The Master's Violin Part 26

"I'm here," said Iris, frostily, "but that isn't my name."

The timid little voice thrilled him with a great tenderness, and he quickly possessed himself of her hand. "Iris, darling," he went on, "why do you avoid me? I have been miserable ever since I told you I wrote the letters."

"It was wrong to write them," she said.

"Why, dear?"

"Because."

"Didn't you like them?"

"No."

"I didn't think you were displeased." He was too chivalrous to remind her of that moonlight night.

"It was very wrong," she repeated, stubbornly.

"Then forgive me."

"It's nothing to me," she returned, unmoved.

"I hoped it would be," said Lynn, gently. "Every time, I walked over to the next town to mail them. I knew you hadn't seen any of my writing, and I was sure you wouldn't suspect me."

"Nice advantage to take of a girl, wasn't it?" demanded Iris, her temper rising.

She rose and started toward the door, but Lynn kept her back. The starlight showed him her face, white and troubled. "Sweetheart," he said, "listen. Just a moment, dear--that isn't much to ask, is it? If it was wrong to write the letters, then I ask you to forgive me, but every word was true. I love you, Iris--I love you with all my heart."

"With all your heart," she repeated, scornfully. "You have no heart!"

"Iris," he said, unsteadily, "what do you mean?"

"This," she cried, in a pa.s.sion. "You have no more feeling than the ground beneath your feet! Haven't I seen, haven't I known? Aunt Peace died, and you did not care--you only thought it was unpleasant. You play like a machine, a mountebank. Tricks with the violin--tricks with words!

And yet you dare to say you love me!"

"Iris! Darling!" cried Lynn, stung to the quick. "Don't!"

"Once for all I will have my say. To-morrow I go out of your house forever. I have no right here, no place. I am an intruder, and I am going away. You will never see me again, never as long as you live. You, a machine, a clod, a trickster, a thing without a heart--you shall not insult me again!"

White to the lips, trembling like a leaf, Iris shook herself free and ran up to her room.

Lynn drew a long, shuddering breath. "G.o.d!" he whispered, clenching his hands tightly. "G.o.d!"

XVI

Afraid of Life

She kept her word. To Mrs. Irving she merely said that she had already trespa.s.sed too long upon their hospitality, and that she thought it best to go away. She had talked with Herr Kaufmann, and he had advised her to go to the city and have her voice trained. Yes, she would write, and would always think of them kindly.

Lynn, who had pa.s.sed the first sleepless night of his life, went to the train with her, but few words were spoken. Iris was cool, dignified, and cruelly formal. An immeasurable distance lay between them, and one, at least, made no effort to lessen it.

They had only a few minutes to wait, and, just as the train came in sight, Lynn bent over her. "Iris," he said, unsteadily, "if you ever want me, will you promise me that you will let me know?"

"Yes," she replied, with an incredulous laugh, "if I ever want you, I will let you know."

"I will go to you," said Lynn, struggling for his self-control, "from the very end of the world. Just send me the one word: 'Come.' And let me thank you now for all the happiness you have given me, and for the memory of you, which I shall have in my heart for always."

"You are quite welcome," she returned, frigidly. "You--" but the roar of the train mercifully drowned her words.

The sun still shone, the birds did not cease their singing. Outwardly, the world was just as fair, even though Iris had gone. Lynn walked away blindly, no longer dull, but keenly alive to his hurt.

From the crucible of Eternity, Time, the magician, draws the days. Some are wholly made of beauty; of wide sunlit reaches and cool silences.

Some of dreams and twilight, with roses breathing fragrance through the dusk. Some of darkness, wild and terrible, lighted only by a single star. Others still of riving lightnings and vast, reverberating thunders, while the heart, swelled to bursting, breaks on the reef of Pain.

It seemed as though Lynn's heart were rising in an effort to escape. "I must keep it down," he thought. It was like an imprisoned bird, cut, bruised, and bleeding, beating against the walls of flesh. And yet, there was a hand upon it, and the iron fingers clutched unmercifully.

Iris had gone, and the dream was at an end. Iris had gone, flouting him to the last, calling his love an insult. "Machine--clod--mountebank"-- the bitter words rang through his consciousness again and again.

It might be true, part of it at least. Herr Kaufmann had told him, more than once, that he played like a machine. Clod? Possibly. Mountebank?

That might be, too. Trickster with the violin, trickster with words?

Perhaps. But a thing without a heart? Lynn laughed bitterly and put his hand against his breast to quiet the throbbing.

No one knew--no one must ever know. Iris would not betray him, he was sure of that, but he must be on his guard lest he should betray himself.

He must hide it, must keep on living, and appear to be the same. His mother's keen eyes must see nothing amiss. Fortunately, he could be alone a great deal--outdoors, or practising, and at night. He shuddered at the white night through which he had somehow lived, and wondered how many more would follow in its train.

Suddenly, he remembered that it was his lesson day, and he was not prepared. Common courtesy demanded that he should go up to Herr Kaufmann's, and tell him that he did not feel like taking his lesson--that he had a headache, or something of the kind--that he had hurt his wrist, perhaps.

He hoped that Fraulein Fredrika would come to the door, and that he might leave his message with her, but it was Herr Kaufmann who answered his ring.

"So," said the Master, "you are once more late."

"No," answered Lynn, refusing to meet his eyes, "I just came to tell you that I couldn't take my lesson to-day. I don't think," he stammered, "that I can ever take any more lessons."

"And why?" demanded the Master. "Come in!"

Before he realised it, he was in the parlour, gay with its accustomed bright colours. One look at Lynn's face had a.s.sured Herr Kaufmann that something was wrong, and, for the first time, he was drawn to his pupil.

"So," said the Master. "Mine son, is it not well with you?"

Lynn turned away to hide the working of his face. "Not very," he answered in a low tone.

"Miss Iris," said the Master, "she will have gone away?"

It was like the tearing of a wound. "Yes," replied Lynn, almost in a whisper, "she went this morning."