“Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come—”
Nellie gave a loud scream and springing up from her knees flung her arms around her mother’s neck, in uttermost, wildest terror.
“Mamma, mamma!” she cried looking, and yet hardly daring to look, back towards the closed window. “It called ‘MARY GODDARD’! It is you, mamma! Oh!”
There was no mistaking it this time. While Nellie was saying her prayer there had come three sharp and distinct raps upon the wooden shutter, and a voice, not loud but clear, penetrating into the room in spite of wind and storm and rain.
“Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard!” it said.
Mrs. Goddard started to her feet, lifting Nellie bodily from the ground in her agony of terror; staring round the room wildly as though in search of some possible escape.
“I must come in! I will come in!” said the voice again.
“Oh don’t let him in! Mamma! Don’t let him in!” moaned the terrified child upon her breast, clinging to her and weighing her down, and grasping her neck and arm with convulsive strength.
But in moments of great agitation timid people, or people who are thought timid, not uncommonly do brave things. Mrs. Goddard unclasped Nellie’s hold and forced the terror-struck child into a deep chair.
“Stay there, darling,” she said with unnatural calmness. “Do not be afraid. I will go and open the door.”
Nellie was now too much frightened to resist. Mrs. Goddard went out into the little passage which was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp, and closed the door of the drawing-room behind her. She could hear Nellie’s occasional convulsive sobs distinctly. For one moment she paused, her right hand on the lock of the front door, her left hand pressed to her side, leaning against the wall of the passage. Then she turned the key and the handle and drew the door in towards her. A violent gust of wind, full of cold and drenching rain, whirled into the passage and almost blinded her. The lamp flickered in the lantern overhead. But she looked boldly out, facing the wind and weather.
“Come in!” she called in a low voice.
Immediately there was a sound as of footsteps coming from the direction of the drawing-room window, across the wet slate flags which surrounded the cottage, and a moment afterwards, peering through the darkness, Mrs. Goddard saw a man with a ghastly face standing before her in the rain.
CHAPTER XIII.
MRS. GODDARD’S HEART stood still as she looked at the wretched man, and tried to discover her husband’s face, even a resemblance to him, in the haggard features she saw close before her. But he gave her small time for reflection; so soon as he had recognised her he sprang past her into the passage and pulling her after him closed the door.
“Mary — don’t you know me?” he said, in low tones. “You must save me — they are after me—” He stood close beside her in the narrow way, beneath the small lamp; he tried to put his arm around her and he bent down and brought his ghastly face close to hers. But she drew back as from a contamination. She was horrified, and it was a natural movement. She knew his voice even better than his features, now that he spoke. He pressed nearer to her and she thrust him back with her hands. Then suddenly a thought struck her; she took him by the sleeve and led him into the dining-room. There was no light there; she pushed him in.
“Stay there one minute—”
“No — no, you won’t call—”
“I will save you — there is — there is somebody in the drawing-room.” Before he could answer her she was gone, leaving him alone in the dark. He listened intently, not venturing to leave the spot where she had placed him; he thought he heard voices and footsteps, but no one came out into the passage. It seemed an eternity to wait. At last she came, bearing a lighted candle in her hand. She carefully shut the door of the dining-room behind her and put the light upon the table. She moved like a person in a dream.
“Sit down,” she said, pointing to a chair. “Are you hungry?” His sunken eyes sparkled. She brought food and ale and set them before him. He ate and drank voraciously in silence. She sat at the opposite side of the table — the solitary candle between them, and shading her eyes with one hand she gazed at his face.
Walter Goddard was a man at least forty years of age. He had been thought very handsome once. He had light blue eyes and a fair skin with flaxen hair — now cropped short and close to his head. There was nearly a fortnight’s growth of beard upon his face, but it was not yet sufficient to hide his mouth and chin. He had formerly worn a heavy moustache and it was chiefly the absence of it which now made it hard for his wife to recognise him. A battered hat, drenched and dripping with rain, shaded his brows. Possibly he was ashamed to remove it. His mouth was small and weak and his jaw was pointed. His whole expression was singularly disagreeable — his hands were filthy, and his face was not clean. About his neck was twisted a ragged woollen comforter, and he wore a smock-frock which was now soaked with water and clung to his thin figure. He devoured the food his wife had brought him, shivering from time to time as though he were still cold.
Mrs. Goddard watched him in silence. She had done mechanically according to her first instinct, had led him in and had given him food. But she had not recovered herself sufficiently from her first horror and astonishment to realise her situation. At last she spoke.
“How did you escape?” she asked. He bent lower than before, over his plate and would not look at her.
“Don’t ask me,” he answered shortly.
“Why did you do it?” she inquired again. Goddard laughed harshly; his voice was hoarse and cracked.
“Why did I do it!” he repeated. “Did you ever hear of any one who would not escape from prison if he had the chance? Don’t look at me like that, Mary—”
“I am sorry for you,” she said.
“You don’t seem very glad to see me,” he answered roughly. “I might have known it.”
“Yes, you might have known it.”
It seemed a very hard and cruel thing to say, and Mary Goddard was very far from being a cruel woman by nature; but she was stunned by fear and disgust and horrified by the possibilities of harm suddenly brought before her.
Goddard pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows upon the table supporting his chin in his hands. He scowled at her defiantly.
“You have given me a warm reception, after nearly three years of — separation.” There was a bitter sneer in the word.
“I am horrified to see you here,” she said simply. “You know very well that I cannot conceal you—”
“Oh, I don’t expect miracles,” said Goddard contemptuously. “I don’t know that, when I came here, I expected to cause you any particularly agreeable sensation. I confess, when a woman has not seen her beloved husband for three years, one might expect her to show a little feeling—”
“I will do what I can for you, Walter,” said his wife, whose unnatural calm was fast yielding to an overpowering agitation.
“Then give me fifty pounds and tell me the nearest way east,” answered the convict savagely.
“I have not got fifty pounds in the house,” protested Mary Goddard, in some alarm. “I never keep much money — I can get it for you—”
“I have a great mind to look,” returned her husband suspiciously. “How soon can you get it?”
“To-morrow night — the time to get a cheque cashed—”
“So you keep a banker’s account?”
“Of course. But a cheque would be of no use to you — I wish it were!”
“Naturally you do. You would get rid of me at once.” Suddenly his voice changed. “Oh, Mary — you used to love me!” cried the wretched man, burying his face in his hands.
“I was very wrong,” answered his wife, looking away from him. “You did not deserve it — you never did.”
“Because I was unfortunate!”
“Unfortunate!” repeated Mary Goddard with rising scorn. “Unfortunate — when you were deceiving me every day of your life. I could have forgiven a
great deal — Walter — but not that, not that!”
“What? About the money?” he asked with sudden fierceness.
“The money — no. Even though you were disgraced and convicted, Walter, I would have forgiven that, I would have tried to see you, to comfort you. I should have been sorry for you; I would have done what I could to help you. But I could not forgive you the rest; I never can.”
“Bah! I never cared for her,” said the convict. But under his livid skin there rose a faint blush of shame.
“You never cared for me — that is the reason I — am not glad to see you—”
“I did, Mary. Upon my soul I did. I love you still!” He rose and came near to his wife, and again he would have put his arm around her. But she sprang to her feet with an angry light in her eyes.
“If you dare to touch me, I will give you up!” she cried. Goddard shrank back to his chair, very pale and trembling violently.
“You would not do that, Mary,” he almost whined. But she remained standing, looking at him very menacingly.
“Indeed I would — you don’t know me,” she said, between her teeth.
“You are as hard as a stone,” he answered, sullenly, and for some minutes there was silence between them.
“I suppose you are going to turn me out into the rain again?” asked the convict.
“You cannot stay here — you are not safe for a minute. You will have to go. You must come back to-morrow and I will give you the money. You had better go now—”
“Oh, Mary, I would not have thought it of you,” moaned Goddard.
“Why — what else can I do? I cannot let you sleep in the house — I have no barn. If any one saw you here it would be all over. People know about it—”
“What people?”
“The vicar and his wife and Mr. Juxon at the Hall.”
“Mr. Juxon? What is he like? Would he give me up if he knew?”
“I think he would,” said Mary Goddard, thoughtfully. “I am almost sure he would. He is the justice of the peace here — he would be bound to.”
“Do you know him?” Goddard thought he detected a slight nervousness in his wife’s manner.
“Very well. This house belongs to him.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the convict. “I begin to see.”
“Yes — you see you had better go,” said his wife innocently. “How can you manage to come here tomorrow? You cannot go on without the money—”
“No — and I don’t mean to,” he answered roughly. Money was indeed an absolute necessity to him. “Give me what you have got in the house, anyhow. You may think better of it to-morrow. I don’t trust people of your stamp.”
Mary Goddard rose without a word and left the room. When she was gone the convict set himself to finish the jug of ale she had brought, and looked about him. He saw objects that reminded him of his former home. He examined the fork with which he had eaten and remembered the pattern and the engraved initials as he turned it over in his hand. The very table itself had belonged to his house — the carpet beneath his feet, the chair upon which he sat. It all seemed too unnatural to be true. That very night, that very hour, he must go forth again into the wild February weather and hide himself, leaving all these things behind him; leaving behind too his wife, the woman he had so bitterly injured, but who was still his wife. It seemed impossible. Surely he might stay if he pleased; it was not true that detectives were on his track — it was all a dream, since that dreadful day when he had written that name, which was not his, upon a piece of paper. He had waked up and was again at home. But he started as he heard a footstep in the passage, being now accustomed to start at sounds which suggested pursuit; he started and he felt the wet smock-frock, which was his disguise, clinging to him as he moved, and the reality of the present returned to him with awful force. His wife again entered the room.
“There are over nine pounds,” she said. “It is all I have.” She laid the money upon the table before him and remained standing. “You shall have the rest to-morrow,” she added.
“Can’t I see Nellie?” he asked suddenly. It was the first time he had spoken of his child. Mrs. Goddard hesitated.
“No,” she said at last. “You cannot see her now. She must not be told; she thinks you are dead. You may catch a glimpse of her to-morrow—”
“Well — it is better she should not know, I suppose. You could not explain.”
“No, Walter, I could not — explain. Come later to-morrow night — to the same window. I will undo the shutters and give you the money.” Mary Goddard was almost overcome with exhaustion. It was a terrible struggle to maintain her composure under such circumstances; but necessity does wonders. “Where will you sleep to-night?” she asked presently. She pitied the wretch from her heart, though she longed to see him leave her house.
“I will get into the stables of some public-house. I pass for a tramp.” There was a terrible earnestness in the simple statement, which did more to make Mary Goddard realise her husband’s position than anything else could have done. To people who live in the country the word “tramp” means so much.
“Poor Walter!” said Mrs. Goddard softly, and for the first time since she had seen him the tears stood in her eyes.
“Don’t waste your pity on me,” he answered. “Let me be off.”
There was half a loaf and some cheese left upon the table. Mrs. Goddard put them together and offered them to him.
“You had better take it,” she said. He took the food readily enough and hid it under his frock. He knew the value of it. Then he got upon his feet. He moved painfully, for the cold and the wet had stiffened his limbs already weakened with hunger and exhaustion.
“Let me be off,” he said again, and moved towards the door. His wife followed him in silence. In the passage he paused again.
“Well, Mary,” he said, “I suppose I ought to be grateful to you for not giving me up to the police.”
“You know very well,” answered Mrs. Goddard, “that what I can do to save you, I will do. You know that.”
“Then do it, and don’t forget the money. It’s hanging this time if I’m caught.”
Mrs. Goddard uttered a low cry and leaned against the wall.
“What?” she faltered. “You have not—”
“I believe I killed somebody in getting away,” answered the felon with a grim laugh. Then, without her assistance, he opened the door and went out into the pouring rain. The door shut behind him and Mary Goddard heard his retreating footsteps on the path outside. When he was fairly gone she suddenly broke down, and falling upon her knees in the passage beat her forehead against the wall in an agony of despair.
Murderer — thief, forger and murderer, too! It was more than she could bear. Even now he was within a stone’s throw of her house; a moment ago he had been here, beside her — there beyond, too, in the dining-room, sitting opposite to her at her own table as he had sat in his days of innocence and honour for many a long year before his crime. In the sudden necessity of acting, in the unutterable surprise of finding herself again face to face with him, she had been calm; now that he was gone she felt as though she must go mad. She asked herself if this filthy tramp, this branded villain, was the husband she had loved and cherished for years, whose beauty she had admired, whose hand she had held so often, whose lips she had kissed — if this was the father of her lovely child. It was all over now. There was blood upon his hands as well as other guilt. If he were caught he must die, or at the very least be imprisoned for life. He could never again be free to come forth after the expiation of his crimes and to claim her and his child. If he escaped now, it must be to live in a distant country under a perpetual disguise. If he were caught, the news of his capture would be in all the papers, the news of his trial for murder, the very details of his execution. The Ambroses would know and the squire, even the country folk, would perhaps at last know the truth about her. Life even in the quiet spot she had chosen would become intolerable, and she would be obliged to go forth ag
ain into a more distant exile. She bitterly repented having written to her husband in his prison to tell him where she was settled. It would have been sufficient to acquaint the governor with the fact, so that Goddard might know where she was when his term expired. She had never written but once, and he had perhaps not been allowed to answer the letter. His appearance at her door proved that he had received it. Would to God he had not, she thought.
There were other things besides his crime of forgery which had acted far more powerfully upon Mary Goddard’s mind, and which had broken for ever all ties of affection; circumstances which had appeared during his trial and which had shown that he had not only been unfaithful to those who trusted him, but had been unfaithful to the wife who loved him. That was what she could not forgive; it was the memory of that which rose like an impassable wall between her and him, worse than his frauds, his forgery, worse almost than his murder. He had done that which even a loving woman could not pardon, that which was past all forgiveness. That was why his sudden appearance roused no tender memories, elicited seemingly so little sympathy from her. She was too good a woman to say it, but she knew in her heart that she wished him dead, the very possibility of ever seeing him again gone from her life for ever, no matter how.
But she must see him again, nevertheless, and to-morrow. To-morrow, too, she would have to meet the squire, and appear to act and talk as though nothing had happened in this terrible night. That would be the hardest of all, perhaps; even harder than meeting her husband for a brief moment in order to give him the means of escape. She felt that in helping him she was participating in his crimes, and yet, she asked herself, what woman would have acted differently? What woman, even though she might hate her husband with her whole soul, and justly, would yet be so hard-hearted as to refuse him assistance when he was flying for his life? It would be impossible. She must help him at any cost; but it was hard to feel that she must see the squire and behave with indifference, while her husband was lurking in the neighbourhood, when a detective might at any moment come to the door, and demand to search the house.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 175
