Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Below, in the study, the detective had just finished telling his tale to the squire, and the wheels of Doctor Longstreet’s dog-cart ground upon the gravel outside. The two men looked at each other for a moment, and Mr. Juxon spoke first.

  “That is the doctor,” said he. “I will ask you to have patience for five minutes, Mr. Booley. He will give you his opinion. I am still very much shocked at what you have told me — I had no idea what had happened.”

  “No — I suppose not,” answered Mr. Booley calmly. “If you will ask the medical man to step in here for one moment, I will explain matters to him. I don’t think he will differ much from me.”

  “Very well,” returned the squire, leaving the room. He went to meet Doctor Longstreet, intending to warn him of the presence of Mr. Booley, and meaning to entreat his support for the purpose of keeping Goddard in the house until he should be recovered. He passed through the library and exchanged a few words with Mr. Ambrose, explaining that the doctor had come. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose were sitting on opposite sides of the fireplace in huge chairs, with a mournful air of resigned expectation upon their worthy faces. The detective remained alone in the study.

  Meanwhile John Short had refreshed himself from his fatigues, and came down stairs in search of some breakfast. He had recovered from his excitement and was probably the only one who thought of eating, as he was also the one least closely concerned in what was occurring. Instead of going to the library he went to the dining-room, and, seeing no one about, entered the study from the door which on that side connected the two rooms. To his surprise he saw Mr. Booley standing before the fireplace, his hands in his pockets and his feet wide apart. He had not the least idea who he was.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, staring hard at him.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Booley, who took him for the physician whom he expected. “I am George Booley of the detective service. I was expecting you, sir. There is very little to be said. My time, as I told Mr. Juxon, is very valuable. I must have Goddard out of the house by to-morrow afternoon at the latest. Now, doctor, it is of no use your talking to me about fever and all that—”

  John had stood with his mouth open, staring in blank astonishment at the detective, unable to find words in which to question the man. At last he got his breath.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” he asked slowly. “Are you a raving lunatic — or what are you?”

  “Come, come, doctor,” said Mr. Booley in persuasive accents, “none of that with me, you know. If the man must be moved — why he must, that is all, and you must make it possible, somehow.”

  “You are crazy!” exclaimed John. “I am not the doctor, to begin with—”

  “Not the doctor!” cried Mr. Booley. “Then who are you? I beg your pardon,

  I am sure—”

  “I am John Short,” said John, quickly, heedless of the fact that his name conveyed no idea whatever to the mind of the detective. He cared little, for he began to comprehend the situation, and he fled precipitately into the library, leaving Mr. Booley alone to wait for the coming of the real physician. But in the library a fresh surprise awaited him; there he found Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose seated in solemn silence opposite to each other. He had not suspected their presence in the house, but he was relieved to see them — anything was a relief at that moment.

  “Mr. Ambrose,” he said hurriedly, “there is a detective in the next room who means to carry off that poor man at once — as he is — sick — dying perhaps — it must be prevented!”

  “A detective!” cried the vicar and his wife in the same breath.

  “My dear John,” said the vicar immediately afterwards, “where is he? I will reason with him.”

  “Augustin,” said Mrs. Ambrose with extreme severity, “it is barbarous. I will go upstairs. If he enters the room it shall be across my body.”

  “Do, my dear,” replied the vicar in great excitement, and not precisely appreciating the proposition to which he gave so willing an assent.

  “Of course I will,” said his wife, who had already reached the door. From which it appears that Mrs. Ambrose was a brave woman. She passed rapidly up the staircase to Goddard’s room, but she paused as she laid her hand upon the latch. From within she could hear Mary Goddard’s voice, praying aloud, as she had never heard any one pray before. She paused and listened, hesitating to interrupt the unhappy lady in such a moment. Moreover, though her goodwill was boundless, she had not any precise idea how to manage the defence. But as she stood there, the thought that the detective might at any moment follow her was predominant. The voice within the room paused for an instant and Mrs. Ambrose entered, raising one finger to her lips as though expecting that Mary Goddard would speak to her. But Mary was not looking, and at first did not notice the intrusion. She knelt by the bedside, her face buried in the coverlet, her hands clasped and clasping the sick man’s wounded hand.

  Goddard’s face was pale but not deathlike, and his breathing seemed regular and gentle; but his eyes were almost closed and he seemed not aware that any one had entered. Mrs. Ambrose was struck by his appearance which was greatly changed since she had left him half an hour earlier, his face purple and his harsh moaning continuing unceasingly. She said to herself that he was probably better. There was all the more reason for warning Mary Goddard of the new danger that awaited him. She shut the door and locked it and withdrew the key. At the sound Mary looked up — then rose to her feet with a sad look of reproach, as though not wishing to be disturbed. But Mrs. Ambrose came quickly to her side, and glancing once at Goddard, to see whether he was unconscious, she led her away from the bed.

  “My dear,” she said very kindly, but in a voice trembling with excitement, “I had to come. There are detectives in the house, clamouring to take him away — but I will protect you — they shall not do it.”

  Mary Goddard started and her eyes stared wildly at her friend. But presently the look of resigned sadness returned, and a faint and mournful smile flickered on her lips.

  “I think it is all over,” she said. “He is still alive — but he will not live till they come.”

  Then she bit her lip tightly, and all the features of her face trembled a little. The tears would rise spasmodically, though they were only tears of pity, not of love. Mrs. Ambrose, the severe, the stern, the eternally vigilant Mrs. Ambrose, sat down by the window; she put her arm about Mary Goddard’s waist and took her upon her knee as though she had been a little child and laid her head upon her breast, comforting her as best she could. And their tears flowed down and mingled together, for many minutes.

  But once more the sick man’s voice was heard; both women started to their feet and went to his side.

  “Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard! Let me in!” he moaned faintly.

  “It is I — here I am, Walter, dear Walter — I am with you,” answered Mary, raising him and putting her arm about his neck, while Mrs. Ambrose arranged the pillows behind him. He opened his eyes as though with a great effort.

  Some one knocked softly at the door. Mrs. Ambrose left the bedside quickly and put the key in the lock.

  “Who is there?” she asked, before she opened.

  “I — John. Please let me in.”

  Mrs. Ambrose opened and John entered, very pale; she locked the door again after him. He stood still looking with astonishment at Mrs. Goddard who still propped the sick man in her arms and hardly noticed him.

  “Why — ?” he ejaculated and then checked himself, or rather was checked by

  Mrs. Ambrose’s look. Then he spoke to her in a whisper.

  “There is an awful row going on between the doctor and the detective,” he said hurriedly under his breath. “They are coming upstairs and the vicar and Mr. Juxon are trying to part them — I don’t know what they are not saying to each other—”

  “Hush,” replied Mrs. Ambrose, “do not disturb him — he was conscious again just now. This may be the crisis — he may recover. The door is locked — try and prevent anybody — that is, th
e detective, from coming in. They will not dare to break open the door in Mr. Juxon’s house.”

  “But why is Mrs. Goddard here?” asked John unable to control his curiosity any longer. He did not mean that she should hear, but as she laid Goddard’s head gently upon the pillows, trying to soothe him to rest again, if rest it were, she looked up and met John’s eyes.

  “Because he is my husband,” said she very quietly.

  John laid his hand on Mrs. Ambrose’s arm in utmost bewilderment and looked at her as though to ask if it were true. She nodded gravely. Before John had time to recover himself from the shock of the news, footsteps were heard outside, and the loud altercation of angry voices. John Short leaned his shoulder against the door and put his foot against it below, expecting an attack.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  WHEN MR. AMBROSE undertook to reason with the detective he went directly towards the study where John said the man was waiting. But Mr. Booley was beginning to suspect that the doctor was not coming to speak with him as the squire had promised, and after hesitating for a few moments followed John into the library, determining to manage matters himself. As he opened the door he met Mr. Ambrose coming towards him, and at the same moment Mr. Juxon and Doctor Longstreet entered from the opposite end of the long room. The cheerful and active physician was talking in a rather excited tone.

  “My dear sir,” said he, “I cannot pretend to say that the man will or will not recover. I must see him again. Things look quite differently by daylight, and six or seven hours may make all the change in the world. To say that he can be moved to-day or even to-morrow, is absurd. I will stake my reputation as a practitioner — Hulloa!”

  The exclamation was elicited by Mr. Booley, who had pushed past Mr. Ambrose and stood confronting the doctor with a look which was intended to express a combination of sarcasm, superior cunning and authority.

  “This is Mr. Booley,” explained the squire. “Doctor Longstreet will tell you what he has been telling me,” he added turning to the detective.

  “I must see this man instantly,” said the latter somewhat roughly. “I believe I am being trifled with, and I will not submit to it. No, sir, I will not be trifled with, I assure you! I must see this man at once. It is absolutely necessary to identify him.”

  “And I say,” said Doctor Longstreet with equal firmness, “that I must see him first, in order to judge whether you can see him or not—”

  “It is for me to judge of that,” returned Mr. Booley, with more haste than logic.

  “After you have seen him, you cannot judge whether you ought to see him or not,” retorted Doctor Longstreet growing red in the face. The detective attempted to push past him. At this moment John Short hastily left the room and fled upstairs to warn Mrs. Ambrose of what was happening.

  “Really,” said Mr. Ambrose, making a vain attempt to stop the course of events, “this is very unwarrantable.”

  “Unwarrantable!” cried Mr. Booley. “Unwarrantable, indeed! I have the warrant in my pocket. Mr. Juxon, sir, I fear I must insist.”

  “Permit me,” said Mr. Juxon, planting his square and sturdy form between the door and the detective. “You may certainly insist, but you must begin by listening to reason.”

  Charles Juxon had been accustomed to command others for the greater part of his life, and though he was generally the most unobtrusive and gentle of men, when he raised his voice in a tone of authority his words carried weight. His blue eyes stared hard at Mr. Booley, and there was something imposing in his square head — even in the unruffled smoothness of his brown hair. Mr. Booley paused and discontentedly thrust his hands into his pockets.

  “Well?” he said.

  “Simply this,” answered the squire. “You may accompany us to the door of the room; you may wait with me, while Doctor Longstreet goes in to look at the patient. If the man is unconscious you may go in and see him. If he chances to be in a lucid interval, you must wait until he is unconscious again. It will not be long. That is perfectly reasonable.”

  “Perfectly,” echoed Mr. Ambrose, biting his long upper lip and glaring as fiercely at Mr. Booley as though he had said it all himself.

  “Absolutely reasonable,” added Doctor Longstreet.

  “Well, we will try it,” said the detective moodily. “But I warn you I will not be trifled with.”

  “Nobody is trifling with you,” answered the squire coldly. “This way if you please.” And he forthwith led the way upstairs, followed by Mr. Booley, the physician and the vicar.

  Before they reached the door, however, the discussion broke out again. Mr. Booley had been held in check for a few moments by Mr. Juxon’s determined manner, but as he followed the squire he began to regret that he had yielded so far and he made a fresh assertion of his rights.

  “I cannot see why you want to keep me outside,” he said. “What difference can it make, I should like to know?”

  “You will have to take my word for it that it does make a difference,” said the doctor, testily. “If you frighten the man, he will die. Now then, here we are.”

  “I don’t like your tone, sir,” said Booley angrily, again trying to push past the physician. “I think I must insist, after all. I will go in with you — I tell you I will, sir — don’t stop me.”

  Doctor Longstreet, who was fifteen or twenty years older than the detective but still strong and active, gripped his arm quickly, and held him back.

  “If you go into that room without my permission, and if the man dies of fright, I will have an action brought against you for manslaughter,” he said in a loud voice.

  “And I will support it,” said the squire. “I am justice of the peace here, and what is more, I am in my own house. Do not think your position will protect you.”

  Again Mr. Juxon’s authoritative tone checked the detective, who drew back, making some angry retort which no one heard. The squire tried the door and finding it locked, knocked softly, not realising that every word of the altercation had been heard within.

  “Who is there?” asked John, who though he had heard all that had been said was uncertain of the issue.

  “Let in Doctor Longstreet,” said the squire’s voice.

  But meanwhile Mrs. Ambrose and Mary Goddard were standing on each side of the sick man. He must have heard the noises outside, and they conveyed some impression to his brain.

  “Mary, Mary!” he groaned indistinctly. “Save me — they are coming — I cannot get away — softly, he is coming — now — I shall just catch him as he goes by — Ugh! that dog — oh! oh!—”

  With a wild shriek, the wretched man sprang up, upon his knees, his eyes starting out, his face transfigured with horror. For one instant he remained thus, half-supported by the two terror-struck women; then with a groan his head drooped forward upon his breast and he fell back heavily upon the pillows, breathing still but quite unconscious.

  Doctor Longstreet entered at that moment and ran to his side. But when he saw him he paused. Even Mrs. Ambrose was white with horror, and Mary Goddard stood motionless, staring down at her husband, her hands gripping the disordered coverlet convulsively.

  Mr. Juxon had entered, too, while Mr. Ambrose remained outside with the detective, who had been frightened into submission by the physician’s last threat. The squire saw what was happening and paced the room in the greatest agitation, wringing his hands together and biting his lips. John had closed the door and came to the foot of the bed and looked at Goddard’s face. After a pause, Doctor Longstreet spoke.

  “We might possibly restore him to consciousness for a moment—”

  “Don’t!” cried Mary Goddard, starting as though some one had struck her.

  “That is—” she added quickly, in broken tones, “unless he can live!”

  “No,” answered the physician, gravely, but looking hard at the unhappy woman. “He is dying.”

  Goddard’s staring eyes were glazed and white. Twice and three times he

  gasped for breath, and then lay quite sti
ll. It was all over. Mary gazed

  at his dead face for one instant, then a faint smile parted her lips: she

  raised one hand to her forehead as though dazed.

  “He is safe now,” she murmured very faintly. Her limbs relaxed suddenly, and she fell straight backwards. Charles Juxon, who was watching her, sprang forward and caught her in his arms. Then he bore her from the room, swiftly, while John Short who was as white and speechless as the rest opened the door.

  “You may go in now,” said Juxon as he passed Booley and Mr. Ambrose in the passage, with his burden in his arms. A few steps farther on he met Holmes the butler, who carried a telegram on a salver.

  “For Mr. Short, sir,” said the impassive servant, not appearing to notice anything strange in the fact that his master was carrying the inanimate body of Mary Goddard.

  “He is in there — go in,” said Juxon hurriedly as he went on his way.

  The detective and the vicar had already entered the room where the dead convict was lying. All stood around the bed, gazing at his pale face as he lay.

  “A telegram for Mr. Short,” said Holmes from the door. John started and took the despatch from the butler’s hands. He hastily tore it open, glanced at the contents and thrust it into his pocket. Every one looked round.

  “What is it, John?” whispered the vicar, who was nearest to him.

  “Oh — nothing. I am first in the Tripos, that is all,” answered John very simply, as though it were not a matter of the least consequence.

  Through all those months of untiring labour, through privation and anxiety, through days of weariness and nights of study, he had looked forward to the triumph, often doubting but never despairing. But he had little guessed that the news of victory would reach him at such a moment. It was nothing, he said; and indeed as he stood with the group of pale and awe-struck spectators by the dead man’s bed, he felt that the greatest thing which had ever happened to him was as nothing compared with the tragedy of which he had witnessed the last act.