Chapter IV: A Guest (3)

“You've had some.”

“I want another,” he answered, purposely misunderstanding her, “and besides, it's dark now.”

The sweet-scented twilight still lingered on the hillside, and a star or two gleamed through the open spaces above. A moment later, Ruth, in her turn, whispered to him. It was only a word or two, but the bright-eyed robins who were peeping at them from the maple branches must have observed that it was highly satisfactory.

XII. Bride and Groom

Though Winfield had sternly determined to go back to town the following day, he did not achieve departure until later. Ruth went to the station with him, and desolation came upon her when the train pulled out, in spite of the new happiness in her heart.

She had little time to miss him, however, for, at the end of the week, and in accordance with immemorial custom, the Unexpected happened.

She was sitting at her window one morning, trying to sew, when the village chariot stopped at the gate and a lady descended. Joe stirred lazily on the front seat, but she said, in a clear, high-pitched voice: “You needn't trouble yourself, Joe. He'll carry the things.”

She came toward the house, fanning herself with a certain stateliness, and carrying her handkerchief primly, by the exact centre of it. In her wake was a little old gentleman, with a huge bundle, surrounded by a shawl-strap, a large valise, much the worse for wear, a telescope basket which was expanded to its full height, and two small parcels. A cane was tucked under one arm and an umbrella under the other. He could scarcely be seen behind the mountain of baggage.

Hepsey was already at the door. “Why, Miss Hathaway!” she cried, in astonishment.

“'T ain't Miss Hathaway,” rejoined the visitor, with some asperity, “it's Mrs. Ball, and this is my husband. Niece Ruth, I presume,” she added, as Miss Thorne appeared. “Ruth, let me introduce you to your Uncle James.”

The bride was of medium height and rather angular. Her eyes were small, dark, and so piercingly brilliant that they suggested jet beads. Her skin was dark and her lips had been habitually compressed into a straight line. None the less, it was the face that Ruth had seen in the ambrotype at Miss Ainslie's, with the additional hardness that comes to those who grow old without love. Her bearing was that of a brisk, active woman, accustomed all her life to obedience and respect.

Mr. Ball was two or three inches shorter than his wife, and had a white beard, irregularly streaked with brown. He was baldheaded in front, had scant, reddish hair in the back, and his faded blue eyes were tearful. He had very small feet and the unmistakable gait of a sailor. Though there was no immediate resemblance, Ruth was sure that he was the man whose picture was in Aunt Jane's treasure chest in the attic. The daredevil look was gone, however, and he was merely a quiet, inoffensive old gentleman, for whom life had been none too easy.

“Welcome to your new home, James,” said his wife, in a crisp, businesslike tone, which but partially concealed a latent tenderness. He smiled, but made no reply.

Hepsey still stood in the parlour, in wide mouthed astonishment, and it was Ruth's good fortune to see the glance which Mrs. Ball cast upon her offending maid. There was no change of expression except in the eyes, but Hepsey instantly understood that she was out of her place, and retreated to the kitchen with a flush upon her cheeks, which was altogether foreign to Ruth's experience.

“You can set here, James,” resumed Mrs. Ball, “until I have taken off my things.”

The cherries on her black straw bonnet were shaking on their stems in a way which fascinated Ruth. “I'll take my things out of the south room, Aunty,” she hastened to say.

“You won't, neither,” was the unexpected answer; “that's the spare room, and, while you stay, you'll stay there.”

Ruth was wondering what to say to her new uncle and sat in awkward silence as Aunt Jane ascended the stairs. Her step sounded lightly overhead and Mr. Ball twirled his thumbs absently. “You--you've come a long way, haven't you?” she asked.

“Yes'm, a long way.” Then, seemingly for the first time, he looked at her, and a benevolent expression came upon his face. “You've got awful pretty hair, Niece Ruth,” he observed, admiringly; “now Mis' Ball, she wears a false front.”

The lady of the house returned at this juncture, with the false front a little askew. “I was just a-sayin',” Mr. Ball continued, “that our niece is a real pleasant lookin' woman.”

“She's your niece by marriage,” his wife replied, “but she ain't no real relative.”

“Niece by merriage is relative enough,” said Mr.Ball, “and I say she's a pleasant lookin' woman, ain't she, now?”

“She'll do, I reckon. She resembles her Ma.” Aunt Jane looked at Ruth, as if pitying the sister who had blindly followed the leadings of her heart and had died unforgiven.

“Why didn't you let me know you were coming, Aunt Jane?” asked Ruth. “I've been looking for a letter every day and I understood you weren't coming back until October.”

“I trust I am not unwelcome in my own house,” was the somewhat frigid response.

“No indeed, Aunty--I hope you've had a pleasant time.”

“We've had a beautiful time, ain't we, James? We've been on our honeymoon.”

“Yes'm, we hev been on our honeymoon, travellin' over strange lands an' furrin wastes of waters. Mis' Ball was terrible sea sick comin' here.”

“In a way,” said Aunt Jane, “we ain't completely married. We was married by a heathen priest in a heathen country and it ain't rightfully bindin', but we thought it would do until we could get back here and be married by a minister of the gospel, didn't we, James?”

“It has held,” he said, without emotion, “but I reckon we will hev to be merried proper.”

“Likewise I have my weddin' dress,” Aunt Jane went on, “what ain't never been worn. It's a beautiful dress--trimmed with pearl trimmin'”--here Ruth felt the pangs of a guilty conscience--“and I lay out to be married in it, quite private, with you and Hepsey for witnesses.”

“Why, it's quite a romance, isn't it, Aunty?”

“'T is in a way,” interjected Mr. Ball, “and in another way, 't ain't.”

“Yes, Ruth,” Aunt Jane continued, ignoring the interruption, “'t is a romance--a real romance,” she repeated, with all the hard lines in her face softened. “We was engaged over thirty-five year. James went to sea to make a fortin', so he could give me every luxury. It's all writ out in a letter I've got upstairs. They's beautiful letters, Ruth, and it's come to me, as I've been settin' here, that you might make a book out'n these letters of James's. You write, don't you?”

“Why, yes, Aunty, I write for the papers but I've never done a book.”

“Well, you'll never write a book no earlier, and here's all the material, as you say, jest a-waitin' for you to copy it. I guess there's over a hundred letters.”

“But, Aunty,” objected Ruth, struggling with inward emotion, “I couldn't sign my name to it, you know, unless I had written the letters.”

“Why not?”

“Because it wouldn't be honest,” she answered, clutching at the straw, “the person who wrote the letters would be entitled to the credit--and the money,” she added hopefully.

“Why, yes, that's right. Do you hear James? It'll have to be your book, 'The Love Letters of a Sailor,' by James, and dedicated in the front 'to my dearly beloved wife, Jane Ball, as was Jane Hathaway.' It'll be beautiful, won't it, James?”

“Yes'm, I hev no doubt but what it will.”

“Do you remember, James, how you borrered a chisel from the tombstone man over to the Ridge, and cut our names into endurin' granite?”

“I'd forgot that--how come you to remember it?”

“On account of your havin' lost the chisel and the tombstone man a-worryin' me about it to this day. I'll take you to the place. There's climbin' but it won't hurt us none, though we ain't as young as we might be. You says to me, you says: 'Jane, darlin', as long as them letters stays cut into the everlastin' rock, just so long I'll love you,' you says, and they's there still.”

“Well, I'm here, too, ain't I?” replied Mr. Ball, seeming to detect a covert reproach. “I was allers a great hand fer cuttin'.”

“There'll have to be a piece writ in the end, Ruth, explainin' the happy endin' of the romance. If you can't do it justice, James and me can help--James was allers a master hand at writin'. It'll have to tell how through the long years he has toiled, hopin' against hope, and for over thirty years not darin' to write a line to the object of his affections, not feelin' worthy, as you may say, and how after her waitin' faithfully at home and turnin' away dozens of lovers what pleaded violent-like, she finally went travellin' in furrin parts and come upon her old lover a-keepin' a store in a heathen land, a-strugglin' to retrieve disaster after disaster at sea, and constantly withstandin' the blandishments of heathen women as endeavoured to wean him from his faith, and how, though very humble and scarcely darin to speak, he learned that she was willin' and they come a sailin' home together and lived happily ever afterward. Ain't that as it was, James?”

“Yes'm, except that there wa'n't no particular disaster at sea and them heathen women didn't exert no blandishments. They was jest pleasant to an old feller, bless their little hearts.”

By some subtle mental process, Mr. Ball became aware that he had made a mistake. “You ain't changed nothin' here, Jane,” he continued, hurriedly, “there's the haircloth sofy that we used to set on Sunday evenins' after meetin', and the hair wreath with the red rose in it made out of my hair and the white rose made out of your grandmother's hair on your father's side, and the yeller lily made out of the hair of your Uncle Jed's youngest boy. I disremember the rest, but time was when I could say'm all. I never see your beat for makin' hair wreaths, Jane. There ain't nothin' gone but the melodeon that used to set by the mantel. What's come of the melodeon?”

“The melodeon is set away in the attic. The mice et out the inside.”

“Didn't you hev no cat?”

“There ain't no cat, James, that could get into a melodeon through a mouse hole, more especially the big maltese you gave me. I kept that cat, James, as you may say, all these weary years. When there was kittens, I kept the one that looked most like old Malty, but of late years, the cats has all been different, and the one I buried jest afore I sailed away was yeller and white with black and brown spots--a kinder tortoise shell--that didn't look nothin' like Malty. You'd never have knowed they belonged to the same family, but I was sorry when she died, on account of her bein' the last cat.”

Hepsey, half frightened, put her head into the room. “Dinner's ready,” she shouted, hurriedly shutting the door.

“Give me your arm, James,” said Mrs. Ball, and Ruth followed them into the dining-room.

The retired sailor ate heartily, casting occasional admiring glances at Ruth and Hepsey. It was the innocent approval which age bestows upon youth. “These be the finest biscuit,” he said, “that I've had for many a day. I reckon you made 'em, didn't you, young woman?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Hepsey, twisting her apron.

The bride was touched in a vulnerable spot.

“Hepsey,” she said, decisively, “when your week is up, you will no longer be in my service. I am a-goin'to make a change.”

Mr. Ball's knife dropped with a sharp clatter. “Why, Mis' Ball,” he said, reproachfully, “who air you goin' to hev to do your work?”

“Don't let that trouble you, James,” she answered, serenely, “the washin' can be put out to the Widder Pendleton, her as was Elmiry Peavey, and the rest ain't no particular trouble.”

“Aunty,” said Ruth, “now that you've come home and everything is going on nicely, I think I'd better go back to the city. You see, if I stay here, I'll be interrupting the honeymoon.”

“No, no, Niece Ruth!” exclaimed Mr. Ball, “you ain't interruptin' no honeymoon. It's a great pleasure to your aunt and me to hev you here--we likes pretty young things around us, and as long as we hev a home, you're welcome to stay in it; ain't she Jane?”

“She has sense enough to see, James, that she is interruptin' the honeymoon,” replied Aunt Jane, somewhat harshly. “On account of her mother havin' been a Hathaway before marriage, she knows things. Not but what you can come some other time, Ruth,” she added, with belated hospitality.

“Thank you, Aunty, I will. I'll stay just a day or two longer, if you don't mind--just until Mr. Winfield comes back. I don't know just where to write to him.”

“Mr.--who?” demanded Aunt Jane, looking at her narrowly.

“Mr. Carl Winfield,” said Ruth, crimsoning--“the man I am going to marry.” The piercing eyes were still fixed upon her.

“Now about the letters, Aunty,” she went on, in confusion, “you could help Uncle James with the book much better than I could. Of course it would have to be done under your supervision.”

Mrs. Ball scrutinized her niece long and carefully. “You appear to be tellin' the truth,” she said. “Who would best print it?”

“I think it would be better for you to handle it yourself, Aunty, and then you and Uncle James would have all the profits. If you let some one else publish it and sell it, you'd have only ten per cent, and even then, you might have to pay part of the expenses.”

“How much does it cost to print a book?”

“That depends on the book. Of course it costs more to print a large one than a small one.”

“That needn't make no difference,” said Aunt Jane, after long deliberation. “James has two hundred dollars sewed up on the inside of the belt he insists on wearin', instead of Christian suspenders, ain't you, James?”

“Yes'm, two hundred and four dollars in my belt and seventy-six cents in my pocket.”

“It's from his store,” Mrs. Ball explained. “He sold it to a relative of one of them heathen women.”

“It was worth more'n three hundred,” he said regretfully.

“Now, James, you know a small store like that ain't worth no three hundred dollars. I wouldn't have let you took three hundred, 'cause it wouldn't be honest.”

The arrival of a small and battered trunk created a welcome diversion. “Where's your trunk, Uncle James?” asked Ruth.

“I ain't a needin' of no trunk,” he answered, “what clothes I've got is on me, and that there valise has more of my things in it. When my clothes wears out, I put on new ones and leave the others for some pore creeter what may need 'em worse'n me.”

Aunt Jane followed Joe upstairs, issuing caution and direction at every step. “You can set outside now, Joe Pendleton,” she said, “and see that them hosses don't run away, and as soon as I get some of my things hung up so's they won't wrinkle no more, I'll come out and pay you.”

Joe obeyed, casting longing eyes at a bit of blue gingham that was fluttering among the currant bushes in the garden. Mr. Ball, longing for conversation with his kind, went out to the gate and stood looking up at him, blinking in the bright sunlight. “Young feller,” he said, “I reckon that starboard hoss is my old mare. Where'd you get it?”

“Over to the Ridge,” answered Joe, “of a feller named Johnson.”

“Jest so--I reckon 't was his father I give Nellie to when I went away. She was a frisky filly then--she don't look nothin' like that now.”

“Mamie” turned, as if her former master's voice had stirred some old memory. “She's got the evil eye,” Mr. Ball continued. “You wanter be keerful.”

“She's all right, I guess,” Joe replied.

“Young feller,” said Mr. Ball earnestly, “do you chew terbacker?”

“Yep, but I ain't got no more. I'm on the last hunk.”

Mr. Ball stroked his stained beard. “I useter,” he said, reminiscently, “afore I was merried.”

Joe whistled idly, still watching for Hepsey.

“Young feller,” said Mr. Ball, again, “there's a great deal of merryin' and givin' in merriage in this here settlement, ain't there?”

“Not so much as there might be.”

“Say, was your mother's name Elmiry Peavey?”

“Yes sir,” Joe answered, much surprised.

“Then you be keerful,” cautioned Mr. Ball. “Your hoss has got the evil eye and your father, as might hev been, allers had a weak eye fer women.” Joe's face was a picture of blank astonishment. “I was engaged to both of 'em,” Mr. Ball explained, “each one a-keepin' of it secret, and she--” here he pointed his thumb suggestively toward the house--“she's got me.”

“I'm going to be married myself,” volunteered Joe, proudly.

“Merriage is a fleetin' show--I wouldn't, if I was in your place. Merriage is a drag on a man's ambitions. I set out to own a schooner, but I can't never do it now, on account of bein' merried. I had a good start towards it--I had a little store all to myself, what was worth three or four hundred dollars, in a sunny country where the women folks had soft voices and pretty ankles and wasn't above passin' jokes with an old feller to cheer 'im on 'is lonely way.”

Mrs. Ball appeared at the upper window. “James,” she called, “you'd better come in and get your hat. Your bald spot will get all sunburned.”

“I guess I won't wait no longer, Miss Hathaway,” Joe shouted, and, suiting the action to the word, turned around and started down hill. Mr. Ball, half way up the gravelled walk, turned back to smile at Joe with feeble jocularity.

Hearing the familiar voice, Hepsey hastened to the front of the house, and was about to retreat, when Mr. Ball stopped her.

“Pore little darlin',” he said, kindly, noting her tear stained face. “Don't go--wait a minute.” He fumbled at his belt and at last extracted a crisp, new ten dollar bill. “Here, take that and buy you a ribbon or sunthin' to remember your lovin' Uncle James by.”

Hepsey's face brightened, and she hastily concealed the bill in her dress. “I ain't your niece,” she said, hesitatingly, “it's Miss Thorne.”

“That don't make no difference,” rejoined Mr. Ball, generously, “I'm willin' you should be my niece too. All pretty young things is my nieces and I loves 'em all. Won't you give your pore old uncle a kiss to remember you by?”

Ruth, who had heard the last words, came down to the gravelled walk. “Aunt Jane is coming,” she announced, and Hepsey fled.

When the lady of the house appeared, Uncle James was sitting at one end of the piazza and Ruth at the other, exchanging decorous commonplaces.

XIII. Plans

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.”

XIV. “For Remembrance”

The next day, while Ruth was busily gathering up her few belongings and packing her trunk, Winfield appeared with a suggestion regarding the advisability of outdoor exercise. Uncle James stood at the gate and watched them as they went down hill. He was a pathetic old figure, predestined to loneliness under all circumstances.

“That's the way I'll look when we've been married a few years,” said Carl.

“Worse than that,” returned Ruth, gravely. “I'm sorry for you, even now.”

“You needn't be proud and haughty just because you've had a wedding at your house--we're going to have one at ours.”

“At ours?”

“At the 'Widder's,' I mean, this very evening.”

“That's nice,” answered Ruth, refusing to ask the question.

“It's Joe and Hepsey,” he continued, “and I thought perhaps you might stoop low enough to assist me in selecting an appropriate wedding gift in yonder seething mart. I feel greatly indebted to them.”

“Why, of course I will; it's quite sudden, isn't it?” “Far be it from me to say so. However, it's the most reversed wedding I ever heard of. A marriage at the home of the groom, to say the least, is unusual. Moreover, the 'Widder' Pendleton is to take the bridal tour and leave the happy couple at home. She's going to visit a relative who is distant in both position and relationship--all unknown to the relative, I fancy. She starts immediately after the ceremony and it seems to me that it would be a pious notion to throw rice and old shoes after her.”

“Why, Carl! You don't want to maim her, do you?”

“I wouldn't mind. If it hadn't been for my ostrich-like digestion, I wouldn't have had anything to worry about by this time. However, if you insist, I will throw the rice and let you heave the shoes. If you have the precision of aim which distinguishes your sex, the 'Widder' will escape uninjured.”

“Am I to be invited?”

“Certainly--haven't I already invited you?”

“They may not like it.”

“That doesn't make any difference. Lots of people go to weddings who aren't wanted.”

“I'll go, then,” announced Ruth, “and once again, I give you my gracious permission to kiss the bride.”

“Thank you, dear, but I'm not going to kiss any brides except my own. I've signed the pledge and sworn off.”

They created a sensation in the village when they acquired the set of china which had been on exhibition over a year. During that time it had fallen at least a third in price, though its value was unchanged. Ruth bought a hideous red table-cloth, which she knew would please Hepsey, greatly to Winfield's disgust.

“Why do you do that?” he demanded. “Don't you know that, in all probability, I'll have to eat off of it? I much prefer the oilcloth, to which I am now accustomed.”

“You'll have to get used to table linen, dear,” she returned teasingly; “it's my ambition to have one just like this for state occasions.”

Joe appeared with the chariot just in time to receive and transport the gift. “Here's your wedding present, Joe!” called Winfield, and the innocent villagers formed a circle about them as the groom-elect endeavoured to express his appreciation. Winfield helped him pack the “101 pieces” on the back seat and under it, and when Ruth, feeling like a fairy godmother, presented the red table-cloth, his cup of joy was full.

He started off proudly, with a soup tureen and two platters on the seat beside him. The red table-cloth was slung over his arm, in toreador fashion, and the normal creak of the conveyance was accentuated by an ominous rattle of crockery. Then he circled back, motioning them to wait.

“Here's sunthin' I most forgot,” he said, giving Ruth a note. “I'd drive you back fer nothin', only I've got sech a load.”

The note was from Miss Ainslie, inviting Miss Thorne and her friend to come at five o'clock and stay to tea. No answer was expected unless she could not come.

The quaint, old-fashioned script was in some way familiar. A flash of memory took Ruth back to the note she had found in the dresser drawer, beginning: “I thank you from my heart for understanding me.” So it was Miss Ainslie who had sent the mysterious message to Aunt Jane.

“You're not paying any attention to me,” complained Winfield. “I suppose, when we're married, I'll have to write out what I want to say to you, and put it on file.”

“You're a goose,” laughed Ruth. “We're going to Miss Ainslie's to-night for tea. Aren't we getting gay?”

“Indeed we are! Weddings and teas follow one another like Regret on the heels of Pleasure.”

“Pretty simile,” commented Ruth. “If we go to the tea, we'll have to miss the wedding.”

“Well, we've been to a wedding quite recently, so I suppose it's better to go to the tea. Perhaps, by arranging it, we might be given nourishment at both places--not that I pine for the 'Widder's' cooking. Anyhow, we've sent our gift, and they'd rather have that than to have us, if they were permitted to choose.”

“Do you suppose they'll give us anything?”

“Let us hope not.”

“I don't believe we want any at all,” she said. “Most of them would be in bad taste, and you'd have to bury them at night, one at a time, while I held a lantern.”

“The policeman on the beat would come and ask us what we were doing,” he objected; “and when we told him we were only burying our wedding presents, he wouldn't believe us. We'd be dragged to the station and put into a noisome cell. Wouldn't it make a pretty story for the morning papers! The people who gave us the things would enjoy it over their coffee.”

“It would be pathetic, wouldn't it?”

“It would, Miss Thorne. I think we'd better not tell anybody until its all safely over, and then we can have a little card printed to go with the announcement, saying that if anybody is inclined to give us a present, we'd rather have the money.”

“You're a very practical person, Carl. One would think you had been married several times.”

“We'll be married as often as you like, dear. Judging by your respected aunt, one ceremony isn't 'rightfully bindin', and I want it done often enough to be sure that you can't get away from me.”

As they entered the gate, Uncle James approached stealthily by a roundabout way and beckoned to them. “Excuse me,” he began, as they came within speaking distance, “but has Mis' Ball give you furniture?”

“Yes,” replied Ruth, in astonishment, “why?”

“There's clouds to starboard and she's repentin'. She's been admirin' of it the hull mornin' in the attic. I was sot in the kitchen with pertaters,” he explained, “but the work is wearin' and a feller needs fresh air.”

“Thank you for the tip, Uncle,” said Winfield, heartily.

The old man glowed with gratification. “We men understand each other,” was plainly written on his expressive face, as he went noiselessly back to the kitchen.

“You'd better go home, dear,” suggested Ruth.

“Delicate hint,” replied Winfield. “It would take a social strategist to perceive your hidden meaning. Still, my finer sensibilities respond instantly to your touch, and I will go. I flatter myself that I've never had to be put out yet, when I've been calling on a girl. Some subtle suggestion like yours has always been sufficient.”

“Don't be cross, dear--let's see how soon you can get to the bottom of the hill. You can come back at four o'clock.”

He laughed and turned back to wave his hand at her. She wafted a kiss from the tips of her fingers, which seemed momentarily to impede his progress, but she motioned him away and ran into the house.

Aunt Jane was nowhere to be seen, so she went on into the kitchen to help Uncle James with the potatoes. He had peeled almost a peck and the thick parings lay in a heap on the floor. “My goodness'” she exclaimed. “You'd better throw those out, Uncle, and I'll put the potatoes on to boil.”

He hastened out, with his arms full of peelings. “You're a real kind woman, Niece Ruth,” he said gratefully, when he came in. “You don't favour your aunt none--I think you're more like me.”

Mrs. Ball entered the kitchen with a cloud upon her brow, and in one of those rare flashes of insight which are vouchsafed to plodding mortals, a plan of action presented itself to Ruth. “Aunty,” she said, before Mrs. Ball had time to speak, “you know I'm going back to the city to-morrow, and I'd like to send you and Uncle James a wedding present--you've been so good to me. What shall it be?”

“Well, now, I don't know,” she answered, visibly softening, “but I'll think it over, and let you know.”

“What would you like, Uncle James?”

“You needn't trouble him about it,” explained his wife. “He'll like whatever I do, won't you, James?”

“Yes'm, just as you say.”

After dinner, when Ruth broached the subject of furniture, she was gratified to find that Aunt Jane had no serious objections. “I kinder hate to part with it, Ruth,” she said, “but in a way, as you may say, it's yours.”

“'Tisn't like giving it away, Aunty--it's all in the family, and, as you say, you're not using it.”

“That's so, and then James and me are likely to come and make you a long visit, so I'll get the good of it, too.”

Ruth was momentarily stunned, but rallied enough to express great pleasure at the prospect. As Aunt Jane began to clear up the dishes, Mr. Ball looked at his niece, with a certain quiet joy, and then, unmistakably, winked.

“When you decide about the wedding present, Aunty, let me know, won't you?” she asked, as Mrs. Ball came in after the rest of the dishes. “Mr. Winfield would like to send you a remembrance also.” Then Ruth added, to her conscience, “I know he would.”

“He seems like a pleasant-spoken feller,” remarked Aunt Jane. “You can ask him to supper to-night, if you like.”

“Thank you, Aunty, but we're going to Miss Ainslie's.”

“Huh!” snorted Mrs. Ball. “Mary Ainslie ain't got no sperrit!” With this enigmatical statement, she sailed majestically out of the room.