XV. The Secret and the Dream
Ruth easily became accustomed to the quiet life at Miss Ainslie's, andgradually lost all desire to go back to the city. "You're spoiling me,"she said, one day. "I don't want to go back to town, I don't want towork, I don't want to do anything but sit still and look at you. Ididn't know I was so lazy."
"You're not lazy, dear," answered Miss Ainslie, "you were tired, and youdidn't know how tired you were."
Winfield practically lived there. In the morning, he sat in the garden,reading the paper, while Ruth helped about the house. She insistedupon learning to cook, and he ate many an unfamiliar dish, heroicallyproclaiming that it was good. "You must never doubt his love," MissAinslie said, "for those biscuits--well, dear, you know they were--werenot just right."
The amateur cook laughed outright at the gentle criticism. "They wereawful," she admitted, "but I'm going to keep at it until I learn how."
The upper part of the house was divided into four rooms, with windows onall sides. One of the front rooms, with north and east windows, was MissAinslie's, while the one just back of it, with south and east windows,was a sitting-room.
"I keep my prettiest things up here, dear," she explained to Ruth, "forI don't want people to think I'm crazy." Ruth caught her breath as sheentered the room, for rare tapestries hung on the walls and pricelessrugs lay on the floor. The furniture, like that downstairs, was colonialmahogany, highly polished, with here and there a chair or table offoreign workmanship. There was a cabinet, filled with rare china, amarquetry table, and a chair of teakwood, inlaid with mother of pearl.In one corner of the room was a large chest of sandal wood, inlaid withpearl and partly covered by a wonderful antique rug.
The world had seemingly given up its beauty to adorn Miss Ainslie'sroom. She had pottery from Mexico, China and Japan; strange things fromEgypt and the Nile, and all the Oriental splendour of India andPersia. Ruth wisely asked no questions, but once, as before, she saidhesitating; "they were given to me by a--a friend."
After much pleading on Ruth's part, Winfield was allowed to come to thesitting room. "He'll think I'm silly, dear," she said, flushing; but, onthe contrary, he shared Ruth's delight, and won Miss Ainslie's gratitudeby his appreciation of her treasures.
Day by day, the singular attraction grew between them. She loved Ruth,but she took him unreservedly into her heart. Ruth observed, idly, thatshe never called him "Mr. Winfield." At first she spoke of him as "yourfriend" and afterward, when he had asked her to, she yielded, with anadorable shyness, and called him Carl.
He, too, had eaten of the lotus and lost the desire to go back to town.From the hilltop they could see the yellow fields and hear the softmelody of reaping from the valley around them. He and Ruth often walkedtogether, but Miss Ainslie never would go with them. She stayed quietlyat home, as she had done for many years.
Every night, when the last train came from the city, she put a lightedcandle in her front window, using always the candlestick of solidsilver, covered with fretwork in intricate design. If Winfield wasthere, she managed to have him and Ruth in another room. At half-pastten, she took it away, sighing softly as she put out the light.
Ruth wondered, but said nothing, even to Winfield. The grain inthe valley was bound in sheaves, and the first colour came on themaples--sometimes in a delicate flush, or a flash of gold, and sometimeslike a blood-red wound.
One morning, when Miss Ainslie came downstairs, Ruth was startled atthe change in her. The quick, light step was slow and heavy, the broad,straight shoulders drooped a little, and her face, while still dimpledand fair, was subtly different. Behind her deep, violet eyes lay anunspeakable sadness and the rosy tints were gone. Her face was as pureand cold as marble, with the peace of the dead laid upon it. She seemedto have grown old in a single night.
All day she said little or nothing and would not eat. She simply satstill, looking out of the east window. "No," she said, gently, to Ruth,"nothing is the matter, deary, I'm just tired."
When Winfield came, she kept him away from Miss Ainslie without seemingto do so. "Let's go for a walk," she said. She tried to speak lightly,but there was a lump in her throat and a tightening at her heart.
They climbed the hill and took the side path which led to the woods,following it down and through the aisles of trees, to the log across thepath. Ruth was troubled and sat there some little time without speaking,then suddenly, she knew that something was wrong with Carl.
Her heart was filled with strange foreboding and she vainly tried toswallow the persistent lump in her throat. She spoke to him, gently,once or twice and he did not seem to hear. "Carl!" she cried in agony,"Carl! What is it?"
He tried to shake off the spell which lay upon him. "Nothing, darling,"he said unsteadily, with something of the old tenderness. "I'm weak--andfoolish--that's all."
"Carl! Dearest!" she cried, and then broke down, sobbing bitterly.
Her tears aroused him and he tried to soothe her. "Ruth, my darlinggirl, don't cry. We have each other, sweetheart, and it doesn'tmatter--nothing matters in the whole, wide world."
After a little, she regained her self-control.
"Come out into the sun," he said, "it's ghostly here. You don't seemreal to me, Ruth."
The mist filled her eyes again. "Don't, darling," he pleaded, "I'll tryto tell you."
They sat down on the hillside, where the sun shone brightly, and wherethey could see Miss Ainslie's house plainly. She waited, frightened andsuffering, for what seemed an eternity, before he spoke.
"Last night, Ruth," he began, "my father came to me in a dream. You knowhe died when I was about twelve years old, and last night I saw him ashe would have been if he had lived until now--something over sixty. Hishair and beard were matted and there was the most awful expression inhis eyes--it makes me shudder yet. He was in his grave clothes, dead andyet not dead. He was suffering--there was something he was trying to sayto me; something he wanted to explain. We were out here on the hill inthe moonlight and I could see Miss Ainslie's house and hear thesurf behind the cliff. All he could say to me was:'Abby--Mary--Mary--Abby--she--Mary,' over and over again. Once he said'mother.' Abby was my mother's name.
"It is terrible," he went on. "I can't understand it. There is somethingI must do, and I don't know what it is. A command is laid on me by thedead--there is some wrong for which I must atone. When I first awoke, Ithought it was a dream, but it isn't, it's real. It seems as though thatwas the real world, and this--all our love and happiness, and you, werejust dreams. I can't bear it, Ruth!"
He shuddered, and she tried to comfort him, though she was cold as amarble statue and her lips moved with difficulty. "Don't, dear," shesaid, "It was only a dream. I've had them sometimes, so vividly thatthey haunted me for days and, as you say, it seemed as if that was thereal world and this the dream. I know how you feel--those things aren'tpleasant, but there's nothing we can do. It makes one feel so helpless.The affairs of the day are largely under our control, but at night,when the body is asleep, the mind harks back to things that have beenforgotten for years. It takes a fevered fancy as a fact, and buildsupon it a whole series of disasters. It gives trivial things greatsignificance and turns life upside down. Remembering it is the worst ofall."
"There's something I can't get at, Ruth," he answered. "It's just out ofmy reach. I know it's reasonable to suppose it was a dream and that itcan be explained by natural causes, but I don't dream very often."
"I dream every night," she said. "Sometimes they're just silly, foolishthings and sometimes they're vivid and horrible realities that I can'tforget for weeks. But, surely, dear, we're not foolish enough to believein dreams?"
"No, I hope not," he replied, doubtfully.
"Let's go for a little walk," she said, "and we'll forget it."
Then she told him how changed Miss Ainslie was and how she had left her,sitting aimlessly by the window. "I don't think I'd better stay awaylong," she concluded, "she may need me."
"I won't be selfish, Ruth; we'l
l go back now. I'm sorry Miss Ainslieisn't well."
"She said she was 'just tired' but it isn't like her to be tired. Shedoesn't seem to want anybody near her, but you can sit in the gardenthis afternoon, if you'd like to, and I'll flit in and out like anindustrious butterfly. Some new books have just come, and I'll leavethem in the arbour for you."
"All right, dear, and if there's anything I can do, I hope you'll tellme."
As they approached the house, a brisk little man hurried out of the gateand went toward the village.
"Who's that?" asked Winfield.
"I don't know--some one who has brought something, probably. I trustshe's better."
Miss Ainslie seemed more like herself, as she moved about the house,dusting and putting the rooms in order, as was her wont. At noon shefried a bit of chicken for Ruth, but took nothing herself except a cupof tea.
"No, deary," she said, in answer to Ruth's anxious question, "I'm allright--don't fret about me." "Have you any pain, Miss Ainslie?"
"No, of course I haven't, you foolish child!"
She tried to smile, but her white lips quivered pitifully.
In the afternoon, when she said she was cold, Ruth made a fire in theopen fireplace, and wheeled Miss Ainslie's favourite chair in front ofit. She drew her shawl about her shoulders and leaned back.
"I'm so comfortable, now," she said drowsily; "I think I'm going tosleep, dear."
Ruth sat by her, pretending to read, but, in reality, watching herclosely, until the deep, regular breathing assured her that she wasasleep. She went out into the garden and found Winfield in the arbour.
"How's this patient?" she asked, kissing him lightly on the forehead.
"I'm all right, dearest," he answered, drawing her down beside him, "andI'm ashamed of myself because I was so foolish."
During the afternoon Ruth made frequent trips to the house, each timefinding Miss Ainslie sound asleep. It was after six o'clock when shewoke and rubbed her eyes, wonderingly.
"How long have I been asleep, Ruth?"
"All the afternoon, Miss Ainslie--do you feel better now?"
"Yes, I think I do. I didn't sleep last night, but it's been years sinceI've taken a nap in the daytime."
Ruth invited Carl to supper, and made them both sit still while sheprepared the simple meal, which, as he said, was "astonishingly good."He was quite himself again, but Miss Ainslie, though trying to assumeher old manner, had undergone a great change.
Carl helped Ruth with the dishes, saying he supposed he might as wellbecome accustomed to it, and, feeling the need of sleep, went home veryearly.
"I'm all right," he said to Ruth, as he kissed her at the door, "andyou're just the sweetest girl in the world. Good night, darling."
A chill mist came inland, and Ruth kept pine knots burning in thefireplace. They sat without other light, Miss Ainslie with her headresting upon her hand, and Ruth watching her narrowly. Now and then theyspoke aimlessly, of commonplaces.
When the last train came in, Miss Ainslie raised her eyes to the silvercandlestick that stood on the mantel and sighed.
"Shall I put the light in the window?" asked Ruth.
It was a long time before Miss Ainslie answered.
"No, deary," she said sadly, "never any more."
She was trying to hide her suffering, and Ruth's heart ached for her invain. The sound of the train died away in the distance and the firelightfaded.
"Ruth," she said, in a low voice, "I am going away."
"Away, Miss Ainslie? Where?"
"I don't know, dear--it's where we all go--'the undiscovered countryfrom whose bourne no traveller returns.' Sometimes it's a long journeyand sometimes a short one, but we all take it--alone--at the last."
Ruth's heart throbbed violently, then stood still.
"Don't!" she cried, sharply.
"I'm not afraid, dear, and I'm ready to go, even though you have made meso happy--you and he."
Miss Ainslie waited a moment, then continued, in a different tone:
"To-day the lawyer came and made my will. I haven't much--just thislittle house, a small income paid semi-annually, and my--my things. Allmy things are for you--the house and the income are for--for him."
Ruth was crying softly and Miss Ainslie went to her, laying her handcaressingly upon the bowed head. "Don't, deary," she pleaded, "don't beunhappy. I'm not afraid. I'm just going to sleep, that's all, to wakein immortal dawn. I want you and him to have my things, because I loveyou--because I've always loved you, and because I will--even afterward."
Ruth choked down her sobs, and Miss Ainslie drew her chair closer,taking the girl's cold hand in hers. That touch, so strong and gentle,that had always brought balm to her troubled spirit, did not fail in itsministry now.
"He went away," said Miss Ainslie, after a long silence, as if incontinuation of something she had said before, "and I was afraid. He hadmade many voyages in safety, each one more successful than the last, andhe always brought me beautiful things, but, this time, I knew that itwas not right for him to go."
"When he came back, we were to be married." The firelight shone on theamethyst ring as Miss Ainslie moved it on her finger. "He said that hewould have no way of writing this time, but that, if anything happened,I would know. I was to wait--as women have waited since the world began.
"Oh, Ruth, do you know what waiting means? Mine has lasted throughthirty-three interminable years. Each day, I have said: 'he will cometo-morrow.' When the last train came in, I put the light in the windowto lead him straight to me. Each day, I have made the house ready for aninvited guest and I haven't gone away, even for an hour. I couldn't bearto have him come and find no welcome waiting, and I have always wornthe colour he loved. When people have come to see me, I've always beenafraid they would stay until he came, except with you--and Carl. I wasglad to have you come to stay with me, because, lately, I have thoughtthat it would be more--more delicate than to have him find me alone. Iloved you, too, dear," she added quickly.
"I--I asked your aunt to keep the light in the window. I never told herwhy, but I think she knew, and you must tell her, dear, the next timeyou see her, that I thank her, and that she need never do it again. Ithought, if he should come in a storm, or, perhaps, sail by, on his wayto me--"
There was another long silence, then, with an effort, she went on. "Ihave been happy, for he said he wanted me to be, though sometimes it washard. As nearly as I could, I made my dream real. I have thought, forhours, of the things we would say to each other when the long years wereover and we were together again. I have dressed for his eyes alone, andloved him--perhaps you know--"
"I know, Miss Ainslie," said Ruth, softly, her own love surging in herheart, "I know."
"He loved me, Ruth," she said, lingering upon the words, "as man neverloved before. In all of God's great universe, there was never anythinglike that--even in Heaven, there can't be anything so beautiful, thoughwe have to know human love before we can understand God's. All day, Ihave dreamed of our little home together, and at night, sometimes--ofbaby lips against my breast. I could always see him plainly, but I nevercould see our--our child. I have missed that. I have had more happinessthan comes to most women, but that has been denied me."
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her lips were whiteand quivering, but there were no tears. At length she sat upright andfixed her eyes upon Ruth.
"Don't be afraid of anything," she said in a strange tone, "poverty orsickness or death, or any suffering God will let you bear together. Thatisn't love--to be afraid. There's only one thing--the years! Oh, God,the bitter, cruel, endless years!"
Miss Ainslie caught her breath and it sounded like a sob, but shebravely kept it back. "I have been happy," she said, in pitiful triumph;"I promised him that I would be, and I have kept my word. Sometimes itwas hard, but I had my dream. Lately, this last year, I have often beenafraid that--that something had happened. Thirty-three years, and youknow, dear," she added, with a quaint primness, "that I am a woman ofth
e world."
"In the world, but not of it," was on Ruth's lips, but she did not sayit.
"Still, I know it was wrong to doubt him--I couldn't, when I thought ofour last hour together, out on the hill in the moonlight. He said it wasconceivable that life might keep him from me, but death never could. Hetold me that if he died, I would know, that he would come and tell me,and that in a little while afterward, we should be together."
The dying embers cast a glow upon her face. It was almost waxen in itspurity; she seemed transfigured with the light of another world. "Lastnight, he came to me--in a dream. He is dead--he has been dead for along time. He was trying to explain something to me--I suppose he wastrying to tell me why he had not come before. He was old--an old man,Ruth, and I have always thought of him as young. He could not sayanything but my name--'Mary--Abby--Mary--Abby--' over and over again;and, once, 'mother.' I was christened 'Mary Abigail,' but I never likedthe middle name, so I dropped it; and he used to tease me sometimes bycalling me 'Abby.' And--from his saying 'mother,' I know that he, too,wherever he may be, has had that dream of--of our child."
Ruth was cold from head to foot, and her senses reeled. Every word thatWinfield had said in the morning sounded again in her ears. What was itthat went on around her, of which she had no ken? It seemed as thoughshe stood absolutely alone, in endless space, while planets swept past,out of their orbits, with all the laws of force set suddenly aside.
Miss Ainslie felt her shuddering fear. "Don't be afraid, dear," she saidagain, "everything is right. I kept my promise, and he kept his. He issuffering--he is very lonely without me; but in a little while we shallbe together."
The fire died out and left the room in darkness, broken only by the lastfitful glow. Ruth could not speak, and Miss Ainslie sat quietly in herchair. "Come," she said at last, stretching out her hand, "let's goupstairs. I have kept you up, deary, and I know you must be very tired."
The house seemed filled with a shadowy presence--something intangible,but portentous, for both good and ill. Ruth took down the heavy mass ofwhite hair and brushed it back, tying it at the neck with a ribbon, ingirlish fashion, as Miss Ainslie always did. Her night gown, of sheerestlinen, was heavy with Valenciennes lace, and where it fell back from herthroat, it revealed the flesh, exquisitely white, set in gracious curvesand womanly softness, as if by a sculptor who loved his clay.
The sweet, wholesome scent of the lavender flowers breathed from thefolds of Miss Ainslie's gown, as she stood there in the candle light,smiling, with the unearthly glow still upon her face.
"Good night, deary," she said; "you'll kiss me, won't you?"
For a moment the girl's face was buried among Miss Ainslie's laces, thentheir lips met. Ruth was trembling and she hurried away, swallowing thelump in her throat and trying to keep back the tears.
The doors were open, and there was no sound save Miss Ainslie's deepbreathing, but Ruth kept a dreary vigil till almost dawn.