The Choir Invisible

The parson turned his calm face up toward the firmament and tears glistened

in his eyes. Then perhaps from the old habit and need of following a sermon

with a hymn, he said quite simply: "Would you like a little music? It is the Good-bye of the Flute to you and a

pleasant journey."

The school-master's head had dropped quickly upon his arms, which were

crossed over the back of his chair. While the parson was praising him, he

had put out his hand two or three times with wretched, imploring gestures.

Keeping his face still hidden, he moved his head now in token of assent; and

out upon the stillness of the night floated the Farewell of the Flute.

But no sermon, nor friendship, nor music, nor voice of conscience, nor voice

of praise, nor ideals, nor any other earthly thing could stand this day

against the evil that was in him. The parson had scarce gone away through

the misty beams before he sprang up and seized his hat.

There was no fog out on the clearing. He could not have said why he had

come. He only knew that he was there in the garden where he had parted from

her the day before. He sat on the bench where they had talked so often, he

strolled among her plants. How clear in the moonlight every leaf of the dark

green little things was, many of them holding white drops of dew on their

tips and edges! How plain the last shoe-prints where she had worked! How

peaceful the whole scene in every direction, how sacredly at rest! And the

cabin up there at the end of the garden where they were sleeping side by

side--how the moon poured its strongest light upon that: his eye could never

get away from it. So closely a man might live with a woman in this

seclusion! So entirely she must be his!

His passions leaped like dogs against their chains when brought too near.

They began to draw him toward the cabin until at last he had come opposite

to it, his figure remaining hidden behind the fence and under the heavy

shadow of a group of the wilderness trees. Then it was that taking one step

further, he drew back.

The low window of the cabin was open and she was sitting there near the foot

of her bed, perfectly still and looking out into the night. Her face rested

in one palm, her elbow on the window sill. Her nightgown had slipped down

from her arm. The only sleepless thing in all the peace of that summer

night: the yearning image of mated loneliness.