Grace read the note, nodded brightly to the Copleys at the back of the room, and seemed not at all concerned. Cornelia, glad of the shelter of a secluded seat under the gallery, bent her head, and prayed continually. Little Louise, bright-eyed, with glowing cheeks, sat alertly up, and watched the door; but no Carey came.
They slipped out into the darkness after the meeting was out, and walked around the corner where they could see their own house; but it seemed silent and dark as they had left it, and they turned sadly back and went into the church.
The choir had gathered when Cornelia got back, and she slipped into the last vacant seat by the stairs, and was glad that it was almost hidden from the view of the congregation. It seemed to her that the anxiety of her heart must be written large across her face.
Louise, still as a mouse all by herself down in a back seat by the door, watched—and prayed. No one came in at the two big doors that she did not see. Maxwell and Harry had not come back yet. The cool evening air came in at the open window, and blew the little feather in the pretty hat Cornelia had made for her. She felt a strand of her own hair moving against her cheek. There was honeysuckle outside somewhere on somebody’s front porch across the street or in the little park near by. The breath of it was very sweet, but Louise thought she never as long as she lived, even if that were a great many years, would smell the breath of honeysuckle without thinking of this night. And yet the sounds outside were just like the sounds on any other Sunday night; the music and the lights in the church were the same; the people looked just as if nothing were the matter, and Carey had not come! What a queer world it was, everything going on just the same, even when one family was crushed to earth with fear!
Automobiles flew by the church; now and then one stopped. Louise wished she were tall so she could look out and see whether they had come. Her little heart was beating wildly; but there was a serene, peaceful expression on her face. She had resolved to trust God, and she knew He was going to do something about it somehow. But people kept coming in at the door, and hope would dim again.
The service had begun, and in the silence of the opening prayer the two sisters lifted their hearts in tragic petition. Their spirits seemed to cling to each word and make it linger; their souls entered into the song that followed, and sang as if their earnest singing would hold off the moment for a little longer.
Cornelia was glad that her seat was so placed that she could not see all the choir. She had given a swift survey as she sat down, and she knew her brother was not there. Now she sat in heaviness of heart, and tried to fathom it all!—tried to think what to do next, what to tell her father, whether to tell her father at all; tried not to think of the letter she would not write the next day to her mother; tried just to hold her spirit steady, steady, trusting, not hoping, but trusting, right through the prayer, the song, the Bible reading. Now and again a frightful thought of danger shot through her heart, and a wonder about Maxwell. Lamb’s Tavern—what kind of a place was it? The very name “Tavern” sounded questionable. And Harry! He ought not to have gone, of course, but she had not seen him in time to stop him. Brave, dear Harry! A man already. And yet he knew he ought not to go! But the man in him had to. She understood.
Suddenly she found a tear stealing slowly down her cheek, and she sat up very straight, and casually slid a finger up to its source, and stopped it. This must not happen again. No one must know her trouble. How wonderful it was that she should have been able to get this little sheltered spot, the only spot in the whole choir loft that was absolutely out of sight, by the winding stairs down into the choir room behind! She would not be seen until she had to stand up with the rest of the choir to sing; and then she would step in behind the rest, and be out of sight again. She wondered what Grace would do about Carey’s solo, and decided that she had probably asked some one else to take it. She cast a quick glance over the group of tenors, but she did not know any of them well enough to be sure whether there was a soloist present. She had been at only two rehearsals so far, and was not acquainted with them all yet. She was not afraid that the music would go wrong, for she had great faith that Grace at the organ would easily be able to fill the vacancy in some way; she only felt the deep mortification that Carey the first time he had been asked to sing in this notably conspicuous way had failed her, and for such a reason! It was terrible, and it was perplexing. It was not like Carey to be fooled by a note. And didn’t Carey know that little Dodd boy? If he had been going to the Dodd house at all, wouldn’t he know the brother? Why didn’t he see through the trick? He was quick as a flash. He was not dumb and slow like some people.
The contralto solo had begun. It was a sweet and tender thing, with low, deep tones like a ’cello; but they beat upon the tired girl’s heart, and threatened to break down her studied composure. A hymn followed, and the reading of another Bible selection. “All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.” She felt as if all the iniquity of her brother Carey were laid upon her heart, and a dim wonder came to her whether the Lord was bearing a like burden for her. She had never felt much sense of personal sin herself before. The thought lingered through the pain, and wound in and out through her tired brain during the offertory and prayer that followed; and at last came the anthem. The opening chords were sounding. The choir was rising. She stumbled to her feet, and for the first time saw the audience before her, this congregation that was to have heard Carey sing his tenor solo. It was a goodly audience, for Mr. Kendall touched the popular heart, and drew people out at night as well as in the morning; and she felt anew the pang of disappointment. She glanced swiftly over the lifted faces and saw little Louise, white and shrinking, sitting by herself, and saw beyond her, at the open door, two figures just entering, Maxwell and Harry, looking a trifle white and hurried, and glancing anxiously around the audience. Then she opened her mouth and tried to sing, to do her little part among the sopranos in the chorus; but no sound seemed to come. All she could think of now was, “Carey is not here!” beating over and over like a refrain in her brain: “Carey has not come! Carey has not come!”