Part 12

She stood at the window, unconsciously watching him as he went down the hill with a long, free stride. She liked the strength in his broad shoulders, his well modulated voice, and his clear, honest eyes; but after all he was nothing but a boy.

“Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, at her elbow, “is that your beau?” It was not impertinence, but sheer friendly interest which could not be mistaken for anything else.

“No,” she answered; “of course not.”

“He's real nice-lookin', ain't he?

“Yes.”

“Have you got your eye on anybody else?”

“No.”

“Then, Miss Thorne, I don't know's you could do better.”

“Perhaps not.” She was thinking, and spoke mechanically. From where she stood she could still see him walking rapidly down the hill.

“Ain't you never seen him before?”

Miss Thorne turned. “Hepsey,” she said, coldly, “please go into the kitchen and attend to your work. And the next time I have company, please stay in the kitchen--not in the dining-room.”

“Yes'm,” replied Hepsey, meekly, hastening to obey.

She was not subtle, but she understood that in some way she had offended Miss Thorne, and racked her brain vainly. She had said nothing that she would not have said to Miss Hathaway, and had intended nothing but friendliness. As for her being in the dining-room--why, very often, when Miss Hathaway had company, she was called in to give her version of some bit of village gossip. Miss Hathaway scolded her when she was displeased, but never before had any one spoken to Hepsey in a measured, icy tone that was at once lady-like and commanding. Tears came into her eyes, for she was sensitive, after all.

A step sounded overhead, and Hepsey regained her self-possession. 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. I could 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.

V. The Rumours of the Valley

“Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, from the doorway of Ruth's room, “that feller's here again.” There was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and Ruth herself was somewhat surprised, for she had not expected another call so soon.

“He's a-settin' 'n in the parlour,” continued Hepsey, “when he ain't a-walkin' around it and wearin' out the carpet. I didn't come up when he first come, on account of my pie crust bein' all ready to put in the oven.”