From somewhere close at hand, apparently in the room with the bolted door, there proceeded a curious collection of sounds. It was a hymn, sung with a malicious intensity, unequalled by anything Abbershaw had ever heard in his life before. The voice was a feminine one, high and shrill; it sounded like some avenging fury. He could make out the words, uttered with a species of ferocious glee underlying the religious fervour.
‘Oh vain all outward sign of grief,
And vain the form of prayer,
Unless the heart implore relief
And Penitence be there.’
And then with still greater emphasis:
‘We smite the breast, we weep in vain,
In vain in ashes mourn,
Unless with penitential pain –’
The quavering crescendo reached a pinnacle of self-righteous satisfaction that can never be known to more forgiving spirits.
‘Unless with penitential pain
The smitten soul be torn.’
The last note died away into silence, and a long drawn-out ‘Ah-ha-Ha-men’ followed it.
Then all was still.
CHAPTER XVI
The Militant Mrs Meade
‘Good heavens, what was that?’