Thistle and Rose Part 5

As Anna drank her tea, she listened to all this, and intended every moment to mention that Mr Oswald had driven her from the station, but she was held back by a mixture of shyness and fear of what her aunt would say; perhaps she had done something very silly, and what Mrs Forrest would call unsuitable! At any rate, it was easier just now to leave her under the impression that she had taken a fly; but, of course, directly she got a chance, she would tell her all about it. For some time, however, Mrs Forrest continued to lament that her arrangements had not been properly carried out, and when the conversation did change, Anna had a great many questions to answer about her father and his intended journey. Then a message was brought out to her uncle, over which he and Mrs Forrest bent in grave consultation. She had now leisure to look about her. How pretty it all was! The long, low front of the Vicarage stood facing her, with the smooth green lawn between them, and up the supports of the veranda there were ma.s.ses of climbing plants in full bloom. The old part of the house had a very deep, red-tiled roof, with little windows poking out of it here and there, and the wing which the present Vicar had built stood at right angles to it.

Anna thought her father was right in not admiring the new bit as much as the old, but, nevertheless, with the evening light resting on it, it all looked very pretty and peaceful just now.

"And how do you like the look of Waverley, Anna?" asked Mrs Forrest.

Anna could answer with great sincerity that she thought it was a lovely place, and she said it so heartily that her aunt was evidently pleased.

She kissed her.

"I hope you will be happy whilst you are with us, my dear," she said, "and that Waverley may always be full of pleasant recollections to you."

Anna was wakened next morning from a very sound sleep by a little tapping noise at her window, which she heard for some time in a sort of half-dream, without being quite roused by it; it was so persistent, however, that at last she felt she must open her eyes to find out what it was. Where was she? For the first few minutes she looked round the room in puzzled surprise, and could not make out at all. It was so quiet, and clear, and bright, with sunbeams dancing about on the walls, so different altogether from the dingy, grey colour of a morning in London. Soon, however, she remembered she was in the country at Waverley; and her mother's picture on the toilet-table brought back to her mind all that had pa.s.sed yesterday--her journey, her drive with the farmer, her grandfather in the lane.

There were two things she must certainly do to-day, she told herself, as she watched the quivering shadows on the wall. First, she must ask her aunt to let her go at once and see her grandfather; and then she must tell her all about her arrival at the station yesterday, and how kindly Farmer Oswald had come to her help. It was strange that, now she had actually got to Waverley, and was only two miles away from her grandfather, that she did not feel nearly so eager to talk to him as she had while she was on her journey. However, she need not think about that now. Here she was at Waverley, where it was all sunny and delightful; she should not see smoky London, or have any more walks in the Park with her governess, for a long while, perhaps never again. She meant to enjoy herself, and be very happy, and nothing disagreeable or tiresome could happen in this beautiful place.

There was the little tapping noise again! What could it be? Anna jumped out of bed, went softly to the window, and drew up the blind.

Her bedroom was over the veranda, up which some cl.u.s.ter-roses had climbed, flung themselves in ma.s.ses on the roof, and reached out some of their branches as far as the window-sill. One bold little bunch had pressed itself close up against the pane, and the tight pink buds clattered against it whenever they were stirred by the breeze. The tapping noise was fully accounted for, but Anna could not turn away, it was all so beautiful and so new to her.

She pushed up the window, and leaned out. What a lovely smell! There was a long bed of mignonette and heliotrope just below, but, besides the fragrance from this, the air was full of all the sweet scents which belong to an early summer morning in the country. What nice, curious noises, too, all mixed up together! The bees buzzing in the flowers beneath, the little winds rustling in the leaves, the cheerful chirps and sc.r.a.ps of song from the birds, the crow of a distant c.o.c.k, the deep, low cooing of the pigeons in the stable-yard near. Anna longed to be out-of-doors, among these pleasant sights and sounds; she suddenly turned away, and began to dress herself quickly. The stable clock struck seven just as she was ready, and she ran down-stairs into the garden with a delightful sense of freedom. The suns.h.i.+ne was splendid; this was indeed different from walking in a London park; how happy she should be in this beautiful place! On exploring a little, she found that the garden was not nearly so large as it looked, for the end of it was hidden by a great walnut tree which stood on the lawn. Behind this came a square piece of kitchen garden, divided from the fields by a sunk fence, with a little wooden foot-bridge across it.

Anna danced along by the side of the border, where the flowers stood in blooming luxuriance and the most perfect order. Aunt Sarah was justly proud of her garden, and at present it was in brilliant perfection.

Anna knew hardly any of their names, and indeed, except the roses, they were strange to her; she had not thought there could be so many kinds, and all so beautiful. Reaching the kitchen garden, however, she found some old friends--a long row of sweet-peas, fluttering on their stems, like many-coloured b.u.t.terflies poised for flight; these were familiar, for she had seen them in greengrocers' shops in London, tied up in tight, close bunches. How different they looked at Waverley! The colours were twice as bright.

"I like these best of all," she said aloud, and as she spoke, a step sounded on the gravel, and there was Aunt Sarah, in her garden hat, with a basket, and scissors in her hand.

"You admire my sweet-peas, Anna," she said, kissing her. "I came out to gather some. I find it is so much better to get my flowers before the sun is too hot. Now, you can help me."

They walked slowly along the hedge of sweet-peas together, picking them as they went.

"What a beautiful garden yours is, Aunt Sarah," cried Anna.

Mrs Forrest looked pleased.

"There are many larger ones about here," she said, "but I certainly think my flowers do me credit. I attend to them a great deal myself, but, of course, I cannot give them as much time as I should like. Now you are come, we shall be busier than ever, because we must give some time every day to your studies."

"Miss Milverton said she would write to you about the lessons I have been doing, aunt," said Anna.

"I have arranged," continued Aunt Sarah, "to read with you for an hour every morning; it is difficult to squeeze it in, but I have managed it.

And then I am hoping that you will join in some lessons with the Palmers--girls of your own age, who live near. If their governess will allow you to learn French and German with them, it would be a good plan, and would give you companions besides.--By the way, Anna, Miss Milverton says in her letter that you don't make any progress in your music. How is that?"

"I don't care very much for music," said Anna. "I would much rather not go on with it, unless you want me to."

She thought that her aunt looked rather relieved, as she remarked that it was useless for people who were not musical to waste their time in learning to play, and that she should not make a point of music-lessons at present.

"Now I must cut some roses," added Mrs Forrest, as she put the glowing bunches of sweet-peas into her basket. "Come this way."

Anna followed to a little nursery of standard rose-trees near the foot-bridge.

"What are those chimneys I can just see straight over the fields?" she asked her aunt.

"Leas Farm," she replied. "It belongs to Mr Oswald, a very respectable farmer, who owns a good deal of land round here. We have our milk and b.u.t.ter from him. Your uncle used to keep his own cows, but he found them a trouble, and Mrs Oswald is an excellent dairy woman."

Here was an opportunity for Anna's explanation. The words were on her lips, when they were interrupted by the loud sound of a bell from the house.

"The breakfast bell!" said Mrs Forrest, abruptly turning away from her roses, and beginning to hasten towards the house, without pausing a moment. "I hope you will always be particular in one point, my dear Anna, and that is punctuality. More hangs upon it than most people recognise: the comfort of a household certainly does. If you are late for one thing, you are late for the next, and so on, until the whole day is thrown into disorder. I am obliged to map my day carefully out to get through my business, and I expect others to do the same. I speak seriously, because your father is one of the most unpunctual men I ever knew; and if you have inherited his failing, you cannot begin to struggle against it too soon."

Anna had not been many days at the Vicarage before she found that punctuality was Aunt Sarah's idol, and that nothing offended her more than want of respect to it from others. Certainly everything went like clockwork at Waverley, and though Anna fancied that Mr Forrest inwardly rebelled a little, he was outwardly quite submissive. All Aunt Sarah's arrangements and plans were so neatly fitted into each other that the least transgression in one upset the next, and the effect of this was that she had no odds and ends of leisure to spare. Anna even found it difficult to put all the questions she had in her mind.

"Not now, my dear, I am engaged," was the frequent reply. She managed to learn, however, that a visit to her grandfather had already been planned for that week, and that Mrs Forrest intended to leave her at his house at Dornton and fetch her again after driving farther on to make a call.

With this she was obliged to be satisfied, and it was quite strange how, after a few days, the new surroundings and rules and pleasures of Waverley seemed to make much that had filled her mind on her arrival fade and grow less important. She still wished to see her grandfather again; but the idea of being his chief comforter and support now seemed impossible, and rather foolish, and she would not have hinted it to Aunt Sarah on any account. Neither did it seem necessary, as the days went on, to mention her drive with Mr Oswald and the accident of pa.s.sing her grandfather in the lane.

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE PROFESSOR.

...I have heard a grave divine say that G.o.d 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 b.u.t.tered 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 ap.r.o.n. 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."