eben holden-第25部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！



'Will　you　let　me　call　upon　you　before　I　leave　…　may　I？'　He　turned　to　me　while　she　stood　silent。　'I　wish　to　see　your　father；'　he　added。

'Certanly；'　she　answered；　blushing；　'you　may　come　…　if　you　care　to　come。

The　musician　had　begun　to　thrum　the　strings　of　his　violin。　We　turned　to　look　at　him。　He　still　sat　in　his　chair；　his　ear　bent　to　the　echoing　chamber　of　the　violin。　Soon　he　laid　his　bow　to　the　strings　and　a　great　chord　hushed　every　whisper　and　died　into　a　sweet；　low　melody；　in　which　his　thought　seemed　to　be　feeling　its　way　through　sombre　paths　of　sound。　The　music　brightened；　the　bow　went　faster；　and　suddenly　'The　Girl　I　Left　Behind　Me'　came　rushing　off　the　strings。　A　look　of　amazement　gathered　on　the　elder's　face　and　deepened　into　horror。　It　went　from　one　to　another　as　if　it　had　been　a　dish　of　ipecac。　Ann　Jane　Foster　went　directly　for　her　things；　and　with　a　most　unchristian　look　hurried　out　into　the　night。　Half　a　dozen　others　followed　her；　while　the　unholy　music　went　on；　its　merry　echoes　rioting　in　that　sacred　room；　hallowed　with　memories　of　the　hour　of　conviction；　of　the　day　of　mourning；　of　the　coming　of　the　bride　in　her　beauty。

Deacon　Hospur　rose　and　began　to　drawl　a　sort　of　apology；　when　the　player　stopped　suddenly　and　shot　an　oath　at　him。　The　deacon　staggered　under　the　shock　of　it。　His　whiskers　seemed　to　lift　a　bit　like　the　hair　of　a　cat　under　provocation。　Then　he　tried　to　speak；　but　only　stuttered　helplessly　a　moment　as　if　his　tongue　were　oscillating　between　silence　and　profanity；　and　was　finally　pulled　down　by　his　wife；　who　had　laid　hold　of　his　coat　tails。　If　　it　had　been　any　other　man　than　Deacon　Hospur　it　would　have　gone　badly　with　the　musician　then　and　there；　but　we　boys　saw　his　discomfiture　with　positive　gratitude。　In　a　moment　all　rose；　the　dishes　were　gathered　up；　and　many　hurried　away　with　indignant　glances　at　the　poor　elder；　who　was　busy　taking　counsel　with　some　of　the　brethren。

I　have　never　seen　a　more　pathetic　figure　than　that　of　poor　Nick　Goodall　as　he　sat　there　thrumming　the　strings　of　which　he　was　a　Heaven…born　master。　I　saw　him　often　after　that　night　…　a　poor；　halfwitted　creature；　who　wandered　from　inn　to　inn　there　in　the　north　country；　trading　music　for　hospitality。　A　thoroughly　intelligible　sentence　never　passed　his　lips；　but　he　had　a　great　gift　of　eloquence　in　music。　Nobody　knew　whence　he　had　come　or　any　particular　of　his　birth　or　training　or　family。　But　for　his　sullen　temper；　that　broke　into　wild；　unmeaning　profanity　at　times；　Nick　Goodall　would　have　made　fame　and　fortune。

He　stared　at　the　thinning　crowd　as　if　he　had　begun　dimly　to　comprehend　the　havoc　he　had　wrought。　Then　he　put　on　his　hat；　came　down　off　the　platform；　and　shuffled　out　of　the　open　door；　his　violin　in　one　hand；　its　box　in　the　other。　There　were　not　more　than　a　dozen　of　us　who　followed　him　into　the　little　churchyard。　The　moon　was　rising；　and　the　shadows　of　lilac　and　rose　bush；　of　slab　and　monument　lay　long　across　the　green　mounds。　Standing　there　between　the　graves　of　the　dead　he　began　to　play。　I　shall　never　forget　that　solemn　calling　of　the　silver　string：

'Come　ye　disconsolate　where'er　ye　languish。'

It　was　a　new　voice；　a　revelation；　a　light　where　darkness　had　been；　to　Hope　and　to　me。　We　stood　listening　far　into　the　night；　forgetful　of　everything；　even　the　swift　flight　of　the　hours。

Loud；　impassioned　chords　rose　into　the　moonlit　sky　and　sank　to　a　faint　whisper　of　melody；　when　we　could　hear　the　gossip　of　the　birds　in　the　belfry　and　under　the　eaves；　trembling　tones　of　supplication；　wailing　notes　of　longing　and　regret　swept　through　the　silent　avenues　of　the　churchyard；　thrilling　us　with　their　eloquence。　For　the　first　time　we　heard　the　music　of　Handel；　of　Mendelssohn；　of　Paganini；　and　felt　its　power；　then　knowing　neither　name　nor　theme。　Hour　by　hour　he　played　on　for　the　mere　joy　of　it。　When　we　shook　hands　with　the　elder　and　tiptoed　to　the　buggy　he　was　still　playing。　We　drove　slowly　and　listened　a　long　way　down　the　road。　I　could　hear　the　strains　of　that　ballad；　then　new　to　me；　but　now　familiar；　growing　fainter　in　the　distance：

O　ye'll　tak'　the　high　road　an'　I'll　tak'　the　low　road　An'　I'll　be　in　Scotland　afore　ye；　But　me　an'　me　true　love　will　never　meet　again　On　the　bonnie；　bonnie　banks　o'　Loch　Lomond。

what　connection　it　may　have　had　with　the　history　of　poor　Nick　Goodall*1　I　have　often　wondered。

As　the　last　note　died　into　silence　I　turned　to　Hope；　and　she　was　crying。

'Why　are　you　crying？'　I　asked；　in　as　miserable　a　moment　as　I　have　ever　known。

'It's　the　music；'　she　said。

*1　Poor　Nick　Coodall　died　in　the　almshouse　of　Jefferson　County　some　thirty　years　ago。　A　better　account　of　this　incident　was　widely　printed　at　that　time。

We　both　sat　in　silence；　then；　hearing　only　the　creak　of　the　buggy　as　it　sped　over　the　sandy　road。　Well　ahead　of　us　I　saw　a　man　who　suddenly　turned　aside；　vaulting　over　the　fence　and　running　into　the　near　woods。

'The　night　man！'　I　exclaimed；　pulling　up　a　moment　to　observe　him。

Then　a　buggy　came　in　sight；　and　presently　we　heard　a　loud　'hello'　from　David　Brower；　who；　worried　by　our　long　stay；　had　come　out　in　quest　of　us。

Chapter　14

Hope's　love　of　music　became　a　passion　after　that　night。　Young　Mr　Livingstone；　'the　city　chap'　we　had　met　at　the　church；　came　over　next　day。　His　enthusiasm　for　her　voice　gave　us　all　great　hope　of　it。　David　Brower　said　he　would　take　her　away　to　the　big　city　when　she　was　older。　They　soon　decided　to　send　her　in　September　to　the　big　school　in　Hillsborough。

'She's　got　t'　be　a　lady；'　said　David　Brower；　as　he　drew　her　into　his　lap　the　day　we　had　all　discussed　the　matter。　'She's　leamt　everything　in　the　'rithinetic　an'　geography　an'　speller。　I　want　her　t'　learn　somethin'　more　scientific。'

'Now　you're　talkin'；'　said　Uncle　Eb。　'There's　lots　o'　things　ye　can't　learn　by　cipherin'。　Nuthin's　too　good　fer　Hope。'

'I'd　like　t'　know　what　you　men　expect　of　her　anyway；'　said　Elizabeth　Brower。

'A　high　stepper；'　said　Uncle　Eb。　'We　want　a　slick　coat；　a　kind　uv　a　toppy　head；　an　a　lot　O'　ginger。　So't　when　we　hitch　'er　t'　the　pole　bime　bye　we　shan't　be　'shamed　o'　her。'

'Eggzac'ly；'　said　David　Brower；　laughing。　'An'　then　she　shall　have　the　best　harness　in　the　market。'

Hope　did　not　seem　to　comprehend　all　the　rustic　metaphors　that　had　been　applied　to　her。　A　look　of　puzzled　amusement　came　over　her　face；　and　then　she　ran　away　into　the　garden；　her　hair　streaming　from　under　her　white　sun…bonnet。

'Never　see　sech　a　beauty！　Beats　the　world；'　said　Uncle　Eb　in　a　whisper；　whereat　both　David　and　Elizabeth　shook　their　heads。

'Lord　o'　mercy！　Don't　let　her　know　it；'　Elizabeth　answered；　in　a　low　tone。　'She's　beginning　to　have…'

Just　then　Hope　came　by　us　leading　her　pet　filly　that　had　been　born　within　the　month。　Immediately　Mrs　Brower　changed　the　subject。

'To　have　what？'　David　enquired　as　soon　as　the　girl　was　out　of　hearing。

'Suspicions；'　said　Elizabeth　mournflllly。　'Spends　a　good　deal　of　her　time　at　the　looking…glass。　I　think　the　other　girls　tell　her　and　then　that　young　Livingstone　has　been　turning　her　head。'

'Turning　her　head！'　he　exclaimed。

'Turning　her　head；'　she　answered。　'He　sat　here　the　other　day　and　deliberately　told　her　that　he　had　never　seen　such　a