IX
Rosemary and Mignonette
“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 with me, 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.”
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 among unnumbered 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.
X
In the Garden
“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 great mirror 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 at a 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 a strange 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 youthfulness in 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 have Marco Polo’s Adventures in 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 at the 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 belonged under 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 – there may 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 fear of 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 ask for 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.”