CHAPTER III.

WE never knew what the accomplished flatter wanted when she spoke out in meeting. She became suddenly aware that the noise just below her had ceased. The minister turned slowly around and faced his tormentors, and into that tremendous silence came his voice: "I shall have to ask the members of the choir to desist from whispering during the sermon; else it will be impossible for me to continue."

Had an angel from Heaven appeared suddenly among us, more startled quiet could not have ensued. The members of the choir did not even dare to glance at one another. One by one their faces dropped behind book or fan or handkerchief, and some of them, at least, shed indignant tears. The minister continued his sermon, and perhaps somebody listened, but Uncle Charlie Bennett cleared his throat several times, with hoarse growls, a way he had when much agitated; and Auntie Barber fanned violently, though the day was cool. As for the affable Theodore, he presently took his hat, and slipped quietly and decorously from a side door; and part of the choir rendered the last hymn as best they could without him.

What a week was that which followed. The whole town was in a ferment, and seethed and boiled in an alarming manner. The choir was large, and many homes had been touched. There was every shade and grade of indignation and disapprobation expressed concerning the minister, from the extreme wrath of Miss Armitage, the first soprano, who thought that "after insulting half his congregation, he ought never to be allowed to show his head in the pulpit again," down to patient old Auntie Barber, who said she knew the minister had been dreadfully put to it, poor dear man; she didn't blame him, but then, if he could have spoken to the young things kind of softly, she would have been dreadful glad.

Well, another Sabbath came; and with much fear and trembling we went to church. The minister was in his place as usual; but the long rows of seats behind him were vacant. Not a singer put in an appearance. Here and there through the church were scattered a few of them, seated decorously beside their parents, wearing ominously set lips, which boded silence, so far as they were concerned, but for the most part the choir had followed the example of its leader and remained away from the sanctuary.

The hymn was announced, and read; and silence followed; even the new organ was dumb. The young performer thereon had been one of the most efficient whisperers, and was, of course, aggrieved.

Deacon Slocumb fumbled for the spectacles with which he saw to read, and exchanged for them the spectacles with which he saw the minister and commenced—

"Alas, what hourly dangers rise, What snares beset my way,"

and suddenly stopped. He had been snared in his haste and perturbation by a long metre tune for this common metre hymn, and it was too long drawn out, even for Auntie Barber, though she quavered in tremulously, on the last word. Of course the members of the choir who were present giggled scornfully, and Joe Slocumb, the wicked, disgraced himself by an audible laugh, but the deacon, red in the face, tried again, and acquitted himself better, and all the congregation lived through that hymn.

Stormy times ensued for our church. In fact there was a time when Satan must have gloried in it, so wonderfully did it live up to his ideas of church management.

Really, it seemed as though the throes of this eruption would rend us to pieces. It had been made plain to the church and the world generally that the long-suffering Mr. Pemberton was now roused. He said with severe dignity that there was a time when patience ceased to be a virtue, and that time had come to him. He had endured enough. He should never enter the doors of that church again, until the minister should either in person or by letter make satisfactory apology to him, and to all the members of his choir, for the insult which they had received. Just what he meant by having "endured enough," or what had so exercised his patience, did not appear. But the roused and indignant Theodore wore all the time a look which translated would have filled volumes. Every member of the choir heartily sympathized with this outburst, and waited for their apology. Now in regard to this apology there was one difficulty. The minister declined to make it! It was not that he was not willing to "become all things to all men," it was not that he did not "study the things which make for peace;" it was simply that he could not very well tell a lie.

He was willing to say that perhaps he had erred in judgment in thus publicly addressing the choir; though even here, in justice to the truth, he would have to explain that he had heretofore spoken seriously and gently with several individual members, with no apparent results; and that he came to the serious conclusion that the course he pursued was the best, and perhaps the only one calculated to remove the difficulty.

No explanation of this sort would the affable Theodore admit for a moment. The minister must say in so many words that he was sorry and ashamed for his sin in thus publicly disgracing his choir, or the choir would refuse to perform, and Mr. Pemberton would never again enter the church. As I said, there was a constitutional and moral objection on the part of our minister to this decision, so it seemed to be necessary for the accommodating Theodore to stay without.

Several miserable weeks ensued, during which time our music was at its worst. It had not even the redeeming feature of being enjoyed by Deacon Slocumb and Auntie Barber. The Deacon sang under protest; and dear old Auntie seemed to understand that her voice was in disgrace, and wailed forth her notes with a tremulousness not all due to age. It was during this time that certain of us made a discovery as to why our congregational singing was so unusually poor. It was apparent that the fresh young voices which had rolled out so jubilantly from the choir seats were absolutely dumb when they were scattered about in the congregation. Look where you would, during Deacon Slocumb's struggles with a tune, and among the young people you would find only apathetic faces and closed lips. They could sing like birds, but they would not.

In due course of time the important question, "What shall be done about our church music?" came up again for official discussion. Some things which we could not do were plain. We could not again enjoy the services of the good-natured Theodore. Not only did he refuse to yield one inch of his dignity, but the triumphant hour came when he refused to return, even though a dozen apologies were furnished him. He declared with dignity that he had waited a reasonable time for advances, and could not be expected to do more. Certain wise ones hinted, however, that the real reason was because the Park Street church had borne him off in triumph, at an advance of fifty dollars on his salary.

In the midst of our perplexities came a ray light in the shape of H. Beethoven Smith, the common-placeness of the surname being utterly lost in the melody of the given names, "Handel Beethoven." He, too, was a newcomer, and came heralded as a musical genius of no common order. It was represented that a wonderful series of accidental, not to say providential, circumstances had given us opportunity to secure his services.

In fact the incidents which seemed to point in the direction of Handel Beethoven Smith became so marked that it would have seemed almost like a tempting of Providence to ignore them. Yet there were difficulties in the way. In the first place, he demanded a much larger salary than had satisfied the genial Theodore; and, in the second place, it was rumored that he had in time past lent the glory of his voice to an opera troupe. But with perseverance these and other difficulties were overcome, and Prof. Handel Beethoven Smith was duly installed as leader of our choir.

Prosperity seemed to crown our efforts. The members of the choir came trooping back; it was folly to nurse their wrath to the extent of losing such an opportunity as this. But we had hardly settled into calm, when it became apparent that it was a deceitful calm.