Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Mr. Juxon — let me go.”

  “Mr. Juxon!” The convict uttered a rough oath. “Your friend Mr. Juxon, eh? He is after me, is he? Tell him—”

  “Hush, hush!” she whispered. “He has no idea you are here—”

  “I should think not,” muttered Walter. “He would not be sneaking in here on the sly to see you if he knew I were about!”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mary. “Oh, Walter, let me go — you hurt me so!”

  He held her fingers as in a vice.

  “Hurt you! I wish I could strangle you and him too! Ha, you thought I was not looking this afternoon when he came! He went to the corner of the road with the parson, and when the parson was out of sight he came back! I saw you!”

  “You saw nothing!” answered his wife desperately. “How can you say so! If you knew how kind he has been, what a loyal gentleman he is, you would not dare to say such things.”

  “You used to say I was a loyal gentleman, Mary,” retorted the convict. “I daresay he is of the same stamp as I. Look here, Mary, if I catch this loyal gentleman coming here any more I will cut his throat — so look out!”

  “You do not mean to say you are going to remain here any longer, in danger of your life?” said Mary in great alarm.

  “Well — a man can only hang once. Give me some more of that bread and cheese, Mary. It was exceedingly good.”

  “Then let me go,” said his wife, trembling with horror at the threat she had just heard.

  “Oh yes. I will let you go. But I will just hold the window open in case you don’t come back soon enough. Look sharp!”

  There was no need to hurry the unfortunate woman. In less than three minutes she returned, bringing a “quartern” loaf and a large piece of cheese. She thrust them out upon the window-sill and withdrew her hand before he could catch it. But he held the window open.

  “Now go!” she said. “I cannot do more for you — for God’s sake go!”

  “You seem very anxious to see the last of me,” he whispered. “I daresay if I am hanged you will get a ticket to see me turned off. Yes — we mention those things rather freely up in town. Don’t be alarmed. I will come back to-morrow night — you had better listen. If you had shown a little more heart, I would have been satisfied, but you are so stony that I think I would like another fifty pounds to-morrow night. Those notes are so deliciously crisp—”

  “Listen, Walter!” said Mary. “Unless you promise to go I will raise an alarm at once. I can face shame again well enough. I will have you — hush! For God’s sake — hush! There is somebody coming!”

  The convict’s quick ear had caught the sound. Instantly he knelt and then lay down at full length upon the ground below the window. It was a fine night and the conscientious Mr. Gall was walking his beat. The steady tramp of his heavy shoes had something ominous in it which struck terror into the heart of the wretched fugitive. With measured tread he came from the direction of the village. Reaching the cottage he paused and dimly in the starlight Mrs. Goddard could distinguish his glazed hat — the provincial constabulary still wore hats in those days. Mr. Gall stood not fifteen yards from the cottage, failed to observe that a window was open on the lower floor, nodded to himself as though satisfied with his inspection and walked on. Little by little the sound of his steps grew fainter in the distance. Walter slowly raised himself again from the ground, and put his head in at the window.

  “You see it would not be hard to have you caught,” whispered his wife, still breathless with the passing excitement. “That was the policeman. If I had called him, it would have been all over with you. I tell you if you try to come again I will give you up.”

  “Oh, that’s the way you treat me, is it?” said the convict with another oath. “Then you had better look out for your dear Mr. Juxon, that’s all.”

  Without another word, Goddard glided away from the window, let himself out by the wicket gate and disappeared across the road.

  Mary Goddard was in that moment less horrified by her husband’s threat than by his base ingratitude to herself and by the accusation he seemed to make against her. Worn out with the emotions of fear and anxiety, she had barely the strength to close and fasten the window. Then she sank into the first chair she could find in the dark and stared into the blackness around her. It seemed indeed more than she could bear. She was placed in the terrible position of being obliged to betray her fugitive husband, or of living in constant fear lest he should murder the best friend she had in the world.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  ON THE MORNING after the events last described Mr. Ambrose sat at breakfast opposite his wife. The early post had just arrived, bringing the usual newspaper and two letters.

  “Any news, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Ambrose with great suavity, as she rinsed her teacup in the bowl preparatory to repeating the dose. “Is not it time that we should hear from John?”

  “There is a letter from him, strange to say. Wait a minute — my dear, the

  Tripos is over and he wants to know if he may stop here—”

  “The Tripos over already! How has he done? Do tell me, Augustin!”

  “He does not know,” returned the vicar, quickly looking over the contents of the letter. “The lists are not out — he thinks he has done very well — he has had a hint that he is high up — wants to know whether he may stop on his way to London — he is going to see his father—”

  “Of course he shall come,” said Mrs. Ambrose with enthusiasm. “He must stop here till the lists are published and then we shall know — anything else?”

  “The other is a note from a tutor of his side — my old friend Brown — he is very enthusiastic; says it is an open secret that John will be at the head of the list — begins to congratulate. Well, my dear, this is very satisfactory, very flattering.”

  “One might say very delightful, Augustin.”

  “Delightful, yes quite delightful,” replied the vicar, burying his long nose in his teacup.

  “I only hope it may be true. I was afraid that perhaps John had done himself harm by coming here at Christmas. Young men are so very light-headed, are they not, Augustin?” added Mrs. Ambrose with a prim smile. On rare occasions she had alluded to John’s unfortunate passion for Mrs. Goddard, and when she spoke of the subject she had a tendency to assume something of the stiffness she affected towards strangers. As has been seen she had ceased to blame Mrs. Goddard. Generally speaking the absent are in the wrong in such matters; she could not refer to John’s conduct without a touch of severity. But the Reverend Augustin bent his shaggy brows; John was now successful, probably senior classic — it was evidently no time to censure his behaviour.

  “You must be charitable, my dear,” he said, looking sharply at his wife.

  “We have all been young once you know.”

  “Augustin, I am surprised at you!” said Mrs. Ambrose sternly.

  “For saying that I once was young?” inquired her husband. “Strange and paradoxical as such a statement must appear, I was once a baby.”

  “I think your merriment very unseemly,” objected Mrs. Ambrose in a tone of censure. “Because you were once a baby it does not follow that you ever acted in such a very foolish way about a—”

  “My dear,” interrupted the vicar, handing his cup across the table, “I wish you would leave John alone, and give me another cup of tea. John will be here to-morrow. Let us receive him as we should. He has done us credit.”

  “He will never be received otherwise in this house, Augustin,” replied Mrs. Ambrose, “whether you allow me to speak my mind or not. I am aware that Short has done us credit, as you express it. I only hope he always may do us credit in the future. I am sure, I was like a mother to him. He ought never to forget it. Why, my dear, cannot you remember how I always had his buttons looked to and gave him globules when he wanted them? I think he might show some gratitude.”

  “I do not think he has failed to show it,” retorted the vicar.

  “Oh, well, August
in, if you are going to talk like that it is not possible to argue with you; but he shall be welcome, if he comes. I hope, however, that he will not go to the cottage—”

  “My dear, I have a funeral this morning. I wish you would not disturb my mind with these trifles.”

  “Trifles! Who is dead? You did not tell me.”

  “Poor Judd’s baby, of course. We have spoken of it often enough, I am sure.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Poor Tom Judd!” exclaimed Mrs. Ambrose with genuine sympathy. “It seems to me you are always burying his babies, Augustin! It is very sad.”

  “Not always, my dear. Frequently,” said the vicar correcting her. “It is very sad, as you say. Very sad. You took so much trouble to help them this time, too.”

  “Trouble!” Mrs. Ambrose cast up her eyes. “You don’t know how much trouble. But I am quite sure it was the fault of that brazen-faced doctor. I cannot bear the sight of him! That comes of answering advertisements in the newspapers.”

  The present doctor had bought the practice abandoned by Mrs. Ambrose’s son-in-law. He had paid well for it, but his religious principles had not formed a part of the bargain.

  “It is of no use to cry over spilt milk, my dear.”

  “I do not mean to. No, I never do. But it is very unpleasant to have such people about. I really hope Tom Judd will not lose his next baby. When is John coming?”

  “To-morrow. My dear, if I forget it this morning, will you remember to speak to Reynolds about the calf?”

  “Certainly, Augustin,” said his wife. Therewith the good vicar left her and went to bury Tom Judd’s baby, divided in his mind between rejoicing over his favourite pupil’s success and lamenting, as he sincerely did, the misfortunes which befell his parishioners. When he left the churchyard an hour later he was met by Martha, who came from the cottage with a message begging that the vicar would come to Mrs. Goddard as soon as possible. Martha believed her mistress was ill, she wanted to see Mr. Ambrose at once. Without returning to the vicarage he turned to the left towards the cottage.

  Mrs. Goddard had slept that night, being exhausted and almost broken down with fatigue. But she woke only to a sense of the utmost pain and distress, realising that to-day’s anxiety was harder to bear than yesterday’s, and that to-morrow might bring forth even worse disasters than those which had gone before. Her position was one of extreme doubt and peril. To tell any one that her husband was in the neighbourhood seemed to be equivalent to rooting out the very last remnant of consideration for him which remained in her heart, the very last trace of what had once been the chief joy and delight of her life. She hesitated long. There is perhaps nothing in human nature more enduring than the love of man and wife; or perhaps one should rather say than the love of a woman for her husband. There appear to be some men capable of being so completely estranged from their wives that there positively does not remain in them even the faintest recollection of what they have once felt, nor the possibility of feeling the least pity for what the women they once loved so well may suffer. There is no woman, I believe, who having once loved her husband truly, could see him in pain or distress, or in danger of his life, without earnestly endeavouring to help him. A woman may cease to love her husband; in some cases she is right in forgetting her love, but it would be hard to find a case where, were he the worst criminal alive, had he deceived her a thousand times, she would not at least help him to escape from his pursuers or give him a crust to save him from starvation.

  Mary Goddard had done her best for the wretch who had claimed her assistance. She had fed him, provided him with money, refused to betray him. But if it were to be a question of giving him up to the law, or of allowing her best friend to be murdered by him, or even seriously injured, she felt that pity must be at an end. It would be doubtless a very horrible thing to give him up, and she had gathered from what he had said that if he were taken he would pay the last penalty of the law. It was so awful a thing that she groaned when she thought of it. But she remembered his ghastly face in the starlight and the threat he had hissed out against the squire; he was a desperate man, with blood already on his hands. It was more than likely that he would do the deed he had threatened to do. What could be easier than to watch the squire on one of those evenings when he went up the park alone, to fall upon him and take his life? Of late Mr. Juxon did not even take his dog with him. The savage bloodhound would be a good protector; but even when he took Stamboul with him by day, he never brought him at night. It was too long for the beast to wait, he used to say, from six to nine or half past; he was so savage that he did not care to leave him out of his sight; he brought mud into the cottage, or into the vicarage as the case might be — if Stamboul had been an ordinary dog it would have been different. Those Russian bloodhounds were not to be trifled with. But the squire must be warned of his danger before another night came on.

  It was a difficult question. Mrs. Goddard at first thought of telling him herself; but she shrank from the thought, for she was exhausted and overwrought. A few days ago she would have been brave enough to say anything if necessary, but now she had no longer the courage nor the strength. It seemed so hard to face the squire with such a warning; it seemed as though she were doing something which would make her seem ungrateful in his eyes, though she hardly knew why it seemed so. She turned more naturally to the vicar, to whom she had originally come in her first great distress; she had only once consulted him, but that one occasion seemed to establish a precedent in her mind, the precedent of a thing familiar. It would certainly be easier. After much thought and inward debate, she determined to send for Mr. Ambrose.

  The fatigue and anxiety she had undergone during the last two days had wrought great changes in her face. A girl of eighteen or twenty years may gain delicacy and even beauty from the physical effects of grief, but a woman over thirty years old gains neither. Mrs. Goddard’s complexion, naturally pale, had taken a livid hue; her lips, which were never very red, were almost white; heavy purple shadows darkened her eyes; the two or three lines that were hardly noticeable, but which were the natural result of a sad expression in her face, had in two days become distinctly visible and had almost assumed the proportions of veritable wrinkles. Her features were drawn and pinched — she looked ten years older than she was. Nothing remained of her beauty but her soft waving brown hair and her deep, pathetic, violet eyes. Even her small hands seemed to have grown thin and looked unnaturally white and transparent.

  She was sitting in her favourite chair by the fire, when the vicar arrived. She had not been willing to seem ill, in spite of what Martha had said, and she had refused to put cushions in the chair. She was making an effort, and even a little sense of physical discomfort helped to make the effort seem easier. She was so much exhausted that she felt she must not for one moment relax the tension she imposed upon herself lest her whole remaining strength should suddenly collapse and leave her at the mercy of events. But Mr. Ambrose was startled when he saw her and feared that she was very ill.

  “My dear Mrs. Goddard,” he said, “what is the matter? Are you ill? Has anything happened?”

  As he spoke he changed the form of his question, suddenly recollecting that Mr. Juxon had probably on the previous afternoon told her of her husband’s escape, as he had meant to do. This might be the cause of her indisposition.

  “Yes,” she said in a voice that did not sound like her own, “I have asked you to come because I am in great trouble — in desperate trouble.”

  “Dear me,” said the vicar, “I hope not!”

  “Not desperate? Perhaps not. Dear Mr. Ambrose, you have always been so kind to me — I am sure you can help me now.” Her voice trembled.

  “Indeed I will do my best,” said the vicar who judged from so unusual an outburst that there must be really something wrong. “If you could tell me what it is—” he suggested.

  “That is the hardest part of it,” said the unhappy woman. She paused a moment as though to collect her strength. “You know,” she began
again, “that my husband has escaped?”

  “A terrible business!” exclaimed the good man, nodding, however, in affirmation to the question she asked.

  “I have seen him,” said Mary Goddard very faintly, looking down at her thin hands. The vicar started in astonishment.

  “My dear friend — dear me! Dear, dear, how very painful!”

  “Indeed, you do not know what I have suffered. It is most dreadful, Mr.

  Ambrose. You cannot imagine what a struggle it was. I am quite worn out.”

  She spoke with such evident pain that the vicar was moved. He felt that she had more to tell, but he had hardly recovered from his surprise.

  “But, you know,” he said, “that was the whole object of warning you. We did not really believe that he would come here. We were so much afraid that he would startle you. Of course Mr. Juxon told you he consulted me—”

  “Of course,” answered Mrs. Goddard. “It was too late. I had seen him the night before.”

  “Why, that was the very night we were here!” exclaimed Mr. Ambrose, more and more amazed. Mrs. Goddard nodded. She seemed hardly able to speak.

  “He came and knocked at that window,” she said, very faintly. “He came again last night.”

  “Dear me — I will send for Gall at once; he will have no difficulty in arresting him—”

  “Oh please!” interrupted Mrs. Goddard in hysterical tones. “Please, please, dear Mr. Ambrose, don’t!”

  The vicar was silent. He rose unceremoniously from his chair and walked to the window, as he generally did when in any great doubt. He realised at once and very vividly the awful position in which the poor lady was placed.

  “Pray do not think I am very bad,” said she, almost sobbing with fear and emotion. “Of course it must seem dreadful to you that I should wish him to escape!”

  The vicar came slowly back and stood beside her leaning against the chimney-piece. It did not take him long to make up his mind. Kind-hearted people are generally impulsive.