The Master's Violin Part 23

"Mother," began Lynn, after a little, "are we always going to stay in East Lancaster?"

"I haven't thought about it at all, Lynn. Are you becoming discontented?"

"No--I was only looking ahead."

"This is our home--Aunt Peace has given it to us."

"It was ours anyway, wasn't it?"

"In a way, it was, but your grandfather left it to Aunt Peace. If he had not died suddenly he would have changed his will. Mother said he intended to, but he kept putting it off."

"Do you want me to keep on studying the violin?"

Margaret looked up in surprise, but Lynn was pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind him and his head down.

"Why not, dear?" she asked, very gently.

"Well," he sighed, "I don't believe I'm ever going to make anything of it. Of course I can play--Herr Kaufmann says, if it satisfies me to play the music as it is written, he can teach me that much, but he hasn't a very good opinion of me. I'd rather be a first-cla.s.s carpenter than a second-rate violinist, and I'm twenty-three--it's time I was choosing."

Margaret's heart misgave her, but she spoke bravely. "Lynn, look at me."

He turned, and his eyes met hers, openly and unashamed.

"Tell me the truth--do you want to be an artist?"

"Mother, I'd rather be an artist than anything else in the world."

"Then, dear, keep at it, and don't get discouraged. Somebody said once that the only reason for a failure was that the desire to succeed was not strong enough."

Lynn laughed mirthlessly. "If that is so," he said, moodily, "I shall not fail."

"No," she answered, "you shall not fail. I won't let you fail," she added, impulsively. "I know you and I believe in you."

"The worst of it," Lynn went on, "would be to disappoint you."

Margaret drew his tall head down and rubbed her cheek against his. "You could not disappoint me," she said, serenely, "for all I ask of you is your best. Give me that, and I am satisfied."

"You've always had that, mother," he returned, with a forced laugh.

"When you strike a snag, I suppose the only thing to do is to drive on, so we'll let it go at that. I'll keep on, and do the best I can. If worst comes to worst, I can play in a theatre orchestra."

"Don't!" cried Margaret; "you'll never have to do that!"

"Well," sighed Lynn, "you can never tell what's coming, and in the meantime it's almost twelve o'clock."

With the happy faculty of youth, Lynn was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Iris lay with her eyes wide open, staring into the dark, inert and helpless under the influence of that anodyne which comes at the end of a hurt, simply through lack of the power to suffer more. The three letters under her pillow brought a certain sense of comfort. In the midst of the darkness which surrounded her, someone knew, someone understood--loved her, and was content to wait.

Margaret was troubled because of Lynn's disbelief in himself. His sunny self-confidence was apparently put to rout by this new phase. Then she remembered that they had all pa.s.sed through a time of stress, that Lynn, strong and self-reliant as he had been, must have felt it, too, and, moreover, the artistic temperament in itself was inclined to various eccentricities.

Of his future, she never for one moment had any doubt. It was her heart's desire that Lynn should be an artist. Looking back upon her life and upon all that she had suffered, she saw this one boon as full compensation--as her just due. If this bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh might wear the laurel crown of the great, she would be content--would not begrudge the price which she had paid for it.

She smiled ironically at the thought that, while credit was given to some, she had been compelled to pay in advance. "It does not matter,"

she mused, "we must all pay, and it may be all the sweeter because I know that no further payment will be demanded."

She was thinking of it when she fell asleep, and in her dream she stood at a counter with a great throng of people, pus.h.i.+ng and jostling.

Behind the counter was one in the form of a man who appeared to be an angel. His face was serene and calm; he seemed far removed from the pa.s.sions which swayed the mult.i.tude. He conducted his business without hurry or fret, and all the pus.h.i.+ng availed nothing. His voice was clear and high, and had in it a sense of finality. No one questioned him, though many went away grumbling.

"You have come to buy wealth?" he asked. "We have it for sale, but the price of it is your peace of mind. For knowledge, we ask human sympathy; if you take much of it, you lose the capacity to feel with your fellow men. If you take beauty, you must give up your right to love, and take the risk of an ign.o.ble pa.s.sion in its place. If you want fame, you must pay the price of eternal loneliness. For love, you must give self-surrender, and take the hurts of it without complaining. For health, you pay in self-denial and right living. Yes, you may take what you like, and the bill will be collected later, but there is no exchange, and you must buy something. Take as long as you wish to choose, but you must buy and you must pay."

Margaret awoke with his voice thundering in her ears: "You must buy and you must pay." The dream was extraordinarily vivid, and it seemed as though someone shared it with her. It was difficult to believe that it had not actually happened.

"I have bought," she said to herself, "and I have paid. Now it only remains for me to enjoy Lynn's triumph. He will not have to pay--his mother has paid for him."

At breakfast, Iris was more like herself, and Lynn was in good spirits.

"I dreamed all night," he said, cheerily, "and one dream kept coming back. I was buying something somewhere and refusing to pay for it, and there was a row about it. I insisted that the thing was paid for--I don't know what it was, but it was something I wanted."

"We always pay," said Iris, sadly; "but I can't help wondering what I am paying for now."

"Perhaps," suggested Margaret, "you are paying in advance."

Iris brightened, and upon her face came the ghost of a smile. "That may be," she answered.

"Iris," asked Lynn, "will you go out with me this afternoon? You haven't been for a long time."

"I don't think so," she replied, dully. "It is kind of you, but I'm not very strong just now."

"We'll walk slowly," Lynn a.s.sured her, "and it will do you good. Won't you come, just to please me?"

His voice was very tender, and Iris sighed. "I'll see," she said, resignedly; "I don't care what I do."

"At three, then," said Lynn. "I'll get through practising by that time and I'll be waiting for you."

At the appointed time they started, and Margaret waved her hand at them as they went down the path. Iris was so thin and fragile that it seemed as if any pa.s.sing wind might blow her away. Lynn was very careful and considerate.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"I don't care; I don't want to climb, though. Let's keep on level ground."

"Very well, but where? Which way?"

Iris felt the stiff corner of the letter hidden in her gown. "Let's go up the river," she said. "I've never been there and I'd like to go."

So they followed the course of the stream, and the fresh air brought a faint colour into her cheeks. As the giant of old gained strength from his mother earth, Iris revived in the suns.h.i.+ne. The long period of inactivity demanded exertion to balance it.

"It is lovely," she said. "It seems good to be moving around again."

"I'll take you every day," returned Lynn, "if you'll only come. I want to see you happy again."