The Judgment of Eve | Page 4

golden to Aggie's testing touch.
When he had gone a great calm settled upon her. It was all so simple
now. Nobody was left but Arthur Gatty. She had just got to make up
her mind about him--which would take a little time--and then--either
she was a happy married woman or, said Aggie, coyly, a still happier
old maid in Queningford forever.
It was surprising how little the alternative distressed her.

II
It was the last week in April, and Mr. Gatty's Easter holiday was near
its end. On the Monday, very early in the morning, the young clerk
would leave Queningford for town.
By Friday his manner had become, as Susie Purcell expressed it, "so
marked" that the most inexperienced young lady could have suffered no
doubt as to the nature of his affections. But no sooner had Aggie heard
that he was going than she had begun to doubt, and had kept on
doubting (horribly) up to Saturday morning. All Friday she had been
bothering Susie. Did Susie think there was any one in town whom he
was in a hurry to get back to? Did Susie think such a man as Mr. Gatty
could think twice about a girl like her? Did Susie think he only thought
her a forward little minx? Or did she think he really was beginning to

care? And Susie said: "You goose! How do I know, if you don't? He
hasn't said anything to me."
And on Saturday morning Aggie all but knew. For that day he asked
permission to take her for a drive, having borrowed a trap for the
purpose.
They drove up to a northern slope of the Cotswolds, by a road that took
them past High Farm; and there they found John Hurst superintending
his sheep-shearing. Aggie, regardless of his feelings, insisted on getting
out of the trap and looking on. John talked all the time to the shepherd,
while Arthur talked to Aggie, and Aggie, cruel little Aggie, made
remarks about the hard-heartedness of shearers.
Arthur ("that bald-faced young Cockney snob," as John called him) was
depressed by the dominating presence of his rival and his visible
efficiency. He looked long and thoughtfully at the sheep-shearing.
"Boni pastoris est," he observed, "tondere oves, non deglubere."
Aggie shook her pretty head, as much as to say Latin was beyond her;
and he was kind enough to translate. "It is the part of a good shepherd
to shear, not flay, the sheep."
"Is that from Virgil?" she asked, looking up into his face with a smile
of unstained intellectual innocence.
A terrific struggle arose in young Arthur's breast. If he said it was from
Virgil (it was a thousand to one against her knowing), he might leap
into her love at one high bound. If he said he didn't know where it came
from before it got into his Latin exercise, he would be exactly where he
was before, which, he reflected, dismally, was nowhere. Whereas, that
fellow Hurst was forever on the spot.
On the other hand, where would he be if--if--supposing that she ever
found him out?
A thousand to one against it. He who aims high must take high risks.

He took them.
"Yes," he said, "it's Virgil." And he added, to clinch the matter, "From
the 'Georgics.'"
The light in her believing eyes told him how inspired he had been.
The more he thought of it the more likely it seemed. A flash of
reminiscence from his school-days visited him; he remembered that
Virgil did write some things called "Georgics," and that Georgics were
a kind of pastoral, and that pastorals always had sheep in them, and
shepherds. It was a good risk, anyhow, and he could see that it was
justified by success. When his conscience reproached him for
pretending he knew more Latin than he did, he told it that he would
soon know heaps. If all by himself, in cold blood, and for no particular
reason, he could keep slogging away at a difficult language evening
after evening, what couldn't he do with Aggie's love as an incentive?
Why, he could learn enough Latin to read Virgil in two months, and to
teach Aggie, too. And if any one had asked him what good that would
do either of them, he would have replied, contemptuously, that some
things were ends in themselves.
Still, he longed to prove his quality in some more honorable way. He
called at the Laurels again that evening after supper. And, while Mrs.
Purcell affected to doze, and Susie, as confidante, held Kate and Eliza
well in play, he found another moment. With a solemnity impaired by
extreme nervousness, he asked Miss Purcell if she would accept a copy
of Browning's Poems, which he had ventured to order for