A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 7

"I only saw you once, when you came to the vicarage, and I had not the least idea what your name was. But I--I hoped you would come back; and so I used to write poems to you. They were very good, too," added John in a meditative tone, "I have never written any nearly so good as they were."

"Really?" Mrs. G.o.ddard looked at him rather incredulously and then laughed.

"You said you would not laugh," objected John.

"I cannot help it in the least," said she. "It seems so funny."

"It did not seem funny to me, I can a.s.sure you," replied John rather warmly. "I thought it very serious."

"You don't do it now, do you?" asked Mrs. G.o.ddard, looking up at him quietly.

"Oh no--a man's ideals change so much, you know," answered John, who felt he had been foolishly betrayed into telling his story, and hated to be laughed at.

"I am very glad of that. How long are you going to stay here, Mr. Short?"

"Until New Year's Day, I think," he answered. "Perhaps you will have time to forget about the poetry before I go."

"I don't know why," said Mrs. G.o.ddard, noticing his hurt tone. "I think it was very pretty--I mean the way you did it. You must be a born poet--to write verses to a person you did not know and had only seen once!"

"It is much easier than writing verses to moral abstractions one has never seen at all," explained John, who was easily pacified. "When a man writes a great deal he feels the necessity of attaching all those beautiful moral qualities to some real, living person whom he can see--"

"Even if he only sees her once," remarked Mrs. G.o.ddard demurely.

"Yes, even if he only sees her once. You have no idea how hard it is to concentrate one's faculties upon a mere idea; but the moment a man sees a woman whom he can endow with all sorts of beautiful qualities--why it's just as easy as hunting."

"I am glad to have been of so much service to you, even unconsciously--but, don't you think perhaps Mrs. Ambrose would have done as well?"

"Mrs. Ambrose?" repeated John. Then he broke into a hearty laugh. "No--I have no hesitation in saying that she would not have done as well. I am deeply indebted to Mrs. Ambrose for a thousand kindnesses, for a great deal more than I can tell--but, on the whole, I say, no; I could not have written odes to Mrs. Ambrose."

"No, I suppose not. Besides, fancy the vicar's state of mind! She would have had to call him in to translate your poetry."

"It is very singular," said John in a tone of reflection. "But, if I had not done all that, we should not be talking as we are now, after ten minutes acquaintance."

"Probably not," said Mrs. G.o.ddard.

"No--certainly not. By the bye, there is the Hall. I suppose you have often been there since Mr. Juxon came--what kind of man is he?"

"He has been a great traveller," answered his companion. "And then--well, he is a scholar and has an immense library--"

"And an immense dog--yes, but I mean, what kind of man is he himself?"

"He is very agreeable," said Mrs. G.o.ddard quietly. "Very well bred, very well educated. We find him a great addition in Billingsfield."

"I should think so, if he is all you say," said John discontentedly. His antagonism against Mr. Juxon was rapidly increasing. Mrs. G.o.ddard looked at him in some surprise, being very far from understanding his tone.

"I think you will like him," she said. "He knows all about you from the Ambroses, and he always speaks of you with the greatest admiration."

"Really? It is awfully kind of him, I am sure. I am very much obliged,"

said John rather contemptuously.

"Why do you speak like that?" asked Mrs. G.o.ddard gravely. "You cannot possibly have any cause for disliking him. Besides, he is a friend of ours--"

"Oh, of course, then it is different," said John. "If he is a friend of yours--"

"Do you generally take violent dislikes to people at first sight, Mr.

Short?"

"Oh, dear no. Not at all--at least, not dislikes. I suppose Mr. Juxon's face reminds me of somebody I do not like. I will behave like an angel.

Here we are."

The effect of this conversation upon the two persons between whom it took place was exceedingly different. Mrs. G.o.ddard was amused, without being altogether pleased. She had made the acquaintance of a refreshingly young scholar whom she understood to be full of genius. He was enthusiastic, simple, seemingly incapable of concealing anything that pa.s.sed through his mind, unreasonable and evidently very susceptible. On the whole, she thought she should like him, though his scornful manner in speaking of the squire had annoyed her. The interest she could feel in him, if she felt any at all, would be akin to that of the vicar in the boy. He was only a boy; brilliantly talented, they said, but still a mere boy. She was fully ten years older than he--she might almost be his mother--well, not quite that, but very nearly. It was amusing to think of his writing odes to her. She wished she could see translations of them, and she almost made up her mind to ask him to show them to her.

John on the other hand experienced a curious sensation. He had never before been in the society of so charming a woman. He looked at her and looked again, and came to the conclusion that she was not only charming but beautiful. He had not the least idea of her age; it is not the manner of his kind to think much about the age of a woman, provided she is not too young. The girl might be ten. Mrs. G.o.ddard might have married at sixteen--twenty-six, twenty-seven--what was that? John called himself twenty-two. Five years was simply no difference at all! Besides, who cared for age?

He had suddenly found himself almost on a footing of intimacy with this lovely creature. His odes had served him well; it had pleased her to hear the story. She had laughed a little, of course; but women, as John knew, always laugh when they are pleased. He would like to show her his odes.

As he walked through the park by her side he felt a curious sense of possession in her which gave him a thrill of exquisite delight; and when they entered the Hall he felt as though he were resigning her to the squire, which gave him a corresponding sense of annoyance. When an Englishman experiences these sensations, he is in love. John resolved that whatever happened he would walk back with Mrs. G.o.ddard.

"Come in," said the squire cheerily. "We are not so cold as we used to be up here."

A great fire of logs was burning upon the hearth in the Hall. Stamboul stalked up to the open chimney, scratched the tiger's skin which served for a rug, and threw himself down as though his day's work were done.

Mr. Juxon went up to Mrs. G.o.ddard.

"I think you had better take off your coat," he said. "The house is very warm."

Mrs. G.o.ddard allowed the squire to help her in removing the heavy black jacket lined and trimmed with fur, which she wore. John eyed the proceeding uneasily and kept on his greatcoat.

"Thank you--I don't mind the heat," he said shortly when the squire suggested to him that he might be too warm. John was in a fit of contrariety. Mrs. G.o.ddard glanced at him, as he spoke, and he thought he detected a twinkle of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes, which did not tend to smooth his temper.

"You will have some tea, Mrs. G.o.ddard?" said Mr. Juxon, leading the way into the library, which he regarded as the most habitable room in the house. Mrs. G.o.ddard walked by his side and the vicar followed, while John and Nellie brought up the rear.

"Is not it a beautiful place?" said Nellie, who was anxious that the new-comer should appreciate the magnificence of the Hall.

"Can't see very well," said John, "it is so dark."

"Oh, but it is beautiful," insisted Miss Nellie. "And they have lots of lamps here in the evening. Perhaps Mr. Juxon will have them lighted before we go. He is always so kind."

"Is he?" asked John with a show of interest.

"Yes--he brings mamma a rose every day," said Nellie.

"Not really?" said John, beginning to feel that he was justified in hating the squire with all his might.

"Yes--and books, too. Lots of them--but then, he has so many. See, this is the library. Is not it splendid!"

John looked about him and was surprised. The last rays of the setting sun fell across the open lawn and through the deep windows of the great room, illuminating the tall carved bookcases, the heavily gilt bindings, the rich, dark Russia leather and morocco of the folios. The footsteps of the party fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet and almost insensibly the voices of the visitors dropped to a lower key. A fine large wood fire was burning on the hearth, carefully covered with a metal netting lest any spark should fly out and cause damage to the treasures acc.u.mulated in the neighbouring shelves.

"Pray make yourself at home, Mr. Short," said the squire, coming up to John. "You may find something of interest here. There are some old editions of the cla.s.sics that are thought rare--some specimens of Venetian printing, too, that you may like to look at. Mr. Ambrose can tell you more about them than I."