CHAPTER 1 THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW A rickety carriage was slowly ascending the hill, and from the place of honor on the back surveyed the country with interest and admiration. The driver of the ancient chariot was an awkward young fellow, possibly twenty-five years of age, with sharp knees, large red hands, high cheekbones, and abundant hair of a shade verging upon orange. He was not unpleasant to look upon, however, for he had a certain evident honesty, and he was disposed to be friendly to everyone. Be you comfortable, miss, he asked, with apparent solicitude. Very comfortable, thank you, was the quiet response. He urged his venerable steeds to a gate of about two miles an hour, then turned sideways. Be you going to stay long, miss? All summer, I think. Do tell. The young woman smiled in listless amusement, but Joe took it for conversational encouragement. City folks is dreadful bashful when they's away from home, he said to himself. He clucked again to his unheating horses, shifted his quid, and was casting about for a new topic, when a light broke in upon him. I guess now that you're Miss Hathaway's niece, what's come to stay in her house while she goes gallivanting and traveling in fur and parts? Be into you. I am Miss Hathaway's niece, and I have never been here before. Where does she live? Up yander. He flourished the discarded fish-pole, which served as a whip, and pointed out a small white house on the brow of the hill. Reflection brought him the conviction that his remark concerning Miss Hathaway was a social mistake, since his passenger sat very straight and asked no more questions. The weary wheels creaked, but the collapse which Miss Thorn momentarily expected was mercifully postponed. Being gifted with imagination, she experienced the emotion of a wreck without bodily harm. As in a photograph, she beheld herself projected into space, followed by her suitcase, felt her new hat wrenched from her head, and saw hopeless gravel stains upon the tailored gown which was the pride of her heart. She thought a sprained ankle would be the inevitable outcome of the fall, but was spared the pain of it, for the inability to realize an actual hurt is the redeeming feature of imagination. Suddenly there was a snort of terror from one of the horses, and the carriage stopped abruptly. Ruth clutched her suitcase and umbrella, instantly prepared for the worst, but Joe reassured her.  Taint nothing in the world but a rabbit. Mamie can't never get used to rabbit some ways.  Hush now, Mamie, he said, taint nothing. Mamie looked around inquiringly, with one ear erect, and the other at an angle. A cataract partially concealed one eye, but in the other was a world of wickedness and knowledge, modified by a certain lady-like reserve. Go along, Mamie. Ruth laughed as the horse resumed motion, in mincing, maidenly steps. What's the other one's name, she asked? Him, his name's Alfred. Mamie's his mother. Miss Thorn endeavored to conceal her amusement, and Joe was pleased because the ice was broken. I changed their names every once in a while, he said, because it makes some variety, but now I've named them about all the names I know. The road wound upward in its own lazy fashion, and there were trees at the left, though only one or two shaded the hill itself. As they approached the summit, a girl in a blue gingham dress and a neat white apron came out to meet them. Come right in, Miss Thorn, she said, and I'll explain it to you. Ruth descended, inwardly vowing that she would ride no more in Joe's carriage, and after giving some directions about her trunk, followed her guide indoors. The stormbeat in-house was certainly entitled to the respect accorded to age. It was substantial, but unpretentious in outline, and had not been painted for a long time. The faded green shutters blended harmoniously with the grayish-white background, and the piazza, which was evidently an unhappy afterthought of the architect, had two or three new shingles on its roof. You see, it's this way, Miss Thorn, the maid began valuably. Miss Hathaway she went earlier than she laid out to, on account of the folks deciding to take a steamer that sailed beforehand, before the other one I mean. She went in such a hurry that she didn't have time to send you word and get an answer. But she's left a letter here for you, for she trusted to your coming. Miss Thorn laid her hat and jacket aside, and settled herself comfortably in a rocker. The maid returned presently with a letter, which Miss Hathaway had sealed with half an ounce of red wax, presumably in a laudable effort to remove temptation from the path of the red-cheeked, wholesome farmer's daughter who stood nearby with her hands on her hips. Miss Ruth Thorn, the letter began. Dear niece, I am writing this in a hurry, as we are going a week before we expected to. I think you will find everything all right. Hepsy will attend to the housekeeping, for I don't suppose you know much about it, coming from the city. She's a good-hearted girl, but she's set in her ways, and you'll have to kinder give in to her. But any time when you can't, just speak to her sharp and she'll do as you tell her. I have left money enough for the expenses until I come back, in a little box on the top shelf of the closet in the front room, under a pile of blankets and comfortables. The key that unlocks it is hung on a nail, driven into the back of the old bureau in the attic. I believe Hepsy is honest and reliable, but I don't believe in tempting folks. When I get anywhere where I can, I will write and send you my address, and then you can tell me how things are going at home. The catnip is hanging from the rafters in the attic, in case you should want some tea, and the sassafras is in the little drawer in the bureau that's got the key hanging behind it. If there's anything else you should want, I reckon Hepsy will know where to find it.  P.S., you have to keep a lamp burning every night in the east window of the attic. Be careful that nothing catches a fire. The maid was waiting, in fear and trembling, for she did not know what directions her eccentric mistress might have left. Everything is all right, Hepsy, said Miss Thorn pleasantly, and I think you and I will get along nicely. Did Miss Hathaway tell you what room I was to have?  She said you could sleep where you pleased. Very well, I will go up and see for myself. I would like my tea at six o'clock. She still held the letter in her hand, greatly to the chagrin of Hepsy, who was interested in everything, and had counted upon a peep at it. It was not Miss Hathaway's custom to guard her letters, and she was both surprised and disappointed. As Ruth climbed the narrow stairway, the quiet old fashioned house brought balm to her tired soul. It was exquisitely clean, redolent of sweet herbs, and in its atmosphere was a subtle irritant restraint. Have not our houses mute as they are their own way of conveying an impression? One may go into a house which has been empty for a long time, and yet feel instinctively what sort of people were last sheltered there. The silent walls breathe a message to each visitor, and as the footfalls echo in the bare, cheerless rooms one discovers where sorrow and trouble had their abode, and where the light, careless laughter, of gay bohemia lingered until dawn. At night, who has not heard ghostly steps upon the stairs, the soft closing of unseen doors, the tapping on a window, and perchance, a sigh, or the sound of tears? Timid souls may shudder and be afraid, but wiser folks smile, with reminiscent tenderness, when the old house dreams. As she wandered through the tiny spotless rooms on the second floor of Miss Hathaway's house, Ruth had a sense of security and peace which she had never known before. There were two front rooms of equal size looking to the west, and she chose the one on the left, because of its two south windows. There was but one other room, aside from the small one at the end of the hall, which, as she supposed, was Hepsis. One of the closets was empty, but on a shelf in the other was a great pile of bedding. She dragged a chair inside, burrowed under the blankets, and found a small wooden box, the contents clinking softly as she drew it toward her. Holding it under her arm, she ascended the narrow spiral stairs which led to her neck. At one end, under the eaves, stood an old mahogany dresser. The casters were gone, and she moved it with difficulty, but the slanting sunbeams of late afternoon revealed the key, which hung as her aunt had written, on a nail driven into the back of it. She knew without trying that it would fit the box, but idly turned the lock. As she opened it, a bit of paper fluttered out, and picking it up. She read in her aunts, cramped, but distinct hand. Hepsis gets a dollar and a half every week, don't you pay her no more. As the house was set some distance back, the east window and the attic was the only one which commanded a view of the sea. A small table, with its legs sought off, came exactly to the sill, and here stood a lamp, which was a lamp simply, without adornment, and held about a pint of oil. She read the letter again, and having mastered its contents, tore it into small pieces, with that urban caution which does have to do with this and the rural districts. She understood that every night of her stay she was to light this lamp with her own hands. But why? The varnish on the table, which had once been glaring, was scratched with innumerable rings, where the rough glass had left its mark. Ruth wondered if she were face to face with a mystery. The seaward side of the hill was a rocky cliff, and between the vegetable garden at the back of the house, and the edge of the precipice across. From her vantage point she could see the woods which began at the base of the hill, on the north side, and seemed to end at the sea. On the south there were a few trees near the cliff, but others near them had been cut down. Still farther south and below the hill was a grassy plain, through which a glistening river wound slowly to the ocean. Willows grew along its margin, tipped with silvery green, and with masses of purple twilight tangled in the bare branches below. Ruth opened the window and drew a long breath. Her senses had been dulled by the years in the city, but childhood, hidden though not forgotten, came back as if by magic, with at first scent of sea and spring. As yet she had not fully realized how grateful she was for this little time away from her desk and typewriter. The managing editor had promised her the same position whenever she chose to go back, and there was a little hoard in the savings bank, which she would not need to touch, owing to the eccentric aunt whom she had never seen. The large room was a typical attic, with its spinning wheel and discarded furniture, colonial mahogany that would make many a city matron envious, and for which its owner cared little or nothing. There were chests of drawers, two or three bedded trunks, a cedar chest, and countless boxes of various sizes. Bunches of sweet herbs hung from the rafters, but there were no cobwebs because of Miss Hathaway's perfect housekeeping. Both regretted the cobwebs and decided not to interfere, should the tiny spinners take advantage of Aunt Jane's absence. She found an old chair which was unsteady on its rockers, but not yet depraved enough to betray one's confidence. Moving it to the window she sat down and looked out at the sea, where the slow boom of the surf came softly from the shore, mingled with the liquid melody of returning breakers. The first gray of twilight had come upon the world before she thought of going downstairs. A matchsafe hung upon the window casing, newly filled, and mindful of her trust, she lighted the lamp and closed the window. Then a sudden scream from the floor below startled her. Miss Thorn, Miss Thorn, creditural voice, come here, quick! White as a sheet, Ruth flew downstairs and met Hepsie in the hall. What on earth is a matter, she gasped? Joe's come with your trunk, responded that volcanic young woman amiably. Where'd you want it put? In the south front room she answered still frightened, but glad nothing serious had happened. You mustn't scream like that. Supper's ready, resumed Hepsie nonchalantly, and Ruth followed her down to the little dining-room. As she ate she applied the maid with questions. Does Miss Hathaway light that lamp in the attic every night? Yes, she cleans it and fills it herself, and she puts it out every morning. She don't never let me touch it. Why does she keep it there? To know. She to know neither. Why, Hepsie, what do you mean? Does she do it if she doesn't know why she does it? To know, because she wants to, I reckon. She's been gone a week, hasn't she? Know'em, only six days. It'll be a week to mour her. Hepsie's remarks were short and jerky, as a rule, and had a certain explosive force. Hasn't the lamp been lighted since she went away? Yes, I was to do it till you come, and after you got here I was to ask you every night if you'd forgot it. Ruth smiled because Aunt Jane's lingered in her wake. Now, see here, Hepsie, she began kindly. I don't know, and you don't know, but I'd like to have you tell me what you think about it. I don't know, as you say, Mum, but I think, here she lowered her voice. I think it has something to do with Miss Ainsley. Who is Miss Ainsley? She's a peculiar woman, Miss Ainsley, as the girl explained, smoothing her apron, and she lives down the road apiece in the valley, as you may say. She don't never go nowhere's. Miss Ainsley don't, but folks go to see her. She's got a funny house. I've been inside of it sometimes, when I've been down in Aarons for Miss Hathaway.  Her floors is all kinder funny, and she's got heathen things spread down onto them. Her house is full of heathen things, and sometimes she wears them. Where's what, Hepsie? The heathen things in the house? No, them. Other heathen things she's got put away some hours. She's got money, I guess, but she's got furniture in her parlor that's just like what Miss Hathaway's got set away in the attic. We wouldn't use them kind of things know-how, she added complacently. Does she live all alone? Yes, him. Joe, he does her errands, and other folks stop in sometimes. But Miss Ainsley ain't left her front yard for, I don't know, how long. Some says she's cracked, but she's the best housekeeper around here, and if she hears of anybody that's sick or in trouble, Miss Ainsley Eller sends them things. She ain't never been up here, but Miss Hathaway, she goes down there sometimes. And she and Miss Ainsley swaps cookin' quite regular. I have to go down there with a plate of somethin' Miss Hathaway's made. And Miss Ainsley Eller says, Wait just a moment, please, Hepsie. I would like to send Miss Hathaway a jar of my preserves. She relapsed unconsciously into imitation of Miss Ainsley's speech. In the few words, softened and betraying a quaint stateliness, an old-fashioned gentlewoman, reserved and yet gracious, she folded her napkin saying, You make the best biscuits I ever tasted, Hepsie. The girl smiled, but made no reply. What makes you think Miss Ainsley has anything to do with the light, she inquired after a little. Coz there wasn't no light in that window when I first come, least ways, not as I know of, and after I'd been here a week or so, Miss Hathaway, she'd come back from there one day lookin' kinder strange. The next mornin' she goes down to town and buys that lamp, and she saws off them table-lakes herself. Every night since, that light's been a-goin', and she puts it out herself every mornin' before she comes downstairs. Perhaps she and Miss Ainsley have been talking of shipwreck, and she thought she would have a little lighthouse of her own, Miss Thorne suggested when the silence became oppressive. Perhaps so rejoined Hepsie. She had become stolid again. Ruth pushed her chair back to the front, looking out into the yard. The valley was in shadow, but the last light still lingered on the hill. What's that, Hepsie, she asked? What's what? That, where the evergreen is coming up out of the ground, in the shape of a square. That's the cat's grave, Mum. She died just a form as Hathaway went away, and she planted the evergreen. I thought something was lacking, said Ruth, half to herself. Do you want to kit in Miss Thorne, inquired Hepsie eagerly? Hepsies are white, just as you like. No thank you, Hepsie. I don't believe I'll import any pets. Just as you say, Mum. It's order of own some, though, with no cat, and Miss Hathaway said she didn't want no more. Speculating upon the departed cat's superior charms that made substitution seem like sacrilege to Miss Hathaway, Ruth sat down for a time in the old-fashioned parlor, where the shabby hair-quoth furniture was ornamented with tidies to the last degree. There was a table in the room, and a basket of wax flowers under a glass case. Mrs. Hemmins' poems, another book, called The Lady's Garland, and The Family Bible were carefully arranged upon it. A hair wreath, also sheltered by glass, hung on the wall near another collection of wax flowers suitably framed. There were various portraits of people whom Miss Thorne did not know, though she was a near relative of their owner, and the two tall white china vases decorated with gilt flanked the mantel shelf. The carpet, which was once of the speaking variety, had faded to the listening point. Corse lace curtains hung from brass rings on wooden poles, and red cotton lambrequins were festooned at the top. Hepsy came in to light the lamp that hung by chains over the table.  Want me to help you unpack? She asked, doubtless wishing for a view of city clothes. No, thank you. I put a picture of Miss Thorne. Is there anything else you would like? Nothing more, thank you. She still lingered, irresolute, shifting from one foot to the other. Miss Thorne, she began hesitatingly. Yes? Be you. Be you a lady detective. Ruth's clear laughter rang out on the evening air. Why, no, you foolish girl. I'm a newspaper woman, and I've earned a rest. That's all. You mustn't read books with yellow covers. Hepsy withdrew, muttering vague apologies, and Ruth found her at the head of the stairs when she went up to her room. How long have you been with Ms. Hathaway, she asked? Five years come next June. Good night, Hepsy. Good night, Miss Thorne. From sheer force of habit, Ruth locked her door. Her trunk was not a large one, and it did not take her long to put her simple wardrobe into the capacious closet and the dresser drawers. As she moved the empty trunk into the closet, she remembered the box of money that she had left and went up to get it. When she returned, she heard Hepsy's door close softly. Silly child, she said to herself, I might just as well ask her if she isn't a lady detective. They'll laugh about that in the office when I go back. She sat down, rocking contentedly, for it was April, and she would not have to go back until Aunt Jane came home, probably about the 1st of October. She checked off the free, health-giving months in the separate or no more until autumn, when she would be strong again and the quivering nerves quite steady. She blessed the legacy which had fallen into Jane Hathaway's lap and led her, at fifty-five, to join a personally conducted party to the Old World. Ruth had always had a dim yearning for foreign travel, but just now she felt no lay in injustice, such as often wrinkled in her soul when her friends went and she remained at home. With further suspicion she put out her light and sat by the window with the shutters wide open. Far down the hill where the road became level again, and on the left as she looked toward the village was the White House, surrounded by a garden and a hedge, which she supposed was Miss Ainsley. A timid chirp came from the grass and the faint sweet smell of growing things floated in through the open window at the other end of the room.  It was a little gleam, evidently from a candle. So she's keeping a lighthouse too, thought Ruth. The train pulled out of the station and half an hour afterward the light disappeared. She meditated upon the general subject of illumination while she got ready for bed, but as soon as her head touched the pillow she lost consciousness and knew no more until the morning light crept into her room. CHAPTER II THE ADDIC The maid sat in the kitchen, wondering why Miss Thorne did not come down. It was almost seven o'clock, and Miss Hathaway's breakfast-hour was half past six. Hepsy did not frame the thought, but she had a vague impression that the guest was lazy. She was grateful for the new interest which had come into her monotonous life. Affairs moved like clockwork at Miss Hathaway's, breakfast at half past six, dinner at one, and supper at half past five. Each day was also set apart by its regular duties, from the washing on Monday to the baking on Saturday. Now it was possible that there might be a change. Miss Thorne seemed fully capable of setting the house topsy-turvy, and Miss Hathaway's last injunction had been.  The young woman who slumbered peacefully upstairs while the rest of the world was awake had, from the beginning, aroused admiration in Hepsy's breast. It was a reluctant, rebellious feeling, mingled with an indefinite fear, but it was admiration nonetheless. During the greater part of a wondering, wakeful night, the excited Hepsy had seen Miss Thorne as plainly as when she first entered the house. The tall, straight, graceful figure was familiar by this time, and the subdued, silken rustle of her skirts was a wanted sound. Ruth's face, naturally mobile, had been schooled into a certain reserve, but her deep, dark eyes were eloquent, and always would be. Hepsy wondered at the opaque whiteness of her skin and the baffling arrangement of her hair. The young woman of the village had rosy cheeks, but Miss Thorne's face was colourless, except for her lips. It was very strange, Hepsy thought, for Miss Hathaway to sail before her niece came, if indeed Miss Thorne was her niece. There was a mystery in the house on the hilltop, which she had tried in vain to fathom. Four in letters came frequently, no two of them from the same person, and the lamp in the attic had burned steadily every night for five years. Otherwise everything was explainable and sane. Still, Miss Thorne did not seem even remotely related to Hepsy, and Hepsy had her doubts. Moreover, the guest had an uncanny gift which amounted to second sight. How did she know that all of Hepsy's books had yellow covers? Miss Hathaway could not have told her in the letter, for the mistress was not aware of her maid's literary tendencies. It was half past seven, but no sound came from upstairs. She replenished the fire and resumed meditation. Whatever Miss Thorne might prove to be, she was decidedly interesting. It was pleasant to watch her, to feel the subtle refinement of all her belongings, and to wonder what was going to happen next. Perhaps Miss Thorne would take her back to the city as her maid when Miss Hathaway came home. Four in the books such things frequently happened. Would she go? Hepsy was trying to decide when there was a light rapid step on the stairs, a moment's hesitation in the hall, and Miss Thorne came into the dining-room. Good morning, Hepsy, she said cheerily. Yes, it's going on eight, and Miss Hathaway allers has breakfast at half past six. How ghastly, Ruth thought. I should have told you, she said. I will have mine at eight. Yes, replied Hepsy, apparently unmoved. What time do you want dinner? At six o'clock, luncheon at half past one. Hepsy was puzzled. But in a few moments she understood that dinner was to be served at night and supper at mid-day. Breakfast had already been moved forward in a half, and stranger things might happen at any minute. Ruth had several other reforms in mind, but deemed it best to wait. After breakfast she remembered the lamp in the window and went up to put it out. It was still burning when she reached it, though the oil was almost gone, and placing it by the stairway that she might not forget to have it filled, she determined to explore the attic to her heart's content. The sunlight streamed through the east window and searched the farthest corners of the room. The door was bare and worn, but carefully swept, and the things that were stored there were huddled together far back under the eaves as if to make room for others. It was not idle curiosity, but delicate sentiment that made Ruth eager to open the trunks and dress her drawers, and to turn over the contents of the boxes that were piled together and covered with dust. The interest of the lower part of the house paled in comparison with the first real attic she had ever been in. After all, why not? Miss Hathaway and her mother's only sister, and the house was in her care. There was no earthly reason why she should not amuse herself in her own way. Ruth's instincts were against it, but reason triumphed. The bunches of dried herbs hanging from the rafters and swaying back and forth in ghostly fashion gave out a wholesome fragrance, and when she opened trunks whose lids creaked on the rusty hinges, dried rosemary, lavender, and sweet clover filled the room with that long-stored sweetness, which is the precious handmaiden of memory. Miss Hathaway was a thrifty soul, but she never stored discarded clothing that might be of use to anyone, and so Ruth found no moth-eaten garments of bygone pattern, but only things which seemed to be kept for the sake of their tender associations. There were letters on whose yellowed pages the words had long since faded, a dog-eared primer, and several well-worn schoolbooks, each having on its fly-leaf, Jane Hathaway, her book, perhaps of lace, brocade and rustling taffeta, quilt patterns, needle-books, and all of the eloquent treasures that a well-stored attic can yield. As she replaced them, singing softly to herself, a folded newspaper slipped to the floor. It was yellow and worn, like the letters, and she unfolded it carefully. It was over thirty years old, and around a paragraph on the last page a faint line still lingered. It was an announcement of the marriage of Charles G. Winfield, captain of the Schooner Mary, to Miss Abigail Weatherby. Abigail Weatherby, she said aloud, the name had a sweet, old-fashioned sound. They must have been Aunt Jane's friends. She closed the trunk and pushed it back to its place under the eaves. In a distant corner was the old cedar-chest, heavily carved. She pulled it out into the light, her cheeks glowing with quiet happiness, and sat down on the floor beside it. It was evidently Miss Hathaway's treasure box, put away in the attic where the Westminster hood was confirmed by the fleeting years. On top, folded carefully in a sheet, was a gown of white brocade, short-waisted and quaint, trimmed with pearl pastmentry. The neck was square, cut modestly low, and filled in with lace of a delicate frosty pattern. Pointe d'Ellencône. Underneath the gown lay piles of lingerie, all of the finest linen, dangtily made by hand. Some of it was trimmed with real lace, and the rest with hemstitched ruffles and feather stitching. There was another gown, much worn, of soft blue cashmere. Some seashells, a necklace of uncaught turquoises, the color changed to green, a prayer-book, a little hymnal, and a bundle of letters, tied with a faded blue ribbon, which she did not touch. There was but one picture, an ambrotype, in an ornate case, of a handsome young man, with that dashing, daredevil look attractive to women. Ruth smiled as she put the treasures away, thinking that, had fate thrown the dice another way, the young man might have been her esteemed and respected uncle. Then, all at once, it came to her that she had unthinkingly stumbled upon her aunt's romance. She was not a woman to pry into other secrets, and felt guilty as she fled from the attic, taking the lamp with her. Afterward, as she sat on the narrow pieza, basking in the warm spring sunshine, she pieced out the love affair between Hathaway's early girlhood after her own fashion. She could see it all plainly. Aunt Jane had expected to be married to the dashing young man, and had had her trousseau and readiness when something happened. The folded paper would indicate that he was Charles Winfield, who had married someone else. But whether Aunt Jane had broken her engagement, or the possible uncle Charles had simply taken a mate without any such formality or whatever had married another, would Aunt Jane have kept her treasure chest and her wedding gown? Ruth knew that she herself would not, but she understood that aunts were in a class by themselves. It was possible that Charles Winfield was an earlier lover, and she had kept the paper without any special motive, or perhaps for all-dling sign. Probably the letters would have disclosed the mystery, and the newspaper instinct, on the trail of a story, was struggling with her sense now that she knew would Ruth have read the yellowed pages, which doubtless held faded roses pressed between them. The strings of seashells and the larger ones, which could have come only from foreign shores, together with the light in the window, gave her a sudden clue. Aunt Jane was waiting for her lover, and the lamp was a signal. If his name was Charles Winfield, the other woman was dead, and if not, the marriage notice was that of a friend or an earlier lover. It was possible, clear and concise, what women could ask for more. Yet there was something beyond it which was out of Miss Thorn's grasp, a tantalizing something which would not be elade. Then she reflected that the summer was before her, and in reality now that she was off the paper she had no business with other people's affairs. The sun was hidden by gathering clouds and the air was damp before Ruth missed the bright warmth on the driveled path led to the gate, and on either side was a row of lilac bushes. The bare stalks tipped with green. A white picket fence surrounded the yard, except at the back, where the edge of the precipice made it useless. The place was small and well-kept, but there were no flower beds except at the front of the house, and there were only two or three trees. She walked her on the vegetable garden at the back of the house where a portion of her summer sustenance was planted and discovered an unused gate at the side, which swung back and forth idly without latching. She was looking over the fence and down the steep hillside, when a sharp voice at her elbow made her jump. Such as what's dinner can come in and get it, announced Hepsie, sourly. I've yelled and yelled till I've most bust my throat, and I ain't it going to yell no more. She returned to the house a picture of offended dignity, but carefully left the door ajar for Ruth, who discovered, upon this rude awakening she was very hungry. And the afternoon the chill fog made it impossible to go out, for the wind had risen from the sea and driven the salt mist inland. Miss Hathaway's library was meager and uninteresting. Hepsie was busy in the kitchen, and Ruth was frankly bored. Reduced at last to the desperate straight of putting all her belongings in irreproachable order, she found herself at four o'clock without occupation. She would not go. It seemed an age until six o'clock. This won't do, she said to herself. I'll have to learn how to sew, or crochet, or make tatting. At last I'm to be domesticated. I used to wonder how women had time for the endless fancy work, but I see now. She was accustomed to self-analysis and introspection, and began to consider what she could get out of the next six months in the way of gain. Physical strength certainly, then. It's going to rain, Miss Thorn said Hepsie at the door. Is all the windows shut? Yes, I think so, she answered. Suppers ready any time you want it. Very well, I will come now. When she sat down in the parlor, after doing scant justice to Hepsie's cooking, it was with a grim resignation of the Puritan sort which supposedly went with the house. There was but one place in all the world where she would like to be, and she was afraid to trust herself in the attic. In her elaborate mental process she convinced herself that the cedar chest and the old trunks did not concern her in the least and tried to develop a feminine fear of mice which was not natural to her. She had just placed herself loftily above all mundane things when Hepsie marched into the room and placed the attic lamp newly filled upon the marble table. Here was a manifest duty confronting a very superior person, and as she went upstairs when she had put the light in the seaward window she lingered under the spell of the room. The rain beat steadily upon the roof and dripped from the eaves. The light made distorted shadows upon the wall and floor, while the bunches of herbs hanging down from the rafters swung lightly back and forth when the wind rattled the windows and shook the old house. The room seemed peopled by the previous generation that had slept in the massive mahogany bed, rocked in the chairs with sewing or gossip, but before the old dresser on tiptoe peering eagerly into the mirror which probably had hung above it. It was as if memory sat at the spinning wheel idly twisting the thread and bringing visions of the years gone by. A cracked mirror hung against the wall and Ruth saw her reflection dimly as if she too belonged to the ghosts of the attic. She was not vain, but she was satisfied with her eyes and hair, her white skin, impervious to tan or burn, and the shape of her mouth, the saucy little upward toll at the end of her nose was a great cross to her, however, because it was at variance with the dignified bearing which she chose to maintain. As she looked she wondered vaguely if she, like Aunt Jane, would grow to a loveless old age. It seemed probable. For at twenty-five the prince had not appeared. She had her work and was happy, yet unceasingly, behind those dark eyes, Ruth's soul kept maidenly watch for its mate. When she turned to go downstairs, Aunt Jane on the floor attracted her attention. It was near one of the trunks which she had opened and must have fallen out. She picked it up to replace it, but it proved to be another paper dated a year later than the first one. There was no marked paragraph, but she soon discovered the death notice of Abigail Winfield, knee-weatherby, age twenty-two. She put it in the trunk out of which she knew it must have fallen and stood there thinking. Those faded letters hidden under Aunt Jane's wedding gown were tempting her secret as never before. She hesitated, took three steps toward the cedar chest, then fled ingloriously from the field. Whoever Charles Winfield was, he was free to love and marry again. Perhaps there had been an estrangement and it was he for whom Aunt Jane was waiting, since sometimes out of bitterness the years to still forgiveness.  Yet what right had she to suppose Aunt Jane was waiting? Had she gone abroad to seek him and win his recreational heart again? Or was Abigail Weatherby her girlhood friend who had married unhappily and then died? Somewhere in Aunt Jane's fifty-five years there was a romance, but after all it was not her niece's business. I'm an imaginative goose, Ruth said to herself. I'm asked to keep a light in the window, presumably as an incipient lighthouse, and I've found some old clothes and two old papers in the attic. That's all, and I've constructed a tragedy. She resolutely put the whole matter aside as she sat in her room, rocking pensively. Her own lamp had not been filled and was burning dimly, so she put it out and sat in the darkness listening to the rain. She had not closed the shutters and did not care to lean out in the storm, and so it was that when the whistle of the tunnel-clack train sounded hoarsely she saw the little glimmer of light grow, making a faint circle in the darkness. Half an hour later, as before, it was taken away. The scent of lavender and sweet clover clung to Miss Hathaway's linen, and insensibly soothed, Ruth went to sleep. After hours of dreamless slumber she thought she heard a voice calling her and telling her not to forget the light. It was so real that she started to her feet, half expecting to find someone standing beside her. The rain had ceased and two or three stars like timid children were peeping at the world from behind the threatening cloud. It was that mystical moment which no one may place the turning of night to day far down the hill, ghostly but not forbidding, was Miss Ainsley's house. The garden around it lying whitely beneath the do's of dawn and up in the attic window the light still shone, like unfounded hope in a woman's soul harking across distant seas of misunderstanding and gloom with its pitiful all hail. End of chapter 2 CHAPTER III Miss Ainsley Ruth began to feel a lively interest in her Aunt Jane and to regret that she had not arrived in time to make her acquaintance. She knew that Miss Hathaway was three or four years younger than Mrs. Thorne would have been had she lived, and that a legacy had recently come to her from an old friend, but that was all, aside from the discoveries in the attic. She contemplated the crayon portraits in the parlor and hoped she was not related to any of them. In the family album she found no woman who she would have liked for an aunt, but was determined to know the worst. Is Miss Hathaway's picture here, Hepsy, she asked? No, Miss Hathaway, she wouldn't have her picture in the parlor know-how. Some folks does, but Miss Hathaway says taint modest. I think she's right, Hepsy, left, Ruth, though I never thought of it in just that way. I'll have to wait until she comes home. In the afternoon she downed the short skirt and heavy shoes of her office frig, and started downhill to explore the village. It was a day to tempt one out of doors, cool and bright, with an indefinable crispness which belongs to spring. The hill rose sheer from the highlands which sloped to the river on the left as she went down and on the right to the forest. A side path into the 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 and eventually climbs over it through the enterprise of its wealthier residence. 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 Miss Ainsley's house and garden, and directly opposite with the width of the hill between them was a brown house with a lawn but no garden except that devoted to vegetables. As she walked through the village stopping to look at the display of merchandise in the window of the single shop which was also post office and grocery, she attracted a great deal of respectful attention for in this community strangers were an event. Ruth reflected that the shop had only to grow to about fifty times its present size in order to become a full-fledged department store and bring upon the town the rank and dignity of Miss Ainsley's home atropolis. When she turned her face homeward she had reached the foot of the hill before she realized that the first long walk over country roads was hard for one accustomed to city pavements. A broad flat stone offered an inviting resting place and she sat down in the shadow of Miss Ainsley's hedge hoping Joe would pass some time to take her to the top of the hill. The hedge was high and except for the gate the garden was secluded. I wonder if I've got the rheumatism. She scanned the horizon eagerly for the dilapidated conveyance which she had once both feared and scorned. No sound could have been more welcome than the rumble of those creaking wheels nor any sight more pleasing than the conflicting expressions in Mamie's single useful eye. She sat there a long time waiting for deliverance, but it did not come. I'll get an open stock she said to herself as she rose wearily and tried to summon courage to start. Then the gate clicked softly and the sweetest voice in the world said my dear you are tired won't you come in. Turning she saw Miss Ainsley smiling graciously in a moment she had explained that she was Miss Hathaway's niece and that she would be very glad to come in for a few moments. Yes said the sweet voice again I know who you are your aunt told me all about you and I trust we shall be friends. She leaned into the parlor where a wood fire blazed cheerily upon the hearth. It is so damp this time of year she went on that I like to keep my fire burning. While they were talking Ruth's eyes rested with pleasure upon her hostess. She herself was tall but Miss Ainsley towered above her. She was a woman of poise and magnificent bearing and she had the composure which 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 it shone. 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 her face was her eyes. They were violet so deep in color as to seem almost black in certain lights and behind them lay an indescribable something which made Ruth love her instinctively. She might have been forty or seventy but she was beautiful with a beauty that never fades. The intervals not wishing to stare Ruth glanced around the room having once seen the woman one could not fail to recognize her house for it suited her. The floors were hardwood, highly polished and partly covered with rare oriental rugs. The walls were a soft dark green bearing no disfiguring design and the windows were draped with net edged with duchess lace. Miss Hathaway's curtains hung straight to the floor but Miss Ainsley's were tied back and covered. The furniture was colonial mahogany unspoiled by varnish and rubbed until 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 the rugs. A delicate pink suffused Miss Ainsley's face. With quiet dignity is a seafaring gentleman. That explained the rugs' Ruth thought and the vase of finest cloison which stood upon the mantel shelf. It accounted also for the bertha of Metschland lace, which was fastened to Miss Ainsley's gown of lavender cashmere by a large amethyst inlaid with gold and surrounded by baroque pearls.  I told her she was too old to go, said Miss Ainsley, smiling, and assured 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 me about my aunt, Miss Ainsley, 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, dearie, and Miss Ainsley. And Ruth fancied she heard a sigh. She came here long before I did, and we were girls together. She lived in the old house at the top of the hill, with her father and mother, and I lived here with mine.  For five years, no, for almost six, we passed each other like strangers 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 was always stronger than I, and though I can't remember the cause of the quarrel, I can feel the hurt to my pride, even to this day. I know, answered Ruth quickly, something of the same kind once happened to me. Only it wasn't pride that held me back. It was just plain stubbornness. I was unconscious of two selves. One of me is a nice, polite person that I'm really fond of, and the other is so contrary and so mollish that I'm actually afraid of her. When the two come in conflict, the stubborn one always wins. I'm sorry, but I can't help it. Don't you think we're all like that, asked Miss Ainsley, readily understanding? I do not believe anyone can have strength of character without being stubborn, to hold one's position in the face of obstacles and never be tempted to yield. That seems the very foundation. Yes, but to be unable to yield when you know you should, that's awful. Is it?" inquired Miss Ainsley, with quiet amusement. Ask Aunt Jane, returned Ruth, laughing. I begin to perceive our definite relationship. Miss Ainsley leaned forward to put another maple log on the fire. Tell me more about Aunt Jane, Ruth suggested. I'm getting to be somebody's relative, instead of an orphan, stranded on the shore of the world. She's hard to analyze, began the older woman. I have never been able to reconcile her firmness with her softness. She's as hard as New England granite, but I think she wears it like a mask. Sometimes one sees through. She scolds me very often about anything that occurs to her, but I never pay any attention to it. She says I shouldn't live here all 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 between her window and mine, and had a key made to my lower door, and made me promise that if I was ill at any time, I would put a signal in my window, a red shawl in the daytime, and a light at night. I hadn't any red shawl, and she gave me hers. One night I shall never forget it.  I didn't even know that I put the light in the window. I was so beside myself with pain. But she came at two o'clock in the morning and stayed with me until I was all right again. She was so gentle and so tender. I shall always love her for that. The sweet voice vibrated with feeling, and Ruth's thoughts flew to the light in the attic window. But no, it could not be seen from Miss Ainsley'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, but I'll get that. She went upstairs and returned presently, putting an old-fashioned ambrotype into Ruth's hand. The velvet-lined case enshrined Aunt Jane in the bloom of her youth. It was a young woman of twenty or twenty-five seated in a straight-backed chair with her hands encased in black lace mitts and folded in the lap of her striped silk gown. The forehead was high, protruding slightly, the eyes rather small and very dark, the nose straight, and the little chin exceedingly firm and determined. There was an expression of maidenly wistfulness somewhere, which Ruth could not definitely locate, but there was no hint of it in the chin. Her little Aunt Jane said, Ruth, life would never be easy for her. No returned Miss Ainsley, but she would not let anyone know. Ruth strolled over to the window, thinking that she must be going, and Miss Ainsley 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 we quarreled. A young man stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Miss Ainsley's house, and then at the brown one across the road, Ruth saw him plainly. He hesitated a moment, then went toward the brown house. She noted that he was a stranger. There was no such topcoat in the village. Was his name Winfield, she asked suddenly, then instantly hated herself for the question. The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainsley stooped to pick it up, and Ruth did not see her face. Perhaps, she said in a strange tone, but I have never asked a lady the name of her friend.  I must go, Ruth said, after an awkward silence, and in an instant Miss Ainsley was herself again. No, you mustn't go, dearie. You haven't seen my garden yet. I have planted all the seeds, and some of them are coming up. Isn't it beautiful to see things grow? It is indeed, Ruth assented, forgetting the momentary awkwardness. Miss Ainsley's face was pale, forgetting the momentary awkwardness. And I have lived for a long time where I have seen nothing grow, but car tracks and high buildings. May I come again and see your garden? I shall be so glad to have you, replied Miss Ainsley, with a quaint stateliness. I have enjoyed your visit so much, and I hope you will come again 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. She held her back, something that lay unspoken between them. Those unfathomable eyes were fixed upon her, questioning, pleading, and searching her inmost soul. Ruth looked at her, wondering, and striving to answer the mute appeal. Then Miss Ainsley 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 Ainsley, she answered quickly. The older woman caught her breath and, in a frenzy, flooded her face. Hepsie 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 a ship wrecked almost at our door. Yes, I'd Miss Ainsley, her color receding. I have often thought of those who go down to the sea in ships. It is so terrible, and sometimes when I hear the surf beating against the cliff, I am afraid. Ruth climbed the hill, interested, happy, yet deeply disturbed. Miss Ainsley's beautiful, changing face seemed to follow her, and the exquisite scent of the lavender, which had filled the rooms, clung to her senses like a benediction. Hepsie was right, and unquestionably Miss Ainsley had something to do with 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 of shipwreck, possibly on account of her friend, the seafaring gentleman, and had asked Miss Hathaway to put the light in the window. That was all. Ruth's reason was fully satisfied, but something else was not. I'm not going to think about it any more, she said to herself, resolutely. And thought she meant it. She ate her dinner with a zest of hunger, while Hepsie noiselessly served her. I have been to Miss Ainsley's Hepsie, she said at length, not wishing to appear unsociable. The maid's clouded visage cleared for an instant. Did you find out about the lamp, she inquired eagerly? Miss Ainsley has read a great deal, and has lived alone so much that she has become very much afraid of shipwreck. You know all of us have some one fear. For instance, I am terribly afraid of green worms, though a green worm has never harmed me. I think she asked Miss Hathaway to put the lamp in the window, and possibly told her of something she had read, which made her feel that she should have done it before. Hepsie's face took on its old, impenetrable calm. Yes, I'm—it's all very reasonable, isn't it? Yes, I'm. In spite of the seeming ascent, she knew that Hepsie was not convinced, and afterward, when she came into the room with the attic lamp and a box of matches, the mystery turned to trouble Ruth again. If I don't take up tatting, she thought, as she went upstairs, or find something else to do, I'll be a meddling old maid inside of six months. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Lavender and Old Lace This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. Lavender and Old Lace by Myrtle Reid. Chapter 4 A Guest As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first the country brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously, but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's at Fortnight before she bitterly regretted the steps she had taken. Still, there was no going back, for she had given her word and must stay there until October, the months before her stretched out into a dreary waste. She thought of Miss Ainsley gratefully, as a redeeming feature, but she knew that it was impossible to spend all her time in the house at the foot of the hill. Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet more than once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock before Hepsy was stirring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walk through the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and each day was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful, moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yet knowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there. She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepsy stalked in, unannounced, and gave her a card. Mr. Carl Winfield, Ruth repeated aloud, Someone to see me, Hepsy? She asked in astonishment. Yes, him. He's a waitin' on the piezer. Didn't you ask him to come in? No, him. Miss Hathaway, she don't want no strangers in her house. Go down immediately, commanded Ruth sternly, ask him into the parlor, and say that Miss Thorn will be down in a few moments. Yes, him. Hepsy shuffled downstairs, with comfortable leisure, opened the door with aggravating slowness, then said, in a harsh tone that reached the upper rooms distinctly, Miss Thorn, she says that you can come in the parlor till she comes down. Thank you, responded a masculine voice, in quiet amusement. Miss Thorn is kind, and generous. Ruth's cheeks flushed hotly. I don't know whether Miss Thorn will go down or not, she said to herself. It's probably a book agent. She rocked pensively for a minute or two, wondering what would happen if she did not go down. There was no sound from the parlor, saved a subdued clearing of the throat. He's getting ready to speak his mind, and he might as well do it now as to wait for me.  On the way down, she determined to be dignified, icy, and crushing. A tall young fellow with a pleasant face rose to greet her as she entered the room. Miss Thorn, he inquired. Yes, please sit down. I am very sorry that my maid didn't say. Oh, that's all right, he replied easily. I quite enjoyed it. I must ask your pardon for coming to you in this abrupt way, but Carlton gave me a letter to you, and I've lost it. Carlton was a managing editor, and vague expectations of a summons to the office came into Ruth's mind. I'm on the herald, he went on, that is, I was, until my eyes gave out, and then they didn't want me any more. Newspapers can't use anybody out of repair, he added grimly. I know, Ruth answered, nodding. Of course the office isn't a sanitarium, though they need that kind of an annex, nor yet a literary kindergarten, which I've known it to be taken for. But, well, I won't tell you my troubles. The Oculus said I must go to the country for six months, stay outdoors, and neither read nor write. I went to see Carlton, and he promised me a birth in the fall. They're going to have a morning addition, too, you know. Miss Thorn did not know, but she was much interested. Carlton advised me to come up here, resumed Winfield. He said you were here, and that you were going back in the fall. I'm sorry I've lost his letter. What was in it inquired, Ruth, with a touch of sarcasm. You read it, didn't you? Of course I read it, that is, I tried to. The thing looked like a prescription, but as nearly as I could make it out, it was principally a description of the desolation in the office since you left it. At the end there was a line or line commending yourself. Now what in the dickens have I done, thought Winfield? That's it exactly, Miss Thorn. I've lost my reference, and I'm doing my best to create a good impression without it. I thought that as long as we were going to be on the same paper, and we're both exiles. He paused, and she finished the sentence for him. That you'd come to see me. How long have you been in town? In town is good, he said. I arrived in this desolate godforsaken spot just ten days ago. Until now I've hunted and hunted every day, but I didn't get anything but a cold. It was very good of its kind. I couldn't speak above a whisper for three days. She had already recognized him as the young man she saw standing in the road the day she went to Miss Ainsley's, and mentally asked his pardon for thinking he was a book agent. He might become a pleasant acquaintance, for he was tall, clean shaven, and well built. His hands were white and shapely, and he was well groomed, though not in the least foppish. The troublesome eyes were dark brown, sheltered by a pair of tinted glasses. His face was very expressive, responding readily to every change of mood. They talked shop for a time, discovering many mutual friends, and Ruth liked him. He spoke easily, though hurriedly, and appeared to be somewhat cynical, but she rightly attributed it to restlessness like her own. What are you going to do on the tribune, she asked? Anything he answered, with an indefinable shrug. There's not to reason why there's but to do and I. What are you going to do? The same replied Ruth, society, mother's corner, under the evening lamp, and in the kitchen, with Aunt Jenny. He laughed infectiously. I wish Carlton could hear you say that. I don't return, Ruth, coloring faintly. Why, are you afraid of him? Certainly I am. If he speaks to me I'm instantly stiff with terror. Oh, he isn't so bad, said Winfield reassuringly. He's naturally abrupt, that's all, and I'll venture he doesn't suspect that he has any influence over you. I'd never fancy that you were afraid of anybody or anything on earth. I'm not afraid of anything else, she answered, except burglars and green worms. Carlton would enjoy the classification. Really, Miss Thorn, somebody should tell him, don't you think? So much innocent pleasure doesn't often come into the day of a busy man. For a moment Ruth was angry, and then, all at once, she knew Winfield as if he had always been her friend.  Some men are old at twenty, but Winfield would be young at seventy. You can tell him if you want to, Ruth rejoined calmly. He'll be so pleased that he'll double your salary on the spot.  I'll be pensioned, of course. You're all right, he returned, but I guess I won't tell him. Riches lead to temptation, and if I'm going to be on the Tribune, I'd hate to have you pensioned. Hepsy appeared to have a great deal of employment in the dining-room, and was very quiet about it, with long pauses between her leisurely movements. Winfield did not seem to notice it, but it jarred upon Ruth, and she was relieved when he said he must go. You'll come again, won't you, she asked? I will, indeed. She stood at the window, unconsciously watching him as he went down the hill with a long, free stride. She liked the strength in his broad shoulders, his well-modulated voice, and his clear, honest eyes. He was very pleased with his vision. He was very pleased with his vision, with clear, honest eyes. But after all, he was nothing but a boy. Miss Thorn, said Hepsy at her elbow, is that your bow? It was not in pertinence, but sheer friendly interest, which could not be mistaken for anything else. No, she answered, of course not. He's real nice-looking, ain't he? Yes. Have you got your eye on anybody else? No. Then Miss Thorn, I don't know as you could do better. Perhaps not. She was thinking and spoke mechanically, from where she stood she could still see him walking rapidly down the hill. Ain't you never seen him before? Miss Thorn turned. Hepsy, she said coldly, please go into the kitchen and attend to your work, and the next time I have company, please stay in the kitchen, not in the dining-room. Yes, and replied Hepsy, meekly, hastening to obey. She was not subtle, but she understood that in some way she had offended Miss Thorn and wracked her brain vainly. She had said nothing that she would not have said to Miss Hathaway, and had intended nothing but friendliness. As for her being in the dining- room, why, very often, when Miss Hathaway had company, she was called in to give her version of some bit of village gossip. Miss Hathaway scolded her when she was displeased, but never before had anyone spoken to Hepsy in a measured, icy tone that was at once ladylike and commanding. Tears came into her eyes, for she was sensitive after all. A step sounded overhead, and Hepsy regained her self-possession. She had heard nearly all of the conversation, and could have told Miss Thorn a great deal about the young man. For instance, he had not said that he was boarding at Joe's, across the road from Miss Ainsley's, and that he intended to stay all summer. She could have told her of an uncertain temper, peculiar tastes, and of a silver-shaving cup which Joe had promised her a glimpse of before the visitor went back to the city, but she decided to let Miss Thorn go on in her blind ignorance. Ruth, meanwhile, was meditating with an aggravated restlessness. The momentary glimpse of the outer world had stunk her into a sense of her isolation, which she realized even more keenly than before. It was because of this she told herself that she hoped Winfield liked her, for it was not her want to care about such trifles. He thought of her idly as a nice girl, who was rather pretty when she was interested in anything, but with a woman's insight influenced insensibly by Hepsy's comment, Ruth decided that she would like to have a chance to meet her in person. She wanted him to like her to stay in that miserable village as long as she did, and keep her mind from stagnation. Her thought went no further than that. In October when they went back, she would thank Carlton Pridley for sending her a friend, provided they did not quirl. She could see long days of care, that Winfield might be several years younger than she was. Immediately she despised herself. I don't care if he is, she thought, with her cheeks crimson. It's nothing to me, he's a nice boy and I want to be amused. She went to her dresser, took out the large top drawer, and dumped its contents on the bed. It was a desperate measure, for Ruth hated to put things in order. The newspaper and anger chiefs, stocks, gloves and collars, were unceremoniously hustled back into the drawer, for Miss Thorne was a odds with herself and the world. She was angry with Hepsy, she hated Winfield and despised herself. She picked up a scrap of paper which lay on a glove, and caught a glimpse of unfamiliar penmanship. It was apparently the end of a letter, and the rest of it was gone. Edger Braultor for some time was yours. The signature had been torn off. Why, that isn't mine, she thought. It must be something of Aunt Jane's. Another bit of paper lay near it. And unthinkingly she read a letter which was not meant for her. I thank you from my heart, it began, for understanding me. I could not put it into words, but I believe you know. Perhaps you think it is useless, that it is too late, but if it was I would know. You know it. The message stood alone, as absolutely as some far-off star whose light could not be seen from the earth. Someone understood it. Two understood it. The writer and Aunt Jane. Ruth put it back under the paper with a scrap of the other letter, and closed the drawer with a bang. I hope, she said to herself, that while I stay here, I'll be mercifully assumed strange forms. But Ruth knew that someday, on that New England hill, she would come face to face with a destiny that had been ordained from the beginning. Something waited for her there, some great change. She trembled at the thought, but was not afraid. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of Lavender and Old Little Miss Thorn said Hepsie, from the doorway of Ruth's room, that fellers here again. There was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and Ruth herself was somewhat surprised, for she had not expected another call so soon. He's a settin' in the parlor, continued Hepsie, when he ate a walkin' around it and wearin' out the carpet, I didn't come up when he first come, on account of having a fresh collar. Oh, perhaps half an hour. That isn't right, Hepsie. When anyone comes, you must tell me immediately. Never mind the pie crust next time. Ruth endeavoured to speak kindly, but she was irritated at the necessity of making another apology. When she went down, Winfield dismissed her excuses with a comprehensive wave that every fellow I know has the same experience. I'm an exception, explained Ruth. I never keep anyone waiting. Of my own volition, that is. She added hastily, feeling his unspoken comment. I came up this afternoon to ask a favour of you, he began. Won't you go for a walk with me? It was astonishing, as they went down hill together, for it was not in her code of manners that walking out should begin so soon. When they approached Miss Ainsley's, he pointed out the brown house across from it, on the other side of the hill. Yonder palatial mansion is my present lodging he volunteered, and I am a helpless fly in the web of Witter Pendleton. Pendleton is considered merely a spear for bread and meat at the Witters. I am observed closely at all times, and in some respects Joe admires me enough to attempt imitation, which as you know is the highest form of flattery. For instance, this morning he were not only a collar and a tie, but a scarf pin. It was a string tie, and I've never before seen a pin worn in one, but it's lady love, Ruth explained. What? The haughty damsel who wouldn't let me in? Do tell. You're imitating now laughed, but I shouldn't call it flattery. For a moment there was a chilly silence. Ruth did not look at him, but she bit her lip and then laughed unwillingly. It's all true, she said. I plead guilty. You see, I know all about you he went on. You knit your brows a deep thought. Do not hear of bulky envelopes of illegal nature, such as came to the Whitter Pendleton from the insurance people. Returned manuscripts, she interjected. Possibly, far be it from me to say they're not. Why, I've had on myself. You don't mean it, she exclaimed, ironically. You seek out as if by instinct the only crazy person in the village and come home greatly perturbed. You ask queer questions of your humble serving maid, assume a skirt which is shorter and unhesitatingly appear on the public streets. You go to the attic at night and search the inmost recesses of many old trunks. Yes, Side Ruth, I've done all that.  Did anybody hear of coffee that wasn't boiled? Is it eaten raw in the city? You call supper dinner and have been known to seek nourishment at nine o'clock at night the use of which is unknown. Oh, my hapless chafing-dish, groaned Ruth. Chafing-dish repeated Winfield brightening visibly and I eating sole leather and fried potatoes. From this hour I am your slave. You can't lose me now. Go on, she commanded. I can't. The flow of my eloquence is stopped by rapturous anticipation. Suffice it to say that the people of this city are the circulating library of the village. It's no use, Miss Thorn. You might stand on your hilltop and proclaim your innocence until you were horse and it would be utterly without effect. Your status is definitely settled. How about Aunt Jane? Does my relationship count for venerated pillar of the community, and a constant attendant at church, which it seems you are not. Also, if you are really the niece, where is the family resemblance? Why has she never spoken of you? Why have you never been here before? Why are her letters to you sealed with red wax, bought especially for the purpose? Why does she go away before you come?" "'Lady Gwendolyn Hetherington,' he demanded, with melodramatic fervor, answer me these things if you can." "'I'm tired,' she complained. "'Delicate compliment,' observed Winfield, apparently to himself. Here's a log across our path. Miss Thorn, let's sit down.' The budded maples arched over the narrow path, and a wild canary singing in the sun hopped from bow to bow. A robin's cheery chirp came from another tree, and the clear notes of a thrush, with a mottled breast, were answered by another in the gold-green aisles beyond. "'Oh,' he said, under his breath. Isn't this great? The exquisite piece of the forest was like that of another sphere. Yes,' she answered softly. It is beautiful." "'You're evading the original subject,' he suggested, a little later. "'I haven't had a chance to talk,' she explained. "'You've done a monologue ever since we left the house, and I listened, as becomes inferior and subordinate woman. I have never seen my venerated kin's woman, and I don't see how she happened to think of me. Nevertheless, when she wrote, asking me to take charge of her house while she went to Europe, I gladly consented, sight unseen. When I came she was gone. I do not deny the short skirt and heavy shoes, the criticism of boiled coffee, nor the disdain of breakfast-pie. As far as I know, Aunt Jane is my only living relative.' "'That's good,' he said cheerfully. I'm shy even of an aunt. Why shouldn't the orphans console one another?' "'They shed, admitted Ruth, and you are doing your share nobly.' "'Permit me to return the compliment.' "'Honestly, Miss Thorn,' he continued seriously. "'You have no idea how much I appreciate your being here. When I first realized what it meant to be deprived of books and papers for six months at a stretch, it seemed as if I should go mad. Still, I suppose six months isn't as bad as forever, and I was given a choice. I don't want to bore you, but if you will let me come occasionally, I shall be very glad. I'm going to try to be patient, too, if you'll help me. This isn't my long suit.' "'Indeed, I will help you,' answered Ruth impulsively. I know how hard it must be. "'I'm not begging for your sympathy, though I assure you it is welcome. He polished the tinted glasses with a bit of chamois, and his eyes filled with a mist of weakness before he put them on again. So you've never seen your aunt,' he said. "'No, that pleasure is still in store for me. They say down at the Whitters that she's a woman with a romance.' "'Tell me about it,' exclaimed Ruth eagerly. "'Little girls mustn't ask questions,' he remarked patronizingly and in his most irritating manner. Besides, I don't know. If the Whitter knows, she won't tell, so it's fair to suppose she doesn't. Your relation does queer things in the attic, and every spring she has an annual weep. I suppose it's the house-cleaning, for the rest of the year she's dry-eyed and calm.' "'I weep very frequently,' commented Ruth. "'Tears, idle tears, I wonder what they mean.' "'They don't mean much, in the case of a woman. I've never seen many of them returned Winfield, and I don't want to. Even stage-tears go against the grain with me. I know that the lady who sobs behind the footlights is well paid for it, but all the same it gives me the creeps.' "'It's nothing serious, really it isn't,' she explained. "'It's merely a safety valve. If women couldn't cry, they'd explode. I always supposed tears were signs of sorrow,' he said. Far from it left, Ruth. When I get very angry I cry, and then I got angrier because I'm crying and cry harder. That opens up a fearful possibility. What would happen if you kept getting angrier because you were crying and crying harder because you got angrier? I have no idea,' she answered, with her dark eyes fixed upon him, but it's a promising field for investigation. "'I don't want to see the experiment. Don't worry,' said Ruth leconically. "'You won't.' There was a long silence, and Winfield began to draw designs on the bare earth with a twig. Tell me about the lady who is considered crazy,' he suggested. Ruth briefly described Miss Ainsley, dwelling lovingly upon her beauty and charm. He listened indifferently at first, but when she told him of the rugs, the real lace which edged the curtains, and the cloison vase, he became much interested.  Ruth's eyes met his squirrely. "'It isn't a story,' she said, resentfully, forgetting her own temptation. The dull color flooded his face. You forget, Miss Thorne, that I am forbidden to read or write. For six months only,' answered Ruth sternly, and there's always a place for a good Sunday special. He changed the subject, but there were frequent awkward pauses, and the spot in 80 was gone. She rose, adjusting her belt in the back, and announced that it was time for her to go home. On their way up the hill she tried to be gracious enough to atone for her rudeness, but, though he was politeness itself, there was a difference, and she felt as if she had lost something. Distance lay between them, a cold, immeasurable distance, yet she knew that she had done right. He opened the gate for her, then turned to go. "'Won't you come in?' she asked conventionally. "'No, thank you, some other time, if I may. I've had a charming afternoon.' He smiled pleasantly, and was off down the hill. When she remembered that it was a wind-field who had married Abigail Weatherby, he dismissed the matter as mere coincidence, and determined at all costs to shield Miss Ainsley. The vision of that gracious lady came to her, bringing with it a certain uplift of soul. Instantly she was placed far above the petty concerns of earth, like one who walks upon the heights, untroubled, while restless surges thundered at his feet. CHAPTER VI Miss Thorne wrote an apology to wind-field, and then tore it up, thereby gaining comparative peace of mind. For, with some natures, expression is the main thing, and direction is but secondary. She was not surprised because he did not come. On the contrary, she had rather expected to be left to her own devices for a time. But one afternoon she dressed with unusual care, and sat and stayed in the parlor, vaguely expectant. If he intended to be friendly, it was certainly time for him to come again. Hepsie, passing through the hall, noted the crisp white ribbon at her throat and the bow in her hair. "'Are you expecting company, Miss Thorne?' she asked innocently. "'I am expecting no one,' answered Ruth frigidly. "'I am going out.' Feeling obliged to make her word good, she took the path which led to Miss Ainsley's. As she entered the gate she had a glimpse of wind-field, sitting by the front window of Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, in such a dejected attitude that she pitied him. She considered the virtuous emotion very praiseworthy, even though it was not deep enough for her to bestow a cheery nod upon the gloomy person across the way. Miss Ainsley was unaffectedly glad to see her, and Ruth sank into an easy chair with something like content. The atmosphere of the place was insensibly soothing, and she instantly felt a subtle change. Miss Ainsley, as always, wore a lavender gown, with real lace at the throat and wrists. Her white hair was waved softly, and on the third finger of her left hand was a ring of Roman gold, set with an amethyst and two large pearls. There was a beautiful serenity about her, even in every line of her face and figure. Time had dealt gently with her, and except on her queenly head had left no trace of his passing. The delicate scent of the lavender floated from her gown and her laces, almost as if it were a part of her, and brought visions of an old-time garden, whose gentle mistress was ever tranquil and content. As she sat there, smiling, she might have been peace grown old. Miss Ainsley said to Ruth suddenly, Have you ever had any trouble? A shadow crossed her face, and then she answered, Patiently, Why, yes, I've had my share. I don't mean to be personal, Ruth explained. I was just thinking. I understand, said the other gently. Then after a little she spoke again. We all have trouble, dearie. It's part of life, but I believe that we all share equally in the joy of the world. Allowing for temperament, I mean. Sorrows that would crush some are lightly borne by others, and some have the gift of finding great happiness in little things. Then, too, we never have any more than we can bear. Nothing that has not been borne before, and bravely at that. There isn't a new sorrow in the world. They're all old ones, but we can all find new happiness if we look in the right way. The voice had a full music, instinct with tenderness, and gradually Ruth's troubled spirit was eased. I don't know what's the matter with me, she said meditatively, for I'm not morbid, and I don't have the blues very often. But almost ever since I've been at Aunt Jane's I've been restless and disturbed. I know there's no reason for it, but I can't help it. Don't you think that it's because you have nothing to do? You've always been so busy, and you aren't used to idleness. Perhaps so. I miss my work, but at the same time I haven't sense enough to do it. Poor child, you're tired. Too tired to rest. Yes, I am tired, answered Ruth, the tears of nervous weakness coming into her eyes. Come out into the garden. Miss Ainsley drew a fleecy shawl over her shoulders and let her guest outdoors. Though she kept pace with the world in many other ways, it was an old-fashioned garden, with a sundial and an arbor, and little paths nicely kept that led to the flower beds encircled around them. There were no flowers as yet, except in a bed of wild filets under a bay window. But tiny sprigs of green were everywhere eloquent with a promise, and the lilacs were budded. That's a snowball bush over there, said Miss Ainsley, and all that corner of the garden will be full of roses in June. They're old-fashioned roses, that I expect you wouldn't care for. Blush and cinnamon and sweet briar, but I love them all. That long grow is half peonies and half bleeding hearts, and I have a bed of columbines under a window on the other side of the house. The minionette and forget-me-nots have a place to themselves, for I think they belong together—sweetness and memory. There's going to be lady-slippers over there, Miss Ainsley went on, and sweet William. The porch is always covered with morning glories. I think they're beautiful, and in that large bed I've planted poppies, snapdragon, and merry-golds. This round one is full of larks, burr, and bachelor's buttons. I have flocks and petunias, too. Did you ever see a petunia seed? Ruth shook her head. It's the tiniest thing, smaller than a grain of sand. When I plant them, I always wonder how those great feathery petunias are coming out of those little baby seeds. But they come. Over there are things that won't blossom till late—asters, tiger-villies, and prince's feather. It's going to be a beautiful garden, Dury. Down by the gate are my sweet herbs and simples—marjoram, sweet thyme, rosemary, and lavender. I love the lavender, don't you? Yes, I do, replied Ruth, but I've never seen it growing. It's a little bush, with lavender flowers that yield honey. And it's all sweet—flowers, leaves, and all. I expect you'll laugh at me, but I've planted sunflowers and four o'clock's and fox-glove. I won't laugh, I think it's lovely. What do you like best, Miss Ainsley? I love them all, she said, with a smile on her lips and her deep, unfathomable eyes fixed upon Ruth. But I think the lavender comes first. It's so sweet, and then it has associations. She paused in confusion, and Ruth went on quickly. I think they all have associations, and that's why we love them.  And I shall always love the lavender, she added softly, because it makes me think of you. Miss Ainsley's cheeks flushed, and her eyes shone. Now we'll go into the house, she said, and we'll have tea. I shouldn't stay any longer, murmured Ruth, following her. I've been here so long now. Tis'n't long, contradicted Miss Ainsley sweetly. It's been only a very few minutes. Every moment, the house and its owner took on new beauty and charm. Miss Ainsley spread a napkin of finest a mask upon the little mahogany tea-table, then brought in a silver teapot of quaint design and two cups of Japanese china, dainty to the point of fragility. Why Miss Ainsley exclaimed Ruth in surprise. Where did you get royal caga? Miss Ainsley was bending over the table, and the white hand that held the teapot trembled a little. They were a present from a friend, she answered, in a low voice. They're beautiful, said Ruth hurriedly. She had been to many an elaborate affair, which was down on the social calendar as a tea, sometimes as a reporter and often as guest, but she had found no hostess like Miss Ainsley, no china so exquisitely fine, nor any tea like the clear fragrant amber which was poured into her cup. It came from China, said Miss Ainsley, feeling the unspoken question. I had a whole chest of it, but it's almost gone. Ruth was turning her cup and consulting the oracle. Here's two people, a man and a woman, from a great distance, and yes, here's money too. What is there in yours? Nothing, dearie, and besides, it doesn't come true. When Ruth finally aroused herself to go home, the old restlessness for the moment was gone. There's a charm about you, she said, for I feels if I could sleep a whole week and never wake at all. It's the tea, smiled Miss Ainsley, for I am a very commonplace body.  They stood at the door a few moments, talking aimlessly, but Ruth was watching Miss Ainsley's face as the sunset light laid caressingly upon it. I've had a lovely time, she said, taking another step toward the gate. So have I, you'll come again, won't you? The sweet voice was pleading now, and Ruth answered it in her inmost soul. Impulsively she came back, threw her arms around Miss Ainsley's neck and kissed her. I love you, she said. Don't you know I do? The quick tears filled Miss Ainsley's eyes, and she smiled through the mist. Thank you, dearie, she whispered. It's a long time since anyone has kissed me, a long time. Ruth turned back at the gate to wave her hand, and even at that distance saw that Miss Ainsley was very pale. Winfield was waiting for her just outside the hedge, but his presence jarred upon her strangely, and her salutation was not cordial. Is the lady a friend of yours, he inquired, indifferently? She is returned, Ruth. I don't go to see my enemies, do you? I don't know whether I do or not, he said, looking at her significantly. Her color rose, but she replied sharply. For the sake of peace, let us assume that you do not. Miss Thorn, he began, as they climbed the hill. I don't see why you don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to live with yourself all the time, you know, and occasionally it must be very difficult. A rag now, wet in cold water, and tied around your neck. Have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good. I have one on now, she answered, with apparent seriousness. Only you can't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry, and I think I'd better hurry home to wet it again, don't you? Winfield left joyously. You'll do, he said. Before they were half up the hill, they were on good terms again. I don't want to go home, do you, he asked? Home? I have no home. I'm only a poor working girl. Oh, what would this be with music? I can see it now. Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission, I will endeavor to give you a little song of my own composition, entitled, Why Has the Working Girl No Home?  I am, he admitted cheerfully. Moreover, I'm a worm in the dust. I don't like worms. Then you'll have to learn. Ruth resented his calm assumption of mastery. You're dreadfully young, she said. Do you think you'll ever grow up? Huh! returned Winfield boyishly. I'm most thirty. Really, I shouldn't have thought you were of age. Here's a side-path, Miss Thorne, he said abruptly, that seems to go down into the woods. Shall we explore? It won't be dark for an hour yet. They descended with some difficulty, since the way was not clear, and came into the woods at a point not far from the log across the path. We mustn't sit there any more, he observed, or will fight. That's where we were the other day, when you attempted to assassinate me. I didn't exclaimed Ruth indignantly. That rag does seem to be pretty dry, he said apparently to himself. Perhaps when we get to the sad sea, we can wet it, and so ensure a comparative calm. She laughed, revuctantly. The path led around the hill, and down from the highlands to a narrow ledge of beach that lay under the cliff. Do you want to drown me, she asked? It looks very much as if you intended to, for this ledge is covered at high tide. You wronged me, Miss Thorne. I have never drowned anything. His answer was lost upon her, for she stood on the beach, under the cliff, looking at the water. The shimmering turquoise blue was slowly changing to gray, and a single seagull circled overhead. He made two or three observations, to which Ruth paid no attention. My lady disdain, he said with assumed anxiety. Don't you think we'd better go on? I don't know what time the tide comes in, and I never could look your aunt in the face if I had drowned her only relative. Very well, she replied carelessly. Let's go around the other way. They followed the beach until they came to the other side of the hill, but found no path leading back to civilization, though the ascent could easily be made. People have been here before, he said. Here are some initials cut into the stone. What are they? I can't see. Ruth stooped to look at the granite boulder he indicated. J. H., she answered, and J. B. It's incomplete, he objected. There should be a heart with an arrow run through it. You can fix it to suit yourself. Ruth returned coolly. I don't think anybody will mind. She did not hear his reply, for it suddenly dawned upon her that J. H. meant Jane Hathaway. They stood there in the twilight for some little time, watching the changing colors on the horizon, and then there was a faint glow on the water from the cliff above. Ruth went out far enough to see that Hepsie had placed the lamp in the attic window. It's time to go, she said, in as much as we have to go back the way we came. They crossed to the other side and went back through the woods. It was dusk, and they walked rapidly until they came to the log across the path. So your friend isn't crazy, he said tenetively, as he tried to assist her over it. That depends, she replied, drawing away from him. You're indefinite. Forgot to what the rag didn't may, he asked. I will gladly assume the implication, however, if I may be your friend. Kind, I'm sure, she answered, with distant politeness. The path widened, and he walked by her side. Have you noticed, Miss Thorn, that we have trouble every time we approach that seemingly innocent barrier? I think it would be better to keep away from it, don't you? Perhaps. What initials for those on the boulder, J. H. and J. B.? I thought so. J. B. must have had a lot of spare time at his disposal, for his initials are cut into the Witter Pendleton's gatepost on the inner side, and into an apple-tree in the backyard. How interesting! Did you know J. H. and H.B. were going out tonight? No, I didn't. They're not my intimate friends. I don't see how J. expects to marry on the income derived from the village chariot. Have they got that far? I don't know, replied Winfield, with the air of one imparting a confidence. You see, though I have been in this peaceful village for some little time, I have not yet arrived at the fine distinction between walking out, setting up, and steady company. I should infer that walking out came first, for setting up must take a great deal more courage, but even I, with my vast intellect, cannot at present understand steady company. J. takes her out every Sunday in the carriage, volunteered Ruth, when the silence became awkward. In the what? Carriage. Haven't you ridden in it? I have ridden in them, but not in it. I walked to the Witters, but if it is the conveyance used by travelers, they are both walking out and setting up. They paused at the gate. Thank you for a pleasant afternoon, said Winfield. I don't have many of them. You're welcome, returned Ruth, conveying the impression of great distance. Winfield sighed, then made a last, desperate attempt. Miss Thorn, he said pleadingly, please don't be unkind to me. You have my reason in your hands. I can see myself now, sitting on the floor, at one end of the dangerous ward.  You'll come visit the asylum some time when you're looking for a special, and at first you won't recognize me.  She laughed heartily at the distressing picture, and the plaintive tone of his voice pierced her armor. What's the matter with you, she asked? I don't know. I suppose it's my eyes. I'm horribly restless and discontented, and it isn't my way. Then Ruth remembered her own restless weeks, which seemed so long ago, and her heart stirred with womanly sympathy. I know, she said, in a different tone. I felt the same way myself, almost ever since I've been here until this very afternoon. You're tired and nervous, and you haven't anything to do. But you'll get over it. I hope you're right. I've been getting Joe to read the papers to me, at a quarter a sitting, but his pronunciation is so unfamiliar that it's hard to get the drift, and the whole thing exasperated me so that I had to give it up. Let me read the papers to you, she said impulsively. I haven't seen one for a month. There was a long silence. I don't want to impose upon you, he answered. No, you mustn't do it. Ruth saw stubborn pride that shrank from the slightest dependence, a self-reliance that would not falter, but would steadfastly hold aloof, and she knew that in one thing, at least, they were kindred. Let me, she cried eagerly. I'll give you my eyes for a little while. Winfield caught her hand and held it for a moment, fully understanding. Ruth's eyes looked up into his, deep, dark, dangerously appealing, and a light with generous desire. His fingers unclasped slowly. Yes, I will, he said, strangely moved. It's a beautiful gift, and more ways than one. You are very kind. Thank you. Good night. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 OF LAVENDER AND OLD LACE This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bridget. Lavender and Old Lace by Myrtle Reid. Chapter 7 THE MAN WHO HESITATES Isn't fair, said Winfield, to himself miserably. No, sir. Tisn't fair. He sat down on the narrow piazza, which belonged to Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, and took stern account of his inner self. The morning paper lay beside him, unopened, though his fingers itched to tear the wrapper, and his hat was pulled far down over his eyes, to shade them from the sun. If I go up there, I'm going to fall in love with her, and I know it. That moment of revelation the night before, when soul stood face to face with soul, head troubled him strangely. He knew himself for a sentimentalist where women were concerned, but until they stood at the gate together, he had thought himself safe. Like many another man, on the sunny side of thirty, he had his ideal woman safely enshrined in his inner consciousness. She was a pretty little thing, this dream maiden, a blonde, with deep blue eyes, a rosy complexion, and a mouth, like Cupid's bow. Mentally she was of the clinging sort, for Winfield did not know that in this he was out of fashion. She had a dainty birdlike air about her, and a high sweet voice, a most adorable little woman, truly for a man to dream of when business was not too pressing. In almost every possible way Miss Thorn was different. She was dark, and nearly as tall as he was. Dignified, self-possessed, and calm, except for flashes of temper, and that one impulsive moment, he had liked her, found her interesting in a tantalizing sort of way, and looked upon her as an oasis in a social desert, but that was all. Of course he might leave the village, but he made a rye face upon discovering, through labored analysis, that he didn't want to go away. It was really a charming spot, hunting and fishing to be had for the asking, fine accommodations at Mrs. Pendleton's, beautiful scenery, bracing air, and every way it was just what he needed. Should he let himself be frightened out of it by a newspaper woman who lived at the top of the hill? Hardly. Nonetheless, he realized that a man might firmly believe in affinity, and through a chain of unfortunate circumstances, become the victim of prop iniquity. He had known of such instances, and was now face to face with the dilemma. Then his face flooded with dull color. Darn it, he said to himself savagely, what an unmitigated cat I am. All this is on the assumption that she is likely to fall on my neck at any minute. Lord! Yet there was a certain comfort in the knowledge that he was safe, even if he should fall in love with Miss Thorn. That disdainful young woman would save him from himself, undoubtedly, when he reached the danger point, if not before. I wonder how a fellow would go about it anyway, he thought. He couldn't make any sentimental remarks without being instantly frozen. She's like the Boston girls we read about in the funny papers. He couldn't give her things either, except flowers or books, or sweets, or music. She has more books than she wants, because she reviews him for the paper, and I don't think she's musical. She doesn't look like the candy finds, and I imagine she'd pitch a box of chocolates into the sad sea, or give it to Hepsy. There's nothing left but flowers, and I suppose she wouldn't notice them. A man would have to teach her to like him, and nod my soul. I don't know how he'd do that. Constant devotion wouldn't have any effect. I doubt if she'd permit it, and a fellow might stay away from her for six months, without a sign from her. I guess she's cold. No, she isn't either. Eyes and temper like hers don't go with the icebergs.  It's different in the city, of course, but if he happened to meet her in the country, as I've done, might ask her to drive possibly if I could rent Alfred and Mamie for a few hours. No, we'd have to have the day for anything over two miles, and that wouldn't be good form, without a chaff her own. Not that she needs one. She's equal to any emergency, I fancy. Besides, she wouldn't go. If I could get those two plugs up the hill without pushing them, gravity would take them back. But I couldn't ask her to walk up the hill after the pleasure excursion was over. I don't believe a drive would entertain her. Perhaps she'd like to fish. No, she wouldn't, for she said she didn't like worms. Might sail on the briny deep, except that there's no harbor within ten miles, and she wouldn't trust her fair young life to me. She'd be afraid I'd drown her. I suppose the main idea is to cultivate a clinging dependence. But I'd like to see the man who could woo any dependence from Miss Thorn.  She said she was afraid of Carlton. But I guess she was just trying to be pleasant. I'll tell him about it. No, I won't, for I said I wouldn't. I wish there was some other girl here for me to talk to. But I'll be lucky if I can get along peaceably with the one already here. I'll have to discover all her pet prejudices, and be careful not to walk on any of them. There's that crazy woman, for instance. I mustn't allude to her, even respectfully, if I'm to have any softening feminine influence about me before I go back to town. She didn't seem to believe I had any letter from Carlton. That's what comes of being careless. I shouldn't have told her that people said she had large feet and warmened shoes. She's got a pretty foot. I noticed it particularly before I spoke. I suppose she didn't like that. Most girls wouldn't, I guess. But she took it as a hunter takes offence. Even after that, she said she'd help me be patient. And last night, when she said she read the papers to me, she was awfully sweet to me then. Perhaps she likes me a little bit. I hope so. She'd never care very much for anybody, though. She's too independent. She wouldn't even let me help her up the hill. I don't know whether it was independence or whether she didn't want me to touch her. If we ever come to a place where she has to be helped, I suppose I'll have to put gloves on, or let her hold one end of a stick while I hang on to the other. Still, she didn't take her hand away last night when I grabbed it. Probably she was thinking about something else and didn't notice. It's a particularly nice hand to hold, but I'll never have another chance, I guess. Carlton said she'd take the concede out of me if I had any. I'm glad he didn't put that in the letter. Still, it doesn't matter since I've lost it. I wish I hadn't. For what he said about me was really very nice. Carlton is a good fellow. How she'd let end me when I thought the crazy person might make a good special. Jer Russelam, I felt like the dust under her feet. I'd be glad to have anybody stand up for me, like that, but nobody ever will. She's mighty pretty when she's angry, but I'd rather she wouldn't get huffy at me. She's a tremendously nice girl, there's no doubt of that. At this juncture Joe came out on the porch, hat in hand. Mornin' Mr. Winfield. Good morning, Joe. How are your troubles this morning? They're ill, right, I guess, he replied, pleased with the air of comradeship. Want me to read the paper to you? No, thank you, Joe, not this morning. The tone was a dismissal, but Joe lingered, shifting from one foot to the other. Ain't I done it to suit you? Quite so, returned Winfield, serenely. I don't mind doing it, Joe continued after a long silence. I won't charge you nothing. You're very kind, Joe, but I don't care about it to-day. Winfield rose and walked to the other end of the porch. The apple trees were in bloom, and every wandering wind was laden with sweetness. Even the gnarled old tree in Miss Hathaway's yard, that had been out of bearing for many a year, had put forth a bouquet of fragrant blossoms. He saw it from where he stood, a mass of pink and white against a turquoise sky, and thought that Miss Thorn would make a charming picture if she stood beneath the tree with the blown petals drifting around her. He lingered upon the vision till Joe spoke again. Be you going up to Miss Hathaway's this morning? Why, I don't know, Winfield answered somewhat resentfully. Why? Because I wouldn't go, not if I was in your place. Why, he demanded, facing him. Miss Hathaway's niece, she's sick. Sick, repeated Winfield, in sudden fear. What's the matter? Oh, taint nothing serious, I reckon, because she's up and around. I've just come from there, and hepsy said that all night Miss Thorn was a cryin', and that this morning she wouldn't eat no breakfast. She don't never eat much, but this morning she wouldn't eat nothing, and she wouldn't say what was wrong with her. Winfield's face plainly showed his concern.  Hepsy told me this morning that she thought perhaps you and her had fit. She's your girl, ain't she? No, replied Winfield. She isn't my girl, and we haven't fit. I'm sorry she isn't well. He paced back and forth moodily, while Joe watched him in silence. Well, he said at length, I reckon I'll be moving along. I just thought I'd tell you. There was no answer, and Joe slammed the gate and discussed. I wonder what's the matter, thought Winfield. Tisn't the letter, for today's mail hasn't come, and she was all right last night. Perhaps she isn't ill. She said she cried when she was angry. Great heavens, I hope she isn't angry at me. She was awfully sweet to me just before I left her. He continued mentally, so I'm not to blame. I wonder if she's angry at herself because she offered to read the papers to me. All unknowingly, he had arrived at the cause of Miss Thorn's unhappiness. During a wakeful, miserable night, she had wished a thousand times that she might take back those few impulsive words. That must be it, he thought, and then his face grew tender. Bless her sweet heart, he muttered, a propose of nothing. I'm not going to make her unhappy. It's only her generous impulse, and I won't let her think of it any more. The little maiden of his dreams was but a faint image just then, as he sat down to plan a course of action, which would assue Miss Thorn's tears. A gray squirrel appeared on the gatepost and sat there, calmly, cracking a nut. He watched the little creature absently, and then strolled toward the gate. The squirrel seemed tame and did not move until he was almost near enough to touch it, and then it scampered only a little way. I'll catch it, Winfield said to himself, and take it up to Miss Thorn. Perhaps she'll be pleased. It was simple enough apparently, for the desired gift was always close at hand. He followed it across the hill, and bent a score of times to pick it up, but it was a guileful squirrel, and escaped with great regularity. Suddenly, with a flaunt of its bushy tail and a daring backward glance, it scampered under the gate into Miss Ainsley's garden, and Winfield laughed aloud. He had not known he was so near the other house, and was about to retreat when something stopped him.  There was a troubled silence, then she said thickly, Go. I beg your pardon, he answered hurriedly. I did not mean to frighten you. Go, she said again, her lips scarcely moving. Go. Now, what in the mischief have I done, he thought, as he crept away, feeling like a thief? I understood that this was a quiet place, and yet the strenuous life seems to have struck the village in good earnest. What am I, that I should scare the aged and make the young weep? I've always been considered harmless till now. That must be Miss Thorn's friend, whom I met so unfortunately just now. She's crazy, surely, or she wouldn't have been afraid of me. Poor thing, perhaps I startled her. He remembered that she had carried a basket, and worn a pair of gardening gloves, even though her face was so changed. For an instant he had seen its beauty, the deep violet eyes, fair skin and regular features, surmounted by that wonderful crown of silvered hair. Conflicting emotion swayed him as he wented his way to the top of the hill, with a morning paper in his pocket as an excuse, if he should need one. When he approached the gate, he was seized by swift and unexplainable fear, and would have turned back, but Miss Hathaway's door was open. Then the little maiden of his dreams vanished, waving her hand in token of eternal farewell, for as Ruth came down the path between the white and purple plumes of lilac, with a smile of welcome upon her lips, he knew that, in all the world, there was nothing half so fair. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Of Lavender and Old Place This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget. Lavender and Old Place by Myrtle Reed Chapter 8 Summer Days The rumble of voices which came from the kitchen was not disturbing, but when the rural lovers began to sit on the Piazza, directly under Ruth's window, she felt called upon to remonstrate. Hepsie, she asked, one morning, why don't you and Joe sit under the trees at the side of the house? You can take your chairs out there. Miss Hathaway allers lets us sit on the Piazza, returned Hepsie, unmoved. Miss Hathaway probably sleeps more soundly than I do. You don't want me to hear everything you say, do you? Hepsie shrugged her bucks and shoulders. You can if you like, Mum. But I don't like, snap truth, it annoys me. There was an interval of silence, then Hepsie spoke again, of her own accord. If Joe and me was to sit anywhere but in front, he might see the light. Well, what of it? Miss Hathaway, she don't want it talked of, and men folks never can keep secrets, Hepsie suggested. You wouldn't have to tell him, would you? Yes, them. Men folks has got terrible curious minds. They're all right if they don't know there's nothing, but if they does, why they's keen. Perhaps you're right, Hepsie, she replied, biting her lips. Sit anywhere you please. There were times when Ruth was compelled to admit that Hepsie's mental gifts were fully equal to her own. It was unreasonable to suppose, even for an instant, that Joe and Hepsie had not pondered long and earnestly upon the subject of the light in the attic window, yet the argument was unanswerable. The matter had long since lost its interest for Ruth, perhaps because she was too happy to care. Winfield had easily acquired the habit of bringing her his morning papers, and after the first embarrassment, Ruth settled down to it in a business-like way. Usually she sat in Miss Hathaway's sewing-chair, under a tree a little away from the house, that she might at the same time have a general supervision of her domain, while Winfield stretched himself upon the grass at her feet. When the sun was bright, he wore his dark glasses, thereby gaining an unfair advantage. After breakfast, which was a movable feast at the Witters, he went after his mail and brought hers also. When he reached the top of the hill, she was always waiting for him. This devotion is very pleasing, he remarked one morning. Some people are easily pleased, she retorted. I dislike to spoil your pleasure, but my stern regard for facts compels me to say that it is not Mr. Winfield I wait for, but the postman. Then I'll always be your postman, for I do admire to be waited for, as they have it at the Witters. Of course, it's more or less of an expense. This morning, for instance, I had to dig up two cents to get one of your valuable manuscripts out of the clutches of an interested government. That's nothing, she assured him, for I save you a quarter every day by taking Joe's place as reader to your highness, not to mention the high tariff on the Sunday papers. Besides, the manuscripts are all in now. I'm glad to hear that, he replied, sitting down on the Piazza. Do you know, Miss Thorn, I think there's a great deal of joyous excitement attached to the pursuit of literature.  Time goes on, and you hear nothing from it. You can see your name featured on the advertisements of the magazine, and hear the heavy tread of the fevered mob on the way to buy up the edition. And the rosette glow of your fancy. You can see not only your check, but the things you're going to buy with it. Perhaps you tell your friends cautiously that you're writing for such and such a magazine. Before your joy evaporates, the thing comes back from the dead letter office, because you hadn't put on enough postage, and they wouldn't take it in. Or perhaps they've written return on the front page in blue pencil, and all over it are little dark, four-fingered prints, where the office pup has walked on it. You seem to be speaking from experience. You have guessed it, Fair Lady, with your usual wonderful insight. Now let's read the paper. Do you know you read much better than Joe does? Really, Ruth was inclined to be sarcastic, but there was a delicate color in her cheeks, which pleased his aesthetic sense. At first he had an insatiable thirst for everything in the paper, except the advertisements. The market reports were sacrificed inside of a week, and the obituary notices, weather indications, and foreign dispatches soon followed. Later the literary features were eliminated, but the financial and local news died hard. By the end of June, however, he was satisfied with the headlines. No thank you, I don't want to hear about the murder, he said, in answer to Ruth's ironical question. Nor yet the summer styles and sleeves. All that slop on the woman's page, about making home happy, is not suited to such as I, and I'll pass. There's a great deal here that's very interesting, returned, Ruth, and I doubt if I myself could have crammed more solid knowledge into one woman's page. Here's a full account of a wealthy lady's summer home, and a description of a poor woman's garden, and eight recipes, and half a column on how to keep a husband at home nights, and plans for making a china closet out of an old bookcase. If there's anything that makes me dead tired, remarked Winfield, it's that homemade furniture business. For once we agree, answered Ruth, I've read about it till I'm completely out of patience. Shirt-waste boxes from soap boxes, dressing tables from packing boxes, couches from cots, haul lamps from old arc light globes, and clothes hampers from barrels. All these I endured, but the last straw was a transformed kitchen. Tell me about it, begged Winfield, who was enjoying himself hugely. The stove was to be set in the wall began, Ruth, and surrounded with marble and white tiling. Or if this was too expensive, it was to be hidden from view by a screen of Japanese silk. A nice oak settle, hand carved, which the young husband might make in his spare moments, was to be placed in front of it. And there were to be plate racks and shelves on the walls, to hold the rare china. Charming kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shone like stars. You're an awful funny girl, said Winfield quietly, to fly into a passion over a transformed kitchen that you never saw. Why don't you save your temper for real things? She looked at him meaningly, and he retreated in good order. I think I'm a tactful person, he continued hurriedly, because I get on so well with you. Most of the time, we're as contented as two kittens in a basket. My dear Mr. Winfield returned Ruth pleasantly. You're not only tactful, but honest. I never met a man whose temperament so nearly approached the unassuming violet. I'm afraid you'll never be appreciated in this world. You're too good for it. You must learn to put yourself forward. I expect it will be a shock to your sensitive nature, but it's got to be done. Thank you, he laughed. I wish we were in town now, and I'd begin to put myself forward by asking you out to dinner, and afterward to the theatre. Why don't you take me out to dinner here, she asked? I wouldn't insult you by offering you the witter's cooking. I mean a real dinner, with striped ice-cream at the end of it. I'll go, she replied. I can't resist the blandishments of striped ice-cream. Thank you again. They gives me courage to speak of something that has lain very near my heart for a long time. Yes, said Ruth conventionally, for the moment she was frightened. I've been thinking fondly of your chafing-dish, though I haven't been allowed to see it yet, and I suppose there's nothing in the settlement to cook in it, is there? Nothing much, surely. We might have some stuff sent out from the city, don't you think so? Can't things? Yes, anything that would keep. Aided and abetted by Winfield, she made out a list of articles, which were unknown to the simple-minded inhabitants of the village. I'll attend to the financial part of it, he said, pocketing the list, and then my life will be in your hands. After he went away, Ruth wished she knew more about the gentle art of cooking, which, after all, is closely allied to the other one, of making enemies. She decided to dispense with Hepsy's service, when Winfield came up to dinner, and to do everything herself. She found an old cookbook of Aunt Jane's, and turned over its pages with new interest. It was in manuscript form, and seemed to represent the culinary knowledge of the entire neighborhood. Each recipe was duly accredited to its original author, and there were many newspaper clippings, from the despised woman's page in various journals. Ruth thought it would be an act of kindness to paste the loose clippings into Aunt Jane's book, and she could look them over as she fastened them in. The work progressed rapidly, until she found a clipping which was not a recipe. It was a perfunctory notice of the death of Charles Winfield, dated almost eighteen years ago. She remembered the various emotions old newspapers had given her, when she first came to Aunt Jane's. This was Abelgale Weatherby's husband. He had survived her by a dozen years. I'm glad it's Charles Winfield instead of Carl, thought Ruth, as she put it aside, and went on with her work. Pantry's come, announced Winfield, a few days later. I didn't open it, but I think everything is there. Joe's going to bring it up. Then you can come to Sunday dinner, answered Ruth, smiling. I'll be here, returned Winfield promptly. What time do we dine? I don't know exactly. It's better to wait, I think, until Hepsy goes out. She always regards me with more of a suspicion, and it makes me uncomfortable. Sunday afternoon the faithful Joe drove up to the gate, and Hepsy emerged from her small back room, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. She was radiant in a brilliant blue silk, which was festooned at irregular intervals, with white silk lace. Her hat was bending beneath its burden of violets and red roses, starred here and there with some unhappy buttercups, which had survived the wreck of a previous millinery triumph. Her hands were encased in white-counten gloves, which did not fit. With Joe's assistance she entered the vehicle, and took her place proudly on the back seat, even while he pleaded for her to sit beside him.  Nobody's asking you to drive nothing from nowhere, returned Hepsy scornfully. If you can't take me out like a lady, I ain't a going. Ruth was dazzled by the magnificence of the spectacle, and was unable to take her eyes away from it, even after Joe had turned around and started downhill. She thought when Field would see them pass his door, and time his arrival accordingly. So she was startled when he came up behind her and said cheerfully, They look like a policeman's, don't they? What, who? Hepsy's hands. Did you think I meant yours? How long have you been here? Nearly thirty years. That wasn't what I meant, said Ruth-colouring. How long have you been at Aunt Jane's? Oh, that's different. When Joe went out to harness his fiery steeds to his imposing chariot, I went around through the woods across the beach, climbed a vertical precipice, and came up the side of the hill. I had to wait some little time, but I had a front seat during the show. He brought out her favorite chair, placing it under the maple tree, then sat down near her. I should think you'd get some clothes like Hepsy's, he began. I'll wager now, that you haven't a gown like that in your entire wardrobe. You're right, I haven't. The nearest approach to it is a tailored gown, lined with silk, which Hepsy thinks I should wear wrong side out. How long will the coast be clear? Until nine o'clock, I think. They go to church in the evening. It's half past three now, he observed, glancing at his watch. I had fried salt-pork, fried eggs, and fried potatoes for breakfast. I've renounced coffee, for I can't seem to get used to theirs. For dinner we had round steak, fried, more fried potatoes, and boiled onions. Dried apple pie for dessert. I think I'd rather have had the mince I refused this morning. I'll feed you at five o'clock, she said, smiling. That seems like a long time, he complained. It won't after you begin to entertain me. It was after five before either realized it. Come on, she said, you can sit in the kitchen and watch me. He professed great admiration while she put on one of Hepsy's white aprons, and when she appeared with a chafing dish, his emotion was beyond speech. He was allowed to open the box and to cut up some button mushrooms, while she shredded cold chicken. I'm getting hungrier every minute, he said, and if there is undue postponement, I fear I shall assimilate all the raw material in sight, including the cook. Ruth laughed happily. She was making a sauce with real cream, seasoned delicately with paprika and celery salt. Now I'll put in the chicken and mushroom, she said, and you can stir it while I make toast. They were seated at the table in the dining-room, and the fun was at its height, when they became aware of a presence. Hepsy stood in the door, apparently transfixed with surprise, and with disapproval evident in every line of her face. Before either could speak, she was gone. Though Ruth was very much annoyed, the incident seemingly served to accentuate Winfield's enjoyment. The sound of wheels on the gravel outside told them that she was continuing her excursion. I'm going to discharge her to-morrow, Ruth said. You can't, she is in Miss Hathaway's service, not yours. Besides, what has she done? She came back, probably, after something she had forgotten. You have no reasonable ground for discharging her, and I think you'd be more uncomfortable if she went than if she stayed. Perhaps your rate, she admitted. I know how you feel about it, he went on. But I hope you won't let her distress you. It doesn't make a bit of difference to me. She's only amusing. Please don't bother about it. I won't, said Ruth. That is, I'll try not to. They piled the dishes in the sink, as a pleasant surprise for Hepsy, he said, and the hours passed as if on wings. It was almost ten o'clock before it occurred to Winfield that his permanent abode was not Miss Hathaway's parlor. As they stood at the door, talking, the last train came in. Do you know, said Winfield, that every night, just as that train comes in, your friend down there puts a candle in her front window? Well, rejoined Ruth sharply, what of it? It's a free country, isn't it? Very. Untrammeled press and highly independent woman. Good night, Miss Thorn. I'll be up the first thing in the morning. She was about to speak, but slammed the door instead, and was displaced when she heard a smothered laugh from outside. End of chapter 8