The Master's Violin

“‘My Dear Doctor Brinkerhoff,’” he began, clearing his throat, “‘I feel that I am not going to get well, and so I have been thinking, as I lie here, and setting my house in order. I have told Iris, but for fear she may forget, I tell you. All the papers which concern her are in a tin box in a trunk in the attic. She will know where to find it.

“‘To her, as to an only daughter, go my little keepsakes – the emerald pin, my few pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver buckles. She will understand the spirit of this bequest and will feel free to take what she likes.

“‘The house is for Margaret, and, after her, for Lynn, but it is to be a home for Iris, just as it has been, while she lives. Her income is to be paid regularly on the first of every month, during her lifetime, as is written in my will, which the lawyer has and which he will read at the proper time.

“‘Tell my little girl that, though I am dead, I love her still; that she has given me more than I could ever have given her, and that she must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell her I want her to be happy.

“‘To you, I send my parting salutations. I have appreciated your friendship and your professional skill.

“‘With assurances of my deep personal esteem,

    “‘Your Friend,
    “‘Peace Field.’”

Iris broke down and left the room, weeping bitterly. Margaret followed her, but the girl pushed her aside. “No,” she whispered, “go back. It is better for me to be alone.”

“I am sorry,” said the Doctor, breaking the painful hush; “perhaps I should have waited. I very much regret having given Miss Iris unnecessary pain.”

“It is as well now as at any other time,” Margaret assured him, “but my heart bleeds for her.”

The clock on the landing struck ten, and Margaret excused herself for a moment. She returned with the Royal Worcester plate, piled with cakes, and a decanter of the port.

“I made them,” she said, in a low tone; “she asked me to give you the recipe.”

“She was always thoughtful of others,” returned the Doctor, choking.

He filled his glass, and from force of habit, offered it to an invisible friend. “To your – ” then he stopped.

“To her memory,” sobbed Margaret, touching his glass with hers.

They drank the toast in silence, then the Doctor staggered to his feet.

“I can bear no more,” he said, unsteadily; “it is a communion service with the dead.”

“Lynn,” said Margaret, after the guest had gone, “I am troubled about Iris. She is grieving herself to death, and it is not natural for the young to suffer acutely for so long. Can you suggest anything?”

“No,” answered Lynn, anxious in his turn, “except to get outdoors. I don’t believe she’s been out since Aunt Peace was buried.”

“You must take her, then.”

“Do you think she would go with me?”

“I don’t know, dear, but try it – try it to-morrow. Take her for a long walk and get her so tired that she will sleep. Nothing rests the mind like fatigue of the body.”

“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-class 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 passed 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, pushing 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 passions which swayed the multitude. He conducted his business without hurry or fret, and all the pushing 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.