IX. By Humble Means
As lightly as a rose petal upon the shimmering surface of a stream,Summer was drifting away, but whither, no one seemed to care. The odourof printer's ink upon the morning paper no longer aroused vain longingsin Winfield's breast, and Ruth had all but forgotten her formerconnection with the newspaper world.
By degrees, Winfield had arranged a routine which seemed admirable.Until luncheon time, he was with Ruth and, usually, out of doors,according to prescription. In the afternoon, he went up again, sometimesstaying to dinner, and, always, he spent his evenings there.
"Why don't you ask me to have my trunk sent up here?" he asked Ruth, oneday.
"I hadn't thought of it," she laughed. "I suppose it hasn't seemednecessary."
"Miss Hathaway would be pleased, wouldn't she, if she knew she had twoguests instead of one?"
"Undoubtedly; how could she help it?"
"When do you expect her to return?"
"I don't know--I haven't heard a word from her. Sometimes I feel alittle anxious about her." Ruth would have been much concerned for herrelative's safety, had she known that the eccentric lady had severedherself from the excursion and gone boldly into Italy, unattended, andwith no knowledge of the language.
Hepsey inquired daily for news of Miss Hathaway, but no tidings wereforthcoming. She amused herself in her leisure moments by picturing allsorts of disasters in which her mistress was doubtless engulfed, and inspeculating upon the tie between Miss Thorne and Mr. Winfield.
More often than not, it fell to Hepsey to light the lamp in the atticwindow, though she did it at Miss Thorne's direction. "If I forget it,Hepsey," she had said, calmly, "you'll see to it, won't you?"
Trunks, cedar chests, old newspapers, and long hidden letters were outof Ruth's province now. Once in two or three weeks, she went to see MissAinslie, but never stayed long, though almost every day she reproachedherself for neglect.
Winfield's days were filled with peace, since he had learned how to geton with Miss Thorne. When she showed herself stubborn and unyielding, heretreated gracefully, and with a suggestion of amusement, as a courtiermay step aside gallantly for an angry lady to pass. Ruth felt his mentalattitude and, even though she resented it, she was ashamed.
Having found that she could have her own way, she became less anxiousfor it, and several times made small concessions, which were apparentlyunconscious, but amusing, nevertheless. She had none of the wiles of thecoquette; she was transparent, and her friendliness was disarming. Ifshe wanted Winfield to stay at home any particular morning or afternoon,she told him so. At first he was offended, but afterward learned to likeit, for she could easily have instructed Hepsey to say that she was out.
The pitiless, unsympathetic calendar recorded the fact that July wasnear its end, and Ruth sighed--then hated herself for it.
She had grown accustomed to idleness, and, under the circumstances,liked it far too well.
One morning, when she went down to breakfast, Hepsey was evidentlyperplexed about something, but Ruth took no outward note of it, knowingthat it would be revealed ere long.
"Miss Thorne," she said, tentatively, as Ruth rose from the table.
"Yes?"
"Of course, Miss Thorne, I reckon likely't ain't none of my business,but is Mr. Winfield another detective, and have you found anything outyet?"
Ruth, inwardly raging, forced herself to let the speech pass unnoticed,and sailed majestically out of the room. She was surprised to discoverthat she could be made so furiously angry by so small a thing.
Winfield was coming up the hill with the mail, and she tried to cool herhot cheeks with her hands. "Let's go down on the side of the hill," shesaid, as he gave her some letters and the paper; "it's very warm in thesun, and I'd like the sea breeze."
They found a comparatively level place, with two trees to lean against,and, though they were not far from the house, they were effectuallyscreened by the rising ground. Ruth felt that she could not bear thesight of Hepsey just then.
After glancing at her letters she began to read aloud, with a troubledhaste which did not escape him. "Here's a man who had a little pieceof bone taken out of the inside of his skull," she said. "Shall I readabout that? He seems, literally, to have had something on his mind."
"You're brilliant this morning," answered Winfield, gravely, and shelaughed hysterically.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked. "You don't seem like yourself."
"It isn't nice of you to say that," she retorted, "considering yourprevious remark."
There was a rumble and a snort on the road and, welcoming the diversion,he went up to reconnoitre. "Joe's coming; is there anything you want inthe village?"
"No," she answered, wearily, "there's nothing I want--anywhere."
"You're an exceptional woman," returned Winfield, promptly, "andI'd advise you to sit for your photograph. The papers would likeit--'Picture of the Only Woman Who Doesn't Want Anything'--why, thatwould work off an extra in about ten minutes!"
Ruth looked at him for a moment, then turned her eyes away. He feltvaguely uncomfortable, and was about to offer atonement when Joe's deepbass voice called out:
"Hello!"
"Hello yourself!" came in Hepsey's highest tones, from the garden.
"Want anything to-day?"
"Nope!"
There was a brief pause, and then Joe shouted again: "Hepsey!"
"Well?"
"I should think they'd break their vocal cords," said Winfield.
"I wish they would," rejoined Ruth, quickly.
"Come here!" yelled Joe. "I want to talk to yer."
"Talk from there," screamed Hepsey.
"Where's yer folks?"
"D'know."
"Say, be they courtin'?"
Hepsey left her work in the garden and came toward the front of thehouse. "They walk out some," she said, when she was halfway to the gate,"and they set up a good deal, and Miss Thorne told me she didn't know asshe'd do better, but you can't rightly say they're courtin' 'cause cityways ain't like our'n."
The deep colour dyed Ruth's face and her hands twitched nervously.Winfield very much desired to talk, but could think of nothing to say.The situation was tense.
Joe clucked to his horses. "So long," he said. "See yer later."
Ruth held her breath until he passed them, and then broke down. Her selfcontrol was quite gone, and she sobbed bitterly, in grief and shame.Winfield tucked his handkerchief into her cold hands, not knowing whatelse to do.
"Don't!" he said, as if he, too, had been hurt. "Ruth, dear, don't cry!"
A new tenderness almost unmanned him, but he sat still with his handsclenched, feeling like a brute because of her tears.
The next few minutes seemed like an hour, then Ruth raised her head andtried to smile. "I expect you think I'm silly," she said, hiding hertear stained face again.
"No!" he cried, sharply; then, with a catch in his throat, he put hishand on her shoulder.
"Don't!" she sobbed, turning away from him, "what--what they said--wasbad enough!"
The last words ended in a rush of tears, and, sorely distressed, hebegan to walk back and forth. Then a bright idea came to him.
"I'll be back in a minute," he said.
When he returned, he had a tin dipper, freshly filled with cold water."Don't cry any more," he pleaded, gently, "I'm going to bathe yourface."
Ruth leaned back against the tree and he knelt beside her. "Oh, thatfeels so good," she said, gratefully, as she felt his cool fingersupon her burning eyes. In a little while she was calm again, though herbreast still heaved with every fluttering breath.
"You poor little woman," he said, tenderly, "you're just as nervous asyou can be. Don't feel so about it. Just suppose it was somebody whowasn't!"
"Who wasn't what?" asked Ruth, innocently.
Winfield crimsoned to the roots of his hair and hurled the dipper intothe distance.
"What--what--they said," he stammered, sitting down awkwardly. "O
h,darn it!" He kicked savagely at a root, and added, in bitterest selfaccusation, "I'm a chump, I am!"
"No you're not," returned Ruth, with sweet shyness, "you're nice. Nowwe'll read some more of the paper."
He assumed a feverish interest in the market reports, but his thoughtswere wandering. Certainly, nothing could have been worse. He felt as ifa bud, which he had been long and eagerly watching, was suddenly tornopen by a vandal hand. When he first touched Ruth's eyes with his fingertips, he had trembled like a schoolboy, and he wondered if she knew it.
If she did, she made no sign. Her cheeks were flushed, the lids of herdowncast eyes were pink, and her voice had lost its crisp, incisivetones, but she read rapidly, without comment or pause, until the supplyof news gave out. Then she began on the advertisements, dreading theend of her task and vainly wishing for more papers, though in her heartthere was something sweet, which, even to herself, she dared not name.
"That'll do," he said, abruptly, "I'm not interested in the 'midsummerglove clearing.' I meant to tell you something when I first came--I'vegot to go away."
Ruth's heart throbbed painfully, as if some cold hand held it fast."Yes," she said, politely, not recognising her own voice.
"It's only for a week--I've got to go to the oculist and see about someother things. I'll be back before long."
"I shall miss you," she said, conventionally. Then she saw that he wasgoing away to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence, andblessed him accordingly.
"When are you going?" she asked.
"This afternoon. I don't want to go, but it's just as well to have itover with. Can I do anything for you in the city?"
"No, thank you. My wants are few and, at present, well supplied."
"Don't you want me to match something for you? I thought women alwayshad pieces of stuff that had to be matched immediately."
"They made you edit the funny column, didn't they?" she asked,irrelevantly.
"They did, Miss Thorne, and, moreover, I expect I'll have to do itagain."
After a little, they were back on the old footing, yet everything wasdifferent, for there was an obtruding self consciousness on either side."What time do you go?" she asked, with assumed indifference.
"Three-fifteen, I think, and it's after one now."
He walked back to the house with her, and, for the second time that day,Hepsey came out to sweep the piazza.
"Good bye, Miss Thorne," he said.
"Good bye, Mr. Winfield."
That was all, but Ruth looked up with an unspoken question and his eyesmet hers clearly, with no turning aside. She knew he would come backvery soon and she understood his answer--that he had the right.
As she entered the house, Hepsey said, pleasantly: "Has he gone away,Miss Thorne?"
"Yes," she answered, without emotion. She was about to say that she didnot care for luncheon, then decided that she must seem to care.
Still, it was impossible to escape that keen-eyed observer. "You ain'teatin' much," she suggested.
"I'm not very hungry."
"Be you sick, Miss Thorne?"
"No--not exactly. I've been out in the sun and my head aches," shereplied, clutching at the straw.
"Do you want a wet rag?"
Ruth laughed, remembering an earlier suggestion of Winfield's. "No, Idon't want any wet rag, Hepsey, but I'll go up to my room for a littlewhile, I think. Please don't disturb me."
She locked her door, shutting out all the world from the nameless joythat surged in her heart. The mirror disclosed flushed, feverish cheeksand dark eyes that shone like stars. "Ruth Thorne," she said to herself,"I'm ashamed of you! First you act like a fool and then like a girl ofsixteen!"
Then her senses became confused and the objects in the room circledaround her unsteadily. "I'm tired," she murmured. Her head sank drowsilyinto the lavender scented pillow and she slept too soundly to take noteof the three o'clock train leaving the station. It was almost sunsetwhen she was aroused by voices under her window.
"That feller's gone home," said Joe.
"Do tell!" exclaimed Hepsey. "Did he pay his board?"
"Yep, every cent. He's a-comin' back."
"When?"
"D'know. Don't she know?" The emphasis indicated Miss Thorne.
"I guess not," answered Hepsey. "They said good bye right in front ofme, and there wa'n't nothin' said about it."
"They ain't courtin', then," said Joe, after a few moments of painfulthought, and Ruth, in her chamber above, laughed happily to herself.
"Mebbe not," rejoined Hepsey. "It ain't fer sech as me to say whenthere's courtin' and when there ain't, after havin' gone well nigh ontofive year with a country loafer what ain't never said nothin'." Shestalked into the house, closed the door, and noisily bolted it. Joestood there for a moment, as one struck dumb, then gave a long, lowwhistle of astonishment and walked slowly down the hill.