John did not sleep so peacefully nor dream so happily that night as on
the night before. The course of true love had not run smooth that
afternoon. The squire had insisted upon having his share of the lovely
Mrs. Goddard's society and she herself had not seemed greatly disturbed
at a temporary separation from John. The latter amused her for a little
while; the former held the position of a friend whose conversation she
liked better than that of other people. John was disappointed and thought
of going back to Cambridge the next day. So strong, indeed, was his
sudden desire to leave Billingsfield without finishing his visit, that
before going to bed he had packed some of his belongings into his small
portmanteau; the tears almost stood in his eyes as he busied himself
about his room and he muttered certain formulae of self-accusation as he
collected his things, saying over and over in his heart--"What a fool I
am! Why should she care for me? What am I that she should care for me?"
etc. etc. Then he opened his window and looked at the bright stars which
shone out over the old yew tree; but it was exceedingly cold, and so he
shut it again and went to bed, feeling very uncomfortable and unhappy.
But when he awoke in the morning he looked at his half-packed portmanteau
and laughed, and instead of saying "What a fool I am!" he said "What a
fool I was!"--which is generally and in most conditions of human affairs
a much wiser thing to say. Then he carefully took everything out of the
portmanteau again and replaced things as they had lain before in his
room, lest perchance Susan, the housemaid, should detect what had passed
through his mind on the previous evening and should tell Mrs. Ambrose.
And from all this it appears that John was exceedingly young, as indeed
he was, in spite of his being nearly one and twenty years of age. But
doubtless if men were willing to confess their disappointments and
foolish, impetuous resolutions, many would be found who have done
likewise, being in years much older than John Short. Unfortunately for
human nature most men would rather confess to positive wrong-doing than
to any such youthful follies as these, while they are young; and when
they are old they would rather be thought young and foolish than confess
the evil deeds they have actually done.
John, however, did not moralise upon his situation. The weather was again
fine and as he dressed his spirits rose. He became magnanimous and
resolved to forget yesterday and make the most of today. He would see
Mrs. Goddard of course; perhaps he would show her a little coldness at
first, giving her to understand that she had not treated him well on the
previous afternoon; then he would interest her by his talk--he would
repeat to her one of those unlucky odes and translate it for her benefit,
making use of the freedom he would thus get in order to make her an
unlimited number of graceful compliments. Perhaps, too, he ought to pay
more attention to Nellie, if he wished to conciliate her mother. Women,
he reflected, have such strange prejudices!
He wondered whether it would be proper for him to call upon Mrs. Goddard.
He was not quite sure about it, and he was rather ashamed of having so
little knowledge of the world; but he believed that in Billingsfield he
might run the risk. There had been talk of skating again that morning,
and so, about ten o'clock, John told Mr. Ambrose he would go for a short
walk and then join them all at the pond in the park. The project seemed
good, and he put it into execution. As he walked up the frozen road, he
industriously repeated in his mind the Greek verses he was going to
translate to Mrs. Goddard; he had no copy of them but his memory was very
good. He met half a dozen labourers, strolling about with their pipes
until it was time to go and have a pint of beer, as is their manner upon
holidays; they touched their hats to him, remembering his face well, and
he smiled happily at the rough fellows, contrasting his situation with
theirs, who from the misfortune of social prejudice were not permitted to
go and call upon Mrs. Goddard. His heart beat rather fast as he went up
to the door of the cottage, and for one unpleasant moment he again
doubted whether it was proper for him to make such an early visit. But
being bent on romantic adventure he rang boldly and inquired for Mrs.
Goddard.
She was surprised to see John at that hour and alone; but it did not
enter her head to refuse him admittance. Indeed as he stood in the little
passage he heard the words which passed between her and Martha.
"What is it, Martha?"
"It's a young gentleman, mam. I rather think, mam, it's the young
gentleman that's stopping at the vicarage."
"Oh--ask him to come in."
"In 'ere, mam?"
"No--into the sitting-room," said Mrs. Goddard, who was busy in the
dining-room.
John was accordingly ushered in and told to wait a minute; which he did,
surveying with surprise the beautiful pictures, the rich looking
furniture and the valuable objects that lay about upon the tables. He
experienced a thrill of pleasure, for he felt sure that Mrs. Goddard
possessed another qualification which he had unconsciously attributed to
her--that of being accustomed to a certain kind of luxury, which in
John's mind was mysteriously connected with his romance. It is one of the
most undefinable of the many indefinite feelings to which young men in
love are subject, especially young men who have been, or are, very poor.
They like to connect ideas of wealth and comfort, even of a luxurious
existence, with the object of their affections. They desire the world of
love to be new to them, and in order to be wholly new in their
experience, it must be rich. The feeling is not so wholly unworthy as it
might seem; they instinctively place their love upon a pedestal and
require its surroundings to be of a better kind than such as they have
been accustomed to in their own lives. King Cophetua, being a king, could
afford to love the beggar maid, and a very old song sings of a "lady who
loved a swine," but the names of the poor young men who have loved above
their fortune and station are innumerable as the swallows in spring. John
saw that Mrs. Goddard was much richer than he had ever been, and without
the smallest second thought was pleased. In a few moments she entered the
room. John had his speech ready.
"I thought, if you were going to skate, I would call and ask leave to go
with you," he said glibly, as she gave him her hand.
"Oh--thanks. But is not it rather early?"
"It is twenty minutes past ten," said John, looking at the clock.
"Well, let us get warm before starting," said Mrs. Goddard, sitting down
by the fire. "It is so cold this morning."
John thought she was lovely to look at as she sat there, warming her
hands and shielding her face from the flame with them at the same time.
She looked at him and smiled pleasantly, but said nothing. She was still
a little surprised to see him and wondered whether he himself had
anything to say.
"Yes," said John, "it is very cold--traditional Christmas weather. Could
not be finer, in fact, could it?"
"No--it could not be finer," echoed Mrs. Goddard, suppressing a smile.
Then as though to help him out of his embarrassment by giving an impulse
to the conversation, she added, "By the bye, Mr. Short, while we are
warming ourselves why do not you let me hear one of your odes?"
She meant it kindly, thinking it would give him pleasure, as indeed it
did. John's heart leaped and he blushed all over his face with delight.
Mrs. Goddard was not quite sure whether she had done right, but she
attributed his evident satisfaction to his vanity as a scholar.
"Certainly," he said with alacrity, "if you would like to hear it. Would
you care to hear me repeat the Greek first?"
"Oh, of all things. I do not think I have ever heard Greek."
John cleared his throat and began, glancing at his hostess rather
nervously from time to time. But his memory never failed him, and he went
on to the end without a break or hesitation.
"How do you think it sounds?" he asked timidly when he had finished.
"It sounds very funny," said Mrs. Goddard. "I had no idea Greek sounded
like that--but it has a pleasant rhythm."
"That is the thing," said John, enthusiastically. "I see you really
appreciate it. Of course nobody knows how the ancients pronounced Greek,
and if one pronounced it as the moderns do, it would sound all wrong--but
the rhythm is the thing, you know. It is impossible to get over that."
Mrs. Goddard was not positively sure what he meant by "getting over the
rhythm;" possibly John himself could not have defined his meaning very
clearly. But his cheeks glowed and he was very much pleased.
"Yes, of course," said Mrs. Goddard confidently. "But what does it all
mean, Mr. Short?"
"Would you really like to know?" asked John in fresh embarrassment. He
suddenly realised how wonderfully delightful it was to be repeating his
own poetry to the woman for whom it was written.
"Indeed yes--what is the use of your telling me all sorts of things in
Greek, if you do not tell me what they mean?"
"Yes--you will promise not to be offended?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Goddard; then blushing a little she added, "it is
quite--I mean--quite the sort of thing, is not it?"
"Oh quite," said John, blushing too, but looking grave for a moment. Then
he repeated the English translation of the verses which, as they were
certainly not so good as the original, may be omitted here. They set
forth that in the vault of the world's night a new star had appeared
which men had not yet named, nor would be likely to name until the power
of human speech should be considerably increased, and the verses dwelt
upon the theme, turning it and revolving it in several ways, finally
declaring that the far-darting sun must look out for his interests unless
he meant to be outshone by the new star. Translated into English there
was nothing very remarkable about the performance though the original
Greek ode was undoubtedly very good of its kind. But Mrs. Goddard was
determined to be pleased.
"I think it is charming," she said, when John had reached the end and
paused for her criticism.
"The Greek is very much better," said John doubtfully. "I cannot write
English verses--they seem to me so much harder."
"I daresay," said Mrs. Goddard. "But did you really write that
when--" she stopped not knowing exactly how to express herself. But
John had his answer ready.
"Oh, I wrote ever so many," he said, "and I have got them all at
Cambridge. But that is the only one I quite remember. I wrote them just
after the day when I waked up Muggins--the only time I had seen you till
now. I think I could--"
"How funny it seems," said Mrs. Goddard, "without knowing a person, to
write verses to them! How did you manage to do it?"
"I was going to say that I think--I am quite sure--I could write much
better things to you now."
"Oh, that is impossible--quite absurd, Mr. Short," said Mrs. Goddard,
laughing more gaily than usual.
"Why?" asked John, somewhat emboldened by his success. "I do not see why,
if one has an ideal, you know, one should not understand it much better
when one comes near to it."
"Yes--but--how can I possibly be your ideal?" She felt herself so much
older than John that she thought it was out of the question to be
annoyed; so she treated him in a matter of fact way, and was really
amused at his talk.
"I don't see why not," answered John stoutly. "You might be any man's
ideal."
"Oh, really--" ejaculated Mrs. Goddard, somewhat startled at the force of
the sweeping compliment. To be told point-blank, even by an enthusiastic
youth of one and twenty, that one is the ideal woman, must be either very
pleasant or very startling.
"Excuse me," she said quickly, before he could answer her, "you know of
course I am very ignorant--yes I am--but will you please tell me what is
an 'ideal'?"
"Why--yes," said John, "it is very easy. Ideal comes from idea. Plato
meant, by the idea, the perfect model--well, do you see?"
"Not exactly," said Mrs. Goddard.
"It is very simple. When I, when anybody, says you are the ideal woman,
it is meant that you are the perfect model, the archetype of a woman."
"Yes--but that is absurd," said his companion rather coldly.
"I am sorry that it should seem absurd," said John in a persuasive tone;
"it seems very natural to me. A man thinks for a long time about
everything that most attracts him and then, on a sudden, he sees it all
before him, quite real and alive, and then he says he has realised his
ideal. But you liked the verses, Mrs. Goddard?" he added quickly, hoping
to bring back the smile that had vanished from her face. He had a strong
impression that he had been a little too familiar. Probably Mrs. Goddard
thought so too.
"Oh yes, I think they are very nice," she answered. But the smile did not
come back. She was not displeased, but she was not pleased either; she
was wondering how far this boy would go if she would let him. John,
however, felt unpleasantly doubtful about what he had done.
"I hope you are not displeased," he said.
"Oh, not in the least," said she. "Shall we go to the park and skate?"
"I am not sure that I will skate to-day," said John, foolishly. Mrs.
Goddard looked at him in unfeigned surprise.
"Why not? I thought it was for that--"
"Oh, of course," said John quickly. "Only it is not very amusing to skate
when Mr. Juxon is pushing you about in a chair."
"Really--why should not he push me about, if I like it?"
"If you like it--that is different," answered John impatiently.
Mrs. Goddard began to think that John was very like a spoiled child, and
she resented his evident wish to monopolise her society. She left the
room to get ready for the walk, vaguely wishing that he had not come.
"I have made a fool of myself again," said John to himself, when he was
left alone; and he suddenly wished he could get out of the house without
seeing her again. But before he had done wishing, she returned.
"Where is Miss Nellie?" he asked gloomily, as they walked down the path.
"I hope she is coming too."
"She went up to the pond with Mr. Juxon, just before you came."
"Do you let her go about like that, without you?" asked John severely.
"Why not? Really, Mr. Short," said Mrs. Goddard, glancing up at his face,
"either you dislike Mr. Juxon very much, or else I think you take a
good deal upon yourself in remarking--in this way--"
She was naturally a little timid, but John's youth and what she
considered as his extraordinary presumption inspired her with courage to
protest. The effect upon John was instantaneous.
"Pray forgive me," he said humbly, "I am very silly. I daresay you are
quite right and I do not like Mr. Juxon. Not that I have the smallest
reason for not liking him," he continued quickly, "it is a mere personal
antipathy, a mere idea, I daresay--very foolish of me."
"It is very foolish to take unreasonable dislikes to people one knows
nothing about," she said quietly. "Will you please open the gate?" They
were standing before the bars, but John was so much disturbed in mind
that he stood still, quite forgetting to raise the long iron latch.
"Dear me--I beg your pardon--I cannot imagine what I was thinking of," he
said, making the most idiotic excuse current in English idiom.
"Nor I," said Mrs. Goddard, with a little laugh, as he held the gate back
for her to pass. It was a plain white gate with stone pillars, and there
was no gatehouse. People who came to the Hall were expected to open it
for themselves. Mrs. Goddard was so much amused at John's absence of mind
that her good humour returned, and he felt that since that object was
attained he no longer regretted his folly in the least. The cloud that
had darkened the horizon of his romance had passed quickly away, and once
more he said inwardly that he was enjoying the happiest days of his life.
If for a moment the image of Mr. Juxon entered the field of his
imaginative vision in the act of pushing Mrs. Goddard's chair upon the
ice, he mentally ejaculated "bother the squire!" as he had done upon the
previous night, and soon forgot all about him. The way through the park
was long, the morning was delightful and Mrs. Goddard did not seem to be
in a hurry.
"I wish the winter would last for ever," he said presently.
"So do I," answered his companion, "it is the pleasantest time of the
year. One does not feel that nature is dead because one is sure she will
very soon be alive again."
"That is a charming idea," said John, "one might make a good subject of
it."
"It is a little old, perhaps. I think I have heard it before--have not
you?"
"All good ideas are old. The older the better," said John confidently.
Mrs. Goddard could not resist the temptation of teazing him a little.
They had grown very intimate in forty-eight hours; it had taken six
months for Mr. Juxon to reach the point John had won in two days.
"Are they?" she asked quietly. "Is that the reason you selected me for
the 'idea' of your ode, which you explained to me?"
"You?" said John in astonishment. Then he laughed. "Why, you are not any
older than I am!"
"Do you think so?" she inquired with a demure smile. "I am very much
older than you think."
"You must be--I mean, you know, you must be older than you look."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Goddard, still smiling, and just resting the tips
of her fingers upon his arm as she stepped across a slippery place in the
frozen road. "Yes, I am a great deal older than you."
John would have liked very much to ask her age, but even to his youthful
and unsophisticated mind such a question seemed almost too personal. He
did not really believe that she was more than five years older than he,
and that seemed to be no difference at all.
"I don't know," he said. "I am nearly one and twenty."
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Goddard, who had heard every detail concerning
John from Mr. Ambrose, again and again. "Just think," she added with a
laugh, "only one and twenty! Why when I was one and twenty I was--" she
stopped short.
"What were you doing then?" asked John, trying not to seem too curious.
"I was living in London," she said quietly. She half enjoyed his
disappointment.
"Yes," he said, "I daresay. But what--well, I suppose I ought not to ask
any questions."
"Certainly not," said she. "It is very rude to ask a lady questions about
her age."
"I do not mean to be rude again," said John, pretending to laugh. "Have
you always been fond of skating?" he asked, fixing his eye upon a distant
tree, and trying to look unconscious.
"No--I only learned since I came here. Besides, I skate very badly."
"Did Mr. Juxon teach you?" asked John, still gazing into the distance.
From not looking at the path he slipped on a frozen puddle and nearly
fell. Whereat, as usual, when he did anything awkward, he blushed to the
brim of his hat.
"Take care," said Mrs. Goddard, calmly. "You will fall if you don't look
where you are going. No; Mr. Juxon was not here last year. He only came
here in the summer."
"It seems to me that he has always been here," said John, trying to
recover his equanimity. "Then I suppose Mr. Ambrose taught you to skate?"
"Exactly--Mr. Ambrose taught me. He skates very well."
"So will you, with a little more practice," answered her companion in a
rather patronising tone. He intended perhaps to convey the idea that Mrs.
Goddard would improve in the exercise if she would actually skate, and
with him, instead of submitting to be pushed about in a chair by Mr.
Juxon.
"Oh, I daresay," said Mrs. Goddard indifferently. "We shall soon be
there, now. I can hear them on the ice."
"Too soon," said John with regret.
"I thought you liked skating so much."
"I like walking with you much better," he replied, and he glanced at her
face to see if his speech produced any sign of sympathy.
"You have walked with me; now you can skate with Nellie," suggested Mrs.
Goddard.
"You talk as though I were a child," said John, suddenly losing his
temper in a very unaccountable way.
"Because I said you might skate with Nellie? Really, I don't see why. Mr.
Juxon is not a child, and he has been skating with her all the morning."
"That is different," retorted John growing very red.
"Yes--Nellie is much nearer to your age than to Mr. Juxon's," answered
Mrs. Goddard, with a calmness which made John desperate.
"Really, Mrs. Goddard," he said stiffly, "I cannot see what that has to
do with it."
"'The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the lady so much older
than myself has charged--' How does the quotation end, Mr. Short?"
"'Has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither
attempt to palliate nor deny,'" said John savagely. "Quite so, Mrs.
Goddard. I shall not attempt to palliate it, nor will I venture to deny
it."
"Then why in the world are you so angry with me?" she asked, suddenly
turning her violet eyes upon him. "I was only laughing, you know."
"Only laughing!" repeated John. "It is more pleasant to laugh than to be
laughed at."
"Yes--would not you allow me the pleasure then, just for once?"
"Certainly, if you desire it. You are so extremely merry--"
"Come, Mr. Short, we must not seem to have been quarrelling when we reach
the pond. It would be too ridiculous."
"Everything seems to strike you in a humorous light to-day," answered
John, beginning to be pacified by her tone.
"Do you know, you are much more interesting when you are angry," said
Mrs. Goddard.
"And you only made me angry in order to see whether I was interesting?"
"Perhaps--but then, I could not help it in the least."
"I trust you are thoroughly satisfied upon the point, Mrs. Goddard? If
there is anything more that I can do to facilitate your researches in
psychology--"
"You would help me? Even to the extent of being angry again?" She smiled
so pleasantly and frankly that John's wrath vanished.
"It is impossible to be angry with you. I am very sorry if I seemed to
be," he answered. "A man who has the good fortune to be thrown into your
society is a fool to waste his time in being disagreeable."
"I agree with the conclusion, at all events--that is, it is much better
to be agreeable. Is it not? Let us be friends."
"Oh, by all means," said John.
They walked on for some minutes in silence. John reflected that he had
witnessed a phase of Mrs. Goddard's character of which he had been very
far from suspecting the existence. He had not hitherto imagined her to be
a woman of quick temper or sharp speech. His idea of her was formed
chiefly upon her appearance. Her sad face, with its pathetic expression,
suggested a melancholy humour delighting in subdued and tranquil
thoughts, inclined naturally to the romantic view, or to what in the eyes
of youths of twenty appears to be the romantic view of life. He had
suddenly found her answering him with a sharpness which, while it roused
his wits, startled his sensibilities. But he was flattered as well. His
instinct and his observation of Mrs. Goddard when in the society of
others led him to believe that with Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose, or even with
Mr. Juxon, she was not in the habit of talking as she talked with him. He
was therefore inwardly pleased, so soon as his passing annoyance had
subsided, to feel that she made a difference between him and others.
It was quite true that she made a distinction, though she did so almost
unconsciously. It was perfectly natural, too. She was young in heart, in
spite of her thirty years and her troubles; she had an elastic
temperament; to a physiognomist her face would have shown a delicate
sensitiveness to impressions rather than any inborn tendency to sadness.
In spite of everything she was still young, and for two years and a half
she had been in the society of persons much older than herself, persons
she respected and regarded as friends, but persons in whom her youth
found no sympathy. It was natural, therefore, that when time to some
extent had healed the wound she had suffered and she suddenly found
herself in the society of a young and enthusiastic man, something of the
enforced soberness of her manner should unbend, showing her character in
a new light. She herself enjoyed the change, hardly knowing why; she
enjoyed a little passage of arms with John, and it amused her more than
she could have expected to be young again, to annoy him, to break the
peace and heal it again in five minutes. But what happened entirely
failed to amuse the squire, who did not regard such diversions as
harmless; and moreover she was far from expecting the effect which her
treatment of John Short produced upon his scholarly but enthusiastic
temper.