on Sunday after Christmas the last Sunday they ever played in Longpuddle church gallery, as it turned out, though they didn't
know it then. The players formed a very good band almost as good as the Mellstock parish players that were led by the Dewys;
and that's saying a great deal. There was Nicholas Puddingcome, the leader, with the first fiddle; there was Timothy Thomas,
the bass-viol man; John Biles, the tenor fiddler; Dan'l Hornhead, with the serpent; Robert Dowdle, with the clarionet; and
Mr. Nicks, with the oboe all sound and powerful musicians, and strong-winded men they that blowed. For that reason they were
very much in demand Christmas week for little reels and dancing-parties; for they could turn a jig or a hornpipe out of hand
as well as ever they could turn out a psalm, and perhaps better, not to speak irreverent. In short, one half-hour they could
be playing a Christmas carol in the squire's hall to the ladies and gentlemen, and drinking tea and coffee with 'em as modest
as saints; and the next, at the Tinker's Arms, blazing away like wild horses with the "Dashing White Sergeant" to nine couple
of dancers and more, and swallowing rum-and-cider hot as flame.
Well, this Christmas they'd been out
to one rattling randy after another every night, and had got next to no sleep at all. Then came the Sunday after Christmas,
their fatal day. 'Twas so mortal cold that year that they could hardly sit in the gallery; for though the congregation down
in the body of the church had a stove to keep off the frost, the players in the gallery had nothing at all. So Nicholas said
at morning service, when 'twas freezing an inch an hour, "Please the Lord I won't stand this numbing weather no longer; this
afternoon we'll have something in our insides to make us warm if it cost a king's ransom."
So he brought a gallon of hot brandy
and beer, ready mixed, to church with him in the afternoon, and by keeping the jar well wrapped up in Timothy Thomas's bass-viol
bag it kept drinkably warm till they wanted it, which was just a thimbleful in the Absolution, and another after the Creed,
and the remainder at the beginning o' the sermon. When they'd had the last pull they felt quite comfortable and warm, and
as the sermon went on most unfortunately for 'em it was a long one that afternoon they fell asleep, every man jack of 'em;
and there they slept on as sound as rocks.
'Twas a very dark afternoon, and by the
end of the sermon all you could see of the inside of the church were the pa'son's two candles alongside of him in the pulpit,
and his spaking face behind 'em. The sermon being ended at last, the pa'son gie'd out the Evening Hymn. But no choir set about
sounding up the tune, and the people began to turn their heads to learn the reason why, and then Levi Limpet, a boy who sat
in the gallery, nudged Timothy and Nicholas, and said, "Begin! Begin!"
"Hey, what?" says Nicholas, starting
up; and the church being so dark and his head so muddled he thought he was at the party they had played at all the night before,
and away he went, bow and fiddle, at "The Devil among the Tailors," the favorite jig of our neighborhood at that time. The
rest of the band, being in the same state of mind and nothing doubting, followed their leader with all their strength, according
to custom. They poured out that there tune till the lower bass notes of "The Devil among the Tailors" made the cobwebs in
the roof shiver like ghosts; then Nicholas, seeing nobody moved, shouted out as he scraped (in his usual commanding way at
dances when the folk didn't know the figures), "Top couples cross hands! And when I make the fiddle squeak at the end, every
man kiss his pardner under the mistletow!"
The boy Levi was so frightened that he
bolted down the gallery stairs and out homeward like lightning. The pa'son's hair fairly stood on end when he heard the evil
tune raging through the church; and thinking the choir had gone crazy, he held up his hand and said: "Stop, stop, stop! Stop,
stop! What's this?" But they didn't hear 'n for the noise of their own playing, and the more he called the louder they played.
Then the folks came out of their pews,
wondering down to the ground, and saying: "What do they mean by such a wickedness? We shall be consumed like Sodom and Gomorrah!"
Then the squire came out of his pew lined
wi' green baize, where lots of lords and ladies visiting at the house were worshipping along with him, and went and stood
in front of the gallery, and shook his fist in the musicians' faces, saying, "What! In this reverent edifice! What!" And at last they heard 'n through their playing, and stopped.
"Never such an insulting, disgraceful
thing never!" says the squire, who couldn't rule his passion. "Never!" says
the pa'son, who had come down and stood beside him.
"Not if the angels of Heaven" says the
squire, (he was a wickedish man, the squire was, though now for once he happened to be on the Lord's side) "not if the angels
of Heaven come down," he says, "shall one of you villanous players ever sound a note in this church again; for the insult
to me, and my family, and my visitors, and God Almighty, that you've a perpetrated this afternoon!"
Then the unfortunate church band came
to their senses, and remembered where they were; and 'twas a sight to see Nicholas Puddingcome and Timothy Thomas and John
Biles creep down the gallery stairs with their fiddles under their arms, and poor Dan'l Hornhead with his serpent, and Robert
Dowdle with his clarionet all looking as little as ninepins; and out they went. The pa'son might have forgie'd 'em when he
learned the truth o't, but the squire would not. That very week he sent for a barrel-organ that would play two-and-twenty
new psalm tunes, so exact and particular that, however sinful inclined you was, you could play nothing but psalm tunes whatsomever.
He had a really respectable man to turn the winch, and the old players played no more.
'And, of course, my old acquaintance,
the annuitant, Mrs. Winter, who always seemed to have something on her mind, is dead and gone?' said the home-comer, after
a long silence. Nobody in the van seemed to recollect the name.
O yes, she must be dead long since: she
was seventy when I as a child knew her,' he added. 'I can recollect Mrs. Winter
very well, if nobody else can,' said the aged groceress. 'Yes, she's been dead these five-and-twenty year at least. You knew
what it was upon her mind, sir, that gave her that hollow-eyed look, I suppose?'
'It had something to do with a son of
hers, I think I once was told. But I was too young to know particulars.'The
groceress sighed as she conjured up a vision of days long past. 'Yes,' she
murmured, 'it had all to do with a son.'
Finding that the van was still in a listening
mood, she spoke on: