The Master's Violin Part 16

"They might be interesting, if not of actual service. I am familiar with much that has been written of foreign lands. We have _Marco Polo's Adventures_ in our library."

The Doctor coughed into his handkerchief. "The world has changed, dear madam, since Marco Polo travelled."

"Yes," she sighed, "it is always changing, and we older ones are left far behind."

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Lynn. "I'll tell you what, Aunt Peace, you're well up at the head of the procession. You're no farther behind than the drum-major is."

"The drum-major, my dear? I do not understand. Is he a military gentleman?"

"He's the boss of the whole shooting match," explained Lynn, inelegantly. "He wears a bear-skin bonnet and tickles the music out of the band. If it weren't for him, the whole show would go up in smoke."

"Lynn!" said Margaret, reprovingly. "What language! Aunt Peace cannot understand you!"

"I'll bet on Aunt Peace," remarked Lynn, sagely.

"I fear I am not quite abreast of the times," said the old lady. "Do you think, Doctor, that the world grows better, or worse?"

"Better, madam, steadily better. I can see it every day."

"It is well for one to think so," observed Margaret, "whatever the facts may be."

Midsummer and moonlight made enchantment in the garden. Merlin himself could have done no more. The house, half hidden in the shadow, stood waiting, as it had done for two centuries, while those who belonged under its roof made holiday outside. Most of them had gone forever, and only their portraits were left, but, replete with memories both happy and sad, the house could not be said to be alone.

The tall pine threw its gloom far beyond them, and the moonlight touched Aunt Peace caressingly. Her silvered hair gleamed with unearthly beauty and her serene eyes gave sweet significance to her name. All those she cared for were about her--daughter and friends.

"Nights like this," said the Doctor, dreamily, "make one think of the old fairy tales. Elves and witches are not impossible, when the moon s.h.i.+nes like this."

Lynn looked across the garden to the rose-bush, where a cobweb, dew-impearled, had captured a bit of wandering rainbow. "They are far from impossible," he answered. "I think they were here only the other night, for in the morning, when I went out to look at my vegetables, I found something queer among the leaves."

"Something queer, my dear?" asked Aunt Peace, with interest. "What was it?"

"A leaf of rosemary and a sprig of mignonette, tied round with a blade of gra.s.s and wet with dew."

"How strange," said Margaret. "How could it have happened?"

"Rosemary," said Aunt Peace, "that means remembrance, and the mignonette means the hope of love. A very pretty message for a fairy to leave among your vegetables."

"Very pretty," repeated the Doctor, nodding appreciation.

Iris feared they heard the loud beating of her heart. "What do you think?" asked Lynn, turning to her. "Was it a fairy?"

"Of course," she returned, with a.s.sumed indifference. "Who else?"

There was silence then, and in the house the clock struck ten. They heard it plainly, and the Doctor, with a start of recollection, took out his huge silver watch.

"I had no idea it was so late," he said. "I must go."

"One moment, Doctor," began Miss Field, putting out a restraining hand.

"Let me offer you some refreshment before you start upon that long walk.

Iris?"

"Yes, Aunt Peace."

"Those little cakes that we had for tea--there may be one or two left--and is there not a little wine?"

"I'll see."

Lynn followed her, and presently they came back, with the Royal Worcester plate piled generously with cakes, and a decanter of the port that was famous throughout East Lancaster.

With a smile upon her lips, the old lady leaned forward, into the moonlight, gla.s.s in hand. The brim of another touched it and the clear ring of crystal seemed carried afar into the night.

"To your good health, madam."

"And to your prosperity."

"This has been very charming," said the Doctor, as he brushed away the crumbs, "and now, my dear Miss Iris, may we not hope for a song?"

"Which one?"

"'Annie Laurie,' if you please."

Iris went in, and Margaret made a move to follow her. "Don't go, mother," said Lynn, "let's stay here."

"I'm afraid Aunt Peace will take cold."

"No, dearie, I have my shawl. Let me be young again, just for to-night, with no fear of draughts or colds. Midsummer has never hurt anyone, and, as Doctor Brinkerhoff says, the good fairies are abroad to-night."

The old-fas.h.i.+oned ballad took on new beauty and meaning. Mellowed by the distance, the girl's deep contralto was surpa.s.singly tender and sweet.

When she came out, the others were silent, with the spell of her song still upon them.

"A good voice," said Lynn, half to himself. "She should study."

"Iris has had lessons," returned Aunt Peace, with gentle dignity, "and her voice pleases her friends. What is there beyond that?"

"Fame," said Lynn.

"Fame is the love of the many," Aunt Peace rejoined, "and counts for no more than the love of the few. The great ones have said it was barren, and my little girl will be better off here."

As she spoke, she put her arm around Iris, and they went to the house together. At the steps, there was a pause, and Doctor Brinkerhoff said good night.

"It has been perfect," said Miss Field, as she gave him her hand. "If this were to be my last night on earth, I could not ask for more--my beautiful garden, with the moonlight s.h.i.+ning upon it, music, and my best friends."

The Doctor was touched, and bent low over her hand, pressing it ever so lightly with his lips. "I thank you, dear madam," he answered, gently, "for the happiest evening I have ever spent."

"Come again, then," she said, graciously, with a happy little laugh.

"The years stretch fair before us, when one is but seventy-five!"