A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 14

"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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard, 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. G.o.ddard saw the boy's embarra.s.sment 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.

G.o.ddard 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 h.o.m.oeopathy.

Mrs. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard's side and then, judging that he had sufficiently a.s.serted 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. G.o.ddard. 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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. G.o.ddard 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 st.u.r.dy 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. G.o.ddard 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 pa.s.sion 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.

G.o.ddard be expected to wait for poor John three years, even two years, from the time of the examination for the cla.s.sical Tripos? Nothing was more improbable, he was forced to admit. And yet, the idea of life if he did not marry Mrs. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard. 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. G.o.ddard, 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 gla.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ation of a pleasant cla.s.sical 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. G.o.ddard?"

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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the vicar in horror. "Good prospects! Why, you are only an undergraduate at Cambridge."

"I may be senior cla.s.sic in a few months," objected John. "That is not such a bad prospect, it seems to me."

"It means that you may get a fellows.h.i.+p, probably will--in the course of a few years. But you lose it if you marry. Besides--do you know that Mrs.

G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard's age. "Besides, I can go into the church, before I get a fellows.h.i.+p--"

"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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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?"

"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.