A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH

by

F. MARION CRAWFORD

1886

TO My MOTHER

I DEDICATE THIS TALE A MEAN TOKEN OF A LIFELONG AFFECTION

SORRENTO, Christmas Day, 1885

CHAPTER I. 

The Reverend Augustin Ambrose would gladly have given up taking pupils. He was growing old and his sight was beginning to trouble him; he wasvery weary of Thucydides, of Homer, of the works of Mr. Todhunter ofwhich the green bindings expressed a hope still unrealised, of conicsections--even of his beloved Horace. He was tired of the stupidities ofthe dull young men who were sent to him because they could not "keep up", and he had long ceased to be surprised or interested by the remarks ofthe clever ones who were sent to him because their education had notprepared them for an English University. The dull ones could never bemade to understand anything, though Mr. Ambrose generally succeeded inmaking them remember enough to matriculate, by dint of ceaselessrepetition and a system of _memoria technica_ which embraced most thingsnecessary to the salvation of dull youth. The clever ones, on the otherhand, generally lacked altogether the solid foundation of learning; theycould construe fluently but did not know a long syllable from a shortone; they had vague notions of elemental algebra and no notion at all ofarithmetic, but did very well in conic sections; they knew nothing ofprosody, but dabbled perpetually in English blank verse; altogether theyknew most of those things which they need not have known and they knewnone of those things thoroughly which they ought to have known. Aftertwenty years of experience Mr. Ambrose ascertained that it was easier toteach a stupid boy than a clever one, but that he would prefer not toteach at all. 

Unfortunately the small tithes of a small country parish in Essex did notfurnish a sufficient income for his needs. He had been a Fellow ofTrinity College, Cambridge, within a few years of taking his degree, wherein he had obtained high honours. But he had married and had foundhimself obliged to accept the first living offered to him, to wit, thevicarage of Billingsfield, whereof his college held the rectory andreceived the great tithes. The entire income he obtained from his curenever at any time exceeded three hundred and forty-seven pounds, and inthe year when it reached that high figure there had been an unusuallylarge number of marriages. It was not surprising that the vicar shoulddesire to improve his circumstances by receiving one or two pupils. Hehad married young, as has been said, and there had been children born tohim, a son and a daughter. Mrs. Ambrose was a good manager and a goodmother, and her husband had worked hard. Between them they had brought uptheir children exceedingly well. The son had in his turn entered thechurch, had exhibited a faculty of pushing his way which had notcharacterised his father, had got a curacy in a fashionable Yorkshirewatering-place, and was thought to be on the way to obtain a first-rateliving. In the course of time, too, the daughter had lost her heart to ayoung physician who had brilliant prospects and some personal fortune, and the Reverend Augustin Ambrose had given his consent to the union. Norhad he been disappointed. The young physician had risen rapidly in hisprofession, had been elected a member of the London College, hadtransferred himself to the capital and now enjoyed a rising practice inChelsea. So great was his success that it was thought he would beforelong purchase the goodwill of an old practitioner who dwelt in theneighbourhood of Brompton Crescent, and who, it was said, might shortlybe expected to retire. 

It will be seen, therefore, that if Mr. Ambrose's life had not been verybrilliant, his efforts had on the whole been attended with success. Hischildren were both happy and independent and no longer needed hisassistance or support; his wife, the excellent Mrs. Ambrose, enjoyedunfailing health and good spirits; he himself was still vigorous andactive, and as yet found no difficulty in obtaining a couple of pupils attwo hundred pounds a year each, for he had early got a reputation forsuccessfully preparing young gentlemen with whom no other private tutorcould do anything, and he had established the scale of his pricesaccordingly. It is true that he had sacrificed other things for the sakeof imparting tuition, and more than once he had hesitated and askedhimself whether he should go on. Indeed, when he graduated, it wasthought that he would soon make himself remarkable by the publication ofsome scholarly work; it was foretold that he might become a famouspreacher; it was asserted that he was a general favourite with theFellows of Trinity and would get a proportionately fat living--but he hadcommitted the unpardonable sin of allowing his chances of fortune to slipfrom him. He had given up his fellowship, had married and had accepted aninsignificant country living. He asked nothing, and he got nothing. Henever attracted the notice of his bishop by doing anything extraordinary, nor the notice of the public by appearing in print. He baptized, marriedand buried the people of Billingsfield, Essex, and he took privatepupils. He wrote a sermon once a fortnight, and revised old ones for theother three occasions out of four. His sermons were good in their way, but were intended for simple folk and did no justice to the powers he hadcertainly possessed in his youth. Indeed, as years went on, the dryroutine of his life produced its inevitable effect upon his mind, and theproductions of Mr. Ambrose grew to be exceedingly commonplace; and themore commonplace he became, the more he regretted having done so littlewith the faculties he enjoyed, and the more weary he became of the dailytask of galvanising the dull minds of his pupils into a spasmodicactivity, just sufficient to leap the ditch that separates the schoolboyfrom the undergraduate. He had not only educated his children and seenthem provided for in the world; he had also saved a little money, and hehad insured his life for five hundred pounds. There was no longer anypositive necessity for continuing to teach, as there had been thirtyyears ago, when he first married. 

So much for the circumstances of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose. Personally he was a man of good presence, five feet ten inches in height, active and strong, of a ruddy complexion with smooth, thick grey hair anda plentiful grey beard. He shaved his upper lip however, greatly to thedetriment of his appearance, for the said upper lip was very long and theabsence of the hirsute appendage showed a very large mouth with very thinlips, generally compressed into an expression of remarkable obstinacy. His nose was both broad and long and his grey eyes were bright andaggressive in their glance. As a matter of fact Mr. Ambrose was combativeby nature, but his fighting instincts seem to have been generallyemployed in the protection of rights he already possessed, rather than inpushing on in search of fresh fields of activity. He was an active man, fond of walking alone and able to walk any distance he pleased; acharitable man with the charity peculiar to people of exceedinglyeconomical tendencies and possessing small fixed incomes. He would givehimself vast personal trouble to assist distress, as though aware thatsince he could not give much money to the poor he was bound to give thebest of himself. The good Mrs. Ambrose seconded him in this as in all hisworks; labouring hard when hard work could do any good, but givingmaterial assistance with a sparing hand. It sufficiently defines the twoto say that although many a surly labourer in the parish grumbled thatthe vicar and his wife were "oncommon near", when money was concerned, there was nevertheless no trouble in which their aid was not invoked andtheir advice asked. But the indigent labourer not uncommonly retrievedhis position by asking a shilling of one of the young gentlemen at thevicarage, who were generally open-handed, good-looking boys, blessed witha great deal more money than brains. 

At the time when this tale opens, however, it chanced that one of the twoyoung gentlemen at the vicarage was by no means in the position peculiarto the majority of youths who sought the good offices of the ReverendAugustin Ambrose. John Short, aged eighteen, was in all respects aremarkable contrast to his companion the Honourable Cornelius Angleside. John Short was apparently very poor; the Honourable Cornelius on theother hand had plenty of money. Short was undeniably clever; Anglesidewas uncommonly dull. Short was the son of a decayed literary man;Angleside was the son of a nobleman. Short was by nature a hard worker;Angleside was amazingly idle. Short meant to do something in the world;Angleside had early determined to do nothing. 

It would not be easy to define the reasons which induced Mr. Ambrose toreceive John Short under his roof. He had never before taken a pupil onany but his usual terms, and at his time of life it was strange that heshould break through the rule. But here his peculiar views of charitycame into play. Short's father had been his own chum at school, and hisfriend at college, but had failed to reap any substantial benefits fromhis education. He had been a scholar in his way, but his way had not beenthe way of other scholars, and when he had gone up for honours he had gota bad third in classics. He would not enter the church, he could notenter the law, he had no interest whatever, and he found himselfnaturally thrust into the profession of literature. For a time he hadnearly starved; then he had met with some success and had, of course, married without hesitation; after this he had had more misfortunes. Hiswife had died leaving him an only son, whom in course of time he had sentto school. But school was too expensive and he had reluctantly taken theboy home again. It was in a fit of despair that he wrote to his oldfriend Augustin Ambrose, asking his advice. The Reverend Augustinconsidered the matter with the assistance of his wife, and beingcharitable souls, they determined that they must help Short to educatehis son. Accordingly the vicar of Billingsfield wrote to his old friendto say that if he could manage to pay a small sum for the lad's board, he, the vicar, would complete the boy's education, so that he might atleast have a chance in the world. Short accepted the offer with boundlessgratitude and had hitherto not failed to pay the vicar the small sumagreed upon. The result of all this was that Mr. Ambrose had grown veryfond of John, and John had derived great advantage from his position. Hepossessed precisely what his father had lacked, namely a strong bent inone direction, and there was no doubt that he would distinguish himselfif he had a chance. That chance the vicar had determined to give him. Hehad made up his mind that his old friend's son should go to college andshow what he was able to do. It was not an easy thing to manage, but thevicar had friends in Cambridge and John had brains; moreover the vicarand John were both very obstinate people and had both determined upon thesame plan, so that there was a strong probability of their succeeding. 

John Short was eighteen years of age, neither particularly good-lookingnor by any means the reverse. He had what bankers commonly call a luckyface; that is to say he had a certain very prepossessing look of honestyin his blue eyes, and a certain look of energetic goodwill in hisfeatures. When he was much older and wore a beard he passed for ahandsome man, but at eighteen he could only boast the smallest of fairwhiskers, and when anybody took the trouble to look long at him, whichwas not often, the verdict was that his jaw was too heavy and his mouthtoo obstinate. In complexion he was fair, and healthy to look at, generally sunburned in the summer, for he had a habit of reading out ofdoors; his laugh was very pleasant, though it was rarely heard; his eyeswere honest but generally thoughtful; his frame was sturdy and alreadyinclined rather to strength than to graceful proportion; his head matchedhis body well, being broad and well-shaped with plenty of prominence overthe brows and plenty of fulness above the temples. He had a way ofstanding as though it would not be easy to move him, and a way ofexpressing his opinion which seemed to challenge contradiction. But hewas not a combative boy. If any one argued with him, it soon appearedthat he was not really argumentative, but merely enthusiastic. It was notnecessary to agree with him, and there was small use in contradictinghim. The more he talked the more enthusiastic he grew as he developed hisown views; until seeing that he was not understood or that he was merelylaughed at, he would end his discourse with a merry laugh at himself, ora shy apology for having talked so much. But the vicar assured his wifethat the boy's Greek and Latin verses were something very extraordinaryindeed, and much better than his own in his best days. For John waspassionately fond of the classics and did not propose to acquire any moremathematical knowledge than was strictly necessary for his matriculationand "little-go. " He meant to be a famous scholar and he meant to get afellowship at his college in order to be perfectly independent and tohelp his father. 

John was a constant source of wonder to his companion the HonourableCornelius Angleside, who remembered to have seen fellows of that sort atEton but had never got near enough to them to know what they were reallylike. Cornelius had a vague idea that there was some trick aboutappearing to know so much and that those reading chaps were awfulhumbugs. How the trick was performed he did not venture to explain, buthe was as firmly persuaded that it was managed by some species ofconjuring as that Messrs. Maskelyne and Cook performed their wonders bysleight of hand. That one human brain should actually contain the amountof knowledge John Short appeared to possess was not credible to theHonourable Cornelius, and the latter spent more of his time in trying todiscover how John "did it" than in trying to "do it" himself. Nevertheless, young Angleside liked Short after his own fashion, andShort did not dislike Angleside. John's father had given him tounderstand that as a general rule persons of wealth and good birth were aset of overbearing, purse-proud bullies, who considered men of genius tobe little better than a set of learned monkeys, certainly not good enoughto black their boots. For John's father in his misfortunes had imbibedsundry radical notions formerly peculiar to poor literary men, and notyet altogether extinct, and he had accordingly warned his son that allmammon was the mammon of unrighteousness, and that the people whopossessed it were the natural enemies of people who had to live by theirbrains. But John had very soon discovered that though Cornelius Anglesidepossessed the three qualifications for perdition, in the shape of birth, wealth and ignorance, against which his poor father railed unceasingly, he succeeded nevertheless in making himself very good company. Anglesidewas not overbearing, he was not purse-proud and he was not a bully. Onthe contrary he was unobtrusive and sufficiently simple in manner, and hecertainly never mentioned the subject of his family or fortune; Johnrather pitied him, on the whole, until he began to discover thatAngleside looked up to him on account of his mental superiority, and thenJohn, being very human, began to like him. 

The life at the vicarage of Billingsfield, Essex, was not remarkable foranything but its extreme regularity. Prayers, breakfast, work, lunch, awalk, work, dinner, work, prayers, bed. The programme never varied, saveas the seasons introduced some change in the hours of the establishment. The vicar, who was fond of a little gardening and amused himself with avariety of experiments in the laying of asparagus beds, found occasionalexcitement in the pursuit of a stray cat which had managed to climb hiswire netting and get at the heads of his favourite vegetable, in whichthrilling chase he was usually aided by an old brown retriever answering, when he answered at all, to the name of Carlo, and by the HonourableCornelius, whose skill in throwing stones was as phenomenal as hisignorance of Latin quantities. The play was invariably opened by oldReynolds, the ancient and bow-legged gardener, groom and man of all workat the vicarage. 

"Please sir, there's Simon Gunn's cat in the sparrergrass. " Theinformation was accompanied by a sort of chuckle of evil satisfactionwhich at once roused the sleeping passions of the Reverend AugustinAmbrose. 

"Dear me, Reynolds, then why don't you turn her out?" and without waitingfor an answer, the excellent vicar would spring from his seat and rushdown the lawn in the direction of the beds, closely followed by theHonourable Cornelius, who picked up stones from the gravel path as heran, and whose long legs made short work of the iron fence at the bottomof the garden. Meanwhile the aged Reynolds let Carlo loose from the yardand the hunt was prosecuted with great boldness and ingenuity. Thevicar's object was to get the cat out of the asparagus bed as soon aspossible without hurting her, for he was a humane man and would not havehurt a fly. Cornelius, on the other hand, desired the game to last aslong as possible, and endeavoured to prevent the cat's escape by alwayshitting the wire netting at the precise spot where she was trying to getover it. In this way he would often succeed in getting as much as half anhour's respite from Horace. At last the vicar, panting with his exertionsand bathed in perspiration, would protest against the form of assault. 

"Really, Angleside", he would say, "I believe I could throw straightermyself. I'm quite sure Carlo can get her out if you leave him alone". 

Whereupon Cornelius would put his hands in his pockets and look on, andin a few minutes, when the cat had been driven out and the vicar's backwas turned, he would slip a sixpence into old Reynold's hand, and followhis tutor reluctantly back to the study. Whether there was any connectionbetween the cat and the sixpence is uncertain, but during the last monthsof Angleside's stay at the vicarage the ingenuity of Simon Gunn's yellowcat in getting over the wire netting reached such a pitch that the vicarbegan to prepare a letter to the Bishop Stortford _Chronicle_ on therelations generally existing between cats and asparagus beds. 

Another event in the life of the vicarage was the periodical lameness ofthe vicar's strawberry mare, followed by the invariable discovery thatGeorge Horsnell the village blacksmith had run a nail into her foot whenhe shoed her last. Invariably, also, the vicar threatened that in futurethe mare should be shod by Hawkins the rival blacksmith, who was adissenter and had consequently never been employed by the vicarage. Moreover it was generally rumoured once every year that old Nat Barker, the octogenarian cripple who had not been able to stand upon his feet fortwenty years, was at the point of death. He invariably recovered, however, in time to put in an appearance by proxy at the distribution ofa certain dole of a loaf and a shilling on boxing day. It was told alsothat in remote times the Puckeridge hounds had once come that way andthat the fox had got into the churchyard. A repetition of this stirringevent was anxiously looked for during many years, every time that thesaid pack met within ten miles of Billingsfield, but hitherto it had beenlooked for in vain. On the whole the life at the vicarage was noteventful, and the studies of the two young men who imbibed learning atthe feet of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose were rarely interrupted. 

Mrs. Ambrose herself represented the feminine element in the society ofthe little place. The new doctor was a strange man, suspected of being afree-thinker, and he was not married. The Hall, for there was a Hall atBillingsfield, was uninhabited, and had been uninhabited for years. Theestate which belonged to it was unimportant and moreover was in Chanceryand seemed likely to stay there, for reasons no one ever mentioned atBillingsfield, because no one knew anything about them. From time to timea legal looking personage drove up to the Duke's Head, which was kept byMr. Abraham Boosey, who was also undertaker to the parish, and which wasthought to be a very good inn. The legal personage stayed a day or two, spending most of his time at the Hall and in driving about to thescattered farms which represented the estate, but he never came to thevicarage, nor did the vicar ever seem to know what he was doing nor whyhe came. "He came on business"--that was all that anybody knew. Hisbusiness was to collect rents, of course; but what he did with them, noone was bold enough to surmise. The estate was in Chancery, it was said, and the definition conveyed about as much to the mind of the averageinhabitant of Billingsfield, as if he had been informed that the moon wasin perigee or the sun in Scorpio. The practical result of its being inChancery was that no one lived there. 

John Short liked Mrs. Ambrose and the Honourable Cornelius behaved to herwith well bred affability. She always said Cornelius had very nicemanners, as indeed he had and had need to have. Occasionally, perhapsfour or five times in the year, the Reverend Edward Pewlay, who had whathe called a tenor voice, and his wife, who played the pianoforte veryfairly, came over to assist at a Penny Reading. He lived "over Harlowway, " as the natives expressed it; he was what was called in those partsa rabid Anglican, because he preached in his surplice and had services onthe Saints' days, and the vicar of Billingsfield did not sympathise inhis views. Nevertheless he was very useful at Penny Readings, and on oneof these occasions produced a very ingenious ghost for the delectation ofthe rustics, by means of a piece of plate glass and a couple of lamps. 

There had indeed been festivities at the vicarage to which as many asthree clergymen's wives had been invited, but these were rare indeed. Formonths at a time Mrs. Ambrose reigned in undisputed possession of thewoman's social rights in Billingsfield. She was an excellent person inevery way. She had once been handsome and even now she was fine-looking, of goodly stature, if also of goodly weight; rosy, even rubicund, incomplexion, and rotund of feature; looking at you rather severely out ofher large grey eyes, but able to smile very cheerfully and to show anuncommonly good set of teeth; twisting her thick grey hair into a smallknot at the back of her head and then covering it with a neatly made capwhich she considered becoming to her time of life; dressed always withextreme simplicity and neatness, glorying in her good sense and in herstout shoes; speaking of things which she called "neat" with a devotionaladmiration and expressing the extremest height of her disapprobation whenshe said anything was "very untidy. " A motherly woman, a practical woman, a good housekeeper and a good wife, careful of small things becausegenerally only small things came in her way, devotedly attached to herhusband, whom she regarded with perfect justice as the best man of heracquaintance, adding, however, with somewhat precipitous rashness that hewas the best man in the world. She took also a great interest in hispupils and busied herself mightily with their welfare. Since the arrivalof the new doctor who was suspected of free-thinking, she had shown astrong leaning towards homoeopathy, and prescribed small pellets ofbelladonna for the Honourable Cornelius's cold and infinitesimal drops ofaconite for John Short's headaches, until she observed that John neverhad a headache unless he had worked too much, and Angleside always had acold when he did not want to work at all. Especially in the department ofthe commissariat she showed great activity, and the reputation the vicarhad acquired for feeding his pupils well had perhaps more to do with hissuccess than he imagined. She was never tired of repeating thatEnglishmen needed plenty of good food, and she had no principles whichshe did not practise. She even thought it right to lecture youngAngleside upon his idleness at stated intervals. He always replied withgreat gentleness that he was awfully stupid, you know, and Mr. Ambrosewas awfully good about it and he hoped he should not be pulled when hewent up. And strange to relate he actually passed his examination andmatriculated, to his own immense astonishment and to the no small honourand glory of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose, vicar of Billingsfield, Essex. But when that great day arrived certain events occurred which areworthy to be chronicled and remembered. 

CHAPTER II. 

In the warm June weather young Angleside went up to pass his examinationfor entrance at Trinity. There is nothing particularly interesting orworthy of note in that simple process, though at that time the custom ofimposing an examination had only been recently imported from Oxford. Forone whole day forty or fifty young fellows from all parts of the countrysat at the long dining-tables in the beautiful old hall and wrote asbusily as they could, answering the printed questions before them, andeyeing each other curiously from time to time. The weather was warm andsultry, the trees were all in full leaf and Cambridge was deserted. Onlya few hard-reading men, who stayed up during the Long, wandered out withbooks at the backs of the colleges or strayed slowly through the emptycourts, objects of considerable interest to the youths who had come upfor the entrance examination--chiefly pale men in rather shabby clotheswith old gowns and battered caps, and a general appearance of being theworse for wear. 

Angleside had been in Cambridge before and consequently lost no time inreturning to Billingsfield when the examination was over. Short was tospend the summer at the vicarage, reading hard until the term began, whenhe was to go up and compete for a minor scholarship; Angleside was towait until he heard whether he had passed, and was then going abroad tomeet his father and to rest from the extreme exertion of mastering the"Apology" and the first books of the "Memorabilia. " John drove over tomeet the Honourable Cornelius, who was in a terrible state of anxiety andleft him no peace on the way asking him again and again to repeat theanswers to the questions which had been proposed, reckoning up the oneshe had answered wrong and the ones he thought he might have answeredright, and coming each time to a different conclusion, finally lighting ahuge brierwood pipe and swearing "that it was a beastly shame to subjecthuman beings to such awful torture. " John calmed him by saying he fanciedCornelius had "got through"; for John's words were a species of gospel toCornelius. By the time they reached the vicarage Angleside felt sanguineof his success. 

The vicar was not visible. It was a strange and unheard of thing--therewere visitors in the drawing-room. This doubtless accounted for the factthat the fly from the Duke's Head was standing on the opposite side ofthe road. The two young men went into their study, which was on theground floor and opened upon the passage which led to the drawing-roomfrom the little hall. Angleside remarked that by leaving the door openthey would catch a glimpse of the visitor when he went out. But thevisitor stayed long. The curiosity of the two was wrought up to a highpitch; it was many months since there had been a real visitor at thevicarage. Angleside suggested going out and finding old Reynolds--healways knew everything that was going on. 

"If we only wait long enough, " said Short philosophically, "they are sureto come out. "

"Perhaps, " returned Cornelius rather doubtfully. 

"They" did come out. The drawing-room door opened and there was a soundof voices. It was a woman's voice, and a particularly sweet voice, too. Still no one came down the passage. The lady seemed to be lingering intaking her leave. Then there was a sound of small feet and suddenly alittle girl stood before the open door of the study, looking wonderinglyat the two young men. Short thought he had never seen such a beautifulchild. She could not have been more than seven or eight years old, andwas not tall for her age; a delicate little figure, all in black, withlong brown curls upon her shoulders, flowing abundantly from beneath around black sailor's hat that was set far back upon her head. The child'sface was rather pale than very fair, of a beautiful transparent paleness, with the least tinge of colour in the cheeks; her great violet eyes gazedwonderingly into the study, and her lips parted in childlike uncertainty, while her little gloved hand rested on the door-post as though to get asense of security from something so solid. 

It was only for a moment. Both the young fellows smiled at the childunconsciously. Perhaps she thought they were laughing at her; she turnedand ran away again; then passed a second time, stealing a long glance atthe two strangers, but followed immediately by the lady, who was probablyher mother, and whose voice had been heard for the last few moments. Thelady, too, glanced in as she went by, and John Short lost his heart thenand there; not that the lady was beautiful as the little girl was, butbecause there was something in her face, in her figure, in her wholecarriage, that moved the boy suddenly as she looked at him and sent theblood rushing to his cheeks and forehead. 

She seemed young, but he never thought of her age. In reality she wasnine-and-twenty years old but looked younger. She was pale, far palerthan the little girl, but she had those same violet eyes, large, deep andsorrowful, beneath dark, smooth eyebrows that arched high and rose alittle in the middle. Her mouth was perhaps large for her face but herfull lips curved gently and seemed able to smile, though she was notsmiling. Her nose was perhaps too small--her face was far fromfaultless--and it had the slightest tendency to turn up instead of down, but it was so delicately modelled that an artist would have pardoned itthat deviation from the classic. Thick brown hair waved across her whiteforehead and was hidden under the black bonnet and the veil thrown backover it. She was dressed in black and the close-fitting gown showed offwith unconscious vanity the lines of a perfectly moulded and perfectlysupple figure. But it was especially her eyes which attracted John'ssudden attention at that first glance, her violet eyes, tender, sad, almost pathetic, seeming to ask sympathy and marvellously able to commandit. 

It was but for a moment that she paused. Then came the vicar, followingher from the drawing-room, and all three went on. Presently Short heardthe front door open and Mr. Ambrose shouted to the fly. 

"Muggins! Muggins!"

No one had ever been able to say why Abraham Boosey, the publican, hadchristened his henchman with an appellation so vulgar, to say the leastof it--so amazingly cacophonous. The man's real name was plain CharlesBird; but Abraham Boosey had christened him Muggins and Muggins heremained. Muggins had had some beer and was asleep, for the afternoon washot and he had anticipated his "fours. "

Short saw his opportunity and darted out of the study to the hall wherethe lady and her little girl were waiting while the vicar tried to rousethe driver of the fly by shouting at him. John blushed again as he passedclose to the woman with the sad eyes; he could not tell why, but theblood mounted to the very roots of his hair, and for a moment he feltvery foolish. 

"I'll wake him up, Mr. Ambrose, " he said, running out hatless into thesummer's sun. 

"Wake up, you lazy beggar!" he shouted in the ear of the sleepingMuggins, shaking him violently by the arm as he stood upon the wheel. Muggins grunted something and smiled rather idiotically. "It was only theyoung gentleman's play, " he would have said. Bless you! he did not mindbeing shaken and screamed at! He slowly turned his horses and brought thefly up to the door. John walked back and stood waiting. 

"Thank you, " said the lady in a voice that made his heart jump, as shecame out from under the porch and the vicar helped her to get in. Then itwas the turn of the little girl. 

"Good-bye, my dear, " said the vicar kindly as he took her hand. 

"Good-bye, " said the child. Then she hesitated and looked at John, whowas standing beside the clergyman. "Good-bye, " she repeated, holding outher little hand shyly towards him. John took it and grew redder than everas he felt that the lady was watching him. Then the little girl blushedand laughed in her small embarrassment, and climbed into the carriage. 

"You will write, then?" asked Mr. Ambrose as he shut the door. 

"Yes--and thank you again. You are very, very kind to me, " answered thelady, and John thought that as she spoke there were tears in her voice. She seemed very unhappy and to John she seemed very beautiful. Mugginscracked his whip and the fly moved off, leaving the vicar and his pupilstanding together at the iron wicket gate before the house. 

"Well? Do you think Angleside got through?" asked Mr. Ambrose, ratheranxiously. 

Short said he thought Angleside was safe. He hoped the vicar would saysomething about the lady, but to his annoyance, he said nothing at all. John could not ask questions, seeing it was none of his business and wasfain to content himself with thinking of the lady's face and voice. Hefelt very uncomfortable at dinner. He thought the excellent Mrs. Ambroseeyed him with unusual severity, as though suspecting what he was thinkingabout, and he thought the vicar's grey eye twinkled occasionally with thepleasant sense of possessing a secret he had no intention of imparting. As a matter of fact Mrs. Ambrose was supremely unconscious of the factthat John had seen the lady, and looked at him with some curiosity, observing that he seemed nervous and blushed from time to time and wasmore silent than usual. She came to the conclusion that he had beenworking too hard, as usual, and that night requested him to take twolittle pellets of aconite, and to repeat the dose in the morning. Whetherit was the result of the homoeopathic medicine or of the lapse of a fewhours and a good night's rest, it is impossible to say; John, however, was himself again the next morning and showed no further signs ofnervousness. But he kept his eyes and ears open, hoping for some news ofthe exquisite creature who had made so profound an impression on hisheart. 

In due time the joyful news arrived from Cambridge that the HonourableCornelius had passed his examination and was at liberty to matriculate atthe beginning of the term. The intelligence was duly telegraphed to hisfather, and in a few hours came a despatch in answer, full ofaffectionate congratulation and requesting that Cornelius should proceedat once to Paris, where his father was waiting for him. The young mantook an affectionate leave of the vicar, of Mrs. Ambrose and especiallyof John Short, for whom he had conceived an almost superstitiousadmiration; old Reynolds was not forgotten in the farewell, and forseveral days after Angleside's departure the aged gardener was observedto walk somewhat unsteadily and to wear a peculiarly thoughtfulexpression; while the vicar observed with annoyance that Strawberry, theold mare, was less carefully groomed than usual. Strangely coincidentwith these phenomena was the fact that Simon Gunn's yellow cat seemed tohave entirely repented of her evil practices, renouncing from the daywhen Cornelius left for Paris her periodical invasion of the asparagusbeds at the foot of the garden. But the vicar was too practical a man towaste time in speculating upon the occult relations of seeminglydisconnected facts. He applied himself with diligence to the work ofpreparing John Short to compete for the minor scholarship. The labour wascongenial. He had never taken a pupil so far before, and it was a genuinedelight to him to bring his own real powers into play at last. As thesummer wore on, he predicted all manner of success for John Short, andhis predictions were destined before long to be realised, for John didall he promised to do and more also. To have succeeded in pushing theHonourable Cornelius through his entrance examination was a triumphindeed, but an uninteresting one at best, and one which had no furtherconsequences. But to be the means of turning out the senior classic ofthe University was an honour which would not only greatly increase thegood vicar's reputation but would be to him a source of the keenestsatisfaction during the remainder of his life; moreover the prospectswhich would be immediately opened to John in case he obtained such abrilliant success would be a very material benefit to his unlucky father, whose talents yielded him but a precarious livelihood and whose pitiablecondition had induced his old schoolfellow to undertake the education ofhis son. 

Much depended upon John's obtaining one or more scholarships during hiscareer at college. To a man of inferior talents the vicar would havesuggested that it would be wiser to go to a smaller college than Trinitywhere he would have less competition to expect; but as soon as herealised John's powers, he made up his mind that it would be preciselywhere competition was hottest that his pupil would have the greatestsuccess. He would get something--perhaps his father would make a littlemore money--the vicar even dreamed of lending John a small sum--somethingwould turn up; at all events he must go to the largest college and doeverything in the best possible way. Meanwhile he must work as hard as hecould during the few months remaining before the beginning of his firstterm. 

Whether the lady ever wrote to Mr. Ambrose, John could not ascertain; shewas never mentioned at the vicarage, and it seemed as though the mysterywere never to be solved. But the impression she had made upon the youngman's mind remained and even gained strength by the working of hisimagination; for he thought of her night and day, treasuring up everymemory of her that he could recall, building romances in his mind, conceiving the most ingenious reasons for the solitary visit she had madeto the vicarage, and inwardly vowing that if ever he should be at libertyto follow his own inclinations he would go out into the world and searchfor her. He was only eighteen then, and of a strongly susceptibletemperament. He had seen nothing of the world, for even when living inLondon, in a dingy lodging, with his father, he had been perpetuallyoccupied with books, reading much and seeing little. Then he had been atschool, but he had seen the dark side of school life--the side which boyswho are known to be very poor generally see; and more than ever he hadresorted to study for comfort and relief from outward ills. Then at lasthe had been transferred to a serener state in the vicarage ofBillingsfield and had grown up rapidly from a schoolboy to a young man;but, as has been said, the feminine element at the vicarage was solelyrepresented by Mrs. Ambrose and the monotony of her maternal society wasvaried only by the occasional visits of the mild young Mrs. EdwardPewlay. John Short had indeed a powerful and aspiring imagination, but itwould have been impossible even by straining that faculty to its utmostactivity to think in the same breath of romance and of Mrs. Ambrose, foreven in her youth Mrs. Ambrose had not been precisely a romanticcharacter. John's fancy was not stimulated by his surroundings, but itfed upon itself and grew fast enough to acquire an influence overeverything he did. It was not surprising that, when at last chance threwin his way a being who seemed instantly to realise and fulfil his wildestdreams of beauty and feminine fascination, he should have yielded withouta struggle to the delicious influence, feeling that henceforth his idealhad taken shape and substance, and had thereby become more than ever theideal in which he delighted. 

He gave her names, a dozen of them every day, christening her after everyheroine in fiction and history of whom he had ever read. But no nameseemed to suit her well enough; whereupon he wrote a Greek ode and aLatin epistle to the fair unknown, but omitted to show them to theReverend Augustin Ambrose, though he was quite certain that they were thebest he had ever produced. Then he began to write a novel, but suddenlyrecollected that a famous author had written one entitled "No Name, " andas that was the only title he could possibly give to the work hecontemplated he of course had no choice but to abandon the work itself. He wrote more verses, and he dreamed more dreams, and he meanwhileacquired much learning and in process of time realised that he had but afew days longer to stay at Billingsfield. The Michaelmas term was aboutto open and he must bid farewell to the hospitable roof and the learnedconversation of the good vicar. But when those last days came he realisedthat he was leaving the scene of his only dream, and his heart grew sad. 

Indeed he loved the old red brick vicarage with its low porch, overgrownwith creepers, its fragrant old flower garden, surrounding it on threesides, its gabled roof, its south wall whereon the vicar constantlyattempted to train fig trees, maintaining that the climate of England hadgrown warmer and that he would prove it--John loved it all, andespecially he loved the little study, lined with the books grown familiarto him, and the study door, the door through which he had seen thatlovely face which he firmly believed was to inspire him to do greatthings and to influence his whole life for ever after. He would leave thedoor open and place himself just where he had sat that day, and then hewould look suddenly up with beating heart, almost fancying he could againsee those violet eyes gazing at him from the dusky passage--blushing thento himself, like any girl, and burying himself in his book till the fancywas grown too strong and he looked up again. He had attempted to sketchher face on a bit of paper; but he had no skill and he thrust the drawinginto the paper basket, horrified at having made anything so hideous inthe effort to represent anything so beautiful, and returned to makingodes upon her, and Latin epistles, in which he succeeded much better. 

And now the time had come when he must leave all this dreaming, or atleast the scene of it, and go to college and win scholarships and renown. It was hard to go and he showed his regret so plainly that Mrs. Ambrosewas touched at what she took for his affection for the place and forherself and for the vicar. John Short was indeed very grateful to her forall the kindness she had shown him, and to Mr. Ambrose for the learninghe had acquired; for John was a fine fellow and never forgot anobligation nor undervalued one. But when we are very young our hearts arefar more easily touched to joy and sadness by the chords and discords ofour own dreaming, than by the material doings of the world around us, orby the strong and benevolent interest our elders are good enough to takein us. We feel grateful to those same elders if we have any good in us, but we are far from feeling a similar interest in them. We see in ourimaginations wonderful pictures, and we hear wonderful words, foreverything we dream of partakes of an unknown perfection and completelythrows into the shade the inartistic commonplaces of daily life. As JohnShort grew older, he often regretted the society of his old tutor and inthe frequent absence of important buttons from his raiment he bitterlyrealised that there was no longer a motherly Mrs. Ambrose to inspect hislinen; but when he took leave of them what hurt him most was to turn hisback upon the beloved old study, upon the very door through which he hadonce, and only once, beheld the ideal of his first love dream. 

Though the vicar was glad to see the boy started upon what he alreadyregarded as a career of certain victory, he was sorry to lose him, notknowing when he should see him again. John intended to read through allthe vacations until he got his degree. He might indeed have come down fora day or two at Christmas, but with his very slender resources even soshort a pleasure trip was not to be thought of lightly. It was thereforeto be a long separation, so long to look forward to that when John sawthe shabby little box which contained, all his worldly goods put up intothe back of the vicar's dogcart, and stood at last in the hall, sayinggood-bye, he felt as though he was being thrust out into the world neverto return again; his heart seemed to rise in his throat, the tears stoodin his eyes and he could hardly speak a word. Even then he thought ofthat day when he had waked up the sleepy Muggins to take away thebeautiful unknown lady. He felt he must be quick about his leave-taking, or he would break down. 

"You have been very good to me. I--I shall never forget it, " he murmuredas he shook hands with Mrs. Ambrose. "And you, too, sir--" he addedturning to the vicar. But the old clergyman cut him short, being himselfrather uncertain about the throat. 

"Good-bye, my lad. God bless you. We shall hear of you soon--showing themwhat you can do with your Alcaics--Good-bye. "

So John got into the dogcart and was driven off by the ancientReynolds--past the "Duke's Head, " past the "Feathers, " past thechurchyard and the croft--the "croat, " they called it inBillingsfield--and on by the windmill on the heath, a hideous bit ofgrassless common euphemistically so named, and so out to the high-roadtowards the railway station, feeling very miserable indeed. It is acurious fact, too, in the history of his psychology that in proportion ashe got farther from the vicarage he thought more and more of his oldtutor and less and less of his unfinished dream, and he realisedpainfully that the vicar was nearly the only friend he had in the world. He would of course find Cornelius Angleside at Cambridge, but hesuspected that Cornelius, turned loose among a merry band ofundergraduates of his own position would be a very different person fromthe idle youth he had known at Billingsfield, trembling in the intervalsof his idleness at the awful prospect of the entrance examination, andfrantically attempting to master some bit of stray knowledge which mightpossibly be useful to him. Cornelius would hunt, would gamble, would goto the races and would give wines at college; John was to be a readingman who must avoid such things as he would avoid the devil himself, notonly because he was too wretchedly poor to have any share whatever in theamusements of Cornelius and his set, but because every minute wasimportant, every hour meant not only learning but meant, mostemphatically, money. He thought of his poor father, grinding out the lifeof a literary hack in a wretched London lodging, dining Heaven knew whereand generally supping not at all, saving every penny to help his son'seducation, hard working, honest, lacking no virtue except the virtue ofall virtues--success. Then he thought how he himself had been favoured byfortune during these last years, living under the vicar's roof, treatedwith the same consideration as the high-born young gentlemen who had beenhis companions, living well, sleeping well and getting the best educationin England for nothing or next to nothing, while that same father of hishad never ceased to slave day and night with his pen, honestly doing hisbest and yet enjoying none of the good things of life. John thought ofall this and set his teeth boldly to face the world. A few months, hethought, and he might have earned a scholarship--he might be independent. Then a little longer--less than three years--and he might, nay, he would, take high honours in the university and come back crowned with glory, with the prospect of a fellowship, with every profession open to him, with the world at his feet and with money in his hand to help his fatherout of all his troubles. 

That was how John Short went to Trinity. It was a hard struggle at first, for he found himself much poorer than he had imagined, and it seemed asthough the ends could not possibly meet. There was no question of denyinghimself luxuries; that would have been easy enough. In those first monthsit was the necessities that he lacked, the coals for his little grate, the oil for his one small lamp. But he fought bravely through it, having, like many another young fellow who has weathered the storms of poverty inpursuit of learning, an iron constitution, and an even stronger will. Heused to say long afterwards that feeling cold was a mere habit and thatwhen one thoroughly understood the construction of Greek verses, somestimulus of physical discomfort was necessary to make the imaginationwork well; in support of which assertion he said that he had never donesuch good things by the comfortable fire in the study at Billingsfieldvicarage as he did afterwards on winter nights by the light of a tallowcandle, high up in Neville's Court. Moreover, if any one argued that itwas better for an extremely poor man not to go to Trinity, but to somemuch smaller college, he answered that as far as he himself was concernedhe could not have done better, which was quite true and thereforeperfectly unanswerable. Where the competition was less, he would havebeen satisfied with less, he said; where it was greatest a man could onlybe contented when he had reached the highest point possible. But beforehe attained his end he suffered more than any one knew, especially duringthose first months. For when he had got his first scholarship, heinsisted upon sending back the little sums of hard-earned money hisfather sent him from time to time, and he consequently had nearly as hardwork as before to keep himself warm and to keep oil in his lamp duringthe long winter's evenings. But he succeeded, nevertheless. 

CHAPTER III. 

In the month of October of that year, a short time after John had takenup his abode in Trinity College, an event occurred which shookBillingsfield to its foundations; no less an event than the occupation ofthe dwelling known as the "cottage. " What the cottage was will appearhereafter. The arrival of the new tenants occurred in the followingmanner. 

The Reverend Augustin Ambrose received a letter, which he immediatelyshowed to his wife, as he showed most of his correspondence; for he wasof the disposition which may be termed wife-consulting. Married men aregenerally of two kinds; those who tell their wives everything and thosewho tell them nothing. It is evident that the relative merits of the twosystems depend chiefly upon the relative merits of the wives in question. Mr. Ambrose had no doubt of the advantages of his own method and hecarried it to its furthest expression, for he never did anything whateverwithout consulting his better half. On the whole the plan worked well, for the vicar had learning and his wife had common sense. He thereforeshowed the letter to her and she read it, and read it again, and finallyput it away, writing across the envelope in her own large, clear hand thewords--Goddard, Cottage--indicative of the contents. 

 * * * * *

"MY DEAR SIR--It is now nearly five months since I saw you last. Need Itell you that the sense of your kindness is still fresh in my memory? Youdo not know, indeed you cannot know, what an impression your goodnessmade upon me. You showed me that I was acting rightly. It has been sohard to act rightly. Of course you quite understand what I mean. I cannotrefer to the great sorrow which has overtaken me and my dear innocentlittle Nellie. There is no use in referring to it, for I have told youall. You allowed me to unburden my heart to you during my brief visit, and ever since that day I have felt very much, I may say infinitely, relieved. 

"I am again about to ask you a favour; I trust indeed that I am notasking too much, but I know by experience how kind you are and so I amnot afraid to ask this too. Do you remember speaking to me of the littlecottage? The picture you drew of it quite charmed me, and I havedetermined to take it, that is, if it is still to be let and if it is notasking quite too much of you. I mean, if you will take it for me. Youcannot think how grateful I shall be and I enclose a cheque. I am almostsure you said thirty-six pounds. It was thirty-six, was it not? Thereason I venture to enclose the money is because you are so very kind, but of course you do not know anything certain about me. But I am sureyou will understand. You said you were sure I could live with my littlegirl in Billingsfield for three hundred a year. I find I have a littlemore, in fact nearly five hundred. If you tell me that I can have thecottage, I will come down at once, for town is very dreary and we havebeen here all summer except a week at Margate. Let me thank you again, you have been so very kind, and believe me, my dear sir, very sincerelyyours, "MARY GODDARD. "

 * * * * *

"Augustin, my dear, this is very exciting, " said Mrs. Ambrose, as shehanded the cheque to her husband for inspection and returned theletter to its envelope, preparatory to marking it for future reference;and when, as has been said, she had written upon the outside thewords--Goddard, Cottage, and had put it away she turned upon her husbandwith an inquiring manner peculiar to her. Mr. Ambrose was standing beforethe window, looking out at the rain and occasionally glancing at thecheque he still held in his hand. 

"Just like a woman to send a cheque to 'bearer' through the post, " heremarked, severely. "However since I have got it, it is all right. "

"I don't think it is all right, Augustin, " said his wife. "We are takinga great responsibility in bringing her into the parish. I am quite sureshe is a dissenter or a Romanist or something dreadful, to begin with. "

"My dear, " answered the vicar, mildly, "you make very uncharitablesuppositions. It seems to me that the most one can say of her is that sheis very unhappy and that she does not write very good English. "

"Oh, I have no doubt she is very unhappy. But as you say we must not beuncharitable. I suppose you will have to write about the cottage. "

"I suppose so, " said Mr. Ambrose doubtfully. "I cannot send her back themoney, and the cottage is certainly to let. "

He deposited the cheque in the drawer of his writing-table and began towalk up and down the room, glancing up from time to time at his wife whowas lifting one after another the ornaments which stood upon thechimney-piece, in order to ascertain whether Susan had dusted underneaththem. She had many ways of assuring herself that people did their workproperly. 

"No, " said she, "you cannot send her back the money. But it is a verysolemn responsibility. I hope we are doing quite right. "

"I certainly would not hesitate to return the cheque, my dear, if Ithought any harm would come of Mrs. Goddard's living here. But I don'tthink there is any reason to doubt her story. "

"Of course not. It was in the _Standard_, so there is no doubt about it. I only hope no one else reads the papers here. "

"They read them in the kitchen, " added Mrs. Ambrose presently, "and theyprobably take a paper at the Duke's Head. Mr. Boosey is rather a literarycharacter. "

"Nobody will suppose it was that Goddard, my dear, " said the vicar in areassuring tone of voice. 

"No--you had better write about the cottage. "

"I will, " said the vicar; and he forthwith did. And moreover, with hisusual willingness to give himself trouble for other people, he took avast deal of pains to see that the cottage was really habitable. Itturned out to be in very good condition. It was a pretty place enough, standing ten yards back from the road, beyond the village, just oppositethe gates of the park; a little square house of red brick with a highpointed roof and a little garden. The walls were overgrown with creeperswhich had once been trained with considerable care, but which during thelast two years had thriven in untrimmed luxuriance and now covered thewhole of the side of the house which faced the road. So thickly did theygrow that it was with difficulty that the windows could at first beopened. The vicar sighed as he entered the darkened rooms. His daughterhad lived in the cottage when she first married the young doctor who hadnow gone to London, and the vicar had been, and was, very fond of hisdaughter. He had almost despaired of ever seeing her again inBillingsfield; the only glimpses of her he could obtain were got by goinghimself to town, for the doctor was so busy that he always put off theprojected visit to the country and his wife was so fond of him that sherefused to go alone. The vicar sighed as he forced open the windows uponthe lower floor and let the light into the bare and empty rooms which hadonce been so bright and full of happiness. He wondered what sort ofperson Mrs. Goddard would turn out to be upon nearer acquaintance, andmade vague, unconscious conjectures about her furniture as he stumbledup the dark stairs to the upper story. 

He was not left long in doubt. The arrangements were easily concluded, for the cottage belonged to the estate in Chancery and the lawyer incharge was very busy with other matters. The guarantee afforded by thevicar's personal application, together with the payment of a year's rentin advance so far facilitated matters that four days after she hadwritten to Mr. Ambrose the latter informed Mrs. Goddard that she was atliberty to take possession. The vicar suggested that the Billingsfieldcarrier, who drove his cart to London once a week, could bring herfurniture down in two trips and save her a considerable expense; Mrs. Goddard accepted this advice and in the course of a fortnight wasinstalled with all her goods in the cottage. Having completed herarrangements at last, she came to call upon the vicar's wife. 

Mrs. Goddard had not changed since she had first visited Billingsfield, five months earlier, though little Eleanor had grown taller and was ifpossible prettier than ever. Something of the character of the lady inblack may have been gathered from the style of her letter to Mr. Ambrose;that communication had impressed the vicar's wife unfavourably and haddrawn from her husband a somewhat compassionate remark about the badEnglish it contained. Nevertheless when Mrs. Goddard came to live inBillingsfield the Ambroses soon discovered that she was a verywell-educated woman, that she appeared to have read much and to have readintelligently, and that she was on the whole decidedly interesting. Itwas long, however, before Mrs. Ambrose entirely conquered a certainantipathy she felt for her, and which she explained after her ownfashion. Mrs. Goddard was not a dissenter and she was not a Romanist; onthe contrary she appeared to be a very good churchwoman. She paid herbills regularly and never gave anybody any trouble. She visited thevicarage at stated intervals, and the vicarage graciously returned hervisits. The vicar himself even went to the cottage more often than Mrs. Ambrose thought strictly necessary, for the vicar was strongly prejudicedin her favour. But Mrs. Ambrose did not share that prejudice. Mrs. Goddard, she said, was too effusive, talked too much about herself andher troubles, did not look thoroughly straightforward, probably hadforeign blood. Ay, there was the rub--Mrs. Ambrose suspected that Mrs. Goddard was not quite English. If she was not, why did she not say so, and be done with it?

Mrs. Goddard was English, nevertheless, and would have been very muchsurprised could she have guessed the secret cause of the slight coldnessshe sometimes observed in the manner of the clergyman's wife towards her. She herself, poor thing, believed it was because she was in trouble, andconsidering the nature of the disaster which had befallen her, she wasnot surprised. She was rather a weak woman, rather timid, and if shetalked a little too much sometimes it was because she felt embarrassed;there were times, too, when she was very silent and sad. She had beenvery happy and the great catastrophe had overtaken her suddenly, leavingher absolutely without friends. She wanted to be hidden from the world, and by one of those strange contrasts often found in weak people she hadsuddenly made a very bold resolution and had successfully carried it out. She had come straight to a man she had never seen, but whom she knew verywell by reputation, and had told him her story and asked him to help her;and she had not come in vain. The person who advised her to go to theReverend Augustin Ambrose knew that there was not a better man to whomshe could apply. She had found what she wanted, a sort of desertedvillage where she would never be obliged to meet any one, since there wasabsolutely no society; she had found a good man upon whom she felt shecould rely in case of further difficulty; and she had not come upon falsepretences, for she had told her whole story quite frankly. For a womanwho was naturally timid she had done a thing requiring considerablecourage, and she was astonished at her own boldness after she had doneit. But in her peaceful retreat, she reflected that she could notpossibly have left England, as many women in her position would havedone, simply because the idea of exile was intolerable to her; shereflected also that if she had settled in any place where there was anysort of society her story would one day have become known, and that ifshe had spent years in studying her situation she could not have donebetter than in going boldly to the vicar of Billingsfield and explainingher sad position to him. She had found a haven of rest after many monthsof terrible anxiety and she hoped that she might end her days in peaceand in the spot she had chosen. But she was very young--not thirty yearsof age yet--and her little girl would soon grow up--and then? Evidentlyher dream of peace was likely to be of limited duration; but she resignedherself to the unpleasant possibilities of the future with a good grace, in consideration of the advantages she enjoyed in the present. 

Mrs. Ambrose was at home when Mrs. Goddard and little Eleanor came to thevicarage. Indeed Mrs. Ambrose was rarely out in the afternoon, unlesssomething very unusual called her away. She received her visitor with thestern hospitality she exercised towards strangers. The strangers she sawwere generally the near relations of the young gentlemen whom her husbandreceived for educational purposes. She stood in the front drawing-room, that is to say, in the most impressive chamber of that fortress which isan Englishman's house. It was a formal room, arranged by a fixed rule andthe order of it was maintained inflexibly; no event could be imagined ofsuch terrible power as to have caused the displacement of one of thosechairs, of one of those ornaments upon the chimney-piece, of one of thoseengravings upon the walls. The walls were papered with one shade ofgreen, the furniture was covered with material of another shade of greenand the well-spared carpet exhibited still a third variety of the samecolour. Mrs. Ambrose's sense of order did not extend to the simplestforms of artistic harmony, but when it had an opportunity of impressingitself upon inanimate objects which were liable to be moved, washed ordusted, its effects were formidable indeed. She worshipped neatness andcleanliness; she left the question of taste to others. And now she stoodin the keep of her stronghold, the impersonation of moral rectitude andof practical housekeeping. 

Mrs. Goddard entered rather timidly, followed by little Eleanor whoseideas had been so much disturbed by the recent change in her existence, that she had grown unusually silent and her great violet eyes wereunceasingly opened wide to take in the growing wonders of her situation. Mrs. Goddard was still dressed in black, as when John Short had seen herfive months earlier. There was something a little peculiar in hermourning, though Mrs. Ambrose would have found it hard to define thepeculiarity. Some people would have said that if she was really a widowher gown fitted a little too well, her bonnet was a little too small, herveil a little too short. Mrs. Ambrose supposed that those points weresuggested by the latest fashions in London and summed up the difficultyby surmising that Mrs. Goddard had foreign blood. 

"I should have called before, " said the latter, deeply impressed by thesevere appearance of the vicar's wife, "but I have been so busy puttingmy things into the cottage--"

"Pray don't think of it, " answered Mrs. Ambrose. Then she added after apause, "I am very glad to see you. " She appeared to have been weighing inher conscience the question whether she could truthfully say so or not. But Mrs. Goddard was grateful for the smallest advances. 

"Thank you, " she said, "you are so very kind. Will you tell Mr. Ambrosehow thankful I am for his kind assistance? Yes, Nellie and I have hadhard work in moving, have not we, dear?" She drew the beautiful childclose to her and gazed lovingly into her eyes. But Nellie was shy; shehid her face on her mother's shoulder, and then looked doubtfully at Mrs. Ambrose, and then hid herself again. 

"How old is your little girl?" asked Mrs. Ambrose more kindly. She wasfond of children, and actually pitied any child whose mother perhaps hadforeign blood. 

"Eleanor--I call her Nellie--is eight years old. She will be nine inJanuary. She is tall for her age, " added Mrs. Goddard with affectionatepride. As a matter of fact Nellie was small for her years, and Mrs. Ambrose, who was the most truthful of women, felt that she could notconscientiously agree in calling hex tall. She changed the subject. 

"I am afraid you will find it very quiet in Billingsfield, " she saidpresently. 

"Oh, I am used--that is, I prefer a very quiet place. I want to live veryquietly for some years, indeed I hope for the rest of my life. Besides itwill be so good for Nellie to live in the country--she will grow sostrong. "

"She looks very well, I am sure, " answered Mrs. Ambrose rather bluntly, looking at the child's clear complexion and bright eyes. "And have youalways lived in town until now, Mrs. Goddard?" she asked. 

"Oh no, not always, but most of the year, perhaps. Indeed I think so. "Mrs. Goddard felt nervous before the searching glance of the elder woman. Mrs. Ambrose concluded that she was not absolutely straightforward. 

"Do you think you can make the cottage comfortable?" asked the vicar'swife, seeing that the conversation languished. 

"Oh, I think so, " answered her visitor, glad to change the subject, andsuddenly becoming very voluble as she had previously been very shy. "Itis really a charming little place. Of course it is not very large, but aswe have not got very many belongings that is all the better; and thegarden is small but extremely pretty and wild, and the kitchen is veryconvenient; really I quite wonder how the people who built it could havemade it all so comfortable. You see there are one--two--the pantry, thekitchen and two rooms on the ground floor and plenty of room upstairs foreverybody, and as for the sun! it streams into all the windows at oncefrom morning till night. And such a pretty view, too, of that old gateopposite--where does it lead to, Mrs. Ambrose? It is so very pretty. "

"It leads to the park and the Hall, " answered Mrs. Ambrose. 

"Oh--" Mrs. Goddard's tone changed. "But nobody lives there?" she askedsuddenly. 

"Oh no--it is in Chancery, you know. "

"What--what is that, exactly?" asked Mrs. Goddard, timidly. "Is there ayoung heir waiting to grow up--I mean waiting to take possession?"

"No. There is a suit about it. It has been going on for forty years myhusband says, and they cannot decide to whom it belongs. "

"I see, " answered Mrs. Goddard. "I suppose they will never decide now. "

"Probably not for some time. "

"It must be a very pretty place. Can one go in, do you think? I am sofond of trees--what a beautiful garden you have yourself, Mrs. Ambrose. "

"Would you like to see it?" asked the vicar's wife, anxious to bring thevisit to a conclusion. 

"Oh, thank you--of all things!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard. "Would not youlike to run about the garden, Nellie?"

The little girl nodded slowly and stared at Mrs. Ambrose. 

"My husband is a very good gardener, " said the latter, leading the wayout to the hall. "And so was John Short, but he has left us, you know. "

"Who was John Short?" asked Mrs. Goddard rather absently, as she watchedMrs. Ambrose who was wrapping herself in a huge blue waterproof cloak andtying a sort of worsted hood over her head. 

"He was one of the boys Mr. Ambrose prepared for college--such a goodfellow. You may have seen him when you came last June, Mrs. Goddard?"

"Had he very bright blue eyes--a nice face?"

"Yes--that is, it might have been Mr. Angleside--Lord Scatterbeigh'sson--he was here, too. "

"Oh, " said Mrs. Goddard, "perhaps it was. "

"Mamma, " asked little Nellie, "what is Laws Catterbay?"

"A peer, darling. "

"Like the one at Brighton, mamma, with a band?"

"No, child, " answered the mother laughing. "P, double E, R, peer--a richgentleman. "

"Like poor papa then?" inquired the irrepressible Eleanor. 

Mrs. Goddard turned pale and pressed the little girl close to her side, leaning down to whisper in her ear. 

"You must not ask foolish questions, darling--I will tell you by and by. "

"Papa was a rich gentleman, " objected the child. 

Mrs. Goddard looked at Mrs. Ambrose, and the ready tears came into hereyes. The vicar's wife smiled kindly and took little Nellie by the hand. 

"Come, dear, " she said in the motherly tone that was natural to her whenshe was not receiving visitors. "Come and see the garden and you can playwith Carlo. "

"Can't I see Laws Catterbay, too?" asked the little girl ratherwistfully. 

"Carlo is a great, big, brown dog, " said Mrs. Ambrose, leading the childout into the garden, while Mrs. Goddard followed close behind. Beforethey had gone far they came upon the vicar, arrayed in an old coat, hishands thrust into a pair of gigantic gardening gloves and a battered oldfelt hat upon his head. Mrs. Goddard had felt rather uncomfortable in theimpressive society of Mrs. Ambrose and the sight of the vicar's genialface was reassuring in the extreme. She was not disappointed, for heimmediately relieved the situation by asking all manner of kindlyquestions, interspersed with remarks upon his garden, while Mrs. Ambroseintroduced little Nellie to the acquaintance of Carlo who had not seen sopretty a little girl for many a day, and capered and wagged his featherytail in a manner most unseemly for so clerical a dog. 

So it came about that Mrs. Goddard established herself at Billingsfieldand made her first visit to the vicarage. After that the ice was brokenand things went on smoothly enough. Mrs. Ambrose's hints concerningforeign blood, and her husband's invariable remonstrance to the effectthat she ought to be more charitable, grew more and more rare as timewent on, and finally ceased altogether. Mrs. Goddard became a regularinstitution, and ceased to astonish the inhabitants. Mr. Thomas Reid, thesexton, was heard to remark from time to time that he "didn't hold withth'm newfangle fashins in dress;" but he was a regular old conservative, and most people agreed with Mr. Abraham Boosey of the Duke's Head, whohad often been to London, and who said she did "look just A one, slap up, she did!"

Mrs. Goddard became an institution, and in the course of the first yearof her residence in the cottage it came to be expected that she shoulddine at the vicarage at least once a week; and once a week, also, Mr. AndMrs. Ambrose went up and had tea with her and little Eleanor at thecottage. It came to pass also that Mrs. Goddard heard a vast deal of talkabout John Short and his successes at Trinity, and she actually developeda lively interest in his career, and asked for news of him almost aseagerly as though he had been already a friend of her own. In very quietplaces people easily get into the sympathetic habit of regarding theirneighbours' interests as very closely allied to their own. The constanttalk about John Short, the vicar's sanguine hopes for his brilliantfuture, and Mrs. Ambrose's unlimited praise of his moral qualities, repeated day by day and week by week produced a vivid impression on Mrs. Goddard's mind. It would have surprised her and even amused her beyondmeasure had she had any idea that she herself had for a long timeabsorbed the interest of this same John Short, that he had writtenhundreds of Greek and Latin verses in her praise, while wholly ignorantof her name, and that at the very time when without knowing him, she wasconstantly mentioning him as though she knew him intimately well, hehimself was looking back to the one glimpse he had had of her, as to adream of unspeakable bliss. 

It never occurred to Mr. Ambrose's mind to tell John in the occasionalletters he wrote that Mrs. Goddard had settled in Billingsfield. John, hethought, could take no possible interest in knowing about her, andmoreover, Mrs. Goddard herself was most anxious never to be mentionedabroad. She had come to Billingsfield to live in complete obscurity, andthe good vicar had promised that as far as he and his wife were concernedshe should have her wish. To tell even John Short, his own beloved pupil, would be to some extent a breach of faith, and there was assuredly noearthly reason why John should be told. It might do harm, for of coursethe young fellow had made acquaintances at Cambridge; he had probablyread about the Goddard case in the papers, and might talk about it. If heshould happen to come down for a day or two he would probably meet her;but that could not be avoided. It was not likely that he would come forsome time. The vicar himself intended to go up to Cambridge for a day ortwo after Christmas to see him; but the winter flew by and Mr. Ambrosedid not go. Then came Easter, then the summer and the Long vacation. Johnwrote that he could not leave his books for a day, but that he hoped torun down next Christmas. Again he did not come, but there came the newsof his having won another and a more important scholarship; the news alsothat he was already regarded as the most promising man in the university, all of which exceedingly delighted the heart of the Reverend AugustinAmbrose, and being told with eulogistic comments to Mrs. Goddard, tendedto increase the interest she felt in the existence of John Short, so thatshe began to long for a sight of him, without exactly knowing why. 

Gradually, too, as she and her little girl passed many peaceful days inthe quiet cottage, the sad woman's face grew less sorrowful. She spoke ofherself more cheerfully and dwelt less upon the subject of her grief. Shehad at first been so miserable that she could hardly talk at all withoutreferring to her unhappy situation though, after her first interview withMrs. Ambrose, no one had ever heard her mention any details connectedwith her trouble. But now she never approached the subject at all. Herface lost none of its pathetic beauty, it is true, but it seemed toexpress sorrow past rather than present. Meanwhile little Nellie grewdaily more lovely, and absorbed more and more of her mother's attention. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Events of such stirring interest as the establishment of Mrs. Goddard inBillingsfield rarely come alone; for it seems to be in the nature ofgreat changes to bring other changes with them, even when there is noapparent connection whatever between them. It took nearly two years forBillingsfield to recover from its astonishment at Mrs. Goddard's arrival, and before the excitement had completely worn off the village was againtaken off its feet by unexpected news of stupendous import, even as ofold Pompeii was overthrown by a second earthquake before it had whollyrecovered from the devastation caused by the first. The shock was indeeda severe one. The Juxon estate was reported to be out of Chancery, and anew squire was coming to take up his residence at the Hall. 

It is not known exactly how the thing first became known, but there wassoon no doubt whatever that it was true. Thomas Reid, the sexton, whoremembered that the old squire died forty years ago come Michaelmas, andhad been buried in a "wonderful heavy" coffin, Thomas Reid the sterncensor of the vicar's sermons, a melancholic and sober man, so far losthis head over the news as to ask Mr. Ambrose's leave to ring the bells, Mr. Abraham Boosey having promised beer for the ringers. Even to thevicar's enlightened mind it seemed fitting that there should be somefestivity over so great an event and the bells were accordingly rungduring one whole afternoon. Thomas Reid's ringers never got beyond thefirst "bob" of a peal, for with the exception of the sexton himself andold William Speller the wheelwright, who pulled the treble bell, theywere chiefly dull youths who with infinite difficulty had been taughtwhat changes they knew by rote and had very little idea of ringing byscientific rule. Moreover Mr. Boosey was liberal in the matter of beerthat day and the effect of each successive can that was taken up thestairs of the old tower was immediately apparent to every one withinhearing, that is to say as far as five miles around. 

The estate was out of Chancery at last. For forty years, ever since thedeath of the old squire, no one had rightfully called the Hall his own. The heir had lived abroad, and had lived in such an exceedingly eccentricmanner as to give ground for a suit _de lunatico inquirendo_, brought byanother heir. With the consistency of judicial purpose whichcharacterises such proceedings the courts appeared to have decided thatthough the natural possessor, the eccentric individual who lived abroad, was too mad to be left in actual possession, he was not mad enough tojustify actual possession in the person of the next of kin. Proceedingscontinued, fees were paid, a certain legal personage already mentionedcame down from time to time and looked over the estate, but the matterwas not finally settled until the eccentric individual died, after fortyyears of eccentricity, to the infinite relief and satisfaction of allparties and especially of his lawful successor Charles James Juxon now, at last, "of Billingsfield Hall, in the county of Essex, Esquire. "

In due time also Mr. Juxon appeared. It was natural that he should cometo see the vicar, and as it happened that he called late in the afternoonupon the day when Mrs. Goddard and little Eleanor were accustomed to dineat the vicarage, he at once had an opportunity of making the acquaintanceof his tenant; thus, if we except the free-thinking doctor, it will beseen that Mr. Juxon was in the course of five minutes introduced to thewhole of the Billingsfield society. 

He was a man inclining towards middle age, of an active and vigorousbody, of a moderate intelligence and of decidedly prepossessingappearance. His features were of the strong, square type, common to menwhose fathers for many generations have lived in the country. His eyeswere small, blue and very bright, and to judge from the lines in hissunburned face he was a man who laughed often and heartily. He had anabundance of short brown hair, parted very far upon one side and brushedto a phenomenal smoothness, and he wore a full brown beard, cut rathershort and carefully trimmed. He immediately won the heart of Mrs. Ambroseon account of his extremely neat appearance. There was no foreign bloodin him, she was sure. He had large clean hands with large and polishednails. He wore very well made clothes, and he spoke like a gentleman. The vicar, too, was at once prepossessed in his favour, and even littleEleanor, who was generally very shy before strangers, looked at himadmiringly and showed little of her usual bashfulness. But Mrs. Goddardseemed ill at ease and tried to keep out of the conversation as much aspossible. 

"There have been great rejoicings at the prospect of your arrival, " saidthe vicar when the new-comer had been introduced to both the ladies. "Ifancy that if you had let it be known that you were coming down to-daythe people would have turned out to meet you at the station. "

"The truth is, I rather avoid that sort of thing, " said the squire, smiling. "I would rather enter upon my dominions as quietly as possible. "

"It is much better for the people, too, " remarked Mrs. Ambrose. "Theiridea of a holiday is to do no work and have too much beer. "

"I daresay that would not hurt them much, " answered Mr. Juxon cheerfully. "By the bye, I know nothing about them. I have never been here before. My man of business wanted to come down and show me over the estate, andintroduce me to the farmers and all that, but I thought it would be sucha bore that I would not have him. "

"There is not much to tell, really, " said Mr. Ambrose. "The society ofBillingsfield is all here, " he added with a smile, "including one of yourtenants. "

"Are you my tenant?" asked Mr. Juxon pleasantly, and he looked at Mrs. Goddard. 

"Yes, " said she, "I have taken the cottage. "

"The cottage? Excuse me, but you know I am a stranger here--what is thecottage?"

"Such a pretty place, " answered Mrs. Ambrose, "just opposite the parkgate. You must have seen it as you came down. "

"Oh, is that it?" said the squire. "Yes, I saw it, and I wished I livedthere instead of in the Hall. It looks so comfortable and small. The Hallis a perfect wilderness. "

Mrs. Goddard felt a sudden fear lest her new landlord should take it intohis head to give her notice. She only took the cottage by the year andher present lease ended in October. The arrival of a squire in possessionat the Hall was a catastrophe to which she had not looked forward. Theidea troubled her. She had accidentally made Mr. Juxon's acquaintance, and she knew enough of the world to understand that in such a place hewould regard her as a valuable addition to the society of the vicar andthe vicar's wife. She would meet him constantly; there would be visitorsat the Hall--she would have to meet them, too. Her dream of solitude wasat an end. For a moment she seemed so nervous that Mr. Juxon observed herembarrassment and supposed it was due to his remark about living in thecottage himself. 

"Do not be afraid, Mrs. Goddard, " he said quickly, "I am not going to doanything so uncivil as to ask you to give up the cottage. Besides, itwould be too small, you know. "

"Have you any family, Mr. Juxon?" inquired Mrs. Ambrose with a severitywhich startled the squire. Mrs. Ambrose thought that if there was a Mrs. Juxon, she had been unpardonably deceived. Of course Mr. Juxon shouldhave said that he was married as soon as he entered the room. 

"I have a very large family, " answered the squire, and after enjoying fora moment the surprise he saw in Mrs. Ambrose's face, he added with alaugh, "I have a library of ten thousand volumes--a very large familyindeed. Otherwise I have no encumbrances, thank heaven. "

"You are a scholar?" asked Mr. Ambrose eagerly. 

"A book fancier, only a book fancier, " returned the squire modestly. "ButI am very fond of the fancy. "

"What is a book fancier, mamma?" asked little Eleanor in a whisper. ButMr. Juxon heard the child's question. 

"If your mamma will bring you up to the Hall one of these days, MissGoddard, I will show you. A book fancier is a terrible fellow who haslots of books, and is pursued by a large evil genius telling him he mustbuy every book he sees, and that he will never by any possibility readhalf of them before he dies. "

Little Eleanor stared for a moment with her great violet eyes, and thenturning again to her mother, whispered in her ear. 

"Mamma, he called me Miss Goddard!"

"Run out and play in the garden, darling, " said her mother with a smile. But the child would not go and sat down on a stool and stared at thesquire, who was immensely delighted. 

"So you are going to bring all your library, Mr. Juxon?" asked the vicarreturning to the charge. 

"Yes--and I beg you will make any use of it you please, " answered thevisitor. "I have a great fondness for books and I think I have somevaluable volumes. But I am no great scholar, as you are, though I read agreat deal. I have always noticed that the men who accumulate greatlibraries do not know much, and the men who know a great deal have veryfew books. Now I will wager that you have not a thousand volumes in yourhouse, Mr. Ambrose. "

"Five hundred would be nearer the mark, " said the vicar. 

"The fewer one has the nearer one approaches to Aquinas's _homo uniuslibri_, " returned the squire. "You are nine thousand five hundred degreesnearer to ideal wisdom than I am. "

Mr. Ambrose laughed. 

"Nevertheless, " he said, "you may be sure that if you give me leave touse your books, I will take advantage of the permission. It is in writingsermons that one feels the want of a good library. "

"I should think it would be an awful bore to write sermons, " remarked thesquire with such perfect innocence that both the vicar and Mrs. Goddardlaughed loudly. But Mrs. Ambrose eyed Mr. Juxon with renewed severity. 

"I should fancy it would be a much greater bore, as you call it, to thecongregation if my husband never wrote any new ones, " she said stiffly. Whereat the squire looked rather puzzled, and coloured a little. But Mr. Ambrose came to the rescue. 

"Yes, indeed, my wife is quite right. There are no people with suchterrible memories as churchwardens. They remember a sermon twenty yearsold. But as you say, the writing of sermons is not an easy task when aman has been at it for thirty years and more. A man begins by beingenthusiastic, then his mind gets into a groove and for some time, if hehappens to like the groove, he writes very well. But by and by he haswritten all there is to be said in the particular line he has chosen andhe does not know how to choose another. That is the time when a man needsa library to help him. "

"I really don't think you have reached that point, Mr. Ambrose, " remarkedMrs. Goddard. She admired the vicar and liked his sermons. 

"You are fortunately not in the position of my churchwardens, " answeredMr. Ambrose. "You have not been listening to me for thirty years. "

"How long have you been my tenant, Mrs. Goddard?" asked the squire. 

"Nearly two years, " she answered thoughtfully, and her sad eyes rested amoment upon Mr. Juxon's face with an expression he remembered. Indeed helooked at her very often and as he looked his admiration increased, sothat when he rose to take his leave the predominant impression of thevicarage which remained in his mind was that of her face. Something ofthe same fascination took hold of him which had seized upon John Shortwhen he caught sight of Mrs. Goddard through the open door of the study, something of that unexpected interest which in Mrs. Ambrose had at firstaroused a half suspicious dislike, now long forgotten. 

Before the squire left he invited the whole party to come and dine withhim at the Hall on the following Saturday. He must have some kind of ahouse warming, he said, for he was altogether too lonely up there. Mrs. Goddard would bring Eleanor, of course; they would dine early--it wouldnot be late for the little girl. If they all liked they could call it teainstead of dinner. Of course everything was topsy-turvy in the Hall, butthey would excuse that. He hoped to establish friendly relations with hisvicar and with his tenant--his fair tenant. Might he call soon and seewhether there was anything that could be done to improve the cottage?Before the day when they were all coming to dine? He would callto-morrow, then. Anything that needed doing should be done, Mrs. Goddardmight be sure. When the books arrived he would let Mr. Ambrose know, ofcourse, and they would have a day together. 

So he went away, leaving the impression that he was a very good-naturedand agreeable man. Even Mrs. Ambrose was mollified. He had shocked her byhis remark about sermon writing, but he had of course not meant it, andhe appeared to mean to be very civil. It was curious to see how allseverity vanished from Mrs. Ambrose's manner so soon as the stranger whoaroused it was out of sight and hearing. She appeared as a formidablystern type of the British matron to the chance visitors who came to thevicarage; but they were no sooner gone than her natural temper wasrestored and she was kindness and geniality itself. 

But Mrs. Goddard was very thoughtful. She was not pleased at the fact ofan addition to the Billingsfield community, and yet she liked theappearance of the squire. He had declared his intention of calling uponher on the following day, and she would be bound to receive him. She wasyoung, she had been shut off from the world for two years, and theprospect of Mr. Juxon's acquaintance was in itself not unpleasant; butthe idea that he was to be permanently established in the Hall frightenedher. She had felt since she came to Billingsfield that from the veryfirst she had put herself upon a footing of safety by telling her storyto the vicar. But the vicar would, not without her permission repeat thatstory to Mr. Juxon. Was she herself called upon to do so? She was a verysensitive woman, and her impressionable nature had been strongly affectedby what she had suffered. An almost morbid fear of seeming to make falsepretences possessed her. She was more than thirty years of age, it istrue, but she saw plainly enough in her glass that she was more thanpassably good-looking still. There were one or two grey threads in herbrown waving hair and she took no trouble to remove them; no one evernoticed them. There were one or two lines, very faint lines, in herforehead; no one ever saw them. She could hardly see them herself. Supposing--why should she not suppose it?--supposing Mr. Juxon were totake a fancy to her, as a lone bachelor of forty and odd might easilytake a fancy to a pretty woman who was his tenant and lived at his gate, what should she do? He was an honest man, and she was a conscientiouswoman; she could not deceive him, if it came to that. She would have totell him the whole truth. As she thought of it, she turned pale andtrembled. And yet she had liked his face, she had told him he might callat the cottage, and her woman's instinct foresaw that she was to see himoften. It was not vanity which made her think that the squire might growto like her too much. She had had experiences in her life and she knewthat she was attractive; the very fear she had felt for the last twoyears lest she should be thrown into the society of men who might beattracted by her, increased her apprehension tenfold. She could not lookforward with indifference to the expected visit, for the novelty ofseeing any one besides the vicar and his wife was too great; she couldnot refuse to see the squire, for he would come again and again until shereceived him; and yet, she could not get rid of the idea that there wasdanger in seeing him. Call it as one may, that woman's instinct of perilis rarely at fault. 

In the late twilight of the June evening Mrs. Goddard and Eleanor waitedhome together by the broad road which led towards the park gate. 

"Don't you think Mr. Juxon is very kind, mamma?" asked the child. 

"Yes, darling, I have no doubt he is. It was very good of him to ask youto go to the Hall. "

"And he called me Miss Goddard, " said Eleanor. "I wonder whether he willalways call me Miss Goddard. "

"He did not know your name was Nellie, " explained her mother. 

"Oh, I wish nobody knew, mamma. It was so nice. When shall I be grown up, mamma?"

"Soon, my child--too soon, " said Mrs. Goddard with a sigh. Nellie lookedat her mother and was silent for a minute. 

"Mamma, do you like Mr. Juxon?" she asked presently. 

"No, dear--how can one like anybody one has only seen once?"

"Oh--but I thought you might, " said Nellie. "Don't you think you will, mamma? Say you will--do!"

"Why?" asked her mother in some surprise. "I cannot say anything aboutit. I daresay he is very nice. "

"It will be so delightful to go to the Hall to dinner and be waitedon by big real servants--not like Susan at the vicarage, or Martha. Won'tyou like it, mamma? Of course Mr. Juxon will have real servants, justlike--like poor papa. " Nellie finished her speech rather doubtfully asthough not sure how her mother would take it. Mrs. Goddard sighed again, but said nothing. She could not stop the child's talking--why shouldNellie not speak of her father? Nellie did not know. 

"I think it will be perfectly delightful, " said Nellie, seeing she got noanswer from her mother, and as though putting the final seal ofaffirmation to her remarks about the Hall. But she appeared to besatisfied at not having been contradicted and did not return to thesubject that evening. 

Mr. Juxon lost no time in keeping his word and on the following morningat about eleven o'clock, when Mrs. Goddard was just hearing the last ofNellie's lesson in geography and little Nellie herself was beginning tobe terribly tired of acquiring knowledge in such very warm weather, thesquire's square figure was seen to emerge from the park gate opposite, clad in grey knickerbockers and dark green stockings, a rose in hisbuttonhole and a thick stick in his hand, presenting all the traditionalappearance of a thriving country gentleman of the period. He crossed theroad, stopped a moment and whistled his dog to heel and then opened thewicket gate that led to the cottage. Nellie sprang to the window in wildexcitement. 

"Oh what a dog!" she cried. "Mamma, _do_ come and see! And Mr. Juxon iscoming, too--he has green stockings!"

But Mrs. Goddard, who was not prepared for so early a visit, hastily putaway what might be described as the debris of Nellie's lessons, to wit, amuch thumbed book of geography, a well worn spelling book, a veryparticularly inky piece of blotting paper, a pen of which most of thestock had been subjected to the continuous action of Nellie's teeth forseveral months, and an ancient doll, without the assistance of which, asa species of Stokesite _memoria teohnica_, Nellie declared that she couldnot say her lessons at all. Those things disappeared, and, with them, Nellie's troubles, into a large drawer set apart for the purpose. By thetime Mr. Juxon had rung the bell and Martha's answering footstep wasbeginning to echo in the small passage, Mrs. Goddard had passed to theconsideration of Nellie herself. Nellie's fingers were mightily inky, butin other respects she was presentable. 

"Run and wash your hands, child, and then you may come back, " said hermother. 

"Oh mamma, _must_ I go? He's just coming in. " She gave one despairinglook at her little hands, and then ran away. The idea of missing onemoment of Mr. Juxon's visit was bitter, but to be caught with inkyfingers by a beautiful gentleman with green stockings and a rose in hiscoat would be more terribly humiliating still. There was a sound as ofsome gigantic beast plunging into the passage as the front door wasopened, and a scream of terror from Martha followed by a good-naturedlaugh from the squire. 

"You'll excuse _me_, sir, but he don't bite, sir, does he? Oh my! what adog he is, sir--"

"Is Mrs. Goddard in?" inquired Mr. Juxon, holding the hound by thecollar. Martha opened the door of the little sitting-room and the squirelooked in. Martha fled down the passage. 

"Oh my! What a tremendious dog that is, to be sure!" she was heard toexclaim as she disappeared into the back of the cottage. 

"May I come in?" asked Mr. Juxon, rather timidly and with an expressionof amused perplexity on his brown face. "Lie down, Stamboul!"

"Oh, bring him in, too, " said Mrs. Goddard coming forward and taking Mr. Juxon's hand. "I am so fond of dogs. " Indeed she was rather embarrassedand was glad of the diversion. 

"He is really very quiet, " said the squire apologetically, "only he is alittle impetuous about getting into a house. " Then, seeing that Mrs. Goddard looked at the enormous animal with some interest and much wonder, he added, "he is a Russian bloodhound--perhaps you never saw one? He wasgiven to me in Constantinople, so I call him Stamboul--good name for abig dog is not it?"

"Very, " said Mrs. Goddard rather nervously. Stamboul was indeed anexceedingly remarkable beast. Taller than the tallest mastiff, hecombined with his gigantic strength and size a grace and swiftness ofmotion which no mastiff can possess. His smooth clean coat, of aperfectly even slate colour throughout, was without folds, close as agreyhound's, showing every articulation and every swelling muscle of hisbody. His broad square head and monstrous jaw betrayed more of thequickness and sudden ferocity of the tiger than those suggested by theheavy, lion-like jowl of the English mastiff. His ears, too, were closecropped, in accordance with the Russian fashion, and somehow thecompactness this gave to his head seemed to throw forward and bring intoprominence his great fiery eyes, that reflected red lights as he moved, and did not tend to inspire confidence in the timid stranger. 

"Do sit down, " said Mrs. Goddard, and when the squire was seated Stamboulsat himself down upon his haunches beside him, and looked slowly from hismaster to the lady and back again, his tongue hanging out as thoughanxious to hear what they might have to say to each other. 

"I thought I should be sure to find you in the morning, " began Mr. Juxon, after a pause. "I hope I have not disturbed you?"

"Oh, not at all. Nellie has just finished her lessons. "

"The fact is, " continued the squire, "that I was going to survey thenakedness of the land which has fallen to my lot, and as I came out ofthe park I saw the cottage right before me and I could not resist thetemptation of calling. I had no idea we were such near neighbours. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Goddard, "it is very near. "

Mr. Juxon glanced round the room. He was not exactly at a loss for words, but Mrs. Goddard did not seem inclined to encourage the conversation. Hesaw that the room was not only exceedingly comfortable but that itsarrangement betrayed a considerable taste for luxury. The furniture wasof a kind not generally seen in cottages, and appeared to have formedpart of some great establishment. The carpet itself was of a finer andsofter kind than any at the Hall. The writing-table was a piece of richlyinlaid work, and the implements upon it were of the solid, severe andvaluable kind that are seen in rich men's houses. A clock which wasundoubtedly of the Louis Quinze period stood upon the chimneypiece. Onthe walls were hung three or four pictures which, Mr. Juxon thought, mustbe both old and of great value. Upon a little table by the fireplace layfour or five objects of Chinese jade and Japanese ivory and a silverchatelaine of old workmanship. The squire saw, and wondered why such avery pretty woman, who possessed such very pretty things, should chooseto come and live in his cottage in the parish of Billingsfield. Andhaving seen and wondered he became interested in his charming tenant andendeavoured to carry on the conversation in a more confidential strain. 

CHAPTER V. 

"You have done more towards beautifying the cottage than I could havehoped to do, " said Mr. Juxon, leaning back in his chair and resting onehand on Stamboul's great head. 

"It was very pretty of itself, " answered Mrs. Goddard, "and fortunatelyit is not very big, or my things would look lost in it. "

"I should not say that--you have so many beautiful things. They seem tosuit the place so well. I am sure you will never think of taking themaway. "

"Not if I can help it--I am too glad to be quiet. "

"You have travelled a great deal, Mrs. Goddard?" asked the squire. 

"No--not exactly that--only a little, after all. I have not been toConstantinople for instance, " she added looking at the hound Mr. Juxonhad brought from the East. "You are indeed a traveller. "

"I have travelled all my life, " said the squire, indifferently, as thoughthe subject of his wanderings did not interest him. "From what little Ihave seen of Billingsfield I fancy you will find all the quiet you couldwish, here. Really, I realise that at my own gate I must come to you forinformation. What sort of man is that excellent rector down there, whom Imet last night?"

The squire's tone became more confidential as he put the question. 

"Well--he is not a rector, to begin with, " answered Mrs. Goddard with asmile, "he is the vicar, and he is a most good man, whom I have alwaysfound most kind. "

"I can readily fancy that, " said Mr. Juxon. "But his wife seems to be ofthe severe type. "

"No--she struck me so at first, too. I think it is only with strangers. She is such a motherly sort of woman, you do not know! She only has thatlittle manner when you first meet her. "

"What a strange thing that is!" remarked the squire, looking at Mrs. Goddard. "The natural belief of English people in each other's depravityuntil they have had time to make acquaintance! And is there no one elsehere--no doctor--no doctor's wife?"

"Not a soul, " answered Mrs. Goddard. "There is a doctor, but the vicaragesuspects him of free thought. He certainly never goes to church. He hasno wife. "

"This is the most Arcadian retreat I ever was in. Upon my word, I am avery lucky man. "

"I suppose that it must be a relief when one has travelled so much, "replied Mrs. Goddard. 

"Or suffered very much, " added the squire, half unconsciously, looking ather sad face. 

"Yes, " she answered. At that moment the door opened and Nellie enteredthe room, having successfully grappled with the inkstains. She wentstraight to the squire, and held out her hand, blushing a little, butlooking very pretty. Then she saw the huge head of Stamboul who looked upat her with a ferociously agreeable canine smile, and thwacked the carpetwith his tail as he sat; Nellie started back. 

"Oh, what a dog!" she exclaimed. But very soon she was on excellentterms with him; little Nellie was not timid, and Stamboul, who likedpeople who were not afraid of him and was especially fond of children, did his best to be amusing. 

"He is a very good dog, " remarked Mr. Juxon. "He once did me a very goodservice. "

"How was that?"

"I was riding in the Belgrade forest one summer. I was alone withStamboul following. A couple of ruffians tried to rob me. Stamboul caughtone of them. "

"Did he hurt him very much?"

"I don't know--he killed him before the fellow could scream, and I shotthe other, " replied the squire calmly. 

"What a horrible story!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, turning pale. "Comehere, Nellie--don't touch that dreadful dog!"

"Do not be afraid--he is perfectly harmless. Come here Stamboul!" Thehuge beast obeyed, wagging his tail, and sat down at his master's feet, still looking rather wistfully at Nellie who had been playing with him. "You see, " continued Mr. Juxon, "he is as quiet as a lamb--would not hurta fly!"

"I think it is dreadful to have such animals about, " said Mrs. Goddard ina low voice, still looking at the dog with horror. 

"I am sorry I told you. It may prejudice you against him. I only meant toexplain how faithful he is, that is all. You see a man grows fond of acreature that has saved his life. "

"I suppose so, but it is rather startling to see such an animal so nearto one. I fear I am very nervous. "

"By the bye. " said the squire with the bold irrelevancy of a man whowants to turn the subject, "are you fond of flowers?"

"I?" said Mrs. Goddard in surprise. "Yes--very. Why?"

"I thought you would not mind if I had the garden here improved a little. One might put in a couple of frames. I did not see any flowers about. Iam so fond of them myself, you see, that I always look for them. "

"You are very kind, " answered Mrs. Goddard. "But I would not have youtake any trouble on my account. We are so comfortable and so fond of thecottage already--"

"Well, I hope you will grow to like it even better, " returned the squirewith a genial smile. "Anything I can do, you know--" he rose as though totake his leave. "Excuse me, but may I look at that picture? Andrea delSarto? Yes, I thought so--wonderful--upon my word, in a cottage inBillingsfield. Where did you find it?"

"It was my husband's, " said Mrs. Goddard. 

"Ah--ah, yes, " said the squire in a subdued tone. "I beg your pardon, " headded, as people often do, unconsciously, when they fancy they haveaccidentally roused in another a painful train of thought. Then he turnedto go. "We dine at half-past seven, you know, so as to be early for MissNellie, " he said, as he went out. 

Mrs. Goddard was glad he was gone, though she felt that he was notunsympathetic. The story of the dog had frightened her, and her ownmention of her husband had made her nervous and sad. More than ever shefelt that fear of being in a false position, which had assailed her whenshe had first met the squire on the previous evening. He had at onceopened relations with her in a way which showed that he intended to beintimate; he had offered to improve her cottage, had insisted upon makingframes in her garden, had asked her to dinner with the Ambroses and hadestablished the right to talk to her whenever he got a chance. Heinterested her, too, which was worse. His passing references to histravels and to his adventures, of which he spoke with the indifferenceof a man accustomed to danger, his unassuming manner, his frankways--everything about him awakened her interest. She had supposed thatin two years the very faculty of being interested by a man would bedulled if not destroyed; she found to her annoyance that though she hadseen Mr. Juxon only twice she could not put him out of her thoughts. Shewas, moreover, a nervous, almost morbid, woman, and the natural result oftrying to forget his existence was that she could think of nothing else. 

How much better it would be, she thought, if he knew her story from thefirst. He might then be as friendly as he pleased; there would be nodanger in it, to him or to her. She almost determined to go at once andask the vicar's advice. But by the time she had nearly made up her mindit was the hour for luncheon, and little Nellie's appetite was exigent. By the time lunch was over her determination had changed. She hadreflected that the vicar would think her morbid, that, with his usualgood sense, he would say there was no necessity for telling the squireanything; indeed, that to do so would be undignified. If the squire wereindeed going to lead the life of a recluse as he proposed doing, he wasnot really a man to cause her any apprehension. If he had travelled aboutthe world for forty years, without having his heart disturbed by any ofthe women he must have met in that time, he was certainly not the kind ofman, when once he had determined to settle in his home, to fall in lovewith the first pretty woman he met. It was absurd; there was nolikelihood of it; it was her own miserable vanity, she told herself, which made the thing seem probable, and she would not think any moreabout it. She, a woman thirty-one years of age, with a daughter who erelong would be growing up to womanhood! To be afraid of a mere strangerlike Mr. Juxon--afraid lest he should fall in love with her! Couldanything be more ridiculous? Her duty was to live quietly as she hadlived before, to take no more notice of the squire than was necessary inorder to be civil, and so all would be well. 

And so it seemed for a long time. The squire improved the garden of thecottage and Mrs. Goddard and Nellie, with the Ambroses, dined at theHall, which at first seemed an exceedingly dreary and dismal place, butwhich, as they returned thither again and again, grew more and moreluxurious, till the transformation was complete. Mr. Juxon brought allmanner of things to the house; vans upon vans arrived, laden with boxesof books and pictures and oriental carpets and rare objects which thesquire had collected in his many years of travel, and which he appearedto have stored in London until he had at last inherited the Hall. Thelonger the Ambroses and Mrs. Goddard knew him, the more singularlyimpressed they were with his reticence concerning himself. He appeared tohave been everywhere, to have seen everything, and he had certainlybrought back a vast collection of more or less valuable objects from histravels, besides the large library he had accumulated and which containedmany rare and curious editions of ancient books. He was evidently a manof very good education, and a much better scholar than he was willing toallow. The vicar delighted in his society and when the two foundthemselves together in the great room which Mr. Juxon had lined withwell-filled shelves, they remained for hours absorbed in literary andscholastic talk. But whenever the vicar approached the subject of thesquire's past life, the latter became vague and gave ambiguous answers toany direct questions addressed to him. He evidently disliked talking ofhimself, though he would talk about anything else that occurred to himwith a fluency which Mrs. Ambrose declared was the only un-English thingabout him. The consequence was that the vicar became more and moreinterested in his new acquaintance, and though the squire was so frankand honest a man that it was impossible to suspect him of any doubtfulaction in the past, Mr. Ambrose suspected that he had a secret. Indeedafter hearing the story Mrs. Goddard had confided to his ears, nothingwould have surprised the vicar. After finding that so good, so uprightand so honourable a woman as the fair tenant of the cottage could be putinto such a singularly painful position as that in which she now foundherself, it was not hard to imagine that this singular person who hadinherited the Hall might also have some weighty reason for loving thesolitude of Billingsfield. 

To chronicle the small events which occurred in that Arcadian parish, would be to overstep the bounds of permissible tediousness. In suchplaces all events move slowly and take long to develop to their results. The passions which in our own quickly moving world spring up, flourish, wither and are cut down in a month require, when they are not stimulatedby the fertilising heat of artificial surroundings, a longer period fortheir growth; and when that growth is attained they are likely to bestronger and more deeply rooted. It is not true that the study of them isless interesting, nor that they have less importance in themselves. Thedifficulty of narrative is greater when they are to be described, for itis necessary to carry the imagination in a short time over a long period, to show how from small incidents great results follow, and to show alsohow the very limited and trivial nature of the surroundings may causeimportant things to be overlooked. Amidst such influences acquaintance issoon made between the few persons so thrown together, but each is apt toregard such new acquaintance merely as bearing upon his or her ownparticular interests. It is surprising to see how people will live sideby side in solitude, even in danger, in distant settlements, in themining districts of the West, in up-country stations in India, on boardship, even, for months and years, without knowing anything of eachother's previous history; whereas in the crowded centres of civilisationand society the first questions are "Where does he come from?" "What arehis antecedents?" "What has he done in the world?" And unless a man cananswer such inquiries to the general satisfaction he is likely to beheavily handicapped in the social race. But in more primitive situationsmen are ruled by more primitive feelings of mutual respect; it isconsidered that a man should not be pressed to speak of things he showsno desire to discuss and that, provided he does not interfere with hisneighbour's wellbeing, his past life is nobody's business. One may feelcuriosity concerning him, but under no circumstances is one justified inasking questions. 

For these reasons, although Mr. Juxon's arrival and instalment in theHall were regarded with satisfaction by the little circle atBillingsfield, while he himself was at once received into intimacy andtreated with cordial friendliness, he nevertheless represented in theminds of all an unsolved enigma. And to the squire the existence of oneof the circle was at least as problematical as his own life could seem toany of them. The more he saw of Mrs. Goddard, the more he wondered at herand speculated about her and the less he dared to ask her any questions. But he understood from Mr. Ambrose's manner, that the vicar at least wasin possession of her secret, and he inferred from what he was able tojudge about the vicar's character that the latter was not a man to extendhis friendship to any one who did not deserve it. Whatever Mrs. Goddard'sstory was, he felt sure that her troubles had not been caused by her ownmisconduct. She was in every respect what he called a good woman. Ofcourse, too, she was a widow; the way in which she spoke of her husbandimplied that, on those rare occasions when she spoke of him at all. Charles James Juxon was a gentleman, whatever course of life he hadfollowed before settling in the country, and he did not feel that heshould be justified in asking questions about Mrs. Goddard of the vicar. Besides, as time went on and he found his own interest in her increasing, he began to nourish the hope that he might one day hear her story fromher own lips. In his simplicity it did not strike him that he himself hadgrown to be an object of interest to her. 

Somehow, during the summer and autumn of that year, Mrs. Goddardcontracted a habit of watching the park gate from the window of thecottage, particularly at certain hours of the day. It was only a habit, but it seemed to amuse her. She used to sit in the small bay window withher books, reading to herself or teaching Nellie, and it was quitenatural that from time to time she should look out across the road. Butit rarely happened, when she was installed in that particular place, thatMr. Juxon failed to appear at the gate, with his dog Stamboul, his greenstockings, his stick and the inevitable rose in his coat. Moreover hegenerally crossed the road and, if he did not enter the cottage and spenda quarter of an hour in conversation, he at least spoke to Mrs. Goddardthrough the open window. It was remarkable, too, that as time went onwhat at first had seemed the result of chance, recurred with suchinvariable regularity as to betray the existence of a fixed rule. Nellie, too, who was an observant child, had ceased asking questions but watchedher mother with her great violet eyes in a way that made Mrs. Goddardnervous. Nellie liked the squire very much but though she asked hermother very often at first whether she, too, was fond of that nice Mr. Juxon, the answers she received were not encouraging. How was itpossible, Mrs. Goddard asked, to speak of liking anybody one had known soshort a time? And as Nellie was quite unable to answer such an inquiry, she desisted from her questions and applied herself to the method ofpersonal observation. But here, too, she was met by a hopelessdifficulty. The squire and her mother never seemed to have any secrets, as Nellie would have expressed it. They met daily, and daily exchangedvery much the same remarks concerning the weather, the garden, thevicar's last sermon. When they talked about anything else, they spoke ofbooks, of which the squire lent Mrs. Goddard a great number. But this wasa subject which did not interest Nellie very much; she was not by anymeans a prodigy in the way of learning, and though she was now nearlyeleven years old was only just beginning to read the Waverley novels. Onone occasion she remarked to her mother that she did not believe a wordof them and did not think they were a bit like real life, but themomentary fit of scepticism soon passed and Nellie read on contentedly, not omitting however to watch her mother in order to find out, as hersmall mind expressed it, "whether mamma really liked that nice Mr. Juxon. " Events were slowly preparing themselves which would help her tocome to a satisfactory conclusion upon that matter. 

Mr. Juxon himself was in a very uncertain state of mind. After knowingMrs. Goddard for six months, and having acquired the habit of seeing heralmost every day, he found to his surprise that she formed a necessarypart of his existence. It need not have surprised him, for in spite ofthat lady's surmise with regard to his early life, he was in reality aman of generous and susceptible temperament. He recognised in thecharming tenant of the cottage many qualities which he liked, and hecould not deny that she was exceedingly pretty. Being a strong man he wasparticularly attracted by the pathetic expression of her face, theperpetual sadness that was visible there when she was not momentarilyinterested or amused. Had he suspected her paleness and air of secretsuffering to be the result of any physical infirmity, she would not haveinterested him so much. But Mrs. Goddard's lithe figure and easy grace ofactivity belied all idea of weakness. It was undoubtedly some hiddensuffering of mind which lent that sadness to her voice and features, andwhich so deeply roused the sympathies of the squire. At the end of sixmonths Mr. Juxon was very much interested in Mrs. Goddard, but despiteall his efforts to be agreeable he seemed to have made no progresswhatever in the direction of banishing her cares. To tell the truth, itdid not enter his mind that he was in love with her. She was his tenant;she was evidently very unhappy about something; it was thereforeundeniably his duty as a landlord and as a gentleman to make lifeeasy for her. 

He wondered what the matter could be. At first he had been inclined tothink that she was poor and was depressed by poverty. But though shelived very simply, she never seemed to be in difficulties. Five hundredpounds a year go a long way in the village of Billingsfield. It wascertainly not want of money which made her unhappy. The interest of thesum represented by the pictures hung in her little sitting-room, not tomention the other objects of value she possessed, would have been alonesufficient to afford her a living. The squire himself would have givenher a high price for these things, but in six months she never in themost distant manner suggested that she wished to part with them. The ideathen naturally suggested itself to Mr. Juxon's mind that she was stillmourning for her husband, and that she would probably continue to mournfor him until some one, himself for instance, succeeded in consoling herfor so great a loss. 

The conclusion startled the squire. That was not precisely the part hecontemplated playing, nor the species of consolation he proposed tooffer. Mrs. Goddard was indeed a charming woman, and the squire likedcharming women and delighted in their society. But Mr. Juxon was abachelor of more than forty years standing, and he had never regardedmarriage as a thing of itself, for himself, desirable. He immediatelythrust the idea from his mind with a mental "_vade retro Satanas_!" anddetermined that things were very agreeable in their present state, andmight go on for ever; that if Mrs. Goddard was unhappy that did notprevent her from talking very pleasantly whenever he saw her, which wasnearly every day, and that her griefs were emphatically none of hisbusiness. Before very long however Mr. Juxon discovered that though itwas a very simple thing to make such a determination it was a verydifferent thing to keep it. Mrs. Goddard interested him too much. When hewas with her he was perpetually longing to talk about herself instead ofabout the weather and the garden and the books, and once or twice he wasvery nearly betrayed into talking about himself, a circumstance soextraordinary that Mr. Juxon imagined he must be either ill or going mad, and thought seriously of sending for the doctor. He controlled theimpulse, however, and temporarily recovered; but strange to say from thattime forward the conversation languished when he found himself alone withMrs. Goddard, and it seemed very hard to maintain their joint interest inthe weather, the garden and the books at the proper standard ofintensity. They had grown intimate, and familiarity had begun to breed acontempt of those petty subjects upon which their intimacy had beenfounded. It is not clear why this should be so, but it is true, nevertheless, and many a couple before Charles Juxon and Mary Goddard hadfound it out. As the interest of two people in each other increases theirinterest in things, as things, diminishes in like ratio, and they arevery certain ultimately to reach that point described by the Frenchman'smaxim--"a man should never talk to a woman except of herself or himself. "

If Mr. Juxon was not in love with Mary Goddard he was at least rapidlyapproaching a very dangerous state; for he saw her every day and couldnot let one day go by without seeing her, and moreover he grew silent inher company, to a degree which embarrassed her and made him feel himselfmore stupid than he had ever dreamed possible; so that he would sometimesstay too long, in the hope of finding something to say, and sometimes hewould leave her abruptly and go and shut himself up with his books, andbusy himself with his catalogues and his bindings and the arrangement ofhis rare editions. One day at last, he felt that he had behaved so veryabsurdly that he was ashamed of himself, and suddenly disappeared fornearly a week. When he returned he said he had been to town to attend agreat sale of books, which was perfectly true; he did not add that thelearned expert he employed in London could have done the business for himjust as well. But the trip had done him no good, for he grew more silentthan ever, and Mrs. Goddard even thought his brown face looked a shadepaler; but that might have been the effect of the winter weather. Ordinary sunburn she reflected, as she looked at her own white skin inthe mirror, will generally wear off in six months, though freckles willnot. 

If Mr. Juxon was not in love, it would be very hard to say what MaryGoddard felt. It was not true that time was effacing the memory of thegreat sorrow she had suffered. It was there still, that memory, keen andsharp as ever; it would never go away again so long as she lived. But shehad been soothed by the quiet life in Billingsfield; the evidences of thepast had been removed far from her, she had found in the ReverendAugustin Ambrose one of those rare and manly natures who can keep asecret for ever without ever referring to its existence even with theperson who has confided it. For a few days she had hesitated whether toask the vicar's advice about Mr. Juxon or not. She had thought it herduty to allow Mr. Ambrose to tell the squire whatever he thought fit ofher own story. But she had changed her mind, and the squire had remainedin ignorance. It was best so, she thought; for now, after more than sixmonths, Mr. Juxon had taken the position of a friend towards her, and, asshe thought, showed no disposition whatever to overstep the boundaries offriendship. The regularity of his visits and the sameness of theconversation seemed of themselves a guarantee of his simple goodwill. Itdid not strike her as possible that if he were going to fall in love withher at all, that catastrophe should be postponed beyond six months fromtheir first acquaintance. Nor did it seem extraordinary to her that sheshould actually look forward to those visits, and take pleasure in thatmonotonous intercourse. Her life was very quiet; it was natural that sheshould take whatever diversion came in her way, and should even bethankful for it. Mr. Juxon was an honest gentleman, a scholar and a manwho had seen the world. If what he said was not always very original itwas always very true, a merit not always conceded to the highestoriginality. He spoke intelligently; he told her the news; he lent herthe newest books and reviews, and offered her his opinions upon them, with the regularity of a daily paper. In such a place, wherecommunications with the outer world seemed as difficult as at theantipodes, and where the remainder of society was limited to thehousehold of the vicarage, what wonder was it if she found Mr. Juxon anagreeable companion, and believed the companionship harmless?

But far down in the involutions of her feminine consciousness there waspresent a perpetual curiosity in regard to the squire, a curiosity shenever expected to satisfy, but was wholly unable to repress. Under theinfluence of this feeling she made remarks from time to time of anapparently harmless nature, but which in the squire promoted that strangeinclination to talk about himself, which he had lately observed and whichcaused him so much alarm. He said to himself that he had nothing to beconcealed, and that if any one had asked him direct questions concerninghis past he would have answered them boldly enough. But he knew himselfto be so singularly averse to dwelling on his own affairs that hewondered why he should now be impelled to break through so good a rule. Indeed he had not the insight to perceive that Mrs. Goddard lost noopportunity of leading him to the subject of his various adventures, and, if he had suspected it, he would have been very much surprised. 

Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose were far from guessing what an intimacy had sprungup between the two. Both the cottage and the Hall lay at a considerabledistance from the vicarage, and though Mrs. Ambrose occasionally went tosee Mrs. Goddard at irregular hours in the morning and afternoon, it wasremarkable that the squire never called when she was there. Once Mrs. Ambrose arrived during one of his visits, but thought it natural enoughthat Mr. Juxon should drop in to see his tenant. Indeed when she calledthe two were talking about the garden--as usual. 

CHAPTER VI. 

John Short had almost finished his hard work at college. For two yearsand a half he had laboured on acquiring for himself reputation and acertain amount of more solid advantage in the shape of scholarships. Never in that time had he left Cambridge even for a day unless compelledto do so by the regulations of his college. His father had found it hardto induce him to come up to town; and, being in somewhat easiercircumstances since John had declared that he needed no further help tocomplete his education, he had himself gone to see his son more thanonce. But John had never been to Billingsfield and he knew nothing of thechanges that had taken place there. At last, however, Short felt that hemust have some rest before he went up for honours; he had grown thin andeven pale; his head ached perpetually, and his eyes no longer seemed sogood as they had been. He went to a doctor, and the doctor told him thatwith his admirable constitution a few days of absolute rest would do allthat was necessary. John wrote to Mr. Ambrose to say that he would atlast accept the invitation so often extended and would spend the weekbetween Christmas and New Year's day at Billingsfield. 

There were great rejoicings at the vicarage. John had never beenforgotten for a day since he had left, each successive step in his careerhad been hailed with hearty delight, and now that at last he was comingback to rest himself for a week before the final effort Mrs. Ambrose wasas enthusiastic as her husband. Even Mrs. Goddard, who was not quite surewhether she had ever seen John or not, and the squire who had certainlynever seen him, joined in the general excitement. Mrs. Goddard asked theentire party to tea at the cottage and the squire asked them to come andskate at the Hall and to dine afterwards; for the weather was cold andthe vicar said John was a very good skater. Was there anything John couldnot do? There was nothing he could not do much better than anybody else, answered Mr. Ambrose; and the good clergyman's pride in his pupil wasperhaps not the less because he had at first received him on charitableconsiderations, and felt that if he had risked much in being so generoushe had also been amply rewarded by the brilliant success of hisundertaking. 

When John arrived, everybody said he was "so much improved. " He had gothis growth now, being close upon one and twenty years of age; his blueeyes were deeper set; his downy whiskers had disappeared and a smallmoustache shaded his upper lip; he looked more intellectual but not lessstrong, though Mrs. Ambrose said he was dreadfully pale--perhaps he owedsome of the improvement observed in his appearance to the clothes hewore. Poor boy, he had been but scantily supplied in the old days; helooked prosperous, now, by comparison. 

"We have had great additions to our society, since you left us, " said thevicar. "We have got a squire at the Hall, and a lady with a little girlat the cottage. "

"Such a nice little girl, " remarked Mrs. Ambrose. 

When John found out that the lady at the cottage was no other than thelady in black to whom he had lost his heart two years and a half before, he was considerably surprised. It would be absurd to suppose that theboyish fancy which had made so much romance in his life for so manymonths could outlast the excitements of the University. It would beabsurd to dignify such a fancy by any serious name. He had grown to be aman since those days and he had put away childish things. He blushed toremember that he had spent hours in writing odes to the beautifulunknown, and whole nights in dreaming of her face. And yet he couldremember that as much as a year after he had left Billingsfield he stillthought of her as his highest ideal of woman, and still occasionallycomposed a few verses to her memory, regretting, perhaps, the cooling ofhis poetic ardour. Then he had gradually lost sight of her in the hardwork which made up his life. Profound study had made him more prosaic andhe believed that he had done with ideals for ever, after the manner ofmany clever young fellows who at one and twenty feel that they areseparated from the follies of eighteen by a great and impassable gulf. The gulf, however, was not in John's case so wide nor so deep but what, at the prospect of being suddenly brought face to face, and madeacquainted, with her who for so long had seemed the object of a romanticpassion, he felt a strange thrill of surprise and embarrassment. Thosemeetings of later years generally bring painful disillusion. How many ofus can remember some fair-haired little girl who in our childhoodrepresented to us the very incarnation of feminine grace and beauty, forwhom we fetched and carried, for whom we bound nosegays on the heath andstole apples from the orchard and climbed upon the table after desert, ifwe were left alone in the dining-room, to lay hands on some beautifulsweetmeat wrapped in tinsel and fringes of pink paper--have we not mether again in after-life, a grown woman, very, very far from our ideal offeminine grace and beauty? And still in spite of changes in herself andourselves there has clung to her memory through all those years enough ofromance to make our heart beat a little faster at the prospect ofsuddenly meeting her, enough to make us wonder a little regretfully ifshe was at all like the little golden-haired child we loved long ago. 

But with John the feeling was stronger than that. It was but two yearsand a half since he had seen Mrs. Goddard, and, not even knowing hername, had erected for her a pedestal in his boyish heart. There wasmoreover about her a mystery still unsolved. There was something odd andstrange in her one visit to the vicarage, in the fact that the vicar hadnever referred to that visit and, lastly, it seemed unlike Mr. Ambrose tohave said nothing of her settlement in Billingsfield in the course of allthe letters he had written to John since the latter had left him. Johndwelt upon the name--Goddard--but it held no association for him. It wasnot at all like the names he had given her in his imagination. Hewondered what she would be like and he felt nervously anxious to meether. Somehow, too, what he heard of the squire did not please him; hefelt an immediate antagonism to Mr. Juxon, to his books, to his amateurscholarship, even to his appearance as described by Mrs. Ambrose, whosaid he was such a thorough Englishman and wondered how he kept his hairso smooth. 

It was not long before he had an opportunity of judging for himself ofwhat Mr. Ambrose called the recent addition to Billingsfield society. Onthe very afternoon of his arrival the vicar proposed to walk up to theHall and have a look at the library, and John readily assented. It wasChristmas Eve and the weather, even in Essex, was sharp and frosty. Themuddy road was frozen hard and the afternoon sun, slanting through theoak trees that bordered the road beyond the village, made no perceptibleimpression on the cold. The two men walked briskly in the direction ofthe park gate. Before they had quite reached it however, the door of thecottage opposite was opened, and Stamboul, the Russian bloodhound, bounded down the path, cleared the wicket gate in his vast stride, andthen turning suddenly crouched in the middle of the road to wait for hismaster. But the dog instantly caught sight of the vicar, with whom he wason very good terms, and trotted slowly up to him, thrusting his greatnose into his hand, and then proceeding to make acquaintance with John. He seemed to approve of the stranger, for he gave a short sniff ofsatisfaction and trotted back to the wicket of the cottage. At thismoment Mrs. Goddard and Nellie came out, followed by the squire arrayedin his inevitable green stockings. There was however no rose in his coat. Whether the greenhouses at the Hall had failed to produce any in thebitter weather, or whether Mr. Juxon had transferred the rose from hiscoat to the possession of Mrs. Goddard, is uncertain. The three came outinto the road where the vicar and John stood still to meet them. 

"Mrs. Goddard, " said the clergyman, "this is Mr. Short, of whom you haveheard--John, let me introduce you to Mr. Juxon. "

John felt that he blushed violently as he took Mrs. Goddard's hand. Hewould not have believed that he could feel so much embarrassed, and hehated himself for betraying it. But nobody noticed his colour. Theweather was bright and cold, and even Mrs. Goddard's pale and delicateskin had a rosy tinge. 

"We were just going for a walk, " she explained. 

"And we were going to see you at the Hall, " said the vicar to Mr. Juxon. 

"Let us do both, " said the latter. "Let us walk to the Hall and havea cup of tea. We can look at the ice and see whether it will bearto-morrow. "

Everybody agreed to the proposal, and it so fell out that the squire andthe vicar went before while John and Mrs. Goddard followed and Nelliewalked between them, holding Stamboul by the collar, and talking to himas she went. John looked at his companion, and saw with a strangesatisfaction that his first impression, the impression he had cherishedso long, had not been a mistaken one. Her deep violet eyes were stillsad, beautiful and dreamy. Her small nose was full of expression, and wasnot reddened by the cold as noses are wont to be. Her rich brown hairwaved across her forehead as it did on that day when John first saw her;and now as he spoke with her, her mouth smiled, as he had been sure itwould. John felt a curious sense of pride in her, in finding that he hadnot been deceived, that this ideal of whom he had dreamed was really andtruly very good to look at. He knew little of the artist's rules ofbeauty; he had often looked with wonder at the faces in the illustrationsto Dr. Smith's classical dictionary, and had tried to understand wherethe beauty of them lay, and at Cambridge he had seen and studied withinterest many photographs and casts from the antiques. But to his mindthe antique would not bear comparison for a moment with Mrs. Goddard, whoresembled no engraving nor photograph nor cast he had ever seen. 

And she, too, looked at him, and said to herself that he did not looklike what she had expected. He looked like a lean, fresh young Englishmanof moderate intelligence and in moderate circumstances. And yet she knewthat he was no ordinary young fellow, that he was wonderfully gifted, infact, and likely to make a mark in the world. She resolved to take aproper interest in him. 

"Do you know, " she said, "I have heard so much about you, that I feel asthough I had met you before, Mr. Short. "

"We really have met, " said John. "Do you remember that hot day when youcame to the vicarage and I waked up Muggins for you?"

"Yes--was that you? You have changed. That is, I suppose I did not seeyou very well in the hurry. "

"I suppose I have changed in two years and a half. I was only a boy then, you know. But how have you heard so much about me?"

"Billingsfield, " said Mrs. Goddard with a faint smile, "is not a largeplace. The Ambroses are very fond of you and always talk of what you aredoing. "

"And so you really live here, Mrs. Goddard? How long is it since youcame? Mr. Ambrose never told me--"

"I have been here more than two years--two years last October, " sheanswered quietly. 

"The very year I left--only a month after I was gone. How strange!"

Mrs. Goddard looked up nervously. She was frightened lest John shouldhave made any deductions from the date of her arrival. But John wasthinking in a very different train of thought. 

"Why is it strange?" she asked. 

"Oh, I hardly know, " said John in considerable embarrassment. "I was onlythinking--about you--that is, about it all. "

The answer did not tend to quiet Mrs. Goddard's apprehensions. 

"About me?" she exclaimed. "Why should you think about me?"

"It was very foolish, of course, " said John. "Only, when I caught sightof you that day I was very much struck. You know, I was only a boy, then. I hoped you would come back--but you did not. " He blushed violently, andthen glanced at his companion to see whether she had noticed it. 

"No, " she said, "I did not come back for some time. "

"And then I was gone. Mr. Ambrose never told me you had come. "

"Why should he?"

"Oh, I don't know. I think he might. You see Billingsfield has been asort of home to me, and it is a small place; so I thought he might havetold me the news. "

"I suppose he thought it would not interest you, " said Mrs. Goddard. "Iam sure I do not know why it should. But you must be very fond of theplace, are you not?"

"Very. As I was saying, it is very like home to me. My father lives intown you know--that is not at all like home. One always associates theidea of home with the country, and a vicarage and a Hall, and all that. "

"Does one?" said Mrs. Goddard, picking her way over the frozen mud of theroad. "Take care, Nellie, it is dreadfully slippery!"

"How much she has grown, " remarked John, looking at the girl's activefigure as she walked before them. "She was quite a little girl when I sawher first. "

"Yes, she grows very fast, " answered Mrs. Goddard rather regretfully. 

"You say that as though you were sorry. "

"I? No. I am glad to see her grow. What a funny remark. "

"I thought you spoke sadly, " explained John. 

"Oh, dear no. Only she is coming to the awkward age. "

"She is coming to it very gracefully, " said John, who wanted to saysomething pleasant. 

"That is the most any of us can hope to do, " answered Mrs. Goddard with alittle smile. "We all have our awkward age, I suppose. "

"I should not think you could remember yours. "

"Why? Do you think it was so very long ago?" Mrs. Goddard laughed. 

"No--I cannot believe you ever had any, " said John. 

The boyish compliment pleased Mrs. Goddard. It was long since any one hadflattered her, for flattery did not enter into the squire's system formaking himself agreeable. 

"Do they teach that sort of thing at Cambridge?" she asked demurely. 

"What sort of thing?"

"Making little speeches to ladies, " said she. 

"No--I wish they did, " said John, laughing. "I should know much betterhow to make them. We learn how to write Greek odes to moralabstractions. "

"What a dreadful thing to do!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard. 

"Do you think so? I do not know. Now, for instance, I have written agreat many Greek odes to you--"

"To me?" interrupted his companion in surprise. 

"Do you think it is so very extraordinary?"

"Very. "

"Well--you see--I only saw you once--you won't laugh?"

"No, " said Mrs. Goddard, who was very much amused, and was beginning tothink that John Short was the most original young man she had ever met. 

"I only saw you once, when you came to the vicarage, and I had not theleast idea what your name was. But I--I hoped you would come back; and soI used to write poems to you. They were very good, too, " added John in ameditative tone, "I have never written any nearly so good as they were. "

"Really?" Mrs. Goddard looked at him rather incredulously and thenlaughed. 

"You said you would not laugh, " objected John. 

"I cannot help it in the least, " said she. "It seems so funny. "

"It did not seem funny to me, I can assure you, " replied John ratherwarmly. "I thought it very serious. "

"You don't do it now, do you?" asked Mrs. Goddard, looking up at himquietly. 

"Oh no--a man's ideals change so much, you know, " answered John, who felthe had been foolishly betrayed into telling his story, and hated to belaughed at. 

"I am very glad of that. How long are you going to stay here, Mr. Short?"

"Until New Year's Day, I think, " he answered. "Perhaps you will have timeto forget about the poetry before I go. "

"I don't know why, " said Mrs. Goddard, noticing his hurt tone. "Ithink it was very pretty--I mean the way you did it. You must be a bornpoet--to write verses to a person you did not know and had only seenonce!"

"It is much easier than writing verses to moral abstractions one hasnever seen at all, " explained John, who was easily pacified. "When a manwrites a great deal he feels the necessity of attaching all thosebeautiful moral qualities to some real, living person whom he can see--"

"Even if he only sees her once, " remarked Mrs. Goddard demurely. 

"Yes, even if he only sees her once. You have no idea how hard it is toconcentrate one's faculties upon a mere idea; but the moment a man sees awoman whom he can endow with all sorts of beautiful qualities--why it'sjust as easy as hunting. "

"I am glad to have been of so much service to you, evenunconsciously--but, don't you think perhaps Mrs. Ambrose would have doneas well?"

"Mrs. Ambrose?" repeated John. Then he broke into a hearty laugh. "No--Ihave no hesitation in saying that she would not have done as well. I amdeeply indebted to Mrs. Ambrose for a thousand kindnesses, for a greatdeal more than I can tell--but, on the whole, I say, no; I could not havewritten odes to Mrs. Ambrose. "

"No, I suppose not. Besides, fancy the vicar's state of mind! She wouldhave had to call him in to translate your poetry. "

"It is very singular, " said John in a tone of reflection. "But, if I hadnot done all that, we should not be talking as we are now, after tenminutes acquaintance. "

"Probably not, " said Mrs. Goddard. 

"No--certainly not. By the bye, there is the Hall. I suppose you haveoften been there since Mr. Juxon came--what kind of man is he?"

"He has been a great traveller, " answered his companion. "And then--well, he is a scholar and has an immense library--"

"And an immense dog--yes, but I mean, what kind of man is he himself?"

"He is very agreeable, " said Mrs. Goddard quietly. "Very well bred, verywell educated. We find him a great addition in Billingsfield. "

"I should think so, if he is all you say, " said John discontentedly. Hisantagonism against Mr. Juxon was rapidly increasing. Mrs. Goddard lookedat him in some surprise, being very far from understanding his tone. 

"I think you will like him, " she said. "He knows all about you from theAmbroses, and he always speaks of you with the greatest admiration. "

"Really? It is awfully kind of him, I am sure. I am very much obliged, "said John rather contemptuously. 

"Why do you speak like that?" asked Mrs. Goddard gravely. "You cannotpossibly have any cause for disliking him. Besides, he is a friend ofours--"

"Oh, of course, then it is different, " said John. "If he is a friend ofyours--"

"Do you generally take violent dislikes to people at first sight, Mr. Short?"

"Oh, dear no. Not at all--at least, not dislikes. I suppose Mr. Juxon'sface reminds me of somebody I do not like. I will behave like an angel. Here we are. "

The effect of this conversation upon the two persons between whom it tookplace was exceedingly different. Mrs. Goddard was amused, without beingaltogether pleased. She had made the acquaintance of a refreshingly youngscholar whom she understood to be full of genius. He was enthusiastic, simple, seemingly incapable of concealing anything that passed throughhis mind, unreasonable and evidently very susceptible. On the whole, shethought she should like him, though his scornful manner in speaking ofthe squire had annoyed her. The interest she could feel in him, if shefelt any at all, would be akin to that of the vicar in the boy. He wasonly a boy; brilliantly talented, they said, but still a mere boy. Shewas fully ten years older than he--she might almost be his mother--well, not quite that, but very nearly. It was amusing to think of his writingodes to her. She wished she could see translations of them, and shealmost made up her mind to ask him to show them to her. 

John on the other hand experienced a curious sensation. He had neverbefore been in the society of so charming a woman. He looked at her andlooked again, and came to the conclusion that she was not only charmingbut beautiful. He had not the least idea of her age; it is not the mannerof his kind to think much about the age of a woman, provided she is nottoo young. The girl might be ten. Mrs. Goddard might have married atsixteen--twenty-six, twenty-seven--what was that? John called himselftwenty-two. Five years was simply no difference at all! Besides, whocared for age?

He had suddenly found himself almost on a footing of intimacy with thislovely creature. His odes had served him well; it had pleased her to hearthe story. She had laughed a little, of course; but women, as John knew, always laugh when they are pleased. He would like to show her his odes. As he walked through the park by her side he felt a curious sense ofpossession in her which gave him a thrill of exquisite delight; and whenthey entered the Hall he felt as though he were resigning her to thesquire, which gave him a corresponding sense of annoyance. When anEnglishman experiences these sensations, he is in love. John resolvedthat whatever happened he would walk back with Mrs. Goddard. 

"Come in, " said the squire cheerily. "We are not so cold as we used to beup here. "

A great fire of logs was burning upon the hearth in the Hall. Stamboulstalked up to the open chimney, scratched the tiger's skin which servedfor a rug, and threw himself down as though his day's work were done. Mr. Juxon went up to Mrs. Goddard. 

"I think you had better take off your coat, " he said. "The house is verywarm. "

Mrs. Goddard allowed the squire to help her in removing the heavy blackjacket lined and trimmed with fur, which she wore. John eyed theproceeding uneasily and kept on his greatcoat. 

"Thank you--I don't mind the heat, " he said shortly when the squiresuggested to him that he might be too warm. John was in a fit ofcontrariety. Mrs. Goddard glanced at him, as he spoke, and he thought hedetected a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, which did not tend to smoothhis temper. 

"You will have some tea, Mrs. Goddard?" said Mr. Juxon, leading the wayinto the library, which he regarded as the most habitable room in thehouse. Mrs. Goddard walked by his side and the vicar followed, while Johnand Nellie brought up the rear. 

"Is not it a beautiful place?" said Nellie, who was anxious that thenew-comer should appreciate the magnificence of the Hall. 

"Can't see very well, " said John, "it is so dark. "

"Oh, but it is beautiful, " insisted Miss Nellie. "And they have lots oflamps here in the evening. Perhaps Mr. Juxon will have them lightedbefore we go. He is always so kind. "

"Is he?" asked John with a show of interest. 

"Yes--he brings mamma a rose every day, " said Nellie. 

"Not really?" said John, beginning to feel that he was justified inhating the squire with all his might. 

"Yes--and books, too. Lots of them--but then, he has so many. See, thisis the library. Is not it splendid!"

John looked about him and was surprised. The last rays of the setting sunfell across the open lawn and through the deep windows of the great room, illuminating the tall carved bookcases, the heavily gilt bindings, therich, dark Russia leather and morocco of the folios. The footsteps of theparty fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet and almost insensibly thevoices of the visitors dropped to a lower key. A fine large wood fire wasburning on the hearth, carefully covered with a metal netting lest anyspark should fly out and cause damage to the treasures accumulated in theneighbouring shelves. 

"Pray make yourself at home, Mr. Short, " said the squire, coming up toJohn. "You may find something of interest here. There are some oldeditions of the classics that are thought rare--some specimens ofVenetian printing, too, that you may like to look at. Mr. Ambrose cantell you more about them than I. "

John's feeling of antagonism, and even his resentment against Mr. Juxon, roused by Nellie's innocent remark about the roses, were not proofagainst the real scholastic passion aroused by the sight of rare andvaluable books. In a few minutes he had divested himself of his greatcoatand was examining the books with an expression of delight upon his facewhich was pleasant to see. He glanced from time to time at the otherpersons in the room and looked very often at Mrs. Goddard, but on thewhole he was profoundly interested in the contents of the library. Mrs. Goddard was installed in a huge leathern easy-chair by the fire, and thesquire was handing her one after another a number of new volumes whichlay upon a small table, and which she appeared to examine with interest. Nellie knew where to look for her favourite books of engravings and hadcurled herself up in a corner absorbed in "Hyde's Royal Residences. " Thevicar went to look for something he wanted to consult. 

"What do you think of our new friend?" asked Mrs. Goddard of the squire. She spoke in a low tone and did not look up from the new book he had justhanded her. 

"He appears to have a very peculiar temper, " said Mr. Juxon. "But helooks clever. "

"What do you think he was talking about as we came through the park?"asked Mrs. Goddard. 

"What?"

"He was saying that he saw me once before he went to college, and--fancyhow deliciously boyish! he said he had written ever so many Greek odes tomy memory since!" Mrs. Goddard laughed a little and blushed faintly. 

"Let us hope, for the sake of his success, that you may continue toinspire him, " said the squire gravely. "I have no doubt the odes werevery good. "

"So he said. Fancy!"

CHAPTER VII. 

Mrs. Goddard did not mean to walk home with John; but on the other handshe did not mean to walk with the squire. She revolved the matter in hermind as she sat in the library talking in an undertone with Mr. Juxon. She liked the great room, the air of luxury, the squire's tea and thesquire's conversation. It is worth noticing that his flow of talk wasmore abundant to-day than it had been for some time; whether it wasJohn's presence which stimulated Mr. Juxon's imagination, or whetherMrs. Goddard had suddenly grown more interesting since John Short'sappearance it is hard to say; it is certain that Mr. Juxon talked betterthan usual. 

The afternoon, however, was far spent and the party had only come to makea short visit. Mrs. Goddard rose from her seat. 

"Nellie, child, we must be going home, " she said, calling to the littlegirl who was still absorbed in the book of engravings which she had takento the window to catch the last of the waning light. 

John started and came forward with alacrity. The vicar looked up; Nelliereluctantly brought her book back. 

"It is very early, " objected the squire. "Really, the days have nobusiness to be so short. "

"It would not seem like Christmas if they were long, " said Mrs. Goddard. 

"It does not seem like Christmas anyhow, " remarked John, enigmatically. No one understood his observation and no one paid any attention to it. Whereupon John's previous feeling of annoyance returned and he went tolook for his greatcoat in the dark corner where he had laid it. 

"You must not come all the way back with us, " said Mrs. Goddard as theyall went out into the hall and began to put on their warm things beforethe fire. "Really--it is late. Mr. Ambrose will give me his arm. "

The squire insisted however, and Stamboul, who had had a comfortable napby the fire, was of the same opinion as his master and plunged wildly atthe door. 

"Will you give me your arm, Mr. Ambrose?" said Mrs. Goddard, lookingrather timidly at the vicar as they stood upon the broad steps in thesparkling evening air. She felt that she was disappointing both thesquire and John, but she had quite made up her mind. She had her ownreasons. The vicar, good man, was unconsciously a little flattered by herchoice, as with her hand resting on the sleeve of his greatcoat he ledthe way down the park. The squire and John were fain to follow together, but Nellie took her mother's hand, and Stamboul walked behind affectingan unusual gravity. 

"You must come again when there is more daylight, " said Mr. Juxon to hiscompanion. 

"Thank you, " said John. "You are very good. " He intended to relapse intosilence, but his instinct made him ashamed of seeming rude. "You have amagnificent library, " he added presently in a rather cold tone. 

"You have been used to much better ones in Cambridge, " said the squire, modestly. 

"Do you know Cambridge well, Mr. Juxon?"

"Very well. I am a Cambridge man, myself. "

"Indeed?" exclaimed John, immediately discovering that the squire was notso bad as he had thought. "Indeed! I had no idea. Mr. Ambrose never toldme that. "

"I am not sure that he is aware of it, " said Mr. Juxon quietly. "Thesubject never happened to come up. "

"How odd!" remarked John, who could not conceive of associating with aman for any length of time without asking at what University he hadbeen. 

"I don't know, " answered Mr. Juxon. "There are lots of other things totalk about. "

"Oh--of course, " said John, in a tone which did not express conviction. 

Meanwhile Mr. Ambrose and Mrs. Goddard walked briskly in front; sobriskly in fact that Nellie occasionally jumped a step, as children say, in order to keep up with them. 

"What a glorious Christmas eve!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, as they turned abend in the drive and caught sight of the western sky still clear andred. "And there is the new moon!" The slender crescent was hanging justabove the fading glow. 

"Oh mamma, have you wished?" cried Nellie. "You must, you know, when yousee the new moon!"

Mrs. Goddard did not answer, but she sighed faintly and drew a littlecloser to the worthy vicar as she walked. She always wished, whetherthere was a new moon or not, and she always wished the same wish. PerhapsMr. Ambrose understood, for he was not without tact. He changed thesubject. 

"How do you like our John Short?" he asked. 

"Very much, I think, " answered Mrs. Goddard. "He is so fresh and young. "

"He is a fine fellow. I was sure you would like him. Is he at all likewhat you fancied he would be?"

"Well no--not exactly. I know you told me how he looked, but I alwaysthought he would be rather Byronic--the poetical type, if you know whatI mean. "

"He has a great deal of poetry in him, " said Mr. Ambrose in a tone ofprofound admiration. "He writes the best Greek verse I ever saw. "

"Oh yes--I daresay, " replied Mrs. Goddard smiling in the dusk. "I am surehe must be very clever. "

So they chatted quietly as they walked down the park. But the squire andJohn did not make progress in their conversation, and by the time theyreached the gate they had yielded to an awkward silence. They had bothbeen annoyed because Mrs. Goddard had taken the vicar's arm instead ofchoosing one of themselves, but the joint sense of disappointment did notconstitute a common bond of interest. Either one would have sufferedanything rather than mention Mrs. Goddard to the other in the course ofthe walk. And yet Mr. Juxon might have been John's father. At the gate ofthe cottage they separated. The squire said he would turn back. Mrs. Goddard had reached her destination. John and the vicar would return tothe vicarage. John tried to linger a moment, to get a word with Mrs. Goddard. He was so persistent that she let him follow her through thewicket gate and then turned quickly. 

"What is it?" she asked, rather suddenly, holding out her hand to saygood-bye. 

"Oh, nothing, " answered John. "That is--would you like to see one ofthose--those little odes of mine?"

"Yes, certainly, if you like, " she answered frankly, and then laughed. "Of course I would. Good-night. "

He turned and fled. The vicar was waiting for him, and eyed him rathercuriously as he came back. Mr. Juxon was standing in the middle of theroad, making Stamboul jump over his stick, backwards and forwards. 

"Good-night, " he said, pausing in his occupation. The vicar and Johnturned away and walked homewards. Before they turned the corner towardsthe village John instinctively looked back. Mr. Juxon was still makingStamboul jump the stick before the cottage, but as far as he could see inthe dusk, Mrs. Goddard and Nellie had disappeared within. John felt thathe was very unhappy. 

"Mr. Ambrose, " he began. Then he stopped and hesitated. "Mr. Ambrose, " hecontinued at last, "you never told me half the news of Billingsfield inyour letters. "

"You mean about Mrs. Goddard? Well--no--I did not think it would interestyou very much. "

"She is a very interesting person, " said John. He could have added thatif he had known she was in Billingsfield he would have made a greatsacrifice in order to come down for a day to make her acquaintance. Buthe did not say it. 

"She is a great addition, " said the vicar. 

"Oh--very great, I should think. "

Christmas eve was passed at the vicarage in preparation for the morrow. Mrs. Ambrose was very active in binding holly wherever it was possible toput it. The mince-pies were tasted and pronounced a success, and oldReynolds was despatched to the cottage with a small basket containing acertain number of them as a present to Mrs. Goddard. An emissary appearedfrom the Hall with a variety of articles which the squire begged tocontribute towards the vicar's Christmas dinner; among others a haunch ofvenison which Mrs. Ambrose pronounced to be in the best condition. Thevicar retorted by sending to the Hall a magnificent Cottenham cheesewhich, as a former Fellow of Trinity, he had succeeded in obtaining. Moreover Mr. Ambrose himself descended to the cellar and brought upseveral bottles of Audit ale which he declared must be allowed to standsome time in the pantry in order to bring out the flavour and to bethoroughly settled. John gave his assistance wherever it was needed andenjoyed vastly the old-fashioned preparations for Christmas day. It waslong since the season had brought him such rejoicing and he intended torejoice with a good will towards men and especially towards the Ambroses. After dinner the whole party, consisting of three highly efficientpersons and old Reynolds, adjourned to the church to complete thedecorations for the morrow. 

The church of Billingsfield, known as St. Mary's, was quite large enoughto contain twice the entire population of the parish. It was built upon apart of the foundations of an ancient abbey, and the vicar was very proudof the monument of a crusading Earl of Oxford which he had caused to beplaced in the chancel, it having been discovered in the old chancel ofthe abbey in the park, far beyond the present limits of the church. Thetower was the highest in the neighbourhood. The whole building was ofgray rubble, irregular stones set together with a crumbling cement, andpresented an appearance which, if not architecturally imposing, was atleast sufficiently venerable. At the present time the aisles were full ofheaped-up holly and wreaths; a few lamps and a considerable number oftallow candles shed a rather feeble light amongst the pillars; a crowd ofschool children, not yet washed for the morrow, were busy under thedirections of the schoolmistress in decorating the chancel; Mr. ThomasReid the conservative sexton was at the top of a tall ladder, presumablyusing doubtful language to himself as every third nail he tried to driveinto the crevices of the stone "crooked hisself and larfed at him, " as heexpressed it; the organ was playing and a dozen small boys with three orfour men were industriously practising the anthem "Arise, Shine, "producing strains which if not calculated altogether to elevate the heartby their harmony, would certainly have caused the hair of a sensitivemusician to rise on end; three or four of the oldest inhabitants wereleaning on their sticks in the neighbourhood of the great stove in themiddle aisle, warming themselves and grumbling that "times warn't as theyused to be;" Mr. Abraham Boosey was noisily declaring that he had"cartlods more o' thim greens" to come, and Muggins, who had had somebeer, was stumbling cheerfully against the pews in his efforts to bring ahuge load of fir branches to the foot of Mr. Thomas Reid's long ladder. It was a thorough Christmas scene and John Short's heart warmed as hecame back suddenly to the things which for three years had been sofamiliar to him and which he had so much missed in his solitude atCambridge. Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose set to work and John followed theirexample. Even the prickly holly leaves were pleasant to touch and therewas a homely joy in the fir branches dripping with half melted snow. 

Before they had been at work very long, John was aware of a littlefigure, muffled in furs and standing beside him. He looked up and sawlittle Nellie's lovely face and long brown curls. 

"Can't I help you, Mr. Short?" she asked timidly. "I like to help, andthey won't let me. "

"Who are 'they'?" asked John kindly, but looking about for the figure ofNellie's mother. 

"The schoolmistress and Mrs. Ambrose. They said I should dirty my frock. "

"Well, " said John, doubtfully, "I don't know. Perhaps you would. But youmight hold the string for me--that won't hurt your clothes, you know. "

"There are more greens this year, " remarked Nellie, sitting down upon theend of the choir bench where John was at work and taking the ball ofstring in her hand. "Mr. Juxon has sent a lot from the park. "

"He seems to be always sending things, " said John, who had no reasonwhatever for saying so, except that the squire had sent a hamper to thevicarage. "Did he stay long before dinner?" he added, in the tone peopleadopt when they hope to make children talk. 

"Stay long where?" asked Nellie innocently. 

"Oh, I thought he went into your house after we left you, " answered John. 

"Oh no--he did not come in, " said Nellie. John continued to work insilence. At some distance from where he was, Mrs. Goddard was talking toMrs. Ambrose. He could see her graceful figure, but he could hardlydistinguish her features in the gloom of the dimly-lighted church. Helonged to leave Nellie and to go and speak to her, but an undefinedfeeling of hurt pride prevented him. He would not forgive her for havingtaken the vicar's arm in coming home through the park; so he stayed wherehe was, pricking his fingers with the holly and rather impatientlypulling the string off the ball which Nellie held. If Mrs. Goddard wantedto speak to him, she might come of her own accord, he thought, for hefelt that he had behaved foolishly in asking if she wished to see hisodes. Somehow, when he thought about it, the odes did not seem so goodnow as they had seemed that afternoon. 

Mrs. Goddard had not seen him at first, and for some time she remained inconsultation with Mrs. Ambrose. At last she turned and looking for Nelliesaw that she was seated beside John; to his great delight she cametowards him. She looked more lovely than ever, he thought; the dark furabout her throat set off her delicate, sad face like a frame. 

"Oh--are you here, too, Mr. Short?" she said. 

"Hard at work, as you see, " answered John. "Are you going to help, Mrs. Goddard? Won't you help me?"

"I wanted to, " said Nellie, appealing to her mother, "but they would notlet me, so I can only hold the string. "

"Well, dear--we will see if we can help Mr. Short, " said Mrs. Goddardgood-naturedly, and she sat down upon the choir bench. 

John never forgot that delightful Christmas Eve. For nearly two hours henever left Mrs. Goddard's side, asking her advice about every branch andbit of holly and following out to the letter her most minute suggestions. He forgot all about the squire and about the walk back from the park, inthe delight of having Mrs. Goddard to himself. He pushed the schoolchildren about and spoke roughly to old Reynolds if her commands were notinstantly executed; he felt in the little crowd of village people that hewas her natural protector, and he wished he might never have anything inthe world to do save to decorate a church in her company. He grew moreand more confidential and when the work was all done he felt that he hadthoroughly established himself in her good graces and went home to dreamof the happiest day he had ever spent. The organ ceased playing, thelittle choir dispersed, the school children were sent home, Mr. AbrahamBoosey retired to the bar of the Duke's Head, Muggins tenderly embracedevery tombstone he met on his way through the churchyard, the"gentlefolk" followed Reynolds' lantern towards the vicarage, and Mr. Thomas Reid, the conservative and melancholic sexton, put out the lightsand locked the church doors, muttering a sour laudation of more primitivetimes, when "the gentlefolk minded their business. "

For the second time that day, John and Mr. Ambrose walked as far as thecottage, to see Mrs. Goddard to her home. When they parted from her andNellie, John was careful not to say anything more about the odes, asubject to which Mrs. Goddard had not referred in the course of theevening. John thanked her rather effusively for her help--he could neverhave got through those choir benches without her, he said; and the vicaradded that he was very much obliged, too, and surreptitiously conveyedto Mrs. Goddard's hand a small package intended for Miss Nellie'sChristmas stocking, from him and his wife, and which he had forgotten togive earlier. Nellie was destined to have a fuller stocking than usualthis year, for the squire had remembered her as well as Mr. Ambrose. 

John went to bed in his old room at the vicarage protesting that he hadenjoyed the first day of his holiday immensely. As he blew out the light, he thought suddenly how often in that very room he had gone to beddreaming about the lady in black and composing verses to her, tillsomehow the Greek terminations would get mixed up with the Latin roots, the quantities all seemed to change places, and he used to fall asleepwith a delicious half romantic sense of happiness always unfulfilled yetalways present. And now at last it began to be fulfilled in earnest; hehad met the lady in black at last, had spent nearly half a day in hercompany and was more persuaded than ever that she was really and trulyhis ideal. He did not go to sleep so soon as in the old days, and he wassorry to go to sleep at all; he wanted to enjoy all his deliciousrecollections of that afternoon before he slept and, as he recapitulatedthe events which had befallen him and recalled each expression of theface that had charmed him and every intonation of the charmer's voice, hefelt that he had never been really happy before, that no amount ofsuccess at Cambridge could give him half the delight he hadexperienced during one hour in the old Billingsfield church, and thataltogether life anywhere else was not worth living. To-morrow he wouldsee Mrs. Goddard again, and the next day and the day after that andthen--"bother the future!" ejaculated John, and went to sleep. 

He awoke early, roused by the loud clanging of the Christmas bells, andlooking out he saw that the day was fine and cold and bright as Christmasday should be, and generally is. The hoar frost was frozen into fantasticshapes upon his little window, the snow was clinging to the yew branchesoutside and the robins were hopping and chirping over the thin crust offrozen snow that just covered the ground. The road was hard and brown ason the previous day, and the ice in the park would probably bear. PerhapsMrs. Goddard would skate in the afternoon between the services, butthen--Juxon would be there. "Never mind Juxon, " quoth John to himself, "it is Christmas day!"

At the vicarage and elsewhere, all over the land, those things were donewhich delight the heart of Englishmen at the merry season. Everybodyshook hands with everybody else, everybody cried "Merry Christmas!" tohis neighbour in the street, with an intonation as though he were sayingsomething startlingly new and brilliant which had never been said before. Every labourer who had a new smock-frock put it on, and those who hadnone had at least a bit of new red worsted comforter about their throatsand began the day by standing at their doors in the cold morning, smokinga "ha'p'orth o' shag" in a new clay pipe, greeting each other across thevillage street. Muggins, who had spent a portion of the night inexchanging affectionate Christmas wishes with the tombstones in thechurchyard, appeared fresh and ruddy at an early hour, clad in the longblack coat and tall hat which he was accustomed to wear when he drove Mr. Boosey's fly on great festivals. Most of the cottages in the singlestreet sported a bit of holly in their windows, and altogether theappearance of Billingsfield was singularly festive and mirthful. Atprecisely ten minutes to eleven the vicar and Mrs. Ambrose, accompaniedby John, issued from the vicarage and went across the road by the privatepath to the church. As they entered the porch Mr. Reid, who stoodsolemnly tolling the small bell, popularly nicknamed the "Ting-tang, "and of which the single rope passed down close to the south door, vouchsafed John a sour smile of recognition. John felt as though he hadcome home. Mrs. Goddard and Nellie appeared a moment afterwards and tooktheir seats in the pew traditionally belonging to the cottage, behindthat of the squire who was always early, and the sight of whose smoothlybrushed hair and brown beard was a constant source of satisfaction toMrs. Ambrose. John and Mrs. Ambrose sat on the opposite side of theaisle, but John's eyes strayed very frequently towards Mrs. Goddard; sofrequently indeed that she noticed it and leaned far back in her seat toavoid his glance. Whereupon John blushed and felt that the vicar, who wasreading the Second Lesson, had probably noticed his distraction. It washard to realise that two years and a half had passed since he had sat inthat same pew; perhaps, however, the presence of Mrs. Goddard helped himto understand the lapse of time. But for her it would have been veryhard; for the vicar's voice sounded precisely as it used to sound; Mrs. Ambrose had not lost her habit of removing one glove and putting it intoher prayer book as a mark while she found the hymn in the accompanyingvolume; the bright decorations looked as they looked years ago above theorgan and round the chancel; from far down the church, just before thesermon, came the old accustomed sound of small boys shuffling theirhobnailed shoes upon the stone floor and the audible guttural whisper ofthe churchwarden admonishing them to "mind the stick;" the stained-glasswindows admitted the same pleasant light as of yore--all was unchanged. But Mrs. Goddard and Nellie occupied the cottage pew, and their presencealone was sufficient to mark to John the fact that he was now a man. 

The service was sympathetic to John Short. He liked the simplicity of it, even the rough singing of the choir, as compared with the solemn andmagnificent musical services of Trinity College Chapel. But it seemedvery long before it was all over and he was waiting for Mrs. Goddardoutside the church door. 

There were more greetings, more "Merry Christmas" and "Many happyreturns. " Mrs. Goddard looked more charming than ever and was quite ascordial as on the previous evening. 

"How much better it all looked this morning by daylight, " she said. 

"I think it looked very pretty last night, " answered John. "There isnothing so delightful as Christmas decorations, is there?"

"Perhaps you will come down next year and help us again?" suggested Mrs. Goddard. 

"Yes--well, I might come at Easter, for that matter, " answered the youngman, who after finding it impossible to visit Billingsfield during twoyears and a half, now saw no difficulty whatever in the way of making twovisits in the course of six months. "Do you still decorate at Easter?" heasked. 

"Oh yes--do you think you can come?" she said pleasantly. "I thought youwere to be very busy just then. "

"Yes, that is true, " answered John. "But of course I could come, youknow, if it were necessary. "

"Hardly exactly necessary--" Mrs. Goddard laughed. 

"The doctor told me some relaxation was absolutely indispensable for myhealth, " said John rather sententiously. 

"You don't really look very ill--are you?" She seemed incredulous. 

"Oh no, of course not--only a little overworked sometimes. "

"In that case I have no doubt it would do you good, " said Mrs. Goddard. 

"Do you really think so?" asked John, hopefully. 

"Oh--that is a matter for your doctor to decide. I cannot possibly tell, "she answered. 

"I think you would make a very good doctor, Mrs. Goddard, " said Johnventuring on a bolder flight. 

"Really--I never thought of trying it, " she replied with a little laugh. "Good morning, Mr. Ambrose. Nellie wants to thank you for your beautifulpresent. It was really too good of you. "

The vicar came out of the vestry and joined the group in the path. Mrs. Ambrose, who had been asking Tom Judd's wife about her baby, also cameup, and the squire, who had been presenting Mr. Reid with ten shillingsfor his Christmas box and who looked singularly bereaved without thefaithful Stamboul at his heels, sauntered up and began congratulatingeverybody. In the distance the last of the congregation, chiefly the oldwomen and cripples who could not keep up with the rest, hobbled awaythrough the white gate of the churchyard. 

It had been previously agreed that if the ice would bear there should beskating in the afternoon and the squire was anxious to inform the partythat the pond was in excellent condition. 

"As black as your hat, " he said cheerfully. "Stamboul and I have beensliding all over it, so of course it would bear an ox. It did not crackanywhere. "

"Do you skate, Mrs. Goddard?" asked John. 

"Not very well--not nearly so well as Nellie. But I am very fond of it. "

"Will you let me push you about in a chair, then? It is capital fun. "

"Very good fun for me, no doubt, " answered Mrs. Goddard, laughing. 

"I would rather do it than anything else, " said John in a tone ofconviction. "It is splendid exercise, pushing people about in chairs. "

"So it is, " said the squire, heartily. "We will take turns, Mr. Short. "The suggestion did not meet with any enthusiastic response from John, whowished Mr. Juxon were not able to skate. 

Poor John, he had but one idea, which consisted simply in getting Mrs. Goddard to himself as often and as long as possible. Unfortunately thisidea did not coincide with Mr. Juxon's views. Mr. Juxon was an older, slower and calmer man than the enthusiastic young scholar, and thoughvery far from obtruding his views or making any assertion of his rights, was equally far from forgetting them. He was a man more of actions thanwords. He had been in the habit of monopolising Mrs. Goddard's societyfor months and he had no intention of relinquishing his claims, even forthe charitable purpose of allowing a poor student to enjoy his Christmasholiday and bit of romance undisturbed. If John had presented himself asa boy, it might have been different; but John emphatically consideredhimself a man, and the squire was quite willing to treat him as such, since he desired it. That is to say he would not permit him to "cut himout" as he would have expressed it. The result of the position in whichJohn and Mr. Juxon soon found themselves was to be expected. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

John did not sleep so peacefully nor dream so happily that night as onthe night before. The course of true love had not run smooth thatafternoon. The squire had insisted upon having his share of the lovelyMrs. Goddard's society and she herself had not seemed greatly disturbedat a temporary separation from John. The latter amused her for a littlewhile; the former held the position of a friend whose conversation sheliked better than that of other people. John was disappointed and thoughtof going back to Cambridge the next day. So strong, indeed, was hissudden desire to leave Billingsfield without finishing his visit, thatbefore going to bed he had packed some of his belongings into his smallportmanteau; the tears almost stood in his eyes as he busied himselfabout his room and he muttered certain formulae of self-accusation as hecollected his things, saying over and over in his heart--"What a fool Iam! Why should she care for me? What am I that she should care for me?"etc. Etc. Then he opened his window and looked at the bright stars whichshone out over the old yew tree; but it was exceedingly cold, and so heshut it again and went to bed, feeling very uncomfortable and unhappy. 

But when he awoke in the morning he looked at his half-packed portmanteauand laughed, and instead of saying "What a fool I am!" he said "What afool I was!"--which is generally and in most conditions of human affairsa much wiser thing to say. Then he carefully took everything out of theportmanteau again and replaced things as they had lain before in hisroom, lest perchance Susan, the housemaid, should detect what had passedthrough his mind on the previous evening and should tell Mrs. Ambrose. And from all this it appears that John was exceedingly young, as indeedhe was, in spite of his being nearly one and twenty years of age. Butdoubtless if men were willing to confess their disappointments andfoolish, impetuous resolutions, many would be found who have donelikewise, being in years much older than John Short. Unfortunately forhuman nature most men would rather confess to positive wrong-doing thanto any such youthful follies as these, while they are young; and whenthey are old they would rather be thought young and foolish than confessthe evil deeds they have actually done. 

John, however, did not moralise upon his situation. The weather was againfine and as he dressed his spirits rose. He became magnanimous andresolved to forget yesterday and make the most of today. He would seeMrs. Goddard of course; perhaps he would show her a little coldness atfirst, giving her to understand that she had not treated him well on theprevious afternoon; then he would interest her by his talk--he wouldrepeat to her one of those unlucky odes and translate it for her benefit, making use of the freedom he would thus get in order to make her anunlimited number of graceful compliments. Perhaps, too, he ought to paymore attention to Nellie, if he wished to conciliate her mother. Women, he reflected, have such strange prejudices!

He wondered whether it would be proper for him to call upon Mrs. Goddard. He was not quite sure about it, and he was rather ashamed of having solittle knowledge of the world; but he believed that in Billingsfield hemight run the risk. There had been talk of skating again that morning, and so, about ten o'clock, John told Mr. Ambrose he would go for a shortwalk and then join them all at the pond in the park. The project seemedgood, and he put it into execution. As he walked up the frozen road, heindustriously repeated in his mind the Greek verses he was going totranslate to Mrs. Goddard; he had no copy of them but his memory was verygood. He met half a dozen labourers, strolling about with their pipesuntil it was time to go and have a pint of beer, as is their manner uponholidays; they touched their hats to him, remembering his face well, andhe smiled happily at the rough fellows, contrasting his situation withtheirs, who from the misfortune of social prejudice were not permitted togo and call upon Mrs. Goddard. His heart beat rather fast as he went upto the door of the cottage, and for one unpleasant moment he againdoubted whether it was proper for him to make such an early visit. Butbeing bent on romantic adventure he rang boldly and inquired for Mrs. Goddard. 

She was surprised to see John at that hour and alone; but it did notenter her head to refuse him admittance. Indeed as he stood in the littlepassage he heard the words which passed between her and Martha. 

"What is it, Martha?"

"It's a young gentleman, mam. I rather think, mam, it's the younggentleman that's stopping at the vicarage. "

"Oh--ask him to come in. "

"In 'ere, mam?"

"No--into the sitting-room, " said Mrs. Goddard, who was busy in thedining-room. 

John was accordingly ushered in and told to wait a minute; which he did, surveying with surprise the beautiful pictures, the rich lookingfurniture and the valuable objects that lay about upon the tables. Heexperienced a thrill of pleasure, for he felt sure that Mrs. Goddardpossessed another qualification which he had unconsciously attributed toher--that of being accustomed to a certain kind of luxury, which inJohn's mind was mysteriously connected with his romance. It is one of themost undefinable of the many indefinite feelings to which young men inlove are subject, especially young men who have been, or are, very poor. They like to connect ideas of wealth and comfort, even of a luxuriousexistence, with the object of their affections. They desire the world oflove to be new to them, and in order to be wholly new in theirexperience, it must be rich. The feeling is not so wholly unworthy as itmight seem; they instinctively place their love upon a pedestal andrequire its surroundings to be of a better kind than such as they havebeen accustomed to in their own lives. King Cophetua, being a king, couldafford to love the beggar maid, and a very old song sings of a "lady wholoved a swine, " but the names of the poor young men who have loved abovetheir fortune and station are innumerable as the swallows in spring. Johnsaw that Mrs. Goddard was much richer than he had ever been, and withoutthe smallest second thought was pleased. In a few moments she entered theroom. John had his speech ready. 

"I thought, if you were going to skate, I would call and ask leave to gowith you, " he said glibly, as she gave him her hand. 

"Oh--thanks. But is not it rather early?"

"It is twenty minutes past ten, " said John, looking at the clock. 

"Well, let us get warm before starting, " said Mrs. Goddard, sitting downby the fire. "It is so cold this morning. "

John thought she was lovely to look at as she sat there, warming herhands and shielding her face from the flame with them at the same time. She looked at him and smiled pleasantly, but said nothing. She was stilla little surprised to see him and wondered whether he himself hadanything to say. 

"Yes, " said John, "it is very cold--traditional Christmas weather. Couldnot be finer, in fact, could it?"

"No--it could not be finer, " echoed Mrs. Goddard, suppressing a smile. Then as though to help him out of his embarrassment by giving an impulseto the conversation, she added, "By the bye, Mr. Short, while we arewarming ourselves why do not you let me hear one of your odes?"

She meant it kindly, thinking it would give him pleasure, as indeed itdid. John's heart leaped and he blushed all over his face with delight. Mrs. Goddard was not quite sure whether she had done right, but sheattributed his evident satisfaction to his vanity as a scholar. 

"Certainly, " he said with alacrity, "if you would like to hear it. Wouldyou care to hear me repeat the Greek first?"

"Oh, of all things. I do not think I have ever heard Greek. "

John cleared his throat and began, glancing at his hostess rathernervously from time to time. But his memory never failed him, and he wenton to the end without a break or hesitation. 

"How do you think it sounds?" he asked timidly when he had finished. 

"It sounds very funny, " said Mrs. Goddard. "I had no idea Greek soundedlike that--but it has a pleasant rhythm. "

"That is the thing, " said John, enthusiastically. "I see you reallyappreciate it. Of course nobody knows how the ancients pronounced Greek, and if one pronounced it as the moderns do, it would sound all wrong--butthe rhythm is the thing, you know. It is impossible to get over that. "

Mrs. Goddard was not positively sure what he meant by "getting over therhythm;" possibly John himself could not have defined his meaning veryclearly. But his cheeks glowed and he was very much pleased. 

"Yes, of course, " said Mrs. Goddard confidently. "But what does it allmean, Mr. Short?"

"Would you really like to know?" asked John in fresh embarrassment. Hesuddenly realised how wonderfully delightful it was to be repeating hisown poetry to the woman for whom it was written. 

"Indeed yes--what is the use of your telling me all sorts of things inGreek, if you do not tell me what they mean?"

"Yes--you will promise not to be offended?"

"Of course, " said Mrs. Goddard; then blushing a little she added, "it isquite--I mean--quite the sort of thing, is not it?"

"Oh quite, " said John, blushing too, but looking grave for a moment. Thenhe repeated the English translation of the verses which, as they werecertainly not so good as the original, may be omitted here. They setforth that in the vault of the world's night a new star had appearedwhich men had not yet named, nor would be likely to name until the powerof human speech should be considerably increased, and the verses dweltupon the theme, turning it and revolving it in several ways, finallydeclaring that the far-darting sun must look out for his interests unlesshe meant to be outshone by the new star. Translated into English therewas nothing very remarkable about the performance though the originalGreek ode was undoubtedly very good of its kind. But Mrs. Goddard wasdetermined to be pleased. 

"I think it is charming, " she said, when John had reached the end andpaused for her criticism. 

"The Greek is very much better, " said John doubtfully. "I cannot writeEnglish verses--they seem to me so much harder. "

"I daresay, " said Mrs. Goddard. "But did you really write thatwhen--" she stopped not knowing exactly how to express herself. ButJohn had his answer ready. 

"Oh, I wrote ever so many, " he said, "and I have got them all atCambridge. But that is the only one I quite remember. I wrote them justafter the day when I waked up Muggins--the only time I had seen you tillnow. I think I could--"

"How funny it seems, " said Mrs. Goddard, "without knowing a person, towrite verses to them! How did you manage to do it?"

"I was going to say that I think--I am quite sure--I could write muchbetter things to you now. "

"Oh, that is impossible--quite absurd, Mr. Short, " said Mrs. Goddard, laughing more gaily than usual. 

"Why?" asked John, somewhat emboldened by his success. "I do not see why, if one has an ideal, you know, one should not understand it much betterwhen one comes near to it. "

"Yes--but--how can I possibly be your ideal?" She felt herself so mucholder than John that she thought it was out of the question to beannoyed; so she treated him in a matter of fact way, and was reallyamused at his talk. 

"I don't see why not, " answered John stoutly. "You might be any man'sideal. "

"Oh, really--" ejaculated Mrs. Goddard, somewhat startled at the force ofthe sweeping compliment. To be told point-blank, even by an enthusiasticyouth of one and twenty, that one is the ideal woman, must be either verypleasant or very startling. 

"Excuse me, " she said quickly, before he could answer her, "you know ofcourse I am very ignorant--yes I am--but will you please tell me what isan 'ideal'?"

"Why--yes, " said John, "it is very easy. Ideal comes from idea. Platomeant, by the idea, the perfect model--well, do you see?"

"Not exactly, " said Mrs. Goddard. 

"It is very simple. When I, when anybody, says you are the ideal woman, it is meant that you are the perfect model, the archetype of a woman. "

"Yes--but that is absurd, " said his companion rather coldly. 

"I am sorry that it should seem absurd, " said John in a persuasive tone;"it seems very natural to me. A man thinks for a long time abouteverything that most attracts him and then, on a sudden, he sees it allbefore him, quite real and alive, and then he says he has realised hisideal. But you liked the verses, Mrs. Goddard?" he added quickly, hopingto bring back the smile that had vanished from her face. He had a strongimpression that he had been a little too familiar. Probably Mrs. Goddardthought so too. 

"Oh yes, I think they are very nice, " she answered. But the smile did notcome back. She was not displeased, but she was not pleased either; shewas wondering how far this boy would go if she would let him. John, however, felt unpleasantly doubtful about what he had done. 

"I hope you are not displeased, " he said. 

"Oh, not in the least, " said she. "Shall we go to the park and skate?"

"I am not sure that I will skate to-day, " said John, foolishly. Mrs. Goddard looked at him in unfeigned surprise. 

"Why not? I thought it was for that--"

"Oh, of course, " said John quickly. "Only it is not very amusing to skatewhen Mr. Juxon is pushing you about in a chair. "

"Really--why should not he push me about, if I like it?"

"If you like it--that is different, " answered John impatiently. 

Mrs. Goddard began to think that John was very like a spoiled child, andshe resented his evident wish to monopolise her society. She left theroom to get ready for the walk, vaguely wishing that he had not come. 

"I have made a fool of myself again, " said John to himself, when he wasleft alone; and he suddenly wished he could get out of the house withoutseeing her again. But before he had done wishing, she returned. 

"Where is Miss Nellie?" he asked gloomily, as they walked down the path. "I hope she is coming too. "

"She went up to the pond with Mr. Juxon, just before you came. "

"Do you let her go about like that, without you?" asked John severely. 

"Why not? Really, Mr. Short, " said Mrs. Goddard, glancing up at his face, "either you dislike Mr. Juxon very much, or else I think you take agood deal upon yourself in remarking--in this way--"

She was naturally a little timid, but John's youth and what sheconsidered as his extraordinary presumption inspired her with courage toprotest. The effect upon John was instantaneous. 

"Pray forgive me, " he said humbly, "I am very silly. I daresay you arequite right and I do not like Mr. Juxon. Not that I have the smallestreason for not liking him, " he continued quickly, "it is a mere personalantipathy, a mere idea, I daresay--very foolish of me. "

"It is very foolish to take unreasonable dislikes to people one knowsnothing about, " she said quietly. "Will you please open the gate?" Theywere standing before the bars, but John was so much disturbed in mindthat he stood still, quite forgetting to raise the long iron latch. 

"Dear me--I beg your pardon--I cannot imagine what I was thinking of, " hesaid, making the most idiotic excuse current in English idiom. 

"Nor I, " said Mrs. Goddard, with a little laugh, as he held the gate backfor her to pass. It was a plain white gate with stone pillars, and therewas no gatehouse. People who came to the Hall were expected to open itfor themselves. Mrs. Goddard was so much amused at John's absence of mindthat her good humour returned, and he felt that since that object wasattained he no longer regretted his folly in the least. The cloud thathad darkened the horizon of his romance had passed quickly away, and oncemore he said inwardly that he was enjoying the happiest days of his life. If for a moment the image of Mr. Juxon entered the field of hisimaginative vision in the act of pushing Mrs. Goddard's chair upon theice, he mentally ejaculated "bother the squire!" as he had done upon theprevious night, and soon forgot all about him. The way through the parkwas long, the morning was delightful and Mrs. Goddard did not seem to bein a hurry. 

"I wish the winter would last for ever, " he said presently. 

"So do I, " answered his companion, "it is the pleasantest time of theyear. One does not feel that nature is dead because one is sure she willvery soon be alive again. "

"That is a charming idea, " said John, "one might make a good subject ofit. "

"It is a little old, perhaps. I think I have heard it before--have notyou?"

"All good ideas are old. The older the better, " said John confidently. Mrs. Goddard could not resist the temptation of teazing him a little. They had grown very intimate in forty-eight hours; it had taken sixmonths for Mr. Juxon to reach the point John had won in two days. 

"Are they?" she asked quietly. "Is that the reason you selected me forthe 'idea' of your ode, which you explained to me?"

"You?" said John in astonishment. Then he laughed. "Why, you are not anyolder than I am!"

"Do you think so?" she inquired with a demure smile. "I am very mucholder than you think. "

"You must be--I mean, you know, you must be older than you look. "

"Thank you, " said Mrs. Goddard, still smiling, and just resting the tipsof her fingers upon his arm as she stepped across a slippery place in thefrozen road. "Yes, I am a great deal older than you. "

John would have liked very much to ask her age, but even to his youthfuland unsophisticated mind such a question seemed almost too personal. Hedid not really believe that she was more than five years older than he, and that seemed to be no difference at all. 

"I don't know, " he said. "I am nearly one and twenty. "

"Yes, I know, " said Mrs. Goddard, who had heard every detail concerningJohn from Mr. Ambrose, again and again. "Just think, " she added with alaugh, "only one and twenty! Why when I was one and twenty I was--" shestopped short. 

"What were you doing then?" asked John, trying not to seem too curious. 

"I was living in London, " she said quietly. She half enjoyed hisdisappointment. 

"Yes, " he said, "I daresay. But what--well, I suppose I ought not to askany questions. "

"Certainly not, " said she. "It is very rude to ask a lady questions abouther age. "

"I do not mean to be rude again, " said John, pretending to laugh. "Haveyou always been fond of skating?" he asked, fixing his eye upon a distanttree, and trying to look unconscious. 

"No--I only learned since I came here. Besides, I skate very badly. "

"Did Mr. Juxon teach you?" asked John, still gazing into the distance. From not looking at the path he slipped on a frozen puddle and nearlyfell. Whereat, as usual, when he did anything awkward, he blushed to thebrim of his hat. 

"Take care, " said Mrs. Goddard, calmly. "You will fall if you don't lookwhere you are going. No; Mr. Juxon was not here last year. He only camehere in the summer. "

"It seems to me that he has always been here, " said John, trying torecover his equanimity. "Then I suppose Mr. Ambrose taught you to skate?"

"Exactly--Mr. Ambrose taught me. He skates very well. "

"So will you, with a little more practice, " answered her companion in arather patronising tone. He intended perhaps to convey the idea that Mrs. Goddard would improve in the exercise if she would actually skate, andwith him, instead of submitting to be pushed about in a chair by Mr. Juxon. 

"Oh, I daresay, " said Mrs. Goddard indifferently. "We shall soon bethere, now. I can hear them on the ice. "

"Too soon, " said John with regret. 

"I thought you liked skating so much. "

"I like walking with you much better, " he replied, and he glanced at herface to see if his speech produced any sign of sympathy. 

"You have walked with me; now you can skate with Nellie, " suggested Mrs. Goddard. 

"You talk as though I were a child, " said John, suddenly losing histemper in a very unaccountable way. 

"Because I said you might skate with Nellie? Really, I don't see why. Mr. Juxon is not a child, and he has been skating with her all the morning. "

"That is different, " retorted John growing very red. 

"Yes--Nellie is much nearer to your age than to Mr. Juxon's, " answeredMrs. Goddard, with a calmness which made John desperate. 

"Really, Mrs. Goddard, " he said stiffly, "I cannot see what that has todo with it. "

"'The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the lady so much olderthan myself has charged--' How does the quotation end, Mr. Short?"

"'Has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neitherattempt to palliate nor deny, '" said John savagely. "Quite so, Mrs. Goddard. I shall not attempt to palliate it, nor will I venture to denyit. "

"Then why in the world are you so angry with me?" she asked, suddenlyturning her violet eyes upon him. "I was only laughing, you know. "

"Only laughing!" repeated John. "It is more pleasant to laugh than to belaughed at. "

"Yes--would not you allow me the pleasure then, just for once?"

"Certainly, if you desire it. You are so extremely merry--"

"Come, Mr. Short, we must not seem to have been quarrelling when we reachthe pond. It would be too ridiculous. "

"Everything seems to strike you in a humorous light to-day, " answeredJohn, beginning to be pacified by her tone. 

"Do you know, you are much more interesting when you are angry, " saidMrs. Goddard. 

"And you only made me angry in order to see whether I was interesting?"

"Perhaps--but then, I could not help it in the least. "

"I trust you are thoroughly satisfied upon the point, Mrs. Goddard? Ifthere is anything more that I can do to facilitate your researches inpsychology--"

"You would help me? Even to the extent of being angry again?" She smiledso pleasantly and frankly that John's wrath vanished. 

"It is impossible to be angry with you. I am very sorry if I seemed tobe, " he answered. "A man who has the good fortune to be thrown into yoursociety is a fool to waste his time in being disagreeable. "

"I agree with the conclusion, at all events--that is, it is much betterto be agreeable. Is it not? Let us be friends. "

"Oh, by all means, " said John. 

They walked on for some minutes in silence. John reflected that he hadwitnessed a phase of Mrs. Goddard's character of which he had been veryfar from suspecting the existence. He had not hitherto imagined her to bea woman of quick temper or sharp speech. His idea of her was formedchiefly upon her appearance. Her sad face, with its pathetic expression, suggested a melancholy humour delighting in subdued and tranquilthoughts, inclined naturally to the romantic view, or to what in the eyesof youths of twenty appears to be the romantic view of life. He hadsuddenly found her answering him with a sharpness which, while it rousedhis wits, startled his sensibilities. But he was flattered as well. Hisinstinct and his observation of Mrs. Goddard when in the society ofothers led him to believe that with Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose, or even withMr. Juxon, she was not in the habit of talking as she talked with him. Hewas therefore inwardly pleased, so soon as his passing annoyance hadsubsided, to feel that she made a difference between him and others. 

It was quite true that she made a distinction, though she did so almostunconsciously. It was perfectly natural, too. She was young in heart, inspite of her thirty years and her troubles; she had an elastictemperament; to a physiognomist her face would have shown a delicatesensitiveness to impressions rather than any inborn tendency to sadness. In spite of everything she was still young, and for two years and a halfshe had been in the society of persons much older than herself, personsshe respected and regarded as friends, but persons in whom her youthfound no sympathy. It was natural, therefore, that when time to someextent had healed the wound she had suffered and she suddenly foundherself in the society of a young and enthusiastic man, something of theenforced soberness of her manner should unbend, showing her character ina new light. She herself enjoyed the change, hardly knowing why; sheenjoyed a little passage of arms with John, and it amused her more thanshe could have expected to be young again, to annoy him, to break thepeace and heal it again in five minutes. But what happened entirelyfailed to amuse the squire, who did not regard such diversions asharmless; and moreover she was far from expecting the effect which hertreatment of John Short produced upon his scholarly but enthusiastictemper. 

CHAPTER IX. 

The squire had remarked that John Short seemed to have a peculiar temper, and Mrs. Goddard had observed the same thing. What has gone beforesufficiently explains the change in John's manner, and the difference inhis behaviour was plainly apparent even to Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose. Thevicar indeed was wise enough to see that John was very much attracted byMrs. Goddard, but he was also wise enough to say nothing about it. Hiswife, however, who had witnessed no love-making for nearly thirty years, except the courtship of the young physician who had married her daughter, attributed John's demeanour to no such disturbing cause. He wasoverworked, she said; he was therefore irritable; he had of course nevertaken that excellent homoeopathic remedy, highly diluted aconite, sincehe had left the vicarage; the consequence was that he was subject tonervous headache--she only hoped he would not be taken ill on the eve ofthe examination for honours. She hoped, too, that he would prolong hisholiday to the very last moment, for the country air and the rest heenjoyed were sure to do him so much good. With regard, to the extensionof John's visit, the vicar thought differently, although he held hispeace. There were many reasons why John should not become attached toMrs. Goddard both for her sake and his own, and if he staid long, thevicar felt quite sure that he would fall in love with her. She wasdangerously pretty, she was much older than John--which in the case ofvery young men constitutes an additional probability--she evidently tookan innocent pleasure in his society, and altogether such a complicationas was likely to ensue was highly undesirable. Therefore, when Mrs. Ambrose pressed John to stay longer than he had intended, the vicar notonly gave him no encouragement, but spoke gravely of the near approach ofthe contest for honours, of the necessity of concentrating every forcefor the coming struggle, and expressed at the same time the firmconviction that, if John did his best, he ought to be the senior classicin the year. 

Even Mrs. Goddard urged him to go. Of course he asked her advice. Hewould not have lost that opportunity of making her speak of himself, norof gauging the exact extent of the interest he hoped she felt in him. 

It was two or three days after the long conversation he had enjoyed withher. In that time they had met often and John's admiration for her, strengthened by his own romantic desire to be really in love, had begunto assume proportions which startled Mrs. Goddard and annoyed Mr. Juxon. The latter felt that the boy was in his way; whenever he wanted to seeMrs. Goddard, John was at her side, talking eagerly and contesting hisposition against the squire with a fierceness which in an older and wiserman would have been in the worst possible taste. Even as it was, Mr. Juxon looked considerably annoyed as he stood by, smoothing his smoothhair from time to time with his large white hand and feeling that even athis age, and with his experience, a man might sometimes cut a poorfigure. 

On the particular occasion when the relations between John and the squirebecame an object of comment to Mrs. Ambrose, the whole party wereassembled at Mrs. Goddard's cottage. She had invited everybody to tea, ameal which in her little household represented a compromise between herappetite and Nellie's. She had felt that in the small festivities of theBillingsfield Christmas season she was called upon to do her share withthe rest and, being a simple woman, she took her part simply, and did notdignify the entertainment of her four friends by calling it a dinner. Theoccasion was none the less hospitable, for she gave both time and thoughtto her preparations. Especially she had considered the question ofprecedence; it was doubtful, she thought, whether the squire or the vicarshould sit upon her right hand. The squire, as being lord of the manor, represented the powers temporal, the vicar on the other hand representedthe church, which on ordinary occasions takes precedence of the layfaculty. She had at last privately consulted Mr. Juxon, in whom she hadthe greatest confidence, asking him frankly which she should do, and Mr. Juxon had unhesitatingly yielded the post of honour to the vicar, addingto enforce his opinion the very plausible argument that if he, thesquire, took Mrs. Goddard in to tea, the vicar would have to give his armeither to little Nellie or to his own wife. Mrs. Goddard was convincedand the affair was a complete success. 

John felt that he could not complain of his position, but as he wasseparated from the object of his admiration during the whole meal, heresolved to indemnify himself for his sufferings by monopolising herconversation during the rest of the evening. The squire on the otherhand, who had been obliged to talk to Mrs. Ambrose during most of thetime while they were at table, and who, moreover, was beginning to feelthat he had seen almost enough of John Short, determined to give theyoung man a lesson in the art of interesting women in general and Mrs. Goddard in particular. She, indeed, would not have been a woman at allhad she not understood the two men and their intentions. After tea theparty congregated round the fire in the little drawing-room, standing ina circle, of which their hostess formed the centre. Mr. Juxon and John, anticipating that Mrs. Goddard must ultimately sit upon one side or otherof the fireplace had at first chosen opposite sides, each hoping that shewould take the chair nearest to himself. But Mrs. Goddard remainedstanding an unreasonably long time, for the very reason that she did notchoose to sit beside either of them. Seeing this the squire, who hadperhaps a greater experience than his adversary in this kind of strategicwarfare, left his place and put himself on the same side as John. Heargued that Mrs. Goddard would probably then choose the opposite side, whereas John who was younger would think she would come towards the twowhere they stood; John would consequently lose time, Mr. Juxon wouldcross again and install himself by her side while his enemy washesitating. 

While these moves and counter-moves were proceeding, the conversation wasgeneral. The vicar was for the hundredth time admiring the Andrea delSarto over the chimney-piece and his wife was explaining her generalobjections to the representation of sacred subjects upon canvas, whileMrs. Goddard answered each in turn and endeavoured to disagree withneither. What the squire had foreseen when he made his last move, however, actually took place at last. Mrs. Goddard established herselfupon the side opposite the two men. Mr. Juxon crossed rapidly to whereshe was seated, and Mrs. Ambrose, who had turned with the intention ofspeaking to the squire, found herself confronted by John. He saw that hehad been worsted by his foe and immediately lost his temper; but beingbrought face to face with Mrs. Ambrose was obliged to control it as hemight. That excellent lady beamed upon him with a maternal smile of thekind which is peculiarly irritating to young men. He struggled to getaway however, glancing over Mrs. Ambrose's shoulder at the squire andlonging to be "at him" as he would have expressed it. But the squire wasnot to be got at so easily, for the vicar's wife was of a fine presenceand covered much ground. John involuntarily thought of the dyke beforeTroy, of Hector and his heroes attempting to storm it and of the Ajacesand Sarpedon defending it and glaring down from above. He couldappreciate Hector's feelings--Mrs. Ambrose was very like the dyke. 

The squire smiled serenely and smoothed his hair as he talked to Mrs. Goddard and she herself looked by no means discontented, thereby adding, as it were, an insult to the injury done to John. 

"I shall always envy you the cottage, " the squire was saying. "I have nota single room in the Hall that is half so cheery in the evening. "

"I shall never forget my terror when we first met, " answered Mrs. Goddard, "do you remember? You frightened me by saying you would like tolive here. I thought you meant it. "

"You must have thought I was the most unmannerly of barbarians. "

"Instead of being the best of landlords, " added Mrs. Goddard with agrateful smile. 

"I hardly know whether I am that, " said Mr. Juxon, settling himself inhis chair. "But I believe I am by nature an exceedingly comfortable man, and I never fail to consult the interests of my comfort. "

"And of mine. Think of all you have done to improve this place. I cannever thank you enough. I suppose one always feels particularly gratefulat Christmas time--does not one?"

"One has more to be grateful for, it seems to me--in our climate, too. People in southern countries never really know what comfort means, because nature never makes them thoroughly uncomfortable. Only a man whois freezing can appreciate a good fire. "

"I suppose you have been a good deal in such places, " suggested Mrs. Goddard, vaguely. 

"Oh yes--everywhere, " answered the squire with equal indefiniteness. "Bythe bye, talking of travelling, when is our young friend going away?"There was not a shade of ill-humour in the question. 

"The day after New Year's--I believe. "

"He has had a very pleasant visit. "

"Yes, " replied Mrs. Goddard, "I hope it will do him a great deal ofgood. "

"Why? Was he ill? Ah--I remember, they said he had worked too hard. It isa great mistake to work too hard, especially when one is very young. "

"He is very young, is not he?" remarked Mrs. Goddard with a faint smile, remembering the many conversations she had had with him. 

"Very. Did it ever strike you that--well, that he was losing his head alittle?"

"No, " answered his companion innocently. "What about?"

"Oh, nothing. Only he has rather a peculiar temper. He is perpetuallygetting very angry with no ostensible reason--and then he glares at onelike an angry cat. "

"Take care, " said Mrs. Goddard, "he might hear you. "

"Do him good, " said the squire cheerfully. 

"Oh, no! It would hurt his feelings dreadfully. How can you be sounkind?"

"He is a very good boy, you know. Really, I believe he is. Only he isinclined to be rather too unreasonable; I should think he might besatisfied. "

"Satisfied with what?" inquired Mrs. Goddard, who did not wish tounderstand. 

"With the way you have treated him, " returned the squire bluntly. "Youhave been wonderfully good to him. "

"Have I?" The faint colour rose to her cheek. "I don't know--poor fellow!I daresay his life at Cambridge is very dull. "

"Yes. Entirely devoid of that species of amusement which he has enjoyedso abundantly in Billingsfield. It is not every undergraduate who has achance to talk to you for a week at a time. "

Mr. Juxon made the remark very calmly, without seeming to be in the leastannoyed. He was much too wise a man to appear to be displeased at Mrs. Goddard's treatment of John. Moreover, he felt that on the presentoccasion, at least, John had been summarily worsted; it was his turn tobe magnanimous. 

"If you are going to make compliments, I will go away, " said Mrs. Goddard. 

"I? I never made a compliment in my life, " replied the squirecomplacently. "Do you think it is a compliment to tell you that Mr. Shortprobably enjoys your conversation much more than the study of Greekroots?"

"Well--not exactly--"

"Besides, in general, " continued the squire, "compliments are mere wasteof breath. If a woman has any vanity she knows her own good points muchbetter than any man who attempts to explain them to her; and if she hasno vanity, no amount of explanation of her merits will make her see themin a proper light. "

"That is very true, " answered Mrs. Goddard, thoughtfully. "It neverstruck me before. I wonder whether that is the reason women always likemen who never make any compliments at all?"

The squire's face assumed an amusing expression of inquiry and surprise. 

"Is that personal?" he asked. 

"Oh--of course not, " answered Mrs. Goddard in some confusion. She blushedand turning towards the fire took up the poker and pretended to stir thecoals. Women always delight in knocking a good fire to pieces, out ofpure absence of mind. John Short saw the movement and, escaping suddenlyfrom the maternal conversation of Mrs. Ambrose, threw himself upon hisknee on the hearth-rug and tried to take the poker from his hostess'shand. 

"Oh, Mrs. Goddard, don't! Let me do it--please!" he exclaimed. 

"But I can do it very well myself, " said she protesting and not relaxingher hold upon the poker. But John was obstinate in his determination tosave her trouble, and rudely tried to get the instrument away. 

"Please don't--you hurt me, " said Mrs. Goddard petulantly. 

"Oh--I beg your pardon--I wanted to help you, " said John leaving hishold. "I did not really hurt you--did I?" he asked, almost tenderly. 

"Dreadfully, " replied Mrs. Goddard, half angry and half amused at hisimpatience and subsequent contrition. The squire sat complacently in hischair, watching the little scene. John hated him more than ever, and grewvery red. Mrs. Goddard saw the boy's embarrassment and presentlyrelented. 

"I daresay you will do it better than I, " she said, handing him thepoker, which John seized with alacrity. "That big coal--there, " sheadded, pointing to a smouldering block in the corner of the grate. 

"I did not mean to be rude, " said John. "I only wanted to help you. " Heknelt by her side poking the fire industriously. "I only wanted to get achance to talk to you, " he added, in a low voice, barely audible to Mrs. Goddard as she leaned forward. 

"I am afraid you cannot do that just now, " she said, not unkindly, butwith the least shade of severity in her tone. "You will get dreadfullyhot if you stay there, so near the fire. "

"I don't mind the heat in the least, " said John heroically. Neverthelessas she did not give him any further encouragement he was presentlyobliged to retire, greatly discomfited. He could not spend the evening onhis knees with the poker in his hand. 

"Bad failure, " remarked the squire in an undertone as soon as John hadrejoined Mrs. Ambrose, who had not quite finished her lecture onhomoeopathy. 

Mrs. Goddard leaned back in her chair and looked at Mr. Juxon rathercoolly. She did not want him to laugh at John, though she was not willingto encourage John herself. 

"You should not be unkind, " she said. "He is such a nice boy--why shouldyou wish him to be uncomfortable?"

"Oh, I don't in the least. I could not help being amused a little. I amsure I don't want to be unkind. "

Indeed the squire had not shown himself to be so, on the whole, and hedid not refer to the matter again during the evening. He kept his placefor some time by Mrs. Goddard's side and then, judging that he hadsufficiently asserted his superiority, rose and talked to Mrs. Ambrose. But John, being now in a thoroughly bad humour, could not take his vacantseat with a good grace. He stood aloof and took up a book that lay uponthe table and avoided looking at Mrs. Goddard. By and by, when the partybroke up, he said good-night in such a particularly cold and formal toneof voice that she stared at him in surprise. But he took no notice of herlook and went away after the Ambroses, in that state of mind which boyscall a huff. 

But on the following day John repented of his behaviour. All day long hewandered about the garden of the vicarage, excusing himself from joiningthe daily skating which formed the staple of amusement during theChristmas week, by saying that he had an idea for a copy of verses andmust needs work it out. But he inwardly hoped that Mrs. Goddard wouldcome to the vicarage late in the afternoon, without the inevitable Mr. Juxon, and that he might then get a chance of talking to her. He was notquite sure what he should say. He would find words on the spur of themoment; it would at all events be much easier than to meet her on the iceat the Hall with all the rest of them and to see Mr. Juxon pushing herabout in that detestable chair, with the unruffled air of superioritywhich John so hated to see upon his face. The vicar suspected more thanever that there was something wrong; he had seen some of the by-play onthe previous evening, and had noticed John's ill-concealed disappointmentat being unable to dislodge the sturdy squire from his seat. But Mrs. Ambrose seemed to be very obtuse, and the vicar would have been the lastto have spoken of his suspicions, even to the wife of his bosom. It washis duty to induce John to go back to his work at the end of the week; itwas not his duty to put imputations upon him which Mrs. Ambrose wouldnaturally exaggerate and which would drive her excellent heart into aterrible state of nervous anxiety. 

But Mrs. Goddard did not come back to the vicarage on that day, and Johnwent to dinner with a sad heart. It did not seem like a day at all if hehad not seen her and talked with her. He had now no doubt whatever thathe was seriously in love, and he set himself to consider his position. The more he considered it, the more irreconcilable it seemed to be withthe passion which beset him. A child could see that for several years, atleast, he would not be in a position to marry. With Mr. Juxon at handfrom year's end to year's end, the owner of the Hall, of theBillingsfield property and according to all appearances of otherresources besides, --with such a man constantly devoted to her, could Mrs. Goddard be expected to wait for poor John three years, even two years, from the time of the examination for the classical Tripos? Nothing wasmore improbable, he was forced to admit. And yet, the idea of life if hedid not marry Mrs. Goddard was dismal beyond all expression; he wouldprobably not survive it. He did not know what he should do. He shrankfrom the thought of declaring his love to her at once. He remembered withpain that she had a terrible way of laughing at him when he grewconfidential or too complimentary, and he dreaded lest at the suprememoment of his life he should appear ridiculous in her eyes--he, a mereundergraduate. If he came out at the head of the Tripos it would bedifferent; and yet that seemed so long to wait, especially while Mr. Juxon lived at the Hall and Mrs. Goddard lived at the park gates. Suddenly a thought struck him which filled him with delight; it was justpossible that Mr. Juxon had no intention of marrying Mrs. Goddard. If hehad any such views he would probably have declared them before now, forhe had met her every day during more than half a year. John longed to asksome one the question. Perhaps Mr. Ambrose, who might be supposed to knoweverything connected with Mrs. Goddard, could tell him. He felt verynervous at the idea of speaking to the vicar on the subject, and yet itseemed to him that no one else could set his mind at rest. If he werequite certain that Mr. Juxon had no intention of offering himself to thecharming tenant of the cottage, he might return to his work with somesense of security in the future. Otherwise he saw only the desperatealternative of throwing himself at her feet and declaring that he lovedher, or of going back to Cambridge with the dreadful anticipation ofhearing any day that she had married the squire. To be laughed at wouldbe bad, but to feel that he had lost her irrevocably, without a struggle, would be awful. No one but the vicar could and would tell him the truth;it would be bitter to ask such a question, but it must be done. Having atlast come to this formidable resolution, towards the conclusion ofdinner, his spirits rose a little. He took another glass of the vicar'smild ale and felt that he could face his fate. 

"May I speak to you a moment in the study, Mr. Ambrose?" he said as theyrose from table. 

"Certainly, " replied the vicar; and having conducted his wife to thedrawing-room, he returned to find John. There was a low, smouldering firein the study grate, and John had lit a solitary candle. The room lookedvery dark and dismal and John was seated in one of the black leatherchairs, waiting. 

"Anything about those verses you were speaking of to-day?" asked thevicar cheerfully, in anticipation of a pleasant classical chat. 

"No, " said John, gloomily. "The fact is--" he cleared his throat, "thefact is, I want to ask you rather a delicate question, sir. "

The vicar's heavy eyebrows contracted; the lines of his face all turneddownwards, and his long, clean-shaved upper lip closed sharply upon itsfellow, like a steel trap. He turned his grey eyes upon John's avertedface with a searching look. 

"Have you got into any trouble at Trinity, John?" he asked severely. 

"Oh no--no indeed, " said John. Nothing was further from his thoughts thanhis college at that moment. "I want to ask you a question, which no oneelse can answer. Is--do you think that--that Mr. Juxon has any idea ofmarrying Mrs. Goddard?"

The vicar started in astonishment and laid both hands upon the arms ofhis chair. 

"What--in the world--put that--into your head?" he asked very slowly, emphasising every word of his question. John was prepared to see his oldtutor astonished but was rather taken aback at the vicar's tone. 

"Do you think it is likely, sir?" he insisted. 

"Certainly not, " answered the vicar, still eyeing him suspiciously. "Certainly not. I have positive reasons to prove the contrary. But, mydear John, why, in the name of all that is sensible, do you ask me such aquestion? You don't seriously think of proposing--"

"I don't see why I should not, " said John doggedly, seeing that he wasfound out. 

"You don't see why you should not? Why the thing is perfectly absurd, notto say utterly impossible! John, you are certainly mad. "

"I don't see why, " repeated John. "I am a grown man. I have goodprospects--"

"Good prospects!" ejaculated the vicar in horror. "Good prospects! Why, you are only an undergraduate at Cambridge. "

"I may be senior classic in a few months, " objected John. "That is notsuch a bad prospect, it seems to me. "

"It means that you may get a fellowship, probably will--in the course ofa few years. But you lose it if you marry. Besides--do you know that Mrs. Goddard is ten years older than you, and more?"

"Impossible, " said John in a tone of conviction. 

"I know that she is. She will be two and thirty on her next birthday, andyou are not yet one and twenty. "

"I shall be next month, " argued John, who was somewhat taken aback, however, by the alarming news of Mrs. Goddard's age. "Besides, I can gointo the church, before I get a fellowship--"

"No, you can't, " said the vicar energetically. "You won't be able tomanage it. If you do, you will have to put up with a poor living. "

"That would not matter. Mrs. Goddard has something--"

"An honourable prospect!" exclaimed Mr. Ambrose, growing more and moreexcited. "To marry a woman ten years older than yourself because she hasa little money of her own! You! I would not have thought it of you, John--indeed I would not!"

Indeed no one was more surprised than John Short himself, when he foundhimself arguing the possibilities of his marriage with his old tutor. Buthe was an obstinate young fellow enough and was not inclined to give upthe fight easily. 

"Really, " he objected, "I cannot see anything so very terrible in theidea. I shall certainly make my way in the world. You know that it is notfor the sake of her money. Many men have married women ten years olderthan themselves, and not half so beautiful and charming, I am sure. "

"I don't believe it, " said the vicar, "and if they have, why it has beenvery different, that is all. Besides, you have not known Mrs. Goddard aweek--positively not more than five days--why, it is madness! Do you meanto tell me that at the end of five days you believe you are seriouslyattached to a lady you never saw in your life before?"

"I saw her once, " said John. "That day when I waked Muggins--"

"Once! Nearly three years ago! I have no patience with you, John! That ayoung fellow of your capabilities should give way to such a boyish fancy!It is absolutely amazing! I thought you were growing to like her societyvery much, but I did not believe it would, come to this!"

"It is nothing to be ashamed of, " said John stoutly. 

"It is something to be afraid of, " answered the vicar. 

"Oh, do not be alarmed, " retorted John. "I will do nothing rash. You haveset my mind at rest in assuring me that she will not marry Mr. Juxon. Ishall not think of offering myself to Mrs. Goddard until after theTripos. "

"Offering myself"--how deliciously important the expression sounded toJohn's own ears! It conveyed such a delightful sense of the possibilitiesof life when at last he should feel that he was in a position to offerhimself to any woman, especially to Mrs. Goddard. 

"I have a great mind not to ask you to come down, even if you do turn outsenior classic, " said the vicar, still fuming with excitement. "But ifyou put off your rash action until then, you will probably have changedyour mind. "

"I will never change my mind, " said John confidently. It was evident, nevertheless, that if the romance of his life were left to the tendermercies of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose, it was likely to come to anabrupt termination. When the two returned to the society of Mrs. Ambrose, the vicar was still very much agitated and John was plunged in a gloomymelancholy. 

CHAPTER X. 

The vicar's suspicions were more than realized and he passed anuncomfortable day after his interview with John, in debating what heought to do, whether he ought to do anything at all, or whether he shouldmerely hasten his old pupil's departure and leave matters to take care ofthemselves. He was a very conscientious man, and he felt that he wasresponsible for John's conduct towards Mrs. Goddard, seeing that she hadput herself under his protection, and that John was almost like one ofhis family. His first impulse was to ask counsel of his wife, but herejected the plan, reflecting with great justice that she was very fondof John and had at first not been sure of liking Mrs. Goddard; she wouldbe capable of thinking that the latter had "led Short on, " as she wouldprobably say. The vicar did not believe this, and was therefore loaththat any one else should. He felt that circumstances had made him Mrs. Goddard's protector, and he was moreover personally attached to her; hewould not therefore do or say anything whereby she was likely toappear to any one else in an unfavourable light. It was incredible thatshe should have given John any real encouragement. Mr. Ambrose wonderedwhether he ought to warn her of his pupil's madness. But when he thoughtabout that, it seemed unnecessary. It was unlikely that John would betrayhimself during his present visit, since the vicar had solemnly assuredhim that there was no possibility of a marriage so far as Mr. Juxon wasconcerned. It was undoubtedly a very uncomfortable situation but therewas evidently nothing to be done; Mr. Ambrose felt that to speak to Mrs. Goddard would be to precipitate matters in a way which could not butcause much humiliation to John Short and much annoyance to herself. Heaccordingly held his peace, but his upper lip set itself stiffly and hiseyes had a combative expression which told his wife that there wassomething the matter. 

After breakfast John went out, on pretence of walking in the garden, andMr. And Mrs. Ambrose were left alone. The latter, as usual after themorning meal, busied herself about the room, searching out those secretcorners which she suspected Susan of having forgotten to dust. The vicarstood looking out of the window. The weather was grey and it seemedlikely that there would be a thaw which would spoil the skating. 

"I think, " said Mrs. Ambrose, "that John is far from well. "

"What makes you say that?" inquired the vicar, who was thinking of him atthat very moment. 

"Anybody might see it. He has no appetite--he ate nothing at breakfastthis morning. He looks pale. My dear, that boy will certainly breakdown. "

"I don't believe it, " answered Mr. Ambrose still looking out of thewindow. His hands were in his pockets, thrusting the skirts of hisclerical coat to right and left; he slowly raised himself upon his toesand let himself down again, repeating the operation as though it helpedhim to think. 

"That is the way you spoil all your coats, Augustin, " said his wifelooking at him from behind. "I assure you, my dear, that boy is not well. Poor fellow, all alone at college with nobody to look after him--"

"We have all had to go through that. I do not think it hurts him a bit, "said the vicar, slowly removing his hands from his pockets in deferenceto his wife's suggestion. 

"Then what is it, I would like to know? There is certainly something thematter. Now I ask you whether he looks like himself?"

"Perhaps he does look a little tired. "

"Tired! There is something on his mind, Augustin. I am positively certainthere is something on his mind. Why won't you tell me?"

"My dear--" began the vicar, and then stopped short. He was a verytruthful man, and as he knew very well what was the matter with John hewas embarrassed to find an answer. "My dear, " he repeated, "I do notthink he is ill. "

"Then I am right, " retorted Mrs. Ambrose, triumphantly. "It is just as Ithought, there is something on his mind. Don't deny it, Augustin; thereis something on his mind. "

Mr. Ambrose was silent; he glared fiercely at the window panes. 

"Why don't you tell me?" insisted his better half. "I am quite sure youknow all about it. Augustin, do you know, or do you not?"

Thus directly questioned the vicar turned sharply round, sweeping thewindow with his coat tails. 

"My dear, " he said, shortly, "I do know. Can you not imagine that it maybe a matter which John does not care to have mentioned?"

Mrs. Ambrose grew red with annoyance. She had set her heart on findingout what had disturbed John, and the vicar had apparently made up hismind that she should not succeed. Such occurrences were very rare betweenthat happy couple. 

"I cannot believe he has done anything wrong, " said Mrs. Ambrose. "Anything which need be concealed from me--the interest I have alwaystaken--"

"He has not done anything wrong, " said the vicar impatiently. "I do wishyou would drop the subject--"

"Then why should it be concealed from me?" objected his wife withadmirable logic. "If it is anything good he need not hide his light undera bushel, I should think. "

"There are plenty of things which are neither bad nor good, " argued thevicar, who felt that if he could draw Mrs. Ambrose into a Socraticdiscussion he was safe. 

"That is a distinct prevarication, Augustin, " said she severely. "I amsurprised at you. "

"Not at all, " retorted the vicar. "What has occurred to John is not owingto any fault of his. " In his own mind the good man excused himself bysaying that John could not have helped falling in love with Mrs. Goddard. But his wife turned quickly upon him. 

"That does not prevent what has occurred to him, as you call it, frombeing good, or more likely bad, to judge from his looks. "

"My dear, " said Mr. Ambrose, driven to bay, "I entirely decline todiscuss the point. "

"I thought you trusted me, Augustin. "

"So I do--certainly--and I always consult you about my own affairs. "

"I think I have as much right to know about John as you have, " retortedhis wife, who seemed deeply hurt. 

"That is a point then which you ought to settle with John, " said thevicar. "I cannot betray his confidence, even to you. "

"Oh--then he has been making confidences to you?"

"How in the world should I know about his affairs unless he told me?"

"One may see a great many things without being told about them, youknow, " answered Mrs. Ambrose, assuming a prim expression as she examineda small spot in the tablecloth. The vicar was walking up and down theroom. Her speech, which was made quite at random, startled him. She, too, might easily have observed John's manner when he was with Mrs. Goddard;she might have guessed the secret, and have put her own interpretation onJohn's sudden melancholy. 

"What may one see?" asked the vicar quickly. 

"I did not say one could see anything, " answered his wife. "But from yourmanner I infer that there really is something to see. Wait a minute--whatcan it be?"

"Nothing--my dear, nothing, " said the vicar desperately. 

"Oh, Augustin, I know you so well, " said the implacable Mrs. Ambrose. "Iam quite sure now, that it is something I have seen. Deny it, my dear. "

The vicar was silent and bit his long upper lip as he marched up and downthe room. 

"Of course--you cannot deny it, " she continued. "It is perfectly clear. The very first day he arrived--when you came down from the Hall, in theevening--Augustin, I have got it! It is Mrs. Goddard--now don't tell meit is not. I am quite sure it is Mrs. Goddard. How stupid of me! Is itnot Mrs. Goddard?"

"If you are so positive, " said the vicar, resorting to a form of defencegenerally learned in the nursery, "why do you ask me?"

"I insist upon knowing, Augustin, is it, or is it not, Mrs. Goddard?"

"My dear, I positively refuse to answer any more questions, " said thevicar with tardy firmness. 

"Oh, it is no matter, " retorted Mrs. Ambrose in complete triumph, "if itwere not Mrs. Goddard of course you would say so at once. "

A form of argument so unanswerable, that the vicar hastily left the roomfeeling that he had basely betrayed John's confidence, and mutteringsomething about intolerable curiosity. Mrs. Ambrose had vanquished herhusband, as she usually did on those rare occasions when anythingapproaching to a dispute arose between them. Having come to theconclusion that "it" was Mrs. Goddard, the remainder of the secret neededno discovery. It was plain that John must be in love with the tenant ofthe cottage, and it seemed likely that it would devolve upon Mrs. Ambroseto clear up the matter. She was very fond of John and her firstimpression was that Mrs. Goddard, whom she now again suspected of havingforeign blood, had "led him on"--an impression which the vicar hadanticipated when he rashly resolved not to tell his wife John's secret. She knew very well that the vicar must have told John his mind in regardto such an attachment, and she easily concluded that he must have done soon the previous evening when John called him into the study. But she hadjust won a victory over her husband, and she consequently felt that hewas weak, probably too weak to save the situation, and it was borne inupon her that she ought to do something immediately. Unhappily she didnot see quite clearly what was to be done. She might go straight to Mrs. Goddard and accuse her of having engaged John's affections; but the moreshe thought of that, the more diffident she grew in regard to the resultof such an interview. Curiosity had led her to a certain point, butcaution prevented her from going any further. Mrs. Ambrose was verycautious. The habit of living in a small place, feeling that all heractions were watched by the villagers and duly commented upon by them, had made her even more careful than she was by nature. It would be veryunwise to bring about a scene with Mrs. Goddard unless she were very sureof the result. Mrs. Goddard was hardly a friend. In Mrs. Ambrose'sopinion an acquaintance of two years and a half standing involving almostdaily meetings and the constant exchange of civilities did not constitutefriendship. Nevertheless the vicar's wife would have been ashamed to ownthat after such long continued intercourse she was wholly ignorant ofMrs. Goddard's real character; especially as the latter had requested thevicar to tell Mrs. Ambrose her story when she first appeared atBillingsfield. Moreover, as her excitement at the victory she had gainedover her husband began to subside, she found herself reviewing mentallythe events of the last few days. She remembered distinctly that John hadperpetually pursued Mrs. Goddard, and that although the latter seemed tofind him agreeable enough, she had never to Mrs. Ambrose's knowledgegiven him any of those open encouragements in the way of smiles andsignals, which in the good lady's mind were classified under the term"flirting. " Mrs. Ambrose's ideas of flirtation may have been antiquated;thirty years of Billingsfield in the society of the Reverend Augustin hadnot contributed to their extension; but, on the whole, they were just. Mrs. Goddard had not flirted with John. It is worthy of notice that inproportion as the difficulties she would enter upon by demanding anexplanation from Mrs. Goddard seemed to grow in magnitude, she graduallyarrived at the conclusion that it was John's fault. Half an hour ago, inthe flush of triumph she had indignantly denied that anything could beJohn's fault. She now resolved to behave to him with great austerity. Such an occurrence as his falling in love could not be passed over withindifference. It seemed best that he should leave Billingsfield verysoon. 

John thought so too. Existence would not be pleasant now that the vicarknew his secret, and he cursed the folly and curiosity which had led himto betray himself in order to find out whether Mr. Juxon thought ofmarrying Mrs. Goddard. He had now resolved to return to Cambridge at onceand to work his hardest until the Tripos was over. He would then comeback to Billingsfield and, with his honours fresh upon him and theprospect of immediate success before him, he would throw himself at Mrs. Goddard's feet. But of course he must have one farewell interview. Oh, those farewell interviews! Those leave-takings, wherein often so much istaken without leave!

Accordingly at luncheon he solemnly announced his intention of leavingthe vicarage on the morrow. Mrs. Ambrose received the news with anequanimity which made John suspicious, for she had heretofore constantlypressed him to extend his holiday, expressing the greatest solicitude forhis health. She now sat stony as a statue and said very coldly that shewas sorry he had to go so soon, but that, of course, it could not behelped. The vicar was moved by his wife's apparent indifference. John, hesaid, might at least have stayed till the end of the promised week; butat this suggestion Mrs. Ambrose darted at her husband a look so full offierce meaning, that the vicar relapsed into silence, returning to theconsideration of bread and cheese and a salad of mustard and cress. Johnsaw the look and was puzzled; he did not believe the vicar capable ofgoing straight to Mrs. Ambrose with the story of the last night'sinterview. But he was already so much disturbed that he did not attemptto explain to himself what was happening. 

But when lunch was over, and he realised that he had declared hisintention of leaving Billingsfield on the next day, he saw that if hemeant to see Mrs. Goddard before he left he must go to her at once. Hetherefore waited until he heard Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose talking together inthe sitting-room and then slipped quietly out by the garden to the road. 

He had no idea what he should say when he met Mrs. Goddard. He meant, ofcourse, to let her understand, or at least suppose, that he was leavingsuddenly on her account, but he did not know in the least how toaccomplish it. He trusted that the words necessary to him would come intohis head spontaneously. His heart beat fast and he was conscious that heblushed as he rang the bell of the cottage. Almost before he knew wherehe was, he found himself ushered into the little drawing-room and in thepresence of the woman he now felt sure that he loved. But to his greatannoyance she was not alone; Nellie was with her. Mrs. Goddard sat nearthe fire, reading a review; Nellie was curled up in a corner of the deepsofa with a book, her thick brown curls falling all over her face andhands as she read. Mrs. Goddard extended her hand, without rising. 

"How do you do, Mr. Short?" she said. The young man stood hat in hand inthe middle of the room, feeling very nervous. It was strange that heshould experience any embarrassment now, considering how many hours hehad spent in her company during the last few days. He blushed andstammered. 

"How do you do? I, in fact--I have come to say good-bye, " he blurted out. 

"So soon?" said Mrs. Goddard calmly. "Pray sit down. "

"Are you really going away, Mr. Short?" asked Nellie. "We are so sorry tolose you. " The child had caught the phrase from a book she had beenreading, and thought it very appropriate. Her mother smiled. 

"Yes--as Nellie says--we are sorry to lose you, " she said. "I thought youwere to stay until Monday?"

"So I was--but--very urgent business--not exactly business of course, butwork--calls me away sooner. " Having delivered himself of this masterpieceof explanation John looked nervously at Nellie and then at his hat andthen, with an imploring glance, at Mrs. Goddard. 

"But we shall hear of you, Mr. Short--after the examinations, shall wenot?"

"Oh yes, " said John eagerly. "I will come down as soon as the lists areout. "

"You have my best wishes, you know, " said Mrs. Goddard kindly. "I feelquite sure that you will really be senior classic. "

"Mamma is always saying that--it is quite true, " explained Nellie. 

John blushed again and looked gratefully at Mrs. Goddard. He wishedNellie would go away, but there was not the least chance of that. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Goddard, "I often say it. We all take a great interestin your success here. "

"You are very kind, " murmured John. "Of course I shall come down at onceand tell you all about it, if I succeed. I do not really expect to befirst, of course. I shall be satisfied if I get a place in the first ten. But I mean to do my best. "

"No one can do more, " said Mrs. Goddard, leaning back in her chair andlooking into the fire. Her face was quiet, but not sad as it sometimeswas. There was a long silence which John did not know how to break. Nellie sat upon a carved chair by the side of the fireplace dangling herlegs and looking at her toes, turning them alternately in and out. Shewished John would go for she wanted to get back to her book, but had beentold it was not good manners to read when there were visitors. Johnlooked at Mrs. Goddard's face and was about to speak, and then changedhis mind and grew red and said nothing. Had she noticed his shyness shewould have made an effort at conversation, but she was absent-mindedto-day, and was thinking of something else. Suddenly she started andlaughed a little. 

"I beg your pardon, " she said. "What were you saying, Mr. Short?" HadJohn been saying anything he would have repeated it, but being thusinterrogated he grew doubly embarrassed. 

"I--I have not much to say--except good-bye, " he answered. 

"Oh, don't go yet, " said Mrs. Goddard. "You are not going this afternoon?It is always so unpleasant to say good-bye, is it not?"

"Dreadfully, " answered John. "I would rather say anything else in theworld. No; I am going early to-morrow morning. There is no help for it, "he added desperately. "I must go, you know. "

"The next time you come, you will be able to stay much longer, " said Mrs. Goddard in an encouraging way. "You will have no more terms, then. "

"No indeed--nothing but to take my degree. "

"And what will you do then? You said the other day that you thoughtseriously of going into the church. "

"Oh mamma, " interrupted Nellie suddenly looking up, "fancy Mr. Short in ablack gown, preaching like Mr. Ambrose! How perfectly ridiculous he wouldlook!"

"Nellie--Nellie!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, "do not talk nonsense. It isvery rude to say Mr. Short would look ridiculous. "

"I didn't mean to be rude, mamma, " returned Nellie, blushing scarlet andpouting her lips, "only it would be very funny, wouldn't it?"

"I daresay it would, " said John, relieved by the interruption. "I wishyou would advise me what to do, Mrs. Goddard, " he added in a confidentialtone. 

"I?" she exclaimed, and then laughed. "How should I be able to adviseyou?"

"I am sure you could, " said John, insisting. "You have such wonderfullygood judgment--"

"Have I? I did not know it. But, tell me, if you come out very high areyou not sure of getting a fellowship?"

"It is likely, " answered John indifferently. "But I should have to giveit up if I married--"

"Surely, Mr. Short, " cried Mrs. Goddard, with a laugh that cut him to thequick, "you do not think of marrying for many years to come?"

"Oh--I don't know, " he said, blushing violently, "why should not I?"

"In the first place, a man should never marry until he is at least fiveand twenty years old, " said Mrs. Goddard, calmly. 

"Well--I may be as old as that before I get the fellowship. "

"Yes, I daresay. But even then, why should you want to resign a handsomeindependence as soon as you have got it? Is there anything else so goodwithin your reach?"

"There is the church, of course, " said John. "But Miss Nellie seems tothink that ridiculous--"

"Never mind Nellie, " answered Mrs. Goddard. "Seriously, Mr. Short, do youapprove of entering the church merely as a profession, a means of earningmoney?"

"Well--no--I did not put it in that way. But many people do. "

"That does not prove that it is either wise or decent, " said Mrs. Goddard. "If you felt impelled to take orders from other motives, itwould be different. As I understand you, you are choosing a professionfor the sake of becoming independent. "

"Certainly, " said John. 

"Well, then, there is nothing better for you to do than to get afellowship and hold it as long as you can, and during that time you canmake up your mind. " She spoke with conviction, and the plan seemed good. "But I cannot imagine, " she continued, "why you should ask my advice. "

"And not to marry?" inquired John nervously. 

"There is plenty of time to think of that when you are thirty--even fiveand thirty is not too late. "

"Dear me!" exclaimed John, "I think that is much too old!"

"Do you call me old?" asked Mrs. Goddard serenely. "I was thirty-one onmy last birthday. "

For the twentieth time, John felt himself growing uncomfortably hot. Notonly had he said an unconscionably stupid thing, but Mrs. Goddard, afteradvising him not to marry for ten years, had almost hinted that she mightmeanwhile be married herself. What else could she mean by the remark? ButJohn was hardly a responsible being on that day. His views of life andhis understanding were equally disturbed. 

"No indeed, " he protested on hearing her confession of age. "Noindeed--why, you are the youngest person I ever saw, of course. But withmen--it is quite different. "

"Is it? I always thought women were supposed to grow old faster than men. That is the reason why women always marry men so much older thanthemselves. "

"Oh--in that case--I have nothing more to say, " replied John in veryindistinct tones. The perspiration was standing upon his forehead; theroom swam with him and he felt a terrible, prickly sensation all over hisbody. 

"Mamma, shan't I open the door? Mr. Short is so very hot, " said Nellielooking at him in some astonishment. At that moment John felt as thoughhe could have eaten little Nellie, long legs, ringlets and all, withinfinite satisfaction. He rose suddenly to his feet. 

"The fact is--it is late--I must really be saying good-bye, " hestammered. 

"Must you?" said Mrs. Goddard, suspecting that something was the matter. "Well, I am very sorry to say good-bye. But you will be coming back soon, will you not?"

"Yes--I don't know--perhaps I shall not come back at all. Good-bye--Mrs. Goddard--good-bye, Miss Nellie. "

"Good-bye, Mr. Short, " said Mrs. Goddard, looking at him with someanxiety. "You are not ill? What is the matter?"

"Oh dear no, nothing, " answered John with an unnatural laugh. "No thankyou--good-bye. "

He managed to get out of the door and rushed down to the road. The coldair steadied his nerves. He felt better. With a sudden revulsion offeeling, he began to utter inward imprecations against his folly, againstthe house he had just left, against everybody and everything in general, not forgetting poor little Nellie. 

"If ever I cross that threshold again--" he muttered with tragicemphasis. His face was still red, and he swung his stick ferociouslyas he strode towards the vicarage. Several little boys in raggedsmock-frocks saw him and thought he had had some beer, even as their ownfathers, and made vulgar gestures when his back was turned. 

So poor John packed his portmanteau and left the vicarage early on thefollowing morning. He sent an excuse to Mr. Juxon explaining that theurgency of his work called him back sooner than he had expected, and whenthe train moved fairly off towards Cambridge he felt that in being sparedthe ordeal of shaking hands with his rival he had at least escaped someof the bitterness of his fate; as he rolled along he thought very sadlyof all that had happened in that short time which was to have been so gayand which had come to such a miserable end. 

Reflecting calmly upon his last interview with Mrs. Goddard, he wassurprised to find that his memory failed him. He could not recallanything which could satisfactorily account for the terribledisappointment and distress he had felt. She had only said that she wasthirty-one years old, precisely as the vicar had stated on the previousevening, and she had advised him not to marry for some years to come. Butshe had laughed, and his feelings had been deeply wounded--he could nottell precisely at what point in the conversation, but he was quitecertain that she had laughed, and oh! that terrible Nellie! It was verybitter, and John felt that the best part of his life was lived out. Hewent back to his books with a dark and melancholy tenacity of purpose, flavoured by a hope that he might come to some sudden and awful end inthe course of the next fortnight, thereby causing untold grief andconsternation to the hard-hearted woman he had loved. But before thefortnight had expired he found to his surprise that he was intenselyinterested in his work, and once or twice he caught himself wondering howMrs. Goddard would look when he went back to Billingsfield and told herhe had come out at the head of the classical Tripos--though, of course, he had no intention of going there, nor of ever seeing her again. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Mr. Juxon was relieved to hear that John Short had suddenly gone back toCambridge. He had indeed meant to like him from the first and hadbehaved towards him with kindness and hospitality; but while ready toadmire his good qualities and to take a proper amount of interest in hisapproaching contest for honours, he had found him a troublesome person todeal with and, in his own words, a nuisance. Matters had come to a climaxafter the tea at the cottage, when the squire had so completelyvanquished him, but since that evening the two had not met. 

The opposition which John brought to bear against Mr. Juxon was not, however, without its effect. The squire was in that state of mind inwhich a little additional pressure sufficed to sway his resolutions. It has been seen that he had for some time regarded Mrs. Goddard'ssociety as an indispensable element in his daily life; he had been somuch astonished at discovering this that he had absented himself forseveral days and had finally returned ready to submit to his fate, in sofar as his fate required that he should see Mrs. Goddard every day. Shortly afterwards John had appeared and by his persistent attempts tomonopolise Mrs. Goddard's conversation had again caused an interruptionin the squire's habits, which the latter had resented with characteristicfirmness. The very fact of having resisted John had strengthened andgiven a new tone to Mr. Juxon's feelings towards his tenant. He began towatch the hands of the clock with more impatience than formerly when, after breakfast, he sat reading the papers before the library fire, waiting for the hour when he was accustomed to go down to the cottage. His interest in the papers decreased as his interest in the time of daygrew stronger, and for the first time in his life he found to his greatsurprise that after reading the news of the day with the greatest care, he was often quite unable to remember a word of what he had read. Then, at first, he would be angry with himself and would impose upon himselfthe task of reading the paper again before going to the cottage. But verysoon he found that he had to read it twice almost every day, and thisseemed such an unreasonable waste of time that he gave it up, and fellinto very unsystematic habits. 

For some days, as though by mutual consent, neither Mrs. Goddard nor thesquire spoke of John Short. The squire was glad he was gone and hopedthat he would not come back, but was too kind-hearted to say so; Mrs. Goddard instinctively understood Mr. Juxon's state of mind and did notdisturb his equanimity by broaching an unpleasant subject. Several dayspassed by after John had gone and he would certainly not have beenflattered had he known that during that time two, out of the four personshe had met so often in his short holiday, had never so much as mentionedhim. 

One afternoon in January the squire found himself alone with Mrs. Goddard. It was a great exception, and she herself doubted whether shewere wise to receive him when she had not Nellie with her. Nellie hadgone to the vicarage to help Mrs. Ambrose with some work she had in handfor her poor people, but Mrs. Goddard had a slight headache and hadstayed at home in consequence. The weather was very bad; heavy cloudswere driving overhead and the north-east wind howled and screamed throughthe leafless oaks of the park, driving a fine sleet against the cottagewindows and making the dead creepers rattle against the wall. It was abitter January day, and Mrs. Goddard felt how pleasant a thing it was tostay at home with a book beside her blazing fire. She was all alone, andNellie would not be back before four o'clock. Suddenly a well-known stepechoed upon the slate flags without and there was a ring at the bell. Mrs. Goddard had hardly time to think what she should do, as she laid herbook upon her knee and looked nervously over her shoulder towards thedoor. It was awkward, she thought, but it could not be helped. In suchweather it seemed absurd to send the squire away because her little girlwas not with her. He had come all the way down from the Hall to spendthis dreary afternoon at the cottage--she could not send him away. Therewere sounds in the passage as of some one depositing a waterproof coatand an umbrella, the door opened and Mr. Juxon appeared upon thethreshold. 

"Come in, " said Mrs. Goddard, banishing her scruples as soon as she sawhim. "I am all alone, " she added rather apologetically. The squire, whowas a simple man in many ways, understood the remark and felt slightlyembarrassed. 

"Is Miss Nellie out?" he asked, coming forward and taking Mrs. Goddard'shand. He had not yet reached the point of calling the child plain"Nellie;" he would have thought it an undue familiarity. 

"She is gone to the vicarage, " answered Mrs. Goddard. "What a dreadfulday! You must be nearly frozen. Will you have a cup of tea?"

"No thanks--no, you are very kind. I have had a good walk; I am notcold--never am. As you say, in such weather I could not resist thetemptation to come in. This is a capital day to test that India-rubbertubing we have put round your windows. Excuse me--I will just look andsee if the air comes through. "

Mr. Juxon carefully examined the windows of the sitting-room and thenreturned to his seat. 

"It is quite air-tight, I think, " he said with some satisfaction, as hesmoothed his hair with his hand. 

"Oh, quite, " said Mrs. Goddard. "It was so very good of you. "

"Not a bit of it, " returned the squire cheerily. "A landlord's chiefpre-occupation ought to be the comfort of his tenants and his nextthought should be to keep his houses in repair. I never owned anyhouses before, so I have determined to start with good principles. "

"I am sure you succeed. You walked down?"

"Always walk, in any weather. It is much less trouble and much cheaper. Besides, I like it. "

"The best of all reasons. Then you will not have any tea? I almost wishyou would, because I want some myself. "

"Oh of course--in that case I shall be delighted. Shall I ring?"

He rang and Martha brought the tea. Some time was consumed in thepreparations which Mr. Juxon watched with interest as though he had neverseen tea made before. Everything that Mrs. Goddard did interested him. 

"I do not know why it is, " she said at last, "but weather like this isdelightful when one is safe at home. I suppose it is the contrast--"

"Yes indeed. It is like the watch below in dirty-weather. "

"Excuse me--I don't quite understand--"

"At sea, " explained the squire. "There is no luxury like being below whenthe decks are wet and there is heavy weather about. "

"I should think so, " said Mrs. Goddard. "Have you been at sea much, Mr. Juxon?"

"Thirty years, " returned the squire laconically. Mrs. Goddard looked athim in astonishment. 

"You don't mean to say you have been a sailor all your life?"

"Does that surprise you? I have been a sailor since I was twelve yearsold. But I got very tired of it. It is a hard life. "

"Were you in the navy, Mr. Juxon?" asked Mrs. Goddard eagerly, feelingthat she was at last upon the track of some information in regard to hispast life. 

"Yes--I was in the navy, " answered the squire, slowly. "And then I was atcollege, and then in the navy again. At last I entered the merchantservice and commanded my own ships for nearly twenty years. "

"How very extraordinary! Why then, you must have been everywhere. "

"Very nearly. But I would much rather be in Billingsfield. "

"You never told me, " said Mrs. Goddard almost reproachfully. "What achange it must have been for you, from the sea to the life of a countrygentleman!"

"It is what I always wanted. "

"But you do not seem at all like the sea captains one hears about--"

"Well, perhaps not, " replied the squire thoughtfully. "There are a greatmany different classes of sea captains. I always had a taste for books. Aman can read a great deal on a long voyage. I have sometimes been at seafor more than two years at a time. Besides, I had a fairly good educationand--well, I suppose it was because I was a gentleman to begin with andwas more than ten years in the Royal Navy. All that makes a greatdifference. Have you ever made a long voyage, Mrs. Goddard?"

"I have crossed the channel, " said she. "But I wish you would tell mesomething more about your life. "

"Oh no--it is very dull, all that. You always make me talk about myself, "said the squire in a tone of protestation. 

"It is very interesting. "

"But--could we not vary the conversation by talking about you a little?"suggested Mr. Juxon. 

"Oh no! Please--" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard rather nervously. She grew paleand busied herself again with the tea. "Do tell me more about yourvoyages. I suppose that was the way you collected so many beautifulthings, was it not?"

"Yes, I suppose so, " answered the squire, looking at her curiously. "Infact of course it was. I was a great deal in China and South America andIndia, and in all sorts of places where one picks up things. "

"And in Turkey, too, where you got Stamboul?"

"Yes. He was so wet that I left him outside to day. Did not want to spoilyour carpet. "

The squire had a way of turning the subject when he seemed upon the pointof talking about himself which was very annoying to Mrs. Goddard. But shehad not entirely recovered her equanimity and for the moment had lostcontrol of the squire. Besides she had a headache that day. 

"Stamboul does not get the benefit of the contrast we were talking aboutat first, " she remarked, in order to say something. 

"I could not possibly bring him in, " returned the squire looking at heragain. "Excuse me, Mrs. Goddard--I don't mean to be inquisitive you know, but--I always want to be of any use. "

She looked at him inquiringly. 

"I mean, to be frank, I am afraid that something is giving you trouble. Ihave noticed it for some time. You know, if I can be of any use, if I canhelp you in any way--you have only to say the word. "

Again she looked at him. She did not know why it was so, but thegenuinely friendly tone in which he made the offer touched her. She wassurprised, however; she could not understand why he should think she wasin trouble, and indeed she was in no greater distress than she hadsuffered during the greater part of the last three years. 

"You are very kind, Mr. Juxon. But there is nothing the matter--I have aheadache. "

"Oh, " said the squire, "I beg your pardon. " He looked away and seemedembarrassed. 

"You have done too much already, " said Mrs. Goddard, fearing that she hadnot sufficiently acknowledged his offer of assistance. 

"I cannot do too much. That is impossible, " he said in a tone ofconviction. "I have very few friends, Mrs. Goddard, and I like to thinkthat you are one of the best of them. "

"I am sure--I don't know what to say, Mr. Juxon, " she answered, somewhatstartled by the directness of his speech. "I am sure you have always beenmost kind, and I hope you do not think me ungrateful. "

"I? You? No--dear me, please never mention it! The fact is, Mrs. Goddard--" he stopped and smoothed Ms hair. "What particularlydisagreeable weather, " he remarked irrelevantly, looking out of thewindow at the driving sleet. 

Mrs. Goddard looked down and slowly stirred her tea. She was pale and herhand trembled a little, but no one could have guessed that she wassuffering any strong emotion. Mr. Juxon looked towards the window, andthe grey light of the winter's afternoon fell coldly upon his squaresunburned face and carefully trimmed beard. He was silent for a moment, and then, still looking away from his companion, he continued in a lesshesitating tone. 

"The fact is, I have been thinking a great deal of late, " he said, "andit has struck me that your friendship has grown to be the most importantthing in my life. " He paused again and turned his hat round upon hisknee. Still Mrs. Goddard said nothing, and as he did not look at her hedid not perceive that she was unnaturally agitated. 

"I have told you what my life has been, " he continued presently. "I havebeen a sailor. I made a little money. I finally inherited my uncle'sestate here. I will tell you anything else you would like to ask--I don'tthink I ever did anything to conceal. I am forty-two years old. I haveabout five thousand a year and I am naturally economical. I would like tomake you a proposal--a very respectful proposal, Mrs. Goddard--"

Mrs. Goddard uttered a faint exclamation of surprise and fell back in herchair, staring with wide eyes at the squire, her cheeks very pale and herlips white. He was too much absorbed in what he was saying to notice theshort smothered ejaculation, and he was too much embarrassed to look ather. 

"Mrs. Goddard, " he said, his voice trembling slightly, "will you marryme?"

He was not prepared for the result of his speech. He had pondered it forsome time and had come to the conclusion that it was best to say aslittle as possible and to say it plainly. It was an honourable proposalof marriage from a man in middle life to a lady he had known andrespected for many months; there was very little romance about it; he didnot intend that there should be any. As soon as he had spoken he turnedhis head and looked to her for his answer. Mrs. Goddard had clasped hersmall white hands over her face and had turned her head away from himagainst the cushion of the high backed chair. The squire felt veryuncomfortable in the dead silence, broken only by the sleet drivingagainst the window panes with a hissing, rattling sound, and by thesinging of the tea-kettle. For some seconds, which to Juxon seemed likean eternity, Mrs. Goddard did not move. At last she suddenly droppedher hands and looked into the squire's eyes. He was startled by the ashenhue of her face. 

"It is impossible, " she said, shortly, in broken tones. But the squirewas prepared for some difficulties. 

"I do not see the impossibility, " he said quite calmly. "Of course, I would not press you for an answer, my dear Mrs. Goddard. I am afraidI have been very abrupt, but I will go away, I will leave you toconsider--"

"Oh no, no!" cried the poor lady in great distress. "It is quiteimpossible--I assure you it is quite, quite impossible!"

"I don't know, " said Mr. Juxon, who saw that she was deeply moved, butwas loath to abandon the field without a further struggle. "I am not avery young man, it is true--but I am not a very old one either. You, mydear Mrs. Goddard, have been a widow for some years--"

"I?" cried Mrs. Goddard with a wild hysterical laugh. "I! Oh God ofmercy! I wish I were. " Again she buried her face in the cushion. Herbosom heaved violently. 

The squire started as though he had been struck, and the blood rushed tohis brown face so that the great veins on his temples stood out likecords. 

"Did I--did I understand you to say that--your husband is living?" heasked in a strong, loud voice, ringing with emotion. 

Mrs. Goddard moved a little and seemed to make a great effort to speak. 

"Yes, " she said very faintly. The squire rose to his feet and paced theroom in terrible agitation. 

"But where?" he asked, stopping suddenly in his walk. "Mrs. Goddard, Ithink I have a right to ask where he is--why you have never spoken ofhim?"

By a supreme effort the unfortunate lady raised herself from her seatsupporting herself upon one hand, and faced the squire with wildlystaring eyes. 

"You have a right to know, " she said. "He is in Portland--sentenced totwelve years hard labour for forgery. "

She said it all, to the end, and then fell back into her chair. But shedid not hide her face this time. The fair pathetic features were quitemotionless and white, without any expression, and her hands lay with thepalms turned upwards on her knees. 

Charles James Juxon was a man of few words, not given to using stronglanguage on any occasion. But he was completely overcome by the horror ofthe thing. He turned icy cold as he stood still, rooted to the spot, andhe uttered aloud one strong and solemn ejaculation, more an invocationthan an oath, as though he called on heaven to witness the misery helooked upon. He gazed at the colourless, inanimate face of the poor ladyand walked slowly to the window. There he stood for fully five minutes, motionless, staring out at the driving sleet. 

Mrs. Goddard had fainted away, but it did not occur to the squire toattempt to recall her to her senses. It seemed merciful that she shouldhave lost consciousness even for a moment. Indeed she needed no help, forin a few minutes she slowly opened her eyes and closed them, then openedthem again and saw Mr. Juxon's figure darkening the window against thegrey light. 

"Mr. Juxon, " she said faintly, "come here, please. "

The squire started and turned. Then he came and sat down beside her. Hisface was very stern and grave, and he said nothing. 

"Mr. Juxon, " said Mrs. Goddard, speaking in a low voice, but with farmore calm than he could have expected, "you have a right to know mystory. You have been very kind to me, you have made an honourable offerto me, you have said you were my friend. I ought to have told you before. If I had had any idea of what was passing in your mind, I would have toldyou, cost what it might. "

Mr. Juxon gravely bowed his head. She was quite right, he thought. He hada right to know all. With all his kind-heartedness he was a stern man bynature. 

"Yes, " continued Mrs. Goddard, "you have every right to know. Myhusband, " her voice trembled, "was the head of an important firm inLondon. I was the only child of his partner. Not long after my father'sdeath I married Mr. Goddard. He was an extravagant man of brillianttastes. I had a small fortune of my own which my father had settled uponme, independent of his share in the firm. My guardians, of whom myhusband was one, advised me to leave my father's fortune in the concern. When I came of age, a year after my marriage, I agreed to do it. Myhusband--I never knew it till long afterwards--was very rash. Hespeculated on the Exchange and tampered with the deposits placed in hishands. We lived in great luxury. I knew nothing of his affairs. Threeyears ago, after we had been married nearly ten years, the firm failed. It was a fraudulent bankruptcy. My husband fled but was captured andbrought back. It appeared that at the last moment, in the hope ofretrieving his position and saving the firm, he had forged the name ofone of his own clients for a large amount. We had a country place atPutney which he had given to me. I sold it, with all my jewels and mostof my possessions. I would have given up everything I possessed, but Ithought of Nellie--poor little Nellie. The lawyers assured me that Iought to keep my own little fortune. I kept about five hundred a year. Itis more than I need, but it seemed very little then. The lawyer whoconducted the defence, such as it was, advised me to go abroad, but Iwould not. Then he spoke of Mr. Ambrose, who had educated his son, andgave me a note to him. I came here and I told Mr. Ambrose my whole story. I only wanted to be alone--I thought I did right--"

Her courage had sustained her so far, but it had been a great effort. Hervoice trembled and broke and at last the tears began to glisten in hereyes. 

"Does Nellie know?" asked the squire, who had sat very gravely by herside, but who was in reality deeply moved. 

"No--she thinks he--that he is dead, " faltered Mrs. Goddard. Then shefairly burst into tears and sobbed passionately, covering her face androcking herself from side to side. 

"My dear friend, " said Mr. Juxon very kindly and laying one hand upon herarm, "pray try and calm yourself. Forgive me--I beg you to forgive me forhaving caused you so much pain--"

"Do you still call me a friend?" sobbed the poor lady. 

"Indeed I do, " quoth the squire stoutly. And he meant it. Mrs. Goddarddropped her hands and stared into the fire through her falling tears. 

"I think you behaved very honourably--very generously, " continued Mr. Juxon, who did not know precisely how to console her, and indeed stoodmuch in need of consolation himself. "Perhaps I had better leave you--youare very much agitated--you must need rest--would you not rather that Ishould go?"

"Yes--it is better, " said she, still staring at the fire. "You know allabout me now, " she added in a tone of pathetic regret. The squire rose tohis feet. 

"I hope, " he said with some hesitation, "that this--this very unfortunateday will not prevent our being friends--better friends than before?"

Mrs. Goddard looked up gratefully through her tears. 

"How good you are!" she said softly. 

"Not at all--I am not at all good--I only want to be your friend. Good-bye--G--God bless you!" He seized her hand and squeezed it and thenhurried out of the room. A moment later he was crossing the road withStamboul, who was very tired of waiting, bounding before him. 

The squire was not a romantic character. He was a strong plain man, whohad seen the world and was used to most forms of danger and to a goodmany forms of suffering. He was kind-hearted and generous, capable offeeling sincere sympathy for others, and under certain circumstances ofbeing deeply wounded himself. He had indeed a far more refined naturethan he himself suspected and on this memorable day he had experiencedmore emotions than he remembered to have felt in the course of manyyears. 

After long debate and after much searching inquiry into his own motiveshe had determined to offer himself to Mrs. Goddard, and he hadaccordingly done so in his own straightforward manner. It had seemeda very important action in his life, a very solemn step, but he was notprepared for the acute sense of disappointment which he felt when Mrs. Goddard first said it was impossible for her to accept him, still lesshad he anticipated the extraordinary story which she had told him, inexplanation of her refusal. His ideas were completely upset. That Mrs. Goddard was not a widow after all, was almost as astounding as that sheshould prove to be the wife of a felon. But Mr. Juxon was no lesspersuaded that she herself was a perfectly good and noble woman, than hehad been before. He felt that he would like to cut the throat of thevillain himself; but he resolved that he would more than ever try to be agood friend to Mrs. Goddard. 

He walked slowly through the storm towards his house, his broad figurefacing the wind and sleet with as much ease as a steamer forging againsta head sea. He was perfectly indifferent to the weather; but Stamboulslunk along at his heels, shielding himself from the driving wet snowbehind his master's sturdy legs. The squire was very much disturbed. Thesight of his own solemn butler affected him strangely. He stared aboutthe library in a vacant way, as though he had never seen the placebefore. The realisation of his own calm and luxurious life seemedunnatural, and his thoughts went back to the poor weeping woman he hadjust left. She, too, had enjoyed all this, and more also. She hadprobably been richer than he. And now she was living on five hundred ayear in one of his own cottages, hiding her shame in desolateBillingsfield, the shame of her husband, the forger. 

It was such a hopeless position, the squire thought. No one could helpher, no one could do anything for her. For many weeks, revolving thesituation in his mind, he had amused himself by thinking how she wouldlook when she should be mistress of the Hall, and wondering whetherlittle Nellie would call him "father, " or merely "Mr. Juxon. " And now, she turned out to be the wife of a forger, sentenced to hard labour in aconvict prison, for twelve years. For twelve years--nearly three musthave elapsed already. In nine years more Goddard would be out again. Would he claim his wife? Of course--he would come back to her forsupport. And poor little Nellie thought he was dead! It would be aterrible day when she had to be told. If he only would die inprison!--but men sentenced to hard labour rarely die. They are well caredfor. It is a healthy life. He would certainly live through it and comeback to claim his wife. Poor Mrs. Goddard! her troubles were not endedyet, though the State had provided her with a respite of twelve years. 

The squire sat long in his easy-chair in the great library, and forgot todress for dinner--he always dressed, even though he was quite alone. Butthe solemn face of his butler betrayed neither emotion nor surprise whenthe master of the Hall walked into the dining-room in his knickerbockers. 

CHAPTER XII. 

When Nellie came home from the vicarage she found her mother looking veryill. There were dark rings under her eyes, and her features were drawnand tear-stained, while the beautiful waves of her brown hair had losttheir habitual neatness and symmetry. The child noticed these things, with a child's quickness, but explained them on the ground that hermother's headache was probably much worse. Mrs. Goddard accepted theexplanation and on the following day Nellie had forgotten all about it;but her mother remembered it long, and it was many days before sherecovered entirely from the shock of her interview with the squire. Thelatter did not come to see her as usual, but on the morning after hisvisit he sent her down a package of books and some orchids from hishothouses. He thought it best to leave her to herself for a little while;the very sight of him, he argued, would be painful to her, and anymeeting with her would be painful to himself. He did not go out of thehouse, but spent the whole day in his library among his books, not indeedreading, but pretending to himself that he was very busy. Being a strongand sensible man he did not waste time in bemoaning his sorrows, but hethought about them long and earnestly. The more he thought, the more itappeared to him that Mrs. Goddard was the person who deserved pity ratherthan he himself. His mind dwelt on the terrors of her position in caseher husband should return and claim his wife and daughter when the twelveyears were over, and he thought with horror of Nellie's humiliation, ifat the age of twenty she should discover that her father during all theseyears had not been honourably dead and buried, but had been suffering thepunishment of a felon in Portland. That the only attempt he had ever madeto enter the matrimonial state should have been so singularly unfortunatewas indeed a matter which caused him sincere sorrow; he had thought toooften of being married to Mary Goddard to be able to give up the ideawithout a sigh. But it is due to him to say that in the midst of his owndisappointment he thought much more of her sorrows than of his own, astate of mind most probably due to his temperament. 

He saw also how impossible it was to console Mrs. Goddard or even toalleviate the distress of mind which she must constantly feel. Herdestiny was accomplished in part, and the remainder seemed absolutelyinevitable. No one could prevent her husband from leaving his prison whenhis crime was expiated; and no one could then prevent him from joininghis wife and ending his life under her roof. At least so it seemed. Endless complications would follow. Mrs. Goddard would certainly have toleave Billingsfield--no one could expect the Ambroses or the squirehimself to associate with a convict forger. Mr. Juxon vaguely wonderedwhether he should live another nine years to see the end of all this, andhe inwardly determined to go to sea again rather than to witness suchmisery. He could not see, no one could see how things could possibly turnout in any other way. It would have been some comfort to have gone to thevicar, and to have discussed with him the possibilities of Mrs. Goddard'sfuture. The vicar was a man after his own heart, honest, reliable, charitable and brave; but Mr. Juxon thought that it would not be quiteloyal towards Mrs. Goddard if he let any one else know that he wasacquainted with her story. 

For two days he stayed at home and then he went to see her. To hissurprise she received him very quietly, much as she usually did, withoutbetraying any emotion; whereupon he wished that he had not allowed twodays to pass without making his usual visit. Mrs. Goddard almost wishedso too. She had been so much accustomed to regard the squire as a friend, and she had so long been used to the thought that Mr. And Mrs. Ambroseknew of her past trouble, that the fact of the squire becoming acquaintedwith her history seemed to her less important, now that it wasaccomplished, than it seemed to the squire himself. She had long thoughtof telling him all; she had seriously contemplated doing so when he firstcame to Billingsfield, and now at last the thing was done. She was gladof it. She was no longer in a false position; he could never again thinkof marrying her; they could henceforth meet as friends, since he was somagnanimous as to allow their friendship to exist. Her pride had sufferedso terribly in the beginning that it was past suffering now. She feltthat she was in the position of a suppliant asking only for a quietresting-place for herself and her daughter, and she was grateful to thepeople who gave her what she asked, feeling that she had fallen amonggood Samaritans, whereas in merry England it would have been easy for herto have fallen among priests and Pharisees. 

So it came about that in a few days her relations with Mr. Juxon werere-established upon a new basis, but more firmly and satisfactorily thanbefore, seeing that now there was no possibility of mistake. And for along time it seemed as though matters would go on as before. Neither Mrs. Goddard nor the squire ever referred to the interview on that memorablestormy afternoon, and so far as the squire could judge his life and hersmight go on with perfect tranquillity until it should please the powersthat be and the governor of Portland to set Mr. Walter Goddard atliberty. Heaven only knew what would happen then, but it was providedthat there should be plenty of time to prepare for anything which mightensue. The point upon which Mrs. Goddard had not spoken plainly was thatwhich concerned her probable treatment of her husband after hisliberation. She had passed that question over in silence. She hadprobably never dared to decide. Most probably she would at the lastminute seek some safer retreat than Billingsfield and make tip her mindto hide for the rest of her life. But Mr. Juxon had heard of women whohad carried charity as far as to receive back their husbands under evenworse circumstances; women were soft-hearted creatures, reflected thesquire, and capable of anything. 

Few people in such a situation could have acted consistently as thoughnothing had happened. But Mr. Juxon's extremely reticent nature found iteasy to bury other people's important secrets at least as deeply as heburied the harmless details of his own honest life. Not a hair of hissmooth head was ruffled, not a line of his square manly face wasdisturbed. He looked and acted precisely as he had looked and actedbefore. His butler remarked that he ate a little less heartily of late, and that on one evening, as has been recorded, the squire forgot todress for dinner. But the butler in his day had seen greatereccentricities than these; he had the greatest admiration for Mr. Juxonand was not inclined to cavil at small things. A real gentleman, of thegood sort, who dressed for dinner when he was alone, who never took toomuch wine, who never bullied the servants nor quarrelled unjustly withthe bills, was, as the butler expressed it, "not to be sneezed at, onno account. " The place was a little dull, but the functionary was wellstricken in years and did not like hard work. Mr. Juxon seemed to beconscious that as he never had visitors at the Hall and as there wereconsequently no "tips, " his staff was entitled to an occasional fee, which he presented always with great regularity, and which had thedesired effect. He was a generous man as well as a just. 

The traffic in roses and orchids and new books continued as usual betweenthe Hall and the cottage, and for many weeks nothing extraordinaryoccurred. Mrs. Ambrose and Mrs. Goddard met frequently, and the onlydifference to be observed in the manner of the former was that shementioned John Short very often, and every time she mentioned him shefixed her grey eyes sternly upon Mrs. Goddard, who however did not noticethe scrutiny, or, if she did, was not in the least disturbed by it. For along time Mrs. Ambrose entertained a feeble intention of addressing Mrs. Goddard directly upon the subject of John's affections, but the longershe put off doing so, the harder it seemed to do it. Mrs. Ambrose hadgreat faith in the sternness of her eye under certain circumstances, andseeing that Mrs. Goddard never winced, she gradually fell into the beliefthat John had been the more to blame, if there was any blame in thematter. She had indeed succeeded in the first instance, by methods of herown which have been heretofore detailed, in extracting a sort ofreluctant admission from her husband; but since that day he had provedobdurate to all entreaty. Once only he had said with considerableimpatience that John was a very silly boy, and was much better engagedwith his books at college than in running after Mrs. Goddard. That wasall, and gradually as the regular and methodical life at the vicarageeffaced the memory of the doings at Christmas time, the good Mrs. Ambrose forgot that anything unpleasant had ever occurred. There was nodisturbance of the existing relations and everything went on as beforefor many weeks. The February thaw set in early and the March winds beganto blow before February was fairly out. Nat Barker the octogenariancripple, who had the reputation of being a weather prophet, wasunderstood to have said that the spring was "loike to be forrard t'year, "and the minds of the younger inhabitants were considerably relieved. Notthat Nat Barker's prophecies were usually fulfilled; no one everremembered them at the time when they might have been verified. But theywere always made at the season when people had nothing to do but to talkabout them. Mr. Thomas Reid, the conservative sexton, turned up his noseat them, and said he "wished Nat Barker had to dig a parish depth gravein three hours without a drop of nothin' to wet his pipe with, and if hedidden fine that groun' oncommon owdacious Thomas Reid he didden know. They didden know nothin', sir, them parish cripples. " Wherewith theworthy sexton took his way with a battered tin can to get his "fours"at the Feathers. He did not patronise the Duke's Head. It was toonew-fangled for him, and he suspected his arch enemy, Mr. Abraham Boosey, of putting a rat or two into the old beer to make it "draw, " whichaccounted for its being so "hard. " But Mr. Abraham Boosey was theundertaker, and he, Thomas Reid, was the sexton, and it did not do toexpress these views too loudly, lest perchance Mr. Boosey should, just inhis play, construct a coffin or two just too big for the regulationgrave, and thereby leave Mr. Reid in the lurch. For the undertaker andthe gravedigger are as necessary to each other, as Mr. Reid maintained, as a pair of blackbirds in a hedge. 

But the spring was "forrard t'year" and the weather was consequently evenmore detestable than usual at that season. The roads were heavy. The rainseemed never weary of pouring down and the wind never tired of blowing. The wet and leafless creepers beat against the walls of the cottage, andthe chimneys smoked both there and at the vicarage. The rooms werepervaded with a disagreeable smell of damp coal smoke, and the firesstruggled desperately to burn against the overwhelming odds of rain andwind which came down the chimneys. Mrs. Goddard never remembered to havebeen so uncomfortable during the two previous winters she had spent inBillingsfield, and even Nellie grew impatient and petulant. The onlybright spot in those long days seemed to be made by the regular visits ofMr. Juxon, by the equally regular bi-weekly appearance of the Ambroseswhen they came to tea, and by the little dinners at the vicarage. Theweather had grown so wet and the roads so bad that on these latteroccasions the vicar sent his dogcart with Reynolds and the old mare, Strawberry, to fetch his two guests. Even Mr. Juxon, who always walkedwhen he could, had got into the habit of driving down to the cottagein a strange-looking gig which he had imported from America, and which, among all the many possessions of the squire, alone attracted theunfavourable comment of his butler. He would have preferred to see a goodEnglish dogcart, high in the seat and wheels, at the door of the Hall, instead of that outlandish vehicle; but Joseph Ruggles, the groom, explained to him that it was easier to clean than a dogcart, and thatwhen it rained he sat inside with the squire. 

On a certain evening in February, towards the end of the month, Mr. AndMrs. Ambrose and Mr. Juxon came to have tea with Mrs. Goddard. Mr. Juxonhad at first not been regularly invited to these entertainments. Theywere perhaps not thought worthy of his grandeur; at all events both thevicar's wife and Mrs. Goddard had asked him very rarely. But as time wenton and Mr. Juxon's character developed under the eyes of the littleBillingsfield society, it had become apparent to every one that he was avery simple man, making no pretensions whatever to any superiority onaccount of his station. They grew more and more fond of him, and ended byasking him to their small sociable evenings. On these occasions itgenerally occurred that the squire and the vicar fell into conversationabout classical and literary subjects while the two ladies talked of thelittle incidents of Billingsfield life, of Tom Judd's wife and of JoeStaines, the choir boy, who was losing his voice, and of similar topicsof interest in the very small world in which they lived. 

The present evening had not been at all a remarkable one so far as thetalk was concerned. The drenching rain, the tendency of the fire tosmoke, the general wetness and condensed depravity of the atmosphere hadaffected the spirits of the little party. They were not gay, and theybroke up early. It was not nine o'clock when all had gone, and Mrs. Goddard and little Eleanor were left alone by the side of theirdrawing-room fire. The child sat upon a footstool and leaned her headagainst her mother's knee. Mrs. Goddard herself was thoughtful andsad, without precisely knowing why. She generally looked forward withpleasure to meeting the Ambroses, but this evening she had been ratherdisappointed. The conversation had dragged, and the excellent Mrs. Ambrose had been more than usually prosy. Nellie had complained of aheadache and leaned wearily against her mother's knee. 

"Tell me a story, mamma--won't you? Like the ones you used to tell mewhen I was quite a little girl. "

"Dear child, " said her mother, who was not thinking of story-telling, "Iam afraid I have forgotten all the ones I ever knew. Besides, darling, itis time for you to go to bed. "

"I don't want to go to bed, mamma. It is such a horrid night. The windkeeps me awake. "

"You will not sleep at all if I tell you a story, " objected Mrs. Goddard. 

"Mr. Juxon tells me such nice stories, " said Nellie, reproachfully. 

"What are they about, dear?"

"Oh, his stories are beautiful. They are always about ships and the bluesea and wonderful desert islands where he has been. What a wonderful manhe is, mamma, is not he?"

"Yes, dear, he talks very interestingly. " Mrs. Goddard stroked Nellie'sbrown curls and looked into the fire. 

"He told me that once, ever so many years ago--he must be very old, mamma--" Nellie paused and looked up inquiringly. 

"Well, darling--not so very, very old. I think he is over forty. "

"Over forty--four times eleven--he is not four times as old as I am. Almost, though. All his stories are ever so many years ago. He said hewas sailing away ever so far, in a perfectly new ship, and the name ofthe ship was--let me see, what was the name? I think it was--"

Mrs. Goddard started suddenly and laid her hand on the child's shoulder. 

"Did you hear anything, Nellie?" she asked quickly. Nellie looked up insome surprise. 

"No, mamma. When? Just now? It must have been the wind. It is such ahorrid night. The name of the ship was the 'Zephyr'--I remember, now. "She looked up again to see if her mother was listening to the story. Mrs. Goddard looked pale and glanced uneasily towards the closed window. Shehad probably been mistaken. 

"And where did the ship sail to, Nellie dear?" she asked, smoothing thechild's curls again and forcing herself to smile. 

"Oh--the ship was a perfectly new ship and it was the most beautifulweather in the world. They were sailing away ever so far, towards thestraits of Magellan. I was so glad because I knew where the straits ofMagellan were--and Mr. Juxon was immensely astonished. But I had beenlearning about the Terra del Fuego, and the people who were frozenthere, in my geography that very morning--was not it lucky? So I knew allabout it--mamma, how nervous you are! It is nothing but the wind. I wishyou would listen to my story--"

"I am listening, darling, " said Mrs. Goddard, making a strong effort toovercome her agitation and drawing the child closer to her. "Go on, sweetheart--you were in the straits of Magellan, you said, sailingaway--"

"Mr. Juxon was, mamma, " said Nellie correcting her mother with theasperity of a child who does not receive all the attention it expects. 

"Of course, dear, Mr. Juxon, and the ship was the 'Zephyr. '"

"Yes--the 'Zephyr, '" repeated Nellie, who was easily pacified. "It was atChristmas time he said--but that is summer in the southern hemisphere, "she added, proud of her knowledge. "So it was very fine weather. And Mr. Juxon was walking up and down the deck in the afternoon, smoking acigar--"

"He never smokes, dear, " interrupted Mrs. Goddard, glad to show Nelliethat she was listening. 

"Well, but he did then, because he said so, " returned Nellie unmoved. "And as he walked and looked out--sailors always look out, you know--hesaw the most wonderful thing, close to the ship--the most wonderful thinghe ever saw, " added Nellie with some redundance of expression. 

"Was it a whale, child?" asked her mother, staring into the fire andtrying to pay attention. 

"A whale, mamma!" repeated Nellie contemptuously. "As if there wereanything remarkable about a whale! Mr. Juxon has seen billions of whales, I am sure. "

"Well, what was it, dear?"

"It was the most awfully tremendous thing with green and blue scales, athousand times as big as the ship--oh mamma! What was that?"

Nellie started up from her stool and knelt beside her mother, lookingtowards the window. Mrs. Goddard was deathly pale and grasped the arm ofher chair. 

"Somebody knocked at the window, mamma, " said Nellie breathlessly. "Andthen somebody said 'Mary'--quite loud. Oh mamma, what can it be?"

"Mary?" repeated Mrs. Goddard as though she were in a dream. 

"Yes--quite loud. Oh mamma! it must be Mary's young man--he doessometimes come in the evening. "

"Mary's young man, child?" Mrs. Goddard's heart leaped. Her cook's namewas Mary, as well as her own. Nellie naturally never associated the namewith her mother, as she never heard anybody call her by it. 

"Yes mamma. Don't you know? The postman--the man with the piebald horse. "The explanation was necessary, as Mrs. Goddard rarely received anyletters and probably did not know the postman by sight. 

"At this time of night!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard. "It is too bad. Mary isgone to bed. "

"Perhaps he thinks you are gone to the vicarage and that Mary is sittingup for you in the drawing-room, " suggested Nellie with much good sense. "Well, he can't come in, can he, mamma?"

"Certainly not, " said her mother. "But I think you had much better go tobed, my dear. It is half-past nine. " She spoke indistinctly, almostthickly, and seemed to be making a violent effort to control herself. ButNellie had settled down upon her stool again, and did not notice hermother. 

"Oh not yet, " said she. "I have not nearly finished about thesea-serpent. Mr. Juxon said it was not like anything in the world. Dolisten, mamma! It is the most wonderful story you ever heard. It wasall covered with blue and green scales, and it rolled, and rolled, androlled, and rolled, till at last it rolled up against the side of theship with such a tremendous bump that Mr. Juxon fell right down on hisback. "

"Yes dear, " said Mrs. Goddard mechanically, as the child paused. 

"You don't seem to mind at all!" cried Nellie, who felt that her effortsto amuse her mother were not properly appreciated. "He fell right down onhis back and hurt himself awfully. "

"That was very sad, " said Mrs. Goddard. "Did he catch the sea-serpentafterwards ?"

"Catch the sea-serpent! Why mamma, don't you know that nobody has evercaught the sea-serpent? Why, hardly anybody has ever seen him, even!"

"Yes dear, but I thought Mr. Juxon--"

"Of course, Mr. Juxon is the most wonderful man--but he could not catchthe sea-serpent. Just fancy! When he got up from his fall, he looked andhe saw him quite half a mile away. He must have gone awfully fast, shouldnot you think so? Because, you know, it was only a minute. "

"Yes, my child; and it is a beautiful story, and you told it so nicely. It is very interesting and you must tell me another to-morrow. But now, dear, you must really go to bed, because I am going to bed, too. That manstartled me so, " she said, passing her small white hand over her paleforehead and then staring into the fire. 

"Well, I don't wonder, " answered Nellie in a patronising tone. "Such adreadful night too! Of course, it would startle anybody. But he won't tryagain, and you can scold Mary to-morrow and then she can scold her youngman. "

The child spoke so naturally that all doubts vanished from Mrs. Goddard'smind. She reflected that children are much more apt to see things as theyare, than grown people whose nerves are out of order. Nellie'sconclusions were perfectly logical, and it seemed folly to doubt them. She determined that Mary should certainly be scolded on the morrow andshe unconsciously resolved in her mind the words she should use; for shewas rather a timid woman and stood a little in awe of her stalwartBerkshire cook, with her mighty arms and her red face, and her uncommonlyplain language. 

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

So Nellie, reassured by the news that her mother was going to bed, too, knelt down as she had done every night during the eleven years of herlife, and clasped her hands together, beneath her mother's. Then shecleared her throat, then she glanced at the clock, then she looked forone moment into the sweet serious violet eyes that looked down on her solovingly, and then at last she bent her lovely little head and began tosay her prayers, there, by the fire, at her mother's knees, while angrystorm howled fiercely without and shook the closed panes and shuttersand occasional drops of rain, falling down the short chimney, sputteredin the smouldering coal fire. 

"Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdomcome--"

Nellie gave a loud scream and springing up from her knees flung her armsaround her mother's neck, in uttermost, wildest terror. 

"Mamma, mamma!" she cried looking, and yet hardly daring to look, backtowards the closed window. "It called 'MARY GODDARD'! It is you, mamma!Oh!"

There was no mistaking it this time. While Nellie was saying her prayerthere had come three sharp and distinct raps upon the wooden shutter, anda voice, not loud but clear, penetrating into the room in spite of windand storm and rain. 

"Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard!" it said. 

Mrs. Goddard started to her feet, lifting Nellie bodily from the groundin her agony of terror; staring round the room wildly as though in searchof 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 terrifiedchild upon her breast, clinging to her and weighing her down, andgrasping her neck and arm with convulsive strength. 

But in moments of great agitation timid people, or people who are thoughttimid, not uncommonly do brave things. Mrs. Goddard unclasped Nellie'shold and forced the terror-struck child into a deep chair. 

"Stay there, darling, " she said with unnatural calmness. "Do not beafraid. I will go and open the door. "

Nellie was now too much frightened to resist. Mrs. Goddard went out intothe little passage which was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp, and closedthe door of the drawing-room behind her. She could hear Nellie'soccasional convulsive sobs distinctly. For one moment she paused, herright hand on the lock of the front door, her left hand pressed to herside, leaning against the wall of the passage. Then she turned the keyand 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 almostblinded her. The lamp flickered in the lantern overhead. But she lookedboldly 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 directionof the drawing-room window, across the wet slate flags which surroundedthe 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, andtried to discover her husband's face, even a resemblance to him, in thehaggard features she saw close before her. But he gave her small time forreflection; so soon as he had recognised her he sprang past her into thepassage and pulling her after him closed the door. 

"Mary--don't you know me?" he said, in low tones. "You must save me--theyare after me--" He stood close beside her in the narrow way, beneaththe small lamp; he tried to put his arm around her and he bent down andbrought his ghastly face close to hers. But she drew back as from acontamination. She was horrified, and it was a natural movement. She knewhis voice even better than his features, now that he spoke. He pressednearer to her and she thrust him back with her hands. Then suddenly athought struck her; she took him by the sleeve and led him into thedining-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 hadplaced him; he thought he heard voices and footsteps, but no one came outinto 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 thedining-room behind her and put the light upon the table. She moved like aperson in a dream. 

"Sit down, " she said, pointing to a chair. "Are you hungry?" His sunkeneyes sparkled. She brought food and ale and set them before him. He ateand drank voraciously in silence. She sat at the opposite side of thetable--the solitary candle between them, and shading her eyes with onehand she gazed at his face. 

Walter Goddard was a man at least forty years of age. He had been thoughtvery handsome once. He had light blue eyes and a fair skin with flaxenhair--now cropped short and close to his head. There was nearly afortnight's growth of beard upon his face, but it was not yet sufficientto hide his mouth and chin. He had formerly worn a heavy moustache andit was chiefly the absence of it which now made it hard for his wife torecognise him. A battered hat, drenched and dripping with rain, shadedhis brows. Possibly he was ashamed to remove it. His mouth was small andweak and his jaw was pointed. His whole expression was singularlydisagreeable--his hands were filthy, and his face was not clean. Abouthis neck was twisted a ragged woollen comforter, and he wore asmock-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 totime as though he were still cold. 

Mrs. Goddard watched him in silence. She had done mechanically accordingto her first instinct, had led him in and had given him food. But she hadnot recovered herself sufficiently from her first horror and astonishmentto realise her situation. At last she spoke. 

"How did you escape?" she asked. He bent lower than before, over hisplate and would not look at her. 

"Don't ask me, " he answered shortly. 

"Why did you do it?" she inquired again. Goddard laughed harshly; hisvoice was hoarse and cracked. 

"Why did I do it!" he repeated. "Did you ever hear of any one who wouldnot 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 haveknown it. "

"Yes, you might have known it. "

It seemed a very hard and cruel thing to say, and Mary Goddard was veryfar from being a cruel woman by nature; but she was stunned by fear anddisgust and horrified by the possibilities of harm suddenly broughtbefore her. 

Goddard pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows upon the tablesupporting his chin in his hands. He scowled at her defiantly. 

"You have given me a warm reception, after nearly three yearsof--separation. " There was a bitter sneer in the word. 

"I am horrified to see you here, " she said simply. "You know very wellthat I cannot conceal you--"

"Oh, I don't expect miracles, " said Goddard contemptuously. "I don't knowthat, when I came here, I expected to cause you any particularlyagreeable sensation. I confess, when a woman has not seen her belovedhusband 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 unnaturalcalm was fast yielding to an overpowering agitation. 

"Then give me fifty pounds and tell me the nearest way east, " answeredthe convict savagely. 

"I have not got fifty pounds in the house, " protested Mary Goddard, insome alarm. "I never keep much money--I can get it for you--"

"I have a great mind to look, " returned her husband suspiciously. "Howsoon 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 voicechanged. "Oh, Mary--you used to love me!" cried the wretched man, buryinghis face in his hands. 

"I was very wrong, " answered his wife, looking away from him. "You didnot 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 couldhave 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, Iwould 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 helpyou. But I could not forgive you the rest; I never can. "

"Bah! I never cared for her, " said the convict. But under his livid skinthere 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 camenear to his wife, and again he would have put his arm around her. But shesprang to her feet with an angry light in her eyes. 

"If you dare to touch me, I will give you up!" she cried. Goddard shrankback to his chair, very pale and trembling violently. 

"You would not do that, Mary, " he almost whined. But she remainedstanding, 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 minutesthere was silence between them. 

"I suppose you are going to turn me out into the rain again?" asked theconvict. 

"You cannot stay here--you are not safe for a minute. You will have togo. You must come back to-morrow and I will give you the money. You hadbetter 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 nobarn. If any one saw you here it would be all over. People know aboutit--"

"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 hewould. He is the justice of the peace here--he would be bound to. "

"Do you know him?" Goddard thought he detected a slight nervousness inhis 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 youmanage to come here tomorrow? You cannot go on without the money--"

"No--and I don't mean to, " he answered roughly. Money was indeed anabsolute 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 ofyour stamp. "

Mary Goddard rose without a word and left the room. When she was gone theconvict set himself to finish the jug of ale she had brought, and lookedabout him. He saw objects that reminded him of his former home. Heexamined the fork with which he had eaten and remembered the pattern andthe engraved initials as he turned it over in his hand. The very tableitself had belonged to his house--the carpet beneath his feet, the chairupon which he sat. It all seemed too unnatural to be true. That verynight, that very hour, he must go forth again into the wild Februaryweather and hide himself, leaving all these things behind him; leavingbehind too his wife, the woman he had so bitterly injured, but who wasstill 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 hestarted as he heard a footstep in the passage, being now accustomed tostart at sounds which suggested pursuit; he started and he felt the wetsmock-frock, which was his disguise, clinging to him as he moved, and thereality of the present returned to him with awful force. His wife againentered the room. 

"There are over nine pounds, " she said. "It is all I have. " She laid themoney upon the table before him and remained standing. "You shall havethe rest to-morrow, " she added. 

"Can't I see Nellie?" he asked suddenly. It was the first time he hadspoken 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 notexplain. "

"No, Walter, I could not--explain. Come later to-morrow night--to thesame window. I will undo the shutters and give you the money. " MaryGoddard was almost overcome with exhaustion. It was a terrible struggleto maintain her composure under such circumstances; but necessity doeswonders. "Where will you sleep to-night?" she asked presently. She pitiedthe 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 moreto make Mary Goddard realise her husband's position than anything elsecould have done. To people who live in the country the word "tramp" meansso much. 

"Poor Walter!" said Mrs. Goddard softly, and for the first time since shehad 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. Goddardput them together and offered them to him. 

"You had better take it, " she said. He took the food readily enough andhid it under his frock. He knew the value of it. Then he got upon hisfeet. He moved painfully, for the cold and the wet had stiffened hislimbs already weakened with hunger and exhaustion. 

"Let me be off, " he said again, and moved towards the door. His wifefollowed him in silence. In the passage he paused again. 

"Well, Mary, " he said, "I suppose I ought to be grateful to you for notgiving me up to the police. "

"You know very well, " answered Mrs. Goddard, "that what I can do to saveyou, I will do. You know that. "

"Then do it, and don't forget the money. It's hanging this time if I'mcaught. "

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 agrim laugh. Then, without her assistance, he opened the door and went outinto the pouring rain. The door shut behind him and Mary Goddard heardhis retreating footsteps on the path outside. When he was fairly gone shesuddenly broke down, and falling upon her knees in the passage beat herforehead against the wall in an agony of despair. 

Murderer--thief, forger and murderer, too! It was more than she couldbear. Even now he was within a stone's throw of her house; a moment agohe 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 ofinnocence and honour for many a long year before his crime. In the suddennecessity of acting, in the unutterable surprise of finding herself againface to face with him, she had been calm; now that he was gone she feltas though she must go mad. She asked herself if this filthy tramp, thisbranded villain, was the husband she had loved and cherished for years, whose beauty she had admired, whose hand she had held so often, whoselips she had kissed--if this was the father of her lovely child. It wasall over now. There was blood upon his hands as well as other guilt. Ifhe 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 hiscrimes and to claim her and his child. If he escaped now, it must be tolive 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 trialfor murder, the very details of his execution. The Ambroses would knowand the squire, even the country folk, would perhaps at last know thetruth about her. Life even in the quiet spot she had chosen would becomeintolerable, and she would be obliged to go forth again into a moredistant exile. She bitterly repented having written to her husband in hisprison to tell him where she was settled. It would have been sufficientto acquaint the governor with the fact, so that Goddard might know whereshe was when his term expired. She had never written but once, and he hadperhaps not been allowed to answer the letter. His appearance at her doorproved 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 farmore powerfully upon Mary Goddard's mind, and which had broken for everall ties of affection; circumstances which had appeared during his trialand which had shown that he had not only been unfaithful to those whotrusted him, but had been unfaithful to the wife who loved him. That waswhat she could not forgive; it was the memory of that which rose like animpassable wall between her and him, worse than his frauds, his forgery, worse almost than his murder. He had done that which even a loving womancould not pardon, that which was past all forgiveness. That was why hissudden appearance roused no tender memories, elicited seemingly so littlesympathy from her. She was too good a woman to say it, but she knew inher heart that she wished him dead, the very possibility of ever seeinghim 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 thoughnothing had happened in this terrible night. That would be the hardest ofall, perhaps; even harder than meeting her husband for a brief moment inorder to give him the means of escape. She felt that in helping him shewas participating in his crimes, and yet, she asked herself, what womanwould have acted differently? What woman, even though she might hate herhusband with her whole soul, and justly, would yet be so hard-hearted asto refuse him assistance when he was flying for his life? It would beimpossible. She must help him at any cost; but it was hard to feel thatshe must see the squire and behave with indifference, while her husbandwas lurking in the neighbourhood, when a detective might at any momentcome to the door, and demand to search the house. 

These thoughts passed very quickly through her overwrought brain, as sheknelt in the passage; kneeling because she felt she could no longerstand, the passionate tears streaming down her face, her small handspressing her temples. Then she struggled to her feet and dried her eyes, steadying herself against the wall for a moment. She had almost forgottenlittle Nellie whom she had left in the drawing-room. She had told thechild, when she went back to her, leaving Goddard alone in the dark, thatthe man was a poor starving tramp, but that she did not want Nellie tosee him, because he looked so miserable. She would give him something toeat and send him away, she said, and meanwhile Nellie should sit by thedrawing-room fire and wait for her. The child trusted her motherimplicitly 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 wasvery wretched. "

"Is he gone?" asked the child. 

It was unusually late and Nellie was beginning to be sleepy, so that shewas more easily quieted than she could have been in ordinarycircumstances. It might have struck her as strange that a wandering trampshould know her mother's Christian name, as still more inexplicable thather mother should have been willing to admit such a man at so late anhour. She had been badly frightened, but trusting her mother as she did, her terror had quickly disappeared and had been quickly followed bysleepiness. 

But Mrs. Goddard. Did not sleep that night. She felt as though she couldnever sleep again, and for many hours she lay thinking of the new elementof fear which had so suddenly come into her life at the very time whenshe believed herself to be safe for many years to come. She longed toknow where her wretched husband was; whether he had found shelter for thenight, whether he was still free or whether he had even then fallen intothe hands of his pursuers. She knew that she could not have concealed himin the house and that she had done all that lay in her power for him. Butshe started at every sound, as the rain rattled against the shutters andthe wind howled down the chimney. 

Walter Goddard, however, was safe for the present and was evenluxuriously lodged, considering his circumstances, for he was comfortablyinstalled amongst the hay in the barn of the "Feathers" inn. He had beenin Billingsfield since early in the afternoon and had consideredcarefully the question of his quarters for the night. He had observedfrom a distance the landlord of the said inn, and had boldly offered todo a "day's work for a night's lodging. " He said he was "tramping" hisway back from London to his home in Yorkshire; he knew enough of thesound of the rough Yorkshire dialect to pass for a native of that countyamongst ignorant labourers who had never heard the real tongue. Thelandlord of the Feathers consented to the bargain and Goddard was toldthat he might sleep in the barn if he liked, and should take a turn atcutting chaff the next day to pay for the convenience. The convict sleptsoundly; he was past lying awake in useless fits of remorse, and he wasexhausted with his day's journey. Moreover he had now the immediateprospect of obtaining sufficient money to carry him safely out of thecountry, and once abroad he felt sure of baffling pursuit. He was anaccomplished man and spoke French with a fluency unusual in Englishmen;he determined to get across the channel in some fishing craft; he wouldthen make his way to Paris and enlist in the Foreign Legion. It would besafer than trying to go to America, where people were invariably caughtas they landed. It was a race for life and death, and he knew it. Had hebeen able to obtain clothes, money and a disguise in London he would havetravelled by rail. But that had been impossible and it now seemed a wiserplan to "tramp" it. His beard was growing rapidly and would soon make acomplete disguise. Village constables are generally simple people, easilyimposed upon, very different from London detectives; and hitherto he feltsure that he had baffled pursuit by the mere simplicity of hisproceedings. The intelligent officials of Scotland Yard were used toforgers and swindlers who travelled by express trains and crossed toAmerica by fashionable steamers. It did not strike them as very likelythat a man of Walter Goddard's previous tastes and habits could getthrough the country in the guise of a tramp. If he had been possessed atthe time of his escape of the money he so much desired he would probablyhave been caught; as it was, he got away without difficulty, and at thevery time when every railway station and every port in the kingdom werebeing watched for him, he was lurking in the purlieus of Whitechapel, andthen tramping his way east in comparative safety, half starved, it istrue, but unmolested. 

That he was disappointed at the reception his wife had given him did notprevent him from sleeping peacefully that night. One thing alonedisturbed him, and that was her mention of Mr. Juxon, in whose house, asshe had told him, she lived. It seems incredible that a man in WalterGoddard's position, lost to every sense of honour, a criminal of theworst 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 amoment of supreme danger, feel a pang of jealousy on hearing that hiswife lived in the vicinity of the squire and occupied a house belongingto him. But he was too bad himself not to suspect others, especiallythose whom he had wronged, and the feeling was mingled with a strongcuriosity to know whether this woman, who now treated him so haughtilyand drew back from him as from some monstrous horror, was as good as shepretended to be. He said to himself that on the next day at dawn he wouldslip out of the barn and try whether he could not find some hiding-placewithin easy reach of the cottage, so as to be able to watch her dwellingat his ease throughout the day. The plan seemed a good one. Since he wasobliged to wait twenty-four hours in order to get the money he wanted, hemight 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 hetroubled her again--he would just like to see. 

Having come to this decision he drew some of the hay over his body and inspite of cold and wet was soon peacefully asleep. But at early dawn heawoke with the alacrity of a man who constantly expects pursuit, andslipped down from the hayloft into the barn. There was no one stirringand he got over the fence at the back of the yard and skirted the fieldsin the direction of the church, finally climbing another stile andentering what he supposed to be the park. On this side the back of thechurch ran out into a broad meadow, where the larger portion of theancient abbey had once stood. Goddard walked along close by the churchwalls. He knew from his observation on the previous afternoon that hecould thus come out into the road in the vicinity of the cottage, unlesshis way through the park were interrupted by impassable wire fences. Theground was very heavy and he was sure not to meet anybody in the meadowsin such weather. 

Suddenly he stopped and looked at a buttress that jutted out from thechurch and for the existence of which there seemed to be no ostensiblereason. He examined it and found that it was not a buttress butapparently a half ruined chamber, which at some former period had beenbuilt upon the side of the abbey. Low down by the ground there was ahole, 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 hecrept in on his hands and knees and presently disappeared. 

He found himself in a room about ten feet square, dimly lighted by asmall window at the top, and surrounded by long horizontal niches. Thefloor, which was badly broken in some places, was of stone. Goddardexamined the place carefully. It was evidently an old vault of the kindformerly built above ground for the lords of the manor; but the coffins, if there had ever been any, had been removed elsewhere. Goddard laughedto himself. 

"I might stay here for a year, if I could get anything to eat, " he saidto himself. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The squire had grown used to the position in which he found himself afterMary Goddard had told him her story. He continued his visits as formerly, and it could hardly be said that there was any change in his mannertowards her; there was no need of any change, for even at the time whenhe contemplated making her his wife there had been nothing lover-likein his behaviour. He had been a friend and had treated her with all therespect due to a lonely lady who was his tenant, and even with a certainformality which had sometimes seemed unnecessary. But though there was noapparent alteration in his mode of talking, in his habit of bringing herflowers and books and of looking after the condition of the cottage, bothshe and he were perfectly conscious of the fact that they understood eachother much better than before. They were united by the common bond of acommon secret which very closely concerned one of them. Things were notas they had formerly been. Mrs. Goddard no longer felt that she hadanything 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 notselfish, and Mary Goddard did not lack good sense. Having ascertainedthat in the ordinary course of events there was no possibility of evermarrying her, the squire did not at once give her over and go elsewhere;on the contrary he showed himself more desirous than ever of assistingher and amusing her. He was a patient man; his day might come yet, ifGoddard died. It did not follow that if he could not marry Mrs. Goddardhe 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 couldnot 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 ofher life. He judged things very coldly and lost himself in no loftyflights of imagination. It was better that he should enjoy what fell inhis 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 thesake of marrying. He had seen so much of the active side of life that hewas well prepared to revel in the peace which had fallen to his lot. Hecared little whether he left an heir to the park; there were others ofthe name, and since the park had furnished matter for litigation duringforty years before he came into possession of it, it might supply thelawyers 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 beenpossible, but since the thing could not be done at present it was best tosubmit with a good grace. Since the day when his suit had suddenly cometo grief in the discovery of her real position, Mr. Juxon hadphilosophically said to himself that he had perhaps been premature inmaking his proposal, and that it was as well that it could not have beenaccepted; perhaps she would not have made him a good wife; perhaps he haddeceived himself in thinking that because he liked her and desired herfriendship he really wished to marry her; perhaps all was for the best inthe best of all possible worlds, after all and in spite of all. 

But these reflections, which tended to soothe the squire's annoyance atthe 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 forhelping her. She seemed never to have thought of divorcing herself fromher 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 opinionupon the matter. He believed that English law did not grant divorces onaccount of the husband's being sentenced to any limited period of penalservitude. But in any case it would be a very delicate subject toapproach, and Mr. Juxon amused himself by constructing conversations inhis mind which should lead up to this point without wounding poor Mrs. Goddard's sensibilities. He was the kindest of men; he would not forworlds have said a word which should recall to her that memorable daywhen she had told him her story. And yet it would be quite impossible tobroach such a scheme without going at once into all the details of thechief cause of her sorrows. The consequence was that in the windings ofhis imagination the squire found himself perpetually turning in a viciouscircle; but since the exercise concerned Mrs. Goddard and her welfare itwas not uncongenial. He founded all his vague hopes upon one expressionshe had used. When in making his proposal he had spoken of her as being awidow, she had said, "Would to God that I were!" She had said it withsuch vehemence that he had felt sure that if she had indeed been a widowher answer to himself would have been favourable. Men easily retain suchimpressions received in moments of great excitement, and found hopes uponthem. 

So the days had gone by and the squire had thought much but had come tono conclusion. On the morning when Walter Goddard crept into the disusedvault at the back of the church, the squire awoke from his sleep at hisusual early hour. He was not in a very good humour, if so equable a mancould be said to be subject to such weaknesses as humours. The weatherwas very depressing--day after day brought only more rain, more wind, more mud, more of everything disagreeable. The previous evening had beenunusually dull. He was never weary of being with Mary Goddard, butoccasionally, when the Ambroses were present, the conversation becameoppressive. Mr. Juxon almost wished that John Short would come back andcause a diversion. His views concerning John had undergone some changesince he had discovered that nobody could marry Mrs. Goddard because shewas married already. He believed he could watch John's efforts to attracther attention with indifference now, or if without indifference with acharitable forbearance. John at least would help to make conversation, and the conversation on the previous evening had been intolerablywearisome. Almost unconsciously, since the chief interest and hope of hisdaily life had been removed the squire began to long for a change; hehad been a wanderer by profession during thirty years of his life and hewas perhaps not yet old enough to settle into that absolute indifferenceto 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 hisdressing-glass at the leafless oaks of the park, at the grey sky and thedriving rain and he wished something would happen. He wished somebodymight die and leave a great library to be sold, that he might indulgehis favourite passion; he wished he had somebody stopping in the Hall--healmost decided to send and ask the vicar to come to lunch and have a dayamong the books. As he entered the breakfast-room at precisely half-pasteight o'clock, according to his wont, the butler informed him that Mr. Gall, the village constable, was below and wanted to see him afterbreakfast. He received the news in silence and sat down to eat hisbreakfast and read the morning paper. Gall had probably come about somepetty summons, or to ask what he should do about the small boys who threwstones at the rooks and broke the church windows. After finishing hismeal and his paper in the leisurely manner peculiar to country gentlemenwho have nothing to do, the squire rang the bell, sent for the policemanand went into his study, a small room adjoining the library. 

Thomas Gall, constable, was a tall fair man with a mild eye and acheerful face. Goodwill towards men and plentiful good living had donetheir work in eradicating from the good man all that stern element whichmight have been most useful to him in his career, not to say useful tothe State. Each rolling year was pricked in his leathern belt with a newhole as his heart grew more peaceful and his body throve. He had a goodlygirth and weighed full fifteen stone in his uniform; his mild blue eyehad inspired confidence in a maiden of Billingsfield parish and Mrs. Gallwas now rearing a numerous family of little Galls, all perhaps destinedto become mild-eyed and portly village constables in their turn. 

The squire, who was not destitute of a sense of humour, never thought ofMr. Gall without a smile, so much out of keeping did the man's occupationseem with his jovial humour. Mr. Gall, he said, was the kind of policemanwho would bribe a refractory tramp to move on by the present of a pint ofbeer. But Gall had a good point. He was very proud of his profession, andin the exercise of it he showed a discretion which, if it was the betterpart of his valour, argued unlimited natural courage. It was a secretprofession, he was wont to say, and a man who could not keep a secretwould never do for a constable. He shrouded his ways in an amiablemystery and walked a solitary beat on fine nights; when the nights werenot fine there was nobody to see whether he walked his beat or not. Probably, he faithfully fulfilled his obligations; but his constitutionseemed to bear exposure to the weather wonderfully well. Whether he eversaw anything worth mentioning upon those lonely walks of his, isuncertain; at all events he never mentioned anything he saw, unless itwas in the secrecy of the reports he was supposed to transmit from timeto time to his superiors. 

On the present occasion as he entered the study, the squire observed withsurprise that he looked grave. He had never witnessed such a phenomenonbefore and argued that it was just possible that something of realimportance 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 ofcircumlocution. "Yes--what is it?"

"Well, sir--it's this, " said the policeman, running his thumb round theinside of his belt as though to test the pressure, and clearing histhroat. "There has been a general order sent down to be on the lookout, sir. So I thought it would be best to take your opinion. "

"My opinion, " said the squire with great gravity, "is that if you aredirected to be on the look-out, you should be on the look-out; by allmeans. What are you to be on the look-out for?"

"In point of fact, sir, " said the constable, lowering his voice, "we areinformed that a criminal has escaped from Portland. I never heard of aconvict getting out of that strong'old o' the law, sir, and I would liketo have your opinion upon it. "

"But if you are informed that some one has escaped, " remarked the squire, "you had better take it for granted that it is true. "

"Juss so, sir. But the circumstances wasn't communicated to us, sir; sowe don't know. "

Mr. Gall paused, and the squire smoothed his hair a little. 

"Well, Gall, " said Mr. Juxon, "have you any reason for believing thatthis escaped convict is likely to come this way?"

"Well sir, there is some evidence, " answered the policeman, mysteriously. "Leastways what seems like evidence to me, sir. "

"Of what kind?" the squire fixed his quiet eyes on Mr. Gall's face. 

"His name, sir. The name of the convict. There is a party of that nameresidin' here. "

The squire suddenly guessed what was coming, or at least a possibility ofit crossed his mind. If Mr. Gall had been a more observant man he wouldhave seen that Mr. Juxon grew a shade paler and changed one leg over theother as he sat. But in that moment he had time to nerve himself for theworst. 

"And what is the name, if you please?" he asked calmly. 

"The name in the general orders is Goddard, sir--Walter Goddard. He wasconvicted of forgery three years ago, sir, a regular bad lot. Butdiscretion is recommended in the orders, sir, as the business is notwanted to get into the papers. "

The squire was ready. If Gall did not know that Mary Goddard was the wifeof the convict Walter, he should certainly not find it out. In any othercountry of Europe that would have been the first fact communicated to thelocal police. Very likely, thought Mr. Juxon, nobody knew it. 

"I do not see, " he said very slowly, "that the fact of there being a Mrs. Goddard residing here in the least proves that she is any relation tothis criminal. The name is not so uncommon as that, you know. "

"Nor I either, sir. In point of fact, sir, I was only thinking. It's whatyou may call a striking coincidence, that's all. "

"It would have been a still more striking coincidence if his name hadbeen Juxon like mine, or Ambrose like the vicar's, " said the squirecalmly. "There are other people of the name in England, and the localpolicemen will be warned to be on the lookout. If this fellow was calledJuxon instead of Goddard, Gall, would you be inclined to think he was arelation of mine?"

"Oh no, sir. Ha! ha! Very good sir! Very good indeed! No indeed, sir, andshe such a real lady too!"

"Well then, I do not see that you can do anything more than keep a sharplook-out. I suppose they sent you some kind of description?"

"Well, yes. There was a kind of a description as you say, sir, but I'mnot anyways sure of recognising the party by it. In point of fact, sir, the description says the convict is a fair man. "

"Is that all?"

"Neither particular tall, nor yet particular short, sir. Not a very big'un nor a very little 'un, sir. In point of fact, sir, a fair man. Cleanshaved and close cropped he is, sir, being a criminal. "

"I hope you may recognise him by that account, " said the squire, suppressing a smile. "I don't believe I should. "

"Well, sir, it does say as he's a fair man, " remarked the constable. 

"Supposing he blacked his face and passed for a chimney-sweep?" suggestedthe squire. The idea seemed to unsettle Gall's views. 

"In that case, sir, I don't know as I should know him, for certain, " heanswered. 

"Probably not--probably not, Gall. And judging from the account they havesent you I don't think you would be to blame. "

"Leastways it can't be said as I've failed to carry out superiorinstructions, " replied Mr. Gall, proudly. "Then it's your opinion, sir, that I'd better keep a sharp look-out? Did I understand you to say so, sir?"

"Quite so, " returned the squire with great calmness. "By all means keep asharp look-out, and be careful to be discreet, as the orders instructyou. "

"You may trust me for that, sir, " said the policeman, who dearly lovedthe idea of mysterious importance. "Then I wish you good morning, sir. "He prepared to go. 

"Good morning, Gall--good morning. The butler will give you some ale. "

Again Mr. Gall passed his thumb round the inside of his belt, testing thelocal pressure in anticipation of a pint. He made a sort of half-militarysalute at the door and went out. When the squire was alone he rose fromhis chair and paced the room, giving way to the agitation he hadconcealed in the presence of the constable. He was very much disturbed atthe news of Goddard's escape, as well he might be. Not that he was awarethat the convict knew of his wife's whereabouts; he did not even supposethat Goddard could ascertain for some time where she was living, stillless that he would boldly present himself in Billingsfield. But it wasbad enough to know that the man was again at large. So long as he wassafely lodged in prison, Mrs. Goddard was herself safe; but if once heregained his liberty and baffled the police he would certainly end byfinding out Mary's address and there was no telling to what annoyance, to what danger, to what sufferings she might be exposed. Here was a newinterest, indeed, and one which promised to afford the squire occupationuntil the fellow was caught. 

Mr. Juxon knew that he was right in putting the policeman off the trackin regard to Mrs. Goddard. He himself was a better detective than Gall, for he went daily to the cottage and if anything was wrong there, wasquite sure to discover it. If Goddard ever made his way to Billingsfieldit could only be for the purpose of seeing his wife, and if he succeededin this, Mrs. Goddard could not conceal it from the squire. She was anervous woman who could not hide her emotions; she would find herself ina terrible difficulty and she would perhaps turn to her friend forassistance. If Mr. Juxon could lay his hands on Goddard, he flatteredhimself he was much more able to arrest a desperate man than mild-eyedPoliceman Gall. He had not been at sea for thirty years in vain, and inhis time he had handled many a rough customer. He debated however uponthe course he should pursue. As in his opinion it was unlikely thatGoddard would find out his wife for some time, and improbable that hewould waste such precious time in looking for her, it seemed far fromadvisable to warn her that the felon had escaped. On the other hand hemistrusted his own judgment; if she were not prepared it was justpossible that the man should come upon her unawares, and the shock ofseeing him might be very much worse than the shock of being told that hewas at large. He might consult the vicar. 

At first, the old feeling that it would be disloyal to Mrs. Goddard evento hint to Mr. Ambrose that he was acquainted with her story withheld himfrom pursuing such a course. But as he turned the matter over in his mindit seemed to him that since it was directly for her good, he would now bejustified in speaking. He liked the vicar and he trusted him. He knewthat the vicar had been a good friend to Mrs. Goddard and that he wouldstand by her in any difficulty so far as he might be able. The realquestion was how to make sure that the vicar should not tell his wife. IfMrs. Ambrose had the least suspicion that anything unusual was occurring, she would naturally try and extract information from her husband, and shewould probably be successful; women, the squire thought, very generallysucceed in operations of that kind. But if once Mr. Ambrose could beconsulted without arousing his wife's suspicions, he was a man to betrusted. Thereupon Mr. Juxon wrote a note to the vicar, saying that hehad something of great interest to show him, and begging that, if nototherwise engaged, he would come up to the Hall to lunch. When he haddespatched his messenger, being a man of his word, he went into thelibrary to hunt for some rare volume or manuscript which the vicar hadnot yet seen, and which might account in a spirit of rigid veracity forthe excuse he had given. Meanwhile, as he turned over his rare andcurious folios he debated further upon his conduct; but having once madeup his mind to consult Mr. Ambrose, he determined to tell him boldly whathad occurred, after receiving from him a promise of secrecy. Themessenger brought back word that the vicar would be delighted to come, and at the hour named the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced thearrival of Strawberry, the old mare, drawing behind her the vicar and hisaged henchman, Reynolds, in the traditional vicarage dogcart. A momentlater the vicar entered the library. 

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose, " said the squire inhospitabletones. "I have something to show you and I have something to say to you. "The two shook hands heartily. Independently of kindred scholarly tastes, they were sympathetic to each other and were always glad to meet. 

"It is just the weather for bookworms, " answered the vicar in cheerfultones. "Dear me, I never come here without envying you and wishing thatlife were one long rainy afternoon. "

"You know I am inclined to think I am rather an enviable person, " saidMr. Juxon, slowly passing his hand over his glossy hair and leading hisguest towards a large table near the fire. Several volumes lay togetherupon the polished mahogany. The squire laid his hand on one of them. 

"I have not deceived you, " he said. "That is a very interesting volume. It is the black letter Paracelsus I once spoke of. I have succeeded ingetting it at last. "

"Dear me! What a piece of fortune!" said Mr. Ambrose bending down untilhis formidable nose almost touched the ancient page. 

"Yes, " said the squire, "uncommonly lucky as usual. Now, excuse myabruptness in changing the subject--I want to consult you upon animportant matter. "

The vicar looked up quickly with that vague, faraway expression whichcomes into the eyes of a student when he is suddenly called away fromcontemplating some object of absorbing interest. 

"Certainly, " he said, "certainly--a--by all means. "

"It is about Mrs. Goddard, " said the squire, looking hard at his visitor. "Of course it is between ourselves, " he added. 

The vicar's long upper lip descended upon its fellow and he bent hisrough grey eyebrows, returning Mr. Juxon's sharp look with interest. Hecould not imagine what the squire could have to say about Mrs. Goddard, unless, like poor John, he had fallen in love with her and wanted tomarry her; which appeared improbable. 

"What is it?" he said sharply. 

"I daresay you do not know that I am acquainted with her story, " beganMr. Juxon. "Do not be surprised. She saw fit to tell it me herself. "

"Indeed?" exclaimed the vicar in considerable astonishment. In that case, he argued quickly, Mr. Juxon was not thinking of marrying her. 

"Yes--it is not necessary to go into that, " said Mr. Juxon quickly. "Thething I want to tell you is this--Goddard the forger has escaped--"

"Escaped?" echoed the vicar in real alarm. "You don't mean to say so!"

"Gall the constable came here this morning, " continued Mr. Juxon. "Hetold me that there were general orders out for his arrest. "

"How in the world did he get out?" cried the vicar. "I thought nobody wasever known to escape from Portland!"

"So did I. But this fellow has--somehow. Gall did not know. Now, thequestion is, what is to be done?"

"I am sure I don't know, " returned the vicar, thrusting his hands intohis pockets and marching to the window, the wide skirts of his coatseeming to wave with agitation as he walked. 

Mr. Juxon also put his hands into his pockets, but he stood still uponthe hearth-rug and looked at the ceiling, softly whistling a little tune, a habit he had in moments of great anxiety. For three or four minutesneither of the two spoke. 

"Would you tell Mrs. Goddard--or not?" asked Mr. Juxon at last. 

"I don't know, " said the vicar. "I am amazed beyond measure. " He turnedand slowly came back to the table. 

"I don't know either, " replied the squire. "That is precisely the pointupon which I think we ought to decide. I have known about the story forsome time, but I did not anticipate that it would take this turn. "

"I think, " said Mr. Ambrose after another pause, "I think that if thereis any likelihood of the fellow finding her out, we ought to tell her. Ifnot I think we had better wait until he is caught. He is sure to becaught, of course. "

"I entirely agree with you, " returned Mr. Juxon. "Only--how on earth arewe to find out whether he is likely to come here or not? If any one knowswhere he is, he is as good as caught already. If nobody knows, we cancertainly have no means of telling. "

The argument was unanswerable. Again there was a long silence. The vicarwalked about the room in great perplexity. 

"Dear me! Dear me! What a terrible business!" he repeated, over and overagain. 

"Do you think we are called upon to do anything?" he asked at last, stopping in his walk immediately in front of Mr. Juxon. 

"If we can do anything to save Mrs. Goddard from annoyance or furthertrouble, we are undoubtedly called upon to do it, " replied the squire. "If that wretch finds her out, he will try to break into the cottage atnight and force her to give him money. "

"Do you really think so? Dear me! I hope he will do no such thing!"

"So do I, I am sure, " said Mr. Juxon, with a grim smile. "But if he findsher out, he will. I almost think it would be better to tell her in anycase. "

"But think of the anxiety she will be in until he is caught!" cried thevicar. "She will be expecting him every day--every night. Well--I supposewe might tell Gall to watch the house. "

"That will not do, " said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be a great injusticeto allow Gall or any of the people in the village to know anything abouther. She might be subjected to all kinds of insult. You know what thesepeople are. A 'real lady, ' who is at the same time the wife of a convict, is a thing they can hardly understand. I am sure both you and I secretlyflatter ourselves that we have shown an unusual amount of good sense andgenerosity in understanding her position as we do. "

"I daresay we do, " said the vicar with a smile. He was too honest to denyit. "Indeed it took me some time to get used to the idea myself. "

"Precisely. The village people would never get used to it. Of all thingsto do, we should certainly not tell Gall, who is an old woman and a greatchatterbox. I wish you could have heard his statement this morning--itfilled me with admiration for the local police, I assure you. But--Ithink it would be better to tell her. I did not think so before you came, I believe. But talking always brings the truth out. "

The vicar hesitated, rising and falling upon his toes and heels inprofound thought, after his manner. 

"I daresay you are right, " he said at last. "Will you do it? Or shall I?"

"I would rather not, " said the squire, thoughtfully. "You know herbetter, you have known her much longer than I. "

"But she will ask me where I heard of it, " objected the vicar. "I shallbe obliged to say that you told me. That will be as bad as though youtold her yourself. "

"You need not say you heard it from me. You can say that Gall hasreceived instructions to look out for Goddard. She will not question youany further, I am sure. "

"I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Juxon, " said the vicar. 

"I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Ambrose, " said the squire, almost in the same breath. Both laughed a little. 

"Not that I would not do it at once, if necessary, " added Mr. Juxon. 

"Or I, in a moment, " said Mr. Ambrose. 

"Of course, " returned Mr. Juxon. "Only it is such a very delicate matter, you see. "

"Dear me, yes, " murmured the vicar, "a most delicate matter. Poor lady!"

"Poor lady!" echoed the squire. "But I suppose it must be done. "

"Oh yes--we cannot do otherwise, " answered Mr. Ambrose, still hoping thathis companion would volunteer to perform the disagreeable office. 

"Well then, will you--will you do it?" asked Mr. Juxon, anxious to havethe matter decided. 

"Why not go together?" suggested the vicar. 

"No, " said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be an intolerable ordeal for thepoor woman. I think I see your objection. Perhaps you think that Mrs. Ambrose--"

"Exactly, Mrs. Ambrose, " echoed the vicar with a grim smile. 

"Oh precisely--then I will do it, " said the squire. And he forthwith did, and was very much surprised at the result. 

CHAPTER XV. 

It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Juxon walked down towards thecottage, accompanied by the vicar. In spite of their mutual anxiety to beof service to Mrs. Goddard, when they had once decided how to act theyhad easily fallen into conversation about other matters, the black letterParacelsus had received its full share of attention and many another rarevolume had been brought out and examined. Neither the vicar nor his hostbelieved that there was any hurry; if Goddard ever succeeded in gettingto Billingsfield it would not be to-day, nor to-morrow either. 

The weather had suddenly changed; the east was already clear and over thewest, where the sun was setting in a fiery mist, the huge clouds werebanked up against the bright sky, fringed with red and purple, but nolonger threatening rain or snow. The air was sharp and the plentiful mudin the roads was already crusted with a brittle casing of ice. 

The squire took leave of Mr. Ambrose at the turning where the road ledinto the village and then walked back to the cottage. Even his solidnerves were a little unsettled at the prospect of the interviewbefore him; but he kept a stout heart and asked for Mrs. Goddard in hisusual quiet voice. Martha told him that Mrs. Goddard had a bad headache, but on inquiry found that she would see the squire. He entered thedrawing-room softly and went forward to greet her; she was sitting in adeep chair propped by cushions. 

Mary Goddard had spent a miserable day. The grey morning light seemed toreveal her troubles and fears in a new and more terrible aspect. Duringthe long hours of darkness it seemed as though those things weremercifully hidden which the strong glare of day must inevitably reveal, and when the night was fairly past she thought all the world must surelyknow that Walter Goddard had escaped and that his wife had seen him. Hourly she expected a ringing at the bell, announcing the visit of aparty of detectives on his track; every sound startled her and her nerveswere strung to such a pitch that she heard with supernatural acuteness. She had indeed two separate causes for fear. The one was due to heranxiety for Goddard's safety; the other to her apprehensions for Nellie. She had long determined that at all hazards the child must be kept fromthe knowledge of her father's disgrace, by being made to believe in hisdeath. It was a falsehood indeed, but such a falsehood as may surely beforgiven to a woman as unhappy as Mary Goddard. It seemed monstrous thatthe innocent child, who seemed not even to have inherited her father'slooks or temper, should be brought up with the perpetual sense of herdisgrace before her, should be forced to listen to explanations of herfather's crimes and tutored to the comprehension of an inherited shame. From the first Mary Goddard had concealed the whole matter from thelittle girl, and when Walter was at last convicted, she had told her thather father was dead. Dead he might be, she thought, before twelve yearswere out, and Nellie would be none the wiser. In twelve years from thetime of his conviction Nellie would be in her twenty-first year; if itwere ever necessary to tell her, it would be time enough then, for thegirl would have at least enjoyed her youth, free of care and of thehorrible consciousness of a great crime hanging over her head. No childcould grow up in such a state as that implied. No mind could develophealthily under the perpetual pressure of so hideous a secret; from herearliest childhood her impressions would be warped, her imaginationdarkened and her mental growth stunted. It would be a great cruelty totell her the truth; it was a great mercy to tell her the falsehood. Itwas no selfish timidity which had prompted Mary Goddard, but a carefullyweighed consideration for the welfare of her child. 

If now, within these twenty-four hours, Nellie should discover who thepoor tramp was, who had frightened her so much on the previous evening, all this would be at an end. The child's life would be made desolate forever. She would never recover from the shock, and to injure lovely Nellieso bitterly would be worse to Mary Goddard than to be obliged to bear thesharpest suffering herself. For, from the day when she had waked to acomprehension of her husband's baseness, the love for her child had takenin her breast the place of the love for Walter. 

She did not think connectedly; she did not realise her fears; she wasalmost wholly unstrung. But she had procured the fifty pounds her husbandrequired and she waited for the night with a dull hope that all might yetbe well--as well as anything so horrible could be. If only her husbandwere not caught in Billingsfield it would not be so bad, perhaps. And yetit may be that her wisest course would have been to betray him that verynight. Many just men would have said so; but there are few women whowould do it. There are few indeed, so stonyhearted as to betray a manonce loved in such a case; and Mary Goddard in her wildest fear neverdreamed of giving up the fugitive. She sat all day in her chair, wishingthat the day were over, praying that she might be spared any furthersuffering or that at least it might be spared to her child whom she soloved. She had sent Nellie down to the vicarage with Martha. Mrs. Ambroseloved Nellie better than she loved Nellie's mother, and there was astanding invitation for her to spend the afternoons at the vicarage. Nellie said her mother had a terrible headache and wanted to be alone. 

But when the squire came Mrs. Goddard thought it wiser to see him. Shehad, of course, no intention of confiding to him an account of the eventsof the previous night, but she felt that if she could talk to him forhalf an hour she would be stronger. He was himself so strong and honestthat he inspired her with courage. She knew, also, that if she weredriven to the extremity of confiding in any one she would choose Mr. Juxon rather than Mr. Ambrose. The vicar had been her first friend andshe owed him much; but the squire had won her confidence by his noblegenerosity after she had told him her story. She said to herself that hewas more of a man than the vicar. And now he had come to her at the timeof her greatest distress, and she was glad to see him. 

Mr. Juxon entered the room softly, feeling that he was in the presence ofa sick person. Mrs. Goddard turned her pathetic face towards him and heldout her hand. 

"I am so glad to see you, " she said, trying to seem cheerful. 

"I fear you are ill, Mrs. Goddard, " answered the squire, looking at heranxiously and then seating himself by her side. "Martha told me you had aheadache--I hope it is not serious. "

"Oh no--not serious. Only a headache, " she said with a smile so unlikeher own that Mr. Juxon began to feel nervous. His resolution to tell herhis errand began to waver; it seemed cruel, he thought, to disturb aperson who was evidently so ill with a matter so serious. He rememberedthat she had almost fainted on a previous occasion when she had spoken tohim of her husband. She had not been ill then; there was no knowing whatthe effect of a shock to her nerves might be at present. He sat still insilence for some moments, twisting his hat upon his knee. 

"Do not be disturbed about me, " said Mrs. Goddard presently. "It willpass very quickly. I shall be quite well to-morrow--I hope, " she addedwith a shudder. 

"I am very much disturbed about you, " returned Mr. Juxon in an unusuallygrave tone. Mrs. Goddard looked at him quickly, and was surprised whenshe saw the expression on his face. He looked sad, and at the same timeperplexed. 

"Oh, pray don't be!" she exclaimed as though deprecating further remarkupon her ill health. 

"I wish I knew, " said the squire with some hesitation, "whether--whetheryou are really very ill. I mean, of course, I know you have a badheadache, a very bad headache, as I can see. But--indeed, Mrs. Goddard, Ihave something of importance to say. "

"Something of importance?" she repeated, staring hard at him. 

"Yes--but it will keep till to-morrow, if you would rather not hear itnow, " he replied, looking at her doubtfully. 

"I would rather hear it now, " she answered after some seconds of silence. Her heart beat fast. 

"You were good enough some time ago to tell me about--Mr. Goddard, " beganMr. Juxon in woeful trepidation. 

"Yes, " answered his companion under her breath. Her hands were claspedtightly together upon her knees and her eyes sought the squire'sanxiously and then looked away again in fear. 

"Well, it is about him, " continued Mr. Juxon in a gentle voice. "Wouldyou rather put it off? It is--well, rather startling. "

Mrs. Goddard closed her eyes, like a person expecting to suffer someterrible pain. She thought Mr. Juxon was going to tell her that Walterhad been captured in the village. 

"Mr. Goddard has escaped, " said the squire, making a bold plunge with thewhole truth. The sick lady trembled violently, and unclasping her handslaid them upon the arms of her chair as though to steady herself to bearthe worse shock to come. But Mr. Juxon was silent. He had told her all heknew. 

"Yes, " she said faintly. "Is there anything--anything more?" Her voicewas barely audible in the still and dusky room. 

"No--except that, of course, there are orders out for his arrest, allover the country. "

"He has not been arrested yet?" asked Mrs. Goddard. She had expected tohear that he was caught; she thought the squire was trying to break theshock 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 havesomething else to confess to you, Mrs. Goddard, I trust you will not--"

"What?" she asked so suddenly as to startle him. Walter might have beenheard 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 consultedthe vicar as to whether we should tell you. "

"The vicar? What did he say?" Again Mrs. Goddard felt relieved. 

"He quite agreed with me, " answered the squire. "You see we feared thatMr. Goddard might find his way here and come upon you suddenly. Wethought you would be terribly pained and startled. "

Mrs. Goddard could almost have laughed at that moment. The excellent manhad taken all this trouble in order to save her from the very thing whichhad already occurred on the previous night. There was a bitter humour inthe situation, in the squire's kind-hearted way of breaking to her thatnews which she already knew so well, in his willingness to put offtelling her until the morrow. What would Mr. Juxon say, could he guessthat she had herself already spoken with her husband and had promised tosee him again that very night! Forgetting that his last words required ananswer, she leaned back in her chair and again folded her hands beforeher. Her eyes were half closed and from beneath the drooping lids shegazed 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 hopethat this thing will have no further consequences. Of course, until weknow of Mr. Goddard's whereabouts we shall feel very anxious. It seemsprobable that if he can get here unobserved he will do so. He willprobably ask you for some money. "

"Do you really think he could get here at all?" asked Mrs. Goddard. Shewanted to hear what he would say, for she thought she might judge fromhis words whether her husband ran any great risk. 

"Oh no, " replied the squire. "I think it is very improbable. I fear thisnews has sadly disturbed you, Mrs. Goddard, but let us hope all may turnout for the best. " Indeed he thought she showed very little surprise, though she had evidently been much moved. Perhaps she had been accustomedto expect that her husband might one day escape. She was ill, too, andher nerves were unstrung, he supposed. 

She had really passed through a very violent emotion, but it had not beencaused by her surprise, but by her momentary fear for the fugitive, instantly allayed by Mr. Juxon's explanation. She felt that for to-day atleast Walter was safe, and by to-morrow he would be safe out of theneighbourhood. But she reflected that it was necessary to say something;that if she appeared to receive the news too indifferently the squire'ssuspicions might be aroused with fatal results. 

"It is a terrible thing, " she said presently. "You see I am not at allmyself. "

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 oflooking for a stronger expression of fear or astonishment, was now onlytoo 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 torelieve the embarrassment of the situation. "Of course we might put youunder the protection of the police but--what is the matter, Mrs. Goddard?" 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 thatwould be very unpleasant for you. It would be like telling him and allthe 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. Goddard himself than Gall the constable could possibly be; but he checkedhimself in time. 

"Besides--what?" she asked. 

"Nothing--Gall is not much of a policeman, that is all. I do not believeyou would be any the safer for his protection. But you must promise me, my dear Mrs. Goddard, that if anything occurs you will let me know. I maybe of some assistance. "

"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 aboutit. "

"Oh, quite right, " she answered. "And now, Mr. Juxon, I am really not atall well. All this has quite unnerved me--"

"You want me to go?" said the squire smiling kindly as he rose. "Yes, Iunderstand. Well, good-bye, my dear friend--I hope everything willclear up. "

"Good-bye. Thank you again. You always do understand me, " she answeredgiving 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 aman, 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 attheir next meeting. He went quickly down the path and crossed the road tohis own gate with a light step. As he entered the park he was not awareof a wretched-looking tramp who slouched along the quickset hedge andwatched his retreating figure far up the avenue, till he was out of sightamong the leafless trees. If Stamboul had been with the squire the trampwould certainly not have passed unnoticed; but for some days the roadshad been so muddy that Stamboul had been left behind when Mr. Juxon madehis visits to the cottage, lest the great hound should track the mud intothe spotless precincts of the passage. The tramp stood still and lookedafter the squire so long as he could see him, and then slunk off acrossthe wet meadows, where the standing water was now skimmed with ice. 

Walter Goddard had spent the day in watching for the squire and he hadseen him at last. He had seen him go down the road with the vicar tillthey were both out of sight, and he had seen him come back and enter thecottage. This proceeding, he argued, betrayed that the squire did notwish to be seen going into Mary's house by the vicar. The tortuousintelligences of bad men easily impute to others courses which theythemselves would naturally pursue. Three words on the previous eveninghad sufficed to rouse the convict's jealousy. What he saw to-dayconfirmed his suspicions. The gentleman in knickerbockers could be noother than the squire himself, of course. He was evidently in the habitof visiting Mary Goddard and he did not wish his visits to be observed bythe clergyman, who was of course the vicar or rector of the parish. Thatproved conclusively in the fugitive's mind that there was somethingwrong. He ground his teeth together and said to himself that it would beworth while to run some risk in order to stop that little game, as heexpressed it. He had, as he himself had confessed to his wife, murderedone man in escaping; a man, he reflected, could only hang once, and if hehad not been taken in the streets of London he was not likely to becaught in the high street of Billingsfield, Essex. It would be a greatsatisfaction to knock the squire on the head before he went any farther. Moreover he had found a wonderfully safe retreat in the disused vault atthe back of the church. He discovered loose stones inside the place whichhe could pile up against the low hole which served for an entrance. Probably no one knew that there was any entrance at all--the veryexistence of the vault was most likely forgotten. It was not a cheerfulplace, but Goddard's nerves were excited to a pitch far beyond the reachof supernatural fears. Whatever he might be condemned to feel in thefuture, his conscience troubled him very little in the present. The vaultwas comparatively dry and was in every way preferable, as a resting-placefor 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 shouldbe held to do the day's work he had promised in payment for his night inthe barn. All that morning and afternoon he had lain hidden in thequickset hedge near the park gate, within sight of the cottage, and hehad been rewarded. The food he had taken with him the night before hadsufficed him and he had quenched his thirst with rain-water from theditch. Having seen that the squire went back towards the Hall, Goddardslunk away to his hiding-place to wait for the night. He lay down as besthe might, and listened for the hours and half-hours as the church clocktolled them out from the lofty tower above. 

Mary Goddard had told him to come later than before, and it was afterhalf-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 wetcreepers, listening intently for the sound of his wife's coming. Presently the glass 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 cautiouslyunfastened and opened a little and in the dim starlight Goddardrecognised his wife's pale face. Her hand went out to him, with somethingin it. 

"There is the money, " she whispered. "Go as quickly as you can. They arelooking for you--there are orders out to arrest you. "

Goddard seized her fingers and took the money. She would have withdrawnher 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 hereon 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!"He held her fingers as in a vice. 

"Hurt you! I wish I could strangle you and him too! Ha, you thought I wasnot looking this afternoon when he came! He went to the corner of theroad with the parson, and when the parson was out of sight he came back!I saw you!"

"You saw nothing!" answered his wife desperately. "How can you say so! Ifyou knew how kind he has been, what a loyal gentleman he is, you wouldnot dare to say such things. "

"You used to say I was a loyal gentleman, Mary, " retorted the convict. "Idaresay he is of the same stamp as I. Look here, Mary, if I catch thisloyal gentleman coming here any more I will cut his throat--so look out!"

"You do not mean to say you are going to remain here any longer, indanger of your life?" said Mary in great alarm. 

"Well--a man can only hang once. Give me some more of that bread andcheese, Mary. It was exceedingly good. "

"Then let me go, " said his wife, trembling with horror at the threat shehad just heard. 

"Oh yes. I will let you go. But I will just hold the window open in caseyou don't come back soon enough. Look sharp!"

There was no need to hurry the unfortunate woman. In less than threeminutes she returned, bringing a "quartern" loaf and a large piece ofcheese. She thrust them out upon the window-sill and withdrew her handbefore he could catch it. But he held the window open. 

"Now go!" she said. "I cannot do more for you--for God's sake go!"

"You seem very anxious to see the last of me, " he whispered. "I daresayif I am hanged you will get a ticket to see me turned off. Yes--wemention those things rather freely up in town. Don't be alarmed. I willcome back to-morrow night--you had better listen. If you had shown alittle more heart, I would have been satisfied, but you are so stony thatI think I would like another fifty pounds to-morrow night. Those notesare so deliciously crisp--"

"Listen, Walter!" said Mary. "Unless you promise to go I will raise analarm at once. I can face shame again well enough. I will have you--hush!For God's sake--hush! There is somebody coming!"

The convict's quick ear had caught the sound. Instantly he knelt and thenlay down at full length upon the ground below the window. It was a finenight and the conscientious Mr. Gall was walking his beat. The steadytramp of his heavy shoes had something ominous in it which struck terrorinto the heart of the wretched fugitive. With measured tread he came fromthe direction of the village. Reaching the cottage he paused and dimly inthe starlight Mrs. Goddard could distinguish his glazed hat--theprovincial constabulary still wore hats in those days. Mr. Gall stood notfifteen yards from the cottage, failed to observe that a window wasopen on the lower floor, nodded to himself as though satisfied with hisinspection and walked on. Little by little the sound of his steps grewfainter in the distance. Walter slowly raised himself again from theground, and put his head in at the window. 

"You see it would not be hard to have you caught, " whispered his wife, still breathless with the passing excitement. "That was the policeman. IfI had called him, it would have been all over with you. I tell you if youtry to come again I will give you up. "

"Oh, that's the way you treat me, is it?" said the convict with anotheroath. "Then you had better look out for your dear Mr. Juxon, that's all. "

Without another word, Goddard glided away from the window, let himselfout by the wicket gate and disappeared across the road. 

Mary Goddard was in that moment less horrified by her husband's threatthan by his base ingratitude to herself and by the accusation he seemedto make against her. Worn out with the emotions of fear and anxiety, shehad barely the strength to close and fasten the window. Then she sankinto the first chair she could find in the dark and stared into theblackness around her. It seemed indeed more than she could bear. She wasplaced in the terrible position of being obliged to betray her fugitivehusband, or of living in constant fear lest he should murder the bestfriend she had in the world. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

On the morning after the events last described Mr. Ambrose sat atbreakfast opposite his wife. The early post had just arrived, bringingthe usual newspaper and two letters. 

"Any news, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Ambrose with great suavity, as sherinsed her teacup in the bowl preparatory to repeating the dose. "Is notit time that we should hear from John?"

"There is a letter from him, strange to say. Wait a minute--my dear, theTripos is over and he wants to know if he may stop here--"

"The Tripos over already! How has he done? Do tell me, Augustin!"

"He does not know, " returned the vicar, quickly looking over thecontents of the letter. "The lists are not out--he thinks he has donevery well--he has had a hint that he is high up--wants to know whether hemay stop on his way to London--he is going to see his father--"

"Of course he shall come, " said Mrs. Ambrose with enthusiasm. "He muststop here till the lists are published and then we shall know--anythingelse?"

"The other is a note from a tutor of his side--my old friend Brown--he isvery enthusiastic; says it is an open secret that John will be at thehead of the list--begins to congratulate. Well, my dear, this is verysatisfactory, very flattering. "

"One might say very delightful, Augustin. "

"Delightful, yes quite delightful, " replied the vicar, burying his longnose in his teacup. 

"I only hope it may be true. I was afraid that perhaps John had donehimself harm by coming here at Christmas. Young men are so verylight-headed, are they not, Augustin?" added Mrs. Ambrose with a primsmile. On rare occasions she had alluded to John's unfortunate passionfor Mrs. Goddard, and when she spoke of the subject she had a tendency toassume something of the stiffness she affected towards strangers. As hasbeen seen she had ceased to blame Mrs. Goddard. Generally speaking theabsent are in the wrong in such matters; she could not refer to John'sconduct without a touch of severity. But the Reverend Augustin bent hisshaggy brows; John was now successful, probably senior classic--it wasevidently no time to censure his behaviour. 

"You must be charitable, my dear, " he said, looking sharply at his wife. "We have all been young once you know. "

"Augustin, I am surprised at you!" said Mrs. Ambrose sternly. 

"For saying that I once was young?" inquired her husband. "Strange andparadoxical as such a statement must appear, I was once a baby. "

"I think your merriment very unseemly, " objected Mrs. Ambrose in a toneof censure. "Because you were once a baby it does not follow that youever acted in such a very foolish way about a--"

"My dear, " interrupted the vicar, handing his cup across the table, "Iwish you would leave John alone, and give me another cup of tea. Johnwill be here to-morrow. Let us receive him as we should. He has done uscredit. "

"He will never be received otherwise in this house, Augustin, " repliedMrs. Ambrose, "whether you allow me to speak my mind or not. I am awarethat Short has done us credit, as you express it. I only hope he alwaysmay do us credit in the future. I am sure, I was like a mother to him. Heought never to forget it. Why, my dear, cannot you remember how I alwayshad his buttons looked to and gave him globules when he wanted them? Ithink he might show some gratitude. "

"I do not think he has failed to show it, " retorted the vicar. 

"Oh, well, Augustin, if you are going to talk like that it is notpossible to argue with you; but he shall be welcome, if he comes. I hope, however, that he will not go to the cottage--"

"My dear, I have a funeral this morning. I wish you would not disturb mymind with these trifles. "

"Trifles! Who is dead? You did not tell me. "

"Poor Judd's baby, of course. We have spoken of it often enough, I amsure. "

"Oh yes, of course. Poor Tom Judd!" exclaimed Mrs. Ambrose with genuinesympathy. "It seems to me you are always burying his babies, Augustin!It is very sad. "

"Not always, my dear. Frequently, " said the vicar correcting her. "It isvery sad, as you say. Very sad. You took so much trouble to help themthis time, too. "

"Trouble!" Mrs. Ambrose cast up her eyes. "You don't know how muchtrouble. But I am quite sure it was the fault of that brazen-faceddoctor. I cannot bear the sight of him! That comes of answeringadvertisements in the newspapers. "

The present doctor had bought the practice abandoned by Mrs. Ambrose'sson-in-law. He had paid well for it, but his religious principles had notformed a part of the bargain. 

"It is of no use to cry over spilt milk, my dear. "

"I do not mean to. No, I never do. But it is very unpleasant to have suchpeople about. I really hope Tom Judd will not lose his next baby. Whenis John coming?"

"To-morrow. My dear, if I forget it this morning, will you remember tospeak to Reynolds about the calf?"

"Certainly, Augustin, " said his wife. Therewith the good vicar left herand went to bury Tom Judd's baby, divided in his mind between rejoicingover his favourite pupil's success and lamenting, as he sincerely did, the misfortunes which befell his parishioners. When he left thechurchyard an hour later he was met by Martha, who came from the cottagewith a message begging that the vicar would come to Mrs. Goddard as soonas possible. Martha believed her mistress was ill, she wanted to see Mr. Ambrose at once. Without returning to the vicarage he turned to the lefttowards the cottage. 

Mrs. Goddard had slept that night, being exhausted and almost broken downwith fatigue. But she woke only to a sense of the utmost pain anddistress, realising that to-day's anxiety was harder to bear thanyesterday's, and that to-morrow might bring forth even worse disastersthan those which had gone before. Her position was one of extreme doubtand peril. To tell any one that her husband was in the neighbourhoodseemed to be equivalent to rooting out the very last remnant ofconsideration for him which remained in her heart, the very last trace ofwhat had once been the chief joy and delight of her life. She hesitatedlong. There is perhaps nothing in human nature more enduring than thelove of man and wife; or perhaps one should rather say than the love of awoman for her husband. There appear to be some men capable of being socompletely estranged from their wives that there positively does notremain in them even the faintest recollection of what they have oncefelt, nor the possibility of feeling the least pity for what the womenthey once loved so well may suffer. There is no woman, I believe, whohaving once loved her husband truly, could see him in pain or distress, or in danger of his life, without earnestly endeavouring to help him. Awoman may cease to love her husband; in some cases she is right inforgetting her love, but it would be hard to find a case where, were hethe worst criminal alive, had he deceived her a thousand times, she wouldnot at least help him to escape from his pursuers or give him a crust tosave him from starvation. 

Mary Goddard had done her best for the wretch who had claimed herassistance. She had fed him, provided him with money, refused to betrayhim. But if it were to be a question of giving him up to the law, or ofallowing her best friend to be murdered by him, or even seriouslyinjured, she felt that pity must be at an end. It would be doubtless avery horrible thing to give him up, and she had gathered from what he hadsaid that if he were taken he would pay the last penalty of the law. Itwas so awful a thing that she groaned when she thought of it. But sheremembered his ghastly face in the starlight and the threat he had hissedout against the squire; he was a desperate man, with blood already on hishands. It was more than likely that he would do the deed he hadthreatened to do. What could be easier than to watch the squire on one ofthose evenings when he went up the park alone, to fall upon him and takehis life? Of late Mr. Juxon did not even take his dog with him. Thesavage bloodhound would be a good protector; but even when he tookStamboul with him by day, he never brought him at night. It was too longfor the beast to wait, he used to say, from six to nine or half past; hewas so savage that he did not care to leave him out of his sight; hebrought mud into the cottage, or into the vicarage as the case mightbe--if Stamboul had been an ordinary dog it would have been different. Those Russian bloodhounds were not to be trifled with. But the squiremust be warned of his danger before another night came on. 

It was a difficult question. Mrs. Goddard at first thought of telling himherself; but she shrank from the thought, for she was exhausted andoverwrought. A few days ago she would have been brave enough to sayanything if necessary, but now she had no longer the courage nor thestrength. It seemed so hard to face the squire with such a warning; itseemed as though she were doing something which would make her seemungrateful in his eyes, though she hardly knew why it seemed so. Sheturned more naturally to the vicar, to whom she had originally come inher first great distress; she had only once consulted him, but that oneoccasion seemed to establish a precedent in her mind, the precedent of athing familiar. It would certainly be easier. After much thought andinward debate, she determined to send for Mr. Ambrose. 

The fatigue and anxiety she had undergone during the last two days hadwrought great changes in her face. A girl of eighteen or twenty years maygain delicacy and even beauty from the physical effects of grief, but awoman over thirty years old gains neither. Mrs. Goddard's complexion, naturally pale, had taken a livid hue; her lips, which were never veryred, were almost white; heavy purple shadows darkened her eyes; the twoor three lines that were hardly noticeable, but which were the naturalresult of a sad expression in her face, had in two days become distinctlyvisible and had almost assumed the proportions of veritable wrinkles. Herfeatures were drawn and pinched--she looked ten years older than she was. Nothing remained of her beauty but her soft waving brown hair and herdeep, pathetic, violet eyes. Even her small hands seemed to have grownthin and looked unnaturally white and transparent. 

She was sitting in her favourite chair by the fire, when the vicararrived. She had not been willing to seem ill, in spite of what Marthahad said, and she had refused to put cushions in the chair. She wasmaking an effort, and even a little sense of physical discomfort helpedto make the effort seem easier. She was so much exhausted that she feltshe must not for one moment relax the tension she imposed upon herselflest her whole remaining strength should suddenly collapse and leave herat the mercy of events. But Mr. Ambrose was startled when he saw her andfeared that she was very ill. 

"My dear Mrs. Goddard, " he said, "what is the matter? Are you ill? Hasanything happened?"

As he spoke he changed the form of his question, suddenly recollectingthat Mr. Juxon had probably on the previous afternoon told her of herhusband's escape, as he had meant to do. This might be the cause of herindisposition. 

"Yes, " she said in a voice that did not sound like her own, "I have askedyou to come because I am in great trouble--in desperate trouble. "

"Dear me, " said the vicar, "I hope not!"

"Not desperate? Perhaps not. Dear Mr. Ambrose, you have always been sokind to me--I am sure you can help me now. " Her voice trembled. 

"Indeed I will do my best, " said the vicar who judged from so unusual anoutburst that there must be really something wrong. "If you could tell mewhat it is--" he suggested. 

"That is the hardest part of it, " said the unhappy woman. She paused amoment as though to collect her strength. "You know, " she began again, "that my husband has escaped?"

"A terrible business!" exclaimed the good man, nodding, however, inaffirmation to the question she asked. 

"I have seen him, " said Mary Goddard very faintly, looking down at herthin hands. The vicar started in astonishment. 

"My dear friend--dear me! Dear, dear, how very painful!"

"Indeed, you do not know what I have suffered. It is most dreadful, Mr. Ambrose. You cannot imagine what a struggle it was. I am quite worn out. "

She spoke with such evident pain that the vicar was moved. He felt thatshe had more to tell, but he had hardly recovered from his surprise. 

"But, you know, " he said, "that was the whole object of warning you. Wedid not really believe that he would come here. We were so much afraidthat he would startle you. Of course Mr. Juxon told you he consultedme--"

"Of course, " answered Mrs. Goddard. "It was too late. I had seen him thenight before. "

"Why, that was the very night we were here!" exclaimed Mr. Ambrose, moreand more amazed. Mrs. Goddard nodded. She seemed hardly able to speak. 

"He came and knocked at that window, " she said, very faintly. "He cameagain last night. "

"Dear me--I will send for Gall at once; he will have no difficulty inarresting him--"

"Oh please!" interrupted Mrs. Goddard in hysterical tones. "Please, please, dear Mr. Ambrose, don't!"

The vicar was silent. He rose unceremoniously from his chair and walkedto the window, as he generally did when in any great doubt. He realisedat once and very vividly the awful position in which the poor lady wasplaced. 

"Pray do not think I am very bad, " said she, almost sobbing with fear andemotion. "Of course it must seem dreadful to you that I should wish himto escape!"

The vicar came slowly back and stood beside her leaning against thechimney-piece. It did not take him long to make up his mind. Kind-heartedpeople are generally impulsive. 

"I do not, my dear lady. I assure you I fully understand your position. The fact is, I was too much surprised and I am too anxious for yoursafety not to think immediately of securing that--ahem--that unfortunateman. "

"Oh, it is not my safety! It is not only my safety--"

"I understand--yes--of course you are anxious about him. But it isdoubtless not our business to aid the law in its course, provided we donot oppose it. "

"It is something else, " murmured Mrs. Goddard. "Oh! how shall I tellyou, " she moaned turning her pale cheek to the back of the chair. 

The vicar looked at her and began to think it was perhaps some strangecase of conscience with which he had to deal. He had very littleexperience of such things save in the rude form they take among thelabouring classes. But he reflected that it was likely to be something ofthe kind; in such a case Mrs. Goddard would naturally enough have sentfor him, more as her clergyman than as her friend. She looked like aperson suffering from some great mental strain. He sat down beside herand took her passive hand. He was moved, and felt as though he might havebeen her father. 

"My dear, " he said kindly, almost as though he were speaking to a child, "have you anything upon your mind, anything which distresses you? Do youwish to tell me? If so I will do my very best to help you. "

Mrs. Goddard's fingers pressed his hand a little, but her face was stillturned away. 

"It is Mr. Juxon, " she almost whispered. If she had been watching thevicar she would have noticed the strange air of perplexity which cameover his face when he heard the squire's name. 

"Yes--Mr. Juxon, " she moaned. Then the choked-down horror rose in herthroat. "Walter means to murder him!" she almost screamed. "Oh, my God, my God, what shall I do!" she cried aloud clasping her hands suddenlyover her face and rocking herself to and fro. 

The vicar was horror-struck; he could hardly believe his ears, andbelieving them his senses swam. In his wildest dreams--and the good man'sdreams were rarely wild--he had never thought that such things could comenear him. Being a very good man and, moreover, a wise man when he hadplenty of time for reflection, he folded his hands quietly and bent hishead, praying fervently for the poor tortured woman who moaned and tossedherself beside him. It was a terrible moment. Suddenly she controlledherself and grasping one of the arms of the chair looked round at hersilent companion. 

"You must save him, " she said in agonised tones, "you must save themboth! Do not tell me you cannot--oh, do not tell me that!"

It was a passionate and heart-broken appeal, such a one as few men wouldor could resist, coming as it did from a helpless and miserably unhappywoman. Whether the vicar was wise in giving the answer he did, it wouldbe hard to say: but he was a man who honestly tried to do his best. 

"I will try, my dear lady, " he said, making a great resolution. Mrs. Goddard took his hand and pressed it in both of hers, and the longrestrained tears flowed fast and softly over her worn cheeks. For somemoments neither spoke. 

"If you cannot save both--you must save--Mr. Juxon, " she said at last, breathing the words rather than speaking them. 

The vicar knew or guessed what it must cost her to hint that her husbandmight be captured. He recognised that the only way in which he couldcontribute towards the escape of the convict was by not revealing hishiding-place, and he accordingly refrained from asking where he wasconcealed. He shuddered as he thought that Goddard might be lying hiddenin the cottage itself, for all he could tell, but he was quite sure thathe ought not to know it. So long as he did not know where the forger was, it was easy to hold his peace; but if once he knew, the vicar was notcapable of denying the knowledge. He had never told a lie in his life. 

"I will try, " he repeated; and growing calmer, he added, "You arequite sure this was not an empty threat, my dear friend? Was there anyreason--a--I mean to say, had this unfortunate man ever known Mr. Juxon?"

"Oh no!" answered Mrs. Goddard, sinking back into her chair. "He neverknew him. " Her tears were still flowing but she no longer sobbed aloud;it had been a relief to her overwrought and sensitive temperament to giveway to the fit of weeping. She actually felt better, though ten minutesearlier she would not have believed it possible. 

"Then--why?" asked Mr. Ambrose, hesitating. 

"My poor husband was a very jealous man, " she answered. "I accidentallytold him that the cottage belonged to Mr. Juxon and yesterday--do youremember? You walked on with Mr. Juxon beyond the turning, and then hecame back to see me--to tell me of my husband's escape. Walter saw thatand--and he thought, I suppose--that Mr. Juxon did not want you to seehim coming here. "

"But Mr. Juxon had just promised me to go and see you, " said the honestvicar. 

"Yes, " said poor Mrs. Goddard, beginning to sob again, "but Walter--myhusband--thinks that I--I care for Mr. Juxon--he is so jealous, " criedshe, again covering her face with her hands. The starting tears trickledthrough her fingers and fell upon her black dress. She was ashamed, thistime, for she hated even to speak of such a possibility. 

"I understand, " answered Mr. Ambrose gravely. It certainly did not strikehim that it might be true, and his knowledge of such characters as WalterGoddard was got chiefly from the newspapers. He had often noticed inreports of trials and detailed descriptions of crimes that criminals seemto become entirely irrational after a certain length of time, and it wasone of the arguments he best understood for demonstrating that bad meneither are originally, or ultimately become mad. To men like the vicar, almost the only possible theory of crime is the theory of insanity. It ispositively impossible for a man who has passed thirty or forty years in aquiet country parish to comprehend the motives or the actions of greatcriminals. He naturally says they must be crazy or they would not do suchthings. If Goddard were crazy enough to commit a forgery, he was crazyenough for anything, even to the extent of suspecting that his wife lovedthe squire. 

"I think, " said Mr. Ambrose, "that if you agree with me it will be bestto warn Mr. Juxon of his danger. "

"Of course, " murmured Mrs. Goddard. "You must warn him at once!"

"I will go to the Hall now, " said the vicar bravely. "But--I am verysorry to have to dwell on the subject, my dear lady, but, without wishingin the least to know where the--your husband is, could you tell meanything about his appearance? For instance, if you understand what Imean, supposing that Mr. Juxon knew how he looked and should happen tomeet him, knowing that he wished to kill him--he might perhaps avoid him, if you understand me?"

The vicar's English was a little disturbed by his extreme desire not tohurt Mrs. Goddard's feelings. If the squire and his dog chanced to meetWalter Goddard they would probably not avoid him as the vicar expressedit; that was a point Mr. Ambrose was willing to leave to Mrs. Goddard'simagination. 

"Yes--must you know?" she asked anxiously. 

"We must know that, " returned the vicar. 

"He is disguised as a poor tramp, " she said sorrowfully. "He wears asmock-frock and an old hat I think. He is pale--oh, poor, poor Walter!"she cried again bursting into tears. 

Mr. Ambrose could say nothing. There was nothing to be said. He rose andtook his hat--the old tall hat he wore to his parishioners' funerals. They were very primitive people in Billingsfield. 

"I will go at once, " he said. "Believe me, you have all my sympathy--Iwill do all I can. "

Mary Goddard thanked him more by her looks than with any words she wasable to speak. But she was none the less truly grateful for his sympathyand aid. She had a kind of blind reliance on him which made her feel thatsince she had once confided her trouble and danger nothing more couldpossibly be done. When he was gone, she sobbed with relief, as before shehad wept for fear; she was hysterical, unstrung, utterly unlike herself. 

But as the vicar went up towards the Hall he felt that he had his handsfull, and he felt moreover an uneasy sensation which he could not haveexplained. He was certainly no coward, but he had never been in such aposition before and he did not like it; there was an air of danger about, an atmosphere which gave him a peculiarly unpleasant thrill from time totime. He was not engaged upon an agreeable errand, and he had a vaguefeeling, due, the scientists would have told him, to unconsciousratiocination, which seemed to tell him that something was going tohappen. People who are very often in danger know that singular uneasinesswhich warns them that all is not well; it is not like anything else thatcan be felt. No one really knows its cause, unless it be true that themind sometimes reasons for itself without the consciousness of the body, and communicates to the latter a spasmodic warning, the result of itscogitations. 

To say to the sturdy squire, "Beware of a man in a smock-frock, oneGoddard the forger, who means to murder you, " seemed of itself simpleenough. But for the squire to distinguish this same Goddard from allother men in smock-frocks was a less easy matter. The vicar, indeed, could tell a strange face at a hundred yards, for he knew every man, woman and child in his parish; but the squire's acquaintance was morelimited. Obviously, said Mr. Ambrose to himself, the squire's best coursewould be to stay quietly at home until the danger was passed, and to password to Policeman Gall to lay hands on any particularly seedy-lookingtramps he happened to see in the village. It was Gall's duty to do so inany case, as he had been warned to be on the look-out. Mr. Ambroseinwardly wondered where the man could be hiding. Billingsfield was not, he believed, an easy place to hide in, for every ploughman knew hisfellow, and a new face was always an object of suspicion. Not a gipsytinker entered the village but what every one heard of it, and thoughtramps came through from time to time, it would be a difficult matter forone of them to remain two days in the place without attracting a greatdeal of attention. It was possible that Walter Goddard might have beenconcealed for one night in his wife's house, but even there he could nothave remained hidden for two days without being seen by Mrs. Goddard'stwo women servants. The vicar walked rapidly through the park, lookingabout him suspiciously as he went. Goddard might at that very moment belurking behind any one of those oaks; it would be most unpleasant if hemistook the vicar for the squire. But that, the vicar reflected, wasimpossible on account of his clerical dress. He reached the Hall insafety and stood looking down among the leafless trees, waiting for thedoor to be opened. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Mr. Juxon received the vicar in the library as he had received him on theprevious day; but on the present occasion Mr. Ambrose had not been sentfor and the squire's face wore an expression of inquiry. He supposed hisfriend had come to ask him the result of the interview with Mrs. Goddard, and as he himself was on the point of going towards the cottage he wishedthe vicar had come at a later or an earlier hour. 

"I have a message to give you, " said Mr. Ambrose, "a very importantmessage. "

"Indeed?" answered the squire, observing his serious face. 

"Yes. I had better tell you at once. Mrs. Goddard sent for me thismorning. She has actually seen her husband, who must be hiding in theneighbourhood. He came to her drawing-room window last night and thenight before. "

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Juxon. "You don't tell me so!"

"That is not the worst of the matter, " continued the vicar, looking verygrave and fixing his eyes on the squire's face. "This villainous fellowhas been threatening to take your life, Mr. Juxon. "

Mr. Juxon stared at the vicar for a moment in surprise, and then brokeinto a hearty laugh. 

"My life!" he cried. "Upon my word, the fellow does not know what he istalking about! Do you mean to say that this escaped convict, who can bearrested at sight wherever he is found, imagines that he could attack mein broad daylight without being caught?"

"Well, no, I suppose not--but you often walk home at night, Mr. Juxon--alone through the park. "

"I think that dog of mine could manage Mr. Goddard, " remarked the squirecalmly. "And pray, Mr. Ambrose, now that we know that the man is in theneighbourhood, what is to prevent us from finding him?"

"We do not know where he is, " replied the vicar, thanking the inspirationwhich had prevented him from asking Mrs. Goddard more questions. He hadpromised to save Goddard, too, or at least not to facilitate his capture. But though he was glad to be able to say honestly that he did not knowwhere he was, he began to doubt whether in the eyes of the law he wasacting rightly. 

"You do not know?" asked the squire. 

"No; and besides I think--perhaps--we ought to consider poor Mrs. Goddard's position. "

"Mrs. Goddard's position!" exclaimed Mr. Juxon almost angrily. "And whoshould consider her position more than I, Mr. Ambrose? My dear sir, Iconsider her position before all things--of course I do. But nothingcould be of greater advantage to her position than the certainty that herhusband is safely lodged in prison. I cannot imagine how he contrivedto escape--can you?"

"No, I cannot, " answered Mr. Ambrose, thrusting his hands into hispockets and biting his long upper lip. 

"By the bye, did the fellow happen to say why he meant to lay violenthands on me?" inquired Mr. Juxon. 

"Since you ask--he did. It appears that he saw you going into thecottage, and immediately became jealous--"

"Of me?" Mr. Juxon coloured a little beneath his bronzed complexion, andgrew more angry. "Well, upon my word! But if that is true I am muchobliged for your warning. Fellows of that sort never reason--he will verylikely attack me as you say. It will be quite the last time he attacksanybody--the devil shall have his own, Mr. Ambrose, if I can help him toit--"

"Dear me! Mr. Juxon--you surprise me, " said the vicar, who had neverheard his friend use such strong language before. 

"It is enough to surprise anybody, " remarked the squire. "I trust weshall surprise Mr. Goddard before night. Excuse me, but when did heexpress his amiable intentions towards me?"

"Last night, I believe, " replied Mr. Ambrose, reluctantly. 

"And when did he see me going into the cottage?"

"Yesterday afternoon, I believe. " The vicar felt as though he werebeginning to break his promise of shielding the fugitive, but he couldnot refuse to answer a direct question. 

"Then, when he saw me, he was either in the cottage or in the park. Therewas no one in the road, I am quite sure. "

"I do not know, " said the vicar, delighted at being able to say so. Hewas such a simple man that Mr. Juxon noticed the tone of relief in whichhe denied any knowledge of Goddard's whereabouts on the previous day ascompared with his reluctance to answer upon those points of which he wascertain. 

"You are not anxious that Goddard should be caught, " said the squirerather sharply. 

"Frankly, " returned the vicar, "I do not wish to be instrumental in hiscapture--not that I am likely to be. "

"That is none of my business, Mr. Ambrose. I will try and catch himalone. But it would be better that he should be taken alive andquietly--"

"Surely, " cried the vicar in great alarm, "you would not kill him?"

"Oh no, certainly not. But my dog might, Mr. Ambrose. They are ugly dogswhen they are angry, and they have a remarkable faculty for findingpeople who are lost. They used to use them in Russia for trackingfugitive serfs and convicts who escaped from Siberia. "

Mr. Ambrose shuddered. The honest squire seemed almost as bloodthirsty inhis eyes as the convict Goddard. He felt that he did not understand Mr. Juxon. The idea of hunting people with bloodhounds seemed utterly foreignto his English nature, and he could not understand how his English friendcould entertain such a thought; he probably forgot that a few generationsearlier the hunting of all kinds of men, papists, dissenters, covenantersand rebels, with dogs, had been a favourite English sport. 

"Really, Mr. Juxon, " he said in an agitated tone, "I think you would domuch better to protect yourself with the means provided by the law. Considerations of humanity--"

"Considerations of humanity, sir, are at an end when one man threatensthe life of another. You admit yourself that I am not safe unless Goddardis caught, and yet you object to my method of catching him. That isillogical. "

The vicar felt that this was to some extent true; but he was not willingto admit it. He knew also that if he could dissuade the squire from hisbarbarous scheme, Goddard would have a far better chance of escape. 

"I think that with the assistance of Gall and a London detective--" hebegan. 

"Gall is an old woman, Mr. Ambrose, and it will take twenty-four hours toget a detective from town. In twenty-four hours this man may haveattacked me. "

"He will hardly attempt to force his way into your house, Mr. Juxon. "

"So then, I am to stay at home to suit his convenience? I will not do anysuch thing. Besides, in twenty-four hours Goddard may have changed hismind and may have taken himself off. For the rest of her life Mrs. Goddard will then be exposed to the possibility of every kind ofannoyance. "

"He would never come back, I am sure, " objected the vicar. 

"Why not? Every time he comes she will give him money. The more money shegives him the more often he will come, unless we put an end to his comingaltogether. "

"You seem to forget, " urged Mr. Ambrose, "that there will be a vigoroussearch made for him. Why not telegraph to the governor of Portland?"

"I thought you wanted to save Mrs. Goddard from needless scandal; did younot?" returned the squire. "The governor of Portland would send down asquad of police who would publish the whole affair. He would have done soas soon as the man escaped had he known that Mrs. Goddard lived here. "

"I wonder how Goddard himself knew it, " remarked Mr. Ambrose. 

"I don't know. Perhaps she told him she was coming here, at their lastinterview. Or perhaps she wrote to him in prison and the governoroverlooked the letter. Anything like that would account for it. "

"But if you catch him--alive, " hesitated the vicar, "it will all be knownat once. I do not see how you can prevent that. "

"If I catch him alive, I will take him out of Billingsfield without anyone's knowledge. I do not mean to hurt him. I only want to get him backto prison. Believe me, I am much more anxious than you can possibly be tosave Mrs. Goddard from harm. "

"Very well. I have done my errand, " said Mr. Ambrose, with a sort of sighof relief. "I confess, I am in great anxiety of mind, both on youraccount and on hers. I never dreamed that such things could happen inBillingsfield. "

"You are certainly not responsible for them, " answered Mr. Juxon. "It isnot your fault--"

"Not altogether, perhaps. But I was perhaps wrong in letting her comehere--no, I am sure I was not, " he added impulsively, as though ashamedof having said anything so unkind. 

"Certainly not. You were quite right, Mr. Ambrose, quite right, I assureyou. "

"Well, I hope all may yet be for the best, " said the vicar. 

"Let us hope so, " replied Mr. Juxon gravely. "By all means, let us hopethat all may be for the best. "

Whether the squire doubted the possibility of so happy an issue to eventsor not, is uncertain. He felt almost more sorry for the vicar than forhimself; the vicar was such a good man, so unused to the violent deeds ofviolent people, of which the squire in his wanderings had seen more thanwas necessary to convince him that all was not always for the best inthis best of all possible worlds. 

Mr. Ambrose left his friend and as he retraced his steps through the parkwas more disturbed than ever. That Goddard should contemplate killing thesquire was bad enough, in all conscience, but that the squire shoulddeliberately purpose to hunt down Goddard with his bloodhound seemedsomehow even worse. The vicar had indeed promised Mrs. Goddard that hewould not help to capture her husband, but he would have been as glad asany one to hear that the convict was once more lodged in his prison. There lurked in his mind, nevertheless, an impression that even a convictshould have a fair chance. The idea was not expressed, but existed inhim. Everybody, he would have said, ought to have a fair chance, andas the law of nations forbids the use of explosive bullets in warfare, the laws of humanity seemed to forbid the use of bloodhounds in thepursuit of criminals. He had a very great respect for the squire'scharacter and principles, but the cold-blooded way in which Mr. Juxon hadspoken of catching and probably killing Walter Goddard, had shaken thegood vicar's belief in his friend. He doubted whether he were not nowbound to return to Mrs. Goddard and to warn her in his turn of herhusband's danger, whether he ought not to do something to save thewretched convict from his fate. It seemed hideous to think that inpeaceful Billingsfield, in his own lonely parish, a human being should beexposed to such peril. But at this point the vicar's continuity forsookhim. He had not the heart to tell the tale of his interview with Mr. Juxon to the unhappy lady he had left that morning. It was extremelyimprobable, he thought, that she should be able to communicate with herhusband during the day, and the squire's language led him to think thatthe day would not pass without some attempt to discover Walter Goddard'shiding-place. Besides, the vicar's mind was altogether more disturbedthan it had been in thirty years, and he was no longer able to account tohimself with absolute accuracy for what he did. At all events, he feltthat it was better not to tell Mrs. Goddard what the squire had said. 

When he was gone, Mr. Juxon paced his library alone in the greatestuncertainty. He had told the vicar in his anger that he would findGoddard with the help of Stamboul. That the hound was able to accomplishthe feat in the present weather, and if Goddard had actually stood sometime at the cottage window on the previous night, he did not doubt for amoment. The vicar had mentioned the window to him when he told him thatMrs. Goddard had seen her husband. He had probably been at the window aslate as midnight, and the scent, renewed by his visit, would not betwelve hours old. Stamboul could find the man, unless he had got into acart, which was improbable. But a new and startling considerationpresented itself to the squire's mind when the vicar was gone and hisanger had subsided; a consideration which made him hesitate what courseto pursue. 

That he would be justified in using any means in his power to catch thecriminal seemed certain. It would be for the public good that he shouldbe delivered up to justice as soon as possible. So long as Goddard was atlarge the squire's own life was not safe, and Mrs. Goddard was liable toall kinds of annoyances at any moment. There was every reason why thefellow should be captured. But to capture him, safe and sound, was onething; to expose him to the jaws of Stamboul was quite another. Mr. Juxonhad a lively recollection of the day in the Belgrade forest when thegreat hound had pulled down one of his assailants, making his fangs meetthrough flesh and bone. If Stamboul were set upon Goddard's track, theconvict could hardly escape with his life. In the first flush of thesquire's anger this seemed of little importance. But on mature reflectionthe thing appeared in a different light. 

He loved Mrs. Goddard in his own way, which was a very honourable way, ifnot very passionate. He had asked her to marry him. She had expressed awish that she were a widow, implying perhaps that if she had been freeshe would have accepted him. If the obstacle of her living husband wereremoved, it was not improbable that she would look favourably upon thesquire's suit; to bring Goddard to an untimely end would undoubtedly beto clear the way for the squire. It was not then, a legitimate desire forjustice which made him wish to catch the convict and almost to wish thatStamboul might worry him to death; it was the secret hope that Goddardmight be killed and that he, Charles James Juxon, might have the chanceto marry his widow. "In other words, " he said to himself, "I really wantto murder Goddard and take his wife. "

It was not easy to see where legitimate severity ended and unlawful andmurderous selfishness began. The temptation was a terrible one. The veryuncertainty which there was, tempted the squire to disregard thepossibility of Goddard's death as compared with the importance of hiscapture. It was quite likely, he unconsciously argued, that thebloodhound would not kill him after all; it was even possible that hemight not find him; but it would be worth while to make the attempt, forthe results to be obtained by catching the fugitive were very great--Mrs. Goddard's peace was to be considered before all things. But still beforethe squire's eyes arose the picture of Stamboul tearing the throat of theman he had killed in the Belgrade forest. If he killed the felon, Juxonwould know that to all intents and purposes he had himself done the deedin order to marry Mrs. Goddard. But still the thought remained with himand would not leave him. 

The fellow had threatened his own life. It was then a fair fight, for a man cannot be blamed if he tries to get the better of one who isgoing about to kill him. On one of his many voyages, he had once shot aman in order to quell a mutiny; he had not killed him it is true, buthe had disabled him for the time--he had handled many a rough customerin his day. The case, he thought, was similar, for it was the case ofself-defence. The law, even, would say he was justified. But to slay aman in self-defence and then to marry his widow, though justifiable inlaw, is a very delicate case for the conscience; and in spite of thewandering life he had led, Mr. Juxon's conscience was sensitive. He wasan honest man and a gentleman, he had tried all his life to do right ashe saw it, and did not mean to turn murderer now, no matter how easy itwould be for him to defend his action. 

At the end of an hour he had decided that it would be murder, and noless, to let Stamboul track Goddard to his hiding-place. The hound mightaccompany him in his walks, and if anybody attacked him it would be somuch the worse for his assailant. Murder or no murder, he was entitled totake any precautions he pleased against an assault. But he would notwillingly put the bloodhound on the scent, and he knew well enough thatthe dog would not run upon a strange trail unless he were put to it. The squire went to his lunch, feeling that he had made a good resolution;but he ate little and soon afterwards began to feel the need of goingdown to see Mrs. Goddard. No day was complete without seeing her, andconsidering the circumstances which had occurred on the previousafternoon, it was natural that he should call to inquire after her state. In the hall, the gigantic beast which had played such an important partin his thoughts during the morning, came solemnly up to him, raising hisgreat red eyes as though asking whether he were to accompany his master. The squire stood still and looked at him for a moment. 

"Come along, Stamboul!" he said suddenly, as he put on his hat. The houndleaped up and laid his heavy paws on the squire's shoulders, trying tolick his face in his delight, then, almost upsetting the sturdy man hesprang back, slipped on the polished floor, recovered himself and with anenormous stride bounded past Mr. Juxon, out into the park. But Mr. Juxonquickly called him back, and presently he was following close at heel inhis own stately way, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Thesquire felt nervous, and the sensation was new to him. He did not believethat Goddard would really attack him at all, certainly not that he woulddare to attack him in broad daylight. But the knowledge of the threat thefellow had uttered made him watchful. He glanced to the right and left ashe walked and gripped his heavy blackthorn stick firmly in his hand. Hewished that if the man were to appear he would come quickly--it might behard to hold Stamboul back if he were attacked unawares. 

He reached the gate, crossed the road and rang the bell of the cottage. As he stood waiting, Stamboul smelled the ground, put up his head, smelled it again and with his nose down trotted slowly to the window onthe left hand of the door. He smelled the ground, the wall and presentlyput both his fore paws upon the outer ledge of the window. Then hedropped again, and looked at his master. Martha was a long time in comingto the door. 

"After him, Stamboul!" said the squire, almost unconsciously. The dog puthis nose down and began to move slowly about. At that moment the dooropened. 

"Oh, sir, " said Martha, "it's you, sir. I was to say, if you please, thatif you called, Mrs. Goddard was poorly to-day, sir. "

"Dear me!" said Mr. Juxon, "I hope she is not ill. Is it anythingserious, Martha?"

"Well, sir, she's been down this mornin', but her head ached terrible badand she went back to her room--oh, sir, your dog--he's a runnin' home. "

As she spoke a sound rang in the air that made Martha start back. It wasa deep, resounding, bell-like note, fierce and wild, rising and falling, low but full, with a horror indescribable in its echo--the sound which noman who has heard it ever forgets--the baying of a bloodhound on thetrack of a man. 

The squire turned deadly pale, but he shouted with all his might, as hewould have shouted to a man on the topsail yard in a gale at sea. 

"Stamboul! Stamboul! Stamboul!" Again and again he yelled the dog's name. 

Stamboul had not gone far. The quickset hedge had baffled the scent for amoment and he was not a dozen yards beyond it in the park when hismaster's cry stopped him. Instantly he turned, cleared the six-foot hedgeand double ditch at a bound and came leaping back across the road. Thesquire breathed hard, for it had been a terrible moment. If he had notsucceeded in calling the beast back, it might have been all over withWalter Goddard, wherever he was hidden. 

"It is only his play, " said Mr. Juxon, still very white and holdingStamboul by the collar. "Please tell Mrs. Goddard, Martha, that I am verysorry indeed to hear that she is ill, and that I will inquire thisevening. "

"Yes, sir, " said Martha, who eyed the panting beast timidly and showed anevident desire to shut the door as soon as possible. 

The squire felt more nervous than ever as he walked slowly along the roadin the direction of the village, his hand still on the bloodhound'scollar. He felt what a narrow escape Goddard had probably had, and theterrible sound of Stamboul's baying had brought back to him once againand very vividly the scene in the woods by the Bosphorus. He felt thatfor a few minutes at least he would rather not enter the park with thedog by him, and he naturally turned towards the vicarage, not with anyintention of going in, but from sheer force of custom, as people underthe influence of strong emotions often do things unconsciously which theyare in the habit of doing. He walked slowly along, and had almost reachedMr. Ambrose's pretty old red brick house, when he found himself face toface with the vicar's wife. She presented an imposing appearance, asusual; her grey skirt, drawn up a little from the mud, revealed a brightred petticoat and those stout shoes which she regarded as so essentialto health; she wore moreover a capacious sealskin jacket and a darkbonnet with certain jet flowers, which for many years had been regardedby the inhabitants of Billingsfield as the distinctive badge of agentlewoman. Mrs. Ambrose was wont to smile and say that they wereindestructible and would last as long as she did. She greeted Mr. Juxoncordially. 

"How do you, Mr. Juxon--were you going to see us? I was just going for awalk--perhaps you will come with me?"

Mr. Juxon turned back and prepared to accompany her. 

"Such good news this morning, from John Short, " she said. "He hasfinished his examinations, and it seems almost certain that he will besenior classic. His tutor at Trinity has written already to congratulatemy husband upon his success. "

"I am sure, I am delighted, too, " said the squire, who had regained hiscomposure but kept his hold on Stamboul's collar. "He deserves all hegets, and more too, " he continued. "I think he will be a remarkable man. "

"I did not think you liked him so very much, " said Mrs. Ambrose ratherdoubtfully, as she walked slowly by his side. 

"Oh--I liked him very much. Indeed, I was going to ask him to stay withme for a few days at the Hall. "

The inspiration was spontaneous. Mr. Juxon was in a frame of mind inwhich he felt that he ought to do something pleasant for somebody, to setoff against the bloodthirsty designs which had passed through his mind inthe morning. He knew that if he had not been over friendly to John, ithad been John's own fault; but since he had found out that it wasimpossible to marry Mrs. Goddard, he had forgiven the young scholar hisshortcomings and felt very charitably inclined towards him. It suddenlystruck him that it would give John great pleasure to stop at the Hall fora few days, and that it would be no inconvenience to himself. The effectupon Mrs. Ambrose was greater even than he had expected. She washospitable, good and kind, but she was also economical, as she had needto be. The squire was rich. If the squire would put up John during a partof his visit it would be a kindness to John himself, and an economy tothe vicarage. Mr. Ambrose himself would not have gone to such a length;but then, as his wife said to herself in self-defence, Augustin did notpay the butcher's bills, and did not know how the money went. She did notsay that Augustin was precisely what is called reckless, but he of coursedid not understand economy as she did. How should he, poor man, with allhis sermons and his funerals and other occupations to take his mind off?Mrs. Ambrose was delighted at the squire's proposal. 

"Really!" she exclaimed. "That would be too good of you, Mr. Juxon. Andyou do not know how it would quite delight him! He loves books so much, and then you know, " she added in a confidential manner, "he has neverstayed in a country house in his life, I am quite sure. "

"And when is he coming down?" asked Mr. Juxon. "I should be very muchpleased to have him. "

"To-morrow, I think, " said Mrs. Ambrose. 

"Well--would you ask him from me to come up and stop a week? Can youspare him, Mrs. Ambrose? I know you are very fond of him, of course, but--"

"Oh very, " said she warmly. "But I think it likely he will stay sometime, " she added in explanation of her willingness to let him go to theHall. 

The squire felt vaguely that the presence of a guest in his house wouldprobably be a restraint upon him, and he felt that some restraint wouldbe agreeable to him at the present time. 

"Besides, " added Mrs. Ambrose, "if you would like to have himfirst--there is a little repair necessary in his room at the vicarage--wehave put it off too long--"

"By all means. " said the squire, following out his own train of thought. "Send him up to me as soon as he comes. If I can manage it I will be downhere to ask him myself. "

"It is so good of you, " said Mrs. Ambrose. 

"Not at all. Are you going to the cottage?"

"Yes--why?"

"Nothing, " said Mr. Juxon. "I did not know whether you would like to walkon a little farther with me. Good-bye, then. You will tell Short as soonas he comes, will you not?"

"Certainly, " replied Mrs. Ambrose, still beaming upon him. "I will notlet him unpack his things at the vicarage. Good-bye--so many thanks. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Mrs. Goddard's head ached "terrible bad" according to Martha, and whenthe vicar left her she went and lay down upon her bed, with a sensationthat if the worst were not yet over she could bear no more. But she hadan elastic temperament, and the fact of having consulted Mr. Ambrose thatmorning had been a greater relief than she herself suspected. She feltthat he could be trusted to save Mr. Juxon from harm and Walter fromcapture, and having once confided to him the important secret which hadso heavily weighed upon her mind she felt that the burthen of hertroubles was lightened. Mr. Juxon could take any measures he pleased forhis own safety; he would probably choose to stay at home until the dangerwas past. As for her husband, Mary Goddard did not believe that he wouldreturn a third time, for she thought that she had thoroughly frightenedhim. It was even likely that he had only thrown out his threat for thesake of terrifying his wife, and was now far beyond the limits of theparish. So great was the relief she felt after she had talked with thevicar that she almost ceased to believe there was any danger at all;looking at it in the light of her present mood, she almost wondered whyshe had thought it necessary to tell Mr. Ambrose--until suddenly a visionof her friend the squire, attacked and perhaps killed, in his own park, rose to her mental vision, and she remembered what agonies of fear shehad felt for him until she had sent for the vicar. The latter indeedseemed to have been a sort of _deus ex maohinâ_ by whom she suddenlyobtained peace of mind and a sense of security in the hour of hergreatest distress. 

All that afternoon she lay upon her bed, while Nellie sat beside her andread to her, and stroked her hands; for Nellie was in realitypassionately fond of her mother and suffered almost as much at the sightof her suffering as she could have done had she been in pain herself. Both Mrs. Goddard and the child started at the sound of Stamboul'sbaying, which was unlike anything they had ever heard before, and Nellieran to the window. 

"It is only Mr. Juxon and Stamboul having a game, " said Nellie. "What anoise he made, though! Did not he?"

Poor Nellie--had she had any idea of what the "game" was from which thesquire found it so hard to make his hound desist, she must have gonealmost mad with horror. For the game was her own father, poor child. Butshe came back and sat beside her mother utterly unconscious of what mighthave happened if Stamboul had once got beyond earshot, galloping alongthe trail towards the disused vault at the back of the church. Mrs. Goddard had started at the sounds and had put her hand to her forehead, but Nellie's explanation was enough to quiet her, and she smiled faintlyand closed her eyes again. Then, half an hour later, Mrs. Ambrose came, and would not be denied. She wanted to make Mrs. Goddard comfortable, shesaid, when she found she was ill, and she did her best, being a kind andmotherly woman when not hardened by the presence of strangers. She toldher that John was coming on the next day, speaking with vast pride of hissuccess and omitting to look sternly at Mrs. Goddard as she had formerlybeen accustomed to do when she spoke of the young scholar. Then at lastshe went away, after exacting a promise from Mrs. Goddard to come anddine, bringing Nellie with her, on the following day, in case she shouldhave recovered by that time from her headache. 

But during all that night Mrs. Goddard lay awake, listening for the soundshe so much dreaded, of a creeping footstep on the slated path outsideand for the tapping at the window. Nothing came, however, and as the greydawn began to creep in through the white curtains, she fell peacefullyasleep. Nellie would not let her be waked, and breakfasted without her, enjoying with childish delight the state of being waited on by Marthaalone. 

Meanwhile, at an early hour, John arrived at the vicarage and wasreceived with open arms by Mr. Ambrose and his wife. The latter seemed toforget, in the pleasure of seeing him again, that she had even oncespoken doubtfully of him or hinted that he was anything short ofperfection itself. And to prove how much she had done for him shecommunicated with great pride the squire's message, to the effect that heexpected John at the Hall that very day. 

John's heart leaped with delight at the idea. It was natural. He wasindeed most sincerely attached to the Ambroses, and most heartily glad tobe with them; but he had never in his life had an opportunity of stayingin a "big" house, as he would have described it. It seemed as though hewere already beginning to taste the sweet first-fruits of success afterall his labour and all his privations; it was the first taste of anotherworld, the first mouthful of the good things of life which had fallen tohis lot. Instantly there rose before him delicious visions of hot-watercans brought by a real footman, of luxurious meals served by a realbutler, of soft carpets perpetually beneath his feet, of liberty tolounge in magnificent chairs in the magnificent library; and last, thoughnot least, there was a boyish feeling of delight in the thought that whenhe went to see Mrs. Goddard he would go from the Hall, that she wouldperhaps associate him henceforth with a different kind of existence, in aword, that he was sure to acquire importance in her eyes from the fact ofhis visit to the squire. Many a young fellow of one and twenty is asfamiliar with all that money can give and as tired of luxury as abroken-down hard liver of forty years; for this is an age of luxuriousliving. But poor John had hardly ever tasted the least of those thingstoo familiar to the golden youth of the period to be even noticed. He hadfelt when he first entered the little drawing-room of the cottage thatMrs. Goddard herself belonged, or had belonged, to that delicious unknownworld of ease where the question of expense was never considered, muchless mentioned. In her own eyes she was indeed living in a stateapproaching to penury, but the spectacle of her pictures, her furnitureand her bibelots had impressed John with a very different idea. Thesquire's invitation, asking him to spend a week at the Hall, seemed in amoment to put him upon the same level as the woman to whom he believedhimself so devotedly attached. To his mind the ideal woman could not butbe surrounded by a luxurious atmosphere of her own. To enter the charmedprecincts of those surroundings seemed to John equivalent to beingtransported from the regions of the Theocritan to the level of theAnacreontic ode, from the pastoral, of which he had had too much, to thearistocratic, of which he felt that he could not have enough. It was anatural feeling in a very young man of his limited experience. 

He stayed some hours at the vicarage. Both Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose thoughthim changed in the short time which had elapsed since they had seen him. He had grown more grave; he was certainly more of a man. The greatcontest he had just sustained with so much honour had left upon his youngface its mark, an air of power which had not formerly been visible there;even his voice seemed to have grown deeper and rounder, and his wordscarried more weight. The good vicar, who had seen several generationsof students, already distinguished in John Short the budding "don, " andrubbed his hands with great satisfaction. 

John asked few questions but found himself obliged to answer manyconcerning his recent efforts. He would have liked to say something aboutMrs. Goddard, but he remembered with some awe and much aversion thecircumstances in which he had last quitted the vicarage, and he held hispeace; whereby he again rose in Mrs. Ambrose's estimation. He made up forhis silence by speaking effusively of the squire's kindness in asking himto the Hall; forgetting perhaps the relief he had felt when he escapedfrom Billingsfield after Christmas without being again obliged to shakehands with Mr. Juxon. Things looked very differently now, however. Hefelt himself to be somebody in the world, and that distressing sense ofinferiority which had perhaps been at the root of his jealousy againstthe squire was gone, swallowed in the sense of triumph. His face waspale, perhaps, from overwork, but there was a brilliancy in his eyes andan incisiveness in his speech which came from the confidence of victory. He now desired nothing more than to meet the squire, feeling sure that heshould receive his congratulations, and though he stayed some hours inconversation with his old friends, in imagination he was already at theHall. The squire had not come down to meet him, as he had proposed, buthe had sent his outlandish American gig with his groom to fetch John. While he was at the vicarage the latter was probably too much occupiedwith conversation to notice that Mr. Ambrose seemed preoccupied andchanged, and the vicar was to some extent recalled to his usual manner bythe presence of his pupil. Mrs. Ambrose had taxed her husband withconcealing something from her ever since the previous day, but the goodman was obstinate and merely said that he felt unaccountably nervous andirritable, and begged her to excuse his mood. Mrs. Ambrose postponed hercross-examination until a more favourable opportunity should presentitself. 

John got into the gig and drove away. He was to return with the squire todinner in the evening, and he fully expected that Mrs. Goddard and Nelliewould be of the party--it seemed hardly likely that they should beomitted. Indeed, soon after John had left a note arrived at the vicarageexplaining that Mrs. Goddard was much better and would certainly come, according to Mrs. Ambrose's very kind invitation. 

It is unnecessary to dwell upon the meeting which took place between Mr. Juxon and John Short. The squire was hospitable in the extreme andexpressed his great satisfaction at having John under his own roof atlast. He was perhaps, like the vicar, a little nervous, but the young mandid not notice it, being much absorbed by the enjoyment of his goodfortune and of the mental rest he so greatly needed. Mr. Juxoncongratulated him warmly and expressed a hope, amounting to certainty, that John might actually be at the head of the Tripos; to which Johnmodestly replied that he would be quite satisfied to be in the first ten, knowing in his heart that he should be most bitterly disappointed if hewere second to any one. He sat opposite to his host in a deep chairbeside the fire in the library and revelled in comfort and ease, enjoyingevery trifle that fell in his way, feeling only a very slight diffidencein regard to himself for the present and none at all for the future. Thesquire was so cordial that he felt himself thoroughly at home. Indeed Mr. Juxon already rejoiced at his wisdom in asking John to the Hall. The ladwas strong, hopeful, well-balanced in every respect and his presence wasan admirable tonic to the almost morbid state of anxiety in which thesquire had lived ever since his interview with Policeman Gall, two daysbefore. In the sunshine of John's young personality, fears grew small andhope grew big. The ideas which had passed through Mr. Juxon's brain onthe previous evening, just after Mr. Ambrose had warned him of Goddard'sintentions, seemed now like the evil shadows of a nightmare. Allapprehension lest the convict should attempt to execute his threatsdisappeared like darkness before daylight, and in the course of an houror two the squire found himself laughing and chatting with his guest asthough there were no such things as forgery or convicts in the world. Theafternoon passed very pleasantly between the examination of Mr. Juxon'streasures and the conversation those objects elicited. For John, who wasan accomplished scholar, had next to no knowledge of bibliology and tookdelight in seeing for the first time many a rare edition which he hadheard mentioned or had read of in the course of his studies. He would nothave believed that he could be now talking on such friendly terms with aman for whom he had once felt the strongest antipathy, and Mr. Juxon onhis part felt that in their former meetings he had not done full justiceto the young man's undoubted talents. 

As they drove down to the vicarage that evening Mrs. Goddard's name wasmentioned for the first time. John, with a fine affectation ofindifference, asked how she was. 

"She has not been very well lately, " answered Mr. Juxon. 

"What has been the matter?" inquired John, who could not see hiscompanion's face in the dark shade of the trees. 

"Headache, I believe, " returned the squire laconically, and silenceensued for a few moments. "I should not wonder if it rained again thisevening, " he added presently as they passed through the park gate, outinto the road. The sky was black and it was hard to see anything beyondthe yellow streak of light which fell from the lamps and ran along theroad before the gig. 

"If it turns out a fine night, don't come for us. We will walk home, "said the squire to the groom as they descended before the vicarage andStamboul, who had sat on the floor between them, sprang down to theground. 

John was startled when he met Mrs. Goddard. He was amazed at the changein her appearance for which no one had prepared him. She met him indeedvery cordially but he felt as though she were not the same woman he hadknown so short a time before. There was still in her face that delicatepathetic expression which had at first charmed him, there was still thesame look in her eyes; but what had formerly seemed so attractive seemednow exaggerated. Her cheeks looked wan and hollow and there were deepshadows about her eyes and temples; her lips had lost their colour andthe lines about her mouth had suddenly become apparent where John had notbefore suspected them. She looked ten years older as she put her thinhand in his and smiled pleasantly at his greeting. Some trite phraseabout the "ravages of time" crossed John's mind and gave him adisagreeable sensation, for which it was hard to account. He felt asthough his dream were suddenly dead and a strange reality had taken lifein its place. Could this be she to whom he had written verses by thescore, at whose smile he had swelled with pride, at whose careless laughhe had trembled with shame? She was terribly changed, she lookedpositively old--what John called old. As he sat by her side talking andwondering whether he would fall back into those same grooves ofconversation he had associated with her formerly, he felt something akinto pity for her, which he had certainly never expected to feel. She wasnot the same as before--even the tone of her voice was different; she wasgentle, pathetic, endowed even now with many charms, but she was notthe woman he had dreamed of and tried to speak to of the love he fanciedwas in his heart. She talked--yes; but there were long pauses, and hereyes wandered strangely from him, often towards the windows of thevicarage drawing-room, often towards the doors; her answers were notalways to the point and her interest seemed to flag in what was said. John could not fail to notice too that both Mr. Ambrose and Mr. Juxontreated her with the kind of attention which is bestowed upon invalids, and the vicar's wife was constantly doing something to make hercomfortable, offering her a footstool, shading the light from her eyes, asking if she felt any draught where she sat. These were things no onehad formerly thought of doing for Mrs. Goddard, who in spite of her sadface had been used to laugh merrily enough with the rest, and whose lithefigure had seemed to John the embodiment of youthful activity. At last heventured to ask her a question. 

"Have you been ill, Mrs. Goddard?" he inquired in a voice full ofinterest. Her soft eyes glanced uneasily at him. He was now the only oneof the party who was not in some degree acquainted with her troubles. 

"Oh no!" she answered nervously. "Only a little headache. It always makesme quite wretched when I have it. "

"Yes. I often have headaches, too, " answered John. "The squire told me aswe came down. "

"What did he tell you?" asked Mrs. Goddard so quickly as to startle hercompanion. 

"Oh--only that you had not been very well. Where is it that you suffer?"he asked sympathetically. "I think it is worst when it seems to be inthe very centre of one's head, like a red-hot nail being driven in with ahammer--is that like what you feel?"

"I--yes, I daresay. I don't quite know, " she answered, her eyes wanderinguneasily about the room. "I suppose you have dreadful headaches overyour work, do you not, Mr. Short?" she added quickly, feeling that shemust say something. 

"Oh, it is all over now, " said John rather proudly. But as he leaned backin his chair he said to himself that this meeting was not precisely whathe had anticipated; the subject of headaches might have a fine interestin its way, but he had expected to have talked of more tender things. Tohis own great surprise he felt no desire to do so, however. He had notrecovered from the shock of seeing that Mrs. Goddard had grown old. 

"Yes, " said she, kindly. "How glad you must be! To have done sosplendidly too--you must feel that you have realised a magnificentdream. "

"No, " said John. "I cannot say I do. I have done the thing I meant to do, or I have good reason to believe that I have; but I have not realised mydream. I shall never write any more odes, Mrs. Goddard. "

"Why not? Oh, you mean to me, Mr. Short?" she added with something of herold manner. "Well, you know, it is much better that you should not. "

"Perhaps so, " answered John rather sadly. "I don't know. Frankly, Mrs. Goddard, did not you sometimes think I was very foolish last Christmas?"

"Very, " she said, smiling at him kindly. "But I think you have changed. Ithink you are more of a man, now--you have something more serious--"

"I used to think I was very serious, and so I was, " said John, with theair of a man who refers to the follies of his long past youth. "Do youremember how angry I was when you wanted me to skate with Miss Nellie?"

"Oh, I only said that to teaze you, " Mrs. Goddard answered. "I daresayyou would be angry now, if I suggested the same thing. "

"No, " said John quietly. "I do not believe I should be. As you say, Ifeel very much older now than I did then. "

"The older we grow the more we like youth, " said Mary Goddard, unconsciously uttering one of the fundamental truths of human nature, andat the same time so precisely striking the current of John's thoughtsthat he started. He was wondering within himself why it was that she nowseemed too old for him, whereas a few short months ago she had seemed tobe of his own age. 

"How true that is!" he exclaimed. Mrs. Goddard laughed faintly. 

"You are not old enough to have reached that point yet, Mr. Short, " shesaid. "Really, here we are moralising like a couple of old philosophers!"

"This is a moralising season, " answered John. "When we last met, it wasall holly-berries and Christmas and plum-pudding. "

"How long ago that seems!" exclaimed the poor lady with a sigh. 

"Ages!" echoed John, sighing in his turn, but not so much for sadness, itmay be, as from relief that the great struggle was over. That time ofanxiety and terrible effort seemed indeed very far removed from him, butits removal was a cause of joy rather than of sadness. He sighed like aman who, sitting over his supper, remembers the hard fought race he haswon in the afternoon, feeling yet in his limbs the ability to race andwin again but feeling in his heart the delicious consciousness that thequestion of his superiority has been decided beyond all dispute. 

"And now you will stay here a long time, of course, " said Mrs. Goddardpresently. 

"I am stopping at the Hall, just now, " said John with a distinct sense ofthe importance of the fact, "and after a week I shall stay here a fewdays. Then I shall go to London to see my father. "

"No one will be so glad as he to hear of your success. "

"No indeed. I really think it is more for his sake that I want to beactually first, " said John. "Do you know, I have so often thought how hewill look when I meet him and tell him I am the senior classic. "

John's voice trembled and as Mrs. Goddard looked at him, she thought shesaw a moisture in his eyes. It pleased her to see it, for it showed thatJohn Short had more heart than she had imagined. 

"I can fancy that, " she said, warmly. "I envy you that moment. "

Presently the squire came over to where they were sitting and joinedthem; and then Mrs. Ambrose spoke to John, and Nellie came and asked himquestions. Strange to say John felt none of that annoyance which heformerly felt when his conversations with Mrs. Goddard were interrupted, and he talked with Nellie and Mrs. Ambrose quite as readily as with her. He felt very calm and happy that night, as though he had done with thehard labour of life. In half an hour he had realised that he was no morein love with Mrs. Goddard than he was with Mrs. Ambrose, and he wastrying to explain to himself how it was that he had ever believed in sucha palpable absurdity. Love was doubtless blind, he thought, but he wassurely not so blind as to overlook the evidences of Mrs. Goddard's age. All the dreams of that morning faded away before the sight of her face, and so deep is the turpitude of the best of human hearts that John wasalmost ashamed of having once thought he loved her. That was probably thebest possible proof that his love had been but a boyish fancy. 

What the little party at the vicarage would have been like, if John'spresence had not animated it, would be hard to say. The squire and Mr. Ambrose treated Mrs. Goddard with the sort of paternal but solemn carewhich is usually bestowed either upon great invalids or upon personsbereaved of some very dear relation. The two elder men occasionallylooked at her and exchanged glances when they were not observed by Mrs. Ambrose, wondering perhaps what would next befall the unfortunate ladyand whether she could bear much more of the excitement and anxiety towhich she had of late been subjected. On the whole the conversation wasfar from being lively, and Mrs. Goddard herself felt that it was a reliefwhen the hour came for going home. 

The vicar had ordered his dog-cart for her and Nellie, but as the nighthad turned out better than had been expected Mr. Juxon's groom had notcome down from the Hall. Both he and John would be glad of the walk; ithad not rained for two days and the roads were dry. 

"Look here, " said the squire, as they rose to take their leave, "Mr. Short had better go as far as the cottage in the dog-cart, to see Mrs. Goddard home. I will go ahead on foot--I shall probably be there as soonas you. There is not room for us all, and somebody must go with her, youknow. Besides, " he added, "I have got Stamboul with me. "

Mrs. Goddard, who was standing beside the squire, laid her handbeseechingly upon his arm. 

"Oh, pray don't, " she said in low voice. "Why have you not got yourcarriage?"

"Never mind me, " he answered in the same tone. "I am all right, I like towalk. "

Before she could say anything more, he had shaken hands with Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose and was gone. Perhaps in his general determination to be good toeverybody he fancied that John would enjoy the short drive with Mrs. Goddard better than the walk with himself. 

But when he was gone, Mrs. Goddard grew very nervous. One of her wrapscould not be found, and while search was being made for it the motherlyMrs. Ambrose insisted upon giving her something hot, in the way of brandyand water. She looked very ill, but showed the strongest desire to go. Itwas no matter about the shawl, she said; Mr. Ambrose could send it in themorning; but the thing was found and at last Mrs. Goddard and Nellie andJohn got into the dog-cart with old Reynolds and drove off. All thesethings consumed some time. 

The squire on the other hand strode briskly forward towards the cottage, not wishing to keep John waiting for him. As he walked his mind wanderedback to the consideration of the almost tragic events which wereoccurring in the peaceful village. He forgot all about John, as he lookedup at the half moon which struggled to give some light through thedriving clouds; he fell to thinking of Mrs. Goddard and to wonderingwhere her husband might be lying hidden. The road was lonely and hewalked fast, with Stamboul close at his heel. The dog-cart did notovertake him before he reached the cottage, and he forgot all about it. By sheer force of habit he opened the white gate and, closing it behindhim, entered the park alone. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

John's impression of Mrs. Goddard was strengthened by the scene at thevicarage at the moment of leaving. The extraordinary nervousness shebetrayed, the anxiety for her welfare shown by Mrs. Ambrose and the graveface of the vicar all favoured the idea that she had become an invalidsince he had last met her. He himself fell into the manner of those abouthim and spoke in low tones and moved delicately as though fearing tooffend her sensitive nerves. The vicar alone understood the situation andhad been very much surprised at the squire's sudden determination to walkhome; he would gladly have seized his hat and run after his friend, buthe feared Mrs. Ambrose's curiosity and moreover on reflection felt surethat the dog-cart would overtake Mr. Juxon before he was half way to thecottage. He was very far from suspecting him of the absence of mind whichhe actually displayed, but it was a great relief to him to see the littleparty safe in the dog-cart and on the way homeward. 

Mrs. Goddard was on the front seat with old Reynolds, and John, who wouldhave preferred to sit by her side a few months ago, was glad to findhimself behind with Nellie. It was a curious instinct, but he felt itstrongly and was almost grateful to the old man for stolidly keeping hisseat. So he sat beside Nellie and talked to her, to the child's intensedelight; she had not enjoyed the evening very much, for she felt thegeneral sense of oppression as keenly as children always feel suchthings, and she had long exhausted the slender stock of illustrated bookswhich lay upon the table in the vicarage drawing-room. 

"There is no more skating now, " said John. "What do you do to amuseyourselves?"

"I am studying history with mamma, " answered Nellie, "and that takes everso much time, you know. And then--oh, we are beginning to think of thespring, and we look after the violet plants in the frames. "

"It does not feel much like spring, " remarked John. 

"No--and mamma has not been well lately, so we have not done much ofanything. "

"Has she been ill long?" asked John. 

"No--oh no! Only the last two or three days, ever since--" Nellie stoppedherself. Her mother had told her not to mention the tramp's visit. 

"Ever since when?" asked John, becoming suddenly interested. 

"Ever since the last time the Ambroses came to tea, " said Nellie with areadiness beyond her years. "But she looks dreadfully, does not she?"

"Dreadfully, " answered John. Then, leaning back and turning his head hespoke to Mrs. Goddard. "I hope you are quite warm enough?" he said. 

"Quite--thanks, " answered she, but her voice sounded tremulous in thenight. It might have been the shaking of the dog-cart. In a few minutesthey drew up before the door of the cottage. John sprang to the groundand almost lifted Mrs. Goddard from the high seat. 

"Where is Mr. Juxon?" she asked anxiously. 

John looked round, peering into the gloom. A black cloud driven by thestrong east wind was passing over the moon, and for some moments it wasalmost impossible to see anything. The squire was nowhere to be seen. John turned and helped Nellie off the back seat of the dog-cart. 

"I am afraid we must have passed him, " he said quietly. Formerly Mrs. Goddard's tone of anxiety as she asked for the squire would have rousedJohn's resentment; he now thought nothing of it. Reynolds prepared tomove off. 

"Won't you please wait a moment, Reynolds?" said Mrs. Goddard, goingclose to the old man. She could not have told why she asked him to stay, it was a nervous impulse. 

"Why?" asked John. "You know I am going to the Hall. "

"Yes, of course. I only thought, perhaps, you and Mr. Juxon would like todrive up--it is so dark. I am sure Mr. Ambrose would not mind you takingthe gentlemen up to the Hall, Reynolds?"

"No m'm. I'm quite sure as he wouldn't, " exclaimed Reynolds with greatalacrity. He immediately had visions of a pint of beer in the Hallkitchen. 

"You do not think Mr. Juxon may have gone on alone, Mr. Short?" said Mrs. Goddard, leaning upon the wicket gate. Her face looked very pale in thegloom. 

"No--at would be very odd if he did, " replied John, who had his hands inhis greatcoat pockets and slowly stamped one foot after another on thehard ground, to keep himself warm. 

"Then we must have passed him on the road, " said Mrs. Goddard. "But I wasso sure I saw nobody--"

"I think he will come presently, " answered John in a reassuring tone. "Why do you wait, Mrs. Goddard? You must be cold, and it is dangerous foryou to be out here. Don't wait, Reynolds, " he added; "we will walk up. "

"Oh please don't, " cried Mrs. Goddard, imploringly. 

John looked at her in some surprise. The cloud suddenly passed frombefore the moon and he could see her anxious upturned face quite plainly. He could not in the least understand the cause of her anxiety, but hesupposed her nervousness was connected with her indisposition. Reynoldson his part, being anxious for beer, showed no disposition to move, butsat with stolid indifference, loosely holding the reins while Strawberry, the old mare, hung down her head and stamped from time to time in afeeble and antiquated fashion. For some minutes there was total silence. Not a step was to be heard upon the road, not a sound of any kind, savethe strong east wind rushing past the cottage and losing itself among thewithered oaks of the park opposite. 

Suddenly a deep and bell-mouthed note resounded through the air. Strawberry started in the shafts and trembled violently. 

"Stamboul! Stamboul!" The squire's ringing voice was heard far up thepark. The bloodhound's distant baying suddenly ceased. John thought heheard a fainter cry, inarticulate, and full of distress, through thesighing wind. Then there was silence again. Mrs. Goddard leaned backagainst the wicket gate, and Nellie, startled by the noises, pressedclose to her mother's side. 

"Why--he has gone up the park!" exclaimed John in great surprise. "He wascalling to his dog--"

"Oh, Mr. Short!" cried Mrs. Goddard in agonised tones, as soon as shecould speak, "I am sure something dreadful has happened--do go. Mr. Short--do go and see--"

Something of the extreme alarm that sounded in her voice seized uponJohn. 

"Stay with Mrs. Goddard, Reynolds, " he said quickly and darted across theroad towards the park gate. John was strong and active. He laid hishands upon the highest rails and vaulted lightly over, then ran at thetop of his speed up the dark avenue. 

Mr. Juxon, in his absence of mind, had gone through the gate alone, swinging his blackthorn stick in his hand, Stamboul stalking at his heelin the gloom. He was a fearless man and the presence of John during theafternoon had completely dissolved that nervous presentiment of evil hehad felt before his guest's coming. But in the short walk of scarcelyhalf a mile, from the vicarage to the cottage, his thoughts had becomeentirely absorbed in considering Mrs. Goddard's strange position, and forthe moment John was quite forgotten. He entered the park and the longiron latch of the wooden gate fell into its socket behind him with asharp click. Mr. Juxon walked quickly on and Stamboul trod noiselesslybehind him. At about a hundred yards from the gate the avenue turnedsharply to the right, winding about a little elevation in the ground, where the trees stood thicker than elsewhere. As he came towards thishillock the strong east wind blew sharply behind him. Had the wind beenin the opposite direction, Stamboul's sharp nostrils would have scenteddanger. As it was he gave no sign but stalked solemnly at the squire'sheels. The faint light of the half moon was obscured at that moment, ashas been seen, by a sweeping cloud. The squire turned to the right andtramped along the hard road. 

At the darkest spot in the way a man sprang out suddenly before him andstruck a quick blow at his head with something heavy. But it was verydark. The blow was aimed at his head, but fell upon the heavy paddedfrieze of his ulster greatcoat, grazing the brim of his hat as it passedand knocking it off his head. Mr. Juxon staggered and reeled to one side. At the same instant--it all happened in the space of two seconds, Stamboul sprang past his master and his bulk, striking the squire at theshoulder just as he was staggering from the blow he had received, senthim rolling into the ditch; by the same cause the hound's direction as heleaped was just so changed that he missed his aim and bounded past themurderer into the darkness. Before the gigantic beast could recoverhimself and turn to spring again, Walter Goddard, who had chanced neverto see Stamboul and little suspected his presence, leaped the ditch andfled rapidly through the dark shadow. But death was at his heels. Beforethe squire, who was very little hurt, could get upon his feet, thebloodhound had found the scent and, uttering his deep-mouthed bayingnote, sprang upon the track of the flying man. Mr. Juxon got across theditch and followed him into the gloom. 

"Stamboul! Stamboul!" he roared as he ran. But before he had gone thirtyyards he heard a heavy fall. The hound's cry ceased and a short screambroke the silence. 

A moment later the squire was dragging the infuriated animal from theprostrate body of Walter Goddard. Stamboul had tasted blood; it was noeasy matter to make him relinquish his prey. The cloud passed from themoon, driven before the blast, and a ray of light fell through the treesupon the scene. Juxon stood wrestling with his hound, holding to hisheavy collar with both hands with all his might. He dared not let go foran instant, well knowing that the frenzied beast would tear his victimlimb from limb. But Juxon's hands were strong, and though Stamboulwrithed and his throat rattled he could not free himself. The squireglanced at the body of the fallen man, just visible in the flickeringmoonlight. Walter Goddard lay quite still upon his back. If he was badlywounded it was not possible to say where the wound was. 

It was a terrible moment. Mr. Juxon felt that he could not leave the manthus, not knowing whether he were alive or dead; and yet while all hisstrength was exerted to the full in controlling the bloodhound, it wasimpossible to approach a step nearer. He was beginning to think that heshould be obliged to take Stamboul to the Hall and return again to thescene of the disaster. 

"Mr. Juxon! Juxon! Juxon!" John was shouting as he ran up the park. 

"This way! look sharp!" yelled the squire, foreseeing relief. John'squick footsteps rang on the hard road. The squire called again and in amoment the young man had joined him and stood horror-struck at what hesaw. 

"Don't touch the dog!" cried the squire. "Don't come near him, I say!" headded as John came forward. "There--there has been an accident, Mr. Short, " he added in calmer tones. "Would you mind seeing if the fellow isalive?"

John was too much startled to say anything, but he went and knelt down byGoddard's body and looked into his face. 

"Feel his pulse, " said the squire. "Listen at his heart. " To him itseemed a very simple matter to ascertain whether a man were alive ordead. But John was nervous; he had never seen a dead man in his life andfelt that natural repulsion to approaching death which is common to allliving creatures. There was no help for it, however, and he took WalterGoddard's limp hand in his and tried to find his pulse; he could notdistinguish any beating. The hand fell nerveless to the ground. 

"I think he is dead, " said John very softly, and he rose to his feet anddrew back a little way from the body. 

"Then just wait five minutes for me, if you do not mind, " said Mr. Juxon, and he turned away dragging the reluctant and still struggling Stamboulby his side. 

John shuddered when he was left alone. It was indeed a dismal sceneenough. At his feet lay Walter Goddard's body, faintly illuminated by thestruggling moonbeams; all around and overhead the east wind was howlingand whistling and sighing in the dry oak branches, whirling hither andthither the few brown leaves that had clung to their hold throughout thelong winter; the sound of the squire's rapidly retreating footsteps grewmore faint in the distance; John felt that he was alone and was veryuncomfortable. He would have liked to go back to the cottage and tellMrs. Goddard of what had happened, and that Mr. Juxon was safe; but hethought the squire might return and find that he had left his post andaccuse him of cowardice. He drew back from the man's body and shelteredhimself from the wind, leaning against the broad trunk of an old oaktree. He had not stood thus many minutes when he heard the sound ofwheels upon the hard road. It might be Mrs. Goddard, he thought. With onemore glance at the prostrate body, he turned away and hurried through thetrees towards the avenue. The bright lamps of the dog-cart were almostclose before him. He shouted to Reynolds. 

"Whoa, January!" ejaculated that ancient functionary as he pulled upStrawberry close to John Short. Why the natives of Essex and especiallyof Billingsfield habitually address their beasts of burden as "January"is a matter best left to the discrimination of philologers; obedient tothe familiar words however, Strawberry stood still in the middle of theroad. John could see that Mrs. Goddard was seated by the side of Reynoldsbut that Nellie was not in the cart. 

"Oh, Mrs. Goddard, is that you?" said John. "Mr. Juxon will be here in amoment. Don't be frightened--he is not hurt in the least; awfully badluck for the tramp, though!"

"The tramp?" repeated Mrs. Goddard with a faint cry of horror. 

"Yes, " said John, whose spirits rose wonderfully in the light of thedog-cart lamps. "There was a poor tramp hanging about the park--poaching, very likely--and Mr. Juxon's dog got after him, somehow, I suppose. I donot know how it happened, but when I came up--oh! here is Mr. Juxonhimself--he will tell you all about it. "

The squire came up in breathless haste, having locked Stamboul into thehouse. 

"Good Heavens! Mrs. Goddard!" he ejaculated in a tone of profoundsurprise. But Mrs. Goddard gave no answer. The squire sprang upon thestep and looked closely at her. She lay back against old Reynolds'sshoulder, very pale, with her eyes shut. It was evident that she hadfainted. The old man seemed not to comprehend what had happened; hehad never experienced the sensation of having a lady leaning upon hisshoulder, and he looked down at her with a half idiotic smile on hisdeeply furrowed face. 

"She's took wuss, sir, " he remarked. "She was all for comin' up the parkas soon as Master John was gone. She warn't feelin' herself o' no accountt' evenin'. "

"Look here, Mr. Short, " said the squire decisively. "I must ask you totake Mrs. Goddard home again and call her women to look after her. Ifancy she will come to herself before long. Do you mind?"

"Not in the least, " said John cheerfully, mounting at the back of thedog-cart. 

"And--Reynolds--bring Mr. Short back to the Hall immediately, please, andyou shall have some beer. "

"All right, sir. "

John supported the fainting lady with one arm, turning round upon hisseat at the back. Old Strawberry wheeled quickly in her tracks andtrotted down the avenue under the evident impression that she was goinghome. Mr. Juxon dashed across the ditch again to the place where WalterGoddard had fallen. 

The squire knelt down and tried to ascertain the extent of the man'sinjuries; as far as he could see there was a bad wound at his throat, andone hand was much mangled. But there seemed to have been no great flow ofblood. He tore open the smock-frock and shirt and put his ear to theheart. Faintly, very faintly, he could hear it beat. Walter Goddard wasalive still--alive to live for years perhaps, the squire reflected; tolive in a prison, it was true, but to live. To describe his feelings inthat moment would be impossible. Had he found the convict dead, it wouldbe useless to deny that he would have felt a very great satisfaction, tempered perhaps by some pity for the wretched man's miserable end, butstill very great. It would have seemed such a just end, after all; to bekilled in the attempt to kill, and to have died not by the squire's handbut by the sharp strong jaws of the hound who had once before saved thesquire's life. But he was alive. It would not take much to kill him; alittle pressure on his wounded throat would be enough. Even to leavehim there, uncared for, till morning in the bleak wind, lying upon thecold ground, would be almost certain to put an end to his life. But tothe honour of Charles James Juxon be it said that such thoughts nevercrossed his mind. He pulled off his heavy ulster greatcoat, wrapped itabout the felon's insensible body, then, kneeling, raised up his head andshoulders, got his strong arms well round him and with some difficultyrose to his feet. Once upright, it was no hard matter to carry hisburthen through the trees to the road, and up the avenue to his own door. 

"Holmes, " said Mr. Juxon to his butler, "this man is badly hurt, but heis alive. Help me to carry him upstairs. "

There was that in the squire's voice which brooked neither question nordelay when he was in earnest. The solemn butler took Walter Goddard bythe feet and the squire took him by the shoulders; so they carried him upto a bedroom and laid him down, feeling for the bed in the dark as theymoved. Holmes then lit a candle with great calmness. 

"Shall I send for the medical man, sir?" he asked quietly. 

"Yes. Send the gig as fast as possible. If he is not at home, or cannotbe found, send on to the town. If anybody asks questions say the man is atramp who attacked me in the park and Stamboul pulled him down. Send atonce, and bring me some brandy and light the fire here. "

"Yes, sir, " said Holmes, and left the room. 

Mr. Juxon lighted other candles and examined the injured man. There wasnow no doubt that he was alive. He breathed faintly but regularly; hispulse beat less rapidly and more firmly. His face was deadly pale andvery thin, and his half-opened eyes stared unconsciously upwards, butthey were not glazed nor death-like. He seemed to have lost littleblood, comparatively speaking. 

"Bah!" ejaculated the squire. "I believe he is only badly frightened, after all. "

Holmes brought brandy and warm water and again left the room. Mr. Juxonbathed Goddard's face and neck with a sponge, eying him suspiciously allthe while. It would not have surprised him at any moment if he had leapedfrom the bed and attempted to escape. To guard against surprise, thesquire locked the door and put the key in his pocket, watching theconvict to see whether he noticed the act or was really unconscious. ButGoddard never moved nor turned his motionless eyeballs. Mr. Juxonreturned to his side, and with infinite care began to remove his clothes. They were almost in rags. He examined each article, and was surprised tofind money in the pockets, amounting to nearly sixty pounds; then hesmiled to himself, remembering that the convict had visited his wife andhad doubtless got the money from her to aid him in his escape. He put thenotes and gold carefully together in a drawer after counting them, andreturning to his occupation succeeded at last in putting Goddard to bed, after staunching his wounds as well as he could with handkerchiefs. 

He stood long by the bedside, watching the man's regular breathing, andexamining his face attentively. Many strange thoughts passed through hismind, as he stood there, looking at the man who had caused such misery tohimself, such shame and sorrow to his fair wife, such disappointment tothe honest man who was now trying to save him from the very grasp ofdeath. So this was Mary Goddard's husband, little Nellie's father--thisgrimy wretch, whose foul rags lay heaped there in the corner, whosemiserable head pressed the spotless linen of the pillow, whosehalf-closed eyes stared up so senselessly at the squire's face. This wasthe man for whose sake Mary Goddard started and turned pale, fainted andgrew sick, languished and suffered so much pain. No wonder she concealedit from Nellie--no wonder she had feared lest after many years he shouldcome back and claim her for his wife--no wonder either that a man withsuch a face should do bad deeds. 

Mr. Juxon was a judge of faces; persons accustomed for many years tocommand men usually are. He noted Walter Goddard's narrow jaw and pointedchin, his eyes set near together, his wicked lips, parted and revealingsharp jagged teeth, his ill-shaped ears and shallow temples, his flat lowforehead, shown off by his cropped hair. And yet this man had once beencalled handsome, he had been admired and courted. But then his hair hadhidden the shape of his head, his long golden moustache had covered hismouth and disguised all his lower features, he had been arrayed bytailors of artistic merit, and he had had much gold in his pockets. Hewas a very different object now--the escaped convict, close cropped, witha half-grown beard upon his ill-shaped face, and for all ornament a linensheet drawn up under his chin. 

The squire was surprised that he did not recover consciousness, seeingthat he breathed regularly and was no longer so pale as at first. A faintflush seemed to rise to his sunken cheeks, and for a long time Mr. Juxonstood beside him, expecting every moment that he would speak. Once hethought his lips moved a little. Then Mr. Juxon took a little brandy in aspoon and raising his head poured it down his throat. The effect wasimmediate. Goddard opened wide his eyes, the blood mounted to his cheekswith a deep flush, and he uttered an inarticulate sound. 

"What did you say?" asked the squire, bending over him. 

But there was no answer. The sick man's head fell back upon the pillow, though his eyes remained wide open and the flush did not leave hischeeks. His pulse was now very high, and his breathing grew heavy andstertorous. 

"I hope I have not made him any worse, " remarked Mr. Juxon aloud, as hecontemplated his patient. "But if he is going to die, I wish he would dienow. "

The thought was charitable, on the whole. If Walter Goddard died then andthere, he would be buried in a nameless grave under the shadow of theold church; no one would ever know that he was the celebrated forger, theescaped convict, the husband of Mary Goddard. If he lived--heaven aloneknew what complications would follow if he lived. 

There was a knock at the door. Mr. Juxon drew the key from his pocket andopened it. Holmes the butler stood outside. 

"Mr. Short has come back, sir. He asked if you wished to see him. "

"Ask him to come here, " replied the squire, to whom the tension ofkeeping his solitary watch was becoming very irksome. In a few momentsJohn entered the room, looking pale and nervous. 

CHAPTER XX. 

John Short was in absolute ignorance of what was occurring. He attributedMrs. Goddard's anxiety to her solicitude for Mr. Juxon, and if he hadfound time to give the matter serious consideration, he would have arguedvery naturally that she was fond of the squire. It had been less easythan the latter had supposed to take her home and persuade her to staythere, for she was in a state in which she hardly understood reason. Nothing but John's repeated assurances to the effect that Mr. Juxon wasnot in the least hurt, and that he would send her word of the conditionof the wounded tramp, prevailed upon her to remain at the cottage; forshe had come back to consciousness before the dog-cart was fairly out ofthe park and had almost refused to enter her own home. 

The catastrophe had happened, after eight and forty hours of suspense, and her position was one of extreme fear and doubt. She had indeed seenthe squire at the very moment when she fainted, but the impression wasuncertain as that of a dream, and it required all John's asseverations topersuade her that Mr. Juxon had actually met her and insisted that sheshould return to the cottage. Once there, in her own house, she abandonedherself to the wildest excitement, shutting herself into the drawing-roomand refusing to see anyone; she gave way to all her sorrow and fear, feeling that if she controlled herself any longer she must go mad. Indeedit was the best thing she could do, for her nerves were overstrained, andthe hysterical weeping which now completely overpowered her for sometime, was the natural relief to her overwrought system. She had not theslightest doubt that the tramp of whom John had spoken, and whom he haddescribed as badly hurt, was her husband; and together with her joy atMr. Juxon's escape, she felt an intolerable anxiety to know Walter'sfate. If in ordinary circumstances she had been informed that he had diedin prison, it would have been absurd to expect her to give way to anyexpressions of excessive grief; she would perhaps have shed a few womanlytears and for some time she would have been more sad than usual; but sheno longer loved him and his death could only be regarded as a releasefrom all manner of trouble and shame and evil foreboding. With hisdecease would have ended her fears for poor Nellie, her apprehensions forthe future in case he should return and claim her, the whole weight ofher humiliation, and if she was too kind to have rejoiced over such atermination of her woes, she was yet too sensible not to have fullyunderstood and appreciated the fact of her liberation and of the freedomgiven to the child she loved, by the death of a father whose return couldbring nothing but disgrace. But now she did not know whether Walter werealive or dead. If he was alive he was probably so much injured as topreclude all possibility of his escaping, and he must inevitably be givenup to justice, no longer to imprisonment merely, but by his ownconfession to suffer the death of a murderer. If on the other hand hewas already dead, he had died a death less shameful indeed, but of whichthe circumstances were too horrible for his wife to contemplate, for hemust have been torn to pieces by Stamboul the bloodhound. 

She unconsciously comprehended all these considerations, which entirelydeprived her of the power to weigh them in her mind, for her mind wastemporarily loosed from all control of the reasoning faculty. She hadborne much during the last three days, but she could bear no more;intellect and sensibility were alike exhausted and gave way together. There were indeed moments, intervals in the fits of hysteric tearsand acute mental torture, when she lay quite still in her chair andvaguely asked herself what it all meant, but her disturbed consciousnessgave no answer to the question, and presently her tears broke out afreshand she tossed wildly from side to side, or walked hurriedly up and downthe room, wringing her hands in despair, sobbing aloud in her agony andagain abandoning herself to the uncontrolled exaggerations of her griefand terror. One consolation alone presented itself at intervals to herconfused intelligence; Mr. Juxon was safe. Whatever other fearful thinghad happened, he was safe, saved perhaps by her warning--but what wasthat, if Walter had escaped death only to die at the hands of thehangman, or had found it in the jaws of that fearful bloodhound? What wasthe safety even of her best friend, if poor Nellie was to know that herfather was alive, only to learn that he was to die again?

But human suffering cannot outlast human strength; as a marvellousadjustment of forces has ordered that even at the pole, in the regions ofboundless and perpetual cold, the sea shall not freeze to the bottom, sothere is also in human nature a point beyond which suffering cannotextend. The wildest emotions must expend themselves in time, the fiercestpassions must burn out. At the end of two hours Mary Goddard wasexhausted by the vehemence of her hysteric fear, and woke as from a dreamto a dull sense of reality. She knew, now that some power of reflectionwas restored to her, that the squire would give her intelligence of whathad happened, so soon as he was able, and she knew also that she mustwait until the morning before any such message could reach her. She tookthe candle from the table and went upstairs. Nellie was asleep, but hermother felt a longing to look at her again that night, not knowing whatmisery for her child the morrow might bring forth. 

Nellie lay asleep in her bed, her rich brown hair plaited together andthrown back across the pillow. The long dark fringes of her eyelashescast a shade upon the transparent colour of her cheek, and the lightbreath came softly through her parted lips. But as Mary Goddard lookedshe saw that there were still tears upon her lovely face and that thepillow was still wet. She had cried herself to sleep, for Martha had toldher that her mother was very ill and would not see her that night; Nelliewas accustomed to say her prayers at her mother's knee every eveningbefore going to bed, she was used to having her mother smooth her pillowand kiss her and put out her light, leaving her with sweet words, to wakeher with sweet words on the next morning, and to-night she had missed allthis and had been told moreover that her mother was very ill and wasacting very strangely. She had gone to bed and had cried herself tosleep, and the tears were still upon her cheeks. Shading the lightcarefully from the child's eyes, Mary Goddard bent down and kissed herforehead once and then feeling that her sorrow was rising again sheturned and passed noiselessly from the room. 

But Nellie was dreaming peacefully and knew nothing of her mother'svisit; she slept on not knowing that scarcely a quarter of a mile awayher own father, whom she had been taught to think of as dead, waslying at the Hall, wounded and unconscious while half the detectives inthe kingdom were looking for him. Had Nellie known that, her sleep wouldhave been little and her dreams few. 

There was little rest at the Hall that night. When Reynolds had drivenJohn back to the great house he found his way to the kitchen and got hisbeer, and he became at once a centre of interest, being overwhelmed withquestions concerning the events of the evening. But he was able to sayvery little except that while waiting before the cottage he had heardstrange noises from the park, that Master John had run up the avenue, that Mrs. Goddard had taken Miss Nellie into the house and had theninsisted upon being driven towards the Hall, that they had met MasterJohn and the squire and that Mrs. Goddard had been "took wuss. "

Meanwhile John entered the room where Mr. Juxon was watching over WalterGoddard. John looked pale and nervous; he had not recovered from theunpleasant sensation of being left alone with what he believed to be adead body, in the struggling moonlight and the howling wind. He was by nomeans timid by nature, but young nerves are not so tough as old ones andhe had felt exceedingly uncomfortable. He stood a moment within the room, then glanced at the bed and started with surprise. 

"Why--he is not dead after all!" he exclaimed, and going nearer he lookedhard at Goddard's flushed face. 

"No, " said Mr. Juxon, "he is not dead. He may be dying for all I know. Ihave sent for the doctor. "

"Was he much hurt?" asked John, still looking at the sick man. "He looksto me as though he were in a fever. "

"He does not seem so badly hurt. I cannot make it out at all. At first Ithought he was badly frightened, but I cannot bring him to consciousness. Perhaps he has a fever, as you say. This is a most unpleasant experience, Mr. Short--your first night at the Hall, too. Of course I am bound tolook after the man, as Stamboul did the damage--it would have served himright if he had been killed. It was a villainous blow he gave me--I canfeel it still. The moral of it is that one should always wear a thickulster when one walks alone at night. "

"I did not know he struck you, " said John in some surprise. 

"Jumped out of the copse at the turning and struck at me with abludgeon, " said Mr. Juxon. "Knocked my hat off, into the bargain, andthen ran away with Stamboul after him. If I had not come up in timethere would have been nothing left of him. "

"I should say the dog saved your life, " remarked John, much impressed bythe squire's unadorned tale. "What object can the fellow have had inattacking you? Strange--his eyes are open, but he does not seem tounderstand us. "

Mr. Juxon walked to the bedside and contemplated the sick man's featureswith undisguised disgust. 

"You villain!" he said roughly. "Why don't you answer for yourself?" Theman did not move, and the squire began to pace the room. John was struckby Mr. Juxon's tone: it was not like him, he thought, to speak in thatway to a helpless creature. He could not understand it. There was a longsilence, broken only by the heavy breathing of Goddard. 

"Really, Mr. Short, " said the squire at last, "I have no intention ofkeeping you up all night. The village doctor must have been out. It maybe more than an hour before my man finds another. "

"Never mind, " said John quietly. "I will wait till he comes at allevents. You may need me before it is over. "

"Do you think he looks as if he were going to die?" asked the squiredoubtfully, as he again approached the bedside. 

"I don't know, " answered John, standing on the other side. "I never sawany one die. He looks very ill. "

"Very ill. I have seen many people die--but somehow I have a strongimpression that this fellow will live. "

"Let us hope so, " said John. 

"Well--" The squire checked himself. Probably the hope he would haveexpressed would not have coincided with that to which John had givenutterance. "Well, " he repeated, "I daresay he will. Mr. Short, are you atall nervous? Since you are so good as to say you will wait until thedoctor comes, would you mind very much being left alone here for fiveminutes?"

"No, " answered John, stoutly, "not in the least. " To be left in awell-lighted room by the bedside of Walter Goddard, ill indeed, but aliveand breathing vigorously, was very different from being requested towatch his apparently dead body out in the park under the moonlight. 

With a word of thanks, the squire left the room, and hastened to hisstudy, where he proceeded to write a note, as follows:--

"MY DEAR MR. AMBROSE--The man we were speaking of yesterday morningactually attacked me this evening. Stamboul worried him badly, but he isnot dead. He is lying here, well cared for, and I have sent for thedoctor. If convenient to you, would you come in the morning? I need notrecommend discretion. --Sincerely yours, "C. J. JUXON. _N. B. _--I am not hurt. "

Having ascertained that Reynolds was still in the kitchen, the missivewas given to the old man with an injunction to use all speed, as thevicar might be going to bed and the note was important. 

John, meanwhile, being left alone sat down near the wounded man's bed andwaited, glancing at the flushed face and staring eyes from time to time, and wondering whether the fellow would recover. The young scholar hadbeen startled by all that had occurred, and his ideas wandered back tothe beginning of the evening, scarcely realising that a few hours ago hehad not met Mrs. Goddard, had not experienced a surprising change in hisfeelings towards her, had not witnessed the strange scene under thetrees. It seemed as though all these things had occupied a week at thevery least, whereas on that same afternoon he had been speculating uponhis meeting with Mrs. Goddard, calling up her features to his mind as hehad last seen them, framing speeches which when the meeting came he hadnot delivered, letting his mind run riot in the delicious anticipation ofappearing before her in the light of a successful competitor for one ofthe greatest honours of English scholarship. And yet in a few hours allhis feelings were changed, and to his infinite surprise, were changedwithout any suffering to himself; he knew well that, for some reason, Mrs. Goddard had lost the mysterious power of making him blush, and ofsending strange thrills through his whole nature when he sat at her side;with some justice he attributed his new indifference to the extraordinaryalteration in her appearance, whereby she seemed now so much older thanhimself, and he forthwith moralised upon the mutability of human affairs, with all the mental fluency of a very young man whose affairs are stillextremely mutable. He fell to musing on the accident in the park, wondering how he would have acted in Mr. Juxon's place, wonderingespecially what object could have led the wretched tramp to attack thesquire, wondering too at the very great anxiety shown by Mrs. Goddard. 

As he sat by the bedside, the sick man suddenly moved and turning hiseyes full upon John's face stared at him with a look of dazed surprise. He thrust out his wounded hand, bound up in a white handkerchief throughwhich a little blood was slowly oozing, and to John's infinite surprisehe spoke. 

"Who are you?" he asked in a strange, mumbling voice, as though he hadpebbles in his mouth. 

John started forward in his chair and looked intently at Goddard's face. 

"My name is Short, " he answered mechanically. But the passing flash ofintelligence was already gone, and Goddard's look became a glassy andidiotic stare. Still his lips moved. John came nearer and listened. 

"Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard! Let me in!" said the sick man quiteintelligibly, in spite of his uncertain tone. John uttered an exclamationof astonishment; his heart beat fast and he listened intently. The sickman mumbled inarticulate sounds; not another word could be distinguished. John looked for the bell, thinking that Mr. Juxon should be informed ofthe strange phenomenon at once; but before he could ring the squirehimself entered the room, having finished and despatched his note to Mr. Ambrose. 

"It is most extraordinary, " said John. "He spoke just now--"

"What did he say?" asked Mr. Juxon very quickly. 

"He said first, 'Who are you?' and then he said 'Mary Goddard, let mein!' Is it not most extraordinary? How in the world should he knowabout Mrs. Goddard?"

The squire turned a little pale and was silent for a moment. He had leftJohn with the wounded man feeling sure that, for some time at least, thelatter would not be likely to say anything intelligible. 

"Most extraordinary!" he repeated presently. Then he looked at Goddardclosely, and turned him again upon his back and put his injured handbeneath the sheet. 

"Do you understand me? Do you know who I am?" he asked in a loud toneclose to his ear. 

But the unfortunate man gave no sign of intelligence, only hisinarticulate mumbling grew louder though not more distinct. Mr. Juxonturned away impatiently. 

"The fellow is in a delirium, " he said. "I wish the doctor would come. "He had hardly turned his back when the man spoke again. 

"Mary Goddard!" he cried. "Let me in!"

"There!" said John. "The same words!"

Mr. Juxon shuddered, and looked curiously at his companion; then thrusthis hands into his pockets and whistling softly walked about the room. John was shocked at what seemed in the squire a sort of indecent levity;he could not understand that his friend felt as though he should go mad. 

Indeed the squire suffered intensely. The name of Mary Goddard, pronounced by the convict in his delirium brought home more vividly thananything could have done the relation between the wounded tramp and thewoman the squire loved. It was positively true, then--there was not ashadow of doubt left, since this wretch lay there mumbling her name inhis ravings! This was the husband of that gentle creature with sadpathetic eyes, so delicate, so refined that it seemed as though thecoarser breath of the world of sin and shame could never come nearher--this was her husband! It was horrible. This was the father of lovelyNellie, too. Was anything wanting to make the contrast more hideous?

Mr. Juxon felt that it was impossible to foresee what Walter Goddardmight say in the course of another hour. He had often seen people in adelirium and knew how strangely that inarticulate murmuring sometimesbreaks off into sudden incisive speech, astonishing every one who hears. The man had already betrayed that he knew Mary Goddard; at the nextinterval in his ravings he might betray that she was his wife. John wasstill standing by the bedside, not having recovered from hisastonishment; if John heard any more, he would be in possession of Mrs. Goddard's secret. The squire was an energetic man, equal to mostemergencies; he suddenly made up his mind. 

"Mr. Short, " he said, "I will tell you something. You will see thepropriety of being very discreet, in fact it is only to ensure yourdiscretion that I wish to tell you this much. I have reason to believethat this fellow is a convict--do not be surprised--escaped from prison. He is a man who once--was in love with Mrs. Goddard, which accounts forhis having found his way to Billingsfield. Yes--I know what you are goingto say--Mrs. Goddard is aware of his presence, and that accounts for herexcitement and her fainting. Do you understand?"

"But--good heavens!" exclaimed John in amazement. "Why did she not giveinformation, if she knew he was in the neighbourhood?"

"That would be more than could be expected of any woman, Mr. Short. Youforget that the man once loved her. "

"And how did you--well, no. I won't ask any questions. "

"No, " said the squire, "please don't. You would be placing me in adisagreeable position. Not that I do not trust you implicitly, Mr. Short, " he added frankly, "but I should be betraying a confidence. Ifthis fellow dies here, he will be buried as an unknown tramp. I found notrace of a name upon his clothes. If he recovers, we will decide whatcourse to pursue. We will do our best for him--it is a delicate case ofconscience. Possibly the poor fellow would very much prefer being allowedto die; but we cannot let him. Humanity, for some unexplained reason, forbids euthanasia and the use of the hemlock in such cases. "

"Was he sentenced for a long time?" asked John, very much impressed bythe gravity of the situation. 

"Twelve years originally, I believe. Aggravated by his escape and by hisassault on me, his term might very likely be extended to twenty years ifhe were taken again. "

"That is to say, if he recovers?" inquired John. 

"Precisely. I do not think I would hesitate to send him back to prison ifhe recovered. "

"I do not wonder you think he would rather die here, if he wereconsulted, " said John. "It would not be murder to let him diepeacefully--"

"In the opinion of the law it might be called manslaughter, though I donot suppose anything would be said if I had simply placed him here andomitted to call in a physician. He cannot live very long in this state, unless something is done for him immediately. Look at him. "

There was no apparent change in Goddard's condition. He lay upon his backstaring straight upward and mumbling aloud with every breath he drew. 

"He must have been ill, before he attacked me, " continued Mr. Juxon, verymuch as though he were talking to himself. "He evidently is in a ragingfever--brain fever I should think. That is probably the reason why hemissed his aim--that and the darkness. If he had been well he would havekilled me fast enough with that bludgeon. As you say, Mr. Short, there isno doubt whatever that he would prefer to die here, if he had his choice. In my opinion, too, it would be far more merciful to him and to--to himin fact. Nevertheless, neither you nor I would like to remember that wehad let him die without doing all we could to keep him alive. It isa very singular case. "

"Most singular, " echoed John. 

"Besides--there is another thing. Suppose that he had attacked me as hedid, but that I had killed him with my stick--or that Stamboul had madean end of him then and there. The law would have said it served himright--would it not? Of course. But if I had not quite killed him, or, ashas actually happened, he survived the embraces of my dog, the lawinsists that I ought to do everything in my power to save the remnant ofhis life. What for? In order that the law may give itself thesatisfaction of dealing with him according to its lights. I think the lawis very greedy, I object to it, I think it is ridiculous from that pointof view, but then, when I come to examine the thing I find that my ownconscience tells me to save him, although I think it best that he shoulddie. Therefore the law is not ridiculous. Pleasant dilemma--theimpossible case! The law is at the same time ridiculous and notridiculous. The question is, does the law deduce itself from conscience, or is conscience the direct result of existing law?"

The squire appeared to be in a strangely moralising mood, and Johnlistened to him with some surprise. He could not understand that the goodman was talking to persuade himself, and to concentrate his faculties, which had been almost unbalanced by the events of the evening. 

"I think, " said John with remarkable good sense, "that the instinct ofman is to preserve life when he is calm. When a man is fighting withanother he is hot and tries to kill his enemy; when the fight is over, the natural instinct returns. "

"The only thing worth knowing in such cases is the precise point at whichthe fight may be said to be over. I once knew a young surgeon in Indiawho thought he had killed a cobra and proceeded to extract the fangs inorder to examine the poison. Unfortunately the snake was not quite dead;he bit the surgeon in the finger and the poor fellow died inthirty-five minutes. "

"Dreadful!" said John. "But you do not think this poor fellow could doanything very dangerous now--do you?"

"Oh, dear me, no!" returned the squire. "I was only stating a case toprove that one is sometimes justified in going quite to the end of afight. No indeed! He will not be dangerous for some time, if he ever isagain. But, as I was saying, he must have been ill some time. Deliriumnever comes on in this way, so soon--"

Some one knocked at the door. It was Holmes, who came to say that thephysician, Doctor Longstreet, had arrived. 

"Oh--it is Doctor Longstreet is it?" said the squire. "Ask him to comeup. "

CHAPTER XXI. 

Doctor Longstreet was not the freethinking physician of Billingsfield. The latter was out when Mr. Juxon's groom went in search of him, and theman had driven on to the town, six miles away. The doctor was an old manwith a bright eye, a deeply furrowed forehead, a bald head and cleanshaved face. He walked as though his frame were set together with springsand there was a curious snapping quickness in his speech. He seemed fullof vitality and bore his years with a jaunty air of merriment whichinspired confidence, for he seemed perpetually laughing at the ills ofthe flesh and ready to make other people laugh at them too. But hisbright eyes had a penetrating look and though he judged quickly hegenerally was right in his opinion. He entered the room briskly, notknowing that the sick man was there. 

"Now, Mr. Juxon, " he said cheerfully, "I am with you. " He had the habitof announcing his presence in this fashion, as though his brisk andactive personality were likely to be overlooked. A moment later he caughtsight of the bed. "Dear me, " he added in a lower voice, "I did not knowour patient was here. "

He went to Walter Goddard's side, looked at him attentively, felt hispulse, and his forehead, glanced at the bandages the squire had roughlyput upon his throat and hand, drew up the sheet again beneath his chinand turned sharply round. 

"Brain fever, sir, " he said cheerfully. "Brain fever. You must get someice and have some beef tea made as soon as possible. He is in a verybad way--curious, too; he looks like a cross between a ticket of leaveman and a gentleman. Tramp, you say? That would not prevent his beingeither. You cannot disturb him--don't be afraid. He hears nothing--isoff, the Lord knows where, raving delirious. Must look to his scratchesthough--dangerous--inflammation. Do you mind telling me whathappened--how long he has been here?"

The squire in a few words informed Doctor Longstreet of the attack madeupon him in the park. The doctor looked at his watch. 

"Only two hours and a half since, " he remarked. "It is just midnight now, very good--the man must have been in a fever all day--yesterday, too, perhaps. He is not badly hurt by the dog--like to see that dog, if youdon't mind--the fright most likely sent him into delirium. You havenothing to accuse yourself of, Mr. Juxon: it was certainly not yourfault. Even if the dog had not bitten him, he would most likely have beenin his present state by this time. Would you mind sending for some ice atonce? Thank you. It was very lucky for the fellow that he attacked youjust when he did--secured him the chance of being well taken care of. Ifhe had gone off like this in the park he would have been dead beforemorning. "

The squire rang and sent for the ice the doctor demanded. 

"Do you think he will live?" he asked nervously. 

"I don't know, " answered Doctor Longstreet, frankly. "Nobody can tell. Heis very much exhausted--may live two or three days in this state and thendie or go to sleep and get well--may die in the morning--often do--cannotsay. With a great deal of care, I think he has a chance. "

"I am very anxious to save him, " said the squire, looking hard at thephysician. 

"Very good of you, I am sure, " replied Doctor Longstreet, cheerfully. "Itis not everybody who would take so much trouble for a tramp. Of course ifhe dies people will say your dog killed him; but I will sign a paper tothe effect that it is not true. If he had left you and your dog alone, hewould have been dead in the morning to an absolute certainty. "

"How very extraordinary!" exclaimed the squire, suddenly realising thatinstead of causing the man's death Stamboul had perhaps saved his life. 

"It was certainly very odd that he should have chosen the best moment forassaulting you, " continued the doctor. "It is quite possible that eventhen he was under some delusion--took you for somebody else--some oldenemy. People do queer things in a brain fever. By the bye has he saidanything intelligible since he has been here?"

John Short who had been standing silently by the bedside during the wholeinterview looked up quickly at the squire, wondering how he would answer. But Mr. Juxon did not hesitate. 

"Yes. Twice he repeated a woman's name. That is very natural, I suppose. Do you think he will have any lucid moments for some time?"

"May, " said the doctor, "may. When he does it is likely to be at theturning point; he will either die or be better very soon after. If itcomes soon he may say something intelligible. If he is much moreexhausted than he is now, he will understand you, but you will notunderstand him. Meningitis always brings a partial paralysis of thetongue, when the patient is exhausted. Most probably he will go onmoaning and mumbling, as he does now, for another day. You will be ableto tell by his eye whether he understands anything; perhaps he will makesome sign with his head or hand. Ah--here is the ice. "

Doctor Longstreet went about his operations in a rapid and business likefashion and John gave what assistance he could. The squire stood leaningagainst the chimney-piece in deep thought. 

Indeed he had enough to think of, when he had fully weighed the meaningof the doctor's words. He was surprised beyond measure at the turn thingshad taken; for although, as he had previously told John, he suspectedthat Goddard must have been in a fever for several hours before theassault, it had not struck him that Stamboul's attack had been absolutelyharmless, still less that it might prove to have been the means of savingthe convict's life. It was terribly hard to say that he desired to savethe man, and yet the honest man in his heart prayed that he might reallyhope for that result. It would be far worse, should Goddard die, toremember that he had wished for his death. But it would be hard toimagine a more unexpected position than that in which the squire foundhimself; by a perfectly natural chain of circumstances he was now tendingwith the utmost care the man who had tried to murder him, and who of allmen in the world, stood most in the way of the accomplishment of hisdesires. 

He could not hide from himself the fact that he hated the sick man, eventhough he hoped, or tried to hope for his recovery. He hated him for theshame and suffering he had brought upon Mary Goddard in the firstinstance, for the terrible anxiety he had caused her by his escape andsudden appearance at her house; he hated him for being what he was, beingalso the father of Nellie, and he hated him honestly for his base attemptupon himself that night. He had good cause to hate him, and perhaps hewas not ashamed of his hatred. To be called upon, however, to return goodfor such an accumulated mass of evil was almost too much for his humannature. It was but a faint satisfaction to think that if he recovered hewas to be sent back to prison. Mr. Juxon did not know that there wasblood upon the man's hands--he had yet to learn that; he would not deignto mention the assault in the park when he handed him over to theauthorities; the man should simply go back to Portland to suffer the termof his imprisonment, as soon as he should be well enough to be moved--ifthat time ever came. If he died, he should be buried decently in anameless grave, "six feet by four, by two, " as Thomas Reid would havesaid--if he died. 

Meanwhile, however, there was yet another consideration which disturbedthe squire's meditations. Mrs. Goddard had a right to know that herhusband was dying and, if she so pleased, she had a right to be at hisbedside. But at the same time it would be necessary so to account for herpresence as not to arouse Doctor Longstreet's suspicions, nor thecomments of Holmes, the butler, and of his brigade in the servants' hall. It was no easy matter to do this unless Mrs. Goddard were accompanied bythe vicar's wife, the excellent and maternally minded Mrs. Ambrose. Toaccomplish this it would be necessary to ask the latter lady to spend agreat part of her time at the Hall in taking care of the wretchedGoddard, who would again be the gainer. But Mrs. Ambrose was as yetignorant of the fact that he had escaped from prison; she must be toldthen, and an effort must be made to elicit her sympathy. Perhaps she andthe vicar would come and stop a few days, thought the squire. Mrs. Goddard might then come and go as she pleased. Her presence by herhusband's bedside would then be accounted for on the ground of hercharitable disposition. 

While Mr. Juxon was revolving these things in his mind he watched thedoctor and John who were doing what was necessary for the sick man. Goddard moaned helplessly with every breath, in a loud, monotonous tone, very wearing to the nerves of those who heard it. 

"There is little to be done, " said Doctor Longstreet at last. "He must befed--alternately a little beef tea and then a little weak brandy andwater. We must try and keep the system up. That is his only chance. Iwill prescribe something and send it back by the groom. "

"You are not going to leave us to-night?" exclaimed the squire in alarm. 

"Must. Very sorry. Bad case of diphtheria in town--probably die beforemorning, unless I get there in time--I would not have come here for anyone else. I will certainly be here before ten--he will live till then, Ifancy, and I don't believe there will be any change in his condition. Good-night, Mr. Juxon--beef tea and brandy every quarter of an hour. Good-night, Mr. --" he turned to John. 

"Short, " said John. "Good-night, doctor. "

"Ah--I remember--used to be with Mr. Ambrose--yes. Delighted to meet youagain, Mr. Short--good-night. "

The doctor vanished, before either the squire or John had time to followhim. His departure left an unpleasant sense of renewed responsibility inthe squire's mind. 

"You had better go to bed, Mr. Short, " he said kindly. "I will sit upwith him. "

But John would not hear of any such arrangement; he insisted upon bearinghis share of the watching and stoutly refused to leave the squire alone. There was a large dressing-room attached to the room where Goddard waslying; the squire and John finally agreed to watch turn and turn about, one remaining with Goddard, while the other rested upon the couch in thedressing-room aforesaid. The squire insisted upon taking his watch first, and John lay down. It was past midnight and he was very tired, but itseemed impossible to sleep with the sound of that loud, monotonousmumbling perpetually in his ears. It was a horrible night, and John Shortnever forgot it so long as he lived. Years afterwards he could not enterthe room where Goddard had lain without fancying he heard that perpetualgroaning still ringing in his ears. For many hours it continued unabatedand unchanging, never dying away to silence nor developing to articulatewords. From time to time John could hear the squire's step as he movedabout, administering the nourishment prescribed. If he had had theslightest idea of Mr. Juxon's state of mind he would hardly have left himeven to rest awhile in the next room. 

Fortunately the squire's nerves were solid. A firm constitution hardenedby thirty years of seafaring and by the consistent and temperateregularity which was part of his character, had so toughened his naturalstrength as to put him almost beyond the reach of mortal ills; otherwisehe must have broken down under the mental strain thus forced upon him. Itis no light thing to do faithfully the utmost to save a man one has goodreason to hate, and whose death would be an undoubted blessing to everyone who has anything to do with him. Walter Goddard was to Charles Juxonat once an enemy, an obstacle and a rival; an enemy, for having attemptedhis life, an obstacle, because while he lived he prevented the squirefrom marrying Mrs. Goddard and a rival because she had once loved him andfor the sake of that love was still willing to sacrifice much for him. And yet the very fact that she had loved him made it easier to be kind tohim; it seemed to the squire that, after all, in taking care of Goddardhe was in some measure serving her, too, seeing that she would have donethe same thing herself could she have been present. 

Yet there was something very generous and large-hearted in the wayCharles Juxon did his duty by the sick man. There are people who seem bynature designed to act heroic parts in life, whose actions habituallytake an heroic form, and whose whole character is of another stamp fromthat of average humanity. Of such people much is expected, because theyseem to offer much; no one is surprised to hear of their making greatsacrifices, no one is astonished if they exhibit great personal couragein times of danger. Very often they are people of large vanity, whosechiefest vanity is not to seem vain; gifted with great powers and alwaysseeking opportunities of using them, holding high ideas upon mostsubjects but rarely conceiving themselves incapable of attaining to anyideal they select for their admiration; brave in combat partly from realcourage, partly, as I have often heard officers say of a dandy soldier inthe ranks, because they are too proud to run away; but, on the whole, heroic by temperament and in virtue of a singular compound of pride, strength and virtue, often accomplishing really great things. They arealmost always what are called striking people, for their pride and theirstrength generally attract attention by their magnitude, and something intheir mere appearance distinguishes them from the average mass. 

But Charles Juxon did not in any way belong to this type, any more thanthe other persons who found themselves concerned in the events whichculminated in Goddard's illness. He was a very simple man whose pride waswholly unconscious, who did not believe himself destined to do anythingremarkable, who regarded his own personality as rather uninteresting andwho, had he been asked about himself, would have been the first todisclaim any sentiments of the heroic kind. With very little imagination, he possessed great stability himself and great belief in the stability ofthings in general, a character of the traditional kind known as"northern, " though it would be much more just to describe it as the"temperate" or "central" type of man. Wherever there is exaggeration innature, there is exaggerated imagination in man. The solid andunimaginative part of the English character is undeniably derived fromthe Angles or from the Flemish; it is morally the best part, but it is byall odds the least interesting--it is found in the type of man belongingto the plains in a temperate zone, who differs in every respect from thereal northman, his distant cousin and hereditary enemy. If Charles Juxonwas remarkable for anything it was for his modesty and reticence, in aword, for his apparent determination not to be remarkable at all. 

And now, in the extremest anxiety and difficulty, his character servedhim well; for he unconsciously refused to allow to himself that hisposition was extraordinary or his responsibility greater than he wasable to bear. He disliked intensely the idea of being put forward orthrust into a dramatic situation, and he consequently failed signally tofulfil the dramatic necessities. There was not even a struggle in hisheart between the opposite possibilities of letting Goddard die, bymerely relaxing his attention, and of redoubling his care and bringingabout his recovery. He never once asked himself, after the chances of thepatient surviving the fever were stated, whether he would not bejustified in sending for some honest housewife from the village to takecare of the tramp instead of looking to his wants himself. He simply didhis best to save the man's life, without hesitation, without suspectingthat he was doing anything extraordinary, doing, as he had always done, the best thing that came in his way according to the best of his ability. He could not wholly suppress the reflection that much good might ensuefrom Goddard's death, but the thought never for a moment interfered withhis efforts to save the convict alive. 

But John lay in the next room, kept awake by the sick man's perpetualgroaning and by the train of thought which ran through his brain. Therewere indeed more strange things than his philosophy could account for, but the strangest of all was that the squire should know who the trampwas; he must know it, John thought, since he knew all about him, hisformer love for Mrs. Goddard and his recent presence in theneighbourhood. The young man's curiosity was roused to its highest pitch, and he longed to know more. He at once guessed that there must havebeen much intimate confidence between Mr. Juxon and Mrs. Goddard; hesuspected moreover that there must be some strange story connected withher, something which accounted for the peculiar stamp of a formerlyluxurious life which still clung to her, and which should explain herresidence in Billingsfield But John was very far from suspecting the realtruth. 

His mind was restless and the inaction became intolerable to him. He roseat last and went again into the room where his friend was watching. Mr. Juxon sat by the bedside, the very picture of patience, one leg crossedover the other and his hands folded together upon his knee, his facepaler than usual but perfectly calm, his head bent a little to one sideand his smooth hair, which had been slightly ruffled in the encounter inthe park, as smooth as ever. It was a very distinctive feature of him; itwas part of the sleek and spotless neatness which Mrs. Ambrose so muchadmired. 

"It is my turn, now, " said John. "Will you lie down for a couple ofhours?"

The squire rose. Being older and less excitable than John, he wasbeginning to feel the need of rest. People who have watched often by thesick know how terribly long are those hours of the night between threeo'clock and dawn; long always, but seeming interminable when one isobliged to listen perpetually to a long-drawn, inarticulate moaning, aconstant effort to speak which never results in words. 

"You are very good, " said Mr. Juxon, quietly. "If you will give him thethings from time to time, I will take a nap. "

With that he went and lay down upon the couch, and in three minutes wasas sound asleep as though he were in bed. John sat by the sick man andlooked at his flushed features and listened to the hard-drawn breathfollowed each time by that terrible, monotonous, mumbling groan. 

It might have been three-quarters of an hour since the squire had gone tosleep when John thought he saw a change in Goddard's face; it seemed tohim that the flush subsided from his forehead, very slowly, leaving onlya bright burning colour in his cheeks. His eyes seemed suddenly to growclearer and a strange look of intelligence came into them; his wholeappearance was as though illuminated by a flash of some light differentfrom that of the candles which burned upon the table. John rose to hisfeet and came and looked at him. The groaning suddenly ceased andGoddard's eyelids, which had been motionless for hours, moved naturally. He appeared to be observing John's face attentively. 

"Where is the squire?" he asked quite naturally--so naturally that Johnwas startled. 

"Asleep in the next room, " replied the latter. 

"I did not kill him after all, " said Goddard, turning himself a little asthough to be more at his ease. 

"No, " answered John. "He is not hurt at all. Can you tell me who youare?" For his life, he could not help asking the question. It seemed soeasy to find out who the fellow was, now that he could speakintelligibly. But Goddard's face contracted suddenly, in a hideous smile. 

"Don't you wish you knew?" he said roughly. "But I know you, my boy, Iknow you--ha! ha! There's no getting away from you, my boy, is there?"

"Who am I?" asked John in astonishment. 

"You are the hangman, " said Goddard. "I know you very well. The hangmanis always so well dressed. I say, old chap, turn us off quick, youknow--no fumbling about the bolt. Look here--I like your face, " helowered his voice--"there are nearly sixty pounds in my right-handtrouser pocket--there are--Mary--ah--gave--M--a--"

Again his eyes fixed themselves and the moaning began and continued. Johnwas horror-struck and stood for a moment gazing at his face, over whichthe deep flush had spread once more, seeming to obliterate all appearanceof intelligence. Then the young man put his hand beneath Goddard's headand gently replaced him in his former position, smoothing the pillows, and giving him a little brandy. He debated whether or not he should callthe squire from his rest to tell him what had happened, but seeing thatGoddard had now returned to his former state, he supposed such moments ofclear speech were to be expected from time to time. He sat down again, and waited; then after a time he went to the window and looked anxiouslyfor the dawn. It seemed an intolerably long night. 

But the day came at last and shed a ghastly grey tinge upon thesick-room, revealing as it were the outlines of all that was bad to lookat, which the warm yellow candle-light had softened with a kindliertouch. John accidentally looked at himself in the mirror as he passed andwas startled at his own pale face; but the convict, labouring in theravings of his fever, seemed unconscious of the dawning day; he was notyet exhausted and his harsh voice never ceased its jarring gibber. Johnwondered whether he should ever spend such a night again, and shudderedat the recollection of each moment. 

The daylight waked the squire from his slumbers, however, and before thesun was up he came out of the dressing-room, looking almost as fresh asthough nothing had happened to him in the night. Accustomed for years torise at all hours, in all weathers, unimpressionable, calm and strong, heseemed superior to the course of events. 

"Well, Mr. Short, you allowed me a long nap. You must be quite worn out, I should think. How is the patient?"

John told what had occurred. 

"Took you for the hangman, did he?" said the squire. "I wonder why--butyou say he asked after me very sensibly?"

"Quite so. It was when I asked him his own name, that he began ravingagain, " answered John innocently. 

"What made you ask him that?" asked Mr. Juxon, who did not seem pleased. 

"Curiosity, " was John's laconic answer. 

"Yes--but I fancy it frightened him. If I were you I would not do itagain, if he has a lucid moment. I imagine it was fright that made himdelirious in the first instance. "

"All right, " quoth John. "I won't. " But he made his own deductions. Thesquire evidently knew who he was, and did not want John to know, for someunexplained reason. The young man wondered what the reason could be; themere name of the wretched man was not likely to convey any idea to hismind, for it was highly improbable that he had ever met him before hisconviction. So John departed to his own room and refreshed himself witha tub, while the squire kept watch by daylight. 

It was not yet eight o'clock when Holmes brought a note from the vicar, which Mr. Juxon tore open and read with anxious interest. 

"MY DEAR MR. JUXON--I received your note late last night, but I judged itbetter to answer this morning, not wishing to excite suspicion by sendingto you at so late an hour. The intelligence is indeed alarming and youwill, I daresay, understand me, when I tell you that I found it necessaryto communicate it to Mrs. Ambrose--"

The squire could not refrain from smiling at the vicar's way of puttingthe point; but he read quickly on. 

"She however--and I confess my surprise and gratification--desires toaccompany me to the Hall this morning, volunteering to take all possiblecare of the unfortunate man. As she has had much experience in visitingthe sick, I fancy that she will render us very valuable assistance insaving his life. Pray let me know if the plan has your approval, as itmay be dangerous to lose time. --Yours sincerely, "AUGUSTIN AMBROSE. "

Mr. Juxon was delighted to find that the difficult task of putting Mrs. Ambrose in possession of the facts of the case had been accomplished inthe ordinary, the very ordinary, course of events by her owndetermination to find out what was to be known. In an hour she might beat Goddard's bedside, and Mrs. Goddard would be free to see her husband. He despatched a note at once and redoubled his attentions to the sick manwhose condition, however, showed no signs of changing. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Mrs. Ambrose kept her word and arrived with the vicar before nineo'clock, protesting her determination to take care of poor Goddard, solong as he needed any care. Mr. Juxon warned her that John did not knowwho the man was, and entreated her to be careful of her speech when Johnwas present. There was no reason why John should ever know anything moreabout it, he said; three could keep a secret, but no one knew whetherfour could be as discreet. 

The squire took Mrs. Ambrose and her husband to Goddard's room andtelling her that Doctor Longstreet was expected in an hour, by which timehe himself hoped to have returned, he left the two good people in chargeof the sick man and went to see Mrs. Goddard. He sent John a message tothe effect that all was well and that he should take some rest while theAmbroses relieved the watch, and having thus disposed his household hewent out, bound upon one of the most disagreeable errands he had everundertaken. But he set his teeth and walked boldly down the park. 

At the turn of the avenue he paused, at the spot where Goddard hadattacked him. There was nothing to be seen at first, for the road washard and dry and there was no trace of the scuffle; but as the squirelooked about he spied his hat, lying in the ditch, and picked it up. Itwas heavy with the morning dew and the brim was broken and bent whereGoddard's weapon had struck it. Hard by in a heap of driven oak leaveslay the weapon itself, which Mr. Juxon examined curiously. It was aheavy piece of hewn oak, evidently very old, and at one end a thick ironspike was driven through, the sharp point projecting upon one side andthe wrought head upon the other. He turned it over in his hands andrealised that he had narrowly escaped his death. Then he laid the hat andthe club together and threw a handful of leaves over them, intending totake them to the Hall at a later hour, and he turned to go upon his waytowards the cottage. But as he turned he saw two men coming towards him, and now not twenty yards away. His heart sank, for one of the two wasThomas Gall the village constable; the other was a quiet-lookingindividual with grey whiskers, plainly dressed and unassuming inappearance. Instinctively the squire knew that Gall's companion must be adetective. He was startled, and taken altogether unawares; but the menwere close upon him and there was nothing to be done but to face themboldly. 

Gall made his usual half military salute as he came up, and the man inplain clothes raised his hat politely. 

"The gentleman from Lunnon, sir, " said Gall by way of introduction, assuming an air of mysterious importance. 

"Yes?" said Mr. Juxon interrogatively. "Do you wish to speak to me?"

"The gentleman's come on business, sir. In point of fact, sir, it's thecase we was speakin' of lately. "

The squire knew very well what was the matter. Indeed, he had wonderedthat the detective had not arrived sooner. That did not make it anyeasier to receive him, however; on the contrary, if he had come on theprevious day matters would have been much simpler. 

"Very well, Gall, " answered Mr. Juxon. "I am much obliged to you forbringing Mr. --" he paused and looked at the man in plain clothes. 

"Booley, sir, " said the detective. 

"Thank you--yes--for bringing Mr. Booley so far. You may go home, Gall. If we need your services we will send to your house. "

"It struck me, sir, " remarked Gall with a bland smile, "as perhaps Imight be of use--prefeshnal in fact, sir. "

"I will send for you, " said the detective, shortly. The manners of therural constabulary had long ceased to amuse him. 

Gall departed rather reluctantly, but to make up for being left out ofthe confidential interview which was to follow, he passed his thumb roundhis belt and thrust out his portly chest as he marched down the avenue. He subsequently spoke very roughly to a little boy who was driving an oldsheep to the butcher's at the other end of the village. 

Mr. Juxon and the detective turned back and walked slowly towards theHall. 

"Will you be good enough to state exactly what the business is, " said thesquire, well knowing that it was best to go straight to the point. 

"You are Mr. Juxon, I believe?" inquired Mr. Booley looking at hiscompanion sharply. The squire nodded. "Very good, Mr. Juxon, " continuedthe official. "I am after a man called Walter Goddard. Do you knowanything about him? His wife, Mrs. Mary Goddard, lives in this village. "

"Walter Goddard is at this moment in my house, " said the squire calmly. "I know all about him. He lay in wait for me at this very spot last nightand attacked me. My dog pulled him down. "

The detective was somewhat surprised at the intelligence, and at the coolmanner in which his companion conveyed it. 

"I am very glad to hear that. In that case I will take him at once. "

"I fear that is impossible, " answered the squire. "The man is raving inthe delirium of a brain fever. Meanwhile I shall be glad if you will stayin the house, until he is well enough to be moved. The doctor will behere at ten o'clock, and he will give you the details of the case betterthan I can. It would be quite impossible to take him away at present. "

"May I ask, " inquired Mr. Booley severely, "why you did not inform thelocal police?"

"Because it would have been useless. If he had escaped after attackingme, I should have done so. But since I caught him, and found him to bevery ill--utterly unable to move, I proposed to take charge of himmyself. Mrs. Goddard is a friend of mine, and of the vicar, who knows herstory perfectly well. To publish the story in the village would be to doher a great injury. Mrs. Ambrose, the vicar's wife, who is alsoacquainted with the circumstances, is at this moment taking care of thesick man. I presume that my promise--I am a retired officer of theNavy--and the promise of Mr. Ambrose, the vicar, are sufficientguarantee--"

"Oh, there is no question of guarantee, " said Mr. Booley. "I assure you, Mr. Juxon, I have no doubt whatever that you have acted for the best. Can you tell me how long Goddard has been in the neighbourhood?"

The squire told the detective what he knew, taking care not to implicateMrs. Goddard, even adding with considerable boldness, for he was notpositively certain of the statement, that neither she nor any one elsehad known where the man was hiding. Mr. Booley being sure that Goddardcould not escape him, saw that he could claim the reward offered for thecapture of the convict. He asked whether he might see him. 

"That is doubtful, " said the squire. "When I left him just now he wasquite unconscious, but he has lucid moments. To frighten him at such atime might kill him outright. "

"It is very easy for me to say that I am another medical man, " remarkedMr. Booley. "Perhaps I might say it in any case, just to keep theservants quiet. I would like to see Mrs. Goddard, too. "

"That is another matter. She is very nervous. I am going to her house, now, and probably she will come back to the Hall with me. I might perhapstell her that you are here, but I think it would be likely to shock hervery much. "

"Well, well, we will see about it, " answered Mr. Booley. They reached thehouse and the squire ushered the detective into the study, begging him towait for his return. 

It was a new complication, though it had seemed possible enough. But theposition was not pleasant. To feel that there was a detective in thehouse waiting to carry off Goddard, so soon as he should be well enoughto be moved, was about as disagreeable as anything well could be. Thelonger the squire thought of it, the more impossible and at the same timeunnecessary it seemed to be to inform Mrs. Goddard of Booley's arrival. He hastened down the park, feeling that no time must be lost in bringingher to her husband's bedside. 

He found her waiting for him, and was struck by the calmness shedisplayed. To tell the truth the violence of her emotions had been whollyexpended on the previous night and the reaction had brought an intensemelancholy quiet, which almost frightened Mr. Juxon. The habit of bearinggreat anxiety had not been wholly forgotten, for the lesson had been welllearned during those terrible days of her husband's trial, and it was asthough his sudden return had revived in her the custom of silentsuffering. She hardly spoke, but listened quietly to Mr. Juxon's accountof what had happened. 

"You are not hurt?" she asked, almost incredulously. Her eyes rested onher friend's face with a wistful look. 

"No, I assure you, not in the least, " he said. "But your poor husband isvery ill--very ill indeed. "

"Tell me, " said she quietly, "is he dead? Are you trying to break it tome?"

"No--no indeed. He is alive--he may even recover. But that is veryuncertain. It might be best to wait until the doctor has been again. Iwill come back and fetch you--"

"Oh, no, I will go at once. I would like to walk. It will do me good. "

So the two set out without further words upon their errand. Mr. Juxon hadpurposely omitted to speak of Mr. Booley's arrival. It would be easy, hethought, to prevent them from meeting in the great house. 

"Do you know, " said Mary Goddard, as they walked together, "it is veryhard to wish that he may recover--" she stopped short. 

"Very hard, " answered the squire. "His life must be one of misery, if helives. "

"Of course you would send him back?" she asked nervously. 

"My dear friend, there is no other course open to me. Your own safetyrequires it. "

"God knows--you would only be doing right, " she said and was silentagain. She knew, though the squire did not, what fate awaited WalterGoddard if he were given up to justice. She knew that he had taken lifeand must pay the penalty. Yet she was very calm; her senses were alldulled and yet her thoughts seemed to be consecutive and rational. Sherealised fully that the case of life and death was ill balanced; deathhad it which ever course events might take, and she could not save herhusband. She thought of it calmly and calmly hoped that he might die now, in his bed, with her by his side. It was a better fate. 

"You say that the doctor thinks he must have been ill some time?" sheasked after a time. 

"Yes--he was quite sure of it, " answered the squire. 

"Perhaps that was why he spoke so roughly to me, " she said in a lowvoice, as though speaking to herself. 

The tears came into the squire's eyes for sheer pity. Even in this utmostextremity the unhappy woman tried to account for her husband's rude andcruel speech. Mr. Juxon did not answer but looked away. They passed thespot where the scuffle had occurred on the previous night, but still hesaid nothing, fearing to disturb her by making his story seem too vividlyreal. 

"Where is he?" she asked as they reached the Hall, looking up at thewindows. 

"On the other side. "

They went in and mounted the stairs towards the sick man's chamber. Mr. Juxon went in, leaving Mrs. Goddard outside for a moment. She couldhear that hideous rattling monotonous moan, and she trembled from head tofoot. Presently Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose came out, looking very grave andpassed by her with a look of sympathy. 

"Will you come in?" said the squire in a low voice. 

Mrs. Goddard entered the room quickly. On seeing her husband, she uttereda low cry and laid her hand upon Mr. Juxon's arm. For some seconds shestood thus, quite motionless, gazing with intense and sympatheticinterest at the sick man's face. Then she went to his side and laid herhand upon his burning forehead and looked into his eyes. 

"Walter! Walter!" she cried. "Don't you know me? Oh, why does he groanlike that? Is he suffering?" she asked turning to Mr. Juxon. 

"No--I do not think he suffers much. He is quite unconscious. He istalking all the time but cannot pronounce the words. "

The squire stood at a distance looking on, noting the womanlythoughtfulness Mrs. Goddard displayed as she smoothed her husband'spillow and tried to settle his head more comfortably upon the bags ofice; and all the while she never took her eyes from Goddard's face, asthough she were fascinated by her own sorrow and his suffering. She movedabout the bed with that instinctive understanding of sickness whichbelongs to delicate women, but her glance never strayed to Mr. Juxon; sheseemed forced by a mysterious magnetism to look at Walter and only athim. 

"Has he been long like this?" she asked. 

"Ever since last night. He called you once--he said, 'Mary Goddard, letme in!' And then he said something else--he said--I cannot remember whathe said. " Mr. Juxon checked himself, remembering the words John hadheard, and of which he only half understood the import. But Mrs. Goddardhardly noticed his reply. 

"Will you leave me alone with him?" she said presently. "There is a bellin the room--I could ring if anything--happened, " she added with mournfulhesitation. 

"Certainly, " answered the squire. "Only, I beg of you my dear friend--donot distress yourself needlessly--"

"Needlessly!" she repeated with a sorrowful smile. "It is all I can dofor him--to watch by his side. He will not live--he will not live, I amsure. "

The squire inwardly prayed that she might be right, and left her alonewith the sick man. Who, he thought, was better fitted, who had a strongerright to be at his bedside at such a time? If only he might die! For ifhe lived, how much more terrible would the separation be, when Booley thedetective came to conduct him back to his prison! In truth, it would bemore terrible even than Mr. Juxon imagined. 

Meanwhile he must go and see to the rest of the household. He must speakto John Short; he must see Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose, and he must takeprecautions against any of them seeing Mr. Booley. This was, he thought, very important, and he resolved to speak with the latter first. John wasprobably asleep, worn out with the watching of the night. 

Mr. Booley sat in the squire's study where he had been left almost anhour earlier. He had installed himself in a comfortable corner by thefire and was reading the morning paper which he had found unopened uponthe table. He seemed thoroughly at home as he sat there, a pair ofglasses upon his nose and his feet stretched out towards the flame uponthe hearth. 

"Thank you, I am doing very well, Mr. Juxon, " he said as the squireentered. 

"Oh--I am very glad, " answered Mr. Juxon politely. The information waswholly voluntary as he had not asked any question concerning thedetective's comfort. 

"And how is the patient?" inquired Mr. Booley. "Do you think there is anychance of removing him this afternoon?"

"This afternoon?" repeated the squire, in some astonishment. "The man isvery ill. It may be weeks before he can be removed. "

"Oh!" ejaculated the other. "I was not aware of that. I cannot possiblystay so long. To-morrow, at the latest, he will have to go. "

"But, my dear sir, " argued Mr. Juxon, "the thing is quite impossible. Thedoctor can testify to that--"

"We are apt to be our own doctors in these cases, " said Mr. Booley, calmly. "At all events he can be taken as far as the county gaol. "

"Upon my word, it would be murder to think of it--a man in a brain fever, in a delirium, to be taken over jolting roads--dear me! It is not to bethought of!"

Mr. Booley smiled benignly, for the first time since the squire had madehis acquaintance. 

"You seem to forget, Mr. Juxon, that my time is very valuable, " heobserved. 

"Yes--no doubt--but the man's life, Mr. Booley, is valuable too. "

"Hardly, I should say, " returned the detective coolly. "But since you areso very pressing, I will ask to see the man at once. I can soon tell youwhether he will die on the road or not. I have had considerableexperience in that line. "

"You shall see him, as soon as the doctor comes, " replied the squire, shocked at the man's indifference and hardness. 

"It certainly cannot hurt him to see me, if he is still unconscious orraving, " objected Mr. Booley. 

"He might have a lucid moment just when you are there--the fright wouldvery likely kill him. "

"That would decide the question of moving him, " answered Booley, takinghis glasses from his nose, laying down the paper and rising to his feet. "There is clearly some reason why you object to my seeing him now. Iwould not like to insist, Mr. Juxon, but you must please remember that itmay be my duty to do so. "

The squire was beginning to be angry; even his calm temper was not proofagainst the annoyance caused by Mr. Booley's appearance at the Hall, buthe wisely controlled himself and resorted to other means of persuasion. 

"There is a reason, Mr. Booley; indeed there are several very goodreasons. One of them is that it might be fatal to frighten the man;another is that at this moment his wife is by his bedside. She hasentirely made up her mind that when he is recovered he must return toprison, but at present it would be most unkind to let her know that youare in the house. The shock to her nerves would be terrible. "

"Oh, " said Mr. Booley, "if there is a lady in the case we must make someallowances, I presume. Only, put yourself in my place, Mr. Juxon, putyourself in my place. "

The squire doubted whether he would be willing to exchange hispersonality for that of Mr. Booley. 

"Well--what then?" he said. "I think I would try to be merciful. "

"Yes; but suppose that in being merciful, you just allowed that lady thetime necessary to present her beloved husband with a convenient littlepill, just to shorten his sufferings? And suppose that--"

"Really, Mr. Booley, I think you make very unwarrantable suppositions, "said Mr. Juxon severely. "I cannot suppose any such thing. "

"Many women--ladies too--have done that to save a man from hanging, "returned Mr. Booley, fixing his grey eye on the squire. 

"Hanging?" repeated the latter in surprise. "But Goddard is not to behanged. "

"Of course he is. What did you expect?" Mr. Booley looked surprised inhis turn. 

"But--what for?" asked the squire very anxiously. "He has not killedanybody--"

"Oh--then you don't know how he escaped?"

"No--I have not the least idea--pray tell me. "

"I don't wonder you don't understand me, then, " said Mr. Booley. "Well, it is a short tale but a lively one, as they say. Of course it stands toreason in the first place that he could not have got out of Portland. Hewas taken out for a purpose. You know that after his trial was over, allsorts of other things besides the forgery came out about him, provingthat he was altogether a very bad lot. Now about three weeks ago therewas a question of identifying a certain person--it was a very long story, with a bad murder case and all the rest of it--commonplace, you know thesort--never mind the story, it will all be in the papers before long whenthey have got it straight, which is more than I have, seeing that theseaffairs do get a little complicated occasionally, you know, as suchthings will. " Mr. Booley paused. It was evident that his command of theEnglish tongue was not equal to the strain of constructing a longsentence. 

"This person, whom he was to identify, was the person murdered?" inquiredMr. Juxon. 

"Exactly. It was not the person, but the person's body, so to say. Somebody who had been connected with the Goddard case was sure that ifGoddard could be got out of prison he could do the identifying allstraight. It did not matter about his being under sentence of hardlabour--it was a private case, and the officer only wanted Goddard'sopinion for his personal satisfaction. So he goes to the governor ofPortland, and finds that Goddard had a very good character in thatinstitution--he was a little bit of a gay deceiver, you see, and knew howto fetch the chaps in there and particularly the parson. So he had a goodcharacter. Very good. The governor consents to send him to town for thisprivate job, under a strong force--that means three policemen--with ironson his hands. When they reached London they put him in a fourwheeler. Those things are done sometimes, and nobody is the wiser, because thegovernor does it on his own responsibility, for the good of the law, Isuppose. I never approved of it. Do you follow me, Mr. Juxon?"

"Perfectly, " answered the squire. "He was driven from the station withthree policemen in a hackney-coach, you say. "

"Exactly so. It was a queer place where the body was--away down in theMinories. Ever been there, Mr. Juxon? Queer place it is, and no mistake. I would like to show you some little bits of London. Well, as I wassaying, the fourwheeler went along, with two policemen inside withGoddard and one on the box. Safe, you would say. Not a bit of it. Justthe beggar's luck, too. It was dusk. That is always darker than when thelamps are well going. The fourwheeler ran into a dray-cart, round acorner where they were repairing the street. The horse went down with asmash, shafts, lamp, everything broken to smithereens, as they say. Thepoliceman jumps off the box with the cabby to see what is the matter. Oneof the bobbies--the policemen I would say--it's a technical term, Mr. Juxon--gets out of the cab to see what's up, leaving Goddard in charge ofthe other. Then there is a terrific row; more carts come up, morefourwheelers--everybody swearing at once. Presently the policeman whohad got out comes back and looks in to see if everything is straight. Nota bit of it again. Other door of the cab was open and--no Goddard. Butthe policeman was lying back in the corner and when they struck a lightand looked, they found he was stone dead. Goddard had brained him withthe irons on his wrists. No one ever saw him from that day to this. Hemust have known London well--they say he did, and he was a noted quickrunner. Being nightfall and rather foggy as it generally is in thoseparts he got clear off. But he killed the man who had him in charge andif he lives he will have to swing for it. May be Mrs. Goddard does notknow that---may be she does. That is the reason I don't want her to beleft alone with him. No doubt she is very good and all that, but shemight just take it into her head to save the government twenty feet ofrope. "

"I am very much surprised, and very much shocked, " said the squiregravely. "I had no idea of this. But I will answer for Mrs. Goddard. Why was all this never In the papers--or was there an account of it, Mr. Booley?"

"Oh no--it was never mentioned. We felt sure that we should catch him anduntil we did we--I mean the profession--thought it just as well to saynothing. The governor remembered to have read a letter from Goddard'swife, just telling him where she was living, about two years ago. Beingharmless, he passed it and never copied the address; then he could notremember it. At last they found it in his cell, hidden away somehow. Thebeggar had kept it. "

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Juxon. In the silence which followed, thesound of wheels was heard outside. Doctor Longstreet had arrived. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

While Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose were together in the library downstairs, whileJohn Short was waking from the short sleep he had enjoyed, and while thesquire was listening in the study to Mr. Booley's graphic account of theconvict's escape, Mrs. Goddard was alone with her husband, watching everymovement and listening intently to every moaning breath he drew. 

In the desperate anxiety for his fate, she forgot herself and seemed nolonger to feel fatigue or exhaustion from all she herself had suffered. She stood long by his bedside, hoping that he might recognise her and yetfearing the moment when he should recover his senses. Then she noticedthat the morning sun was pouring in through the window and she drew acurtain across, to shade his eyes from the glare. Whether the suddenchanging of the light affected Goddard, as it does sometimes affectpersons in the delirium of a brain fever, or whether it was only anatural turn in his condition, she never knew. His expression changed andacquired that same look of strange intelligence which John Short hadnoticed in the night; the flush sank from his forehead and gave place toa luminous, transparent colour, his eyelids once more moved naturally, and he looked at his wife as she stood beside him, and recognised her. Hewas weaker now than when he had spoken with John Short six hours earlier, but he was more fully in possession of his faculties for abrief moment. Mary Goddard trembled and felt her hands turn cold withexcitement. 

"Walter, do you know me now?" she asked very softly. 

"Yes, " he said faintly, and closed his eyes. She laid her hand upon hisforehead; the coldness of it seemed pleasant to him, for a slight smileflickered over his face. 

"You are better, I think, " she said again, gazing intently at him. 

"Mary--it is Mary?" he murmured, slowly opening his eyes and looking upto her. "Yes--I know you--I have been dreaming a long time. I'm sotired--"

"You must not talk, " said she. "It will tire you more. " Then she gave himsome drink. "Try and sleep, " she said in a soothing tone. 

"I cannot--oh, Mary, I am very ill. "

"But you will get well again--"

Goddard started suddenly, and laid his hand upon her arm with more forcethan she suspected he possessed. 

"Where am I?" he asked, staring about the room. "Is this your house, Mary? What became of Juxon?"

"He is not hurt. He brought you home in his arms, Walter, to his ownhouse, and is taking care of you. "

"Good heavens! He will give me up. No, no, don't hold me--I must beoff"

He made a sudden effort to rise, but he was very weak. He fell backexhausted upon his pillow; his fingers gripped the sheet convulsively, and his face grew paler. 

"Caught--like a rat!" he muttered. Mary Goddard 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 himbelieve that he was safe for the present, and hold out a prospect ofescape when he should be better, or should she tell him now, once forall, while he was in his senses, that he was lost? It was a terribleposition. Love she had none left for him, but there was infinite pitystill in her heart and there would be while he breathed. She hesitatedone moment only, and it may be that she decided for the wrong; but it washer pity that moved her, and not any remnant of love. 

"Hush, Walter, " she said. "You may yet escape, when you are strongenough. You are quite safe here, for the present. Mr. Juxon would notthink 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 brokentones. "No--you are speaking the truth--I know it--God 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 herwas sweet to Mary Goddard, sweeter than anything she remembered for along 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, forshe remembered her last meeting with him, and the horrible ingratitudehe had then shown her. It seemed to her that his heart had been softeneda little; anything was better than that rough indifference he hadaffected before. Presently he spoke again. 

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

"Do not say that, Walter, " she answered gently. "Rest now. The more yourest 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 Goddard, endeavouring to calm him, though she turnedpale at his strange quotation. "Hush--"

"That is to say, " said the sick man, heedless of her exhortation andsoothing touch, "that is to say, I did not. He was very wide awake, andif I had not been quick, I should never have got off. Ugh! How damp thatcellar 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 veryquiet. 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 oldtimes, Mary!" He laughed harshly, a hideous, half-delirious laugh. 

Mary Goddard shuddered but made a great effort to control herself. 

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

Her quiet voice soothed him, and her gentle hands made his rest moreeasy. She sat down beside him, thinking from his silence that he wouldreally go to sleep; hoping and yet not hoping, revolving in her mind thechances of his escape, so soon as he should be strong enough to attemptit, shuddering at the thought of what his fate must be if he again fellinto the hands of the police. She did not know that a detective was atthat moment in the house, determined to carry her husband away so soon asthe doctor pronounced it possible. Nothing indeed, not even thatknowledge could have added much to the burden of her sorrows as she satthere, a small and graceful figure with a sad pathetic face, leaningforward as she sat and gazing drearily at the carpet, where the sunlightcrept in beneath the curtains from the bright world without. It seemed toher that the turning point in her existence had come, and that this daymust decide all; yet she could not see how it was to be decided, think ofit as she might. One thing stood prominent in her thoughts, and shedelighted to think of it--the generosity of Charles Juxon. From first tolast, from the day when she had frankly told him her story and he hadaccepted it and refused to let it bring any difference to his friendshipfor her, down to this present time, when after being basely attacked byher own husband, he had nobly brought the wretch home and was caringfor him as for one of his own blood--through all and in spite of all, thesquire had shown the same unassuming but unfailing generosity. She askedherself, as she sat beside the sick man, whether there were many likeCharles Juxon in the world. There was the vicar, but the case was verydifferent. He too had been kind and generous from the first; but he hadnot asked her to marry him--she blushed at the thought--he had not lovedher. If Charles Juxon loved her, his generosity to Goddard was all thegreater. 

She could not tell whether she loved him, because her ideas were what theworld calls simple, and what, in heaven, would be called good. Herhusband was alive; none the less so because he had been taken away andseparated from her by the law--he was alive, and now was brought face toface with her again. While he was living, she did not suppose it possibleto love another, for she was very simple. She said to herself truly thatshe had a very high esteem for the squire and that he was the best friendshe had in the world; that to lose him would be the most terrible ofimaginable losses; that she was deeply indebted to him, and she even halfunconsciously allowed that if she were free she might marry him. Therewas no harm in that, she knew very well. She owed her own husband nolonger either respect or affection, even while she still felt pity forhim. Her esteem at least, she might give to another; nay, she owed it, and if she had refused Charles Juxon her friendship, she would havecalled herself the most ungrateful of women. If ever man deservedrespect, esteem and friendship, it was the squire. 

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

Goddard 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 willdisturb you. "

"I am going where nobody can catch me. I am dying--"

"Oh, Walter!" cried Mary Goddard, "you must not speak like that. You willbe better soon. The doctor is expected every moment. "

"He had better make haste, " said the sick man with something of theroughness he had shown at their first meetings. "It is no use, Mary. Ihave been thinking about it. I have been mad for--for very long, I amsure. I want to die, Mary. Nobody can catch me if I die--I shall be safethen. You will be safe too--that is a great thing. "

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

"I have been thinking about it--I am not good for much, now--Mary--Inever was. It will do some good if I die--just because I shall be out ofthe 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--youmust not die so!"

Goddard smiled faintly--scornfully, his wife thought. 

"I daresay I shall not die till to-morrow, or next day--but I will notlive, " he said with sudden energy. "Do you understand me, I will notlive! Bah!" he cried, falling back upon his pillow, "the grapes aresour--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 littlegood--people always laugh at--deathbed repentance--"

He stopped and his thoughts seemed wandering. Mary Goddard gave himsomething to drink and tried to calm him. But he moved restlessly, thoughfeebly. 

"Softly, softly, " he murmured again. "He is coming--close to me. Getready--now--no not yet, yes--now. Ugh!" yelled Goddard, suddenlyspringing up, his eyes starting from his head. "Ugh! the dog--oh!"

"Hush, Walter, " cried his wife, pushing him back. "Hush--no one will hurtyou. "

"What--is that you, Mary?" asked the sick man, trembling violently. Thenhe laughed harshly. "I was off again. Pshaw! I did not really mean tohurt him--he need not have set that beast at me. He did not catch methough--Mary, I am going to die--will you pray for me? You are a goodwoman--somebody will hear your prayers, I daresay. Do, Mary--I shall feelbetter 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--nobody will hear anybody else's prayers--forme--for poor me--"

"Try and pray with me, Walter, " said Mary Goddard, very quietly. Sheseemed to have an unnatural strength given to her in that hour ofdistress and horror. She knelt down by the bedside and took his woundedhand in hers, tenderly, and she prayed aloud in such words as she couldfind. 

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

"That is the doctor, " said he. "I will ask you to have patience for fiveminutes, Mr. Booley. He will give you his opinion. I am still very muchshocked 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 themedical man to step in here for one moment, I will explain matters tohim. I don't think he will differ much from me. "

"Very well, " returned the squire, leaving the room. He went to meetDoctor Longstreet, intending to warn him of the presence of Mr. Booley, and meaning to entreat his support for the purpose of keeping Goddard inthe house until he should be recovered. He passed through the library andexchanged a few words with Mr. Ambrose, explaining that the doctor hadcome. Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose were sitting on opposite sides of thefireplace in huge chairs, with a mournful air of resigned expectationupon their worthy faces. The detective remained alone in the study. 

Meanwhile John Short had refreshed himself from his fatigues, and camedown stairs in search of some breakfast. He had recovered from hisexcitement and was probably the only one who thought of eating, as he wasalso the one least closely concerned in what was occurring. Instead ofgoing to the library he went to the dining-room, and, seeing no oneabout, entered the study from the door which on that side connected thetwo rooms. To his surprise he saw Mr. Booley standing before thefireplace, his hands in his pockets and his feet wide apart. He had notthe 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 veryvaluable. I must have Goddard out of the house by to-morrow afternoon atthe latest. Now, doctor, it is of no use your talking to me about feverand all that--"

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

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

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

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

"Not the doctor!" cried Mr. Booley. "Then who are you? I beg your pardon, I am sure--"

"I am John Short, " said John, quickly, heedless of the fact that his nameconveyed no idea whatever to the mind of the detective. He cared little, for he began to comprehend the situation, and he fled precipitately intothe library, leaving Mr. Booley alone to wait for the coming of the realphysician. But in the library a fresh surprise awaited him; there hefound Mr. And Mrs. Ambrose seated in solemn silence opposite to eachother. He had not suspected their presence in the house, but he wasrelieved to see them--anything was a relief at that moment. 

"Mr. Ambrose, " he said hurriedly, "there is a detective in the next roomwho means to carry off that poor man at once--as he is--sick--dyingperhaps--it must be prevented!"

"A detective!" cried the vicar and his wife in the same breath. 

"My dear John, " said the vicar immediately afterwards, "where is he? Iwill reason with him. "

"Augustin, " said Mrs. Ambrose with extreme severity, "it is barbarous. Iwill go upstairs. If he enters the room it shall be across my body. "

"Do, my dear, " replied the vicar in great excitement, and not preciselyappreciating the proposition to which he gave so willing an assent. 

"Of course I will, " said his wife, who had already reached the door. Fromwhich it appears that Mrs. Ambrose was a brave woman. She passed rapidlyup the staircase to Goddard's room, but she paused as she laid her handupon the latch. From within she could hear Mary Goddard's voice, prayingaloud, as she had never heard any one pray before. She paused andlistened, hesitating to interrupt the unhappy lady in such a moment. Moreover, though her goodwill was boundless, she had not any preciseidea how to manage the defence. But as she stood there, the thought thatthe detective might at any moment follow her was predominant. The voicewithin the room paused for an instant and Mrs. Ambrose entered, raisingone finger to her lips as though expecting that Mary Goddard would speakto her. But Mary was not looking, and at first did not notice theintrusion. She knelt by the bedside, her face buried in the coverlet, herhands clasped and clasping the sick man's wounded hand. 

Goddard's face was pale but not deathlike, and his breathing seemedregular and gentle; but his eyes were almost closed and he seemed notaware that any one had entered. Mrs. Ambrose was struck by his appearancewhich was greatly changed since she had left him half an hour earlier, his face purple and his harsh moaning continuing unceasingly. She saidto herself that he was probably better. There was all the more reason forwarning Mary Goddard of the new danger that awaited him. She shut thedoor and locked it and withdrew the key. At the sound Mary lookedup--then rose to her feet with a sad look of reproach, as though notwishing to be disturbed. But Mrs. Ambrose came quickly to her side, andglancing once at Goddard, to see whether he was unconscious, she led heraway from the bed. 

"My dear, " she said very kindly, but in a voice trembling withexcitement, "I had to come. There are detectives in the house, clamouringto take him away--but I will protect you--they shall not do it. "

Mary Goddard started and her eyes stared wildly at her friend. Butpresently the look of resigned sadness returned, and a faint and mournfulsmile flickered on her lips. 

"I think it is all over, " she said. "He is still alive--but he will notlive till they come. "

Then she bit her lip tightly, and all the features of her face trembled alittle. The tears would rise spasmodically, though they were only tearsof pity, not of love. Mrs. Ambrose, the severe, the stern, the eternallyvigilant Mrs. Ambrose, sat down by the window; she put her arm about MaryGoddard's waist and took her upon her knee as though she had been alittle child and laid her head upon her breast, comforting her as bestshe could. And their tears flowed down and mingled together, for manyminutes. 

But once more the sick man's voice was heard; both women started to theirfeet and went to his side. 

"Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard! Let me in!" he moaned faintly. 

"It is I--here I am, Walter, dear Walter--I am with you, " answered Mary, raising him and putting her arm about his neck, while Mrs. Ambrosearranged the pillows behind him. He opened his eyes as though with agreat effort. 

Some one knocked softly at the door. Mrs. Ambrose left the bedsidequickly and put the key in the lock. 

"Who is there?" she asked, before she opened. 

"I--John. Please let me in. "

Mrs. Ambrose opened and John entered, very pale; she locked the dooragain after him. He stood still looking with astonishment at Mrs. Goddardwho still propped the sick man in her arms and hardly noticed him. 

"Why--?" he ejaculated and then checked himself, or rather was checked byMrs. Ambrose's look. Then he spoke to her in a whisper. 

"There is an awful row going on between the doctor and the detective, " hesaid hurriedly under his breath. "They are coming upstairs and the vicarand Mr. Juxon are trying to part them--I don't know what they are notsaying to each other--"

"Hush, " replied Mrs. Ambrose, "do not disturb him--he was conscious againjust now. This may be the crisis--he may recover. The door is locked--tryand prevent anybody--that is, the detective, from coming in. They willnot dare to break open the door in Mr. Juxon's house. "

"But why is Mrs. Goddard here?" asked John unable to control hiscuriosity any longer. He did not mean that she should hear, but as shelaid Goddard's head gently upon the pillows, trying to soothe him to restagain, if rest it were, she looked up and met John's eyes. 

"Because he is my husband, " said she very quietly. 

John laid his hand on Mrs. Ambrose's arm in utmost bewilderment andlooked at her as though to ask if it were true. She nodded gravely. Before John had time to recover himself from the shock of the news, footsteps were heard outside, and the loud altercation of angry voices. John Short leaned his shoulder against the door and put his foot againstit below, expecting an attack. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

When Mr. Ambrose undertook to reason with the detective he went directlytowards the study where John said the man was waiting. But Mr. Booley wasbeginning to suspect that the doctor was not coming to speak with him asthe squire had promised, and after hesitating for a few moments followedJohn into the library, determining to manage matters himself. As heopened the door he met Mr. Ambrose coming towards him, and at the samemoment Mr. Juxon and Doctor Longstreet entered from the opposite end ofthe long room. The cheerful and active physician was talking in a ratherexcited tone. 

"My dear sir, " said he, "I cannot pretend to say that the man will orwill not recover. I must see him again. Things look quite differently bydaylight, and six or seven hours may make all the change in the world. Tosay that he can be moved to-day or even to-morrow, is absurd. I willstake my reputation as a practitioner--Hulloa!"

The exclamation was elicited by Mr. Booley, who had pushed past Mr. Ambrose and stood confronting the doctor with a look which was intendedto express a combination of sarcasm, superior cunning and authority. 

"This is Mr. Booley, " explained the squire. "Doctor Longstreet will tellyou what he has been telling me, " he added turning to the detective. 

"I must see this man instantly, " said the latter somewhat roughly. "Ibelieve I am being trifled with, and I will not submit to it. No, sir, Iwill not be trifled with, I assure you! I must see this man at once. Itis absolutely necessary to identify him. "

"And I say, " said Doctor Longstreet with equal firmness, "that I must seehim first, in order to judge whether you can see him or not--"

"It is for me to judge of that, " returned Mr. Booley, with more hastethan logic. 

"After you have seen him, you cannot judge whether you ought to see himor not, " retorted Doctor Longstreet growing red in the face. Thedetective attempted to push past him. At this moment John Short hastilyleft the room and fled upstairs to warn Mrs. Ambrose of what washappening. 

"Really, " said Mr. Ambrose, making a vain attempt to stop the course ofevents, "this is very unwarrantable. "

"Unwarrantable!" cried Mr. Booley. "Unwarrantable, indeed! I have thewarrant in my pocket. Mr. Juxon, sir, I fear I must insist. "

"Permit me, " said Mr. Juxon, planting his square and sturdy form betweenthe door and the detective. "You may certainly insist, but you must beginby listening to reason. "

Charles Juxon had been accustomed to command others for the greater partof his life, and though he was generally the most unobtrusive and gentleof men, when he raised his voice in a tone of authority his words carriedweight. His blue eyes stared hard at Mr. Booley, and there was somethingimposing in his square head--even in the unruffled smoothness of hisbrown hair. Mr. Booley paused and discontentedly thrust his hands intohis pockets. 

"Well?" he said. 

"Simply this, " answered the squire. "You may accompany us to the door ofthe room; you may wait with me, while Doctor Longstreet goes in to lookat the patient. If the man is unconscious you may go in and see him. Ifhe chances to be in a lucid interval, you must wait until he isunconscious again. It will not be long. That is perfectly reasonable. "

"Perfectly, " echoed Mr. Ambrose, biting his long upper lip and glaring asfiercely at Mr. Booley as though he had said it all himself. 

"Absolutely reasonable, " added Doctor Longstreet. 

"Well, we will try it, " said the detective moodily. "But I warn you Iwill not be trifled with. "

"Nobody is trifling with you, " answered the squire coldly. "This way ifyou please. " And he forthwith led the way upstairs, followed by Mr. Booley, the physician and the vicar. 

Before they reached the door, however, the discussion broke out again. Mr. Booley had been held in check for a few moments by Mr. Juxon'sdetermined manner, but as he followed the squire he began to regret thathe had yielded so far and he made a fresh assertion of his rights. 

"I cannot see why you want to keep me outside, " he said. "What differencecan it make, I should like to know?"

"You will have to take my word for it that it does make a difference, "said the doctor, testily. "If you frighten the man, he will die. Nowthen, here we are. "

"I don't like your tone, sir, " said Booley angrily, again trying to pushpast the physician. "I think I must insist, after all. I will go in withyou--I tell you I will, sir--don't stop me. "

Doctor Longstreet, who was fifteen or twenty years older than thedetective but still strong and active, gripped his arm quickly, and heldhim back. 

"If you go into that room without my permission, and if the man dies offright, I will have an action brought against you for manslaughter, " hesaid in a loud voice. 

"And I will support it, " said the squire. "I am justice of the peacehere, and what is more, I am in my own house. Do not think your positionwill protect you. "

Again Mr. Juxon's authoritative tone checked the detective, who drewback, making some angry retort which no one heard. The squire tried thedoor and finding it locked, knocked softly, not realising that every wordof the altercation had been heard within. 

"Who is there?" asked John, who though he had heard all that had beensaid was uncertain of the issue. 

"Let in Doctor Longstreet, " said the squire's voice. 

But meanwhile Mrs. Ambrose and Mary Goddard were standing on each side ofthe sick man. He must have heard the noises outside, and they conveyedsome impression to his brain. 

"Mary, Mary!" he groaned indistinctly. "Save me--they are coming--Icannot get away--softly, he is coming--now--I shall just catch him as hegoes by--Ugh! that dog--oh! oh!--"

With a wild shriek, the wretched man sprang up, upon his knees, his eyesstarting out, his face transfigured with horror. For one instant heremained thus, half-supported by the two terror-struck women; then with agroan his head drooped forward upon his breast and he fell back heavilyupon the pillows, breathing still but quite unconscious. 

Doctor Longstreet entered at that moment and ran to his side. But when hesaw him he paused. Even Mrs. Ambrose was white with horror, and MaryGoddard stood motionless, staring down at her husband, her hands grippingthe disordered coverlet convulsively. 

Mr. Juxon had entered, too, while Mr. Ambrose remained outside with thedetective, who had been frightened into submission by the physician'slast threat. The squire saw what was happening and paced the room in thegreatest agitation, wringing his hands together and biting his lips. Johnhad closed the door and came to the foot of the bed and looked atGoddard's face. After a pause, Doctor Longstreet spoke. 

"We might possibly restore him to consciousness for a moment--"

"Don't!" cried Mary Goddard, starting as though some one had struck her. "That is--" she added quickly, in broken tones, "unless he can live!"

"No, " answered the physician, gravely, but looking hard at the unhappywoman. "He is dying. "

Goddard's staring eyes were glazed and white. Twice and three times hegasped for breath, and then lay quite still. It was all over. Mary gazedat his dead face for one instant, then a faint smile parted her lips: sheraised one hand to her forehead as though dazed. 

"He is safe now, " she murmured very faintly. Her limbs relaxed suddenly, and she fell straight backwards. Charles Juxon, who was watching her, sprang forward and caught her in his arms. Then he bore her from theroom, swiftly, while John Short who was as white and speechless as therest opened the door. 

"You may go in now, " said Juxon as he passed Booley and Mr. Ambrose inthe passage, with his burden in his arms. A few steps farther on he metHolmes the butler, who carried a telegram on a salver. 

"For Mr. Short, sir, " said the impassive servant, not appearing to noticeanything strange in the fact that his master was carrying the inanimatebody of Mary Goddard. 

"He is in there--go in, " said Juxon hurriedly as he went on his way. 

The detective and the vicar had already entered the room where the deadconvict was lying. All stood around the bed, gazing at his pale face ashe lay. 

"A telegram for Mr. Short, " said Holmes from the door. John started andtook the despatch from the butler's hands. He hastily tore it open, glanced at the contents and thrust it into his pocket. Every one lookedround. 

"What is it, John?" whispered the vicar, who was nearest to him. 

"Oh--nothing. I am first in the Tripos, that is all, " answered John verysimply, as though it were not a matter of the least consequence. 

Through all those months of untiring labour, through privation andanxiety, through days of weariness and nights of study, he had lookedforward to the triumph, often doubting but never despairing. But he hadlittle guessed that the news of victory would reach him at such a moment. It was nothing, he said; and indeed as he stood with the group of paleand awe-struck spectators by the dead man's bed, he felt that thegreatest thing which had ever happened to him was as nothing comparedwith the tragedy of which he had witnessed the last act. 

It was all over. There was nothing more to be said; the convict hadescaped the law in the end, at the very moment when the hand of the lawwas upon him. Thomas Reid, the conservative sexton, buried him "four bysix by two, " grumbling at the parish depth as of yore, and a simple stonecross marked his nameless grave. There it stands to this day in thechurchyard of Billingsfield, Essex, in the shadow of the ancient abbey. 

All these things happened a long time ago, according to Billingsfieldreckoning, but the story of the tramp who attacked Squire Juxon and waspulled down by the bloodhound is still told by the villagers, and Mr. Gall, being once in good cheer, vaguely hinted that he knew who the trampwas; but from the singular reticence he has always shown in the matter, and from the prosperity which has attended his constabulary career, itmay well be believed that he has a life interest in keeping his counsel. Indeed as it is nearly ten years since Mr. Reid buried the poor tramp, itis possible that Mr. Gall's memory may be already failing in regard toevents which occurred at so remote a date. 

It was but an incident, though it was perhaps the only incident of anyinterest which ever occurred in Billingsfield; but until it reached itstermination it agitated the lives of the quiet people at the vicarage, at the cottage and at the Hall as violently as human nature can be moved. It was long, too, before those who had witnessed the scene of Goddard'sdeath could shake off the impression of those awful last moments. Yettime does all things wonderful and in the course of not many months thereremained of Goddard's memory only a great sense of relief that he was nolonger alive. Mary Goddard, indeed, was very ill for a long time; and butfor Mrs. Ambrose's tender care of her, might have followed her husbandwithin a few weeks of his death. But the good lady never left her, untilshe was herself again--absolutely herself, saving that as time passed andher deep wounds healed her sorrows were forgotten, and she seemed tobloom out into a second youth. 

So it came to pass that within two years Charles Juxon once more askedher to be his wife. She hesitated long--fully half an hour, the squirethought; but in the end she put out her small hand and laid it in his, and thanked God that a man so generous and true, and whom she so honestlyloved, was to be her husband as well as her friend and protector. CharlesJames Juxon smoothed his hair with his other hand, and his blue eyes werea little moistened. 

"God bless you, Mary, " he said; and that was all. 

Then the Reverend Augustin Ambrose married them in the church of SaintMary's, between Christmas and New Year's Day; and the wedding-partyconsisted of Mrs. Ambrose and Eleanor Goddard and John Short, Fellow ofTrinity College, Cambridge. And again years passed by, and Nellie grew inbeauty as John grew in reputation; and Nellie had both brothers andsisters, as she had longed to have, and to her, their father was as herown; so that there was much harmony and peace and goodwill towards menin Billingsfield Hall. John came often and stayed long, and was everwelcome; for though Mary Goddard's youth returned with the daffodils andthe roses of the first spring after Walter's death, John's fleetingpassion returned not, and perhaps its place was better taken. Year byyear, as he came to refresh himself from hard work with a breath of thecountry air, he saw the little girl grow to the young maiden of sixteen, and he saw her beauty ripen again to the fulness of womanhood; and atlast, when she was one and twenty years of age he in his turn put out hishand and asked her to take him--which she did, for better or worse, butto all appearances for better. For John Short had prospered mightily inthe world, and had come to think his first great success as very smalland insignificant as compared with what he had done since. But his oldsimplicity was in him yet, and was the cause of much of his prosperity, as it generally is when it is found together with plenty of brains. Itwas doubtless because he was so very simple that when he found that heloved Eleanor Goddard he did not hesitate to ask the convict's daughterto be his wife. His interview with Mr. Juxon was characteristic. 

"You know what you are doing, John?" asked the squire. He always calledhim John, now. 

"Perfectly, " replied the scholar, "I am doing precisely what my bettershave done before me with such admirable result. "

"Betters?"

"You. You knew about it all and you married her mother. I know all aboutit, and I wish to marry herself. "

"You know that she never heard the story?"

"Yes. She never shall. "

"No, John--she never must. Well, all good go with you. "

So Charles Juxon gave his consent. And Mary Juxon consented too; but forthe first time in many years the tears rose again to her eyes, and shelaid her hand on John's arm, as they walked together in the park. 

"Oh, John, " she said, "do you think it is right--for you yourself?"

"Of course I think so, " quoth John stoutly. 

"You John--with your reputation, your success, with the whole world atyour feet--you ought not to marry the daughter of--of such a man. "

"My dear Mrs. Juxon, " said John Short, "is she not your daughter as wellas his? Pray, pray do not mention that objection. I assure you I havethought it all over. There is really nothing more to be said, which Ihave not said to myself. Dear Mrs. Juxon--do say Yes!"

"You are very generous, John, as well as great, " she answered looking upto his face. "Well--I have nothing to say. You must do as you think best. I am sure you will be kind to Nellie, for I have known you for tenyears--you may tell her I am very glad--" she stopped, her eyes brimmingover with tears. 

"Do you remember how angry I was once, when you told me to go and talk toNellie?" said John. "It was just here, too--"

Mary Juxon laughed happily and brushed the tears from her eyes. So it wasall settled. 

Once more the Reverend Augustin Ambrose united two loving hearts beforethe altar of Saint Mary's. He was well stricken in years, and his hairand beard were very white. Mrs. Ambrose also grew more imposing with eachsucceeding season, but her face was softer than of old, and her voicemore gentle. For the sorrow and suffering of a few days had drawntogether the hearts of all those good people with strong bands, and adeep affection had sprung up between them all. The good old lady felt asthough Mary Juxon were her daughter--Mary Juxon, by whom she had stood inthe moment of direst trial and terror, whom she had tended in illness andcheered in recovery. And the younger woman's heart had gone out towardsher, feeling how good a thing it is to find a friend in need, andlearning to value in her happiness the wealth of human kindness she hadfound in her adversity. 

They are like one family, now, having a common past, a common present, and a common future, and there is no dissension among them. Honest andloyal men and women may meet day after day, and join hands and exchangegreetings, without becoming firm friends, for the very reason that theyhave no need of each other. But if the storm of a great sorrow breaksamong them and they call out to each other for help, and bear the bruntof the weather hand in hand, the seed of a deeper affection is broughtinto their midst; and when the tempest is past the sweet flower offriendship springs up in the moistened furrows of their lives. 

So those good people in the lonely parish of Billingsfield gathered roundMary Goddard, as they called her then, and round poor little Nellie, anddid their best to protect the mother and the child from harm andundeserved suffering; and afterwards, when it was all over, and there wasnothing more to be feared in the future, they looked into each other'sfaces and felt that they were become as brothers and sisters, and that solong as they should live--may it be long indeed!--there was a bondbetween them which could never be broken. So it was that Mrs. Ambrose'sface softened and her voice was less severe than it had been. 

Mary Juxon is the happiest of women; happy in her husband, in hereldest daughter, in John Short and in the little children with brightfaces and ringing voices who nestle at her knee or climb over the sturdysailor-squire, and pull his great beard and make him laugh. They willnever know, any more than Nellie knew, all that their mother suffered;and as she looks upon them and strokes their long fair hair and listensto their laughter, she says to herself that it was perhaps almost worthwhile to have been dragged down towards the depths of shame for the sakeof at last enjoying such pride and glory of happy motherhood. 

THE END. 

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF F. MARION CRAWFORD

 I. Mr. Isaacs II. Doctor Claudius III. To Leeward IV. A Roman Singer V. An American Politician VI. Marzio's Crucifix Zoroaster VII. A Tale of a Lonely Parish VIII. Paul Patoff IX. Love in Idleness: A Tale of Bar Harbor Marion Darche X. Saracinesca XI. Sant' Ilario XII. Don Orsino XIII. Corleone: A Sicilian Story XIV. With the Immortals XV. Greifenstein XVI. A Cigarette-Maker's Romance Khaled XVII. The Witch of Prague XVIII. The Three Fates XIX. Taquisara XX. The Children of the King XXI. Pietro Ghisleri XXII. Katharine Lauderdale XXIII. The Ralstons XXIV. Casa Braccio (Part I) XXV. Casa Braccio (Part II) XXVI. Adam Johnstone's Son A Rose of Yesterday XXVII. Via Crucia XXVIII. In the Palace of the King XXIX. Marietta: A Maid of Venice XXX. Cecilia: A Story of Modern Rome XXXI. The Heart of Rome XXXII. Whosoever Shall Offend