John's impression of Mrs. Goddard was strengthened by the scene at the
vicarage at the moment of leaving. The extraordinary nervousness she
betrayed, the anxiety for her welfare shown by Mrs. Ambrose and the grave
face of the vicar all favoured the idea that she had become an invalid
since he had last met her. He himself fell into the manner of those about
him and spoke in low tones and moved delicately as though fearing to
offend her sensitive nerves. The vicar alone understood the situation and
had been very much surprised at the squire's sudden determination to walk
home; he would gladly have seized his hat and run after his friend, but
he feared Mrs. Ambrose's curiosity and moreover on reflection felt sure
that the dog-cart would overtake Mr. Juxon before he was half way to the
cottage. He was very far from suspecting him of the absence of mind which
he actually displayed, but it was a great relief to him to see the little
party safe in the dog-cart and on the way homeward.
Mrs. Goddard was on the front seat with old Reynolds, and John, who would
have preferred to sit by her side a few months ago, was glad to find
himself behind with Nellie. It was a curious instinct, but he felt it
strongly and was almost grateful to the old man for stolidly keeping his
seat. So he sat beside Nellie and talked to her, to the child's intense
delight; she had not enjoyed the evening very much, for she felt the
general sense of oppression as keenly as children always feel such
things, and she had long exhausted the slender stock of illustrated books
which lay upon the table in the vicarage drawing-room.
"There is no more skating now," said John. "What do you do to amuse
yourselves?"
"I am studying history with mamma," answered Nellie, "and that takes ever
so much time, you know. And then--oh, we are beginning to think of the
spring, and we look after the violet plants in the frames."
"It does not feel much like spring," remarked John.
"No--and mamma has not been well lately, so we have not done much of
anything."
"Has she been ill long?" asked John.
"No--oh no! Only the last two or three days, ever since--" Nellie stopped
herself. Her mother had told her not to mention the tramp's visit.
"Ever since when?" asked John, becoming suddenly interested.
"Ever since the last time the Ambroses came to tea," said Nellie with a
readiness beyond her years. "But she looks dreadfully, does not she?"
"Dreadfully," answered John. Then, leaning back and turning his head he
spoke to Mrs. Goddard. "I hope you are quite warm enough?" he said.
"Quite--thanks," answered she, but her voice sounded tremulous in the
night. It might have been the shaking of the dog-cart. In a few minutes
they drew up before the door of the cottage. John sprang to the ground
and almost lifted Mrs. Goddard from the high seat.
"Where is Mr. Juxon?" she asked anxiously.
John looked round, peering into the gloom. A black cloud driven by the
strong east wind was passing over the moon, and for some moments it was
almost impossible to see anything. The squire was nowhere to be seen.
John turned and helped Nellie off the back seat of the dog-cart.
"I am afraid we must have passed him," he said quietly. Formerly Mrs.
Goddard's tone of anxiety as she asked for the squire would have roused
John's resentment; he now thought nothing of it. Reynolds prepared to
move off.
"Won't you please wait a moment, Reynolds?" said Mrs. Goddard, going
close to the old man. She could not have told why she asked him to stay,
it was a nervous impulse.
"Why?" asked John. "You know I am going to the Hall."
"Yes, of course. I only thought, perhaps, you and Mr. Juxon would like to
drive up--it is so dark. I am sure Mr. Ambrose would not mind you taking
the gentlemen up to the Hall, Reynolds?"
"No m'm. I'm quite sure as he wouldn't," exclaimed Reynolds with great
alacrity. He immediately had visions of a pint of beer in the Hall
kitchen.
"You do not think Mr. Juxon may have gone on alone, Mr. Short?" said Mrs.
Goddard, leaning upon the wicket gate. Her face looked very pale in the
gloom.
"No--at would be very odd if he did," replied John, who had his hands in
his greatcoat pockets and slowly stamped one foot after another on the
hard ground, to keep himself warm.
"Then we must have passed him on the road," said Mrs. Goddard. "But I was
so sure I saw nobody--"
"I think he will come presently," answered John in a reassuring tone.
"Why do you wait, Mrs. Goddard? You must be cold, and it is dangerous for
you to be out here. Don't wait, Reynolds," he added; "we will walk up."
"Oh please don't," cried Mrs. Goddard, imploringly.
John looked at her in some surprise. The cloud suddenly passed from
before the moon and he could see her anxious upturned face quite plainly.
He could not in the least understand the cause of her anxiety, but he
supposed her nervousness was connected with her indisposition. Reynolds
on his part, being anxious for beer, showed no disposition to move, but
sat with stolid indifference, loosely holding the reins while Strawberry,
the old mare, hung down her head and stamped from time to time in a
feeble and antiquated fashion. For some minutes there was total silence.
Not a step was to be heard upon the road, not a sound of any kind, save
the strong east wind rushing past the cottage and losing itself among the
withered oaks of the park opposite.
Suddenly a deep and bell-mouthed note resounded through the air.
Strawberry started in the shafts and trembled violently.
"Stamboul! Stamboul!" The squire's ringing voice was heard far up the
park. The bloodhound's distant baying suddenly ceased. John thought he
heard a fainter cry, inarticulate, and full of distress, through the
sighing wind. Then there was silence again. Mrs. Goddard leaned back
against the wicket gate, and Nellie, startled by the noises, pressed
close to her mother's side.
"Why--he has gone up the park!" exclaimed John in great surprise. "He was
calling to his dog--"
"Oh, Mr. Short!" cried Mrs. Goddard in agonised tones, as soon as she
could speak, "I am sure something dreadful has happened--do go. Mr.
Short--do go and see--"
Something of the extreme alarm that sounded in her voice seized upon
John.
"Stay with Mrs. Goddard, Reynolds," he said quickly and darted across the
road towards the park gate. John was strong and active. He laid his
hands upon the highest rails and vaulted lightly over, then ran at the
top of his speed up the dark avenue.
Mr. Juxon, in his absence of mind, had gone through the gate alone,
swinging his blackthorn stick in his hand, Stamboul stalking at his heel
in the gloom. He was a fearless man and the presence of John during the
afternoon had completely dissolved that nervous presentiment of evil he
had felt before his guest's coming. But in the short walk of scarcely
half a mile, from the vicarage to the cottage, his thoughts had become
entirely absorbed in considering Mrs. Goddard's strange position, and for
the moment John was quite forgotten. He entered the park and the long
iron latch of the wooden gate fell into its socket behind him with a
sharp click. Mr. Juxon walked quickly on and Stamboul trod noiselessly
behind him. At about a hundred yards from the gate the avenue turned
sharply to the right, winding about a little elevation in the ground,
where the trees stood thicker than elsewhere. As he came towards this
hillock the strong east wind blew sharply behind him. Had the wind been
in the opposite direction, Stamboul's sharp nostrils would have scented
danger. As it was he gave no sign but stalked solemnly at the squire's
heels. The faint light of the half moon was obscured at that moment, as
has been seen, by a sweeping cloud. The squire turned to the right and
tramped along the hard road.
At the darkest spot in the way a man sprang out suddenly before him and
struck a quick blow at his head with something heavy. But it was very
dark. The blow was aimed at his head, but fell upon the heavy padded
frieze of his ulster greatcoat, grazing the brim of his hat as it passed
and knocking it off his head. Mr. Juxon staggered and reeled to one side.
At the same instant--it all happened in the space of two seconds,
Stamboul sprang past his master and his bulk, striking the squire at the
shoulder just as he was staggering from the blow he had received, sent
him rolling into the ditch; by the same cause the hound's direction as he
leaped was just so changed that he missed his aim and bounded past the
murderer into the darkness. Before the gigantic beast could recover
himself and turn to spring again, Walter Goddard, who had chanced never
to see Stamboul and little suspected his presence, leaped the ditch and
fled rapidly through the dark shadow. But death was at his heels. Before
the squire, who was very little hurt, could get upon his feet, the
bloodhound had found the scent and, uttering his deep-mouthed baying
note, sprang upon the track of the flying man. Mr. Juxon got across the
ditch and followed him into the gloom.
"Stamboul! Stamboul!" he roared as he ran. But before he had gone thirty
yards he heard a heavy fall. The hound's cry ceased and a short scream
broke the silence.
A moment later the squire was dragging the infuriated animal from the
prostrate body of Walter Goddard. Stamboul had tasted blood; it was no
easy matter to make him relinquish his prey. The cloud passed from the
moon, driven before the blast, and a ray of light fell through the trees
upon the scene. Juxon stood wrestling with his hound, holding to his
heavy collar with both hands with all his might. He dared not let go for
an instant, well knowing that the frenzied beast would tear his victim
limb from limb. But Juxon's hands were strong, and though Stamboul
writhed and his throat rattled he could not free himself. The squire
glanced at the body of the fallen man, just visible in the flickering
moonlight. Walter Goddard lay quite still upon his back. If he was badly
wounded it was not possible to say where the wound was.
It was a terrible moment. Mr. Juxon felt that he could not leave the man
thus, not knowing whether he were alive or dead; and yet while all his
strength was exerted to the full in controlling the bloodhound, it was
impossible to approach a step nearer. He was beginning to think that he
should be obliged to take Stamboul to the Hall and return again to the
scene of the disaster.
"Mr. Juxon! Juxon! Juxon!" John was shouting as he ran up the park.
"This way! look sharp!" yelled the squire, foreseeing relief. John's
quick footsteps rang on the hard road. The squire called again and in a
moment the young man had joined him and stood horror-struck at what he
saw.
"Don't touch the dog!" cried the squire. "Don't come near him, I say!" he
added as John came forward. "There--there has been an accident, Mr.
Short," he added in calmer tones. "Would you mind seeing if the fellow is
alive?"
John was too much startled to say anything, but he went and knelt down by
Goddard's body and looked into his face.
"Feel his pulse," said the squire. "Listen at his heart." To him it
seemed a very simple matter to ascertain whether a man were alive or
dead. But John was nervous; he had never seen a dead man in his life and
felt that natural repulsion to approaching death which is common to all
living creatures. There was no help for it, however, and he took Walter
Goddard's limp hand in his and tried to find his pulse; he could not
distinguish any beating. The hand fell nerveless to the ground.
"I think he is dead," said John very softly, and he rose to his feet and
drew back a little way from the body.
"Then just wait five minutes for me, if you do not mind," said Mr. Juxon,
and he turned away dragging the reluctant and still struggling Stamboul
by his side.
John shuddered when he was left alone. It was indeed a dismal scene
enough. At his feet lay Walter Goddard's body, faintly illuminated by the
struggling moonbeams; all around and overhead the east wind was howling
and whistling and sighing in the dry oak branches, whirling hither and
thither the few brown leaves that had clung to their hold throughout the
long winter; the sound of the squire's rapidly retreating footsteps grew
more faint in the distance; John felt that he was alone and was very
uncomfortable. He would have liked to go back to the cottage and tell
Mrs. Goddard of what had happened, and that Mr. Juxon was safe; but he
thought the squire might return and find that he had left his post and
accuse him of cowardice. He drew back from the man's body and sheltered
himself from the wind, leaning against the broad trunk of an old oak
tree. He had not stood thus many minutes when he heard the sound of
wheels upon the hard road. It might be Mrs. Goddard, he thought. With one
more glance at the prostrate body, he turned away and hurried through the
trees towards the avenue. The bright lamps of the dog-cart were almost
close before him. He shouted to Reynolds.
"Whoa, January!" ejaculated that ancient functionary as he pulled up
Strawberry close to John Short. Why the natives of Essex and especially
of Billingsfield habitually address their beasts of burden as "January"
is a matter best left to the discrimination of philologers; obedient to
the familiar words however, Strawberry stood still in the middle of the
road. John could see that Mrs. Goddard was seated by the side of Reynolds
but that Nellie was not in the cart.
"Oh, Mrs. Goddard, is that you?" said John. "Mr. Juxon will be here in a
moment. Don't be frightened--he is not hurt in the least; awfully bad
luck for the tramp, though!"
"The tramp?" repeated Mrs. Goddard with a faint cry of horror.
"Yes," said John, whose spirits rose wonderfully in the light of the
dog-cart lamps. "There was a poor tramp hanging about the park--poaching,
very likely--and Mr. Juxon's dog got after him, somehow, I suppose. I do
not know how it happened, but when I came up--oh! here is Mr. Juxon
himself--he will tell you all about it."
The squire came up in breathless haste, having locked Stamboul into the
house.
"Good Heavens! Mrs. Goddard!" he ejaculated in a tone of profound
surprise. But Mrs. Goddard gave no answer. The squire sprang upon the
step and looked closely at her. She lay back against old Reynolds's
shoulder, very pale, with her eyes shut. It was evident that she had
fainted. The old man seemed not to comprehend what had happened; he
had never experienced the sensation of having a lady leaning upon his
shoulder, and he looked down at her with a half idiotic smile on his
deeply furrowed face.
"She's took wuss, sir," he remarked. "She was all for comin' up the park
as soon as Master John was gone. She warn't feelin' herself o' no account
t' evenin'."
"Look here, Mr. Short," said the squire decisively. "I must ask you to
take Mrs. Goddard home again and call her women to look after her. I
fancy she will come to herself before long. Do you mind?"
"Not in the least," said John cheerfully, mounting at the back of the
dog-cart.
"And--Reynolds--bring Mr. Short back to the Hall immediately, please, and
you shall have some beer."
"All right, sir."
John supported the fainting lady with one arm, turning round upon his
seat at the back. Old Strawberry wheeled quickly in her tracks and
trotted down the avenue under the evident impression that she was going
home. Mr. Juxon dashed across the ditch again to the place where Walter
Goddard had fallen.
The squire knelt down and tried to ascertain the extent of the man's
injuries; as far as he could see there was a bad wound at his throat, and
one hand was much mangled. But there seemed to have been no great flow of
blood. He tore open the smock-frock and shirt and put his ear to the
heart. Faintly, very faintly, he could hear it beat. Walter Goddard was
alive still--alive to live for years perhaps, the squire reflected; to
live in a prison, it was true, but to live. To describe his feelings in
that moment would be impossible. Had he found the convict dead, it would
be useless to deny that he would have felt a very great satisfaction,
tempered perhaps by some pity for the wretched man's miserable end, but
still very great. It would have seemed such a just end, after all; to be
killed in the attempt to kill, and to have died not by the squire's hand
but by the sharp strong jaws of the hound who had once before saved the
squire's life. But he was alive. It would not take much to kill him; a
little pressure on his wounded throat would be enough. Even to leave
him there, uncared for, till morning in the bleak wind, lying upon the
cold ground, would be almost certain to put an end to his life. But to
the honour of Charles James Juxon be it said that such thoughts never
crossed his mind. He pulled off his heavy ulster greatcoat, wrapped it
about the felon's insensible body, then, kneeling, raised up his head and
shoulders, got his strong arms well round him and with some difficulty
rose to his feet. Once upright, it was no hard matter to carry his
burthen through the trees to the road, and up the avenue to his own door.
"Holmes," said Mr. Juxon to his butler, "this man is badly hurt, but he
is alive. Help me to carry him upstairs."
There was that in the squire's voice which brooked neither question nor
delay when he was in earnest. The solemn butler took Walter Goddard by
the feet and the squire took him by the shoulders; so they carried him up
to a bedroom and laid him down, feeling for the bed in the dark as they
moved. Holmes then lit a candle with great calmness.
"Shall I send for the medical man, sir?" he asked quietly.
"Yes. Send the gig as fast as possible. If he is not at home, or cannot
be found, send on to the town. If anybody asks questions say the man is a
tramp who attacked me in the park and Stamboul pulled him down. Send at
once, and bring me some brandy and light the fire here."
"Yes, sir," said Holmes, and left the room.
Mr. Juxon lighted other candles and examined the injured man. There was
now no doubt that he was alive. He breathed faintly but regularly; his
pulse beat less rapidly and more firmly. His face was deadly pale and
very thin, and his half-opened eyes stared unconsciously upwards, but
they were not glazed nor death-like. He seemed to have lost little
blood, comparatively speaking.
"Bah!" ejaculated the squire. "I believe he is only badly frightened,
after all."
Holmes brought brandy and warm water and again left the room. Mr. Juxon
bathed Goddard's face and neck with a sponge, eying him suspiciously all
the while. It would not have surprised him at any moment if he had leaped
from the bed and attempted to escape. To guard against surprise, the
squire locked the door and put the key in his pocket, watching the
convict to see whether he noticed the act or was really unconscious. But
Goddard never moved nor turned his motionless eyeballs. Mr. Juxon
returned to his side, and with infinite care began to remove his clothes.
They were almost in rags. He examined each article, and was surprised to
find money in the pockets, amounting to nearly sixty pounds; then he
smiled to himself, remembering that the convict had visited his wife and
had doubtless got the money from her to aid him in his escape. He put the
notes and gold carefully together in a drawer after counting them, and
returning to his occupation succeeded at last in putting Goddard to bed,
after staunching his wounds as well as he could with handkerchiefs.
He stood long by the bedside, watching the man's regular breathing, and
examining his face attentively. Many strange thoughts passed through his
mind, as he stood there, looking at the man who had caused such misery to
himself, such shame and sorrow to his fair wife, such disappointment to
the honest man who was now trying to save him from the very grasp of
death. So this was Mary Goddard's husband, little Nellie's father--this
grimy wretch, whose foul rags lay heaped there in the corner, whose
miserable head pressed the spotless linen of the pillow, whose
half-closed eyes stared up so senselessly at the squire's face. This was
the man for whose sake Mary Goddard started and turned pale, fainted and
grew sick, languished and suffered so much pain. No wonder she concealed
it from Nellie--no wonder she had feared lest after many years he should
come back and claim her for his wife--no wonder either that a man with
such a face should do bad deeds.
Mr. Juxon was a judge of faces; persons accustomed for many years to
command men usually are. He noted Walter Goddard's narrow jaw and pointed
chin, his eyes set near together, his wicked lips, parted and revealing
sharp jagged teeth, his ill-shaped ears and shallow temples, his flat low
forehead, shown off by his cropped hair. And yet this man had once been
called handsome, he had been admired and courted. But then his hair had
hidden the shape of his head, his long golden moustache had covered his
mouth and disguised all his lower features, he had been arrayed by
tailors of artistic merit, and he had had much gold in his pockets. He
was a very different object now--the escaped convict, close cropped, with
a half-grown beard upon his ill-shaped face, and for all ornament a linen
sheet drawn up under his chin.
The squire was surprised that he did not recover consciousness, seeing
that he breathed regularly and was no longer so pale as at first. A faint
flush seemed to rise to his sunken cheeks, and for a long time Mr. Juxon
stood beside him, expecting every moment that he would speak. Once he
thought his lips moved a little. Then Mr. Juxon took a little brandy in a
spoon and raising his head poured it down his throat. The effect was
immediate. Goddard opened wide his eyes, the blood mounted to his cheeks
with a deep flush, and he uttered an inarticulate sound.
"What did you say?" asked the squire, bending over him.
But there was no answer. The sick man's head fell back upon the pillow,
though his eyes remained wide open and the flush did not leave his
cheeks. His pulse was now very high, and his breathing grew heavy and
stertorous.
"I hope I have not made him any worse," remarked Mr. Juxon aloud, as he
contemplated his patient. "But if he is going to die, I wish he would die
now."
The thought was charitable, on the whole. If Walter Goddard died then and
there, he would be buried in a nameless grave under the shadow of the
old church; no one would ever know that he was the celebrated forger, the
escaped convict, the husband of Mary Goddard. If he lived--heaven alone
knew what complications would follow if he lived.
There was a knock at the door. Mr. Juxon drew the key from his pocket and
opened it. Holmes the butler stood outside.
"Mr. Short has come back, sir. He asked if you wished to see him."
"Ask him to come here," replied the squire, to whom the tension of
keeping his solitary watch was becoming very irksome. In a few moments
John entered the room, looking pale and nervous.