“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.