Lavender and Old Lace Read online

  Produced by Dianne Bean

  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 ofhonour on the back seat, the single passenger surveyed the countrywith interest and admiration. The driver of that ancient chariot wasan awkward young fellow, possibly twenty-five years of age, with sharpknees, large, red hands, high cheek-bones, and abundant hair of a shadeverging upon orange. He was not unpleasant to look upon, however, forhe had a certain evident honesty, and he was disposed to be friendly toevery one.

  "Be you comfortable, Miss?" he asked, with apparent solicitude.

  "Very comfortable, thank you," was the quiet response. He urged hisvenerable steeds to a gait of about two miles an hour, then turnedsideways.

  "Be you goin' to stay long, Miss?"

  "All Summer, I think."

  "Do tell!"

  The young woman smiled in listless amusement, but Joe took it forconversational encouragement. "City folks is dretful bashful when they'saway from home," he said to himself. He clucked again to his unheedinghorses, shifted his quid, and was casting about for a new topic when alight broke in upon him.

  "I guess, now, that you're Miss Hathaway's niece, what's come to stay inher house while she goes gallivantin' and travellin' in furrin parts, ben't you?"

  "I am Miss Hathaway's niece, and I have never been here before. Wheredoes she live?"

  "Up yander."

  He flourished the discarded fish-pole which served as a whip, andpointed out a small white house on the brow of the hill. Reflectionbrought him the conviction that his remark concerning Miss Hathaway wasa social mistake, since his passenger sat very straight, and asked nomore questions.

  The weary wheels creaked, but the collapse which Miss Thorne momentarilyexpected was mercifully postponed. Being gifted with imagination,she experienced the emotion of a wreck without bodily harm. As in aphotograph, she beheld herself suddenly projected into space, followedby her suit case, felt her new hat wrenched from her head, and sawhopeless gravel stains upon the tailored gown which was the pride of herheart. She thought a sprained ankle would be the inevitable outcome ofthe fall, but was spared the pain of it, for the inability to realise anactual hurt is the redeeming feature of imagination.

  Suddenly there was a snort of terror from one of the horses, and thecarriage 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; "'taintnothin' in the world but a rabbit. Mamie can't never get used torabbits, someways." He indicated one of the horses--a high, raw-bonedanimal, 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 atan angle. A cataract partially concealed one eye, but in the other wasa world of wickedness and knowledge, modified by a certain lady-likereserve.

  "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 pleasedbecause the ice was broken. "I change their names every once in awhile," he said, "'cause it makes some variety, but now I've named'emabout all the names I know."

  The road wound upward in its own lazy fashion, and there were treesat the left, though only one or two shaded the hill itself. As theyapproached the summit, a girl in a blue gingham dress and a neat whiteapron 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'scarriage, and after giving some directions about her trunk, followed herguide indoors.

  The storm-beaten house was certainly entitled to the respect accorded toage. It was substantial, but unpretentious in outline, and had not beenpainted for a long time. The faded green shutters blended harmoniouslywith the greyish white background, and the piazza, which was evidentlyan unhappy afterthought of the architect, had two or three new shingleson its roof.

  "You see it's this way, Miss Thorne," the maid began, volubly; "MissHathaway, she went earlier than she laid out to, on account of the folksdecidin' 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 youword and get an answer, but she's left a letter here for you, for shetrusted to your comin'."

  Miss Thorne laid her hat and jacket aside and settled herselfcomfortably in a rocker. The maid returned presently with a letter whichMiss Hathaway had sealed with half an ounce of red wax, presumably in alaudable effort to remove temptation from the path of the red-cheeked,wholesome, farmer's daughter who stood near by with her hands on herhips.

  "Miss Ruth Thorne," the letter began,

  "Dear Niece:

  "I am writing this in a hurry, as we are going a week before we expectedto. I think you will find everything all right. Hepsey will attend tothe house-keeping, for I don't suppose you know much about it, comingfrom the city. She's a good-hearted girl, but she's set in her ways, andyou'll have to kinder give in to her, but any time when you can't, justspeak to her sharp and she'll do as you tell her.

  "I have left money enough for the expenses until I come back, in alittle box on the top shelf of the closet in the front room, under apile of blankets and comfortables. The key that unlocks it is hung ona nail driven into the back of the old bureau in the attic. I believeHepsey 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 ishanging 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 thekey hanging behind it.

  "If there's anything else you should want, I reckon Hepsey will knowwhere to find it. Hoping that this will find you enjoying the greatblessing 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 ofthe attic. Be careful that nothing catches afire."

  The maid was waiting, in fear and trembling, for she did not know whatdirections her eccentric mistress might have left.

  "Everything is all right, Hepsey," said Miss Thorne, pleasantly, "and Ithink you and I will get along nicely. Did Miss Hathaway tell you whatroom I was to have?"

  "No'm. She told me you was to make yourself at home. She said you couldsleep where you pleased."

  "Very well, I will go up and see for myself. I would like my tea at sixo'clock." She still held the letter in her hand, greatly to the chagrinof Hepsey, who was interested in everything and had counted upon a peepat it. It was not Miss Hathaway's custom to guard her letters and shewas both surprised and disappointed.

  As Ruth climbed the narrow stairway, the quiet, old-fashioned housebrought balm to her tired soul. It was exquisitely clean, redolent ofsweet herbs, and in its atmosphere was a subtle, Puritan restraint.

/>   Have not our houses, mute as they are, their own way of conveying animpression? One may go into a house which has been empty for a longtime, and yet feel, instinctively, what sort of people were lastsheltered there. The silent walls breathe a message to each visitor, andas the footfalls echo in the bare cheerless rooms, one discovers whereSorrow and Trouble had their abode, and where the light, carelesslaughter of gay Bohemia lingered until dawn. At night, who has not heardghostly steps upon the stairs, the soft closing of unseen doors, thetapping on a window, and, perchance, a sigh or the sound of tears? Timidsouls may shudder and be afraid, but wiser folk smile, with reminiscenttenderness, when the old house dreams.

  As she wandered through the tiny, spotless rooms on the second floor ofMiss Hathaway's house, Ruth had a sense of security and peace whichshe 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 itstwo south windows. There was but one other room, aside from the smallone 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 agreat pile of bedding. She dragged a chair inside, burrowed under theblankets, and found a small wooden box, the contents clinking softly asshe drew it toward her.

  Holding it under her arm, she ascended the narrow, spiral stairs whichled to the attic. At one end, under the eaves, stood an old mahoganydresser. The casters were gone and she moved it with difficulty, but theslanting sunbeams of late afternoon revealed the key, which hung, as heraunt had written, on a nail driven into the back of it.

  She knew, without trying, that it would fit the box, but idly turned thelock. As she opened it, a bit of paper fluttered out, and, picking itup, she read in her aunt's cramped, But distinct hand: "Hepsey gets adollar 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 atticwas the only one which commanded a view of the sea. A small table, withits 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 ofoil.

  She read the letter again and, having mastered its contents, tore itinto small pieces, with that urban caution which does not come amiss inthe rural districts. She understood that every night of her stay shewas to light this lamp with her own hands, but why? The varnish onthe table, which had once been glaring, was scratched with innumerablerings, where the rough glass had left its mark. Ruth wondered if shewere face to face with a mystery.

  The seaward side of the hill was a rocky cliff, and between thevegetable garden at the back of the house and the edge of the precipicewere 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 thenorth side, and seemed to end at the sea. On the south, there were a fewtrees near the cliff, but others near them had been cut down.

  Still farther south and below the hill was a grassy plain, through whicha glistening river wound slowly to the ocean. Willows grew along itsmargin, tipped with silvery green, and with masses of purple twilighttangled in the bare branches below.

  Ruth opened the window and drew a long breath. Her senses had beendulled by the years in the city, but childhood, hidden though notforgotten, came back as if by magic, with that first scent of sea andSpring.

  As yet, she had not fully realised how grateful she was for this littletime away from her desk and typewriter. The managing editor had promisedher the same position, whenever she chose to go back, and there was alittle 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 anddiscarded furniture--colonial mahogany that would make many a citymatron envious, and for which its owner cared little or nothing. Therewere chests of drawers, two or three battered trunks, a cedar chest, andcountless boxes, of various sizes. Bunches of sweet herbs hung from therafters, but there were no cobwebs, because of Miss Hathaway's perfecthousekeeping.

  Ruth regretted the cobwebs and decided not to interfere, should the tinyspinners take advantage of Aunt Jane's absence. She found an old chairwhich was unsteady on its rockers but not yet depraved enough to betrayone's confidence. Moving it to the window, she sat down and looked outat 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 thoughtof going downstairs. A match-safe hung upon the window casing, newlyfilled, and, mindful of her trust, she lighted the lamp and closed thewindow. 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. "Whaton 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 gladnothing more serious had happened. "You mustn't scream like that."

  "Supper's ready," resumed Hepsey, nonchalantly, and Ruth followed herdown to the little dining-room.

  As she ate, she plied the maid with questions. "Does Miss Hathaway lightthat lamp in the attic every night?"

  "Yes'm. She cleans it and fills it herself, and she puts it out everymorning. 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 knowwhy 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 certainexplosive 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 toask you every night if you'd forgot it."

  Ruth smiled because Aunt Jane's old-fashioned exactness lingered in herwake. "Now see here, Hepsey," she began kindly, "I don't know and youdon'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 hervoice--"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, smoothingher apron, "and she lives down the road a piece, in the valley as, youmay say. She don't never go nowheres, Miss Ainslie don't, but folks goesto see her. She's got a funny house--I've been inside of it sometimeswhen I've been down on errands for Miss Hathaway. She ain't got nofiggered wall paper, nor no lace curtains, and she ain't got no ragcarpets neither. Her floors is all kinder funny, and she's got heathenthings spread down onto'em. Her house is full of heathen things, andsometimes 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 gotmoney, I guess, but she's got furniture in her parlour that's just likewhat Miss Hathaway's got set away in the attic. We wouldn't use themkind of things, nohow," she added complacently.

  "Does she live all alone?"

  "Yes'm. Joe, he does her errands and other folks stops in sometimes, butMiss Ainslie ain't left her front yard for I d' know how long. Some saysshe's cracked, but she's the best housekeeper round here, and if shehears 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 theresometimes, and she'n Miss Ainslie swaps cookin' quite regler. I have togo down there with a plate of somethin' Miss Hathaway's made, and MissAinslie allers says: 'Wait just a moment, please, Hepsey, I would liketo send Miss Hathaway a jar of my preserves.'"

  She relapsed unconsciously into imitation of Miss Ainslie's speech. Inthe few words, softened, and betrayin
g a quaint stateliness, Ruth caughta glimpse of an old-fashioned gentlewoman, reserved and yet gracious.

  She folded her napkin, saying: "You make the best biscuits I evertasted, 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 firstcome--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 buysthat 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 shethought she would have a little lighthouse of her own," Miss Thornesuggested, 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 lightstill 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 shapeof a square."

  "That's the cat's grave, mum. She died jest afore Miss Hathaway wentaway, 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 reckonI 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; andMiss Hathaway said she didn't want no more."

  Speculating upon the departed cat's superior charms, that madesubstitution seem like sacrilege to Miss Hathaway, Ruth sat down for atime in the old-fashioned parlour, where the shabby hairclothfurniture was ornamented with "tidies" to the last degree. There wasa marble-topped centre table in the room, and a basket of wax flowersunder a glass case, Mrs. Hemans's poems, another book, called The Lady'sGarland, and the family Bible were carefully arranged upon it.

  A hair wreath, also sheltered by glass, hung on the wall near anothercollection of wax flowers suitably framed. There were various portraitsof people whom Miss Thorne did not know, though she was a near relativeof their owner, and two tall, white china vases, decorated with gilt,flanked the mantel-shelf. The carpet, which was once of the speakingvariety, had faded to the listening point. Coarse lace curtains hungfrom brass rings on wooden poles, and red cotton lambrequins werefestooned 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 goingupstairs."

  "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 anythingelse 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 theevening air. "Why, no, you foolish girl; I'm a newspaper woman, and I'veearned a rest--that's all. You mustn't read books with yellow covers."

  Hepsey withdrew, muttering vague apologies, and Ruth found her at thehead of the stairs when she went up to her room. "How long have you beenwith 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 alarge one, and it did not take her long to put her simple wardrobe intothe capacious closet and the dresser drawers. As she moved the emptytrunk into the closet, she remembered the box of money that she hadleft in the attic, and went up to get it. When she returned she heardHepsey's door close softly.

  "Silly child," she said to herself. "I might just as well ask her if sheisn't a'lady detective.' They'll laugh about that in the office when Igo back."

  She sat down, rocking contentedly, for it was April, and she would nothave to go back until Aunt Jane came home, probably about the first ofOctober. She checked off the free, health-giving months on her tiredfingers, that would know the blue pencil and the typewriter no moreuntil Autumn, when she would be strong again and the quivering nervesquite steady.

  She blessed the legacy which had fallen into Jane Hathaway's lap and ledher, at fifty-five, to join a "personally conducted" party to the OldWorld. Ruth had always had a dim yearning for foreign travel, but justnow she felt no latent injustice, such as had often rankled in her soulwhen her friends went and she remained at home.

  Thinking she heard Hepsey in the hall, and not caring to arouse furthersuspicion, she put out her light and sat by the window, with theshutters wide open.

  Far down the hill, where the road became level again, and on the leftas she looked toward the village, was the white house, surrounded by agarden and a hedge, which she supposed was Miss Ainslie's. A timidchirp came from the grass, and the faint, sweet smell of growing thingsfloated in through the open window at the other end of the room.

  A train from the city sounded a warning whistle as it approached thestation, and then a light shone on the grass in front of Miss Ainslie'shouse. It was a little gleam, evidently from a candle.

  "So she's keeping a lighthouse, too," thought Ruth. The train pulled outof the station and half an hour afterward the light disappeared.

  She meditated upon the general subject of illumination while she gotready for bed, but as soon as her head touched the pillow she lostconsciousness and knew no more until the morning light crept into herroom.