The Master's Violin

“Lately,” continued Aunt Peace, “I have been afraid that I am not going to get well.”

“Don’t!” cried Iris, sharply, turning her face away.

“Dearie, dearie,” said the other, caressingly, “be my brave girl, and let me talk to you. When the dreams come back, I shall not know you, but now I do. I am stronger to-day, and we are alone, are we not? Where are the others?”

“The Doctor has gone to see someone who is very ill. Lynn has taken Mrs. Irving out for a walk.”

“I am glad,” said Aunt Peace, tenderly. “Margaret has been very good to me. You have all been good to me.”

Iris stroked the flushed face softly with her cool hand. In her eyes were love and longing, and a foreshadowed loneliness.

“Dearie,” Aunt Peace continued, “listen while I have the strength to speak. All the papers are in a tin box, in the trunk in the attic. There you will find everything that is known of your father and mother. I do not anticipate any need of the information, but it is well that you should know where to find it.

“I have left the house to Margaret,” she went on, with difficulty, “for it was rightfully hers, and after her it goes to Lynn, but there is a distinct understanding that it shall be your home while you live, if you choose to claim it. Margaret has promised me to keep you with her. When Lynn marries, as some day he will, you will be left alone. You and Margaret can make a home together.”

The girl’s face was hidden in her hands, and her shoulders shook with sobs.

“Don’t, dearie,” pleaded Aunt Peace, gently; “be my brave girl. Look up at me and smile. Don’t, dearie – please don’t!

“I have left you enough to make you comfortable,” she went on, after a little, “but not enough to be a care to you, nor to make you the prey of fortune hunters. It is, I think, securely invested, and you will have the income while you live. Some few keepsakes are yours, also – they are written down in” – here she hesitated – “in a paper Doctor Brinkerhoff has. He has been very good to us, dearie. He is almost your foster-father, for he was with me when I found you. He is a gentleman,” she said, with something of her old spirit, “though he has no social position.”

“Social position is not much, Aunt Peace, beside the things that really count, do you think it is?”

“I hardly know, dearie, but I have changed my mind about a great many things since I have lain here. I was never ill before – in all my seventy-five years, I have never been ill more than a day at a time, and it seems very hard.”

“It is hard, Aunt Peace, but we hope you will soon be well.”

“No, dearie,” she answered, “I’m afraid not. But do not let us borrow trouble, and let me tell you something to remember. When you have the heartache, dearie,” – here the old eyes looked trustfully into the younger ones, – “don’t forget that you made me happy. You have filled my days with sunshine, and, more than anything else, you have kept me young. I know you thought me harsh at first, but now, I am sure you understand. You have been my own dear daughter, Iris. If you had been my own flesh and blood, you could not have been more to me than you have.”

Margaret came in, and Iris went away, sobbing bitterly. Aunt Peace sighed heavily. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes burned like stars.

“I’m afraid you’ve tired yourself,” said Margaret, softly. “Was I gone too long?”

“No, indeed! Iris has been with me, and I am better to-day.”

“Try to sleep,” said Margaret, soothingly.

Obediently, Aunt Peace closed her eyes, but presently she sat up. “I’m so warm,” she said, fretfully. “Where is Doctor Brinkerhoff?”

“He has not come yet, but I think he will be here soon.”

“Margaret?”

“Yes, Aunt Peace.”

“Will you write off the recipe for those little cakes for him? He may be able to find someone to make them for him, though of course they will not be the same.”

“Yes, I will.”

“It’s in my book. They are called ‘Doctor Brinkerhoff’s cakes.’ You will not forget?”

“No, I won’t forget. Can’t you sleep now?”

“I’ll try.”

Presently, the deep regular breathing told that she was asleep. Iris came back with her eyes swollen and Margaret took her out into the hall. They sat there for a long time, hand in hand, waiting, but no sound came from the other room.

“I cannot bear it,” moaned Iris, her mouth quivering. “I cannot bear to have Aunt Peace die.”

“Life has many meanings,” said Margaret, “but it is what we make it, after all. The pendulum swings from daylight to darkness, from sun to storm, but the balance is always true.”

Iris leaned against her, insensibly comforted.

“She would be the first to tell you not to grieve,” Margaret went on, though her voice faltered, “and still, we need sorrow as the world needs night. We cannot always live in the sun. We can take what comes to us bravely, as gentlewomen should, but we must take it, dear – there is no other way.”

Long afterward, Iris remembered the look on Margaret’s face as she said it, but the tears blinded her just then.

Doctor Brinkerhoff came back at twilight, anxious and worn, yet eager to do his share. Through the night he watched with her, alert, capable, and unselfish, putting aside his personal grief for the sake of the others.

In the last days, those two had grown very near together. When the dreams came, he held her in his arms until the tempest passed, and afterwards, soothed her to sleep.

“Doctor,” she said one day, “I have been thinking a great deal while I have lain here. I seem never to have had the time before. I think it is well, at the end, to have a little space of calm, for one sees so much more clearly.”

“You have always seen clearly, dear lady,” said the Doctor, very gently.

“Not always,” she answered, shaking her head. “I can see many a mistake now. The fogs have sometimes gathered thick about me, but now they have lifted forever. We are but ships on the sea of life,” she went on. “My course has lain through calm waters, for the most part, with the skies blue and fair above me. I have been sheltered, and I can see now that it might have made me stronger and better to face some of the storms. Still, my Captain knows, and now, when I can hear the breakers booming on the reef where I am to strike my colours, I am not afraid.”

The end came on Sunday, just at sunset, while the bells were tolling for the vesper service. The crescent moon rocked idly in the west, and a star glimmered faintly above it.

“Sunset and evening star,” she repeated, softly. “And one clear call for me. Will you say the rest of it?”

Choking, Doctor Brinkerhoff went on with the poem until he reached the last verse, when he could speak no more.

“For though from out our bourne of time and place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to meet my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.”

She finished it, then turned to him with her face illumined. “It is beautiful,” she said, “is it not, my friend?”

Twilight came, and Margaret found them there when she went in with a lighted candle. The Doctor sat at the side of the bed, very stiff and straight, with the tears streaming over his wrinkled face. On his shoulder, like a tired child, lay Aunt Peace, who had put on, at last, her Necklace of Perfect Joy.

XII

The False Line

Up in the darkened chamber where Aunt Peace lay, Iris stood face to face with the greatest sorrow of her life. Was this, then, the end? Was there nothing more? Cold as snow, unpitying as marble, Death mocked Iris as she stood there, mutely questioning. Timidly she touched the waxen cheek. The crimson fires burned there no more – the fever was gone.