A SACRED CONCERT
In spite of Miss Cornelia’s new point of view she could not help
feeling a little disturbed over the next performance of the manse
children. In public she carried off the situation splendidly, saying to
all the gossips the substance of what Anne had said in daffodil time,
and saying it so pointedly and forcibly that her hearers found
themselves feeling rather foolish and began to think that, after all,
they were making too much of a childish prank. But in private Miss
Cornelia allowed herself the relief of bemoaning it to Anne.
“Anne dearie, they had a _concert in the graveyard_ last Thursday
evening, while the Methodist prayer meeting was going on. There they
sat, on Hezekiah Pollock’s tombstone, and sang for a solid hour. Of
course, I understand it was mostly hymns they sang, and it wouldn’t
have been quite so bad if they’d done nothing else. But I’m told they
finished up with _Polly Wolly Doodle_ at full length—and that just when
Deacon Baxter was praying.”
“I was there that night,” said Susan, “and, although I did not say
anything about it to you, Mrs. Dr. dear, I could not help thinking that
it was a great pity they picked that particular evening. It was truly
blood-curdling to hear them sitting there in that abode of the dead,
shouting that frivolous song at the tops of their lungs.”
“I don’t know what _you_ were doing in a Methodist prayer meeting,”
said Miss Cornelia acidly.
“I have never found that Methodism was catching,” retorted Susan
stiffly. “And, as I was going to say when I was interrupted, badly as I
felt, I did _not_ give in to the Methodists. When Mrs. Deacon Baxter
said, as we came out, ‘What a disgraceful exhibition!’ _I_ said,
looking her fairly in the eye, ‘They are all beautiful singers, and
none of _your_ choir, Mrs. Baxter, ever bother themselves coming out to
your prayer meeting, it seems. Their voices appear to be in tune only
on Sundays!’ She was quite meek and I felt that I had snubbed her
properly. But I could have done it much more thoroughly, Mrs. Dr. dear,
if only they had left out _Polly Wolly Doodle_. It is truly terrible to
think of that being sung in a graveyard.”
“Some of those dead folks sang _Polly Wolly Doodle_ when they were
living, Susan. Perhaps they like to hear it yet,” suggested Gilbert.
Miss Cornelia looked at him reproachfully and made up her mind that, on
some future occasion, she would hint to Anne that the doctor should be
admonished not to say such things. They might injure his practice.
People might get it into their heads that he wasn’t orthodox. To be
sure, Marshall said even worse things habitually, but then _he_ was not
a public man.
“I understand that their father was in his study all the time, with his
windows open, but never noticed them at all. Of course, he was lost in
a book as usual. But I spoke to him about it yesterday, when he
called.”
“How could you dare, Mrs. Marshall Elliott?” asked Susan rebukingly.
“Dare! It’s time somebody dared something. Why, they say he knows
nothing about that letter of Faith’s to the _journal_ because nobody
liked to mention it to him. He never looks at a _journal_ of course.
But I thought he ought to know of this to prevent any such performances
in future. He said he would ‘discuss it with them.’ But of course he’d
never think of it again after he got out of our gate. That man has no
sense of humour, Anne, believe _me_. He preached last Sunday on ‘How to
Bring up Children.’ A beautiful sermon it was, too—and everybody in
church thinking ‘what a pity you can’t practise what you preach.’”
Miss Cornelia did Mr. Meredith an injustice in thinking he would soon
forget what she had told him. He went home much disturbed and when the
children came from Rainbow Valley that night, at a much later hour than
they should have been prowling in it, he called them into his study.
They went in, somewhat awed. It was such an unusual thing for their
father to do. What could he be going to say to them? They racked their
memories for any recent transgression of sufficient importance, but
could not recall any. Carl had spilled a saucerful of jam on Mrs. Peter
Flagg’s silk dress two evenings before, when, at Aunt Martha’s
invitation, she had stayed to supper. But Mr. Meredith had not noticed
it, and Mrs. Flagg, who was a kindly soul, had made no fuss. Besides,
Carl had been punished by having to wear Una’s dress all the rest of
the evening.
Una suddenly thought that perhaps her father meant to tell them that he
was going to marry Miss West. Her heart began to beat violently and her
legs trembled. Then she saw that Mr. Meredith looked very stern and
sorrowful. No, it could not be that.
“Children,” said Mr. Meredith, “I have heard something that has pained
me very much. Is it true that you sat out in the graveyard all last
Thursday evening and sang ribald songs while a prayer meeting was being
held in the Methodist church?”
“Great Caesar, Dad, we forgot all about it being their prayer meeting
night,” exclaimed Jerry in dismay.
“Then it is true—you did do this thing?”
“Why, Dad, I don’t know what you mean by ribald songs. We sang hymns—it
was a sacred concert, you know. What harm was that? I tell you we never
thought about its being Methodist prayer meeting night. They used to
have their meeting Tuesday nights and since they’ve changed to
Thursdays it’s hard to remember.”
“Did you sing nothing but hymns?”
“Why,” said Jerry, turning red, “we _did_ sing _Polly Wolly Doodle_ at
the last. Faith said, ‘Let’s have something cheerful to wind up with.’
But we didn’t mean any harm, Father—truly we didn’t.”
“The concert was my idea, Father,” said Faith, afraid that Mr. Meredith
might blame Jerry too much. “You know the Methodists themselves had a
sacred concert in their church three Sunday nights ago. I thought it
would be good fun to get one up in imitation of it. Only they had
prayers at theirs, and we left that part out, because we heard that
people thought it awful for us to pray in a graveyard. _You_ were
sitting in here all the time,” she added, “and never said a word to
us.”
“I did not notice what you were doing. That is no excuse for me, of
course. I am more to blame than you—I realize that. But why did you
sing that foolish song at the end?”
“We didn’t think,” muttered Jerry, feeling that it was a very lame
excuse, seeing that he had lectured Faith so strongly in the
Good-Conduct Club sessions for her lack of thought. “We’re sorry,
Father—truly, we are. Pitch into us hard—we deserve a regular combing
down.”
But Mr. Meredith did no combing down or pitching into. He sat down and
gathered his small culprits close to him and talked a little to them,
tenderly and wisely. They were overcome with remorse and shame, and
felt that they could never be so silly and thoughtless again.
“We’ve just got to punish ourselves good and hard for this,” whispered
Jerry as they crept upstairs. “We’ll have a session of the Club first
thing tomorrow and decide how we’ll do it. I never saw father so cut
up. But I wish to goodness the Methodists would stick to one night for
their prayer meeting and not wander all over the week.”
“Anyhow, I’m glad it wasn’t what I was afraid it was,” murmured Una to
herself.
Behind them, in the study, Mr. Meredith had sat down at his desk and
buried his face in his arms.
“God help me!” he said. “I’m a poor sort of father. Oh, Rosemary! If
you had only cared!”