Mr. Deane walked into church on Easter Sunday, followed by a trophy.
This trophy had once been a chattel, but was now, as Mr. Deane assured
him, a man. Scarcely a shade darker than Mr. Deane himself as to
complexion, in figure quite as prepossessing, in bearing not less erect,
he passed up the north aisle of St. Peter's to the square pew of the
most influential of the wardens, who was also the first man of the
Church Musical Committee.
The old church was beautiful with its floral decorations on this
festival. The altar shone with sacramental silver, and rare was the
music that quickened the hearts of the great congregation to harmonious
tunefulness. The boys in their choral, Miss Ives in her solos, above
all, the organist, in voluntary, prelude, and accompaniment, how
glorious! If a soul in the church escaped thankfulness in presence of
those flowers, in hearing of that music, I know not by what force it
could have been conducted that bright morning to the feet of Love. It
was "a day of days."
To the trophy of Deane this scene must have been strangely new. No
doubt, he had before now sat in a church, a decorated church, a church
where music had much to do with the service. But never under such
circumstances had he stood, sat, knelt, taking part in the worship, a
man among men. Of this Mr. Deane was thinking; and his brain, not very
imaginative, was taxed to conceive the conception of freedom a man must
obtain under precisely these circumstances.
But the man in question was thinking thoughts as widely diverse from
these attributed to him as one could easily imagine. Of himself, and his
position, scarcely at all. And when he thought, he smiled; but the
gravity, the abstraction into which he repeatedly lapsed, seemed to say
for him that freedom was to him more than he knew what to do with. No
volubility of joy, no laughter, no manifested exultation in deliverance
from bondage: 't was a rare case; must one believe his eyes?
Probably the constraint of habit was upon the fugitive, the contraband.
Homesickness in spite of him, it might be. Oh, surely freedom was not
bare to him as a winter-rifled tree? Not a bud of promise swelling along
the dreary waste of tortuous branches? Possibly some ties had been
ruptured in making his escape, which must be knit again before he could
enter into the joy he had so fairly won. For you and me it would hardly
be perfect happiness to feast at great men's tables, while the faces we
love best, the dear, the sacred faces, grow gaunt from starvation.
Mr. Deane took to himself some glory in consequence of his late
achievements. He was a practical man, and his theories were now being
put to a test that gave him some proud satisfaction. The attitude he
assumed not many hours ago in reference to the organist has added to his
consciousness of weight, and to-day he has taken as little pleasure as
became him in the choir's performance. Now and then a strain besieged
him, but none could carry that stout heart, or overthrow that nature,
the wonder of pachydermata. Generally through the choral service he
retained his seat; a significant glance now and then, that involved the
man beside him, was the only evidence he gave that the music much
impressed him; but this evidence, to one who should understand, was
all-sufficient.
Meanwhile the object of these glances sat apparently lost in vacuity, or
patiently waiting the end of the services,--when all at once, during the
hymn, he sprang to his feet; at the same moment two or three beside him
felt as if they had experienced an electric shock. What was it? A voice
joined the soprano singer in one single strain, brief as the best joy,
but also as decisive. Ninety-nine hundredths of the congregation never
heard it, and the majority of those that did could hardly have felt
assured of the hearing; there were, in fact, but three persons among
them all who were absolutely certain of their ears. One was this
contraband; another an artist who stood at the foot of one of the
aisles, leaning against a great stone pillar; the third was, of course,
Sybella Ives.
She, the soprano, sang from that moment in a seeming rapture. The artist
listened in a sort of maze,--interpreting aright what he had heard,
disappointed at its brevity, but waiting on in a kind of wonder through
canticle, hymn, and gloria, in a deep abasement that had struck the
singer dumb, could she above there have known what was going on here
below.
When the singing was over he went away as he had purposed, but it was
only to the steps of the church. There he sat until he heard a stir
within announcing that the services were ended, when he walked away. But
the first person who had heard and understood that voice heard nothing
after. He was continually waiting for it, but he had no further sign.
Once his attention was for a moment turned towards the preacher, who was
dwelling on St. Paul's allusion to himself as an ambassador in bonds; he
looked at that instant towards Mr. Deane, who, it happened, was at the
same moment gazing uneasily at him. After that his eyes did not wander
any more, and from his impassive face it was impossible to discover what
his thoughts might be.
To go back now a day or two.