"He Loves Her Still"
When Doctor Brinkerhoff came on Wednesday evening, he was surprised to
discover that Iris had gone away. "It was sudden, was it not?" he asked.
"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."
Lynn sat with his face turned away from his mother. "Did you, perhaps,
suspect that she was going?" the Doctor directly inquired of Lynn.
He hesitated for the barest perceptible interval before he spoke. "She
told us at the breakfast table," he answered. "Iris is replete with
surprises."
"But before that," continued the Doctor, "did you have no suspicion?"
Lynn laughed shortly. "How should I suspect?" he parried. "I know
nothing of the ways of women."
"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."
"Good-byes are painful," said Margaret.
"We Germans do not say 'good-bye,' but only 'auf wiedersehen.' Perhaps
we shall see her again, perhaps not. No one knows."
"Fraeulein Fredrika does not say 'auf wiedersehen,'" put in Lynn, anxious
to turn the trend of the conversation.
"No," responded the Doctor, with a smile. "She says: 'You will come once
again, yes? It would be most kind.'"
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 Fraeulein. She
is a most estimable woman. Do you perhaps know her?" he asked of
Margaret.
"I have not that pleasure," she replied.
"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."
A shadow crossed Margaret's face.
"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?"
"A good idea, mother," remarked Lynn. "To-morrow I shall take my first
lesson in keeping house."
"You?" she said fondly; "you? Why, Lynn! Lacking the others, you'll
always have me to do it for you."
"That," replied the Doctor, triumphantly, "disproves your own theory. If
you are in earnest, begin on the morrow to instruct Mr. Irving."
Margaret flushed, perceiving her own inconsistency.
"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."
"It is fortunate if they do," she answered. "My own scheme of things has
been very much disarranged."
"Yet, as Fraeulein 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.
"In my own life, I lost but one--still, it was the keystone of the
whole. When I came from 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. Then----" The Doctor ceased abruptly, and sighed.
"This country is supposed to be very democratic," said Lynn, chiefly
because he could think of nothing else to say.
"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."
"We are getting very serious," said Margaret.
"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."
"Yes," said Lynn, "he is. It is only lately that I have learned to
appreciate him."
"One must grow to understand him," 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."
"People," began Margaret, avoiding the topic, "always seek their own
level, just as water does. That is why there is class."
"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."
Lynn left the room abruptly, unable to bear the talk of Iris.
"I wish," said the Doctor, at length, "I wish you knew Herr Kaufmann.
Would you like it if I should bring him to call?"
"No!" cried Margaret. "It is too soon," she added, desperately. "Too
soon after----"
The Doctor nodded. "I understand," he said. "It was a mistake on my
part, for which you must pardon me. I only thought you might be a help
to each other. Franz, too, has sorrowed."
"Has he?" asked Margaret, her lips barely moving.
"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."
"Her mother," repeated Margaret, almost in a whisper.
"Yes, the young lady herself cared."
"And he," she breathed, leaning eagerly forward, her body tense,--"does
he love her still?"
"He loves her still," returned the Doctor, promptly, "and even more than
then."
"Ah--h!"
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!"
"No," replied Margaret, with a great effort at self-control. "You have
not told me her name."
"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!"
"Please do not be troubled--you have done no harm. Herr Kaufmann and I
are practically strangers."
"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."
"Not at all the same thing."
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."
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
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.
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.
"Thank you," said Mrs. Irving. "I shall surely tell her, and she will be
glad."
The door closed, and almost immediately Lynn came in from the library,
rubbing his eyes. "I think I've been asleep," he said.
"It was rude, dear," returned Margaret, in gentle rebuke. "It is
ill-bred to leave a guest."
"I suppose it is, but I did not intend to be gone so long."
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 air, as though music had just ceased--the wraith of long-gone
laughter, the fall of long-shed tears.
"I miss Iris," said Margaret, dreamily. "She was like a daughter to me."
Taken off his guard, Lynn's conscious face instantly betrayed him.
"Lynn," said Margaret, suddenly, "did you have anything to do with her
going away?"