Hepsey had been gone an hour before Mrs. Ball realised that she had sent
away one of the witnesses of her approaching wedding. “It don't matter,”
she said to Ruth, “I guess there's others to be had. I've got the dress
and the man and one of 'em and I have faith that the other things will
come.”
Nevertheless, the problem assumed undue proportions. After long study,
she decided upon the minister's wife. “If 'twa'nt that the numskulls
round here couldn't understand two weddin's,” she said, “I'd have it in
the church, as me and James first planned.”
Preparations for the ceremony went forward with Aunt Jane's customary
decision and briskness. She made a wedding cake, assisted by Mr. Ball,
and gathered all the flowers in the garden. There was something pathetic
about her pleasure; it was as though a wedding had been laid away in
lavender, not to see the light for more than thirty years.
Ruth was to assist in dressing the bride and then go after the minister
and his wife, who, by Aunt Jane's decree, were to have no previous
warning. “'T ain't necessary to tell 'em beforehand, not as I see,” said
Mrs. Ball. “You must ask fust if they're both to home, and if only one
of 'em is there, you'll have to find somebody else. If the minister's to
home and his wife ain't gaddin', he'll get them four dollars in James's
belt, leavin' an even two hundred, or do you think two dollars would be
enough for a plain marriage?”
“I'd leave that to Uncle James, Aunty.”
“I reckon you're right, Ruth--you've got the Hathaway sense.”
The old wedding gown was brought down from the attic and taken out of
its winding sheet. It had been carefully folded, but every crease showed
plainly and parts of it had changed in colour. Aunt Jane put on her best
“foretop,” which was entirely dark, with no softening grey hair, and was
reserved for occasions of high state. A long brown curl, which was hers
by right of purchase, was pinned to the hard, uncompromising twist at
the back of her neck.
Ruth helped her into the gown and, as it slipped over her head, she
inquired, from the depths of it: “Is the front door locked?”
“Yes, Aunty, and the back door too.”
“Did you bring up the keys as I told you to?”
“Yes, Aunty, here they are. Why?”
There was a pause, then Mrs. Ball said solemnly: “I've read a great deal
about bridegrooms havin' wanderin' fits immediately before weddin's.
Does my dress hike up in the back, Ruth?”
It was a little shorter in the back than in the front and cleared the
floor on all sides, since she had grown a little after it was made,
but Ruth assured her that everything was all right. When they went
downstairs together, Mr. Ball was sitting in the parlour, plainly
nervous.
“Now Ruth,” said Aunt Jane, “you can go after the minister. My first
choice is Methodis', after that Baptis' and then Presbyterian. I will
entertain James durin' your absence.”
Ruth was longing for fresh air and gladly undertook the delicate
mission. Before she was half way down the hill, she met Winfield, who
had come on the afternoon train.
“You're just in time to see a wedding,” she said, when the first
raptures had subsided.
“Whose wedding, sweetheart? Ours?”
“Far from it,” answered Ruth, laughing. “Come with me and I'll explain.”
She gave him a vivid description of the events that had transpired
during his absence, and had invited him to the wedding before it
occurred to her that Aunt Jane might not be pleased. “I may be obliged
to recall my invitation,” she said seriously, “I'll have to ask Aunty
about it. She may not want you.”
“That doesn't make any difference,” announced Winfield, in high spirits,
“I'm agoin' to the wedding and I'm a-goin' to kiss the bride, if you'll
let me.”
Ruth smothered a laugh. “You may, if you want to, and I won't be
jealous. Isn't that sweet of me?”
“You're always sweet, dear. Is this the abode of the parson?”
The Methodist minister was at home, but his wife was not, and Ruth
determined to take Winfield in her place. The clergyman said that he
would come immediately, and, as the lovers loitered up the hill, they
arrived at the same time.
Winfield was presented to the bridal couple, but there was no time for
conversation, since Aunt Jane was in a hurry. After the brief ceremony
was over, Ruth said wickedly:
“Aunty, on the way to the minister's, Mr. Winfield told me he was going
to kiss the bride. I hope you don't mind?”
Winfield looked unutterable things at Ruth, but nobly fulfilled the
obligation. Uncle James beamed upon Ruth in a way which indicated that
an attractive idea lay behind it, and Winfield created a diversion by
tipping over a vase of flowers. “He shan't,” he whispered to Ruth, “I'll
be darned if he shall!”
“Ruth,” said Aunt Jane, after a close scrutiny of Winfield, “if you'
relayin' out to marry that awkward creeter, what ain't accustomed to
a parlour, you'd better do it now, while him and the minister are both
here.”
Winfield was willing, but Ruth said that one wedding at a time was
enough in any family, and the minister, pledged to secrecy, took his
departure. The bride cut the wedding cake and each solemnly ate a piece
of it. It was a sacrament, rather than a festivity.
When the silence became oppressive, Ruth suggested a walk.
“You will set here, Niece Ruth,” remarked Aunt Jane, “until I have
changed my dress.”
Uncle James sighed softly, as she went upstairs. “Well,” he said,
“I'm merried now, hard and fast, and there ain't no help for it, world
without end.”
“Cheer up, Uncle,” said Winfield, consolingly, “it might be worse.”
“It's come on me all of a sudden,” he rejoined. “I ain't had no time to
prepare for it, as you may say. Little did I think, three weeks ago, as
I set in my little store, what was wuth four or five hundred dollars,
that before the month was out, I'd be merried. Me! Merried!” he
exclaimed, “Me, as never thought of sech!”
When Mrs. Ball entered, clad in sombre calico, Ruth, overcome by deep
emotion, led her lover into the open air. “It's bad for you to stay in
there,” she said gravely, “when you are destined to meet the same fate.”
“I've had time to prepare for it,” he answered, “in fact, I've had more
time than I want.”
They wandered down the hillside with aimless leisure, and Ruth stooped
to pick up a large, grimy handkerchief, with “C. W.” in the corner.
“Here's where we were the other morning,” she said.
“Blessed spot,” he responded, “beautiful Hepsey and noble Joe! By what
humble means are great destinies made evident! You haven't said you were
glad to see me, dear.”
“I'm always glad to see you, Mr. Winfield,” she replied primly.
“Mr. Winfield isn't my name,” he objected, taking her into his arms.
“Carl,” she whispered shyly, to his coat collar.
“That isn't all of it.”
“Carl--dear--” said Ruth, with her face crimson.
“That's more like it. Now let's sit down--I've brought you something and
you have three guesses.”
“Returned manuscript?”
“No, you said they were all in.”
“Another piece of Aunt Jane's wedding cake?”
“No, guess again.”
“Chocolates?”
“Who'd think you were so stupid,” he said, putting two fingers into his
waistcoat pocket.
“Oh--h!” gasped Ruth, in delight.
“You funny girl, didn't you expect an engagement ring? Let's see if it
fits.”
He slipped the gleaming diamond on her finger and it fitted exactly.
“How did you guess?” she asked, after a little.
“It wasn't wholly guess work, dearest.” From another pocket, he drew a
glove, of grey suede, that belonged to Ruth's left hand.
“Where did you get that?”
“By the log across the path, that first day, when you were so cross to
me.”
“I wasn't cross!”
“Yes you were--you were a little fiend.”
“Will you forgive me?” she pleaded, lifting her face to his.
“Rather!” He forgave her half a dozen times before she got away from
him. “Now let's talk sense,” she said.
“We can't--I never expect to talk sense again.”
“Pretty compliment, isn't it?” she asked. “It's like your telling me I
was brilliant and then saying I wasn't at all like myself.” “Won't you
forgive me?” he inquired significantly.
“Some other time,” she said, flushing, “now what are we going to do?”
“Well,” he began, “I saw the oculist, and he says that my eyes are
almost well again, but that I mustn't use them for two weeks longer.
Then, I can read or write for two hours every day, increasing gradually
as long as they don't hurt. By the first of October, he thinks I'll be
ready for work again. Carlton wants me to report on the morning of the
fifth, and he offers me a better salary than I had on The Herald.”
“That's good!”
“We'll have to have a flat in the city, or a little house in the
country, near enough for me to get to the office.”
“For us to get to the office,” supplemented Ruth.
“What do you think you're going to do, Miss Thorne?”
“Why--I'm going to keep right on with the paper,” she answered in
surprise.
“No you're not, darling,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Do you
suppose I'm going to have Carlton or any other man giving my wife an
assignment? You can't any way, because I've resigned your position for
you, and your place is already filled. Carlton sent his congratulations
and said his loss was my gain, or something like that. He takes all the
credit to himself.”
“Why--why--you wretch!”
“I'm not a wretch--you said yourself I was nice. Look here, Ruth,” he
went on, in a different tone, “what do you think I am? Do you think for
a minute that I'd marry you if I couldn't take care of you?”
“'T isn't that,” she replied, freeing herself from his encircling arm,
“but I like my work and I don't want to give it up. Besides--besides--I
thought you'd like to have me near you.”
“I do want you near me, sweetheart, that isn't the point. You have the
same right that I have to any work that is your natural expression, but,
in spite of the advanced age in which we live, I can't help believing
that home is the place for a woman. I may be old-fashioned, but I don't
want my wife working down town--I've got too much pride for that. You
have your typewriter, and you can turn out Sunday specials by the yard,
if you want to. Besides, there are all the returned manuscripts--if you
have the time and aren't hurried, there's no reason why you shouldn't do
work that they can't afford to refuse.”
Ruth was silent, and he laid his hand upon hers. “You understand me,
don't you, dear? God knows I'm not asking you to let your soul rust out
in idleness, and I wouldn't have you crave expression that was denied
you, but I don't want you to have to work when you don't feel like
it, nor be at anybody's beck and call. I know you did good work on the
paper--Carlton spoke of it, too--but others can do it as well. I want
you to do something that is so thoroughly you that no one else can do
it. It's a hard life, Ruth, you know that as well as I do, and I--I love
you.”
His last argument was convincing. “I won't do anything you don't want me
to do, dear,” she said, with a new humility.
“I want you to be happy, dearest,” he answered, quickly. “Just try my
way for a year--that's all I ask. I know your independence is sweet to
you, but the privilege of working for you with hand and brain, with your
love in my heart; with you at home, to be proud of me when I succeed and
to give me new courage when I fail, why, it's the sweetest thing I've
ever known.”
“I'll have to go back to town very soon, though,” she said, a little
later, “I am interrupting the honeymoon.”
“We'll have one of our own very soon that you can't interrupt, and, when
you go back, I'm going with you. We'll buy things for the house.”
“We need lots of things, don't we?” she asked.
“I expect we do, darling, but I haven't the least idea what they are.
You'll have to tell me.”
“Oriental rugs, for one thing,” she said, “and a mahogany piano, and an
instrument to play it with, because I haven't any parlour tricks, and
some good pictures, and a waffle iron and a porcelain rolling pin.”
“What do you know about rolling pins and waffle irons?” he asked fondly.
“My dear boy,” she replied, patronisingly, “you forget that in the days
when I was a free and independent woman, I was on a newspaper. I
know lots of things that are utterly strange to you, because, in all
probability, you never ran a woman's department. If you want soup, you
must boil meat slowly, and if you want meat, you must boil it rapidly,
and if dough sticks to a broom straw when you jab it into a cake, it
isn't done.”
He laughed joyously. “How about the porcelain rolling pin?”
“It's germ proof,” she rejoined, soberly.
“Are we going to keep house on the antiseptic plan?”
“We are--it's better than the installment plan, isn't it? Oh, Carl!” she
exclaimed, “I've had the brightest idea!”
“Spring it!” he demanded.
“Why, Aunt Jane's attic is full of old furniture, and I believe she'll
give it to us!”
His face fell. “How charming,” he said, without emotion.
“Oh, you stupid,” she laughed, “it's colonial mahogany, every stick of
it! It only needs to be done over!”
“Ruth, you're a genius.”
“Wait till I get it, before you praise me. Just stay here a minute and
I'll run up to see what frame of mind she's in.”
When she entered the kitchen, the bride was busily engaged in getting
supper. Uncle James, with a blue gingham apron tied under his arms, was
awkwardly peeling potatoes. “Oh, how good that smells!” exclaimed Ruth,
as a spicy sheet of gingerbread was taken out of the oven.
Aunt Jane looked at her kindly, with gratified pride beaming from
every feature. “I wish you'd teach me to cook, Aunty,” she continued,
following up her advantage, “you know I'm going to marry Mr. Winfield.”
“Why, yes, I'll teach you--where is he?”
“He's outside--I just came in to speak to you a minute.”
“You can ask him to supper if you want to.”
“Thank you, Aunty, that's lovely of you. I know he'll like to stay.”
“James,” said Mrs. Ball, “you're peelin' them pertaters with thick
peelins' and you'll land in the poorhouse. I've never knowed it to fail.”
“I wanted to ask you something, Aunty,” Ruth went on quickly, though
feeling that the moment was not auspicious, “you know all that old
furniture up in the attic?”
“Well, what of it?”
“Why--why--you aren't using it, you know, and I thought perhaps you'd be
willing to give it to us, so that we can go to housekeeping as soon as
we're married.”
“It was your grandmother's,” Aunt Jane replied after long thought, “and,
as you say, I ain't usin' it. I don't know but what you might as well
have it as anybody else. I lay out to buy me a new haircloth parlour
suit with that two hundred dollars of James's--he give the minister the
hull four dollars over and above that--and--yes, you can have it,” she
concluded.
Ruth kissed her, with real feeling. “Thank you so much, Aunty. It will be
lovely to have something that was my grandmother's.”
When she went back to Winfield, he was absorbed in a calculation he was
making on the back of an envelope.
“You're not to use your eyes,” she said warningly, “and, oh Carl! It was
my grandmother's and she's given us every bit of it, and you're to stay
to supper!”
“Must be in a fine humour,” he observed. “I'm ever so glad. Come here,
darling, you don't know how I've missed you.”
“I've been earning furniture,” she said, settling down beside him.
“People earn what they get from Aunty--I won't say that, though, because
it's mean.”
“Tell me about this remarkable furniture. What is it, and how much of it
is destined to glorify our humble cottage?”
“It's all ours,” she returned serenely, “but I don't know just how
much there is. I didn't look at it closely, you know, because I never
expected to have any of it. Let's see--there's a heavy dresser, and a
large, round table, with claw feet--that's our dining-table, and there's
a bed, just like those in the windows in town, when it's done over, and
there's a big old-fashioned sofa, and a spinning-wheel--”
“Are you going to spin?”
“Hush, don't interrupt. There are five chairs--dining-room chairs, and
two small tables, and a card table with a leaf that you can stand up
against the wall, and two lovely rockers, and I don't know what else.”
“That's a fairly complete inventory, considering that you 'didn't look
at it closely.' What a little humbug you are!”
“You like humbugs, don't you?”
“Some, not all.”
There was a long silence, and then Ruth moved away from him. “Tell me
about everything,” she said. “Think of all the years I haven't known
you!”
“There's nothing to tell, dear. Are you going to conduct an excavation
into my 'past?'”
“Indeed, I'm not! The present is enough for me, and I'll attend to your
future myself.”
“There's not much to be ashamed of, Ruth,” he said, soberly. “I've
always had the woman I should marry in my mind--'the not impossible
she,' and my ideal has kept me out of many a pitfall I wanted to go to
her with clean hands and a clean heart, and I have. I'm not a saint, but
I'm as clean as I could be, and live in the world at all.”
Ruth put her hand on his. “Tell me about your mother.”
A shadow crossed his face and he waited a moment before speaking. “My
mother died when I was born,” he said with an effort. “I can't tell you
about her, Ruth, she--she--wasn't a very good woman.”
“Forgive me, dear,” she answered with quick sympathy, “I don't want to
know!”
“I didn't know about it until a few years ago,” he continued, “when some
kindly disposed relatives of father's gave me full particulars. They're
dead now, and I'm glad of it. She--she--drank.”
“Don't, Carl!” she cried, “I don't want to know!”
“You're a sweet girl, Ruth,” he said, tenderly, touching her hand to
his lips. “Father died when I was ten or twelve years old and I can't
remember him very well, though I have one picture, taken a little while
before he was married. He was a moody, silent man, who hardly ever spoke
to any one. I know now that he was broken-hearted. I can't remember even
the tones of his voice, but only one or two little peculiarities. He
couldn't bear the smell of lavender and the sight of any shade of purple
actually made him suffer. It was very strange.
“I've picked up what education I have,” he went on. “I have nothing to
give you, Ruth, but these--” he held out his hands--“and my heart.”
“That's all I want, dearest--don't tell me any more!”
A bell rang cheerily, and, when they went in, Aunt Jane welcomed him
with apparent cordiality, though a close observer might have detected
a tinge of suspicion. She liked the ring on Ruth's finger, which she
noticed for the first time. “It's real pretty, ain't it, James?” she
asked.
“Yes'm, 't is so.”
“It's just come to my mind now that you never give me no ring except
this here one we was married with. I guess we'd better take some of that
two hundred dollars you've got sewed up in that unchristian belt you
insist on wearin' and get me a ring like Ruth's, and use the rest for
furniture, don't you think so?”
“Yes'm,” he replied. “Ring and furniture--or anythin' you'd like.”
“James is real indulgent,” she said to Winfield, with a certain modest
pride which was at once ludicrous and pathetic.
“He should be, Mrs. Ball,” returned the young man, gallantly.
She looked at him closely, as if to discover whether he was in earnest,
but he did not flinch. “Young feller,” she said, “you ain't layin' out
to take no excursions on the water, be you?”
“Not that I know of,” he answered, “why?”
“Sea-farin' is dangerous,” she returned.
“Mis' Ball was terrible sea sick comin' here,” remarked her husband.
“She didn't seem to have no sea legs, as you may say.”
“Ain't you tired of dwellin' on that?” asked Aunt Jane, sharply. “'T
ain't no disgrace to be sea sick, and I wan't the only one.”
Winfield came to the rescue with a question and the troubled waters
were soon calm again. After supper, Ruth said: “Aunty, may I take Mr.
Winfield up to the attic and show him my grandmother's things that
you've just given me?”
“Run along, child. Me and James will wash the dishes.”
“Poor James,” said Winfield, in a low tone, as they ascended the stairs.
“Do I have to wash dishes, Ruth?”
“It wouldn't surprise me. You said you wanted to work for me, and I
despise dishes.”
“Then we'll get an orphan to do 'em. I'm not fitted for it, and I don't
think you are.”
“Say, isn't this great!” he exclaimed, as they entered the attic.
“Trunks, cobwebs, and old furniture! Why have I never been here before?”
“It wasn't proper,” replied Ruth, primly, with a sidelong glance at him.
“No, go away!”
They dragged the furniture out into the middle of the room and looked it
over critically. There was all that she had described, and unsuspected
treasure lay in concealment behind it. “There's almost enough to furnish
a flat!” she cried, in delight.
He was opening the drawers of a cabinet, which stood far back under the
eaves. “What's this, Ruth?”
“Oh, it's old blue china--willow pattern! How rich we are!”
“Is old blue willow-pattern china considered beautiful?”
“Of course it is, you goose! We'll have to have our dining-room done in
old blue, now, with a shelf on the wall for these plates.”
“Why can't we have a red dining-room?”
“Because it would be a fright. You can have a red den, if you like.”
“All right,” he answered, “but it seems to me it would be simpler and
save a good deal of expense, if we just pitched the plates into the sad
sea. I don't think much of 'em.”
“That's because you're not educated, dearest,” returned Ruth, sweetly.
“When you're married, you'll know a great deal more about china--you see
if you don't.”
They lingered until it was so dark that they could scarcely see each
other's faces. “We'll come up again to-morrow,” she said. “Wait a
minute.”
She groped over to the east window, where there was still a faint glow,
and lighted the lamp, which stood in its accustomed place, newly filled.
“You're not going to leave it burning, are you?” he asked.
“Yes, Aunt Jane has a light in this window every night.”
“Why, what for?”
“I don't know, dearest. I think it's for a lighthouse, but I don't care.
Come, let's go downstairs.”