He stood long by the bedside, watching the man's regular breathing, and examining his face attentively. Many strange thoughts passed through his mind, as he stood there, looking at the man who had caused such misery to himself, such shame and sorrow to his fair wife, such disappointment to the honest man who was now trying to save him from the very grasp of death. So this was Mary Goddard's husband, little Nellie's father—this grimy wretch, whose foul rags lay heaped there in the corner, whose miserable head pressed the spotless linen of the pillow, whose half-closed eyes stared up so senselessly at the squire's face. This was the man for whose sake Mary Goddard started and turned pale, fainted and grew sick, languished and suffered so much pain. No wonder she concealed it from Nellie—no wonder she had feared lest after many years he should come back and claim her for his wife—no wonder either that a man with such a face should do bad deeds.
Mr. Juxon was a judge of faces; persons accustomed for many years to command men usually are. He noted Walter Goddard's narrow jaw and pointed chin, his eyes set near together, his wicked lips, parted and revealing sharp jagged teeth, his ill-shaped ears and shallow temples, his flat low forehead, shown off by his cropped hair. And yet this man had once been called handsome, he had been admired and courted. But then his hair had hidden the shape of his head, his long golden moustache had covered his mouth and disguised all his lower features, he had been arrayed by tailors of artistic merit, and he had had much gold in his pockets. He was a very different object now—the escaped convict, close cropped, with a half-grown beard upon his ill-shaped face, and for all ornament a linen sheet drawn up under his chin.
The squire was surprised that he did not recover consciousness, seeing that he breathed regularly and was no longer so pale as at first. A faint flush seemed to rise to his sunken cheeks, and for a long time Mr. Juxon stood beside him, expecting every moment that he would speak. Once he thought his lips moved a little. Then Mr. Juxon took a little brandy in a spoon and raising his head poured it down his throat. The effect was immediate. Goddard opened wide his eyes, the blood mounted to his cheeks with a deep flush, and he uttered an inarticulate sound.
"What did you say?" asked the squire, bending over him.
But there was no answer. The sick man's head fell back upon the pillow, though his eyes remained wide open and the flush did not leave his cheeks. His pulse was now very high, and his breathing grew heavy and stertorous.
"I hope I have not made him any worse," remarked Mr. Juxon aloud, as he contemplated his patient. "But if he is going to die, I wish he would die now."
The thought was charitable, on the whole. If Walter Goddard died then and there, he would be buried in a nameless grave under the shadow of the old church; no one would ever know that he was the celebrated forger, the escaped convict, the husband of Mary Goddard. If he lived—heaven alone knew what complications would follow if he lived.
There was a knock at the door. Mr. Juxon drew the key from his pocket and opened it. Holmes the butler stood outside.
"Mr. Short has come back, sir. He asked if you wished to see him."
"Ask him to come here," replied the squire, to whom the tension of keeping his solitary watch was becoming very irksome. In a few moments John entered the room, looking pale and nervous.
John Short was in absolute ignorance of what was occurring. He attributed Mrs. Goddard's anxiety to her solicitude for Mr. Juxon, and if he had found time to give the matter serious consideration, he would have argued very naturally that she was fond of the squire. It had been less easy than the latter had supposed to take her home and persuade her to stay there, for she was in a state in which she hardly understood reason. Nothing but John's repeated assurances to the effect that Mr. Juxon was not in the least hurt, and that he would send her word of the condition of the wounded tramp, prevailed upon her to remain at the cottage; for she had come back to consciousness before the dog-cart was fairly out of the park and had almost refused to enter her own home.
The catastrophe had happened, after eight and forty hours of suspense, and her position was one of extreme fear and doubt. She had indeed seen the squire at the very moment when she fainted, but the impression was uncertain as that of a dream, and it required all John's asseverations to persuade her that Mr. Juxon had actually met her and insisted that she should return to the cottage. Once there, in her own house, she abandoned herself to the wildest excitement, shutting herself into the drawing-room and refusing to see anyone; she gave way to all her sorrow and fear, feeling that if she controlled herself any longer she must go mad. Indeed it was the best thing she could do, for her nerves were overstrained, and the hysterical weeping which now completely overpowered her for some time, was the natural relief to her overwrought system. She had not the slightest doubt that the tramp of whom John had spoken, and whom he had described as badly hurt, was her husband; and together with her joy at Mr. Juxon's escape, she felt an intolerable anxiety to know Walter's fate. If in ordinary circumstances she had been informed that he had died in prison, it would have been absurd to expect her to give way to any expressions of excessive grief; she would perhaps have shed a few womanly tears and for some time she would have been more sad than usual; but she no longer loved him and his death could only be regarded as a release from all manner of trouble and shame and evil foreboding. With his decease would have ended her fears for poor Nellie, her apprehensions for the future in case he should return and claim her, the whole weight of her humiliation, and if she was too kind to have rejoiced over such a termination of her woes, she was yet too sensible not to have fully understood and appreciated the fact of her liberation and of the freedom given to the child she loved, by the death of a father whose return could bring nothing but disgrace. But now she did not know whether Walter were alive or dead. If he was alive he was probably so much injured as to preclude all possibility of his escaping, and he must inevitably be given up to justice, no longer to imprisonment merely, but by his own confession to suffer the death of a murderer. If on the other hand he was already dead, he had died a death less shameful indeed, but of which the circumstances were too horrible for his wife to contemplate, for he must have been torn to pieces by Stamboul the bloodhound.
She unconsciously comprehended all these considerations, which entirely deprived her of the power to weigh them in her mind, for her mind was temporarily loosed from all control of the reasoning faculty. She had borne much during the last three days, but she could bear no more; intellect and sensibility were alike exhausted and gave way together. There were indeed moments, intervals in the fits of hysteric tears and acute mental torture, when she lay quite still in her chair and vaguely asked herself what it all meant, but her disturbed consciousness gave no answer to the question, and presently her tears broke out afresh and she tossed wildly from side to side, or walked hurriedly up and down the room, wringing her hands in despair, sobbing aloud in her agony and again abandoning herself to the uncontrolled exaggerations of her grief and terror. One consolation alone presented itself at intervals to her confused intelligence; Mr. Juxon was safe. Whatever other fearful thing had happened, he was safe, saved perhaps by her warning—but what was that, if Walter had escaped death only to die at the hands of the hangman, or had found it in the jaws of that fearful bloodhound? What was the safety even of her best friend, if poor Nellie was to know that her father was alive, only to learn that he was to die again?
But human suffering cannot outlast human strength; as a marvellous adjustment of forces has ordered that even at the pole, in the regions of boundless and perpetual cold, the sea shall not freeze to the bottom, so there is also in human nature a point beyond which suffering cannot extend. The wildest emotions must expend themselves in time, the fiercest passions must burn out. At the end of two hours Mary Goddard was exhausted by the vehemence of her hysteric fear, and woke as from a dream to a dull sense of reality. She knew, now that some power of reflection was restored to her, that the squire would give her intelligence of what had happened, so soon as he was able, and she knew also that she must wait until the morning before any such message could reach her. She took the candle from the table and went upstairs. Nellie was asleep, but her mother felt a longing to look at her again that night, not knowing what misery for her child the morrow might bring forth.
Nellie lay asleep in her bed, her rich brown hair plaited together and thrown back across the pillow. The long dark fringes of her eyelashes cast a shade upon the transparent colour of her cheek, and the light breath came softly through her parted lips. But as Mary Goddard looked she saw that there were still tears upon her lovely face and that the pillow was still wet. She had cried herself to sleep, for Martha had told her that her mother was very ill and would not see her that night; Nellie was accustomed to say her prayers at her mother's knee every evening before going to bed, she was used to having her mother smooth her pillow and kiss her and put out her light, leaving her with sweet words, to wake her with sweet words on the next morning, and to-night she had missed all this and had been told moreover that her mother was very ill and was acting very strangely. She had gone to bed and had cried herself to sleep, and the tears were still upon her cheeks. Shading the light carefully from the child's eyes, Mary Goddard bent down and kissed her forehead once and then feeling that her sorrow was rising again she turned and passed noiselessly from the room.
But Nellie was dreaming peacefully and knew nothing of her mother's visit; she slept on not knowing that scarcely a quarter of a mile away her own father, whom she had been taught to think of as dead, was lying at the Hall, wounded and unconscious while half the detectives in the kingdom were looking for him. Had Nellie known that, her sleep would have been little and her dreams few.
There was little rest at the Hall that night. When Reynolds had driven John back to the great house he found his way to the kitchen and got his beer, and he became at once a centre of interest, being overwhelmed with questions concerning the events of the evening. But he was able to say very little except that while waiting before the cottage he had heard strange noises from the park, that Master John had run up the avenue, that Mrs. Goddard had taken Miss Nellie into the house and had then insisted upon being driven towards the Hall, that they had met Master John and the squire and that Mrs. Goddard had been "took wuss."
Meanwhile John entered the room where Mr. Juxon was watching over Walter Goddard. John looked pale and nervous; he had not recovered from the unpleasant sensation of being left alone with what he believed to be a dead body, in the struggling moonlight and the howling wind. He was by no means timid by nature, but young nerves are not so tough as old ones and he had felt exceedingly uncomfortable. He stood a moment within the room, then glanced at the bed and started with surprise.
"Why—he is not dead after all!" he exclaimed, and going nearer he looked hard at Goddard's flushed face.
"No," said Mr. Juxon, "he is not dead. He may be dying for all I know. I have sent for the doctor."
"Was he much hurt?" asked John, still looking at the sick man. "He looks to me as though he were in a fever."
"He does not seem so badly hurt. I cannot make it out at all. At first I thought he was badly frightened, but I cannot bring him to consciousness. Perhaps he has a fever, as you say. This is a most unpleasant experience, Mr. Short—your first night at the Hall, too. Of course I am bound to look after the man, as Stamboul did the damage—it would have served him right if he had been killed. It was a villainous blow he gave me—I can feel it still. The moral of it is that one should always wear a thick ulster when one walks alone at night."
"I did not know he struck you," said John in some surprise.
"Jumped out of the copse at the turning and struck at me with a bludgeon," said Mr. Juxon. "Knocked my hat off, into the bargain, and then ran away with Stamboul after him. If I had not come up in time there would have been nothing left of him."
"I should say the dog saved your life," remarked John, much impressed by the squire's unadorned tale. "What object can the fellow have had in attacking you? Strange—his eyes are open, but he does not seem to understand us."
Mr. Juxon walked to the bedside and contemplated the sick man's features with undisguised disgust.
"You villain!" he said roughly. "Why don't you answer for yourself?" The man did not move, and the squire began to pace the room. John was struck by Mr. Juxon's tone: it was not like him, he thought, to speak in that way to a helpless creature. He could not understand it. There was a long silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of Goddard.
"Really, Mr. Short," said the squire at last, "I have no intention of keeping you up all night. The village doctor must have been out. It may be more than an hour before my man finds another."
"Never mind," said John quietly. "I will wait till he comes at all events. You may need me before it is over."
"Do you think he looks as if he were going to die?" asked the squire doubtfully, as he again approached the bedside.
"I don't know," answered John, standing on the other side. "I never saw any one die. He looks very ill."
"Very ill. I have seen many people die—but somehow I have a strong impression that this fellow will live."
"Let us hope so," said John.
"Well—" The squire checked himself. Probably the hope he would have expressed would not have coincided with that to which John had given utterance. "Well," he repeated, "I daresay he will. Mr. Short, are you at all nervous? Since you are so good as to say you will wait until the doctor comes, would you mind very much being left alone here for five minutes?"
"No," answered John, stoutly, "not in the least." To be left in a well-lighted room by the bedside of Walter Goddard, ill indeed, but alive and breathing vigorously, was very different from being requested to watch his apparently dead body out in the park under the moonlight.
With a word of thanks, the squire left the room, and hastened to his study, where he proceeded to write a note, as follows:—
"MY DEAR MR. AMBROSE—The man we were speaking of yesterday morning actually attacked me this evening. Stamboul worried him badly, but he is not dead. He is lying here, well cared for, and I have sent for the doctor. If convenient to you, would you come in the morning? I need not recommend discretion.—Sincerely yours,
"C.J. JUXON.N.B.—I am not hurt."
Having ascertained that Reynolds was still in the kitchen, the missive was given to the old man with an injunction to use all speed, as the vicar might be going to bed and the note was important.
John, meanwhile, being left alone sat down near the wounded man's bed and waited, glancing at the flushed face and staring eyes from time to time, and wondering whether the fellow would recover. The young scholar had been startled by all that had occurred, and his ideas wandered back to the beginning of the evening, scarcely realising that a few hours ago he had not met Mrs. Goddard, had not experienced a surprising change in his feelings towards her, had not witnessed the strange scene under the trees. It seemed as though all these things had occupied a week at the very least, whereas on that same afternoon he had been speculating upon his meeting with Mrs. Goddard, calling up her features to his mind as he had last seen them, framing speeches which when the meeting came he had not delivered, letting his mind run riot in the delicious anticipation of appearing before her in the light of a successful competitor for one of the greatest honours of English scholarship. And yet in a few hours all his feelings were changed, and to his infinite surprise, were changed without any suffering to himself; he knew well that, for some reason, Mrs. Goddard had lost the mysterious power of making him blush, and of sending strange thrills through his whole nature when he sat at her side; with some justice he attributed his new indifference to the extraordinary alteration in her appearance, whereby she seemed now so much older than himself, and he forthwith moralised upon the mutability of human affairs, with all the mental fluency of a very young man whose affairs are still extremely mutable. He fell to musing on the accident in the park, wondering how he would have acted in Mr. Juxon's place, wondering especially what object could have led the wretched tramp to attack the squire, wondering too at the very great anxiety shown by Mrs. Goddard.
As he sat by the bedside, the sick man suddenly moved and turning his eyes full upon John's face stared at him with a look of dazed surprise. He thrust out his wounded hand, bound up in a white handkerchief through which a little blood was slowly oozing, and to John's infinite surprise he spoke.
"Who are you?" he asked in a strange, mumbling voice, as though he had pebbles in his mouth.
John started forward in his chair and looked intently at Goddard's face.
"My name is Short," he answered mechanically. But the passing flash of intelligence was already gone, and Goddard's look became a glassy and idiotic stare. Still his lips moved. John came nearer and listened.
"Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard! Let me in!" said the sick man quite intelligibly, in spite of his uncertain tone. John uttered an exclamation of astonishment; his heart beat fast and he listened intently. The sick man mumbled inarticulate sounds; not another word could be distinguished. John looked for the bell, thinking that Mr. Juxon should be informed of the strange phenomenon at once; but before he could ring the squire himself entered the room, having finished and despatched his note to Mr. Ambrose.
"It is most extraordinary," said John. "He spoke just now—"
"What did he say?" asked Mr. Juxon very quickly.
"He said first, 'Who are you?' and then he said 'Mary Goddard, let me in!' Is it not most extraordinary? How in the world should he know about Mrs. Goddard?"
The squire turned a little pale and was silent for a moment. He had left John with the wounded man feeling sure that, for some time at least, the latter would not be likely to say anything intelligible.
"Most extraordinary!" he repeated presently. Then he looked at Goddard closely, and turned him again upon his back and put his injured hand beneath the sheet.
"Do you understand me? Do you know who I am?" he asked in a loud tone close to his ear.
But the unfortunate man gave no sign of intelligence, only his inarticulate mumbling grew louder though not more distinct. Mr. Juxon turned away impatiently.
"The fellow is in a delirium," he said. "I wish the doctor would come."He had hardly turned his back when the man spoke again.
"Mary Goddard!" he cried. "Let me in!"
"There!" said John. "The same words!"
Mr. Juxon shuddered, and looked curiously at his companion; then thrust his hands into his pockets and whistling softly walked about the room. John was shocked at what seemed in the squire a sort of indecent levity; he could not understand that his friend felt as though he should go mad.
Indeed the squire suffered intensely. The name of Mary Goddard, pronounced by the convict in his delirium brought home more vividly than anything could have done the relation between the wounded tramp and the woman the squire loved. It was positively true, then—there was not a shadow of doubt left, since this wretch lay there mumbling her name in his ravings! This was the husband of that gentle creature with sad pathetic eyes, so delicate, so refined that it seemed as though the coarser breath of the world of sin and shame could never come near her—this was her husband! It was horrible. This was the father of lovely Nellie, too. Was anything wanting to make the contrast more hideous?
Mr. Juxon felt that it was impossible to foresee what Walter Goddard might say in the course of another hour. He had often seen people in a delirium and knew how strangely that inarticulate murmuring sometimes breaks off into sudden incisive speech, astonishing every one who hears. The man had already betrayed that he knew Mary Goddard; at the next interval in his ravings he might betray that she was his wife. John was still standing by the bedside, not having recovered from his astonishment; if John heard any more, he would be in possession of Mrs. Goddard's secret. The squire was an energetic man, equal to most emergencies; he suddenly made up his mind.
"Mr. Short," he said, "I will tell you something. You will see the propriety of being very discreet, in fact it is only to ensure your discretion that I wish to tell you this much. I have reason to believe that this fellow is a convict—do not be surprised—escaped from prison. He is a man who once—was in love with Mrs. Goddard, which accounts for his having found his way to Billingsfield. Yes—I know what you are going to say—Mrs. Goddard is aware of his presence, and that accounts for her excitement and her fainting. Do you understand?"
"But—good heavens!" exclaimed John in amazement. "Why did she not give information, if she knew he was in the neighbourhood?"
"That would be more than could be expected of any woman, Mr. Short. You forget that the man once loved her."
"And how did you—well, no. I won't ask any questions."
"No," said the squire, "please don't. You would be placing me in a disagreeable position. Not that I do not trust you implicitly, Mr. Short," he added frankly, "but I should be betraying a confidence. If this fellow dies here, he will be buried as an unknown tramp. I found no trace of a name upon his clothes. If he recovers, we will decide what course to pursue. We will do our best for him—it is a delicate case of conscience. Possibly the poor fellow would very much prefer being allowed to die; but we cannot let him. Humanity, for some unexplained reason, forbids euthanasia and the use of the hemlock in such cases."
"Was he sentenced for a long time?" asked John, very much impressed by the gravity of the situation.
"Twelve years originally, I believe. Aggravated by his escape and by his assault on me, his term might very likely be extended to twenty years if he were taken again."
"That is to say, if he recovers?" inquired John.
"Precisely. I do not think I would hesitate to send him back to prison if he recovered."
"I do not wonder you think he would rather die here, if he were consulted," said John. "It would not be murder to let him die peacefully—"
"In the opinion of the law it might be called manslaughter, though I do not suppose anything would be said if I had simply placed him here and omitted to call in a physician. He cannot live very long in this state, unless something is done for him immediately. Look at him."
There was no apparent change in Goddard's condition. He lay upon his back staring straight upward and mumbling aloud with every breath he drew.
"He must have been ill, before he attacked me," continued Mr. Juxon, very much as though he were talking to himself. "He evidently is in a raging fever—brain fever I should think. That is probably the reason why he missed his aim—that and the darkness. If he had been well he would have killed me fast enough with that bludgeon. As you say, Mr. Short, there is no doubt whatever that he would prefer to die here, if he had his choice. In my opinion, too, it would be far more merciful to him and to—to him in fact. Nevertheless, neither you nor I would like to remember that we had let him die without doing all we could to keep him alive. It is a very singular case."
"Most singular," echoed John.
"Besides—there is another thing. Suppose that he had attacked me as he did, but that I had killed him with my stick—or that Stamboul had made an end of him then and there. The law would have said it served him right—would it not? Of course. But if I had not quite killed him, or, as has actually happened, he survived the embraces of my dog, the law insists that I ought to do everything in my power to save the remnant of his life. What for? In order that the law may give itself the satisfaction of dealing with him according to its lights. I think the law is very greedy, I object to it, I think it is ridiculous from that point of view, but then, when I come to examine the thing I find that my own conscience tells me to save him, although I think it best that he should die. Therefore the law is not ridiculous. Pleasant dilemma—the impossible case! The law is at the same time ridiculous and not ridiculous. The question is, does the law deduce itself from conscience, or is conscience the direct result of existing law?"
The squire appeared to be in a strangely moralising mood, and John listened to him with some surprise. He could not understand that the good man was talking to persuade himself, and to concentrate his faculties, which had been almost unbalanced by the events of the evening.
"I think," said John with remarkable good sense, "that the instinct of man is to preserve life when he is calm. When a man is fighting with another he is hot and tries to kill his enemy; when the fight is over, the natural instinct returns."
"The only thing worth knowing in such cases is the precise point at which the fight may be said to be over. I once knew a young surgeon in India who thought he had killed a cobra and proceeded to extract the fangs in order to examine the poison. Unfortunately the snake was not quite dead; he bit the surgeon in the finger and the poor fellow died in thirty-five minutes."
"Dreadful!" said John. "But you do not think this poor fellow could do anything very dangerous now—do you?"
"Oh, dear me, no!" returned the squire. "I was only stating a case to prove that one is sometimes justified in going quite to the end of a fight. No indeed! He will not be dangerous for some time, if he ever is again. But, as I was saying, he must have been ill some time. Delirium never comes on in this way, so soon—"
Some one knocked at the door. It was Holmes, who came to say that the physician, Doctor Longstreet, had arrived.
"Oh—it is Doctor Longstreet is it?" said the squire. "Ask him to come up."
Doctor Longstreet was not the freethinking physician of Billingsfield. The latter was out when Mr. Juxon's groom went in search of him, and the man had driven on to the town, six miles away. The doctor was an old man with a bright eye, a deeply furrowed forehead, a bald head and clean shaved face. He walked as though his frame were set together with springs and there was a curious snapping quickness in his speech. He seemed full of vitality and bore his years with a jaunty air of merriment which inspired confidence, for he seemed perpetually laughing at the ills of the flesh and ready to make other people laugh at them too. But his bright eyes had a penetrating look and though he judged quickly he generally was right in his opinion. He entered the room briskly, not knowing that the sick man was there.
"Now, Mr. Juxon," he said cheerfully, "I am with you." He had the habit of announcing his presence in this fashion, as though his brisk and active personality were likely to be overlooked. A moment later he caught sight of the bed. "Dear me," he added in a lower voice, "I did not know our patient was here."
He went to Walter Goddard's side, looked at him attentively, felt his pulse, and his forehead, glanced at the bandages the squire had roughly put upon his throat and hand, drew up the sheet again beneath his chin and turned sharply round.
"Brain fever, sir," he said cheerfully. "Brain fever. You must get some ice and have some beef tea made as soon as possible. He is in a very bad way—curious, too; he looks like a cross between a ticket of leave man and a gentleman. Tramp, you say? That would not prevent his being either. You cannot disturb him—don't be afraid. He hears nothing—is off, the Lord knows where, raving delirious. Must look to his scratches though—dangerous—inflammation. Do you mind telling me what happened—how long he has been here?"
The squire in a few words informed Doctor Longstreet of the attack made upon him in the park. The doctor looked at his watch.
"Only two hours and a half since," he remarked. "It is just midnight now, very good—the man must have been in a fever all day—yesterday, too, perhaps. He is not badly hurt by the dog—like to see that dog, if you don't mind—the fright most likely sent him into delirium. You have nothing to accuse yourself of, Mr. Juxon: it was certainly not your fault. Even if the dog had not bitten him, he would most likely have been in his present state by this time. Would you mind sending for some ice at once? Thank you. It was very lucky for the fellow that he attacked you just when he did—secured him the chance of being well taken care of. If he had gone off like this in the park he would have been dead before morning."
The squire rang and sent for the ice the doctor demanded.
"Do you think he will live?" he asked nervously.
"I don't know," answered Doctor Longstreet, frankly. "Nobody can tell. He is very much exhausted—may live two or three days in this state and then die or go to sleep and get well—may die in the morning—often do—cannot say. With a great deal of care, I think he has a chance."
"I am very anxious to save him," said the squire, looking hard at the physician.
"Very good of you, I am sure," replied Doctor Longstreet, cheerfully. "It is not everybody who would take so much trouble for a tramp. Of course if he dies people will say your dog killed him; but I will sign a paper to the effect that it is not true. If he had left you and your dog alone, he would have been dead in the morning to an absolute certainty."
"How very extraordinary!" exclaimed the squire, suddenly realising that instead of causing the man's death Stamboul had perhaps saved his life.
"It was certainly very odd that he should have chosen the best moment for assaulting you," continued the doctor. "It is quite possible that even then he was under some delusion—took you for somebody else—some old enemy. People do queer things in a brain fever. By the bye has he said anything intelligible since he has been here?"
John Short who had been standing silently by the bedside during the whole interview looked up quickly at the squire, wondering how he would answer. But Mr. Juxon did not hesitate.
"Yes. Twice he repeated a woman's name. That is very natural, I suppose.Do you think he will have any lucid moments for some time?"
"May," said the doctor, "may. When he does it is likely to be at the turning point; he will either die or be better very soon after. If it comes soon he may say something intelligible. If he is much more exhausted than he is now, he will understand you, but you will not understand him. Meningitis always brings a partial paralysis of the tongue, when the patient is exhausted. Most probably he will go on moaning and mumbling, as he does now, for another day. You will be able to tell by his eye whether he understands anything; perhaps he will make some sign with his head or hand. Ah—here is the ice."
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 from 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.
"She however—and I confess my surprise and gratification—desires to accompany me to the Hall this morning, volunteering to take all possible care of the unfortunate man. As she has had much experience in visiting the sick, I fancy that she will render us very valuable assistance in saving his life. Pray let me know if the plan has your approval, as it may be dangerous to lose time.—Yours sincerely,
Mr. Juxon was delighted to find that the difficult task of putting Mrs. Ambrose in possession of the facts of the case had been accomplished in the ordinary, the very ordinary, course of events by her own determination to find out what was to be known. In an hour she might be at Goddard's bedside, and Mrs. Goddard would be free to see her husband. He despatched a note at once and redoubled his attentions to the sick man whose condition, however, showed no signs of changing.
Mrs. Ambrose kept her word and arrived with the vicar before nine o'clock, protesting her determination to take care of poor Goddard, so long as he needed any care. Mr. Juxon warned her that John did not know who the man was, and entreated her to be careful of her speech when John was present. There was no reason why John should ever know anything more about it, he said; three could keep a secret, but no one knew whether four could be as discreet.
The squire took Mrs. Ambrose and her husband to Goddard's room and telling her that Doctor Longstreet was expected in an hour, by which time he himself hoped to have returned, he left the two good people in charge of the sick man and went to see Mrs. Goddard. He sent John a message to the effect that all was well and that he should take some rest while the Ambroses relieved the watch, and having thus disposed his household he went out, bound upon one of the most disagreeable errands he had ever undertaken. But he set his teeth and walked boldly down the park.
At the turn of the avenue he paused, at the spot where Goddard had attacked him. There was nothing to be seen at first, for the road was hard and dry and there was no trace of the scuffle; but as the squire looked about he spied his hat, lying in the ditch, and picked it up. It was heavy with the morning dew and the brim was broken and bent where Goddard's weapon had struck it. Hard by in a heap of driven oak leaves lay the weapon itself, which Mr. Juxon examined curiously. It was a heavy piece of hewn oak, evidently very old, and at one end a thick iron spike was driven through, the sharp point projecting upon one side and the wrought head upon the other. He turned it over in his hands and realised that he had narrowly escaped his death. Then he laid the hat and the club together and threw a handful of leaves over them, intending to take them to the Hall at a later hour, and he turned to go upon his way towards the cottage. But as he turned he saw two men coming towards him, and now not twenty yards away. His heart sank, for one of the two was Thomas Gall the village constable; the other was a quiet-looking individual with grey whiskers, plainly dressed and unassuming in appearance. Instinctively the squire knew that Gall's companion must be a detective. He was startled, and taken altogether unawares; but the men were close upon him and there was nothing to be done but to face them boldly.
Gall made his usual half military salute as he came up, and the man in plain clothes raised his hat politely.
"The gentleman from Lunnon, sir," said Gall by way of introduction, assuming an air of mysterious importance.
"Yes?" said Mr. Juxon interrogatively. "Do you wish to speak to me?"
"The gentleman's come on business, sir. In point of fact, sir, it's the case we was speakin' of lately."
The squire knew very well what was the matter. Indeed, he had wondered that the detective had not arrived sooner. That did not make it any easier to receive him, however; on the contrary, if he had come on the previous day matters would have been much simpler.
"Very well, Gall," answered Mr. Juxon. "I am much obliged to you for bringing Mr.—" he paused and looked at the man in plain clothes.
"Booley, sir," said the detective.
"Thank you—yes—for bringing Mr. Booley so far. You may go home, Gall.If we need your services we will send to your house."
"It struck me, sir," remarked Gall with a bland smile, "as perhaps I might be of use—prefeshnal in fact, sir."
"I will send for you," said the detective, shortly. The manners of the rural constabulary had long ceased to amuse him.
Gall departed rather reluctantly, but to make up for being left out of the confidential interview which was to follow, he passed his thumb round his belt and thrust out his portly chest as he marched down the avenue. He subsequently spoke very roughly to a little boy who was driving an old sheep to the butcher's at the other end of the village.
Mr. Juxon and the detective turned back and walked slowly towards theHall.
"Will you be good enough to state exactly what the business is," said the squire, well knowing that it was best to go straight to the point.
"You are Mr. Juxon, I believe?" inquired Mr. Booley looking at his companion sharply. The squire nodded. "Very good, Mr. Juxon," continued the official. "I am after a man called Walter Goddard. Do you know anything about him? His wife, Mrs. Mary Goddard, lives in this village."
"Walter Goddard is at this moment in my house," said the squire calmly. "I know all about him. He lay in wait for me at this very spot last night and attacked me. My dog pulled him down."
The detective was somewhat surprised at the intelligence, and at the cool manner in which his companion conveyed it.
"I am very glad to hear that. In that case I will take him at once."
"I fear that is impossible," answered the squire. "The man is raving in the delirium of a brain fever. Meanwhile I shall be glad if you will stay in the house, until he is well enough to be moved. The doctor will be here at ten o'clock, and he will give you the details of the case better than I can. It would be quite impossible to take him away at present."
"May I ask," inquired Mr. Booley severely, "why you did not inform the local police?"
"Because it would have been useless. If he had escaped after attacking me, I should have done so. But since I caught him, and found him to be very ill—utterly unable to move, I proposed to take charge of him myself. Mrs. Goddard is a friend of mine, and of the vicar, who knows her story perfectly well. To publish the story in the village would be to do her a great injury. Mrs. Ambrose, the vicar's wife, who is also acquainted with the circumstances, is at this moment taking care of the sick man. I presume that my promise—I am a retired officer of the Navy—and the promise of Mr. Ambrose, the vicar, are sufficient guarantee—"
"Oh, there is no question of guarantee," said Mr. Booley. "I assure you,Mr. Juxon, I have no doubt whatever that you have acted for the best.Can you tell me how long Goddard has been in the neighbourhood?"
The squire told the detective what he knew, taking care not to implicate Mrs. Goddard, even adding with considerable boldness, for he was not positively certain of the statement, that neither she nor any one else had known where the man was hiding. Mr. Booley being sure that Goddard could not escape him, saw that he could claim the reward offered for the capture of the convict. He asked whether he might see him.
"That is doubtful," said the squire. "When I left him just now he was quite unconscious, but he has lucid moments. To frighten him at such a time might kill him outright."
"It is very easy for me to say that I am another medical man," remarked Mr. Booley. "Perhaps I might say it in any case, just to keep the servants quiet. I would like to see Mrs. Goddard, too."
"That is another matter. She is very nervous. I am going to her house, now, and probably she will come back to the Hall with me. I might perhaps tell her that you are here, but I think it would be likely to shock her very much."
"Well, well, we will see about it," answered Mr. Booley. They reached the house and the squire ushered the detective into the study, begging him to wait for his return.
It was a new complication, though it had seemed possible enough. But the position was not pleasant. To feel that there was a detective in the house waiting to carry off Goddard, so soon as he should be well enough to be moved, was about as disagreeable as anything well could be. The longer the squire thought of it, the more impossible and at the same time unnecessary it seemed to be to inform Mrs. Goddard of Booley's arrival. He hastened down the park, feeling that no time must be lost in bringing her to her husband's bedside.
He found her waiting for him, and was struck by the calmness she displayed. To tell the truth the violence of her emotions had been wholly expended on the previous night and the reaction had brought an intense melancholy quiet, which almost frightened Mr. Juxon. The habit of bearing great anxiety had not been wholly forgotten, for the lesson had been well learned during those terrible days of her husband's trial, and it was as though his sudden return had revived in her the custom of silent suffering. She hardly spoke, but listened quietly to Mr. Juxon's account of what had happened.
"You are not hurt?" she asked, almost incredulously. Her eyes rested on her friend's face with a wistful look.
"No, I assure you, not in the least," he said. "But your poor husband is very ill—very ill indeed."
"Tell me," said she quietly, "is he dead? Are you trying to break it to me?"
"No—no indeed. He is alive—he may even recover. But that is very uncertain. It might be best to wait until the doctor has been again. I will come back and fetch you—"
"Oh, no, I will go at once. I would like to walk. It will do me good."
So the two set out without further words upon their errand. Mr. Juxon had purposely omitted to speak of Mr. Booley's arrival. It would be easy, he thought, to prevent them from meeting in the great house.
"Do you know," said Mary Goddard, as they walked together, "it is very hard to wish that he may recover—" she stopped short.
"Very hard," answered the squire. "His life must be one of misery, if he lives."
"Of course you would send him back?" she asked nervously.
"My dear friend, there is no other course open to me. Your own safety requires it."
"God knows—you would only be doing right," she said and was silent again. She knew, though the squire did not, what fate awaited Walter Goddard if he were given up to justice. She knew that he had taken life and must pay the penalty. Yet she was very calm; her senses were all dulled and yet her thoughts seemed to be consecutive and rational. She realised fully that the case of life and death was ill balanced; death had it which ever course events might take, and she could not save her husband. She thought of it calmly and calmly hoped that he might die now, in his bed, with her by his side. It was a better fate.
"You say that the doctor thinks he must have been ill some time?" she asked after a time.
"Yes—he was quite sure of it," answered the squire.
"Perhaps that was why he spoke so roughly to me," she said in a low voice, as though speaking to herself.
The tears came into the squire's eyes for sheer pity. Even in this utmost extremity the unhappy woman tried to account for her husband's rude and cruel speech. Mr. Juxon did not answer but looked away. They passed the spot where the scuffle had occurred on the previous night, but still he said nothing, fearing to disturb her by making his story seem too vividly real.
"Where is he?" she asked as they reached the Hall, looking up at the windows.
"On the other side."
They went in and mounted the stairs towards the sick man's chamber. Mr. Juxon went in, leaving Mrs. Goddard outside for a moment. She could hear that hideous rattling monotonous moan, and she trembled from head to foot. Presently Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose came out, looking very grave and passed by her with a look of sympathy.
"Will you come in?" said the squire in a low voice.
Mrs. Goddard entered the room quickly. On seeing her husband, she uttered a low cry and laid her hand upon Mr. Juxon's arm. For some seconds she stood thus, quite motionless, gazing with intense and sympathetic interest at the sick man's face. Then she went to his side and laid her hand upon his burning forehead and looked into his eyes.
"Walter! Walter!" she cried. "Don't you know me? Oh, why does he groan like that? Is he suffering?" she asked turning to Mr. Juxon.
"No—I do not think he suffers much. He is quite unconscious. He is talking all the time but cannot pronounce the words."
The squire stood at a distance looking on, noting the womanly thoughtfulness Mrs. Goddard displayed as she smoothed her husband's pillow and tried to settle his head more comfortably upon the bags of ice; and all the while she never took her eyes from Goddard's face, as though she were fascinated by her own sorrow and his suffering. She moved about the bed with that instinctive understanding of sickness which belongs to delicate women, but her glance never strayed to Mr. Juxon; she seemed forced by a mysterious magnetism to look at Walter and only at him.
"Has he been long like this?" she asked.
"Ever since last night. He called you once—he said, 'Mary Goddard, let me in!' And then he said something else—he said—I cannot remember what he said." Mr. Juxon checked himself, remembering the words John had heard, and of which he only half understood the import. But Mrs. Goddard hardly noticed his reply.
"Will you leave me alone with him?" she said presently. "There is a bell in the room—I could ring if anything—happened," she added with mournful hesitation.
"Certainly," answered the squire. "Only, I beg of you my dear friend—do not distress yourself needlessly—"
"Needlessly!" she repeated with a sorrowful smile. "It is all I can do for him—to watch by his side. He will not live—he will not live, I am sure."
The squire inwardly prayed that she might be right, and left her alone with the sick man. Who, he thought, was better fitted, who had a stronger right to be at his bedside at such a time? If only he might die! For if he lived, how much more terrible would the separation be, when Booley the detective came to conduct him back to his prison! In truth, it would be more terrible even than Mr. Juxon imagined.
Meanwhile he must go and see to the rest of the household. He must speak to John Short; he must see Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose, and he must take precautions against any of them seeing Mr. Booley. This was, he thought, very important, and he resolved to speak with the latter first. John was probably asleep, worn out with the watching of the night.
Mr. Booley sat in the squire's study where he had been left almost an hour earlier. He had installed himself in a comfortable corner by the fire and was reading the morning paper which he had found unopened upon the table. He seemed thoroughly at home as he sat there, a pair of glasses upon his nose and his feet stretched out towards the flame upon the hearth.
"Thank you, I am doing very well, Mr. Juxon," he said as the squire entered.
"Oh—I am very glad," answered Mr. Juxon politely. The information was wholly voluntary as he had not asked any question concerning the detective's comfort.
"And how is the patient?" inquired Mr. Booley. "Do you think there is any chance of removing him this afternoon?"
"This afternoon?" repeated the squire, in some astonishment. "The man is very ill. It may be weeks before he can be removed."
"Oh!" ejaculated the other. "I was not aware of that. I cannot possibly stay so long. To-morrow, at the latest, he will have to go."
"But, my dear sir," argued Mr. Juxon, "the thing is quite impossible. The doctor can testify to that—"
"We are apt to be our own doctors in these cases," said Mr. Booley, calmly. "At all events he can be taken as far as the county gaol."
"Upon my word, it would be murder to think of it—a man in a brain fever, in a delirium, to be taken over jolting roads—dear me! It is not to be thought of!"
Mr. Booley smiled benignly, for the first time since the squire had made his acquaintance.
"You seem to forget, Mr. Juxon, that my time is very valuable," he observed.
"Yes—no doubt—but the man's life, Mr. Booley, is valuable too."
"Hardly, I should say," returned the detective coolly. "But since you are so very pressing, I will ask to see the man at once. I can soon tell you whether he will die on the road or not. I have had considerable experience in that line."
"You shall see him, as soon as the doctor comes," replied the squire, shocked at the man's indifference and hardness.
"It certainly cannot hurt him to see me, if he is still unconscious or raving," objected Mr. Booley.
"He might have a lucid moment just when you are there—the fright would very likely kill him."
"That would decide the question of moving him," answered Booley, taking his glasses from his nose, laying down the paper and rising to his feet. "There is clearly some reason why you object to my seeing him now. I would not like to insist, Mr. Juxon, but you must please remember that it may be my duty to do so."
The squire was beginning to be angry; even his calm temper was not proof against the annoyance caused by Mr. Booley's appearance at the Hall, but he wisely controlled himself and resorted to other means of persuasion.
"There is a reason, Mr. Booley; indeed there are several very good reasons. One of them is that it might be fatal to frighten the man; another is that at this moment his wife is by his bedside. She has entirely made up her mind that when he is recovered he must return to prison, but at present it would be most unkind to let her know that you are in the house. The shock to her nerves would be terrible."