The Master's Violin

“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.