The squire had remarked that John Short seemed to have a peculiar temper,
and Mrs. Goddard had observed the same thing. What has gone before
sufficiently explains the change in John's manner, and the difference in
his behaviour was plainly apparent even to Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose. The
vicar indeed was wise enough to see that John was very much attracted by
Mrs. Goddard, but he was also wise enough to say nothing about it. His
wife, however, who had witnessed no love-making for nearly thirty years,
except the courtship of the young physician who had married her daughter,
attributed John's demeanour to no such disturbing cause. He was
overworked, she said; he was therefore irritable; he had of course never
taken that excellent homoeopathic remedy, highly diluted aconite, since
he had left the vicarage; the consequence was that he was subject to
nervous headache--she only hoped he would not be taken ill on the eve of
the examination for honours. She hoped, too, that he would prolong his
holiday to the very last moment, for the country air and the rest he
enjoyed were sure to do him so much good. With regard, to the extension
of John's visit, the vicar thought differently, although he held his
peace. There were many reasons why John should not become attached to
Mrs. Goddard both for her sake and his own, and if he staid long, the
vicar felt quite sure that he would fall in love with her. She was
dangerously pretty, she was much older than John--which in the case of
very young men constitutes an additional probability--she evidently took
an innocent pleasure in his society, and altogether such a complication
as was likely to ensue was highly undesirable. Therefore, when Mrs.
Ambrose pressed John to stay longer than he had intended, the vicar not
only gave him no encouragement, but spoke gravely of the near approach of
the contest for honours, of the necessity of concentrating every force
for the coming struggle, and expressed at the same time the firm
conviction that, if John did his best, he ought to be the senior classic
in the year.
Even Mrs. Goddard urged him to go. Of course he asked her advice. He
would not have lost that opportunity of making her speak of himself, nor
of gauging the exact extent of the interest he hoped she felt in him.
It was two or three days after the long conversation he had enjoyed with
her. In that time they had met often and John's admiration for her,
strengthened by his own romantic desire to be really in love, had begun
to assume proportions which startled Mrs. Goddard and annoyed Mr. Juxon.
The latter felt that the boy was in his way; whenever he wanted to see
Mrs. Goddard, John was at her side, talking eagerly and contesting his
position against the squire with a fierceness which in an older and wiser
man would have been in the worst possible taste. Even as it was, Mr.
Juxon looked considerably annoyed as he stood by, smoothing his smooth
hair from time to time with his large white hand and feeling that even at
his age, and with his experience, a man might sometimes cut a poor
figure.
On the particular occasion when the relations between John and the squire
became an object of comment to Mrs. Ambrose, the whole party were
assembled at Mrs. Goddard's cottage. She had invited everybody to tea, a
meal which in her little household represented a compromise between her
appetite and Nellie's. She had felt that in the small festivities of the
Billingsfield Christmas season she was called upon to do her share with
the rest and, being a simple woman, she took her part simply, and did not
dignify the entertainment of her four friends by calling it a dinner. The
occasion was none the less hospitable, for she gave both time and thought
to her preparations. Especially she had considered the question of
precedence; it was doubtful, she thought, whether the squire or the vicar
should sit upon her right hand. The squire, as being lord of the manor,
represented the powers temporal, the vicar on the other hand represented
the church, which on ordinary occasions takes precedence of the lay
faculty. She had at last privately consulted Mr. Juxon, in whom she had
the greatest confidence, asking him frankly which she should do, and Mr.
Juxon had unhesitatingly yielded the post of honour to the vicar, adding
to enforce his opinion the very plausible argument that if he, the
squire, took Mrs. Goddard in to tea, the vicar would have to give his arm
either to little Nellie or to his own wife. Mrs. Goddard was convinced
and the affair was a complete success.
John felt that he could not complain of his position, but as he was
separated from the object of his admiration during the whole meal, he
resolved to indemnify himself for his sufferings by monopolising her
conversation during the rest of the evening. The squire on the other
hand, who had been obliged to talk to Mrs. Ambrose during most of the
time while they were at table, and who, moreover, was beginning to feel
that he had seen almost enough of John Short, determined to give the
young man a lesson in the art of interesting women in general and Mrs.
Goddard in particular. She, indeed, would not have been a woman at all
had she not understood the two men and their intentions. After tea the
party congregated round the fire in the little drawing-room, standing in
a circle, of which their hostess formed the centre. Mr. Juxon and John,
anticipating that Mrs. Goddard must ultimately sit upon one side or other
of the fireplace had at first chosen opposite sides, each hoping that she
would take the chair nearest to himself. But Mrs. Goddard remained
standing an unreasonably long time, for the very reason that she did not
choose to sit beside either of them. Seeing this the squire, who had
perhaps a greater experience than his adversary in this kind of strategic
warfare, left his place and put himself on the same side as John. He
argued that Mrs. Goddard would probably then choose the opposite side,
whereas John who was younger would think she would come towards the two
where they stood; John would consequently lose time, Mr. Juxon would
cross again and install himself by her side while his enemy was
hesitating.
While these moves and counter-moves were proceeding, the conversation was
general. The vicar was for the hundredth time admiring the Andrea del
Sarto over the chimney-piece and his wife was explaining her general
objections to the representation of sacred subjects upon canvas, while
Mrs. Goddard answered each in turn and endeavoured to disagree with
neither. What the squire had foreseen when he made his last move,
however, actually took place at last. Mrs. Goddard established herself
upon the side opposite the two men. Mr. Juxon crossed rapidly to where
she was seated, and Mrs. Ambrose, who had turned with the intention of
speaking to the squire, found herself confronted by John. He saw that he
had been worsted by his foe and immediately lost his temper; but being
brought face to face with Mrs. Ambrose was obliged to control it as he
might. That excellent lady beamed upon him with a maternal smile of the
kind which is peculiarly irritating to young men. He struggled to get
away however, glancing over Mrs. Ambrose's shoulder at the squire and
longing to be "at him" as he would have expressed it. But the squire was
not to be got at so easily, for the vicar's wife was of a fine presence
and covered much ground. John involuntarily thought of the dyke before
Troy, of Hector and his heroes attempting to storm it and of the Ajaces
and Sarpedon defending it and glaring down from above. He could
appreciate Hector's feelings--Mrs. Ambrose was very like the dyke.
The squire smiled serenely and smoothed his hair as he talked to Mrs.
Goddard and she herself looked by no means discontented, thereby adding,
as it were, an insult to the injury done to John.
"I shall always envy you the cottage," the squire was saying. "I have not
a single room in the Hall that is half so cheery in the evening."
"I shall never forget my terror when we first met," answered Mrs.
Goddard, "do you remember? You frightened me by saying you would like to
live here. I thought you meant it."
"You must have thought I was the most unmannerly of barbarians."
"Instead of being the best of landlords," added Mrs. Goddard with a
grateful smile.
"I hardly know whether I am that," said Mr. Juxon, settling himself in
his chair. "But I believe I am by nature an exceedingly comfortable man,
and I never fail to consult the interests of my comfort."
"And of mine. Think of all you have done to improve this place. I can
never thank you enough. I suppose one always feels particularly grateful
at Christmas time--does not one?"
"One has more to be grateful for, it seems to me--in our climate, too.
People in southern countries never really know what comfort means,
because nature never makes them thoroughly uncomfortable. Only a man who
is freezing can appreciate a good fire."
"I suppose you have been a good deal in such places," suggested Mrs.
Goddard, vaguely.
"Oh yes--everywhere," answered the squire with equal indefiniteness. "By
the bye, talking of travelling, when is our young friend going away?"
There was not a shade of ill-humour in the question.
"The day after New Year's--I believe."
"He has had a very pleasant visit."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Goddard, "I hope it will do him a great deal of
good."
"Why? Was he ill? Ah--I remember, they said he had worked too hard. It is
a great mistake to work too hard, especially when one is very young."
"He is very young, is not he?" remarked Mrs. Goddard with a faint smile,
remembering the many conversations she had had with him.
"Very. Did it ever strike you that--well, that he was losing his head a
little?"
"No," answered his companion innocently. "What about?"
"Oh, nothing. Only he has rather a peculiar temper. He is perpetually
getting very angry with no ostensible reason--and then he glares at one
like an angry cat."
"Take care," said Mrs. Goddard, "he might hear you."
"Do him good," said the squire cheerfully.
"Oh, no! It would hurt his feelings dreadfully. How can you be so
unkind?"
"He is a very good boy, you know. Really, I believe he is. Only he is
inclined to be rather too unreasonable; I should think he might be
satisfied."
"Satisfied with what?" inquired Mrs. Goddard, who did not wish to
understand.
"With the way you have treated him," returned the squire bluntly. "You
have been wonderfully good to him."
"Have I?" The faint colour rose to her cheek. "I don't know--poor fellow!
I daresay his life at Cambridge is very dull."
"Yes. Entirely devoid of that species of amusement which he has enjoyed
so abundantly in Billingsfield. It is not every undergraduate who has a
chance to talk to you for a week at a time."
Mr. Juxon made the remark very calmly, without seeming to be in the least
annoyed. He was much too wise a man to appear to be displeased at Mrs.
Goddard's treatment of John. Moreover, he felt that on the present
occasion, at least, John had been summarily worsted; it was his turn to
be magnanimous.
"If you are going to make compliments, I will go away," said Mrs.
Goddard.
"I? I never made a compliment in my life," replied the squire
complacently. "Do you think it is a compliment to tell you that Mr. Short
probably enjoys your conversation much more than the study of Greek
roots?"
"Well--not exactly--"
"Besides, in general," continued the squire, "compliments are mere waste
of breath. If a woman has any vanity she knows her own good points much
better than any man who attempts to explain them to her; and if she has
no vanity, no amount of explanation of her merits will make her see them
in a proper light."
"That is very true," answered Mrs. Goddard, thoughtfully. "It never
struck me before. I wonder whether that is the reason women always like
men who never make any compliments at all?"
The squire's face assumed an amusing expression of inquiry and surprise.
"Is that personal?" he asked.
"Oh--of course not," answered Mrs. Goddard in some confusion. She blushed
and turning towards the fire took up the poker and pretended to stir the
coals. Women always delight in knocking a good fire to pieces, out of
pure absence of mind. John Short saw the movement and, escaping suddenly
from the maternal conversation of Mrs. Ambrose, threw himself upon his
knee on the hearth-rug and tried to take the poker from his hostess's
hand.
"Oh, Mrs. Goddard, don't! Let me do it--please!" he exclaimed.
"But I can do it very well myself," said she protesting and not relaxing
her hold upon the poker. But John was obstinate in his determination to
save her trouble, and rudely tried to get the instrument away.
"Please don't--you hurt me," said Mrs. Goddard petulantly.
"Oh--I beg your pardon--I wanted to help you," said John leaving his
hold. "I did not really hurt you--did I?" he asked, almost tenderly.
"Dreadfully," replied Mrs. Goddard, half angry and half amused at his
impatience and subsequent contrition. The squire sat complacently in his
chair, watching the little scene. John hated him more than ever, and grew
very red. Mrs. Goddard saw the boy's embarrassment and presently
relented.
"I daresay you will do it better than I," she said, handing him the
poker, which John seized with alacrity. "That big coal--there," she
added, pointing to a smouldering block in the corner of the grate.
"I did not mean to be rude," said John. "I only wanted to help you." He
knelt by her side poking the fire industriously. "I only wanted to get a
chance to talk to you," he added, in a low voice, barely audible to Mrs.
Goddard as she leaned forward.
"I am afraid you cannot do that just now," she said, not unkindly, but
with the least shade of severity in her tone. "You will get dreadfully
hot if you stay there, so near the fire."
"I don't mind the heat in the least," said John heroically. Nevertheless
as she did not give him any further encouragement he was presently
obliged to retire, greatly discomfited. He could not spend the evening on
his knees with the poker in his hand.
"Bad failure," remarked the squire in an undertone as soon as John had
rejoined Mrs. Ambrose, who had not quite finished her lecture on
homoeopathy.
Mrs. Goddard leaned back in her chair and looked at Mr. Juxon rather
coolly. She did not want him to laugh at John, though she was not willing
to encourage John herself.
"You should not be unkind," she said. "He is such a nice boy--why should
you wish him to be uncomfortable?"
"Oh, I don't in the least. I could not help being amused a little. I am
sure I don't want to be unkind."
Indeed the squire had not shown himself to be so, on the whole, and he
did not refer to the matter again during the evening. He kept his place
for some time by Mrs. Goddard's side and then, judging that he had
sufficiently asserted his superiority, rose and talked to Mrs. Ambrose.
But John, being now in a thoroughly bad humour, could not take his vacant
seat with a good grace. He stood aloof and took up a book that lay upon
the table and avoided looking at Mrs. Goddard. By and by, when the party
broke up, he said good-night in such a particularly cold and formal tone
of voice that she stared at him in surprise. But he took no notice of her
look and went away after the Ambroses, in that state of mind which boys
call a huff.
But on the following day John repented of his behaviour. All day long he
wandered about the garden of the vicarage, excusing himself from joining
the daily skating which formed the staple of amusement during the
Christmas week, by saying that he had an idea for a copy of verses and
must needs work it out. But he inwardly hoped that Mrs. Goddard would
come to the vicarage late in the afternoon, without the inevitable Mr.
Juxon, and that he might then get a chance of talking to her. He was not
quite sure what he should say. He would find words on the spur of the
moment; it would at all events be much easier than to meet her on the ice
at the Hall with all the rest of them and to see Mr. Juxon pushing her
about in that detestable chair, with the unruffled air of superiority
which John so hated to see upon his face. The vicar suspected more than
ever that there was something wrong; he had seen some of the by-play on
the previous evening, and had noticed John's ill-concealed disappointment
at being unable to dislodge the sturdy squire from his seat. But Mrs.
Ambrose seemed to be very obtuse, and the vicar would have been the last
to have spoken of his suspicions, even to the wife of his bosom. It was
his duty to induce John to go back to his work at the end of the week; it
was not his duty to put imputations upon him which Mrs. Ambrose would
naturally exaggerate and which would drive her excellent heart into a
terrible state of nervous anxiety.
But Mrs. Goddard did not come back to the vicarage on that day, and John
went to dinner with a sad heart. It did not seem like a day at all if he
had not seen her and talked with her. He had now no doubt whatever that
he was seriously in love, and he set himself to consider his position.
The more he considered it, the more irreconcilable it seemed to be with
the passion which beset him. A child could see that for several years, at
least, he would not be in a position to marry. With Mr. Juxon at hand
from year's end to year's end, the owner of the Hall, of the
Billingsfield property and according to all appearances of other
resources besides,--with such a man constantly devoted to her, could Mrs.
Goddard be expected to wait for poor John three years, even two years,
from the time of the examination for the classical Tripos? Nothing was
more improbable, he was forced to admit. And yet, the idea of life if he
did not marry Mrs. Goddard was dismal beyond all expression; he would
probably not survive it. He did not know what he should do. He shrank
from the thought of declaring his love to her at once. He remembered with
pain that she had a terrible way of laughing at him when he grew
confidential or too complimentary, and he dreaded lest at the supreme
moment of his life he should appear ridiculous in her eyes--he, a mere
undergraduate. If he came out at the head of the Tripos it would be
different; and yet that seemed so long to wait, especially while Mr.
Juxon lived at the Hall and Mrs. Goddard lived at the park gates.
Suddenly a thought struck him which filled him with delight; it was just
possible that Mr. Juxon had no intention of marrying Mrs. Goddard. If he
had any such views he would probably have declared them before now, for
he had met her every day during more than half a year. John longed to ask
some one the question. Perhaps Mr. Ambrose, who might be supposed to know
everything connected with Mrs. Goddard, could tell him. He felt very
nervous at the idea of speaking to the vicar on the subject, and yet it
seemed to him that no one else could set his mind at rest. If he were
quite certain that Mr. Juxon had no intention of offering himself to the
charming tenant of the cottage, he might return to his work with some
sense of security in the future. Otherwise he saw only the desperate
alternative of throwing himself at her feet and declaring that he loved
her, or of going back to Cambridge with the dreadful anticipation of
hearing any day that she had married the squire. To be laughed at would
be bad, but to feel that he had lost her irrevocably, without a struggle,
would be awful. No one but the vicar could and would tell him the truth;
it would be bitter to ask such a question, but it must be done. Having at
last come to this formidable resolution, towards the conclusion of
dinner, his spirits rose a little. He took another glass of the vicar's
mild ale and felt that he could face his fate.
"May I speak to you a moment in the study, Mr. Ambrose?" he said as they
rose from table.
"Certainly," replied the vicar; and having conducted his wife to the
drawing-room, he returned to find John. There was a low, smouldering fire
in the study grate, and John had lit a solitary candle. The room looked
very dark and dismal and John was seated in one of the black leather
chairs, waiting.
"Anything about those verses you were speaking of to-day?" asked the
vicar cheerfully, in anticipation of a pleasant classical chat.
"No," said John, gloomily. "The fact is--" he cleared his throat, "the
fact is, I want to ask you rather a delicate question, sir."
The vicar's heavy eyebrows contracted; the lines of his face all turned
downwards, and his long, clean-shaved upper lip closed sharply upon its
fellow, like a steel trap. He turned his grey eyes upon John's averted
face with a searching look.
"Have you got into any trouble at Trinity, John?" he asked severely.
"Oh no--no indeed," said John. Nothing was further from his thoughts than
his college at that moment. "I want to ask you a question, which no one
else can answer. Is--do you think that--that Mr. Juxon has any idea of
marrying Mrs. Goddard?"
The vicar started in astonishment and laid both hands upon the arms of
his chair.
"What--in the world--put that--into your head?" he asked very slowly,
emphasising every word of his question. John was prepared to see his old
tutor astonished but was rather taken aback at the vicar's tone.
"Do you think it is likely, sir?" he insisted.
"Certainly not," answered the vicar, still eyeing him suspiciously.
"Certainly not. I have positive reasons to prove the contrary. But, my
dear John, why, in the name of all that is sensible, do you ask me such a
question? You don't seriously think of proposing--"
"I don't see why I should not," said John doggedly, seeing that he was
found out.
"You don't see why you should not? Why the thing is perfectly absurd, not
to say utterly impossible! John, you are certainly mad."
"I don't see why," repeated John. "I am a grown man. I have good
prospects--"
"Good prospects!" ejaculated the vicar in horror. "Good prospects! Why,
you are only an undergraduate at Cambridge."
"I may be senior classic in a few months," objected John. "That is not
such a bad prospect, it seems to me."
"It means that you may get a fellowship, probably will--in the course of
a few years. But you lose it if you marry. Besides--do you know that Mrs.
Goddard is ten years older than you, and more?"
"Impossible," said John in a tone of conviction.
"I know that she is. She will be two and thirty on her next birthday, and
you are not yet one and twenty."
"I shall be next month," argued John, who was somewhat taken aback,
however, by the alarming news of Mrs. Goddard's age. "Besides, I can go
into the church, before I get a fellowship--"
"No, you can't," said the vicar energetically. "You won't be able to
manage it. If you do, you will have to put up with a poor living."
"That would not matter. Mrs. Goddard has something--"
"An honourable prospect!" exclaimed Mr. Ambrose, growing more and more
excited. "To marry a woman ten years older than yourself because she has
a little money of her own! You! I would not have thought it of you,
John--indeed I would not!"
Indeed no one was more surprised than John Short himself, when he found
himself arguing the possibilities of his marriage with his old tutor. But
he was an obstinate young fellow enough and was not inclined to give up
the fight easily.
"Really," he objected, "I cannot see anything so very terrible in the
idea. I shall certainly make my way in the world. You know that it is not
for the sake of her money. Many men have married women ten years older
than themselves, and not half so beautiful and charming, I am sure."
"I don't believe it," said the vicar, "and if they have, why it has been
very different, that is all. Besides, you have not known Mrs. Goddard a
week--positively not more than five days--why, it is madness! Do you mean
to tell me that at the end of five days you believe you are seriously
attached to a lady you never saw in your life before?"
"I saw her once," said John. "That day when I waked Muggins--"
"Once! Nearly three years ago! I have no patience with you, John! That a
young fellow of your capabilities should give way to such a boyish fancy!
It is absolutely amazing! I thought you were growing to like her society
very much, but I did not believe it would, come to this!"
"It is nothing to be ashamed of," said John stoutly.
"It is something to be afraid of," answered the vicar.
"Oh, do not be alarmed," retorted John. "I will do nothing rash. You have
set my mind at rest in assuring me that she will not marry Mr. Juxon. I
shall not think of offering myself to Mrs. Goddard until after the
Tripos."
"Offering myself"--how deliciously important the expression sounded to
John's own ears! It conveyed such a delightful sense of the possibilities
of life when at last he should feel that he was in a position to offer
himself to any woman, especially to Mrs. Goddard.
"I have a great mind not to ask you to come down, even if you do turn out
senior classic," said the vicar, still fuming with excitement. "But if
you put off your rash action until then, you will probably have changed
your mind."
"I will never change my mind," said John confidently. It was evident,
nevertheless, that if the romance of his life were left to the tender
mercies of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose, it was likely to come to an
abrupt termination. When the two returned to the society of Mrs. Ambrose,
the vicar was still very much agitated and John was plunged in a gloomy
melancholy.