XVIII
Lynn Comes Into His Own
At the post-office there was a letter for Mrs. Irving. Lynn took it,with a lump rising in his throat, for, though he had never seen herhandwriting, he knew, through a sixth sense, that it was from Iris.Evidently, it was a brief communication, for the envelope contained notmore than a single sheet. The straight, precise slope of the address hadan old-fashioned air. It was very different from the modern angular handwhich demands a whole line for two or three words.
In some way, it brought her nearer to him, and in the shadow of themaple, just outside the house, he kissed the superscription before hetook it in.
He waited, consciously, while his mother read it. It was little morethan a note, saying that she was established in a hall bedroom in acity boarding-house, where she had the use of the piano in the parlour,and that she was taking two lessons a week and practising a great deal.She gave the name of her teacher, said she was well, and sent kindremembrances to all who might inquire for her.
With a woman's insight, Margaret read heartache between the lines. Sheknew that the note was brief because Iris did not dare to trust herselfto write more. There was no mention of Lynn, but it was not because shehad forgotten him.
Margaret gave the letter to Lynn, then turned away, that she might notsee his face. "I shall write this afternoon," she said. "Shall I sendany message for you?"
"No," returned Lynn, with a short, bitter laugh, "I have no message tosend."
Her heart ached in sympathy, for by her own sorrow she measured thedepth of his. She knew that the elasticity of youth would failhere--that Lynn was not of those who forget.
"Son," she said, gently, "I wish I might bear it for you."
"I wouldn't let you, mother, even if you could. You have had enough asit is. Herr Kaufmann says you have always shielded me and that it was amistake."
Had it been a mistake? Margaret thought it over after Lynn went away.She had shielded him--that was true. He had never learned by painfulexperience anything from which she had the power to save him. If hisfather had lived----
For the first time, Margaret thought of her freedom as a doubtfulblessing. Then, once more, she took the jewelled thought from itshiding-place in her inmost heart. There was no hint of alloy there--itwas radiant with its own unspeakable beauty.
Lynn went to the post-office to mail the letter. East Lancasterconsidered post-boxes modern innovations which were reckless andunjustifiable. Suppose a stranger should be passing through EastLancaster, break open a post-box, and feloniously extract a privateletter? What if the box should blow away? When a letter was placed inthe hands of the accredited representative of the Government, one mightbe sure that it was safe, but not otherwise.
Doctor Brinkerhoff was talking with the postmaster, but he left him tospeak to Lynn. "Miss Iris," he began, eagerly, "you have perhaps heardfrom her?"
"Yes," answered Lynn, dully, fingering the letter.
"Is she quite well?"
Briefly, Lynn told him what Iris had written.
"It was kind to send remembrances to all who might inquire," mused theDoctor. "That is like my foster-daughter; she is always thinking ofothers. She knew that I would be the first to ask. If you will give methe address, it will be a pleasure to me to write to her. She must bequite lonely where she is."
Lynn told him. Her letter was at home, but every syllable of it, eventhe prosaic address, was written in letters of fire upon his brain.
"Thank you," said the Doctor, as he took it down in his memorandum book;"I shall write to-night. Shall I give her any word from you?"
"No!" cried Lynn.
"Ah," laughed the Doctor, "I understand. You write yourself. Well, Iwill tell her a letter is coming. Good afternoon!"
He moved away, leaving Lynn cold from head to foot. He was tempted tocall the Doctor back, to ask him not to mention his name to Iris, thenhe reflected that an explanation would be necessary. In any event, Iriswould understand. She would know that he did not intend to write--thathe had sent no message.
But, three days later, it was fated that Iris should tremble at thesight of Lynn's name in a letter from East Lancaster. "I think he willwrite soon," Doctor Brinkerhoff had said. "Mr. Irving is a very finegentleman and I have deep respect for him."
"Write to me!" repeated Iris. "He would not dare! Why should he write tome?" She put the letter aside and read over those three anonymouscommunications of Lynn's, making a vain effort to associate them withhis personality.
Meanwhile, Lynn was learning endurance. He slept but fitfully, awakingalways with the sense of choking and of a hand pulling at his heart. Hesaw Iris everywhere. There was no room in the house, except his own,that was not full of her and of the faint, elusive perfume which seemeda part of her. Sometimes those ghostly images haunted him until hecould bear no more. Margaret often saw him throw down the book he wasreading and dash outdoors. For an hour, perhaps, he had not turned apage, and the book was a flimsy pretence at best.
He had not touched his violin since Iris went away. More than anythingelse, it spoke to him of her. "Trickster with the violin" seemed writtenupon it for all the world to read. Dimly, he knew that work was the onlypanacea for heartache, but he could not bring himself to go on with hismechanical practising.
Summer was drawing to its close. Already there was a single scarletbough in the maple at the gate, where the frost had set its signal andits promise of return. Many of the birds had gone, and fairy craft ofwinged seeds, the sport of every wind, drifted aimlessly about in searchof some final harbour.
Strangely, Lynn rather avoided his mother. He felt her sympathy, hercomprehension, and yet he shrank from her. She was gentle and patient,responded readily to his every mood, and rarely offered a caress, yet hecontinually shrank back within himself.
He had made no friends in East Lancaster, though he knew one or twoyoung men near his own age, but he kept so far aloof from them that theyhad long since ceased to seek him out. He kept away from DoctorBrinkerhoff, fearing talk of Iris, or some new complication, and eventhe postmaster's kindly sallies fell upon deaf ears. He, too, missedIris, and often inquired for her, though he could not have failed tonote that no letters came for Lynn.
Almost in the first of the hurt, when it seemed the hardest to bear, hehad wondered whether it could be any worse if Iris were dead. All atonce, he knew that it would be; that the cold hand and the quiet heartwere the supreme anguish of loving, because there was no longer anypossibility of change. Swiftly, he understood how Iris had felt whenAunt Peace died and he stood by, indifferent and unmoved.
In tardy atonement, he covered the grave in the churchyard withflowers--the goldenrod and purple aster that marched side by side overthe hills to meet the frost, gay and fearless to the last.
He saw himself as he had been then, and his heart grew hot with shame."I don't wonder she called me a clod," he said to himself, "for that iswhat I was."
In the maze of darkness through which he somehow lived, there was butone ray of comfort--the Master. Lynn felt, vaguely, that here wassomething upon which he might lean. He did not perceive that it was hisown individuality which Herr Kaufmann had in some way awakened, so proneare we to confuse the person with the thing, the thought with the deed.
Day after day, he tramped over the hills around East Lancaster; day byday, footsore and weary, he sought for peace along those sunlit fields.At night, desperately tired and faint with hunger, he crept home, wherehe slept uneasily, waking always with that hand of terror clutching athis heart.
He went most frequently to the pile of rocks in the woods, a mile ormore from the house. There were no signs upon the bare earth around it;seemingly no one went there but Lynn. Yet the suggestion of an altar wasopenly made, from the wide ledge at the foundation, where one mightkneel, to the cross at the summit, rude, stern, and forbidding,chiselled in the rock.
Here, many times, Lynn had found comfort. Someone else, whose heartswelled, burned, and tried to escape, had cut that cross upon
thegranite. Thus he came, by slow degrees, into an intimate, invisiblecompanionship.
Herr Kaufmann had ceased to speak of lessons, though Lynn went theresometimes and sat by while he worked. The Master had admitted him tothat high fellowship which does not demand speech. For an hour or more,Lynn might sit there, watching, and yet no word would be spoken. As withDr. Brinkerhoff, there were occasional visits in which nothing was saidbut "Good afternoon" and "Good-bye."
Fraeulein Fredrika was always busy overhead with her manifold householdtasks, and seldom disturbed them by coming into the shop. Lynn wonderedif the house was never clean, and once put the question to HerrKaufmann.
"Mine house is always clean," he answered, "except down here. Twice inevery year, I allow Fredrika to come in mine shop with her cloths andher brush and her pails. The rest of the time, it is mine own. If shecould clean here all the time, as upstairs, I think she would be morehappy. If you like to come in mine shop when I am not here, I amwilling. It is one quiet place where one can rest undisturbed and thinkof many things. Fredrika would not care."
Weeks later, Lynn thought of the kindly offer. A storm was coming up,and he remembered that the Master had spoken of driving to another townwith Dr. Brinkerhoff. "I have one violin," he had explained, "which wasordered long ago and which is now finished. While the Herr Doctor visitsthe sick, I will go on with mine instrument and perhaps obtain one morepupil."
Fraeulein Fredrika answered his ring, and he asked, conventionally, forHerr Kaufmann. "Mine brudder is not home," she said. "He will have goneaway, but I think not for long. You will perhaps come in and wait?"
"I will not disturb you," replied Lynn. "I will go down in the shop."
"But no," returned the Fraeulein, coaxingly. "Will you not stay with me?I am with the loneliness when mine brudder is away. You will sit withme? Yes? It will be most kind!"
Thus entreated, he could not refuse, and he sat down in the parlour,awkward and ill at ease. His hostess at once proceeded to entertainhim.
"You think it will rain, yes?" she asked.
"Yes, I think so."
"Well, I do not," returned the Fraeulein, smiling. "I always think thebest. Let us wait and see which is right."
"We need rain," objected Lynn, turning uneasily in his chair.
"But not when mine brudder is out. He and the Herr Doctor will have gonefor a long drive. Mine brudder have finished one fine violin and theHerr Doctor will visit the sick. Mine brudder's friend possesses greatskill."
Lynn looked moodily past her and out of the window. The Fraeulein changedher tactics. "You have not seen mine new clothes-brush," she suggested.
"No," returned Lynn, unthinkingly, "I haven't."
"Then I will get him."
She came back, presently, and put it into Lynn's hand. It was made ofthree strands of heavy rope, braided, looped to form a handle, tied witha blue ribbon, and ravelled at the ends. "See," she said, "is it notmost beautiful?"
"Yes," agreed Lynn, absently.
"Miss Iris have told me how to make him."
Lynn came to himself with a start. "And this," she went on, pointing tothe gilded potato-masher that hung under the swinging lamp, "andthis,--but no, it is you who have made this for me. Miss Iris showed youhow." She pointed to the butterfly made so long ago, but still in itspristine glory.
He said nothing, but by his face Fraeulein Fredrika saw that she had madea mistake--that she had somehow been clumsy. After all, it was verydifficult, this conversing with gentlemen. Franz was easy to get alongwith, but the others? She shook her head in despair, and immediatelyrelinquished the thought of entertaining Lynn.
She could not tell him that she had changed her mind, that she no longerwanted him to sit with her, and that he could go down in the shop towait for Herr Kaufmann. Painfully, in the silence, she consideredseveral expedients, and at last her face brightened.
"Now that you are here," she said, "to guard mine house, it will be of apossibility for me to go out for some vegetables for mine brudder'sdinner. He will have been very hungry from his long ride, and you see itis not going to rain. You will excuse me for a short time, yes?"
"Gladly," answered Lynn, with sincerity.
"Then I need not fear to go. It will be most kind."
She had been gone but a few minutes when the storm broke. Lynn saw thewild rain sweep across the valley with a sense of peaceful securitywhich was quite new to him. For some time, now, he would bealone--alone, and yet sheltered from the storm.
Very often, after a deep experience, one looks upon the inanimate thingswhich were present at the beginning of it with wondering curiosity. Thecrazy jug, the purple tidy embroidered with pink roses, and the gildedpotato-masher which swung back and forth when the wind shook the house,were strangely linked with Destiny.
Here he had thoughtlessly touched the Cremona, and, for the time being,made an enemy of the Fraeulein. Her dislike of him abated only when heand Iris made her the hideous paper butterfly which illuminated acorner. A flash of memory took him back to the day they made it, alone,in the big dining-room. He saw the sweet seriousness in the girl's faceas she glued on the antennae, having chosen proper bits of an old ostrichfeather for the purpose.
And now, the dining-room was empty, save of the haunting shadows. AuntPeace was at rest in the churchyard, the fever at an end, and Iris--Irishad gone, leaving desolation in her wake.
Only the butterfly remained--the flimsy, fragile thing that any passingwind might easily have destroyed. The finer things of the spirit, thatare supposed to be permanent, had vanished. In their place, there wasonly a heartache, which waxed greater as the days went by, and throughthe long nights which brought no surcease of pain.
In the beginning, Lynn had felt himself absolutely alone. Now he beganto perceive that he had been taken into an invisible brotherhood. He waslike one in a crowded playhouse when the lights go out, isolated to allintents and purposes, and yet conscious that others are near him,sharing his emotions.
The thunders boomed across the valley and the lightnings rived theclouds. The grey rain swirled against the windows and the house swayedin the wind. Then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ceased,and Lynn smiled.
Diamonds dripped from every twig, and the grass was full of them. Thelaughter of happy children came to his ears, and a rainbow of livinglight spanned the valley. Its floating draperies overhung the topmostbranches of the trees on the crest of the opposite hill, and picked outhere and there a jewel--a ruby, an opal, or an emerald, set in thesilvered framework of the leaves.
Lynn sighed heavily, for the beauty of it sent the old, remorseless painto surging through his heart. The Master's violin lay on the piano nearhim, and he took it up, noting only that it was not the Cremona.
As his fingers touched the strings, there came a sense of familiaritywith the instrument, as one who meets a friend after a long separation.He tightened the strings, picked up the bow, and began to play.
It was the adagio movement of the concerto--the one which Herr Kaufmannhad said was full of heartache and tears. In all the literature ofmusic, there was nothing so well suited to his mood.
He stood with his face to the window, his eyes still fixed upon therainbow, and deep, quivering tunes came from the violin. In an instant,Lynn recognised his mastery. He was playing as the great had playedbefore him, with passion and with infinite pain.
All the beauty of the world was a part of it--the sun, the wide fieldsof clover, and the Summer rain. Moonlight and the sound of many waters,the unutterable midnights of the universe, Iris and the beauty of themarshes, where her name-flower, like a thread of purple, embroidered aroyal tapestry. Beyond this still was the beauty of the spirit, whichbelieves all things, suffers all things, and triumphs at last throughits suffering and its belief.
Primal forces spoke through the adagio, swelling into splendidchords--love and night and death. It was the cry of a soul in bondage,straining to be free; struggling to break the chain and take its place,by right of its
knowledge and its compassion, with those who havelearned to live.
Lynn was quivering like an aspen in a storm, and he breathed heavily.Through the majestic crescendo came that deathless message: "Endure, andthou shalt triumph; wait, and thou shalt see." Like an undercurrent,too, was the inseparable mystery of pain.
Under the spell of the music, he saw it all--the wide working of the lawwhich takes no account of the finite because it deals with the infinite;which takes no heed of the individual because it guards us all. Farremoved from its personal significance, his grief became his friend--thekeynote, the password, the countersign admitting him to that vastValhalla where the shining souls of the immortals, outgrowing defeat,have put on the garments of Victory.
Sunset took the rainbow and made it into flame. Once more Lynn playedthe adagio, instinct with its world-old story, voicing its world-oldlaw. He was so keenly alive that the strings cut into his fingers, yethe played on, fully comprehending, fully believing, through the splendidchords of the crescendo to the end.
Then there was a faltering step upon the stair, a fumbling at the latch,and someone staggered into the room. It was the Master, blind withtears, his loved Cremona in his outstretched hands.
"Here!" he cried, brokenly. "Son of mine heart! Play!"