She had heard nearly all of the conversation and could have told Miss Thorne a great deal about the young man.For instance,he had not said that he was boarding at Joe's,across the road from Miss Ainslie's,and that he intended to stay all Summer.She could have told her of an uncertain temper,peculiar tastes,and of a silver shaving-cup which Joe had promised her a glimpse of before the visitor went back to the city;but she decided to let Miss Thorne go on in her blind ignorance.
Ruth,meanwhile,was meditating,with an aggravated restlessness.
The momentary glimpse of the outer world had stung her into a sense of her isolation,which she realised even more keenly than before.It was because 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 in anything;but,with a woman's insight,influenced insensibly by Hepsey's comment,Ruth scented possibilities.
She wanted him to like her,to stay in that miserable village as long as she did,and keep her mind from stagnation--her thought went no further than that.In October,when they went back,she would thank Carlton,prettily,for sending her a friend--provided they did not quarrel.She could see long days of intimate companionship,of that exalted kind which is,possible only when man and woman meet on a high plane."We're both too old for nonsense,"she thought;and then a sudden fear struck her,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 I want to be amused."She went to her dresser,took out the large top drawer,and dumped its contents on the bed.It was a desperate measure,for Ruth hated to put things in order.The newspaper which had lain in the bottom of it had fallen out also,and she shook it so violently that she tore it.
Then ribbons,handkerchiefs,stocks,gloves,and collars were unceremoniously hustled back into the drawer,for Miss Thorne was at odds with herself and the world.She was angry with Hepsey,she hated Winfield,and despised herself.She picked up a scrap of paper which lay on a glove,and caught a glimpse of unfamiliar penmanship.
It was apparently the end of a letter,and the rest of it was gone."At Gibraltar for some time,"she read,"keeping a shop,but will probably be found now in some small town on the coast of Italy.Very truly yours."The signature had been torn off.
"Why,that isn't mine,"she thought."It must be something of Aunt Jane's."Another bit of paper lay near it,and,unthinkingly,she read a letter which was not meant for her.
"I thank you from my heart,"it began,"for understanding me.Icould not put it into words,but I believe you know.Perhaps you think it is useless--that it is too late;but if it was,I would know.You have been very kind,and I thank you."There was neither date,address,nor signature.The message stood alone,as absolutely as some far-off star whose light could not be seen from the earth.Some one understood it--two understood it--the writer 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,"that while I stay here I'll be mercifully preserved from finding things that are none of my business."Then,as in a lightning flash,for an instant she saw clearly.
Fate plays us many tricks and assumes strange forms,but Ruth knew that some day,on that New England hill,she would come face to face with a destiny that had been ordained from the beginning.
Something waited for her there--some great change.She trembled at the thought,but was not afraid.
