Mrs. Goddard's head ached "terrible bad" according to Martha, and when
the vicar left her she went and lay down upon her bed, with a sensation
that if the worst were not yet over she could bear no more. But she had
an elastic temperament, and the fact of having consulted Mr. Ambrose that
morning had been a greater relief than she herself suspected. She felt
that he could be trusted to save Mr. Juxon from harm and Walter from
capture, and having once confided to him the important secret which had
so heavily weighed upon her mind she felt that the burthen of her
troubles was lightened. Mr. Juxon could take any measures he pleased for
his own safety; he would probably choose to stay at home until the danger
was past. As for her husband, Mary Goddard did not believe that he would
return a third time, for she thought that she had thoroughly frightened
him. It was even likely that he had only thrown out his threat for the
sake of terrifying his wife, and was now far beyond the limits of the
parish. So great was the relief she felt after she had talked with the
vicar that she almost ceased to believe there was any danger at all;
looking at it in the light of her present mood, she almost wondered why
she had thought it necessary to tell Mr. Ambrose--until suddenly a vision
of her friend the squire, attacked and perhaps killed, in his own park,
rose to her mental vision, and she remembered what agonies of fear she
had felt for him until she had sent for the vicar. The latter indeed
seemed to have been a sort of _deus ex maohinâ_ by whom she suddenly
obtained peace of mind and a sense of security in the hour of her
greatest distress.
All that afternoon she lay upon her bed, while Nellie sat beside her and
read to her, and stroked her hands; for Nellie was in reality
passionately fond of her mother and suffered almost as much at the sight
of her suffering as she could have done had she been in pain herself.
Both Mrs. Goddard and the child started at the sound of Stamboul's
baying, which was unlike anything they had ever heard before, and Nellie
ran to the window.
"It is only Mr. Juxon and Stamboul having a game," said Nellie. "What a
noise he made, though! Did not he?"
Poor Nellie--had she had any idea of what the "game" was from which the
squire found it so hard to make his hound desist, she must have gone
almost mad with horror. For the game was her own father, poor child. But
she came back and sat beside her mother utterly unconscious of what might
have happened if Stamboul had once got beyond earshot, galloping along
the trail towards the disused vault at the back of the church. Mrs.
Goddard had started at the sounds and had put her hand to her forehead,
but Nellie's explanation was enough to quiet her, and she smiled faintly
and closed her eyes again. Then, half an hour later, Mrs. Ambrose came,
and would not be denied. She wanted to make Mrs. Goddard comfortable, she
said, when she found she was ill, and she did her best, being a kind and
motherly woman when not hardened by the presence of strangers. She told
her that John was coming on the next day, speaking with vast pride of his
success and omitting to look sternly at Mrs. Goddard as she had formerly
been accustomed to do when she spoke of the young scholar. Then at last
she went away, after exacting a promise from Mrs. Goddard to come and
dine, bringing Nellie with her, on the following day, in case she should
have recovered by that time from her headache.
But during all that night Mrs. Goddard lay awake, listening for the sound
she so much dreaded, of a creeping footstep on the slated path outside
and for the tapping at the window. Nothing came, however, and as the grey
dawn began to creep in through the white curtains, she fell peacefully
asleep. Nellie would not let her be waked, and breakfasted without her,
enjoying with childish delight the state of being waited on by Martha
alone.
Meanwhile, at an early hour, John arrived at the vicarage and was
received with open arms by Mr. Ambrose and his wife. The latter seemed to
forget, in the pleasure of seeing him again, that she had even once
spoken doubtfully of him or hinted that he was anything short of
perfection itself. And to prove how much she had done for him she
communicated with great pride the squire's message, to the effect that he
expected John at the Hall that very day.
John's heart leaped with delight at the idea. It was natural. He was
indeed most sincerely attached to the Ambroses, and most heartily glad to
be with them; but he had never in his life had an opportunity of staying
in a "big" house, as he would have described it. It seemed as though he
were already beginning to taste the sweet first-fruits of success after
all his labour and all his privations; it was the first taste of another
world, the first mouthful of the good things of life which had fallen to
his lot. Instantly there rose before him delicious visions of hot-water
cans brought by a real footman, of luxurious meals served by a real
butler, of soft carpets perpetually beneath his feet, of liberty to
lounge in magnificent chairs in the magnificent library; and last, though
not least, there was a boyish feeling of delight in the thought that when
he went to see Mrs. Goddard he would go from the Hall, that she would
perhaps associate him henceforth with a different kind of existence, in a
word, that he was sure to acquire importance in her eyes from the fact of
his visit to the squire. Many a young fellow of one and twenty is as
familiar with all that money can give and as tired of luxury as a
broken-down hard liver of forty years; for this is an age of luxurious
living. But poor John had hardly ever tasted the least of those things
too familiar to the golden youth of the period to be even noticed. He had
felt when he first entered the little drawing-room of the cottage that
Mrs. Goddard herself belonged, or had belonged, to that delicious unknown
world of ease where the question of expense was never considered, much
less mentioned. In her own eyes she was indeed living in a state
approaching to penury, but the spectacle of her pictures, her furniture
and her bibelots had impressed John with a very different idea. The
squire's invitation, asking him to spend a week at the Hall, seemed in a
moment to put him upon the same level as the woman to whom he believed
himself so devotedly attached. To his mind the ideal woman could not but
be surrounded by a luxurious atmosphere of her own. To enter the charmed
precincts of those surroundings seemed to John equivalent to being
transported from the regions of the Theocritan to the level of the
Anacreontic ode, from the pastoral, of which he had had too much, to the
aristocratic, of which he felt that he could not have enough. It was a
natural feeling in a very young man of his limited experience.
He stayed some hours at the vicarage. Both Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose thought
him changed in the short time which had elapsed since they had seen him.
He had grown more grave; he was certainly more of a man. The great
contest he had just sustained with so much honour had left upon his young
face its mark, an air of power which had not formerly been visible there;
even his voice seemed to have grown deeper and rounder, and his words
carried more weight. The good vicar, who had seen several generations
of students, already distinguished in John Short the budding "don," and
rubbed his hands with great satisfaction.
John asked few questions but found himself obliged to answer many
concerning his recent efforts. He would have liked to say something about
Mrs. Goddard, but he remembered with some awe and much aversion the
circumstances in which he had last quitted the vicarage, and he held his
peace; whereby he again rose in Mrs. Ambrose's estimation. He made up for
his silence by speaking effusively of the squire's kindness in asking him
to the Hall; forgetting perhaps the relief he had felt when he escaped
from Billingsfield after Christmas without being again obliged to shake
hands with Mr. Juxon. Things looked very differently now, however. He
felt himself to be somebody in the world, and that distressing sense of
inferiority which had perhaps been at the root of his jealousy against
the squire was gone, swallowed in the sense of triumph. His face was
pale, perhaps, from overwork, but there was a brilliancy in his eyes and
an incisiveness in his speech which came from the confidence of victory.
He now desired nothing more than to meet the squire, feeling sure that he
should receive his congratulations, and though he stayed some hours in
conversation with his old friends, in imagination he was already at the
Hall. The squire had not come down to meet him, as he had proposed, but
he had sent his outlandish American gig with his groom to fetch John.
While he was at the vicarage the latter was probably too much occupied
with conversation to notice that Mr. Ambrose seemed preoccupied and
changed, and the vicar was to some extent recalled to his usual manner by
the presence of his pupil. Mrs. Ambrose had taxed her husband with
concealing something from her ever since the previous day, but the good
man was obstinate and merely said that he felt unaccountably nervous and
irritable, and begged her to excuse his mood. Mrs. Ambrose postponed her
cross-examination until a more favourable opportunity should present
itself.
John got into the gig and drove away. He was to return with the squire to
dinner in the evening, and he fully expected that Mrs. Goddard and Nellie
would be of the party--it seemed hardly likely that they should be
omitted. Indeed, soon after John had left a note arrived at the vicarage
explaining that Mrs. Goddard was much better and would certainly come,
according to Mrs. Ambrose's very kind invitation.
It is unnecessary to dwell upon the meeting which took place between Mr.
Juxon and John Short. The squire was hospitable in the extreme and
expressed his great satisfaction at having John under his own roof at
last. He was perhaps, like the vicar, a little nervous, but the young man
did not notice it, being much absorbed by the enjoyment of his good
fortune and of the mental rest he so greatly needed. Mr. Juxon
congratulated him warmly and expressed a hope, amounting to certainty,
that John might actually be at the head of the Tripos; to which John
modestly replied that he would be quite satisfied to be in the first ten,
knowing in his heart that he should be most bitterly disappointed if he
were second to any one. He sat opposite to his host in a deep chair
beside the fire in the library and revelled in comfort and ease, enjoying
every trifle that fell in his way, feeling only a very slight diffidence
in regard to himself for the present and none at all for the future. The
squire was so cordial that he felt himself thoroughly at home. Indeed Mr.
Juxon already rejoiced at his wisdom in asking John to the Hall. The lad
was strong, hopeful, well-balanced in every respect and his presence was
an admirable tonic to the almost morbid state of anxiety in which the
squire had lived ever since his interview with Policeman Gall, two days
before. In the sunshine of John's young personality, fears grew small and
hope grew big. The ideas which had passed through Mr. Juxon's brain on
the previous evening, just after Mr. Ambrose had warned him of Goddard's
intentions, seemed now like the evil shadows of a nightmare. All
apprehension lest the convict should attempt to execute his threats
disappeared like darkness before daylight, and in the course of an hour
or two the squire found himself laughing and chatting with his guest as
though there were no such things as forgery or convicts in the world. The
afternoon passed very pleasantly between the examination of Mr. Juxon's
treasures and the conversation those objects elicited. For John, who was
an accomplished scholar, had next to no knowledge of bibliology and took
delight in seeing for the first time many a rare edition which he had
heard mentioned or had read of in the course of his studies. He would not
have believed that he could be now talking on such friendly terms with a
man for whom he had once felt the strongest antipathy, and Mr. Juxon on
his part felt that in their former meetings he had not done full justice
to the young man's undoubted talents.
As they drove down to the vicarage that evening Mrs. Goddard's name was
mentioned for the first time. John, with a fine affectation of
indifference, asked how she was.
"She has not been very well lately," answered Mr. Juxon.
"What has been the matter?" inquired John, who could not see his
companion's face in the dark shade of the trees.
"Headache, I believe," returned the squire laconically, and silence
ensued for a few moments. "I should not wonder if it rained again this
evening," he added presently as they passed through the park gate, out
into the road. The sky was black and it was hard to see anything beyond
the yellow streak of light which fell from the lamps and ran along the
road before the gig.
"If it turns out a fine night, don't come for us. We will walk home,"
said the squire to the groom as they descended before the vicarage and
Stamboul, who had sat on the floor between them, sprang down to the
ground.
John was startled when he met Mrs. Goddard. He was amazed at the change
in her appearance for which no one had prepared him. She met him indeed
very cordially but he felt as though she were not the same woman he had
known so short a time before. There was still in her face that delicate
pathetic expression which had at first charmed him, there was still the
same look in her eyes; but what had formerly seemed so attractive seemed
now exaggerated. Her cheeks looked wan and hollow and there were deep
shadows about her eyes and temples; her lips had lost their colour and
the lines about her mouth had suddenly become apparent where John had not
before suspected them. She looked ten years older as she put her thin
hand in his and smiled pleasantly at his greeting. Some trite phrase
about the "ravages of time" crossed John's mind and gave him a
disagreeable sensation, for which it was hard to account. He felt as
though his dream were suddenly dead and a strange reality had taken life
in its place. Could this be she to whom he had written verses by the
score, at whose smile he had swelled with pride, at whose careless laugh
he had trembled with shame? She was terribly changed, she looked
positively old--what John called old. As he sat by her side talking and
wondering whether he would fall back into those same grooves of
conversation he had associated with her formerly, he felt something akin
to pity for her, which he had certainly never expected to feel. She was
not the same as before--even the tone of her voice was different; she was
gentle, pathetic, endowed even now with many charms, but she was not
the woman he had dreamed of and tried to speak to of the love he fancied
was in his heart. She talked--yes; but there were long pauses, and her
eyes wandered strangely from him, often towards the windows of the
vicarage drawing-room, often towards the doors; her answers were not
always to the point and her interest seemed to flag in what was said.
John could not fail to notice too that both Mr. Ambrose and Mr. Juxon
treated her with the kind of attention which is bestowed upon invalids,
and the vicar's wife was constantly doing something to make her
comfortable, offering her a footstool, shading the light from her eyes,
asking if she felt any draught where she sat. These were things no one
had formerly thought of doing for Mrs. Goddard, who in spite of her sad
face had been used to laugh merrily enough with the rest, and whose lithe
figure had seemed to John the embodiment of youthful activity. At last he
ventured to ask her a question.
"Have you been ill, Mrs. Goddard?" he inquired in a voice full of
interest. Her soft eyes glanced uneasily at him. He was now the only one
of the party who was not in some degree acquainted with her troubles.
"Oh no!" she answered nervously. "Only a little headache. It always makes
me quite wretched when I have it."
"Yes. I often have headaches, too," answered John. "The squire told me as
we came down."
"What did he tell you?" asked Mrs. Goddard so quickly as to startle her
companion.
"Oh--only that you had not been very well. Where is it that you suffer?"
he asked sympathetically. "I think it is worst when it seems to be in
the very centre of one's head, like a red-hot nail being driven in with a
hammer--is that like what you feel?"
"I--yes, I daresay. I don't quite know," she answered, her eyes wandering
uneasily about the room. "I suppose you have dreadful headaches over
your work, do you not, Mr. Short?" she added quickly, feeling that she
must say something.
"Oh, it is all over now," said John rather proudly. But as he leaned back
in his chair he said to himself that this meeting was not precisely what
he had anticipated; the subject of headaches might have a fine interest
in its way, but he had expected to have talked of more tender things. To
his own great surprise he felt no desire to do so, however. He had not
recovered from the shock of seeing that Mrs. Goddard had grown old.
"Yes," said she, kindly. "How glad you must be! To have done so
splendidly too--you must feel that you have realised a magnificent
dream."
"No," said John. "I cannot say I do. I have done the thing I meant to do,
or I have good reason to believe that I have; but I have not realised my
dream. I shall never write any more odes, Mrs. Goddard."
"Why not? Oh, you mean to me, Mr. Short?" she added with something of her
old manner. "Well, you know, it is much better that you should not."
"Perhaps so," answered John rather sadly. "I don't know. Frankly, Mrs.
Goddard, did not you sometimes think I was very foolish last Christmas?"
"Very," she said, smiling at him kindly. "But I think you have changed. I
think you are more of a man, now--you have something more serious--"
"I used to think I was very serious, and so I was," said John, with the
air of a man who refers to the follies of his long past youth. "Do you
remember how angry I was when you wanted me to skate with Miss Nellie?"
"Oh, I only said that to teaze you," Mrs. Goddard answered. "I daresay
you would be angry now, if I suggested the same thing."
"No," said John quietly. "I do not believe I should be. As you say, I
feel very much older now than I did then."
"The older we grow the more we like youth," said Mary Goddard,
unconsciously uttering one of the fundamental truths of human nature, and
at the same time so precisely striking the current of John's thoughts
that he started. He was wondering within himself why it was that she now
seemed too old for him, whereas a few short months ago she had seemed to
be of his own age.
"How true that is!" he exclaimed. Mrs. Goddard laughed faintly.
"You are not old enough to have reached that point yet, Mr. Short," she
said. "Really, here we are moralising like a couple of old philosophers!"
"This is a moralising season," answered John. "When we last met, it was
all holly-berries and Christmas and plum-pudding."
"How long ago that seems!" exclaimed the poor lady with a sigh.
"Ages!" echoed John, sighing in his turn, but not so much for sadness, it
may be, as from relief that the great struggle was over. That time of
anxiety and terrible effort seemed indeed very far removed from him, but
its removal was a cause of joy rather than of sadness. He sighed like a
man who, sitting over his supper, remembers the hard fought race he has
won in the afternoon, feeling yet in his limbs the ability to race and
win again but feeling in his heart the delicious consciousness that the
question of his superiority has been decided beyond all dispute.
"And now you will stay here a long time, of course," said Mrs. Goddard
presently.
"I am stopping at the Hall, just now," said John with a distinct sense of
the importance of the fact, "and after a week I shall stay here a few
days. Then I shall go to London to see my father."
"No one will be so glad as he to hear of your success."
"No indeed. I really think it is more for his sake that I want to be
actually first," said John. "Do you know, I have so often thought how he
will look when I meet him and tell him I am the senior classic."
John's voice trembled and as Mrs. Goddard looked at him, she thought she
saw a moisture in his eyes. It pleased her to see it, for it showed that
John Short had more heart than she had imagined.
"I can fancy that," she said, warmly. "I envy you that moment."
Presently the squire came over to where they were sitting and joined
them; and then Mrs. Ambrose spoke to John, and Nellie came and asked him
questions. Strange to say John felt none of that annoyance which he
formerly felt when his conversations with Mrs. Goddard were interrupted,
and he talked with Nellie and Mrs. Ambrose quite as readily as with her.
He felt very calm and happy that night, as though he had done with the
hard labour of life. In half an hour he had realised that he was no more
in love with Mrs. Goddard than he was with Mrs. Ambrose, and he was
trying to explain to himself how it was that he had ever believed in such
a palpable absurdity. Love was doubtless blind, he thought, but he was
surely not so blind as to overlook the evidences of Mrs. Goddard's age.
All the dreams of that morning faded away before the sight of her face,
and so deep is the turpitude of the best of human hearts that John was
almost ashamed of having once thought he loved her. That was probably the
best possible proof that his love had been but a boyish fancy.
What the little party at the vicarage would have been like, if John's
presence had not animated it, would be hard to say. The squire and Mr.
Ambrose treated Mrs. Goddard with the sort of paternal but solemn care
which is usually bestowed either upon great invalids or upon persons
bereaved of some very dear relation. The two elder men occasionally
looked at her and exchanged glances when they were not observed by Mrs.
Ambrose, wondering perhaps what would next befall the unfortunate lady
and whether she could bear much more of the excitement and anxiety to
which she had of late been subjected. On the whole the conversation was
far from being lively, and Mrs. Goddard herself felt that it was a relief
when the hour came for going home.
The vicar had ordered his dog-cart for her and Nellie, but as the night
had turned out better than had been expected Mr. Juxon's groom had not
come down from the Hall. Both he and John would be glad of the walk; it
had not rained for two days and the roads were dry.
"Look here," said the squire, as they rose to take their leave, "Mr.
Short had better go as far as the cottage in the dog-cart, to see Mrs.
Goddard home. I will go ahead on foot--I shall probably be there as soon
as you. There is not room for us all, and somebody must go with her, you
know. Besides," he added, "I have got Stamboul with me."
Mrs. Goddard, who was standing beside the squire, laid her hand
beseechingly upon his arm.
"Oh, pray don't," she said in low voice. "Why have you not got your
carriage?"
"Never mind me," he answered in the same tone. "I am all right, I like to
walk."
Before she could say anything more, he had shaken hands with Mr. and Mrs.
Ambrose and was gone. Perhaps in his general determination to be good to
everybody he fancied that John would enjoy the short drive with Mrs.
Goddard better than the walk with himself.
But when he was gone, Mrs. Goddard grew very nervous. One of her wraps
could not be found, and while search was being made for it the motherly
Mrs. Ambrose insisted upon giving her something hot, in the way of brandy
and water. She looked very ill, but showed the strongest desire to go. It
was no matter about the shawl, she said; Mr. Ambrose could send it in the
morning; but the thing was found and at last Mrs. Goddard and Nellie and
John got into the dog-cart with old Reynolds and drove off. All these
things consumed some time.
The squire on the other hand strode briskly forward towards the cottage,
not wishing to keep John waiting for him. As he walked his mind wandered
back to the consideration of the almost tragic events which were
occurring in the peaceful village. He forgot all about John, as he looked
up at the half moon which struggled to give some light through the
driving clouds; he fell to thinking of Mrs. Goddard and to wondering
where her husband might be lying hidden. The road was lonely and he
walked fast, with Stamboul close at his heel. The dog-cart did not
overtake him before he reached the cottage, and he forgot all about it.
By sheer force of habit he opened the white gate and, closing it behind
him, entered the park alone.