Chapter Four.
The Professor.
...I have heard a grave divine say that God has two dwellings—one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thankful heart.—Izaak Walton.
“Del, my love,” said Mrs Hunt, “I feel one of my worst headaches coming on. Will you go this afternoon to see Mrs Winn, instead of me?” Delia stood under the medlar tree on the lawn, ready to go out, with a bunch of roses in her hand, and her violin-case. She looked at her mother inquiringly, for Mrs Hunt had not just then any appearance of discomfort. She was sitting in an easy canvas chair, a broad-brimmed hat upon her head, and a newspaper in her hands; her slippered feet rested on a little wooden stool, and on a table by her side were a cup of tea, a nicely buttered roll, and a few very ripe strawberries.
“Hadn’t you better wait,” said Delia, after a moment’s pause, “until you can go yourself? Mrs Winn would much rather see you. Besides—it is my music afternoon.”
Mrs Hunt was looking up and down the columns of the paper while her daughter spoke: she did not answer at once, and when she did, it was scarcely an answer so much as a continuation of her own train of thoughts.
“She has had a tickling cough for so many nights. She can hardly sleep for it, and I promised her a pot of my own black currant jelly.”
“It’s a great deal out of my way,” said Delia.
“If you go,” continued Mrs Hunt, without raising her eyes, “you will find the row of little pots on the top shelf of the storeroom cupboard.”
Delia bit her lip.
“If I go,” she said, “I must shorten my music-lesson.”
Mrs Hunt said nothing, but looked as amiable as ever. A frown gathered on Delia’s forehead: she stood irresolute for a minute, and then, with a sudden effort, turned and went quickly into the house. Mrs Hunt stirred her tea, tasted a strawberry, and leant back in her chair with a gentle sigh of comfort. In a few minutes Delia reappeared hurriedly.
“There is no black currant jelly in the storeroom,” she said, with an air of exasperation.
Mrs Hunt looked up in mild surprise.
“How strange!” she said. “Could I have moved those pots? Ah, now I remember! I had a dream that all the jam was mouldy, and so I moved it into that cupboard in the kitchen. That was why cook left. She didn’t like me to use that cupboard for the jam.”
“And, meanwhile, where is it?” said Delia.
“Such a wicked mother to give you so much trouble!” murmured Mrs Hunt, with a sweet smile. “But, Del, my love, you must try not to look so morose for trifles—it gives such an ugly turn to the features. You’ll find the jelly in that nice corner cupboard in the kitchen. Here’s the key”—feeling in her pocket—“no; it is not here—where did I leave my keys? Oh, you’ll find them in the pocket of my black serge dress—and if they’re not there, they are sure to be in the pocket of my gardening apron. My kind love to Mrs Winn. Tell her to take it constantly in the night. And don’t hurry, love, it’s so warm; you look heated already.”
In spite of this last advice, it was almost at a run that Delia, having at last found the keys and the jam, set forth on her errand. Perhaps, if she were very quick, she need not lose much time with the Professor, after all, but she felt ruffled and rather cross at the delay. It was not an unusual frame of mind, for she was not naturally of a patient temper, and did not bear very well the little daily frets and jars of her life. She chafed inwardly as she went quickly on her way, that her music, which seemed to her the most important thing in the world, should be sacrificed to anything so uninteresting and dull as Mrs Winn’s black currant jam. It was all the more trying this afternoon, because, since Anna Forrest’s arrival, she had purposely kept away from the Professor, and had not seen him for a whole fortnight. A mixed feeling of jealousy and pride had made her determined that Anna should have every opportunity of making Mr Goodwin’s acquaintance without any interference from herself. It was only just and right that his grandchild should have the first place in his affections, the place which hitherto had been her own. Well, now she must take the second place, and if Anna made the Professor happier, it would not matter. At any rate, no one should know, however keenly she felt it.
Mrs Winn, who was a widow, lived in an old-fashioned, red brick house facing the High Street; it had a respectable, dignified appearance, suggesting solid comfort, like the person of its owner. Mrs Winn, however, was a lady not anxious for her own well-being only, but most charitably disposed towards others who were not so prosperous as herself. She was the Vicar’s right hand in all the various methods for helping the poor of his parish: clothing clubs, Dorcas meetings, coal clubs, lending library, were all indebted to Mrs Winn for substantial aid, both in the form of money and personal help.
She was looked up to as a power in Dornton, and her house was much frequented by all those interested in parish matters, so that she was seldom to be found alone. Perhaps, also, the fact that the delightful bow-window of her usual up-stairs sitting-room looked straight across to Appleby’s, the post-office and stationer, increased its attractions. “It makes it so lively,” Mrs Winn was wont to observe. “I seldom pass a day, even if I don’t go out, without seeing Mr Field, or Mr Hurst, or some of the country clergy, going in and out of Appleby’s. I never feel dull.”
To-day, to her great relief, Delia found Mrs Winn quite alone. She was sitting at a table drawn up into the bow-window, busily engaged in covering books with whitey-brown paper. On her right was a pile of gaily bound volumes, blue, red, and purple, which were quickly reduced to a pale brown, unattractive appearance in her practised hands, and placed in a pile on her left. Delia thought Mrs Winn looked whitey-brown as well as the books, for there was no decided colour about her: her eyes were pale, as well as the narrow line of hair which showed beneath the border of her white cap; and her dresses were always of a doubtful shade, between brown and grey.
She welcomed Delia kindly, but with the repressed air of severity which she always reserved for her.
“How like your dear mother!” she exclaimed, on receiving the pot of jelly.—“Yes; my cough is a little better, tell her, but I thought I would keep indoors to-day—and, you see, I’ve all these books to get through, so it’s just as well. Mr Field got them in London for the library the other day.”
“What a pity they must be covered,” said Delia, glancing from one pile to the other; “the children would like the bright colours so much better.”
“A nice state they would be in, in a week,” said Mrs Winn, stolidly, as she folded, and snipped, and turned a book about in her large, capable hands. “Besides, it’s better to teach the children not to care for pretty things.”
“Is it?” said Delia. “I should have thought that was just what they ought to learn.”
“The love of pretty things,” said Mrs Winn, sternly, “is like the love of money, the root of all evil; and has led quite as many people astray.—All these books have to be labelled and numbered,” she added, after a pause. “You might do some, Delia, if you’re not in a hurry.”
“Oh, but I am,” said Delia, glancing at the clock. “I am going to Mr Goodwin for a lesson, and I am late already.”
Mrs Winn had, however, some information to give about Mr Goodwin. Julia Gibbins, who had just looked in, had met him on the way to give a lesson at Pynes.
“So,” she added, “he can’t possibly be home for another half-hour at least, you know; and you may just as well spend the time in doing something useful.”
With a little sigh of disappointment, Delia took off her gloves and seated herself opposite to Mrs Winn. Everything seemed against her to-day.
“And how,” said that lady, having supplied her with scissors and paper, “do you get on with Anna Forrest? You’re with Mr Goodwin so much, I suppose you know her quite well by this time.”
“Indeed, I don’t,” said Delia. “I haven’t even seen her yet; have you?”
“I’ve seen her twice,” said Mrs Winn. “She’s pretty enough, though not to be compared to her mother; more like the Forrests, and has her father’s pleasant manners. If looks were the only things to consider, she would do very well.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Delia, bluntly, for Mrs Winn spoke as though she knew much more than she expressed.
“Why, I’ve every reason to suppose,” she began deliberately—then breaking off—“Take care, Delia,” she exclaimed; “you’re cutting that cover too narrow. Let me show you. You must leave a good bit to tuck under, don’t you see, or it will be off again directly.”
Delia had never in her life been so anxious for Mrs Winn to finish a sentence, but she tried to control her impatience, and bent her attention to the brown paper cover.
“It only shows,” continued Mrs Winn, when her instructions were ended, “that I was right in what I said the other day about Mr Bernard Forrest’s marriage. That sort of thing never answers. That child has evidently been brought up without a strict regard for truth.”
“What has she done?” asked Delia.
“Not, of course,” said Mrs Winn, “that poor Prissy could have had anything to do with that.”
The book Delia held slipped from her impatient fingers, and fell to the ground flat on its face.
“My dear Delia,” said Mrs Winn, picking it up, and smoothing the leaves, with a shocked look, “the books get worn out quite soon enough, without being tossed about like that.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Delia, humbly.—“But do tell me what it is you mean about Anna Forrest.”
“It’s nothing at all pleasant,” said Mrs Winn, “but as you’re likely to see something of her, you ought to know that I’ve every reason to believe that she’s not quite straightforward. Now, with all your faults, Delia—and you’ve plenty of them—I never found you untruthful.”
She fixed her large, round eyes on her companion for a moment, but as Delia made no remark, resumed—
“On the evening of your last working party but one, Julia Gibbins and I saw Mr Oswald of Leas Farm driving Anna Forrest from the station. Of course, we didn’t know her then. But Julia felt sure it was Anna, and it turned out she was right. Curiously enough, we met Mrs Forrest and the child in Appleby’s shortly after, and Mrs Forrest said how unlucky it had been that there was a confusion about the day of her niece’s arrival, and no one to meet her at the station; but, fortunately, she said, Anna was sensible enough to take a fly, so that was all right. Now, you see, my dear Delia, she didn’t take a fly,” added Mrs Winn, solemnly, “so she must have deceived her aunt.”
Mrs Winn’s most important stories had so often turned out to be founded on mistakes, that Delia was not much impressed by this one, nor disposed to think worse of Anna because of it.
“Oh, I daresay there’s a mistake somewhere,” she said, lightly, rising and picking up her flowers and her violin-case. “I must go now, Mrs Winn; the Professor will be back by the time I get there—good-bye.”
She hurried out of the room before Mrs Winn could begin another sentence; for long experience had taught her that the subject would not be exhausted for a long while, and that a sudden departure was the only way of escape.
A quarter of an hour’s quick walk brought her to Number 4 Back Row, and looking in at the sitting-room window, as her custom was, she saw that the Professor had indeed arrived before her.
His dwelling was a contrast in every way to that of Mrs Winn. For one thing, instead of standing boldly out before the world of Dornton High Street, it was smuggled away, with a row of little houses like itself, in a narrow sort of passage, enclosed between two wide streets. This passage ended in a blank wall, and was, besides, too narrow for any but foot-passengers to pass up it, so that it would have been hard to find a quieter or more retired spot. The little, old houses in it were only one storey high, and very solidly built, with thick walls, and the windows in deep recesses; before each a strip of garden, and a gravel walk stretched down to a small gate. Back Row was the very oldest part of Dornton, and though the houses were small, they had always been lived in by respectable people, and preserved a certain air of gentility.
Without waiting to knock, Delia hurried in at the door of Number 4, which led straight into the sitting-room. The Professor was leaning back in his easy-chair, his boots white with dust, and an expression of fatigue and dejection over his whole person.
“Oh, Professor,” was her first remark, as she threw down her violin-case, “you do look tired! Have you had your tea?”
“I believe, my dear,” he replied, rather faintly, “Mrs Cooper has not come in yet.”
Mrs Cooper was a charwoman, who came in at uncertain intervals to cook the Professor’s meals and clean his rooms: as he was not exacting, the claims of her other employers were always satisfied first, and if she were at all busier than usual, he often got scanty attention.
Without waiting to hear more, Delia made her way to the little kitchen, and set about her preparations in a very business-like manner. She was evidently well acquainted with the resources of the household, for she bustled about, opening cupboards, and setting tea-things on a tray, as though she were quite at home. In a wonderfully short time she had prepared a tempting meal, and carried it into the sitting-room, so that, when the Professor came back from changing his boots, he found everything quite ready. His little round table, cleared of the litter of manuscripts and music-books, was drawn up to the open window, and covered with a white cloth. On it there was some steaming coffee, eggs, and bread and butter, a bunch of roses in the middle, and his arm-chair placed before it invitingly.
He sank into it with a sigh of comfort and relief.
“How very good your coffee smells, Delia!” he said; “quite different from Mrs Cooper’s.”
“I daresay, if the truth were known,” said Delia, carefully pouring it out, “that you had no dinner to speak of before you walked up to Pynes and back again.”
“I had a sandwich,” answered Mr Goodwin, meekly, for Delia was bending a searching and severe look upon him.
“Then Mrs Cooper didn’t come!” she exclaimed. “Really we ought to look out for some one else: I believe she does it on purpose.”
“Now I beg of you, Delia,” said the Professor, leaning forward earnestly, “not to send Mrs Cooper away. She’s a very poor woman, and would miss the money. She told me only the last time she was here that the doctor had ordered cod-liver oil for the twins, and she couldn’t afford to give it them.”
“Oh, the twins!” said Delia, with a little scorn.
“Well, my dear, she has twins; she brought them here once in a perambulator.”
“But that’s no reason at all she should not attend properly to you,” said Delia.
Mr Goodwin put down his cup of coffee, which he had begun to drink with great relish, and looked thoroughly cast down.
Delia laughed a little.
“Well, I won’t, then,” she said. “Mrs Cooper shall stay, and neglect her duties, and spoil your food as long as you like.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said the Professor, brightening up again, “she really does extremely well, though, of course, she doesn’t”—glancing at the table—“make things look so nice as you do.”
Delia blamed herself for staying away so long, when she saw with what contented relish her old friend applied himself to the simple fare she had prepared; it made her thoroughly ashamed to think that he should have suffered neglect through her small feelings of jealousy and pride. He should not be left for a whole fortnight again to Mrs Cooper’s tender mercies.
“We are to have a lesson to-night, I hope,” said Mr Goodwin presently; “it must be a long time since we had one, Delia, isn’t it?”
“A whole fortnight,” she answered, “but”—glancing wistfully at her violin-case—“you’ve had such hard work to-day, I know, if you’ve been to Pynes; perhaps it would be better to put it off.”
But Mr Goodwin would not hear of this: it would refresh him; it would put the other lessons out of his head; they would try over the last sonata he had given Delia to practise.
“Did you make anything of it?” he asked. “It is rather difficult.”
Delia’s face, which until now had been full of smiles and happiness, clouded over mournfully.
“Oh, Professor,” she cried, “I’m in despair about my practising. If I could get some more clear time to it, I know I could get on. But it’s always the same; the days get frittered up into tiny bits with things which don’t seem to matter, and I feel I don’t make any way; just as I am getting a hard passage right, I have to break off.”
This was evidently not a new complaint to Mr Goodwin.
“Well, well, my dear,” he said, kindly, “we will try it over together, and see how we get on; I daresay it is better than you think.”
Delia quickly collected the tea-things and carried them into the kitchen, to prevent any chance of Mrs Cooper clattering and banging about the room during the lesson; then she took out her violin, put her music on the stand, and began to play, without more ado; the Professor leaning back in his chair meanwhile, with closed eyes, and ears on the alert to detect faults or passages wrongly rendered. As he sat there, perfectly still, a calm expression came into his face, which made him for the time look much younger than was usually the case. He was not a very old man, but past troubles had left their traces in deep lines and wrinkles, and his hair was quite white; only his eyes preserved that look of eternal youth which is sometimes granted to those whose thoughts have always been unselfish, kindly, and generous. Delia played on, halting a little over difficult passages, and as she played, the Professor’s face changed with the music, showing sometimes an agony of anxiety during an intricate bit, and relaxing into a calm smile when she got to smooth water again.
Once, as though urged by some sudden impulse, he rose and began to stride up and down the room; but when she saw this, Delia dropped her bow, and said in a warning voice, “Now, Professor!” when he at once resumed his seat, and waited patiently until she had finished.
“It won’t do, Delia,” he said; “you’ve got the idea, but you can’t carry it out.”
“Oh, I know,” she replied, mournfully. “I know how bad it is, and the worst of it is, that I can hear how it ought to be all the time.”
“No,” he said, quickly, “that’s not the worst of it; that’s the best of it. If you were satisfied with it as it is, you would be a hopeless pupil. But you’ve something of the true artist in you, Delia. The true artist, you know, is never satisfied.”
“I believe, though,” said Delia, “that if I could shut myself up alone somewhere for a time with my violin, and no one to disturb me, I should be able to do something. I might not be satisfied, but oh, how happy I should be! As it is—”
“As it is, you must do as greater souls have done before you,” put in the Professor—“win your way towards your ideal through troubles and hindrances.”
“I don’t get far, though,” said Delia, mournfully.
“Do you think you would get far by shutting yourself away from the common duties of your life?” said Mr Goodwin, in a kind voice. “It’s a very poor sort of talent that wants petting and coaxing like that. Those great souls in the past who have taught us most, have done it while reaching painfully up to their vision through much that thwarted and baffled them. Their lives teach us as well as their art, and believe me, Delia, when the artist’s life fails in duty and devotion, his art fails too in some way.”
“It is so hard to remember that all those dusty, little, everyday things matter,” said Delia.
“But if you think of what they stand for, they do matter very much. Call them self-discipline, and patience, and they are very important, above all, to an artist. I have heard people say,” continued Mr Goodwin, reflectively, “that certain failings of temper and self-control are to be excused in artists, because their natures are sensitive. Now, that seems to me the very reason that they should be better than other people—more open to good influences. And I believe, when this has not been so, it has been owing rather to a smallness of character than to their artistic temperament.”
Delia smiled.
“I don’t know,” she said, “if I have anything of an artist in me, but I have a small character, for I am always losing my temper—except when I am with you, Professor. If I talked to you every day, and had plenty of time to practise, I should have the good temper of an angel.”
“But not of a human being. That must come, not from outward things being pleasant, but from inward things being right. Believe an old man, my dear, who has had some trials and disappointments in his life, the best sort of happiness is his—
“Whose high endeavours are an inward light
Which makes the path before him always bright.
“Those endeavours may not bring fame or success, but they do bring light to shine on all those everyday things you call dusty, and turn them to gold.”
Delia stood by her music-stand, her eyes fixed with a far-away gaze on the window, and a rebellious little frown on her brow.
“But I should love to be famous,” she suddenly exclaimed, reaching up her arms and clasping her hands behind her head. “Professor, I should love it! Fancy being able to play so as to speak to thousands of people, and make them hear what you say; to make them glad one moment and sorry the next; to have it in your power to move a whole crowd, as some musicians have! It must be a splendid life. Shouldn’t you like it?”
Mr Goodwin’s glance rested on his enthusiastic pupil with a little amusement.
“It’s rather late in the day for me to consider the question, isn’t it?” he said.
“Didn’t you ever want to go away from Dornton and play to people who understand what you mean,” asked Delia, impatiently. “Instead of playing the organ in Saint Mary’s and teaching me, you might be a famous musician in London, with crowds of people flocking to hear you.”
“Perhaps,” said the Professor, quietly; “who knows?”
“Then,” she continued, dropping her arms and turning to him with sudden determination, “then, oh, Professor, why didn’t you go?”
The question had been in her mind a very long time: now it was out, and she was almost frightened by her own rashness. Mr Goodwin, however, seemed neither surprised nor annoyed.
“Well, Delia,” he answered, with a gentle shake of the head, “I suppose two things have kept me in Dornton—two very strong things—poverty and pride. I had my chance once, but it came in a shape I couldn’t bring myself to accept. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men,’ you know, and if one neglects it—”
He broke off and bent over his violin, which he had taken up from the ground.
“Of course,” said Delia, looking at him with great affection, “I’m glad you didn’t go, for my own sake. You and music make Dornton bearable.”
“You always speak so disdainfully of poor Dornton,” said Mr Goodwin, drawing his bow softly across his violin. “Now, I’ve known it longer than you, and really, when I look back, I’ve been very happy. Dornton has given me the best any place has to give—people to love and care for. After Prissy’s marriage, there were some lonely days, to be sure. I could not feel very happy about that, for she seemed to be taken out of my life altogether, and there came sadder days still when she died. You were only a little toddling child then, Delia, and yet it seemed a short while before we began to be friends; and”—holding out his hand to her—“we’ve been friends ever since, haven’t we? So, you see, I ought not to be ungrateful to Dornton.”
“And now,” added Delia, with an effort, “there is Anna, your grandchild; perhaps you will make her famous, though you wouldn’t be famous yourself.”
Mr Goodwin shook his head.
“Anna will never be famous in that way,” he said. “She has a sweet, affectionate manner, but there’s nothing that reminds me of her mother at all, or of our family. It’s quite an effort to realise that she is Prissy’s child. It’s a very curious feeling.”
“Have you seen her often?” asked Delia.
“Only twice. I don’t at all suppose, as matters stand, that I shall ever see much of her. I am so busy, you see, and she tells me her aunt has all sorts of plans for her—lessons, and so on.”
“But,” said Delia, rather indignantly, “she ought to come and see you often.”
“I shall not complain if she doesn’t, and I shall not be surprised. There was a matter, years ago, in which I differed from Mrs Forrest, and I have never been to Waverley since: we are quite friendly when we meet, but there can never be really cordial relations between us.”
“If I were Anna,” began Delia, impetuously—
“But you are not Anna,” interrupted Mr Goodwin, with a smile; “you are Delia Hunt, and you are made of different materials. If I am not mistaken, Anna is affectionate and yielding, and will be influenced by those she is with. And then she’s very young, you see; she could not oppose her aunt and uncle, and I’m sure I do not wish it. I shall not interfere with her life at Waverley: the Forrests are kind people, and I feel sure she will be very happy there. She will do very well without me.”
He turned towards his pupil and added, rather wistfully, “I should like you to be friends with her, though, Delia; it would be a comfort to me.”
“Indeed, I will try my best, Professor,” she exclaimed, earnestly. Her jealousy of Anna seemed very small and mean, and she felt anxious to atone for it.
“That’s well,” said Mr Goodwin, with a contented air. “I know you will do what you promise; and now it’s my turn to play the sonata, and yours to listen.”
As the first plaintive notes of the violin filled the little room, Delia threw herself into the window-seat, leaned back her head, and gave herself up to enjoyment.
The Professor’s playing meant many things to her. It meant a journey into another country where all good and noble things were possible; where vexations and petty cares could not enter, nor anything that thwarted and baffled. It meant a sure refuge for a while from the small details of her life in Dornton, which she sometimes found so wearisome. The warning tones of the church clock checked her flight through these happy regions, and brought her down to earth just as the Professor’s last note died away.
“Oh, how late it is?” she exclaimed, as she started up and put on her hat. “Good-bye, Professor. Oh, if I could only make it speak like that!”
“Patience, patience,” he said, with his kind smile; “we all hear and see better things than we can express, you know, but that will come to us all some day.”