A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 40

"Caught--like a rat!" he muttered. Mary G.o.ddard sighed.

Was she to give him hope of escape? Or should she try to calm him now, and when he was better, break the truth to him? Was she to make him believe that he was safe for the present, and hold out a prospect of escape when he should be better, or should she tell him now, once for all, while he was in his senses, that he was lost? It was a terrible position. Love she had none left for him, but there was infinite pity still in her heart and there would be while he breathed. She hesitated one moment only, and it may be that she decided for the wrong; but it was her pity that moved her, and not any remnant of love.

"Hush, Walter," she said. "You may yet escape, when you are strong enough. You are quite safe here, for the present. Mr. Juxon would not think of giving you up now. By and by--the window is not high, Walter, and I shall often be alone with you. I will manage it."

"Is that true? Are you cheating me?" cried the wretched man in broken tones. "No--you are speaking the truth--I know it--G.o.d bless you, Mary!"

Again he closed his eyes and drew one or two long deep breaths.

Strange to say, the blessing the miserable convict called down upon her was sweet to Mary G.o.ddard, sweeter than anything she remembered for a long time. She had perhaps done wrong in giving him hopes of escaping, but at least he was grateful to her. It was more than she expected, for she remembered her last meeting with him, and the horrible ingrat.i.tude he had then shown her. It seemed to her that his heart had been softened a little; anything was better than that rough indifference he had affected before. Presently he spoke again.

"Not that it makes much difference now, Mary," he said. "I don't think there is much left of me."

"Do not say that, Walter," she answered gently. "Rest now. The more you rest the sooner you will be well again. Try and sleep."

"Sleep--no--I cannot sleep. I have murdered sleep--like Macbeth, Mary, like Macbeth--Do you remember Macbeth?"

"Hush," said Mary G.o.ddard, endeavouring to calm him, though she turned pale at his strange quotation. "Hush--"

"That is to say," said the sick man, heedless of her exhortation and soothing touch, "that is to say, I did not. He was very wide awake, and if I had not been quick, I should never have got off. Ugh! How damp that cellar was, that first night. That is where I got my fever. It is fever, I suppose?" he asked, unable to keep his mind for long in one groove.

"What does the doctor say? Has he been here?"

"Yes. He said you would soon be well; but he said you must be kept very quiet. So you must not talk, or I will go away."

"Oh Mary, don't go--don't go! It's like--ha! ha! it's quite like old times, Mary!" He laughed harshly, a hideous, half-delirious laugh.

Mary G.o.ddard shuddered but made a great effort to control herself.

"Yes," she said gently, "it is like old times. Try and think that it is the old house at Putney, Walter. Do you hear the sparrows chirping, just as they used to do? The curtains are the same colour, too. You used to sleep so quietly at the old house. Try and sleep now. Then you will soon get well. Now, I will sit beside you, but I will not talk any more--there--are you quite comfortable? A little higher? Yes--so. Go to sleep."

Her quiet voice soothed him, and her gentle hands made his rest more easy. She sat down beside him, thinking from his silence that he would really go to sleep; hoping and yet not hoping, revolving in her mind the chances of his escape, so soon as he should be strong enough to attempt it, shuddering at the thought of what his fate must be if he again fell into the hands of the police. She did not know that a detective was at that moment in the house, determined to carry her husband away so soon as the doctor p.r.o.nounced it possible. Nothing indeed, not even that knowledge could have added much to the burden of her sorrows as she sat there, a small and graceful figure with a sad pathetic face, leaning forward as she sat and gazing drearily at the carpet, where the sunlight crept in beneath the curtains from the bright world without. It seemed to her that the turning point in her existence had come, and that this day must decide all; yet she could not see how it was to be decided, think of it as she might. One thing stood prominent in her thoughts, and she delighted to think of it--the generosity of Charles Juxon. From first to last, from the day when she had frankly told him her story and he had accepted it and refused to let it bring any difference to his friends.h.i.+p for her, down to this present time, when after being basely attacked by her own husband, he had n.o.bly brought the wretch home and was caring for him as for one of his own blood--through all and in spite of all, the squire had shown the same una.s.suming but unfailing generosity. She asked herself, as she sat beside the sick man, whether there were many like Charles Juxon in the world. There was the vicar, but the case was very different. He too had been kind and generous from the first; but he had not asked her to marry him--she blushed at the thought--he had not loved her. If Charles Juxon loved her, his generosity to G.o.ddard was all the greater.

She could not tell whether she loved him, because her ideas were what the world calls simple, and what, in heaven, would be called good. Her husband was alive; none the less so because he had been taken away and separated from her by the law--he was alive, and now was brought face to face with her again. While he was living, she did not suppose it possible to love another, for she was very simple. She said to herself truly that she had a very high esteem for the squire and that he was the best friend she had in the world; that to lose him would be the most terrible of imaginable losses; that she was deeply indebted to him, and she even half unconsciously allowed that if she were free she might marry him. There was no harm in that, she knew very well. She owed her own husband no longer either respect or affection, even while she still felt pity for him. Her esteem at least, she might give to another; nay, she owed it, and if she had refused Charles Juxon her friends.h.i.+p, she would have called herself the most ungrateful of women. If ever man deserved respect, esteem and friends.h.i.+p, it was the squire.

Even in the present anxiety she thought of him, for his conduct seemed the only bright spot in the gloom of her thoughts; and she sincerely rejoiced that he had escaped unhurt. Had any harm come to him, she would have been, if it were possible, more miserable than she now was. But he was safe and sound, and doing his best to help her--doing more than she knew, in fact, at that very moment. There was at least something to be thankful for.

G.o.ddard stirred again, and opened his eyes.

"Mary," he said faintly, "they won't catch me after all."

"No, Walter," said she, humouring him. "Sleep quietly, for no one will disturb you."

"I am going where n.o.body can catch me. I am dying--"

"Oh, Walter!" cried Mary G.o.ddard, "you must not speak like that. You will be better soon. The doctor is expected every moment."

"He had better make haste," said the sick man with something of the roughness he had shown at their first meetings. "It is no use, Mary. I have been thinking about it. I have been mad for--for very long, I am sure. I want to die, Mary. n.o.body can catch me if I die--I shall be safe then. You will be safe too--that is a great thing."

His voice had a strange and meditative tone in it, which frightened his wife, as she stood close beside him. She could not speak, for her excitement and fear had the mastery of her tongue.

"I have been thinking about it--I am not good for much, now--Mary--I never was. It will do some good if I die--just because I shall be out of the way. It will be the only good thing I ever did for you."

"Oh Walter," cried his wife in genuine distress, "don't--don't!

Think--you must not die so--think of--of the other world, Walter--you must not die so!"

G.o.ddard smiled faintly--scornfully, his wife thought.

"I daresay I shall not die till to-morrow, or next day--but I will not live," he said with sudden energy. "Do you understand me, I will not live! Bah!" he cried, falling back upon his pillow, "the grapes are sour--I can't live if I would. Oh yes, I know all about that--my sins.

Well, I am sorry for them. I am sorry, Mary. But it is very little good--people always laugh at--deathbed repentance--"

He stopped and his thoughts seemed wandering. Mary G.o.ddard gave him something to drink and tried to calm him. But he moved restlessly, though feebly.

"Softly, softly," he murmured again. "He is coming--close to me. Get ready--now--no not yet, yes--now. Ugh!" yelled G.o.ddard, suddenly springing up, his eyes starting from his head. "Ugh! the dog--oh!"

"Hush, Walter," cried his wife, pus.h.i.+ng him back. "Hush--no one will hurt you."

"What--is that you, Mary?" asked the sick man, trembling violently. Then he laughed harshly. "I was off again. Pshaw! I did not really mean to hurt him--he need not have set that beast at me. He did not catch me though--Mary, I am going to die--will you pray for me? You are a good woman--somebody will hear your prayers, I daresay. Do, Mary--I shall feel better somehow, though I daresay it is very foolish of me."

"No, Walter--not foolish, not foolish. Would you like me to call Mr.

Ambrose? he is a clergyman--he is in the house."

"No, no. You Mary, you--n.o.body will hear anybody else's prayers--for me--for poor me--"

"Try and pray with me, Walter," said Mary G.o.ddard, very quietly. She seemed to have an unnatural strength given to her in that hour of distress and horror. She knelt down by the bedside and took his wounded hand in hers, tenderly, and she prayed aloud in such words as she could find.

Below, in the study, the detective had just finished telling his tale to the squire, and the wheels of Doctor Longstreet's dog-cart ground upon the gravel outside. The two men looked at each other for a moment, and Mr. Juxon spoke first.

"That is the doctor," said he. "I will ask you to have patience for five minutes, Mr. Booley. He will give you his opinion. I am still very much shocked at what you have told me--I had no idea what had happened."

"No--I suppose not," answered Mr. Booley calmly. "If you will ask the medical man to step in here for one moment, I will explain matters to him. I don't think he will differ much from me."

"Very well," returned the squire, leaving the room. He went to meet Doctor Longstreet, intending to warn him of the presence of Mr. Booley, and meaning to entreat his support for the purpose of keeping G.o.ddard in the house until he should be recovered. He pa.s.sed through the library and exchanged a few words with Mr. Ambrose, explaining that the doctor had come. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose were sitting on opposite sides of the fireplace in huge chairs, with a mournful air of resigned expectation upon their worthy faces. The detective remained alone in the study.

Meanwhile John Short had refreshed himself from his fatigues, and came down stairs in search of some breakfast. He had recovered from his excitement and was probably the only one who thought of eating, as he was also the one least closely concerned in what was occurring. Instead of going to the library he went to the dining-room, and, seeing no one about, entered the study from the door which on that side connected the two rooms. To his surprise he saw Mr. Booley standing before the fireplace, his hands in his pockets and his feet wide apart. He had not the least idea who he was.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, staring hard at him.

"Yes," said Mr. Booley, who took him for the physician whom he expected.

"I am George Booley of the detective service. I was expecting you, sir.

There is very little to be said. My time, as I told Mr. Juxon, is very valuable. I must have G.o.ddard out of the house by to-morrow afternoon at the latest. Now, doctor, it is of no use your talking to me about fever and all that--"

John had stood with his mouth open, staring in blank astonishment at the detective, unable to find words in which to question the man. At last he got his breath.

"What in the world are you talking about?" he asked slowly. "Are you a raving lunatic--or what are you?"

"Come, come, doctor," said Mr. Booley in persuasive accents, "none of that with me, you know. If the man must be moved--why he must, that is all, and you must make it possible, somehow."

"You are crazy!" exclaimed John. "I am not the doctor, to begin with--"