The squire took leave of Mr. Ambrose at the turning where the road led into the village and then walked back to the cottage. Even his solid nerves were a little unsettled at the prospect of the interview before him; but he kept a stout heart and asked for Mrs. Goddard in his usual quiet voice. Martha told him that Mrs. Goddard had a bad headache, but on inquiry found that she would see the squire. He entered the drawing-room softly and went forward to greet her; she was sitting in a deep chair propped by cushions.
Mary Goddard had spent a miserable day. The grey morning light seemed to reveal her troubles and fears in a new and more terrible aspect. During the long hours of darkness it seemed as though those things were mercifully hidden which the strong glare of day must inevitably reveal, and when the night was fairly past she thought all the world must surely know that Walter Goddard had escaped and that his wife had seen him. Hourly she expected a ringing at the bell, announcing the visit of a party of detectives on his track; every sound startled her and her nerves were strung to such a pitch that she heard with supernatural acuteness. She had indeed two separate causes for fear. The one was due to her anxiety for Goddard’s safety; the other to her apprehensions for Nellie. She had long determined that at all hazards the child must be kept from the knowledge of her father’s disgrace, by being made to believe in his death. It was a falsehood indeed, but such a falsehood as may surely be forgiven to a woman as unhappy as Mary Goddard. It seemed monstrous that the innocent child, who seemed not even to have inherited her father’s looks or temper, should be brought up with the perpetual sense of her disgrace before her, should be forced to listen to explanations of her father’s crimes and tutored to the comprehension of an inherited shame. From the first Mary Goddard had concealed the whole matter from the little girl, and when Walter was at last convicted, she had told her that her father was dead. Dead he might be, she thought, before twelve years were out, and Nellie would be none the wiser. In twelve years from the time of his conviction Nellie would be in her twenty-first year; if it were ever necessary to tell her, it would be time enough then, for the girl would have at least enjoyed her youth, free of care and of the horrible consciousness of a great crime hanging over her head. No child could grow up in such a state as that implied. No mind could develop healthily under the perpetual pressure of so hideous a secret; from her earliest childhood her impressions would be warped, her imagination darkened and her mental growth stunted. It would be a great cruelty to tell her the truth; it was a great mercy to tell her the falsehood. It was no selfish timidity which had prompted Mary Goddard, but a carefully weighed consideration for the welfare of her child.
If now, within these twenty-four hours, Nellie should discover who the poor tramp was, who had frightened her so much on the previous evening, all this would be at an end. The child’s life would be made desolate for ever. She would never recover from the shock, and to injure lovely Nellie so bitterly would be worse to Mary Goddard than to be obliged to bear the sharpest suffering herself. For, from the day when she had waked to a comprehension of her husband’s baseness, the love for her child had taken in her breast the place of the love for Walter.
She did not think connectedly; she did not realise her fears; she was almost wholly unstrung. But she had procured the fifty pounds her husband required and she waited for the night with a dull hope that all might yet be well — as well as anything so horrible could be. If only her husband were not caught in Billingsfield it would not be so bad, perhaps. And yet it may be that her wisest course would have been to betray him that very night. Many just men would have said so; but there are few women who would do it. There are few indeed, so stonyhearted as to betray a man once loved in such a case; and Mary Goddard in her wildest fear never dreamed of giving up the fugitive. She sat all day in her chair, wishing that the day were over, praying that she might be spared any further suffering or that at least it might be spared to her child whom she so loved. She had sent Nellie down to the vicarage with Martha. Mrs. Ambrose loved Nellie better than she loved Nellie’s mother, and there was a standing invitation for her to spend the afternoons at the vicarage. Nellie said her mother had a terrible headache and wanted to be alone.
But when the squire came Mrs. Goddard thought it wiser to see him. She had, of course, no intention of confiding to him an account of the events of the previous night, but she felt that if she could talk to him for half an hour she would be stronger. He was himself so strong and honest that he inspired her with courage. She knew, also, that if she were driven to the extremity of confiding in any one she would choose Mr. Juxon rather than Mr. Ambrose. The vicar had been her first friend and she owed him much; but the squire had won her confidence by his noble generosity after she had told him her story. She said to herself that he was more of a man than the vicar. And now he had come to her at the time of her greatest distress, and she was glad to see him.
Mr. Juxon entered the room softly, feeling that he was in the presence of a sick person. Mrs. Goddard turned her pathetic face towards him and held out her hand.
“I am so glad to see you,” she said, trying to seem cheerful.
“I fear you are ill, Mrs. Goddard,” answered the squire, looking at her anxiously and then seating himself by her side. “Martha told me you had a headache — I hope it is not serious.”
“Oh no — not serious. Only a headache,” she said with a smile so unlike her own that Mr. Juxon began to feel nervous. His resolution to tell her his errand began to waver; it seemed cruel, he thought, to disturb a person who was evidently so ill with a matter so serious. He remembered that she had almost fainted on a previous occasion when she had spoken to him of her husband. She had not been ill then; there was no knowing what the effect of a shock to her nerves might be at present. He sat still in silence for some moments, twisting his hat upon his knee.
“Do not be disturbed about me,” said Mrs. Goddard presently. “It will pass very quickly. I shall be quite well to-morrow — I hope,” she added with a shudder.
“I am very much disturbed about you,” returned Mr. Juxon in an unusually grave tone. Mrs. Goddard looked at him quickly, and was surprised when she saw the expression on his face. He looked sad, and at the same time perplexed.
“Oh, pray don’t be!” she exclaimed as though deprecating further remark upon her ill health.
“I wish I knew,” said the squire with some hesitation, “whether — whether you are really very ill. I mean, of course, I know you have a bad headache, a very bad headache, as I can see. But — indeed, Mrs. Goddard, I have something of importance to say.”
“Something of importance?” she repeated, staring hard at him.
“Yes — but it will keep till to-morrow, if you would rather not hear it now,” he replied, looking at her doubtfully.
“I would rather hear it now,” she answered after some seconds of silence.
Her heart beat fast.
“You were good enough some time ago to tell me about — Mr. Goddard,” began
Mr. Juxon in woeful trepidation.
“Yes,” answered his companion under her breath. Her hands were clasped tightly together upon her knees and her eyes sought the squire’s anxiously and then looked away again in fear.
“Well, it is about him,” continued Mr. Juxon in a gentle voice. “Would you rather put it off? It is — well, rather startling.”
Mrs. Goddard closed her eyes, like a person expecting to suffer some terrible pain. She thought Mr. Juxon was going to tell her that Walter had been captured in the village.
“Mr. Goddard has escaped,” said the squire, making a bold plunge with the whole truth. The sick lady trembled violently, and unclasping her hands laid them upon the arms of her chair as though to steady herself to bear the worse shock to come. But Mr. Juxon was silent. He had told her all he knew.
“Yes,” she said faintly. “Is there anything — anything more?” Her voice was barely audible in the still and dusky room.
“No — except that, of course, there
are orders out for his arrest, all over the country.”
“He has not been arrested yet?” asked Mrs. Goddard. She had expected to hear that he was caught; she thought the squire was trying to break the shock of the news. Her courage rose a little now.
“No, he is not arrested — but I have no doubt he soon will be,” added Mr.
Juxon in a tone intended to convey encouragement.
“How did you hear this?”
“Gall the policeman, told me this morning. I — I am afraid I have something else to confess to you, Mrs. Goddard, I trust you will not—”
“What?” she asked so suddenly as to startle him. Walter might have been heard of in the neighbourhood, perhaps.
“I think I was right,” continued Mr. Juxon. “I hope you will forgive me. It does not seem quite loyal, but I did not know what to do. I consulted the vicar as to whether we should tell you.”
“The vicar? What did he say?” Again Mrs. Goddard felt relieved.
“He quite agreed with me,” answered the squire. “You see we feared that Mr. Goddard might find his way here and come upon you suddenly. We thought you would be terribly pained and startled.”
Mrs. Goddard could almost have laughed at that moment. The excellent man had taken all this trouble in order to save her from the very thing which had already occurred on the previous night. There was a bitter humour in the situation, in the squire’s kind-hearted way of breaking to her that news which she already knew so well, in his willingness to put off telling her until the morrow. What would Mr. Juxon say, could he guess that she had herself already spoken with her husband and had promised to see him again that very night! Forgetting that his last words required an answer, she leaned back in her chair and again folded her hands before her. Her eyes were half closed and from beneath the drooping lids she gazed through the gathering gloom at the squire’s anxious face.
“I hope you think I did right,” said the latter in considerable doubt.
“Quite right. I think you were both very kind to think of me as you did,” said she.
“I am sure, I always think of you,” answered Mr. Juxon simply. “I hope that this thing will have no further consequences. Of course, until we know of Mr. Goddard’s whereabouts we shall feel very anxious. It seems probable that if he can get here unobserved he will do so. He will probably ask you for some money.”
“Do you really think he could get here at all?” asked Mrs. Goddard. She wanted to hear what he would say, for she thought she might judge from his words whether her husband ran any great risk.
“Oh no,” replied the squire. “I think it is very improbable. I fear this news has sadly disturbed you, Mrs. Goddard, but let us hope all may turn out for the best.” Indeed he thought she showed very little surprise, though she had evidently been much moved. Perhaps she had been accustomed to expect that her husband might one day escape. She was ill, too, and her nerves were unstrung, he supposed.
She had really passed through a very violent emotion, but it had not been caused by her surprise, but by her momentary fear for the fugitive, instantly allayed by Mr. Juxon’s explanation. She felt that for to-day at least Walter was safe, and by to-morrow he would be safe out of the neighbourhood. But she reflected that it was necessary to say something; that if she appeared to receive the news too indifferently the squire’s suspicions might be aroused with fatal results.
“It is a terrible thing,” she said presently. “You see I am not at all myself.”
It was not easy for her to act a part. The words were commonplace.
“No,” said Mr. Juxon, “I see you are not.” He on his part, instead of looking for a stronger expression of fear or astonishment, was now only too glad that she should be so calm.
“Would you advise me to do anything?” she asked presently.
“There is nothing to be done,” he answered quickly, glad of a chance to relieve the embarrassment of the situation. “Of course we might put you under the protection of the police but — what is the matter, Mrs. Goddard?” She had started as though in pain.
“Only this dreadful headache,” she said. “Go on please.”
“Well, we might set Gall the policeman to watch your house; but that would be very unpleasant for you. It would be like telling him and all the village people of your situation—”
“Oh don’t! Please don’t!”
“No, certainly not. I think it very unwise. Besides—” he stopped short.
He was about to say that he felt much better able to watch over Mrs.
Goddard himself than Gall the constable could possibly be; but he checked
himself in time.
“Besides — what?” she asked.
“Nothing — Gall is not much of a policeman, that is all. I do not believe you would be any the safer for his protection. But you must promise me, my dear Mrs. Goddard, that if anything occurs you will let me know. I may be of some assistance.”
“Thank you, so much,” said she. “You are always so kind!”
“Not at all. I am very glad if you think I was right to tell you about it.”
“Oh, quite right,” she answered. “And now, Mr. Juxon, I am really not at all well. All this has quite unnerved me—”
“You want me to go?” said the squire smiling kindly as he rose. “Yes, I understand. Well, good-bye, my dear friend — I hope everything will clear up.”
“Good-bye. Thank you again. You always do understand me,” she answered giving him her small cold hand. “Don’t think me ungrateful,” she added, looking up into his eyes.
“No indeed — not that there is anything to be grateful for.”
In a moment more he was gone, feeling that he had done his duty like a man, and that it had not been so hard after all. He was glad it was done, however, and he felt that he could face the vicar with a bold front at their next meeting. He went quickly down the path and crossed the road to his own gate with a light step. As he entered the park he was not aware of a wretched-looking tramp who slouched along the quickset hedge and watched his retreating figure far up the avenue, till he was out of sight among the leafless trees. If Stamboul had been with the squire the tramp would certainly not have passed unnoticed; but for some days the roads had been so muddy that Stamboul had been left behind when Mr. Juxon made his visits to the cottage, lest the great hound should track the mud into the spotless precincts of the passage. The tramp stood still and looked after the squire so long as he could see him, and then slunk off across the wet meadows, where the standing water was now skimmed with ice.
Walter Goddard had spent the day in watching for the squire and he had seen him at last. He had seen him go down the road with the vicar till they were both out of sight, and he had seen him come back and enter the cottage. This proceeding, he argued, betrayed that the squire did not wish to be seen going into Mary’s house by the vicar. The tortuous intelligences of bad men easily impute to others courses which they themselves would naturally pursue. Three words on the previous evening had sufficed to rouse the convict’s jealousy. What he saw to-day confirmed his suspicions. The gentleman in knickerbockers could be no other than the squire himself, of course. He was evidently in the habit of visiting Mary Goddard and he did not wish his visits to be observed by the clergyman, who was of course the vicar or rector of the parish. That proved conclusively in the fugitive’s mind that there was something wrong. He ground his teeth together and said to himself that it would be worth while to run some risk in order to stop that little game, as he expressed it. He had, as he himself had confessed to his wife, murdered one man in escaping; a man, he reflected, could only hang once, and if he had not been taken in the streets of London he was not likely to be caught in the high street of Billingsfield, Essex. It would be a great satisfaction to knock the squire on the head before he went any farther. Moreover he had found a wonderfully safe retreat in the disused vault at the back of the church. He discovered loose stones inside the place which he could pile up against the low hole which ser
ved for an entrance. Probably no one knew that there was any entrance at all — the very existence of the vault was most likely forgotten. It was not a cheerful place, but Goddard’s nerves were excited to a pitch far beyond the reach of supernatural fears. Whatever he might be condemned to feel in the future, his conscience troubled him very little in the present. The vault was comparatively dry and was in every way preferable, as a resting-place for one night, to the interior of a mouldy haystack in the open fields. He did not dare show himself again at the “Feathers” inn, lest he should be held to do the day’s work he had promised in payment for his night in the barn. All that morning and afternoon he had lain hidden in the quickset hedge near the park gate, within sight of the cottage, and he had been rewarded. The food he had taken with him the night before had sufficed him and he had quenched his thirst with rain-water from the ditch. Having seen that the squire went back towards the Hall, Goddard slunk away to his hiding-place to wait for the night. He lay down as best he might, and listened for the hours and half-hours as the church clock tolled them out from the lofty tower above.
Mary Goddard had told him to come later than before, and it was after half-past ten when he tapped upon the shutter of the little drawing-room. All was dark within, and he held his breath as he stood among the wet creepers, listening intently for the sound of his wife’s coming. Presently the glass window inside was opened.
“Is that you?” asked Mary’s voice in a tremulous whisper.
“Yes,” he answered. “Let me in.” Then the shutter was cautiously unfastened and opened a little and in the dim starlight Goddard recognised his wife’s pale face. Her hand went out to him, with something in it.
“There is the money,” she whispered. “Go as quickly as you can. They are looking for you — there are orders out to arrest you.”
Goddard seized her fingers and took the money. She would have withdrawn her hand but he held it firmly.
“Who told you that they were after me?” he asked in a fierce whisper.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 178