VIII. Summer Days
The rumble of voices which came from the kitchen was not disturbing, butwhen the rural lovers began to sit on the piazza, directly under Ruth'swindow, she felt called upon to remonstrate.
"Hepsey," she asked, one morning, "why don't you and Joe sit under thetrees 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 meto 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 ownaccord. "If Joe and me was to set anywheres but in front, he might seethe light."
"Well, what of it?"
"Miss Hathaway, she don't want it talked of, and men folks never cankeep 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 ifthey don't know there's nothin', but if they does, why they's keen."
"Perhaps you're right, Hepsey," she replied, biting her lips. "Sitanywhere you please."
There were times when Ruth was compelled to admit that Hepsey's mentalgifts were fully equal to her own. It was unreasonable to suppose, evenfor an instant, that Joe and Hepsey had not pondered long and earnestlyupon the subject of the light in the attic window, yet the argumentwas unanswerable. The matter had long since lost its interest forRuth--perhaps because she was too happy to care.
Winfield had easily acquired the habit of bringing her his morningpapers, and, after the first embarrassment, Ruth settled down to it ina 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 sametime have a general supervision of her domain, while Winfield stretchedhimself upon the grass at her feet. When the sun was bright, he wore hisdark glasses, thereby gaining an unfair advantage.
After breakfast, which was a movable feast at the "Widder's," he wentafter his mail and brought hers also. When he reached the top of thehill, 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 yourpleasure, but my stern regard for facts compels me to say that it is notMr. 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 anexpense--this morning, for instance, I had to dig up two cents to getone of your valuable manuscripts out of the clutches of an interestedgovernment."
"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 thehigh tariff on the Sunday papers. Besides, the manuscripts are all innow."
"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, sitting down on the piazza. "Doyou know, Miss Thorne, I think there's a great deal of joyous excitementattached to the pursuit of literature. You send out a story, fondlybelieving that it is destined to make you famous. Time goes on, andyou hear nothing from it. You can see your name 'featured' on theadvertisements of the magazine, and hear the heavy tread of the feveredmob, on the way to buy up the edition. In the roseate glow of yourfancy, you can see not only your cheque, but the things you're goingto buy with it. Perhaps you tell your friends, cautiously, that you'rewriting for such and such a magazine. Before your joy evaporates, thething comes back from the Dead Letter Office, because you hadn't puton enough postage, and they wouldn't take it in. Or, perhaps they'vewritten 'Return' on the front page in blue pencil, and all over it arelittle, dark, four-fingered prints, where the office pup has walked onit."
"You seem to be speaking from experience."
"You have guessed it, fair lady, with your usual wonderful insight. Nowlet'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 delicatecolour 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 insideof a week, and the obituary notices, weather indications, and foreigndespatches 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, inanswer to Ruth's ironical question, "nor yet the Summer styles insleeves. All that slop on the Woman's Page, about making home happy, isnot suited to such as I, and I'll pass."
"There's a great deal here that's very interesting," returned Ruth, "andI doubt if I myself could have crammed more solid knowledge into oneWoman's Page. Here's a full account of a wealthy lady's Summer home, anda description of a poor woman's garden, and eight recipes, and half acolumn on how to keep a husband at home nights, and plans for making achina closet out of an old bookcase."
"If there's anything that makes me dead tired," remarked Winfield, "it'sthat homemade furniture business."
"For once, we agree," answered Ruth. "I've read about it till I'mcompletely out of patience. Shirtwaist boxes from soap boxes, dressingtables from packing boxes, couches from cots, hall lamps from old arclight globes, and clothes hampers from barrels--all these I endured, butthe 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 surroundedwith marble and white tiling, or, if this was too expensive, it was tobe 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 andshelves on the walls, to hold the rare china. Charming kitchen!"
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone like stars. "You're anawfully funny girl," said Winfield, quietly, "to fly into a passionover a 'transformed kitchen' that you never saw. Why don't you save yourtemper for real things?"
She looked at him, meaningly, and he retreated in good order. "I thinkI'm a tactful person," he continued, hurriedly, "because I get on sowell with you. Most of the time, we're as contented as two kittens in abasket."
"My dear Mr. Winfield," returned Ruth, pleasantly, "you're not onlytactful, but modest. I never met a man whose temperament so nearlyapproached the unassuming violet. I'm afraid you'll never be appreciatedin this world--you're too good for it. You must learn to put yourselfforward. I expect it will be a shock to your sensitive nature, but it'sgot to be done."
"Thank you," he laughed. "I wish we were in town now, and I'd beginto put myself forward by asking you out to dinner and afterward to thetheatre."
"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 areal dinner, with striped ice cream at the end of it."
"I'll go," she replied, "I can't resist the blandishments of striped icecream."
"Thank you again; that gives me courage to speak of something that haslain 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 beenallowed to see it yet, and I suppose there's nothing in the settlementto 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 whichwere 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 lif
e will be in your hands."
After he went away, Ruth wished she knew more about the gentle art ofcooking, which, after all, is closely allied to the other one--of makingenemies. She decided to dispense with Hepsey's services, when Winfieldcame up to dinner, and to do everything herself.
She found an old cook book of Aunt Jane's and turned over its pages withnew interest. It was in manuscript form, and seemed to represent theculinary knowledge of the entire neighbourhood. Each recipe was dulyaccredited to its original author, and there were many newspaperclippings, from the despised "Woman's Page" in various journals.
Ruth thought it would be an act of kindness to paste the loose clippingsinto Aunt Jane's book, and she could look them over as she fastened themin. The work progressed rapidly, until she found a clipping whichwas not a recipe. It was a perfunctory notice of the death of CharlesWinfield, dated almost eighteen years ago.
She remembered the various emotions old newspapers had given her whenshe first came to Aunt Jane's. This was Abigail Weatherby's husband--hehad survived her by a dozen years. "I'm glad it's Charles Winfieldinstead of Carl," thought Ruth, as she put it aside, and went on withher work.
"Pantry's come," announced Winfield, a few days later; "I didn't openit, but I think everything is there. Joe's going to bring it up."
"Then you can come to dinner Sunday," answered Ruth, smiling.
"I'll be here," returned Winfield promptly. "What time do we dine?"
"I don't know exactly. It's better to wait, I think, until Hepsey goesout. She always regards me with more or less suspicion, and it makes meuncomfortable."
Sunday afternoon, the faithful Joe drove up to the gate, and Hepseyemerged from her small back room, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. Shewas radiant in a brilliant blue silk, which was festooned at irregularintervals with white silk lace. Her hat was bending beneath its burdenof violets and red roses, starred here and there with some unhappybuttercups which had survived the wreck of a previous millinery triumph.Her hands were encased in white cotton gloves, which did not fit.
With Joe's assistance, she entered the vehicle and took her placeproudly on the back seat, even while he pleaded for her to sit besidehim.
"You know yourself that I can't drive nothin' from the back seat," hecomplained.
"Nobody's askin' you to drive nothin' from nowhere," returned Hepsey,scornfully. "If you can't take me out like a lady, I ain't a-goin'."
Ruth was dazzled by the magnificence of the spectacle and was unable totake her eyes away from it, even after Joe had turned around and starteddown hill. She thought Winfield would see them pass his door and timehis arrival accordingly, so she was startled when he came up behind herand said, cheerfully:
"They look like a policeman's, don't they?"
"What--who?"
"Hepsey's hands--did you think I meant yours?"
"How long have you been here?"
"Nearly thirty years."
"That wasn't what I meant," said Ruth, colouring. "How long have youbeen at Aunt Jane's?"
"Oh, that's different. When Joe went out to harness his fiery steeds tohis imposing chariot, I went around through the woods, across the beach,climbed a vertical precipice, and came up this side of the hill. I hadto wait some little time, but I had a front seat during the show."
He brought out her favourite chair, placing it under the maple tree,then sat down near her. "I should think you'd get some clothes likeHepsey's," he began. "I'll wager, now, that you haven't a gown like thatin your entire wardrobe."
"You're right--I haven't. The nearest approach to it is a tailored gown,lined with silk, which Hepsey thinks I should wear wrong side out."
"How long will the coast be clear?"
"Until nine o'clock, I think. They go to church in the evening."
"It's half past three now," he observed, glancing at his watch. "I hadfried salt pork, fried eggs, and fried potatoes for breakfast. I'verenounced coffee, for I can't seem to get used to theirs. For dinner,we had round steak, fried, more fried potatoes, and boiled onions. Driedapple pie for dessert--I think I'd rather have had the mince I refusedthis morning."
"I'll feed you at five o'clock," she said, smiling.
"That seems like a long time," he complained.
"It won't, after you begin to entertain me."
It was after five before either realised it. "Come on," she said, "youcan sit in the kitchen and watch me."
He professed great admiration while she put on one of Hepsey's whiteaprons, and when she appeared with the chafing-dish, his emotion wasbeyond speech. He was allowed to open the box and to cut up some buttonmushrooms, while she shredded cold chicken. "I'm getting hungry everyminute," he said, "and if there is undue postponement, I fear I shallassimilate all the raw material in sight--including the cook."
Ruth laughed happily. She was making a sauce with real cream, seasoneddelicately with paprika and celery salt. "Now I'll put in the chickenand mushrooms," she said, "and you can stir it while I make toast."
They were seated at the table in the dining-room and the fun was at itsheight, when they became aware of a presence. Hepsey stood in the door,apparently transfixed with surprise, and with disapproval evident inevery line of her face. Before either could speak, she was gone.
Though Ruth was very much annoyed, the incident seemingly served toaccentuate Winfield's enjoyment. The sound of wheels on the graveloutside told them that she was continuing her excursion.
"I'm going to discharge her to-morrow," Ruth said.
"You can't--she is in Miss Hathaway's service, not yours. Besides,what has she done? She came back, probably, after something she hadforgotten. You have no reasonable ground for discharging her, and Ithink you'd be more uncomfortable if she went than if she stayed."
"Perhaps you're right," she admitted.
"I know how you feel about it," he went on, "but I hope you won't lether distress you. It doesn't make a bit of difference to me; she's onlyamusing. Please don't bother about it."
"I won't," said Ruth, "that is, I'll try not to."
They piled the dishes in the sink, "as a pleasant surprise for Hepsey,"he said, and the hours passed as if on wings. It was almost ten o'clockbefore it occurred to Winfield that his permanent abode was not MissHathaway's parlour.
As they stood at the door, talking, the last train came in. "Do youknow," said Winfield, "that every night, just as that train comes in,your friend down there puts a candle in her front window?"
"Well," rejoined Ruth, sharply, "what of it? It's a free country, isn'tit?"
"Very. Untrammelled press and highly independent women. Good night, MissThorne. I'll be up the first thing in the morning."
She was about to speak, but slammed the door instead, and was displeasedwhen she heard a smothered laugh from outside.