Lavender and Old Lace Part 13

"Thank you again; that gives me courage to speak of something that has lain very near my heart for a long time."

"Yes?" said Ruth, conventionally. For the moment she was frightened.

"I've been thinking fondly of your chafing-dish, though I haven't been allowed to see it yet, and I suppose there's nothing in the settlement to cook in it, is there?"

"Nothing much, surely."

"We might have some stuff sent out from the city, don't you think so?"

"Canned things?"

"Yes--anything that would keep."

Aided and abetted by Winfield, she made out a list of articles which were unknown to the simple-minded inhabitants of the village.

"I'll attend to the financial part of it," he said, pocketing the list, "and then, my life will be in your hands."

After he went away, Ruth wished she knew more about the gentle art of cooking, which, after all, is closely allied to the other one--of making enemies. She decided to dispense with Hepsey's services, when Winfield came up to dinner, and to do everything herself.

She found an old cook book of Aunt Jane's and turned over its pages with new interest. It was in ma.n.u.script form, and seemed to represent the culinary knowledge of the entire neighbourhood. Each recipe was duly accredited to its original author, and there were many newspaper clippings, from the despised "Woman's Page" in various journals.

Ruth thought it would be an act of kindness to paste the loose clippings into Aunt Jane's book, and she could look them over as she fastened them in. The work progressed rapidly, until she found a clipping which was not a recipe. It was a perfunctory notice of the death of Charles Winfield, dated almost eighteen years ago.

She remembered the various emotions old newspapers had given her when she first came to Aunt Jane's. This was Abigail Weatherby's husband--he had survived her by a dozen years. "I'm glad it's Charles Winfield instead of Carl," thought Ruth, as she put it aside, and went on with her work.

"Pantry's come," announced Winfield, a few days later; "I didn't open it, but I think everything is there. Joe's going to bring it up."

"Then you can come to dinner Sunday," answered Ruth, smiling.

"I'll be here," returned Winfield promptly. "What time do we dine?"

"I don't know exactly. It's better to wait, I think, until Hepsey goes out. She always regards me with more or less suspicion, and it makes me uncomfortable."

Sunday afternoon, the faithful Joe drove up to the gate, and Hepsey emerged from her small back room, like a b.u.t.terfly from a chrysalis. She was radiant in a brilliant blue silk, which was festooned at irregular intervals with white silk lace. Her hat was bending beneath its burden of violets and red roses, starred here and there with some unhappy b.u.t.tercups which had survived the wreck of a previous millinery triumph.

Her hands were encased in white cotton gloves, which did not fit.

With Joe's a.s.sistance, she entered the vehicle and took her place proudly on the back seat, even while he pleaded for her to sit beside him.

"You know yourself that I can't drive nothin' from the back seat," he complained.

"n.o.body's askin' you to drive nothin' from nowhere," returned Hepsey, scornfully. "If you can't take me out like a lady, I ain't a-goin'."

Ruth was dazzled by the magnificence of the spectacle and was unable to take her eyes away from it, even after Joe had turned around and started down hill. She thought Winfield would see them pa.s.s his door and time his arrival accordingly, so she was startled when he came up behind her and said, cheerfully:

"They look like a policeman's, don't they?"

"What--who?"

"Hepsey's hands--did you think I meant yours?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Nearly thirty years."

"That wasn't what I meant," said Ruth, colouring. "How long have you been at Aunt Jane's?"

"Oh, that's different. When Joe went out to harness his fiery steeds to his imposing chariot, I went around through the woods, across the beach, climbed a vertical precipice, and came up this side of the hill. I had to wait some little time, but I had a front seat during the show."

He brought out her favourite chair, placing it under the maple tree, then sat down near her. "I should think you'd get some clothes like Hepsey's," he began. "I'll wager, now, that you haven't a gown like that in your entire wardrobe."

"You're right--I haven't. The nearest approach to it is a tailored gown, lined with silk, which Hepsey thinks I should wear wrong side out."

"How long will the coast be clear?"

"Until nine o'clock, I think. They go to church in the evening."

"It's half past three now," he observed, glancing at his watch. "I had fried salt pork, fried eggs, and fried potatoes for breakfast. I've renounced coffee, for I can't seem to get used to theirs. For dinner, we had round steak, fried, more fried potatoes, and boiled onions. Dried apple pie for dessert--I think I'd rather have had the mince I refused this morning."

"I'll feed you at five o'clock," she said, smiling.

"That seems like a long time," he complained.

"It won't, after you begin to entertain me."

It was after five before either realised it. "Come on," she said, "you can sit in the kitchen and watch me."

He professed great admiration while she put on one of Hepsey's white ap.r.o.ns, and when she appeared with the chafing-dish, his emotion was beyond speech. He was allowed to open the box and to cut up some b.u.t.ton mushrooms, while she shredded cold chicken. "I'm getting hungry every minute," he said, "and if there is undue postponement, I fear I shall a.s.similate all the raw material in sight--including the cook."

Ruth laughed happily. She was making a sauce with real cream, seasoned delicately with paprika and celery salt. "Now I'll put in the chicken and mushrooms," she said, "and you can stir it while I make toast."

They were seated at the table in the dining-room and the fun was at its height, when they became aware of a presence. Hepsey stood in the door, apparently transfixed with surprise, and with disapproval evident in every line of her face. Before either could speak, she was gone.

Though Ruth was very much annoyed, the incident seemingly served to accentuate Winfield's enjoyment. The sound of wheels on the gravel outside told them that she was continuing her excursion.

"I'm going to discharge her to-morrow," Ruth said.

"You can't--she is in Miss Hathaway's service, not yours. Besides, what has she done? She came back, probably, after something she had forgotten. You have no reasonable ground for discharging her, and I think you'd be more uncomfortable if she went than if she stayed."

"Perhaps you're right," she admitted.

"I know how you feel about it," he went on, "but I hope you won't let her distress you. It doesn't make a bit of difference to me; she's only amusing. Please don't bother about it."

"I won't," said Ruth, "that is, I'll try not to."

They piled the dishes in the sink, "as a pleasant surprise for Hepsey,"

he said, and the hours pa.s.sed as if on wings. It was almost ten o'clock before it occurred to Winfield that his permanent abode was not Miss Hathaway's parlour.

As they stood at the door, talking, the last train came in. "Do you know," said Winfield, "that every night, just as that train comes in, your friend down there puts a candle in her front window?"