The next morning, and without any previous warning, Ruby appeared in her
cloth dress and jacket and announced her intention of taking the stage
back to Plymouth, adding that as Jim had not returned, Marvin must drive
her over to the cross-roads. I offered my services, but she declined
them graciously but firmly, bidding me good-by and saying with one of
her earnest looks, as she held my hand in hers, that she should never
forget my kindness to Jim, and that she would always remember me for
what I had done for him, and then she added with peculiar tenderness:
"And dear Uncle Jim won't forget you, either."
And so she had gone, and with her had faded all the light and joyousness
of the place.
When Jim returned the next day I was at work in the pasture painting a
group of white birches. I hallooed to him as he shambled along within a
hundred yards of me, swinging his arms, but he did not answer except to
turn his head.
That night at table he replied to my questions in monosyllables,
explaining his not stopping when I had called in the morning by saying
that he didn't want to "'sturb me," and when I laughed and told
him--using his own words--that Ruby "wouldn't pass a fellow and give him
the dead, cold shake," he pushed back his chair with a sudden impatient
gesture, said he had forgotten something, and left the table without a
word or look in reply.
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