Part 5

“Miss Thorne,” he began, as they climbed the hill, “I don't see why you don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to live with yourself all the time, you know, and, occasionally, it must be very difficult. A rag, now, wet in cold water, and tied around your neck--have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good.”

“I have one on now,” she answered, with apparent seriousness, “only you can't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry and I think I'd better hurry home to wet it again, don't you?”

Winfield laughed joyously. “You'll do,” he said.

Before they were half up the hill, they were on good terms again. “I don't want to go home, do you?” he asked.

“Home? I have no home--I'm only a poor working girl.”

“Oh, what would this be with music! I can see it now! Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission, I will endeavour to give you a little song of my own composition, entitled: 'Why Has the Working Girl No Home!'”

“You haven't my permission, and you're a wretch.”

“I am,” he admitted, cheerfully, “moreover, I'm a worm in the dust.”

“I don't like worms.”

“Then you'll have to learn.”

Ruth resented his calm assumption of mastery. “You're dreadfully young,” she said; “do you think you'll ever grow up?”

“Huh!” returned Winfield, boyishly, “I'm most thirty.”

“Really? I shouldn't have thought you were of age.”

“Here's a side path, Miss Thorne,” he said, abruptly, “that seems to go down into the woods. Shall we explore? It won't be dark for an hour yet.”

They descended with some difficulty, since the way was not cleat, and came into the woods at a point not far from the log across the path. “We mustn't sit there any more,” he observed, “or we'll fight. That's where we were the other day, when you attempted to assassinate me.”

“I didn't!” exclaimed Ruth indignantly.

“That rag does seem to be pretty dry,” he said, apparently to himself. “Perhaps, when we get to the sad sea, we can wet it, and so insure comparative calm.”

She laughed, reluctantly. The path led around the hill and down from the highlands to a narrow ledge of beach that lay under the cliff. “Do you want to drown me?” she asked. “It looks very much as if you intended to, for this ledge is covered at high tide.”

“You wrong me, Miss Thorne; I have never drowned anything.”

His answer was lost upon her, for she stood on the beach, under the cliff, looking at the water. The shimmering turquoise blue was slowly changing to grey, and a single sea gull circled overhead.

He made two or three observations, to which Ruth paid no attention. “My Lady Disdain,” he said, with assumed anxiety, “don't you think we'd better go on? I don't know what time the tide comes in, and I never could look your aunt in the face if I had drowned her only relative.”

“Very well,” she replied carelessly, “let's go around the other way.”

They followed the beach until they came to the other side of the hill, but found no path leading back to civilisation, though the ascent could easily be made.

“People have been here before,” he said; “here are some initials cut into this stone. What are they? I can't see.”

Ruth stooped to look at the granite boulder he indicated. “J. H.,” she answered, “and J. B.”

“It's incomplete,” he objected; “there should be a heart with an arrow run through it.”

“You can fix it to suit yourself,” Ruth returned, coolly, “I don't think anybody will mind.” She did not hear his reply, for it suddenly dawned upon her that “J. H.” meant Jane Hathaway.

They stood there in the twilight for some little time, watching the changing colours on the horizon and then there was a faint glow on the water from the cliff above. Ruth went out far enough to see that Hepsey had placed the lamp in the attic window.

“It's time to go,” she said, “inasmuch as we have to go back the way we came.”

They crossed to the other side and went back through the woods. It was dusk, and they walked rapidly until they came to the log across the path.

“So your friend isn't crazy,” he said tentatively, as he tried to assist her over it.

“That depends,” she replied, drawing away from him; “you're indefinite.”

“Forgot to wet the rag, didn't we?” he asked. “I will gladly assume the implication, however, if I may be your friend.”

“Kind, I'm sure,” she answered, with distant politeness.

The path widened, and he walked by her side. “Have you noticed, Miss Thorne, that we have trouble every time we approach that seemingly innocent barrier? I think it would be better to keep away from it, don't you?”

“Perhaps.”

“What initials were those on the boulder? J. H. and--”

“J. B.”

“I thought so. 'J. B.' must have had a lot of spare time at his disposal, for his initials are cut into the 'Widder' Pendleton's gate post on the inner side, and into an apple tree in the back yard.”

“How interesting!”

“Did you know Joe and Hepsey were going out to-night?”

“No, I didn't--they're not my intimate friends.”

“I don't see how Joe expects to marry on the income derived from the village chariot.”

“Have they got that far?”

“I don't know,” replied Winfield, with the air of one imparting a confidence. “You see, though I have been in this peaceful village for some little time, I have not yet arrived at the fine distinction between 'walking out, 'settin' up,' and 'stiddy comp'ny.' I should infer that 'walking out' came first, for 'settin' up' must take a great deal more courage, but even 1, with my vast intellect, cannot at present understand 'stiddy comp'ny.'”

“Joe takes her out every Sunday in the carriage,” volunteered Ruth, when the silence became awkward.

“In the what?”

“Carriage--haven't you ridden in it?”

“I have ridden in them, but not in it. I walked to the 'Widder's,' but if it is the conveyance used by travellers, they are both 'walking out' and 'settin' up.'”

They paused at the gate. “Thank you for a pleasant afternoon,” said Winfield. “I don't have many of them.”

“You're welcome,” returned Ruth, conveying the impression of great distance.

Winfield sighed, then made a last desperate attempt. “Miss Thorne,” he said, pleadingly, “please don't be unkind to me. You have my reason in your hands. I can see myself now, sitting on the floor, at one end of the dangerous ward. They'll smear my fingers with molasses and give me half a dozen feathers to play with. You'll come to visit the asylum, sometime, when you're looking for a special, and at first, you won't recognise me. Then I'll say: 'Woman, behold your work,' and you'll be miserable all the rest of your life.”

She laughed heartily at the distressing picture, and the plaintive tone of his voice pierced her armour. “What's the matter with you?” she asked.

“I don't know--I suppose it's my eyes. I'm horribly restless and discontented, and it isn't my way.”

Then Ruth remembered her own restless weeks, which seemed so long ago, and her heart stirred with womanly sympathy. “I know,” she said, in a different tone, “I've felt the same way myself, almost ever since I've been here, until this very afternoon. You're tired and nervous, and you haven't anything to do, but you'll get over it.”

“I hope you're right. I've been getting Joe to read the papers to me, at a quarter a sitting, but his pronunciation is so unfamiliar that it's hard to get the drift, and the whole thing exasperated me so that I had to give it up.”

“Let me read the papers to you,” she said, impulsively, “I haven't seen one for a month.”

There was a long silence. “I don't want to impose upon you,” he answered--“no, you mustn't do it.”

Ruth saw a stubborn pride that shrank from the slightest dependence, a self-reliance that would not falter, but would steadfastly hold aloof, and she knew that in one thing, at least, they were kindred.

“Let me,” she cried, eagerly; “I'll give you my eyes for a little while!”

Winfield caught her hand and held it for a moment, fully understanding. Ruth's eyes looked up into his--deep, dark, dangerously appealing, and alight with generous desire.

His fingers unclasped slowly. “Yes, I will,” he said, strangely moved. “It's a beautiful gift--in more ways than one. You are very kind--thank you--good night!”

VII. The Man Who Hesitates

“Isn't fair',” said Winfield to himself, miserably, “no sir, 't isn't fair!”

He sat on the narrow piazza which belonged to Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, and took stern account of his inner self. The morning paper lay beside him, unopened, though his fingers itched to tear the wrapper, and his hat was pulled far down over his eyes, to shade them from the sun.

“If I go up there I'm going to fall in love with her, and I know it!”

That moment of revelation the night before, when soul stood face to face with soul, had troubled him strangely. He knew himself for a sentimentalist where women were concerned, but until they stood at the gate together, he had thought himself safe. Like many another man, on the sunny side of thirty, he had his ideal woman safely enshrined in his inner consciousness.

She was a pretty little thing, this dream maiden--a blonde, with deep blue eyes, a rosy complexion, and a mouth like Cupid's bow. Mentally, she was of the clinging sort, for Winfield did not know that in this he was out of fashion. She had a dainty, bird-like air about her and a high, sweet voice--a most adorable little woman, truly, for a man to dream of when business was not too pressing.

In almost every possible way, Miss Thorne was different. She was dark, and nearly as tall as he was; dignified, self-possessed, and calm, except for flashes of temper and that one impulsive moment. He had liked her, found her interesting in a tantalising sort of way, and looked upon her as an oasis in a social desert, but that was all.

Of course, he might leave the village, but he made a wry face upon discovering, through laboured analysis, that he didn't want to go away. It was really a charming spot--hunting and fishing to be had for the asking, fine accommodations at Mrs. Pendleton's, beautiful scenery, bracing air--in every way it was just what he needed. Should he let himself be frightened out of it by a newspaper woman who lived at the top of the hill? Hardly!

None the less, he realised that a man might firmly believe in Affinity, and, through a chain of unfortunate circumstances, become the victim of Propinquity. He had known of such instances and was now face to face with the dilemma.

Then his face flooded with dull colour. “Darn it,” he said to himself, savagely, “what an unmitigated cad I am! All this is on the assumption that she's likely to fall on my neck at any minute! Lord!”

Yet there was a certain comfort in the knowledge that he was safe, even if he should fall in love with Miss Thorne. That disdainful young woman would save him from himself, undoubtedly, when he reached the danger point, if not before.

“I wonder how a fellow would go about it anyway,” he thought. “He couldn't make any sentimental remarks, without being instantly frozen. She's like the Boston girls we read about in the funny papers. He couldn't give her things, either, except flowers or books, or sweets, or music. She has more books than she wants, because she reviews'em for the paper, and I don't think she's musical. She doesn't look like the candy fiends, and I imagine she'd pitch a box of chocolates into the sad sea, or give it to Hepsey. There's nothing left but flowers--and I suppose she wouldn't notice'em.

“A man would have to teach her to like him, and, on my soul, I don't know how he'd do that. Constant devotion wouldn't have any effect--I doubt if she'd permit it; and a fellow might stay away from her for six months, without a sign from her. I guess she's cold--no, she isn't, either--eyes and temper like hers don't go with the icebergs.

“I--that is, he couldn't take her out, because there's no place to go. It's different in the city, of course, but if he happened to meet her in the country, as I've done--

“Might ask her to drive, possibly, if I could rent Alfred and Mamie for a few hours--no, we'd have to have the day, for anything over two miles, and that wouldn't be good form, without a chaperone. Not that she needs one--she's equal to any emergency, I fancy. Besides, she wouldn't go. If I could get those two plugs up the hill, without pushing 'em, gravity would take'em back, but I couldn't ask her to walk up the hill after the pleasure excursion was over. I don't believe a drive would entertain her.

“Perhaps she'd like to fish--no, she wouldn't, for she said she didn't like worms. Might sail on the briny deep, except that there's no harbour within ten miles, and she wouldn't trust her fair young life to me. She'd be afraid I'd drown her.

“I suppose the main idea is to cultivate a clinging dependence, but I'd like to see the man who could woo any dependence from Miss Thorne. She holds her head like a thoroughbred touched with the lash. She said she was afraid of Carlton, but I guess she was just trying to be pleasant. I'll tell him about it--no, I won't, for I said I wouldn't.

“I wish there was some other girl here for me to talk to, but I'll be lucky if I can get along peaceably with the one already here. I'll have to discover all her pet prejudices and be careful not to walk on any of 'em. There's that crazy woman, for instance--I mustn't allude to her, even respectfully, if I'm to have any softening feminine influence about me before I go back to town. She didn't seem to believe I had any letter from Carlton--that's what comes of being careless.

“I shouldn't have told her that people said she had large feet and wore men's shoes. She's got a pretty foot; I noticed it particularly before I spoke--I suppose she didn't like that--most girls wouldn't, I guess, but she took it as a hunter takes a fence. Even after that, she said she'd help me be patient, and last night, when she said she'd read the papers to me--she was awfully sweet to me then.

“Perhaps she likes me a little bit--I hope so. She'd never care very much for anybody, though--she's too independent. She wouldn't even let me help her up the hill; I don't know whether it was independence, or whether she didn't want me to touch her. If we ever come to a place where she has to be helped, I suppose I'll have to put gloves on, or let her hold one end of a stick while I hang on to the other.

“Still she didn't take her hand away last night, when I grabbed it. Probably she was thinking about something else, and didn't notice. It's a particularly nice hand to hold, but I'll never have another chance, I guess.

“Carlton said she'd take the conceit out of me, if I had any. I'm glad he didn't put that in the letter, still it doesn't matter, since I've lost it. I wish I hadn't, for what he said about me was really very nice. Carlton is a good fellow.

“How she lit on me when I thought the crazy person might make a good special! Jerusalem! I felt like the dust under her feet. I'd be glad to have anybody stand up for me, like that, but nobody ever will. She's mighty pretty when she's angry, but I'd rather she wouldn't get huffy at me. She's a tremendously nice girl--there's no doubt of that.”

At this juncture, Joe came out on the porch, hat in hand. “Mornin', Mr. Winfield.”

“Good morning, Joe; how are your troubles this morning?”

“They're ill right, I guess,” he replied, pleased with the air of comradeship. “Want me to read the paper to yer?”

“No, thank you, Joe, not this morning.”

The tone was a dismissal, but Joe lingered, shifting from one foot to the other. “Ain't I done it to suit yer?”

“Quite so,” returned Winfield, serenely.

“I don't mind doin' it,” Joe continued, after a long silence. “I won't charge yer nothin'.”

“You're very kind, Joe, but I don't care about it to-day.” Winfield rose and walked to the other end of the porch. The apple trees were in bloom, and every wandering wind was laden with sweetness. Even the gnarled old tree in Miss Hathaway's yard, that had been out of bearing for many a year, had put forth a bough of fragrant blossoms. He saw it from where he stood; a mass of pink and white against the turquoise sky, and thought that Miss Thorne would make a charming picture if she stood beneath the tree with the blown petals drifting around her.

He lingered upon the vision till Joe spoke again. “Be you goin' up to Miss Hathaway's this mornin'?”

“Why, I don't know,” Winfield answered somewhat resentfully, “why?”

“'Cause I wouldn't go--not if I was in your place.”

“Why?” he demanded, facing him.

“Miss Hathaway's niece, she's sick.”

“Sick!” repeated Winfield, in sudden fear, “what's the matter!”

“Oh, 't ain't nothin' serious, I reckon, cause she's up and around. I've just come from there, and Hepsey said that all night Miss Thorne was a-cryin', and that this mornin' she wouldn't eat no breakfast. She don't never eat much, but this mornin' she wouldn't eat nothin', and she wouldn't say what was wrong with her.”

Winfield's face plainly showed his concern.

“She wouldn't eat nothin' last night, neither,” Joe went on. “Hepsey told me this mornin' that she thought p'raps you and her had fit. She's your girl, ain't she?”

“No,” replied Winfield, “she isn't my girl, and we haven't 'fit.' I'm sorry she isn't well.”

He paced back and forth moodily, while Joe watched him in silence. “Well,” he said, at length, “I reckon I'll be movin' along. I just thought I'd tell yer.”

There was no answer, and Joe slammed the gate in disgust. “I wonder what's the matter,” thought Winfield. “'T isn't a letter, for to-day's mail hasn't come and she was all right last night. Perhaps she isn't ill--she said she cried when she was angry. Great Heavens! I hope she isn't angry at me!

“She was awfully sweet to me just before I left her,” he continued, mentally, “so I'm not to blame. I wonder if she's angry at herself because she offered to read the papers to me?”

All unknowingly he had arrived at the cause of Miss Thorne's unhappiness. During a wakeful, miserable night, she had wished a thousand times that she might take back those few impulsive words.

“That must be it,” he thought, and then his face grew tender. “Bless her sweet heart,” he muttered, apropos of nothing, “I'm not going to make her unhappy. It's only her generous impulse, and I won't let her think it's any more.”

The little maiden of his dreams was but a faint image just then, as he sat down to plan a course of action which would assuage Miss Thorne's tears. A grey squirrel appeared on the gate post, and sat there, calmly, cracking a nut.

He watched the little creature, absently, and then strolled toward the gate. The squirrel seemed tame and did not move until he was almost near enough to touch it, and then it scampered only a little way.

“I'll catch it,” Winfield said to himself, “and take it up to Miss Thorne. Perhaps she'll be pleased.”

It was simple enough, apparently, for the desired gift was always close at hand. He followed it across the hill, and bent a score of times to pick it up, but it was a guileful squirrel and escaped with great regularity.

Suddenly, with a flaunt of its bushy tail and a daring, backward glance, it scampered under the gate into Miss Ainslie's garden and Winfield laughed aloud. He had not known he was so near the other house and was about to retreat when something stopped him.

Miss Ainslie stood in the path just behind the gate, with her face ghastly white and her eyes wide with terror, trembling like a leaf. There was a troubled silence, then she said, thickly, “Go!”

“I beg your pardon,” he answered, hurriedly, “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“Go!” she said again, her lips scarcely moving, “Go!”

“Now what in the mischief have I done;” he thought, as he crept away, feeling like a thief. “I understood that this was a quiet place and yet the strenuous life seems to have struck the village in good earnest.

“What am I, that I should scare the aged and make the young weep? I've always been considered harmless, till now. That must be Miss Thorne's friend, whom I met so unfortunately just now. She's crazy, surely, or she wouldn't have been afraid of me. Poor thing, perhaps I startled her.”

He remembered that she had carried a basket and worn a pair of gardening gloves. Even though her face was so changed, for an instant he had seen its beauty--the deep violet eyes, fair skin, and regular features, surmounted by that wonderful crown of silvered hair.

Conflicting emotions swayed him as he wended his way to the top of the hill, with the morning paper in his pocket as an excuse, if he should need one. When he approached the gate, he was seized by a swift and unexplainable fear, and would have turned back, but Miss Hathaway's door was opened.

Then the little maiden of his dreams vanished, waving her hand in token of eternal farewell, for as Ruth came down the path between the white and purple plumes of lilac, with a smile of welcome upon her lips, he knew that, in all the world, there was nothing half so fair.

VIII. Summer Days

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.”