Thistle and Rose Part 9

"I have a portrait of my mother," said Anna, "a miniature, painted just after her marriage. It's very pretty indeed."

"It should be, if it's a good likeness," said Mrs Hunt. "There's never been such a pretty girl in Dornton since your mother went away. I should like to see that portrait. When you come over again, which I hope will be soon, you must bring it with you, and then we will have some more talk about your dear mother."

Anna readily promised, and as she walked up the High Street by Delia's side, her mind was full of all that she had heard that afternoon. It had interested and pleased her very much, but somehow it was difficult to connect Mr Goodwin and his dusty, little house with the picture formed in her mind of her beautiful mother. If only she were alive now!

"I suppose you were a baby when my mother married," she said, suddenly turning to her companion.

"I was two years old," replied Delia, smiling, "but though I can't remember your mother, I can remember your grandfather when I was quite a little girl. He was always so good to me. Long before he began to teach me to play, I used to toddle by his side to church, and wait there while he practised on the organ. I think it was that which made me first love music."

"It seems so odd," said Anna, hesitatingly, "that I should be his grandchild, and yet that he should be almost a stranger to me; while you--"

"But," put in Delia, quickly, for she thought that Anna was naturally feeling jealous, "you won't be strangers long now; you will come over often, and soon you will feel as though you'd known him always. To tell you the truth," she added, lightly, "I felt dreadfully jealous of you when I first heard you were coming."

Jealous! How strange that sounded to Anna; she glanced quickly at her companion, and saw that she was evidently in earnest.

"I don't know, I'm sure, about coming to Dornton often," she said, "because, you see, Aunt Sarah is so tremendously busy, and she likes to do certain things on certain days; but, of course, I shall come as often as I can. I do hope," she added, earnestly, "I shall be able to see you sometimes, and that you will often come over to Waverley."

Delia was silent.

"You see," continued Anna, "I like being at Waverley very much, and they're very kind indeed; but it _is_ a little lonely, and if you don't mind, I should be _so_ glad to have you for a friend."

She turned to her companion with a bright blush, and an appealing look that was almost humble. Delia was touched. She had begun to think Anna rather cold and indifferent in the way she had talked about coming to Dornton; but, after all, it was unreasonable to expect her to feel warm affection for a grandfather who was almost a stranger. When she knew him she would not be able to help loving him, and, meanwhile, she herself must not forget that she had promised the Professor to be Anna's friend; no doubt she had said truly that, she was lonely at Waverley.

She met Anna's advances cordially, therefore, and by the time they had turned off the high-road into the fields, the two girls were chatting gaily, and quite at their ease with each other. Everything in this field-walk was new and delightful to Anna, and her pleasure increased by feeling that she had made a friend of her own age. The commonest wild-flowers on her path were wonderful to her unaccustomed eyes. Delia must tell their names. She must stop to pick some. They were prettier even than Aunt Sarah's flowers at Waverley. What were those growing in the hedge? She ran about admiring and exclaiming until, near the end of the last field, the outbuildings of Leas Farm came in sight, which stood in a lane dividing the farmer's property from Mr Forrest's.

"There's Mr Oswald," said Delia, suddenly.

Anna looked up. Across the field towards them, mounted on a stout, grey cob, came the farmer at a slow jog-trot. So much had happened since her arrival at Waverley, that she had now almost forgotten the events of that first evening, and all idea of telling her aunt of her acquaintance with Mr Oswald had pa.s.sed from her mind. As he stopped to greet the girls, however, and make a few leisurely remarks about the weather, it all came freshly to her memory.

"Not been over to see my cows yet, missie," he said, checking his pony again, after he had started, and leaning back in his saddle. "My Daisy's been looking for you every day. You'd be more welcome than ever, now I know who 'twas I had the pleasure of driving the other day-- for your mother's sake, as well as your own."

Delia turned an inquiring glance on her companion, as they continued their way. Would she say anything? Recollecting Mrs Winn's story, she rather hoped she would. But Anna, her gay spirits quite checked, walked soberly on in perfect silence. It made her uncomfortable to remember that she had never undeceived Aunt Sarah about that fly. What a stupid little mistake it had been! Nothing wrong in what she had done at all, if she had only been quite open about it. What would Delia think of it, she wondered. She glanced sideways at her. What a very firm, decided mouth and chin she had: she looked as though she were never afraid of anything, and always quite sure to do right. Perhaps, if she knew of this, she would look as scornful and angry as she had that afternoon, in speaking of the Dornton people. That would be dreadful. Anna could not risk that. She wanted Delia to like and admire her very much, and on no account to think badly of her. So she checked the faint impulse she had had towards the confession of her foolishness, and was almost relieved when they reached the point where Delia was to turn back to Dornton.

They parted affectionately, with many hopes and promises as to their meeting again soon, and Anna stood at the white gate watching her new friend until she was out of sight.

Then she looked round her. She was in quite a strange land, for although she had now been some weeks at Waverley, she had not yet explored the fields between the village and Dornton. On her right, a little way down the gra.s.sy lane, stood Mr Oswald's house, a solid, square building, of old, red brick, pleasantly surrounded by barns, cattle-sheds, and outbuildings, all of a substantial, prosperous appearance. It crossed Anna's mind that she should very much like to see the farmer's cows, as he had proposed, but she had not the courage to present herself at the house and ask for Daisy. She must content herself by looking in at the farmyard gate as she pa.s.sed it. A little farther on, Delia had pointed out another gate, on the other side of the lane, which led straight into the Vicarage field, and towards this she now made her way.

She was unusually thoughtful as she sauntered slowly down the lane, for her visit to Dornton had brought back thoughts of her mother and grandfather, which had lately been kept in the background. She had to-day heard them spoken of with affection and admiration, instead of being pa.s.sed over in silence. Waverley was very pleasant. Aunt Sarah was kind, and her Uncle John indulgent, but about her relations in Dornton there was scarcely a word spoken. It was strange. She remembered Delia's sparkling eyes as she talked of Mr Goodwin. That was stranger still. In the two visits Anna had paid to him, she had not discovered much to admire, and she had not been pleased with the appearance of Number 4 Back Row. It had seemed to her then that people called him "poor Mr Goodwin" with reason: he was poor, evidently, or he would not live all alone in such a very little house, with no servants, and work so hard, and get so tired and dusty as he had looked on that first evening she had seen him. Yet, perhaps, when she knew him as well as Delia did, she should be able to feel proud of him; and, at any rate, he stood in need of love and attention.

She felt drawn to the Hunts and the Dornton people, who had known and loved her mother, and she resolved to make more efforts to go there frequently, and to risk displeasing Aunt Sarah and upsetting her arrangements. It would be very disagreeable, for she knew well that neither Mr Goodwin nor Dornton were favourite subjects at Waverley; and when things were going smoothly and pleasantly, it was so much nicer to leave them alone. However, she would try, and just then arriving at the farmyard gate, she dismissed those tiresome thoughts, and leaned over to look with great interest at the creatures within. As she did so, a little girl came out of the farmhouse and came slowly down the lane towards her. She was about twelve years old, very childish-looking for her age, and dressed in a fresh, yellow cotton frock, nearly covered by a big, white pinafore. Her little, round head was bare, and her black hair closely cropped like a boy's. She came on with very careful steps, her whole attention fixed on a plate she held firmly with both hands, which had a mug on it full of something she was evidently afraid to spill. Her eyes were so closely bent on this, that until she was near Anna she did not see her; and then, with a start, she came suddenly to a stand-still, not forgetting to preserve the balance of the mug and plate. It was a very nice, open, little face she raised towards Anna, with a childish and innocent expression, peppered thickly with freckles like a bird's egg, especially over the blunt, round nose.

"Did you come from the Vicarage?" she inquired, gravely.

"I'm staying there," replied Anna, "but I came over the fields just now from Dornton."

"Those are puppa's fields," said the child, "and this is puppa's farm."

"You are Daisy Oswald, I suppose?" said Anna. "Your father asked me to come and see your cows." The little girl nodded.

"I know what your name is," she said. "You're Miss Anna Forrest. Puppa fetched you over from the station. You came quick. Puppa was driving Strawberry Molly that day. No one can do it as quick as her." Then, with a critical glance, "I can ride her. Can you ride?"

"No, indeed, I can't," replied Anna. "But won't you show me your cows?"

"Why, it isn't milking-time!" said Daisy, lifting her brows with a little surprise; "they're all out in the field." She considered Anna thoughtfully for a moment, and then added, jerking her head towards the next gate, "Won't you come and sit on that gate? I often sit on that gate. Most every evening."

The invitation was made with so much friendliness that Anna could not refuse it.

"I can't stay long," she said, "but I don't mind a little while."

Arrived at the gate, Daisy pushed mug and plate into Anna's hands.

"Hold 'em a minute," she said, as she climbed nimbly up and disposed herself comfortably on the top bar. "Now"--smoothing her pinafore tightly over her knees--"give 'em to me, and come up and sit alongside, and we'll have 'em together. That'll be fine."

Anna was by no means so active and neat in her movements as her companion, for she was not used to climbing gates; but after some struggles, watched by Daisy with a chuckle of amus.e.m.e.nt, she succeeded in placing herself at her side. In this position they sat facing the Vicarage garden at the end of the field. It looked quite near, and Anna hoped that Aunt Sarah might not happen to come this way just at present.

"How nice it is to sit on a gate!" she said; "I never climbed a gate before."

Daisy stared.

"Never climbed a gate before!" she repeated; "why ever not?"

"Well, you see, I've always lived in a town," said Anna, "where you don't need to climb gates."

Daisy nodded.

"I know," she said, "like Dornton. Now there's two lots of bread and b.u.t.ter, one for me and one for you, and we must take turns to drink.

You first."

"But I've had tea, thank you," said Anna. "I won't take any of yours."

Daisy looked a little cast down at this refusal, but soon set to work heartily on her simple meal alone, stopping in the intervals of her bites and sups to ask and answer questions.

"Was the town you lived in _nicer_ than Dornton?" she asked.

"It was not a bit like it," replied Anna. "Much, much larger. And always full of carts, and carriages, and people."

"My!" exclaimed Daisy. "Any shops?"

"Lots and lots. And at night, when they were all lighted up, and the lamps in the streets too, it was as light as day."

"That must have been fine," said Daisy, "I like shops. Were you sorry to come away?"

Anna shook her head.

"Do you like being at Waverley?" pursued the inquiring Daisy, tilting up the mug so that her brown eyes came just above the rim; "there's no one to play with there, but I s'pose you don't mind. I haven't any brothers and sisters either. There's only me. But then there's all the animals.

Do you like animals?"

"I think I should very much," answered Anna, "but you can't have many animals in London."

"Well," said Daisy, who had now finished the last crumb of bread and the last drop of milk, "if you like, I'll show you my very own calf!"