“Did he?” said Anna, wonderingly.
She began to feel that she did not understand Delia; she was speaking a strange language, which evidently meant something to her, for her eyes sparkled, and her brown cheek glowed with excitement.
“We ought to be proud in Dornton,” Delia went on, “to have your grandfather living here, but we’re not worthy of him. His genius would place him in a high position among people who could understand him. Here it’s just taken for granted.”
Anna grew more puzzled and surprised still. Delia’s tone upset the idea she began to have that her grandfather was a person to be pitied. This was a different way of speaking of him, and it was impossible to get used to it all at once. At Waverley he was hardly mentioned at all, and she had come to avoid doing so also, from a feeling that her aunt disliked it. She could not suddenly bring herself to look upon him as a genius, and be proud of him, though she had every wish to please Delia.
“What a pity,” she said, hesitatingly, “that he is so poor, and has to live in such a very little house, if he is so clever!”
“Poor?” exclaimed Delia, indignantly; then, checking herself, she added, quietly, “It depends on what you call poor. What the Professor possesses is worth all the silver and gold and big houses in the world. And that’s just what the Dornton people don’t understand. Why, the rich ones actually patronise him, and think he is fortunate in giving their children music-lessons.”
Delia began to look so wrathful as she went on, that Anna longed to change the subject to one which might be more soothing. She could not at all understand why her companion was so angry. It was certainly a pity that Mr Goodwin was obliged to give lessons, but if he must, it was surely a good thing that people were willing to employ him. While she was pondering this in silence, she was relieved by a welcome proposal from Delia that they should go down-stairs, and have tea in the garden. “Afterwards,” she added, “I will show you the way to Waverley over the fields.”
In the garden it was pleasant and peaceful enough. Tea was ready, under the shade of the medlar tree. The pigeons whirled and fluttered about over the red roofs all around, settling sometimes on the lawn for a few moments, bowing and cooing to each other. Mrs Hunt, meanwhile, chatted on in a comfortable way, hardly settling longer on one spot in her talk than the pigeons; from the affairs of her district to the affairs of the nation, from an anecdote about the rector to a receipt for scones, she rambled gently on; but at last coming to a favourite topic, she made a longer rest. Anna was glad of it, for it dealt with people of whom she had been wishing to hear—her mother and her grandfather. Mrs Hunt had much to tell of the former, whom she had known from the time when she had been a girl of Anna’s age until her marriage with Mr Bernard Forrest. She became quite enthusiastic as one recollection after the other followed.
“A sweeter face and a sweeter character than Prissy Goodwin’s could not be imagined,” she said. “We were all sorry when she left Dornton, and every one felt for Mr Goodwin. Poor man, he’s aged a great deal during the last few years. I remember him as upright as a dart, and always in such good spirits!”
“I have a portrait of my mother,” said Anna, “a miniature, painted just after her marriage. It’s very pretty indeed.”