A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 26

"He has not been arrested yet?" asked Mrs. G.o.ddard. 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. G.o.ddard, 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. G.o.ddard felt relieved.

"He quite agreed with me," answered the squire. "You see we feared that Mr. G.o.ddard might find his way here and come upon you suddenly. We thought you would be terribly pained and startled."

Mrs. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard's whereabouts we shall feel very anxious. It seems probable that if he can get here un.o.bserved he will do so. He will probably ask you for some money."

"Do you really think he could get here at all?" asked Mrs. G.o.ddard. 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. G.o.ddard, 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 pa.s.sed 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 embarra.s.sment of the situation. "Of course we might put you under the protection of the police but--what is the matter, Mrs.

G.o.ddard?" 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.

G.o.ddard himself than Gall the constable could possibly be; but he checked himself 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. G.o.ddard, that if anything occurs you will let me know. I may be of some a.s.sistance."

"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sage. 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 G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard 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, Ess.e.x. 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 G.o.ddard'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, G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.ddard 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."

G.o.ddard 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!"