The grey autumnal rain beat heavily upon her window, and Iris stood
watching it, with a heavy weight upon her heart.
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!"
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.
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 Lancaster. Doctor Brinkerhoff's letter also remained unanswered,
chiefly because she could not trust herself to write.
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.
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.
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.
She missed East Lancaster, with all its dear, familiar ways. The
elm-bordered path, the maple at the gate, and every nook and corner 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.
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!
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 by the light, which, at the moment, is also
changing, one might go back to the Hour.
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.
Lynn and Aunt Peace--they were the only ones who cared. Mrs. Irving had
been friendly; Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master had been kind; Fraeulein
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.
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.
Meditatively, Iris brushed the surface of her cheek, where Lynn had
kissed her. She could feel it now--an awkward, boyish 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.
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.
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.
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. 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.
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.
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
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.
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.
Swiftly upon her thought came a rap at her door. "A letter for you, Miss
Temple."
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 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.
"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.
"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.
"Very affectionately yours,
"MARGARET IRVING."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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, Fraeulein 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.
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.
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.
The parcels are all alike, so it is useless to stop and choose, but you
must take one. 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.
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.
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?
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?
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 Fraeulein Fredrika and the Master until almost train time.
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.
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.
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, and
paused at the corner for a look at the old house.
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.
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.
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."
"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."
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 room,
found her keepsakes, and prepared to depart.
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."
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.
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.
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.
He had feared to touch it, but the Master had only laughed at him.
"What!" he had said, "shall I not sometimes lend mine Cremona to mine
son, who like mineself is one great artist? Of a surety!"
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.
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?
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!
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 seemed to have been playing
with tinsel; now, when it was out of her reach, she had discovered the
gold.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Slowly the adagio swept to its end, and yet 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.
She shrank back into the corner, close to the chest, and hid her face in
her hands, then someone lifted her up.
"Sweetheart," cried Lynn, "have you come back to me?"
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?"
"Forgive you?" repeated Lynn, with a happy laugh; "why, dearest, there
is nothing to forgive!"
In that radiant instant, he thought he spoke the truth, so quickly do we
forget sorrow when the sun shines into the soul.
"Oh!" sobbed Iris, hiding her face against his shoulder, "I--I said you
had no heart!"
"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, dear? Will you
give me a little corner of your own?"
"All," whispered Iris. "I think it has always been yours, but I didn't
know until just now."
"How long have you been here, sweetheart?"
"I--I don't know. I heard you play, and then I knew."
"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?"
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.