Chapter 9

“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.”