Mr. Juxon was relieved to hear that John Short had suddenly gone back to
Cambridge. He had indeed meant to like him from the first and had
behaved towards him with kindness and hospitality; but while ready to
admire his good qualities and to take a proper amount of interest in his
approaching contest for honours, he had found him a troublesome person to
deal with and, in his own words, a nuisance. Matters had come to a climax
after the tea at the cottage, when the squire had so completely
vanquished him, but since that evening the two had not met.
The opposition which John brought to bear against Mr. Juxon was not,
however, without its effect. The squire was in that state of mind in
which a little additional pressure sufficed to sway his resolutions.
It has been seen that he had for some time regarded Mrs. Goddard's
society as an indispensable element in his daily life; he had been so
much astonished at discovering this that he had absented himself for
several days and had finally returned ready to submit to his fate, in so
far as his fate required that he should see Mrs. Goddard every day.
Shortly afterwards John had appeared and by his persistent attempts to
monopolise Mrs. Goddard's conversation had again caused an interruption
in the squire's habits, which the latter had resented with characteristic
firmness. The very fact of having resisted John had strengthened and
given a new tone to Mr. Juxon's feelings towards his tenant. He began to
watch the hands of the clock with more impatience than formerly when,
after breakfast, he sat reading the papers before the library fire,
waiting for the hour when he was accustomed to go down to the cottage.
His interest in the papers decreased as his interest in the time of day
grew stronger, and for the first time in his life he found to his great
surprise that after reading the news of the day with the greatest care,
he was often quite unable to remember a word of what he had read. Then,
at first, he would be angry with himself and would impose upon himself
the task of reading the paper again before going to the cottage. But very
soon he found that he had to read it twice almost every day, and this
seemed such an unreasonable waste of time that he gave it up, and fell
into very unsystematic habits.
For some days, as though by mutual consent, neither Mrs. Goddard nor the
squire spoke of John Short. The squire was glad he was gone and hoped
that he would not come back, but was too kind-hearted to say so; Mrs.
Goddard instinctively understood Mr. Juxon's state of mind and did not
disturb his equanimity by broaching an unpleasant subject. Several days
passed by after John had gone and he would certainly not have been
flattered had he known that during that time two, out of the four persons
he had met so often in his short holiday, had never so much as mentioned
him.
One afternoon in January the squire found himself alone with Mrs.
Goddard. It was a great exception, and she herself doubted whether she
were wise to receive him when she had not Nellie with her. Nellie had
gone to the vicarage to help Mrs. Ambrose with some work she had in hand
for her poor people, but Mrs. Goddard had a slight headache and had
stayed at home in consequence. The weather was very bad; heavy clouds
were driving overhead and the north-east wind howled and screamed through
the leafless oaks of the park, driving a fine sleet against the cottage
windows and making the dead creepers rattle against the wall. It was a
bitter January day, and Mrs. Goddard felt how pleasant a thing it was to
stay at home with a book beside her blazing fire. She was all alone, and
Nellie would not be back before four o'clock. Suddenly a well-known step
echoed upon the slate flags without and there was a ring at the bell.
Mrs. Goddard had hardly time to think what she should do, as she laid her
book upon her knee and looked nervously over her shoulder towards the
door. It was awkward, she thought, but it could not be helped. In such
weather it seemed absurd to send the squire away because her little girl
was not with her. He had come all the way down from the Hall to spend
this dreary afternoon at the cottage--she could not send him away. There
were sounds in the passage as of some one depositing a waterproof coat
and an umbrella, the door opened and Mr. Juxon appeared upon the
threshold.
"Come in," said Mrs. Goddard, banishing her scruples as soon as she saw
him. "I am all alone," she added rather apologetically. The squire, who
was a simple man in many ways, understood the remark and felt slightly
embarrassed.
"Is Miss Nellie out?" he asked, coming forward and taking Mrs. Goddard's
hand. He had not yet reached the point of calling the child plain
"Nellie;" he would have thought it an undue familiarity.
"She is gone to the vicarage," answered Mrs. Goddard. "What a dreadful
day! You must be nearly frozen. Will you have a cup of tea?"
"No thanks--no, you are very kind. I have had a good walk; I am not
cold--never am. As you say, in such weather I could not resist the
temptation to come in. This is a capital day to test that India-rubber
tubing we have put round your windows. Excuse me--I will just look and
see if the air comes through."
Mr. Juxon carefully examined the windows of the sitting-room and then
returned to his seat.
"It is quite air-tight, I think," he said with some satisfaction, as he
smoothed his hair with his hand.
"Oh, quite," said Mrs. Goddard. "It was so very good of you."
"Not a bit of it," returned the squire cheerily. "A landlord's chief
pre-occupation ought to be the comfort of his tenants and his next
thought should be to keep his houses in repair. I never owned any
houses before, so I have determined to start with good principles."
"I am sure you succeed. You walked down?"
"Always walk, in any weather. It is much less trouble and much cheaper.
Besides, I like it."
"The best of all reasons. Then you will not have any tea? I almost wish
you would, because I want some myself."
"Oh of course--in that case I shall be delighted. Shall I ring?"
He rang and Martha brought the tea. Some time was consumed in the
preparations which Mr. Juxon watched with interest as though he had never
seen tea made before. Everything that Mrs. Goddard did interested him.
"I do not know why it is," she said at last, "but weather like this is
delightful when one is safe at home. I suppose it is the contrast--"
"Yes indeed. It is like the watch below in dirty-weather."
"Excuse me--I don't quite understand--"
"At sea," explained the squire. "There is no luxury like being below when
the decks are wet and there is heavy weather about."
"I should think so," said Mrs. Goddard. "Have you been at sea much, Mr.
Juxon?"
"Thirty years," returned the squire laconically. Mrs. Goddard looked at
him in astonishment.
"You don't mean to say you have been a sailor all your life?"
"Does that surprise you? I have been a sailor since I was twelve years
old. But I got very tired of it. It is a hard life."
"Were you in the navy, Mr. Juxon?" asked Mrs. Goddard eagerly, feeling
that she was at last upon the track of some information in regard to his
past life.
"Yes--I was in the navy," answered the squire, slowly. "And then I was at
college, and then in the navy again. At last I entered the merchant
service and commanded my own ships for nearly twenty years."
"How very extraordinary! Why then, you must have been everywhere."
"Very nearly. But I would much rather be in Billingsfield."
"You never told me," said Mrs. Goddard almost reproachfully. "What a
change it must have been for you, from the sea to the life of a country
gentleman!"
"It is what I always wanted."
"But you do not seem at all like the sea captains one hears about--"
"Well, perhaps not," replied the squire thoughtfully. "There are a great
many different classes of sea captains. I always had a taste for books. A
man can read a great deal on a long voyage. I have sometimes been at sea
for more than two years at a time. Besides, I had a fairly good education
and--well, I suppose it was because I was a gentleman to begin with and
was more than ten years in the Royal Navy. All that makes a great
difference. Have you ever made a long voyage, Mrs. Goddard?"
"I have crossed the channel," said she. "But I wish you would tell me
something more about your life."
"Oh no--it is very dull, all that. You always make me talk about myself,"
said the squire in a tone of protestation.
"It is very interesting."
"But--could we not vary the conversation by talking about you a little?"
suggested Mr. Juxon.
"Oh no! Please--" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard rather nervously. She grew pale
and busied herself again with the tea. "Do tell me more about your
voyages. I suppose that was the way you collected so many beautiful
things, was it not?"
"Yes, I suppose so," answered the squire, looking at her curiously. "In
fact of course it was. I was a great deal in China and South America and
India, and in all sorts of places where one picks up things."
"And in Turkey, too, where you got Stamboul?"
"Yes. He was so wet that I left him outside to day. Did not want to spoil
your carpet."
The squire had a way of turning the subject when he seemed upon the point
of talking about himself which was very annoying to Mrs. Goddard. But she
had not entirely recovered her equanimity and for the moment had lost
control of the squire. Besides she had a headache that day.
"Stamboul does not get the benefit of the contrast we were talking about
at first," she remarked, in order to say something.
"I could not possibly bring him in," returned the squire looking at her
again. "Excuse me, Mrs. Goddard--I don't mean to be inquisitive you know,
but--I always want to be of any use."
She looked at him inquiringly.
"I mean, to be frank, I am afraid that something is giving you trouble. I
have noticed it for some time. You know, if I can be of any use, if I can
help you in any way--you have only to say the word."
Again she looked at him. She did not know why it was so, but the
genuinely friendly tone in which he made the offer touched her. She was
surprised, however; she could not understand why he should think she was
in trouble, and indeed she was in no greater distress than she had
suffered during the greater part of the last three years.
"You are very kind, Mr. Juxon. But there is nothing the matter--I have a
headache."
"Oh," said the squire, "I beg your pardon." He looked away and seemed
embarrassed.
"You have done too much already," said Mrs. Goddard, fearing that she had
not sufficiently acknowledged his offer of assistance.
"I cannot do too much. That is impossible," he said in a tone of
conviction. "I have very few friends, Mrs. Goddard, and I like to think
that you are one of the best of them."
"I am sure--I don't know what to say, Mr. Juxon," she answered, somewhat
startled by the directness of his speech. "I am sure you have always been
most kind, and I hope you do not think me ungrateful."
"I? You? No--dear me, please never mention it! The fact is, Mrs.
Goddard--" he stopped and smoothed Ms hair. "What particularly
disagreeable weather," he remarked irrelevantly, looking out of the
window at the driving sleet.
Mrs. Goddard looked down and slowly stirred her tea. She was pale and her
hand trembled a little, but no one could have guessed that she was
suffering any strong emotion. Mr. Juxon looked towards the window, and
the grey light of the winter's afternoon fell coldly upon his square
sunburned face and carefully trimmed beard. He was silent for a moment,
and then, still looking away from his companion, he continued in a less
hesitating tone.
"The fact is, I have been thinking a great deal of late," he said, "and
it has struck me that your friendship has grown to be the most important
thing in my life." He paused again and turned his hat round upon his
knee. Still Mrs. Goddard said nothing, and as he did not look at her he
did not perceive that she was unnaturally agitated.
"I have told you what my life has been," he continued presently. "I have
been a sailor. I made a little money. I finally inherited my uncle's
estate here. I will tell you anything else you would like to ask--I don't
think I ever did anything to conceal. I am forty-two years old. I have
about five thousand a year and I am naturally economical. I would like to
make you a proposal--a very respectful proposal, Mrs. Goddard--"
Mrs. Goddard uttered a faint exclamation of surprise and fell back in her
chair, staring with wide eyes at the squire, her cheeks very pale and her
lips white. He was too much absorbed in what he was saying to notice the
short smothered ejaculation, and he was too much embarrassed to look at
her.
"Mrs. Goddard," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "will you marry
me?"
He was not prepared for the result of his speech. He had pondered it for
some time and had come to the conclusion that it was best to say as
little as possible and to say it plainly. It was an honourable proposal
of marriage from a man in middle life to a lady he had known and
respected for many months; there was very little romance about it; he did
not intend that there should be any. As soon as he had spoken he turned
his head and looked to her for his answer. Mrs. Goddard had clasped her
small white hands over her face and had turned her head away from him
against the cushion of the high backed chair. The squire felt very
uncomfortable in the dead silence, broken only by the sleet driving
against the window panes with a hissing, rattling sound, and by the
singing of the tea-kettle. For some seconds, which to Juxon seemed like
an eternity, Mrs. Goddard did not move. At last she suddenly dropped
her hands and looked into the squire's eyes. He was startled by the ashen
hue of her face.
"It is impossible," she said, shortly, in broken tones. But the squire
was prepared for some difficulties.
"I do not see the impossibility," he said quite calmly. "Of course,
I would not press you for an answer, my dear Mrs. Goddard. I am afraid
I have been very abrupt, but I will go away, I will leave you to
consider--"
"Oh no, no!" cried the poor lady in great distress. "It is quite
impossible--I assure you it is quite, quite impossible!"
"I don't know," said Mr. Juxon, who saw that she was deeply moved, but
was loath to abandon the field without a further struggle. "I am not a
very young man, it is true--but I am not a very old one either. You, my
dear Mrs. Goddard, have been a widow for some years--"
"I?" cried Mrs. Goddard with a wild hysterical laugh. "I! Oh God of
mercy! I wish I were." Again she buried her face in the cushion. Her
bosom heaved violently.
The squire started as though he had been struck, and the blood rushed to
his brown face so that the great veins on his temples stood out like
cords.
"Did I--did I understand you to say that--your husband is living?" he
asked in a strong, loud voice, ringing with emotion.
Mrs. Goddard moved a little and seemed to make a great effort to speak.
"Yes," she said very faintly. The squire rose to his feet and paced the
room in terrible agitation.
"But where?" he asked, stopping suddenly in his walk. "Mrs. Goddard, I
think I have a right to ask where he is--why you have never spoken of
him?"
By a supreme effort the unfortunate lady raised herself from her seat
supporting herself upon one hand, and faced the squire with wildly
staring eyes.
"You have a right to know," she said. "He is in Portland--sentenced to
twelve years hard labour for forgery."
She said it all, to the end, and then fell back into her chair. But she
did not hide her face this time. The fair pathetic features were quite
motionless and white, without any expression, and her hands lay with the
palms turned upwards on her knees.
Charles James Juxon was a man of few words, not given to using strong
language on any occasion. But he was completely overcome by the horror of
the thing. He turned icy cold as he stood still, rooted to the spot, and
he uttered aloud one strong and solemn ejaculation, more an invocation
than an oath, as though he called on heaven to witness the misery he
looked upon. He gazed at the colourless, inanimate face of the poor lady
and walked slowly to the window. There he stood for fully five minutes,
motionless, staring out at the driving sleet.
Mrs. Goddard had fainted away, but it did not occur to the squire to
attempt to recall her to her senses. It seemed merciful that she should
have lost consciousness even for a moment. Indeed she needed no help, for
in a few minutes she slowly opened her eyes and closed them, then opened
them again and saw Mr. Juxon's figure darkening the window against the
grey light.
"Mr. Juxon," she said faintly, "come here, please."
The squire started and turned. Then he came and sat down beside her. His
face was very stern and grave, and he said nothing.
"Mr. Juxon," said Mrs. Goddard, speaking in a low voice, but with far
more calm than he could have expected, "you have a right to know my
story. You have been very kind to me, you have made an honourable offer
to me, you have said you were my friend. I ought to have told you before.
If I had had any idea of what was passing in your mind, I would have told
you, cost what it might."
Mr. Juxon gravely bowed his head. She was quite right, he thought. He had
a right to know all. With all his kind-heartedness he was a stern man by
nature.
"Yes," continued Mrs. Goddard, "you have every right to know. My
husband," her voice trembled, "was the head of an important firm in
London. I was the only child of his partner. Not long after my father's
death I married Mr. Goddard. He was an extravagant man of brilliant
tastes. I had a small fortune of my own which my father had settled upon
me, independent of his share in the firm. My guardians, of whom my
husband was one, advised me to leave my father's fortune in the concern.
When I came of age, a year after my marriage, I agreed to do it. My
husband--I never knew it till long afterwards--was very rash. He
speculated on the Exchange and tampered with the deposits placed in his
hands. We lived in great luxury. I knew nothing of his affairs. Three
years ago, after we had been married nearly ten years, the firm failed.
It was a fraudulent bankruptcy. My husband fled but was captured and
brought back. It appeared that at the last moment, in the hope of
retrieving his position and saving the firm, he had forged the name of
one of his own clients for a large amount. We had a country place at
Putney which he had given to me. I sold it, with all my jewels and most
of my possessions. I would have given up everything I possessed, but I
thought of Nellie--poor little Nellie. The lawyers assured me that I
ought to keep my own little fortune. I kept about five hundred a year. It
is more than I need, but it seemed very little then. The lawyer who
conducted the defence, such as it was, advised me to go abroad, but I
would not. Then he spoke of Mr. Ambrose, who had educated his son, and
gave me a note to him. I came here and I told Mr. Ambrose my whole story.
I only wanted to be alone--I thought I did right--"
Her courage had sustained her so far, but it had been a great effort. Her
voice trembled and broke and at last the tears began to glisten in her
eyes.
"Does Nellie know?" asked the squire, who had sat very gravely by her
side, but who was in reality deeply moved.
"No--she thinks he--that he is dead," faltered Mrs. Goddard. Then she
fairly burst into tears and sobbed passionately, covering her face and
rocking herself from side to side.
"My dear friend," said Mr. Juxon very kindly and laying one hand upon her
arm, "pray try and calm yourself. Forgive me--I beg you to forgive me for
having caused you so much pain--"
"Do you still call me a friend?" sobbed the poor lady.
"Indeed I do," quoth the squire stoutly. And he meant it. Mrs. Goddard
dropped her hands and stared into the fire through her falling tears.
"I think you behaved very honourably--very generously," continued Mr.
Juxon, who did not know precisely how to console her, and indeed stood
much in need of consolation himself. "Perhaps I had better leave you--you
are very much agitated--you must need rest--would you not rather that I
should go?"
"Yes--it is better," said she, still staring at the fire. "You know all
about me now," she added in a tone of pathetic regret. The squire rose to
his feet.
"I hope," he said with some hesitation, "that this--this very unfortunate
day will not prevent our being friends--better friends than before?"
Mrs. Goddard looked up gratefully through her tears.
"How good you are!" she said softly.
"Not at all--I am not at all good--I only want to be your friend.
Good-bye--G--God bless you!" He seized her hand and squeezed it and then
hurried out of the room. A moment later he was crossing the road with
Stamboul, who was very tired of waiting, bounding before him.
The squire was not a romantic character. He was a strong plain man, who
had seen the world and was used to most forms of danger and to a good
many forms of suffering. He was kind-hearted and generous, capable of
feeling sincere sympathy for others, and under certain circumstances of
being deeply wounded himself. He had indeed a far more refined nature
than he himself suspected and on this memorable day he had experienced
more emotions than he remembered to have felt in the course of many
years.
After long debate and after much searching inquiry into his own motives
he had determined to offer himself to Mrs. Goddard, and he had
accordingly done so in his own straightforward manner. It had seemed
a very important action in his life, a very solemn step, but he was not
prepared for the acute sense of disappointment which he felt when Mrs.
Goddard first said it was impossible for her to accept him, still less
had he anticipated the extraordinary story which she had told him, in
explanation of her refusal. His ideas were completely upset. That Mrs.
Goddard was not a widow after all, was almost as astounding as that she
should prove to be the wife of a felon. But Mr. Juxon was no less
persuaded that she herself was a perfectly good and noble woman, than he
had been before. He felt that he would like to cut the throat of the
villain himself; but he resolved that he would more than ever try to be a
good friend to Mrs. Goddard.
He walked slowly through the storm towards his house, his broad figure
facing the wind and sleet with as much ease as a steamer forging against
a head sea. He was perfectly indifferent to the weather; but Stamboul
slunk along at his heels, shielding himself from the driving wet snow
behind his master's sturdy legs. The squire was very much disturbed. The
sight of his own solemn butler affected him strangely. He stared about
the library in a vacant way, as though he had never seen the place
before. The realisation of his own calm and luxurious life seemed
unnatural, and his thoughts went back to the poor weeping woman he had
just left. She, too, had enjoyed all this, and more also. She had
probably been richer than he. And now she was living on five hundred a
year in one of his own cottages, hiding her shame in desolate
Billingsfield, the shame of her husband, the forger.
It was such a hopeless position, the squire thought. No one could help
her, no one could do anything for her. For many weeks, revolving the
situation in his mind, he had amused himself by thinking how she would
look when she should be mistress of the Hall, and wondering whether
little Nellie would call him "father," or merely "Mr. Juxon." And now,
she turned out to be the wife of a forger, sentenced to hard labour in a
convict prison, for twelve years. For twelve years--nearly three must
have elapsed already. In nine years more Goddard would be out again.
Would he claim his wife? Of course--he would come back to her for
support. And poor little Nellie thought he was dead! It would be a
terrible day when she had to be told. If he only would die in
prison!--but men sentenced to hard labour rarely die. They are well cared
for. It is a healthy life. He would certainly live through it and come
back to claim his wife. Poor Mrs. Goddard! her troubles were not ended
yet, though the State had provided her with a respite of twelve years.
The squire sat long in his easy-chair in the great library, and forgot to
dress for dinner--he always dressed, even though he was quite alone. But
the solemn face of his butler betrayed neither emotion nor surprise when
the master of the Hall walked into the dining-room in his knickerbockers.