Ruth easily became accustomed to the quiet life at Miss Ainslie's,and gradually lost all desire to go back to the city.
"You're spoiling me,"she said,one day."I don't want to go back to town,I don't want to work,I don't want to do anything but sit still and look at you.I didn't know I was so lazy.""You're not lazy,dear,"answered Miss Ainslie,"you were tired,and you didn't know how tired you were."Winfield practically lived there.In the morning,he sat in the garden,reading the paper,while Ruth helped about the house.She insisted upon learning to cook,and he ate many an unfamiliar dish,heroically proclaiming that it was good."You must never doubt his love,"Miss Ainslie said,"for those biscuits--well,dear,you know they were--were not just right."The amateur cook laughed outright at the gentle criticism."They were awful,"she admitted,"but I'm going to keep at it until Ilearn how."
The upper part of the house was divided into four rooms,with windows on all sides.One of the front rooms,with north and east windows,was Miss Ainslie's,while the one just back of it,with south and east windows,was a sitting-room.
"I keep my prettiest things up here,dear,"she explained to Ruth,"for I don't want people to think I'm crazy."Ruth caught her breath as she entered the room,for rare tapestries hung on the walls and priceless rugs lay on the floor.The furniture,like that downstairs,was colonial mahogany,highly polished,with here and there a chair or table of foreign workmanship.
There was a cabinet,filled with rare china,a marquetry table,and a chair of teakwood,inlaid with mother of pearl.In one corner of the room was a large chest of sandal wood,inlaid with pearl and partly covered by a wonderful antique rug.
The world had seemingly given up its beauty to adorn Miss Ainslie's room.She had pottery from Mexico,China and Japan;strange things from Egypt and the Nile,and all the Oriental splendour of India and Persia.Ruth wisely asked no questions,but once,as before,she said hesitating;"they were given to me by a--a friend."After much pleading on Ruth's part,Winfield was allowed to come to the sitting room."He'll think I'm silly,dear,"she said,flushing;but,on the contrary,he shared Ruth's delight,and won Miss Ainslie's gratitude by his appreciation of her treasures.
Day by day,the singular attraction grew between them.She loved Ruth,but she took him unreservedly into her heart.Ruth observed,idly,that she never called him "Mr.Winfield."At first she spoke of him as "your friend"and afterward,when he had asked her to,she yielded,with an adorable shyness,and called him Carl.
He,too,had eaten of the lotus and lost the desire to go back to town.From the hilltop they could see the yellow fields and hear the soft melody of reaping from the valley around them.He and Ruth often walked together,but Miss Ainslie never would go with them.She stayed quietly at home,as she had done for many years.
Every night,when the last train came from the city,she put a lighted candle in her front window,using always the candlestick of solid silver,covered with fretwork in intricate design.If Winfield was there,she managed to have him and Ruth in another room.At half-past ten,she took it away,sighing softly as she put out the light.
Ruth wondered,but said nothing,even to Winfield.The grain in the valley was bound in sheaves,and the first colour came on the maples--sometimes in a delicate flush,or a flash of gold,and sometimes like a blood-red wound.
One morning,when Miss Ainslie came downstairs,Ruth was startled at the change in her.The quick,light step was slow and heavy,the broad,straight shoulders drooped a little,and her face,while still dimpled and fair,was subtly different.Behind her deep,violet eyes lay an unspeakable sadness and the rosy tints were gone.Her face was as pure and cold as marble,with the peace of the dead laid upon it.She seemed to have grown old in a single night.
All day she said little or nothing and would not eat.She simply sat still,looking out of the east window."No,"she said,gently,to Ruth,"nothing is the matter,deary,I'm just tired."When Winfield came,she kept him away from Miss Ainslie without seeming to do so."Let's go for a walk,"she said.She tried to speak lightly,but there was a lump in her throat and a tightening at her heart.
They climbed the hill and took the side path which led to the woods,following it down and through the aisles of trees,to the log across the path.Ruth was troubled and sat there some little time without speaking,then suddenly,she knew that something was wrong with Carl.
Her heart was filled with strange foreboding and she vainly tried to swallow the persistent lump in her throat.She spoke to him,gently,once or twice and he did not seem to hear."Carl!"she cried in agony,"Carl!What is it?"He tried to shake off the spell which lay upon him."Nothing,darling,"he said unsteadily,with something of the old tenderness."I'm weak--and foolish--that's all.""Carl!Dearest!"she cried,and then broke down,sobbing bitterly.
Her tears aroused him and he tried to soothe her."Ruth,my darling girl,don't cry.We have each other,sweetheart,and it doesn't matter--nothing matters in the whole,wide world."After a little,she regained her self-control.
"Come out into the sun,"he said,"it's ghostly here.You don't seem real to me,Ruth."The mist filled her eyes again."Don't,darling,"he pleaded,"I'll try to tell you."They sat down on the hillside,where the sun shone brightly,and where they could see Miss Ainslie's house plainly.She waited,frightened and suffering,for what seemed an eternity,before he spoke.
