The rumble of voices which came from the kitchen was not disturbing, but
when the rural lovers began to sit on the piazza, directly under Ruth's
window, she felt called upon to remonstrate.
“Hepsey,” she asked, one morning, “why don't you and Joe sit under the
trees 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 me
to 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 own
accord. “If Joe and me was to set anywheres but in front, he might see
the light.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Miss Hathaway, she don't want it talked of, and men folks never can
keep 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 if
they don't know there's nothin', but if they does, why they's keen.”
“Perhaps you're right, Hepsey,” she replied, biting her lips. “Sit
anywhere you please.”
There were times when Ruth was compelled to admit that Hepsey's mental
gifts were fully equal to her own. It was unreasonable to suppose, even
for an instant, that Joe and Hepsey had not pondered long and earnestly
upon the subject of the light in the attic window, yet the argument
was unanswerable. The matter had long since lost its interest for
Ruth--perhaps because she was too happy to care.
Winfield had easily acquired the habit of bringing her his morning
papers, and, after the first embarrassment, Ruth settled down to it in
a 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 same
time have a general supervision of her domain, while Winfield stretched
himself upon the grass at her feet. When the sun was bright, he wore his
dark glasses, thereby gaining an unfair advantage.
After breakfast, which was a movable feast at the “Widder's,” he went
after his mail and brought hers also. When he reached the top of the
hill, 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 your
pleasure, but my stern regard for facts compels me to say that it is not
Mr. 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 an
expense--this morning, for instance, I had to dig up two cents to get
one of your valuable manuscripts out of the clutches of an interested
government.”
“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 the
high tariff on the Sunday papers. Besides, the manuscripts are all in
now.”
“I'm glad to hear that,” he replied, sitting down on the piazza. “Do
you know, Miss Thorne, I think there's a great deal of joyous excitement
attached to the pursuit of literature. You send out a story, fondly
believing that it is destined to make you famous. Time goes on, and
you hear nothing from it. You can see your name 'featured' on the
advertisements of the magazine, and hear the heavy tread of the fevered
mob, on the way to buy up the edition. In the roseate glow of your
fancy, you can see not only your cheque, but the things you're going
to buy with it. Perhaps you tell your friends, cautiously, that you're
writing for such and such a magazine. Before your joy evaporates, the
thing comes back from the Dead Letter Office, because you hadn't put
on enough postage, and they wouldn't take it in. Or, perhaps they've
written 'Return' on the front page in blue pencil, and all over it are
little, dark, four-fingered prints, where the office pup has walked on
it.”
“You seem to be speaking from experience.”
“You have guessed it, fair lady, with your usual wonderful insight. Now
let'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 delicate
colour 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 inside
of a week, and the obituary notices, weather indications, and foreign
despatches 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, in
answer to Ruth's ironical question, “nor yet the Summer styles in
sleeves. All that slop on the Woman's Page, about making home happy, is
not suited to such as I, and I'll pass.”
“There's a great deal here that's very interesting,” returned Ruth, “and
I doubt if I myself could have crammed more solid knowledge into one
Woman's Page. Here's a full account of a wealthy lady's Summer home, and
a description of a poor woman's garden, and eight recipes, and half a
column on how to keep a husband at home nights, and plans for making a
china closet out of an old bookcase.”
“If there's anything that makes me dead tired,” remarked Winfield, “it's
that homemade furniture business.”
“For once, we agree,” answered Ruth. “I've read about it till I'm
completely out of patience. Shirtwaist boxes from soap boxes, dressing
tables from packing boxes, couches from cots, hall lamps from old arc
light globes, and clothes hampers from barrels--all these I endured, but
the 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 surrounded
with marble and white tiling, or, if this was too expensive, it was to
be 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 and
shelves on the walls, to hold the rare china. Charming kitchen!”
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone like stars. “You're an
awfully funny girl,” said Winfield, quietly, “to fly into a passion
over a 'transformed kitchen' that you never saw. Why don't you save your
temper for real things?”
She looked at him, meaningly, and he retreated in good order. “I think
I'm a tactful person,” he continued, hurriedly, “because I get on so
well with you. Most of the time, we're as contented as two kittens in a
basket.”
“My dear Mr. Winfield,” returned Ruth, pleasantly, “you're not only
tactful, but modest. I never met a man whose temperament so nearly
approached the unassuming violet. I'm afraid you'll never be appreciated
in this world--you're too good for it. You must learn to put yourself
forward. I expect it will be a shock to your sensitive nature, but it's
got to be done.”
“Thank you,” he laughed. “I wish we were in town now, and I'd begin
to put myself forward by asking you out to dinner and afterward to the
theatre.”
“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 a
real dinner, with striped ice cream at the end of it.”
“I'll go,” she replied, “I can't resist the blandishments of striped ice
cream.”
“Thank you again; that gives me courage to speak of something that has
lain 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 been
allowed to see it yet, and I suppose there's nothing in the settlement
to 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 which
were 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 life will be in your hands.”
After he went away, Ruth wished she knew more about the gentle art of
cooking, which, after all, is closely allied to the other one--of making
enemies. She decided to dispense with Hepsey's services, when Winfield
came up to dinner, and to do everything herself.
She found an old cook book of Aunt Jane's and turned over its pages with
new interest. It was in manuscript form, and seemed to represent the
culinary knowledge of the entire neighbourhood. Each recipe was duly
accredited to its original author, and there were many newspaper
clippings, from the despised “Woman's Page” in various journals.
Ruth thought it would be an act of kindness to paste the loose clippings
into Aunt Jane's book, and she could look them over as she fastened them
in. The work progressed rapidly, until she found a clipping which
was not a recipe. It was a perfunctory notice of the death of Charles
Winfield, dated almost eighteen years ago.
She remembered the various emotions old newspapers had given her when
she first came to Aunt Jane's. This was Abigail Weatherby's husband--he
had survived her by a dozen years. “I'm glad it's Charles Winfield
instead of Carl,” thought Ruth, as she put it aside, and went on with
her work.
“Pantry's come,” announced Winfield, a few days later; “I didn't open
it, 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 goes
out. She always regards me with more or less suspicion, and it makes me
uncomfortable.”
Sunday afternoon, the faithful Joe drove up to the gate, and Hepsey
emerged from her small back room, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. She
was radiant in a brilliant blue silk, which was festooned at irregular
intervals with white silk lace. Her hat was bending beneath its burden
of violets and red roses, starred here and there with some unhappy
buttercups 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 place
proudly on the back seat, even while he pleaded for her to sit beside
him.
“You know yourself that I can't drive nothin' from the back seat,” he
complained.
“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 to
take her eyes away from it, even after Joe had turned around and started
down hill. She thought Winfield would see them pass his door and time
his arrival accordingly, so she was startled when he came up behind her
and 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 you
been at Aunt Jane's?”
“Oh, that's different. When Joe went out to harness his fiery steeds to
his imposing chariot, I went around through the woods, across the beach,
climbed a vertical precipice, and came up this side of the hill. I had
to 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 like
Hepsey's,” he began. “I'll wager, now, that you haven't a gown like that
in 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 had
fried salt pork, fried eggs, and fried potatoes for breakfast. I've
renounced coffee, for I can't seem to get used to theirs. For dinner,
we had round steak, fried, more fried potatoes, and boiled onions. Dried
apple pie for dessert--I think I'd rather have had the mince I refused
this 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, “you
can sit in the kitchen and watch me.”
He professed great admiration while she put on one of Hepsey's white
aprons, and when she appeared with the chafing-dish, his emotion was
beyond speech. He was allowed to open the box and to cut up some button
mushrooms, while she shredded cold chicken. “I'm getting hungry every
minute,” he said, “and if there is undue postponement, I fear I shall
assimilate all the raw material in sight--including the cook.”
Ruth laughed happily. She was making a sauce with real cream, seasoned
delicately with paprika and celery salt. “Now I'll put in the chicken
and 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 its
height, when they became aware of a presence. Hepsey stood in the door,
apparently transfixed with surprise, and with disapproval evident in
every line of her face. Before either could speak, she was gone.
Though Ruth was very much annoyed, the incident seemingly served to
accentuate Winfield's enjoyment. The sound of wheels on the gravel
outside 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 had
forgotten. You have no reasonable ground for discharging her, and I
think 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 let
her distress you. It doesn't make a bit of difference to me; she's only
amusing. 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'clock
before it occurred to Winfield that his permanent abode was not Miss
Hathaway's parlour.
As they stood at the door, talking, the last train came in. “Do you
know,” 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't
it?”
“Very. Untrammelled press and highly independent women. Good night, Miss
Thorne. I'll be up the first thing in the morning.”
She was about to speak, but slammed the door instead, and was displeased
when she heard a smothered laugh from outside.