Doctor Longstreet was not the freethinking physician of Billingsfield.
The latter was out when Mr. Juxon's groom went in search of him, and the
man had driven on to the town, six miles away. The doctor was an old man
with a bright eye, a deeply furrowed forehead, a bald head and clean
shaved face. He walked as though his frame were set together with springs
and there was a curious snapping quickness in his speech. He seemed full
of vitality and bore his years with a jaunty air of merriment which
inspired confidence, for he seemed perpetually laughing at the ills of
the flesh and ready to make other people laugh at them too. But his
bright eyes had a penetrating look and though he judged quickly he
generally was right in his opinion. He entered the room briskly, not
knowing that the sick man was there.
"Now, Mr. Juxon," he said cheerfully, "I am with you." He had the habit
of announcing his presence in this fashion, as though his brisk and
active personality were likely to be overlooked. A moment later he caught
sight of the bed. "Dear me," he added in a lower voice, "I did not know
our patient was here."
He went to Walter Goddard's side, looked at him attentively, felt his
pulse, and his forehead, glanced at the bandages the squire had roughly
put upon his throat and hand, drew up the sheet again beneath his chin
and turned sharply round.
"Brain fever, sir," he said cheerfully. "Brain fever. You must get some
ice and have some beef tea made as soon as possible. He is in a very
bad way--curious, too; he looks like a cross between a ticket of leave
man and a gentleman. Tramp, you say? That would not prevent his being
either. You cannot disturb him--don't be afraid. He hears nothing--is
off, the Lord knows where, raving delirious. Must look to his scratches
though--dangerous--inflammation. Do you mind telling me what
happened--how long he has been here?"
The squire in a few words informed Doctor Longstreet of the attack made
upon him in the park. The doctor looked at his watch.
"Only two hours and a half since," he remarked. "It is just midnight now,
very good--the man must have been in a fever all day--yesterday, too,
perhaps. He is not badly hurt by the dog--like to see that dog, if you
don't mind--the fright most likely sent him into delirium. You have
nothing to accuse yourself of, Mr. Juxon: it was certainly not your
fault. Even if the dog had not bitten him, he would most likely have been
in his present state by this time. Would you mind sending for some ice at
once? Thank you. It was very lucky for the fellow that he attacked you
just when he did--secured him the chance of being well taken care of. If
he had gone off like this in the park he would have been dead before
morning."
The squire rang and sent for the ice the doctor demanded.
"Do you think he will live?" he asked nervously.
"I don't know," answered Doctor Longstreet, frankly. "Nobody can tell. He
is very much exhausted--may live two or three days in this state and then
die or go to sleep and get well--may die in the morning--often do--cannot
say. With a great deal of care, I think he has a chance."
"I am very anxious to save him," said the squire, looking hard at the
physician.
"Very good of you, I am sure," replied Doctor Longstreet, cheerfully. "It
is not everybody who would take so much trouble for a tramp. Of course if
he dies people will say your dog killed him; but I will sign a paper to
the effect that it is not true. If he had left you and your dog alone, he
would have been dead in the morning to an absolute certainty."
"How very extraordinary!" exclaimed the squire, suddenly realising that
instead of causing the man's death Stamboul had perhaps saved his life.
"It was certainly very odd that he should have chosen the best moment for
assaulting you," continued the doctor. "It is quite possible that even
then he was under some delusion--took you for somebody else--some old
enemy. People do queer things in a brain fever. By the bye has he said
anything intelligible since he has been here?"
John Short who had been standing silently by the bedside during the whole
interview looked up quickly at the squire, wondering how he would answer.
But Mr. Juxon did not hesitate.
"Yes. Twice he repeated a woman's name. That is very natural, I suppose.
Do you think he will have any lucid moments for some time?"
"May," said the doctor, "may. When he does it is likely to be at the
turning point; he will either die or be better very soon after. If it
comes soon he may say something intelligible. If he is much more
exhausted than he is now, he will understand you, but you will not
understand him. Meningitis always brings a partial paralysis of the
tongue, when the patient is exhausted. Most probably he will go on
moaning and mumbling, as he does now, for another day. You will be able
to tell by his eye whether he understands anything; perhaps he will make
some sign with his head or hand. Ah--here is the ice."
Doctor Longstreet went about his operations in a rapid and business like
fashion and John gave what assistance he could. The squire stood leaning
against the chimney-piece in deep thought.
Indeed he had enough to think of, when he had fully weighed the meaning
of the doctor's words. He was surprised beyond measure at the turn things
had taken; for although, as he had previously told John, he suspected
that Goddard must have been in a fever for several hours before the
assault, it had not struck him that Stamboul's attack had been absolutely
harmless, still less that it might prove to have been the means of saving
the convict's life. It was terribly hard to say that he desired to save
the man, and yet the honest man in his heart prayed that he might really
hope for that result. It would be far worse, should Goddard die, to
remember that he had wished for his death. But it would be hard to
imagine a more unexpected position than that in which the squire found
himself; by a perfectly natural chain of circumstances he was now tending
with the utmost care the man who had tried to murder him, and who of all
men in the world, stood most in the way of the accomplishment of his
desires.
He could not hide from himself the fact that he hated the sick man, even
though he hoped, or tried to hope for his recovery. He hated him for the
shame and suffering he had brought upon Mary Goddard in the first
instance, for the terrible anxiety he had caused her by his escape and
sudden appearance at her house; he hated him for being what he was, being
also the father of Nellie, and he hated him honestly for his base attempt
upon himself that night. He had good cause to hate him, and perhaps he
was not ashamed of his hatred. To be called upon, however, to return good
for such an accumulated mass of evil was almost too much for his human
nature. It was but a faint satisfaction to think that if he recovered he
was to be sent back to prison. Mr. Juxon did not know that there was
blood upon the man's hands--he had yet to learn that; he would not deign
to mention the assault in the park when he handed him over to the
authorities; the man should simply go back to Portland to suffer the term
of his imprisonment, as soon as he should be well enough to be moved--if
that time ever came. If he died, he should be buried decently in a
nameless grave, "six feet by four, by two," as Thomas Reid would have
said--if he died.
Meanwhile, however, there was yet another consideration which disturbed
the squire's meditations. Mrs. Goddard had a right to know that her
husband was dying and, if she so pleased, she had a right to be at his
bedside. But at the same time it would be necessary so to account for her
presence as not to arouse Doctor Longstreet's suspicions, nor the
comments of Holmes, the butler, and of his brigade in the servants' hall.
It was no easy matter to do this unless Mrs. Goddard were accompanied by
the vicar's wife, the excellent and maternally minded Mrs. Ambrose. To
accomplish this it would be necessary to ask the latter lady to spend a
great part of her time at the Hall in taking care of the wretched
Goddard, who would again be the gainer. But Mrs. Ambrose was as yet
ignorant of the fact that he had escaped from prison; she must be told
then, and an effort must be made to elicit her sympathy. Perhaps she and
the vicar would come and stop a few days, thought the squire. Mrs.
Goddard might then come and go as she pleased. Her presence by her
husband's bedside would then be accounted for on the ground of her
charitable disposition.
While Mr. Juxon was revolving these things in his mind he watched the
doctor and John who were doing what was necessary for the sick man.
Goddard moaned helplessly with every breath, in a loud, monotonous tone,
very wearing to the nerves of those who heard it.
"There is little to be done," said Doctor Longstreet at last. "He must be
fed--alternately a little beef tea and then a little weak brandy and
water. We must try and keep the system up. That is his only chance. I
will prescribe something and send it back by the groom."
"You are not going to leave us to-night?" exclaimed the squire in alarm.
"Must. Very sorry. Bad case of diphtheria in town--probably die before
morning, unless I get there in time--I would not have come here for any
one else. I will certainly be here before ten--he will live till then, I
fancy, and I don't believe there will be any change in his condition.
Good-night, Mr. Juxon--beef tea and brandy every quarter of an hour.
Good-night, Mr.--" he turned to John.
"Short," said John. "Good-night, doctor."
"Ah--I remember--used to be with Mr. Ambrose--yes. Delighted to meet you
again, Mr. Short--good-night."
The doctor vanished, before either the squire or John had time to follow
him. His departure left an unpleasant sense of renewed responsibility in
the squire's mind.
"You had better go to bed, Mr. Short," he said kindly. "I will sit up
with him."
But John would not hear of any such arrangement; he insisted upon bearing
his share of the watching and stoutly refused to leave the squire alone.
There was a large dressing-room attached to the room where Goddard was
lying; the squire and John finally agreed to watch turn and turn about,
one remaining with Goddard, while the other rested upon the couch in the
dressing-room aforesaid. The squire insisted upon taking his watch first,
and John lay down. It was past midnight and he was very tired, but it
seemed impossible to sleep with the sound of that loud, monotonous
mumbling perpetually in his ears. It was a horrible night, and John Short
never forgot it so long as he lived. Years afterwards he could not enter
the room where Goddard had lain without fancying he heard that perpetual
groaning still ringing in his ears. For many hours it continued unabated
and unchanging, never dying away to silence nor developing to articulate
words. From time to time John could hear the squire's step as he moved
about, administering the nourishment prescribed. If he had had the
slightest idea of Mr. Juxon's state of mind he would hardly have left him
even to rest awhile in the next room.
Fortunately the squire's nerves were solid. A firm constitution hardened
by thirty years of seafaring and by the consistent and temperate
regularity which was part of his character, had so toughened his natural
strength as to put him almost beyond the reach of mortal ills; otherwise
he must have broken down under the mental strain thus forced upon him. It
is no light thing to do faithfully the utmost to save a man one has good
reason to hate, and whose death would be an undoubted blessing to every
one who has anything to do with him. Walter Goddard was to Charles Juxon
at once an enemy, an obstacle and a rival; an enemy, for having attempted
his life, an obstacle, because while he lived he prevented the squire
from marrying Mrs. Goddard and a rival because she had once loved him and
for the sake of that love was still willing to sacrifice much for him.
And yet the very fact that she had loved him made it easier to be kind to
him; it seemed to the squire that, after all, in taking care of Goddard
he was in some measure serving her, too, seeing that she would have done
the same thing herself could she have been present.
Yet there was something very generous and large-hearted in the way
Charles Juxon did his duty by the sick man. There are people who seem by
nature designed to act heroic parts in life, whose actions habitually
take an heroic form, and whose whole character is of another stamp from
that of average humanity. Of such people much is expected, because they
seem to offer much; no one is surprised to hear of their making great
sacrifices, no one is astonished if they exhibit great personal courage
in times of danger. Very often they are people of large vanity, whose
chiefest vanity is not to seem vain; gifted with great powers and always
seeking opportunities of using them, holding high ideas upon most
subjects but rarely conceiving themselves incapable of attaining to any
ideal they select for their admiration; brave in combat partly from real
courage, partly, as I have often heard officers say of a dandy soldier in
the ranks, because they are too proud to run away; but, on the whole,
heroic by temperament and in virtue of a singular compound of pride,
strength and virtue, often accomplishing really great things. They are
almost always what are called striking people, for their pride and their
strength generally attract attention by their magnitude, and something in
their mere appearance distinguishes them from the average mass.
But Charles Juxon did not in any way belong to this type, any more than
the other persons who found themselves concerned in the events which
culminated in Goddard's illness. He was a very simple man whose pride was
wholly unconscious, who did not believe himself destined to do anything
remarkable, who regarded his own personality as rather uninteresting and
who, had he been asked about himself, would have been the first to
disclaim any sentiments of the heroic kind. With very little imagination,
he possessed great stability himself and great belief in the stability of
things in general, a character of the traditional kind known as
"northern," though it would be much more just to describe it as the
"temperate" or "central" type of man. Wherever there is exaggeration in
nature, there is exaggerated imagination in man. The solid and
unimaginative part of the English character is undeniably derived from
the Angles or from the Flemish; it is morally the best part, but it is by
all odds the least interesting--it is found in the type of man belonging
to the plains in a temperate zone, who differs in every respect from the
real northman, his distant cousin and hereditary enemy. If Charles Juxon
was remarkable for anything it was for his modesty and reticence, in a
word, for his apparent determination not to be remarkable at all.
And now, in the extremest anxiety and difficulty, his character served
him well; for he unconsciously refused to allow to himself that his
position was extraordinary or his responsibility greater than he was
able to bear. He disliked intensely the idea of being put forward or
thrust into a dramatic situation, and he consequently failed signally to
fulfil the dramatic necessities. There was not even a struggle in his
heart between the opposite possibilities of letting Goddard die, by
merely relaxing his attention, and of redoubling his care and bringing
about his recovery. He never once asked himself, after the chances of the
patient surviving the fever were stated, whether he would not be
justified in sending for some honest housewife from the village to take
care of the tramp instead of looking to his wants himself. He simply did
his best to save the man's life, without hesitation, without suspecting
that he was doing anything extraordinary, doing, as he had always done,
the best thing that came in his way according to the best of his ability.
He could not wholly suppress the reflection that much good might ensue
from Goddard's death, but the thought never for a moment interfered with
his efforts to save the convict alive.
But John lay in the next room, kept awake by the sick man's perpetual
groaning and by the train of thought which ran through his brain. There
were indeed more strange things than his philosophy could account for,
but the strangest of all was that the squire should know who the tramp
was; he must know it, John thought, since he knew all about him, his
former love for Mrs. Goddard and his recent presence in the
neighbourhood. The young man's curiosity was roused to its highest pitch,
and he longed to know more. He at once guessed that there must have
been much intimate confidence between Mr. Juxon and Mrs. Goddard; he
suspected moreover that there must be some strange story connected with
her, something which accounted for the peculiar stamp of a formerly
luxurious life which still clung to her, and which should explain her
residence in Billingsfield But John was very far from suspecting the real
truth.
His mind was restless and the inaction became intolerable to him. He rose
at last and went again into the room where his friend was watching. Mr.
Juxon sat by the bedside, the very picture of patience, one leg crossed
over the other and his hands folded together upon his knee, his face
paler than usual but perfectly calm, his head bent a little to one side
and his smooth hair, which had been slightly ruffled in the encounter in
the park, as smooth as ever. It was a very distinctive feature of him; it
was part of the sleek and spotless neatness which Mrs. Ambrose so much
admired.
"It is my turn, now," said John. "Will you lie down for a couple of
hours?"
The squire rose. Being older and less excitable than John, he was
beginning to feel the need of rest. People who have watched often by the
sick know how terribly long are those hours of the night between three
o'clock and dawn; long always, but seeming interminable when one is
obliged to listen perpetually to a long-drawn, inarticulate moaning, a
constant effort to speak which never results in words.
"You are very good," said Mr. Juxon, quietly. "If you will give him the
things from time to time, I will take a nap."
With that he went and lay down upon the couch, and in three minutes was
as sound asleep as though he were in bed. John sat by the sick man and
looked at his flushed features and listened to the hard-drawn breath
followed each time by that terrible, monotonous, mumbling groan.
It might have been three-quarters of an hour since the squire had gone to
sleep when John thought he saw a change in Goddard's face; it seemed to
him that the flush subsided from his forehead, very slowly, leaving only
a bright burning colour in his cheeks. His eyes seemed suddenly to grow
clearer and a strange look of intelligence came into them; his whole
appearance was as though illuminated by a flash of some light different
from that of the candles which burned upon the table. John rose to his
feet and came and looked at him. The groaning suddenly ceased and
Goddard's eyelids, which had been motionless for hours, moved naturally.
He appeared to be observing John's face attentively.
"Where is the squire?" he asked quite naturally--so naturally that John
was startled.
"Asleep in the next room," replied the latter.
"I did not kill him after all," said Goddard, turning himself a little as
though to be more at his ease.
"No," answered John. "He is not hurt at all. Can you tell me who you
are?" For his life, he could not help asking the question. It seemed so
easy to find out who the fellow was, now that he could speak
intelligibly. But Goddard's face contracted suddenly, in a hideous smile.
"Don't you wish you knew?" he said roughly. "But I know you, my boy, I
know you--ha! ha! There's no getting away from you, my boy, is there?"
"Who am I?" asked John in astonishment.
"You are the hangman," said Goddard. "I know you very well. The hangman
is always so well dressed. I say, old chap, turn us off quick, you
know--no fumbling about the bolt. Look here--I like your face," he
lowered his voice--"there are nearly sixty pounds in my right-hand
trouser pocket--there are--Mary--ah--gave--M--a--"
Again his eyes fixed themselves and the moaning began and continued. John
was horror-struck and stood for a moment gazing at his face, over which
the deep flush had spread once more, seeming to obliterate all appearance
of intelligence. Then the young man put his hand beneath Goddard's head
and gently replaced him in his former position, smoothing the pillows,
and giving him a little brandy. He debated whether or not he should call
the squire from his rest to tell him what had happened, but seeing that
Goddard had now returned to his former state, he supposed such moments of
clear speech were to be expected from time to time. He sat down again,
and waited; then after a time he went to the window and looked anxiously
for the dawn. It seemed an intolerably long night.
But the day came at last and shed a ghastly grey tinge upon the
sick-room, revealing as it were the outlines of all that was bad to look
at, which the warm yellow candle-light had softened with a kindlier
touch. John accidentally looked at himself in the mirror as he passed and
was startled at his own pale face; but the convict, labouring in the
ravings of his fever, seemed unconscious of the dawning day; he was not
yet exhausted and his harsh voice never ceased its jarring gibber. John
wondered whether he should ever spend such a night again, and shuddered
at the recollection of each moment.
The daylight waked the squire from his slumbers, however, and before the
sun was up he came out of the dressing-room, looking almost as fresh as
though nothing had happened to him in the night. Accustomed for years to
rise at all hours, in all weathers, unimpressionable, calm and strong, he
seemed superior to the course of events.
"Well, Mr. Short, you allowed me a long nap. You must be quite worn out,
I should think. How is the patient?"
John told what had occurred.
"Took you for the hangman, did he?" said the squire. "I wonder why--but
you say he asked after me very sensibly?"
"Quite so. It was when I asked him his own name, that he began raving
again," answered John innocently.
"What made you ask him that?" asked Mr. Juxon, who did not seem pleased.
"Curiosity," was John's laconic answer.
"Yes--but I fancy it frightened him. If I were you I would not do it
again, if he has a lucid moment. I imagine it was fright that made him
delirious in the first instance."
"All right," quoth John. "I won't." But he made his own deductions. The
squire evidently knew who he was, and did not want John to know, for some
unexplained reason. The young man wondered what the reason could be; the
mere name of the wretched man was not likely to convey any idea to his
mind, for it was highly improbable that he had ever met him before his
conviction. So John departed to his own room and refreshed himself with
a tub, while the squire kept watch by daylight.
It was not yet eight o'clock when Holmes brought a note from the vicar,
which Mr. Juxon tore open and read with anxious interest.
"MY DEAR MR. JUXON--I received your note late last night, but I judged it
better to answer this morning, not wishing to excite suspicion by sending
to you at so late an hour. The intelligence is indeed alarming and you
will, I daresay, understand me, when I tell you that I found it necessary
to communicate it to Mrs. Ambrose--"
The squire could not refrain from smiling at the vicar's way of putting
the point; but he read quickly on.
"She however--and I confess my surprise and gratification--desires to
accompany me to the Hall this morning, volunteering to take all possible
care of the unfortunate man. As she has had much experience in visiting
the sick, I fancy that she will render us very valuable assistance in
saving his life. Pray let me know if the plan has your approval, as it
may be dangerous to lose time.--Yours sincerely,
"AUGUSTIN AMBROSE."
Mr. Juxon was delighted to find that the difficult task of putting Mrs.
Ambrose in possession of the facts of the case had been accomplished in
the ordinary, the very ordinary, course of events by her own
determination to find out what was to be known. In an hour she might be
at Goddard's bedside, and Mrs. Goddard would be free to see her husband.
He despatched a note at once and redoubled his attentions to the sick man
whose condition, however, showed no signs of changing.