It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Juxon walked down towards the
cottage, accompanied by the vicar. In spite of their mutual anxiety to be
of service to Mrs. Goddard, when they had once decided how to act they
had easily fallen into conversation about other matters, the black letter
Paracelsus had received its full share of attention and many another rare
volume had been brought out and examined. Neither the vicar nor his host
believed that there was any hurry; if Goddard ever succeeded in getting
to Billingsfield it would not be to-day, nor to-morrow either.
The weather had suddenly changed; the east was already clear and over the
west, where the sun was setting in a fiery mist, the huge clouds were
banked up against the bright sky, fringed with red and purple, but no
longer threatening rain or snow. The air was sharp and the plentiful mud
in the roads was already crusted with a brittle casing of ice.
The squire took leave of Mr. Ambrose at the turning where the road led
into the village and then walked back to the cottage. Even his solid
nerves were a little unsettled at the prospect of the interview
before him; but he kept a stout heart and asked for Mrs. Goddard in his
usual quiet voice. Martha told him that Mrs. Goddard had a bad headache,
but on inquiry found that she would see the squire. He entered the
drawing-room softly and went forward to greet her; she was sitting in a
deep chair propped by cushions.
Mary Goddard had spent a miserable day. The grey morning light seemed to
reveal her troubles and fears in a new and more terrible aspect. During
the long hours of darkness it seemed as though those things were
mercifully hidden which the strong glare of day must inevitably reveal,
and when the night was fairly past she thought all the world must surely
know that Walter Goddard had escaped and that his wife had seen him.
Hourly she expected a ringing at the bell, announcing the visit of a
party of detectives on his track; every sound startled her and her nerves
were strung to such a pitch that she heard with supernatural acuteness.
She had indeed two separate causes for fear. The one was due to her
anxiety for Goddard's safety; the other to her apprehensions for Nellie.
She had long determined that at all hazards the child must be kept from
the knowledge of her father's disgrace, by being made to believe in his
death. It was a falsehood indeed, but such a falsehood as may surely be
forgiven to a woman as unhappy as Mary Goddard. It seemed monstrous that
the innocent child, who seemed not even to have inherited her father's
looks or temper, should be brought up with the perpetual sense of her
disgrace before her, should be forced to listen to explanations of her
father's crimes and tutored to the comprehension of an inherited shame.
From the first Mary Goddard had concealed the whole matter from the
little girl, and when Walter was at last convicted, she had told her that
her father was dead. Dead he might be, she thought, before twelve years
were out, and Nellie would be none the wiser. In twelve years from the
time of his conviction Nellie would be in her twenty-first year; if it
were ever necessary to tell her, it would be time enough then, for the
girl would have at least enjoyed her youth, free of care and of the
horrible consciousness of a great crime hanging over her head. No child
could grow up in such a state as that implied. No mind could develop
healthily under the perpetual pressure of so hideous a secret; from her
earliest childhood her impressions would be warped, her imagination
darkened and her mental growth stunted. It would be a great cruelty to
tell her the truth; it was a great mercy to tell her the falsehood. It
was no selfish timidity which had prompted Mary Goddard, but a carefully
weighed consideration for the welfare of her child.
If now, within these twenty-four hours, Nellie should discover who the
poor tramp was, who had frightened her so much on the previous evening,
all this would be at an end. The child's life would be made desolate for
ever. She would never recover from the shock, and to injure lovely Nellie
so bitterly would be worse to Mary Goddard than to be obliged to bear the
sharpest suffering herself. For, from the day when she had waked to a
comprehension of her husband's baseness, the love for her child had taken
in her breast the place of the love for Walter.
She did not think connectedly; she did not realise her fears; she was
almost wholly unstrung. But she had procured the fifty pounds her husband
required and she waited for the night with a dull hope that all might yet
be well--as well as anything so horrible could be. If only her husband
were not caught in Billingsfield it would not be so bad, perhaps. And yet
it may be that her wisest course would have been to betray him that very
night. Many just men would have said so; but there are few women who
would do it. There are few indeed, so stonyhearted as to betray a man
once loved in such a case; and Mary Goddard in her wildest fear never
dreamed of giving up the fugitive. She sat all day in her chair, wishing
that the day were over, praying that she might be spared any further
suffering or that at least it might be spared to her child whom she so
loved. She had sent Nellie down to the vicarage with Martha. Mrs. Ambrose
loved Nellie better than she loved Nellie's mother, and there was a
standing invitation for her to spend the afternoons at the vicarage.
Nellie said her mother had a terrible headache and wanted to be alone.
But when the squire came Mrs. Goddard thought it wiser to see him. She
had, of course, no intention of confiding to him an account of the events
of the previous night, but she felt that if she could talk to him for
half an hour she would be stronger. He was himself so strong and honest
that he inspired her with courage. She knew, also, that if she were
driven to the extremity of confiding in any one she would choose Mr.
Juxon rather than Mr. Ambrose. The vicar had been her first friend and
she owed him much; but the squire had won her confidence by his noble
generosity after she had told him her story. She said to herself that he
was more of a man than the vicar. And now he had come to her at the time
of her greatest distress, and she was glad to see him.
Mr. Juxon entered the room softly, feeling that he was in the presence of
a sick person. Mrs. Goddard turned her pathetic face towards him and held
out her hand.
"I am so glad to see you," she said, trying to seem cheerful.
"I fear you are ill, Mrs. Goddard," answered the squire, looking at her
anxiously and then seating himself by her side. "Martha told me you had a
headache--I hope it is not serious."
"Oh no--not serious. Only a headache," she said with a smile so unlike
her own that Mr. Juxon began to feel nervous. His resolution to tell her
his errand began to waver; it seemed cruel, he thought, to disturb a
person who was evidently so ill with a matter so serious. He remembered
that she had almost fainted on a previous occasion when she had spoken to
him of her husband. She had not been ill then; there was no knowing what
the effect of a shock to her nerves might be at present. He sat still in
silence for some moments, twisting his hat upon his knee.
"Do not be disturbed about me," said Mrs. Goddard presently. "It will
pass very quickly. I shall be quite well to-morrow--I hope," she added
with a shudder.
"I am very much disturbed about you," returned Mr. Juxon in an unusually
grave tone. Mrs. Goddard looked at him quickly, and was surprised when
she saw the expression on his face. He looked sad, and at the same time
perplexed.
"Oh, pray don't be!" she exclaimed as though deprecating further remark
upon her ill health.
"I wish I knew," said the squire with some hesitation, "whether--whether
you are really very ill. I mean, of course, I know you have a bad
headache, a very bad headache, as I can see. But--indeed, Mrs. Goddard, I
have something of importance to say."
"Something of importance?" she repeated, staring hard at him.
"Yes--but it will keep till to-morrow, if you would rather not hear it
now," he replied, looking at her doubtfully.
"I would rather hear it now," she answered after some seconds of silence.
Her heart beat fast.
"You were good enough some time ago to tell me about--Mr. Goddard," began
Mr. Juxon in woeful trepidation.
"Yes," answered his companion under her breath. Her hands were clasped
tightly together upon her knees and her eyes sought the squire's
anxiously and then looked away again in fear.
"Well, it is about him," continued Mr. Juxon in a gentle voice. "Would
you rather put it off? It is--well, rather startling."
Mrs. Goddard closed her eyes, like a person expecting to suffer some
terrible pain. She thought Mr. Juxon was going to tell her that Walter
had been captured in the village.
"Mr. Goddard has escaped," said the squire, making a bold plunge with the
whole truth. The sick lady trembled violently, and unclasping her hands
laid them upon the arms of her chair as though to steady herself to bear
the worse shock to come. But Mr. Juxon was silent. He had told her all he
knew.
"Yes," she said faintly. "Is there anything--anything more?" Her voice
was barely audible in the still and dusky room.
"No--except that, of course, there are orders out for his arrest, all
over the country."
"He has not been arrested yet?" asked Mrs. Goddard. She had expected to
hear that he was caught; she thought the squire was trying to break the
shock of the news. Her courage rose a little now.
"No, he is not arrested--but I have no doubt he soon will be," added Mr.
Juxon in a tone intended to convey encouragement.
"How did you hear this?"
"Gall the policeman, told me this morning. I--I am afraid I have
something else to confess to you, Mrs. Goddard, I trust you will not--"
"What?" she asked so suddenly as to startle him. Walter might have been
heard of in the neighbourhood, perhaps.
"I think I was right," continued Mr. Juxon. "I hope you will forgive me.
It does not seem quite loyal, but I did not know what to do. I consulted
the vicar as to whether we should tell you."
"The vicar? What did he say?" Again Mrs. Goddard felt relieved.
"He quite agreed with me," answered the squire. "You see we feared that
Mr. Goddard might find his way here and come upon you suddenly. We
thought you would be terribly pained and startled."
Mrs. Goddard could almost have laughed at that moment. The excellent man
had taken all this trouble in order to save her from the very thing which
had already occurred on the previous night. There was a bitter humour in
the situation, in the squire's kind-hearted way of breaking to her that
news which she already knew so well, in his willingness to put off
telling her until the morrow. What would Mr. Juxon say, could he guess
that she had herself already spoken with her husband and had promised to
see him again that very night! Forgetting that his last words required an
answer, she leaned back in her chair and again folded her hands before
her. Her eyes were half closed and from beneath the drooping lids she
gazed through the gathering gloom at the squire's anxious face.
"I hope you think I did right," said the latter in considerable doubt.
"Quite right. I think you were both very kind to think of me as you did,"
said she.
"I am sure, I always think of you," answered Mr. Juxon simply. "I hope
that this thing will have no further consequences. Of course, until we
know of Mr. Goddard's whereabouts we shall feel very anxious. It seems
probable that if he can get here unobserved he will do so. He will
probably ask you for some money."
"Do you really think he could get here at all?" asked Mrs. Goddard. She
wanted to hear what he would say, for she thought she might judge from
his words whether her husband ran any great risk.
"Oh no," replied the squire. "I think it is very improbable. I fear this
news has sadly disturbed you, Mrs. Goddard, but let us hope all may turn
out for the best." Indeed he thought she showed very little surprise,
though she had evidently been much moved. Perhaps she had been accustomed
to expect that her husband might one day escape. She was ill, too, and
her nerves were unstrung, he supposed.
She had really passed through a very violent emotion, but it had not been
caused by her surprise, but by her momentary fear for the fugitive,
instantly allayed by Mr. Juxon's explanation. She felt that for to-day at
least Walter was safe, and by to-morrow he would be safe out of the
neighbourhood. But she reflected that it was necessary to say something;
that if she appeared to receive the news too indifferently the squire's
suspicions might be aroused with fatal results.
"It is a terrible thing," she said presently. "You see I am not at all
myself."
It was not easy for her to act a part. The words were commonplace.
"No," said Mr. Juxon, "I see you are not." He on his part, instead of
looking for a stronger expression of fear or astonishment, was now only
too glad that she should be so calm.
"Would you advise me to do anything?" she asked presently.
"There is nothing to be done," he answered quickly, glad of a chance to
relieve the embarrassment of the situation. "Of course we might put you
under the protection of the police but--what is the matter, Mrs.
Goddard?" She had started as though in pain.
"Only this dreadful headache," she said. "Go on please."
"Well, we might set Gall the policeman to watch your house; but that
would be very unpleasant for you. It would be like telling him and all
the village people of your situation--"
"Oh don't! Please don't!"
"No, certainly not. I think it very unwise. Besides--" he stopped short.
He was about to say that he felt much better able to watch over Mrs.
Goddard himself than Gall the constable could possibly be; but he checked
himself in time.
"Besides--what?" she asked.
"Nothing--Gall is not much of a policeman, that is all. I do not believe
you would be any the safer for his protection. But you must promise me,
my dear Mrs. Goddard, that if anything occurs you will let me know. I may
be of some assistance."
"Thank you, so much," said she. "You are always so kind!"
"Not at all. I am very glad if you think I was right to tell you about
it."
"Oh, quite right," she answered. "And now, Mr. Juxon, I am really not at
all well. All this has quite unnerved me--"
"You want me to go?" said the squire smiling kindly as he rose. "Yes, I
understand. Well, good-bye, my dear friend--I hope everything will
clear up."
"Good-bye. Thank you again. You always do understand me," she answered
giving him her small cold hand. "Don't think me ungrateful," she added,
looking up into his eyes.
"No indeed--not that there is anything to be grateful for."
In a moment more he was gone, feeling that he had done his duty like a
man, and that it had not been so hard after all. He was glad it was done,
however, and he felt that he could face the vicar with a bold front at
their next meeting. He went quickly down the path and crossed the road to
his own gate with a light step. As he entered the park he was not aware
of a wretched-looking tramp who slouched along the quickset hedge and
watched his retreating figure far up the avenue, till he was out of sight
among the leafless trees. If Stamboul had been with the squire the tramp
would certainly not have passed unnoticed; but for some days the roads
had been so muddy that Stamboul had been left behind when Mr. Juxon made
his visits to the cottage, lest the great hound should track the mud into
the spotless precincts of the passage. The tramp stood still and looked
after the squire so long as he could see him, and then slunk off across
the wet meadows, where the standing water was now skimmed with ice.
Walter Goddard had spent the day in watching for the squire and he had
seen him at last. He had seen him go down the road with the vicar till
they were both out of sight, and he had seen him come back and enter the
cottage. This proceeding, he argued, betrayed that the squire did not
wish to be seen going into Mary's house by the vicar. The tortuous
intelligences of bad men easily impute to others courses which they
themselves would naturally pursue. Three words on the previous evening
had sufficed to rouse the convict's jealousy. What he saw to-day
confirmed his suspicions. The gentleman in knickerbockers could be no
other than the squire himself, of course. He was evidently in the habit
of visiting Mary Goddard and he did not wish his visits to be observed by
the clergyman, who was of course the vicar or rector of the parish. That
proved conclusively in the fugitive's mind that there was something
wrong. He ground his teeth together and said to himself that it would be
worth while to run some risk in order to stop that little game, as he
expressed it. He had, as he himself had confessed to his wife, murdered
one man in escaping; a man, he reflected, could only hang once, and if he
had not been taken in the streets of London he was not likely to be
caught in the high street of Billingsfield, Essex. It would be a great
satisfaction to knock the squire on the head before he went any farther.
Moreover he had found a wonderfully safe retreat in the disused vault at
the back of the church. He discovered loose stones inside the place which
he could pile up against the low hole which served for an entrance.
Probably no one knew that there was any entrance at all--the very
existence of the vault was most likely forgotten. It was not a cheerful
place, but Goddard's nerves were excited to a pitch far beyond the reach
of supernatural fears. Whatever he might be condemned to feel in the
future, his conscience troubled him very little in the present. The vault
was comparatively dry and was in every way preferable, as a resting-place
for one night, to the interior of a mouldy haystack in the open fields.
He did not dare show himself again at the "Feathers" inn, lest he should
be held to do the day's work he had promised in payment for his night in
the barn. All that morning and afternoon he had lain hidden in the
quickset hedge near the park gate, within sight of the cottage, and he
had been rewarded. The food he had taken with him the night before had
sufficed him and he had quenched his thirst with rain-water from the
ditch. Having seen that the squire went back towards the Hall, Goddard
slunk away to his hiding-place to wait for the night. He lay down as best
he might, and listened for the hours and half-hours as the church clock
tolled them out from the lofty tower above.
Mary Goddard had told him to come later than before, and it was after
half-past ten when he tapped upon the shutter of the little drawing-room.
All was dark within, and he held his breath as he stood among the wet
creepers, listening intently for the sound of his wife's coming.
Presently the glass window inside was opened.
"Is that you?" asked Mary's voice in a tremulous whisper.
"Yes," he answered. "Let me in." Then the shutter was cautiously
unfastened and opened a little and in the dim starlight Goddard
recognised his wife's pale face. Her hand went out to him, with something
in it.
"There is the money," she whispered. "Go as quickly as you can. They are
looking for you--there are orders out to arrest you."
Goddard seized her fingers and took the money. She would have withdrawn
her hand but he held it firmly.
"Who told you that they were after me?" he asked in a fierce whisper.
"Mr. Juxon--let me go."
"Mr. Juxon!" The convict uttered a rough oath. "Your friend Mr. Juxon,
eh? He is after me, is he? Tell him--"
"Hush, hush!" she whispered. "He has no idea you are here--"
"I should think not," muttered Walter. "He would not be sneaking in here
on the sly to see you if he knew I were about!"
"What do you mean?" asked Mary. "Oh, Walter, let me go--you hurt me so!"
He held her fingers as in a vice.
"Hurt you! I wish I could strangle you and him too! Ha, you thought I was
not looking this afternoon when he came! He went to the corner of the
road with the parson, and when the parson was out of sight he came back!
I saw you!"
"You saw nothing!" answered his wife desperately. "How can you say so! If
you knew how kind he has been, what a loyal gentleman he is, you would
not dare to say such things."
"You used to say I was a loyal gentleman, Mary," retorted the convict. "I
daresay he is of the same stamp as I. Look here, Mary, if I catch this
loyal gentleman coming here any more I will cut his throat--so look out!"
"You do not mean to say you are going to remain here any longer, in
danger of your life?" said Mary in great alarm.
"Well--a man can only hang once. Give me some more of that bread and
cheese, Mary. It was exceedingly good."
"Then let me go," said his wife, trembling with horror at the threat she
had just heard.
"Oh yes. I will let you go. But I will just hold the window open in case
you don't come back soon enough. Look sharp!"
There was no need to hurry the unfortunate woman. In less than three
minutes she returned, bringing a "quartern" loaf and a large piece of
cheese. She thrust them out upon the window-sill and withdrew her hand
before he could catch it. But he held the window open.
"Now go!" she said. "I cannot do more for you--for God's sake go!"
"You seem very anxious to see the last of me," he whispered. "I daresay
if I am hanged you will get a ticket to see me turned off. Yes--we
mention those things rather freely up in town. Don't be alarmed. I will
come back to-morrow night--you had better listen. If you had shown a
little more heart, I would have been satisfied, but you are so stony that
I think I would like another fifty pounds to-morrow night. Those notes
are so deliciously crisp--"
"Listen, Walter!" said Mary. "Unless you promise to go I will raise an
alarm at once. I can face shame again well enough. I will have you--hush!
For God's sake--hush! There is somebody coming!"
The convict's quick ear had caught the sound. Instantly he knelt and then
lay down at full length upon the ground below the window. It was a fine
night and the conscientious Mr. Gall was walking his beat. The steady
tramp of his heavy shoes had something ominous in it which struck terror
into the heart of the wretched fugitive. With measured tread he came from
the direction of the village. Reaching the cottage he paused and dimly in
the starlight Mrs. Goddard could distinguish his glazed hat--the
provincial constabulary still wore hats in those days. Mr. Gall stood not
fifteen yards from the cottage, failed to observe that a window was
open on the lower floor, nodded to himself as though satisfied with his
inspection and walked on. Little by little the sound of his steps grew
fainter in the distance. Walter slowly raised himself again from the
ground, and put his head in at the window.
"You see it would not be hard to have you caught," whispered his wife,
still breathless with the passing excitement. "That was the policeman. If
I had called him, it would have been all over with you. I tell you if you
try to come again I will give you up."
"Oh, that's the way you treat me, is it?" said the convict with another
oath. "Then you had better look out for your dear Mr. Juxon, that's all."
Without another word, Goddard glided away from the window, let himself
out by the wicket gate and disappeared across the road.
Mary Goddard was in that moment less horrified by her husband's threat
than by his base ingratitude to herself and by the accusation he seemed
to make against her. Worn out with the emotions of fear and anxiety, she
had barely the strength to close and fasten the window. Then she sank
into the first chair she could find in the dark and stared into the
blackness around her. It seemed indeed more than she could bear. She was
placed in the terrible position of being obliged to betray her fugitive
husband, or of living in constant fear lest he should murder the best
friend she had in the world.