Lavender and Old Lace | Page 8

which she supposed was Miss Ainslie's. A timid
chirp came from the grass, and the faint, sweet smell of growing things
floated in through the open window at the other end of the room.
A train from the city sounded a warning whistle as it approached the
station, and then a light shone on the grass in front of Miss Ainslie's
house. It was a little gleam, evidently from a candle.
"So she's keeping a lighthouse, too," thought Ruth. The train pulled out
of the station and half an hour afterward the light disappeared.
She meditated upon the general subject of illumination while she got
ready for bed, but as soon as her head touched the pillow she lost
consciousness and knew no more until the morning light crept into her
room.

II. The Attic
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