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?"
"I'm here," said Iris, frostily, "but that isn't my name."
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."
"It was wrong to write them," she said.
"Why, dear?"
"Because."
"Didn't you like them?"
"No."
"I didn't think you were displeased." He was too chivalrous to remind
her of that moonlight night.
"It was very wrong," she repeated, stubbornly.
"Then forgive me."
"It's nothing to me," she returned, unmoved.
"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."
"Nice advantage to take of a girl, wasn't it?" demanded Iris, her temper
rising.
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."
"With all your heart," she repeated, scornfully. "You have no heart!"
"Iris," he said, unsteadily, "what do you mean?"
"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!"
"Iris! Darling!" cried Lynn, stung to the quick. "Don't!"
"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!"
White to the lips, trembling like a leaf, Iris shook herself free and
ran up to her room.
Lynn drew a long, shuddering breath. "God!" he whispered, clenching his
hands tightly. "God!"