‘I asked old George to go to your fandango, Jim, and he said he would,
and take another man or two. He said he’d like to hear the young ladies
sing, if they’d sing something as an old man could understand; and he
wouldn’t mind hearing Mr. Jim if he said somethin’ as was funny and
would make a man laugh. Lord, you didn’t want to cry when you went out
for something as pretended to be pleasuring. The old woman can do that
fast enough at home. And as for Mr. Osborne, old George said as he
draw’d the line at him.’
‘What a horrid old man!’ said Florence.
‘No, he’s not at all a horrid old man. He is a great friend of mine; but
he doesn’t like, as he says, and I agree with him, to have some one
always a-nagging at him. When one’s mother does it, it’s horrid: and the
curate would be worse. Jim, do you really like Mr. Osborne that you have
grown such friends?’
‘Well,’ said Jim, with much innocence and a touch of complaisance
besides, ‘it’s him that looks as if he liked me.’
‘What excellent grammar, and what still more excellent humility!’ cried
Florence. Florence was, it must be allowed, a little bitter. Jim’s
acquaintance with the curate had gone on increasing daily. It had done
him a great deal of good--in one way. The doors of the ‘Blue Boar’ were
closed to him: he went there no longer. He thought of the vet. and
Simpkinson, the landlord, with a sort of horror, asking himself whether
it was true that he had actually sought their society. It had been in
pure vacancy he knew now, and because there was no other to be had. But
yet he had persuaded himself that they were very good fellows, and that
to make acquaintance with their ways of thinking was a good thing, and
expanded his knowledge of life and the world. He had all the fervour now
of a new convert in respect to the superiority of his present
surroundings, but still was pleased with the thought that it was Mr.
Osborne who had sought him, and not he who had sought Mr. Osborne. The
curate had thus fulfilled towards him all, and more than all, that
Florence had ventured to suggest. In making Jim believe that it was pure
liking that attracted him, Mr. Osborne had bettered the prayer that had
been made to him. Had he done it for her sake?--who could tell? If it
was so, it was a transfer complete and thorough, for he had never
approached Florence, never spoken to her when he could avoid it, never
looked at her since that day. He said, ‘How do you do, Miss Plowden?’ as
if he had never known more of them than from a chance meeting in the
village street, when he met the sisters. Not even his anxiety about his
entertainment broke down the barrier he had raised between himself and
the girl to whom he had all but offered his heart and life. ‘What is the
matter with Mr. Osborne?’ Emmy had asked of her sister, in
consternation, for it is needless to say that Florry’s sister and
constant companion had been well enough aware of the previous state of
affairs. Florence had not answered the question, but she had preserved
her composure, which was a great thing, and had thus led her sister to
believe that, whatever the matter was, it was a temporary one. Mrs.
Plowden, too, had put a similar question, but had herself answered it in
the most satisfactory way. ‘What has become of Mr. Osborne?’ she said,
and then replied to herself, ‘I suppose since he sees so much of Jim at
his own place, he doesn’t think it worth his while to come here. It
isn’t perhaps very civil to the rest of us; but what does it matter to
any of us? and it is quite an advantage to Jim. I am sure he may be as
rude to me as he likes; if he is nice to Jim, what do I care?’
This did not perhaps make Florence feel less sore. She could not help
feeling that all her own prospects might come to nothing, and so long as
it was well for Jim her mother would not care or any one. To tell the
truth, Mrs. Plowden was of opinion that the curate’s apparent admiration
of Florence had been only a cover for his desire to secure the
friendship of her son, so wonderfully had her mind changed since the
evening when she had bemoaned the use that Mr. Osborne might, but would
not, be to Jim, and when Florence had formed the heroic resolution of
setting that duty before her lover, if he should ever become her lover.
The poor girl had carried out that vow, and had achieved that purpose.
She said to herself that she had nothing to regret. It was far more
important that he should tide Jim over this dangerous period, that he
should restore him to better aims and hopes, than that he should ‘pay
attention,’ as the gossips said, to herself. Florry said to herself
proudly that she wanted no ‘attentions,’ from Mr. Osborne. If he had
loved her, as she once thought, that would have been a very different
matter. But it was apparent enough now that this had never been the
case; and what did she want with him and his attentions? He had been
angry, furious with her for the suggestion she had made to him.
Evidently he was one of the men who think that women should never open
their mouths, should see only what they are told to see. But he was a
man with a conscience, and even the suggestion of a despised girl had
borne fruit. He had been able to put her out of his mind, but not to put
the thing she had said out of his mind. So much the better! He had held
out a rescuing hand to Jim. He was doing the work of a Christian knight
towards her brother. And as for any little delusion of hers, what did it
matter? It was far better so, so long as nobody suspected--as nobody
should suspect, did it cost her her life!--the pang that was in poor
Florry’s heart.
It had been suspected, however--nay, more, divined--by one person, who
was one of the group, coming down the street of Watcham together from
the practice which had been held in the schoolroom on the morning of Mr.
Osborne’s entertainment. Emmy and Florence had gone through their song,
with some applause from the other performers, but not a word from the
curate, who seemed not to make even a pretence of listening, and whose
indifferent aspect was actually rudeness to the two young ladies, his
Rector’s daughters, who had the greatest call upon his attention. He
made himself, on the other hand, very agreeable to the two young London
ladies who abode in one of the villas at Riverbank, and whose
performance upon the piano was not remarkable. Miss Grey, who was
present in her capacity of lay or feminine curate, the official best
known and most fully recognised in the parish, could not help but see
this; and, indeed, there were plenty of other people who remarked it,
wondering whether Mr. Osborne had quarrelled with the Rectory family, a
supposition, however, which was untenable in sight of his intimacy with
Jim. Jim’s reading had the curate’s warmest applause. He referred to Jim
on everything, sent him off to arrange matters, consulted him about the
programme, and the succession of the performances; in short, conducted
himself as if Jim Plowden were his other self and as much the giver of
the entertainment as he was. The last thing he did after the practice
was over, was to call to Jim that he should expect him at five to look
up the fellows at Riverside. In the meantime Mr. Osborne had to
entertain the Winwick contingent. But all this was so strange, so
marked, so unlike Mr. Osborne’s former behaviour, that little Miss Grey,
between consternation and amusement, did not know what to think. She was
an experienced little woman, and she saw very well what was coming when
Florence and the curate left her house together, three weeks before. She
had expected that very day to have another visit from one or both of
them to tell her the great news. And, instead, there was to all
appearance a total disruption between them; and not only so, but
Jim--Jim!--received into the curate’s heart as closest friend and first
favourite apparently, in his sister’s place.
Miss Grey felt that there must be an explanation of this, though she
could not make it out as yet; and, above all, she was very sure that Mr.
Osborne’s rudeness to the Plowdens did not come from nothing. There must
be a reason for it. Whatever it meant, indifference was certainly the
last thing it could mean. And Jim’s complaisance in respect to his new
friendship with the curate made the whole question still more
complicated. ‘It’s him that looks as if he liked me.’ Looks as if he
liked Jim, and looks as if he disliked Florence! But that was more than
Miss Grey, with all her knowledge of man, and even of curate-kind, could
understand. And the slight sharpness in the tone of Florence threw an
additional cloud upon the whole matter. Nobody but must feel that it was
good for Jim to be engaged in the curate’s schemes instead of talking
second-hand politics at the ‘Blue Boar.’ But Florence’s voice had a
sharp tone in it, and in Florence’s self there was a sort of thrill of
offended dignity, which Miss Grey was quick to see. The girl was
wounded, and not much wonder. Her part of the performance was precisely
the one in which Mr. Osborne seemed to take no interest. To be sure,
Miss Grey was not aware that since that fated morning Florence and he
had not exchanged one word that was not indispensable to the
preservation of appearances. And yet she had not refused Mr. Osborne,
which would have explained everything--at least, there was no reason to
suppose that she had refused him. Had she done so it would somehow have
oozed out. Birds of the air carry these matters. It shows upon the
aspect of the rejected more surely than does the delight of acceptance.
And besides, Florence Plowden had not intended to reject--there was no
appearance of that purpose in her. The matter became more and more
mysterious the longer Miss Grey thought it over. She could get no light
upon this mysterious question.
They were all walking along together--a bevy of young people with Miss
Grey in the midst, with a little excitement consequent upon the
performances past and the performance to come, making a good deal of
cheerful noise in the cheerful road. Two or three were always talking at
the same time, and nobody was listening, though Jim found it possible to
hear what Mab was saying to him, and Florence could not help but remark
upon every word that concerned Mr. Osborne. The rest were discussing
their own share in the performance and what the violinists from Winwick
and the rest of the people were going to do. ‘Fiddlers are thought
everything of nowadays,’ said the pianists, ‘and yet where would they be
without an accompanist?’ They thought the same thing of the singers more
or less, and the singers, who were aware that they were themselves the
most popular part of the entertainment, returned that feeling. As for
those who were merely to read, the musical part of the performers had a
sort of impartial and indifferent contempt for them, as for people who
were merely making a little exhibition of themselves--not rivals at all.
Shakespeare or Ingoldsby, the young ladies from Riverbank did not think
it mattered a bit which it was. And even Mab asked, more from civility
than with interest, what Jim was going to do.
‘The “Ride to Ghent”? We have had the “Ride to Ghent” so often. If you
had wanted a ride, you might have taken that other one from Browning,
where the man thought “Perhaps the world will end to-night.”’
‘Do you think the boatmen would care about that?’ said Florence. ‘Oh no,
you don’t know it, Jim. It is a man who is going to have a last ride
with a girl who does not care for him. At all events, he thinks this is
their last ride. And then perhaps he thinks the world may come to an
end.’
‘I don’t see much meaning in that,’ said Jim. ‘I suppose there will
always be plenty other girls in the world. Browning is always so
far-fetched, except----’
‘When he isn’t,’ said Mab, laughing. ‘The “Ride to Ghent,” is not
far-fetched.’
‘But what is it about?’ said Jim. ‘I’ve been asking Osborne, who did
something tremendous in history, in Greats--and he can’t tell me. Now,
if I could say before I begin, “This was after a great fight between
the--what? the Spanish and the Dutch, or something----”’
‘You can say,’ said Mab, ‘that it was a starving time, and if they
didn’t hear the good news they would have to give in--after holding out
till they were nearly dead: though I can’t make out,’ added that young
lady, ‘if the country was so free as that, and Loris and the other two
could ride a whole day without any one disturbing them, why the town
should be starving? But you are not called upon to explain. They would
like the “Pied Piper” still better, you know,’ she continued
reflectively. ‘It’s easier to understand. They want a story, and they
want it to go quick, without reflections--like this,’ said the
experienced little woman of the parish, striking her hands together,
which startled them all.
‘There are nothing but vulgar stories that do that--claptrap things,
things that ladies and gentlemen could not listen to,’ said Emmy
Plowden.
‘Oh, what does it matter about the ladies and gentlemen? I should not
care a bit for them. There is that new Indian man, that writes the
stories--a man with a curious name; but, then, they are not _good_
stories at all. The soldiers drink and swear, and that would never do.
Is it necessary to drink and swear in order to have “go” in you?’ said
Mab. ‘As for your old Ingoldsby, they see it’s meant to be fun, and they
laugh. But they don’t care.’
‘I fear,’ said Florence, always with that little sharp tone in her
voice, ‘that Jim will have to take what he has got, instead of waiting
till the right thing comes.’
‘Is the new schoolmistress going to do something?’ said Miss Grey. ‘I
heard a report---- I don’t like the looks of that woman, but she is as
clever as ever she can be. She could do Lady Macbeth, or--anything she
likes. And she knows--quantities of things, far too much for a village
schoolmistress. I have seen her somewhere before, I am certain, and she
is quite out of her place here. But why doesn’t Mr. Osborne get hold of
her, and see what she could do? She’d make them attend, I’ll warrant
you! There wouldn’t be much wandering attention if she were there.’
‘It’s a pity,’ said Jim stiffly, ‘that she could not hear you, Miss
Grey: for she said the ladies would not like it if she appeared.’
‘She thinks she could throw us all into the shade,’ said Florence--‘we
should be jealous of her, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ said Jim, ‘of course she would; she would throw everybody here
into the shade.’
He spoke with a little fervour, forgetting, unhappy boy! that he had no
right to know anything whatever of Mrs. Brown.
‘Jim, how should you know?’ said Emmy, mildly; and then, to make bad
worse, Jim stumbled into an explanation how he had gone to her from Mr.
Osborne, and how she had laughed, and ‘said’ something to him, ‘a piece
of poetry,’ Jim called it, which made his hair stand upright on his
head; but after that, she had refused, saying, ‘No, no; the ladies would
not have it, the ladies would not like it.’
‘As if we should care!’ said Florence, with a little sneer. ‘You can go
and tell her if you like, that the ladies have no objection. We are not
jealous, are we--of Mrs. Brown?’
This was not poor Florry’s natural tone, and the sharpness of it went to
one heart at least--that of Miss Grey, who discovered what it meant: and
startled the rest, who did not understand any meaning in it at all.
‘Don’t send Jim,’ said Mab, ‘let me go. I’ll tell her we should all like
her to do--Lady Macbeth or whatever she pleases--and that none of the
ladies would mind--not you, Miss Grey, I may tell her--for perhaps she
thinks the young ones don’t count.’
‘Don’t bother, Mab,’ said Jim hastily, ‘It is too late; even if she were
willing we cannot change the programme now.’
‘Oh, but I am going! I have a fancy for Mrs. Brown,’ said Mab, waving
her hand.