The Master's Violin Part 25

The thought of Lynn recurred persistently, and always with repulsion.

What should she do? She could not wholly ignore him, year in and year out, and live in the same house. It must be nearly time for him to go away and leave her in peace.

Then Iris gasped, for it was Lynn's house,--his and his mother's. She was there upon sufferance only--a guest? No, not a guest--an intruder, an interloper.

In her new trouble, she thought of Herr Kaufmann, always gentle, always wise. With Iris, action followed swiftly upon impulse, and she went rapidly up the hill. Fraulein Fredrika was out, but the Master was in the shop, so she went in at the lower door.

"So," he said, kindly, "one little lady comes to see the old man. It is long since you have come."

"I have been in trouble," faltered Iris.

"Yes," returned the Master, "I have heard. Mine heart has been very sorry for you."

"It was lovely of you," she went on, choking back a sob, "to come and play for us. We appreciated it--Mrs. Irving and I--Doctor Brinkerhoff--and--Lynn," she added, grudgingly.

"The Herr Irving," said the Master, with interest, "he has appreciated mine playing?"

"Of course--we all did."

"Mine pupil progresses," he remarked, enigmatically.

"Was it," began Iris, hesitating over the words,--"was it the Cremona?"

The Master looked at her sharply. "Yes, why not? One gives one's best to Death."

"Death demands it, and takes it," said the girl. "That is why."

She spoke bitterly, and Herr Kaufmann put down the violin he was working upon. His heart went out to Iris, white-faced and ghostly, her eyes burning fiercely. He saw that her hands were trembling, and, moving his chair closer, he took them both in his.

"Little lady," he said, "it makes mine old heart ache to see you so close with sorrow. If it could be divided, I would take mine share, because these broad shoulders are used to one heavy burden, and a little more would not matter so much, but one must learn, even though the cross is very hard to bear.

"It is most difficult, and yet some day you will see. You have only to look out of your window for one year to understand it all. First it is Winter, and the snow is deep upon the ground. All the flowers are dead, and there are no birds. The moon s.h.i.+nes cold, and there are many storms.

But, so slow that you can never see it, there is change. Presently, the bare branches turn in their sleep and wake up with leaves. The birds come back, and all the earth is glad again.

"Then everything grows and it is all in one blossom. On the wide fields there is much grain, and all hearts are singing. Even after the frost, everything is glad for a little while, and then, very slowly, it is Winter once more.

"Little lady, do you not see? There must always be Winter, there must always be night and storm and cold. It is then that the flowers rest--they cannot always be in bloom. But somewhere on the great world the sun is always s.h.i.+ning, and, just so sure as you live, it will sometime s.h.i.+ne on you. The dear G.o.d has made it so. There is so much sun and so much storm, and we must have our share of both. It is Winter in your heart now, but soon it will be Spring. You have had one long Summer, and there must be something in between. We are not different from all else the dear G.o.d has made. It is all in one law, as the Herr Doctor will tell you. He is most wise, and he has helped me to understand."

"But Aunt Peace!" sobbed the girl. "Aunt Peace is dead, and mother, too!

I am all alone!"

"Little lady," said the Master, very tenderly, "you must never say you are alone. Because you have had much love, shall you be a child when it is taken away? Has it meant so little to you that it leaves nothing?

Just so strong and beautiful as it has been, just so much strength and beauty does it leave. There are many, in this world, who would be so glad to change places with you. To be dead," he went on, bitterly, "that is nothing beside one living grave! It is by far the easier loss!"

He left her and went to the window, where he stood for a long time with his back toward her. Then Iris perceived her own selfishness, and she crept up beside him, slipping her cold little hand into his. "I understand," she said, gently, "you have had sorrow, too."

The Master smiled, but she saw that his eyes were wet. "Yes," he sighed, "I know mine sorrow. We are old friends." Then he stooped and kissed her, ever so softly, upon her forehead. It was like a benediction.

"I think," she said, after a little, "that I must go away from East Lancaster."

"So? And why?"

Iris knit her brows thoughtfully. "Well," she explained, "I have no right here. The house is Mrs. Irving's, and after her it belongs to Lynn. Aunt Peace said it was to be my home while I lived, but that was only because she did not want to turn me out. She was too kind to do that, but I do not belong there."

"The Herr Irving," said the Master, in astonishment. "Does he want you to go away?"

"No! No!" cried Iris. "Don't misunderstand! They have said nothing--they have been lovely to me--but I can't help feeling----"

The Master nodded. "Yes, I see. Perhaps you will come to live with mine sister and me. The old house needs young faces and the sound of young feet. Mine house," he said, with quiet dignity, "is very large."

Even in her perplexity, Iris wondered why the little bird-house on the brink of the cliff always seemed a mansion to its owner. Quickly, he read her thought.

"I know what you are thinking," he continued; "you are thinking that mine house is small. Three rooms upstairs and three rooms downstairs.

Fredrika could sleep in mine room, and I could take the store closet back of mine shop and keep the wood for the violins at the Herr Doctor's. Upstairs, you could have one bedroom and one parlour. Fredrika and I would come up only to eat."

"Herr Kaufmann," cried Iris, her heart warming to him, "it is lovely of you, but I can't. Don't you see, if I could stay anywhere I could stay where I am?"

It was not a clear sentence, but he grasped its meaning. "Yes, I see.

But when I say mine house is large, it is not of these six rooms that I think. Have you not read in the good book that in mine Father's house there are many mansions? So? Well, it is in those mansions that I live.

I have put aside mine sorrow, and I wait till the dear G.o.d is pleased to take me home."

"To take us home," said Iris, thoughtfully. "Perhaps Aunt Peace was tired."

"Yes," answered the Master, "she was tired. Otherwise, she would have been allowed to stay. You have not been thinking of her, but of yourself."

"Perhaps I have," she admitted.

"If you go away," he went on, "it is better that you should study. You have one fine voice, and with sorrow in your heart, you can make much from it. Those who have been made great have first suffered."

Iris turned upon him. "You mean that?" she asked, sharply.

"Of course," he returned, serenely. "Before you can help those who have suffered, you must suffer yourself. It is so written."

Iris sighed heavily. "I must go," she said, dully.

"Not yet. Wait."

He went to his bedroom, and came back with a violin case. He opened it carefully; unwrapped the many thicknesses of silk, and took out the Cremona. "See," he said, with his face aglow, "is it not most beautiful?

When you are sad, you can remember that you have seen mine Cremona."

"Thank you," returned Iris, her voice strangely mingled with both laughter and tears, "I will remember."

When she went home, the Master looked after her for a moment or two, then turned away from the window to wipe his eyes. He was drawn by temperament to all who sorrowed, and he had loved Iris for years.

That night, she sat alone in the library, sheltered by the darkness.

Margaret was reading in her own room, and Lynn was out. More clearly than ever, Iris saw that she must go away. She had no definite plan, but Herr Kaufmann's suggestion seemed a good one.

When Lynn came in, he lit the candles in the parlour. Iris hoped he would go upstairs without coming into the library, but he did not. She shrank back into her chair, trusting that he would not see her, but with unerring instinct he went straight to her.

"Sweetheart," he whispered, "are you here?"