When we had smoked our cigars out, he invited me to see his grounds. I consented, having made up my mind to convert myself into a perfectly passive agent for him and his daughter to do what they chose with, whilst I remained at Thistlewood, which, I registered a secret vow, should not be for long. He peeped into the drawing-room on passing across the hall, and, seeing his daughter, entered and called to me, “Teazer shall sing us a song before we go out. You’ll get none of your die-away ballads here, Charlie. My girl has my taste, and stubbornly refuses to learn any song tainted with the least suggestion of molly-coddleism; eh, Teazer? Come, my dear, what shall it be?”
She walked to the piano at once, with the air of a person who has a very disagreeable task to perform, but who knows that the sooner it is begun the sooner it will be over. The first thing she did was to knock the stool down. I instantly darted forward to pick it up, but she whispered angrily, “I am accustomed to help myself, thanks!” and set it upright with a smart bang. I paid her the compliment of considering that she was purposely clumsy in her movements, for she seemed to forget her ungainly part when seating herself, which she did with perfect but unconscious grace. I earnestly hoped she did not propose to play from music, for I dreaded the prospect of having to stand by her and turn over the pages, being ignorant of my notes, and only knowing when to turn by following the performer’s eye.
She struck the piano, and I breathed freely. But anything more distressing and feeble than her performance I never listened to. Why, Conny was a Patti and a Thalberg rolled into one compared to her! The song she sung was “Cease, rude Boreas,” of all the songs ever written, the one, to my mind, the least suitable for a woman’s voice. She was for ever striking the wrong notes, pausing often to cough or think, and singing with such ludicrous affectation, that it cost me an immense effort to preserve my gravity. Her father lost patience at the end of the first stanza, and exclaimed, “What’s the use of asking Boreas to cease, when all the while you’re raising a worse squall than ever he was known to blow? I never heard you sing like this before.”
“I hate singing,” she answered, rising from the music-stool, which she overturned again. This time I didn’t offer to pick it up. Neither did she; and thus I was placed in an abominably awkward position, for her father, of course, wondered at my want of manners.
“How awkward you are!” he exclaimed, peevishly, making a tremendous but futile effort to reach the stool himself.
She laughed, and coolly put the stool on end with her foot.
“I’ll finish the song if my cousin likes,” said she.
“No, thank you. He’s had enough of it, I’ll warrant. Come along into the garden, my boy, and let us breathe some fresh air.”
As we went out, he said: “How wretchedly my daughter sang! Would you believe that she has a fine contralto voice, and can play the piano brilliantly?”
I was amazed by his perverse partiality, which persisted in attributing all kinds of graces and perfections to a girl who seemed to me to be wanting in everything but a good figure and a handsome face.