XIX
The Secret Chamber
"He loves her still." The memory of the words carried balm to Margaret'ssore heart. There could be no mistake, for Doctor Brinkerhoff had beenpositive. It was absolutely, beautifully true. Believing all the timethat he had forgotten, she was now proved false.
Swiftly upon the thought came another which sent the blood to her face.In all the time she had been in East Lancaster, she had feared that hemight in some way learn of her presence, and now there was nothing shedesired so much. Had Aunt Peace lived, she would scarcely have dared tocontinue the acquaintance, for, like Doctor Brinkerhoff, the Master waswithout "social position."
Iris, too, had gone--no one need know but Lynn. Herr Kaufmann did notknow the name of the man she had married, and he thought Lynn's mothera stranger. It would be very simple to write the Master a note, sayingthat he had been so good to Lynn and had done so much for him that hismother would like to express her appreciation personally, and end byasking him to call.
But would the old promise still keep him away? As though it wereyesterday, Margaret remembered her mother as she sternly demanded fromFranz his promise never to enter the house again--and Franz was one whoalways kept his word.
Then she reflected that on the day when Aunt Peace received guests forthe last time he had been there, in that very house, with the Cremona,which had separated them in the beginning and, years later, so strangelybrought them together.
Doctor Brinkerhoff had asked permission to bring his friend, and itwould be so simple to give it. So easy to say: "Doctor, it would give mepleasure to meet your friend, Herr Kaufmann. Will you not bring him withyou next Wednesday evening?" But, after all the years, all the sorrowthat lay between them, would she wish Doctor Brinkerhoff to be there?Was it not also taking an unfair advantage of the Master, to send forhim, and then suddenly confront him with his sweetheart of long ago?Margaret put the plan aside without further thought.
And Lynn--would she wish Lynn to bring Herr Kaufmann? Would she want herson to tell him that she was the woman he had loved in vain a quarter ofa century ago? Margaret flushed crimson as she imagined the meeting.Lynn did not know that it was the Master--only that she had cared forsomeone whom she did not marry. Would she wish Lynn to stand by,surprised and perhaps troubled? Her heart answered no.
The note, too, would be an unfair advantage. He would not know "MargaretIrving," and she could not well write that they had once loved eachother. After all, she had only Doctor Brinkerhoff's word for it, and hemight be mistaken. Even the Master might be labouring under adelusion--might only think he cared.
The after-meetings are often pathetic, between those who have loved inyouth. Circumstance parts two who vow undying devotion, and one,perhaps, remains faithful, while the other forgets. Sometimes, bothmarry elsewhere, each with the other's image securely hidden in thosesecret chambers of the heart, which twilight and music serve best toopen.
Time, that kindly magician, softens the harsh outlines, eliminates everydefect, and, by his wondrous alchemy, transmutes the real to the ideal.Thus in one's inmost soul is enshrined the old love, with countlessother precious things.
Rue lies at the threshold, for Regret, like a sentinel, guards the door,and to enter, one must first make peace with Regret. The labyrinthinepassages are hung with shining fabrics, woven of long-dead dreams. Thefloor is deeply hidden with rosemary, that homely, fragrant herb whichmeans remembrance. The light is that of a stained-glass window, wherethe sun streams through many colours, and illumines the utmost recesseswith a rainbow gleam.
Costly vessels are there, holding Heart's Desire, which must wait forits fulfilment until immortal dawn. Heart's Belief is in a chest, laidaway with lavender, but the lock is rusty and does not readily yield.Heart's Love, sweet with spikenard, waits near the door, so eager topass the threshold, where stands Regret!
Memory's jewels are there, in many a casket of cunning workmanship,where the dust never lies. Emeralds made of the "green pastures and thestill waters"; sapphires that were born of sun and sea. Topazes of thegolden glow that comes after a rain; diamonds of the white light ofnoon. Rubies that have stolen their colour from the warm blood of theheart, gladly giving its deepest love. Amethysts made of dead violets,still hinting that perishable fragrance which, perhaps, like a singleprecious drop, still lives within, forever out of the reach of decay.Opals made from changeful flame, of irised fancies that lived but forthe space of a thought, then passed away. Linked together by a thousandperfect moments, these jewels of Memory wait for the quiet hour whenone's fingers lift them from their hiding-place, and one's eyes,forgetting tears, shine with the old joy.
The petals of crimson roses, long since crushed and dead, rustle softlyfrom the shadow when the door of the secret chamber opens. Melodiesstart from the silence and breathe the haunting measures of some lostsong. Letters, ragged and worn, with the tint of old ivory upon theireloquent pages, whisper still: "I love you," though the hand that pennedthe tender message has long since been folded, with its mate, upon thequiet heart.
When the world has proved forbidding, when love has been unresponsive,and friendship has failed, one steals to the secret chamber with a senseof sanctuary. Past Regret, stern, unyielding, and austere, one goessilently, having given the password, and enters in.
The fragrant herbs and the rose petals bring balm to the tired heart,that heart which has loved so vainly, has tried so faithfully, andfailed. The ghosts of dreams, woven in the tapestries that hide thewalls, come back to touch the roughened fingers of the one who followedout the Pattern, in the midst of blinding tears. All the music that hassoothed and comforted, trembles once more from muted strings. Thework-worn hands, made old and hard by unselfish toil, become fair andsmooth at a lover's kiss of long ago. After an hour in the secretchamber, when Mnemosyne, singing, brings forth her treasures, one goesback, serene and fearless, to meet whatever may come.
* * * * *
Margaret came from her secret chamber with a smile upon her lips. Inthat one hour, she had finally parted with all bitterness, all senseof loss. After twenty-five years of heart hunger and disappointment,she had put it all aside, and come into her heritage of content.
She began to consider Herr Kaufmann again. After all, what was thereto be gained? She might be disappointed in him, or he might bedisillusioned in regard to her. She remembered what a friend had oncetold her, years ago.
"My dear," she had said, "there is one thing in my life for which I havenever ceased to be thankful. When I was very young, I fell in love witha boy of my own age, and our parents, by separating us, kept us frommaking a hasty marriage. I did not forget, but later I met a man who wasmuch better suited to me in every way, whom I liked and thoroughlyrespected, and of whom my mother approved. But, secretly, I cherishedthis old love until one day a lucky chance brought me face to face withhim. In an instant, the whole thing was gone, and I laughed at myfolly--laughed because I was free. I married the other, and I have beena very happy wife--far happier than I should have been had I continuedto believe myself in love with a memory."
There was truth in it, Margaret reflected. She went over to her mirrorand sat down before it, to study her face. She was forty-five, and thebloom of youth was gone. The grey threads at her temples and around herlow brow softened her face, where Time had left the prints of hispassing. Her eyes, that had once been merry, were sad now, and thecorners of her mouth drooped a little. She turned away from the mirrorwith a sigh, wondering if, after all, the dreams were not the best.
Moreover, the womanly instinct asserted itself. To be sought and neverto do the seeking, to hold one's self high and apart, to be earned butnever given--this feeling, so long in abeyance, returned to its rightfulplace.
When the years bring wisdom, one learns to leave many problems to theirown working out. Margaret determined not to interfere with the complexundercurrents which, like subterranean rivers, lie beneath our dailyliving. It might happen or it might not, but she
would not seek tocontrol the subtle forces which forever work secretly toward thefulfilling of the law. To live on from day to day, making the best ofit,--this is a simple creed, but no one yet has found it unsatisfactory.
Lynn came in and went straight to his room. Margaret heard him walkingback and forth, as if in search of something. He tuned his violin andshe rejoiced, because at last he had turned to his practise.
But it was not practising that she heard. It was the concerto, everymeasure of which she knew by heart. With the first notes, she felt a newauthority, a new grasp, and began to wonder if it were really Lynn. Sheleaned forward, her body tense, to listen.
When he came to the adagio, the hot tears blinded her. Lynn, her boy, toplay like this! Her mother's heart beat high in an ecstasy of gratitudefor the full payment, the granting of her heart's desire.
The deep tones stirred her very soul. The passion of it made hertremble, the beauty of it made her afraid. Wondering, she saw theworking out of it,--that at the very hour when she had surrendered, hadgiven up, had cast aside her bitterness forever, Lynn had come into hisown.
With splendid dignity, with exquisite phrasing, with masterfulinterpretation, the concerto moved to its end. It left her faint, herheart wildly beating. Through Lynn, Franz had worked out her salvation,her atonement; through Lynn full payment had been made.
When he came out of his room, she was in the hall, her face alight withher great happiness. "Lynn!" she cried. A world of meaning was in thename.
"I know," he returned, but all the youth was gone out of his voice. Atonce she realised that he had crossed the dividing line, that, even toher, he was no longer a child, but a man.
He went past her, walked downstairs slowly, and went out. "Poor lad!"she murmured; "poor soul!" Lynn, too, had paid the price--was it needfulthat both should pay?
But, none the less, the fact remained; the boon had been granted andfull payment made, in each instance the same payment. She had paid withlong years of heart-hunger, which only now had ceased. Lynn's yearsstill lay before him.
A sob choked her. Was not the price too high? Must he bear what she hadborne for these five and twenty years? With all the passion of hermotherhood, she yearned to shield him; to eke out, in the remainder ofher days, the remorseless balance against Lynn.
But in the working of that law there is no discrimination--the price isfixed and unalterable, the payment merciless and sure. There is noescape for the individual; it is continually the sacrifice of the onefor the many, the part for the whole.
Try as she would, Margaret could not go back. She could not, for Lynn'ssake, take up the burden she had laid down, in the futile effort to bearmore. From her, no more would be accepted, so much was plain. The restmust come from Lynn.
Her heart ached for him, but there was nothing she could do, except tostand aside and watch, while his broad shoulders grew accustomed totheir load. A wild impulse seized her to go to the city, find Iris,bring her back, even unwillingly, and literally force her to marryLynn. But that was not what Lynn wanted, and Margaret herself had beenforced into a marriage. Clearly, at last, she saw that she must remainpassive, and cultivate resignation.
The hours went by and Lynn did not return. She well knew the mood inwhich he had gone away. At night, white-faced and weary, with his eyesgleaming strangely, he would come back, refuse to eat, and lock himselfinto his room. It had been so for a long time and it would be so until,through the slow working of the inner forces, he stepped over theboundary that his mother had just crossed.
White noon ascended the arch of the heavens, blazed a moment at thezenith, and then went on. The golden hours followed, each one making theshadows a little longer, the earth more radiant, if that could be.
Upon the hills were set the blood-red seals of the frost. Every maple,robed in glory, had taken on the garments of royalty. The air shimmeredwith the amethystine haze of Indian Summer, that veil of luminous mist,vibrant with colour, which Autumn weaves on her loom.
Margaret went out, leaving the door ajar for Lynn. There were few keysin East Lancaster. A locked door was discourteous--a reflection upon theintegrity of one's neighbours.
From the elms the yellow leaves were dropping, like telegrams from thehigh places, saying that Summer had gone. She turned at the corner andwent east, the long light throwing her shadow well before her. "Itis like Life," she mused, smiling; "we go through it, followingshadows--things that vanish when there is a shifting of the light."
Across the clover fields, where the dried blossoms stirred in theirsleep as she passed, through the upland pastures, stony and barren,with the pools overgrown, through a fallow field, shorn of its harvest,where only the tiny lace-makers spread their webs amidst the stubble,Margaret's way was all familiar, and yet sadly changed.
A meadow-lark, the last one of his kind, winged a leisurely waysouthward, singing as he flew. A squirrel flaunted his bushy tail, gaveher a daring backward glance, and scurried up a tree. She laughed, andpaused at the entrance to the forest.
Once she had stood there, thrilled to her inmost soul. Again she hadwaited there, white to the lips with pain. Now she had outgrown it,had learned peace, and the long years slipped away, each with its ownburden.
The wood was exquisitely still. A nut dropped now and then, and abelated bird called to its mate. The swift patter of fairy feet echoedand re-echoed through the long aisles. The air was crystalline, yet fullof colour, and the gold and crimson leaves floated idly back and forth.It needed only a passing wind, at the right moment and from the rightplace, to make a rainbow then and there.
She went farther into the wood, with a sense of friendliness for thewell-known way. Just at the turn of the path, she stopped, amazed. Attheir trysting-place, where the wide rock was laid at the foot of theoak, someone had reared an altar and blazoned a cross upon the stone.
Her eyes filled, for she knew who had made it, that symbol of sacrifice.Weather-worn and moss-grown, it must have stood for the whole of thefive and twenty years. There was no word, no inscription--only thecross, but for her it was enough.
"To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, to kiss the cross!" The last measuresof the song reverberated through her memory, as Iris had sung it in herdeep contralto, so long ago.
Sobbing, she knelt, with her lips against the symbol, then suddenlystarted to her feet, for there was a step upon the path.
For a blinding instant, they faced each other, unbelieving, then theMaster opened his arms.
"Beloved," he breathed, "is it thou?"