The idea was new to her, that she must forgive. She thought of it long afterward, when the house was as quiet as its sleeping mistress, and the pale stars faded to pearl at the hour of dawn.
The third day came; the end of that pitiful period in which we wait, blindly hoping that the miracle of resurrection may be given once more, and the stone be rolled away from our dead.
It was Doctor Brinkerhoff who had the casket closed before the strangers came, and afterward he told Margaret. “She would be thankful,” Margaret assured him, and his eyes filled. “Yes,” he answered, huskily, “I believe she would.”
They sat together at the head of the stairs, out of sight, and yet within hearing. Lynn sat at one end, still perplexed, and shuddering at the unpleasantness of it all. His mother’s hand was in his, and with her left arm she supported Iris, who leaned heavily against her shoulder, broken-hearted. On the other side of Iris was Doctor Brinkerhoff, austere and alone.
From below came the wonderful words of the burial service: “I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” It was followed by a beautiful tribute to Aunt Peace – to the countless good deeds of her five and seventy years.
Then there was silence, broken by the muffled sound of a string being tightened to harmonise with the piano. Swiftly upon the discordant note, the voice of a violin, strong, clear, and surpassingly sweet, rose in an Ave Maria.
Margaret started to her feet. “What is it?” she whispered, hoarsely.
“Mother,” said Lynn, in a low tone, “don’t. It is only Herr Kaufmann. We asked him to play.”
“The Cremona!” she muttered. “The Cremona – here – to-day!”
She lay back in her chair with her eyes closed and her mouth quivering. Lynn held her hand tightly, and Iris breathed hard. Doctor Brinkerhoff listened intently, his heart rejoicing in the beauty of it, because it was done for her.
Deep chords, full and splendid, sounded an ultimate triumph over Death. The music counselled acceptance, resignation, because of something that lay beyond – indefinite, yet complete restitution, when the time of its fulfilment should be at hand. Beside it, the individual grief sank into insignificance – it was the sorrow of the world demanding payment for itself from the world’s joy.
Something vast and appealing took the place of the finite passion, seeking hungrily for its own ends, and in the greatness of it, with heart uplifted, Margaret forgave the dead.
XIII
To Iris
“Daughter of the Marshes, the winds have told me you are sad. If I could, I would bear it for you, but there is no way by which one of us may take another’s burden.
“I wish I might come to you, but now, when you are troubled, I will not ask you for a signal, even for a flower on the gate-post. I would always have you happy, dear, if my love could buy it from the Fates – those deep eyes of yours should never be veiled by the mist of tears.
“Do you know where the marsh is, Iris? You have lived in East Lancaster for many years, so the gossips tell me, yet I doubt whether you could find it unless someone showed you the way. To reach it, you must follow the river, through all its turns and windings, for many a weary mile.
“Up in those distant hills, so far that I have never found it, the river begins – perhaps in some tiny pool of crystal clearness. It sings along over its rocky bed until it reaches a low, sandy plain, and here is the marsh. I was there the other day, just at sunset; my heart thrilled with the beauty of it because it is the beauty of you.
“How shall I tell you of the wonder of the marshes, those wide, watery plains embroidered with strange bloom? Tall, slender rushes stand there, bending gracefully when the wind passes, and answering with music to the touch. Have you ever heard the song of the marshes when the wind moves through the rushes and plays upon them like strings? Some day, I will take you there, and you shall listen, too, and tell me what you think it means.
“Here and there are pools, set like jewels among the rushes, with never a hint of growth. Sometimes you see a wide sweep of grass, starred with tiny yellow flowers, or a lily, surrounded by its leaves, drinking in the loveliness of the day and forgetting all the maze of slime and dark water through which it has somehow come. I think our souls are like that, Iris – we grow through the world, with all its darkness, borne upward by unfailing aspiration, until we reach the end, which we have been taught to call Heaven, but which is only blossoming in the light.
“But of all the radiant beauty of marshes, the best is this – that part of it which bears the purple flower of your name. In and out of the rushes, like the thread of a strange tapestry, it winds and wanders, hidden for an instant, maybe, but never lost. I have gathered an armful of the blossoms, and put my face down to them, closing my eyes, and dreaming that it was you – you whom I must ever hold apart as something too beautiful for me to touch – you, whom I can only love from afar.
“I have told you that I would come when the iris bloomed, but now, when the marsh is glorious with the purple banners, I dare not. It is not only because you are sad, though not for worlds would I trouble you now, but because I am afraid.
“Only in my wildest moments do I dare to hope – you were never meant for such as I. By day, I bow my soul before you in shame at my own unworthiness, but at night, like some flaming star which speeds across the uncharted dark, you light the barren country of my dreams.
“I think sometimes that I shall never dare to tell you; that it must be like this, year after year. If you knew your lover, who is so bold and yet so fearful, I think you would cast him aside in scorn. So it is better for me to believe, though that belief has no foundation, – better for me to hope than utterly to despair. Without you, I dare not think what life might be.
“Like the marsh, the years stretch out before me – a vast plain of which the uncertainty only is sure. They are full of strange pitfalls, of unsounded deeps and silences, of impassable barriers which I, disheartened and doubting, must one day meet face to face.
“Night lies upon it, and I cannot see the way. Storm beats upon me and turns me from my course. The clouded day ends in sunset, and the crystal pools, by which I thought to mark my path, become beacons of blood-red flame.
“The will o’ the wisp leads me into the mire, where the rushes cling tightly about me and keep me back. But the night wind blows from the east, where the dawn sleeps, and on the strings of the marsh grass breathes a little song. ‘Iris! Iris!’ it sings, then all at once my sore heart grows strangely glad, for whatever may come to me, I shall have the memory of you.
“Like the flags that glorify the marshes and spread their elfin sweetness afar, you shine upon the desert wastes of my life. I can never wholly lose you – you are there for always, and graven on my heart forever is the symbol of the fleur-de-lis.”
XIV
Her Name-Flower
Somehow, the days passed. Iris ate mechanically, and went about her household duties with her former precision. On Wednesday evening, Doctor Brinkerhoff came, as usual, and Margaret’s eyes filled at the sight of him.
Bent, old, and haggard, he came up the path, longing for his accustomed place in the house, and yet dreading to take it. Iris met him with a pitiful little smile, and he bowed over her hand for a moment, his shoulders shaking. Then he straightened himself, like a soldier under fire.
“Miss Iris,” he said, “we are bound together by a common grief. More than that, I have a trust to fulfil. She” – here he hesitated and then went on – “she asked me if I would not try to take the place of a father to you, and I promised that I would.”
“I have always felt so toward you,” answered Iris, in a low tone.
Lynn was quite himself again, and his cheerful talk enlivened the others, almost against their will. There was laughter and to spare, yet beneath it was an undercurrent of sorrow, for the wound was healed only upon the surface.
“It is hard,” said the Doctor, sadly, “but life holds many hard things for all of us. Perhaps, if we lived rightly, if our faith were stronger, death would not rend our hearts as it does. It is the common lot, the universal leveller, and soon or late it comes to us all. It remains to make our spiritual adjustment accord with the inevitable fact. There is so little that we can change, that it behooves us to confine our efforts to ourselves.”
“Life,” replied Lynn “is the pitch of the orchestra, and we are the instruments.”
Doctor Brinkerhoff nodded. “Very true. The discord and the broken string of the individual instrument do not affect the whole, except as false notes, but I think that God, knowing all things, must discern the symphony, glorious with meaning, through the discordant fragments that we play.”
So the talk went on, Lynn taking the burden of it and endeavouring always to make it cheerful. Margaret understood and loved him for it, but she, too, was sad. Iris sat like a stone, waiting, counting off the leaden hours as something to be endured, and blindly believing that rest would come.
“Everything,” said Margaret, after a long silence, “was as beautiful as it could be.”
Doctor Brinkerhoff understood at once. “Yes,” he sighed, “and I am glad. I think it was as she would have wished it to be, and I am sure she was pleased because I shielded her from the gaze of the curious at the end.” His face worked as he said it, but he took a pitiful pride in what he had done. Day by day he hugged this last service closer, because it was done through his own thought and his own understanding, and would have pleased her if she had known.
“Yes,” returned Margaret, kindly, “it was very thoughtful of you. It would never have occurred to me, and I know she would have been grateful.”
“Miss Iris?” said the Doctor, inquiringly.
The girl turned. “Yes?”
“She – she gave me a paper for you. Will you have it, or shall I read it to you?”
“Read it,” answered Iris, dully.
“It is in the form of a letter. She wrote it one day, near the end of her illness, and gave it to me, to be opened after her death.”
In the midst of a profound silence, he took an envelope from his pocket and broke the seal.
“‘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.
“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?”