Mr. Juxon received the vicar in the library as he had received him on the
previous day; but on the present occasion Mr. Ambrose had not been sent
for and the squire's face wore an expression of inquiry. He supposed his
friend had come to ask him the result of the interview with Mrs. Goddard,
and as he himself was on the point of going towards the cottage he wished
the vicar had come at a later or an earlier hour.
"I have a message to give you," said Mr. Ambrose, "a very important
message."
"Indeed?" answered the squire, observing his serious face.
"Yes. I had better tell you at once. Mrs. Goddard sent for me this
morning. She has actually seen her husband, who must be hiding in the
neighbourhood. He came to her drawing-room window last night and the
night before."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Juxon. "You don't tell me so!"
"That is not the worst of the matter," continued the vicar, looking very
grave and fixing his eyes on the squire's face. "This villainous fellow
has been threatening to take your life, Mr. Juxon."
Mr. Juxon stared at the vicar for a moment in surprise, and then broke
into a hearty laugh.
"My life!" he cried. "Upon my word, the fellow does not know what he is
talking about! Do you mean to say that this escaped convict, who can be
arrested at sight wherever he is found, imagines that he could attack me
in broad daylight without being caught?"
"Well, no, I suppose not--but you often walk home at night, Mr.
Juxon--alone through the park."
"I think that dog of mine could manage Mr. Goddard," remarked the squire
calmly. "And pray, Mr. Ambrose, now that we know that the man is in the
neighbourhood, what is to prevent us from finding him?"
"We do not know where he is," replied the vicar, thanking the inspiration
which had prevented him from asking Mrs. Goddard more questions. He had
promised to save Goddard, too, or at least not to facilitate his capture.
But though he was glad to be able to say honestly that he did not know
where he was, he began to doubt whether in the eyes of the law he was
acting rightly.
"You do not know?" asked the squire.
"No; and besides I think--perhaps--we ought to consider poor Mrs.
Goddard's position."
"Mrs. Goddard's position!" exclaimed Mr. Juxon almost angrily. "And who
should consider her position more than I, Mr. Ambrose? My dear sir, I
consider her position before all things--of course I do. But nothing
could be of greater advantage to her position than the certainty that her
husband is safely lodged in prison. I cannot imagine how he contrived
to escape--can you?"
"No, I cannot," answered Mr. Ambrose, thrusting his hands into his
pockets and biting his long upper lip.
"By the bye, did the fellow happen to say why he meant to lay violent
hands on me?" inquired Mr. Juxon.
"Since you ask--he did. It appears that he saw you going into the
cottage, and immediately became jealous--"
"Of me?" Mr. Juxon coloured a little beneath his bronzed complexion, and
grew more angry. "Well, upon my word! But if that is true I am much
obliged for your warning. Fellows of that sort never reason--he will very
likely attack me as you say. It will be quite the last time he attacks
anybody--the devil shall have his own, Mr. Ambrose, if I can help him to
it--"
"Dear me! Mr. Juxon--you surprise me," said the vicar, who had never
heard his friend use such strong language before.
"It is enough to surprise anybody," remarked the squire. "I trust we
shall surprise Mr. Goddard before night. Excuse me, but when did he
express his amiable intentions towards me?"
"Last night, I believe," replied Mr. Ambrose, reluctantly.
"And when did he see me going into the cottage?"
"Yesterday afternoon, I believe." The vicar felt as though he were
beginning to break his promise of shielding the fugitive, but he could
not refuse to answer a direct question.
"Then, when he saw me, he was either in the cottage or in the park. There
was no one in the road, I am quite sure."
"I do not know," said the vicar, delighted at being able to say so. He
was such a simple man that Mr. Juxon noticed the tone of relief in which
he denied any knowledge of Goddard's whereabouts on the previous day as
compared with his reluctance to answer upon those points of which he was
certain.
"You are not anxious that Goddard should be caught," said the squire
rather sharply.
"Frankly," returned the vicar, "I do not wish to be instrumental in his
capture--not that I am likely to be."
"That is none of my business, Mr. Ambrose. I will try and catch him
alone. But it would be better that he should be taken alive and
quietly--"
"Surely," cried the vicar in great alarm, "you would not kill him?"
"Oh no, certainly not. But my dog might, Mr. Ambrose. They are ugly dogs
when they are angry, and they have a remarkable faculty for finding
people who are lost. They used to use them in Russia for tracking
fugitive serfs and convicts who escaped from Siberia."
Mr. Ambrose shuddered. The honest squire seemed almost as bloodthirsty in
his eyes as the convict Goddard. He felt that he did not understand Mr.
Juxon. The idea of hunting people with bloodhounds seemed utterly foreign
to his English nature, and he could not understand how his English friend
could entertain such a thought; he probably forgot that a few generations
earlier the hunting of all kinds of men, papists, dissenters, covenanters
and rebels, with dogs, had been a favourite English sport.
"Really, Mr. Juxon," he said in an agitated tone, "I think you would do
much better to protect yourself with the means provided by the law.
Considerations of humanity--"
"Considerations of humanity, sir, are at an end when one man threatens
the life of another. You admit yourself that I am not safe unless Goddard
is caught, and yet you object to my method of catching him. That is
illogical."
The vicar felt that this was to some extent true; but he was not willing
to admit it. He knew also that if he could dissuade the squire from his
barbarous scheme, Goddard would have a far better chance of escape.
"I think that with the assistance of Gall and a London detective--" he
began.
"Gall is an old woman, Mr. Ambrose, and it will take twenty-four hours to
get a detective from town. In twenty-four hours this man may have
attacked me."
"He will hardly attempt to force his way into your house, Mr. Juxon."
"So then, I am to stay at home to suit his convenience? I will not do any
such thing. Besides, in twenty-four hours Goddard may have changed his
mind and may have taken himself off. For the rest of her life Mrs.
Goddard will then be exposed to the possibility of every kind of
annoyance."
"He would never come back, I am sure," objected the vicar.
"Why not? Every time he comes she will give him money. The more money she
gives him the more often he will come, unless we put an end to his coming
altogether."
"You seem to forget," urged Mr. Ambrose, "that there will be a vigorous
search made for him. Why not telegraph to the governor of Portland?"
"I thought you wanted to save Mrs. Goddard from needless scandal; did you
not?" returned the squire. "The governor of Portland would send down a
squad of police who would publish the whole affair. He would have done so
as soon as the man escaped had he known that Mrs. Goddard lived here."
"I wonder how Goddard himself knew it," remarked Mr. Ambrose.
"I don't know. Perhaps she told him she was coming here, at their last
interview. Or perhaps she wrote to him in prison and the governor
overlooked the letter. Anything like that would account for it."
"But if you catch him--alive," hesitated the vicar, "it will all be known
at once. I do not see how you can prevent that."
"If I catch him alive, I will take him out of Billingsfield without any
one's knowledge. I do not mean to hurt him. I only want to get him back
to prison. Believe me, I am much more anxious than you can possibly be to
save Mrs. Goddard from harm."
"Very well. I have done my errand," said Mr. Ambrose, with a sort of sigh
of relief. "I confess, I am in great anxiety of mind, both on your
account and on hers. I never dreamed that such things could happen in
Billingsfield."
"You are certainly not responsible for them," answered Mr. Juxon. "It is
not your fault--"
"Not altogether, perhaps. But I was perhaps wrong in letting her come
here--no, I am sure I was not," he added impulsively, as though ashamed
of having said anything so unkind.
"Certainly not. You were quite right, Mr. Ambrose, quite right, I assure
you."
"Well, I hope all may yet be for the best," said the vicar.
"Let us hope so," replied Mr. Juxon gravely. "By all means, let us hope
that all may be for the best."
Whether the squire doubted the possibility of so happy an issue to events
or not, is uncertain. He felt almost more sorry for the vicar than for
himself; the vicar was such a good man, so unused to the violent deeds of
violent people, of which the squire in his wanderings had seen more than
was necessary to convince him that all was not always for the best in
this best of all possible worlds.
Mr. Ambrose left his friend and as he retraced his steps through the park
was more disturbed than ever. That Goddard should contemplate killing the
squire was bad enough, in all conscience, but that the squire should
deliberately purpose to hunt down Goddard with his bloodhound seemed
somehow even worse. The vicar had indeed promised Mrs. Goddard that he
would not help to capture her husband, but he would have been as glad as
any one to hear that the convict was once more lodged in his prison.
There lurked in his mind, nevertheless, an impression that even a convict
should have a fair chance. The idea was not expressed, but existed in
him. Everybody, he would have said, ought to have a fair chance, and
as the law of nations forbids the use of explosive bullets in warfare,
the laws of humanity seemed to forbid the use of bloodhounds in the
pursuit of criminals. He had a very great respect for the squire's
character and principles, but the cold-blooded way in which Mr. Juxon had
spoken of catching and probably killing Walter Goddard, had shaken the
good vicar's belief in his friend. He doubted whether he were not now
bound to return to Mrs. Goddard and to warn her in his turn of her
husband's danger, whether he ought not to do something to save the
wretched convict from his fate. It seemed hideous to think that in
peaceful Billingsfield, in his own lonely parish, a human being should be
exposed to such peril. But at this point the vicar's continuity forsook
him. He had not the heart to tell the tale of his interview with Mr.
Juxon to the unhappy lady he had left that morning. It was extremely
improbable, he thought, that she should be able to communicate with her
husband during the day, and the squire's language led him to think that
the day would not pass without some attempt to discover Walter Goddard's
hiding-place. Besides, the vicar's mind was altogether more disturbed
than it had been in thirty years, and he was no longer able to account to
himself with absolute accuracy for what he did. At all events, he felt
that it was better not to tell Mrs. Goddard what the squire had said.
When he was gone, Mr. Juxon paced his library alone in the greatest
uncertainty. He had told the vicar in his anger that he would find
Goddard with the help of Stamboul. That the hound was able to accomplish
the feat in the present weather, and if Goddard had actually stood some
time at the cottage window on the previous night, he did not doubt for a
moment. The vicar had mentioned the window to him when he told him that
Mrs. Goddard had seen her husband. He had probably been at the window as
late as midnight, and the scent, renewed by his visit, would not be
twelve hours old. Stamboul could find the man, unless he had got into a
cart, which was improbable. But a new and startling consideration
presented itself to the squire's mind when the vicar was gone and his
anger had subsided; a consideration which made him hesitate what course
to pursue.
That he would be justified in using any means in his power to catch the
criminal seemed certain. It would be for the public good that he should
be delivered up to justice as soon as possible. So long as Goddard was at
large the squire's own life was not safe, and Mrs. Goddard was liable to
all kinds of annoyances at any moment. There was every reason why the
fellow should be captured. But to capture him, safe and sound, was one
thing; to expose him to the jaws of Stamboul was quite another. Mr. Juxon
had a lively recollection of the day in the Belgrade forest when the
great hound had pulled down one of his assailants, making his fangs meet
through flesh and bone. If Stamboul were set upon Goddard's track, the
convict could hardly escape with his life. In the first flush of the
squire's anger this seemed of little importance. But on mature reflection
the thing appeared in a different light.
He loved Mrs. Goddard in his own way, which was a very honourable way, if
not very passionate. He had asked her to marry him. She had expressed a
wish that she were a widow, implying perhaps that if she had been free
she would have accepted him. If the obstacle of her living husband were
removed, it was not improbable that she would look favourably upon the
squire's suit; to bring Goddard to an untimely end would undoubtedly be
to clear the way for the squire. It was not then, a legitimate desire for
justice which made him wish to catch the convict and almost to wish that
Stamboul might worry him to death; it was the secret hope that Goddard
might be killed and that he, Charles James Juxon, might have the chance
to marry his widow. "In other words," he said to himself, "I really want
to murder Goddard and take his wife."
It was not easy to see where legitimate severity ended and unlawful and
murderous selfishness began. The temptation was a terrible one. The very
uncertainty which there was, tempted the squire to disregard the
possibility of Goddard's death as compared with the importance of his
capture. It was quite likely, he unconsciously argued, that the
bloodhound would not kill him after all; it was even possible that he
might not find him; but it would be worth while to make the attempt, for
the results to be obtained by catching the fugitive were very great--Mrs.
Goddard's peace was to be considered before all things. But still before
the squire's eyes arose the picture of Stamboul tearing the throat of the
man he had killed in the Belgrade forest. If he killed the felon, Juxon
would know that to all intents and purposes he had himself done the deed
in order to marry Mrs. Goddard. But still the thought remained with him
and would not leave him.
The fellow had threatened his own life. It was then a fair fight,
for a man cannot be blamed if he tries to get the better of one who is
going about to kill him. On one of his many voyages, he had once shot a
man in order to quell a mutiny; he had not killed him it is true, but
he had disabled him for the time--he had handled many a rough customer
in his day. The case, he thought, was similar, for it was the case of
self-defence. The law, even, would say he was justified. But to slay a
man in self-defence and then to marry his widow, though justifiable in
law, is a very delicate case for the conscience; and in spite of the
wandering life he had led, Mr. Juxon's conscience was sensitive. He was
an honest man and a gentleman, he had tried all his life to do right as
he saw it, and did not mean to turn murderer now, no matter how easy it
would be for him to defend his action.
At the end of an hour he had decided that it would be murder, and no
less, to let Stamboul track Goddard to his hiding-place. The hound might
accompany him in his walks, and if anybody attacked him it would be so
much the worse for his assailant. Murder or no murder, he was entitled to
take any precautions he pleased against an assault. But he would not
willingly put the bloodhound on the scent, and he knew well enough that
the dog would not run upon a strange trail unless he were put to it.
The squire went to his lunch, feeling that he had made a good resolution;
but he ate little and soon afterwards began to feel the need of going
down to see Mrs. Goddard. No day was complete without seeing her, and
considering the circumstances which had occurred on the previous
afternoon, it was natural that he should call to inquire after her state.
In the hall, the gigantic beast which had played such an important part
in his thoughts during the morning, came solemnly up to him, raising his
great red eyes as though asking whether he were to accompany his master.
The squire stood still and looked at him for a moment.
"Come along, Stamboul!" he said suddenly, as he put on his hat. The hound
leaped up and laid his heavy paws on the squire's shoulders, trying to
lick his face in his delight, then, almost upsetting the sturdy man he
sprang back, slipped on the polished floor, recovered himself and with an
enormous stride bounded past Mr. Juxon, out into the park. But Mr. Juxon
quickly called him back, and presently he was following close at heel in
his own stately way, looking neither to the right nor to the left. The
squire felt nervous, and the sensation was new to him. He did not believe
that Goddard would really attack him at all, certainly not that he would
dare to attack him in broad daylight. But the knowledge of the threat the
fellow had uttered made him watchful. He glanced to the right and left as
he walked and gripped his heavy blackthorn stick firmly in his hand. He
wished that if the man were to appear he would come quickly--it might be
hard to hold Stamboul back if he were attacked unawares.
He reached the gate, crossed the road and rang the bell of the cottage.
As he stood waiting, Stamboul smelled the ground, put up his head,
smelled it again and with his nose down trotted slowly to the window on
the left hand of the door. He smelled the ground, the wall and presently
put both his fore paws upon the outer ledge of the window. Then he
dropped again, and looked at his master. Martha was a long time in coming
to the door.
"After him, Stamboul!" said the squire, almost unconsciously. The dog put
his nose down and began to move slowly about. At that moment the door
opened.
"Oh, sir," said Martha, "it's you, sir. I was to say, if you please, that
if you called, Mrs. Goddard was poorly to-day, sir."
"Dear me!" said Mr. Juxon, "I hope she is not ill. Is it anything
serious, Martha?"
"Well, sir, she's been down this mornin', but her head ached terrible bad
and she went back to her room--oh, sir, your dog--he's a runnin' home."
As she spoke a sound rang in the air that made Martha start back. It was
a deep, resounding, bell-like note, fierce and wild, rising and falling,
low but full, with a horror indescribable in its echo--the sound which no
man who has heard it ever forgets--the baying of a bloodhound on the
track of a man.
The squire turned deadly pale, but he shouted with all his might, as he
would have shouted to a man on the topsail yard in a gale at sea.
"Stamboul! Stamboul! Stamboul!" Again and again he yelled the dog's name.
Stamboul had not gone far. The quickset hedge had baffled the scent for a
moment and he was not a dozen yards beyond it in the park when his
master's cry stopped him. Instantly he turned, cleared the six-foot hedge
and double ditch at a bound and came leaping back across the road. The
squire breathed hard, for it had been a terrible moment. If he had not
succeeded in calling the beast back, it might have been all over with
Walter Goddard, wherever he was hidden.
"It is only his play," said Mr. Juxon, still very white and holding
Stamboul by the collar. "Please tell Mrs. Goddard, Martha, that I am very
sorry indeed to hear that she is ill, and that I will inquire this
evening."
"Yes, sir," said Martha, who eyed the panting beast timidly and showed an
evident desire to shut the door as soon as possible.
The squire felt more nervous than ever as he walked slowly along the road
in the direction of the village, his hand still on the bloodhound's
collar. He felt what a narrow escape Goddard had probably had, and the
terrible sound of Stamboul's baying had brought back to him once again
and very vividly the scene in the woods by the Bosphorus. He felt that
for a few minutes at least he would rather not enter the park with the
dog by him, and he naturally turned towards the vicarage, not with any
intention of going in, but from sheer force of custom, as people under
the influence of strong emotions often do things unconsciously which they
are in the habit of doing. He walked slowly along, and had almost reached
Mr. Ambrose's pretty old red brick house, when he found himself face to
face with the vicar's wife. She presented an imposing appearance, as
usual; her grey skirt, drawn up a little from the mud, revealed a bright
red petticoat and those stout shoes which she regarded as so essential
to health; she wore moreover a capacious sealskin jacket and a dark
bonnet with certain jet flowers, which for many years had been regarded
by the inhabitants of Billingsfield as the distinctive badge of a
gentlewoman. Mrs. Ambrose was wont to smile and say that they were
indestructible and would last as long as she did. She greeted Mr. Juxon
cordially.
"How do you, Mr. Juxon--were you going to see us? I was just going for a
walk--perhaps you will come with me?"
Mr. Juxon turned back and prepared to accompany her.
"Such good news this morning, from John Short," she said. "He has
finished his examinations, and it seems almost certain that he will be
senior classic. His tutor at Trinity has written already to congratulate
my husband upon his success."
"I am sure, I am delighted, too," said the squire, who had regained his
composure but kept his hold on Stamboul's collar. "He deserves all he
gets, and more too," he continued. "I think he will be a remarkable man."
"I did not think you liked him so very much," said Mrs. Ambrose rather
doubtfully, as she walked slowly by his side.
"Oh--I liked him very much. Indeed, I was going to ask him to stay with
me for a few days at the Hall."
The inspiration was spontaneous. Mr. Juxon was in a frame of mind in
which he felt that he ought to do something pleasant for somebody, to set
off against the bloodthirsty designs which had passed through his mind in
the morning. He knew that if he had not been over friendly to John, it
had been John's own fault; but since he had found out that it was
impossible to marry Mrs. Goddard, he had forgiven the young scholar his
shortcomings and felt very charitably inclined towards him. It suddenly
struck him that it would give John great pleasure to stop at the Hall for
a few days, and that it would be no inconvenience to himself. The effect
upon Mrs. Ambrose was greater even than he had expected. She was
hospitable, good and kind, but she was also economical, as she had need
to be. The squire was rich. If the squire would put up John during a part
of his visit it would be a kindness to John himself, and an economy to
the vicarage. Mr. Ambrose himself would not have gone to such a length;
but then, as his wife said to herself in self-defence, Augustin did not
pay the butcher's bills, and did not know how the money went. She did not
say that Augustin was precisely what is called reckless, but he of course
did not understand economy as she did. How should he, poor man, with all
his sermons and his funerals and other occupations to take his mind off?
Mrs. Ambrose was delighted at the squire's proposal.
"Really!" she exclaimed. "That would be too good of you, Mr. Juxon. And
you do not know how it would quite delight him! He loves books so much,
and then you know," she added in a confidential manner, "he has never
stayed in a country house in his life, I am quite sure."
"And when is he coming down?" asked Mr. Juxon. "I should be very much
pleased to have him."
"To-morrow, I think," said Mrs. Ambrose.
"Well--would you ask him from me to come up and stop a week? Can you
spare him, Mrs. Ambrose? I know you are very fond of him, of course,
but--"
"Oh very," said she warmly. "But I think it likely he will stay some
time," she added in explanation of her willingness to let him go to the
Hall.
The squire felt vaguely that the presence of a guest in his house would
probably be a restraint upon him, and he felt that some restraint would
be agreeable to him at the present time.
"Besides," added Mrs. Ambrose, "if you would like to have him
first--there is a little repair necessary in his room at the vicarage--we
have put it off too long--"
"By all means." said the squire, following out his own train of thought.
"Send him up to me as soon as he comes. If I can manage it I will be down
here to ask him myself."
"It is so good of you," said Mrs. Ambrose.
"Not at all. Are you going to the cottage?"
"Yes--why?"
"Nothing," said Mr. Juxon. "I did not know whether you would like to walk
on a little farther with me. Good-bye, then. You will tell Short as soon
as he comes, will you not?"
"Certainly," replied Mrs. Ambrose, still beaming upon him. "I will not
let him unpack his things at the vicarage. Good-bye--so many thanks."