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.
The rain dripped drearily, and Iris sighed. She felt herself absolutely alone in the world, with neither friend nor kindred. There was only one belonging to her who was not dead—her father. No trace of him had been found, and his death had been taken for granted, but none the less Iris wondered if he might not still live, heart-broken and remorseful; if, perhaps, her skirts had not brushed against him in some crowded thoroughfare of the city. She hoped not, for even that seemed contamination.
It did not much matter that in her haste she had left the box containing the photographs and the papers in the attic. Aunt Peace’s emerald, the fan, and the lace, which she had also forgotten, were rightfully hers, and yet they seemed to belong to the house—to Mrs. Irving and Lynn.
Swiftly upon her thought came a rap at her door. “A letter for you, Miss Temple.”