Sir William by David Stacton Page A

by the pitch, she was up to the third, final, bitter resignation bit where she repines, tears her hair, slaps her bosom, rolls her eyes, creaks in her corsets, and never a fold or wrinkle out of place. Mrs. Bottarelli was getting on, and her enunciation was not correct, for how a dramatic soprano can sing with plumpers in her cheeks, he did not know. The only person he knew who might know was Towneley, who had a fine soprano shriek when surprised or when roistering upon the Continent, a thing he was fastidious enough never to do at home, except sometimes in the evenings; a little rouge for warmth, but you were not supposed to notice it.
    Mrs. Bottarelli was succeeded by a Mr. Hudson, who sang “Content,” a largo jig by a Mr. Goodwin—a curious melody to be likened only to the effect of a fat man falling through glue.
    Greville suggested an inspection of the ornamental water, but the lower ornamental water being bordered by far from ornamental members of the lower orders, turned back. Emma was again disappointed. She was willing to accept Greville as a model of deportment. He was the only model of deportment she had seen. But they seemed to be enjoying themselves down there, and she would have liked to watch.
    “Greville, I am excited. May we dance?”
    “It is not done unless there is a ball.”
    “They were dancing by the ornamental water.”
    Greville was shocked. His face recomposed itself and emitted a silent, peremptory hiss, which is what an owl does—hoot when it knows something, and hiss when itdoesn’t—and he was very like an owl. “Those were the lower orders,” he said, and from his wrists shook back impatiently his bands, for in these moods he was a High Church clergyman too, not particularly devout, but way up in the thing, that was clear, and in regular attendance at Easter and at the marriage of his fortune-hunting friends—the last of the beagle pack, but there—whether it be St. George’s, Hanover Square, or over the hills and away as far as Wimbledon.
    They were now back to Mr. Hudson, still dispelling “Content,” or the last few lingering notes of it anyhow, with becoming diffidence.
    “I can sing better than that, and what is more, I shall,” shrieked Emma, and was away before she could be stopped, and up upon the podium. She was delighted with her own daring. So were the musicians. So was the audience. And as for Mr. Hudson, he had tired of “Content” years ago.
    It was her first audience. She forgot about Greville. An audience was an enthralling thing. She had not known. She had been given a few private lessons, to while away the tedium of those hours she could not spend with Greville, so she sang.
    “Hither Nymphs and Swains repair,
           Quit the baleful scenes of strife,
      Leave the rugged paths of care,
          And taste the joys that sweeten life …”
    she trilled, accompanying herself with a few experimental, but since she was eager to please, explicit gestures. The audience whistled, applauded and catcalled for more. She was a saucy lass.
    What these songs said was true. The way she sang them did show that she believed that. As an encore, because she could not bear to leave yet, and as a tribute to Greville, she sang something more recent—Dr. Downman’s “To Thespia.” She could not see Greville in the crowd in front of her, but raising her arms toward where he had been, she warbled:

    “Oh come my fair one! I have thatch’d above
      And whiten’d all around my little cot,
      Shorn are the hedges leading to the grove,
      Nor is the seat and willow bow’r forgot,”
    and made it a joyous invitation, like the “Song of Solomon” in the version you are allowed to read, but Greville in a good mood had explained some of the naughtier bits, and my, she had had no idea it was such a racy thing.
    Emma’s gestures, though she had never before so deliberately made one, were those of a village Siddons. They had a mesmeric effect. As slowly she raised her