Part 30 (1/2)
Juxon. The idea of hunting people with bloodhounds seemed utterly foreign to his English nature, and he could not understand how his English friend could entertain such a thought; he probably forgot that a few generations earlier the hunting of all kinds of men, papists, dissenters, covenanters and rebels, with dogs, had been a favourite English sport.
”Really, Mr. Juxon,” he said in an agitated tone, ”I think you would do much better to protect yourself with the means provided by the law.
Considerations of humanity--”
”Considerations of humanity, sir, are at an end when one man threatens the life of another. You admit yourself that I am not safe unless G.o.ddard is caught, and yet you object to my method of catching him. That is illogical.”
The vicar felt that this was to some extent true; but he was not willing to admit it. He knew also that if he could dissuade the squire from his barbarous scheme, G.o.ddard would have a far better chance of escape.
”I think that with the a.s.sistance of Gall and a London detective--” he began.
”Gall is an old woman, Mr. Ambrose, and it will take twenty-four hours to get a detective from town. In twenty-four hours this man may have attacked me.”
”He will hardly attempt to force his way into your house, Mr. Juxon.”
”So then, I am to stay at home to suit his convenience? I will not do any such thing. Besides, in twenty-four hours G.o.ddard may have changed his mind and may have taken himself off. For the rest of her life Mrs.
G.o.ddard will then be exposed to the possibility of every kind of annoyance.”
”He would never come back, I am sure,” objected the vicar.
”Why not? Every time he comes she will give him money. The more money she gives him the more often he will come, unless we put an end to his coming altogether.”
”You seem to forget,” urged Mr. Ambrose, ”that there will be a vigorous search made for him. Why not telegraph to the governor of Portland?”
”I thought you wanted to save Mrs. G.o.ddard from needless scandal; did you not?” returned the squire. ”The governor of Portland would send down a squad of police who would publish the whole affair. He would have done so as soon as the man escaped had he known that Mrs. G.o.ddard lived here.”
”I wonder how G.o.ddard himself knew it,” remarked Mr. Ambrose.
”I don't know. Perhaps she told him she was coming here, at their last interview. Or perhaps she wrote to him in prison and the governor overlooked the letter. Anything like that would account for it.”
”But if you catch him--alive,” hesitated the vicar, ”it will all be known at once. I do not see how you can prevent that.”
”If I catch him alive, I will take him out of Billingsfield without any one's knowledge. I do not mean to hurt him. I only want to get him back to prison. Believe me, I am much more anxious than you can possibly be to save Mrs. G.o.ddard from harm.”
”Very well. I have done my errand,” said Mr. Ambrose, with a sort of sigh of relief. ”I confess, I am in great anxiety of mind, both on your account and on hers. I never dreamed that such things could happen in Billingsfield.”
”You are certainly not responsible for them,” answered Mr. Juxon. ”It is not your fault--”
”Not altogether, perhaps. But I was perhaps wrong in letting her come here--no, I am sure I was not,” he added impulsively, as though ashamed of having said anything so unkind.
”Certainly not. You were quite right, Mr. Ambrose, quite right, I a.s.sure you.”
”Well, I hope all may yet be for the best,” said the vicar.
”Let us hope so,” replied Mr. Juxon gravely. ”By all means, let us hope that all may be for the best.”
Whether the squire doubted the possibility of so happy an issue to events or not, is uncertain. He felt almost more sorry for the vicar than for himself; the vicar was such a good man, so unused to the violent deeds of violent people, of which the squire in his wanderings had seen more than was necessary to convince him that all was not always for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
Mr. Ambrose left his friend and as he retraced his steps through the park was more disturbed than ever. That G.o.ddard should contemplate killing the squire was bad enough, in all conscience, but that the squire should deliberately purpose to hunt down G.o.ddard with his bloodhound seemed somehow even worse. The vicar had indeed promised Mrs. G.o.ddard that he would not help to capture her husband, but he would have been as glad as any one to hear that the convict was once more lodged in his prison.
There lurked in his mind, nevertheless, an impression that even a convict should have a fair chance. The idea was not expressed, but existed in him. Everybody, he would have said, ought to have a fair chance, and as the law of nations forbids the use of explosive bullets in warfare, the laws of humanity seemed to forbid the use of bloodhounds in the pursuit of criminals. He had a very great respect for the squire's character and principles, but the cold-blooded way in which Mr. Juxon had spoken of catching and probably killing Walter G.o.ddard, had shaken the good vicar's belief in his friend. He doubted whether he were not now bound to return to Mrs. G.o.ddard and to warn her in his turn of her husband's danger, whether he ought not to do something to save the wretched convict from his fate. It seemed hideous to think that in peaceful Billingsfield, in his own lonely parish, a human being should be exposed to such peril. But at this point the vicar's continuity forsook him. He had not the heart to tell the tale of his interview with Mr.
Juxon to the unhappy lady he had left that morning. It was extremely improbable, he thought, that she should be able to communicate with her husband during the day, and the squire's language led him to think that the day would not pa.s.s without some attempt to discover Walter G.o.ddard's hiding-place. Besides, the vicar's mind was altogether more disturbed than it had been in thirty years, and he was no longer able to account to himself with absolute accuracy for what he did. At all events, he felt that it was better not to tell Mrs. G.o.ddard what the squire had said.