Lavender and Old Lace | Page 7

puts it out herself
every mornin' before she comes downstairs."
"Perhaps she and Miss Ainslie had been talking of shipwreck, and she
thought she would have a little lighthouse of her own," Miss Thorne
suggested, when the silence became oppressive.
"P'raps so," rejoined Hepsey. She had become stolid again.
Ruth pushed her chair back and stood at the dining-room window a
moment, looking out into the yard. The valley was in shadow, but the
last light still lingered on the hill. "What's that, Hepsey?" she asked.
"What's what?"
"That--where the evergreen is coming up out of the ground, in the
shape of a square."
"That's the cat's grave, mum. She died jest afore Miss Hathaway went

away, and she planted the evergreen."
"I thought something was lacking," said Ruth, half to herself.
"Do you want a kitten, Miss Thorne?" inquired Hepsey, eagerly. "I
reckon I can get you one--Maltese or white, just as you like."
"No, thank you, Hepsey; I don't believe I'll import any pets."
"Jest as you say, mum. It's sorter lonesome, though, with no cat; and
Miss Hathaway said she didn't want no more."
Speculating upon the departed cat's superior charms, that made
substitution seem like sacrilege to Miss Hathaway, Ruth sat down for a
time in the old-fashioned parlour, where the shabby haircloth furniture
was ornamented with "tidies" to the last degree. There was a
marble-topped centre table in the room, and a basket of wax flowers
under a glass case, Mrs. Hemans's poems, another book, called The
Lady's Garland, and the family Bible were carefully arranged upon it.
A hair wreath, also sheltered by glass, hung on the wall near another
collection of wax flowers suitably framed. There were various portraits
of people whom Miss Thorne did not know, though she was a near
relative of their owner, and two tall, white china vases, decorated with
gilt, flanked the mantel-shelf. The carpet, which was once of the
speaking variety, had faded to the listening point. Coarse lace curtains
hung from brass rings on wooden poles, and red cotton lambrequins
were festooned at the top.
Hepsey came in to light the lamp that hung by chains over the table, but
Miss Thorne rose, saying: "You needn't mind, Hepsey, as I am going
upstairs."
"Want me to help you unpack? she asked, doubtless wishing for a view
of "city clothes."
"No, thank you."

"I put a pitcher of water in your room, Miss Thorne. Is there anything
else you would like?"
"Nothing more, thank you."
She still lingered, irresolute, shifting from one foot to the other. "Miss
Thorne--" she began hesitatingly.
"Yes?"
"Be you--be you a lady detective?" Ruth's clear laughter rang out on the
evening air. "Why, no, you foolish girl; I'm a newspaper woman, and
I've earned a rest--that's all. You mustn't read books with yellow
covers."
Hepsey withdrew, muttering vague apologies, and Ruth found her at
the head of the stairs when she went up to her room. "How long have
you been with Miss Hathaway?" she asked.
"Five years come next June."
"Good night, Hepsey."
"Good night, Miss Thorne."
From sheer force of habit, Ruth locked her door. Her trunk was not a
large one, and it did not take her long to put her simple wardrobe into
the capacious closet and the dresser drawers. As she moved the empty
trunk into the closet, she remembered the box of money that she had
left in the attic, and went up to get it. When she returned she heard
Hepsey's door close softly.
"Silly child," she said to herself. I might just as well ask her if she isn't
a'lady detective.' They'll laugh about that in the office when I go back."
She sat down, rocking contentedly, for it was April, and she would not
have to go back until Aunt Jane came home, probably about the first of
October. She checked off the free, health-giving months on her tired
fingers, that would know the blue pencil and the typewriter no more

until Autumn, when she would be strong again and the quivering
nerves quite steady.
She blessed the legacy which had fallen into Jane Hathaway's lap and
led her, at fifty-five, to join a "personally conducted" party to the Old
World. Ruth had always had a dim yearning for foreign travel, but just
now she felt no latent injustice, such as had often rankled in her soul
when her friends went and she remained at home.
Thinking she heard Hepsey in the hall, and not caring to arouse further
suspicion, she put out her light and sat by the window, with the shutters
wide open.
Far down the hill, where the road became level again, and on the left as
she looked toward the village, was the white house, surrounded by a
garden and a hedge,