Lavender and Old Lace Part 29

"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 "astonis.h.i.+ngly good."

He was quite himself again, but Miss Ainslie, though trying to a.s.sume 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d will let you bear together. That isn't love--to be afraid. There's only one thing--the years! Oh, G.o.d, 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 ma.s.s of white hair and brushed it back, tying it at the neck with a ribbon, in girlish fas.h.i.+on, 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.

XVI. Some One Who Loved Her

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!"