 Chapter 9 By Humble Means As lightly as a rose-pedal upon the shimmering surface of a stream, summer was drifting away, but wither no one seemed to care. The odor of printer's ink upon the morning paper no longer aroused vain longings in Winfield's breast, and Ruth had all but forgotten her former connection with the newspaper world. By degrees, Winfield had arranged a routine which seemed admirable. Until lunch and time he was with Ruth, and usually out of doors, according to prescription. In the afternoon he went up again, sometimes staying to dinner, and always he spent his evenings there. Why don't you ask me to have my trunk set up here, he asked Ruth one day. I hadn't thought of it, she laughed. I suppose it hasn't seemed necessary. Miss Hathaway would be pleased, wouldn't she, if she knew she had two guests instead of one? Undoubtedly. How could she help it? When do you expect her to return? I don't know, I haven't heard a word from her. Sometimes I feel a little anxious about her. Ruth would have been much concerned for her relative safety, had she known that the eccentric lady had severed herself from the excursion, and gone boldly into Italy, unattended, and with no knowledge of the language. Hepsie inquired daily for news of Miss Hathaway, but no tidings were forthcoming. She amused herself in her leisure moments by picturing all sorts of disasters in which her mistress was doubtless engulfed, and in speculating upon the tie between Miss Thorn and Mr. Winfield. More often than not it fell to Hepsie to light the lamp in the attic window, though she did it at Miss Thorn's direction. If I forget it, Hepsie, she had said calmly, you'll see to it, won't you? Trunks, cedar chests, old newspapers, and long kitten letters were out of Ruth's province now. Once in two or three weeks she went to see Miss Ainsley, but never stayed long, though almost every day she reproached herself for neglect. Winfield's days were filled with peace, since he had learned how to get on with Miss Thorn. When she showed herself stubborn and unyielding, he retreated gracefully, and with a suggestion of amusement, as a courtier may step aside gallantly for an angry lady to pass. Ruth felt his mental attitude, and, even though she resented it, she was ashamed. Having found that she could have her own way, she became less anxious for it, and several times made small concessions, which were apparently unconscious, but amusing nevertheless. She had none of the wiles of the coquette, she was transparent, and her friendliness was disarming. If she wanted Winfield to stay at home any particular morning or afternoon, she told him so. At first he was offended, but afterward learned to like it, for she could easily have instructed Hepsie to say that she was out. The pitiless unsympathetic calendar recorded the fact that July was near its end, and Ruth's side then hated herself for it. She had grown accustomed to idleness, and, under the circumstances, liked it far too well. One morning when she went down to breakfast, Hepsie was evidently perplexed about something, but Ruth took no outward note of it, knowing that it would be revealed ere long. Miss Thorn, she said tentatively, as Ruth rose from the table. Yes? Of course, Miss Thorn, I reckon likely taint none of my business. But has Mr. Winfield another detective, and have you found anything out yet? Ruth, inwardly raging, forced herself to let the speech pass unnoticed, and sailed majestically out of the room. She was surprised to discover that she could be made so furiously angry by so small a thing. Winfield was coming up the hill with a mail, and she tried to cool her hot cheeks with her hands. Let's go down on the side of the hill, she said, as he gave her some letters and the paper. It's very warm in the sun, and I'd like the sea breeze. They found a comparatively level place, with two trees to lean against, and, though they were not far from the house, they were effectually screened by the rising ground. Ruth felt that she could not bear the sight of Hepsie just then. After glancing at her letters, she began to read aloud, with a troubled haste which did not escape him. Here's a man who had a little piece of bone taken out of the inside of his skull, she said. Shall I read about that? He seems, literally, to have had something on his mind. You're brilliant this morning, answered Winfield gravely, and she left hysterically. What's the matter with you, he asked? You don't seem like yourself. It isn't nice of you to say that, she retorted, considering your previous remark. There was a rumble and a snore on the road, and, welcoming the diversion, he went up to reconnoiter. Joe's coming. Is there anything you want in the village? No, she answered wearily. There's nothing I want anywhere. You're an exceptional woman, returned Winfield promptly, and I'd advise you to sit for your photograph. The papers would like it. Picture of the only woman who doesn't want anything. Why, that would work off an extra in about ten minutes. Ruth looked at him for a moment, then turned her eyes away. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, and was about to offer atonement, when Joe's deep bass voice called out. Hello! Hello, yourself! came Hepsy's highest tones from the garden. Want anything to-day? Nope. There was a brief pause, and then Joe shouted again. Hepsy! Well! I should think they'd break their vocal cords, said Winfield. I wish they would, rejoined Ruth quickly. Come here, yelled Joe. I want to talk to you. Talk from there, screamed Hepsy. Where's your folks? Don't know. Say, be they Corten? Hepsy left her work in the garden, and came toward the front of the house. They walk out some, she said, when she was half way to the gate, and they set up a good deal, and Miss Thorne told me she didn't know as she'd do better. But you can't rightly say they're Corten, because city ways ain't like Arne. The deep color dyed Ruth's face and her hands twitched nervously. Winfield very much desired to talk, but could think of nothing to say. The situation was tense. Joe clucked to his horses. So long, he said. See you're later. Ruth held her breath until he passed them, and then broke down. Her self-control was quite gone, and she sobbed bitterly, in grief and shame. Winfield tucked his handkerchief into her cold hands, not knowing what else to do. Don't, he said, as if he too had been hurt. Ruth, dear, don't cry. A new tenderness almost unmanned him, but he sat still with his hands clenched, feeling like a brute because of her tears. The next few minutes seemed like an hour. Then Ruth raised her head and tried to smile. I expect you think I'm silly, she said, hiding her tear-stained face again. No, he cried sharply. Then, with a catch in his throat, he put his hand on her shoulder. Don't, she sobbed, turning away from him. What—what they said was bad enough. The last words ended in a rush of tears, and sorely distressed, he began to walk back and forth. Then a bright idea came to him. I'll be back in a minute, he said. When he returned, he had a tin-dipper, freshly filled with cold water. Don't cry any more, he pleaded gently. I'm going to bathe your face. Ruth leaned back against the tree, and he knelt beside her. Oh, that feels so good, she said, gratefully, as she felt his cool fingers upon her burning eyes. And a little while she was calm again, though her breast still heaved with every fluttering breath. You poor little woman, he said tenderly. You're just as nervous as you can be. Don't feel so about it. Just suppose it was somebody who wasn't. Who wasn't what? asked Ruth innocently. Winfield's crimsoned to the roots of his hair, and hurled the dipper into the distance. What—what they said, he stammered, sitting down awkwardly. Oh, darn it! He kicked savagely at a root, and added, in bitterest self-accusation, I'm a chump I am. No, you're not returned, Ruth, with sweet shyness, you're nice. Now we'll read some more of the paper. He assumed a feverish interest in the market reports, but his thoughts were wandering. Certainly nothing could have been worse. He felt as if a bud, which he had been long and eagerly watching, was suddenly torn open by a vandal hand. When he first touched Ruth's eyes with his fingertips, he had trembled like a schoolboy, and he wondered if she knew it. If she did she made no sign. Her cheeks were flushed, the lids of her downcast eyes were pink, and her voice had lost its crisp incisive tones. But she read rapidly, without comment or pause, until the supply of news gave out. Then she began on the advertisements, dreading the end of her task, and vainly wishing for more papers, though in her heart there was something sweet which even to herself she dared not name. That'll do, he said abruptly. I'm not interested in the mid-summer glove-clearing. I meant to tell you something when I first came. I've got to go away. Ruth's heart throbbed painfully, as if some cold hand held it fast. Yes, she said politely, not recognizing her own voice. It's only for a week. I've got to go to the occulist and see about some other things. I'll be back before long. I shall miss you, she said conventionally. Then she saw that he was going away to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence, and blessed him accordingly. When are you going, she asked. This afternoon. I don't want to go, but it's just as well to have it over with. Can I do anything for you in the city? No, thank you. My wants are few, and at present well supplied. Don't you want me to match something for you? I thought woman always had pieces of stuff that had to be matched immediately. They made you edit the funny column, didn't they? She asked, irreverently. They did, Miss Thorn, and moreover, I expect I'll have to do it again. After a little they were back on the old footing. Yeah, everything was different. For there was an obtruding self-consciousness on either side. What time do you go, she asked, with assumed indifference. Three fifteen, I think, and it's after one now. He walked back to the house with her, and for the second time that day, Hepsy came out to sweep the Piazza. Good-bye, Miss Thorn, he said. Good-bye, Mr. Winfield. That was all. But Ruth looked up with an unspoken question, and his eyes met hers clearly, with no turning aside. She knew he would come back very soon, and she understood his answer, that he had the right. As she entered the house, Hepsy said pleasantly, has he gone away, Miss Thorn? Yes, she answered without emotion. She was about to say that she did not care for luncheon, then decided that she must seem to care. Still, it was impossible to escape that keen-eyed observer. You ain't eatin' much, she suggested. I'm not very hungry. Be you sick, Miss Thorn? No, not exactly. I've been out in the sun and my headaches. She replied, clutching at the straw. Do you want a wet rag? Ruth laughed, remembering an earlier suggestion of Winfield's. No, I don't want any wet rag, Hepsy, but I'll go up to my room for a little while, I think. Please don't disturb me. She locked her door, shutting out all the world from the nameless joy that surged in her heart. The mirror disclosed flushed feverish cheeks and dark eyes that shone like stars. Ruth Thorn, she said to herself, I'm ashamed of you. First you act like a fool, and then like a girl of sixteen. Then her senses became confused, and the objects in the room circled around her unsteadily. I'm tired, she murmured. Her head sank drowsily into the lavender-sundered pillow, and she slept too soundly to take note of the three o'clock train leaving the station. It was almost sunset when she was aroused by voices under her window. That fellow's gone home, said Joe. Do tell, exclaimed Hepsy. Did he pay his board? Yep, every one. He's a coming back. When? To know. Don't she know? The emphasis indicated Miss Thorn. I guess not, answered Hepsy. They said goodbye right in front of me, and there went nothing said about it. They ain't Corten, then, said Joe, after a few moments of painful thought, and Ruth, in her chamber above, laughed happily to herself. Maybe not, rejoined Hepsy. It ain't for such as me to say when there's Corten and when there ain't, after having gone well now into five-year with a country loafer what ain't never said nothing. She stalked into the house, closed the door, and noisily bolted it. Joe stood there for a moment, as one struck dumb, then gave a long, low whistle of astonishment, and walked slowly down the hill. End of CHAPTER 9. CHAPTER 10. A WEEK, Ruth said to herself, Seven long days. No letter because he mustn't write. No telegram because there's no office within ten miles. Nothing to do but wait. When she went down to breakfast, Hepsy did not seem to hear her cheery greeting, but was twisting her apron and walking about restlessly. Miss Thorn, she said at length, did you ever get a love letter? Why, yes, of course, left, Ruth. Every girl gets love letters. Hepsy brightened visibly, then inquired, with great seriousness. Can you read Wrighton, Miss Thorn? That depends on the writing. Yes, it does so. I can read some Wrighton, I can read Miss Hathaway's Wrighton, and some of the fur and letters she's had, but I got some this morning that I can't make out know-how. Where did you find Wrighton this morning? It's too early for the mail, isn't it? Yes, it was stuck under the kitchen window. Hepsy looked up at the ceiling, in an effort to appear careless, and sighed. Then she clutched violently at the front of her blue-gayum dress, the repenting of her rashness. Ruth was inwardly amused, but asked no helpful questions. Finally, Hepsy took the plunge. Would you mind trying to make out some Wrighton, I've got, Miss Thorn? Of course not. Let me see it. Hepsy extracted a letter from the inmost recesses of her attire, and stood expectantly, with her hands on her hips. Why, it's a love letter, Ruth exclaimed. Yes, I'm—when you get through reading it to yourself, will you read it out loud? The letter which was written on ruled note-paper bore every evidence of care and thought. Hepsy it began, and on the line below, with a great flourish under it, respected Miss, stood in large capitals. Although it is now but a short interval, Ruth read, since my delighted eyes first rested on your beautiful form. Five years, interjected Hepsy. Yet I dare to hope that you will receive graciously what I am about to say, as I am assured you will, if you reciprocate the sentiments which you have aroused in my bosom. In this short time, dear Miss, brief though it is, yet it has proved amply sufficient for my heart to go out to you, and a yearning love which I have never before felt for one of your sex. Day by day, and night by night, your glorious image has followed me. That's a lie, interrupted Hepsy. He knows I never chased him nowhere's, not even when he took that red-headed smith girl to the Sunday School picnic, over to the ridge, a year ago come August. Those dark trusses have entwined my soul in their silken meshes. Those deep eyes that have borrowed their color from heaven's cerulean blue, and those soft white hands that have never been roughened by uncongenial toil, have been ever present in my dreams. Ruth paused for a moment, overcome by her task, but Hepsy's face was radiant. Hurry up, Miss Thorn, she said impatiently. In short, dear Miss, I consider you the most surpassingly lovely of your kind, and it is with pride swelling in my manly bosom that I dare to ask so pure of us a jewel for her heart and hand. My parentage, birth, and breeding are probably known to you, but should any points remain doubtful, I will be pleased to present references as to my character and standing in the community. I await with impatience, madam, your favorable answer to my plea. Rest assured that if you should so honor me as to accept my proposal, I will endeavor to stand always between you and the hard, cruel world as your faithful shield. I will also endeavor constantly to give you a happiness as great as that which will immediately flood my being upon receipt of your blushing acceptance. I remain, dear Miss, your devoted lover and humble servant, Joseph Pendleton Esquire. My, my, ejaculated Hepsy, ain't that fine, righten? It certainly is, responded Miss Thorn, keeping her face straight with difficulty. Would you mind reading it again? She found the second recital much easier, since she was partially accustomed to the heavy punctuation marks and shaded flourishes. At first she had connected Winfield with the effusion, but second thought placed the blame where it belonged, at the door of a complete letter-writer. Miss Thorn said, Hepsy, hesitating. Yes? Of course, I'd like my answer to be as good right in as his in. Naturally. Where do you suppose he got all that lovely grammar? Grammar is a rare gift, Hepsy. Yes, I'm. It is so. Miss Thorn, do you guess you could write as good as that? I'd be willing to try, return, truth, with due humility. Hepsy thought painfully for a few moments. I'd know just what I'd better say. Now last night I give Joe a hint, as you may say, but I wouldn't want him to think I've just been a way in for him. No, of course not. Ain't it better to keep him in suspense, as you may say? Far better, Hepsy. He'll think more of you. Then I'll just write that I'm willing to think it over, and if you'll put it on a piece of paper for me, I'll write it out with ink. I've got two sheets of paper just like this, with nice blue lines onto it, that I've been a savin' for a letter, and Miss Hathaway, she's got ink. Ruth sat down to compose an answer which should cast a shadow over the complete letter-writer. Her pencil flew over the rough copy paper with lightning speed, while Hepsy stood by in amazement. Listen, she said at length. How do you like this? Mr. Joseph Pendleton, Respected Sir. Although your communication of recent date was a great surprise to me, Candor compels me to confess that it was not entirely disagreeable. I have observed, though with true feminine delicacy, that your affections were inclined to settle in my direction, and have not repelled your advances. Still, I do not feel that as yet we are sufficiently acquainted to render immediately matrimony either wise or desirable, and since the suddenness of your proposal has in a measure taken my breath away, I must beg that you will allow me a proper interval in which to consider the matter. And in the meantime, think of me simply as your dearest friend. I may add, in conclusion, that your character and standing in the community are entirely satisfactory to me. Thank you for the honor you have conferred upon me. Believe me, dear sir, your sincere friend, Hepsy. My exclaimed Hepsy, with overmastering pride, ain't that beautiful. It's better than hisen, ain't it? I wouldn't say that, Ruth replied, with proper modesty, but I think it will do. Yes, um, twill so. Your writing ain't nothing like Joe's, she continued, scanning it closely. But it's real pretty. Then a bright idea illuminated her countenance. Miss Thorne, if you'll write it out on the note paper with a pencil, I can go over it with the ink. And afterward, when it's dry, I'll rub out the pencil. It'll be my writing, then, but it'll look just like yours. I'll write, Hepsy. She found it difficult to follow the lines closely, but at length achieved a respectable result. I'll take good care of it, Hepsy said. Wrapping the precious missive in a newspaper, and this afternoon, when I get my work done up, I'll fix it. Joe will be surprised, won't he? Late in the evening, when Hepsy came to Ruth, mourned with the unaccustomed labors of correspondence, and proudly displayed the nondescript epistle, she was compelled to admit that unless Joe had superhuman qualities, he would indeed be surprised. The next afternoon, Ruth went down to Miss Ainsley's. You've been neglecting me, dear, so that gentle soul, as she opened the door. I haven't meant to, returned Ruth, conscious-stricken, as she remembered how long it had been since the gate of the old fashion garden had swung on its hinges for her. A quiet happiness had settled down upon Ruth, and the old perturbed spirit was gone. But Miss Ainsley was subtly different. I feel as if something was going to happen, she said. Something nice? I don't know. The sweet face was troubled, and there were fine lines about the mouth, such as Ruth had never seen there before. You're nervous, Miss Ainsley. It's my turn to scold now. I never scolded you, did I, dearie? You couldn't scold anybody, you're too sweet. You're not unhappy, are you, Miss Ainsley? I? Why no. Why should I be unhappy? Her deep eyes were fixed upon Ruth. I, I didn't know, Ruth answered, in confusion. I learned long ago, said Miss Ainsley, after a little, that we may be happy or not, just as we choose. Happiness is not a circumstance, nor a set of circumstances. It's only a light, and we may keep it burning if we will. So many of us are like children crying for the moon, instead of playing contentedly with a few toys we have. We're always hoping for something, and when it doesn't come, we fret and worry. When it does, why there's always something else we'd rather have. We deliberately make nearly all of our unhappiness, with our own unreasonable discontent, and nothing will ever make us happy, dearie, except the spirit within. But Miss Ainsley, Ruth objected, do you really think everybody can be happy? Of course, everybody who wishes to be. Some people are happier when they're miserable. I don't mean, dearie, that it's easy for any of us, and it's harder for some than for others, all because we never grow up. We're always children. Our playthings are a little different, that's all. Owning ourselves forever children, quoted Ruth, gathering pebbles on a boundless shore. Yes, I was just thinking of that. A little girl breaks her doll, and though the new one may be much prettier, it never wholly fills the vacant place, and it's that way with the woman's dream. The sweet voice sink into a whisper, followed by a lingering sigh. Miss Ainsley said, Ruth, after a pause, did you know my mother? No, I didn't, dearie. I'm sorry. I saw her once or twice. But she went away soon after we came here. Never mind, Ruth said hurriedly, for Mrs. Thorn's family had never forgiven her runaway marriage. Come into the garden, Miss Ainsley suggested, and Ruth followed her willingly, and to the cloistered spot where golden lilies tinkled, thrushes sang, and every leaf breathed peace. Miss Ainsley gathered a bit of rosemary, crushing it between her white fingers. See, she said, some of us are like that it takes a blow to find the sweetness in our souls. Some of us need dry hard places like the poppies, pointing to a mass of brilliant bloom, and some of us are always thorny, like the cactus, with only once in a while a rosy star. I've always thought my flowers had souls, dear, she went on. They seem like real people to me. I've seen the roses rubbing their cheeks together as if they loved each other, and the forget-me-nots are little blue-eyed children, half afraid of the rest. Over there, it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman in a green dress with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She's one of those strong, sweet, wholesome people who always rest you, and her sweetness lingers long after she goes away. I gather all the flowers, and every leaf, though the flowers are sweetest. I put the leaves away with my linen, and the flowers among my laces. I have some beautiful lace, dearie. I know you have. I've often admired it. I'm going to show it to you some day, she said, with a little quiver in her voice. And some other day, when I can't wear it anymore, you shall have some of it for your own. Don't, Miss Ainsley cried, Ruth, the quick tears coming to her eyes. I don't want any lace. I want you. I know, she answered, but there was a far away look in her eyes and something in her voice that sounded like a farewell. Miss Thorn called Joe from the gate. Here's a package for you. It come on the train. He waited until Ruth went to him and seemed disappointed when she turned back into the garden. Say, he shouted, is Hepsie to home? Ruth was busy with a string and did not hear. Oh, look, she exclaimed, what roses. They're beautiful, dearie. I do not think I've ever seen such large ones. Do you know what they are? American beauties, they're from Mr. Winfield. He knows I love them. Miss Ainsley started violently. From whom, dear, she asked in a strange tone. Mr. Winfield, he's going to be on the same paper with me in the fall. He's here for the summer, on account of his eyes. Miss Ainsley was bending over the lavender. It is a very common name, is it not, she asked? Yes, quite common, answered Ruth, absently, taking the roses out of the box. You must bring him to see me sometime, dear. I should like to know him. Thank you, Miss Ainsley, I will. They stood at the gate together and Ruth put a half-blown rose into her hand. I wouldn't give it to anybody but you, she said, half-playfully. And then Miss Ainsley knew her secret. She put her hand on Ruth's arm and looked down into her face, as if there was something she must say. I don't forget the light, Miss Ainsley. I know, she breathed, in answer. She looked long and searchingly into Ruth's eyes, then whispered brokenly, God bless you, dear. Goodbye. End of chapter 10. Chapter 11 of Lavender and Old Place. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget. Lavender and Old Place by Myrtle Reid. Chapter 11. The Rose of All the World. He didn't forget me, he didn't forget me. Ruth's heart sang in time with her step as she went home. Late afternoon flooded all the earth with gold, and from the other side of the hill came the gentle music of the sea. The doors were open, but there was no trace of hepsy. She put the roses in her water-pitcher and plucked the door upon them as one hides a sacred joy. She went out again, her heart swelling like the throat of a singing bird, and walked to the brow of the cliff, with every sense keenly alive. Upon the surface of the ocean lay that deep, translucent blue which only Tatima has dared to paint. I must go down, she murmured. Like a tawny ribbon trailed upon the green, the road wound down the hill. She followed it until she reached the side-path on the right, and went down into the woods. The great boughs arched over her head, like the nave of a cathedral, and the little people of the forest, in feathers and fur, scattered as she approached. Bright eyes peeped at her from behind tree trunks, or the safe shelter of branches, and rippling bird music ended in a frightened chirp. Oh, she said aloud, don't be afraid. Was this love she wondered that lay upon her eyes like the dew of a spring morning, that made the air vocal with rapturous song, and wrought white magic in her soul? It had all the mystery and freshness of the world's beginning. It was the rush of waters where sea and river meet, the perfume of a flower, and the far light trembling from a star. It was sunrise where there had been no day, the ecstasy of a thousand dawns, a new sun gleaming upon noon, all the joy of the world surged and beat in her pulses, until it seemed that her heart had wings. Sunset came upon the water, the color on the horizon, reflecting soft iridescence upon the blue. Slow sapphire surges broke at her feet, tossing gray pearls of spray against the cliff. Suddenly, as if by instinct, she turned and faced Winfield. Thank you for the roses, she cried, with her face aglow. He gathered her into his arms. Oh, my rose of all the world, he murmured. Have I found you at last? It was almost dusk when they turned to go home, with their arms around each other, as if they were the first to, wandering through the shaded groves of paradise, before sin came into the world. Did you think it would be like this, she asked, Shiley? No, I didn't, darling. I thought it would be very prim and proper. I never dreamed you'd let me kiss you. Yes, I did too, but I thought it was too good to be true. I had to, to let you, she explained, crimsoning. But nobody ever did before. I always thought, then Ruth hid her face against his shoulder, in maidenly shame. When they came to the log across the path, they sat down, very close together. You said we'd fight if we came here, Ruth whispered. We're not going to though. I want to tell you something, dear. And I haven't had the words for it till now. What is it, she asked in alarm? It's only that I love you, Ruth, he said, holding her closer. And when I've said that, I've said all. It isn't an idle word. It's all my life that I give you, to do with as you will. It isn't anything that's apart from you, or ever could be. It's as much yours as your hands or eyes are. I didn't know it for a little while. That's because I was blind. To think that I should go up to see you, even that first day, without knowing you for my sweetheart, my wife. No, don't draw away from me. You little wild bird, are you afraid of love? It's the sweetest thing that I'd ever let a man dream of, Ruth. There's nothing like it in all the world. Look up, sweet eyes, and say you love me. Ruth's head drooped, and he put his hand under her chin, turning her face toward him, but her eyes were downcast still. Say it, darling, he pleaded. I can't, she stammered. Why, dear? Because, because you know. I want you to say it, sweetheart, won't you? Sometime, perhaps. When? When, when it's dark. It's dark now? No, it isn't. How did you know? How did I know what, dear? That I, that I cared. I knew the day you cried. I didn't know myself until then, but it all came in a minute. I was afraid you were going to stay away a whole week. I couldn't, darling, I just had to come. Did you see everybody you wanted to see? I couldn't see anything but your face, Ruth, with the tears on it. I've got to go back tomorrow and have another try at the occulist. Oh, she exclaimed, in acute disappointment. It's the last time, sweetheart, we'll never be separated again. Never? Never in all the world, nor afterward. I expect you think I'm silly, she said, wiping her eyes as they rose to go home, but I don't want you to go away. I don't want to go, dearest. If you're going to cry, you'll have me a raving maniac. I can't stand it now. I'm not going to, she answered, smiling through her tears, but it's a blessed privilege to have a nice, stiff collar and a new tie to cry on. They're at your service, dear, for anything but that. I suppose we're engaged now, aren't we? I don't know, said Ruth, in a low tone. You haven't asked me to marry you. Do you want me to? It's time, isn't it? Winfield bent over and whispered to her. I must think about it, said Ruth, very gravely. It's so sudden. Oh, you sweet girl, he laughed. Aren't you going to give me any encouragement? You've had some. I want another, he answered, purposely misunderstanding her. And besides, it's dark now. The sweet scented twilight still lingered on the hillside and a star or two gleamed through the open spaces above. A moment later, Ruth, in her turn, whispered to him. It was only a word or two, but the bright-eyed robins who were peeping at them from the maple branches must have observed that it was highly satisfactory. End of Chapter 11. Chapter 12 of Lavender and Old Lace. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, Lavender and Old Lace by Myrtle Reed. Chapter 12. Bride and Groom. Though Winfield had sternly determined to go back to town the following day, he did not achieve departure until later. Ruth went to the station with him, and desolation came upon her when the train pulled out, in spite of the new happiness in her heart. She had little time to miss him, however, for at the end of the week, and in accordance with immemorial custom, the unexpected happened. She was sitting at her window one morning, trying to sow, when the village chariot stopped at the gate and a lady descended. Joe stirred lazily on the front seat, but she said in a clear, high-pitched voice, you needn't trouble yourself, Joe, he'll carry the things. She came toward the house, fanning herself with a certain stateliness, and carrying her hankerchief primally, by the exact center of it. In her wake was a little old gentleman with a huge bundle surrounded by a shawl strap, a large ballast, much the worse for wear, a telescope basket, which was expanded to its full height, and two small parcels. A cane was tucked under one arm and an umbrella under the other. He could scarcely be seen behind the mountain of baggage. Hepsy was already at the door. Why, Miss Hathaway, she cried, in astonishment. Taint Miss Hathaway rejoined the visitor with some asperity. It's Mrs. Ball, and this is my husband. Nice Ruth, I presume, she added, as Miss Thorn appeared. Ruth, let me introduce you to your Uncle James. The bride was of medium height and rather angular. Her eyes were small, dark, and so piercingly brilliant that they suggested jet beads. Her skin was dark and her lips had been habitually compressed into a straight line. Nonetheless, it was the face that Ruth had seen in the amber type at Miss Ainsley's, with the additional hardness that comes to those who grow old without love. Her bearing was that of a brisk, active woman, accustomed all her life to obedience and respect. Mr. Ball was two or three inches shorter than his wife and had a white beard, irregularly streaked with brown. He was bald-headed in front, had scant reddish hair in the back, and his faded blue eyes were tearful. He had very small feet and the unmistakable gait of a sailor. Though there was no immediate resemblance, Ruth was sure that he was the man whose picture was an Aunt Jane's treasure chest in the attic. The daredevil look was gone, however, and he was merely a quiet, inoffensive old gentleman, for whom life had been none too easy. Welcome to your new home, James, said his wife in a crisp, business-like tone, which but partially concealed a latent tenderness. He smiled, but made no reply. Hepsie still stood in the parlor, in wide-mouthed astonishment, and it was Ruth's good fortune to see the glance which Mrs. Ball cast upon her offending maid. There was no change of expression except in the eyes, but Hepsie instantly understood that she was out of her place and retreated to the kitchen with a flush upon her cheeks, which was altogether foreign to Ruth's experience. You can sit here, James, resumed Mrs. Ball, until I have taken off my things. The cherries on her black straw bonnet were shaking on their stems in a way which fascinated Ruth. I'll take my things out of the south room, auntie, she hastened to say. You won't neither, was he, unexpected answer. That's the spare room, and while you stay you'll stay there. Ruth was wondering what to say to her new uncle, and sat in awkward silence, as Aunt Jane ascended the stairs. Her step sounded lightly overhead, and Mr. Ball twirled his thumbs absently. You've come a long way, haven't you, she asked? Yes, I'm a long way. Then, seemingly for the first time, he looked at her, and a benevolent expression came upon his face. You've got awful pretty hair, niece Ruth, he observed admiringly. Now, Miss Ball, she wears a false front. The lady of the house returned at this juncture, with the false front a little askew. I was just to say in Mr. Ball continued that her niece is a real pleasant-looking woman. She's your niece by marriage, his wife replied, but she ain't no real relative. Niece by marriage is relative enough, said Mr. Ball, and I say she's a pleasant-looking woman, ain't she now? She'll do, I reckon, she resembles her ma. Aunt Jane looked at Ruth, as if pitying the sister who had blindly followed the leadings of her heart, and had died unforgiven. Why didn't you let me know you were coming, Aunt Jane, asked Ruth. I've been looking for a letter every day, and I understood you weren't coming back until October. I trust I am not unwelcome in my own house, was the somewhat frigid response. No, indeed, Auntie, I hope you've had a pleasant time. We've had a beautiful time, ain't we, James? We've been on our honeymoon. Yes, I'm. We have been on our honeymoon, traveling over strange lands, and fur and waste of waters. Miss Ball was terrible seasick coming here. In a ways, Aunt Jane, we ain't completely married. We was married by a heathen priest in a heathen country, and it ain't rightfully binding, but we thought it would do until we could get back here and be married by a minister of the gospel, didn't we, James? It has held, he said, without emotion, but I reckon we will have to be married proper. Likewise, I have my wedding dress, Aunt Jane went on, what ain't never been worn. It's a beautiful dress, trimmed with pearl trimmon. Here, Ruth felt the pangs of a guilty conscience, and a layout to be married in it, quite private, with you and Hepsy for witnesses. Why, it's quite a romance, isn't it, Auntie? Tis in a way interjected, Mr. Ball, and in another way it ain't. Yes, Ruth, Aunt Jane continued, ignoring the interruption. Tis a romance, a real romance, she repeated, with all the hard lines in her face softened. We was engaged over thirty-five year. James went to sea to make a fortune, so he could give me every luxury. It's all read out in a letter I've got upstairs. These beautiful letters, Ruth, and it's come to me, as I've been setting here, that you might make a book out in those letters of James. You write, don't you? Why, yes, Auntie, I write for the papers, but I've never done a book. Well, you'll never write a book no earlier, and here's all the material, as you say, just to wait in for you to copy it. I guess there's over a hundred letters. But Auntie, objected, Ruth, struggling with inward emotion. I couldn't sign my name to it, you know, unless I had written the letters. Why not? Because it wouldn't be honest, she answered clutching at the straw. The person who wrote the letters would be entitled to the credit, and the money she added, hopefully. Why, yes, that's right. Do you hear, James? It'll have to be your book, The Love Letters of a Sailor, by James, and dedicated in the front to my dearly beloved wife, Jane Ball, as was Jane Hathaway. It'll be beautiful, won't it, James? Yes, I have no doubt but what it will. Do you remember, James, how you borrowed a chisel from the tombstone man over to the ridge, and cut our names into endure and granite? I'd forgot that. How come you to remember it? On account of your having lost the chisel, and the tombstone man, a worry in me about it to this day. I'll take you to the place. There's climate, but it won't hurt us none, though we ain't as young as we might be. You says to me, you says, Jane Darwin, as long as them letters stays cut into the everlasting rock, just so long I'll love you, you says, and they's there still. Well, I'm here too, ain't I? replied Mr. Ball, seeming to detect a covert reproach. I was allers a great hand for cotton. There'll have to be a piece written in the end, Ruth, explaining the happy ending of the romance. If you can't do it justice, James and me can help. James was allers a master hand at writing. It'll have to tell how through the long years he has toiled, hopein' against hope, and for over 30 years, not daring to write a line to the object of his affections, not feelin' worthy, as you may say, and how after her waitin' faithfully at home, and turning away dozens of lovers, what pleaded violent like, she finally went travelin' in fur and parts, and come upon her old blover, a keepin' a store in a heathen land, a strugglein' to retrieve disaster after disaster at sea, and constantly withstandin' the blandishments of heathen woman, as endeavored to wean him from his faith, and how, though very humble and scarcely daring to speak, he learned that she was willin', and they come a sailin' home together, and lived happily ever afterward. Ain't that as it was, James? Yes, I'm, except that there weren't no particular disaster at sea, and them heathen woman didn't exert no blandishments, they was just pleasant to an old feller, bless their little hearts. By some subtle mental process, Mr. Ball became aware that he had made a mistake. You might change nothin' here, Jane, he continued hurriedly. There's the hair-cloth Sophie that we used to set on Sunday evenings after meetin', and the hair wreath with the red rose in it made out of my hair, and the white rose made out of your grandmother's hair on your father's side, and the yellow lily made out of the hair of your uncle Jed's youngest boy. I just remember the rest, but time was when I could say a mall. I never see your beat for makin' hair wreaths, Jane. There ain't nothin' gone but the melodian that used to set by the mantle. What's come of the melodian? The melodian is set away in the attic, the mice et out the inside. Didn't you have no cat? There ain't no cat, James, that could get into a melodian through a mousehole, more especially the big maltease you gave me. I kept that cat, James, as you may say, all these weary years. When there was kittens, I kept the one that looked most like old malte. But of late years, the cat says all been different, and the one I buried just before I sailed away was yellow and white with black and brown spots, a kinder tortoise shell that didn't look nothin' like malte. You'd never have known they belonged to the same family, but I was sorry when she died, on account of her bein' the last cat. Hepsy, half frightened, put her head into the room. Dinner's ready, she shouted, hurriedly shutting the door. Give me your arm, James, said Mrs. Ball, and Ruth followed them into the dining room. The retired sailor ate heartily, casting occasional admiring glances at Ruth and Hepsy. It was the innocent approval which age bestows upon youth. These be the finest biscuit, he said, that I've had for many a day. I reckon you made them, didn't you, young woman? Yes, sir, replied Hepsy, twisting her apron. The bride was touched in a vulnerable spot. Hepsy, she said decisively, when your week is up, you will no longer be in my service. I am a goin' to make a change. Mr. Ball's knife dropped with a sharp clatter. Why, Miss Ball, he said reproachfully, who are you goin' to have do your work? Don't let that trouble you, James, she answered serenely. The washin' can be put out to the Whitter Pendleton. Her is was a myri-peavey, and the rest ain't no particular trouble. Auntie, said Ruth, now that you've come home and everything is going on nicely, I think I'd better go back to the city. You see, if I stay here, I'll be interrupting the honeymoon. No, no, niece Ruth, exclaimed Mr. Ball. You ain't interrupted no honeymoon. It's a great pleasure to your aunt and me to have you here. We likes pretty young things around us, and as long as we have a home, you're welcome to stay in it, ain't she, Jane? She has sense enough to see, James, that she is interrupted in the honeymoon, replied Aunt Jane, somewhat harshly. On account of her mother having been a hathaway before marriage, she knows things. Not but what you can't come some other time, Ruth, she added, with belated hospitality. Thank you, Auntie, I will. I'll just stay a day or two longer, if you don't mind. Just until Mr. Winfield comes back, I don't know just where to write to him. Mr. Who? demanded Aunt Jane, looking at her narrowly. Mr. Carl Winfield, said Ruth, crimsoning. The man I'm going to marry. The piercing eyes were still fixed upon her. Now about the letters, Auntie, she went on in confusion. You could help Uncle James with a book much better than I could. Of course, it would have to be done under your supervision. Mrs. Ball scrutinized her niece long and carefully. You appear to be telling the truth, she said. Who would best print it? I think it would be better for you to handle it yourself, Auntie, and then you and Uncle James would have all the profits. If you let someone else publish it and sell it, you'd have only 10%, and even then, you might have to pay part of the expenses. How much does it cost to print a book? That depends on the book. Of course, it costs more to print a large one than a small one. That needn't make no difference at Aunt Jane, after long deliberation. James has $200 sewed up on the inside of the belt he insists on wearing instead of Christian suspenders. Ain't you, James? Yes, I'm $204 in my belt and 76 cents in my pocket. It's from his store, Mrs. Ball explained. He sold it to a relative of one of them heathen woman. It was worth more than $300, he said regretfully. Now, James, you know a small store like that ain't worth no $300. I wouldn't have let you took $300, because it wouldn't be honest. The arrival of a small and battered trunk created a welcome diversion. Where's your trunk, Uncle James, asked Ruth? I ain't a needn't of no trunk, he answered. What clothes I've got is on me, and that their valace has more of my things in it. When my clothes wears out, I put on new ones and leave the others for some poor creedter what may need them worse than me. Aunt Jane followed Joe upstairs, issuing caution and direction at every step. You can set outside now, Joe Pendleton, she said, and see that them houses don't run away, and as soon as I get some of my things hung up so as they won't wrinkle no more, I'll come out and pay you. Joe obeyed, casting longing eyes at a bit of blue gingham that was fluttering among the current bushes in the garden. Mr. Ball, longing for conversation with his kind, went out to the gate and stood looking up at him, blinking in the bright sunlight. Young feller, he said, I reckon that starboard haas is my old mare. Where'd you get it? Over to the ridge, answered Joe, of a feller named Johnson. Just so, I reckoned it was his father I give Nellie to when I went away. She was a frisky filly, then. She don't look nothing like that now. Mamie turned, as if her former master's voice had stirred some old memory. She's got the evil eye, Mr. Ball continued. You want to be careful? She's all right, I guessed, Joe replied. Young feller said Mr. Ball earnestly. Do you chew tobacco? Yep, but I ain't got no more. I'm on the last hunk. Mr. Ball stroked his stained beard. I used her, he said, reminiscently, afore I was married. Joe whistled idly, still watching for hapsie. Young feller said Mr. Ball again, there's a great deal of myrion and given in marriage and this here settlement ain't there. Not so much as there might be. Say, was your mother's name Elmira Peavey? Yes, sir, Joe answered, much surprised. Then you be careful, cautioned Mr. Ball. Your house has got the evil eye and your father, as might have been, I'll lurk at a weak eye for women. Joe's face was a picture of blank astonishment. I was engaged to both of them, Mr. Ball explained. Each one a keepin' of it secret, and she, here he pointed his thumb suggestively toward the house, she's got me. I'm going to be married myself, volunteered Joe proudly. Marriage is a fleeting show, I wouldn't if I was in your place. Marriage is a drag on a man's ambitions. I set out to own a schooner, but I can't never do it now, on account of being married. I had a good start towards it, I had a little store all to myself. What was worth three or four hundred dollars? In a sunny country where the women folks had soft voices and pretty ankles, and wasn't above passin' jokes with an old feller to cheer him on his lonely way. Mrs. Ball appeared at the upper window. James, she called, you'd better come in and get your hat, your bald spot will get all sunburned. I guess I won't wait no longer, Miss Hathaway Joe shouted, and, suiting the action to the word, turned around and started down the hill. Mr. Ball, half way up the graveled walk, turned back to smile at Joe with feeble jocularity. Hearing the familiar voice, Hepsy hastened to the front of the house, and was about to retreat when Mr. Ball stopped her. Poor little Darwin, he said kindly, noting her tear-stained face. Don't go, wait a minute. He fumbled at his belt, and at last extracted a crisp new ten-dollar bill. Here, take that and buy you a ribbon, or something to remember your lovin' Uncle James by. Hepsy's face brightened, and she hastily concealed the bill in her dress. I ain't your niece, she said hesitatingly. It's Miss Thorn. That don't make no difference, rejoined Mr. Ball generously. I'm willin' you should be my niece, too. All pretty young things is my nieces, and I loves them all. Won't you give your poor old Uncle a kiss to remember you by? Ruth, who had heard the last words, came down to the graveled walk. Aunt Jane is coming, she announced, and Hepsy fled. When the lady of the house appeared, Uncle James was sitting at one end of the Piazza, and Ruth at the other, exchanging decorous commonplaces. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of Lavender and Old Place. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, Lavender and Old Place by Myrtle Reed. Chapter 13. Plans. Hepsy had been gone an hour before Mrs. Ball realized that she had sent away one of the witnesses of her approaching wedding. It don't matter, she said to Ruth, I guess there's others to be had. I've got the dress and the man, and one of them, and I have faith that the other things will come. Nevertheless the problem assumed undue proportions. After long study she decided upon the minister's wife. If twaint that the numbsicles round here couldn't understand two weddings, she said, I'd have it in the church, as me and James first planned. Preparations for the ceremony went forward with Aunt Jane's customary decision and briskness. She made a wedding cake assisted by Mr. Ball and gathered all the flowers in the garden. There was something pathetic about her pleasure. It was as though a wedding had been laid away in Lavender, not to see the light for more than 30 years. Ruth was to assist in dressing the bride and then go after the minister and his wife, who, by Aunt Jane's decree, were to have no previous mourning. It ain't necessary to tell him beforehand, not as I see, said Mrs. Ball. You must ask first if they're both to home, and if only one of them is there, you'll have to find somebody else. If the minister's to home and his wife ain't gathered, he'll get them $4 in James's belt, leave in an even $200, or do you think $2 would be enough for a plain marriage? I'd leave that to Uncle James, Auntie. I reckon you're right, Ruth. You've got the hathaway sense. The old wedding gown was brought down from the attic and taken out of its winding sheet. It had been carefully folded, but every crease showed plainly and parts of it had changed in color. Aunt Jane put on her best foretop, which was entirely dark, with no softening gray hair, and was reserved for occasions of high state. A long brown curl, which was hers by right of purchase, was pinned to the hard uncompromising twist at the back of her neck. Ruth helped her into the gown, and as it slipped over her head, she inquired from the depths of it. Is the front door locked? Yes, Auntie, in the back door, too. Did you bring up the keys, as I told you to? Yes, Auntie, here they are, why? There was a pause. Then Mrs. Ball said solemnly, I've read a great deal about bridegrooms, heaven-wandering fits, immediately before weddings. Does my dress hike up in the back, Ruth? It was a little shorter in the back than in the front, and cleared the floor on all sides, since she had grown a little after it was made. But Ruth assured her that everything was all right. When they went downstairs together, Mr. Ball was sitting in the parlor, plainly nervous. Now, Ruth, said Aunt Jane, you can go after the minister. My first choice is Methodus, after that Baptist, and then Presbyterian. I will entertain James during your absence. Ruth was longing for fresh air, and gladly undertook the delicate mission. Before she was halfway down the hill, she met Winfield, who had come on the afternoon train. You're just in time to see a wedding, she said, when the first raptures had subsided. Whose wedding, sweetheart, ours? Far from it answered Ruth, laughing. Come with me, and I'll explain. She gave him a vivid description of the events that had transpired during his absence, and had invited him to the wedding before it occurred to her that Aunt Jane might not be pleased. I may be obliged to recall my invitation, she said seriously. I'll have to ask Auntie about it. She may not want you. That doesn't make any difference, announced Winfield, in high spirits. I'm a-going to the wedding, and I'm a-going to kiss the bride, if you'll let me. Ruth smothered a laugh. You may, if you want to, and I won't be jealous. Isn't that sweet of me? You're always sweet, dear. Is this the abode of the parson? The Methodist minister was at home, but his wife was not, and Ruth determined to take Winfield in her place. The clergyman said that he would come immediately, and as the lovers loitered up the hill, they arrived at the same time. Winfield was presented to the bridal couple, but there was no time for conversation, since Aunt Jane was in a hurry. After the brief ceremony was over, Ruth said wickedly, Auntie, on the way to the ministers, Mr. Winfield told me he was going to kiss the bride. I hope you don't mind. Winfield spoke to unutterable things at Ruth, but nobly fulfilled the obligation. Uncle James beamed upon Ruth in a way which indicated that an attractive idea lay behind it, and Winfield created a diversion by tipping over a vase of flowers. He shan't, he whispered to Ruth. I'll be darned if he shall. Ruth said Aunt Jane, after a close scrutiny of Winfield. If you'd relay an out to marry that awkward creedur, what ain't accustomed to a parlor, you'd better do it now, while him and the minister are both here. Winfield was willing, but Ruth said that one wedding at a time was enough in any family, and the minister pledged to secrecy, took his departure. The bride cut the wedding cake, and each solemnly ate a piece of it. It was a sacrament, rather than a festivity. When the silence became oppressive, Ruth suggested a walk. You will sit here, niece Ruth, remarked Aunt Jane, until I have changed my dress. Uncle James sighed softly as she went upstairs. Well, he said, I'm married now, hard and fast, and there ain't no help for it, world without end. Cheer up, Uncle, said Winfield consolingly. It might be worse. It's come on me all of a sudden, he rejoined. I ain't had no time to prepare for it, as you may say. Little did I think three weeks ago, as I sat in my little store, what was worth four or five hundred dollars, that before the month was out, I'd be married. Me, married, he exclaimed. Me, as never thought of such. When Mrs. Ball entered, clad in sombre calico, Ruth, overcome by deep emotion, led her lover into the open air. It's bad for you to stay in there, she said gravely. When you are destined to meet the same fate. I've had time to prepare for it, he answered. In fact, I've had more time than I want. They wandered down the hillside with aimless leisure. And Ruth stopped to pick up a large, grimy handkerchief with C.W. in the corner. Here's where we were the other morning, she said. Blessed spot, he responded. Beautiful Hupsey and Noble Joe. By what humble means are great destinies made evident. You haven't said you were glad to see me, dear. I'm always glad to see you, Mr. Winfield, she replied, primly. Mr. Winfield isn't my name, he objected, taking her into his arms. Carl, she whispered shyly, to his coat collar. That isn't all of it. Carl, dear, said Ruth, with her face crimson. That's more like it. Now let's sit down. I've brought you something, and you have three guesses. Returned manuscript? No, you said they were all in. Another piece of Aunt Jane's wedding cake? No, guess again. Chocolates. Who'd think you were so stupid, he said, putting two fingers into his waistcoat pocket? Oh, Ruth gasped indy light. You funny girl, didn't you expect an engagement ring? Let's see if it fits. He slipped the gleaming diamond on her finger, and it fitted exactly. How did you guess, she asked, after a little? It wasn't wholly guest work, dearest. From another pocket, he drew a glove of gray suede that belonged to Ruth's left hand. Where did you get that? By the log across the path, that first day, when you were so cross to me. I wasn't cross. Yes, you were, you were a little fiend. Will you forgive me, she pleaded, lifting her face to his? Rather, he forgave her half a dozen times before she got away from him. Now let's talk sense, she said. We can't, I never expect to talk sense again. Pretty compliment, isn't it? She asked, it's like you're telling me I was brilliant, and then saying I wasn't at all like myself. Won't you forgive me, he inquired significantly. Some other time, she said, flushing. Now what are we going to do? Well, he began, I saw the oculist, and he said that my eyes are almost well again, but that I mustn't use them for two weeks longer. Then I can read or write for two hours every day, increasing gradually, as long as they don't hurt. By the first of October, he thinks I'll be ready for work again. Carlton wants me to report on the morning of the fifth, and he offers me a better salary than I had on the Herald. That's good. We'll have to have a flat in the city or a little house in the country, near enough for me to get to the office. For us to get to the office, supplemented Ruth. What do you think you're going to do, Miss Thorn? Why, I'm going to keep right on with the paper, she answered in surprise. No, you're not, darling, he said, putting his arm around her. Do you suppose I'm going to have Carlton or any other man giving my wife an assignment? You can't anyway, because I've resigned your position for you, and your place is already filled. Carlton sent his congratulations and said his loss was my gain, or something like that. He takes all the credit to himself. Why, why, you wretch! I'm not a wretch, you said yourself I was nice. Look here, Ruth, he went on, in a different tone. What do you think I am? Do you think for a minute that I'd marry you if I couldn't take care of you? Doesn't that, she replied, frame herself from his encircling arm, but I like my work, and I don't want to give it up. Besides, besides, I thought you'd like to have me near you. I do want you near me, sweetheart, that isn't the point. You have the same rate that I have to any work that is your natural expression. But in spite of the advanced age in which we live, I can't help believing that home is the place for a woman. I may be old fashioned, but I don't want my wife working downtown. I've got too much pride for that. You have your typewriter, and you can turn out Sunday specials by the yard if you want to. Besides, there are all the returned manuscripts. If you have the time and aren't hurried, there's no reason why you shouldn't do work that they can't afford to refuse. Ruth was silent, and he laid his hand upon hers. You understand me, don't you, dear? God knows I'm not asking you to let your soul rust out in idleness, and I wouldn't have you crave expression that was denied you. But I don't want you to have to work when you don't feel like it, nor be at anybody's beck and call. I know you did good work on the paper. Carlton spoke of it, too. But others can do it as well. I want you to do something that is so thoroughly you that no one else can do it. It's a hard life, Ruth. You know that as well as I do. And I, I love you. His last argument was convincing. I won't do anything you don't want me to do, dear, she said, with a new humility. I want you to be happy, dearest, he answered quickly. Just try my way for a year. That's all I ask. I know your independence is sweet to you, but the privilege of working for you with hand and brain, with your love in my heart, with you at home, to be proud of me when I succeed, and to give me new courage when I fail. Why, it's the sweetest thing I've ever known. I'll have to go back to town very soon, though, she said, a little later. I am interrupting the honeymoon. We'll have to have one of our very own soon that you can't interrupt. And when you go back, I'm going with you. We'll buy things for the house. We need lots of things, don't we, she asked. I expect we do, darling, but I haven't the least idea what they are. You'll have to tell me. Oriental rugs for one thing, she said, and a mahogany piano, and an instrument to play it with because I haven't any parlor tricks, and some good pictures, and a waffle iron, and a porcelain rolling pin. What do you know about rolling pins and waffle irons, he asked fondly. My dear boy, she replied patronizingly. You forget that in the days when I was a free and independent woman, I was on a newspaper. I know lots of things that are utterly strange to you, because in all probability, you never ran a woman's department. If you want soup, you must boil meat slowly. And if you want meat, you must boil it rapidly. And if dough sticks to a broom straw and you jab it into a cake, it isn't done. He laughed joyously. How about the porcelain rolling pin? It's germ-proof, she rejoined soberly. Are we going to keep the house on the antiseptic plan? We are. It's better than the installment plan, isn't it? Oh, Carl, she exclaimed. I've had the brightest idea. Spring it, he demanded. Why, Aunt Jane's attic is full of old furniture, and I believe she'll give it to us. His face fell. How charming, he said, without emotion. Oh, you stupid she left. It's colonial mahogany, every stick of it. It only needs to be done over. Ruth, you're a genius. Wait till I get it before you praise me. Just stay here a minute, and I'll run up to see what frame of mind she's in. When she entered the kitchen, the bride was busily engaged and getting supper. Uncle James, with a blue gingham apron tied under his arms, was awkwardly peeling potatoes. Oh, how good that smells, exclaimed Ruth, as a spicy sheet of gingerbread was taken out of the oven. Aunt Jane looked at her kindly, with gratified pride beaming from every feature. I wish you'd teach me to cook, Auntie, she continued, following up her advantage. You know I'm going to marry Mr. Winfield. Why, yes, I'll teach you. Where is he? He's outside. I just came in to speak to you a minute. You can ask him to supper if you want to. Thank you, Auntie, that's lovely of you. I know he'll like to stay. James said, Mrs. Ball, you're peeling them potatoes with thick peelens, and you'll land in the poor house. I've never known it to fail. I wanted to ask you something, Auntie, Ruth went on quickly, though feeling that the moment was not auspicious. You know all that old furniture up in the attic? Well, what of it? Why, why, you weren't using it, you know, and I thought perhaps you'd be willing to give it to us, so that we can go to housekeeping as soon as we're married. It was your grandmother's, Aunt Jane replied, after long thought. And as you say, I ain't using it. I don't know, but what you might as well have it is anybody else. I lay out to buy me a new hair-cloth parlor suit with that $200 of James's. He give the minister the whole $4 over and above that, and yes, you can have it, she concluded. Ruth kissed her with real feeling. Thank you so much, Auntie. It will be lovely to have something that was my grandmother's. When she went back to Winfield, he was absorbed in a calculation he was making on the back of an envelope. You are not to use your eyes, she said, warningly. And, oh, Carl, it was my grandmother's, and she's given us every bit of it, and you're to stay to supper. Must be in a fine humor, he observed. I'm ever so glad. Come here, darling. You don't know how I've missed you. I've been earning furniture, she said, settling down beside him. People earn what they get from Auntie. I won't say that, though, because it's mean. Tell me about this remarkable furniture. What is it, and how much of it is destined to glorify our humble cottage? It's all ours, she returned serenely, but I don't know just how much there is. I didn't look at it closely, you know, because I never expected to have any of it. Let's see, there's a heavy dresser and a large round table with claw feet. That's our dining table, and there's a bed, just like those in the windows in town, when it's done over, and there's a big old-fashioned sofa and a spinning wheel. Are you going to spin? Hush, don't interrupt. There are five chairs, dining room chairs, and two small tables, and a card table with a leaf that you can stand up against the wall, and two lovely rockers, and I don't know what else. That's a fairly complete inventory, considering that you didn't look at it closely. What a little humbug you are. You like humbugs, don't you? Some, not all. There was a long silence, and then Ruth moved away from him. Tell me everything, she said. Think of all the years I haven't known you. There's nothing to tell, dear. Are you going to conduct an excavation into my past? Indeed, I'm not. The present is enough for me, and I'll attend to your future myself. There's not much to be ashamed of, Ruth, he said soberly. I've always had the woman I should marry in my mind, the not-impossible she, and my ideal has kept me out of many a pitfall. I wanted to go to her with clean hands and a clean heart, and I have. I'm not a saint, but I'm as clean as I could be and live in the world at all. Ruth put her hand on his. Tell me about your mother. A shadow crossed his face, and he waited a moment before speaking. My mother died when I was born, he said, with an effort. I can't tell you about her, Ruth. She, she wasn't a very good woman. Forgive me, dear, she answered, with quick sympathy. I don't want to know. I didn't know about it until a few years ago, he continued, when some kindly-disposed relatives of fathers gave me full particulars. They're dead now, and I'm glad of it. She, she drank. Don't, Carl, she cried. I don't want to know. You're a sweet girl, Ruth, he said tenderly, touching her hand to his lips. Father died when I was 10 or 12 years old, and I can't remember him very well. Though I have one picture, taken a little while before he was married. He was a moody, silent man, who hardly ever spoke to anyone. I know now that he was broken-hearted. I can't remember even the tones of his voice, but only one or two little peculiarities. He couldn't bear the smell of lavender, and the sight of any shade of purple actually made him suffer. It was very strange. I've picked up what education I have, he went on. I have nothing to give you, Ruth, but these. He held out his hands, and my heart. That's all I want, dearest. Don't tell me any more. A bell rang cheerily, and when they went in, Aunt Jane welcomed him with apparent cordiality, though a close observer might have detected a tinge of suspicion. She liked the ring on Ruth's finger, which she noticed for the first time. It's real pretty, ain't it, James, she asked. Yes, I'm. Tis so. It's just come to my mind now that you never give me no ring, except this year one we was married with. I guess we'd better take some of that two hundred dollars you've got sewed up in that un-Christian belt you insist on wearing, and get me a ring like Ruth's, and use the rest for furniture. Don't you think so? Yes, I'm, he replied, ring in furniture, or anything you'd like. James is real indulgent, she said to Winfield, with a certain modest pride, which was at once ludicrous and pathetic. He should be, Mrs. Ball returned the young man gallantly. She looked at him closely, as if to discover whether he was an earnest, but he did not flinch. Young fellow, she said, you ain't laying out to take no excursions on the water, be you. Not that I know if he answered why. See, Farron is dangerous, she returned. Miss Ball was terrible seasick, come in here, remarked her husband. She didn't seem to have no sea legs, as you may say. Ain't you tired of dwellin' on that, asked Aunt Jane sharply. Taint no disgrace to be seasick, and I wasn't the only one. Winfield came to the rescue with a question, and the troubled waters were soon come again. After supper, Ruth said, Auntie, may I take Mr. Winfield up to the attic, and show him my grandmother's things that you've just given to me? Run along, child, me and James will wash the dishes. Poor James, said Winfield, in a low tone, as they ascended the stairs. Do I have to wash dishes, Ruth? It wouldn't surprise me. You said you wanted to work for me, and I despise dishes. Then we'll get an orphan to do them. I'm not fitted for it, and I don't think you are. Say, isn't this great, he exclaimed, as they entered the attic. Trunks, cobwebs, and old furniture. Why have I never been here before? It wasn't proper, replied Ruth, primly, with a side-thong glance at him. No, go away. They dragged the furniture out into the middle of the room, and looked it over critically. There was all that she had described, and unsuspected treasure lay in concealment behind it. There's almost enough to furnish a flat, she cried, in delight. He was opening the drawers of a cabinet, which stood far back under the eaves. What's this, Ruth? Oh, it's old blue china, willow pattern. How rich we are. Is old blue willow pattern china considered beautiful? Of course it is, you goose. We'll have to have our dining room done in old blue now, with a shelf on the wall for these plates. Why can't we have a red dining room? Because it would be a fright. You can have a red den if you'd like. All right, he answered. But it seems to me it would be simpler and save a good deal of expense if we just pitched the plates into the sad sea. I don't think much of them. That's because you're not educated, dearest, returned Ruth sweetly. When you're married, you'll know a great deal more about china, you see if you don't. They lingered until it was so dark that they could scarcely see each other's faces. We'll come up again tomorrow, she said. Wait a minute. She groped over to the east window where there was still a faint glow and lighted the lamp, which stood in its accustomed place, newly filled. You're not going to leave it burning, are you, he asked? Yes, Aunt Jane has a light in this window every night. Why, what for? I don't know, dearest. I think it's for a lighthouse, but I don't care. Come, let's go downstairs. End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Lavender and Old Place. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget. Lavender and Old Place by Myrtle Reid. Chapter 14. Four Remembrance. The next day, while Ruth was busily gathering up her few belongings and packing her trunk, Winfield appeared with a suggestion regarding the advisability of outdoor exercise. Uncle James stood at the gate and watched them as they went down the hill. He was a pathetic old figure, predestined to loneliness under all circumstances. That's the way I'll look when we've been married a few years, said Carl. Worse than that returned Ruth gravely. I'm sorry for you, even now. You needn't be proud and haughty just because you've had a wedding at your house. We're going to have one at ours. At ours? At the widders, I mean, this very evening. That's nice, answered Ruth, refusing to ask the question. It's Joe and Hepsy, he continued, and I thought perhaps you might stoop low enough to assist me in selecting an appropriate wedding gift in yonder seething mert. I feel greatly indebted to them. Why, of course I will. It's quite sudden, isn't it? Far be it from me to say so. However, it's the most reversed wedding I ever heard of. A marriage at the home of the groom, to say the least, is unusual. Moreover, the widder Pendleton is to take the bridal tour and leave the happy couple at home. She's going to visit a relative who is distant in both position and relationship, all unknown to the relative, I fancy. She starts immediately after the ceremony, and it seems to me that it would be a pious notion to throw rice and old shoes after her. Why, Carl, you don't want to maim her, do you? I wouldn't mind. If it hadn't been for my ostrich-like digestion, I wouldn't have had anything to worry about by this time. However, if you insist, I will throw rice and let you heave the shoes. If you have the precision of aim which distinguishes your sex, the widder will escape uninjured. Am I to be invited? Certainly, haven't I invited you already? They may not like it. That doesn't make any difference. Lots of people go to weddings who aren't wanted. I'll go then, announced Ruth, and once again I give you my gracious permission to kiss the bride. Thank you, dear, but I'm not going to kiss any brides except my own. I've signed the pledge and sworn off. They created a sensation in the village when they acquired the set of china, which had been on exhibition over a year. During that time, it had fallen at least a third in price, though its value was unchanged. Ruth bought a hideous red tablecloth, which she knew would please Hepsy, great to Winfield's disgust. Why do you do that, he demanded? Don't you know that, in all probability, I'll have to eat off of it? I much prefer the oilcloth, to which I am now accustomed. You'll have to get used to the table, then, and dear, she returned teasingly. It's my ambition to have one just like this for state occasions. Joe appeared with a chariot just in time to receive and to transport the gift. Here's your wedding present, Joe, called Winfield. And the innocent villagers formed a circle about them, as the groom elect, endeavored to express his appreciation. Winfield helped him pack the 101 pieces on the back seat and under it, and when Ruth, feeling like a fairy godmother, presented the red tablecloth, his cup of joy was full. He started off proudly, with a soup terrine and two platters on the seat beside him. The red tablecloth was slung over his arm in torridor fashion, and the normal creek of the conveyance was accentuated by an ominous rattle of crockery. Then he circled back, motioning them to wait. Here's something I most forgot, he said, giving Ruth a note. I'd drive you back for nothing, only I've got such a load. The note was from Miss Ainsley, inviting Miss Thorn 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 Ainsley 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 Ainsley's tonight for tea. Aren't we getting gay? Indeed, we are. Weddings and teas follow one another, like regret on the heels of pleasure. Pretty similarly, 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 witter's cooking. Anyhow, we've sent her 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 noise himself. 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 Thorn. I think we'd better not tell anybody until it's 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 are 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 binding, 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 Miss Ball give you furniture? Yes, replied Ruth, in astonishment, why? There's clouds to starboard and she's repenting. She's been admiring of the whole mornin' in the attic. I was sawin' the kitchen with potatoes, 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 pairings 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 favor your aunt, nun. 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. Auntie, she said, before Mrs. Ball had time to speak, you know I'm going back to the city tomorrow, 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, I'm just as you say. After dinner when Ruth broached the subject 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. It isn't like giving it away, Auntie, 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, Auntie, 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 fellow, remarked Aunt Jane. You can ask him to supper tonight, if you'd like. Thank you, Auntie, but we're going to Miss Ainsley's. Huh, storted Mrs. Ball. Mary Ainsley ain't got no spirit. With this enigmatic 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 Ainsley's. When she went down to the parlor to wait for Winfield, Aunt Jane appeared, with her husband in her wake. Ruth, she announced, me and James have decided on a wedding present. I would like a fine linen tablecloth and a dozen napkins. All right, Auntie. And if Mr. Winfield is disposed to it, he can give me a lemonade set, one of them what has different colored tumblers belong into it. He'll be pleased to send it, Auntie, I know he will. I'm a layin' out to take part of them $200 what 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. Wet Dames gave me in the early years of our engagement. Don't you think a black silk is Eller's nice, Ruth? Yes, it is, Auntie. 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 wedding present. I'll give you the money, and you can get the linens, too, while you're about it. I'll send you some samples, Auntie, and then you can take your choice. And began Mrs. Ball. Did you know Mrs. Pendleton was going away, Auntie, asked Ruth hastily. Do tell. Am I repeavy going traveling? Yes, she's going somewhere for a visit. I don't know, just where. I had laid out to take James and call on Almyrie, she said, stroking her apron 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 odor of burning sugar impelled Aunt Jane to a hasty exit, just as Winfield came. Uncle James followed them to the door. Nice, Ruth, he said, hesitating and fumbling at his belt, be you going to get married? I hope so, Uncle, she replied kindly. Then, then I wish you'd take this and buy you something to remember your poor Uncle James by. He thrust a trembling hand toward her and offered her a $20 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 wasn't accustomed to money. My store was worth five or six hundred dollars and you've been real pleasant to me, niece Ruth, buy a hair-wreath for the parlor or something to remind you of your poor old Uncle. Winfield pressed her arm warningly and she tucked the bill into her shadow lean 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 anti-silk gown and a ring like mine and a hair-cloth parlor suit and publish a book with less than two hundred dollars, do you? Hardly, Joe says that he gave Hepsy 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 him a silver ice-pitcher, too. I'm in for a tablecloth and a dozen napkins, left, 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 $20, and then I'll spend the rest of it on something nice for Uncle James. The poor soul isn't getting any wedding present, until 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 Ainsley was waiting for them in the garden and came to the gate to meet them. She wore a gown of lavender taffeta, which rustled and shone in the sunlight. The skirt was slightly trained, with a dust ruffle underneath, and the waist was made in surplus fashion, open at the throat. A bertha of rarest Brussels lace was fastened at her neck with the amethyst pin, and laid with gold and surrounded by baroque pearls. The ends of the bertha hung loosely and under it she had tied an apron of shearest linen, edged with narrow duchess 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 Ainsley, her eyes rested upon him with a wandering hunger mingled with tenderness and fear. Midsummer lay upon the garden and the faint odor of mignonette and lavender came with every wandering wind. White butterflies and thistle down floated in the air. Bees hummed drowsily and the stately hollyhock 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 Ainsley? Because it is my birthday. I am 55 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 a 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 Ainsley, 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 alchemists' touch, he said, to change your 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 Ainsley did not hear the village gossip, described her aunt's homecoming, the dismissal of Hepsy, 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 Ainsley listened with a 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 unmaidenly. Winfield choked, then coughed violently. Understand me, dear, Miss Ainsley 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 Ainsley, Ruth assured her. I know just how you feel. Winfield, having recovered his composure, asked a question about the garden, and Miss Ainsley led them in triumph around her domain. She gathered a little nose-gay of sweet Williams for Ruth, who was over among the Hollyhawks. Then she said, Shiley, what shall I pick for you? Anything you like, Miss Ainsley, 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 someone 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 the china-closet and pantry between them. Miss Ainsley'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 center, in a silver vase of foreign pattern, there was a great bunch of asters, white in 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 caga 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 Ainsley's face grew sad. Why, why must you go, she asked. I'm interrupting the honeymoon, Ruth answered, and when I suggested departure, Auntie agreed to it immediately. I can't very well stay now, can I? My dear, said Miss Ainsley, 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 Ainsley simply. It will give me great happiness. So it was arranged that the next day, Ruth's trunk should be taken to Miss Ainsley, and that she would stay until the 1st 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 Ainsley's face, touching her hair as if with loving tenderness, and giving her in on earthly 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 down their silent hinges for Miss Ainsley. 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 for the ten o'clock train, Ruth said it was late and they must go. Miss Ainsley went to the gate with them. Her lavender scented gown rustling softly as she walked, and the moonlight making new beauty of the amethyst and pearls entwined in her hair. Ruth aglow with happiness, put her arms around Miss Ainsley's neck and kissed her tenderly. May I, too? asked Winfield. He drew her toward him, without waiting for an answer, and Miss Ainsley 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 Ainsley. End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of Lavender and Old Place. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget. Lavender and Old Place by Myrtle Reed. Chapter 15. The Secret and the Dream. Ruth easily became accustomed to the quiet life at Miss Ainsley'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 Ainsley. 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 Ainsley 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 Ainsley'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 rickmanship. 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 sandalwood inlaid with pearl and partly covered by a wonderful antique rug. The world had seemingly given up its beauty to adorn Miss Ainsley's room. She had pottery from Mexico, China, and Japan, strange things from Egypt and the Nile, and all the oriental splendor of India and Persia. Ruth wisely asked no questions, but as once before she said hesitating, they were given to me by 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 Ainsley'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 Ainsley 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, always using 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 color 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 Ainsley 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 a matter, dearie, I'm just tired. When Winfield came, she kept him away from Miss Ainsley 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 Ainsley's house plainly. She waited, frightened and suffering, for what seemed an eternity before he spoke. Last night, Ruth, he began, my father came to me in a dream. You know he died when I was about 12 years old, and last night I saw him as he would have been if he had lived until now, something over 60. His hair and beard were matted, and there was the most awful expression in his eyes. It makes me shudder yet. He was in his grave clothes, dead and yet not dead. He was suffering. There was something he was trying to say to me, something he wanted to explain. We were out here on the hill in the moonlight, and I could see Miss Ainsley's house, and hear the surf behind the cliff. All he could say to me was, Abby, Mary, Mary, Abby, she, Mary, over and over again. Once he said, mother, Abby was my mother's name. It is terrible, he went on. I can't understand it. There is something I must do, and I don't know what it is. A command is laid on me by the dead. There is some wrong for which I must atone. When I first awoke, I thought it was a dream, but it isn't, it's real. It seems as though that was the real world, and this, all our love and happiness, and you were just dreams. I can't bear it, Ruth. He shuddered, and she tried to comfort him, though she was cold as a marble statue, and her lips moved with difficulty. Don't, dear, she said, it was only a dream. I've had them sometimes, so vividly that they haunted me for days, and as you say, it seemed as if that was the real world, and this the dream. I know how you feel. Those things aren't pleasant, but there's nothing we can do. It makes one feel so helpless. The affairs of the day are largely under our control, but at night, when the body is asleep, the mind harks back to things that have been forgotten for years. It takes a fevered fancy as a fact, and builds upon it a whole series of disasters. It gives trivial things great significance, and turns life upside down. Remembering it is the worst of all. There's something I can't get at, Ruth, he answered. It's just out of my reach. I know it's reasonable to suppose it was a dream, and that it can be explained by natural causes, but I don't dream very often. I dream every night, she said. Sometimes they're just silly, foolish things, and sometimes they're vivid and horrible realities that I can't forget for weeks. But surely, dear, we're not foolish enough to believe in dreams. No, I hope not, he replied doubtfully. Let's go for a little walk, she said, and we'll forget it. Then she told him how changed Miss Ainsley was, and how she had left her, sitting aimlessly by the window. I don't think I'd better stay away along, she concluded. She may need me. I won't be selfish, Ruth. We'll go back now. I'm sorry, Miss Ainsley isn't well. She said she was just tired, but it isn't like her to be tired. She doesn't seem to want anybody near her. But you can sit in the garden this afternoon, if you'd like to, and I'll flit in and out, like an industrious butterfly. Some new books have just come, and I'll leave them in the arbor for you. All right, dear, and if there's anything I can do, I hope you'll tell me. As they approached the house, a brisk little man hurried out of the gate and went toward the village. Who's that? asked Winfield. I don't know, someone who has brought something probably. I trust she's better. Miss Ainsley seemed more like herself as she moved about the house, dusting and putting the rums in order, as was her want. At noon she fried a bit of chicken for Ruth, but took nothing herself except a cup of tea. No, dearie, she said, in answer to Ruth's anxious question. I'm all right, don't fret about me. Have you any pain, Miss Ainsley? No, of course I haven't, you foolish child. She tried to smile, but her white lips quivered pitifully. In the afternoon, when she said she was cold, Ruth made a fire in the open fireplace and wheeled Miss Ainsley's favorite chair in front of it. She drew her shawl about her shoulders and leaned back. I'm so comfortable now, she said drowsily. I think I'm going to sleep, dear. Ruth sat by her, pretending to read, but in reality, watching her closely, until the deep, regular breathing assured her that she was asleep. She went out into the garden and found Winfield in the arbor. How's this patient, she asked, kissing him lightly on the forehead. I'm all right, dearest, answered, drawing her down beside him, and I'm ashamed of myself because I was so foolish. During the afternoon, Ruth made frequent trips to the house, each time finding Miss Ainsley sound asleep. It was after six o'clock when she woke and rubbed her eyes, wonderingly. How long have I been asleep, Ruth? All the afternoon, Miss Ainsley. Do you feel better now? Yes, I think I do. I didn't sleep last night, but it's been years since I've taken a nap in the daytime. Ruth invited Carl to supper and made them both sit still while she prepared the simple meal, which, as he said, was astonishingly good. He was quite himself again, but Miss Ainsley, though trying to assume her old manner, had undergone a great change. Carl helped Ruth with the dishes, saying he's opposed he might as well become accustomed to it, and feeling the need of sleep went home very early. I'm all right, he said to Ruth, as he kissed her at the door, and you're just the sweetest girl in the world. Good night, darling. A chill mist came inland and Ruth kept pine nuts burning in the fireplace. They sat without other light, Miss Ainsley with her head resting upon her hand, and Ruth watching her narrowly. Now and then they spoke aimlessly of common places. When the last train came in, Miss Ainsley raised her eyes to the silver candlestick that stood on the mantle and side. Shall I put the light in the window, asked Ruth? It was a long time before Miss Ainsley answered. No, dearie, she said sadly, never any more. She was trying to hide her suffering, and Ruth's heart ached for her in vain. The sound of the train died away in the distance and the firelight faded. Ruth, she said in a low voice, I am going away. Away, Miss Ainsley, where? I don't know, dear, it's where we all go. The undiscovered country from whose born no traveler returns. Sometimes it's a long journey, and sometimes it's a short one, but we all take it alone at the last. Ruth's heart throbbed violently, then stood still. Don't, she cried sharply. I'm not afraid, dear, and I'm ready to go, even though you have made me so happy, you and he. Miss Ainsley waited a moment, then continued in a different tone. Today the lawyer came and made my will. I haven't much, just this little house, a small income paid semi-annually, and my things. All my things are for you. The house and the income are for him. Ruth was crying softly, and Miss Ainsley went to her, laying her hand caressingly upon the bowed head. Don't, dearie, she pleaded. Don't be unhappy. I'm not afraid. I'm just going to sleep, that's all, to wake in immortal dawn. I want you and him to have my things, because I love you, because I've always loved you, and because I will, even afterward. Ruth choked down her sobs, and Miss Ainsley drew her chair closer, taking the girl's cold hand in hers. That touch, so strong and gentle, that had always brought balm to her troubled spirit, did not fail in its ministry now. He went away, said Miss Ainsley, after a long silence, as if in continuation of something she had said before. And I was afraid. He had made many voyages in safety, each one more successful than the last, and he always brought me beautiful things. But this time I knew that it was not right for him to go. When he came back, we were to be married. The firelight shone on the amethyst ring as Miss Ainsley moved it on her finger. He said that he would have no way of writing this time, but that if anything happened I would know. I was to wait, as women have waited since the world began. Oh Ruth, do you know what waiting means? Mine has lasted through 33 interminable years. Each day I have said, he will come tomorrow. When the last train came in, I put the light in the window to lead him straight to me. Each day I have made the house ready for an invited guest, and I haven't gone away, even for an hour. I couldn't bear to have him come and find no welcome waiting. And I have always worn the color he loved. When people have come to see me, I've always been afraid they would stay until he came, except with you and Carl. I was glad to have you come to stay with me, because lately I have thought that it would be more, more delicate than to have him find me alone. I loved you too, dear, she added quickly. I asked your aunt to keep the light in the window. I never told her why, but I think she knew. And you must tell her, dear, the next time you see her, that I thank her and that she need never do it again. I thought if he should come in a storm, or perhaps sail by on his way to me. There was another long silence. Then with an effort she went on. I have been happy, for he said he wanted me to be, though sometimes it was hard. As nearly as I could I made my dream real. I have thought for hours of the things we would say to each other when the long years were over and we were together again. I have dressed for his eyes alone and loved him, perhaps you know. I know Miss Ainsley said Ruth softly, her own love surging in her heart. I know. He loved me, Ruth, she said, lingering upon the words, as man never loved before. In all of God's great universe there was never anything like that, even in heaven, there can't be anything so beautiful, though we have to know human love before we can understand God's. All day I have dreamed of our little home together and at night sometimes of baby's lips against my breast. I could always see him plainly, but I never could see our child. I have missed that. I have had more happiness than comes to most women, but that has been denied me. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her lips were white and quivering, but there were no tears. At length she sat upright and fixed her eyes upon Ruth. Don't be afraid of anything, she said in a strange tone. Poverty or sickness or death or any suffering God will let you bear together. That isn't love, to be afraid. There's only one thing, the years. Oh God, the bitter, cruel, endless years. Miss Ainsley caught her breath and it sounded like a sob, but she bravely kept it back. I have been happy, she said, in pitiful triumph. I promised him that I would be and I have kept my word. Sometimes it was hard, but I had my dream. Lately this last year I have often been afraid that something had happened. Thirty-three years, and you know, dear, she added, with a quaint primness, that I am a woman of the world. In the world, but not of it, was on Ruth's lips, but she did not say it. Still, I know what was wrong to doubt him. I couldn't, when I thought of our last hour together, out on the hill in the moonlight. He said it was conceivable that life might keep him from me, but death never could. He told me that if he died, I would know, that he would come and tell me, and that in a little while afterward, we should be together. The dying embers cast a glow upon her face. It was almost waxen in its purity. She seemed transfigured with the light of another world. Last night he came to me, in a dream. He is dead, he has been dead for a long time. He was trying to explain something to me. I suppose he was trying to tell me why he had not come before. He was old, an old man, Ruth, and I have always thought of him as young. He could not say anything but my name. Mary, Abbey, Mary, Abbey, over and over again, and once, mother. I was christened, Mary Abigail, but I never liked the middle name, so I dropped it, and he used to tease me sometimes by calling me Abbey. And from his saying, mother, I know that he too, wherever he may be, has had that dream of our child. Ruth was cold from head to foot, and her senses reeled. Every word that Winfield had said in the morning sounded again in her ears. What was it that went on around her, of which she had no ken? It seemed as though she stood absolutely alone in endless space, while planets swept past, out of their orbits, with all the laws of force set suddenly aside. Miss Ainsley felt her shuddering fear. Don't be afraid, dear, she said again. Everything is right. I kept my promise, and he kept his. He is suffering, he is very lonely without me, but in a little while we shall be together. The fire died out, and flushed the room in darkness, broken only by the last fitful glow. Ruth could not speak, and Miss Ainsley sat quietly in her chair. Come, she said at last, stretching out her hand. Let's go upstairs. I have kept you up, Jerry, and I know you must be very tired. The house seemed filled with a shadowy presence, something intangible but portentous, for both good and ill. Ruth took down the heavy mass of white hair, and brushed it back, tying it at the neck with a ribbon, and girlish fashion, as Miss Ainsley always did. Her nightgown, of shearest linen, was heavy with valentine's lace, and where it fell back from her throat, it revealed the flesh, exquisitely white, set in gracious curves and womanly softness, as if by a sculptor who loved his clay. The sweet, wholesome scent of the lavender flowers breathed from the folds of Miss Ainsley's gown, as she stood there in the candlelight, smiling with the unearthly glow still upon her face. Good night, dearie, she said. You'll kiss me, won't you? For a moment the girl's face was buried among Miss Ainsley's laces, then their lips met. Ruth was trembling, and she hurried away, swallowing the lump in her throat, and trying to keep back the tears. The doors were open, and there was no sound to save Miss Ainsley's deep breathing, but Ruth kept a dreary vigil till almost dawn. End of Chapter 15.