by Myrtle Reed
III
The Gift of Peace
The mistress of the mansion was giving her orders for the day. From thefarthest nooks and corners of the attic, where fragrant herbs swayedback and forth in ghostly fashion, to the tiled kitchen, where burnishedcopper saucepans literally shone, Miss Field kept in daily touch withher housekeeping.
The old Colonial house was her pride and her delight. It was by far theoldest in that part of the country, and held an exalted position amongits neighbours on that account, though the owner, not having spent herentire life in East Lancaster, was considered somewhat "new." To betruly aristocratic, at least three generations of one's forbears musthave lived in the same dwelling.
In the hall hung the old family portraits. Gentlemen and gentlewomen,long since gathered to their fathers, had looked down from their gildedframes upon many a strange scene. Baby footsteps had faltered on thestairs, and wide childish eyes had looked up in awe to this statelycompany. Older children had wondered at the patches and the powderedhair, the velvet knickerbockers and ruffled sleeves. Awkward schoolboyshad boasted to their mates that the jewelled sword, which hung at theside of a young officer in the uniform of the Colonies, had beenpresented by General Washington himself, in recognition of conspicuousbravery upon the field. Lovers had led their sweethearts along the hallat twilight, to whisper that their portraits, too, should some day hangthere, side by side. Soldiers of Fortune who had found their leaderfickle had taken fresh courage from the set lips of the gallantgentlemen in the great hall. Women whose hearts were breaking had lookedup to the painted and powdered dames along the winding stairway, andlearned, through some subtle freemasonry of sex, that only the lowborncry out when hurt. Faint, wailing voices of new-born babes had reachedthe listening ears of the portraits by night and by day. Coffin aftercoffin had gone out of the wide door, flower-hidden, and step after stephad died away forever, leaving only an echo behind. And yet the men andwomen of the line of Field looked out from their gilded frames,high-spirited, courageous, and serene, with here and there the hint of asmile.
Far up the stairs and beyond the turn hung the last portrait: AuntPeace, in the bloom of her mature beauty, painted soon after she hadtaken possession of the house. The dark hair was parted over the lowbrow and puffed slightly over the tiny ears. The flowered gown was cutmodestly away at the throat, showing a shoulder line that had beenfamous in three counties when she was the belle of the countryside. Forthe rest, she was much the same. Let the artist make the brown hairsnowy white, change the girlish bloom to the tint of a faded pink rose,draw around the eyes and the mouth a few tiny time-tracks, which, afterall, were but the footprints of smiles, sadden the trustful eyes a bit,and cover the frivolous gown with black brocade,--then the mistress ofthe mansion, who moved so gaily through the house, would inevitablystartle you as you came upon her at the turn of the stairs, havingbelieved, all the time, that she was somewhere else.
At the moment, she was in the garden, with Mrs. Irving and "thechildren," as she called Iris and Lynn. "Now, my talentednephew-once-removed," she was saying, in her high, sweet voice, "willyou kindly take the spade and dig until you can dig no more? I am wellaware that it is like hitching Pegasus to the plough, but I have growntired of waiting for my intermittent gardener, and there is a new theoryto the effect that all service is beautiful."
"So it is," laughed Lynn, turning the earth awkwardly. "I know whatyou're thinking of, mother, but it isn't going to hurt my hands."
"You shall have a flower-bed for your reward," Aunt Peace went on. "Iwill take the front yard myself, and the beds here shall be equallydivided among you three. You may plant in them what you please and eachshall attend to his own."
"I speak for vegetables," said Lynn.
"How characteristic," murmured Iris, with a sidelong glance at him whichsent the blood to his face. "What shall you plant, Mrs. Irving?"
"Roses, heartsease, and verbenas," she replied, "and as many otherthings as I can get in without crowding. I may change my mind about theothers, but I shall have those three. What are you going to have?"
"Violets and mignonette, nothing more. I love the sweet, modest ones thebest."
"Cucumbers, tomatoes, corn, melons, peas, asparagus," put in Lynn, "andwhat else?"
"Nothing else, my son," answered Margaret, "unless you rent a vacantacre or two. The seeds are small, but the plants have been known tospread."
"I'll have one plant of each kind, then, for I must assuredly havevariety. It's said to be 'the spice of life' and that's what we're alllooking for. Besides, judging from the various scornful remarks whichhave been thought, if not actually made, the rest of you don't care forvegetables. Anyhow, you sha'n't have any--except Aunt Peace."
"Over here now, please, Lynn," said Miss Field. "When you get that done,I'll tell you what to do next. Come, Margaret, it's a little chillyhere, and I don't want you to take cold."
For a few moments there was quiet in the garden. A flock of pigeonshovered about Iris, taking grain from her outstretched hand, and cooingsoft murmurs of content. The white dove was perched upon her shoulder,not at all disturbed by her various excursions to the source of supply.Lynn worked steadily, seemingly unconscious of the girl's scrutiny.
Finally, she spoke. "I don't want any of your old vegetables," she said.
"How fortunate!"
"You may not have any at all--I don't believe the seeds will come up."
"Perhaps not--it's quite in the nature of things."
The pouter pigeon, brave in his iridescent waistcoat, perched upon herother shoulder, and Lynn straightened himself to look at her. From thefirst evening she had puzzled him.
Her face was nearly always pale, but to-day she had a pretty colour inher cheeks and her deep, violet eyes were aglow with innocent mischief.There was a dewy sweetness about her red lips, and Lynn noted that thesheen on the pigeon's breast was like the gleam from her blue-blackhair, where the sun shone upon it. She had a great mass of it, which shewore coiled on top of her small, well-shaped head. It was perfectlysmooth, its riotous waves kept well in check, except at the blue-veinedtemples, where little ringlets clustered, unrebuked.
"You should be practising," said Iris, irrelevantly.
"So should you."
"I don't need to."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not going to play with you any more."
"Why, Iris?"
"Oh," she returned, with a little shrug of her shoulders, whichfrightened away both pigeons, "you didn't like the way I played yourlast accompaniment, and so I've stopped for good."
Lynn thought it only a repetition of what she had said when hecriticised her, and passed it over in silence.
"I've already done an hour," he said, "and I'll have time for anotherbefore lunch. I can get in the other two before dark, and then I'mgoing for a walk. You'll come with me, won't you?"
"You haven't asked me properly," she objected.
Irving bowed and, in set, gallant phrases, asked Miss Temple for "thepleasure of her company."
"I'm sorry," she answered, "but I'm obliged to refuse. I'm going to makesome little cakes for tea--the kind you like."
"Bother the cakes!"
"Then," laughed Iris, "if you want me as much as that, I'll go. It's myChristian duty."
From the very beginning, Aunt Peace had taught Iris the principles ofdainty housewifery. Cleanliness came first--an exquisite cleanlinesswhich was not merely a lack of dust and dirt, but a positive quality.When the old lady's keen eyes, reinforced by her strongest glasses, wereunable to discern so much as a finger mark upon anything, Iris knew thatit was clean, and not before.
At first, the little untrained child had bitterly rebelled, but MissField's patience was without limit and at last Iris attained therequired degree of proficiency. She had done her sampler, like theColonial maids before her, made her white, sweet loaves, her fragrantbrown ones, put up her countless pots of clear, rich preserves, madeamber and crimson jellies, huge jars of spiced fruits,
and brewed tendifferent kinds of home-made wine. Then, and not till then, Iris got thewomanly idea which was beneath it all. Perception came slowly, but atlength she found herself in a beautiful comradeship with Aunt Peace. Forsheer love of the daintiness of it, Iris beat the yolks of eggs in awhite bowl and the whites in a blue one. She took pleasure out ofvarious fine textures and feathery masses, sang as she shaped small patsof unsalted butter, tying them up in clover blossoms, and laughed at thelittle packets of seeds Dame Nature sends with her parcels.
"See," said Iris, one morning, as she cut a juicy muskmelon and took outthe seeds, "this means that if you like it well enough to work and wait,you can have lots, lots more."
Miss Field smiled, and a soft pink colour came into her fine, high-bredface. For one, at least, she had opened the way to the Fortunate Isles,where one's daily work is one's daily happiness, and nothing is so pooras to be without its own appealing beauty.
As time went on, Iris found deep and satisfying pleasure in thecountless little things that were done each day. She piled the cleanlinen in orderly rows upon the shelves, delighting in the unnameablefreshness made by wind and sun; sniffed appreciatively at the cedarchest which stood in a recess of the upper hall, and climbed many achair to fasten bunches of fragrant herbs, gathered with her own hands,to the rafters in the attic.
She washed the fine old china, rubbed the mahogany till she could seeher face in it, and kept the silver shining. "A gentlewoman," Aunt Peacehad said, "will always be independent of her servants, and there arecertain things no gentlewoman will trust her servants to do."
Upon this foundation, Aunt Peace had reared the beautiful superstructureof her life. Her hands were capable and strong, yet soft and white. Aswe learn to love the things we take care of, so every householdpossession became dear to her, and repaid her for her labours anhundred-fold.
To be sure of doing the very best for her adopted daughter, Miss Fieldhad, for many years, kept house without a servant. Now, at seventy-five,she had grudgingly admitted one maid into her sanctum, but some of thework still fell to Iris, and no one ever doubted for an instant that thehead of the household vigilantly guarded her own rights.
For a long time Iris had known how useless it was--that there had neverbeen a moment when the old lady could not have had a retinue of servantsat her command, but had it been useless after all? Remembering the childshe had been, Iris could not but see the immeasurable advance the womanhad made.
"Someday, my child," Aunt Peace had said, "when your adopted mother islaid away with her ancestors in the churchyard, you will bless me forwhat I have done. You will see that wherever you happen to be, inwhatever station of life God may be pleased to place you after I amgone, you have one thing which cannot be taken away from you--thepower to make for yourself a home. You will be sure of your comfortindependently, and you will never be at the mercy of the ignorant andthe untrained. In more than one sense," went on Miss Field, smiling,"you will have the gift of Peace."
In the house, in her favourite chair by the fire, the old lady wassaying much the same thing to Margaret Irving. It was apropos of a bookwritten by a member of the shrieking sisterhood, which had sorelystirred East Lancaster, set as it was in quiet ways that were centuriesold.
"I have no patience with such foolishness," Aunt Peace observed."Since Adam and Eve were placed in the Garden of Eden, women have beenhome-makers and men have been home-builders. All the work in theworld is directly and immediately undertaken for the maintenance andbetterment of the home. A woman who has no love for it is unsexed.God probably knew how He wanted it--at least we may be pardoned forsupposing that He did. It is absolutely--but I would better stop, mydear. I fear I shall soon be saying something unladylike."
Margaret laughed--a low, musical laugh with a girlish note in it. Fora long time she had not been so happy as she was to-day.
"To quote a famous historian," she replied, "a book like that 'carrieswithin itself the germs of its decay.' You need have no fear, AuntPeace; the home will stand. This single house, this beautiful old homeof yours, has lasted two centuries, hasn't it, just as it is?"
"Yes," sighed the other, after a pause, "they built well in those days."
The charm of the room was upon them both. Through the open door theycould see the long line of portraits in the hall, and the house seemedpeopled with friendly ghosts, whose memories and loves still lived.Because she had recently come from a city apartment, Margaretlooked down the spacious vista, ending at a long mirror, with anever-increasing sense of delight.
"My dear," said Miss Field, "I have always felt that this house shouldhave come to you."
"I have never felt so," answered Margaret. "I have never for a momentbegrudged it to you. You know my father died suddenly, and his will,made long before I was born, had not been changed. So what was morenatural than for my mother to have the house during her lifetime, withthe provision that it should revert to his favourite sister afterward,if she still lived?"
"I have cheated you by living, Margaret, and your mother was cut off inher prime. She was a hard woman."
"Yes," sighed Margaret, "she was. But I think she meant to be kind."
"I knew her very little; in fact, the only chance that I ever had to getacquainted with her was when I came here for a short visit just afteryou were married. The house had been closed for a long time. She tookyou away with her, and when she came back she was alone. Then she wroteto me, asking me to share her loneliness for a time, and I consented."
The way was open for confidences, but Margaret made none, and Aunt Peacerespected her for it.
"We never knew each other very well, did we?" asked the old lady, in atone that indicated no need of an answer. "I remember that when I washere I yearned over you just as I did over Iris several years later. Iwanted to give to you out of my abundance; to make you happy andcomfortable."
"Dear Aunt Peace," said Margaret, softly, "you are doing it now, whenperhaps I need it even more than I did then. All your life you havebeen making people happy and comfortable."
"I hope so--it is what I have tried to do. By the way, when I am throughwith it, this house goes to you, then to Lynn and his children afterhim."
"Thank you." For an instant Margaret's pulses throbbed with the joy ofpossession, then the blood retreated from her heart in shame.
"I have made ample provision for Iris," Miss Field went on. "She is myown dear daughter, but she is not of our line."
At this moment, Iris came around the house, laughing and screaming, withLynn in full pursuit. Mrs. Irving went to the window and came back withan amused light in her eyes.
"What is the matter?" asked Aunt Peace.
"Lynn is chasing her. He had something in his fingers that looked likean angle-worm."
"No doubt. Iris is afraid of worms."
"I'll go out and speak to him."
"No--let them fight it out. We are never young but once, and Youth asksno greater privilege than to fight its own battles. It is mistakenkindness to shield--it weakens one in the years to come."
"Youth," repeated Margaret. "The most beautiful gift of the gods, whichwe never appreciate until it is gone forever."
"I have kept mine," said Aunt Peace. "I have deliberately forgotten allthe unpleasant things and remembered the others. When a little pleasurehas flashed for a moment against the dark, I have made that jewel mine.I have hundreds of them, from the time my baby fingers clasped my firstrose, to the night you and Lynn came to bring more sunshine into my oldlife. I call it my Necklace of Perfect Joy. When the world goes wrong, Ihave only to close my eyes and remember all the links in my chain, setwith gems, some large and some small, but all beautiful with the beautywhich never fades. It is all I can take with me when I go. My materialpossessions must stay behind, but my Necklace of Perfect Joy will bringme happiness to the end, when I put it on, to be nevermore unclasped."
"Aunt Peace," asked Margaret, after an understanding silence, "why didyou never marry?"
Miss Field leaned for
ward and methodically stirred the fire. "I may bewrong," she said, "but I have always felt that it was indelicate toallow one's self to care for a gentleman."
