As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first the
country brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously,
but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's a fortnight before she bitterly
regretted the step she had taken.
Still there was no going back, for she had given her word, and must stay
there until October. The months before her stretched out into a dreary
waste. She thought of Miss Ainslie gratefully, as a redeeming feature,
but she knew that it was impossible to spend all of her time in the
house--it the foot of the hill.
Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet more
than once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock, before Hepsey was
stiring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walk
through the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and each
day was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful,
moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yet
knowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there.
She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepsey
stalked in, unannounced, and gave her a card.
“Mr. Carl Winfield!” Ruth repeated aloud. “Some one to see me, Hepsey?”
she asked, in astonishment.
“Yes'm. He's a-waitin' on the piazzer.”
“Didn't you ask him to come in?”
“No'm. Miss Hathaway, she don't want no strangers in her house.”
“Go down immediately,” commanded Ruth, sternly, “ask him into the
parlour, and say that Miss Thorne will be down in a few moments.”
“Yes'm.”
Hepsey shuffled downstairs with comfortable leisure, opened the door
with aggravating slowness, then said, in a harsh tone that reached the
upper rooms distinctly: “Miss Thorne, she says that you can come in and
set in the parlour till she comes down.”
“Thank you,” responded a masculine voice, in quiet amusement; “Miss
Thorne is kind--and generous.”
Ruth's cheeks flushed hotly. “I don't know whether Miss Thorne will go
down or not,” she said to herself. “It's probably a book-agent.”
She rocked pensively for a minute or two, wondering what would happen if
she did not go down. There was no sound from the parlour save a subdued
clearing of the throat. “He's getting ready to speak his piece,” she
thought, “and he might as well do it now as to wait for me.”
Though she loathed Mr. Carl Winfield and his errand, whatever it might
prove to be, she stopped before her mirror long enough to give a pat
or two to her rebellious hair. On the way down she determined to be
dignified, icy, and crushing.
A tall young fellow with a pleasant face rose to greet her as she
entered the room. “Miss Thorne?” he inquired.
“Yes--please sit down. I am very sorry that my maid should have been so
inhospitable.” It was not what she had meant to say.
“Oh, that's all right,” he replied, easily; “I quite enjoyed it. I must
ask your pardon for coming to you in this abrupt way, but Carlton gave
me a letter to you, and I've lost it.” Carlton was the managing editor,
and vague expectations of a summons to the office came into Ruth's mind.
“I'm on The Herald,” he went on; “that is, I was, until my eyes gave
out, and then they didn't want me any more. Newspapers can't use anybody
out of repair,” he added, grimly.
“I know,” Ruth answered, nodding.
“Of course the office isn't a sanitarium, though they need that kind
of an annex; nor yet a literary kindergarten, which I've known it to be
taken for, but--well, I won't tell you my troubles. The oculist said I
must go to the country for six months, stay outdoors, and neither read
nor write. I went to see Carlton, and he promised me a berth in the
Fall--they're going to have a morning edition, too, you know.”
Miss Thorne did not know, but she was much interested.
“Carlton advised me to come up here,” resumed Winfield. “He said you
were here, and that you were going back in the Fall. I'm sorry I've lost
his letter.”
“What was in it?” inquired Ruth, with a touch of sarcasm. “You read it,
didn't you?”
“Of course I read it--that is, I tried to. The thing looked like a
prescription, but, as nearly as I could make it out, it was principally
a description of the desolation in the office since you left it. At the
end there was a line or two commending me to your tender mercies, and
here I am.”
“Commending yourself.”
“Now what in the dickens have I done?” thought Winfield. “That's it
exactly, Miss Thorne. I've lost my reference, and I'm doing my best to
create a good impression without it. I thought that as long as we were
going to be on the same paper, and were both exiles--”
He paused, and she finished the sentence for him: “that you'd come to
see me. How long have you been in town?”
“'In town' is good,” he said. “I arrived in this desolate, God-forsaken
spot just ten days ago. Until now I've hunted and fished every day,
but I didn't get anything but a cold. It was very good, of its kind--I
couldn't speak above a whisper for three days.”
She had already recognised him as the young man she saw standing in the
road the day she went to Miss Ainslie's, and mentally asked his
pardon for thinking he was a book-agent. He might become a pleasant
acquaintance, for he was tall, clean shaven, and well built. His hands
were white and shapely and he was well groomed, though not in the least
foppish. The troublesome eyes were dark brown, sheltered by a pair of
tinted glasses. His face was very expressive, responding readily to
every change of mood.
They talked “shop” for a time, discovering many mutual friends, and
Ruth liked him. He spoke easily, though hurriedly, and appeared to be
somewhat cynical, but she rightly attributed it to restlessness like her
own.
“What are you going to do on The Tribune?” she asked.
“Anything,” he answered, with an indefinable shrug. “'Theirs not to
reason why, theirs but to do and die.' What are you going to do?”
“The same,” replied Ruth. “'Society,' 'Mother's Corner,' 'Under the
Evening Lamp,' and 'In the Kitchen with Aunt Jenny.'”
He laughed infectiously. “I wish Carlton could hear you say that.”
“I don't,” returned Ruth, colouring faintly.
“Why; are you afraid of him?”
“Certainly I am. If he speaks to me, I'm instantly stiff with terror.”
“Oh, he isn't so bad,” said Winfield, reassuringly, “He's naturally
abrupt, that's all; and I'll venture he doesn't suspect that he has any
influence over you. I'd never fancy that you were afraid of anybody or
anything on earth.”
“I'm not afraid of anything else,” she answered, “except burglars and
green worms.”
“Carlton would enjoy the classification--really, Miss Thorne, somebody
should tell him, don't you think? So much innocent pleasure doesn't
often come into the day of a busy man.”
For a moment Ruth was angry, and then, all at once, she knew Winfield as
if he had always been her friend. Conventionality, years, and the veneer
of society were lightly laid upon one who would always be a boy. Some
men are old at twenty, but Winfield would be young at seventy.
“You can tell him if you want to,” Ruth rejoined, calmly. “He'll be so
pleased that he'll double your salary on the spot.”
“And you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with fun.
“I'll be pensioned, of course.”
“You're all right,” he returned, “but I guess I won't tell him. Riches
lead to temptation, and if I'm going to be on The Tribune I'd hate to
have you pensioned.”
Hepsey appeared to have a great deal of employment in the dining-room,
and was very quiet about it, with long pauses between her leisurely
movements. Winfield did not seem to notice it, but it jarred upon Ruth,
and she was relieved when he said he must go.
“You'll come again, won't you?” she asked.
“I will, indeed.”
She stood at the window, unconsciously watching him as he went down
the hill with a long, free stride. She liked the strength in his broad
shoulders, his well modulated voice, and his clear, honest eyes; but
after all he was nothing but a boy.
“Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, at her elbow, “is that your beau?” It
was not impertinence, but sheer friendly interest which could not be
mistaken for anything else.
“No,” she answered; “of course not.”
“He's real nice-lookin', ain't he?
“Yes.”
“Have you got your eye on anybody else?”
“No.”
“Then, Miss Thorne, I don't know's you could do better.”
“Perhaps not.” She was thinking, and spoke mechanically. From where she
stood she could still see him walking rapidly down the hill.
“Ain't you never seen him before?”
Miss Thorne turned. “Hepsey,” she said, coldly, “please go into the
kitchen and attend to your work. And the next time I have company,
please stay in the kitchen--not in the dining-room.”
“Yes'm,” replied Hepsey, meekly, hastening to obey.
She was not subtle, but she understood that in some way she had offended
Miss Thorne, and racked her brain vainly. She had said nothing that
she would not have said to Miss Hathaway, and had intended nothing but
friendliness. As for her being in the dining-room--why, very often, when
Miss Hathaway had company, she was called in to give her version of
some bit of village gossip. Miss Hathaway scolded her when she was
displeased, but never before had any one spoken to Hepsey in a measured,
icy tone that was at once lady-like and commanding. Tears came into her
eyes, for she was sensitive, after all.
A step sounded overhead, and Hepsey regained her self-possession. She
had heard nearly all of the conversation and could have told Miss Thorne
a great deal about the young man. For instance, he had not said that he
was boarding at Joe's, across the road from Miss Ainslie's, and that
he intended to stay all Summer. She could have told her of an uncertain
temper, peculiar tastes, and of a silver shaving-cup which Joe had
promised her a glimpse of before the visitor went back to the city; but
she decided to let Miss Thorne go on in her blind ignorance.
Ruth, meanwhile, was meditating, with an aggravated restlessness. The
momentary glimpse of the outer world had stung her into a sense of
her isolation, which she realised even more keenly than before. It was
because of this, she told herself, that she hoped Winfield liked her,
for it was not her wont to care about such trifles. He thought of her,
idly, as a nice girl, who was rather pretty when she was interested in
anything; but, with a woman's insight, influenced insensibly by Hepsey's
comment, Ruth scented possibilities.
She wanted him to like her, to stay in that miserable village as long as
she did, and keep her mind from stagnation--her thought went no further
than that. In October, when they went back, she would thank Carlton,
prettily, for sending her a friend--provided they did not quarrel. She
could see long days of intimate companionship, of that exalted kind
which is, possible only when man and woman meet on a high plane. “We're
both too old for nonsense,” she thought; and then a sudden fear struck
her, that Winfield might be several years younger than she was.
Immediately she despised herself. “I don't care if he is,” she thought,
with her cheeks crimson; “it's nothing to me. He's a nice boy, and I
want to be amused.”
She went to her dresser, took out the large top drawer, and dumped its
contents on the bed. It was a desperate measure, for Ruth hated to put
things in order. The newspaper which had lain in the bottom of it had
fallen out also, and she shook it so violently that she tore it.
Then ribbons, handkerchiefs, stocks, gloves, and collars were
unceremoniously hustled back into the drawer, for Miss Thorne was at
odds with herself and the world. She was angry with Hepsey, she hated
Winfield, and despised herself. She picked up a scrap of paper which lay
on a glove, and caught a glimpse of unfamiliar penmanship.
It was apparently the end of a letter, and the rest of it was gone. “At
Gibraltar for some time,” she read, “keeping a shop, but will probably
be found now in some small town on the coast of Italy. Very truly
yours.” The signature had been torn off.
“Why, that isn't mine,” she thought. “It must be something of Aunt
Jane's.” Another bit of paper lay near it, and, unthinkingly, she read a
letter which was not meant for her.
“I thank you from my heart,” it began, “for understanding me. I could
not put it into words, but I believe you know. Perhaps you think it is
useless--that it is too late; but if it was, I would know. You have been
very kind, and I thank you.”
There was neither date, address, nor signature. The message
stood alone, as absolutely as some far-off star whose light could not
be seen from the earth. Some one understood it--two understood it--the
writer and Aunt Jane.
Ruth put it back under the paper, with the scrap of the other letter,
and closed the drawer with a bang. “I hope,” she said to herself, “that
while I stay here I'll be mercifully preserved from finding things that
are none of my business.” Then, as in a lightning flash, for an instant
she saw clearly.
Fate plays us many tricks and assumes strange forms, but Ruth knew that
some day, on that New England hill, she would come face to face with a
destiny that had been ordained from the beginning. Something waited for
her there--some great change. She trembled at the thought, but was not
afraid.