diff options
Diffstat (limited to '33601-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 33601-h/33601-h.htm | 7751 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 33601-h/images/i001bottom.jpg | bin | 0 -> 11325 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 33601-h/images/i001strip.jpg | bin | 0 -> 1704 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 33601-h/images/i001top.jpg | bin | 0 -> 11217 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 33601-h/images/icover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 111640 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 33601-h/images/ititle.jpg | bin | 0 -> 4754 bytes |
6 files changed, 7751 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/33601-h/33601-h.htm b/33601-h/33601-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..442a20e --- /dev/null +++ b/33601-h/33601-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7751 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Master’s Violin, by Myrtle Reed. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + td {vertical-align: top;} + + hr.large {width: 65%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + hr.medium {width: 45%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + hr.tiny {width: 15%; margin-top: 0.25em; margin-bottom: 0.25em;} + + div.centered {text-align:center;} /*work around for IE centering with CSS problem part 1 */ + div.centered table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; text-align:left;} /* work around for IE problem part 2 */ + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + ul.none {list-style-type: none} + + div.titlepage {margin-top: 3px; margin-bottom: 4px; + padding: 2px 2px 2px; width: 500px; + background-image: url("images/i001strip.jpg"); + background-position: top center; + background-repeat: repeat-y; + margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; } + .bbox2 {border: solid black 2px;} + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + .bbox2 {border: none;} + + .centerbox {width: 12em; /* heading box */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center;} + .centerbox2 {width: 13em; /* heading box */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center;} + .centerbox3 {width: 18em; /* heading box */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center;} + .centerbox4 {width: 16em; /* heading box */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center;} + .centerbox5 {width: 22em; /* headingbox */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center;} + .centerbox6 {width: 19em; /* headingbox */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center;} + + .centerbox11 {width: 508px; /* heading box */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center;} + .centerbox12 {width: 440px; /* heading box */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center;} + .n {text-indent:0%;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .right {text-align: right;} + .gap {margin-top: 2em;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Master's Violin, by Myrtle Reed + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Master's Violin + +Author: Myrtle Reed + +Release Date: September 1, 2010 [EBook #33601] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER'S VIOLIN *** + + + + +Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 312px;"> +<img src="images/icover.jpg" width="312" height="500" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<hr class="large" /> + +<div class="bbox2 centerbox11"> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/i001top.jpg" width="500" height="29" alt="" title="top border" /></div> +<div class="titlepage"> + +<div class="centerbox12 bbox2"> + +<h1>THE MASTER’S<br /> +VIOLIN</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> +<h2>MYRTLE REED</h2> + +<p class="center">Author of</p> + +<p class="center">“Lavender and Old Lace”<br /> +“Old Rose and Silver”<br /> +“A Spinner in the Sun”<br /> +“Flower of the Dusk”<br /> +Etc.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 175px;"> +<img src="images/ititle.jpg" width="175" height="60" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h4>New York</h4> +<h2><i>GROSSET & DUNLAP</i></h2> +<h4>Publishers</h4></div></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px"><img src="images/i001bottom.jpg" alt="" title="bottom border" +width="500" height="29" /></div></div> + +<hr class="large" /> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1904<br /> +BY<br /> +MYRTLE REED</p> + +<p class="gap"> </p> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary="Books by Myrtle Reed"> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center"><span class="smcap">By Myrtle Reed</span>:</td></tr> + +<tr><td><ul class="none"><li>A Weaver of Dreams</li> +<li>Old Rose and Silver</li> +<li>Lavender and Old Lace</li> +<li>The Master’s Violin</li> +<li>Love Letters of a Musician</li> +<li>The Spinster Book</li> +<li>The Shadow of Victory</li></ul></td> + +<td><ul class="none"><li>Sonnets to a Lover</li> +<li>Master of the Vineyard</li> +<li>Flower of the Dusk</li> +<li>At the Sign of the Jack-O’Lantern</li> +<li>A Spinner in the Sun</li> +<li>Later Love Letters of a Musician</li> +<li>Love Affairs of Literary Men</li></ul></td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="center">Myrtle Reed Year Book</td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p class="center">This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers<br /> +<span class="smcap">G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York and London</span></p> + +<hr class="large" /> +<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>Contents</h2> + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" width="70%" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> + +<tr><td align="right"><small>CHAPTER</small></td> +<td> </td> +<td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">I—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Master Plays</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">II—</td> +<td align="left">“<span class="smcap">Mine Cremona</span>”</td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_20">20</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">III—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Gift of Peace</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">IV—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">Social Position</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">V—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Light of Dreams</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">VI—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Letter</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">VII—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">Friends</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">VIII—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Bit of Human Driftwood</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">IX—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">Rosemary and Mignonette</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">X—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">In the Garden</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XI—</td> +<td align="left">“<span class="smcap">Sunset and Evening Star</span>”</td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_144">144</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XII—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">The False Line</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XIII—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">To Iris</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XIV—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">Her Name-Flower</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XV—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">Little Lady</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XVI—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">Afraid of Life</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_215">215</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XVII—</td> +<td align="left">“<span class="smcap">He Loves Her Still</span>”</td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XVIII—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">Lynn Comes Into His Own</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_247">247</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XIX—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Secret Chamber</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XX—</td> +<td align="left">“<span class="smcap">Mine Brudder’s Friend</span>”</td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_280">280</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">XXI—</td> +<td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Cremona Speaks</span></td> +<td align="right"><a href="#Page_298">298</a></td></tr> + +</table></div> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h2> + +<h2>The Master Plays</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">T</span>he fire blazed newly from its embers and set strange shadows to dancing +upon the polished floor. Now and then, there was a gleam from some dark +mahogany surface and an answering flash from a bit of old silver in the +cabinet. April, warm with May’s promise, came in through the open +window, laden with the wholesome fragrance of growing things, and yet, +because an old lady loved it, there was a fire upon the hearth and no +other light in the room.</p> + +<p>She sat in her easy chair, sheltered from possible draughts, and watched +it, seemingly unmindful of her three companions. Tints of amethyst and +sapphire appeared in the haze from the backlog and were lost a moment +later in the dominant flame. In that last hour of glorious life, the +tree was giving back its memories—blue skies, grey days just <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>tinged +with gold, lost rainbows, and flashes of sun.</p> + +<p>Friendly ghosts of times far past were conjured back in +shadows—outspread wings, low-lying clouds, and long nights that ended +in dawn. Swift flights of birds and wandering craft of thistledown were +mirrored for an instant upon the shining floor, and then forgotten, +because of falling leaves.</p> + +<p>Lines of transfiguring light changed the snowy softness of Miss Field’s +hair to silver, and gave to her hands the delicacy of carved ivory. A +tiny foot peeped out from beneath her gown, clad in its embroidered silk +stocking and high-heeled slipper, so brave in its trappings of silver +buckles that she might have been eighteen instead of seventy-five.</p> + +<p>Upon her face the light lay longest; perhaps with an answering love. The +years had been kind to her—had given her only enough bitterness to make +her realise the sweetness, and from the threads that Life had placed in +her hands at the beginning, had taught her how to weave the blessed +fabric of Content.</p> + +<p>“Aunt Peace,” asked the girl, softly, “have you forgotten that we have +company?”</p> + +<p>Dispelled by the voice, the gracious phantoms <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>of Memory vanished. There +was a little silence, then the old lady smiled. “No, dearie,” she said, +“indeed I haven’t. It is too rare a blessing for me to forget.”</p> + +<p>“Please don’t call us ‘company,’” put in the other woman, quickly, +“because we’re not.”</p> + +<p>“‘Company,’” observed the young man on the opposite side of the hearth, +“is extremely good under the circumstances. Somebody nearly breaks down +your front door on a rainy afternoon, and when you rush out to save the +place from ruin, you discover two dripping tramps on your steps. +Stranded on an island in the road is a waggon containing their trunks, +from which place of refuge they recently swam to your door. ‘How do you +do, Aunt Peace?’ says mother; ‘we’ve come to live with you from this +time on to the finish.’ On behalf of this committee, ladies, I thank +you, from my heart, for calling us ‘company.’”</p> + +<p>Laughing, he rose and made an exaggerated courtesy. “Lynn! Lynn!” +expostulated his mother. “Is it possible that after all my explanations +you don’t understand? Why, I wrote more than two weeks ago, asking her +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>to let us know if she didn’t want us. Silence always gives consent, and +so we came.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, we came all right,” continued the boy, cheerfully, “and, as +everybody knows, we’re here now, but isn’t it just like a woman? Upon my +word, I think they’re queer—the whole tribe.”</p> + +<p>“Having thus spoken,” remarked the girl, “you might tell us how a man +would have managed it.”</p> + +<p>“Very easily. A man would have called in his stenographer—no, he +wouldn’t, either, because it was a personal letter. He would have made +an excavation into his desk and found the proper stationery, and would +have put in a new pen. ‘My dear Aunt Peace,’ he would have said, ‘you +mustn’t think I’ve forgotten you because I haven’t written for such a +long time. If I had written every time I had wanted to, or had thought +of you, actually, you’d have been bored to death with me. I have a kid +who thinks he is going to be a fiddler, and we have decided to come and +live with you while he finds out, as we understand that Herr Franz +Kaufmann, who is not unknown to fame, lives in your village. Will you +please let us know? If you can’t take <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>us, or don’t want to, here’s a +postage stamp, and no hard feelings on either side.’”</p> + +<p>“Just what I said,” explained Mrs. Irving, “though my language wasn’t +quite like yours.”</p> + +<p>The old lady smiled again. “My dears,” she began, “let us cease this +unprofitable discussion. It is all because we are so far out of the +beaten track that we seldom go to the post-office. I am sure the letter +is there now.”</p> + +<p>“I will get it to-morrow,” replied Lynn, “which is kind of me, +considering that my remarks have just been alluded to as +‘unprofitable.’”</p> + +<p>“You can’t expect everybody to think as much of what you say as you do,” +suggested Iris, with a trace of sarcasm.</p> + +<p>“Score one for you, Miss Temple. I shall now retire into my shell.” So +saying, he turned to the fire, and his face became thoughtful again.</p> + +<p>The three women looked at him from widely differing points of view. The +girl, concealed in the shadow, took maidenly account of his tall, +well-knit figure, his dark eyes, his sensitive mouth, and his firm, +finely modelled chin. From a half-defined impulse <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>of coquetry, she was +glad of the mood which had led her to put on her most becoming gown +early in the afternoon. The situation was interesting—there was a vague +hint of a challenge of some kind.</p> + +<p>Aunt Peace, so long accustomed to quiet ways, had at first felt the two +an intrusion into her well-ordered home, though at the same time her +hospitable instincts reproached her bitterly. He was of her blood and +her line, yet in some way he seemed like an alien suddenly claiming +kinship. A span of fifty years and more stretched between them, and +across it, they contemplated each other, both wondering. For his part he +regarded her as one might a cameo of fine workmanship or an old +miniature. She was so passionless, so virginal, so far removed from all +save the gentlest emotions, that he saw her only as one who stood apart.</p> + +<p>The smile still lingered upon her lips and the firelight made shadows +beneath her serene eyes. Had they asked her for her thoughts she could +have phrased only one. Deep down in her heart she wondered whether +anything on earth had ever been so joyously young as Lynn.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p><p>His mother, too, was watching him, as always when she thought herself +unobserved. In spite of his stalwart manhood, to her he was still a +child. Forgiving all things, dreaming all things, hoping all things with +the boundless faith of maternity, she loved him, through the child that +he was, for the man that he might be—loved him, through the man that he +was, for the child that he had been.</p> + +<p>The fire had died down, and Iris, leaning forward, laid a bit of pine +upon the dull glow in the midst of the ashes. It caught quickly, and +once again the magical light filled the room.</p> + +<p>“Sing something, dear,” said Aunt Peace, drowsily, and Iris made a +little murmur of dissent.</p> + +<p>“Do you sing, Miss Temple?” asked Irving, politely.</p> + +<p>“No,” she answered, “and what’s more, I know I don’t, but Aunt Peace +likes to hear me.”</p> + +<p>“We’d like to hear you, too,” said Mrs. Irving, so gently that no one +could have refused.</p> + +<p>Much embarrassed, she went to the piano, which stood in the next room, +just beyond <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>the arch, and struck a few chords. The instrument was old +and worn, but still sweet, and, fearful at first, but gaining confidence +as she went on, Iris sang an old-fashioned song.</p> + +<p>Her voice was contralto; deep, vibrant, and full, but untrained. Still, +there were evidences of study and of work along right lines. Before she +had finished, Irving was beside her, resting his elbow upon the piano.</p> + +<p>“Who taught you?” he asked, when the last note died away.</p> + +<p>“Herr Kaufmann,” she replied, diffidently.</p> + +<p>“I thought he was a violin teacher.”</p> + +<p>“He is.”</p> + +<p>“Then how can he teach singing?”</p> + +<p>“He doesn’t.”</p> + +<p>Irving went no farther, and Miss Temple, realising that she had been +rude, hastened to atone. “I mean by that,” she explained, “that he +doesn’t teach anyone but me. I had a few lessons a long time ago, from a +lady who spent the Summer here, and he has been helping me ever since. +That is all. He says it doesn’t matter whether people have voices or +not—if they have hearts, he can make them sing.”</p> + +<p>“You play, don’t you?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p><p>“Yes—a little. I play accompaniments for him sometimes.”</p> + +<p>“Then you’ll play with me, won’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps.”</p> + +<p>“When—to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll see,” laughed Iris. “You should be a lawyer instead of a +violinist. You make me feel as if I were on the witness stand.”</p> + +<p>“My father was a lawyer; I suppose I inherit it.” Iris had a question +upon her lips, but checked it.</p> + +<p>“He is dead,” the young man went on, as though in answer to it. “He died +when I was about five years old, and I remember him scarcely at all.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t remember either father or mother,” she said. “I had a very +unhappy childhood, and things that happened then make me shudder even +now. Just at the time it was hardest—when I couldn’t possibly have +borne any more—Aunt Peace discovered me. She adopted me, and I’ve been +happy ever since, except for all the misery I can’t forget.”</p> + +<p>“She’s not really your aunt, then?”</p> + +<p>“No. Legally, I am her daughter, but she wouldn’t want me to call her +‘mother,’ even if I could.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p><p>The talk in the other room had become merely monosyllables, with bits of +understanding silence between. Iris went back, and Mrs. Irving thanked +her prettily for the song.</p> + +<p>“Thank you for listening,” she returned.</p> + +<p>“Come, Aunt Peace, you’re nodding.”</p> + +<p>“So I was, dearie. Is it late?”</p> + +<p>“It’s almost ten.”</p> + +<p>In her stately fashion, Miss Field bade her guests good night. Iris lit +a candle and followed her up the broad, winding stairway. It made a +charming picture—the old lady in her trailing gown, the light throwing +her white hair into bold relief, and the girl behind her, smiling back +over the banister, and waving her hand in farewell.</p> + +<p>In Lynn’s fond sight, his mother was very lovely as she sat there, with +the firelight shining upon her face. He liked the way her dark hair grew +about her low forehead, her fair, smooth skin, and the mysterious depths +of her eyes. Ever since he could remember, she had worn a black gown, +with soft folds of white at the throat and wrists.</p> + +<p>“It’s time to go out for our walk now,” he said.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p><p>“Not to-night, son. I’m tired.”</p> + +<p>“That doesn’t make any difference; you must have exercise.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve had some, and besides, it’s wet.”</p> + +<p>Lynn was already out of hearing, in search of her wraps. He put on her +rubbers, paying no heed to her protests, and almost before she knew it, +she was out in the April night, woman-like, finding a certain pleasure +in his quiet mastery.</p> + +<p>The storm was over and the hidden moon silvered the edges of the clouds. +Here and there a timid planet looked out from behind its friendly +curtain, but only the pole star kept its beacon steadily burning. The +air was sweet with the freshness of the rain, and belated drops, falling +from the trees, made a faint patter upon the ground.</p> + +<p>Down the long elm-bordered path they went, the boy eager to explore the +unfamiliar place; the mother, harked back to her girlhood, thrilled with +both pleasure and pain.</p> + +<p>Happy are they who leave the scenes of early youth to the ministry of +Time. Going back, one finds the river a little brook, the long stretch +of woodland only a grove in the midst of a clearing, and the upland +pastures, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>that once seemed mountains, are naught but stony, barren +fields.</p> + +<p>As they stood upon the bridge, looking down into the rushing waters, +Margaret remembered the lost majesty of that narrow stream, and sighed. +The child who had played so often upon its banks had grown to a woman, +rich with Life’s deepest experiences, but the brook was still the same. +Through endless years it must be the same, drawing its waters from +unseen sources, while generation after generation withered away, like +the flowers that bloomed upon its grassy borders while the years were +young.</p> + +<p>Lynn broke rudely into her thoughts. “I wish I’d known you when you were +a kid, mother,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I think I’d have liked to play with you. We could have made some +jolly mud pies.”</p> + +<p>“We did, but you were three, and I was twenty-five. Much ashamed, too, I +remember, when your father caught me doing it.”</p> + +<p>“Am I like him?”</p> + +<p>He had asked the question many times and her answer was always the same. +“Yes, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>very much like him. He was a good man, Lynn.”</p> + +<p>“Do I look like him?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, all but your eyes.”</p> + +<p>“When you lived here, did you know Herr Kaufmann?”</p> + +<p>“By sight, yes.” He was looking straight at her, but she had turned her +face away, forgetting the darkness. “We used to see him passing in the +street,” she went on, in a different tone. “He was a student and never +seemed to know many people. He would not remember me.”</p> + +<p>“Then there’s no use of my telling him who I am?”</p> + +<p>“Not the least.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe he won’t take me.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he will,” she answered, though her heart suddenly misgave her. “He +must—there is no other way.”</p> + +<p>“Will you go with me?”</p> + +<p>“No, indeed; you must go alone. I shall not appear at all.”</p> + +<p>“Why, mother?”</p> + +<p>“Because.” It was her woman’s reason, which he had learned to accept as +final. Beyond that there was no appeal.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p><p>East Lancaster lay on one side of the brook and West Lancaster on the +other. The two settlements were quite distinct, though they had a common +bond of interest in the post-office, which was harmoniously situated +near the border line. East Lancaster was the home of the aristocracy. +Here were old Colonial mansions in which, through their descendants, the +builders still lived. The set traditions of a bygone century held full +sway in the place, but, though circumscribed by conditions, the upper +circle proudly considered itself complete.</p> + +<p>West Lancaster was on a hill, and a steep one at that. Hardy German +immigrants had settled there, much to the disgust of East Lancaster, +holding itself sternly aloof year after year. It was not considered +“good form” to allude to the dwellers upon the hill, save in low tones +and with lifted brows, yet there were not wanting certain good +Samaritans who sent warm clothing and discarded playthings, after +nightfall and by stealth, to the little Teutons who lived so near them.</p> + +<p>Hemmed in by the everlasting hills, estranged from its neighbour, and +barely upon speaking terms with other towns, East Lancaster <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>let the +world go on by. Two trains a day rushed through the station, for the +main line of the railroad, receiving no encouragement from East +Lancaster, had laid its tracks elsewhere. It was still spoken of as “the +time when, if you will remember, my dear, they endeavoured to ruin our +property with dirt and noise.”</p> + +<p>“Her clothes are like her name,” remarked Lynn.</p> + +<p>“Whose clothes?” asked Mrs. Irving, taken out of her reverie.</p> + +<p>“That girl’s. She had on a green dress, and some yellow velvet in her +hair. Her eyes are purple.”</p> + +<p>“Violet, you mean, dear. Did you notice that?”</p> + +<p>“Of course—don’t I notice everything? Come, mother; I’ll race you to +the top of the hill.”</p> + +<p>Once again her objections were of no avail. Together they ran, laughing, +up the winding road that led to the summit, stopping very soon, however, +and going on at a more moderate pace.</p> + +<p>The street was narrow, and the houses on either side were close +together. Each had its <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>tiny patch of ground in front, laid out in +flower-beds bordered with whitewashed stones, in true German fashion. +There were no street lamps, for West Lancaster also resented all modern +innovations, but in the Spring night one could see dimly.</p> + +<p>Lanterns flitted here and there, like fireflies starred against the +dark. Margaret protested that she was tired, but Lynn put his arm around +her and hurried her on. Never before had she set foot upon the soil of +West Lancaster, but she had full knowledge of the way.</p> + +<p>The brow of the hill was close at hand, and she caught her breath in +sudden fear. Lynn, in the midst of a graphic recital of some boyish +prank, took no note of her agitation. He did not even know that they had +come to the end of their journey, until a man tiptoed toward them, his +finger upon his lips.</p> + +<p>“Hush!” he breathed. “The Master plays.”</p> + +<p>At the very top of the hill, almost at the brink of the precipice, was a +house so small that it seemed more like a box than a dwelling. In the +street were a dozen people, both men and women, standing in stolid +patience. The little house was dark, but a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>window was open, and from +within, muted almost to a whisper, came the voice of a violin.</p> + +<p>For an hour or more they stood there, listening. By insensible degrees +the music grew in volume, filled with breadth and splendour, yet with a +lyric undertone. Sounding chords, caught from distant silences, one by +one were woven in. Songs that had an epic grasp; question, prayer, and +heartbreak; all the pain and beauty of the world were part of it, and +yet there was something more.</p> + +<p>To Lynn’s trained ear, it was an improvisation by a master hand. He was +lost in admiration of the superb technique, the delicate phrasing, and +the wonderful quality of the tone. To the woman beside him, shaken from +head to foot by unutterable emotion, it was Life itself, bare, +exquisitely alive, tuned to the breaking point—a human thing, made of +tears and laughter, of ecstasy, tenderness, and black despair, lying on +the Master’s breast and answering to his touch.</p> + +<p>The shallows touch the pebbles, and behold, there is a little song. The +deeps are stirred to their foundations, and, long afterward, there is a +single vast strophe, majestic <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>and immortal, which takes its place by +right in the symphony of pain. To Margaret, standing there with her +senses swaying, all her possibilities of feeling were merged into one +unspeakable hurt.</p> + +<p>“Take me away;” she whispered, “I can bear no more!”</p> + +<p>But Lynn did not hear. He was simply and solely the musician, his body +tense, his head bent forward and a little to one side, nodding in +emphasis or approval.</p> + +<p>She slipped her arm through his and, trembling, waited as best she might +for the end. It came at last and the little group near them took up its +separate ways. Someone put down the window and closed the shutters. The +Master knew quite well that some of his neighbours had been listening, +but it pleased him to ignore the tribute. No one dared to speak to him +about his playing.</p> + +<p>“Mother! Mother!” said Lynn, tenderly, “I’ve been selfish, and I’ve kept +you too long!”</p> + +<p>“No,” she answered, but her lips were cold and her voice was not the +same. They went downhill together, and she leaned heavily upon his +supporting arm. He was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>humming, under his breath, bits of the +improvisation, and did not speak again until they were at home.</p> + +<p>The fire was out, but Iris had left two lighted candles on a table in +the hall. “A fine violin,” he said; “by far the finest I have ever +heard.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she returned, “a Cremona—that is, I think it must be, from its +tone.”</p> + +<p>“Possibly. Good night, and pleasant dreams.”</p> + +<p>They parted at the head of the stairs, and down on the landing the tall +clock chimed twelve. Margaret lay for a long time with her eyes closed, +but none the less awake. Toward dawn, the ghostly fingers of her dreams +tapped questioningly at the Master’s door, but without disturbing his +sleep.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h2> + +<h2>“Mine Cremona”</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">L</span>ynn went up the hill with a long, swinging stride. The morning was in +his heart and it seemed good to be alive. His blood fairly sang in his +pulses, and his cheery whistle was as natural and unconscious as the +call of the robin in the maple thicket beyond.</p> + +<p>The German housewives left their work and came out to see him pass, for +strangers in West Lancaster were so infrequent as to cause extended +comment, and he left behind him a trail of sharp glances and nodding +heads. The entire hill was instantly alive with gossip which buzzed back +and forth like a hive of liberated bees. It was a sturdy dame near the +summit who quelled it, for the time being.</p> + +<p>“So,” she said to her next-door neighbour, “I was right. He will be +going to the Master’s.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p><p>The word went quickly down the line, and after various speculations +regarding his possible errand, the neglected household tasks were taken +up and the hill was quiet again, except for the rosy-cheeked children +who played stolidly in their bits of dooryards.</p> + +<p>Lynn easily recognised the house, though he had seen it but dimly the +night before. It was two stories in height, but very small, and, in some +occult way, reminded one of a bird-house. It was perched almost upon the +ledge, and its western windows overlooked the valley, filled with +tossing willow plumes, the winding river, half asleep in its mantle of +grey and silver, and the range of blue hills beyond.</p> + +<p>It was the only house upon the hill which boasted two front entrances. +Through the shining windows of the lower story, on a level with the +street, he saw violins in all stages of making, but otherwise, the room +was empty. So he climbed the short flight of steps and rang the bell.</p> + +<p>The wire was slack and rusty, but after two or three trials a mournful +clang came from the depths of the interior. At last the door was opened, +cautiously, by a woman <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>whose flushed face and red, wrinkled fingers +betrayed her recent occupation.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Irving, making his best bow. “Is Herr Kaufmann +at home?”</p> + +<p>“Not yet,” she replied, “he will have gone for his walk. You will be +coming in?”</p> + +<p>She asked the question as though she feared an affirmative answer. “If I +may, please,” he returned, carefully wiping his feet upon the mat. “Do +you expect him soon?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.” She ushered him into the front room and pointed to a chair. “You +will please excuse me,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Certainly! Do not let me detain you.”</p> + +<p>Left to himself, he looked about the room with amused curiosity. The +furnishings were a queer combination of primitive American ideas and +modern German fancies, overlaid with a feminine love of superfluous +ornament. The Teutonic fondness for colour ran riot in everything, and +purples, reds, and yellows were closely intermingled. The exquisite +neatness of the place was its redeeming feature.</p> + +<p>Apparently, there were two other rooms on the same floor—a combined +kitchen and dining-room was just back of the parlour, and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>a smaller +room opened off of it. Lynn was meditating upon Herr Kaufmann’s +household arrangements, when a wonderful object upon the table in the +corner attracted his attention, and he went over to examine it.</p> + +<p>Obviously, it had once been a section of clay drainage pipe, but in its +sublimated estate it was far removed from common uses. It had been +smeared with putty, and, while plastic, ornamented with hinges, nails, +keys, clock wheels, curtain rings, and various other things not usually +associated with drainage pipes. When dry, it had been given further +distinction by two or three coats of gold paint.</p> + +<p>A wire hair-pin, placed conspicuously near the top of it, was rendered +so ridiculous by the gilding that Lynn laughed aloud. Then, influenced +by the sound of the scrubbing-brush close at hand, he endeavoured to +cover it with a cough. He was too late, however, for, almost +immediately, his hostess appeared in the doorway.</p> + +<p>“Mine crazy jug,” she said, with gratified pride beaming from every +feature.</p> + +<p>“I was just looking at it,” responded Lynn. “It is marvellous. Did you +make it yourself?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I make him mineself,” she said, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>and then retreated, blushing with +innocent pleasure.</p> + +<p>Not knowing what else to do, he went back to his chair and sat down +again, carefully avoiding the purple tidy embroidered with pink roses. +Outside, the street was deserted. He wondered what type of a man it was +who could live in the same house with a “crazy jug” and play as Herr +Kaufmann played, only last night. Then he reflected that the room had +been dark, and smiled at his foolish fancy.</p> + +<p>A square piano took up one whole side of the room, and there were two +violins upon it. Unthinkingly, Lynn investigated. The first one was a +good instrument of modern make, and the other—he caught his breath as +he took it out of its case. The thin, fine shell was the beautiful body +of a Cremona, enshrining a Cremona’s still more beautiful soul.</p> + +<p>He touched it reverently, though his hands trembled and his face was +aglow. He snapped a string with his finger and the violin answered with +a deep, resonant tone, but before the sound had died away, there was an +exclamation of horror in his ears and a firm grip upon his arm.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p><p>“Mine brudder’s Cremona!” cried the woman, her eyes flashing lightnings +of anger. “You will at once put him down!”</p> + +<p>“I beg a thousand pardons! I did not realise—I did not mean—I did not +understand——” He went on with confused explanations and apologies +which availed him nothing. He stood before her, convicted and shamed, as +one who had profaned the household god.</p> + +<p>Wiping her hands upon her apron, she went to her work-box, took out her +knitting, and sat down between Lynn and the piano. The chair was hard +and uncompromising, with an upright back, but she disdained even that +support and sat proudly erect.</p> + +<p>There was no sound save the click of the needles, and she kept her eyes +fixed upon her work. After an awkward silence, Lynn made one or two +tentative efforts toward conversation, but each opening proved +fruitless, and at length he seriously meditated flight.</p> + +<p>The approach to the door was covered, but there were plenty of windows, +and it would be an easy drop to the ground. He smiled as he saw himself, +mentally, achieving escape in this manner and running all the way home.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p><p>“I wonder,” he mused, “where in the dickens ‘mine brudder’ is!”</p> + +<p>The face of the woman before him was still flushed and the movement of +the needles betrayed her excitement. He noted that she wore no wedding +ring and surmised that she was a little older than his mother. Her +features were hard, and her thin, straight hair was brushed tightly back +and fastened in a little knot at the back of her head. It was not unlike +a door knob, and he began to wonder what would happen if he should turn +it.</p> + +<p>His irrepressible spirits bubbled over and he coughed violently into his +handkerchief, feeling himself closely scrutinised meanwhile. The +situation was relieved by the sound of footsteps and the vigorous slam +of the lower door.</p> + +<p>Still keeping the piano, with its precious burden, within range of her +vision, Fräulein Kaufmann moved toward the door. “Franz! Franz!” she +called. “Come here!”</p> + +<p>“One minute!” The voice was deep and musical and had a certain lyric +quality. When he came up, there was a conversation in indignant German +which was brief but sufficient.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p><p>“I can see,” said Lynn to himself, “that I am not to study with Herr +Kaufmann.”</p> + +<p>Just then he came in, gave Lynn a quick, suspicious glance, took up the +Cremona, and strode out. He was gone so long that Lynn decided to +retreat in good order. He picked up his hat and was half way out of his +chair when he heard footsteps and waited.</p> + +<p>“Now,” said the Master, “you would like to speak with me?”</p> + +<p>He was of medium height, had keen, dark eyes, bushy brows, ruddy cheeks, +and a mass of grey hair which he occasionally shook back like a mane. He +had the typical hands of the violinist.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Lynn, “I want to study with you.”</p> + +<p>“Study what?” Herr Kaufmann’s tone was somewhat brusque. “Manners?”</p> + +<p>“The violin,” explained Irving, flushing.</p> + +<p>“So? You make violins?”</p> + +<p>“No—I want to play.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said the other, looking at him sharply, “it is to play! Well, I +can teach you nothing.”</p> + +<p>He rose, as though to intimate that the interview was at an end, but +Lynn was not so <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>easily turned aside. “Herr Kaufmann,” he began, “I have +come hundreds of miles to study with you. We have broken up our home and +have come to live in East Lancaster for that one purpose.”</p> + +<p>“I am flattered,” observed the Master, dryly. “May I ask how you have +heard of me so far away as many hundred miles?”</p> + +<p>“Why, everybody knows of you! When I was a little child, I can remember +my mother telling me that some day I should study with the great Herr +Kaufmann. It is the dream of her life and of mine.”</p> + +<p>“A bad dream,” remarked the violinist, succinctly. “May I ask your +mother’s name?”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Irving—Margaret Irving.”</p> + +<p>“Margaret,” repeated the old man in a different tone. “Margaret.”</p> + +<p>There was a long silence, then the boy began once more. “You’ll take me, +won’t you?”</p> + +<p>For an instant the Master seemed on the point of yielding, +unconditionally, then he came to himself with a start. “One moment,” he +said, clearing his throat. “Why did you lift up mine Cremona?”</p> + +<p>The piercing eyes were upon him and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>Lynn’s colour mounted to his +temples, but he met the gaze honestly. “I scarcely know why,” he +answered. “I was here alone, I had been waiting a long time, and it has +always been natural for me to look at violins. I think we all do things +for which we can give no reason. I certainly had no intention of harming +it, nor of offending anybody. I am very sorry.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” sighed the Master, “I should not have left it out. Strangers +seldom come here, but I, too, was to blame. Fredrika takes it to +herself; she thinks that she should have left her scrubbing and sat with +you, but of that I am not so sure. It is mine Cremona,” he went on, +bitterly, “nobody touches it but mineself.”</p> + +<p>His distress was very real, and, for the first time, Irving felt a throb +of sympathy. However unreasonable it might be, however weak and +childish, he saw that he had unwittingly touched a tender place. All the +love of the hale old heart was centred upon the violin, wooden, +inanimate—but no. Nothing can be inanimate, which is sweetheart and +child in one.</p> + +<p>“Herr Kaufmann,” said Lynn, “believe me, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>if any act of mine could wipe +away my touch, I should do it here and now. As it is, I can only ask +your pardon.”</p> + +<p>“We will no longer speak of it,” returned the Master, with quiet +dignity. “We will attempt to forget.”</p> + +<p>He went to the window and stood with his back to Irving for a long time. +“What could I have done?” thought Lynn. “I only picked it up and laid it +down again—I surely did not harm it.”</p> + +<p>He was too young to see that it was the significance, rather than the +touch; that the old man felt as a lover might who saw his beloved in the +arms of another. The bloom was gone from the fruit, the fragrance from +the rose. For twenty-five years and more, the Cremona had been sacredly +kept.</p> + +<p>The Master’s thoughts had leaped that quarter-century at a single bound. +Again he stood in the woods beyond East Lancaster, while the sky was +dark with threatening clouds and the dead leaves scurried in fright +before the north wind. Beside him stood a girl of twenty, her face white +and her sweet mouth quivering.</p> + +<p>“You must take it,” she was saying. “It <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>is mine to do with as I please, +and no one will ever know. If anyone asks, I can fix it someway. It is +part of myself that I give you, so that in all the years, you will not +forget me. When you touch it, it will be as though you took my hand in +yours. When it sings to you, it will be my voice saying: ‘I love you!’ +And in it you will find all the sweetness of this one short year. All +the pain will be blotted out and only the joy will be left—the joy that +we can never know!”</p> + +<p>Her voice broke in a sob, then the picture faded in a mist of blinding +tears. Dull thunders boomed afar, and he felt her lips crushed for an +instant against his own. When clear sight came back, the storm was +raging, and he was alone.</p> + +<p>Irving waited impatiently, for he was restless and longed to get away, +but he dared not speak. At last the old man turned away from the window, +his face haggard and grey.</p> + +<p>“You will take me?” asked Lynn, with a note of pleading in his question.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” sighed the Master, “I take you. Tuesdays and Fridays at ten. +Bring your violin and what music you have. We <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>will see what you have +done and what you can do. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>He did not seem to see Lynn’s offered hand, and the boy went out, sorely +troubled by something which seemed just outside his comprehension. He +walked for an hour in the woods before going home, and in answer to +questions merely said that he had been obliged to wait for some time, +but that everything was satisfactorily arranged.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t he an old dear?” asked Iris.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” answered Lynn. “Is he?”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h2> + +<h2>The Gift of Peace</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">T</span>he mistress of the mansion was giving her orders for the day. From the +farthest nooks and corners of the attic, where fragrant herbs swayed +back and forth in ghostly fashion, to the tiled kitchen, where burnished +copper saucepans literally shone, Miss Field kept in daily touch with +her housekeeping.</p> + +<p>The old Colonial house was her pride and her delight. It was by far the +oldest in that part of the country, and held an exalted position among +its neighbours on that account, though the owner, not having spent her +entire life in East Lancaster, was considered somewhat “new.” To be +truly aristocratic, at least three generations of one’s forbears must +have lived in the same dwelling.</p> + +<p>In the hall hung the old family portraits. Gentlemen and gentlewomen, +long since <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>gathered to their fathers, had looked down from their gilded +frames upon many a strange scene. Baby footsteps had faltered on the +stairs, and wide childish eyes had looked up in awe to this stately +company. Older children had wondered at the patches and the powdered +hair, the velvet knickerbockers and ruffled sleeves. Awkward schoolboys +had boasted to their mates that the jewelled sword, which hung at the +side of a young officer in the uniform of the Colonies, had been +presented by General Washington himself, in recognition of conspicuous +bravery upon the field. Lovers had led their sweethearts along the hall +at twilight, to whisper that their portraits, too, should some day hang +there, side by side. Soldiers of Fortune who had found their leader +fickle had taken fresh courage from the set lips of the gallant +gentlemen in the great hall. Women whose hearts were breaking had looked +up to the painted and powdered dames along the winding stairway, and +learned, through some subtle freemasonry of sex, that only the lowborn +cry out when hurt. Faint, wailing voices of new-born babes had reached +the listening ears of the portraits by night and by <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>day. Coffin after +coffin had gone out of the wide door, flower-hidden, and step after step +had died away forever, leaving only an echo behind. And yet the men and +women of the line of Field looked out from their gilded frames, +high-spirited, courageous, and serene, with here and there the hint of a +smile.</p> + +<p>Far up the stairs and beyond the turn hung the last portrait: Aunt +Peace, in the bloom of her mature beauty, painted soon after she had +taken possession of the house. The dark hair was parted over the low +brow and puffed slightly over the tiny ears. The flowered gown was cut +modestly away at the throat, showing a shoulder line that had been +famous in three counties when she was the belle of the countryside. For +the rest, she was much the same. Let the artist make the brown hair +snowy 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, after +all, were but the footprints of smiles, sadden the trustful eyes a bit, +and cover the frivolous gown with black brocade,—then the mistress of +the mansion, who moved so gaily through the house, would inevitably +startle you as you came <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>upon her at the turn of the stairs, having +believed, all the time, that she was somewhere else.</p> + +<p>At the moment, she was in the garden, with Mrs. Irving and “the +children,” as she called Iris and Lynn. “Now, my talented +nephew-once-removed,” she was saying, in her high, sweet voice, “will +you kindly take the spade and dig until you can dig no more? I am well +aware that it is like hitching Pegasus to the plough, but I have grown +tired of waiting for my intermittent gardener, and there is a new theory +to the effect that all service is beautiful.”</p> + +<p>“So it is,” laughed Lynn, turning the earth awkwardly. “I know what +you’re thinking of, mother, but it isn’t going to hurt my hands.”</p> + +<p>“You shall have a flower-bed for your reward,” Aunt Peace went on. “I +will take the front yard myself, and the beds here shall be equally +divided among you three. You may plant in them what you please and each +shall attend to his own.”</p> + +<p>“I speak for vegetables,” said Lynn.</p> + +<p>“How characteristic,” murmured Iris, with a sidelong glance at him which +sent the blood <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>to his face. “What shall you plant, Mrs. Irving?”</p> + +<p>“Roses, heartsease, and verbenas,” she replied, “and as many other +things as I can get in without crowding. I may change my mind about the +others, but I shall have those three. What are you going to have?”</p> + +<p>“Violets and mignonette, nothing more. I love the sweet, modest ones the +best.”</p> + +<p>“Cucumbers, tomatoes, corn, melons, peas, asparagus,” put in Lynn, “and +what else?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing else, my son,” answered Margaret, “unless you rent a vacant +acre or two. The seeds are small, but the plants have been known to +spread.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll have one plant of each kind, then, for I must assuredly have +variety. It’s said to be ‘the spice of life’ and that’s what we’re all +looking for. Besides, judging from the various scornful remarks which +have been thought, if not actually made, the rest of you don’t care for +vegetables. Anyhow, you sha’n’t have any—except Aunt Peace.”</p> + +<p>“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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>a little chilly +here, and I don’t want you to take cold.”</p> + +<p>For a few moments there was quiet in the garden. A flock of pigeons +hovered about Iris, taking grain from her outstretched hand, and cooing +soft 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.</p> + +<p>Finally, she spoke. “I don’t want any of your old vegetables,” she said.</p> + +<p>“How fortunate!”</p> + +<p>“You may not have any at all—I don’t believe the seeds will come up.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not—it’s quite in the nature of things.”</p> + +<p>The pouter pigeon, brave in his iridescent waistcoat, perched upon her +other shoulder, and Lynn straightened himself to look at her. From the +first evening she had puzzled him.</p> + +<p>Her face was nearly always pale, but to-day she had a pretty colour in +her cheeks and her deep, violet eyes were aglow with innocent mischief. +There was a dewy sweetness about her red lips, and Lynn noted that the +sheen on <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>the pigeon’s breast was like the gleam from her blue-black +hair, where the sun shone upon it. She had a great mass of it, which she +wore coiled on top of her small, well-shaped head. It was perfectly +smooth, its riotous waves kept well in check, except at the blue-veined +temples, where little ringlets clustered, unrebuked.</p> + +<p>“You should be practising,” said Iris, irrelevantly.</p> + +<p>“So should you.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t need to.”</p> + +<p>“Why not?”</p> + +<p>“Because I’m not going to play with you any more.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Iris?”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” she returned, with a little shrug of her shoulders, which +frightened away both pigeons, “you didn’t like the way I played your +last accompaniment, and so I’ve stopped for good.”</p> + +<p>Lynn thought it only a repetition of what she had said when he +criticised her, and passed it over in silence.</p> + +<p>“I’ve already done an hour,” he said, “and I’ll have time for another +before lunch. I can get in the other two before dark, and then <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>I’m +going for a walk. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”</p> + +<p>“You haven’t asked me properly,” she objected.</p> + +<p>Irving bowed and, in set, gallant phrases, asked Miss Temple for “the +pleasure of her company.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” she answered, “but I’m obliged to refuse. I’m going to make +some little cakes for tea—the kind you like.”</p> + +<p>“Bother the cakes!”</p> + +<p>“Then,” laughed Iris, “if you want me as much as that, I’ll go. It’s my +Christian duty.”</p> + +<p>From the very beginning, Aunt Peace had taught Iris the principles of +dainty housewifery. Cleanliness came first—an exquisite cleanliness +which 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, were +unable to discern so much as a finger mark upon anything, Iris knew that +it was clean, and not before.</p> + +<p>At first, the little untrained child had bitterly rebelled, but Miss +Field’s patience was without limit and at last Iris attained the +required degree of proficiency. She had done <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>her sampler, like the +Colonial maids before her, made her white, sweet loaves, her fragrant +brown ones, put up her countless pots of clear, rich preserves, made +amber and crimson jellies, huge jars of spiced fruits, and brewed ten +different kinds of home-made wine. Then, and not till then, Iris got the +womanly idea which was beneath it all. Perception came slowly, but at +length she found herself in a beautiful comradeship with Aunt Peace. For +sheer love of the daintiness of it, Iris beat the yolks of eggs in a +white bowl and the whites in a blue one. She took pleasure out of +various fine textures and feathery masses, sang as she shaped small pats +of unsalted butter, tying them up in clover blossoms, and laughed at the +little packets of seeds Dame Nature sends with her parcels.</p> + +<p>“See,” said Iris, one morning, as she cut a juicy muskmelon and took out +the seeds, “this means that if you like it well enough to work and wait, +you can have lots, lots more.”</p> + +<p>Miss Field smiled, and a soft pink colour came into her fine, high-bred +face. For one, at least, she had opened the way to the Fortunate Isles, +where one’s daily work is one’s daily <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>happiness, and nothing is so poor +as to be without its own appealing beauty.</p> + +<p>As time went on, Iris found deep and satisfying pleasure in the +countless little things that were done each day. She piled the clean +linen in orderly rows upon the shelves, delighting in the unnameable +freshness made by wind and sun; sniffed appreciatively at the cedar +chest which stood in a recess of the upper hall, and climbed many a +chair to fasten bunches of fragrant herbs, gathered with her own hands, +to the rafters in the attic.</p> + +<p>She washed the fine old china, rubbed the mahogany till she could see +her face in it, and kept the silver shining. “A gentlewoman,” Aunt Peace +had said, “will always be independent of her servants, and there are +certain things no gentlewoman will trust her servants to do.”</p> + +<p>Upon this foundation, Aunt Peace had reared the beautiful superstructure +of her life. Her hands were capable and strong, yet soft and white. As +we learn to love the things we take care of, so every household +possession became dear to her, and repaid her for her labours an +hundred-fold.</p> + +<p>To be sure of doing the very best for her <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>adopted daughter, Miss Field +had, for many years, kept house without a servant. Now, at seventy-five, +she had grudgingly admitted one maid into her sanctum, but some of the +work still fell to Iris, and no one ever doubted for an instant that the +head of the household vigilantly guarded her own rights.</p> + +<p>For a long time Iris had known how useless it was—that there had never +been a moment when the old lady could not have had a retinue of servants +at her command, but had it been useless after all? Remembering the child +she had been, Iris could not but see the immeasurable advance the woman +had made.</p> + +<p>“Someday, my child,” Aunt Peace had said, “when your adopted mother is +laid away with her ancestors in the churchyard, you will bless me for +what I have done. You will see that wherever you happen to be, in +whatever station of life God may be pleased to place you after I am +gone, you have one thing which cannot be taken away from you—the power +to make for yourself a home. You will be sure of your comfort +independently, and you will never be at the mercy of the ignorant and +the untrained. In more than one <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>sense,” went on Miss Field, smiling, +“you will have the gift of Peace.”</p> + +<p>In the house, in her favourite chair by the fire, the old lady was +saying much the same thing to Margaret Irving. It was apropos of a book +written by a member of the shrieking sisterhood, which had sorely +stirred East Lancaster, set as it was in quiet ways that were centuries +old.</p> + +<p>“I have no patience with such foolishness,” Aunt Peace observed. “Since +Adam and Eve were placed in the Garden of Eden, women have been +home-makers and men have been home-builders. All the work in the world +is directly and immediately undertaken for the maintenance and +betterment 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 for +supposing that He did. It is absolutely—but I would better stop, my +dear. I fear I shall soon be saying something unladylike.”</p> + +<p>Margaret laughed—a low, musical laugh with a girlish note in it. For a +long time she had not been so happy as she was to-day.</p> + +<p>“To quote a famous historian,” she replied, “a book like that ‘carries +within itself the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>germs of its decay.’ You need have no fear, Aunt +Peace; the home will stand. This single house, this beautiful old home +of yours, has lasted two centuries, hasn’t it, just as it is?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” sighed the other, after a pause, “they built well in those days.”</p> + +<p>The charm of the room was upon them both. Through the open door they +could see the long line of portraits in the hall, and the house seemed +peopled with friendly ghosts, whose memories and loves still lived. +Because she had recently come from a city apartment, Margaret looked +down the spacious vista, ending at a long mirror, with an +ever-increasing sense of delight.</p> + +<p>“My dear,” said Miss Field, “I have always felt that this house should +have come to you.”</p> + +<p>“I have never felt so,” answered Margaret. “I have never for a moment +begrudged 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 more +natural than for my mother to have the house during her lifetime, with +the provision that it should revert to his favourite sister afterward, +if she still lived?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p><p>“I have cheated you by living, Margaret, and your mother was cut off in +her prime. She was a hard woman.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” sighed Margaret, “she was. But I think she meant to be kind.”</p> + +<p>“I knew her very little; in fact, the only chance that I ever had to get +acquainted with her was when I came here for a short visit just after +you were married. The house had been closed for a long time. She took +you away with her, and when she came back she was alone. Then she wrote +to me, asking me to share her loneliness for a time, and I consented.”</p> + +<p>The way was open for confidences, but Margaret made none, and Aunt Peace +respected her for it.</p> + +<p>“We never knew each other very well, did we?” asked the old lady, in a +tone that indicated no need of an answer. “I remember that when I was +here I yearned over you just as I did over Iris several years later. I +wanted to give to you out of my abundance; to make you happy and +comfortable.”</p> + +<p>“Dear Aunt Peace,” said Margaret, softly, “you are doing it now, when +perhaps I need it even more than I did then. All your life <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>you have +been making people happy and comfortable.”</p> + +<p>“I hope so—it is what I have tried to do. By the way, when I am through +with it, this house goes to you, then to Lynn and his children after +him.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you.” For an instant Margaret’s pulses throbbed with the joy of +possession, then the blood retreated from her heart in shame.</p> + +<p>“I have made ample provision for Iris,” Miss Field went on. “She is my +own dear daughter, but she is not of our line.”</p> + +<p>At this moment, Iris came around the house, laughing and screaming, with +Lynn in full pursuit. Mrs. Irving went to the window and came back with +an amused light in her eyes.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” asked Aunt Peace.</p> + +<p>“Lynn is chasing her. He had something in his fingers that looked like +an angle-worm.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt. Iris is afraid of worms.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go out and speak to him.”</p> + +<p>“No—let them fight it out. We are never young but once, and Youth asks +no greater privilege than to fight its own battles. It <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>is mistaken +kindness to shield—it weakens one in the years to come.”</p> + +<p>“Youth,” repeated Margaret. “The most beautiful gift of the gods, which +we never appreciate until it is gone forever.”</p> + +<p>“I have kept mine,” said Aunt Peace. “I have deliberately forgotten all +the unpleasant things and remembered the others. When a little pleasure +has 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 first +rose, to the night you and Lynn came to bring more sunshine into my old +life. I call it my Necklace of Perfect Joy. When the world goes wrong, I +have only to close my eyes and remember all the links in my chain, set +with gems, some large and some small, but all beautiful with the beauty +which never fades. It is all I can take with me when I go. My material +possessions must stay behind, but my Necklace of Perfect Joy will bring +me happiness to the end, when I put it on, to be nevermore unclasped.”</p> + +<p>“Aunt Peace,” asked Margaret, after an understanding silence, “why did +you never marry?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p><p>Miss Field leaned forward and methodically stirred the fire. “I may be +wrong,” she said, “but I have always felt that it was indelicate to +allow one’s self to care for a gentleman.”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h2> + +<h2>Social Position</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">O</span>n Wednesday, the dullest person might have felt that there was +something in the air. The old house, already exquisitely clean, received +further polishing without protest. Savoury odours came from the kitchen, +and Iris rubbed the tall silver candlesticks until they shone like new.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” asked Lynn. “Are we going to have a party and am I +invited?”</p> + +<p>“It is Wednesday,” explained Iris.</p> + +<p>“Well, what of it?”</p> + +<p>“Doctor Brinkerhoff comes to see Aunt Peace every Wednesday evening.”</p> + +<p>“Who is Doctor Brinkerhoff?”</p> + +<p>“The family physician of East Lancaster.”</p> + +<p>“He wasn’t here last Wednesday.”</p> + +<p>“That was because you and your mother had just come. Aunt Peace sent him +a note, saying that her attention was for the moment <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>occupied by other +guests from out of town. It was the first Wednesday evening he has +missed for more than ten years.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Lynn. “Are they going to be married?”</p> + +<p>“Aunt Peace wouldn’t marry anybody. She receives Doctor Brinkerhoff +because she is sorry for him.</p> + +<p>“He has no social position,” Iris continued, feeling the unspoken +question. “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 her +bedroom may also be received in her parlour. Another lady, who thinks as +Aunt Peace does, entertains him on Saturday evenings.”</p> + +<p>Iris sat there demurely, her rosy lips primly pursed, and vigorously +rubbed the tall candlestick. Lynn fairly choked with laughter. “Oh,” he +cried, “you funny little thing!”</p> + +<p>“I am not a little thing and I am not funny. I consider you very +impertinent.”</p> + +<p>“What is ‘social position’?” asked Irving, instantly sobering. “How do +we get it?”</p> + +<p>“It is born with us,” answered Iris, dipping her flannel cloth in +ammonia, “and we <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>have to live up to it. If we have low tastes, we lose +it, and it never comes back.”</p> + +<p>“Wonder if I have it,” mused Lynn.</p> + +<p>“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 was +born of poor but honest parents,” she went on, having evidently absorbed +the phrase from her school Reader, “so I was respectable, even at the +beginning. When Aunt Peace took me, I got social position, and if I am +always a lady, I will keep it. Otherwise not.”</p> + +<p>The girl was very lovely as she leaned back in the quaint old chair to +rest for a moment. She was still regarding the candlestick attentively +and did not look at Lynn. “It is strange to me,” she said, “that coming +from the city, as you do, you should not know about such things.” Here +she sent him the quickest possible glance from a pair of inscrutable +eyes, and he began to wonder if she were not merely amusing herself. He +was tempted to kiss her, but wisely refrained.</p> + +<p>“Iris,” called Aunt Peace, from the doorway, “will you wash the Royal +Worcester <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>plate? And Lynn, it is time you were practising.”</p> + +<p>Lynn worked hard until the bell rang for luncheon. When he went down, he +found the others already at the table. “We did not wait for you,” Aunt +Peace explained, “because we were in a hurry. Immediately after +luncheon, on Wednesdays, I take my nap. I sleep from two to three. Will +you please see that the house is quiet?”</p> + +<p>She spoke to Margaret, but she looked at Lynn. “Which means,” said he, +“that those who are studying the violin will kindly not practise until +after three o’clock, and that it would be considered a kindness if they +would not walk much in the house, their feet being heavy.”</p> + +<p>“Lynn,” said the old lady, irrelevantly, “you are extremely intelligent. +I expect great things of you.”</p> + +<p>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 ironclad +rule of the house. Ever since she came to East Lancaster, Iris had kept +solemn guard over the front door on Wednesdays, from two to three. Rash +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>visitors never reached the bell, but were met, on the doorstep, by a +little maid whose tiny finger rested upon her lip. “Hush,” she would +say, “Aunt Peace is asleep!” Interruptions were infrequent, however, for +East Lancaster knew Miss Field’s habits—and respected them.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, my dears,” she said, as she paused at the foot of the winding +stairs, “I leave you for a far country, where, perhaps, I shall meet +some of my old friends. I shall visit strange lands and have many new +experiences, some of which will doubtless be impossible and grotesque. I +shall be gone but one short hour, and when I return I shall have much to +tell you.”</p> + +<p>“She dreams,” explained Iris, in a low voice, as the mistress of the +mansion smiled back at them over the railing, “and when she wakes she +always tells me.”</p> + +<p>Lynn went out for a long tramp, after vainly endeavouring to persuade +his mother or Iris to accompany him. “I’m walked enough at night as it +is,” said Mrs. Irving, and the girl excused herself on account of her +household duties.</p> + +<p>He clattered down the steps, banged the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>gate, and went whistling down +the elm-bordered path. The mother listened, fondly, till the cheery +notes died away in the distance. “Bless his heart,” she said to herself, +“how fine and strong he is and how much I love him!”</p> + +<p>The house seemed to wait while its guardian spirit slept. Left to +herself, Margaret paced to and fro; down the long hall, then back, +through the parlour and library, and so on, restlessly, until she +reflected that she might possibly disturb Aunt Peace.</p> + +<p>A love-lorn robin, in the overhanging boughs of the maple at the gate, +was unsuccessfully courting a disdainful lady who sat on the topmost +twig and paid no attention to him. From the distant orchard came the +breath of apple blooms, and a single bluebird winged his solitary way +across the fields, his colour gleaming brightly for an instant against +the silvery clouds. Beautiful as it was, Margaret sighed, and her face +lost its serenity.</p> + +<p>A bit of verse sang itself through her memory again and again.</p> + +<div class="bbox2 centerbox2"><p>“Who wins his love shall lose her,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Who loses her shall gain,</span><br /> +For still the spirit wooes her,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A soul without a stain,</span><br /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>And memory still pursues her<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With longings not in vain.</span></p></div> + +<hr class="tiny" /> + +<div class="bbox2 centerbox2"><p>“In dreams she grows not older<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lands of Dream among;</span><br /> +Though all the world wax colder,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though all the songs be sung,</span><br /> +In dreams doth he behold her—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still fair and kind and young.”</span></p></div> + +<p>“Dreams,” she murmured, “empty dreams, while your soul starves.”</p> + +<p>Iris tiptoed in with her sewing and sat down. Margaret felt her presence +in the room, but did not turn away from the window. Iris was one of +those rare people with whom one could be silent and not feel that the +proprieties had been injured.</p> + +<p>Deep down in her heart, Margaret had stored away all the bitterness of +her 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. Were +it not for the merciful readjustment, this grey old world of ours would +be too dark to live in.</p> + +<p>At length she turned and looked at the little seamstress, who sat bolt +upright, as she had <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>been taught, in the carved mahogany chair. She +noted the long lashes that swept the tinted cheek, the masses of +blue-black hair over the low, white brow, the tender wistfulness in the +lines of the mouth, the dimpled hands, and the rounded arm—so evidently +made for all the sweet uses of love that Margaret’s heart contracted in +sudden pain.</p> + +<p>“Iris,” she said, in a tone that startled the girl, “when the right man +comes, and you know absolutely in your own heart that he is the right +man, go with him, whether he be prince or beggar. If unhappiness comes +to you, take it bravely, as a gentlewoman should, but never, for your +own sake, allow yourself to regret your faith in him. If you love him +and he loves you, there are no barriers between you—they are nothing +but cobwebs. Sweep them aside with a single stroke of magnificent +daring, and go. Social position counts for nothing, other people’s +opinions count for nothing; it is between your heart and his, and in +that sanctuary no one else has a right to intrude. If he has only a +crust to give you, share it with him, but do not let anyone persuade you +into a lifetime of heart-hunger—it is too hard to bear!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p><p>The girl’s deep eyes were fixed upon her, childish, appealing, and yet +with evident understanding. Margaret’s face was full of tender pity—was +this butterfly, too, destined to be broken on the wheel?</p> + +<p>Iris felt the sudden passion of the other, saw traces of suffering in +the dark eyes, the set lips, and even in the slender hands that hovered +whitely over the black gown. “Thank you, Mrs. Irving,” she said, +quietly, “I understand.”</p> + +<p>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, heavy +black silk, simply made. At the neck and wrists were bits of rare old +lace, and her one jewel, an emerald of great beauty and value, gleamed +at her throat. She wore no rings except the worn band of gold that had +been her mother’s wedding ring.</p> + +<p>“What did you dream?” asked Iris.</p> + +<p>“Nothing, dearie,” she laughed. “I have never slept so soundly before. +Our guests have put a charm upon the house.”</p> + +<p>From the embroidered work-bag that dangled at her side, she took out the +thread lace she was making, and began to count her stitches.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p><p>“I think I’ll get my sewing, too,” said Margaret. “I feel like a drone +in this hive of industry.”</p> + +<p>“One, two, three, chain,” said Aunt Peace. “Iris, do you think the cakes +are as good as they were last time?”</p> + +<p>“I think they’re even better.”</p> + +<p>“Did you take out the oldest port?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, the very oldest.”</p> + +<p>“I trust he was not hurt,” Aunt Peace went on, “because last week I +asked him not to come. The common people sometimes feel those things +more keenly than aristocrats, who are accustomed to the disturbance of +guests.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, he would be disappointed,” said Iris, with a little smile, +“but he would understand—I’m sure he would.”</p> + +<p>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 the +time to make myself a petticoat by hand! The atmosphere of East +Lancaster has wrought a wondrous change in me.”</p> + +<p>“Iris,” said Miss Field, “let me see your stitches.”</p> + +<p>The girl held up her petticoat—a dainty garment of finest cambric, +lace-trimmed and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>exquisitely made, and the old lady examined it +critically. “It is not what I could do at your age,” she continued, “but +it will answer very well.”</p> + +<p>Lynn came in noisily, remembering only at the threshold that one did not +whistle in East Lancaster houses. “I had a fine tramp,” he said, “all +over West Lancaster and through the woods on both sides of it. I had +some flowers for all of you, but I laid them down on a stone and forgot +to go back after them. Aunt Peace, you’re looking fine since you had +your nap. Still working at that petticoat, mother?”</p> + +<p>“We’re all making petticoats,” answered Margaret. “Even Aunt Peace is +knitting lace for one and Iris has hers almost done.”</p> + +<p>“Let me see it,” said Lynn. He reached over and took it out of the +girl’s lap while she was threading her needle. Much to his surprise, it +was immediately snatched away from him. Iris paused only long enough to +administer a sounding box to the offender’s ear, then marched out of the +room with her head high and her work under her arm.</p> + +<p>“Well, of all things,” said Lynn, ruefully. “Why wouldn’t she let me +look at her petticoat?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p><p>“Because,” answered Aunt Peace, severely, “Iris has been brought up like +a lady! Gentlemen did not expect to see ladies’ petticoats when I was +young!”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Lynn, “I see.” His mouth twitched and he glanced sideways at +his mother. She was bending over her work, and her lips did not move, +but he could see that her eyes smiled.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>At exactly half-past seven, the expected guest was ushered into the +parlour. “Good evening, Doctor,” said Miss Field, in her stately way; “I +assure you this is quite a pleasure.” She presented him to Mrs. Irving +and Lynn, and motioned him to an easy-chair.</p> + +<p>He was tall, straight, and seventy; almost painfully neat, and evidently +a gentleman of the old school.</p> + +<p>“I trust you are well, madam?”</p> + +<p>“I am always well,” returned Aunt Peace. “If all the other old ladies in +East Lancaster were as well as I, you would soon be obliged to take down +your sign and seek another location.”</p> + +<p>The others took but small part in the conversation, which was never +lively, and which, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>indeed, might have been stilted by the presence of +strangers. It was the commonplace talk of little things, which +distinguishes the country town, and it lasted for half an hour. As the +clock chimed eight, Miss Field smiled at him significantly.</p> + +<p>“Shall we play chess?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“If the others will excuse us, I shall be charmed,” he responded.</p> + +<p>Soon they were deep in their game. Margaret went after a book she had +been reading, and the young people went to the library, where they could +talk undisturbed.</p> + +<p>They played three games. Miss Field won the first and third, her +antagonist contenting himself with the second. It had always been so, +and for ten years she had taken a childish delight in her skill. “My +dear Doctor,” she often said, “it takes a woman of brains to play +chess.”</p> + +<p>“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 in +the beginning and it had never happened since.</p> + +<p>When the clock struck ten, he looked at his heavy, old-fashioned silver +watch with apparent <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>surprise. “I had no idea it was so late,” he said. +“I must be going!”</p> + +<p>“Pray wait a moment, Doctor. Let me offer you some refreshment before +you begin that long walk. Iris?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Aunt Peace.” The girl knew very well what was expected of her, and +dimples came and went around the corners of her mouth.</p> + +<p>“Those little cakes that we had for tea—perhaps there may be one or two +left, and is there not a little wine?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll see.”</p> + +<p>Smiling at the pretty comedy, she went out into the kitchen, where +Doctor Brinkerhoff’s favourite cakes, freshly made, had been carefully +put away. Only one of them had been touched, and that merely to make +sure of the quality.</p> + +<p>With the Royal Worcester plate, generously piled with cakes, a tray of +glasses, and a decanter of Miss Field’s famous port, she went back into +the parlour.</p> + +<p>“This is very charming,” said the Doctor. He had made the same speech +once a week for ten years. Aunt Peace filled the glasses, and when all +had been served, she looked at <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>him with a rare smile upon her beautiful +old face.</p> + +<p>Then the brim of his glass touched hers with the clear ring of crystal. +“To your good health, madam!”</p> + +<p>“And to your prosperity,” she returned. The old toast still served.</p> + +<p>“And now, my dear Miss Iris,” he said, “may we not hope for a song?”</p> + +<p>“Which one?”</p> + +<p>“‘Annie Laurie,’ if you please.”</p> + +<p>She sang the old ballad with a wealth of feeling in her deep voice, and +even Lynn, who was listening critically, was forced to admit that she +did it well.</p> + +<p>At eleven, the guest went away, his hostess cordially inviting him to +come again.</p> + +<p>“What a charming man,” said Margaret.</p> + +<p>“An old brick,” added Lynn, with more force than elegance.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied Aunt Peace, concealing a yawn behind her fan, “it is a +thousand pities that he has no social position.”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h2> + +<h2>The Light of Dreams</h2> + +<p style="float: left; font-size: 100%; line-height: 80%; margin-top: 0;">“</p><p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">H</span>ow do you get on with the Master?” asked Iris.</p> + +<p>“After a fashion,” answered Irving; “but I do not get on with Fräulein +Fredrika at all. She despises me.”</p> + +<p>“She does not like many people.”</p> + +<p>“So it would seem. I have been unfortunate from the first, though I was +careful to admire ‘mine crazy jug.’”</p> + +<p>“It is the apple of her eye,” laughed Iris, “it means to her just what +his Cremona means to him.”</p> + +<p>“It is a wonderful creation, and I told her so, but where in the dickens +did she get the idea?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t ask me. Did you happen to notice anything else?”</p> + +<p>“No—only the violin. Sometimes I take my lesson in the parlour, +sometimes in the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>shop downstairs, or even in Herr Kaufmann’s bedroom, +which opens off of it. When I come, he stops whatever he happens to be +doing, sits down, and proceeds with my education.”</p> + +<p>“On the floor,” said Iris reminiscently, “she has a gold jar which +contains cat tails and grasses. It is Herr Kaufmann’s silk hat, which he +used to have when he played in the famous orchestra, with the brim cut +off and plenty of gold paint put on. The gilded potato-masher, with blue +roses on it, which swings from the hanging lamp, was done by your humble +servant. She has loved me ever since.”</p> + +<p>“Iris!” exclaimed Lynn, reproachfully. “How could you!”</p> + +<p>“How could I what?”</p> + +<p>“Paint anything so outrageous as that?”</p> + +<p>“My dear boy,” said Miss Temple, patronisingly, with her pretty head a +little to one side, “you are young in the ways of the world. I was not +achieving a work of art; I was merely giving pleasure to the Fräulein. +Much trouble would be saved if people who undertake to give pleasure +would consult the wishes of the recipient in preference to their own. +Tastes differ, as even you may have observed. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>Personally, I have no use +for a gilded potato-masher—I couldn’t even live in the same house with +one,—but I was pleasing her, not myself.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder what I could do that would please her,” said Lynn, half to +himself.</p> + +<p>“Make her something out of nothing,” suggested Iris. “She would like +that better than anything else. She has a wall basket made of a fish +broiler, a chair that was once a barrel, a dresser which has been +evolved from a packing box, a sofa that was primarily a cot, and a match +box made from a tin cup covered with silk and gilded on the inside, not +to mention heaps of other things.”</p> + +<p>“Then what is left for me? The desirable things seem to have been used +up.”</p> + +<p>“Wait,” said Iris, “and I’ll show you.” She ran off gaily, humming a +little song under her breath, and came back presently with a +clothes-pin, a sheet of orange-coloured tissue paper, an old black +ostrich feather, and her paints.</p> + +<p>“What in the world—” began Lynn.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be impatient, please. Make the clothes-pin gold, with a black +head, and then I’ll show you what to do next.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p><p>“Aren’t you going to help me?”</p> + +<p>“Only with my valuable advice—it is your gift, you know.”</p> + +<p>Awkwardly, Lynn gilded the clothes-pin and suspended it from the back of +a chair to dry. “I hope she’ll like it,” he said. “She pointed to me +once and said something in German to her brother. I didn’t understand, +but I remembered the words, and when I got home I looked them up in my +dictionary. As nearly as I could get it, she had characterised me as ‘a +big, lumbering calf.’”</p> + +<p>“Discerning woman,” commented Iris. “Now, take this sheet of tissue +paper and squeeze it up into a little ball, then straighten it out and +do it again. When it’s all soft and crinkly, I’ll tell you what to do +next.”</p> + +<p>“There,” exclaimed Lynn, finally, “if it’s squeezed up any more it will +break.”</p> + +<p>“Now paint the head of the clothes-pin and make some straight black +lines on the middle of it, cross ways.”</p> + +<p>“Will you please tell me what I’m making?”</p> + +<p>“Wait and see!”</p> + +<p>Obeying instructions, he fastened the paper tightly in the fork of the +clothes-pin, and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span>spread it out on either side. The corners were cut and +pulled into the semblance of wings, and black circles were painted here +and there. Iris herself added the finishing touch—two bits of the +ostrich feather glued to the top of the head for antennæ.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” cried Lynn, in pleased surprise, “a butterfly!”</p> + +<p>“How hideous!” said Margaret, pausing in the doorway. “I trust it’s not +meant for me.”</p> + +<p>“It’s for the Fräulein,” answered Iris, gathering up her paints and +sweeping aside the litter. “Lynn has made it all by himself.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder how he stands it,” mused Irving, critically inspecting the +butterfly.</p> + +<p>“I asked him once,” said Iris, “if he liked all the queer things in his +house, and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘What good is mine art to me,’ he +asked, ‘if it makes me so I cannot live with mine sister? Fredrika likes +the gay colours, such as one sees in the fields, but they hurt mine +eyes. Still because the tidies and the crazy jug swear to me, it is no +reason for me to hurt mine sister’s feelings. We have a large house. +Fredrika has the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>upstairs and I have the downstairs. When I can no +longer stand the bright lights, I can turn mine back and look out of the +window, or I can go down in the shop with mine violins. Down there I see +no colours and I can put mine feet on all chairs.’”</p> + +<p>Lynn laughed, but Margaret, who was listening intently, only smiled +sadly.</p> + +<p>That afternoon, when the boy went up the hill, with the butterfly +dangling from his hand by a string, he was greeted with childish cries +of delight on either side. Hoping for equal success at the Master’s, he +rang the bell, and the Fräulein came to the door. When she saw who it +was, her face instantly became hard and forbidding.</p> + +<p>“Mine brudder is not home,” she said, frostily.</p> + +<p>“I know,” answered Lynn, with a winning smile, “but I came to see you. +See, I made this for you.”</p> + +<p>Wonder and delight were in her eyes as she took it from his outstretched +hand. “For me?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, all for you. I made it.”</p> + +<p>“You make this for me by yourself alone?”</p> + +<p>“No, Miss Temple helped me.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p><p>“Miss Temple,” repeated the Fräulein, “she is most kind. And you +likewise,” she hastened to add. “It will be of a niceness if Miss Temple +and you shall come to mine house to tea to-morrow evening.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll ask her,” he returned, “and thank you very much.” Thus Lynn made +his peace with Fräulein Fredrika.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>Laughing like two irresponsible children, they went up the hill together +at the appointed time. Lynn’s arms were full of wild crab-apple blooms, +which he had taken a long walk to find, and Iris had two little pots of +preserves as her contribution to the feast.</p> + +<p>Their host and hostess were waiting for them at the door. Fräulein +Fredrika was very elegant in her best gown, and her sharp eyes were +kind. The Master was clad in rusty black, which bore marks of frequent +sponging and occasional pressing. “It is most kind,” he said, bowing +gallantly to Iris; “and you, young man, I am glad to see you, as +always.”</p> + +<p>Iris found a stone jar for the apple blossoms and brought them in. The +Master’s fine old face beamed as he drew a long breath of pink <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>and +white sweetness. “It is like magic,” he said. “I think inside of every +tree there must be some beautiful young lady, such as we read about in +the old books—a young lady something like Miss Iris. All Winter, when +it is cold, she sleeps in her soft bed, made from the silk lining of the +bark. Then one day the sun shines warm and the robin sings to her and +wakes her. ‘What,’ says she, ‘is it so soon Spring? I must get to work +right away at mine apple blossoms.’</p> + +<p>“Then she stoops down for some sand and some dirt. In her hands she +moulds it—so—reaching out for some rain to keep it together. Then she +says one charm. With a forked stick she packs it into every little place +inside that apple tree and sprinkles some more of it over the outside.</p> + +<p>“‘Now,’ says she, ‘we must wait, for I have done mine work well. It is +for the sun and the wind and the rain to finish.’ So the rain makes all +very wet, and the wind blows and the sun shines, and presently the sand +and dirt that she has put in is changed to sap that is so glad it runs +like one squirrel all over the inside of the tree and tries to sing like +one bird.</p> + +<p>“‘So,’ says this young lady, ‘it is as I <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>thought.’ Then she says one +more charm, and when the sun comes up in the morning, it sees that the +branches are all covered with buds and leaves. The young lady and the +moon work one little while at it in the evening, and the next morning, +there is—this!”</p> + +<p>The Master buried his face in the fragrant blooms. “It is a most +wonderful sweetness,” he went on. “It is wind and grass and sun, and the +souls of all the apple blossoms that are dead.”</p> + +<p>“Franz,” called Fräulein Fredrika, “you will bring them out to tea, +yes?”</p> + +<p>As the entertainment progressed, Lynn’s admiration of Iris increased. +She seemed equally at home in Miss Field’s stately mansion and in the +tiny bird-house on the brink of a precipice, where everything appeared +to be made out of something else. She was in high spirits and kept them +all laughing. Yet, in spite of her merry chatter, there was an undertone +of tender wistfulness that set his heart to beating.</p> + +<p>The Master, too, was at his best. Usually, he was reserved and quiet, +but to-night the barriers were down. He told them stories of his student +days in Germany, wonderful <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>adventures by land and sea, and conjured up +glimpses of the kings and queens of the Old World. “Life,” he sighed, +“is very strange. One begins within an hour’s walk of the Imperial +Palace, where sometimes one may see the Kaiser and the Kaiserin, and one +ends—here!”</p> + +<p>“Wherever one may be, that is the best place,” said the Fräulein. “The +dear God knows. Yet sometimes I, too, must think of mine Germany and +wish for it.”</p> + +<p>“Fredrika!” cried the Master, “are you not happy here?”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, yes, Franz, always.” Her harsh voice was softened and her +piercing eyes were misty. One saw that, however carefully hidden, there +was great love between these two.</p> + +<p>Iris helped the Fräulein with the dishes, in spite of her protests. “One +does not ask one’s guests to help with the work,” she said.</p> + +<p>“But just suppose,” answered Iris, laughing, “that one’s guests have +washed dishes hundreds of times at home!”</p> + +<p>In the parlour, meanwhile, the Master talked to Lynn. He told him of +great violinists he had heard and of famous old violins <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>he had +seen—but there was never a word about the Cremona.</p> + +<p>“Mine friend, the Doctor,” said the Master, “do you perchance know him?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Lynn, “I have that pleasure. He’s all right, isn’t he?”</p> + +<p>“So he thinks,” returned the Master, missing the point of the phrase. +“In an argument, one can never convince him. He thinks it is for me to +go out on one grand tour and give many concerts and secure much fame, +but why should I go, I ask him, when I am happy here? So many people +know what should make one happy a thousand times better than the happy +one knows. Life,” he said again, “is very strange.”</p> + +<p>It was a long time before he spoke again. “I have had mine fame,” he +said. “I have played to great houses both here and abroad, and women +have thrown red roses at me and mine violin. There has been much in the +papers, and I have had many large sums, which, of course, I have always +given to the poor. One should use one’s art to do good with and not to +become rich. I have mine house, mine clothes, all that is good for me to +eat, mine sister and mine—” he hesitated <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>for an instant, and Lynn knew +he was thinking of the Cremona. “Mine violins,” he concluded, “mine +little shop where I make them, and best of all, mine dreams.”</p> + +<p>Iris came back and Fräulein Fredrika followed her. “If you will give me +all the little shells,” she was saying, “I will stick them together with +glue and make mineself one little house to sit on the parlour table. It +will be most kind.” Her voice was caressing and her face fairly shone +with joy.</p> + +<p>“I will light the lamp,” she went on. “It is dark here now.” Suiting the +action to the word, she pulled down the lamp that hung by heavy chains +in the centre of the room, and the gilded potato-masher swung back and +forth violently.</p> + +<p>“No, no, Fredrika,” said the Master. “It is not a necessity to light the +lamp.”</p> + +<p>“Herr Irving,” she began, “would you not like the lamp to see by?”</p> + +<p>“Not at all,” answered Lynn. “I like the twilight best.”</p> + +<p>“Come, Fräulein,” said Iris, “sit over here by me. Did I tell you how +you could make a little clothes-brush out of braided rope and a bit of +blue ribbon?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p><p>“No,” returned the Fräulein, excitedly, “you did not. It will be most +kind if you will do it now.”</p> + +<p>The women talked in low tones and the others were silent without +listening. The street was in shadow, and here and there lanterns flashed +in the dark. Down in the valley, velvety night was laid over the river +and the willows that grew along its margin, but the last light lingered +on the blue hills above, and a single star had set its exquisite lamp to +gleaming against the afterglow.</p> + +<p>The wings of darkness hovered over the little house, and yet no word was +spoken. It was an intimate hush, such as sometimes falls between lovers, +who have no need of speech. Lynn and Iris looked forward to the future, +with the limitless hope of Youth, while the others brooded over a past +which had brought each of them a generous measure of joy and pain.</p> + +<p>The full moon came out from behind the clouds and flooded the valley +with silver light. “Oh,” cried Iris, “how glorious it is!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the Master, “it is the light of dreams. All the ugliness is +hidden, as in life, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>when one can dream. Only the beauty is left. Wait, +I will play it to you.”</p> + +<p>He went downstairs for his violin and Lynn moved closer to Iris. +Fräulein Fredrika retreated into the shadow at the farthest corner of +the room.</p> + +<p>Presently the Master returned, snapping and tightening the strings. It +was not the Cremona, but the other. He sat down by the window and the +moonlight touched his face caressingly. He was grey with his fifty years +and more, but as he sat there, his massive head thrown back and his hair +silvered, he seemed very near to the Gates of Youth.</p> + +<p>In a moment, he was lost to his surroundings. He tapped the bow on the +sill, as an orchestra leader taps for attention, straightened himself, +smiled, and began.</p> + +<p>It was a rippling, laughing melody, played on muted strings, full of +unexpected harmonies, and quaintly phrased. In a moment, they caught the +witchery of it, and the meaning. It was Titania and her fairies, +suddenly transported half-way around the world.</p> + +<p>Mystery and magic were in the theme. Moonbeams shimmered through it, +elves played here and there, and shining waters <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>sang through Summer +silences. All at once there was a pause, then, sonorous, deep, and +splendid, came another harmony, which in impassioned beauty voiced the +ministry of pain.</p> + +<p>As before, Lynn saw chiefly the technique. Never for a moment did he +forget the instrument. Iris was trembling, for she well knew those high +and lonely places of the spirit, within the borders of Gethsemane.</p> + +<p>The Master put down the violin and sighed. “Come,” faltered Iris, “it is +late and we must go.”</p> + +<p>He did not hear, and it was Fräulein Fredrika who went to the door with +them. “Franz is thinking,” she whispered. “He is often like that. He +will be most sorry when he learns that you have gone.”</p> + +<p>“This way,” said Iris, when they reached the street. They went to the +brow of the cliff and looked once more across the shadowed valley to the +luminous ranges of the everlasting hills. She turned away at last, +thrilled to the depths of her soul. “Come,” she whispered, “we must go +back.”</p> + +<p>They walked softly, as though they feared to disturb someone in the +little house, but <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>there was no sound from within nor any light save at +the window, where the light of dreams streamed over the Master’s face +and made it young.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h2> + +<h2>A Letter</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">R</span>oses rioted through East Lancaster and made the gardens glorious with +bloom. The year was at its bridal and every chalice was filled with +fragrant incense. Bees, powdered with pollen, hummed slowly back and +forth, and the soft whir of unnumbered gossamer wings came in drowsy +melody from the distant clover fields.</p> + +<p>“June,” sang Iris to herself, “June—Oh June, sweet June!”</p> + +<p>She was getting ready for her daily trip to the post-office. Once in a +great while there would be a letter there for Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving. +Lynn also had an intermittent correspondent or two, but the errand +usually proved fruitless. Still, since Mrs. Irving’s letter had lain +nearly two weeks in Miss Field’s box, uncalled for, it had been a point +of honour with Iris to see that such a thing did not happen again.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p><p>Books and papers were supplied in abundance by the local circulating +library, and the high bookcases at Miss Field’s were well filled with +standard literature. Iris read everything she could lay her hands upon. +Mere print exercised a certain fascination over her mind, and she had +conscientiously finished every book that she had begun. Those early +years, after all, are the most important. The old books are the best, +and how few of us “have the time” to read them!</p> + +<p>Ten years of browsing in a well equipped library will do much for +anyone, and Iris had made the most of her opportunities. This girl of +twenty, hemmed about by the narrow standards of East Lancaster, had a +broad outlook upon life, a large view, that would have done credit to a +woman of twice her age. From the beginning, the people of the books had +been real to her, and she had filled the old house with the fairy +figures of romance.</p> + +<p>Of the things that make for happiness, the love of books comes first. No +matter how the world may have used us, sure solace lies there. The +weary, toilsome day drags to its disheartening close, and both love and +friendship have proved powerless to appreciate or <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>understand, but in +the quiet corner consolation can always be found. A single shelf, +perhaps, suffices for one’s few treasures, but who shall say it is not +enough?</p> + +<p>A book, unlike any other friend, will wait, not only upon the hour, but +upon the mood. It asks nothing and gives much, when one comes in the +right way. The volumes stand in serried ranks at attention, listening +eagerly, one may fancy, for the command.</p> + +<p>Is your world a small one, made unendurable by a thousand petty cares? +Are the heart and soul of you cast down by bitter disappointment? Would +you leave it all, if only for an hour, and come back with a new point of +view? Then open the covers of a book.</p> + +<p>With this gentle comrade, you may journey to the very end of the world +and even to the beginning of civilisation. There is no land which you +may not visit, from Arctic snows to the loftiest peaks of southern +mountains. Gallant gentlemen will go with you and tell you how to +appreciate what you see. Further still, there are excursions into the +boundless regions of imagination, where the light of dreams has laid its +surpassing beauty over all.</p> + +<p>Would you wander in company with soldiers <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>of Fortune, and share their +wonderful adventures? Would you live in the time of the Crusades and +undertake a pilgrimage in the name of the Cross? Would you smell the +smoke of battle, hear the ring of steel, the rattle of musketry, and see +the colours break into deathly beauty well in advance of the charge? +Would you have for your friends a great company of noble men and women +who have wrought and suffered and triumphed in the end? Would you find +new courage, stronger faith, and serene hope? Then open the covers of a +book, and presto—change!</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>“Iris,” called Aunt Peace, “you’re surely not going without your hat?”</p> + +<p>“Of course not.” The colour that came and went in her damask cheeks was +very like that in her pink dimity gown. She put on her white hat, the +brim drooping beneath its burden of pink roses, and drew her gloves +reluctantly over her dimpled hands.</p> + +<p>“Iris, dear, your sunshade!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Aunt Peace.” She came back, a little unwillingly, but tan was a +personal disgrace in East Lancaster.</p> + +<p>Ready at last, she tripped down the path <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>and closed the gate carefully. +Mrs. Irving waved a friendly hand at her from the upper window. “Bring +me a letter!” she called.</p> + +<p>“I’ll try to,” answered Iris, “but I can’t promise.”</p> + +<p>She lifted her gown a little, to keep it clear of burr and brier, and +one saw the smooth, black silk stocking, chastely embroidered at the +ankle, as one suspected, by the hand of the wearer, and the dainty, +high-heeled shoes. The sunshade waved back and forth coquettishly. It +seemed to be an airy ornament, rather than an article of utility.</p> + +<p>Half-way down the street, she met Doctor Brinkerhoff. “Good morning, +little lady,” he said, with a smile.</p> + +<p>“Good morning, sir,” replied Iris, with a quaint courtesy. “I trust you +are well?”</p> + +<p>“My health is uniformly good,” he returned, primly. “You must remember +that I have my own drugs and potions always at hand.” He made careful +inquiries as to the physical and mental well-being of each member of the +family, sent kindly salutations to all, made a low bow to Iris, and went +on.</p> + +<p>“A very pleasant gentleman,” she said to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>herself. “What a pity that he +has no social position!”</p> + +<p>She loitered at the bridge, hanging over the railing, and looked down +into the sunny depths of the little stream. All through the sweet +Summer, the brook sang cheerily, by night and by day. It began in a +cool, crystal pool, far up among the hills, and wandered over mossy +reaches and pebbly ways, singing meanwhile of all the fragrant woodland +through which it came. Hidden springs in subterranean caverns, caught by +the laughing melody, went out to meet it and then followed, as the +children followed the Pied Piper of old. Great with its gathered waters, +it still sang as it rippled onward to its destiny, dreaming, perchance, +of the time when its liquid music, lost at last, should be merged into +the vast symphony of the sea.</p> + +<p>Lynn came down the hill, swinging his violin case, and Iris, a little +consciously, went on to the post-office.</p> + +<p>Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the letter box, and then her heart +gave a little leap, for there were two, yes three letters there.</p> + +<p>“Wait a moment,” called the grizzled veteran <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>who served as postmaster. +“I’ve finally got something fer ye! Here! Miss Peace Field, Mrs. +Margaret Irving, and Miss Iris Temple.”</p> + +<p>“Oh-h!” whispered Iris, in awe, “a letter for me?”</p> + +<p>“’Tain’t fer nobody else, I reckon,” laughed the old man. “Anyhow, it’s +got your name on it.”</p> + +<p>She went out, half dazed. In all her life she had had but three letters; +two from her mother, which she still kept, and one from Santa Claus. The +good saint had left his communication in the little maid’s stocking one +Christmas eve, and it was more than a year before Iris observed that +Aunt Peace and Santa Claus wrote precisely the same hand.</p> + +<p>“For me,” she said to herself, “all for me!”</p> + +<p>It never entered her pretty head to open it. The handwriting was +unfamiliar and the post-mark was blurred, but it seemed to have come +from the next town. The whole thing was very disturbing, but Aunt Peace +would know.</p> + +<p>Then Iris stopped suddenly in the path. It might be wicked, but, after +all, why should Aunt Peace know? Why not have just one <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>little secret, +all to herself? The daring of it almost took her breath away, but in +that single, dramatic instant, she decided.</p> + +<p>No one was in sight, and Iris, in the shadow of a maple, tucked the +letter safely away in her stocking, fancying she heard it rustle as she +walked.</p> + +<p>In her brief experience of life there had seldom been so long a day. The +hours stretched on interminably, and she was never alone. She did not +forget the letter for a moment, and when she had once become accustomed +to the wonder of it, she was conscious of a growing, very feminine +curiosity.</p> + +<p>A little after ten, when she had dutifully kissed Aunt Peace good night, +she stood alone in her room with her heart wildly beating. The door was +locked and there was not even the sound of a footstep. Surely, she might +read it now!</p> + +<p>By the flickering light of her candle, she cut it at the end with the +scissors, drew out the letter, and unfolded it with trembling hands.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>“Iris, Daughter of the Marshes,” it began, “how shall I tell you of your +loveliness? <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>You are straight and slender as the rushes, dainty as a +moonbeam, and sweet as a rose of June. Your dimpled hands make me think +of white flowers, and the flush on your cheeks is like that on the +petals of the first anemone.</p> + +<p>“Midnight itself sleeps in your hair, fragrant as the Summer dusk, and +your laughing lips have the colour of a scarlet geranium, but your eyes, +my dear one, how shall I write to you of your eyes? They have the beauty +of calm, wide waters, when sunset has given them that wonderful blue; +they are eyes a man might look into during his last hour in the world, +and think his whole life well spent because of them.</p> + +<p>“Do you think me bold—your unknown lover? I am bold because my heart +makes me so, and because there is no other way. I dare not ask for an +answer, nor tell you my name, but if you are displeased, I am sure I +have a way of finding it out. Perhaps you wonder where I have seen you, +so I will tell you this. I have seen you, more than once, going to the +post-office in East Lancaster, and, no matter how, I have learned your +name.</p> + +<p>“Some day, perhaps, I shall see you face <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>to face. Some day you may give +me your gracious permission to tell you all that is in my heart. Until +then, remember that I am your knight, that you are my lady, and that I +love you, Iris, love you!”</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>Her eyes were as luminous as the stars that shone upon the breast of +night. If the heavens had suddenly opened, she could not have been more +surprised. Her first love letter! At a single bound she had gained her +place beside those fair ladies of romance, who peopled her maiden +dreams. From to-night, she stood apart; no longer a child, but a woman +worshipped afar, by some gallant lover who feared to sign his name.</p> + +<p>She put out the candle, for the moonlight filled the room, and pattered +across the polished floor, in her bare feet, to her little white bed, +the letter in her hand.</p> + +<div class="centerbox3 bbox2"><p>“Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest,<br /> +And on her silver cross soft amethyst.”</p></div> + +<p>The hours went by and still Iris was awake, the mute paper crushed close +against her breast. “I wonder,” she murmured, her crimson face hidden in +the pillow, “I wonder who he can be!”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h2> + +<h2>Friends</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">T</span>he Doctor’s modest establishment consisted of two rooms over the +post-office. Here his shingle swung idly in the Summer breeze or +resisted the onslaughts of the Winter storms. The infrequent patient +seldom met anyone else in the office, but in case there should be two at +once, a dusty chair had been placed in the hall.</p> + +<p>Both rooms were kept scrupulously clean by the wife of the postmaster, +who lived on the same floor, but the bottles ranged in orderly rows upon +the shelves were left severely alone, because the ministering influence +lived in hourly dread of poison.</p> + +<p>Here the family physician of East Lancaster lived out his monotonous +existence. When he had first taken up his abode there, he had set up his +household gods upon the hill, in company with his countrymen. He soon +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>found, however, that his practice was confined to the hill, and that, +for all he might know to the contrary, East Lancaster was unaware of his +existence.</p> + +<p>It was the postmaster who first set him right. “If you’re a-layin’ out +to heal them as has the money to pay for it,” he had said, “you’ll have +to move. This yere brook, what seems so innocent-like, is the chalk mark +that partitions the sheep off from the goats. You’ll find it so in every +place. Sometimes it’s water, sometimes it’s a car track, and sometimes a +deepo, but it’s always there, though more ’n likely there ain’t no real +line exceptin’ the one what’s drawn in folks’ fool heads. I reckon, +bein’ as you’re a doctor, you’re familiar with that line down the middle +of human’s brains. Well, this yere brook is practically the same thing, +considerin’ East and West Lancaster for a minute as brains, the which is +a high compliment to both.”</p> + +<p>So, at the earliest possible moment, the Doctor had cast in his fortunes +with the “quality.” East Lancaster affected refined astonishment at +first, but when the resident physician, who had long enjoyed the deep +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>respect of the community, had been gathered to his fathers, Doctor +Brinkerhoff became the last resort. His skill was universally admitted, +but no one went to his office, for fear of meeting undesirable +strangers. It was thought to be in better taste to pay the double fee +and have the Doctor call, even for such slight ailments as boils and cut +fingers.</p> + +<p>The man was mentally broad enough to be amused at the eccentricities of +East Lancaster, though his keen old eyes did not fail to discern that he +was merely tolerated where he had hoped to find friends. Within the +narrow confines of his establishment, he cultivated a serene and +comfortable philosophy. To suit himself to his environment when that +environment was out of his power to change, to seek for the good in +everything and resolutely refuse to be affected by the bad, to believe +steadfastly in the law of Compensation—this was Doctor Brinkerhoff’s +creed.</p> + +<p>On Wednesday and Saturday evenings, he was received as an equal by two +of the aristocratic families. On Sunday mornings, he never failed to +attend church. Before the last notes of the bell died away, he was +always in his place. After the service, he hurried away, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>making courtly +acknowledgments on every side to the formal greetings.</p> + +<p>Sunday afternoons, precisely at half-past four, he went up the hill to +Herr Kaufmann’s and spent the evening. This weekly visit was the leaven +of Fräulein Fredrika’s humdrum life. There was a sort of romance about +it which glorified the commonplace and she looked forward to it with +repressed excitement. Poor Fräulein Fredrika! Perhaps she, too, had her +dreams.</p> + +<p>In many respects the two men were kindred. Their conversations were +frequently perfunctory, but lacked no whit of sustaining grace for that. +Talk, after all, is pathetically cheap. Where one cannot understand +without words, no amount of explanation will make things clear. Across +impassable deeps, like lofty peaks of widely parted ranges, soul greets +soul. Separated forever by the limitations of our clay, we live and die +absolutely alone. Even Love, the magician, who for dazzling moments +gives new sight and boundless revelation, cannot always work his charm. +A third of our lives is spent in sleep, and who shall say what +proportion of the rest is endured in planetary isolation?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p><p>June came through the open windows of the house upon the brink of the +cliff and the Master dozed in his chair. The height was glaring, because +there were no trees. The spirit of German progress had cut down every +one of the lofty pines and maples, save at the edges of the settlement, +where primeval woods, sloping down to the valley, still flourished.</p> + +<p>Fräulein Fredrika sat with her face resolutely turned to the west. It +was Sunday and almost half-past four, but she would not look for the +expected guest. She preferred to concentrate her mind upon something +else, and when the rusty bell-wire creaked, experience all the emotion +of a delightful surprise.</p> + +<p>At the appointed hour, he came, and the colour of dead rose petals +bloomed on the Fräulein’s withered face. “Herr Doctor,” she said, “it is +most kind. Mine brudder will be pleased.”</p> + +<p>“Wake up!” cried the Doctor, with a hearty laugh, as he strode into the +room. “You can’t sleep all the time!”</p> + +<p>“So,” said the Master, with an understanding smile, as he straightened +himself and rubbed his eyes, “it is you!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p><p>Fräulein Fredrika sat in the corner and watched the two whom she loved +best in all the world. No one was so wise as her Franz, unless it might +be the Herr Doctor, to whom all the mysteries of life and death were as +an open book.</p> + +<p>“To me,” said the Doctor, once, “much has been given to see. My Father +has graciously allowed me to help Him. I am first to welcome the soul +that arrives from Him, and I am last to say farewell to those He takes +back. What wonder if, now and then, I presume to send Him a message of +my faith and my belief?”</p> + +<p>The Master’s idea of satisfying companionship was not a flow of +uninterrupted talk, marred by much levity. He merely asked that his +friend should be near at hand, that he might communicate with him when +he chose. When he had a thought which seemed worthy of dignified +inspection, he would offer it, but not before.</p> + +<p>On this particular afternoon, Lynn was exceedingly restless. Like many +other men, to whom the thing is impossible, he vaguely feared +feminisation. The variety of soft influences continually about him had a +subtle, enervating effect.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p><p>Iris was reading, his mother was writing letters, and Aunt Peace was +endeavouring to entertain him with reminiscences of her early youth. +When life lies fair in the distance, with the rosy hues of anticipation +transfiguring its rugged steeps and yawning chasms, we are young, though +our years may number threescore and ten. On that first day when we look +back, either happily or with remorse, to the stony ways over which we +have travelled, losing concern for that part of the journey which is yet +to come, we have grown old.</p> + +<p>“That is very interesting,” said Lynn, when Aunt Peace had finished her +description of the first school she attended. “I think I’ll go out for a +walk now, if you don’t mind. Will you tell mother, please, when she +comes down?”</p> + +<p>He went off at a rapid pace and made a long, circling tour of East +Lancaster, ending at the bridge, where he, too, leaned over and looked +into the sunny depths of the stream. Doctor Brinkerhoff’s sign, waving +in the wind, gave him an idea. Accidentally, he had hit upon his need; +he hungered for the companionship of his kind.</p> + +<p>But Doctor Brinkerhoff was not at home, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>and the deserted corridors +echoed strangely beneath his tread. He walked the length of the long +hall a few times, because there seemed nothing else to do, and the +Doctor’s cat, locked in the office, mewed piteously.</p> + +<p>“Poor pussy!” said Lynn, consolingly, “I wish I could let you out, but I +can’t.”</p> + +<p>Up the hill he went, his nameless irritation already sensibly decreased. +After all, it was good to be alive—to breathe the free air, feel the +warm sun upon his cheek and the springy turf beneath his feet.</p> + +<p>“Someone is coming,” announced Fräulein Fredrika. “I think it will be +the Herr Irving.”</p> + +<p>“Herr Irving,” repeated the Master. “Mine pupil? It is not the day for +his lesson.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps someone is ill,” suggested the Doctor.</p> + +<p>But, as it happened, Lynn had no errand save that of pure friendliness. +His buoyant spirits immediately gave a freshness to the time-worn themes +of conversation, and they talked until sunset.</p> + +<p>“It is good to have friends,” observed the Master. “In one’s wide +acquaintance every <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>person has his own place. You lose one friend, +perhaps, and you think, ‘Well, I can get along without him,’ but it is +not so. We have as many sides as we know people, and each acquaintance +sees a different one, which is often only a reflection of himself.</p> + +<p>“This afternoon, we have been speaking of Truth, and how it is that +things entirely opposite each other can both be true. The Herr Doctor +says it is because Truth has many sides, but I say no. Truth is one +clear white light and we are sun-glasses with many corners. Prisms, I +think you say. If the light strikes a sharp edge, it breaks into many +colours. To one of us everything will be purple, to another red, and to +yet one more it will be all blue. If we have many edges, we see many +colours. It is only the person who is in tune, who lets the light pass +with no interruption, who sees all things in one harmony, and Truth as +it is.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the Doctor, “that is all very true. When we oppose our +personal opinion to the thing as it is, and have our minds set upon what +should be, according to our ideas, it makes an edge. I think it is the +finest art of living to see things as they are <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>and make the best of +them. There is so little that we can change! If the colours break over +us, it is the fault of our sharp edges and not of the light.”</p> + +<p>“We are getting very serious,” observed Lynn. “For my part, I take each +day just as it comes.”</p> + +<p>“One day,” repeated the Master. “How many possible things there are in +it! What was it the poet said of Herr Columbus? Yes, I have it now. ‘One +day with life and hope and heart is time enough to find a world.’”</p> + +<p>“That is the beauty of it,” put in the Doctor. “One day is surely +enough. An old lady who had fallen and hurt herself badly said to me +once: ‘Doctor, how long must I lie here?’ ‘Have patience, my dear +madam,’ said I. ‘You have only one day at a time to live. Get all the +content you can out of it, and let the rest wait, like a bud, till the +sun of to-morrow shows you the rose.’”</p> + +<p>“Did she get well?” asked Lynn.</p> + +<p>“Of course—why not?”</p> + +<p>“His sick ones always get well,” said Fräulein Fredrika, timidly. “Mine +brudder’s friend possesses great skill.”</p> + +<p>She was laying the table for the simple <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>Sunday night tea, and Lynn said +that he must go.</p> + +<p>“No, no,” objected the Master, “you must stay.”</p> + +<p>“It would be of a niceness,” the Fräulein assured him, very politely.</p> + +<p>“We should enjoy it,” said the Doctor.</p> + +<p>“You are all very kind,” returned Lynn, “but they will look for me at +home, and I must not disappoint them.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” continued the Doctor, “may I not hope that you will play for me +before you go?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, if I have Herr Kaufmann’s permission, and if I may borrow +one of his violins.”</p> + +<p>“Of a surety.” The Master clattered down the uncarpeted stairs and +returned with an instrument of his own make. Without accompaniment, Lynn +played, and the Doctor nodded his enthusiastic approval. Herr Kaufmann +looked out of the window and paid not the slightest attention to the +performance.</p> + +<p>“Very fine,” said the Doctor. “We have enjoyed it.”</p> + +<p>“I am glad,” replied Lynn, modestly. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>Then, flushed with the praise, and +his own pleasure in his achievement, he turned to the Master. “How am I +getting on?” he asked, anxiously. “Don’t you think I am improving?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned the Master, dryly; “by next week you will be one +Paganini.”</p> + +<p>Stung by the sarcasm, Lynn went home, and after tea the group resolved +itself into its original elements. Herr Kaufmann and the Doctor sat in +their respective easy-chairs, conversing with each other by means of +silences, with here and there a word of comment, and Fräulein Fredrika +was in the corner, silent, too, and yet overcome with admiration.</p> + +<p>“That boy,” said the Doctor, at length, “he has genius.”</p> + +<p>The crescent moon gleamed faintly against the sunset, and a wayworn +robin, with slow-beating wings, circled toward his nest in one of the +maples on the other side of the valley. The fragrant dusk sheltered the +little house, which all day had borne the heat of the sun.</p> + +<p>“Possibly,” said the Master, “but no heart, no feeling. He is all +technique.”</p> + +<p>There was another long pause. “His <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>mother,” observed the Doctor, “do +you know her?”</p> + +<p>“No. I meet no women but mine sister.”</p> + +<p>“She is a lovely lady.”</p> + +<p>“So?”</p> + +<p>It was evident that the Master had no interest in Margaret Irving, but +the Doctor still brooded upon the vision. She was different from anyone +else in East Lancaster, and he admired her very much.</p> + +<p>“That boy,” said the Doctor, again, “he has her eyes.”</p> + +<p>“Whose?”</p> + +<p>“His mother’s.”</p> + +<p>“So?”</p> + +<p>The interval lengthened into an hour, and presently the kitchen clock +struck ten. “I shall go now,” remarked the Doctor, rising.</p> + +<p>“Not yet,” said the Master. “Come!”</p> + +<p>They went downstairs together, into the shop. It had happened before, +though rarely, and the Doctor suspected that he was about to receive the +greatest possible kindness from his friend’s hands. Herr Kaufmann +disappeared into his bedroom and was gone a long time.</p> + +<p>The room was dark, and the Doctor did not <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>dare to move for fear of +stepping upon some of the wood destined for violins. A cricket in the +corner sang cheerily and ceased suddenly in the middle of a chirp when +the Master came back with a lighted candle.</p> + +<p>“One moment, Herr Doctor.”</p> + +<p>He whisked off again and presently returned, holding under his arm +something that was wrapped in many pieces of ragged silk. One by one +these were removed, and at last the treasure was revealed.</p> + +<p>He held it off at arm’s length, where the light might shine upon its +beauty, and well out of reach of a random touch. The Doctor said the +expected thing, but it fell upon deaf ears. The Master’s fine face was +alight with more than earthly joy, and he stroked the brown breasts +lovingly.</p> + +<p>“Mine Cremona!” he breathed. “Mine—all mine!”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h2> + +<h2>A Bit of Human Driftwood</h2> + +<p style="float: left; font-size: 100%; line-height: 80%; margin-top: 0;">“</p><p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">P</span>resent company excepted,” remarked Lynn, “this village is full of +fossils.”</p> + +<p>“At what age does one get to be a ‘fossil,’” asked Aunt Peace, her eyes +twinkling. “Seventy-five?”</p> + +<p>“That isn’t fair,” Lynn answered, resentfully. “You’re younger than any +of us, Aunt Peace,—you’re seventy-five years young.”</p> + +<p>“So I am,” she responded, good humouredly. She was upon excellent terms +with this tall, straight young fellow who had brought new life into her +household. A March wind, suddenly sweeping through her rooms, would have +had much the same effect.</p> + +<p>“Am I a fossil?” asked Margaret, who had overheard the conversation.</p> + +<p>“You’re nothing but a kid, mother. You’ve never grown up. I can do what +I <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>please with you.” He picked her up, bodily, and carried her, flushed +and protesting, to her favourite chair, and dumped her into it. “Aunt +Peace, is there any place in the house where you might care to go?”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, no. I’ll stay where I am, if I may. I’m very comfortable.”</p> + +<p>Lynn paced back and forth with a heavy tread which resounded upon the +polished floor. Iris happened to be passing the door and looked in, +anxiously, for signs of damage.</p> + +<p>“Iris,” laughed Miss Field, “what a little old maid you are! You remind +me of that story we read together.”</p> + +<p>“Which story, Aunt Peace?”</p> + +<p>“The one in which the over-neat woman married a careless man to reform +him. She used to follow him around with a brush and dustpan and sweep up +after him.”</p> + +<p>“That would make him nice and comfortable,” observed Lynn. “What became +of the man?”</p> + +<p>“He was sent to the asylum.”</p> + +<p>“And the woman?” asked Margaret.</p> + +<p>“She died of a broken heart.”</p> + +<p>“I think I’d be in the asylum too,” said <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>Lynn. “I do not desire to be +swept up after.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody desires to sweep up after you,” retorted Iris, “but it has to be +done. Otherwise the house would be uninhabitable.”</p> + +<p>“East Lancaster,” continued Lynn, irrelevantly, “is the abode of mummies +and fossils. The city seal is a broom—at least it should be. I was +never in such a clean place in my life. The exhibits themselves look as +though they’d been freshly dusted. Dirt is wholesome—didn’t you ever +hear that? How the population has lived to its present advanced age, is +beyond me.”</p> + +<p>“We have never really lived,” returned Iris, with a touch of sarcasm, +“until recently. Before you came, we existed. Now East Lancaster lives.”</p> + +<p>“Who’s the pious party in brown silk with the irregular dome on her +roof?” asked Lynn.</p> + +<p>“The minister’s second wife,” answered Aunt Peace, instantly gathering a +personality from the brief description.</p> + +<p>“So, as Herr Kaufmann says. Might one inquire about the jewel she +wears?”</p> + +<p>“It’s just a pin,” said Iris.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p><p>“It looks more like a glass case. In someway, it reminds me of a +museum.”</p> + +<p>“It has some of her first husband’s hair in it,” explained Iris.</p> + +<p>“Jerusalem!” cried Lynn. “That’s the limit! Fancy the feelings of the +happy bridegroom whose wife wears a jewel made out of her first +husband’s fur! Not for me! When I take the fatal step, it won’t be a +widow.”</p> + +<p>“That,” remarked Margaret, calmly, “is as it may be. We have the +reputation of being a bad lot.”</p> + +<p>Lynn flushed, patted his mother’s hand awkwardly, and hastily beat a +retreat. They heard him in the room overhead, walking back and forth, +and practising feverishly.</p> + +<p>“Margaret,” asked Miss Field, suddenly, “what are you going to make of +that boy?”</p> + +<p>“A good man first,” she answered. “After that, what God pleases.”</p> + +<p>By a swift change, the conversation had become serious, and, always +quick at perceiving hidden currents, Iris felt herself in the way. +Making an excuse, she left them.</p> + +<p>For some time each was occupied with her own thoughts. “Margaret,” said +Miss Field, again, then hesitated.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p><p>“Yes, Aunt Peace—what is it?”</p> + +<p>“My little girl. I have been thinking—after I am gone, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk so, dear Aunt Peace. We shall have you with us for a long +time yet.”</p> + +<p>“I hope so,” returned the old lady, brightly, “but I am not endowed with +immortality—at least not here,—and I have already lived more than my +allotted threescore and ten. My problem is not a new one—I have had it +on my mind for years,—and when you came I thought that perhaps you had +come to help me solve it.”</p> + +<p>“And so I have, if I can.”</p> + +<p>“My little girl,” said Aunt Peace,—and the words were a caress,—“she +has given to me infinitely more than I have given to her. I have never +ceased to bless the day I found her.”</p> + +<p>Between these two there were no questions, save the ordinary, +meaningless ones which make so large a part of conversation. The deeps +were silently passed by; only the shallows were touched.</p> + +<p>“You have the right to know,” Miss Field continued. “Iris is twenty now, +or possibly twenty-one. She has never known when <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>her birthday came, and +so we celebrate it on the anniversary of the day I found her.</p> + +<p>“I was driving through the country, fifteen or twenty miles from East +Lancaster. 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 he +had told me, I had learned to take great interest. Doctor Brinkerhoff,” +she said, sturdily, “is a gentleman, though he has no social position.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied Margaret, seeing that an answer was expected, “he is a +charming gentleman.”</p> + +<p>“It was a warm Summer day, and on our way back we came upon a dozen or +more 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.</p> + +<p>“‘Please hold the lines,’ said the Doctor. ‘I will get out and lead the +horse past this most unnecessary obstruction.’ When he got out, the +children began to throw stones at the horse. It was a young animal, and +it started so violently that I was almost thrown from my seat. One +child, a girl of ten, climbed <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>into the buggy and shrieked to the rest: +‘I’ll hold the lines—get more stones!’</p> + +<p>“I was frightened and furiously angry, but I could do nothing, for I had +only one hand free. I tried to make the child sit down, and she struck +at me. Her torn sleeve fell back, and I saw that her arm was bruised, as +if with heavy blows.</p> + +<p>“Meanwhile the Doctor had led the horse a little way ahead, and had come +back. The whole tribe was behind us, yelling like wild Indians, and we +were in the midst of a rain of stones. Doctor Brinkerhoff got in and +started the horse at full speed.</p> + +<p>“‘We’ll put her down,’ he said, ‘a little farther on. She can walk +back.’</p> + +<p>“She was quiet, and her head was down, but I had one look from her eyes +that haunts me yet. She hated everybody—you could see that,—and yet +there was a sort of dumb helplessness about it that made my heart ache.</p> + +<p>“She got out, obediently, when we told her to, and stood by the +roadside, watching us. ‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘that child is not like the +others, and she has been badly used. I want her—I want to take her home +with me.’</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p><p>“‘Bless your kind heart, dear lady,’ he replied, laughing, and we were +almost at home before I convinced him that I was in earnest. He would +not let me go there again, but the very next day, he went, late in the +afternoon, 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.</p> + +<p>“The poor little soul was hungry, frightened, and oh, so dirty! I gave +her a bath, cut off her hair, which was matted close to her head, fed +her, and put her into a clean bed. The bruises on her body would have +brought tears from a stone. I sat by her until she was asleep, and then +went down to interview the Doctor, who was reading in the library.</p> + +<p>“He said that the people who had her were more than glad to get rid of +her, and hoped that they might never see her again. Nothing had been +paid toward her support for a long time, and they considered themselves +victimised.</p> + +<p>“Of course I put detectives at work upon the case and soon found out all +there was to know. She was the daughter of a play-actress, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>whose stage +name was Iris Temple. Her husband deserted her a few months after their +marriage, and when the child was born, she was absolutely destitute. +Finally, she found work, but she could not take the child with her, and +so Iris does not remember her mother at all. For six years she paid +these people a small sum for the care of the child, then remittances +ceased, and abuse began. We learned that she had died in a hospital, but +there was no trace of the father.</p> + +<p>“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, the +things that poor child said in her delirium! Doctor Brinkerhoff was here +night and day, and his skill saved her, but when she came out of it she +was a pitiful little ghost. Mercifully, she had forgotten a great deal, +but even now some of the horror comes back to her occasionally. She +knows everything, except that her mother was a play-actress. I would not +want her to know that.</p> + +<p>“For a while,” Aunt Peace went on, “we both had a very hard time. She +was actually depraved. But I believed in the good that was hidden in her +somewhere—there is good <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>in all of us if we can only find it,—and +little by little she learned to love me. Through it all, I had Doctor +Brinkerhoff’s sympathetic assistance. He came every week, advised me, +counselled with me, helped me, and even faced the gossips. All that East +Lancaster knows is the simple fact that I found a child who attracted +me, discovered that her parents were dead, and adopted her. There was a +great deal of excitement at first, but it died down. Most things die +down, my dear, if we give them time.”</p> + +<p>“Dear Aunt Peace,” said Margaret, softly, “you found a bit of human +driftwood, and with your love and your patience made it into a beautiful +woman.”</p> + +<p>The old face softened, and the serene eyes grew dim. “Whenever I think +that my life has been in vain; when it seems empty, purposeless, and +bare, 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 well +with her.”</p> + +<p>“I am so glad you told me,” continued Margaret, after a little.</p> + +<p>“Her future has sorely troubled me. Of course I can make her +comfortable, but money <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>is not everything. I dread to have her go away +from East Lancaster, and <span style="white-space: nowrap;">yet——”</span></p> + +<p>“She never need go,” interrupted Margaret. “If, as you say, the house +comes to me, there is no reason why she should. I would be so glad to +have her with me!”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, my dear! It was what I wanted, but I did not like to ask. +Now my mind will be at rest.”</p> + +<p>“It is little enough to do for you, leaving her out of the question. She +might be a great deal less lovely than she is, and yet it would be a +pleasure to do it for you.”</p> + +<p>“She will repay you, I am sure,” said Aunt Peace. “Of course Lynn will +marry sometime,”—here the mother’s heart stopped beating for an instant +and went on unevenly,—“so you will be left alone. You cannot expect to +keep him in a place like East Lancaster. He is—how old?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-three.”</p> + +<p>“Then, in a few years more, he will leave you.” Aunt Peace was merely +meditating aloud as she looked out of the window, and had no idea that +she was hurting her listener. “Perhaps, after all, Iris will be my best +bequest to you.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p><p>“Iris may marry,” suggested Mrs. Irving, trying to smile.</p> + +<p>“Iris,” repeated Aunt Peace, “no indeed! I have made her an +old-fashioned spinster like myself. She has never thought of such +things, and never will!”</p> + +<p>(At the moment, Miss Temple was reading an anonymous letter, much worn, +but, though walls have ears, they are happily blind, and Aunt Peace did +not realise that she was nowhere near the mark.)</p> + +<p>“Marriage is a negative relation,” continued Miss Field, with an air of +knowledge. “People undertake it from an unpardonable individual +curiosity. They see it all around them, and yet they rush in, blindly +trusting that their own venture will turn out differently from every +other. Someone once said that it was like a crowded church—those +outside were endeavouring to get in, and those inside were making +violent efforts to get out. Personally, I have had the better part of +it. I have my home, my independence, and I have brought up a child. +Moreover, I have not been annoyed with a husband.”</p> + +<p>“Suppose one falls in love,” said Margaret, timidly.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p><p>“Love!” exclaimed Aunt Peace. “Stuff and nonsense!” She rose +majestically, and went out with her head high and the step of a +grenadier.</p> + +<p>Left to herself, Margaret mentally reviewed their conversation, passing +resolutely over the hurt that Aunt Peace had unconsciously made in her +heart. Never before had it occurred to her that Lynn might marry. “He +can’t,” she whispered; “why, he’s nothing but a child.”</p> + +<p>She turned her thoughts to Iris and Aunt Peace. The homeless little +savage had grown into a charming woman, under the patient care of the +only mother she had ever known. If Aunt Peace should die—and if Lynn +should marry,—she did not phrase the thought, but she was very +conscious of its existence,—she and Iris might make a little home for +themselves in the old house. Two men, even the best of friends, can +never make a home, but two women, on speaking terms, may do so.</p> + +<p>“If Lynn should marry!” Insistently, the torment of it returned. If he +should fall in love, who was she to put a barrier in his path? His +mother, whose heart had been hungry all these years, should she keep him +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>back by so much as a word? Then, all at once, she knew that it was her +own warped life which demanded it by way of compensation.</p> + +<p>“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 a +child!”</p> + +<p>The mood passed, and the woman’s soul began to dwell upon its precious +memories. Mnemosyne, that guardian angel, forever separates the wheat +from the chaff, the joy from the pain. At the touch of her hallowed +fingers, the heartache takes on a certain calmness, which is none the +less beautiful because it is wholly made of tears.</p> + +<p>Lynn’s violin was silent now, and softly, from the back of the house, +the girl’s full contralto swelled into a song.</p> + +<div class="centerbox4 bbox2"><p>“The hours I spent with thee, Dear Heart,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Are as a string of pearls to me;</span><br /> +I count them over, every one apart—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">My rosary! My rosary!”</span></p></div> + +<p>Iris sang because she was happy, but, none the less, the deep, vibrant +voice had an undertone <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>of sadness—a world-old sorrow which, by right +of inheritance, was hers.</p> + +<p>Margaret’s thoughts went back to her own girlhood, when she was no older +than the unseen singer. Love’s cup had been at her lips, then, and had +been dashed away by a relentless hand.</p> + +<div class="centerbox5 bbox2"><p>“O memories that bless and burn!<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">O barren pain and bitter loss!</span><br /> +I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">To kiss the cross—Sweetheart! To kiss the cross!”</span></p></div> + +<p>“‘To kiss the cross,’” muttered Margaret, then the tears came in a +blinding flood. “Mother! Mother!” she sobbed. “How could you!”</p> + +<p>Insensibly, something was changed, and, for the first time, the woman +who had gone to her grave unforgiven, seemed not entirely beyond the +reach of pardon.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h2> + +<h2>Rosemary and Mignonette</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p style="float: left; font-size: 100%; line-height: 80%; margin-top: 0;">“</p><p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">S</span>weet Lady of my Dreams, it cannot be that you are displeased. If you +were, I should know, but do not ask me how!</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p><p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>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?</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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?</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p><div class="blockquot"><p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p></div> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“A little lost rainbow,” thought Iris, “out alone in the night, like +me!”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p><p>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!</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>“One couldn’t call it a flower!” Yes, +mignonette was a flower, but rosemary? Surely, no!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” murmured Iris, as she went hastily into the house, “what could I +have been thinking of!”</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>But across the street, in the darkness of the shrubbery, Someone smiled.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h2> + +<h2>In the Garden</h2> + +<p style="float: left; font-size: 100%; line-height: 80%; margin-top: 0;">“</p><p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">T</span>o-night,” said Aunt Peace, “we will sit in the garden.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p><p>“One might think so,” agreed Lynn, laughing. He took keen delight in the +regular Wednesday evening comedy.</p> + +<p>“We make the little cakes for tea,” continued Iris, her eyes dancing.</p> + +<p>“But we never have ’em for tea,” Lynn objected, “and I wish you’d quit +talking about ’em. It disturbs my peace of mind.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“If you haven’t learned yet, I’ll slap you again.”</p> + +<p>“No, you won’t; I’ll hold your hands next time.”</p> + +<p>“There isn’t going to be any ‘next time.’ The idea!”</p> + +<p>“Iris! Please don’t go away! Wait a minute—I want to talk to you.”</p> + +<p>“It’s too bad it’s so one-sided,” remarked Iris, with a sidelong glance.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p><p>“Look here!”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’m looking, but so much green—the grass—and the shrubbery, you +know—and all—it’s hard on my eyes.”</p> + +<p>“We’re cousins, aren’t we?”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“I think we are. Mother is Aunt Peace’s nephew, isn’t she?”</p> + +<p>“Not that anybody knows of. A lady nephew is called a niece in East +Lancaster.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well,” replied Lynn, colouring, “you know what I mean. Mother is +Aunt Peace’s niece, isn’t she?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“It’s the truth,” he said. “And mother’s my mother.”</p> + +<p>“Really?”</p> + +<p>“So that makes me Aunt Peace’s nephew.”</p> + +<p>“Grand-nephew,” corrected Iris, with double meaning.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p><p>“Thank you for the compliment. Perhaps I’m a nephew-once-removed.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t seen any signs of removal,” observed Iris, “but I’d love to.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be so frivolous! If I am Aunt Peace’s nephew, what relation am I +to her daughter?”</p> + +<p>“Legal daughter,” Iris suggested.</p> + +<p>“Legal daughter is just as good as any other kind of a daughter. That +makes me your cousin.”</p> + +<p>“Legal cousin,” explained Iris, “but not moral.”</p> + +<p>“It’s all the same, even in East Lancaster. I’m your legal +cousin-once-removed.”</p> + +<p>“Grand-legal-cousin-once-removed,” repeated Iris, parrot-like, with her +eyes fixed upon a distant robin.</p> + +<p>“That’s just the same as a plain cousin.”</p> + +<p>“You’re plain enough to be a plain cousin,” she observed, and the colour +deepened upon Lynn’s handsome face.</p> + +<p>“So I’m going to kiss you again.”</p> + +<p>“You’re not,” she said, with an air of finality. She flew into the house +and took refuge beside Mrs. Irving.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p><p>“Mother,” cried Lynn, closely following, “isn’t Iris my cousin?”</p> + +<p>“No, dear; she’s no relation at all.”</p> + +<p>“So now!” exclaimed Iris, in triumph. “Grand-legal-cousin-once-removed, +you will please make your escape immediately.”</p> + +<p>“Little witch!” thought Lynn, as he went upstairs; “I’ll see that she +doesn’t slap me next time.”</p> + +<p>“Iris,” said Mrs. Irving, suddenly, “you are very beautiful.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go in there,” she thought. “Aunt Peace is in the kitchen, and no +one will know.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p><p>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.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Irving,” replied Iris, with icy calmness, “you will kindly let me +pass.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>But was she, after all? Since the great <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Just think! Two letters, not so very far apart, from someone who +worshipped her at <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>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.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Why can’t we go outside?” asked Margaret.</p> + +<p>“We can, my dear,” returned Aunt Peace, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>strange coincidence, five chairs were arranged in a sociable group +under the tall pine in a corner of the garden.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“And yet, madam,” returned the Doctor, “you would so much enjoy +travelling. It is too bad that you cannot go abroad.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Aunt Peace!” exclaimed Mrs. Irving. “What are you thinking of!”</p> + +<p>“Not of my seventy-five years, my dear; you may be sure of that.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Quite right!” said the Doctor, with evident sincerity.</p> + +<p>“Flatterers!” she laughed. “Fie upon you!” But there was a note of happy +youthfulness <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>in the voice, and they knew that she was pleased.</p> + +<p>“If you go, madam,” the Doctor continued, “it will be my pleasure to +give you letters to friends of mine in Germany.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” she returned, with a stately inclination of her head. “It +would be very kind.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I would not trouble you, Doctor, but sometime, if you happened to be +passing.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he answered, “when I happen to be passing. I shall not forget.”</p> + +<p>“They might be interesting, if not of actual service. I am familiar with +much that has been written of foreign lands. We have <i>Marco Polo’s +Adventures</i> in our library.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor coughed into his handkerchief. “The world has changed, dear +madam, since Marco Polo travelled.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she sighed, “it is always changing, and we older ones are left +far behind.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Lynn. “I’ll tell you what, Aunt Peace, you’re +well up at <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>the head of the procession. You’re no farther behind than +the drum-major is.”</p> + +<p>“The drum-major, my dear? I do not understand. Is he a military +gentleman?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Lynn!” said Margaret, reprovingly. “What language! Aunt Peace cannot +understand you!”</p> + +<p>“I’ll bet on Aunt Peace,” remarked Lynn, sagely.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Better, madam, steadily better. I can see it every day.”</p> + +<p>“It is well for one to think so,” observed Margaret, “whatever the facts +may be.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Something queer, my dear?” asked Aunt Peace, with interest. “What was +it?”</p> + +<p>“A leaf of rosemary and a sprig of mignonette, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>tied round with a blade +of grass and wet with dew.”</p> + +<p>“How strange,” said Margaret. “How could it have happened?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Very pretty,” repeated the Doctor, nodding appreciation.</p> + +<p>Iris feared they heard the loud beating of her heart. “What do you +think?” asked Lynn, turning to her. “Was it a fairy?”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” she returned, with assumed indifference. “Who else?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I had no idea it was so late,” he said. “I must go.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Aunt Peace.”</p> + +<p>“Those little cakes that we had for tea—there <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>may be one or two +left—and is there not a little wine?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll see.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“To your good health, madam.”</p> + +<p>“And to your prosperity.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Which one?”</p> + +<p>“‘Annie Laurie,’ if you please.”</p> + +<p>Iris went in, and Margaret made a move to follow her. “Don’t go, +mother,” said Lynn, “let’s stay here.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid Aunt Peace will take cold.”</p> + +<p>“No, dearie, I have my shawl. Let me be young again, just for to-night, +with no fear <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>of draughts or colds. Midsummer has never hurt anyone, +and, as Doctor Brinkerhoff says, the good fairies are abroad to-night.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“A good voice,” said Lynn, half to himself. “She should study.”</p> + +<p>“Iris has had lessons,” returned Aunt Peace, with gentle dignity, “and +her voice pleases her friends. What is there beyond that?”</p> + +<p>“Fame,” said Lynn.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>for more—my +beautiful garden, with the moonlight shining upon it, music, and my best +friends.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Come again, then,” she said, graciously, with a happy little laugh. +“The years stretch fair before us, when one is but seventy-five!”</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h2> + +<h2>“Sunset and Evening Star”</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">D</span>octor Brinkerhoff came in the morning, but afterward, when Margaret +questioned him, he shook his head sadly. “I will do the best I can,” he +said, “and none of us can do more.” He went down the path, bent and old. +He seemed to have aged since the previous night.</p> + +<p>On Friday, Lynn went to Herr Kaufmann’s as usual, but he played +carelessly. “Young man,” said the Master, “why is it that you study the +violin?”</p> + +<p>“Why?” repeated Lynn. “Well, why not?”</p> + +<p>“It is all the same,” returned the Master, frankly. “I can teach you +nothing. You have the technique and the good wrist, you read quickly, +but you play like one parrot. When I say ‘fortissimo,’ you play +fortissimo; when I say ‘allegro,’ you play allegro. You <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>are one +obedient pupil,” he continued, making no effort to conceal his scorn.</p> + +<p>“What else should I be?” asked Lynn.</p> + +<p>“Do not misunderstand,” said the Master, more kindly. “You can play the +music as it is written. If that satisfies you, well and good, but the +great ones have something more. They make the music to talk from one to +another, but you express nothing. It is a possibility that you have +nothing to express.”</p> + +<p>Lynn walked back and forth with his hands behind his back, vaguely +troubled.</p> + +<p>“One moment,” the Master went on, “have you ever felt sorry?”</p> + +<p>“Sorry for what?”</p> + +<p>“Anything.”</p> + +<p>“Of course—I am often sorry.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” sighed the Master, instantly comprehending, “you are young, and +it may yet come, but the sorrows of youth are more sharp than those of +age, and there is not much chance. The violin is the most noble of +instruments. It is for those who have been sorry to play to those who +are. You have nothing to give, but it is one pity to lose your fine +technique. Since you wish to amuse, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>change your instrument, and study +the banjo, or perhaps the concertina.”</p> + +<p>Lynn understood no more than if Herr Kaufmann had spoken in a foreign +tongue. “I may have to stop for a little while,” he said, “for my aunt +is ill, and I can’t practise.”</p> + +<p>“Practise here,” returned the Master, indifferently. “Fredrika will not +care. Or go to the office of mine friend, the Herr Doctor. He will not +mind. A fine gentleman, but he has no ear, no taste. Until you acquire +the concertina, you may keep on with the violin.”</p> + +<p>“My mother,” began Lynn. “She wants me to be an artist.”</p> + +<p>“An artist!” repeated the Master, with a bitter laugh. “Your mother—” +here he paused and looked keenly into Lynn’s eyes. Something was +stirred; some far-off memory. “She believes in you, is it not so?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, she does—she has always believed in me.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the Master, with an indefinable shrug, “we must not +disappoint her. You work on like one faithful parrot, and I continue +with your instruction. It is good that mothers are so easy to please.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p><p>“Herr Kaufmann,” pleaded the boy, “tell me. Shall I ever be an artist?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I think so.”</p> + +<p>“When?”</p> + +<p>“When the river flows up hill and the sun rises in the west.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly, Lynn’s face turned white. “I will!” he cried, passionately; “I +will! I will be an artist! I tell you, I will!”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” returned the Master. He was apparently unmoved, but +afterward, when Lynn had gone, he regretted his harshness. “I may be +mistaken,” he admitted to himself, grudgingly. “There may be something +in the boy, after all. He is young yet, and his mother, she believes in +him. Well, we shall see!”</p> + +<p>Lynn went home by a long, circuitous route. Far beyond East Lancaster +was a stretch of woodland which he had not as yet explored. Herr +Kaufmann’s words still rang in his ears, and for the first time he +doubted himself. He sat down on a rock to think it over. “He said I had +the technique,” mused Lynn, “but why should I feel sorry?”</p> + +<p>After long study, he concluded that the Master was eccentric, as genius +is popularly supposed to be, and determined to think no <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>more of it. +Still, it was not so easily put wholly aside. “You play like one +parrot,”—that single sentence, like a barbed shaft, had pierced the +armour of his self-esteem.</p> + +<p>He went on through the woods, and stopped at a pile of rocks near a +spring. It might have been an altar erected to the deity of the wood, +but for one symbol. On the topmost stone was chiselled a cross.</p> + +<p>“Wonder who did it,” said Lynn, to himself, “and what for.” He found +some wild berries, made a cup of leaves, and filled it with the fragrant +fruit, planning to take it to Aunt Peace.</p> + +<p>But when he reached home Aunt Peace was far beyond the thought of +berries. She was delirious, and her ravings were pitiful. Iris was as +white as a ghost, and Margaret was sorely troubled.</p> + +<p>“Lynn,” she said, “don’t go away. I need you. Where have you been?”</p> + +<p>“To my lesson, and then for a walk. Herr Kaufmann says I may practise +there sometimes. He also suggested Doctor Brinkerhoff’s.”</p> + +<p>“That was kind, and I am sure the Doctor will be willing. How does he +think you are getting along?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p><p>She asked the question idly, and scarcely expected an answer, but Lynn +turned his face away and refused to meet her eyes. “Not very well,” he +said, in a low tone.</p> + +<p>“Why not, dear? You practise enough, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I think so. He says I have the technique and the good wrist, but I +play like a parrot, and can only amuse. He told me to take up the +concertina.”</p> + +<p>Margaret smiled. “That is his way. Just go on, dear, and do the very +best you can.”</p> + +<p>“But I don’t want to disappoint you, mother—I want to be an artist.”</p> + +<p>“Lynn, dear, you will never disappoint me. You have been a comfort to me +since the day you were born. What should I have done without you in all +these years that I have been alone!”</p> + +<p>She drew his tall head down and kissed him, but Lynn, boy-like, evaded +the sentiment and turned it into a joke. “That’s very Irish, +mother—‘what would you have done without me in all the time you’ve been +alone?’ How is the invalid?”</p> + +<p>“The fever is high,” sighed Margaret, “and Doctor Brinkerhoff looks very +grave.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p><p>“I hope she isn’t going to die,” said Lynn, conventionally. “Can I do +anything?”</p> + +<p>“No, nothing but wait. Sometimes I think that waiting is the very +hardest thing in the world.”</p> + +<p>That day was like the others. Weeks went by, and still Aunt Peace fought +gallantly with her enemy. Doctor Brinkerhoff took up his abode in the +great spare chamber and was absent from the house only when there was +urgent need of his services elsewhere. He even gave up his Sunday +afternoons at Herr Kaufmann’s, and Fräulein Fredrika was secretly +distressed.</p> + +<p>“Fredrika,” said the Master, gently, “the suffering ones have need of +our friend. We must not be selfish.”</p> + +<p>“Our friend possesses great skill,” replied the Fräulein, with quiet +dignity. “Do you think he will forget us, Franz?”</p> + +<p>“Forget us? No! Fear not, Fredrika; it is only little loves and little +friendships that forget. One does not need those ties which can be +broken. The Herr Doctor himself has said that, and of a surety, he +knows. Let us be patient and wait.”</p> + +<p>“To wait,” repeated Fredrika; “one finds it difficult, is it not so?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p><p>“Yes,” smiled the Master, “but when one has learned to wait patiently, +one has learned to live.”</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Aunt Peace grew steadily weaker, and the strain was beginning +to tell upon all. Doctor Brinkerhoff had lost his youth—he was an old +man. Margaret, painfully anxious, found relief from heartache only in +unremitting toil. Iris ate very little, slept scarcely at all, and crept +about the house like the ghost of her former self. Lynn alone maintained +his cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>“Iris,” said Aunt Peace, one day, “come here.”</p> + +<p>“I’m here,” said the girl, kneeling beside the bed, and putting her cold +hand upon the other’s burning cheek, “what can I do?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing, dearie. I could get well, I think, were it not for my terrible +dreams.”</p> + +<p>Iris shuddered, and yet was thankful because Aunt Peace could call her +delirium “dreams.”</p> + +<p>“Lately,” continued Aunt Peace, “I have been afraid that I am not going +to get well.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t!” cried Iris, sharply, turning her face away.</p> + +<p>“Dearie, dearie,” said the other, caressingly, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>“be my brave girl, and +let me talk to you. When the dreams come back, I shall not know you, but +now I do. I am stronger to-day, and we are alone, are we not? Where are +the others?”</p> + +<p>“The Doctor has gone to see someone who is very ill. Lynn has taken Mrs. +Irving out for a walk.”</p> + +<p>“I am glad,” said Aunt Peace, tenderly. “Margaret has been very good to +me. You have all been good to me.”</p> + +<p>Iris stroked the flushed face softly with her cool hand. In her eyes +were love and longing, and a foreshadowed loneliness.</p> + +<p>“Dearie,” Aunt Peace continued, “listen while I have the strength to +speak. All the papers are in a tin box, in the trunk in the attic. There +you will find everything that is known of your father and mother. I do +not anticipate any need of the information, but it is well that you +should know where to find it.</p> + +<p>“I have left the house to Margaret,” she went on, with difficulty, “for +it was rightfully hers, and after her it goes to Lynn, but there is a +distinct understanding that it shall be your home while you live, if you +choose to claim it. Margaret has promised me to keep <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>you with her. When +Lynn marries, as some day he will, you will be left alone. You and +Margaret can make a home together.”</p> + +<p>The girl’s face was hidden in her hands, and her shoulders shook with +sobs.</p> + +<p>“Don’t, dearie,” pleaded Aunt Peace, gently; “be my brave girl. Look up +at me and smile. Don’t, dearie—please don’t!</p> + +<p>“I have left you enough to make you comfortable,” she went on, after a +little, “but not enough to be a care to you, nor to make you the prey of +fortune hunters. It is, I think, securely invested, and you will have +the income while you live. Some few keepsakes are yours, also—they are +written down in”—here she hesitated—“in a paper Doctor Brinkerhoff +has. He has been very good to us, dearie. He is almost your +foster-father, for he was with me when I found you. He is a gentleman,” +she said, with something of her old spirit, “though he has no social +position.”</p> + +<p>“Social position is not much, Aunt Peace, beside the things that really +count, do you think it is?”</p> + +<p>“I hardly know, dearie, but I have changed my mind about a great many +things since I <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>have lain here. I was never ill before—in all my +seventy-five years, I have never been ill more than a day at a time, and +it seems very hard.”</p> + +<p>“It is hard, Aunt Peace, but we hope you will soon be well.”</p> + +<p>“No, dearie,” she answered, “I’m afraid not. But do not let us borrow +trouble, and let me tell you something to remember. When you have the +heartache, dearie,”—here the old eyes looked trustfully into the +younger ones,—“don’t forget that you made me happy. You have filled my +days with sunshine, and, more than anything else, you have kept me +young. I know you thought me harsh at first, but now, I am sure you +understand. You have been my own dear daughter, Iris. If you had been my +own flesh and blood, you could not have been more to me than you have.”</p> + +<p>Margaret came in, and Iris went away, sobbing bitterly. Aunt Peace +sighed heavily. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes burned like stars.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid you’ve tired yourself,” said Margaret, softly. “Was I gone +too long?”</p> + +<p>“No, indeed! Iris has been with me, and I am better to-day.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p><p>“Try to sleep,” said Margaret, soothingly.</p> + +<p>Obediently, Aunt Peace closed her eyes, but presently she sat up. “I’m +so warm,” she said, fretfully. “Where is Doctor Brinkerhoff?”</p> + +<p>“He has not come yet, but I think he will be here soon.”</p> + +<p>“Margaret?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Aunt Peace.”</p> + +<p>“Will you write off the recipe for those little cakes for him? He may be +able to find someone to make them for him, though of course they will +not be the same.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I will.”</p> + +<p>“It’s in my book. They are called ‘Doctor Brinkerhoff’s cakes.’ You will +not forget?”</p> + +<p>“No, I won’t forget. Can’t you sleep now?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll try.”</p> + +<p>Presently, the deep regular breathing told that she was asleep. Iris +came back with her eyes swollen and Margaret took her out into the hall. +They sat there for a long time, hand in hand, waiting, but no sound came +from the other room.</p> + +<p>“I cannot bear it,” moaned Iris, her mouth <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>quivering. “I cannot bear to +have Aunt Peace die.”</p> + +<p>“Life has many meanings,” said Margaret, “but it is what we make it, +after all. The pendulum swings from daylight to darkness, from sun to +storm, but the balance is always true.”</p> + +<p>Iris leaned against her, insensibly comforted.</p> + +<p>“She would be the first to tell you not to grieve,” Margaret went on, +though her voice faltered, “and still, we need sorrow as the world needs +night. We cannot always live in the sun. We can take what comes to us +bravely, as gentlewomen should, but we must take it, dear—there is no +other way.”</p> + +<p>Long afterward, Iris remembered the look on Margaret’s face as she said +it, but the tears blinded her just then.</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff came back at twilight, anxious and worn, yet eager to +do his share. Through the night he watched with her, alert, capable, and +unselfish, putting aside his personal grief for the sake of the others.</p> + +<p>In the last days, those two had grown very near together. When the +dreams came, he held her in his arms until the tempest passed, and +afterwards, soothed her to sleep.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p><p>“Doctor,” she said one day, “I have been thinking a great deal while I +have lain here. I seem never to have had the time before. I think it is +well, at the end, to have a little space of calm, for one sees so much +more clearly.”</p> + +<p>“You have always seen clearly, dear lady,” said the Doctor, very gently.</p> + +<p>“Not always,” she answered, shaking her head. “I can see many a mistake +now. The fogs have sometimes gathered thick about me, but now they have +lifted forever. We are but ships on the sea of life,” she went on. “My +course has lain through calm waters, for the most part, with the skies +blue and fair above me. I have been sheltered, and I can see now that it +might have made me stronger and better to face some of the storms. +Still, my Captain knows, and now, when I can hear the breakers booming +on the reef where I am to strike my colours, I am not afraid.”</p> + +<p>The end came on Sunday, just at sunset, while the bells were tolling for +the vesper service. The crescent moon rocked idly in the west, and a +star glimmered faintly above it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span></p><p>“Sunset and evening star,” she repeated, softly. “And one clear call for +me. Will you say the rest of it?”</p> + +<p>Choking, Doctor Brinkerhoff went on with the poem until he reached the +last verse, when he could speak no more.</p> + +<div class="centerbox6 bbox2"><p>“For though from out our bourne of time and place<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The flood may bear me far,</span><br /> +I hope to meet my Pilot face to face<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">When I have crossed the bar.”</span></p></div> + +<p>She finished it, then turned to him with her face illumined. “It is +beautiful,” she said, “is it not, my friend?”</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>Twilight came, and Margaret found them there when she went in with a +lighted candle. The Doctor sat at the side of the bed, very stiff and +straight, with the tears streaming over his wrinkled face. On his +shoulder, like a tired child, lay Aunt Peace, who had put on, at last, +her Necklace of Perfect Joy.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h2> + +<h2>The False Line</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">U</span>p in the darkened chamber where Aunt Peace lay, Iris stood face to face +with the greatest sorrow of her life. Was this, then, the end? Was there +nothing more? Cold as snow, unpitying as marble, Death mocked Iris as +she stood there, mutely questioning. Timidly she touched the waxen +cheek. The crimson fires burned there no more—the fever was gone.</p> + +<p>Through the house resounded the steady tread of muffled feet. Of all the +horrors of Death, the worst is that seemingly endless procession who +come to offer “sympathy,” to ask if there is anything they can do. Mere +acquaintances, privileged only by a casual nod, break down all barriers +when the Conqueror comes. Is it that idle curiosity which occasionally +dominates the best of us, or is it Life, triumphant for the moment, +looking forward fearfully to its inevitable end?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p><p>Some “friend of the family,” high in its confidence, assumes the +responsibility at such times. Chance callers are rewarded with grisly +details and grewsome descriptions of the soul struggling to free itself +from its bonds. We are told how the others “took it,” when at last the +sail was spread for the voyage over the uncharted sea.</p> + +<p>In the hall, straight as a soldier under orders, stood Doctor +Brinkerhoff. “No, madam,” he would say, “there is nothing you can do. +The arrangements are made. I will tell Mrs. Irving and Miss Temple that +you called. Yes, we were expecting it. She died peacefully; there was no +pain. To-morrow at four.”</p> + +<p>And then again: “Thank you, there is nothing you can do, but it is kind +of you to offer. The ladies will be grateful for your sympathy. Who +shall I say called?”</p> + +<p>“Iris,” pleaded Margaret, “come away.”</p> + +<p>The girl started. “I can’t,” she answered, dully.</p> + +<p>“You must come, dear—come into my room.”</p> + +<p>Unwillingly, Iris suffered herself to be led away. It is only the +surface emotion which is relieved by tears. Within the prison-house <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>of +the soul, when Grief, clad in grey garments, enters silently and +prepares to remain, there is no weeping. One hides it, as the Spartan +covered the bleeding wound in his breast.</p> + +<p>“Dear,” said Margaret, “my heart aches for you.”</p> + +<p>“She was all I had,” whispered Iris.</p> + +<p>“But not all you have. Lynn and I, and Doctor Brinkerhoff—surely we are +something.”</p> + +<p>“Did you ever care?” asked Iris, her despairing eyes fixed upon +Margaret.</p> + +<p>The older woman shrank from the question. She was tempted to dissemble, +but one tells the truth in the presence of Death.</p> + +<p>“Not as you care,” she answered. “My mother broke my heart. She took me +away from the man I loved, and forced me to marry another, whom I only +respected. When my husband died, I had my freedom, but it came too late. +When my mother died—she died unforgiven.”</p> + +<p>“Then you don’t understand.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, dear, I understand. You must remember that I loved her too.”</p> + +<p>“Suppose it had been Lynn?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p><p>“Lynn!” cried Margaret, with her lips white. “Lynn! Dear God, no!”</p> + +<p>Iris laughed hysterically. “You do not understand,” she said, with +forced calmness, “but you would if it were Lynn. You would not let me +keep you away if it were Lynn instead of Aunt Peace, so please do not +disturb me again.”</p> + +<p>Back she went, into the darkened chamber, and closed the door.</p> + +<p>Lynn walked back and forth through the halls aimlessly. All along, he +had felt the repulsion of the healthy young animal for the aged and ill. +Now he was unmoved, save by the dank, sweet smell of the house of death. +It grated on his sensibilities and made him shudder. He wished that it +was over.</p> + +<p>From his mother, he felt a curious alienation. Her eyes were red, and, +man-like, Lynn hated tears. From Doctor Brinkerhoff, too, a gulf divided +him.</p> + +<p>His fingers itched for his violin, but he could not practise. It would +not disturb Aunt Peace, but it would be considered out of keeping with +the situation. The Doctor’s rooms over the post-office were also +impossible. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>He smiled at the thought of the gossip which would permeate +East Lancaster if he should practise there.</p> + +<p>But at Herr Kaufmann’s? His face brightened, and with characteristic +impulsiveness he hastened downstairs.</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff still stood in the hall, a little wearily, perhaps, +but calmness overlaid his features like a mask. Lynn wondered at the +change in him.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Irving,” he said, huskily, “you were going out?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied Lynn, “to Herr Kaufmann’s. I can do nothing here,” he +added, by way of apology.</p> + +<p>“No,” sighed the Doctor, “no one can do anything here, but wait one +moment.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?” responded Lynn, with a rising inflection. “Is there some +message?”</p> + +<p>“It is my message,” said the Doctor, with dignity. “Say to him, please, +that no provision has been made for music to-morrow, and that I would +like him to come. Be sure to say that I ask it.”</p> + +<p>“Very well.”</p> + +<p>Lynn moved away from the house decorously, though the freedom of the +outer air <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>and the spring of the turf beneath his feet lifted the cloud +from his spirits and urged him to hasten his steps.</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff looked after him, his old eyes dim. The impassable +chasm of the years lay between him and Lynn—a measureless gulf which no +trick of magic might span. “If I had it to do over,” said the Doctor, to +himself,—“if I had my lost youth—and was not afraid,—things would not +be as they are now.”</p> + +<p>Margaret saw him from her upper window, and something tightened round +her heart, as though some iron hand held it unpityingly. Then came a +great throb of relief, because it was Aunt Peace, instead of Lynn.</p> + +<p>Iris, too, had seen him as he left the house. She perceived that he was +eager to get away—that only a sense of the fitness of things kept him +from running and whistling as was his wont. From the first, she had +known that it was nothing to him. “He has no heart,” she said to +herself. “He is as cold as—as cold as Aunt Peace is now.”</p> + +<p>Slow torture held the girl in a remorseless gird. Dimly, she knew that +some day there would be a change—that it could not always <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>be like +this. Sometime it must ease, and each throb would be sensibly less of a +hurt—just a little easier to bear. With rare prescience, also, she knew +that nothing in the world would ever be the same again—that she had +come to the dividing line. One reaches it as a light-hearted child; one +crosses it—a woman.</p> + +<p>“No,” said the Doctor, for the fiftieth time, “there is nothing you can +do. Mrs. Irving and Miss Temple are not receiving. Yes, we expected it. +The end was very peaceful and she did not suffer at all. Yes, it is +surely a comfort to know that. The arrangements are all made. Yes, thank +you, we have the music provided for. It was kind of you to come, and the +ladies will be grateful for your sympathy. Who shall I say called?”</p> + +<p>Behind him were the portraits, ranged in orderly rows. Some were old and +others young, but all had gone the way that Peace should go to-morrow. +Dumbly, the Doctor wondered if the same remorseless questioning had gone +on every time there had been a death in the old house, and, if so, why +the very floors did not cry out in protest at the desecration.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span></p><p>Life, that mystery of mysteries! The silence at the end and the +beginning is far easier to understand than the rainbow that arches +between. Man, the epitome of his forbears,—more than that, the epitome +of creation,—stands by himself—the riddle of the universe.</p> + +<p>The house in some way seemed alive, in pitiful contrast to its mistress, +who lay upstairs, spending her last night in the virginal whiteness of +her chamber. To-night there, and to-morrow <span style="white-space: nowrap;">night——</span></p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff, unable to bear the thought, recoiled as if from an +unexpected blow. Was it fancy, or did the painted lips of the young +officer in the uniform of the Colonies part in an ironical smile?</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>“So,” said the Master, as he opened the door, “you are late to your +lesson.”</p> + +<p>“It is my lesson day, isn’t it?” returned Lynn. “But I have only come to +practise. My aunt is dead.”</p> + +<p>“So? Your aunt?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Aunt Peace. Miss Field, you know,” he continued, in explanation.</p> + +<p>“So? I did not know. When was it?”</p> + +<p>“Sunday afternoon.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p><p>“And this is Tuesday. Well, we hear very little up here. It is too bad.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” agreed Lynn, awkwardly, “It—it upsets things.”</p> + +<p>The Master looked at him narrowly. “So it does. For instance, you have +lost one lesson on account of it, but you can practise. Come down in +mine shop where I am finishing mine violin. You shall play your +concerto. It is not a necessity to lose the practise for death.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what I thought,” said Lynn, as they went downstairs. “She was +very old, you know—more than seventy-five. There is a great deal of +fuss made about such things.”</p> + +<p>Again the Master looked at him sharply, but Lynn was unconscious and +perfectly sincere. He was not touched at all.</p> + +<p>“You can have one of mine violins,” the Master resumed, “and I shall +finish the one upon which I am at work. The concerto, please.”</p> + +<p>At once Lynn began, walking back and forth restlessly as he played. He +had long since memorised the composition, and when he finished the first +movement he paused to tighten a string.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p><p>“You,” said the Master,—“you have studied composition?”</p> + +<p>“Only a little.”</p> + +<p>“You feel no gift in that line?”</p> + +<p>“No, not at all.”</p> + +<p>“It is only to play?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, for the present.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said the Master, changing the position of the bridge on the +violin in his hand, “if you have no talents for composition, why do you +not let the composer of your concerto have his own way? You should not +correct him—it is most impolite.”</p> + +<p>“What—what do you mean?” stammered Lynn.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” said the Master, “only, if you have no gifts, you should play +G sharp where it is written, instead of G natural. It is not what one +might call an improvement in the concerto.”</p> + +<p>Lynn flushed, and began to play the movement over again, but before he +reached the bar in question he had forgotten. When he came to it he +played G natural again, and instantly perceived his mistake.</p> + +<p>The Master laughed. “Genius,” he said, “must have its own way. It is not +to be <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>held down by the written score. It must make changes, flourishes, +improvements. It is one pity that the composer cannot know.”</p> + +<p>“I forgot,” temporised Lynn.</p> + +<p>“So? Then why not take up the parlour organ? You should have an +instrument on which the notes are all made. I should not advise the +banjo, or even the concertina. The organ that turns by the handle would +be better yet. To make the notes—that is most difficult, is it not so? +Now, then, the adagio. Let us see how much you can better that.”</p> + +<p>Lynn played it correctly, and with intelligence, but without feeling.</p> + +<p>“One moment,” said the Master. “There is something I do not understand. +That adagio is one of the most beautiful things ever written. It is full +of one heartache and has in it many tears. Your aunt, you say, lies dead +in your house, and yet you play it like one machine. I cannot see! +Perhaps you had quarrelled?”</p> + +<p>“No,” returned Lynn, in astonishment, “I was very, very fond of her.”</p> + +<p>There was a long silence, then the Master sighed. “The thing means more +than the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>person,” he said. “Whoever is dead, if it is only one little +bird, it should make you feel sad. But it waits. Before you have +finished, the world will do one of three things to you. It will make +your heart very soft, very hard, or else break it, so. No one escapes.”</p> + +<p>“By the way,” began Lynn, eager to change the subject, “Doctor +Brinkerhoff told me to ask you to come and play at the funeral to-morrow +at four o’clock. He said it was his wish.”</p> + +<p>The Master’s face was troubled. “Once,” he said, “I promised one very +angry lady that I would not go in that house again, and I have kept mine +word. It was only once I went, but that was too much. Still, it was +twenty-five years and more past, and she has long since been dead. Death +frees one from a promise, is it not so?”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” replied Lynn, vaguely.</p> + +<p>“At any rate, mine friend, the Herr Doctor, has asked it, even after he +has known of mine promise, and, of a surety, he is wiser than I. I will +come, at four, with mine violin.”</p> + +<p>Lynn took the long way home, his sunny nature deeply disturbed. “What is +it?” he vainly asked of himself. “Am I different <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>from everybody else? +They all seem to know something that I do not.”</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>Iris kept her long vigil by Aunt Peace, her grief too great for her +starved body to withstand. At the sound of a fall, Doctor Brinkerhoff +left his post and hurried upstairs. Margaret was there almost as soon as +he was. Iris had fainted.</p> + +<p>Together, they carried her into her own room, where at length she +revived. “What happened?” she asked, weakly. “Did I fall?”</p> + +<p>“Hush, dear,” said Margaret. “Lie still. I’m coming to sit with you +after a while.”</p> + +<p>She went out into the hall to speak to the Doctor, but he was not there. +By instinct, she knew where to find him, and went into the front room.</p> + +<p>He stood with his back to the door, looking down upon that marble face. +Margaret was beside him, before he knew of her presence, and when he +turned, for once off his guard, she read his secret.</p> + +<p>“She never knew,” he said, briefly, as though in explanation. “I never +dared to tell her. Sometimes I think the lines we draw are false +ones—that God knows best.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p><p>“Yes,” replied Margaret, unsteadily, “the lines are false, but it is +always too late when we find it out.”</p> + +<p>“Yet a part of the barrier was of His own making. She was infinitely +above me. I should have been her slave; I was never meant to be her +equal. Still, the thirsty heart will aspire to the waters beyond its +reach.”</p> + +<p>“She knows now,” said Margaret.</p> + +<p>“Yes, she knows now, and she pardons me for my presumption. I can read +it in her face as I stand here.”</p> + +<p>Margaret choked back a sob. “Come away,” she said, with her hand upon +his arm, “come away until to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Until to-morrow,” he repeated, softly. He closed the door quietly, as +though he feared the sound might break her sleep.</p> + +<p>Iris was resting, and Margaret tiptoed down into the parlour, where the +Doctor sat with his grey head bowed upon his hands. “She knows it now,” +he said again, “and she forgives me. I can feel it in my heart.”</p> + +<p>“If she had known it before,” said Margaret, “things would have been +different,” but she knew that what she said was untrue.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p><p>“No,” he returned, shaking his head, “the line was there. You would not +know what it is like unless there had been a line between you and the +one you loved.”</p> + +<p>“There was,” she answered, hoarsely, then her eyes met his.</p> + +<p>“You, too?” he asked, unbelieving, but she could not speak. She only +bowed her head in assent. Then his hand grasped hers in full +understanding. The false line divided them, also, but in one thing, at +least, they were kindred.</p> + +<p>“I wish,” said the Doctor, after a little, “that we could hide her away +before to-morrow. The people she has held herself apart from all her +life will come and look at her now that she is helpless.”</p> + +<p>“That is the irony of it,” returned Margaret. “I have even prayed to +outlive those I hated, so that they could not come and look at me when I +was dead.”</p> + +<p>“Have you outlived them?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Margaret, thickly, “every one.”</p> + +<p>“You hated someone who drew the false line?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p><p>“And that person is dead?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said the Doctor, very gently, “when you have forgiven, the line +will be blotted out. The one on the other side of it may be out of your +reach forever, but the line will be gone.”</p> + +<p>The idea was new to her, that she must forgive. She thought of it long +afterward, when the house was as quiet as its sleeping mistress, and the +pale stars faded to pearl at the hour of dawn.</p> + +<p>The third day came; the end of that pitiful period in which we wait, +blindly hoping that the miracle of resurrection may be given once more, +and the stone be rolled away from our dead.</p> + +<p>It was Doctor Brinkerhoff who had the casket closed before the strangers +came, and afterward he told Margaret. “She would be thankful,” Margaret +assured him, and his eyes filled. “Yes,” he answered, huskily, “I +believe she would.”</p> + +<p>They sat together at the head of the stairs, out of sight, and yet +within hearing. Lynn sat at one end, still perplexed, and shuddering at +the unpleasantness of it all. His mother’s <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>hand was in his, and with +her left arm she supported Iris, who leaned heavily against her +shoulder, broken-hearted. On the other side of Iris was Doctor +Brinkerhoff, austere and alone.</p> + +<p>From below came the wonderful words of the burial service: “I am the +resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, +yet shall he live.” It was followed by a beautiful tribute to Aunt +Peace—to the countless good deeds of her five and seventy years.</p> + +<p>Then there was silence, broken by the muffled sound of a string being +tightened to harmonise with the piano. Swiftly upon the discordant note, +the voice of a violin, strong, clear, and surpassingly sweet, rose in an +<i>Ave Maria</i>.</p> + +<p>Margaret started to her feet. “What is it?” she whispered, hoarsely.</p> + +<p>“Mother,” said Lynn, in a low tone, “don’t. It is only Herr Kaufmann. We +asked him to play.”</p> + +<p>“The Cremona!” she muttered. “The Cremona—here—to-day!”</p> + +<p>She lay back in her chair with her eyes closed and her mouth quivering. +Lynn held <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>her hand tightly, and Iris breathed hard. Doctor Brinkerhoff +listened intently, his heart rejoicing in the beauty of it, because it +was done for her.</p> + +<p>Deep chords, full and splendid, sounded an ultimate triumph over Death. +The music counselled acceptance, resignation, because of something that +lay beyond—indefinite, yet complete restitution, when the time of its +fulfilment should be at hand. Beside it, the individual grief sank into +insignificance—it was the sorrow of the world demanding payment for +itself from the world’s joy.</p> + +<p>Something vast and appealing took the place of the finite passion, +seeking hungrily for its own ends, and in the greatness of it, with +heart uplifted, Margaret forgave the dead.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h2> + +<h2>To Iris</h2> + +<div class="blockquot"><p style="float: left; font-size: 100%; line-height: 80%; margin-top: 0;">“</p><p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">D</span>aughter of the Marshes, the winds have told me you are sad. If I +could, I would bear it for you, but there is no way by which one of us +may take another’s burden.</p> + +<p>“I wish I might come to you, but now, when you are troubled, I will not +ask you for a signal, even for a flower on the gate-post. I would always +have you happy, dear, if my love could buy it from the Fates—those deep +eyes of yours should never be veiled by the mist of tears.</p> + +<p>“Do you know where the marsh is, Iris? You have lived in East Lancaster +for many years, so the gossips tell me, yet I doubt whether you could +find it unless someone showed you the way. To reach it, you must follow +the river, through all its turns and windings, for many a weary mile.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p><p>“Up in those distant hills, so far that I have never found it, the river +begins—perhaps in some tiny pool of crystal clearness. It sings along +over its rocky bed until it reaches a low, sandy plain, and here is the +marsh. I was there the other day, just at sunset; my heart thrilled with +the beauty of it because it is the beauty of you.</p> + +<p>“How shall I tell you of the wonder of the marshes, those wide, watery +plains embroidered with strange bloom? Tall, slender rushes stand there, +bending gracefully when the wind passes, and answering with music to the +touch. Have you ever heard the song of the marshes when the wind moves +through the rushes and plays upon them like strings? Some day, I will +take you there, and you shall listen, too, and tell me what you think it +means.</p> + +<p>“Here and there are pools, set like jewels among the rushes, with never +a hint of growth. Sometimes you see a wide sweep of grass, starred with +tiny yellow flowers, or a lily, surrounded by its leaves, drinking in +the loveliness of the day and forgetting all the maze of slime and dark +water through which it has somehow come. I think our souls are like +that, Iris—we grow through <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>the world, with all its darkness, borne +upward by unfailing aspiration, until we reach the end, which we have +been taught to call Heaven, but which is only blossoming in the light.</p> + +<p>“But of all the radiant beauty of marshes, the best is this—that part +of it which bears the purple flower of your name. In and out of the +rushes, like the thread of a strange tapestry, it winds and wanders, +hidden for an instant, maybe, but never lost. I have gathered an armful +of the blossoms, and put my face down to them, closing my eyes, and +dreaming that it was you—you whom I must ever hold apart as something +too beautiful for me to touch—you, whom I can only love from afar.</p> + +<p>“I have told you that I would come when the iris bloomed, but now, when +the marsh is glorious with the purple banners, I dare not. It is not +only because you are sad, though not for worlds would I trouble you now, +but because I am afraid.</p> + +<p>“Only in my wildest moments do I dare to hope—you were never meant for +such as I. By day, I bow my soul before you in shame at my own +unworthiness, but at night, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>like some flaming star which speeds across +the uncharted dark, you light the barren country of my dreams.</p> + +<p>“I think sometimes that I shall never dare to tell you; that it must be +like this, year after year. If you knew your lover, who is so bold and +yet so fearful, I think you would cast him aside in scorn. So it is +better for me to believe, though that belief has no foundation,—better +for me to hope than utterly to despair. Without you, I dare not think +what life might be.</p> + +<p>“Like the marsh, the years stretch out before me—a vast plain of which +the uncertainty only is sure. They are full of strange pitfalls, of +unsounded deeps and silences, of impassable barriers which I, +disheartened and doubting, must one day meet face to face.</p> + +<p>“Night lies upon it, and I cannot see the way. Storm beats upon me and +turns me from my course. The clouded day ends in sunset, and the crystal +pools, by which I thought to mark my path, become beacons of blood-red +flame.</p> + +<p>“The will o’ the wisp leads me into the mire, where the rushes cling +tightly about me and keep me back. But the night wind <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>blows from the +east, where the dawn sleeps, and on the strings of the marsh grass +breathes a little song. ‘Iris! Iris!’ it sings, then all at once my sore +heart grows strangely glad, for whatever may come to me, I shall have +the memory of you.</p> + +<p>“Like the flags that glorify the marshes and spread their elfin +sweetness afar, you shine upon the desert wastes of my life. I can never +wholly lose you—you are there for always, and graven on my heart +forever is the symbol of the fleur-de-lis.”</p></div> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h2> + +<h2>Her Name-Flower</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">S</span>omehow, the days passed. Iris ate mechanically, and went about her +household duties with her former precision. On Wednesday evening, Doctor +Brinkerhoff came, as usual, and Margaret’s eyes filled at the sight of +him.</p> + +<p>Bent, old, and haggard, he came up the path, longing for his accustomed +place in the house, and yet dreading to take it. Iris met him with a +pitiful little smile, and he bowed over her hand for a moment, his +shoulders shaking. Then he straightened himself, like a soldier under +fire.</p> + +<p>“Miss Iris,” he said, “we are bound together by a common grief. More +than that, I have a trust to fulfil. She”—here he hesitated and then +went on—“she asked me if I would not try to take the place of a father +to you, and I promised that I would.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p><p>“I have always felt so toward you,” answered Iris, in a low tone.</p> + +<p>Lynn was quite himself again, and his cheerful talk enlivened the +others, almost against their will. There was laughter and to spare, yet +beneath it was an undercurrent of sorrow, for the wound was healed only +upon the surface.</p> + +<p>“It is hard,” said the Doctor, sadly, “but life holds many hard things +for all of us. Perhaps, if we lived rightly, if our faith were stronger, +death would not rend our hearts as it does. It is the common lot, the +universal leveller, and soon or late it comes to us all. It remains to +make our spiritual adjustment accord with the inevitable fact. There is +so little that we can change, that it behooves us to confine our efforts +to ourselves.”</p> + +<p>“Life,” replied Lynn “is the pitch of the orchestra, and we are the +instruments.”</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff nodded. “Very true. The discord and the broken string +of the individual instrument do not affect the whole, except as false +notes, but I think that God, knowing all things, must discern the +symphony, glorious with meaning, through the discordant fragments that +we play.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p><p>So the talk went on, Lynn taking the burden of it and endeavouring +always to make it cheerful. Margaret understood and loved him for it, +but she, too, was sad. Iris sat like a stone, waiting, counting off the +leaden hours as something to be endured, and blindly believing that rest +would come.</p> + +<p>“Everything,” said Margaret, after a long silence, “was as beautiful as +it could be.”</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff understood at once. “Yes,” he sighed, “and I am glad. +I think it was as she would have wished it to be, and I am sure she was +pleased because I shielded her from the gaze of the curious at the end.” +His face worked as he said it, but he took a pitiful pride in what he +had done. Day by day he hugged this last service closer, because it was +done through his own thought and his own understanding, and would have +pleased her if she had known.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned Margaret, kindly, “it was very thoughtful of you. It +would never have occurred to me, and I know she would have been +grateful.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Iris?” said the Doctor, inquiringly.</p> + +<p>The girl turned. “Yes?”</p> + +<p>“She—she gave me a paper for you. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>Will you have it, or shall I read it +to you?”</p> + +<p>“Read it,” answered Iris, dully.</p> + +<p>“It is in the form of a letter. She wrote it one day, near the end of +her illness, and gave it to me, to be opened after her death.”</p> + +<p>In the midst of a profound silence, he took an envelope from his pocket +and broke the seal.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>“‘My Dear Doctor Brinkerhoff,’” he began, clearing his throat, +“‘I feel that I am not going to get well, and so I have been +thinking, as I lie here, and setting my house in order. I have +told Iris, but for fear she may forget, I tell you. All the +papers which concern her are in a tin box in a trunk in the +attic. She will know where to find it.</p> + +<p>“‘To her, as to an only daughter, go my little keepsakes—the +emerald pin, my few pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver +buckles. She will understand the spirit of this bequest and +will feel free to take what she likes.</p> + +<p>“‘The house is for Margaret, and, after her, for Lynn, but it +is to be a home for Iris, just as it has been, while she lives. +Her income is to be paid regularly on the first of every month, +during her lifetime, as is written in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>my will, which the +lawyer has and which he will read at the proper time.</p> + +<p>“‘Tell my little girl that, though I am dead, I love her still; +that she has given me more than I could ever have given her, +and that she must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell her I +want her to be happy.</p> + +<p>“‘To you, I send my parting salutations. I have appreciated +your friendship and your professional skill.</p> + +<p>“‘With assurances of my deep personal esteem,</p> + +<p class="right"><span style="margin-right: 2em;">“‘Your Friend,</span><br /> +“‘<span class="smcap">Peace Field.</span>’”</p></div> + +<p>Iris broke down and left the room, weeping bitterly. Margaret followed +her, but the girl pushed her aside. “No,” she whispered, “go back. It is +better for me to be alone.”</p> + +<p>“I am sorry,” said the Doctor, breaking the painful hush; “perhaps I +should have waited. I very much regret having given Miss Iris +unnecessary pain.”</p> + +<p>“It is as well now as at any other time,” Margaret assured him, “but my +heart bleeds for her.”</p> + +<p>The clock on the landing struck ten, and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>Margaret excused herself for a +moment. She returned with the Royal Worcester plate, piled with cakes, +and a decanter of the port.</p> + +<p>“I made them,” she said, in a low tone; “she asked me to give you the +recipe.”</p> + +<p>“She was always thoughtful of others,” returned the Doctor, choking.</p> + +<p>He filled his glass, and from force of habit, offered it to an invisible +friend. “To your—” then he stopped.</p> + +<p>“To her memory,” sobbed Margaret, touching his glass with hers.</p> + +<p>They drank the toast in silence, then the Doctor staggered to his feet.</p> + +<p>“I can bear no more,” he said, unsteadily; “it is a communion service +with the dead.”</p> + +<p>“Lynn,” said Margaret, after the guest had gone, “I am troubled about +Iris. She is grieving herself to death, and it is not natural for the +young to suffer acutely for so long. Can you suggest anything?”</p> + +<p>“No,” answered Lynn, anxious in his turn, “except to get outdoors. I +don’t believe she’s been out since Aunt Peace was buried.”</p> + +<p>“You must take her, then.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think she would go with me?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p><p>“I don’t know, dear, but try it—try it to-morrow. Take her for a long +walk and get her so tired that she will sleep. Nothing rests the mind +like fatigue of the body.”</p> + +<p>“Mother,” began Lynn, after a little, “are we always going to stay in +East Lancaster?”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t thought about it at all, Lynn. Are you becoming +discontented?”</p> + +<p>“No—I was only looking ahead.”</p> + +<p>“This is our home—Aunt Peace has given it to us.”</p> + +<p>“It was ours anyway, wasn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“In a way, it was, but your grandfather left it to Aunt Peace. If he had +not died suddenly he would have changed his will. Mother said he +intended to, but he kept putting it off.”</p> + +<p>“Do you want me to keep on studying the violin?”</p> + +<p>Margaret looked up in surprise, but Lynn was pacing back and forth with +his hands clasped behind him and his head down.</p> + +<p>“Why not, dear?” she asked, very gently.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he sighed, “I don’t believe I’m ever going to make anything of +it. Of course I can play—Herr Kaufmann says, if it satisfies <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>me to +play the music as it is written, he can teach me that much, but he +hasn’t a very good opinion of me. I’d rather be a first-class carpenter +than a second-rate violinist, and I’m twenty-three—it’s time I was +choosing.”</p> + +<p>Margaret’s heart misgave her, but she spoke bravely. “Lynn, look at me.”</p> + +<p>He turned, and his eyes met hers, openly and unashamed.</p> + +<p>“Tell me the truth—do you want to be an artist?”</p> + +<p>“Mother, I’d rather be an artist than anything else in the world.”</p> + +<p>“Then, dear, keep at it, and don’t get discouraged. Somebody said once +that the only reason for a failure was that the desire to succeed was +not strong enough.”</p> + +<p>Lynn laughed mirthlessly. “If that is so,” he said, moodily, “I shall +not fail.”</p> + +<p>“No,” she answered, “you shall not fail. I won’t let you fail,” she +added, impulsively. “I know you and I believe in you.”</p> + +<p>“The worst of it,” Lynn went on, “would be to disappoint you.”</p> + +<p>Margaret drew his tall head down and rubbed her cheek against his. “You +could <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>not disappoint me,” she said, serenely, “for all I ask of you is +your best. Give me that, and I am satisfied.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve always had that, mother,” he returned, with a forced laugh. +“When you strike a snag, I suppose the only thing to do is to drive on, +so we’ll let it go at that. I’ll keep on, and do the best I can. If +worst comes to worst, I can play in a theatre orchestra.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t!” cried Margaret; “you’ll never have to do that!”</p> + +<p>“Well,” sighed Lynn, “you can never tell what’s coming, and in the +meantime it’s almost twelve o’clock.”</p> + +<p>With the happy faculty of youth, Lynn was asleep almost as soon as his +head touched the pillow. Iris lay with her eyes wide open, staring into +the dark, inert and helpless under the influence of that anodyne which +comes at the end of a hurt, simply through lack of the power to suffer +more. The three letters under her pillow brought a certain sense of +comfort. In the midst of the darkness which surrounded her, someone +knew, someone understood—loved her, and was content to wait.</p> + +<p>Margaret was troubled because of Lynn’s <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>disbelief in himself. His sunny +self-confidence was apparently put to rout by this new phase. Then she +remembered that they had all passed through a time of stress, that Lynn, +strong and self-reliant as he had been, must have felt it, too, and, +moreover, the artistic temperament in itself was inclined to various +eccentricities.</p> + +<p>Of his future, she never for one moment had any doubt. It was her +heart’s desire that Lynn should be an artist. Looking back upon her life +and upon all that she had suffered, she saw this one boon as full +compensation—as her just due. If this bone of her bone and flesh of her +flesh might wear the laurel crown of the great, she would be +content—would not begrudge the price which she had paid for it.</p> + +<p>She smiled ironically at the thought that, while credit was given to +some, she had been compelled to pay in advance. “It does not matter,” +she mused, “we must all pay, and it may be all the sweeter because I +know that no further payment will be demanded.”</p> + +<p>She was thinking of it when she fell asleep, and in her dream she stood +at a counter with a great throng of people, pushing and jostling.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p><p>Behind the counter was one in the form of a man who appeared to be an +angel. His face was serene and calm; he seemed far removed from the +passions which swayed the multitude. He conducted his business without +hurry or fret, and all the pushing availed nothing. His voice was clear +and high, and had in it a sense of finality. No one questioned him, +though many went away grumbling.</p> + +<p>“You have come to buy wealth?” he asked. “We have it for sale, but the +price of it is your peace of mind. For knowledge, we ask human sympathy; +if you take much of it, you lose the capacity to feel with your fellow +men. If you take beauty, you must give up your right to love, and take +the risk of an ignoble passion in its place. If you want fame, you must +pay the price of eternal loneliness. For love, you must give +self-surrender, and take the hurts of it without complaining. For +health, you pay in self-denial and right living. Yes, you may take what +you like, and the bill will be collected later, but there is no +exchange, and you must buy something. Take as long as you wish to +choose, but you must buy and you must pay.”</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p><p>Margaret awoke with his voice thundering in her ears: “You must buy and +you must pay.” The dream was extraordinarily vivid, and it seemed as +though someone shared it with her. It was difficult to believe that it +had not actually happened.</p> + +<p>“I have bought,” she said to herself, “and I have paid. Now it only +remains for me to enjoy Lynn’s triumph. He will not have to pay—his +mother has paid for him.”</p> + +<p>At breakfast, Iris was more like herself, and Lynn was in good spirits. +“I dreamed all night,” he said, cheerily, “and one dream kept coming +back. I was buying something somewhere and refusing to pay for it, and +there was a row about it. I insisted that the thing was paid for—I +don’t know what it was, but it was something I wanted.”</p> + +<p>“We always pay,” said Iris, sadly; “but I can’t help wondering what I am +paying for now.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” suggested Margaret, “you are paying in advance.”</p> + +<p>Iris brightened, and upon her face came the ghost of a smile. “That may +be,” she answered.</p> + +<p>“Iris,” asked Lynn, “will you go out <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>with me this afternoon? You +haven’t been for a long time.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so,” she replied, dully. “It is kind of you, but I’m not +very strong just now.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll walk slowly,” Lynn assured her, “and it will do you good. Won’t +you come, just to please me?”</p> + +<p>His voice was very tender, and Iris sighed. “I’ll see,” she said, +resignedly; “I don’t care what I do.”</p> + +<p>“At three, then,” said Lynn. “I’ll get through practising by that time +and I’ll be waiting for you.”</p> + +<p>At the appointed time they started, and Margaret waved her hand at them +as they went down the path. Iris was so thin and fragile that it seemed +as if any passing wind might blow her away. Lynn was very careful and +considerate.</p> + +<p>“Where do you want to go?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care; I don’t want to climb, though. Let’s keep on level +ground.”</p> + +<p>“Very well, but where? Which way?”</p> + +<p>Iris felt the stiff corner of the letter hidden in her gown. “Let’s go +up the river,” she said. “I’ve never been there and I’d like to go.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p><p>So they followed the course of the stream, and the fresh air brought a +faint colour into her cheeks. As the giant of old gained strength from +his mother earth, Iris revived in the sunshine. The long period of +inactivity demanded exertion to balance it.</p> + +<p>“It is lovely,” she said. “It seems good to be moving around again.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll take you every day,” returned Lynn, “if you’ll only come. I want +to see you happy again.”</p> + +<p>“I shall never be as happy as I was,” she sighed. “No one is the same +after a sorrow like mine.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose not,” answered Lynn. “We are always changing. No one can go +back of to-day and be the same as he was yesterday. I often think that +old Greek philosopher was right when he said that the one thing common +to all life was change.”</p> + +<p>“Which one was he?”</p> + +<p>“Heraclitus, I think. Anyhow, he was a clever old duck.”</p> + +<p>Iris smiled. “I have sometimes thought ducks were philosophers,” she +said, “but it never occurred to me that philosophers were ducks.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p><p>Lynn laughed heartily, thoroughly pleased with himself because Iris +seemed so much better. “We don’t want to go too far,” he said. “I +wouldn’t tire you for anything. Shall we go back?”</p> + +<p>“No—not yet. Isn’t there a marsh up here somewhere?”</p> + +<p>“I should think there would be.”</p> + +<p>“Then let’s keep on and see if we don’t find it. I feel as though I were +exploring a new country. It’s strange that I’ve never been here before, +isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“It’s because I wasn’t here to take you, but you’ll always have me now. +You and I and mother are all going to live together. Won’t that be +nice?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Iris, but her voice sounded far away and her eyes +filled.</p> + +<p>Late afternoon flooded the earth with gold, and from distant fields came +the drowsy hum and whir of the fairy folk with melodious wings. The +birds sang cheerily, butterflies floated in the fragrant air, and it was +difficult to believe that in all the world there was such a thing as +Death.</p> + +<p>“I’m not going to let you go any farther,” said Lynn. “You’ll be tired.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p><p>“No, I won’t, and besides, I want to see the marsh.”</p> + +<p>“My dear girl, you couldn’t see it—you could only stand on the edge of +it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll stand on the edge of it, then,” said Iris, stubbornly. “I’ve +come this far, and I’m going to see it.”</p> + +<p>“Suppose we climb that hill yonder,” suggested Lynn. “It overlooks the +marsh.”</p> + +<p>“That will do,” returned Iris. “I’m willing to climb now, though I +wasn’t when we started.”</p> + +<p>At first, Lynn walked by her side, warning her to go slowly, then he +took her hand to help her. When they reached the summit, he had his arm +around her, and it was some minutes before it occurred to him to take it +away.</p> + +<p>Iris was looking at the tapestry spread out before them—the great marsh +with the sunset light upon it and the swallows circling above it.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” she whispered, with her face alight, “how beautiful it is! See all +the purple in it—why, it might be violets, from up here!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Lynn, dreamily, “it is your name-flower, the +fleur-de-lis.” Then <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>the colour flamed in his face and he bit his lips.</p> + +<p>Quick as a flash, Iris turned upon him. “Did you write the letters?” she +demanded.</p> + +<p>Lynn’s eyes met hers clearly. “Yes,” he said, very tenderly. “Dear +Heart, didn’t you know?”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h2> + +<h2>Little Lady</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">U</span>p in the attic, Iris sat beside the old trunk, her lap filled with +papers. Never had she felt so alone, so desolate as to-day. The rain +beat upon the roof and grey swirls of water dashed against the pane. The +old house rocked in the rising wind, and from below, like an eerie +accompaniment, came the sound of Lynn’s violin.</p> + +<p>He was practising, and Iris heard him walking back and forth, playing +with mechanical precision. She shuddered at the sound of it, for, +strangely enough, she was conscious of bitter resentment against Lynn. +His hand had destroyed her dream and levelled it to the dust. In the +darkness, she had leaned, insensibly, upon the writer of the letters, +and now she knew that it was only Lynn—Lynn, who had no heart.</p> + +<p>There comes a time to most of us, when <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>the single prop gives way and, +absolutely alone, we either stand or fall. In the hard school of life, +sooner or later, one learns self-reliance. Iris began to perceive that, +in the end, she could depend upon no one but herself.</p> + +<p>With a sigh, she turned to the papers once more. There was the report of +the detective whom Aunt Peace had engaged at the beginning, voluminous, +and obscured by legal phrases. Two or three letters, bearing upon the +subject, were attached to it. In the bottom of the box were a wide, +showy band of gold which, presumably, had been her mother’s wedding +ring, and two photographs.</p> + +<p>One was of a man whose weakness was indelibly stamped upon every +feature—the low, narrow forehead, the eyes slanting inward, the full +lips, and receding chin. On the back of it, Aunt Peace had written: +“Supposed to be her father.” Looking at it, Iris wondered how her mother +could have cared for a man like that—weak and frankly sensuous. Yet +there was an air of gay carelessness about the picture, a sort of +friendly <i>camaraderie</i>, distantly related to those genial ways which +stamp a higher grade of man as “a good fellow.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p><p>Over the other photograph, she lingered long. The first Iris Temple was +pictured in the panoply of a stage queen. The crown of paste brilliants +upon her head, the tawdry gown, elaborately trimmed with tinsel, and the +gilded sceptre were all discredited by the face. Beneath its mask of +artificiality was a woman, a very human woman, impulsive, eager, and +loving, whose trustful eyes looked straight at Iris with intimate +comprehension. Plainly, the life of the stage was not to her taste; she +hungered, as every normal woman hungers, for the quiet hearthstone and +the simple joys of home.</p> + +<p>In all her dreams of her mother, Iris had never imagined her like this, +and yet she was not disappointed. At times, looking back upon her +miserable childhood, she had bitterly blamed her for it, but now, for +the first time, she understood. “Poor little mother,” said Iris, “you +did the very best you could.”</p> + +<p>If things had been different, she and her mother could have had a little +home of their own. Rebellion was hot in the girl’s heart, when she +suddenly remembered something Fräulein Fredrika had said long ago. +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>“Wherever one may be, that is the best place. The dear God knows.”</p> + +<p>She folded up the papers and put them back in the box, with the +photographs and the wedding ring. For the moment, she wondered what her +real name might be, for Iris Temple was only a stage name. Then she +dismissed the matter as of no importance, for she certainly would not +care to bear the name of the man who had deserted her mother in her hour +of need.</p> + +<p>She wondered why Aunt Peace had never given her the papers before, but, +after all, what good could it have done? What had she gained by it, even +now? In a flash of insight, she saw that she had been given a feeling of +definite relationship with the woman in the tawdry stage trappings, who +had loved much and suffered more—that though an old grave divided them, +she was not quite motherless, not quite alone. For the first time since +Aunt Peace was stricken with the fever, balm came into the girl’s sore +heart.</p> + +<p>Below, Lynn played unceasingly. “Four hours a day,” thought Iris. “One +sixth of life—and for what?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p><p>Lynn was asking himself the same question. “For what?” Ambition was +strong within him, but Herr Kaufmann’s words had struck deep. “I will be +an artist!” he said to himself, passionately; “I will!” He worked +feverishly at his concerto, but his mind was not upon it. He was +thinking of Iris and of the unconscious scorn in her face when she +discovered that he had written the letters.</p> + +<p>He put down his violin and meditated, as many a man in that very room +had done before him, upon the problem of the eternal feminine. Iris was +incomprehensible. He knew that the letters had not displeased her; that, +on the contrary, she had been unusually happy when they came. He +remembered also that moonlight night, when, safely screened by the +shrubbery across the street, he had seen her put the flower upon the +gate-post and as swiftly take it away. He had loved her all the more for +that quick impulse, that shame-faced retreat, and put the memory +securely away in his heart, biding his time.</p> + +<p>“Iris,” he asked, at luncheon, “will you go for a walk with me this +afternoon?”</p> + +<p>“No,” she returned, shortly.</p> + +<p>“Why not? It isn’t too wet, is it?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p><p>“I’m going by myself. I prefer to be alone.”</p> + +<p>Lynn coloured and said nothing more. In the afternoon, while he was at +work, he saw her trip daintily down the path, lifting her skirts to +avoid the pools of water the Summer shower had left. He watched her +until she was no longer within range of his vision, then went back to +his violin.</p> + +<p>Iris had no definite errand except to the post-office, where, as usual, +there was nothing, but it rested her to be outdoors. It is Nature’s +unfailing charm that she responds readily to every mood, and ultimately +brings extremes to a common level of quiet cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>She leaned over the bridge and looked into the stream, where her own +face was mirrored. She saw herself sad and old, a woman of mature years, +still further aged by trouble. What had become of the happy girl of a +few months ago?</p> + +<p>The thought of Lynn recurred persistently, and always with repulsion. +What should she do? She could not wholly ignore him, year in and year +out, and live in the same house. It must be nearly time for him to go +away and leave her in peace.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span></p><p>Then Iris gasped, for it was Lynn’s house,—his and his mother’s. She +was there upon sufferance only—a guest? No, not a guest—an intruder, +an interloper.</p> + +<p>In her new trouble, she thought of Herr Kaufmann, always gentle, always +wise. With Iris, action followed swiftly upon impulse, and she went +rapidly up the hill. Fräulein Fredrika was out, but the Master was in +the shop, so she went in at the lower door.</p> + +<p>“So,” he said, kindly, “one little lady comes to see the old man. It is +long since you have come.”</p> + +<p>“I have been in trouble,” faltered Iris.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned the Master, “I have heard. Mine heart has been very +sorry for you.”</p> + +<p>“It was lovely of you,” she went on, choking back a sob, “to come and +play for us. We appreciated it—Mrs. Irving and I—Doctor +Brinkerhoff—and—Lynn,” she added, grudgingly.</p> + +<p>“The Herr Irving,” said the Master, with interest, “he has appreciated +mine playing?”</p> + +<p>“Of course—we all did.”</p> + +<p>“Mine pupil progresses,” he remarked, enigmatically.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p><p>“Was it,” began Iris, hesitating over the words,—“was it the Cremona?”</p> + +<p>The Master looked at her sharply. “Yes, why not? One gives one’s best to +Death.”</p> + +<p>“Death demands it, and takes it,” said the girl. “That is why.”</p> + +<p>She spoke bitterly, and Herr Kaufmann put down the violin he was working +upon. His heart went out to Iris, white-faced and ghostly, her eyes +burning fiercely. He saw that her hands were trembling, and, moving his +chair closer, he took them both in his.</p> + +<p>“Little lady,” he said, “it makes mine old heart ache to see you so +close with sorrow. If it could be divided, I would take mine share, +because these broad shoulders are used to one heavy burden, and a little +more would not matter so much, but one must learn, even though the cross +is very hard to bear.</p> + +<p>“It is most difficult, and yet some day you will see. You have only to +look out of your window for one year to understand it all. First it is +Winter, and the snow is deep upon the ground. All the flowers are dead, +and there are no birds. The moon shines cold, and there are many storms. +But, so slow that you can never see it, there is change. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>Presently, the +bare branches turn in their sleep and wake up with leaves. The birds +come back, and all the earth is glad again.</p> + +<p>“Then everything grows and it is all in one blossom. On the wide fields +there is much grain, and all hearts are singing. Even after the frost, +everything is glad for a little while, and then, very slowly, it is +Winter once more.</p> + +<p>“Little lady, do you not see? There must always be Winter, there must +always be night and storm and cold. It is then that the flowers +rest—they cannot always be in bloom. But somewhere on the great world +the sun is always shining, and, just so sure as you live, it will +sometime shine on you. The dear God has made it so. There is so much sun +and so much storm, and we must have our share of both. It is Winter in +your heart now, but soon it will be Spring. You have had one long +Summer, and there must be something in between. We are not different +from all else the dear God has made. It is all in one law, as the Herr +Doctor will tell you. He is most wise, and he has helped me to +understand.”</p> + +<p>“But Aunt Peace!” sobbed the girl. “Aunt Peace is dead, and mother, too! +I am all alone!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p><p>“Little lady,” said the Master, very tenderly, “you must never say you +are alone. Because you have had much love, shall you be a child when it +is taken away? Has it meant so little to you that it leaves nothing? +Just so strong and beautiful as it has been, just so much strength and +beauty does it leave. There are many, in this world, who would be so +glad to change places with you. To be dead,” he went on, bitterly, “that +is nothing beside one living grave! It is by far the easier loss!”</p> + +<p>He left her and went to the window, where he stood for a long time with +his back toward her. Then Iris perceived her own selfishness, and she +crept up beside him, slipping her cold little hand into his. “I +understand,” she said, gently, “you have had sorrow, too.”</p> + +<p>The Master smiled, but she saw that his eyes were wet. “Yes,” he sighed, +“I know mine sorrow. We are old friends.” Then he stooped and kissed +her, ever so softly, upon her forehead. It was like a benediction.</p> + +<p>“I think,” she said, after a little, “that I must go away from East +Lancaster.”</p> + +<p>“So? And why?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p><p>Iris knit her brows thoughtfully. “Well,” she explained, “I have no +right here. The house is Mrs. Irving’s, and after her it belongs to +Lynn. Aunt Peace said it was to be my home while I lived, but that was +only because she did not want to turn me out. She was too kind to do +that, but I do not belong there.”</p> + +<p>“The Herr Irving,” said the Master, in astonishment. “Does he want you +to go away?”</p> + +<p>“No! No!” cried Iris. “Don’t misunderstand! They have said nothing—they +have been lovely to me—but I can’t help <span style="white-space: nowrap;">feeling——”</span></p> + +<p>The Master nodded. “Yes, I see. Perhaps you will come to live with mine +sister and me. The old house needs young faces and the sound of young +feet. Mine house,” he said, with quiet dignity, “is very large.”</p> + +<p>Even in her perplexity, Iris wondered why the little bird-house on the +brink of the cliff always seemed a mansion to its owner. Quickly, he +read her thought.</p> + +<p>“I know what you are thinking,” he continued; “you are thinking that +mine house is small. Three rooms upstairs and three rooms <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>downstairs. +Fredrika could sleep in mine room, and I could take the store closet +back of mine shop and keep the wood for the violins at the Herr +Doctor’s. Upstairs, you could have one bedroom and one parlour. Fredrika +and I would come up only to eat.”</p> + +<p>“Herr Kaufmann,” cried Iris, her heart warming to him, “it is lovely of +you, but I can’t. Don’t you see, if I could stay anywhere I could stay +where I am?”</p> + +<p>It was not a clear sentence, but he grasped its meaning. “Yes, I see. +But when I say mine house is large, it is not of these six rooms that I +think. Have you not read in the good book that in mine Father’s house +there are many mansions? So? Well, it is in those mansions that I live. +I have put aside mine sorrow, and I wait till the dear God is pleased to +take me home.”</p> + +<p>“To take us home,” said Iris, thoughtfully. “Perhaps Aunt Peace was +tired.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered the Master, “she was tired. Otherwise, she would have +been allowed to stay. You have not been thinking of her, but of +yourself.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps I have,” she admitted.</p> + +<p>“If you go away,” he went on, “it is <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>better that you should study. You +have one fine voice, and with sorrow in your heart, you can make much +from it. Those who have been made great have first suffered.”</p> + +<p>Iris turned upon him. “You mean that?” she asked, sharply.</p> + +<p>“Of course,” he returned, serenely. “Before you can help those who have +suffered, you must suffer yourself. It is so written.”</p> + +<p>Iris sighed heavily. “I must go,” she said, dully.</p> + +<p>“Not yet. Wait.”</p> + +<p>He went to his bedroom, and came back with a violin case. He opened it +carefully; unwrapped the many thicknesses of silk, and took out the +Cremona. “See,” he said, with his face aglow, “is it not most beautiful? +When you are sad, you can remember that you have seen mine Cremona.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” returned Iris, her voice strangely mingled with both +laughter and tears, “I will remember.”</p> + +<p>When she went home, the Master looked after her for a moment or two, +then turned away from the window to wipe his eyes. He was drawn by +temperament to all who sorrowed, and he had loved Iris for years.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p><p>That night, she sat alone in the library, sheltered by the darkness. +Margaret was reading in her own room, and Lynn was out. More clearly +than ever, Iris saw that she must go away. She had no definite plan, but +Herr Kaufmann’s suggestion seemed a good one.</p> + +<p>When Lynn came in, he lit the candles in the parlour. Iris hoped he +would go upstairs without coming into the library, but he did not. She +shrank back into her chair, trusting that he would not see her, but with +unerring instinct he went straight to her.</p> + +<p>“Sweetheart,” he whispered, “are you here?”</p> + +<p>“I’m here,” said Iris, frostily, “but that isn’t my name.”</p> + +<p>The timid little voice thrilled him with a great tenderness, and he +quickly possessed himself of her hand. “Iris, darling,” he went on, “why +do you avoid me? I have been miserable ever since I told you I wrote the +letters.”</p> + +<p>“It was wrong to write them,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Why, dear?”</p> + +<p>“Because.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t you like them?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p><p>“I didn’t think you were displeased.” He was too chivalrous to remind +her of that moonlight night.</p> + +<p>“It was very wrong,” she repeated, stubbornly.</p> + +<p>“Then forgive me.”</p> + +<p>“It’s nothing to me,” she returned, unmoved.</p> + +<p>“I hoped it would be,” said Lynn, gently. “Every time, I walked over to +the next town to mail them. I knew you hadn’t seen any of my writing, +and I was sure you wouldn’t suspect me.”</p> + +<p>“Nice advantage to take of a girl, wasn’t it?” demanded Iris, her temper +rising.</p> + +<p>She rose and started toward the door, but Lynn kept her back. The +starlight showed him her face, white and troubled. “Sweetheart,” he +said, “listen. Just a moment, dear—that isn’t much to ask, is it? If it +was wrong to write the letters, then I ask you to forgive me, but every +word was true. I love you, Iris—I love you with all my heart.”</p> + +<p>“With all your heart,” she repeated, scornfully. “You have no heart!”</p> + +<p>“Iris,” he said, unsteadily, “what do you mean?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span></p><p>“This,” she cried, in a passion. “You have no more feeling than the +ground beneath your feet! Haven’t I seen, haven’t I known? Aunt Peace +died, and you did not care—you only thought it was unpleasant. You play +like a machine, a mountebank. Tricks with the violin—tricks with words! +And yet you dare to say you love me!”</p> + +<p>“Iris! Darling!” cried Lynn, stung to the quick. “Don’t!”</p> + +<p>“Once for all I will have my say. To-morrow I go out of your house +forever. I have no right here, no place. I am an intruder, and I am +going away. You will never see me again, never as long as you live. You, +a machine, a clod, a trickster, a thing without a heart—you shall not +insult me again!”</p> + +<p>White to the lips, trembling like a leaf, Iris shook herself free and +ran up to her room.</p> + +<p>Lynn drew a long, shuddering breath. “God!” he whispered, clenching his +hands tightly. “God!”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h2> + +<h2>Afraid of Life</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">S</span>he kept her word. To Mrs. Irving she merely said that she had already +trespassed too long upon their hospitality, and that she thought it best +to go away. She had talked with Herr Kaufmann, and he had advised her to +go to the city and have her voice trained. Yes, she would write, and +would always think of them kindly.</p> + +<p>Lynn, who had passed the first sleepless night of his life, went to the +train with her, but few words were spoken. Iris was cool, dignified, and +cruelly formal. An immeasurable distance lay between them, and one, at +least, made no effort to lessen it.</p> + +<p>They had only a few minutes to wait, and, just as the train came in +sight, Lynn bent over her. “Iris,” he said, unsteadily, “if you ever +want me, will you promise me that you will let me know?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p><p>“Yes,” she replied, with an incredulous laugh, “if I ever want you, I +will let you know.”</p> + +<p>“I will go to you,” said Lynn, struggling for his self-control, “from +the very end of the world. Just send me the one word: ‘Come.’ And let me +thank you now for all the happiness you have given me, and for the +memory of you, which I shall have in my heart for always.”</p> + +<p>“You are quite welcome,” she returned, frigidly. “You—” but the roar of +the train mercifully drowned her words.</p> + +<p>The sun still shone, the birds did not cease their singing. Outwardly, +the world was just as fair, even though Iris had gone. Lynn walked away +blindly, no longer dull, but keenly alive to his hurt.</p> + +<p>From the crucible of Eternity, Time, the magician, draws the days. Some +are wholly made of beauty; of wide sunlit reaches and cool silences. +Some of dreams and twilight, with roses breathing fragrance through the +dusk. Some of darkness, wild and terrible, lighted only by a single +star. Others still of riving lightnings and vast, reverberating +thunders, while the heart, swelled to bursting, breaks on the reef of +Pain.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p><p>It seemed as though Lynn’s heart were rising in an effort to escape. “I +must keep it down,” he thought. It was like an imprisoned bird, cut, +bruised, and bleeding, beating against the walls of flesh. And yet, +there was a hand upon it, and the iron fingers clutched unmercifully.</p> + +<p>Iris had gone, and the dream was at an end. Iris had gone, flouting him +to the last, calling his love an insult. “Machine—clod—mountebank”— +the bitter words rang through his consciousness again and again.</p> + +<p>It might be true, part of it at least. Herr Kaufmann had told him, more +than once, that he played like a machine. Clod? Possibly. Mountebank? +That might be, too. Trickster with the violin, trickster with words? +Perhaps. But a thing without a heart? Lynn laughed bitterly and put his +hand against his breast to quiet the throbbing.</p> + +<p>No one knew—no one must ever know. Iris would not betray him, he was +sure of that, but he must be on his guard lest he should betray himself. +He must hide it, must keep on living, and appear to be the same. His +mother’s keen eyes must see nothing amiss. Fortunately, he could be +alone a great <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>deal—outdoors, or practising, and at night. He shuddered +at the white night through which he had somehow lived, and wondered how +many more would follow in its train.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, he remembered that it was his lesson day, and he was not +prepared. Common courtesy demanded that he should go up to Herr +Kaufmann’s, and tell him that he did not feel like taking his +lesson—that he had a headache, or something of the kind—that he had +hurt his wrist, perhaps.</p> + +<p>He hoped that Fräulein Fredrika would come to the door, and that he +might leave his message with her, but it was Herr Kaufmann who answered +his ring.</p> + +<p>“So,” said the Master, “you are once more late.”</p> + +<p>“No,” answered Lynn, refusing to meet his eyes, “I just came to tell you +that I couldn’t take my lesson to-day. I don’t think,” he stammered, +“that I can ever take any more lessons.”</p> + +<p>“And why?” demanded the Master. “Come in!”</p> + +<p>Before he realised it, he was in the parlour, gay with its accustomed +bright colours. One look at Lynn’s face had assured Herr Kaufmann <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>that +something was wrong, and, for the first time, he was drawn to his pupil.</p> + +<p>“So,” said the Master. “Mine son, is it not well with you?”</p> + +<p>Lynn turned away to hide the working of his face. “Not very,” he +answered in a low tone.</p> + +<p>“Miss Iris,” said the Master, “she will have gone away?”</p> + +<p>It was like the tearing of a wound. “Yes,” replied Lynn, almost in a +whisper, “she went this morning.”</p> + +<p>“And you are sad because she has gone away? I am sorry mineself. Miss +Iris is one little lady.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned Lynn, clenching his hands, “she is.”</p> + +<p>Something in the boy’s eyes stirred an old memory, and made the Master’s +heart very tender toward him. “Mine son,” he said very gently, “if +something has troubled you, perhaps it will give you one relief to tell +me. Only yesterday Miss Iris was here. She was very sad when she came, +and when she went away the world was more sunny, or so I think.”</p> + +<p>Quickly surmising that Herr Kaufmann had <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>something more than a hint of +it, and more eager for sympathy than he realised, Lynn stammered out the +story, choking at the end of it.</p> + +<p>There was a long silence, in which the Master went back twenty-five +years. Lynn’s eyes, so full of trouble, were they not like another’s, +long ago? The organ-tone of the thunder once more reverberated through +the forest, where the great boughs arched like the nave of a cathedral, +and the dead leaves scurried in fright before the rising wind.</p> + +<p>“That is all,” said the boy, his face white to the lips. “It is not +much, but it is a great deal to me.”</p> + +<p>“So,” said the Master, scornfully, “you are to be an artist and you are +afraid of life! You are summoned to the ranks of the great and you +shrink from the signal—cover your ears, that you shall not hear the +trumpet call! This, when you should be on your knees, thanking the good +God that at last He has taught you pain!”</p> + +<p>Lynn’s face was pitiful, and yet he listened eagerly.</p> + +<p>“There is no half-way point,” the Master was saying; “if you take it, +you must pay. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span>Nothing in this world is free but the sun and the fresh +air. You must buy shelter, food, clothing, with the work of your hands +and brain. If someone else gives it to you, it is not yours—you are one +parasite. You must earn it all.</p> + +<p>“You think you can take all, and give nothing? It is not so. For six, +eight years now, you study the violin. You learn the scales, the +technique, the good wrist, and nothing else. I teach you all I can, but +it must come from yourself, not me. I can only guide—tell you when you +have made one mistake.</p> + +<p>“What is it that the art is for? Is it for one great assembly of people +to pay the high price for admission? ‘See,’ they say, ‘this young man, +what good tone he has, what bowing, what fine wrist! How smooth he plays +his concerto! When it is marked fortissimo, see how he plays fortissimo! +It is most skilful!’ Is the art for that? No!</p> + +<p>“It is for everyone in the world who has known trouble to be lifted up +and made strong. They care nothing for the means, only for the end. They +have no eyes for the fine bowing, the good wrist—what shall <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>they know +of technique? And yet you must have the technique, else you cannot give +the message.</p> + +<p>“Everyone that hears has had his own sorrow. None of them are new ones, +they are all old, and so few that one person can suffer all. It is for +you to take that, to know the hurt heart and the rebellious soul, so +that you can comfort, lift up, and make noble with your art.</p> + +<p>“And you—you cry out when you should be glad. Miss Iris does not love +you, and beyond that you do not see. Suppose one thousand people were +before you, and all had loved someone who did not care for them. Could +you make it easier if you knew nothing of it by yourself?</p> + +<p>“Listen. On a hill in Italy there was once a tree. It was a seed at the +beginning, a seed you could hold with the ends of your fingers, so. It +was buried in the ground, covered up with earth like something that had +died. Do you think the seed liked that?</p> + +<p>“But is it afraid, when its heart is swelling? No! It breaks through, +with the great hurt. Still there is earth around it, still it is buried, +but yet it aspires. One day it comes to the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>surface of the ground, and +once more it breaks through, with pain.</p> + +<p>“But the sun is bright and warm, and the seed grows. Careless feet +trample upon it—there is yet one more hurt. But it straightens, waits +through the long nights for the blessed sun, and so on, until it is so +high as one bush.</p> + +<p>“Constantly, there is growing, one aspiration upward. Bark comes and the +tree swells outward, always with pain. Someone cuts off all the lower +branches, and the tree bleeds, yet keeps on. Other branches come thick +about it; there is one struggle, but through the dense growth the tree +climbs, always upward. In the sun above the thick shade, it can laugh at +the ache and the thorns, but it does not forget.</p> + +<p>“And so, upward, always upward, till it is lifted high above its +fellows. Birds come there to sing, to build their nests, to rear their +young, to mourn when one little bird falls out from the nest and is made +dead.</p> + +<p>“The sun shines fiercely, and it nearly dies in the heat. The storm +comes and it is shrouded in ice—made almost to die with the cold. The +wild winds rock it and tear off the branches, making it bleed—there +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>must always be pain. The thunders play over its head, the lightnings +burn it, and yet its heart lives on. The rains beat upon it like one +river, and still it grows.</p> + +<p>“The years go by and each one brings new hurt, but the tree is made hard +and strong. One day there comes a man to look at it, all the straight +fine length, the smooth trunk. ‘It will do,’ he says, and with his axe +he chops it down. Do you think it does not hurt the tree? After the long +years of fighting, to be cut like that?</p> + +<p>“Then it falls, crashing heavy through the branches to the ground. See, +there must always be pain, even at the end. Then more cutting, more +bleeding, more heat, more cold. Fine tools—steel knives that tear and +split the fibres apart. Do you think it does not hurt? More sun, more +cold, still more cutting, tearing, and throwing aside. Then, one day, it +is finished, and there is mine Cremona—all the strength, all the +beauty, all the pain, made into mine violin!</p> + +<p>“But the end is not yet. God is working with me and mine as well as with +mine instrument. As yet, I do not know that it is for me—it comes to me +through pain.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p><p>“One old gentleman, one of the first to travel abroad from this country +for pleasure, he goes to Italy, he finds it in the hands of one ignorant +drunkard, and he buys it for little. He brings it home, but he cannot +play, and no one else can play; he does not know its value, but it +pleases him and he takes it. For long years, it stays in one attic, with +the dust and the cobwebs, kicked aside by careless feet.</p> + +<p>“Meanwhile, I know one lovely young lady. I meet her by chance, and we +like each other, oh, so much! ‘Franz,’ she says to me, ‘you live on one +hill in West Lancaster, and mine mother, she would never let me speak +with you, so I must see you sometimes, quite by accident, elsewhere. On +pleasant days, I often go to walk in the woods. Mine mother likes me to +be outdoors.’ So, many times, we meet and we talk of strange things. +Each day we love each other more, and all the time her mother does not +suspect. We plan to go away together and never let anyone know until we +are married and it is too late, but first I must find work.</p> + +<p>“‘Franz,’ she says to me one day, ‘up in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>mine attic there is one old +violin, which I think must be valuable. Mine mother is away with a +friend and the house is by itself. Will you not come up to see?’</p> + +<p>“So we go, and the house is very quiet. No one is there. We go like two +thieves to the attic, laughing as though we were children once more. +Presently we find the violin, and I see that it is one Cremona, very +old, very fine, but with no strings. I fit on some strings that I have +in mine pocket, but there is no bow and I can only play pizzicato. I +need to hear the tone but one moment to know what it is that I have. ‘It +is most wonderful,’ I say, and then the door opens and one very angry +lady stands there.</p> + +<p>“She tells me that I shall never come into that house again, that I must +go right away, that I have no—what do you say?—no social place, and +that I am not to speak with her daughter. To her she says: ‘I will +attend to you very soon.’ We creep down the stairs together and mine +Beloved whispers: ‘Every day at four, at the old place, until I come.’ I +understand and I go away, but mine heart is very troubled for her.</p> + +<p>“For long days I wait, and every day, at <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>four, I am at the +meeting-place in the wood, but no one comes, and there is no message, no +word. All the time I feel as you feel now because Miss Iris has gone +away and does not care. I wait and wait, but I can get no news, and I +fear to go to the house because I shall perhaps harm mine Beloved, and +she has told me what to do. Every day I am there, even in the rain, +waiting.</p> + +<p>“At last she comes, with the violin under her arm, wrapped in her coat. +‘I have only one minute,’ she cries; ‘they are going to take me away, +and we can never see each other again. So I give you this. You must keep +it, and when you are sad it will tell you how much I love you, how much +I shall always love you. You will not forget me,’ she says. There is +just one instant more together, with the thunders and the lightnings all +around us, then I am alone, except for mine violin.</p> + +<p>“Do you not see? There must always be pain. The dear God has made mine +instrument, and in the same way He has made me, with the cutting and the +bruises and the long night. I, too, have known the storm and all the +fury of the winds and rain. Like the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>tree, I have aspired, I have grown +upward, I have done the best I could. Otherwise, I should not be fitted +to play on mine Cremona—I would not deserve to touch it, and so, in a +way, I am glad.</p> + +<p>“I have had mine fame,” he went on. “With the sorrow in mine heart, I +have studied and worked until I have made mineself one great artist. If +you do not believe, I can show you the papers, where much has been +written of me and mine violin. Women have cried when I have played, and +have thrown their red roses to me. I had the technique, and when the +hurt broke open mine heart, I was immediately one artist. I understood, +I could play, I could lift up all who suffered, because I had known +suffering mineself.</p> + +<p>“Mine son, do you not understand? You can give only what you have. If +one sorrow is in your heart, if you have learned the beauty and the +nobility of it, you can teach others the same thing. You can show them +how to rise above it, like the tree that had one long lifetime of hurt, +and ended in mine Cremona to help all who hear. The one who plays the +instrument must be made in the same way, of the same influences—the +cutting, the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>night, and the cold. Of softness nothing good ever comes, +for one must always fight.</p> + +<p>“Nothing in this whole world is free but the sun and the fresh air and +the water to drink. We must pay the fair price for all else. I have had +mine fame and I have paid mine price, but the heights are lonely, and +sometimes I think it would be better to walk in the valley with a +woman’s hand in mine. But at the first, before I knew, I chose. I said: +‘I will be an artist,’ and so I am, but I have paid, oh, mine son, I +have paid and I am still paying! There is no end!”</p> + +<p>The Master’s face was grey and haggard, but his eyes burned. Lynn saw +what it had cost him to open this secret chamber—to lay bare this old +wound. “And I,” he said huskily, “I touched the Cremona!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the Master, sadly, “on that first day, you lifted up mine +Cremona, and until to-day I have never forgiven. There has been +resentment in mine old heart for you, though I have tried to put it +aside. Her hands were last upon it—hers and mine. When I touched it, it +was the place where her white fingers rested, where many a time <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>I put +mine kiss to ease mine heart. And you, you took that away from me!”</p> + +<p>“If I had only known,” murmured Lynn.</p> + +<p>“But you did not know,” said the Master, kindly; “and to-day I have +forgiven.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” returned Lynn, with a lump in his throat; “it is much to +give.”</p> + +<p>“Sometimes,” sighed the Master, “when I have been discouraged, I have +been very hungry for someone to understand me—someone to laugh, to +touch mine tired eyes, to make me forget with her little sweet ways. In +mine fancy, I have seen it all, and more.</p> + +<p>“When I have gone down the hill to the post-office, where there has +never been the letter from her, and the little children have run to me, +holding out their arms that I should take them up, I have felt that the +price was too high that I have paid. But all the time I have understood +that on the heights one must go alone, for a time at least, with the +thunders and the lightnings and the storms. If I had been given one son, +I think he would have been like you, one fine tall young fellow with the +honest face and the laughing ways, but you have been shielded, and I +should not have done <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>so. I should have let you grow from the start and +learn all things so soon as you could.”</p> + +<p>“I never knew my father,” Lynn said, deeply moved, “but if I could +choose, I would choose you.”</p> + +<p>“So,” said the Master, his eyes filling. Then their hands met in a long +clasp of understanding.</p> + +<p>“Already I am the richer for it,” Lynn went on, after a little. “I know +now what I did not know before.”</p> + +<p>The boy’s face was still white, but the look of hopeless despair was +merged into something which foreshadowed ultimate acceptance. The Master +still held his hand.</p> + +<p>“If you are to be an artist,” he said, once more, “you must not be +afraid of life. You must welcome it to its utmost cross. You must take +the cold, the heat, the poverty, the hunger, the burning way through the +desert, the snow-clad steeps, the keen hurt, and the happiness—it is +all one, for it gives you knowledge. You must know all the pain of the +world, face to face, if you are to help those who bear it. Keen feelings +give you the great hurt, but also, in payment, the great joy. The +balance swings true. The <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>Herr Doctor has told me this. He is most wise; +he understands.”</p> + +<p>“I see,” answered Lynn. “I will never be afraid again.”</p> + +<p>“That,” said the Master, with his face alight,—“that is mine son’s true +courage. Take it with your head up, your teeth shut, and your heart +always believing. Fear nothing, and much will be given back to you,—is +it not so? Let life do all it can—you will never be crushed unless you +are willing that it should be so. Defeat comes only to those who invite +it.”</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Lynn, again; “with all my heart I thank you.”</p> + +<p>He went away soon afterward, insensibly comforted. Overnight, he had +come into his heritage of pain, had lost the girl he loved, and in swift +restitution found comradeship with the Master.</p> + +<p>That stately figure lingered long before his vision, grey and rugged, +yet with a certain graciousness—simple, kindly, and yet austere; one +who had accepted his sorrow, and, by some alchemy of the spirit, +transmuted it into universal compassion, to speak, through the Cremona, +to all who could understand.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII</h2> + +<h2>“He Loves Her Still”</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">W</span>hen Doctor Brinkerhoff came on Wednesday evening, he was surprised to +discover that Iris had gone away. “It was sudden, was it not?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“It seemed so to us,” returned Margaret. “We knew nothing of it until +the morning she started. She had probably been planning it for a long +time, though she did not take us into her confidence until the last +minute.”</p> + +<p>Lynn sat with his face turned away from his mother. “Did you, perhaps, +suspect that she was going?” the Doctor directly inquired of Lynn.</p> + +<p>He hesitated for the barest perceptible interval before he spoke. “She +told us at the breakfast table,” he answered. “Iris is replete with +surprises.”</p> + +<p>“But before that,” continued the Doctor, “did you have no suspicion?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p><p>Lynn laughed shortly. “How should I suspect?” he parried. “I know +nothing of the ways of women.”</p> + +<p>“Women,” observed the Doctor, with an air of knowledge,—“women are +inscrutable. For instance, I cannot understand why Miss Iris did not +come to say ‘good-bye’ to me. I am her foster-father, and it would have +been natural.”</p> + +<p>“Good-byes are painful,” said Margaret.</p> + +<p>“We Germans do not say ‘good-bye,’ but only ‘auf wiedersehen.’ Perhaps +we shall see her again, perhaps not. No one knows.”</p> + +<p>“Fräulein Fredrika does not say ‘auf wiedersehen,’” put in Lynn, anxious +to turn the trend of the conversation.</p> + +<p>“No,” responded the Doctor, with a smile. “She says: ‘You will come once +again, yes? It would be most kind.’”</p> + +<p>He imitated the tone and manner so exactly that Lynn laughed, but it was +a hollow laugh, without mirth in it. “Do not misunderstand me,” said the +Doctor, quickly; “it was not my intention to ridicule the Fräulein. She +is a most estimable woman. Do you perhaps know her?” he asked of +Margaret.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p><p>“I have not that pleasure,” she replied.</p> + +<p>“She was not here when I first came,” the Doctor went on, “but Herr +Kaufmann sent for her soon afterward. They are devoted to each other, +and yet so unlike. You would have laughed to see Franz at work at his +housekeeping, before she came.”</p> + +<p>A shadow crossed Margaret’s face.</p> + +<p>“I have often wondered,” she said, clearing her throat, “why men are not +taught domestic tasks as well as women. It presupposes that they are +never to be without the inevitable woman, yet many of them often are. A +woman is trained to it in the smallest details, even though she has +reason to suppose that she will always have servants to do it for her. +Then why not a man?”</p> + +<p>“A good idea, mother,” remarked Lynn. “To-morrow I shall take my first +lesson in keeping house.”</p> + +<p>“You?” she said fondly; “you? Why, Lynn! Lacking the others, you’ll +always have me to do it for you.”</p> + +<p>“That,” replied the Doctor, triumphantly, “disproves your own theory. If +you are in earnest, begin on the morrow to instruct Mr. Irving.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p><p>Margaret flushed, perceiving her own inconsistency.</p> + +<p>“I could be of assistance, possibly,” he continued, “for in the +difficult school of experience I have learned many things. I have often +taken professional pride in closing an aperture in my clothing with neat +stitches, and the knowledge thus gained has helped me in my surgery. All +things in this world fit in together.”</p> + +<p>“It is fortunate if they do,” she answered. “My own scheme of things has +been very much disarranged.”</p> + +<p>“Yet, as Fräulein Fredrika would say, ‘the dear God knows.’ Life is like +one of those puzzles that come in a box. It is full of queer pieces +which seemingly bear no relation to one another, and yet there is a way +of putting it together into a perfect whole. Sometimes we make a mistake +at the beginning and discard pieces for which we think there is no +possible use. It is only at the end that we see we have made a mistake +and put aside something of much importance, but it is always too late to +go back—the pieces are gone.</p> + +<p>“In my own life, I lost but one—still, it was the keystone of the +whole. When I came from <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>Germany, I should have brought letters from +those in high places there to those in high places here. It could easily +have been done. I should have had this behind me when I came to East +Lancaster, and I should not have made the mistake of settling first on +the hill. <span style="white-space: nowrap;">Then——”</span> The Doctor ceased abruptly, and sighed.</p> + +<p>“This country is supposed to be very democratic,” said Lynn, chiefly +because he could think of nothing else to say.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “it is in your laws that all men are free and +equal, but it is not so. The older civilisations have found there is +class, and so you will find it here. At first, when everything is +chaotic, all particles may seem alike, but in time there is an +inevitable readjustment.”</p> + +<p>“We are getting very serious,” said Margaret.</p> + +<p>“It is an important subject,” responded the Doctor, with dignity. “I +have often discussed it with my friend, Herr Kaufmann. He is a very fine +friend to have.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Lynn, “he is. It is only lately that I have learned to +appreciate him.”</p> + +<p>“One must grow to understand him,” <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>mused the Doctor. “At first, I did +not. I thought him rough, queer, and full of sarcasm. But afterward, I +saw that his harshness was only a mask—the bark, if I may say so. +Beneath it, he has a heart of gold.”</p> + +<p>“People,” began Margaret, avoiding the topic, “always seek their own +level, just as water does. That is why there is class.”</p> + +<p>“But for a long time, they do not find it,” objected the Doctor. “Miss +Iris, for instance. Her people were of the common sort, and those with +whom she lived afterward were worse still. She”—by the unconscious +reverence in his voice, they knew whom he meant—“she taught her all the +fineness she has, and that is much. It is an argument for environment, +rather than heredity.”</p> + +<p>Lynn left the room abruptly, unable to bear the talk of Iris.</p> + +<p>“I wish,” said the Doctor, at length, “I wish you knew Herr Kaufmann. +Would you like it if I should bring him to call?”</p> + +<p>“No!” cried Margaret. “It is too soon,” she added, desperately. “Too +soon after——”</p> + +<p>The Doctor nodded. “I understand,” he said. “It was a mistake on my +part, for which you must pardon me. I only thought <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>you might be a help +to each other. Franz, too, has sorrowed.”</p> + +<p>“Has he?” asked Margaret, her lips barely moving.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” the Doctor went on, half to himself, “it was an unhappy love +affair. The young lady’s mother parted them because he lived in West +Lancaster, though he, too, might have had letters from high places in +Germany. He and I made the same mistake.”</p> + +<p>“Her mother,” repeated Margaret, almost in a whisper.</p> + +<p>“Yes, the young lady herself cared.”</p> + +<p>“And he,” she breathed, leaning eagerly forward, her body tense,—“does +he love her still?”</p> + +<p>“He loves her still,” returned the Doctor, promptly, “and even more than +then.”</p> + +<p>“Ah—h!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor roused himself. “What have I done!” he cried, in genuine +distress. “I have violated my friend’s confidence, unthinking! My +friend, for whom I would make any sacrifice—I have betrayed him!”</p> + +<p>“No,” replied Margaret, with a great effort at self-control. “You have +not told me her name.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p><p>“It is because I do not know it,” said the Doctor, ruefully. “If I had +known, I should have bleated it out, fool that I am!”</p> + +<p>“Please do not be troubled—you have done no harm. Herr Kaufmann and I +are practically strangers.”</p> + +<p>“That is so,” replied the Doctor, evidently reassured; “and I did not +mean it. It is not the same thing as if I had done it purposely.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all the same thing.”</p> + +<p>At times, we put something aside in memory to be meditated upon later. +The mind registers the exact words, the train of circumstances that +caused their utterance, all the swift interplay of opposing thought, +and, for the time being, forgets. Hours afterward, in solitude, it is +recalled; studied from every point of view, searched, analysed, +questioned, until it is made to yield up its hidden meaning. It was thus +that Margaret put away those four words: “He loves her still.”</p> + +<p>They are pathetic, these tiny treasure-houses of Memory, where +oftentimes the jewel, so jealously guarded, by the clear light of +introspection is seen to be only paste. One seizes hungrily at the +impulse that caused the hiding, thinking that there must be some certain +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>worth behind the deception. But afterward, painfully sure, one locks +the door of the treasure-chamber in self-pity, and steals away, as from +a casket that enshrines the dead.</p> + +<p>They talked of other things, and at half-past ten the Doctor went home, +leaving a farewell message for Lynn, and begging that his kind +remembrances be sent to Iris, when she should write.</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said Mrs. Irving. “I shall surely tell her, and she will be +glad.”</p> + +<p>The door closed, and almost immediately Lynn came in from the library, +rubbing his eyes. “I think I’ve been asleep,” he said.</p> + +<p>“It was rude, dear,” returned Margaret, in gentle rebuke. “It is +ill-bred to leave a guest.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose it is, but I did not intend to be gone so long.”</p> + +<p>The house seemed singularly desolate, filled, as it was, with ghostly +shadows. Through the rooms moved the memory of Iris, and of that gentle +mistress who slept in the churchyard, who had permeated every nook and +corner of it with the sweetness of her personality. There was something +in the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>air, as though music had just ceased—the wraith of long-gone +laughter, the fall of long-shed tears.</p> + +<p>“I miss Iris,” said Margaret, dreamily. “She was like a daughter to me.”</p> + +<p>Taken off his guard, Lynn’s conscious face instantly betrayed him.</p> + +<p>“Lynn,” said Margaret, suddenly, “did you have anything to do with her +going away?”</p> + +<p>The answer was scarcely audible. “Yes.”</p> + +<p>Margaret never forced a confidence, but after a pause she said very +gently: “Dear, is there anything you want to tell me?”</p> + +<p>“It’s nothing,” said Lynn, roughly. He rose and walked around the room +nervously. “It’s nothing,” he repeated, with assumed carelessness. “I—I +asked her to marry me, and she wouldn’t. That’s all. It’s nothing.”</p> + +<p>Margaret’s first impulse was to smile. This child, to be talking of +marriage—then her heart leaped, for Lynn was twenty-three; older than +she had been when the star rose upon her horizon and then set forever.</p> + +<p>Then came a momentary awkwardness. Childish though the trouble was, she +pitied Lynn, and regretted that she could not shield <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span>him from it as she +had shielded him from all else in his life.</p> + +<p>Then resentment against Iris. What was she, a nameless outcast, to scorn +the offered distinction? Any woman in the world might be proud to become +Lynn’s wife.</p> + +<p>Then, smiling at her own folly, Margaret went to him, dominated solely +by gratitude. Not knowing what else to do, she drew his tall head down +to kiss him, but Lynn swerved aside, and with his face against the +softness of his mother’s hair, wiped away a boyish tear.</p> + +<p>“Lynn,” she said, tenderly, “you are very young.”</p> + +<p>“How old were you when you married, mother?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-one.”</p> + +<p>“How old was father?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-three.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” persisted Lynn, with remorseless logic, “I am not too young, and +neither is Iris—only she doesn’t care.”</p> + +<p>“She may care, son.”</p> + +<p>“No, she won’t. She despises me.”</p> + +<p>“And why?”</p> + +<p>“She said I had no heart.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p><p>“The idea!”</p> + +<p>“Maybe I didn’t have then, but I’m sure I have now.”</p> + +<p>He walked back and forth restlessly. Margaret knew that the griefs of +youth are cruelly keen, because they come well in the lead of the +strength to bear them. She was about to offer the usual threadbare +consolation, “You will forget in time,” when she remembered the stock of +which Lynn came.</p> + +<p>His mother, who had carried a secret wound for more than twenty-five +years, who was she, to talk about forgetting, and, of all others, to her +son?</p> + +<p>Gratitude was still dominant, though in her heart of hearts she knew +that she was selfish. Lynn felt the lack of sympathy, and became +conscious, for the first time in his life, that her tenderness had a +limit.</p> + +<p>“Mother,” he said, suddenly, “did you love father?”</p> + +<p>“Why do you ask, son?”</p> + +<p>“Because I want to know.”</p> + +<p>“I respected him highly,” said Margaret, at length. “He was a good man, +Lynn.”</p> + +<p>“You have answered,” he returned. “You don’t know—you don’t +understand.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p><p>“But I do understand,” she flashed.</p> + +<p>“You can’t, if you didn’t love father.”</p> + +<p>“I—I cared for someone else,” said Margaret, thickly, unwilling to be +convicted of shallowness.</p> + +<p>Lynn looked at her quickly. “And you still care?”</p> + +<p>Margaret bowed her head. “Yes,” she whispered, “I still care!”</p> + +<p>“Mother!” he cried. In an instant, his arms were around her and she was +sobbing on his shoulder. “Mother,” he pleaded, “forgive me! To think I +never knew!”</p> + +<p>They had a long talk then, intimate and searching. “You have borne it +bravely,” he said. “No one has ever dreamed of it, I am sure. The Master +told me, the other day, that I must not be afraid of life. He said that +everything, even our blessings, came to us through pain.”</p> + +<p>“I would not say everything,” temporised Margaret, “but it is true that +much comes that way. We know happiness only by contrast.”</p> + +<p>“Happiness and misery, light and dark, sunshine and storm, life and +death,” mused Lynn. “Yes, it is by contrast, but, as the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span>Master says, +‘the balance swings true.’ I wish you knew him, mother; he has helped +me. I never knew my father, so it is not wrong for me to say that I wish +he might have been my father.”</p> + +<p>Margaret grew as cold as ice, and her senses reeled, then flame swept +her from head to foot. “Come,” she said, not knowing her own voice, “it +is late.”</p> + +<p>Long afterward, in the solitude of her room, she took the precious +thought from its hiding-place, and found it purest gold. It was as +though all the bitterness in her heart, growing upward, through the +years, had flowered overnight into a perfect rose.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII</h2> + +<h2>Lynn Comes Into His Own</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">A</span>t the post-office there was a letter for Mrs. Irving. Lynn took it, +with a lump rising in his throat, for, though he had never seen her +handwriting, he knew, through a sixth sense, that it was from Iris. +Evidently, it was a brief communication, for the envelope contained not +more than a single sheet. The straight, precise slope of the address had +an old-fashioned air. It was very different from the modern angular hand +which demands a whole line for two or three words.</p> + +<p>In some way, it brought her nearer to him, and in the shadow of the +maple, just outside the house, he kissed the superscription before he +took it in.</p> + +<p>He waited, consciously, while his mother read it. It was little more +than a note, saying that she was established in a hall bedroom <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>in a +city boarding-house, where she had the use of the piano in the parlour, +and that she was taking two lessons a week and practising a great deal. +She gave the name of her teacher, said she was well, and sent kind +remembrances to all who might inquire for her.</p> + +<p>With a woman’s insight, Margaret read heartache between the lines. She +knew that the note was brief because Iris did not dare to trust herself +to write more. There was no mention of Lynn, but it was not because she +had forgotten him.</p> + +<p>Margaret gave the letter to Lynn, then turned away, that she might not +see his face. “I shall write this afternoon,” she said. “Shall I send +any message for you?”</p> + +<p>“No,” returned Lynn, with a short, bitter laugh, “I have no message to +send.”</p> + +<p>Her heart ached in sympathy, for by her own sorrow she measured the +depth of his. She knew that the elasticity of youth would fail +here—that Lynn was not of those who forget.</p> + +<p>“Son,” she said, gently, “I wish I might bear it for you.”</p> + +<p>“I wouldn’t let you, mother, even if you <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>could. You have had enough as +it is. Herr Kaufmann says you have always shielded me and that it was a +mistake.”</p> + +<p>Had it been a mistake? Margaret thought it over after Lynn went away. +She had shielded him—that was true. He had never learned by painful +experience anything from which she had the power to save him. If his +father had <span style="white-space: nowrap;">lived——</span></p> + +<p>For the first time, Margaret thought of her freedom as a doubtful +blessing. Then, once more, she took the jewelled thought from its +hiding-place in her inmost heart. There was no hint of alloy there—it +was radiant with its own unspeakable beauty.</p> + +<p>Lynn went to the post-office to mail the letter. East Lancaster +considered post-boxes modern innovations which were reckless and +unjustifiable. Suppose a stranger should be passing through East +Lancaster, break open a post-box, and feloniously extract a private +letter? What if the box should blow away? When a letter was placed in +the hands of the accredited representative of the Government, one might +be sure that it was safe, but not otherwise.</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff was talking with the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>postmaster, but he left him to +speak to Lynn. “Miss Iris,” he began, eagerly, “you have perhaps heard +from her?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Lynn, dully, fingering the letter.</p> + +<p>“Is she quite well?”</p> + +<p>Briefly, Lynn told him what Iris had written.</p> + +<p>“It was kind to send remembrances to all who might inquire,” mused the +Doctor. “That is like my foster-daughter; she is always thinking of +others. She knew that I would be the first to ask. If you will give me +the address, it will be a pleasure to me to write to her. She must be +quite lonely where she is.”</p> + +<p>Lynn told him. Her letter was at home, but every syllable of it, even +the prosaic address, was written in letters of fire upon his brain.</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said the Doctor, as he took it down in his memorandum book; +“I shall write to-night. Shall I give her any word from you?”</p> + +<p>“No!” cried Lynn.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” laughed the Doctor, “I understand. You write yourself. Well, I +will tell her a letter is coming. Good afternoon!”</p> + +<p>He moved away, leaving Lynn cold from <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>head to foot. He was tempted to +call the Doctor back, to ask him not to mention his name to Iris, then +he reflected that an explanation would be necessary. In any event, Iris +would understand. She would know that he did not intend to write—that +he had sent no message.</p> + +<p>But, three days later, it was fated that Iris should tremble at the +sight of Lynn’s name in a letter from East Lancaster. “I think he will +write soon,” Doctor Brinkerhoff had said. “Mr. Irving is a very fine +gentleman and I have deep respect for him.”</p> + +<p>“Write to me!” repeated Iris. “He would not dare! Why should he write to +me?” She put the letter aside and read over those three anonymous +communications of Lynn’s, making a vain effort to associate them with +his personality.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Lynn was learning endurance. He slept but fitfully, awaking +always with the sense of choking and of a hand pulling at his heart. He +saw Iris everywhere. There was no room in the house, except his own, +that was not full of her and of the faint, elusive perfume which seemed +a part of her. Sometimes those ghostly images haunted him <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>until he +could bear no more. Margaret often saw him throw down the book he was +reading and dash outdoors. For an hour, perhaps, he had not turned a +page, and the book was a flimsy pretence at best.</p> + +<p>He had not touched his violin since Iris went away. More than anything +else, it spoke to him of her. “Trickster with the violin” seemed written +upon it for all the world to read. Dimly, he knew that work was the only +panacea for heartache, but he could not bring himself to go on with his +mechanical practising.</p> + +<p>Summer was drawing to its close. Already there was a single scarlet +bough in the maple at the gate, where the frost had set its signal and +its promise of return. Many of the birds had gone, and fairy craft of +winged seeds, the sport of every wind, drifted aimlessly about in search +of some final harbour.</p> + +<p>Strangely, Lynn rather avoided his mother. He felt her sympathy, her +comprehension, and yet he shrank from her. She was gentle and patient, +responded readily to his every mood, and rarely offered a caress, yet he +continually shrank back within himself.</p> + +<p>He had made no friends in East Lancaster, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span>though he knew one or two +young men near his own age, but he kept so far aloof from them that they +had long since ceased to seek him out. He kept away from Doctor +Brinkerhoff, fearing talk of Iris, or some new complication, and even +the postmaster’s kindly sallies fell upon deaf ears. He, too, missed +Iris, and often inquired for her, though he could not have failed to +note that no letters came for Lynn.</p> + +<p>Almost in the first of the hurt, when it seemed the hardest to bear, he +had wondered whether it could be any worse if Iris were dead. All at +once, he knew that it would be; that the cold hand and the quiet heart +were the supreme anguish of loving, because there was no longer any +possibility of change. Swiftly, he understood how Iris had felt when +Aunt Peace died and he stood by, indifferent and unmoved.</p> + +<p>In tardy atonement, he covered the grave in the churchyard with +flowers—the goldenrod and purple aster that marched side by side over +the hills to meet the frost, gay and fearless to the last.</p> + +<p>He saw himself as he had been then, and his heart grew hot with shame. +“I don’t <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>wonder she called me a clod,” he said to himself, “for that is +what I was.”</p> + +<p>In the maze of darkness through which he somehow lived, there was but +one ray of comfort—the Master. Lynn felt, vaguely, that here was +something upon which he might lean. He did not perceive that it was his +own individuality which Herr Kaufmann had in some way awakened, so prone +are we to confuse the person with the thing, the thought with the deed.</p> + +<p>Day after day, he tramped over the hills around East Lancaster; day by +day, footsore and weary, he sought for peace along those sunlit fields. +At night, desperately tired and faint with hunger, he crept home, where +he slept uneasily, waking always with that hand of terror clutching at +his heart.</p> + +<p>He went most frequently to the pile of rocks in the woods, a mile or +more from the house. There were no signs upon the bare earth around it; +seemingly no one went there but Lynn. Yet the suggestion of an altar was +openly made, from the wide ledge at the foundation, where one might +kneel, to the cross at the summit, rude, stern, and forbidding, +chiselled in the rock.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span></p><p>Here, many times, Lynn had found comfort. Someone else, whose heart +swelled, burned, and tried to escape, had cut that cross upon the +granite. Thus he came, by slow degrees, into an intimate, invisible +companionship.</p> + +<p>Herr Kaufmann had ceased to speak of lessons, though Lynn went there +sometimes and sat by while he worked. The Master had admitted him to +that high fellowship which does not demand speech. For an hour or more, +Lynn might sit there, watching, and yet no word would be spoken. As with +Dr. Brinkerhoff, there were occasional visits in which nothing was said +but “Good afternoon” and “Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>Fräulein Fredrika was always busy overhead with her manifold household +tasks, and seldom disturbed them by coming into the shop. Lynn wondered +if the house was never clean, and once put the question to Herr +Kaufmann.</p> + +<p>“Mine house is always clean,” he answered, “except down here. Twice in +every year, I allow Fredrika to come in mine shop with her cloths and +her brush and her pails. The rest of the time, it is mine own. If she +could clean here all the time, as upstairs, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span>I think she would be more +happy. If you like to come in mine shop when I am not here, I am +willing. It is one quiet place where one can rest undisturbed and think +of many things. Fredrika would not care.”</p> + +<p>Weeks later, Lynn thought of the kindly offer. A storm was coming up, +and he remembered that the Master had spoken of driving to another town +with Dr. Brinkerhoff. “I have one violin,” he had explained, “which was +ordered long ago and which is now finished. While the Herr Doctor visits +the sick, I will go on with mine instrument and perhaps obtain one more +pupil.”</p> + +<p>Fräulein Fredrika answered his ring, and he asked, conventionally, for +Herr Kaufmann. “Mine brudder is not home,” she said. “He will have gone +away, but I think not for long. You will perhaps come in and wait?”</p> + +<p>“I will not disturb you,” replied Lynn. “I will go down in the shop.”</p> + +<p>“But no,” returned the Fräulein, coaxingly. “Will you not stay with me? +I am with the loneliness when mine brudder is away. You will sit with +me? Yes? It will be most kind!”</p> + +<p>Thus entreated, he could not refuse, and he sat down in the parlour, +awkward and ill <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span>at ease. His hostess at once proceeded to entertain +him.</p> + +<p>“You think it will rain, yes?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I think so.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I do not,” returned the Fräulein, smiling. “I always think the +best. Let us wait and see which is right.”</p> + +<p>“We need rain,” objected Lynn, turning uneasily in his chair.</p> + +<p>“But not when mine brudder is out. He and the Herr Doctor will have gone +for a long drive. Mine brudder have finished one fine violin and the +Herr Doctor will visit the sick. Mine brudder’s friend possesses great +skill.”</p> + +<p>Lynn looked moodily past her and out of the window. The Fräulein changed +her tactics. “You have not seen mine new clothes-brush,” she suggested.</p> + +<p>“No,” returned Lynn, unthinkingly, “I haven’t.”</p> + +<p>“Then I will get him.”</p> + +<p>She came back, presently, and put it into Lynn’s hand. It was made of +three strands of heavy rope, braided, looped to form a handle, tied with +a blue ribbon, and ravelled at the ends. “See,” she said, “is it not +most beautiful?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p><p>“Yes,” agreed Lynn, absently.</p> + +<p>“Miss Iris have told me how to make him.”</p> + +<p>Lynn came to himself with a start. “And this,” she went on, pointing to +the gilded potato-masher that hung under the swinging lamp, “and +this,—but no, it is you who have made this for me. Miss Iris showed you +how.” She pointed to the butterfly made so long ago, but still in its +pristine glory.</p> + +<p>He said nothing, but by his face Fräulein Fredrika saw that she had made +a mistake—that she had somehow been clumsy. After all, it was very +difficult, this conversing with gentlemen. Franz was easy to get along +with, but the others? She shook her head in despair, and immediately +relinquished the thought of entertaining Lynn.</p> + +<p>She could not tell him that she had changed her mind, that she no longer +wanted him to sit with her, and that he could go down in the shop to +wait for Herr Kaufmann. Painfully, in the silence, she considered +several expedients, and at last her face brightened.</p> + +<p>“Now that you are here,” she said, “to guard mine house, it will be of a +possibility for me to go out for some vegetables for mine <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>brudder’s +dinner. He will have been very hungry from his long ride, and you see it +is not going to rain. You will excuse me for a short time, yes?”</p> + +<p>“Gladly,” answered Lynn, with sincerity.</p> + +<p>“Then I need not fear to go. It will be most kind.”</p> + +<p>She had been gone but a few minutes when the storm broke. Lynn saw the +wild rain sweep across the valley with a sense of peaceful security +which was quite new to him. For some time, now, he would be +alone—alone, and yet sheltered from the storm.</p> + +<p>Very often, after a deep experience, one looks upon the inanimate things +which were present at the beginning of it with wondering curiosity. The +crazy jug, the purple tidy embroidered with pink roses, and the gilded +potato-masher which swung back and forth when the wind shook the house, +were strangely linked with Destiny.</p> + +<p>Here he had thoughtlessly touched the Cremona, and, for the time being, +made an enemy of the Fräulein. Her dislike of him abated only when he +and Iris made her the hideous paper butterfly which illuminated a +corner. A flash of memory took him back to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>the day they made it, alone, +in the big dining-room. He saw the sweet seriousness in the girl’s face +as she glued on the antennæ, having chosen proper bits of an old ostrich +feather for the purpose.</p> + +<p>And now, the dining-room was empty, save of the haunting shadows. Aunt +Peace was at rest in the churchyard, the fever at an end, and Iris—Iris +had gone, leaving desolation in her wake.</p> + +<p>Only the butterfly remained—the flimsy, fragile thing that any passing +wind might easily have destroyed. The finer things of the spirit, that +are supposed to be permanent, had vanished. In their place, there was +only a heartache, which waxed greater as the days went by, and through +the long nights which brought no surcease of pain.</p> + +<p>In the beginning, Lynn had felt himself absolutely alone. Now he began +to perceive that he had been taken into an invisible brotherhood. He was +like one in a crowded playhouse when the lights go out, isolated to all +intents and purposes, and yet conscious that others are near him, +sharing his emotions.</p> + +<p>The thunders boomed across the valley and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span>the lightnings rived the +clouds. The grey rain swirled against the windows and the house swayed +in the wind. Then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ceased, +and Lynn smiled.</p> + +<p>Diamonds dripped from every twig, and the grass was full of them. The +laughter of happy children came to his ears, and a rainbow of living +light spanned the valley. Its floating draperies overhung the topmost +branches of the trees on the crest of the opposite hill, and picked out +here and there a jewel—a ruby, an opal, or an emerald, set in the +silvered framework of the leaves.</p> + +<p>Lynn sighed heavily, for the beauty of it sent the old, remorseless pain +to surging through his heart. The Master’s violin lay on the piano near +him, and he took it up, noting only that it was not the Cremona.</p> + +<p>As his fingers touched the strings, there came a sense of familiarity +with the instrument, as one who meets a friend after a long separation. +He tightened the strings, picked up the bow, and began to play.</p> + +<p>It was the adagio movement of the concerto—the one which Herr Kaufmann +had said was full of heartache and tears. In all the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span>literature of +music, there was nothing so well suited to his mood.</p> + +<p>He stood with his face to the window, his eyes still fixed upon the +rainbow, and deep, quivering tunes came from the violin. In an instant, +Lynn recognised his mastery. He was playing as the great had played +before him, with passion and with infinite pain.</p> + +<p>All the beauty of the world was a part of it—the sun, the wide fields +of clover, and the Summer rain. Moonlight and the sound of many waters, +the unutterable midnights of the universe, Iris and the beauty of the +marshes, where her name-flower, like a thread of purple, embroidered a +royal tapestry. Beyond this still was the beauty of the spirit, which +believes all things, suffers all things, and triumphs at last through +its suffering and its belief.</p> + +<p>Primal forces spoke through the adagio, swelling into splendid +chords—love and night and death. It was the cry of a soul in bondage, +straining to be free; struggling to break the chain and take its place, +by right of its knowledge and its compassion, with those who have +learned to live.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p><p>Lynn was quivering like an aspen in a storm, and he breathed heavily. +Through the majestic crescendo came that deathless message: “Endure, and +thou shalt triumph; wait, and thou shalt see.” Like an undercurrent, +too, was the inseparable mystery of pain.</p> + +<p>Under the spell of the music, he saw it all—the wide working of the law +which takes no account of the finite because it deals with the infinite; +which takes no heed of the individual because it guards us all. Far +removed from its personal significance, his grief became his friend—the +keynote, the password, the countersign admitting him to that vast +Valhalla where the shining souls of the immortals, outgrowing defeat, +have put on the garments of Victory.</p> + +<p>Sunset took the rainbow and made it into flame. Once more Lynn played +the adagio, instinct with its world-old story, voicing its world-old +law. He was so keenly alive that the strings cut into his fingers, yet +he played on, fully comprehending, fully believing, through the splendid +chords of the crescendo to the end.</p> + +<p>Then there was a faltering step upon the stair, a fumbling at the latch, +and someone <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span>staggered into the room. It was the Master, blind with +tears, his loved Cremona in his outstretched hands.</p> + +<p>“Here!” he cried, brokenly. “Son of mine heart! Play!”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX</h2> + +<h2>The Secret Chamber</h2> + +<p style="float: left; font-size: 100%; line-height: 80%; margin-top: 0;">“</p><p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">H</span>e loves her still.” The memory of the words carried balm to Margaret’s +sore heart. There could be no mistake, for Doctor Brinkerhoff had been +positive. It was absolutely, beautifully true. Believing all the time +that he had forgotten, she was now proved false.</p> + +<p>Swiftly upon the thought came another which sent the blood to her face. +In all the time she had been in East Lancaster, she had feared that he +might in some way learn of her presence, and now there was nothing she +desired so much. Had Aunt Peace lived, she would scarcely have dared to +continue the acquaintance, for, like Doctor Brinkerhoff, the Master was +without “social position.”</p> + +<p>Iris, too, had gone—no one need know but Lynn. Herr Kaufmann did not +know the name of the man she had married, and he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span>thought Lynn’s mother +a stranger. It would be very simple to write the Master a note, saying +that he had been so good to Lynn and had done so much for him that his +mother would like to express her appreciation personally, and end by +asking him to call.</p> + +<p>But would the old promise still keep him away? As though it were +yesterday, Margaret remembered her mother as she sternly demanded from +Franz his promise never to enter the house again—and Franz was one who +always kept his word.</p> + +<p>Then she reflected that on the day when Aunt Peace received guests for +the last time he had been there, in that very house, with the Cremona, +which had separated them in the beginning and, years later, so strangely +brought them together.</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff had asked permission to bring his friend, and it +would be so simple to give it. So easy to say: “Doctor, it would give me +pleasure to meet your friend, Herr Kaufmann. Will you not bring him with +you next Wednesday evening?” But, after all the years, all the sorrow +that lay between them, would she wish Doctor Brinkerhoff to be there? +Was it not also taking an unfair <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>advantage of the Master, to send for +him, and then suddenly confront him with his sweetheart of long ago? +Margaret put the plan aside without further thought.</p> + +<p>And Lynn—would she wish Lynn to bring Herr Kaufmann? Would she want her +son to tell him that she was the woman he had loved in vain a quarter of +a century ago? Margaret flushed crimson as she imagined the meeting. +Lynn did not know that it was the Master—only that she had cared for +someone whom she did not marry. Would she wish Lynn to stand by, +surprised and perhaps troubled? Her heart answered no.</p> + +<p>The note, too, would be an unfair advantage. He would not know “Margaret +Irving,” and she could not well write that they had once loved each +other. After all, she had only Doctor Brinkerhoff’s word for it, and he +might be mistaken. Even the Master might be labouring under a +delusion—might only think he cared.</p> + +<p>The after-meetings are often pathetic, between those who have loved in +youth. Circumstance parts two who vow undying devotion, and one, +perhaps, remains faithful, while the other forgets. Sometimes, both +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>marry elsewhere, each with the other’s image securely hidden in those +secret chambers of the heart, which twilight and music serve best to +open.</p> + +<p>Time, that kindly magician, softens the harsh outlines, eliminates every +defect, and, by his wondrous alchemy, transmutes the real to the ideal. +Thus in one’s inmost soul is enshrined the old love, with countless +other precious things.</p> + +<p>Rue lies at the threshold, for Regret, like a sentinel, guards the door, +and to enter, one must first make peace with Regret. The labyrinthine +passages are hung with shining fabrics, woven of long-dead dreams. The +floor is deeply hidden with rosemary, that homely, fragrant herb which +means remembrance. The light is that of a stained-glass window, where +the sun streams through many colours, and illumines the utmost recesses +with a rainbow gleam.</p> + +<p>Costly vessels are there, holding Heart’s Desire, which must wait for +its fulfilment until immortal dawn. Heart’s Belief is in a chest, laid +away with lavender, but the lock is rusty and does not readily yield. +Heart’s Love, sweet with spikenard, waits near the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>door, so eager to +pass the threshold, where stands Regret!</p> + +<p>Memory’s jewels are there, in many a casket of cunning workmanship, +where the dust never lies. Emeralds made of the “green pastures and the +still waters”; sapphires that were born of sun and sea. Topazes of the +golden glow that comes after a rain; diamonds of the white light of +noon. Rubies that have stolen their colour from the warm blood of the +heart, gladly giving its deepest love. Amethysts made of dead violets, +still hinting that perishable fragrance which, perhaps, like a single +precious drop, still lives within, forever out of the reach of decay. +Opals made from changeful flame, of irised fancies that lived but for +the space of a thought, then passed away. Linked together by a thousand +perfect moments, these jewels of Memory wait for the quiet hour when +one’s fingers lift them from their hiding-place, and one’s eyes, +forgetting tears, shine with the old joy.</p> + +<p>The petals of crimson roses, long since crushed and dead, rustle softly +from the shadow when the door of the secret chamber opens. Melodies +start from the silence and breathe the haunting measures of some lost +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span>song. Letters, ragged and worn, with the tint of old ivory upon their +eloquent pages, whisper still: “I love you,” though the hand that penned +the tender message has long since been folded, with its mate, upon the +quiet heart.</p> + +<p>When the world has proved forbidding, when love has been unresponsive, +and friendship has failed, one steals to the secret chamber with a sense +of sanctuary. Past Regret, stern, unyielding, and austere, one goes +silently, having given the password, and enters in.</p> + +<p>The fragrant herbs and the rose petals bring balm to the tired heart, +that heart which has loved so vainly, has tried so faithfully, and +failed. The ghosts of dreams, woven in the tapestries that hide the +walls, come back to touch the roughened fingers of the one who followed +out the Pattern, in the midst of blinding tears. All the music that has +soothed and comforted, trembles once more from muted strings. The +work-worn hands, made old and hard by unselfish toil, become fair and +smooth at a lover’s kiss of long ago. After an hour in the secret +chamber, when Mnemosyne, singing, brings forth her treasures, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span>one goes +back, serene and fearless, to meet whatever may come.</p> + +<hr class="medium" /> + +<p>Margaret came from her secret chamber with a smile upon her lips. In +that one hour, she had finally parted with all bitterness, all sense of +loss. After twenty-five years of heart hunger and disappointment, she +had put it all aside, and come into her heritage of content.</p> + +<p>She began to consider Herr Kaufmann again. After all, what was there to +be gained? She might be disappointed in him, or he might be +disillusioned in regard to her. She remembered what a friend had once +told her, years ago.</p> + +<p>“My dear,” she had said, “there is one thing in my life for which I have +never ceased to be thankful. When I was very young, I fell in love with +a boy of my own age, and our parents, by separating us, kept us from +making a hasty marriage. I did not forget, but later I met a man who was +much better suited to me in every way, whom I liked and thoroughly +respected, and of whom my mother approved. But, secretly, I cherished +this old love until one day a lucky chance <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>brought me face to face with +him. In an instant, the whole thing was gone, and I laughed at my +folly—laughed because I was free. I married the other, and I have been +a very happy wife—far happier than I should have been had I continued +to believe myself in love with a memory.”</p> + +<p>There was truth in it, Margaret reflected. She went over to her mirror +and sat down before it, to study her face. She was forty-five, and the +bloom of youth was gone. The grey threads at her temples and around her +low brow softened her face, where Time had left the prints of his +passing. Her eyes, that had once been merry, were sad now, and the +corners of her mouth drooped a little. She turned away from the mirror +with a sigh, wondering if, after all, the dreams were not the best.</p> + +<p>Moreover, the womanly instinct asserted itself. To be sought and never +to do the seeking, to hold one’s self high and apart, to be earned but +never given—this feeling, so long in abeyance, returned to its rightful +place.</p> + +<p>When the years bring wisdom, one learns to leave many problems to their +own working <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>out. Margaret determined not to interfere with the complex +undercurrents which, like subterranean rivers, lie beneath our daily +living. It might happen or it might not, but she would not seek to +control the subtle forces which forever work secretly toward the +fulfilling of the law. To live on from day to day, making the best of +it,—this is a simple creed, but no one yet has found it unsatisfactory.</p> + +<p>Lynn came in and went straight to his room. Margaret heard him walking +back and forth, as if in search of something. He tuned his violin and +she rejoiced, because at last he had turned to his practise.</p> + +<p>But it was not practising that she heard. It was the concerto, every +measure of which she knew by heart. With the first notes, she felt a new +authority, a new grasp, and began to wonder if it were really Lynn. She +leaned forward, her body tense, to listen.</p> + +<p>When he came to the adagio, the hot tears blinded her. Lynn, her boy, to +play like this! Her mother’s heart beat high in an ecstasy of gratitude +for the full payment, the granting of her heart’s desire.</p> + +<p>The deep tones stirred her very soul. The passion of it made her +tremble, the beauty of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>it made her afraid. Wondering, she saw the +working out of it,—that at the very hour when she had surrendered, had +given up, had cast aside her bitterness forever, Lynn had come into his +own.</p> + +<p>With splendid dignity, with exquisite phrasing, with masterful +interpretation, the concerto moved to its end. It left her faint, her +heart wildly beating. Through Lynn, Franz had worked out her salvation, +her atonement; through Lynn full payment had been made.</p> + +<p>When he came out of his room, she was in the hall, her face alight with +her great happiness. “Lynn!” she cried. A world of meaning was in the +name.</p> + +<p>“I know,” he returned, but all the youth was gone out of his voice. At +once she realised that he had crossed the dividing line, that, even to +her, he was no longer a child, but a man.</p> + +<p>He went past her, walked downstairs slowly, and went out. “Poor lad!” +she murmured; “poor soul!” Lynn, too, had paid the price—was it needful +that both should pay?</p> + +<p>But, none the less, the fact remained; the boon had been granted and +full payment <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span>made, in each instance the same payment. She had paid with +long years of heart-hunger, which only now had ceased. Lynn’s years +still lay before him.</p> + +<p>A sob choked her. Was not the price too high? Must he bear what she had +borne for these five and twenty years? With all the passion of her +motherhood, she yearned to shield him; to eke out, in the remainder of +her days, the remorseless balance against Lynn.</p> + +<p>But in the working of that law there is no discrimination—the price is +fixed and unalterable, the payment merciless and sure. There is no +escape for the individual; it is continually the sacrifice of the one +for the many, the part for the whole.</p> + +<p>Try as she would, Margaret could not go back. She could not, for Lynn’s +sake, take up the burden she had laid down, in the futile effort to bear +more. From her, no more would be accepted, so much was plain. The rest +must come from Lynn.</p> + +<p>Her heart ached for him, but there was nothing she could do, except to +stand aside and watch, while his broad shoulders grew accustomed to +their load. A wild impulse seized her to go to the city, find Iris, +bring <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>her back, even unwillingly, and literally force her to marry +Lynn. But that was not what Lynn wanted, and Margaret herself had been +forced into a marriage. Clearly, at last, she saw that she must remain +passive, and cultivate resignation.</p> + +<p>The hours went by and Lynn did not return. She well knew the mood in +which he had gone away. At night, white-faced and weary, with his eyes +gleaming strangely, he would come back, refuse to eat, and lock himself +into his room. It had been so for a long time and it would be so until, +through the slow working of the inner forces, he stepped over the +boundary that his mother had just crossed.</p> + +<p>White noon ascended the arch of the heavens, blazed a moment at the +zenith, and then went on. The golden hours followed, each one making the +shadows a little longer, the earth more radiant, if that could be.</p> + +<p>Upon the hills were set the blood-red seals of the frost. Every maple, +robed in glory, had taken on the garments of royalty. The air shimmered +with the amethystine haze of Indian Summer, that veil of luminous mist, +vibrant with colour, which Autumn weaves on her loom.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p><p>Margaret went out, leaving the door ajar for Lynn. There were few keys +in East Lancaster. A locked door was discourteous—a reflection upon the +integrity of one’s neighbours.</p> + +<p>From the elms the yellow leaves were dropping, like telegrams from the +high places, saying that Summer had gone. She turned at the corner and +went east, the long light throwing her shadow well before her. “It is +like Life,” she mused, smiling; “we go through it, following +shadows—things that vanish when there is a shifting of the light.”</p> + +<p>Across the clover fields, where the dried blossoms stirred in their +sleep as she passed, through the upland pastures, stony and barren, with +the pools overgrown, through a fallow field, shorn of its harvest, where +only the tiny lace-makers spread their webs amidst the stubble, +Margaret’s way was all familiar, and yet sadly changed.</p> + +<p>A meadow-lark, the last one of his kind, winged a leisurely way +southward, singing as he flew. A squirrel flaunted his bushy tail, gave +her a daring backward glance, and scurried up a tree. She laughed, and +paused at the entrance to the forest.</p> + +<p>Once she had stood there, thrilled to her <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>inmost soul. Again she had +waited there, white to the lips with pain. Now she had outgrown it, had +learned peace, and the long years slipped away, each with its own +burden.</p> + +<p>The wood was exquisitely still. A nut dropped now and then, and a +belated bird called to its mate. The swift patter of fairy feet echoed +and re-echoed through the long aisles. The air was crystalline, yet full +of colour, and the gold and crimson leaves floated idly back and forth. +It needed only a passing wind, at the right moment and from the right +place, to make a rainbow then and there.</p> + +<p>She went farther into the wood, with a sense of friendliness for the +well-known way. Just at the turn of the path, she stopped, amazed. At +their trysting-place, where the wide rock was laid at the foot of the +oak, someone had reared an altar and blazoned a cross upon the stone.</p> + +<p>Her eyes filled, for she knew who had made it, that symbol of sacrifice. +Weather-worn and moss-grown, it must have stood for the whole of the +five and twenty years. There was no word, no inscription—only the +cross, but for her it was enough.</p> + +<p>“To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, to kiss the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>cross!” The last measures +of the song reverberated through her memory, as Iris had sung it in her +deep contralto, so long ago.</p> + +<p>Sobbing, she knelt, with her lips against the symbol, then suddenly +started to her feet, for there was a step upon the path.</p> + +<p>For a blinding instant, they faced each other, unbelieving, then the +Master opened his arms.</p> + +<p>“Beloved,” he breathed, “is it thou?”</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XX" id="XX"></a>XX</h2> + +<h2>“Mine Brudder’s Friend”</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">T</span>hat day the Master put aside the garment of his years. The quarter +century that had lain between them like a thorny, upward path was +suddenly blotted out, and only the memory of it remained. Belated, but +none the less keen, the primeval joy came back to him. Youth and love, +the bounding pulse and the singing heart,—they were all his.</p> + +<p>It was twilight when they came away from the moss-grown altar in the +forest, his arm around his sweetheart, and the faces of both wet with +happy tears.</p> + +<p>“Until to-morrow, mine Liebchen,” he said. “How shall I now wait for +that to-morrow when we part no more? The dear God knew. He gave to me +the cutting and the long night that in the end I might deserve thee. He +was making of me an instrument suited to thy little hand.” He kissed the +hand <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span>as he spoke, and Margaret’s eyes filled once more.</p> + +<p>Through the mist of her tears she saw the rising moon rocking idly just +above the horizon. “See,” said the Master, “it is a new light from the +east, from the same place as thou hast come to me. Many a time have I +watched it, thinking that it also shone on thee; that perhaps thy eyes, +as well as mine, were upon it, and thus, through heaven, we were +united.”</p> + +<p>“Those whom God hath joined together,” murmured Margaret, “let no man +put asunder.”</p> + +<p>“Those whom God hath joined,” returned the Master, reverently, “no man +can put asunder. Dost thou not see? I thought thou hadst forgotten, and +when I go to keep mine tryst with Grief, I find thee there, with thy +lips upon the cross.”</p> + +<p>“I have never gone before,” whispered Margaret. “I could not.”</p> + +<p>“So? Mine Beloved, I have gone there many times. When mine sorrow has +filled mine old heart to breaking, I have gone there, that I might look +upon thy cross and mine and so gain strength. It is where we parted, +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span>where thy lips were last on mine. Sometimes I have gone with mine +Cremona and played until mine sore heart was at peace. And to-day, I +find thee there! The dear Father has been most kind.”</p> + +<p>“Did you know me?” asked Margaret, shyly. “Have I not grown old?”</p> + +<p>“Mine Liebchen, thou canst never grow old. Thou hast the beauty of +immortal youth. As I saw thee to-day, so have I seen thee in mine dream. +Sometimes I have felt that thou hadst taken up thy passing, and I have +hungered for mine, for it was a certainty in mine heart that the dear +Father would give thee back to me in heaven.</p> + +<p>“I do not think of heaven as the glittering place with the streets of +gold and the walls of pearl, but more like one quiet wood, where the +grass is green and the little brook sings all day. I have thought of +heaven as the place where those who love shall be together, free from +all misunderstanding or the thought of parting.</p> + +<p>“The great ones say that man’s own need gives him his conception of the +dear God; that if he needs the avenging angel, so is God to him; that if +he needs but the friend, that <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>will God be. And so, in mine dream of +heaven, because it was mine need, I have thought of it but as one sunny +field, where there was clover in the long grass and tall trees at one +side, with the clear, shining waters beyond, where we might quench our +thirst, and thee beside me forever, with thy little hand in mine. And +now, because I have paid mine price, I do not have to wait until I am +dead for mine heaven; the dear God gives it to me here.”</p> + +<p>“Whatever heaven may be,” said Margaret, thrilled to the utmost depths +of her soul, “it can be no more than this.”</p> + +<p>“Nor different,” answered the Master, drawing her closer. “I think it is +like this, without the fear of parting.”</p> + +<p>“Parting!” repeated Margaret, with a rush of tears; “oh, do not speak of +parting!”</p> + +<p>“Mine Beloved,” said the Master, and his voice was very tender, “there +is nothing perfect here—there must always be parting. If it were not +so, we should have no need of heaven. But to the end of the road thou +and I will go together.</p> + +<p>“See! In the beginning, we were upon separate paths, and, after so long +a time, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>the ways met. For a little space we journeyed together, and +because of it the sun was more bright, the flowers more sweet, the road +more easy. Then comes the hard place and the ways divide. But though the +leagues lie between us and we do not see, we go always at the same pace, +and so, in a way, together. We learn the same things, we think the same +things, we suffer the same things, because we were of those whom the +dear God hath joined. Another walks beside thee and yet not with thee, +because, through all the distance, thou art mine.</p> + +<p>“And so we go until thy road is turned. Thou dost not know it is turned, +because the circle is so great thou canst not see. Little dost thou +dream thou art soon to meet again with thy old Franz. Through the +thicket, meanwhile, I am going, and mine way is hard and set with +brambles. It is only mine blind faith which helps me onward—that, and +the vision in mine heart of thee, which never for a day, nor even for an +hour, hath been absent.</p> + +<p>“One day mine road turns too, and there art thou, mine Beloved, leading +by the hand mine son.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span></p><p>Margaret was sobbing, her face hidden against his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Mine Liebchen, it is not for me to bear thy tears. Much can I endure, +but not that. After the long waiting, I have thee close again, thou and +mine son, the tall young fellow with the honest face and the laughing +ways, who have made of himself one artist.</p> + +<p>“The way lies long before us, but it is toward the west, and sunset hath +already begun to come upon the clouds. But until the end we go together, +thy little hand in mine.</p> + +<p>“Some day, Beloved, when the ways part once more, and thou or I shall be +called to follow the Grey Angel into the darkness, I think we shall not +fear. Perhaps we shall be very weary, and the one will be glad because +the other has come into the Great Rest. But, Beloved, thou knowest that +if it is I who must follow the Grey Angel, and still leave thee on the +dusty road alone, mine grave will be no division. Life hath not taught +me not to love thee with all mine soul, and Death shall not. Life is the +positive, and Death is the negation. Shall Death, then, do something +more than Life can do? Oh, mine Liebchen, do not fear!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p><p>The Autumn mists were rising and the stars gleamed faintly, like far-off +points of pearl. At the bridge, they said good night, and Margaret went +on home, wishing, even then, that she might bear the burden for Lynn.</p> + +<p>The Master went up the hill with his blood singing in his veins. +Fredrika thought him unusually abstracted, but strangely happy, and +until long past midnight, he sat by the window, improvising upon the +Cremona a theme of such passionate beauty that the heart within her +trembled and was afraid.</p> + +<p>That night Fredrika dreamed that someone had parted her from Franz, and +when she woke, her pillow was wet with tears.</p> + +<p>It was not until the next afternoon that he realised that he must tell +her. After long puzzling over the problem, he went to Doctor +Brinkerhoff’s.</p> + +<p>The Doctor was out, and did not return until almost sunset. When he +came, the Master was sitting in the same uncomfortable chair that, with +monumental patience, he had occupied for hours.</p> + +<p>“Mine friend,” said the Master, with solemn joy, “look in mine face and +tell me what you see.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p><p>“What I see!” repeated the Doctor, mystified; “why, nothing but the same +blundering old fellow that I have always seen.”</p> + +<p>The Master laughed happily. “So? And this blundering old fellow; has +nothing come to him?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t imagine,” said the Doctor, shaking his head. “I may be dense, +but I fear you will have to tell me.”</p> + +<p>“So? Then listen! Long since, perhaps, you have known of mine sorrow. Of +it I have never said much, because mine old heart was sore, and because +mine friend could understand without words.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the Doctor, eagerly, “I knew that the one you loved was +taken away from you while you were both very young.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Well, look in mine face once more and tell me what you see.”</p> + +<p>“You—you haven’t found her!” gasped the Doctor, quite beside himself +with surprise.</p> + +<p>“Precisely,” the Master assured him, with his face beaming.</p> + +<p>The Doctor wrung his hand. “Franz, my old friend,” he cried, “words +cannot tell you how glad I am! Where—who is she?”</p> + +<p>“Mine friend,” returned the Master, “it is <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span>you who are one blundering +old fellow. After taking to yourself the errand of telling her that I +loved her still, you did not see fit to come back to me with the news +that she also cared. Thereby much time has been wrongly spent.”</p> + +<p>The Doctor grew hot and cold by turns. “You don’t mean—” he cried. +“Not—not Mrs. Irving!”</p> + +<p>“Who else?” asked the Master, serenely. “In all the world is she not the +most lovely lady? Who that has seen her does not love her, and why not +I?”</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff sank into a chair, very much excited.</p> + +<p>“It is one astonishment also to me,” the Master went on. “I cannot +believe that the dear God has been so good, and I must always be +pinching mineself to be sure that I do not sleep. It is most wonderful.”</p> + +<p>“It is, indeed,” the Doctor returned.</p> + +<p>“But see how it has happened. Only now can I understand. In the +beginning, mine heart is very hurt, but out of mine hurt there comes the +power to make mineself one great artist. It was mine Cremona that made +the parting, because I am so foolish that I must go <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>in her house to +look at it. It was mine Cremona that took her to me the last time, when +she gave it to me. ‘Franz,’ she says, ‘if you take this, you will not +forget me, and it is mine to do with what I please.’</p> + +<p>“So, when I have made mineself the great artist, I have played on mine +Cremona to many thousands, and the tears have come from all. See, it is +always mine Cremona. And because of this, she has heard of me afar off, +and she has chosen to have mine son learn the violin from me, so that he +also shall be one artist. Twice she has heard me and mine Cremona when +we make the music together; once in the street outside mine house, and +once when I played the <i>Ave Maria</i> in her house when the old lady was +dead.”</p> + +<p>Doctor Brinkerhoff turned away, his muscles suddenly rigid, but the +Master talked on, heedlessly.</p> + +<p>“See, it is always mine Cremona, and the dear God has made us in the +same way. He has made mine violin out of the pain, the cutting, and the +long night, and also me, so that I shall be suited to touch it. It is so +that I am to her as mine Cremona is to me—I am her instrument, and she +can do with me what she will.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p><p>“It is but the one string now that needs the tuning,” went on the +Master, deeply troubled. “I know not what to do with mine Fredrika.”</p> + +<p>“Fredrika!” repeated Doctor Brinkerhoff. He, too, had forgotten the +faithful Fräulein.</p> + +<p>“The bright colours are not for mine Liebchen,” the Master continued.</p> + +<p>“The bright colours,” said the Doctor, by some curious trick of mind +immediately upon the defensive, “why, I have always thought them very +pretty.”</p> + +<p>A great light broke in upon the Master, and he could not be expected to +perceive that it was only a will o’ the wisp. “So,” he cried, +triumphantly, “you have loved mine sister! I have sometimes thought so, +and now I know!”</p> + +<p>The Doctor’s face turned a dull red, his eyelids drooped, and he wiped +his forehead with his handkerchief.</p> + +<p>“Ah, mine friend,” said the Master, exultantly, “is it not most +wonderful to see how we have played at the cross-purposes? All these +years you have waited because you would not take mine sister away from +me, you, mine kind, unselfish friend! So much <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>fun have you made of mine +housekeeping before she came that you would not do me this wrong!</p> + +<p>“And I—I could not send mine sister the money to take the long journey, +and for many years keep her from her Germany and her friends, then after +one night say to her: ‘Fredrika, I have found mine old sweetheart and I +no longer want you.’</p> + +<p>“Mine Fredrika has never known of mine sorrow, and I cannot to-day give +her the news. It is not for me to make mine sister’s heart to ache as +mine has ached all these years, nor could I give her the money to go +back to her Germany because I no longer want her, when she has given it +all up for me. It would be most unkind.</p> + +<p>“But now, see what the dear God has done for us! When it is all worked +out, and we come to the end, we see that you, also, share. I know, mine +friend, I know what it has been for you, because I, too, have been +through the deep waters, and now we come to the land together. It is +most fitting, because we are friends.</p> + +<p>“Moreover, you are to her as she is to you. She has not told me, but +mine old eyes are <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span>sharp and I see. I tell you this to put the courage +into your heart. If you make mine sister happy, it is all I shall ask. +Go, now, to mine Fredrika, and tell her I will not be back until late +this evening! Is it not most beautiful?”</p> + +<p>Limp, helpless, and sorely shaken, but without the faintest idea of +protesting, Doctor Brinkerhoff found himself started up the hill. The +Master stood at the foot, waving his hat in boyish fashion and shouting +messages of good-will. At last, when he dared to look back, the Doctor +saw that the way was clear, and he sat down upon a boulder by the +roadside to think.</p> + +<p>He would be ungenerous, indeed, he thought, if he could not make some +sacrifice for Franz and for Mrs. Irving. Unwillingly, he had come into +possession of Fräulein Fredrika’s closely guarded secret, and, as he +repeatedly told himself, he was a man of honour. Moreover, he was not +one of those restless spirits who forever question Life for its meaning. +Clearly, there was no other way than the one which was plainly laid +before him.</p> + +<p>But a few more years remained to him, he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span>reflected, for he was twenty +years older than the Master; still life was very strange. Disloyalty to +the dead was impossible, for she never knew, and would have scorned him +if she had known. The end of the tangled web was in his hands—for three +people he could make it straight again.</p> + +<p>The long shadows lay upon the hill and still he sat there, thinking. The +children played about him and asked meaningless questions, for the first +time finding their friend unresponsive.</p> + +<p>Finally one, a little bolder than the rest, came closer to him. “The +good Fräulein,” whispered the child, “she is much troubled for the +Master. Why is it that he comes not to his home?”</p> + +<p>With a sigh and a smile, the Doctor went slowly up the hill to the +Master’s house, where Fräulein Fredrika was waiting anxiously. “Mine +brudder!” she cried; “is he ill?”</p> + +<p>“No, no, Fräulein,” answered the Doctor, reassuringly, his heart made +tender by her distress. “Shall not Franz sit in my office to await the +infrequent patient while I take his place with his sister? You are glad +to see me, are you not, Fräulein?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span></p><p>The tint of faded roses came into the Fräulein’s face. “Mine brudder’s +friend,” she said simply, “is always most welcome.”</p> + +<p>She excused herself after a few minutes and began to bustle about in the +kitchen. Surely, thought the Doctor, it was pleasant to have a woman in +one’s house, to bring orderly comfort into one’s daily living. The +kettle sang cheerily and the Fräulein hummed a little song under her +breath. In the twilight, the gay colours faded into a subdued harmony.</p> + +<p>“It is all very pleasant,” said the Doctor to himself, resolutely +putting aside a memory of something quite different. Perhaps, as his +simple friends said, the dear God knew.</p> + +<p>After tea, the Fräulein drew her chair to the window and looked out, +seemingly unconscious of his presence. “A rare woman,” he told himself. +“One who has the gift of silence.”</p> + +<p>In the dusk, her face was almost beautiful—all the hard lines softened +and made tenderly wistful. The Doctor sighed and she turned uneasily.</p> + +<p>“Mine brudder,” she said, anxiously, “if something was wrong with him, +you would tell me, yes?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span></p><p>“Of course,” laughed the Doctor. “Why are you so distressed? Is it so +strange for me to be here?”</p> + +<p>“No,” she answered, in a low tone, “but you are mine brudder’s friend.”</p> + +<p>“And yours also, Fredrika. Did you never think of that?” She trembled, +but did not answer, and, leaning forward, the Doctor took her hand in +his.</p> + +<p>“Fredrika,” he said, very gently, “you will perhaps think it is strange +for me to talk in this way, but have you never thought of me as +something more than a friend?”</p> + +<p>The woman was silent and bitterly ashamed, wondering when and where she +had betrayed herself.</p> + +<p>“That is unfair,” he continued, instantly perceiving. “I have thought of +you in that way, more especially to-day.” Even in the dusk, he could see +the light in her eyes, and in his turn he, too, was shamed.</p> + +<p>“Dear Fräulein Fredrika,” he went on, “I have not much to offer, but all +I have is yours. I am old, and the woman I loved died, never knowing +that I loved her. If she had known, it would have made no difference. +Perhaps you think it an empty gift, but it is my all. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>You, too, may +have dreamed of something quite different, but in the end God knows +best. Fredrika, will you come?”</p> + +<p>The maidenly heart within her rioted madly in her breast, but she was +used to self-repression. “I thank you,” she said, with gentle dignity; +“it is one compliment which is very high, but I cannot leave mine Franz. +All the way from mine Germany I have come to mend, to cook, to wash, to +sew, to scrub, to sweep, to take after him the many things which he +forgets and leaves behind, even the most essential. What should he think +of me if I should say: ‘Franz, I will do this for you no more, but for +someone else?’ You will understand,” she concluded, in a pathetic little +voice which stirred him strangely, “because you are mine brudder’s +friend.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “I am his friend, and so, do you think I +would come without his permission? Dear Fräulein, Franz knows and is +glad. That is why I left him. Almost the last words he said to me were +these: ‘If you make mine sister happy, it is all I ask.’”</p> + +<p>“Franz!” she cried. “Mine dear, unselfish Franz! Always so good, so +gentle! Did he say that!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span></p><p>“Yes, he said that. Will you come, Fredrika? Shall we try to make each +other happy?”</p> + +<p>She was standing by the window now, with her hand upon her heart, and +her face alight with more than earthly joy.</p> + +<p>“Dear Fräulein,” said the Doctor, rejoicing because it was in his power +to give any human creature so much happiness, “will you come?”</p> + +<p>Without waiting for an answer, he put his hand upon her shoulder and +drew her toward him. Then the heavens opened for Fräulein Fredrika, and +star-fire rained down upon her unbelieving soul.</p> + +<hr class="large" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a>XXI</h2> + +<h2>The Cremona Speaks</h2> + +<p class="n"><span style="float:left;font-size:40px;line-height:25px;padding-top:2px;padding-bottom:1px;">T</span>he grey autumnal rain beat heavily upon her window, and Iris stood +watching it, with a heavy weight upon her heart.</p> + +<p>The prospect was inexpressibly dreary. As far as she could see, there +was nothing but a desert of roofs. “Roofs,” thought Iris, “always roofs! +Who would think there were so many in the world!”</p> + +<p>Six months ago she had been a happy child, but now all was changed. +Grown to womanhood through sorrow, she could never be the same again, +even though Aunt Peace, by some miracle of resurrection, should be given +back to her.</p> + +<p>In those long weeks of loneliness, Iris had learned a different point of +view. She had not written to Mrs. Irving but once, though the motherly +letter that came in reply to her note had seemed like a brief glimpse of +East <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span>Lancaster. Doctor Brinkerhoff’s letter also remained unanswered, +chiefly because she could not trust herself to write.</p> + +<p>Her grief for Aunt Peace was insensibly changed. The poignant sense of +loss which belonged to the first few weeks had become something quite +different. Gradually, she had learned acceptance, though not yet +resignation.</p> + +<p>With a wisdom far beyond her years, she had plunged into her work. The +hours not devoted to lessons or practice were spent at her books. She +had even planned out her days by a schedule in which every minute was +accounted for—so much for study, so much for practise, so much for the +daily walk.</p> + +<p>She had no friends. Aside from the hard-faced proprietor of the +boarding-house, she was upon speaking terms with no one except her +teacher and one of the attendants at the library. It has been written +that there is no loneliness like that of a great city, and in the +experience of nearly every one it is at some time proved true.</p> + +<p>She missed East Lancaster, with all its dear, familiar ways. The +elm-bordered path, the maple at the gate, and every nook and corner <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span>of +the garden constantly flitted before her like a mocking dream. She could +not avoid contrasting the tiny chamber, which was now her only home, +with the great rooms of the old house, where everything was always +exquisitely clean. She even longed for the kitchen, with its shining +saucepans and its tiled hearth.</p> + +<p>To go back, if only for one night, to her own room—to make the little +cakes for Doctor Brinkerhoff, and play her part in the pretty Wednesday +evening comedy, while Aunt Peace sat by, graciously hospitable, and Lynn +kept them all laughing—oh, if she only could!</p> + +<p>But it is the sadness of life that there is never any going back. The +Hour, with its opportunity, its own individual beauty, comes but once. +The hand takes out of the crystal pool as much water as the tiny, curved +cup of the palm will hold. The shining drops, each one perfect in itself +and changing colour with the shifting of the light, fall through the +fingers back into the pool, with a faint suggestion of music in the +sound. The circle widens outward, and presently the water is still +again. If one could go back, gather from the pool those same shining +drops, made into jewels <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span>by the light, which, at the moment, is also +changing, one might go back to the Hour.</p> + +<p>Steadfastly, Iris had hardened her heart against Lynn. He had dared to +love her! Her cheeks crimsoned with shame at the thought, but still, +when the days were dark, it had more than once been a certain comfort to +know that someone cared, aside from Aunt Peace, asleep in the +churchyard.</p> + +<p>Lynn and Aunt Peace—they were the only ones who cared. Mrs. Irving had +been friendly; Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master had been kind; Fräulein +Fredrika had always been glad when she went to see her: but these were +like bits of Summer blown for an instant against the Winter of the +world.</p> + +<p>Iris saw clearly, from her new standpoint, that she had learned to love +the writer of the letters. It was he upon whom her soul leaned. Then, in +the midst of her grief, to find that her unknown lover was merely +Lynn—a boy who chased her around the garden with grasshoppers and +worms—it was too much.</p> + +<p>Meditatively, Iris brushed the surface of her cheek, where Lynn had +kissed her. She could feel it now—an awkward, boyish <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>kiss. It was much +the same as if Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving had done it, and it was not at +all what one read about in the books.</p> + +<p>If it were not for Lynn, she could go back to East Lancaster. She might +go, anyway, if she were sure she would not meet him, but where could she +stay? Not with Mrs. Irving—that was certain, unless Lynn went away. But +even then, sometimes he would come back—she could not always avoid him.</p> + +<p>Her eyes filled when she thought of the Master, generously offering her +two of his six tiny rooms. The parlour, with its hideous ornaments, +seemed far preferable to the dingy room in the boarding-house, where the +old square piano stood, thick with dust, and where Iris did her daily +practising. But no, even there, she would meet Lynn. East Lancaster was +forbidden to her—she could never go there again.</p> + +<p>Women have a strange attachment for places, especially for those which, +even for a little time, have been “home.” To a man, home means merely a +house, more or less comfortable according to circumstances, where he +eats and sleeps—an easy-chair and a fire which await him at the close +of the day. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span>The location of it matters not to him. Uproot him suddenly, +transport him to a strange land, surround him with new household gods, +give him an occupation, and he will rather enjoy the change. Never for +an instant will he grieve. With assured comfort and congenial +employment, he will be equally happy in New York or on the coast of +South Africa. But the woman, ah, the daily tragedy of the woman in the +strange place, and the long months before she becomes even reconciled to +her new surroundings! After all, it is the home instinct and the mother +instinct which make the foundations of civilisation.</p> + +<p>So it was that Iris hungered for East Lancaster, quite apart from its +people. Every rod of the ground was familiar to her, from the woods, far +to the east, to the Master’s house on the summit of the hill, at the +very edge of West Lancaster, overlooking the valley, and toward the blue +hills beyond.</p> + +<p>The rain dripped drearily, and Iris sighed. She felt herself absolutely +alone in the world, with neither friend nor kindred. There was only one +belonging to her who was not dead—her father. No trace of him had been +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>found, and his death had been taken for granted, but none the less Iris +wondered if he might not still live, heart-broken and remorseful; if, +perhaps, her skirts had not brushed against him in some crowded +thoroughfare of the city. She hoped not, for even that seemed +contamination.</p> + +<p>It did not much matter that in her haste she had left the box containing +the photographs and the papers in the attic. Aunt Peace’s emerald, the +fan, and the lace, which she had also forgotten, were rightfully hers, +and yet they seemed to belong to the house—to Mrs. Irving and Lynn.</p> + +<p>Swiftly upon her thought came a rap at her door. “A letter for you, Miss +Temple.”</p> + +<p>Iris took it eagerly and closed the door again, consciously disappointed +when she saw that it was from Mrs. Irving. Doctor Brinkerhoff’s careless +remark, to the effect that Lynn would write soon, had fallen upon +fertile soil. First, Iris decided not to read the letter when it +came—to return it unopened. Then, that it was not necessary to be rude, +but she need not answer it. Next, a healthy human curiosity as to what +Lynn might have to say to her, after all that had passed between <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span>them. +Then she wondered whether Lynn’s next letter would be anything like the +three that she had put away in her trunk. Now, her hands were trembling, +and her cheeks were very pale.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>“My Dear Child,” the letter began. “Not having heard from you +for so long, I fear that you are ill, or in trouble. If +anything is wrong, do not hesitate to tell us, for we are your +friends, as always. Doctor Brinkerhoff, Herr Kaufmann, or I +would be glad to do anything to make you happier, or more +comfortable. I will come, if you say so, or either of the other +two.</p> + +<p>“We are all well and happy here, but we miss you. Won’t you +come back to us, if only for a little while? The old house is +desolate without you, and it is your home as much as it is +mine. You left the emerald and the other little keepsakes. +Shall I send them to you, or will you come for them? In any +event, please write me a line to tell me that all is well with +you, or, if not, how I can help you.</p> + +<p class="right"><span style="margin-right: 2em;">“Very affectionately yours,</span><br /> +“<span class="smcap">Margaret Irving</span>.”</p></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p><p>And never a word about Lynn! Only that “all” were well and happy, which, +of course, included Lynn, and went far to prove to Iris that she was +right—that he had no heart.</p> + +<p>It was different in the books. When a beloved woman went away, the +hero’s heart invariably broke, and here was Lynn, “well and happy.” Iris +put the letter aside with a gesture of disdain.</p> + +<p>Yet the motherly tone of it had touched her more deeply than she knew, +and accentuated her loneliness. Twice she tried to answer it, to tell +Mrs. Irving that she, too, was well and happy, and ask her to send the +emerald, the lace, and the fan. Twice she gave it up, for the page was +sadly blotted with her tears.</p> + +<p>Then she determined to write the next day, and ask also for the box of +papers in the attic. Yet would she want Mrs. Irving to see the documents +meant for her eyes alone, and that pathetic little mother in the tawdry +stage trappings? Surely not! She did not question Margaret’s sense of +honour, but there were many boxes in the trunk in the attic, and she +would have to open them one after another, until she was sure she had +found the right one.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p><p>Sorely puzzled, desperately homesick, and very lonely, Iris sobbed +herself to sleep. All night she dreamed of East Lancaster, where the sky +came down close to the ground, instead of ending at an ugly line of +roofs. The soft winds came through her window, sweet with clover and +apple bloom. Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master, Fräulein Fredrika, Aunt +Peace, Mrs. Irving, and Lynn—always Lynn—moved in and out of the +dream. When she woke, she felt her desolation more keenly than ever +before.</p> + +<p>At the door of Sleep a sentinel stands, an angel in grey garments. The +crimson poppies crown her head and droop to her waist. The floor is +strewn with them, and the silken petals, crushed by the feet of passing +strangers, give out a strange perfume. To enter that door, you must pass +Our Lady of Dreams.</p> + +<p>Sometimes she smiles as you enter, and sometimes there is only a +careless nod. Often her clear, serene eyes make no sign of recognition, +and at other times she frowns. But, whatever be the temper of the Lady +at the door, your dream waits for you inside.</p> + +<p>The parcels are all alike, so it is useless to stop and choose, but you +must take one. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span>Frequently, when you open it, there is nothing there but +peaceful slumber, cunningly arranged to look like a dream. Once in a +thousand times it happens that you get the dream that is meant for you, +because it all depends upon chance, and so many strangers nightly enter +that door that it is impossible to arrange the parcels any differently.</p> + +<p>When the night has passed, and you come back, it is always through the +same door, where the patient sentinel still stands. You are supposed to +give back your dream, so that someone else may have it the next night, +but if she is tired, or very busy, you may sometimes slip through and so +have a dream to remember.</p> + +<p>Iris had given back her dream, but a strong impression of East Lancaster +still remained, and it was as though she had been there in the night. +Suddenly she sat up in bed, with her heart wildly throbbing. Why not go +back?</p> + +<p>Why not, indeed? Why not take a flying trip, just to see the dear place +again? Why not talk for a few minutes with Mrs. Irving, then slip +upstairs for the emerald, the bit of lace, the feather fan, and the +lonely little mother in the attic?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p><p>She could plan her journey so that she would be making her call while +Lynn was at his lesson. When it was time for him to return, she could go +to Doctor Brinkerhoff’s and thank him for writing. While there, she +could see Lynn come downhill—of course, not to look at him, but just to +know that he was out of the way. Then she could go up the hill and stay +with Fräulein Fredrika and the Master until almost train time.</p> + +<p>It was practicable and in every way desirable. Perhaps, after she had +seen East Lancaster once more, she would not be so homesick. Iris hummed +a little song as she dressed herself, far happier than she had been for +many months.</p> + +<p>Thought and action were never far apart with her. The next day she was +safely aboard the train. She stopped overnight at the little hotel in a +nearby town, where once she had been with Aunt Peace, after a memorable +visit to the city. The morning train left at five, and just at ten she +reached her destination, her heart fluttering joyously.</p> + +<p>Lynn was certainly at his lesson—there could be no doubt of that. She +fairly flew up the street, fearful lest someone should see her, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span>and +paused at the corner for a look at the old house.</p> + +<p>Nothing was changed. It was just as it had been for two centuries and +more. Panic seized her, but she went on boldly, though her cheeks +burned. After all, she was not an intruder—it was her home, not only +through the gift, but by right of possession.</p> + +<p>She rang the bell timidly, but no one answered. Then she tried again, +but with no better result, so she turned the knob and the door opened.</p> + +<p>She stepped in, but no one was there. “Mrs. Irving!” she called, but +only the echo of her own voice came back to her. The portraits in the +hall stared at her, but it was a friendly scrutiny and not at all +distressing. They seemed to nod to one another and to whisper from their +gilded frames: “Iris has come back.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” she thought, “I can’t sit down and wait, for Lynn may come home +from his lesson at any minute. I’ll just go upstairs.”</p> + +<p>The door of Margaret’s room was ajar, and Iris peeped in, but it was +empty, like the rest of the house. She stole into Aunt Peace’s <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span>room, +found her keepsakes, and prepared to depart.</p> + +<p>She saw her reflection in the long mirror, and, for the moment, it +startled her. “I feel like a thief,” she said to herself, “even though I +am only taking my own.”</p> + +<p>She went up into the attic, found the box, and came down again. The old +house was so still! Surely it would do no harm if she took just one +sniff at the cedar chest before she went away. She loved the fragrance +of the wood, and it would delay her only a moment longer.</p> + +<p>Then, all at once, she paused like a frightened bird. Someone was there! +Someone was walking back and forth in Lynn’s room! Scarcely knowing what +she did, Iris crouched on the floor at the end of the chest, trusting to +the kindly shadows to screen her if the door should open.</p> + +<p>But no one came. Lynn had taken the Cremona from its case with something +very like a smile upon his face. The brown breasts had the colour of old +wine, and the shell was thin to the point of fragility.</p> + +<p>He had feared to touch it, but the Master had only laughed at him. +“What!” he had <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span>said, “shall I not sometimes lend mine Cremona to mine +son, who like mineself is one great artist? Of a surety!”</p> + +<p>Lynn placed the instrument in position, and dreamily, began to play. His +mother was out, and he played as he could not if he had not thought +himself alone. All his heartbreak, all his pain, the white nights and +the dark days went into the adagio, the one thing suited to his mood.</p> + +<p>At the first notes, Iris drew a quick, gasping breath. Surely it was not +Lynn! Yet who else should be in his room, playing as no one played but +the great?</p> + +<p>Primeval forces held her in their grasp, and all at once her shallowness +fell away from her, leaving her free. The blood surged into her heart +with shame—she had wronged Lynn. She had been so blind, so painfully +sure of herself, so pitifully important in her self-esteem!</p> + +<p>The music went on without hindrance or pause. Deep chords and piercing +flights of melody alternated through the theme, yet there was the +undertone of love and night and death. Iris clenched her hands until the +nails cut into her palms. All her life, she <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span>seemed to have been playing +with tinsel; now, when it was out of her reach, she had discovered the +gold.</p> + +<p>Why should it seem so strange for Lynn to play like this? Had he not +written the letters? Had he not offered her his whole heart—the gift +she had so insultingly thrown aside? Iris knelt beside the chest, in +bitter humiliation.</p> + +<p>One thing was certain—she must go away, and quickly. She could not wait +there, trembling and afraid, until someone found her; she must get away, +but how? She was sorely shaken, both in body and soul.</p> + +<p>She could not go away, and yet she must. She would go to the station, +and, from there, write to Mrs. Irving and to Lynn. The least she could +do was to ask him to forgive her. Having done that, she would go back to +the city, change her address, and be lost to them forever.</p> + +<p>Low, quivering tones came from the Cremona, like the sobs of a woman +whose heart was broken. Suddenly, Iris knew that she belonged to +Lynn—that through love or hate she was bound to him forever. Then, in a +blinding flood came the tears.</p> + +<p>Slowly the adagio swept to its end, and yet <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span>she could not move. The +music ceased, and yet the silence held her spellbound, vainly praying +for the strength to go away. She heard the click of the lock as the +violin case was closed, the quick step to the door, and the turning of +the knob.</p> + +<p>She shrank back into the corner, close to the chest, and hid her face in +her hands, then someone lifted her up.</p> + +<p>“Sweetheart,” cried Lynn, “have you come back to me?”</p> + +<p>At the touch, at the tender word, the barriers crumbled away, and Iris +lifted her lovely tear-stained face to his. “Yes,” she said, unsteadily, +“I have come back. Will you forgive me?”</p> + +<p>“Forgive you?” repeated Lynn, with a happy laugh; “why, dearest, there +is nothing to forgive!”</p> + +<p>In that radiant instant, he thought he spoke the truth, so quickly do we +forget sorrow when the sun shines into the soul.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” sobbed Iris, hiding her face against his shoulder, “I—I said you +had no heart!”</p> + +<p>“So I haven’t, darling,” answered Lynn, tenderly; “I gave it all to you, +the very first day I saw you. Will you keep it for me, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span>dear? Will you +give me a little corner of your own?”</p> + +<p>“All,” whispered Iris. “I think it has always been yours, but I didn’t +know until just now.”</p> + +<p>“How long have you been here, sweetheart?”</p> + +<p>“I—I don’t know. I heard you play, and then I knew.”</p> + +<p>“It was that blessed Cremona,” said Lynn, with his lips against her +hair. “You said I should never kiss you again, dear, do you remember? +Don’t you think it’s time you changed your mind?”</p> + +<p>The golden minutes slipped by, and still they stood there, by the window +in the hall. Margaret came back, and went up to her room, but no one +heard her, even though she was singing. At the head of the stairs, she +stopped, startled. Then, by the light of her own happiness, she +understood, and crept softly away.</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +<hr class="large" /> +<h3><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Note:</span></h3> + +<p>Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, +every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and +intent.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Master's Violin, by Myrtle Reed + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MASTER'S VIOLIN *** + +***** This file should be named 33601-h.htm or 33601-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/6/0/33601/ + +Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/33601-h/images/i001bottom.jpg b/33601-h/images/i001bottom.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9608dc5 --- /dev/null +++ b/33601-h/images/i001bottom.jpg diff --git a/33601-h/images/i001strip.jpg b/33601-h/images/i001strip.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d91c4d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/33601-h/images/i001strip.jpg diff --git a/33601-h/images/i001top.jpg b/33601-h/images/i001top.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..922e184 --- /dev/null +++ b/33601-h/images/i001top.jpg diff --git a/33601-h/images/icover.jpg b/33601-h/images/icover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f77410 --- /dev/null +++ b/33601-h/images/icover.jpg diff --git a/33601-h/images/ititle.jpg b/33601-h/images/ititle.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1948729 --- /dev/null +++ b/33601-h/images/ititle.jpg |
