Mrs. Larcher and Pumpkin taking no part in the performance were accommodated with front seats, together with many of the country gentry, who always patronised these entertainments at the urgent request of the vicar, who greatly believed in good feeling and friendliness existing between the lords of the soil and their tenants.
And now amid a great clapping of hands and stamping of heavily shod feet the popular vicar himself appeared on the stage as chairman, and took his seat beside a small table adorned with a jug of water, a glass and a programme.
Dr. Larcher made a short speech, ending with a quotation from his favourite poet:
which hardly anyone understood, and then the serious business of the evening commenced.
The concert was opened by the indefatigable Miss Busky and Cecilia, who played a duet by a popular composer on popular airs, in which said airs were almost smothered in variations, and blended one with the other in a most surprising manner, for just as the audience recognized "Rule Britannia" and had settled themselves down for an intellectual treat the players broke off into "The Last Rose of Summer," and thence bursting into "Auld Lang Syne," melting, amid a perfect fire-work of runs, into "The British Grenadiers," which latter being played with full force by four hands, the loud pedal pressed down, brought the overture to an end in a noisy manner which delighted the audience.
Reginald then sang "Come into the garden, Maud," but this number evidently did not please them very much as they could not make out what it was all about and, preferring noise to delicacy, did not appreciate the beauty of the singer's voice. Beaumont, however, who was present, admired the item greatly, and said as much to Mrs. Larcher who, armed with a fan and a smelling bottle, sat next to him fighting with "The Affliction."
"Oh yes," sighed Mrs. Larcher when she had got "The Affliction" well under and did not feel inclined to faint, scream, or kick, or give way to any other eccentricities which "The Affliction" was fond of doing at unseasonable hours, "his voice is beautiful, no doubt, but so loud, it goes through my head and rattles my nerves. I love soft songs that soothe me--something cradle-like--a Berceuse, you understand. I'm afraid you find me rather hard to please, but it's my affliction and not myself. I assure you, Mr. Beaumont, that a loud voice often prostrates me for days and leaves me a perfect object, does it not, Eleanora Gwendoline?"
