Thistle and Rose | Page 7

asked Delia, as Miss Gibbins looked round for sympathy.
"Let me see. Dear me, it's quite escaped my memory. Ah, I have it. It was the mother of the poor little boy, but I forget her name.--You will know, Mrs Hurst; you have such a memory!"
"It was Constance," said the curate's wife. "Mrs Palmer didn't do justice to the part. It was rather too much for her. Indeed, I don't consider that they arranged the parts well last time. They gave my husband nothing but `messengers,' and the Vicar had `King John.' Now, I don't want to be partial, but I think most people would agree that Herbert reads Shakespeare rather better than the Vicar."
"I wonder," said Miss Gibbins, turning to Delia, as the murmur of assent to this speech died away, "that you haven't joined us yet, but I suppose your studies occupy you at present."
"But I couldn't read aloud, in any case, before a lot of people," said Delia, "and Shakespeare must be so very difficult."
"You'd get used to it," said Miss Gibbins. "I remember," with a little laugh, "how nervous I felt the first time I stood up to read. My heart beat so fast I thought it would choke me. The first sentence I had to say was, `Cut him in pieces!' and the words came out quite in a whisper. But now I can read long speeches without losing my breath or feeling at all uncomfortable."
"I like the readings," said Mrs Hurst, "because they keep up one's knowledge of Shakespeare, and that must be refining and elevating, as Herbert says."
"So pleasant, too, that the clergy can join," added Miss Gibbins.
"Mrs Crow objects to that," said Mrs Hurst. "She told me once she considered it wrong, because they might be called straight away from reading plays to attend a deathbed. Herbert, of course, doesn't agree with her, or he wouldn't have helped to get them up. He has a great opinion of Shakespeare as an elevating influence, and though he did write plays, they're hardly ever acted. He doesn't seem, somehow, to have much to do with the theatre."
"Between ourselves," said Miss Gibbins, sinking her voice and glancing to the other end of the room, where Mrs Crow's black bonnet was nodding confidentially at Mrs Hunt, "dear old Mrs Crow is rather narrow-minded. I should think the presence of the Vicar at the readings might satisfy her that all was right."
"The presence of any clergyman," began Mrs Hurst, "ought to be sufficient warrant that--"
But her sentence was not finished, for at this moment a little general rustle at the further end of the room, the sudden ceasing of conversation, and the door set wide open, showed that it was time to adjourn for tea. Work was rolled up, thimbles and scissors put away in work-bags, and very soon the whole assembly had floated across the hall into the dining-room, and was pleasantly engaged upon Mrs Hunt's hospitable preparations for refreshment. Brisk little remarks filled the air as they stood about with their teacups in their hands.
"I never can resist your delicious scones, Mrs Hunt.--Home-made? You don't say so. I wish my cook could make them."--"Thank you, Delia; I will take another cup of coffee: yours is always so good."--"Such a pleasant afternoon! Dear me, nearly five o'clock? How time flies."--"Dr Hunt very busy? Fever in Back Row? So sorry. But decreasing? So glad."--"Good-bye, dear Mrs Hunt. We meet next Thursday, I hope?"--and so on, until the last lady had said farewell and smiled affectionately at her hostess, and a sudden silence fell on the room, left in the possession of Delia and her mother.
"Del, my love," said the latter caressingly, "go and put the drawing-room straight, and see that all those things are cleared away. I will try to get a little nap. Dear old Mrs Crow had so much to tell me that my head quite aches."
Delia went into the deserted drawing-room, where the chairs and tables, standing about in the little groups left by their late occupiers, still seemed to have a confidential air, as though they were telling each other interesting bits of news. She moved about with a preoccupied frown on her brow, picking up morsels of silk from the floor, rolling up strips of serge, and pushing back chairs and tables, until the room had regained its ordinary look. Then she stretched her arms above her head, gave a sigh of relief, and strolled out of the open French windows into the garden. The air was very calm and still, so that various mingled noises from the town could be plainly heard, though not loudly enough to produce more than a subdued hum, which was rather soothing than otherwise. Amongst them the deep recurring tones of the church bell, ringing for evening