Ah,
she despised him! But there he stood up in that choir gallery like
Balaam's ass in front of her, and she could not get beyond him. A certain
winsomeness also about him. A certain physical winsomeness, and as if his
flesh were new and lovely to touch. The thorn of desire rankled bitterly
in her heart.
He, it goes without saying, sang like a canary this particular afternoon,
with a certain defiant passion which pleasantly crisped the blood of the
congregation. Fanny felt the crisp flames go through her veins as she
listened. Even the curious loud-mouthed vernacular had a certain
fascination. But, oh, also, it was so repugnant. He would triumph over
her, obstinately he would drag her right back into the common people: a
doom, a vulgar doom.
The second performance was an anthem, in which Harry sang the solo parts.
It was clumsy, but beautiful, with lovely words.
'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy,
He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed
Shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with
him--'
'Shall doubtless come, Shall doubtless come--' softly intoned the
altos--'Bringing his she-e-eaves with him,' the trebles flourished
brightly, and then again began the half-wistful solo:
'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy--'
Yes, it was effective and moving.
But at the moment when Harry's voice sank carelessly down to his close,
and the choir, standing behind him, were opening their mouths for the
final triumphant outburst, a shouting female voice rose up from the body
of the congregation.
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