Twice the reading was interrupted by a charming little interlude, when three or four girls went up on the platform and sang "Under the Greenwood Tree" and "Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind." At the conclusion of the play, which was shortened purposely, Althea took her seat at the piano, and all the girls joined in an evening hymn.
Waveney did not sing, for her heart was full. The evening's performance had excited her, and her imagination, which was always remarkably vivid, seemed suddenly to grasp the full beauty and meaning of the scene. Was not this Christian socialism in its fairest aspect? she thought. Could any picture be sweeter or more symbolical than that group of young faces gathered round the two dear ladies; for Doreen was on the platform, too. Some of the faces were far from being beautiful—some were absolutely plain; and one or two sickly-looking girls with tangled hair, and decked out with cheap finery, were singularly unattractive. And yet, as Althea's long, slim fingers touched the notes, and the dear old tune that they had loved in childhood floated through the wide hall, each face brightened into new life.
"They are all workers," thought Waveney, as she watched them. "Some of them have hard, toilsome lives; they are away from their homes and amongst strangers, and, though they are so young, they know weariness and heartache. But when they come here, it is like home to each one, and it makes them happy. If I were a shop-girl at Dereham, I should look forward to my Thursday evening as I look forward to Sunday;" and then she said to herself, happily, "To-morrow I shall say the day after to-morrow, and how delightful that will be!"
Waveney was smiling to herself, when she suddenly raised her eyes and encountered Mr. Chaytor's amused glance. He had evidently been watching her for some time, for he was leaning back in the carved arm-chair, with the air of a man who felt he had earned his repose.
The next moment he came towards her. The hymn was over, but the girls were still gathered round Althea and wishing her good-night. Under the cover of their voices he addressed Waveney.
"I have not properly thanked you for your kind assistance, Miss Ward, but I assure you that I was most grateful. Miss Pierson's indisposition had placed us in an awkward dilemma, but you came to our help most nobly."
"I am afraid I acquitted myself badly," returned Waveney. She would have given much for a word of praise. People generally liked her reading, but she feared that Mr. Chaytor would be no ordinary critic.
"You did very well," he returned, quietly. "Indeed, considering you had only once read the play, I ought to give you greater praise. You see, Shakespeare is a sort of divinity to me. I think a lifetime is hardly long enough to study him properly. My reverence for him makes me unreasonable. Orlando did not suit you; you would have made a better Rosalind. If you were staying at the Red House, and liked to join my Thursday evening classes, I could give you a few valuable hints."
"I should like to join them," observed Waveney, colouring a little, "if Miss Harford could spare me." And as he looked a little perplexed at this, she added hastily, "I have come to the Red House as Miss Althea's reader and companion." And this explanation evidently satisfied him.
But the next moment, as Waveney was moving away, he stopped her.