“Iris, Daughter of the Marshes,” it began, “how shall I tell you of your loveliness?You are straight and slender as the rushes, dainty as a moonbeam, and sweet as a rose of June. Your dimpled hands make me think of white flowers, and the flush on your cheeks is like that on the petals of the first anemone.“Midnight itself sleeps in your hair, fragrant as the Summer dusk, and your laughing lips have the colour of a scarlet geranium, but your eyes, my dear one, how shall I write to you of your eyes? They have the beauty of calm, wide waters, when sunset has given them that wonderful blue; they are eyes a man might look into during his last hour in the world, and think his whole life well spent because of them.“Do you think me bold—your unknown lover? I am bold because my heart makes me so, and because there is no other way. I dare not ask for an answer, nor tell you my name, but if you are displeased, I am sure I have a way of finding it out. Perhaps you wonder where I have seen you, so I will tell you this. I have seen you, more than once, going to the post-office in East Lancaster, and, no matter how, I have learned your name.“Some day, perhaps, I shall see you faceto face. Some day you may give me your gracious permission to tell you all that is in my heart. Until then, remember that I am your knight, that you are my lady, and that I love you, Iris, love you!”
“Iris, Daughter of the Marshes,” it began, “how shall I tell you of your loveliness?You are straight and slender as the rushes, dainty as a moonbeam, and sweet as a rose of June. Your dimpled hands make me think of white flowers, and the flush on your cheeks is like that on the petals of the first anemone.
“Midnight itself sleeps in your hair, fragrant as the Summer dusk, and your laughing lips have the colour of a scarlet geranium, but your eyes, my dear one, how shall I write to you of your eyes? They have the beauty of calm, wide waters, when sunset has given them that wonderful blue; they are eyes a man might look into during his last hour in the world, and think his whole life well spent because of them.
“Do you think me bold—your unknown lover? I am bold because my heart makes me so, and because there is no other way. I dare not ask for an answer, nor tell you my name, but if you are displeased, I am sure I have a way of finding it out. Perhaps you wonder where I have seen you, so I will tell you this. I have seen you, more than once, going to the post-office in East Lancaster, and, no matter how, I have learned your name.
“Some day, perhaps, I shall see you faceto face. Some day you may give me your gracious permission to tell you all that is in my heart. Until then, remember that I am your knight, that you are my lady, and that I love you, Iris, love you!”
Her eyes were as luminous as the stars that shone upon the breast of night. If the heavens had suddenly opened, she could not have been more surprised. Her first love letter! At a single bound she had gained her place beside those fair ladies of romance, who peopled her maiden dreams. From to-night, she stood apart; no longer a child, but a woman worshipped afar, by some gallant lover who feared to sign his name.
She put out the candle, for the moonlight filled the room, and pattered across the polished floor, in her bare feet, to her little white bed, the letter in her hand.
“Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest,And on her silver cross soft amethyst.”
“Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest,And on her silver cross soft amethyst.”
The hours went by and still Iris was awake, the mute paper crushed close against her breast. “I wonder,” she murmured, her crimson face hidden in the pillow, “I wonder who he can be!”
The Doctor’s modest establishment consisted of two rooms over the post-office. Here his shingle swung idly in the Summer breeze or resisted the onslaughts of the Winter storms. The infrequent patient seldom met anyone else in the office, but in case there should be two at once, a dusty chair had been placed in the hall.
Both rooms were kept scrupulously clean by the wife of the postmaster, who lived on the same floor, but the bottles ranged in orderly rows upon the shelves were left severely alone, because the ministering influence lived in hourly dread of poison.
Here the family physician of East Lancaster lived out his monotonous existence. When he had first taken up his abode there, he had set up his household gods upon the hill, in company with his countrymen. He soonfound, however, that his practice was confined to the hill, and that, for all he might know to the contrary, East Lancaster was unaware of his existence.
It was the postmaster who first set him right. “If you’re a-layin’ out to heal them as has the money to pay for it,” he had said, “you’ll have to move. This yere brook, what seems so innocent-like, is the chalk mark that partitions the sheep off from the goats. You’ll find it so in every place. Sometimes it’s water, sometimes it’s a car track, and sometimes a deepo, but it’s always there, though more ’n likely there ain’t no real line exceptin’ the one what’s drawn in folks’ fool heads. I reckon, bein’ as you’re a doctor, you’re familiar with that line down the middle of human’s brains. Well, this yere brook is practically the same thing, considerin’ East and West Lancaster for a minute as brains, the which is a high compliment to both.”
So, at the earliest possible moment, the Doctor had cast in his fortunes with the “quality.” East Lancaster affected refined astonishment at first, but when the resident physician, who had long enjoyed the deeprespect of the community, had been gathered to his fathers, Doctor Brinkerhoff became the last resort. His skill was universally admitted, but no one went to his office, for fear of meeting undesirable strangers. It was thought to be in better taste to pay the double fee and have the Doctor call, even for such slight ailments as boils and cut fingers.
The man was mentally broad enough to be amused at the eccentricities of East Lancaster, though his keen old eyes did not fail to discern that he was merely tolerated where he had hoped to find friends. Within the narrow confines of his establishment, he cultivated a serene and comfortable philosophy. To suit himself to his environment when that environment was out of his power to change, to seek for the good in everything and resolutely refuse to be affected by the bad, to believe steadfastly in the law of Compensation—this was Doctor Brinkerhoff’s creed.
On Wednesday and Saturday evenings, he was received as an equal by two of the aristocratic families. On Sunday mornings, he never failed to attend church. Before the last notes of the bell died away, he was always in his place. After the service, he hurried away,making courtly acknowledgments on every side to the formal greetings.
Sunday afternoons, precisely at half-past four, he went up the hill to Herr Kaufmann’s and spent the evening. This weekly visit was the leaven of Fräulein Fredrika’s humdrum life. There was a sort of romance about it which glorified the commonplace and she looked forward to it with repressed excitement. Poor Fräulein Fredrika! Perhaps she, too, had her dreams.
In many respects the two men were kindred. Their conversations were frequently perfunctory, but lacked no whit of sustaining grace for that. Talk, after all, is pathetically cheap. Where one cannot understand without words, no amount of explanation will make things clear. Across impassable deeps, like lofty peaks of widely parted ranges, soul greets soul. Separated forever by the limitations of our clay, we live and die absolutely alone. Even Love, the magician, who for dazzling moments gives new sight and boundless revelation, cannot always work his charm. A third of our lives is spent in sleep, and who shall say what proportion of the rest is endured in planetary isolation?
June came through the open windows of the house upon the brink of the cliff and the Master dozed in his chair. The height was glaring, because there were no trees. The spirit of German progress had cut down every one of the lofty pines and maples, save at the edges of the settlement, where primeval woods, sloping down to the valley, still flourished.
Fräulein Fredrika sat with her face resolutely turned to the west. It was Sunday and almost half-past four, but she would not look for the expected guest. She preferred to concentrate her mind upon something else, and when the rusty bell-wire creaked, experience all the emotion of a delightful surprise.
At the appointed hour, he came, and the colour of dead rose petals bloomed on the Fräulein’s withered face. “Herr Doctor,” she said, “it is most kind. Mine brudder will be pleased.”
“Wake up!” cried the Doctor, with a hearty laugh, as he strode into the room. “You can’t sleep all the time!”
“So,” said the Master, with an understanding smile, as he straightened himself and rubbed his eyes, “it is you!”
Fräulein Fredrika sat in the corner and watched the two whom she loved best in all the world. No one was so wise as her Franz, unless it might be the Herr Doctor, to whom all the mysteries of life and death were as an open book.
“To me,” said the Doctor, once, “much has been given to see. My Father has graciously allowed me to help Him. I am first to welcome the soul that arrives from Him, and I am last to say farewell to those He takes back. What wonder if, now and then, I presume to send Him a message of my faith and my belief?”
The Master’s idea of satisfying companionship was not a flow of uninterrupted talk, marred by much levity. He merely asked that his friend should be near at hand, that he might communicate with him when he chose. When he had a thought which seemed worthy of dignified inspection, he would offer it, but not before.
On this particular afternoon, Lynn was exceedingly restless. Like many other men, to whom the thing is impossible, he vaguely feared feminisation. The variety of soft influences continually about him had a subtle, enervating effect.
Iris was reading, his mother was writing letters, and Aunt Peace was endeavouring to entertain him with reminiscences of her early youth. When life lies fair in the distance, with the rosy hues of anticipation transfiguring its rugged steeps and yawning chasms, we are young, though our years may number threescore and ten. On that first day when we look back, either happily or with remorse, to the stony ways over which we have travelled, losing concern for that part of the journey which is yet to come, we have grown old.
“That is very interesting,” said Lynn, when Aunt Peace had finished her description of the first school she attended. “I think I’ll go out for a walk now, if you don’t mind. Will you tell mother, please, when she comes down?”
He went off at a rapid pace and made a long, circling tour of East Lancaster, ending at the bridge, where he, too, leaned over and looked into the sunny depths of the stream. Doctor Brinkerhoff’s sign, waving in the wind, gave him an idea. Accidentally, he had hit upon his need; he hungered for the companionship of his kind.
But Doctor Brinkerhoff was not at home,and the deserted corridors echoed strangely beneath his tread. He walked the length of the long hall a few times, because there seemed nothing else to do, and the Doctor’s cat, locked in the office, mewed piteously.
“Poor pussy!” said Lynn, consolingly, “I wish I could let you out, but I can’t.”
Up the hill he went, his nameless irritation already sensibly decreased. After all, it was good to be alive—to breathe the free air, feel the warm sun upon his cheek and the springy turf beneath his feet.
“Someone is coming,” announced Fräulein Fredrika. “I think it will be the Herr Irving.”
“Herr Irving,” repeated the Master. “Mine pupil? It is not the day for his lesson.”
“Perhaps someone is ill,” suggested the Doctor.
But, as it happened, Lynn had no errand save that of pure friendliness. His buoyant spirits immediately gave a freshness to the time-worn themes of conversation, and they talked until sunset.
“It is good to have friends,” observed the Master. “In one’s wide acquaintance everyperson has his own place. You lose one friend, perhaps, and you think, ‘Well, I can get along without him,’ but it is not so. We have as many sides as we know people, and each acquaintance sees a different one, which is often only a reflection of himself.
“This afternoon, we have been speaking of Truth, and how it is that things entirely opposite each other can both be true. The Herr Doctor says it is because Truth has many sides, but I say no. Truth is one clear white light and we are sun-glasses with many corners. Prisms, I think you say. If the light strikes a sharp edge, it breaks into many colours. To one of us everything will be purple, to another red, and to yet one more it will be all blue. If we have many edges, we see many colours. It is only the person who is in tune, who lets the light pass with no interruption, who sees all things in one harmony, and Truth as it is.”
“Yes,” said the Doctor, “that is all very true. When we oppose our personal opinion to the thing as it is, and have our minds set upon what should be, according to our ideas, it makes an edge. I think it is the finest art of living to see things as they areand make the best of them. There is so little that we can change! If the colours break over us, it is the fault of our sharp edges and not of the light.”
“We are getting very serious,” observed Lynn. “For my part, I take each day just as it comes.”
“One day,” repeated the Master. “How many possible things there are in it! What was it the poet said of Herr Columbus? Yes, I have it now. ‘One day with life and hope and heart is time enough to find a world.’”
“That is the beauty of it,” put in the Doctor. “One day is surely enough. An old lady who had fallen and hurt herself badly said to me once: ‘Doctor, how long must I lie here?’ ‘Have patience, my dear madam,’ said I. ‘You have only one day at a time to live. Get all the content you can out of it, and let the rest wait, like a bud, till the sun of to-morrow shows you the rose.’”
“Did she get well?” asked Lynn.
“Of course—why not?”
“His sick ones always get well,” said Fräulein Fredrika, timidly. “Mine brudder’s friend possesses great skill.”
She was laying the table for the simpleSunday night tea, and Lynn said that he must go.
“No, no,” objected the Master, “you must stay.”
“It would be of a niceness,” the Fräulein assured him, very politely.
“We should enjoy it,” said the Doctor.
“You are all very kind,” returned Lynn, “but they will look for me at home, and I must not disappoint them.”
“Then,” continued the Doctor, “may I not hope that you will play for me before you go?”
“Certainly, if I have Herr Kaufmann’s permission, and if I may borrow one of his violins.”
“Of a surety.” The Master clattered down the uncarpeted stairs and returned with an instrument of his own make. Without accompaniment, Lynn played, and the Doctor nodded his enthusiastic approval. Herr Kaufmann looked out of the window and paid not the slightest attention to the performance.
“Very fine,” said the Doctor. “We have enjoyed it.”
“I am glad,” replied Lynn, modestly.Then, flushed with the praise, and his own pleasure in his achievement, he turned to the Master. “How am I getting on?” he asked, anxiously. “Don’t you think I am improving?”
“Yes,” returned the Master, dryly; “by next week you will be one Paganini.”
Stung by the sarcasm, Lynn went home, and after tea the group resolved itself into its original elements. Herr Kaufmann and the Doctor sat in their respective easy-chairs, conversing with each other by means of silences, with here and there a word of comment, and Fräulein Fredrika was in the corner, silent, too, and yet overcome with admiration.
“That boy,” said the Doctor, at length, “he has genius.”
The crescent moon gleamed faintly against the sunset, and a wayworn robin, with slow-beating wings, circled toward his nest in one of the maples on the other side of the valley. The fragrant dusk sheltered the little house, which all day had borne the heat of the sun.
“Possibly,” said the Master, “but no heart, no feeling. He is all technique.”
There was another long pause. “Hismother,” observed the Doctor, “do you know her?”
“No. I meet no women but mine sister.”
“She is a lovely lady.”
“So?”
It was evident that the Master had no interest in Margaret Irving, but the Doctor still brooded upon the vision. She was different from anyone else in East Lancaster, and he admired her very much.
“That boy,” said the Doctor, again, “he has her eyes.”
“Whose?”
“His mother’s.”
“So?”
The interval lengthened into an hour, and presently the kitchen clock struck ten. “I shall go now,” remarked the Doctor, rising.
“Not yet,” said the Master. “Come!”
They went downstairs together, into the shop. It had happened before, though rarely, and the Doctor suspected that he was about to receive the greatest possible kindness from his friend’s hands. Herr Kaufmann disappeared into his bedroom and was gone a long time.
The room was dark, and the Doctor did notdare to move for fear of stepping upon some of the wood destined for violins. A cricket in the corner sang cheerily and ceased suddenly in the middle of a chirp when the Master came back with a lighted candle.
“One moment, Herr Doctor.”
He whisked off again and presently returned, holding under his arm something that was wrapped in many pieces of ragged silk. One by one these were removed, and at last the treasure was revealed.
He held it off at arm’s length, where the light might shine upon its beauty, and well out of reach of a random touch. The Doctor said the expected thing, but it fell upon deaf ears. The Master’s fine face was alight with more than earthly joy, and he stroked the brown breasts lovingly.
“Mine Cremona!” he breathed. “Mine—all mine!”
“
Present company excepted,” remarked Lynn, “this village is full of fossils.”
“At what age does one get to be a ‘fossil,’” asked Aunt Peace, her eyes twinkling. “Seventy-five?”
“That isn’t fair,” Lynn answered, resentfully. “You’re younger than any of us, Aunt Peace,—you’re seventy-five years young.”
“So I am,” she responded, good humouredly. She was upon excellent terms with this tall, straight young fellow who had brought new life into her household. A March wind, suddenly sweeping through her rooms, would have had much the same effect.
“Am I a fossil?” asked Margaret, who had overheard the conversation.
“You’re nothing but a kid, mother. You’ve never grown up. I can do what Iplease with you.” He picked her up, bodily, and carried her, flushed and protesting, to her favourite chair, and dumped her into it. “Aunt Peace, is there any place in the house where you might care to go?”
“Thank you, no. I’ll stay where I am, if I may. I’m very comfortable.”
Lynn paced back and forth with a heavy tread which resounded upon the polished floor. Iris happened to be passing the door and looked in, anxiously, for signs of damage.
“Iris,” laughed Miss Field, “what a little old maid you are! You remind me of that story we read together.”
“Which story, Aunt Peace?”
“The one in which the over-neat woman married a careless man to reform him. She used to follow him around with a brush and dustpan and sweep up after him.”
“That would make him nice and comfortable,” observed Lynn. “What became of the man?”
“He was sent to the asylum.”
“And the woman?” asked Margaret.
“She died of a broken heart.”
“I think I’d be in the asylum too,” saidLynn. “I do not desire to be swept up after.”
“Nobody desires to sweep up after you,” retorted Iris, “but it has to be done. Otherwise the house would be uninhabitable.”
“East Lancaster,” continued Lynn, irrelevantly, “is the abode of mummies and fossils. The city seal is a broom—at least it should be. I was never in such a clean place in my life. The exhibits themselves look as though they’d been freshly dusted. Dirt is wholesome—didn’t you ever hear that? How the population has lived to its present advanced age, is beyond me.”
“We have never really lived,” returned Iris, with a touch of sarcasm, “until recently. Before you came, we existed. Now East Lancaster lives.”
“Who’s the pious party in brown silk with the irregular dome on her roof?” asked Lynn.
“The minister’s second wife,” answered Aunt Peace, instantly gathering a personality from the brief description.
“So, as Herr Kaufmann says. Might one inquire about the jewel she wears?”
“It’s just a pin,” said Iris.
“It looks more like a glass case. In someway, it reminds me of a museum.”
“It has some of her first husband’s hair in it,” explained Iris.
“Jerusalem!” cried Lynn. “That’s the limit! Fancy the feelings of the happy bridegroom whose wife wears a jewel made out of her first husband’s fur! Not for me! When I take the fatal step, it won’t be a widow.”
“That,” remarked Margaret, calmly, “is as it may be. We have the reputation of being a bad lot.”
Lynn flushed, patted his mother’s hand awkwardly, and hastily beat a retreat. They heard him in the room overhead, walking back and forth, and practising feverishly.
“Margaret,” asked Miss Field, suddenly, “what are you going to make of that boy?”
“A good man first,” she answered. “After that, what God pleases.”
By a swift change, the conversation had become serious, and, always quick at perceiving hidden currents, Iris felt herself in the way. Making an excuse, she left them.
For some time each was occupied with her own thoughts. “Margaret,” said Miss Field, again, then hesitated.
“Yes, Aunt Peace—what is it?”
“My little girl. I have been thinking—after I am gone, you know.”
“Don’t talk so, dear Aunt Peace. We shall have you with us for a long time yet.”
“I hope so,” returned the old lady, brightly, “but I am not endowed with immortality—at least not here,—and I have already lived more than my allotted threescore and ten. My problem is not a new one—I have had it on my mind for years,—and when you came I thought that perhaps you had come to help me solve it.”
“And so I have, if I can.”
“My little girl,” said Aunt Peace,—and the words were a caress,—“she has given to me infinitely more than I have given to her. I have never ceased to bless the day I found her.”
Between these two there were no questions, save the ordinary, meaningless ones which make so large a part of conversation. The deeps were silently passed by; only the shallows were touched.
“You have the right to know,” Miss Field continued. “Iris is twenty now, or possibly twenty-one. She has never known whenher birthday came, and so we celebrate it on the anniversary of the day I found her.
“I was driving through the country, fifteen or twenty miles from East Lancaster. I—I was with Doctor Brinkerhoff,” she went on, unwillingly. “He had asked me to go and see a patient of his, in whom, from what he had told me, I had learned to take great interest. Doctor Brinkerhoff,” she said, sturdily, “is a gentleman, though he has no social position.”
“Yes,” replied Margaret, seeing that an answer was expected, “he is a charming gentleman.”
“It was a warm Summer day, and on our way back we came upon a dozen or more ragged children, playing in the road. They refused to let us pass, and we could not run over them. A dilapidated farmhouse stood close by, but no one was in sight.
“‘Please hold the lines,’ said the Doctor. ‘I will get out and lead the horse past this most unnecessary obstruction.’ When he got out, the children began to throw stones at the horse. It was a young animal, and it started so violently that I was almost thrown from my seat. One child, a girl of ten, climbedinto the buggy and shrieked to the rest: ‘I’ll hold the lines—get more stones!’
“I was frightened and furiously angry, but I could do nothing, for I had only one hand free. I tried to make the child sit down, and she struck at me. Her torn sleeve fell back, and I saw that her arm was bruised, as if with heavy blows.
“Meanwhile the Doctor had led the horse a little way ahead, and had come back. The whole tribe was behind us, yelling like wild Indians, and we were in the midst of a rain of stones. Doctor Brinkerhoff got in and started the horse at full speed.
“‘We’ll put her down,’ he said, ‘a little farther on. She can walk back.’
“She was quiet, and her head was down, but I had one look from her eyes that haunts me yet. She hated everybody—you could see that,—and yet there was a sort of dumb helplessness about it that made my heart ache.
“She got out, obediently, when we told her to, and stood by the roadside, watching us. ‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘that child is not like the others, and she has been badly used. I want her—I want to take her home with me.’
“‘Bless your kind heart, dear lady,’ he replied, laughing, and we were almost at home before I convinced him that I was in earnest. He would not let me go there again, but the very next day, he went, late in the afternoon, and brought her to me after dark, so that no one might see. East Lancaster has always made the most of every morsel of gossip.
“The poor little soul was hungry, frightened, and oh, so dirty! I gave her a bath, cut off her hair, which was matted close to her head, fed her, and put her into a clean bed. The bruises on her body would have brought tears from a stone. I sat by her until she was asleep, and then went down to interview the Doctor, who was reading in the library.
“He said that the people who had her were more than glad to get rid of her, and hoped that they might never see her again. Nothing had been paid toward her support for a long time, and they considered themselves victimised.
“Of course I put detectives at work upon the case and soon found out all there was to know. She was the daughter of a play-actress,whose stage name was Iris Temple. Her husband deserted her a few months after their marriage, and when the child was born, she was absolutely destitute. Finally, she found work, but she could not take the child with her, and so Iris does not remember her mother at all. For six years she paid these people a small sum for the care of the child, then remittances ceased, and abuse began. We learned that she had died in a hospital, but there was no trace of the father.
“There was no one to dispute my title, so I at once made it legal. Shortly afterward, she had a long, terrible fever, and oh, Margaret, the things that poor child said in her delirium! Doctor Brinkerhoff was here night and day, and his skill saved her, but when she came out of it she was a pitiful little ghost. Mercifully, she had forgotten a great deal, but even now some of the horror comes back to her occasionally. She knows everything, except that her mother was a play-actress. I would not want her to know that.
“For a while,” Aunt Peace went on, “we both had a very hard time. She was actually depraved. But I believed in the good that was hidden in her somewhere—there is goodin all of us if we can only find it,—and little by little she learned to love me. Through it all, I had Doctor Brinkerhoff’s sympathetic assistance. He came every week, advised me, counselled with me, helped me, and even faced the gossips. All that East Lancaster knows is the simple fact that I found a child who attracted me, discovered that her parents were dead, and adopted her. There was a great deal of excitement at first, but it died down. Most things die down, my dear, if we give them time.”
“Dear Aunt Peace,” said Margaret, softly, “you found a bit of human driftwood, and with your love and your patience made it into a beautiful woman.”
The old face softened, and the serene eyes grew dim. “Whenever I think that my life has been in vain; when it seems empty, purposeless, and bare, I look at my little girl, remember what she was, and find content. I think that a great deal will be forgiven me, because I have done well with her.”
“I am so glad you told me,” continued Margaret, after a little.
“Her future has sorely troubled me. Of course I can make her comfortable, but moneyis not everything. I dread to have her go away from East Lancaster, andyet——”
“She never need go,” interrupted Margaret. “If, as you say, the house comes to me, there is no reason why she should. I would be so glad to have her with me!”
“Thank you, my dear! It was what I wanted, but I did not like to ask. Now my mind will be at rest.”
“It is little enough to do for you, leaving her out of the question. She might be a great deal less lovely than she is, and yet it would be a pleasure to do it for you.”
“She will repay you, I am sure,” said Aunt Peace. “Of course Lynn will marry sometime,”—here the mother’s heart stopped beating for an instant and went on unevenly,—“so you will be left alone. You cannot expect to keep him in a place like East Lancaster. He is—how old?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Then, in a few years more, he will leave you.” Aunt Peace was merely meditating aloud as she looked out of the window, and had no idea that she was hurting her listener. “Perhaps, after all, Iris will be my best bequest to you.”
“Iris may marry,” suggested Mrs. Irving, trying to smile.
“Iris,” repeated Aunt Peace, “no indeed! I have made her an old-fashioned spinster like myself. She has never thought of such things, and never will!”
(At the moment, Miss Temple was reading an anonymous letter, much worn, but, though walls have ears, they are happily blind, and Aunt Peace did not realise that she was nowhere near the mark.)
“Marriage is a negative relation,” continued Miss Field, with an air of knowledge. “People undertake it from an unpardonable individual curiosity. They see it all around them, and yet they rush in, blindly trusting that their own venture will turn out differently from every other. Someone once said that it was like a crowded church—those outside were endeavouring to get in, and those inside were making violent efforts to get out. Personally, I have had the better part of it. I have my home, my independence, and I have brought up a child. Moreover, I have not been annoyed with a husband.”
“Suppose one falls in love,” said Margaret, timidly.
“Love!” exclaimed Aunt Peace. “Stuff and nonsense!” She rose majestically, and went out with her head high and the step of a grenadier.
Left to herself, Margaret mentally reviewed their conversation, passing resolutely over the hurt that Aunt Peace had unconsciously made in her heart. Never before had it occurred to her that Lynn might marry. “He can’t,” she whispered; “why, he’s nothing but a child.”
She turned her thoughts to Iris and Aunt Peace. The homeless little savage had grown into a charming woman, under the patient care of the only mother she had ever known. If Aunt Peace should die—and if Lynn should marry,—she did not phrase the thought, but she was very conscious of its existence,—she and Iris might make a little home for themselves in the old house. Two men, even the best of friends, can never make a home, but two women, on speaking terms, may do so.
“If Lynn should marry!” Insistently, the torment of it returned. If he should fall in love, who was she to put a barrier in his path? His mother, whose heart had been hungry all these years, should she keep himback by so much as a word? Then, all at once, she knew that it was her own warped life which demanded it by way of compensation.
“No,” she breathed, with her lips white, “I will never stand in his way. Because I have suffered, he shall not.” Then she laughed hysterically. “How ridiculous I am!” she said to herself. “Why, he is nothing but a child!”
The mood passed, and the woman’s soul began to dwell upon its precious memories. Mnemosyne, that guardian angel, forever separates the wheat from the chaff, the joy from the pain. At the touch of her hallowed fingers, the heartache takes on a certain calmness, which is none the less beautiful because it is wholly made of tears.
Lynn’s violin was silent now, and softly, from the back of the house, the girl’s full contralto swelled into a song.
“The hours I spent with thee, Dear Heart,Are as a string of pearls to me;I count them over, every one apart—My rosary! My rosary!”
“The hours I spent with thee, Dear Heart,Are as a string of pearls to me;I count them over, every one apart—My rosary! My rosary!”
Iris sang because she was happy, but, none the less, the deep, vibrant voice had an undertoneof sadness—a world-old sorrow which, by right of inheritance, was hers.
Margaret’s thoughts went back to her own girlhood, when she was no older than the unseen singer. Love’s cup had been at her lips, then, and had been dashed away by a relentless hand.
“O memories that bless and burn!O barren pain and bitter loss!I kiss each bead and strive at last to learnTo kiss the cross—Sweetheart! To kiss the cross!”
“O memories that bless and burn!O barren pain and bitter loss!I kiss each bead and strive at last to learnTo kiss the cross—Sweetheart! To kiss the cross!”
“‘To kiss the cross,’” muttered Margaret, then the tears came in a blinding flood. “Mother! Mother!” she sobbed. “How could you!”
Insensibly, something was changed, and, for the first time, the woman who had gone to her grave unforgiven, seemed not entirely beyond the reach of pardon.
“Sweet Lady of my Dreams, it cannot be that you are displeased. If you were, I should know, but do not ask me how!“Day by day, my eyes long for the sight of you; night by night my heart remembers you, for that inner vision does not vanish with the sun. You have unconsciously given me a priceless gift, for wherever I may go, I take you with me—all the grace of you, all the beauty, and all the softness. I have only to close my eyes and then I see.“But do not think I keep your image always before me, for it is not so. In the work-a-day world, you have no place. You belong, rather, to those fair lands of fancy which lie just beyond the borders of this world and are, or so I think, very near the gleaming gates of Heaven.“I am not always at work, but sometimes, even when I am, you come tripping before my eyes, so dainty, so wholly exquisite, that I forget what I am doing, and then I must put you aside. But when the day is done, and the light of it shows only through the pinholes pricked in the curtain of night, then I can think of you, as radiant, as beautiful, and as far above me as those very stars.“All unknowingly, you are the light of my day. Whatever darkness might surround me, your eyes would make it noon. However steep and thorny my path, your hand in mine would make it a sunny meadow, swept by shadowy wings, where the white and crimson clover bloomed all day.“You give me life. You make the birds sing more sweetly for me; you make the roses more fragrant, the moonlight more like pearl. You have glorified the commonplace affairs of the day with your enchantment; you have put the joy of the gods into the heart of a man.“Do you wonder that, loving you like this, I do not make myself known? Sweetheart, it is because I fear. Already I have more than I deserve because you are not displeased withme, and since I wrote last I have made progress. Would it surprise you very much if I told you I knew where you lived?“I fancy I see you now, with the scarlet signals flaming on your cheeks, but, Iris, I shall never intrude. It is for you to say whether I shall love you in silence and afar, or face to face, as I dream that some day I may.“I want you, dear—I want you with all my heart. Of all the women in the world, you are the one God meant for me. Otherwise, why have I been so strangely led to you?“Since the first day I saw you, I have knelt at your feet. Not for one moment have I forgotten you, so flower-like, so womanly, so dear. So will it always be, whether I live or die. Even to my grave, I shall take the memory of you.“To-night my memories are few, but my dreams—they are so many that I could not begin to tell you all. But one of them you must know—that some day you will let me tell you how much I love you, and promise me that I may shield you all the rest of your life.
“
Sweet Lady of my Dreams, it cannot be that you are displeased. If you were, I should know, but do not ask me how!
“Day by day, my eyes long for the sight of you; night by night my heart remembers you, for that inner vision does not vanish with the sun. You have unconsciously given me a priceless gift, for wherever I may go, I take you with me—all the grace of you, all the beauty, and all the softness. I have only to close my eyes and then I see.
“But do not think I keep your image always before me, for it is not so. In the work-a-day world, you have no place. You belong, rather, to those fair lands of fancy which lie just beyond the borders of this world and are, or so I think, very near the gleaming gates of Heaven.
“I am not always at work, but sometimes, even when I am, you come tripping before my eyes, so dainty, so wholly exquisite, that I forget what I am doing, and then I must put you aside. But when the day is done, and the light of it shows only through the pinholes pricked in the curtain of night, then I can think of you, as radiant, as beautiful, and as far above me as those very stars.
“All unknowingly, you are the light of my day. Whatever darkness might surround me, your eyes would make it noon. However steep and thorny my path, your hand in mine would make it a sunny meadow, swept by shadowy wings, where the white and crimson clover bloomed all day.
“You give me life. You make the birds sing more sweetly for me; you make the roses more fragrant, the moonlight more like pearl. You have glorified the commonplace affairs of the day with your enchantment; you have put the joy of the gods into the heart of a man.
“Do you wonder that, loving you like this, I do not make myself known? Sweetheart, it is because I fear. Already I have more than I deserve because you are not displeased withme, and since I wrote last I have made progress. Would it surprise you very much if I told you I knew where you lived?
“I fancy I see you now, with the scarlet signals flaming on your cheeks, but, Iris, I shall never intrude. It is for you to say whether I shall love you in silence and afar, or face to face, as I dream that some day I may.
“I want you, dear—I want you with all my heart. Of all the women in the world, you are the one God meant for me. Otherwise, why have I been so strangely led to you?
“Since the first day I saw you, I have knelt at your feet. Not for one moment have I forgotten you, so flower-like, so womanly, so dear. So will it always be, whether I live or die. Even to my grave, I shall take the memory of you.
“To-night my memories are few, but my dreams—they are so many that I could not begin to tell you all. But one of them you must know—that some day you will let me tell you how much I love you, and promise me that I may shield you all the rest of your life.
“The wind should never make you cold, the sun should never shine too fiercely upon you, the storm should never beat against you, if I had my way.“Iris, may I come? Will you let me teach you to care? So sure am I of my love that I ask only for the chance to make you believe.“Put a flower on your gate-post when the moon rises to-night, if you are willing that I should come. Two flowers, if you are willing that I should come sometime, but not now. Then, when your name-flower embroiders the marshes, you will know who loves you—who worships you—who offers you his all.”
“The wind should never make you cold, the sun should never shine too fiercely upon you, the storm should never beat against you, if I had my way.
“Iris, may I come? Will you let me teach you to care? So sure am I of my love that I ask only for the chance to make you believe.
“Put a flower on your gate-post when the moon rises to-night, if you are willing that I should come. Two flowers, if you are willing that I should come sometime, but not now. Then, when your name-flower embroiders the marshes, you will know who loves you—who worships you—who offers you his all.”
That night, when the moon swung high in the heavens, Iris tiptoed out into the garden, with the letter—sentient, alive, and human—crushed close against her heart. So conscious was she of its presence that she felt it blazoned upon her breast for all the world to read.
Dew made the grass damp, but Iris did not care. Threads of silver light picked out a dainty tracery, and here and there set a dew-drop to gleaming like a diamond amongunnumbered pearls. Drowsy chirps came from the maples above her, where the little birds slept in their swaying nests and dreamed of wild flights at dawn. A great white moth brushed against her face, as softly as thistledown, and she laughed, because it was so like a kiss.
Down toward her corner of the garden she went, her dimity skirts daintily uplifted. The moonlight touched a cobweb woven across the rose-bush, and made a rainbow of it.
“A little lost rainbow,” thought Iris, “out alone in the night, like me!”
She stooped and gathered a sprig of mignonette, then a bit of rosemary from Mrs. Irving’s garden. “She won’t care,” said Iris, to herself; “she used to love somebody, long ago.”
She bound the two together with a blade of grass, and put the merest kiss between them, then impulsively wiped it away. But, after all, some trace of it must linger, and Iris did not intend to give too much, so she threw it aside, as it happened, into Lynn’s garden. Then she gathered another sprig of mignonette, another leaf of rosemary, bound them together, and held them very far away, out of reach of temptation.
Back toward the gate she went, her heart wildly beating against the imprisoned letter. She hesitated a moment in the shadow of the house. The great white moth had followed her and again touched her face caressingly. Suppose someone should see!
But there was no one in sight. “Anyhow,” thought Iris, “if one wishes to come out for a moment in the evening, to walk as far as the gate, it is all right. If there should be rosemary and mignonette on the gate-post in the morning, someone who was up very early might take it away before anybody had seen it. There would be no harm in leaving it there overnight, even though it isn’t quite orderly.”
She went bravely toward the gate, and the moonbeams made an aureole about her hair. The light of dreams, shining through the mist, transfigured her with silver sheen. The earth was exquisitely still, and the sound of her little feet upon the gravelled path echoed and re-echoed strangely.
Timidly, Iris put the rosemary and mignonette, bound together by a single blade of grass, first upon one gate-post and then upon the other. “Such a little bit!” she mused.“One couldn’t call it a flower!” Yes, mignonette was a flower, but rosemary? Surely, no!
She walked backward, slowly, toward the house, and to her conscious eyes, the tell-tale message dominated the landscape. The moonlight fairly made it shine. Almost at the steps, Iris was seized with panic. Then her light feet twinkled down the path, and frightened, trembling, and ashamed, she thrust the nosegay into the open throat of her gown.
“Oh,” murmured Iris, as she went hastily into the house, “what could I have been thinking of!”
But across the street, in the darkness of the shrubbery, Someone smiled.
“
To-night,” said Aunt Peace, “we will sit in the garden.”
It was Wednesday, and the rites in the house were somewhat relaxed, though Iris, from force of habit, polished the tall silver candlesticks until they shone like new. Miss Field herself made a pan of little cakes, sprinkled them with powdered sugar, and put them away. She was never lovelier than when at her dainty tasks in her spotless kitchen. By some alchemy of the spirit, she made the homely duties of the day into pleasures—simple ones, perhaps, but none the less genuine.
No one alluded to the fact that Doctor Brinkerhoff was coming. “Of course,” as Iris said to Lynn, “we don’t know that he is, but since he’s missed only one Wednesday in ten years, we may be pardoned for expecting him.”
“One might think so,” agreed Lynn, laughing. He took keen delight in the regular Wednesday evening comedy.
“We make the little cakes for tea,” continued Iris, her eyes dancing.
“But we never have ’em for tea,” Lynn objected, “and I wish you’d quit talking about ’em. It disturbs my peace of mind.”
“Pig!” exclaimed Iris. They were alone, and her face was dangerously near his. Her rosy lips were twitching in a most provoking way, and, immediately, there were Consequences.
She left the print of four firm fingers upon Lynn’s cheek, and he rubbed the injured place ruefully. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t kiss you,” he said.
“If you haven’t learned yet, I’ll slap you again.”
“No, you won’t; I’ll hold your hands next time.”
“There isn’t going to be any ‘next time.’ The idea!”
“Iris! Please don’t go away! Wait a minute—I want to talk to you.”
“It’s too bad it’s so one-sided,” remarked Iris, with a sidelong glance.
“Look here!”
“Well, I’m looking, but so much green—the grass—and the shrubbery, you know—and all—it’s hard on my eyes.”
“We’re cousins, aren’t we?”
Iris sat down on the bench beside him, evidently struck by a new idea. “I hadn’t thought of it,” she said conversationally. “Are we?”
“I think we are. Mother is Aunt Peace’s nephew, isn’t she?”
“Not that anybody knows of. A lady nephew is called a niece in East Lancaster.”
“Oh, well,” replied Lynn, colouring, “you know what I mean. Mother is Aunt Peace’s niece, isn’t she?”
“I hear so. A gentleman for whom I have much respect assures me of it.” The wicked light in her eyes belied her words, and Lynn wished that he had kissed her twice while he had the opportunity.
“It’s the truth,” he said. “And mother’s my mother.”
“Really?”
“So that makes me Aunt Peace’s nephew.”
“Grand-nephew,” corrected Iris, with double meaning.
“Thank you for the compliment. Perhaps I’m a nephew-once-removed.”
“I haven’t seen any signs of removal,” observed Iris, “but I’d love to.”
“Don’t be so frivolous! If I am Aunt Peace’s nephew, what relation am I to her daughter?”
“Legal daughter,” Iris suggested.
“Legal daughter is just as good as any other kind of a daughter. That makes me your cousin.”
“Legal cousin,” explained Iris, “but not moral.”
“It’s all the same, even in East Lancaster. I’m your legal cousin-once-removed.”
“Grand-legal-cousin-once-removed,” repeated Iris, parrot-like, with her eyes fixed upon a distant robin.
“That’s just the same as a plain cousin.”
“You’re plain enough to be a plain cousin,” she observed, and the colour deepened upon Lynn’s handsome face.
“So I’m going to kiss you again.”
“You’re not,” she said, with an air of finality. She flew into the house and took refuge beside Mrs. Irving.
“Mother,” cried Lynn, closely following, “isn’t Iris my cousin?”
“No, dear; she’s no relation at all.”
“So now!” exclaimed Iris, in triumph. “Grand-legal-cousin-once-removed, you will please make your escape immediately.”
“Little witch!” thought Lynn, as he went upstairs; “I’ll see that she doesn’t slap me next time.”
“Iris,” said Mrs. Irving, suddenly, “you are very beautiful.”
“Am I, really?” For a moment the girl’s deep eyes were filled with wonder, and then she smiled. “It is because you love me,” she said, dropping a tiny kiss upon Margaret’s white forehead; “and because I love you, I think you are beautiful, too.”
Alone in her room, Iris studied herself in her small mirror. It was just large enough to see one’s face in, for Aunt Peace did not believe in cultivating vanity—in others. In her own room was a long pier-glass, where a certain young person stole brief glimpses of herself.
“I’ll go in there,” she thought. “Aunt Peace is in the kitchen, and no one will know.”
She left the door open, that she might hear approaching footsteps, and was presently lost in contemplation. She turned her head this way and that, taking pleasure in the gleam of light upon the shining coils of her hair, and in the rosy tint of her cheeks. Just above the corner of her mouth, there was the merest dimple.
Iris smiled, and then poked an inquiring finger into it. “I didn’t know I had that,” she said to herself, in surprise. “I wonder why I couldn’t have a glass like this in my room? There’s one in the attic—I know there is,—and oh, how lovely it would be!”
“It’s where I kissed you,” said Lynn, from the doorway. “If you’ll keep still, I’ll make another one for you on the other side. You didn’t have that dimple yesterday.”
“Mr. Irving,” replied Iris, with icy calmness, “you will kindly let me pass.”
He stepped aside, half afraid of her in this new mood, and she went down the hall to her own room. She shut the door with unmistakable firmness, and Lynn sighed. “Happy mirror!” he thought. “She’s the prettiest thing that ever looked into it.”
But was she, after all? Since the greatmirror came over-seas, as part of the marriage portion of a bride, many young eyes had sought its shining surface and lingered upon the vision of their own loveliness. Many a woman, day by day, had watched herself grow old, and the mirror had seen tears because of it. The portraits in the hall and the old mirror had shared many a secret together. Happily, neither could betray the other’s confidence.
Iris, meanwhile, was finding such satisfaction as she might in the smaller glass, and meditating upon the desirability of the one in the attic. “I’ll ask Aunt Peace,” she thought, and knew, instantly, that she wouldn’t ask Aunt Peace for worlds.
“I’m vain,” she said to herself, reprovingly; “I’m a vain little thing, and I won’t look in the mirror any more, so there!”
She reviewed her humdrum round of daily duties with increasing pity for herself. Then, she had had only the books and the people who moved across their eloquent pages, but now? Surely, Cupid had come to East Lancaster.
Just think! Two letters, not so very far apart, from someone who worshipped her ata distance and was afraid to sign his name! And this very day, not more than an hour ago, she had been kissed. No man had ever kissed Iris before, not even a grand-legal-cousin-once-removed. Still, she rather wished it hadn’t happened, for she felt different, someway. It would have been better if the writer of the letters had done it. A romance like this set her far above the commonplace—she felt very much older than Lynn, and was inclined to patronise him. He was nothing but a boy, who chased one around the garden with worms and put grasshoppers in one’s hat. Yet one could pardon those things, when one was so undeniably popular.
After tea, they sat in the shadowy coolness of the parlour, waiting. The very air was expectant. Aunt Peace was beautiful in shimmering white, with the emerald gleaming at her throat. Mrs. Irving, as always, wore a black gown, and Iris had donned her best lavender muslin, in honour of the occasion.
“Why can’t we go outside?” asked Margaret.
“We can, my dear,” returned Aunt Peace,“but I was taught that it was better to wait in the house until after calling hours. Of course, there are few visitors in East Lancaster, but even on a desert island one must observe the proprieties, and a lady will always receive her guests in the house.”
While she was speaking, Doctor Brinkerhoff opened the gate. Miss Field affected not to see him, and waited until the maid ushered him in. “Good evening, Doctor,” she said, “I assure you this is quite a pleasure.”
His manner toward the others was gentle, and even courtly, but he distinguished Miss Field by elaborate deference. If he disagreed with her, it was with evident respect for her opinion, and upon all disputed points he seemed eager to be convinced.
“Shall we not go into the garden?” asked Aunt Peace, addressing them all. “We were just upon the point of going, Doctor, when you came.”
She led the way, with the Doctor beside her, attentive, gallant, and considerate. Margaret came next, with Miss Field’s white shawl. Behind were Lynn and Iris, laughing like children at some secret joke. By astrange coincidence, five chairs were arranged in a sociable group under the tall pine in a corner of the garden.
“Yes,” Miss Field was saying, “I think East Lancaster is most beautiful at this time of year. I have not travelled much, but I have seen pictures, and I am content with my own little corner of the world.”
“And yet, madam,” returned the Doctor, “you would so much enjoy travelling. It is too bad that you cannot go abroad.”
“Perhaps I may. I have not thought of it, but as you speak of it, it seems to me that it might be very pleasant to go.”
“Aunt Peace!” exclaimed Mrs. Irving. “What are you thinking of!”
“Not of my seventy-five years, my dear; you may be sure of that.”
“Why shouldn’t she go?” asked Lynn. “Aunt Peace could go anywhere and come back safely. Everybody she met would fall in love with her, and see that she was comfortable.”
“Quite right!” said the Doctor, with evident sincerity.
“Flatterers!” she laughed. “Fie upon you!” But there was a note of happy youthfulnessin the voice, and they knew that she was pleased.
“If you go, madam,” the Doctor continued, “it will be my pleasure to give you letters to friends of mine in Germany.”
“Thank you,” she returned, with a stately inclination of her head. “It would be very kind.”
“And,” he went on, “I have many books which would be of service to you. Shall I bring some of them, the next time I come?”
“I would not trouble you, Doctor, but sometime, if you happened to be passing.”
“Yes,” he answered, “when I happen to be passing. I shall not forget.”
“They might be interesting, if not of actual service. I am familiar with much that has been written of foreign lands. We haveMarco Polo’s Adventuresin our library.”
The Doctor coughed into his handkerchief. “The world has changed, dear madam, since Marco Polo travelled.”
“Yes,” she sighed, “it is always changing, and we older ones are left far behind.”
“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Lynn. “I’ll tell you what, Aunt Peace, you’re well up atthe head of the procession. You’re no farther behind than the drum-major is.”
“The drum-major, my dear? I do not understand. Is he a military gentleman?”
“He’s the boss of the whole shooting match,” explained Lynn, inelegantly. “He wears a bear-skin bonnet and tickles the music out of the band. If it weren’t for him, the whole show would go up in smoke.”
“Lynn!” said Margaret, reprovingly. “What language! Aunt Peace cannot understand you!”
“I’ll bet on Aunt Peace,” remarked Lynn, sagely.
“I fear I am not quite abreast of the times,” said the old lady. “Do you think, Doctor, that the world grows better, or worse?”
“Better, madam, steadily better. I can see it every day.”
“It is well for one to think so,” observed Margaret, “whatever the facts may be.”
Midsummer and moonlight made enchantment in the garden. Merlin himself could have done no more. The house, half hidden in the shadow, stood waiting, as it had done for two centuries, while those who belongedunder its roof made holiday outside. Most of them had gone forever, and only their portraits were left, but, replete with memories both happy and sad, the house could not be said to be alone.
The tall pine threw its gloom far beyond them, and the moonlight touched Aunt Peace caressingly. Her silvered hair gleamed with unearthly beauty and her serene eyes gave sweet significance to her name. All those she cared for were about her—daughter and friends.
“Nights like this,” said the Doctor, dreamily, “make one think of the old fairy tales. Elves and witches are not impossible, when the moon shines like this.”
Lynn looked across the garden to the rose-bush, where a cobweb, dew-impearled, had captured a bit of wandering rainbow. “They are far from impossible,” he answered. “I think they were here only the other night, for in the morning, when I went out to look at my vegetables, I found something queer among the leaves.”
“Something queer, my dear?” asked Aunt Peace, with interest. “What was it?”
“A leaf of rosemary and a sprig of mignonette,tied round with a blade of grass and wet with dew.”
“How strange,” said Margaret. “How could it have happened?”
“Rosemary,” said Aunt Peace, “that means remembrance, and the mignonette means the hope of love. A very pretty message for a fairy to leave among your vegetables.”
“Very pretty,” repeated the Doctor, nodding appreciation.
Iris feared they heard the loud beating of her heart. “What do you think?” asked Lynn, turning to her. “Was it a fairy?”
“Of course,” she returned, with assumed indifference. “Who else?”
There was silence then, and in the house the clock struck ten. They heard it plainly, and the Doctor, with a start of recollection, took out his huge silver watch.
“I had no idea it was so late,” he said. “I must go.”
“One moment, Doctor,” began Miss Field, putting out a restraining hand. “Let me offer you some refreshment before you start upon that long walk. Iris?”
“Yes, Aunt Peace.”
“Those little cakes that we had for tea—theremay be one or two left—and is there not a little wine?”
“I’ll see.”
Lynn followed her, and presently they came back, with the Royal Worcester plate piled generously with cakes, and a decanter of the port that was famous throughout East Lancaster.
With a smile upon her lips, the old lady leaned forward, into the moonlight, glass in hand. The brim of another touched it and the clear ring of crystal seemed carried afar into the night.
“To your good health, madam.”
“And to your prosperity.”
“This has been very charming,” said the Doctor, as he brushed away the crumbs, “and now, my dear Miss Iris, may we not hope for a song?”
“Which one?”
“‘Annie Laurie,’ if you please.”
Iris went in, and Margaret made a move to follow her. “Don’t go, mother,” said Lynn, “let’s stay here.”
“I’m afraid Aunt Peace will take cold.”
“No, dearie, I have my shawl. Let me be young again, just for to-night, with no fearof draughts or colds. Midsummer has never hurt anyone, and, as Doctor Brinkerhoff says, the good fairies are abroad to-night.”
The old-fashioned ballad took on new beauty and meaning. Mellowed by the distance, the girl’s deep contralto was surpassingly tender and sweet. When she came out, the others were silent, with the spell of her song still upon them.
“A good voice,” said Lynn, half to himself. “She should study.”
“Iris has had lessons,” returned Aunt Peace, with gentle dignity, “and her voice pleases her friends. What is there beyond that?”
“Fame,” said Lynn.
“Fame is the love of the many,” Aunt Peace rejoined, “and counts for no more than the love of the few. The great ones have said it was barren, and my little girl will be better off here.”
As she spoke, she put her arm around Iris, and they went to the house together. At the steps, there was a pause, and Doctor Brinkerhoff said good night.
“It has been perfect,” said Miss Field, as she gave him her hand. “If this were to be my last night on earth, I could not askfor more—my beautiful garden, with the moonlight shining upon it, music, and my best friends.”
The Doctor was touched, and bent low over her hand, pressing it ever so lightly with his lips. “I thank you, dear madam,” he answered, gently, “for the happiest evening I have ever spent.”
“Come again, then,” she said, graciously, with a happy little laugh. “The years stretch fair before us, when one is but seventy-five!”
That night, just at the turn of dawn, Margaret was awakened by a hot hand upon her face. “Dearie,” said Aunt Peace, weakly, “will you come? I’m almost burning up with fever.”