“I don’t advise him to ask me. And, look here! I want to know who it was. If he’s bringing in somebody in the dark, on the sly, to put them boys’ noses out!—you never can tell what a foreign fellow’s up to. I don’t know a voice like that, not in the Abbey. If he’s smuggling in a new boy, without no warning, to take the bread out of folks’ mouths, by George, I won’t stand it! I’ll go to the Dean about it! Tommy’s cried hisself hoarse. He couldn’t eat his breakfast, poor little beggar! and he’s got ‘Hear my prayer’ this morning. Hanged if I don’t think it’s all a scheme against me and my boy! That ain’t a child’s voice. There’s a touch of falsetto in it, if I know anything about music. It won’t last, not a month. I’ve heard them come out like that, that you could hear them a mile off, just before they break.”
“Then you were there, Mr. Rowley?” said old Pick; “I thought there was only the folks from the Deanery there.”
“I wasn’t there. Catch me in the Abbey when I’m not wanted! I have enough of it, practising and bothering from morning till night. The Signor’s very good for the organ. I don’t say nothing against that; but he don’t know much about Englishmen. You do no justice to your voice when you never give yourself no rest; but he can’t understand that. I heard it outside. Pick, there’s a good old fellow, you know what it is yourself, and I’m sure we’re always glad to see you when you look in at our little place. Tell us what’s up—who is it? Tommy will have to go in time. I don’t say nothing against that. But he’s not twelve, poor little beggar, and his voice is as clear as a bell. He’s fit to fret himself into a fever if they take the first solos from him. Tell us what the Signor’s up to, and who he’s got coming in? I say it’s a shame,” said the tenor, rising again into vehemence. “Them that is on the spot, and belonging to the place, and bred up in the Abbey all their lives, hanged if they should be turned out for strangers! I don’t see the fun of that.”
“If you’ve done, Mr. Rowley, I think I’ll go,” said Pick; upon which Rowley swore under his breath that it wasn’t like an old friend to give a fellow no answer, and that he didn’t know what he and Tommy had done to offend the Signor. To this old Pick made no reply, being himself extremely indignant not to know anything about the mystery in question. He had heard of no new boy—“nor anything as is new,” Pick said to himself with warmth as he hurried through the enclosure which belonged to the lay clerks, where a great many people were at the doors and windows, and the excitement was general. It was natural that Pick should be indignant. So little as there ever was to hear or report within the Precincts, to think something should have happened under his very nose, in the Abbey, and he not know! The Signor was a good master, and the place was comfortable; but there are things which no man can be expected to stand. Even Mr. John had not said a word about any novelty. If he had told his mother, then the housekeeper had been as treacherous as the rest, and had not breathed a word to Pick. It was a thing that no man could be expected to put up with. Here were two ladies now bearing down upon him, full of curiosity—and that Pick should have to confess that he didn’t know!
“Oh, Pickering! you must know—who was it that was singing in the Abbey last night? A very extraordinary thing for the Signor to countenance. He did not ask us; he knew it would be of no use, for neither my husband nor I approve of such proceedings; making the Abbey, our beautiful Abbey, into a kind of music-hall! I hear it was a lady: the very worst taste, and anything so unecclesiastical! Women don’t exist in the Church—not as taking any part—but these are points which foreigners never will understand,” said the lady, with a sigh.
“It was odd having such a performance at all, for a few privileged persons. I thought the Abbey, at least,” said the second lady, “was for all.”
“Don’t go, Pickering; you haven’t answered my question. If I were you, being a man of experience, and having known the Abbey so long as you have done, I would give a hint to your master. You should tell him people here don’t like that sort of thing. It may do very well abroad, or even in town, where there are all sorts; but it does not do in St. Michael’s. You should tell him, especially as he is only half English, to be more careful. Stop a little, Pickering! You have not answered my question yet.”
“Beg your pardon, ma’am, but you didn’t give me no time,” said Pick.
“Do not be impertinent, Pickering. I asked you a plain question, and I told you what I should do in your place. A man like you, that has been so long about the Abbey, might be of great use to your master. You should tell him that in England a lady is never suffered to open her mouth in church. I never heard of anything so unecclesiastical. I wonder the Dean does not interfere—a man of good Church principles as he is, and with so much at stake. I really wonder the Dean does not interfere.”
“Oh, the Dean!” said the other lady; “and as for Church principles——”