“Do sit down,” said Mrs. Goddard, and when the squire was seated Stamboul sat himself down upon his haunches beside him, and looked slowly from his master to the lady and back again, his tongue hanging out as though anxious to hear what they might have to say to each other.
“I thought I should be sure to find you in the morning,” began Mr. Juxon, after a pause. “I hope I have not disturbed you?”
“Oh, not at all. Nellie has just finished her lessons.”
“The fact is,” continued the squire, “that I was going to survey the nakedness of the land which has fallen to my lot, and as I came out of the park I saw the cottage right before me and I could not resist the temptation of calling. I had no idea we were such near neighbours.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Goddard, “it is very near.”
Mr. Juxon glanced round the room. He was not exactly at a loss for words, but Mrs. Goddard did not seem inclined to encourage the conversation. He saw that the room was not only exceedingly comfortable but that its arrangement betrayed a considerable taste for luxury. The furniture was of a kind not generally seen in cottages, and appeared to have formed part of some great establishment. The carpet itself was of a finer and softer kind than any at the Hall. The writing-table was a piece of richly inlaid work, and the implements upon it were of the solid, severe and valuable kind that are seen in rich men’s houses. A clock which was undoubtedly of the Louis Quinze period stood upon the chimneypiece. On the walls were hung three or four pictures which, Mr. Juxon thought, must be both old and of great value. Upon a little table by the fireplace lay four or five objects of Chinese jade and Japanese ivory and a silver chatelaine of old workmanship. The squire saw, and wondered why such a very pretty woman, who possessed such very pretty things, should choose to come and live in his cottage in the parish of Billingsfield. And having seen and wondered he became interested in his charming tenant and endeavoured to carry on the conversation in a more confidential strain.
CHAPTER V.
“YOU HAVE DONE more towards beautifying the cottage than I could have hoped to do,” said Mr. Juxon, leaning back in his chair and resting one hand on Stamboul’s great head.
“It was very pretty of itself,” answered Mrs. Goddard, “and fortunately it is not very big, or my things would look lost in it.”
“I should not say that — you have so many beautiful things. They seem to suit the place so well. I am sure you will never think of taking them away.”
“Not if I can help it — I am too glad to be quiet.”
“You have travelled a great deal, Mrs. Goddard?” asked the squire.
“No — not exactly that — only a little, after all. I have not been to Constantinople for instance,” she added looking at the hound Mr. Juxon had brought from the East. “You are indeed a traveller.”
“I have travelled all my life,” said the squire, indifferently, as though the subject of his wanderings did not interest him. “From what little I have seen of Billingsfield I fancy you will find all the quiet you could wish, here. Really, I realise that at my own gate I must come to you for information. What sort of man is that excellent rector down there, whom I met last night?”
The squire’s tone became more confidential as he put the question.
“Well — he is not a rector, to begin with,” answered Mrs. Goddard with a smile, “he is the vicar, and he is a most good man, whom I have always found most kind.”
“I can readily fancy that,” said Mr. Juxon. “But his wife seems to be of the severe type.”
“No — she struck me so at first, too. I think it is only with strangers. She is such a motherly sort of woman, you do not know! She only has that little manner when you first meet her.”
“What a strange thing that is!” remarked the squire, looking at Mrs. Goddard. “The natural belief of English people in each other’s depravity until they have had time to make acquaintance! And is there no one else here — no doctor — no doctor’s wife?”
“Not a soul,” answered Mrs. Goddard. “There is a doctor, but the vicarage suspects him of free thought. He certainly never goes to church. He has no wife.”
“This is the most Arcadian retreat I ever was in. Upon my word, I am a very lucky man.”
“I suppose that it must be a relief when one has travelled so much,” replied Mrs. Goddard.
“Or suffered very much,” added the squire, half unconsciously, looking at her sad face.
“Yes,” she answered. At that moment the door opened and Nellie entered the room, having successfully grappled with the inkstains. She went straight to the squire, and held out her hand, blushing a little, but looking very pretty. Then she saw the huge head of Stamboul who looked up at her with a ferociously agreeable canine smile, and thwacked the carpet with his tail as he sat; Nellie started back.
“Oh, what a dog!” she exclaimed. But very soon she was on excellent terms with him; little Nellie was not timid, and Stamboul, who liked people who were not afraid of him and was especially fond of children, did his best to be amusing.
“He is a very good dog,” remarked Mr. Juxon. “He once did me a very good service.”
“How was that?”
“I was riding in the Belgrade forest one summer. I was alone with Stamboul following. A couple of ruffians tried to rob me. Stamboul caught one of them.”
“Did he hurt him very much?”
“I don’t know — he killed him before the fellow could scream, and I shot the other,” replied the squire calmly.
“What a horrible story!” exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, turning pale. “Come here, Nellie — don’t touch that dreadful dog!”
“Do not be afraid — he is perfectly harmless. Come here Stamboul!” The huge beast obeyed, wagging his tail, and sat down at his master’s feet, still looking rather wistfully at Nellie who had been playing with him. “You see,” continued Mr. Juxon, “he is as quiet as a lamb — would not hurt a fly!”
“I think it is dreadful to have such animals about,” said Mrs. Goddard in a low voice, still looking at the dog with horror.
“I am sorry I told you. It may prejudice you against him. I only meant to explain how faithful he is, that is all. You see a man grows fond of a creature that has saved his life.”
“I suppose so, but it is rather startling to see such an animal so near to one. I fear I am very nervous.”
“By the bye.” said the squire with the bold irrelevancy of a man who wants to turn the subject, “are you fond of flowers?”
“I?” said Mrs. Goddard in surprise. “Yes — very. Why?”
“I thought you would not mind if I had the garden here improved a little. One might put in a couple of frames. I did not see any flowers about. I am so fond of them myself, you see, that I always look for them.”
“You are very kind,” answered Mrs. Goddard. “But I would not have you take any trouble on my account. We are so comfortable and so fond of the cottage already—”
“Well, I hope you will grow to like it even better,” returned the squire with a genial smile. “Anything I can do, you know—” he rose as though to take his leave. “Excuse me, but may I look at that picture? Andrea del Sarto? Yes, I thought so — wonderful — upon my word, in a cottage in Billingsfield. Where did you find it?”
“It was my husband’s,” said Mrs. Goddard.
“Ah — ah, yes,” said the squire in a subdued tone. “I beg your pardon,” he added, as people often do, unconsciously, when they fancy they have accidentally roused in another a painful train of thought. Then he turned to go. “We dine at half-past seven, you know, so as to be early for Miss Nellie,” he said, as he went out.
Mrs. Goddard was glad he was gone, though she felt that he was not unsympathetic. The story of the dog had frightened her, and her own mention of her husband had made her nervous and sad. More than ever she felt that fear of being in a false position, which had assailed her when she had first met the squire on the previous evening. He had at once opened relations with her in a wa
y which showed that he intended to be intimate; he had offered to improve her cottage, had insisted upon making frames in her garden, had asked her to dinner with the Ambroses and had established the right to talk to her whenever he got a chance. He interested her, too, which was worse. His passing references to his travels and to his adventures, of which he spoke with the indifference of a man accustomed to danger, his unassuming manner, his frank ways — everything about him awakened her interest. She had supposed that in two years the very faculty of being interested by a man would be dulled if not destroyed; she found to her annoyance that though she had seen Mr. Juxon only twice she could not put him out of her thoughts. She was, moreover, a nervous, almost morbid, woman, and the natural result of trying to forget his existence was that she could think of nothing else.
How much better it would be, she thought, if he knew her story from the first. He might then be as friendly as he pleased; there would be no danger in it, to him or to her. She almost determined to go at once and ask the vicar’s advice. But by the time she had nearly made up her mind it was the hour for luncheon, and little Nellie’s appetite was exigent. By the time lunch was over her determination had changed. She had reflected that the vicar would think her morbid, that, with his usual good sense, he would say there was no necessity for telling the squire anything; indeed, that to do so would be undignified. If the squire were indeed going to lead the life of a recluse as he proposed doing, he was not really a man to cause her any apprehension. If he had travelled about the world for forty years, without having his heart disturbed by any of the women he must have met in that time, he was certainly not the kind of man, when once he had determined to settle in his home, to fall in love with the first pretty woman he met. It was absurd; there was no likelihood of it; it was her own miserable vanity, she told herself, which made the thing seem probable, and she would not think any more about it. She, a woman thirty-one years of age, with a daughter who ere long would be growing up to womanhood! To be afraid of a mere stranger like Mr. Juxon — afraid lest he should fall in love with her! Could anything be more ridiculous? Her duty was to live quietly as she had lived before, to take no more notice of the squire than was necessary in order to be civil, and so all would be well.
And so it seemed for a long time. The squire improved the garden of the cottage and Mrs. Goddard and Nellie, with the Ambroses, dined at the Hall, which at first seemed an exceedingly dreary and dismal place, but which, as they returned thither again and again, grew more and more luxurious, till the transformation was complete. Mr. Juxon brought all manner of things to the house; vans upon vans arrived, laden with boxes of books and pictures and oriental carpets and rare objects which the squire had collected in his many years of travel, and which he appeared to have stored in London until he had at last inherited the Hall. The longer the Ambroses and Mrs. Goddard knew him, the more singularly impressed they were with his reticence concerning himself. He appeared to have been everywhere, to have seen everything, and he had certainly brought back a vast collection of more or less valuable objects from his travels, besides the large library he had accumulated and which contained many rare and curious editions of ancient books. He was evidently a man of very good education, and a much better scholar than he was willing to allow. The vicar delighted in his society and when the two found themselves together in the great room which Mr. Juxon had lined with well-filled shelves, they remained for hours absorbed in literary and scholastic talk. But whenever the vicar approached the subject of the squire’s past life, the latter became vague and gave ambiguous answers to any direct questions addressed to him. He evidently disliked talking of himself, though he would talk about anything else that occurred to him with a fluency which Mrs. Ambrose declared was the only un-English thing about him. The consequence was that the vicar became more and more interested in his new acquaintance, and though the squire was so frank and honest a man that it was impossible to suspect him of any doubtful action in the past, Mr. Ambrose suspected that he had a secret. Indeed after hearing the story Mrs. Goddard had confided to his ears, nothing would have surprised the vicar. After finding that so good, so upright and so honourable a woman as the fair tenant of the cottage could be put into such a singularly painful position as that in which she now found herself, it was not hard to imagine that this singular person who had inherited the Hall might also have some weighty reason for loving the solitude of Billingsfield.
To chronicle the small events which occurred in that Arcadian parish, would be to overstep the bounds of permissible tediousness. In such places all events move slowly and take long to develop to their results. The passions which in our own quickly moving world spring up, flourish, wither and are cut down in a month require, when they are not stimulated by the fertilising heat of artificial surroundings, a longer period for their growth; and when that growth is attained they are likely to be stronger and more deeply rooted. It is not true that the study of them is less interesting, nor that they have less importance in themselves. The difficulty of narrative is greater when they are to be described, for it is necessary to carry the imagination in a short time over a long period, to show how from small incidents great results follow, and to show also how the very limited and trivial nature of the surroundings may cause important things to be overlooked. Amidst such influences acquaintance is soon made between the few persons so thrown together, but each is apt to regard such new acquaintance merely as bearing upon his or her own particular interests. It is surprising to see how people will live side by side in solitude, even in danger, in distant settlements, in the mining districts of the West, in up-country stations in India, on board ship, even, for months and years, without knowing anything of each other’s previous history; whereas in the crowded centres of civilisation and society the first questions are “Where does he come from?” “What are his antecedents?” “What has he done in the world?” And unless a man can answer such inquiries to the general satisfaction he is likely to be heavily handicapped in the social race. But in more primitive situations men are ruled by more primitive feelings of mutual respect; it is considered that a man should not be pressed to speak of things he shows no desire to discuss and that, provided he does not interfere with his neighbour’s wellbeing, his past life is nobody’s business. One may feel curiosity concerning him, but under no circumstances is one justified in asking questions.
For these reasons, although Mr. Juxon’s arrival and instalment in the Hall were regarded with satisfaction by the little circle at Billingsfield, while he himself was at once received into intimacy and treated with cordial friendliness, he nevertheless represented in the minds of all an unsolved enigma. And to the squire the existence of one of the circle was at least as problematical as his own life could seem to any of them. The more he saw of Mrs. Goddard, the more he wondered at her and speculated about her and the less he dared to ask her any questions. But he understood from Mr. Ambrose’s manner, that the vicar at least was in possession of her secret, and he inferred from what he was able to judge about the vicar’s character that the latter was not a man to extend his friendship to any one who did not deserve it. Whatever Mrs. Goddard’s story was, he felt sure that her troubles had not been caused by her own misconduct. She was in every respect what he called a good woman. Of course, too, she was a widow; the way in which she spoke of her husband implied that, on those rare occasions when she spoke of him at all. Charles James Juxon was a gentleman, whatever course of life he had followed before settling in the country, and he did not feel that he should be justified in asking questions about Mrs. Goddard of the vicar. Besides, as time went on and he found his own interest in her increasing, he began to nourish the hope that he might one day hear her story from her own lips. In his simplicity it did not strike him that he himself had grown to be an object of interest to her.
Somehow, during the summer and autumn of that year, Mrs. Goddard contracted a habit of watching the park gate from the window of the cottage, particularly at certain hours of the day
. It was only a habit, but it seemed to amuse her. She used to sit in the small bay window with her books, reading to herself or teaching Nellie, and it was quite natural that from time to time she should look out across the road. But it rarely happened, when she was installed in that particular place, that Mr. Juxon failed to appear at the gate, with his dog Stamboul, his green stockings, his stick and the inevitable rose in his coat. Moreover he generally crossed the road and, if he did not enter the cottage and spend a quarter of an hour in conversation, he at least spoke to Mrs. Goddard through the open window. It was remarkable, too, that as time went on what at first had seemed the result of chance, recurred with such invariable regularity as to betray the existence of a fixed rule. Nellie, too, who was an observant child, had ceased asking questions but watched her mother with her great violet eyes in a way that made Mrs. Goddard nervous. Nellie liked the squire very much but though she asked her mother very often at first whether she, too, was fond of that nice Mr. Juxon, the answers she received were not encouraging. How was it possible, Mrs. Goddard asked, to speak of liking anybody one had known so short a time? And as Nellie was quite unable to answer such an inquiry, she desisted from her questions and applied herself to the method of personal observation. But here, too, she was met by a hopeless difficulty. The squire and her mother never seemed to have any secrets, as Nellie would have expressed it. They met daily, and daily exchanged very much the same remarks concerning the weather, the garden, the vicar’s last sermon. When they talked about anything else, they spoke of books, of which the squire lent Mrs. Goddard a great number. But this was a subject which did not interest Nellie very much; she was not by any means a prodigy in the way of learning, and though she was now nearly eleven years old was only just beginning to read the Waverley novels. On one occasion she remarked to her mother that she did not believe a word of them and did not think they were a bit like real life, but the momentary fit of scepticism soon passed and Nellie read on contentedly, not omitting however to watch her mother in order to find out, as her small mind expressed it, “whether mamma really liked that nice Mr. Juxon.” Events were slowly preparing themselves which would help her to come to a satisfactory conclusion upon that matter.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 164