“I’ve not quite decided,” she said slowly. “I should like to be either an author or an orator, but I’m not sure which. I think, on the whole, an orator, because then you could watch the effect of your words. It is not possible, of course, but what I should like best would be to be the Archbishop of Canterbury, or some great dignitary of the Church. Oh, just imagine it! To stand up in the pulpit and see the dim cathedral before one, and the faces of the people looking up, white and solemn.—I’d stand waiting until the roll of the organ died away, and there was a great silence; then I would look at them, and say to myself—‘A thousand people, two thousand people, and for half an hour they are in my power. I can make them think as I will, see as I will, feel as I will. They are mine! I am their leader.’—I cannot imagine anything in the world more splendid than that! I should choose to be the most wonderful orator that was ever known, and people would come from all over the world to hear me, and I would say beautiful things in beautiful words, and see the answer in their faces, and meet the flash in the eyes looking up into mine. Oh–h! if it could only—only be true; but it can’t, you see. I am a girl, and if I try to do anything in public I am as nervous as a rabbit, and can only squeak, squeak, squeak in a tiny little voice that would not reach across the room. I had to recite at a prize-giving at school once, and, my dears, it was a lamentable failure! I was only audible to the first three rows, and when it was over I simply sat down and howled, and my knees shook. Oh dear, the very recollection unpowers me! So I think, on the whole, I shall be an authoress, and let my pen be my sceptre. From my quiet fireside,” cried Peggy, with a sudden assumption of the Mariquita manner, and a swing of the arms which upset a vase of chrysanthemums, and sent a stream of water flowing over the table—“from my quiet fireside I will sway the hearts of men—”
“My plush cloth! Oh, bad girl—my new plush cloth! You dreadful Peggy, what will I do with you?” Mrs Asplin rushed forward to mop with her handkerchief and lift the dripping flowers to a place of safety, while Peggy rolled up her eyes with an expression of roguish impenitence.
“Dear Mrs Asplin, it was not I, it was that authoress. She was evolving her plots... Pity the eccentricities of the great!”
Chapter Eleven.
A Shakespeare Reading.
Esther was preparing for the Cambridge Local Examination at Christmas, and making a special study of The Merchant of Venice, as the play chosen for the year.
Fräulein explained the notes, and expatiated on the Venice of the past and the manners and customs of its inhabitants; but it was Mr Asplin who had the brilliant idea of holding a Shakespeare reading which should make the play live in the imagination of the young people, as no amount of study could do. The suggestion was made one day at dinner, and was received with acclamation by everyone present.
“Oh, how lovely, father! It will help me ever so much!” said Esther. “And Peggy must be Portia.”