A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 24

"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed his thumb round the inside of his belt, testing the local pressure in antic.i.p.ation 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 G.o.ddard'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 G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard. 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 G.o.ddard ever made his way to Billingsfield it could only be for the purpose of seeing his wife, and if he succeeded in this, Mrs. G.o.ddard 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 a.s.sistance. If Mr. Juxon could lay his hands on G.o.ddard, 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 G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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 ma.n.u.script 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 pa.s.sing 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. G.o.ddard," 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. G.o.ddard, 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," began Mr. 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--G.o.ddard 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 n.o.body 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. G.o.ddard--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 antic.i.p.ate 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 n.o.body 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. G.o.ddard 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 a.s.sure 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."