These thoughts passed very quickly through her overwrought brain, as she knelt in the passage; kneeling because she felt she could no longer stand, the passionate tears streaming down her face, her small hands pressing her temples. Then she struggled to her feet and dried her eyes, steadying herself against the wall for a moment. She had almost forgotten little Nellie whom she had left in the drawing-room. She had told the child, when she went back to her, leaving Goddard alone in the dark, that the man was a poor starving tramp, but that she did not want Nellie to see him, because he looked so miserable. She would give him something to eat and send him away, she said, and meanwhile Nellie should sit by the drawing-room fire and wait for her. The child trusted her mother implicitly and was completely reassured. Mrs. Goddard dried her eyes, and re-entered the room. Nellie was curled up in a big chair with a book; she looked up quickly.
“Why, mamma,” she said, “you have been crying!”
“Have I, darling? I daresay it was the sight of that poor man. He was very wretched.”
“Is he gone?” asked the child.
It was unusually late and Nellie was beginning to be sleepy, so that she was more easily quieted than she could have been in ordinary circumstances. It might have struck her as strange that a wandering tramp should know her mother’s Christian name, as still more inexplicable that her mother should have been willing to admit such a man at so late an hour. She had been badly frightened, but trusting her mother as she did, her terror had quickly disappeared and had been quickly followed by sleepiness.
But Mrs. Goddard. did not sleep that night. She felt as though she could never sleep again, and for many hours she lay thinking of the new element of fear which had so suddenly come into her life at the very time when she believed herself to be safe for many years to come. She longed to know where her wretched husband was; whether he had found shelter for the night, whether he was still free or whether he had even then fallen into the hands of his pursuers. She knew that she could not have concealed him in the house and that she had done all that lay in her power for him. But she started at every sound, as the rain rattled against the shutters and the wind howled down the chimney.
Walter Goddard, however, was safe for the present and was even luxuriously lodged, considering his circumstances, for he was comfortably installed amongst the hay in the barn of the “Feathers” inn. He had been in Billingsfield since early in the afternoon and had considered carefully the question of his quarters for the night. He had observed from a distance the landlord of the said inn, and had boldly offered to do a “day’s work for a night’s lodging.” He said he was “tramping” his way back from London to his home in Yorkshire; he knew enough of the sound of the rough Yorkshire dialect to pass for a native of that county amongst ignorant labourers who had never heard the real tongue. The landlord of the Feathers consented to the bargain and Goddard was told that he might sleep in the barn if he liked, and should take a turn at cutting chaff the next day to pay for the convenience. The convict slept soundly; he was past lying awake in useless fits of remorse, and he was exhausted with his day’s journey. Moreover he had now the immediate prospect of obtaining sufficient money to carry him safely out of the country, and once abroad he felt sure of baffling pursuit. He was an accomplished man and spoke French with a fluency unusual in Englishmen; he determined to get across the channel in some fishing craft; he would then make his way to Paris and enlist in the Foreign Legion. It would be safer than trying to go to America, where people were invariably caught as they landed. It was a race for life and death, and he knew it. Had he been able to obtain clothes, money and a disguise in London he would have travelled by rail. But that had been impossible and it now seemed a wiser plan to “tramp” it. His beard was growing rapidly and would soon make a complete disguise. Village constables are generally simple people, easily imposed upon, very different from London detectives; and hitherto he felt sure that he had baffled pursuit by the mere simplicity of his proceedings. The intelligent officials of Scotland Yard were used to forgers and swindlers who travelled by express trains and crossed to America by fashionable steamers. It did not strike them as very likely that a man of Walter Goddard’s previous tastes and habits could get through the country in the guise of a tramp. If he had been possessed at the time of his escape of the money he so much desired he would probably have been caught; as it was, he got away without difficulty, and at the very time when every railway station and every port in the kingdom were being watched for him, he was lurking in the purlieus of Whitechapel, and then tramping his way east in comparative safety, half starved, it is true, but unmolested.
That he was disappointed at the reception his wife had given him did not prevent him from sleeping peacefully that night. One thing alone disturbed him, and that was her mention of Mr. Juxon, in whose house, as she had told him, she lived. It seems incredible that a man in Walter Goddard’s position, lost to every sense of honour, a criminal of the worst type, who had deceived his wife before he was indicted for forgery, who had certainly cared very little for her at any time, should now, in a moment of supreme danger, feel a pang of jealousy on hearing that his wife lived in the vicinity of the squire and occupied a house belonging to him. But he was too bad himself not to suspect others, especially those whom he had wronged, and the feeling was mingled with a strong curiosity to know whether this woman, who now treated him so haughtily and drew back from him as from some monstrous horror, was as good as she pretended to be. He said to himself that on the next day at dawn he would slip out of the barn and try whether he could not find some hiding-place within easy reach of the cottage, so as to be able to watch her dwelling at his ease throughout the day. The plan seemed a good one. Since he was obliged to wait twenty-four hours in order to get the money he wanted, he might as well employ the time profitably in observing his wife’s habits. It would be long, he said to himself with a bitter sneer, before he troubled her again — he would just like to see.
Having come to this decision he drew some of the hay over his body and in spite of cold and wet was soon peacefully asleep. But at early dawn he awoke with the alacrity of a man who constantly expects pursuit, and slipped down from the hayloft into the barn. There was no one stirring and he got over the fence at the back of the yard and skirted the fields in the direction of the church, finally climbing another stile and entering what he supposed to be the park. On this side the back of the church ran out into a broad meadow, where the larger portion of the ancient abbey had once stood. Goddard walked along close by the church walls. He knew from his observation on the previous afternoon that he could thus come out into the road in the vicinity of the cottage, unless his way through the park were interrupted by impassable wire fences. The ground was very heavy and he was sure not to meet anybody in the meadows in such weather.
Suddenly he stopped and looked at a buttress that jutted out from the church and for the existence of which there seemed to be no ostensible reason. He examined it and found that it was not a buttress but apparently a half ruined chamber, which at some former period had been built upon the side of the abbey. Low down by the ground there was a hole, where a few stones seemed to have been removed and not replaced. Goddard knelt down in the long wet grass and put in his head; then he crept in on his hands and knees and presently disappeared.
He found himself in a room about ten feet square, dimly lighted by a small window at the top, and surrounded by long horizontal niches. The floor, which was badly broken in some places, was of stone. Goddard examined the place carefully. It was evidently an old vault of the kind formerly built above ground for the lords of the manor; but the coffins, if there had ever been any, had been removed elsewhere. Goddard laughed to himself.
“I might stay here for a year, if I could get anything to eat,” he said to himself.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SQUIRE HAD grown used to the position in which he found himself after Mary Goddard had told him her story. He continued his visits as formerly, and it co
uld hardly be said that there was any change in his manner towards her; there was no need of any change, for even at the time when he contemplated making her his wife there had been nothing lover-like in his behaviour. He had been a friend and had treated her with all the respect due to a lonely lady who was his tenant, and even with a certain formality which had sometimes seemed unnecessary. But though there was no apparent alteration in his mode of talking, in his habit of bringing her flowers and books and of looking after the condition of the cottage, both she and he were perfectly conscious of the fact that they understood each other much better than before. They were united by the common bond of a common secret which very closely concerned one of them. Things were not as they had formerly been. Mrs. Goddard no longer felt that she had anything to hide; the squire knew that he no longer had anything to hope. If he had been a selfish man, if she had been a less sensible woman, their friendship might have ended then and there. But Mr. Juxon was not selfish, and Mary Goddard did not lack good sense. Having ascertained that in the ordinary course of events there was no possibility of ever marrying her, the squire did not at once give her over and go elsewhere; on the contrary he showed himself more desirous than ever of assisting her and amusing her. He was a patient man; his day might come yet, if Goddard died. It did not follow that if he could not marry Mrs. Goddard he must needs marry some one else; for it was not a wife that he sought, but the companionship of this particular woman as his wife. If he could not marry he could still enjoy at least a portion of that companionship, by visiting her daily and talking with her, and making himself a part of her life. He judged things very coldly and lost himself in no lofty flights of imagination. It was better that he should enjoy what fell in his way in at least seeing Mrs. Goddard and possessing her friendship, than that he should go out of his course in order to marry merely for the sake of marrying. He had seen so much of the active side of life that he was well prepared to revel in the peace which had fallen to his lot. He cared little whether he left an heir to the park; there were others of the name, and since the park had furnished matter for litigation during forty years before he came into possession of it, it might supply the lawyers with fees for forty years more after his death, for all he cared. It would have been very desirable to marry Mrs. Goddard if it had been possible, but since the thing could not be done at present it was best to submit with a good grace. Since the day when his suit had suddenly come to grief in the discovery of her real position, Mr. Juxon had philosophically said to himself that he had perhaps been premature in making his proposal, and that it was as well that it could not have been accepted; perhaps she would not have made him a good wife; perhaps he had deceived himself in thinking that because he liked her and desired her friendship he really wished to marry her; perhaps all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, after all and in spite of all.
But these reflections, which tended to soothe the squire’s annoyance at the failure of a scheme which he had contemplated with so much delight, did not prevent him from feeling the most sincere sympathy for Mrs. Goddard, nor from constantly wishing that he could devise some plan for helping her. She seemed never to have thought of divorcing herself from her husband. The squire was not sure whether such a thing were possible; he doubted it, and promised himself that he would get a lawyer’s opinion upon the matter. He believed that English law did not grant divorces on account of the husband’s being sentenced to any limited period of penal servitude. But in any case it would be a very delicate subject to approach, and Mr. Juxon amused himself by constructing conversations in his mind which should lead up to this point without wounding poor Mrs. Goddard’s sensibilities. He was the kindest of men; he would not for worlds have said a word which should recall to her that memorable day when she had told him her story. And yet it would be quite impossible to broach such a scheme without going at once into all the details of the chief cause of her sorrows. The consequence was that in the windings of his imagination the squire found himself perpetually turning in a vicious circle; but since the exercise concerned Mrs. Goddard and her welfare it was not uncongenial. He founded all his vague hopes upon one expression she had used. When in making his proposal he had spoken of her as being a widow, she had said, “Would to God that I were!” She had said it with such vehemence that he had felt sure that if she had indeed been a widow her answer to himself would have been favourable. Men easily retain such impressions received in moments of great excitement, and found hopes upon them.
So the days had gone by and the squire had thought much but had come to no conclusion. On the morning when Walter Goddard crept into the disused vault at the back of the church, the squire awoke from his sleep at his usual early hour. He was not in a very good humour, if so equable a man could be said to be subject to such weaknesses as humours. The weather was very depressing — day after day brought only more rain, more wind, more mud, more of everything disagreeable. The previous evening had been unusually dull. He was never weary of being with Mary Goddard, but occasionally, when the Ambroses were present, the conversation became oppressive. Mr. Juxon almost wished that John Short would come back and cause a diversion. His views concerning John had undergone some change since he had discovered that nobody could marry Mrs. Goddard because she was married already. He believed he could watch John’s efforts to attract her attention with indifference now, or if without indifference with a charitable forbearance. John at least would help to make conversation, and the conversation on the previous evening had been intolerably wearisome. Almost unconsciously, since the chief interest and hope of his daily life had been removed the squire began to long for a change; he had been a wanderer by profession during thirty years of his life and he was perhaps not yet old enough to settle into that absolute indifference to novelty which seems to characterise retired sailors.
But as he brushed his smooth hair and combed his beard that morning, neither change nor excitement were very far from him. He looked over his dressing-glass at the leafless oaks of the park, at the grey sky and the driving rain and he wished something would happen. He wished somebody might die and leave a great library to be sold, that he might indulge his favourite passion; he wished he had somebody stopping in the Hall — he almost decided to send and ask the vicar to come to lunch and have a day among the books. As he entered the breakfast-room at precisely half-past eight o’clock, according to his wont, the butler informed him that Mr. Gall, the village constable, was below and wanted to see him after breakfast. He received the news in silence and sat down to eat his breakfast and read the morning paper. Gall had probably come about some petty summons, or to ask what he should do about the small boys who threw stones at the rooks and broke the church windows. After finishing his meal and his paper in the leisurely manner peculiar to country gentlemen who have nothing to do, the squire rang the bell, sent for the policeman and went into his study, a small room adjoining the library.
Thomas Gall, constable, was a tall fair man with a mild eye and a cheerful face. Goodwill towards men and plentiful good living had done their work in eradicating from the good man all that stern element which might have been most useful to him in his career, not to say useful to the State. Each rolling year was pricked in his leathern belt with a new hole as his heart grew more peaceful and his body throve. He had a goodly girth and weighed full fifteen stone in his uniform; his mild blue eye had inspired confidence in a maiden of Billingsfield parish and Mrs. Gall was now rearing a numerous family of little Galls, all perhaps destined to become mild-eyed and portly village constables in their turn.
The squire, who was not destitute of a sense of humour, never thought of Mr. Gall without a smile, so much out of keeping did the man’s occupation seem with his jovial humour. Mr. Gall, he said, was the kind of policeman who would bribe a refractory tramp to move on by the present of a pint of beer. But Gall had a good point. He was very proud of his profession, and in the exercise of it he showed a discretion which, if it was the better part of his valour, argued unlimite
d natural courage. It was a secret profession, he was wont to say, and a man who could not keep a secret would never do for a constable. He shrouded his ways in an amiable mystery and walked a solitary beat on fine nights; when the nights were not fine there was nobody to see whether he walked his beat or not. Probably, he faithfully fulfilled his obligations; but his constitution seemed to bear exposure to the weather wonderfully well. Whether he ever saw anything worth mentioning upon those lonely walks of his, is uncertain; at all events he never mentioned anything he saw, unless it was in the secrecy of the reports he was supposed to transmit from time to time to his superiors.
On the present occasion as he entered the study, the squire observed with surprise that he looked grave. He had never witnessed such a phenomenon before and argued that it was just possible that something of real importance might have occurred.
“Good morning, sir,” said Mr. Gall, approaching the squire respectfully, after carefully closing the door behind him.
“Good morning, Gall. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Not yet, sir. I hope not, sir. Only a little matter of business, Mr.
Juxon. In point of fact, sir, I wished to consult you.”
“Yes,” said the squire who was used to the constable’s method of circumlocution. “Yes — what is it?”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 176
