John Short had almost finished his hard work at college. For two years
and a half he had laboured on acquiring for himself reputation and a
certain amount of more solid advantage in the shape of scholarships.
Never in that time had he left Cambridge even for a day unless compelled
to do so by the regulations of his college. His father had found it hard
to induce him to come up to town; and, being in somewhat easier
circumstances since John had declared that he needed no further help to
complete his education, he had himself gone to see his son more than
once. But John had never been to Billingsfield and he knew nothing of the
changes that had taken place there. At last, however, Short felt that he
must have some rest before he went up for honours; he had grown thin and
even pale; his head ached perpetually, and his eyes no longer seemed so
good as they had been. He went to a doctor, and the doctor told him that
with his admirable constitution a few days of absolute rest would do all
that was necessary. John wrote to Mr. Ambrose to say that he would at
last accept the invitation so often extended and would spend the week
between Christmas and New Year's day at Billingsfield.
There were great rejoicings at the vicarage. John had never been
forgotten for a day since he had left, each successive step in his career
had been hailed with hearty delight, and now that at last he was coming
back to rest himself for a week before the final effort Mrs. Ambrose was
as enthusiastic as her husband. Even Mrs. Goddard, who was not quite sure
whether she had ever seen John or not, and the squire who had certainly
never seen him, joined in the general excitement. Mrs. Goddard asked the
entire party to tea at the cottage and the squire asked them to come and
skate at the Hall and to dine afterwards; for the weather was cold and
the vicar said John was a very good skater. Was there anything John could
not do? There was nothing he could not do much better than anybody else,
answered Mr. Ambrose; and the good clergyman's pride in his pupil was
perhaps not the less because he had at first received him on charitable
considerations, and felt that if he had risked much in being so generous
he had also been amply rewarded by the brilliant success of his
undertaking.
When John arrived, everybody said he was "so much improved." He had got
his growth now, being close upon one and twenty years of age; his blue
eyes were deeper set; his downy whiskers had disappeared and a small
moustache shaded his upper lip; he looked more intellectual but not less
strong, though Mrs. Ambrose said he was dreadfully pale--perhaps he owed
some of the improvement observed in his appearance to the clothes he
wore. Poor boy, he had been but scantily supplied in the old days; he
looked prosperous, now, by comparison.
"We have had great additions to our society, since you left us," said the
vicar. "We have got a squire at the Hall, and a lady with a little girl
at the cottage."
"Such a nice little girl," remarked Mrs. Ambrose.
When John found out that the lady at the cottage was no other than the
lady in black to whom he had lost his heart two years and a half before,
he was considerably surprised. It would be absurd to suppose that the
boyish fancy which had made so much romance in his life for so many
months could outlast the excitements of the University. It would be
absurd to dignify such a fancy by any serious name. He had grown to be a
man since those days and he had put away childish things. He blushed to
remember that he had spent hours in writing odes to the beautiful
unknown, and whole nights in dreaming of her face. And yet he could
remember that as much as a year after he had left Billingsfield he still
thought of her as his highest ideal of woman, and still occasionally
composed a few verses to her memory, regretting, perhaps, the cooling of
his poetic ardour. Then he had gradually lost sight of her in the hard
work which made up his life. Profound study had made him more prosaic and
he believed that he had done with ideals for ever, after the manner of
many clever young fellows who at one and twenty feel that they are
separated from the follies of eighteen by a great and impassable gulf.
The gulf, however, was not in John's case so wide nor so deep but what,
at the prospect of being suddenly brought face to face, and made
acquainted, with her who for so long had seemed the object of a romantic
passion, he felt a strange thrill of surprise and embarrassment. Those
meetings of later years generally bring painful disillusion. How many of
us can remember some fair-haired little girl who in our childhood
represented to us the very incarnation of feminine grace and beauty, for
whom we fetched and carried, for whom we bound nosegays on the heath and
stole apples from the orchard and climbed upon the table after desert, if
we were left alone in the dining-room, to lay hands on some beautiful
sweetmeat wrapped in tinsel and fringes of pink paper--have we not met
her again in after-life, a grown woman, very, very far from our ideal of
feminine grace and beauty? And still in spite of changes in herself and
ourselves there has clung to her memory through all those years enough of
romance to make our heart beat a little faster at the prospect of
suddenly meeting her, enough to make us wonder a little regretfully if
she was at all like the little golden-haired child we loved long ago.
But with John the feeling was stronger than that. It was but two years
and a half since he had seen Mrs. Goddard, and, not even knowing her
name, had erected for her a pedestal in his boyish heart. There was
moreover about her a mystery still unsolved. There was something odd and
strange in her one visit to the vicarage, in the fact that the vicar had
never referred to that visit and, lastly, it seemed unlike Mr. Ambrose to
have said nothing of her settlement in Billingsfield in the course of all
the letters he had written to John since the latter had left him. John
dwelt upon the name--Goddard--but it held no association for him. It was
not at all like the names he had given her in his imagination. He
wondered what she would be like and he felt nervously anxious to meet
her. Somehow, too, what he heard of the squire did not please him; he
felt an immediate antagonism to Mr. Juxon, to his books, to his amateur
scholarship, even to his appearance as described by Mrs. Ambrose, who
said he was such a thorough Englishman and wondered how he kept his hair
so smooth.
It was not long before he had an opportunity of judging for himself of
what Mr. Ambrose called the recent addition to Billingsfield society. On
the very afternoon of his arrival the vicar proposed to walk up to the
Hall and have a look at the library, and John readily assented. It was
Christmas Eve and the weather, even in Essex, was sharp and frosty. The
muddy road was frozen hard and the afternoon sun, slanting through the
oak trees that bordered the road beyond the village, made no perceptible
impression on the cold. The two men walked briskly in the direction of
the park gate. Before they had quite reached it however, the door of the
cottage opposite was opened, and Stamboul, the Russian bloodhound,
bounded down the path, cleared the wicket gate in his vast stride, and
then turning suddenly crouched in the middle of the road to wait for his
master. But the dog instantly caught sight of the vicar, with whom he was
on very good terms, and trotted slowly up to him, thrusting his great
nose into his hand, and then proceeding to make acquaintance with John.
He seemed to approve of the stranger, for he gave a short sniff of
satisfaction and trotted back to the wicket of the cottage. At this
moment Mrs. Goddard and Nellie came out, followed by the squire arrayed
in his inevitable green stockings. There was however no rose in his coat.
Whether the greenhouses at the Hall had failed to produce any in the
bitter weather, or whether Mr. Juxon had transferred the rose from his
coat to the possession of Mrs. Goddard, is uncertain. The three came out
into the road where the vicar and John stood still to meet them.
"Mrs. Goddard," said the clergyman, "this is Mr. Short, of whom you have
heard--John, let me introduce you to Mr. Juxon."
John felt that he blushed violently as he took Mrs. Goddard's hand. He
would not have believed that he could feel so much embarrassed, and he
hated himself for betraying it. But nobody noticed his colour. The
weather was bright and cold, and even Mrs. Goddard's pale and delicate
skin had a rosy tinge.
"We were just going for a walk," she explained.
"And we were going to see you at the Hall," said the vicar to Mr. Juxon.
"Let us do both," said the latter. "Let us walk to the Hall and have
a cup of tea. We can look at the ice and see whether it will bear
to-morrow."
Everybody agreed to the proposal, and it so fell out that the squire and
the vicar went before while John and Mrs. Goddard followed and Nellie
walked between them, holding Stamboul by the collar, and talking to him
as she went. John looked at his companion, and saw with a strange
satisfaction that his first impression, the impression he had cherished
so long, had not been a mistaken one. Her deep violet eyes were still
sad, beautiful and dreamy. Her small nose was full of expression, and was
not reddened by the cold as noses are wont to be. Her rich brown hair
waved across her forehead as it did on that day when John first saw her;
and now as he spoke with her, her mouth smiled, as he had been sure it
would. John felt a curious sense of pride in her, in finding that he had
not been deceived, that this ideal of whom he had dreamed was really and
truly very good to look at. He knew little of the artist's rules of
beauty; he had often looked with wonder at the faces in the illustrations
to Dr. Smith's classical dictionary, and had tried to understand where
the beauty of them lay, and at Cambridge he had seen and studied with
interest many photographs and casts from the antiques. But to his mind
the antique would not bear comparison for a moment with Mrs. Goddard, who
resembled no engraving nor photograph nor cast he had ever seen.
And she, too, looked at him, and said to herself that he did not look
like what she had expected. He looked like a lean, fresh young Englishman
of moderate intelligence and in moderate circumstances. And yet she knew
that he was no ordinary young fellow, that he was wonderfully gifted, in
fact, and likely to make a mark in the world. She resolved to take a
proper interest in him.
"Do you know," she said, "I have heard so much about you, that I feel as
though I had met you before, Mr. Short."
"We really have met," said John. "Do you remember that hot day when you
came to the vicarage and I waked up Muggins for you?"
"Yes--was that you? You have changed. That is, I suppose I did not see
you very well in the hurry."
"I suppose I have changed in two years and a half. I was only a boy then,
you know. But how have you heard so much about me?"
"Billingsfield," said Mrs. Goddard with a faint smile, "is not a large
place. The Ambroses are very fond of you and always talk of what you are
doing."
"And so you really live here, Mrs. Goddard? How long is it since you
came? Mr. Ambrose never told me--"
"I have been here more than two years--two years last October," she
answered quietly.
"The very year I left--only a month after I was gone. How strange!"
Mrs. Goddard looked up nervously. She was frightened lest John should
have made any deductions from the date of her arrival. But John was
thinking in a very different train of thought.
"Why is it strange?" she asked.
"Oh, I hardly know," said John in considerable embarrassment. "I was only
thinking--about you--that is, about it all."
The answer did not tend to quiet Mrs. Goddard's apprehensions.
"About me?" she exclaimed. "Why should you think about me?"
"It was very foolish, of course," said John. "Only, when I caught sight
of you that day I was very much struck. You know, I was only a boy, then.
I hoped you would come back--but you did not." He blushed violently, and
then glanced at his companion to see whether she had noticed it.
"No," she said, "I did not come back for some time."
"And then I was gone. Mr. Ambrose never told me you had come."
"Why should he?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think he might. You see Billingsfield has been a
sort of home to me, and it is a small place; so I thought he might have
told me the news."
"I suppose he thought it would not interest you," said Mrs. Goddard. "I
am sure I do not know why it should. But you must be very fond of the
place, are you not?"
"Very. As I was saying, it is very like home to me. My father lives in
town you know--that is not at all like home. One always associates the
idea of home with the country, and a vicarage and a Hall, and all that."
"Does one?" said Mrs. Goddard, picking her way over the frozen mud of the
road. "Take care, Nellie, it is dreadfully slippery!"
"How much she has grown," remarked John, looking at the girl's active
figure as she walked before them. "She was quite a little girl when I saw
her first."
"Yes, she grows very fast," answered Mrs. Goddard rather regretfully.
"You say that as though you were sorry."
"I? No. I am glad to see her grow. What a funny remark."
"I thought you spoke sadly," explained John.
"Oh, dear no. Only she is coming to the awkward age."
"She is coming to it very gracefully," said John, who wanted to say
something pleasant.
"That is the most any of us can hope to do," answered Mrs. Goddard with a
little smile. "We all have our awkward age, I suppose."
"I should not think you could remember yours."
"Why? Do you think it was so very long ago?" Mrs. Goddard laughed.
"No--I cannot believe you ever had any," said John.
The boyish compliment pleased Mrs. Goddard. It was long since any one had
flattered her, for flattery did not enter into the squire's system for
making himself agreeable.
"Do they teach that sort of thing at Cambridge?" she asked demurely.
"What sort of thing?"
"Making little speeches to ladies," said she.
"No--I wish they did," said John, laughing. "I should know much better
how to make them. We learn how to write Greek odes to moral
abstractions."
"What a dreadful thing to do!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard.
"Do you think so? I do not know. Now, for instance, I have written a
great many Greek odes to you--"
"To me?" interrupted his companion in surprise.
"Do you think it is so very extraordinary?"
"Very."
"Well--you see--I only saw you once--you won't laugh?"
"No," said Mrs. Goddard, who was very much amused, and was beginning to
think that John Short was the most original young man she had ever met.
"I only saw you once, when you came to the vicarage, and I had not the
least idea what your name was. But I--I hoped you would come back; and so
I used to write poems to you. They were very good, too," added John in a
meditative tone, "I have never written any nearly so good as they were."
"Really?" Mrs. Goddard looked at him rather incredulously and then
laughed.
"You said you would not laugh," objected John.
"I cannot help it in the least," said she. "It seems so funny."
"It did not seem funny to me, I can assure you," replied John rather
warmly. "I thought it very serious."
"You don't do it now, do you?" asked Mrs. Goddard, looking up at him
quietly.
"Oh no--a man's ideals change so much, you know," answered John, who felt
he had been foolishly betrayed into telling his story, and hated to be
laughed at.
"I am very glad of that. How long are you going to stay here, Mr. Short?"
"Until New Year's Day, I think," he answered. "Perhaps you will have time
to forget about the poetry before I go."
"I don't know why," said Mrs. Goddard, noticing his hurt tone. "I
think it was very pretty--I mean the way you did it. You must be a born
poet--to write verses to a person you did not know and had only seen
once!"
"It is much easier than writing verses to moral abstractions one has
never seen at all," explained John, who was easily pacified. "When a man
writes a great deal he feels the necessity of attaching all those
beautiful moral qualities to some real, living person whom he can see--"
"Even if he only sees her once," remarked Mrs. Goddard demurely.
"Yes, even if he only sees her once. You have no idea how hard it is to
concentrate one's faculties upon a mere idea; but the moment a man sees a
woman whom he can endow with all sorts of beautiful qualities--why it's
just as easy as hunting."
"I am glad to have been of so much service to you, even
unconsciously--but, don't you think perhaps Mrs. Ambrose would have done
as well?"
"Mrs. Ambrose?" repeated John. Then he broke into a hearty laugh. "No--I
have no hesitation in saying that she would not have done as well. I am
deeply indebted to Mrs. Ambrose for a thousand kindnesses, for a great
deal more than I can tell--but, on the whole, I say, no; I could not have
written odes to Mrs. Ambrose."
"No, I suppose not. Besides, fancy the vicar's state of mind! She would
have had to call him in to translate your poetry."
"It is very singular," said John in a tone of reflection. "But, if I had
not done all that, we should not be talking as we are now, after ten
minutes acquaintance."
"Probably not," said Mrs. Goddard.
"No--certainly not. By the bye, there is the Hall. I suppose you have
often been there since Mr. Juxon came--what kind of man is he?"
"He has been a great traveller," answered his companion. "And then--well,
he is a scholar and has an immense library--"
"And an immense dog--yes, but I mean, what kind of man is he himself?"
"He is very agreeable," said Mrs. Goddard quietly. "Very well bred, very
well educated. We find him a great addition in Billingsfield."
"I should think so, if he is all you say," said John discontentedly. His
antagonism against Mr. Juxon was rapidly increasing. Mrs. Goddard looked
at him in some surprise, being very far from understanding his tone.
"I think you will like him," she said. "He knows all about you from the
Ambroses, and he always speaks of you with the greatest admiration."
"Really? It is awfully kind of him, I am sure. I am very much obliged,"
said John rather contemptuously.
"Why do you speak like that?" asked Mrs. Goddard gravely. "You cannot
possibly have any cause for disliking him. Besides, he is a friend of
ours--"
"Oh, of course, then it is different," said John. "If he is a friend of
yours--"
"Do you generally take violent dislikes to people at first sight, Mr.
Short?"
"Oh, dear no. Not at all--at least, not dislikes. I suppose Mr. Juxon's
face reminds me of somebody I do not like. I will behave like an angel.
Here we are."
The effect of this conversation upon the two persons between whom it took
place was exceedingly different. Mrs. Goddard was amused, without being
altogether pleased. She had made the acquaintance of a refreshingly young
scholar whom she understood to be full of genius. He was enthusiastic,
simple, seemingly incapable of concealing anything that passed through
his mind, unreasonable and evidently very susceptible. On the whole, she
thought she should like him, though his scornful manner in speaking of
the squire had annoyed her. The interest she could feel in him, if she
felt any at all, would be akin to that of the vicar in the boy. He was
only a boy; brilliantly talented, they said, but still a mere boy. She
was fully ten years older than he--she might almost be his mother--well,
not quite that, but very nearly. It was amusing to think of his writing
odes to her. She wished she could see translations of them, and she
almost made up her mind to ask him to show them to her.
John on the other hand experienced a curious sensation. He had never
before been in the society of so charming a woman. He looked at her and
looked again, and came to the conclusion that she was not only charming
but beautiful. He had not the least idea of her age; it is not the manner
of his kind to think much about the age of a woman, provided she is not
too young. The girl might be ten. Mrs. Goddard might have married at
sixteen--twenty-six, twenty-seven--what was that? John called himself
twenty-two. Five years was simply no difference at all! Besides, who
cared for age?
He had suddenly found himself almost on a footing of intimacy with this
lovely creature. His odes had served him well; it had pleased her to hear
the story. She had laughed a little, of course; but women, as John knew,
always laugh when they are pleased. He would like to show her his odes.
As he walked through the park by her side he felt a curious sense of
possession in her which gave him a thrill of exquisite delight; and when
they entered the Hall he felt as though he were resigning her to the
squire, which gave him a corresponding sense of annoyance. When an
Englishman experiences these sensations, he is in love. John resolved
that whatever happened he would walk back with Mrs. Goddard.
"Come in," said the squire cheerily. "We are not so cold as we used to be
up here."
A great fire of logs was burning upon the hearth in the Hall. Stamboul
stalked up to the open chimney, scratched the tiger's skin which served
for a rug, and threw himself down as though his day's work were done.
Mr. Juxon went up to Mrs. Goddard.
"I think you had better take off your coat," he said. "The house is very
warm."
Mrs. Goddard allowed the squire to help her in removing the heavy black
jacket lined and trimmed with fur, which she wore. John eyed the
proceeding uneasily and kept on his greatcoat.
"Thank you--I don't mind the heat," he said shortly when the squire
suggested to him that he might be too warm. John was in a fit of
contrariety. Mrs. Goddard glanced at him, as he spoke, and he thought he
detected a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, which did not tend to smooth
his temper.
"You will have some tea, Mrs. Goddard?" said Mr. Juxon, leading the way
into the library, which he regarded as the most habitable room in the
house. Mrs. Goddard walked by his side and the vicar followed, while John
and Nellie brought up the rear.
"Is not it a beautiful place?" said Nellie, who was anxious that the
new-comer should appreciate the magnificence of the Hall.
"Can't see very well," said John, "it is so dark."
"Oh, but it is beautiful," insisted Miss Nellie. "And they have lots of
lamps here in the evening. Perhaps Mr. Juxon will have them lighted
before we go. He is always so kind."
"Is he?" asked John with a show of interest.
"Yes--he brings mamma a rose every day," said Nellie.
"Not really?" said John, beginning to feel that he was justified in
hating the squire with all his might.
"Yes--and books, too. Lots of them--but then, he has so many. See, this
is the library. Is not it splendid!"
John looked about him and was surprised. The last rays of the setting sun
fell across the open lawn and through the deep windows of the great room,
illuminating the tall carved bookcases, the heavily gilt bindings, the
rich, dark Russia leather and morocco of the folios. The footsteps of the
party fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet and almost insensibly the
voices of the visitors dropped to a lower key. A fine large wood fire was
burning on the hearth, carefully covered with a metal netting lest any
spark should fly out and cause damage to the treasures accumulated in the
neighbouring shelves.
"Pray make yourself at home, Mr. Short," said the squire, coming up to
John. "You may find something of interest here. There are some old
editions of the classics that are thought rare--some specimens of
Venetian printing, too, that you may like to look at. Mr. Ambrose can
tell you more about them than I."
John's feeling of antagonism, and even his resentment against Mr. Juxon,
roused by Nellie's innocent remark about the roses, were not proof
against the real scholastic passion aroused by the sight of rare and
valuable books. In a few minutes he had divested himself of his greatcoat
and was examining the books with an expression of delight upon his face
which was pleasant to see. He glanced from time to time at the other
persons in the room and looked very often at Mrs. Goddard, but on the
whole he was profoundly interested in the contents of the library. Mrs.
Goddard was installed in a huge leathern easy-chair by the fire, and the
squire was handing her one after another a number of new volumes which
lay upon a small table, and which she appeared to examine with interest.
Nellie knew where to look for her favourite books of engravings and had
curled herself up in a corner absorbed in "Hyde's Royal Residences." The
vicar went to look for something he wanted to consult.
"What do you think of our new friend?" asked Mrs. Goddard of the squire.
She spoke in a low tone and did not look up from the new book he had just
handed her.
"He appears to have a very peculiar temper," said Mr. Juxon. "But he
looks clever."
"What do you think he was talking about as we came through the park?"
asked Mrs. Goddard.
"What?"
"He was saying that he saw me once before he went to college, and--fancy
how deliciously boyish! he said he had written ever so many Greek odes to
my memory since!" Mrs. Goddard laughed a little and blushed faintly.
"Let us hope, for the sake of his success, that you may continue to
inspire him," said the squire gravely. "I have no doubt the odes were
very good."
"So he said. Fancy!"