“You sing now, Edward,” said Miss Glover; “we’ve not heard you for ever so long.”
“Oh, bless you,” he retorted, “my singing’s too old fashioned. My songs have all got a tune in them and some feeling—they’re only fit for the kitchen.”
“Oh, please give us Ben Bolt,” said Miss Hancock, “we’re all so fond of it.”
Edward’s repertory was limited, and every one knew his songs by heart.
“Anything to oblige,” he said.
He was, as a matter of fact, fond of singing, and applause was always grateful to his ears.
“Shall I accompany you, dear?” said Bertha.
“Oh! don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Alice with hai-air so brow-own;
She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fe-ar at your frown.”
Once upon a time Bertha had found a subtle charm in these pleasing sentiments and in the honest melody which adorned them; but it was not to be wondered if constant repetition had left her a little callous. Edward sang the ditty with a simple, homely style—which is the same as saying, with no style at all—and he employed therein much pathos. But Bertha’s spirit was not forgiving, she owed him some return for the gratuitous attack on her playing; and the idea came to her to improve upon the accompaniment with little trills and flourishes which amused her immensely, but quite disconcerted her husband. Finally, just when his voice was growing flat with emotion over the gray-haired schoolmaster who had died, she wove in the strains of the Blue Bells of Scotland and God Save the Queen, so that Edward broke down. For once his even temper was disturbed.
“I say, I can’t sing if you go playing the fool. You spoil the whole thing.”