Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  The service was sympathetic to John Short. He liked the simplicity of it, even the rough singing of the choir, as compared with the solemn and magnificent musical services of Trinity College Chapel. But it seemed very long before it was all over and he was waiting for Mrs. Goddard outside the church door.

  There were more greetings, more “Merry Christmas” and “Many happy returns.” Mrs. Goddard looked more charming than ever and was quite as cordial as on the previous evening.

  “How much better it all looked this morning by daylight,” she said.

  “I think it looked very pretty last night,” answered John. “There is nothing so delightful as Christmas decorations, is there?”

  “Perhaps you will come down next year and help us again?” suggested Mrs.

  Goddard.

  “Yes — well, I might come at Easter, for that matter,” answered the young man, who after finding it impossible to visit Billingsfield during two years and a half, now saw no difficulty whatever in the way of making two visits in the course of six months. “Do you still decorate at Easter?” he asked.

  “Oh yes — do you think you can come?” she said pleasantly. “I thought you were to be very busy just then.”

  “Yes, that is true,” answered John. “But of course I could come, you know, if it were necessary.”

  “Hardly exactly necessary—” Mrs. Goddard laughed.

  “The doctor told me some relaxation was absolutely indispensable for my health,” said John rather sententiously.

  “You don’t really look very ill — are you?” She seemed incredulous.

  “Oh no, of course not — only a little overworked sometimes.”

  “In that case I have no doubt it would do you good,” said Mrs. Goddard.

  “Do you really think so?” asked John, hopefully.

  “Oh — that is a matter for your doctor to decide. I cannot possibly tell,” she answered.

  “I think you would make a very good doctor, Mrs. Goddard,” said John venturing on a bolder flight.

  “Really — I never thought of trying it,” she replied with a little laugh. “Good morning, Mr. Ambrose. Nellie wants to thank you for your beautiful present. It was really too good of you.”

  The vicar came out of the vestry and joined the group in the path. Mrs. Ambrose, who had been asking Tom Judd’s wife about her baby, also came up, and the squire, who had been presenting Mr. Reid with ten shillings for his Christmas box and who looked singularly bereaved without the faithful Stamboul at his heels, sauntered up and began congratulating everybody. In the distance the last of the congregation, chiefly the old women and cripples who could not keep up with the rest, hobbled away through the white gate of the churchyard.

  It had been previously agreed that if the ice would bear there should be skating in the afternoon and the squire was anxious to inform the party that the pond was in excellent condition.

  “As black as your hat,” he said cheerfully. “Stamboul and I have been sliding all over it, so of course it would bear an ox. It did not crack anywhere.”

  “Do you skate, Mrs. Goddard?” asked John.

  “Not very well — not nearly so well as Nellie. But I am very fond of it.”

  “Will you let me push you about in a chair, then? It is capital fun.”

  “Very good fun for me, no doubt,” answered Mrs. Goddard, laughing.

  “I would rather do it than anything else,” said John in a tone of conviction. “It is splendid exercise, pushing people about in chairs.”

  “So it is,” said the squire, heartily. “We will take turns, Mr. Short.” The suggestion did not meet with any enthusiastic response from John, who wished Mr. Juxon were not able to skate.

  Poor John, he had but one idea, which consisted simply in getting Mrs. Goddard to himself as often and as long as possible. Unfortunately this idea did not coincide with Mr. Juxon’s views. Mr. Juxon was an older, slower and calmer man than the enthusiastic young scholar, and though very far from obtruding his views or making any assertion of his rights, was equally far from forgetting them. He was a man more of actions than words. He had been in the habit of monopolising Mrs. Goddard’s society for months and he had no intention of relinquishing his claims, even for the charitable purpose of allowing a poor student to enjoy his Christmas holiday and bit of romance undisturbed. If John had presented himself as a boy, it might have been different; but John emphatically considered himself a man, and the squire was quite willing to treat him as such, since he desired it. That is to say he would not permit him to “cut him out” as he would have expressed it. The result of the position in which John and Mr. Juxon soon found themselves was to be expected.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  JOHN DID NOT sleep so peacefully nor dream so happily that night as on the night before. The course of true love had not run smooth that afternoon. The squire had insisted upon having his share of the lovely Mrs. Goddard’s society and she herself had not seemed greatly disturbed at a temporary separation from John. The latter amused her for a little while; the former held the position of a friend whose conversation she liked better than that of other people. John was disappointed and thought of going back to Cambridge the next day. So strong, indeed, was his sudden desire to leave Billingsfield without finishing his visit, that before going to bed he had packed some of his belongings into his small portmanteau; the tears almost stood in his eyes as he busied himself about his room and he muttered certain formulae of self-accusation as he collected his things, saying over and over in his heart— “What a fool I am! Why should she care for me? What am I that she should care for me?” etc. etc. Then he opened his window and looked at the bright stars which shone out over the old yew tree; but it was exceedingly cold, and so he shut it again and went to bed, feeling very uncomfortable and unhappy.

  But when he awoke in the morning he looked at his half-packed portmanteau and laughed, and instead of saying “What a fool I am!” he said “What a fool I was!” — which is generally and in most conditions of human affairs a much wiser thing to say. Then he carefully took everything out of the portmanteau again and replaced things as they had lain before in his room, lest perchance Susan, the housemaid, should detect what had passed through his mind on the previous evening and should tell Mrs. Ambrose. And from all this it appears that John was exceedingly young, as indeed he was, in spite of his being nearly one and twenty years of age. But doubtless if men were willing to confess their disappointments and foolish, impetuous resolutions, many would be found who have done likewise, being in years much older than John Short. Unfortunately for human nature most men would rather confess to positive wrong-doing than to any such youthful follies as these, while they are young; and when they are old they would rather be thought young and foolish than confess the evil deeds they have actually done.

  John, however, did not moralise upon his situation. The weather was again fine and as he dressed his spirits rose. He became magnanimous and resolved to forget yesterday and make the most of today. He would see Mrs. Goddard of course; perhaps he would show her a little coldness at first, giving her to understand that she had not treated him well on the previous afternoon; then he would interest her by his talk — he would repeat to her one of those unlucky odes and translate it for her benefit, making use of the freedom he would thus get in order to make her an unlimited number of graceful compliments. Perhaps, too, he ought to pay more attention to Nellie, if he wished to conciliate her mother. Women, he reflected, have such strange prejudices!

  He wondered whether it would be proper for him to call upon Mrs. Goddard. He was not quite sure about it, and he was rather ashamed of having so little knowledge of the world; but he believed that in Billingsfield he might run the risk. There had been talk of skating again that morning, and so, about ten o’clock, John told Mr. Ambrose he would go for a short walk and then join them all at the pond in the park. The project seemed good, and he put it into execution. As he walked up the frozen road, he industriously repeated in his mind
the Greek verses he was going to translate to Mrs. Goddard; he had no copy of them but his memory was very good. He met half a dozen labourers, strolling about with their pipes until it was time to go and have a pint of beer, as is their manner upon holidays; they touched their hats to him, remembering his face well, and he smiled happily at the rough fellows, contrasting his situation with theirs, who from the misfortune of social prejudice were not permitted to go and call upon Mrs. Goddard. His heart beat rather fast as he went up to the door of the cottage, and for one unpleasant moment he again doubted whether it was proper for him to make such an early visit. But being bent on romantic adventure he rang boldly and inquired for Mrs. Goddard.

  She was surprised to see John at that hour and alone; but it did not enter her head to refuse him admittance. Indeed as he stood in the little passage he heard the words which passed between her and Martha.

  “What is it, Martha?”

  “It’s a young gentleman, mam. I rather think, mam, it’s the young gentleman that’s stopping at the vicarage.”

  “Oh — ask him to come in.”

  “In ’ere, mam?”

  “No — into the sitting-room,” said Mrs. Goddard, who was busy in the dining-room.

  John was accordingly ushered in and told to wait a minute; which he did, surveying with surprise the beautiful pictures, the rich looking furniture and the valuable objects that lay about upon the tables. He experienced a thrill of pleasure, for he felt sure that Mrs. Goddard possessed another qualification which he had unconsciously attributed to her — that of being accustomed to a certain kind of luxury, which in John’s mind was mysteriously connected with his romance. It is one of the most undefinable of the many indefinite feelings to which young men in love are subject, especially young men who have been, or are, very poor. They like to connect ideas of wealth and comfort, even of a luxurious existence, with the object of their affections. They desire the world of love to be new to them, and in order to be wholly new in their experience, it must be rich. The feeling is not so wholly unworthy as it might seem; they instinctively place their love upon a pedestal and require its surroundings to be of a better kind than such as they have been accustomed to in their own lives. King Cophetua, being a king, could afford to love the beggar maid, and a very old song sings of a “lady who loved a swine,” but the names of the poor young men who have loved above their fortune and station are innumerable as the swallows in spring. John saw that Mrs. Goddard was much richer than he had ever been, and without the smallest second thought was pleased. In a few moments she entered the room. John had his speech ready.

  “I thought, if you were going to skate, I would call and ask leave to go with you,” he said glibly, as she gave him her hand.

  “Oh — thanks. But is not it rather early?”

  “It is twenty minutes past ten,” said John, looking at the clock.

  “Well, let us get warm before starting,” said Mrs. Goddard, sitting down by the fire. “It is so cold this morning.”

  John thought she was lovely to look at as she sat there, warming her hands and shielding her face from the flame with them at the same time. She looked at him and smiled pleasantly, but said nothing. She was still a little surprised to see him and wondered whether he himself had anything to say.

  “Yes,” said John, “it is very cold — traditional Christmas weather. Could not be finer, in fact, could it?”

  “No — it could not be finer,” echoed Mrs. Goddard, suppressing a smile. Then as though to help him out of his embarrassment by giving an impulse to the conversation, she added, “By the bye, Mr. Short, while we are warming ourselves why do not you let me hear one of your odes?”

  She meant it kindly, thinking it would give him pleasure, as indeed it did. John’s heart leaped and he blushed all over his face with delight. Mrs. Goddard was not quite sure whether she had done right, but she attributed his evident satisfaction to his vanity as a scholar.

  “Certainly,” he said with alacrity, “if you would like to hear it. Would you care to hear me repeat the Greek first?”

  “Oh, of all things. I do not think I have ever heard Greek.”

  John cleared his throat and began, glancing at his hostess rather nervously from time to time. But his memory never failed him, and he went on to the end without a break or hesitation.

  “How do you think it sounds?” he asked timidly when he had finished.

  “It sounds very funny,” said Mrs. Goddard. “I had no idea Greek sounded like that — but it has a pleasant rhythm.”

  “That is the thing,” said John, enthusiastically. “I see you really appreciate it. Of course nobody knows how the ancients pronounced Greek, and if one pronounced it as the moderns do, it would sound all wrong — but the rhythm is the thing, you know. It is impossible to get over that.”

  Mrs. Goddard was not positively sure what he meant by “getting over the rhythm;” possibly John himself could not have defined his meaning very clearly. But his cheeks glowed and he was very much pleased.

  “Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Goddard confidently. “But what does it all mean, Mr. Short?”

  “Would you really like to know?” asked John in fresh embarrassment. He suddenly realised how wonderfully delightful it was to be repeating his own poetry to the woman for whom it was written.

  “Indeed yes — what is the use of your telling me all sorts of things in

  Greek, if you do not tell me what they mean?”

  “Yes — you will promise not to be offended?”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Goddard; then blushing a little she added, “it is quite — I mean — quite the sort of thing, is not it?”

  “Oh quite,” said John, blushing too, but looking grave for a moment. Then he repeated the English translation of the verses which, as they were certainly not so good as the original, may be omitted here. They set forth that in the vault of the world’s night a new star had appeared which men had not yet named, nor would be likely to name until the power of human speech should be considerably increased, and the verses dwelt upon the theme, turning it and revolving it in several ways, finally declaring that the far-darting sun must look out for his interests unless he meant to be outshone by the new star. Translated into English there was nothing very remarkable about the performance though the original Greek ode was undoubtedly very good of its kind. But Mrs. Goddard was determined to be pleased.

  “I think it is charming,” she said, when John had reached the end and paused for her criticism.

  “The Greek is very much better,” said John doubtfully. “I cannot write

  English verses — they seem to me so much harder.”

  “I daresay,” said Mrs. Goddard. “But did you really write that when—” she stopped not knowing exactly how to express herself. But John had his answer ready.

  “Oh, I wrote ever so many,” he said, “and I have got them all at Cambridge. But that is the only one I quite remember. I wrote them just after the day when I waked up Muggins — the only time I had seen you till now. I think I could—”

  “How funny it seems,” said Mrs. Goddard, “without knowing a person, to write verses to them! How did you manage to do it?”

  “I was going to say that I think — I am quite sure — I could write much better things to you now.”

  “Oh, that is impossible — quite absurd, Mr. Short,” said Mrs. Goddard, laughing more gaily than usual.

  “Why?” asked John, somewhat emboldened by his success. “I do not see why, if one has an ideal, you know, one should not understand it much better when one comes near to it.”

  “Yes — but — how can I possibly be your ideal?” She felt herself so much older than John that she thought it was out of the question to be annoyed; so she treated him in a matter of fact way, and was really amused at his talk.

  “I don’t see why not,” answered John stoutly. “You might be any man’s ideal.”

  “Oh, really—” ejaculated Mrs. Goddard, somewhat startled at the force of the
sweeping compliment. To be told point-blank, even by an enthusiastic youth of one and twenty, that one is the ideal woman, must be either very pleasant or very startling.

  “Excuse me,” she said quickly, before he could answer her, “you know of course I am very ignorant — yes I am — but will you please tell me what is an ‘ideal’?”