VI. The Garden
Miss Thorne wrote an apology to Winfield, and then tore it up, therebygaining comparative peace of mind, for, with some natures, expressionis the main thing, and direction is but secondary. She was not surprisedbecause he did not come; on the contrary, she had rather expected to beleft to her own devices for a time, but one afternoon she dressed withunusual care and sat in state in the parlour, vaguely expectant. If heintended to be friendly, it was certainly time for him to come again.
Hepsey, passing through the hall, noted the crisp white ribbon ather throat and the bow in her hair. "Are you expectin' company, MissThorne?" she asked, innocently.
"I am expecting no one," answered Ruth, frigidly, "I am going out."
Feeling obliged to make her word good, she took the path which led toMiss Ainslie's. As she entered the gate, she had a glimpse of Winfield,sitting by the front window of Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, in sucha dejected attitude that she pitied him. She considered the virtuousemotion very praiseworthy, even though it was not deep enough for her tobestow a cheery nod upon the gloomy person across the way.
Miss Ainslie was unaffectedly glad to see her, and Ruth sank into aneasy chair with something like content. The atmosphere of the placewas insensibly soothing and she instantly felt a subtle change. MissAinslie, as always, wore a lavender gown, with real lace at the throatand wrists. Her white hair was waved softly and on the third finger ofher left hand was a ring of Roman gold, set with an amethyst and twolarge pearls.
There was a beautiful serenity about her, evident in every line ofher face and figure. Time had dealt gently with her, and except on herqueenly head had left no trace of his passing. The delicate scent ofthe lavender floated from her gown and her laces, almost as if it werea part of her, and brought visions of an old-time garden, whose gentlemistress was ever tranquil and content. As she sat there, smiling, shemight have been Peace grown old.
"Miss Ainslie," said Ruth, suddenly, "have you ever had any trouble?"
A shadow crossed her face, and then she answered, patiently, "Why,yes--I've had my share."
"I don't mean to be personal," Ruth explained, "I was just thinking."
"I understand," said the other, gently. Then, after a little, she spokeagain:
"We all have trouble, deary--it's part of life; but I believe that weall share equally in the joy of the world. Allowing for temperament,I mean. Sorrows that would crush some are lightly borne by others, andsome have the gift of finding great happiness in little things.
"Then, too, we never have any more than we can bear--nothing that hasnot been borne before, and bravely at that. There isn't a new sorrow inthe world--they're all old ones--but we can all find new happiness if welook in the right way."
The voice had a full music, instinct with tenderness, and graduallyRuth's troubled spirit was eased. "I don't know what's the matter withme," she said, meditatively, "for I'm not morbid, and I don't have theblues very often, but almost ever since I've been at Aunt Jane's, I'vebeen restless and disturbed. I know there's no reason for it, but Ican't help it."
"Don't you think that it's because you have nothing to do? You've alwaysbeen so busy, and you aren't used to idleness."
"Perhaps so. I miss my work, but at the same time, I haven't senseenough to do it."
"Poor child, you're tired--too tired to rest."
"Yes, I am tired," answered Ruth, the tears of nervous weakness cominginto her eyes.
"Come out into the garden."
Miss Ainslie drew a fleecy shawl over her shoulders and led her guestoutdoors. Though she kept pace with the world in many other ways, itwas an old-fashioned garden, with a sun-dial and an arbour, and littlepaths, nicely kept, that led to the flower beds and circled around them.There were no flowers as yet, except in a bed of wild violets undera bay window, but tiny sprigs of green were everywhere eloquent withpromise, and the lilacs were budded.
"That's a snowball bush over there," said Miss Ainslie, "and allthat corner of the garden will be full of roses in June. They'reold-fashioned roses, that I expect you wouldn't care for-blush andcinnamon and sweet briar--but I love them all. That long row is halfpeonies and half bleeding-hearts, and I have a bed of columbines under awindow on the other side of the house. The mignonette and forget-me-notshave a place to themselves, for I think they belong together--sweetnessand memory.
"There's going to be lady-slippers over there," Miss Ainslie went on,"and sweet william. The porch is always covered with morning-glories--Ithink they're beautiful and in that large bed I've planted poppies,snap-dragon, and marigolds. This round one is full of larkspur andbachelor's buttons. I have phlox and petunias, too--did you ever see apetunia seed?"
Ruth shook her head.
"It's the tiniest thing, smaller than a grain of sand. When I plantthem, I always wonder how those great, feathery petunias are coming outof those little, baby seeds, but they come. Over there are things thatwon't blossom till late--asters, tiger-lilies and prince's feather. It'sgoing to be a beautiful garden, deary. Down by the gate are my sweetherbs and simples--marjoram, sweet thyme, rosemary, and lavender. I lovethe lavender, don't you?"
"Yes, I do," replied Ruth, "but I've never seen it growing."
"It's a little bush, with lavender flowers that yield honey, and it'sall sweet--flowers, leaves, and all. I expect you'll laugh at me, butI've planted sunflowers and four-o'clocks and foxglove."
"I won't laugh---I think it's lovely. What do you like best, MissAinslie?"
"I love them all," she said, with a smile on her lips and her deep,unfathomable eyes fixed upon Ruth, "but I think the lavender comesfirst. It's so sweet, and then it has associations--"
She paused, in confusion, and Ruth went on, quickly: "I think theyall have associations, and that's why we love them. I can't bear redgeraniums because a cross old woman I knew when I was a child had heryard full of them, and I shall always love the lavender," she added,softly, "because it makes me think of you."
Miss Ainslie's checks flushed and her eyes shone. "Now we'll go into thehouse," she said, "and we'll have tea."
"I shouldn't stay any longer," murmured Ruth, following her, "I've beenhere so long now."
"'T isn't long," contradicted Miss Ainslie, sweetly, "it's been only avery few minutes."
Every moment, the house and its owner took on new beauty and charm. MissAinslie spread a napkin of finest damask upon the little mahogany teatable, then brought in a silver teapot of quaint design, and two cups ofJapanese china, dainty to the point of fragility.
"Why, Miss Ainslie," exclaimed Ruth, in surprise, "where did you getRoyal Kaga?"
Miss Ainslie was bending over the table, and the white hand that heldthe teapot trembled a little. "They were a present from--a friend," sheanswered, in a low voice.
"They're beautiful," said Ruth, hurriedly.
She had been to many an elaborate affair, which was down on the socialcalendar as a "tea," sometimes as reporter and often as guest, but shehad found no hostess like Miss Ainslie, no china so exquisitely fine,nor any tea like the clear, fragrant amber which was poured into hercup.
"It came from China," said Miss Ainslie, feeling the unspoken question."I had a whole chest of it, but it's almost all gone."
Ruth was turning her cup and consulting the oracle. "Here's two people,a man and a woman, from a great distance, and, yes, here's money, too.What is there in yours?"
"Nothing, deary, and besides, it doesn't come true."
When Ruth finally aroused herself to go home, the old restlessness, forthe moment, was gone. "There's a charm about you," she said, "for I feelas if I could sleep a whole week and never wake at all."
"It's the tea," smiled Miss Ainslie, "for I'm a very commonplace body."
"You, commonplace?" repeated Ruth; "why, there's nobody like you!"
They stood at the door a few moments, talking aimlessly, but Ruth waswatching Miss Ainslie's face, as the sunset light lay caressingly uponit. "I've had a lovely time," she said, taking another st
ep toward thegate.
"So have I--you'll come again, won't you?" The sweet voice was pleadingnow, and Ruth answered it in her inmost soul. Impulsively, she cameback, threw her arms around Miss Ainslie's neck, and kissed her. "I loveyou," she said, "don't you know I do?"
The quick tears filled Miss Ainslie's eyes and she smiled through themist. "Thank you, deary," she whispered, "it's a long time since any onehas kissed me--a long time!"
Ruth turned back at the gate, to wave her hand, and even at thatdistance, saw that Miss Ainslie was very pale.
Winfield was waiting for her, just outside the hedge, but his presencejarred upon her strangely, and her salutation was not cordial.
"Is the lady a friend of yours?" he inquired, indifferently.
"She is," returned Ruth; "I don't go to see my enemies--do you?"
"I don't know whether I do or not," he said, looking at hersignificantly.
Her colour rose, but she replied, sharply: "For the sake of peace, letus assume that you do not."
"Miss Thorne," he began, as they climbed the hill, "I don't see why youdon't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to livewith yourself all the time, you know, and, occasionally, it must bevery difficult. A rag, now, wet in cold water, and tied around yourneck--have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good."
"I have one on now," she answered, with apparent seriousness, "only youcan't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry and I think I'd betterhurry home to wet it again, don't you?"
Winfield laughed joyously. "You'll do," he said.
Before they were half up the hill, they were on good terms again. "Idon't want to go home, do you?" he asked.
"Home? I have no home--I'm only a poor working girl."
"Oh, what would this be with music! I can see it now! Ladies andgentlemen, with your kind permission, I will endeavour to give you alittle song of my own composition, entitled:'Why Has the Working Girl NoHome!'"
"You haven't my permission, and you're a wretch."
"I am," he admitted, cheerfully, "moreover, I'm a worm in the dust."
"I don't like worms."
"Then you'll have to learn."
Ruth resented his calm assumption of mastery. "You're dreadfully young,"she said; "do you think you'll ever grow up?"
"Huh!" returned Winfield, boyishly, "I'm most thirty."
"Really? I shouldn't have thought you were of age."
"Here's a side path, Miss Thorne," he said, abruptly, "that seems togo down into the woods. Shall we explore? It won't be dark for an houryet."
They descended with some difficulty, since the way was not cleat, andcame into the woods at a point not far from the log across the path. "Wemustn't sit there any more," he observed, "or we'll fight. That's wherewe were the other day, when you attempted to assassinate me."
"I didn't!" exclaimed Ruth indignantly.
"That rag does seem to be pretty dry," he said, apparently to himself."Perhaps, when we get to the sad sea, we can wet it, and so insurecomparative calm."
She laughed, reluctantly. The path led around the hill and down from thehighlands to a narrow ledge of beach that lay under the cliff. "Do youwant to drown me?" she asked. "It looks very much as if you intended to,for this ledge is covered at high tide."
"You wrong me, Miss Thorne; I have never drowned anything."
His answer was lost upon her, for she stood on the beach, under thecliff, looking at the water. The shimmering turquoise blue was slowlychanging to grey, and a single sea gull circled overhead.
He made two or three observations, to which Ruth paid no attention."My Lady Disdain," he said, with assumed anxiety, "don't you think we'dbetter go on? I don't know what time the tide comes in, and I nevercould look your aunt in the face if I had drowned her only relative."
"Very well," she replied carelessly, "let's go around the other way."
They followed the beach until they came to the other side of the hill,but found no path leading back to civilisation, though the ascent couldeasily be made.
"People have been here before," he said; "here are some initials cutinto this stone. What are they? I can't see."
Ruth stooped to look at the granite boulder he indicated. "J. H.," sheanswered, "and J. B."
"It's incomplete," he objected; "there should be a heart with an arrowrun through it."
"You can fix it to suit yourself," Ruth returned, coolly, "I don't thinkanybody will mind." She did not hear his reply, for it suddenly dawnedupon her that "J. H." meant Jane Hathaway.
They stood there in the twilight for some little time, watching thechanging colours on the horizon and then there was a faint glow on thewater from the cliff above. Ruth went out far enough to see that Hepseyhad placed the lamp in the attic window.
"It's time to go," she said, "inasmuch as we have to go back the way wecame."
They crossed to the other side and went back through the woods. It wasdusk, and they walked rapidly until they came to the log across thepath.
"So your friend isn't crazy," he said tentatively, as he tried to assisther over it.
"That depends," she replied, drawing away from him; "you're indefinite."
"Forgot to wet the rag, didn't we?" he asked. "I will gladly assume theimplication, however, if I may be your friend."
"Kind, I'm sure," she answered, with distant politeness.
The path widened, and he walked by her side. "Have you noticed, MissThorne, that we have trouble every time we approach that seeminglyinnocent barrier? I think it would be better to keep away from it, don'tyou?"
"Perhaps."
"What initials were those on the boulder? J. H. and--"
"J. B."
"I thought so. 'J. B.' must have had a lot of spare time at hisdisposal, for his initials are cut into the 'Widder' Pendleton's gatepost on the inner side, and into an apple tree in the back yard."
"How interesting!"
"Did you know Joe and Hepsey were going out to-night?"
"No, I didn't--they're not my intimate friends."
"I don't see how Joe expects to marry on the income derived from thevillage chariot."
"Have they got that far?"
"I don't know," replied Winfield, with the air of one imparting aconfidence. "You see, though I have been in this peaceful village forsome little time, I have not yet arrived at the fine distinction between'walking out, 'settin' up,' and 'stiddy comp'ny.' I should infer that'walking out' came first, for 'settin' up' must take a great dealmore courage, but even 1, with my vast intellect, cannot at presentunderstand 'stiddy comp'ny.'"
"Joe takes her out every Sunday in the carriage," volunteered Ruth, whenthe silence became awkward.
"In the what?"
"Carriage--haven't you ridden in it?"
"I have ridden in them, but not in it. I walked to the 'Widder's,' butif 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," saidWinfield. "I don't have many of them."
"You're welcome," returned Ruth, conveying the impression of greatdistance.
Winfield sighed, then made a last desperate attempt. "Miss Thorne," hesaid, pleadingly, "please don't be unkind to me. You have my reason inyour hands. I can see myself now, sitting on the floor, at one end ofthe dangerous ward. They'll smear my fingers with molasses and give mehalf 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'trecognise me. Then I'll say: 'Woman, behold your work,' and you'll bemiserable all the rest of your life."
She laughed heartily at the distressing picture, and the plaintivetone of his voice pierced her armour. "What's the matter with you?" sheasked.
"I don't know--I suppose it's my eyes. I'm horribly restless anddiscontented, 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 adifferent tone, "I've fel
t the same way myself, almost ever since I'vebeen here, until this very afternoon. You're tired and nervous, and youhaven'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'shard to get the drift, and the whole thing exasperated me so that I hadto give it up."
"Let me read the papers to you," she said, impulsively, "I haven't seenone for a month."
There was a long silence. "I don't want to impose upon you," heanswered--"no, you mustn't do it."
Ruth saw a stubborn pride that shrank from the slightest dependence, aself-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 littlewhile!"
Winfield caught her hand and held it for a moment, fully understanding.Ruth's eyes looked up into his--deep, dark, dangerously appealing, andalight 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--thankyou--good night!"