The squire had grown used to the position in which he found himself after
Mary Goddard had told him her story. He continued his visits as formerly,
and it could hardly be said that there was any change in his manner
towards her; there was no need of any change, for even at the time when
he contemplated making her his wife there had been nothing lover-like
in his behaviour. He had been a friend and had treated her with all the
respect due to a lonely lady who was his tenant, and even with a certain
formality which had sometimes seemed unnecessary. But though there was no
apparent alteration in his mode of talking, in his habit of bringing her
flowers and books and of looking after the condition of the cottage, both
she and he were perfectly conscious of the fact that they understood each
other much better than before. They were united by the common bond of a
common secret which very closely concerned one of them. Things were not
as they had formerly been. Mrs. Goddard no longer felt that she had
anything to hide; the squire knew that he no longer had anything to hope.
If he had been a selfish man, if she had been a less sensible woman,
their friendship might have ended then and there. But Mr. Juxon was not
selfish, and Mary Goddard did not lack good sense. Having ascertained
that in the ordinary course of events there was no possibility of ever
marrying her, the squire did not at once give her over and go elsewhere;
on the contrary he showed himself more desirous than ever of assisting
her and amusing her. He was a patient man; his day might come yet, if
Goddard died. It did not follow that if he could not marry Mrs. Goddard
he must needs marry some one else; for it was not a wife that he sought,
but the companionship of this particular woman as his wife. If he could
not marry he could still enjoy at least a portion of that companionship,
by visiting her daily and talking with her, and making himself a part of
her life. He judged things very coldly and lost himself in no lofty
flights of imagination. It was better that he should enjoy what fell in
his way in at least seeing Mrs. Goddard and possessing her friendship,
than that he should go out of his course in order to marry merely for the
sake of marrying. He had seen so much of the active side of life that he
was well prepared to revel in the peace which had fallen to his lot. He
cared little whether he left an heir to the park; there were others of
the name, and since the park had furnished matter for litigation during
forty years before he came into possession of it, it might supply the
lawyers with fees for forty years more after his death, for all he cared.
It would have been very desirable to marry Mrs. Goddard if it had been
possible, but since the thing could not be done at present it was best to
submit with a good grace. Since the day when his suit had suddenly come
to grief in the discovery of her real position, Mr. Juxon had
philosophically said to himself that he had perhaps been premature in
making his proposal, and that it was as well that it could not have been
accepted; perhaps she would not have made him a good wife; perhaps he had
deceived himself in thinking that because he liked her and desired her
friendship he really wished to marry her; perhaps all was for the best in
the best of all possible worlds, after all and in spite of all.
But these reflections, which tended to soothe the squire's annoyance at
the failure of a scheme which he had contemplated with so much delight,
did not prevent him from feeling the most sincere sympathy for Mrs.
Goddard, nor from constantly wishing that he could devise some plan for
helping her. She seemed never to have thought of divorcing herself from
her husband. The squire was not sure whether such a thing were possible;
he doubted it, and promised himself that he would get a lawyer's opinion
upon the matter. He believed that English law did not grant divorces on
account of the husband's being sentenced to any limited period of penal
servitude. But in any case it would be a very delicate subject to
approach, and Mr. Juxon amused himself by constructing conversations in
his mind which should lead up to this point without wounding poor Mrs.
Goddard's sensibilities. He was the kindest of men; he would not for
worlds have said a word which should recall to her that memorable day
when she had told him her story. And yet it would be quite impossible to
broach such a scheme without going at once into all the details of the
chief cause of her sorrows. The consequence was that in the windings of
his imagination the squire found himself perpetually turning in a vicious
circle; but since the exercise concerned Mrs. Goddard and her welfare it
was not uncongenial. He founded all his vague hopes upon one expression
she had used. When in making his proposal he had spoken of her as being a
widow, she had said, "Would to God that I were!" She had said it with
such vehemence that he had felt sure that if she had indeed been a widow
her answer to himself would have been favourable. Men easily retain such
impressions received in moments of great excitement, and found hopes upon
them.
So the days had gone by and the squire had thought much but had come to
no conclusion. On the morning when Walter Goddard crept into the disused
vault at the back of the church, the squire awoke from his sleep at his
usual early hour. He was not in a very good humour, if so equable a man
could be said to be subject to such weaknesses as humours. The weather
was very depressing--day after day brought only more rain, more wind,
more mud, more of everything disagreeable. The previous evening had been
unusually dull. He was never weary of being with Mary Goddard, but
occasionally, when the Ambroses were present, the conversation became
oppressive. Mr. Juxon almost wished that John Short would come back and
cause a diversion. His views concerning John had undergone some change
since he had discovered that nobody could marry Mrs. Goddard because she
was married already. He believed he could watch John's efforts to attract
her attention with indifference now, or if without indifference with a
charitable forbearance. John at least would help to make conversation,
and the conversation on the previous evening had been intolerably
wearisome. Almost unconsciously, since the chief interest and hope of his
daily life had been removed the squire began to long for a change; he
had been a wanderer by profession during thirty years of his life and he
was perhaps not yet old enough to settle into that absolute indifference
to novelty which seems to characterise retired sailors.
But as he brushed his smooth hair and combed his beard that morning,
neither change nor excitement were very far from him. He looked over his
dressing-glass at the leafless oaks of the park, at the grey sky and the
driving rain and he wished something would happen. He wished somebody
might die and leave a great library to be sold, that he might indulge
his favourite passion; he wished he had somebody stopping in the Hall--he
almost decided to send and ask the vicar to come to lunch and have a day
among the books. As he entered the breakfast-room at precisely half-past
eight o'clock, according to his wont, the butler informed him that Mr.
Gall, the village constable, was below and wanted to see him after
breakfast. He received the news in silence and sat down to eat his
breakfast and read the morning paper. Gall had probably come about some
petty summons, or to ask what he should do about the small boys who threw
stones at the rooks and broke the church windows. After finishing his
meal and his paper in the leisurely manner peculiar to country gentlemen
who have nothing to do, the squire rang the bell, sent for the policeman
and went into his study, a small room adjoining the library.
Thomas Gall, constable, was a tall fair man with a mild eye and a
cheerful face. Goodwill towards men and plentiful good living had done
their work in eradicating from the good man all that stern element which
might have been most useful to him in his career, not to say useful to
the State. Each rolling year was pricked in his leathern belt with a new
hole as his heart grew more peaceful and his body throve. He had a goodly
girth and weighed full fifteen stone in his uniform; his mild blue eye
had inspired confidence in a maiden of Billingsfield parish and Mrs. Gall
was now rearing a numerous family of little Galls, all perhaps destined
to become mild-eyed and portly village constables in their turn.
The squire, who was not destitute of a sense of humour, never thought of
Mr. Gall without a smile, so much out of keeping did the man's occupation
seem with his jovial humour. Mr. Gall, he said, was the kind of policeman
who would bribe a refractory tramp to move on by the present of a pint of
beer. But Gall had a good point. He was very proud of his profession, and
in the exercise of it he showed a discretion which, if it was the better
part of his valour, argued unlimited natural courage. It was a secret
profession, he was wont to say, and a man who could not keep a secret
would never do for a constable. He shrouded his ways in an amiable
mystery and walked a solitary beat on fine nights; when the nights were
not fine there was nobody to see whether he walked his beat or not.
Probably, he faithfully fulfilled his obligations; but his constitution
seemed to bear exposure to the weather wonderfully well. Whether he ever
saw anything worth mentioning upon those lonely walks of his, is
uncertain; at all events he never mentioned anything he saw, unless it
was in the secrecy of the reports he was supposed to transmit from time
to time to his superiors.
On the present occasion as he entered the study, the squire observed with
surprise that he looked grave. He had never witnessed such a phenomenon
before and argued that it was just possible that something of real
importance might have occurred.
"Good morning, sir," said Mr. Gall, approaching the squire respectfully,
after carefully closing the door behind him.
"Good morning, Gall. Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Not yet, sir. I hope not, sir. Only a little matter of business, Mr.
Juxon. In point of fact, sir, I wished to consult you."
"Yes," said the squire who was used to the constable's method of
circumlocution. "Yes--what is it?"
"Well, sir--it's this," said the policeman, running his thumb round the
inside of his belt as though to test the pressure, and clearing his
throat. "There has been a general order sent down to be on the lookout,
sir. So I thought it would be best to take your opinion."
"My opinion," said the squire with great gravity, "is that if you are
directed to be on the look-out, you should be on the look-out; by all
means. What are you to be on the look-out for?"
"In point of fact, sir," said the constable, lowering his voice, "we are
informed that a criminal has escaped from Portland. I never heard of a
convict getting out of that strong'old o' the law, sir, and I would like
to have your opinion upon it."
"But if you are informed that some one has escaped," remarked the squire,
"you had better take it for granted that it is true."
"Juss so, sir. But the circumstances wasn't communicated to us, sir; so
we don't know."
Mr. Gall paused, and the squire smoothed his hair a little.
"Well, Gall," said Mr. Juxon, "have you any reason for believing that
this escaped convict is likely to come this way?"
"Well sir, there is some evidence," answered the policeman, mysteriously.
"Leastways what seems like evidence to me, sir."
"Of what kind?" the squire fixed his quiet eyes on Mr. Gall's face.
"His name, sir. The name of the convict. There is a party of that name
residin' here."
The squire suddenly guessed what was coming, or at least a possibility of
it crossed his mind. If Mr. Gall had been a more observant man he would
have seen that Mr. Juxon grew a shade paler and changed one leg over the
other as he sat. But in that moment he had time to nerve himself for the
worst.
"And what is the name, if you please?" he asked calmly.
"The name in the general orders is Goddard, sir--Walter Goddard. He was
convicted of forgery three years ago, sir, a regular bad lot. But
discretion is recommended in the orders, sir, as the business is not
wanted to get into the papers."
The squire was ready. If Gall did not know that Mary Goddard was the wife
of the convict Walter, he should certainly not find it out. In any other
country of Europe that would have been the first fact communicated to the
local police. Very likely, thought Mr. Juxon, nobody knew it.
"I do not see," he said very slowly, "that the fact of there being a Mrs.
Goddard residing here in the least proves that she is any relation to
this criminal. The name is not so uncommon as that, you know."
"Nor I either, sir. In point of fact, sir, I was only thinking. It's what
you may call a striking coincidence, that's all."
"It would have been a still more striking coincidence if his name had
been Juxon like mine, or Ambrose like the vicar's," said the squire
calmly. "There are other people of the name in England, and the local
policemen will be warned to be on the lookout. If this fellow was called
Juxon instead of Goddard, Gall, would you be inclined to think he was a
relation of mine?"
"Oh no, sir. Ha! ha! Very good sir! Very good indeed! No indeed, sir, and
she such a real lady too!"
"Well then, I do not see that you can do anything more than keep a sharp
look-out. I suppose they sent you some kind of description?"
"Well, yes. There was a kind of a description as you say, sir, but I'm
not anyways sure of recognising the party by it. In point of fact, sir,
the description says the convict is a fair man."
"Is that all?"
"Neither particular tall, nor yet particular short, sir. Not a very big
'un nor a very little 'un, sir. In point of fact, sir, a fair man. Clean
shaved and close cropped he is, sir, being a criminal."
"I hope you may recognise him by that account," said the squire,
suppressing a smile. "I don't believe I should."
"Well, sir, it does say as he's a fair man," remarked the constable.
"Supposing he blacked his face and passed for a chimney-sweep?" suggested
the squire. The idea seemed to unsettle Gall's views.
"In that case, sir, I don't know as I should know him, for certain," he
answered.
"Probably not--probably not, Gall. And judging from the account they have
sent you I don't think you would be to blame."
"Leastways it can't be said as I've failed to carry out superior
instructions," replied Mr. Gall, proudly. "Then it's your opinion, sir,
that I'd better keep a sharp look-out? Did I understand you to say so,
sir?"
"Quite so," returned the squire with great calmness. "By all means keep a
sharp look-out, and be careful to be discreet, as the orders instruct
you."
"You may trust me for that, sir," said the policeman, who dearly loved
the idea of mysterious importance. "Then I wish you good morning, sir."
He prepared to go.
"Good morning, Gall--good morning. The butler will give you some ale."
Again Mr. Gall passed his thumb round the inside of his belt, testing the
local pressure in anticipation of a pint. He made a sort of half-military
salute at the door and went out. When the squire was alone he rose from
his chair and paced the room, giving way to the agitation he had
concealed in the presence of the constable. He was very much disturbed at
the news of Goddard's escape, as well he might be. Not that he was aware
that the convict knew of his wife's whereabouts; he did not even suppose
that Goddard could ascertain for some time where she was living, still
less that he would boldly present himself in Billingsfield. But it was
bad enough to know that the man was again at large. So long as he was
safely lodged in prison, Mrs. Goddard was herself safe; but if once he
regained his liberty and baffled the police he would certainly end by
finding out Mary's address and there was no telling to what annoyance,
to what danger, to what sufferings she might be exposed. Here was a new
interest, indeed, and one which promised to afford the squire occupation
until the fellow was caught.
Mr. Juxon knew that he was right in putting the policeman off the track
in regard to Mrs. Goddard. He himself was a better detective than Gall,
for he went daily to the cottage and if anything was wrong there, was
quite sure to discover it. If Goddard ever made his way to Billingsfield
it could only be for the purpose of seeing his wife, and if he succeeded
in this, Mrs. Goddard could not conceal it from the squire. She was a
nervous woman who could not hide her emotions; she would find herself in
a terrible difficulty and she would perhaps turn to her friend for
assistance. If Mr. Juxon could lay his hands on Goddard, he flattered
himself he was much more able to arrest a desperate man than mild-eyed
Policeman Gall. He had not been at sea for thirty years in vain, and in
his time he had handled many a rough customer. He debated however upon
the course he should pursue. As in his opinion it was unlikely that
Goddard would find out his wife for some time, and improbable that he
would waste such precious time in looking for her, it seemed far from
advisable to warn her that the felon had escaped. On the other hand he
mistrusted his own judgment; if she were not prepared it was just
possible that the man should come upon her unawares, and the shock of
seeing him might be very much worse than the shock of being told that he
was at large. He might consult the vicar.
At first, the old feeling that it would be disloyal to Mrs. Goddard even
to hint to Mr. Ambrose that he was acquainted with her story withheld him
from pursuing such a course. But as he turned the matter over in his mind
it seemed to him that since it was directly for her good, he would now be
justified in speaking. He liked the vicar and he trusted him. He knew
that the vicar had been a good friend to Mrs. Goddard and that he would
stand by her in any difficulty so far as he might be able. The real
question was how to make sure that the vicar should not tell his wife. If
Mrs. Ambrose had the least suspicion that anything unusual was occurring,
she would naturally try and extract information from her husband, and she
would probably be successful; women, the squire thought, very generally
succeed in operations of that kind. But if once Mr. Ambrose could be
consulted without arousing his wife's suspicions, he was a man to be
trusted. Thereupon Mr. Juxon wrote a note to the vicar, saying that he
had something of great interest to show him, and begging that, if not
otherwise engaged, he would come up to the Hall to lunch. When he had
despatched his messenger, being a man of his word, he went into the
library to hunt for some rare volume or manuscript which the vicar had
not yet seen, and which might account in a spirit of rigid veracity for
the excuse he had given. Meanwhile, as he turned over his rare and
curious folios he debated further upon his conduct; but having once made
up his mind to consult Mr. Ambrose, he determined to tell him boldly what
had occurred, after receiving from him a promise of secrecy. The
messenger brought back word that the vicar would be delighted to come,
and at the hour named the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced the
arrival of Strawberry, the old mare, drawing behind her the vicar and his
aged henchman, Reynolds, in the traditional vicarage dogcart. A moment
later the vicar entered the library.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose," said the squire inhospitable
tones. "I have something to show you and I have something to say to you."
The two shook hands heartily. Independently of kindred scholarly tastes,
they were sympathetic to each other and were always glad to meet.
"It is just the weather for bookworms," answered the vicar in cheerful
tones. "Dear me, I never come here without envying you and wishing that
life were one long rainy afternoon."
"You know I am inclined to think I am rather an enviable person," said
Mr. Juxon, slowly passing his hand over his glossy hair and leading his
guest towards a large table near the fire. Several volumes lay together
upon the polished mahogany. The squire laid his hand on one of them.
"I have not deceived you," he said. "That is a very interesting volume.
It is the black letter Paracelsus I once spoke of. I have succeeded in
getting it at last."
"Dear me! What a piece of fortune!" said Mr. Ambrose bending down until
his formidable nose almost touched the ancient page.
"Yes," said the squire, "uncommonly lucky as usual. Now, excuse my
abruptness in changing the subject--I want to consult you upon an
important matter."
The vicar looked up quickly with that vague, faraway expression which
comes into the eyes of a student when he is suddenly called away from
contemplating some object of absorbing interest.
"Certainly," he said, "certainly--a--by all means."
"It is about Mrs. Goddard," said the squire, looking hard at his visitor.
"Of course it is between ourselves," he added.
The vicar's long upper lip descended upon its fellow and he bent his
rough grey eyebrows, returning Mr. Juxon's sharp look with interest. He
could not imagine what the squire could have to say about Mrs. Goddard,
unless, like poor John, he had fallen in love with her and wanted to
marry her; which appeared improbable.
"What is it?" he said sharply.
"I daresay you do not know that I am acquainted with her story," began
Mr. Juxon. "Do not be surprised. She saw fit to tell it me herself."
"Indeed?" exclaimed the vicar in considerable astonishment. In that case,
he argued quickly, Mr. Juxon was not thinking of marrying her.
"Yes--it is not necessary to go into that," said Mr. Juxon quickly. "The
thing I want to tell you is this--Goddard the forger has escaped--"
"Escaped?" echoed the vicar in real alarm. "You don't mean to say so!"
"Gall the constable came here this morning," continued Mr. Juxon. "He
told me that there were general orders out for his arrest."
"How in the world did he get out?" cried the vicar. "I thought nobody was
ever known to escape from Portland!"
"So did I. But this fellow has--somehow. Gall did not know. Now, the
question is, what is to be done?"
"I am sure I don't know," returned the vicar, thrusting his hands into
his pockets and marching to the window, the wide skirts of his coat
seeming to wave with agitation as he walked.
Mr. Juxon also put his hands into his pockets, but he stood still upon
the hearth-rug and looked at the ceiling, softly whistling a little tune,
a habit he had in moments of great anxiety. For three or four minutes
neither of the two spoke.
"Would you tell Mrs. Goddard--or not?" asked Mr. Juxon at last.
"I don't know," said the vicar. "I am amazed beyond measure." He turned
and slowly came back to the table.
"I don't know either," replied the squire. "That is precisely the point
upon which I think we ought to decide. I have known about the story for
some time, but I did not anticipate that it would take this turn."
"I think," said Mr. Ambrose after another pause, "I think that if there
is any likelihood of the fellow finding her out, we ought to tell her. If
not I think we had better wait until he is caught. He is sure to be
caught, of course."
"I entirely agree with you," returned Mr. Juxon. "Only--how on earth are
we to find out whether he is likely to come here or not? If any one knows
where he is, he is as good as caught already. If nobody knows, we can
certainly have no means of telling."
The argument was unanswerable. Again there was a long silence. The vicar
walked about the room in great perplexity.
"Dear me! Dear me! What a terrible business!" he repeated, over and over
again.
"Do you think we are called upon to do anything?" he asked at last,
stopping in his walk immediately in front of Mr. Juxon.
"If we can do anything to save Mrs. Goddard from annoyance or further
trouble, we are undoubtedly called upon to do it," replied the squire.
"If that wretch finds her out, he will try to break into the cottage at
night and force her to give him money."
"Do you really think so? Dear me! I hope he will do no such thing!"
"So do I, I am sure," said Mr. Juxon, with a grim smile. "But if he finds
her out, he will. I almost think it would be better to tell her in any
case."
"But think of the anxiety she will be in until he is caught!" cried the
vicar. "She will be expecting him every day--every night. Well--I suppose
we might tell Gall to watch the house."
"That will not do," said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be a great injustice
to allow Gall or any of the people in the village to know anything about
her. She might be subjected to all kinds of insult. You know what these
people are. A 'real lady,' who is at the same time the wife of a convict,
is a thing they can hardly understand. I am sure both you and I secretly
flatter ourselves that we have shown an unusual amount of good sense and
generosity in understanding her position as we do."
"I daresay we do," said the vicar with a smile. He was too honest to deny
it. "Indeed it took me some time to get used to the idea myself."
"Precisely. The village people would never get used to it. Of all things
to do, we should certainly not tell Gall, who is an old woman and a great
chatterbox. I wish you could have heard his statement this morning--it
filled me with admiration for the local police, I assure you. But--I
think it would be better to tell her. I did not think so before you came,
I believe. But talking always brings the truth out."
The vicar hesitated, rising and falling upon his toes and heels in
profound thought, after his manner.
"I daresay you are right," he said at last. "Will you do it? Or shall I?"
"I would rather not," said the squire, thoughtfully. "You know her
better, you have known her much longer than I."
"But she will ask me where I heard of it," objected the vicar. "I shall
be obliged to say that you told me. That will be as bad as though you
told her yourself."
"You need not say you heard it from me. You can say that Gall has
received instructions to look out for Goddard. She will not question you
any further, I am sure."
"I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Juxon," said the vicar.
"I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Ambrose," said the squire,
almost in the same breath. Both laughed a little.
"Not that I would not do it at once, if necessary," added Mr. Juxon.
"Or I, in a moment," said Mr. Ambrose.
"Of course," returned Mr. Juxon. "Only it is such a very delicate matter,
you see."
"Dear me, yes," murmured the vicar, "a most delicate matter. Poor lady!"
"Poor lady!" echoed the squire. "But I suppose it must be done."
"Oh yes--we cannot do otherwise," answered Mr. Ambrose, still hoping that
his companion would volunteer to perform the disagreeable office.
"Well then, will you--will you do it?" asked Mr. Juxon, anxious to have
the matter decided.
"Why not go together?" suggested the vicar.
"No," said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be an intolerable ordeal for the
poor woman. I think I see your objection. Perhaps you think that Mrs.
Ambrose--"
"Exactly, Mrs. Ambrose," echoed the vicar with a grim smile.
"Oh precisely--then I will do it," said the squire. And he forthwith did,
and was very much surprised at the result.