"Sunset and Evening Star"
Doctor 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.
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?"
"Why?" repeated Lynn. "Well, why not?"
"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 are one
obedient pupil," he continued, making no effort to conceal his scorn.
"What else should I be?" asked Lynn.
"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."
Lynn walked back and forth with his hands behind his back, vaguely
troubled.
"One moment," the Master went on, "have you ever felt sorry?"
"Sorry for what?"
"Anything."
"Of course--I am often sorry."
"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, change your instrument, and study
the banjo, or perhaps the concertina."
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."
"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."
"My mother," began Lynn. "She wants me to be an artist."
"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?"
"Yes, she does--she has always believed in me."
"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."
"Herr Kaufmann," pleaded the boy, "tell me. Shall I ever be an artist?"
"Yes, I think so."
"When?"
"When the river flows up hill and the sun rises in the west."
Suddenly, Lynn's face turned white. "I will!" he cried, passionately; "I
will! I will be an artist! I tell you, I will!"
"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!"
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?"
After long study, he concluded that the Master was eccentric, as genius
is popularly supposed to be, and determined to think no 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.
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.
"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.
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.
"Lynn," she said, "don't go away. I need you. Where have you been?"
"To my lesson, and then for a walk. Herr Kaufmann says I may practise
there sometimes. He also suggested Doctor Brinkerhoff's."
"That was kind, and I am sure the Doctor will be willing. How does he
think you are getting along?"
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.
"Why not, dear? You practise enough, don't you?"
"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."
Margaret smiled. "That is his way. Just go on, dear, and do the very
best you can."
"But I don't want to disappoint you, mother--I want to be an artist."
"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!"
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?"
"The fever is high," sighed Margaret, "and Doctor Brinkerhoff looks very
grave."
"I hope she isn't going to die," said Lynn, conventionally. "Can I do
anything?"
"No, nothing but wait. Sometimes I think that waiting is the very
hardest thing in the world."
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 Fraeulein Fredrika was secretly
distressed.
"Fredrika," said the Master, gently, "the suffering ones have need of
our friend. We must not be selfish."
"Our friend possesses great skill," replied the Fraeulein, with quiet
dignity. "Do you think he will forget us, Franz?"
"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."
"To wait," repeated Fredrika; "one finds it difficult, is it not so?"
"Yes," smiled the Master, "but when one has learned to wait patiently,
one has learned to live."
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.
"Iris," said Aunt Peace, one day, "come here."
"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?"
"Nothing, dearie. I could get well, I think, were it not for my terrible
dreams."
Iris shuddered, and yet was thankful because Aunt Peace could call her
delirium "dreams."
"Lately," continued Aunt Peace, "I have been afraid that I am not going
to get well."
"Don't!" cried Iris, sharply, turning her face away.
"Dearie, dearie," said the other, caressingly, "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?"
"The Doctor has gone to see someone who is very ill. Lynn has taken Mrs.
Irving out for a walk."
"I am glad," said Aunt Peace, tenderly. "Margaret has been very good to
me. You have all been good to me."
Iris stroked the flushed face softly with her cool hand. In her eyes
were love and longing, and a foreshadowed loneliness.
"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.
"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 you with her. When
Lynn marries, as some day he will, you will be left alone. You and
Margaret can make a home together."
The girl's face was hidden in her hands, and her shoulders shook with
sobs.
"Don't, dearie," pleaded Aunt Peace, gently; "be my brave girl. Look up
at me and smile. Don't, dearie--please don't!
"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."
"Social position is not much, Aunt Peace, beside the things that really
count, do you think it is?"
"I hardly know, dearie, but I have changed my mind about a great many
things since I 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."
"It is hard, Aunt Peace, but we hope you will soon be well."
"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."
Margaret came in, and Iris went away, sobbing bitterly. Aunt Peace
sighed heavily. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes burned like stars.
"I'm afraid you've tired yourself," said Margaret, softly. "Was I gone
too long?"
"No, indeed! Iris has been with me, and I am better to-day."
"Try to sleep," said Margaret, soothingly.
Obediently, Aunt Peace closed her eyes, but presently she sat up. "I'm
so warm," she said, fretfully. "Where is Doctor Brinkerhoff?"
"He has not come yet, but I think he will be here soon."
"Margaret?"
"Yes, Aunt Peace."
"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."
"Yes, I will."
"It's in my book. They are called 'Doctor Brinkerhoff's cakes.' You will
not forget?"
"No, I won't forget. Can't you sleep now?"
"I'll try."
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.
"I cannot bear it," moaned Iris, her mouth quivering. "I cannot bear to
have Aunt Peace die."
"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."
Iris leaned against her, insensibly comforted.
"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."
Long afterward, Iris remembered the look on Margaret's face as she said
it, but the tears blinded her just then.
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.
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.
"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."
"You have always seen clearly, dear lady," said the Doctor, very gently.
"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."
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.
"Sunset and evening star," she repeated, softly. "And one clear call for
me. Will you say the rest of it?"
Choking, Doctor Brinkerhoff went on with the poem until he reached the
last verse, when he could speak no more.
"For though from out our bourne of time and place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to meet my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar."
She finished it, then turned to him with her face illumined. "It is
beautiful," she said, "is it not, my friend?"
* * * * *
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.