by Myrtle Reed
XV
Little Lady
Up in the attic, Iris sat beside the old trunk, her lap filled withpapers. Never had she felt so alone, so desolate as to-day. The rainbeat upon the roof and grey swirls of water dashed against the pane. Theold house rocked in the rising wind, and from below, like an eerieaccompaniment, came the sound of Lynn's violin.
He was practising, and Iris heard him walking back and forth, playingwith 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 thedarkness, 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 ofthe detective whom Aunt Peace had engaged at the beginning, voluminous,and obscured by legal phrases. Two or three letters, bearing upon thesubject, were attached to it. In the bottom of the box were a wide,showy band of gold which, presumably, had been her mother's weddingring, and two photographs.
One was of a man whose weakness was indelibly stamped upon everyfeature--the low, narrow forehead, the eyes slanting inward, the fulllips, and receding chin. On the back of it, Aunt Peace had written:"Supposed to be her father." Looking at it, Iris wondered how her mothercould have cared for a man like that--weak and frankly sensuous. Yetthere was an air of gay carelessness about the picture, a sort offriendly _camaraderie_, distantly related to those genial ways whichstamp a higher grade of man as "a good fellow."
Over the other photograph, she lingered long. The first Iris Temple waspictured in the panoply of a stage queen. The crown of paste brilliantsupon her head, the tawdry gown, elaborately trimmed with tinsel, and thegilded sceptre were all discredited by the face. Beneath its mask ofartificiality was a woman, a very human woman, impulsive, eager, andloving, whose trustful eyes looked straight at Iris with intimatecomprehension. Plainly, the life of the stage was not to her taste; shehungered, as every normal woman hungers, for the quiet hearthstone andthe simple joys of home.
In all her dreams of her mother, Iris had never imagined her like this,and yet she was not disappointed. At times, looking back upon hermiserable childhood, she had bitterly blamed her for it, but now, forthe first time, she understood. "Poor little mother," said Iris, "youdid the very best you could."
If things had been different, she and her mother could have had a littlehome of their own. Rebellion was hot in the girl's heart, when shesuddenly remembered something Fraeulein Fredrika had said long ago."Wherever one may be, that is the best place. The dear God knows."
She folded up the papers and put them back in the box, with thephotographs and the wedding ring. For the moment, she wondered what herreal name might be, for Iris Temple was only a stage name. Then shedismissed the matter as of no importance, for she certainly would notcare to bear the name of the man who had deserted her mother in her hourof need.
She wondered why Aunt Peace had never given her the papers before, but,after all, what good could it have done? What had she gained by it, evennow? In a flash of insight, she saw that she had been given a feeling ofdefinite relationship with the woman in the tawdry stage trappings, whohad loved much and suffered more--that though an old grave divided them,she was not quite motherless, not quite alone. For the first time sinceAunt Peace was stricken with the fever, balm came into the girl's soreheart.
Below, Lynn played unceasingly. "Four hours a day," thought Iris. "Onesixth of life--and for what?"
Lynn was asking himself the same question. "For what?" Ambition wasstrong within him, but Herr Kaufmann's words had struck deep. "I will bean artist!" he said to himself, passionately; "I will!" He workedfeverishly at his concerto, but his mind was not upon it. He wasthinking of Iris and of the unconscious scorn in her face when shediscovered that he had written the letters.
He put down his violin and meditated, as many a man in that very roomhad done before him, upon the problem of the eternal feminine. Iris wasincomprehensible. He knew that the letters had not displeased her; that,on the contrary, she had been unusually happy when they came. Heremembered also that moonlight night, when, safely screened by theshrubbery across the street, he had seen her put the flower upon thegate-post and as swiftly take it away. He had loved her all the more forthat quick impulse, that shame-faced retreat, and put the memorysecurely away in his heart, biding his time.
"Iris," he asked, at luncheon, "will you go for a walk with me thisafternoon?"
"No," she returned, shortly.
"Why not? It isn't too wet, is it?"
"I'm going by myself. I prefer to be alone."
Lynn coloured and said nothing more. In the afternoon, while he was atwork, he saw her trip daintily down the path, lifting her skirts toavoid the pools of water the Summer shower had left. He watched heruntil she was no longer within range of his vision, then went back tohis violin.
Iris had no definite errand except to the post-office, where, as usual,there was nothing, but it rested her to be outdoors. It is Nature'sunfailing charm that she responds readily to every mood, and ultimatelybrings extremes to a common level of quiet cheerfulness.
She leaned over the bridge and looked into the stream, where her ownface was mirrored. She saw herself sad and old, a woman of mature years,still further aged by trouble. What had become of the happy girl of afew months ago?
The thought of Lynn recurred persistently, and always with repulsion.What should she do? She could not wholly ignore him, year in and yearout, and live in the same house. It must be nearly time for him to goaway and leave her in peace.
Then Iris gasped, for it was Lynn's house,--his and his mother's. Shewas there upon sufferance only--a guest? No, not a guest--an intruder,an interloper.
In her new trouble, she thought of Herr Kaufmann, always gentle, alwayswise. With Iris, action followed swiftly upon impulse, and she wentrapidly up the hill. Fraeulein Fredrika was out, but the Master was inthe shop, so she went in at the lower door.
"So," he said, kindly, "one little lady comes to see the old man. It islong since you have come."
"I have been in trouble," faltered Iris.
"Yes," returned the Master, "I have heard. Mine heart has been verysorry for you."
"It was lovely of you," she went on, choking back a sob, "to come andplay for us. We appreciated it--Mrs. Irving and I--DoctorBrinkerhoff--and--Lynn," she added, grudgingly.
"The Herr Irving," said the Master, with interest, "he has appreciatedmine playing?"
"Of course--we all did."
"Mine pupil progresses," he remarked, enigmatically.
"Was it," began Iris, hesitating over the words,--"was it the Cremona?"
The Master looked at her sharply. "Yes, why not? One gives one's best toDeath."
"Death demands it, and takes it," said the girl. "That is why."
She spoke bitterly, and Herr Kaufmann put down the violin he was workingupon. His heart went out to Iris, white-faced and ghostly, her eyesburning fiercely. He saw that her hands were trembling, and, moving hischair closer, he took them both in his.
"Little lady," he said, "it makes mine old heart ache to see you soclose with sorrow. If it could be divided, I would take mine share,because these broad shoulders are used to one heavy burden, and a littlemore would not matter so much, but one must learn, even though the crossis very hard to bear.
"It is most difficult, and yet some day you will see. You have only tolook out of your window for one year to understand it all. First it isWinter, and the snow is deep upon the ground. All the flowers are dead,and there are no birds. The moon shines cold, and there are many storms.But, so slow that you can never see it, there is change. Presently, thebare bran
ches turn in their sleep and wake up with leaves. The birdscome back, and all the earth is glad again.
"Then everything grows and it is all in one blossom. On the wide fieldsthere is much grain, and all hearts are singing. Even after the frost,everything is glad for a little while, and then, very slowly, it isWinter once more.
"Little lady, do you not see? There must always be Winter, there mustalways be night and storm and cold. It is then that the flowersrest--they cannot always be in bloom. But somewhere on the great worldthe sun is always shining, and, just so sure as you live, it willsometime shine on you. The dear God has made it so. There is so much sunand so much storm, and we must have our share of both. It is Winter inyour heart now, but soon it will be Spring. You have had one longSummer, and there must be something in between. We are not differentfrom all else the dear God has made. It is all in one law, as the HerrDoctor will tell you. He is most wise, and he has helped me tounderstand."
"But Aunt Peace!" sobbed the girl. "Aunt Peace is dead, and mother, too!I am all alone!"
"Little lady," said the Master, very tenderly, "you must never say youare alone. Because you have had much love, shall you be a child when itis taken away? Has it meant so little to you that it leaves nothing?Just so strong and beautiful as it has been, just so much strength andbeauty does it leave. There are many, in this world, who would be soglad to change places with you. To be dead," he went on, bitterly, "thatis nothing beside one living grave! It is by far the easier loss!"
He left her and went to the window, where he stood for a long time withhis back toward her. Then Iris perceived her own selfishness, and shecrept up beside him, slipping her cold little hand into his. "Iunderstand," she said, gently, "you have had sorrow, too."
The Master smiled, but she saw that his eyes were wet. "Yes," he sighed,"I know mine sorrow. We are old friends." Then he stooped and kissedher, ever so softly, upon her forehead. It was like a benediction.
"I think," she said, after a little, "that I must go away from EastLancaster."
"So? And why?"
Iris knit her brows thoughtfully. "Well," she explained, "I have noright here. The house is Mrs. Irving's, and after her it belongs toLynn. Aunt Peace said it was to be my home while I lived, but that wasonly because she did not want to turn me out. She was too kind to dothat, but I do not belong there."
"The Herr Irving," said the Master, in astonishment. "Does he want youto go away?"
"No! No!" cried Iris. "Don't misunderstand! They have said nothing--theyhave been lovely to me--but I can't help feeling----"
The Master nodded. "Yes, I see. Perhaps you will come to live with minesister and me. The old house needs young faces and the sound of youngfeet. Mine house," he said, with quiet dignity, "is very large."
Even in her perplexity, Iris wondered why the little bird-house on thebrink of the cliff always seemed a mansion to its owner. Quickly, heread her thought.
"I know what you are thinking," he continued; "you are thinking thatmine house is small. Three rooms upstairs and three rooms downstairs.Fredrika could sleep in mine room, and I could take the store closetback of mine shop and keep the wood for the violins at the HerrDoctor's. Upstairs, you could have one bedroom and one parlour. Fredrikaand I would come up only to eat."
"Herr Kaufmann," cried Iris, her heart warming to him, "it is lovely ofyou, but I can't. Don't you see, if I could stay anywhere I could staywhere I am?"
It was not a clear sentence, but he grasped its meaning. "Yes, I see.But when I say mine house is large, it is not of these six rooms that Ithink. Have you not read in the good book that in mine Father's housethere are many mansions? So? Well, it is in those mansions that I live.I have put aside mine sorrow, and I wait till the dear God is pleased totake me home."
"To take us home," said Iris, thoughtfully. "Perhaps Aunt Peace wastired."
"Yes," answered the Master, "she was tired. Otherwise, she would havebeen allowed to stay. You have not been thinking of her, but ofyourself."
"Perhaps I have," she admitted.
"If you go away," he went on, "it is better that you should study. Youhave one fine voice, and with sorrow in your heart, you can make muchfrom it. Those who have been made great have first suffered."
Iris turned upon him. "You mean that?" she asked, sharply.
"Of course," he returned, serenely. "Before you can help those who havesuffered, you must suffer yourself. It is so written."
Iris sighed heavily. "I must go," she said, dully.
"Not yet. Wait."
He went to his bedroom, and came back with a violin case. He opened itcarefully; unwrapped the many thicknesses of silk, and took out theCremona. "See," he said, with his face aglow, "is it not most beautiful?When you are sad, you can remember that you have seen mine Cremona."
"Thank you," returned Iris, her voice strangely mingled with bothlaughter and tears, "I will remember."
When she went home, the Master looked after her for a moment or two,then turned away from the window to wipe his eyes. He was drawn bytemperament to all who sorrowed, and he had loved Iris for years.
That night, she sat alone in the library, sheltered by the darkness.Margaret was reading in her own room, and Lynn was out. More clearlythan ever, Iris saw that she must go away. She had no definite plan, butHerr Kaufmann's suggestion seemed a good one.
When Lynn came in, he lit the candles in the parlour. Iris hoped hewould go upstairs without coming into the library, but he did not. Sheshrank back into her chair, trusting that he would not see her, but withunerring instinct he went straight to her.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, "are you here?"
"I'm here," said Iris, frostily, "but that isn't my name."
The timid little voice thrilled him with a great tenderness, and hequickly possessed himself of her hand. "Iris, darling," he went on, "whydo you avoid me? I have been miserable ever since I told you I wrote theletters."
"It was wrong to write them," she said.
"Why, dear?"
"Because."
"Didn't you like them?"
"No."
"I didn't think you were displeased." He was too chivalrous to remindher of that moonlight night.
"It was very wrong," she repeated, stubbornly.
"Then forgive me."
"It's nothing to me," she returned, unmoved.
"I hoped it would be," said Lynn, gently. "Every time, I walked over tothe next town to mail them. I knew you hadn't seen any of my writing,and I was sure you wouldn't suspect me."
"Nice advantage to take of a girl, wasn't it?" demanded Iris, her temperrising.
She rose and started toward the door, but Lynn kept her back. Thestarlight showed him her face, white and troubled. "Sweetheart," hesaid, "listen. Just a moment, dear--that isn't much to ask, is it? If itwas wrong to write the letters, then I ask you to forgive me, but everyword was true. I love you, Iris--I love you with all my heart."
"With all your heart," she repeated, scornfully. "You have no heart!"
"Iris," he said, unsteadily, "what do you mean?"
"This," she cried, in a passion. "You have no more feeling than theground beneath your feet! Haven't I seen, haven't I known? Aunt Peacedied, and you did not care--you only thought it was unpleasant. You playlike a machine, a mountebank. Tricks with the violin--tricks with words!And yet you dare to say you love me!"
"Iris! Darling!" cried Lynn, stung to the quick. "Don't!"
"Once for all I will have my say. To-morrow I go out of your houseforever. I have no right here, no place. I am an intruder, and I amgoing away. You will never see me again, never as long as you live. You,a machine, a clod, a trickster, a thing without a heart--you shall notinsult me again!"
White to the lips, trembling like a leaf, Iris shook herself free andran up to her room.
Lynn drew a long, shuddering breath. "God!" he whispered, clenching hishands tightly. "God!"