by Myrtle Reed
IV
Social Position
On Wednesday, the dullest person might have felt that there wassomething in the air. The old house, already exquisitely clean, receivedfurther 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 Iinvited?"
"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 hima note, saying that her attention was for the moment occupied by otherguests from out of town. It was the first Wednesday evening he hasmissed for more than ten years."
"Oh," said Lynn. "Are they going to be married?"
"Aunt Peace wouldn't marry anybody. She receives Doctor Brinkerhoffbecause she is sorry for him.
"He has no social position," Iris continued, feeling the unspokenquestion. "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 herbedroom may also be received in her parlour. Another lady, who thinks asAunt Peace does, entertains him on Saturday evenings."
Iris sat there demurely, her rosy lips primly pursed, and vigorouslyrubbed the tall candlestick. Lynn fairly choked with laughter. "Oh," hecried, "you funny little thing!"
"I am not a little thing and I am not funny. I consider you veryimpertinent."
"What is 'social position'?" asked Irving, instantly sobering. "How dowe get it?"
"It is born with us," answered Iris, dipping her flannel cloth inammonia, "and we have to live up to it. If we have low tastes, we loseit, 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 wasborn of poor but honest parents," she went on, having evidently absorbedthe phrase from her school Reader, "so I was respectable, even at thebeginning. When Aunt Peace took me, I got social position, and if I amalways a lady, I will keep it. Otherwise not."
The girl was very lovely as she leaned back in the quaint old chair torest for a moment. She was still regarding the candlestick attentivelyand did not look at Lynn. "It is strange to me," she said, "that comingfrom the city, as you do, you should not know about such things." Hereshe sent him the quickest possible glance from a pair of inscrutableeyes, and he began to wonder if she were not merely amusing herself. Hewas tempted to kiss her, but wisely refrained.
"Iris," called Aunt Peace, from the doorway, "will you wash the RoyalWorcester plate? And Lynn, it is time you were practising."
Lynn worked hard until the bell rang for luncheon. When he went down, hefound the others already at the table. "We did not wait for you," AuntPeace explained, "because we were in a hurry. Immediately afterluncheon, on Wednesdays, I take my nap. I sleep from two to three. Willyou 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 untilafter three o'clock, and that it would be considered a kindness if theywould 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 ironcladrule of the house. Ever since she came to East Lancaster, Iris had keptsolemn guard over the front door on Wednesdays, from two to three. Rashvisitors never reached the bell, but were met, on the doorstep, by alittle maid whose tiny finger rested upon her lip. "Hush," she wouldsay, "Aunt Peace is asleep!" Interruptions were infrequent, however, forEast Lancaster knew Miss Field's habits--and respected them.
"Good-bye, my dears," she said, as she paused at the foot of the windingstairs, "I leave you for a far country, where, perhaps, I shall meetsome of my old friends. I shall visit strange lands and have many newexperiences, some of which will doubtless be impossible and grotesque. Ishall be gone but one short hour, and when I return I shall have much totell you."
"She dreams," explained Iris, in a low voice, as the mistress of themansion smiled back at them over the railing, "and when she wakes shealways tells me."
Lynn went out for a long tramp, after vainly endeavouring to persuadehis mother or Iris to accompany him. "I'm walked enough at night as itis," said Mrs. Irving, and the girl excused herself on account of herhousehold duties.
He clattered down the steps, banged the gate, and went whistling downthe elm-bordered path. The mother listened, fondly, till the cheerynotes 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 toherself, Margaret paced to and fro; down the long hall, then back,through the parlour and library, and so on, restlessly, until shereflected 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 topmosttwig and paid no attention to him. From the distant orchard came thebreath of apple blooms, and a single bluebird winged his solitary wayacross the fields, his colour gleaming brightly for an instant againstthe silvery clouds. Beautiful as it was, Margaret sighed, and her facelost 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 presencein the room, but did not turn away from the window. Iris was one ofthose rare people with whom one could be silent and not feel that theproprieties had been injured.
Deep down in her heart, Margaret had stored away all the bitterness ofher 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. Wereit not for the merciful readjustment, this grey old world of ours wouldbe too dark to live in.
At length she turned and looked at the little seamstress, who sat boltupright, as she had been taught, in the carved mahogany chair. Shenoted the long lashes that swept the tinted cheek, the masses ofblue-black hair over the low, white brow, the tender wistfulness in thelines of the mouth, the dimpled hands, and the rounded arm--so evidentlymade for all the sweet uses of love that Margaret's heart contracted insudden pain.
"Iris," she said, in a tone that startled the girl, "when the right mancomes, and you know absolutely in your own heart that he is the rightman, go with him, whether he be prince or beggar. If unhappiness comesto you, take it bravely, as a gentlewoman should, but never, for yourown sake, allow yourself to regret your faith in him. If you love himand he loves you, there are no barriers between you--they are nothingbut cobwebs. Sweep them aside with a single stroke of magnificentdaring, and go. Social position counts for nothing, other people'sopinions count for nothing; it is between your heart and his, and inthat sanctuary no one else has a right to intrude. If he has only acrust to give you, share it with him, but do not let anyone persuade youinto a lifetime of heart-hunger--it is too hard to bear!"
&
nbsp; The girl's deep eyes were fixed upon her, childish, appealing, and yetwith evident understanding. Margaret's face was full of tender pity--wasthis butterfly, too, destined to be broken on the wheel?
Iris felt the sudden passion of the other, saw traces of suffering inthe dark eyes, the set lips, and even in the slender hands that hoveredwhitely 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, heavyblack silk, simply made. At the neck and wrists were bits of rare oldlace, and her one jewel, an emerald of great beauty and value, gleamedat her throat. She wore no rings except the worn band of gold that hadbeen 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 thethread lace she was making, and began to count her stitches.
"I think I'll get my sewing, too," said Margaret. "I feel like a dronein this hive of industry."
"One, two, three, chain," said Aunt Peace. "Iris, do you think the cakesare 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 Iasked him not to come. The common people sometimes feel those thingsmore keenly than aristocrats, who are accustomed to the disturbance ofguests."
"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 thetime to make myself a petticoat by hand! The atmosphere of EastLancaster 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 itcritically. "It is not what I could do at your age," she continued, "butit will answer very well."
Lynn came in noisily, remembering only at the threshold that one did notwhistle in East Lancaster houses. "I had a fine tramp," he said, "allover West Lancaster and through the woods on both sides of it. I hadsome flowers for all of you, but I laid them down on a stone and forgotto go back after them. Aunt Peace, you're looking fine since you hadyour nap. Still working at that petticoat, mother?"
"We're all making petticoats," answered Margaret. "Even Aunt Peace isknitting lace for one and Iris has hers almost done."
"Let me see it," said Lynn. He reached over and took it out of thegirl's lap while she was threading her needle. Much to his surprise, itwas immediately snatched away from him. Iris paused only long enough toadminister a sounding box to the offender's ear, then marched out of theroom with her head high and her work under her arm.
"Well, of all things," said Lynn, ruefully. "Why wouldn't she let melook at her petticoat?"
"Because," answered Aunt Peace, severely, "Iris has been brought up likea lady! Gentlemen did not expect to see ladies' petticoats when I wasyoung!"
"Oh," said Lynn, "I see." His mouth twitched and he glanced sideways athis 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 theparlour. "Good evening, Doctor," said Miss Field, in her stately way; "Iassure you this is quite a pleasure." She presented him to Mrs. Irvingand Lynn, and motioned him to an easy-chair.
He was tall, straight, and seventy; almost painfully neat, and evidentlya gentleman of the old school.
"I trust you are well, madam?"
"I am always well," returned Aunt Peace. "If all the other old ladies inEast Lancaster were as well as I, you would soon be obliged to take downyour sign and seek another location."
The others took but small part in the conversation, which was neverlively, and which, indeed, might have been stilted by the presence ofstrangers. It was the commonplace talk of little things, whichdistinguishes the country town, and it lasted for half an hour. As theclock 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 hadbeen reading, and the young people went to the library, where they couldtalk undisturbed.
They played three games. Miss Field won the first and third, herantagonist contenting himself with the second. It had always been so,and for ten years she had taken a childish delight in her skill. "Mydear Doctor," she often said, "it takes a woman of brains to playchess."
"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 inthe beginning and it had never happened since.
When the clock struck ten, he looked at his heavy, old-fashioned silverwatch 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 beforeyou begin that long walk. Iris?"
"Yes, Aunt Peace." The girl knew very well what was expected of her, anddimples came and went around the corners of her mouth.
"Those little cakes that we had for tea--perhaps there may be one or twoleft, and is there not a little wine?"
"I'll see."
Smiling at the pretty comedy, she went out into the kitchen, whereDoctor Brinkerhoff's favourite cakes, freshly made, had been carefullyput away. Only one of them had been touched, and that merely to makesure of the quality.
With the Royal Worcester plate, generously piled with cakes, a tray ofglasses, and a decanter of Miss Field's famous port, she went back intothe parlour.
"This is very charming," said the Doctor. He had made the same speechonce a week for ten years. Aunt Peace filled the glasses, and when allhad been served, she looked at him with a rare smile upon her beautifulold 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, andeven Lynn, who was listening critically, was forced to admit that shedid it well.
At eleven, the guest went away, his hostess cordially inviting him tocome 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 athousand pities that he has no social position."
