Lavender and Old Lace Read online

  V. The Rumours of the Valley

  "Miss Thorne," said Hepsey, from the doorway of Ruth's room, "thatfeller's here again." There was an unconscious emphasis on the lastword, and Ruth herself was somewhat surprised, for she had not expectedanother call so soon.

  "He's a-settin' 'n in the parlour," continued Hepsey, "when he ain'ta-walkin' around it and wearin' out the carpet. I didn't come up whenhe first come, on account of my pie crust bein' all ready to put in theoven."

  "How long has he been here?" asked Ruth, dabbing a bit of powder on hernose and selecting a fresh collar.

  "Oh, p'raps half an hour."

  "That isn't right, Hepsey; when anyone comes you must tell meimmediately. Never mind the pie crust next time." Ruth endeavoured tospeak kindly, but she was irritated at the necessity of making anotherapology.

  When she went down, Winfield dismissed her excuses with a comprehensivewave of the hand. "I always have to wait when I go to call on a girl,"he said; "it's one of the most charming vagaries of the ever-feminine. Iused to think that perhaps I wasn't popular, but every fellow I know hasthe same experience."

  "I'm an exception," explained Ruth; "I never keep any one waiting. Ofmy own volition, that is," she added, hastily, feeling his unspokencomment.

  "I came up this afternoon to ask a favour of you," he began. "Won't yougo for a walk with me? It's wrong to stay indoors on a day like this."

  "Wait till I get my hat," said Ruth, rising.

  "Fifteen minutes is the limit," he called to her, as she went upstairs.

  She was back again almost immediately, and Hepsey watched them inwide-mouthed astonishment as they went down hill together, for it wasnot in her code of manners that "walking out" should begin so soon. Whenthey approached Miss Ainslie's he pointed out the brown house acrossfrom it, on the other side of the hill.

  "Yonder palatial mansion is my present lodging," he volunteered, "and Iam a helpless fly in the web of the 'Widder' Pendleton."

  "Pendleton," repeated Ruth; "why, that's Joe's name."

  "It is," returned Winfield, concisely. "He sits opposite me at thetable, and wonders at my use of a fork. It is considered merely a spearfor bread and meat at the 'Widder's.' I am observed closely at alltimes, and in some respects Joe admires me enough to attempt imitation,which, as you know, is the highest form of flattery. For instance, thismorning he wore not only a collar and tie, but a scarf pin. It wasa string tie, and I've never before seen a pin worn in one, but it'sinteresting."

  "It must be."

  "He has a sweetheart," Winfield went on, "and I expect she'll bedazzled."

  "My Hepsey is his lady love," Ruth explained.

  "What? The haughty damsel who wouldn't let me in? Do tell!"

  "You're imitating now," laughed Ruth, "but I shouldn't call itflattery."

  For a moment, there was a chilly silence. Ruth did not look at him, butshe bit her lip and then laughed, unwillingly. "'It's all true," shesaid, "I plead guilty."

  "You see, I know all about you," he went on. "You knit your brows indeep thought, do not hear when you are spoken to, even in a loud voice,and your mail consists almost entirely of bulky envelopes, of a legalnature, such as came to the 'Widder' Pendleton from the insurancepeople."

  "Returned manuscripts," she interjected.

  "Possibly--far be it from me to say they're not. Why, I've had 'emmyself."

  "You don't mean it!" she exclaimed, ironically.

  "You seek out, as if by instinct, the only crazy person in the village,and come home greatly perturbed. You ask queer questions of your humbleserving-maid, assume a skirt which is shorter than the approved model,speaking from the village standpoint, and unhesitatingly appear onthe public streets. You go to the attic at night and search the inmostrecesses of many old trunks."

  "Yes," sighed Ruth, "I've done all that."

  "At breakfast you refuse pie, and complain because the coffee is boiled.Did anybody ever hear of coffee that wasn't boiled? Is it eaten rawin the city? You call supper 'dinner,' and have been known to seeknourishment at nine o'clock at night, when all respectable people aresound asleep. In your trunk, you have vainly attempted to conceal alarge metal object, the use of which is unknown."

  "Oh, my hapless chafing-dish!" groaned Ruth.

  "Chafing-dish?" repeated Winfield, brightening visibly. "And I eatingsole leather and fried potatoes? From this hour I am your slave--youcan't lose me now!

  "Go on," she commanded.

  "I can't--the flow of my eloquence is stopped by rapturous anticipation.Suffice it to say that the people of this enterprising city are well upin the ways of the wicked world, for the storekeeper takes The New YorkWeekly and the 'Widder' Pendleton subscribes for The Fireside Companion.The back numbers, which are not worn out, are the circulating library ofthe village. It's no use, Miss Thorne--you might stand on your hilltopand proclaim your innocence until you were hoarse, and it would beutterly without effect. Your status is definitely settled."

  "How about Aunt Jane?" she inquired. "Does my relationship count fornaught?"

  "Now you are rapidly approaching the centre of things," replied theyoung man. "Miss Hathaway is one woman in a thousand, though somewhateccentric. She is the venerated pillar of the community and a constantattendant it church, which it seems you are not. Also, if you are reallyher niece, where is the family resemblance? Why has she never spokenof you? Why have you never been here before? Why are her letters to yousealed with red wax, bought especially for the purpose? Why does she goaway before you come? Lady Gwendolen Hetherington," he demanded, withmelodramatic fervour, "answer me these things if you can!"

  "I'm tired," she complained.

  "Delicate compliment," observed Winfield, apparently to himself. "Here'sa log across our path, Miss Thorne; let's sit down."

  The budded maples arched over the narrow path, and a wild canary,singing in the sun, hopped from bough to bough. A robin's cheery chirpcame from another tree, and the clear notes of a thrush, with a mottledbreast, were answered by another in the gold-green aisles beyond.

  "Oh," he said, under his breath, "isn't this great!"

  The exquisite peace of the forest was like that of another sphere."Yes," she answered, softly, "it is beautiful."

  "You're evading the original subject," he suggested, a little later.

  "I haven't had a chance to talk," she explained. "You've done amonologue ever since we left the house, and I listened, as becomesinferior and subordinate woman. I have never seen my veneratedkinswoman, and I don't see how she happened to think of me.Nevertheless, when she wrote, asking me to take charge of her housewhile she went to Europe, I gladly consented, sight unseen. When Icame, she was gone. I do not deny the short skirt and heavy shoes, thecriticism of boiled coffee, nor the disdain of breakfast pie. As far isI know, Aunt Jane is my only living relative."

  "That's good," he said, cheerfully; "I'm shy even of an aunt. Whyshouldn't the orphans console one another?"

  "They should," admitted Ruth; "and you are doing your share nobly."

  "Permit me to return the compliment. Honestly, Miss Thorne," hecontinued, seriously, "you have no idea how much I appreciate your beinghere. When I first realised what it meant to be deprived of books andpapers for six months at a stretch, it seemed as if I should go mad.Still, I suppose six months isn't as bad as forever, and I was givena choice. I don't want to bore you, but if you will let me comeoccasionally, I shall be very glad. I'm going to try to be patient, too,if you'll help me--patience isn't my long suit."

  "Indeed I will help you," answered Ruth, impulsively; "I know how hardit must be."

  "I'm not begging for your sympathy, though I assure you it is welcome."He polished the tinted glasses with a bit of chamois.. and his eyesfilled with the mist of weakness before he put them on again. "So you'venever seen your aunt," he said.

  "No--that pleasure is still in store for me."

  "They say down at the 'Widder's' that she's a woman with a romance."

  "Tell me about it!" exclaimed Ruth, eagerly.

  "Little girls mustn't ask questions," he remarked, patronisingly, andin his most irritating manner. "Besides, I don't know. If the 'Widder'knows, she won't tell, so it's fair to suppose she doesn't. Yourrelation does queer things in the attic, and every Spring, she has anannual weep. I suppose it's the house cleaning, for the rest of the yearshe's dry-eyed and calm."

  "I weep very frequently," commented Ruth.

  "'Tears, idle tears--I wonder what they mean.'"

  "They don't mean much, in the case of a woman."

  "I've never seen many of'em," returned Winfield, "and I don't want to.Even stage tears go against the grain with me. I know that the lady whosobs behind the footlights is well paid for it, but all the same, itgives me the creeps."

  "It's nothing serious--really it isn't," she explained. "It's merely asafety valve. If women couldn't cry, they'd explode."

  "I always supposed tears were signs of sorrow," he said.

  "Far from it," laughed Ruth. "When I get very angry, I cry, and then Igot angrier because I'm crying and cry harder."

  "That opens up a fearful possibility. What would happen if you keptgetting angrier because you were crying and crying harder because yougot angrier?"

  "I have no idea," she answered, with her dark eyes fixed upon him, "butit's a promising field for investigation."'

  "I don't want to see the experiment."

  "Don't worry," said Ruth, laconically, "you won't."

  There was a long silence, and Winfield began to draw designs on the bareearth with a twig. "Tell me about the lady who is considered crazy," hesuggested.

  Ruth briefly described Miss Ainslie, dwelling lovingly upon her beautyand charm. He listened indifferently at first, but when she told himof the rugs, the real lace
which edged the curtains, and the Cloisonnevase, he became much interested.

  "Take me to see her some day, won't you," he asked, carelessly.

  Ruth's eyes met his squarely. "'T isn't a 'story,'" she said,resentfully, forgetting her own temptation.

  The dull colour flooded his face. "You forget, Miss Thorne, that I amforbidden to read or write."

  "For six months only," answered Ruth, sternly, "and there's always aplace for a good Sunday special."

  He changed the subject, but there were frequent awkward pauses and thespontaniety was gone. She rose, adjusting her belt in the back, andannounced that it was time for her to go home.

  On their way up the hill, she tried to be gracious enough to atonefor her rudeness, but, though he was politeness itself, there was adifference, and she felt as if she had lost something. Distance laybetween them--a cold, immeasurable distance, yet she knew that she haddone right.

  He opened the gate for her, then turned to go. "Won't you come in?" sheasked, conventionally.

  "No, thank you--some other time, if I may. I've had a charmingafternoon." He smiled pleasantly, and was off down the hill.

  When she remembered that it was a Winfield who had married AbigailWeatherby, she dismissed the matter as mere coincidence, and determined,at all costs, to shield Miss Ainslie. The vision of that gracious ladycame to her, bringing with it a certain uplift of soul. Instantly, shewas placed far above the petty concerns of earth, like one who walksupon the heights, untroubled, while restless surges thunder at his feet.