The Master's Violin Part 14

"Put a flower on your gate-post when the moon rises to-night, if you are willing that I should come. Two flowers, if you are willing that I should come sometime, but not now. Then, when your name-flower embroiders the marshes, you will know who loves you--who wors.h.i.+ps you--who offers you his all."

That night, when the moon swung high in the heavens, Iris tiptoed out into the garden, with the letter--sentient, alive, and human--crushed close against her heart. So conscious was she of its presence that she felt it blazoned upon her breast for all the world to read.

Dew made the gra.s.s damp, but Iris did not care. Threads of silver light picked out a dainty tracery, and here and there set a dew-drop to gleaming like a diamond among unnumbered pearls. Drowsy chirps came from the maples above her, where the little birds slept in their swaying nests and dreamed of wild flights at dawn. A great white moth brushed against her face, as softly as thistledown, and she laughed, because it was so like a kiss.

Down toward her corner of the garden she went, her dimity skirts daintily uplifted. The moonlight touched a cobweb woven across the rose-bush, and made a rainbow of it.

"A little lost rainbow," thought Iris, "out alone in the night, like me!"

She stooped and gathered a sprig of mignonette, then a bit of rosemary from Mrs. Irving's garden. "She won't care," said Iris, to herself; "she used to love somebody, long ago."

She bound the two together with a blade of gra.s.s, and put the merest kiss between them, then impulsively wiped it away. But, after all, some trace of it must linger, and Iris did not intend to give too much, so she threw it aside, as it happened, into Lynn's garden. Then she gathered another sprig of mignonette, another leaf of rosemary, bound them together, and held them very far away, out of reach of temptation.

Back toward the gate she went, her heart wildly beating against the imprisoned letter. She hesitated a moment in the shadow of the house.

The great white moth had followed her and again touched her face caressingly. Suppose someone should see!

But there was no one in sight. "Anyhow," thought Iris, "if one wishes to come out for a moment in the evening, to walk as far as the gate, it is all right. If there should be rosemary and mignonette on the gate-post in the morning, someone who was up very early might take it away before anybody had seen it. There would be no harm in leaving it there overnight, even though it isn't quite orderly."

She went bravely toward the gate, and the moonbeams made an aureole about her hair. The light of dreams, s.h.i.+ning through the mist, transfigured her with silver sheen. The earth was exquisitely still, and the sound of her little feet upon the gravelled path echoed and re-echoed strangely.

Timidly, Iris put the rosemary and mignonette, bound together by a single blade of gra.s.s, first upon one gate-post and then upon the other.

"Such a little bit!" she mused. "One couldn't call it a flower!" Yes, mignonette was a flower, but rosemary? Surely, no!

She walked backward, slowly, toward the house, and to her conscious eyes, the tell-tale message dominated the landscape. The moonlight fairly made it s.h.i.+ne. Almost at the steps, Iris was seized with panic.

Then her light feet twinkled down the path, and frightened, trembling, and ashamed, she thrust the nosegay into the open throat of her gown.

"Oh," murmured Iris, as she went hastily into the house, "what could I have been thinking of!"

But across the street, in the darkness of the shrubbery, Someone smiled.

X

In the Garden

"To-night," said Aunt Peace, "we will sit in the garden."

It was Wednesday, and the rites in the house were somewhat relaxed, though Iris, from force of habit, polished the tall silver candlesticks until they shone like new. Miss Field herself made a pan of little cakes, sprinkled them with powdered sugar, and put them away. She was never lovelier than when at her dainty tasks in her spotless kitchen. By some alchemy of the spirit, she made the homely duties of the day into pleasures--simple ones, perhaps, but none the less genuine.

No one alluded to the fact that Doctor Brinkerhoff was coming. "Of course," as Iris said to Lynn, "we don't know that he is, but since he's missed only one Wednesday in ten years, we may be pardoned for expecting him."

"One might think so," agreed Lynn, laughing. He took keen delight in the regular Wednesday evening comedy.

"We make the little cakes for tea," continued Iris, her eyes dancing.

"But we never have 'em for tea," Lynn objected, "and I wish you'd quit talking about 'em. It disturbs my peace of mind."

"Pig!" exclaimed Iris. They were alone, and her face was dangerously near his. Her rosy lips were twitching in a most provoking way, and, immediately, there were Consequences.

She left the print of four firm fingers upon Lynn's cheek, and he rubbed the injured place ruefully. "I don't see why I shouldn't kiss you," he said.

"If you haven't learned yet, I'll slap you again."

"No, you won't; I'll hold your hands next time."

"There isn't going to be any 'next time.' The idea!"

"Iris! Please don't go away! Wait a minute--I want to talk to you."

"It's too bad it's so one-sided," remarked Iris, with a sidelong glance.

"Look here!"

"Well, I'm looking, but so much green--the gra.s.s--and the shrubbery, you know--and all--it's hard on my eyes."

"We're cousins, aren't we?"

Iris sat down on the bench beside him, evidently struck by a new idea.

"I hadn't thought of it," she said conversationally. "Are we?"

"I think we are. Mother is Aunt Peace's nephew, isn't she?"

"Not that anybody knows of. A lady nephew is called a niece in East Lancaster."

"Oh, well," replied Lynn, colouring, "you know what I mean. Mother is Aunt Peace's niece, isn't she?"

"I hear so. A gentleman for whom I have much respect a.s.sures me of it."

The wicked light in her eyes belied her words, and Lynn wished that he had kissed her twice while he had the opportunity.

"It's the truth," he said. "And mother's my mother."

"Really?"

"So that makes me Aunt Peace's nephew."

"Grand-nephew," corrected Iris, with double meaning.

"Thank you for the compliment. Perhaps I'm a nephew-once-removed."

"I haven't seen any signs of removal," observed Iris, "but I'd love to."

"Don't be so frivolous! If I am Aunt Peace's nephew, what relation am I to her daughter?"