Part 29 (1/2)

”Yes,” said poor Mrs. G.o.ddard, beginning to sob again, ”but Walter--my husband--thinks that I--I care for Mr. Juxon--he is so jealous,” cried she, again covering her face with her hands. The starting tears trickled through her fingers and fell upon her black dress. She was ashamed, this time, for she hated even to speak of such a possibility.

”I understand,” answered Mr. Ambrose gravely. It certainly did not strike him that it might be true, and his knowledge of such characters as Walter G.o.ddard was got chiefly from the newspapers. He had often noticed in reports of trials and detailed descriptions of crimes that criminals seem to become entirely irrational after a certain length of time, and it was one of the arguments he best understood for demonstrating that bad men either are originally, or ultimately become mad. To men like the vicar, almost the only possible theory of crime is the theory of insanity. It is positively impossible for a man who has pa.s.sed thirty or forty years in a quiet country parish to comprehend the motives or the actions of great criminals. He naturally says they must be crazy or they would not do such things. If G.o.ddard were crazy enough to commit a forgery, he was crazy enough for anything, even to the extent of suspecting that his wife loved the squire.

”I think,” said Mr. Ambrose, ”that if you agree with me it will be best to warn Mr. Juxon of his danger.”

”Of course,” murmured Mrs. G.o.ddard. ”You must warn him at once!”

”I will go to the Hall now,” said the vicar bravely. ”But--I am very sorry to have to dwell on the subject, my dear lady, but, without wis.h.i.+ng in the least to know where the--your husband is, could you tell me anything about his appearance? For instance, if you understand what I mean, supposing that Mr. Juxon knew how he looked and should happen to meet him, knowing that he wished to kill him--he might perhaps avoid him, if you understand me?”

The vicar's English was a little disturbed by his extreme desire not to hurt Mrs. G.o.ddard's feelings. If the squire and his dog chanced to meet Walter G.o.ddard they would probably not avoid him as the vicar expressed it; that was a point Mr. Ambrose was willing to leave to Mrs. G.o.ddard's imagination.

”Yes--must you know?” she asked anxiously.

”We must know that,” returned the vicar.

”He is disguised as a poor tramp,” she said sorrowfully. ”He wears a smock-frock and an old hat I think. He is pale--oh, poor, poor Walter!”

she cried again bursting into tears.

Mr. Ambrose could say nothing. There was nothing to be said. He rose and took his hat--the old tall hat he wore to his paris.h.i.+oners' funerals.

They were very primitive people in Billingsfield.

”I will go at once,” he said. ”Believe me, you have all my sympathy--I will do all I can.”

Mary G.o.ddard thanked him more by her looks than with any words she was able to speak. But she was none the less truly grateful for his sympathy and aid. She had a kind of blind reliance on him which made her feel that since she had once confided her trouble and danger nothing more could possibly be done. When he was gone, she sobbed with relief, as before she had wept for fear; she was hysterical, unstrung, utterly unlike herself.

But as the vicar went up towards the Hall he felt that he had his hands full, and he felt moreover an uneasy sensation which he could not have explained. He was certainly no coward, but he had never been in such a position before and he did not like it; there was an air of danger about, an atmosphere which gave him a peculiarly unpleasant thrill from time to time. He was not engaged upon an agreeable errand, and he had a vague feeling, due, the scientists would have told him, to unconscious ratiocination, which seemed to tell him that something was going to happen. People who are very often in danger know that singular uneasiness which warns them that all is not well; it is not like anything else that can be felt. No one really knows its cause, unless it be true that the mind sometimes reasons for itself without the consciousness of the body, and communicates to the latter a spasmodic warning, the result of its cogitations.

To say to the st.u.r.dy squire, ”Beware of a man in a smock-frock, one G.o.ddard the forger, who means to murder you,” seemed of itself simple enough. But for the squire to distinguish this same G.o.ddard from all other men in smock-frocks was a less easy matter. The vicar, indeed, could tell a strange face at a hundred yards, for he knew every man, woman and child in his parish; but the squire's acquaintance was more limited. Obviously, said Mr. Ambrose to himself, the squire's best course would be to stay quietly at home until the danger was pa.s.sed, and to pa.s.s word to Policeman Gall to lay hands on any particularly seedy-looking tramps he happened to see in the village. It was Gall's duty to do so in any case, as he had been warned to be on the look-out. Mr. Ambrose inwardly wondered where the man could be hiding. Billingsfield was not, he believed, an easy place to hide in, for every ploughman knew his fellow, and a new face was always an object of suspicion. Not a gipsy tinker entered the village but what every one heard of it, and though tramps came through from time to time, it would be a difficult matter for one of them to remain two days in the place without attracting a great deal of attention. It was possible that Walter G.o.ddard might have been concealed for one night in his wife's house, but even there he could not have remained hidden for two days without being seen by Mrs. G.o.ddard's two women servants. The vicar walked rapidly through the park, looking about him suspiciously as he went. G.o.ddard might at that very moment be lurking behind any one of those oaks; it would be most unpleasant if he mistook the vicar for the squire. But that, the vicar reflected, was impossible on account of his clerical dress. He reached the Hall in safety and stood looking down among the leafless trees, waiting for the door to be opened.

CHAPTER XVII.

Mr. Juxon received the vicar in the library as he had received him on the previous day; but on the present occasion Mr. Ambrose had not been sent for and the squire's face wore an expression of inquiry. He supposed his friend had come to ask him the result of the interview with Mrs. G.o.ddard, and as he himself was on the point of going towards the cottage he wished the vicar had come at a later or an earlier hour.

”I have a message to give you,” said Mr. Ambrose, ”a very important message.”

”Indeed?” answered the squire, observing his serious face.

”Yes. I had better tell you at once. Mrs. G.o.ddard sent for me this morning. She has actually seen her husband, who must be hiding in the neighbourhood. He came to her drawing-room window last night and the night before.”

”Dear me!” exclaimed Mr. Juxon. ”You don't tell me so!”

”That is not the worst of the matter,” continued the vicar, looking very grave and fixing his eyes on the squire's face. ”This villainous fellow has been threatening to take your life, Mr. Juxon.”

Mr. Juxon stared at the vicar for a moment in surprise, and then broke into a hearty laugh.

”My life!” he cried. ”Upon my word, the fellow does not know what he is talking about! Do you mean to say that this escaped convict, who can be arrested at sight wherever he is found, imagines that he could attack me in broad daylight without being caught?”

”Well, no, I suppose not--but you often walk home at night, Mr.