John started and came forward with alacrity. The vicar looked up; Nellie reluctantly brought her book back.
“It is very early,” objected the squire. “Really, the days have no business to be so short.”
“It would not seem like Christmas if they were long,” said Mrs. Goddard.
“It does not seem like Christmas anyhow,” remarked John, enigmatically.
No one understood his observation and no one paid any attention to it.
Whereupon John’s previous feeling of annoyance returned and he went to
look for his greatcoat in the dark corner where he had laid it.
“You must not come all the way back with us,” said Mrs. Goddard as they all went out into the hall and began to put on their warm things before the fire. “Really — it is late. Mr. Ambrose will give me his arm.”
The squire insisted however, and Stamboul, who had had a comfortable nap by the fire, was of the same opinion as his master and plunged wildly at the door.
“Will you give me your arm, Mr. Ambrose?” said Mrs. Goddard, looking rather timidly at the vicar as they stood upon the broad steps in the sparkling evening air. She felt that she was disappointing both the squire and John, but she had quite made up her mind. She had her own reasons. The vicar, good man, was unconsciously a little flattered by her choice, as with her hand resting on the sleeve of his greatcoat he led the way down the park. The squire and John were fain to follow together, but Nellie took her mother’s hand, and Stamboul walked behind affecting an unusual gravity.
“You must come again when there is more daylight,” said Mr. Juxon to his companion.
“Thank you,” said John. “You are very good.” He intended to relapse into silence, but his instinct made him ashamed of seeming rude. “You have a magnificent library,” he added presently in a rather cold tone.
“You have been used to much better ones in Cambridge,” said the squire, modestly.
“Do you know Cambridge well, Mr. Juxon?”
“Very well. I am a Cambridge man, myself.”
“Indeed?” exclaimed John, immediately discovering that the squire was not so bad as he had thought. “Indeed! I had no idea. Mr. Ambrose never told me that.”
“I am not sure that he is aware of it,” said Mr. Juxon quietly. “The subject never happened to come up.”
“How odd!” remarked John, who could not conceive of associating with a man for any length of time without asking at what University he had been.
“I don’t know,” answered Mr. Juxon. “There are lots of other things to talk about.”
“Oh — of course,” said John, in a tone which did not express conviction.
Meanwhile Mr. Ambrose and Mrs. Goddard walked briskly in front; so briskly in fact that Nellie occasionally jumped a step, as children say, in order to keep up with them.
“What a glorious Christmas eve!” exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, as they turned a bend in the drive and caught sight of the western sky still clear and red. “And there is the new moon!” The slender crescent was hanging just above the fading glow.
“Oh mamma, have you wished?” cried Nellie. “You must, you know, when you see the new moon!”
Mrs. Goddard did not answer, but she sighed faintly and drew a little closer to the worthy vicar as she walked. She always wished, whether there was a new moon or not, and she always wished the same wish. Perhaps Mr. Ambrose understood, for he was not without tact. He changed the subject.
“How do you like our John Short?” he asked.
“Very much, I think,” answered Mrs. Goddard. “He is so fresh and young.”
“He is a fine fellow. I was sure you would like him. Is he at all like what you fancied he would be?”
“Well no — not exactly. I know you told me how he looked, but I always thought he would be rather Byronic — the poetical type, if you know what I mean.”
“He has a great deal of poetry in him,” said Mr. Ambrose in a tone of profound admiration. “He writes the best Greek verse I ever saw.”
“Oh yes — I daresay,” replied Mrs. Goddard smiling in the dusk. “I am sure he must be very clever.”
So they chatted quietly as they walked down the park. But the squire and John did not make progress in their conversation, and by the time they reached the gate they had yielded to an awkward silence. They had both been annoyed because Mrs. Goddard had taken the vicar’s arm instead of choosing one of themselves, but the joint sense of disappointment did not constitute a common bond of interest. Either one would have suffered anything rather than mention Mrs. Goddard to the other in the course of the walk. And yet Mr. Juxon might have been John’s father. At the gate of the cottage they separated. The squire said he would turn back. Mrs. Goddard had reached her destination. John and the vicar would return to the vicarage. John tried to linger a moment, to get a word with Mrs. Goddard. He was so persistent that she let him follow her through the wicket gate and then turned quickly.
“What is it?” she asked, rather suddenly, holding out her hand to say good-bye.
“Oh, nothing,” answered John. “That is — would you like to see one of those — those little odes of mine?”
“Yes, certainly, if you like,” she answered frankly, and then laughed.
“Of course I would. Good-night.”
He turned and fled. The vicar was waiting for him, and eyed him rather curiously as he came back. Mr. Juxon was standing in the middle of the road, making Stamboul jump over his stick, backwards and forwards.
“Good-night,” he said, pausing in his occupation. The vicar and John turned away and walked homewards. Before they turned the corner towards the village John instinctively looked back. Mr. Juxon was still making Stamboul jump the stick before the cottage, but as far as he could see in the dusk, Mrs. Goddard and Nellie had disappeared within. John felt that he was very unhappy.
“Mr. Ambrose,” he began. Then he stopped and hesitated. “Mr. Ambrose,” he continued at last, “you never told me half the news of Billingsfield in your letters.”
“You mean about Mrs. Goddard? Well — no — I did not think it would interest you very much.”
“She is a very interesting person,” said John. He could have added that if he had known she was in Billingsfield he would have made a great sacrifice in order to come down for a day to make her acquaintance. But he did not say it.
“She is a great addition,” said the vicar.
“Oh — very great, I should think.”
Christmas eve was passed at the vicarage in preparation for the morrow. Mrs. Ambrose was very active in binding holly wherever it was possible to put it. The mince-pies were tasted and pronounced a success, and old Reynolds was despatched to the cottage with a small basket containing a certain number of them as a present to Mrs. Goddard. An emissary appeared from the Hall with a variety of articles which the squire begged to contribute towards the vicar’s Christmas dinner; among others a haunch of venison which Mrs. Ambrose pronounced to be in the best condition. The vicar retorted by sending to the Hall a magnificent Cottenham cheese which, as a former Fellow of Trinity, he had succeeded in obtaining. Moreover Mr. Ambrose himself descended to the cellar and brought up several bottles of Audit ale which he declared must be allowed to stand some time in the pantry in order to bring out the flavour and to be thoroughly settled. John gave his assistance wherever it was needed and enjoyed vastly the old-fashioned preparations for Christmas day. It was long since the season had brought him such rejoicing and he intended to rejoice with a good will towards men and especially towards the Ambroses. After dinner the whole party, consisting of three highly efficient persons and old Reynolds, adjourned to the church to complete the decorations for the morrow.
The church of Billingsfield, known as St. Mary’s, was quite large enough to contain twice the entire population of the parish. It was built upon a part of the foundations of an ancient abbey, and the vicar was very proud of the monument of a crusading Earl of Oxford which he had caused to be placed in th
e chancel, it having been discovered in the old chancel of the abbey in the park, far beyond the present limits of the church. The tower was the highest in the neighbourhood. The whole building was of gray rubble, irregular stones set together with a crumbling cement, and presented an appearance which, if not architecturally imposing, was at least sufficiently venerable. At the present time the aisles were full of heaped-up holly and wreaths; a few lamps and a considerable number of tallow candles shed a rather feeble light amongst the pillars; a crowd of school children, not yet washed for the morrow, were busy under the directions of the schoolmistress in decorating the chancel; Mr. Thomas Reid the conservative sexton was at the top of a tall ladder, presumably using doubtful language to himself as every third nail he tried to drive into the crevices of the stone “crooked hisself and larfed at him,” as he expressed it; the organ was playing and a dozen small boys with three or four men were industriously practising the anthem “Arise, Shine,” producing strains which if not calculated altogether to elevate the heart by their harmony, would certainly have caused the hair of a sensitive musician to rise on end; three or four of the oldest inhabitants were leaning on their sticks in the neighbourhood of the great stove in the middle aisle, warming themselves and grumbling that “times warn’t as they used to be;” Mr. Abraham Boosey was noisily declaring that he had “cartlods more o’ thim greens” to come, and Muggins, who had had some beer, was stumbling cheerfully against the pews in his efforts to bring a huge load of fir branches to the foot of Mr. Thomas Reid’s long ladder. It was a thorough Christmas scene and John Short’s heart warmed as he came back suddenly to the things which for three years had been so familiar to him and which he had so much missed in his solitude at Cambridge. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose set to work and John followed their example. Even the prickly holly leaves were pleasant to touch and there was a homely joy in the fir branches dripping with half melted snow.
Before they had been at work very long, John was aware of a little figure, muffled in furs and standing beside him. He looked up and saw little Nellie’s lovely face and long brown curls.
“Can’t I help you, Mr. Short?” she asked timidly. “I like to help, and they won’t let me.”
“Who are ‘they’?” asked John kindly, but looking about for the figure of
Nellie’s mother.
“The schoolmistress and Mrs. Ambrose. They said I should dirty my frock.”
“Well,” said John, doubtfully, “I don’t know. Perhaps you would. But you might hold the string for me — that won’t hurt your clothes, you know.”
“There are more greens this year,” remarked Nellie, sitting down upon the end of the choir bench where John was at work and taking the ball of string in her hand. “Mr. Juxon has sent a lot from the park.”
“He seems to be always sending things,” said John, who had no reason whatever for saying so, except that the squire had sent a hamper to the vicarage. “Did he stay long before dinner?” he added, in the tone people adopt when they hope to make children talk.
“Stay long where?” asked Nellie innocently.
“Oh, I thought he went into your house after we left you,” answered John.
“Oh no — he did not come in,” said Nellie. John continued to work in silence. At some distance from where he was, Mrs. Goddard was talking to Mrs. Ambrose. He could see her graceful figure, but he could hardly distinguish her features in the gloom of the dimly-lighted church. He longed to leave Nellie and to go and speak to her, but an undefined feeling of hurt pride prevented him. He would not forgive her for having taken the vicar’s arm in coming home through the park; so he stayed where he was, pricking his fingers with the holly and rather impatiently pulling the string off the ball which Nellie held. If Mrs. Goddard wanted to speak to him, she might come of her own accord, he thought, for he felt that he had behaved foolishly in asking if she wished to see his odes. Somehow, when he thought about it, the odes did not seem so good now as they had seemed that afternoon.
Mrs. Goddard had not seen him at first, and for some time she remained in consultation with Mrs. Ambrose. At last she turned and looking for Nellie saw that she was seated beside John; to his great delight she came towards him. She looked more lovely than ever, he thought; the dark fur about her throat set off her delicate, sad face like a frame.
“Oh — are you here, too, Mr. Short?” she said.
“Hard at work, as you see,” answered John. “Are you going to help, Mrs.
Goddard? Won’t you help me?”
“I wanted to,” said Nellie, appealing to her mother, “but they would not let me, so I can only hold the string.”
“Well, dear — we will see if we can help Mr. Short,” said Mrs. Goddard good-naturedly, and she sat down upon the choir bench.
John never forgot that delightful Christmas Eve. For nearly two hours he never left Mrs. Goddard’s side, asking her advice about every branch and bit of holly and following out to the letter her most minute suggestions. He forgot all about the squire and about the walk back from the park, in the delight of having Mrs. Goddard to himself. He pushed the school children about and spoke roughly to old Reynolds if her commands were not instantly executed; he felt in the little crowd of village people that he was her natural protector, and he wished he might never have anything in the world to do save to decorate a church in her company. He grew more and more confidential and when the work was all done he felt that he had thoroughly established himself in her good graces and went home to dream of the happiest day he had ever spent. The organ ceased playing, the little choir dispersed, the school children were sent home, Mr. Abraham Boosey retired to the bar of the Duke’s Head, Muggins tenderly embraced every tombstone he met on his way through the churchyard, the “gentlefolk” followed Reynolds’ lantern towards the vicarage, and Mr. Thomas Reid, the conservative and melancholic sexton, put out the lights and locked the church doors, muttering a sour laudation of more primitive times, when “the gentlefolk minded their business.”
For the second time that day, John and Mr. Ambrose walked as far as the cottage, to see Mrs. Goddard to her home. When they parted from her and Nellie, John was careful not to say anything more about the odes, a subject to which Mrs. Goddard had not referred in the course of the evening. John thanked her rather effusively for her help — he could never have got through those choir benches without her, he said; and the vicar added that he was very much obliged, too, and surreptitiously conveyed to Mrs. Goddard’s hand a small package intended for Miss Nellie’s Christmas stocking, from him and his wife, and which he had forgotten to give earlier. Nellie was destined to have a fuller stocking than usual this year, for the squire had remembered her as well as Mr. Ambrose.
John went to bed in his old room at the vicarage protesting that he had enjoyed the first day of his holiday immensely. As he blew out the light, he thought suddenly how often in that very room he had gone to bed dreaming about the lady in black and composing verses to her, till somehow the Greek terminations would get mixed up with the Latin roots, the quantities all seemed to change places, and he used to fall asleep with a delicious half romantic sense of happiness always unfulfilled yet always present. And now at last it began to be fulfilled in earnest; he had met the lady in black at last, had spent nearly half a day in her company and was more persuaded than ever that she was really and truly his ideal. He did not go to sleep so soon as in the old days, and he was sorry to go to sleep at all; he wanted to enjoy all his delicious recollections of that afternoon before he slept and, as he recapitulated the events which had befallen him and recalled each expression of the face that had charmed him and every intonation of the charmer’s voice, he felt that he had never been really happy before, that no amount of success at Cambridge could give him half the delight he had experienced during one hour in the old Billingsfield church, and that altogether life anywhere else was not worth living. To-morrow he would see Mrs. Goddard again, and the next day and the day after that and then— “bother the future!” ejaculated J
ohn, and went to sleep.
He awoke early, roused by the loud clanging of the Christmas bells, and looking out he saw that the day was fine and cold and bright as Christmas day should be, and generally is. The hoar frost was frozen into fantastic shapes upon his little window, the snow was clinging to the yew branches outside and the robins were hopping and chirping over the thin crust of frozen snow that just covered the ground. The road was hard and brown as on the previous day, and the ice in the park would probably bear. Perhaps Mrs. Goddard would skate in the afternoon between the services, but then — Juxon would be there. “Never mind Juxon,” quoth John to himself, “it is Christmas day!”
At the vicarage and elsewhere, all over the land, those things were done which delight the heart of Englishmen at the merry season. Everybody shook hands with everybody else, everybody cried “Merry Christmas!” to his neighbour in the street, with an intonation as though he were saying something startlingly new and brilliant which had never been said before. Every labourer who had a new smock-frock put it on, and those who had none had at least a bit of new red worsted comforter about their throats and began the day by standing at their doors in the cold morning, smoking a “ha’p’orth o’ shag” in a new clay pipe, greeting each other across the village street. Muggins, who had spent a portion of the night in exchanging affectionate Christmas wishes with the tombstones in the churchyard, appeared fresh and ruddy at an early hour, clad in the long black coat and tall hat which he was accustomed to wear when he drove Mr. Boosey’s fly on great festivals. Most of the cottages in the single street sported a bit of holly in their windows, and altogether the appearance of Billingsfield was singularly festive and mirthful. At precisely ten minutes to eleven the vicar and Mrs. Ambrose, accompanied by John, issued from the vicarage and went across the road by the private path to the church. As they entered the porch Mr. Reid, who stood solemnly tolling the small bell, popularly nicknamed the “Ting-tang,” and of which the single rope passed down close to the south door, vouchsafed John a sour smile of recognition. John felt as though he had come home. Mrs. Goddard and Nellie appeared a moment afterwards and took their seats in the pew traditionally belonging to the cottage, behind that of the squire who was always early, and the sight of whose smoothly brushed hair and brown beard was a constant source of satisfaction to Mrs. Ambrose. John and Mrs. Ambrose sat on the opposite side of the aisle, but John’s eyes strayed very frequently towards Mrs. Goddard; so frequently indeed that she noticed it and leaned far back in her seat to avoid his glance. Whereupon John blushed and felt that the vicar, who was reading the Second Lesson, had probably noticed his distraction. It was hard to realise that two years and a half had passed since he had sat in that same pew; perhaps, however, the presence of Mrs. Goddard helped him to understand the lapse of time. But for her it would have been very hard; for the vicar’s voice sounded precisely as it used to sound; Mrs. Ambrose had not lost her habit of removing one glove and putting it into her prayer book as a mark while she found the hymn in the accompanying volume; the bright decorations looked as they looked years ago above the organ and round the chancel; from far down the church, just before the sermon, came the old accustomed sound of small boys shuffling their hobnailed shoes upon the stone floor and the audible guttural whisper of the churchwarden admonishing them to “mind the stick;” the stained-glass windows admitted the same pleasant light as of yore — all was unchanged. But Mrs. Goddard and Nellie occupied the cottage pew, and their presence alone was sufficient to mark to John the fact that he was now a man.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 167
