Part 53

Winfield fitted a story to every object in the room. Each rug had a different history and every bit of tapestry its own tale. He conjured up an Empress who had once owned the teakwood chair, and a Marquise, with patches and powdered hair, who wrote love letters at the marquetry table.

He told stories of the sea shells, and of the mermaids who brought them to the shore, that some one who loved her might take them to her, and that the soft sound of the sea might always come to her ears, with visions of blue skies and tropic islands, where the sun forever shone.

The Empress and the Marquise became real people to Miss Ainslie, and the Japanese lovers seemed to smile at her from the vase. Sometimes, holding the rug on her lap, she would tell them how it was woven, and repeat the love story of a beautiful woman who had worked upon the tapestry. Often, in the twilight, she would sing softly to herself, snatches of forgotten melodies, and, once, a lullaby. Ruth and Carl sat by, watching for the slightest 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 the other was locked. She found the key, one day, hanging behind it, when she needed some things for Miss Ainslie.

As she had half expected, the dresser was full of lingerie, of the finest lawn and linen. The dainty garments were edged with real lace--Brussels, Valenciennes, Mechlin, Point d'Alencon, and the fine Irish laces. Sometimes there was a cluster of tucks, daintily run by hand, but, usually, only the lace, unless there was a bit of insertion to match. The buttons were mother of pearl, and the button holes were exquisitely made. One or two of the garments were threaded with white ribbon, after a more modern fashion, but most of them were made according to the quaint old patterns. There was a dozen of everything.

The dried lavender flowers rustled faintly as Ruth reverently lifted the garments, giving out the long-stored sweetness of Summers gone by. The white had changed to an ivory tint, growing deeper every day. There were eleven night gowns, all made exactly alike, with high neck and long sleeves, trimmed with tucks and lace. Only one was in any way elaborate. The sleeves were short, evidently just above the elbow, and the neck was cut 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 only trimming, except a tiny bow of lavender ribbon at the fastening, pinned on with a little gold heart.

When Ruth went in, with one of the night gowns over her arm, a faint colour 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, Miss Ainslie, do you want that one It's beautiful.”

“No,” she said, “not now, but I thought that I'd like to wear that--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 bare then?”

“Who, Miss Ainslie?”

“Carl. Would he think it was wrong if I wore that afterward, and my neck and shoulders showed? Do you think he would?”

“No!” cried Ruth, “I know he wouldn't! Oh, Miss Ainslie, you break my heart!”

“Ruth,” said Miss Ainslie, gently; “Ruth, dear, don't cry! I won't talk about 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. She brought her chair into the hall, to be near her if she were needed. Miss Ainslie sighed, and then began to croon a lullaby.

XVII. Dawn

As Miss Ainslie became weaker, she clung to Carl, and was never satisfied when he was out of her sight. When she was settled in bed for the night, he went in to sit by her and hold her hand until she dropped asleep. If she woke during the night she would call Ruth and ask where he was.

“He'll come over in the morning, Miss Ainslie,” Ruth always said; “you know it's night now.”

“Is it?” she would ask, drowsily. “I must go to sleep, then, deary, so that I may be quite rested and refreshed when he comes.”

Her room, in contrast to the rest of the house, was almost Puritan in its simplicity. The bed and dresser were mahogany, plain, but highly polished, and she had a mahogany rocker with a cushion of old blue tapestry. There was a simple white cover on the bed and another on the dresser, but the walls were dead white, unrelieved by pictures or draperies. In the east window was a long, narrow footstool, and a prayer book and hymnal lay on the window sill, where this maiden of half a century, looking seaward, knelt to say her prayers.

One morning, when Ruth went in, she said: “I think I won't get up this morning, dear; I am so very tired. If Carl should come over, will you say that I should like to see him?”

She would see no one but Carl and Ruth, and Mrs. Ball was much offended because her friend did not want her to come upstairs. “Don't be harsh with her, Aunt Jane,” pleaded Ruth, “you know people often have strange fancies when they are ill. She sent her love to you, and asked me to say that she thanked you, but you need not put the light in the attic window any more.”

Mrs. Ball gazed at her niece long and earnestly. “Be you tellin' me the truth?” she asked.