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.