Lavender and Old Lace [13]
window every night?"
"Yes, I do, Miss Ainslie," she answered, quickly.
The older woman caught her breath, as if in relief, and then the deep crimson flooded her face.
"Hepsey told me and Aunt Jane left a letter about it," Ruth continued, hastily, "and I am very glad to do it. It would be dreadful to have a ship wrecked, almost at our door."
"Yes," sighed Miss Ainslie, her colour receding, "I have often thought of 'those who go down to the sea in ships.' It is so terrible, and sometimes, when I hear the surf beating against the cliff, I--I am afraid."
Ruth climbed the hill, interested, happy, yet deeply disturbed. Miss Ainslie's beautiful, changing face seemed to follow her, and the exquisite scent of the lavender, which had filled the rooms, clung to her senses like a benediction.
Hepsey was right, and unquestionably Miss Ainslie had something to do with the light; but no deep meaning lay behind it--so much was certain. She had lived alone so long that she had grown to have a great fear of shipwreck, possibly on account of her friend, the "seafaring gentleman," and had asked Miss Hathaway to put the light in the window--that was all.
Ruth's reason was fully satisfied, but something else was not. "I'm not going to think about it any more," she said to herself, resolutely, and thought she meant it.
She ate her dinner with the zest of hunger, while Hepsey noiselessly served her. "I have been to Miss Ainslie's, Hepsey," she said at length, not wishing to appear unsociable.
The maid's clouded visage cleared for an instant. "Did you find out about the lamp?" she inquired, eagerly.
"No, I didn't, Hepsey; but I'll tell you what I think. Miss Ainslie has read a great deal and has lived alone so much that she has become very much afraid of shipwreck. You know all of us have some one fear. For instance, I am terribly afraid of green worms, though a green worm has never harmed me. I think she asked Miss Hathaway to put the lamp in the window, and possibly told her of something she had read which made her feel that she should have done it before."
Hepsey's face took on its old, impenetrable calm.
"Don't you think so?" asked Miss Thorne, after a long pause.
"Yes'm."
"It's all very reasonable, isn't it?"
"Yes'm."
In spite of the seeming assent, she knew that Hepsey was not convinced; and afterward, when she came into the room with the attic lamp and a box of matches, the mystery returned to trouble Ruth again.
"If I don't take up tatting," she thought, as she went upstairs, "or find something else to do, I'll be a meddling old maid inside of six months."
IV. A Guest
As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first the country brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously, but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's a fortnight before she bitterly regretted the step she had taken.
Still there was no going back, for she had given her word, and must stay there until October. The months before her stretched out into a dreary waste. She thought of Miss Ainslie gratefully, as a redeeming feature, but she knew that it was impossible to spend all of her time in the house--it the foot of the hill.
Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet more than once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock, before Hepsey was stiring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walk through the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and each day was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful, moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yet knowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there.
She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepsey stalked in, unannounced, and gave her a card.
"Mr. Carl Winfield!" Ruth repeated aloud. "Some one to see me, Hepsey?" she asked, in astonishment.
"Yes'm. He's a-waitin' on the piazzer."
"Didn't you ask him to come in?"
"No'm. Miss Hathaway, she don't want no strangers in her house."
"Go down immediately,"
"Yes, I do, Miss Ainslie," she answered, quickly.
The older woman caught her breath, as if in relief, and then the deep crimson flooded her face.
"Hepsey told me and Aunt Jane left a letter about it," Ruth continued, hastily, "and I am very glad to do it. It would be dreadful to have a ship wrecked, almost at our door."
"Yes," sighed Miss Ainslie, her colour receding, "I have often thought of 'those who go down to the sea in ships.' It is so terrible, and sometimes, when I hear the surf beating against the cliff, I--I am afraid."
Ruth climbed the hill, interested, happy, yet deeply disturbed. Miss Ainslie's beautiful, changing face seemed to follow her, and the exquisite scent of the lavender, which had filled the rooms, clung to her senses like a benediction.
Hepsey was right, and unquestionably Miss Ainslie had something to do with the light; but no deep meaning lay behind it--so much was certain. She had lived alone so long that she had grown to have a great fear of shipwreck, possibly on account of her friend, the "seafaring gentleman," and had asked Miss Hathaway to put the light in the window--that was all.
Ruth's reason was fully satisfied, but something else was not. "I'm not going to think about it any more," she said to herself, resolutely, and thought she meant it.
She ate her dinner with the zest of hunger, while Hepsey noiselessly served her. "I have been to Miss Ainslie's, Hepsey," she said at length, not wishing to appear unsociable.
The maid's clouded visage cleared for an instant. "Did you find out about the lamp?" she inquired, eagerly.
"No, I didn't, Hepsey; but I'll tell you what I think. Miss Ainslie has read a great deal and has lived alone so much that she has become very much afraid of shipwreck. You know all of us have some one fear. For instance, I am terribly afraid of green worms, though a green worm has never harmed me. I think she asked Miss Hathaway to put the lamp in the window, and possibly told her of something she had read which made her feel that she should have done it before."
Hepsey's face took on its old, impenetrable calm.
"Don't you think so?" asked Miss Thorne, after a long pause.
"Yes'm."
"It's all very reasonable, isn't it?"
"Yes'm."
In spite of the seeming assent, she knew that Hepsey was not convinced; and afterward, when she came into the room with the attic lamp and a box of matches, the mystery returned to trouble Ruth again.
"If I don't take up tatting," she thought, as she went upstairs, "or find something else to do, I'll be a meddling old maid inside of six months."
IV. A Guest
As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first the country brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously, but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's a fortnight before she bitterly regretted the step she had taken.
Still there was no going back, for she had given her word, and must stay there until October. The months before her stretched out into a dreary waste. She thought of Miss Ainslie gratefully, as a redeeming feature, but she knew that it was impossible to spend all of her time in the house--it the foot of the hill.
Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet more than once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock, before Hepsey was stiring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walk through the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and each day was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful, moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yet knowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there.
She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepsey stalked in, unannounced, and gave her a card.
"Mr. Carl Winfield!" Ruth repeated aloud. "Some one to see me, Hepsey?" she asked, in astonishment.
"Yes'm. He's a-waitin' on the piazzer."
"Didn't you ask him to come in?"
"No'm. Miss Hathaway, she don't want no strangers in her house."
"Go down immediately,"