The rumble of voices which came from the kitchen was not disturbing,but when the rural lovers began to sit on the piazza,directly under Ruth's window,she felt called upon to remonstrate.
"Hepsey,"she asked,one morning,"why don't you and Joe sit under the trees at the side of the house?You can take your chairs out there.""Miss Hathaway allerss let us set on the piazzer,"returned Hepsey,unmoved.
"Miss Hathaway probably sleeps more soundly than I do.You don't want me to hear everything you say,do you?"Hepsey shrugged her buxom shoulders."You can if you like,mum.""But I don't like,"snapped Ruth."It annoys me."There was an interval of silence,then Hepsey spoke again,of her own accord."If Joe and me was to set anywheres but in front,he might see the light.""Well,what of it?"
"Miss Hathaway,she don't want it talked of,and men folks never can keep secrets,"Hepsey suggested.
"You wouldn't have to tell him,would you?"
"Yes'm.Men folks has got terrible curious minds.They're all right if they don't know there's nothin',but if they does,why they's keen.""Perhaps you're right,Hepsey,"she replied,biting her lips.
"Sit anywhere you please."
There were times when Ruth was compelled to admit that Hepsey's mental gifts were fully equal to her own.It was unreasonable to suppose,even for an instant,that Joe and Hepsey had not pondered long and earnestly upon the subject of the light in the attic window,yet the argument was unanswerable.The matter had long since lost its interest for Ruth--perhaps because she was too happy to care.
Winfield had easily acquired the habit of bringing her his morning papers,and,after the first embarrassment,Ruth settled down to it in a businesslike way.Usually,she sat in Miss Hathaway's sewing chair,under a tree a little way from the house,that she might at the same time have a general supervision of her domain,while Winfield stretched himself upon the grass at her feet.When the sun was bright,he wore his dark glasses,thereby gaining an unfair advantage.
After breakfast,which was a movable feast at the "Widder's,"he went after his mail and brought hers also.When he reached the top of the hill,she was always waiting for him.
"This devotion is very pleasing,"he remarked,one morning.
"Some people are easily pleased,"she retorted."I dislike to spoil your pleasure,but my stern regard for facts compels me to say that it is not Mr.Winfield I wait for,but the postman.""Then I'll always be your postman,for I 'do admire'to be waited for,as they have it at the 'Widder's.'Of course,it's more or less of an expense--this morning,for instance,I had to dig up two cents to get one of your valuable manuscripts out of the clutches of an interested government.""That's nothing,"she assured him,"for I save you a quarter every day,by taking Joe's place as reader to Your Highness,not to mention the high tariff on the Sunday papers.Besides,the manuscripts are all in now.""I'm glad to hear that,"he replied,sitting down on the piazza.
"Do you know,Miss Thorne,I think there's a great deal of joyous excitement attached to the pursuit of literature.You send out a story,fondly believing that it is destined to make you famous.
Time goes on,and you hear nothing from it.You can see your name 'featured'on the advertisements of the magazine,and hear the heavy tread of the fevered mob,on the way to buy up the edition.
In the roseate glow of your fancy,you can see not only your cheque,but the things you're going to buy with it.Perhaps you tell your friends,cautiously,that you're writing for such and such a magazine.Before your joy evaporates,the thing comes back from the Dead Letter Office,because you hadn't put on enough postage,and they wouldn't take it in.Or,perhaps they've written 'Return'on the front page in blue pencil,and all over it are little,dark,four-fingered prints,where the office pup has walked on it.""You seem to be speaking from experience."
"You have guessed it,fair lady,with your usual wonderful insight.Now let's read the paper--do you know,you read much better than Joe does?""Really?"Ruth was inclined to be sarcastic,but there was a delicate colour in her cheeks,which pleased his aesthetic sense.
At first,he had had an insatiable thirst for everything in the paper,except the advertisements.The market reports were sacrificed inside of a week,and the obituary notices,weather indications,and foreign despatches soon followed.Later,the literary features were eliminated,but the financial and local news died hard.By the end of June,however,he was satisfied with the headlines.
"No,thank you,I don't want to hear about the murder,"he said,in answer to Ruth's ironical question,"nor yet the Summer styles in sleeves.All that slop on the Woman's Page,about ****** home happy,is not suited to such as I,and I'll pass.""There's a great deal here that's very interesting,"returned Ruth,"and I doubt if I myself could have crammed more solid knowledge into one Woman's Page.Here's a full account of a wealthy lady's Summer home,and a description of a poor woman's garden,and eight recipes,and half a column on how to keep a husband at home nights,and plans for ****** a china closet out of an old bookcase.""If there's anything that makes me dead tired,"remarked Winfield,"it's that homemade furniture business.""For once,we agree,"answered Ruth."I've read about it till I'm completely out of patience.Shirtwaist boxes from soap boxes,dressing tables from packing boxes,couches from cots,hall lamps from old arc light globes,and clothes hampers from barrels--all these I endured,but the last straw was a 'transformed kitchen.'""Tell me about it,"begged Winfield,who was enjoying himself hugely.
