Holding these views, Miss Ruby felt it her duty to wing the joyful message with special shafts of cheer, and to prepare the way for the sorrowful one with remarks of a fortifying nature. She invariably began, "Good morning! (or afternoon, as the case might be). This is the Pan-American Telegraph Company." Then would follow, "Do not be alarmed! the news is of a cheering nature." And then the listener would learn that her Aunt Maria was coming that evening by the 8:3O train, or that John Henry had passed his college examinations. But were the message one of sorrowful import, Miss Ruby before delivering it would open the manuscript volume and select an appropriate sentence: then we might hear "Trouble is often benefit in disguise. Permit me to express my sympathy before delivering the following message. 'Your Aunt Maria passed away last night; a blessed release.'"
With these lofty views of her responsibilities, it need not be said that Miss Ruby was the soul of conscientiousness in regard to the winged words of which she was the transmitter. Not even to Miss Pearl, her twin sister and other self, would she breathe a whisper of what passed over the wires. Miss Pearl, equally conscientious, respected her sister's reserve. If questioned by some thoughtless neighbor, she would say, "My sister has her business, and I have mine. I should no more think of asking her about the messages she receives than she would ask me the amount of your bank deposit. We are in positions of Public Trust!"
Once only, in all the years of her service, was Miss Ruby tempted to break her rule of silence; that was on a certain June evening, not long after the events narrated in the last chapter. Miss Pearl had not visited the office that afternoon; it was "the birthday of Sister and Self," as she happily announced to all she met on her way home, and she must prepare for the Treat. The Treat consisted of creamcakes, bought at the bakery, as she hastened homeward; large pale yellow shells of brittle crust, irregularly paneled like alligator-skin, filled with a glutinous semi-liquid substance of irresistibly flowing nature. There were other delicacies of home manufacture; stuffed eggs, and what Miss Pearl called "lion's potatoes," with buttered toast and pickles; but the creamcakes were the real Treat, as they had been ever since the little Twins earned their first five cents apiece by picking berries for Madam Flynt. There were three creamcakes; two apiece would be too much; on the other hand, one was not quite enough; so the third was cut in two, with astonishing results in the way of swift pursuit and skillful capture (with spoons) of the glutinous substance before mentioned. The cakes were displayed upon a beautiful old platter of "flowed blue," the pride of the ladies' hearts. Have I said too much about the Treat? I always thought it so dear and funny! and I never can forget how I chanced in on an errand one Birthday evening, and found the Twins half way through their whole cakes. They held them in their hands, and darted from edge to edge as the custard threatened to overflow here or there. They offered me the third cake; dear little ladies!
On the evening in question, Miss Ruby was not in her usual spirits. She praised the "lovely supper," which Sister had prepared, and joined in the annual duet of admiration for and joy in the flowed blue platter, the pink lustre jug, and the sprigged tea-set. The sisters found it convenient, as I have said, to spend their winters at the Mallow House. It was economical, Mr. Mallow being more than liberal in his rates for "permanents"; it was also social, and saved much time in getting to and from their business, for their cottage was quite at the end of the village; but perhaps the happiest day of the year for the sisters was that on which they "got back to their dishes!"
"For there is nothing like your own!" said Miss Pearl, shaking her curls. "Not but what Mr. Mallow's pattern is handsome; it is, for them that likes a band. But when you have grown up with a sprig, nothing else is quite the same, seems as though."
Miss Ruby, as I say, joined in the duet, but not, her observant twin thought, with her customary heartiness. Neither did she show her usual keen enjoyment of the eggs (scrambled this time, with crisp curls of bacon surrounding them) and the lion's potatoes. She was absent-minded and took little notice even of the Sally Lunns. All this might have passed as the result of fatigue, or an exceptionally busy day; but when, on finishing her creamcake, Miss Ruby refused, positively refused, her half of the odd one, Miss Pearl spoke with conviction.
"Sister," she said, "you have something on your mind; do not deny it!"
"Sister," replied Miss Ruby, "I have. Do not press me! I cannot eat another morsel."
A troubled silence ensued. The table was cleared, the dishes washed and put away, but not to the customary accompaniment of cheerful babble. Miss Ruby sighed deeply over her "wiper," one of a set presented by Mr. Mallow as a birthday gift. Miss Pearl, the elder by half an hour in this world, and with all her maternal instinct centred in her sister, yearned to comfort her; but the bond of discretion and custom kept her silent. Anything that Sister felt at liberty to communicate, she would; far be it from Miss Pearl to intrude upon the sanctity of Office!
Miss Ruby was the first to break the silence.