The Master's Violin Part 33

Weather-worn and moss-grown, it must have stood for the whole of the five and twenty years. There was no word, no inscription--only the cross, but for her it was enough.

"To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, to kiss the cross!" The last measures of the song reverberated through her memory, as Iris had sung it in her deep contralto, so long ago.

Sobbing, she knelt, with her lips against the symbol, then suddenly started to her feet, for there was a step upon the path.

For a blinding instant, they faced each other, unbelieving, then the Master opened his arms.

"Beloved," he breathed, "is it thou?"

XX

"Mine Brudder's Friend"

That day the Master put aside the garment of his years. The quarter century that had lain between them like a th.o.r.n.y, upward path was suddenly blotted out, and only the memory of it remained. Belated, but none the less keen, the primeval joy came back to him. Youth and love, the bounding pulse and the singing heart,--they were all his.

It was twilight when they came away from the moss-grown altar in the forest, his arm around his sweetheart, and the faces of both wet with happy tears.

"Until to-morrow, mine Liebchen," he said. "How shall I now wait for that to-morrow when we part no more? The dear G.o.d knew. He gave to me the cutting and the long night that in the end I might deserve thee. He was making of me an instrument suited to thy little hand." He kissed the hand as he spoke, and Margaret's eyes filled once more.

Through the mist of her tears she saw the rising moon rocking idly just above the horizon. "See," said the Master, "it is a new light from the east, from the same place as thou hast come to me. Many a time have I watched it, thinking that it also shone on thee; that perhaps thy eyes, as well as mine, were upon it, and thus, through heaven, we were united."

"Those whom G.o.d hath joined together," murmured Margaret, "let no man put asunder."

"Those whom G.o.d hath joined," returned the Master, reverently, "no man can put asunder. Dost thou not see? I thought thou hadst forgotten, and when I go to keep mine tryst with Grief, I find thee there, with thy lips upon the cross."

"I have never gone before," whispered Margaret. "I could not."

"So? Mine Beloved, I have gone there many times. When mine sorrow has filled mine old heart to breaking, I have gone there, that I might look upon thy cross and mine and so gain strength. It is where we parted, where thy lips were last on mine. Sometimes I have gone with mine Cremona and played until mine sore heart was at peace. And to-day, I find thee there! The dear Father has been most kind."

"Did you know me?" asked Margaret, shyly. "Have I not grown old?"

"Mine Liebchen, thou canst never grow old. Thou hast the beauty of immortal youth. As I saw thee to-day, so have I seen thee in mine dream.

Sometimes I have felt that thou hadst taken up thy pa.s.sing, and I have hungered for mine, for it was a certainty in mine heart that the dear Father would give thee back to me in heaven.

"I do not think of heaven as the glittering place with the streets of gold and the walls of pearl, but more like one quiet wood, where the gra.s.s is green and the little brook sings all day. I have thought of heaven as the place where those who love shall be together, free from all misunderstanding or the thought of parting.

"The great ones say that man's own need gives him his conception of the dear G.o.d; that if he needs the avenging angel, so is G.o.d to him; that if he needs but the friend, that will G.o.d be. And so, in mine dream of heaven, because it was mine need, I have thought of it but as one sunny field, where there was clover in the long gra.s.s and tall trees at one side, with the clear, s.h.i.+ning waters beyond, where we might quench our thirst, and thee beside me forever, with thy little hand in mine. And now, because I have paid mine price, I do not have to wait until I am dead for mine heaven; the dear G.o.d gives it to me here."

"Whatever heaven may be," said Margaret, thrilled to the utmost depths of her soul, "it can be no more than this."

"Nor different," answered the Master, drawing her closer. "I think it is like this, without the fear of parting."

"Parting!" repeated Margaret, with a rush of tears; "oh, do not speak of parting!"

"Mine Beloved," said the Master, and his voice was very tender, "there is nothing perfect here--there must always be parting. If it were not so, we should have no need of heaven. But to the end of the road thou and I will go together.

"See! In the beginning, we were upon separate paths, and, after so long a time, the ways met. For a little s.p.a.ce we journeyed together, and because of it the sun was more bright, the flowers more sweet, the road more easy. Then comes the hard place and the ways divide. But though the leagues lie between us and we do not see, we go always at the same pace, and so, in a way, together. We learn the same things, we think the same things, we suffer the same things, because we were of those whom the dear G.o.d hath joined. Another walks beside thee and yet not with thee, because, through all the distance, thou art mine.

"And so we go until thy road is turned. Thou dost not know it is turned, because the circle is so great thou canst not see. Little dost thou dream thou art soon to meet again with thy old Franz. Through the thicket, meanwhile, I am going, and mine way is hard and set with brambles. It is only mine blind faith which helps me onward--that, and the vision in mine heart of thee, which never for a day, nor even for an hour, hath been absent.

"One day mine road turns too, and there art thou, mine Beloved, leading by the hand mine son."

Margaret was sobbing, her face hidden against his shoulder.

"Mine Liebchen, it is not for me to bear thy tears. Much can I endure, but not that. After the long waiting, I have thee close again, thou and mine son, the tall young fellow with the honest face and the laughing ways, who have made of himself one artist.

"The way lies long before us, but it is toward the west, and sunset hath already begun to come upon the clouds. But until the end we go together, thy little hand in mine.

"Some day, Beloved, when the ways part once more, and thou or I shall be called to follow the Grey Angel into the darkness, I think we shall not fear. Perhaps we shall be very weary, and the one will be glad because the other has come into the Great Rest. But, Beloved, thou knowest that if it is I who must follow the Grey Angel, and still leave thee on the dusty road alone, mine grave will be no division. Life hath not taught me not to love thee with all mine soul, and Death shall not. Life is the positive, and Death is the negation. Shall Death, then, do something more than Life can do? Oh, mine Liebchen, do not fear!"

The Autumn mists were rising and the stars gleamed faintly, like far-off points of pearl. At the bridge, they said good night, and Margaret went on home, wis.h.i.+ng, even then, that she might bear the burden for Lynn.

The Master went up the hill with his blood singing in his veins.

Fredrika thought him unusually abstracted, but strangely happy, and until long past midnight, he sat by the window, improvising upon the Cremona a theme of such pa.s.sionate beauty that the heart within her trembled and was afraid.

That night Fredrika dreamed that someone had parted her from Franz, and when she woke, her pillow was wet with tears.

It was not until the next afternoon that he realised that he must tell her. After long puzzling over the problem, he went to Doctor Brinkerhoff's.

The Doctor was out, and did not return until almost sunset. When he came, the Master was sitting in the same uncomfortable chair that, with monumental patience, he had occupied for hours.

"Mine friend," said the Master, with solemn joy, "look in mine face and tell me what you see."

"What I see!" repeated the Doctor, mystified; "why, nothing but the same blundering old fellow that I have always seen."

The Master laughed happily. "So? And this blundering old fellow; has nothing come to him?"

"I can't imagine," said the Doctor, shaking his head. "I may be dense, but I fear you will have to tell me."

"So? Then listen! Long since, perhaps, you have known of mine sorrow. Of it I have never said much, because mine old heart was sore, and because mine friend could understand without words."

"Yes," replied the Doctor, eagerly, "I knew that the one you loved was taken away from you while you were both very young."

"Yes. Well, look in mine face once more and tell me what you see."

"You--you haven't found her!" gasped the Doctor, quite beside himself with surprise.

"Precisely," the Master a.s.sured him, with his face beaming.

The Doctor wrung his hand. "Franz, my old friend," he cried, "words cannot tell you how glad I am! Where--who is she?"

"Mine friend," returned the Master, "it is you who are one blundering old fellow. After taking to yourself the errand of telling her that I loved her still, you did not see fit to come back to me with the news that she also cared. Thereby much time has been wrongly spent."

The Doctor grew hot and cold by turns. "You don't mean--" he cried.

"Not--not Mrs. Irving!"