The maid sat in the kitchen, wondering why Miss Thorne did not come
down. It was almost seven o'clock, and Miss Hathaway's breakfast hour
was half past six. Hepsey did not frame the thought, but she had a vague
impression that the guest was lazy.
Yet she was grateful for the new interest which had come into
her monotonous life. Affairs moved like clock work at Miss
Hathaway's--breakfast at half past six, dinner at one, and supper at
half past five. Each day was also set apart by its regular duties, from
the washing on Monday to the baking on Saturday.
Now it was possible that there might be a change. Miss Thorne seemed
fully capable of setting the house topsy-turvy--and Miss Hathaway's last
injunction had been: “Now, Hepsey, you mind Miss Thorne. If I hear that
you don't, you'll lose your place.”
The young woman who slumbered peacefully upstairs, while the rest of the
world was awake, had, from the beginning, aroused admiration in
Hepsey's breast. It was a reluctant, rebellious feeling, mingled with an
indefinite fear, but it was admiration none the less.
During the greater part of a wondering, wakeful night, the excited
Hepsey had seen Miss Thorne as plainly as when she first entered the
house. The tall, straight, graceful figure was familiar by this time,
and the subdued silken rustle of her skirts was a wonted sound. Ruth's
face, naturally mobile, had been schooled into a certain reserve, but
her deep, dark eyes were eloquent, and always would be. Hepsey wondered
at the opaque whiteness of her skin and the baffling arrangement of her
hair. The young women of the village had rosy cheeks, but Miss Thorne's
face was colourless, except for her lips.
It was very strange, Hepsey thought, for Miss Hathaway to sail before
her niece came, if, indeed, Miss Thorne was her niece. There was a
mystery in the house on the hilltop, which she had tried in vain to
fathom. Foreign letters came frequently, no two of them from the same
person, and the lamp in the attic window had burned steadily every night
for five years. Otherwise, everything was explainable and sane.
Still, Miss Thorne did not seem even remotely related to her aunt, and
Hepsey had her doubts. Moreover, the guest had an uncanny gift which
amounted to second sight. How did she know that all of Hepsey's books
had yellow covers? Miss Hathaway could not have told her in the letter,
for the mistress was not awire of her maid's literary tendencies.
It was half past seven, but no sound came from upstairs. She replenished
the fire and resumed meditation. Whatever Miss Thorne might prove to be,
she was decidedly interesting. It wis pleasant to watch her, to feel the
subtle refinement of all her belongings, and to wonder what was going to
happen next. Perhaps Miss Thorne would take her back to the city, as
her maid, when Miss Hathaway came home, for, in the books, such things
frequently happened. Would she go? Hepsey was trying to decide, when
there was a light, rapid step on the stairs, a moment's hesitation in
the hall, and Miss Thorne came into the dining-room.
“Good morning, Hepsey,” she said, cheerily; “am I late?”
“Yes'm. It's goin' on eight, and Miss Hathaway allers has breakfast at
half past six.”
“How ghastly,” Ruth thought. “I should have told you,” she said, “I will
have mine at eight.”
“Yes'm,” replied Hepsey, apparently unmoved. “What time do you want
dinner?”
“At six o'clock--luncheon at half past one.”
Hepsey was puzzled, but in a few moments she understood that dinner was
to be served at night and supper at midday. Breakfast had already been
moved forward an hour and a half, and stranger things might happen at
any minute.
Ruth had several other reforms in mind, but deemed it best to wait.
After breakfast, she remembered the lamp in the window and went up to
put it out.
It was still burning when she reached it, though the oil was almost
gone, and, placing it by the stairway, that she might not forget to have
it filled, she determined to explore the attic to her heart's content.
The sunlight streamed through the east window and searched the farthest
corners of the room. The floor was bare and worn, but carefully swept,
and the things that were stored there were huddled together far back
under the eaves, as if to make room for others.
It was not idle curiosity, but delicate sentiment, that made Ruth eager
to open the trunks and dresser drawers, and to turn over the contents of
the boxes that were piled together and covered with dust. The interest
of the lower part of the house paled in comparison with the first real
attic she had ever been in.
After all, why not? Miss Hathaway was her aunt,--her mother's only
sister,--and the house was in her care. There was no earthly reason
why she should not amuse herself in her own way. Ruth's instincts were
against it, but Reason triumphed.
The bunches of dried herbs, hanging from the rafters and swaying back
and forth in ghostly fashion, gave out a wholesome fragrance, and
when she opened trunks whose lids creaked on their rusty hinges,
dried rosemary, lavender, and sweet clover filled the room with that
long-stored sweetness which is the gracious handmaiden of Memory.
Miss Hathaway was a thrifty soul, but she never stored discarded
clothing that might be of use to any one, and so Ruth found no
moth-eaten garments of bygone pattern, but only things which seemed to
be kept for the sake of their tender associations.
There were letters, on whose yellowed pages the words had long since
faded, a dogeared primer, and several well worn schoolbooks, each having
on its fly-leaf: “Jane Hathaway, Her Book”; scraps of lace, brocade ard
rustling taffeta, quilt patterns, needlebooks, and all of the eloquent
treasures that a well stored attic can yield.
As she replaced them, singing softly to herself, a folded newspaper
slipped to the floor. It was yellow and worn, like the letters, and
she unfolded it carefully. It was over thirty years old, and around
a paragraph on the last page a faint line still lingered. It was an
announcement of the marriage of Charles G. Winfield, captain of the
schooner Mary, to Miss Abigail Weatherby.
“Abigail Weatherby,” she said aloud. The name had a sweet, old-fashioned
sound. “They must have been Aunt Jane's friends.” She closed the trunk
and pushed it back to its place, under the eaves.
In a distant corner was the old cedar chest, heavily carved. She pulled
it out into the light, her cheeks glowing with quiet happiness, and sat
down on the floor beside it. It was evidently Miss Hathaway's treasure
box, put away in the attic when spinsterhood was confirmed by the
fleeting years.
On top, folded carefully in a sheet, was a gown of white brocade,
short-waisted and quaint, trimmed with pearl passementerie. The neck was
square, cut modestly low, and filled in with lace of a delicate, frosty
pattern--Point d'Alencon. Underneath the gown lay piles of lingerie, all
of the finest linen, daintily made by hand. Some of it was trimmed with
real lace, some with crocheted edging, and the rest with hemstitched
ruffles and feather-stitching.
There was another gown, much worn, of soft blue cashmere, some
sea-shells, a necklace of uncut turquoises, the colour changed to green,
a prayer-book, a little hymnal, and a bundle of letters, tied with
a faded blue ribbon, which she did not touch. There was but one
picture--an ambrotype, in an ornate case, of a handsome young man, with
that dashing, dare-devil look in his eyes which has ever been attractive
to women.
Ruth smiled as she put the treasures away, thinking that, had Fate
thrown the dice another way, the young man might have been her esteemed
and respected uncle. Then, all at once, it came to her that she had
unthinkingly stumbled upon her aunt's romance.
She was not a woman to pry into others' secrets, and felt guilty as she
fled from the attic, taking the lamp with her. Afterward, as she sat on
the narrow piazza, basking in the warm Spring sunshine, she pieced out
the love affair of Jane Hathaway's early girlhood after her own fashion.
She could see it all plainly. Aunt Jane had expected to be married
to the dashing young man and had had her trousseau in readiness, when
something happened. The folded paper would indicate that he was Charles
Winfield, who had married some one else, but whether Aunt Jane had
broken her engagement, or the possible Uncle Charles had simply taken a
mate without any such formality, was a subject of conjecture.
Still, if the recreant lover had married another, would Aunt Jane have
kept her treasure chest and her wedding gown? Ruth knew that she herself
would not, but she understood that aunts were in a class by themselves.
It was possible that Charles Winfield was an earlier lover, and she had
kept the paper without any special motive, or, perhaps, for “auld lang
syne.”
Probably the letters would have disclosed the mystery, and the newspaper
instinct, on the trail of a “story,” was struggling with her sense of
honour, but not for the world, now that she knew, would Ruth have read
the yellowed pages, which doubtless held faded roses pressed between
them.
The strings of sea-shells, and the larger ones, which could have come
only from foreign shores, together with the light in the window, gave
her a sudden clew. Aunt Jane was waiting for her lover and the lamp was
a signal. If his name was Charles Winfield, the other woman was dead,
and if not, the marriage notice was that of a friend or an earlier
lover.
The explanation was reasonable, clear, and concise--what woman could
ask for more? Yet there was something beyond it which was out of Miss
Thorne's grasp--a tantalising something, which would not be allayed.
Then she reflected that the Summer was before tier, and, in reality,
now that she was off the paper, she had no business with other people's
affairs.
The sun was hidden by gathering clouds and the air was damp before Ruth
missed the bright warmth on the piazza, and began to walk back and forth
by way of keeping warm. A gravelled path led to the gate and on either
side was a row of lilac bushes, the bare stalks tipped with green. A
white picket fence surrounded the yard, except at the back, where the
edge of the precipice made it useless. The place was small and well
kept, but there were no flower beds except at the front of the house,
and there were only two or three trees.
She walked around the vegetable garden at the back of the house, where
a portion of her Summer sustenance was planted, and discovered an unused
gate at the side, which swung back and forth, idly, without latching.
She was looking over the fence and down the steep hillside, when a sharp
voice at her elbow made her jump.
“Sech as wants dinner can come in and get it,” announced Hepsey, sourly.
“I've yelled and yelled till I've most bust my throat and I ain't
a-goin' to yell no more.”
She returned to the house, a picture of offended dignity, but carefully
left the door ajar for Ruth, who discovered, upon this rude awakening
from her reverie, that she was very hungry.
In the afternoon, the chill fog made it impossible to go out, for
the wind had risen from the sea and driven the salt mist inland. Miss
Hathaway's library was meagre and uninteresting, Hepsey was busy in the
kitchen, and Ruth was frankly bored. Reduced at last to the desperate
strait of putting all her belongings in irreproachable order, she found
herself, at four o'clock, without occupation. The temptation in the
attic wrestled strongly with her, but she would not go.
It seemed an age until six o'clock. “This won't do,” she said to
herself; “I'll have to learn how to sew, or crochet, or make tatting. At
last, I am to be domesticated. I used to wonder how women had time for
the endless fancy work, but I see, now.”
She was accustomed to self analysis and introspection, and began to
consider what she could get out of the next six months in the way of
gain. Physical strength, certainly, but what else? The prospect was
gloomy just then.
“It's goin' to rain, Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, at the door. “Is all the
winders shut?”
“Yes, I think so,” she answered.
“Supper's ready any time you want it.”
“Very well, I will come now.”
When she sat down in the parlour, after doing scant justice to Hepsey's
cooking, it was with a grim resignation, of the Puritan sort which,
supposedly, went with the house. There was but one place in all the
world where she would like to be, and she was afraid to trust herself in
the attic.
By an elaborate mental process, she convinced herself that the cedar
chest and the old trunks did not concern her in the least, and tried to
develop a feminine fear of mice, which was not natural to her. She
had just placed herself loftily above all mundane things, when Hepsey
marched into the room, and placed the attic lamp, newly filled, upon the
marble table.
Here was a manifest duty confronting a very superior person and, as she
went upstairs, she determined to come back immediately, but when she had
put the light in the seaward window, she lingered, under the spell of
the room.
The rain beat steadily upon the roof and dripped from the eaves. The
light made distorted shadows upon the wall and floor, while the bunches
of herbs, hanging from the rafters, swung lightly back and forth when
the wind rattled the windows and shook the old house.
The room seemed peopled by the previous generation, that had slept in
the massive mahogany bed, rocked in the chairs, with sewing or gossip,
and stood before the old dresser on tiptoe, peering eagerly into the
mirror which probably had hung above it. It was as if Memory sat at the
spinning-wheel, idly twisting the thread, and bringing visions of the
years gone by.
A cracked mirror hung against the wall and Ruth saw her reflection
dimly, as if she, too, belonged to the ghosts of the attic. She was
not vain, but she was satisfied with her eyes and hair, her white skin,
impervious to tan or burn, and the shape of her mouth. The saucy little
upward tilt at the end of her nose was a great cross to her, however,
because it was at variance with the dignified bearing which she chose to
maintain. As she looked, she wondered, vaguely, if she, like Aunt
Jane, would grow to a loveless old age. It seemed probable, for, at
twenty-five, The Prince had not appeared. She had her work and was
happy; yet unceasingly, behind those dark eyes, Ruth's soul kept
maidenly match for its mate.
When she turned to go downstairs, a folded newspaper on the floor
attracted her attention. It was near one of the trunks which she had
opened and must have fallen out. She picked it up, to replace it, but it
proved to be another paper dated a year later than the first one. There
was no marked paragraph, but she soon discovered the death notice of
“Abigail Winfield, nee Weatherby, aged twenty-two.” She put it into
the trunk out of which she knew it must have fallen, and stood there,
thinking. Those faded letters, hidden under Aunt Jane's wedding gown,
were tempting her with their mute secret as never before. She hesitated,
took three steps toward the cedar chest, then fled ingloriously from the
field.
Whoever Charles Winfeld was, he was free to love and marry again.
Perhaps there had been an estrangement and it was he for whom Aunt
Jane was waiting, since sometimes, out of bitterness, the years distil
forgiveness. She wondered at the nature which was tender enough to keep
the wedding gown and the pathetic little treasures, brave enough to keep
the paper, with its evidence of falseness, and great enough to forgive.
Yet, what right had she to suppose Aunt Jane was waiting? Had she gone
abroad to seek him and win his recreant heart again? Or was Abigail
Weatherby her girlhood friend, who had married unhappily, and then died?
Somewhere in Aunt Jane's fifty-five years there was a romance, but,
after all, it was not her niece's business. “I'm an imaginative
goose,” Ruth said to herself. “I'm asked to keep a light in the window,
presumably as an incipient lighthouse, and I've found some old clothes
and two old papers in the attic--that's all--and I've constructed a
tragedy.”
She resolutely put the whole matter aside, as she sat in her room,
rocking pensively. Her own lamp had not been filled and was burning
dimly, so she put it out and sat in the darkness, listening to the rain.
She had not closed the shutters and did not care to lean out in the
storm, and so it was that, when the whistle of the ten o'clock train
sounded hoarsely, she saw the little glimmer of light from Miss
Ainslie's window, making a faint circle in the darkness.
Half an hour later, as before, it was taken away. The scent of lavender
and sweet clover clung to Miss Hathaway's linen, and, insensibly
soothed, Ruth went to sleep. After hours of dreamless slumber, she
thought she heard a voice calling her and telling her not to forget the
light. It was so real that she started to her feet, half expecting to
find some one standing beside her.
The rain had ceased, and two or three stars, like timid children, were
peeping at the world from behind the threatening cloud. It was that
mystical moment which no one may place--the turning of night to day. Far
down the hill, ghostly, but not forbidding, was Miss Ainslie's house,
the garden around it lying whitely beneath the dews of dawn, and up in
the attic window the light still shone, like unfounded hope in a woman's
soul, harking across distant seas of misunderstanding and gloom, with
its pitiful “All Hail!”