Lavender and Old Lace [12]
to it. She says I shouldn't live here all alone, and that I deserve to have something dreadful happen to me, but she had all the trees cut down that stood on the hill between her window and mine, and had a key made to my lower door, and made me promise that if I was ill at any time, I would put a signal in my window--a red shawl in the daytime and a light at night. I hadn't any red shawl and she gave me hers.
"One night--I shall never forget it--I had a terrible attack of neuralgia, during the worst storm I have ever known. I didn't even know that I put the light in the window--I was so beside myself with pain--but she came, at two o'clock in the morning, and stayed with me until I was all right again. She was so gentle and so tender-- I shall always love her for that."
The sweet voice vibrated with feeling, and Ruth's thoughts flew to the light in the attic window, but, no--it could not be seen from Miss Ainslie's. "What does Aunt Jane look like?" she asked, after a pause.
"I haven't a picture, except one that was taken a long time ago, but I'll get that." She went upstairs and returned, presently, putting an old-fashioned ambrotype into Ruth's hand.
The velvet-lined case enshrined Aunt Jane in the bloom of her youth. It was a young woman of twenty or twenty-five, seated in a straight-backed chair, with her hands encased in black lace mitts and folded in the lap of her striped silk gown. The forehead was high, protruding slightly, the eyes rather small, and very dark, the nose straight, and the little chin exceedingly firm and determined. There was an expression of maidenly wistfulness somewhere, which Ruth could not definitely locate, but there was no hint of it in the chin.
"Poor little Aunt Jane, " said Ruth. "Life never would be easy for her."
"No," returned Miss Ainslie, "but she would not let anyone know."
Ruth strolled over to the window, thinking that she must be going, and Miss Ainslie still held the picture in her hand. "She had a lover, didn't she?" asked Ruth, idly.
"I-I-think so," answered the other, unwillingly. "You remember we quarrelled."
A young man stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Miss Ainslie's house, and then at the brown one across the hill. From her position in the window, Ruth saw him plainly. He hesitated a moment, then went toward the brown house. She noted that he was a stranger--there was no such topcoat in the village.
"Was his name Winfield?" she asked suddenly, then instantly hated herself for the question.
The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainslie stooped to pick it up and Ruth did not see her face. "Perhaps," she said, in a strange tone, "but I never have asked a lady the name of her friend."
Gentle as it was, Ruth felt the rebuke keenly. An apology was on her lips, but only her flushed cheeks betrayed any emotion. Miss Ainslie's face was pale, and there was unmistakable resentment in her eyes.
"I must go," Ruth said, after an awkward silence, and in an instant Miss Ainslie was herself again.
"No-you mustn't go, deary. You haven't seen my garden yet. I have planted all the seeds and some of them are coming up. Isn't it beautiful to see things grow?"
"It is indeed," Ruth assented, forgetting the momentary awkwardness, "and I have lived for a long time where I have seen nothing grow but car tracks and high buildings. May I come again and see your garden?"
"I shall be so glad to have you," replied Miss Ainslie, with a quaint stateliness. "I have enjoyed your visit so much and I hope you will come again very soon."
"Thank you--I will."
Her hostess had opened the door for her, but Ruth stood in the hall, waiting, in obedience to some strange impulse. Then she stepped outside, but something held her back-something that lay unspoken between them. Those unfathomable eyes were fixed upon her, questioning, pleading, and searching her inmost soul.
Ruth looked at her, wondering, and striving to answer the mute appeal. Then Miss Ainslie laid her hand upon her arm. "My dear," she asked, earnestly, "do you light the lamp in the attic
"One night--I shall never forget it--I had a terrible attack of neuralgia, during the worst storm I have ever known. I didn't even know that I put the light in the window--I was so beside myself with pain--but she came, at two o'clock in the morning, and stayed with me until I was all right again. She was so gentle and so tender-- I shall always love her for that."
The sweet voice vibrated with feeling, and Ruth's thoughts flew to the light in the attic window, but, no--it could not be seen from Miss Ainslie's. "What does Aunt Jane look like?" she asked, after a pause.
"I haven't a picture, except one that was taken a long time ago, but I'll get that." She went upstairs and returned, presently, putting an old-fashioned ambrotype into Ruth's hand.
The velvet-lined case enshrined Aunt Jane in the bloom of her youth. It was a young woman of twenty or twenty-five, seated in a straight-backed chair, with her hands encased in black lace mitts and folded in the lap of her striped silk gown. The forehead was high, protruding slightly, the eyes rather small, and very dark, the nose straight, and the little chin exceedingly firm and determined. There was an expression of maidenly wistfulness somewhere, which Ruth could not definitely locate, but there was no hint of it in the chin.
"Poor little Aunt Jane, " said Ruth. "Life never would be easy for her."
"No," returned Miss Ainslie, "but she would not let anyone know."
Ruth strolled over to the window, thinking that she must be going, and Miss Ainslie still held the picture in her hand. "She had a lover, didn't she?" asked Ruth, idly.
"I-I-think so," answered the other, unwillingly. "You remember we quarrelled."
A young man stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Miss Ainslie's house, and then at the brown one across the hill. From her position in the window, Ruth saw him plainly. He hesitated a moment, then went toward the brown house. She noted that he was a stranger--there was no such topcoat in the village.
"Was his name Winfield?" she asked suddenly, then instantly hated herself for the question.
The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainslie stooped to pick it up and Ruth did not see her face. "Perhaps," she said, in a strange tone, "but I never have asked a lady the name of her friend."
Gentle as it was, Ruth felt the rebuke keenly. An apology was on her lips, but only her flushed cheeks betrayed any emotion. Miss Ainslie's face was pale, and there was unmistakable resentment in her eyes.
"I must go," Ruth said, after an awkward silence, and in an instant Miss Ainslie was herself again.
"No-you mustn't go, deary. You haven't seen my garden yet. I have planted all the seeds and some of them are coming up. Isn't it beautiful to see things grow?"
"It is indeed," Ruth assented, forgetting the momentary awkwardness, "and I have lived for a long time where I have seen nothing grow but car tracks and high buildings. May I come again and see your garden?"
"I shall be so glad to have you," replied Miss Ainslie, with a quaint stateliness. "I have enjoyed your visit so much and I hope you will come again very soon."
"Thank you--I will."
Her hostess had opened the door for her, but Ruth stood in the hall, waiting, in obedience to some strange impulse. Then she stepped outside, but something held her back-something that lay unspoken between them. Those unfathomable eyes were fixed upon her, questioning, pleading, and searching her inmost soul.
Ruth looked at her, wondering, and striving to answer the mute appeal. Then Miss Ainslie laid her hand upon her arm. "My dear," she asked, earnestly, "do you light the lamp in the attic