XVI. Some One Who Loved Her
The summer waned and each day, as it slipped away, took a little of MissAinslie's strength with it. There was neither disease nor pain--itwas simply a letting go. Carl sent to the city for a physician of widerepute, but he shook his head. "There's nothing the matter with her," hesaid, "but she doesn't want to live. Just keep her as happy as you can."
For a time she went about the house as usual, but, gradually, moreand more of her duties fell to Ruth. Hepsey came in every day afterbreakfast, and again in the late afternoon.
Ruth tried to get her to go out for a drive, but she refused. "No,deary," she said, smiling, "I've never been away, and I'm too old tobegin now." Neighbours, hearing of her illness, came to offer sympathyand help, but she would see none of them--not even Aunt Jane.
One night, she sat at the head of the table as usual; for she wouldnot surrender her place as hostess, even though she ate nothing, andafterward a great weakness came upon her. "I don't know how I'll everget upstairs," she said, frightened; "it seems such a long way!"
Winfield took her in his arms and carried her up, as gently and easilyas if she had been a child. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brightwhen he put her down. "I never thought it would be so easy," she said,in answer to his question. "You'll stay with me, won't you, Carl? Idon't want you to go away."
"I'll stay as long as you want me, Miss Ainslie, and Ruth will, too. Wecouldn't do too much for you."
That night, as they sat in front of the fire, while Miss Ainslie sleptupstairs, Ruth told him what she had said about leaving him the houseand the little income and giving her the beautiful things in the house.
"Bless her sweet heart," he said tenderly, "we don't want herthings--we'd rather have her."
"Indeed we would," she answered quickly.
Until the middle of September she went back and forth from her own roomto the sitting-room with comparative ease. They took turns bringingdainties to tempt her appetite, but, though she ate a little ofeverything and praised it warmly, especially if Ruth had made it, shedid it, evidently, only out of consideration for them.
She read a little, talked a little, and slept a great deal. One day sheasked Carl to pull the heavy sandal wood chest over near her chair, andgive her the key, which hung behind a picture.
"Will you please go away now," she asked, with a winning smile, "forjust a little while?"
He put the bell on a table within her reach and asked her to ring if shewanted anything. The hours went by and there was no sound. At last hewent up, very quietly, and found her asleep. The chest was locked andthe key was not to be found. He did not know whether she had opened itor not, but she let him put it in its place again, without a word.
Sometimes they read to her, and she listened patiently, occasionallyasking a question, but more often falling asleep.
"I wish," she said one day, when she was alone with Carl, "that I couldhear something you had written."
"Why, Miss Ainslie," he exclaimed, in astonishment, "you wouldn't beinterested 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 inhearing Winfield talk about her treasures.
"Won't you tell me about the rug, Carl, the one on the sandal woodchest?" 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 flowersand 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 bythe Eastern sea, berries, deep-sea treasures, vine leaves, the juice ofthe grape--they all made colours for the rug, and then ripened, like oldwine.
"After a long time, when everything was ready, the Master Craftsmanmade the design, writing strange symbols into the margin, eloquent withhidden meanings, that only the wisest may understand. "They all workedupon it, men and women and children. Deep voices sang love songs and themelody was woven into the rug. Soft eyes looked love in answer and thesoftness and beauty went in with the fibre. Baby fingers clutched at itand were laughingly untangled. At night, when the fires of the villagewere lighted, and the crimson glow was reflected upon it, strange talesof love and war were mingled with the thread. "The nightingale sang intoit, the roses from Persian gardens breathed upon it, the moonlight putwitchery into it; the tinkle of the gold and silver on the women's duskyankles, the scent of sandal wood and attar of rose--it all went into therug.
"Poets repeated their verses to it, men knelt near it to say theirprayers, and the soft wind, rising from the sea, made faintest musicamong the threads.
"Sometimes a workman made a mistake, and the Master Craftsman put himaside. Often, the patient fingers stopped weaving forever, and theyfound some one else to go on with it. Sometimes they went from one placeto another, but the frame holding the rug was not injured. From mountainto valley and back again, urged by some strange instinct, past flowingrivers and over the golden sands of the desert, even to the deep bluewaters that broke on the shore--they took the rug.
"The hoof-beats of Arabian horses, with white-robed Bedouins flashingtheir 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 dyingwarrior, even the slow marches of defeat--it all went into the rug.
"Perhaps the Master Craftsman died, but the design was left, and willingfingers toiled upon it, through the long years, each day putting newbeauty 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, andwondered 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 aboutthis," she pleaded, touching a vase of Cloisonne.
"It came from Japan," he said, "a strange world of people like thosepainted on a fan. The streets are narrow and there are quaint houses oneither side. The little ladies flit about in gay attire, like so manybutterflies--they wear queer shoes on their dainty feet. They're assweet as their own cherry blossoms.
"The little man who made this vase, wore a blue tunic and had no robesof state, because he was poor. He loved the daughter of a nobleman andshe loved him, too, though neither dared to say so. So he sat in frontof his house and worked on this vase. He made a model of clay, shapingit with his fingers until it was perfect. Then a silver vase was castfrom it and over and over it he went, very carefully, making a designwith flat, silver wire. When he was satisfied with it, he filled itin with enamel in wonderful colours, making even the spots on thebutterflies' wings like those he had seen in the fields. Outside thedesign, he covered the vase with dark enamel, so the bright colourswould show.
"As he worked, the little lady he loved came and watched him sometimesfor a moment or two, and then he put a tiny bit of gold into the vase.He put a flower into the design, like those she wore in her hair, andthen another, like the one she dropped at his feet one day, when no onewas looking.
"The artist put all his love into the vase, and he hoped that when itwas done, he could obtain a Court position. He was very patient with thecountless polishings, and one afternoon, when the air was sweet with theodour of the cherry blossoms, the last touches were put upon it.
"It was so beautiful that he was commissioned to make some great vasesfor the throne room, and then, with joy in his heart, he sought the handof the nobleman's daughter.
"The negotiations were conducted by another person, and she was forcedto consent, though her heart ached for the artist in the blue tunic,whose name she did not know. When she learned that her husband was to bethe man she had loved for so long, tears of happiness c
ame into her darkeyes.
"The vase had disappeared, mysteriously, and he offered a large rewardfor its recovery. At last they were compelled to give up the hope offinding it, and he promised to make her another one, just like it, withthe same flowers and butterflies and even the little glints of gold thatmarked the days she came. So she watched him, while he made the new one,and even more love went into it than into the first one."
"And--" began Miss Ainslie.
"Some one who loved you brought it to you."
"Yes," she repeated, smiling, "some one who loved me."
Winfield fitted a story to every object in the room. Each rug had adifferent history and every bit of tapestry its own tale. He conjured upan Empress who had once owned the teakwood chair, and a Marquise, withpatches and powdered hair, who wrote love letters at the marquetrytable.
He told stories of the sea shells, and of the mermaids who brought themto the shore, that some one who loved her might take them to her, andthat the soft sound of the sea might always come to her ears, withvisions of blue skies and tropic islands, where the sun forever shone.
The Empress and the Marquise became real people to Miss Ainslie, and theJapanese lovers seemed to smile at her from the vase. Sometimes, holdingthe rug on her lap, she would tell them how it was woven, and repeat thelove story of a beautiful woman who had worked upon the tapestry. Often,in the twilight, she would sing softly to herself, snatches of forgottenmelodies, and, once, a lullaby. Ruth and Carl sat by, watching for theslightest change, but she never spoke of the secret in her heart.
Ruth had the north room, across the hall, where there were two dressers.One of them had been empty, until she put her things into it, and theother was locked. She found the key, one day, hanging behind it, whenshe needed some things for Miss Ainslie.
As she had half expected, the dresser was full of lingerie, of thefinest lawn and linen. The dainty garments were edged with reallace--Brussels, Valenciennes, Mechlin, Point d'Alencon, and the fineIrish laces. Sometimes there was a cluster of tucks, daintily run byhand, but, usually, only the lace, unless there was a bit of insertionto match. The buttons were mother of pearl, and the button holes wereexquisitely made. One or two of the garments were threaded withwhite ribbon, after a more modern fashion, but most of them were madeaccording to the quaint old patterns. There was a dozen of everything.
The dried lavender flowers rustled faintly as Ruth reverently lifted thegarments, giving out the long-stored sweetness of Summers gone by. Thewhite had changed to an ivory tint, growing deeper every day. Therewere eleven night gowns, all made exactly alike, with high neck and longsleeves, trimmed with tucks and lace. Only one was in any way elaborate.The sleeves were short, evidently just above the elbow, and the neck wascut off the shoulders like a ball gown. A deep frill of Venetian point,with narrower lace at the sleeves, of the same pattern, was the onlytrimming, except a tiny bow of lavender ribbon at the fastening, pinnedon with a little gold heart.
When Ruth went in, with one of the night gowns over her arm, a faintcolour came into Miss Ainslie's cheeks.
"Did--did--you find those?" she asked.
"Yes," answered Ruth, "I thought you'd like to wear them."
Miss Ainslie's colour faded and it was some time before she spoke again.
"Did--did you find the other--the one with Venetian point?" "Yes, MissAinslie, do you want that one It's beautiful."
"No," she said, "not now, but I thought that I'd like to wearthat--afterward, you know."
A shadow crossed Ruth's face and her lips tightened.
"Don't, dear," said Miss Ainslie, gently.
"Do you think he would think it was indelicate if--if my neck were barethen?"
"Who, Miss Ainslie?"
"Carl. Would he think it was wrong if I wore that afterward, and my neckand shoulders showed? Do you think he would?"
"No!" cried Ruth, "I know he wouldn't! Oh, Miss Ainslie, you break myheart!"
"Ruth," said Miss Ainslie, gently; "Ruth, dear, don't cry! I won't talkabout it any more, deary, I promise you, but I wanted to know so much!"
Ruth kissed her and went away, unable to bear more just then. Shebrought her chair into the hall, to be near her if she were needed. MissAinslie sighed, and then began to croon a lullaby.