No man can serve two masters.
Anna found her life at Waverley bright and pleasant as the time went on,
in spite of Aunt Sarah's strict rules and regulations. There was only
one matter which did not become easy, and that was her nearer
acquaintance with her grandfather. Somehow, when she asked to go to
Dornton, there was always a difficulty of some kind--Mrs Forrest could
not spare the time to go with her, or the pony-cart to take her, or a
maid to walk so far, and she must not go alone. At first, mindful of
her resolves, she made efforts to overcome those objections, but being
always repulsed, she soon ceased them, and found it easier and far more
pleasant to leave her aunt to arrange the visits herself.
In this way they became very rare, and when they did take place, they
were not very satisfactory, for Anna and her grandfather were seldom
left alone. She did not, therefore, grow to be any fonder of Back Row,
or to associate her visits there with anything pleasant. Indeed, few as
they were, she soon began to find them rather irksome, and to be
relieved when they were over. This was the only subject on which she
was not perfectly confidential to her new friend, Delia, who was now her
constant companion, for although Anna went very seldom to Dornton, Mrs
Forrest made no objection to their meeting often elsewhere.
So Delia would run over to the Vicarage whenever she could spare time,
or join Anna in long country rambles, and on these occasions it was she
who listened, and Anna who did most of the talking. Delia heard all
about her life in London, and how much better she liked the country; all
about Aunt Sarah's punctuality, and how difficult it was to go to
Dornton; but about the Professor she heard very little. Always on the
lookout for slights on his behalf, and jealous for his dignity, she soon
began to feel a little sore on his account, and to have a suspicion that
Anna's heart was not in the matter. For her own part, she knew that not
all the aunts and rules in the world would have kept her from paying him
the attention that was his due. As the visits became fewer this feeling
increased, and sometimes gave a severity to her manner which Anna found
hard to bear, and it finally led to their first disagreement.
"Can you come over to church at Dornton with me this evening?" asked
Delia one afternoon, as she and Anna met at the stile half-way across
the fields.
"I should like to," said Anna, readily, "very much indeed, if Aunt Sarah
doesn't mind."
"I'll walk back with you as far as this afterwards," said Delia. "You
would see your grandfather. You've never heard him play the organ yet."
"I don't _suppose_ aunt would mind," said Anna, hesitatingly, her fair
face flushing a little.
"Well," said Delia, "you can run back and ask her. I'll wait for you
here. You will just have time."
The bells of Saint Mary's church began to sound as she spoke.
"Only you must go at once," she added, "or we shall be too late."
Still Anna hesitated. She hated the idea of asking Aunt Sarah, and
seeing her mouth stiffen into that hard line which was so disagreeable;
but it was almost as bad to face Delia, standing there, bolt upright,
with her dark eyes fixed so unflinchingly upon her.
"I know," she said, appealingly, "that Aunt Sarah _has_ arranged for me
to go to Dornton next week."
"Oh," said Delia, coldly.
"And," pursued Anna, turning away from her companion and stooping to
pick a flower, "she does like me, you know, to go to the service at
Waverley with her. She says uncle prefers it."
Delia's glance rested for a moment in silence on the bending figure,
with the pale yellow hair outspread on the shoulders gleaming in the
sunshine; then she said in rather a hard voice:
"The fact is, I suppose, you don't _want_ to go. If so, you had better
have said so at first."
Anna rose quickly, and faced her friend:
"It's unkind, Delia," she exclaimed, "to say that. I _do_ want to go.
You know I like to be with you--and I should like to go to Dornton
church much better than Waverley."
"Then why don't you ask Mrs Forrest?" said Delia, calmly. "She can't
mind your going if I walk back with you. It's worth the trouble, if you
want to see your grandfather."
Anna cast down her eyes and fidgeted with the flowers in her belt.
"You don't understand," she began, rather nervously, "how difficult it
is to ask Aunt Sarah some things--"
"But this is quite a right, reasonable thing," interrupted Delia;
"there's nothing wrong in wishing to see your grandfather sometimes. Of
course, if you never ask Mrs Forrest, she thinks you don't care about
it."
"I do ask," said Anna. "I have often asked; but, you know I told you,
Delia, Aunt Sarah never likes me to go to Dornton."
"Then you mean to give it up, I suppose," said Delia, coldly.
"If I'm staying with Aunt Sarah, I suppose I ought to do as she wishes,"
said Anna; "but, of course, I shan't give it up entirely. She doesn't
wish me to do that."
Delia stood for a moment in silence, her eyes fixed on Anna's pretty,
downcast face. The sound of the church bells came softly to them over
the fields from Dornton, and "Well," she said, with a little sigh, "I
mustn't stay, or I shall be late, and I promised to meet the Professor
after church. He half expects to see you with me. What shall I say to
him?"
"Oh, Delia!" cried Anna, looking up into her companion's face, "I _do_
wish I could go with you."
"It's too late now," said Delia, turning away. "Good-bye."
Anna lingered at the stile. Would not Delia turn round once and nod
kindly to her, as she always did when they parted? No. Her compact
figure went steadily on its way, the shoulders very square, the head
held high and defiantly. Anna could not bear it. She jumped over the
stile and ran after her friend. "Delia!" she called out. Delia turned
and waited. "Don't be cross with me," pleaded Anna. "After all, it
isn't my fault; and I _should_ like to go with you so much. And--and
give my love to grandfather, please. I'm going to see him next week."
She took hold of Delia's reluctant hand and kissed her cheek. Delia
allowed the embrace, but did not return it. Her heart was hot within
her. Mrs Winn had said that Anna was not straightforward. Was it
true?
Anna had not much time for any sort of reflection, for she had to get
back to Waverley as fast as she could, and, in spite of her haste, the
bell stopped just as she reached the garden gate, and she knew that her
aunt would have started for church without her. It was barely five
minutes' walk, but she had to smooth her hair, and find some gloves, and
make herself fit for Mrs Forrest's critical eye, and all this took some
time. When she pushed open the heavy door and entered timidly, her
footfall sounding unnaturally loud, the usual sprinkling of evening
worshippers was already collected, and her uncle had begun to read the
service. Anna crept into a seat. She knew that she had committed a
very grave fault in Mrs Forrest's sight, and she half wished that she
had made up her mind to go to Dornton with Delia. She wanted to please
every one, and she had pleased no one; it was very hard. As she walked
back to the Vicarage with her aunt after service, she was quite prepared
for the grave voice in which she began to speak.
"How was it you were late this evening, Anna?"
"I'm very sorry, aunt," she answered. "I was talking to Delia Hunt in
the field, and until we heard the bell, we didn't know how late it was."
"If you must be unpunctual at all," said Mrs Forrest--"and I suppose
young people will be thoughtless sometimes--I must beg that you will at
least be careful not to let it occur at church time. Nothing displeases
your uncle more than the irreverence of coming in late as you did
to-day. It is a bad example to the whole village, besides being very
wrong in itself. As a whole," she continued, after a pause, "I have
very little fault to find with your behaviour; you try to please me, I
think, in every respect, but in this matter of punctuality, Anna, there
is room for improvement. Now, you were a quarter of an hour late for
dinner one night. You had been with Delia Hunt then too. I begin to
think you run about too much with her: it seems to make you forgetful
and careless."
"But," said Anna, impulsively, "my being late had nothing at all to do
with Delia this time. I was with Daisy Oswald."
"Daisy Oswald!" repeated Mrs Forrest, in a tone of surprise. "When did
you make Daisy Oswald's acquaintance?"
She turned sharply to her niece with a searching glance. Anna blushed
and hesitated a little.
"I--we--Delia and I met her father as we were walking home from Dornton.
He asked me to go and see his cows; and then, after Delia had left me,
I met his little girl in the lane just near the farm."
Mrs Forrest was silent. She could not exactly say that there was
anything wrong in all this, but she highly disapproved of it. It was
most undesirable that her niece should be running about the fields and
lanes, and picking up acquaintances in this way. Daisy Oswald was a
very nice little girl, and there was no harm done at present, but it
must not continue. The thing to do, she silently concluded, was to
provide Anna with suitable occupations and companions which would make
so much liberty impossible for the future.
To her relief, Anna heard no more of the matter, but it was easy to see
that Aunt Sarah had not liked the idea of her being with Daisy. It was
uncomfortable to remember that she had not been quite open about it.
Somehow, since that first foolish concealment, she had constantly been
forced into little crooked paths where she could not walk quite
straight, but she consoled herself by the reflection that she had not
told any untruth.
A few days later Mrs Forrest, returning from a drive with her face full
of satisfaction, called Anna to her in her sitting-room. She had been
able, she said, to make a very nice arrangement for her to have some
lessons in German and French with the Palmers. Miss Wilson, their
governess, had been most kind about it, and it was settled that Anna
should go to Pynes twice every week for a couple of hours.
"It will be an immense advantage to you," concluded Mrs Forrest, "to
learn with other girls, and I hope, beside the interest of the lessons,
that you will make friendships which will be both useful and pleasant.
Isabel Palmer is about your own age, and her sister a little older.
They will be nice companions for you, and I hope you will see a good
deal of them."
From this time Anna's life was very much altered. Gradually, as her
interests and amusements became connected with the Palmers and all that
went on at their house, she saw less and less of Delia, and it was now
Mrs Forrest who had to remind her when a visit to Dornton was due.
There were no more country rambles, or meetings at the stile, and no
more confidential chats. Anna had other matters to attend to, and if
she were not occupied with lessons, there was always some engagement at
Pynes which must be kept. And yet, she often thought, with a regretful
sigh, there was really no one like Delia! Isabel Palmer was very
pleasant, and there was a great deal she enjoyed very much at Pynes, but
in her heart she remained true to her first friend. If only it had been
possible to please every one! If only Delia would be kind and agreeable
when they did meet, instead of looking so cold and proud! By degrees
Anna grew to dread seeing her, instead of looking forward to it as one
of her greatest pleasures at Waverley. Everything connected with Pynes,
on the contrary, was made so easy and pleasant. Aunt Sarah's lips never
looked straight and thin when she asked to go there, and Isabel Palmer
was sure of a welcome at any time. The pony-cart could nearly always be
had if it were wanted in that direction, though it seemed so
inconvenient for it to take the road to Dornton. And then, with the
Palmers there was no chance of severe looks on the subject of Mr
Goodwin. Did they know, Anna wondered, that he was her grandfather?
Perhaps not, for they had lived at Pynes only a short time. There was
no risk of meeting him there, for Saturday, when he gave Clara a
music-lesson, was a specially busy day with Mrs Forrest, and she always
wanted Anna at the Vicarage.
It was strange that Anna should have come to calling it a "risk" to meet
her grandfather, but it was true. Not all at once, but little by
little, since her separation from Delia, the habit of dismissing him
from her thoughts, as well as keeping silence about him, had grown
strong within her. At first Delia's scornful face often seemed to flash
before her in the midst of some gaiety or enjoyment. "You are not
worthy of him," it seemed to say. But it had been so often driven away
that it now came very seldom, and when it did, it looked so pale and
shadowy that it had no reality about it. Anna threw herself into the
amusements which her new friends put in her way, and determined to be
happy in spite of uncomfortable recollections.
On her side, Delia had now come to the swift decision natural to her age
and character. Anna was unworthy. She had been tried and found
wanting. Gold had been offered to her, and she had chosen tinsel. It
was not surprising that the Palmers should be preferred to herself, but
that any one related to the Professor, able to see and know him, should
be capable of turning aside and neglecting him for others, was a thing
she could neither understand nor bear with patience. She ceased to
speak of it when she met Anna, and preserved a haughty silence on the
subject, but her manner and looks expressed disapproval plainly enough.
The disapproval grew stronger as time went on, for although no word of
complaint ever passed Mr Goodwin's lips, Delia soon felt sure that he
longed to see more of his grandchild. They often talked of Anna, the
Professor listening eagerly to any news of her or account of her doings.
No hint of disappointment was ever given, but affection has quick
instincts, and Delia was able to understand her old friend's silence as
well as his speech. She ran in to Number 4 Back Row one afternoon, and
found him looking rather uncertainly and nervously at his tea-table,
which Mrs Cooper had just prepared in her usual hurried manner--
slapping down the cups and plates with a sort of spiteful emphasis, and
leaving the cloth awry. He looked relieved to see Delia.
"You would perhaps put things a little straight, and make it look
nicer," he said. "I don't know how it is, but Mrs Cooper seems to
spoil the look of things so."
"You expect a visitor?" said Delia, as she began to alter the
arrangement of the little meal, and noticed two cups and plates.
"Yes," said the Professor, half shyly. "I got some water-cresses and
some fresh eggs. And that kind Mrs Winn sent me some trout this
morning. Mrs Cooper promised to come in presently and cook them."
Delia observed that the room had quite a holiday air of neatness. There
was no dust to be seen anywhere, and a special, high-backed arm-chair,
which was not in general use, was now drawn up to one side of the
tea-table.
"That was Prissy's chair," he continued, looking at it affectionately;
"she always sat there, and I thought I should like to see Anna in it."
"Oh, is Anna coming to tea with you?" exclaimed Delia. "I _am_ glad.
Is she coming alone?"
The Professor nodded. There was a faint pink flush of excitement on his
cheek. His hand trembled a little as he touched the bunch of mignonette
which he had put on the table.
"My flowers never do very well," he said, trying to speak in an off-hand
tone; "they don't get enough sun. And then, the other day I had to pour
my coffee out of the window, and I forgot that the border was just
underneath. I daresay it didn't agree with them."
"I suppose Mrs Cooper made it so badly that even you could not drink
it?" said Delia; "but it's certainly hard that she should poison your
flowers as well. Why don't you tell her about it?"
"Oh, she does her best, she does her best," said the Professor, quickly;
"I wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world."
"Well, she won't improve at that rate," said Delia; "it's a good thing
every one is not so patient as you are. Now"--surveying her
arrangements--"I think it all looks very nice, and as I go home I'll
call in at Mrs Cooper's and remind her about the fish. Perhaps I shall
have time to bring you a few more flowers before Anna comes."
Quite excited at the idea of the Professor's pleasure at having Anna all
to himself for a little while, she quickly performed her errands, and
finally left him in a state of complete preparation, with roses upon his
table, and the trout cooking in the kitchen; he himself, stationed at
the window, meanwhile pulling his watch out of his pocket every two or
three minutes to see if it were time for his guest to arrive.
During the week which followed, Delia thought more kindly of Anna than
she had done for some time past. Perhaps, after all, she had judged her
too hastily; perhaps she had been hard and unjust; very likely this
meeting would be the beginning of a happier state of things between Mr
Goodwin and his grandchild.
"Did you have a pleasant evening on Saturday?" she asked, when they next
met.
Anna was sitting in the Palmers' pony-cart, outside a shop in the town,
waiting for Isabel: she blushed brightly when she saw Delia, and looked
rather puzzled at her question.
"Where?" she said, vaguely. "Oh, I remember. I was to have had tea
with grandfather, but aunt made another engagement for me, and I didn't
go."
Delia's face clouded over with the disapproving expression Anna knew so
well.
"He didn't mind a bit," she said, leaning forward and speaking
earnestly. "He said another evening would do just as well for him."
"I daresay he did," replied Delia, coldly.
"And, you see, it was a cricket match at Holmbury," Anna continued, in
an apologetic voice; "such a lovely place! and the Palmers offered to
drive me, and another day wouldn't have done for that, and Aunt Sarah
thought--"
"Oh, naturally," said Delia, lightly, "the cricket match was far more
important. And, of course, the Professor wouldn't mind. Why should
he?"
She nodded and passed on, just as Isabel came out of the shop.
"Wasn't that Delia Hunt?" said Isabel, as she got into the pony-cart;
"what is the matter? Her face looked like the sky when thunder is
coming."
Delia felt as she looked, as though a storm were rising within her. She
thought of the Professor's little feast prepared so carefully, the
flowers, the high-backed chair standing ready for the guest who never
came. She could not bear to imagine his disappointment. How could Anna
be so blind, so insensible? All her hard feelings towards her returned,
and they were the more intense because she could speak of them to no
one--a storm without the relief of thunder. She had a half-dread of her
next meeting with Mr Goodwin, for with this resentment in her heart it
would be difficult to talk about Anna with patience, and yet the meeting
must come very soon.
The next day was Wednesday, on which evening it was his custom to stay
in the church after service and play the organ for some time. Delia,
who was generally his only listener, would wait for him, and they would
either stroll home together, or, if it were warm weather, sit for a
little while under a certain tree near the church. They both looked
forward to those meetings, but this week, when the time came, and Delia
mounted the steep street which led up to the church, she almost wished
that the Professor might not be there.
Dornton church was perched upon a little hill, so that, though it was in
the town, it stood high above it, and its tall, grey spire made a
landmark for miles round. The churchyard, carefully planted with
flowers, and kept in good order, sloped sharply down to old gabled
houses on one side, and on the other to open meadows, across which the
tower of Waverley church could be just seen amongst the trees. On this
side a wooden bench, shadowed by a great ash, had been let into the low
wall, and it was to this that Delia and the Professor were in the habit
of repairing after the Wednesday evening services.
Mr Goodwin's music had always power to soothe Delia, and to raise her
thoughts above her daily troubles; but to-night, as she sat listening to
him in the empty church, she felt even more than usual as if a mighty
and comforting voice were speaking to her. As long as the resounding
notes of the organ continued, she forgot the little bustle of Dornton,
and her anger against Anna, and even when the Professor had finished and
joined her in the porch, the calming influence remained.
"Can you stay a little this evening?" he asked, as they walked through
the churchyard together; "if you can spare time I should like a talk.
It's about Anna," he continued, when they were seated under the
flickering shadow of the ash tree; "I didn't see her the other evening,
after all--"
"So I heard," said Delia.
"No--I didn't see her," repeated Mr Goodwin, poking the ground
reflectively with his stick. "She went to some cricket match with her
friends; she's to come to me another time. It's very kind of Mrs
Palmer to give her so much pleasure. I suppose Anna enjoys it very
much? I hear of her going about with them a good deal."
"I think she does," said Delia.
"It's always such a comfort to me," he continued, his kind eyes beaming
upon his companion from beneath the brim of his wide-awake, "to think
that you are her friend. I don't see much of her. I told you I should
not be able to, when she first came, but the next best thing is to know
that you do."
Delia was silent. She did not meet his glance, but pressed her lips
together and frowned a little.
"Anna wants a friend," pursued the Professor, thoughtfully. "Little as
I see of her, I can tell that. She has the sort of nature which depends
greatly on influence--every one does, I suppose, but some of us can
stand alone better than others."
"Anna seems to get on very well," said Delia. "People always like her."
"Yes, yes, yes," said the Professor, nodding his head gently, "so I
should think--so I should think. But when I say a `friend,' Delia, I
don't mean that sort of thing; I mean some one who's willing to take a
little trouble."
"I don't see how you can be a friend to a person that doesn't want you,"
said Delia, impatiently. "If Anna wanted me--"
"You're not displeased with her about anything, I hope?" said the
Professor, anxiously; "she has not offended you?"
Delia hesitated. She could not bear to disappoint him, as he waited
eagerly for her answer.
"The fact is," she said at length, "I don't understand Anna. She
doesn't look at things in the same way as I do. She gets on better with
the Palmers than with me."
"I'm sorry for that," said the Professor, with a discouraged air, "but
Anna's very young, you know, in years and character too. I daresay she
needs patience."
"I'm afraid I've not been patient," said Delia, humbly.
Mr Goodwin was the only person in the world to whom she was always
ready to own herself in the wrong.
"Oh, well, patience comes with years," he said; "you're too young yet to
know much about it. It's often hard enough, even after a long life, to
bear with the failings of others, and to understand our own. People are
so different. Some are strong, and some are weak. And the strong ones
are always expecting the weak ones to stand upright as they do, and go
straight on their way without earing for praise or blame. And, of
course they can't--it's not in them--they stumble and turn aside at
little things that the others wouldn't notice. And the weak ones, to
whom, perhaps, it is natural to be sweet-tempered, and yielding, and
forgiving, expect those virtues from the strong--and they don't find
them--and then they wonder how it is that they find it hard to forgive
and impossible to forget, and call them harsh and unbearable. And so we
go on misunderstanding instead of helping each other."
Delia's face softened. Perhaps she had been too hasty with Anna--too
quick to blame.
"Listen," said the Professor, "I was reading this while I waited for
service to begin this evening."
He had taken out of his pocket a stumpy, and very shabby little brown
volume of Thomas a Kempis, which was very familiar to her.
"But now, God hath thus ordered it, that we may learn to bear one
another's burdens, for no man is without fault; no man but hath his
burden; no man is self-sufficient; no man has wisdom enough for himself
alone. But we ought to bear with one another, comfort, help, instruct,
and admonish one another."
He shut the little book, and turned his eyes absently across the broad,
green meadows. Delia knew that absent look of the Professor's well. It
meant that he was travelling back into the past, seeing and hearing
things of which she knew nothing. Yet, though he did not seem to be
speaking to her, every word he said sank into her mind.
"It's very hard for strong people to bear with weakness. It's such a
disappointing, puzzling thing to them. They are always expecting
impossibilities. Yet they are bound to help. It is a sin to turn
aside. To leave weakness to trail along in the mire when they might be
a prop for it to lean on and climb upwards by. The strong have a duty
to the weak, and lessons to learn from them. But they are hard
lessons--hard lessons."
Long after he had finished, Mr Goodwin sat with his eyes fixed musingly
on the distance, and Delia would not disturb his thoughts by a single
word. Even when they walked home together they had very little to say,
and were both in a silent mood. When they parted at the turning to Back
Row, Delia spoke almost for the first time.
"I'm not going to be cross to Anna any more, Professor. You may feel
quite happy about that."