Part 15

“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.

VI. The Garden

Miss Thorne wrote an apology to Winfield, and then tore it up, thereby gaining comparative peace of mind, for, with some natures, expression is the main thing, and direction is but secondary. She was not surprised because he did not come; on the contrary, she had rather expected to be left to her own devices for a time, but one afternoon she dressed with unusual care and sat in state in the parlour, vaguely expectant. If he intended to be friendly, it was certainly time for him to come again.

Hepsey, passing through the hall, noted the crisp white ribbon at her throat and the bow in her hair. “Are you expectin' company, Miss Thorne?” she asked, innocently.

“I am expecting no one,” answered Ruth, frigidly, “I am going out.”

Feeling obliged to make her word good, she took the path which led to Miss Ainslie's. As she entered the gate, she had a glimpse of Winfield, sitting by the front window of Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, in such a dejected attitude that she pitied him. She considered the virtuous emotion very praiseworthy, even though it was not deep enough for her to bestow a cheery nod upon the gloomy person across the way.

Miss Ainslie was unaffectedly glad to see her, and Ruth sank into an easy chair with something like content. The atmosphere of the place was insensibly soothing and she instantly felt a subtle change. Miss Ainslie, as always, wore a lavender gown, with real lace at the throat and wrists. Her white hair was waved softly and on the third finger of her left hand was a ring of Roman gold, set with an amethyst and two large pearls.

There was a beautiful serenity about her, evident in every line of her face and figure. Time had dealt gently with her, and except on her queenly head had left no trace of his passing. The delicate scent of the lavender floated from her gown and her laces, almost as if it were a part of her, and brought visions of an old-time garden, whose gentle mistress was ever tranquil and content. As she sat there, smiling, she might have been Peace grown old.

“Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, suddenly, “have you ever had any trouble?”

A shadow crossed her face, and then she answered, patiently, “Why, yes--I've had my share.”

“I don't mean to be personal,” Ruth explained, “I was just thinking.”

“I understand,” said the other, gently. Then, after a little, she spoke again:

“We all have trouble, deary--it's part of life; but I believe that we all share equally in the joy of the world. Allowing for temperament, I mean. Sorrows that would crush some are lightly borne by others, and some have the gift of finding great happiness in little things.

“Then, too, we never have any more than we can bear--nothing that has not been borne before, and bravely at that. There isn't a new sorrow in the world--they're all old ones--but we can all find new happiness if we look in the right way.”

The voice had a full music, instinct with tenderness, and gradually Ruth's troubled spirit was eased. “I don't know what's the matter with me,” she said, meditatively, “for I'm not morbid, and I don't have the blues very often, but almost ever since I've been at Aunt Jane's, I've been restless and disturbed. I know there's no reason for it, but I can't help it.”

“Don't you think that it's because you have nothing to do? You've always been so busy, and you aren't used to idleness.”