“Heaven and earth,” sang the tenor, Mr.
Henry Wallace, owner of the Wallace garage.
His larynx, which gave him somewhat the effect of
having swallowed a crab-apple and got it only part
way down, protruded above his low collar.
“Heaven and earth,” sang the bass, Mr.
Edwin Goodno, of the meat market and the Boy Scouts.
“Heaven and earth, are full—”
His chin, large and fleshy, buried itself deep; his
eyes were glued on the music sheet in his hand.
“Are full, are full, are full,” sang the
soprano, Clare Rossiter, of the yellow colonial house
on the Ridgely Road. She sang with her eyes
turned up, and as she reached G flat she lifted herself
on her toes. “Of the majesty, of Thy glory.”
“Ready,” barked the choir master.
“Full now, and all together.”
The choir room in the parish house resounded to the
twenty voices of the choir. The choir master
at the piano kept time with his head. Earnest
and intent, they filled the building with the Festival
Te Deum of Dudley Buck, Opus 63, No.1.
Elizabeth Wheeler liked choir practice. She
liked the way in which, after the different parts
had been run through, the voices finally blended into
harmony and beauty. She liked the small sense
of achievement it gave her, and of being a part, on
Sundays, of the service. She liked the feeling,
when she put on the black cassock and white surplice
and the small round velvet cap of having placed in
her locker the things of this world, such as a rose-colored
hat and a blue georgette frock, and of being stripped,
as it were, for aspirations.
At such times she had vague dreams of renunciation.
She saw herself cloistered in some quiet spot, withdrawn
from the world; a place where there were long vistas
of pillars and Gothic arches, after a photograph in
the living room at home, and a great organ somewhere,
playing.
She would go home from church, however, clad in the
rose-colored hat and the blue georgette frock, and
eat a healthy Sunday luncheon; and by two o’clock
in the afternoon, when the family slept and Jim had
gone to the country club, her dreams were quite likely
to be entirely different. Generally speaking,
they had to do with love. Romantic, unclouded
young love dramatic only because it was love, and
very happy.
Sometime, perhaps, some one would come and say he
loved her. That was all. That was at once
the beginning and the end. Her dreams led up
to that and stopped. Not by so much as a hand
clasp did they pass that wall.
So she sat in the choir room and awaited her turn.
“Altos a little stronger, please.”
“Of the majesty, of the majesty, of the majesty,
of Thy gl-o-o-ry,” sang Elizabeth. And
was at once a nun and a principal in a sentimental
dream of two.
