Song of the Night by Fiona McHugh

Author:Fiona McHugh
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: road to avonlea, fiona mchugh, mchugh
Publisher: Davenport Press

Chapter Eleven

The following Sunday the Avonlea congregation enjoyed a mild sensation. Just as the first organ chords of Sylvia’s solo sounded, the doors to the church opened, admitting a stream of light into the packed building. Very slowly, looking neither to left nor right, Old Lady Lloyd entered into public view. Erect and dignified, one hand clutching her silver-topped cane, she made her way to the long-unoccupied Lloyd family pew, as though supremely unconscious of the whispers and stares she evoked around her.

Although she appeared unmoved, the old lady’s soul was writhing within her. She recalled the reflection she had seen in her mirror before she left—the old black silk in the mode of forty years ago and the queer little bonnet of shirred black satin. Sitting upright in her pew, she thought how absurd she must look in the eyes of the world.

As a matter of fact, she did not look in the least absurd. Some women might have—but the old lady’s stately distinction of carriage and figure was so subtly commanding that it did away with the consideration of clothing altogether. But Miss Lloyd did not know this. She sat there, wishing she had not come at all and feeling humiliated to her very bones.

Then all at once Sylvia’s voice soared through the church like the very soul of melody. Nobody in Avonlea had ever listened to such a voice, except Old Lady Lloyd herself, who, in her youth, had heard enough good singing to enable her to be a tolerable judge. As she listened, her first impression was confirmed. This girl had a great gift—a gift that would some day bring her fame and fortune, if it could be duly trained and developed.

The afternoon sunshine fell over Sylvia’s hair like a halo. The old lady sat and gazed at Richard Grey’s daughter, feeling all her foolish thoughts, born of vanity and morbid pride, melt away as if they had never been. Into her mind flooded instead a wave of memories of Sylvia’s father so strong and vivid that her head reeled. It came to her then, as Sylvia’s voice echoed through the church, that forty years ago she had held happiness in her hand like a flower. Forty years ago she had flung it away. It would never be hers again. From that moment when she had rejected happiness, her feet were turned from youth to walk down a valley filled with shadow, to a lonely, eccentric old age. Tears welled up in her eyes. She told herself she must not break down. She could not break down in front of all these people. Yet the thought of all she had lost stabbed at her heart, destroying her self-control. Overwhelmed by sadness, she stood up and walked from the church.

Sara had noted Miss Lloyd’s entrance with a thrill of satisfaction. The dignity of the old lady’s deportment, as she took her place in her pew, impressed her. There was something splendid and regal about her, Sara decided, something courageous.

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