the village watch-tower- 第18部分

forty　and　still　young；　with　her　susceptibilities　cherished；　not　dulled；

and　with　all　the　〃language　of　passion　fresh　and　rooted　as　the　lovely

leafage　about　a　spring。〃



IV。





〃He　shall　daily　joy　dispense

Hid　in　song's　sweet　influence。〃



Emerson's　_Merlin。_





Lyddy　had　very　few　callers　during　her　first　month

as　a　property　owner　in　Edgewood。　　Her　appearance　would

have　been　against　her　winning　friends　easily　in　any　case；

even　if　she　had　not　acquired　the　habits　of　a　recluse。

It　took　a　certain　amount　of　time；　too；　for　the　community

to　get　used　to　the　fact　that　old　Mrs。　Butterfield　was　dead；

and　her　niece　Lyddy　Ann　living　in　the　cottage　on　the　river　road。

There　were　numbers　of　people　who　had　not　yet　heard　that　old

Mrs。　Butterfield　had　bought　the　house　from　the　Thatcher　boys；

and　that　was　fifteen　years　ago；　but　this　was　not　strange；　for；

notwithstanding　aunt　Hitty's　valuable　services　in　disseminating

general　information；　there　was　a　man　living　on　the　Bonny　Eagle

road　who　was　surprised　to　hear　that　Daniel　Webster　was　dead；

and　complained　that　folks　were　not　so　long…lived　as　they

used　to　be。



Aunt　Hitty　thought　Lyddy　a　Goth　and　a　Vandal　because　she　took　down

the　twenty　silver　coffin　plates　and　laid　them　reverently　away。

〃Mis'　Butterfield　would　turn　in　her　grave；〃　she　said；　〃if　she　knew　it。

She　ain't　much　of　a　housekeeper；　I　guess；〃　she　went　on；　as　she　cut

over　Dr。　Berry's　old　trousers　into　briefer　ones　for　Tommy　Berry。

〃She　gives　considerable　stuff　to　her　hens　that　she'd　a　sight　better　heat

over　and　eat　herself；　in　these　hard　times　when　the　missionary　societies　can't

hardly　keep　the　heathen　fed　and　clothed　and　warmedno；　I　don't　mean　warmed；

for　most　o'　the　heathens　live　in　hot　climates；　somehow　or　'nother。

My　back　door's　jest　opposite　hers；　it's　across　the　river；　to　be　sure；

but　it's　the　narrer　part；　and　I　can　see　everything　she　does　as　plain

as　daylight。　　She　washed　a　Monday；　and　she　ain't　taken　her　clothes　in　yet；

and　it's　Thursday。　　She　may　be　bleachin'　of　'em　out；　but　it　looks　slack。

I　said　to　Si　last　night　I　should　stand　it　till　'bout　Friday；seein'　'em　lay

on　the　grass　there；　but　if　she　didn't　take　'em　in　then；　I　should　go

over　and　offer　to　help　her。　　She　has　a　fire　in　the　settin'…room　'most

every　night；　though　we　ain't　had　a　frost　yet；　and　as　near's　I　can

make　out；　she's　got　full　red　curtains　hangin'　up　to　her　windows。

I　ain't　sure；　for　she　don't　open　the　blinds　in　that　room　till　I

get　away　in　the　morning；　and　she　shuts　'em　before　I　get　back　at　night。

Si　don't　know　red　from　green；　so　he's　useless　in　such　matters。

I'm　going　home　late　to…night；　and　walk　down　on　that　side　o'　the　river；

so't　I　can　call　in　after　dark　and　see　what　makes　her　house　light　up

as　if　the　sun　was　settin'　inside　of　it。〃



As　a　matter　of　fact；　Lyddy　was　reveling　in　house…furnishing

of　a　humble　sort。　　She　had　a　passion　for　color。　　There　was

a　red…and…white　straw　matting　on　the　sitting…room　floor。

Reckless　in　the　certain　possession　of　twenty　dollars　a　month；

she　purchased　yards　upon　yards　of　turkey　red　cotton；

enough　to　cover　a　mattress　for　the　high…backed　settle；　for　long

curtains　at　the　windows；　and　for　cushions　to　the　rockers。

She　knotted　white　fringes　for　the　table　covers　and　curtains；

painted　the　inside　of　the　fireplace　red；　put　some　pots；

of　scarlet　geraniums　on　the　window…sills；　filled　newspaper

rack　with　ferns　and　tacked　it　over　an　ugly　spot　in　the　wall；

edged　her　work…basket　with　a　tufted　trimming　of　scarlet　worsted；

and　made　an　elaborate　photograph　case　of　white　crash　and　red

cotton　that　stretched　the　entire　length　of　the　old…fashioned

mantelshelf；　and　held　pictures　of　Mr。　Reynolds；　Miss

Elvira　Reynolds；　George；　Susy；　Anna；　John；　Hazel；　Ella；

and　Rufus　Reynolds；　her　former　charges。　　When　all　this　was　done；

she　lighted　a　little　blaze　on　the　hearth；　took　the　red　curtains

from　their　hands；　let　them　fall　gracefully　to　the　floor；

and　sat　down　in　her　rocking…chair；　reconciled　to　her　existence

for　absolutely　the　first　time　in　her　forty　years。



I　hope　Mrs。　Butterfield　was　happy　enough　in　Paradise　to　appreciate

and　feel　Lyddy's　joy。　　I　can　even　believe　she　was　glad　to　have　died；

since　her　dying　could　bring　such　content　to　any　wretched　living　human　soul。

As　Lydia　sat　in　the　firelight；　the　left　side　of　her　poor　face

in　shadow；　you　saw　that　she　was　distinctly　harmonious。　　Her　figure；

clad　in　plain　black…and…white　calico　dress；　was　a　graceful；　womanly　one。

She　had　beautifully　sloping　shoulders　and　a　sweet　wrist。　　Her　hair　was

soft　and　plentiful；　and　her　hands　were　fine；　strong；　and　sensitive。

This　possibility　of　rare　beauty　made　her　scars　and　burns　more　pitiful；

for　if　a　cheap　chrome　has　smirch　across　its　face；　we　think　it　a　matter

of　no　moment；　but　we　deplore　the　smallest　scratch　or　blur　on　any

work　of　real　art。



Lydia　felt　a　little　less　bitter　and　hopeless　about　life　when　she

sat　in　front　of　her　own　open　fire；　after　her　usual　twilight　walk。

It　was　her　habit　to　wander　down　the　wooded　road　after　her　simple

five…o'clock　supper；　gatherings　ferns　or　goldenrod　or　frost　flowers

for　her　vases；　and　one　night　she　heard；　above　the　rippling　of　the　river；

the　strange；　sweet；　piercing　sound　of　Anthony　Croft's　violin。



She　drew　nearer；　and　saw　a；　middle…aged　man　sitting　in　the　kitchen

doorway；　with　a　lad　of　ten　or　twelve　years　leaning　against　his　knees。

She　could　tell　little　of　his　appearance；　save　that　he　had　a　high　forehead；

and　hair　that　waved　well　back　from　it　in　rather　an　unusual　fashion。

He　was　in　his　shirt…sleeves；　but　the　gingham　was　scrupulously　clean；

and　he　had　the　uncommon　refinement　of　a　collar　and　necktie。

Out　of　sight　herself；　Lyddy　drew　near　enough　to　hear；　and　this　she

did　every　night　without　recognizing　that　the　musician　was　blind。

The　music　had　a　curious　effect　upon　her。　　It　was　a　hitherto　unknown　influence

in　her　life；　and　it　interpreted　her；　so　to　speak；　to　herself。

As　she　sat　on　the　bed　of　brown　pine　needles；　under　a　friendly　tree；

her　head　resting　against　its　trunk；　her　eyes　half　closed；　the　tone　of

Anthony's　violin　came　like　a　heavenly　message　to　a　tired；　despairing　soul。

Remember　that　in　her　secluded　life　she　had　heard　only　such　harmony　as　Elvira

Reynolds　evoked　from　her　piano　or　George　Reynolds　from　his　flute；

and　the　Reynolds　temperament　was　distinctly　inartistic。



Lyddy　lived　through　a　lifetime　of　emotion　in　these　twilight　concerts。

Sometimes　she　was　filled　with　an　exquisite　melancholy　from　which　there　was

no　escape；　at　others；　the　ethereal　purity　of　the　strain　stirred　her　heart　with

a　strange；　sweet　vision　of　mysterious　joy；　joy　that　she　had　never　possessed；

would　never　possess；　joy　whose　bare　existence　she　never　before　realized。

When　the　low　notes　sank　lower　and　lower　with　their　soft　wail　of　delicious　woe；

she　bent　forward　into　the　dark；　dreading　that　something　would　be　lost

in　the　very　struggle　of　listening；　then；　after　a；　pause；　a　pure　human　tone

would　break　the　stillness；　and　soaring；　bird…like；　higher　and　higher；

seem　to　mount　to　heaven　itself；　and；　〃piercing　its　starry　floors；〃

lift　poor　scarred　Lydia's　soul　to　the　very　grates　of　infinite　bliss。

In　the　gentle　moods　that　stole　upon　her　in　those　summer　twilights　she

became　a　different　woman；　softer　in　her　prosperity　than　she　had　ever

been　in　her　adversity；　for　some　plants　only　blossom　in　sunshine。

What　wonder　if　to　her　the　music　and　the　musician　became　one？

It　is　sometimes　a　dangerous　thing　to　fuse　the　man　and　his　talents

in　this　way；　but　it　did　no　harm　here；　for　Anthony　Croft　was　his　music；

and　the　music　was　Anthony　Croft。　　When　he　played　on　his　violin；　it　was

as　if　the　miracle　of　its　fashioning　were　again　enacted；　as　if　the　bird

on　the　quivering　bough；　the　mellow　sunshine　streaming　through　the　lattice

of　green　leaves；　the　tinkle　of　the　woodland　stream；　spoke　in　every　tone；

and　more　than　this；　the　hearth…glow　in　whose　light　the　patient　hands

had　worked；　the　breath　of　the　soul　bending　itself　in　passionate　prayer

for　perfection；　these；　too；　seemed　to　have　wrought　their　blessed　influence

on　the　willing　strings　until　the　tone　was　laden　with　spiritual　harmony。

One　might　indeed　have　sung　of　this　little　red　violinthat　looked　to　Lyddy；

in　the　sunset　glow；　as　if　it　were　veneered　with　rubiesall　that

Shelley　sang　of　another　perfect　instrument：





〃The　artist　who　this　viol　wrought

To　echo　all　harmonious　thought；

Fell'd　a　tree；　while　on　the　steep

The　woods　were　in　their　winter　sleep；

Rock'd　in　that　repose　divine

Of　the　wind…swept　Apennine；

And　dreaming；　some　of　Autumn　past；

And　some　of　Spring　approaching　fast；

And　some　of　April　buds　and　showers；

And　some　of　songs　in　July　bowers；

And　all　of　love；　and　so　this　tree

O　that　such　our　death　may　be！

Died　in　sleep；　and　felt　no　pain；

To　live　in　happier　form　again。〃



The　viol　〃whispers　in　enamoured　tone：〃





〃Sweet　oracles　of　woods　and　dells；

And　summer　windy　ill　sylvan　cells；　。　。

The　clearest　echoes　of　the　hills；

The　softest　notes　of　falling　rills；

The　melodies　of　birds　and　bees；

The　murmuring　of　summer　seas；

And　pattering　rain；　and　breathing　dew；

And　airs　of　evening；　all　it　knew。。。。

All　this　it　knows；　but　will　not　tell

　To　those　who　cannot　question　well

The　spirit　that　inhabits　it；　。。。

But；　sweetly　as　its　answers　will

Flatter　hands　of　perfect　skill；

It　keeps　its　highest；　holiest　tone

For　one　beloved　Friend　alone。〃





Lyddy　heard　the　violin　and　the　man's　voice　as　he　talked　to　the　child；

heard　them　night　after　night；　and　when　she　went　home　to　the　little

brown　house　to　light　the　fire　on　the　hearth　and　let　down　the　warm

red　curtains；　she　fell　into　sweet；　sad　reveries；　and　when　she　blew

out　her　candle　for　the　night；　she　fell　asleep　and　dreamed　new　dreams；

and　her　heart　was　stirred　with　the　rustling　of　new…born　hopes　that　rose

and　took　wing　like　birds　startled　from　their　nests。



V。





〃Nor　scour　the　seas；　nor　sift　mankind；

A　poet　or　a