Doctor Longstreet went about his operations in a rapid and business like fashion and John gave what assistance he could. The squire stood leaning against the chimney-piece in deep thought.
Indeed he had enough to think of, when he had fully weighed the meaning of the doctor’s words. He was surprised beyond measure at the turn things had taken; for although, as he had previously told John, he suspected that Goddard must have been in a fever for several hours before the assault, it had not struck him that Stamboul’s attack had been absolutely harmless, still less that it might prove to have been the means of saving the convict’s life. It was terribly hard to say that he desired to save the man, and yet the honest man in his heart prayed that he might really hope for that result. It would be far worse, should Goddard die, to remember that he had wished for his death. But it would be hard to imagine a more unexpected position than that in which the squire found himself; by a perfectly natural chain of circumstances he was now tending with the utmost care the man who had tried to murder him, and who of all men in the world, stood most in the way of the accomplishment of his desires.
He could not hide from himself the fact that he hated the sick man, even though he hoped, or tried to hope for his recovery. He hated him for the shame and suffering he had brought upon Mary Goddard in the first instance, for the terrible anxiety he had caused her by his escape and sudden appearance at her house; he hated him for being what he was, being also the father of Nellie, and he hated him honestly for his base attempt upon himself that night. He had good cause to hate him, and perhaps he was not ashamed of his hatred. To be called upon, however, to return good for such an accumulated mass of evil was almost too much for his human nature. It was but a faint satisfaction to think that if he recovered he was to be sent back to prison. Mr. Juxon did not know that there was blood upon the man’s hands — he had yet to learn that; he would not deign to mention the assault in the park when he handed him over to the authorities; the man should simply go back to Portland to suffer the term of his imprisonment, as soon as he should be well enough to be moved — if that time ever came. If he died, he should be buried decently in a nameless grave, “six feet by four, by two,” as Thomas Reid would have said — if he died.
Meanwhile, however, there was yet another consideration which disturbed the squire’s meditations. Mrs. Goddard had a right to know that her husband was dying and, if she so pleased, she had a right to be at his bedside. But at the same time it would be necessary so to account for her presence as not to arouse Doctor Longstreet’s suspicions, nor the comments of Holmes, the butler, and of his brigade in the servants’ hall. It was no easy matter to do this unless Mrs. Goddard were accompanied by the vicar’s wife, the excellent and maternally minded Mrs. Ambrose. To accomplish this it would be necessary to ask the latter lady to spend a great part of her time at the Hall in taking care of the wretched Goddard, who would again be the gainer. But Mrs. Ambrose was as yet ignorant of the fact that he had escaped from prison; she must be told then, and an effort must be made to elicit her sympathy. Perhaps she and the vicar would come and stop a few days, thought the squire. Mrs. Goddard might then come and go as she pleased. Her presence by her husband’s bedside would then be accounted for on the ground of her charitable disposition.
While Mr. Juxon was revolving these things in his mind he watched the doctor and John who were doing what was necessary for the sick man. Goddard moaned helplessly with every breath, in a loud, monotonous tone, very wearing to the nerves of those who heard it.
“There is little to be done,” said Doctor Longstreet at last. “He must be fed — alternately a little beef tea and then a little weak brandy and water. We must try and keep the system up. That is his only chance. I will prescribe something and send it back by the groom.”
“You are not going to leave us to-night?” exclaimed the squire in alarm.
“Must. Very sorry. Bad case of diphtheria in town — probably die before morning, unless I get there in time — I would not have come here for any one else. I will certainly be here before ten — he will live till then, I fancy, and I don’t believe there will be any change in his condition. Good-night, Mr. Juxon — beef tea and brandy every quarter of an hour. Good-night, Mr.—” he turned to John.
“Short,” said John. “Good-night, doctor.”
“Ah — I remember — used to be with Mr. Ambrose — yes. Delighted to meet you again, Mr. Short — good-night.”
The doctor vanished, before either the squire or John had time to follow him. His departure left an unpleasant sense of renewed responsibility in the squire’s mind.
“You had better go to bed, Mr. Short,” he said kindly. “I will sit up with him.”
But John would not hear of any such arrangement; he insisted upon bearing his share of the watching and stoutly refused to leave the squire alone. There was a large dressing-room attached to the room where Goddard was lying; the squire and John finally agreed to watch turn and turn about, one remaining with Goddard, while the other rested upon the couch in the dressing-room aforesaid. The squire insisted upon taking his watch first, and John lay down. It was past midnight and he was very tired, but it seemed impossible to sleep with the sound of that loud, monotonous mumbling perpetually in his ears. It was a horrible night, and John Short never forgot it so long as he lived. Years afterwards he could not enter the room where Goddard had lain without fancying he heard that perpetual groaning still ringing in his ears. For many hours it continued unabated and unchanging, never dying away to silence nor developing to articulate words. From time to time John could hear the squire’s step as he moved about, administering the nourishment prescribed. If he had had the slightest idea of Mr. Juxon’s state of mind he would hardly have left him even to rest awhile in the next room.
Fortunately the squire’s nerves were solid. A firm constitution hardened by thirty years of seafaring and by the consistent and temperate regularity which was part of his character, had so toughened his natural strength as to put him almost beyond the reach of mortal ills; otherwise he must have broken down under the mental strain thus forced upon him. It is no light thing to do faithfully the utmost to save a man one has good reason to hate, and whose death would be an undoubted blessing to every one who has anything to do with him. Walter Goddard was to Charles Juxon at once an enemy, an obstacle and a rival; an enemy, for having attempted his life, an obstacle, because while he lived he prevented the squire from marrying Mrs. Goddard and a rival because she had once loved him and for the sake of that love was still willing to sacrifice much for him. And yet the very fact that she had loved him made it easier to be kind to him; it seemed to the squire that, after all, in taking care of Goddard he was in some measure serving her, too, seeing that she would have done the same thing herself could she have been present.
Yet there was something very generous and large-hearted in the way Charles Juxon did his duty by the sick man. There are people who seem by nature designed to act heroic parts in life, whose actions habitually take an heroic form, and whose whole character is of another stamp from that of average humanity. Of such people much is expected, because they seem to offer much; no one is surprised to hear of their making great sacrifices, no one is astonished if they exhibit great personal courage in times of danger. Very often they are people of large vanity, whose chiefest vanity is not to seem vain; gifted with great powers and always seeking opportunities of using them, holding high ideas upon most subjects but rarely conceiving themselves incapable of attaining to any ideal they select for their admiration; brave in combat partly from real courage, partly, as I have often heard officers say of a dandy soldier in the ranks, because they are too proud to run away; but, on the whole, heroic by temperament and in virtue of a singular compound of pride, strength and virtue, often accomplishing really great things. They are almost always what are called striking people, for their pride and their strength generally attract attention by their magnitude, and something in their mere appearance distinguishes them f
rom the average mass.
But Charles Juxon did not in any way belong to this type, any more than the other persons who found themselves concerned in the events which culminated in Goddard’s illness. He was a very simple man whose pride was wholly unconscious, who did not believe himself destined to do anything remarkable, who regarded his own personality as rather uninteresting and who, had he been asked about himself, would have been the first to disclaim any sentiments of the heroic kind. With very little imagination, he possessed great stability himself and great belief in the stability of things in general, a character of the traditional kind known as “northern,” though it would be much more just to describe it as the “temperate” or “central” type of man. Wherever there is exaggeration in nature, there is exaggerated imagination in man. The solid and unimaginative part of the English character is undeniably derived from the Angles or from the Flemish; it is morally the best part, but it is by all odds the least interesting — it is found in the type of man belonging to the plains in a temperate zone, who differs in every respect from the real northman, his distant cousin and hereditary enemy. If Charles Juxon was remarkable for anything it was for his modesty and reticence, in a word, for his apparent determination not to be remarkable at all.
And now, in the extremest anxiety and difficulty, his character served him well; for he unconsciously refused to allow to himself that his position was extraordinary or his responsibility greater than he was able to bear. He disliked intensely the idea of being put forward or thrust into a dramatic situation, and he consequently failed signally to fulfil the dramatic necessities. There was not even a struggle in his heart between the opposite possibilities of letting Goddard die, by merely relaxing his attention, and of redoubling his care and bringing about his recovery. He never once asked himself, after the chances of the patient surviving the fever were stated, whether he would not be justified in sending for some honest housewife from the village to take care of the tramp instead of looking to his wants himself. He simply did his best to save the man’s life, without hesitation, without suspecting that he was doing anything extraordinary, doing, as he had always done, the best thing that came in his way according to the best of his ability. He could not wholly suppress the reflection that much good might ensue from Goddard’s death, but the thought never for a moment interfered with his efforts to save the convict alive.
But John lay in the next room, kept awake by the sick man’s perpetual groaning and by the train of thought which ran through his brain. There were indeed more strange things than his philosophy could account for, but the strangest of all was that the squire should know who the tramp was; he must know it, John thought, since he knew all about him, his former love for Mrs. Goddard and his recent presence in the neighbourhood. The young man’s curiosity was roused to its highest pitch, and he longed to know more. He at once guessed that there must have been much intimate confidence between Mr. Juxon and Mrs. Goddard; he suspected moreover that there must be some strange story connected with her, something which accounted for the peculiar stamp of a formerly luxurious life which still clung to her, and which should explain her residence in Billingsfield But John was very far from suspecting the real truth.
His mind was restless and the inaction became intolerable to him. He rose at last and went again into the room where his friend was watching. Mr. Juxon sat by the bedside, the very picture of patience, one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded together upon his knee, his face paler than usual but perfectly calm, his head bent a little to one side and his smooth hair, which had been slightly ruffled in the encounter in the park, as smooth as ever. It was a very distinctive feature of him; it was part of the sleek and spotless neatness which Mrs. Ambrose so much admired.
“It is my turn, now,” said John. “Will you lie down for a couple of hours?”
The squire rose. Being older and less excitable than John, he was beginning to feel the need of rest. People who have watched often by the sick know how terribly long are those hours of the night between three o’clock and dawn; long always, but seeming interminable when one is obliged to listen perpetually to a long-drawn, inarticulate moaning, a constant effort to speak which never results in words.
“You are very good,” said Mr. Juxon, quietly. “If you will give him the things from time to time, I will take a nap.”
With that he went and lay down upon the couch, and in three minutes was as sound asleep as though he were in bed. John sat by the sick man and looked at his flushed features and listened to the hard-drawn breath followed each time by that terrible, monotonous, mumbling groan.
It might have been three-quarters of an hour since the squire had gone to sleep when John thought he saw a change in Goddard’s face; it seemed to him that the flush subsided from his forehead, very slowly, leaving only a bright burning colour in his cheeks. His eyes seemed suddenly to grow clearer and a strange look of intelligence came into them; his whole appearance was as though illuminated by a flash of some light different from that of the candles which burned upon the table. John rose to his feet and came and looked at him. The groaning suddenly ceased and Goddard’s eyelids, which had been motionless for hours, moved naturally. He appeared to be observing John’s face attentively.
“Where is the squire?” he asked quite naturally — so naturally that John was startled.
“Asleep in the next room,” replied the latter.
“I did not kill him after all,” said Goddard, turning himself a little as though to be more at his ease.
“No,” answered John. “He is not hurt at all. Can you tell me who you are?” For his life, he could not help asking the question. It seemed so easy to find out who the fellow was, now that he could speak intelligibly. But Goddard’s face contracted suddenly, in a hideous smile.
“Don’t you wish you knew?” he said roughly. “But I know you, my boy, I know you — ha! ha! There’s no getting away from you, my boy, is there?”
“Who am I?” asked John in astonishment.
“You are the hangman,” said Goddard. “I know you very well. The hangman is always so well dressed. I say, old chap, turn us off quick, you know — no fumbling about the bolt. Look here — I like your face,” he lowered his voice— “there are nearly sixty pounds in my right-hand trouser pocket — there are — Mary — ah — gave — M — a—”
Again his eyes fixed themselves and the moaning began and continued. John was horror-struck and stood for a moment gazing at his face, over which the deep flush had spread once more, seeming to obliterate all appearance of intelligence. Then the young man put his hand beneath Goddard’s head and gently replaced him in his former position, smoothing the pillows, and giving him a little brandy. He debated whether or not he should call the squire from his rest to tell him what had happened, but seeing that Goddard had now returned to his former state, he supposed such moments of clear speech were to be expected from time to time. He sat down again, and waited; then after a time he went to the window and looked anxiously for the dawn. It seemed an intolerably long night.
But the day came at last and shed a ghastly grey tinge upon the sick-room, revealing as it were the outlines of all that was bad to look at, which the warm yellow candle-light had softened with a kindlier touch. John accidentally looked at himself in the mirror as he passed and was startled at his own pale face; but the convict, labouring in the ravings of his fever, seemed unconscious of the dawning day; he was not yet exhausted and his harsh voice never ceased its jarring gibber. John wondered whether he should ever spend such a night again, and shuddered at the recollection of each moment.
The daylight waked the squire from his slumbers, however, and before the sun was up he came out of the dressing-room, looking almost as fresh as though nothing had happened to him in the night. Accustomed for years to rise at all hours, in all weathers, unimpressionable, calm and strong, he seemed superior to the course of events.
“Well, Mr. Short, you allowed me a long nap. You must be quite worn out,
I should think. How is the patient?”
John told what had occurred.
“Took you for the hangman, did he?” said the squire. “I wonder why — but you say he asked after me very sensibly?”
“Quite so. It was when I asked him his own name, that he began raving again,” answered John innocently.
“What made you ask him that?” asked Mr. Juxon, who did not seem pleased.
“Curiosity,” was John’s laconic answer.
“Yes — but I fancy it frightened him. If I were you I would not do it again, if he has a lucid moment. I imagine it was fright that made him delirious in the first instance.”
“All right,” quoth John. “I won’t.” But he made his own deductions. The squire evidently knew who he was, and did not want John to know, for some unexplained reason. The young man wondered what the reason could be; the mere name of the wretched man was not likely to convey any idea to his mind, for it was highly improbable that he had ever met him before his conviction. So John departed to his own room and refreshed himself with a tub, while the squire kept watch by daylight.
It was not yet eight o’clock when Holmes brought a note from the vicar, which Mr. Juxon tore open and read with anxious interest.
“MY DEAR MR. JUXON — I received your note late last night, but I judged it better to answer this morning, not wishing to excite suspicion by sending to you at so late an hour. The intelligence is indeed alarming and you will, I daresay, understand me, when I tell you that I found it necessary to communicate it to Mrs. Ambrose—”
The squire could not refrain from smiling at the vicar’s way of putting the point; but he read quickly on.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 186