“And we were going to see you at the Hall,” said the vicar to Mr. Juxon.
“Let us do both,” said the latter. “Let us walk to the Hall and have a cup of tea. We can look at the ice and see whether it will bear to-morrow.”
Everybody agreed to the proposal, and it so fell out that the squire and the vicar went before while John and Mrs. Goddard followed and Nellie walked between them, holding Stamboul by the collar, and talking to him as she went. John looked at his companion, and saw with a strange satisfaction that his first impression, the impression he had cherished so long, had not been a mistaken one. Her deep violet eyes were still sad, beautiful and dreamy. Her small nose was full of expression, and was not reddened by the cold as noses are wont to be. Her rich brown hair waved across her forehead as it did on that day when John first saw her; and now as he spoke with her, her mouth smiled, as he had been sure it would. John felt a curious sense of pride in her, in finding that he had not been deceived, that this ideal of whom he had dreamed was really and truly very good to look at. He knew little of the artist’s rules of beauty; he had often looked with wonder at the faces in the illustrations to Dr. Smith’s classical dictionary, and had tried to understand where the beauty of them lay, and at Cambridge he had seen and studied with interest many photographs and casts from the antiques. But to his mind the antique would not bear comparison for a moment with Mrs. Goddard, who resembled no engraving nor photograph nor cast he had ever seen.
And she, too, looked at him, and said to herself that he did not look like what she had expected. He looked like a lean, fresh young Englishman of moderate intelligence and in moderate circumstances. And yet she knew that he was no ordinary young fellow, that he was wonderfully gifted, in fact, and likely to make a mark in the world. She resolved to take a proper interest in him.
“Do you know,” she said, “I have heard so much about you, that I feel as though I had met you before, Mr. Short.”
“We really have met,” said John. “Do you remember that hot day when you came to the vicarage and I waked up Muggins for you?”
“Yes — was that you? You have changed. That is, I suppose I did not see you very well in the hurry.”
“I suppose I have changed in two years and a half. I was only a boy then, you know. But how have you heard so much about me?”
“Billingsfield,” said Mrs. Goddard with a faint smile, “is not a large place. The Ambroses are very fond of you and always talk of what you are doing.”
“And so you really live here, Mrs. Goddard? How long is it since you came? Mr. Ambrose never told me—”
“I have been here more than two years — two years last October,” she answered quietly.
“The very year I left — only a month after I was gone. How strange!”
Mrs. Goddard looked up nervously. She was frightened lest John should have made any deductions from the date of her arrival. But John was thinking in a very different train of thought.
“Why is it strange?” she asked.
“Oh, I hardly know,” said John in considerable embarrassment. “I was only thinking — about you — that is, about it all.”
The answer did not tend to quiet Mrs. Goddard’s apprehensions.
“About me?” she exclaimed. “Why should you think about me?”
“It was very foolish, of course,” said John. “Only, when I caught sight of you that day I was very much struck. You know, I was only a boy, then. I hoped you would come back — but you did not.” He blushed violently, and then glanced at his companion to see whether she had noticed it.
“No,” she said, “I did not come back for some time.”
“And then I was gone. Mr. Ambrose never told me you had come.”
“Why should he?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think he might. You see Billingsfield has been a sort of home to me, and it is a small place; so I thought he might have told me the news.”
“I suppose he thought it would not interest you,” said Mrs. Goddard. “I am sure I do not know why it should. But you must be very fond of the place, are you not?”
“Very. As I was saying, it is very like home to me. My father lives in town you know — that is not at all like home. One always associates the idea of home with the country, and a vicarage and a Hall, and all that.”
“Does one?” said Mrs. Goddard, picking her way over the frozen mud of the road. “Take care, Nellie, it is dreadfully slippery!”
“How much she has grown,” remarked John, looking at the girl’s active figure as she walked before them. “She was quite a little girl when I saw her first.”
“Yes, she grows very fast,” answered Mrs. Goddard rather regretfully.
“You say that as though you were sorry.”
“I? No. I am glad to see her grow. What a funny remark.”
“I thought you spoke sadly,” explained John.
“Oh, dear no. Only she is coming to the awkward age.”
“She is coming to it very gracefully,” said John, who wanted to say something pleasant.
“That is the most any of us can hope to do,” answered Mrs. Goddard with a little smile. “We all have our awkward age, I suppose.”
“I should not think you could remember yours.”
“Why? Do you think it was so very long ago?” Mrs. Goddard laughed.
“No — I cannot believe you ever had any,” said John.
The boyish compliment pleased Mrs. Goddard. It was long since any one had flattered her, for flattery did not enter into the squire’s system for making himself agreeable.
“Do they teach that sort of thing at Cambridge?” she asked demurely.
“What sort of thing?”
“Making little speeches to ladies,” said she.
“No — I wish they did,” said John, laughing. “I should know much better how to make them. We learn how to write Greek odes to moral abstractions.”
“What a dreadful thing to do!” exclaimed Mrs. Goddard.
“Do you think so? I do not know. Now, for instance, I have written a great many Greek odes to you—”
“To me?” interrupted his companion in surprise.
“Do you think it is so very extraordinary?”
“Very.”
“Well — you see — I only saw you once — you won’t laugh?”
“No,” said Mrs. Goddard, who was very much amused, and was beginning to think that John Short was the most original young man she had ever met.
“I only saw you once, when you came to the vicarage, and I had not the least idea what your name was. But I — I hoped you would come back; and so I used to write poems to you. They were very good, too,” added John in a meditative tone, “I have never written any nearly so good as they were.”
“Really?” Mrs. Goddard looked at him rather incredulously and then laughed.
“You said you would not laugh,” objected John.
“I cannot help it in the least,” said she. “It seems so funny.”
“It did not seem funny to me, I can assure you,” replied John rather warmly. “I thought it very serious.”
“You don’t do it now, do you?” asked Mrs. Goddard, looking up at him quietly.
“Oh no — a man’s ideals change so much, you know,” answered John, who felt he had been foolishly betrayed into telling his story, and hated to be laughed at.
“I am very glad of that. How long are you going to stay here, Mr. Short?”
“Until New Year’s Day, I think,” he answered. “Perhaps you will have time to forget about the poetry before I go.”
“I don’t know why,” said Mrs. Goddard, noticing his hurt tone. “I think it was very pretty — I mean the way you did it. You must be a born poet — to write verses to a person you did not know and had only seen once!”
“It is much easier than writing verses to moral abstractions one has never seen at all,” explained John, who was easily pacified. “When a man writes a great deal he feels the necessity of attaching all thos
e beautiful moral qualities to some real, living person whom he can see—”
“Even if he only sees her once,” remarked Mrs. Goddard demurely.
“Yes, even if he only sees her once. You have no idea how hard it is to concentrate one’s faculties upon a mere idea; but the moment a man sees a woman whom he can endow with all sorts of beautiful qualities — why it’s just as easy as hunting.”
“I am glad to have been of so much service to you, even unconsciously — but, don’t you think perhaps Mrs. Ambrose would have done as well?”
“Mrs. Ambrose?” repeated John. Then he broke into a hearty laugh. “No — I have no hesitation in saying that she would not have done as well. I am deeply indebted to Mrs. Ambrose for a thousand kindnesses, for a great deal more than I can tell — but, on the whole, I say, no; I could not have written odes to Mrs. Ambrose.”
“No, I suppose not. Besides, fancy the vicar’s state of mind! She would have had to call him in to translate your poetry.”
“It is very singular,” said John in a tone of reflection. “But, if I had not done all that, we should not be talking as we are now, after ten minutes acquaintance.”
“Probably not,” said Mrs. Goddard.
“No — certainly not. By the bye, there is the Hall. I suppose you have often been there since Mr. Juxon came — what kind of man is he?”
“He has been a great traveller,” answered his companion. “And then — well, he is a scholar and has an immense library—”
“And an immense dog — yes, but I mean, what kind of man is he himself?”
“He is very agreeable,” said Mrs. Goddard quietly. “Very well bred, very well educated. We find him a great addition in Billingsfield.”
“I should think so, if he is all you say,” said John discontentedly. His antagonism against Mr. Juxon was rapidly increasing. Mrs. Goddard looked at him in some surprise, being very far from understanding his tone.
“I think you will like him,” she said. “He knows all about you from the
Ambroses, and he always speaks of you with the greatest admiration.”
“Really? It is awfully kind of him, I am sure. I am very much obliged,” said John rather contemptuously.
“Why do you speak like that?” asked Mrs. Goddard gravely. “You cannot possibly have any cause for disliking him. Besides, he is a friend of ours—”
“Oh, of course, then it is different,” said John. “If he is a friend of yours—”
“Do you generally take violent dislikes to people at first sight, Mr.
Short?”
“Oh, dear no. Not at all — at least, not dislikes. I suppose Mr. Juxon’s face reminds me of somebody I do not like. I will behave like an angel. Here we are.”
The effect of this conversation upon the two persons between whom it took place was exceedingly different. Mrs. Goddard was amused, without being altogether pleased. She had made the acquaintance of a refreshingly young scholar whom she understood to be full of genius. He was enthusiastic, simple, seemingly incapable of concealing anything that passed through his mind, unreasonable and evidently very susceptible. On the whole, she thought she should like him, though his scornful manner in speaking of the squire had annoyed her. The interest she could feel in him, if she felt any at all, would be akin to that of the vicar in the boy. He was only a boy; brilliantly talented, they said, but still a mere boy. She was fully ten years older than he — she might almost be his mother — well, not quite that, but very nearly. It was amusing to think of his writing odes to her. She wished she could see translations of them, and she almost made up her mind to ask him to show them to her.
John on the other hand experienced a curious sensation. He had never before been in the society of so charming a woman. He looked at her and looked again, and came to the conclusion that she was not only charming but beautiful. He had not the least idea of her age; it is not the manner of his kind to think much about the age of a woman, provided she is not too young. The girl might be ten. Mrs. Goddard might have married at sixteen — twenty-six, twenty-seven — what was that? John called himself twenty-two. Five years was simply no difference at all! Besides, who cared for age?
He had suddenly found himself almost on a footing of intimacy with this lovely creature. His odes had served him well; it had pleased her to hear the story. She had laughed a little, of course; but women, as John knew, always laugh when they are pleased. He would like to show her his odes. As he walked through the park by her side he felt a curious sense of possession in her which gave him a thrill of exquisite delight; and when they entered the Hall he felt as though he were resigning her to the squire, which gave him a corresponding sense of annoyance. When an Englishman experiences these sensations, he is in love. John resolved that whatever happened he would walk back with Mrs. Goddard.
“Come in,” said the squire cheerily. “We are not so cold as we used to be up here.”
A great fire of logs was burning upon the hearth in the Hall. Stamboul stalked up to the open chimney, scratched the tiger’s skin which served for a rug, and threw himself down as though his day’s work were done. Mr. Juxon went up to Mrs. Goddard.
“I think you had better take off your coat,” he said. “The house is very warm.”
Mrs. Goddard allowed the squire to help her in removing the heavy black jacket lined and trimmed with fur, which she wore. John eyed the proceeding uneasily and kept on his greatcoat.
“Thank you — I don’t mind the heat,” he said shortly when the squire suggested to him that he might be too warm. John was in a fit of contrariety. Mrs. Goddard glanced at him, as he spoke, and he thought he detected a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, which did not tend to smooth his temper.
“You will have some tea, Mrs. Goddard?” said Mr. Juxon, leading the way into the library, which he regarded as the most habitable room in the house. Mrs. Goddard walked by his side and the vicar followed, while John and Nellie brought up the rear.
“Is not it a beautiful place?” said Nellie, who was anxious that the new-comer should appreciate the magnificence of the Hall.
“Can’t see very well,” said John, “it is so dark.”
“Oh, but it is beautiful,” insisted Miss Nellie. “And they have lots of lamps here in the evening. Perhaps Mr. Juxon will have them lighted before we go. He is always so kind.”
“Is he?” asked John with a show of interest.
“Yes — he brings mamma a rose every day,” said Nellie.
“Not really?” said John, beginning to feel that he was justified in hating the squire with all his might.
“Yes — and books, too. Lots of them — but then, he has so many. See, this is the library. Is not it splendid!”
John looked about him and was surprised. The last rays of the setting sun fell across the open lawn and through the deep windows of the great room, illuminating the tall carved bookcases, the heavily gilt bindings, the rich, dark Russia leather and morocco of the folios. The footsteps of the party fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet and almost insensibly the voices of the visitors dropped to a lower key. A fine large wood fire was burning on the hearth, carefully covered with a metal netting lest any spark should fly out and cause damage to the treasures accumulated in the neighbouring shelves.
“Pray make yourself at home, Mr. Short,” said the squire, coming up to John. “You may find something of interest here. There are some old editions of the classics that are thought rare — some specimens of Venetian printing, too, that you may like to look at. Mr. Ambrose can tell you more about them than I.”
John’s feeling of antagonism, and even his resentment against Mr. Juxon, roused by Nellie’s innocent remark about the roses, were not proof against the real scholastic passion aroused by the sight of rare and valuable books. In a few minutes he had divested himself of his greatcoat and was examining the books with an expression of delight upon his face which was pleasant to see. He glanced from time to time at the other persons in the room and looked very often a
t Mrs. Goddard, but on the whole he was profoundly interested in the contents of the library. Mrs. Goddard was installed in a huge leathern easy-chair by the fire, and the squire was handing her one after another a number of new volumes which lay upon a small table, and which she appeared to examine with interest. Nellie knew where to look for her favourite books of engravings and had curled herself up in a corner absorbed in “Hyde’s Royal Residences.” The vicar went to look for something he wanted to consult.
“What do you think of our new friend?” asked Mrs. Goddard of the squire. She spoke in a low tone and did not look up from the new book he had just handed her.
“He appears to have a very peculiar temper,” said Mr. Juxon. “But he looks clever.”
“What do you think he was talking about as we came through the park?” asked Mrs. Goddard.
“What?”
“He was saying that he saw me once before he went to college, and — fancy how deliciously boyish! he said he had written ever so many Greek odes to my memory since!” Mrs. Goddard laughed a little and blushed faintly.
“Let us hope, for the sake of his success, that you may continue to inspire him,” said the squire gravely. “I have no doubt the odes were very good.”
“So he said. Fancy!”
CHAPTER VII.
MRS. GODDARD DID not mean to walk home with John; but on the other hand she did not mean to walk with the squire. She revolved the matter in her mind as she sat in the library talking in an undertone with Mr. Juxon. She liked the great room, the air of luxury, the squire’s tea and the squire’s conversation. It is worth noticing that his flow of talk was more abundant to-day than it had been for some time; whether it was John’s presence which stimulated Mr. Juxon’s imagination, or whether Mrs. Goddard had suddenly grown more interesting since John Short’s appearance it is hard to say; it is certain that Mr. Juxon talked better than usual.
The afternoon, however, was far spent and the party had only come to make a short visit. Mrs. Goddard rose from her seat.
“Nellie, child, we must be going home,” she said, calling to the little girl who was still absorbed in the book of engravings which she had taken to the window to catch the last of the waning light.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 166
