A VOICE FROM THE LILAC BUSHES
It was a glorious morning in May. Spring had really come at last with
its warm, life-giving sunshine, and the air was heavy with the smell of
growing things. Overhead the blue sky was clear and cloudless, underfoot
the new grass made a thick carpet invitingly cool and refreshing. The
trees were sporting fresh garlands of leaves, and in woods and gardens
the bright-colored blossoms glowed and blushed. How beautiful it all
was!
Peace paused at Elizabeth's side in the open doorway to drink in the
rich fragrance of the lilacs, whose purple plumes nodded so temptingly
from the hedge across the way. For days it had been part of her morning
program to rush out of doors as soon as she was dressed to sniff
hungrily at the lilac-laden air, but never before had they smelled so
sweet nor looked so beautiful and feathery as they did this morning, for
now they had reached the height of their perfection. Tomorrow some of
their beauty would be gone; they would be growing old.
"Oh, Elspeth, ain't they lovely?" she sighed. "Don't they make you feel
like heaven? Wouldn't you like a great, big bunch of them under your
nose always? I wonder why the folks who live there don't give them away.
I should if they b'longed to me. Think how many people would be glad to
get them. May I go over in the field to play? I won't break one of Saint
John's plants or touch a single lilac, truly, if I can just play where I
can smell their smell as it comes fresh from the bush. We only get the
wee, ragged edges of it over here."
Elizabeth came out of her own revery at the sound of Peace's gusty sigh
of longing, and readily gave her consent, as this was Saturday morning
and school did not keep. So, like a bird trying its wings after a long
imprisonment, the brown-eyed maid with arms flapping and curls bobbing,
skipped happily across the road to the field where she had helped the
minister plant a little vegetable garden, and which already was lined
with irregular rows of pale green shoots where beans and potatoes,
turnips and cabbages, had pushed their way up through the black earth.
Peace was even prouder of the small truck patch than the preacher
himself, if such a thing were possible, and it was a favorite pastime of
both these gardeners to walk back and forth between the rows each day
and count the tender sprouts which had appeared during the night. So
this morning from force of habit, Peace strolled up and down the length
of the garden, counting in a sing-song fashion as she greedily filled
nostrils and lungs with the sweet scent of the lilac bushes just beyond,
drawing nearer and nearer the hedge with its delicate, dainty sprays.
Unconsciously her counting changed into the humming refrain of the
Gleaner's motto song, and she danced lightly down the last row of crisp
cornblades, joyously chanting words which fitted into the happy music:
"Oh, you pretty lilacs, growing by the wall! How I'd like to have you
for my very own. I would pick your blossoms, lavender and white, and
give them all to sick folks, shut in from the light.--Why, that rhymed
all of its own self!"
She paused abruptly beside the lilac bushes, her arms still uplifted and
fingers outstretched as if beckoning to the plumy sprays above her Head.
"Isn't it queer how such things will happen when if I'd been trying to
make poetry in my dairy I couldn't have thought of those words for an
hour? I guess it was the lilacs that did it. Oh, you are so beautiful!
You'd make anything rhyme, wouldn't you? What is it that gives you your
sweetness? I wish you could tell me the secret. Oh, you lovely lilacs,
growing up so high; swinging in the sunshine--" Again her made-up words
came to a sudden end, and she stood motionless, her head cocked to one
side, listening intently to a brilliant trill of melody from the other
side of the hedge.
"There goes my bird again! Saint John says it must be a canary which
b'longs to the stone house that owns these lilacs, but I don't b'lieve
it would sing like that if it was shut up in a cage."
She held her breath again to harken to the music, then puckered her lips
and mocked its song. The feathered musician broke off in the midst of
his rhapsody, surprised at the strange echo of his own notes. There was
a moment of silence; then he began again, and once more Peace mimicked
the warbler. This time there was a stir on the other side of the bushes,
and the purple-tasseled branches were cautiously parted where the
foliage was thinnest, but Peace was too much absorbed in watching the
topmost boughs--for the music seemed to come from overhead somewhere--to
see the startled eyes looking at her through the tangle of leaves and
blossoms. All unconscious of her hidden audience, she joyously trilled
the canary bird's chorus.
Then miracle of miracles--or so it seemed to Peace--there was a whir of
wings, and a bright-eyed, yellow-coated, saucy, little bird perched on a
twig just above her head. Peace gasped and was silent.
The bird chirped a note of defiance and hopped to the branch below.
Peace advanced a cautious step; the canary did not retreat, but tipped
its dainty head sidewise and eyed the child curiously. A small brown
hand shot out unexpectedly, dexterously, and the yellow songster found
itself a helpless prisoner in the child's tight grasp.
Peace was almost as surprised as the bird. She had not really thought to
capture the creature so easily, and to find it in her hand sent a thrill
of delight through her whole being. She snuggled it close in her neck
and crooned:
"You little darling! Saint John was right, you _are_ a canary! But I was
right, too. You ain't caged. I'm mighty glad I've caught you. I always
did like pets. I wonder what you will think of Muffet, grandma's canary?
If I just had these lovely lilacs now, little birdie, I'd be perfectly
happy. But a bird in the hand is worth--a whole bushel of blossoms. I
guess I'll take you home to Elspeth--"
"Oh, you mustn't!" cried a distressed voice behind the purple tassels.
"That is my bird, Gypsy. I just let him loose to see if it was really
you mocking him. Bring him home, won't you? And I'll give you all the
lilacs you want."
Startled at the sound of a human voice almost at her elbow when she
could see no sign of the speaker, Peace let go her hold on the
frightened captive, and with a relieved chirp, it flew out of sight
among the thick branches. But she made no attempt to follow its flight,
she was too scared. "Are--are--was it a real woman which did that
talking?" chattered Peace, wetting her lips with her tongue.
"Yes," answered the voice, with just the tinge of a laugh in it. "I live
in the stone house this side of the lilac bushes. I saw you through the
leaves and heard what you said, but won't you please bring my little
Gypsy home? I'll give you all the flowers you want. Go down to the road
and come in through the front gate. I am here in my chair."
"Your bird has gone home already," Peace answered, reassured by this
explanation. "But I'll come and get those lilacs you spoke about."
She ran nimbly down the length of the lilac hedge, dodged out of sight
around the corner, and appeared the next moment at the iron gate which
shut out the street from the grand stone house with its wide lawns,
great oaks, smooth, flower-bordered walks, and splashing fountain.
"Oh, how beau-ti-ful!" cried the child in delight, as the gate swung
shut behind her. "I've always wanted to know what this place looked
like, but the tall hedge all along the fence is too thick to see through
and one can get only a teenty peek through the gate. There is your bird
on top of its cage now. See, I didn't keep him, though I'd like to. He
is a splendid singer. I sh'd think you'd be the happiest lady in the
whole world with all these lovely flowers and--are you a lady?"
For the first time since entering the great gate, Peace turned her big,
brown eyes full upon the occupant of the reclining chair in the shade
of the lilac bushes, and her lively chatter faltered, for the face
pillowed among the silken cushions seemed neither a child's nor yet a
woman's. The eyes, intensely blue and clear, the broad, high forehead,
the thin cheeks and colorless lips, even the heavy braids of brown hair
with their auburn lights, did not seem to belong to a mere mortal. And
yet she could not be an angel, for even Peace's youthful, untrained mind
swiftly read the bitterness and rebellion which lurked in those deep,
wonderful eyes. It was as if some doomed soul were looking out through
the bars of a prison fortress, without a single ray of hope to break the
gloom, without a single thought to cheer or comfort. And so Peace, in
her childish ignorance, asked, "Are you a lady?"
"A woman grown," the sweet voice answered, and a faint smile of
amusement flitted across the marble-white face.
"Your--your hair is in braids," stammered Peace, unable to put her
subtle feelings into words.
"It is more restful that way," the speaker sighed; then again that
fleeting smile lighted up the beautiful features, and holding out her
hand to the puzzled child, she said coaxingly, "Tell me about yourself.
Is it really you who whistles so divinely in the garden each morning? I
have heard it so often but never could locate it before. Aunt Pen
thought it must be another canary at the parsonage. It always seemed to
come from that direction."
"That's 'cause Saint John and I live there. He whistles, too, though I
do it the best."
"Saint John?" The flicker of amusement became a genuine smile.
"That's the new preacher of Hill Street Church. He used to be our
minister in Parker and he lets me call him by his front name when we are
alone, but it was so easy to forget and do it when we weren't alone that
I named him _Saint_ John, 'cause Faith says he is my pattern--no patron
saint. I call Elizabeth Saint Elspeth, too, for the same reason. She is
his wife."
"But I thought you were their little girl."
"Mercy, no! They ain't old enough to have a little girl my age yet. Glen
is their only children. I'm just visiting."
"You have been with them ever since they came here, haven't you?"
"Almost. They were a week ahead of me. They moved in from Parker last
March, the very week before our spring vacation from school, and they
begged grandpa so hard to let me come and help them settle that he said
I might. Then Allee got the scarlet fever, so I had to stay for a time.
Just as she was getting well so they 'xpected to _fumergate_ 'most any
day, Cherry went to work and caught it, and now Hope is in bed. There
are two more yet to have it, 'nless you count me, and I ain't going to
get it. I don't think Gail and Faith will, either, 'cause they have been
staying with Frances Sherrar ever since the doctor decided he knew what
ailed Allee. Anyway, they had it when they were little."
"What quaint names!" murmured the lady, softly repeating them one by
one.
"Yes, they are, but as it ain't our fault, we've quit fretting about
'em. Our grandfather was a minister, and he named us--all but Gail and
Allee. Papa named the oldest, and mamma named the youngest. Grandpa
fixed up all the rest."
The ludicrous look of resignation in the small round face was too much
for the questioner, and she burst into a rippling peal of laughter, so
hearty that a much older woman popped a surprised face out of the door
to see what was the matter. Peace caught a glimpse of her as she
vanished within doors once more, and demanded, "Who is that?"
"Aunt Pen."
"That's a quaint name, too. I'd as soon be called 'pencil'," she
retaliated.
"It isn't very common these days," smiled the woman. "The real name is
Penelope, but I shortened it to 'Pen.' Poor Aunt Pen, she has a hard
time of it."
"Why? I sh'd think it would be easy work living in such a beautiful
place as this."
"A beautiful place isn't everything in life," came the bitter retort,
and the rebellious look clouded the lovely eyes once more.
"No, it ain't," Peace acknowledged; "but it's a whole lot. Just s'posing
you had to live in a mite of an ugly house without nice things to eat or
wear and with no father or mother to take care of you, and a mortgage
you couldn't pay, and an old skinflint of a man ready to slam you
outdoors and gobble up the farm, furniture and everything, the minute
the mortgage was due. How'd you like that?"
"Have you no father or mother?" The voice was very soft and sweet again,
and the blue eyes glowed tenderly.
Peace shook her head. "They are both inside the gates."
"Then who takes care of you?"
"Grandpa Campbell, what was adopted by my own grandpa when he was a
boy."
"Tell me about it, won't you, dear?"
So Peace related the pathetic story of the two souls who had gone into
the Great Beyond, leaving the helpless orphan band to battle by
themselves; of the struggle the little brown house had witnessed; of the
tramp who came begging his breakfast, and afterwards proved to be the
beloved President of the University; and of the beautiful change which
had come in their fortunes when he had adopted the whole flock.
When she had finished her recital there were tears in the blue eyes, and
the white-faced lady murmured compassionately, "Poor little sisters!
There are so many orphans in this big world."
Something in her tone and the far-away expression of her eyes impelled
Peace to say with conviction, "You are an orphan, too."
"Yes, child."
"Since you were a little girl?"
"Since I was five years old."
"Oh, as little as Allee when mamma died! Wasn't there anyone to take
care of you? Did your Aunt Pen adopt you?"
"Aunt Pen has always lived with us. I don't remember any other mother."
"And did you always live here?"
"Yes, I was born here. It wasn't part of the city then."
"But you don't look real old."
"I am not _real_ old. I was twenty-four last November."
"And Gail was nineteen the same month! You're only four, five years
older than she is. That's not much--but there's a bigger difference."
"How, dear?"
"Oh, she looks 'sif she liked to live better'n you do."
The woman drew a long, shivering breath and closed her eyes as if a
spasm of pain had seized her; and Peace, frightened at the death-like
pallor of the face, quavered, "Oh, don't faint! What is the matter? Are
you sick? Or is it just a chill? Maybe you better run around a bit until
you get warm."
The deep, unfathomable blue eyes opened, and the voice said bitterly, "I
can _never_ run again. I must lie in this chair all the rest of my life
with nothing to do but think, think, think! Do you wonder now that I am
not happy? Do you understand now why Aunt Pen has a hard time? Do you
see the reason for that tall, thick hedge all around the yard?"
"No," Peace replied bluntly. "I can't see a mite of sense in it! If I
had to live in a chair all my days, I'd want it where I could watch the
world go by. I'd cut down all the hedges and let the sun shine in. If I
couldn't run about myself, I'd just watch the folks that did have good
feet. I'd wave my hands at the children and give 'em flowers, and they'd
come and talk to me when I was tired of reading. I'd have a bird like
you've got, and I'd make a pet of it, too. I'd have more'n one; I'd have
a whole m'nagerie of dogs and cats and rabbits and squirrels and--and
ponies, maybe, and a monkey or two. And I'd teach them to do tricks, and
then I'd call all the poor little children who can't go to the circus to
see my animals perform. I'd have gardens of flowers for the sick people
and vegetables for those who haven't any place to raise their own and
no money to buy them. That's what Saint John is going to do with all
they don't use at the parsonage. I'd make a park of my back yard and let
dirty children play there so's they would not get run over in the
street; I'd--oh, there are so many things I'd do to enjoy myself!"
Peace paused for breath, the well of her imagination run dry, but her
face was so radiant that instinctively her listener knew these were not
idle words, though she could not keep the hard tone out of her voice as
she answered, "Ah, that is easy enough to say, but--wait until you are
where I am now, and I think you will find it lots harder to practice
what you preach. You will turn your face to the wall, say good-bye to
those who you thought were your friends, build a high fence around
yourself and hide--_hide_ from the world and everything!"
"Oh, no," Peace protested, shuddering at the picture she had drawn. "I
should _die_ if I couldn't see the sun and flowers and kind faces of the
folks I love. But--it--would be--awfully hard _never_ to walk again."
"Hard? It is _torture_!" She had forgotten that she was talking to a
mere child, one who could not understand what it was to have dearest
ambitions thwarted, one who could not even know yet what it was to have
ambitions. "I had dreamed of being a great singer some day--"
"Oh, do you sing?" cried Peace, who was passionately fond of music in
whatever guise it came.
"Masters said I could--"
"Then please sing for me. I can only whistle, and then folks say,
"'Whistling girls and crowing hens
Always come to some bad ends.'
"I'd like awfully much to hear you sing."
"Oh, I don't sing any more! That is all past now; but oh, how I loved
it! We were going to Europe, Aunt Pen and I, and when we came back after
months and years of study, I thought I should be a--Jenny Lind, perhaps.
I thought of it by day, I dreamed of it by night. It was _everything_ to
me. And then--my horse fell--and here I am."
"Was it long ago?" whispered Peace, strangely stirred by the passionate
words of the girl before her.
"Five years."
"And you've been here ever since?"
"Ever since."
Oh, the hopelessness of the words, the bitterness of the face!
Involuntarily Peace turned her eyes away, and as her glance fell upon
the delicate bloom of the lilac bushes beside her, she began to hum
under her breath, "Oh, you lovely lilacs, growing up so high."
"Sing to me," commanded the lame girl imperiously.
"Sing? I can't sing! All I can do is whistle."
"But you were singing just now."
"I was humming."
"Don't quibble!" A faint smile smoothed away the hard lines about the
young mouth. "Please sing that little tune for me. I have heard you so
often in the garden and that seems quite a favorite of yours, but I can
never make out the words."
"That's 'cause the words ain't usu'ly alike."
"What?"
"Why, Allee and me have always fitted talking words into our song music
and--"
"I don't understand, I am afraid."
"Why, we just sing things instead of talking them like other folks
would. They don't rhyme, but they fit into tunes which we like, and our
Gleaners' motto song is our favorite, so that's the one we usu'ly hum,
and that's how you hear it so much."
"Then sing the motto song. The tune is very pretty."
"Yes, it is pretty, but the reason we like it so well is 'cause it
sounds glad. We never can sing it when we're cross or bad. It's made
just for sunshine."
Softly she began to chant the words:
"'In a world where sorrow
Ever will be known
Where are found the needy
And the sad and lone.'"
Peace was right in saying that she could not sing, and yet her happy
voice, warbling out those joyous words, made very sweet music that
bright May morning. The lines of weariness gradually left the invalid's
face, a feeling of rest stole over her, and with a tired little sigh,
she closed her eyes.
"'When the days are gloomy,
Sing some happy song,
Meet the world's repining
With a courage strong;
"'Go with faith undaunted
Thro' the ills of life,
Scatter smiles and sunshine
O'er its toil and strife,'"
piped Peace, staring at the waving plumes of lavender above her head.
"'Sca-atter sunshine all along your wa-ay,
Cheer and bless and bri-ighten--'"
The song ceased in the midst of the chorus.
The big blue eyes flashed open and the lame girl demanded in surprise.
"Why did you stop?"
"Oh," breathed Peace, a look of great relief passing over her face, "I
thought sure you'd gone to sleep and I wouldn't get my lilacs after
all."
"You little goosie! I don't go to sleep that easily. Sing the chorus
again for me, and then Hicks shall cut all the flowers you can carry."
"He better begin now, then, 'cause the chorus ain't long and it sounds
'sif Elspeth was calling me. I've been out of sight from the parsonage
quite a spell and likely she's getting anxious. Besides, Glen may be
awake and wanting me."
"Very well," she laughed. "Hicks shall begin right away. See, there he
comes with his basket and scissors. Now sing."
So Peace repeated the sprightly chorus with a vim, and was rewarded with
such a huge bouquet of the fragrant blossoms that she was almost hidden
from sight as she stood clasping them tightly in her arms, and
exclaiming in rapture, "All for me? Oh, dear Lilac Lady, I didn't 'xpect
that many! You better have Aunt Pen put some of these in the house for
you."
"No, I don't want them in my house!" exclaimed the girl fiercely. "They
are all for you--and Saint Elspeth."
"Oh, she'll love you for sending them. Can I bring her over to see you?
Her and Saint John?"
"No, I don't care to meet them. Saint John has already called, but--I
sent him away again."
"Then--I s'pose--you won't care to have me call again either."
This beautiful garden seemed like the Promised Land to Peace's childish
eyes, and the thought of never being allowed to enter it again was
dreadful.
"Oh, yes, _do_ come again! You _must_ come again! Come every day. No,
not every day, some days I couldn't see you if you came. I will hang a
white cloth on the lilac bushes--see,--on the other side, where you can
see it from the parsonage, and you will come then, won't you?"
"Yes, if Elspeth doesn't need me and Glen is asleep. He likes flowers,
too, even if he is just a baby, and he never tears them to pieces."
"I'll have Hicks cut you some tulips--"
"You better not today. I'll get them next time I come. These are all I
can carry now, and they are a lot too many for our little parsonage. But
I'm awful glad you gave me such a big bunch, 'cause there are ever so
many of the church people sick, and Elspeth will be so pleased to have
me _distribit_ bouquets amongst 'em. Some of 'em it will be like
slinging coals of fire at their heads, too. There's old Deacon Hopper
for one. He doesn't like Saint John and calls him a meddlesome monkey of
a minister. Now he's sick, I'll take him a bunch of lilacs and tell him
the meddlesome monkey's minister has sent him some flowers and hopes he
soon gets onto his feet again.
"Mittie Cole is another that needs some fire on her head. She pushed me
into the gutter three times the day I tried to adopt the runaway twins,
and we'd have had a grand scrimmage if Saint John hadn't happened along
to stop it. But she's got lung fever now, and there was days the doctor
said she wouldn't live. I reckon she doesn't feel much like fighting any
more, but likely she'll enjoy the smell of these lovely lilacs. She
seemed awful glad to see me the day I carried her some chicken broth.
"The Foster baby is sick, and Grandma Deane, and little Freddie James,
and Mrs. Hoover, and Dan'l Fielding. You see that's quite a bunch, and
it will take a big lot of flowers to go around. I'll tell 'em all that
you sent 'em--"
"No, indeed!" There was real alarm in her voice. "Because I did not send
them. I gave them to you."
"But if you hadn't given them to me, I couldn't share 'em with other
folks, so it's really you who is to blame. You--you don't care if I give
some away, do you?"
"Certainly not, dear. You may give them all away if it will make you any
happier."
"Oh, it does! I just love to see sick faces smile when someone brings in
flowers to smell or nice things to eat. Miss Edith sometimes takes us to
the hospital with bouquets to _distribit_, and my! how glad the patients
are to get them. They say it is almost as good as a breath of real,
genuine air. I'm going with Saint Elspeth tomorrow afternoon--"
"Then you must come over here and get some more lilacs. Hicks will cut
all you can carry."
"Oh, do you mean it? You darling Lilac Lady--that's what I mean to call
you always, 'cause you give away so many lilacs to make other folks
happy. I'll bring the biggest basket I can find. There is Elspeth
calling again. I must hurry home."
"You haven't told me your name yet. I forgot to ask it before, but if I
am to be your Lilac Lady, I must know what to call you, too."
"Peace--Peace Greenfield. Good-bye. I'll be here tomorrow just the
minute dinner is over."
The blue eyes followed her longingly as she danced away through the
fresh clover and disappeared beyond the heavy gates. Then the lame girl
turned in her chair,--almost against her will, it seemed--and looked up
at the fragrant purple plumes nodding above her head. "Peace," she
murmured. "How odd! 'The peace which passeth understanding.'"