Chapter III
On Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his afternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate this wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and autumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself with, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines festooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along the gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums bloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table in spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o’clock dinner—sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in, these days.
When all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have occasion to wear in her workaday world—a white cashmere, her grandfather’s favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt, for grandpa’s favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight at the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited for him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had exchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he came into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and roses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to receive him, sweeping a low courtesy with “A merry Christmas to you, sir; happy and oft this day return to thee,” he rubbed his old eyes in amazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two lookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen door, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was guilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage of a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He murmured “Beautiful!” but whether it referred to the charming room, the faultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell?
He came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white grapes and bananas, which he presented with a “Merry Christmas” to Mr. Winthrop.
“You have friends with you?” he said, glancing about him.
“Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance to please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr. Thornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a seat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our Christmas a happy one.”
So sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest experienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world there was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most enjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious and delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never lacked either topics or thoughts for conversation.
In the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr. Winthrop turned to Lily, saying, “My dear, take our friend out and show him that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another plant like it in this country.”
“Here is something finer than roses,” Lily said, pausing at the entrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with blossoms.
“They are wonderfully sweet,” he said, bending over them, “but I have a great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy little souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and open their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not exclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by scattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them as freely as water or air.”
“I can show you some of those, too,” she said. “I brought them from the woods for the sake of old times. Here is my pet corner.”
This was a moss-covered rock, the water trickling over it, tall ferns behind it, and clusters of wood violets nestling at the foot.
“This is a bit of the woods, you see, Mr. Thornton, except that the ferns are in pots, and the violets in boxes. Will not these violets be astonished when they wake up in this strange place instead of down by the stump in the woods where I found them?”
It seemed that Mr. Thornton’s lips opened of themselves to say, “Yes, I very well remember the day.”
And Lily, just then, remembered the day, too, and the curious circumstance that had often puzzled her—the maple branch broken off and laid in her path, and yet no one appeared to be in the woods but herself. “Was Mr. Thornton there, too?” She gave him a quick look, but he was absorbed in studying the violets with a perfectly grave face, and she put the idea from her as absurd.
“He is very absent-minded,” she told herself; “is in haste to be gone, and considers me tiresome.”
He came over again to the English violets and took long breaths of their sweetness, then said, “I have a friend who calls this her flower, and these blossoms are not more fragrant than is her spirit. Will you kindly cut a few for her?” And drawing out his watch, “It is quite time I was gone.” He took his violets, lingered again outside, admiring the beauty of the scene. Everything was clear-cut against a cloudless sky and white moonlit earth.
“Gloriously beautiful, is it not?” he said. “Think of looking up at such a sky as that,—
“‘In the solemn midnight, centuries ago,’
“searching for the one star.”
“Think of seeing a multitude of angels appear in such a sky,” she said, with upturned face.
The pure, rapt expression and the white robes made her companion fear for an instant that she would vanish out of his sight, and he involuntarily drew her hand through his arm and moved on.
“After all, Mr. Thornton,” she said, “my thoughts are rather on the earth than the sky, to-night. ‘Peace on earth, good will to men.’ I’ve been singing it all day. The Lord has been very kind to us this Christmas. He sent us this lovely home for our very own—Grandpa told you, did he not? See it in the moonlight! Does it not look like a dear little gray dove nestled down among the snows and the evergreens?”
It was a glowing face Mr. Thornton turned to her. These were precious words to hear, and he rejoiced that his secret had been well kept.
In lieu of other friends this young florist held much converse with her flowers, fairly investing them with souls. She went back to them now, and looked them over lovingly.
“He has a friend who loves white violets,” she told them. “Do you suppose she is like him?” but the perfumed breath did not answer.
“You darling!” to a white rose, “I’m so glad you have come; I have watched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen,” and she touched her lips to the delicate petals. “What if she were like you, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla, beautiful, and white, and cold—not sweet? What if she be some little plain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none the less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies, in your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she wise and good? She must be like him,” she whispered to the heliotrope, putting her face down amid its sweetness, “or he could not have called her life fragrant.” She put a sharp, quick check just then on both tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an unwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton’s affairs, and had enjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions as she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to put on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She had shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to take early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought; that his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too, as if to say, “Be careful, do not set your heart upon me.” She felt vexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about preparations for the next day’s work with a resolute, business-like air. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into little knots or graceful handfuls for the next day’s market, for people would need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow the day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but the very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed her, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude! It should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut the door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song—snatches of old Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled as fast as they could go to “The Old Ladies’ Home,” and gave out their fragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she did no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had she known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before he parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then stored them among his treasures when he reached home!
Life had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop seemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a humble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and pruning plants.
Sturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of the deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means of paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, “No, no, I will stay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf you; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go,” whereat Lily bestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound her in loving servitude to the family.
By many skillful manœuvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his own gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse, assuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from idleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had, paying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he furnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain it is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to do, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that had been bare, and every old lady in the “Home” had her pet in the shape of a plant of his giving.
The winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings at the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it was not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside and a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know that while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop’s conversation, and the room was as cosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden stole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and sat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers; indeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable impression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as they thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection upon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of his own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr. Winthrop’s in words that were floating through his mind, they might have been these:—
“A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face
The lineaments of Gospell bookes.”
And yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this. The truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though delightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction, and he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and conscience approved.
There was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much hollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among young ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the aim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in womankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had in early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a beautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to be empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel, and counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a keen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere appearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day by day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the consecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he should discover the hideous blight spot.
It had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton came, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily, while she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance. She pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments of finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels, and a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must she be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his coming—always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare, delicate fragrance typified her to him!
If sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms, she dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was this? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well to her heart, treacherous heart repining at another’s happiness. This was only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of—that she did not admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful, trusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that promised only a life of toil.
It so happened that Mr. Thornton sometimes sought her in the greenhouse, as the evening waned and she did not appear; but she seemed absorbed in her work, and determined to take for granted that it was a purely business call with a pertinacity that was both amusing and annoying; annoying in that the chief subject of Mr. Thornton’s perplexed musings in these days was, not what estimate to put upon her, but to discover, if possible, what one she put upon him.
One evening he strayed in and laughingly declared that she “must suspend industry for a time, and turn cicerone, as there were doubtless many points of interest in her flowery kingdom that he had not yet visited.”
The enthusiastic florist was always pleased to do this, much more when one could open up such treasures of riches on any theme as could this devout student of nature. And so, all unawares as they went about, she was drifted into a sea of most delightful talk. They discussed families and the different members, as if people and not plants were being analyzed. He described some of the curious relatives of these families that he had met in foreign lands. Then they came down to the broad plane; the wonderful variety in form, color and fragrance, of God’s beautiful creations, the thought of us in it all; and here there were so many things to be said, such perfect harmony of thought, that the talk flowed on and on, until Lily had forgotten that she was to maintain a dignified reserve toward this friend of her grandfather’s. They came at last to clusters of lilies of the valley—just putting forth creamy bells.
“Dear little hardy things,” Mr. Thornton said, bending over them. “These are petted children, but their poor relations come trooping out before winter has fairly left us. They are my favorite lilies, so brave and sweet and modest.”
“You surely forget,” Lily said, “that the lily family is a large one.”
“Yes, I know. There’s that immense one, all purple and gold and crimson; you may admire it in the distance. Then the day lilies are sweet, but they are stiff and ungraceful. The tiger lilies are showy, but mere show never commends itself to me; they have no fragrance.”
“You forget the queenly calla.”
“No; she is grand and beautiful, with stately manners, but you cannot take her right into your heart like these tiny creatures. These fit everywhere. They may fasten the bride’s veil or strew the dead baby’s pillow. You may give a handful to a beggar, or lay them in a sick, weak hand, and their perfume will steal softly up and bring comfort. They are such drooping, graceful bells, humbly hiding away in their green. I repeat, I love them best. Will you give me a few for my friend? She, too, is a lover of them.”
Lily was vexed at herself that her cheek just then took on the hue of the rose that it brushed against.
“His ‘friend!’ alway that friend. Why did she seem like an unwelcome spectre?”
While she clipped the stems and put them together, he talked on.
“I said these were the flower of flowers to me; I should have excepted one other.”
Has she not been so occupied in controlling the disturbance that “my friend” aroused, she would have noticed a quality in the tones that had not been there before, as well as the look that searched her face when she raised her eyes, after a little pause, with “Well?”
“This flower that I have in mind is a very hardy one, also. It will flourish in almost any climate; indeed, the more rocky the soil, and the rougher the winds that blow upon it, the more beautifully it develops.”
“That is strange,” she said, intent on fashioning her bouquet.
“What is stranger still, it blooms all the year round.”
“Is it fragrant?”
“Wonderfully so. Not a flower that ever I saw can compare with its delicate fragrance.”
“What color is it?”
“White, with a delicate flush of rose.”
“It must be lovely,” she said, holding off her flowers to get the effect of the arrangement. “Where are those flowers found?”
“They are very rare. I never saw but one.”
“Did you say it was a lily?”
“A lily.”
“Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?”
“Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one autumn day, was where I first saw it,” he said, looking into her eyes.
And now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the green leaves. In a flash it came to her—his meaning—and the maple bough in the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for her.
What words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she was making that reminded her of “his friend.” What right had he, though, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?
Without speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted them together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying coldly: “Here are your friend’s flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I must go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me—” “As your friend probably is for you,” she wanted to add.
Mr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the darkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while the full meaning of white violets and “your friend” dawned upon him.
Here was another bright leaf in the unfolding of this rare flower—she would have none of what rightfully belonged to another.
As Mr. Thornton took leave of her grandfather, he said to Lily,—
“Do you feel like performing a charitable deed to-morrow? Will you go with me to see a dear old saint who has not long to live, and who would be cheered, no doubt, by a visit from you?”
She hesitated a moment, and her grandfather answered for her:
“Why, certainly she will go; she never refuses a call of that kind. You can go to-morrow, can’t you, dear?”
And Lily answered “Yes” to her grandfather, but did not look at Mr. Thornton, not even when he said “that he would call for her at four, and would she please have some cut flowers ready for him?” Then he said “Good-night!” and went.
It was not a very good night for her, though. She went over and over that strange evening. How happy and how miserable it had been! He probably meant nothing, after all, but a joke, and her foolish vanity had made so much of it; but then, he looked so much more than he said. What right had he to do that? Was he, after all, nothing but a trifler?
And what if she were mistaken, and he had no friend of the sort she had imagined? Ah! That thought made her heart stand still when she remembered the words he had but just spoken, the grave, tender tones, and earnest looks. But there were the white violets, and he had said she was like them—this friend.
She was ready punctually when the carriage came, with a bouquet she had prepared for the old lady and the flowers he had ordered. The talk on the way did not extend beyond the beauty of the day and the objects they happened to pass. Arriving at the “Old Ladies’ Home,” they were at once taken to the room of the invalid.
Aunt Phœbe, as all her friends called her, had a calm, pleasant face, with gray hair parted beneath a white muslin cap, and eyes that did not seem to belong to a sick person, they were such cheerful, satisfied eyes. She had given her best days to Christian service, and “had now sat down to rest a bit before she went home,” she said. Her face broke into a smile at sight of Mr. Thornton, as if he were a welcome visitor.
“Aunt Phœbe,” he said, “I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop; Miss Winthrop, this is Aunt Phœbe—my friend.”
“Are you feeling bright to-day?” he asked, putting into her hand—with as courtly grace as if she were a duchess—the bunch of white violets. As he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words; then he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention entirely to Aunt Phœbe.
They talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words to each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily listened she found herself repeating, “I believe in the communion of saints.”
They rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as she put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe’s hand.
“Bless you! Dear child,” whispered back the old lady. “I’ve known you this long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I’ve got more good in looking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word, than from some very long speeches.” The last few words reached Mr. Thornton’s ears, who said:
“That is a blow aimed at me,” then taking up the basket of flowers, “Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?”
So they went, knocking at each old lady’s door, leaving handfuls of flowers, and receiving in return benedictions. “But why did you not tell me?” Lily said, “and I would have made them into bouquets.”
“Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them over and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers, and I let them choose.”
Here, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton purchased. How many revelations were being made!
On the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Phœbe, as well as that of “The Home,” its organization, management, workings, etc., leaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.
He simply said “Good-night!” when he left her at her own door, and drove away, giving no sign that he ever expected to come back. He came, though, two hours afterward; he guessed where he should find her: in the greenhouse, by the lilies. He came over to her and asked,—
“How did you like my friend? Did she look as you expected her to?” The vision of his friend that her imagination had pictured came up before her in such ludicrous contrast to the reality that she laughed merrily, and Mr. Thornton joined it. There was no more talking in enigmas after that.
While the moonbeams fell upon their heads like a benediction, there were more revelations, as each read pages that no other eyes had looked upon. The tale was long, but the violets, nor the nodding roses, nor the lily bells ever breathed a word of it to anybody.
Weeks afterward it occurred to Lily to ask Mr. Thornton what the “H” in his name represented.
“Hathaway,” he promptly responded, and immediately knew that his secret was out.
Lily and her grandfather exchanged wondering looks.
“Is it possible that you are—that you can tell me—who the friend is to whom I am so much indebted?” Mr. Winthrop said, his voice trembling with emotion.
“Thy Heavenly Friend,” said Mr. Thornton reverently.