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Burroughs - "At the Earth's Core, by Edgar Rice Burroughs"

H. G. Keene - "Project Gutenberg surfs with a modem donated by Supra."

H. L. Mencken - "In Defense of Women"

Stendhal - "Vittoria Accoramboni"

Lavender and Old Lace

M >> Myrtle Reed >> Lavender and Old Lace




"Here's sunthin' I most forgot," he said, giving Ruth a note.
"I'd drive you back fer nothin', only I've got sech a load."

The note was from Miss Ainslie, inviting Miss Thorne and her
friend to come at five o'clock and stay to tea. No answer was
expected unless she could not come.

The quaint, old-fashioned script was in some way familiar. A
flash of memory took Ruth back to the note she had found in the
dresser drawer,beginning: "I thank you from my heart for
understanding me." So it was Miss Ainslie who had sent the
mysterious message to Aunt Jane.

"You're not paying any attention to me," complained Winfield. "I
suppose, when we're married, I'll have to write out what I want
to say to you, and put it on file."

"You're a goose," laughed Ruth. "We're going to Miss Ainslie's
to-night for tea. Aren't we getting gay?"

"Indeed we are! Weddings and teas follow one another like Regret
on the heels of Pleasure."

"Pretty simile," commented Ruth. "If we go to the tea, we'll have
to miss the wedding."

"Well, we've been to a wedding quite recently, so I suppose it's
better to go to the tea. Perhaps, by arranging it, we might be
given nourishment at both places--not that I pine for the
'Widder's' cooking. Anyhow, we've sent our gift, and they'd
rather have that than to have us, if they were permitted to
choose."

"Do you suppose they'll give us anything?"

"Let us hope not."

"I don't believe we want any at all," she said. "Most of them
would be in bad taste, and you'd have to bury them at night, one
at a time, while I held a lantern."

"The policeman on the beat would come and ask us what we were
doing," he objected; "and when we told him we were only burying
our wedding presents, he wouldn't believe us. We'd be dragged to
the station and put into a noisome cell. Wouldn't it make a
pretty story for the morning papers! The people who gave us the
things would enjoy it over their coffee."

"It would be pathetic, wouldn't it?"

"It would, Miss Thorne. I think we'd better not tell anybody
until its all safely over, and then we can have a little card
printed to go with the announcement, saying that if anybody is
inclined to give us a present, we'd rather have the money."

"You're a very practical person, Carl. One would think you had
been married several times."

"We'll be married as often as you like, dear. Judging by your
respected aunt, one ceremony isn't 'rightfully bindin', and I
want it done often enough to be sure that you can't get away from
me."

As they entered the gate, Uncle James approached stealthily by a
roundabout way and beckoned to them. "Excuse me," he began, as
they came within speaking distance, "but has Mis' Ball give you
furniture?"

"Yes," replied Ruth, in astonishment, "why?"

"There's clouds to starboard and she's repentin'. She's been
admirin' of it the hull mornin' in the attic. I was sot in the
kitchen with pertaters," he explained, "but the work is wearin'
and a feller needs fresh air."

"Thank you for the tip, Uncle," said Winfield, heartily.

The old man glowed with gratification. "We men understand each
other," was plainly written on his expressive face, as he went
noiselessly back to the kitchen.

"You'd better go home, dear," suggested Ruth.

"Delicate hint," replied Winfield. "It would take a social
strategist to perceive your hidden meaning. Still, my finer
sensibilities respond instantly to your touch, and I will go. I
flatter myself that I've never had to be put out yet, when I've
been calling on a girl. Some subtle suggestion like yours has
always been sufficient."

"Don't be cross, dear--let's see how soon you can get to the
bottom of the hill. You can come back at four o'clock."

He laughed and turned back to wave his hand at her. She wafted a
kiss from the tips of her fingers, which seemed momentarily to
impede his progress, but she motioned him away and ran into the
house.

Aunt Jane was nowhere to be seen, so she went on into the kitchen
to help Uncle James with the potatoes. He had peeled almost a
peck and the thick parings lay in a heap on the floor. "My
goodness'" she exclaimed. "You'd better throw those out, Uncle,
and I'll put the potatoes on to boil."

He hastened out, with his arms full of peelings. "You're a real
kind woman, Niece Ruth," he said gratefully, when he came in.
"You don't favour your aunt none--I think you're more like me."

Mrs. Ball entered the kitchen with a cloud upon her brow, and in
one of those rare flashes of insight which are vouchsafed to
plodding mortals, a plan of action presented itself to Ruth.
"Aunty," she said, before Mrs. Ball had time to speak, "you know
I'm going back to the city to-morrow, and I'd like to send you
and Uncle James a wedding present--you've been so good to me.
What shall it be?"

"Well, now, I don't know," she answered, visibly softening, "but
I'll think it over, and let you know."

"What would you like, Uncle James?"

"You needn't trouble him about it," explained his wife. "He'll
like whatever I do, won't you, James?"

"Yes'm, just as you say."

After dinner, when Ruth broached the suliject of furniture, she
was gratified to find that Aunt Jane had no serious objections.
"I kinder hate to part with it, Ruth," she said, "but in a way,
as you may say, it's yours."

"'Tisn't like giving it away, Aunty--it's all in the family, and,
as you say, you're not using it."

"That's so, and then James and me are likely to come and make you
a long visit, so I'll get the good of it, too."

Ruth was momentarily stunned, but rallied enough to express great
pleasure at the prospect. As Aunt Jane began to clear up the
dishes, Mr. Ball looked at his niece, with a certain quiet joy,
and then, unmistakably, winked.

"When you decide about the wedding present, Aunty, let me know,
won't you?" she asked, as Mrs. Ball came in after the rest of the
dishes. "Mr. Winfield would like to send you a remembrance also."
Then Ruth added, to her conscience, "I know he would."

"He seems like a pleasant-spoken feller," remarked Aunt Jane.
"You can ask him to supper to-night, if you like."

"Thank you, Aunty, but we're going to Miss Ainslie's."

"Huh!" snorted Mrs. Ball. "Mary Ainslie ain't got no sperrit!"
With this enigmatical statement, she sailed majestically out of
the room.

During the afternoon, Ruth finished her packing, leaving out a
white shirt-waist to wear to Miss Ainslie's. When she went down
to the parlour to wait for Winfield, Aunt Jane appeared, with her
husband in her wake.

"Ruth, "she announced, "me and James have decided on a weddin'
present. I would like a fine linen table-cloth and a dozen
napkins."

"All right, Aunty."

"And if Mr. Winfield is disposed to it, he can give me a lemonade
set--one of them what has different coloured tumblers belongin'
to it."

"He'll be pleased to send it, Aunty; I know he will."

"I'm a-layin' out to take part of them two hundred dollars what's
sewed up in James's belt, and buy me a new black silk," she went
on. "I've got some real lace to trim it with, whet dames give me
in the early years of our engagement. Don't you think a black
silk is allers nice, Ruth?"

"Yes, it is, Aunty; and just now, it's very stylish."

"You appear to know about such things. I guess I'll let you get
it for me in the city when you buy the weddin' present. I'll give
you the money, and you can get the linin's too, while you're
about it."

"I'll send you some samples, Aunty, and then you can take your
choice."

"And--" began Mrs. Ball.

"Did you know Mrs. Pendleton was going away, Aunty?" asked Ruth,
hastily.

"Do tell! Elmiry Peavey goin' travellin'?"

"Yes, she's going somewhere for a visit--I don't know just
where."

"I had laid out to take James and call on Elmiry," she said,
stroking herapron thoughtfully, while a shadow crossed Mr. Ball's
expressive face; "but I guess I'll wait now till I get my new
black silk. I want her to know I've done well."

A warning hiss from the kitchen and the odour of burning sugar
impelled Aunt Jane to a hasty exit just as Winfield came. Uncle
James followed them to the door.

"Niece Ruth," he said, hesitating and fumbling at his belt, "be
you goin' to get merried?"

"I hope so, Uncle," she replied kindly.

"Then--then--I wish you'd take this and buy you sunthin' to
remember your pore old Uncle James by." He thrust a trembling
hand toward her, and offered her a twenty dollar bill.

"Why, Uncle!" she exclaimed. "I mustn't take this! Thank you ever
so much, but it isn't right!"

"I'd be pleased," he said plaintively. "'Taint as if I wan's
accustomed to money. My store was wuth five or six hundred
dollars, and you've been real pleasant to me, Niece Ruth. Buy a
hair wreath for the parlour, or sunthin' to remind you of your
pore old Uncle."

Winfield pressed her arm warningly, and she tucked the bill into
her chatelaine bag. "Thank you, Uncle!" she said; then, of her
own accord, she stooped and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

A mist came into the old man's eyes, and he put his hand to his
belt again, but she hurriedly led Winfield away. "Ruth," he said,
as they went down the hill, "you're a sweet girl. That was real
womanly kindness to the poor devil."

"Shall I be equally kind to all 'poor devils'?"

"There's one more who needs you--if you attend to him properly,
it will be enough."

"I don't see how they're going to get Aunty's silk gown and a
ring like mine and a haircloth parlour suit and publish a book
with less than two hundred dollars, do you?"

"Hardly--Joe says that he gave Hepsey ten dollars. There's a
great discussion about the spending of it."

"I didn't know--I feel guilty."

"You needn't, darling. There was nothing else for you to do. How
did you succeed with your delicate mission?"

"I managed it," she said proudly. "I feel that I was originally
destined for a diplomatic career." He laughed when she described
the lemonade set which she had promised in his name.

"I'll see that the furniture is shipped tomorrow," he assured
her; "and then I'll go on a still hunt for the gaudy glassware.
I'm blessed if I don't give 'em a silver ice pitcher, too."

"I'm in for a table-cloth and a dozen napkins," laughed Ruth;
"but I don't mind. We won't bury Uncle's wedding present, will
we?"

"I should say not! Behold the effect of the card, long before
it's printed."

"I know, "said Ruth, seriously, "I'll get a silver spoon or
something like that out of the twenty dollars, and then I'll
spend the rest of it on something nice for Uncle James. The poor
soul isn't getting any wedding present, and he'll never know."

"There's a moral question involved in that," replied Winfield.
"Is it right to use his money in that way and assume the credit
yourself?"

"We'll have to think it over," Ruth answered. "It isn't so very
simple after all."


Miss Ainslie was waiting for them in the garden and came to the
gate to meet them. She wore a gown of lavender taffeta, vhich
rustled and shone in the sunlight. Th skirt was slightly trained,
with a dust ruffle underneath, and the waist was made in surplice
fashion, open at the throat. A bertha of rarest Brussels lace was
fastened at her neck with the amethyst pin, inlaid with gold and
surrounded by baroque pearls. The ends of the bertha hung loosely
and under it she had tied an apron of sheerest linen, edged with
narrow Duchesse lace. Her hair was coiled softly on top of her
head, with a string of amethysts and another of pearls woven
among the silvery strands.

"Welcome to my house," she said, smiling, Winfield at once became
her slave. She talked easily, with that exquisite cadence which
makes each word seem like a gift, but there was a certain subtle
excitement in her manner, which Ruth did not fail to perceive.
When Winfield was not looking at Miss Ainslie, her eyes rested
upon him with a wondering hunger, mingled with tenderness and
fear.

Midsummer lay upon the garden and the faint odour of mignonette
and lavender came with every wandering wind. White butterflies
and thistledown floated in the air, bees hummed drowsily, and fhe
stately hollyhocks swayed slowly back and forth.

"Do you know why I asked you to come today?" She spoke to Ruth,
but looked at Winfield.

"Why, Miss Ainslie?"

"Because it is my birthday--I am fifty-five years old."

Ruth's face mirrored her astonishment. "You don't look any older
than I do," she said.

Except for the white hair, it was true. Her face was as fresh as
a rose with the morning dew upon it, and even on her neck, where
the folds of lace revealed a dazzling whiteness, there were no
lines.

"Teach us how to live, Miss Ainslie," said Winfield, softly,
"that the end of half a century may find us young."

A delicate pink suffused her cheeks and she turned her eyes to
his. "I've just been happy, that's all," she answered.

"It needs the alchemist's touch," he said, "to change our sordid
world to gold."

"We can all learn," she replied, "and even if we don't try, it
comes to us once."

"What?" asked Ruth.

"Happiness--even if it isn't until the end. In every life there
is a perfect moment, like a flash of sun. We can shape our days
by that, if we will--before by faith, and afterward by memory."

The conversation drifted to less serious things. Ruth,
remembering that Miss Ainslie did not hear the village gossip,
described her aunt's home-coming, the dismissal of Hepsey, and
told her of the wedding which was to take place that evening.
Winfield was delighted, for he had never heard her talk so well,
but Miss Ainslie listened with gentle displeasure.

"I did not think Miss Hathaway would ever be married abroad," she
said. "I think she should have waited until she came home. It
would have been more delicate to let him follow her. To seem to
pursue a gentleman, however innocent one may be, is--is
unmaidenly."

Winfield choked, then coughed violently.

"Understand me, dear," Miss Ainslie went on, "I do not mean to
criticise your aunt--she is one of my dearest friends. Perhaps I
should not have spoken at all," she concluded in genuine
distress.

"It's all right, Miss Ainslie," Ruth assured her, "I know just
how you feel."

Winfield, having recovered his composure, asked a question about
the garden, and Miss Ainslie led them in triumph around her
domain. She gathered a little nosegay of sweet-williams for Ruth,
who was over among the hollyhocks, then she said shyly: "What
shall I pick for you?"

"Anything you like, Miss Ainslie. I am at a loss to choose."

She bent over and plucked a leaf of rosemary, looking at him long
and searchingly as she put it into his hand.

"For remembrance," she said, with the deep fire burning in her
eyes. Then she added, with a pitiful hunger in her voice:

"Whatever happens, you won't forget me?"

"Never!" he answered, strangely stirred.

"Thank you," she whispered brokenly, drawing away from him. "You
look so much like--like some one I used to know."

At dusk they went into the house. Except for the hall, it was
square, with two partitions dividing it. The two front rooms were
separated by an arch, and the dining-room and kitchen were
similarly situated at the back of the house, with a china closet
and pantry between them.

Miss Ainslie's table, of solid mahogany, was covered only with
fine linen doilies, after a modern fashion, and two quaint
candlesticks, of solid silver, stood opposite each other. In the
centre, in a silver vase of foreign pattern, there was a great
bunch of asters--white and pink and blue.

The repast was simple--chicken fried to a golden brown, with
creamed potatoes, a salad made of fresh vegetables from the
garden, hot biscuits, deliciously light, and the fragrant Chinese
tea, served in the Royal Kaga cups, followed by pound cake, and
pears preserved in a heavy red syrup.

The hostess sat at the head of the table, dispensing a graceful
hospitality. She made no apology, such as prefaced almost every
meal at Aunt Jane's. It was her best, and she was proud to give
it--such was the impression.

Afterward, when Ruth told her that she was going back to the
city, Miss Ainslie's face grew sad.

"Why--why must you go?" she asked.

"I'm interrupting the honeymoon," Ruth answered, "and
when I suggested departure, Aunty agreed to it immediately. I
can't very well stay now, can I?"

"My dear," said Miss Ainslie, laying her hand upon Ruth's, "if
you could, if you only would--won't you come and stay with me?"

"I'd love to," replied Ruth, impetuously, "but are you sure you
want me?"

"Believe me, my dear," said Miss Ainslie, simply, "it will give
me great happiness."

So it was arranged that the next day Ruth's trunk should be taken
to Miss Ainslie's, and that she would stay until the first of
October. Winfield was delighted, since it brought Ruth nearer to
him and involved no long separation.

They went outdoors again, where the crickets and katydids were
chirping in the grass, and the drowsy twitter of birds came from
the maples above. The moon, at its full, swung slowly over the
hill, and threads of silver light came into the fragrant dusk of
the garden. Now and then the moonlight shone full upon Miss
Ainslie's face, touching her hair as if with loving tenderness
and giving her an unearthly beauty. It was the face of a saint.

Winfield, speaking reverently, told her of their betrothal. She
leaned forward, into the light, and put one hand caressingly upon
the arm of each.

"I am so glad," she said, with her face illumined. Through the
music of her voice ran lights and shadows, vague, womanly appeal,
and a haunting sweetness neither could ever forget.

That night, the gates of Youth turned on their silent hinges for
Miss Ainslie. Forgetting the hoary frost that the years had laid
upon her hair, she walked, hand in hand with them, through the
clover fields which lay fair before them and by the silvered
reaches of the River of Dreams. Into their love came something
sweet that they had not found before--the absolute need of
sharing life together, whether it should be joy or pain.
Unknowingly, they rose to that height which makes sacrifice the
soul's dearest offering, as the chrysalis, brown and unbeautiful,
gives the radiant creature within to the light and freedom of
day.

When the whistle sounded fcr the ten o'clock train, Ruth said it
was late and they must go. Miss Ainslie went to the gate with
them, her lavender scented gown rustling softly as she walked,
and the moonlight making new beauty of the amethysts and pearls
entwined in her hair.

Ruth, aglow with happiness, put her arms around Miss Ainslie's
neck and kissed her tenderly. "May I, too?" asked Winfield.

He drew her toward him, without waiting for an answer, and Miss
Ainslie trembled from head to foot as she lifted her face to his.

Across the way the wedding was in full blast, but neither of them
cared to go. Ruth turned back for a last glimpse of the garden
and its gentle mistress, but she was gone, and the light from her
candle streamed out until it rested upon a white hollyhock,
nodding drowsily.

To Ruth, walking in the starlight with her lover, it seemed as if
the world had been made new. The spell was upon Winfield for a
long time, but at last he spoke.

"If I could have chosen my mother," he said, simply, "she would
have been like Miss Ainslie."



XV. The Secret and the Dream

Ruth easily became accustomed to the quiet life at Miss
Ainslie's, and gradually lost all desire to go back to the city.
"You're spoiling me," she said, one day. "I don't want to go back
to town, I don't want to work, I don't want to do anything but
sit still and look at you. I didn't know I was so lazy."

"You're not lazy, dear," answered Miss Ainslie, "you were tired,
and you didn't know how tired you were."

Winfield practically lived there. In the morning, he sat in the
garden, reading the paper, while Ruth helped about the house. She
insisted upon learning to cook, and he ate many an unfamiliar
dish, heroically proclaiming that it was good. "You must never
doubt his love," Miss Ainslie said, "for those biscuits--well,
dear, you know they were--were not just right."

The amateur cook laughed outright at the gentle criticism. "They
were awful," she admitted, "but I'm going to keep at it until I
learn how."

The upper part of the house was divided into four rooms, with
windows on all sides. One of the front rooms, with north and east
windows, was Miss Ainslie's, while the one just back of it, with
south and east windows, was a sitting-room.

"I keep my prettiest things up here, dear," she explained to
Ruth, "for I don't want people to think I'm crazy." Ruth caught
her breath as she entered the room, for rare tapestries hung on
the walls and priceless rugs lay on the floor. The furniture,
like that downstairs, was colonial mahogany, highly polished,
with here and there a chair or table of foreign workmanship.
There was a cabinet, filled with rare china, a marquetry table,
and a chair of teakwood, inlaid with mother of pearl. In one
corner of the room was a large chest of sandal wood, inlaid with
pearl and partly covered by a wonderful antique rug.

The world had seemingly given up its beauty to adorn Miss
Ainslie's room. She had pottery from Mexico, China and Japan;
strange things from Egypt and the Nile, and all the Oriental
splendour of India and Persia. Ruth wisely asked no questions,
but once, as before, she said hesitating; "they were given to me
by a--a friend."

After much pleading on Ruth's part, Winfield was allowed to come
to the sitting room. "He'll think I'm silly, dear," she said,
flushing; but, on the contrary, he shared Ruth's delight, and won
Miss Ainslie's gratitude by his appreciation of her treasures.

Day by day, the singular attraction grew between them. She loved
Ruth, but she took him unreservedly into her heart. Ruth
observed, idly, that she never called him "Mr. Winfield." At
first she spoke of him as "your friend" and afterward, when he
had asked her to, she yielded, with an adorable shyness, and
called him Carl.

He, too, had eaten of the lotus and lost the desire to go back to
town. From the hilltop they could see the yellow fields and hear
the soft melody of reaping from the valley around them. He and
Ruth often walked together, but Miss Ainslie never would go with
them. She stayed quietly at home, as she had done for many years.

Every night, when the last train came from the city, she put a
lighted candle in her front window, using always the candlestick
of solid silver, covered with fretwork in intricate design. If
Winfield was there, she managed to have him and Ruth in another
room. At half-past ten, she took it away, sighing softly as she
put out the light.

Ruth wondered, but said nothing, even to Winfield. The grain in
the valley was bound in sheaves, and the first colour came on the
maples--sometimes in a delicate flush, or a flash of gold, and
sometimes like a blood-red wound.

One morning, when Miss Ainslie came downstairs, Ruth was startled
at the change in her. The quick, light step was slow and heavy,
the broad, straight shoulders drooped a little, and her face,
while still dimpled and fair, was subtly different. Behind her
deep, violet eyes lay an unspeakable sadness and the rosy tints
were gone. Her face was as pure and cold as marble, with the
peace of the dead laid upon it. She seemed to have grown old in a
single night.

All day she said little or nothing and would not eat. She simply
sat still, looking out of the east window. "No," she said,
gently, to Ruth, "nothing is the matter, deary, I'm just tired."

When Winfield came, she kept him away from Miss Ainslie without
seeming to do so. "Let's go for a walk," she said. She tried to
speak lightly, but there was a lump in her throat and a
tightening at her heart.

They climbed the hill and took the side path which led to the
woods, following it down and through the aisles of trees, to the
log across the path. Ruth was troubled and sat there some little
time without speaking, then suddenly, she knew that something was
wrong with Carl.

Her heart was filled with strange foreboding and she vainly tried
to swallow the persistent lump in her throat. She spoke to him,
gently, once or twice and he did not seem to hear. "Carl!" she
cried in agony, "Carl! What is it?"

He tried to shake off the spell which lay upon him. "Nothing,
darling," he said unsteadily, with something of the old
tenderness. "I'm weak--and foolish--that's all."

"Carl! Dearest!" she cried, and then broke down, sobbing
bitterly.

Her tears aroused him and he tried to soothe her. "Ruth, my
darling girl, don't cry. We have each other, sweetheart, and it
doesn't matter--nothing matters in the whole, wide world."

After a little, she regained her self-control.

"Come out into the sun," he said, "it's ghostly here. You don't
seem real to me, Ruth."

The mist filled her eyes again. "Don't, darling," he pleaded,
"I'll try to tell you."

They sat down on the hillside, where the sun shone brightly, and
where they could see Miss Ainslie's house plainly. She waited,
frightened and suffering, for what seemed an eternity, before he
spoke.

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