Chapter Seven.
The Palmers’ Picnic.
Faithful are the wounds of a friend.
One very hot afternoon a little later, there had been a glee-practising at the Hunts’ house, a meeting which, of all others, was most distasteful to Delia. The last guest had taken leave, and her mother being on the edge of a comfortable nap in the shaded drawing-room, she was just stealing away to her garret, when the bell rang.
“Don’t go away, my love,” murmured Mrs Hunt, half-asleep, and as she spoke Mrs Winn’s solid figure advanced into the room.
Delia resigned herself to listen to the disjointed chat which went on between the two ladies for a little while, but soon the visitor, taking pity on Mrs Hunt’s brave efforts to keep her eyes from closing, turned her attention in another direction.
“I’m afraid,” she said, moving her chair nearer to Delia, “that poor, old Mr Goodwin must be sadly disappointed about his grandchild, isn’t he?”
It always vexed Delia to hear the Professor called “poor and old.”
“Why?” she asked, shortly.
“Well, because he evidently sees so little of her,” said Mrs Winn. “It has turned out exactly as I said it would. I said from the very first, that sort of marriage never answers. It always creates discord. Of course, it’s a difficult position for Mrs Forrest, but she ought to remember that the child owes duties and respect to Mr Goodwin. ‘Honour thy father and mother,’ and, of course, that applies to a grandfather too.”
“I believe Mr Goodwin is quite satisfied,” answered Delia.
“Oh, I daresay,” said Mrs Winn. “We all know he’s a dear, meek, old man, who could never say boo to a goose. But that doesn’t make it right. Now, I know for a fact that he expected Anna Forrest to tea with him one evening, and she never came. I know all about it, because I happened to send him some trout that morning, and Mrs Cooper went in to cook them. Mrs Cooper chars for me, you know. ‘I was quite sorry, ma’am,’ she said, when she came the next day, ‘to see the poor, old gentleman standing at the window with his watch in his hand, and the trout done to a turn, and his flowers and all. It’s hard on the old to be disappointed.’”
Mrs Winn rolled out these sentences steadily, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Delia all the while. Now she waited for a reply.
“I heard about it,” she said. “Anna was not able to go.”
“Then she should have sent word sooner, or her aunt should have done so. It was a great want of respect. I’m surprised, Delia, you should take it so coolly, when you think so much of Mr Goodwin. Now, if I should see Anna Forrest, I shall make a point of putting her conduct in a right light to her. I daresay no one has done so yet—and she is but a child.”
Delia shivered inwardly. She knew that Mrs Winn was quite capable of doing as she said. How the Professor would shrink from such interference! Yet she did not feel equal to saying much against it, for Mrs Winn had always kept her and every one else in Dornton in order. Her right to rebuke and admonish was taken as a matter of course.
“You don’t know, you see,” she began, “how it was that Anna was prevented. Perhaps—”
Mrs Winn had now risen, and stood ready to depart, with her umbrella planted firmly on the ground.
“My dear,” she interrupted, raising one hand, “I know this. Wrong is wrong, and right is right. That’s enough for me, and always has been. Now, I won’t disturb your dear mother to say good-bye, for I think she’s just dropped off. I’ll go softly out.”
She moved with ponderous care out of the room, followed by Delia, but came to a stand again in the hall.
“You heard about this picnic of the Palmers?” she said, inquiringly. “You’re going, of course. It seems to be a large affair.”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Delia.
“Julia Gibbins came in this morning,” continued Mrs Winn, “quite excited about her invitation. She wanted to know what I meant to wear. Julia’s so absurdly frivolous, she thinks as much of her dress as a girl of sixteen. ‘At our age, my dear Julia,’ I said to her, ‘we need not trouble ourselves about that. You may depend on it, no one will notice what we have on. For myself, I shall put on my Paisley shawl and my thickest boots. Picnics are always draughty and damp.’ I don’t think she quite liked it. Now, do you suppose the Palmers have asked Mr Goodwin? Anna Forrest’s so much there, that I should almost think they would.”
“Why not, as well as other people in Dornton?” asked Delia.
“He never goes to Waverley,” said Mrs Winn.
“That is by his own wish,” said Delia, quickly. “He has told me about that.”
“Oh, indeed, by his own wish,” repeated Mrs Winn, her wide open grey eyes resting thoughtfully upon Delia; “that’s strange, with his grandchild staying there. However,” with a parting nod, as she moved slowly out, “we shall soon see about the picnic.”
Delia smiled to herself as she watched her visitor’s portly form out of sight. How very little it would matter to the Professor whether the Palmers sent him an invitation or not! He would not even notice the absence of one. He had never cultivated the habit of feeling himself injured, and was happily placed far above the miseries of fancied slights and neglect. Nevertheless she resented, as she always did, the tone of condescension with which Mrs Winn had mentioned him, and returned to the drawing-room with a ruffled brow and a vexed spirit.
Mrs Hunt still slumbered peacefully, quite undisturbed by the little agitations of Dornton. As her daughter entered, she gently opened her eyes.
“Del, my love,” she murmured, “I meant to ask you to go and inquire how Mrs Hurst’s little boy is this morning. Did I?”
“No, mother,” said Delia.
“There’s a beautiful jelly made for him,” said Mrs Hunt, closing her eyes again, and folding her hands in front of her comfortable person. “I thought you might take it.”
“I passed the door this morning,” said Delia. “I could easily have taken it if you had remembered to ask me. It’s so late now.”
“It won’t keep firm this hot weather,” continued Mrs Hunt’s sweet, low voice. “He ought to have it to-day.”
Delia did not answer. She was tired. It was hot. Mrs Winn’s visit had come at the close of a most irksome afternoon. She was longing for a little quiet time for her music.
“Poor Mrs Hurst!” pursued her mother. “So many children, and so few to help her. Johnnie’s been worse the last day or two.”
As usual on such occasions, Delia shortly found herself, basket in hand, making her way along the dusty High Street to Mrs Hurst’s house. Dornton and the Dornton people seemed to her at that moment almost unbearable. Should she ever get away from them? she wondered. Would her life be spent within the hearing of Mrs Winn’s sententious remarks, the tedious discussions of tiny details, the eternal chatter and gossip, which still seemed to buzz in her ears, from the meeting that afternoon? Then her thoughts turned to their usual refuge, the Professor, and she began to plan a visit to Anna at Waverley. Since her last talk with him, she had made up her mind that she would do her very utmost to renew their old friendliness. She would not take offence so easily, or be so quick to resent it, when Anna did not see things as she did. She would be patient, and she would keep her promise to the Professor. She would try to understand. For his sake she would humble herself to make the first advance, and this, for Delia’s somewhat stubborn spirit, was a greater effort than might be supposed.
Anna, meanwhile, was quite as much interested as the Dornton people about the picnic which the Palmers intended to give. All country pleasures were new to her, and her companions at Pynes were very much amused to hear that she had never been to a picnic in her life, and had most confused ideas as to what it meant.
“It will be a very large one,” said Isabel Palmer to her one morning. “Mother thinks it will be such a good way of entertaining the Dornton people. We thought of a garden-party, but if it’s fine a picnic will be much more fun.”
The three girls were alone in the schoolroom, their lessons just over, and Anna was lingering for a chat before going back to Waverley.
“Have you settled on the place yet?” she asked.
“Alderbury,” replied Isabel, “because it’s near, and there’s a jolly little wood to make the fire in.”
“How delightful it will be!” exclaimed Anna. “How I wish it was going to be to-morrow, I’m so afraid something will prevent it.”
“Bother this list!” put in Clara’s voice, from the table where she sat writing; “you might help me, Isabel.”
“What do you want?” asked her sister.
“Well—Mr Goodwin, for instance—am I to put him down?”
Anna gave a little start, and gazed earnestly out of the window at which she stood, as Isabel went up to the table and looked over Clara’s shoulder. Then they did not know! Aunt Sarah had not told them. How strange it seemed!
“W–well, I don’t know,” said Isabel, reflectively. “We never have asked him to anything; but a picnic’s different. He’s a very nice old man, isn’t he?”
“He’s an old dear,” replied her sister, heartily, “but he’s an organist. We shouldn’t ask the organist of the church here.”
“Mr Goodwin’s different, somehow,” said Isabel; “he’s so clever, and then he’s a great friend of the Hunts, you know, and, of course, we shall ask them.”
“Well, what am I to do?” repeated Clara.
“Put him down, and put a query against him,” decided Isabel, “and when mother sees the list, she can alter it if she likes.”
Anna expected every moment during this discussion that her opinion would be asked. She stood quite still, her back turned to her companions, a bright flush on her cheek, her heart beating fast. When all chance of being appealed to was over, and the girls had gone on to other names, she drew a deep breath, as if she had escaped a danger.
“I must go now,” she said, turning towards them, “Aunt Sarah wants me early to-day;” and in a few moments she was out of the house and on the way home.
It was not until she was half-way down the long hill which led from Pynes to Waverley, that she began to realise what difficulties she had prepared for herself by her silence. If Mr Goodwin were asked, and if he came to the picnic, the relationship between them must be known. That would not matter so much, but it would matter that she had seemed to be ashamed of it. Why had she not told them long ago? Why had she not spoken just now, at the first mention of his name? What a foolish, foolish girl she had been! What should she do now? Turning it over in her mind, she came to the conclusion that she must make some excuse to her Aunt, and stay away from the picnic. She could not face what might happen there. The Palmers’ surprise, Delia’s scorn. Why did you not tell us? she heard them saying, and what could she answer? As she thought of how much she had looked forward to this pleasure, a few tears rolled down Anna’s cheek, but they were not tears of repentance. She was only sorry for her own disappointment, and because things did not go smoothly. It was very hard, she said to herself, and the hardest part was that she was forced continually into crooked ways. She did not want to be deceitful; she would much rather be brave and open like Delia, only things were too strong for her. As she thought this, Delia’s face seemed suddenly to appear before her: it did not look angry or scornful, but had a gentle, almost pleading expression on it: she was speaking, and what she said sounded quite clearly in Anna’s ears: “Go back and tell them now. Go back and tell them now,” over and over again.
Anna stopped uncertainly, and turned her head to where, over the tops of the trees, she could still catch a glimpse of the chimneys of Pynes: she even took two or three steps up the hill again, the voice still sounding entreatingly and loud. But now it was joined by another, louder and bolder, which tried to drown it. This one told her that, after all, there was no need. Things would go well. The Palmers might never know. Soon they would go to Scotland, and after that—well, that was a long way off. Anna turned again, this time with decision, and finished the rest of her journey to Waverley almost at a run, without stopping to think any more.
As the days went on without any further mention of Mr Goodwin, she began to hope that, after all, she might be able to go to the picnic. How should she find out? She had not courage to ask the Palmers, and though it would have been a simple matter to ask her grandfather himself, she shrank from facing him and his gentle kindliness just now. If only some visitor from Dornton would come over! This wish was at last realised in a very unexpected way, and one which was not altogether pleasant. It was the day on which her visit to Mr Goodwin was usually made, and she had begged her aunt to allow her to remain at home. The heat had given her a headache, and she would rather go to Dornton some other day. Mrs Forrest received the excuse indulgently.
“I will call in and leave a message with Mr Goodwin,” she said, “and you had better lie down quietly in your own room. By the time I get back you will be better, I hope.”
But Aunt Sarah had hardly been gone ten minutes before there was a knock at Anna’s door:
“Mrs Winn would like to speak to you, miss. I told her you were not well, but she says she will only keep you a few minutes.”
Anna did not know much of Mrs Winn, and thought, as she went down-stairs, that she had most likely some message for Mrs Forrest to leave with her. Would she say anything about the picnic, or the people who were going to it?
Mrs Winn had taken up a determined position on a stiff, straight-backed chair in the middle of the room. There was severity in her glance as she replied to Anna’s greeting, and remarked that she was sorry to miss Mrs Forrest.
“Aunt Sarah’s only just started to drive into Dornton,” said Anna; “I wonder you did not meet her.”
“I came by the fields,” replied Mrs Winn shortly. “You were not well enough to go out, I hear?”
“I had a headache,” said Anna, with her pretty blush; “aunt thought I had better stay at home.”
“You don’t look much the worse for it,” said Mrs Winn, without removing her unblinking gaze. “Girls in my young days didn’t have headaches, or if they did, they put up with them, and did their duty in spite of them. Things are turned topsy-turvy now, and it’s the old who give way to the young.”
Surprised at this tone of reproof, for which she was quite unprepared, Anna’s usually ready speech deserted her. She said nothing, and hoped that Mrs Winn would soon go away. But that was evidently not her intention just yet: she had come prepared to say what was on her mind, and she would sit there until it was said.
“But, perhaps,” she continued, “it’s just as well you didn’t go out, for I’ve been wanting an opportunity to speak to you for some days.”
“To me?” said Anna, faintly.
“I never shrink from my duty,” went on Mrs Winn, “whether it’s unpleasant or not, and I don’t like to see other people doing so. Now, you’re only a child, and when you neglect to do what’s right, you ought to be told of it.”
Anna gazed in open-eyed alarm at her visitor. What could be coming?
“I don’t suppose you know, and, therefore, I think it my duty to tell you, that your grandfather, old Mr Goodwin, was extremely disappointed the other day when you failed to keep your promise. I hear that he waited for you until quite late.”
“Aunt Sarah wished me to go out with the Palmers,” said Anna. “Grandfather said he didn’t mind at all—”
“I knew your mother well,” proceeded Mrs Winn, rolling on her way without noticing this remark, “and a sweet, young creature she was, though she made one mistake that I always regretted. And I know Mr Goodwin, of course, and respect him, though he’s not made of the stuff that gets on in the world. Still, whatever his position is, you owe him duty and reverence; and let me tell you, young lady, there may come a time when you’ll be sorry you’ve not given it. It’s all very well, and very natural, I daresay, to enjoy frolicking about with your gay young friends now. But youth passes, and pleasure passes, and then we all have time to remember the duties we didn’t stoop to pick up when they lay at our door.”
Anna sat in sulky silence during this long speech, with her eyes cast down, and a pout on her lips. What right had Mrs Winn to scold her?
Sullen looks, however, had no sort of effect on that lady, and when she had taken breath, she proceeded to finish her lecture:
“I keep my eyes open, and my ears too, and I know very well, that though your grandfather says nothing, and is the sort of man to bear any neglect without complaint, that he feels hurt at your going so seldom to see him. And, knowing this, it was my duty to come and tell you, as there was no one else to do it. Your aunt and uncle are not intimate with him, and Delia Hunt’s too young to speak with any weight.—There’s another thing, too, I wanted to mention. Up to yesterday Mr Goodwin had received no invitation to the Palmers’ picnic.”
Anna’s heart gave a sudden leap of joy. Then she could go to the picnic!
“I fancy, if she knew this, that Mrs Forrest would neither go herself nor allow you to do so,” continued Mrs Winn. “Considering his connection with this family, it’s a slight to her and her husband as well as to him. It’s extremely strange of the Palmers, when they take so much notice of you. I almost feel inclined to go on to Pynes this afternoon and point it out to them!”
She waited, looking at Anna for a reply, but none came, for she was partly stunned by the force and suddenness of Mrs Winn’s attack, and also filled with alarm at the idea of her going to Pynes. That would spoil everything. So she sat in silence, nervously twisting her fingers in her lap, her downcast face strangely unlike that of the usually bright, self-possessed Anna.
“After all,” concluded Mrs Winn, “I’m rather tired, and it’s a good mile farther, so I’ll go back over the fields as I came, though the stiles do try me a good deal. You know how matters stand now, and you can’t say you’ve not been openly dealt with. So we’ll shake hands, and bear no malice.”
Anna went with her visitor as far as the garden door, and watched her until she was hidden from sight by the great walnut tree on the lawn. What a tiresome, interfering old lady she was, and how angry Aunt Sarah would be! Her head really ached now. It felt as though some one had been battering it on each side with large, strong hands, and she was quite confused and giddy; but through it all one triumphant thought came uppermost. She could go to the picnic! Presently she strolled out into the garden, fanning her hot face with her hat, as she turned things over in her mind. On the whole, she would not mention Mrs Winn’s visit to her aunt, and, of course, she must not know that Mr Goodwin had not been asked to the picnic. It was very near now, and as Mrs Forrest was not fond of listening to Dornton gossip, she was not likely to hear of it in any other way. To go to the picnic had now taken such full possession of Anna’s mind that nothing else seemed of much importance. She was ready to bend and twist everything that came in her way to make the road to it straight. A small reproving voice, which still sounded sometimes, was getting less and less troublesome. “Afterwards,” Anna said to it, “after the picnic, I will behave differently. I will never conceal anything, and I will go often to see grandfather—but I must go to the picnic.”
The stable clock sounding five disturbed her reflections. Aunt Sarah would be home soon without fail, for at a quarter past there would be a mothers’ meeting at the schoolroom, at which she always presided. Anna went too, sometimes, and helped to measure out calico and flannel, but she hoped she should be excused this afternoon. The schoolroom was hot, and she did not find the books Aunt Sarah read aloud to the mothers very interesting.
There was the pony-cart in the distance! But who was the second figure sitting beside Mrs Forrest? Could it be Delia? Anna ran through the house and into the porch, from which she could see the long approach to the Rectory gate. There had been a time when Delia’s coming had meant unmixed rejoicing, but that was over. She seemed to come now not so much as a friend as a severe young judge, whose looks condemned, even when she did not speak.
Mrs Winn had only put into words what Delia’s face had said for some time past, and, with the sound of them still in her ears, Anna felt more alarmed than pleased, as she saw that it really was her old friend. Had she, too, come to point out her duty?
With the mothers’ meeting on her mind, Mrs Forrest descended quickly from the pony-cart, and passed Anna in the porch without looking at her.
“Is your headache better?” she said, as she went straight into the drawing-room, where tea was ready. “I overtook Delia on her way to see you, and brought her on with me. You must take care of yourselves, for I must start almost immediately. Please pour me out a cup of tea at once.”
When Mrs Forrest had drunk her tea, and set forth at a leisurely pace for the schoolroom, provided with work-basket and book, the two girls were alone together. There was a pause of embarrassment, which Delia was the first to break.
“I was coming over,” she said, “to ask if you would care to go and get water-lilies down at the river this evening. You said you would like some rushes too.”
Her voice sounded kind, almost as it used to long ago, although there was a sort of shyness in her manner. Anna was greatly relieved. Surely Delia would not have begun like this if she intended to reprove her.
“Mrs Forrest said you might go, if your head was better,” continued Delia.
Anna replied eagerly that her headache was nearly gone, a walk would do it good, she should like it immensely; and a few minutes later the girls started on their expedition. It was one which had been planned in the first days of their acquaintance, when Anna had thought no pleasure could compare to a ramble in the country with Delia. Fresh from the rattle and noise of London, its stony pavements, and the stiff brilliancy of the flowers in the parks, it had been a sort of rapture to her to wander freely over the fields and through the woods. Aunt Sarah’s garden was beautiful, but this was better still. All the flowers found here might be gathered, and Delia knew exactly where they all grew in their different seasons, and the best way of getting to them. Anna had begun, under her guidance, to make a collection of wild-flowers, but though started with great energy, it had not gone far. It had ceased, together with the walks, shortly after her acquaintance with the Palmers had filled her mind with other things. Yet those rambles with Delia had never been forgotten. Anna thought of them often, and knew in her heart that she had never been so really happy since. This evening, as she walked along swinging her basket, she felt as though the old days had come back, and the old Delia too. It could not be so, really. If she knew—but she did not know. Meanwhile the sky was blue, Delia was kind, the meadows were gay and pleasant, she would forget everything disagreeable, and enjoy herself.
Their way lay for a short distance along the high-road, then over a stile, and down through the rich flat water-meadows which spread out on each side of the river. The Dorn was neither a rapid nor a majestic stream, but took its leisurely course between its sloping banks, with a contented ripple, disturbing no one. This course was a very winding one, making all kinds of little creeks, and shallows, and islands on its way, and these were full of delightful plants for any one who cared to gather them. Tall families of bulrushes and reeds swaying to the wind whistling through them; water-lilies, holding up their flat, green hands to make a table for their white blossoms; forests of willow-herb on the banks, wild peppermint and comfrey, and the blue eyes of forget-me-nots peeping out here and there with modest confidence.
“There’s an old punt fastened just about here,” said Delia, as they reached the river, “so we can get right out amongst the lilies, and then we can reach the rushes too.”
Delia was always the leader on such occasions, and Anna was used to following her with perfect confidence, but when they came to the old punt, a little higher up, she eyed it with some misgivings. It looked very insecure, and shaky, and rotten.
“Oh, Delia,” she cried, as her companion jumped lightly on to it and waited for her to follow, “it’s leaking—I can see the water through it. Do you think it will bear us both?”
Delia laughed as Anna crept cautiously down the bank. It reminded her of the time when she had had to encourage and help her to climb gates and scramble through hedges.
“Come along,” she said, holding out her hand, “it’s as safe as dry land. Why, I’ve seen four great boys on it at once.”
“How beautiful!” cried Anna, as, after a little more encouragement, she found herself safely on the punt by Delia’s side, surrounded by water-lilies and bulrushes. They set to work to fill their basket with these, and when it was done there were always finer ones still almost out of reach. These must be had at any cost. Delia would lie flat on the punt, and while Anna held the skirt of her dress, would manage to get hold of them with the handle of a stick. There was both excitement and triumph in these captures, and while they were going on the girls forgot that any coolness had come between them, or that the world held much beyond water-lilies and bulrushes. When, however, they climbed out of the punt with their dripping prizes, and sat down on the bank to rest a little, recollections returned.
“What a pity,” thought Anna, with a sigh, “that things are not always pleasant. Delia is nicer than any one when she is kind.”
Delia, on her side, as she packed the lilies into the basket, reminded herself that there was something she had to say to Anna, and wondered how she should begin.
As usual, she plunged straight into the matter of which her mind was full, and said suddenly:
“Do you ever meet your grandfather at Pynes?”
Here was the tiresome subject again! All pleasure was over now.
“No, never,” replied Anna. “He gives Clara lessons on Saturdays, and Aunt Sarah always wants me at home then.”
“You are going to this picnic, I suppose?” said Delia. “Does Mrs Forrest know that the Professor has not been asked?”
“I don’t know,” murmured Anna.
She glanced quickly at her companion, and saw the severe look coming back which she always dreaded.
“Of course,” continued Delia. “It does not in the least matter, as far as he is concerned, for he would not, in any case, go; but I should have thought his relations would have felt it a slight; and I can’t understand Mrs Palmer.”
Anna was silent. She wished now that Delia had not come, though she had enjoyed the walk so much.
“But I didn’t mean to talk about that,” resumed Delia, with an effort. “What I wanted to say has nothing to do with the picnic. It’s about you, Anna, and myself.”
“About me?” repeated Anna.
After all, Delia was going to be angry, yet her voice sounded quite soft and kind.
“Yes. At first I didn’t mean to say anything to you, because I thought you ought to be able to see it for yourself. And when you didn’t, I was angry, and that kept me silent. But I know now, it was wrong. People can’t see things just alike, and I ought to have been kinder, and tried to help you more.”
At this new tone of humility Anna’s heart softened at once to her friend. When she spoke like that, she felt for the moment that she would do anything she asked—even give up the picnic.
“Oh, Delia,” she exclaimed, impulsively, “you’ve always been very kind. Kinder than I deserve.”
“That’s nothing to do with it,” answered Delia. “People can do without friends when they deserve them. The thing is, that I promised the Professor to be your friend, and I haven’t carried it out.”
“It’s been my fault,” said Anna, in a penitent voice, “but really and truly, Delia, you may not believe me, but I do like you better than Isabel Palmer—or any one. I do indeed.”
She spoke the truth. At that moment she felt that she would rather have Delia for a friend than any one in the world. Yet she was conscious that, if Delia knew all, she would find it hard to forgive her. What a pity it all was!
“So, what I want to tell you,” continued Delia, “and what I ought to have told you before, is this. I’ve let you think that your grandfather doesn’t mind your going so seldom to see him—but I know that he does.”
She paused and looked earnestly at Anna.
“Grandfather never says anything about it,” Anna murmured.
“That’s just it,” said Delia. “He’s so unselfish and good, he wouldn’t let you or any one know it for the world. He thinks so little of himself, it would be impossible to offend him. It’s not what he says. Oh, Anna, if you really knew, and loved him, you couldn’t let anything else come before him! Not all the Palmers, and Waverleys, and Aunt Sarahs in the world. You couldn’t give him a minute’s pain or disappointment.”
She was so moved by her subject, that the tears stood in her dark eyes as she turned them upon Anna.
“I’ll try, Delia; I really will,” said the latter, “but it is hard. Harder than you think. It makes Aunt Sarah different for days afterwards.”
Delia snapped off the head of a water-lily in her impatient fingers.
“Aunt Sarah!” she repeated. Then more gently: “You see, Anna, you must choose
whether you’ll pain the Professor or displease Mrs Forrest. You can’t possibly please both of them. You must choose which you think right, and stick to it. You can’t serve God and mammon.”
How dreadfully earnest Delia was! It almost frightened Anna to hear her talk like that.
“I will try,” she repeated. “I will do my best, Delia, if only you won’t be angry any longer.”
She put her hand softly into her companion’s, and Delia’s fingers closed over it in a warm clasp. For the time, the old feelings of confidence and affection had returned, and when, a little later, Anna walked back to the Vicarage alone, she was full of good resolves. She would try to deserve Delia’s friendship. She would go often to Dornton, and be very loving to her grandfather. She would turn over a new leaf.
“My dear Anna,” cried Mrs Forrest, meeting her in the porch with her basket of wet, shining river-plants, “do you know the time? Miss Stiles has been waiting to try on your dress for the picnic. Dear me! what dripping things! Let Mary take them.”
The picnic! Anna had really for the moment forgotten the picnic. All the good resolves trooped into the background again while she tried on the new dress. But only till after the picnic! When that was over she would make a fresh start, and never, never, conceal anything again.