Part 54 (1/2)

”Well, don't talk about it,” said Dr. Howe, walking restlessly back and forth.

Mrs. Dale took off her gla.s.ses, and rubbed them on the corner of her black silk ap.r.o.n. ”It would never have happened,” she said positively, ”if they had had children. I declare, I”--and she stopped, as though about to suggest that Helen should adopt a child at once. Mrs. Dale usually blamed John and Helen with equal impartiality, but to-day the fault seemed to belong entirely to her niece. She was very much puzzled to know how she was to ”make excuses” without telling an untruth. ”I'll just speak to Giff about it,” she thought; ”it all depends on the way Deborah Woodhouse hears it, and Giff is really quite sensible, and can advise me what to tell her.”

She saw him that afternoon, but, as she said afterwards in reluctant confidence to her husband, ”Giff hasn't much sense, after all. He thought it was best to just tell the truth about it.”

”Yes?” responded Mr. Dale. ”Well, I have often noticed, I am only apt to admire the good sense of people who agree with me. Gifford doubtless has not the advantage of feeling sure that his wishes const.i.tute the standards of right and wrong.”

”Nonsense,” said Mrs. Dale; ”I am sure I don't know what you are talking about.”

”Well, what are you going to do?” asked her husband.

”Oh,” Mrs. Dale answered, ”Gifford will tell Deborah Woodhouse the truth (Helen wants him to), but he will do it as carefully and as mildly as possible. And he will make her promise to keep it to herself. But you know Deborah Woodhouse; she trickles--there is no other word for it--everything. She couldn't keep a secret to save her life. But Helen will have it so. Oh, dear, dear, dear! Heaven save us from willful women!”

Gifford broke the news to his aunts as wisely as he knew how, but he did not hide the truth. It was not until the day before he went back to Lockhaven that he told them; he had put it off as long as he could, hoping, as Dr. Howe had done, that John Ward would see how useless it was to carry out his plan. Gifford had found the sisters together. Miss Ruth was at work in her studio, while Miss Deborah sat in the doorway, in the shadow of the grape-vines, topping and tailing gooseberries into a big blue bowl. She had a handful of crushed thyme in her lap, and some pennyroyal.

”It isn't roses,” Miss Deborah remarked, ”but it is better than Ruth's turpentine. And so long as I have got to sit here (for I will sit here while she's copying the miniature; it is a sacred charge), the pennyroyal is stronger than the paint.”

Miss Ruth, her hands neatly gloved, was mixing her colors a little wearily; somehow, on her canvas, the face of the little sister lost what beauty it had ever known.

”I can't get the eyes,” Miss Ruth sighed. ”I have a great mind to help you with your preserving, sister.”

”My dear Ruth,” said Miss Deborah, with much dignity, ”do I try to do your work?”

”But you know you couldn't paint, dear Deborah,” said the younger sister eagerly. The round china-blue eyes of the little sister stared at her maliciously.

”Well,” returned Miss Deborah, running her small hand through the gooseberries in the bowl, ”neither could you make gooseberry jelly, or even a tart.” Then seeing her nephew lounging down the flagged path to the door of the studio, his straw hat pushed back and his hands in his pockets, she was suddenly reminded of his packing. ”I hope, Giff, dear,”

she cried, ”you left plenty of room in your trunk? I have a number of articles I want you to take.”

”There's lots of room, aunt Deborah,” he answered. ”You know I had to put in a bag of straw to fill up, when I came on,--I couldn't have things rattle around.”

Miss Deborah laughed. ”You need your aunt to look after you, my dear.”

”Or a wife,” said Miss Ruth, looking up at him over her gleaming spectacles.

”Nonsense,” replied her sister vigorously; ”don't put such ideas into his head, if you please. I must say such jokes are not in good taste, dear Ruth.”

But Miss Ruth was more anxious about her light than Gifford's marriage.

”You are really so big, Giff,” she complained mildly, ”you darken the whole studio, standing there in the doorway. Do pray sit down.”

Gifford obediently took his seat upon the step, and this brought his face on a level with Miss Ruth's.

”Oh, that is nice,” the little lady said, with gentle enthusiasm. ”I shall have your eyes to look at. I have not been able to get the little sister's eyes just to suit me.”

It made no difference to Miss Ruth that Gifford's eyes were gray and full of trouble. ”Aunt Deborah,” he said abruptly, ”Helen Ward is not going back to Lockhaven for the present. Indeed, I do not know when she will go.”

Miss Deborah forgot her gooseberries, in her surprise. ”Not going back!”

she cried, while her sister said, ”Is Mr. Ward coming here?”

Then Gifford told them the story as briefly as he could, interrupted by small cries of amazement and dismay. ”Well,” exclaimed Miss Deborah, her delicate hands uplifted, ”well! I never heard of such a thing! How shocking, how ill-bred! And she is going to be at the rectory? Ruth, my dear, you must never go there without me, do you hear? It is not proper.

A wife separated from her husband! Dear me, dear me!”