Thistle and Rose Part 1

Thistle and Rose.

by Amy Walton.

CHAPTER ONE.

THE PICTURE.

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s any more dull hours in this room, with Miss Milverton's grave face opposite to her, and the merest glimpses of suns.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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."