“Dr Hunt says there is no cause for anxiety,” said Anna, repeating the sentence she had so often heard from Aunt Sarah.
“It was Mrs Winn who told mother he was ill,” continued Isabel, observing Anna’s downcast face curiously, “and—she said another thing which surprised us all very much. Why didn’t you tell us long ago that Mr Goodwin is your grandfather?”
Anna was silent.
“We can’t understand it at all,” continued Isabel. “Mother says it might have caused great unpleasantness. She’s quite vexed.”
She waited a moment with her eyes fixed on Anna, and then said, with a little toss of her head:
“Well—good-bye. I suppose we shan’t meet again before we go to Scotland. Mother has written to tell Mrs Forrest that we’re not going on with lessons.”
They parted with a careless shake of the hands, and Anna was driven away in the pony-cart. Her friendship with Isabel, her pleasant visits to Pynes, were over now. She was humbled and disgraced before every one, and Delia would know it too. It would have been a wounding thought once, but now there was no room in her heart for any feeling but dread of what might happen to Mr Goodwin.
“Oh, Aunt Sarah,” she cried, when she reached Waverley, and found her aunt in the garden, “I’m sure my grandfather is worse—I’m sure he’s very ill. I did not see him.”
Mrs Forrest was tying up a rebellious creeper, which wished to climb in its own way instead of hers. She finished binding down one of the unruly tendrils before she turned to look at her niece. Anna was flushed. Her eyelids were red and swollen.
“Why didn’t you see him?” she asked. “Does Dr Hunt think him worse?”