There was a quick murmur of protest at this. The parson exchanged glances with the deacon and saw that they were hopelessly in the minority.
“I will ask him myself,” said Mrs. Rivers suddenly.
“So do, Sister Rivers; so do,” was the unmistakable response.
Mrs. Rivers left the room and returned in a few moments with a handsome young man, pale, elegant, composed, even to a grave indifference. What his eyes might have said was another thing; the long lashes were scarcely raised.
“I don't mind playing a little,” he said quietly to Mrs. Rivers, as if continuing a conversation, “but you'll have to let me trust my memory.”
“Then you—er—play the harmonium?” said the parson, with an attempt at formal courtesy.
“I was for a year or two the organist in the choir of Dr. Todd's church at Sacramento,” returned Mr. Hamlin quietly.
The blank amazement on the faces of Deacons Stubbs and Turner and the parson was followed by wreathed smiles from the other auditors and especially from the ladies. Mr. Hamlin sat down to the instrument, and in another moment took possession of it as it had never been held before. He played from memory as he had implied, but it was the memory of a musician. He began with one or two familiar anthems, in which they all joined. A fragment of a mass and a Latin chant followed. An “Ave Maria” from an opera was his first secular departure, but his delighted audience did not detect it. Then he hurried them along in unfamiliar language to “O mio Fernando” and “Spiritu gentil,” which they fondly imagined were hymns, until, with crowning audacity, after a few preliminary chords of the “Miserere,” he landed them broken-hearted in the Trovatore's donjon tower with “Non te scordar de mi.”
Amidst the applause he heard the preacher suavely explain that those Popish masses were always in the Latin language, and rose from the instrument satisfied with his experiment. Excusing himself as an invalid from joining them in a light collation in the dining room, and begging his hostess's permission to retire, he nevertheless lingered a few moments by the door as the ladies filed out of the room, followed by the gentlemen, until Deacon Turner, who was bringing up the rear, was abreast of him. Here Mr. Hamlin became suddenly deeply interested in a framed pencil drawing which hung on the wall. It was evidently a schoolgirl's amateur portrait, done by Mrs. Rivers. Deacon Turner halted quickly by his side as the others passed out—which was exactly what Mr. Hamlin expected.
“Do you know the face?” said the deacon eagerly.