress might have left. + +“Everything is all right, Hepsey,” said Miss Thorne, pleasantly, “and I +think you and I will get along nicely. Did Miss Hathaway tell you what +room I was to have?” + +“No'm. She told me you was to make yourself at home. She said you could +sleep where you pleased.” + +“Very well, I will go up and see for myself. I would like my tea at six +o'clock.” She still held the letter in her hand, greatly to the chagrin +of Hepsey, who was interested in everything and had counted upon a peep +at it. It was not Miss Hathaway's custom to guard her letters and she +was both surprised and disappointed. + +As Ruth climbed the narrow stairway, the quiet, old-fashioned house +brought balm to her tired soul. It was exquisitely clean, redolent of +sweet herbs, and in its atmosphere was a subtle, Puritan restraint. + +Have not our houses, mute as they are, their own way of conveying an +impression? One may go into a house which has been empty for a long +time, and yet feel, instinctively, what sort of people were last +sheltered there. The silent walls breathe a message to each visitor, and +as the footfalls echo in the bare cheerless rooms, one discovers where +Sorrow and Trouble had their abode, and where the light, careless +laughter of gay Bohemia lingered until dawn. At night, who has not heard +ghostly steps upon the stairs, the soft closing of unseen doors, the +tapping on a window, and, perchance, a sigh or the sound of tears? Timid +souls may shudder and be afraid, but wiser folk smile, with reminiscent +tenderness, when the old house dreams. + +As she wandered through the tiny, spotless rooms on the second floor of +Miss Hathaway's house, Ruth had a sense of security and peace which +she had never known before. There were two front rooms, of equal size, +looking to the west, and she chose the one on the left, because of its +two south windows. There was but one other room, aside from the small +one at the end of the hall, which, as she supposed, was Hepsey's. + +One of the closets was empty, but on a shelf in the other was a +great pile of bedding. She dragged a chair inside, burrowed under the +blankets, and found a small wooden box, the contents clinking softly as +she drew it toward her. + +Holding it under her arm, she ascended the narrow, spiral stairs which +led to the attic. At one end, under the eaves, stood an old mahogany +dresser. The casters were gone and she moved it with difficulty, but the +slanting sunbeams of late afternoon revealed the key, which hung, as her +aunt had written, on a nail driven into the back of it. + +She knew, without trying, that it would fit the box, but idly turned the +lock. As she opened it, a bit of paper fluttered out, and, picking it +up, she read in her aunt's cramped, But distinct hand: “Hepsey gets a +dollar and a half every week. Don't you pay her no more.” + +As the house was set some distance back, the east window in the attic +was the only one which commanded a view of the sea. A small table, with +its legs sawed off, came exactly to the sill, and here stood a lamp, +which was a lamp simply, without adornment, and held about a pint of +oil. + +She read the letter again and, having mastered its contents, tore it +into small pieces, with that urban caution which does not come amiss in +the rural districts. She understood that every night of her stay she +was to light this lamp with her own hands, but why? The varnish on +the table, which had once been glaring, was scratched with innumerable +rings, where the rough glass had left its mark. Ruth wondered if she +were face to face with a mystery. + +The seaward side of the hill was a rocky cliff, and between the +vegetable garden at the back of the house and the edge of the precipice +were a few stumps, well-nigh covered with moss. From her vantage point, +she could see the woods which began at the base of the hill, on the +north side, and seemed to end at the sea. On the south, there were a few +trees near the cliff, but others near them had been cut down. + +Still farther south and below the hill was a grassy plain, through which +a glistening river wound slowly to the ocean. Willows grew along its +margin, tipped with silvery green, and with masses of purple twilight +tangled in the bare branches below. + +Ruth opened the window and drew a long breath. Her senses had been +dulled by the years in the city, but childhood, hidden though not +forgotten, came back as if by magic, with that first scent of sea and +Spring. + +As yet, she had not fully realised how grateful she was for this little +time away from her desk and typewriter. The managing editor had promised +her the same position, whenever she chose to go back, and there was a +little hoard in the savings-bank, which she would not need to touch, +owing to the kindness of this eccentric aunt, whom she had never seen. + +The large room was a typical attic, with its spinning-wheel and +discarded furniture--colonial mahogany that would make many a city +matron envious, and for which its owner cared little or nothing. There +were chests of drawers, two or three battered trunks, a cedar chest, and +countless boxes, of various sizes. Bunches of sweet herbs hung from the +rafters, but there were no cobwebs, because of Miss Hathaway's perfect +housekeeping. + +Ruth regretted the cobwebs and decided not to interfere, should the tiny +spinners take advantage of Aunt Jane's absence. She found an old chair +which was unsteady on its rockers but not yet depraved enough to betray +one's confidence. Moving it to the window, she sat down and looked out +at the sea, where the slow boom of the surf came softly from the shore, +mingled with the liquid melody of returning breakers. + +The first grey of twilight had come upon the world before she thought +of going downstairs. A match-safe hung upon the window casing, newly +filled, and, mindful of her trust, she lighted the lamp and closed the +window. Then a sudden scream from the floor below startled her. + +“Miss Thorne! Miss Thorne!” cried a shrill voice. “Come here! Quick!” + +White as a sheet, Ruth flew downstairs and met Hepsey in the hall. “What +on earth is the matter!” she gasped. + +“Joe's come with your trunk,” responded that volcanic young woman, +amiably; “where'd you want it put?” + +“In the south front room,” she answered, still frightened, but glad +nothing more serious had happened. “You mustn't scream like that.” + +“Supper's ready,” resumed Hepsey, nonchalantly, and Ruth followed her +down to the little dining-room. + +As she ate, she plied the maid with questions. “Does Miss Hathaway light +that lamp in the attic every night?” + +“Yes'm. She cleans it and fills it herself, and she puts it out every +morning. She don't never let me touch it.” + +“Why does she keep it there?” + +“D' know. She d' know, neither.” + +“Why, Hepsey, what do you mean? Why does she do it if she doesn't know +why she does it?” + +“D'know.'Cause she wants to, I reckon.” + +“She's been gone a week, hasn't she?” + +“No'm. Only six days. It'll be a week to-morrer.” + +Hepsey's remarks were short and jerky, as a rule, and had a certain +explosive force. + +“Hasn't the lamp been lighted since she went away?” + +“Yes'm. I was to do it till you come, and after you got here I was to +ask you every night if you'd forgot it.” + +Ruth smiled because Aunt Jane's old-fashioned exactness lingered in her +wake. “Now see here, Hepsey,” she began kindly, “I don't know and you +don't know, but I'd like to have you tell me what you think about it.” + +“I d' know, as you say, mum, but I think--” here she lowered her +voice--“I think it has something to do with Miss Ainslie.” + +“Who is Miss Ainslie?” + +“She's a peculiar woman, Miss Ainslie is,” the girl explained, smoothing +her apron, “and she lives down the road a piece, in the valley as, you +may say. She don't never go nowheres, Miss Ainslie don't, but folks goes +to see her. She's got a funny house--I've been inside of it sometimes +when I've been down on errands for Miss Hathaway. She ain't got no +figgered wall paper, nor no lace curtains, and she ain't got no rag +carpets neither. Her floors is all kinder funny, and she's got heathen +things spread down onto'em. Her house is full of heathen things, and +sometimes she wears'em.” + +“Wears what, Hepsey? The 'heathen things' in the house?” + +“No'm. Other heathen things she's got put away somewheres. She's got +money, I guess, but she's got furniture in her parlour that's just like +what Miss Hathaway's got set away in the attic. We wouldn't use them +kind of things, nohow,” she added complacently. + +“Does she live all alone?” + +“Yes'm. Joe, he does her errands and other folks stops in sometimes, but +Miss Ainslie ain't left her front yard for I d' know how long. Some says +she's cracked, but she's the best housekeeper round here, and if she +hears of anybody that's sick or in trouble, she allers sends'em things. +She ain't never been up here, but Miss Hathaway, she goes down there +sometimes, and she'n Miss Ainslie swaps cookin' quite regler. I have to +go down there with a plate of somethin' Miss Hathaway's made, and Miss +Ainslie allers says: 'Wait just a moment, please, Hepsey, I would like +to send Miss Hathaway a jar of my preserves.'” + +She relapsed unconsciously into imitation of Miss Ainslie's speech. In +the few words, softened, and betraying a quaint stateliness, Ruth caught +a glimpse of an old-fashioned gentlewoman, reserved and yet gracious. + +She folded her napkin, saying: “You make the best biscuits I ever +tasted, Hepsey.” The girl smiled, but made no reply. + +“What makes you think Miss Ainslie has anything to do with the light?” + she inquired after a little. + +“'Cause there wasn't no light in that winder when I first +come--leastways, not as I know of--and after I'd been here a week or so, +Miss Hathaway, she come back from there one day looking kinder strange. +She didn't say much; but the next mornin' she goes down to town and buys +that lamp, and she saws off them table legs herself. Every night since, +that light's been a-goin', and she puts it out herself every mornin' +before she comes downstairs.” + +“Perhaps she and Miss Ainslie had been talking of shipwreck, and she +thought she would have a little lighthouse of her own,” Miss Thorne +suggested, when the silence became oppressive. + +“P'raps so,” rejoined Hepsey. She had become stolid again. + +Ruth pushed her chair back and stood at the dining-room window a moment, +looking out into the yard. The valley was in shadow, but the last light +still lingered on the hill. “What's that, Hepsey?” she asked. + +“What's what?” + +“That--where the evergreen is coming up out of the ground, in the shape +of a square.” + +“That's the cat's grave, mum. She died jest afore Miss Hathaway went +away, and she planted the evergreen.” + +“I thought something was lacking,” said Ruth, half to herself. + +“Do you want a kitten, Miss Thorne?” inquired Hepsey, eagerly. “I reckon +I can get you one--Maltese or white, just as you like.” + +“No, thank you, Hepsey; I don't believe I'll import any pets.” + +“Jest as you say, mum. It's sorter lonesome, though, with no cat; and +Miss Hathaway said she didn't want no more.” + +Speculating upon the departed cat's superior charms, that made +substitution seem like sacrilege to Miss Hathaway, Ruth sat down for a +time in the old-fashioned parlour, where the shabby haircloth +furniture was ornamented with “tidies” to the last degree. There was +a marble-topped centre table in the room, and a basket of wax flowers +under a glass case, Mrs. Hemans's poems, another book, called The Lady's +Garland, and the family Bible were carefully arranged upon it. + +A hair wreath, also sheltered by glass, hung on the wall near another +collection of wax flowers suitably framed. There were various portraits +of people whom Miss Thorne did not know, though she was a near relative +of their owner, and two tall, white china vases, decorated with gilt, +flanked the mantel-shelf. The carpet, which was once of the speaking +variety, had faded to the listening point. Coarse lace curtains hung +from brass rings on wooden poles, and red cotton lambrequins were +festooned at the top. + +Hepsey came in to light the lamp that hung by chains over the table, +but Miss Thorne rose, saying: “You needn't mind, Hepsey, as I am going +upstairs.” + +“Want me to help you unpack?” she asked, doubtless wishing for a view of +“city clothes.” + +“No, thank you.” + +“I put a pitcher of water in your room, Miss Thorne. Is there anything +else you would like?” + +“Nothing more, thank you.” + +She still lingered, irresolute, shifting from one foot to the other. +“Miss Thorne--” she began hesitatingly. + +“Yes?” + +“Be you--be you a lady detective?” Ruth's clear laughter rang out on the +evening air. “Why, no, you foolish girl; I'm a newspaper woman, and I've +earned a rest--that's all. You mustn't read books with yellow covers.” + +Hepsey withdrew, muttering vague apologies, and Ruth found her at the +head of the stairs when she went up to her room. “How long have you been +with Miss Hathaway?” she asked. + +“Five years come next June.” + +“Good night, Hepsey.” + +“Good night, Miss Thorne.” + +From sheer force of habit, Ruth locked her door. Her trunk was not a +large one, and it did not take her long to put her simple wardrobe into +the capacious closet and the dresser drawers. As she moved the empty +trunk into the closet, she remembered the box of money that she had +left in the attic, and went up to get it. When she returned she heard +Hepsey's door close softly. + +“Silly child,” she said to herself. “I might just as well ask her if she +isn't a'lady detective.' They'll laugh about that in the office when I +go back.” + +She sat down, rocking contentedly, for it was April, and she would not +have to go back until Aunt Jane came home, probably about the first of +October. She checked off the free, health-giving months on her tired +fingers, that would know the blue pencil and the typewriter no more +until Autumn, when she would be strong again and the quivering nerves +quite steady. + +She blessed the legacy which had fallen into Jane Hathaway's lap and led +her, at fifty-five, to join a “personally conducted” party to the Old +World. Ruth had always had a dim yearning for foreign travel, but just +now she felt no latent injustice, such as had often rankled in her soul +when her friends went and she remained at home. + +Thinking she heard Hepsey in the hall, and not caring to arouse further +suspicion, she put out her light and sat by the window, with the +shutters wide open. + +Far down the hill, where the road became level again, and on the left +as she looked toward the village, was the white house, surrounded by a +garden and a hedge, which she supposed was Miss Ainslie's. A timid +chirp came from the grass, and the faint, sweet smell of growing things +floated in through the open window at the other end of the room. + +A train from the city sounded a warning whistle as it approached the +station, and then a light shone on the grass in front of Miss Ainslie's +house. It was a little gleam, evidently from a candle. + +“So she's keeping a lighthouse, too,” thought Ruth. The train pulled out +of the station and half an hour afterward the light disappeared. + +She meditated upon the general subject of illumination while she got +ready for bed, but as soon as her head touched the pillow she lost +consciousness and knew no more until the morning light crept into her +room. + + + + +II. The Attic + +The maid sat in the kitchen, wondering why Miss Thorne did not come +down. It was almost seven o'clock, and Miss Hathaway's breakfast hour +was half past six. Hepsey did not frame the thought, but she had a vague +impression that the guest was lazy. + +Yet she was grateful for the new interest which had come into +her monotonous life. Affairs moved like clock work at Miss +Hathaway's--breakfast at half past six, dinner at one, and supper at +half past five. Each day was also set apart by its regular duties, from +the washing on Monday to the baking on Saturday. + +Now it was possible that there might be a change. Miss Thorne seemed +fully capable of setting the house topsy-turvy--and Miss Hathaway's last +injunction had been: “Now, Hepsey, you mind Miss Thorne. If I hear that +you don't, you'll lose your place.” + +The young woman who slumbered peacefully upstairs, while the rest of the +world was awake, had, from the beginning, aroused admiration in +Hepsey's breast. It was a reluctant, rebellious feeling, mingled with an +indefinite fear, but it was admiration none the less. + +During the greater part of a wondering, wakeful night, the excited +Hepsey had seen Miss Thorne as plainly as when she first entered the +house. The tall, straight, graceful figure was familiar by this time, +and the subdued silken rustle of her skirts was a wonted sound. Ruth's +face, naturally mobile, had been schooled into a certain reserve, but +her deep, dark eyes were eloquent, and always would be. Hepsey wondered +at the opaque whiteness of her skin and the baffling arrangement of her +hair. The young women of the village had rosy cheeks, but Miss Thorne's +face was colourless, except for her lips. + +It was very strange, Hepsey thought, for Miss Hathaway to sail before +her niece came, if, indeed, Miss Thorne was her niece. There was a +mystery in the house on the hilltop, which she had tried in vain to +fathom. Foreign letters came frequently, no two of them from the same +person, and the lamp in the attic window had burned steadily every night +for five years. Otherwise, everything was explainable and sane. + +Still, Miss Thorne did not seem even remotely related to her aunt, and +Hepsey had her doubts. Moreover, the guest had an uncanny gift which +amounted to second sight. How did she know that all of Hepsey's books +had yellow covers? Miss Hathaway could not have told her in the letter, +for the mistress was not awire of her maid's literary tendencies. + +It was half past seven, but no sound came from upstairs. She replenished +the fire and resumed meditation. Whatever Miss Thorne might prove to be, +she was decidedly interesting. It wis pleasant to watch her, to feel the +subtle refinement of all her belongings, and to wonder what was going to +happen next. Perhaps Miss Thorne would take her back to the city, as +her maid, when Miss Hathaway came home, for, in the books, such things +frequently happened. Would she go? Hepsey was trying to decide, when +there was a light, rapid step on the stairs, a moment's hesitation in +the hall, and Miss Thorne came into the dining-room. + +“Good morning, Hepsey,” she said, cheerily; “am I late?” + +“Yes'm. It's goin' on eight, and Miss Hathaway allers has breakfast at +half past six.” + +“How ghastly,” Ruth thought. “I should have told you,” she said, “I will +have mine at eight.” + +“Yes'm,” replied Hepsey, apparently unmoved. “What time do you want +dinner?” + +“At six o'clock--luncheon at half past one.” + +Hepsey was puzzled, but in a few moments she understood that dinner was +to be served at night and supper at midday. Breakfast had already been +moved forward an hour and a half, and stranger things might happen at +any minute. + +Ruth had several other reforms in mind, but deemed it best to wait. +After breakfast, she remembered the lamp in the window and went up to +put it out. + +It was still burning when she reached it, though the oil was almost +gone, and, placing it by the stairway, that she might not forget to have +it filled, she determined to explore the attic to her heart's content. + +The sunlight streamed through the east window and searched the farthest +corners of the room. The floor was bare and worn, but carefully swept, +and the things that were stored there were huddled together far back +under the eaves, as if to make room for others. + +It was not idle curiosity, but delicate sentiment, that made Ruth eager +to open the trunks and dresser drawers, and to turn over the contents of +the boxes that were piled together and covered with dust. The interest +of the lower part of the house paled in comparison with the first real +attic she had ever been in. + +After all, why not? Miss Hathaway was her aunt,--her mother's only +sister,--and the house was in her care. There was no earthly reason +why she should not amuse herself in her own way. Ruth's instincts were +against it, but Reason triumphed. + +The bunches of dried herbs, hanging from the rafters and swaying back +and forth in ghostly fashion, gave out a wholesome fragrance, and +when she opened trunks whose lids creaked on their rusty hinges, +dried rosemary, lavender, and sweet clover filled the room with that +long-stored sweetness which is the gracious handmaiden of Memory. + +Miss Hathaway was a thrifty soul, but she never stored discarded +clothing that might be of use to any one, and so Ruth found no +moth-eaten garments of bygone pattern, but only things which seemed to +be kept for the sake of their tender associations. + +There were letters, on whose yellowed pages the words had long since +faded, a dogeared primer, and several well worn schoolbooks, each having +on its fly-leaf: “Jane Hathaway, Her Book”; scraps of lace, brocade ard +rustling taffeta, quilt patterns, needlebooks, and all of the eloquent +treasures that a well stored attic can yield. + +As she replaced them, singing softly to herself, a folded newspaper +slipped to the floor. It was yellow and worn, like the letters, and +she unfolded it carefully. It was over thirty years old, and around +a paragraph on the last page a faint line still lingered. It was an +announcement of the marriage of Charles G. Winfield, captain of the +schooner Mary, to Miss Abigail Weatherby. + +“Abigail Weatherby,” she said aloud. The name had a sweet, old-fashioned +sound. “They must have been Aunt Jane's friends.” She closed the trunk +and pushed it back to its place, under the eaves. + +In a distant corner was the old cedar chest, heavily carved. She pulled +it out into the light, her cheeks glowing with quiet happiness, and sat +down on the floor beside it. It was evidently Miss Hathaway's treasure +box, put away in the attic when spinsterhood was confirmed by the +fleeting years. + +On top, folded carefully in a sheet, was a gown of white brocade, +short-waisted and quaint, trimmed with pearl passementerie. The neck was +square, cut modestly low, and filled in with lace of a delicate, frosty +pattern--Point d'Alencon. Underneath the gown lay piles of lingerie, all +of the finest linen, daintily made by hand. Some of it was trimmed with +real lace, some with crocheted edging, and the rest with hemstitched +ruffles and feather-stitching. + +There was another gown, much worn, of soft blue cashmere, some +sea-shells, a necklace of uncut turquoises, the colour changed to green, +a prayer-book, a little hymnal, and a bundle of letters, tied with +a faded blue ribbon, which she did not touch. There was but one +picture--an ambrotype, in an ornate case, of a handsome young man, with +that dashing, dare-devil look in his eyes which has ever been attractive +to women. + +Ruth smiled as she put the treasures away, thinking that, had Fate +thrown the dice another way, the young man might have been her esteemed +and respected uncle. Then, all at once, it came to her that she had +unthinkingly stumbled upon her aunt's romance. + +She was not a woman to pry into others' secrets, and felt guilty as she +fled from the attic, taking the lamp with her. Afterward, as she sat on +the narrow piazza, basking in the warm Spring sunshine, she pieced out +the love affair of Jane Hathaway's early girlhood after her own fashion. + +She could see it all plainly. Aunt Jane had expected to be married +to the dashing young man and had had her trousseau in readiness, when +something happened. The folded paper would indicate that he was Charles +Winfield, who had married some one else, but whether Aunt Jane had +broken her engagement, or the possible Uncle Charles had simply taken a +mate without any such formality, was a subject of conjecture. + +Still, if the recreant lover had married another, would Aunt Jane have +kept her treasure chest and her wedding gown? Ruth knew that she herself +would not, but she understood that aunts were in a class by themselves. +It was possible that Charles Winfield was an earlier lover, and she had +kept the paper without any special motive, or, perhaps, for “auld lang +syne.” + +Probably the letters would have disclosed the mystery, and the newspaper +instinct, on the trail of a “story,” was struggling with her sense of +honour, but not for the world, now that she knew, would Ruth have read +the yellowed pages, which doubtless held faded roses pressed between +them. + +The strings of sea-shells, and the larger ones, which could have come +only from foreign shores, together with the light in the window, gave +her a sudden clew. Aunt Jane was waiting for her lover and the lamp was +a signal. If his name was Charles Winfield, the other woman was dead, +and if not, the marriage notice was that of a friend or an earlier +lover. + +The explanation was reasonable, clear, and concise--what woman could +ask for more? Yet there was something beyond it which was out of Miss +Thorne's grasp--a tantalising something, which would not be allayed. +Then she reflected that the Summer was before tier, and, in reality, +now that she was off the paper, she had no business with other people's +affairs. + +The sun was hidden by gathering clouds and the air was damp before Ruth +missed the bright warmth on the piazza, and began to walk back and forth +by way of keeping warm. A gravelled path led to the gate and on either +side was a row of lilac bushes, the bare stalks tipped with green. A +white picket fence surrounded the yard, except at the back, where the +edge of the precipice made it useless. The place was small and well +kept, but there were no flower beds except at the front of the house, +and there were only two or three trees. + +She walked around the vegetable garden at the back of the house, where +a portion of her Summer sustenance was planted, and discovered an unused +gate at the side, which swung back and forth, idly, without latching. +She was looking over the fence and down the steep hillside, when a sharp +voice at her elbow made her jump. + +“Sech as wants dinner can come in and get it,” announced Hepsey, sourly. +“I've yelled and yelled till I've most bust my throat and I ain't +a-goin' to yell no more.” + +She returned to the house, a picture of offended dignity, but carefully +left the door ajar for Ruth, who discovered, upon this rude awakening +from her reverie, that she was very hungry. + +In the afternoon, the chill fog made it impossible to go out, for +the wind had risen from the sea and driven the salt mist inland. Miss +Hathaway's library was meagre and uninteresting, Hepsey was busy in the +kitchen, and Ruth was frankly bored. Reduced at last to the desperate +strait of putting all her belongings in irreproachable order, she found +herself, at four o'clock, without occupation. The temptation in the +attic wrestled strongly with her, but she would not go. + +It seemed an age until six o'clock. “This won't do,” she said to +herself; “I'll have to learn how to sew, or crochet, or make tatting. At +last, I am to be domesticated. I used to wonder how women had time for +the endless fancy work, but I see, now.” + +She was accustomed to self analysis and introspection, and began to +consider what she could get out of the next six months in the way of +gain. Physical strength, certainly, but what else? The prospect was +gloomy just then. + +“It's goin' to rain, Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, at the door. “Is all the +winders shut?” + +“Yes, I think so,” she answered. + +“Supper's ready any time you want it.” + +“Very well, I will come now.” + +When she sat down in the parlour, after doing scant justice to Hepsey's +cooking, it was with a grim resignation, of the Puritan sort which, +supposedly, went with the house. There was but one place in all the +world where she would like to be, and she was afraid to trust herself in +the attic. + +By an elaborate mental process, she convinced herself that the cedar +chest and the old trunks did not concern her in the least, and tried to +develop a feminine fear of mice, which was not natural to her. She +had just placed herself loftily above all mundane things, when Hepsey +marched into the room, and placed the attic lamp, newly filled, upon the +marble table. + +Here was a manifest duty confronting a very superior person and, as she +went upstairs, she determined to come back immediately, but when she had +put the light in the seaward window, she lingered, under the spell of +the room. + +The rain beat steadily upon the roof and dripped from the eaves. The +light made distorted shadows upon the wall and floor, while the bunches +of herbs, hanging from the rafters, swung lightly back and forth when +the wind rattled the windows and shook the old house. + +The room seemed peopled by the previous generation, that had slept in +the massive mahogany bed, rocked in the chairs, with sewing or gossip, +and stood before the old dresser on tiptoe, peering eagerly into the +mirror which probably had hung above it. It was as if Memory sat at the +spinning-wheel, idly twisting the thread, and bringing visions of the +years gone by. + +A cracked mirror hung against the wall and Ruth saw her reflection +dimly, as if she, too, belonged to the ghosts of the attic. She was +not vain, but she was satisfied with her eyes and hair, her white skin, +impervious to tan or burn, and the shape of her mouth. The saucy little +upward tilt at the end of her nose was a great cross to her, however, +because it was at variance with the dignified bearing which she chose to +maintain. As she looked, she wondered, vaguely, if she, like Aunt +Jane, would grow to a loveless old age. It seemed probable, for, at +twenty-five, The Prince had not appeared. She had her work and was +happy; yet unceasingly, behind those dark eyes, Ruth's soul kept +maidenly match for its mate. + +When she turned to go downstairs, a folded newspaper on the floor +attracted her attention. It was near one of the trunks which she had +opened and must have fallen out. She picked it up, to replace it, but it +proved to be another paper dated a year later than the first one. There +was no marked paragraph, but she soon discovered the death notice of +“Abigail Winfield, nee Weatherby, aged twenty-two.” She put it into +the trunk out of which she knew it must have fallen, and stood there, +thinking. Those faded letters, hidden under Aunt Jane's wedding gown, +were tempting her with their mute secret as never before. She hesitated, +took three steps toward the cedar chest, then fled ingloriously from the +field. + +Whoever Charles Winfeld was, he was free to love and marry again. +Perhaps there had been an estrangement and it was he for whom Aunt +Jane was waiting, since sometimes, out of bitterness, the years distil +forgiveness. She wondered at the nature which was tender enough to keep +the wedding gown and the pathetic little treasures, brave enough to keep +the paper, with its evidence of falseness, and great enough to forgive. + +Yet, what right had she to suppose Aunt Jane was waiting? Had she gone +abroad to seek him and win his recreant heart again? Or was Abigail +Weatherby her girlhood friend, who had married unhappily, and then died? + +Somewhere in Aunt Jane's fifty-five years there was a romance, but, +after all, it was not her niece's business. “I'm an imaginative +goose,” Ruth said to herself. “I'm asked to keep a light in the window, +presumably as an incipient lighthouse, and I've found some old clothes +and two old papers in the attic--that's all--and I've constructed a +tragedy.” + +She resolutely put the whole matter aside, as she sat in her room, +rocking pensively. Her own lamp had not been filled and was burning +dimly, so she put it out and sat in the darkness, listening to the rain. + +She had not closed the shutters and did not care to lean out in the +storm, and so it was that, when the whistle of the ten o'clock train +sounded hoarsely, she saw the little glimmer of light from Miss +Ainslie's window, making a faint circle in the darkness. + +Half an hour later, as before, it was taken away. The scent of lavender +and sweet clover clung to Miss Hathaway's linen, and, insensibly +soothed, Ruth went to sleep. After hours of dreamless slumber, she +thought she heard a voice calling her and telling her not to forget the +light. It was so real that she started to her feet, half expecting to +find some one standing beside her. + +The rain had ceased, and two or three stars, like timid children, were +peeping at the world from behind the threatening cloud. It was that +mystical moment which no one may place--the turning of night to day. Far +down the hill, ghostly, but not forbidding, was Miss Ainslie's house, +the garden around it lying whitely beneath the dews of dawn, and up in +the attic window the light still shone, like unfounded hope in a woman's +soul, harking across distant seas of misunderstanding and gloom, with +its pitiful “All Hail!” + + + + +III. Miss Ainslie + +Ruth began to feel a lively interest in her Aunt Jane, and to regret +that she had not arrived in time to make her acquaintance. She knew that +Miss Hathaway was three or four years younger than Mrs. Thorne would +have been, had she lived, and that a legacy had recently come to her +from an old friend, but that was all, aside from the discoveries in the +attic. + +She contemplated the crayon portraits in the parlour and hoped she was +not related to any of them. In the family album she found no woman whom +she would have liked for an aunt, but was determined to know the worst. + +“Is Miss Hathaway's picture here, Hepsey?” she asked. + +“No'm. Miss Hathaway, she wouldn't have her picter in the parlour, +nohow. Some folks does, but Miss Hathaway says't'aint modest.” + +“I think she's right, Hepsey,” laughed Ruth, “though I never thought of +it in just that way. I'll have to wait until she comes home.” + +In the afternoon she donned the short skirt and heavy shoes of her +“office rig,” and started down hill to explore the village. It was a +day to tempt one out of doors,--cool and bright, with that indefinable +crispness which belongs to Spring. + +The hill rose sheer from the highlands, which sloped to the river on the +left, as she went down, and on the right to the forest. A side path into +the woods made her hesitate for a moment, but she went straight on. + +It was the usual small town, which nestles at the foot of a hill and +eventually climbs over it, through the enterprise of its wealthier +residents, but, save for Miss Hathaway's house, the enterprise had not, +as yet, become evident. At the foot of the hill, on the left, was Miss +Ainslie's house and garden, and directly opposite, with the width of the +hill between them, was a brown house, with a lawn, but no garden except +that devoted to vegetables. + +As she walked through the village, stopping to look at the display of +merchandise in the window of the single shop, which was also post-office +and grocery, she attracted a great deal of respectful attention, for, +in this community, strangers were an event. Ruth reflected that the +shop had only to grow to about fifty times its present size in order to +become a full-fledged department store and bring upon the town the rank +and dignity of a metropolis. + +When she turned her face homeward, she had reached the foot of the hill +before she realised that the first long walk over country roads was hard +for one accustomed to city pavements. A broad, flat stone offered +an inviting resting-place, and she sat down, in the shadow of Miss +Ainslie's hedge, hoping Joe would pass in time to take her to the top +of the hill. The hedge was high and except for the gate the garden was +secluded. + +“I seem to get more tired every minute,” she thought. “I wonder if I've +got the rheumatism.” + +She scanned the horizon eagerly for the dilapidated conveyance which she +had once both feared and scorned. No sound could have been more welcome +than the rumble of those creaking wheels, nor any sight more pleasing +than the conflicting expressions in “Mamie's” single useful eye. She sat +there a long time, waiting for deliverance, but it did not come. + +“I'll get an alpenstock,” she said to herself, as she rose, wearily, and +tried to summon courage to start. Then the gate clicked softly and the +sweetest voice in the world said: “My dear, you are tired--won't you +come in?” + +Turning, she saw Miss Ainslie, smiling graciously. In a moment she had +explained that she was Miss Hathaway's niece and that she would be very +glad to come in for a few moments. + +“Yes,” said the sweet voice again, “I know who you are. Your aunt told +me all about you and I trust we shall be friends.” + +Ruth followed her up the gravelled path to the house, and into the +parlour, where a wood fire blazed cheerily upon the hearth. “It is +so damp this time of year,” she went on, “that I like to keep my fire +burning.” + +While they were talking, Ruth's eyes rested with pleasure upon her +hostess. She herself was tall, but Miss Ainslie towered above her. She +was a woman of poise and magnificent bearing, and she had the composure +which comes to some as a right and to others with long social training. + +Her abundant hair was like spun silver--it was not merely white, but it +shone. Her skin was as fresh and fair as a girl's, and when she smiled, +one saw that her teeth were white and even; but the great charm of her +face was her eyes. They were violet, so deep in colour as to seem almost +black in certain lights, and behind them lay an indescribable something +which made Ruth love her instinctively. She might have been forty, or +seventy, but she was beautiful, with the beauty that never fades. + +At intervals, not wishing to stare, Ruth glanced around the room. Having +once seen the woman, one could not fail to recognise her house, for +it suited her. The floors were hardwood, highly polished, and partly +covered with rare Oriental rugs. The walls were a soft, dark green, +bearing no disfiguring design, and the windows were draped with net, +edged with Duchesse lace. Miss Hathaway's curtains hung straight to the +floor, but Miss Ainslie's were tied back with white cord. + +The furniture was colonial mahogany, unspoiled by varnish, and rubbed +until it shone. + +“You have a beautiful home,” said Ruth, during a pause. + +“Yes,” she replied, “I like it.” + +“You have a great many beautiful things.” + +“Yes,” she answered softly, “they were given to me by a--a friend.” + +“She must have had a great many,” observed Ruth, admiring one of the +rugs. + +A delicate pink suffused Miss Ainslie's face. “My friend,” she said, +with quiet dignity, “is a seafaring gentleman.” + +That explained the rugs, Ruth thought, and the vase, of finest +Cloisonne, which stood upon the mantel-shelf. It accounted also for the +bertha of Mechlin lace, which was fastened to Miss Ainslie's gown, of +lavender cashmere, by a large amethyst inlaid with gold and surrounded +by baroque pearls. + +For some little time, they talked of Miss Hathaway and her travels. “I +told her she was too old to go,” said Miss Ainslie,. smiling, “but she +assured me that she could take care of herself, and I think she can. +Even if she couldn't, she is perfectly safe. These 'personally conducted' +parties are by far the best, if one goes alone, for the first time.” + +Ruth knew that, but she was surprised, nevertheless. “Won't you tell me +about my aunt, Miss Ainslie?” she asked. “You know I've never seen her.” + +“Why, yes, of course I will! Where shall I begin?” + +“At the beginning,” answered Ruth, with a little laugh. + +“The beginning is very far away, deary,” said Miss Ainslie, and Ruth +fancied she heard a sigh. “She came here long before I did, and we were +girls together. She lived in the old house at the top of the hill, with +her father and mother, and I lived here with mine. We were very intimate +for a long time, and then we had a quarrel, about something that was +so silly and foolish that I cannot even remember what it was. For five +years--no, for almost six, we passed each other like strangers, because +each was too proud and stubborn to yield. But death, and trouble, +brought us together again.” + +“Who spoke first,” asked Ruth, much interested, “you or Aunt Jane?” + +“It was I, of course. I don't believe she would have done it. She was +always stronger than I, and though I can't remember the cause of the +quarrel, I can feel the hurt to my pride, even at this day.” + +“I know,” answered Ruth, quickly, “something of the same kind once +happened to me, only it wasn't pride that held me back--it was just +plain stubbornness. Sometimes I am conscious of two selves--one of me +is a nice, polite person that I'm really fond of, and the other is so +contrary and so mulish that I'm actually afraid of her. When the two +come in conflict, the stubborn one always wins. I'm sorry, but I can't +help it.” + +“Don't you think we're all like that?” asked Miss Ainslie, readily +understanding. “I do not believe any one can have strength of character +without being stubborn. To hold one's position in the face of obstacles, +and never be tempted to yield--to me, that seems the very foundation.” + +“Yes, but to be unable to yield when you know you should--that's awful.” + +“Is it?” inquired Miss Ainslie, with quiet amusement. + +“Ask Aunt Jane,” returned Ruth, laughing. “I begin to perceive our +definite relationship.” + +Miss Ainslie leaned forward to put another maple log on the fire. “Tell +me more about Aunt Jane,” Ruth suggested. “I'm getting to be somebody's +relative, instead of an orphan, stranded on the shore of the world.” + +“She's hard to analyse,” began the older woman. “I have never been +able to reconcile her firmness with her softness. She's as hard as New +England granite, but I think she wears it like a mask. Sometimes, one +sees through. She scolds me very often, about anything that occurs to +her, but I never pay any attention to it. She says I shouldn't live here +all alone, and that I deserve to have something dreadful happen to me, +but she had all the trees cut down that stood on the hill between +her window and mine, and had a key made to my lower door, and made +me promise that if I was ill at any time, I would put a signal in my +window--a red shawl in the daytime and a light at night. I hadn't any +red shawl and she gave me hers. + +“One night--I shall never forget it--I had a terrible attack of +neuralgia, during the worst storm I have ever known. I didn't even +know that I put the light in the window--I was so beside myself with +pain--but she came, at two o'clock in the morning, and stayed with me +until I was all right again. She was so gentle and so tender--I shall +always love her for that.” + +The sweet voice vibrated with feeling, and Ruth's thoughts flew to +the light in the attic window, but, no--it could not be seen from Miss +Ainslie's. “What does Aunt Jane look like?” she asked, after a pause. + +“I haven't a picture, except one that was taken a long time ago, but +I'll get that.” She went upstairs and returned, presently, putting an +old-fashioned ambrotype into Ruth's hand. + +The velvet-lined case enshrined Aunt Jane in the bloom of her youth. It +was a young woman of twenty or twenty-five, seated in a straight-backed +chair, with her hands encased in black lace mitts and folded in the lap +of her striped silk gown. The forehead was high, protruding slightly, +the eyes rather small, and very dark, the nose straight, and the +little chin exceedingly firm and determined. There was an expression of +maidenly wistfulness somewhere, which Ruth could not definitely locate, +but there was no hint of it in the chin. + +“Poor little Aunt Jane,” said Ruth. “Life never would be easy for her.” + +“No,” returned Miss Ainslie, “but she would not let anyone know.” + +Ruth strolled over to the window, thinking that she must be going, +and Miss Ainslie still held the picture in her hand. “She had a lover, +didn't she?” asked Ruth, idly. + +“I-I-think so,” answered the other, unwillingly. “You remember we +quarrelled.” + +A young man stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Miss Ainslie's +house, and then at the brown one across the hill. From her position +in the window, Ruth saw him plainly. He hesitated a moment, then went +toward the brown house. She noted that he was a stranger--there was no +such topcoat in the village. + +“Was his name Winfield?” she asked suddenly, then instantly hated +herself for the question. + +The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainslie stooped to pick it up and +Ruth did not see her face. “Perhaps,” she said, in a strange tone, “but +I never have asked a lady the name of her friend.” + +Gentle as it was, Ruth felt the rebuke keenly. An apology was on her +lips, but only her flushed cheeks betrayed any emotion. Miss Ainslie's +face was pale, and there was unmistakable resentment in her eyes. + +“I must go,” Ruth said, after an awkward silence, and in an instant Miss +Ainslie was herself again. + +“No-you mustn't go, deary. You haven't seen my garden yet. I have +planted all the seeds and some of them are coming up. Isn't it beautiful +to see things grow?” + +“It is indeed,” Ruth assented, forgetting the momentary awkwardness, +“and I have lived for a long time where I have seen nothing grow but car +tracks and high buildings. May I come again and see your garden?” + +“I shall be so glad to have you,” replied Miss Ainslie, with a quaint +stateliness. “I have enjoyed your visit so much and I hope you will come +again very soon.” + +“Thank you--I will.” + +Her hostess had opened the door for her, but Ruth stood in the hall, +waiting, in obedience to some strange impulse. Then she stepped outside, +but something held her back-something that lay unspoken between them. +Those unfathomable eyes were fixed upon her, questioning, pleading, and +searching her inmost soul. + +Ruth looked at her, wondering, and striving to answer the mute appeal. +Then Miss Ainslie laid her hand upon her arm. “My dear,” she asked, +earnestly, “do you light the lamp in the attic window every night?” + +“Yes, I do, Miss Ainslie,” she answered, quickly. + +The older woman caught her breath, as if in relief, and then the deep +crimson flooded her face. + +“Hepsey told me and Aunt Jane left a letter about it,” Ruth continued, +hastily, “and I am very glad to do it. It would be dreadful to have a +ship wrecked, almost at our door.” + +“Yes,” sighed Miss Ainslie, her colour receding, “I have often thought +of 'those who go down to the sea in ships.' It is so terrible, and +sometimes, when I hear the surf beating against the cliff, I--I am +afraid.” + +Ruth climbed the hill, interested, happy, yet deeply disturbed. Miss +Ainslie's beautiful, changing face seemed to follow her, and the +exquisite scent of the lavender, which had filled the rooms, clung to +her senses like a benediction. + +Hepsey was right, and unquestionably Miss Ainslie had something to do +with the light; but no deep meaning lay behind it--so much was certain. +She had lived alone so long that she had grown to have a great fear of +shipwreck, possibly on account of her friend, the “seafaring gentleman,” + and had asked Miss Hathaway to put the light in the window--that was +all. + +Ruth's reason was fully satisfied, but something else was not. “I'm not +going to think about it any more,” she said to herself, resolutely, and +thought she meant it. + +She ate her dinner with the zest of hunger, while Hepsey noiselessly +served her. “I have been to Miss Ainslie's, Hepsey,” she said at length, +not wishing to appear unsociable. + +The maid's clouded visage cleared for an instant. “Did you find out +about the lamp?” she inquired, eagerly. + +“No, I didn't, Hepsey; but I'll tell you what I think. Miss Ainslie has +read a great deal and has lived alone so much that she has become very +much afraid of shipwreck. You know all of us have some one fear. For +instance, I am terribly afraid of green worms, though a green worm has +never harmed me. I think she asked Miss Hathaway to put the lamp in the +window, and possibly told her of something she had read which made her +feel that she should have done it before.” + +Hepsey's face took on its old, impenetrable calm. + +“Don't you think so?” asked Miss Thorne, after a long pause. + +“Yes'm.” + +“It's all very reasonable, isn't it?” + +“Yes'm.” + +In spite of the seeming assent, she knew that Hepsey was not convinced; +and afterward, when she came into the room with the attic lamp and a box +of matches, the mystery returned to trouble Ruth again. + +“If I don't take up tatting,” she thought, as she went upstairs, “or +find something else to do, I'll be a meddling old maid inside of six +months.” + + + + +IV. A Guest + +As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first the +country brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously, +but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's a fortnight before she bitterly +regretted the step she had taken. + +Still there was no going back, for she had given her word, and must stay +there until October. The months before her stretched out into a dreary +waste. She thought of Miss Ainslie gratefully, as a redeeming feature, +but she knew that it was impossible to spend all of her time in the +house--it the foot of the hill. + +Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet more +than once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock, before Hepsey was +stiring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walk +through the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and each +day was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful, +moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yet +knowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there. + +She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepsey +stalked in, unannounced, and gave her a card. + +“Mr. Carl Winfield!” Ruth repeated aloud. “Some one to see me, Hepsey?” + she asked, in astonishment. + +“Yes'm. He's a-waitin' on the piazzer.” + +“Didn't you ask him to come in?” + +“No'm. Miss Hathaway, she don't want no strangers in her house.” + +“Go down immediately,” commanded Ruth, sternly, “ask him into the +parlour, and say that Miss Thorne will be down in a few moments.” + +“Yes'm.” + +Hepsey shuffled downstairs with comfortable leisure, opened the door +with aggravating slowness, then said, in a harsh tone that reached the +upper rooms distinctly: “Miss Thorne, she says that you can come in and +set in the parlour till she comes down.” + +“Thank you,” responded a masculine voice, in quiet amusement; “Miss +Thorne is kind--and generous.” + +Ruth's cheeks flushed hotly. “I don't know whether Miss Thorne will go +down or not,” she said to herself. “It's probably a book-agent.” + +She rocked pensively for a minute or two, wondering what would happen if +she did not go down. There was no sound from the parlour save a subdued +clearing of the throat. “He's getting ready to speak his piece,” she +thought, “and he might as well do it now as to wait for me.” + +Though she loathed Mr. Carl Winfield and his errand, whatever it might +prove to be, she stopped before her mirror long enough to give a pat +or two to her rebellious hair. On the way down she determined to be +dignified, icy, and crushing. + +A tall young fellow with a pleasant face rose to greet her as she +entered the room. “Miss Thorne?” he inquired. + +“Yes--please sit down. I am very sorry that my maid should have been so +inhospitable.” It was not what she had meant to say. + +“Oh, that's all right,” he replied, easily; “I quite enjoyed it. I must +ask your pardon for coming to you in this abrupt way, but Carlton gave +me a letter to you, and I've lost it.” Carlton was the managing editor, +and vague expectations of a summons to the office came into Ruth's mind. + +“I'm on The Herald,” he went on; “that is, I was, until my eyes gave +out, and then they didn't want me any more. Newspapers can't use anybody +out of repair,” he added, grimly. + +“I know,” Ruth answered, nodding. + +“Of course the office isn't a sanitarium, though they need that kind +of an annex; nor yet a literary kindergarten, which I've known it to be +taken for, but--well, I won't tell you my troubles. The oculist said I +must go to the country for six months, stay outdoors, and neither read +nor write. I went to see Carlton, and he promised me a berth in the +Fall--they're going to have a morning edition, too, you know.” + +Miss Thorne did not know, but she was much interested. + +“Carlton advised me to come up here,” resumed Winfield. “He said you +were here, and that you were going back in the Fall. I'm sorry I've lost +his letter.” + +“What was in it?” inquired Ruth, with a touch of sarcasm. “You read it, +didn't you?” + +“Of course I read it--that is, I tried to. The thing looked like a +prescription, but, as nearly as I could make it out, it was principally +a description of the desolation in the office since you left it. At the +end there was a line or two commending me to your tender mercies, and +here I am.” + +“Commending yourself.” + +“Now what in the dickens have I done?” thought Winfield. “That's it +exactly, Miss Thorne. I've lost my reference, and I'm doing my best to +create a good impression without it. I thought that as long as we were +going to be on the same paper, and were both exiles--” + +He paused, and she finished the sentence for him: “that you'd come to +see me. How long have you been in town?” + +“'In town' is good,” he said. “I arrived in this desolate, God-forsaken +spot just ten days ago. Until now I've hunted and fished every day, +but I didn't get anything but a cold. It was very good, of its kind--I +couldn't speak above a whisper for three days.” + +She had already recognised him as the young man she saw standing in the +road the day she went to Miss Ainslie's, and mentally asked his +pardon for thinking he was a book-agent. He might become a pleasant +acquaintance, for he was tall, clean shaven, and well built. His hands +were white and shapely and he was well groomed, though not in the least +foppish. The troublesome eyes were dark brown, sheltered by a pair of +tinted glasses. His face was very expressive, responding readily to +every change of mood. + +They talked “shop” for a time, discovering many mutual friends, and +Ruth liked him. He spoke easily, though hurriedly, and appeared to be +somewhat cynical, but she rightly attributed it to restlessness like her +own. + +“What are you going to do on The Tribune?” she asked. + +“Anything,” he answered, with an indefinable shrug. “'Theirs not to +reason why, theirs but to do and die.' What are you going to do?” + +“The same,” replied Ruth. “'Society,' 'Mother's Corner,' 'Under the +Evening Lamp,' and 'In the Kitchen with Aunt Jenny.'” + +He laughed infectiously. “I wish Carlton could hear you say that.” + +“I don't,” returned Ruth, colouring faintly. + +“Why; are you afraid of him?” + +“Certainly I am. If he speaks to me, I'm instantly stiff with terror.” + +“Oh, he isn't so bad,” said Winfield, reassuringly, “He's naturally +abrupt, that's all; and I'll venture he doesn't suspect that he has any +influence over you. I'd never fancy that you were afraid of anybody or +anything on earth.” + +“I'm not afraid of anything else,” she answered, “except burglars and +green worms.” + +“Carlton would enjoy the classification--really, Miss Thorne, somebody +should tell him, don't you think? So much innocent pleasure doesn't +often come into the day of a busy man.” + +For a moment Ruth was angry, and then, all at once, she knew Winfield as +if he had always been her friend. Conventionality, years, and the veneer +of society were lightly laid upon one who would always be a boy. Some +men are old at twenty, but Winfield would be young at seventy. + +“You can tell him if you want to,” Ruth rejoined, calmly. “He'll be so +pleased that he'll double your salary on the spot.” + +“And you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with fun. + +“I'll be pensioned, of course.” + +“You're all right,” he returned, “but I guess I won't tell him. Riches +lead to temptation, and if I'm going to be on The Tribune I'd hate to +have you pensioned.” + +Hepsey appeared to have a great deal of employment in the dining-room, +and was very quiet about it, with long pauses between her leisurely +movements. Winfield did not seem to notice it, but it jarred upon Ruth, +and she was relieved when he said he must go. + +“You'll come again, won't you?” she asked. + +“I will, indeed.” + +She stood at the window, unconsciously watching him as he went down +the hill with a long, free stride. She liked the strength in his broad +shoulders, his well modulated voice, and his clear, honest eyes; but +after all he was nothing but a boy. + +“Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, at her elbow, “is that your beau?” It +was not impertinence, but sheer friendly interest which could not be +mistaken for anything else. + +“No,” she answered; “of course not.” + +“He's real nice-lookin', ain't he? + +“Yes.” + +“Have you got your eye on anybody else?” + +“No.” + +“Then, Miss Thorne, I don't know's you could do better.” + +“Perhaps not.” She was thinking, and spoke mechanically. From where she +stood she could still see him walking rapidly down the hill. + +“Ain't you never seen him before?” + +Miss Thorne turned. “Hepsey,” she said, coldly, “please go into the +kitchen and attend to your work. And the next time I have company, +please stay in the kitchen--not in the dining-room.” + +“Yes'm,” replied Hepsey, meekly, hastening to obey. + +She was not subtle, but she understood that in some way she had offended +Miss Thorne, and racked her brain vainly. She had said nothing that +she would not have said to Miss Hathaway, and had intended nothing but +friendliness. As for her being in the dining-room--why, very often, when +Miss Hathaway had company, she was called in to give her version of +some bit of village gossip. Miss Hathaway scolded her when she was +displeased, but never before had any one spoken to Hepsey in a measured, +icy tone that was at once lady-like and commanding. Tears came into her +eyes, for she was sensitive, after all. + +A step sounded overhead, and Hepsey regained her self-possession. She +had heard nearly all of the conversation and could have told Miss Thorne +a great deal about the young man. For instance, he had not said that he +was boarding at Joe's, across the road from Miss Ainslie's, and that +he intended to stay all Summer. She could have told her of an uncertain +temper, peculiar tastes, and of a silver shaving-cup which Joe had +promised her a glimpse of before the visitor went back to the city; but +she decided to let Miss Thorne go on in her blind ignorance. + +Ruth, meanwhile, was meditating, with an aggravated restlessness. The +momentary glimpse of the outer world had stung her into a sense of +her isolation, which she realised even more keenly than before. It was +because of this, she told herself, that she hoped Winfield liked her, +for it was not her wont to care about such trifles. He thought of her, +idly, as a nice girl, who was rather pretty when she was interested in +anything; but, with a woman's insight, influenced insensibly by Hepsey's +comment, Ruth scented possibilities. + +She wanted him to like her, to stay in that miserable village as long as +she did, and keep her mind from stagnation--her thought went no further +than that. In October, when they went back, she would thank Carlton, +prettily, for sending her a friend--provided they did not quarrel. She +could see long days of intimate companionship, of that exalted kind +which is, possible only when man and woman meet on a high plane. “We're +both too old for nonsense,” she thought; and then a sudden fear struck +her, that Winfield might be several years younger than she was. + +Immediately she despised herself. “I don't care if he is,” she thought, +with her cheeks crimson; “it's nothing to me. He's a nice boy, and I +want to be amused.” + +She went to her dresser, took out the large top drawer, and dumped its +contents on the bed. It was a desperate measure, for Ruth hated to put +things in order. The newspaper which had lain in the bottom of it had +fallen out also, and she shook it so violently that she tore it. + +Then ribbons, handkerchiefs, stocks, gloves, and collars were +unceremoniously hustled back into the drawer, for Miss Thorne was at +odds with herself and the world. She was angry with Hepsey, she hated +Winfield, and despised herself. She picked up a scrap of paper which lay +on a glove, and caught a glimpse of unfamiliar penmanship. + +It was apparently the end of a letter, and the rest of it was gone. “At +Gibraltar for some time,” she read, “keeping a shop, but will probably +be found now in some small town on the coast of Italy. Very truly +yours.” The signature had been torn off. + +“Why, that isn't mine,” she thought. “It must be something of Aunt +Jane's.” Another bit of paper lay near it, and, unthinkingly, she read a +letter which was not meant for her. + +“I thank you from my heart,” it began, “for understanding me. I could +not put it into words, but I believe you know. Perhaps you think it is +useless--that it is too late; but if it was, I would know. You have been +very kind, and I thank you.” + + There was neither date, address, nor signature. The message +stood alone, as absolutely as some far-off star whose light could not +be seen from the earth. Some one understood it--two understood it--the +writer and Aunt Jane. + +Ruth put it back under the paper, with the scrap of the other letter, +and closed the drawer with a bang. “I hope,” she said to herself, “that +while I stay here I'll be mercifully preserved from finding things that +are none of my business.” Then, as in a lightning flash, for an instant +she saw clearly. + +Fate plays us many tricks and assumes strange forms, but Ruth knew that +some day, on that New England hill, she would come face to face with a +destiny that had been ordained from the beginning. Something waited for +her there--some great change. She trembled at the thought, but was not +afraid. + + + + +V. The Rumours of the Valley + +“Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, from the doorway of Ruth's room, “that +feller's here again.” There was an unconscious emphasis on the last +word, and Ruth herself was somewhat surprised, for she had not expected +another call so soon. + +“He's a-settin' 'n in the parlour,” continued Hepsey, “when he ain't +a-walkin' around it and wearin' out the carpet. I didn't come up when +he first come, on account of my pie crust bein' all ready to put in the +oven.” + +“How long has he been here?” asked Ruth, dabbing a bit of powder on her +nose and selecting a fresh collar. + +“Oh, p'raps half an hour.” + +“That isn't right, Hepsey; when anyone comes you must tell me +immediately. Never mind the pie crust next time.” Ruth endeavoured to +speak kindly, but she was irritated at the necessity of making another +apology. + +When she went down, Winfield dismissed her excuses with a comprehensive +wave of the hand. “I always have to wait when I go to call on a girl,” + he said; “it's one of the most charming vagaries of the ever-feminine. I +used to think that perhaps I wasn't popular, but every fellow I know has +the same experience.” + +“I'm an exception,” explained Ruth; “I never keep any one waiting. Of +my own volition, that is,” she added, hastily, feeling his unspoken +comment. + +“I came up this afternoon to ask a favour of you,” he began. “Won't you +go for a walk with me? It's wrong to stay indoors on a day like this.” + +“Wait till I get my hat,” said Ruth, rising. + +“Fifteen minutes is the limit,” he called to her, as she went upstairs. + +She was back again almost immediately, and Hepsey watched them in +wide-mouthed astonishment as they went down hill together, for it was +not in her code of manners that “walking out” should begin so soon. When +they approached Miss Ainslie's he pointed out the brown house across +from it, on the other side of the hill. + +“Yonder palatial mansion is my present lodging,” he volunteered, “and I +am a helpless fly in the web of the 'Widder' Pendleton.” + +“Pendleton,” repeated Ruth; “why, that's Joe's name.” + +“It is,” returned Winfield, concisely. “He sits opposite me at the +table, and wonders at my use of a fork. It is considered merely a spear +for bread and meat at the 'Widder's.' I am observed closely at all +times, and in some respects Joe admires me enough to attempt imitation, +which, as you know, is the highest form of flattery. For instance, this +morning he wore not only a collar and tie, but a scarf pin. It was +a string tie, and I've never before seen a pin worn in one, but it's +interesting.” + +“It must be.” + +“He has a sweetheart,” Winfield went on, “and I expect she'll be +dazzled.” + +“My Hepsey is his lady love,” Ruth explained. + +“What? The haughty damsel who wouldn't let me in? Do tell!” + +“You're imitating now,” laughed Ruth, “but I shouldn't call it +flattery.” + +For a moment, there was a chilly silence. Ruth did not look at him, but +she bit her lip and then laughed, unwillingly. “'It's all true,” she +said, “I plead guilty.” + +“You see, I know all about you,” he went on. “You knit your brows in +deep thought, do not hear when you are spoken to, even in a loud voice, +and your mail consists almost entirely of bulky envelopes, of a legal +nature, such as came to the 'Widder' Pendleton from the insurance +people.” + +“Returned manuscripts,” she interjected. + +“Possibly--far be it from me to say they're not. Why, I've had 'em +myself.” + +“You don't mean it!” she exclaimed, ironically. + +“You seek out, as if by instinct, the only crazy person in the village, +and come home greatly perturbed. You ask queer questions of your humble +serving-maid, assume a skirt which is shorter than the approved model, +speaking from the village standpoint, and unhesitatingly appear on +the public streets. You go to the attic at night and search the inmost +recesses of many old trunks.” + +“Yes,” sighed Ruth, “I've done all that.” + +“At breakfast you refuse pie, and complain because the coffee is boiled. +Did anybody ever hear of coffee that wasn't boiled? Is it eaten raw +in the city? You call supper 'dinner,' and have been known to seek +nourishment at nine o'clock at night, when all respectable people are +sound asleep. In your trunk, you have vainly attempted to conceal a +large metal object, the use of which is unknown.” + +“Oh, my hapless chafing-dish!” groaned Ruth. + +“Chafing-dish?” repeated Winfield, brightening visibly. “And I eating +sole leather and fried potatoes? From this hour I am your slave--you +can't lose me now! + +“Go on,” she commanded. + +“I can't--the flow of my eloquence is stopped by rapturous anticipation. +Suffice it to say that the people of this enterprising city are well up +in the ways of the wicked world, for the storekeeper takes The New York +Weekly and the 'Widder' Pendleton subscribes for The Fireside Companion. +The back numbers, which are not worn out, are the circulating library of +the village. It's no use, Miss Thorne--you might stand on your hilltop +and proclaim your innocence until you were hoarse, and it would be +utterly without effect. Your status is definitely settled.” + +“How about Aunt Jane?” she inquired. “Does my relationship count for +naught?” + +“Now you are rapidly approaching the centre of things,” replied the +young man. “Miss Hathaway is one woman in a thousand, though somewhat +eccentric. She is the venerated pillar of the community and a constant +attendant it church, which it seems you are not. Also, if you are really +her niece, where is the family resemblance? Why has she never spoken +of you? Why have you never been here before? Why are her letters to you +sealed with red wax, bought especially for the purpose? Why does she go +away before you come? Lady Gwendolen Hetherington,” he demanded, with +melodramatic fervour, “answer me these things if you can!” + +“I'm tired,” she complained. + +“Delicate compliment,” observed Winfield, apparently to himself. “Here's +a log across our path, Miss Thorne; let's sit down.” + +The budded maples arched over the narrow path, and a wild canary, +singing in the sun, hopped from bough to bough. A robin's cheery chirp +came from another tree, and the clear notes of a thrush, with a mottled +breast, were answered by another in the gold-green aisles beyond. + +“Oh,” he said, under his breath, “isn't this great!” + +The exquisite peace of the forest was like that of another sphere. +“Yes,” she answered, softly, “it is beautiful.” + +“You're evading the original subject,” he suggested, a little later. + +“I haven't had a chance to talk,” she explained. “You've done a +monologue ever since we left the house, and I listened, as becomes +inferior and subordinate woman. I have never seen my venerated +kinswoman, and I don't see how she happened to think of me. +Nevertheless, when she wrote, asking me to take charge of her house +while she went to Europe, I gladly consented, sight unseen. When I +came, she was gone. I do not deny the short skirt and heavy shoes, the +criticism of boiled coffee, nor the disdain of breakfast pie. As far is +I know, Aunt Jane is my only living relative.” + +“That's good,” he said, cheerfully; “I'm shy even of an aunt. Why +shouldn't the orphans console one another?” + +“They should,” admitted Ruth; “and you are doing your share nobly.” + +“Permit me to return the compliment. Honestly, Miss Thorne,” he +continued, seriously, “you have no idea how much I appreciate your being +here. When I first realised what it meant to be deprived of books and +papers for six months at a stretch, it seemed as if I should go mad. +Still, I suppose six months isn't as bad as forever, and I was given +a choice. I don't want to bore you, but if you will let me come +occasionally, I shall be very glad. I'm going to try to be patient, too, +if you'll help me--patience isn't my long suit.” + +“Indeed I will help you,” answered Ruth, impulsively; “I know how hard +it must be.” + +“I'm not begging for your sympathy, though I assure you it is welcome.” + He polished the tinted glasses with a bit of chamois.. and his eyes +filled with the mist of weakness before he put them on again. “So you've +never seen your aunt,” he said. + +“No--that pleasure is still in store for me.” + +“They say down at the 'Widder's' that she's a woman with a romance.” + +“Tell me about it!” exclaimed Ruth, eagerly. + +“Little girls mustn't ask questions,” he remarked, patronisingly, and +in his most irritating manner. “Besides, I don't know. If the 'Widder' +knows, she won't tell, so it's fair to suppose she doesn't. Your +relation does queer things in the attic, and every Spring, she has an +annual weep. I suppose it's the house cleaning, for the rest of the year +she's dry-eyed and calm.” + +“I weep very frequently,” commented Ruth. + +“'Tears, idle tears--I wonder what they mean.'” + +“They don't mean much, in the case of a woman.” + +“I've never seen many of'em,” returned Winfield, “and I don't want to. +Even stage tears go against the grain with me. I know that the lady who +sobs behind the footlights is well paid for it, but all the same, it +gives me the creeps.” + +“It's nothing serious--really it isn't,” she explained. “It's merely a +safety valve. If women couldn't cry, they'd explode.” + +“I always supposed tears were signs of sorrow,” he said. + +“Far from it,” laughed Ruth. “When I get very angry, I cry, and then I +got angrier because I'm crying and cry harder.” + +“That opens up a fearful possibility. What would happen if you kept +getting angrier because you were crying and crying harder because you +got angrier?” + +“I have no idea,” she answered, with her dark eyes fixed upon him, “but +it's a promising field for investigation.”' + +“I don't want to see the experiment.” + +“Don't worry,” said Ruth, laconically, “you won't.” + +There was a long silence, and Winfield began to draw designs on the bare +earth with a twig. “Tell me about the lady who is considered crazy,” he +suggested. + +Ruth briefly described Miss Ainslie, dwelling lovingly upon her beauty +and charm. He listened indifferently at first, but when she told him +of the rugs, the real lace which edged the curtains, and the Cloisonne +vase, he became much interested. + +“Take me to see her some day, won't you,” he asked, carelessly. + +Ruth's eyes met his squarely. “'T isn't a 'story,'” she said, +resentfully, forgetting her own temptation. + +The dull colour flooded his face. “You forget, Miss Thorne, that I am +forbidden to read or write.” + +“For six months only,” answered Ruth, sternly, “and there's always a +place for a good Sunday special.” + +He changed the subject, but there were frequent awkward pauses and the +spontaniety was gone. She rose, adjusting her belt in the back, and +announced that it was time for her to go home. + +On their way up the hill, she tried to be gracious enough to atone +for her rudeness, but, though he was politeness itself, there was a +difference, and she felt as if she had lost something. Distance lay +between them--a cold, immeasurable distance, yet she knew that she had +done right. + +He opened the gate for her, then turned to go. “Won't you come in?” she +asked, conventionally. + +“No, thank you--some other time, if I may. I've had a charming +afternoon.” He smiled pleasantly, and was off down the hill. + +When she remembered that it was a Winfield who had married Abigail +Weatherby, she dismissed the matter as mere coincidence, and determined, +at all costs, to shield Miss Ainslie. The vision of that gracious lady +came to her, bringing with it a certain uplift of soul. Instantly, she +was placed far above the petty concerns of earth, like one who walks +upon the heights, untroubled, while restless surges thunder at his feet. + + + + +VI. The Garden + +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!” + + + + +VII. The Man Who Hesitates + +“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. + + + + +VIII. Summer Days + +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. + + + + +IX. By Humble Means + +As lightly as a rose petal upon the shimmering surface of a stream, +Summer was drifting away, but whither, no one seemed to care. The odour +of printer's ink upon the morning paper no longer aroused vain longings +in Winfield's breast, and Ruth had all but forgotten her former +connection with the newspaper world. + +By degrees, Winfield had arranged a routine which seemed admirable. +Until luncheon time, he was with Ruth and, usually, out of doors, +according to prescription. In the afternoon, he went up again, sometimes +staying to dinner, and, always, he spent his evenings there. + +“Why don't you ask me to have my trunk sent up here?” he asked Ruth, one +day. + +“I hadn't thought of it,” she laughed. “I suppose it hasn't seemed +necessary.” + +“Miss Hathaway would be pleased, wouldn't she, if she knew she had two +guests instead of one?” + +“Undoubtedly; how could she help it?” + +“When do you expect her to return?” + +“I don't know--I haven't heard a word from her. Sometimes I feel a +little anxious about her.” Ruth would have been much concerned for her +relative's safety, had she known that the eccentric lady had severed +herself from the excursion and gone boldly into Italy, unattended, and +with no knowledge of the language. + +Hepsey inquired daily for news of Miss Hathaway, but no tidings were +forthcoming. She amused herself in her leisure moments by picturing all +sorts of disasters in which her mistress was doubtless engulfed, and in +speculating upon the tie between Miss Thorne and Mr. Winfield. + +More often than not, it fell to Hepsey to light the lamp in the attic +window, though she did it at Miss Thorne's direction. “If I forget it, +Hepsey,” she had said, calmly, “you'll see to it, won't you?” + +Trunks, cedar chests, old newspapers, and long hidden letters were out +of Ruth's province now. Once in two or three weeks, she went to see Miss +Ainslie, but never stayed long, though almost every day she reproached +herself for neglect. + +Winfield's days were filled with peace, since he had learned how to get +on with Miss Thorne. When she showed herself stubborn and unyielding, he +retreated gracefully, and with a suggestion of amusement, as a courtier +may step aside gallantly for an angry lady to pass. Ruth felt his mental +attitude and, even though she resented it, she was ashamed. + +Having found that she could have her own way, she became less anxious +for it, and several times made small concessions, which were apparently +unconscious, but amusing, nevertheless. She had none of the wiles of the +coquette; she was transparent, and her friendliness was disarming. If +she wanted Winfield to stay at home any particular morning or afternoon, +she told him so. At first he was offended, but afterward learned to like +it, for she could easily have instructed Hepsey to say that she was out. + +The pitiless, unsympathetic calendar recorded the fact that July was +near its end, and Ruth sighed--then hated herself for it. + +She had grown accustomed to idleness, and, under the circumstances, +liked it far too well. + +One morning, when she went down to breakfast, Hepsey was evidently +perplexed about something, but Ruth took no outward note of it, knowing +that it would be revealed ere long. + +“Miss Thorne,” she said, tentatively, as Ruth rose from the table. + +“Yes?” + +“Of course, Miss Thorne, I reckon likely't ain't none of my business, +but is Mr. Winfield another detective, and have you found anything out +yet?” + +Ruth, inwardly raging, forced herself to let the speech pass unnoticed, +and sailed majestically out of the room. She was surprised to discover +that she could be made so furiously angry by so small a thing. + +Winfield was coming up the hill with the mail, and she tried to cool her +hot cheeks with her hands. “Let's go down on the side of the hill,” she +said, as he gave her some letters and the paper; “it's very warm in the +sun, and I'd like the sea breeze.” + +They found a comparatively level place, with two trees to lean against, +and, though they were not far from the house, they were effectually +screened by the rising ground. Ruth felt that she could not bear the +sight of Hepsey just then. + +After glancing at her letters she began to read aloud, with a troubled +haste which did not escape him. “Here's a man who had a little piece +of bone taken out of the inside of his skull,” she said. “Shall I read +about that? He seems, literally, to have had something on his mind.” + +“You're brilliant this morning,” answered Winfield, gravely, and she +laughed hysterically. + +“What's the matter with you?” he asked. “You don't seem like yourself.” + +“It isn't nice of you to say that,” she retorted, “considering your +previous remark.” + +There was a rumble and a snort on the road and, welcoming the diversion, +he went up to reconnoitre. “Joe's coming; is there anything you want in +the village?” + +“No,” she answered, wearily, “there's nothing I want--anywhere.” + +“You're an exceptional woman,” returned Winfield, promptly, “and +I'd advise you to sit for your photograph. The papers would like +it--'Picture of the Only Woman Who Doesn't Want Anything'--why, that +would work off an extra in about ten minutes!” + +Ruth looked at him for a moment, then turned her eyes away. He felt +vaguely uncomfortable, and was about to offer atonement when Joe's deep +bass voice called out: + +“Hello!” + +“Hello yourself!” came in Hepsey's highest tones, from the garden. + +“Want anything to-day?” + +“Nope!” + +There was a brief pause, and then Joe shouted again: “Hepsey!” + +“Well?” + +“I should think they'd break their vocal cords,” said Winfield. + +“I wish they would,” rejoined Ruth, quickly. + +“Come here!” yelled Joe. “I want to talk to yer.” + +“Talk from there,” screamed Hepsey. + +“Where's yer folks?” + +“D'know.” + +“Say, be they courtin'?” + +Hepsey left her work in the garden and came toward the front of the +house. “They walk out some,” she said, when she was halfway to the gate, +“and they set up a good deal, and Miss Thorne told me she didn't know as +she'd do better, but you can't rightly say they're courtin' 'cause city +ways ain't like our'n.” + +The deep colour dyed Ruth's face and her hands twitched nervously. +Winfield very much desired to talk, but could think of nothing to say. +The situation was tense. + +Joe clucked to his horses. “So long,” he said. “See yer later.” + +Ruth held her breath until he passed them, and then broke down. Her self +control was quite gone, and she sobbed bitterly, in grief and shame. +Winfield tucked his handkerchief into her cold hands, not knowing what +else to do. + +“Don't!” he said, as if he, too, had been hurt. “Ruth, dear, don't cry!” + +A new tenderness almost unmanned him, but he sat still with his hands +clenched, feeling like a brute because of her tears. + +The next few minutes seemed like an hour, then Ruth raised her head and +tried to smile. “I expect you think I'm silly,” she said, hiding her +tear stained face again. + +“No!” he cried, sharply; then, with a catch in his throat, he put his +hand on her shoulder. + +“Don't!” she sobbed, turning away from him, “what--what they said--was +bad enough!” + +The last words ended in a rush of tears, and, sorely distressed, he +began to walk back and forth. Then a bright idea came to him. + +“I'll be back in a minute,” he said. + +When he returned, he had a tin dipper, freshly filled with cold water. +“Don't cry any more,” he pleaded, gently, “I'm going to bathe your +face.” + +Ruth leaned back against the tree and he knelt beside her. “Oh, that +feels so good,” she said, gratefully, as she felt his cool fingers +upon her burning eyes. In a little while she was calm again, though her +breast still heaved with every fluttering breath. + +“You poor little woman,” he said, tenderly, “you're just as nervous as +you can be. Don't feel so about it. Just suppose it was somebody who +wasn't!” + +“Who wasn't what?” asked Ruth, innocently. + +Winfield crimsoned to the roots of his hair and hurled the dipper into +the distance. + +“What--what--they said,” he stammered, sitting down awkwardly. “Oh, +darn it!” He kicked savagely at a root, and added, in bitterest self +accusation, “I'm a chump, I am!” + +“No you're not,” returned Ruth, with sweet shyness, “you're nice. Now +we'll read some more of the paper.” + +He assumed a feverish interest in the market reports, but his thoughts +were wandering. Certainly, nothing could have been worse. He felt as if +a bud, which he had been long and eagerly watching, was suddenly torn +open by a vandal hand. When he first touched Ruth's eyes with his finger +tips, he had trembled like a schoolboy, and he wondered if she knew it. + +If she did, she made no sign. Her cheeks were flushed, the lids of her +downcast eyes were pink, and her voice had lost its crisp, incisive +tones, but she read rapidly, without comment or pause, until the supply +of news gave out. Then she began on the advertisements, dreading the +end of her task and vainly wishing for more papers, though in her heart +there was something sweet, which, even to herself, she dared not name. + +“That'll do,” he said, abruptly, “I'm not interested in the 'midsummer +glove clearing.' I meant to tell you something when I first came--I've +got to go away.” + +Ruth's heart throbbed painfully, as if some cold hand held it fast. +“Yes,” she said, politely, not recognising her own voice. + +“It's only for a week--I've got to go to the oculist and see about some +other things. I'll be back before long.” + +“I shall miss you,” she said, conventionally. Then she saw that he was +going away to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence, and +blessed him accordingly. + +“When are you going?” she asked. + +“This afternoon. I don't want to go, but it's just as well to have it +over with. Can I do anything for you in the city?” + +“No, thank you. My wants are few and, at present, well supplied.” + +“Don't you want me to match something for you? I thought women always +had pieces of stuff that had to be matched immediately.” + +“They made you edit the funny column, didn't they?” she asked, +irrelevantly. + +“They did, Miss Thorne, and, moreover, I expect I'll have to do it +again.” + +After a little, they were back on the old footing, yet everything was +different, for there was an obtruding self consciousness on either side. +“What time do you go?” she asked, with assumed indifference. + +“Three-fifteen, I think, and it's after one now.” + +He walked back to the house with her, and, for the second time that day, +Hepsey came out to sweep the piazza. + +“Good bye, Miss Thorne,” he said. + +“Good bye, Mr. Winfield.” + +That was all, but Ruth looked up with an unspoken question and his eyes +met hers clearly, with no turning aside. She knew he would come back +very soon and she understood his answer--that he had the right. + +As she entered the house, Hepsey said, pleasantly: “Has he gone away, +Miss Thorne?” + +“Yes,” she answered, without emotion. She was about to say that she did +not care for luncheon, then decided that she must seem to care. + +Still, it was impossible to escape that keen-eyed observer. “You ain't +eatin' much,” she suggested. + +“I'm not very hungry.” + +“Be you sick, Miss Thorne?” + +“No--not exactly. I've been out in the sun and my head aches,” she +replied, clutching at the straw. + +“Do you want a wet rag?” + +Ruth laughed, remembering an earlier suggestion of Winfield's. “No, I +don't want any wet rag, Hepsey, but I'll go up to my room for a little +while, I think. Please don't disturb me.” + +She locked her door, shutting out all the world from the nameless joy +that surged in her heart. The mirror disclosed flushed, feverish cheeks +and dark eyes that shone like stars. “Ruth Thorne,” she said to herself, +“I'm ashamed of you! First you act like a fool and then like a girl of +sixteen!” + +Then her senses became confused and the objects in the room circled +around her unsteadily. “I'm tired,” she murmured. Her head sank drowsily +into the lavender scented pillow and she slept too soundly to take note +of the three o'clock train leaving the station. It was almost sunset +when she was aroused by voices under her window. + +“That feller's gone home,” said Joe. + +“Do tell!” exclaimed Hepsey. “Did he pay his board?” + +“Yep, every cent. He's a-comin' back.” + +“When?” + +“D'know. Don't she know?” The emphasis indicated Miss Thorne. + +“I guess not,” answered Hepsey. “They said good bye right in front of +me, and there wa'n't nothin' said about it.” + +“They ain't courtin', then,” said Joe, after a few moments of painful +thought, and Ruth, in her chamber above, laughed happily to herself. + +“Mebbe not,” rejoined Hepsey. “It ain't fer sech as me to say when +there's courtin' and when there ain't, after havin' gone well nigh onto +five year with a country loafer what ain't never said nothin'.” She +stalked into the house, closed the door, and noisily bolted it. Joe +stood there for a moment, as one struck dumb, then gave a long, low +whistle of astonishment and walked slowly down the hill. + + + + +X. Love Letters + +“A week!” Ruth said to herself the next morning. “Seven long days! No +letter, because he mustn't write, no telegram, because there's no office +within ten miles--nothing to do but wait!” + +When she went down to breakfast, Hepsey did not seem to hear her cheery +greeting, but was twisting her apron and walking about restlessly. “Miss +Thorne,” she said, at length, “did you ever get a love letter?” + +“Why, yes, of course,” laughed Ruth. “Every girl gets love letters.” + +Hepsey brightened visibly, then inquired, with great seriousness: “Can +you read writin', Miss Thorne?” + +“That depends on the writing.” + +“Yes'm, it does so. I can read some writin'--I can read Miss Hathaway's +writin', and some of the furrin letters she's had, but I got some this +mornin' I can't make out, nohow.” + +“Where did you find 'writing' this morning? It's too early for the mail, +isn't it?” + +“Yes'm. It was stuck under the kitchen winder.” Hepsey looked up at the +ceiling in an effort to appear careless, and sighed. Then she clutched +violently at the front of her blue gingham dress, immediately repenting +of her rashness. Ruth was inwardly amused but asked no helpful +questions. + +Finally, Hepsey took the plunge. “Would you mind tryin' to make out some +writin' I've got, Miss Thorne?” + +“Of course not--let me see it.” + +Hepsey extracted a letter from the inmost recesses of her attire and +stood expectantly, with her hands on her hips. + +“Why, it's a love letter!” Ruth exclaimed. + +“Yes'm. When you get through readin' it to yourself, will you read it +out loud?” + +The letter, which was written on ruled note paper, bore every evidence +of care and thought. “Hepsey,” it began, and, on the line below, with a +great flourish under it, “Respected Miss” stood, in large capitals. + +“Although it is now but a short interval,” Ruth read, “since my +delighted eyes first rested on your beautiful form--” + +“Five year!” interjected Hepsey. + +“--yet I dare to hope that you will receive graciously what I am about +to say, as I am assured you will, if you reciprocate the sentiments +which you have aroused in my bosom. + +“In this short time, dear Miss, brief though it is, yet it has proved +amply sufficient for my heart to go out to you in a yearning love which +I have never before felt for one of your sex. Day by day and night by +night your glorious image has followed me.” + +“That's a lie,” interrupted Hepsey, “he knows I never chased him +nowheres, not even when he took that red-headed Smith girl to the +Sunday-school picnic over to the Ridge, a year ago come August.” + +“Those dark tresses have entwined my soul in their silken meshes, those +deep eyes, that have borrowed their colour from Heaven's cerulean +blue, and those soft white hands, that have never been roughened by +uncongenial toil, have been ever present in my dreams.” + +Ruth paused for a moment, overcome by her task, but Hepsey's face was +radiant. “Hurry up, Miss Thorne,” she said, impatiently. + +“In short, Dear Miss, I consider you the most surpassingly lovely of +your kind, and it is with pride swelling in my manly bosom that I dare +to ask so peerless a jewel for her heart and hand. + +“My parentage, birth, and breeding are probably known to you, but should +any points remain doubtful, I will be pleased to present references as +to my character and standing in the community. + +“I await with impatience, Madam, your favourable answer to my plea. Rest +assured that if you should so honour me as to accept my proposal, I will +endeavour to stand always between you and the hard, cruel world, as +your faithful shield. I will also endeavour constantly to give you a +happiness as great as that which will immediately flood my bing upon +receipt of your blushing acceptance. + +“I remain, Dear Miss, your devoted lover and humble servant, + +“JOSEPH PENDLETON, ESQ.” + +“My! My!” ejaculated Hepsey. “Ain't that fine writin'!” + +“It certainly is,” responded Miss Thorne, keeping her face straight with +difficulty. + +“Would you mind readin' it again?” + +She found the second recital much easier, since she was partially +accustomed to the heavy punctuation marks and shaded flourishes. At +first, she had connected Winfield with the effusion, but second thought +placed the blame where it belonged--at the door of a “Complete Letter +Writer.” + +“Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, hesitating. + +“Yes?” + +“Of course, I'd like my answer to be as good writin' as his'n.” + +“Naturally.” + +“Where d'you s'pose he got all that lovely grammar?” + +“Grammar is a rare gift, Hepsey.” + +“Yes'm, 't is so. Miss Thorne, do you guess you could write as good as +that?” + +“I'd be willing to try,” returned Ruth, with due humility. + +Hepsey thought painfully for a few moments. “I'd know jest what I'd +better say. Now, last night, I give Joe a hint, as you may say, but I +wouldn't want him to think I'd jest been a-waitin' for him.” + +“No, of course not.” + +“Ain't it better to keep him in suspense, as you may say?” + +“Far better, Hepsey; he'll think more of you.” + +“Then I'll jest write that I'm willin' to think it over, and if you'll +put it on a piece of paper fer me, I'll write it out with ink. I've got +two sheets of paper jest like this, with nice blue lines onto it, that +I've been a-savin' fer a letter, and Miss Hathaway, she's got ink.” + +Ruth sat down to compose an answer which should cast a shadow over the +“Complete Letter Writer.” Her pencil flew over the rough copy paper with +lightning speed, while Hepsey stood by in amazement. + +“Listen,” she said, at length, “how do you like this?” + +“MR. JOSEPH PENDLETON-- + +“Respected Sir: Although your communication of recent date was a great +surprise to me, candour compels me to confess that it was not entirely +disagreeable. I have observed, though with true feminine delicacy, that +your affections were inclined to settle in my direction, and have not +repelled your advances. + +“Still, I do not feel that as yet we are sufficiently acquainted to +render immediate matrimony either wise or desirable, and since the +suddenness of your proposal has in a measure taken my breath away, I +must beg that you will allow me a proper interval in which to consider +the matter, and, in the meantime, think of me simply as your dearest +friend. + +“I may add, in conclusion, that your character and standing in the +community are entirely satisfactory to me. Thanking you for the honour +you have conferred upon me, believe me, Dear Sir, + +“Your sincere friend, + +“HEPSEY.” + +“My!” exclaimed Hepsey, with overmastering pride; “ain't that beautiful! +It's better than his'n, ain't it?” + +“I wouldn't say that,” Ruth replied, with proper modesty, “but I think +it will do.” + +“Yes'm. 'Twill so. Your writin' ain't nothin' like Joe's,” she +continued, scanning it closely, “but it's real pretty.” Then a bright +idea illuminated her countenance. “Miss Thorne, if you'll write it out +on the note paper with a pencil, I can go over it with the ink, and +afterward, when it's dry, I'll rub out the pencil. It'll be my writin' +then, but it'll look jest like yours.” + +“All right, Hepsey.” + +She found it difficult to follow the lines closely, but at length +achieved a respectable result. “I'll take good care of it,” Hepsey said, +wrapping the precious missive in a newspaper, “and this afternoon, when +I get my work done up, I'll fix it. Joe'll be surprised, won't he?” + +Late in the evening, when Hepsey came to Ruth, worn with the +unaccustomed labours of correspondence, and proudly displayed the +nondescript epistle, she was compelled to admit that unless Joe had +superhuman qualities he would indeed “be surprised.” + + +The next afternoon Ruth went down to Miss Ainslie's. “You've been +neglecting me, dear,” said that gentle soul, as she opened the door. + +“I haven't meant to,” returned Ruth, conscience-stricken, as she +remembered how long it had been since the gate of the old-fashioned +garden had swung on its hinges for her. + +A quiet happiness had settled down upon Ruth and the old perturbed +spirit was gone, but Miss Ainslie was subtly different. “I feel as if +something was going to happen,” she said. + +“Something nice?” + +“I--don't know.” The sweet face was troubled and there were fine lines +about the mouth, such as Ruth had never seen there before. + +“You're nervous, Miss Ainslie--it's my turn to scold now.” + +“I never scolded you, did I deary?” + +“You couldn't scold anybody--you're too sweet. You're not unhappy, are +you, Miss Ainslie?” + +“I? Why, no! Why should I be unhappy?” Her deep eyes were fixed upon +Ruth. + +“I--I didn't know,” Ruth answered, in confusion. + +“I learned long ago,” said Miss Ainslie, after a little, “that we may be +happy or not, just as we choose. Happiness is not a circumstance, nor a +set of circumstances; it's only a light, and we may keep it burning if +we will. So many of us are like children, crying for the moon, instead +of playing contentedly with the few toys we have. We're always hoping +for something, and when it does n't come we fret and worry; when +it does, why there's always something else we'd rather have. We +deliberately make nearly all of our unhappiness, with our own +unreasonable discontent, and nothing will ever make us happy, deary, +except the spirit within.” + +“But, Miss Ainslie,” Ruth objected, “do you really think everybody can +be happy?” + +“Of course--everybody who wishes to be. Some people are happier when +they're miserable. I don't mean, deary, that it's easy for any of us, +and it's harder for some than for others, all because we never grow +up. We're always children--our playthings are a little different, that's +all.” + +“'Owning ourselves forever children,' quoted Ruth, “'gathering pebbles +on a boundless shore.'” + +“Yes, I was just thinking of that. A little girl breaks her doll, and +though the new one may be much prettier, it never wholly fills the +vacant place, and it's that way with a woman's dream.” The sweet voice +sank into a whisper, followed by a lingering sigh. + +“Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, after a pause, “did you know my mother?” + +“No, I didn't, deary--I'm sorry. I saw her once or twice, but she went +away, soon after we came here.” + +“Never mind,” Ruth said, hurriedly, for Mrs. Thorne's family had never +forgiven her runaway marriage. + +“Come into the garden,” Miss Ainslie suggested, and Ruth followed +her, willingly, into the cloistered spot where golden lilies tinkled, +thrushes sang, and every leaf breathed peace. + +Miss Ainslie gathered a bit of rosemary, crushing it between her white +fingers. “See,” she said, “some of us are like that it takes a blow to +find the sweetness in our souls. Some of us need dry, hard places, like +the poppies “--pointing to a mass of brilliant bloom--“and some of us +are always thorny, like the cactus, with only once in a while a rosy +star. + +“I've always thought my flowers had souls, dear,” she went on; “they +seem like real people to me. I've seen the roses rubbing their cheeks +together as if they loved each other, and the forget-me-nots are little +blue-eyed children, half afraid of the rest. + +“Over there, it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman +in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She's one +of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her +sweetness lingers long after she goes away. I gather all the flowers, +and every leaf, though the flowers are sweetest. I put the leaves away +with my linen and the flowers among my laces. I have some beautiful +lace, deary.” + +“I know you have--I've often admired it.” + +“I'm going to show it to you some day,” she said, with a little quiver +in her voice, “and some other day, when I can't wear it any more, you +shall have some of it for your own.” + +“Don't, Miss Ainslie,” cried Ruth, the quick tears coming to her eyes, +“I don't want any lace--I want you!” + +“I know,” she answered, but there was a far-away look in her eyes, and +something in her voice that sounded like a farewell. + +“Miss Thorne,” called Joe from the gate, “here's a package for yer. It +come on the train.” + +He waited until Ruth went to him and seemed disappointed when she turned +back into the garden. “Say,” he shouted, “is Hepsey to home?” + +Ruth was busy with the string and did not hear. “Oh, look!” she +exclaimed, “what roses!” + +“They're beautiful, deary. I do not think I have ever seen such large +ones. Do you know what they are?” + +“American Beauties--they're from Mr. Winfield. He knows I love them.” + +Miss Ainslie started violently. “From whom, dear?” she asked, in a +strange tone. + +“Mr. Winfield--he's going to be on the same paper with me in the Fall. +He's here for the Summer, on account of his eyes.” + +Miss Ainslie was bending over the lavender. + +“It is a very common name, is it not?” she asked. + +“Yes, quite common,” answered Ruth, absently, taking the roses out of +the box. + +“You must bring him to see me some time, dear; I should like to know +him.” + +“Thank you, Miss Ainslie, I will.” + +They stood at the gate together, and Ruth put a half blown rose into her +hand. “I wouldn't give it to anybody but you,” she said, half playfully, +and then Miss Ainslie knew her secret. She put her hand on Ruth's arm +and looked down into her face, as if there was something she must say. + +“I don't forget the light, Miss Ainslie.” + +“I know,” she breathed, in answer. She looked long and searchingly into +Ruth's eyes, then whispered brokenly, “God bless you, dear. Good bye!” + + + + +XI. The Rose of all the World + +“He didn't forget me! He didn't forget me!” Ruth's heart sang in time +with her step as she went home. Late afternoon flooded all the earth +with gold, and from the other side of the hill came the gentle music of +the sea. + +The doors were open, but there was no trace of Hepsey. She put the +roses in her water pitcher, and locked her door upon them as one hides a +sacred joy. She went out again, her heart swelling like the throat of +a singing bird, and walked to the brow of the cliff, with every sense +keenly alive. Upon the surface of the ocean lay that deep, translucent +blue which only Tadema has dared to paint. + +“I must go down,” she murmured. + +Like a tawny ribbon trailed upon the green, the road wound down the +hill. She followed it until she reached the side path on the right, and +went down into the woods. The great boughs arched over her head like the +nave of a cathedral, and the Little People of the Forest, in feathers +and fur, scattered as she approached. Bright eyes peeped at her from +behind tree trunks, or the safe shelter of branches, and rippling bird +music ended in a frightened chirp, + +“Oh,” she said aloud, “don't be afraid!” + +Was this love, she wondered, that lay upon her eyes like the dew of a +Spring morning, that made the air vocal with rapturous song, and wrought +white magic in her soul? It had all the mystery ind freshness of the +world's beginning; it was the rush of waters where sea and river meet, +the perfume of a flower, and the far light trembling from a star. It was +sunrise where there had been no day, the ecstasy of a thousand dawns; a +new sun gleaming upon noon. All the joy of the world surged and beat in +her pulses, till it seemed that her heart had wings. + +Sunset came upon the water, the colour on the horizon reflecting soft +iridescence upon the blue. Slow sapphire surges broke at her feet, +tossing great pearls of spray against the cliff. Suddenly, as if by +instinct, she turned--and faced Winfield. + +“Thank you for the roses,” she cried, with her face aglow. + +He gathered her into his arms. “Oh, my Rose of All the World,” he +murmured, “have I found you at last?” + +It was almost dusk when they turned to go home, with their arms around +each other, as if they were the First Two, wandering through the shaded +groves of Paradise, before sin came into the world. + +“Did you think it would be like this?” she asked, shyly. + +“No, I didn't, darling. I thought it would be very prim and proper. I +never dreamed you'd let me kiss you--yes, I did, too, but I thought it +was too good to be true.” + +“I had to--to let you,” she explained, crimsoning, “but nobody ever did +before. I always thought--” Then Ruth hid her face against his shoulder, +in maidenly shame. + +When they came to the log across the path, they sat down, very close +together. “You said we'd fight if we came here,” Ruth whispered. + +“We're not going to, though. I want to tell you something, dear, and I +haven't had the words for it till now.” + +“What is it?” she asked, in alarm. + +“It's only that I love you, Ruth,” he said, holding her closer, “and +when I've said that, I've said all. It isn't an idle word; it's all my +life that I give you, to do with as you will. It isn't anything that's +apart from you, or ever could be; it's as much yours as your hands or +eyes are. I didn't know it for a little while--that's because I was +blind. To think that I should go up to see you, even that first day, +without knowing you for my sweetheart--my wife!” + +“No, don't draw away from me. You little wild bird, are you afraid of +Love? It's the sweetest thing God ever let a man dream of, Ruth--there's +nothing like it in all the world. Look up, Sweet Eyes, and say you love +me!” + +Ruth's head drooped, and he put his hand under her chin, turning her +face toward him, but her eyes were downcast still. “Say it, darling,” he +pleaded. + +“I--I can't,” she stammered. + +“Why, dear?” + +“Because--because--you know.” + +“I want you to say it, sweetheart. Won't you?” + +“Sometime, perhaps.” + +“When?” + +“When--when it's dark.” + +“It's dark now.” + +“No it isn't. How did you know?” + +“How did I know what, dear?” + +“That I--that I--cared.” + +“I knew the day you cried. I didn't know myself until then, but it all +came in a minute.” + +“I was afraid you were going to stay away a whole week.” + +“I couldn't, darling--I just had to come.” + +“Did you see everybody you wanted to see?” + +“I couldn't see anything but your face, Ruth, with the tears on it. I've +got to go back to-morrow and have another try at the oculist.” + +“Oh!” she exclaimed, in acute disappointment. + +“It's the last time, sweetheart; we'll never be separated again.” + +“Never?” + +“Never in all the world--nor afterward.” + +“I expect you think I'm silly,” she said, wiping her eyes, as they rose +to go home, “but I don't want you to go away.” + +“I don't want to go, dearest. If you're going to cry, you'll have me a +raving maniac. I can't stand it, now.” + +“I'm not going to,” she answered, smiling through her tears, “but it's a +blessed privilege to have a nice stiff collar and a new tie to cry on.” + +“They're at your service, dear, for anything but that. I suppose we're +engaged now, aren't we?” + +“I don't know,” said Ruth, in a low tone; “you haven't asked me to marry +you.” + +“Do you want me to?” + +“It's time, isn't it?” + +Winfield bent over and whispered to her. + +“I must think about it,” said Ruth, very gravely, “it's so sudden.” + +“Oh, you sweet girl,” he laughed, “aren't you going to give me any +encouragement?” + +“You've had some.” + +“I want another,” he answered, purposely misunderstanding her, “and +besides, it's dark now.” + +The sweet-scented twilight still lingered on the hillside, and a star or +two gleamed through the open spaces above. A moment later, Ruth, in her +turn, whispered to him. It was only a word or two, but the bright-eyed +robins who were peeping at them from the maple branches must have +observed that it was highly satisfactory. + + + + +XII. Bride and Groom + +Though Winfield had sternly determined to go back to town the following +day, he did not achieve departure until later. Ruth went to the station +with him, and desolation came upon her when the train pulled out, in +spite of the new happiness in her heart. + +She had little time to miss him, however, for, at the end of the week, +and in accordance with immemorial custom, the Unexpected happened. + +She was sitting at her window one morning, trying to sew, when the +village chariot stopped at the gate and a lady descended. Joe stirred +lazily on the front seat, but she said, in a clear, high-pitched voice: +“You needn't trouble yourself, Joe. He'll carry the things.” + +She came toward the house, fanning herself with a certain stateliness, +and carrying her handkerchief primly, by the exact centre of it. In her +wake was a little old gentleman, with a huge bundle, surrounded by a +shawl-strap, a large valise, much the worse for wear, a telescope basket +which was expanded to its full height, and two small parcels. A cane was +tucked under one arm and an umbrella under the other. He could scarcely +be seen behind the mountain of baggage. + +Hepsey was already at the door. “Why, Miss Hathaway!” she cried, in +astonishment. + +“'T ain't Miss Hathaway,” rejoined the visitor, with some asperity, +“it's Mrs. Ball, and this is my husband. Niece Ruth, I presume,” she +added, as Miss Thorne appeared. “Ruth, let me introduce you to your +Uncle James.” + +The bride was of medium height and rather angular. Her eyes were small, +dark, and so piercingly brilliant that they suggested jet beads. +Her skin was dark and her lips had been habitually compressed into a +straight line. None the less, it was the face that Ruth had seen in the +ambrotype at Miss Ainslie's, with the additional hardness that comes to +those who grow old without love. Her bearing was that of a brisk, active +woman, accustomed all her life to obedience and respect. + +Mr. Ball was two or three inches shorter than his wife, and had a white +beard, irregularly streaked with brown. He was baldheaded in front, had +scant, reddish hair in the back, and his faded blue eyes were tearful. +He had very small feet and the unmistakable gait of a sailor. Though +there was no immediate resemblance, Ruth was sure that he was the +man whose picture was in Aunt Jane's treasure chest in the attic. The +daredevil look was gone, however, and he was merely a quiet, inoffensive +old gentleman, for whom life had been none too easy. + +“Welcome to your new home, James,” said his wife, in a crisp, +businesslike tone, which but partially concealed a latent tenderness. He +smiled, but made no reply. + +Hepsey still stood in the parlour, in wide mouthed astonishment, and it +was Ruth's good fortune to see the glance which Mrs. Ball cast upon her +offending maid. There was no change of expression except in the eyes, +but Hepsey instantly understood that she was out of her place, and +retreated to the kitchen with a flush upon her cheeks, which was +altogether foreign to Ruth's experience. + +“You can set here, James,” resumed Mrs. Ball, “until I have taken off my +things.” + +The cherries on her black straw bonnet were shaking on their stems in a +way which fascinated Ruth. “I'll take my things out of the south room, +Aunty,” she hastened to say. + +“You won't, neither,” was the unexpected answer; “that's the spare room, +and, while you stay, you'll stay there.” + +Ruth was wondering what to say to her new uncle and sat in awkward +silence as Aunt Jane ascended the stairs. Her step sounded lightly +overhead and Mr. Ball twirled his thumbs absently. “You--you've come a +long way, haven't you?” she asked. + +“Yes'm, a long way.” Then, seemingly for the first time, he looked at +her, and a benevolent expression came upon his face. “You've got awful +pretty hair, Niece Ruth,” he observed, admiringly; “now Mis' Ball, she +wears a false front.” + +The lady of the house returned at this juncture, with the false front a +little askew. “I was just a-sayin',” Mr. Ball continued, “that our niece +is a real pleasant lookin' woman.” + +“She's your niece by marriage,” his wife replied, “but she ain't no real +relative.” + +“Niece by merriage is relative enough,” said Mr.Ball, “and I say she's a +pleasant lookin' woman, ain't she, now?” + +“She'll do, I reckon. She resembles her Ma.” Aunt Jane looked at Ruth, +as if pitying the sister who had blindly followed the leadings of her +heart and had died unforgiven. + +“Why didn't you let me know you were coming, Aunt Jane?” asked Ruth. +“I've been looking for a letter every day and I understood you weren't +coming back until October.” + +“I trust I am not unwelcome in my own house,” was the somewhat frigid +response. + +“No indeed, Aunty--I hope you've had a pleasant time.” + +“We've had a beautiful time, ain't we, James? We've been on our +honeymoon.” + +“Yes'm, we hev been on our honeymoon, travellin' over strange lands an' +furrin wastes of waters. Mis' Ball was terrible sea sick comin' here.” + +“In a way,” said Aunt Jane, “we ain't completely married. We was +married by a heathen priest in a heathen country and it ain't rightfully +bindin', but we thought it would do until we could get back here and be +married by a minister of the gospel, didn't we, James?” + +“It has held,” he said, without emotion, “but I reckon we will hev to be +merried proper.” + +“Likewise I have my weddin' dress,” Aunt Jane went on, “what ain't never +been worn. It's a beautiful dress--trimmed with pearl trimmin'”--here +Ruth felt the pangs of a guilty conscience--“and I lay out to be married +in it, quite private, with you and Hepsey for witnesses.” + +“Why, it's quite a romance, isn't it, Aunty?” + +“'T is in a way,” interjected Mr. Ball, “and in another way, 't ain't.” + +“Yes, Ruth,” Aunt Jane continued, ignoring the interruption, “'t is a +romance--a real romance,” she repeated, with all the hard lines in her +face softened. “We was engaged over thirty-five year. James went to sea +to make a fortin', so he could give me every luxury. It's all writ out +in a letter I've got upstairs. They's beautiful letters, Ruth, and it's +come to me, as I've been settin' here, that you might make a book out'n +these letters of James's. You write, don't you?” + +“Why, yes, Aunty, I write for the papers but I've never done a book.” + +“Well, you'll never write a book no earlier, and here's all the +material, as you say, jest a-waitin' for you to copy it. I guess there's +over a hundred letters.” + +“But, Aunty,” objected Ruth, struggling with inward emotion, “I couldn't +sign my name to it, you know, unless I had written the letters.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because it wouldn't be honest,” she answered, clutching at the straw, +“the person who wrote the letters would be entitled to the credit--and +the money,” she added hopefully. + +“Why, yes, that's right. Do you hear James? It'll have to be your book, +'The Love Letters of a Sailor,' by James, and dedicated in the front +'to my dearly beloved wife, Jane Ball, as was Jane Hathaway.' It'll be +beautiful, won't it, James?” + +“Yes'm, I hev no doubt but what it will.” + +“Do you remember, James, how you borrered a chisel from the tombstone +man over to the Ridge, and cut our names into endurin' granite?” + +“I'd forgot that--how come you to remember it?” + +“On account of your havin' lost the chisel and the tombstone man +a-worryin' me about it to this day. I'll take you to the place. There's +climbin' but it won't hurt us none, though we ain't as young as we might +be. You says to me, you says: 'Jane, darlin', as long as them letters +stays cut into the everlastin' rock, just so long I'll love you,' you +says, and they's there still.” + +“Well, I'm here, too, ain't I?” replied Mr. Ball, seeming to detect a +covert reproach. “I was allers a great hand fer cuttin'.” + +“There'll have to be a piece writ in the end, Ruth, explainin' the happy +endin' of the romance. If you can't do it justice, James and me can +help--James was allers a master hand at writin'. It'll have to tell how +through the long years he has toiled, hopin' against hope, and for over +thirty years not darin' to write a line to the object of his affections, +not feelin' worthy, as you may say, and how after her waitin' faithfully +at home and turnin' away dozens of lovers what pleaded violent-like, +she finally went travellin' in furrin parts and come upon her old lover +a-keepin' a store in a heathen land, a-strugglin' to retrieve disaster +after disaster at sea, and constantly withstandin' the blandishments of +heathen women as endeavoured to wean him from his faith, and how, though +very humble and scarcely darin to speak, he learned that she was willin' +and they come a sailin' home together and lived happily ever afterward. +Ain't that as it was, James?” + +“Yes'm, except that there wa'n't no particular disaster at sea and them +heathen women didn't exert no blandishments. They was jest pleasant to +an old feller, bless their little hearts.” + +By some subtle mental process, Mr. Ball became aware that he had made +a mistake. “You ain't changed nothin' here, Jane,” he continued, +hurriedly, “there's the haircloth sofy that we used to set on Sunday +evenins' after meetin', and the hair wreath with the red rose in it made +out of my hair and the white rose made out of your grandmother's hair +on your father's side, and the yeller lily made out of the hair of your +Uncle Jed's youngest boy. I disremember the rest, but time was when I +could say'm all. I never see your beat for makin' hair wreaths, Jane. +There ain't nothin' gone but the melodeon that used to set by the +mantel. What's come of the melodeon?” + +“The melodeon is set away in the attic. The mice et out the inside.” + +“Didn't you hev no cat?” + +“There ain't no cat, James, that could get into a melodeon through a +mouse hole, more especially the big maltese you gave me. I kept that +cat, James, as you may say, all these weary years. When there was +kittens, I kept the one that looked most like old Malty, but of late +years, the cats has all been different, and the one I buried jest afore +I sailed away was yeller and white with black and brown spots--a kinder +tortoise shell--that didn't look nothin' like Malty. You'd never have +knowed they belonged to the same family, but I was sorry when she died, +on account of her bein' the last cat.” + +Hepsey, half frightened, put her head into the room. “Dinner's ready,” + she shouted, hurriedly shutting the door. + +“Give me your arm, James,” said Mrs. Ball, and Ruth followed them into +the dining-room. + +The retired sailor ate heartily, casting occasional admiring glances +at Ruth and Hepsey. It was the innocent approval which age bestows upon +youth. “These be the finest biscuit,” he said, “that I've had for many a +day. I reckon you made 'em, didn't you, young woman?” + +“Yes, sir,” replied Hepsey, twisting her apron. + +The bride was touched in a vulnerable spot. + +“Hepsey,” she said, decisively, “when your week is up, you will no +longer be in my service. I am a-goin'to make a change.” + +Mr. Ball's knife dropped with a sharp clatter. “Why, Mis' Ball,” he +said, reproachfully, “who air you goin' to hev to do your work?” + +“Don't let that trouble you, James,” she answered, serenely, “the +washin' can be put out to the Widder Pendleton, her as was Elmiry +Peavey, and the rest ain't no particular trouble.” + +“Aunty,” said Ruth, “now that you've come home and everything is going +on nicely, I think I'd better go back to the city. You see, if I stay +here, I'll be interrupting the honeymoon.” + +“No, no, Niece Ruth!” exclaimed Mr. Ball, “you ain't interruptin' no +honeymoon. It's a great pleasure to your aunt and me to hev you here--we +likes pretty young things around us, and as long as we hev a home, +you're welcome to stay in it; ain't she Jane?” + +“She has sense enough to see, James, that she is interruptin' the +honeymoon,” replied Aunt Jane, somewhat harshly. “On account of her +mother havin' been a Hathaway before marriage, she knows things. Not +but what you can come some other time, Ruth,” she added, with belated +hospitality. + +“Thank you, Aunty, I will. I'll stay just a day or two longer, if you +don't mind--just until Mr. Winfield comes back. I don't know just where +to write to him.” + +“Mr.--who?” demanded Aunt Jane, looking at her narrowly. + +“Mr. Carl Winfield,” said Ruth, crimsoning--“the man I am going to +marry.” The piercing eyes were still fixed upon her. + +“Now about the letters, Aunty,” she went on, in confusion, “you could +help Uncle James with the book much better than I could. Of course it +would have to be done under your supervision.” + +Mrs. Ball scrutinized her niece long and carefully. “You appear to be +tellin' the truth,” she said. “Who would best print it?” + +“I think it would be better for you to handle it yourself, Aunty, and +then you and Uncle James would have all the profits. If you let some one +else publish it and sell it, you'd have only ten per cent, and even +then, you might have to pay part of the expenses.” + +“How much does it cost to print a book?” + +“That depends on the book. Of course it costs more to print a large one +than a small one.” + +“That needn't make no difference,” said Aunt Jane, after long +deliberation. “James has two hundred dollars sewed up on the inside of +the belt he insists on wearin', instead of Christian suspenders, ain't +you, James?” + +“Yes'm, two hundred and four dollars in my belt and seventy-six cents in +my pocket.” + +“It's from his store,” Mrs. Ball explained. “He sold it to a relative of +one of them heathen women.” + +“It was worth more'n three hundred,” he said regretfully. + +“Now, James, you know a small store like that ain't worth no three +hundred dollars. I wouldn't have let you took three hundred, 'cause it +wouldn't be honest.” + +The arrival of a small and battered trunk created a welcome diversion. +“Where's your trunk, Uncle James?” asked Ruth. + +“I ain't a needin' of no trunk,” he answered, “what clothes I've got +is on me, and that there valise has more of my things in it. When my +clothes wears out, I put on new ones and leave the others for some pore +creeter what may need 'em worse'n me.” + +Aunt Jane followed Joe upstairs, issuing caution and direction at every +step. “You can set outside now, Joe Pendleton,” she said, “and see that +them hosses don't run away, and as soon as I get some of my things hung +up so's they won't wrinkle no more, I'll come out and pay you.” + +Joe obeyed, casting longing eyes at a bit of blue gingham that was +fluttering among the currant bushes in the garden. Mr. Ball, longing for +conversation with his kind, went out to the gate and stood looking up at +him, blinking in the bright sunlight. “Young feller,” he said, “I reckon +that starboard hoss is my old mare. Where'd you get it?” + +“Over to the Ridge,” answered Joe, “of a feller named Johnson.” + +“Jest so--I reckon 't was his father I give Nellie to when I went away. +She was a frisky filly then--she don't look nothin' like that now.” + +“Mamie” turned, as if her former master's voice had stirred some old +memory. “She's got the evil eye,” Mr. Ball continued. “You wanter be +keerful.” + +“She's all right, I guess,” Joe replied. + +“Young feller,” said Mr. Ball earnestly, “do you chew terbacker?” + +“Yep, but I ain't got no more. I'm on the last hunk.” + +Mr. Ball stroked his stained beard. “I useter,” he said, reminiscently, +“afore I was merried.” + +Joe whistled idly, still watching for Hepsey. + +“Young feller,” said Mr. Ball, again, “there's a great deal of merryin' +and givin' in merriage in this here settlement, ain't there?” + +“Not so much as there might be.” + +“Say, was your mother's name Elmiry Peavey?” + +“Yes sir,” Joe answered, much surprised. + +“Then you be keerful,” cautioned Mr. Ball. “Your hoss has got the +evil eye and your father, as might hev been, allers had a weak eye fer +women.” Joe's face was a picture of blank astonishment. “I was engaged +to both of 'em,” Mr. Ball explained, “each one a-keepin' of it +secret, and she--” here he pointed his thumb suggestively toward the +house--“she's got me.” + +“I'm going to be married myself,” volunteered Joe, proudly. + +“Merriage is a fleetin' show--I wouldn't, if I was in your place. +Merriage is a drag on a man's ambitions. I set out to own a schooner, +but I can't never do it now, on account of bein' merried. I had a good +start towards it--I had a little store all to myself, what was worth +three or four hundred dollars, in a sunny country where the women folks +had soft voices and pretty ankles and wasn't above passin' jokes with an +old feller to cheer 'im on 'is lonely way.” + +Mrs. Ball appeared at the upper window. “James,” she called, “you'd +better come in and get your hat. Your bald spot will get all sunburned.” + +“I guess I won't wait no longer, Miss Hathaway,” Joe shouted, and, +suiting the action to the word, turned around and started down hill. Mr. +Ball, half way up the gravelled walk, turned back to smile at Joe with +feeble jocularity. + +Hearing the familiar voice, Hepsey hastened to the front of the house, +and was about to retreat, when Mr. Ball stopped her. + +“Pore little darlin',” he said, kindly, noting her tear stained face. +“Don't go--wait a minute.” He fumbled at his belt and at last extracted +a crisp, new ten dollar bill. “Here, take that and buy you a ribbon or +sunthin' to remember your lovin' Uncle James by.” + +Hepsey's face brightened, and she hastily concealed the bill in her +dress. “I ain't your niece,” she said, hesitatingly, “it's Miss Thorne.” + +“That don't make no difference,” rejoined Mr. Ball, generously, “I'm +willin' you should be my niece too. All pretty young things is my +nieces and I loves 'em all. Won't you give your pore old uncle a kiss to +remember you by?” + +Ruth, who had heard the last words, came down to the gravelled walk. +“Aunt Jane is coming,” she announced, and Hepsey fled. + +When the lady of the house appeared, Uncle James was sitting at one end +of the piazza and Ruth at the other, exchanging decorous commonplaces. + + + + +XIII. Plans + +Hepsey had been gone an hour before Mrs. Ball realised that she had sent +away one of the witnesses of her approaching wedding. “It don't matter,” + she said to Ruth, “I guess there's others to be had. I've got the dress +and the man and one of 'em and I have faith that the other things will +come.” + +Nevertheless, the problem assumed undue proportions. After long study, +she decided upon the minister's wife. “If 'twa'nt that the numskulls +round here couldn't understand two weddin's,” she said, “I'd have it in +the church, as me and James first planned.” + +Preparations for the ceremony went forward with Aunt Jane's customary +decision and briskness. She made a wedding cake, assisted by Mr. Ball, +and gathered all the flowers in the garden. There was something pathetic +about her pleasure; it was as though a wedding had been laid away in +lavender, not to see the light for more than thirty years. + +Ruth was to assist in dressing the bride and then go after the minister +and his wife, who, by Aunt Jane's decree, were to have no previous +warning. “'T ain't necessary to tell 'em beforehand, not as I see,” said +Mrs. Ball. “You must ask fust if they're both to home, and if only one +of 'em is there, you'll have to find somebody else. If the minister's to +home and his wife ain't gaddin', he'll get them four dollars in James's +belt, leavin' an even two hundred, or do you think two dollars would be +enough for a plain marriage?” + +“I'd leave that to Uncle James, Aunty.” + +“I reckon you're right, Ruth--you've got the Hathaway sense.” + +The old wedding gown was brought down from the attic and taken out of +its winding sheet. It had been carefully folded, but every crease showed +plainly and parts of it had changed in colour. Aunt Jane put on her best +“foretop,” which was entirely dark, with no softening grey hair, and was +reserved for occasions of high state. A long brown curl, which was hers +by right of purchase, was pinned to the hard, uncompromising twist at +the back of her neck. + +Ruth helped her into the gown and, as it slipped over her head, she +inquired, from the depths of it: “Is the front door locked?” + +“Yes, Aunty, and the back door too.” + +“Did you bring up the keys as I told you to?” + +“Yes, Aunty, here they are. Why?” + +There was a pause, then Mrs. Ball said solemnly: “I've read a great deal +about bridegrooms havin' wanderin' fits immediately before weddin's. +Does my dress hike up in the back, Ruth?” + +It was a little shorter in the back than in the front and cleared the +floor on all sides, since she had grown a little after it was made, +but Ruth assured her that everything was all right. When they went +downstairs together, Mr. Ball was sitting in the parlour, plainly +nervous. + +“Now Ruth,” said Aunt Jane, “you can go after the minister. My first +choice is Methodis', after that Baptis' and then Presbyterian. I will +entertain James durin' your absence.” + +Ruth was longing for fresh air and gladly undertook the delicate +mission. Before she was half way down the hill, she met Winfield, who +had come on the afternoon train. + +“You're just in time to see a wedding,” she said, when the first +raptures had subsided. + +“Whose wedding, sweetheart? Ours?” + +“Far from it,” answered Ruth, laughing. “Come with me and I'll explain.” + +She gave him a vivid description of the events that had transpired +during his absence, and had invited him to the wedding before it +occurred to her that Aunt Jane might not be pleased. “I may be obliged +to recall my invitation,” she said seriously, “I'll have to ask Aunty +about it. She may not want you.” + +“That doesn't make any difference,” announced Winfield, in high spirits, +“I'm agoin' to the wedding and I'm a-goin' to kiss the bride, if you'll +let me.” + +Ruth smothered a laugh. “You may, if you want to, and I won't be +jealous. Isn't that sweet of me?” + +“You're always sweet, dear. Is this the abode of the parson?” + +The Methodist minister was at home, but his wife was not, and Ruth +determined to take Winfield in her place. The clergyman said that he +would come immediately, and, as the lovers loitered up the hill, they +arrived at the same time. + +Winfield was presented to the bridal couple, but there was no time for +conversation, since Aunt Jane was in a hurry. After the brief ceremony +was over, Ruth said wickedly: + +“Aunty, on the way to the minister's, Mr. Winfield told me he was going +to kiss the bride. I hope you don't mind?” + +Winfield looked unutterable things at Ruth, but nobly fulfilled the +obligation. Uncle James beamed upon Ruth in a way which indicated that +an attractive idea lay behind it, and Winfield created a diversion by +tipping over a vase of flowers. “He shan't,” he whispered to Ruth, “I'll +be darned if he shall!” + +“Ruth,” said Aunt Jane, after a close scrutiny of Winfield, “if you' +relayin' out to marry that awkward creeter, what ain't accustomed to +a parlour, you'd better do it now, while him and the minister are both +here.” + +Winfield was willing, but Ruth said that one wedding at a time was +enough in any family, and the minister, pledged to secrecy, took his +departure. The bride cut the wedding cake and each solemnly ate a piece +of it. It was a sacrament, rather than a festivity. + +When the silence became oppressive, Ruth suggested a walk. + +“You will set here, Niece Ruth,” remarked Aunt Jane, “until I have +changed my dress.” + +Uncle James sighed softly, as she went upstairs. “Well,” he said, +“I'm merried now, hard and fast, and there ain't no help for it, world +without end.” + +“Cheer up, Uncle,” said Winfield, consolingly, “it might be worse.” + +“It's come on me all of a sudden,” he rejoined. “I ain't had no time to +prepare for it, as you may say. Little did I think, three weeks ago, as +I set in my little store, what was wuth four or five hundred dollars, +that before the month was out, I'd be merried. Me! Merried!” he +exclaimed, “Me, as never thought of sech!” + +When Mrs. Ball entered, clad in sombre calico, Ruth, overcome by deep +emotion, led her lover into the open air. “It's bad for you to stay in +there,” she said gravely, “when you are destined to meet the same fate.” + +“I've had time to prepare for it,” he answered, “in fact, I've had more +time than I want.” + +They wandered down the hillside with aimless leisure, and Ruth stooped +to pick up a large, grimy handkerchief, with “C. W.” in the corner. +“Here's where we were the other morning,” she said. + +“Blessed spot,” he responded, “beautiful Hepsey and noble Joe! By what +humble means are great destinies made evident! You haven't said you were +glad to see me, dear.” + +“I'm always glad to see you, Mr. Winfield,” she replied primly. + +“Mr. Winfield isn't my name,” he objected, taking her into his arms. + +“Carl,” she whispered shyly, to his coat collar. + +“That isn't all of it.” + +“Carl--dear--” said Ruth, with her face crimson. + +“That's more like it. Now let's sit down--I've brought you something and +you have three guesses.” + +“Returned manuscript?” + +“No, you said they were all in.” + +“Another piece of Aunt Jane's wedding cake?” + +“No, guess again.” + +“Chocolates?” + +“Who'd think you were so stupid,” he said, putting two fingers into his +waistcoat pocket. + +“Oh--h!” gasped Ruth, in delight. + +“You funny girl, didn't you expect an engagement ring? Let's see if it +fits.” + +He slipped the gleaming diamond on her finger and it fitted exactly. + +“How did you guess?” she asked, after a little. + +“It wasn't wholly guess work, dearest.” From another pocket, he drew a +glove, of grey suede, that belonged to Ruth's left hand. + +“Where did you get that?” + +“By the log across the path, that first day, when you were so cross to +me.” + +“I wasn't cross!” + +“Yes you were--you were a little fiend.” + +“Will you forgive me?” she pleaded, lifting her face to his. + +“Rather!” He forgave her half a dozen times before she got away from +him. “Now let's talk sense,” she said. + +“We can't--I never expect to talk sense again.” + +“Pretty compliment, isn't it?” she asked. “It's like your telling me I +was brilliant and then saying I wasn't at all like myself.” “Won't you +forgive me?” he inquired significantly. + +“Some other time,” she said, flushing, “now what are we going to do?” + +“Well,” he began, “I saw the oculist, and he says that my eyes are +almost well again, but that I mustn't use them for two weeks longer. +Then, I can read or write for two hours every day, increasing gradually +as long as they don't hurt. By the first of October, he thinks I'll be +ready for work again. Carlton wants me to report on the morning of the +fifth, and he offers me a better salary than I had on The Herald.” + +“That's good!” + +“We'll have to have a flat in the city, or a little house in the +country, near enough for me to get to the office.” + +“For us to get to the office,” supplemented Ruth. + +“What do you think you're going to do, Miss Thorne?” + +“Why--I'm going to keep right on with the paper,” she answered in +surprise. + +“No you're not, darling,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Do you +suppose I'm going to have Carlton or any other man giving my wife an +assignment? You can't any way, because I've resigned your position for +you, and your place is already filled. Carlton sent his congratulations +and said his loss was my gain, or something like that. He takes all the +credit to himself.” + +“Why--why--you wretch!” + +“I'm not a wretch--you said yourself I was nice. Look here, Ruth,” he +went on, in a different tone, “what do you think I am? Do you think for +a minute that I'd marry you if I couldn't take care of you?” + +“'T isn't that,” she replied, freeing herself from his encircling arm, +“but I like my work and I don't want to give it up. Besides--besides--I +thought you'd like to have me near you.” + +“I do want you near me, sweetheart, that isn't the point. You have the +same right that I have to any work that is your natural expression, but, +in spite of the advanced age in which we live, I can't help believing +that home is the place for a woman. I may be old-fashioned, but I don't +want my wife working down town--I've got too much pride for that. You +have your typewriter, and you can turn out Sunday specials by the yard, +if you want to. Besides, there are all the returned manuscripts--if you +have the time and aren't hurried, there's no reason why you shouldn't do +work that they can't afford to refuse.” + +Ruth was silent, and he laid his hand upon hers. “You understand me, +don't you, dear? God knows I'm not asking you to let your soul rust out +in idleness, and I wouldn't have you crave expression that was denied +you, but I don't want you to have to work when you don't feel like +it, nor be at anybody's beck and call. I know you did good work on the +paper--Carlton spoke of it, too--but others can do it as well. I want +you to do something that is so thoroughly you that no one else can do +it. It's a hard life, Ruth, you know that as well as I do, and I--I love +you.” + +His last argument was convincing. “I won't do anything you don't want me +to do, dear,” she said, with a new humility. + +“I want you to be happy, dearest,” he answered, quickly. “Just try my +way for a year--that's all I ask. I know your independence is sweet to +you, but the privilege of working for you with hand and brain, with your +love in my heart; with you at home, to be proud of me when I succeed and +to give me new courage when I fail, why, it's the sweetest thing I've +ever known.” + +“I'll have to go back to town very soon, though,” she said, a little +later, “I am interrupting the honeymoon.” + +“We'll have one of our own very soon that you can't interrupt, and, when +you go back, I'm going with you. We'll buy things for the house.” + +“We need lots of things, don't we?” she asked. + +“I expect we do, darling, but I haven't the least idea what they are. +You'll have to tell me.” + +“Oriental rugs, for one thing,” she said, “and a mahogany piano, and an +instrument to play it with, because I haven't any parlour tricks, and +some good pictures, and a waffle iron and a porcelain rolling pin.” + +“What do you know about rolling pins and waffle irons?” he asked fondly. + +“My dear boy,” she replied, patronisingly, “you forget that in the days +when I was a free and independent woman, I was on a newspaper. I +know lots of things that are utterly strange to you, because, in all +probability, you never ran a woman's department. If you want soup, you +must boil meat slowly, and if you want meat, you must boil it rapidly, +and if dough sticks to a broom straw when you jab it into a cake, it +isn't done.” + +He laughed joyously. “How about the porcelain rolling pin?” + +“It's germ proof,” she rejoined, soberly. + +“Are we going to keep house on the antiseptic plan?” + +“We are--it's better than the installment plan, isn't it? Oh, Carl!” she +exclaimed, “I've had the brightest idea!” + +“Spring it!” he demanded. + +“Why, Aunt Jane's attic is full of old furniture, and I believe she'll +give it to us!” + +His face fell. “How charming,” he said, without emotion. + +“Oh, you stupid,” she laughed, “it's colonial mahogany, every stick of +it! It only needs to be done over!” + +“Ruth, you're a genius.” + +“Wait till I get it, before you praise me. Just stay here a minute and +I'll run up to see what frame of mind she's in.” + +When she entered the kitchen, the bride was busily engaged in getting +supper. Uncle James, with a blue gingham apron tied under his arms, was +awkwardly peeling potatoes. “Oh, how good that smells!” exclaimed Ruth, +as a spicy sheet of gingerbread was taken out of the oven. + +Aunt Jane looked at her kindly, with gratified pride beaming from +every feature. “I wish you'd teach me to cook, Aunty,” she continued, +following up her advantage, “you know I'm going to marry Mr. Winfield.” + +“Why, yes, I'll teach you--where is he?” + +“He's outside--I just came in to speak to you a minute.” + +“You can ask him to supper if you want to.” + +“Thank you, Aunty, that's lovely of you. I know he'll like to stay.” + +“James,” said Mrs. Ball, “you're peelin' them pertaters with thick +peelins' and you'll land in the poorhouse. I've never knowed it to fail.” + +“I wanted to ask you something, Aunty,” Ruth went on quickly, though +feeling that the moment was not auspicious, “you know all that old +furniture up in the attic?” + +“Well, what of it?” + +“Why--why--you aren't using it, you know, and I thought perhaps you'd be +willing to give it to us, so that we can go to housekeeping as soon as +we're married.” + +“It was your grandmother's,” Aunt Jane replied after long thought, “and, +as you say, I ain't usin' it. I don't know but what you might as well +have it as anybody else. I lay out to buy me a new haircloth parlour +suit with that two hundred dollars of James's--he give the minister the +hull four dollars over and above that--and--yes, you can have it,” she +concluded. + +Ruth kissed her, with real feeling. “Thank you so much, Aunty. It will be +lovely to have something that was my grandmother's.” + +When she went back to Winfield, he was absorbed in a calculation he was +making on the back of an envelope. + +“You're not to use your eyes,” she said warningly, “and, oh Carl! It was +my grandmother's and she's given us every bit of it, and you're to stay +to supper!” + +“Must be in a fine humour,” he observed. “I'm ever so glad. Come here, +darling, you don't know how I've missed you.” + +“I've been earning furniture,” she said, settling down beside him. +“People earn what they get from Aunty--I won't say that, though, because +it's mean.” + +“Tell me about this remarkable furniture. What is it, and how much of it +is destined to glorify our humble cottage?” + +“It's all ours,” she returned serenely, “but I don't know just how +much there is. I didn't look at it closely, you know, because I never +expected to have any of it. Let's see--there's a heavy dresser, and a +large, round table, with claw feet--that's our dining-table, and there's +a bed, just like those in the windows in town, when it's done over, and +there's a big old-fashioned sofa, and a spinning-wheel--” + +“Are you going to spin?” + +“Hush, don't interrupt. There are five chairs--dining-room chairs, and +two small tables, and a card table with a leaf that you can stand up +against the wall, and two lovely rockers, and I don't know what else.” + +“That's a fairly complete inventory, considering that you 'didn't look +at it closely.' What a little humbug you are!” + +“You like humbugs, don't you?” + +“Some, not all.” + +There was a long silence, and then Ruth moved away from him. “Tell me +about everything,” she said. “Think of all the years I haven't known +you!” + +“There's nothing to tell, dear. Are you going to conduct an excavation +into my 'past?'” + +“Indeed, I'm not! The present is enough for me, and I'll attend to your +future myself.” + +“There's not much to be ashamed of, Ruth,” he said, soberly. “I've +always had the woman I should marry in my mind--'the not impossible +she,' and my ideal has kept me out of many a pitfall I wanted to go to +her with clean hands and a clean heart, and I have. I'm not a saint, but +I'm as clean as I could be, and live in the world at all.” + +Ruth put her hand on his. “Tell me about your mother.” + +A shadow crossed his face and he waited a moment before speaking. “My +mother died when I was born,” he said with an effort. “I can't tell you +about her, Ruth, she--she--wasn't a very good woman.” + +“Forgive me, dear,” she answered with quick sympathy, “I don't want to +know!” + +“I didn't know about it until a few years ago,” he continued, “when some +kindly disposed relatives of father's gave me full particulars. They're +dead now, and I'm glad of it. She--she--drank.” + +“Don't, Carl!” she cried, “I don't want to know!” + +“You're a sweet girl, Ruth,” he said, tenderly, touching her hand to +his lips. “Father died when I was ten or twelve years old and I can't +remember him very well, though I have one picture, taken a little while +before he was married. He was a moody, silent man, who hardly ever spoke +to any one. I know now that he was broken-hearted. I can't remember even +the tones of his voice, but only one or two little peculiarities. He +couldn't bear the smell of lavender and the sight of any shade of purple +actually made him suffer. It was very strange. + +“I've picked up what education I have,” he went on. “I have nothing to +give you, Ruth, but these--” he held out his hands--“and my heart.” + +“That's all I want, dearest--don't tell me any more!” + +A bell rang cheerily, and, when they went in, Aunt Jane welcomed him +with apparent cordiality, though a close observer might have detected +a tinge of suspicion. She liked the ring on Ruth's finger, which she +noticed for the first time. “It's real pretty, ain't it, James?” she +asked. + +“Yes'm, 't is so.” + +“It's just come to my mind now that you never give me no ring except +this here one we was married with. I guess we'd better take some of that +two hundred dollars you've got sewed up in that unchristian belt you +insist on wearin' and get me a ring like Ruth's, and use the rest for +furniture, don't you think so?” + +“Yes'm,” he replied. “Ring and furniture--or anythin' you'd like.” + +“James is real indulgent,” she said to Winfield, with a certain modest +pride which was at once ludicrous and pathetic. + +“He should be, Mrs. Ball,” returned the young man, gallantly. + +She looked at him closely, as if to discover whether he was in earnest, +but he did not flinch. “Young feller,” she said, “you ain't layin' out +to take no excursions on the water, be you?” + +“Not that I know of,” he answered, “why?” + +“Sea-farin' is dangerous,” she returned. + +“Mis' Ball was terrible sea sick comin' here,” remarked her husband. +“She didn't seem to have no sea legs, as you may say.” + +“Ain't you tired of dwellin' on that?” asked Aunt Jane, sharply. “'T +ain't no disgrace to be sea sick, and I wan't the only one.” + +Winfield came to the rescue with a question and the troubled waters +were soon calm again. After supper, Ruth said: “Aunty, may I take Mr. +Winfield up to the attic and show him my grandmother's things that +you've just given me?” + +“Run along, child. Me and James will wash the dishes.” + +“Poor James,” said Winfield, in a low tone, as they ascended the stairs. +“Do I have to wash dishes, Ruth?” + +“It wouldn't surprise me. You said you wanted to work for me, and I +despise dishes.” + +“Then we'll get an orphan to do 'em. I'm not fitted for it, and I don't +think you are.” + +“Say, isn't this great!” he exclaimed, as they entered the attic. +“Trunks, cobwebs, and old furniture! Why have I never been here before?” + +“It wasn't proper,” replied Ruth, primly, with a sidelong glance at him. +“No, go away!” + +They dragged the furniture out into the middle of the room and looked it +over critically. There was all that she had described, and unsuspected +treasure lay in concealment behind it. “There's almost enough to furnish +a flat!” she cried, in delight. + +He was opening the drawers of a cabinet, which stood far back under the +eaves. “What's this, Ruth?” + +“Oh, it's old blue china--willow pattern! How rich we are!” + +“Is old blue willow-pattern china considered beautiful?” + +“Of course it is, you goose! We'll have to have our dining-room done in +old blue, now, with a shelf on the wall for these plates.” + +“Why can't we have a red dining-room?” + +“Because it would be a fright. You can have a red den, if you like.” + +“All right,” he answered, “but it seems to me it would be simpler and +save a good deal of expense, if we just pitched the plates into the sad +sea. I don't think much of 'em.” + +“That's because you're not educated, dearest,” returned Ruth, sweetly. +“When you're married, you'll know a great deal more about china--you see +if you don't.” + +They lingered until it was so dark that they could scarcely see each +other's faces. “We'll come up again to-morrow,” she said. “Wait a +minute.” + +She groped over to the east window, where there was still a faint glow, +and lighted the lamp, which stood in its accustomed place, newly filled. + +“You're not going to leave it burning, are you?” he asked. + +“Yes, Aunt Jane has a light in this window every night.” + +“Why, what for?” + +“I don't know, dearest. I think it's for a lighthouse, but I don't care. +Come, let's go downstairs.” + + + + +XIV. “For Remembrance” + +The next day, while Ruth was busily gathering up her few belongings and +packing her trunk, Winfield appeared with a suggestion regarding the +advisability of outdoor exercise. Uncle James stood at the gate and +watched them as they went down hill. He was a pathetic old figure, +predestined to loneliness under all circumstances. + +“That's the way I'll look when we've been married a few years,” said +Carl. + +“Worse than that,” returned Ruth, gravely. “I'm sorry for you, even +now.” + +“You needn't be proud and haughty just because you've had a wedding at +your house--we're going to have one at ours.” + +“At ours?” + +“At the 'Widder's,' I mean, this very evening.” + +“That's nice,” answered Ruth, refusing to ask the question. + +“It's Joe and Hepsey,” he continued, “and I thought perhaps you might +stoop low enough to assist me in selecting an appropriate wedding gift +in yonder seething mart. I feel greatly indebted to them.” + +“Why, of course I will; it's quite sudden, isn't it?” “Far be it from +me to say so. However, it's the most reversed wedding I ever heard of. +A marriage at the home of the groom, to say the least, is unusual. +Moreover, the 'Widder' Pendleton is to take the bridal tour and leave +the happy couple at home. She's going to visit a relative who is distant +in both position and relationship--all unknown to the relative, I fancy. +She starts immediately after the ceremony and it seems to me that it +would be a pious notion to throw rice and old shoes after her.” + +“Why, Carl! You don't want to maim her, do you?” + +“I wouldn't mind. If it hadn't been for my ostrich-like digestion, I +wouldn't have had anything to worry about by this time. However, if you +insist, I will throw the rice and let you heave the shoes. If you have +the precision of aim which distinguishes your sex, the 'Widder' will +escape uninjured.” + +“Am I to be invited?” + +“Certainly--haven't I already invited you?” + +“They may not like it.” + +“That doesn't make any difference. Lots of people go to weddings who +aren't wanted.” + +“I'll go, then,” announced Ruth, “and once again, I give you my gracious +permission to kiss the bride.” + +“Thank you, dear, but I'm not going to kiss any brides except my own. +I've signed the pledge and sworn off.” + +They created a sensation in the village when they acquired the set of +china which had been on exhibition over a year. During that time it had +fallen at least a third in price, though its value was unchanged. Ruth +bought a hideous red table-cloth, which she knew would please Hepsey, +greatly to Winfield's disgust. + +“Why do you do that?” he demanded. “Don't you know that, in all +probability, I'll have to eat off of it? I much prefer the oilcloth, to +which I am now accustomed.” + +“You'll have to get used to table linen, dear,” she returned teasingly; +“it's my ambition to have one just like this for state occasions.” + +Joe appeared with the chariot just in time to receive and transport +the gift. “Here's your wedding present, Joe!” called Winfield, and +the innocent villagers formed a circle about them as the groom-elect +endeavoured to express his appreciation. Winfield helped him pack the +“101 pieces” on the back seat and under it, and when Ruth, feeling like +a fairy godmother, presented the red table-cloth, his cup of joy was +full. + +He started off proudly, with a soup tureen and two platters on the seat +beside him. The red table-cloth was slung over his arm, in toreador +fashion, and the normal creak of the conveyance was accentuated by an +ominous rattle of crockery. Then he circled back, motioning them to +wait. + +“Here's sunthin' I most forgot,” he said, giving Ruth a note. “I'd drive +you back fer nothin', only I've got sech a load.” + +The note was from Miss Ainslie, inviting Miss Thorne and her friend to +come at five o'clock and stay to tea. No answer was expected unless she +could not come. + +The quaint, old-fashioned script was in some way familiar. A flash +of memory took Ruth back to the note she had found in the dresser +drawer, beginning: “I thank you from my heart for understanding me.” So +it was Miss Ainslie who had sent the mysterious message to Aunt Jane. + +“You're not paying any attention to me,” complained Winfield. “I +suppose, when we're married, I'll have to write out what I want to say +to you, and put it on file.” + +“You're a goose,” laughed Ruth. “We're going to Miss Ainslie's to-night +for tea. Aren't we getting gay?” + +“Indeed we are! Weddings and teas follow one another like Regret on the +heels of Pleasure.” + +“Pretty simile,” commented Ruth. “If we go to the tea, we'll have to +miss the wedding.” + +“Well, we've been to a wedding quite recently, so I suppose it's +better to go to the tea. Perhaps, by arranging it, we might be given +nourishment at both places--not that I pine for the 'Widder's' cooking. +Anyhow, we've sent our gift, and they'd rather have that than to have +us, if they were permitted to choose.” + +“Do you suppose they'll give us anything?” + +“Let us hope not.” + +“I don't believe we want any at all,” she said. “Most of them would be +in bad taste, and you'd have to bury them at night, one at a time, while +I held a lantern.” + +“The policeman on the beat would come and ask us what we were doing,” + he objected; “and when we told him we were only burying our wedding +presents, he wouldn't believe us. We'd be dragged to the station and +put into a noisome cell. Wouldn't it make a pretty story for the morning +papers! The people who gave us the things would enjoy it over their +coffee.” + +“It would be pathetic, wouldn't it?” + +“It would, Miss Thorne. I think we'd better not tell anybody until its +all safely over, and then we can have a little card printed to go +with the announcement, saying that if anybody is inclined to give us a +present, we'd rather have the money.” + +“You're a very practical person, Carl. One would think you had been +married several times.” + +“We'll be married as often as you like, dear. Judging by your respected +aunt, one ceremony isn't 'rightfully bindin', and I want it done often +enough to be sure that you can't get away from me.” + +As they entered the gate, Uncle James approached stealthily by a +roundabout way and beckoned to them. “Excuse me,” he began, as they came +within speaking distance, “but has Mis' Ball give you furniture?” + +“Yes,” replied Ruth, in astonishment, “why?” + +“There's clouds to starboard and she's repentin'. She's been admirin' +of it the hull mornin' in the attic. I was sot in the kitchen with +pertaters,” he explained, “but the work is wearin' and a feller needs +fresh air.” + +“Thank you for the tip, Uncle,” said Winfield, heartily. + +The old man glowed with gratification. “We men understand each other,” + was plainly written on his expressive face, as he went noiselessly back +to the kitchen. + +“You'd better go home, dear,” suggested Ruth. + +“Delicate hint,” replied Winfield. “It would take a social strategist +to perceive your hidden meaning. Still, my finer sensibilities respond +instantly to your touch, and I will go. I flatter myself that I've never +had to be put out yet, when I've been calling on a girl. Some subtle +suggestion like yours has always been sufficient.” + +“Don't be cross, dear--let's see how soon you can get to the bottom of +the hill. You can come back at four o'clock.” + +He laughed and turned back to wave his hand at her. She wafted a kiss +from the tips of her fingers, which seemed momentarily to impede his +progress, but she motioned him away and ran into the house. + +Aunt Jane was nowhere to be seen, so she went on into the kitchen to +help Uncle James with the potatoes. He had peeled almost a peck and the +thick parings lay in a heap on the floor. “My goodness'” she exclaimed. +“You'd better throw those out, Uncle, and I'll put the potatoes on to +boil.” + +He hastened out, with his arms full of peelings. “You're a real kind +woman, Niece Ruth,” he said gratefully, when he came in. “You don't +favour your aunt none--I think you're more like me.” + +Mrs. Ball entered the kitchen with a cloud upon her brow, and in one of +those rare flashes of insight which are vouchsafed to plodding mortals, +a plan of action presented itself to Ruth. “Aunty,” she said, before +Mrs. Ball had time to speak, “you know I'm going back to the city +to-morrow, and I'd like to send you and Uncle James a wedding +present--you've been so good to me. What shall it be?” + +“Well, now, I don't know,” she answered, visibly softening, “but I'll +think it over, and let you know.” + +“What would you like, Uncle James?” + +“You needn't trouble him about it,” explained his wife. “He'll like +whatever I do, won't you, James?” + +“Yes'm, just as you say.” + +After dinner, when Ruth broached the subject of furniture, she was +gratified to find that Aunt Jane had no serious objections. “I kinder +hate to part with it, Ruth,” she said, “but in a way, as you may say, +it's yours.” + +“'Tisn't like giving it away, Aunty--it's all in the family, and, as you +say, you're not using it.” + +“That's so, and then James and me are likely to come and make you a long +visit, so I'll get the good of it, too.” + +Ruth was momentarily stunned, but rallied enough to express great +pleasure at the prospect. As Aunt Jane began to clear up the dishes, +Mr. Ball looked at his niece, with a certain quiet joy, and then, +unmistakably, winked. + +“When you decide about the wedding present, Aunty, let me know, won't +you?” she asked, as Mrs. Ball came in after the rest of the dishes. “Mr. +Winfield would like to send you a remembrance also.” Then Ruth added, to +her conscience, “I know he would.” + +“He seems like a pleasant-spoken feller,” remarked Aunt Jane. “You can +ask him to supper to-night, if you like.” + +“Thank you, Aunty, but we're going to Miss Ainslie's.” + +“Huh!” snorted Mrs. Ball. “Mary Ainslie ain't got no sperrit!” With this +enigmatical statement, she sailed majestically out of the room. + +During the afternoon, Ruth finished her packing, leaving out a white +shirt-waist to wear to Miss Ainslie's. When she went down to the parlour +to wait for Winfield, Aunt Jane appeared, with her husband in her wake. + +“Ruth,” she announced, “me and James have decided on a weddin' present. +I would like a fine linen table-cloth and a dozen napkins.” + +“All right, Aunty.” + +“And if Mr. Winfield is disposed to it, he can give me a lemonade +set--one of them what has different coloured tumblers belongin' to it.” + +“He'll be pleased to send it, Aunty; I know he will.” + +“I'm a-layin' out to take part of them two hundred dollars what's sewed +up in James's belt, and buy me a new black silk,” she went on. “I've got +some real lace to trim it with, whet dames give me in the early years of +our engagement. Don't you think a black silk is allers nice, Ruth?” + +“Yes, it is, Aunty; and just now, it's very stylish.” + +“You appear to know about such things. I guess I'll let you get it +for me in the city when you buy the weddin' present. I'll give you the +money, and you can get the linin's too, while you're about it.” + +“I'll send you some samples, Aunty, and then you can take your choice.” + +“And--” began Mrs. Ball. + +“Did you know Mrs. Pendleton was going away, Aunty?” asked Ruth, +hastily. + +“Do tell! Elmiry Peavey goin' travellin'?” + +“Yes, she's going somewhere for a visit--I don't know just where.” + +“I had laid out to take James and call on Elmiry,” she said, stroking +her apron thoughtfully, while a shadow crossed Mr. Ball's expressive +face; “but I guess I'll wait now till I get my new black silk. I want +her to know I've done well.” + +A warning hiss from the kitchen and the odour of burning sugar impelled +Aunt Jane to a hasty exit just as Winfield came. Uncle James followed +them to the door. + +“Niece Ruth,” he said, hesitating and fumbling at his belt, “be you +goin' to get merried?” + +“I hope so, Uncle,” she replied kindly. + +“Then--then--I wish you'd take this and buy you sunthin' to remember +your pore old Uncle James by.” He thrust a trembling hand toward her, +and offered her a twenty dollar bill. + +“Why, Uncle!” she exclaimed. “I mustn't take this! Thank you ever so +much, but it isn't right!” + +“I'd be pleased,” he said plaintively. “'Taint as if I wan's accustomed +to money. My store was wuth five or six hundred dollars, and you've been +real pleasant to me, Niece Ruth. Buy a hair wreath for the parlour, or +sunthin' to remind you of your pore old Uncle.” + +Winfield pressed her arm warningly, and she tucked the bill into her +chatelaine bag. “Thank you, Uncle!” she said; then, of her own accord, +she stooped and kissed him lightly on the cheek. + +A mist came into the old man's eyes, and he put his hand to his belt +again, but she hurriedly led Winfield away. “Ruth,” he said, as they +went down the hill, “you're a sweet girl. That was real womanly kindness +to the poor devil.” + +“Shall I be equally kind to all 'poor devils'?” + +“There's one more who needs you--if you attend to him properly, it will +be enough.” + +“I don't see how they're going to get Aunty's silk gown and a ring like +mine and a haircloth parlour suit and publish a book with less than two +hundred dollars, do you?” + +“Hardly--Joe says that he gave Hepsey ten dollars. There's a great +discussion about the spending of it.” + +“I didn't know--I feel guilty.” + +“You needn't, darling. There was nothing else for you to do. How did you +succeed with your delicate mission?” + +“I managed it,” she said proudly. “I feel that I was originally destined +for a diplomatic career.” He laughed when she described the lemonade set +which she had promised in his name. + +“I'll see that the furniture is shipped tomorrow,” he assured her; “and +then I'll go on a still hunt for the gaudy glassware. I'm blessed if I +don't give 'em a silver ice pitcher, too.” + +“I'm in for a table-cloth and a dozen napkins,” laughed Ruth; “but I +don't mind. We won't bury Uncle's wedding present, will we?” + +“I should say not! Behold the effect of the card, long before it's +printed.” + +“I know,” said Ruth, seriously, “I'll get a silver spoon or something +like that out of the twenty dollars, and then I'll spend the rest of +it on something nice for Uncle James. The poor soul isn't getting any +wedding present, and he'll never know.” + +“There's a moral question involved in that,” replied Winfield. “Is it +right to use his money in that way and assume the credit yourself?” + +“We'll have to think it over,” Ruth answered. “It isn't so very simple +after all.” + + +Miss Ainslie was waiting for them in the garden and came to the gate to +meet them. She wore a gown of lavender taffeta, which rustled and shone +in the sunlight. The skirt was slightly trained, with a dust ruffle +underneath, and the waist was made in surplice fashion, open at the +throat. A bertha of rarest Brussels lace was fastened at her neck with +the amethyst pin, inlaid with gold and surrounded by baroque pearls. The +ends of the bertha hung loosely and under it she had tied an apron of +sheerest linen, edged with narrow Duchesse lace. Her hair was coiled +softly on top of her head, with a string of amethysts and another of +pearls woven among the silvery strands. + +“Welcome to my house,” she said, smiling, Winfield at once became her +slave. She talked easily, with that exquisite cadence which makes each +word seem like a gift, but there was a certain subtle excitement in +her manner, which Ruth did not fail to perceive. When Winfield was +not looking at Miss Ainslie, her eyes rested upon him with a wondering +hunger, mingled with tenderness and fear. + +Midsummer lay upon the garden and the faint odour of mignonette +and lavender came with every wandering wind. White butterflies and +thistledown floated in the air, bees hummed drowsily, and the stately +hollyhocks swayed slowly back and forth. + +“Do you know why I asked you to come today?” She spoke to Ruth, but +looked at Winfield. + +“Why, Miss Ainslie?” + +“Because it is my birthday--I am fifty-five years old.” + +Ruth's face mirrored her astonishment. “You don't look any older than I +do,” she said. + +Except for the white hair, it was true. Her face was as fresh as a rose +with the morning dew upon it, and even on her neck, where the folds of +lace revealed a dazzling whiteness, there were no lines. + +“Teach us how to live, Miss Ainslie,” said Winfield, softly, “that the +end of half a century may find us young.” + +A delicate pink suffused her cheeks and she turned her eyes to his. +“I've just been happy, that's all,” she answered. + +“It needs the alchemist's touch,” he said, “to change our sordid world +to gold.” + +“We can all learn,” she replied, “and even if we don't try, it comes to +us once.” + +“What?” asked Ruth. + +“Happiness--even if it isn't until the end. In every life there is a +perfect moment, like a flash of sun. We can shape our days by that, if +we will--before by faith, and afterward by memory.” + +The conversation drifted to less serious things. Ruth, remembering +that Miss Ainslie did not hear the village gossip, described her aunt's +home-coming, the dismissal of Hepsey, and told her of the wedding which +was to take place that evening. Winfield was delighted, for he had +never heard her talk so well, but Miss Ainslie listened with gentle +displeasure. + +“I did not think Miss Hathaway would ever be married abroad,” she said. +“I think she should have waited until she came home. It would have been +more delicate to let him follow her. To seem to pursue a gentleman, +however innocent one may be, is--is unmaidenly.” + +Winfield choked, then coughed violently. + +“Understand me, dear,” Miss Ainslie went on, “I do not mean to criticise +your aunt--she is one of my dearest friends. Perhaps I should not have +spoken at all,” she concluded in genuine distress. + +“It's all right, Miss Ainslie,” Ruth assured her, “I know just how you +feel.” + +Winfield, having recovered his composure, asked a question about the +garden, and Miss Ainslie led them in triumph around her domain. She +gathered a little nosegay of sweet-williams for Ruth, who was over among +the hollyhocks, then she said shyly: “What shall I pick for you?” + +“Anything you like, Miss Ainslie. I am at a loss to choose.” + +She bent over and plucked a leaf of rosemary, looking at him long and +searchingly as she put it into his hand. + +“For remembrance,” she said, with the deep fire burning in her eyes. +Then she added, with a pitiful hunger in her voice: + +“Whatever happens, you won't forget me?” + +“Never!” he answered, strangely stirred. + +“Thank you,” she whispered brokenly, drawing away from him. “You look so +much like--like some one I used to know.” + +At dusk they went into the house. Except for the hall, it was square, +with two partitions dividing it. The two front rooms were separated by +an arch, and the dining-room and kitchen were similarly situated at the +back of the house, with a china closet and pantry between them. + +Miss Ainslie's table, of solid mahogany, was covered only with fine +linen doilies, after a modern fashion, and two quaint candlesticks, of +solid silver, stood opposite each other. In the centre, in a silver vase +of foreign pattern, there was a great bunch of asters--white and pink +and blue. + +The repast was simple--chicken fried to a golden brown, with creamed +potatoes, a salad made of fresh vegetables from the garden, hot +biscuits, deliciously light, and the fragrant Chinese tea, served in the +Royal Kaga cups, followed by pound cake, and pears preserved in a heavy +red syrup. + +The hostess sat at the head of the table, dispensing a graceful +hospitality. She made no apology, such as prefaced almost every meal at +Aunt Jane's. It was her best, and she was proud to give it--such was the +impression. + +Afterward, when Ruth told her that she was going back to the city, Miss +Ainslie's face grew sad. + +“Why--why must you go?” she asked. + +“I'm interrupting the honeymoon,” Ruth answered, “and when I suggested +departure, Aunty agreed to it immediately. I can't very well stay now, +can I?” + +“My dear,” said Miss Ainslie, laying her hand upon Ruth's, “if you +could, if you only would--won't you come and stay with me?” + +“I'd love to,” replied Ruth, impetuously, “but are you sure you want +me?” + +“Believe me, my dear,” said Miss Ainslie, simply, “it will give me great +happiness.” + +So it was arranged that the next day Ruth's trunk should be taken to +Miss Ainslie's, and that she would stay until the first of October. +Winfield was delighted, since it brought Ruth nearer to him and involved +no long separation. + +They went outdoors again, where the crickets and katydids were chirping +in the grass, and the drowsy twitter of birds came from the maples +above. The moon, at its full, swung slowly over the hill, and threads of +silver light came into the fragrant dusk of the garden. Now and then the +moonlight shone full upon Miss Ainslie's face, touching her hair as if +with loving tenderness and giving her an unearthly beauty. It was the +face of a saint. + +Winfield, speaking reverently, told her of their betrothal. She leaned +forward, into the light, and put one hand caressingly upon the arm of +each. + +“I am so glad,” she said, with her face illumined. Through the music of +her voice ran lights and shadows, vague, womanly appeal, and a haunting +sweetness neither could ever forget. + +That night, the gates of Youth turned on their silent hinges for Miss +Ainslie. Forgetting the hoary frost that the years had laid upon her +hair, she walked, hand in hand with them, through the clover fields +which lay fair before them and by the silvered reaches of the River of +Dreams. Into their love came something sweet that they had not found +before--the absolute need of sharing life together, whether it should be +joy or pain. Unknowingly, they rose to that height which makes sacrifice +the soul's dearest offering, as the chrysalis, brown and unbeautiful, +gives the radiant creature within to the light and freedom of day. + +When the whistle sounded for the ten o'clock train, Ruth said it was +late and they must go. Miss Ainslie went to the gate with them, her +lavender scented gown rustling softly as she walked, and the moonlight +making new beauty of the amethysts and pearls entwined in her hair. + +Ruth, aglow with happiness, put her arms around Miss Ainslie's neck and +kissed her tenderly. “May I, too?” asked Winfield. + +He drew her toward him, without waiting for an answer, and Miss Ainslie +trembled from head to foot as she lifted her face to his. + +Across the way the wedding was in full blast, but neither of them cared +to go. Ruth turned back for a last glimpse of the garden and its gentle +mistress, but she was gone, and the light from her candle streamed out +until it rested upon a white hollyhock, nodding drowsily. + +To Ruth, walking in the starlight with her lover, it seemed as if the +world had been made new. The spell was upon Winfield for a long time, +but at last he spoke. + +“If I could have chosen my mother,” he said, simply, “she would have +been like Miss Ainslie.” + + + + +XV. The Secret and the Dream + +Ruth easily became accustomed to the quiet life at Miss Ainslie's, and +gradually lost all desire to go back to the city. “You're spoiling me,” + she said, one day. “I don't want to go back to town, I don't want to +work, I don't want to do anything but sit still and look at you. I +didn't know I was so lazy.” + +“You're not lazy, dear,” answered Miss Ainslie, “you were tired, and you +didn't know how tired you were.” + +Winfield practically lived there. In the morning, he sat in the garden, +reading the paper, while Ruth helped about the house. She insisted +upon learning to cook, and he ate many an unfamiliar dish, heroically +proclaiming that it was good. “You must never doubt his love,” Miss +Ainslie said, “for those biscuits--well, dear, you know they were--were +not just right.” + +The amateur cook laughed outright at the gentle criticism. “They were +awful,” she admitted, “but I'm going to keep at it until I learn how.” + +The upper part of the house was divided into four rooms, with windows on +all sides. One of the front rooms, with north and east windows, was Miss +Ainslie's, while the one just back of it, with south and east windows, +was a sitting-room. + +“I keep my prettiest things up here, dear,” she explained to Ruth, “for +I don't want people to think I'm crazy.” Ruth caught her breath as she +entered the room, for rare tapestries hung on the walls and priceless +rugs lay on the floor. The furniture, like that downstairs, was colonial +mahogany, highly polished, with here and there a chair or table of +foreign workmanship. There was a cabinet, filled with rare china, a +marquetry table, and a chair of teakwood, inlaid with mother of pearl. +In one corner of the room was a large chest of sandal wood, inlaid with +pearl and partly covered by a wonderful antique rug. + +The world had seemingly given up its beauty to adorn Miss Ainslie's +room. She had pottery from Mexico, China and Japan; strange things from +Egypt and the Nile, and all the Oriental splendour of India and +Persia. Ruth wisely asked no questions, but once, as before, she said +hesitating; “they were given to me by a--a friend.” + +After much pleading on Ruth's part, Winfield was allowed to come to the +sitting room. “He'll think I'm silly, dear,” she said, flushing; but, on +the contrary, he shared Ruth's delight, and won Miss Ainslie's gratitude +by his appreciation of her treasures. + +Day by day, the singular attraction grew between them. She loved Ruth, +but she took him unreservedly into her heart. Ruth observed, idly, that +she never called him “Mr. Winfield.” At first she spoke of him as “your +friend” and afterward, when he had asked her to, she yielded, with an +adorable shyness, and called him Carl. + +He, too, had eaten of the lotus and lost the desire to go back to town. +From the hilltop they could see the yellow fields and hear the soft +melody of reaping from the valley around them. He and Ruth often walked +together, but Miss Ainslie never would go with them. She stayed quietly +at home, as she had done for many years. + +Every night, when the last train came from the city, she put a lighted +candle in her front window, using always the candlestick of solid +silver, covered with fretwork in intricate design. If Winfield was +there, she managed to have him and Ruth in another room. At half-past +ten, she took it away, sighing softly as she put out the light. + +Ruth wondered, but said nothing, even to Winfield. The grain in +the valley was bound in sheaves, and the first colour came on the +maples--sometimes in a delicate flush, or a flash of gold, and sometimes +like a blood-red wound. + +One morning, when Miss Ainslie came downstairs, Ruth was startled at +the change in her. The quick, light step was slow and heavy, the broad, +straight shoulders drooped a little, and her face, while still dimpled +and fair, was subtly different. Behind her deep, violet eyes lay an +unspeakable sadness and the rosy tints were gone. Her face was as pure +and cold as marble, with the peace of the dead laid upon it. She seemed +to have grown old in a single night. + +All day she said little or nothing and would not eat. She simply sat +still, looking out of the east window. “No,” she said, gently, to Ruth, +“nothing is the matter, deary, I'm just tired.” + +When Winfield came, she kept him away from Miss Ainslie without seeming +to do so. “Let's go for a walk,” she said. She tried to speak lightly, +but there was a lump in her throat and a tightening at her heart. + +They climbed the hill and took the side path which led to the woods, +following it down and through the aisles of trees, to the log across the +path. Ruth was troubled and sat there some little time without speaking, +then suddenly, she knew that something was wrong with Carl. + +Her heart was filled with strange foreboding and she vainly tried to +swallow the persistent lump in her throat. She spoke to him, gently, +once or twice and he did not seem to hear. “Carl!” she cried in agony, +“Carl! What is it?” + +He tried to shake off the spell which lay upon him. “Nothing, darling,” + he said unsteadily, with something of the old tenderness. “I'm weak--and +foolish--that's all.” + +“Carl! Dearest!” she cried, and then broke down, sobbing bitterly. + +Her tears aroused him and he tried to soothe her. “Ruth, my darling +girl, don't cry. We have each other, sweetheart, and it doesn't +matter--nothing matters in the whole, wide world.” + +After a little, she regained her self-control. + +“Come out into the sun,” he said, “it's ghostly here. You don't seem +real to me, Ruth.” + +The mist filled her eyes again. “Don't, darling,” he pleaded, “I'll try +to tell you.” + +They sat down on the hillside, where the sun shone brightly, and where +they could see Miss Ainslie's house plainly. She waited, frightened and +suffering, for what seemed an eternity, before he spoke. + +“Last night, Ruth,” he began, “my father came to me in a dream. You know +he died when I was about twelve years old, and last night I saw him as +he would have been if he had lived until now--something over sixty. His +hair and beard were matted and there was the most awful expression in +his eyes--it makes me shudder yet. He was in his grave clothes, dead and +yet not dead. He was suffering--there was something he was trying to say +to me; something he wanted to explain. We were out here on the hill in +the moonlight and I could see Miss Ainslie's house and hear the +surf behind the cliff. All he could say to me was: +'Abby--Mary--Mary--Abby--she--Mary,' over and over again. Once he said +'mother.' Abby was my mother's name. + +“It is terrible,” he went on. “I can't understand it. There is something +I must do, and I don't know what it is. A command is laid on me by the +dead--there is some wrong for which I must atone. When I first awoke, I +thought it was a dream, but it isn't, it's real. It seems as though that +was the real world, and this--all our love and happiness, and you, were +just dreams. I can't bear it, Ruth!” + +He shuddered, and she tried to comfort him, though she was cold as a +marble statue and her lips moved with difficulty. “Don't, dear,” she +said, “It was only a dream. I've had them sometimes, so vividly that +they haunted me for days and, as you say, it seemed as if that was the +real world and this the dream. I know how you feel--those things aren't +pleasant, but there's nothing we can do. It makes one feel so helpless. +The affairs of the day are largely under our control, but at night, +when the body is asleep, the mind harks back to things that have been +forgotten for years. It takes a fevered fancy as a fact, and builds +upon it a whole series of disasters. It gives trivial things great +significance and turns life upside down. Remembering it is the worst of +all.” + +“There's something I can't get at, Ruth,” he answered. “It's just out of +my reach. I know it's reasonable to suppose it was a dream and that it +can be explained by natural causes, but I don't dream very often.” + +“I dream every night,” she said. “Sometimes they're just silly, foolish +things and sometimes they're vivid and horrible realities that I can't +forget for weeks. But, surely, dear, we're not foolish enough to believe +in dreams?” + +“No, I hope not,” he replied, doubtfully. + +“Let's go for a little walk,” she said, “and we'll forget it.” + +Then she told him how changed Miss Ainslie was and how she had left her, +sitting aimlessly by the window. “I don't think I'd better stay away +long,” she concluded, “she may need me.” + +“I won't be selfish, Ruth; we'll go back now. I'm sorry Miss Ainslie +isn't well.” + +“She said she was 'just tired' but it isn't like her to be tired. She +doesn't seem to want anybody near her, but you can sit in the garden +this afternoon, if you'd like to, and I'll flit in and out like an +industrious butterfly. Some new books have just come, and I'll leave +them in the arbour for you.” + +“All right, dear, and if there's anything I can do, I hope you'll tell +me.” + +As they approached the house, a brisk little man hurried out of the gate +and went toward the village. + +“Who's that?” asked Winfield. + +“I don't know--some one who has brought something, probably. I trust +she's better.” + +Miss Ainslie seemed more like herself, as she moved about the house, +dusting and putting the rooms in order, as was her wont. At noon she +fried a bit of chicken for Ruth, but took nothing herself except a cup +of tea. + +“No, deary,” she said, in answer to Ruth's anxious question, “I'm all +right--don't fret about me.” “Have you any pain, Miss Ainslie?” + +“No, of course I haven't, you foolish child!” + +She tried to smile, but her white lips quivered pitifully. + +In the afternoon, when she said she was cold, Ruth made a fire in the +open fireplace, and wheeled Miss Ainslie's favourite chair in front of +it. She drew her shawl about her shoulders and leaned back. + +“I'm so comfortable, now,” she said drowsily; “I think I'm going to +sleep, dear.” + +Ruth sat by her, pretending to read, but, in reality, watching her +closely, until the deep, regular breathing assured her that she was +asleep. She went out into the garden and found Winfield in the arbour. + +“How's this patient?” she asked, kissing him lightly on the forehead. + +“I'm all right, dearest,” he answered, drawing her down beside him, “and +I'm ashamed of myself because I was so foolish.” + +During the afternoon Ruth made frequent trips to the house, each time +finding Miss Ainslie sound asleep. It was after six o'clock when she +woke and rubbed her eyes, wonderingly. + +“How long have I been asleep, Ruth?” + +“All the afternoon, Miss Ainslie--do you feel better now?” + +“Yes, I think I do. I didn't sleep last night, but it's been years since +I've taken a nap in the daytime.” + +Ruth invited Carl to supper, and made them both sit still while she +prepared the simple meal, which, as he said, was “astonishingly good.” + He was quite himself again, but Miss Ainslie, though trying to assume +her old manner, had undergone a great change. + +Carl helped Ruth with the dishes, saying he supposed he might as well +become accustomed to it, and, feeling the need of sleep, went home very +early. + +“I'm all right,” he said to Ruth, as he kissed her at the door, “and +you're just the sweetest girl in the world. Good night, darling.” + +A chill mist came inland, and Ruth kept pine knots burning in the +fireplace. They sat without other light, Miss Ainslie with her head +resting upon her hand, and Ruth watching her narrowly. Now and then they +spoke aimlessly, of commonplaces. + +When the last train came in, Miss Ainslie raised her eyes to the silver +candlestick that stood on the mantel and sighed. + +“Shall I put the light in the window?” asked Ruth. + +It was a long time before Miss Ainslie answered. + +“No, deary,” she said sadly, “never any more.” + +She was trying to hide her suffering, and Ruth's heart ached for her in +vain. The sound of the train died away in the distance and the firelight +faded. + +“Ruth,” she said, in a low voice, “I am going away.” + +“Away, Miss Ainslie? Where?” + +“I don't know, dear--it's where we all go--'the undiscovered country +from whose bourne no traveller returns.' Sometimes it's a long journey +and sometimes a short one, but we all take it--alone--at the last.” + +Ruth's heart throbbed violently, then stood still. + +“Don't!” she cried, sharply. + +“I'm not afraid, dear, and I'm ready to go, even though you have made me +so happy--you and he.” + +Miss Ainslie waited a moment, then continued, in a different tone: + +“To-day the lawyer came and made my will. I haven't much--just this +little house, a small income paid semi-annually, and my--my things. All +my things are for you--the house and the income are for--for him.” + +Ruth was crying softly and Miss Ainslie went to her, laying her hand +caressingly upon the bowed head. “Don't, deary,” she pleaded, “don't be +unhappy. I'm not afraid. I'm just going to sleep, that's all, to wake +in immortal dawn. I want you and him to have my things, because I love +you--because I've always loved you, and because I will--even afterward.” + +Ruth choked down her sobs, and Miss Ainslie drew her chair closer, +taking the girl's cold hand in hers. That touch, so strong and gentle, +that had always brought balm to her troubled spirit, did not fail in its +ministry now. + +“He went away,” said Miss Ainslie, after a long silence, as if in +continuation of something she had said before, “and I was afraid. He had +made many voyages in safety, each one more successful than the last, and +he always brought me beautiful things, but, this time, I knew that it +was not right for him to go.” + +“When he came back, we were to be married.” The firelight shone on the +amethyst ring as Miss Ainslie moved it on her finger. “He said that he +would have no way of writing this time, but that, if anything happened, +I would know. I was to wait--as women have waited since the world began. + +“Oh, Ruth, do you know what waiting means? Mine has lasted through +thirty-three interminable years. Each day, I have said: 'he will come +to-morrow.' When the last train came in, I put the light in the window +to lead him straight to me. Each day, I have made the house ready for an +invited guest and I haven't gone away, even for an hour. I couldn't bear +to have him come and find no welcome waiting, and I have always worn +the colour he loved. When people have come to see me, I've always been +afraid they would stay until he came, except with you--and Carl. I was +glad to have you come to stay with me, because, lately, I have thought +that it would be more--more delicate than to have him find me alone. I +loved you, too, dear,” she added quickly. + +“I--I asked your aunt to keep the light in the window. I never told her +why, but I think she knew, and you must tell her, dear, the next time +you see her, that I thank her, and that she need never do it again. I +thought, if he should come in a storm, or, perhaps, sail by, on his way +to me--” + +There was another long silence, then, with an effort, she went on. “I +have been happy, for he said he wanted me to be, though sometimes it was +hard. As nearly as I could, I made my dream real. I have thought, for +hours, of the things we would say to each other when the long years were +over and we were together again. I have dressed for his eyes alone, and +loved him--perhaps you know--” + +“I know, Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, softly, her own love surging in her +heart, “I know.” + +“He loved me, Ruth,” she said, lingering upon the words, “as man never +loved before. In all of God's great universe, there was never anything +like that--even in Heaven, there can't be anything so beautiful, though +we have to know human love before we can understand God's. All day, I +have dreamed of our little home together, and at night, sometimes--of +baby lips against my breast. I could always see him plainly, but I never +could see our--our child. I have missed that. I have had more happiness +than comes to most women, but that has been denied me.” + +She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her lips were white +and quivering, but there were no tears. At length she sat upright and +fixed her eyes upon Ruth. + +“Don't be afraid of anything,” she said in a strange tone, “poverty or +sickness or death, or any suffering God will let you bear together. That +isn't love--to be afraid. There's only one thing--the years! Oh, God, +the bitter, cruel, endless years!” + +Miss Ainslie caught her breath and it sounded like a sob, but she +bravely kept it back. “I have been happy,” she said, in pitiful triumph; +“I promised him that I would be, and I have kept my word. Sometimes it +was hard, but I had my dream. Lately, this last year, I have often been +afraid that--that something had happened. Thirty-three years, and you +know, dear,” she added, with a quaint primness, “that I am a woman of +the world.” + +“In the world, but not of it,” was on Ruth's lips, but she did not say +it. + +“Still, I know it was wrong to doubt him--I couldn't, when I thought of +our last hour together, out on the hill in the moonlight. He said it was +conceivable that life might keep him from me, but death never could. He +told me that if he died, I would know, that he would come and tell me, +and that in a little while afterward, we should be together.” + +The dying embers cast a glow upon her face. It was almost waxen in its +purity; she seemed transfigured with the light of another world. “Last +night, he came to me--in a dream. He is dead--he has been dead for a +long time. He was trying to explain something to me--I suppose he was +trying to tell me why he had not come before. He was old--an old man, +Ruth, and I have always thought of him as young. He could not say +anything but my name--'Mary--Abby--Mary--Abby--' over and over again; +and, once, 'mother.' I was christened 'Mary Abigail,' but I never liked +the middle name, so I dropped it; and he used to tease me sometimes by +calling me 'Abby.' And--from his saying 'mother,' I know that he, too, +wherever he may be, has had that dream of--of our child.” + +Ruth was cold from head to foot, and her senses reeled. Every word that +Winfield had said in the morning sounded again in her ears. What was it +that went on around her, of which she had no ken? It seemed as though +she stood absolutely alone, in endless space, while planets swept past, +out of their orbits, with all the laws of force set suddenly aside. + +Miss Ainslie felt her shuddering fear. “Don't be afraid, dear,” she said +again, “everything is right. I kept my promise, and he kept his. He is +suffering--he is very lonely without me; but in a little while we shall +be together.” + +The fire died out and left the room in darkness, broken only by the last +fitful glow. Ruth could not speak, and Miss Ainslie sat quietly in her +chair. “Come,” she said at last, stretching out her hand, “let's go +upstairs. I have kept you up, deary, and I know you must be very tired.” + +The house seemed filled with a shadowy presence--something intangible, +but portentous, for both good and ill. Ruth took down the heavy mass of +white hair and brushed it back, tying it at the neck with a ribbon, in +girlish fashion, as Miss Ainslie always did. Her night gown, of sheerest +linen, was heavy with Valenciennes lace, and where it fell back from her +throat, it revealed the flesh, exquisitely white, set in gracious curves +and womanly softness, as if by a sculptor who loved his clay. + +The sweet, wholesome scent of the lavender flowers breathed from the +folds of Miss Ainslie's gown, as she stood there in the candle light, +smiling, with the unearthly glow still upon her face. + +“Good night, deary,” she said; “you'll kiss me, won't you?” + +For a moment the girl's face was buried among Miss Ainslie's laces, then +their lips met. Ruth was trembling and she hurried away, swallowing the +lump in her throat and trying to keep back the tears. + +The doors were open, and there was no sound save Miss Ainslie's deep +breathing, but Ruth kept a dreary vigil till almost dawn. + + + + +XVI. Some One Who Loved Her + +The summer waned and each day, as it slipped away, took a little of Miss +Ainslie's strength with it. There was neither disease nor pain--it +was simply a letting go. Carl sent to the city for a physician of wide +repute, but he shook his head. “There's nothing the matter with her,” he +said, “but she doesn't want to live. Just keep her as happy as you can.” + +For a time she went about the house as usual, but, gradually, more +and more of her duties fell to Ruth. Hepsey came in every day after +breakfast, and again in the late afternoon. + +Ruth tried to get her to go out for a drive, but she refused. “No, +deary,” she said, smiling, “I've never been away, and I'm too old to +begin now.” Neighbours, hearing of her illness, came to offer sympathy +and help, but she would see none of them--not even Aunt Jane. + +One night, she sat at the head of the table as usual; for she would +not surrender her place as hostess, even though she ate nothing, and +afterward a great weakness came upon her. “I don't know how I'll ever +get upstairs,” she said, frightened; “it seems such a long way!” + +Winfield took her in his arms and carried her up, as gently and easily +as if she had been a child. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright +when he put her down. “I never thought it would be so easy,” she said, +in answer to his question. “You'll stay with me, won't you, Carl? I +don't want you to go away.” + +“I'll stay as long as you want me, Miss Ainslie, and Ruth will, too. We +couldn't do too much for you.” + +That night, as they sat in front of the fire, while Miss Ainslie slept +upstairs, Ruth told him what she had said about leaving him the house +and the little income and giving her the beautiful things in the house. + +“Bless her sweet heart,” he said tenderly, “we don't want her +things--we'd rather have her.” + +“Indeed we would,” she answered quickly. + +Until the middle of September she went back and forth from her own room +to the sitting-room with comparative ease. They took turns bringing +dainties to tempt her appetite, but, though she ate a little of +everything and praised it warmly, especially if Ruth had made it, she +did it, evidently, only out of consideration for them. + +She read a little, talked a little, and slept a great deal. One day she +asked Carl to pull the heavy sandal wood chest over near her chair, and +give her the key, which hung behind a picture. + +“Will you please go away now,” she asked, with a winning smile, “for +just a little while?” + +He put the bell on a table within her reach and asked her to ring if she +wanted anything. The hours went by and there was no sound. At last he +went up, very quietly, and found her asleep. The chest was locked and +the key was not to be found. He did not know whether she had opened it +or not, but she let him put it in its place again, without a word. + +Sometimes they read to her, and she listened patiently, occasionally +asking a question, but more often falling asleep. + +“I wish,” she said one day, when she was alone with Carl, “that I could +hear something you had written.” + +“Why, Miss Ainslie,” he exclaimed, in astonishment, “you wouldn't be +interested in the things I write--it's only newspaper stuff.” + +“Yes, I would,” she answered softly; “yes, I would.” + +Something in the way she said it brought the mist to his eyes. + +She liked to have Ruth brush her hair, but her greatest delight was in +hearing Winfield talk about her treasures. + +“Won't you tell me about the rug, Carl, the one on the sandal wood +chest?” she asked, for the twentieth time. + +“It's hundreds of years old,” he began, “and it came from Persia, far, +far beyond the sea. The shepherds watched their flocks night and day, +and saved the finest fleeces for the rug. They made colour from flowers +and sweet herbs; from strange things that grew on the mountain heights, +where only the bravest dared to go. The sumac that flamed on the hills, +the rind of the swaying pomegranates, lichens that grew on the rocks by +the Eastern sea, berries, deep-sea treasures, vine leaves, the juice of +the grape--they all made colours for the rug, and then ripened, like old +wine. + +“After a long time, when everything was ready, the Master Craftsman +made the design, writing strange symbols into the margin, eloquent with +hidden meanings, that only the wisest may understand. “They all worked +upon it, men and women and children. Deep voices sang love songs and the +melody was woven into the rug. Soft eyes looked love in answer and the +softness and beauty went in with the fibre. Baby fingers clutched at it +and were laughingly untangled. At night, when the fires of the village +were lighted, and the crimson glow was reflected upon it, strange tales +of love and war were mingled with the thread. “The nightingale sang into +it, the roses from Persian gardens breathed upon it, the moonlight put +witchery into it; the tinkle of the gold and silver on the women's dusky +ankles, the scent of sandal wood and attar of rose--it all went into the +rug. + +“Poets repeated their verses to it, men knelt near it to say their +prayers, and the soft wind, rising from the sea, made faintest music +among the threads. + +“Sometimes a workman made a mistake, and the Master Craftsman put him +aside. Often, the patient fingers stopped weaving forever, and they +found some one else to go on with it. Sometimes they went from one place +to another, but the frame holding the rug was not injured. From mountain +to valley and back again, urged by some strange instinct, past flowing +rivers and over the golden sands of the desert, even to the deep blue +waters that broke on the shore--they took the rug. + +“The hoof-beats of Arabian horses, with white-robed Bedouins flashing +their swords; all the glitter and splendour of war were woven into it. +Songs of victory, the rush of a cavalry charge, the faith of a dying +warrior, even the slow marches of defeat--it all went into the rug. + +“Perhaps the Master Craftsman died, but the design was left, and willing +fingers toiled upon it, through the long years, each day putting new +beauty into it and new dreams. Then, one day, the final knot was tied, +by a Veiled Lady, who sighed softly in the pauses of her song, and +wondered at its surpassing loveliness.” “And--” said Miss Ainslie, +gently. + +“Some one who loved you brought it to you.” + +“Yes,” she repeated, smiling, “some one who loved me. Tell me about +this,” she pleaded, touching a vase of Cloisonne. + +“It came from Japan,” he said, “a strange world of people like those +painted on a fan. The streets are narrow and there are quaint houses on +either side. The little ladies flit about in gay attire, like so many +butterflies--they wear queer shoes on their dainty feet. They're as +sweet as their own cherry blossoms. + +“The little man who made this vase, wore a blue tunic and had no robes +of state, because he was poor. He loved the daughter of a nobleman and +she loved him, too, though neither dared to say so. So he sat in front +of his house and worked on this vase. He made a model of clay, shaping +it with his fingers until it was perfect. Then a silver vase was cast +from it and over and over it he went, very carefully, making a design +with flat, silver wire. When he was satisfied with it, he filled it +in with enamel in wonderful colours, making even the spots on the +butterflies' wings like those he had seen in the fields. Outside the +design, he covered the vase with dark enamel, so the bright colours +would show. + +“As he worked, the little lady he loved came and watched him sometimes +for a moment or two, and then he put a tiny bit of gold into the vase. +He put a flower into the design, like those she wore in her hair, and +then another, like the one she dropped at his feet one day, when no one +was looking. + +“The artist put all his love into the vase, and he hoped that when it +was done, he could obtain a Court position. He was very patient with the +countless polishings, and one afternoon, when the air was sweet with the +odour of the cherry blossoms, the last touches were put upon it. + +“It was so beautiful that he was commissioned to make some great vases +for the throne room, and then, with joy in his heart, he sought the hand +of the nobleman's daughter. + +“The negotiations were conducted by another person, and she was forced +to consent, though her heart ached for the artist in the blue tunic, +whose name she did not know. When she learned that her husband was to be +the man she had loved for so long, tears of happiness came into her dark +eyes. + +“The vase had disappeared, mysteriously, and he offered a large reward +for its recovery. At last they were compelled to give up the hope of +finding it, and he promised to make her another one, just like it, with +the same flowers and butterflies and even the little glints of gold that +marked the days she came. So she watched him, while he made the new one, +and even more love went into it than into the first one.” + +“And--” began Miss Ainslie. + +“Some one who loved you brought it to you.” + +“Yes,” she repeated, smiling, “some one who loved me.” + +Winfield fitted a story to every object in the room. Each rug had a +different history and every bit of tapestry its own tale. He conjured up +an Empress who had once owned the teakwood chair, and a Marquise, with +patches and powdered hair, who wrote love letters at the marquetry +table. + +He told stories of the sea shells, and of the mermaids who brought them +to the shore, that some one who loved her might take them to her, and +that the soft sound of the sea might always come to her ears, with +visions of blue skies and tropic islands, where the sun forever shone. + +The Empress and the Marquise became real people to Miss Ainslie, and the +Japanese lovers seemed to smile at her from the vase. Sometimes, holding +the rug on her lap, she would tell them how it was woven, and repeat the +love story of a beautiful woman who had worked upon the tapestry. Often, +in the twilight, she would sing softly to herself, snatches of forgotten +melodies, and, once, a lullaby. Ruth and Carl sat by, watching for the +slightest change, but she never spoke of the secret in her heart. + +Ruth had the north room, across the hall, where there were two dressers. +One of them had been empty, until she put her things into it, and the +other was locked. She found the key, one day, hanging behind it, when +she needed some things for Miss Ainslie. + +As she had half expected, the dresser was full of lingerie, of the +finest lawn and linen. The dainty garments were edged with real +lace--Brussels, Valenciennes, Mechlin, Point d'Alencon, and the fine +Irish laces. Sometimes there was a cluster of tucks, daintily run by +hand, but, usually, only the lace, unless there was a bit of insertion +to match. The buttons were mother of pearl, and the button holes were +exquisitely made. One or two of the garments were threaded with +white ribbon, after a more modern fashion, but most of them were made +according to the quaint old patterns. There was a dozen of everything. + +The dried lavender flowers rustled faintly as Ruth reverently lifted the +garments, giving out the long-stored sweetness of Summers gone by. The +white had changed to an ivory tint, growing deeper every day. There +were eleven night gowns, all made exactly alike, with high neck and long +sleeves, trimmed with tucks and lace. Only one was in any way elaborate. +The sleeves were short, evidently just above the elbow, and the neck was +cut off the shoulders like a ball gown. A deep frill of Venetian point, +with narrower lace at the sleeves, of the same pattern, was the only +trimming, except a tiny bow of lavender ribbon at the fastening, pinned +on with a little gold heart. + +When Ruth went in, with one of the night gowns over her arm, a faint +colour came into Miss Ainslie's cheeks. + +“Did--did--you find those?” she asked. + +“Yes,” answered Ruth, “I thought you'd like to wear them.” + +Miss Ainslie's colour faded and it was some time before she spoke again. + +“Did--did you find the other--the one with Venetian point?” “Yes, Miss +Ainslie, do you want that one It's beautiful.” + +“No,” she said, “not now, but I thought that I'd like to wear +that--afterward, you know.” + +A shadow crossed Ruth's face and her lips tightened. + +“Don't, dear,” said Miss Ainslie, gently. + +“Do you think he would think it was indelicate if--if my neck were bare +then?” + +“Who, Miss Ainslie?” + +“Carl. Would he think it was wrong if I wore that afterward, and my neck +and shoulders showed? Do you think he would?” + +“No!” cried Ruth, “I know he wouldn't! Oh, Miss Ainslie, you break my +heart!” + +“Ruth,” said Miss Ainslie, gently; “Ruth, dear, don't cry! I won't talk +about it any more, deary, I promise you, but I wanted to know so much!” + +Ruth kissed her and went away, unable to bear more just then. She +brought her chair into the hall, to be near her if she were needed. Miss +Ainslie sighed, and then began to croon a lullaby. + + + + +XVII. Dawn + +As Miss Ainslie became weaker, she clung to Carl, and was never +satisfied when he was out of her sight. When she was settled in bed for +the night, he went in to sit by her and hold her hand until she dropped +asleep. If she woke during the night she would call Ruth and ask where +he was. + +“He'll come over in the morning, Miss Ainslie,” Ruth always said; “you +know it's night now.” + +“Is it?” she would ask, drowsily. “I must go to sleep, then, deary, so +that I may be quite rested and refreshed when he comes.” + +Her room, in contrast to the rest of the house, was almost Puritan in +its simplicity. The bed and dresser were mahogany, plain, but highly +polished, and she had a mahogany rocker with a cushion of old blue +tapestry. There was a simple white cover on the bed and another on +the dresser, but the walls were dead white, unrelieved by pictures or +draperies. In the east window was a long, narrow footstool, and a prayer +book and hymnal lay on the window sill, where this maiden of half a +century, looking seaward, knelt to say her prayers. + +One morning, when Ruth went in, she said: “I think I won't get up this +morning, dear; I am so very tired. If Carl should come over, will you +say that I should like to see him?” + +She would see no one but Carl and Ruth, and Mrs. Ball was much offended +because her friend did not want her to come upstairs. “Don't be harsh +with her, Aunt Jane,” pleaded Ruth, “you know people often have strange +fancies when they are ill. She sent her love to you, and asked me to say +that she thanked you, but you need not put the light in the attic window +any more.” + +Mrs. Ball gazed at her niece long and earnestly. “Be you tellin' me the +truth?” she asked. + +“Why, of course, Aunty.” + +“Then Mary Ainslie has got sense from somewheres. There ain't never +been no need for that lamp to set in the winder; and when she gets more +sense, I reckon she'll be willin' to see her friends.” With evident +relief upon her face, Mrs. Ball departed. + +But Miss Ainslie seemed quite satisfied, and each day spoke more +lovingly to Ruth and Carl. He showed no signs of impatience, but spent +his days with her cheerfully. He read to her, held her hand, and told +her about the rug, the Marquise, and the Japanese lovers. At the end she +would always say, with a quiet tenderness: “and some one who loved me +brought it to me!” + +“Yes, Miss Ainslie; some one who loved you. Everybody loves you; don't +you know that?” + +“Do you?” she asked once, suddenly and yet shyly. + +“Indeed I do, Miss Ainslie--I love you with all my heart.” + +She smiled happily and her eyes filled. “Ruth,” she called softly, “he +says he loves me!” + +“Of course he does,” said Ruth; “nobody in the wide world could help +loving you.” + +She put out her left hand to touch Ruth, and the amethyst ring slipped +off, for her fingers were thin. She did not seem to notice when Ruth +slipped it on again, and, shortly afterward, fell asleep. + +That night Winfield stayed very late. “I don't want to leave you, dear,” + he said to Ruth. “I'm afraid something is going to happen.” + +“I'm not afraid--I think you'd better go.” + +“Will you put a light in your window if you want me, darling?” “Yes, I +will.” + +“I can see it from my room, and I'll be watching for it. If you want me, +I'll come.” + +He awoke from an uneasy sleep with the feeling that Ruth needed him, and +was not surprised to see the light from her candle streaming out into +the darkness. He dressed hurriedly, glancing at his watch by the light +of a match. It was just three o'clock. + +Ruth was waiting for him at the lower door. “Is she--is she--” + +“No, she seems to be just the same, but she wants you. She's been +calling for you ever since you went away.” + +As they went upstairs Miss Ainslie's sweet voice came to them in pitiful +pleading: “Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you!” + +“I'm here, Miss Ainslie,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside her +and taking her hot hands in his. “What can I do for you?” + +“Tell me about the rug.” + +With no hint of weariness in his deep, quiet voice, he told her the old +story once more. When he had finished, she spoke again. “I can't seem to +get it just right about the Japanese lovers. Were they married?” + +“Yes, they were married and lived happily ever afterward--like the +people in the fairy tales.” + +“That was lovely,” she said, with evident satisfaction. “Do you think +they wanted me to have their vase?” + +“I know they did. Some one who loved you brought it to you. Everybody +loves you, Miss Ainslie.” + +“Did the Marquise find her lover?” + +“Yes, or rather, he found her.” + +“Did they want me to have their marquetry table?” + +“Of course they did. Didn't some one who loved you bring it to you?” + +“Yes,” she sighed, “some one who loved me.” + +She sang a little, very softly, with her eyes closed. It was a quaint +old-fashioned tune, with a refrain of “Hush-a-by” and he held her hand +until the song ceased and she was asleep. Then he went over to Ruth. +“Can't you go to sleep for a little while, dearest? I know you're +tired.” + +“I'm never tired when I'm with you,” Ruth answered, leaning upon his +arm, “and besides, I feel that this is the end.” + +Miss Ainslie slept for some time, then, all at once, she started as if +in terror. “Letters,” she said, very distinctly, “Go!” + +He went to her and tried to soothe her, but failed. “No,” she said +again, “letters--Ruth--chest.” + +“She wants some letters that are in the sandal wood chest,” he said to +Ruth, and Miss Ainslie nodded. “Yes,” she repeated, “letters.” + +Ruth went into the sitting-room, where a light was burning dimly, but +the chest was locked. “Do you know where the key is, Carl?” she asked, +coming back for a moment. + +“No, I don't, dear,” he answered. Then he asked Miss Ainslie where the +key was, but she only murmured: “letters.” + +“Shall I go and help Ruth find them?” + +“Yes,” she said, “help--letters.” + +Together, they broke open the lock of the chest, while Miss Ainslie was +calling, faintly: “Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you!” + +“We'd better turn the whole thing out on the floor,” he said, suiting +the action to the word, then put it back against the wall, empty. “We'll +have to shake everything out, carefully,” returned Ruth, “that's the +only way to find them.” + +Wrapped carefully in a fine linen sheet, was Miss Ainslie's wedding +gown, of heavy white satin, trimmed simply with priceless Venetian +point. They shook it out hurriedly and put it back into the chest. There +were yards upon yards of lavender taffeta, cut into dress lengths, +which they folded up and put away. Three strings of amethysts and two of +pearls slipped out of the silk as they lifted it, and there was another +length of lustrous white taffeta, which had changed to an ivory tint. + +Four shawls of Canton crepe, three of them lavender and one ivory +white, were put back into the chest. There were several fans, of fine +workmanship, a girdle of oxidized silver, set with amethysts and pearls, +and a large marquetry box, which contained tea. “That's all the large +things,” he said; “now we can look these over.” + +Ruth was gathering up great quantities of lace--Brussels, Point +d'Alencon, Cluny, Mechlin, Valenciennes, Duchesse and Venetian point. +There was a bridal veil of the Venetian lace, evidently made to match +that on the gown. Tiny, dried petals rustled out of the meshes, for Miss +Ainslie's laces were laid away in lavender, like her love. + +“I don't see them,” she said, “yes, here they are.” She gave him a +bundle of yellowed letters, tied with lavender ribbon. “I'll take them +to her,” he answered, picking up a small black case that lay on the +floor, and opening it. “Why, Ruth!” he gasped. “It's my father's +picture!” + +Miss Ainslie's voice rose again in pitiful cadence. “Carl, Carl, dear! +Where are you? I want you--oh, I want you!” + +He hastened to her, leaving the picture in Ruth's hand. It was an +ambrotype, set into a case lined with purple velvet. The face was +that of a young man, not more than twenty-five or thirty, who looked +strangely like Winfield. The eyes, forehead and the poise of the head +were the same. + +The earth trembled beneath Ruth's feet for a moment, then, all at once, +she understood. The light in the attic window, the marked paragraph in +the paper, and the death notices--why, yes, the Charles Winfield who +had married Abigail Weatherby was Miss Ainslie's lover, and Carl was his +son. “He went away!” Miss Ainslie's voice came again to Ruth, when she +told her story, with no hint of her lover's name. He went away, and +soon afterward, married Abigail Weatherby, but why? Was it love at first +sight, or did he believe that his sweetheart was dead? Then Carl +was born and the mother died. Twelve years afterward, he followed +her--broken hearted. Carl had told her that his father could not bear +the smell of lavender nor the sight of any shade of purple--and Miss +Ainslie always wore lavender and lived in the scent of it--had he come +to shrink from it through remorse? + +Why was it, she wondered? Had he forgotten Miss Ainslie, or had he +been suddenly swept off his feet by some blind whirlwind of passion? In +either case, memory had returned to torture him a thousand fold--to make +him ashamed to face her, with his boy in his arms. + +And Aunt Jane knew of the marriage, at the time, probably, and said +no word. Then she learned of Abigail Weatherby's death, and was still +silent, hoping, perhaps, that the wanderer would come back, until she +learned that Charles Winfield, too, was dead. And still she had not told +Miss Ainslie, or, possibly, thought she knew it all till the day that +Hepsey had spoken of; when she came home, looking “strange,” to keep the +light in the attic window every night for more than five years. + +Was it kind? Ruth doubted for a moment, then her heart softened with +love for Aunt Jane, who had hidden the knowledge that would be a death +blow to Miss Ainslie, and let her live on, happy in her dream, while the +stern Puritan conscience made her keep the light in the attic window in +fulfilment of her promise. + +As if the little light could reach the veil which hangs between us +and Eternity, or penetrate the greyness which never parts save for a +passage! As if all Miss Ainslie's love and faith could bring the dead to +life again, even to be forgiven! + +Her lips quivered when she thought of Miss Ainslie's tenderness for Carl +and the little whispered lullabies that she sang to herself, over and +over again. “She does not know,” thought Ruth. “Thank God, she will +never know!” + +She put the rest of the things into the chest and closed it, covering +it, as before, with the rug Miss Ainslie loved. When she went into +the other room, she was asleep again, with her cheek pillowed on the +letters, while Carl sat beside her, holding her hand and pondering over +the mystery he could not explain. Ruth's heart ached for those two, so +strangely brought together, who had but this little hour to atone for a +lifetime of loss. + +The first faint lines of light came into the eastern sky. Ruth stood by +the window, watching the colour come on the grey above the hill, while +two or three stars still shone dimly. The night lamp flickered, then +went out. She set it in the hall and came back to the window. + +As Miss Ainslie's rug had been woven, little by little, purple, crimson, +and turquoise, gleaming with inward fires, shone upon the clouds. +Carl came over to Ruth, putting his arm around her. They watched it +together--that miracle which is as old as the world, and yet ever new. +“I don't see--” he began. + +“Hush, dear,” Ruth whispered, “I know, and I'll tell you some time, but +I don't want her to know.” + +The sky brightened slowly, and the intense colour came into the room +with the light. Ruth drew the curtains aside, saying, in a low tone, +“it's beautiful, isn't it?” + +There was a sudden movement in the room and they turned, to see Miss +Ainslie sitting up, her cheeks flushed, and the letters scattered around +her. The ribbon had slipped away, and her heavy white hair fell over her +shoulders. Ruth went to her, to tie it back again, but she put her away, +very gently, without speaking. + +Carl stood by the window, thinking, and Miss Ainslie's eyes rested upon +him, with wonder and love. The sunrise stained her white face and her +eyes shone brightly, as sapphires touched with dawn. The first ray of +the sun came into the little room and lay upon her hair, changing its +whiteness to gleaming silver. Then all at once her face illumined, as +from a light within. + +Carl moved away from the window, strangely drawn toward her, and her +face became radiant with unspeakable joy. Then the passion of her denied +motherhood swelled into a cry of longing--“My son!” + +“Mother!” broke from his lips in answer He went to her blindly, knowing +only that they belonged to each other, and that, in some inscrutable +way, they had been kept apart until it was too late. He took her into +his arms, holding her close, and whispering, brokenly, what only she and +God might hear! Ruth turned away, sobbing, as if it was something too +holy for her to see. + +Miss Ainslie, transfigured with unearthly light, lifted her face to his. +Her lips quivered for an instant, then grew cold beneath his own. She +sank back among the pillows, with her eyes closed, but with yet another +glory upon the marble whiteness of her face, as though at the end of her +journey, and beyond the mists that divided them, her dream had become +divinely true. + +Then he, who should have been her son, bent down, the tears falling +unheeded upon her face, and kissed her again. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lavender and Old Lace, by Myrtle Reed + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1266 *** |