...I have heard a grave divine say that God has two dwellings--one in
heaven, and the other in a meek and thankful heart.--_Izaak Walton_.
"Del, my love," said Mrs Hunt, "I feel one of my worst headaches coming
on. Will you go this afternoon to see Mrs Winn, instead of me?" Delia
stood under the medlar tree on the lawn, ready to go out, with a bunch
of roses in her hand, and her violin-case. She looked at her mother
inquiringly, for Mrs Hunt had not just then any appearance of
discomfort. She was sitting in an easy canvas chair, a broad-brimmed
hat upon her head, and a newspaper in her hands; her slippered feet
rested on a little wooden stool, and on a table by her side were a cup
of tea, a nicely buttered roll, and a few very ripe strawberries.
"Hadn't you better wait," said Delia, after a moment's pause, "until you
can go yourself? Mrs Winn would much rather see you. Besides--it is
my music afternoon."
Mrs Hunt was looking up and down the columns of the paper while her
daughter spoke: she did not answer at once, and when she did, it was
scarcely an answer so much as a continuation of her own train of
thoughts.
"She has had a tickling cough for so many nights. She can hardly sleep
for it, and I promised her a pot of my own black currant jelly."
"It's a great deal out of my way," said Delia.
"If you go," continued Mrs Hunt, without raising her eyes, "you will
find the row of little pots on the top shelf of the storeroom cupboard."
Delia bit her lip.
"If I go," she said, "I must shorten my music-lesson."
Mrs Hunt said nothing, but looked as amiable as ever. A frown gathered
on Delia's forehead: she stood irresolute for a minute, and then, with a
sudden effort, turned and went quickly into the house. Mrs Hunt
stirred her tea, tasted a strawberry, and leant back in her chair with a
gentle sigh of comfort. In a few minutes Delia reappeared hurriedly.
"There is _no_ black currant jelly in the storeroom," she said, with an
air of exasperation.
Mrs Hunt looked up in mild surprise.
"How strange!" she said. "Could I have moved those pots? Ah, now I
remember! I had a dream that all the jam was mouldy, and so I moved it
into that cupboard in the kitchen. That was why cook left. She didn't
like me to use that cupboard for the jam."
"And, meanwhile, where is it?" said Delia.
"Such a wicked mother to give you so much trouble!" murmured Mrs Hunt,
with a sweet smile. "But, Del, my love, you must try not to look so
morose for trifles--it gives _such_ an ugly turn to the features.
You'll find the jelly in that nice corner cupboard in the kitchen.
Here's the key"--feeling in her pocket--"no; it is not here--where did I
leave my keys? Oh, you'll find them in the pocket of my black serge
dress--and if they're not there, they are sure to be in the pocket of my
gardening apron. My kind love to Mrs Winn. Tell her to take it
constantly in the night. And don't hurry, love, it's _so_ warm; you
look heated already."
In spite of this last advice, it was almost at a run that Delia, having
at last found the keys and the jam, set forth on her errand. Perhaps,
if she were very quick, she need not lose much time with the Professor,
after all, but she felt ruffled and rather cross at the delay. It was
not an unusual frame of mind, for she was not naturally of a patient
temper, and did not bear very well the little daily frets and jars of
her life. She chafed inwardly as she went quickly on her way, that her
music, which seemed to her the most important thing in the world, should
be sacrificed to anything so uninteresting and dull as Mrs Winn's black
currant jam. It was all the more trying this afternoon, because, since
Anna Forrest's arrival, she had purposely kept away from the Professor,
and had not seen him for a whole fortnight. A mixed feeling of jealousy
and pride had made her determined that Anna should have every
opportunity of making Mr Goodwin's acquaintance without any
interference from herself. It was only just and right that his
grandchild should have the first place in his affections, the place
which hitherto had been her own. Well, now she must take the second
place, and if Anna made the Professor happier, it would not matter. At
any rate, no one should know, however keenly she felt it.
Mrs Winn, who was a widow, lived in an old-fashioned, red brick house
facing the High Street; it had a respectable, dignified appearance,
suggesting solid comfort, like the person of its owner. Mrs Winn,
however, was a lady not anxious for her own well-being only, but most
charitably disposed towards others who were not so prosperous as
herself. She was the Vicar's right hand in all the various methods for
helping the poor of his parish: clothing clubs, Dorcas meetings, coal
clubs, lending library, were all indebted to Mrs Winn for substantial
aid, both in the form of money and personal help.
She was looked up to as a power in Dornton, and her house was much
frequented by all those interested in parish matters, so that she was
seldom to be found alone. Perhaps, also, the fact that the delightful
bow-window of her usual up-stairs sitting-room looked straight across to
Appleby's, the post-office and stationer, increased its attractions.
"It makes it so lively," Mrs Winn was wont to observe. "I seldom pass
a day, even if I don't go out, without seeing Mr Field, or Mr Hurst,
or some of the country clergy, going in and out of Appleby's. I never
feel dull."
To-day, to her great relief, Delia found Mrs Winn quite alone. She was
sitting at a table drawn up into the bow-window, busily engaged in
covering books with whitey-brown paper. On her right was a pile of
gaily bound volumes, blue, red, and purple, which were quickly reduced
to a pale brown, unattractive appearance in her practised hands, and
placed in a pile on her left. Delia thought Mrs Winn looked
whitey-brown as well as the books, for there was no decided colour about
her: her eyes were pale, as well as the narrow line of hair which showed
beneath the border of her white cap; and her dresses were always of a
doubtful shade, between brown and grey.
She welcomed Delia kindly, but with the repressed air of severity which
she always reserved for her.
"How like your dear mother!" she exclaimed, on receiving the pot of
jelly.--"Yes; my cough is a little better, tell her, but I thought I
would keep indoors to-day--and, you see, I've all these books to get
through, so it's just as well. Mr Field got them in London for the
library the other day."
"What a pity they must be covered," said Delia, glancing from one pile
to the other; "the children would like the bright colours so much
better."
"A nice state they would be in, in a week," said Mrs Winn, stolidly, as
she folded, and snipped, and turned a book about in her large, capable
hands. "Besides, it's better to teach the children not to care for
pretty things."
"Is it?" said Delia. "I should have thought that was just what they
ought to learn."
"The love of pretty things," said Mrs Winn, sternly, "is like the love
of money, the root of all evil; and has led quite as many people
astray.--All these books have to be labelled and numbered," she added,
after a pause. "You might do some, Delia, if you're not in a hurry."
"Oh, but I am," said Delia, glancing at the clock. "I am going to Mr
Goodwin for a lesson, and I am late already."
Mrs Winn had, however, some information to give about Mr Goodwin.
Julia Gibbins, who had just looked in, had met him on the way to give a
lesson at Pynes.
"So," she added, "he can't possibly be home for another half-hour at
least, you know; and you may just as well spend the time in doing
something useful."
With a little sigh of disappointment, Delia took off her gloves and
seated herself opposite to Mrs Winn. Everything seemed against her
to-day.
"And how," said that lady, having supplied her with scissors and paper,
"do you get on with Anna Forrest? You're with Mr Goodwin so much, I
suppose you know her quite well by this time."
"Indeed, I don't," said Delia. "I haven't even seen her yet; have you?"
"I've seen her twice," said Mrs Winn. "She's pretty enough, though not
to be compared to her mother; more like the Forrests, and has her
father's pleasant manners. If _looks_ were the only things to consider,
she would do very well."
"What's the matter with her?" asked Delia, bluntly, for Mrs Winn spoke
as though she knew much more than she expressed.
"Why, I've every reason to suppose," she began deliberately--then
breaking off--"Take care, Delia," she exclaimed; "you're cutting that
cover too narrow. Let me show you. You must leave a good bit to tuck
under, don't you see, or it will be off again directly."
Delia had never in her life been so anxious for Mrs Winn to finish a
sentence, but she tried to control her impatience, and bent her
attention to the brown paper cover.
"It only shows," continued Mrs Winn, when her instructions were ended,
"that I was right in what I said the other day about Mr Bernard
Forrest's marriage. That sort of thing never answers. That child has
evidently been brought up without a strict regard for truth."
"What has she done?" asked Delia.
"Not, of course," said Mrs Winn, "that poor Prissy could have had
anything to do with that."
The book Delia held slipped from her impatient fingers, and fell to the
ground flat on its face.
"My _dear_ Delia," said Mrs Winn, picking it up, and smoothing the
leaves, with a shocked look, "the books get worn out quite soon enough,
without being tossed about like that."
"I'm very sorry," said Delia, humbly.--"But do tell me what it is you
mean about Anna Forrest."
"It's nothing at all pleasant," said Mrs Winn, "but as you're likely to
see something of her, you ought to know that I've every reason to
believe that she's not quite straightforward. Now, with all your
faults, Delia--and you've plenty of them--I never found you untruthful."
She fixed her large, round eyes on her companion for a moment, but as
Delia made no remark, resumed--
"On the evening of your last working party but one, Julia Gibbins and I
saw Mr Oswald of Leas Farm driving Anna Forrest from the station. Of
course, we didn't know her then. But Julia felt sure it was Anna, and
it turned out she was right. Curiously enough, we met Mrs Forrest and
the child in Appleby's shortly after, and Mrs Forrest said how unlucky
it had been that there was a confusion about the day of her niece's
arrival, and no one to meet her at the station; but, fortunately, she
said, Anna was sensible enough to take a fly, so that was all right.
Now, you see, my dear Delia, she _didn't_ take a fly," added Mrs Winn,
solemnly, "so she must have deceived her aunt."
Mrs Winn's most important stories had so often turned out to be founded
on mistakes, that Delia was not much impressed by this one, nor disposed
to think worse of Anna because of it.
"Oh, I daresay there's a mistake somewhere," she said, lightly, rising
and picking up her flowers and her violin-case. "I must go now, Mrs
Winn; the Professor will be back by the time I get there--good-bye."
She hurried out of the room before Mrs Winn could begin another
sentence; for long experience had taught her that the subject would not
be exhausted for a long while, and that a sudden departure was the only
way of escape.
A quarter of an hour's quick walk brought her to Number 4 Back Row, and
looking in at the sitting-room window, as her custom was, she saw that
the Professor had indeed arrived before her.
His dwelling was a contrast in every way to that of Mrs Winn. For one
thing, instead of standing boldly out before the world of Dornton High
Street, it was smuggled away, with a row of little houses like itself,
in a narrow sort of passage, enclosed between two wide streets. This
passage ended in a blank wall, and was, besides, too narrow for any but
foot-passengers to pass up it, so that it would have been hard to find a
quieter or more retired spot. The little, old houses in it were only
one storey high, and very solidly built, with thick walls, and the
windows in deep recesses; before each a strip of garden, and a gravel
walk stretched down to a small gate. Back Row was the very oldest part
of Dornton, and though the houses were small, they had always been lived
in by respectable people, and preserved a certain air of gentility.
Without waiting to knock, Delia hurried in at the door of Number 4,
which led straight into the sitting-room. The Professor was leaning
back in his easy-chair, his boots white with dust, and an expression of
fatigue and dejection over his whole person.
"Oh, Professor," was her first remark, as she threw down her
violin-case, "you _do_ look tired! Have you had your tea?"
"I believe, my dear," he replied, rather faintly, "Mrs Cooper has not
come in yet."
Mrs Cooper was a charwoman, who came in at uncertain intervals to cook
the Professor's meals and clean his rooms: as he was not exacting, the
claims of her other employers were always satisfied first, and if she
were at all busier than usual, he often got scanty attention.
Without waiting to hear more, Delia made her way to the little kitchen,
and set about her preparations in a very business-like manner. She was
evidently well acquainted with the resources of the household, for she
bustled about, opening cupboards, and setting tea-things on a tray, as
though she were quite at home. In a wonderfully short time she had
prepared a tempting meal, and carried it into the sitting-room, so that,
when the Professor came back from changing his boots, he found
everything quite ready. His little round table, cleared of the litter
of manuscripts and music-books, was drawn up to the open window, and
covered with a white cloth. On it there was some steaming coffee, eggs,
and bread and butter, a bunch of roses in the middle, and his arm-chair
placed before it invitingly.
He sank into it with a sigh of comfort and relief.
"How very good your coffee smells, Delia!" he said; "quite different
from Mrs Cooper's."
"I daresay, if the truth were known," said Delia, carefully pouring it
out, "that you had no dinner to speak of before you walked up to Pynes
and back again."
"I had a sandwich," answered Mr Goodwin, meekly, for Delia was bending
a searching and severe look upon him.
"Then Mrs Cooper didn't come!" she exclaimed. "Really we ought to look
out for some one else: I believe she does it on purpose."
"Now I beg of you, Delia," said the Professor, leaning forward
earnestly, "not to send Mrs Cooper away. She's a very poor woman, and
would miss the money. She told me only the last time she was here that
the doctor had ordered cod-liver oil for the twins, and she couldn't
afford to give it them."
"Oh, the twins!" said Delia, with a little scorn.
"Well, my dear, she _has_ twins; she brought them here once in a
perambulator."
"But that's no reason at all she should not attend properly to you,"
said Delia.
Mr Goodwin put down his cup of coffee, which he had begun to drink with
great relish, and looked thoroughly cast down.
Delia laughed a little.
"Well, I won't, then," she said. "Mrs Cooper shall stay, and neglect
her duties, and spoil your food as long as you like."
"Thank you, my dear," said the Professor, brightening up again, "she
really does extremely well, though, of course, she doesn't"--glancing at
the table--"make things look so nice as you do."
Delia blamed herself for staying away so long, when she saw with what
contented relish her old friend applied himself to the simple fare she
had prepared; it made her thoroughly ashamed to think that he should
have suffered neglect through her small feelings of jealousy and pride.
He should not be left for a whole fortnight again to Mrs Cooper's
tender mercies.
"We are to have a lesson to-night, I hope," said Mr Goodwin presently;
"it must be a long time since we had one, Delia, isn't it?"
"A whole fortnight," she answered, "but"--glancing wistfully at her
violin-case--"you've had such hard work to-day, I know, if you've been
to Pynes; perhaps it would be better to put it off."
But Mr Goodwin would not hear of this: it would refresh him; it would
put the other lessons out of his head; they would try over the last
sonata he had given Delia to practise.
"Did you make anything of it?" he asked. "It is rather difficult."
Delia's face, which until now had been full of smiles and happiness,
clouded over mournfully.
"Oh, Professor," she cried, "I'm in despair about my practising. If I
could get some more clear time to it, I know I could get on. But it's
always the same; the days get frittered up into tiny bits with things
which don't seem to matter, and I feel I don't make any way; just as I
am getting a hard passage right, I have to break off."
This was evidently not a new complaint to Mr Goodwin.
"Well, well, my dear," he said, kindly, "we will try it over together,
and see how we get on; I daresay it is better than you think."
Delia quickly collected the tea-things and carried them into the
kitchen, to prevent any chance of Mrs Cooper clattering and banging
about the room during the lesson; then she took out her violin, put her
music on the stand, and began to play, without more ado; the Professor
leaning back in his chair meanwhile, with closed eyes, and ears on the
alert to detect faults or passages wrongly rendered. As he sat there,
perfectly still, a calm expression came into his face, which made him
for the time look much younger than was usually the case. He was not a
very old man, but past troubles had left their traces in deep lines and
wrinkles, and his hair was quite white; only his eyes preserved that
look of eternal youth which is sometimes granted to those whose thoughts
have always been unselfish, kindly, and generous. Delia played on,
halting a little over difficult passages, and as she played, the
Professor's face changed with the music, showing sometimes an agony of
anxiety during an intricate bit, and relaxing into a calm smile when she
got to smooth water again.
Once, as though urged by some sudden impulse, he rose and began to
stride up and down the room; but when she saw this, Delia dropped her
bow, and said in a warning voice, "Now, Professor!" when he at once
resumed his seat, and waited patiently until she had finished.
"It won't do, Delia," he said; "you've got the idea, but you can't carry
it out."
"Oh, I know," she replied, mournfully. "I know how bad it is, and the
worst of it is, that I can hear how it ought to be all the time."
"No," he said, quickly, "that's not the worst of it; that's the best of
it. If you were satisfied with it as it is, you would be a hopeless
pupil. But you've something of the true artist in you, Delia. The true
artist, you know, is never satisfied."
"I believe, though," said Delia, "that if I could shut myself up alone
somewhere for a time with my violin, and no one to disturb me, I should
be able to do something. I might not be satisfied, but oh, how happy I
should be! As it is--"
"As it is, you must do as greater souls have done before you," put in
the Professor--"win your way towards your ideal through troubles and
hindrances."
"I don't get far, though," said Delia, mournfully.
"Do you think you would get far by shutting yourself away from the
common duties of your life?" said Mr Goodwin, in a kind voice. "It's a
very poor sort of talent that wants petting and coaxing like that.
Those great souls in the past who have taught us most, have done it
while reaching painfully up to their vision through much that thwarted
and baffled them. Their lives teach us as well as their art, and
believe me, Delia, when the artist's life fails in duty and devotion,
his art fails too in some way."
"It is so hard to remember that all those dusty, little, everyday things
matter," said Delia.
"But if you think of what they stand for, they do matter very much.
Call them self-discipline, and patience, and they are very important,
above all, to an artist. I have heard people say," continued Mr
Goodwin, reflectively, "that certain failings of temper and self-control
are to be excused in artists, because their natures are sensitive. Now,
that seems to me the very reason that they should be better than other
people--more open to good influences. And I believe, when this has not
been so, it has been owing rather to a smallness of character than to
their artistic temperament."
Delia smiled.
"I don't know," she said, "if I have anything of an artist in me, but I
have a small character, for I am always losing my temper--except when I
am with you, Professor. If I talked to you every day, and had plenty of
time to practise, I should have the good temper of an angel."
"But not of a human being. That must come, not from outward things
being pleasant, but from inward things being right. Believe an old man,
my dear, who has had some trials and disappointments in his life, the
best sort of happiness is his--
"Whose high endeavours are an inward light
Which makes the path before him always bright.
"Those endeavours may not bring fame or success, but they do bring light
to shine on all those everyday things you call dusty, and turn them to
gold."
Delia stood by her music-stand, her eyes fixed with a far-away gaze on
the window, and a rebellious little frown on her brow.
"But I should _love_ to be famous," she suddenly exclaimed, reaching up
her arms and clasping her hands behind her head. "Professor, I should
_love_ it! Fancy being able to play so as to speak to thousands of
people, and make them hear what you say; to make them glad one moment
and sorry the next; to have it in your power to move a whole crowd, as
some musicians have! It must be a splendid life. Shouldn't _you_ like
it?"
Mr Goodwin's glance rested on his enthusiastic pupil with a little
amusement.
"It's rather late in the day for me to consider the question, isn't it?"
he said.
"Didn't you ever want to go away from Dornton and play to people who
understand what you mean," asked Delia, impatiently. "Instead of
playing the organ in Saint Mary's and teaching me, you might be a famous
musician in London, with crowds of people flocking to hear you."
"Perhaps," said the Professor, quietly; "who knows?"
"Then," she continued, dropping her arms and turning to him with sudden
determination, "then, oh, Professor, why _didn't_ you go?"
The question had been in her mind a very long time: now it was out, and
she was almost frightened by her own rashness. Mr Goodwin, however,
seemed neither surprised nor annoyed.
"Well, Delia," he answered, with a gentle shake of the head, "I suppose
two things have kept me in Dornton--two very strong things--poverty and
pride. I had my chance once, but it came in a shape I couldn't bring
myself to accept. `There is a tide in the affairs of men,' you know,
and if one neglects it--"
He broke off and bent over his violin, which he had taken up from the
ground.
"Of course," said Delia, looking at him with great affection, "I'm glad
you didn't go, for my own sake. You and music make Dornton bearable."
"You always speak so disdainfully of poor Dornton," said Mr Goodwin,
drawing his bow softly across his violin. "Now, I've known it longer
than you, and really, when I look back, I've been very happy. Dornton
has given me the best any place has to give--people to love and care
for. After Prissy's marriage, there were some lonely days, to be sure.
I could not feel very happy about that, for she seemed to be taken out
of my life altogether, and there came sadder days still when she died.
You were only a little toddling child then, Delia, and yet it seemed a
short while before we began to be friends; and"--holding out his hand to
her--"we've been friends ever since, haven't we? So, you see, I ought
not to be ungrateful to Dornton."
"And now," added Delia, with an effort, "there is Anna, your grandchild;
perhaps you will make her famous, though you wouldn't be famous
yourself."
Mr Goodwin shook his head.
"Anna will never be famous in that way," he said. "She has a sweet,
affectionate manner, but there's nothing that reminds me of her mother
at all, or of our family. It's quite an effort to realise that she is
Prissy's child. It's a very curious feeling."
"Have you seen her often?" asked Delia.
"Only twice. I don't at all suppose, as matters stand, that I shall
ever see much of her. I am so busy, you see, and she tells me her aunt
has all sorts of plans for her--lessons, and so on."
"But," said Delia, rather indignantly, "she _ought_ to come and see you
often."
"I shall not complain if she doesn't, and I shall not be surprised.
There was a matter, years ago, in which I differed from Mrs Forrest,
and I have never been to Waverley since: we are quite friendly when we
meet, but there can never be really cordial relations between us."
"If I were Anna," began Delia, impetuously--
"But you are _not_ Anna," interrupted Mr Goodwin, with a smile; "you
are Delia Hunt, and you are made of different materials. If I am not
mistaken, Anna is affectionate and yielding, and will be influenced by
those she is with. And then she's very young, you see; she could not
oppose her aunt and uncle, and I'm sure I do not wish it. I shall not
interfere with her life at Waverley: the Forrests are kind people, and I
feel sure she will be very happy there. She will do very well without
me."
He turned towards his pupil and added, rather wistfully, "I should like
_you_ to be friends with her, though, Delia; it would be a comfort to
me."
"Indeed, I will try my best, Professor," she exclaimed, earnestly. Her
jealousy of Anna seemed very small and mean, and she felt anxious to
atone for it.
"That's well," said Mr Goodwin, with a contented air. "I know you will
do what you promise; and now it's my turn to play the sonata, and yours
to listen."
As the first plaintive notes of the violin filled the little room, Delia
threw herself into the window-seat, leaned back her head, and gave
herself up to enjoyment.
The Professor's playing meant many things to her. It meant a journey
into another country where all good and noble things were possible;
where vexations and petty cares could not enter, nor anything that
thwarted and baffled. It meant a sure refuge for a while from the small
details of her life in Dornton, which she sometimes found so wearisome.
The warning tones of the church clock checked her flight through these
happy regions, and brought her down to earth just as the Professor's
last note died away.
"Oh, how late it is?" she exclaimed, as she started up and put on her
hat. "Good-bye, Professor. Oh, if I could only make it speak like
that!"
"Patience, patience," he said, with his kind smile; "we all hear and see
better things than we can express, you know, but that will come to us
all some day."