Roses rioted through East Lancaster and made the gardens glorious with
bloom. The year was at its bridal and every chalice was filled with
fragrant incense. Bees, powdered with pollen, hummed slowly back and
forth, and the soft whir of unnumbered gossamer wings came in drowsy
melody from the distant clover fields.
"June," sang Iris to herself, "June--Oh June, sweet June!"
She was getting ready for her daily trip to the post-office. Once in a
great while there would be a letter there for Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving.
Lynn also had an intermittent correspondent or two, but the errand
usually proved fruitless. Still, since Mrs. Irving's letter had lain
nearly two weeks in Miss Field's box, uncalled for, it had been a point
of honour with Iris to see that such a thing did not happen again.
Books and papers were supplied in abundance by the local circulating
library, and the high bookcases at Miss Field's were well filled with
standard literature. Iris read everything she could lay her hands upon.
Mere print exercised a certain fascination over her mind, and she had
conscientiously finished every book that she had begun. Those early
years, after all, are the most important. The old books are the best,
and how few of us "have the time" to read them!
Ten years of browsing in a well equipped library will do much for
anyone, and Iris had made the most of her opportunities. This girl of
twenty, hemmed about by the narrow standards of East Lancaster, had a
broad outlook upon life, a large view, that would have done credit to a
woman of twice her age. From the beginning, the people of the books had
been real to her, and she had filled the old house with the fairy
figures of romance.
Of the things that make for happiness, the love of books comes first. No
matter how the world may have used us, sure solace lies there. The
weary, toilsome day drags to its disheartening close, and both love and
friendship have proved powerless to appreciate or understand, but in
the quiet corner consolation can always be found. A single shelf,
perhaps, suffices for one's few treasures, but who shall say it is not
enough?
A book, unlike any other friend, will wait, not only upon the hour, but
upon the mood. It asks nothing and gives much, when one comes in the
right way. The volumes stand in serried ranks at attention, listening
eagerly, one may fancy, for the command.
Is your world a small one, made unendurable by a thousand petty cares?
Are the heart and soul of you cast down by bitter disappointment? Would
you leave it all, if only for an hour, and come back with a new point of
view? Then open the covers of a book.
With this gentle comrade, you may journey to the very end of the world
and even to the beginning of civilisation. There is no land which you
may not visit, from Arctic snows to the loftiest peaks of southern
mountains. Gallant gentlemen will go with you and tell you how to
appreciate what you see. Further still, there are excursions into the
boundless regions of imagination, where the light of dreams has laid its
surpassing beauty over all.
Would you wander in company with soldiers of Fortune, and share their
wonderful adventures? Would you live in the time of the Crusades and
undertake a pilgrimage in the name of the Cross? Would you smell the
smoke of battle, hear the ring of steel, the rattle of musketry, and see
the colours break into deathly beauty well in advance of the charge?
Would you have for your friends a great company of noble men and women
who have wrought and suffered and triumphed in the end? Would you find
new courage, stronger faith, and serene hope? Then open the covers of a
book, and presto--change!
* * * * *
"Iris," called Aunt Peace, "you're surely not going without your hat?"
"Of course not." The colour that came and went in her damask cheeks was
very like that in her pink dimity gown. She put on her white hat, the
brim drooping beneath its burden of pink roses, and drew her gloves
reluctantly over her dimpled hands.
"Iris, dear, your sunshade!"
"Yes, Aunt Peace." She came back, a little unwillingly, but tan was a
personal disgrace in East Lancaster.
Ready at last, she tripped down the path and closed the gate carefully.
Mrs. Irving waved a friendly hand at her from the upper window. "Bring
me a letter!" she called.
"I'll try to," answered Iris, "but I can't promise."
She lifted her gown a little, to keep it clear of burr and brier, and
one saw the smooth, black silk stocking, chastely embroidered at the
ankle, as one suspected, by the hand of the wearer, and the dainty,
high-heeled shoes. The sunshade waved back and forth coquettishly. It
seemed to be an airy ornament, rather than an article of utility.
Half-way down the street, she met Doctor Brinkerhoff. "Good morning,
little lady," he said, with a smile.
"Good morning, sir," replied Iris, with a quaint courtesy. "I trust you
are well?"
"My health is uniformly good," he returned, primly. "You must remember
that I have my own drugs and potions always at hand." He made careful
inquiries as to the physical and mental well-being of each member of the
family, sent kindly salutations to all, made a low bow to Iris, and went
on.
"A very pleasant gentleman," she said to herself. "What a pity that he
has no social position!"
She loitered at the bridge, hanging over the railing, and looked down
into the sunny depths of the little stream. All through the sweet
Summer, the brook sang cheerily, by night and by day. It began in a
cool, crystal pool, far up among the hills, and wandered over mossy
reaches and pebbly ways, singing meanwhile of all the fragrant woodland
through which it came. Hidden springs in subterranean caverns, caught by
the laughing melody, went out to meet it and then followed, as the
children followed the Pied Piper of old. Great with its gathered waters,
it still sang as it rippled onward to its destiny, dreaming, perchance,
of the time when its liquid music, lost at last, should be merged into
the vast symphony of the sea.
Lynn came down the hill, swinging his violin case, and Iris, a little
consciously, went on to the post-office.
Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the letter box, and then her heart
gave a little leap, for there were two, yes three letters there.
"Wait a moment," called the grizzled veteran who served as postmaster.
"I've finally got something fer ye! Here! Miss Peace Field, Mrs.
Margaret Irving, and Miss Iris Temple."
"Oh-h!" whispered Iris, in awe, "a letter for me?"
"'Tain't fer nobody else, I reckon," laughed the old man. "Anyhow, it's
got your name on it."
She went out, half dazed. In all her life she had had but three letters;
two from her mother, which she still kept, and one from Santa Claus. The
good saint had left his communication in the little maid's stocking one
Christmas eve, and it was more than a year before Iris observed that
Aunt Peace and Santa Claus wrote precisely the same hand.
"For me," she said to herself, "all for me!"
It never entered her pretty head to open it. The handwriting was
unfamiliar and the post-mark was blurred, but it seemed to have come
from the next town. The whole thing was very disturbing, but Aunt Peace
would know.
Then Iris stopped suddenly in the path. It might be wicked, but, after
all, why should Aunt Peace know? Why not have just one little secret,
all to herself? The daring of it almost took her breath away, but in
that single, dramatic instant, she decided.
No one was in sight, and Iris, in the shadow of a maple, tucked the
letter safely away in her stocking, fancying she heard it rustle as she
walked.
In her brief experience of life there had seldom been so long a day. The
hours stretched on interminably, and she was never alone. She did not
forget the letter for a moment, and when she had once become accustomed
to the wonder of it, she was conscious of a growing, very feminine
curiosity.
A little after ten, when she had dutifully kissed Aunt Peace good night,
she stood alone in her room with her heart wildly beating. The door was
locked and there was not even the sound of a footstep. Surely, she might
read it now!
By the flickering light of her candle, she cut it at the end with the
scissors, drew out the letter, and unfolded it with trembling hands.
"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 face to 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."
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!"