XVII. Dawn
As Miss Ainslie became weaker, she clung to Carl, and was neversatisfied when he was out of her sight. When she was settled in bed forthe night, he went in to sit by her and hold her hand until she droppedasleep. If she woke during the night she would call Ruth and ask wherehe was.
"He'll come over in the morning, Miss Ainslie," Ruth always said; "youknow it's night now."
"Is it?" she would ask, drowsily. "I must go to sleep, then, deary, sothat I may be quite rested and refreshed when he comes."
Her room, in contrast to the rest of the house, was almost Puritan inits simplicity. The bed and dresser were mahogany, plain, but highlypolished, and she had a mahogany rocker with a cushion of old bluetapestry. There was a simple white cover on the bed and another onthe dresser, but the walls were dead white, unrelieved by pictures ordraperies. In the east window was a long, narrow footstool, and a prayerbook and hymnal lay on the window sill, where this maiden of half acentury, looking seaward, knelt to say her prayers.
One morning, when Ruth went in, she said: "I think I won't get up thismorning, dear; I am so very tired. If Carl should come over, will yousay that I should like to see him?"
She would see no one but Carl and Ruth, and Mrs. Ball was much offendedbecause her friend did not want her to come upstairs. "Don't be harshwith her, Aunt Jane," pleaded Ruth, "you know people often have strangefancies when they are ill. She sent her love to you, and asked me to saythat she thanked you, but you need not put the light in the attic windowany more."
Mrs. Ball gazed at her niece long and earnestly. "Be you tellin' me thetruth?" she asked.
"Why, of course, Aunty."
"Then Mary Ainslie has got sense from somewheres. There ain't neverbeen no need for that lamp to set in the winder; and when she gets moresense, I reckon she'll be willin' to see her friends." With evidentrelief upon her face, Mrs. Ball departed.
But Miss Ainslie seemed quite satisfied, and each day spoke morelovingly to Ruth and Carl. He showed no signs of impatience, but spenthis days with her cheerfully. He read to her, held her hand, and toldher about the rug, the Marquise, and the Japanese lovers. At the end shewould always say, with a quiet tenderness: "and some one who loved mebrought it to me!"
"Yes, Miss Ainslie; some one who loved you. Everybody loves you; don'tyou know that?"
"Do you?" she asked once, suddenly and yet shyly.
"Indeed I do, Miss Ainslie--I love you with all my heart."
She smiled happily and her eyes filled. "Ruth," she called softly, "hesays he loves me!"
"Of course he does," said Ruth; "nobody in the wide world could helploving you."
She put out her left hand to touch Ruth, and the amethyst ring slippedoff, for her fingers were thin. She did not seem to notice when Ruthslipped it on again, and, shortly afterward, fell asleep.
That night Winfield stayed very late. "I don't want to leave you, dear,"he said to Ruth. "I'm afraid something is going to happen."
"I'm not afraid--I think you'd better go."
"Will you put a light in your window if you want me, darling?" "Yes, Iwill."
"I can see it from my room, and I'll be watching for it. If you want me,I'll come."
He awoke from an uneasy sleep with the feeling that Ruth needed him, andwas not surprised to see the light from her candle streaming out intothe darkness. He dressed hurriedly, glancing at his watch by the lightof a match. It was just three o'clock.
Ruth was waiting for him at the lower door. "Is she--is she--"
"No, she seems to be just the same, but she wants you. She's beencalling for you ever since you went away."
As they went upstairs Miss Ainslie's sweet voice came to them in pitifulpleading: "Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you!"
"I'm here, Miss Ainslie," he said, sitting down on the bed beside herand taking her hot hands in his. "What can I do for you?"
"Tell me about the rug."
With no hint of weariness in his deep, quiet voice, he told her the oldstory once more. When he had finished, she spoke again. "I can't seem toget it just right about the Japanese lovers. Were they married?"
"Yes, they were married and lived happily ever afterward--like thepeople in the fairy tales."
"That was lovely," she said, with evident satisfaction. "Do you thinkthey wanted me to have their vase?"
"I know they did. Some one who loved you brought it to you. Everybodyloves you, Miss Ainslie."
"Did the Marquise find her lover?"
"Yes, or rather, he found her."
"Did they want me to have their marquetry table?"
"Of course they did. Didn't some one who loved you bring it to you?"
"Yes," she sighed, "some one who loved me."
She sang a little, very softly, with her eyes closed. It was a quaintold-fashioned tune, with a refrain of "Hush-a-by" and he held her handuntil the song ceased and she was asleep. Then he went over to Ruth."Can't you go to sleep for a little while, dearest? I know you'retired."
"I'm never tired when I'm with you," Ruth answered, leaning upon hisarm, "and besides, I feel that this is the end."
Miss Ainslie slept for some time, then, all at once, she started as ifin terror. "Letters," she said, very distinctly, "Go!"
He went to her and tried to soothe her, but failed. "No," she saidagain, "letters--Ruth--chest."
"She wants some letters that are in the sandal wood chest," he said toRuth, and Miss Ainslie nodded. "Yes," she repeated, "letters."
Ruth went into the sitting-room, where a light was burning dimly, butthe chest was locked. "Do you know where the key is, Carl?" she asked,coming back for a moment.
"No, I don't, dear," he answered. Then he asked Miss Ainslie where thekey was, but she only murmured: "letters."
"Shall I go and help Ruth find them?"
"Yes," she said, "help--letters."
Together, they broke open the lock of the chest, while Miss Ainslie wascalling, faintly: "Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you!"
"We'd better turn the whole thing out on the floor," he said, suitingthe action to the word, then put it back against the wall, empty. "We'llhave to shake everything out, carefully," returned Ruth, "that's theonly way to find them."
Wrapped carefully in a fine linen sheet, was Miss Ainslie's weddinggown, of heavy white satin, trimmed simply with priceless Venetianpoint. They shook it out hurriedly and put it back into the chest. Therewere yards upon yards of lavender taffeta, cut into dress lengths,which they folded up and put away. Three strings of amethysts and two ofpearls slipped out of the silk as they lifted it, and there was anotherlength of lustrous white taffeta, which had changed to an ivory tint.
Four shawls of Canton crepe, three of them lavender and one ivorywhite, were put back into the chest. There were several fans, of fineworkmanship, a girdle of oxidized silver, set with amethysts and pearls,and a large marquetry box, which contained tea. "That's all the largethings," he said; "now we can look these over."
Ruth was gathering up great quantities of lace--Brussels, Pointd'Alencon, Cluny, Mechlin, Valenciennes, Duchesse and Venetian point.There was a bridal veil of the Venetian lace, evidently made to matchthat on the gown. Tiny, dried petals rustled out of the meshes, for MissAinslie's laces were laid away in lavender, like her love.
"I don't see them," she said, "yes, here they are." She gave him abundle of yellowed letters, tied with lavender ribbon. "I'll take themto her," he answered, picking up a small black case that lay on thefloor, and opening it. "Why, Ruth!" he gasped. "It's my father'spicture!"
Miss Ainslie's voice rose again in pitiful cadence. "Carl, Carl, dear!Where are you? I want you--oh, I want you!"
He hastened to her, leaving the picture in Ruth's hand. It was anambrotype, set into a case lined with purple velvet. The face wasthat of a young man, not more than twenty-five or thirty, who lookedstrangely like Winfield. The eyes, forehead and the poise of the headwere the same.
The earth trembled beneath Ruth's feet for a moment
, then, all at once,she understood. The light in the attic window, the marked paragraph inthe paper, and the death notices--why, yes, the Charles Winfield whohad married Abigail Weatherby was Miss Ainslie's lover, and Carl was hisson. "He went away!" Miss Ainslie's voice came again to Ruth, when shetold her story, with no hint of her lover's name. He went away, andsoon afterward, married Abigail Weatherby, but why? Was it love at firstsight, or did he believe that his sweetheart was dead? Then Carlwas born and the mother died. Twelve years afterward, he followedher--broken hearted. Carl had told her that his father could not bearthe smell of lavender nor the sight of any shade of purple--and MissAinslie always wore lavender and lived in the scent of it--had he cometo shrink from it through remorse?
Why was it, she wondered? Had he forgotten Miss Ainslie, or had hebeen suddenly swept off his feet by some blind whirlwind of passion? Ineither case, memory had returned to torture him a thousand fold--to makehim ashamed to face her, with his boy in his arms.
And Aunt Jane knew of the marriage, at the time, probably, and saidno word. Then she learned of Abigail Weatherby's death, and was stillsilent, hoping, perhaps, that the wanderer would come back, until shelearned that Charles Winfield, too, was dead. And still she had not toldMiss Ainslie, or, possibly, thought she knew it all till the day thatHepsey had spoken of; when she came home, looking "strange," to keep thelight in the attic window every night for more than five years.
Was it kind? Ruth doubted for a moment, then her heart softened withlove for Aunt Jane, who had hidden the knowledge that would be a deathblow to Miss Ainslie, and let her live on, happy in her dream, while thestern Puritan conscience made her keep the light in the attic window infulfilment of her promise.
As if the little light could reach the veil which hangs between usand Eternity, or penetrate the greyness which never parts save for apassage! As if all Miss Ainslie's love and faith could bring the dead tolife again, even to be forgiven!
Her lips quivered when she thought of Miss Ainslie's tenderness for Carland the little whispered lullabies that she sang to herself, over andover again. "She does not know," thought Ruth. "Thank God, she willnever know!"
She put the rest of the things into the chest and closed it, coveringit, as before, with the rug Miss Ainslie loved. When she went intothe other room, she was asleep again, with her cheek pillowed on theletters, while Carl sat beside her, holding her hand and pondering overthe mystery he could not explain. Ruth's heart ached for those two, sostrangely brought together, who had but this little hour to atone for alifetime of loss.
The first faint lines of light came into the eastern sky. Ruth stood bythe window, watching the colour come on the grey above the hill, whiletwo or three stars still shone dimly. The night lamp flickered, thenwent out. She set it in the hall and came back to the window.
As Miss Ainslie's rug had been woven, little by little, purple, crimson,and turquoise, gleaming with inward fires, shone upon the clouds.Carl came over to Ruth, putting his arm around her. They watched ittogether--that miracle which is as old as the world, and yet ever new."I don't see--" he began.
"Hush, dear," Ruth whispered, "I know, and I'll tell you some time, butI don't want her to know."
The sky brightened slowly, and the intense colour came into the roomwith the light. Ruth drew the curtains aside, saying, in a low tone,"it's beautiful, isn't it?"
There was a sudden movement in the room and they turned, to see MissAinslie sitting up, her cheeks flushed, and the letters scattered aroundher. The ribbon had slipped away, and her heavy white hair fell over hershoulders. Ruth went to her, to tie it back again, but she put her away,very gently, without speaking.
Carl stood by the window, thinking, and Miss Ainslie's eyes rested uponhim, with wonder and love. The sunrise stained her white face and hereyes shone brightly, as sapphires touched with dawn. The first ray ofthe sun came into the little room and lay upon her hair, changing itswhiteness to gleaming silver. Then all at once her face illumined, asfrom a light within.
Carl moved away from the window, strangely drawn toward her, and herface became radiant with unspeakable joy. Then the passion of her deniedmotherhood swelled into a cry of longing--"My son!"
"Mother!" broke from his lips in answer He went to her blindly, knowingonly that they belonged to each other, and that, in some inscrutableway, they had been kept apart until it was too late. He took her intohis arms, holding her close, and whispering, brokenly, what only she andGod might hear! Ruth turned away, sobbing, as if it was something tooholy for her to see.
Miss Ainslie, transfigured with unearthly light, lifted her face to his.Her lips quivered for an instant, then grew cold beneath his own. Shesank back among the pillows, with her eyes closed, but with yet anotherglory upon the marble whiteness of her face, as though at the end of herjourney, and beyond the mists that divided them, her dream had becomedivinely true.
Then he, who should have been her son, bent down, the tears fallingunheeded upon her face, and kissed her again.
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