A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 15

"Oh, do not be alarmed," retorted John. "I will do nothing rash. You have set my mind at rest in a.s.suring me that she will not marry Mr. Juxon. I shall not think of offering myself to Mrs. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard.

"I have a great mind not to ask you to come down, even if you do turn out senior cla.s.sic," 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 pa.s.sed 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. G.o.ddard, 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. G.o.ddard; 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 circ.u.mstances had made him Mrs.

G.o.ddard'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 a.s.sured 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.

G.o.ddard 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 appet.i.te--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 a.s.sure you, my dear, that boy is not well.

Poor fellow, all alone at college with n.o.body 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 embarra.s.sed 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. G.o.ddard.

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, a.s.suming a prim expression 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. G.o.ddard; 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. G.o.ddard--now don't tell me it is not. I am quite sure it is Mrs. G.o.ddard. How stupid of me! Is it not Mrs. G.o.ddard?"