A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet.
Wordsworth.
"And so, my dear Anna, you really leave London to-morrow!"
"By the ten o'clock train," added an eager voice, "and I shan't get to
Dornton until nearly five. Father will go with me to Paddington, and
then I shall be alone all the way. My very first journey by myself--and
such a long one!"
"You don't seem to mind the idea," said the governess, with a glance at
her pupil's bright, smiling face. "You don't mind leaving all the
people and things you have been used to all your life?"
Anna tried to look grave. "I see so little of father, you know," she
said, "and I'm sure I shall like the country better than London. I
shall miss _you_, of course, dear Miss Milverton," she added quickly,
bending forward to kiss her governess.
Miss Milverton gave a little shake of the head, as she returned the
kiss; perhaps she did not believe in being very much missed.
"You are going to new scenes and new people," she said, "and at your
age, Anna, it is easier to forget than to remember. I should like to
think, though, that some of our talks and lessons during the last seven
years might stay in your mind."
She spoke wistfully, and her face looked rather sad. As she saw it,
Anna felt ungrateful to be so glad to go away, and was ready to promise
anything. "Oh, of course they will," she exclaimed. "Indeed, I will
never forget what you have told me. I couldn't."
"You have lived so very quietly hitherto," continued Miss Milverton,
"that it will be a new thing for you to be thrown with other people.
They will be nearly all strangers to you at Waverley, I think?"
"There will be Aunt Sarah and Uncle John at the Rectory," said Anna.
"Aunt Sarah, of course, I know; but I've never seen Uncle John. He's
father's brother, you know. Then there's Dornton; that's just a little
town near. I don't know any one there, but I suppose Aunt Sarah does.
Waverley's quite in the country, with a lovely garden--oh, I do so long
to see it!"
"You will make friends, too, of your own age, I daresay," said Miss
Milverton.
"Oh, I hope so," said Anna earnestly. "It has been so dull here
sometimes! After you go away in the afternoon there's nothing to do,
and when father dines out there's no one to talk to all the evening.
You can't think how tired I get of reading."
"Well, it will be more cheerful and amusing for you at Waverley, no
doubt," said Miss Milverton, "and I hope you will be very happy there;
but what I want to say to you is this: Try, whether you are at Waverley
or wherever you are, to value the best things in yourself and others."
Anna's bright eyes were gazing over the blind into the street, where a
man with a basket of flowers on his head was crying, "All a-blowing and
a-growing." In the country she would be able to pick flowers instead of
buying them. She smiled at the thought, and said absently, "Yes, Miss
Milverton." Miss Milverton's voice, which always had a regretful sound
in it, went steadily on, while Anna's bright fancies danced about gaily.
"It is so easy to value the wrong things most. They often look so
attractive, and the best things lie so deeply hidden from us. And yet,
to find them out and treasure them, and be true to them, makes the
difference between a worthy and an unworthy life. If you look for them,
my dear Anna, you will find them. My last wish before we part is, that
you may be quick to see, and ready to do them honour, and to prize them
as they should be prized. Bless you, my dear!"
Miss Milverton had felt what she said so deeply, that the tears stood in
her eyes, as she finished her speech and kissed her pupil for the last
time.
Anna returned the kiss affectionately, and as she followed her governess
out into the hall and opened the door for her, she was quite sorry to
think that she had so often been tiresome at her lessons. Perhaps she
had helped to make Miss Milverton's face so grave and her voice so sad.
Now she should not see her any more, and there was no chance of doing
better.
For full five minutes after she had waved a last good-bye, Anna remained
in a sober mood, looking thoughtfully at all the familiar, dingy objects
in the schoolroom, where she and Miss Milverton had passed so many
hours. It was not a cheerful room. Carpet, curtains, paper, everything
in it had become of one brownish-yellow hue, as though the London fog
had been shut up in it, and never escaped again. Even the large globes,
which stood one on each side of the fireplace, had the prevailing tinge
over their polished, cracked surfaces; but as Anna's eye fell on these,
her heart gave a sudden bound of joy. She would never have to do
problems again! She would never have to pass any more dull hours in
this room, with Miss Milverton's grave face opposite to her, and the
merest glimpses of sunshine peering in now and then over the brown
blinds. No more sober walks in Kensington Gardens, where she had so
often envied the ragged children, who could play about, and laugh, and
run, and do as they liked. There would be freedom now, green fields,
flowers, companions perhaps of her own age. Everything new, everything
gay and bright, no more dullness, no more tedious days--after all, she
was glad, very glad!
It was so pleasant to think of, that she could not help dancing round
and round the big table all alone, snapping her fingers at the globes as
she passed them. When she was tired, she flung herself into Miss
Milverton's brown leather chair, and looked up at the clock, which had
gone soberly on its way as though nothing were to be changed in Anna's
life. She felt provoked with its placid face. "To-morrow at this
time," she said to it, half aloud, "I shan't be here, and Miss Milverton
won't be here, and I shall be seeing new places and new people, and--oh,
I do wonder what it will all be like!"
The clock ticked steadily on, regardless of anything but its own
business. Half-past six! Miss Milverton had stayed longer than usual.
Anna began to wonder what time her father would be home. They were to
dine together on this, their last evening, but Mr Forrest was so
absorbed in his preparations for leaving England that he was likely to
be very late. Perhaps he would not be in till eight o'clock, and even
then would have his mind too full of business to talk much at dinner,
and would spend the evening in writing letters. Anna sighed. There
were some questions she very much wanted to ask him, and this would be
her only chance. To-morrow she was to go to Waverley, and the next day
Mr Forrest started for America, and she would not see him again for two
whole years.
It was strange to think of, but not altogether sad from Anna's point of
view, for her father was almost a stranger to her. He lived a life
apart, into which she had never entered: his friends, his business, his
frequent journeys abroad, occupied him fully, and he was quite content
that Anna's welfare should be left in the hands of Miss Milverton, her
daily governess. It was Aunt Sarah who recommended Miss Milverton to
the post, which she had now filled, with ceaseless kindness and
devotion, for seven years. "You will find her invaluable," Mrs Forrest
had said to her brother-in-law, and so she was. When Anna was ill, she
nursed her; when she wanted change of air, she took her to the sea-side;
she looked after her both in body and mind, with the utmost
conscientiousness. But there was one thing she could not do: she could
not be an amusing companion for a girl of fifteen, and Anna had often
been lonely and dull.
Now that was all over. A sudden change had come into her life. The
London house was to be given up, her father was going away, and she was
to be committed to Aunt Sarah's instruction and care for two whole
years. Waverley and Aunt Sarah, instead of London and Miss Milverton!
It was a change indeed, in more than one way, for although Anna was
nearly fifteen, she had never yet stayed in the country; her ideas of it
were gathered from books, and from what she could see from a railway
carriage, as Miss Milverton and she were carried swiftly on their way to
the sea-side for their annual change of air. She thought of it all now,
as she sat musing in the old brown chair.
It had often seemed strange that Aunt Sarah, who arranged everything,
and to whom appeal was always made in matters which concerned Anna,
should never have asked her to stay at Waverley before. Certainly there
were no children at the Rectory, but still it would have been natural,
she thought, for was not Uncle John her father's own brother, and she
had never even seen him!
Aunt Sarah came to London occasionally and stayed the night, and had
long talks with Mr Forrest and Miss Milverton, but she had never hinted
at a visit from Anna.
When, a little later, her father came bustling in, with a preoccupied
pucker on his brow, and his most absent manner, she almost gave up all
idea of asking questions. Dinner passed in perfect silence, and she was
startled when Mr Forrest suddenly mentioned the very place that was in
her mind.
"Well, Anna," he said, "I've been to Waverley to-day."
"Oh, father, have you?" she answered eagerly.
Mr Forrest sipped his wine reflectively.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Fifteen next August," replied Anna.
"Then," he continued, half to himself, "it must be over sixteen years
since I saw Waverley and Dornton."
"Are they just the same?" asked his daughter; "are they pretty places?"
"Waverley's pretty enough. Your Uncle John has built another room, and
spoilt the look of the old house, but that's the only change I can see."
"And Dornton," said Anna, "what is that like?"
"Dornton," said Mr Forrest absently--"Dornton is the same dull little
hole of a town I remember it then."
"Oh," said Anna in a disappointed voice.
"There's a fine old church, though, and the river's nice enough. I used
to know every turn in that river.--Well," rising abruptly and leaning
his arm against the mantel-piece, "it's a long while ago--a long while
ago--it's like another life."
"Used you to stay often at Waverley?" Anna ventured to ask presently.
Mr Forrest had fallen into a day-dream, with his eyes fixed on the
ground. He looked up when Anna spoke as though he had forgotten her
presence.
"It was there I first met your mother," he said, "or rather, at Dornton.
We were married in Dornton church."
"Oh," said Anna, very much interested, "did mother live at Dornton? I
never knew that."
"And that reminds me," said Mr Forrest, taking a leather case out of
his pocket, and speaking with an effort, "I've something I want to give
you before you go away. You may as well have it now. To-morrow we
shall be both in a hurry. Come here."
He opened the case and showed her a small round portrait painted on
ivory. It was the head of a girl of eighteen, exquisitely fair, with
sweet, modest-looking eyes. "Your mother," he said briefly.
Anna almost held her breath. She had never seen a picture of her mother
before, and had very seldom heard her mentioned.
"How lovely!" she exclaimed. "May I really have it to keep?"
"I had it copied for you from the original," said Mr Forrest.
"Oh, father, thank you so much," said Anna earnestly. "I do so love to
have it."
Mr Forrest turned away suddenly, and walked to the window. He was
silent for some minutes, and Anna stood with the case in her hand, not
daring to speak to him. She had an instinct that it was a painful
subject.
"Well," he said at last, "I need not tell you to take care of it. When
I come back you'll be nearly as old as she was when that was painted. I
can't hope more than that you may be half as good and beautiful."
Anna gazed earnestly at the portrait. There were some words in tiny
letters beneath it: "Priscilla Goodwin," she read, "aged eighteen."
Priscilla! A soft, gentle sort of name, which seemed to suit the face.
If father wanted me to look like this, she thought to herself, he
shouldn't have called me "Anna." How could any one named Anna grow so
pretty!
"Why was I named Anna?" she asked.
"It was your mother's wish," replied Mr Forrest. "I believe it was her
mother's name."
"Is my grandmother alive?" said Anna.
"No; she died years before I ever saw your mother. Your grandfather,
old Mr Goodwin, is living still--at Dornton."
"At Dornton!" exclaimed Anna in extreme surprise. "Then why don't I go
to stay with him while you're away, instead of at Waverley?"
"Because," said Mr Forrest, turning from the window to face his
daughter, "it has been otherwise arranged."
Anna knew that tone of her father's well; it meant that she had asked an
undesirable question. She was silent, but her eager face showed that
she longed to hear more.
"Your grandfather and I have not been very good friends," said Mr
Forrest at length, "and have not met for a good many years--but you're
too young to understand all that. He lives in a very quiet sort of way.
Once, if he had chosen, he might have risen to a different position.
But he didn't choose, and he remains what he has been for the last
twenty years--organist of Dornton church. He has great musical talent,
I've always been told, but I'm no judge of that."
These new things were quite confusing to Anna; it was difficult to
realise them all at once. The beautiful, fair-haired mother, whose
picture she held in her hand, was not so strange. But her grandfather!
She had never even heard of his existence, and now she would very soon
see him and talk to him. Her thoughts, hitherto occupied with Waverley
and the Rectory, began to busy themselves with the town of Dornton, the
church where her mother had been married, and the house where she had
lived.
"Aunt Sarah knows my grandfather, of course," she said aloud. "He will
come to Waverley, and I shall go sometimes to see him at Dornton?"
"Oh, no doubt, no doubt, your aunt will arrange all that," said Mr
Forrest wearily. "And now you must leave me, Anna; I've no time to
answer any more questions. Tell Mary to take a lamp into the study, and
bring me coffee. I have heaps of letters to write, and people to see
this evening."
"Your aunt will arrange all that!" What a familiar sentence that was.
Anna had heard it so often that she had come to look upon Aunt Sarah as
a person whose whole office in life was to arrange and settle the
affairs of other people, and who was sure to do it in the best possible
way.
When she opened her eyes the next morning, her first movement was to
feel under her pillow for the case which held the picture of her mother.
She had a half fear that she might have dreamt all that her father had
told her. No. It was real. The picture was there. The gentle face
seemed to smile at her as she opened the case. How nice to have such a
beautiful mother! As she dressed, she made up her mind that she would
go to see her grandfather directly she got to Waverley. What would he
be like? Her father had spoken of his musical talent in a half-pitying
sort of way. Anna was not fond of music, and she very much hoped that
her grandfather would not be too much wrapped up in it to answer all her
questions. Well, she would soon find out everything about him. Her
reflections were hurried away by the bustle of departure, for Mr
Forrest, though he travelled so much, could never start on a journey
without agitation and fuss, and fears as to losing his train. So, for
the next hour, until Anna was safely settled in a through carriage for
Dornton, with her ticket in her purse, a benevolent old lady opposite to
her, and the guard prepared to give her every attention, there was no
time to realise anything, except that she must make haste.
"Well, I think you're all right now," said Mr Forrest, with a sigh of
relief, as he rested from his exertions. "Look out for your aunt on the
platform at Dornton; she said she would meet you herself.--Why," looking
at his watch, "you don't start for six minutes. We needn't have hurried
after all. Well, there's no object in waiting, as I'm so busy; so I'll
say good-bye now. Remember to write when you get down. Take care of
yourself."
He kissed his daughter, and was soon out of sight in the crowded
station. Anna had now really begun her first journey out into the
world.