“‘My Dear Doctor Brinkerhoff,’” he began, clearing his throat, “‘I feel that I am not going to get well, and so I have been thinking, as I lie here, and setting my house in order. I have told Iris, but for fear she may forget, I tell you. All the papers which concern her are in a tin box in a trunk in the attic. She will know where to find it.“‘To her, as to an only daughter, go my little keepsakes—the emerald pin, my few pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver buckles. She will understand the spirit of this bequest and will feel free to take what she likes.“‘The house is for Margaret, and, after her, for Lynn, but it is to be a home for Iris, just as it has been, while she lives. Her income is to be paid regularly on the first of every month, during her lifetime, as is written inmy will, which the lawyer has and which he will read at the proper time.“‘Tell my little girl that, though I am dead, I love her still; that she has given me more than I could ever have given her, and that she must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell her I want her to be happy.“‘To you, I send my parting salutations. I have appreciated your friendship and your professional skill.“‘With assurances of my deep personal esteem,“‘Your Friend,“‘Peace Field.’”
“‘My Dear Doctor Brinkerhoff,’” he began, clearing his throat, “‘I feel that I am not going to get well, and so I have been thinking, as I lie here, and setting my house in order. I have told Iris, but for fear she may forget, I tell you. All the papers which concern her are in a tin box in a trunk in the attic. She will know where to find it.
“‘To her, as to an only daughter, go my little keepsakes—the emerald pin, my few pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver buckles. She will understand the spirit of this bequest and will feel free to take what she likes.
“‘The house is for Margaret, and, after her, for Lynn, but it is to be a home for Iris, just as it has been, while she lives. Her income is to be paid regularly on the first of every month, during her lifetime, as is written inmy will, which the lawyer has and which he will read at the proper time.
“‘Tell my little girl that, though I am dead, I love her still; that she has given me more than I could ever have given her, and that she must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell her I want her to be happy.
“‘To you, I send my parting salutations. I have appreciated your friendship and your professional skill.
“‘With assurances of my deep personal esteem,
“‘Your Friend,“‘Peace Field.’”
Iris broke down and left the room, weeping bitterly. Margaret followed her, but the girl pushed her aside. “No,” she whispered, “go back. It is better for me to be alone.”
“I am sorry,” said the Doctor, breaking the painful hush; “perhaps I should have waited. I very much regret having given Miss Iris unnecessary pain.”
“It is as well now as at any other time,” Margaret assured him, “but my heart bleeds for her.”
The clock on the landing struck ten, andMargaret excused herself for a moment. She returned with the Royal Worcester plate, piled with cakes, and a decanter of the port.
“I made them,” she said, in a low tone; “she asked me to give you the recipe.”
“She was always thoughtful of others,” returned the Doctor, choking.
He filled his glass, and from force of habit, offered it to an invisible friend. “To your—” then he stopped.
“To her memory,” sobbed Margaret, touching his glass with hers.
They drank the toast in silence, then the Doctor staggered to his feet.
“I can bear no more,” he said, unsteadily; “it is a communion service with the dead.”
“Lynn,” said Margaret, after the guest had gone, “I am troubled about Iris. She is grieving herself to death, and it is not natural for the young to suffer acutely for so long. Can you suggest anything?”
“No,” answered Lynn, anxious in his turn, “except to get outdoors. I don’t believe she’s been out since Aunt Peace was buried.”
“You must take her, then.”
“Do you think she would go with me?”
“I don’t know, dear, but try it—try it to-morrow. Take her for a long walk and get her so tired that she will sleep. Nothing rests the mind like fatigue of the body.”
“Mother,” began Lynn, after a little, “are we always going to stay in East Lancaster?”
“I haven’t thought about it at all, Lynn. Are you becoming discontented?”
“No—I was only looking ahead.”
“This is our home—Aunt Peace has given it to us.”
“It was ours anyway, wasn’t it?”
“In a way, it was, but your grandfather left it to Aunt Peace. If he had not died suddenly he would have changed his will. Mother said he intended to, but he kept putting it off.”
“Do you want me to keep on studying the violin?”
Margaret looked up in surprise, but Lynn was pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind him and his head down.
“Why not, dear?” she asked, very gently.
“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 satisfiesme 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 couldnot 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’sdisbelief 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 outwith 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.” Thenthe 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?”
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, whenthe 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 friendlycamaraderie, 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 Fräulein 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. Fräulein 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 helpfeeling——”
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 roomsdownstairs. 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 isbetter 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!”
She kept her word. To Mrs. Irving she merely said that she had already trespassed too long upon their hospitality, and that she thought it best to go away. She had talked with Herr Kaufmann, and he had advised her to go to the city and have her voice trained. Yes, she would write, and would always think of them kindly.
Lynn, who had passed the first sleepless night of his life, went to the train with her, but few words were spoken. Iris was cool, dignified, and cruelly formal. An immeasurable distance lay between them, and one, at least, made no effort to lessen it.
They had only a few minutes to wait, and, just as the train came in sight, Lynn bent over her. “Iris,” he said, unsteadily, “if you ever want me, will you promise me that you will let me know?”
“Yes,” she replied, with an incredulous laugh, “if I ever want you, I will let you know.”
“I will go to you,” said Lynn, struggling for his self-control, “from the very end of the world. Just send me the one word: ‘Come.’ And let me thank you now for all the happiness you have given me, and for the memory of you, which I shall have in my heart for always.”
“You are quite welcome,” she returned, frigidly. “You—” but the roar of the train mercifully drowned her words.
The sun still shone, the birds did not cease their singing. Outwardly, the world was just as fair, even though Iris had gone. Lynn walked away blindly, no longer dull, but keenly alive to his hurt.
From the crucible of Eternity, Time, the magician, draws the days. Some are wholly made of beauty; of wide sunlit reaches and cool silences. Some of dreams and twilight, with roses breathing fragrance through the dusk. Some of darkness, wild and terrible, lighted only by a single star. Others still of riving lightnings and vast, reverberating thunders, while the heart, swelled to bursting, breaks on the reef of Pain.
It seemed as though Lynn’s heart were rising in an effort to escape. “I must keep it down,” he thought. It was like an imprisoned bird, cut, bruised, and bleeding, beating against the walls of flesh. And yet, there was a hand upon it, and the iron fingers clutched unmercifully.
Iris had gone, and the dream was at an end. Iris had gone, flouting him to the last, calling his love an insult. “Machine—clod—mountebank”— the bitter words rang through his consciousness again and again.
It might be true, part of it at least. Herr Kaufmann had told him, more than once, that he played like a machine. Clod? Possibly. Mountebank? That might be, too. Trickster with the violin, trickster with words? Perhaps. But a thing without a heart? Lynn laughed bitterly and put his hand against his breast to quiet the throbbing.
No one knew—no one must ever know. Iris would not betray him, he was sure of that, but he must be on his guard lest he should betray himself. He must hide it, must keep on living, and appear to be the same. His mother’s keen eyes must see nothing amiss. Fortunately, he could be alone a greatdeal—outdoors, or practising, and at night. He shuddered at the white night through which he had somehow lived, and wondered how many more would follow in its train.
Suddenly, he remembered that it was his lesson day, and he was not prepared. Common courtesy demanded that he should go up to Herr Kaufmann’s, and tell him that he did not feel like taking his lesson—that he had a headache, or something of the kind—that he had hurt his wrist, perhaps.
He hoped that Fräulein Fredrika would come to the door, and that he might leave his message with her, but it was Herr Kaufmann who answered his ring.
“So,” said the Master, “you are once more late.”
“No,” answered Lynn, refusing to meet his eyes, “I just came to tell you that I couldn’t take my lesson to-day. I don’t think,” he stammered, “that I can ever take any more lessons.”
“And why?” demanded the Master. “Come in!”
Before he realised it, he was in the parlour, gay with its accustomed bright colours. One look at Lynn’s face had assured Herr Kaufmannthat something was wrong, and, for the first time, he was drawn to his pupil.
“So,” said the Master. “Mine son, is it not well with you?”
Lynn turned away to hide the working of his face. “Not very,” he answered in a low tone.
“Miss Iris,” said the Master, “she will have gone away?”
It was like the tearing of a wound. “Yes,” replied Lynn, almost in a whisper, “she went this morning.”
“And you are sad because she has gone away? I am sorry mineself. Miss Iris is one little lady.”
“Yes,” returned Lynn, clenching his hands, “she is.”
Something in the boy’s eyes stirred an old memory, and made the Master’s heart very tender toward him. “Mine son,” he said very gently, “if something has troubled you, perhaps it will give you one relief to tell me. Only yesterday Miss Iris was here. She was very sad when she came, and when she went away the world was more sunny, or so I think.”
Quickly surmising that Herr Kaufmann hadsomething more than a hint of it, and more eager for sympathy than he realised, Lynn stammered out the story, choking at the end of it.
There was a long silence, in which the Master went back twenty-five years. Lynn’s eyes, so full of trouble, were they not like another’s, long ago? The organ-tone of the thunder once more reverberated through the forest, where the great boughs arched like the nave of a cathedral, and the dead leaves scurried in fright before the rising wind.
“That is all,” said the boy, his face white to the lips. “It is not much, but it is a great deal to me.”
“So,” said the Master, scornfully, “you are to be an artist and you are afraid of life! You are summoned to the ranks of the great and you shrink from the signal—cover your ears, that you shall not hear the trumpet call! This, when you should be on your knees, thanking the good God that at last He has taught you pain!”
Lynn’s face was pitiful, and yet he listened eagerly.
“There is no half-way point,” the Master was saying; “if you take it, you must pay.Nothing in this world is free but the sun and the fresh air. You must buy shelter, food, clothing, with the work of your hands and brain. If someone else gives it to you, it is not yours—you are one parasite. You must earn it all.
“You think you can take all, and give nothing? It is not so. For six, eight years now, you study the violin. You learn the scales, the technique, the good wrist, and nothing else. I teach you all I can, but it must come from yourself, not me. I can only guide—tell you when you have made one mistake.
“What is it that the art is for? Is it for one great assembly of people to pay the high price for admission? ‘See,’ they say, ‘this young man, what good tone he has, what bowing, what fine wrist! How smooth he plays his concerto! When it is marked fortissimo, see how he plays fortissimo! It is most skilful!’ Is the art for that? No!
“It is for everyone in the world who has known trouble to be lifted up and made strong. They care nothing for the means, only for the end. They have no eyes for the fine bowing, the good wrist—what shallthey know of technique? And yet you must have the technique, else you cannot give the message.
“Everyone that hears has had his own sorrow. None of them are new ones, they are all old, and so few that one person can suffer all. It is for you to take that, to know the hurt heart and the rebellious soul, so that you can comfort, lift up, and make noble with your art.
“And you—you cry out when you should be glad. Miss Iris does not love you, and beyond that you do not see. Suppose one thousand people were before you, and all had loved someone who did not care for them. Could you make it easier if you knew nothing of it by yourself?
“Listen. On a hill in Italy there was once a tree. It was a seed at the beginning, a seed you could hold with the ends of your fingers, so. It was buried in the ground, covered up with earth like something that had died. Do you think the seed liked that?
“But is it afraid, when its heart is swelling? No! It breaks through, with the great hurt. Still there is earth around it, still it is buried, but yet it aspires. One day it comes to thesurface of the ground, and once more it breaks through, with pain.
“But the sun is bright and warm, and the seed grows. Careless feet trample upon it—there is yet one more hurt. But it straightens, waits through the long nights for the blessed sun, and so on, until it is so high as one bush.
“Constantly, there is growing, one aspiration upward. Bark comes and the tree swells outward, always with pain. Someone cuts off all the lower branches, and the tree bleeds, yet keeps on. Other branches come thick about it; there is one struggle, but through the dense growth the tree climbs, always upward. In the sun above the thick shade, it can laugh at the ache and the thorns, but it does not forget.
“And so, upward, always upward, till it is lifted high above its fellows. Birds come there to sing, to build their nests, to rear their young, to mourn when one little bird falls out from the nest and is made dead.
“The sun shines fiercely, and it nearly dies in the heat. The storm comes and it is shrouded in ice—made almost to die with the cold. The wild winds rock it and tear off the branches, making it bleed—theremust always be pain. The thunders play over its head, the lightnings burn it, and yet its heart lives on. The rains beat upon it like one river, and still it grows.
“The years go by and each one brings new hurt, but the tree is made hard and strong. One day there comes a man to look at it, all the straight fine length, the smooth trunk. ‘It will do,’ he says, and with his axe he chops it down. Do you think it does not hurt the tree? After the long years of fighting, to be cut like that?
“Then it falls, crashing heavy through the branches to the ground. See, there must always be pain, even at the end. Then more cutting, more bleeding, more heat, more cold. Fine tools—steel knives that tear and split the fibres apart. Do you think it does not hurt? More sun, more cold, still more cutting, tearing, and throwing aside. Then, one day, it is finished, and there is mine Cremona—all the strength, all the beauty, all the pain, made into mine violin!
“But the end is not yet. God is working with me and mine as well as with mine instrument. As yet, I do not know that it is for me—it comes to me through pain.
“One old gentleman, one of the first to travel abroad from this country for pleasure, he goes to Italy, he finds it in the hands of one ignorant drunkard, and he buys it for little. He brings it home, but he cannot play, and no one else can play; he does not know its value, but it pleases him and he takes it. For long years, it stays in one attic, with the dust and the cobwebs, kicked aside by careless feet.
“Meanwhile, I know one lovely young lady. I meet her by chance, and we like each other, oh, so much! ‘Franz,’ she says to me, ‘you live on one hill in West Lancaster, and mine mother, she would never let me speak with you, so I must see you sometimes, quite by accident, elsewhere. On pleasant days, I often go to walk in the woods. Mine mother likes me to be outdoors.’ So, many times, we meet and we talk of strange things. Each day we love each other more, and all the time her mother does not suspect. We plan to go away together and never let anyone know until we are married and it is too late, but first I must find work.
“‘Franz,’ she says to me one day, ‘up inmine attic there is one old violin, which I think must be valuable. Mine mother is away with a friend and the house is by itself. Will you not come up to see?’
“So we go, and the house is very quiet. No one is there. We go like two thieves to the attic, laughing as though we were children once more. Presently we find the violin, and I see that it is one Cremona, very old, very fine, but with no strings. I fit on some strings that I have in mine pocket, but there is no bow and I can only play pizzicato. I need to hear the tone but one moment to know what it is that I have. ‘It is most wonderful,’ I say, and then the door opens and one very angry lady stands there.
“She tells me that I shall never come into that house again, that I must go right away, that I have no—what do you say?—no social place, and that I am not to speak with her daughter. To her she says: ‘I will attend to you very soon.’ We creep down the stairs together and mine Beloved whispers: ‘Every day at four, at the old place, until I come.’ I understand and I go away, but mine heart is very troubled for her.
“For long days I wait, and every day, atfour, I am at the meeting-place in the wood, but no one comes, and there is no message, no word. All the time I feel as you feel now because Miss Iris has gone away and does not care. I wait and wait, but I can get no news, and I fear to go to the house because I shall perhaps harm mine Beloved, and she has told me what to do. Every day I am there, even in the rain, waiting.
“At last she comes, with the violin under her arm, wrapped in her coat. ‘I have only one minute,’ she cries; ‘they are going to take me away, and we can never see each other again. So I give you this. You must keep it, and when you are sad it will tell you how much I love you, how much I shall always love you. You will not forget me,’ she says. There is just one instant more together, with the thunders and the lightnings all around us, then I am alone, except for mine violin.
“Do you not see? There must always be pain. The dear God has made mine instrument, and in the same way He has made me, with the cutting and the bruises and the long night. I, too, have known the storm and all the fury of the winds and rain. Like thetree, I have aspired, I have grown upward, I have done the best I could. Otherwise, I should not be fitted to play on mine Cremona—I would not deserve to touch it, and so, in a way, I am glad.
“I have had mine fame,” he went on. “With the sorrow in mine heart, I have studied and worked until I have made mineself one great artist. If you do not believe, I can show you the papers, where much has been written of me and mine violin. Women have cried when I have played, and have thrown their red roses to me. I had the technique, and when the hurt broke open mine heart, I was immediately one artist. I understood, I could play, I could lift up all who suffered, because I had known suffering mineself.
“Mine son, do you not understand? You can give only what you have. If one sorrow is in your heart, if you have learned the beauty and the nobility of it, you can teach others the same thing. You can show them how to rise above it, like the tree that had one long lifetime of hurt, and ended in mine Cremona to help all who hear. The one who plays the instrument must be made in the same way, of the same influences—the cutting, thenight, and the cold. Of softness nothing good ever comes, for one must always fight.
“Nothing in this whole world is free but the sun and the fresh air and the water to drink. We must pay the fair price for all else. I have had mine fame and I have paid mine price, but the heights are lonely, and sometimes I think it would be better to walk in the valley with a woman’s hand in mine. But at the first, before I knew, I chose. I said: ‘I will be an artist,’ and so I am, but I have paid, oh, mine son, I have paid and I am still paying! There is no end!”
The Master’s face was grey and haggard, but his eyes burned. Lynn saw what it had cost him to open this secret chamber—to lay bare this old wound. “And I,” he said huskily, “I touched the Cremona!”
“Yes,” said the Master, sadly, “on that first day, you lifted up mine Cremona, and until to-day I have never forgiven. There has been resentment in mine old heart for you, though I have tried to put it aside. Her hands were last upon it—hers and mine. When I touched it, it was the place where her white fingers rested, where many a timeI put mine kiss to ease mine heart. And you, you took that away from me!”
“If I had only known,” murmured Lynn.
“But you did not know,” said the Master, kindly; “and to-day I have forgiven.”
“Thank you,” returned Lynn, with a lump in his throat; “it is much to give.”
“Sometimes,” sighed the Master, “when I have been discouraged, I have been very hungry for someone to understand me—someone to laugh, to touch mine tired eyes, to make me forget with her little sweet ways. In mine fancy, I have seen it all, and more.
“When I have gone down the hill to the post-office, where there has never been the letter from her, and the little children have run to me, holding out their arms that I should take them up, I have felt that the price was too high that I have paid. But all the time I have understood that on the heights one must go alone, for a time at least, with the thunders and the lightnings and the storms. If I had been given one son, I think he would have been like you, one fine tall young fellow with the honest face and the laughing ways, but you have been shielded, and I should not have doneso. I should have let you grow from the start and learn all things so soon as you could.”
“I never knew my father,” Lynn said, deeply moved, “but if I could choose, I would choose you.”
“So,” said the Master, his eyes filling. Then their hands met in a long clasp of understanding.
“Already I am the richer for it,” Lynn went on, after a little. “I know now what I did not know before.”
The boy’s face was still white, but the look of hopeless despair was merged into something which foreshadowed ultimate acceptance. The Master still held his hand.
“If you are to be an artist,” he said, once more, “you must not be afraid of life. You must welcome it to its utmost cross. You must take the cold, the heat, the poverty, the hunger, the burning way through the desert, the snow-clad steeps, the keen hurt, and the happiness—it is all one, for it gives you knowledge. You must know all the pain of the world, face to face, if you are to help those who bear it. Keen feelings give you the great hurt, but also, in payment, the great joy. The balance swings true. TheHerr Doctor has told me this. He is most wise; he understands.”
“I see,” answered Lynn. “I will never be afraid again.”
“That,” said the Master, with his face alight,—“that is mine son’s true courage. Take it with your head up, your teeth shut, and your heart always believing. Fear nothing, and much will be given back to you,—is it not so? Let life do all it can—you will never be crushed unless you are willing that it should be so. Defeat comes only to those who invite it.”
“I see,” said Lynn, again; “with all my heart I thank you.”
He went away soon afterward, insensibly comforted. Overnight, he had come into his heritage of pain, had lost the girl he loved, and in swift restitution found comradeship with the Master.
That stately figure lingered long before his vision, grey and rugged, yet with a certain graciousness—simple, kindly, and yet austere; one who had accepted his sorrow, and, by some alchemy of the spirit, transmuted it into universal compassion, to speak, through the Cremona, to all who could understand.
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.”
“Fräulein 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 Fräulein. 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 Fräulein 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 fromGermany, 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 thoughtyou 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 certainworth 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 theair, as though music had just ceased—the wraith of long-gone laughter, the fall of long-shed tears.