Thistle and Rose Part 7

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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sages 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 pa.s.sages, 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 amus.e.m.e.nt.

"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."