A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 25

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 G.o.ddard. 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.

CHAPTER XV.

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. G.o.ddard, 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 G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard in his usual quiet voice. Martha told him that Mrs. G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard'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 G.o.ddard. 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 G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard, 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 G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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 n.o.ble 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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard," 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. G.o.ddard presently. "It will pa.s.s 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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard, 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. G.o.ddard," began Mr. 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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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."