Part 2 (2/2)

Mrs Winn was preparing to make a severe answer to this, when Miss Gibbins, who was tired of being silent, broke adroitly in, and changed the subject.

”You missed a treat last Thursday, Mrs Winn, by losing the Shakespeare reading. It was rather far to get out to Pynes, to be sure, but it was worth the trouble, to hear Mrs Hurst read 'Arthur.'”

The curate's wife gave a little smile, which quickly faded as Miss Gibbins continued: ”I had no idea there was anything so touching in Shakespeare. Positively melting! And then Mrs Palmer looked so well!

She wore that rich plum-coloured silk, you know, with handsome lace, and a row of most beautiful lockets. I thought to myself, as she stood up to read in that sumptuous drawing-room, that the effect was regal.

'Regal,' I said afterwards, is the only word to express Mrs Palmer's appearance this afternoon.”

”What part did Mrs Palmer read?” 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 a.s.sent 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 a.s.sembly 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 prayers, fell upon Delia's ear as she wandered slowly up the gravel path, her head full of busy thoughts.

They were not wholly pleasant thoughts, and they had to do chiefly with two people, one very well known to her, and the other quite a stranger-- Mr Goodwin, and his grandchild, Anna Forrest. Delia could hardly make up her mind whether she were pleased or annoyed at the idea of Anna's arrival. Of course she was glad, she told herself, of anything that would please the ”Professor,” as she always called Mr Goodwin; and she was curious and anxious to see what the new-comer would be like, for perhaps they might be companions and friends, though Anna was two years younger than herself. She could not, however, prevent a sort of suspicion that made her feel uneasy. Anna might be proud. She might even speak of the Professor in the condescending tone which so many people used in Dornton. Mrs Forrest at Waverley always looked proud, Delia thought. Perhaps Anna would be like her.

”If she is,” said Delia to herself, suddenly stopping to snap off the head of a snapdragon which grew in an angle of the old red wall--”if she is--if she dares--if she doesn't see that the Professor is worth more than all the people in Dornton--_I will_ despise her--I will--”

She stopped and shook her head.

”And if it's the other way, and she loves and honours him as she ought, and is everything to him, and, and, takes my place, what shall I do then? Why, then, I will try not to detest her.”

She laughed a little as she stooped to gather some white pinks which bordered the path, and fastened them in her dress.

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