III. Miss Ainslie
Ruth began to feel a lively interest in her Aunt Jane, and to regretthat she had not arrived in time to make her acquaintance. She knew thatMiss Hathaway was three or four years younger than Mrs. Thorne wouldhave been, had she lived, and that a legacy had recently come to herfrom an old friend, but that was all, aside from the discoveries in theattic.
She contemplated the crayon portraits in the parlour and hoped she wasnot related to any of them. In the family album she found no woman whomshe would have liked for an aunt, but was determined to know the worst.
"Is Miss Hathaway's picture here, Hepsey?" she asked.
"No'm. Miss Hathaway, she wouldn't have her picter in the parlour,nohow. Some folks does, but Miss Hathaway says't'aint modest."
"I think she's right, Hepsey," laughed Ruth, "though I never thought ofit in just that way. I'll have to wait until she comes home."
In the afternoon she donned the short skirt and heavy shoes of her"office rig," and started down hill to explore the village. It was aday to tempt one out of doors,--cool and bright, with that indefinablecrispness which belongs to Spring.
The hill rose sheer from the highlands, which sloped to the river on theleft, as she went down, and on the right to the forest. A side path intothe woods made her hesitate for a moment, but she went straight on.
It was the usual small town, which nestles at the foot of a hill andeventually climbs over it, through the enterprise of its wealthierresidents, but, save for Miss Hathaway's house, the enterprise had not,as yet, become evident. At the foot of the hill, on the left, was MissAinslie's house and garden, and directly opposite, with the width of thehill between them, was a brown house, with a lawn, but no garden exceptthat devoted to vegetables.
As she walked through the village, stopping to look at the display ofmerchandise in the window of the single shop, which was also post-officeand grocery, she attracted a great deal of respectful attention, for,in this community, strangers were an event. Ruth reflected that theshop had only to grow to about fifty times its present size in order tobecome a full-fledged department store and bring upon the town the rankand dignity of a metropolis.
When she turned her face homeward, she had reached the foot of the hillbefore she realised that the first long walk over country roads was hardfor one accustomed to city pavements. A broad, flat stone offeredan inviting resting-place, and she sat down, in the shadow of MissAinslie's hedge, hoping Joe would pass in time to take her to the topof the hill. The hedge was high and except for the gate the garden wassecluded.
"I seem to get more tired every minute," she thought. "I wonder if I'vegot the rheumatism."
She scanned the horizon eagerly for the dilapidated conveyance which shehad once both feared and scorned. No sound could have been more welcomethan the rumble of those creaking wheels, nor any sight more pleasingthan the conflicting expressions in "Mamie's" single useful eye. She satthere a long time, waiting for deliverance, but it did not come.
"I'll get an alpenstock," she said to herself, as she rose, wearily, andtried to summon courage to start. Then the gate clicked softly and thesweetest voice in the world said: "My dear, you are tired--won't youcome in?"
Turning, she saw Miss Ainslie, smiling graciously. In a moment she hadexplained that she was Miss Hathaway's niece and that she would be veryglad to come in for a few moments.
"Yes," said the sweet voice again, "I know who you are. Your aunt toldme all about you and I trust we shall be friends."
Ruth followed her up the gravelled path to the house, and into theparlour, where a wood fire blazed cheerily upon the hearth. "It isso damp this time of year," she went on, "that I like to keep my fireburning."
While they were talking, Ruth's eyes rested with pleasure upon herhostess. She herself was tall, but Miss Ainslie towered above her. Shewas a woman of poise and magnificent bearing, and she had the composurewhich comes to some as a right and to others with long social training.
Her abundant hair was like spun silver--it was not merely white, but itshone. Her skin was as fresh and fair as a girl's, and when she smiled,one saw that her teeth were white and even; but the great charm of herface was her eyes. They were violet, so deep in colour as to seem almostblack in certain lights, and behind them lay an indescribable somethingwhich made Ruth love her instinctively. She might have been forty, orseventy, but she was beautiful, with the beauty that never fades.
At intervals, not wishing to stare, Ruth glanced around the room. Havingonce seen the woman, one could not fail to recognise her house, forit suited her. The floors were hardwood, highly polished, and partlycovered with rare Oriental rugs. The walls were a soft, dark green,bearing no disfiguring design, and the windows were draped with net,edged with Duchesse lace. Miss Hathaway's curtains hung straight to thefloor, but Miss Ainslie's were tied back with white cord.
The furniture was colonial mahogany, unspoiled by varnish, and rubbeduntil it shone.
"You have a beautiful home," said Ruth, during a pause.
"Yes," she replied, "I like it."
"You have a great many beautiful things."
"Yes," she answered softly, "they were given to me by a--a friend."
"She must have had a great many," observed Ruth, admiring one of therugs.
A delicate pink suffused Miss Ainslie's face. "My friend," she said,with quiet dignity, "is a seafaring gentleman."
That explained the rugs, Ruth thought, and the vase, of finestCloisonne, which stood upon the mantel-shelf. It accounted also for thebertha of Mechlin lace, which was fastened to Miss Ainslie's gown, oflavender cashmere, by a large amethyst inlaid with gold and surroundedby baroque pearls.
For some little time, they talked of Miss Hathaway and her travels. "Itold her she was too old to go," said Miss Ainslie,. smiling, "but sheassured me that she could take care of herself, and I think she can.Even if she couldn't, she is perfectly safe. These 'personally conducted'parties are by far the best, if one goes alone, for the first time."
Ruth knew that, but she was surprised, nevertheless. "Won't you tell meabout my aunt, Miss Ainslie?" she asked. "You know I've never seen her."
"Why, yes, of course I will! Where shall I begin?"
"At the beginning," answered Ruth, with a little laugh.
"The beginning is very far away, deary," said Miss Ainslie, and Ruthfancied she heard a sigh. "She came here long before I did, and we weregirls together. She lived in the old house at the top of the hill, withher father and mother, and I lived here with mine. We were very intimatefor a long time, and then we had a quarrel, about something that wasso silly and foolish that I cannot even remember what it was. For fiveyears--no, for almost six, we passed each other like strangers, becauseeach was too proud and stubborn to yield. But death, and trouble,brought us together again."
"Who spoke first," asked Ruth, much interested, "you or Aunt Jane?"
"It was I, of course. I don't believe she would have done it. She wasalways stronger than I, and though I can't remember the cause of thequarrel, I can feel the hurt to my pride, even at this day."
"I know," answered Ruth, quickly, "something of the same kind oncehappened to me, only it wasn't pride that held me back--it was justplain stubbornness. Sometimes I am conscious of two selves--one of meis a nice, polite person that I'm really fond of, and the other is socontrary and so mulish that I'm actually afraid of her. When the twocome in conflict, the stubborn one always wins. I'm sorry, but I can'thelp it."
"Don't you think we're all like that?" asked Miss Ainslie, readilyunderstanding. "I do not believe any one can have strength of characterwithout being stubborn. To hold one's position in the face of obstacles,and never be tempted to yield--to me, that seems the very foundation."
"Yes, but to be unable to yield when you know you should--that's awful."
"Is it?" inquired Miss Ainslie, with quiet amusement.
"Ask Aunt Jane," returned Ruth, laughing. "I begin to perceive ourdefinite relationship."
Miss Ainsl
ie leaned forward to put another maple log on the fire. "Tellme more about Aunt Jane," Ruth suggested. "I'm getting to be somebody'srelative, instead of an orphan, stranded on the shore of the world."
"She's hard to analyse," began the older woman. "I have never beenable to reconcile her firmness with her softness. She's as hard as NewEngland granite, but I think she wears it like a mask. Sometimes, onesees through. She scolds me very often, about anything that occurs toher, but I never pay any attention to it. She says I shouldn't live hereall alone, and that I deserve to have something dreadful happen to me,but she had all the trees cut down that stood on the hill betweenher window and mine, and had a key made to my lower door, and mademe promise that if I was ill at any time, I would put a signal in mywindow--a red shawl in the daytime and a light at night. I hadn't anyred shawl and she gave me hers.
"One night--I shall never forget it--I had a terrible attack ofneuralgia, during the worst storm I have ever known. I didn't evenknow that I put the light in the window--I was so beside myself withpain--but she came, at two o'clock in the morning, and stayed with meuntil I was all right again. She was so gentle and so tender--I shallalways love her for that."
The sweet voice vibrated with feeling, and Ruth's thoughts flew tothe light in the attic window, but, no--it could not be seen from MissAinslie's. "What does Aunt Jane look like?" she asked, after a pause.
"I haven't a picture, except one that was taken a long time ago, butI'll get that." She went upstairs and returned, presently, putting anold-fashioned ambrotype into Ruth's hand.
The velvet-lined case enshrined Aunt Jane in the bloom of her youth. Itwas a young woman of twenty or twenty-five, seated in a straight-backedchair, with her hands encased in black lace mitts and folded in the lapof her striped silk gown. The forehead was high, protruding slightly,the eyes rather small, and very dark, the nose straight, and thelittle chin exceedingly firm and determined. There was an expression ofmaidenly wistfulness somewhere, which Ruth could not definitely locate,but there was no hint of it in the chin.
"Poor little Aunt Jane," said Ruth. "Life never would be easy for her."
"No," returned Miss Ainslie, "but she would not let anyone know."
Ruth strolled over to the window, thinking that she must be going,and Miss Ainslie still held the picture in her hand. "She had a lover,didn't she?" asked Ruth, idly.
"I-I-think so," answered the other, unwillingly. "You remember wequarrelled."
A young man stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Miss Ainslie'shouse, and then at the brown one across the hill. From her positionin the window, Ruth saw him plainly. He hesitated a moment, then wenttoward the brown house. She noted that he was a stranger--there was nosuch topcoat in the village.
"Was his name Winfield?" she asked suddenly, then instantly hatedherself for the question.
The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainslie stooped to pick it up andRuth did not see her face. "Perhaps," she said, in a strange tone, "butI never have asked a lady the name of her friend."
Gentle as it was, Ruth felt the rebuke keenly. An apology was on herlips, but only her flushed cheeks betrayed any emotion. Miss Ainslie'sface was pale, and there was unmistakable resentment in her eyes.
"I must go," Ruth said, after an awkward silence, and in an instant MissAinslie was herself again.
"No-you mustn't go, deary. You haven't seen my garden yet. I haveplanted all the seeds and some of them are coming up. Isn't it beautifulto see things grow?"
"It is indeed," Ruth assented, forgetting the momentary awkwardness,"and I have lived for a long time where I have seen nothing grow but cartracks and high buildings. May I come again and see your garden?"
"I shall be so glad to have you," replied Miss Ainslie, with a quaintstateliness. "I have enjoyed your visit so much and I hope you will comeagain very soon."
"Thank you--I will."
Her hostess had opened the door for her, but Ruth stood in the hall,waiting, in obedience to some strange impulse. Then she stepped outside,but something held her back-something that lay unspoken between them.Those unfathomable eyes were fixed upon her, questioning, pleading, andsearching her inmost soul.
Ruth looked at her, wondering, and striving to answer the mute appeal.Then Miss Ainslie laid her hand upon her arm. "My dear," she asked,earnestly, "do you light the lamp in the attic window every night?"
"Yes, I do, Miss Ainslie," she answered, quickly.
The older woman caught her breath, as if in relief, and then the deepcrimson flooded her face.
"Hepsey told me and Aunt Jane left a letter about it," Ruth continued,hastily, "and I am very glad to do it. It would be dreadful to have aship wrecked, almost at our door."
"Yes," sighed Miss Ainslie, her colour receding, "I have often thoughtof 'those who go down to the sea in ships.' It is so terrible, andsometimes, when I hear the surf beating against the cliff, I--I amafraid."
Ruth climbed the hill, interested, happy, yet deeply disturbed. MissAinslie's beautiful, changing face seemed to follow her, and theexquisite scent of the lavender, which had filled the rooms, clung toher senses like a benediction.
Hepsey was right, and unquestionably Miss Ainslie had something to dowith the light; but no deep meaning lay behind it--so much was certain.She had lived alone so long that she had grown to have a great fear ofshipwreck, possibly on account of her friend, the "seafaring gentleman,"and had asked Miss Hathaway to put the light in the window--that wasall.
Ruth's reason was fully satisfied, but something else was not. "I'm notgoing to think about it any more," she said to herself, resolutely, andthought she meant it.
She ate her dinner with the zest of hunger, while Hepsey noiselesslyserved her. "I have been to Miss Ainslie's, Hepsey," she said at length,not wishing to appear unsociable.
The maid's clouded visage cleared for an instant. "Did you find outabout the lamp?" she inquired, eagerly.
"No, I didn't, Hepsey; but I'll tell you what I think. Miss Ainslie hasread a great deal and has lived alone so much that she has become verymuch afraid of shipwreck. You know all of us have some one fear. Forinstance, I am terribly afraid of green worms, though a green worm hasnever harmed me. I think she asked Miss Hathaway to put the lamp in thewindow, and possibly told her of something she had read which made herfeel that she should have done it before."
Hepsey's face took on its old, impenetrable calm.
"Don't you think so?" asked Miss Thorne, after a long pause.
"Yes'm."
"It's all very reasonable, isn't it?"
"Yes'm."
In spite of the seeming assent, she knew that Hepsey was not convinced;and afterward, when she came into the room with the attic lamp and a boxof matches, the mystery returned to trouble Ruth again.
"If I don't take up tatting," she thought, as she went upstairs, "orfind something else to do, I'll be a meddling old maid inside of sixmonths."