Part 51

There was another long silence, then, with an effort, she went on. “I have been happy, for he said he wanted me to be, though sometimes it was hard. As nearly as I could, I made my dream real. I have thought, for hours, of the things we would say to each other when the long years were over and we were together again. I have dressed for his eyes alone, and loved him--perhaps you know--”

“I know, Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, softly, her own love surging in her heart, “I know.”

“He loved me, Ruth,” she said, lingering upon the words, “as man never loved before. In all of God's great universe, there was never anything like that--even in Heaven, there can't be anything so beautiful, though we have to know human love before we can understand God's. All day, I have dreamed of our little home together, and at night, sometimes--of baby lips against my breast. I could always see him plainly, but I never could see our--our child. I have missed that. I have had more happiness than comes to most women, but that has been denied me.”

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her lips were white and quivering, but there were no tears. At length she sat upright and fixed her eyes upon Ruth.

“Don't be afraid of anything,” she said in a strange tone, “poverty or sickness or death, or any suffering God will let you bear together. That isn'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 she bravely 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 it was hard, but I had my dream. Lately, this last year, I have often been afraid that--that something had happened. Thirty-three years, and you know, dear,” she added, with a quaint primness, “that I am a woman of the world.”

“In the world, but not of it,” was on Ruth's lips, but she did not say it.

“Still, I know it was wrong to doubt him--I couldn't, when I thought of our last hour together, out on the hill in the moonlight. He said it was conceivable that life might keep him from me, but death never could. He told 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 its purity; she seemed transfigured with the light of another world. “Last night, he came to me--in a dream. He is dead--he has been dead for a long time. He was trying to explain something to me--I suppose he was trying 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 say anything but my name--'Mary--Abby--Mary--Abby--' over and over again; and, once, 'mother.' I was christened 'Mary Abigail,' but I never liked the middle name, so I dropped it; and he used to tease me sometimes by calling 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 that Winfield had said in the morning sounded again in her ears. What was it that went on around her, of which she had no ken? It seemed as though she 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 said again, “everything is right. I kept my promise, and he kept his. He is suffering--he is very lonely without me; but in a little while we shall be together.”

The fire died out and left the room in darkness, broken only by the last fitful glow. Ruth could not speak, and Miss Ainslie sat quietly in her chair. “Come,” she said at last, stretching out her hand, “let's go upstairs. 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 of white hair and brushed it back, tying it at the neck with a ribbon, in girlish fashion, as Miss Ainslie always did. Her night gown, of sheerest linen, was heavy with Valenciennes lace, and where it fell back from her throat, it revealed the flesh, exquisitely white, set in gracious curves and womanly softness, as if by a sculptor who loved his clay.

The sweet, wholesome scent of the lavender flowers breathed from the folds 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, then their lips met. Ruth was trembling and she hurried away, swallowing the lump in her throat and trying to keep back the tears.

The doors were open, and there was no sound save Miss Ainslie's deep breathing, but Ruth kept a dreary vigil till almost dawn.

XVI. Some One Who Loved Her

The summer waned and each day, as it slipped away, took a little of Miss Ainslie's strength with it. There was neither disease nor pain--it was simply a letting go. Carl sent to the city for a physician of wide repute, but he shook his head. “There's nothing the matter with her,” he said, “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, more and more of her duties fell to Ruth. Hepsey came in every day after breakfast, 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 to begin now.” Neighbours, hearing of her illness, came to offer sympathy and 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 would not surrender her place as hostess, even though she ate nothing, and afterward a great weakness came upon her. “I don't know how I'll ever get upstairs,” she said, frightened; “it seems such a long way!”

Winfield took her in his arms and carried her up, as gently and easily as if she had been a child. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright when 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? I don't want you to go away.”

“I'll stay as long as you want me, Miss Ainslie, and Ruth will, too. We couldn't do too much for you.”

That night, as they sat in front of the fire, while Miss Ainslie slept upstairs, Ruth told him what she had said about leaving him the house and the little income and giving her the beautiful things in the house.

“Bless her sweet heart,” he said tenderly, “we don't want her things--we'd rather have her.”

“Indeed we would,” she answered quickly.

Until the middle of September she went back and forth from her own room to the sitting-room with comparative ease. They took turns bringing dainties to tempt her appetite, but, though she ate a little of everything and praised it warmly, especially if Ruth had made it, she did it, evidently, only out of consideration for them.