the choir invisible-第24章

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After　a　pause　during　which　neither　of　the　men　spoke；　the　parson　went　on：

〃All　Irelandit　is　a　harp！　We　know　what　Scotland　is。　John；〃　he　exclaimed；　suddenly　turning　toward　the　dark　figure　lying　just　inside　the　shadow；　〃you　are　a　discord　of　the　bagpipe　and　the　harp：　there's　the　trouble　with　you。　Sometimes　I　can　hear　the　harp　alone　in　you；　and　then　I　like　you；　but　when　the　bagpipe　begins；　you　are　worse　than　a　big　bumblebee　with　a　bad　cold。〃

〃I　know　it；〃　said　John　sorrowfully。　〃My　only　hope　is　that　the　harp　will　outlast　the　bee。〃

〃At　least　that　was　a　chord　finely　struck；〃　said　the　parson　warmly。　After　another　silence　he　went　on。

〃Martin　Lutherhe　was　a　cathedral　organ。　And　so　it　goes。　And　so　the　whole　past　sounds　to　me：　it　is　the　music　of　the　world：　it　is　the　vast　choir　of　the　ever…living　dead。〃　He　gazed　dreamily　up　at　the　heavens：　〃Plato！　he　is　the　music　of　the　stars。〃

After　a　little　while；　bending　over　and　looking　at　the　earth　and　speaking　in　a　tone　of　unconscious　humility；　he　added：

〃The　most　that　we　can　do　is　to　begin　a　strain　that　will　swell　the　general　volume　and　last　on　after　we　have　perished。　As　for　me；　when　I　am　gone；　I　should　like　the　memory　of　my　life　to　give　out　the　sound　of　a　flute。〃

He　slipped　his　hand　softly　into　the　breastpocket　of　his　coat　and　more　softly　drew　something　out。

〃Would　you　like　a　little　music？〃　he　asked　shyly；　his　cold　beautiful　face　all　at　once　taking　on　an　expression　of　angelic　sweetness。

John　quickly　reached　out　and　caught　his　hand　in　a　long；　crushing　grip：　he　knew　this　was　the　last　proof　the　parson　could　ever　have　given　him　that　he　loved　him。　And　then　as　he　lay　back　on　his　pillow；　he　turned　his　face　back　into　the　dark　cabin。

Out　upon　the　stillness　of　the　night　floated　the　parson's　passion　silver…clear；　but　in　an　undertone　of　such　peace；　of　such　immortal　gentleness。　　It　was　as　though　the　very　beams　of　the　far…off　serenest　moon；　falling　upon　his　flute　and　dropping　down　into　its　interior　through　its　little　round　openings；　were　by　his　touch　shorn　of　all　their　lustre；　their　softness；　their　celestial　energy；　and　made　to　reissue　as　music。　It　was　as　though　his　flute　had　been　stuffed　with　frozen　Alpine　blossoms　and　these　had　been　melted　away　by　the　passionate　breath　of　his　soul　into　the　coldest　invisible　flowers　of　sound。　At　last；　as　though　all　these　blossoms　in　his　flute　had　been　used　upblown　out　upon　the　warm；　moon…lit　air　as　the　snow…white　fragrances　of　the　earthe　parson　buried　his　face　softly　upon　his　elbow　which　rested　on　the　back　of　his　chair。　And　neither　man　spoke　again。　XIII

WHEN　Mrs。　Falconer　had　drawn　near　John's　hut　on　the　morning　of　his　misfortune；　it　was　past　noon　despite　all　her　anxious；　sorrowful　haste　to　reach　him。　His　wounds　had　been　dressed。　The　crowd　of　people　that　had　gathered　about　his　cabin　were　gone　back　to　their　occupations　or　their　homesexcept　a　group　that　sat　on　the　roots　of　a　green　tree　several　yards　from　his　door。　Some　of　these　were　old　wilderness　folk　living　near　by　who　had　offered　to　nurse　him　and　otherwise　to　care　for　his　comforts　and　needs。　The　affair　furnished　them　that　renewed　interest　in　themselves　which　is　so　liable　to　revisit　us　when　we　have　escaped　a　fellow…creature's　suffering　but　can　relate　good　things　about　ourselves　in　like　risks　and　dangers；　and　they　were　drawing　out　their　reminiscences　now　with　unconscious　gratitude　for　so　excellent　an　opportunity　befalling　them　in　these　peaceful　unadventurous　days。　Several　of　John's　boys　lay　in　the　grass　and　hung　upon　these　narratives。　Now　and　then　they　cast　awe…stricken　glances　at　his　door　which　had　been　pushed　to；　that　he　might　be　quiet；　or；　if　his　pain　would　let　him；　drop　into　a　little　sleep。　They　made　it　their　especial　care；　when　any　new…comer　hurried　past；　to　arrest　him　with　the　command　that　he　must　not　go　in；　and　they　would　thus　have　stopped　Mrs。　Falconer　but　she　put　them　gently　aside　without　heed　or　hearing。

When　she　softly　pushed　the　door　open；　John　was　not　asleep。　He　lay　in　a　corner　on　his　low　hard　bed　of　skins　against　the　wall　of　logs　his　eyes　wide　open；　the　hard　white　glare　of　the　small　shutter…less　window　falling　on　his　face。　He　turned　to　her　the　look　of　a　dumb　animal　that　can　say　nothing　of　why　it　has　been　wounded　or　of　how　it　is　suffering；　stretched　out　his　hand　gratefully；　and　drew　her　toward　him。　She　sat　down　on　the　edge　of　the　bed；　folded　her　quivering　fingers　across　his　temples；　smoothed　back　his　heavy；　coarse；　curling　hair；　and　bending　low　over　his　eyes；　rained　down　into　them　the　whole　unuttered；　tearless　passion　of　her　distress；　her　sympathy。　Major　Falconer　came　for　her　within　the　hour　and　she　left　with　him　almost　as　soon　as　he　arrived。　When　she　was　gone；　John　lay　thinking　of　her。

〃What　a　nurse　she　is！〃　he　said；　remembering　how　she　had　concerned　herself　solely　his　about　life；　his　safety；　his　wounds。　Once　she　had　turned　quickly：

〃Now　you　can't　go　away！〃　she　had　said　with　a　smile　that　touched　him　deeply。

〃I　wish　you　didn't　have　to　go！〃　he　had　replied　mourningfully；　feeling　his　sudden　dependence　on　her。

This　was　the　first　time　she　had　ever　been　in　roomwith　its　poverty；　its　bareness。　She　must　have　cast　about　it　a　look　of　delicate　inquiryas　a　woman　is　apt　to　do　in　a　singleman's　abode；　for　when　she　came　again；　in　addition　to　pieces　of　soft　old　linen　for　bandages　brought　fresh　cool　fragrant　sheetsthe　work　of　her　own　looms；　a　better　pillow　with　a　pillow…case　on　it　that　was　delicious　to　his　cheek；　for　he　had　his　weakness　about　clean；　white　linen。　She　put　a　curtain　over　the　pitiless　window。　He　saw　a　wild　rose　in　a　glass　beside　his　Testament。　He　discovered　moccasin　slippers　beside　his　bed。

〃And　here；〃　she　had　said　just　before　leaving；　with　her　hand　on　a　pile　of　things　and　with　an　embarrassed　laughkeeping　her　face　turned　away〃here　are　some　towels。〃　Under　the　towels　he　found　two　night　shirtsnew　ones。

When　she　was　gone；　he　lay　thinking　of　her　again。

He　had　gratefully　slipped　on　one　of　the　shirts。　He　was　feeling　the　new　sense　of　luxury　that　is　imparted　by　a　bed　enriched　with　snow…white；　sweet…smelling　pillows　and　sheets。　The　curtain　over　his　window　strained　into　his　room　a　light　shadowy；　restful。　The　flower　on　his　table；the　transforming　touch　in　his　roomher　noble　brooding　tendernesseverything　went　into　his　gratitude；　his　remembrance　of　her。　But　all　thishe　argued　with　a　sudden　taste　for　fine　discriminationhad　not　been　done　out　of　mere　anxiety　for　his　life：　it　was　not　the　barren　solicitude　of　a　nurse　but　the　deliberate；　luxurious　regard　of　a　mother　for　his　comfort：　no　doubt　it　represented　the　ungovernable　overflow　of　the　maternal；　long　pent…up　in　her　ungratified。　　And　by　this　route　he　came　at　last　to　a　thought　of　her　that　novel　for　himthe　pitying　recollection　of　her　childlessness。

〃What　a　mother　she　would　have　been！〃　he　said　rebelliously。　〃The　mother　of　sons　who　would　have　become　great　through　herand　greater　through　the　memory　of　her　after　she　was　gone。〃　When　she　came　again；　seeing　him　out　of　danger　and　seeing　him　comfortable；　she　seated　herself　beside　his　table　and　opened　her　work。〃It　isn't　good　for　you　to　talk　much；〃　she　soon　said　reprovingly；　〃and　I　have　to　workand　to　think。〃

And　so　he　lay　watching　herwatching　her　beautiful　fingers　which　never　seemed　to　rest　in　lifewatching　her　quiet　brow　with　its　ripple　of　lustrous　hair　forever　suggesting　to　him　how　her　lovely　neck　and　shoulders　would　be　buried　by　it　if　its　long　light　waves　were　but　loosened。　To　have　a　woman　sitting　by　his　table　with　her　sewingit　turned　his　room　into　something　vaguely　dreamed　of　heretofore：　a　home。　She　finished　a　sock　for　Major　Falconer　and　began　on　one　of　his　shirts。　　He　counted　the　stitches　as　they　went　into　a　sleeve。　They　made　him　angry。　And　her　face！over　it　had　come　a　look　of　settled　weariness；　for　perhaps　if　there　is　ever　a　time　when　a　woman　forgets　and　the　inward　sorrow　steals　outward　to　the　surface　as　an　unwatched　shadow　along　a　wall；　it　is　when　she　sews。

〃What　a　wife　she　is！〃　he　reflected　enviously　after　she　was　gone；　and　he　tried　not　to　think　of　certain　matters　in　her　life。　〃What　a　wife！　How　unfaltering　in　duty！〃

The　next　time　she　came；　it　was　early。　She　seemed　to　him　to　have　bathed　in　the　freshness；　the　beauty；　the　delight　of　the　morning。　He　had　never　seen　her　so　radiant；　so　young。　She