Lavender and Old Lace Read online

  IV. A Guest

  As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first thecountry brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously,but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's a fortnight before she bitterlyregretted the step she had taken.

  Still there was no going back, for she had given her word, and must staythere until October. The months before her stretched out into a drearywaste. She thought of Miss Ainslie gratefully, as a redeeming feature,but she knew that it was impossible to spend all of her time in thehouse--it the foot of the hill.

  Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet morethan once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock, before Hepsey wasstiring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walkthrough the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and eachday was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful,moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yetknowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there.

  She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepseystalked 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 theparlour, and say that Miss Thorne will be down in a few moments."

  "Yes'm."

  Hepsey shuffled downstairs with comfortable leisure, opened the doorwith aggravating slowness, then said, in a harsh tone that reached theupper rooms distinctly: "Miss Thorne, she says that you can come in andset in the parlour till she comes down."

  "Thank you," responded a masculine voice, in quiet amusement; "MissThorne is kind--and generous."

  Ruth's cheeks flushed hotly. "I don't know whether Miss Thorne will godown or not," she said to herself. "It's probably a book-agent."

  She rocked pensively for a minute or two, wondering what would happen ifshe did not go down. There was no sound from the parlour save a subduedclearing of the throat. "He's getting ready to speak his piece," shethought, "and he might as well do it now as to wait for me."

  Though she loathed Mr. Carl Winfield and his errand, whatever it mightprove to be, she stopped before her mirror long enough to give a pator two to her rebellious hair. On the way down she determined to bedignified, icy, and crushing.

  A tall young fellow with a pleasant face rose to greet her as sheentered the room. "Miss Thorne?" he inquired.

  "Yes--please sit down. I am very sorry that my maid should have been soinhospitable." It was not what she had meant to say.

  "Oh, that's all right," he replied, easily; "I quite enjoyed it. I mustask your pardon for coming to you in this abrupt way, but Carlton gaveme 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 gaveout, and then they didn't want me any more. Newspapers can't use anybodyout of repair," he added, grimly.

  "I know," Ruth answered, nodding.

  "Of course the office isn't a sanitarium, though they need that kindof an annex; nor yet a literary kindergarten, which I've known it to betaken for, but--well, I won't tell you my troubles. The oculist said Imust go to the country for six months, stay outdoors, and neither readnor write. I went to see Carlton, and he promised me a berth in theFall--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 youwere here, and that you were going back in the Fall. I'm sorry I've losthis 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 aprescription, but, as nearly as I could make it out, it was principallya description of the desolation in the office since you left it. At theend there was a line or two commending me to your tender mercies, andhere I am."

  "Commending yourself."

  "Now what in the dickens have I done?" thought Winfield. "That's itexactly, Miss Thorne. I've lost my reference, and I'm doing my best tocreate a good impression without it. I thought that as long as we weregoing to be on the same paper, and were both exiles--"

  He paused, and she finished the sentence for him: "that you'd come tosee me. How long have you been in town?"

  "'In town' is good," he said. "I arrived in this desolate, God-forsakenspot 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--Icouldn't speak above a whisper for three days."

  She had already recognised him as the young man she saw standing in theroad the day she went to Miss Ainslie's, and mentally asked hispardon for thinking he was a book-agent. He might become a pleasantacquaintance, for he was tall, clean shaven, and well built. His handswere white and shapely and he was well groomed, though not in the leastfoppish. The troublesome eyes were dark brown, sheltered by a pair oftinted glasses. His face was very expressive, responding readily toevery change of mood.

  They talked "shop" for a time, discovering many mutual friends, andRuth liked him. He spoke easily, though hurriedly, and appeared to besomewhat cynical, but she rightly attributed it to restlessness like herown.

  "What are you going to do on The Tribune?" she asked.

  "Anything," he answered, with an indefinable shrug. "'Theirs not toreason why, theirs but to do and die.' What are you going to do?"

  "The same," replied Ruth. "'Society,''Mother's Corner,''Under theEvening 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 naturallyabrupt, that's all; and I'll venture he doesn't suspect that he has anyinfluence over you. I'd never fancy that you were afraid of anybody oranything on earth."

  "I'm not afraid of anything else," she answered, "except burglars andgreen worms."

  "Carlton would enjoy the classification--really, Miss Thorne, somebodyshould tell him, don't you think? So much innocent pleasure doesn'toften come into the day of a busy man."

  For a moment Ruth was angry, and then, all at once, she knew Winfield asif he had always been her friend. Conventionality, years, and the veneerof society were lightly laid upon one who would always be a boy. Somemen 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 sopleased 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. Richeslead to temptation, and if I'm going to be on The Tribune I'd hate tohave 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 leisurelymovements. 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 downthe hill with a long, free stride. She liked the strength in his broadshoulders, his well modulated voice, and his clear, honest eyes; butafter all he was nothing but a boy.

  "Miss Thorne," said Hepsey, at her elbow, "is that your beau?" Itwas not impertinence, but sheer friendly interest which could not bemistaken for anything else.

  "No," she answered; "of cour
se 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 shestood 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 thekitchen 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 offendedMiss Thorne, and racked her brain vainly. She had said nothing thatshe would not have said to Miss Hathaway, and had intended nothing butfriendliness. As for her being in the dining-room--why, very often, whenMiss Hathaway had company, she was called in to give her version ofsome bit of village gossip. Miss Hathaway scolded her when she wasdispleased, 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 hereyes, for she was sensitive, after all.

  A step sounded overhead, and Hepsey regained her self-possession. Shehad heard nearly all of the conversation and could have told Miss Thornea great deal about the young man. For instance, he had not said that hewas boarding at Joe's, across the road from Miss Ainslie's, and thathe intended to stay all Summer. She could have told her of an uncertaintemper, peculiar tastes, and of a silver shaving-cup which Joe hadpromised her a glimpse of before the visitor went back to the city; butshe decided to let Miss Thorne go on in her blind ignorance.

  Ruth, meanwhile, was meditating, with an aggravated restlessness. Themomentary glimpse of the outer world had stung her into a sense ofher isolation, which she realised even more keenly than before. It wasbecause 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 inanything; but, with a woman's insight, influenced insensibly by Hepsey'scomment, Ruth scented possibilities.

  She wanted him to like her, to stay in that miserable village as long asshe did, and keep her mind from stagnation--her thought went no furtherthan that. In October, when they went back, she would thank Carlton,prettily, for sending her a friend--provided they did not quarrel. Shecould see long days of intimate companionship, of that exalted kindwhich is, possible only when man and woman meet on a high plane. "We'reboth too old for nonsense," she thought; and then a sudden fear struckher, 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 Iwant to be amused."

  She went to her dresser, took out the large top drawer, and dumped itscontents on the bed. It was a desperate measure, for Ruth hated to putthings in order. The newspaper which had lain in the bottom of it hadfallen out also, and she shook it so violently that she tore it.

  Then ribbons, handkerchiefs, stocks, gloves, and collars wereunceremoniously hustled back into the drawer, for Miss Thorne was atodds with herself and the world. She was angry with Hepsey, she hatedWinfield, and despised herself. She picked up a scrap of paper which layon a glove, and caught a glimpse of unfamiliar penmanship.

  It was apparently the end of a letter, and the rest of it was gone. "AtGibraltar for some time," she read, "keeping a shop, but will probablybe found now in some small town on the coast of Italy. Very trulyyours." The signature had been torn off.

  "Why, that isn't mine," she thought. "It must be something of AuntJane's." Another bit of paper lay near it, and, unthinkingly, she read aletter which was not meant for her.

  "I thank you from my heart," it began, "for understanding me. I couldnot put it into words, but I believe you know. Perhaps you think it isuseless--that it is too late; but if it was, I would know. You have beenvery kind, and I thank you."

  There was neither date, address, nor signature. The messagestood alone, as absolutely as some far-off star whose light could notbe seen from the earth. Some one understood it--two understood it--thewriter 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, "thatwhile I stay here I'll be mercifully preserved from finding things thatare none of my business." Then, as in a lightning flash, for an instantshe saw clearly.

  Fate plays us many tricks and assumes strange forms, but Ruth knew thatsome day, on that New England hill, she would come face to face with adestiny that had been ordained from the beginning. Something waited forher there--some great change. She trembled at the thought, but was notafraid.