The vicar's suspicions were more than realized and he passed an
uncomfortable day after his interview with John, in debating what he
ought to do, whether he ought to do anything at all, or whether he should
merely hasten his old pupil's departure and leave matters to take care of
themselves. He was a very conscientious man, and he felt that he was
responsible for John's conduct towards Mrs. Goddard, seeing that she had
put herself under his protection, and that John was almost like one of
his family. His first impulse was to ask counsel of his wife, but he
rejected the plan, reflecting with great justice that she was very fond
of John and had at first not been sure of liking Mrs. Goddard; she would
be capable of thinking that the latter had "led Short on," as she would
probably say. The vicar did not believe this, and was therefore loath
that any one else should. He felt that circumstances had made him Mrs.
Goddard's protector, and he was moreover personally attached to her; he
would not therefore do or say anything whereby she was likely to
appear to any one else in an unfavourable light. It was incredible that
she should have given John any real encouragement. Mr. Ambrose wondered
whether he ought to warn her of his pupil's madness. But when he thought
about that, it seemed unnecessary. It was unlikely that John would betray
himself during his present visit, since the vicar had solemnly assured
him that there was no possibility of a marriage so far as Mr. Juxon was
concerned. It was undoubtedly a very uncomfortable situation but there
was evidently nothing to be done; Mr. Ambrose felt that to speak to Mrs.
Goddard would be to precipitate matters in a way which could not but
cause much humiliation to John Short and much annoyance to herself. He
accordingly held his peace, but his upper lip set itself stiffly and his
eyes had a combative expression which told his wife that there was
something the matter.
After breakfast John went out, on pretence of walking in the garden, and
Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose were left alone. The latter, as usual after the
morning meal, busied herself about the room, searching out those secret
corners which she suspected Susan of having forgotten to dust. The vicar
stood looking out of the window. The weather was grey and it seemed
likely that there would be a thaw which would spoil the skating.
"I think," said Mrs. Ambrose, "that John is far from well."
"What makes you say that?" inquired the vicar, who was thinking of him at
that very moment.
"Anybody might see it. He has no appetite--he ate nothing at breakfast
this morning. He looks pale. My dear, that boy will certainly break
down."
"I don't believe it," answered Mr. Ambrose still looking out of the
window. His hands were in his pockets, thrusting the skirts of his
clerical coat to right and left; he slowly raised himself upon his toes
and let himself down again, repeating the operation as though it helped
him to think.
"That is the way you spoil all your coats, Augustin," said his wife
looking at him from behind. "I assure you, my dear, that boy is not well.
Poor fellow, all alone at college with nobody to look after him--"
"We have all had to go through that. I do not think it hurts him a bit,"
said the vicar, slowly removing his hands from his pockets in deference
to his wife's suggestion.
"Then what is it, I would like to know? There is certainly something the
matter. Now I ask you whether he looks like himself?"
"Perhaps he does look a little tired."
"Tired! There is something on his mind, Augustin. I am positively certain
there is something on his mind. Why won't you tell me?"
"My dear--" began the vicar, and then stopped short. He was a very
truthful man, and as he knew very well what was the matter with John he
was embarrassed to find an answer. "My dear," he repeated, "I do not
think he is ill."
"Then I am right," retorted Mrs. Ambrose, triumphantly. "It is just as I
thought, there is something on his mind. Don't deny it, Augustin; there
is something on his mind."
Mr. Ambrose was silent; he glared fiercely at the window panes.
"Why don't you tell me?" insisted his better half. "I am quite sure you
know all about it. Augustin, do you know, or do you not?"
Thus directly questioned the vicar turned sharply round, sweeping the
window with his coat tails.
"My dear," he said, shortly, "I do know. Can you not imagine that it may
be a matter which John does not care to have mentioned?"
Mrs. Ambrose grew red with annoyance. She had set her heart on finding
out what had disturbed John, and the vicar had apparently made up his
mind that she should not succeed. Such occurrences were very rare between
that happy couple.
"I cannot believe he has done anything wrong," said Mrs. Ambrose.
"Anything which need be concealed from me--the interest I have always
taken--"
"He has not done anything wrong," said the vicar impatiently. "I do wish
you would drop the subject--"
"Then why should it be concealed from me?" objected his wife with
admirable logic. "If it is anything good he need not hide his light under
a bushel, I should think."
"There are plenty of things which are neither bad nor good," argued the
vicar, who felt that if he could draw Mrs. Ambrose into a Socratic
discussion he was safe.
"That is a distinct prevarication, Augustin," said she severely. "I am
surprised at you."
"Not at all," retorted the vicar. "What has occurred to John is not owing
to any fault of his." In his own mind the good man excused himself by
saying that John could not have helped falling in love with Mrs. Goddard.
But his wife turned quickly upon him.
"That does not prevent what has occurred to him, as you call it, from
being good, or more likely bad, to judge from his looks."
"My dear," said Mr. Ambrose, driven to bay, "I entirely decline to
discuss the point."
"I thought you trusted me, Augustin."
"So I do--certainly--and I always consult you about my own affairs."
"I think I have as much right to know about John as you have," retorted
his wife, who seemed deeply hurt.
"That is a point then which you ought to settle with John," said the
vicar. "I cannot betray his confidence, even to you."
"Oh--then he has been making confidences to you?"
"How in the world should I know about his affairs unless he told me?"
"One may see a great many things without being told about them, you
know," answered Mrs. Ambrose, assuming a prim expression as she examined
a small spot in the tablecloth. The vicar was walking up and down the
room. Her speech, which was made quite at random, startled him. She, too,
might easily have observed John's manner when he was with Mrs. Goddard;
she might have guessed the secret, and have put her own interpretation on
John's sudden melancholy.
"What may one see?" asked the vicar quickly.
"I did not say one could see anything," answered his wife. "But from your
manner I infer that there really is something to see. Wait a minute--what
can it be?"
"Nothing--my dear, nothing," said the vicar desperately.
"Oh, Augustin, I know you so well," said the implacable Mrs. Ambrose. "I
am quite sure now, that it is something I have seen. Deny it, my dear."
The vicar was silent and bit his long upper lip as he marched up and down
the room.
"Of course--you cannot deny it," she continued. "It is perfectly clear.
The very first day he arrived--when you came down from the Hall, in the
evening--Augustin, I have got it! It is Mrs. Goddard--now don't tell me
it is not. I am quite sure it is Mrs. Goddard. How stupid of me! Is it
not Mrs. Goddard?"
"If you are so positive," said the vicar, resorting to a form of defence
generally learned in the nursery, "why do you ask me?"
"I insist upon knowing, Augustin, is it, or is it not, Mrs. Goddard?"
"My dear, I positively refuse to answer any more questions," said the
vicar with tardy firmness.
"Oh, it is no matter," retorted Mrs. Ambrose in complete triumph, "if it
were not Mrs. Goddard of course you would say so at once."
A form of argument so unanswerable, that the vicar hastily left the room
feeling that he had basely betrayed John's confidence, and muttering
something about intolerable curiosity. Mrs. Ambrose had vanquished her
husband, as she usually did on those rare occasions when anything
approaching to a dispute arose between them. Having come to the
conclusion that "it" was Mrs. Goddard, the remainder of the secret needed
no discovery. It was plain that John must be in love with the tenant of
the cottage, and it seemed likely that it would devolve upon Mrs. Ambrose
to clear up the matter. She was very fond of John and her first
impression was that Mrs. Goddard, whom she now again suspected of having
foreign blood, had "led him on"--an impression which the vicar had
anticipated when he rashly resolved not to tell his wife John's secret.
She knew very well that the vicar must have told John his mind in regard
to such an attachment, and she easily concluded that he must have done so
on the previous evening when John called him into the study. But she had
just won a victory over her husband, and she consequently felt that he
was weak, probably too weak to save the situation, and it was borne in
upon her that she ought to do something immediately. Unhappily she did
not see quite clearly what was to be done. She might go straight to Mrs.
Goddard and accuse her of having engaged John's affections; but the more
she thought of that, the more diffident she grew in regard to the result
of such an interview. Curiosity had led her to a certain point, but
caution prevented her from going any further. Mrs. Ambrose was very
cautious. The habit of living in a small place, feeling that all her
actions were watched by the villagers and duly commented upon by them,
had made her even more careful than she was by nature. It would be very
unwise to bring about a scene with Mrs. Goddard unless she were very sure
of the result. Mrs. Goddard was hardly a friend. In Mrs. Ambrose's
opinion an acquaintance of two years and a half standing involving almost
daily meetings and the constant exchange of civilities did not constitute
friendship. Nevertheless the vicar's wife would have been ashamed to own
that after such long continued intercourse she was wholly ignorant of
Mrs. Goddard's real character; especially as the latter had requested the
vicar to tell Mrs. Ambrose her story when she first appeared at
Billingsfield. Moreover, as her excitement at the victory she had gained
over her husband began to subside, she found herself reviewing mentally
the events of the last few days. She remembered distinctly that John had
perpetually pursued Mrs. Goddard, and that although the latter seemed to
find him agreeable enough, she had never to Mrs. Ambrose's knowledge
given him any of those open encouragements in the way of smiles and
signals, which in the good lady's mind were classified under the term
"flirting." Mrs. Ambrose's ideas of flirtation may have been antiquated;
thirty years of Billingsfield in the society of the Reverend Augustin had
not contributed to their extension; but, on the whole, they were just.
Mrs. Goddard had not flirted with John. It is worthy of notice that in
proportion as the difficulties she would enter upon by demanding an
explanation from Mrs. Goddard seemed to grow in magnitude, she gradually
arrived at the conclusion that it was John's fault. Half an hour ago, in
the flush of triumph she had indignantly denied that anything could be
John's fault. She now resolved to behave to him with great austerity.
Such an occurrence as his falling in love could not be passed over with
indifference. It seemed best that he should leave Billingsfield very
soon.
John thought so too. Existence would not be pleasant now that the vicar
knew his secret, and he cursed the folly and curiosity which had led him
to betray himself in order to find out whether Mr. Juxon thought of
marrying Mrs. Goddard. He had now resolved to return to Cambridge at once
and to work his hardest until the Tripos was over. He would then come
back to Billingsfield and, with his honours fresh upon him and the
prospect of immediate success before him, he would throw himself at Mrs.
Goddard's feet. But of course he must have one farewell interview. Oh,
those farewell interviews! Those leave-takings, wherein often so much is
taken without leave!
Accordingly at luncheon he solemnly announced his intention of leaving
the vicarage on the morrow. Mrs. Ambrose received the news with an
equanimity which made John suspicious, for she had heretofore constantly
pressed him to extend his holiday, expressing the greatest solicitude for
his health. She now sat stony as a statue and said very coldly that she
was sorry he had to go so soon, but that, of course, it could not be
helped. The vicar was moved by his wife's apparent indifference. John, he
said, might at least have stayed till the end of the promised week; but
at this suggestion Mrs. Ambrose darted at her husband a look so full of
fierce meaning, that the vicar relapsed into silence, returning to the
consideration of bread and cheese and a salad of mustard and cress. John
saw the look and was puzzled; he did not believe the vicar capable of
going straight to Mrs. Ambrose with the story of the last night's
interview. But he was already so much disturbed that he did not attempt
to explain to himself what was happening.
But when lunch was over, and he realised that he had declared his
intention of leaving Billingsfield on the next day, he saw that if he
meant to see Mrs. Goddard before he left he must go to her at once. He
therefore waited until he heard Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose talking together in
the sitting-room and then slipped quietly out by the garden to the road.
He had no idea what he should say when he met Mrs. Goddard. He meant, of
course, to let her understand, or at least suppose, that he was leaving
suddenly on her account, but he did not know in the least how to
accomplish it. He trusted that the words necessary to him would come into
his head spontaneously. His heart beat fast and he was conscious that he
blushed as he rang the bell of the cottage. Almost before he knew where
he was, he found himself ushered into the little drawing-room and in the
presence of the woman he now felt sure that he loved. But to his great
annoyance she was not alone; Nellie was with her. Mrs. Goddard sat near
the fire, reading a review; Nellie was curled up in a corner of the deep
sofa with a book, her thick brown curls falling all over her face and
hands as she read. Mrs. Goddard extended her hand, without rising.
"How do you do, Mr. Short?" she said. The young man stood hat in hand in
the middle of the room, feeling very nervous. It was strange that he
should experience any embarrassment now, considering how many hours he
had spent in her company during the last few days. He blushed and
stammered.
"How do you do? I, in fact--I have come to say good-bye," he blurted out.
"So soon?" said Mrs. Goddard calmly. "Pray sit down."
"Are you really going away, Mr. Short?" asked Nellie. "We are so sorry to
lose you." The child had caught the phrase from a book she had been
reading, and thought it very appropriate. Her mother smiled.
"Yes--as Nellie says--we are sorry to lose you," she said. "I thought you
were to stay until Monday?"
"So I was--but--very urgent business--not exactly business of course, but
work--calls me away sooner." Having delivered himself of this masterpiece
of explanation John looked nervously at Nellie and then at his hat and
then, with an imploring glance, at Mrs. Goddard.
"But we shall hear of you, Mr. Short--after the examinations, shall we
not?"
"Oh yes," said John eagerly. "I will come down as soon as the lists are
out."
"You have my best wishes, you know," said Mrs. Goddard kindly. "I feel
quite sure that you will really be senior classic."
"Mamma is always saying that--it is quite true," explained Nellie.
John blushed again and looked gratefully at Mrs. Goddard. He wished
Nellie would go away, but there was not the least chance of that.
"Yes," said Mrs. Goddard, "I often say it. We all take a great interest
in your success here."
"You are very kind," murmured John. "Of course I shall come down at once
and tell you all about it, if I succeed. I do not really expect to be
first, of course. I shall be satisfied if I get a place in the first ten.
But I mean to do my best."
"No one can do more," said Mrs. Goddard, leaning back in her chair and
looking into the fire. Her face was quiet, but not sad as it sometimes
was. There was a long silence which John did not know how to break.
Nellie sat upon a carved chair by the side of the fireplace dangling her
legs and looking at her toes, turning them alternately in and out. She
wished John would go for she wanted to get back to her book, but had been
told it was not good manners to read when there were visitors. John
looked at Mrs. Goddard's face and was about to speak, and then changed
his mind and grew red and said nothing. Had she noticed his shyness she
would have made an effort at conversation, but she was absent-minded
to-day, and was thinking of something else. Suddenly she started and
laughed a little.
"I beg your pardon," she said. "What were you saying, Mr. Short?" Had
John been saying anything he would have repeated it, but being thus
interrogated he grew doubly embarrassed.
"I--I have not much to say--except good-bye," he answered.
"Oh, don't go yet," said Mrs. Goddard. "You are not going this afternoon?
It is always so unpleasant to say good-bye, is it not?"
"Dreadfully," answered John. "I would rather say anything else in the
world. No; I am going early to-morrow morning. There is no help for it,"
he added desperately. "I must go, you know."
"The next time you come, you will be able to stay much longer," said Mrs.
Goddard in an encouraging way. "You will have no more terms, then."
"No indeed--nothing but to take my degree."
"And what will you do then? You said the other day that you thought
seriously of going into the church."
"Oh mamma," interrupted Nellie suddenly looking up, "fancy Mr. Short in a
black gown, preaching like Mr. Ambrose! How perfectly ridiculous he would
look!"
"Nellie--Nellie!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, "do not talk nonsense. It is
very rude to say Mr. Short would look ridiculous."
"I didn't mean to be rude, mamma," returned Nellie, blushing scarlet and
pouting her lips, "only it would be very funny, wouldn't it?"
"I daresay it would," said John, relieved by the interruption. "I wish
you would advise me what to do, Mrs. Goddard," he added in a confidential
tone.
"I?" she exclaimed, and then laughed. "How should I be able to advise
you?"
"I am sure you could," said John, insisting. "You have such wonderfully
good judgment--"
"Have I? I did not know it. But, tell me, if you come out very high are
you not sure of getting a fellowship?"
"It is likely," answered John indifferently. "But I should have to give
it up if I married--"
"Surely, Mr. Short," cried Mrs. Goddard, with a laugh that cut him to the
quick, "you do not think of marrying for many years to come?"
"Oh--I don't know," he said, blushing violently, "why should not I?"
"In the first place, a man should never marry until he is at least five
and twenty years old," said Mrs. Goddard, calmly.
"Well--I may be as old as that before I get the fellowship."
"Yes, I daresay. But even then, why should you want to resign a handsome
independence as soon as you have got it? Is there anything else so good
within your reach?"
"There is the church, of course," said John. "But Miss Nellie seems to
think that ridiculous--"
"Never mind Nellie," answered Mrs. Goddard. "Seriously, Mr. Short, do you
approve of entering the church merely as a profession, a means of earning
money?"
"Well--no--I did not put it in that way. But many people do."
"That does not prove that it is either wise or decent," said Mrs.
Goddard. "If you felt impelled to take orders from other motives, it
would be different. As I understand you, you are choosing a profession
for the sake of becoming independent."
"Certainly," said John.
"Well, then, there is nothing better for you to do than to get a
fellowship and hold it as long as you can, and during that time you can
make up your mind." She spoke with conviction, and the plan seemed good.
"But I cannot imagine," she continued, "why you should ask my advice."
"And not to marry?" inquired John nervously.
"There is plenty of time to think of that when you are thirty--even five
and thirty is not too late."
"Dear me!" exclaimed John, "I think that is much too old!"
"Do you call me old?" asked Mrs. Goddard serenely. "I was thirty-one on
my last birthday."
For the twentieth time, John felt himself growing uncomfortably hot. Not
only had he said an unconscionably stupid thing, but Mrs. Goddard, after
advising him not to marry for ten years, had almost hinted that she might
meanwhile be married herself. What else could she mean by the remark? But
John was hardly a responsible being on that day. His views of life and
his understanding were equally disturbed.
"No indeed," he protested on hearing her confession of age. "No
indeed--why, you are the youngest person I ever saw, of course. But with
men--it is quite different."
"Is it? I always thought women were supposed to grow old faster than men.
That is the reason why women always marry men so much older than
themselves."
"Oh--in that case--I have nothing more to say," replied John in very
indistinct tones. The perspiration was standing upon his forehead; the
room swam with him and he felt a terrible, prickly sensation all over his
body.
"Mamma, shan't I open the door? Mr. Short is so very hot," said Nellie
looking at him in some astonishment. At that moment John felt as though
he could have eaten little Nellie, long legs, ringlets and all, with
infinite satisfaction. He rose suddenly to his feet.
"The fact is--it is late--I must really be saying good-bye," he
stammered.
"Must you?" said Mrs. Goddard, suspecting that something was the matter.
"Well, I am very sorry to say good-bye. But you will be coming back soon,
will you not?"
"Yes--I don't know--perhaps I shall not come back at all. Good-bye--Mrs.
Goddard--good-bye, Miss Nellie."
"Good-bye, Mr. Short," said Mrs. Goddard, looking at him with some
anxiety. "You are not ill? What is the matter?"
"Oh dear no, nothing," answered John with an unnatural laugh. "No thank
you--good-bye."
He managed to get out of the door and rushed down to the road. The cold
air steadied his nerves. He felt better. With a sudden revulsion of
feeling, he began to utter inward imprecations against his folly, against
the house he had just left, against everybody and everything in general,
not forgetting poor little Nellie.
"If ever I cross that threshold again--" he muttered with tragic
emphasis. His face was still red, and he swung his stick ferociously
as he strode towards the vicarage. Several little boys in ragged
smock-frocks saw him and thought he had had some beer, even as their own
fathers, and made vulgar gestures when his back was turned.
So poor John packed his portmanteau and left the vicarage early on the
following morning. He sent an excuse to Mr. Juxon explaining that the
urgency of his work called him back sooner than he had expected, and when
the train moved fairly off towards Cambridge he felt that in being spared
the ordeal of shaking hands with his rival he had at least escaped some
of the bitterness of his fate; as he rolled along he thought very sadly
of all that had happened in that short time which was to have been so gay
and which had come to such a miserable end.
Reflecting calmly upon his last interview with Mrs. Goddard, he was
surprised to find that his memory failed him. He could not recall
anything which could satisfactorily account for the terrible
disappointment and distress he had felt. She had only said that she was
thirty-one years old, precisely as the vicar had stated on the previous
evening, and she had advised him not to marry for some years to come. But
she had laughed, and his feelings had been deeply wounded--he could not
tell precisely at what point in the conversation, but he was quite
certain that she had laughed, and oh! that terrible Nellie! It was very
bitter, and John felt that the best part of his life was lived out. He
went back to his books with a dark and melancholy tenacity of purpose,
flavoured by a hope that he might come to some sudden and awful end in
the course of the next fortnight, thereby causing untold grief and
consternation to the hard-hearted woman he had loved. But before the
fortnight had expired he found to his surprise that he was intensely
interested in his work, and once or twice he caught himself wondering how
Mrs. Goddard would look when he went back to Billingsfield and told her
he had come out at the head of the classical Tripos--though, of course,
he had no intention of going there, nor of ever seeing her again.