Part 22 (1/2)
”Because I was unfortunate!”
”Unfortunate!” repeated Mary G.o.ddard 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. G.o.ddard 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 G.o.ddard.
”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 G.o.ddard, thoughtfully. ”I am almost sure he would. He is the justice of the peace here--he would be bound to.”
”Do you know him?” G.o.ddard thought he detected a slight nervousness in his wife's manner.
”Very well. This house belongs to him.”
”Oh!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed 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 G.o.ddard 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 pa.s.sage, 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.