“I could not possibly bring him in,” returned the squire looking at her again. “Excuse me, Mrs. Goddard — I don’t mean to be inquisitive you know, but — I always want to be of any use.”
She looked at him inquiringly.
“I mean, to be frank, I am afraid that something is giving you trouble. I have noticed it for some time. You know, if I can be of any use, if I can help you in any way — you have only to say the word.”
Again she looked at him. She did not know why it was so, but the genuinely friendly tone in which he made the offer touched her. She was surprised, however; she could not understand why he should think she was in trouble, and indeed she was in no greater distress than she had suffered during the greater part of the last three years.
“You are very kind, Mr. Juxon. But there is nothing the matter — I have a headache.”
“Oh,” said the squire, “I beg your pardon.” He looked away and seemed embarrassed.
“You have done too much already,” said Mrs. Goddard, fearing that she had not sufficiently acknowledged his offer of assistance.
“I cannot do too much. That is impossible,” he said in a tone of conviction. “I have very few friends, Mrs. Goddard, and I like to think that you are one of the best of them.”
“I am sure — I don’t know what to say, Mr. Juxon,” she answered, somewhat startled by the directness of his speech. “I am sure you have always been most kind, and I hope you do not think me ungrateful.”
“I? You? No — dear me, please never mention it! The fact is, Mrs. Goddard—” he stopped and smoothed Ms hair. “What particularly disagreeable weather,” he remarked irrelevantly, looking out of the window at the driving sleet.
Mrs. Goddard looked down and slowly stirred her tea. She was pale and her hand trembled a little, but no one could have guessed that she was suffering any strong emotion. Mr. Juxon looked towards the window, and the grey light of the winter’s afternoon fell coldly upon his square sunburned face and carefully trimmed beard. He was silent for a moment, and then, still looking away from his companion, he continued in a less hesitating tone.
“The fact is, I have been thinking a great deal of late,” he said, “and it has struck me that your friendship has grown to be the most important thing in my life.” He paused again and turned his hat round upon his knee. Still Mrs. Goddard said nothing, and as he did not look at her he did not perceive that she was unnaturally agitated.
“I have told you what my life has been,” he continued presently. “I have been a sailor. I made a little money. I finally inherited my uncle’s estate here. I will tell you anything else you would like to ask — I don’t think I ever did anything to conceal. I am forty-two years old. I have about five thousand a year and I am naturally economical. I would like to make you a proposal — a very respectful proposal, Mrs. Goddard—”
Mrs. Goddard uttered a faint exclamation of surprise and fell back in her chair, staring with wide eyes at the squire, her cheeks very pale and her lips white. He was too much absorbed in what he was saying to notice the short smothered ejaculation, and he was too much embarrassed to look at her.
“Mrs. Goddard,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “will you marry me?”
He was not prepared for the result of his speech. He had pondered it for some time and had come to the conclusion that it was best to say as little as possible and to say it plainly. It was an honourable proposal of marriage from a man in middle life to a lady he had known and respected for many months; there was very little romance about it; he did not intend that there should be any. As soon as he had spoken he turned his head and looked to her for his answer. Mrs. Goddard had clasped her small white hands over her face and had turned her head away from him against the cushion of the high backed chair. The squire felt very uncomfortable in the dead silence, broken only by the sleet driving against the window panes with a hissing, rattling sound, and by the singing of the tea-kettle. For some seconds, which to Juxon seemed like an eternity, Mrs. Goddard did not move. At last she suddenly dropped her hands and looked into the squire’s eyes. He was startled by the ashen hue of her face.
“It is impossible,” she said, shortly, in broken tones. But the squire was prepared for some difficulties.
“I do not see the impossibility,” he said quite calmly. “Of course,
I would not press you for an answer, my dear Mrs. Goddard. I am afraid
I have been very abrupt, but I will go away, I will leave you to
consider—”
“Oh no, no!” cried the poor lady in great distress. “It is quite impossible — I assure you it is quite, quite impossible!”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Juxon, who saw that she was deeply moved, but was loath to abandon the field without a further struggle. “I am not a very young man, it is true — but I am not a very old one either. You, my dear Mrs. Goddard, have been a widow for some years—”
“I?” cried Mrs. Goddard with a wild hysterical laugh. “I! Oh God of mercy! I wish I were.” Again she buried her face in the cushion. Her bosom heaved violently.
The squire started as though he had been struck, and the blood rushed to his brown face so that the great veins on his temples stood out like cords.
“Did I — did I understand you to say that — your husband is living?” he asked in a strong, loud voice, ringing with emotion.
Mrs. Goddard moved a little and seemed to make a great effort to speak.
“Yes,” she said very faintly. The squire rose to his feet and paced the room in terrible agitation.
“But where?” he asked, stopping suddenly in his walk. “Mrs. Goddard, I think I have a right to ask where he is — why you have never spoken of him?”
By a supreme effort the unfortunate lady raised herself from her seat supporting herself upon one hand, and faced the squire with wildly staring eyes.
“You have a right to know,” she said. “He is in Portland — sentenced to twelve years hard labour for forgery.”
She said it all, to the end, and then fell back into her chair. But she did not hide her face this time. The fair pathetic features were quite motionless and white, without any expression, and her hands lay with the palms turned upwards on her knees.
Charles James Juxon was a man of few words, not given to using strong language on any occasion. But he was completely overcome by the horror of the thing. He turned icy cold as he stood still, rooted to the spot, and he uttered aloud one strong and solemn ejaculation, more an invocation than an oath, as though he called on heaven to witness the misery he looked upon. He gazed at the colourless, inanimate face of the poor lady and walked slowly to the window. There he stood for fully five minutes, motionless, staring out at the driving sleet.
Mrs. Goddard had fainted away, but it did not occur to the squire to attempt to recall her to her senses. It seemed merciful that she should have lost consciousness even for a moment. Indeed she needed no help, for in a few minutes she slowly opened her eyes and closed them, then opened them again and saw Mr. Juxon’s figure darkening the window against the grey light.
“Mr. Juxon,” she said faintly, “come here, please.”
The squire started and turned. Then he came and sat down beside her. His face was very stern and grave, and he said nothing.
“Mr. Juxon,” said Mrs. Goddard, speaking in a low voice, but with far more calm than he could have expected, “you have a right to know my story. You have been very kind to me, you have made an honourable offer to me, you have said you were my friend. I ought to have told you before. If I had had any idea of what was passing in your mind, I would have told you, cost what it might.”
Mr. Juxon gravely bowed his head. She was quite right, he thought. He had a right to know all. With all his kind-heartedness he was a stern man by nature.
“Yes,” continued Mrs. Goddard, “you have every right to know. My husband,” her voice trembled, “was the head of an important firm in London. I was the only child of his partner. Not long aft
er my father’s death I married Mr. Goddard. He was an extravagant man of brilliant tastes. I had a small fortune of my own which my father had settled upon me, independent of his share in the firm. My guardians, of whom my husband was one, advised me to leave my father’s fortune in the concern. When I came of age, a year after my marriage, I agreed to do it. My husband — I never knew it till long afterwards — was very rash. He speculated on the Exchange and tampered with the deposits placed in his hands. We lived in great luxury. I knew nothing of his affairs. Three years ago, after we had been married nearly ten years, the firm failed. It was a fraudulent bankruptcy. My husband fled but was captured and brought back. It appeared that at the last moment, in the hope of retrieving his position and saving the firm, he had forged the name of one of his own clients for a large amount. We had a country place at Putney which he had given to me. I sold it, with all my jewels and most of my possessions. I would have given up everything I possessed, but I thought of Nellie — poor little Nellie. The lawyers assured me that I ought to keep my own little fortune. I kept about five hundred a year. It is more than I need, but it seemed very little then. The lawyer who conducted the defence, such as it was, advised me to go abroad, but I would not. Then he spoke of Mr. Ambrose, who had educated his son, and gave me a note to him. I came here and I told Mr. Ambrose my whole story. I only wanted to be alone — I thought I did right—”
Her courage had sustained her so far, but it had been a great effort. Her voice trembled and broke and at last the tears began to glisten in her eyes.
“Does Nellie know?” asked the squire, who had sat very gravely by her side, but who was in reality deeply moved.
“No — she thinks he — that he is dead,” faltered Mrs. Goddard. Then she fairly burst into tears and sobbed passionately, covering her face and rocking herself from side to side.
“My dear friend,” said Mr. Juxon very kindly and laying one hand upon her arm, “pray try and calm yourself. Forgive me — I beg you to forgive me for having caused you so much pain—”
“Do you still call me a friend?” sobbed the poor lady.
“Indeed I do,” quoth the squire stoutly. And he meant it. Mrs. Goddard dropped her hands and stared into the fire through her falling tears.
“I think you behaved very honourably — very generously,” continued Mr. Juxon, who did not know precisely how to console her, and indeed stood much in need of consolation himself. “Perhaps I had better leave you — you are very much agitated — you must need rest — would you not rather that I should go?”
“Yes — it is better,” said she, still staring at the fire. “You know all about me now,” she added in a tone of pathetic regret. The squire rose to his feet.
“I hope,” he said with some hesitation, “that this — this very unfortunate day will not prevent our being friends — better friends than before?”
Mrs. Goddard looked up gratefully through her tears.
“How good you are!” she said softly.
“Not at all — I am not at all good — I only want to be your friend.
Good-bye — G — God bless you!” He seized her hand and squeezed it and then
hurried out of the room. A moment later he was crossing the road with
Stamboul, who was very tired of waiting, bounding before him.
The squire was not a romantic character. He was a strong plain man, who had seen the world and was used to most forms of danger and to a good many forms of suffering. He was kind-hearted and generous, capable of feeling sincere sympathy for others, and under certain circumstances of being deeply wounded himself. He had indeed a far more refined nature than he himself suspected and on this memorable day he had experienced more emotions than he remembered to have felt in the course of many years.
After long debate and after much searching inquiry into his own motives he had determined to offer himself to Mrs. Goddard, and he had accordingly done so in his own straightforward manner. It had seemed a very important action in his life, a very solemn step, but he was not prepared for the acute sense of disappointment which he felt when Mrs. Goddard first said it was impossible for her to accept him, still less had he anticipated the extraordinary story which she had told him, in explanation of her refusal. His ideas were completely upset. That Mrs. Goddard was not a widow after all, was almost as astounding as that she should prove to be the wife of a felon. But Mr. Juxon was no less persuaded that she herself was a perfectly good and noble woman, than he had been before. He felt that he would like to cut the throat of the villain himself; but he resolved that he would more than ever try to be a good friend to Mrs. Goddard.
He walked slowly through the storm towards his house, his broad figure facing the wind and sleet with as much ease as a steamer forging against a head sea. He was perfectly indifferent to the weather; but Stamboul slunk along at his heels, shielding himself from the driving wet snow behind his master’s sturdy legs. The squire was very much disturbed. The sight of his own solemn butler affected him strangely. He stared about the library in a vacant way, as though he had never seen the place before. The realisation of his own calm and luxurious life seemed unnatural, and his thoughts went back to the poor weeping woman he had just left. She, too, had enjoyed all this, and more also. She had probably been richer than he. And now she was living on five hundred a year in one of his own cottages, hiding her shame in desolate Billingsfield, the shame of her husband, the forger.
It was such a hopeless position, the squire thought. No one could help her, no one could do anything for her. For many weeks, revolving the situation in his mind, he had amused himself by thinking how she would look when she should be mistress of the Hall, and wondering whether little Nellie would call him “father,” or merely “Mr. Juxon.” And now, she turned out to be the wife of a forger, sentenced to hard labour in a convict prison, for twelve years. For twelve years — nearly three must have elapsed already. In nine years more Goddard would be out again. Would he claim his wife? Of course — he would come back to her for support. And poor little Nellie thought he was dead! It would be a terrible day when she had to be told. If he only would die in prison! — but men sentenced to hard labour rarely die. They are well cared for. It is a healthy life. He would certainly live through it and come back to claim his wife. Poor Mrs. Goddard! her troubles were not ended yet, though the State had provided her with a respite of twelve years.
The squire sat long in his easy-chair in the great library, and forgot to dress for dinner — he always dressed, even though he was quite alone. But the solemn face of his butler betrayed neither emotion nor surprise when the master of the Hall walked into the dining-room in his knickerbockers.
CHAPTER XII.
WHEN NELLIE CAME home from the vicarage she found her mother looking very ill. There were dark rings under her eyes, and her features were drawn and tear-stained, while the beautiful waves of her brown hair had lost their habitual neatness and symmetry. The child noticed these things, with a child’s quickness, but explained them on the ground that her mother’s headache was probably much worse. Mrs. Goddard accepted the explanation and on the following day Nellie had forgotten all about it; but her mother remembered it long, and it was many days before she recovered entirely from the shock of her interview with the squire. The latter did not come to see her as usual, but on the morning after his visit he sent her down a package of books and some orchids from his hothouses. He thought it best to leave her to herself for a little while; the very sight of him, he argued, would be painful to her, and any meeting with her would be painful to himself. He did not go out of the house, but spent the whole day in his library among his books, not indeed reading, but pretending to himself that he was very busy. Being a strong and sensible man he did not waste time in bemoaning his sorrows, but he thought about them long and earnestly. The more he thought, the more it appeared to him that Mrs. Goddard was the person who deserved pity rather than he himself. His mind dwelt on the terrors of her position in case her husband should return
and claim his wife and daughter when the twelve years were over, and he thought with horror of Nellie’s humiliation, if at the age of twenty she should discover that her father during all these years had not been honourably dead and buried, but had been suffering the punishment of a felon in Portland. That the only attempt he had ever made to enter the matrimonial state should have been so singularly unfortunate was indeed a matter which caused him sincere sorrow; he had thought too often of being married to Mary Goddard to be able to give up the idea without a sigh. But it is due to him to say that in the midst of his own disappointment he thought much more of her sorrows than of his own, a state of mind most probably due to his temperament.
He saw also how impossible it was to console Mrs. Goddard or even to alleviate the distress of mind which she must constantly feel. Her destiny was accomplished in part, and the remainder seemed absolutely inevitable. No one could prevent her husband from leaving his prison when his crime was expiated; and no one could then prevent him from joining his wife and ending his life under her roof. At least so it seemed. Endless complications would follow. Mrs. Goddard would certainly have to leave Billingsfield — no one could expect the Ambroses or the squire himself to associate with a convict forger. Mr. Juxon vaguely wondered whether he should live another nine years to see the end of all this, and he inwardly determined to go to sea again rather than to witness such misery. He could not see, no one could see how things could possibly turn out in any other way. It would have been some comfort to have gone to the vicar, and to have discussed with him the possibilities of Mrs. Goddard’s future. The vicar was a man after his own heart, honest, reliable, charitable and brave; but Mr. Juxon thought that it would not be quite loyal towards Mrs. Goddard if he let any one else know that he was acquainted with her story.
For two days he stayed at home and then he went to see her. To his surprise she received him very quietly, much as she usually did, without betraying any emotion; whereupon he wished that he had not allowed two days to pass without making his usual visit. Mrs. Goddard almost wished so too. She had been so much accustomed to regard the squire as a friend, and she had so long been used to the thought that Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose knew of her past trouble, that the fact of the squire becoming acquainted with her history seemed to her less important, now that it was accomplished, than it seemed to the squire himself. She had long thought of telling him all; she had seriously contemplated doing so when he first came to Billingsfield, and now at last the thing was done. She was glad of it. She was no longer in a false position; he could never again think of marrying her; they could henceforth meet as friends, since he was so magnanimous as to allow their friendship to exist. Her pride had suffered so terribly in the beginning that it was past suffering now. She felt that she was in the position of a suppliant asking only for a quiet resting-place for herself and her daughter, and she was grateful to the people who gave her what she asked, feeling that she had fallen among good Samaritans, whereas in merry England it would have been easy for her to have fallen among priests and Pharisees.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 173