Every bachelor in this world is secretly watched by some woman. The
parson was watched by several, but most closely by two. One of these
was the widow Spurlock, a personage of savory countenance and wholesome
figure--who was accused by the widow Babcock, living at the other end
of the town, of having robust intentions towards her lodger. This piece
of slander had no connection with the fact that she had used the point
of her carving knife to enlarge in the door of his room the hole
through which the latch-string passed, in order that she might increase
the ventilation. The aperture for ventilation thus formed was exactly
the size of one of her innocent black eyes.
[Illustration: Head of woman]
The other woman was an infirm, ill-favored beldam by the name of Arsena
Furnace, who lived alone just across the street, and whose bedroom was
on the second floor, on a level with the parson's. Being on terms of
great intimacy with the widow Spurlock, she persuaded the latter that
the parson's room was poorly lighted for one who used his eyes so much,
and that the window-curtain of red calico should be taken down. On the
same principle of requiring less sun because having less use for her
eyes, she hung before her own window a faded curtain, transparent only
from within. Thus these two devoted, conscientious souls conspired to
provide the parson unawares with a sufficiency of air and light.
On Friday night, then, of August 31, 1809--for this was the exact
date--the parson played his flute as usual, because the two women
were sitting together below and distinctly heard him. It was unusual
for them to be up at such an hour, but on that day the drawing of the
lottery had come off, and they had held tickets, and were discussing
their disappointment in having drawn blanks. Towards midnight the
exquisite notes of the flute floated down to them from the parson's
room.
"I suppose he'll keep on playing those same old tunes as long as there
is a thimbleful of wind in him: _I_ wish he'd learn some new ones,"
said the hag, taking her cold pipe from her cold lips, and turning her
eyes towards her companion with a look of some impatience.
"He might be better employed at such an hour than playing on the
flute," replied the widow, sighing audibly and smoothing a crease out
of her apron.
As by-and-by the notes of the flute became intermittent, showing that
the parson was beginning to fall asleep, Arsena said good-night, and
crossing the street to her house, mounted to the front window. Yes,
there he was; the long legs stretched out towards the hearth, head
sunk sidewise on his shoulder, flute still at his lips, the sputtering
candle throwing its shadowy light over his white weary face, now
wearing a smile. Without doubt he played his flute that night as usual;
and Arsena, tired of the sight, turned away and went to bed.
A few minutes later the widow Spurlock placed an eye at the aperture of
ventilation, wishing to see whether the logs on the fire were in danger
of rolling out and setting fire to the parson's bed; but suddenly
remembering that it was August, and that there was no fire, she glanced
around to see whether his candle needed snuffing. Happening, however,
to discover the parson in the act of shedding his coat, she withdrew
her eye, and hastened precipitately down-stairs, but sighing so loud
that he surely must have heard her had not his faculty of external
perception been already fast asleep.
At about three o'clock on the afternoon of the next day, as Arsena
was sweeping the floor of her kitchen, there reached her ears a sound
which caused her to listen for a moment, broom in air. It was the
parson playing--playing at three o'clock in the afternoon!-- and
playing--she strained her ears again and again to make sure--playing
a Virginia reel. Still, not believing her ears, she hastened aloft to
the front window and looked across the street. At the same instant the
widow Spurlock, in a state of equal excitement, hurried to the front
door of her house, and threw a quick glance up at Arsena's window. The
hag thrust a skinny hand through a slit in the curtain and beckoned
energetically, and a moment later the two women stood with their heads
close together watching the strange performance.
Some mysterious change had come over the parson and over the spirit of
his musical faculty. He sat upright in his chair, looking ten years
younger, his whole figure animated, his foot beating time so audibly
that it could be heard across the street, a vivid bloom on his lifeless
cheeks, his head rocking to and fro like a ship in a storm, and his
usually dreamy, patient gray eyes now rolled up towards the ceiling
in sentimental perturbation. And how he played that Virginia reel!
Not once, but over and over, and faster and faster, until the notes
seemed to get into the particles of his blood and set them to dancing.
And when he had finished that, he snatched his handkerchief from his
pocket, dashed it across his lips, blew his nose with a resounding
snort, and settling his figure into a more determined attitude, began
another. And the way he went at that! And when he finished that, the
way he went at another! Two negro boys, passing along the street with
a spinning-wheel, put it down and paused to listen; then, catching
the infection of the music, they began to dance. And then the widow
Spurlock, catching the infection also, began to dance, and bouncing
into the middle of the room, there actually did dance until her
tucking-comb rolled out, and--ahem!--one of her stockings slipped
down. Then the parson struck up the "Fisher's Hornpipe," and the widow,
still in sympathy, against her will, sang the words:
"Did you ever see the Devil
With his wood and iron shovel,
A-hoeing up coal
For to burn your soul?"
"He's bewitched," said old Arsena, trembling and sick with terror.
"By _whom?_" cried the widow Spurlock, indignantly, laying a heavy hand
on Arsena's shoulder.
"By his flute," replied Arsena, more fearfully.
At length the parson, as if in for it, and possessed to go all
lengths, jumped from his chair, laid the flute on the table, and
disappeared in a hidden corner of the room. Here he kept closely locked
a large brass-nailed hair trunk, over which hung a looking-glass.
For ten minutes the two women waited for him to reappear, and
then he did reappear, not in the same clothes, but wearing the
ball dress of a Virginia gentleman of an older time, perhaps his
grandfather's--knee-breeches, silk stockings, silver buckles, low
shoes, laces at his wrists, laces at his throat and down his bosom. And
to make the dress complete he had actually tied a blue ribbon around
his long silky hair. Stepping airily and gallantly to the table, he
seized the flute, and with a little wave of it through the air he began
to play, and to tread the mazes of the minuet, about the room, this way
and that, winding and bowing, turning and gliding, but all the time
fingering and blowing for dear life.
"Who would have thought it was in him?" said Arsena, her fear changed
to admiration.
"_I_ would!" said the widow.
While he was in the midst of this performance the two women had their
attention withdrawn from him in a rather singular way. A poor lad
hobbling on a crutch made his appearance in the street below, and
rapidly but timidly swung himself along to the widow Spurlock's door.
There he paused a moment, as if overcome by mortification, but finally
knocked. His summons not being answered, he presently knocked more
loudly.
"Hist!" said the widow to him, in a half-tone, opening a narrow slit in
the curtain. "What do you want, David?"
The boy wheeled and looked up, his face at once crimson with shame. "I
want to see the parson," he said, in a voice scarcely audible.
"The parson's not at home," replied the widow, sharply. "He's out;
studying up a sermon." And she closed the curtain.
An expression of despair came into the boy's face, and for a moment in
physical weakness he sat down on the door-step. He heard the notes of
the flute in the room above; he knew that the parson _was_ at home; but
presently he got up and moved away.
The women did not glance after his retreating figure, being reabsorbed
by the movements of the parson. Whence had he that air of grace and
high-born courtesy? that vivacity of youth?
"He must be in love," said Arsena. "He must be in love with the widow
Babcock."
"He's no more in love with her than _I_ am," replied her companion,
with a toss of her head.
[Illustration: "HE BEGAN TO PLAY."]
A few moments later the parson, whose motions had been gradually
growing less animated, ceased dancing, and disappeared once more
in the corner of the room, soon emerging therefrom dressed in his
own clothes, but still wearing on his hair the blue ribbon, which he
had forgotten to untie. Seating himself in his chair by the table,
he thrust his hands into his pockets, and with his eyes on the floor
seemed to pass into a trance of rather demure and dissatisfying
reflections.
When he came down to supper that night he still wore his hair in the
forgotten queue, and it may have been this that gave him such an air of
lamb-like meekness. The widow durst ask him no questions, for there was
that in him which held familiarity at a distance; but although he ate
with unusual heartiness, perhaps on account of such unusual exercise,
he did not lift his eyes from his plate, and thanked her for all her
civilities with a gratitude that was singularly plaintive.
That night he did not play his flute. The next day being Sunday, and
the new church not yet being opened, he kept his room. Early in the
afternoon a messenger handed to the widow a note for him, which, being
sealed, she promptly delivered. On reading it he uttered a quick,
smothered cry of grief and alarm, seized his hat, and hurried from
the house. The afternoon passed and he did not return. Darkness fell,
supper hour came and went, the widow put a candle in his room, and then
went across to commune with Arsena on these unusual proceedings.
Not long afterwards they saw him enter his room carrying under his arm
a violin case. This he deposited on the table, and sitting down beside
it, lifted out a boy's violin.
"A _boy's_ violin!" muttered Arsena.
"A _boy's_ violin!" muttered the widow; and the two women looked
significantly into each other's eyes.
"Humph!"
"Humph!"
By-and-by the parson replaced the violin in the box and sat motionless
beside it, one of his arms hanging listlessly at his side, the other
lying on the table. The candle shone full in his face, and a storm of
emotions passed over it. At length they saw him take up the violin
again, go to the opposite wall of the room, mount a chair, knot the
loose strings together, and hang the violin on a nail above his meagre
shelf of books. Upon it he hung the bow. Then they saw him drive a
nail in the wall close to the other, take his flute from the table,
tie around it a piece of blue ribbon he had picked up off the floor,
and hang it also on the wall. After this he went back to the table,
threw himself in his chair, buried his head in his arms, and remained
motionless until the candle burned out.
"What's the meaning of all this?" said one of the two women, as they
separated below.
"I'll find out if it's the last act of my life," said the other.
But find out she never did. For question the parson directly she dared
not; and neither to her nor any one else did he ever vouchsafe an
explanation. Whenever, in the thousand ways a woman can, she would hint
her desire to fathom the mystery, he would baffle her by assuming an
air of complete unconsciousness, or repel her by a look of warning so
cold that she hurriedly changed the subject.
As time passed on it became evident that some grave occurrence indeed
had befallen him. Thenceforth, and during the five remaining years of
his life, he was never quite the same. For months his faculties, long
used to being soothed at midnight by the music of the flute, were like
children put to bed hungry and refused to be quieted, so that sleep
came to him only after hours of waiting and tossing, and his health
suffered in consequence. And then in all things he lived like one who
was watching himself closely as a person not to be trusted.
[Illustration: Man standing on chair]
Certainly he was a sadder man. Often the two women would see him lift
his eyes from his books at night, and turn them long and wistfully
towards the wall of the room where, gathering cobwebs and dust, hung
the flute and the violin.
If any one should feel interested in having this whole mystery cleared
up, he may read the following tale of a boy's violin.