DORNTON.

A bird of the air shall carry the matter.

On the same afternoon as that on which Anna was travelling towards

Waverley, Mrs Hunt, the doctor's wife in Dornton, held one of her

working parties. This was not at all an unusual event, for the ladies

of Dornton and the neighbourhood had undertaken to embroider some

curtains for their beautiful old church, and this necessitated a weekly

meeting of two hours, followed by the refreshment of tea, and

conversation. The people of Dornton were fond of meeting in each

other's houses, and very sociably inclined. They met to work, they met

to read Shakespeare, they met to sing and to play the piano, they met to

discuss interesting questions, and they met to talk. It was not,

perhaps, so much what they met to do that was the important thing, as

the fact of meeting.

"So pleasant to _meet_, isn't it?" one lady would say to the other.

"I'm not very musical, you know, but I've joined the glee society,

because it's an excuse for _meeting_."

And, certainly, of all the houses in Dornton where these meetings were

held, Dr Hunt's was the favourite. Mrs Hunt was so amiable and

pleasant, the tea was so excellent, and the conversation of a most

superior flavour. There was always the chance, too, that the doctor

might look in for a moment at tea-time, and though he was discretion

itself, and never gossiped about his patients, it was interesting to

gather from his face whether he was anxious, or the reverse, as to any

special case.

This afternoon, therefore, Mrs Hunt's drawing-room presented a busy and

animated scene. It was a long, low room, with French windows, through

which a pleasant old garden, with a wide lawn and shady trees, glimpses

of red roofs beyond, and a church tower, could be seen. Little tables

were placed at convenient intervals, holding silk, scissors, cushions

full of needles and pins, and all that could be wanted for the work in

hand, which was to be embroidered in separate strips; over these many

ladies were already deeply engaged, though it was quite early, and there

were still some empty seats.

"Shall we see Mrs Forrest this afternoon?" asked one of those who sat

near the hostess at the end of the room.

"I think not," replied Mrs Hunt, as she greeted a new-comer; "she told

me she had to drive out to Losenick about the character of a

maid-servant."

"Oh, well," returned the other with a little shake of the head, "even

Mrs Forrest can't manage to be in two places at once, can she?"

Mrs Hunt smiled, and looked pleasantly round on her assembled guests,

but did not make any other answer.

"Although I was only saying this morning, there's very little Mrs

Forrest can't do if she makes up her mind to it," resumed Miss Gibbins,

the lady who had first spoken. "Look at all her arrangements at

Waverley! It's well known that she manages the schools almost

entirely--and then her house--so elegant, so orderly--and such a way

with her maids! _Some_ people consider her a little stiff in her

manner, but I don't _know_ that I should call her that."

She glanced inquiringly at Mrs Hunt, who still smiled and said nothing.

"It's not such a very difficult thing," said Mrs Hurst, the wife of the

curate of Dornton, "to be a good manager, or to have good servants, if

you have plenty of money." She pressed her lips together rather

bitterly, as she bent over her work.

"There was one thing, though," pursued Miss Gibbins, dropping her voice

a little, "that Mrs Forrest was not able to prevent, and that was her

brother-in-law's marriage. I happen to know that she felt that very

much. And it _was_ a sad mistake altogether, wasn't it?"

She addressed herself pointedly to Mrs Hunt, who was gazing serenely

out into the garden, and that lady murmured in a soft tone:

"Poor Prissy Goodwin! How pretty and nice she was!"

"Oh, as to that, dear Mrs Hunt," broke in a stout lady with round eyes

and a very deep voice, who had newly arrived, "that's not quite the

question. Poor Prissy was very pretty, and very nice and refined, and

as good as gold. We all know that. But _was_ it the right marriage for

Mr Bernard Forrest? An organist's daughter! or you might even say, a

music-master's daughter!"

"Old Mr Goodwin has aged very much lately," remarked Mrs Hunt. "I met

him this morning, looking so tired, that I made him come in and rest a

little. He had been giving a lesson to Mrs Palmer's children out at

Pynes."

"How kind and thoughtful of you, dear Mrs Hunt," said Miss Gibbins.

"That's very far for him to walk. I wonder he doesn't give it up. I

suppose, though, he can't afford to do that."

"I don't think he has ever been the same man since Prissy's marriage,"

said Mrs Hunt, "though he plays the organ more beautifully than ever."

With her spectacles perched upon her nose, her hands crossed comfortably

on her lap, and a most beaming smile on her face, Mrs Hunt looked the

picture of contented idleness, while her guests stitched away busily,

with flying fingers, and heads bent over their work. She had done about

half an inch of the pattern on her strip, and now, her needle being

unthreaded, made no attempt to continue it.

"Delia's coming in presently," she remarked placidly, meeting Miss

Gibbins' sharp glance as it rested on her idle hands; "she will take my

work a little while--ah, here she is," as the door opened.

A girl of about sixteen came towards them, stopping to speak to the

ladies as she passed them on her way up the room. She was short for her

age, and rather squarely built, holding herself very upright, and

walking with calmness and decision.

Everything about Delia Hunt seemed to express determination, from her

firm chin to her dark curly hair, which would always look rough,

although it was brushed back from her forehead and fastened up securely

in a knot at the back of her head. Nothing could make it lie flat and

smooth, however, and in spite of all Delia's efforts, it curled and

twisted itself defiantly wherever it had a chance. Perhaps, by doing

so, it helped to soften a face which would have been a little hard

without the good-tempered expression which generally filled the bright

brown eyes.

"That sort of marriage never answers," said Mrs Winn, as Delia reached

her mother's side. "Just see what unhappiness it caused. It was a

bitter blow to Mr and Mrs Forrest; it made poor old Mr Goodwin

miserable, and separated him from his only child; and as to Prissy

herself--well, the poor thing didn't live to find out her mistake, and

left her little daughter to feel the consequences of it."

"Poor little motherless darling," murmured Mrs Hunt.--"Del, my love, go

on with my work a little, while I say a few words to old Mrs Crow."

Delia took her mother's place, threaded her needle, raised her eyebrows

with an amused air, as she examined the work accomplished, and bent her

head industriously over it.

"Doesn't it seem quite impossible," said Miss Gibbins, "to realise that

Prissy's daughter is really coming to Waverley to-morrow! Why, it seems

the other day that I saw Prissy married in Dornton church!"

"It must be fifteen years ago at the least," said Mrs Winn, in such

deep tones that they seemed to roll round the room. "The child must be

fourteen years old."

"She wore grey cashmere," said Miss Gibbins, reflectively, "and a little

white bonnet. And the sun streamed in upon her through the painted

window. I remember thinking she looked like a dove. I wonder if the

child is like her."

"The Forrests have never taken much notice of Mr Goodwin, since the

marriage," said Mrs Hurst, "but I suppose, now his grandchild is to

live there, all that will be altered."

Delia looked quickly up at the speaker, but checked the words on her

lips, and said nothing.

"You can't do away with the ties of blood," said Mrs Winn; "the child's

his grandchild. You can't ignore that."

"Why should you want to ignore it?" asked Delia, suddenly raising her

eyes and looking straight at her.

The attack was so unexpected that Mrs Winn had no answer ready. She

remained speechless, with her large grey eyes wider open than usual, for

quite a minute before she said, "These are matters, Delia, which you are

too young to understand."

"Perhaps I am," answered Delia; "but I can understand one thing very

well, and that is, that Mr Goodwin is a grandfather that any one ought

to be proud of, and that, if his relations are not proud of him, it is

because they're not worthy of him."

"Oh, well," said Miss Gibbins, shaking her head rather nervously as she

looked at Delia, "we all know what a champion Mr Goodwin has in you,

Delia. `Music with its silver sound' draws you together, as Shakespeare

says. And, of course, we're all proud of our organist in Dornton, and,

of course, he has great talent. Still, you know, when all's said and

done, he _is_ a music-master, and in quite a different position from the

Forrests."

"Socially," said Mrs Winn, placing her large, white hand flat on the

table beside her, to emphasise her words, "Mr Goodwin is not on the

same footing. When Delia is older she will know what that means."

"I know it now," replied Delia. "I never consider them on the same

footing at all. There are plenty of clergymen everywhere, but where

could you find any one who can play the violin like Mr Goodwin?"

She fixed her eyes with innocent inquiry on Mrs Winn. Mrs Hurst

bridled a little.

"I do think," she said, "that clergymen occupy a position quite apart.

I like Mr Goodwin very much. I've always thought him a nice old

gentleman, and Herbert admires his playing, but--"

"Of course, of course," said Mrs Winn, "we must be all agreed as to

that.--You're too fond, my dear Delia, of giving your opinion on

subjects where ignorance should keep you silent. A girl of your age

should try to behave herself, lowly and reverently, to all her betters."

"So I do," said Delia, with a smile; "in fact, I feel so lowly and

reverent sometimes, that I could almost worship Mr Goodwin. I am ready

to humble myself to the dust, when I hear him playing the violin."

Mrs Winn was preparing to make a severe answer to this, when Miss

Gibbins, who was tired of being silent, broke adroitly in, and changed

the subject.

"You missed a treat last Thursday, Mrs Winn, by losing the Shakespeare

reading. It was rather far to get out to Pynes, to be sure, but it was

worth the trouble, to hear Mrs Hurst read `Arthur.'"

The curate's wife gave a little smile, which quickly faded as Miss

Gibbins continued: "I had no idea there was anything so touching in

Shakespeare. Positively melting! And then Mrs Palmer looked so well!

She wore that rich plum-coloured silk, you know, with handsome lace, and

a row of most beautiful lockets. I thought to myself, as she stood up

to read in that sumptuous drawing-room, that the effect was regal.

`Regal,' I said afterwards, is the only word to express Mrs Palmer's

appearance this afternoon."

"What part did Mrs Palmer read?" asked Delia, as Miss Gibbins looked

round for sympathy.

"Let me see. Dear me, it's quite escaped my memory. Ah, I have it. It

was the mother of the poor little boy, but I forget her name.--You will

know, Mrs Hurst; you have such a memory!"

"It was Constance," said the curate's wife. "Mrs Palmer didn't do

justice to the part. It was rather too much for her. Indeed, I don't

consider that they arranged the parts well last time. They gave my

husband nothing but `messengers,' and the Vicar had `King John.' Now, I

don't want to be partial, but I think most people would agree that

Herbert reads Shakespeare _rather_ better than the Vicar."

"I wonder," said Miss Gibbins, turning to Delia, as the murmur of assent

to this speech died away, "that you haven't joined us yet, but I suppose

your studies occupy you at present."

"But I couldn't read aloud, in any case, before a lot of people," said

Delia, "and Shakespeare must be so very difficult."

"You'd get used to it," said Miss Gibbins. "I remember," with a little

laugh, "how nervous _I_ felt the first time I stood up to read. My

heart beat so fast I thought it would choke me. The first sentence I

had to say was, `Cut him in pieces!' and the words came out quite in a

whisper. But now I can read long speeches without losing my breath or

feeling at all uncomfortable."

"I like the readings," said Mrs Hurst, "because they keep up one's

knowledge of Shakespeare, and that _must_ be refining and elevating, as

Herbert says."

"So pleasant, too, that the clergy can join," added Miss Gibbins.

"Mrs Crow objects to that," said Mrs Hurst. "She told me once she

considered it wrong, because they might be called straight away from

reading plays to attend a deathbed. Herbert, of course, doesn't agree

with her, or he wouldn't have helped to get them up. He has a great

opinion of Shakespeare as an elevating influence, and though he _did_

write plays, they're hardly ever acted. He doesn't seem, somehow, to

have much to do with the theatre."

"Between ourselves," said Miss Gibbins, sinking her voice and glancing

to the other end of the room, where Mrs Crow's black bonnet was nodding

confidentially at Mrs Hunt, "dear old Mrs Crow is _rather_

narrow-minded. I should think the presence of the Vicar at the readings

might satisfy her that all was right."

"The presence of _any_ clergyman," began Mrs Hurst, "ought to be

sufficient warrant that--"

But her sentence was not finished, for at this moment a little general

rustle at the further end of the room, the sudden ceasing of

conversation, and the door set wide open, showed that it was time to

adjourn for tea. Work was rolled up, thimbles and scissors put away in

work-bags, and very soon the whole assembly had floated across the hall

into the dining-room, and was pleasantly engaged upon Mrs Hunt's

hospitable preparations for refreshment. Brisk little remarks filled

the air as they stood about with their teacups in their hands.

"I never can resist your delicious scones, Mrs Hunt.--Home-made? You

don't say so. I wish my cook could make them."--"Thank you, Delia; I

_will_ take another cup of coffee: yours is always so good."--"Such a

pleasant afternoon! Dear me, nearly five o'clock? How time

flies."--"Dr Hunt very busy? Fever in Back Row? So sorry. But

decreasing? So glad."--"Good-bye, _dear_ Mrs Hunt. We meet next

Thursday, I hope?"--and so on, until the last lady had said farewell and

smiled affectionately at her hostess, and a sudden silence fell on the

room, left in the possession of Delia and her mother.

"Del, my love," said the latter caressingly, "go and put the

drawing-room straight, and see that all those things are cleared away.

I will try to get a little nap. Dear old Mrs Crow had so much to tell

me that my head quite aches."

Delia went into the deserted drawing-room, where the chairs and tables,

standing about in the little groups left by their late occupiers, still

seemed to have a confidential air, as though they were telling each

other interesting bits of news. She moved about with a preoccupied

frown on her brow, picking up morsels of silk from the floor, rolling up

strips of serge, and pushing back chairs and tables, until the room had

regained its ordinary look. Then she stretched her arms above her head,

gave a sigh of relief, and strolled out of the open French windows into

the garden. The air was very calm and still, so that various mingled

noises from the town could be plainly heard, though not loudly enough to

produce more than a subdued hum, which was rather soothing than

otherwise. Amongst them the deep recurring tones of the church bell,

ringing for evening prayers, fell upon Delia's ear as she wandered

slowly up the gravel path, her head full of busy thoughts.

They were not wholly pleasant thoughts, and they had to do chiefly with

two people, one very well known to her, and the other quite a stranger--

Mr Goodwin, and his grandchild, Anna Forrest. Delia could hardly make

up her mind whether she were pleased or annoyed at the idea of Anna's

arrival. Of course she was glad, she told herself, of anything that

would please the "Professor," as she always called Mr Goodwin; and she

was curious and anxious to see what the new-comer would be like, for

perhaps they might be companions and friends, though Anna was two years

younger than herself. She could not, however, prevent a sort of

suspicion that made her feel uneasy. Anna might be proud. She might

even speak of the Professor in the condescending tone which so many

people used in Dornton. Mrs Forrest at Waverley always looked proud,

Delia thought. Perhaps Anna would be like her.

"If she is," said Delia to herself, suddenly stopping to snap off the

head of a snapdragon which grew in an angle of the old red wall--"if she

is--if she dares--if she doesn't see that the Professor is worth more

than all the people in Dornton--_I will_ despise her--I will--"

She stopped and shook her head.

"And if it's the other way, and she loves and honours him as she ought,

and is everything to him, and, and, takes my place, what shall I do

then? Why, then, I will try not to detest her."

She laughed a little as she stooped to gather some white pinks which

bordered the path, and fastened them in her dress.

"Pretty she is sure to be," she continued to herself, "like her mother,

whom they never mention without praise--and she is almost certain to

love music. Dear old Professor, how pleased he will be! I will try not

to mind, but I do hope she can't play the violin as well as I do. After

all, it would be rather unfair if she had a beautiful face and a musical

soul as well."

The bell stopped, and the succeeding silence was harshly broken by the

shrill whistle of a train.

"There's the five o'clock train," said Delia to herself; "to-morrow by

this time she will be here."

Mrs Winn and Miss Gibbins meanwhile had pursued their way home

together, for they lived close to each other.

"It's a pity Delia Hunt has such blunt manners, isn't it?" said the

latter regretfully, "and such very decided opinions for a young girl?

It's not at all becoming. I felt quite uncomfortable just now."

"She'll know better by-and-by," said Mrs Winn. "There's a great deal

of good in Delia, but she is conceited and self-willed, like all young

people."

Miss Gibbins sighed. "She'll never be so amiable as her dear mother,"

she said.--"Why!" suddenly changing her tone to one of surprise, "isn't

that Mr Oswald?"

"Yes, I think so," said Mrs Winn, gazing after the spring-cart which

had passed them rapidly. "What then?"

"He had a _child_ with him," said Miss Gibbins impressively. "A child

with fair hair, like Prissy Goodwin's, and they came from the station.

Something tells me it was Prissy's daughter."

"Nonsense, Julia," replied Mrs Winn; "she's not expected till

to-morrow. Mrs Forrest told Mrs Hunt so herself. Besides, how should

Mr Oswald have anything to do with meeting her? That was his own

little girl with him, I daresay."

"Daisy Oswald has close-cropped, black hair," replied Miss Gibbins,

quite unshaken in her opinion. "This child was older, and her hair

shone like gold. I feel sure it was Prissy's daughter."