Thistle and Rose by Amy Walton (little red riding hood ebook txt) 📕

streets. This passage ended in a blank wall, and was, besides, too narrow for any but foot-passengers to pass up it, so that it would have been hard to find a quieter or more retired spot. The little, old houses in it were only one storey high, and very solidly built, with thick walls, and the windows in deep recesses; before each a strip of garden, and a gravel walk stretched down to a small gate. Back Row was the very oldest part of Dornton, and though the houses were small, they had always been lived in by respectable people, and preserved a certain air of gentility.

Without waiting to knock, Delia hurried in at the door of Number 4, which led straight into the sitting-room. The Professor was leaning back in his easy-chair, his boots white with dust, and an expression of fatigue and dejection over his whole person.

"Oh, Professor," was her first remark, as she threw down her violin-case, "you _do_ look tired! Have you had your tea?"

"I believe, my dear," he replied, rather faintly, "Mrs Cooper has not come in yet."

Mrs Cooper was a charwoman, who came in at uncertain intervals to cook the Professor's meals and clean his rooms: as he was not exacting, the claims of her other employers were always satisfied first, and if she were at all busier than usual, he often got scanty attention.

Without waiting to hear more, Delia made her way to the little kitchen, and set about her preparations in a very business-like manner. She was evidently well acquainted with the resources of the household, for she bustled about, opening cupboards, and setting tea-things on a tray, as though she were quite at home. In a wonderfully short time she had prepared a tempting meal, and carried it into the sitting-room, so that, when the Professor came back from changing his boots, he found everything quite ready. His little round table, cleared of the litter of manuscripts and music-books, was drawn up to the open window, and covered with a white cloth. On it there was some steaming coffee, eggs, and bread and butter, a bunch of roses in the middle, and his arm-chair placed before it invitingly.

He sank into it with a sigh of comfort and relief.

"How very good your coffee smells, Delia!" he said; "quite different from Mrs Cooper's."

"I daresay, if the truth were known," said Delia, carefully pouring it out, "that you had no dinner to speak of before you walked up to Pynes and back again."

"I had a sandwich," answered Mr Goodwin, meekly, for Delia was bending a searching and severe look upon him.

"Then Mrs Cooper didn't come!" she exclaimed. "Really we ought to look out for some one else: I believe she does it on purpose."

"Now I beg of you, Delia," said the Professor, leaning forward earnestly, "not to send Mrs Cooper away. She's a very poor woman, and would miss the money. She told me only the last time she was here that the doctor had ordered cod-liver oil for the twins, and she couldn't afford to give it them."

"Oh, the twins!" said Delia, with a little scorn.

"Well, my dear, she _has_ twins; she brought them here once in a perambulator."

"But that's no reason at all she should not attend properly to you," said Delia.

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 passage 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 passages 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 passages, 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 shine 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 amusement.

"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?"