'Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Glory be to God on high,
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Sing His praises through the sky;
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Glory to the Father give:
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Sing His praises, all that live!'
The hymn went on to offer Christ's salvation to all who would have it; and closed with a variation of the chorus, taken from the song of the redeemed in heaven,—'Worthy is the Lamb that was slain.'
As sweet and free as the jubilant shout of a bird the notes rang; with a lift in them, however, which the unthinking creature neither knows nor can express. Betty's eye roved once or twice round the room during the singing to see how the song was taken by the rest of the company. All listened, but she could perceive that some were bored and some others shocked. Others looked curiously grave.
The music ceased and the singer rose. Nobody proposed that she should sing again.
'What do you think of the good taste of that?' one of Betty's cavaliers asked her softly.
'Oh, don't talk about good taste! Who is she?'
'I—really, I don't know—I believe somebody said she was a teacher somewhere. She has tried her hand on us, hasn't she?'
'A teacher!' Betty repeated the word, but gave no attention to the question. She was looking across the room at the musician, who was standing by the piano talking with a gentleman. The apartment was not so large but that she could see plainly, while it was large enough to save her from the charge of ill-bred staring. She saw a moderately tall figure, as straight as an Indian, with the head exquisitely set on the shoulders, the head itself covered with an abundance of pale brown hair, disposed at the back in a manner of careless grace which reminded Betty of a head of Sappho on an old gem in her possession. The face she could not see quite so well, for it was partly turned from her; Betty's attention centred on the figure and carriage. A pang of jealous rivalry shot through her as she looked. There was not a person in the room that carried her head so nobly, nor whose pose was so stately and graceful; yet, stately as it was, it had no air of proud self-consciousness, nor of pride at all; it was not that; it was simple, maidenly dignity, not dignity aped. Betty read so much, and rapidly read what else she could see. She saw that the figure she was admiring was dressed but indifferently; the black silk had certainly seen its best days, if it was not exactly shabby; no ornaments whatever were worn with it. The fashion of garments at that day was, as I have remarked, very trying to any but a good figure, while it certainly showed such a one to advantage. Betty knew her own figure could bear comparison with most; the one she was looking at would bear comparison with any. Miss Gainsborough was standing in the most absolute quiet, the arms crossed over one another, with no ornament but their whiteness.
'A good deal of aplomb there?' whispered one of Betty's attendants, who saw whither her eyes had gone.
'Aplomb!' repeated Betty. 'That is not aplomb!'