Lavender and Old Lace
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Myrtle Reed >> Lavender and Old Lace
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11 Etext prepared by Dianne Bean of Phoenix, AZ using Omnipage Pro
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LAVENDER AND OLD LACE by Myrtle Reed
1902
I. THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
II. THE ATTIC.
III. MISS AINSLIE
IV. A GUEST
V. THE RUMOURS OF THE VALLEY
VI. THE GARDEN
VII. THE MAN WHO HESITATES
VIII. SUMMER DAYS
IX. BY HUMBLE MEANS
X. LOVE LETTERS
XI. THE ROSE OF ALL THE WORLD
XII. BRIDE AND GROOM
XIII. PLANS
XIV. "FOR REMEMBRANCE"
XV. THE SECRET AND THE DREAM
XVI. SOME ONE WHO LOVED HER
XVII. DAWN
I. The Light in the Window
A rickety carriage was slowly ascending the hill, and from the
place of honour on the back seat, the single passenger surveyed
the country with interest and admiration. The driver of that
ancient chariot was an awkward young fellow, possibly twenty-five
years of age, with sharp knees, large, red hands, high
cheek-bones, 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 every one.
"Be you comfortable, Miss?" he asked, with apparent solicitude.
"Very comfortable, thank you," was the quiet response. He urged
his venerable steeds to a gait of about two mles an hour, then
turned sideways.
"Be you goin' 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 dretful bashful when
they's away from home," he said to himself. He clucked again to
his unheeding 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 gallivantin' and travellin' in
furrin parts, be n't 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 Thorne
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 suddenly
projected into space, followed by her suit case, 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 realise 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 suit case and
umbrella, instantly prepared for the worst; but Joe reassured
her.
"Now don't you go and get skeered, Miss," he said, kindly;
"'taint nothin' in the world but a rabbit. Mamie can't never get
used to rabbits, someways." He indicated one of the horses--a
high, raw-boned animal, sketched on a generous plan, whose ribs
and joints protruded, and whose rough white coat had been
weather-worn to grey.
"Hush now, Mamie," he said; "'taint nothin'."
"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.
"G' long, 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 Thorne endeavoured to conceal her amusement and Joe was
pleased because the ice was broken. "I change their names every
once in a while," he said, "'cause it makes some variety, but now
I've named'em 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 Thorne," 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 storm-beaten 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 greyish 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 Thorne," the maid began, volubly;
"Miss Hathaway, she went earlier than she laid out to, on account
of the folks decidin' to take a steamer that sailed
beforehand--before the other one, I mean. She went in sech 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 comin'."
Miss Thorne 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 near by with her hands on her hips.
"Miss Ruth Thorne," 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. Hepsey
will attend to the house-keeping, 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 Hepsey 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 Hepsey will
know where to find it. Hoping that this will find you enjoying
the great blessing of good health, I remain,
"Your Affectionate Aunt,
"JANE HATHAWAY.
"P. S. You have to keep a lamp burning every night in the east
window of the attic. Be careful that nothing catches afire."
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, Hepsey," said Miss Thorne, pleasantly,
"and I think you and I will get along nicely. Did Miss Hathaway
tell you what room I was to have?"
"No'm. She told me you was to make yourself at home. 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 Hepsey, 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,
Puritan 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 folk 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 Hepsey's.
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 the attic. 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 aunt's cramped, But distinct
hand: "Hepsey 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 in the
attic was the only one which commanded a view of the sea. A small
table, with its legs sawed 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 not come
amiss in 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 were a few stumps, well-nigh covered with moss. 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 that first
scent of sea and Spring.
As yet, she had not fully realised 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 kindness of this
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 battered
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.
Ruth 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 grey of twilight had come upon the world before she
thought of going downstairs. A match-safe 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 Thorne! Miss Thorne!" cried a shrill voice. "Come here!
Quick!"
White as a sheet, Ruth flew downstairs and met Hepsey in the
hall. "What on earth is the 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 more serious had happened. "You mustn't scream like
that."
"Supper's ready," resumed Hepsey, nonchalantly, and Ruth followed
her down to the little dining-room.
As she ate, she plied the maid with questions. "Does Miss
Hathaway light that lamp in the attic every night?"
"Yes'm. 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?"
"D' know. She d' know, neither."
"Why, Hepsey, what do you mean? Why does she do it if she doesn't
know why she does it?"
"D'know.'Cause she wants to, I reckon."
"She's been gone a week, hasn't she?"
"No'm. Only six days. It'll be a week to-morrer."
Hepsey'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'm. 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 old-fashioned exactness lingered
in her wake. "Now see here, Hepsey," 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 d' know, as you say, mum, but I think--" here she lowered her
voice--" I think it has something to do with Miss Ainslie."
"Who is Miss Ainslie?"
"She's a peculiar woman, Miss Ainslie is," the girl explained,
smoothing her apron, "and she lives down the road a piece, in the
valley as, you may say. She don't never go nowheres, Miss Ainslie
don't, but folks goes to see her. She's got a funny house--I've
been inside of it sometimes when I've been down on errands for
Miss Hathaway. She ain't got no figgered wall paper, nor no lace
curtains, and she ain't got no rag carpets neither. Her floors is
all kinder funny, and she's got heathen things spread down
onto'em. Her house is full of heathen things, and sometimes she
wears'em."
"Wears what, Hepsey? The'heathen things' in the house?"
"No'm. Other heathen things she's got put away somewheres. She's
got money, I guess, but she's got furniture in her parlour that's
just like what Miss Hathaway's got set away in the attic. We
wouldn't use them kind of things, nohow," she added complacently.
"Does she live all alone?"
"Yes'm. Joe, he does her errands and other folks stops in
sometimes, but Miss Ainslie ain't left her front yard for I d'
know how long. Some says she's cracked, but she's the best
housekeeper round here, and if she hears of anybody that's sick
or in trouble, she allers sends'em things. She ain't never been
up here, but Miss Hathaway, she goes down there sometimes, and
she'n Miss Ainslie swaps cookin' quite regler. I have to go down
there with a plate of somethin' Miss Hathaway's made, and Miss
Ainslie allers says: 'Wait just a moment, please, Hepsey, I would
like to send Miss Hathaway a jar of my preserves.'"
She relapsed unconsciously into imitation of Miss Ainslie's
speech. In the few words, softened, and betraying a quaint
stateliness, Ruth caught a glimpse of an old-fashioned
gentlewoman, reserved and yet gracious.
She folded her napkin, saying: "You make the best biscuits I ever
tasted, Hepsey." The girl smiled, but made no reply.
"What makes you think Miss Ainslie has anything to do with the
light?" she inquired after a little.
"'Cause there wasn't no light in that winder when I first
come--leastways, not as I know of--and after I'd been here a week
or so, Miss Hathaway, she come back from there one day looking
kinder strange. She didn't say much; but the next mornin' she
goes down to town and buys that lamp, and she saws off them table
legs 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 Ainslie had been talking of shipwreck, and
she thought she would have a little lighthouse of her own," Miss
Thorne suggested, when the silence became oppressive.
"P'raps so," rejoined Hepsey. She had become stolid again.
Ruth pushed her chair back and stood at the dining-room window a
moment, looking out into the yard. The valley was in shadow, but
the last light still lingered on the hill. "What's that, Hepsey?"
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 jest afore Miss Hathaway
went away, and she planted the evergreen."
"I thought something was lacking," said Ruth, half to herself.
"Do you want a kitten, Miss Thorne?" inquired Hepsey, eagerly. "I
reckon I can get you one--Maltese or white, just as you like."
"No, thank you, Hepsey; I don't believe I'll import any pets."
"Jest as you say, mum. It's sorter lonesome, 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 parlour, where the shabby
haircloth furniture was ornamented with "tidies" to the last
degree. There was a marble-topped centre table in the room, and a
basket of wax flowers under a glass case, Mrs. Hemans's 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 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. Coarse lace curtains hung from brass rings on
wooden poles, and red cotton lambrequins were festooned at the
top.
Hepsey came in to light the lamp that hung by chains over the
table, but Miss Thorne rose, saying: "You needn't mind, Hepsey,
as I am going upstairs."
"Want me to help you unpack? she asked, doubtless wishing for a
view of "city clothes."
"No, thank you."
"I put a pitcher of water in your room, 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."
Hepsey 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 Miss Hathaway?" she asked.
"Five years come next June."
"Good night, Hepsey."
"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 in the attic, and went up to get it.
When she returned she heard Hepsey'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 first of October. She checked off the free,
health-giving months on her tired fingers, that would know the
blue pencil and the typewriter 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 latent injustice, such
as had often rankled in her soul when her friends went and she
remained at home.
Thinking she heard Hepsey in the hall, and not caring to arouse
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
Ainslie's. 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.
A train from the city sounded a warning whistle as it approached
the station, and then a light shone on the grass in front of Miss
Ainslie's house. 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.
II. The Attic
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. Hepsey did not frame the
thought, but she had a vague impression that the guest was lazy.
Yet she was grateful for the new interest which had come into her
monotonous life. Affairs moved like clock work 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: "Now, Hepsey, you mind Miss
Thorne. If I hear that you don't, you'll lose your place."
The young woman who slumbered peacefully upstairs, while the rest
of the world was awake, had, from the beginning, aroused
admiration in Hepsey's breast. It was a reluctant, rebellious
feeling, mingled with an indefinite fear, but it was admiration
none the less.
During the greater part of a wondering, wakeful night, the
excited Hepsey 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 wonted sound. Ruth's face, naturally mobile, had
been schooled into a certain reserve, but her deep, dark eyes
were eloquent, and always would be. Hepsey wondered at the opaque
whiteness of her skin and the baffling arrangement of her hair.
The young women of the village had rosy cheeks, but Miss Thorne's
face was colourless, except for her lips.
It was very strange, Hepsey 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. Foreign letters came frequently, no two
of them from the same person, and the lamp in the attic window
had burned steadily every night for five years. Otherwise,
everything was explainable and sane.
Still, Miss Thorne did not seem even remotely related to her
aunt, and Hepsey had her doubts. Moreover, the guest had an
uncanny gift which amounted to second sight. How did she know
that all of Hepsey's books had yellow covers? Miss Hathaway could
not have told her in the letter, for the mistress was not awire
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 wis 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, for, in the books, such things
frequently happened. Would she go? Hepsey 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.
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