While Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose were together in the library downstairs, while
John Short was waking from the short sleep he had enjoyed, and while the
squire was listening in the study to Mr. Booley's graphic account of the
convict's escape, Mrs. Goddard was alone with her husband, watching every
movement and listening intently to every moaning breath he drew.
In the desperate anxiety for his fate, she forgot herself and seemed no
longer to feel fatigue or exhaustion from all she herself had suffered.
She stood long by his bedside, hoping that he might recognise her and yet
fearing the moment when he should recover his senses. Then she noticed
that the morning sun was pouring in through the window and she drew a
curtain across, to shade his eyes from the glare. Whether the sudden
changing of the light affected Goddard, as it does sometimes affect
persons in the delirium of a brain fever, or whether it was only a
natural turn in his condition, she never knew. His expression changed and
acquired that same look of strange intelligence which John Short had
noticed in the night; the flush sank from his forehead and gave place to
a luminous, transparent colour, his eyelids once more moved naturally,
and he looked at his wife as she stood beside him, and recognised her. He
was weaker now than when he had spoken with John Short six hours earlier,
but he was more fully in possession of his faculties for a
brief moment. Mary Goddard trembled and felt her hands turn cold with
excitement.
"Walter, do you know me now?" she asked very softly.
"Yes," he said faintly, and closed his eyes. She laid her hand upon his
forehead; the coldness of it seemed pleasant to him, for a slight smile
flickered over his face.
"You are better, I think," she said again, gazing intently at him.
"Mary--it is Mary?" he murmured, slowly opening his eyes and looking up
to her. "Yes--I know you--I have been dreaming a long time. I'm so
tired--"
"You must not talk," said she. "It will tire you more." Then she gave him
some drink. "Try and sleep," she said in a soothing tone.
"I cannot--oh, Mary, I am very ill."
"But you will get well again--"
Goddard started suddenly, and laid his hand upon her arm with more force
than she suspected he possessed.
"Where am I?" he asked, staring about the room. "Is this your house,
Mary? What became of Juxon?"
"He is not hurt. He brought you home in his arms, Walter, to his own
house, and is taking care of you."
"Good heavens! He will give me up. No, no, don't hold me--I must be
off"
He made a sudden effort to rise, but he was very weak. He fell back
exhausted upon his pillow; his fingers gripped the sheet convulsively,
and his face grew paler.
"Caught--like a rat!" he muttered. Mary Goddard sighed.
Was she to give him hope of escape? Or should she try to calm him now,
and when he was better, break the truth to him? Was she to make him
believe that he was safe for the present, and hold out a prospect of
escape when he should be better, or should she tell him now, once for
all, while he was in his senses, that he was lost? It was a terrible
position. Love she had none left for him, but there was infinite pity
still in her heart and there would be while he breathed. She hesitated
one moment only, and it may be that she decided for the wrong; but it was
her pity that moved her, and not any remnant of love.
"Hush, Walter," she said. "You may yet escape, when you are strong
enough. You are quite safe here, for the present. Mr. Juxon would not
think of giving you up now. By and by--the window is not high, Walter,
and I shall often be alone with you. I will manage it."
"Is that true? Are you cheating me?" cried the wretched man in broken
tones. "No--you are speaking the truth--I know it--God bless you, Mary!"
Again he closed his eyes and drew one or two long deep breaths.
Strange to say, the blessing the miserable convict called down upon her
was sweet to Mary Goddard, sweeter than anything she remembered for a
long time. She had perhaps done wrong in giving him hopes of escaping,
but at least he was grateful to her. It was more than she expected, for
she remembered her last meeting with him, and the horrible ingratitude
he had then shown her. It seemed to her that his heart had been softened
a little; anything was better than that rough indifference he had
affected before. Presently he spoke again.
"Not that it makes much difference now, Mary," he said. "I don't think
there is much left of me."
"Do not say that, Walter," she answered gently. "Rest now. The more you
rest the sooner you will be well again. Try and sleep."
"Sleep--no--I cannot sleep. I have murdered sleep--like Macbeth, Mary,
like Macbeth--Do you remember Macbeth?"
"Hush," said Mary Goddard, endeavouring to calm him, though she turned
pale at his strange quotation. "Hush--"
"That is to say," said the sick man, heedless of her exhortation and
soothing touch, "that is to say, I did not. He was very wide awake, and
if I had not been quick, I should never have got off. Ugh! How damp that
cellar was, that first night. That is where I got my fever. It is fever,
I suppose?" he asked, unable to keep his mind for long in one groove.
"What does the doctor say? Has he been here?"
"Yes. He said you would soon be well; but he said you must be kept very
quiet. So you must not talk, or I will go away."
"Oh Mary, don't go--don't go! It's like--ha! ha! it's quite like old
times, Mary!" He laughed harshly, a hideous, half-delirious laugh.
Mary Goddard shuddered but made a great effort to control herself.
"Yes," she said gently, "it is like old times. Try and think that it is
the old house at Putney, Walter. Do you hear the sparrows chirping, just
as they used to do? The curtains are the same colour, too. You used to
sleep so quietly at the old house. Try and sleep now. Then you will
soon get well. Now, I will sit beside you, but I will not talk any
more--there--are you quite comfortable? A little higher? Yes--so. Go to
sleep."
Her quiet voice soothed him, and her gentle hands made his rest more
easy. She sat down beside him, thinking from his silence that he would
really go to sleep; hoping and yet not hoping, revolving in her mind the
chances of his escape, so soon as he should be strong enough to attempt
it, shuddering at the thought of what his fate must be if he again fell
into the hands of the police. She did not know that a detective was at
that moment in the house, determined to carry her husband away so soon as
the doctor pronounced it possible. Nothing indeed, not even that
knowledge could have added much to the burden of her sorrows as she sat
there, a small and graceful figure with a sad pathetic face, leaning
forward as she sat and gazing drearily at the carpet, where the sunlight
crept in beneath the curtains from the bright world without. It seemed to
her that the turning point in her existence had come, and that this day
must decide all; yet she could not see how it was to be decided, think of
it as she might. One thing stood prominent in her thoughts, and she
delighted to think of it--the generosity of Charles Juxon. From first to
last, from the day when she had frankly told him her story and he had
accepted it and refused to let it bring any difference to his friendship
for her, down to this present time, when after being basely attacked by
her own husband, he had nobly brought the wretch home and was caring
for him as for one of his own blood--through all and in spite of all, the
squire had shown the same unassuming but unfailing generosity. She asked
herself, as she sat beside the sick man, whether there were many like
Charles Juxon in the world. There was the vicar, but the case was very
different. He too had been kind and generous from the first; but he had
not asked her to marry him--she blushed at the thought--he had not loved
her. If Charles Juxon loved her, his generosity to Goddard was all the
greater.
She could not tell whether she loved him, because her ideas were what the
world calls simple, and what, in heaven, would be called good. Her
husband was alive; none the less so because he had been taken away and
separated from her by the law--he was alive, and now was brought face to
face with her again. While he was living, she did not suppose it possible
to love another, for she was very simple. She said to herself truly that
she had a very high esteem for the squire and that he was the best friend
she had in the world; that to lose him would be the most terrible of
imaginable losses; that she was deeply indebted to him, and she even half
unconsciously allowed that if she were free she might marry him. There
was no harm in that, she knew very well. She owed her own husband no
longer either respect or affection, even while she still felt pity for
him. Her esteem at least, she might give to another; nay, she owed it,
and if she had refused Charles Juxon her friendship, she would have
called herself the most ungrateful of women. If ever man deserved
respect, esteem and friendship, it was the squire.
Even in the present anxiety she thought of him, for his conduct seemed
the only bright spot in the gloom of her thoughts; and she sincerely
rejoiced that he had escaped unhurt. Had any harm come to him, she would
have been, if it were possible, more miserable than she now was. But he
was safe and sound, and doing his best to help her--doing more than she
knew, in fact, at that very moment. There was at least something to be
thankful for.
Goddard stirred again, and opened his eyes.
"Mary," he said faintly, "they won't catch me after all."
"No, Walter," said she, humouring him. "Sleep quietly, for no one will
disturb you."
"I am going where nobody can catch me. I am dying--"
"Oh, Walter!" cried Mary Goddard, "you must not speak like that. You will
be better soon. The doctor is expected every moment."
"He had better make haste," said the sick man with something of the
roughness he had shown at their first meetings. "It is no use, Mary. I
have been thinking about it. I have been mad for--for very long, I am
sure. I want to die, Mary. Nobody can catch me if I die--I shall be safe
then. You will be safe too--that is a great thing."
His voice had a strange and meditative tone in it, which frightened his
wife, as she stood close beside him. She could not speak, for her
excitement and fear had the mastery of her tongue.
"I have been thinking about it--I am not good for much, now--Mary--I
never was. It will do some good if I die--just because I shall be out of
the way. It will be the only good thing I ever did for you."
"Oh Walter," cried his wife in genuine distress, "don't--don't!
Think--you must not die so--think of--of the other world, Walter--you
must not die so!"
Goddard smiled faintly--scornfully, his wife thought.
"I daresay I shall not die till to-morrow, or next day--but I will not
live," he said with sudden energy. "Do you understand me, I will not
live! Bah!" he cried, falling back upon his pillow, "the grapes are
sour--I can't live if I would. Oh yes, I know all about that--my sins.
Well, I am sorry for them. I am sorry, Mary. But it is very little
good--people always laugh at--deathbed repentance--"
He stopped and his thoughts seemed wandering. Mary Goddard gave him
something to drink and tried to calm him. But he moved restlessly, though
feebly.
"Softly, softly," he murmured again. "He is coming--close to me. Get
ready--now--no not yet, yes--now. Ugh!" yelled Goddard, suddenly
springing up, his eyes starting from his head. "Ugh! the dog--oh!"
"Hush, Walter," cried his wife, pushing him back. "Hush--no one will hurt
you."
"What--is that you, Mary?" asked the sick man, trembling violently. Then
he laughed harshly. "I was off again. Pshaw! I did not really mean to
hurt him--he need not have set that beast at me. He did not catch me
though--Mary, I am going to die--will you pray for me? You are a good
woman--somebody will hear your prayers, I daresay. Do, Mary--I shall feel
better somehow, though I daresay it is very foolish of me."
"No, Walter--not foolish, not foolish. Would you like me to call Mr.
Ambrose? he is a clergyman--he is in the house."
"No, no. You Mary, you--nobody will hear anybody else's prayers--for
me--for poor me--"
"Try and pray with me, Walter," said Mary Goddard, very quietly. She
seemed to have an unnatural strength given to her in that hour of
distress and horror. She knelt down by the bedside and took his wounded
hand in hers, tenderly, and she prayed aloud in such words as she could
find.
Below, in the study, the detective had just finished telling his tale to
the squire, and the wheels of Doctor Longstreet's dog-cart ground upon
the gravel outside. The two men looked at each other for a moment, and
Mr. Juxon spoke first.
"That is the doctor," said he. "I will ask you to have patience for five
minutes, Mr. Booley. He will give you his opinion. I am still very much
shocked at what you have told me--I had no idea what had happened."
"No--I suppose not," answered Mr. Booley calmly. "If you will ask the
medical man to step in here for one moment, I will explain matters to
him. I don't think he will differ much from me."
"Very well," returned the squire, leaving the room. He went to meet
Doctor Longstreet, intending to warn him of the presence of Mr. Booley,
and meaning to entreat his support for the purpose of keeping Goddard in
the house until he should be recovered. He passed through the library and
exchanged a few words with Mr. Ambrose, explaining that the doctor had
come. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose were sitting on opposite sides of the
fireplace in huge chairs, with a mournful air of resigned expectation
upon their worthy faces. The detective remained alone in the study.
Meanwhile John Short had refreshed himself from his fatigues, and came
down stairs in search of some breakfast. He had recovered from his
excitement and was probably the only one who thought of eating, as he was
also the one least closely concerned in what was occurring. Instead of
going to the library he went to the dining-room, and, seeing no one
about, entered the study from the door which on that side connected the
two rooms. To his surprise he saw Mr. Booley standing before the
fireplace, his hands in his pockets and his feet wide apart. He had not
the least idea who he was.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, staring hard at him.
"Yes," said Mr. Booley, who took him for the physician whom he expected.
"I am George Booley of the detective service. I was expecting you, sir.
There is very little to be said. My time, as I told Mr. Juxon, is very
valuable. I must have Goddard out of the house by to-morrow afternoon at
the latest. Now, doctor, it is of no use your talking to me about fever
and all that--"
John had stood with his mouth open, staring in blank astonishment at the
detective, unable to find words in which to question the man. At last he
got his breath.
"What in the world are you talking about?" he asked slowly. "Are you a
raving lunatic--or what are you?"
"Come, come, doctor," said Mr. Booley in persuasive accents, "none of
that with me, you know. If the man must be moved--why he must, that is
all, and you must make it possible, somehow."
"You are crazy!" exclaimed John. "I am not the doctor, to begin with--"
"Not the doctor!" cried Mr. Booley. "Then who are you? I beg your pardon,
I am sure--"
"I am John Short," said John, quickly, heedless of the fact that his name
conveyed no idea whatever to the mind of the detective. He cared little,
for he began to comprehend the situation, and he fled precipitately into
the library, leaving Mr. Booley alone to wait for the coming of the real
physician. But in the library a fresh surprise awaited him; there he
found Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose seated in solemn silence opposite to each
other. He had not suspected their presence in the house, but he was
relieved to see them--anything was a relief at that moment.
"Mr. Ambrose," he said hurriedly, "there is a detective in the next room
who means to carry off that poor man at once--as he is--sick--dying
perhaps--it must be prevented!"
"A detective!" cried the vicar and his wife in the same breath.
"My dear John," said the vicar immediately afterwards, "where is he? I
will reason with him."
"Augustin," said Mrs. Ambrose with extreme severity, "it is barbarous. I
will go upstairs. If he enters the room it shall be across my body."
"Do, my dear," replied the vicar in great excitement, and not precisely
appreciating the proposition to which he gave so willing an assent.
"Of course I will," said his wife, who had already reached the door. From
which it appears that Mrs. Ambrose was a brave woman. She passed rapidly
up the staircase to Goddard's room, but she paused as she laid her hand
upon the latch. From within she could hear Mary Goddard's voice, praying
aloud, as she had never heard any one pray before. She paused and
listened, hesitating to interrupt the unhappy lady in such a moment.
Moreover, though her goodwill was boundless, she had not any precise
idea how to manage the defence. But as she stood there, the thought that
the detective might at any moment follow her was predominant. The voice
within the room paused for an instant and Mrs. Ambrose entered, raising
one finger to her lips as though expecting that Mary Goddard would speak
to her. But Mary was not looking, and at first did not notice the
intrusion. She knelt by the bedside, her face buried in the coverlet, her
hands clasped and clasping the sick man's wounded hand.
Goddard's face was pale but not deathlike, and his breathing seemed
regular and gentle; but his eyes were almost closed and he seemed not
aware that any one had entered. Mrs. Ambrose was struck by his appearance
which was greatly changed since she had left him half an hour earlier,
his face purple and his harsh moaning continuing unceasingly. She said
to herself that he was probably better. There was all the more reason for
warning Mary Goddard of the new danger that awaited him. She shut the
door and locked it and withdrew the key. At the sound Mary looked
up--then rose to her feet with a sad look of reproach, as though not
wishing to be disturbed. But Mrs. Ambrose came quickly to her side, and
glancing once at Goddard, to see whether he was unconscious, she led her
away from the bed.
"My dear," she said very kindly, but in a voice trembling with
excitement, "I had to come. There are detectives in the house, clamouring
to take him away--but I will protect you--they shall not do it."
Mary Goddard started and her eyes stared wildly at her friend. But
presently the look of resigned sadness returned, and a faint and mournful
smile flickered on her lips.
"I think it is all over," she said. "He is still alive--but he will not
live till they come."
Then she bit her lip tightly, and all the features of her face trembled a
little. The tears would rise spasmodically, though they were only tears
of pity, not of love. Mrs. Ambrose, the severe, the stern, the eternally
vigilant Mrs. Ambrose, sat down by the window; she put her arm about Mary
Goddard's waist and took her upon her knee as though she had been a
little child and laid her head upon her breast, comforting her as best
she could. And their tears flowed down and mingled together, for many
minutes.
But once more the sick man's voice was heard; both women started to their
feet and went to his side.
"Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard! Let me in!" he moaned faintly.
"It is I--here I am, Walter, dear Walter--I am with you," answered Mary,
raising him and putting her arm about his neck, while Mrs. Ambrose
arranged the pillows behind him. He opened his eyes as though with a
great effort.
Some one knocked softly at the door. Mrs. Ambrose left the bedside
quickly and put the key in the lock.
"Who is there?" she asked, before she opened.
"I--John. Please let me in."
Mrs. Ambrose opened and John entered, very pale; she locked the door
again after him. He stood still looking with astonishment at Mrs. Goddard
who still propped the sick man in her arms and hardly noticed him.
"Why--?" he ejaculated and then checked himself, or rather was checked by
Mrs. Ambrose's look. Then he spoke to her in a whisper.
"There is an awful row going on between the doctor and the detective," he
said hurriedly under his breath. "They are coming upstairs and the vicar
and Mr. Juxon are trying to part them--I don't know what they are not
saying to each other--"
"Hush," replied Mrs. Ambrose, "do not disturb him--he was conscious again
just now. This may be the crisis--he may recover. The door is locked--try
and prevent anybody--that is, the detective, from coming in. They will
not dare to break open the door in Mr. Juxon's house."
"But why is Mrs. Goddard here?" asked John unable to control his
curiosity any longer. He did not mean that she should hear, but as she
laid Goddard's head gently upon the pillows, trying to soothe him to rest
again, if rest it were, she looked up and met John's eyes.
"Because he is my husband," said she very quietly.
John laid his hand on Mrs. Ambrose's arm in utmost bewilderment and
looked at her as though to ask if it were true. She nodded gravely.
Before John had time to recover himself from the shock of the news,
footsteps were heard outside, and the loud altercation of angry voices.
John Short leaned his shoulder against the door and put his foot against
it below, expecting an attack.