Faith And Unfaith Part 22

For the last week it has been deep in the mysteries of solos, duets, and trios. Indeed, there is hardly a family in the whole village that does not know by heart every mortal thing that is going to be sung, each family possessing a son or a daughter engaged in the common work, and belonging to the choir; yet nevertheless it now goes in a body to the school-house, as possessed with curiosity as though music is an art unknown to them, and the piping of small trebles a thing unheard of.

Nothing can exceed the excitement and jealousy that reign everywhere,--princ.i.p.ally in the hearts of Mr. Leatham's followers, who hope wildly, but secretly, that failure may be the only crop their rivals may reap.

It is a heavenly night, for which the Vicar is devoutly thankful. The moon is riding high in the dark-blue dome; the stars are all alight; the air, swift and keen, rushes along the high-roads, sweeping all before it. There is no sign of rain; the sky above, "star-inwrought,"

shows promise of many fair to-morrows. "There is no excuse for their non-attendance," murmurs the vicar to himself, as he stands inside the school-house door, wording his thought, as he might, were he thinking of the collecting together of his flock on Easter Sunday or to the Holy Communion.

"Vast night comes noiselessly up the eastern slope, And so the eternal chase goes round the world."

But for the soughing wind, the world is still. One by one, or two by two, or sometimes as a whole family, the villagers drop in, arranging themselves modestly in the back rows, and exchanging greetings with each other in a subdued and whispered fashion.

A little while after the door is opened, the lower half of the hall is crowded to excess. The vicar is well beloved by his parishioners; but above and beyond all is the desire to see Maria, and Susan, and Ezekiel upon the boards, "a singing for the quality!"

The room itself is what reporters would term "a blaze of light." Much ingenuity has been exercised in the decoration of it; and certainly the designs in laurels, and the designs in moss, and the one grand design in paper roses, at the far end of the room, are all that heart can desire.

To Clarissa, I think, this last outburst on the part of the village is a heart-break; but, if so, she represses her grief valiantly, and even, with her own forgiving fingers, condescends to brighten the monstrosity with some hothouse flowers. But, when all is told, it remains an eyesore,--a regrettable blot, not to be eradicated under pain of bringing down the rage of the entire village upon the devoted head of him or her who should interfere.

Mrs. Redmond, seated on the small platform, with the piano before her, and the choir arranged, with careful regard to its different sizes, on each side of her, waits patiently the coming of the county. She is looking thinner, more miserable, than usual, and has a general air about her of being chilled to the bone. Her fingers, lying idly in her lap, clutch and unclutch each other aimlessly, as though vainly searching for the accustomed sock.

Miss Broughton, who is taking no part in the performance,--having suppressed the fact of her having a very beautiful voice, ever since her arrival at Pullingham,--is sitting on a side-seat, longing eagerly for Clarissa's arrival. The children have wandered a little away from her, and are gazing, as lost in admiration, at the huge rose-construction on the wall before them.

Presently, the Greys of Greymount come in, with a little shudder of disgust at finding themselves almost the first; followed closely by Lady Mary and Lady Patricia Hort, who do not shudder at all, but go straight up the small pa.s.sage between the seats, with their patrician noses high in the air, and smile and nod cheerfully, and not at all condescendingly, at Mrs. Redmond, who, poor soul, is deeply relieved at sight of them.

Lady Mary goes on to the platform; Lady Patricia sinks into a front seat specially provided for her, whilst Lord Alfred, their brother,--who has been inveigled into coming, sorely against his will,--having conversed with Lady Patricia for a few minutes, and told her several lies about the arrangements for the evening,--not intentionally, but through ignorance, being under the false impression that a concert in a village is the same as a concert in town,--goes over to one side of the building, and plants himself listlessly with his back against a wall, from which position he gazes in a gloomy fashion at everything in general, but Miss Broughton in particular.

Then comes everybody, and makes a great fuss about its place,--Clarissa Peyton and her father excepted, who go straight to where Georgie is sitting, and stay with her all the evening.

Dorian Brans...o...b.., who has come down expressly for the concert, at great trouble to himself, and simply to oblige the vicar, saunters leisurely up the room towards the middle of the evening, and looks round him dubiously, as though uncertain where to put in his time.

Seeing Clarissa, he goes up to her, and, with a faint sigh of relief, leans over the back of her chair and says, "Good-evening," in a languid tone.

"Ah! you, Dorian?" says Clarissa, very pleased. "Now, it _is_ good of you to come."

"I'm always good," says Dorian. "I'm a model boy. It is so strange that people won't recognize the fact. They sort of give me to understand I'm quite the other thing, whatever that may be. Very full house, don't you think, and awfully swagger? What's Lady Patricia got on her? She is slightly terrifying, don't you think?"

"She isn't very well got up, certainly," says Clarissa, reluctantly.

"She's anyhow," says Mr. Brans...o...b.., freely; and then his eyes fall upon Georgie, who is gazing, in her rapt, childish fashion, at the singer of the moment; and then he doesn't speak again for a little while.

"Is Horace quite well?" asks Clarissa, presently.

"Quite well. He always is, you know. Who----who is the girl next your father?"

"That is my friend, Georgie Broughton. I think I told you about her.

She is governess at the vicarage, now. Is she not lovely,--quite sweet?" asks Clarissa, eagerly.

But Mr. Brans...o...b.. does not answer her. He is still staring at the unconscious Georgie, and seems almost deaf to Clarissa's praise of her. At this Miss Peyton is somewhat disgusted, and declines any further attempt at laudation.

"A governess!" he says, at length, raising his brows, but without removing his eyes from the fair and perfect face that, even now, he tells himself, is without its equal.

"Yes. She is none the less sweet for that," says Clarissa, rather coldly. She tells herself it is unlike Dorian to look down upon any one because he or she may be in a worse position than his own.

"They are going to sing again," she says, in a tone she seldom uses to him: "we must not talk, you know." She had some faint idea of introducing him to Georgie, but she abandons it, and gives him to understand that she has at present nothing more to say to him.

Whether he quite comprehends all she intends to convey, I know not; but, raising himself slowly from his lounging position on the back of her chair, he takes a last look at Georgie's profile, and moves into the background.

"Good-evening, Brans...o...b..," says Lord Alfred, presently; and Dorian, finding himself beside him, returns the greeting, and props himself up in his turn against the friendly wall, that shows its appreciation of them by giving them finely whitewashed coats.

The concert is getting on swimmingly. As yet no flaw has occurred to mark the brilliancy of its success. The opening chorus has been applauded to the echo, especially by Lord Alfred, who feels it his duty to do something, and who keeps on applauding, in the most open-hearted manner each thing and everything, until he discovers he has split his right glove all up the palm, when he caves in, and, having said something impossible, puts his hands behind his back and refuses to applaud again.

Lady Mary has come forward, and entreated her audience to "Love not,"

in the faintest and most plaintive of voices. The county is delighted with her, and smiles unrestrainedly behind its fans. "Dear Lady Mary is _so_ funny, don't you know," says Miss Grey of Greymount, in an indescribable tone.

Then comes a solo on the violin, that charms all the back benches, and reduces the farmers' wives and daughters to tears, as it tells them how that the poor player's "lodging is on the cold ground."

Lord Alfred, who has not yet recovered his temper, says this is "disgusting," and "wonders what the--so-and-so--brought him here at all."

"I suppose the night brougham," says Dorian, equably, who is now engaged in a minute examination of Miss Broughton's head, round which her soft yellow hair is twisted in a loose artistic coil.

He is in quite a happy mood, if somewhat silent, and says the solo isn't half bad; and now Mr. Hastings, the curate, reads something from the "Ingoldsby Legends," that seems to displease Cissy Redmond extremely, as she will not lift her head during the reading, or even look at him, and expresses herself as quite charmed when it is at an end.

And now comes the event of the evening,--the thing that is to convince the county of the necessity for a good organ, and to show them the rare excellence of the Pullingham choir.

Sarah Martin, the leading soprano--all muslin and blue bows--comes forward, and begins the solo upon which all the vicar's hopes are centred.

"The shades of night are falling fast."

begins Sarah, n.o.bly, and goes on in a hopeful manner to the end of the first verse.

The vicar draws a deep sigh of relief!

"His brow was sad, his eye beneath,"

goes on Sarah victoriously, her whole soul in the safe fulfilment of her task. She gets through to the end of the second verse as successfully as she did to the end of the first, and then pauses to draw breath.

The vicar exchanges a triumphant glance with Miss Peyton.

"In happy homes they saw the light,"

continues Sarah. And then--then! something horrible happens. A sound, very terrible to the vicar, smites upon his ear,--a sound that fills his clerical bosom with dismay. Sarah's voice--the voice of his chief prop--has proved false. It has given way; it has cracked upon a high note; and _the_ solo of the evening has proved a dead failure.

Talk of failing for a million; talk of Isandula or Majuba Hill; talk of Mr. Parnell and the Coercion Bill! But was ever defeat so disastrous as this? The vicar, but for his s.e.x, and the publicity of the thing, could thankfully have given way to tears. Miss Peyton flushes to her temples and feels as if she herself has been guilty of the miserable _fiasco_.

Of course it is hushed up. The piano comes out quite strong again, under Mrs. Redmond's bony fingers; the defaulter is gently pushed into the background, and a chorus introduced. Nevertheless, after the breakdown, things somehow seem to go wrong. The other singers are disheartened, and will not do their best; while Sarah, who is dissolved in tears in the cloak-room, and who has another song on the programme, obstinately refuses to try her powers again.

The vicar is in despair, although he walks about valiantly among the audience, trying, most unsuccessfully, to appear unconcerned; whilst the coughing and sneezing, that generally distinguish every place where silence is the thing most to be desired, seem now on the increase, to an alarming degree, and threaten to drown Lady Mary's second effort.

"Who _is_ that blowing his nose?" demands the poor vicar, testily, looking daggers in the direction of the sound. Clarissa, who is the nearest to him as he makes this observation, just saves herself from laughing aloud.