Thistle and Rose - Amy Walton (beginner reading books for adults .txt) 📗

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