“No one will be so glad as he to hear of your success.”
“No indeed. I really think it is more for his sake that I want to be actually first,” said John. “Do you know, I have so often thought how he will look when I meet him and tell him I am the senior classic.”
John’s voice trembled and as Mrs. Goddard looked at him, she thought she saw a moisture in his eyes. It pleased her to see it, for it showed that John Short had more heart than she had imagined.
“I can fancy that,” she said, warmly. “I envy you that moment.”
Presently the squire came over to where they were sitting and joined them; and then Mrs. Ambrose spoke to John, and Nellie came and asked him questions. Strange to say John felt none of that annoyance which he formerly felt when his conversations with Mrs. Goddard were interrupted, and he talked with Nellie and Mrs. Ambrose quite as readily as with her. He felt very calm and happy that night, as though he had done with the hard labour of life. In half an hour he had realised that he was no more in love with Mrs. Goddard than he was with Mrs. Ambrose, and he was trying to explain to himself how it was that he had ever believed in such a palpable absurdity. Love was doubtless blind, he thought, but he was surely not so blind as to overlook the evidences of Mrs. Goddard’s age. All the dreams of that morning faded away before the sight of her face, and so deep is the turpitude of the best of human hearts that John was almost ashamed of having once thought he loved her. That was probably the best possible proof that his love had been but a boyish fancy.
What the little party at the vicarage would have been like, if John’s presence had not animated it, would be hard to say. The squire and Mr. Ambrose treated Mrs. Goddard with the sort of paternal but solemn care which is usually bestowed either upon great invalids or upon persons bereaved of some very dear relation. The two elder men occasionally looked at her and exchanged glances when they were not observed by Mrs. Ambrose, wondering perhaps what would next befall the unfortunate lady and whether she could bear much more of the excitement and anxiety to which she had of late been subjected. On the whole the conversation was far from being lively, and Mrs. Goddard herself felt that it was a relief when the hour came for going home.
The vicar had ordered his dog-cart for her and Nellie, but as the night had turned out better than had been expected Mr. Juxon’s groom had not come down from the Hall. Both he and John would be glad of the walk; it had not rained for two days and the roads were dry.
“Look here,” said the squire, as they rose to take their leave, “Mr. Short had better go as far as the cottage in the dog-cart, to see Mrs. Goddard home. I will go ahead on foot — I shall probably be there as soon as you. There is not room for us all, and somebody must go with her, you know. Besides,” he added, “I have got Stamboul with me.”
Mrs. Goddard, who was standing beside the squire, laid her hand beseechingly upon his arm.
“Oh, pray don’t,” she said in low voice. “Why have you not got your carriage?”
“Never mind me,” he answered in the same tone. “I am all right, I like to walk.”
Before she could say anything more, he had shaken hands with Mr. and Mrs.
Ambrose and was gone. Perhaps in his general determination to be good to
everybody he fancied that John would enjoy the short drive with Mrs.
Goddard better than the walk with himself.
But when he was gone, Mrs. Goddard grew very nervous. One of her wraps could not be found, and while search was being made for it the motherly Mrs. Ambrose insisted upon giving her something hot, in the way of brandy and water. She looked very ill, but showed the strongest desire to go. It was no matter about the shawl, she said; Mr. Ambrose could send it in the morning; but the thing was found and at last Mrs. Goddard and Nellie and John got into the dog-cart with old Reynolds and drove off. All these things consumed some time.
The squire on the other hand strode briskly forward towards the cottage, not wishing to keep John waiting for him. As he walked his mind wandered back to the consideration of the almost tragic events which were occurring in the peaceful village. He forgot all about John, as he looked up at the half moon which struggled to give some light through the driving clouds; he fell to thinking of Mrs. Goddard and to wondering where her husband might be lying hidden. The road was lonely and he walked fast, with Stamboul close at his heel. The dog-cart did not overtake him before he reached the cottage, and he forgot all about it. By sheer force of habit he opened the white gate and, closing it behind him, entered the park alone.
CHAPTER XIX.
JOHN’S IMPRESSION OF Mrs. Goddard was strengthened by the scene at the vicarage at the moment of leaving. The extraordinary nervousness she betrayed, the anxiety for her welfare shown by Mrs. Ambrose and the grave face of the vicar all favoured the idea that she had become an invalid since he had last met her. He himself fell into the manner of those about him and spoke in low tones and moved delicately as though fearing to offend her sensitive nerves. The vicar alone understood the situation and had been very much surprised at the squire’s sudden determination to walk home; he would gladly have seized his hat and run after his friend, but he feared Mrs. Ambrose’s curiosity and moreover on reflection felt sure that the dog-cart would overtake Mr. Juxon before he was half way to the cottage. He was very far from suspecting him of the absence of mind which he actually displayed, but it was a great relief to him to see the little party safe in the dog-cart and on the way homeward.
Mrs. Goddard was on the front seat with old Reynolds, and John, who would have preferred to sit by her side a few months ago, was glad to find himself behind with Nellie. It was a curious instinct, but he felt it strongly and was almost grateful to the old man for stolidly keeping his seat. So he sat beside Nellie and talked to her, to the child’s intense delight; she had not enjoyed the evening very much, for she felt the general sense of oppression as keenly as children always feel such things, and she had long exhausted the slender stock of illustrated books which lay upon the table in the vicarage drawing-room.
“There is no more skating now,” said John. “What do you do to amuse yourselves?”
“I am studying history with mamma,” answered Nellie, “and that takes ever so much time, you know. And then — oh, we are beginning to think of the spring, and we look after the violet plants in the frames.”
“It does not feel much like spring,” remarked John.
“No — and mamma has not been well lately, so we have not done much of anything.”
“Has she been ill long?” asked John.
“No — oh no! Only the last two or three days, ever since—” Nellie stopped herself. Her mother had told her not to mention the tramp’s visit.
“Ever since when?” asked John, becoming suddenly interested.
“Ever since the last time the Ambroses came to tea,” said Nellie with a readiness beyond her years. “But she looks dreadfully, does not she?”
“Dreadfully,” answered John. Then, leaning back and turning his head he spoke to Mrs. Goddard. “I hope you are quite warm enough?” he said.
“Quite — thanks,” answered she, but her voice sounded tremulous in the night. It might have been the shaking of the dog-cart. In a few minutes they drew up before the door of the cottage. John sprang to the ground and almost lifted Mrs. Goddard from the high seat.
“Where is Mr. Juxon?” she asked anxiously.
John looked round, peering into the gloom. A black cloud driven by the strong east wind was passing over the moon, and for some moments it was almost impossible to see anything. The squire was nowhere to be seen. John turned and helped Nellie off the back seat of the dog-cart.
“I am afraid we must have passed him,” he said quietly. Formerly Mrs.
Goddard’s tone of anxiety as she asked for the squire would have roused
John’s resentment; he now thought nothing of it. Reynolds prepared to
move off.
“Won’t you please wait a moment, Reynolds?” said
Mrs. Goddard, going close to the old man. She could not have told why she asked him to stay, it was a nervous impulse.
“Why?” asked John. “You know I am going to the Hall.”
“Yes, of course. I only thought, perhaps, you and Mr. Juxon would like to drive up — it is so dark. I am sure Mr. Ambrose would not mind you taking the gentlemen up to the Hall, Reynolds?”
“No m’m. I’m quite sure as he wouldn’t,” exclaimed Reynolds with great alacrity. He immediately had visions of a pint of beer in the Hall kitchen.
“You do not think Mr. Juxon may have gone on alone, Mr. Short?” said Mrs. Goddard, leaning upon the wicket gate. Her face looked very pale in the gloom.
“No — at would be very odd if he did,” replied John, who had his hands in his greatcoat pockets and slowly stamped one foot after another on the hard ground, to keep himself warm.
“Then we must have passed him on the road,” said Mrs. Goddard. “But I was so sure I saw nobody—”
“I think he will come presently,” answered John in a reassuring tone. “Why do you wait, Mrs. Goddard? You must be cold, and it is dangerous for you to be out here. Don’t wait, Reynolds,” he added; “we will walk up.”
“Oh please don’t,” cried Mrs. Goddard, imploringly.
John looked at her in some surprise. The cloud suddenly passed from before the moon and he could see her anxious upturned face quite plainly. He could not in the least understand the cause of her anxiety, but he supposed her nervousness was connected with her indisposition. Reynolds on his part, being anxious for beer, showed no disposition to move, but sat with stolid indifference, loosely holding the reins while Strawberry, the old mare, hung down her head and stamped from time to time in a feeble and antiquated fashion. For some minutes there was total silence. Not a step was to be heard upon the road, not a sound of any kind, save the strong east wind rushing past the cottage and losing itself among the withered oaks of the park opposite.
Suddenly a deep and bell-mouthed note resounded through the air.
Strawberry started in the shafts and trembled violently.
“Stamboul! Stamboul!” The squire’s ringing voice was heard far up the park. The bloodhound’s distant baying suddenly ceased. John thought he heard a fainter cry, inarticulate, and full of distress, through the sighing wind. Then there was silence again. Mrs. Goddard leaned back against the wicket gate, and Nellie, startled by the noises, pressed close to her mother’s side.
“Why — he has gone up the park!” exclaimed John in great surprise. “He was calling to his dog—”
“Oh, Mr. Short!” cried Mrs. Goddard in agonised tones, as soon as she could speak, “I am sure something dreadful has happened — do go. Mr. Short — do go and see—”
Something of the extreme alarm that sounded in her voice seized upon
John.
“Stay with Mrs. Goddard, Reynolds,” he said quickly and darted across the road towards the park gate. John was strong and active. He laid his hands upon the highest rails and vaulted lightly over, then ran at the top of his speed up the dark avenue.
Mr. Juxon, in his absence of mind, had gone through the gate alone, swinging his blackthorn stick in his hand, Stamboul stalking at his heel in the gloom. He was a fearless man and the presence of John during the afternoon had completely dissolved that nervous presentiment of evil he had felt before his guest’s coming. But in the short walk of scarcely half a mile, from the vicarage to the cottage, his thoughts had become entirely absorbed in considering Mrs. Goddard’s strange position, and for the moment John was quite forgotten. He entered the park and the long iron latch of the wooden gate fell into its socket behind him with a sharp click. Mr. Juxon walked quickly on and Stamboul trod noiselessly behind him. At about a hundred yards from the gate the avenue turned sharply to the right, winding about a little elevation in the ground, where the trees stood thicker than elsewhere. As he came towards this hillock the strong east wind blew sharply behind him. Had the wind been in the opposite direction, Stamboul’s sharp nostrils would have scented danger. As it was he gave no sign but stalked solemnly at the squire’s heels. The faint light of the half moon was obscured at that moment, as has been seen, by a sweeping cloud. The squire turned to the right and tramped along the hard road.
At the darkest spot in the way a man sprang out suddenly before him and struck a quick blow at his head with something heavy. But it was very dark. The blow was aimed at his head, but fell upon the heavy padded frieze of his ulster greatcoat, grazing the brim of his hat as it passed and knocking it off his head. Mr. Juxon staggered and reeled to one side. At the same instant — it all happened in the space of two seconds, Stamboul sprang past his master and his bulk, striking the squire at the shoulder just as he was staggering from the blow he had received, sent him rolling into the ditch; by the same cause the hound’s direction as he leaped was just so changed that he missed his aim and bounded past the murderer into the darkness. Before the gigantic beast could recover himself and turn to spring again, Walter Goddard, who had chanced never to see Stamboul and little suspected his presence, leaped the ditch and fled rapidly through the dark shadow. But death was at his heels. Before the squire, who was very little hurt, could get upon his feet, the bloodhound had found the scent and, uttering his deep-mouthed baying note, sprang upon the track of the flying man. Mr. Juxon got across the ditch and followed him into the gloom.
“Stamboul! Stamboul!” he roared as he ran. But before he had gone thirty yards he heard a heavy fall. The hound’s cry ceased and a short scream broke the silence.
A moment later the squire was dragging the infuriated animal from the prostrate body of Walter Goddard. Stamboul had tasted blood; it was no easy matter to make him relinquish his prey. The cloud passed from the moon, driven before the blast, and a ray of light fell through the trees upon the scene. Juxon stood wrestling with his hound, holding to his heavy collar with both hands with all his might. He dared not let go for an instant, well knowing that the frenzied beast would tear his victim limb from limb. But Juxon’s hands were strong, and though Stamboul writhed and his throat rattled he could not free himself. The squire glanced at the body of the fallen man, just visible in the flickering moonlight. Walter Goddard lay quite still upon his back. If he was badly wounded it was not possible to say where the wound was.
It was a terrible moment. Mr. Juxon felt that he could not leave the man thus, not knowing whether he were alive or dead; and yet while all his strength was exerted to the full in controlling the bloodhound, it was impossible to approach a step nearer. He was beginning to think that he should be obliged to take Stamboul to the Hall and return again to the scene of the disaster.
“Mr. Juxon! Juxon! Juxon!” John was shouting as he ran up the park.
“This way! look sharp!” yelled the squire, foreseeing relief. John’s quick footsteps rang on the hard road. The squire called again and in a moment the young man had joined him and stood horror-struck at what he saw.
“Don’t touch the dog!” cried the squire. “Don’t come near him, I say!” he added as John came forward. “There — there has been an accident, Mr. Short,” he added in calmer tones. “Would you mind seeing if the fellow is alive?”
John was too much startled to say anything, but he went and knelt down by
Goddard’s body and looked into his face.
“Feel his pulse,” said the squire. “Listen at his heart.” To him it seemed a very simple matter to ascertain whether a man were alive or dead. But John was nervous; he had never seen a dead man in his life and felt that natural repulsion to approaching death which is common to all living creatures. There was no help for it, however, and he took Walter Goddard’s limp hand in his and tried to find his pulse; he could not distinguish any beating. The hand fell nerveless to the ground.
“I think he is dead,” said John very softly, and he rose to his feet and drew back a little way from the body.
“Then just wait five minutes for me, if you do not mind,” sa
id Mr. Juxon, and he turned away dragging the reluctant and still struggling Stamboul by his side.
John shuddered when he was left alone. It was indeed a dismal scene enough. At his feet lay Walter Goddard’s body, faintly illuminated by the struggling moonbeams; all around and overhead the east wind was howling and whistling and sighing in the dry oak branches, whirling hither and thither the few brown leaves that had clung to their hold throughout the long winter; the sound of the squire’s rapidly retreating footsteps grew more faint in the distance; John felt that he was alone and was very uncomfortable. He would have liked to go back to the cottage and tell Mrs. Goddard of what had happened, and that Mr. Juxon was safe; but he thought the squire might return and find that he had left his post and accuse him of cowardice. He drew back from the man’s body and sheltered himself from the wind, leaning against the broad trunk of an old oak tree. He had not stood thus many minutes when he heard the sound of wheels upon the hard road. It might be Mrs. Goddard, he thought. With one more glance at the prostrate body, he turned away and hurried through the trees towards the avenue. The bright lamps of the dog-cart were almost close before him. He shouted to Reynolds.
“Whoa, January!” ejaculated that ancient functionary as he pulled up Strawberry close to John Short. Why the natives of Essex and especially of Billingsfield habitually address their beasts of burden as “January” is a matter best left to the discrimination of philologers; obedient to the familiar words however, Strawberry stood still in the middle of the road. John could see that Mrs. Goddard was seated by the side of Reynolds but that Nellie was not in the cart.
“Oh, Mrs. Goddard, is that you?” said John. “Mr. Juxon will be here in a moment. Don’t be frightened — he is not hurt in the least; awfully bad luck for the tramp, though!”
“The tramp?” repeated Mrs. Goddard with a faint cry of horror.
“Yes,” said John, whose spirits rose wonderfully in the light of the dog-cart lamps. “There was a poor tramp hanging about the park — poaching, very likely — and Mr. Juxon’s dog got after him, somehow, I suppose. I do not know how it happened, but when I came up — oh! here is Mr. Juxon himself — he will tell you all about it.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 183