Chapter Two.
Dornton.
A bird of the air shall carry the matter.
On the same afternoon as that on which Anna was travelling towards Waverley, Mrs Hunt, the doctor’s wife in Dornton, held one of her working parties. This was not at all an unusual event, for the ladies of Dornton and the neighbourhood had undertaken to embroider some curtains for their beautiful old church, and this necessitated a weekly meeting of two hours, followed by the refreshment of tea, and conversation. The people of Dornton were fond of meeting in each other’s houses, and very sociably inclined. They met to work, they met to read Shakespeare, they met to sing and to play the piano, they met to discuss interesting questions, and they met to talk. It was not, perhaps, so much what they met to do that was the important thing, as the fact of meeting.
“So pleasant to meet, isn’t it?” one lady would say to the other. “I’m not very musical, you know, but I’ve joined the glee society, because it’s an excuse for meeting.”
And, certainly, of all the houses in Dornton where these meetings were held, Dr Hunt’s was the favourite. Mrs Hunt was so amiable and pleasant, the tea was so excellent, and the conversation of a most superior flavour. There was always the chance, too, that the doctor might look in for a moment at tea-time, and though he was discretion itself, and never gossiped about his patients, it was interesting to gather from his face whether he was anxious, or the reverse, as to any special case.
This afternoon, therefore, Mrs Hunt’s drawing-room presented a busy and animated scene. It was a long, low room, with French windows, through which a pleasant old garden, with a wide lawn and shady trees, glimpses of red roofs beyond, and a church tower, could be seen. Little tables were placed at convenient intervals, holding silk, scissors, cushions full of needles and pins, and all that could be wanted for the work in hand, which was to be embroidered in separate strips; over these many ladies were already deeply engaged, though it was quite early, and there were still some empty seats.
“Shall we see Mrs Forrest this afternoon?” asked one of those who sat near the hostess at the end of the room.
“I think not,” replied Mrs Hunt, as she greeted a new-comer; “she told me she had to drive out to Losenick about the character of a maid-servant.”
“Oh, well,” returned the other with a little shake of the head, “even Mrs Forrest can’t manage to be in two places at once, can she?”
Mrs Hunt smiled, and looked pleasantly round on her assembled guests, but did not make any other answer.
“Although I was only saying this morning, there’s very little Mrs Forrest can’t do if she makes up her mind to it,” resumed Miss Gibbins, the lady who had first spoken. “Look at all her arrangements at Waverley! It’s well known that she manages the schools almost entirely—and then her house—so elegant, so orderly—and such a way with her maids! Some people consider her a little stiff in her manner, but I don’t know that I should call her that.”
She glanced inquiringly at Mrs Hunt, who still smiled and said nothing.
“It’s not such a very difficult thing,” said Mrs Hurst, the wife of the curate of Dornton, “to be a good manager, or to have good servants, if you have plenty of money.” She pressed her lips together rather bitterly, as she bent over her work.
“There was one thing, though,” pursued Miss Gibbins, dropping her voice a little, “that Mrs Forrest was not able to prevent, and that was her brother-in-law’s marriage. I happen to know that she felt that very much. And it was a sad mistake altogether, wasn’t it?”
She addressed herself pointedly to Mrs Hunt, who was gazing serenely out into the garden, and that lady murmured in a soft tone:
“Poor Prissy Goodwin! How pretty and nice she was!”
“Oh, as to that, dear Mrs Hunt,” broke in a stout lady with round eyes and a very deep voice, who had newly arrived, “that’s not quite the question. Poor Prissy was very pretty, and very nice and refined, and as good as gold. We all know that. But was it the right marriage for Mr Bernard Forrest? An organist’s daughter! or you might even say, a music-master’s daughter!”
“Old Mr Goodwin has aged very much lately,” remarked Mrs Hunt. “I met him this morning, looking so tired, that I made him come in and rest a little. He had been giving a lesson to Mrs Palmer’s children out at Pynes.”
“How kind and thoughtful of you, dear Mrs Hunt,” said Miss Gibbins. “That’s very far for him to walk. I wonder he doesn’t give it up. I suppose, though, he can’t afford to do that.”
“I don’t think he has ever been the same man since Prissy’s marriage,” said Mrs Hunt, “though he plays the organ more beautifully than ever.”
With her spectacles perched upon her nose, her hands crossed comfortably on her lap, and a most beaming smile on her face, Mrs Hunt looked the picture of contented idleness, while her guests stitched away busily, with flying fingers, and heads bent over their work. She had done about half an inch of the pattern on her strip, and now, her needle being unthreaded, made no attempt to continue it.
“Delia’s coming in presently,” she remarked placidly, meeting Miss Gibbins’ sharp glance as it rested on her idle hands; “she will take my work a little while—ah, here she is,” as the door opened.
A girl of about sixteen came towards them, stopping to speak to the ladies as she passed them on her way up the room. She was short for her age, and rather squarely built, holding herself very upright, and walking with calmness and decision.
Everything about Delia Hunt seemed to express determination, from her firm chin to her dark curly hair, which would always look rough, although it was brushed back from her forehead and fastened up securely in a knot at the back of her head. Nothing could make it lie flat and smooth, however, and in spite of all Delia’s efforts, it curled and twisted itself defiantly wherever it had a chance. Perhaps, by doing so, it helped to soften a face which would have been a little hard without the good-tempered expression which generally filled the bright brown eyes.
“That sort of marriage never answers,” said Mrs Winn, as Delia reached her mother’s side. “Just see what unhappiness it caused. It was a bitter blow to Mr and Mrs Forrest; it made poor old Mr Goodwin miserable, and separated him from his only child; and as to Prissy herself—well, the poor thing didn’t live to find out her mistake, and left her little daughter to feel the consequences of it.”
“Poor little motherless darling,” murmured Mrs Hunt.—“Del, my love, go on with my work a little, while I say a few words to old Mrs Crow.”
Delia took her mother’s place, threaded her needle, raised her eyebrows with an amused air, as she examined the work accomplished, and bent her head industriously over it.
“Doesn’t it seem quite impossible,” said Miss Gibbins, “to realise that Prissy’s daughter is really coming to Waverley to-morrow! Why, it seems the other day that I saw Prissy married in Dornton church!”
“It must be fifteen years ago at the least,” said Mrs Winn, in such deep tones that they seemed to roll round the room. “The child must be fourteen years old.”
“She wore grey cashmere,” said Miss Gibbins, reflectively, “and a little white bonnet. And the sun streamed in upon her through the painted window. I remember thinking she looked like a dove. I wonder if the child is like her.”
“The Forrests have never taken much notice of Mr Goodwin, since the marriage,” said Mrs Hurst, “but I suppose, now his grandchild is to live there, all that will be altered.”
Delia looked quickly up at the speaker, but checked the words on her lips, and said nothing.
“You can’t do away with the ties of blood,” said Mrs Winn; “the child’s his grandchild. You can’t ignore that.”
“Why should you want to ignore it?” asked Delia, suddenly raising her eyes and looking straight at her.
The attack was so unexpected that Mrs Winn had no answer ready. She remained speechless, with her large grey eyes wider open than usual, for quite a minute before she said, “These are matters, Delia, which you are too young to understand.”
“Perhaps I am,” answered Delia; “but I can understand one thing very well, and that is, that Mr Goodwin is a grandfather that any one ought to be proud of, and that, if his relations are not proud of him, it is because they’re not worthy of him.”
“Oh, well,” said Miss Gibbins, shaking her head rather nervously as she looked at Delia, “we all know what a champion Mr Goodwin has in you, Delia. ‘Music with its silver sound’ draws you together, as Shakespeare says. And, of course, we’re all proud of our organist in Dornton, and, of course, he has great talent. Still, you know, when all’s said and done, he is a music-master, and in quite a different position from the Forrests.”
“Socially,” said Mrs Winn, placing her large, white hand flat on the table beside her, to emphasise her words, “Mr Goodwin is not on the same footing. When Delia is older she will know what that means.”
“I know it now,” replied Delia. “I never consider them on the same footing at all. There are plenty of clergymen everywhere, but where could you find any one who can play the violin like Mr Goodwin?”
She fixed her eyes with innocent inquiry on Mrs Winn. Mrs Hurst bridled a little.
“I do think,” she said, “that clergymen occupy a position quite apart. I like Mr Goodwin very much. I’ve always thought him a nice old gentleman, and Herbert admires his playing, but—”
“Of course, of course,” said Mrs Winn, “we must be all agreed as to that.—You’re too fond, my dear Delia, of giving your opinion on subjects where ignorance should keep you silent. A girl of your age should try to behave herself, lowly and reverently, to all her betters.”
“So I do,” said Delia, with a smile; “in fact, I feel so lowly and reverent sometimes, that I could almost worship Mr Goodwin. I am ready to humble myself to the dust, when I hear him playing the violin.”
Mrs Winn was preparing to make a severe answer to this, when Miss Gibbins, who was tired of being silent, broke adroitly in, and changed the subject.
“You missed a treat last Thursday, Mrs Winn, by losing the Shakespeare reading. It was rather far to get out to Pynes, to be sure, but it was worth the trouble, to hear Mrs Hurst read ‘Arthur.’”
The curate’s wife gave a little smile, which quickly faded as Miss Gibbins continued: “I had no idea there was anything so touching in Shakespeare. Positively melting! And then Mrs Palmer looked so well! She wore that rich plum-coloured silk, you know, with handsome lace, and a row of most beautiful lockets. I thought to myself, as she stood up to read in that sumptuous drawing-room, that the effect was regal. ‘Regal,’ I said afterwards, is the only word to express Mrs Palmer’s appearance this afternoon.”
“What part did Mrs Palmer read?” asked Delia, as Miss Gibbins looked round for sympathy.
“Let me see. Dear me, it’s quite escaped my memory. Ah, I have it. It was the mother of the poor little boy, but I forget her name.—You will know, Mrs Hurst; you have such a memory!”
“It was Constance,” said the curate’s wife. “Mrs Palmer didn’t do justice to the part. It was rather too much for her. Indeed, I don’t consider that they arranged the parts well last time. They gave my husband nothing but ‘messengers,’ and the Vicar had ‘King John.’ Now, I don’t want to be partial, but I think most people would agree that Herbert reads Shakespeare rather better than the Vicar.”
“I wonder,” said Miss Gibbins, turning to Delia, as the murmur of assent to this speech died away, “that you haven’t joined us yet, but I suppose your studies occupy you at present.”
“But I couldn’t read aloud, in any case, before a lot of people,” said Delia, “and Shakespeare must be so very difficult.”
“You’d get used to it,” said Miss Gibbins. “I remember,” with a little laugh, “how nervous I felt the first time I stood up to read. My heart beat so fast I thought it would choke me. The first sentence I had to say was, ‘Cut him in pieces!’ and the words came out quite in a whisper. But now I can read long speeches without losing my breath or feeling at all uncomfortable.”
“I like the readings,” said Mrs Hurst, “because they keep up one’s knowledge of Shakespeare, and that must be refining and elevating, as Herbert says.”
“So pleasant, too, that the clergy can join,” added Miss Gibbins.
“Mrs Crow objects to that,” said Mrs Hurst. “She told me once she considered it wrong, because they might be called straight away from reading plays to attend a deathbed. Herbert, of course, doesn’t agree with her, or he wouldn’t have helped to get them up. He has a great opinion of Shakespeare as an elevating influence, and though he did write plays, they’re hardly ever acted. He doesn’t seem, somehow, to have much to do with the theatre.”
“Between ourselves,” said Miss Gibbins, sinking her voice and glancing to the other end of the room, where Mrs Crow’s black bonnet was nodding confidentially at Mrs Hunt, “dear old Mrs Crow is rather narrow-minded. I should think the presence of the Vicar at the readings might satisfy her that all was right.”
“The presence of any clergyman,” began Mrs Hurst, “ought to be sufficient warrant that—”
But her sentence was not finished, for at this moment a little general rustle at the further end of the room, the sudden ceasing of conversation, and the door set wide open, showed that it was time to adjourn for tea. Work was rolled up, thimbles and scissors put away in work-bags, and very soon the whole assembly had floated across the hall into the dining-room, and was pleasantly engaged upon Mrs Hunt’s hospitable preparations for refreshment. Brisk little remarks filled the air as they stood about with their teacups in their hands.
“I never can resist your delicious scones, Mrs Hunt.—Home-made? You don’t say so. I wish my cook could make them.”—“Thank you, Delia; I will take another cup of coffee: yours is always so good.”—“Such a pleasant afternoon! Dear me, nearly five o’clock? How time flies.”—“Dr Hunt very busy? Fever in Back Row? So sorry. But decreasing? So glad.”—“Good-bye, dear Mrs Hunt. We meet next Thursday, I hope?”—and so on, until the last lady had said farewell and smiled affectionately at her hostess, and a sudden silence fell on the room, left in the possession of Delia and her mother.
“Del, my love,” said the latter caressingly, “go and put the drawing-room straight, and see that all those things are cleared away. I will try to get a little nap. Dear old Mrs Crow had so much to tell me that my head quite aches.”
Delia went into the deserted drawing-room, where the chairs and tables, standing about in the little groups left by their late occupiers, still seemed to have a confidential air, as though they were telling each other interesting bits of news. She moved about with a preoccupied frown on her brow, picking up morsels of silk from the floor, rolling up strips of serge, and pushing back chairs and tables, until the room had regained its ordinary look. Then she stretched her arms above her head, gave a sigh of relief, and strolled out of the open French windows into the garden. The air was very calm and still, so that various mingled noises from the town could be plainly heard, though not loudly enough to produce more than a subdued hum, which was rather soothing than otherwise. Amongst them the deep recurring tones of the church bell, ringing for evening prayers, fell upon Delia’s ear as she wandered slowly up the gravel path, her head full of busy thoughts.
They were not wholly pleasant thoughts, and they had to do chiefly with two people, one very well known to her, and the other quite a stranger—Mr Goodwin, and his grandchild, Anna Forrest. Delia could hardly make up her mind whether she were pleased or annoyed at the idea of Anna’s arrival. Of course she was glad, she told herself, of anything that would please the “Professor,” as she always called Mr Goodwin; and she was curious and anxious to see what the new-comer would be like, for perhaps they might be companions and friends, though Anna was two years younger than herself. She could not, however, prevent a sort of suspicion that made her feel uneasy. Anna might be proud. She might even speak of the Professor in the condescending tone which so many people used in Dornton. Mrs Forrest at Waverley always looked proud, Delia thought. Perhaps Anna would be like her.
“If she is,” said Delia to herself, suddenly stopping to snap off the head of a snapdragon which grew in an angle of the old red wall—“if she is—if she dares—if she doesn’t see that the Professor is worth more than all the people in Dornton—I will despise her—I will—”
She stopped and shook her head.
“And if it’s the other way, and she loves and honours him as she ought, and is everything to him, and, and, takes my place, what shall I do then? Why, then, I will try not to detest her.”
She laughed a little as she stooped to gather some white pinks which bordered the path, and fastened them in her dress.
“Pretty she is sure to be,” she continued to herself, “like her mother, whom they never mention without praise—and she is almost certain to love music. Dear old Professor, how pleased he will be! I will try not to mind, but I do hope she can’t play the violin as well as I do. After all, it would be rather unfair if she had a beautiful face and a musical soul as well.”
The bell stopped, and the succeeding silence was harshly broken by the shrill whistle of a train.
“There’s the five o’clock train,” said Delia to herself; “to-morrow by this time she will be here.”
Mrs Winn and Miss Gibbins meanwhile had pursued their way home together, for they lived close to each other.
“It’s a pity Delia Hunt has such blunt manners, isn’t it?” said the latter regretfully, “and such very decided opinions for a young girl? It’s not at all becoming. I felt quite uncomfortable just now.”
“She’ll know better by-and-by,” said Mrs Winn. “There’s a great deal of good in Delia, but she is conceited and self-willed, like all young people.”
Miss Gibbins sighed. “She’ll never be so amiable as her dear mother,” she said.—“Why!” suddenly changing her tone to one of surprise, “isn’t that Mr Oswald?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Mrs Winn, gazing after the spring-cart which had passed them rapidly. “What then?”
“He had a child with him,” said Miss Gibbins impressively. “A child with fair hair, like Prissy Goodwin’s, and they came from the station. Something tells me it was Prissy’s daughter.”
“Nonsense, Julia,” replied Mrs Winn; “she’s not expected till to-morrow. Mrs Forrest told Mrs Hunt so herself. Besides, how should Mr Oswald have anything to do with meeting her? That was his own little girl with him, I daresay.”
“Daisy Oswald has close-cropped, black hair,” replied Miss Gibbins, quite unshaken in her opinion. “This child was older, and her hair shone like gold. I feel sure it was Prissy’s daughter.”