Lavender and Old Lace

The earth trembled beneath Ruth's feet for a moment, then, all at once,

she understood. The light in the attic window, the marked paragraph in

the paper, and the death notices--why, yes, the Charles Winfield who

had married Abigail Weatherby was Miss Ainslie's lover, and Carl was his

son. "He went away!" Miss Ainslie's voice came again to Ruth, when she

told her story, with no hint of her lover's name. He went away, and

soon afterward, married Abigail Weatherby, but why? Was it love at first

sight, or did he believe that his sweetheart was dead? Then Carl

was born and the mother died. Twelve years afterward, he followed

her--broken hearted. Carl had told her that his father could not bear

the smell of lavender nor the sight of any shade of purple--and Miss

Ainslie always wore lavender and lived in the scent of it--had he come

to shrink from it through remorse?

Why was it, she wondered? Had he forgotten Miss Ainslie, or had he

been suddenly swept off his feet by some blind whirlwind of passion? In

either case, memory had returned to torture him a thousand fold--to make

him ashamed to face her, with his boy in his arms.

And Aunt Jane knew of the marriage, at the time, probably, and said

no word. Then she learned of Abigail Weatherby's death, and was still

silent, hoping, perhaps, that the wanderer would come back, until she

learned that Charles Winfield, too, was dead. And still she had not told

Miss Ainslie, or, possibly, thought she knew it all till the day that

Hepsey had spoken of; when she came home, looking "strange," to keep the

light in the attic window every night for more than five years.

Was it kind? Ruth doubted for a moment, then her heart softened with

love for Aunt Jane, who had hidden the knowledge that would be a death

blow to Miss Ainslie, and let her live on, happy in her dream, while the

stern Puritan conscience made her keep the light in the attic window in

fulfilment of her promise.

As if the little light could reach the veil which hangs between us

and Eternity, or penetrate the greyness which never parts save for a

passage! As if all Miss Ainslie's love and faith could bring the dead to

life again, even to be forgiven!

Her lips quivered when she thought of Miss Ainslie's tenderness for Carl

and the little whispered lullabies that she sang to herself, over and

over again. "She does not know," thought Ruth. "Thank God, she will

never know!"

She put the rest of the things into the chest and closed it, covering

it, as before, with the rug Miss Ainslie loved. When she went into

the other room, she was asleep again, with her cheek pillowed on the

letters, while Carl sat beside her, holding her hand and pondering over

the mystery he could not explain. Ruth's heart ached for those two, so

strangely brought together, who had but this little hour to atone for a

lifetime of loss.