Miss Grantley's Girls, and the Stories She Told Them

by Thomas Archer

dreamed his wonderful dream, we were all eye and ear, and when he had concluded people looked at each other and gasped.

Who was he?—an actor—a manager of a theatre—a great tragedian? How did the vicar first know him? How long was he going to stay? What theatre did he perform at? All these questions were asked among ourselves, and to some of them we obtained answers at the next Dorcas meeting, which was held at the vicarage. Mr. De Montfort was not a regular actor now. He had been, but he now taught elocution and deportment, and had been introduced to the vicar by a brother clergyman in London much interested in the union of church and stage. His credentials were undoubted, but it was feared he was poor. Of his ability everybody spoke highly, and he was so accomplished that the vicar had invited him to stay for several days; but he had told them he must be in London, for he was a widower, with one little child, a girl who was at school, but would be waiting for him to fetch her home for her one week's holiday in the year.

It was evident that the vicar's guest had created a very favourable impression on us all, for though Mrs. Marchbold looked at us rather hard, and then pursed up her lips and looked steadily at the vicar's sister, evidently meaning to disconcert that lady with some indication of the thought that was in all our minds, we rather resented the rudeness, and murmured in chorus that it was evident that Mr. De Montfort was quite a gentleman.

"Which is just what he is not," said the lady, who bore Mrs. Marchbold's deprecatory stare with the most complete indifference. "He is not quite a gentleman, and my brother the vicar knows that very well; but he is a clever, amusing man, and his reading will help on the society. On the whole, though, I think it's quite as well he should leave before long, for I'm certain idling about in Chewton will do him no good, especially as he has already kept us up late two nights, because a deputation came to ask him to be a visitor at the tradesmen's club at the George."

Further discussion of the merits or demerits of the gentleman was prevented by his entering the room along with the vicar, who told us he had prevailed on Mr. De Montfort to take tea with us and to read us something from Shakespeare while we were at work. Mr. De Montfort took tea, and talked unceasingly of London, of its streets, shops, people, trades, and amusements. He described to us the stage of a theatre, and told us all about how a play was performed and how the actors came on and went off, opening the door between the parlour and the drawing-room and hanging it with table-covers to represent the front of the stage. Then he recited Hamlet and King Lear; and we all left off work to look at him; and when he wound up with a performance of legerdemain, and brought a vase that had previously been on the mantel-piece out of Mrs. Marchbold's work-bag, and took eggs from a pillow-case, and took four reels of cotton out of Miss Bailey's chignon, we didn't know whether to scream or to laugh, but we all agreed that he was the most entertaining person we had ever met or were likely to meet again.

Mr. De Montfort had grown more familiar to the Chewton Cudley people by that time. He had only been with them a few days, and yet he had a dozen invitations. The vicar had evidently taken an unaccountable liking to him. There were even people who went so far as to say we should hear him read the lessons in church if he were to stay over another Sunday. He had been to two more penny readings, and had held an extra night for instructing some of the members in the art of elocution. Only three people seemed rather doubtful as to their opinion of the visitor. One of these was the vicar's sister. She said nothing slighting, but it was evident that she mistrusted him a little. Another was Mr. Petifer, and his coolness to the stranger was set down to jealousy, especially when he fired up on the subject of the probable reading of the lessons. The third was Mr. Femm, the doctor, but he only grinned, and said he thought he remembered having heard De Montfort recite under another name when he was a student at Guy's Hospital, and used to go to a Hall of Harmony in the Walworth Road. "It's dreadful to hear a doctor talk so," said Mrs. Marchbold; "these young medical men have no reverence."

But the visitor showed such remarkable good humour, and was so very entertaining and was so sedate and respectful to all the ladies that I fancy there was something said about his bringing his little daughter down to Chewton for the holidays. Mr. Binks would have taken De Montfort off the vicar's hands in a minute. Raspall was heard to intimate that he had a nice warm spare room over the bakehouse doing nothing; and our principal butcher, Mr. Clodd, declared boldly that a man like that, who could amuse any company, and was fit for any company, was worth his meat anywhere at holiday-time.

But we had all heard that Mr. De Montfort was about to leave. He had received an invitation from the landlord of the "George and Gate," countersigned by the members of the club, to spend the last evening with them, and they had even gone so far as to wish that the vicar himself—"if they might make so bold—would condescend to look in for an hour."

This request of course could not be complied with, and the guest was about to send a polite refusal—reluctantly, it must be confessed—but the vicar readily excused him. The townsfolk naturally wanted to have him among them again for an evening, and he could return about eleven for a glass of hot spiced elder-wine before going to bed. The vicar had put his hand on De Montfort's shoulder as he said this, and was looking at him in his kind, genial way, when his visitor looked up, rose, hesitated, and seemed about to say something. There was such a remarkable expression in his face that the good parson afterwards said he should never forget it; but it passed, and with a smile, which was half trustful, half sorrowful, the actor turned away.

"Well, then, if you think I ought to go, I'll say yes," he replied; "but I had thought to spend the last night here with you."