Lavender and Old Lace [22]
is," returned Ruth; "I don't go to see my enemies--do you?"
"I don't know whether I do or not," he said, looking at her significantly.
Her colour rose, but she replied, sharply: "For the sake of peace, let us assume that you do not."
"Miss Thorne," he began, as they climbed the hill, "I don't see why you don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to live with yourself all the time, you know, and, occasionally, it must be very difficult. A rag, now, wet in cold water, and tied around your neck--have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good."
"I have one on now," she answered, with apparent seriousness, "only you can't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry and I think I'd better hurry home to wet it again, don't you?"
Winfield laughed joyously. "You'll do," he said.
Before they were half up the hill, they were on good terms again. "I don't want to go home, do you?" he asked.
"Home? I have no home--I'm only a poor working girl."
"Oh, what would this be with music! I can see it now! Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission, I will endeavour to give you a little song of my own composition, entitled:'Why Has the Working Girl No Home!'"
"You haven't my permission, and you're a wretch."
"I am," he admitted, cheerfully, "moreover, I'm a worm in the dust."
"I don't like worms."
"Then you'll have to learn."
Ruth resented his calm assumption of mastery. "You're dreadfully young," she said; "do you think you'll ever grow up?"
"Huh!" returned Winfield, boyishly, "I'm most thirty."
"Really? I shouldn't have thought you were of age."
"Here's a side path, Miss Thorne," he said, abruptly, "that seems to go down into the woods. Shall we explore? It won't be dark for an hour yet."
They descended with some difficulty, since the way was not cleat, and came into the woods at a point not far from the log across the path. "We mustn't sit there any more," he observed, "or we'll fight. That's where we were the other day, when you attempted to assassinate me."
"I didn't!" exclaimed Ruth indignantly.
"That rag does seem to be pretty dry," he said, apparently to himself. "Perhaps, when we get to the sad sea, we can wet it, and so insure comparative calm."
She laughed, reluctantly. The path led around the hill and down from the highlands to a narrow ledge of beach that lay under the cliff. "Do you want to drown me?" she asked. "It looks very much as if you intended to, for this ledge is covered at high tide."
"You wrong me, Miss Thorne; I have never drowned anything."
His answer was lost upon her, for she stood on the beach, under the cliff, looking at the water. The shimmering turquoise blue was slowly changing to grey, and a single sea gull circled overhead.
He made two or three observations, to which Ruth paid no attention. "My Lady Disdain," he said, with assumed anxiety, "don't you think we'd better go on? I don't know what time the tide comes in, and I never could look your aunt in the face if I had drowned her only relative."
"Very well," she replied carelessly, "let's go around the other way."
They followed the beach until they came to the other side of the hill, but found no path leading back to civilisation, though the ascent could easily be made.
"People have been here before," he said; "here are some initials cut into this stone. What are they? I can't see."
Ruth stooped to look at the granite boulder he indicated. "J. H.," she answered, "and J. B."
"It's incomplete," he objected; "there should be a heart with an arrow run through it."
"You can fix it to suit yourself," Ruth returned, coolly, "I don't think anybody will mind." She did not hear his reply, for it suddenly dawned upon her that "J. H." meant Jane Hathaway.
They stood there in the twilight for some little time, watching the changing colours on the horizon and then there was a faint glow on the water from the cliff above. Ruth went out far enough to see that Hepsey had placed the lamp in the attic window.
"It's time to go," she said, "inasmuch as we have
"I don't know whether I do or not," he said, looking at her significantly.
Her colour rose, but she replied, sharply: "For the sake of peace, let us assume that you do not."
"Miss Thorne," he began, as they climbed the hill, "I don't see why you don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to live with yourself all the time, you know, and, occasionally, it must be very difficult. A rag, now, wet in cold water, and tied around your neck--have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good."
"I have one on now," she answered, with apparent seriousness, "only you can't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry and I think I'd better hurry home to wet it again, don't you?"
Winfield laughed joyously. "You'll do," he said.
Before they were half up the hill, they were on good terms again. "I don't want to go home, do you?" he asked.
"Home? I have no home--I'm only a poor working girl."
"Oh, what would this be with music! I can see it now! Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission, I will endeavour to give you a little song of my own composition, entitled:'Why Has the Working Girl No Home!'"
"You haven't my permission, and you're a wretch."
"I am," he admitted, cheerfully, "moreover, I'm a worm in the dust."
"I don't like worms."
"Then you'll have to learn."
Ruth resented his calm assumption of mastery. "You're dreadfully young," she said; "do you think you'll ever grow up?"
"Huh!" returned Winfield, boyishly, "I'm most thirty."
"Really? I shouldn't have thought you were of age."
"Here's a side path, Miss Thorne," he said, abruptly, "that seems to go down into the woods. Shall we explore? It won't be dark for an hour yet."
They descended with some difficulty, since the way was not cleat, and came into the woods at a point not far from the log across the path. "We mustn't sit there any more," he observed, "or we'll fight. That's where we were the other day, when you attempted to assassinate me."
"I didn't!" exclaimed Ruth indignantly.
"That rag does seem to be pretty dry," he said, apparently to himself. "Perhaps, when we get to the sad sea, we can wet it, and so insure comparative calm."
She laughed, reluctantly. The path led around the hill and down from the highlands to a narrow ledge of beach that lay under the cliff. "Do you want to drown me?" she asked. "It looks very much as if you intended to, for this ledge is covered at high tide."
"You wrong me, Miss Thorne; I have never drowned anything."
His answer was lost upon her, for she stood on the beach, under the cliff, looking at the water. The shimmering turquoise blue was slowly changing to grey, and a single sea gull circled overhead.
He made two or three observations, to which Ruth paid no attention. "My Lady Disdain," he said, with assumed anxiety, "don't you think we'd better go on? I don't know what time the tide comes in, and I never could look your aunt in the face if I had drowned her only relative."
"Very well," she replied carelessly, "let's go around the other way."
They followed the beach until they came to the other side of the hill, but found no path leading back to civilisation, though the ascent could easily be made.
"People have been here before," he said; "here are some initials cut into this stone. What are they? I can't see."
Ruth stooped to look at the granite boulder he indicated. "J. H.," she answered, "and J. B."
"It's incomplete," he objected; "there should be a heart with an arrow run through it."
"You can fix it to suit yourself," Ruth returned, coolly, "I don't think anybody will mind." She did not hear his reply, for it suddenly dawned upon her that "J. H." meant Jane Hathaway.
They stood there in the twilight for some little time, watching the changing colours on the horizon and then there was a faint glow on the water from the cliff above. Ruth went out far enough to see that Hepsey had placed the lamp in the attic window.
"It's time to go," she said, "inasmuch as we have