by Myrtle Reed
Produced by D Alexander and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE MASTER'S VIOLIN
BY MYRTLE REED
Author of
"Lavender and Old Lace" "Old Rose and Silver" "A Spinner in the Sun" "Flower of the Dusk" Etc.
New York _GROSSET & DUNLAP_ Publishers
COPYRIGHT, 1904 BY MYRTLE REED
BY MYRTLE REED:
A Weaver of Dreams Old Rose and Silver Lavender and Old Lace The Master's Violin Love Letters of a Musician The Spinster Book The Shadow of Victory Sonnets to a Lover Master of the Vineyard Flower of the Dusk At the Sign of the Jack-o'-Lantern A Spinner in the Sun Later Love Letters of a Musician Love Affairs of Literary Men Myrtle Reed Year Book
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I--THE MASTER PLAYS 1 II--"MINE CREMONA" 20 III--THE GIFT OF PEACE 33 IV--SOCIAL POSITION 50 V--THE LIGHT OF DREAMS 65 VI--A LETTER 81 VII--FRIENDS 91 VIII--A BIT OF HUMAN DRIFTWOOD 105 IX--ROSEMARY AND MIGNONETTE 120 X--IN THE GARDEN 127 XI--"SUNSET AND EVENING STAR" 144 XII--THE FALSE LINE 159 XIII--TO IRIS 177 XIV--HER NAME-FLOWER 182 XV--LITTLE LADY 199 XVI--AFRAID OF LIFE 215 XVII--"HE LOVES HER STILL" 233 XVIII--LYNN COMES INTO HIS OWN 247 XIX--THE SECRET CHAMBER 265 XX--"MINE BRUDDER'S FRIEND" 280 XXI--THE CREMONA SPEAKS 298
I
The Master Plays
The fire blazed newly from its embers and set strange shadows to dancingupon the polished floor. Now and then, there was a gleam from some darkmahogany surface and an answering flash from a bit of old silver in thecabinet. April, warm with May's promise, came in through the openwindow, laden with the wholesome fragrance of growing things, and yet,because an old lady loved it, there was a fire upon the hearth and noother light in the room.
She sat in her easy chair, sheltered from possible draughts, and watchedit, seemingly unmindful of her three companions. Tints of amethyst andsapphire appeared in the haze from the backlog and were lost a momentlater in the dominant flame. In that last hour of glorious life, thetree was giving back its memories--blue skies, grey days just tingedwith gold, lost rainbows, and flashes of sun.
Friendly ghosts of times far past were conjured back inshadows--outspread wings, low-lying clouds, and long nights that endedin dawn. Swift flights of birds and wandering craft of thistledown weremirrored for an instant upon the shining floor, and then forgotten,because of falling leaves.
Lines of transfiguring light changed the snowy softness of Miss Field'shair to silver, and gave to her hands the delicacy of carved ivory. Atiny foot peeped out from beneath her gown, clad in its embroidered silkstocking and high-heeled slipper, so brave in its trappings of silverbuckles that she might have been eighteen instead of seventy-five.
Upon her face the light lay longest; perhaps with an answering love. Theyears had been kind to her--had given her only enough bitterness to makeher realise the sweetness, and from the threads that Life had placed inher hands at the beginning, had taught her how to weave the blessedfabric of Content.
"Aunt Peace," asked the girl, softly, "have you forgotten that we havecompany?"
Dispelled by the voice, the gracious phantoms of Memory vanished. Therewas a little silence, then the old lady smiled. "No, dearie," she said,"indeed I haven't. It is too rare a blessing for me to forget."
"Please don't call us 'company,'" put in the other woman, quickly,"because we're not."
"'Company,'" observed the young man on the opposite side of the hearth,"is extremely good under the circumstances. Somebody nearly breaks downyour front door on a rainy afternoon, and when you rush out to save theplace from ruin, you discover two dripping tramps on your steps.Stranded on an island in the road is a waggon containing their trunks,from which place of refuge they recently swam to your door. 'How do youdo, Aunt Peace?' says mother; 'we've come to live with you from thistime on to the finish.' On behalf of this committee, ladies, I thankyou, from my heart, for calling us 'company.'"
Laughing, he rose and made an exaggerated courtesy. "Lynn! Lynn!"expostulated his mother. "Is it possible that after all my explanationsyou don't understand? Why, I wrote more than two weeks ago, asking herto let us know if she didn't want us. Silence always gives consent, andso we came."
"Yes, we came all right," continued the boy, cheerfully, "and, aseverybody knows, we're here now, but isn't it just like a woman? Upon myword, I think they're queer--the whole tribe."
"Having thus spoken," remarked the girl, "you might tell us how a manwould have managed it."
"Very easily. A man would have called in his stenographer--no, hewouldn't, either, because it was a personal letter. He would have madean excavation into his desk and found the proper stationery, and wouldhave put in a new pen. 'My dear Aunt Peace,' he would have said, 'youmustn't think I've forgotten you because I haven't written for such along time. If I had written every time I had wanted to, or had thoughtof you, actually, you'd have been bored to death with me. I have a kidwho thinks he is going to be a fiddler, and we have decided to come andlive with you while he finds out, as we understand that Herr FranzKaufmann, who is not unknown to fame, lives in your village. Will youplease let us know? If you can't take us, or don't want to, here's apostage stamp, and no hard feelings on either side.'"
"Just what I said," explained Mrs. Irving, "though my language wasn'tquite like yours."
The old lady smiled again. "My dears," she began, "let us cease thisunprofitable discussion. It is all because we are so far out of thebeaten track that we seldom go to the post-office. I am sure the letteris there now."
"I will get it to-morrow," replied Lynn, "which is kind of me,considering that my remarks have just been alluded to as'unprofitable.'"
"You can't expect everybody to think as much of what you say as you do,"suggested Iris, with a trace of sarcasm.
"Score one for you, Miss Temple. I shall now retire into my shell." Sosaying, he turned to the fire, and his face became thoughtful again.
The three women looked at him from widely differing points of view. Thegirl, concealed in the shadow, took maidenly account of his tall,well-knit figure, his dark eyes, his sensitive mouth, and his firm,finely modelled chin. From a half-defined impulse of coquetry, she wasglad of the mood which had led her to put on her most becoming gownearly in the afternoon. The situation was interesting--there was a vaguehint of a challenge of some kind.
Aunt Peace, so long accustomed to quiet ways, had at first felt the twoan intrusion into her well-ordered home, though at the same time herhospitable instincts reproached her bitterly. He was of her blood andher line, yet in some way he seemed like an alien suddenly claimingkinship. A span of fifty years and more stretched between them, andacross it, they contemplated each other, both wondering. For his part heregarded her as one might a cameo of fine workmanship or an oldminiature. She was so passionless, so virginal, so far removed from allsave the gentlest emotions, that he saw her only as one who stood apart.
The smile still lingered upon her lips and the firelight made shadowsbeneath her serene eyes. Had they asked her for her thoughts she couldhave phrased only one. Deep down in her
heart she wondered whetheranything on earth had ever been so joyously young as Lynn.
His mother, too, was watching him, as always when she thought herselfunobserved. In spite of his stalwart manhood, to her he was still achild. Forgiving all things, dreaming all things, hoping all things withthe boundless faith of maternity, she loved him, through the child thathe was, for the man that he might be--loved him, through the man that hewas, for the child that he had been.
The fire had died down, and Iris, leaning forward, laid a bit of pineupon the dull glow in the midst of the ashes. It caught quickly, andonce again the magical light filled the room.
"Sing something, dear," said Aunt Peace, drowsily, and Iris made alittle murmur of dissent.
"Do you sing, Miss Temple?" asked Irving, politely.
"No," she answered, "and what's more, I know I don't, but Aunt Peacelikes to hear me."
"We'd like to hear you, too," said Mrs. Irving, so gently that no onecould have refused.
Much embarrassed, she went to the piano, which stood in the next room,just beyond the arch, and struck a few chords. The instrument was oldand worn, but still sweet, and, fearful at first, but gaining confidenceas she went on, Iris sang an old-fashioned song.
Her voice was contralto; deep, vibrant, and full, but untrained. Still,there were evidences of study and of work along right lines. Before shehad finished, Irving was beside her, resting his elbow upon the piano.
"Who taught you?" he asked, when the last note died away.
"Herr Kaufmann," she replied, diffidently.
"I thought he was a violin teacher."
"He is."
"Then how can he teach singing?"
"He doesn't."
Irving went no farther, and Miss Temple, realising that she had beenrude, hastened to atone. "I mean by that," she explained, "that hedoesn't teach anyone but me. I had a few lessons a long time ago, from alady who spent the Summer here, and he has been helping me ever since.That is all. He says it doesn't matter whether people have voices ornot--if they have hearts, he can make them sing."
"You play, don't you?"
"Yes--a little. I play accompaniments for him sometimes."
"Then you'll play with me, won't you?"
"Perhaps."
"When--to-morrow?"
"I'll see," laughed Iris. "You should be a lawyer instead of aviolinist. You make me feel as if I were on the witness stand."
"My father was a lawyer; I suppose I inherit it." Iris had a questionupon her lips, but checked it.
"He is dead," the young man went on, as though in answer to it. "He diedwhen I was about five years old, and I remember him scarcely at all."
"I don't remember either father or mother," she said. "I had a veryunhappy childhood, and things that happened then make me shudder evennow. Just at the time it was hardest--when I couldn't possibly haveborne any more--Aunt Peace discovered me. She adopted me, and I've beenhappy ever since, except for all the misery I can't forget."
"She's not really your aunt, then?"
"No. Legally, I am her daughter, but she wouldn't want me to call her'mother,' even if I could."
The talk in the other room had become merely monosyllables, with bits ofunderstanding silence between. Iris went back, and Mrs. Irving thankedher prettily for the song.
"Thank you for listening," she returned.
"Come, Aunt Peace, you're nodding."
"So I was, dearie. Is it late?"
"It's almost ten."
In her stately fashion, Miss Field bade her guests good night. Iris lita candle and followed her up the broad, winding stairway. It made acharming picture--the old lady in her trailing gown, the light throwingher white hair into bold relief, and the girl behind her, smiling backover the banister, and waving her hand in farewell.
In Lynn's fond sight, his mother was very lovely as she sat there, withthe firelight shining upon her face. He liked the way her dark hair grewabout her low forehead, her fair, smooth skin, and the mysterious depthsof her eyes. Ever since he could remember, she had worn a black gown,with soft folds of white at the throat and wrists.
"It's time to go out for our walk now," he said.
"Not to-night, son. I'm tired."
"That doesn't make any difference; you must have exercise."
"I've had some, and besides, it's wet."
Lynn was already out of hearing, in search of her wraps. He put on herrubbers, paying no heed to her protests, and almost before she knew it,she was out in the April night, woman-like, finding a certain pleasurein his quiet mastery.
The storm was over and the hidden moon silvered the edges of the clouds.Here and there a timid planet looked out from behind its friendlycurtain, but only the pole star kept its beacon steadily burning. Theair was sweet with the freshness of the rain, and belated drops, fallingfrom the trees, made a faint patter upon the ground.
Down the long elm-bordered path they went, the boy eager to explore theunfamiliar place; the mother, harked back to her girlhood, thrilled withboth pleasure and pain.
Happy are they who leave the scenes of early youth to the ministry ofTime. Going back, one finds the river a little brook, the long stretchof woodland only a grove in the midst of a clearing, and the uplandpastures, that once seemed mountains, are naught but stony, barrenfields.
As they stood upon the bridge, looking down into the rushing waters,Margaret remembered the lost majesty of that narrow stream, and sighed.The child who had played so often upon its banks had grown to a woman,rich with Life's deepest experiences, but the brook was still the same.Through endless years it must be the same, drawing its waters fromunseen sources, while generation after generation withered away, likethe flowers that bloomed upon its grassy borders while the years wereyoung.
Lynn broke rudely into her thoughts. "I wish I'd known you when you werea kid, mother," he said.
"Why?"
"Oh, I think I'd have liked to play with you. We could have made somejolly mud pies."
"We did, but you were three, and I was twenty-five. Much ashamed, too, Iremember, when your father caught me doing it."
"Am I like him?"
He had asked the question many times and her answer was always the same."Yes, very much like him. He was a good man, Lynn."
"Do I look like him?"
"Yes, all but your eyes."
"When you lived here, did you know Herr Kaufmann?"
"By sight, yes." He was looking straight at her, but she had turned herface away, forgetting the darkness. "We used to see him passing in thestreet," she went on, in a different tone. "He was a student and neverseemed to know many people. He would not remember me."
"Then there's no use of my telling him who I am?"
"Not the least."
"Maybe he won't take me."
"Yes, he will," she answered, though her heart suddenly misgave her. "Hemust--there is no other way."
"Will you go with me?"
"No, indeed; you must go alone. I shall not appear at all."
"Why, mother?"
"Because." It was her woman's reason, which he had learned to accept asfinal. Beyond that there was no appeal.
East Lancaster lay on one side of the brook and West Lancaster on theother. The two settlements were quite distinct, though they had a commonbond of interest in the post-office, which was harmoniously situatednear the border line. East Lancaster was the home of the aristocracy.Here were old Colonial mansions in which, through their descendants, thebuilders still lived. The set traditions of a bygone century held fullsway in the place, but, though circumscribed by conditions, the uppercircle proudly considered itself complete.
West Lancaster was on a hill, and a steep one at that. Hardy Germanimmigrants had settled there, much to the disgust of East Lancaster,holding itself sternly aloof year after year. It was not considered"good form" to allude to the dwellers upon the hill, save in lowtones and with lifted brows, yet there were not wanting certain goodSamaritans who sent warm clothing and discarded playthings, aftern
ightfall and by stealth, to the little Teutons who lived so near them.
Hemmed in by the everlasting hills, estranged from its neighbour, andbarely upon speaking terms with other towns, East Lancaster let theworld go on by. Two trains a day rushed through the station, for themain line of the railroad, receiving no encouragement from EastLancaster, had laid its tracks elsewhere. It was still spoken of as "thetime when, if you will remember, my dear, they endeavoured to ruin ourproperty with dirt and noise."
"Her clothes are like her name," remarked Lynn.
"Whose clothes?" asked Mrs. Irving, taken out of her reverie.
"That girl's. She had on a green dress, and some yellow velvet in herhair. Her eyes are purple."
"Violet, you mean, dear. Did you notice that?"
"Of course--don't I notice everything? Come, mother; I'll race you tothe top of the hill."
Once again her objections were of no avail. Together they ran, laughing,up the winding road that led to the summit, stopping very soon, however,and going on at a more moderate pace.
The street was narrow, and the houses on either side were closetogether. Each had its tiny patch of ground in front, laid out inflower-beds bordered with whitewashed stones, in true German fashion.There were no street lamps, for West Lancaster also resented all moderninnovations, but in the Spring night one could see dimly.
Lanterns flitted here and there, like fireflies starred against thedark. Margaret protested that she was tired, but Lynn put his arm aroundher and hurried her on. Never before had she set foot upon the soil ofWest Lancaster, but she had full knowledge of the way.
The brow of the hill was close at hand, and she caught her breath insudden fear. Lynn, in the midst of a graphic recital of some boyishprank, took no note of her agitation. He did not even know that they hadcome to the end of their journey, until a man tiptoed toward them, hisfinger upon his lips.
"Hush!" he breathed. "The Master plays."
At the very top of the hill, almost at the brink of the precipice, was ahouse so small that it seemed more like a box than a dwelling. In thestreet were a dozen people, both men and women, standing in stolidpatience. The little house was dark, but a window was open, and fromwithin, muted almost to a whisper, came the voice of a violin.
For an hour or more they stood there, listening. By insensible degreesthe music grew in volume, filled with breadth and splendour, yet with alyric undertone. Sounding chords, caught from distant silences, one byone were woven in. Songs that had an epic grasp; question, prayer, andheartbreak; all the pain and beauty of the world were part of it, andyet there was something more.
To Lynn's trained ear, it was an improvisation by a master hand. He waslost in admiration of the superb technique, the delicate phrasing, andthe wonderful quality of the tone. To the woman beside him, shakenfrom head to foot by unutterable emotion, it was Life itself, bare,exquisitely alive, tuned to the breaking point--a human thing, made oftears and laughter, of ecstasy, tenderness, and black despair, lying onthe Master's breast and answering to his touch.
The shallows touch the pebbles, and behold, there is a little song. Thedeeps are stirred to their foundations, and, long afterward, there isa single vast strophe, majestic and immortal, which takes its place byright in the symphony of pain. To Margaret, standing there with hersenses swaying, all her possibilities of feeling were merged into oneunspeakable hurt.
"Take me away;" she whispered, "I can bear no more!"
But Lynn did not hear. He was simply and solely the musician, his bodytense, his head bent forward and a little to one side, nodding inemphasis or approval.
She slipped her arm through his and, trembling, waited as best she mightfor the end. It came at last and the little group near them took up itsseparate ways. Someone put down the window and closed the shutters. TheMaster knew quite well that some of his neighbours had been listening,but it pleased him to ignore the tribute. No one dared to speak to himabout his playing.
"Mother! Mother!" said Lynn, tenderly, "I've been selfish, and I've keptyou too long!"
"No," she answered, but her lips were cold and her voice was notthe same. They went downhill together, and she leaned heavily uponhis supporting arm. He was humming, under his breath, bits of theimprovisation, and did not speak again until they were at home.
The fire was out, but Iris had left two lighted candles on a table inthe hall. "A fine violin," he said; "by far the finest I have everheard."
"Yes," she returned, "a Cremona--that is, I think it must be, from itstone."
"Possibly. Good night, and pleasant dreams."
They parted at the head of the stairs, and down on the landing the tallclock chimed twelve. Margaret lay for a long time with her eyes closed,but none the less awake. Toward dawn, the ghostly fingers of her dreamstapped questioningly at the Master's door, but without disturbing hissleep.
