Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I saw her once,” said John. “That day when I waked Muggins—”

  “Once! Nearly three years ago! I have no patience with you, John! That a young fellow of your capabilities should give way to such a boyish fancy! It is absolutely amazing! I thought you were growing to like her society very much, but I did not believe it would, come to this!”

  “It is nothing to be ashamed of,” said John stoutly.

  “It is something to be afraid of,” answered the vicar.

  “Oh, do not be alarmed,” retorted John. “I will do nothing rash. You have set my mind at rest in assuring me that she will not marry Mr. Juxon. I shall not think of offering myself to Mrs. Goddard until after the Tripos.”

  “Offering myself” — how deliciously important the expression sounded to John’s own ears! It conveyed such a delightful sense of the possibilities of life when at last he should feel that he was in a position to offer himself to any woman, especially to Mrs. Goddard.

  “I have a great mind not to ask you to come down, even if you do turn out senior classic,” said the vicar, still fuming with excitement. “But if you put off your rash action until then, you will probably have changed your mind.”

  “I will never change my mind,” said John confidently. It was evident, nevertheless, that if the romance of his life were left to the tender mercies of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose, it was likely to come to an abrupt termination. When the two returned to the society of Mrs. Ambrose, the vicar was still very much agitated and John was plunged in a gloomy melancholy.

  CHAPTER X.

  THE VICAR’S SUSPICIONS were more than realized and he passed an uncomfortable day after his interview with John, in debating what he ought to do, whether he ought to do anything at all, or whether he should merely hasten his old pupil’s departure and leave matters to take care of themselves. He was a very conscientious man, and he felt that he was responsible for John’s conduct towards Mrs. Goddard, seeing that she had put herself under his protection, and that John was almost like one of his family. His first impulse was to ask counsel of his wife, but he rejected the plan, reflecting with great justice that she was very fond of John and had at first not been sure of liking Mrs. Goddard; she would be capable of thinking that the latter had “led Short on,” as she would probably say. The vicar did not believe this, and was therefore loath that any one else should. He felt that circumstances had made him Mrs. Goddard’s protector, and he was moreover personally attached to her; he would not therefore do or say anything whereby she was likely to appear to any one else in an unfavourable light. It was incredible that she should have given John any real encouragement. Mr. Ambrose wondered whether he ought to warn her of his pupil’s madness. But when he thought about that, it seemed unnecessary. It was unlikely that John would betray himself during his present visit, since the vicar had solemnly assured him that there was no possibility of a marriage so far as Mr. Juxon was concerned. It was undoubtedly a very uncomfortable situation but there was evidently nothing to be done; Mr. Ambrose felt that to speak to Mrs. Goddard would be to precipitate matters in a way which could not but cause much humiliation to John Short and much annoyance to herself. He accordingly held his peace, but his upper lip set itself stiffly and his eyes had a combative expression which told his wife that there was something the matter.

  After breakfast John went out, on pretence of walking in the garden, and Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose were left alone. The latter, as usual after the morning meal, busied herself about the room, searching out those secret corners which she suspected Susan of having forgotten to dust. The vicar stood looking out of the window. The weather was grey and it seemed likely that there would be a thaw which would spoil the skating.

  “I think,” said Mrs. Ambrose, “that John is far from well.”

  “What makes you say that?” inquired the vicar, who was thinking of him at that very moment.

  “Anybody might see it. He has no appetite — he ate nothing at breakfast this morning. He looks pale. My dear, that boy will certainly break down.”

  “I don’t believe it,” answered Mr. Ambrose still looking out of the window. His hands were in his pockets, thrusting the skirts of his clerical coat to right and left; he slowly raised himself upon his toes and let himself down again, repeating the operation as though it helped him to think.

  “That is the way you spoil all your coats, Augustin,” said his wife looking at him from behind. “I assure you, my dear, that boy is not well. Poor fellow, all alone at college with nobody to look after him—”

  “We have all had to go through that. I do not think it hurts him a bit,” said the vicar, slowly removing his hands from his pockets in deference to his wife’s suggestion.

  “Then what is it, I would like to know? There is certainly something the matter. Now I ask you whether he looks like himself?”

  “Perhaps he does look a little tired.”

  “Tired! There is something on his mind, Augustin. I am positively certain there is something on his mind. Why won’t you tell me?”

  “My dear—” began the vicar, and then stopped short. He was a very truthful man, and as he knew very well what was the matter with John he was embarrassed to find an answer. “My dear,” he repeated, “I do not think he is ill.”

  “Then I am right,” retorted Mrs. Ambrose, triumphantly. “It is just as I thought, there is something on his mind. Don’t deny it, Augustin; there is something on his mind.”

  Mr. Ambrose was silent; he glared fiercely at the window panes.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” insisted his better half. “I am quite sure you know all about it. Augustin, do you know, or do you not?”

  Thus directly questioned the vicar turned sharply round, sweeping the window with his coat tails.

  “My dear,” he said, shortly, “I do know. Can you not imagine that it may be a matter which John does not care to have mentioned?”

  Mrs. Ambrose grew red with annoyance. She had set her heart on finding out what had disturbed John, and the vicar had apparently made up his mind that she should not succeed. Such occurrences were very rare between that happy couple.

  “I cannot believe he has done anything wrong,” said Mrs. Ambrose. “Anything which need be concealed from me — the interest I have always taken—”

  “He has not done anything wrong,” said the vicar impatiently. “I do wish you would drop the subject—”

  “Then why should it be concealed from me?” objected his wife with admirable logic. “If it is anything good he need not hide his light under a bushel, I should think.”

  “There are plenty of things which are neither bad nor good,” argued the vicar, who felt that if he could draw Mrs. Ambrose into a Socratic discussion he was safe.

  “That is a distinct prevarication, Augustin,” said she severely. “I am surprised at you.”

  “Not at all,” retorted the vicar. “What has occurred to John is not owing to any fault of his.” In his own mind the good man excused himself by saying that John could not have helped falling in love with Mrs. Goddard. But his wife turned quickly upon him.

  “That does not prevent what has occurred to him, as you call it, from being good, or more likely bad, to judge from his looks.”

  “My dear,” said Mr. Ambrose, driven to bay, “I entirely decline to discuss the point.”

  “I thought you trusted me, Augustin.”

  “So I do — certainly — and I always consult you about my own affairs.”

  “I think I have as much right to know about John as you have,” retorted his wife, who seemed deeply hurt.

  “That is a point then which you ought to settle with John,” said the vicar. “I cannot betray his confidence, even to you.”

  “Oh — then he has been making confidences to you?”

  “How in the world should I know about his affairs unless he told me?”

  “One may see a great many things without being told about them, you know,” answered Mrs. Ambrose, assuming a prim express
ion as she examined a small spot in the tablecloth. The vicar was walking up and down the room. Her speech, which was made quite at random, startled him. She, too, might easily have observed John’s manner when he was with Mrs. Goddard; she might have guessed the secret, and have put her own interpretation on John’s sudden melancholy.

  “What may one see?” asked the vicar quickly.

  “I did not say one could see anything,” answered his wife. “But from your manner I infer that there really is something to see. Wait a minute — what can it be?”

  “Nothing — my dear, nothing,” said the vicar desperately.

  “Oh, Augustin, I know you so well,” said the implacable Mrs. Ambrose. “I am quite sure now, that it is something I have seen. Deny it, my dear.”

  The vicar was silent and bit his long upper lip as he marched up and down the room.

  “Of course — you cannot deny it,” she continued. “It is perfectly clear. The very first day he arrived — when you came down from the Hall, in the evening — Augustin, I have got it! It is Mrs. Goddard — now don’t tell me it is not. I am quite sure it is Mrs. Goddard. How stupid of me! Is it not Mrs. Goddard?”

  “If you are so positive,” said the vicar, resorting to a form of defence generally learned in the nursery, “why do you ask me?”

  “I insist upon knowing, Augustin, is it, or is it not, Mrs. Goddard?”

  “My dear, I positively refuse to answer any more questions,” said the vicar with tardy firmness.

  “Oh, it is no matter,” retorted Mrs. Ambrose in complete triumph, “if it were not Mrs. Goddard of course you would say so at once.”

  A form of argument so unanswerable, that the vicar hastily left the room feeling that he had basely betrayed John’s confidence, and muttering something about intolerable curiosity. Mrs. Ambrose had vanquished her husband, as she usually did on those rare occasions when anything approaching to a dispute arose between them. Having come to the conclusion that “it” was Mrs. Goddard, the remainder of the secret needed no discovery. It was plain that John must be in love with the tenant of the cottage, and it seemed likely that it would devolve upon Mrs. Ambrose to clear up the matter. She was very fond of John and her first impression was that Mrs. Goddard, whom she now again suspected of having foreign blood, had “led him on” — an impression which the vicar had anticipated when he rashly resolved not to tell his wife John’s secret. She knew very well that the vicar must have told John his mind in regard to such an attachment, and she easily concluded that he must have done so on the previous evening when John called him into the study. But she had just won a victory over her husband, and she consequently felt that he was weak, probably too weak to save the situation, and it was borne in upon her that she ought to do something immediately. Unhappily she did not see quite clearly what was to be done. She might go straight to Mrs. Goddard and accuse her of having engaged John’s affections; but the more she thought of that, the more diffident she grew in regard to the result of such an interview. Curiosity had led her to a certain point, but caution prevented her from going any further. Mrs. Ambrose was very cautious. The habit of living in a small place, feeling that all her actions were watched by the villagers and duly commented upon by them, had made her even more careful than she was by nature. It would be very unwise to bring about a scene with Mrs. Goddard unless she were very sure of the result. Mrs. Goddard was hardly a friend. In Mrs. Ambrose’s opinion an acquaintance of two years and a half standing involving almost daily meetings and the constant exchange of civilities did not constitute friendship. Nevertheless the vicar’s wife would have been ashamed to own that after such long continued intercourse she was wholly ignorant of Mrs. Goddard’s real character; especially as the latter had requested the vicar to tell Mrs. Ambrose her story when she first appeared at Billingsfield. Moreover, as her excitement at the victory she had gained over her husband began to subside, she found herself reviewing mentally the events of the last few days. She remembered distinctly that John had perpetually pursued Mrs. Goddard, and that although the latter seemed to find him agreeable enough, she had never to Mrs. Ambrose’s knowledge given him any of those open encouragements in the way of smiles and signals, which in the good lady’s mind were classified under the term “flirting.” Mrs. Ambrose’s ideas of flirtation may have been antiquated; thirty years of Billingsfield in the society of the Reverend Augustin had not contributed to their extension; but, on the whole, they were just. Mrs. Goddard had not flirted with John. It is worthy of notice that in proportion as the difficulties she would enter upon by demanding an explanation from Mrs. Goddard seemed to grow in magnitude, she gradually arrived at the conclusion that it was John’s fault. Half an hour ago, in the flush of triumph she had indignantly denied that anything could be John’s fault. She now resolved to behave to him with great austerity. Such an occurrence as his falling in love could not be passed over with indifference. It seemed best that he should leave Billingsfield very soon.

  John thought so too. Existence would not be pleasant now that the vicar knew his secret, and he cursed the folly and curiosity which had led him to betray himself in order to find out whether Mr. Juxon thought of marrying Mrs. Goddard. He had now resolved to return to Cambridge at once and to work his hardest until the Tripos was over. He would then come back to Billingsfield and, with his honours fresh upon him and the prospect of immediate success before him, he would throw himself at Mrs. Goddard’s feet. But of course he must have one farewell interview. Oh, those farewell interviews! Those leave-takings, wherein often so much is taken without leave!

  Accordingly at luncheon he solemnly announced his intention of leaving the vicarage on the morrow. Mrs. Ambrose received the news with an equanimity which made John suspicious, for she had heretofore constantly pressed him to extend his holiday, expressing the greatest solicitude for his health. She now sat stony as a statue and said very coldly that she was sorry he had to go so soon, but that, of course, it could not be helped. The vicar was moved by his wife’s apparent indifference. John, he said, might at least have stayed till the end of the promised week; but at this suggestion Mrs. Ambrose darted at her husband a look so full of fierce meaning, that the vicar relapsed into silence, returning to the consideration of bread and cheese and a salad of mustard and cress. John saw the look and was puzzled; he did not believe the vicar capable of going straight to Mrs. Ambrose with the story of the last night’s interview. But he was already so much disturbed that he did not attempt to explain to himself what was happening.

  But when lunch was over, and he realised that he had declared his intention of leaving Billingsfield on the next day, he saw that if he meant to see Mrs. Goddard before he left he must go to her at once. He therefore waited until he heard Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose talking together in the sitting-room and then slipped quietly out by the garden to the road.

  He had no idea what he should say when he met Mrs. Goddard. He meant, of course, to let her understand, or at least suppose, that he was leaving suddenly on her account, but he did not know in the least how to accomplish it. He trusted that the words necessary to him would come into his head spontaneously. His heart beat fast and he was conscious that he blushed as he rang the bell of the cottage. Almost before he knew where he was, he found himself ushered into the little drawing-room and in the presence of the woman he now felt sure that he loved. But to his great annoyance she was not alone; Nellie was with her. Mrs. Goddard sat near the fire, reading a review; Nellie was curled up in a corner of the deep sofa with a book, her thick brown curls falling all over her face and hands as she read. Mrs. Goddard extended her hand, without rising.

  “How do you do, Mr. Short?” she said. The young man stood hat in hand in the middle of the room, feeling very nervous. It was strange that he should experience any embarrassment now, considering how many hours he had spent in her company during the last few days. He blushed and stammered.

  “How do you do? I, in fact — I have come to say good-bye,” he blurted out.

&
nbsp; “So soon?” said Mrs. Goddard calmly. “Pray sit down.”

  “Are you really going away, Mr. Short?” asked Nellie. “We are so sorry to lose you.” The child had caught the phrase from a book she had been reading, and thought it very appropriate. Her mother smiled.

  “Yes — as Nellie says — we are sorry to lose you,” she said. “I thought you were to stay until Monday?”

  “So I was — but — very urgent business — not exactly business of course, but work — calls me away sooner.” Having delivered himself of this masterpiece of explanation John looked nervously at Nellie and then at his hat and then, with an imploring glance, at Mrs. Goddard.

  “But we shall hear of you, Mr. Short — after the examinations, shall we not?”

  “Oh yes,” said John eagerly. “I will come down as soon as the lists are out.”

  “You have my best wishes, you know,” said Mrs. Goddard kindly. “I feel quite sure that you will really be senior classic.”

  “Mamma is always saying that — it is quite true,” explained Nellie.

  John blushed again and looked gratefully at Mrs. Goddard. He wished

  Nellie would go away, but there was not the least chance of that.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Goddard, “I often say it. We all take a great interest in your success here.”

  “You are very kind,” murmured John. “Of course I shall come down at once and tell you all about it, if I succeed. I do not really expect to be first, of course. I shall be satisfied if I get a place in the first ten. But I mean to do my best.”

  “No one can do more,” said Mrs. Goddard, leaning back in her chair and looking into the fire. Her face was quiet, but not sad as it sometimes was. There was a long silence which John did not know how to break. Nellie sat upon a carved chair by the side of the fireplace dangling her legs and looking at her toes, turning them alternately in and out. She wished John would go for she wanted to get back to her book, but had been told it was not good manners to read when there were visitors. John looked at Mrs. Goddard’s face and was about to speak, and then changed his mind and grew red and said nothing. Had she noticed his shyness she would have made an effort at conversation, but she was absent-minded to-day, and was thinking of something else. Suddenly she started and laughed a little.