Also,if you are really her niece,where is the family resemblance?Why has she never spoken of you?Why have you never been here before?Why are her letters to you sealed with red wax,bought especially for the purpose?Why does she go away before you come?Lady Gwendolen Hetherington,"he demanded,with melodramatic fervour,"answer me these things if you can!""I'm tired,"she complained.
"Delicate compliment,"observed Winfield,apparently to himself.
"Here's a 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 chirp came from another tree,and the clear notes of a thrush,with a mottled breast,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 a monologue ever since we left the house,and I listened,as becomes inferior and subordinate woman.I have never seen my venerated kinswoman,and I don't see how she happened to think of me.Nevertheless,when she wrote,asking me to take charge of her house while she went to Europe,I gladly consented,sight unseen.
When I came,she was gone.I do not deny the short skirt and heavy shoes,the criticism of boiled coffee,nor the disdain of breakfast pie.As far is I know,Aunt Jane is my only living relative.""That's good,"he said,cheerfully;"I'm shy even of an aunt.Why shouldn'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,"he continued,seriously,"you have no idea how much I appreciate your being here.When I first realised what it meant to be deprived of books and papers 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 given a choice.I don't want to bore you,but if you will let me come occasionally,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 hard it 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 eyes filled with the mist of weakness before he put them on again."So you've never 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,and in 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.Your relation does queer things in the attic,and every Spring,she has an annual weep.I suppose it's the house cleaning,for the rest of the year she'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 who sobs behind the footlights is well paid for it,but all the same,it gives me the creeps.""It's nothing serious--really it isn't,"she explained."It's merely a safety 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 I got angrier because I'm crying and cry harder.""That opens up a fearful possibility.What would happen if you kept getting angrier because you were crying and crying harder because you got angrier?""I have no idea,"she answered,with her dark eyes fixed upon him,"but it'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 bare earth with a twig."Tell me about the lady who is considered crazy,"he suggested.
Ruth briefly described Miss Ainslie,dwelling lovingly upon her beauty and charm.He listened indifferently at first,but when she told him of the rugs,the real lace which edged the curtains,and the Cloisonne vase,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 am forbidden to read or write.""For six months only,"answered Ruth,sternly,"and there's always a place for a good Sunday special."He changed the subject,but there were frequent awkward pauses and the spontaniety was gone.She rose,adjusting her belt in the back,and announced that it was time for her to go home.
On their way up the hill,she tried to be gracious enough to atone for her rudeness,but,though he was politeness itself,there was a difference,and she felt as if she had lost something.Distance lay between them--a cold,immeasurable distance,yet she knew that she had done right.
He opened the gate for her,then turned to go."Won't you come in?"she asked,conventionally.
"No,thank you--some other time,if I may.I've had a charming afternoon."He smiled pleasantly,and was off down the hill.
When she remembered that it was a Winfield who had married Abigail Weatherby,she dismissed the matter as mere coincidence,and determined,at all costs,to shield Miss Ainslie.The vision of that gracious lady came to her,bringing with it a certain uplift of soul.Instantly,she was placed far above the petty concerns of earth,like one who walks upon the heights,untroubled,while restless surges thunder at his feet.
