The Daughters of Mrs Peacock Read Online Free PDF

In earlier years, when the children were little, the Bible and Bunyan had been almost the only permitted Sunday reading, but recently Mr Tennyson’s
In Memoriam
had been added to the list. The music, too, had to be appropriate to the day, Handel or Mendelssohn in their more solemn moods—though with Handel, indeed, a certain liveliness was always apt to break in.
    Sometimes Mrs Peacock was prevailed on to sing, to her own accompaniment,
Oh rest in the Lord.
She did so this evening, and Edmund, who never failed to be surprised by her rich contralto, so unexpectedly different from her speaking voice, was transported in memory to the occasion of his first hearing it, twenty-six years ago, in her mother’s house. Here was the same yellow-keyed rosewood piano, the same girl seated at it, and the same alien deep voice suddenly proceeding from her—the voice, it seemed, of another and secret woman, mature, alluring, intimidating. It was that that had startled the young man into first noticing her. He had been by no means sure that he enjoyed her singing, but it excited him, it hinted at unimaginable possibilities, it was the sign of a mystery that must, at whatever risk, be explored.
    And now she was a woman of forty-six, and the mother of his three daughters.
    â€˜Thank you, my dear,’ he said, as she left the piano. ‘That was wonderful.’ Meeting her oddly shy glance he grinned. ‘I never thought to be married to a trombone.’
    â€˜Really, Edmund! You do say the oddest things!’
    â€˜Now, what’s next?’ said Edmund. ‘Come along, Catherine.’ His eyebrows shot up. He pulled excitedly at his moustaches. ‘Give us the Harmonious Blacksmith.’
    â€˜But is it suitable, Papa?’ asked Sarah mischievously. ‘Is it sacred enough?’
    â€˜All good music is sacred, my love,’ he answered with a wink.
    â€˜And is all sacred music good, Papa?’
    â€˜As to that, you must ask your mother.’ Conscious that she was in danger of being teased by these two, Mrs Peacock refused to be drawn. ‘Perhaps,’ her husband continued, ‘Julia has some ideas on the subject?’
    â€˜I do not see,’ said Julia, ‘how music that is written to good words, words from the Scriptures, can be anything but good. Am I not right, Mama?’
    â€˜Yes, dear. Perfectly right. Your father knows that quite well. He was only joking, you know. He is feeling much stronger this evening,’ she added with an indulgent smile, ‘and that makes him inclined to be a little naughty.’
    â€˜Naughty on Sunday!’ said Sarah. ‘Oh, Papa!’
    The Harmonious Blacksmith was a favourite with Mr Peacock. He liked it less for its musical than for its descriptive quality, and during Catherine’s performance kept up a running commentary, by whispered word and animated gesture calling attention to this and that illustrative feature that he fancied he detected—the sound of the forge, the strokes of the blacksmith’s hammer—and to the simple homely theme persisting through all the variations. Mrs Peacock uttered no protest, forHandel, even in his lighter moods, was still Handel, invested with an aura of sanctity by virtue of his
Messiah.
Before Catherine had reached the last bars, her father was hovering by the piano, fingering the music sheets on its lid and ready to be persuaded to oblige the company with one of his songs. Everyone applauded the prospect, and with scarcely an interval Catherine addressed herself to the joyous task of accompanying him. Even the most sanctimonious pieces acquired a robust heartiness, a resolute jollity, in his rendering, so that smiles and laughter, which he did not in the least resent, were apt to mingle with the eventual applause. He enjoyed singing, it let something out of him, gave him a sense of fulfilment; and his family, even the more critical among them, enjoyed his enjoyment.
    They went to