While these moves and counter-moves were proceeding, the conversation was general. The vicar was for the hundredth time admiring the Andrea del Sarto over the chimney-piece and his wife was explaining her general objections to the representation of sacred subjects upon canvas, while Mrs. Goddard answered each in turn and endeavoured to disagree with neither. What the squire had foreseen when he made his last move, however, actually took place at last. Mrs. Goddard established herself upon the side opposite the two men. Mr. Juxon crossed rapidly to where she was seated, and Mrs. Ambrose, who had turned with the intention of speaking to the squire, found herself confronted by John. He saw that he had been worsted by his foe and immediately lost his temper; but being brought face to face with Mrs. Ambrose was obliged to control it as he might. That excellent lady beamed upon him with a maternal smile of the kind which is peculiarly irritating to young men. He struggled to get away however, glancing over Mrs. Ambrose’s shoulder at the squire and longing to be “at him” as he would have expressed it. But the squire was not to be got at so easily, for the vicar’s wife was of a fine presence and covered much ground. John involuntarily thought of the dyke before Troy, of Hector and his heroes attempting to storm it and of the Ajaces and Sarpedon defending it and glaring down from above. He could appreciate Hector’s feelings — Mrs. Ambrose was very like the dyke.
The squire smiled serenely and smoothed his hair as he talked to Mrs. Goddard and she herself looked by no means discontented, thereby adding, as it were, an insult to the injury done to John.
“I shall always envy you the cottage,” the squire was saying. “I have not a single room in the Hall that is half so cheery in the evening.”
“I shall never forget my terror when we first met,” answered Mrs. Goddard, “do you remember? You frightened me by saying you would like to live here. I thought you meant it.”
“You must have thought I was the most unmannerly of barbarians.”
“Instead of being the best of landlords,” added Mrs. Goddard with a grateful smile.
“I hardly know whether I am that,” said Mr. Juxon, settling himself in his chair. “But I believe I am by nature an exceedingly comfortable man, and I never fail to consult the interests of my comfort.”
“And of mine. Think of all you have done to improve this place. I can never thank you enough. I suppose one always feels particularly grateful at Christmas time — does not one?”
“One has more to be grateful for, it seems to me — in our climate, too. People in southern countries never really know what comfort means, because nature never makes them thoroughly uncomfortable. Only a man who is freezing can appreciate a good fire.”
“I suppose you have been a good deal in such places,” suggested Mrs.
Goddard, vaguely.
“Oh yes — everywhere,” answered the squire with equal indefiniteness. “By the bye, talking of travelling, when is our young friend going away?” There was not a shade of ill-humour in the question.
“The day after New Year’s — I believe.”
“He has had a very pleasant visit.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Goddard, “I hope it will do him a great deal of good.”
“Why? Was he ill? Ah — I remember, they said he had worked too hard. It is a great mistake to work too hard, especially when one is very young.”
“He is very young, is not he?” remarked Mrs. Goddard with a faint smile, remembering the many conversations she had had with him.
“Very. Did it ever strike you that — well, that he was losing his head a little?”
“No,” answered his companion innocently. “What about?”
“Oh, nothing. Only he has rather a peculiar temper. He is perpetually getting very angry with no ostensible reason — and then he glares at one like an angry cat.”
“Take care,” said Mrs. Goddard, “he might hear you.”
“Do him good,” said the squire cheerfully.
“Oh, no! It would hurt his feelings dreadfully. How can you be so unkind?”
“He is a very good boy, you know. Really, I believe he is. Only he is inclined to be rather too unreasonable; I should think he might be satisfied.”
“Satisfied with what?” inquired Mrs. Goddard, who did not wish to understand.
“With the way you have treated him,” returned the squire bluntly. “You have been wonderfully good to him.”
“Have I?” The faint colour rose to her cheek. “I don’t know — poor fellow!
I daresay his life at Cambridge is very dull.”
“Yes. Entirely devoid of that species of amusement which he has enjoyed so abundantly in Billingsfield. It is not every undergraduate who has a chance to talk to you for a week at a time.”
Mr. Juxon made the remark very calmly, without seeming to be in the least annoyed. He was much too wise a man to appear to be displeased at Mrs. Goddard’s treatment of John. Moreover, he felt that on the present occasion, at least, John had been summarily worsted; it was his turn to be magnanimous.
“If you are going to make compliments, I will go away,” said Mrs.
Goddard.
“I? I never made a compliment in my life,” replied the squire complacently. “Do you think it is a compliment to tell you that Mr. Short probably enjoys your conversation much more than the study of Greek roots?”
“Well — not exactly—”
“Besides, in general,” continued the squire, “compliments are mere waste of breath. If a woman has any vanity she knows her own good points much better than any man who attempts to explain them to her; and if she has no vanity, no amount of explanation of her merits will make her see them in a proper light.”
“That is very true,” answered Mrs. Goddard, thoughtfully. “It never struck me before. I wonder whether that is the reason women always like men who never make any compliments at all?”
The squire’s face assumed an amusing expression of inquiry and surprise.
“Is that personal?” he asked.
“Oh — of course not,” answered Mrs. Goddard in some confusion. She blushed and turning towards the fire took up the poker and pretended to stir the coals. Women always delight in knocking a good fire to pieces, out of pure absence of mind. John Short saw the movement and, escaping suddenly from the maternal conversation of Mrs. Ambrose, threw himself upon his knee on the hearth-rug and tried to take the poker from his hostess’s hand.
“Oh, Mrs. Goddard, don’t! Let me do it — please!” he exclaimed.
“But I can do it very well myself,” said she protesting and not relaxing her hold upon the poker. But John was obstinate in his determination to save her trouble, and rudely tried to get the instrument away.
“Please don’t — you hurt me,” said Mrs. Goddard petulantly.
“Oh — I beg your pardon — I wanted to help you,” said John leaving his hold. “I did not really hurt you — did I?” he asked, almost tenderly.
“Dreadfully,” replied Mrs. Goddard, half angry and half amused at his impatience and subsequent contrition. The squire sat complacently in his chair, watching the little scene. John hated him more than ever, and grew very red. Mrs. Goddard saw the boy’s embarrassment and presently relented.
“I daresay you will do it better than I,” she said, handing him the poker, which John seized with alacrity. “That big coal — there,” she added, pointing to a smouldering block in the corner of the grate.
“I did not mean to be rude,” said John. “I only wanted to help you.” He knelt by her side poking the fire industriously. “I only wanted to get a chance to talk to you,” he added, in a low voice, barely audible to Mrs. Goddard as she leaned forward.
“I am afraid you cannot do that just now,” she said, not unkindly, but with the least shade of severity in her tone. “You will get dreadfully hot if you stay there, so near the fire.”
“I don’t mind the heat in the least,” said John heroically. Nevertheless as she did not give him any further encouragement he was presently obliged to
retire, greatly discomfited. He could not spend the evening on his knees with the poker in his hand.
“Bad failure,” remarked the squire in an undertone as soon as John had rejoined Mrs. Ambrose, who had not quite finished her lecture on homoeopathy.
Mrs. Goddard leaned back in her chair and looked at Mr. Juxon rather coolly. She did not want him to laugh at John, though she was not willing to encourage John herself.
“You should not be unkind,” she said. “He is such a nice boy — why should you wish him to be uncomfortable?”
“Oh, I don’t in the least. I could not help being amused a little. I am sure I don’t want to be unkind.”
Indeed the squire had not shown himself to be so, on the whole, and he did not refer to the matter again during the evening. He kept his place for some time by Mrs. Goddard’s side and then, judging that he had sufficiently asserted his superiority, rose and talked to Mrs. Ambrose. But John, being now in a thoroughly bad humour, could not take his vacant seat with a good grace. He stood aloof and took up a book that lay upon the table and avoided looking at Mrs. Goddard. By and by, when the party broke up, he said good-night in such a particularly cold and formal tone of voice that she stared at him in surprise. But he took no notice of her look and went away after the Ambroses, in that state of mind which boys call a huff.
But on the following day John repented of his behaviour. All day long he wandered about the garden of the vicarage, excusing himself from joining the daily skating which formed the staple of amusement during the Christmas week, by saying that he had an idea for a copy of verses and must needs work it out. But he inwardly hoped that Mrs. Goddard would come to the vicarage late in the afternoon, without the inevitable Mr. Juxon, and that he might then get a chance of talking to her. He was not quite sure what he should say. He would find words on the spur of the moment; it would at all events be much easier than to meet her on the ice at the Hall with all the rest of them and to see Mr. Juxon pushing her about in that detestable chair, with the unruffled air of superiority which John so hated to see upon his face. The vicar suspected more than ever that there was something wrong; he had seen some of the by-play on the previous evening, and had noticed John’s ill-concealed disappointment at being unable to dislodge the sturdy squire from his seat. But Mrs. Ambrose seemed to be very obtuse, and the vicar would have been the last to have spoken of his suspicions, even to the wife of his bosom. It was his duty to induce John to go back to his work at the end of the week; it was not his duty to put imputations upon him which Mrs. Ambrose would naturally exaggerate and which would drive her excellent heart into a terrible state of nervous anxiety.
But Mrs. Goddard did not come back to the vicarage on that day, and John went to dinner with a sad heart. It did not seem like a day at all if he had not seen her and talked with her. He had now no doubt whatever that he was seriously in love, and he set himself to consider his position. The more he considered it, the more irreconcilable it seemed to be with the passion which beset him. A child could see that for several years, at least, he would not be in a position to marry. With Mr. Juxon at hand from year’s end to year’s end, the owner of the Hall, of the Billingsfield property and according to all appearances of other resources besides, — with such a man constantly devoted to her, could Mrs. Goddard be expected to wait for poor John three years, even two years, from the time of the examination for the classical Tripos? Nothing was more improbable, he was forced to admit. And yet, the idea of life if he did not marry Mrs. Goddard was dismal beyond all expression; he would probably not survive it. He did not know what he should do. He shrank from the thought of declaring his love to her at once. He remembered with pain that she had a terrible way of laughing at him when he grew confidential or too complimentary, and he dreaded lest at the supreme moment of his life he should appear ridiculous in her eyes — he, a mere undergraduate. If he came out at the head of the Tripos it would be different; and yet that seemed so long to wait, especially while Mr. Juxon lived at the Hall and Mrs. Goddard lived at the park gates. Suddenly a thought struck him which filled him with delight; it was just possible that Mr. Juxon had no intention of marrying Mrs. Goddard. If he had any such views he would probably have declared them before now, for he had met her every day during more than half a year. John longed to ask some one the question. Perhaps Mr. Ambrose, who might be supposed to know everything connected with Mrs. Goddard, could tell him. He felt very nervous at the idea of speaking to the vicar on the subject, and yet it seemed to him that no one else could set his mind at rest. If he were quite certain that Mr. Juxon had no intention of offering himself to the charming tenant of the cottage, he might return to his work with some sense of security in the future. Otherwise he saw only the desperate alternative of throwing himself at her feet and declaring that he loved her, or of going back to Cambridge with the dreadful anticipation of hearing any day that she had married the squire. To be laughed at would be bad, but to feel that he had lost her irrevocably, without a struggle, would be awful. No one but the vicar could and would tell him the truth; it would be bitter to ask such a question, but it must be done. Having at last come to this formidable resolution, towards the conclusion of dinner, his spirits rose a little. He took another glass of the vicar’s mild ale and felt that he could face his fate.
“May I speak to you a moment in the study, Mr. Ambrose?” he said as they rose from table.
“Certainly,” replied the vicar; and having conducted his wife to the drawing-room, he returned to find John. There was a low, smouldering fire in the study grate, and John had lit a solitary candle. The room looked very dark and dismal and John was seated in one of the black leather chairs, waiting.
“Anything about those verses you were speaking of to-day?” asked the vicar cheerfully, in anticipation of a pleasant classical chat.
“No,” said John, gloomily. “The fact is—” he cleared his throat, “the fact is, I want to ask you rather a delicate question, sir.”
The vicar’s heavy eyebrows contracted; the lines of his face all turned downwards, and his long, clean-shaved upper lip closed sharply upon its fellow, like a steel trap. He turned his grey eyes upon John’s averted face with a searching look.
“Have you got into any trouble at Trinity, John?” he asked severely.
“Oh no — no indeed,” said John. Nothing was further from his thoughts than his college at that moment. “I want to ask you a question, which no one else can answer. Is — do you think that — that Mr. Juxon has any idea of marrying Mrs. Goddard?”
The vicar started in astonishment and laid both hands upon the arms of his chair.
“What — in the world — put that — into your head?” he asked very slowly, emphasising every word of his question. John was prepared to see his old tutor astonished but was rather taken aback at the vicar’s tone.
“Do you think it is likely, sir?” he insisted.
“Certainly not,” answered the vicar, still eyeing him suspiciously. “Certainly not. I have positive reasons to prove the contrary. But, my dear John, why, in the name of all that is sensible, do you ask me such a question? You don’t seriously think of proposing—”
“I don’t see why I should not,” said John doggedly, seeing that he was found out.
“You don’t see why you should not? Why the thing is perfectly absurd, not to say utterly impossible! John, you are certainly mad.”
“I don’t see why,” repeated John. “I am a grown man. I have good prospects—”
“Good prospects!” ejaculated the vicar in horror. “Good prospects! Why, you are only an undergraduate at Cambridge.”
“I may be senior classic in a few months,” objected John. “That is not such a bad prospect, it seems to me.”
“It means that you may get a fellowship, probably will — in the course of a few years. But you lose it if you marry. Besides — do you know that Mrs. Goddard is ten years older than you, and more?”
“Impossible,” said John in a tone of conviction.
“I know that she is. She will be two and thirty on her next birthday, and you are not yet one and twenty.”
“I shall be next month,” argued John, who was somewhat taken aback, however, by the alarming news of Mrs. Goddard’s age. “Besides, I can go into the church, before I get a fellowship—”
“No, you can’t,” said the vicar energetically. “You won’t be able to manage it. If you do, you will have to put up with a poor living.”
“That would not matter. Mrs. Goddard has something—”
“An honourable prospect!” exclaimed Mr. Ambrose, growing more and more excited. “To marry a woman ten years older than yourself because she has a little money of her own! You! I would not have thought it of you, John — indeed I would not!”
Indeed no one was more surprised than John Short himself, when he found himself arguing the possibilities of his marriage with his old tutor. But he was an obstinate young fellow enough and was not inclined to give up the fight easily.
“Really,” he objected, “I cannot see anything so very terrible in the idea. I shall certainly make my way in the world. You know that it is not for the sake of her money. Many men have married women ten years older than themselves, and not half so beautiful and charming, I am sure.”
“I don’t believe it,” said the vicar, “and if they have, why it has been very different, that is all. Besides, you have not known Mrs. Goddard a week — positively not more than five days — why, it is madness! Do you mean to tell me that at the end of five days you believe you are seriously attached to a lady you never saw in your life before?”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 170
