Mrs. Goddard did not mean to walk home with John; but on the other hand
she did not mean to walk with the squire. She revolved the matter in her
mind as she sat in the library talking in an undertone with Mr. Juxon.
She liked the great room, the air of luxury, the squire's tea and the
squire's conversation. It is worth noticing that his flow of talk was
more abundant to-day than it had been for some time; whether it was
John's presence which stimulated Mr. Juxon's imagination, or whether
Mrs. Goddard had suddenly grown more interesting since John Short's
appearance it is hard to say; it is certain that Mr. Juxon talked better
than usual.
The afternoon, however, was far spent and the party had only come to make
a short visit. Mrs. Goddard rose from her seat.
"Nellie, child, we must be going home," she said, calling to the little
girl who was still absorbed in the book of engravings which she had taken
to the window to catch the last of the waning light.
John started and came forward with alacrity. The vicar looked up; Nellie
reluctantly brought her book back.
"It is very early," objected the squire. "Really, the days have no
business to be so short."
"It would not seem like Christmas if they were long," said Mrs. Goddard.
"It does not seem like Christmas anyhow," remarked John, enigmatically.
No one understood his observation and no one paid any attention to it.
Whereupon John's previous feeling of annoyance returned and he went to
look for his greatcoat in the dark corner where he had laid it.
"You must not come all the way back with us," said Mrs. Goddard as they
all went out into the hall and began to put on their warm things before
the fire. "Really--it is late. Mr. Ambrose will give me his arm."
The squire insisted however, and Stamboul, who had had a comfortable nap
by the fire, was of the same opinion as his master and plunged wildly at
the door.
"Will you give me your arm, Mr. Ambrose?" said Mrs. Goddard, looking
rather timidly at the vicar as they stood upon the broad steps in the
sparkling evening air. She felt that she was disappointing both the
squire and John, but she had quite made up her mind. She had her own
reasons. The vicar, good man, was unconsciously a little flattered by her
choice, as with her hand resting on the sleeve of his greatcoat he led
the way down the park. The squire and John were fain to follow together,
but Nellie took her mother's hand, and Stamboul walked behind affecting
an unusual gravity.
"You must come again when there is more daylight," said Mr. Juxon to his
companion.
"Thank you," said John. "You are very good." He intended to relapse into
silence, but his instinct made him ashamed of seeming rude. "You have a
magnificent library," he added presently in a rather cold tone.
"You have been used to much better ones in Cambridge," said the squire,
modestly.
"Do you know Cambridge well, Mr. Juxon?"
"Very well. I am a Cambridge man, myself."
"Indeed?" exclaimed John, immediately discovering that the squire was not
so bad as he had thought. "Indeed! I had no idea. Mr. Ambrose never told
me that."
"I am not sure that he is aware of it," said Mr. Juxon quietly. "The
subject never happened to come up."
"How odd!" remarked John, who could not conceive of associating with a
man for any length of time without asking at what University he had
been.
"I don't know," answered Mr. Juxon. "There are lots of other things to
talk about."
"Oh--of course," said John, in a tone which did not express conviction.
Meanwhile Mr. Ambrose and Mrs. Goddard walked briskly in front; so
briskly in fact that Nellie occasionally jumped a step, as children say,
in order to keep up with them.
"What a glorious Christmas eve!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, as they turned a
bend in the drive and caught sight of the western sky still clear and
red. "And there is the new moon!" The slender crescent was hanging just
above the fading glow.
"Oh mamma, have you wished?" cried Nellie. "You must, you know, when you
see the new moon!"
Mrs. Goddard did not answer, but she sighed faintly and drew a little
closer to the worthy vicar as she walked. She always wished, whether
there was a new moon or not, and she always wished the same wish. Perhaps
Mr. Ambrose understood, for he was not without tact. He changed the
subject.
"How do you like our John Short?" he asked.
"Very much, I think," answered Mrs. Goddard. "He is so fresh and young."
"He is a fine fellow. I was sure you would like him. Is he at all like
what you fancied he would be?"
"Well no--not exactly. I know you told me how he looked, but I always
thought he would be rather Byronic--the poetical type, if you know what
I mean."
"He has a great deal of poetry in him," said Mr. Ambrose in a tone of
profound admiration. "He writes the best Greek verse I ever saw."
"Oh yes--I daresay," replied Mrs. Goddard smiling in the dusk. "I am sure
he must be very clever."
So they chatted quietly as they walked down the park. But the squire and
John did not make progress in their conversation, and by the time they
reached the gate they had yielded to an awkward silence. They had both
been annoyed because Mrs. Goddard had taken the vicar's arm instead of
choosing one of themselves, but the joint sense of disappointment did not
constitute a common bond of interest. Either one would have suffered
anything rather than mention Mrs. Goddard to the other in the course of
the walk. And yet Mr. Juxon might have been John's father. At the gate of
the cottage they separated. The squire said he would turn back. Mrs.
Goddard had reached her destination. John and the vicar would return to
the vicarage. John tried to linger a moment, to get a word with Mrs.
Goddard. He was so persistent that she let him follow her through the
wicket gate and then turned quickly.
"What is it?" she asked, rather suddenly, holding out her hand to say
good-bye.
"Oh, nothing," answered John. "That is--would you like to see one of
those--those little odes of mine?"
"Yes, certainly, if you like," she answered frankly, and then laughed.
"Of course I would. Good-night."
He turned and fled. The vicar was waiting for him, and eyed him rather
curiously as he came back. Mr. Juxon was standing in the middle of the
road, making Stamboul jump over his stick, backwards and forwards.
"Good-night," he said, pausing in his occupation. The vicar and John
turned away and walked homewards. Before they turned the corner towards
the village John instinctively looked back. Mr. Juxon was still making
Stamboul jump the stick before the cottage, but as far as he could see in
the dusk, Mrs. Goddard and Nellie had disappeared within. John felt that
he was very unhappy.
"Mr. Ambrose," he began. Then he stopped and hesitated. "Mr. Ambrose," he
continued at last, "you never told me half the news of Billingsfield in
your letters."
"You mean about Mrs. Goddard? Well--no--I did not think it would interest
you very much."
"She is a very interesting person," said John. He could have added that
if he had known she was in Billingsfield he would have made a great
sacrifice in order to come down for a day to make her acquaintance. But
he did not say it.
"She is a great addition," said the vicar.
"Oh--very great, I should think."
Christmas eve was passed at the vicarage in preparation for the morrow.
Mrs. Ambrose was very active in binding holly wherever it was possible to
put it. The mince-pies were tasted and pronounced a success, and old
Reynolds was despatched to the cottage with a small basket containing a
certain number of them as a present to Mrs. Goddard. An emissary appeared
from the Hall with a variety of articles which the squire begged to
contribute towards the vicar's Christmas dinner; among others a haunch of
venison which Mrs. Ambrose pronounced to be in the best condition. The
vicar retorted by sending to the Hall a magnificent Cottenham cheese
which, as a former Fellow of Trinity, he had succeeded in obtaining.
Moreover Mr. Ambrose himself descended to the cellar and brought up
several bottles of Audit ale which he declared must be allowed to stand
some time in the pantry in order to bring out the flavour and to be
thoroughly settled. John gave his assistance wherever it was needed and
enjoyed vastly the old-fashioned preparations for Christmas day. It was
long since the season had brought him such rejoicing and he intended to
rejoice with a good will towards men and especially towards the Ambroses.
After dinner the whole party, consisting of three highly efficient
persons and old Reynolds, adjourned to the church to complete the
decorations for the morrow.
The church of Billingsfield, known as St. Mary's, was quite large enough
to contain twice the entire population of the parish. It was built upon a
part of the foundations of an ancient abbey, and the vicar was very proud
of the monument of a crusading Earl of Oxford which he had caused to be
placed in the chancel, it having been discovered in the old chancel of
the abbey in the park, far beyond the present limits of the church. The
tower was the highest in the neighbourhood. The whole building was of
gray rubble, irregular stones set together with a crumbling cement, and
presented an appearance which, if not architecturally imposing, was at
least sufficiently venerable. At the present time the aisles were full of
heaped-up holly and wreaths; a few lamps and a considerable number of
tallow candles shed a rather feeble light amongst the pillars; a crowd of
school children, not yet washed for the morrow, were busy under the
directions of the schoolmistress in decorating the chancel; Mr. Thomas
Reid the conservative sexton was at the top of a tall ladder, presumably
using doubtful language to himself as every third nail he tried to drive
into the crevices of the stone "crooked hisself and larfed at him," as he
expressed it; the organ was playing and a dozen small boys with three or
four men were industriously practising the anthem "Arise, Shine,"
producing strains which if not calculated altogether to elevate the heart
by their harmony, would certainly have caused the hair of a sensitive
musician to rise on end; three or four of the oldest inhabitants were
leaning on their sticks in the neighbourhood of the great stove in the
middle aisle, warming themselves and grumbling that "times warn't as they
used to be;" Mr. Abraham Boosey was noisily declaring that he had
"cartlods more o' thim greens" to come, and Muggins, who had had some
beer, was stumbling cheerfully against the pews in his efforts to bring a
huge load of fir branches to the foot of Mr. Thomas Reid's long ladder.
It was a thorough Christmas scene and John Short's heart warmed as he
came back suddenly to the things which for three years had been so
familiar to him and which he had so much missed in his solitude at
Cambridge. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose set to work and John followed their
example. Even the prickly holly leaves were pleasant to touch and there
was a homely joy in the fir branches dripping with half melted snow.
Before they had been at work very long, John was aware of a little
figure, muffled in furs and standing beside him. He looked up and saw
little Nellie's lovely face and long brown curls.
"Can't I help you, Mr. Short?" she asked timidly. "I like to help, and
they won't let me."
"Who are 'they'?" asked John kindly, but looking about for the figure of
Nellie's mother.
"The schoolmistress and Mrs. Ambrose. They said I should dirty my frock."
"Well," said John, doubtfully, "I don't know. Perhaps you would. But you
might hold the string for me--that won't hurt your clothes, you know."
"There are more greens this year," remarked Nellie, sitting down upon the
end of the choir bench where John was at work and taking the ball of
string in her hand. "Mr. Juxon has sent a lot from the park."
"He seems to be always sending things," said John, who had no reason
whatever for saying so, except that the squire had sent a hamper to the
vicarage. "Did he stay long before dinner?" he added, in the tone people
adopt when they hope to make children talk.
"Stay long where?" asked Nellie innocently.
"Oh, I thought he went into your house after we left you," answered John.
"Oh no--he did not come in," said Nellie. John continued to work in
silence. At some distance from where he was, Mrs. Goddard was talking to
Mrs. Ambrose. He could see her graceful figure, but he could hardly
distinguish her features in the gloom of the dimly-lighted church. He
longed to leave Nellie and to go and speak to her, but an undefined
feeling of hurt pride prevented him. He would not forgive her for having
taken the vicar's arm in coming home through the park; so he stayed where
he was, pricking his fingers with the holly and rather impatiently
pulling the string off the ball which Nellie held. If Mrs. Goddard wanted
to speak to him, she might come of her own accord, he thought, for he
felt that he had behaved foolishly in asking if she wished to see his
odes. Somehow, when he thought about it, the odes did not seem so good
now as they had seemed that afternoon.
Mrs. Goddard had not seen him at first, and for some time she remained in
consultation with Mrs. Ambrose. At last she turned and looking for Nellie
saw that she was seated beside John; to his great delight she came
towards him. She looked more lovely than ever, he thought; the dark fur
about her throat set off her delicate, sad face like a frame.
"Oh--are you here, too, Mr. Short?" she said.
"Hard at work, as you see," answered John. "Are you going to help, Mrs.
Goddard? Won't you help me?"
"I wanted to," said Nellie, appealing to her mother, "but they would not
let me, so I can only hold the string."
"Well, dear--we will see if we can help Mr. Short," said Mrs. Goddard
good-naturedly, and she sat down upon the choir bench.
John never forgot that delightful Christmas Eve. For nearly two hours he
never left Mrs. Goddard's side, asking her advice about every branch and
bit of holly and following out to the letter her most minute suggestions.
He forgot all about the squire and about the walk back from the park, in
the delight of having Mrs. Goddard to himself. He pushed the school
children about and spoke roughly to old Reynolds if her commands were not
instantly executed; he felt in the little crowd of village people that he
was her natural protector, and he wished he might never have anything in
the world to do save to decorate a church in her company. He grew more
and more confidential and when the work was all done he felt that he had
thoroughly established himself in her good graces and went home to dream
of the happiest day he had ever spent. The organ ceased playing, the
little choir dispersed, the school children were sent home, Mr. Abraham
Boosey retired to the bar of the Duke's Head, Muggins tenderly embraced
every tombstone he met on his way through the churchyard, the
"gentlefolk" followed Reynolds' lantern towards the vicarage, and Mr.
Thomas Reid, the conservative and melancholic sexton, put out the lights
and locked the church doors, muttering a sour laudation of more primitive
times, when "the gentlefolk minded their business."
For the second time that day, John and Mr. Ambrose walked as far as the
cottage, to see Mrs. Goddard to her home. When they parted from her and
Nellie, John was careful not to say anything more about the odes, a
subject to which Mrs. Goddard had not referred in the course of the
evening. John thanked her rather effusively for her help--he could never
have got through those choir benches without her, he said; and the vicar
added that he was very much obliged, too, and surreptitiously conveyed
to Mrs. Goddard's hand a small package intended for Miss Nellie's
Christmas stocking, from him and his wife, and which he had forgotten to
give earlier. Nellie was destined to have a fuller stocking than usual
this year, for the squire had remembered her as well as Mr. Ambrose.
John went to bed in his old room at the vicarage protesting that he had
enjoyed the first day of his holiday immensely. As he blew out the light,
he thought suddenly how often in that very room he had gone to bed
dreaming about the lady in black and composing verses to her, till
somehow the Greek terminations would get mixed up with the Latin roots,
the quantities all seemed to change places, and he used to fall asleep
with a delicious half romantic sense of happiness always unfulfilled yet
always present. And now at last it began to be fulfilled in earnest; he
had met the lady in black at last, had spent nearly half a day in her
company and was more persuaded than ever that she was really and truly
his ideal. He did not go to sleep so soon as in the old days, and he was
sorry to go to sleep at all; he wanted to enjoy all his delicious
recollections of that afternoon before he slept and, as he recapitulated
the events which had befallen him and recalled each expression of the
face that had charmed him and every intonation of the charmer's voice, he
felt that he had never been really happy before, that no amount of
success at Cambridge could give him half the delight he had
experienced during one hour in the old Billingsfield church, and that
altogether life anywhere else was not worth living. To-morrow he would
see Mrs. Goddard again, and the next day and the day after that and
then--"bother the future!" ejaculated John, and went to sleep.
He awoke early, roused by the loud clanging of the Christmas bells, and
looking out he saw that the day was fine and cold and bright as Christmas
day should be, and generally is. The hoar frost was frozen into fantastic
shapes upon his little window, the snow was clinging to the yew branches
outside and the robins were hopping and chirping over the thin crust of
frozen snow that just covered the ground. The road was hard and brown as
on the previous day, and the ice in the park would probably bear. Perhaps
Mrs. Goddard would skate in the afternoon between the services, but
then--Juxon would be there. "Never mind Juxon," quoth John to himself,
"it is Christmas day!"
At the vicarage and elsewhere, all over the land, those things were done
which delight the heart of Englishmen at the merry season. Everybody
shook hands with everybody else, everybody cried "Merry Christmas!" to
his neighbour in the street, with an intonation as though he were saying
something startlingly new and brilliant which had never been said before.
Every labourer who had a new smock-frock put it on, and those who had
none had at least a bit of new red worsted comforter about their throats
and began the day by standing at their doors in the cold morning, smoking
a "ha'p'orth o' shag" in a new clay pipe, greeting each other across the
village street. Muggins, who had spent a portion of the night in
exchanging affectionate Christmas wishes with the tombstones in the
churchyard, appeared fresh and ruddy at an early hour, clad in the long
black coat and tall hat which he was accustomed to wear when he drove Mr.
Boosey's fly on great festivals. Most of the cottages in the single
street sported a bit of holly in their windows, and altogether the
appearance of Billingsfield was singularly festive and mirthful. At
precisely ten minutes to eleven the vicar and Mrs. Ambrose, accompanied
by John, issued from the vicarage and went across the road by the private
path to the church. As they entered the porch Mr. Reid, who stood
solemnly tolling the small bell, popularly nicknamed the "Ting-tang,"
and of which the single rope passed down close to the south door,
vouchsafed John a sour smile of recognition. John felt as though he had
come home. Mrs. Goddard and Nellie appeared a moment afterwards and took
their seats in the pew traditionally belonging to the cottage, behind
that of the squire who was always early, and the sight of whose smoothly
brushed hair and brown beard was a constant source of satisfaction to
Mrs. Ambrose. John and Mrs. Ambrose sat on the opposite side of the
aisle, but John's eyes strayed very frequently towards Mrs. Goddard; so
frequently indeed that she noticed it and leaned far back in her seat to
avoid his glance. Whereupon John blushed and felt that the vicar, who was
reading the Second Lesson, had probably noticed his distraction. It was
hard to realise that two years and a half had passed since he had sat in
that same pew; perhaps, however, the presence of Mrs. Goddard helped him
to understand the lapse of time. But for her it would have been very
hard; for the vicar's voice sounded precisely as it used to sound; Mrs.
Ambrose had not lost her habit of removing one glove and putting it into
her prayer book as a mark while she found the hymn in the accompanying
volume; the bright decorations looked as they looked years ago above the
organ and round the chancel; from far down the church, just before the
sermon, came the old accustomed sound of small boys shuffling their
hobnailed shoes upon the stone floor and the audible guttural whisper of
the churchwarden admonishing them to "mind the stick;" the stained-glass
windows admitted the same pleasant light as of yore--all was unchanged.
But Mrs. Goddard and Nellie occupied the cottage pew, and their presence
alone was sufficient to mark to John the fact that he was now a man.
The service was sympathetic to John Short. He liked the simplicity of it,
even the rough singing of the choir, as compared with the solemn and
magnificent musical services of Trinity College Chapel. But it seemed
very long before it was all over and he was waiting for Mrs. Goddard
outside the church door.
There were more greetings, more "Merry Christmas" and "Many happy
returns." Mrs. Goddard looked more charming than ever and was quite as
cordial as on the previous evening.
"How much better it all looked this morning by daylight," she said.
"I think it looked very pretty last night," answered John. "There is
nothing so delightful as Christmas decorations, is there?"
"Perhaps you will come down next year and help us again?" suggested Mrs.
Goddard.
"Yes--well, I might come at Easter, for that matter," answered the young
man, who after finding it impossible to visit Billingsfield during two
years and a half, now saw no difficulty whatever in the way of making two
visits in the course of six months. "Do you still decorate at Easter?" he
asked.
"Oh yes--do you think you can come?" she said pleasantly. "I thought you
were to be very busy just then."
"Yes, that is true," answered John. "But of course I could come, you
know, if it were necessary."
"Hardly exactly necessary--" Mrs. Goddard laughed.
"The doctor told me some relaxation was absolutely indispensable for my
health," said John rather sententiously.
"You don't really look very ill--are you?" She seemed incredulous.
"Oh no, of course not--only a little overworked sometimes."
"In that case I have no doubt it would do you good," said Mrs. Goddard.
"Do you really think so?" asked John, hopefully.
"Oh--that is a matter for your doctor to decide. I cannot possibly tell,"
she answered.
"I think you would make a very good doctor, Mrs. Goddard," said John
venturing on a bolder flight.
"Really--I never thought of trying it," she replied with a little laugh.
"Good morning, Mr. Ambrose. Nellie wants to thank you for your beautiful
present. It was really too good of you."
The vicar came out of the vestry and joined the group in the path. Mrs.
Ambrose, who had been asking Tom Judd's wife about her baby, also came
up, and the squire, who had been presenting Mr. Reid with ten shillings
for his Christmas box and who looked singularly bereaved without the
faithful Stamboul at his heels, sauntered up and began congratulating
everybody. In the distance the last of the congregation, chiefly the old
women and cripples who could not keep up with the rest, hobbled away
through the white gate of the churchyard.
It had been previously agreed that if the ice would bear there should be
skating in the afternoon and the squire was anxious to inform the party
that the pond was in excellent condition.
"As black as your hat," he said cheerfully. "Stamboul and I have been
sliding all over it, so of course it would bear an ox. It did not crack
anywhere."
"Do you skate, Mrs. Goddard?" asked John.
"Not very well--not nearly so well as Nellie. But I am very fond of it."
"Will you let me push you about in a chair, then? It is capital fun."
"Very good fun for me, no doubt," answered Mrs. Goddard, laughing.
"I would rather do it than anything else," said John in a tone of
conviction. "It is splendid exercise, pushing people about in chairs."
"So it is," said the squire, heartily. "We will take turns, Mr. Short."
The suggestion did not meet with any enthusiastic response from John, who
wished Mr. Juxon were not able to skate.
Poor John, he had but one idea, which consisted simply in getting Mrs.
Goddard to himself as often and as long as possible. Unfortunately this
idea did not coincide with Mr. Juxon's views. Mr. Juxon was an older,
slower and calmer man than the enthusiastic young scholar, and though
very far from obtruding his views or making any assertion of his rights,
was equally far from forgetting them. He was a man more of actions than
words. He had been in the habit of monopolising Mrs. Goddard's society
for months and he had no intention of relinquishing his claims, even for
the charitable purpose of allowing a poor student to enjoy his Christmas
holiday and bit of romance undisturbed. If John had presented himself as
a boy, it might have been different; but John emphatically considered
himself a man, and the squire was quite willing to treat him as such,
since he desired it. That is to say he would not permit him to "cut him
out" as he would have expressed it. The result of the position in which
John and Mr. Juxon soon found themselves was to be expected.