Chapter 8

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.