Lavender and Old Lace Part 27

Midsummer lay upon the garden and the faint odour of mignonette and lavender came with every wandering wind. White b.u.t.terflies and thistledown floated in the air, bees hummed drowsily, and the stately hollyhocks swayed slowly back and forth.

"Do you know why I asked you to come today?" She spoke to Ruth, but looked at Winfield.

"Why, Miss Ainslie?"

"Because it is my birthday--I am fifty-five years old."

Ruth's face mirrored her astonishment. "You don't look any older than I do," she said.

Except for the white hair, it was true. Her face was as fresh as a rose with the morning dew upon it, and even on her neck, where the folds of lace revealed a dazzling whiteness, there were no lines.

"Teach us how to live, Miss Ainslie," said Winfield, softly, "that the end of half a century may find us young."

A delicate pink suffused her cheeks and she turned her eyes to his.

"I've just been happy, that's all," she answered.

"It needs the alchemist's touch," he said, "to change our sordid world to gold."

"We can all learn," she replied, "and even if we don't try, it comes to us once."

"What?" asked Ruth.

"Happiness--even if it isn't until the end. In every life there is a perfect moment, like a flash of sun. We can shape our days by that, if we will--before by faith, and afterward by memory."

The conversation drifted to less serious things. Ruth, remembering that Miss Ainslie did not hear the village gossip, described her aunt's home-coming, the dismissal of Hepsey, and told her of the wedding which was to take place that evening. Winfield was delighted, for he had never heard her talk so well, but Miss Ainslie listened with gentle displeasure.

"I did not think Miss Hathaway would ever be married abroad," she said.

"I think she should have waited until she came home. It would have been more delicate to let him follow her. To seem to pursue a gentleman, however innocent one may be, is--is unmaidenly."

Winfield choked, then coughed violently.

"Understand me, dear," Miss Ainslie went on, "I do not mean to criticise your aunt--she is one of my dearest friends. Perhaps I should not have spoken at all," she concluded in genuine distress.

"It's all right, Miss Ainslie," Ruth a.s.sured her, "I know just how you feel."

Winfield, having recovered his composure, asked a question about the garden, and Miss Ainslie led them in triumph around her domain. She gathered a little nosegay of sweet-williams for Ruth, who was over among the hollyhocks, then she said shyly: "What shall I pick for you?"

"Anything you like, Miss Ainslie. I am at a loss to choose."

She bent over and plucked a leaf of rosemary, looking at him long and searchingly as she put it into his hand.

"For remembrance," she said, with the deep fire burning in her eyes.

Then she added, with a pitiful hunger in her voice:

"Whatever happens, you won't forget me?"

"Never!" he answered, strangely stirred.

"Thank you," she whispered brokenly, drawing away from him. "You look so much like--like some one I used to know."

At dusk they went into the house. Except for the hall, it was square, with two part.i.tions dividing it. The two front rooms were separated by an arch, and the dining-room and kitchen were similarly situated at the back of the house, with a china closet and pantry between them.

Miss Ainslie's table, of solid mahogany, was covered only with fine linen doilies, after a modern fashion, and two quaint candlesticks, of solid silver, stood opposite each other. In the centre, in a silver vase of foreign pattern, there was a great bunch of asters--white and pink and blue.

The repast was simple--chicken fried to a golden brown, with creamed potatoes, a salad made of fresh vegetables from the garden, hot biscuits, deliciously light, and the fragrant Chinese tea, served in the Royal Kaga cups, followed by pound cake, and pears preserved in a heavy red syrup.

The hostess sat at the head of the table, dispensing a graceful hospitality. She made no apology, such as prefaced almost every meal at Aunt Jane's. It was her best, and she was proud to give it--such was the impression.

Afterward, when Ruth told her that she was going back to the city, Miss Ainslie's face grew sad.

"Why--why must you go?" she asked.

"I'm interrupting the honeymoon," Ruth answered, "and when I suggested departure, Aunty agreed to it immediately. I can't very well stay now, can I?"

"My dear," said Miss Ainslie, laying her hand upon Ruth's, "if you could, if you only would--won't you come and stay with me?"

"I'd love to," replied Ruth, impetuously, "but are you sure you want me?"

"Believe me, my dear," said Miss Ainslie, simply, "it will give me great happiness."

So it was arranged that the next day Ruth's trunk should be taken to Miss Ainslie's, and that she would stay until the first of October.

Winfield was delighted, since it brought Ruth nearer to him and involved no long separation.

They went outdoors again, where the crickets and katydids were chirping in the gra.s.s, and the drowsy twitter of birds came from the maples above. The moon, at its full, swung slowly over the hill, and threads of silver light came into the fragrant dusk of the garden. Now and then the moonlight shone full upon Miss Ainslie's face, touching her hair as if with loving tenderness and giving her an unearthly beauty. It was the face of a saint.

Winfield, speaking reverently, told her of their betrothal. She leaned forward, into the light, and put one hand caressingly upon the arm of each.

"I am so glad," she said, with her face illumined. Through the music of her voice ran lights and shadows, vague, womanly appeal, and a haunting sweetness neither could ever forget.

That night, the gates of Youth turned on their silent hinges for Miss Ainslie. Forgetting the h.o.a.ry frost that the years had laid upon her hair, she walked, hand in hand with them, through the clover fields which lay fair before them and by the silvered reaches of the River of Dreams. Into their love came something sweet that they had not found before--the absolute need of sharing life together, whether it should be joy or pain. Unknowingly, they rose to that height which makes sacrifice the soul's dearest offering, as the chrysalis, brown and unbeautiful, gives the radiant creature within to the light and freedom of day.

When the whistle sounded for the ten o'clock train, Ruth said it was late and they must go. Miss Ainslie went to the gate with them, her lavender scented gown rustling softly as she walked, and the moonlight making new beauty of the amethysts and pearls entwined in her hair.

Ruth, aglow with happiness, put her arms around Miss Ainslie's neck and kissed her tenderly. "May I, too?" asked Winfield.

He drew her toward him, without waiting for an answer, and Miss Ainslie trembled from head to foot as she lifted her face to his.

Across the way the wedding was in full blast, but neither of them cared to go. Ruth turned back for a last glimpse of the garden and its gentle mistress, but she was gone, and the light from her candle streamed out until it rested upon a white hollyhock, nodding drowsily.

To Ruth, walking in the starlight with her lover, it seemed as if the world had been made new. The spell was upon Winfield for a long time, but at last he spoke.

"If I could have chosen my mother," he said, simply, "she would have been like Miss Ainslie."

XV. The Secret and the Dream