by Myrtle Reed
XXI
The Cremona Speaks
The grey autumnal rain beat heavily upon her window, and Iris stoodwatching it, with a heavy weight upon her heart.
The prospect was inexpressibly dreary. As far as she could see, therewas nothing but a desert of roofs. "Roofs," thought Iris, "always roofs!Who would think there were so many in the world!"
Six months ago she had been a happy child, but now all was changed.Grown to womanhood through sorrow, she could never be the same again,even though Aunt Peace, by some miracle of resurrection, should be givenback to her.
In those long weeks of loneliness, Iris had learned a different point ofview. She had not written to Mrs. Irving but once, though the motherlyletter that came in reply to her note had seemed like a brief glimpse ofEast Lancaster. Doctor Brinkerhoff's letter also remained unanswered,chiefly because she could not trust herself to write.
Her grief for Aunt Peace was insensibly changed. The poignant sense ofloss which belonged to the first few weeks had become something quitedifferent. Gradually, she had learned acceptance, though not yetresignation.
With a wisdom far beyond her years, she had plunged into her work. Thehours not devoted to lessons or practice were spent at her books. Shehad even planned out her days by a schedule in which every minute wasaccounted for--so much for study, so much for practise, so much for thedaily walk.
She had no friends. Aside from the hard-faced proprietor of theboarding-house, she was upon speaking terms with no one except herteacher and one of the attendants at the library. It has been writtenthat there is no loneliness like that of a great city, and in theexperience of nearly every one it is at some time proved true.
She missed East Lancaster, with all its dear, familiar ways. Theelm-bordered path, the maple at the gate, and every nook and corner ofthe garden constantly flitted before her like a mocking dream. She couldnot avoid contrasting the tiny chamber, which was now her only home,with the great rooms of the old house, where everything was alwaysexquisitely clean. She even longed for the kitchen, with its shiningsaucepans and its tiled hearth.
To go back, if only for one night, to her own room--to make the littlecakes for Doctor Brinkerhoff, and play her part in the pretty Wednesdayevening comedy, while Aunt Peace sat by, graciously hospitable, and Lynnkept them all laughing--oh, if she only could!
But it is the sadness of life that there is never any going back. TheHour, with its opportunity, its own individual beauty, comes but once.The hand takes out of the crystal pool as much water as the tiny, curvedcup of the palm will hold. The shining drops, each one perfect in itselfand changing colour with the shifting of the light, fall through thefingers back into the pool, with a faint suggestion of music in thesound. The circle widens outward, and presently the water is stillagain. If one could go back, gather from the pool those same shiningdrops, made into jewels by the light, which, at the moment, is alsochanging, one might go back to the Hour.
Steadfastly, Iris had hardened her heart against Lynn. He had dared tolove her! Her cheeks crimsoned with shame at the thought, but still,when the days were dark, it had more than once been a certain comfort toknow that someone cared, aside from Aunt Peace, asleep in thechurchyard.
Lynn and Aunt Peace--they were the only ones who cared. Mrs. Irving hadbeen friendly; Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master had been kind; FraeuleinFredrika had always been glad when she went to see her: but these werelike bits of Summer blown for an instant against the Winter of theworld.
Iris saw clearly, from her new standpoint, that she had learned to lovethe writer of the letters. It was he upon whom her soul leaned. Then, inthe midst of her grief, to find that her unknown lover was merelyLynn--a boy who chased her around the garden with grasshoppers andworms--it was too much.
Meditatively, Iris brushed the surface of her cheek, where Lynn hadkissed her. She could feel it now--an awkward, boyish kiss. It was muchthe same as if Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving had done it, and it was not atall what one read about in the books.
If it were not for Lynn, she could go back to East Lancaster. She mightgo, anyway, if she were sure she would not meet him, but where could shestay? Not with Mrs. Irving--that was certain, unless Lynn went away. Buteven then, sometimes he would come back--she could not always avoid him.
Her eyes filled when she thought of the Master, generously offering hertwo of his six tiny rooms. The parlour, with its hideous ornaments,seemed far preferable to the dingy room in the boarding-house, where theold square piano stood, thick with dust, and where Iris did her dailypractising. But no, even there, she would meet Lynn. East Lancaster wasforbidden to her--she could never go there again.
Women have a strange attachment for places, especially for those which,even for a little time, have been "home." To a man, home means merely ahouse, more or less comfortable according to circumstances, where heeats and sleeps--an easy-chair and a fire which await him at the closeof the day. The location of it matters not to him. Uproot him suddenly,transport him to a strange land, surround him with new household gods,give him an occupation, and he will rather enjoy the change. Neverfor an instant will he grieve. With assured comfort and congenialemployment, he will be equally happy in New York or on the coast ofSouth Africa. But the woman, ah, the daily tragedy of the woman in thestrange place, and the long months before she becomes even reconciled toher new surroundings! After all, it is the home instinct and the motherinstinct which make the foundations of civilisation.
So it was that Iris hungered for East Lancaster, quite apart from itspeople. Every rod of the ground was familiar to her, from the woods, farto the east, to the Master's house on the summit of the hill, at thevery edge of West Lancaster, overlooking the valley, and toward the bluehills beyond.
The rain dripped drearily, and Iris sighed. She felt herself absolutelyalone in the world, with neither friend nor kindred. There was only onebelonging to her who was not dead--her father. No trace of him had beenfound, and his death had been taken for granted, but none the less Iriswondered if he might not still live, heart-broken and remorseful; if,perhaps, her skirts had not brushed against him in some crowdedthoroughfare of the city. She hoped not, for even that seemedcontamination.
It did not much matter that in her haste she had left the box containingthe photographs and the papers in the attic. Aunt Peace's emerald, thefan, and the lace, which she had also forgotten, were rightfully hers,and yet they seemed to belong to the house--to Mrs. Irving and Lynn.
Swiftly upon her thought came a rap at her door. "A letter for you, MissTemple."
Iris took it eagerly and closed the door again, consciously disappointedwhen she saw that it was from Mrs. Irving. Doctor Brinkerhoff's carelessremark, to the effect that Lynn would write soon, had fallen uponfertile soil. First, Iris decided not to read the letter when itcame--to return it unopened. Then, that it was not necessary to be rude,but she need not answer it. Next, a healthy human curiosity as to whatLynn might have to say to her, after all that had passed between them.Then she wondered whether Lynn's next letter would be anything like thethree that she had put away in her trunk. Now, her hands were trembling,and her cheeks were very pale.
"My Dear Child," the letter began. "Not having heard from you for so long, I fear that you are ill, or in trouble. If anything is wrong, do not hesitate to tell us, for we are your friends, as always. Doctor Brinkerhoff, Herr Kaufmann, or I would be glad to do anything to make you happier, or more comfortable. I will come, if you say so, or either of the other two.
"We are all well and happy here, but we miss you. Won't you come back to us, if only for a little while? The old house is desolate without you, and it is your home as much as it is mine. You left the emerald and the other little keepsakes. Shall I send them to you, or will you come for them? In any event, please write me a line to tell me that all is well with you, or, if not, how I can help you.
"Very affectionately yours, "MARGARET I
RVING."
And never a word about Lynn! Only that "all" were well and happy, which,of course, included Lynn, and went far to prove to Iris that she wasright--that he had no heart.
It was different in the books. When a beloved woman went away, thehero's heart invariably broke, and here was Lynn, "well and happy." Irisput the letter aside with a gesture of disdain.
Yet the motherly tone of it had touched her more deeply than she knew,and accentuated her loneliness. Twice she tried to answer it, to tellMrs. Irving that she, too, was well and happy, and ask her to send theemerald, the lace, and the fan. Twice she gave it up, for the page wassadly blotted with her tears.
Then she determined to write the next day, and ask also for the box ofpapers in the attic. Yet would she want Mrs. Irving to see the documentsmeant for her eyes alone, and that pathetic little mother in the tawdrystage trappings? Surely not! She did not question Margaret's sense ofhonour, but there were many boxes in the trunk in the attic, and shewould have to open them one after another, until she was sure she hadfound the right one.
Sorely puzzled, desperately homesick, and very lonely, Iris sobbedherself to sleep. All night she dreamed of East Lancaster, where the skycame down close to the ground, instead of ending at an ugly line ofroofs. The soft winds came through her window, sweet with clover andapple bloom. Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master, Fraeulein Fredrika, AuntPeace, Mrs. Irving, and Lynn--always Lynn--moved in and out of thedream. When she woke, she felt her desolation more keenly than everbefore.
At the door of Sleep a sentinel stands, an angel in grey garments. Thecrimson poppies crown her head and droop to her waist. The floor isstrewn with them, and the silken petals, crushed by the feet of passingstrangers, give out a strange perfume. To enter that door, you must passOur Lady of Dreams.
Sometimes she smiles as you enter, and sometimes there is only acareless nod. Often her clear, serene eyes make no sign of recognition,and at other times she frowns. But, whatever be the temper of the Ladyat the door, your dream waits for you inside.
The parcels are all alike, so it is useless to stop and choose, but youmust take one. Frequently, when you open it, there is nothing there butpeaceful slumber, cunningly arranged to look like a dream. Once in athousand times it happens that you get the dream that is meant for you,because it all depends upon chance, and so many strangers nightly enterthat door that it is impossible to arrange the parcels any differently.
When the night has passed, and you come back, it is always through thesame door, where the patient sentinel still stands. You are supposed togive back your dream, so that someone else may have it the next night,but if she is tired, or very busy, you may sometimes slip through and sohave a dream to remember.
Iris had given back her dream, but a strong impression of East Lancasterstill remained, and it was as though she had been there in the night.Suddenly she sat up in bed, with her heart wildly throbbing. Why not goback?
Why not, indeed? Why not take a flying trip, just to see the dear placeagain? Why not talk for a few minutes with Mrs. Irving, then slipupstairs for the emerald, the bit of lace, the feather fan, and thelonely little mother in the attic?
She could plan her journey so that she would be making her call whileLynn was at his lesson. When it was time for him to return, she could goto Doctor Brinkerhoff's and thank him for writing. While there, shecould see Lynn come downhill--of course, not to look at him, but just toknow that he was out of the way. Then she could go up the hill and staywith Fraeulein Fredrika and the Master until almost train time.
It was practicable and in every way desirable. Perhaps, after she hadseen East Lancaster once more, she would not be so homesick. Iris hummeda little song as she dressed herself, far happier than she had been formany months.
Thought and action were never far apart with her. The next day she wassafely aboard the train. She stopped overnight at the little hotel in anearby town, where once she had been with Aunt Peace, after a memorablevisit to the city. The morning train left at five, and just at ten shereached her destination, her heart fluttering joyously.
Lynn was certainly at his lesson--there could be no doubt of that. Shefairly flew up the street, fearful lest someone should see her, andpaused at the corner for a look at the old house.
Nothing was changed. It was just as it had been for two centuries andmore. Panic seized her, but she went on boldly, though her cheeksburned. After all, she was not an intruder--it was her home, not onlythrough the gift, but by right of possession.
She rang the bell timidly, but no one answered. Then she tried again,but with no better result, so she turned the knob and the door opened.
She stepped in, but no one was there. "Mrs. Irving!" she called, butonly the echo of her own voice came back to her. The portraits in thehall stared at her, but it was a friendly scrutiny and not at alldistressing. They seemed to nod to one another and to whisper from theirgilded frames: "Iris has come back."
"Well," she thought, "I can't sit down and wait, for Lynn may come homefrom his lesson at any minute. I'll just go upstairs."
The door of Margaret's room was ajar, and Iris peeped in, but it wasempty, like the rest of the house. She stole into Aunt Peace's room,found her keepsakes, and prepared to depart.
She saw her reflection in the long mirror, and, for the moment, itstartled her. "I feel like a thief," she said to herself, "even though Iam only taking my own."
She went up into the attic, found the box, and came down again. The oldhouse was so still! Surely it would do no harm if she took just onesniff at the cedar chest before she went away. She loved the fragranceof the wood, and it would delay her only a moment longer.
Then, all at once, she paused like a frightened bird. Someone was there!Someone was walking back and forth in Lynn's room! Scarcely knowing whatshe did, Iris crouched on the floor at the end of the chest, trusting tothe kindly shadows to screen her if the door should open.
But no one came. Lynn had taken the Cremona from its case with somethingvery like a smile upon his face. The brown breasts had the colour of oldwine, and the shell was thin to the point of fragility.
He had feared to touch it, but the Master had only laughed at him."What!" he had said, "shall I not sometimes lend mine Cremona to mineson, who like mineself is one great artist? Of a surety!"
Lynn placed the instrument in position, and dreamily, began to play. Hismother was out, and he played as he could not if he had not thoughthimself alone. All his heartbreak, all his pain, the white nights andthe dark days went into the adagio, the one thing suited to his mood.
At the first notes, Iris drew a quick, gasping breath. Surely it was notLynn! Yet who else should be in his room, playing as no one played butthe great?
Primeval forces held her in their grasp, and all at once her shallownessfell away from her, leaving her free. The blood surged into her heartwith shame--she had wronged Lynn. She had been so blind, so painfullysure of herself, so pitifully important in her self-esteem!
The music went on without hindrance or pause. Deep chords and piercingflights of melody alternated through the theme, yet there was theundertone of love and night and death. Iris clenched her hands until thenails cut into her palms. All her life, she seemed to have been playingwith tinsel; now, when it was out of her reach, she had discovered thegold.
Why should it seem so strange for Lynn to play like this? Had he notwritten the letters? Had he not offered her his whole heart--the giftshe had so insultingly thrown aside? Iris knelt beside the chest, inbitter humiliation.
One thing was certain--she must go away, and quickly. She could not waitthere, trembling and afraid, until someone found her; she must get away,but how? She was sorely shaken, both in body and soul.
She could not go away, and yet she must. She would go to the station,and, from there, write to Mrs. Irving and to Lynn. The least she coulddo was to ask him to forgive her. Having done that, she would go back tothe city, change her address, and be lost to them forever.
Low, quivering tone
s came from the Cremona, like the sobs of a womanwhose heart was broken. Suddenly, Iris knew that she belonged toLynn--that through love or hate she was bound to him forever. Then, in ablinding flood came the tears.
Slowly the adagio swept to its end, and yet she could not move. Themusic ceased, and yet the silence held her spellbound, vainly prayingfor the strength to go away. She heard the click of the lock as theviolin case was closed, the quick step to the door, and the turning ofthe knob.
She shrank back into the corner, close to the chest, and hid her face inher hands, then someone lifted her up.
"Sweetheart," cried Lynn, "have you come back to me?"
At the touch, at the tender word, the barriers crumbled away, and Irislifted her lovely tear-stained face to his. "Yes," she said, unsteadily,"I have come back. Will you forgive me?"
"Forgive you?" repeated Lynn, with a happy laugh; "why, dearest, thereis nothing to forgive!"
In that radiant instant, he thought he spoke the truth, so quickly do weforget sorrow when the sun shines into the soul.
"Oh!" sobbed Iris, hiding her face against his shoulder, "I--I said youhad no heart!"
"So I haven't, darling," answered Lynn, tenderly; "I gave it all to you,the very first day I saw you. Will you keep it for me, dear? Will yougive me a little corner of your own?"
"All," whispered Iris. "I think it has always been yours, but I didn'tknow until just now."
"How long have you been here, sweetheart?"
"I--I don't know. I heard you play, and then I knew."
"It was that blessed Cremona," said Lynn, with his lips against herhair. "You said I should never kiss you again, dear, do you remember?Don't you think it's time you changed your mind?"
The golden minutes slipped by, and still they stood there, by the windowin the hall. Margaret came back, and went up to her room, but no oneheard her, even though she was singing. At the head of the stairs, shestopped, startled. Then, by the light of her own happiness, sheunderstood, and crept softly away.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words andintent.
