Why not, indeed? Why not take a flying trip, just to see the dear place again? Why not talk for a few minutes with Mrs. Irving, then slip upstairs for the emerald, the bit of lace, the feather fan, and the lonely little mother in the attic?
She could plan her journey so that she would be making her call while Lynn was at his lesson. When it was time for him to return, she could go to Doctor Brinkerhoff’s and thank him for writing. While there, she could see Lynn come downhill – of course, not to look at him, but just to know that he was out of the way. Then she could go up the hill and stay with Fräulein Fredrika and the Master until almost train time.
It was practicable and in every way desirable. Perhaps, after she had seen East Lancaster once more, she would not be so homesick. Iris hummed a little song as she dressed herself, far happier than she had been for many months.
Thought and action were never far apart with her. The next day she was safely aboard the train. She stopped overnight at the little hotel in a nearby town, where once she had been with Aunt Peace, after a memorable visit to the city. The morning train left at five, and just at ten she reached her destination, her heart fluttering joyously.
Lynn was certainly at his lesson – there could be no doubt of that. She fairly flew up the street, fearful lest someone should see her, and paused at the corner for a look at the old house.
Nothing was changed. It was just as it had been for two centuries and more. Panic seized her, but she went on boldly, though her cheeks burned. After all, she was not an intruder – it was her home, not only through the gift, but by right of possession.
She rang the bell timidly, but no one answered. Then she tried again, but with no better result, so she turned the knob and the door opened.
She stepped in, but no one was there. “Mrs. Irving!” she called, but only the echo of her own voice came back to her. The portraits in the hall stared at her, but it was a friendly scrutiny and not at all distressing. They seemed to nod to one another and to whisper from their gilded frames: “Iris has come back.”
“Well,” she thought, “I can’t sit down and wait, for Lynn may come home from his lesson at any minute. I’ll just go upstairs.”
The door of Margaret’s room was ajar, and Iris peeped in, but it was empty, like the rest of the house. She stole into Aunt Peace’s room, found her keepsakes, and prepared to depart.
She saw her reflection in the long mirror, and, for the moment, it startled her. “I feel like a thief,” she said to herself, “even though I am only taking my own.”
She went up into the attic, found the box, and came down again. The old house was so still! Surely it would do no harm if she took just one sniff at the cedar chest before she went away. She loved the fragrance of the wood, and it would delay her only a moment longer.
Then, all at once, she paused like a frightened bird. Someone was there! Someone was walking back and forth in Lynn’s room! Scarcely knowing what she did, Iris crouched on the floor at the end of the chest, trusting to the kindly shadows to screen her if the door should open.
But no one came. Lynn had taken the Cremona from its case with something very like a smile upon his face. The brown breasts had the colour of old wine, and the shell was thin to the point of fragility.
He had feared to touch it, but the Master had only laughed at him. “What!” he had said, “shall I not sometimes lend mine Cremona to mine son, who like mineself is one great artist? Of a surety!”
Lynn placed the instrument in position, and dreamily, began to play. His mother was out, and he played as he could not if he had not thought himself alone. All his heartbreak, all his pain, the white nights and the dark days went into the adagio, the one thing suited to his mood.
At the first notes, Iris drew a quick, gasping breath. Surely it was not Lynn! Yet who else should be in his room, playing as no one played but the great?
Primeval forces held her in their grasp, and all at once her shallowness fell away from her, leaving her free. The blood surged into her heart with shame – she had wronged Lynn. She had been so blind, so painfully sure of herself, so pitifully important in her self-esteem!
The music went on without hindrance or pause. Deep chords and piercing flights of melody alternated through the theme, yet there was the undertone of love and night and death. Iris clenched her hands until the nails cut into her palms. All her life, she seemed to have been playing with tinsel; now, when it was out of her reach, she had discovered the gold.
Why should it seem so strange for Lynn to play like this? Had he not written the letters? Had he not offered her his whole heart – the gift she had so insultingly thrown aside? Iris knelt beside the chest, in bitter humiliation.
One thing was certain – she must go away, and quickly. She could not wait there, trembling and afraid, until someone found her; she must get away, but how? She was sorely shaken, both in body and soul.
She could not go away, and yet she must. She would go to the station, and, from there, write to Mrs. Irving and to Lynn. The least she could do was to ask him to forgive her. Having done that, she would go back to the city, change her address, and be lost to them forever.
Low, quivering tones came from the Cremona, like the sobs of a woman whose heart was broken. Suddenly, Iris knew that she belonged to Lynn – that through love or hate she was bound to him forever. Then, in a blinding flood came the tears.
Slowly the adagio swept to its end, and yet she could not move. The music ceased, and yet the silence held her spellbound, vainly praying for the strength to go away. She heard the click of the lock as the violin case was closed, the quick step to the door, and the turning of the knob.
She shrank back into the corner, close to the chest, and hid her face in her hands, then someone lifted her up.
“Sweetheart,” cried Lynn, “have you come back to me?”
At the touch, at the tender word, the barriers crumbled away, and Iris lifted her lovely tear-stained face to his. “Yes,” she said, unsteadily, “I have come back. Will you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?” repeated Lynn, with a happy laugh; “why, dearest, there is nothing to forgive!”
In that radiant instant, he thought he spoke the truth, so quickly do we forget sorrow when the sun shines into the soul.
“Oh!” sobbed Iris, hiding her face against his shoulder, “I – I said you had no heart!”
“So I haven’t, darling,” answered Lynn, tenderly; “I gave it all to you, the very first day I saw you. Will you keep it for me, dear? Will you give me a little corner of your own?”
“All,” whispered Iris. “I think it has always been yours, but I didn’t know until just now.”
“How long have you been here, sweetheart?”
“I – I don’t know. I heard you play, and then I knew.”
“It was that blessed Cremona,” said Lynn, with his lips against her hair. “You said I should never kiss you again, dear, do you remember? Don’t you think it’s time you changed your mind?”
The golden minutes slipped by, and still they stood there, by the window in the hall. Margaret came back, and went up to her room, but no one heard her, even though she was singing. At the head of the stairs, she stopped, startled. Then, by the light of her own happiness, she understood, and crept softly away.