The Master's Violin Part 22

"Like the marsh, the years stretch out before me--a vast plain of which the uncertainty only is sure. They are full of strange pitfalls, of unsounded deeps and silences, of impa.s.sable barriers which I, disheartened and doubting, must one day meet face to face.

"Night lies upon it, and I cannot see the way. Storm beats upon me and turns me from my course. The clouded day ends in sunset, and the crystal pools, by which I thought to mark my path, become beacons of blood-red flame.

"The will o' the wisp leads me into the mire, where the rushes cling tightly about me and keep me back. But the night wind blows from the east, where the dawn sleeps, and on the strings of the marsh gra.s.s breathes a little song. 'Iris! Iris!' it sings, then all at once my sore heart grows strangely glad, for whatever may come to me, I shall have the memory of you.

"Like the flags that glorify the marshes and spread their elfin sweetness afar, you shine upon the desert wastes of my life. I can never wholly lose you--you are there for always, and graven on my heart forever is the symbol of the fleur-de-lis."

XIV

Her Name-Flower

Somehow, the days pa.s.sed. Iris ate mechanically, and went about her household duties with her former precision. On Wednesday evening, Doctor Brinkerhoff came, as usual, and Margaret's eyes filled at the sight of him.

Bent, old, and haggard, he came up the path, longing for his accustomed place in the house, and yet dreading to take it. Iris met him with a pitiful little smile, and he bowed over her hand for a moment, his shoulders shaking. Then he straightened himself, like a soldier under fire.

"Miss Iris," he said, "we are bound together by a common grief. More than that, I have a trust to fulfil. She"--here he hesitated and then went on--"she asked me if I would not try to take the place of a father to you, and I promised that I would."

"I have always felt so toward you," answered Iris, in a low tone.

Lynn was quite himself again, and his cheerful talk enlivened the others, almost against their will. There was laughter and to spare, yet beneath it was an undercurrent of sorrow, for the wound was healed only upon the surface.

"It is hard," said the Doctor, sadly, "but life holds many hard things for all of us. Perhaps, if we lived rightly, if our faith were stronger, death would not rend our hearts as it does. It is the common lot, the universal leveller, and soon or late it comes to us all. It remains to make our spiritual adjustment accord with the inevitable fact. There is so little that we can change, that it behooves us to confine our efforts to ourselves."

"Life," replied Lynn "is the pitch of the orchestra, and we are the instruments."

Doctor Brinkerhoff nodded. "Very true. The discord and the broken string of the individual instrument do not affect the whole, except as false notes, but I think that G.o.d, knowing all things, must discern the symphony, glorious with meaning, through the discordant fragments that we play."

So the talk went on, Lynn taking the burden of it and endeavouring always to make it cheerful. Margaret understood and loved him for it, but she, too, was sad. Iris sat like a stone, waiting, counting off the leaden hours as something to be endured, and blindly believing that rest would come.

"Everything," said Margaret, after a long silence, "was as beautiful as it could be."

Doctor Brinkerhoff understood at once. "Yes," he sighed, "and I am glad.

I think it was as she would have wished it to be, and I am sure she was pleased because I shielded her from the gaze of the curious at the end."

His face worked as he said it, but he took a pitiful pride in what he had done. Day by day he hugged this last service closer, because it was done through his own thought and his own understanding, and would have pleased her if she had known.

"Yes," returned Margaret, kindly, "it was very thoughtful of you. It would never have occurred to me, and I know she would have been grateful."

"Miss Iris?" said the Doctor, inquiringly.

The girl turned. "Yes?"

"She--she gave me a paper for you. Will you have it, or shall I read it to you?"

"Read it," answered Iris, dully.

"It is in the form of a letter. She wrote it one day, near the end of her illness, and gave it to me, to be opened after her death."

In the midst of a profound silence, he took an envelope from his pocket and broke the seal.

"'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 in my 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 a.s.surances 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 a.s.sured him, "but my heart bleeds for her."

The clock on the landing struck ten, and Margaret 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 gla.s.s, and from force of habit, offered it to an invisible friend. "To your--" then he stopped.

"To her memory," sobbed Margaret, touching his gla.s.s 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."