As lightly as a rose petal upon the shimmering surface of a stream,Summer was drifting away,but whither,no one seemed to care.The odour of printer's ink upon the morning paper no longer aroused vain longings in Winfield's breast,and Ruth had all but forgotten her former connection with the newspaper world.
By degrees,Winfield had arranged a routine which seemed admirable.Until luncheon time,he was with Ruth and,usually,out of doors,according to prescription.In the afternoon,he went up again,sometimes staying to dinner,and,always,he spent his evenings there.
"Why don't you ask me to have my trunk sent up here?"he asked Ruth,one day.
"I hadn't thought of it,"she laughed."I suppose it hasn't seemed necessary.""Miss Hathaway would be pleased,wouldn't she,if she knew she had two guests instead of one?""Undoubtedly;how could she help it?"
"When do you expect her to return?"
"I don't know--I haven't heard a word from her.Sometimes I feel a little anxious about her."Ruth would have been much concerned for her relative's safety,had she known that the eccentric lady had severed herself from the excursion and gone boldly into Italy,unattended,and with no knowledge of the language.
Hepsey inquired daily for news of Miss Hathaway,but no tidings were forthcoming.She amused herself in her leisure moments by picturing all sorts of disasters in which her mistress was doubtless engulfed,and in speculating upon the tie between Miss Thorne and Mr.Winfield.
More often than not,it fell to Hepsey to light the lamp in the attic window,though she did it at Miss Thorne's direction."If Iforget it,Hepsey,"she had said,calmly,"you'll see to it,won't you?"Trunks,cedar chests,old newspapers,and long hidden letters were out of Ruth's province now.Once in two or three weeks,she went to see Miss Ainslie,but never stayed long,though almost every day she reproached herself for neglect.
Winfield's days were filled with peace,since he had learned how to get on with Miss Thorne.When she showed herself stubborn and unyielding,he retreated gracefully,and with a suggestion of amusement,as a courtier may step aside gallantly for an angry lady to pass.Ruth felt his mental attitude and,even though she resented it,she was ashamed.
Having found that she could have her own way,she became less anxious for it,and several times made small concessions,which were apparently unconscious,but amusing,nevertheless.She had none of the wiles of the coquette;she was transparent,and her friendliness was disarming.If she wanted Winfield to stay at home any particular morning or afternoon,she told him so.At first he was offended,but afterward learned to like it,for she could easily have instructed Hepsey to say that she was out.
The pitiless,unsympathetic calendar recorded the fact that July was near its end,and Ruth sighed--then hated herself for it.
She had grown accustomed to idleness,and,under the circumstances,liked it far too well.
One morning,when she went down to breakfast,Hepsey was evidently perplexed about something,but Ruth took no outward note of it,knowing that it would be revealed ere long.
"Miss Thorne,"she said,tentatively,as Ruth rose from the table.
"Yes?"
"Of course,Miss Thorne,I reckon likely't ain't none of my business,but is Mr.Winfield another detective,and have you found anything out yet?"Ruth,inwardly raging,forced herself to let the speech pass unnoticed,and sailed majestically out of the room.She was surprised to discover that she could be made so furiously angry by so small a thing.
Winfield was coming up the hill with the mail,and she tried to cool her hot cheeks with her hands."Let's go down on the side of the hill,"she said,as he gave her some letters and the paper;"it's very warm in the sun,and I'd like the sea breeze."They found a comparatively level place,with two trees to lean against,and,though they were not far from the house,they were effectually screened by the rising ground.Ruth felt that she could not bear the sight of Hepsey just then.
After glancing at her letters she began to read aloud,with a troubled haste which did not escape him."Here's a man who had a little piece of bone taken out of the inside of his skull,"she said."Shall I read about that?He seems,literally,to have had something on his mind.""You're brilliant this morning,"answered Winfield,gravely,and she laughed hysterically.
"What's the matter with you?"he asked."You don't seem like yourself.""It isn't nice of you to say that,"she retorted,"considering your previous remark."There was a rumble and a snort on the road and,welcoming the diversion,he went up to reconnoitre."Joe's coming;is there anything you want in the village?""No,"she answered,wearily,"there's nothing I want--anywhere.""You're an exceptional woman,"returned Winfield,promptly,"and I'd advise you to sit for your photograph.The papers would like it--'Picture of the Only Woman Who Doesn't Want Anything'--why,that would work off an extra in about ten minutes!"Ruth looked at him for a moment,then turned her eyes away.He felt vaguely uncomfortable,and was about to offer atonement when Joe's deep bass voice called out:
"Hello!"
"Hello yourself!"came in Hepsey's highest tones,from the garden.
"Want anything to-day?"
"Nope!"
There was a brief pause,and then Joe shouted again:"Hepsey!""Well?"
"I should think they'd break their vocal cords,"said Winfield.
"I wish they would,"rejoined Ruth,quickly.
"Come here!"yelled Joe."I want to talk to yer.""Talk from there,"screamed Hepsey.
"Where's yer folks?"
"D'know."
"Say,be they courtin'?"
