Part 9

"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 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."

Margaret's heart misgave her, but she spoke bravely. "Lynn, look at me."

He turned, and his eyes met hers, openly and unashamed.

"Tell me the truth--do you want to be an artist?"

"Mother, I'd rather be an artist than anything else in the world."

"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."

Lynn laughed mirthlessly. "If that is so," he said, moodily, "I shall not fail."

"No," she answered, "you shall not fail. I won't let you fail," she added, impulsively. "I know you and I believe in you."

"The worst of it," Lynn went on, "would be to disappoint you."

Margaret drew his tall head down and rubbed her cheek against his. "You could not disappoint me," she said, serenely, "for all I ask of you is your best. Give me that, and I am satisfied."

"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."

"Don't!" cried Margaret; "you'll never have to do that!"

"Well," sighed Lynn, "you can never tell what's coming, and in the meantime it's almost twelve o'clock."

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.

Margaret was troubled because of Lynn's 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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

"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."

* * * * *

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.

"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."

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."

"We always pay," said Iris, sadly; "but I can't help wondering what I am paying for now."

"Perhaps," suggested Margaret, "you are paying in advance."

Iris brightened, and upon her face came the ghost of a smile. "That may be," she answered.

"Iris," asked Lynn, "will you go out with me this afternoon? You haven't been for a long time."

"I don't think so," she replied, dully. "It is kind of you, but I'm not very strong just now."

"We'll walk slowly," Lynn assured her, "and it will do you good. Won't you come, just to please me?"

His voice was very tender, and Iris sighed. "I'll see," she said, resignedly; "I don't care what I do."

"At three, then," said Lynn. "I'll get through practising by that time and I'll be waiting for you."

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.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"I don't care; I don't want to climb, though. Let's keep on level ground."

"Very well, but where? Which way?"

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."

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.

"It is lovely," she said. "It seems good to be moving around again."

"I'll take you every day," returned Lynn, "if you'll only come. I want to see you happy again."

"I shall never be as happy as I was," she sighed. "No one is the same after a sorrow like mine."

"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."

"Which one was he?"

"Heraclitus, I think. Anyhow, he was a clever old duck."

Iris smiled. "I have sometimes thought ducks were philosophers," she said, "but it never occurred to me that philosophers were ducks."

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?"

"No--not yet. Isn't there a marsh up here somewhere?"

"I should think there would be."

"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?"

"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?"

"Yes," answered Iris, but her voice sounded far away and her eyes filled.

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.

"I'm not going to let you go any farther," said Lynn. "You'll be tired."

"No, I won't, and besides, I want to see the marsh."

"My dear girl, you couldn't see it--you could only stand on the edge of it."

"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."

"Suppose we climb that hill yonder," suggested Lynn. "It overlooks the marsh."

"That will do," returned Iris. "I'm willing to climb now, though I wasn't when we started."

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.

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.

"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!"

"Yes," answered Lynn, dreamily, "it is your name-flower, the fleur-de-lis." Then the colour flamed in his face and he bit his lips.

Quick as a flash, Iris turned upon him. "Did you write the letters?" she demanded.

Lynn's eyes met hers clearly. "Yes," he said, very tenderly. "Dear Heart, didn't you know?"

XV

Little Lady

Up 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.

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.

There comes a time to most of us, when 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.

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.

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 _camaraderie_, distantly related to those genial ways which stamp a higher grade of man as "a good fellow."

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.

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."

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 Fraeulein Fredrika had said long ago. "Wherever one may be, that is the best place. The dear God knows."

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.

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.

Below, Lynn played unceasingly. "Four hours a day," thought Iris. "One sixth of life--and for what?"

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.

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.

"Iris," he asked, at luncheon, "will you go for a walk with me this afternoon?"

"No," she returned, shortly.

"Why not? It isn't too wet, is it?"

"I'm going by myself. I prefer to be alone."

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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. Fraeulein Fredrika was out, but the Master was in the shop, so she went in at the lower door.

"So," he said, kindly, "one little lady comes to see the old man. It is long since you have come."

"I have been in trouble," faltered Iris.

"Yes," returned the Master, "I have heard. Mine heart has been very sorry for you."

"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.

"The Herr Irving," said the Master, with interest, "he has appreciated mine playing?"

"Of course--we all did."

"Mine pupil progresses," he remarked, enigmatically.

"Was it," began Iris, hesitating over the words,--"was it the Cremona?"

The Master looked at her sharply. "Yes, why not? One gives one's best to Death."

"Death demands it, and takes it," said the girl. "That is why."

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.

"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.

"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. Presently, the bare branches turn in their sleep and wake up with leaves. The birds come back, and all the earth is glad again.

"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.

"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."

"But Aunt Peace!" sobbed the girl. "Aunt Peace is dead, and mother, too! I am all alone!"

"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!"

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."

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.

"I think," she said, after a little, "that I must go away from East Lancaster."

"So? And why?"

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."

"The Herr Irving," said the Master, in astonishment. "Does he want you to go away?"

"No! No!" cried Iris. "Don't misunderstand! They have said nothing--they have been lovely to me--but I can't help feeling----"

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."

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.

"I know what you are thinking," he continued; "you are thinking that mine house is small. Three rooms upstairs and three rooms 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."

"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?"

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."

"To take us home," said Iris, thoughtfully. "Perhaps Aunt Peace was tired."

"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."

"Perhaps I have," she admitted.

"If you go away," he went on, "it is 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."

Iris turned upon him. "You mean that?" she asked, sharply.

"Of course," he returned, serenely. "Before you can help those who have suffered, you must suffer yourself. It is so written."

Iris sighed heavily. "I must go," she said, dully.

"Not yet. Wait."

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."

"Thank you," returned Iris, her voice strangely mingled with both laughter and tears, "I will remember."

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.

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.

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.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, "are you here?"