Enderby smiled; but there was some uneasiness in his smile.
The countrywoman was commended to the servants, to be refreshed, and dismissed another way. There was no further reason for detaining her when it appeared that she really could give no account of how she had offended Mrs. Plumstead in selling her a pound of butter. It remained to console little Mary, who was still crying—more from grief for Mrs. Plumstead than from fear, Maria thought, though Mrs. Grey was profuse in assurances to the child that Mrs. Plumstead should not be allowed to frighten her any more. All the children seemed so depressed and confounded, that their guests exerted themselves to be merry again, and to efface, as far as was possible, the impression of the late scene. When Mr. Hope returned, he found Mr. Grey singing his single ditty, about Dame Dumshire and her crockery-ware, amidst great mirth and unbounded applause. Then Mrs. Enderby was fluttered, and somewhat flattered, by an entreaty that she would favour the company with one of the ballads for which she had been famous in her time. She could not refuse on such an occasion—if indeed she had ever been able to refuse what she was told would give pleasure. She made her son choose for her what she should sing; and then followed a wonderful story of Giles Collins, who loved a lady: Giles and the lady both died of true love; Giles was laid in the lower chancel, and the lady in the higher; from the one grave grew a milk-white rose, and from the other a briar, both of which climbed up to the church top, and there tied themselves into a true-lover’s knot, which made all the parish admire. At this part, Anna was seen looking up at the ceiling; but the rest had no eyes but for Mrs. Enderby, as she gazed full at the opposite wall, and the shrill, quavering notes of the monotonous air were poured out, and the words were as distinct as if they were spoken.
“Is that true, grandmamma?” asked Anna, when all was over.
“You had better ask the person who made the song, my dear. I did not make it.”
“But did you ever see that church with the briar growing in it, before the sexton cut it down?”
“Do not let us talk any more about it,” said Philip, solemnly. “I wonder grandmamma dares sing such a sad song.”
“Why, you asked her, Uncle Philip.”
“Oh, ay, so I did. Well, we are much obliged to her; and now we will have something that is not quite so terrible.—Miss Grey, you will favour us with a song?”
Sophia’s music-books were all in the house, and she could not sing without. Mr. Enderby would fetch some, if she would give him directions what to bring. No; she could not sing without the piano. As it was clearly impossible to bring that, Philip feared the company must wait for the pleasure of hearing Miss Grey till another time. Mr. Grey would have Hester and Margaret sing; and sing they did, very simply and sweetly, and much to the satisfaction of all present. One thing led on to another; they sang together—with Mr. Grey—with Mr. Enderby; Mr. Hope listening with an unlearned eagerness, which made Mrs. Grey wink at her husband, and nod at Sophia, and exchange smiles with Mrs. Enderby. They proceeded to catches at last; and when people really fond of music get to singing catches in a summer-house, who can foresee the end?
“ ‘Fair Enslaver!’ ” cried Mr. Enderby. “You must know ‘Fair Enslaver:’ there is not a sweeter catch than that. Come, Miss Ibbotson, begin; your sister will follow, and I—”
But it so happened that Miss Ibbotson had never heard ‘Fair Enslaver.’ Margaret knew it, she believed; but she did not. With a gay eagerness, Mr. Enderby turned round to Maria, saying that he knew she could sing this catch; and everybody was aware that when she had the power of doing a kindness, she never wanted the will;—he remembered that she could sing ‘Fair Enslaver.’ He might well remember this, for often had they sung it together. While several of the company were saying they did not know Miss Young could sing, and the children were explaining that she often sang at her work, Mr. Enderby observed some signs of agitation in Maria, and hastened to say—“You had rather not, perhaps. Pray do not think of it. I will find something else in a moment. I beg your pardon: I was very inconsiderate.”
But Maria thought she had rather not accept the consideration; and besides, the children were anxious that she should sing. She bore her part in a way which made Mr. Rowland and Mrs. Grey agree that she was a very superior young woman indeed; that they were singularly fortunate to have secured her for their children; and that she was much to be pitied.
“I think Miss Young has got a little cold, though,” observed Sydney. “Her voice is not in the least husky when she sits singing here by herself.—Father! look there! there are all the servants huddled together under the window again, to listen to the singing.”
This was true; and the rain was over. It was presently settled that the schoolroom should be evacuated by the present party; that the children should be allowed to invite the servants in, to dispense to them the remains of the feast; and that Miss Young must favour Mrs. Grey with her company this evening.
Mr. Rowland was obliged to return home to business; but, before his friends dispersed, he must just say that Mrs. Rowland and he had never, for a moment, given up the hope of the pleasure of entertaining them at dinner in the Dingleford woods; and, as the rains were now daily abating, he might perhaps be allowed to name Wednesday of the next week as the day of the excursion. He hoped to see the whole of the present company, from the oldest to the youngest—bowing, as he spoke, to Mrs. Enderby and to his own little daughter Anna. This was one of Mr. Rowland’s pieces of independent action. His lady had given him no commission to bring the affair to an issue; and he returned home, involuntarily planning what kind of an unconcerned face and manner he should put on, while he told her what he had done.
Chapter Nine.
A Party of Pleasure.
Mr. Rowland hoped “to see the whole of the present company, from the oldest to the youngest.” This was the best part of his speech to the ears of the children; it made an impression also upon some others. Two or three days afterwards, Sydney burst, laughing, into the dining-room, where his mother and her guests were at work, to tell them that he had seen Mr. Hope riding a pony in the oddest way, in the lane behind his lodgings. He had a side-saddle, and a horse-cloth put on like a lady’s riding-habit. He rode the pony in and out among the trees, and made it scramble up the hill behind, and it went as nicely as could be, wherever he wanted it to go. Mr. Hope’s new way of riding was easily explained, the next time he called. Miss Young was certainly included in the invitation to Dingleford woods: it was a pity she should not go; and she could not walk in wild places:—the pony was training for her. Mrs. Grey quite agreed that Miss Young ought to go, but thought that Mr. Hope was giving himself much needless trouble; there would be room made for her in some carriage, of course. No doubt; but no kind of carriage could make its way in the woods; and, but for this pony, Miss Young would have to sit in a carriage, or under a tree, the whole time that the rest of the party were rambling about; whereas, this quiet active little pony would take care that she was nowhere left behind. It could do everything but climb trees. It was to be taken over to Dingleford the evening before, and would be waiting for its rider on the verge of the woods, when the party should arrive.
Miss Young was touched, and extremely pleased with Mr. Hope’s attention. In the days of her prosperity she had been accustomed to ride much, and was very fond of it; but since her misfortunes she had never once been in the saddle—lame as she was, and debarred from other exercise. To be on a horse again, and among the woods, was a delicious prospect; and when a few misgivings had been reasoned away—misgivings about being troublesome, about being in the way of somebody’s pleasure or convenience—Maria resigned herself to the full expectation
