"As sweet and musical
As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair;
And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony."--_Love's Labor's Lost._
It is night, and the 4th of February. Already is Pullingham turning
out, dressed in its very Sunday best, and is wending its way towards
the school-house, where the concert is to be held.
For the last week it has been deep in the mysteries of solos, duets,
and trios. Indeed, there is hardly a family in the whole village that
does not know by heart every mortal thing that is going to be sung,
each family possessing a son or a daughter engaged in the common work,
and belonging to the choir; yet nevertheless it now goes in a body to
the school-house, as possessed with curiosity as though music is an
art unknown to them, and the piping of small trebles a thing unheard
of.
Nothing can exceed the excitement and jealousy that reign
everywhere,--principally in the hearts of Mr. Leatham's followers, who
hope wildly, but secretly, that failure may be the only crop their
rivals may reap.
It is a heavenly night, for which the Vicar is devoutly thankful. The
moon is riding high in the dark-blue dome; the stars are all alight;
the air, swift and keen, rushes along the high-roads, sweeping all
before it. There is no sign of rain; the sky above, "star-inwrought,"
shows promise of many fair to-morrows. "There is no excuse for their
non-attendance," murmurs the vicar to himself, as he stands inside the
school-house door, wording his thought, as he might, were he thinking
of the collecting together of his flock on Easter Sunday or to the
Holy Communion.
"Vast night comes noiselessly up the eastern slope,
And so the eternal chase goes round the world."
But for the soughing wind, the world is still. One by one, or two by
two, or sometimes as a whole family, the villagers drop in, arranging
themselves modestly in the back rows, and exchanging greetings with
each other in a subdued and whispered fashion.
A little while after the door is opened, the lower half of the hall is
crowded to excess. The vicar is well beloved by his parishioners; but
above and beyond all is the desire to see Maria, and Susan, and
Ezekiel upon the boards, "a singing for the quality!"
The room itself is what reporters would term "a blaze of light." Much
ingenuity has been exercised in the decoration of it; and certainly
the designs in laurels, and the designs in moss, and the one grand
design in paper roses, at the far end of the room, are all that heart
can desire.
To Clarissa, I think, this last outburst on the part of the village is
a heart-break; but, if so, she represses her grief valiantly, and
even, with her own forgiving fingers, condescends to brighten the
monstrosity with some hothouse flowers. But, when all is told, it
remains an eyesore,--a regrettable blot, not to be eradicated under
pain of bringing down the rage of the entire village upon the devoted
head of him or her who should interfere.
Mrs. Redmond, seated on the small platform, with the piano before her,
and the choir arranged, with careful regard to its different sizes, on
each side of her, waits patiently the coming of the county. She is
looking thinner, more miserable, than usual, and has a general air
about her of being chilled to the bone. Her fingers, lying idly in her
lap, clutch and unclutch each other aimlessly, as though vainly
searching for the accustomed sock.
Miss Broughton, who is taking no part in the performance,--having
suppressed the fact of her having a very beautiful voice, ever since
her arrival at Pullingham,--is sitting on a side-seat, longing eagerly
for Clarissa's arrival. The children have wandered a little away from
her, and are gazing, as lost in admiration, at the huge
rose-construction on the wall before them.
Presently, the Greys of Greymount come in, with a little shudder of
disgust at finding themselves almost the first; followed closely by
Lady Mary and Lady Patricia Hort, who do not shudder at all, but go
straight up the small passage between the seats, with their patrician
noses high in the air, and smile and nod cheerfully, and not at all
condescendingly, at Mrs. Redmond, who, poor soul, is deeply relieved
at sight of them.
Lady Mary goes on to the platform; Lady Patricia sinks into a front
seat specially provided for her, whilst Lord Alfred, their
brother,--who has been inveigled into coming, sorely against his
will,--having conversed with Lady Patricia for a few minutes, and told
her several lies about the arrangements for the evening,--not
intentionally, but through ignorance, being under the false impression
that a concert in a village is the same as a concert in town,--goes
over to one side of the building, and plants himself listlessly with
his back against a wall, from which position he gazes in a gloomy
fashion at everything in general, but Miss Broughton in particular.
Then comes everybody, and makes a great fuss about its
place,--Clarissa Peyton and her father excepted, who go straight to
where Georgie is sitting, and stay with her all the evening.
Dorian Branscombe, who has come down expressly for the concert, at
great trouble to himself, and simply to oblige the vicar, saunters
leisurely up the room towards the middle of the evening, and looks
round him dubiously, as though uncertain where to put in his time.
Seeing Clarissa, he goes up to her, and, with a faint sigh of relief,
leans over the back of her chair and says, "Good-evening," in a
languid tone.
"Ah! you, Dorian?" says Clarissa, very pleased. "Now, it _is_ good of
you to come."
"I'm always good," says Dorian. "I'm a model boy. It is so strange
that people won't recognize the fact. They sort of give me to
understand I'm quite the other thing, whatever that may be. Very full
house, don't you think, and awfully swagger? What's Lady Patricia got
on her? She is slightly terrifying, don't you think?"
"She isn't very well got up, certainly," says Clarissa, reluctantly.
"She's anyhow," says Mr. Branscombe, freely; and then his eyes fall
upon Georgie, who is gazing, in her rapt, childish fashion, at the
singer of the moment; and then he doesn't speak again for a little
while.
"Is Horace quite well?" asks Clarissa, presently.
"Quite well. He always is, you know. Who----who is the girl next your
father?"
"That is my friend, Georgie Broughton. I think I told you about her.
She is governess at the vicarage, now. Is she not lovely,--quite
sweet?" asks Clarissa, eagerly.
But Mr. Branscombe does not answer her. He is still staring at the
unconscious Georgie, and seems almost deaf to Clarissa's praise of
her. At this Miss Peyton is somewhat disgusted, and declines any
further attempt at laudation.
"A governess!" he says, at length, raising his brows, but without
removing his eyes from the fair and perfect face that, even now, he
tells himself, is without its equal.
"Yes. She is none the less sweet for that," says Clarissa, rather
coldly. She tells herself it is unlike Dorian to look down upon any
one because he or she may be in a worse position than his own.
"They are going to sing again," she says, in a tone she seldom uses to
him: "we must not talk, you know." She had some faint idea of
introducing him to Georgie, but she abandons it, and gives him to
understand that she has at present nothing more to say to him.
Whether he quite comprehends all she intends to convey, I know not;
but, raising himself slowly from his lounging position on the back of
her chair, he takes a last look at Georgie's profile, and moves into
the background.
"Good-evening, Branscombe," says Lord Alfred, presently; and Dorian,
finding himself beside him, returns the greeting, and props himself up
in his turn against the friendly wall, that shows its appreciation of
them by giving them finely whitewashed coats.
The concert is getting on swimmingly. As yet no flaw has occurred to
mark the brilliancy of its success. The opening chorus has been
applauded to the echo, especially by Lord Alfred, who feels it his
duty to do something, and who keeps on applauding, in the most
open-hearted manner each thing and everything, until he discovers he
has split his right glove all up the palm, when he caves in, and,
having said something impossible, puts his hands behind his back and
refuses to applaud again.
Lady Mary has come forward, and entreated her audience to "Love not,"
in the faintest and most plaintive of voices. The county is delighted
with her, and smiles unrestrainedly behind its fans. "Dear Lady Mary
is _so_ funny, don't you know," says Miss Grey of Greymount, in an
indescribable tone.
Then comes a solo on the violin, that charms all the back benches, and
reduces the farmers' wives and daughters to tears, as it tells them
how that the poor player's "lodging is on the cold ground."
Lord Alfred, who has not yet recovered his temper, says this is
"disgusting," and "wonders what the--so-and-so--brought him here at
all."
"I suppose the night brougham," says Dorian, equably, who is now
engaged in a minute examination of Miss Broughton's head, round which
her soft yellow hair is twisted in a loose artistic coil.
He is in quite a happy mood, if somewhat silent, and says the solo
isn't half bad; and now Mr. Hastings, the curate, reads something from
the "Ingoldsby Legends," that seems to displease Cissy Redmond
extremely, as she will not lift her head during the reading, or even
look at him, and expresses herself as quite charmed when it is at an
end.
And now comes the event of the evening,--the thing that is to convince
the county of the necessity for a good organ, and to show them the
rare excellence of the Pullingham choir.
Sarah Martin, the leading soprano--all muslin and blue bows--comes
forward, and begins the solo upon which all the vicar's hopes are
centred.
"The shades of night are falling fast."
begins Sarah, nobly, and goes on in a hopeful manner to the end of the
first verse.
The vicar draws a deep sigh of relief!
"His brow was sad, his eye beneath,"
goes on Sarah victoriously, her whole soul in the safe fulfilment of
her task. She gets through to the end of the second verse as
successfully as she did to the end of the first, and then pauses to
draw breath.
The vicar exchanges a triumphant glance with Miss Peyton.
"In happy homes they saw the light,"
continues Sarah. And then--then! something horrible happens. A sound,
very terrible to the vicar, smites upon his ear,--a sound that fills
his clerical bosom with dismay. Sarah's voice--the voice of his chief
prop--has proved false. It has given way; it has cracked upon a high
note; and _the_ solo of the evening has proved a dead failure.
Talk of failing for a million; talk of Isandula or Majuba Hill; talk
of Mr. Parnell and the Coercion Bill! But was ever defeat so
disastrous as this? The vicar, but for his sex, and the publicity of
the thing, could thankfully have given way to tears. Miss Peyton
flushes to her temples and feels as if she herself has been guilty of
the miserable _fiasco_.
Of course it is hushed up. The piano comes out quite strong again,
under Mrs. Redmond's bony fingers; the defaulter is gently pushed into
the background, and a chorus introduced. Nevertheless, after the
breakdown, things somehow seem to go wrong. The other singers are
disheartened, and will not do their best; while Sarah, who is
dissolved in tears in the cloak-room, and who has another song on the
programme, obstinately refuses to try her powers again.
The vicar is in despair, although he walks about valiantly among the
audience, trying, most unsuccessfully, to appear unconcerned; whilst
the coughing and sneezing, that generally distinguish every place
where silence is the thing most to be desired, seem now on the
increase, to an alarming degree, and threaten to drown Lady Mary's
second effort.
"Who _is_ that blowing his nose?" demands the poor vicar, testily,
looking daggers in the direction of the sound. Clarissa, who is the
nearest to him as he makes this observation, just saves herself from
laughing aloud.
"Things have taken a bad turn," says the vicar, regarding her
reproachfully. "I am afraid my first attempt will only be remembered
as a wretched failure; and that girl has another song, and she will
not venture again, and there is no one to take her place."
"Mr. Redmond, I will sing for you, if you wish it," says a clear,
childish voice, that has always something pathetic about it. Georgie
has overheard his last speech, and has turned her soft, fair little
face to his, and is speaking to him, with a flush and a smile.
"But, my dear, can you sing?" says the vicar, anxiously. Her face is
full of music; but then he has never heard her sing. During her
fortnight's stay at the vicarage she has never sung one note, has
never betrayed the fact that she is a true daughter of Polyhymnia.
"I can, indeed,--really; I can sing very well," says Georgie, in her
little earnest fashion, and without the very faintest suspicion of
conceit. She is only eager to reassure him, to convince him of the
fact that she is worthy to come to his relief.
"But the song?" says Mr. Redmond, still hesitating, and alluding to
the second solo chosen by the defaulter.
"It is an old Irish song; I know it. It is 'Shule, agra,' and it
begins, 'My Mary with the curling hair,'" says Georgie, with a slight
nod. "I used to sing it long ago, and it is very pretty."
"Well, come," says the vicar, though with trepidation, and leads her
on to the platform, and up to Mrs. Redmond, to that good woman's
intense surprise.
Lady Mary has nearly brought her little vague whisper to an end. She
has at last disclosed to a listening audience that she has discovered
the real dwelling-place of the lost "Alice,"--who is uncomfortably
ensconced "amidst the starshine," if all accounts be true,--and is now
quavering feebly on a last and dying note.
"This is the song," says Mrs. Redmond, putting Sarah's rejected solo
into her hand.
"Thank you," says Miss Broughton She looks neither frightened nor
concerned, only a little pale, and with a great gleam in her eyes,
born, as it were, of an earnest desire to achieve victory for the
vicar's sake.
Then Lady Mary's final quaver dies, and she moves to one side,
leaving the space before the piano quite clear.
There is a slight pause; and then the slight childish figure, in its
gown of thin filmy black, comes forward, and stands before the
audience. She is quite self-possessed, but rather white, which has the
effect of rendering her large plaintive eyes darker and more lustrous
than usual. Her arms are half bare; her throat and part of her neck
can be seen gleaming white against the blackness of her dress. She is
utterly unadorned. No brooch or ear-rings, or bracelets or jewels of
any kind, can be seen. Yet she stands there before them a perfect
picture, more sweet than words can tell.
She holds her small shapely head erect, and seems unconscious of the
many eyes fixed upon her. Rarely has so fair a vision graced the dull
daily life of Pullingham. Even the sturdy, phlegmatic farmers stir
upon their seats, and nudge the partners of their joys, and wonder, in
a stage whisper, who "you can be?"
Mrs. Redmond plays a few faint chords, and then Georgie begins the
plaintive Irish air Sarah should have sung, and sings it as, perhaps,
she never sang before.
During the second verse, borne away by her passionate desire to
please, she forgets the music-sheet she holds, so that it flutters
away from her down to the floor, and lies there; while her hands,
seeking each other, grow entwined, and hang loosely before her,
showing like little flakes of snow against the darkness of her gown.
Her voice is beautiful, sweet, and full, and quick with passion,--one
of those exquisite voices that sink into the soul, and linger there
forever, even when the actual earthly sound has died away. She carries
the listeners with her, holding them as by a spell, and leaving them
silent, almost breathless, when she has finished her "sweet song."
Now she has come to the end of "Shule, agra," and turns away somewhat
abruptly to Mrs. Redmond, as though half frightened at the storm of
applause that greets her.
"Did I really sing so well?" she asked the vicar, presently, when he
has sought her out to thank her.
"Well?" repeats he. "What a word to use! It was divine; the whole room
was spell-bound. What a gift you possess! My dear, you have saved the
evening, and my honor, and the organ, and everything. I am deeply
grateful to you."
"How glad I am!" says the girl, softly; "and don't thank me. I liked
it,--the singing, the applause, the feeling that I was doing well. I
will sing for you again later on, if you wish it."
"It is too much to ask," says the vicar; "but, if you really don't
mind? Lady Patricia is in ecstasies, and says she could listen to you
forever."
Georgie laughs.
"Well, at least she shall listen to me once more," she says, gayly.
Lady Patricia is not the only one enthralled by the beautiful singer.
Dorian Branscombe has never once removed his eyes from her face: he is
as one bewitched, and, even at this early moment, wonders vaguely
within himself what can be the meaning of the strange pleasure, that
is so near akin to pain, that is tugging at his heart-strings.
Lord Alfred, too, is plainly impressed, and stares at the pretty
creature with the black gown and the snowy arms, until speech becomes
a necessity.
"Well, I never in all my life," he begins, emphatically, and then
stops. "Who is she, Branscombe?"
"Don't know, I'm sure," says Branscombe, rather shortly. What right
has Hort--what right has any fellow--to see beauty in her, except
himself? The words of her song are still running in his ears,--"My
love, my pearl!" How well they suit her! What a little baby face she
has, so pure and sweet! yet how full of feeling!
"What's her name?" asks Lord Alfred, nothing daunted.
"I have quite forgotten," returns Branscombe, even more coldly. His
second answer hardly tallies with his first; but of this he is quite
oblivious.
Lord Alfred raises his brows. "She has a magnificent voice, and is
very beautiful," he says, evenly. "Yet--do you know? she reminds me
somewhat of Harriet."
Harriet is a third and a favorite sister of Lord Alfred's,--a very
estimable young woman, much given to the reformation of drunkards,
who, though rather deficient in nose, makes up for it in prodigality
of mouth.
"I can't say I see the likeness," says Dorian, with as little disgust
as he can manage at so short a notice.
"My dear fellow," expostulates Lord Alfred, shifting his glass from
one eye to the other and looking palpably amused, "there is no reason
in the world why you should be grumpy because you are in love with the
girl. _I_ don't want to interfere with you."
"In love!" says Branscombe. "Nonsense! I never spoke a word to her in
my life."
"Well, it is uncommon like it," says Lord Alfred.
"Is it? Well, I can't help that, you know. Nevertheless, I am not in
love with any one."
"Then you ought to take that look off your face," persists his
lordship, calmly.
"I'll take off anything you like," replies Dorian? somewhat nettled.
At this, Lord Alfred laughs beneath his breath, and tells him he will
not keep him to this rash promise, as probably the Pullingham folk,
being pre-Adamites, might object to the literal fulfilment of it.
"But she is a very lovely girl, and I don't wonder at your
infatuation," he says, mildly.
"Foregone conclusions seem to be in your line," returns Dorian, with a
shrug. "It seems a useless thing to tell you again I have _not_ lost
my heart to Miss Broughton."
"Oh, so you have remembered her name!" says his lordship, dryly.
Meantime, the concert has reasserted itself, and things once more are
going on smoothly. The vicar, all smiles and sunshine, is going about
accepting congratulations on all sides.
"Such a _charming_ evening," says Mrs. Grey; "and _such_ music!
Really, London could not surpass it. And what a delicious face that
girl has got--like Spring, or May, or--er----Morning, or that.
I quite envy her to you. Now all _my_ governesses are so
unpleasant,--freckled, you know, or with a squint, or a crooked nose,
or that. Some people have _all_ the luck in this world," winds up Mrs.
Grey, with a gentle sigh, who has ten thousand a year and no earthly
care, and who always speaks in italics whenever she gets the slightest
chance.
"So glad you are pleased," says the vicar, genially. "Yes, she is as
beautiful as her voice. After all, I think the concert will prove a
success."
"It _has_ proved itself one," says Mrs. Grey, who adores the vicar,
and would flirt with him if she dared. "But when do you fail in
anything you undertake? Really, dear Mr. Redmond, you should not let
the idea die out. You should give us a good time like this at least
once in every month, and than see what _delicious_ windows you could
have. I for one"--coquettishly--"will promise to come to _every_ one
of them."
"At that rate, I should soon have no poor to look after," says the
gratified vicar, gayly.
"And a good thing, too. The poor are always so oppressive, and--er--so
_dirty_, but still"--seeing a change in his face--"_very_
interesting,--_very_!"
And then the concert comes to an end, and adieux are said, and fresh
congratulations poured out, so to speak, upon the Redmonds; and then
every one goes home.
Dorian Branscombe climbs into his dog-cart, and drives swiftly
homeward, under the glistening stars, whose "beauty makes
unhappy,"--his mind filled with many thoughts.
"'My love, my pearl!'"--the words of Georgie's song haunt him
incessantly, and ring their changes on his brain. "What words could be
more appropriate, more suited to her?" (Alas, when we come to pronouns
it is generally all over with us!) "A pearl! so fair! so pure! so
solitary! It just expressed her. By what right has Fate cast that
pretty child upon the cruel world to take her chance, to live or die
in it?
"How large her eyes are, and what a heavenly blue, and what a sad
expression lies within them! 'Grandmamma, grandmamma, what big eyes
you have!'" Here he rouses himself, and laughs a little, and wishes,
with some petulance, that he could put her out of his head.
"'My love, my pearl!' Yes, it was a very pretty song, and haunts one
somehow; but no doubt a good night's sleep will kill it. Hold up, you
brute,"--this to the kind and patient mare, who is doing her good nine
miles an hour, and who has mildly objected to a sharp stone. "Why
didn't Clarissa introduce me to her? I wish to goodness I hadn't to go
back to town to-morrow!" And so on, until he reaches Sartoris, and
flings himself, with some impatience, out of the trap, to the
amazement of his groom, who is accustomed to think of his master as a
young man to whom exertion is impossible.
Then he goes to bed, and spends the next four hours miserably, as he
falls into a heavy slumber, and dreams that oysters, pearl-laden, are
rushing boisterously over his body.