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.
Ruth tried to get her to go out for a drive,but she refused.
"No,deary,"she said,smiling,"I've never been away,and I'm too old to begin now."Neighbours,hearing of her illness,came to offer sympathy and help,but she would see none of them--not even Aunt Jane.
One night,she sat at the head of the table as usual;for she would not surrender her place as hostess,even though she ate nothing,and afterward a great weakness came upon her."I don't know how I'll ever get upstairs,"she said,frightened;"it seems such a long way!"Winfield took her in his arms and carried her up,as gently and easily as if she had been a child.Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright when he put her down."I never thought it would be so easy,"she said,in answer to his question."You'll stay with me,won't you,Carl?I don't want you to go away.""I'll stay as long as you want me,Miss Ainslie,and Ruth will,too.We couldn't do too much for you."That night,as they sat in front of the fire,while Miss Ainslie slept upstairs,Ruth told him what she had said about leaving him the house and the little income and giving her the beautiful things in the house.
"Bless her sweet heart,"he said tenderly,"we don't want her things--we'd rather have her.""Indeed we would,"she answered quickly.
Until the middle of September she went back and forth from her own room to the sitting-room with comparative ease.They took turns bringing dainties to tempt her appetite,but,though she ate a little of everything and praised it warmly,especially if Ruth had made it,she did it,evidently,only out of consideration for them.
She read a little,talked a little,and slept a great deal.One day she asked Carl to pull the heavy sandal wood chest over near her chair,and give her the key,which hung behind a picture.
"Will you please go away now,"she asked,with a winning smile,"for just a little while?"He put the bell on a table within her reach and asked her to ring if she wanted anything.The hours went by and there was no sound.
At last he went up,very quietly,and found her asleep.The chest was locked and the key was not to be found.He did not know whether she had opened it or not,but she let him put it in its place again,without a word.
Sometimes they read to her,and she listened patiently,occasionally asking a question,but more often falling asleep.
"I wish,"she said one day,when she was alone with Carl,"that Icould hear something you had written."
"Why,Miss Ainslie,"he exclaimed,in astonishment,"you wouldn't be interested in the things I write--it's only newspaper stuff.""Yes,I would,"she answered softly;"yes,I would."Something in the way she said it brought the mist to his eyes.
She liked to have Ruth brush her hair,but her greatest delight was in hearing Winfield talk about her treasures.
"Won't you tell me about the rug,Carl,the one on the sandal wood chest?"she asked,for the twentieth time.
"It's hundreds of years old,"he began,"and it came from Persia,far,far beyond the sea.The shepherds watched their flocks night and day,and saved the finest fleeces for the rug.They made colour from flowers and sweet herbs;from strange things that grew on the mountain heights,where only the bravest dared to go.
The sumac that flamed on the hills,the rind of the swaying pomegranates,lichens that grew on the rocks by the Eastern sea,berries,deep-sea treasures,vine leaves,the juice of the grape--they all made colours for the rug,and then ripened,like old wine.
"After a long time,when everything was ready,the Master Craftsman made the design,writing strange symbols into the margin,eloquent with hidden meanings,that only the wisest may understand."They all worked upon it,men and women and children.Deep voices sang love songs and the melody was woven into the rug.Soft eyes looked love in answer and the softness and beauty went in with the fibre.Baby fingers clutched at it and were laughingly untangled.At night,when the fires of the village were lighted,and the crimson glow was reflected upon it,strange tales of love and war were mingled with the thread.
"The nightingale sang into it,the roses from Persian gardens breathed upon it,the moonlight put witchery into it;the tinkle of the gold and silver on the women's dusky ankles,the scent of sandal wood and attar of rose--it all went into the rug.
"Poets repeated their verses to it,men knelt near it to say their prayers,and the soft wind,rising from the sea,made faintest music among the threads.
"Sometimes a workman made a mistake,and the Master Craftsman put him aside.Often,the patient fingers stopped weaving forever,and they found some one else to go on with it.Sometimes they went from one place to another,but the frame holding the rug was not injured.From mountain to valley and back again,urged by some strange instinct,past flowing rivers and over the golden sands of the desert,even to the deep blue waters that broke on the shore--they took the rug.
"The hoof-beats of Arabian horses,with white-robed Bedouins flashing their swords;all the glitter and splendour of war were woven into it.Songs of victory,the rush of a cavalry charge,the faith of a dying warrior,even the slow marches of defeat--it all went into the rug.
