“I beg your pardon,” she said. “What were you saying, Mr. Short?” Had John been saying anything he would have repeated it, but being thus interrogated he grew doubly embarrassed.
“I — I have not much to say — except good-bye,” he answered.
“Oh, don’t go yet,” said Mrs. Goddard. “You are not going this afternoon?
It is always so unpleasant to say good-bye, is it not?”
“Dreadfully,” answered John. “I would rather say anything else in the world. No; I am going early to-morrow morning. There is no help for it,” he added desperately. “I must go, you know.”
“The next time you come, you will be able to stay much longer,” said Mrs.
Goddard in an encouraging way. “You will have no more terms, then.”
“No indeed — nothing but to take my degree.”
“And what will you do then? You said the other day that you thought seriously of going into the church.”
“Oh mamma,” interrupted Nellie suddenly looking up, “fancy Mr. Short in a black gown, preaching like Mr. Ambrose! How perfectly ridiculous he would look!”
“Nellie — Nellie!” exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, “do not talk nonsense. It is very rude to say Mr. Short would look ridiculous.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude, mamma,” returned Nellie, blushing scarlet and pouting her lips, “only it would be very funny, wouldn’t it?”
“I daresay it would,” said John, relieved by the interruption. “I wish you would advise me what to do, Mrs. Goddard,” he added in a confidential tone.
“I?” she exclaimed, and then laughed. “How should I be able to advise you?”
“I am sure you could,” said John, insisting. “You have such wonderfully good judgment—”
“Have I? I did not know it. But, tell me, if you come out very high are you not sure of getting a fellowship?”
“It is likely,” answered John indifferently. “But I should have to give it up if I married—”
“Surely, Mr. Short,” cried Mrs. Goddard, with a laugh that cut him to the quick, “you do not think of marrying for many years to come?”
“Oh — I don’t know,” he said, blushing violently, “why should not I?”
“In the first place, a man should never marry until he is at least five and twenty years old,” said Mrs. Goddard, calmly.
“Well — I may be as old as that before I get the fellowship.”
“Yes, I daresay. But even then, why should you want to resign a handsome independence as soon as you have got it? Is there anything else so good within your reach?”
“There is the church, of course,” said John. “But Miss Nellie seems to think that ridiculous—”
“Never mind Nellie,” answered Mrs. Goddard. “Seriously, Mr. Short, do you approve of entering the church merely as a profession, a means of earning money?”
“Well — no — I did not put it in that way. But many people do.”
“That does not prove that it is either wise or decent,” said Mrs. Goddard. “If you felt impelled to take orders from other motives, it would be different. As I understand you, you are choosing a profession for the sake of becoming independent.”
“Certainly,” said John.
“Well, then, there is nothing better for you to do than to get a fellowship and hold it as long as you can, and during that time you can make up your mind.” She spoke with conviction, and the plan seemed good. “But I cannot imagine,” she continued, “why you should ask my advice.”
“And not to marry?” inquired John nervously.
“There is plenty of time to think of that when you are thirty — even five and thirty is not too late.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed John, “I think that is much too old!”
“Do you call me old?” asked Mrs. Goddard serenely. “I was thirty-one on my last birthday.”
For the twentieth time, John felt himself growing uncomfortably hot. Not only had he said an unconscionably stupid thing, but Mrs. Goddard, after advising him not to marry for ten years, had almost hinted that she might meanwhile be married herself. What else could she mean by the remark? But John was hardly a responsible being on that day. His views of life and his understanding were equally disturbed.
“No indeed,” he protested on hearing her confession of age. “No indeed — why, you are the youngest person I ever saw, of course. But with men — it is quite different.”
“Is it? I always thought women were supposed to grow old faster than men. That is the reason why women always marry men so much older than themselves.”
“Oh — in that case — I have nothing more to say,” replied John in very indistinct tones. The perspiration was standing upon his forehead; the room swam with him and he felt a terrible, prickly sensation all over his body.
“Mamma, shan’t I open the door? Mr. Short is so very hot,” said Nellie looking at him in some astonishment. At that moment John felt as though he could have eaten little Nellie, long legs, ringlets and all, with infinite satisfaction. He rose suddenly to his feet.
“The fact is — it is late — I must really be saying good-bye,” he stammered.
“Must you?” said Mrs. Goddard, suspecting that something was the matter. “Well, I am very sorry to say good-bye. But you will be coming back soon, will you not?”
“Yes — I don’t know — perhaps I shall not come back at all. Good-bye — Mrs.
Goddard — good-bye, Miss Nellie.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Short,” said Mrs. Goddard, looking at him with some anxiety. “You are not ill? What is the matter?”
“Oh dear no, nothing,” answered John with an unnatural laugh. “No thank you — good-bye.”
He managed to get out of the door and rushed down to the road. The cold air steadied his nerves. He felt better. With a sudden revulsion of feeling, he began to utter inward imprecations against his folly, against the house he had just left, against everybody and everything in general, not forgetting poor little Nellie.
“If ever I cross that threshold again—” he muttered with tragic emphasis. His face was still red, and he swung his stick ferociously as he strode towards the vicarage. Several little boys in ragged smock-frocks saw him and thought he had had some beer, even as their own fathers, and made vulgar gestures when his back was turned.
So poor John packed his portmanteau and left the vicarage early on the following morning. He sent an excuse to Mr. Juxon explaining that the urgency of his work called him back sooner than he had expected, and when the train moved fairly off towards Cambridge he felt that in being spared the ordeal of shaking hands with his rival he had at least escaped some of the bitterness of his fate; as he rolled along he thought very sadly of all that had happened in that short time which was to have been so gay and which had come to such a miserable end.
Reflecting calmly upon his last interview with Mrs. Goddard, he was surprised to find that his memory failed him. He could not recall anything which could satisfactorily account for the terrible disappointment and distress he had felt. She had only said that she was thirty-one years old, precisely as the vicar had stated on the previous evening, and she had advised him not to marry for some years to come. But she had laughed, and his feelings had been deeply wounded — he could not tell precisely at what point in the conversation, but he was quite certain that she had laughed, and oh! that terrible Nellie! It was very bitter, and John felt that the best part of his life was lived out. He went back to his books with a dark and melancholy tenacity of purpose, flavoured by a hope that he might come to some sudden and awful end in the course of the next fortnight, thereby causing untold grief and consternation to the hard-hearted woman he had loved. But before the fortnight had expired he found to his surprise that he was intensely interested in his work, and once or twice he caught himself wondering how Mrs. Goddard would look when he went back to Billingsfield and told her he had come out at the head of the classical Tripos — though, of course, he had no intention of going there, nor of ever s
eeing her again.
CHAPTER XI.
MR. JUXON WAS relieved to hear that John Short had suddenly gone back to Cambridge. He had indeed meant to like him from the first and had behaved towards him with kindness and hospitality; but while ready to admire his good qualities and to take a proper amount of interest in his approaching contest for honours, he had found him a troublesome person to deal with and, in his own words, a nuisance. Matters had come to a climax after the tea at the cottage, when the squire had so completely vanquished him, but since that evening the two had not met.
The opposition which John brought to bear against Mr. Juxon was not, however, without its effect. The squire was in that state of mind in which a little additional pressure sufficed to sway his resolutions. It has been seen that he had for some time regarded Mrs. Goddard’s society as an indispensable element in his daily life; he had been so much astonished at discovering this that he had absented himself for several days and had finally returned ready to submit to his fate, in so far as his fate required that he should see Mrs. Goddard every day. Shortly afterwards John had appeared and by his persistent attempts to monopolise Mrs. Goddard’s conversation had again caused an interruption in the squire’s habits, which the latter had resented with characteristic firmness. The very fact of having resisted John had strengthened and given a new tone to Mr. Juxon’s feelings towards his tenant. He began to watch the hands of the clock with more impatience than formerly when, after breakfast, he sat reading the papers before the library fire, waiting for the hour when he was accustomed to go down to the cottage. His interest in the papers decreased as his interest in the time of day grew stronger, and for the first time in his life he found to his great surprise that after reading the news of the day with the greatest care, he was often quite unable to remember a word of what he had read. Then, at first, he would be angry with himself and would impose upon himself the task of reading the paper again before going to the cottage. But very soon he found that he had to read it twice almost every day, and this seemed such an unreasonable waste of time that he gave it up, and fell into very unsystematic habits.
For some days, as though by mutual consent, neither Mrs. Goddard nor the squire spoke of John Short. The squire was glad he was gone and hoped that he would not come back, but was too kind-hearted to say so; Mrs. Goddard instinctively understood Mr. Juxon’s state of mind and did not disturb his equanimity by broaching an unpleasant subject. Several days passed by after John had gone and he would certainly not have been flattered had he known that during that time two, out of the four persons he had met so often in his short holiday, had never so much as mentioned him.
One afternoon in January the squire found himself alone with Mrs. Goddard. It was a great exception, and she herself doubted whether she were wise to receive him when she had not Nellie with her. Nellie had gone to the vicarage to help Mrs. Ambrose with some work she had in hand for her poor people, but Mrs. Goddard had a slight headache and had stayed at home in consequence. The weather was very bad; heavy clouds were driving overhead and the north-east wind howled and screamed through the leafless oaks of the park, driving a fine sleet against the cottage windows and making the dead creepers rattle against the wall. It was a bitter January day, and Mrs. Goddard felt how pleasant a thing it was to stay at home with a book beside her blazing fire. She was all alone, and Nellie would not be back before four o’clock. Suddenly a well-known step echoed upon the slate flags without and there was a ring at the bell. Mrs. Goddard had hardly time to think what she should do, as she laid her book upon her knee and looked nervously over her shoulder towards the door. It was awkward, she thought, but it could not be helped. In such weather it seemed absurd to send the squire away because her little girl was not with her. He had come all the way down from the Hall to spend this dreary afternoon at the cottage — she could not send him away. There were sounds in the passage as of some one depositing a waterproof coat and an umbrella, the door opened and Mr. Juxon appeared upon the threshold.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Goddard, banishing her scruples as soon as she saw him. “I am all alone,” she added rather apologetically. The squire, who was a simple man in many ways, understood the remark and felt slightly embarrassed.
“Is Miss Nellie out?” he asked, coming forward and taking Mrs. Goddard’s hand. He had not yet reached the point of calling the child plain “Nellie;” he would have thought it an undue familiarity.
“She is gone to the vicarage,” answered Mrs. Goddard. “What a dreadful day! You must be nearly frozen. Will you have a cup of tea?”
“No thanks — no, you are very kind. I have had a good walk; I am not cold — never am. As you say, in such weather I could not resist the temptation to come in. This is a capital day to test that India-rubber tubing we have put round your windows. Excuse me — I will just look and see if the air comes through.”
Mr. Juxon carefully examined the windows of the sitting-room and then returned to his seat.
“It is quite air-tight, I think,” he said with some satisfaction, as he smoothed his hair with his hand.
“Oh, quite,” said Mrs. Goddard. “It was so very good of you.”
“Not a bit of it,” returned the squire cheerily. “A landlord’s chief pre-occupation ought to be the comfort of his tenants and his next thought should be to keep his houses in repair. I never owned any houses before, so I have determined to start with good principles.”
“I am sure you succeed. You walked down?”
“Always walk, in any weather. It is much less trouble and much cheaper.
Besides, I like it.”
“The best of all reasons. Then you will not have any tea? I almost wish you would, because I want some myself.”
“Oh of course — in that case I shall be delighted. Shall I ring?”
He rang and Martha brought the tea. Some time was consumed in the preparations which Mr. Juxon watched with interest as though he had never seen tea made before. Everything that Mrs. Goddard did interested him.
“I do not know why it is,” she said at last, “but weather like this is delightful when one is safe at home. I suppose it is the contrast—”
“Yes indeed. It is like the watch below in dirty-weather.”
“Excuse me — I don’t quite understand—”
“At sea,” explained the squire. “There is no luxury like being below when the decks are wet and there is heavy weather about.”
“I should think so,” said Mrs. Goddard. “Have you been at sea much, Mr.
Juxon?”
“Thirty years,” returned the squire laconically. Mrs. Goddard looked at him in astonishment.
“You don’t mean to say you have been a sailor all your life?”
“Does that surprise you? I have been a sailor since I was twelve years old. But I got very tired of it. It is a hard life.”
“Were you in the navy, Mr. Juxon?” asked Mrs. Goddard eagerly, feeling that she was at last upon the track of some information in regard to his past life.
“Yes — I was in the navy,” answered the squire, slowly. “And then I was at college, and then in the navy again. At last I entered the merchant service and commanded my own ships for nearly twenty years.”
“How very extraordinary! Why then, you must have been everywhere.”
“Very nearly. But I would much rather be in Billingsfield.”
“You never told me,” said Mrs. Goddard almost reproachfully. “What a change it must have been for you, from the sea to the life of a country gentleman!”
“It is what I always wanted.”
“But you do not seem at all like the sea captains one hears about—”
“Well, perhaps not,” replied the squire thoughtfully. “There are a great many different classes of sea captains. I always had a taste for books. A man can read a great deal on a long voyage. I have sometimes been at sea for more than two years at a time. Besides, I had a fairly good education and — well, I suppose it was because I was a gentleman to beg
in with and was more than ten years in the Royal Navy. All that makes a great difference. Have you ever made a long voyage, Mrs. Goddard?”
“I have crossed the channel,” said she. “But I wish you would tell me something more about your life.”
“Oh no — it is very dull, all that. You always make me talk about myself,” said the squire in a tone of protestation.
“It is very interesting.”
“But — could we not vary the conversation by talking about you a little?” suggested Mr. Juxon.
“Oh no! Please—” exclaimed Mrs. Goddard rather nervously. She grew pale and busied herself again with the tea. “Do tell me more about your voyages. I suppose that was the way you collected so many beautiful things, was it not?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” answered the squire, looking at her curiously. “In fact of course it was. I was a great deal in China and South America and India, and in all sorts of places where one picks up things.”
“And in Turkey, too, where you got Stamboul?”
“Yes. He was so wet that I left him outside to day. Did not want to spoil your carpet.”
The squire had a way of turning the subject when he seemed upon the point of talking about himself which was very annoying to Mrs. Goddard. But she had not entirely recovered her equanimity and for the moment had lost control of the squire. Besides she had a headache that day.
“Stamboul does not get the benefit of the contrast we were talking about at first,” she remarked, in order to say something.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 172