The Master's Violin
Page 6
VI
A Letter
Roses rioted through East Lancaster and made the gardens glorious withbloom. The year was at its bridal and every chalice was filled withfragrant incense. Bees, powdered with pollen, hummed slowly back andforth, and the soft whir of unnumbered gossamer wings came in drowsymelody from the distant clover fields.
"June," sang Iris to herself, "June--Oh June, sweet June!"
She was getting ready for her daily trip to the post-office. Once in agreat while there would be a letter there for Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving.Lynn also had an intermittent correspondent or two, but the errandusually proved fruitless. Still, since Mrs. Irving's letter had lainnearly two weeks in Miss Field's box, uncalled for, it had been a pointof honour with Iris to see that such a thing did not happen again.
Books and papers were supplied in abundance by the local circulatinglibrary, and the high bookcases at Miss Field's were well filled withstandard literature. Iris read everything she could lay her hands upon.Mere print exercised a certain fascination over her mind, and she hadconscientiously finished every book that she had begun. Those earlyyears, after all, are the most important. The old books are the best,and how few of us "have the time" to read them!
Ten years of browsing in a well equipped library will do much foranyone, and Iris had made the most of her opportunities. This girl oftwenty, hemmed about by the narrow standards of East Lancaster, had abroad outlook upon life, a large view, that would have done credit to awoman of twice her age. From the beginning, the people of the books hadbeen real to her, and she had filled the old house with the fairyfigures of romance.
Of the things that make for happiness, the love of books comes first. Nomatter how the world may have used us, sure solace lies there. Theweary, toilsome day drags to its disheartening close, and both love andfriendship have proved powerless to appreciate or understand, but inthe quiet corner consolation can always be found. A single shelf,perhaps, suffices for one's few treasures, but who shall say it is notenough?
A book, unlike any other friend, will wait, not only upon the hour, butupon the mood. It asks nothing and gives much, when one comes in theright way. The volumes stand in serried ranks at attention, listeningeagerly, one may fancy, for the command.
Is your world a small one, made unendurable by a thousand petty cares?Are the heart and soul of you cast down by bitter disappointment? Wouldyou leave it all, if only for an hour, and come back with a new point ofview? Then open the covers of a book.
With this gentle comrade, you may journey to the very end of the worldand even to the beginning of civilisation. There is no land which youmay not visit, from Arctic snows to the loftiest peaks of southernmountains. Gallant gentlemen will go with you and tell you how toappreciate what you see. Further still, there are excursions into theboundless regions of imagination, where the light of dreams has laid itssurpassing beauty over all.
Would you wander in company with soldiers of Fortune, and share theirwonderful adventures? Would you live in the time of the Crusades andundertake a pilgrimage in the name of the Cross? Would you smell thesmoke of battle, hear the ring of steel, the rattle of musketry, and seethe colours break into deathly beauty well in advance of the charge?Would you have for your friends a great company of noble men and womenwho have wrought and suffered and triumphed in the end? Would you findnew courage, stronger faith, and serene hope? Then open the covers of abook, and presto--change!
* * * * *
"Iris," called Aunt Peace, "you're surely not going without your hat?"
"Of course not." The colour that came and went in her damask cheeks wasvery like that in her pink dimity gown. She put on her white hat, thebrim drooping beneath its burden of pink roses, and drew her glovesreluctantly over her dimpled hands.
"Iris, dear, your sunshade!"
"Yes, Aunt Peace." She came back, a little unwillingly, but tan was apersonal disgrace in East Lancaster.
Ready at last, she tripped down the path and closed the gate carefully.Mrs. Irving waved a friendly hand at her from the upper window. "Bringme a letter!" she called.
"I'll try to," answered Iris, "but I can't promise."
She lifted her gown a little, to keep it clear of burr and brier, andone saw the smooth, black silk stocking, chastely embroidered at theankle, as one suspected, by the hand of the wearer, and the dainty,high-heeled shoes. The sunshade waved back and forth coquettishly. Itseemed to be an airy ornament, rather than an article of utility.
Half-way down the street, she met Doctor Brinkerhoff. "Good morning,little lady," he said, with a smile.
"Good morning, sir," replied Iris, with a quaint courtesy. "I trust youare well?"
"My health is uniformly good," he returned, primly. "You must rememberthat I have my own drugs and potions always at hand." He made carefulinquiries as to the physical and mental well-being of each member of thefamily, sent kindly salutations to all, made a low bow to Iris, and wenton.
"A very pleasant gentleman," she said to herself. "What a pity that hehas no social position!"
She loitered at the bridge, hanging over the railing, and looked downinto the sunny depths of the little stream. All through the sweetSummer, the brook sang cheerily, by night and by day. It began in acool, crystal pool, far up among the hills, and wandered over mossyreaches and pebbly ways, singing meanwhile of all the fragrant woodlandthrough which it came. Hidden springs in subterranean caverns, caught bythe laughing melody, went out to meet it and then followed, as thechildren followed the Pied Piper of old. Great with its gathered waters,it still sang as it rippled onward to its destiny, dreaming, perchance,of the time when its liquid music, lost at last, should be merged intothe vast symphony of the sea.
Lynn came down the hill, swinging his violin case, and Iris, a littleconsciously, went on to the post-office.
Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the letter box, and then her heartgave a little leap, for there were two, yes three letters there.
"Wait a moment," called the grizzled veteran who served as postmaster."I've finally got something fer ye! Here! Miss Peace Field, Mrs.Margaret Irving, and Miss Iris Temple."
"Oh-h!" whispered Iris, in awe, "a letter for me?"
"'Tain't fer nobody else, I reckon," laughed the old man. "Anyhow, it'sgot your name on it."
She went out, half dazed. In all her life she had had but three letters;two from her mother, which she still kept, and one from Santa Claus. Thegood saint had left his communication in the little maid's stocking oneChristmas eve, and it was more than a year before Iris observed thatAunt Peace and Santa Claus wrote precisely the same hand.
"For me," she said to herself, "all for me!"
It never entered her pretty head to open it. The handwriting wasunfamiliar and the post-mark was blurred, but it seemed to have comefrom the next town. The whole thing was very disturbing, but Aunt Peacewould know.
Then Iris stopped suddenly in the path. It might be wicked, but, afterall, why should Aunt Peace know? Why not have just one little secret,all to herself? The daring of it almost took her breath away, but inthat single, dramatic instant, she decided.
No one was in sight, and Iris, in the shadow of a maple, tucked theletter safely away in her stocking, fancying she heard it rustle as shewalked.
In her brief experience of life there had seldom been so long a day. Thehours stretched on interminably, and she was never alone. She did notforget the letter for a moment, and when she had once become accustomedto the wonder of it, she was conscious of a growing, very femininecuriosity.
A little after ten, when she had dutifully kissed Aunt Peace good night,she stood alone in her room with her heart wildly beating. The door waslocked and there was not even the sound of a footstep. Surely, she mightread it now!
By the flickering light of her candle, she cut it at the end with thescissors, drew out the letter, and unfolded it with trembling hands.
"Iris, Daughter of the Marshes," it began, "how shall I tell you of
your loveliness? You are straight and slender as the rushes, dainty as a moonbeam, and sweet as a rose of June. Your dimpled hands make me think of white flowers, and the flush on your cheeks is like that on the petals of the first anemone.
"Midnight itself sleeps in your hair, fragrant as the Summer dusk, and your laughing lips have the colour of a scarlet geranium, but your eyes, my dear one, how shall I write to you of your eyes? They have the beauty of calm, wide waters, when sunset has given them that wonderful blue; they are eyes a man might look into during his last hour in the world, and think his whole life well spent because of them.
"Do you think me bold--your unknown lover? I am bold because my heart makes me so, and because there is no other way. I dare not ask for an answer, nor tell you my name, but if you are displeased, I am sure I have a way of finding it out. Perhaps you wonder where I have seen you, so I will tell you this. I have seen you, more than once, going to the post-office in East Lancaster, and, no matter how, I have learned your name.
"Some day, perhaps, I shall see you face to face. Some day you may give me your gracious permission to tell you all that is in my heart. Until then, remember that I am your knight, that you are my lady, and that I love you, Iris, love you!"
* * * * *
Her eyes were as luminous as the stars that shone upon the breast ofnight. If the heavens had suddenly opened, she could not have been moresurprised. Her first love letter! At a single bound she had gained herplace beside those fair ladies of romance, who peopled her maidendreams. From to-night, she stood apart; no longer a child, but a womanworshipped afar, by some gallant lover who feared to sign his name.
She put out the candle, for the moonlight filled the room, and patteredacross the polished floor, in her bare feet, to her little white bed,the letter in her hand.
"Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst."
The hours went by and still Iris was awake, the mute paper crushed closeagainst her breast. "I wonder," she murmured, her crimson face hidden inthe pillow, "I wonder who he can be!"