“No one,” said Virginia, “will pay to hear our own people, even if they play better.”
The wisdom of this diagnosis of the popular sentiment was demonstrated by the sale of tickets. As the night drew near, it became apparent that not a seat would be vacant. The invitation to young Mrs. William Carter was a brilliant coup. The town was anxious to see her and to hear her; the announcement that she would sing—probably a French ballad—had rushed the last seats up to a premium. For William Carter’s sudden marriage abroad had aroused no small amount of gossip.
The hall began to fill early. Virginia Denbigh, who had come down with her grandfather, glanced over it with a thrill of pleasure.
“We’re going to make it,” she said softly, “every cent! Look, grandpa, they’re selling the last seats for five dollars—away back, too!”
“Scandalous!” retorted the colonel. “Can’t see a thing there but the top of Mrs. Payson’s bonnet, and there’ll be a draft from the door. You’ve got no conscience, Jinny. Make them sell those for a dollar.”
She laughed, patting his arm.
“You go and take your seat; I’ve got to be back in the reception-room to meet the singers.”
The old man nodded, making his way to a front seat, and looking about him interestedly as he went.
The congregation was there in force, with the rector and his wife well down in front; but, for the first time in the history of their church entertainments, the rest of the townspeople appeared there, too. Colonel Denbigh counted three ministers and half a dozen deacons. The black coats and white neckties were well forward, and there were three old ladies, patrons of the church, already seated, with their ear trumpets at their ears. On the rear benches the young people were congregated, and, as the hall filled, the young men of the town stood about in groups in the aisles and behind the last seats.
But it was a very solemn gathering, after all.