While Joyce was straining his eyes through the darkness for the last
sight of land and eating out his heart in bitter regrets, Yvonne was
busily engaged at Fulminster in rehearsing for the next day’s concert.
She had spent four days at Fulminster, the guest of Mrs. Winstanley,
and found herself somewhat lost among the very decorous society of
which Canon Chisely was a leading member. And while she was scanning the
social heavens in half pathetic search of her bearings, Joyce’s letters
had arrived, with their tidings of catastrophe and exile. So, while
there was a smile on her lip for the Canon and his friends, there was
a tear in her eye for Joyce. His humiliation and her failure as fairy
godmother brought her a pang of disappointment. She felt very tenderly
towards Joyce. In her imagination, too, Africa was a dreadful place,
made up of deserts, lions, and ferocious negroes in a state of nudity.
If she had seen him before he started, she might have dissuaded him
from encountering such discomforts. She thought of this tearfully in the
intervals that Fulminster affairs allowed her for reflection.
She was staying with Mrs. Winstanley. Now Mrs. Winstanley was the
leading social authority in Fulminster. She was a distant cousin of
Canon Chisely. In fact, she was an infinite number of irreproachable
things. Mothers came to her as a matrimonial oracle. The Mayor consulted
her on ticklish questions of civic etiquette. The affairs of the parish
were in her hands. Although she inhabited a well-appointed house of her
own, she superintended the domestic arrangements of the Rectory; and
performed all the duties of hostess for her cousin when he entertained.
Thus, parochially and socially she was invaluable to the Canon--his
right-hand woman, one who could share his dignity, and, by so doing, add
to its impressiveness. If he had been called upon to write her epitaph,
he would have carved upon the stone, “Here lies a woman of sense.” Now,
when a responsibly placed and grave bachelor of three-and-forty holds
that opinion of a woman of his own years, and consults her in all his
concerns, the result is not difficult to imagine. Cousin Emmeline ruled
the Rectory, with exquisite tact it is true--for if there was one of
her peculiar and original virtues of which she made a speciality, it was
tact--but yet her influence was paramount.
When the Canon had come to her with a request to invite Madame Yvonne
Latour to stay with her, she had elevated polite eyebrows.
“Whoever heard of such a thing!”
“It seems simple,” said the Canon. “I can’t invite her to my own house,
so I beg you to invite her to yours.”
“You are not going to do this for all the professionals engaged at the
festival?”
“Of course not,” answered the Canon; “who is suggesting anything so
absurd?”
“Then why make an exception of Madame Latour, who is not even singing
the leading parts?”
“She is very delicate and requires comforts,” he replied. “If she is
not taken care of, she may not be able to sing at all. Besides, it is my
particular desire, Emmeline. I assume the privilege of expressing it to
you.”
“I take it she is a very great friend of yours?”
“A very great friend,” said the Canon.
Mrs. Winstanley reviewed many unpleasant possibilities. Certain
weaknesses becoming apparent in her own impregnable position strongly
tempted her to refuse. She bit her lip and looked at her manicured
finger-nails.
“Come, you’re a woman of sense,” added the Canon, after a pause.
The tribute turned the tide of her judgment. She was a woman of sense.
How absurd of her to have forgotten. An ironical smile played on her
lips and lurked in her steel-grey eyes.
“You want to present Madame Latour to Fulminster society, Everard, with
whatever advantages may be attached to my chaperonage?”
“Precisely,” said the Canon.
“Well, I will send the invitation. But will she accept it?”
“I ’ll see about that,” he replied briskly. “I am deeply indebted to you,
Emmeline.”
She smiled, shook hands and followed him, with a word of parting, to
the door. Then as soon as it was shut upon him, she stamped her foot and
walked across the room, with an exclamation of impatience.
“I wonder what kind of a fool he is going to make of himself!”
She soon saw. One is not a woman of sense for nothing. On the eve of the
Festival, which was being held for the purpose of raising funds for the
restoration of the old Abbey church, of which the Canon was rector, he
gave a consecrating dinner-party.
The Bishop of the diocese, who was staying at the Rectory, was there;
Sir Joshua and Lady Santyre, and others of the high and solemn world of
Fulminster. Yet the Canon, with a high-bred tact, delicately conveyed
the impression that Madame Latour was the guest of the evening. Mrs.
Winstanley kept eyes and ears on the alert. There was much talk of the
Festival. On the morrow the “Elijah” was to be given, with Madame Latour
in the contralto part. The Canon was solicitous as to her voice, beamed
with pleasure when she offered, in her sweet, simple way to sing to
his guests, and stood behind her as she sung, with what, in Mrs.
Winstanley’s eyes, appeared an exasperating expression of fatuity.
A little later in the evening, a young girl, Sophia Wilmington, went up
to him with the charming insolence of youth.
“Why did n’t you tell us she was so sweet? I ’ve fallen head over ears in
love with her.” The Canon smiled, bowed, and delivered himself of this
extraordinary speech:--
“My dear Sophia, next to falling in love with me, myself, you could not
give me greater pleasure.”
“She is so lovely,” said the girl.
“A chance for a medallion,” said the Canon. Miss Wilmington had a pretty
taste in medallion painting.
“Oh, I couldn’t get her colouring; but I should love to try--and
her voice. To me, any one with a gift like that seems above ordinary
mortals. You see I am quite ready to worship your angel.”
“My angel?” said the Canon, sharply.
Mrs. Winstanley, who was close by, discussing the Engadine with the
Bishop, did not lose a word of the above conversation. At his last
exclamation, she shot a swift side glance which caught the momentary
confusion and flush on the Canon’s face. She was quite certain now of
the sort of fool he was going to make of himself.
Meanwhile, the girl broke into a gay laugh.
“It did sound funny. I meant the angel in the ‘Elijah.’”
“Oh,” said the Canon, “I was forgetting the ‘Elijah.’”
Mrs. Winstanley resolved at least to say a warning word. Before she
left, she managed to have a few words with him.
“I hope you are keeping your eyes very wide open, Everard,” she said, in
a whisper.
The Canon took her literally and so regarded her. But she smiled and put
her hand on his sleeve.
“She is quite charming and all of that, I grant. But she is very much
deeper than she looks.”
“Really, my dear Emmeline--” he began, drawing himself up.
“Tut! my dear friend; don’t be offended. You have called me a wise woman
so often that I believe I am one. Well, trust a wise woman, and look
before you leap.”
“I am not in the habit of leaping, Emmeline,” said the Canon, stiffly.
Mrs. Winstanley laughed, as if she had a sense of humour; and in a few
minutes was driving Yvonne homewards in her snug brougham.
But the Canon, after he had performed his last duties as host towards
his right reverend guest, sought the great leathern armchair before his
study fire and lit a cigar. Emmeline’s words had disturbed him. That is
the worst of keeping a consultant cousin--a woman of sense. Her advice
_may_ save you from months of regret, but it is sure to cause you bad
quarters of an hour. You remember the woman and disregard the sense
on such occasions; or _vice versa_. Hitherto Emmeline had been
infallible. The fact annoyed him, and he let his cigar die out, another
irritation. At last he rose impatiently, and going to a violin-case,
drew from it a favourite Guarnerius fiddle, tenderly wrapped in a silk
handkerchief. And then, having put on the _sourdine_, so as not to
disturb right reverend slumbers, he played “O, rest in the Lord,” with
considerable taste and execution.
Perhaps it is well that Mrs. Winstanley did not hear him.
*****
The concert began at three o’clock. The new Town Hall was packed from
ceiling to floor. Canon Chisely stood up by his seat near the platform
and looked around at the great mass of the audience, which included
the flower and influence of the county, and then, turning, scanned the
serried hedgerow of the orchestra, the crowding terraces of the choir,
and the thin line of professionals in front, among whom Yvonne’s tiny
figure had just come to make a spot of grace; and he felt a glow of
pride. It was all his doing. The dream of many years was in process of
being realised--the completion of the Abbey Restoration Fund. Moreover,
he had succeeded in developing his first conception of an unambitious
concert into a musical event, to be chronicled by critics from the
London dailies. He had other reasons, too, for satisfaction, neither
professional nor aesthetic.
Yvonne was feeling fluttered and happy. Fluttered, because it was
an important engagement. There are very few chances, even for a real
contralto, in oratorio music, and her voice was more mezzo. Hitherto
she had contented herself with the scraps. If she had known that the
“Elijah” had been deliberately selected because it was the one oratorio
in which the contralto part not only suited her voice perfectly, but
also rivalled the soprano in importance, the fluttering would have been
intensified by perplexity. And she was happy, because all the world was
smiling on her, particularly Geraldine Vicary and Vandeleur, with whom
she was in immediate converse. Vandeleur had been engaged long since by
the Canon for the name-part, partly on account of his magnificent bass
voice, and partly to please Yvonne. Geraldine Vicary had stepped into
a gap caused by the withdrawal of a more celebrated soprano at the last
moment. Yvonne was smiling brightly upon Vandeleur. She liked him. He
had made no subsequent reference to his declaration of love, and Yvonne,
with her facile temperament, had almost forgotten the circumstance.
Besides, he had gone back to his old allegiance to Geraldine, which
pleased Yvonne greatly.
The conductor stepped to his stand and tapped with his baton. Silence
succeeded the buzz of talk and the din of the tuning of fiddles. Three
chords from the orchestra, and Vandeleur sang the introduction; the
overture, the opening chorus, and then Yvonne took up her part. Singing
was her life. After the first bar, she sang spontaneously, like the
birds, free from nervousness or self-consciousness. And during her waits
the sublime music absorbed her senses. It swept on through its themes
of despair, renunciation, revelation, and promise; through all its vivid
contrasts--the great trumpet voice of the prophet, the rolling mass of
sound of the chorus, the vibrating notes of the messenger--“Hear ye,
Israel; hear what the Lord speaketh “--the calm, sweet voice of the
angel, telling of peace.
The Canon listened through all with the ear of a musician and the heart
of a religious man. But there was a chord in his nature that remained
untouched when Yvonne was not singing, and quivered strangely when her
voice was raised. It was so pathetically weak, so different in quality
from Geraldine Vicary’s powerful soprano, apparently so incapable of
filling that vast hall; and yet so true, so exquisitely modulated
that every note rang clear to the farthest gallery. The man forgot
his three-and-forty years, the strange mingling of worldly wisdom and
priestly dignity by which most of his judgments were formed, and
he identified the woman with the voice, pure, angelic, irresistibly
lovable.
He turned to his neighbour, Mrs. Winstanley, after the “O, rest in the
Lord,” his eyes glistening, and whispered, “What do you think?”
“An unqualified success, Everard.”
“I am so glad.”
“You deserve every congratulation.”
“Thanks, from my heart, Emmeline.”
“The Obadiah man is delightful.”
He looked blankly at her, unable to read what lay behind those calm,
grey eyes. Then a great comfort fell upon him. The woman of sense had
manifested a lack of intuition that could be called by no other name
than stupidity. He hugged his knee, delighted. But he made no more
references to Yvonne.
The silence following the crash of the last “Amen,” announced the end.
It woke him from a dream. He started to his feet with the impulse to
seek Yvonne on the platform, but he was immediately hemmed in by a
circle of congratulatory friends. As soon as he obtained breathing
space, he turned round, to find that she had withdrawn to the ladies’
dressing-room to put on her things. The hall cleared rapidly. Mrs.
Winstanley waited for Yvonne, who did not come at once, having a flood
of things to tell to Geraldine. The Canon grew impatient. It was getting
late, and he had to drive the Bishop home in time to dress for dinner at
a great house some distance away. It would be his only chance of seeing
Yvonne that evening. At last she came through the side-door and down the
platform with Miss Vicary. He advanced to assist them at the steps, and
then, after a few courteous words of thanks to Geraldine, who walked on
unconcernedly toward the waiting group, found himself alone with Yvonne.
She wore high-standing fur at her throat and a tiny fur toque in the
mass of dark hair, and she looked very winsome. Foolish speeches ran in
his grave head, but he could not formulate them.
“I hope you are not very tired,” he said, with dignified lameness,
pacing by her side, his hands behind his back.
“Not very. My throat is a bit stiff, but that will go off. Well, was I
all right?”
“My dear child--” began the Canon, stopping abruptly.
“I was afraid I might let the piece down, you know,” she said, with a
serene smile. “I am not a great vocalist, like Miss Vicary.”
“Don’t speak like that,” he said, awkwardly.
“Besides, your voice has a charm that hers can never have.”
“So you are quite pleased with me?” She looked up at him with such
trustful simplicity that his rather stern face grew tender with a smile.
It seemed as if a glimpse of her true nature was revealed to him.
“You are like a child-angel, asking if it has been good.”
“Oh, what a sweet, pretty thing to say!” cried Yvonne, gaily. “I shall
always remember it, Canon Chisely. Now I know I sang nicely. And, you
know, it’s almost like being in heaven to sing that part.”
“You called us all there to you,” said the Canon.
Yvonne blushed, pleased to her heart by the sincerity of the compliment.
Coming from Canon Chisely, it had singular force. There was an air of
strength and dignity about his broad shoulders, his strongly-marked,
thoughtful face, and his grave, yet kindly manner, that had always set
him apart, in her estimation, from the other men with whom she came
into contact. She never included him in her generalisations upon men
and their strange ways. His profession and position, as well as his
personality, put him into a category where her unremembered father, and
Mr. Gladstone, and the great throat-surgeon whom she had once consulted,
vaguely figured. She was always conscious of being on her very best
behaviour while talking to him.
The Canon glanced at his friends. They were conversing animatedly, as if
in no great hurry to depart. So he leant back against the platform and
lingered a while with Yvonne.
“You must take care not to catch cold,” he said, after a while. “I
believe it’s a horrid evening.”
“Oh, don’t fear. I shall be all right tomorrow,” said Yvonne.
“I am not thinking of to-morrow at all, though any hitch then would be
a misfortune, certainly. I am anxious about yourself. Your throat is
already relaxed.”
“You mustn’t spoil me, Canon Chisely. I am used to going out in all
kinds of weather. I have to, you know.”
“I wish you had n’t. You are far too fragile.”
“Oh, I am stronger than I look. I am tough--really.”
She brought out the incongruous epithet so prettily that he put back his
head and laughed.
“If I had any authority over you, you should not play tricks with
yourself,” he said, in grave playfulness.
“But you have a great deal of authority over me. I should never dream of
disobeying you.”
He leaned his body forward, his hands resting on the platform edge
behind him, and looked at her earnestly.
“Do you think so much of me as that?” he asked, in a low voice.
“Why, of course, I think everything of you,” replied Yvonne, innocently.
“Don’t you know that?”
An answer was on his lips, but, happening to look round, he caught Mrs.
Winstanley’s ironical glance, an off-switch to sentiment. He stroked a
grizzling whisker and drew himself up.
“I mustn’t keep the Bishop waiting,” he said.
“Nor I, Mrs. Winstanley.”
They joined the group, where Yvonne received her congratulations and
compliments with childish pleasure. In a few moments they separated, and
the Canon drove off, regarding the Bishop by his side with uncanonical
feelings.
Late that evening Vandeleur was smoking a cigarette in Miss Vicary’s
hotel sitting-room. As Yvonne’s friends, they had been dining with
Mrs. Winstanley. Vandeleur was charmed with her urbanity, and sang her
praises with Celtic hyperbole.
“I should n’t trust her further than I could see her,” said Geraldine.
“She hangs up her smile every night on her dressing-table.”
“Just hear a woman, now,” said the Irishman.
“Yes, just hear a woman,” retorted Geraldine, sarcastically. “I suppose
you think she loves Yvonne, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. I’m sure she’s thinking how sweet she is this very
minute.”
“She would like to be poisoning Yvonne this very minute.”
“Well, I’m blest!” exclaimed Vandeleur, letting the match die out with
which he was preparing to light a fresh cigarette. “It takes a woman to
imagine gratuitous devilry!”
“And it takes a man to absorb himself in his dinner to the besotting of
his intelligence! But I have eyes. And a logical mind--don’t tell me I
have n’t. Now, hitherto, Mrs. Winstanley seems to have been the central
figure in this wretched little provincial society. Who is, at the
present moment?”
“Sure, it’s yourself, Geraldine--the great soprano from London.”
She did not condescend to notice the flattery.
“It’s Yvonne. I bet you she’s the most-talked-of person in Fulminster
this evening. And Mrs. Winstanley the sickest. Oh, how dull men are!
What is all this Festival, really, but the apotheosis of Yvonne?”
“It’s the canonisation of Yvonne, I should say,” remarked Vandeleur,
drily.
Miss Vicary’s expression relaxed, and she leaned back in her chair.
“You’re not such a fool, after all, Van.”
“So I ’ve been told before,” he replied, with a chuckle. “Anyhow, it will
be a splendid thing for the dear child.”
“Oh, how can it be? I have no patience with you!”
“That’s obvious,” said Vandeleur.
“Yvonne would give any man her head, if he whimpered or clamoured for
it,” Geraldine, rising to her feet, “and then tell you in her pathetic
way, ‘but he wanted it so, dear.’ And there isn’t a man living who could
be good enough to Yvonne!”
“There I agree with you,” said Vandeleur.
Meanwhile, Yvonne was going to sleep, quite unconscious of the facts
that had aroused Miss Vicary’s indignation. The memory of the artistic
triumph of the day and the Canon’s generous praise lingered pleasantly
around her pillow. But if there was any one man to whom her thoughts
were tenderly given, it was the unhappy friend of her girlhood, who was
then speeding into exile over the bleak autumn seas.