The Master's Violin

“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 ignoble passion 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 assured 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 passing 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 sunshine. 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.”

“I shall never be as happy as I was,” she sighed. “No one is the same after a sorrow like mine.”

“I suppose not,” answered Lynn. “We are always changing. No one can go back of to-day and be the same as he was yesterday. I often think that old Greek philosopher was right when he said that the one thing common to all life was change.”

“Which one was he?”

“Heraclitus, I think. Anyhow, he was a clever old duck.”

Iris smiled. “I have sometimes thought ducks were philosophers,” she said, “but it never occurred to me that philosophers were ducks.”

Lynn laughed heartily, thoroughly pleased with himself because Iris seemed so much better. “We don’t want to go too far,” he said. “I wouldn’t tire you for anything. Shall we go back?”

“No – not yet. Isn’t there a marsh up here somewhere?”

“I should think there would be.”

“Then let’s keep on and see if we don’t find it. I feel as though I were exploring a new country. It’s strange that I’ve never been here before, isn’t it?”

“It’s because I wasn’t here to take you, but you’ll always have me now. You and I and mother are all going to live together. Won’t that be nice?”

“Yes,” answered Iris, but her voice sounded far away and her eyes filled.

Late afternoon flooded the earth with gold, and from distant fields came the drowsy hum and whir of the fairy folk with melodious wings. The birds sang cheerily, butterflies floated in the fragrant air, and it was difficult to believe that in all the world there was such a thing as Death.

“I’m not going to let you go any farther,” said Lynn. “You’ll be tired.”

“No, I won’t, and besides, I want to see the marsh.”

“My dear girl, you couldn’t see it – you could only stand on the edge of it.”

“Well, I’ll stand on the edge of it, then,” said Iris, stubbornly. “I’ve come this far, and I’m going to see it.”

“Suppose we climb that hill yonder,” suggested Lynn. “It overlooks the marsh.”

“That will do,” returned Iris. “I’m willing to climb now, though I wasn’t when we started.”

At first, Lynn walked by her side, warning her to go slowly, then he took her hand to help her. When they reached the summit, he had his arm around her, and it was some minutes before it occurred to him to take it away.

Iris was looking at the tapestry spread out before them – the great marsh with the sunset light upon it and the swallows circling above it.

“Oh,” she whispered, with her face alight, “how beautiful it is! See all the purple in it – why, it might be violets, from up here!”

“Yes,” answered Lynn, dreamily, “it is your name-flower, the fleur-de-lis.” Then the colour flamed in his face and he bit his lips.

Quick as a flash, Iris turned upon him. “Did you write the letters?” she demanded.

Lynn’s eyes met hers clearly. “Yes,” he said, very tenderly. “Dear Heart, didn’t you know?”

XV

Little Lady

Up in the attic, Iris sat beside the old trunk, her lap filled with papers. Never had she felt so alone, so desolate as to-day. The rain beat upon the roof and grey swirls of water dashed against the pane. The old house rocked in the rising wind, and from below, like an eerie accompaniment, came the sound of Lynn’s violin.

He was practising, and Iris heard him walking back and forth, playing with mechanical precision. She shuddered at the sound of it, for, strangely enough, she was conscious of bitter resentment against Lynn. His hand had destroyed her dream and levelled it to the dust. In the darkness, she had leaned, insensibly, upon the writer of the letters, and now she knew that it was only Lynn – Lynn, who had no heart.

There comes a time to most of us, when the single prop gives way and, absolutely alone, we either stand or fall. In the hard school of life, sooner or later, one learns self-reliance. Iris began to perceive that, in the end, she could depend upon no one but herself.

With a sigh, she turned to the papers once more. There was the report of the detective whom Aunt Peace had engaged at the beginning, voluminous, and obscured by legal phrases. Two or three letters, bearing upon the subject, were attached to it. In the bottom of the box were a wide, showy band of gold which, presumably, had been her mother’s wedding ring, and two photographs.