Lavender and Old Lace Page 2

  II. The Attic

  The maid sat in the kitchen, wondering why Miss Thorne did not comedown. It was almost seven o'clock, and Miss Hathaway's breakfast hourwas half past six. Hepsey did not frame the thought, but she had a vagueimpression that the guest was lazy.

  Yet she was grateful for the new interest which had come intoher monotonous life. Affairs moved like clock work at MissHathaway's--breakfast at half past six, dinner at one, and supper athalf past five. Each day was also set apart by its regular duties, fromthe washing on Monday to the baking on Saturday.

  Now it was possible that there might be a change. Miss Thorne seemedfully capable of setting the house topsy-turvy--and Miss Hathaway's lastinjunction had been: "Now, Hepsey, you mind Miss Thorne. If I hear thatyou don't, you'll lose your place."

  The young woman who slumbered peacefully upstairs, while the rest of theworld was awake, had, from the beginning, aroused admiration inHepsey's breast. It was a reluctant, rebellious feeling, mingled with anindefinite fear, but it was admiration none the less.

  During the greater part of a wondering, wakeful night, the excitedHepsey had seen Miss Thorne as plainly as when she first entered thehouse. The tall, straight, graceful figure was familiar by this time,and the subdued silken rustle of her skirts was a wonted sound. Ruth'sface, naturally mobile, had been schooled into a certain reserve, buther deep, dark eyes were eloquent, and always would be. Hepsey wonderedat the opaque whiteness of her skin and the baffling arrangement of herhair. The young women of the village had rosy cheeks, but Miss Thorne'sface was colourless, except for her lips.

  It was very strange, Hepsey thought, for Miss Hathaway to sail beforeher niece came, if, indeed, Miss Thorne was her niece. There was amystery in the house on the hilltop, which she had tried in vain tofathom. Foreign letters came frequently, no two of them from the sameperson, and the lamp in the attic window had burned steadily every nightfor five years. Otherwise, everything was explainable and sane.

  Still, Miss Thorne did not seem even remotely related to her aunt, andHepsey had her doubts. Moreover, the guest had an uncanny gift whichamounted to second sight. How did she know that all of Hepsey's bookshad 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 replenishedthe fire and resumed meditation. Whatever Miss Thorne might prove to be,she was decidedly interesting. It wis pleasant to watch her, to feel thesubtle refinement of all her belongings, and to wonder what was going tohappen next. Perhaps Miss Thorne would take her back to the city, asher maid, when Miss Hathaway came home, for, in the books, such thingsfrequently happened. Would she go? Hepsey was trying to decide, whenthere was a light, rapid step on the stairs, a moment's hesitation inthe hall, and Miss Thorne came into the dining-room.

  "Good morning, Hepsey," she said, cheerily; "am I late?"

  "Yes'm. It's goin' on eight, and Miss Hathaway allers has breakfast athalf past six."

  "How ghastly," Ruth thought. "I should have told you," she said, "I willhave mine at eight."

  "Yes'm," replied Hepsey, apparently unmoved. "What time do you wantdinner?"

  "At six o'clock--luncheon at half past one."

  Hepsey was puzzled, but in a few moments she understood that dinner wasto be served at night and supper at midday. Breakfast had already beenmoved forward an hour and a half, and stranger things might happen atany 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 toput it out.

  It was still burning when she reached it, though the oil was almostgone, and, placing it by the stairway, that she might not forget to haveit filled, she determined to explore the attic to her heart's content.

  The sunlight streamed through the east window and searched the farthestcorners of the room. The floor was bare and worn, but carefully swept,and the things that were stored there were huddled together far backunder the eaves, as if to make room for others.

  It was not idle curiosity, but delicate sentiment, that made Ruth eagerto open the trunks and dresser drawers, and to turn over the contents ofthe boxes that were piled together and covered with dust. The interestof the lower part of the house paled in comparison with the first realattic she had ever been in.

  After all, why not? Miss Hathaway was her aunt,--her mother's onlysister,--and the house was in her care. There was no earthly reasonwhy she should not amuse herself in her own way. Ruth's instincts wereagainst it, but Reason triumphed.

  The bunches of dried herbs, hanging from the rafters and swaying backand forth in ghostly fashion, gave out a wholesome fragrance, andwhen she opened trunks whose lids creaked on their rusty hinges,dried rosemary, lavender, and sweet clover filled the room with thatlong-stored sweetness which is the gracious handmaiden of Memory.

  Miss Hathaway was a thrifty soul, but she never stored discardedclothing that might be of use to any one, and so Ruth found nomoth-eaten garments of bygone pattern, but only things which seemed tobe kept for the sake of their tender associations.

  There were letters, on whose yellowed pages the words had long sincefaded, a dogeared primer, and several well worn schoolbooks, each havingon its fly-leaf: "Jane Hathaway, Her Book"; scraps of lace, brocade ardrustling taffeta, quilt patterns, needlebooks, and all of the eloquenttreasures that a well stored attic can yield.

  As she replaced them, singing softly to herself, a folded newspaperslipped to the floor. It was yellow and worn, like the letters, andshe unfolded it carefully. It was over thirty years old, and arounda paragraph on the last page a faint line still lingered. It was anannouncement of the marriage of Charles G. Winfield, captain of theschooner Mary, to Miss Abigail Weatherby.

  "Abigail Weatherby," she said aloud. The name had a sweet, old-fashionedsound. "They must have been Aunt Jane's friends." She closed the trunkand pushed it back to its place, under the eaves.

  In a distant corner was the old cedar chest, heavily carved. She pulledit out into the light, her cheeks glowing with quiet happiness, and satdown on the floor beside it. It was evidently Miss Hathaway's treasurebox, put away in the attic when spinsterhood was confirmed by thefleeting years.

  On top, folded carefully in a sheet, was a gown of white brocade,short-waisted and quaint, trimmed with pearl passementerie. The neck wassquare, cut modestly low, and filled in with lace of a delicate, frostypattern--Point d'Alencon. Underneath the gown lay piles of lingerie, allof the finest linen, daintily made by hand. Some of it was trimmed withreal lace, some with crocheted edging, and the rest with hemstitchedruffles and feather-stitching.

  There was another gown, much worn, of soft blue cashmere, somesea-shells, a necklace of uncut turquoises, the colour changed to green,a prayer-book, a little hymnal, and a bundle of letters, tied witha faded blue ribbon, which she did not touch. There was but onepicture--an ambrotype, in an ornate case, of a handsome young man, withthat dashing, dare-devil look in his eyes which has ever been attractiveto women.

  Ruth smiled as she put the treasures away, thinking that, had Fatethrown the dice another way, the young man might have been her esteemedand respected uncle. Then, all at once, it came to her that she hadunthinkingly stumbled upon her aunt's romance.

  She was not a woman to pry into others' secrets, and felt guilty as shefled from the attic, taking the lamp with her. Afterward, as she sat onthe narrow piazza, basking in the warm Spring sunshine, she pieced outthe love affair of Jane Hathaway's early girlhood after her own fashion.

  She could see it all plainly. Aunt Jane had expected to be marriedto the dashing young man and had had her trousseau in readiness, whensomething happened. The folded paper would indicate that he was CharlesWinfield, who had married some one else, but whether Aunt Jane hadbroken her engagement, or the possible Uncle Charles had simply taken amate without any such formality, was a subject of conjecture.

  Still, if the recreant lover had marr
ied another, would Aunt Jane havekept her treasure chest and her wedding gown? Ruth knew that she herselfwould not, but she understood that aunts were in a class by themselves.It was possible that Charles Winfield was an earlier lover, and she hadkept the paper without any special motive, or, perhaps, for "auld langsyne."

  Probably the letters would have disclosed the mystery, and the newspaperinstinct, on the trail of a "story," was struggling with her sense ofhonour, but not for the world, now that she knew, would Ruth have readthe yellowed pages, which doubtless held faded roses pressed betweenthem.

  The strings of sea-shells, and the larger ones, which could have comeonly from foreign shores, together with the light in the window, gaveher a sudden clew. Aunt Jane was waiting for her lover and the lamp wasa 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 earlierlover.

  The explanation was reasonable, clear, and concise--what woman couldask for more? Yet there was something beyond it which was out of MissThorne's grasp--a tantalising something, which would not be allayed.Then she reflected that the Summer was before tier, and, in reality,now that she was off the paper, she had no business with other people'saffairs.

  The sun was hidden by gathering clouds and the air was damp before Ruthmissed the bright warmth on the piazza, and began to walk back and forthby way of keeping warm. A gravelled path led to the gate and on eitherside was a row of lilac bushes, the bare stalks tipped with green. Awhite picket fence surrounded the yard, except at the back, where theedge of the precipice made it useless. The place was small and wellkept, but there were no flower beds except at the front of the house,and there were only two or three trees.

  She walked around the vegetable garden at the back of the house, wherea portion of her Summer sustenance was planted, and discovered an unusedgate at the side, which swung back and forth, idly, without latching.She was looking over the fence and down the steep hillside, when a sharpvoice at her elbow made her jump.

  "Sech as wants dinner can come in and get it," announced Hepsey, sourly."I've yelled and yelled till I've most bust my throat and I ain'ta-goin' to yell no more."

  She returned to the house, a picture of offended dignity, but carefullyleft the door ajar for Ruth, who discovered, upon this rude awakeningfrom her reverie, that she was very hungry.

  In the afternoon, the chill fog made it impossible to go out, forthe wind had risen from the sea and driven the salt mist inland. MissHathaway's library was meagre and uninteresting, Hepsey was busy in thekitchen, and Ruth was frankly bored. Reduced at last to the desperatestrait of putting all her belongings in irreproachable order, she foundherself, at four o'clock, without occupation. The temptation in theattic wrestled strongly with her, but she would not go.

  It seemed an age until six o'clock. "This won't do," she said toherself; "I'll have to learn how to sew, or crochet, or make tatting. Atlast, I am to be domesticated. I used to wonder how women had time forthe endless fancy work, but I see, now."

  She was accustomed to self analysis and introspection, and began toconsider what she could get out of the next six months in the way ofgain. Physical strength, certainly, but what else? The prospect wasgloomy just then.

  "It's goin' to rain, Miss Thorne," said Hepsey, at the door. "Is all thewinders shut?"

  "Yes, I think so," she answered.

  "Supper's ready any time you want it."

  "Very well, I will come now."

  When she sat down in the parlour, after doing scant justice to Hepsey'scooking, it was with a grim resignation, of the Puritan sort which,supposedly, went with the house. There was but one place in all theworld where she would like to be, and she was afraid to trust herself inthe attic.

  By an elaborate mental process, she convinced herself that the cedarchest and the old trunks did not concern her in the least, and tried todevelop a feminine fear of mice, which was not natural to her. Shehad just placed herself loftily above all mundane things, when Hepseymarched into the room, and placed the attic lamp, newly filled, upon themarble table.

  Here was a manifest duty confronting a very superior person and, as shewent upstairs, she determined to come back immediately, but when she hadput the light in the seaward window, she lingered, under the spell ofthe room.

  The rain beat steadily upon the roof and dripped from the eaves. Thelight made distorted shadows upon the wall and floor, while the bunchesof herbs, hanging from the rafters, swung lightly back and forth whenthe wind rattled the windows and shook the old house.

  The room seemed peopled by the previous generation, that had slept inthe massive mahogany bed, rocked in the chairs, with sewing or gossip,and stood before the old dresser on tiptoe, peering eagerly into themirror which probably had hung above it. It was as if Memory sat at thespinning-wheel, idly twisting the thread, and bringing visions of theyears gone by.

  A cracked mirror hung against the wall and Ruth saw her reflectiondimly, as if she, too, belonged to the ghosts of the attic. She wasnot 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 littleupward tilt 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 tomaintain. As she looked, she wondered, vaguely, if she, like AuntJane, would grow to a loveless old age. It seemed probable, for, attwenty-five, The Prince had not appeared. She had her work and washappy; yet unceasingly, behind those dark eyes, Ruth's soul keptmaidenly match for its mate.

  When she turned to go downstairs, a folded newspaper on the floorattracted her attention. It was near one of the trunks which she hadopened and must have fallen out. She picked it up, to replace it, but itproved to be another paper dated a year later than the first one. Therewas no marked paragraph, but she soon discovered the death notice of"Abigail Winfield, nee Weatherby, aged twenty-two." She put it intothe 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 with their mute secret as never before. She hesitated,took three steps toward the cedar chest, then fled ingloriously from thefield.

  Whoever Charles Winfeld was, he was free to love and marry again.Perhaps there had been an estrangement and it was he for whom AuntJane was waiting, since sometimes, out of bitterness, the years distilforgiveness. She wondered at the nature which was tender enough to keepthe wedding gown and the pathetic little treasures, brave enough to keepthe paper, with its evidence of falseness, and great enough to forgive.

  Yet, what right had she to suppose Aunt Jane was waiting? Had she goneabroad to seek him and win his recreant heart again? Or was AbigailWeatherby 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 imaginativegoose," 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 clothesand two old papers in the attic--that's all--and I've constructed atragedy."

  She resolutely put the whole matter aside, as she sat in her room,rocking pensively. Her own lamp had not been filled and was burningdimly, 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 thestorm, and so it was that, when the whistle of the ten o'clock trainsounded hoarsely, she saw the little glimmer of light from MissAinslie's window, making a faint circle in the darkness.

  Half an hour later, as before, it was taken away. The scent of lavenderand sweet clover clung to Miss Hathaway's linen, and, insensiblysoothed, Ruth went to sleep. After hours of dreamless slumber, shethought she heard a voice calling her and telling her not to forget thelight. It was so real that she started to her feet, half expecting tofind some one standing beside her.

  The rain had ceased, and two or three stars, like timid children, werepeeping at the world from behind the threatening cloud. It
was thatmystical moment which no one may place--the turning of night to day. Fardown the hill, ghostly, but not forbidding, was Miss Ainslie's house,the garden around it lying whitely beneath the dews of dawn, and up inthe attic window the light still shone, like unfounded hope in a woman'ssoul, harking across distant seas of misunderstanding and gloom, withits pitiful "All Hail!"