Ruth easily became accustomed to the quiet life at Miss Ainslie's, and gradually lost all desire to go back to the city. “You're spoiling me,” she said, one day. “I don't want to go back to town, I don't want to work, I don't want to do anything but sit still and look at you. I didn't know I was so lazy.”
“You're not lazy, dear,” answered Miss Ainslie, “you were tired, and you didn't know how tired you were.”
Winfield practically lived there. In the morning, he sat in the garden, reading the paper, while Ruth helped about the house. She insisted upon learning to cook, and he ate many an unfamiliar dish, heroically proclaiming that it was good. “You must never doubt his love,” Miss Ainslie said, “for those biscuits—well, dear, you know they were—were not just right.”
The amateur cook laughed outright at the gentle criticism. “They were awful,” she admitted, “but I'm going to keep at it until I learn how.”
The upper part of the house was divided into four rooms, with windows on all sides. One of the front rooms, with north and east windows, was Miss Ainslie's, while the one just back of it, with south and east windows, was a sitting-room.
“I keep my prettiest things up here, dear,” she explained to Ruth, “for I don't want people to think I'm crazy.” Ruth caught her breath as she entered the room, for rare tapestries hung on the walls and priceless rugs lay on the floor. The furniture, like that downstairs, was colonial mahogany, highly polished, with here and there a chair or table of foreign workmanship. There was a cabinet, filled with rare china, a marquetry table, and a chair of teakwood, inlaid with mother of pearl. In one corner of the room was a large chest of sandal wood, inlaid with pearl and partly covered by a wonderful antique rug.
The world had seemingly given up its beauty to adorn Miss Ainslie's room. She had pottery from Mexico, China and Japan; strange things from Egypt and the Nile, and all the Oriental splendour of India and Persia. Ruth wisely asked no questions, but once, as before, she said hesitating; “they were given to me by a—a friend.”
After much pleading on Ruth's part, Winfield was allowed to come to the sitting room. “He'll think I'm silly, dear,” she said, flushing; but, on the contrary, he shared Ruth's delight, and won Miss Ainslie's gratitude by his appreciation of her treasures.
Day by day, the singular attraction grew between them. She loved Ruth, but she took him unreservedly into her heart. Ruth observed, idly, that she never called him “Mr. Winfield.” At first she spoke of him as “your friend” and afterward, when he had asked her to, she yielded, with an adorable shyness, and called him Carl.
He, too, had eaten of the lotus and lost the desire to go back to town. From the hilltop they could see the yellow fields and hear the soft melody of reaping from the valley around them. He and Ruth often walked together, but Miss Ainslie never would go with them. She stayed quietly at home, as she had done for many years.
Every night, when the last train came from the city, she put a lighted candle in her front window, using always the candlestick of solid silver, covered with fretwork in intricate design. If Winfield was there, she managed to have him and Ruth in another room. At half-past ten, she took it away, sighing softly as she put out the light.
Ruth wondered, but said nothing, even to Winfield. The grain in the valley was bound in sheaves, and the first colour came on the maples—sometimes in a delicate flush, or a flash of gold, and sometimes like a blood-red wound.
One morning, when Miss Ainslie came downstairs, Ruth was startled at the change in her. The quick, light step was slow and heavy, the broad, straight shoulders drooped a little, and her face, while still dimpled and fair, was subtly different. Behind her deep, violet eyes lay an unspeakable sadness and the rosy tints were gone. Her face was as pure and cold as marble, with the peace of the dead laid upon it. She seemed to have grown old in a single night.
All day she said little or nothing and would not eat. She simply sat still, looking out of the east window. “No,” she said, gently, to Ruth, “nothing is the matter, deary, I'm just tired.”
When Winfield came, she kept him away from Miss Ainslie without seeming to do so. “Let's go for a walk,” she said. She tried to speak lightly, but there was a lump in her throat and a tightening at her heart.
They climbed the hill and took the side path which led to the woods, following it down and through the aisles of trees, to the log across the path. Ruth was troubled and sat there some little time without speaking, then suddenly, she knew that something was wrong with Carl.
Her heart was filled with strange foreboding and she vainly tried to swallow the persistent lump in her throat. She spoke to him, gently, once or twice and he did not seem to hear. “Carl!” she cried in agony, “Carl! What is it?”
He tried to shake off the spell which lay upon him. “Nothing, darling,” he said unsteadily, with something of the old tenderness. “I'm weak—and foolish—that's all.”
“Carl! Dearest!” she cried, and then broke down, sobbing bitterly.
Her tears aroused him and he tried to soothe her. “Ruth, my darling girl, don't cry. We have each other, sweetheart, and it doesn't matter—nothing matters in the whole, wide world.”
After a little, she regained her self-control.
“Come out into the sun,” he said, “it's ghostly here. You don't seem real to me, Ruth.”
The mist filled her eyes again. “Don't, darling,” he pleaded, “I'll try to tell you.”
They sat down on the hillside, where the sun shone brightly, and where they could see Miss Ainslie's house plainly. She waited, frightened and suffering, for what seemed an eternity, before he spoke.
“Last night, Ruth,” he began, “my father came to me in a dream. You know he died when I was about twelve years old, and last night I saw him as he would have been if he had lived until now—something over sixty. His hair and beard were matted and there was the most awful expression in his eyes—it makes me shudder yet. He was in his grave clothes, dead and yet not dead. He was suffering—there was something he was trying to say to me; something he wanted to explain. We were out here on the hill in the moonlight and I could see Miss Ainslie's house and hear the surf behind the cliff. All he could say to me was: 'Abby—Mary—Mary—Abby—she—Mary,' over and over again. Once he said 'mother.' Abby was my mother's name.
“It is terrible,” he went on. “I can't understand it. There is something I must do, and I don't know what it is. A command is laid on me by the dead—there is some wrong for which I must atone. When I first awoke, I thought it was a dream, but it isn't, it's real. It seems as though that was the real world, and this—all our love and happiness, and you, were just dreams. I can't bear it, Ruth!”
He shuddered, and she tried to comfort him, though she was cold as a marble statue and her lips moved with difficulty. “Don't, dear,” she said, “It was only a dream. I've had them sometimes, so vividly that they haunted me for days and, as you say, it seemed as if that was the real world and this the dream. I know how you feel—those things aren't pleasant, but there's nothing we can do. It makes one feel so helpless. The affairs of the day are largely under our control, but at night, when the body is asleep, the mind harks back to things that have been forgotten for years. It takes a fevered fancy as a fact, and builds upon it a whole series of disasters. It gives trivial things great significance and turns life upside down. Remembering it is the worst of all.”
“There's something I can't get at, Ruth,” he answered. “It's just out of my reach. I know it's reasonable to suppose it was a dream and that it can be explained by natural causes, but I don't dream very often.”
“I dream every night,” she said. “Sometimes they're just silly, foolish things and sometimes they're vivid and horrible realities that I can't forget for weeks. But, surely, dear, we're not foolish enough to believe in dreams?”
“No, I hope not,” he replied, doubtfully.
“Let's go for a little walk,” she said, “and we'll forget it.”
Then she told him how changed Miss Ainslie was and how she had left her, sitting aimlessly by the window. “I don't think I'd better stay away long,” she concluded, “she may need me.”
“I won't be selfish, Ruth; we'll go back now. I'm sorry Miss Ainslie isn't well.”
“She said she was 'just tired' but it isn't like her to be tired. She doesn't seem to want anybody near her, but you can sit in the garden this afternoon, if you'd like to, and I'll flit in and out like an industrious butterfly. Some new books have just come, and I'll leave them in the arbour for you.”
“All right, dear, and if there's anything I can do, I hope you'll tell me.”
As they approached the house, a brisk little man hurried out of the gate and went toward the village.
“Who's that?” asked Winfield.
“I don't know—some one who has brought something, probably. I trust she's better.”
Miss Ainslie seemed more like herself, as she moved about the house, dusting and putting the rooms in order, as was her wont. At noon she fried a bit of chicken for Ruth, but took nothing herself except a cup of tea.
“No, deary,” she said, in answer to Ruth's anxious question, “I'm all right—don't fret about me.” “Have you any pain, Miss Ainslie?”
“No, of course I haven't, you foolish child!”
She tried to smile, but her white lips quivered pitifully.
In the afternoon, when she said she was cold, Ruth made a fire in the open fireplace, and wheeled Miss Ainslie's favourite chair in front of it. She drew her shawl about her shoulders and leaned back.
“I'm so comfortable, now,” she said drowsily; “I think I'm going to sleep, dear.”
Ruth sat by her, pretending to read, but, in reality, watching her closely, until the deep, regular breathing assured her that she was asleep. She went out into the garden and found Winfield in the arbour.
“How's this patient?” she asked, kissing him lightly on the forehead.
“I'm all right, dearest,” he answered, drawing her down beside him, “and I'm ashamed of myself because I was so foolish.”
During the afternoon Ruth made frequent trips to the house, each time finding Miss Ainslie sound asleep. It was after six o'clock when she woke and rubbed her eyes, wonderingly.
“How long have I been asleep, Ruth?”
“All the afternoon, Miss Ainslie—do you feel better now?”
“Yes, I think I do. I didn't sleep last night, but it's been years since I've taken a nap in the daytime.”
Ruth invited Carl to supper, and made them both sit still while she prepared the simple meal, which, as he said, was “astonishingly good.” He was quite himself again, but Miss Ainslie, though trying to assume her old manner, had undergone a great change.
Carl helped Ruth with the dishes, saying he supposed he might as well become accustomed to it, and, feeling the need of sleep, went home very early.
“I'm all right,” he said to Ruth, as he kissed her at the door, “and you're just the sweetest girl in the world. Good night, darling.”
A chill mist came inland, and Ruth kept pine knots burning in the fireplace. They sat without other light, Miss Ainslie with her head resting upon her hand, and Ruth watching her narrowly. Now and then they spoke aimlessly, of commonplaces.
When the last train came in, Miss Ainslie raised her eyes to the silver candlestick that stood on the mantel and sighed.
“Shall I put the light in the window?” asked Ruth.
It was a long time before Miss Ainslie answered.
“No, deary,” she said sadly, “never any more.”
She was trying to hide her suffering, and Ruth's heart ached for her in vain. The sound of the train died away in the distance and the firelight faded.
“Ruth,” she said, in a low voice, “I am going away.”
“Away, Miss Ainslie? Where?”
“I don't know, dear—it's where we all go—'the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.' Sometimes it's a long journey and sometimes a short one, but we all take it—alone—at the last.”
Ruth's heart throbbed violently, then stood still.
“Don't!” she cried, sharply.
“I'm not afraid, dear, and I'm ready to go, even though you have made me so happy—you and he.”
Miss Ainslie waited a moment, then continued, in a different tone:
“To-day the lawyer came and made my will. I haven't much—just this little house, a small income paid semi-annually, and my—my things. All my things are for you—the house and the income are for—for him.”
Ruth was crying softly and Miss Ainslie went to her, laying her hand caressingly upon the bowed head. “Don't, deary,” she pleaded, “don't be unhappy. I'm not afraid. I'm just going to sleep, that's all, to wake in immortal dawn. I want you and him to have my things, because I love you—because I've always loved you, and because I will—even afterward.”
Ruth choked down her sobs, and Miss Ainslie drew her chair closer, taking the girl's cold hand in hers. That touch, so strong and gentle, that had always brought balm to her troubled spirit, did not fail in its ministry now.
“He went away,” said Miss Ainslie, after a long silence, as if in continuation of something she had said before, “and I was afraid. He had made many voyages in safety, each one more successful than the last, and he always brought me beautiful things, but, this time, I knew that it was not right for him to go.”
“When he came back, we were to be married.” The firelight shone on the amethyst ring as Miss Ainslie moved it on her finger. “He said that he would have no way of writing this time, but that, if anything happened, I would know. I was to wait—as women have waited since the world began.
“Oh, Ruth, do you know what waiting means? Mine has lasted through thirty-three interminable years. Each day, I have said: 'he will come to-morrow.' When the last train came in, I put the light in the window to lead him straight to me. Each day, I have made the house ready for an invited guest and I haven't gone away, even for an hour. I couldn't bear to have him come and find no welcome waiting, and I have always worn the colour he loved. When people have come to see me, I've always been afraid they would stay until he came, except with you—and Carl. I was glad to have you come to stay with me, because, lately, I have thought that it would be more—more delicate than to have him find me alone. I loved you, too, dear,” she added quickly.
“I—I asked your aunt to keep the light in the window. I never told her why, but I think she knew, and you must tell her, dear, the next time you see her, that I thank her, and that she need never do it again. I thought, if he should come in a storm, or, perhaps, sail by, on his way to me—”
There was another long silence, then, with an effort, she went on. “I have been happy, for he said he wanted me to be, though sometimes it was hard. As nearly as I could, I made my dream real. I have thought, for hours, of the things we would say to each other when the long years were over and we were together again. I have dressed for his eyes alone, and loved him—perhaps you know—”
“I know, Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, softly, her own love surging in her heart, “I know.”
“He loved me, Ruth,” she said, lingering upon the words, “as man never loved before. In all of God's great universe, there was never anything like that—even in Heaven, there can't be anything so beautiful, though we have to know human love before we can understand God's. All day, I have dreamed of our little home together, and at night, sometimes—of baby lips against my breast. I could always see him plainly, but I never could see our—our child. I have missed that. I have had more happiness than comes to most women, but that has been denied me.”
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her lips were white and quivering, but there were no tears. At length she sat upright and fixed her eyes upon Ruth.
“Don't be afraid of anything,” she said in a strange tone, “poverty or sickness or death, or any suffering God will let you bear together. That isn't love—to be afraid. There's only one thing—the years! Oh, God, the bitter, cruel, endless years!”
Miss Ainslie caught her breath and it sounded like a sob, but she bravely kept it back. “I have been happy,” she said, in pitiful triumph; “I promised him that I would be, and I have kept my word. Sometimes it was hard, but I had my dream. Lately, this last year, I have often been afraid that—that something had happened. Thirty-three years, and you know, dear,” she added, with a quaint primness, “that I am a woman of the world.”
“In the world, but not of it,” was on Ruth's lips, but she did not say it.
“Still, I know it was wrong to doubt him—I couldn't, when I thought of our last hour together, out on the hill in the moonlight. He said it was conceivable that life might keep him from me, but death never could. He told me that if he died, I would know, that he would come and tell me, and that in a little while afterward, we should be together.”
The dying embers cast a glow upon her face. It was almost waxen in its purity; she seemed transfigured with the light of another world. “Last night, he came to me—in a dream. He is dead—he has been dead for a long time. He was trying to explain something to me—I suppose he was trying to tell me why he had not come before. He was old—an old man, Ruth, and I have always thought of him as young. He could not say anything but my name—'Mary—Abby—Mary—Abby—' over and over again; and, once, 'mother.' I was christened 'Mary Abigail,' but I never liked the middle name, so I dropped it; and he used to tease me sometimes by calling me 'Abby.' And—from his saying 'mother,' I know that he, too, wherever he may be, has had that dream of—of our child.”
Ruth was cold from head to foot, and her senses reeled. Every word that Winfield had said in the morning sounded again in her ears. What was it that went on around her, of which she had no ken? It seemed as though she stood absolutely alone, in endless space, while planets swept past, out of their orbits, with all the laws of force set suddenly aside.
Miss Ainslie felt her shuddering fear. “Don't be afraid, dear,” she said again, “everything is right. I kept my promise, and he kept his. He is suffering—he is very lonely without me; but in a little while we shall be together.”
The fire died out and left the room in darkness, broken only by the last fitful glow. Ruth could not speak, and Miss Ainslie sat quietly in her chair. “Come,” she said at last, stretching out her hand, “let's go upstairs. I have kept you up, deary, and I know you must be very tired.”
The house seemed filled with a shadowy presence—something intangible, but portentous, for both good and ill. Ruth took down the heavy mass of white hair and brushed it back, tying it at the neck with a ribbon, in girlish fashion, as Miss Ainslie always did. Her night gown, of sheerest linen, was heavy with Valenciennes lace, and where it fell back from her throat, it revealed the flesh, exquisitely white, set in gracious curves and womanly softness, as if by a sculptor who loved his clay.
The sweet, wholesome scent of the lavender flowers breathed from the folds of Miss Ainslie's gown, as she stood there in the candle light, smiling, with the unearthly glow still upon her face.
“Good night, deary,” she said; “you'll kiss me, won't you?”
For a moment the girl's face was buried among Miss Ainslie's laces, then their lips met. Ruth was trembling and she hurried away, swallowing the lump in her throat and trying to keep back the tears.
The doors were open, and there was no sound save Miss Ainslie's deep breathing, but Ruth kept a dreary vigil till almost dawn.
The summer waned and each day, as it slipped away, took a little of Miss Ainslie's strength with it. There was neither disease nor pain—it was simply a letting go. Carl sent to the city for a physician of wide repute, but he shook his head. “There's nothing the matter with her,” he said, “but she doesn't want to live. Just keep her as happy as you can.”
For a time she went about the house as usual, but, gradually, more and more of her duties fell to Ruth. Hepsey came in every day after breakfast, and again in the late afternoon.
Ruth tried to get her to go out for a drive, but she refused. “No, deary,” she said, smiling, “I've never been away, and I'm too old to begin now.” Neighbours, hearing of her illness, came to offer sympathy and help, but she would see none of them—not even Aunt Jane.
One night, she sat at the head of the table as usual; for she would not surrender her place as hostess, even though she ate nothing, and afterward a great weakness came upon her. “I don't know how I'll ever get upstairs,” she said, frightened; “it seems such a long way!”
Winfield took her in his arms and carried her up, as gently and easily as if she had been a child. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright when he put her down. “I never thought it would be so easy,” she said, in answer to his question. “You'll stay with me, won't you, Carl? I don't want you to go away.”
“I'll stay as long as you want me, Miss Ainslie, and Ruth will, too. We couldn't do too much for you.”
That night, as they sat in front of the fire, while Miss Ainslie slept upstairs, Ruth told him what she had said about leaving him the house and the little income and giving her the beautiful things in the house.
“Bless her sweet heart,” he said tenderly, “we don't want her things—we'd rather have her.”
“Indeed we would,” she answered quickly.
Until the middle of September she went back and forth from her own room to the sitting-room with comparative ease. They took turns bringing dainties to tempt her appetite, but, though she ate a little of everything and praised it warmly, especially if Ruth had made it, she did it, evidently, only out of consideration for them.
She read a little, talked a little, and slept a great deal. One day she asked Carl to pull the heavy sandal wood chest over near her chair, and give her the key, which hung behind a picture.
“Will you please go away now,” she asked, with a winning smile, “for just a little while?”
He put the bell on a table within her reach and asked her to ring if she wanted anything. The hours went by and there was no sound. At last he went up, very quietly, and found her asleep. The chest was locked and the key was not to be found. He did not know whether she had opened it or not, but she let him put it in its place again, without a word.
Sometimes they read to her, and she listened patiently, occasionally asking a question, but more often falling asleep.
“I wish,” she said one day, when she was alone with Carl, “that I could hear something you had written.”
“Why, Miss Ainslie,” he exclaimed, in astonishment, “you wouldn't be interested in the things I write—it's only newspaper stuff.”
“Yes, I would,” she answered softly; “yes, I would.”
Something in the way she said it brought the mist to his eyes.
She liked to have Ruth brush her hair, but her greatest delight was in hearing Winfield talk about her treasures.
“Won't you tell me about the rug, Carl, the one on the sandal wood chest?” she asked, for the twentieth time.
“It's hundreds of years old,” he began, “and it came from Persia, far, far beyond the sea. The shepherds watched their flocks night and day, and saved the finest fleeces for the rug. They made colour from flowers and sweet herbs; from strange things that grew on the mountain heights, where only the bravest dared to go. The sumac that flamed on the hills, the rind of the swaying pomegranates, lichens that grew on the rocks by the Eastern sea, berries, deep-sea treasures, vine leaves, the juice of the grape—they all made colours for the rug, and then ripened, like old wine.
“After a long time, when everything was ready, the Master Craftsman made the design, writing strange symbols into the margin, eloquent with hidden meanings, that only the wisest may understand. “They all worked upon it, men and women and children. Deep voices sang love songs and the melody was woven into the rug. Soft eyes looked love in answer and the softness and beauty went in with the fibre. Baby fingers clutched at it and were laughingly untangled. At night, when the fires of the village were lighted, and the crimson glow was reflected upon it, strange tales of love and war were mingled with the thread. “The nightingale sang into it, the roses from Persian gardens breathed upon it, the moonlight put witchery into it; the tinkle of the gold and silver on the women's dusky ankles, the scent of sandal wood and attar of rose—it all went into the rug.
“Poets repeated their verses to it, men knelt near it to say their prayers, and the soft wind, rising from the sea, made faintest music among the threads.
“Sometimes a workman made a mistake, and the Master Craftsman put him aside. Often, the patient fingers stopped weaving forever, and they found some one else to go on with it. Sometimes they went from one place to another, but the frame holding the rug was not injured. From mountain to valley and back again, urged by some strange instinct, past flowing rivers and over the golden sands of the desert, even to the deep blue waters that broke on the shore—they took the rug.
“The hoof-beats of Arabian horses, with white-robed Bedouins flashing their swords; all the glitter and splendour of war were woven into it. Songs of victory, the rush of a cavalry charge, the faith of a dying warrior, even the slow marches of defeat—it all went into the rug.
“Perhaps the Master Craftsman died, but the design was left, and willing fingers toiled upon it, through the long years, each day putting new beauty into it and new dreams. Then, one day, the final knot was tied, by a Veiled Lady, who sighed softly in the pauses of her song, and wondered at its surpassing loveliness.” “And—” said Miss Ainslie, gently.
“Some one who loved you brought it to you.”
“Yes,” she repeated, smiling, “some one who loved me. Tell me about this,” she pleaded, touching a vase of Cloisonne.
“It came from Japan,” he said, “a strange world of people like those painted on a fan. The streets are narrow and there are quaint houses on either side. The little ladies flit about in gay attire, like so many butterflies—they wear queer shoes on their dainty feet. They're as sweet as their own cherry blossoms.
“The little man who made this vase, wore a blue tunic and had no robes of state, because he was poor. He loved the daughter of a nobleman and she loved him, too, though neither dared to say so. So he sat in front of his house and worked on this vase. He made a model of clay, shaping it with his fingers until it was perfect. Then a silver vase was cast from it and over and over it he went, very carefully, making a design with flat, silver wire. When he was satisfied with it, he filled it in with enamel in wonderful colours, making even the spots on the butterflies' wings like those he had seen in the fields. Outside the design, he covered the vase with dark enamel, so the bright colours would show.
“As he worked, the little lady he loved came and watched him sometimes for a moment or two, and then he put a tiny bit of gold into the vase. He put a flower into the design, like those she wore in her hair, and then another, like the one she dropped at his feet one day, when no one was looking.
“The artist put all his love into the vase, and he hoped that when it was done, he could obtain a Court position. He was very patient with the countless polishings, and one afternoon, when the air was sweet with the odour of the cherry blossoms, the last touches were put upon it.
“It was so beautiful that he was commissioned to make some great vases for the throne room, and then, with joy in his heart, he sought the hand of the nobleman's daughter.
“The negotiations were conducted by another person, and she was forced to consent, though her heart ached for the artist in the blue tunic, whose name she did not know. When she learned that her husband was to be the man she had loved for so long, tears of happiness came into her dark eyes.
“The vase had disappeared, mysteriously, and he offered a large reward for its recovery. At last they were compelled to give up the hope of finding it, and he promised to make her another one, just like it, with the same flowers and butterflies and even the little glints of gold that marked the days she came. So she watched him, while he made the new one, and even more love went into it than into the first one.”
“And—” began Miss Ainslie.
“Some one who loved you brought it to you.”
“Yes,” she repeated, smiling, “some one who loved me.”
Winfield fitted a story to every object in the room. Each rug had a different history and every bit of tapestry its own tale. He conjured up an Empress who had once owned the teakwood chair, and a Marquise, with patches and powdered hair, who wrote love letters at the marquetry table.
He told stories of the sea shells, and of the mermaids who brought them to the shore, that some one who loved her might take them to her, and that the soft sound of the sea might always come to her ears, with visions of blue skies and tropic islands, where the sun forever shone.
The Empress and the Marquise became real people to Miss Ainslie, and the Japanese lovers seemed to smile at her from the vase. Sometimes, holding the rug on her lap, she would tell them how it was woven, and repeat the love story of a beautiful woman who had worked upon the tapestry. Often, in the twilight, she would sing softly to herself, snatches of forgotten melodies, and, once, a lullaby. Ruth and Carl sat by, watching for the slightest change, but she never spoke of the secret in her heart.
Ruth had the north room, across the hall, where there were two dressers. One of them had been empty, until she put her things into it, and the other was locked. She found the key, one day, hanging behind it, when she needed some things for Miss Ainslie.
As she had half expected, the dresser was full of lingerie, of the finest lawn and linen. The dainty garments were edged with real lace—Brussels, Valenciennes, Mechlin, Point d'Alencon, and the fine Irish laces. Sometimes there was a cluster of tucks, daintily run by hand, but, usually, only the lace, unless there was a bit of insertion to match. The buttons were mother of pearl, and the button holes were exquisitely made. One or two of the garments were threaded with white ribbon, after a more modern fashion, but most of them were made according to the quaint old patterns. There was a dozen of everything.
The dried lavender flowers rustled faintly as Ruth reverently lifted the garments, giving out the long-stored sweetness of Summers gone by. The white had changed to an ivory tint, growing deeper every day. There were eleven night gowns, all made exactly alike, with high neck and long sleeves, trimmed with tucks and lace. Only one was in any way elaborate. The sleeves were short, evidently just above the elbow, and the neck was cut off the shoulders like a ball gown. A deep frill of Venetian point, with narrower lace at the sleeves, of the same pattern, was the only trimming, except a tiny bow of lavender ribbon at the fastening, pinned on with a little gold heart.
When Ruth went in, with one of the night gowns over her arm, a faint colour came into Miss Ainslie's cheeks.
“Did—did—you find those?” she asked.
“Yes,” answered Ruth, “I thought you'd like to wear them.”
Miss Ainslie's colour faded and it was some time before she spoke again.
“Did—did you find the other—the one with Venetian point?” “Yes, Miss Ainslie, do you want that one It's beautiful.”
“No,” she said, “not now, but I thought that I'd like to wear that—afterward, you know.”
A shadow crossed Ruth's face and her lips tightened.
“Don't, dear,” said Miss Ainslie, gently.
“Do you think he would think it was indelicate if—if my neck were bare then?”
“Who, Miss Ainslie?”
“Carl. Would he think it was wrong if I wore that afterward, and my neck and shoulders showed? Do you think he would?”
“No!” cried Ruth, “I know he wouldn't! Oh, Miss Ainslie, you break my heart!”
“Ruth,” said Miss Ainslie, gently; “Ruth, dear, don't cry! I won't talk about it any more, deary, I promise you, but I wanted to know so much!”
Ruth kissed her and went away, unable to bear more just then. She brought her chair into the hall, to be near her if she were needed. Miss Ainslie sighed, and then began to croon a lullaby.
As Miss Ainslie became weaker, she clung to Carl, and was never satisfied when he was out of her sight. When she was settled in bed for the night, he went in to sit by her and hold her hand until she dropped asleep. If she woke during the night she would call Ruth and ask where he was.
“He'll come over in the morning, Miss Ainslie,” Ruth always said; “you know it's night now.”
“Is it?” she would ask, drowsily. “I must go to sleep, then, deary, so that I may be quite rested and refreshed when he comes.”
Her room, in contrast to the rest of the house, was almost Puritan in its simplicity. The bed and dresser were mahogany, plain, but highly polished, and she had a mahogany rocker with a cushion of old blue tapestry. There was a simple white cover on the bed and another on the dresser, but the walls were dead white, unrelieved by pictures or draperies. In the east window was a long, narrow footstool, and a prayer book and hymnal lay on the window sill, where this maiden of half a century, looking seaward, knelt to say her prayers.
One morning, when Ruth went in, she said: “I think I won't get up this morning, dear; I am so very tired. If Carl should come over, will you say that I should like to see him?”
She would see no one but Carl and Ruth, and Mrs. Ball was much offended because her friend did not want her to come upstairs. “Don't be harsh with her, Aunt Jane,” pleaded Ruth, “you know people often have strange fancies when they are ill. She sent her love to you, and asked me to say that she thanked you, but you need not put the light in the attic window any more.”
Mrs. Ball gazed at her niece long and earnestly. “Be you tellin' me the truth?” she asked.
“Why, of course, Aunty.”
“Then Mary Ainslie has got sense from somewheres. There ain't never been no need for that lamp to set in the winder; and when she gets more sense, I reckon she'll be willin' to see her friends.” With evident relief upon her face, Mrs. Ball departed.
But Miss Ainslie seemed quite satisfied, and each day spoke more lovingly to Ruth and Carl. He showed no signs of impatience, but spent his days with her cheerfully. He read to her, held her hand, and told her about the rug, the Marquise, and the Japanese lovers. At the end she would always say, with a quiet tenderness: “and some one who loved me brought it to me!”
“Yes, Miss Ainslie; some one who loved you. Everybody loves you; don't you know that?”
“Do you?” she asked once, suddenly and yet shyly.
“Indeed I do, Miss Ainslie—I love you with all my heart.”
She smiled happily and her eyes filled. “Ruth,” she called softly, “he says he loves me!”
“Of course he does,” said Ruth; “nobody in the wide world could help loving you.”
She put out her left hand to touch Ruth, and the amethyst ring slipped off, for her fingers were thin. She did not seem to notice when Ruth slipped it on again, and, shortly afterward, fell asleep.
That night Winfield stayed very late. “I don't want to leave you, dear,” he said to Ruth. “I'm afraid something is going to happen.”
“I'm not afraid—I think you'd better go.”
“Will you put a light in your window if you want me, darling?” “Yes, I will.”
“I can see it from my room, and I'll be watching for it. If you want me, I'll come.”
He awoke from an uneasy sleep with the feeling that Ruth needed him, and was not surprised to see the light from her candle streaming out into the darkness. He dressed hurriedly, glancing at his watch by the light of a match. It was just three o'clock.
Ruth was waiting for him at the lower door. “Is she—is she—”
“No, she seems to be just the same, but she wants you. She's been calling for you ever since you went away.”
As they went upstairs Miss Ainslie's sweet voice came to them in pitiful pleading: “Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you!”
“I'm here, Miss Ainslie,” he said, sitting down on the bed beside her and taking her hot hands in his. “What can I do for you?”
“Tell me about the rug.”
With no hint of weariness in his deep, quiet voice, he told her the old story once more. When he had finished, she spoke again. “I can't seem to get it just right about the Japanese lovers. Were they married?”
“Yes, they were married and lived happily ever afterward—like the people in the fairy tales.”
“That was lovely,” she said, with evident satisfaction. “Do you think they wanted me to have their vase?”
“I know they did. Some one who loved you brought it to you. Everybody loves you, Miss Ainslie.”
“Did the Marquise find her lover?”
“Yes, or rather, he found her.”
“Did they want me to have their marquetry table?”
“Of course they did. Didn't some one who loved you bring it to you?”
“Yes,” she sighed, “some one who loved me.”
She sang a little, very softly, with her eyes closed. It was a quaint old-fashioned tune, with a refrain of “Hush-a-by” and he held her hand until the song ceased and she was asleep. Then he went over to Ruth. “Can't you go to sleep for a little while, dearest? I know you're tired.”
“I'm never tired when I'm with you,” Ruth answered, leaning upon his arm, “and besides, I feel that this is the end.”
Miss Ainslie slept for some time, then, all at once, she started as if in terror. “Letters,” she said, very distinctly, “Go!”
He went to her and tried to soothe her, but failed. “No,” she said again, “letters—Ruth—chest.”
“She wants some letters that are in the sandal wood chest,” he said to Ruth, and Miss Ainslie nodded. “Yes,” she repeated, “letters.”
Ruth went into the sitting-room, where a light was burning dimly, but the chest was locked. “Do you know where the key is, Carl?” she asked, coming back for a moment.
“No, I don't, dear,” he answered. Then he asked Miss Ainslie where the key was, but she only murmured: “letters.”
“Shall I go and help Ruth find them?”
“Yes,” she said, “help—letters.”
Together, they broke open the lock of the chest, while Miss Ainslie was calling, faintly: “Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you!”
“We'd better turn the whole thing out on the floor,” he said, suiting the action to the word, then put it back against the wall, empty. “We'll have to shake everything out, carefully,” returned Ruth, “that's the only way to find them.”
Wrapped carefully in a fine linen sheet, was Miss Ainslie's wedding gown, of heavy white satin, trimmed simply with priceless Venetian point. They shook it out hurriedly and put it back into the chest. There were yards upon yards of lavender taffeta, cut into dress lengths, which they folded up and put away. Three strings of amethysts and two of pearls slipped out of the silk as they lifted it, and there was another length of lustrous white taffeta, which had changed to an ivory tint.
Four shawls of Canton crepe, three of them lavender and one ivory white, were put back into the chest. There were several fans, of fine workmanship, a girdle of oxidized silver, set with amethysts and pearls, and a large marquetry box, which contained tea. “That's all the large things,” he said; “now we can look these over.”
Ruth was gathering up great quantities of lace—Brussels, Point d'Alencon, Cluny, Mechlin, Valenciennes, Duchesse and Venetian point. There was a bridal veil of the Venetian lace, evidently made to match that on the gown. Tiny, dried petals rustled out of the meshes, for Miss Ainslie's laces were laid away in lavender, like her love.
“I don't see them,” she said, “yes, here they are.” She gave him a bundle of yellowed letters, tied with lavender ribbon. “I'll take them to her,” he answered, picking up a small black case that lay on the floor, and opening it. “Why, Ruth!” he gasped. “It's my father's picture!”
Miss Ainslie's voice rose again in pitiful cadence. “Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you—oh, I want you!”
He hastened to her, leaving the picture in Ruth's hand. It was an ambrotype, set into a case lined with purple velvet. The face was that of a young man, not more than twenty-five or thirty, who looked strangely like Winfield. The eyes, forehead and the poise of the head were the same.
The earth trembled beneath Ruth's feet for a moment, then, all at once, she understood. The light in the attic window, the marked paragraph in the paper, and the death notices—why, yes, the Charles Winfield who had married Abigail Weatherby was Miss Ainslie's lover, and Carl was his son. “He went away!” Miss Ainslie's voice came again to Ruth, when she told her story, with no hint of her lover's name. He went away, and soon afterward, married Abigail Weatherby, but why? Was it love at first sight, or did he believe that his sweetheart was dead? Then Carl was born and the mother died. Twelve years afterward, he followed her—broken hearted. Carl had told her that his father could not bear the smell of lavender nor the sight of any shade of purple—and Miss Ainslie always wore lavender and lived in the scent of it—had he come to shrink from it through remorse?
Why was it, she wondered? Had he forgotten Miss Ainslie, or had he been suddenly swept off his feet by some blind whirlwind of passion? In either case, memory had returned to torture him a thousand fold—to make him ashamed to face her, with his boy in his arms.
And Aunt Jane knew of the marriage, at the time, probably, and said no word. Then she learned of Abigail Weatherby's death, and was still silent, hoping, perhaps, that the wanderer would come back, until she learned that Charles Winfield, too, was dead. And still she had not told Miss Ainslie, or, possibly, thought she knew it all till the day that Hepsey had spoken of; when she came home, looking “strange,” to keep the light in the attic window every night for more than five years.
Was it kind? Ruth doubted for a moment, then her heart softened with love for Aunt Jane, who had hidden the knowledge that would be a death blow to Miss Ainslie, and let her live on, happy in her dream, while the stern Puritan conscience made her keep the light in the attic window in fulfilment of her promise.
As if the little light could reach the veil which hangs between us and Eternity, or penetrate the greyness which never parts save for a passage! As if all Miss Ainslie's love and faith could bring the dead to life again, even to be forgiven!
Her lips quivered when she thought of Miss Ainslie's tenderness for Carl and the little whispered lullabies that she sang to herself, over and over again. “She does not know,” thought Ruth. “Thank God, she will never know!”
She put the rest of the things into the chest and closed it, covering it, as before, with the rug Miss Ainslie loved. When she went into the other room, she was asleep again, with her cheek pillowed on the letters, while Carl sat beside her, holding her hand and pondering over the mystery he could not explain. Ruth's heart ached for those two, so strangely brought together, who had but this little hour to atone for a lifetime of loss.
The first faint lines of light came into the eastern sky. Ruth stood by the window, watching the colour come on the grey above the hill, while two or three stars still shone dimly. The night lamp flickered, then went out. She set it in the hall and came back to the window.
As Miss Ainslie's rug had been woven, little by little, purple, crimson, and turquoise, gleaming with inward fires, shone upon the clouds. Carl came over to Ruth, putting his arm around her. They watched it together—that miracle which is as old as the world, and yet ever new. “I don't see—” he began.
“Hush, dear,” Ruth whispered, “I know, and I'll tell you some time, but I don't want her to know.”
The sky brightened slowly, and the intense colour came into the room with the light. Ruth drew the curtains aside, saying, in a low tone, “it's beautiful, isn't it?”
There was a sudden movement in the room and they turned, to see Miss Ainslie sitting up, her cheeks flushed, and the letters scattered around her. The ribbon had slipped away, and her heavy white hair fell over her shoulders. Ruth went to her, to tie it back again, but she put her away, very gently, without speaking.
Carl stood by the window, thinking, and Miss Ainslie's eyes rested upon him, with wonder and love. The sunrise stained her white face and her eyes shone brightly, as sapphires touched with dawn. The first ray of the sun came into the little room and lay upon her hair, changing its whiteness to gleaming silver. Then all at once her face illumined, as from a light within.
Carl moved away from the window, strangely drawn toward her, and her face became radiant with unspeakable joy. Then the passion of her denied motherhood swelled into a cry of longing—“My son!”
“Mother!” broke from his lips in answer He went to her blindly, knowing only that they belonged to each other, and that, in some inscrutable way, they had been kept apart until it was too late. He took her into his arms, holding her close, and whispering, brokenly, what only she and God might hear! Ruth turned away, sobbing, as if it was something too holy for her to see.
Miss Ainslie, transfigured with unearthly light, lifted her face to his. Her lips quivered for an instant, then grew cold beneath his own. She sank back among the pillows, with her eyes closed, but with yet another glory upon the marble whiteness of her face, as though at the end of her journey, and beyond the mists that divided them, her dream had become divinely true.
Then he, who should have been her son, bent down, the tears falling unheeded upon her face, and kissed her again.