‘I must see her—one of these days,’ said Lady William vaguely: and then the faint smile died off her face, and she turned to contemplate the long blue letter which lay by her plate. It looked a dangerous thing among the little inoffensive white and gray envelopes. Lady William’s letters were chiefly gray, written upon that ugly paper which people, and especially ladies, use out of economy, and which is one of the additional (small) miseries of life.
Mab felt much ashamed of her foolish question as she went out, but hoped her mother had forgotten, or had not attached any meaning to it. It was all the fault of the horrid people who talked—as if there was anything strange in Mr. Swinford’s visits. ‘Where else should he go?’ Mab said indignantly to herself. ‘To the FitzStephens or the Kendalls, who are six times as old as he is? or to the Rectory, where Aunt Jane would talk to him all the time, and the girls never could get in a word? How different mother is! I don’t think I have ever seen any one so nice as mother! Well, of course, she is mother, which is a great thing in her favour; but not, perhaps, in the way of society. Emmy and Florry are very fond of Aunt Jane. She is very nice and kind if you are ill, and all that; but I am sure they would rather talk a little themselves sometimes, rather than just listen to her, especially when it is Mr. Leo.’ This was the result of Mab’s unprejudiced observation, and she was much ashamed of herself for having been moved to ask the very inappropriate question which her mother had not paid any attention to, thank heaven. Mab, as good luck would have it, met the Rector at his own door, and conveyed her message in the most natural way in the world. ‘Mother would like to see you, Uncle James. Would you go into the cottage as you pass? She has got a letter.’
‘Oh, she has got a letter?’ said the Rector.
Mab longed to say, ‘Not a letter from Leo Swinford, an important letter, a letter about business,’ but she restrained her inclination. Probably Uncle James had never thought upon that other subject. She went on quickly to the Rectory, in order to carry out her own programme which she had in a way bound herself to by announcing it to her mother. But she did not find the girls at the Rectory very anxious to talk over the events of the previous night. Mrs. Plowden, indeed, had no objection to discuss it fully; but it was in its connection with Jim that she thought of it most.
‘If it had not been for Jim,’ Mrs. Plowden said, ‘Mr. Osborne might just have kept all his music and his things to himself. Oh yes, I daresay, the FitzStephens, and Kendalls, and ourselves, and those people from the villas would have come; but, as for the men from Riverside, they came for Jim, not for him. And did you hear, Mab, what a noise they made with their cheers and their clappings after Jim’s piece? They thought that the gem of the whole evening. They came chiefly to hear that. As for Mr. Osborne, with his little speeches and his fiddles from Winwick——’
‘Oh, mamma,’ cried Emmy, ‘the violins were a great treat. We have not heard any music like that in Watcham for ever so long.’
‘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.