Some years had passed before there was another little fluttering in the
Minster dovecotes; but this time the disturbing element happily did not
arise within the Chapter. The fact was that at the afternoon service one
Sunday a voice of extraordinary charm was heard when the first of the
hymns was begun. It was the voice of a professional soprano, and one of
the finest _timbre_ beyond doubt; but it was so clear and so resonant
that, to make use of the verger's criticism whispered into my ear, it
gave the rest of the congregation no chance whatsoever. Now every
one knows that there is nothing so startling in a church as one voice
ringing out even a single note above the vague cloud of sound, if one
may be allowed such a phrase, that comes from a singing congregation.
But here was a young woman who went through every verse of the hymn
as though the volume of sound coming from the nave, the aisle, and the
choir itself were only meant as a sort of background for her voice.
Of course before the third stanza was reached the great majority of
those who had been singing had ceased. They saw that, in the verger's
phrase, they had no chance against so brilliant a vocalist; they
turned their eyes upon the young woman, some of them with frowns of
indignation, but others with frank admiration. But undoubtedly all
were startled.
When the second hymn began it was plain that the music presented
no difficulties to the stranger; she sang as before with exquisite
sweetness and expression, but still with a ringing clearness that
suggested the song of the skylark soaring above a field of corncrakes.
Even the efforts of the choir did not rise much above the melody of the
corn-crakes in early dawn when that girl was singing.
Naturally such an unusual display caused a considerable amount of
talk in Minster circles. It was pronounced in many directions to be
in extremely bad taste for any young woman to sing down a whole
congregation in such a way; but while some people said it must be put a
stop to at once, others declared that they had never had such a treat
in their lives. (They probably meant for the expenditure that was
represented by their donations to the offertory.)
But when the wives of such members of the Chapter as were blessed with
wives declared definitely that a stop must be put to so unreasonable a
display of an undoubted gift, their husbands asked how they proposed to
put a stop to it; and once again it appeared that, after all, the powers
of a Cathedral Chapter are very limited.
Inquiries were made as to who the singer actually was; but no one seemed
to know her. She was a stranger, and was certainly not living in the
town.
The next Sunday brought about a repetition of the same rather
embarrassing scene. The vocalist, who was a very handsome and an
expensively but not showily dressed young woman, sang as before quite
unconcernedly, and apparently oblivious of having done anything out of
the common.
At the end of the first hymn, however, the organist's boy was seen to
approach her, and to put a piece of paper into her hand. It obviously
contained a message to which an answer was required, for the boy waited
while she read the thing, and then she inclined her head, evidently
signifying her assent to whatever suggestion it conveyed to her.
No one who saw the act doubted that the organist had sent her a message,
begging her not to sing quite so loud.
In due course the precentor announced that “the anthem is taken from Job
xix. verses 25, 26: 'I know that my Redeemer liveth... and though worms
destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.'”
The lovely notes of the organ obbligato were heard in the introduction,
and then the people in the church became aware of the fact that the
melody was not being sung by the usual choir-boy, but by the stranger;
and never before had it been sung with such feeling or such an
appreciation of its beauty. It was natural that the old Cathedral-goers
should look at one another with startled eyes at first--here was an
innovation indeed!--but before long the most hardened of them all
had yielded to the exquisite charm of the girl's voice, and when the
triumphant notes rang out there was no one who remained unmoved under
that ancient canopy of Gothic arches.
And that unhappily is the end of the whole story. The girl and the
elderly lady who had come with her to the Minster walked away at the
close of the service, and no one was able to say in what direction they
went or whence they had come. No one in the town knew either of
them. They had not been at any hotel, nor had they taken the train to
London--the organist made it a point to be at the station to find out.
That beautiful, singer might have been a celestial visitant sent as a
special compliment to the organist of the Minster--it was rumoured that
the views of the organist were strongly in favour of this theory--so
mysteriously had she come and so utterly had she vanished.
But during the week that followed that episode in the Minster little
else was talked of in the town. The Chapter took the gravest view of the
action of the organist in sending that note to the vocalist, asking her
if she would kindly sing the solo: he confessed that he had done so.
They said that it was quite irregular, and he acknowledged this also; in
fact, he was ready to acknowledge every thing to which the Chapter
took exception if they would in turn acknowledge that he had been
instrumental in providing them with such an artistic treat as they had
never known within the walls of the Cathedral. And then he began to
laugh at them, for he knew that they all had a wholesome dread of him,
from the Dean down. He broached that suspicion about the angel, and
lectured them upon the good fortune of some people who had entertained
angels unaware. He wondered if that mysterious vocalist had entertained
them. If so, he hoped that they would contrive when intoning the prayers
in future to end up within a tone or two of the note on which they had
started.
[Illustration: 0237]
They smiled and were silent. Some of them thought that he had let
them off easily enough. They were trembling lest he should go into
particulars.
But for that week there was a great deal of controversy in Church
circles respecting the episode, and on the following Sunday the Minster
was crowded; for it was rumoured that the organist had another anthem
with an effective soprano solo which he meant to spring upon the Chapter
in place of the baritone, “What is man that Thou art mindful of him?”
which was on the board, in view of the reappearance of the girl.
Every one was disappointed, however; the service was conducted as usual,
for the soprano was not there, and Mr. Stone, the very capable baritone,
had it all his own way in respect of the anthem. He never sang it better
in all his life, and everybody went home disappointed, except perhaps
the Chapter and their womenfolk, who had perceived how easily a vocalist
of exceptional ability may in certain circumstances be the means of
causing confusion in the conducting of the services of the Church.