Joe Biggins, true to his word, called at the wheelwrights next morning on his way to church, and on coming within sight of the house he took off his hat to indulge in a good scratch, for he was puzzled on seeing that the blinds were all drawn up.
Replacing his hat very carefully, he softly entered upon tip-toes, and walked up the little path, where he was met by Tom Morrison, looking pale and worn, but with a restful look in his face that had not been there for days.
They shook hands warmly, for Joe Biggins had resolved never to think about that coffin Tom Morrison had made again, and just then fresh steps were heard, and they saw old Mr Vinnicombe coming up.
I thought Id call, Morrison, he said, and ask you to let me be the bearer of a message to the rectory. Lets make a last appeal to the bigot.
Hush, sir! dont call him names, said Tom. He thought he was right, no doubt.
Then youve heard from him.
No, sir, no, said Tom, sadly; but I forgive him all the same, though I could never bear to go and hear him more.
The doctor and Biggins looked at each other, and the latter shook his head till his white cravat crackled, for he was got up ready for his vergers gown.
Will you walk down the garden, doctor? said the wheelwright, quietly.
They both followed him, wonderingly, till, nearing the willow, they heard a low, wailing sob; and, drawing nearer, found poor Budge crouching in a heap upon the ground, her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her desolate young heart would break.
They approached her unheard; and, at the scene before them, they involuntarily took off their hats, and stood watching, as Tom bent over the weeping girl.
I did, oh, I did love you so! they heard her sob in broken accents. And then, as Tom touched her gently on the shoulder, she started up in
Smithers, he continued, as a remarkably fast-looking young man came up, have you had a good breakfast?
Yes, sir, as good as I could get.
Thought so, said the assistant master, smiling. Well, what certificate do you mean to take, eh? First of the first?
Havent been reading for honours, sir, said Smithers, grinning.
No, indeed, said the assistant master, shaking his head. Ah, Smithers, Smithers! why did you come here?
To be a Christian schoolmaster, sir, was the reply, given with mock humility by about as unlikely a personage for the duty as ever entered an institutions walls.
The bell once more; and at last, feeling like one in a dream, and as if, in spite of a years hard training and study, he was no wiser than when he first commenced, Luke Ross was in his place with a red sheet of blotting-paper before him, and the printed set of questions for the day.
The momentous time had come at last, a time which dealt so largely with his future; and yet, in spite of all his efforts, his brain seemed obstinately determined to dwell upon every subject but those printed upon that great oblong sheet of paper.
He had no cause to trouble himself. All he had to do was to acquit himself as well as he could as a finale to his training; but in the highly-strung nervous state to which constant study had brought him, it seemed that his whole future depended upon his gaining one or other of the educational prizes that would be adjudged, and that unless he were successful, Sage Portlock, his old playmate and friend now some one very far dearer and for whose sake he had striven so hard, would turn from him with contempt.
At another time the questions before him would have been comparatively easy, and almost, without exception, he could have written a sensible essay upon the theme; but now Sage, his old home at Lawford, the school, the troubles in the town and opposition to the Rector, and a dozen other things, seemed to waltz through his brain.
He had several letters in his pocket, from Sage and from his father, and they seemed to unfold themselves before him, so that he read again the words that he knew by heart: how indignant the people were at the death of poor old Sammy Warmoth and the appointment of Joe Biggins; the terrible quarrel that there had been between Mr Mallow and the Curate about the burial of Tom Morrisons child, and how the quarrel had been patched up again because Mr Mallow had not liked Mr Paulby to leave just when people were talking so about the little grave in Tom Morrisons garden. There was the question of the wretched attempt at choral singing too on Sunday singing that he was to improve as soon as he was master; for Sage said it did not matter how well she taught the girls, Humphrey Bone made his boys sing badly out of spite, so as to put them out.
Then he had a good look at the examination paper, and tried to read, but Humphrey Bones threat to expose him and show him up as an ignoramus before all the town, a clod who ought to go back to his fathers tannery, all duly related in one of her letters by Sage Portlock, came dancing out of the page before him.
Again he cleared his head and took up his pen, but he felt that he could not write. And now came up the letter which told how Cyril Mallow had come back from Queensland handsome Cyril, whom he had severely punished some time before, just, in fact, as he was about to sail for Australia.