"Where music dwells
Lingering, and wandering on, as loath to die,
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality."--WORDSWORTH.
The parish church of Pullingham is as naught in the eyes of the
parishioners, in that it is devoid of an organ. No sweet sounds can be
produced from the awful and terrifying instrument that for years has
served to electrify the ears of those unfortunate enough to possess
sittings in the church. It has at last failed!
One memorable Sunday it groaned aloud,--then squeaked mildly;
cr--r--r--k went something in its inside; there was a final shriek,
more weird than the former, and then all was still! How thankful
should they have been for that! I believe they were truly and devoutly
so, but love for the "heavenly maid" still reigned in all their
hearts, and with joy they hearkened to their vicar when he suggested
the idea of a concert to be given for the purpose of raising funds
wherewith to purchase a new organ, or, at least, to help to purchase
it. The very thought was enough to raise high Jubilee within their
musical hearts.
Now, the one good thing still belonging to Mrs. Redmond is the remains
of what must once have been a very beautiful voice. With this she
possesses the power of imparting to others her own knowledge of
music,--a rather rare gift. With her own children, of course, she can
do nothing; they are veritable dead-letters in her hands,--she being
one of those women who spend their lives admonishing and thrusting
advice upon the world, yet find themselves unequal to the government
of their own household. But with the village choir all is different;
here she reigns supreme, and is made much of, for Pullingham is
decidedly musical, and all its young men and all its young women
either sing, or think they sing, or long after singing.
Tenors, sopranos, and basses are to be met with round every corner;
the very air is thick with them. The Pullinghamites _will_ sing,
whether they can or not, with a go and a gusto that speaks well for
their lungs, if a trifle trying to the listeners.
Vocal music being the thing held highest in favor in the Methodist
chapel, where Mr. Leatham, the "Methody" parson, holds unorthodox
services, many were the seceders from the parish church to join the
choir in the whitewashed chapel and shout the hymns of Moody and
Sankey, just at the commencement of this story.
Such secessions went nigh to breaking Mr. Redmond's heart. The organ
had failed him; it had wheezed, indeed, valiantly to the last, as
though determined to die game; but a day had come, as I said, when it
breathed its last sigh and the ancient bellows refused to produce
another note.
What was to be done? The villagers should and would have music at any
cost, and they never could be brought to see the enormity of
worshipping in the whitewashed edifice that was, and is, as the temple
of Belial in the eyes of their vicar.
It would take some time to procure funds for another and more
satisfactory organ. In the mean time, the whilom choir was falling to
pieces. The late organist had accepted a fresh and more lucrative
post: there was literally no head to keep the members together. What
was to be done?
In desperation, the vicar asked himself this, whilst looking vainly
round for some one to help him drag back his flock from the vicious
influence of the "American songsters," as he most irreverently termed
Messrs. M. and S. And it was then, when he was at his wits' end, that
Mrs. Redmond most unexpectedly came to the rescue. It was the first
and the last time in her life she ever rose to the occasion: but this
one solitary time she did it perfectly, and coming boldly to the
front, carried all before her.
She would undertake a singing-class; she would arrange, and teach, and
keep together a choir that should reduce to insignificance the poor
pretensions of a man like Leatham! The vicar, dazzled by all this
unlooked-for energy, gave his consent to her scheme, and never
afterwards repented it; for in three short months she had regulated
and coached a singing-class that unmistakably outshone its
Methodistical rivals.
And then came the question of the new organ.
"We have some money, but not enough money," said the vicar, one
evening, to the partner of his joys; "and something should be done to
bring the want of an organ before the public."
"I should think it must be sufficiently brought before them every
Sunday," said Mrs. Redmond, triumphantly laying her tenth mended sock
in the basket near her.
"The parish is all very well, my dear, but the county ought to hear of
it, and ought to help. I insist upon the county putting its hands in
its pockets."
"I think you are quite right to insist," said Mrs. Redmond, placidly;
"but how are you going to do it?"
"Let us give a concert," said the vicar, at last bringing to the light
of day his great project, that fairly took his wife's breath away.
"Yes, a concert, to which the whole county shall come and hear
my--nay, your--choir surpass itself."
Mrs. Redmond was struck dumb by this bold proposition, but, finally
giving in, she consented to teach the choir, assiduously twice a
week, all the quartettes and trios and solos she knew; while still
declaring, in a dismal fashion, that she knew the whole thing would be
a dismal failure, and that the great cause would lose by it more than
it would gain.
Many days, many hours, has Mr. Redmond spent arranging and
disarranging all the details of the proposed concert.
The idea is in itself a "happy thought,"--far happier than any of
Burnand's (so he tells himself); but a concert, however unpretentious,
is a prodigious affair, and not to be conducted by half a dozen raw
recruits.
Besides, the county admires the county, and would prefer seeing itself
represented on the boards to listening to the warblings, be they never
so sweet, of an outsider. It is so far more delicious to laugh behind
one's fan at the people in one's own set than at those outside the
pale of recognition. And, of course, the county must be humored.
The vicar grows nervous as he masters this fact, and strives
diligently to discover some among the upper ten who will come forward
and help to sweeten and gild the "great unwashed."
The duchess, unfortunately, is from home; but Lady Mary and Lady
Patricia are at the Castle, and Lady Mary--when she can be heard,
which, to do her justice, is very seldom, even in a very small
room--can sing nice little songs very nicely. Indeed, she is fond of
describing her own voice as "a sweet little voice," and certainly all
truth is embodied in the word "little."
Then there is young Hicks, the surgeon's son, who boasts a good
baritone, and is addicted to Molloy and Adams and all of their class,
and who positively revels in Nancy Lees, and such gentle beings as
those to whom the "Tar's Farewell" may be gently breathed.
Then there is the long gawky man staying with the Bellews, who can
shout from afar, and make music of his own that will probably, nay,
surely, go a long way towards bringing down the house, as far as the
farmer class is concerned; and with him will come Miss Bellew, who can
produce a very respectable second in any duet, and who is safe to go
anywhere with the long gawky young man, if report speaks truly.
Mrs. McConkie, from the neighboring parish, will lend a helping hand,
her husband being a brother clergyman; and there is, besides, Mr.
Henly, who plays the violin, and Mr. Johnson, who can recite both
comic and melancholy pieces with such success as to bring tears or
laughter, as the case may be, into the eyes of any one with half a
soul!
As nobody will confess to anything less than a whole soul, everybody
in Pullingham laughs or cries immoderately whenever Mr. Johnson gives
way to recitations.
And last, but not least, there is always Sarah Martin, the leader of
the village choir, and the principal feature in it, whose strong if
slightly ear-piercing soprano must prove her worthy of a new organ.
To the vicar's intense chagrin, Dorian Branscombe is absent,--has,
indeed, been up in town since the day before Georgie Broughton's
arrival, now a fortnight old.
Dorian would have been such a comfort! Not that he sings, or plays, or
fiddles, or, indeed, does anything in particular, beyond cajoling the
entire neighborhood; but that, as it happens, is, in this case,
everything. To cajole, to entreat, to compel the people to come in and
fill the empty benches, is all the vicar would require at his hands.
And Dorian could do all this. No one ever refuses him anything. Both
old women and young women acknowledge his power, and give in to him,
and make much of him, and hardly feel the worse because of their
subservience,--he having a little way of his own that makes them
believe, when they have been most ignominiously betrayed into saying
"yes" to one of his wildest propositions, he has been conferring a
favor upon them, more or less, for which he is just too generous to
demand thanks.
But this invaluable ally is absent. The vicar, in the privacy of his
own sanctum,--where no one can witness the ungodly deed,--stamps his
feet with vexation as he thinks on this, and tells himself he is
unlucky to the last degree, and acknowledges a worth in Dorian
Branscombe never learned before!
Clarissa is perfectly delighted with the whole idea, and somewhat
consoles him by her ready offers of assistance, and her determination
to step into the absent Dorian's shoes and make love to the county in
his stead.
She persists in calling it the "first concert of the season," which
rather alarms the vicar, who is depressed by his wife's
prognostications of failure, and sees nothing but ruin ahead. She
declares her intention of publishing it in all the London papers, and
offers the whole of the winter conservatories to decorate the
school-house (where it is to be held), so that those accustomed to the
sight of its white and somewhat barren walls will fail to recognize it
in its new-born beauty.
"Then, shall we name the 4th as the day?" says the vicar, with some
trepidation. It is now the end of January, and he is alluding to the
first week in the ensuing month. "I wish you could sing, Clarissa! I
dare say you would help me."
"Indeed I would. But Nature has proved unkind to me. And, after all,
you want no one else. The choir, in itself, is very efficient; and if
you must call for 'out-door relief,' why, you have Lady Mary, and the
others. That fearful young-man at Bellew is a fortune in himself; and
Mr. Johnson makes everybody cry--and it is so nice to cry."
"Yes,--yes,--I dare say," says the poor vicar, who is somewhat
_distrait_, and, to say the truth, a little miserable about the whole
undertaking. "Now, there is Sarah Martin. Do you think she will pull
through? On her I build all my hopes; but some inward doubt about her
oppresses me. Willie Bealman has a capital tenor; but he and Sarah
don't speak,--she refused him, I think,--and so they won't sing their
duet together. Then there is Lizzie Bealman, she might stand to me;
but she loses her voice when nervous, and has a most uncomfortable
trick of giggling when in the least excited."
"Put her in the background," says Clarissa. "She is of no use, except
in a chorus."
"Her people wouldn't stand it. They look upon her as a rising prima
donna. I assure you, my dear Clarissa," says the vicar, furtively
wiping his brow, "only for the sin of it, there are moments when I
could wish myself beneath the sod. The incessant worry is more than I
can bear!"
"Oh, now, don't say that," says Miss Peyton, patting his arm lovingly.
"It will be a great success, this concert: I know, I feel it will!"