England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Villages -- Fiction
‘Well, you may say what you like about fiddles,’ said the Rector’s wife,
‘but there’s always something a little like a village fair in them to
me. And the poor people were bored beyond anything. They liked your
songs, girls, and wanted to encore them if Mr. Osborne would have
allowed it; and they liked that piano bit, with the tunes from the
_Pinafore_. They understood that, and so do I, I allow; but what do they
care for a classical quartette? I don’t myself, and I know more about
music than they can be supposed to do. But a fine, stirring thing like
Jim’s “Ride to Aix”----’
‘It was Mr. Browning’s “Ride to Aix,” mamma.’
‘As if I did not know that! But, all the same, it was Jim’s ride to me.
Don’t you think he did it great justice, Mab? I never heard it come off
so well. The people were so attentive. That and the duets were certainly
the success of the evening; and what it would have been without them I
can’t tell.’
‘It would have been much more satisfactory without them, mamma,’ cried
Florry, half turning a shadowed countenance towards her mother. ‘Mr.
Osborne did not want mere amusement for the people--he wanted them to
take pledges, and turn from drinking. That was his object, don’t you
know--and a far better object than hearing two poor little country birds
like Emmy and me sing. And I approve of it,’ said Florence a little
loudly, as if she would have liked all the world to hear.
Mrs. Plowden looked at Mab and shrugged her shoulders behind her
daughter. ‘I can’t think what has come over Florry,’ she said. ‘She has
grown so domineering of late--I dare not say a word.’
What Mab thought was that poor Florry looked dark, and pale, and out of
heart--she seemed to be losing her good looks and her merry ways. It was
rare, very rare, when she put forth any of her old arts of mimicry which
the elders laughed yet pretended to frown at, and which all the young
ones delighted in; but I will not have it supposed that Mab was so
precocious as to divine what was the matter with Florence--for this, to
tell the truth, never came into her unconscious thoughts.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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