"Well, Gall," said Mr. Juxon, "have you any reason for believing that this escaped convict is likely to come this way?"
"Well sir, there is some evidence," answered the policeman, mysteriously."Leastways what seems like evidence to me, sir."
"Of what kind?" the squire fixed his quiet eyes on Mr. Gall's face.
"His name, sir. The name of the convict. There is a party of that name residin' here."
The squire suddenly guessed what was coming, or at least a possibility of it crossed his mind. If Mr. Gall had been a more observant man he would have seen that Mr. Juxon grew a shade paler and changed one leg over the other as he sat. But in that moment he had time to nerve himself for the worst.
"And what is the name, if you please?" he asked calmly.
"The name in the general orders is Goddard, sir—Walter Goddard. He was convicted of forgery three years ago, sir, a regular bad lot. But discretion is recommended in the orders, sir, as the business is not wanted to get into the papers."
The squire was ready. If Gall did not know that Mary Goddard was the wife of the convict Walter, he should certainly not find it out. In any other country of Europe that would have been the first fact communicated to the local police. Very likely, thought Mr. Juxon, nobody knew it.
"I do not see," he said very slowly, "that the fact of there being a Mrs. Goddard residing here in the least proves that she is any relation to this criminal. The name is not so uncommon as that, you know."
"Nor I either, sir. In point of fact, sir, I was only thinking. It's what you may call a striking coincidence, that's all."
"It would have been a still more striking coincidence if his name had been Juxon like mine, or Ambrose like the vicar's," said the squire calmly. "There are other people of the name in England, and the local policemen will be warned to be on the lookout. If this fellow was called Juxon instead of Goddard, Gall, would you be inclined to think he was a relation of mine?"
"Oh no, sir. Ha! ha! Very good sir! Very good indeed! No indeed, sir, and she such a real lady too!"
"Well then, I do not see that you can do anything more than keep a sharp look-out. I suppose they sent you some kind of description?"
"Well, yes. There was a kind of a description as you say, sir, but I'm not anyways sure of recognising the party by it. In point of fact, sir, the description says the convict is a fair man."
"Is that all?"
"Neither particular tall, nor yet particular short, sir. Not a very big 'un nor a very little 'un, sir. In point of fact, sir, a fair man. Clean shaved and close cropped he is, sir, being a criminal."
"I hope you may recognise him by that account," said the squire, suppressing a smile. "I don't believe I should."
"Well, sir, it does say as he's a fair man," remarked the constable.
"Supposing he blacked his face and passed for a chimney-sweep?" suggested the squire. The idea seemed to unsettle Gall's views.
"In that case, sir, I don't know as I should know him, for certain," he answered.
"Probably not—probably not, Gall. And judging from the account they have sent you I don't think you would be to blame."
"Leastways it can't be said as I've failed to carry out superior instructions," replied Mr. Gall, proudly. "Then it's your opinion, sir, that I'd better keep a sharp look-out? Did I understand you to say so, sir?"
"Quite so," returned the squire with great calmness. "By all means keep a sharp look-out, and be careful to be discreet, as the orders instruct you."
"You may trust me for that, sir," said the policeman, who dearly loved the idea of mysterious importance. "Then I wish you good morning, sir." He prepared to go.
"Good morning, Gall—good morning. The butler will give you some ale."
Again Mr. Gall passed his thumb round the inside of his belt, testing the local pressure in anticipation of a pint. He made a sort of half-military salute at the door and went out. When the squire was alone he rose from his chair and paced the room, giving way to the agitation he had concealed in the presence of the constable. He was very much disturbed at the news of Goddard's escape, as well he might be. Not that he was aware that the convict knew of his wife's whereabouts; he did not even suppose that Goddard could ascertain for some time where she was living, still less that he would boldly present himself in Billingsfield. But it was bad enough to know that the man was again at large. So long as he was safely lodged in prison, Mrs. Goddard was herself safe; but if once he regained his liberty and baffled the police he would certainly end by finding out Mary's address and there was no telling to what annoyance, to what danger, to what sufferings she might be exposed. Here was a new interest, indeed, and one which promised to afford the squire occupation until the fellow was caught.
Mr. Juxon knew that he was right in putting the policeman off the track in regard to Mrs. Goddard. He himself was a better detective than Gall, for he went daily to the cottage and if anything was wrong there, was quite sure to discover it. If Goddard ever made his way to Billingsfield it could only be for the purpose of seeing his wife, and if he succeeded in this, Mrs. Goddard could not conceal it from the squire. She was a nervous woman who could not hide her emotions; she would find herself in a terrible difficulty and she would perhaps turn to her friend for assistance. If Mr. Juxon could lay his hands on Goddard, he flattered himself he was much more able to arrest a desperate man than mild-eyed Policeman Gall. He had not been at sea for thirty years in vain, and in his time he had handled many a rough customer. He debated however upon the course he should pursue. As in his opinion it was unlikely that Goddard would find out his wife for some time, and improbable that he would waste such precious time in looking for her, it seemed far from advisable to warn her that the felon had escaped. On the other hand he mistrusted his own judgment; if she were not prepared it was just possible that the man should come upon her unawares, and the shock of seeing him might be very much worse than the shock of being told that he was at large. He might consult the vicar.
At first, the old feeling that it would be disloyal to Mrs. Goddard even to hint to Mr. Ambrose that he was acquainted with her story withheld him from pursuing such a course. But as he turned the matter over in his mind it seemed to him that since it was directly for her good, he would now be justified in speaking. He liked the vicar and he trusted him. He knew that the vicar had been a good friend to Mrs. Goddard and that he would stand by her in any difficulty so far as he might be able. The real question was how to make sure that the vicar should not tell his wife. If Mrs. Ambrose had the least suspicion that anything unusual was occurring, she would naturally try and extract information from her husband, and she would probably be successful; women, the squire thought, very generally succeed in operations of that kind. But if once Mr. Ambrose could be consulted without arousing his wife's suspicions, he was a man to be trusted. Thereupon Mr. Juxon wrote a note to the vicar, saying that he had something of great interest to show him, and begging that, if not otherwise engaged, he would come up to the Hall to lunch. When he had despatched his messenger, being a man of his word, he went into the library to hunt for some rare volume or manuscript which the vicar had not yet seen, and which might account in a spirit of rigid veracity for the excuse he had given. Meanwhile, as he turned over his rare and curious folios he debated further upon his conduct; but having once made up his mind to consult Mr. Ambrose, he determined to tell him boldly what had occurred, after receiving from him a promise of secrecy. The messenger brought back word that the vicar would be delighted to come, and at the hour named the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced the arrival of Strawberry, the old mare, drawing behind her the vicar and his aged henchman, Reynolds, in the traditional vicarage dogcart. A moment later the vicar entered the library.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose," said the squire inhospitable tones. "I have something to show you and I have something to say to you." The two shook hands heartily. Independently of kindred scholarly tastes, they were sympathetic to each other and were always glad to meet.
"It is just the weather for bookworms," answered the vicar in cheerful tones. "Dear me, I never come here without envying you and wishing that life were one long rainy afternoon."
"You know I am inclined to think I am rather an enviable person," said Mr. Juxon, slowly passing his hand over his glossy hair and leading his guest towards a large table near the fire. Several volumes lay together upon the polished mahogany. The squire laid his hand on one of them.
"I have not deceived you," he said. "That is a very interesting volume. It is the black letter Paracelsus I once spoke of. I have succeeded in getting it at last."
"Dear me! What a piece of fortune!" said Mr. Ambrose bending down until his formidable nose almost touched the ancient page.
"Yes," said the squire, "uncommonly lucky as usual. Now, excuse my abruptness in changing the subject—I want to consult you upon an important matter."
The vicar looked up quickly with that vague, faraway expression which comes into the eyes of a student when he is suddenly called away from contemplating some object of absorbing interest.
"Certainly," he said, "certainly—a—by all means."
"It is about Mrs. Goddard," said the squire, looking hard at his visitor."Of course it is between ourselves," he added.
The vicar's long upper lip descended upon its fellow and he bent his rough grey eyebrows, returning Mr. Juxon's sharp look with interest. He could not imagine what the squire could have to say about Mrs. Goddard, unless, like poor John, he had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her; which appeared improbable.
"What is it?" he said sharply.
"I daresay you do not know that I am acquainted with her story," beganMr. Juxon. "Do not be surprised. She saw fit to tell it me herself."
"Indeed?" exclaimed the vicar in considerable astonishment. In that case, he argued quickly, Mr. Juxon was not thinking of marrying her.
"Yes—it is not necessary to go into that," said Mr. Juxon quickly. "The thing I want to tell you is this—Goddard the forger has escaped—"
"Escaped?" echoed the vicar in real alarm. "You don't mean to say so!"
"Gall the constable came here this morning," continued Mr. Juxon. "He told me that there were general orders out for his arrest."
"How in the world did he get out?" cried the vicar. "I thought nobody was ever known to escape from Portland!"
"So did I. But this fellow has—somehow. Gall did not know. Now, the question is, what is to be done?"
"I am sure I don't know," returned the vicar, thrusting his hands into his pockets and marching to the window, the wide skirts of his coat seeming to wave with agitation as he walked.
Mr. Juxon also put his hands into his pockets, but he stood still upon the hearth-rug and looked at the ceiling, softly whistling a little tune, a habit he had in moments of great anxiety. For three or four minutes neither of the two spoke.
"Would you tell Mrs. Goddard—or not?" asked Mr. Juxon at last.
"I don't know," said the vicar. "I am amazed beyond measure." He turned and slowly came back to the table.
"I don't know either," replied the squire. "That is precisely the point upon which I think we ought to decide. I have known about the story for some time, but I did not anticipate that it would take this turn."
"I think," said Mr. Ambrose after another pause, "I think that if there is any likelihood of the fellow finding her out, we ought to tell her. If not I think we had better wait until he is caught. He is sure to be caught, of course."
"I entirely agree with you," returned Mr. Juxon. "Only—how on earth are we to find out whether he is likely to come here or not? If any one knows where he is, he is as good as caught already. If nobody knows, we can certainly have no means of telling."
The argument was unanswerable. Again there was a long silence. The vicar walked about the room in great perplexity.
"Dear me! Dear me! What a terrible business!" he repeated, over and over again.
"Do you think we are called upon to do anything?" he asked at last, stopping in his walk immediately in front of Mr. Juxon.
"If we can do anything to save Mrs. Goddard from annoyance or further trouble, we are undoubtedly called upon to do it," replied the squire. "If that wretch finds her out, he will try to break into the cottage at night and force her to give him money."
"Do you really think so? Dear me! I hope he will do no such thing!"
"So do I, I am sure," said Mr. Juxon, with a grim smile. "But if he finds her out, he will. I almost think it would be better to tell her in any case."
"But think of the anxiety she will be in until he is caught!" cried the vicar. "She will be expecting him every day—every night. Well—I suppose we might tell Gall to watch the house."
"That will not do," said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be a great injustice to allow Gall or any of the people in the village to know anything about her. She might be subjected to all kinds of insult. You know what these people are. A 'real lady,' who is at the same time the wife of a convict, is a thing they can hardly understand. I am sure both you and I secretly flatter ourselves that we have shown an unusual amount of good sense and generosity in understanding her position as we do."
"I daresay we do," said the vicar with a smile. He was too honest to deny it. "Indeed it took me some time to get used to the idea myself."
"Precisely. The village people would never get used to it. Of all things to do, we should certainly not tell Gall, who is an old woman and a great chatterbox. I wish you could have heard his statement this morning—it filled me with admiration for the local police, I assure you. But—I think it would be better to tell her. I did not think so before you came, I believe. But talking always brings the truth out."
The vicar hesitated, rising and falling upon his toes and heels in profound thought, after his manner.
"I daresay you are right," he said at last. "Will you do it? Or shall I?"
"I would rather not," said the squire, thoughtfully. "You know her better, you have known her much longer than I."
"But she will ask me where I heard of it," objected the vicar. "I shall be obliged to say that you told me. That will be as bad as though you told her yourself."
"You need not say you heard it from me. You can say that Gall has received instructions to look out for Goddard. She will not question you any further, I am sure."
"I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Juxon," said the vicar.
"I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Ambrose," said the squire, almost in the same breath. Both laughed a little.
"Not that I would not do it at once, if necessary," added Mr. Juxon.
"Or I, in a moment," said Mr. Ambrose.
"Of course," returned Mr. Juxon. "Only it is such a very delicate matter, you see."
"Dear me, yes," murmured the vicar, "a most delicate matter. Poor lady!"
"Poor lady!" echoed the squire. "But I suppose it must be done."
"Oh yes—we cannot do otherwise," answered Mr. Ambrose, still hoping that his companion would volunteer to perform the disagreeable office.
"Well then, will you—will you do it?" asked Mr. Juxon, anxious to have the matter decided.
"Why not go together?" suggested the vicar.
"No," said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be an intolerable ordeal for the poor woman. I think I see your objection. Perhaps you think that Mrs. Ambrose—"
"Exactly, Mrs. Ambrose," echoed the vicar with a grim smile.
"Oh precisely—then I will do it," said the squire. And he forthwith did, and was very much surprised at the result.
It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Juxon walked down towards the cottage, accompanied by the vicar. In spite of their mutual anxiety to be of service to Mrs. Goddard, when they had once decided how to act they had easily fallen into conversation about other matters, the black letter Paracelsus had received its full share of attention and many another rare volume had been brought out and examined. Neither the vicar nor his host believed that there was any hurry; if Goddard ever succeeded in getting to Billingsfield it would not be to-day, nor to-morrow either.
The weather had suddenly changed; the east was already clear and over the west, where the sun was setting in a fiery mist, the huge clouds were banked up against the bright sky, fringed with red and purple, but no longer threatening rain or snow. The air was sharp and the plentiful mud in the roads was already crusted with a brittle casing of ice.
The squire took leave of Mr. Ambrose at the turning where the road led into the village and then walked back to the cottage. Even his solid nerves were a little unsettled at the prospect of the interview before him; but he kept a stout heart and asked for Mrs. Goddard in his usual quiet voice. Martha told him that Mrs. Goddard had a bad headache, but on inquiry found that she would see the squire. He entered the drawing-room softly and went forward to greet her; she was sitting in a deep chair propped by cushions.
Mary Goddard had spent a miserable day. The grey morning light seemed to reveal her troubles and fears in a new and more terrible aspect. During the long hours of darkness it seemed as though those things were mercifully hidden which the strong glare of day must inevitably reveal, and when the night was fairly past she thought all the world must surely know that Walter Goddard had escaped and that his wife had seen him. Hourly she expected a ringing at the bell, announcing the visit of a party of detectives on his track; every sound startled her and her nerves were strung to such a pitch that she heard with supernatural acuteness. She had indeed two separate causes for fear. The one was due to her anxiety for Goddard's safety; the other to her apprehensions for Nellie. She had long determined that at all hazards the child must be kept from the knowledge of her father's disgrace, by being made to believe in his death. It was a falsehood indeed, but such a falsehood as may surely be forgiven to a woman as unhappy as Mary Goddard. It seemed monstrous that the innocent child, who seemed not even to have inherited her father's looks or temper, should be brought up with the perpetual sense of her disgrace before her, should be forced to listen to explanations of her father's crimes and tutored to the comprehension of an inherited shame. From the first Mary Goddard had concealed the whole matter from the little girl, and when Walter was at last convicted, she had told her that her father was dead. Dead he might be, she thought, before twelve years were out, and Nellie would be none the wiser. In twelve years from the time of his conviction Nellie would be in her twenty-first year; if it were ever necessary to tell her, it would be time enough then, for the girl would have at least enjoyed her youth, free of care and of the horrible consciousness of a great crime hanging over her head. No child could grow up in such a state as that implied. No mind could develop healthily under the perpetual pressure of so hideous a secret; from her earliest childhood her impressions would be warped, her imagination darkened and her mental growth stunted. It would be a great cruelty to tell her the truth; it was a great mercy to tell her the falsehood. It was no selfish timidity which had prompted Mary Goddard, but a carefully weighed consideration for the welfare of her child.
If now, within these twenty-four hours, Nellie should discover who the poor tramp was, who had frightened her so much on the previous evening, all this would be at an end. The child's life would be made desolate for ever. She would never recover from the shock, and to injure lovely Nellie so bitterly would be worse to Mary Goddard than to be obliged to bear the sharpest suffering herself. For, from the day when she had waked to a comprehension of her husband's baseness, the love for her child had taken in her breast the place of the love for Walter.
She did not think connectedly; she did not realise her fears; she was almost wholly unstrung. But she had procured the fifty pounds her husband required and she waited for the night with a dull hope that all might yet be well—as well as anything so horrible could be. If only her husband were not caught in Billingsfield it would not be so bad, perhaps. And yet it may be that her wisest course would have been to betray him that very night. Many just men would have said so; but there are few women who would do it. There are few indeed, so stonyhearted as to betray a man once loved in such a case; and Mary Goddard in her wildest fear never dreamed of giving up the fugitive. She sat all day in her chair, wishing that the day were over, praying that she might be spared any further suffering or that at least it might be spared to her child whom she so loved. She had sent Nellie down to the vicarage with Martha. Mrs. Ambrose loved Nellie better than she loved Nellie's mother, and there was a standing invitation for her to spend the afternoons at the vicarage. Nellie said her mother had a terrible headache and wanted to be alone.
But when the squire came Mrs. Goddard thought it wiser to see him. She had, of course, no intention of confiding to him an account of the events of the previous night, but she felt that if she could talk to him for half an hour she would be stronger. He was himself so strong and honest that he inspired her with courage. She knew, also, that if she were driven to the extremity of confiding in any one she would choose Mr. Juxon rather than Mr. Ambrose. The vicar had been her first friend and she owed him much; but the squire had won her confidence by his noble generosity after she had told him her story. She said to herself that he was more of a man than the vicar. And now he had come to her at the time of her greatest distress, and she was glad to see him.
Mr. Juxon entered the room softly, feeling that he was in the presence of a sick person. Mrs. Goddard turned her pathetic face towards him and held out her hand.
"I am so glad to see you," she said, trying to seem cheerful.
"I fear you are ill, Mrs. Goddard," answered the squire, looking at her anxiously and then seating himself by her side. "Martha told me you had a headache—I hope it is not serious."
"Oh no—not serious. Only a headache," she said with a smile so unlike her own that Mr. Juxon began to feel nervous. His resolution to tell her his errand began to waver; it seemed cruel, he thought, to disturb a person who was evidently so ill with a matter so serious. He remembered that she had almost fainted on a previous occasion when she had spoken to him of her husband. She had not been ill then; there was no knowing what the effect of a shock to her nerves might be at present. He sat still in silence for some moments, twisting his hat upon his knee.
"Do not be disturbed about me," said Mrs. Goddard presently. "It will pass very quickly. I shall be quite well to-morrow—I hope," she added with a shudder.
"I am very much disturbed about you," returned Mr. Juxon in an unusually grave tone. Mrs. Goddard looked at him quickly, and was surprised when she saw the expression on his face. He looked sad, and at the same time perplexed.
"Oh, pray don't be!" she exclaimed as though deprecating further remark upon her ill health.
"I wish I knew," said the squire with some hesitation, "whether—whether you are really very ill. I mean, of course, I know you have a bad headache, a very bad headache, as I can see. But—indeed, Mrs. Goddard, I have something of importance to say."
"Something of importance?" she repeated, staring hard at him.
"Yes—but it will keep till to-morrow, if you would rather not hear it now," he replied, looking at her doubtfully.
"I would rather hear it now," she answered after some seconds of silence.Her heart beat fast.
"You were good enough some time ago to tell me about—Mr. Goddard," beganMr. Juxon in woeful trepidation.
"Yes," answered his companion under her breath. Her hands were clasped tightly together upon her knees and her eyes sought the squire's anxiously and then looked away again in fear.
"Well, it is about him," continued Mr. Juxon in a gentle voice. "Would you rather put it off? It is—well, rather startling."
Mrs. Goddard closed her eyes, like a person expecting to suffer some terrible pain. She thought Mr. Juxon was going to tell her that Walter had been captured in the village.
"Mr. Goddard has escaped," said the squire, making a bold plunge with the whole truth. The sick lady trembled violently, and unclasping her hands laid them upon the arms of her chair as though to steady herself to bear the worse shock to come. But Mr. Juxon was silent. He had told her all he knew.
"Yes," she said faintly. "Is there anything—anything more?" Her voice was barely audible in the still and dusky room.
"No—except that, of course, there are orders out for his arrest, all over the country."
"He has not been arrested yet?" asked Mrs. Goddard. She had expected to hear that he was caught; she thought the squire was trying to break the shock of the news. Her courage rose a little now.
"No, he is not arrested—but I have no doubt he soon will be," added Mr.Juxon in a tone intended to convey encouragement.
"How did you hear this?"
"Gall the policeman, told me this morning. I—I am afraid I have something else to confess to you, Mrs. Goddard, I trust you will not—"
"What?" she asked so suddenly as to startle him. Walter might have been heard of in the neighbourhood, perhaps.
"I think I was right," continued Mr. Juxon. "I hope you will forgive me. It does not seem quite loyal, but I did not know what to do. I consulted the vicar as to whether we should tell you."
"The vicar? What did he say?" Again Mrs. Goddard felt relieved.
"He quite agreed with me," answered the squire. "You see we feared that Mr. Goddard might find his way here and come upon you suddenly. We thought you would be terribly pained and startled."
Mrs. Goddard could almost have laughed at that moment. The excellent man had taken all this trouble in order to save her from the very thing which had already occurred on the previous night. There was a bitter humour in the situation, in the squire's kind-hearted way of breaking to her that news which she already knew so well, in his willingness to put off telling her until the morrow. What would Mr. Juxon say, could he guess that she had herself already spoken with her husband and had promised to see him again that very night! Forgetting that his last words required an answer, she leaned back in her chair and again folded her hands before her. Her eyes were half closed and from beneath the drooping lids she gazed through the gathering gloom at the squire's anxious face.
"I hope you think I did right," said the latter in considerable doubt.
"Quite right. I think you were both very kind to think of me as you did," said she.
"I am sure, I always think of you," answered Mr. Juxon simply. "I hope that this thing will have no further consequences. Of course, until we know of Mr. Goddard's whereabouts we shall feel very anxious. It seems probable that if he can get here unobserved he will do so. He will probably ask you for some money."
"Do you really think he could get here at all?" asked Mrs. Goddard. She wanted to hear what he would say, for she thought she might judge from his words whether her husband ran any great risk.
"Oh no," replied the squire. "I think it is very improbable. I fear this news has sadly disturbed you, Mrs. Goddard, but let us hope all may turn out for the best." Indeed he thought she showed very little surprise, though she had evidently been much moved. Perhaps she had been accustomed to expect that her husband might one day escape. She was ill, too, and her nerves were unstrung, he supposed.
She had really passed through a very violent emotion, but it had not been caused by her surprise, but by her momentary fear for the fugitive, instantly allayed by Mr. Juxon's explanation. She felt that for to-day at least Walter was safe, and by to-morrow he would be safe out of the neighbourhood. But she reflected that it was necessary to say something; that if she appeared to receive the news too indifferently the squire's suspicions might be aroused with fatal results.
"It is a terrible thing," she said presently. "You see I am not at all myself."
It was not easy for her to act a part. The words were commonplace.
"No," said Mr. Juxon, "I see you are not." He on his part, instead of looking for a stronger expression of fear or astonishment, was now only too glad that she should be so calm.
"Would you advise me to do anything?" she asked presently.
"There is nothing to be done," he answered quickly, glad of a chance to relieve the embarrassment of the situation. "Of course we might put you under the protection of the police but—what is the matter, Mrs. Goddard?" She had started as though in pain.
"Only this dreadful headache," she said. "Go on please."
"Well, we might set Gall the policeman to watch your house; but that would be very unpleasant for you. It would be like telling him and all the village people of your situation—"
"Oh don't! Please don't!"
"No, certainly not. I think it very unwise. Besides—" he stopped short.He was about to say that he felt much better able to watch over Mrs.Goddard himself than Gall the constable could possibly be; but he checkedhimself in time.
"Besides—what?" she asked.
"Nothing—Gall is not much of a policeman, that is all. I do not believe you would be any the safer for his protection. But you must promise me, my dear Mrs. Goddard, that if anything occurs you will let me know. I may be of some assistance."
"Thank you, so much," said she. "You are always so kind!"
"Not at all. I am very glad if you think I was right to tell you about it."
"Oh, quite right," she answered. "And now, Mr. Juxon, I am really not at all well. All this has quite unnerved me—"
"You want me to go?" said the squire smiling kindly as he rose. "Yes, I understand. Well, good-bye, my dear friend—I hope everything will clear up."
"Good-bye. Thank you again. You always do understand me," she answered giving him her small cold hand. "Don't think me ungrateful," she added, looking up into his eyes.
"No indeed—not that there is anything to be grateful for."
In a moment more he was gone, feeling that he had done his duty like a man, and that it had not been so hard after all. He was glad it was done, however, and he felt that he could face the vicar with a bold front at their next meeting. He went quickly down the path and crossed the road to his own gate with a light step. As he entered the park he was not aware of a wretched-looking tramp who slouched along the quickset hedge and watched his retreating figure far up the avenue, till he was out of sight among the leafless trees. If Stamboul had been with the squire the tramp would certainly not have passed unnoticed; but for some days the roads had been so muddy that Stamboul had been left behind when Mr. Juxon made his visits to the cottage, lest the great hound should track the mud into the spotless precincts of the passage. The tramp stood still and looked after the squire so long as he could see him, and then slunk off across the wet meadows, where the standing water was now skimmed with ice.
Walter Goddard had spent the day in watching for the squire and he had seen him at last. He had seen him go down the road with the vicar till they were both out of sight, and he had seen him come back and enter the cottage. This proceeding, he argued, betrayed that the squire did not wish to be seen going into Mary's house by the vicar. The tortuous intelligences of bad men easily impute to others courses which they themselves would naturally pursue. Three words on the previous evening had sufficed to rouse the convict's jealousy. What he saw to-day confirmed his suspicions. The gentleman in knickerbockers could be no other than the squire himself, of course. He was evidently in the habit of visiting Mary Goddard and he did not wish his visits to be observed by the clergyman, who was of course the vicar or rector of the parish. That proved conclusively in the fugitive's mind that there was something wrong. He ground his teeth together and said to himself that it would be worth while to run some risk in order to stop that little game, as he expressed it. He had, as he himself had confessed to his wife, murdered one man in escaping; a man, he reflected, could only hang once, and if he had not been taken in the streets of London he was not likely to be caught in the high street of Billingsfield, Essex. It would be a great satisfaction to knock the squire on the head before he went any farther. Moreover he had found a wonderfully safe retreat in the disused vault at the back of the church. He discovered loose stones inside the place which he could pile up against the low hole which served for an entrance. Probably no one knew that there was any entrance at all—the very existence of the vault was most likely forgotten. It was not a cheerful place, but Goddard's nerves were excited to a pitch far beyond the reach of supernatural fears. Whatever he might be condemned to feel in the future, his conscience troubled him very little in the present. The vault was comparatively dry and was in every way preferable, as a resting-place for one night, to the interior of a mouldy haystack in the open fields. He did not dare show himself again at the "Feathers" inn, lest he should be held to do the day's work he had promised in payment for his night in the barn. All that morning and afternoon he had lain hidden in the quickset hedge near the park gate, within sight of the cottage, and he had been rewarded. The food he had taken with him the night before had sufficed him and he had quenched his thirst with rain-water from the ditch. Having seen that the squire went back towards the Hall, Goddard slunk away to his hiding-place to wait for the night. He lay down as best he might, and listened for the hours and half-hours as the church clock tolled them out from the lofty tower above.
Mary Goddard had told him to come later than before, and it was after half-past ten when he tapped upon the shutter of the little drawing-room. All was dark within, and he held his breath as he stood among the wet creepers, listening intently for the sound of his wife's coming. Presently the glass window inside was opened.
"Is that you?" asked Mary's voice in a tremulous whisper.
"Yes," he answered. "Let me in." Then the shutter was cautiously unfastened and opened a little and in the dim starlight Goddard recognised his wife's pale face. Her hand went out to him, with something in it.
"There is the money," she whispered. "Go as quickly as you can. They are looking for you—there are orders out to arrest you."
Goddard seized her fingers and took the money. She would have withdrawn her hand but he held it firmly.
"Who told you that they were after me?" he asked in a fierce whisper.
"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.
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, theTripos 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, Augustin, 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.
"I do not, my dear lady. I assure you I fully understand your position. The fact is, I was too much surprised and I am too anxious for your safety not to think immediately of securing that—ahem—that unfortunate man."
"Oh, it is not my safety! It is not only my safety—"
"I understand—yes—of course you are anxious about him. But it is doubtless not our business to aid the law in its course, provided we do not oppose it."
"It is something else," murmured Mrs. Goddard. "Oh! how shall I tell you," she moaned turning her pale cheek to the back of the chair.
The vicar looked at her and began to think it was perhaps some strange case of conscience with which he had to deal. He had very little experience of such things save in the rude form they take among the labouring classes. But he reflected that it was likely to be something of the kind; in such a case Mrs. Goddard would naturally enough have sent for him, more as her clergyman than as her friend. She looked like a person suffering from some great mental strain. He sat down beside her and took her passive hand. He was moved, and felt as though he might have been her father.
"My dear," he said kindly, almost as though he were speaking to a child, "have you anything upon your mind, anything which distresses you? Do you wish to tell me? If so I will do my very best to help you."
Mrs. Goddard's fingers pressed his hand a little, but her face was still turned away.
"It is Mr. Juxon," she almost whispered. If she had been watching the vicar she would have noticed the strange air of perplexity which came over his face when he heard the squire's name.
"Yes—Mr. Juxon," she moaned. Then the choked-down horror rose in her throat. "Walter means to murder him!" she almost screamed. "Oh, my God, my God, what shall I do!" she cried aloud clasping her hands suddenly over her face and rocking herself to and fro.
The vicar was horror-struck; he could hardly believe his ears, and believing them his senses swam. In his wildest dreams—and the good man's dreams were rarely wild—he had never thought that such things could come near him. Being a very good man and, moreover, a wise man when he had plenty of time for reflection, he folded his hands quietly and bent his head, praying fervently for the poor tortured woman who moaned and tossed herself beside him. It was a terrible moment. Suddenly she controlled herself and grasping one of the arms of the chair looked round at her silent companion.
"You must save him," she said in agonised tones, "you must save them both! Do not tell me you cannot—oh, do not tell me that!"
It was a passionate and heart-broken appeal, such a one as few men would or could resist, coming as it did from a helpless and miserably unhappy woman. Whether the vicar was wise in giving the answer he did, it would be hard to say: but he was a man who honestly tried to do his best.
"I will try, my dear lady," he said, making a great resolution. Mrs. Goddard took his hand and pressed it in both of hers, and the long restrained tears flowed fast and softly over her worn cheeks. For some moments neither spoke.
"If you cannot save both—you must save—Mr. Juxon," she said at last, breathing the words rather than speaking them.
The vicar knew or guessed what it must cost her to hint that her husband might be captured. He recognised that the only way in which he could contribute towards the escape of the convict was by not revealing his hiding-place, and he accordingly refrained from asking where he was concealed. He shuddered as he thought that Goddard might be lying hidden in the cottage itself, for all he could tell, but he was quite sure that he ought not to know it. So long as he did not know where the forger was, it was easy to hold his peace; but if once he knew, the vicar was not capable of denying the knowledge. He had never told a lie in his life.
"I will try," he repeated; and growing calmer, he added, "You are quite sure this was not an empty threat, my dear friend? Was there any reason—a—I mean to say, had this unfortunate man ever known Mr. Juxon?"
"Oh no!" answered Mrs. Goddard, sinking back into her chair. "He never knew him." Her tears were still flowing but she no longer sobbed aloud; it had been a relief to her overwrought and sensitive temperament to give way to the fit of weeping. She actually felt better, though ten minutes earlier she would not have believed it possible.
"Then—why?" asked Mr. Ambrose, hesitating.
"My poor husband was a very jealous man," she answered. "I accidentally told him that the cottage belonged to Mr. Juxon and yesterday—do you remember? You walked on with Mr. Juxon beyond the turning, and then he came back to see me—to tell me of my husband's escape. Walter saw that and—and he thought, I suppose—that Mr. Juxon did not want you to see him coming here."
"But Mr. Juxon had just promised me to go and see you," said the honest vicar.
"Yes," said poor Mrs. Goddard, beginning to sob again, "but Walter—my husband—thinks that I—I care for Mr. Juxon—he is so jealous," cried she, again covering her face with her hands. The starting tears trickled through her fingers and fell upon her black dress. She was ashamed, this time, for she hated even to speak of such a possibility.
"I understand," answered Mr. Ambrose gravely. It certainly did not strike him that it might be true, and his knowledge of such characters as Walter Goddard was got chiefly from the newspapers. He had often noticed in reports of trials and detailed descriptions of crimes that criminals seem to become entirely irrational after a certain length of time, and it was one of the arguments he best understood for demonstrating that bad men either are originally, or ultimately become mad. To men like the vicar, almost the only possible theory of crime is the theory of insanity. It is positively impossible for a man who has passed thirty or forty years in a quiet country parish to comprehend the motives or the actions of great criminals. He naturally says they must be crazy or they would not do such things. If Goddard were crazy enough to commit a forgery, he was crazy enough for anything, even to the extent of suspecting that his wife loved the squire.
"I think," said Mr. Ambrose, "that if you agree with me it will be best to warn Mr. Juxon of his danger."
"Of course," murmured Mrs. Goddard. "You must warn him at once!"
"I will go to the Hall now," said the vicar bravely. "But—I am very sorry to have to dwell on the subject, my dear lady, but, without wishing in the least to know where the—your husband is, could you tell me anything about his appearance? For instance, if you understand what I mean, supposing that Mr. Juxon knew how he looked and should happen to meet him, knowing that he wished to kill him—he might perhaps avoid him, if you understand me?"
The vicar's English was a little disturbed by his extreme desire not to hurt Mrs. Goddard's feelings. If the squire and his dog chanced to meet Walter Goddard they would probably not avoid him as the vicar expressed it; that was a point Mr. Ambrose was willing to leave to Mrs. Goddard's imagination.
"Yes—must you know?" she asked anxiously.
"We must know that," returned the vicar.
"He is disguised as a poor tramp," she said sorrowfully. "He wears a smock-frock and an old hat I think. He is pale—oh, poor, poor Walter!" she cried again bursting into tears.
Mr. Ambrose could say nothing. There was nothing to be said. He rose and took his hat—the old tall hat he wore to his parishioners' funerals. They were very primitive people in Billingsfield.
"I will go at once," he said. "Believe me, you have all my sympathy—I will do all I can."
Mary Goddard thanked him more by her looks than with any words she was able to speak. But she was none the less truly grateful for his sympathy and aid. She had a kind of blind reliance on him which made her feel that since she had once confided her trouble and danger nothing more could possibly be done. When he was gone, she sobbed with relief, as before she had wept for fear; she was hysterical, unstrung, utterly unlike herself.
But as the vicar went up towards the Hall he felt that he had his hands full, and he felt moreover an uneasy sensation which he could not have explained. He was certainly no coward, but he had never been in such a position before and he did not like it; there was an air of danger about, an atmosphere which gave him a peculiarly unpleasant thrill from time to time. He was not engaged upon an agreeable errand, and he had a vague feeling, due, the scientists would have told him, to unconscious ratiocination, which seemed to tell him that something was going to happen. People who are very often in danger know that singular uneasiness which warns them that all is not well; it is not like anything else that can be felt. No one really knows its cause, unless it be true that the mind sometimes reasons for itself without the consciousness of the body, and communicates to the latter a spasmodic warning, the result of its cogitations.
To say to the sturdy squire, "Beware of a man in a smock-frock, one Goddard the forger, who means to murder you," seemed of itself simple enough. But for the squire to distinguish this same Goddard from all other men in smock-frocks was a less easy matter. The vicar, indeed, could tell a strange face at a hundred yards, for he knew every man, woman and child in his parish; but the squire's acquaintance was more limited. Obviously, said Mr. Ambrose to himself, the squire's best course would be to stay quietly at home until the danger was passed, and to pass word to Policeman Gall to lay hands on any particularly seedy-looking tramps he happened to see in the village. It was Gall's duty to do so in any case, as he had been warned to be on the look-out. Mr. Ambrose inwardly wondered where the man could be hiding. Billingsfield was not, he believed, an easy place to hide in, for every ploughman knew his fellow, and a new face was always an object of suspicion. Not a gipsy tinker entered the village but what every one heard of it, and though tramps came through from time to time, it would be a difficult matter for one of them to remain two days in the place without attracting a great deal of attention. It was possible that Walter Goddard might have been concealed for one night in his wife's house, but even there he could not have remained hidden for two days without being seen by Mrs. Goddard's two women servants. The vicar walked rapidly through the park, looking about him suspiciously as he went. Goddard might at that very moment be lurking behind any one of those oaks; it would be most unpleasant if he mistook the vicar for the squire. But that, the vicar reflected, was impossible on account of his clerical dress. He reached the Hall in safety and stood looking down among the leafless trees, waiting for the door to be opened.