print which he had known for years; and then he would
sit down for a while in one chair, and for a while
in another, while his mind was wandering back into
the old days, thinking of old troubles and remembering
old joys. And he had a habit, when he was sure
that he that he was not watched, of creeping up to
a great black wooden case, which always stood in one
corner of the sitting-room which he occupied in the
deanery. Mr Harding, when he was younger, had
been a performer on the violoncello, and in this case
there was still the instrument from which he had been
wont to extract the sounds which he had so dearly loved.
Now in these latter days he never made any attempt
to play. Soon after he had come to the deanery
there had fallen upon him an illness, and after that
he had never again asked for his bow. They who
were around him—his daughter chiefly and
her husband—had given the matter much thought,
arguing with themselves whether or no it would be better
to invite him to resume the task he so loved; for
of all the works of his life this playing on the violoncello
had been the sweetest to him; but even before that
illness his hand had greatly failed him, and the dean
and Mrs Arabin had agreed that it would be better
to let the matter pass without a word. He had
never asked to be allowed to play. He had expressed
no regrets. When he himself would propose that
his daughter should ’give them a little music’—and
he would make such a proposition on every evening
that was suitable—he would never say a word
of those former performances at which he himself had
taken a part. But it had become known to Mrs
Arabin, through the servants, that he had once dragged
the instrument forth from its case when he thought
the house to be nearly deserted; and a wail of sounds
had been heard, very low, very short-lived, recurring
now and again at fitful intervals. He had at
those times attempted to play, as though with a muffled
bow—so that none should know of his vanity
and folly. Then there had been further consultations
at the deanery, and it had been again agreed that it
would be best to say nothing to him of his music.
In these latter days of which I am now speaking he
would never draw the instrument out of its case.
Indeed he was aware that it was too heavy for him
to handle without assistance. But he would pass
his fingers among the broad strings, and ever and
anon would produce from one of them a low, melancholy,
almost unearthly sound. And then he would pause,
never daring to produce such notes in succession—one
close upon the other. And these last sad moans
of the old fiddle were now known through the household.
They were the ghosts of the melody of days long past.
He imagined that his visits to the box were unsuspected—that
none knew of the folly of his old fingers which could
not keep themselves from touching the wires; but the
voice of the old violoncello had been recognised by
the servants and by his daughter, and when that low
wail was heard through the house—like the
last dying note of a dirge—they would all
know that Mr Harding was visiting his ancient friend.