Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Well, sir — it’s this,” said the policeman, running his thumb round the inside of his belt as though to test the pressure, and clearing his throat. “There has been a general order sent down to be on the lookout, sir. So I thought it would be best to take your opinion.”

  “My opinion,” said the squire with great gravity, “is that if you are directed to be on the look-out, you should be on the look-out; by all means. What are you to be on the look-out for?”

  “In point of fact, sir,” said the constable, lowering his voice, “we are informed that a criminal has escaped from Portland. I never heard of a convict getting out of that strong’old o’ the law, sir, and I would like to have your opinion upon it.”

  “But if you are informed that some one has escaped,” remarked the squire, “you had better take it for granted that it is true.”

  “Juss so, sir. But the circumstances wasn’t communicated to us, sir; so we don’t know.”

  Mr. Gall paused, and the squire smoothed his hair a little.

  “Well, Gall,” said Mr. Juxon, “have you any reason for believing that this escaped convict is likely to come this way?”

  “Well sir, there is some evidence,” answered the policeman, mysteriously.

  “Leastways what seems like evidence to me, sir.”

  “Of what kind?” the squire fixed his quiet eyes on Mr. Gall’s face.

  “His name, sir. The name of the convict. There is a party of that name residin’ here.”

  The squire suddenly guessed what was coming, or at least a possibility of it crossed his mind. If Mr. Gall had been a more observant man he would have seen that Mr. Juxon grew a shade paler and changed one leg over the other as he sat. But in that moment he had time to nerve himself for the worst.

  “And what is the name, if you please?” he asked calmly.

  “The name in the general orders is Goddard, sir — Walter Goddard. He was convicted of forgery three years ago, sir, a regular bad lot. But discretion is recommended in the orders, sir, as the business is not wanted to get into the papers.”

  The squire was ready. If Gall did not know that Mary Goddard was the wife of the convict Walter, he should certainly not find it out. In any other country of Europe that would have been the first fact communicated to the local police. Very likely, thought Mr. Juxon, nobody knew it.

  “I do not see,” he said very slowly, “that the fact of there being a Mrs. Goddard residing here in the least proves that she is any relation to this criminal. The name is not so uncommon as that, you know.”

  “Nor I either, sir. In point of fact, sir, I was only thinking. It’s what you may call a striking coincidence, that’s all.”

  “It would have been a still more striking coincidence if his name had been Juxon like mine, or Ambrose like the vicar’s,” said the squire calmly. “There are other people of the name in England, and the local policemen will be warned to be on the lookout. If this fellow was called Juxon instead of Goddard, Gall, would you be inclined to think he was a relation of mine?”

  “Oh no, sir. Ha! ha! Very good sir! Very good indeed! No indeed, sir, and she such a real lady too!”

  “Well then, I do not see that you can do anything more than keep a sharp look-out. I suppose they sent you some kind of description?”

  “Well, yes. There was a kind of a description as you say, sir, but I’m not anyways sure of recognising the party by it. In point of fact, sir, the description says the convict is a fair man.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Neither particular tall, nor yet particular short, sir. Not a very big ‘un nor a very little ‘un, sir. In point of fact, sir, a fair man. Clean shaved and close cropped he is, sir, being a criminal.”

  “I hope you may recognise him by that account,” said the squire, suppressing a smile. “I don’t believe I should.”

  “Well, sir, it does say as he’s a fair man,” remarked the constable.

  “Supposing he blacked his face and passed for a chimney-sweep?” suggested the squire. The idea seemed to unsettle Gall’s views.

  “In that case, sir, I don’t know as I should know him, for certain,” he answered.

  “Probably not — probably not, Gall. And judging from the account they have sent you I don’t think you would be to blame.”

  “Leastways it can’t be said as I’ve failed to carry out superior instructions,” replied Mr. Gall, proudly. “Then it’s your opinion, sir, that I’d better keep a sharp look-out? Did I understand you to say so, sir?”

  “Quite so,” returned the squire with great calmness. “By all means keep a sharp look-out, and be careful to be discreet, as the orders instruct you.”

  “You may trust me for that, sir,” said the policeman, who dearly loved the idea of mysterious importance. “Then I wish you good morning, sir.” He prepared to go.

  “Good morning, Gall — good morning. The butler will give you some ale.”

  Again Mr. Gall passed his thumb round the inside of his belt, testing the local pressure in anticipation of a pint. He made a sort of half-military salute at the door and went out. When the squire was alone he rose from his chair and paced the room, giving way to the agitation he had concealed in the presence of the constable. He was very much disturbed at the news of Goddard’s escape, as well he might be. Not that he was aware that the convict knew of his wife’s whereabouts; he did not even suppose that Goddard could ascertain for some time where she was living, still less that he would boldly present himself in Billingsfield. But it was bad enough to know that the man was again at large. So long as he was safely lodged in prison, Mrs. Goddard was herself safe; but if once he regained his liberty and baffled the police he would certainly end by finding out Mary’s address and there was no telling to what annoyance, to what danger, to what sufferings she might be exposed. Here was a new interest, indeed, and one which promised to afford the squire occupation until the fellow was caught.

  Mr. Juxon knew that he was right in putting the policeman off the track in regard to Mrs. Goddard. He himself was a better detective than Gall, for he went daily to the cottage and if anything was wrong there, was quite sure to discover it. If Goddard ever made his way to Billingsfield it could only be for the purpose of seeing his wife, and if he succeeded in this, Mrs. Goddard could not conceal it from the squire. She was a nervous woman who could not hide her emotions; she would find herself in a terrible difficulty and she would perhaps turn to her friend for assistance. If Mr. Juxon could lay his hands on Goddard, he flattered himself he was much more able to arrest a desperate man than mild-eyed Policeman Gall. He had not been at sea for thirty years in vain, and in his time he had handled many a rough customer. He debated however upon the course he should pursue. As in his opinion it was unlikely that Goddard would find out his wife for some time, and improbable that he would waste such precious time in looking for her, it seemed far from advisable to warn her that the felon had escaped. On the other hand he mistrusted his own judgment; if she were not prepared it was just possible that the man should come upon her unawares, and the shock of seeing him might be very much worse than the shock of being told that he was at large. He might consult the vicar.

  At first, the old feeling that it would be disloyal to Mrs. Goddard even to hint to Mr. Ambrose that he was acquainted with her story withheld him from pursuing such a course. But as he turned the matter over in his mind it seemed to him that since it was directly for her good, he would now be justified in speaking. He liked the vicar and he trusted him. He knew that the vicar had been a good friend to Mrs. Goddard and that he would stand by her in any difficulty so far as he might be able. The real question was how to make sure that the vicar should not tell his wife. If Mrs. Ambrose had the least suspicion that anything unusual was occurring, she would naturally try and extract information from her husband, and she would probably be successful; women, the squire thought, very generally succeed in operations of that kind. But if once Mr. Ambrose could be consulted without arousing his wife’s sus
picions, he was a man to be trusted. Thereupon Mr. Juxon wrote a note to the vicar, saying that he had something of great interest to show him, and begging that, if not otherwise engaged, he would come up to the Hall to lunch. When he had despatched his messenger, being a man of his word, he went into the library to hunt for some rare volume or manuscript which the vicar had not yet seen, and which might account in a spirit of rigid veracity for the excuse he had given. Meanwhile, as he turned over his rare and curious folios he debated further upon his conduct; but having once made up his mind to consult Mr. Ambrose, he determined to tell him boldly what had occurred, after receiving from him a promise of secrecy. The messenger brought back word that the vicar would be delighted to come, and at the hour named the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced the arrival of Strawberry, the old mare, drawing behind her the vicar and his aged henchman, Reynolds, in the traditional vicarage dogcart. A moment later the vicar entered the library.

  “I am very glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose,” said the squire inhospitable tones. “I have something to show you and I have something to say to you.” The two shook hands heartily. Independently of kindred scholarly tastes, they were sympathetic to each other and were always glad to meet.

  “It is just the weather for bookworms,” answered the vicar in cheerful tones. “Dear me, I never come here without envying you and wishing that life were one long rainy afternoon.”

  “You know I am inclined to think I am rather an enviable person,” said Mr. Juxon, slowly passing his hand over his glossy hair and leading his guest towards a large table near the fire. Several volumes lay together upon the polished mahogany. The squire laid his hand on one of them.

  “I have not deceived you,” he said. “That is a very interesting volume. It is the black letter Paracelsus I once spoke of. I have succeeded in getting it at last.”

  “Dear me! What a piece of fortune!” said Mr. Ambrose bending down until his formidable nose almost touched the ancient page.

  “Yes,” said the squire, “uncommonly lucky as usual. Now, excuse my abruptness in changing the subject — I want to consult you upon an important matter.”

  The vicar looked up quickly with that vague, faraway expression which comes into the eyes of a student when he is suddenly called away from contemplating some object of absorbing interest.

  “Certainly,” he said, “certainly — a — by all means.”

  “It is about Mrs. Goddard,” said the squire, looking hard at his visitor.

  “Of course it is between ourselves,” he added.

  The vicar’s long upper lip descended upon its fellow and he bent his rough grey eyebrows, returning Mr. Juxon’s sharp look with interest. He could not imagine what the squire could have to say about Mrs. Goddard, unless, like poor John, he had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her; which appeared improbable.

  “What is it?” he said sharply.

  “I daresay you do not know that I am acquainted with her story,” began

  Mr. Juxon. “Do not be surprised. She saw fit to tell it me herself.”

  “Indeed?” exclaimed the vicar in considerable astonishment. In that case, he argued quickly, Mr. Juxon was not thinking of marrying her.

  “Yes — it is not necessary to go into that,” said Mr. Juxon quickly. “The thing I want to tell you is this — Goddard the forger has escaped—”

  “Escaped?” echoed the vicar in real alarm. “You don’t mean to say so!”

  “Gall the constable came here this morning,” continued Mr. Juxon. “He told me that there were general orders out for his arrest.”

  “How in the world did he get out?” cried the vicar. “I thought nobody was ever known to escape from Portland!”

  “So did I. But this fellow has — somehow. Gall did not know. Now, the question is, what is to be done?”

  “I am sure I don’t know,” returned the vicar, thrusting his hands into his pockets and marching to the window, the wide skirts of his coat seeming to wave with agitation as he walked.

  Mr. Juxon also put his hands into his pockets, but he stood still upon the hearth-rug and looked at the ceiling, softly whistling a little tune, a habit he had in moments of great anxiety. For three or four minutes neither of the two spoke.

  “Would you tell Mrs. Goddard — or not?” asked Mr. Juxon at last.

  “I don’t know,” said the vicar. “I am amazed beyond measure.” He turned and slowly came back to the table.

  “I don’t know either,” replied the squire. “That is precisely the point upon which I think we ought to decide. I have known about the story for some time, but I did not anticipate that it would take this turn.”

  “I think,” said Mr. Ambrose after another pause, “I think that if there is any likelihood of the fellow finding her out, we ought to tell her. If not I think we had better wait until he is caught. He is sure to be caught, of course.”

  “I entirely agree with you,” returned Mr. Juxon. “Only — how on earth are we to find out whether he is likely to come here or not? If any one knows where he is, he is as good as caught already. If nobody knows, we can certainly have no means of telling.”

  The argument was unanswerable. Again there was a long silence. The vicar walked about the room in great perplexity.

  “Dear me! Dear me! What a terrible business!” he repeated, over and over again.

  “Do you think we are called upon to do anything?” he asked at last, stopping in his walk immediately in front of Mr. Juxon.

  “If we can do anything to save Mrs. Goddard from annoyance or further trouble, we are undoubtedly called upon to do it,” replied the squire. “If that wretch finds her out, he will try to break into the cottage at night and force her to give him money.”

  “Do you really think so? Dear me! I hope he will do no such thing!”

  “So do I, I am sure,” said Mr. Juxon, with a grim smile. “But if he finds her out, he will. I almost think it would be better to tell her in any case.”

  “But think of the anxiety she will be in until he is caught!” cried the vicar. “She will be expecting him every day — every night. Well — I suppose we might tell Gall to watch the house.”

  “That will not do,” said Mr. Juxon firmly. “It would be a great injustice to allow Gall or any of the people in the village to know anything about her. She might be subjected to all kinds of insult. You know what these people are. A ‘real lady,’ who is at the same time the wife of a convict, is a thing they can hardly understand. I am sure both you and I secretly flatter ourselves that we have shown an unusual amount of good sense and generosity in understanding her position as we do.”

  “I daresay we do,” said the vicar with a smile. He was too honest to deny it. “Indeed it took me some time to get used to the idea myself.”

  “Precisely. The village people would never get used to it. Of all things to do, we should certainly not tell Gall, who is an old woman and a great chatterbox. I wish you could have heard his statement this morning — it filled me with admiration for the local police, I assure you. But — I think it would be better to tell her. I did not think so before you came, I believe. But talking always brings the truth out.”

  The vicar hesitated, rising and falling upon his toes and heels in profound thought, after his manner.

  “I daresay you are right,” he said at last. “Will you do it? Or shall I?”

  “I would rather not,” said the squire, thoughtfully. “You know her better, you have known her much longer than I.”

  “But she will ask me where I heard of it,” objected the vicar. “I shall be obliged to say that you told me. That will be as bad as though you told her yourself.”

  “You need not say you heard it from me. You can say that Gall has received instructions to look out for Goddard. She will not question you any further, I am sure.”

  “I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Juxon,” said the vicar.

  “I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Ambrose,” said the squire, almost
in the same breath. Both laughed a little.

  “Not that I would not do it at once, if necessary,” added Mr. Juxon.

  “Or I, in a moment,” said Mr. Ambrose.

  “Of course,” returned Mr. Juxon. “Only it is such a very delicate matter, you see.”

  “Dear me, yes,” murmured the vicar, “a most delicate matter. Poor lady!”

  “Poor lady!” echoed the squire. “But I suppose it must be done.”

  “Oh yes — we cannot do otherwise,” answered Mr. Ambrose, still hoping that his companion would volunteer to perform the disagreeable office.

  “Well then, will you — will you do it?” asked Mr. Juxon, anxious to have the matter decided.

  “Why not go together?” suggested the vicar.

  “No,” said Mr. Juxon firmly. “It would be an intolerable ordeal for the poor woman. I think I see your objection. Perhaps you think that Mrs. Ambrose—”

  “Exactly, Mrs. Ambrose,” echoed the vicar with a grim smile.

  “Oh precisely — then I will do it,” said the squire. And he forthwith did, and was very much surprised at the result.

  CHAPTER XV.

  IT WAS LATE in the afternoon when Mr. Juxon walked down towards the cottage, accompanied by the vicar. In spite of their mutual anxiety to be of service to Mrs. Goddard, when they had once decided how to act they had easily fallen into conversation about other matters, the black letter Paracelsus had received its full share of attention and many another rare volume had been brought out and examined. Neither the vicar nor his host believed that there was any hurry; if Goddard ever succeeded in getting to Billingsfield it would not be to-day, nor to-morrow either.

  The weather had suddenly changed; the east was already clear and over the west, where the sun was setting in a fiery mist, the huge clouds were banked up against the bright sky, fringed with red and purple, but no longer threatening rain or snow. The air was sharp and the plentiful mud in the roads was already crusted with a brittle casing of ice.