Chapter 5

“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.