On Wednesday, the dullest person might have felt that there was
something in the air. The old house, already exquisitely clean, received
further polishing without protest. Savoury odours came from the kitchen,
and Iris rubbed the tall silver candlesticks until they shone like new.
"What is it?" asked Lynn. "Are we going to have a party and am I
invited?"
"It is Wednesday," explained Iris.
"Well, what of it?"
"Doctor Brinkerhoff comes to see Aunt Peace every Wednesday evening."
"Who is Doctor Brinkerhoff?"
"The family physician of East Lancaster."
"He wasn't here last Wednesday."
"That was because you and your mother had just come. Aunt Peace sent him
a note, saying that her attention was for the moment occupied by other
guests from out of town. It was the first Wednesday evening he has
missed for more than ten years."
"Oh," said Lynn. "Are they going to be married?"
"Aunt Peace wouldn't marry anybody. She receives Doctor Brinkerhoff
because she is sorry for him.
"He has no social position," Iris continued, feeling the unspoken
question. "He is not of our class and he used to live in West Lancaster,
but Aunt Peace says that any gentleman who is received by a lady in her
bedroom may also be received in her parlour. Another lady, who thinks as
Aunt Peace does, entertains him on Saturday evenings."
Iris sat there demurely, her rosy lips primly pursed, and vigorously
rubbed the tall candlestick. Lynn fairly choked with laughter. "Oh," he
cried, "you funny little thing!"
"I am not a little thing and I am not funny. I consider you very
impertinent."
"What is 'social position'?" asked Irving, instantly sobering. "How do
we get it?"
"It is born with us," answered Iris, dipping her flannel cloth in
ammonia, "and we have to live up to it. If we have low tastes, we lose
it, and it never comes back."
"Wonder if I have it," mused Lynn.
"Of course," Iris assured him. "You are a grand-nephew of Aunt Peace,
but not so nearly related as I, because I am her legal daughter. I was
born of poor but honest parents," she went on, having evidently absorbed
the phrase from her school Reader, "so I was respectable, even at the
beginning. When Aunt Peace took me, I got social position, and if I am
always a lady, I will keep it. Otherwise not."
The girl was very lovely as she leaned back in the quaint old chair to
rest for a moment. She was still regarding the candlestick attentively
and did not look at Lynn. "It is strange to me," she said, "that coming
from the city, as you do, you should not know about such things." Here
she sent him the quickest possible glance from a pair of inscrutable
eyes, and he began to wonder if she were not merely amusing herself. He
was tempted to kiss her, but wisely refrained.
"Iris," called Aunt Peace, from the doorway, "will you wash the Royal
Worcester plate? And Lynn, it is time you were practising."
Lynn worked hard until the bell rang for luncheon. When he went down, he
found the others already at the table. "We did not wait for you," Aunt
Peace explained, "because we were in a hurry. Immediately after
luncheon, on Wednesdays, I take my nap. I sleep from two to three. Will
you please see that the house is quiet?"
She spoke to Margaret, but she looked at Lynn. "Which means," said he,
"that those who are studying the violin will kindly not practise until
after three o'clock, and that it would be considered a kindness if they
would not walk much in the house, their feet being heavy."
"Lynn," said the old lady, irrelevantly, "you are extremely intelligent.
I expect great things of you."
That weekly hour of luxury was the only relaxation in Miss Field's busy,
happy life. Breakfast at seven and bed at ten--this was the ironclad
rule of the house. Ever since she came to East Lancaster, Iris had kept
solemn guard over the front door on Wednesdays, from two to three. Rash
visitors never reached the bell, but were met, on the doorstep, by a
little maid whose tiny finger rested upon her lip. "Hush," she would
say, "Aunt Peace is asleep!" Interruptions were infrequent, however, for
East Lancaster knew Miss Field's habits--and respected them.
"Good-bye, my dears," she said, as she paused at the foot of the winding
stairs, "I leave you for a far country, where, perhaps, I shall meet
some of my old friends. I shall visit strange lands and have many new
experiences, some of which will doubtless be impossible and grotesque. I
shall be gone but one short hour, and when I return I shall have much to
tell you."
"She dreams," explained Iris, in a low voice, as the mistress of the
mansion smiled back at them over the railing, "and when she wakes she
always tells me."
Lynn went out for a long tramp, after vainly endeavouring to persuade
his mother or Iris to accompany him. "I'm walked enough at night as it
is," said Mrs. Irving, and the girl excused herself on account of her
household duties.
He clattered down the steps, banged the gate, and went whistling down
the elm-bordered path. The mother listened, fondly, till the cheery
notes died away in the distance. "Bless his heart," she said to herself,
"how fine and strong he is and how much I love him!"
The house seemed to wait while its guardian spirit slept. Left to
herself, Margaret paced to and fro; down the long hall, then back,
through the parlour and library, and so on, restlessly, until she
reflected that she might possibly disturb Aunt Peace.
A love-lorn robin, in the overhanging boughs of the maple at the gate,
was unsuccessfully courting a disdainful lady who sat on the topmost
twig and paid no attention to him. From the distant orchard came the
breath of apple blooms, and a single bluebird winged his solitary way
across the fields, his colour gleaming brightly for an instant against
the silvery clouds. Beautiful as it was, Margaret sighed, and her face
lost its serenity.
A bit of verse sang itself through her memory again and again.
"Who wins his love shall lose her,
Who loses her shall gain,
For still the spirit wooes her,
A soul without a stain,
And memory still pursues her
With longings not in vain.
* * *
"In dreams she grows not older
The lands of Dream among;
Though all the world wax colder,
Though all the songs be sung,
In dreams doth he behold her--
Still fair and kind and young."
"Dreams," she murmured, "empty dreams, while your soul starves."
Iris tiptoed in with her sewing and sat down. Margaret felt her presence
in the room, but did not turn away from the window. Iris was one of
those rare people with whom one could be silent and not feel that the
proprieties had been injured.
Deep down in her heart, Margaret had stored away all the bitterness of
her life--that single drop which is well enough when left by itself,
because it is of a different specific gravity. When the cup is stirred,
the lees taint the whole, and it takes time for the readjustment. Were
it not for the merciful readjustment, this grey old world of ours would
be too dark to live in.
At length she turned and looked at the little seamstress, who sat bolt
upright, as she had been taught, in the carved mahogany chair. She
noted the long lashes that swept the tinted cheek, the masses of
blue-black hair over the low, white brow, the tender wistfulness in the
lines of the mouth, the dimpled hands, and the rounded arm--so evidently
made for all the sweet uses of love that Margaret's heart contracted in
sudden pain.
"Iris," she said, in a tone that startled the girl, "when the right man
comes, and you know absolutely in your own heart that he is the right
man, go with him, whether he be prince or beggar. If unhappiness comes
to you, take it bravely, as a gentlewoman should, but never, for your
own sake, allow yourself to regret your faith in him. If you love him
and he loves you, there are no barriers between you--they are nothing
but cobwebs. Sweep them aside with a single stroke of magnificent
daring, and go. Social position counts for nothing, other people's
opinions count for nothing; it is between your heart and his, and in
that sanctuary no one else has a right to intrude. If he has only a
crust to give you, share it with him, but do not let anyone persuade you
into a lifetime of heart-hunger--it is too hard to bear!"
The girl's deep eyes were fixed upon her, childish, appealing, and yet
with evident understanding. Margaret's face was full of tender pity--was
this butterfly, too, destined to be broken on the wheel?
Iris felt the sudden passion of the other, saw traces of suffering in
the dark eyes, the set lips, and even in the slender hands that hovered
whitely over the black gown. "Thank you, Mrs. Irving," she said,
quietly, "I understand."
The minutes ticked by, and no other word was spoken. At half-past three,
precisely, Aunt Peace came back. She had on her best gown--a soft, heavy
black silk, simply made. At the neck and wrists were bits of rare old
lace, and her one jewel, an emerald of great beauty and value, gleamed
at her throat. She wore no rings except the worn band of gold that had
been her mother's wedding ring.
"What did you dream?" asked Iris.
"Nothing, dearie," she laughed. "I have never slept so soundly before.
Our guests have put a charm upon the house."
From the embroidered work-bag that dangled at her side, she took out the
thread lace she was making, and began to count her stitches.
"I think I'll get my sewing, too," said Margaret. "I feel like a drone
in this hive of industry."
"One, two, three, chain," said Aunt Peace. "Iris, do you think the cakes
are as good as they were last time?"
"I think they're even better."
"Did you take out the oldest port?"
"Yes, the very oldest."
"I trust he was not hurt," Aunt Peace went on, "because last week I
asked him not to come. The common people sometimes feel those things
more keenly than aristocrats, who are accustomed to the disturbance of
guests."
"Of course, he would be disappointed," said Iris, with a little smile,
"but he would understand--I'm sure he would."
When Margaret came back she had a white, fluffy garment over her arm.
"Who would have thought," she cried, gaily, "that I should ever have the
time to make myself a petticoat by hand! The atmosphere of East
Lancaster has wrought a wondrous change in me."
"Iris," said Miss Field, "let me see your stitches."
The girl held up her petticoat--a dainty garment of finest cambric,
lace-trimmed and exquisitely made, and the old lady examined it
critically. "It is not what I could do at your age," she continued, "but
it will answer very well."
Lynn came in noisily, remembering only at the threshold that one did not
whistle in East Lancaster houses. "I had a fine tramp," he said, "all
over West Lancaster and through the woods on both sides of it. I had
some flowers for all of you, but I laid them down on a stone and forgot
to go back after them. Aunt Peace, you're looking fine since you had
your nap. Still working at that petticoat, mother?"
"We're all making petticoats," answered Margaret. "Even Aunt Peace is
knitting lace for one and Iris has hers almost done."
"Let me see it," said Lynn. He reached over and took it out of the
girl's lap while she was threading her needle. Much to his surprise, it
was immediately snatched away from him. Iris paused only long enough to
administer a sounding box to the offender's ear, then marched out of the
room with her head high and her work under her arm.
"Well, of all things," said Lynn, ruefully. "Why wouldn't she let me
look at her petticoat?"
"Because," answered Aunt Peace, severely, "Iris has been brought up like
a lady! Gentlemen did not expect to see ladies' petticoats when I was
young!"
"Oh," said Lynn, "I see." His mouth twitched and he glanced sideways at
his mother. She was bending over her work, and her lips did not move,
but he could see that her eyes smiled.
* * * * *
At exactly half-past seven, the expected guest was ushered into the
parlour. "Good evening, Doctor," said Miss Field, in her stately way; "I
assure you this is quite a pleasure." She presented him to Mrs. Irving
and Lynn, and motioned him to an easy-chair.
He was tall, straight, and seventy; almost painfully neat, and evidently
a gentleman of the old school.
"I trust you are well, madam?"
"I am always well," returned Aunt Peace. "If all the other old ladies in
East Lancaster were as well as I, you would soon be obliged to take down
your sign and seek another location."
The others took but small part in the conversation, which was never
lively, and which, indeed, might have been stilted by the presence of
strangers. It was the commonplace talk of little things, which
distinguishes the country town, and it lasted for half an hour. As the
clock chimed eight, Miss Field smiled at him significantly.
"Shall we play chess?" she asked.
"If the others will excuse us, I shall be charmed," he responded.
Soon they were deep in their game. Margaret went after a book she had
been reading, and the young people went to the library, where they could
talk undisturbed.
They played three games. Miss Field won the first and third, her
antagonist contenting himself with the second. It had always been so,
and for ten years she had taken a childish delight in her skill. "My
dear Doctor," she often said, "it takes a woman of brains to play
chess."
"It does, indeed," he invariably answered, with an air of gallantry.
Once he had been indiscreet and had won all three games, but that was in
the beginning and it had never happened since.
When the clock struck ten, he looked at his heavy, old-fashioned silver
watch with apparent surprise. "I had no idea it was so late," he said.
"I must be going!"
"Pray wait a moment, Doctor. Let me offer you some refreshment before
you begin that long walk. Iris?"
"Yes, Aunt Peace." The girl knew very well what was expected of her, and
dimples came and went around the corners of her mouth.
"Those little cakes that we had for tea--perhaps there may be one or two
left, and is there not a little wine?"
"I'll see."
Smiling at the pretty comedy, she went out into the kitchen, where
Doctor Brinkerhoff's favourite cakes, freshly made, had been carefully
put away. Only one of them had been touched, and that merely to make
sure of the quality.
With the Royal Worcester plate, generously piled with cakes, a tray of
glasses, and a decanter of Miss Field's famous port, she went back into
the parlour.
"This is very charming," said the Doctor. He had made the same speech
once a week for ten years. Aunt Peace filled the glasses, and when all
had been served, she looked at him with a rare smile upon her beautiful
old face.
Then the brim of his glass touched hers with the clear ring of crystal.
"To your good health, madam!"
"And to your prosperity," she returned. The old toast still served.
"And now, my dear Miss Iris," he said, "may we not hope for a song?"
"Which one?"
"'Annie Laurie,' if you please."
She sang the old ballad with a wealth of feeling in her deep voice, and
even Lynn, who was listening critically, was forced to admit that she
did it well.
At eleven, the guest went away, his hostess cordially inviting him to
come again.
"What a charming man," said Margaret.
"An old brick," added Lynn, with more force than elegance.
"Yes," replied Aunt Peace, concealing a yawn behind her fan, "it is a
thousand pities that he has no social position."
V