A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 21

"Yes dear," she said more quietly than she had been able to speak for some time, "I have no doubt you are quite right. I thought I heard his footsteps just now, going down the path. So he will not trouble us any more to-night. And now darling, kneel down and say your prayers, and then we will go to bed."

So Nellie, rea.s.sured by the news that her mother was going to bed, too, knelt down as she had done every night during the eleven years of her life, and clasped her hands together, beneath her mother's. Then she cleared her throat, then she glanced at the clock, then she looked for one moment into the sweet serious violet eyes that looked down on her so lovingly, and then at last she bent her lovely little head and began to say her prayers, there, by the fire, at her mother's knees, while angry storm howled fiercely without and shook the closed panes and shutters and occasional drops of rain, falling down the short chimney, sputtered in the smouldering coal fire.

"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 G.o.dDARD'! 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 G.o.ddard! Mary G.o.ddard!" it said.

Mrs. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard went out into the little pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage. 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 pa.s.sage 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.

G.o.ddard saw a man with a ghastly face standing before her in the rain.

CHAPTER XIII.

Mrs. G.o.ddard'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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sage. 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 G.o.ddard 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, s.h.i.+vering from time to time as though he were still cold.

Mrs. G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard laughed harshly; his voice was hoa.r.s.e 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 G.o.ddard 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.

G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard, 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."