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

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

"I have told you what my life has been," he continued presently. "I have been a sailor. I made a little money. I finally inherited my uncle's estate here. I will tell you anything else you would like to ask—I don't think I ever did anything to conceal. I am forty-two years old. I have about five thousand a year and I am naturally economical. I would like to make you a proposal—a very respectful proposal, Mrs. Goddard—"

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

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

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

"It is impossible," she said, shortly, in broken tones. But the squire was 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 afraid I have been very abrupt, but I will go away, I will leave you to consider—"

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

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

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

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

"Did I—did I understand you to say that—your husband is living?" he asked 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 the room in terrible agitation.

"But where?" he asked, stopping suddenly in his walk. "Mrs. Goddard, I think I have a right to ask where he is—why you have never spoken of him?"

By a supreme effort the unfortunate lady raised herself from her seat supporting herself upon one hand, and faced the squire with wildly staring eyes.

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

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

Charles James Juxon was a man of few words, not given to using strong language on any occasion. But he was completely overcome by the horror of the thing. He turned icy cold as he stood still, rooted to the spot, and he uttered aloud one strong and solemn ejaculation, more an invocation than an oath, as though he called on heaven to witness the misery he looked upon. He gazed at the colourless, inanimate face of the poor lady and 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 to attempt to recall her to her senses. It seemed merciful that she should have lost consciousness even for a moment. Indeed she needed no help, for in a few minutes she slowly opened her eyes and closed them, then opened them again and saw Mr. Juxon's figure darkening the window against the grey light.

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

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

"Mr. Juxon," said Mrs. Goddard, speaking in a low voice, but with far more calm than he could have expected, "you have a right to know my story. You have been very kind to me, you have made an honourable offer to 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 told you, cost what it might."

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

"Yes," continued Mrs. Goddard, "you have every right to know. My husband," her voice trembled, "was the head of an important firm in London. I was the only child of his partner. Not long after my father's death I married Mr. Goddard. He was an extravagant man of brilliant tastes. I had a small fortune of my own which my father had settled upon me, independent of his share in the firm. My guardians, of whom my husband 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. My husband—I never knew it till long afterwards—was very rash. He speculated on the Exchange and tampered with the deposits placed in his hands. We lived in great luxury. I knew nothing of his affairs. Three years ago, after we had been married nearly ten years, the firm failed. It was a fraudulent bankruptcy. My husband fled but was captured and brought back. It appeared that at the last moment, in the hope of retrieving his position and saving the firm, he had forged the name of one of his own clients for a large amount. We had a country place at Putney which he had given to me. I sold it, with all my jewels and most of my possessions. I would have given up everything I possessed, but I thought of Nellie—poor little Nellie. The lawyers assured me that I ought to keep my own little fortune. I kept about five hundred a year. It is more than I need, but it seemed very little then. The lawyer who conducted the defence, such as it was, advised me to go abroad, but I would not. Then he spoke of Mr. Ambrose, who had educated his son, and gave 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. Her voice trembled and broke and at last the tears began to glisten in her eyes.

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

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

"My dear friend," said Mr. Juxon very kindly and laying one hand upon her arm, "pray try and calm yourself. Forgive me—I beg you to forgive me for having 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. Goddard dropped 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 stood much in need of consolation himself. "Perhaps I had better leave you—you are very much agitated—you must need rest—would you not rather that I should go?"

"Yes—it is better," said she, still staring at the fire. "You know all about me now," she added in a tone of pathetic regret. The squire rose to his feet.

"I hope," he said with some hesitation, "that this—this very unfortunate day 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 then hurried out of the room. A moment later he was crossing the road with Stamboul, who was very tired of waiting, bounding before him.

The squire was not a romantic character. He was a strong plain man, who had seen the world and was used to most forms of danger and to a good many forms of suffering. He was kind-hearted and generous, capable of feeling sincere sympathy for others, and under certain circumstances of being deeply wounded himself. He had indeed a far more refined nature than he himself suspected and on this memorable day he had experienced more emotions than he remembered to have felt in the course of many years.

After long debate and after much searching inquiry into his own motives he had determined to offer himself to Mrs. Goddard, and he had accordingly done so in his own straightforward manner. It had seemed a very important action in his life, a very solemn step, but he was not prepared for the acute sense of disappointment which he felt when Mrs. Goddard first said it was impossible for her to accept him, still less had he anticipated the extraordinary story which she had told him, in explanation of her refusal. His ideas were completely upset. That Mrs. Goddard was not a widow after all, was almost as astounding as that she should prove to be the wife of a felon. But Mr. Juxon was no less persuaded that she herself was a perfectly good and noble woman, than he had been before. He felt that he would like to cut the throat of the villain himself; but he resolved that he would more than ever try to be a good friend to Mrs. Goddard.

He walked slowly through the storm towards his house, his broad figure facing the wind and sleet with as much ease as a steamer forging against a head sea. He was perfectly indifferent to the weather; but Stamboul slunk along at his heels, shielding himself from the driving wet snow behind his master's sturdy legs. The squire was very much disturbed. The sight of his own solemn butler affected him strangely. He stared about the library in a vacant way, as though he had never seen the place before. The realisation of his own calm and luxurious life seemed unnatural, and his thoughts went back to the poor weeping woman he had just left. She, too, had enjoyed all this, and more also. She had probably been richer than he. And now she was living on five hundred a year in one of his own cottages, hiding her shame in desolate Billingsfield, the shame of her husband, the forger.

It was such a hopeless position, the squire thought. No one could help her, no one could do anything for her. For many weeks, revolving the situation in his mind, he had amused himself by thinking how she would look when she should be mistress of the Hall, and wondering whether little 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 a convict prison, for twelve years. For twelve years—nearly three must have elapsed already. In nine years more Goddard would be out again. Would he claim his wife? Of course—he would come back to her for support. And poor little Nellie thought he was dead! It would be a terrible day when she had to be told. If he only would die in prison!—but men sentenced to hard labour rarely die. They are well cared for. It is a healthy life. He would certainly live through it and come back to claim his wife. Poor Mrs. Goddard! her troubles were not ended yet, 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 to dress for dinner—he always dressed, even though he was quite alone. But the solemn face of his butler betrayed neither emotion nor surprise when the 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 very ill. There were dark rings under her eyes, and her features were drawn and tear-stained, while the beautiful waves of her brown hair had lost their habitual neatness and symmetry. The child noticed these things, with a child's quickness, but explained them on the ground that her mother's headache was probably much worse. Mrs. Goddard accepted the explanation and on the following day Nellie had forgotten all about it; but her mother remembered it long, and it was many days before she recovered entirely from the shock of her interview with the squire. The latter did not come to see her as usual, but on the morning after his visit he sent her down a package of books and some orchids from his hothouses. 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 any meeting with her would be painful to himself. He did not go out of the house, but spent the whole day in his library among his books, not indeed reading, but pretending to himself that he was very busy. Being a strong and sensible man he did not waste time in bemoaning his sorrows, but he thought about them long and earnestly. The more he thought, the more it appeared to him that Mrs. Goddard was the person who deserved pity rather than he himself. His mind dwelt on the terrors of her position in case her husband should return and claim his wife and daughter when the twelve years were over, and he thought with horror of Nellie's humiliation, if at the age of twenty she should discover that her father during all these years had not been honourably dead and buried, but had been suffering the punishment of a felon in Portland. That the only attempt he had ever made to enter the matrimonial state should have been so singularly unfortunate was indeed a matter which caused him sincere sorrow; he had thought too often of being married to Mary Goddard to be able to give up the idea without a sigh. But it is due to him to say that in the midst of his own disappointment he thought much more of her sorrows than of his own, a state of mind most probably due to his temperament.

He saw also how impossible it was to console Mrs. Goddard or even to alleviate the distress of mind which she must constantly feel. Her destiny was accomplished in part, and the remainder seemed absolutely inevitable. No one could prevent her husband from leaving his prison when his crime was expiated; and no one could then prevent him from joining his wife and ending his life under her roof. At least so it seemed. Endless complications would follow. Mrs. Goddard would certainly have to leave Billingsfield—no one could expect the Ambroses or the squire himself to associate with a convict forger. Mr. Juxon vaguely wondered whether he should live another nine years to see the end of all this, and he inwardly determined to go to sea again rather than to witness such misery. He could not see, no one could see how things could possibly turn out in any other way. It would have been some comfort to have gone to the vicar, and to have discussed with him the possibilities of Mrs. Goddard's future. The vicar was a man after his own heart, honest, reliable, charitable and brave; but Mr. Juxon thought that it would not be quite loyal towards Mrs. Goddard if he let any one else know that he was acquainted with her story.

For two days he stayed at home and then he went to see her. To his surprise she received him very quietly, much as she usually did, without betraying any emotion; whereupon he wished that he had not allowed two days to pass without making his usual visit. Mrs. Goddard almost wished so 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. Ambrose knew of her past trouble, that the fact of the squire becoming acquainted with her history seemed to her less important, now that it was accomplished, than it seemed to the squire himself. She had long thought of telling him all; she had seriously contemplated doing so when he first came to Billingsfield, and now at last the thing was done. She was glad of it. She was no longer in a false position; he could never again think of marrying her; they could henceforth meet as friends, since he was so magnanimous as to allow their friendship to exist. Her pride had suffered so terribly in the beginning that it was past suffering now. She felt that she was in the position of a suppliant asking only for a quiet resting-place for herself and her daughter, and she was grateful to the people who gave her what she asked, feeling that she had fallen among good Samaritans, whereas in merry England it would have been easy for her to have fallen among priests and Pharisees.

So it came about that in a few days her relations with Mr. Juxon were re-established upon a new basis, but more firmly and satisfactorily than before, seeing that now there was no possibility of mistake. And for a long time it seemed as though matters would go on as before. Neither Mrs. Goddard nor the squire ever referred to the interview on that memorable stormy afternoon, and so far as the squire could judge his life and hers might go on with perfect tranquillity until it should please the powers that be and the governor of Portland to set Mr. Walter Goddard at liberty. Heaven only knew what would happen then, but it was provided that there should be plenty of time to prepare for anything which might ensue. The point upon which Mrs. Goddard had not spoken plainly was that which concerned her probable treatment of her husband after his liberation. She had passed that question over in silence. She had probably never dared to decide. Most probably she would at the last minute seek some safer retreat than Billingsfield and make tip her mind to hide for the rest of her life. But Mr. Juxon had heard of women who had carried charity as far as to receive back their husbands under even worse circumstances; women were soft-hearted creatures, reflected the squire, and capable of anything.

Few people in such a situation could have acted consistently as though nothing had happened. But Mr. Juxon's extremely reticent nature found it easy to bury other people's important secrets at least as deeply as he buried the harmless details of his own honest life. Not a hair of his smooth head was ruffled, not a line of his square manly face was disturbed. He looked and acted precisely as he had looked and acted before. His butler remarked that he ate a little less heartily of late, and that on one evening, as has been recorded, the squire forgot to dress for dinner. But the butler in his day had seen greater eccentricities than these; he had the greatest admiration for Mr. Juxon and was not inclined to cavil at small things. A real gentleman, of the good sort, who dressed for dinner when he was alone, who never took too much wine, who never bullied the servants nor quarrelled unjustly with the bills, was, as the butler expressed it, "not to be sneezed at, on no account." The place was a little dull, but the functionary was well stricken in years and did not like hard work. Mr. Juxon seemed to be conscious that as he never had visitors at the Hall and as there were consequently no "tips," his staff was entitled to an occasional fee, which he presented always with great regularity, and which had the desired effect. He was a generous man as well as a just.

The traffic in roses and orchids and new books continued as usual between the Hall and the cottage, and for many weeks nothing extraordinary occurred. Mrs. Ambrose and Mrs. Goddard met frequently, and the only difference to be observed in the manner of the former was that she mentioned John Short very often, and every time she mentioned him she fixed her grey eyes sternly upon Mrs. Goddard, who however did not notice the scrutiny, or, if she did, was not in the least disturbed by it. For a long time Mrs. Ambrose entertained a feeble intention of addressing Mrs. Goddard directly upon the subject of John's affections, but the longer she put off doing so, the harder it seemed to do it. Mrs. Ambrose had great faith in the sternness of her eye under certain circumstances, and seeing that Mrs. Goddard never winced, she gradually fell into the belief that John had been the more to blame, if there was any blame in the matter. She had indeed succeeded in the first instance, by methods of her own which have been heretofore detailed, in extracting a sort of reluctant admission from her husband; but since that day he had proved obdurate to all entreaty. Once only he had said with considerable impatience that John was a very silly boy, and was much better engaged with his books at college than in running after Mrs. Goddard. That was all, and gradually as the regular and methodical life at the vicarage effaced the memory of the doings at Christmas time, the good Mrs. Ambrose forgot that anything unpleasant had ever occurred. There was no disturbance of the existing relations and everything went on as before for many weeks. The February thaw set in early and the March winds began to blow before February was fairly out. Nat Barker the octogenarian cripple, who had the reputation of being a weather prophet, was understood to have said that the spring was "loike to be forrard t'year," and the minds of the younger inhabitants were considerably relieved. Not that Nat Barker's prophecies were usually fulfilled; no one ever remembered them at the time when they might have been verified. But they were always made at the season when people had nothing to do but to talk about them. Mr. Thomas Reid, the conservative sexton, turned up his nose at them, and said he "wished Nat Barker had to dig a parish depth grave in three hours without a drop of nothin' to wet his pipe with, and if he didden fine that groun' oncommon owdacious Thomas Reid he didden know. They didden know nothin', sir, them parish cripples." Wherewith the worthy 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 too new-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," which accounted for its being so "hard." But Mr. Abraham Boosey was the undertaker, and he, Thomas Reid, was the sexton, and it did not do to express these views too loudly, lest perchance Mr. Boosey should, just in his play, construct a coffin or two just too big for the regulation grave, and thereby leave Mr. Reid in the lurch. For the undertaker and the 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 even more detestable than usual at that season. The roads were heavy. The rain seemed never weary of pouring down and the wind never tired of blowing. The wet and leafless creepers beat against the walls of the cottage, and the chimneys smoked both there and at the vicarage. The rooms were pervaded with a disagreeable smell of damp coal smoke, and the fires struggled desperately to burn against the overwhelming odds of rain and wind which came down the chimneys. Mrs. Goddard never remembered to have been so uncomfortable during the two previous winters she had spent in Billingsfield, and even Nellie grew impatient and petulant. The only bright spot in those long days seemed to be made by the regular visits of Mr. Juxon, by the equally regular bi-weekly appearance of the Ambroses when they came to tea, and by the little dinners at the vicarage. The weather had grown so wet and the roads so bad that on these latter occasions the vicar sent his dogcart with Reynolds and the old mare, Strawberry, to fetch his two guests. Even Mr. Juxon, who always walked when he could, had got into the habit of driving down to the cottage in a strange-looking gig which he had imported from America, and which, among all the many possessions of the squire, alone attracted the unfavourable comment of his butler. He would have preferred to see a good English 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 that when it rained he sat inside with the squire.

On a certain evening in February, towards the end of the month, Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose and Mr. Juxon came to have tea with Mrs. Goddard. Mr. Juxon had at first not been regularly invited to these entertainments. They were perhaps not thought worthy of his grandeur; at all events both the vicar's wife and Mrs. Goddard had asked him very rarely. But as time went on and Mr. Juxon's character developed under the eyes of the little Billingsfield society, it had become apparent to every one that he was a very simple man, making no pretensions whatever to any superiority on account of his station. They grew more and more fond of him, and ended by asking him to their small sociable evenings. On these occasions it generally occurred that the squire and the vicar fell into conversation about classical and literary subjects while the two ladies talked of the little incidents of Billingsfield life, of Tom Judd's wife and of Joe Staines, the choir boy, who was losing his voice, and of similar topics of interest in the very small world in which they lived.

The present evening had not been at all a remarkable one so far as the talk was concerned. The drenching rain, the tendency of the fire to smoke, the general wetness and condensed depravity of the atmosphere had affected the spirits of the little party. They were not gay, and they broke 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 their drawing-room fire. The child sat upon a footstool and leaned her head against her mother's knee. Mrs. Goddard herself was thoughtful and sad, without precisely knowing why. She generally looked forward with pleasure to meeting the Ambroses, but this evening she had been rather disappointed. The conversation had dragged, and the excellent Mrs. Ambrose had been more than usually prosy. Nellie had complained of a headache and leaned wearily against her mother's knee.

"Tell me a story, mamma—won't you? Like the ones you used to tell me when I was quite a little girl."

"Dear child," said her mother, who was not thinking of story-telling, "I am afraid I have forgotten all the ones I ever knew. Besides, darling, it is time for you to go to bed."

"I don't want to go to bed, mamma. It is such a horrid night. The wind keeps 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 blue sea and wonderful desert islands where he has been. What a wonderful man he is, mamma, is not he?"

"Yes, dear, he talks very interestingly." Mrs. Goddard stroked Nellie's brown 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 he was sailing away ever so far, in a perfectly new ship, and the name of the 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 in some surprise.

"No, mamma. When? Just now? It must have been the wind. It is such a horrid 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. She had probably been mistaken.

"And where did the ship sail to, Nellie dear?" she asked, smoothing the child's curls again and forcing herself to smile.

"Oh—the ship was a perfectly new ship and it was the most beautiful weather in the world. They were sailing away ever so far, towards the straits of Magellan. I was so glad because I knew where the straits of Magellan were—and Mr. Juxon was immensely astonished. But I had been learning about the Terra del Fuego, and the people who were frozen there, in my geography that very morning—was not it lucky? So I knew all about it—mamma, how nervous you are! It is nothing but the wind. I wish you would listen to my story—"

"I am listening, darling," said Mrs. Goddard, making a strong effort to overcome her agitation and drawing the child closer to her. "Go on, sweetheart—you were in the straits of Magellan, you said, sailing away—"

"Mr. Juxon was, mamma," said Nellie correcting her mother with the asperity 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 at Christmas 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 a cigar—"

"He never smokes, dear," interrupted Mrs. Goddard, glad to show Nellie that 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—he saw the most wonderful thing, close to the ship—the most wonderful thing he ever saw," added Nellie with some redundance of expression.

"Was it a whale, child?" asked her mother, staring into the fire and trying to pay attention.

"A whale, mamma!" repeated Nellie contemptuously. "As if there were anything 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, a thousand times as big as the ship—oh mamma! What was that?"

Nellie started up from her stool and knelt beside her mother, looking towards the window. Mrs. Goddard was deathly pale and grasped the arm of her chair.

"Somebody knocked at the window, mamma," said Nellie breathlessly. "And then 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 does sometimes come in the evening."

"Mary's young man, child?" Mrs. Goddard's heart leaped. Her cook's name was Mary, as well as her own. Nellie naturally never associated the name with 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 any letters and probably did not know the postman by sight.

"At this time of night!" exclaimed Mrs. Goddard. "It is too bad. Mary is gone to bed."

"Perhaps he thinks you are gone to the vicarage and that Mary is sitting up 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 to bed, my dear. It is half-past nine." She spoke indistinctly, almost thickly, and seemed to be making a violent effort to control herself. But Nellie had settled down upon her stool again, and did not notice her mother.

"Oh not yet," said she. "I have not nearly finished about the sea-serpent. Mr. Juxon said it was not like anything in the world. Do listen, mamma! It is the most wonderful story you ever heard. It was all covered with blue and green scales, and it rolled, and rolled, and rolled, and rolled, till at last it rolled up against the side of the ship with such a tremendous bump that Mr. Juxon fell right down on his back."

"Yes dear," said Mrs. Goddard mechanically, as the child paused.

"You don't seem to mind at all!" cried Nellie, who felt that her efforts to amuse her mother were not properly appreciated. "He fell right down on his back and hurt himself awfully."

"That was very sad," said Mrs. Goddard. "Did he catch the sea-serpent afterwards ?"

"Catch the sea-serpent! Why mamma, don't you know that nobody has ever caught 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 catch the sea-serpent. Just fancy! When he got up from his fall, he looked and he saw him quite half a mile away. He must have gone awfully fast, should not 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 man startled me so," she said, passing her small white hand over her pale forehead and then staring into the fire.

"Well, I don't wonder," answered Nellie in a patronising tone. "Such a dreadful night too! Of course, it would startle anybody. But he won't try again, and you can scold Mary to-morrow and then she can scold her young man."

The child spoke so naturally that all doubts vanished from Mrs. Goddard's mind. She reflected that children are much more apt to see things as they are, than grown people whose nerves are out of order. Nellie's conclusions were perfectly logical, and it seemed folly to doubt them. She determined that Mary should certainly be scolded on the morrow and she unconsciously resolved in her mind the words she should use; for she was rather a timid woman and stood a little in awe of her stalwart Berkshire cook, with her mighty arms and her red face, and her uncommonly plain language.

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

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

"Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come—"

Nellie gave a loud scream and springing up from her knees flung her arms around her mother's neck, in uttermost, wildest terror.

"Mamma, mamma!" she cried looking, and yet hardly daring to look, back towards the closed window. "It called 'MARY GODDARD'! It is you, mamma! Oh!"

There was no mistaking it this time. While Nellie was saying her prayer there had come three sharp and distinct raps upon the wooden shutter, and a voice, not loud but clear, penetrating into the room in spite of wind and storm and rain.

"Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard!" it said.

Mrs. Goddard started to her feet, lifting Nellie bodily from the ground in her agony of terror; staring round the room wildly as though in search of some possible escape.

"I must come in! I will come in!" said the voice again.

"Oh don't let him in! Mamma! Don't let him in!" moaned the terrified child upon her breast, clinging to her and weighing her down, and grasping her neck and arm with convulsive strength.

But in moments of great agitation timid people, or people who are thought timid, not uncommonly do brave things. Mrs. Goddard unclasped Nellie's hold and forced the terror-struck child into a deep chair.

"Stay there, darling," she said with unnatural calmness. "Do not be afraid. I will go and open the door."

Nellie was now too much frightened to resist. Mrs. Goddard went out into the little passage which was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp, and closed the door of the drawing-room behind her. She could hear Nellie's occasional convulsive sobs distinctly. For one moment she paused, her right hand on the lock of the front door, her left hand pressed to her side, leaning against the wall of the passage. Then she turned the key and the handle and drew the door in towards her. A violent gust of wind, full of cold and drenching rain, whirled into the passage and almost blinded her. The lamp flickered in the lantern overhead. But she looked boldly out, facing the wind and weather.

"Come in!" she called in a low voice.

Immediately there was a sound as of footsteps coming from the direction of the drawing-room window, across the wet slate flags which surrounded the cottage, and a moment afterwards, peering through the darkness, Mrs. Goddard saw a man with a ghastly face standing before her in the rain.



CHAPTER XIII.

Mrs. Goddard's heart stood still as she looked at the wretched man, and tried to discover her husband's face, even a resemblance to him, in the haggard features she saw close before her. But he gave her small time for reflection; so soon as he had recognised her he sprang past her into the passage and pulling her after him closed the door.

"Mary—don't you know me?" he said, in low tones. "You must save me—they are after me—" He stood close beside her in the narrow way, beneath the small lamp; he tried to put his arm around her and he bent down and brought his ghastly face close to hers. But she drew back as from a contamination. She was horrified, and it was a natural movement. She knew his voice even better than his features, now that he spoke. He pressed nearer to her and she thrust him back with her hands. Then suddenly a thought struck her; she took him by the sleeve and led him into the dining-room. There was no light there; she pushed him in.

"Stay there one minute—"

"No—no, you won't call—"

"I will save you—there is—there is somebody in the drawing-room." Before he could answer her she was gone, leaving him alone in the dark. He listened intently, not venturing to leave the spot where she had placed him; he thought he heard voices and footsteps, but no one came out into the passage. It seemed an eternity to wait. At last she came, bearing a lighted candle in her hand. She carefully shut the door of the dining-room behind her and put the light upon the table. She moved like a person in a dream.

"Sit down," she said, pointing to a chair. "Are you hungry?" His sunken eyes sparkled. She brought food and ale and set them before him. He ate and drank voraciously in silence. She sat at the opposite side of the table—the solitary candle between them, and shading her eyes with one hand she gazed at his face.

Walter Goddard was a man at least forty years of age. He had been thought very handsome once. He had light blue eyes and a fair skin with flaxen hair—now cropped short and close to his head. There was nearly a fortnight's growth of beard upon his face, but it was not yet sufficient to hide his mouth and chin. He had formerly worn a heavy moustache and it was chiefly the absence of it which now made it hard for his wife to recognise him. A battered hat, drenched and dripping with rain, shaded his brows. Possibly he was ashamed to remove it. His mouth was small and weak and his jaw was pointed. His whole expression was singularly disagreeable—his hands were filthy, and his face was not clean. About his neck was twisted a ragged woollen comforter, and he wore a smock-frock which was now soaked with water and clung to his thin figure. He devoured the food his wife had brought him, shivering from time to time as though he were still cold.

Mrs. Goddard watched him in silence. She had done mechanically according to her first instinct, had led him in and had given him food. But she had not recovered herself sufficiently from her first horror and astonishment to realise her situation. At last she spoke.

"How did you escape?" she asked. He bent lower than before, over his plate and would not look at her.

"Don't ask me," he answered shortly.

"Why did you do it?" she inquired again. Goddard laughed harshly; his voice was hoarse and cracked.

"Why did I do it!" he repeated. "Did you ever hear of any one who would not escape from prison if he had the chance? Don't look at me like that, Mary—"

"I am sorry for you," she said.

"You don't seem very glad to see me," he answered roughly. "I might have known it."

"Yes, you might have known it."

It seemed a very hard and cruel thing to say, and Mary Goddard was very far from being a cruel woman by nature; but she was stunned by fear and disgust and horrified by the possibilities of harm suddenly brought before her.

Goddard pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows upon the table supporting his chin in his hands. He scowled at her defiantly.

"You have given me a warm reception, after nearly three years of—separation." There was a bitter sneer in the word.

"I am horrified to see you here," she said simply. "You know very well that I cannot conceal you—"

"Oh, I don't expect miracles," said Goddard contemptuously. "I don't know that, when I came here, I expected to cause you any particularly agreeable sensation. I confess, when a woman has not seen her beloved husband for three years, one might expect her to show a little feeling—"

"I will do what I can for you, Walter," said his wife, whose unnatural calm was fast yielding to an overpowering agitation.

"Then give me fifty pounds and tell me the nearest way east," answered the convict savagely.

"I have not got fifty pounds in the house," protested Mary Goddard, in some alarm. "I never keep much money—I can get it for you—"

"I have a great mind to look," returned her husband suspiciously. "How soon can you get it?"

"To-morrow night—the time to get a cheque cashed—"

"So you keep a banker's account?"

"Of course. But a cheque would be of no use to you—I wish it were!"

"Naturally you do. You would get rid of me at once." Suddenly his voice changed. "Oh, Mary—you used to love me!" cried the wretched man, burying his face in his hands.

"I was very wrong," answered his wife, looking away from him. "You did not deserve it—you never did."

"Because I was unfortunate!"

"Unfortunate!" repeated Mary Goddard with rising scorn. "Unfortunate—when you were deceiving me every day of your life. I could have forgiven a great deal—Walter—but not that, not that!"

"What? About the money?" he asked with sudden fierceness.

"The money—no. Even though you were disgraced and convicted, Walter, I would have forgiven that, I would have tried to see you, to comfort you. I should have been sorry for you; I would have done what I could to help you. But I could not forgive you the rest; I never can."

"Bah! I never cared for her," said the convict. But under his livid skin there rose a faint blush of shame.

"You never cared for me—that is the reason I—am not glad to see you—"

"I did, Mary. Upon my soul I did. I love you still!" He rose and came near to his wife, and again he would have put his arm around her. But she sprang to her feet with an angry light in her eyes.

"If you dare to touch me, I will give you up!" she cried. Goddard shrank back to his chair, very pale and trembling violently.

"You would not do that, Mary," he almost whined. But she remained standing, looking at him very menacingly.

"Indeed I would—you don't know me," she said, between her teeth.

"You are as hard as a stone," he answered, sullenly, and for some minutes there was silence between them.

"I suppose you are going to turn me out into the rain again?" asked the convict.

"You cannot stay here—you are not safe for a minute. You will have to go. You must come back to-morrow and I will give you the money. You had better go now—"

"Oh, Mary, I would not have thought it of you," moaned Goddard.

"Why—what else can I do? I cannot let you sleep in the house—I have no barn. If any one saw you here it would be all over. People know about it—"

"What people?"

"The vicar and his wife and Mr. Juxon at the Hall."

"Mr. Juxon? What is he like? Would he give me up if he knew?"

"I think he would," said Mary Goddard, thoughtfully. "I am almost sure he would. He is the justice of the peace here—he would be bound to."

"Do you know him?" Goddard thought he detected a slight nervousness in his wife's manner.

"Very well. This house belongs to him."

"Oh!" ejaculated the convict. "I begin to see."

"Yes—you see you had better go," said his wife innocently. "How can you manage to come here tomorrow? You cannot go on without the money—"

"No—and I don't mean to," he answered roughly. Money was indeed an absolute necessity to him. "Give me what you have got in the house, anyhow. You may think better of it to-morrow. I don't trust people of your stamp."

Mary Goddard rose without a word and left the room. When she was gone the convict set himself to finish the jug of ale she had brought, and looked about him. He saw objects that reminded him of his former home. He examined the fork with which he had eaten and remembered the pattern and the engraved initials as he turned it over in his hand. The very table itself had belonged to his house—the carpet beneath his feet, the chair upon which he sat. It all seemed too unnatural to be true. That very night, that very hour, he must go forth again into the wild February weather and hide himself, leaving all these things behind him; leaving behind too his wife, the woman he had so bitterly injured, but who was still his wife. It seemed impossible. Surely he might stay if he pleased; it was not true that detectives were on his track—it was all a dream, since that dreadful day when he had written that name, which was not his, upon a piece of paper. He had waked up and was again at home. But he started as he heard a footstep in the passage, being now accustomed to start at sounds which suggested pursuit; he started and he felt the wet smock-frock, which was his disguise, clinging to him as he moved, and the reality of the present returned to him with awful force. His wife again entered the room.

"There are over nine pounds," she said. "It is all I have." She laid the money upon the table before him and remained standing. "You shall have the rest to-morrow," she added.

"Can't I see Nellie?" he asked suddenly. It was the first time he had spoken of his child. Mrs. Goddard hesitated.

"No," she said at last. "You cannot see her now. She must not be told; she thinks you are dead. You may catch a glimpse of her to-morrow—"

"Well—it is better she should not know, I suppose. You could not explain."

"No, Walter, I could not—explain. Come later to-morrow night—to the same window. I will undo the shutters and give you the money." Mary Goddard was almost overcome with exhaustion. It was a terrible struggle to maintain her composure under such circumstances; but necessity does wonders. "Where will you sleep to-night?" she asked presently. She pitied the wretch from her heart, though she longed to see him leave her house.

"I will get into the stables of some public-house. I pass for a tramp." There was a terrible earnestness in the simple statement, which did more to make Mary Goddard realise her husband's position than anything else could have done. To people who live in the country the word "tramp" means so much.

"Poor Walter!" said Mrs. Goddard softly, and for the first time since she had seen him the tears stood in her eyes.

"Don't waste your pity on me," he answered. "Let me be off."

There was half a loaf and some cheese left upon the table. Mrs. Goddard put them together and offered them to him.

"You had better take it," she said. He took the food readily enough and hid it under his frock. He knew the value of it. Then he got upon his feet. He moved painfully, for the cold and the wet had stiffened his limbs already weakened with hunger and exhaustion.

"Let me be off," he said again, and moved towards the door. His wife followed him in silence. In the passage he paused again.

"Well, Mary," he said, "I suppose I ought to be grateful to you for not giving me up to the police."

"You know very well," answered Mrs. Goddard, "that what I can do to save you, I will do. You know that."

"Then do it, and don't forget the money. It's hanging this time if I'm caught."

Mrs. Goddard uttered a low cry and leaned against the wall.

"What?" she faltered. "You have not—"

"I believe I killed somebody in getting away," answered the felon with a grim laugh. Then, without her assistance, he opened the door and went out into the pouring rain. The door shut behind him and Mary Goddard heard his retreating footsteps on the path outside. When he was fairly gone she suddenly broke down, and falling upon her knees in the passage beat her forehead against the wall in an agony of despair.

Murderer—thief, forger and murderer, too! It was more than she could bear. Even now he was within a stone's throw of her house; a moment ago he had been here, beside her—there beyond, too, in the dining-room, sitting opposite to her at her own table as he had sat in his days of innocence and honour for many a long year before his crime. In the sudden necessity of acting, in the unutterable surprise of finding herself again face to face with him, she had been calm; now that he was gone she felt as though she must go mad. She asked herself if this filthy tramp, this branded villain, was the husband she had loved and cherished for years, whose beauty she had admired, whose hand she had held so often, whose lips she had kissed—if this was the father of her lovely child. It was all over now. There was blood upon his hands as well as other guilt. If he were caught he must die, or at the very least be imprisoned for life. He could never again be free to come forth after the expiation of his crimes and to claim her and his child. If he escaped now, it must be to live in a distant country under a perpetual disguise. If he were caught, the news of his capture would be in all the papers, the news of his trial for murder, the very details of his execution. The Ambroses would know and the squire, even the country folk, would perhaps at last know the truth about her. Life even in the quiet spot she had chosen would become intolerable, and she would be obliged to go forth again into a more distant exile. She bitterly repented having written to her husband in his prison to tell him where she was settled. It would have been sufficient to acquaint the governor with the fact, so that Goddard might know where she was when his term expired. She had never written but once, and he had perhaps not been allowed to answer the letter. His appearance at her door proved that he had received it. Would to God he had not, she thought.

There were other things besides his crime of forgery which had acted far more powerfully upon Mary Goddard's mind, and which had broken for ever all ties of affection; circumstances which had appeared during his trial and which had shown that he had not only been unfaithful to those who trusted him, but had been unfaithful to the wife who loved him. That was what she could not forgive; it was the memory of that which rose like an impassable wall between her and him, worse than his frauds, his forgery, worse almost than his murder. He had done that which even a loving woman could not pardon, that which was past all forgiveness. That was why his sudden appearance roused no tender memories, elicited seemingly so little sympathy from her. She was too good a woman to say it, but she knew in her heart that she wished him dead, the very possibility of ever seeing him again gone from her life for ever, no matter how.

But she must see him again, nevertheless, and to-morrow. To-morrow, too, she would have to meet the squire, and appear to act and talk as though nothing had happened in this terrible night. That would be the hardest of all, perhaps; even harder than meeting her husband for a brief moment in order to give him the means of escape. She felt that in helping him she was participating in his crimes, and yet, she asked herself, what woman would have acted differently? What woman, even though she might hate her husband with her whole soul, and justly, would yet be so hard-hearted as to refuse him assistance when he was flying for his life? It would be impossible. She must help him at any cost; but it was hard to feel that she must see the squire and behave with indifference, while her husband was lurking in the neighbourhood, when a detective might at any moment come to the door, and demand to search the house.

These thoughts passed very quickly through her overwrought brain, as she knelt in the passage; kneeling because she felt she could no longer stand, the passionate tears streaming down her face, her small hands pressing her temples. Then she struggled to her feet and dried her eyes, steadying herself against the wall for a moment. She had almost forgotten little Nellie whom she had left in the drawing-room. She had told the child, when she went back to her, leaving Goddard alone in the dark, that the man was a poor starving tramp, but that she did not want Nellie to see him, because he looked so miserable. She would give him something to eat and send him away, she said, and meanwhile Nellie should sit by the drawing-room fire and wait for her. The child trusted her mother implicitly and was completely reassured. Mrs. Goddard dried her eyes, and re-entered the room. Nellie was curled up in a big chair with a book; she looked up quickly.

"Why, mamma," she said, "you have been crying!"

"Have I, darling? I daresay it was the sight of that poor man. He was very wretched."

"Is he gone?" asked the child.

It was unusually late and Nellie was beginning to be sleepy, so that she was more easily quieted than she could have been in ordinary circumstances. It might have struck her as strange that a wandering tramp should know her mother's Christian name, as still more inexplicable that her mother should have been willing to admit such a man at so late an hour. She had been badly frightened, but trusting her mother as she did, her terror had quickly disappeared and had been quickly followed by sleepiness.

But Mrs. Goddard. did not sleep that night. She felt as though she could never sleep again, and for many hours she lay thinking of the new element of fear which had so suddenly come into her life at the very time when she believed herself to be safe for many years to come. She longed to know where her wretched husband was; whether he had found shelter for the night, whether he was still free or whether he had even then fallen into the hands of his pursuers. She knew that she could not have concealed him in the house and that she had done all that lay in her power for him. But she started at every sound, as the rain rattled against the shutters and the wind howled down the chimney.

Walter Goddard, however, was safe for the present and was even luxuriously lodged, considering his circumstances, for he was comfortably installed amongst the hay in the barn of the "Feathers" inn. He had been in Billingsfield since early in the afternoon and had considered carefully the question of his quarters for the night. He had observed from a distance the landlord of the said inn, and had boldly offered to do a "day's work for a night's lodging." He said he was "tramping" his way back from London to his home in Yorkshire; he knew enough of the sound of the rough Yorkshire dialect to pass for a native of that county amongst ignorant labourers who had never heard the real tongue. The landlord of the Feathers consented to the bargain and Goddard was told that he might sleep in the barn if he liked, and should take a turn at cutting chaff the next day to pay for the convenience. The convict slept soundly; he was past lying awake in useless fits of remorse, and he was exhausted with his day's journey. Moreover he had now the immediate prospect of obtaining sufficient money to carry him safely out of the country, and once abroad he felt sure of baffling pursuit. He was an accomplished man and spoke French with a fluency unusual in Englishmen; he determined to get across the channel in some fishing craft; he would then make his way to Paris and enlist in the Foreign Legion. It would be safer than trying to go to America, where people were invariably caught as they landed. It was a race for life and death, and he knew it. Had he been able to obtain clothes, money and a disguise in London he would have travelled by rail. But that had been impossible and it now seemed a wiser plan to "tramp" it. His beard was growing rapidly and would soon make a complete disguise. Village constables are generally simple people, easily imposed upon, very different from London detectives; and hitherto he felt sure that he had baffled pursuit by the mere simplicity of his proceedings. The intelligent officials of Scotland Yard were used to forgers and swindlers who travelled by express trains and crossed to America by fashionable steamers. It did not strike them as very likely that a man of Walter Goddard's previous tastes and habits could get through the country in the guise of a tramp. If he had been possessed at the time of his escape of the money he so much desired he would probably have been caught; as it was, he got away without difficulty, and at the very time when every railway station and every port in the kingdom were being watched for him, he was lurking in the purlieus of Whitechapel, and then tramping his way east in comparative safety, half starved, it is true, but unmolested.

That he was disappointed at the reception his wife had given him did not prevent him from sleeping peacefully that night. One thing alone disturbed him, and that was her mention of Mr. Juxon, in whose house, as she had told him, she lived. It seems incredible that a man in Walter Goddard's position, lost to every sense of honour, a criminal of the worst type, who had deceived his wife before he was indicted for forgery, who had certainly cared very little for her at any time, should now, in a moment of supreme danger, feel a pang of jealousy on hearing that his wife lived in the vicinity of the squire and occupied a house belonging to him. But he was too bad himself not to suspect others, especially those whom he had wronged, and the feeling was mingled with a strong curiosity to know whether this woman, who now treated him so haughtily and drew back from him as from some monstrous horror, was as good as she pretended to be. He said to himself that on the next day at dawn he would slip out of the barn and try whether he could not find some hiding-place within easy reach of the cottage, so as to be able to watch her dwelling at his ease throughout the day. The plan seemed a good one. Since he was obliged to wait twenty-four hours in order to get the money he wanted, he might as well employ the time profitably in observing his wife's habits. It would be long, he said to himself with a bitter sneer, before he troubled her again—he would just like to see.

Having come to this decision he drew some of the hay over his body and in spite of cold and wet was soon peacefully asleep. But at early dawn he awoke with the alacrity of a man who constantly expects pursuit, and slipped down from the hayloft into the barn. There was no one stirring and he got over the fence at the back of the yard and skirted the fields in the direction of the church, finally climbing another stile and entering what he supposed to be the park. On this side the back of the church ran out into a broad meadow, where the larger portion of the ancient abbey had once stood. Goddard walked along close by the church walls. He knew from his observation on the previous afternoon that he could thus come out into the road in the vicinity of the cottage, unless his way through the park were interrupted by impassable wire fences. The ground was very heavy and he was sure not to meet anybody in the meadows in such weather.

Suddenly he stopped and looked at a buttress that jutted out from the church and for the existence of which there seemed to be no ostensible reason. He examined it and found that it was not a buttress but apparently a half ruined chamber, which at some former period had been built upon the side of the abbey. Low down by the ground there was a hole, where a few stones seemed to have been removed and not replaced. Goddard knelt down in the long wet grass and put in his head; then he crept in on his hands and knees and presently disappeared.

He found himself in a room about ten feet square, dimly lighted by a small window at the top, and surrounded by long horizontal niches. The floor, which was badly broken in some places, was of stone. Goddard examined the place carefully. It was evidently an old vault of the kind formerly built above ground for the lords of the manor; but the coffins, if there had ever been any, had been removed elsewhere. Goddard laughed to himself.

"I might stay here for a year, if I could get anything to eat," he said to himself.



CHAPTER XIV.

The squire had grown used to the position in which he found himself after Mary Goddard had told him her story. He continued his visits as formerly, and it could hardly be said that there was any change in his manner towards her; there was no need of any change, for even at the time when he contemplated making her his wife there had been nothing lover-like in his behaviour. He had been a friend and had treated her with all the respect due to a lonely lady who was his tenant, and even with a certain formality which had sometimes seemed unnecessary. But though there was no apparent alteration in his mode of talking, in his habit of bringing her flowers and books and of looking after the condition of the cottage, both she and he were perfectly conscious of the fact that they understood each other much better than before. They were united by the common bond of a common secret which very closely concerned one of them. Things were not as they had formerly been. Mrs. Goddard no longer felt that she had anything to hide; the squire knew that he no longer had anything to hope. If he had been a selfish man, if she had been a less sensible woman, their friendship might have ended then and there. But Mr. Juxon was not selfish, and Mary Goddard did not lack good sense. Having ascertained that in the ordinary course of events there was no possibility of ever marrying her, the squire did not at once give her over and go elsewhere; on the contrary he showed himself more desirous than ever of assisting her and amusing her. He was a patient man; his day might come yet, if Goddard died. It did not follow that if he could not marry Mrs. Goddard he must needs marry some one else; for it was not a wife that he sought, but the companionship of this particular woman as his wife. If he could not marry he could still enjoy at least a portion of that companionship, by visiting her daily and talking with her, and making himself a part of her life. He judged things very coldly and lost himself in no lofty flights of imagination. It was better that he should enjoy what fell in his way in at least seeing Mrs. Goddard and possessing her friendship, than that he should go out of his course in order to marry merely for the sake of marrying. He had seen so much of the active side of life that he was well prepared to revel in the peace which had fallen to his lot. He cared little whether he left an heir to the park; there were others of the name, and since the park had furnished matter for litigation during forty years before he came into possession of it, it might supply the lawyers with fees for forty years more after his death, for all he cared. It would have been very desirable to marry Mrs. Goddard if it had been possible, but since the thing could not be done at present it was best to submit with a good grace. Since the day when his suit had suddenly come to grief in the discovery of her real position, Mr. Juxon had philosophically said to himself that he had perhaps been premature in making his proposal, and that it was as well that it could not have been accepted; perhaps she would not have made him a good wife; perhaps he had deceived himself in thinking that because he liked her and desired her friendship he really wished to marry her; perhaps all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, after all and in spite of all.

But these reflections, which tended to soothe the squire's annoyance at the failure of a scheme which he had contemplated with so much delight, did not prevent him from feeling the most sincere sympathy for Mrs. Goddard, nor from constantly wishing that he could devise some plan for helping her. She seemed never to have thought of divorcing herself from her husband. The squire was not sure whether such a thing were possible; he doubted it, and promised himself that he would get a lawyer's opinion upon the matter. He believed that English law did not grant divorces on account of the husband's being sentenced to any limited period of penal servitude. But in any case it would be a very delicate subject to approach, and Mr. Juxon amused himself by constructing conversations in his mind which should lead up to this point without wounding poor Mrs. Goddard's sensibilities. He was the kindest of men; he would not for worlds have said a word which should recall to her that memorable day when she had told him her story. And yet it would be quite impossible to broach such a scheme without going at once into all the details of the chief cause of her sorrows. The consequence was that in the windings of his imagination the squire found himself perpetually turning in a vicious circle; but since the exercise concerned Mrs. Goddard and her welfare it was not uncongenial. He founded all his vague hopes upon one expression she had used. When in making his proposal he had spoken of her as being a widow, she had said, "Would to God that I were!" She had said it with such vehemence that he had felt sure that if she had indeed been a widow her answer to himself would have been favourable. Men easily retain such impressions received in moments of great excitement, and found hopes upon them.

So the days had gone by and the squire had thought much but had come to no conclusion. On the morning when Walter Goddard crept into the disused vault at the back of the church, the squire awoke from his sleep at his usual early hour. He was not in a very good humour, if so equable a man could be said to be subject to such weaknesses as humours. The weather was very depressing—day after day brought only more rain, more wind, more mud, more of everything disagreeable. The previous evening had been unusually dull. He was never weary of being with Mary Goddard, but occasionally, when the Ambroses were present, the conversation became oppressive. Mr. Juxon almost wished that John Short would come back and cause a diversion. His views concerning John had undergone some change since he had discovered that nobody could marry Mrs. Goddard because she was married already. He believed he could watch John's efforts to attract her attention with indifference now, or if without indifference with a charitable forbearance. John at least would help to make conversation, and the conversation on the previous evening had been intolerably wearisome. Almost unconsciously, since the chief interest and hope of his daily life had been removed the squire began to long for a change; he had been a wanderer by profession during thirty years of his life and he was perhaps not yet old enough to settle into that absolute indifference to novelty which seems to characterise retired sailors.

But as he brushed his smooth hair and combed his beard that morning, neither change nor excitement were very far from him. He looked over his dressing-glass at the leafless oaks of the park, at the grey sky and the driving rain and he wished something would happen. He wished somebody might die and leave a great library to be sold, that he might indulge his favourite passion; he wished he had somebody stopping in the Hall—he almost decided to send and ask the vicar to come to lunch and have a day among the books. As he entered the breakfast-room at precisely half-past eight o'clock, according to his wont, the butler informed him that Mr. Gall, the village constable, was below and wanted to see him after breakfast. He received the news in silence and sat down to eat his breakfast and read the morning paper. Gall had probably come about some petty summons, or to ask what he should do about the small boys who threw stones at the rooks and broke the church windows. After finishing his meal and his paper in the leisurely manner peculiar to country gentlemen who have nothing to do, the squire rang the bell, sent for the policeman and went into his study, a small room adjoining the library.

Thomas Gall, constable, was a tall fair man with a mild eye and a cheerful face. Goodwill towards men and plentiful good living had done their work in eradicating from the good man all that stern element which might have been most useful to him in his career, not to say useful to the State. Each rolling year was pricked in his leathern belt with a new hole as his heart grew more peaceful and his body throve. He had a goodly girth and weighed full fifteen stone in his uniform; his mild blue eye had inspired confidence in a maiden of Billingsfield parish and Mrs. Gall was now rearing a numerous family of little Galls, all perhaps destined to become mild-eyed and portly village constables in their turn.

The squire, who was not destitute of a sense of humour, never thought of Mr. Gall without a smile, so much out of keeping did the man's occupation seem with his jovial humour. Mr. Gall, he said, was the kind of policeman who would bribe a refractory tramp to move on by the present of a pint of beer. But Gall had a good point. He was very proud of his profession, and in the exercise of it he showed a discretion which, if it was the better part of his valour, argued unlimited natural courage. It was a secret profession, he was wont to say, and a man who could not keep a secret would never do for a constable. He shrouded his ways in an amiable mystery and walked a solitary beat on fine nights; when the nights were not fine there was nobody to see whether he walked his beat or not. Probably, he faithfully fulfilled his obligations; but his constitution seemed to bear exposure to the weather wonderfully well. Whether he ever saw anything worth mentioning upon those lonely walks of his, is uncertain; at all events he never mentioned anything he saw, unless it was in the secrecy of the reports he was supposed to transmit from time to time to his superiors.

On the present occasion as he entered the study, the squire observed with surprise that he looked grave. He had never witnessed such a phenomenon before and argued that it was just possible that something of real importance might have occurred.

"Good morning, sir," said Mr. Gall, approaching the squire respectfully, after carefully closing the door behind him.

"Good morning, Gall. Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Not yet, sir. I hope not, sir. Only a little matter of business, Mr. Juxon. In point of fact, sir, I wished to consult you."

"Yes," said the squire who was used to the constable's method of circumlocution. "Yes—what is it?"

"Well, sir—it's this," said the policeman, running his thumb round the inside of his belt as though to test the pressure, and clearing his throat. "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 are directed to be on the look-out, you should be on the look-out; by all means. What are you to be on the look-out for?"

"In point of fact, sir," said the constable, lowering his voice, "we are informed that a criminal has escaped from Portland. I never heard of a convict getting out of that strong'old o' the law, sir, and I would like to 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; so we 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 that this 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 name residin' here."

The squire suddenly guessed what was coming, or at least a possibility of it crossed his mind. If Mr. Gall had been a more observant man he would have seen that Mr. Juxon grew a shade paler and changed one leg over the other as he sat. But in that moment he had time to nerve himself for the worst.

"And what is the name, if you please?" he asked calmly.

"The name in the general orders is Goddard, sir—Walter Goddard. He was convicted of forgery three years ago, sir, a regular bad lot. But discretion is recommended in the orders, sir, as the business is not wanted to get into the papers."

The squire was ready. If Gall did not know that Mary Goddard was the wife of the convict Walter, he should certainly not find it out. In any other country of Europe that would have been the first fact communicated to the local 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 to this 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 what you may call a striking coincidence, that's all."

"It would have been a still more striking coincidence if his name had been Juxon like mine, or Ambrose like the vicar's," said the squire calmly. "There are other people of the name in England, and the local policemen will be warned to be on the lookout. If this fellow was called Juxon instead of Goddard, Gall, would you be inclined to think he was a relation of mine?"

"Oh no, sir. Ha! ha! Very good sir! Very good indeed! No indeed, sir, and she such a real lady too!"

"Well then, I do not see that you can do anything more than keep a sharp look-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'm not 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. Clean shaved 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?" suggested the squire. The idea seemed to unsettle Gall's views.

"In that case, sir, I don't know as I should know him, for certain," he answered.

"Probably not—probably not, Gall. And judging from the account they have sent you I don't think you would be to blame."

"Leastways it can't be said as I've failed to carry out superior instructions," 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 a sharp look-out, and be careful to be discreet, as the orders instruct you."

"You may trust me for that, sir," said the policeman, who dearly loved the 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 the local pressure in anticipation of a pint. He made a sort of half-military salute at the door and went out. When the squire was alone he rose from his chair and paced the room, giving way to the agitation he had concealed in the presence of the constable. He was very much disturbed at the news of Goddard's escape, as well he might be. Not that he was aware that the convict knew of his wife's whereabouts; he did not even suppose that Goddard could ascertain for some time where she was living, still less that he would boldly present himself in Billingsfield. But it was bad enough to know that the man was again at large. So long as he was safely lodged in prison, Mrs. Goddard was herself safe; but if once he regained his liberty and baffled the police he would certainly end by finding 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 new interest, indeed, and one which promised to afford the squire occupation until the fellow was caught.

Mr. Juxon knew that he was right in putting the policeman off the track in 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, was quite sure to discover it. If Goddard ever made his way to Billingsfield it could only be for the purpose of seeing his wife, and if he succeeded in this, Mrs. Goddard could not conceal it from the squire. She was a nervous woman who could not hide her emotions; she would find herself in a terrible difficulty and she would perhaps turn to her friend for assistance. If Mr. Juxon could lay his hands on Goddard, he flattered himself he was much more able to arrest a desperate man than mild-eyed Policeman Gall. He had not been at sea for thirty years in vain, and in his time he had handled many a rough customer. He debated however upon the course he should pursue. As in his opinion it was unlikely that Goddard would find out his wife for some time, and improbable that he would waste such precious time in looking for her, it seemed far from advisable to warn her that the felon had escaped. On the other hand he mistrusted his own judgment; if she were not prepared it was just possible that the man should come upon her unawares, and the shock of seeing him might be very much worse than the shock of being told that he was at large. He might consult the vicar.

At first, the old feeling that it would be disloyal to Mrs. Goddard even to hint to Mr. Ambrose that he was acquainted with her story withheld him from pursuing such a course. But as he turned the matter over in his mind it seemed to him that since it was directly for her good, he would now be justified in speaking. He liked the vicar and he trusted him. He knew that the vicar had been a good friend to Mrs. Goddard and that he would stand by her in any difficulty so far as he might be able. The real question was how to make sure that the vicar should not tell his wife. If Mrs. Ambrose had the least suspicion that anything unusual was occurring, she would naturally try and extract information from her husband, and she would probably be successful; women, the squire thought, very generally succeed in operations of that kind. But if once Mr. Ambrose could be consulted without arousing his wife's suspicions, he was a man to be trusted. Thereupon Mr. Juxon wrote a note to the vicar, saying that he had something of great interest to show him, and begging that, if not otherwise engaged, he would come up to the Hall to lunch. When he had despatched his messenger, being a man of his word, he went into the library to hunt for some rare volume or manuscript which the vicar had not yet seen, and which might account in a spirit of rigid veracity for the excuse he had given. Meanwhile, as he turned over his rare and curious folios he debated further upon his conduct; but having once made up his mind to consult Mr. Ambrose, he determined to tell him boldly what had occurred, after receiving from him a promise of secrecy. The messenger brought back word that the vicar would be delighted to come, and at the hour named the sound of wheels upon the gravel announced the arrival of Strawberry, the old mare, drawing behind her the vicar and his aged henchman, Reynolds, in the traditional vicarage dogcart. A moment later the vicar entered the library.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose," said the squire inhospitable tones. "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 cheerful tones. "Dear me, I never come here without envying you and wishing that life were one long rainy afternoon."

"You know I am inclined to think I am rather an enviable person," said Mr. Juxon, slowly passing his hand over his glossy hair and leading his guest towards a large table near the fire. Several volumes lay together upon 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 in getting it at last."

"Dear me! What a piece of fortune!" said Mr. Ambrose bending down until his formidable nose almost touched the ancient page.

"Yes," said the squire, "uncommonly lucky as usual. Now, excuse my abruptness in changing the subject—I want to consult you upon an important matter."

The vicar looked up quickly with that vague, faraway expression which comes into the eyes of a student when he is suddenly called away from contemplating 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 his rough grey eyebrows, returning Mr. Juxon's sharp look with interest. He could 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 to marry her; which appeared improbable.

"What is it?" he said sharply.

"I daresay you do not know that I am acquainted with her story," began Mr. 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. "The thing 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. "He told me that there were general orders out for his arrest."

"How in the world did he get out?" cried the vicar. "I thought nobody was ever known to escape from Portland!"

"So did I. But this fellow has—somehow. Gall did not know. Now, the question is, what is to be done?"

"I am sure I don't know," returned the vicar, thrusting his hands into his pockets and marching to the window, the wide skirts of his coat seeming to wave with agitation as he walked.

Mr. Juxon also put his hands into his pockets, but he stood still upon the 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 minutes neither 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 turned and slowly came back to the table.

"I don't know either," replied the squire. "That is precisely the point upon which I think we ought to decide. I have known about the story for some time, but I did not anticipate that it would take this turn."

"I think," said Mr. Ambrose after another pause, "I think that if there is any likelihood of the fellow finding her out, we ought to tell her. If not I think we had better wait until he is caught. He is sure to be caught, of course."

"I entirely agree with you," returned Mr. Juxon. "Only—how on earth are we to find out whether he is likely to come here or not? If any one knows where he is, he is as good as caught already. If nobody knows, we can certainly have no means of telling."

The argument was unanswerable. Again there was a long silence. The vicar walked about the room in great perplexity.

"Dear me! Dear me! What a terrible business!" he repeated, over and over again.

"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 further trouble, 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 at night 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 finds her out, he will. I almost think it would be better to tell her in any case."

"But think of the anxiety she will be in until he is caught!" cried the vicar. "She will be expecting him every day—every night. Well—I suppose we might tell Gall to watch the house."

"That will not do," said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be a great injustice to allow Gall or any of the people in the village to know anything about her. She might be subjected to all kinds of insult. You know what these people 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 secretly flatter ourselves that we have shown an unusual amount of good sense and generosity in understanding her position as we do."

"I daresay we do," said the vicar with a smile. He was too honest to deny it. "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 things to do, we should certainly not tell Gall, who is an old woman and a great chatterbox. I wish you could have heard his statement this morning—it filled me with admiration for the local police, I assure you. But—I think 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 in profound 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 her better, you have known her much longer than I."

"But she will ask me where I heard of it," objected the vicar. "I shall be obliged to say that you told me. That will be as bad as though you told her yourself."

"You need not say you heard it from me. You can say that Gall has received instructions to look out for Goddard. She will not question you any 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 that his companion would volunteer to perform the disagreeable office.

"Well then, will you—will you do it?" asked Mr. Juxon, anxious to have the matter decided.

"Why not go together?" suggested the vicar.

"No," said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be an intolerable ordeal for the poor 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 the cottage, accompanied by the vicar. In spite of their mutual anxiety to be of service to Mrs. Goddard, when they had once decided how to act they had easily fallen into conversation about other matters, the black letter Paracelsus had received its full share of attention and many another rare volume had been brought out and examined. Neither the vicar nor his host believed that there was any hurry; if Goddard ever succeeded in getting to Billingsfield it would not be to-day, nor to-morrow either.