Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Really, Mr. Short,” said the squire at last, “I have no intention of keeping you up all night. The village doctor must have been out. It may be more than an hour before my man finds another.”

  “Never mind,” said John quietly. “I will wait till he comes at all events. You may need me before it is over.”

  “Do you think he looks as if he were going to die?” asked the squire doubtfully, as he again approached the bedside.

  “I don’t know,” answered John, standing on the other side. “I never saw any one die. He looks very ill.”

  “Very ill. I have seen many people die — but somehow I have a strong impression that this fellow will live.”

  “Let us hope so,” said John.

  “Well—” The squire checked himself. Probably the hope he would have expressed would not have coincided with that to which John had given utterance. “Well,” he repeated, “I daresay he will. Mr. Short, are you at all nervous? Since you are so good as to say you will wait until the doctor comes, would you mind very much being left alone here for five minutes?”

  “No,” answered John, stoutly, “not in the least.” To be left in a well-lighted room by the bedside of Walter Goddard, ill indeed, but alive and breathing vigorously, was very different from being requested to watch his apparently dead body out in the park under the moonlight.

  With a word of thanks, the squire left the room, and hastened to his study, where he proceeded to write a note, as follows: —

  “MY DEAR MR. AMBROSE — The man we were speaking of yesterday morning actually attacked me this evening. Stamboul worried him badly, but he is not dead. He is lying here, well cared for, and I have sent for the doctor. If convenient to you, would you come in the morning? I need not recommend discretion. — Sincerely yours,

  “C.J. JUXON. N.B. — I am not hurt.”

  Having ascertained that Reynolds was still in the kitchen, the missive was given to the old man with an injunction to use all speed, as the vicar might be going to bed and the note was important.

  John, meanwhile, being left alone sat down near the wounded man’s bed and waited, glancing at the flushed face and staring eyes from time to time, and wondering whether the fellow would recover. The young scholar had been startled by all that had occurred, and his ideas wandered back to the beginning of the evening, scarcely realising that a few hours ago he had not met Mrs. Goddard, had not experienced a surprising change in his feelings towards her, had not witnessed the strange scene under the trees. It seemed as though all these things had occupied a week at the very least, whereas on that same afternoon he had been speculating upon his meeting with Mrs. Goddard, calling up her features to his mind as he had last seen them, framing speeches which when the meeting came he had not delivered, letting his mind run riot in the delicious anticipation of appearing before her in the light of a successful competitor for one of the greatest honours of English scholarship. And yet in a few hours all his feelings were changed, and to his infinite surprise, were changed without any suffering to himself; he knew well that, for some reason, Mrs. Goddard had lost the mysterious power of making him blush, and of sending strange thrills through his whole nature when he sat at her side; with some justice he attributed his new indifference to the extraordinary alteration in her appearance, whereby she seemed now so much older than himself, and he forthwith moralised upon the mutability of human affairs, with all the mental fluency of a very young man whose affairs are still extremely mutable. He fell to musing on the accident in the park, wondering how he would have acted in Mr. Juxon’s place, wondering especially what object could have led the wretched tramp to attack the squire, wondering too at the very great anxiety shown by Mrs. Goddard.

  As he sat by the bedside, the sick man suddenly moved and turning his eyes full upon John’s face stared at him with a look of dazed surprise. He thrust out his wounded hand, bound up in a white handkerchief through which a little blood was slowly oozing, and to John’s infinite surprise he spoke.

  “Who are you?” he asked in a strange, mumbling voice, as though he had pebbles in his mouth.

  John started forward in his chair and looked intently at Goddard’s face.

  “My name is Short,” he answered mechanically. But the passing flash of intelligence was already gone, and Goddard’s look became a glassy and idiotic stare. Still his lips moved. John came nearer and listened.

  “Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard! Let me in!” said the sick man quite intelligibly, in spite of his uncertain tone. John uttered an exclamation of astonishment; his heart beat fast and he listened intently. The sick man mumbled inarticulate sounds; not another word could be distinguished. John looked for the bell, thinking that Mr. Juxon should be informed of the strange phenomenon at once; but before he could ring the squire himself entered the room, having finished and despatched his note to Mr. Ambrose.

  “It is most extraordinary,” said John. “He spoke just now—”

  “What did he say?” asked Mr. Juxon very quickly.

  “He said first, ‘Who are you?’ and then he said ‘Mary Goddard, let me in!’ Is it not most extraordinary? How in the world should he know about Mrs. Goddard?”

  The squire turned a little pale and was silent for a moment. He had left John with the wounded man feeling sure that, for some time at least, the latter would not be likely to say anything intelligible.

  “Most extraordinary!” he repeated presently. Then he looked at Goddard closely, and turned him again upon his back and put his injured hand beneath the sheet.

  “Do you understand me? Do you know who I am?” he asked in a loud tone close to his ear.

  But the unfortunate man gave no sign of intelligence, only his inarticulate mumbling grew louder though not more distinct. Mr. Juxon turned away impatiently.

  “The fellow is in a delirium,” he said. “I wish the doctor would come.”

  He had hardly turned his back when the man spoke again.

  “Mary Goddard!” he cried. “Let me in!”

  “There!” said John. “The same words!”

  Mr. Juxon shuddered, and looked curiously at his companion; then thrust his hands into his pockets and whistling softly walked about the room. John was shocked at what seemed in the squire a sort of indecent levity; he could not understand that his friend felt as though he should go mad.

  Indeed the squire suffered intensely. The name of Mary Goddard, pronounced by the convict in his delirium brought home more vividly than anything could have done the relation between the wounded tramp and the woman the squire loved. It was positively true, then — there was not a shadow of doubt left, since this wretch lay there mumbling her name in his ravings! This was the husband of that gentle creature with sad pathetic eyes, so delicate, so refined that it seemed as though the coarser breath of the world of sin and shame could never come near her — this was her husband! It was horrible. This was the father of lovely Nellie, too. Was anything wanting to make the contrast more hideous?

  Mr. Juxon felt that it was impossible to foresee what Walter Goddard might say in the course of another hour. He had often seen people in a delirium and knew how strangely that inarticulate murmuring sometimes breaks off into sudden incisive speech, astonishing every one who hears. The man had already betrayed that he knew Mary Goddard; at the next interval in his ravings he might betray that she was his wife. John was still standing by the bedside, not having recovered from his astonishment; if John heard any more, he would be in possession of Mrs. Goddard’s secret. The squire was an energetic man, equal to most emergencies; he suddenly made up his mind.

  “Mr. Short,” he said, “I will tell you something. You will see the propriety of being very discreet, in fact it is only to ensure your discretion that I wish to tell you this much. I have reason to believe that this fellow is a convict — do not be surprised — escaped from prison. He is a man who once — was in love with Mrs. Goddard, which accounts for his having found his way to Billingsfield. Yes — I know what you are going to say — Mrs.
Goddard is aware of his presence, and that accounts for her excitement and her fainting. Do you understand?”

  “But — good heavens!” exclaimed John in amazement. “Why did she not give information, if she knew he was in the neighbourhood?”

  “That would be more than could be expected of any woman, Mr. Short. You forget that the man once loved her.”

  “And how did you — well, no. I won’t ask any questions.”

  “No,” said the squire, “please don’t. You would be placing me in a disagreeable position. Not that I do not trust you implicitly, Mr. Short,” he added frankly, “but I should be betraying a confidence. If this fellow dies here, he will be buried as an unknown tramp. I found no trace of a name upon his clothes. If he recovers, we will decide what course to pursue. We will do our best for him — it is a delicate case of conscience. Possibly the poor fellow would very much prefer being allowed to die; but we cannot let him. Humanity, for some unexplained reason, forbids euthanasia and the use of the hemlock in such cases.”

  “Was he sentenced for a long time?” asked John, very much impressed by the gravity of the situation.

  “Twelve years originally, I believe. Aggravated by his escape and by his assault on me, his term might very likely be extended to twenty years if he were taken again.”

  “That is to say, if he recovers?” inquired John.

  “Precisely. I do not think I would hesitate to send him back to prison if he recovered.”

  “I do not wonder you think he would rather die here, if he were consulted,” said John. “It would not be murder to let him die peacefully—”

  “In the opinion of the law it might be called manslaughter, though I do not suppose anything would be said if I had simply placed him here and omitted to call in a physician. He cannot live very long in this state, unless something is done for him immediately. Look at him.”

  There was no apparent change in Goddard’s condition. He lay upon his back staring straight upward and mumbling aloud with every breath he drew.

  “He must have been ill, before he attacked me,” continued Mr. Juxon, very much as though he were talking to himself. “He evidently is in a raging fever — brain fever I should think. That is probably the reason why he missed his aim — that and the darkness. If he had been well he would have killed me fast enough with that bludgeon. As you say, Mr. Short, there is no doubt whatever that he would prefer to die here, if he had his choice. In my opinion, too, it would be far more merciful to him and to — to him in fact. Nevertheless, neither you nor I would like to remember that we had let him die without doing all we could to keep him alive. It is a very singular case.”

  “Most singular,” echoed John.

  “Besides — there is another thing. Suppose that he had attacked me as he did, but that I had killed him with my stick — or that Stamboul had made an end of him then and there. The law would have said it served him right — would it not? Of course. But if I had not quite killed him, or, as has actually happened, he survived the embraces of my dog, the law insists that I ought to do everything in my power to save the remnant of his life. What for? In order that the law may give itself the satisfaction of dealing with him according to its lights. I think the law is very greedy, I object to it, I think it is ridiculous from that point of view, but then, when I come to examine the thing I find that my own conscience tells me to save him, although I think it best that he should die. Therefore the law is not ridiculous. Pleasant dilemma — the impossible case! The law is at the same time ridiculous and not ridiculous. The question is, does the law deduce itself from conscience, or is conscience the direct result of existing law?”

  The squire appeared to be in a strangely moralising mood, and John listened to him with some surprise. He could not understand that the good man was talking to persuade himself, and to concentrate his faculties, which had been almost unbalanced by the events of the evening.

  “I think,” said John with remarkable good sense, “that the instinct of man is to preserve life when he is calm. When a man is fighting with another he is hot and tries to kill his enemy; when the fight is over, the natural instinct returns.”

  “The only thing worth knowing in such cases is the precise point at which the fight may be said to be over. I once knew a young surgeon in India who thought he had killed a cobra and proceeded to extract the fangs in order to examine the poison. Unfortunately the snake was not quite dead; he bit the surgeon in the finger and the poor fellow died in thirty-five minutes.”

  “Dreadful!” said John. “But you do not think this poor fellow could do anything very dangerous now — do you?”

  “Oh, dear me, no!” returned the squire. “I was only stating a case to prove that one is sometimes justified in going quite to the end of a fight. No indeed! He will not be dangerous for some time, if he ever is again. But, as I was saying, he must have been ill some time. Delirium never comes on in this way, so soon—”

  Some one knocked at the door. It was Holmes, who came to say that the physician, Doctor Longstreet, had arrived.

  “Oh — it is Doctor Longstreet is it?” said the squire. “Ask him to come up.”

  CHAPTER XXI.

  DOCTOR LONGSTREET WAS not the freethinking physician of Billingsfield. The latter was out when Mr. Juxon’s groom went in search of him, and the man had driven on to the town, six miles away. The doctor was an old man with a bright eye, a deeply furrowed forehead, a bald head and clean shaved face. He walked as though his frame were set together with springs and there was a curious snapping quickness in his speech. He seemed full of vitality and bore his years with a jaunty air of merriment which inspired confidence, for he seemed perpetually laughing at the ills of the flesh and ready to make other people laugh at them too. But his bright eyes had a penetrating look and though he judged quickly he generally was right in his opinion. He entered the room briskly, not knowing that the sick man was there.

  “Now, Mr. Juxon,” he said cheerfully, “I am with you.” He had the habit of announcing his presence in this fashion, as though his brisk and active personality were likely to be overlooked. A moment later he caught sight of the bed. “Dear me,” he added in a lower voice, “I did not know our patient was here.”

  He went to Walter Goddard’s side, looked at him attentively, felt his pulse, and his forehead, glanced at the bandages the squire had roughly put upon his throat and hand, drew up the sheet again beneath his chin and turned sharply round.

  “Brain fever, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Brain fever. You must get some ice and have some beef tea made as soon as possible. He is in a very bad way — curious, too; he looks like a cross between a ticket of leave man and a gentleman. Tramp, you say? That would not prevent his being either. You cannot disturb him — don’t be afraid. He hears nothing — is off, the Lord knows where, raving delirious. Must look to his scratches though — dangerous — inflammation. Do you mind telling me what happened — how long he has been here?”

  The squire in a few words informed Doctor Longstreet of the attack made upon him in the park. The doctor looked at his watch.

  “Only two hours and a half since,” he remarked. “It is just midnight now, very good — the man must have been in a fever all day — yesterday, too, perhaps. He is not badly hurt by the dog — like to see that dog, if you don’t mind — the fright most likely sent him into delirium. You have nothing to accuse yourself of, Mr. Juxon: it was certainly not your fault. Even if the dog had not bitten him, he would most likely have been in his present state by this time. Would you mind sending for some ice at once? Thank you. It was very lucky for the fellow that he attacked you just when he did — secured him the chance of being well taken care of. If he had gone off like this in the park he would have been dead before morning.”

  The squire rang and sent for the ice the doctor demanded.

  “Do you think he will live?” he asked nervously.

  “I don’t know,” answered Doctor Longstreet, frankly. “Nobody can tell. He is very m
uch exhausted — may live two or three days in this state and then die or go to sleep and get well — may die in the morning — often do — cannot say. With a great deal of care, I think he has a chance.”

  “I am very anxious to save him,” said the squire, looking hard at the physician.

  “Very good of you, I am sure,” replied Doctor Longstreet, cheerfully. “It is not everybody who would take so much trouble for a tramp. Of course if he dies people will say your dog killed him; but I will sign a paper to the effect that it is not true. If he had left you and your dog alone, he would have been dead in the morning to an absolute certainty.”

  “How very extraordinary!” exclaimed the squire, suddenly realising that instead of causing the man’s death Stamboul had perhaps saved his life.

  “It was certainly very odd that he should have chosen the best moment for assaulting you,” continued the doctor. “It is quite possible that even then he was under some delusion — took you for somebody else — some old enemy. People do queer things in a brain fever. By the bye has he said anything intelligible since he has been here?”

  John Short who had been standing silently by the bedside during the whole interview looked up quickly at the squire, wondering how he would answer. But Mr. Juxon did not hesitate.

  “Yes. Twice he repeated a woman’s name. That is very natural, I suppose.

  Do you think he will have any lucid moments for some time?”

  “May,” said the doctor, “may. When he does it is likely to be at the turning point; he will either die or be better very soon after. If it comes soon he may say something intelligible. If he is much more exhausted than he is now, he will understand you, but you will not understand him. Meningitis always brings a partial paralysis of the tongue, when the patient is exhausted. Most probably he will go on moaning and mumbling, as he does now, for another day. You will be able to tell by his eye whether he understands anything; perhaps he will make some sign with his head or hand. Ah — here is the ice.”