“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.