‘I asked old George to go to your fandango, Jim, and he said he would, and take another man or two. He said he’d like to hear the young ladies sing, if they’d sing something as an old man could understand; and he wouldn’t mind hearing Mr. Jim if he said somethin’ as was funny and would make a man laugh. Lord, you didn’t want to cry when you went out for something as pretended to be pleasuring. The old woman can do that fast enough at home. And as for Mr. Osborne, old George said as he draw’d the line at him.’

‘What a horrid old man!’ said Florence.

‘No, he’s not at all a horrid old man. He is a great friend of mine; but he doesn’t like, as he says, and I agree with him, to have some one always a-nagging at him. When one’s mother does it, it’s horrid: and the curate would be worse. Jim, do you really like Mr. Osborne that you have grown such friends?’

‘Well,’ said Jim, with much innocence and a touch of complaisance besides, ‘it’s him that looks as if he liked me.’

‘What excellent grammar, and what still more excellent humility!’ cried Florence. Florence was, it must be allowed, a little bitter. Jim’s acquaintance with the curate had gone on increasing daily. It had done him a great deal of good—in one way. The doors of the ‘Blue Boar’ were closed to him: he went there no longer. He thought of the vet. and Simpkinson, the landlord, with a sort of horror, asking himself whether it was true that he had actually sought their society. It had been in pure vacancy he knew now, and because there was no other to be had. But yet he had persuaded himself that they were very good fellows, and that to make acquaintance with their ways of thinking was a good thing, and expanded his knowledge of life and the world. He had all the fervour now of a new convert in respect to the superiority of his present surroundings, but still was pleased with the thought that it was Mr. Osborne who had sought him, and not he who had sought Mr. Osborne. The curate had thus fulfilled towards him all, and more than all, that Florence had ventured to suggest. In making Jim believe that it was pure liking that attracted him, Mr. Osborne had bettered the prayer that had been made to him. Had he done it for her sake?—who could tell? If it was so, it was a transfer complete and thorough, for he had never approached Florence, never spoken to her when he could avoid it, never looked at her since that day. He said, ‘How do you do, Miss Plowden?’ as if he had never known more of them than from a chance meeting in the village street, when he met the sisters. Not even his anxiety about his entertainment broke down the barrier he had raised between himself and the girl to whom he had all but offered his heart and life. ‘What is the matter with Mr. Osborne?’ Emmy had asked of her sister, in consternation, for it is needless to say that Florry’s sister and constant companion had been well enough aware of the previous state of affairs. Florence had not answered the question, but she had preserved her composure, which was a great thing, and had thus led her sister to believe that, whatever the matter was, it was a temporary one. Mrs. Plowden, too, had put a similar question, but had herself answered it in the most satisfactory way. ‘What has become of Mr. Osborne?’ she said, and then replied to herself, ‘I suppose since he sees so much of Jim at his own place, he doesn’t think it worth his while to come here. It isn’t perhaps very civil to the rest of us; but what does it matter to any of us? and it is quite an advantage to Jim. I am sure he may be as rude to me as he likes; if he is nice to Jim, what do I care?’

This did not perhaps make Florence feel less sore. She could not help feeling that all her own prospects might come to nothing, and so long as it was well for Jim her mother would not care or any one. To tell the truth, Mrs. Plowden was of opinion that the curate’s apparent admiration of Florence had been only a cover for his desire to secure the friendship of her son, so wonderfully had her mind changed since the evening when she had bemoaned the use that Mr. Osborne might, but would not, be to Jim, and when Florence had formed the heroic resolution of setting that duty before her lover, if he should ever become her lover. The poor girl had carried out that vow, and had achieved that purpose. She said to herself that she had nothing to regret. It was far more important that he should tide Jim over this dangerous period, that he should restore him to better aims and hopes, than that he should ‘pay attention,’ as the gossips said, to herself. Florry said to herself proudly that she wanted no ‘attentions,’ from Mr. Osborne. If he had loved her, as she once thought, that would have been a very different matter. But it was apparent enough now that this had never been the case; and what did she want with him and his attentions? He had been angry, furious with her for the suggestion she had made to him. Evidently he was one of the men who think that women should never open their mouths, should see only what they are told to see. But he was a man with a conscience, and even the suggestion of a despised girl had borne fruit. He had been able to put her out of his mind, but not to put the thing she had said out of his mind. So much the better! He had held out a rescuing hand to Jim. He was doing the work of a Christian knight towards her brother. And as for any little delusion of hers, what did it matter? It was far better so, so long as nobody suspected—as nobody should suspect, did it cost her her life!—the pang that was in poor Florry’s heart.

It had been suspected, however—nay, more, divined—by one person, who was one of the group, coming down the street of Watcham together from the practice which had been held in the schoolroom on the morning of Mr. Osborne’s entertainment. Emmy and Florence had gone through their song, with some applause from the other performers, but not a word from the curate, who seemed not to make even a pretence of listening, and whose indifferent aspect was actually rudeness to the two young ladies, his Rector’s daughters, who had the greatest call upon his attention. He made himself, on the other hand, very agreeable to the two young London ladies who abode in one of the villas at Riverbank, and whose performance upon the piano was not remarkable. Miss Grey, who was present in her capacity of lay or feminine curate, the official best known and most fully recognised in the parish, could not help but see this; and, indeed, there were plenty of other people who remarked it, wondering whether Mr. Osborne had quarrelled with the Rectory family, a supposition, however, which was untenable in sight of his intimacy with Jim. Jim’s reading had the curate’s warmest applause. He referred to Jim on everything, sent him off to arrange matters, consulted him about the programme, and the succession of the performances; in short, conducted himself as if Jim Plowden were his other self and as much the giver of the entertainment as he was. The last thing he did after the practice was over, was to call to Jim that he should expect him at five to look up the fellows at Riverside. In the meantime Mr. Osborne had to entertain the Winwick contingent. But all this was so strange, so marked, so unlike Mr. Osborne’s former behaviour, that little Miss Grey, between consternation and amusement, did not know what to think. She was an experienced little woman, and she saw very well what was coming when Florence and the curate left her house together, three weeks before. She had expected that very day to have another visit from one or both of them to tell her the great news. And, instead, there was to all appearance a total disruption between them; and not only so, but Jim—Jim!—received into the curate’s heart as closest friend and first favourite apparently, in his sister’s place.

Miss Grey felt that there must be an explanation of this, though she could not make it out as yet; and, above all, she was very sure that Mr. Osborne’s rudeness to the Plowdens did not come from nothing. There must be a reason for it. Whatever it meant, indifference was certainly the last thing it could mean. And Jim’s complaisance in respect to his new friendship with the curate made the whole question still more complicated. ‘It’s him that looks as if he liked me.’ Looks as if he liked Jim, and looks as if he disliked Florence! But that was more than Miss Grey, with all her knowledge of man, and even of curate-kind, could understand. And the slight sharpness in the tone of Florence threw an additional cloud upon the whole matter. Nobody but must feel that it was good for Jim to be engaged in the curate’s schemes instead of talking second-hand politics at the ‘Blue Boar.’ But Florence’s voice had a sharp tone in it, and in Florence’s self there was a sort of thrill of offended dignity, which Miss Grey was quick to see. The girl was wounded, and not much wonder. Her part of the performance was precisely the one in which Mr. Osborne seemed to take no interest. To be sure, Miss Grey was not aware that since that fated morning Florence and he had not exchanged one word that was not indispensable to the preservation of appearances. And yet she had not refused Mr. Osborne, which would have explained everything—at least, there was no reason to suppose that she had refused him. Had she done so it would somehow have oozed out. Birds of the air carry these matters. It shows upon the aspect of the rejected more surely than does the delight of acceptance. And besides, Florence Plowden had not intended to reject—there was no appearance of that purpose in her. The matter became more and more mysterious the longer Miss Grey thought it over. She could get no light upon this mysterious question.

They were all walking along together—a bevy of young people with Miss Grey in the midst, with a little excitement consequent upon the performances past and the performance to come, making a good deal of cheerful noise in the cheerful road. Two or three were always talking at the same time, and nobody was listening, though Jim found it possible to hear what Mab was saying to him, and Florence could not help but remark upon every word that concerned Mr. Osborne. The rest were discussing their own share in the performance and what the violinists from Winwick and the rest of the people were going to do. ‘Fiddlers are thought everything of nowadays,’ said the pianists, ‘and yet where would they be without an accompanist?’ They thought the same thing of the singers more or less, and the singers, who were aware that they were themselves the most popular part of the entertainment, returned that feeling. As for those who were merely to read, the musical part of the performers had a sort of impartial and indifferent contempt for them, as for people who were merely making a little exhibition of themselves—not rivals at all. Shakespeare or Ingoldsby, the young ladies from Riverbank did not think it mattered a bit which it was. And even Mab asked, more from civility than with interest, what Jim was going to do.

‘The “Ride to Ghent”? We have had the “Ride to Ghent” so often. If you had wanted a ride, you might have taken that other one from Browning, where the man thought “Perhaps the world will end to-night.”’

‘Do you think the boatmen would care about that?’ said Florence. ‘Oh no, you don’t know it, Jim. It is a man who is going to have a last ride with a girl who does not care for him. At all events, he thinks this is their last ride. And then perhaps he thinks the world may come to an end.’

‘I don’t see much meaning in that,’ said Jim. ‘I suppose there will always be plenty other girls in the world. Browning is always so far-fetched, except——’

‘When he isn’t,’ said Mab, laughing. ‘The “Ride to Ghent,” is not far-fetched.’

‘But what is it about?’ said Jim. ‘I’ve been asking Osborne, who did something tremendous in history, in Greats—and he can’t tell me. Now, if I could say before I begin, “This was after a great fight between the—what? the Spanish and the Dutch, or something——”’

‘You can say,’ said Mab, ‘that it was a starving time, and if they didn’t hear the good news they would have to give in—after holding out till they were nearly dead: though I can’t make out,’ added that young lady, ‘if the country was so free as that, and Loris and the other two could ride a whole day without any one disturbing them, why the town should be starving? But you are not called upon to explain. They would like the “Pied Piper” still better, you know,’ she continued reflectively. ‘It’s easier to understand. They want a story, and they want it to go quick, without reflections—like this,’ said the experienced little woman of the parish, striking her hands together, which startled them all.

‘There are nothing but vulgar stories that do that—claptrap things, things that ladies and gentlemen could not listen to,’ said Emmy Plowden.

‘Oh, what does it matter about the ladies and gentlemen? I should not care a bit for them. There is that new Indian man, that writes the stories—a man with a curious name; but, then, they are not good stories at all. The soldiers drink and swear, and that would never do. Is it necessary to drink and swear in order to have “go” in you?’ said Mab. ‘As for your old Ingoldsby, they see it’s meant to be fun, and they laugh. But they don’t care.’

‘I fear,’ said Florence, always with that little sharp tone in her voice, ‘that Jim will have to take what he has got, instead of waiting till the right thing comes.’

‘Is the new schoolmistress going to do something?’ said Miss Grey. ‘I heard a report—— I don’t like the looks of that woman, but she is as clever as ever she can be. She could do Lady Macbeth, or—anything she likes. And she knows—quantities of things, far too much for a village schoolmistress. I have seen her somewhere before, I am certain, and she is quite out of her place here. But why doesn’t Mr. Osborne get hold of her, and see what she could do? She’d make them attend, I’ll warrant you! There wouldn’t be much wandering attention if she were there.’

‘It’s a pity,’ said Jim stiffly, ‘that she could not hear you, Miss Grey: for she said the ladies would not like it if she appeared.’

‘She thinks she could throw us all into the shade,’ said Florence—‘we should be jealous of her, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ said Jim, ‘of course she would; she would throw everybody here into the shade.’

He spoke with a little fervour, forgetting, unhappy boy! that he had no right to know anything whatever of Mrs. Brown.

‘Jim, how should you know?’ said Emmy, mildly; and then, to make bad worse, Jim stumbled into an explanation how he had gone to her from Mr. Osborne, and how she had laughed, and ‘said’ something to him, ‘a piece of poetry,’ Jim called it, which made his hair stand upright on his head; but after that, she had refused, saying, ‘No, no; the ladies would not have it, the ladies would not like it.’

‘As if we should care!’ said Florence, with a little sneer. ‘You can go and tell her if you like, that the ladies have no objection. We are not jealous, are we—of Mrs. Brown?’

This was not poor Florry’s natural tone, and the sharpness of it went to one heart at least—that of Miss Grey, who discovered what it meant: and startled the rest, who did not understand any meaning in it at all.

‘Don’t send Jim,’ said Mab, ‘let me go. I’ll tell her we should all like her to do—Lady Macbeth or whatever she pleases—and that none of the ladies would mind—not you, Miss Grey, I may tell her—for perhaps she thinks the young ones don’t count.’

‘Don’t bother, Mab,’ said Jim hastily, ‘It is too late; even if she were willing we cannot change the programme now.’

‘Oh, but I am going! I have a fancy for Mrs. Brown,’ said Mab, waving her hand.