The next afternoon John and Kate were on the lawn, with Mrs Mitford
sitting by, when Fred Huntley suddenly rode in at the gate. The two
young people had no particular inclination for croquet, but the lawn
had been mowed, and Mrs Mitford had given up her schools for one day,
and seated herself outside the drawing-room window to countenance their
intercourse. She did not take any part in their talk, but knitted with
as much placidity as she could command, having reasoned with herself
all the night through, and finally made up her mind that it would be
better for her to take no part, but let things take their course. “If
I try to influence her, she will think I have interested motives; and
if I try to influence him, my boy will turn against me,” she had said
to herself piteously, shedding a few silent tears under cover of the
night; and her decision had been, that she would only stand by and
look on, that was all. For the first time in his life John’s mother
felt herself incapable of helping, or guiding, or being of any service
to her boy. She had to see him face the danger, and say nothing--the
danger on one hand of being secularised, and his heart turned to
frivolity; and on the other, of having that heart broken. Which was the
worse his mother could scarcely tell.
So these two were trifling, each with a mallet, and talking, and
getting more and more interested in each other, when Fred Huntley, as
I have said, rode suddenly in upon them. He gave a very keen knowing
glance at the two on the lawn, as he passed them to pay his respects
to Mrs Mitford. Was it her doing? was it their own doing? Fred caught
the secret of the situation as a well-trained man of the world would
naturally do. He had first a natural impulse to interfere; and then
he paused and stopped himself, and declared to himself that he would
not spoil sport. He was a man to whom generous thoughts came not, as
is natural, by impulse, but upon thought. And after all, why should
he meddle with them? If she married John, it would be a good thing
for John, and, most likely, for her too--and why should I interfere?
said Fred, without a doubt of his capability to do so; so he went and
talked to Mrs Mitford, while the two on the lawn pursued their languid
sport. “I hate him,” Kate had said on his arrival; “let us pretend we
have begun a game;” and John was but too happy--too much delighted,
by the suggestion. So they kept the lawn to themselves, and trifled
and talked, while Fred chatted with the chaperone over her knitting.
He had come to make the apologies of his family, expecting to find an
assemblage of ladies with John in the midst, the one island of black
among clouds of muslin. The ladies in Fanshawe Regis were not even
young, and consequently it was a relief to him to see one pretty figure
only, and the mother sitting by; and he did his best to make himself
agreeable, having, as it happened, a more interesting subject than “le
beau temps et la pluie.”
“I hear John has been distinguishing himself,” he said; and though he
did not in the least intend it, there was something in his tone which
made Mrs Mitford flush red to the edge of her hair, and raise herself
stiffly on her seat. The truth was, John had been in competition
with Fred more than once at college, and had not been held to have
distinguished himself--which naturally drove his mother to arms at the
first word.
“Not anything particular that I am aware of,” she said, drawing herself
up stiffly; “he always is the best son and the kindest heart in the
world.”
“But about Miss Crediton,” said Fred.
“Oh, that was a mere accident,” said John’s mother. “You see he can’t
help having a warm heart, and being so big and strong.”
Fred was fully three inches shorter than John, and in this way at least
he had never distinguished himself. “To be sure, that is an easy way
of accounting for it,” he said, with much command of temper. “It must
be very nice to be big and strong, especially when pretty girls and
heiresses are in danger in one’s way.”
“Is she an heiress?” said Mrs Mitford, with the most innocent face in
the world.
“Well, rather,” said Fred; and here the little passage of arms came to
a close. “My sisters were very sorry they could not come,” he went on
after an interval, during which he had been intently watching the two
figures on the lawn. “They sent all kinds of messages, but I fear I
have lost them on the way. They could scarcely have been more sorry had
it been a dance--and what could a young lady say more?”
“I wish they could have come,” said Mrs Mitford; and just then Lizzie
came and whispered something in her ear. “Will you excuse me for two
minutes, Mr Huntley? It is one of my poor people. I am so sorry to be
rude, and go away.”
Fred said something that was very polite, and went slowly towards the
croquet-players as she left him. He thought Kate was very pretty--he
had never seen her look so pretty. She was dressed in fresh muslin all
but white, with her favourite blue ribbons, and looked so dainty, so
refined, such a little princess beside John’s somewhat heavy large
figure. Not but what he looked a gentleman too--but a rural gentleman,
a heavy weight, and standing side by side with a creature made of
sunshine and light. Fred Huntley had never admired Kate particularly
heretofore, but he did that day, and wondered at himself. He sauntered
up to them, watching their looks and movements, and stood by and
criticised their play. “Miss Crediton, you have it all in your own
hands,” he said. “He has not the heart to hit your ball. You have
nothing to do but go in and win. My good fellow, I never saw such bad
play!”
“As if one cared for winning!” said Kate, dragging her mallet along
the grass. “What do we all play croquet for, I wonder?” And she gave
vent to her feelings in a delicate yawn, and sank into the chair which
John had brought out for her. He had placed it under the shadow of a
graceful acacia, which kept dropping its white blossoms at her feet,
and the two young men drew near and looked at her. Fred was much the
more ready of the two, so far as talk was concerned.
“That is a tremendous question,” he said. “It is as bad as if you had
invited us to clear up the origin of evil. But there is nobody like
women for going to the bottom of things. We do it because somebody once
considered it pleasant, I suppose.”
“Or because we are believed to have nothing else to do,” said John.
“Then why can’t we be permitted to do nothing? It tires me to death
standing about in the sun,” said Kate, in a plaintive voice. “I’d
rather lean back and be comfortable, and listen to the leaves. I’d
rather even have you two sit down here in the shade,” and she waved
her hand like a little princess towards the turf on each side of her,
“and quarrel about something--so long as you did not come to blows.
Talk--oh, please, talk about something women are not supposed to
understand!”
“By all means,” said Fred, throwing himself down at her feet; “what
shall it be? Sophocles, or steam-engines, or the Darwinian theory?
Mitford is up in everything, I know, and one has a few vague ideas on
general subjects--which shall it be?”
But John said nothing. He stood bending towards her with that great,
tall, somewhat heavy figure of his. He had been talking not unagreeably
so long as the two were alone, but Fred’s interposition quenched him.
He stood with an inexpressible something in his look and attitude,
which said, “I am here to watch over you, to serve you, not to take
my ease and talk nonsense in your presence,” which brought a little
colour to Kate’s cheeks. She looked at the young men in her turn,
involuntarily contrasting the ease of the man of the world with the
almost awkwardness of the other. Under such circumstances one knows
what the verdict of a frivolous girl would naturally be. One of them
could enter into all her habitual chatter, and give her all her
nonsense back. He was handsomer than John Mitford, though neither was
an Adonis. He was more successful; he had the _prestige_ about him
of a man of intellect, and yet he was just like other people. Whereas
John, without the _prestige_, was unlike other people. Kate
looked at them with a curious impression on her mind, as if she were
making that grand decision which the heroes of olden time used to be
called upon to make between the true and the false--between Pleasure
and Goodness. A slight shiver went over her, she could not tell why.
Neither of them was asking anything of her at that moment. As for Fred
Huntley, he had never shown the slightest inclination to ask anything
of her, and yet in some mysterious way she felt as if she were deciding
her fate.
“You are cold--let me go and bring you a shawl,” said John.
“Oh, it is nothing. It is because I have been ill. I never was so
stupid in all my life before. Thanks, Mr Mitford, that is so nice,”
said Kate. But she was not cold, though she accepted the shawl he
brought her. She was trembling before her fate. And it was John to whom
some unseen counsellor seemed to direct her. It was John she liked
best, she said to herself. His was the good face, the tender eyes,
the loyal soul. Why such a crisis should come upon her in the middle
of a game at croquet, Kate could not imagine; nor why her innocent
intention of bewildering poor John’s being for him, and giving a sharp
tug at his heart-strings by way of diversion, should have changed all
at once into this sudden compulsion of fate upon herself to choose or
to reject. Such nonsense! when nobody was asking her--nobody thinking
of such a thing! She got out of it precipitately, with the haste of
fear, not knowing or caring what nonsense she spoke. “You make me so
uncomfortable when you stand like that,” she cried. “Sit down, as Mr
Huntley has done. There are only us three, and why should we make
martyrs of ourselves? and when Mrs Mitford comes back, you can go and
bring her chair under this tree. Mr Huntley, are you going to the ball
at the Castle when the young Earl comes of age?”
“I had not heard anything about it,” said Fred. “I don’t care for balls
in a general way; but if you are to be there, Miss Crediton----”
“Of course you will go,” said Kate; “oh, I understand that. I wish
you gentlemen would now and then say something a little original. Mr
Mitford, I suppose I must not ask if you are going, or you will answer
me the same?”
“No, I don’t think there is any chance that I shall go,” he said, with
a smile, “not even if you are there.”
“That is not original,” said Fred, “it is only ringing the changes. But
I suppose you will be going up to the bishop then, Mitford, eh? When
is it? You ought not to speak to him about balls, and tempt him, Miss
Crediton, at this moment of his life.”
Kate started a little in spite of herself. “Is it so near as that? Oh,
Mr Mitford, is it true?”
“Quite true,” John answered, facing her, with a certain faltering
steadiness which she found it hard to understand; “but I don’t think
the temptation of balls, so far as that goes, is likely to do me much
harm.”
“And I hope you are all right in other respects, old fellow,” said Fred
Huntley, suddenly, in an undertone. “You are not going to do anything
that will make you uncomfortable, I hope. You are not going to make any
sacrifice of--of opinion--of---- I remember the talks we used to have
long ago.”
“I am not going to sacrifice my conscience, if that is what you mean,”
said John, shortly, growing very red; “but this is not the moment for
such a discussion.”
“I wonder where Mrs Mitford can be for so long,” cried Kate, rushing
into the conversation; “it must be some of her poor people. I think,
as the croquet has been a failure, I shall go and see; but in the mean
time, Mr Huntley, tell me what the girls are about, and where they are
going. Are they to pay as many visits this year as they did last? or
are you going to have your house full of people? Papa has asked some
hundreds to Fernwood, I believe. I hate autumn and the shooting, and
all the people that come from town. Why should the poor partridges lose
their lives and we our tempers every year, as soon as September comes?
It is very hard upon us both. Or else you all go off to the grouse, and
then there is not a man left in the place to fill a corner at dinner.
What harm have those poor birds ever done to you?”
“They are very nice to eat,” said Fred, “and I suppose if we did not
kill them they’d kill us in time. But, Miss Crediton, you are too
philosophical. May not a man play croquet or shoot partridges without
rendering a reason? One does so many things without any reason at all.”
“Well,” said Kate, smothering another yawn, “if you will not say
anything that is amusing, or argue, or do anything I tell you, I shall
go and look for Mrs Mitford. I don’t think it is quite proper to sit
here by myself and talk to two gentlemen, especially as you let me do
almost all the talking. And it is hot out of doors. I will go in till
tea is ready; but, Mr John, you do not need to trouble yourself. There
is not even a door to open. I shall go in at the window. Pray don’t
come,” she added, in a lower tone, as he followed her across the lawn;
“go and talk to _him_.”
“I would much rather attend upon you, even though you don’t want me,”
said John, with a half-audible sigh.
“But I do want you,” said Kate, touched by his tone, “you are always so
good to me; and I can’t bear _him_, with his chatter and talk. Do
keep him away as long as you can--until we call you in to tea.”
And then she gave the poor fellow a little nod of friendship, and
a smile which dazzled him. He went away strengthened in his soul
to be more than civil to Fred Huntley--poor Fred, upon whom this
sunshine had not fallen--whom, indeed, she was inclined to avert her
countenance from. He strolled about the garden with that unfortunate
but unconscious being for half an hour, and then took him to see the
church, which was a fine one, wondering in himself all the time when
that summons would come to tea. Huntley seemed abstracted too, and
it came natural to John to think that everybody must be moved as he
himself was, and that it was absence from _her_ which made a
cloud over his visitor. Their conversation strayed to a hundred other
subjects as they strolled gravely up and down. They talked of the
doings in Parliament, of the newspapers, of the county member, of the
nature of the county architecture, of the difference in point of age
between the chancel and the nave of Fanshawe Regis church, which was a
question much discussed in antiquarian circles; but it was not until a
full hour had elapsed that anything was said of Kate. At last,--
“By the by,” said Huntley, “what was that accident that happened to
Miss Crediton? One hears different accounts of it all over the country,
and she does not seem to know very well herself.”
“It was not much,” said John, with rising colour. “Her horse ran away
with her--he was making for the cliff, you know, at Winton, that
overhangs the river--I beg your pardon, but the thought makes me
sick--and I stopped him--that’s all.”
“But how did you stop him?”
“It does not greatly matter,” said John; “I did somehow. I don’t know
much more about it than she does. And don’t speak of it to her, for
heaven’s sake! She does not know what an awful danger she escaped.”
“But surely she knows what happened?” said Fred.
“Oh yes--she knows, and she does not know. I tell you I don’t know
myself. Don’t say anything more about it, please.”
“That is all very well, my dear fellow,” said Huntley; “but Kate
Crediton is an heiress, and a very nice girl; and if you were to go in
for her, I can tell you it would be a very good thing for you.”
This time John grew pale--so pale that the keen observer by his side
was filled with sudden consternation, and could not make it out.
“Suppose, in the mean time, we go in to tea,” he said, with a curious
sternness. Not another word was said, for Huntley was too much a man
of the world to repeat an unpalatable piece of advice; but he was
rather relieved, on the whole, when the ceremonial was over, the tea
swallowed, and half an hour of talk in the drawing-room added on to
the talk on the lawn. “I should like to know what _she_ means by
it,” Fred said to himself, indignantly, as he rode home to dinner. John
Mitford was a simpleton, an innocent, an ass, if you please; but Kate
knew what was what, and must have some idea where she was drifting. And
what could she mean, did anybody know?
She herself did not know, at least. She was very good to John all that
evening, asking him questions about his Oxford life, and humouring him
in a hundred little ways, of which he himself was but half conscious.
And after dinner it so happened that they were left in the garden
together, for Mrs Mitford had relaxed a little in the sternness of the
chaperone’s duties, which were new to her, and began to forget that the
boy and the girl were each other’s natural enemies. It was a lovely
night, and Kate lingered and walked round and round the old house till
she was compelled at last to acknowledge herself tired. And John, well
pleased, gave her his arm; and it was only when she had accepted that
support, and had him at a vantage, that she put the question she had
been meditating. The soft air enclosed them round and round, and the
soft darkness, and all the delicate odours and insensible sounds of
night. He could scarcely see her, and yet she was leaning on him with
her face raised and his bent, each toward the other. Then it was, with
just a little pressure of his arm to give emphasis to her question,
that she opened her batteries upon him at one _coup_.
“Is it really true,” she said, with a certain supplication in her
voice, “that you are determined to be a clergyman, Mr John?”
“True!” he said, staggering under it as he received the blow, and in
his confusion not knowing what to say.
“Yes, true. Will you tell me? I should so very much like to know.”
And then John’s heart stood still for one painful moment. The question
was so easy to ask, and the answer was not so easy. He drew his breath
like a man drowning, before he could muster strength to reply.