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.