Lavender and Old Lace [60]
to be found. He did not know whether she had opened it or not, but she let him put it in its place again, without a word.
Sometimes they read to her, and she listened patiently, occasionally asking a question, but more often falling asleep.
"I wish," she said one day, when she was alone with Carl, "that I could hear something you had written."
"Why, Miss Ainslie," he exclaimed, in astonishment, "you wouldn't be interested in the things I write--it's only newspaper stuff."
"Yes, I would," she answered softly; "yes, I would."
Something in the way she said it brought the mist to his eyes.
She liked to have Ruth brush her hair, but her greatest delight was in hearing Winfield talk about her treasures.
"Won't you tell me about the rug, Carl, the one on the sandal wood chest?" she asked, for the twentieth time.
"It's hundreds of years old," he began, "and it came from Persia, far, far beyond the sea. The shepherds watched their flocks night and day, and saved the finest fleeces for the rug. They made colour from flowers and sweet herbs; from strange things that grew on the mountain heights, where only the bravest dared to go. The sumac that flamed on the hills, the rind of the swaying pomegranates, lichens that grew on the rocks by the Eastern sea, berries, deep-sea treasures, vine leaves, the juice of the grape--they all made colours for the rug, and then ripened, like old wine.
"After a long time, when everything was ready, the Master Craftsman made the design, writing strange symbols into the margin, eloquent with hidden meanings, that only the wisest may understand. "They all worked upon it, men and women and children. Deep voices sang love songs and the melody was woven into the rug. Soft eyes looked love in answer and the softness and beauty went in with the fibre. Baby fingers clutched at it and were laughingly untangled. At night, when the fires of the village were lighted, and the crimson glow was reflected upon it, strange tales of love and war were mingled with the thread. "The nightingale sang into it, the roses from Persian gardens breathed upon it, the moonlight put witchery into it; the tinkle of the gold and silver on the women's dusky ankles, the scent of sandal wood and attar of rose--it all went into the rug.
"Poets repeated their verses to it, men knelt near it to say their prayers, and the soft wind, rising from the sea, made faintest music among the threads.
"Sometimes a workman made a mistake, and the Master Craftsman put him aside. Often, the patient fingers stopped weaving forever, and they found some one else to go on with it. Sometimes they went from one place to another, but the frame holding the rug was not injured. From mountain to valley and back again, urged by some strange instinct, past flowing rivers and over the golden sands of the desert, even to the deep blue waters that broke on the shore--they took the rug.
"The hoof-beats of Arabian horses, with white-robed Bedouins flashing their swords; all the glitter and splendour of war were woven into it. Songs of victory, the rush of a cavalry charge, the faith of a dying warrior, even the slow marches of defeat--it all went into the rug.
"Perhaps the Master Craftsman died, but the design was left, and willing fingers toiled upon it, through the long years, each day putting new beauty into it and new dreams. Then, one day, the final knot was tied, by a Veiled Lady, who sighed softly in the pauses of her song, and wondered at its surpassing loveliness." "And--" said Miss Ainslie, gently.
"Some one who loved you brought it to you."
"Yes," she repeated, smiling, "some one who loved me. Tell me about this," she pleaded, touching a vase of Cloisonne.
"It came from Japan," he said, "a strange world of people like those painted on a fan. The streets are narrow and there are quaint houses on either side. The little ladies flit about in gay attire, like so many butterflies--they wear queer shoes on their dainty feet. They're as sweet as their own cherry blossoms.
"The little man who made this vase, wore
Sometimes they read to her, and she listened patiently, occasionally asking a question, but more often falling asleep.
"I wish," she said one day, when she was alone with Carl, "that I could hear something you had written."
"Why, Miss Ainslie," he exclaimed, in astonishment, "you wouldn't be interested in the things I write--it's only newspaper stuff."
"Yes, I would," she answered softly; "yes, I would."
Something in the way she said it brought the mist to his eyes.
She liked to have Ruth brush her hair, but her greatest delight was in hearing Winfield talk about her treasures.
"Won't you tell me about the rug, Carl, the one on the sandal wood chest?" she asked, for the twentieth time.
"It's hundreds of years old," he began, "and it came from Persia, far, far beyond the sea. The shepherds watched their flocks night and day, and saved the finest fleeces for the rug. They made colour from flowers and sweet herbs; from strange things that grew on the mountain heights, where only the bravest dared to go. The sumac that flamed on the hills, the rind of the swaying pomegranates, lichens that grew on the rocks by the Eastern sea, berries, deep-sea treasures, vine leaves, the juice of the grape--they all made colours for the rug, and then ripened, like old wine.
"After a long time, when everything was ready, the Master Craftsman made the design, writing strange symbols into the margin, eloquent with hidden meanings, that only the wisest may understand. "They all worked upon it, men and women and children. Deep voices sang love songs and the melody was woven into the rug. Soft eyes looked love in answer and the softness and beauty went in with the fibre. Baby fingers clutched at it and were laughingly untangled. At night, when the fires of the village were lighted, and the crimson glow was reflected upon it, strange tales of love and war were mingled with the thread. "The nightingale sang into it, the roses from Persian gardens breathed upon it, the moonlight put witchery into it; the tinkle of the gold and silver on the women's dusky ankles, the scent of sandal wood and attar of rose--it all went into the rug.
"Poets repeated their verses to it, men knelt near it to say their prayers, and the soft wind, rising from the sea, made faintest music among the threads.
"Sometimes a workman made a mistake, and the Master Craftsman put him aside. Often, the patient fingers stopped weaving forever, and they found some one else to go on with it. Sometimes they went from one place to another, but the frame holding the rug was not injured. From mountain to valley and back again, urged by some strange instinct, past flowing rivers and over the golden sands of the desert, even to the deep blue waters that broke on the shore--they took the rug.
"The hoof-beats of Arabian horses, with white-robed Bedouins flashing their swords; all the glitter and splendour of war were woven into it. Songs of victory, the rush of a cavalry charge, the faith of a dying warrior, even the slow marches of defeat--it all went into the rug.
"Perhaps the Master Craftsman died, but the design was left, and willing fingers toiled upon it, through the long years, each day putting new beauty into it and new dreams. Then, one day, the final knot was tied, by a Veiled Lady, who sighed softly in the pauses of her song, and wondered at its surpassing loveliness." "And--" said Miss Ainslie, gently.
"Some one who loved you brought it to you."
"Yes," she repeated, smiling, "some one who loved me. Tell me about this," she pleaded, touching a vase of Cloisonne.
"It came from Japan," he said, "a strange world of people like those painted on a fan. The streets are narrow and there are quaint houses on either side. The little ladies flit about in gay attire, like so many butterflies--they wear queer shoes on their dainty feet. They're as sweet as their own cherry blossoms.
"The little man who made this vase, wore