Thistle and Rose | Page 7

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
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