THE LILAC LADY'S MESSAGE
Mercifully, Peace slept long the next morning, and it was not until the
sun was high in the sky that she opened her eyes to her surroundings.
Then it was with a heavy sense of something wrong, and she stared
uneasily about her, trying to remember what was the trouble.
"I feel as if I'd done something bad," she said half aloud, "but I can't
think of a thing."
The sound of Allee's footsteps creeping softly along the hall and a
glimpse of an awed, tear-stained face peering at her from the doorway
suddenly recalled to her mind the scene of yesterday, and the bitter
truth rushed over her with agonizing keenness. She could never walk
again! All her days must be spent in a wheel-chair, a helpless prisoner!
The Lilac Lady was right,--she wanted to turn her face to the wall, to
say good-bye to her friends and hide,--hide from the world and
everything!
"Peace," whispered a timid voice from the doorway, where Allee had
paused, uncertain whether to stay or to depart.
The invalid stiffened.
"Peace, are you awake?" persisted the pleading voice, for the brown eyes
stared unblinkingly straight ahead of her, and not a muscle of her
tense body moved. "May I come in and sit beside you?"
"No!" screamed Peace in sudden frenzy, almost paralyzing the little
petitioner on the threshold. "_Go away!_ You can walk and run and jump,
and I never can again. You've got two whole legs to amuse yourself with
and mine are no good. Get out of here! I don't want to see anyone with
legs today--or tomorrow--or ever again!" Jerking the pillow slip over
her eyes she sobbed convulsively, and Allee, with one terrified look at
the quivering heap under the bed-clothes, rushed pellmell from the room,
blinded by scalding tears.
Peace had sent her away! Peace did not want her,--would not have her any
more! It was the greatest catastrophe of her short life to be banished
by Peace; and stumbling with unseeing eyes down the hall, she ran
headlong into the arms of someone just coming up the stairs.
"Why--" began a husky, rumbling voice, and Allee, thinking it was the
President on his way to the sick-room, sobbed out, "O, Grandpa, she sent
me away! She says she never wants to see a pair of good legs again. You
better--"
"It's not Grandpa, little one," interrupted the other voice. "It's
I,--St. John. Do you think she will let me in? Because I have come
especially to see her."
But a sharp, imperative voice from the Flag Room answered them. "Come
back, Allee, I'm sorry I don't like the looks of legs today, but I want
you just the same,--legs and all."
For an instant Allee looked unbelievingly up into Mr. Strong's eyes, as
if doubtful that she had heard aright; then as the minister gave her a
gentle push toward the door, she bounded lightly away, and when the Hill
Street pastor reached the threshold the two sisters were locked fast in
each other's arms.
All at once, through the tangle of Allee's curls, the brown eyes spied
the form of her beloved friend hesitating in the doorway; but instead of
looking surprised at his presence, Peace pushed the little sister from
her and demanded fiercely, as if his being there were the most natural
thing in the world, "Make faces at me, St. John,--the very worst you
know how."
"Why, my dear--" stammered the young minister, as much amazed at his
reception as he could have been had she dashed a cup of water in his
face. "Why, Peace, I don't believe--"
"Of course you know how to make faces!" she interrupted scornfully. "Do
you s'pose I've forgotten that day in Parker down by the barn? Make some
now,--the most _hijious_ ones you can think of."
There was nothing to do but to comply with her strange whim; so,
rumpling up his thick, shining black hair, he proceeded to distort his
comely features into the most surprising contortions imaginable. But
with the heavy ache in his heart and a growing lump in his throat at the
pitifulness of her plight, he was not real successful in diverting her
unhappy thoughts, and with a mournful wail of woe she burst into tears.
"My child!" he cried contritely, and in an instant his strong arms
closed about the huddled figure, and he held her fast, crooning softly
in her ear as a mother might over her babe, until at length the
convulsive gasps eased, grew less frequent, and finally ceased.
There was a long-drawn, quivering sigh, a last gulp or two and Peace
hiccoughed, "It's no use, St. John. I can't coax up a ghost of a smile
from anywhere. I've _thunk_ of all the funniest things that ever
happened to me or anyone else; I've scratched my brains to 'member the
funny stories I s'lected for Sadie Wenzell's bunch of scrapbooks; I've
even pretended the funniest things I could imagine, but it won't work. I
knew if there was a sign of a laugh left inside of me, your horrible
faces would bring it out. It did in Parker, when I thought I never could
smile again. But this time--get your legs out of sight,--under the
bed,--anywhere so's I can't see them. I don't like their looks!"
Had the situation been less tragic, he could not have refrained from
laughing at the ludicrous way she bristled up and snapped out her
command; but mindful only of the great trouble which had suddenly
overshadowed the young life, he hastily tucked his long limbs out of
sight under the edge of the bed, slumped as far down in his chair as he
possibly could, and fell to energetically stroking the brown curls
tumbled about the hot, flushed face, as he vainly tried to think of some
comforting words with which to soothe the rebellious, sorrowful child.
From below came the sound of a voice singing softly, and though the
words were indistinguishable, the three occupants of the Flag Room
caught snatches of the tune Peace loved so well, the Gleaners' Motto
Song. Recalling the days when the brown-eyed child had made the little
Hill Street parsonage ring with this very melody, the preacher
unconsciously began to chant,
"'When the days are gloomy,
Sing some happy song,
Meet the world's repining
With a courage strong;
Go with faith undaunted
Through the ills of life,
Scatter smiles and sunshine
O'er its toil and strife.'"
"Well, don't it beat all?" exclaimed Peace wearily.
"Doesn't what beat all?" mildly inquired the pastor, as she made no
effort to explain her words.
"How some folks will wear a tune to a frazzle," was the disconcerting
reply. "There's Faith, now, she hasn't played anything for days 'xcept
'_Carve-a-leery-rusty-canner_!' And when it ain't that it's '_Nose-arts
Snorter_,' or those wretched _archipelagoes_. I'm so sick of 'em all
that I could shout when she touches the piano. As for that song you
were just droning,--why, everyone in this house seems to think it's the
only thing going. There is nothing left of it now but tatters."
The preacher had abruptly ceased his humming, and as Allee crept quietly
from the room to hush the singer below, he suddenly remembered a
commission given him by his wife; and fumbling in his pocket, he drew
out a small book, daintily bound in white and gold. "Elspeth sent you
this booklet, dear," he ventured, somewhat timidly, for after two such
rebuffs as he had received in his endeavor to cheer the sufferer, he was
at a loss to know what to say or do next. "She could not come today
herself, but she thought this little story might please you."
"Thanks," replied Peace, dropping the volume on the pillow without a
spark of interest in face or voice. "I'd rather have seen her. She has
got some sense. Books haven't. I've been stuffed so full of stories, I
am ready to bu'st." Then, as if fearing that she had been rude to this
dearest of friends, she added hastily, "But I s'pose there is room for
one more. It must be good or Elspeth wouldn't have sent it. What is it
about?"
"It's the story of a little girl named Gwen, who fell from--"
Peace stopped him with a peremptory wave of her hand. "That will do for
the present," she said coldly, in such exact imitation of Miss Phelps
that no one who had ever met the teacher could possibly mistake her
tone. "I don't like the name. It sounds like 'grin'."
The minister rubbed his head in perplexity. Never in all his
acquaintance with Peace had he seen her in such a mood. Was this child
among the pillows really Peace, the sunbeam of this home, the sunbeam of
every home she chanced to enter? Poor little girl! What a pity such a
terrible misfortune should have befallen her! She stirred uneasily, and
he hurriedly asked, "Would you rather I should go away and leave you
alone?"
"No! O, no!" She clutched one big hand closer with both of hers, and a
look of alarm leaped into her eyes, so heavy with weeping. "It's
easier--the pain here," laying one thin hand over her heart, "it's
easier with you here. I wish you had brought Elspeth."
"She will come some other day," he answered gently, glad to see a more
natural expression creep over the white face, though his heart ached at
the sorrowful tone of her voice. "What would you like to have me do?
Talk?"
"Yes, if you've anything int'resting to say," she murmured drowsily.
"And if not?" For he saw that it would be only a matter of minutes
before she would be in the Land of Nod again.
"Then just hold me. I'm tired," she answered wearily.
So he sat and held her on her pillows until her regular breathing told
him that she was fast asleep, when, laying her back upon the bed, he
left her with a heavy heart.
"I never dreamed that a child so young could take it so hard," he
confided to his wife in troubled tones when he had told her the whole
sad story. "She seems to have grown old in a night."
"Poor little birdie," Elizabeth tenderly murmured, stroking the dark
hair from her sleeping son's forehead as she laid him in his crib for
his nap. "Why did they tell her so soon? The family themselves haven't
grown accustomed to the meaning of it yet."
"No one knows how she learned it, Elspeth. She was asleep under the
trees when the President came home with the sad news. He had been to
consult that famous specialist about the child's condition when the
surgeon told him that the case was hopeless, so far as her walking again
is concerned. He was so unmanned by the verdict that he blurted it out
to Mrs. Campbell immediately upon his return home, and the girls
overheard it. But Peace was out-of-doors all the while. She didn't waken
for dinner; but when everyone was in bed, Mrs. Campbell heard her
crying, and went to discover what was the matter. They are terribly
broken up about the whole affair. It seems wicked to say so, but had the
accident happened to any other of the sisters, it would not have seemed
so dreadful. What is _Peace_ ever going to do without those nimble,
dancing feet?"
"Our Peace will surprise us yet," prophesied the little wife hopefully.
"This experience won't down her, hard as it seems now, if she is made of
the stuff I think she is."
But as the days rolled by in that afflicted household, it really seemed
as if they had lost their engaging, winsome little Peace for all time,
so changed did the invalid grow. Nothing suited her, everything annoyed.
The girls talked too much or were too silent; the servants were too
noisy or too obviously quiet; the President's shoes clumped and his
slippers squeaked; Mrs. Campbell always pulled the curtains too low or
not low enough. The dogs' barking fretted her, the singing of the canary
made her peevish, even the cat's purring brought forth a protest; but as
soon as the unreasonable patient discovered that all the pets had been
banished on her account, she demanded them back. However, the
long-suffering members of the family could not find it in their hearts
to chide, and they redoubled their efforts to make their little favorite
forget. Those were gloomy days in the Campbell household, for they sadly
missed the merry laughter, the gay whistle, the unexpected pranks and
frank speeches of this child of the sunshine and out-of-doors. At first
they had tried to be cheerful and full of fun in the sick-room, hoping
to win back the merry smile to the white lips; but Peace resented this
attitude, and straightway they ceased their songs and laughter, only to
have her demand them again. Unhappy, capricious Peace!
"Why don't you play on the piano any more?" she inquired of Faith one
afternoon, when it was that sister's turn to amuse the invalid for an
hour or two.
"Do you want me to?" cried Faith eagerly, for her fingers were just
itching to glide over the ivory keys.
"Of course,--s'posing you play something pretty."
So Faith took her place at her beloved instrument and dashed into a
brilliant, rattling jig which had always been a favorite of the
brown-haired sister.
But she had played scarcely a dozen measures when a shrill, imperious
voice from above shrieked, "Don't play that! O, stop, stop! Can't you
see it's got _legs_?"
"Legs?" wondered Faith, her hands poised in mid air, so abruptly had she
ceased her playing.
"There's a million pair of legs to that tune and every one of 'em can
dance. Play something without legs."
The utter ridiculousness of the complaint did not occur to Faith, but
with an unusual display of patience, she tried air after air, hoping to
find something which might satisfy the childish whim of the lame sister,
only to be rewarded at last by a peevish call, "You may as well give it
up, Faith. They've _all_ got legs."
The entire family was at their wits' end. No one had a sane suggestion
to offer, and their hosts of friends were in the same predicament. When
it seemed as if something must surely give way under the strain, Peace
suddenly subsided into a state of utter indifference to her
surroundings, more alarming to her loved ones than had been her peevish,
unreasonable demands. Nothing interested her, books she loathed,
conversation bored her, neighborly calls from her dearest friends
wearied her, she no longer yearned for the sunshine and flowers of the
garden; indeed, she showed no desire to be out-of-doors at all, but lay
day after day in the wheel-chair by the balcony window, staring with
somber, unseeing eyes out over the river. Nothing family or friends
could do roused her from her apathy, and despair descended upon the
household. Must this little life which they loved so dearly fade away
before their eyes, and they helpless to prevent?
"O, Donald," sobbed Mrs. Campbell, clinging desperately to her husband's
strong arm, "I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it! She takes it so hard!
It is torture to watch her suffer so. Our precious Peace!"
"If only her St. Elizabeth could come to her!" sighed the baffled
President.
But it was not her beloved saint of the parsonage who saved the day. It
was her Lilac Lady, now sleeping under the sod of the wind-kissed
hillside, and Aunt Pen was her messenger.
It was a breathless, sultry afternoon in late summer when the
sweet-faced matron of Oak Knoll turned in at the President's gate and
sought out the invalid lying motionless under the oak trees where the
fierce heat had driven her. The little face among the pillows was no
longer rosy and round; blue veins showed at the temples, the lips were
colorless, the eyes hollow; the hands, once so brown and strong, were
thin and waxy-white; the whole body lay inert,--lifeless, it seemed; and
a pang of fear gripped the gentle heart brooding so tenderly over the
poor wrecked life.
"Are you asleep, darling?" she whispered softly, touching with light
fingers the clustering rings of dark brown which covered the shapely
head.
The mournful eyes opened dully, and Peace murmured parrot fashion, "Good
afternoon, Aunt Pen. I hope you keep well these hot days. You must take
care of yourself, you know."
Secretly amazed, the woman merely stooped and kissed the white face, as
she settled herself comfortably in a nearby chair and cheerily answered,
"Yes, I am well, dear, and all the little birdlings are, too. I intended
to bring Giuseppe and his violin this afternoon, but--"
"It's just as well you didn't," interrupted the other voice in lifeless
tones. "Prob'ly _his_ music has legs, too, and I haven't any use for
such things these days."
"But he had promised to play for a dear old lady at the Home," continued
Aunt Pen, as if she had not noticed the interruption. "So I brought
you--"
"Some more magazines," again broke in Peace, perceiving the gay covers
in the woman's hand.
"That was very kind of you I'm sure, but I have a whole libr'y at
my--at my _de_-mand. So you put yourself to a lot of trouble all for
nothing."
"This is a different kind of magazine from any you have," replied the
woman soberly, though sorely tempted to smile at the stilted, unnatural
tones of her little favorite.
"Is it?" Just a spark of interest flickered in the somber eyes. "Why, I
thought I had the whole c'lection already. Folks seem to think I don't
want to do anything but read, and they keep the house pretty well filled
up with magazines, old and new. Last week I had Allee telephone to the
Salvation Army to come and get them. But it didn't do any good,--we've
had as many more brought in since."
"This is the one your Lilac Lady was reading when she--fell asleep,"
said Aunt Pen gently, a little catch in her voice as she thought of
Peace, doomed to spend the rest of her days in a wheel-chair, just as
that other girl, the Lilac Lady, had done.
"Oh! And you brought it to me! I sh'd think you would want to keep it
yourself."
"I did, dearie. I laid it away among my treasures, but today I chanced
upon it, and in turning the pages, I caught a glimpse of a slip of paper
written on, in her handwriting. I had not examined the book since the
day I picked it up from the floor beside her chair; but this morning I
drew out the scrap she had written and found a little message for you--"
"For me?" Incredulous surprise animated the white face.
"Yes, dear. Some verses she had written that last hour,--not even
complete. I know she intended them for you. Perhaps she felt that she
would be--asleep--before you came, so she wrote a little message for
you, Peace, but I never found it until today. Would you care to have me
read it to you?"
"Let me read it, please." Peace snatched the paper eagerly and with
jealous eyes scanned the simple stanzas penned so many months ago for
just that very moment.
"Up the garden pathway,
Light as the morning air,
Singing and laughing gayly,
A child with face so fair
Dances with arms outreaching,
Her eyes ashine with glee,
Nor pauses until she reaches
The chair 'neath the old oak tree,
Where, chained by mortal weaknesses,
I lie from day to day
Waiting my darling's coming.--
Ah! could I keep her alway!--
Child of flowers and sunshine,
Child of laughter and love,
Peace,--a God-given blessing,
Straight from the heavens above,
Bringing the breath of the woodland,
The perfume of sun-kissed flowers,
The freshness of vagrant breezes,
The sweetness of cooling showers;
Bringing the thrilling music
Of skylarks and forest birds,
Heart-healing, soul-cheering measures,
Wondrous songs without words.
Peace,--oh, how can I tell it?--
The marvelous peace you have brought,
The wonderful lessons of living
Your generous spirit has taught,
Easing the burden of sorrow,
Soothing the sharp sting of pain,
Bringing fresh aspirations,--
My Peace gives me _hope_ again!"
Once, twice, three times she read the lines. Then turning puzzled,
wondering eyes upon Aunt Pen, she whispered eagerly, "What does it all
mean, please? Did she really feel that way, Aunt Pen? Did I scatter
sunshine after all? Was she happier when I was with her? O, did I--make
her--forget?"
"More than you will ever know," answered the woman warmly, squeezing the
thin fingers lying across her knee. "You brought back the sunshine she
thought had gone out of her life forever. You gave her something to live
for, something to do, made life seem worth while. O, my little Peace,
it is just as the poem tells you,--you gave her _hope_!"
For a long time the child lay lost in thought, and only the faint
rustling of the leaves overhead broke the stillness. Then she said
sadly, glancing down at the useless feet in their gay slippers, "But I
had my legs _then_."
"You have your smile now. A happy heart is worth more than a dozen pair
of legs, dear. It was your merry voice, your gay laughter, your joyous
nature that cheered your Lilac Lady. Surely you didn't lose all those
when you lost the use of your feet!"
Peace smiled ruefully. "You'd have thought so if you had lived with me
since I got hurt," she confessed.
"I don't believe it," Aunt Pen vigorously contradicted. "Our real Peace,
our little sunbeam has just been hiding under a dark cloud all this
while. She is coming back to us her own gay self some day,--soon, we
hope."
"Do you b'lieve that?" Peace eagerly demanded.
"I know it," the woman answered with conviction.
"But s'posing I have really forgotten how to laugh and--and whistle, and
be nice?"
"Pshaw! As if you could have forgotten all that, dear! But even then, it
is never too late to learn, you know."
"That's so. And maybe after a bit it would be easier. I--guess
I'll--try to learn--again, Aunt Pen. May I keep this little poem so's I
won't forget any more? It's really mine, for she wrote it for me, didn't
she?"
"Yes, indeed, darling. That's your message. You helped your Lilac Lady,
and now she is going to help you."