The Master's Violin Part 21

He stood with his back to the door, looking down upon that marble face.

Margaret was beside him, before he knew of her presence, and when he turned, for once off his guard, she read his secret.

"She never knew," he said, briefly, as though in explanation. "I never dared to tell her. Sometimes I think the lines we draw are false ones--that G.o.d knows best."

"Yes," replied Margaret, unsteadily, "the lines are false, but it is always too late when we find it out."

"Yet a part of the barrier was of His own making. She was infinitely above me. I should have been her slave; I was never meant to be her equal. Still, the thirsty heart will aspire to the waters beyond its reach."

"She knows now," said Margaret.

"Yes, she knows now, and she pardons me for my presumption. I can read it in her face as I stand here."

Margaret choked back a sob. "Come away," she said, with her hand upon his arm, "come away until to-morrow."

"Until to-morrow," he repeated, softly. He closed the door quietly, as though he feared the sound might break her sleep.

Iris was resting, and Margaret tiptoed down into the parlour, where the Doctor sat with his grey head bowed upon his hands. "She knows it now,"

he said again, "and she forgives me. I can feel it in my heart."

"If she had known it before," said Margaret, "things would have been different," but she knew that what she said was untrue.

"No," he returned, shaking his head, "the line was there. You would not know what it is like unless there had been a line between you and the one you loved."

"There was," she answered, hoa.r.s.ely, then her eyes met his.

"You, too?" he asked, unbelieving, but she could not speak. She only bowed her head in a.s.sent. Then his hand grasped hers in full understanding. The false line divided them, also, but in one thing, at least, they were kindred.

"I wish," said the Doctor, after a little, "that we could hide her away before to-morrow. The people she has held herself apart from all her life will come and look at her now that she is helpless."

"That is the irony of it," returned Margaret. "I have even prayed to outlive those I hated, so that they could not come and look at me when I was dead."

"Have you outlived them?"

"Yes," answered Margaret, thickly, "every one."

"You hated someone who drew the false line?"

"Yes."

"And that person is dead?"

"Yes."

"Then," said the Doctor, very gently, "when you have forgiven, the line will be blotted out. The one on the other side of it may be out of your reach forever, but the line will be gone."

The idea was new to her, that she must forgive. She thought of it long afterward, when the house was as quiet as its sleeping mistress, and the pale stars faded to pearl at the hour of dawn.

The third day came; the end of that pitiful period in which we wait, blindly hoping that the miracle of resurrection may be given once more, and the stone be rolled away from our dead.

It was Doctor Brinkerhoff who had the casket closed before the strangers came, and afterward he told Margaret. "She would be thankful," Margaret a.s.sured him, and his eyes filled. "Yes," he answered, huskily, "I believe she would."

They sat together at the head of the stairs, out of sight, and yet within hearing. Lynn sat at one end, still perplexed, and shuddering at the unpleasantness of it all. His mother's hand was in his, and with her left arm she supported Iris, who leaned heavily against her shoulder, broken-hearted. On the other side of Iris was Doctor Brinkerhoff, austere and alone.

From below came the wonderful words of the burial service: "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." It was followed by a beautiful tribute to Aunt Peace--to the countless good deeds of her five and seventy years.

Then there was silence, broken by the m.u.f.fled sound of a string being tightened to harmonise with the piano. Swiftly upon the discordant note, the voice of a violin, strong, clear, and surpa.s.singly sweet, rose in an _Ave Maria_.

Margaret started to her feet. "What is it?" she whispered, hoa.r.s.ely.

"Mother," said Lynn, in a low tone, "don't. It is only Herr Kaufmann. We asked him to play."

"The Cremona!" she muttered. "The Cremona--here--to-day!"

She lay back in her chair with her eyes closed and her mouth quivering.

Lynn held her hand tightly, and Iris breathed hard. Doctor Brinkerhoff listened intently, his heart rejoicing in the beauty of it, because it was done for her.

Deep chords, full and splendid, sounded an ultimate triumph over Death.

The music counselled acceptance, resignation, because of something that lay beyond--indefinite, yet complete rest.i.tution, when the time of its fulfilment should be at hand. Beside it, the individual grief sank into insignificance--it was the sorrow of the world demanding payment for itself from the world's joy.

Something vast and appealing took the place of the finite pa.s.sion, seeking hungrily for its own ends, and in the greatness of it, with heart uplifted, Margaret forgave the dead.

XIII

To Iris

"Daughter of the Marshes, the winds have told me you are sad. If I could, I would bear it for you, but there is no way by which one of us may take another's burden.

"I wish I might come to you, but now, when you are troubled, I will not ask you for a signal, even for a flower on the gate-post. I would always have you happy, dear, if my love could buy it from the Fates--those deep eyes of yours should never be veiled by the mist of tears.

"Do you know where the marsh is, Iris? You have lived in East Lancaster for many years, so the gossips tell me, yet I doubt whether you could find it unless someone showed you the way. To reach it, you must follow the river, through all its turns and windings, for many a weary mile.

"Up in those distant hills, so far that I have never found it, the river begins--perhaps in some tiny pool of crystal clearness. It sings along over its rocky bed until it reaches a low, sandy plain, and here is the marsh. I was there the other day, just at sunset; my heart thrilled with the beauty of it because it is the beauty of you.

"How shall I tell you of the wonder of the marshes, those wide, watery plains embroidered with strange bloom? Tall, slender rushes stand there, bending gracefully when the wind pa.s.ses, and answering with music to the touch. Have you ever heard the song of the marshes when the wind moves through the rushes and plays upon them like strings? Some day, I will take you there, and you shall listen, too, and tell me what you think it means.

"Here and there are pools, set like jewels among the rushes, with never a hint of growth. Sometimes you see a wide sweep of gra.s.s, starred with tiny yellow flowers, or a lily, surrounded by its leaves, drinking in the loveliness of the day and forgetting all the maze of slime and dark water through which it has somehow come. I think our souls are like that, Iris--we grow through the world, with all its darkness, borne upward by unfailing aspiration, until we reach the end, which we have been taught to call Heaven, but which is only blossoming in the light.

"But of all the radiant beauty of marshes, the best is this--that part of it which bears the purple flower of your name. In and out of the rushes, like the thread of a strange tapestry, it winds and wanders, hidden for an instant, maybe, but never lost. I have gathered an armful of the blossoms, and put my face down to them, closing my eyes, and dreaming that it was you--you whom I must ever hold apart as something too beautiful for me to touch--you, whom I can only love from afar.

"I have told you that I would come when the iris bloomed, but now, when the marsh is glorious with the purple banners, I dare not. It is not only because you are sad, though not for worlds would I trouble you now, but because I am afraid.

"Only in my wildest moments do I dare to hope--you were never meant for such as I. By day, I bow my soul before you in shame at my own unworthiness, but at night, like some flaming star which speeds across the uncharted dark, you light the barren country of my dreams.

"I think sometimes that I shall never dare to tell you; that it must be like this, year after year. If you knew your lover, who is so bold and yet so fearful, I think you would cast him aside in scorn. So it is better for me to believe, though that belief has no foundation,--better for me to hope than utterly to despair. Without you, I dare not think what life might be.