Lavender and Old Lace [4]
Ainslie's speech. In the few words, softened, and betraying a quaint stateliness, Ruth caught a glimpse of an old-fashioned gentlewoman, reserved and yet gracious.
She folded her napkin, saying: "You make the best biscuits I ever tasted, Hepsey." The girl smiled, but made no reply.
"What makes you think Miss Ainslie has anything to do with the light?" she inquired after a little.
"'Cause there wasn't no light in that winder when I first come--leastways, not as I know of--and after I'd been here a week or so, Miss Hathaway, she come back from there one day looking kinder strange. She didn't say much; but the next mornin' she goes down to town and buys that lamp, and she saws off them table legs herself. Every night since, that light's been a-goin', and she puts it out herself every mornin' before she comes downstairs."
"Perhaps she and Miss Ainslie had been talking of shipwreck, and she thought she would have a little lighthouse of her own," Miss Thorne suggested, when the silence became oppressive.
"P'raps so," rejoined Hepsey. She had become stolid again.
Ruth pushed her chair back and stood at the dining-room window a moment, looking out into the yard. The valley was in shadow, but the last light still lingered on the hill. "What's that, Hepsey?" she asked.
"What's what?"
"That--where the evergreen is coming up out of the ground, in the shape of a square."
"That's the cat's grave, mum. She died jest afore Miss Hathaway went away, and she planted the evergreen."
"I thought something was lacking," said Ruth, half to herself.
"Do you want a kitten, Miss Thorne?" inquired Hepsey, eagerly. "I reckon I can get you one--Maltese or white, just as you like."
"No, thank you, Hepsey; I don't believe I'll import any pets."
"Jest as you say, mum. It's sorter lonesome, though, with no cat; and Miss Hathaway said she didn't want no more."
Speculating upon the departed cat's superior charms, that made substitution seem like sacrilege to Miss Hathaway, Ruth sat down for a time in the old-fashioned parlour, where the shabby haircloth furniture was ornamented with "tidies" to the last degree. There was a marble-topped centre table in the room, and a basket of wax flowers under a glass case, Mrs. Hemans's poems, another book, called The Lady's Garland, and the family Bible were carefully arranged upon it.
A hair wreath, also sheltered by glass, hung on the wall near another collection of wax flowers suitably framed. There were various portraits of people whom Miss Thorne did not know, though she was a near relative of their owner, and two tall, white china vases, decorated with gilt, flanked the mantel-shelf. The carpet, which was once of the speaking variety, had faded to the listening point. Coarse lace curtains hung from brass rings on wooden poles, and red cotton lambrequins were festooned at the top.
Hepsey came in to light the lamp that hung by chains over the table, but Miss Thorne rose, saying: "You needn't mind, Hepsey, as I am going upstairs."
"Want me to help you unpack? she asked, doubtless wishing for a view of "city clothes."
"No, thank you."
"I put a pitcher of water in your room, Miss Thorne. Is there anything else you would like?"
"Nothing more, thank you."
She still lingered, irresolute, shifting from one foot to the other. "Miss Thorne--" she began hesitatingly.
"Yes?"
"Be you--be you a lady detective?" Ruth's clear laughter rang out on the evening air. "Why, no, you foolish girl; I'm a newspaper woman, and I've earned a rest--that's all. You mustn't read books with yellow covers."
Hepsey withdrew, muttering vague apologies, and Ruth found her at the head of the stairs when she went up to her room. "How long have you been with Miss Hathaway?" she asked.
"Five years come next June."
"Good night, Hepsey."
"Good night, Miss Thorne."
From sheer force of habit, Ruth locked her door. Her trunk was not a large one, and it did not take her long to put her simple wardrobe into the capacious closet and the dresser drawers. As she moved the empty trunk
She folded her napkin, saying: "You make the best biscuits I ever tasted, Hepsey." The girl smiled, but made no reply.
"What makes you think Miss Ainslie has anything to do with the light?" she inquired after a little.
"'Cause there wasn't no light in that winder when I first come--leastways, not as I know of--and after I'd been here a week or so, Miss Hathaway, she come back from there one day looking kinder strange. She didn't say much; but the next mornin' she goes down to town and buys that lamp, and she saws off them table legs herself. Every night since, that light's been a-goin', and she puts it out herself every mornin' before she comes downstairs."
"Perhaps she and Miss Ainslie had been talking of shipwreck, and she thought she would have a little lighthouse of her own," Miss Thorne suggested, when the silence became oppressive.
"P'raps so," rejoined Hepsey. She had become stolid again.
Ruth pushed her chair back and stood at the dining-room window a moment, looking out into the yard. The valley was in shadow, but the last light still lingered on the hill. "What's that, Hepsey?" she asked.
"What's what?"
"That--where the evergreen is coming up out of the ground, in the shape of a square."
"That's the cat's grave, mum. She died jest afore Miss Hathaway went away, and she planted the evergreen."
"I thought something was lacking," said Ruth, half to herself.
"Do you want a kitten, Miss Thorne?" inquired Hepsey, eagerly. "I reckon I can get you one--Maltese or white, just as you like."
"No, thank you, Hepsey; I don't believe I'll import any pets."
"Jest as you say, mum. It's sorter lonesome, though, with no cat; and Miss Hathaway said she didn't want no more."
Speculating upon the departed cat's superior charms, that made substitution seem like sacrilege to Miss Hathaway, Ruth sat down for a time in the old-fashioned parlour, where the shabby haircloth furniture was ornamented with "tidies" to the last degree. There was a marble-topped centre table in the room, and a basket of wax flowers under a glass case, Mrs. Hemans's poems, another book, called The Lady's Garland, and the family Bible were carefully arranged upon it.
A hair wreath, also sheltered by glass, hung on the wall near another collection of wax flowers suitably framed. There were various portraits of people whom Miss Thorne did not know, though she was a near relative of their owner, and two tall, white china vases, decorated with gilt, flanked the mantel-shelf. The carpet, which was once of the speaking variety, had faded to the listening point. Coarse lace curtains hung from brass rings on wooden poles, and red cotton lambrequins were festooned at the top.
Hepsey came in to light the lamp that hung by chains over the table, but Miss Thorne rose, saying: "You needn't mind, Hepsey, as I am going upstairs."
"Want me to help you unpack? she asked, doubtless wishing for a view of "city clothes."
"No, thank you."
"I put a pitcher of water in your room, Miss Thorne. Is there anything else you would like?"
"Nothing more, thank you."
She still lingered, irresolute, shifting from one foot to the other. "Miss Thorne--" she began hesitatingly.
"Yes?"
"Be you--be you a lady detective?" Ruth's clear laughter rang out on the evening air. "Why, no, you foolish girl; I'm a newspaper woman, and I've earned a rest--that's all. You mustn't read books with yellow covers."
Hepsey withdrew, muttering vague apologies, and Ruth found her at the head of the stairs when she went up to her room. "How long have you been with Miss Hathaway?" she asked.
"Five years come next June."
"Good night, Hepsey."
"Good night, Miss Thorne."
From sheer force of habit, Ruth locked her door. Her trunk was not a large one, and it did not take her long to put her simple wardrobe into the capacious closet and the dresser drawers. As she moved the empty trunk