Lavender and Old Lace Part 31

"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.

XVII. Dawn

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 j.a.panese 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; "n.o.body 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 j.a.panese 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."