XX
“Mine Brudder’s Friend”
That day the Master put aside the garment of his years. The quarter century that had lain between them like a thorny, upward path was suddenly blotted out, and only the memory of it remained. Belated, but none the less keen, the primeval joy came back to him. Youth and love, the bounding pulse and the singing heart, – they were all his.
It was twilight when they came away from the moss-grown altar in the forest, his arm around his sweetheart, and the faces of both wet with happy tears.
“Until to-morrow, mine Liebchen,” he said. “How shall I now wait for that to-morrow when we part no more? The dear God knew. He gave to me the cutting and the long night that in the end I might deserve thee. He was making of me an instrument suited to thy little hand.” He kissed the hand as he spoke, and Margaret’s eyes filled once more.
Through the mist of her tears she saw the rising moon rocking idly just above the horizon. “See,” said the Master, “it is a new light from the east, from the same place as thou hast come to me. Many a time have I watched it, thinking that it also shone on thee; that perhaps thy eyes, as well as mine, were upon it, and thus, through heaven, we were united.”
“Those whom God hath joined together,” murmured Margaret, “let no man put asunder.”
“Those whom God hath joined,” returned the Master, reverently, “no man can put asunder. Dost thou not see? I thought thou hadst forgotten, and when I go to keep mine tryst with Grief, I find thee there, with thy lips upon the cross.”
“I have never gone before,” whispered Margaret. “I could not.”
“So? Mine Beloved, I have gone there many times. When mine sorrow has filled mine old heart to breaking, I have gone there, that I might look upon thy cross and mine and so gain strength. It is where we parted, where thy lips were last on mine. Sometimes I have gone with mine Cremona and played until mine sore heart was at peace. And to-day, I find thee there! The dear Father has been most kind.”
“Did you know me?” asked Margaret, shyly. “Have I not grown old?”
“Mine Liebchen, thou canst never grow old. Thou hast the beauty of immortal youth. As I saw thee to-day, so have I seen thee in mine dream. Sometimes I have felt that thou hadst taken up thy passing, and I have hungered for mine, for it was a certainty in mine heart that the dear Father would give thee back to me in heaven.
“I do not think of heaven as the glittering place with the streets of gold and the walls of pearl, but more like one quiet wood, where the grass is green and the little brook sings all day. I have thought of heaven as the place where those who love shall be together, free from all misunderstanding or the thought of parting.
“The great ones say that man’s own need gives him his conception of the dear God; that if he needs the avenging angel, so is God to him; that if he needs but the friend, that will God be. And so, in mine dream of heaven, because it was mine need, I have thought of it but as one sunny field, where there was clover in the long grass and tall trees at one side, with the clear, shining waters beyond, where we might quench our thirst, and thee beside me forever, with thy little hand in mine. And now, because I have paid mine price, I do not have to wait until I am dead for mine heaven; the dear God gives it to me here.”
“Whatever heaven may be,” said Margaret, thrilled to the utmost depths of her soul, “it can be no more than this.”
“Nor different,” answered the Master, drawing her closer. “I think it is like this, without the fear of parting.”
“Parting!” repeated Margaret, with a rush of tears; “oh, do not speak of parting!”
“Mine Beloved,” said the Master, and his voice was very tender, “there is nothing perfect here – there must always be parting. If it were not so, we should have no need of heaven. But to the end of the road thou and I will go together.
“See! In the beginning, we were upon separate paths, and, after so long a time, the ways met. For a little space we journeyed together, and because of it the sun was more bright, the flowers more sweet, the road more easy. Then comes the hard place and the ways divide. But though the leagues lie between us and we do not see, we go always at the same pace, and so, in a way, together. We learn the same things, we think the same things, we suffer the same things, because we were of those whom the dear God hath joined. Another walks beside thee and yet not with thee, because, through all the distance, thou art mine.
“And so we go until thy road is turned. Thou dost not know it is turned, because the circle is so great thou canst not see. Little dost thou dream thou art soon to meet again with thy old Franz. Through the thicket, meanwhile, I am going, and mine way is hard and set with brambles. It is only mine blind faith which helps me onward – that, and the vision in mine heart of thee, which never for a day, nor even for an hour, hath been absent.
“One day mine road turns too, and there art thou, mine Beloved, leading by the hand mine son.”
Margaret was sobbing, her face hidden against his shoulder.
“Mine Liebchen, it is not for me to bear thy tears. Much can I endure, but not that. After the long waiting, I have thee close again, thou and mine son, the tall young fellow with the honest face and the laughing ways, who have made of himself one artist.
“The way lies long before us, but it is toward the west, and sunset hath already begun to come upon the clouds. But until the end we go together, thy little hand in mine.
“Some day, Beloved, when the ways part once more, and thou or I shall be called to follow the Grey Angel into the darkness, I think we shall not fear. Perhaps we shall be very weary, and the one will be glad because the other has come into the Great Rest. But, Beloved, thou knowest that if it is I who must follow the Grey Angel, and still leave thee on the dusty road alone, mine grave will be no division. Life hath not taught me not to love thee with all mine soul, and Death shall not. Life is the positive, and Death is the negation. Shall Death, then, do something more than Life can do? Oh, mine Liebchen, do not fear!”
The Autumn mists were rising and the stars gleamed faintly, like far-off points of pearl. At the bridge, they said good night, and Margaret went on home, wishing, even then, that she might bear the burden for Lynn.
The Master went up the hill with his blood singing in his veins. Fredrika thought him unusually abstracted, but strangely happy, and until long past midnight, he sat by the window, improvising upon the Cremona a theme of such passionate beauty that the heart within her trembled and was afraid.
That night Fredrika dreamed that someone had parted her from Franz, and when she woke, her pillow was wet with tears.
It was not until the next afternoon that he realised that he must tell her. After long puzzling over the problem, he went to Doctor Brinkerhoff’s.
The Doctor was out, and did not return until almost sunset. When he came, the Master was sitting in the same uncomfortable chair that, with monumental patience, he had occupied for hours.
“Mine friend,” said the Master, with solemn joy, “look in mine face and tell me what you see.”
“What I see!” repeated the Doctor, mystified; “why, nothing but the same blundering old fellow that I have always seen.”
The Master laughed happily. “So? And this blundering old fellow; has nothing come to him?”
“I can’t imagine,” said the Doctor, shaking his head. “I may be dense, but I fear you will have to tell me.”
“So? Then listen! Long since, perhaps, you have known of mine sorrow. Of it I have never said much, because mine old heart was sore, and because mine friend could understand without words.”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, eagerly, “I knew that the one you loved was taken away from you while you were both very young.”
“Yes. Well, look in mine face once more and tell me what you see.”
“You – you haven’t found her!” gasped the Doctor, quite beside himself with surprise.
“Precisely,” the Master assured him, with his face beaming.
The Doctor wrung his hand. “Franz, my old friend,” he cried, “words cannot tell you how glad I am! Where – who is she?”
“Mine friend,” returned the Master, “it is you who are one blundering old fellow. After taking to yourself the errand of telling her that I loved her still, you did not see fit to come back to me with the news that she also cared. Thereby much time has been wrongly spent.”
The Doctor grew hot and cold by turns. “You don’t mean – ” he cried. “Not – not Mrs. Irving!”
“Who else?” asked the Master, serenely. “In all the world is she not the most lovely lady? Who that has seen her does not love her, and why not I?”
Doctor Brinkerhoff sank into a chair, very much excited.
“It is one astonishment also to me,” the Master went on. “I cannot believe that the dear God has been so good, and I must always be pinching mineself to be sure that I do not sleep. It is most wonderful.”
“It is, indeed,” the Doctor returned.
“But see how it has happened. Only now can I understand. In the beginning, mine heart is very hurt, but out of mine hurt there comes the power to make mineself one great artist. It was mine Cremona that made the parting, because I am so foolish that I must go in her house to look at it. It was mine Cremona that took her to me the last time, when she gave it to me. ‘Franz,’ she says, ‘if you take this, you will not forget me, and it is mine to do with what I please.’
“So, when I have made mineself the great artist, I have played on mine Cremona to many thousands, and the tears have come from all. See, it is always mine Cremona. And because of this, she has heard of me afar off, and she has chosen to have mine son learn the violin from me, so that he also shall be one artist. Twice she has heard me and mine Cremona when we make the music together; once in the street outside mine house, and once when I played the Ave Maria in her house when the old lady was dead.”
Doctor Brinkerhoff turned away, his muscles suddenly rigid, but the Master talked on, heedlessly.
“See, it is always mine Cremona, and the dear God has made us in the same way. He has made mine violin out of the pain, the cutting, and the long night, and also me, so that I shall be suited to touch it. It is so that I am to her as mine Cremona is to me – I am her instrument, and she can do with me what she will.
“It is but the one string now that needs the tuning,” went on the Master, deeply troubled. “I know not what to do with mine Fredrika.”
“Fredrika!” repeated Doctor Brinkerhoff. He, too, had forgotten the faithful Fräulein.
“The bright colours are not for mine Liebchen,” the Master continued.
“The bright colours,” said the Doctor, by some curious trick of mind immediately upon the defensive, “why, I have always thought them very pretty.”
A great light broke in upon the Master, and he could not be expected to perceive that it was only a will o’ the wisp. “So,” he cried, triumphantly, “you have loved mine sister! I have sometimes thought so, and now I know!”
The Doctor’s face turned a dull red, his eyelids drooped, and he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Ah, mine friend,” said the Master, exultantly, “is it not most wonderful to see how we have played at the cross-purposes? All these years you have waited because you would not take mine sister away from me, you, mine kind, unselfish friend! So much fun have you made of mine housekeeping before she came that you would not do me this wrong!
“And I – I could not send mine sister the money to take the long journey, and for many years keep her from her Germany and her friends, then after one night say to her: ‘Fredrika, I have found mine old sweetheart and I no longer want you.’
“Mine Fredrika has never known of mine sorrow, and I cannot to-day give her the news. It is not for me to make mine sister’s heart to ache as mine has ached all these years, nor could I give her the money to go back to her Germany because I no longer want her, when she has given it all up for me. It would be most unkind.
“But now, see what the dear God has done for us! When it is all worked out, and we come to the end, we see that you, also, share. I know, mine friend, I know what it has been for you, because I, too, have been through the deep waters, and now we come to the land together. It is most fitting, because we are friends.
“Moreover, you are to her as she is to you. She has not told me, but mine old eyes are sharp and I see. I tell you this to put the courage into your heart. If you make mine sister happy, it is all I shall ask. Go, now, to mine Fredrika, and tell her I will not be back until late this evening! Is it not most beautiful?”
Limp, helpless, and sorely shaken, but without the faintest idea of protesting, Doctor Brinkerhoff found himself started up the hill. The Master stood at the foot, waving his hat in boyish fashion and shouting messages of good-will. At last, when he dared to look back, the Doctor saw that the way was clear, and he sat down upon a boulder by the roadside to think.
He would be ungenerous, indeed, he thought, if he could not make some sacrifice for Franz and for Mrs. Irving. Unwillingly, he had come into possession of Fräulein Fredrika’s closely guarded secret, and, as he repeatedly told himself, he was a man of honour. Moreover, he was not one of those restless spirits who forever question Life for its meaning. Clearly, there was no other way than the one which was plainly laid before him.
But a few more years remained to him, he reflected, for he was twenty years older than the Master; still life was very strange. Disloyalty to the dead was impossible, for she never knew, and would have scorned him if she had known. The end of the tangled web was in his hands – for three people he could make it straight again.
The long shadows lay upon the hill and still he sat there, thinking. The children played about him and asked meaningless questions, for the first time finding their friend unresponsive.
Finally one, a little bolder than the rest, came closer to him. “The good Fräulein,” whispered the child, “she is much troubled for the Master. Why is it that he comes not to his home?”
With a sigh and a smile, the Doctor went slowly up the hill to the Master’s house, where Fräulein Fredrika was waiting anxiously. “Mine brudder!” she cried; “is he ill?”
“No, no, Fräulein,” answered the Doctor, reassuringly, his heart made tender by her distress. “Shall not Franz sit in my office to await the infrequent patient while I take his place with his sister? You are glad to see me, are you not, Fräulein?”
The tint of faded roses came into the Fräulein’s face. “Mine brudder’s friend,” she said simply, “is always most welcome.”
She excused herself after a few minutes and began to bustle about in the kitchen. Surely, thought the Doctor, it was pleasant to have a woman in one’s house, to bring orderly comfort into one’s daily living. The kettle sang cheerily and the Fräulein hummed a little song under her breath. In the twilight, the gay colours faded into a subdued harmony.
“It is all very pleasant,” said the Doctor to himself, resolutely putting aside a memory of something quite different. Perhaps, as his simple friends said, the dear God knew.
After tea, the Fräulein drew her chair to the window and looked out, seemingly unconscious of his presence. “A rare woman,” he told himself. “One who has the gift of silence.”
In the dusk, her face was almost beautiful – all the hard lines softened and made tenderly wistful. The Doctor sighed and she turned uneasily.
“Mine brudder,” she said, anxiously, “if something was wrong with him, you would tell me, yes?”
“Of course,” laughed the Doctor. “Why are you so distressed? Is it so strange for me to be here?”
“No,” she answered, in a low tone, “but you are mine brudder’s friend.”
“And yours also, Fredrika. Did you never think of that?” She trembled, but did not answer, and, leaning forward, the Doctor took her hand in his.
“Fredrika,” he said, very gently, “you will perhaps think it is strange for me to talk in this way, but have you never thought of me as something more than a friend?”
The woman was silent and bitterly ashamed, wondering when and where she had betrayed herself.
“That is unfair,” he continued, instantly perceiving. “I have thought of you in that way, more especially to-day.” Even in the dusk, he could see the light in her eyes, and in his turn he, too, was shamed.
“Dear Fräulein Fredrika,” he went on, “I have not much to offer, but all I have is yours. I am old, and the woman I loved died, never knowing that I loved her. If she had known, it would have made no difference. Perhaps you think it an empty gift, but it is my all. You, too, may have dreamed of something quite different, but in the end God knows best. Fredrika, will you come?”
The maidenly heart within her rioted madly in her breast, but she was used to self-repression. “I thank you,” she said, with gentle dignity; “it is one compliment which is very high, but I cannot leave mine Franz. All the way from mine Germany I have come to mend, to cook, to wash, to sew, to scrub, to sweep, to take after him the many things which he forgets and leaves behind, even the most essential. What should he think of me if I should say: ‘Franz, I will do this for you no more, but for someone else?’ You will understand,” she concluded, in a pathetic little voice which stirred him strangely, “because you are mine brudder’s friend.”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “I am his friend, and so, do you think I would come without his permission? Dear Fräulein, Franz knows and is glad. That is why I left him. Almost the last words he said to me were these: ‘If you make mine sister happy, it is all I ask.’”
“Franz!” she cried. “Mine dear, unselfish Franz! Always so good, so gentle! Did he say that!”
“Yes, he said that. Will you come, Fredrika? Shall we try to make each other happy?”
She was standing by the window now, with her hand upon her heart, and her face alight with more than earthly joy.
“Dear Fräulein,” said the Doctor, rejoicing because it was in his power to give any human creature so much happiness, “will you come?”
Without waiting for an answer, he put his hand upon her shoulder and drew her toward him. Then the heavens opened for Fräulein Fredrika, and star-fire rained down upon her unbelieving soul.
XXI
The Cremona Speaks
The grey autumnal rain beat heavily upon her window, and Iris stood watching it, with a heavy weight upon her heart.
The prospect was inexpressibly dreary. As far as she could see, there was nothing but a desert of roofs. “Roofs,” thought Iris, “always roofs! Who would think there were so many in the world!”
Six months ago she had been a happy child, but now all was changed. Grown to womanhood through sorrow, she could never be the same again, even though Aunt Peace, by some miracle of resurrection, should be given back to her.
In those long weeks of loneliness, Iris had learned a different point of view. She had not written to Mrs. Irving but once, though the motherly letter that came in reply to her note had seemed like a brief glimpse of East Lancaster. Doctor Brinkerhoff’s letter also remained unanswered, chiefly because she could not trust herself to write.
Her grief for Aunt Peace was insensibly changed. The poignant sense of loss which belonged to the first few weeks had become something quite different. Gradually, she had learned acceptance, though not yet resignation.
With a wisdom far beyond her years, she had plunged into her work. The hours not devoted to lessons or practice were spent at her books. She had even planned out her days by a schedule in which every minute was accounted for – so much for study, so much for practise, so much for the daily walk.
She had no friends. Aside from the hard-faced proprietor of the boarding-house, she was upon speaking terms with no one except her teacher and one of the attendants at the library. It has been written that there is no loneliness like that of a great city, and in the experience of nearly every one it is at some time proved true.
She missed East Lancaster, with all its dear, familiar ways. The elm-bordered path, the maple at the gate, and every nook and corner of the garden constantly flitted before her like a mocking dream. She could not avoid contrasting the tiny chamber, which was now her only home, with the great rooms of the old house, where everything was always exquisitely clean. She even longed for the kitchen, with its shining saucepans and its tiled hearth.
To go back, if only for one night, to her own room – to make the little cakes for Doctor Brinkerhoff, and play her part in the pretty Wednesday evening comedy, while Aunt Peace sat by, graciously hospitable, and Lynn kept them all laughing – oh, if she only could!
But it is the sadness of life that there is never any going back. The Hour, with its opportunity, its own individual beauty, comes but once. The hand takes out of the crystal pool as much water as the tiny, curved cup of the palm will hold. The shining drops, each one perfect in itself and changing colour with the shifting of the light, fall through the fingers back into the pool, with a faint suggestion of music in the sound. The circle widens outward, and presently the water is still again. If one could go back, gather from the pool those same shining drops, made into jewels by the light, which, at the moment, is also changing, one might go back to the Hour.
Steadfastly, Iris had hardened her heart against Lynn. He had dared to love her! Her cheeks crimsoned with shame at the thought, but still, when the days were dark, it had more than once been a certain comfort to know that someone cared, aside from Aunt Peace, asleep in the churchyard.
Lynn and Aunt Peace – they were the only ones who cared. Mrs. Irving had been friendly; Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master had been kind; Fräulein Fredrika had always been glad when she went to see her: but these were like bits of Summer blown for an instant against the Winter of the world.
Iris saw clearly, from her new standpoint, that she had learned to love the writer of the letters. It was he upon whom her soul leaned. Then, in the midst of her grief, to find that her unknown lover was merely Lynn – a boy who chased her around the garden with grasshoppers and worms – it was too much.
Meditatively, Iris brushed the surface of her cheek, where Lynn had kissed her. She could feel it now – an awkward, boyish kiss. It was much the same as if Aunt Peace or Mrs. Irving had done it, and it was not at all what one read about in the books.
If it were not for Lynn, she could go back to East Lancaster. She might go, anyway, if she were sure she would not meet him, but where could she stay? Not with Mrs. Irving – that was certain, unless Lynn went away. But even then, sometimes he would come back – she could not always avoid him.
Her eyes filled when she thought of the Master, generously offering her two of his six tiny rooms. The parlour, with its hideous ornaments, seemed far preferable to the dingy room in the boarding-house, where the old square piano stood, thick with dust, and where Iris did her daily practising. But no, even there, she would meet Lynn. East Lancaster was forbidden to her – she could never go there again.
Women have a strange attachment for places, especially for those which, even for a little time, have been “home.” To a man, home means merely a house, more or less comfortable according to circumstances, where he eats and sleeps – an easy-chair and a fire which await him at the close of the day. The location of it matters not to him. Uproot him suddenly, transport him to a strange land, surround him with new household gods, give him an occupation, and he will rather enjoy the change. Never for an instant will he grieve. With assured comfort and congenial employment, he will be equally happy in New York or on the coast of South Africa. But the woman, ah, the daily tragedy of the woman in the strange place, and the long months before she becomes even reconciled to her new surroundings! After all, it is the home instinct and the mother instinct which make the foundations of civilisation.
So it was that Iris hungered for East Lancaster, quite apart from its people. Every rod of the ground was familiar to her, from the woods, far to the east, to the Master’s house on the summit of the hill, at the very edge of West Lancaster, overlooking the valley, and toward the blue hills beyond.
The rain dripped drearily, and Iris sighed. She felt herself absolutely alone in the world, with neither friend nor kindred. There was only one belonging to her who was not dead – her father. No trace of him had been found, and his death had been taken for granted, but none the less Iris wondered if he might not still live, heart-broken and remorseful; if, perhaps, her skirts had not brushed against him in some crowded thoroughfare of the city. She hoped not, for even that seemed contamination.
It did not much matter that in her haste she had left the box containing the photographs and the papers in the attic. Aunt Peace’s emerald, the fan, and the lace, which she had also forgotten, were rightfully hers, and yet they seemed to belong to the house – to Mrs. Irving and Lynn.
Swiftly upon her thought came a rap at her door. “A letter for you, Miss Temple.”
Iris took it eagerly and closed the door again, consciously disappointed when she saw that it was from Mrs. Irving. Doctor Brinkerhoff’s careless remark, to the effect that Lynn would write soon, had fallen upon fertile soil. First, Iris decided not to read the letter when it came – to return it unopened. Then, that it was not necessary to be rude, but she need not answer it. Next, a healthy human curiosity as to what Lynn might have to say to her, after all that had passed between them. Then she wondered whether Lynn’s next letter would be anything like the three that she had put away in her trunk. Now, her hands were trembling, and her cheeks were very pale.
“My Dear Child,” the letter began. “Not having heard from you for so long, I fear that you are ill, or in trouble. If anything is wrong, do not hesitate to tell us, for we are your friends, as always. Doctor Brinkerhoff, Herr Kaufmann, or I would be glad to do anything to make you happier, or more comfortable. I will come, if you say so, or either of the other two.
“We are all well and happy here, but we miss you. Won’t you come back to us, if only for a little while? The old house is desolate without you, and it is your home as much as it is mine. You left the emerald and the other little keepsakes. Shall I send them to you, or will you come for them? In any event, please write me a line to tell me that all is well with you, or, if not, how I can help you.
“Very affectionately yours,“Margaret Irving.”
And never a word about Lynn! Only that “all” were well and happy, which, of course, included Lynn, and went far to prove to Iris that she was right – that he had no heart.
It was different in the books. When a beloved woman went away, the hero’s heart invariably broke, and here was Lynn, “well and happy.” Iris put the letter aside with a gesture of disdain.
Yet the motherly tone of it had touched her more deeply than she knew, and accentuated her loneliness. Twice she tried to answer it, to tell Mrs. Irving that she, too, was well and happy, and ask her to send the emerald, the lace, and the fan. Twice she gave it up, for the page was sadly blotted with her tears.
Then she determined to write the next day, and ask also for the box of papers in the attic. Yet would she want Mrs. Irving to see the documents meant for her eyes alone, and that pathetic little mother in the tawdry stage trappings? Surely not! She did not question Margaret’s sense of honour, but there were many boxes in the trunk in the attic, and she would have to open them one after another, until she was sure she had found the right one.
Sorely puzzled, desperately homesick, and very lonely, Iris sobbed herself to sleep. All night she dreamed of East Lancaster, where the sky came down close to the ground, instead of ending at an ugly line of roofs. The soft winds came through her window, sweet with clover and apple bloom. Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master, Fräulein Fredrika, Aunt Peace, Mrs. Irving, and Lynn – always Lynn – moved in and out of the dream. When she woke, she felt her desolation more keenly than ever before.
At the door of Sleep a sentinel stands, an angel in grey garments. The crimson poppies crown her head and droop to her waist. The floor is strewn with them, and the silken petals, crushed by the feet of passing strangers, give out a strange perfume. To enter that door, you must pass Our Lady of Dreams.
Sometimes she smiles as you enter, and sometimes there is only a careless nod. Often her clear, serene eyes make no sign of recognition, and at other times she frowns. But, whatever be the temper of the Lady at the door, your dream waits for you inside.
The parcels are all alike, so it is useless to stop and choose, but you must take one. Frequently, when you open it, there is nothing there but peaceful slumber, cunningly arranged to look like a dream. Once in a thousand times it happens that you get the dream that is meant for you, because it all depends upon chance, and so many strangers nightly enter that door that it is impossible to arrange the parcels any differently.
When the night has passed, and you come back, it is always through the same door, where the patient sentinel still stands. You are supposed to give back your dream, so that someone else may have it the next night, but if she is tired, or very busy, you may sometimes slip through and so have a dream to remember.
Iris had given back her dream, but a strong impression of East Lancaster still remained, and it was as though she had been there in the night. Suddenly she sat up in bed, with her heart wildly throbbing. Why not go back?