The Master's Violin

by Myrtle Reed

  XVII

  "He Loves Her Still"

  When Doctor Brinkerhoff came on Wednesday evening, he was surprised todiscover 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 untilthe morning she started. She had probably been planning it for a longtime, though she did not take us into her confidence until the lastminute."

  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. "Shetold us at the breakfast table," he answered. "Iris is replete withsurprises."

  "But before that," continued the Doctor, "did you have no suspicion?"

  Lynn laughed shortly. "How should I suspect?" he parried. "I knownothing of the ways of women."

  "Women," observed the Doctor, with an air of knowledge,--"women areinscrutable. For instance, I cannot understand why Miss Iris did notcome to say 'good-bye' to me. I am her foster-father, and it would havebeen natural."

  "Good-byes are painful," said Margaret.

  "We Germans do not say 'good-bye,' but only 'auf wiedersehen.' Perhapswe shall see her again, perhaps not. No one knows."

  "Fraeulein Fredrika does not say 'auf wiedersehen,'" put in Lynn, anxiousto turn the trend of the conversation.

  "No," responded the Doctor, with a smile. "She says: 'You will come onceagain, yes? It would be most kind.'"

  He imitated the tone and manner so exactly that Lynn laughed, but it wasa hollow laugh, without mirth in it. "Do not misunderstand me," said theDoctor, quickly; "it was not my intention to ridicule the Fraeulein. Sheis a most estimable woman. Do you perhaps know her?" he asked ofMargaret.

  "I have not that pleasure," she replied.

  "She was not here when I first came," the Doctor went on, "but HerrKaufmann 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 hishousekeeping, before she came."

  A shadow crossed Margaret's face.

  "I have often wondered," she said, clearing her throat, "why men are nottaught domestic tasks as well as women. It presupposes that they arenever to be without the inevitable woman, yet many of them often are. Awoman is trained to it in the smallest details, even though she hasreason 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 firstlesson in keeping house."

  "You?" she said fondly; "you? Why, Lynn! Lacking the others, you'llalways have me to do it for you."

  "That," replied the Doctor, triumphantly, "disproves your own theory. Ifyou 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 thedifficult school of experience I have learned many things. I have oftentaken professional pride in closing an aperture in my clothing with neatstitches, and the knowledge thus gained has helped me in my surgery. Allthings in this world fit in together."

  "It is fortunate if they do," she answered. "My own scheme of things hasbeen very much disarranged."

  "Yet, as Fraeulein Fredrika would say, 'the dear God knows.' Life is likeone of those puzzles that come in a box. It is full of queer pieceswhich seemingly bear no relation to one another, and yet there is a wayof putting it together into a perfect whole. Sometimes we make a mistakeat the beginning and discard pieces for which we think there is nopossible use. It is only at the end that we see we have made a mistakeand put aside something of much importance, but it is always too late togo back--the pieces are gone.

  "In my own life, I lost but one--still, it was the keystone of thewhole. When I came from Germany, I should have brought letters fromthose in high places there to those in high places here. It could easilyhave been done. I should have had this behind me when I came to EastLancaster, and I should not have made the mistake of settling first onthe hill. Then----" The Doctor ceased abruptly, and sighed.

  "This country is supposed to be very democratic," said Lynn, chieflybecause he could think of nothing else to say.

  "Yes," replied the Doctor, "it is in your laws that all men are free andequal, but it is not so. The older civilisations have found there isclass, and so you will find it here. At first, when everything ischaotic, all particles may seem alike, but in time there is aninevitable readjustment."

  "We are getting very serious," said Margaret.

  "It is an important subject," responded the Doctor, with dignity. "Ihave often discussed it with my friend, Herr Kaufmann. He is a very finefriend to have."

  "Yes," said Lynn, "he is. It is only lately that I have learned toappreciate him."

  "One must grow to understand him," mused the Doctor. "At first, I didnot. I thought him rough, queer, and full of sarcasm. But afterward, Isaw 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 ownlevel, just as water does. That is why there is class."

  "But for a long time, they do not find it," objected the Doctor. "MissIris, for instance. Her people were of the common sort, and those withwhom she lived afterward were worse still. She"--by the unconsciousreverence in his voice, they knew whom he meant--"she taught her all thefineness 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. "Toosoon after----"

  The Doctor nodded. "I understand," he said. "It was a mistake on mypart, for which you must pardon me. I only thought you might be a helpto 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 loveaffair. The young lady's mother parted them because he lived in WestLancaster, though he, too, might have had letters from high places inGermany. 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,--"doeshe love her still?"

  "He loves her still," returned the Doctor, promptly, "and even more thanthen."

  "Ah--h!"

  The Doctor roused himself. "What have I done!" he cried, in genuinedistress. "I have violated my friend's confidence, unthinking! Myfriend, for whom I would make any sacrifice--I have betrayed him!"

  "No," replied Margaret, with a great effort at self-control. "You havenot told me her name."

  "It is because I do not know it," said the Doctor, ruefully. "If I hadknown, I should have bleated it out, fool that I am!"

  "Please do not be troubled--you have done no harm. Herr Kaufmann and Iare practically strangers."

  "That is so," replied the Doctor, evidently reassured; "and I did notmean 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 thatcaused their utterance, all the swift interplay of opposing thought,and, for the time being, forgets. Hours afterward, in solitude, it isrecalled; studied from every point of view, searched, analysed,questioned, until it is made to yield up its hidden meaning. It was thusthat Margaret put away those four words: "He loves her still."

  They are pathetic, these tiny treasure-houses of Memory, whereoftentimes the jewel, so jealously guarded, by the clear light ofintrospection is seen to be only paste. One seizes hungrily at theimpulse that caused the hiding, thinking that there must be some cert
ainworth behind the deception. But afterward, painfully sure, one locksthe door of the treasure-chamber in self-pity, and steals away, as froma 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 kindremembrances be sent to Iris, when she should write.

  "Thank you," said Mrs. Irving. "I shall surely tell her, and she will beglad."

  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 isill-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 ghostlyshadows. Through the rooms moved the memory of Iris, and of that gentlemistress who slept in the churchyard, who had permeated every nook andcorner of it with the sweetness of her personality. There was somethingin the air, as though music had just ceased--the wraith of long-gonelaughter, the fall of long-shed tears.

  "I miss Iris," said Margaret, dreamily. "She was like a daughter to me."

  Taken off his guard, Lynn's conscious face instantly betrayed him.

  "Lynn," said Margaret, suddenly, "did you have anything to do with hergoing away?"

  The answer was scarcely audible. "Yes."

  Margaret never forced a confidence, but after a pause she said verygently: "Dear, is there anything you want to tell me?"

  "It's nothing," said Lynn, roughly. He rose and walked around the roomnervously. "It's nothing," he repeated, with assumed carelessness. "I--Iasked her to marry me, and she wouldn't. That's all. It's nothing."

  Margaret's first impulse was to smile. This child, to be talking ofmarriage--then her heart leaped, for Lynn was twenty-three; older thanshe had been when the star rose upon her horizon and then set forever.

  Then came a momentary awkwardness. Childish though the trouble was, shepitied Lynn, and regretted that she could not shield him from it as shehad shielded him from all else in his life.

  Then resentment against Iris. What was she, a nameless outcast, to scornthe offered distinction? Any woman in the world might be proud to becomeLynn's wife.

  Then, smiling at her own folly, Margaret went to him, dominated solelyby gratitude. Not knowing what else to do, she drew his tall head downto kiss him, but Lynn swerved aside, and with his face against thesoftness of his mother's hair, wiped away a boyish tear.

  "Lynn," she said, tenderly, "you are very young."

  "How old were you when you married, mother?"

  "Twenty-one."

  "How old was father?"

  "Twenty-three."

  "Then," persisted Lynn, with remorseless logic, "I am not too young, andneither is Iris--only she doesn't care."

  "She may care, son."

  "No, she won't. She despises me."

  "And why?"

  "She said I had no heart."

  "The idea!"

  "Maybe I didn't have then, but I'm sure I have now."

  He walked back and forth restlessly. Margaret knew that the griefs ofyouth are cruelly keen, because they come well in the lead of thestrength to bear them. She was about to offer the usual threadbareconsolation, "You will forget in time," when she remembered the stock ofwhich Lynn came.

  His mother, who had carried a secret wound for more than twenty-fiveyears, who was she, to talk about forgetting, and, of all others, to herson?

  Gratitude was still dominant, though in her heart of hearts she knewthat she was selfish. Lynn felt the lack of sympathy, and becameconscious, for the first time in his life, that her tenderness had alimit.

  "Mother," he said, suddenly, "did you love father?"

  "Why do you ask, son?"

  "Because I want to know."

  "I respected him highly," said Margaret, at length. "He was a good man,Lynn."

  "You have answered," he returned. "You don't know--you don'tunderstand."

  "But I do understand," she flashed.

  "You can't, if you didn't love father."

  "I--I cared for someone else," said Margaret, thickly, unwilling to beconvicted of shallowness.

  Lynn looked at her quickly. "And you still care?"

  Margaret bowed her head. "Yes," she whispered, "I still care!"

  "Mother!" he cried. In an instant, his arms were around her and she wassobbing on his shoulder. "Mother," he pleaded, "forgive me! To think Inever knew!"

  They had a long talk then, intimate and searching. "You have borne itbravely," he said. "No one has ever dreamed of it, I am sure. The Mastertold me, the other day, that I must not be afraid of life. He said thateverything, even our blessings, came to us through pain."

  "I would not say everything," temporised Margaret, "but it is true thatmuch comes that way. We know happiness only by contrast."

  "Happiness and misery, light and dark, sunshine and storm, life anddeath," mused Lynn. "Yes, it is by contrast, but, as the Master says,'the balance swings true.' I wish you knew him, mother; he has helpedme. I never knew my father, so it is not wrong for me to say that I wishhe might have been my father."

  Margaret grew as cold as ice, and her senses reeled, then flame swepther from head to foot. "Come," she said, not knowing her own voice, "itis late."

  Long afterward, in the solitude of her room, she took the preciousthought from its hiding-place, and found it purest gold. It was asthough all the bitterness in her heart, growing upward, through theyears, had flowered overnight into a perfect rose.