by Myrtle Reed
VIII
A Bit of Human Driftwood
"Present company excepted," remarked Lynn, "this village is full offossils."
"At what age does one get to be a 'fossil,'" asked Aunt Peace, her eyestwinkling. "Seventy-five?"
"That isn't fair," Lynn answered, resentfully. "You're younger than anyof us, Aunt Peace,--you're seventy-five years young."
"So I am," she responded, good humouredly. She was upon excellent termswith this tall, straight young fellow who had brought new life into herhousehold. A March wind, suddenly sweeping through her rooms, would havehad much the same effect.
"Am I a fossil?" asked Margaret, who had overheard the conversation.
"You're nothing but a kid, mother. You've never grown up. I can do whatI please with you." He picked her up, bodily, and carried her, flushedand protesting, to her favourite chair, and dumped her into it. "AuntPeace, is there any place in the house where you might care to go?"
"Thank you, no. I'll stay where I am, if I may. I'm very comfortable."
Lynn paced back and forth with a heavy tread which resounded upon thepolished floor. Iris happened to be passing the door and looked in,anxiously, for signs of damage.
"Iris," laughed Miss Field, "what a little old maid you are! You remindme of that story we read together."
"Which story, Aunt Peace?"
"The one in which the over-neat woman married a careless man to reformhim. She used to follow him around with a brush and dustpan and sweep upafter him."
"That would make him nice and comfortable," observed Lynn. "What becameof the man?"
"He was sent to the asylum."
"And the woman?" asked Margaret.
"She died of a broken heart."
"I think I'd be in the asylum too," said Lynn. "I do not desire to beswept up after."
"Nobody desires to sweep up after you," retorted Iris, "but it has to bedone. Otherwise the house would be uninhabitable."
"East Lancaster," continued Lynn, irrelevantly, "is the abode of mummiesand fossils. The city seal is a broom--at least it should be. I wasnever in such a clean place in my life. The exhibits themselves look asthough they'd been freshly dusted. Dirt is wholesome--didn't you everhear that? How the population has lived to its present advanced age, isbeyond me."
"We have never really lived," returned Iris, with a touch of sarcasm,"until recently. Before you came, we existed. Now East Lancaster lives."
"Who's the pious party in brown silk with the irregular dome on herroof?" asked Lynn.
"The minister's second wife," answered Aunt Peace, instantly gathering apersonality from the brief description.
"So, as Herr Kaufmann says. Might one inquire about the jewel shewears?"
"It's just a pin," said Iris.
"It looks more like a glass case. In someway, it reminds me of amuseum."
"It has some of her first husband's hair in it," explained Iris.
"Jerusalem!" cried Lynn. "That's the limit! Fancy the feelings of thehappy bridegroom whose wife wears a jewel made out of her firsthusband's fur! Not for me! When I take the fatal step, it won't be awidow."
"That," remarked Margaret, calmly, "is as it may be. We have thereputation of being a bad lot."
Lynn flushed, patted his mother's hand awkwardly, and hastily beat aretreat. They heard him in the room overhead, walking back and forth,and practising feverishly.
"Margaret," asked Miss Field, suddenly, "what are you going to make ofthat boy?"
"A good man first," she answered. "After that, what God pleases."
By a swift change, the conversation had become serious, and, alwaysquick at perceiving hidden currents, Iris felt herself in the way.Making an excuse, she left them.
For some time each was occupied with her own thoughts. "Margaret," saidMiss Field, again, then hesitated.
"Yes, Aunt Peace--what is it?"
"My little girl. I have been thinking--after I am gone, you know."
"Don't talk so, dear Aunt Peace. We shall have you with us for a longtime yet."
"I hope so," returned the old lady, brightly, "but I am not endowed withimmortality--at least not here,--and I have already lived more than myallotted threescore and ten. My problem is not a new one--I have had iton my mind for years,--and when you came I thought that perhaps you hadcome to help me solve it."
"And so I have, if I can."
"My little girl," said Aunt Peace,--and the words were a caress,--"shehas given to me infinitely more than I have given to her. I have neverceased to bless the day I found her."
Between these two there were no questions, save the ordinary,meaningless ones which make so large a part of conversation. The deepswere silently passed by; only the shallows were touched.
"You have the right to know," Miss Field continued. "Iris is twenty now,or possibly twenty-one. She has never known when her birthday came, andso we celebrate it on the anniversary of the day I found her.
"I was driving through the country, fifteen or twenty miles from EastLancaster. I--I was with Doctor Brinkerhoff," she went on, unwillingly."He had asked me to go and see a patient of his, in whom, from what hehad told me, I had learned to take great interest. Doctor Brinkerhoff,"she said, sturdily, "is a gentleman, though he has no social position."
"Yes," replied Margaret, seeing that an answer was expected, "he is acharming gentleman."
"It was a warm Summer day, and on our way back we came upon a dozen ormore ragged children, playing in the road. They refused to let us pass,and we could not run over them. A dilapidated farmhouse stood close by,but no one was in sight.
"'Please hold the lines,' said the Doctor. 'I will get out and lead thehorse past this most unnecessary obstruction.' When he got out, thechildren began to throw stones at the horse. It was a young animal, andit started so violently that I was almost thrown from my seat. Onechild, a girl of ten, climbed into the buggy and shrieked to the rest:'I'll hold the lines--get more stones!'
"I was frightened and furiously angry, but I could do nothing, for I hadonly one hand free. I tried to make the child sit down, and she struckat me. Her torn sleeve fell back, and I saw that her arm was bruised, asif with heavy blows.
"Meanwhile the Doctor had led the horse a little way ahead, and had comeback. The whole tribe was behind us, yelling like wild Indians, and wewere in the midst of a rain of stones. Doctor Brinkerhoff got in andstarted the horse at full speed.
"'We'll put her down,' he said, 'a little farther on. She can walkback.'
"She was quiet, and her head was down, but I had one look from her eyesthat haunts me yet. She hated everybody--you could see that,--and yetthere was a sort of dumb helplessness about it that made my heart ache.
"She got out, obediently, when we told her to, and stood by theroadside, watching us. 'Doctor,' I said, 'that child is not like theothers, and she has been badly used. I want her--I want to take her homewith me.'
"'Bless your kind heart, dear lady,' he replied, laughing, and we werealmost at home before I convinced him that I was in earnest. He wouldnot let me go there again, but the very next day, he went, late in theafternoon, and brought her to me after dark, so that no one might see.East Lancaster has always made the most of every morsel of gossip.
"The poor little soul was hungry, frightened, and oh, so dirty! I gaveher a bath, cut off her hair, which was matted close to her head, fedher, and put her into a clean bed. The bruises on her body would havebrought tears from a stone. I sat by her until she was asleep, and thenwent down to interview the Doctor, who was reading in the library.
"He said that the people who had her were more than glad to get rid ofher, and hoped that they might never see her again. Nothing had beenpaid toward her support for a long time, and they considered themselvesvictimised.
"Of course I put detectives at work upon the case and soon found out allthere was to know. She was the daughter of a play-actress, whose stagename was Iris Temple. Her husband deserted her a few months after theirmarriage, and when the child was born, sh
e was absolutely destitute.Finally, she found work, but she could not take the child with her, andso Iris does not remember her mother at all. For six years she paidthese people a small sum for the care of the child, then remittancesceased, and abuse began. We learned that she had died in a hospital, butthere was no trace of the father.
"There was no one to dispute my title, so I at once made it legal.Shortly afterward, she had a long, terrible fever, and oh, Margaret, thethings that poor child said in her delirium! Doctor Brinkerhoff was herenight and day, and his skill saved her, but when she came out of it shewas a pitiful little ghost. Mercifully, she had forgotten a great deal,but even now some of the horror comes back to her occasionally. Sheknows everything, except that her mother was a play-actress. I would notwant her to know that.
"For a while," Aunt Peace went on, "we both had a very hard time. Shewas actually depraved. But I believed in the good that was hidden in hersomewhere--there is good in all of us if we can only find it,--andlittle by little she learned to love me. Through it all, I had DoctorBrinkerhoff's sympathetic assistance. He came every week, advised me,counselled with me, helped me, and even faced the gossips. All that EastLancaster knows is the simple fact that I found a child who attractedme, discovered that her parents were dead, and adopted her. There was agreat deal of excitement at first, but it died down. Most things diedown, my dear, if we give them time."
"Dear Aunt Peace," said Margaret, softly, "you found a bit of humandriftwood, and with your love and your patience made it into a beautifulwoman."
The old face softened, and the serene eyes grew dim. "Whenever I thinkthat my life has been in vain; when it seems empty, purposeless, andbare, I look at my little girl, remember what she was, and find content.I think that a great deal will be forgiven me, because I have done wellwith her."
"I am so glad you told me," continued Margaret, after a little.
"Her future has sorely troubled me. Of course I can make hercomfortable, but money is not everything. I dread to have her go awayfrom East Lancaster, and yet----"
"She never need go," interrupted Margaret. "If, as you say, the housecomes to me, there is no reason why she should. I would be so glad tohave her with me!"
"Thank you, my dear! It was what I wanted, but I did not like to ask.Now my mind will be at rest."
"It is little enough to do for you, leaving her out of the question. Shemight be a great deal less lovely than she is, and yet it would be apleasure to do it for you."
"She will repay you, I am sure," said Aunt Peace. "Of course Lynn willmarry sometime,"--here the mother's heart stopped beating for an instantand went on unevenly,--"so you will be left alone. You cannot expect tokeep him in a place like East Lancaster. He is--how old?"
"Twenty-three."
"Then, in a few years more, he will leave you." Aunt Peace was merelymeditating aloud as she looked out of the window, and had no idea thatshe was hurting her listener. "Perhaps, after all, Iris will be my bestbequest to you."
"Iris may marry," suggested Mrs. Irving, trying to smile.
"Iris," repeated Aunt Peace, "no indeed! I have made her anold-fashioned spinster like myself. She has never thought of suchthings, and never will!"
(At the moment, Miss Temple was reading an anonymous letter, much worn,but, though walls have ears, they are happily blind, and Aunt Peace didnot realise that she was nowhere near the mark.)
"Marriage is a negative relation," continued Miss Field, with an air ofknowledge. "People undertake it from an unpardonable individualcuriosity. They see it all around them, and yet they rush in, blindlytrusting that their own venture will turn out differently from everyother. Someone once said that it was like a crowded church--thoseoutside were endeavouring to get in, and those inside were makingviolent efforts to get out. Personally, I have had the better part ofit. I have my home, my independence, and I have brought up a child.Moreover, I have not been annoyed with a husband."
"Suppose one falls in love," said Margaret, timidly.
"Love!" exclaimed Aunt Peace. "Stuff and nonsense!" She rosemajestically, and went out with her head high and the step of agrenadier.
Left to herself, Margaret mentally reviewed their conversation, passingresolutely over the hurt that Aunt Peace had unconsciously made in herheart. Never before had it occurred to her that Lynn might marry. "Hecan't," she whispered; "why, he's nothing but a child."
She turned her thoughts to Iris and Aunt Peace. The homeless littlesavage had grown into a charming woman, under the patient care of theonly mother she had ever known. If Aunt Peace should die--and if Lynnshould marry,--she did not phrase the thought, but she was veryconscious of its existence,--she and Iris might make a little home forthemselves in the old house. Two men, even the best of friends, cannever make a home, but two women, on speaking terms, may do so.
"If Lynn should marry!" Insistently, the torment of it returned. If heshould fall in love, who was she to put a barrier in his path? Hismother, whose heart had been hungry all these years, should she keep himback by so much as a word? Then, all at once, she knew that it was herown warped life which demanded it by way of compensation.
"No," she breathed, with her lips white, "I will never stand in his way.Because I have suffered, he shall not." Then she laughed hysterically."How ridiculous I am!" she said to herself. "Why, he is nothing but achild!"
The mood passed, and the woman's soul began to dwell upon its preciousmemories. Mnemosyne, that guardian angel, forever separates the wheatfrom the chaff, the joy from the pain. At the touch of her hallowedfingers, the heartache takes on a certain calmness, which is none theless beautiful because it is wholly made of tears.
Lynn's violin was silent now, and softly, from the back of the house,the girl's full contralto swelled into a song.
"The hours I spent with thee, Dear Heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart-- My rosary! My rosary!"
Iris sang because she was happy, but, none the less, the deep, vibrantvoice had an undertone of sadness--a world-old sorrow which, by rightof inheritance, was hers.
Margaret's thoughts went back to her own girlhood, when she was no olderthan the unseen singer. Love's cup had been at her lips, then, and hadbeen dashed away by a relentless hand.
"O memories that bless and burn! O barren pain and bitter loss! I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross--Sweetheart! To kiss the cross!"
"'To kiss the cross,'" muttered Margaret, then the tears came in ablinding flood. "Mother! Mother!" she sobbed. "How could you!"
Insensibly, something was changed, and, for the first time, the womanwho had gone to her grave unforgiven, seemed not entirely beyond thereach of pardon.
