Chapter 7

“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.”