The fire died out and left the room in darkness, broken only by the last fitful glow. Ruth could not speak, and Miss Ainslie sat quietly in her chair. “Come,” she said at last, stretching out her hand, “let's go upstairs. I have kept you up, deary, 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, in girlish fashion, as Miss Ainslie always did. Her night gown, of sheerest linen, was heavy with Valenciennes 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 Ainslie's gown, as she stood there in the candle light, smiling, with the unearthly glow still upon her face.
“Good night, deary,” she said; “you'll kiss me, won't you?”
For a moment the girl's face was buried among Miss Ainslie'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 save Miss Ainslie's deep breathing, but Ruth kept a dreary vigil till almost dawn.
XVI. Some One Who Loved Her
The summer waned and each day, as it slipped away, took a little of Miss Ainslie's strength with it. There was neither disease nor pain—it was simply a letting go. Carl sent to the city for a physician of wide repute, but he shook his head. “There's nothing the matter with her,” he said, “but she doesn't want to live. Just keep her as happy as you can.”
For a time she went about the house as usual, but, gradually, more and more of her duties fell to Ruth. Hepsey came in every day after breakfast, and again in the late afternoon.