Part 31 (1/2)

”I am sure, I am delighted, too,” said the squire, who had regained his composure but kept his hold on Stamboul's collar. ”He deserves all he gets, and more too,” he continued. ”I think he will be a remarkable man.”

”I did not think you liked him so very much,” said Mrs. Ambrose rather doubtfully, as she walked slowly by his side.

”Oh--I liked him very much. Indeed, I was going to ask him to stay with me for a few days at the Hall.”

The inspiration was spontaneous. Mr. Juxon was in a frame of mind in which he felt that he ought to do something pleasant for somebody, to set off against the bloodthirsty designs which had pa.s.sed through his mind in the morning. He knew that if he had not been over friendly to John, it had been John's own fault; but since he had found out that it was impossible to marry Mrs. G.o.ddard, he had forgiven the young scholar his shortcomings and felt very charitably inclined towards him. It suddenly struck him that it would give John great pleasure to stop at the Hall for a few days, and that it would be no inconvenience to himself. The effect upon Mrs. Ambrose was greater even than he had expected. She was hospitable, good and kind, but she was also economical, as she had need to be. The squire was rich. If the squire would put up John during a part of his visit it would be a kindness to John himself, and an economy to the vicarage. Mr. Ambrose himself would not have gone to such a length; but then, as his wife said to herself in self-defence, Augustin did not pay the butcher's bills, and did not know how the money went. She did not say that Augustin was precisely what is called reckless, but he of course did not understand economy as she did. How should he, poor man, with all his sermons and his funerals and other occupations to take his mind off?

Mrs. Ambrose was delighted at the squire's proposal.

”Really!” she exclaimed. ”That would be too good of you, Mr. Juxon. And you do not know how it would quite delight him! He loves books so much, and then you know,” she added in a confidential manner, ”he has never stayed in a country house in his life, I am quite sure.”

”And when is he coming down?” asked Mr. Juxon. ”I should be very much pleased to have him.”

”To-morrow, I think,” said Mrs. Ambrose.

”Well--would you ask him from me to come up and stop a week? Can you spare him, Mrs. Ambrose? I know you are very fond of him, of course, but--”

”Oh very,” said she warmly. ”But I think it likely he will stay some time,” she added in explanation of her willingness to let him go to the Hall.

The squire felt vaguely that the presence of a guest in his house would probably be a restraint upon him, and he felt that some restraint would be agreeable to him at the present time.

”Besides,” added Mrs. Ambrose, ”if you would like to have him first--there is a little repair necessary in his room at the vicarage--we have put it off too long--”

”By all means.” said the squire, following out his own train of thought.

”Send him up to me as soon as he comes. If I can manage it I will be down here to ask him myself.”

”It is so good of you,” said Mrs. Ambrose.

”Not at all. Are you going to the cottage?”

”Yes--why?”

”Nothing,” said Mr. Juxon. ”I did not know whether you would like to walk on a little farther with me. Good-bye, then. You will tell Short as soon as he comes, will you not?”

”Certainly,” replied Mrs. Ambrose, still beaming upon him. ”I will not let him unpack his things at the vicarage. Good-bye--so many thanks.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

Mrs. G.o.ddard's head ached ”terrible bad” according to Martha, and when the vicar left her she went and lay down upon her bed, with a sensation that if the worst were not yet over she could bear no more. But she had an elastic temperament, and the fact of having consulted Mr. Ambrose that morning had been a greater relief than she herself suspected. She felt that he could be trusted to save Mr. Juxon from harm and Walter from capture, and having once confided to him the important secret which had so heavily weighed upon her mind she felt that the burthen of her troubles was lightened. Mr. Juxon could take any measures he pleased for his own safety; he would probably choose to stay at home until the danger was past. As for her husband, Mary G.o.ddard did not believe that he would return a third time, for she thought that she had thoroughly frightened him. It was even likely that he had only thrown out his threat for the sake of terrifying his wife, and was now far beyond the limits of the parish. So great was the relief she felt after she had talked with the vicar that she almost ceased to believe there was any danger at all; looking at it in the light of her present mood, she almost wondered why she had thought it necessary to tell Mr. Ambrose--until suddenly a vision of her friend the squire, attacked and perhaps killed, in his own park, rose to her mental vision, and she remembered what agonies of fear she had felt for him until she had sent for the vicar. The latter indeed seemed to have been a sort of _deus ex maohina_ by whom she suddenly obtained peace of mind and a sense of security in the hour of her greatest distress.

All that afternoon she lay upon her bed, while Nellie sat beside her and read to her, and stroked her hands; for Nellie was in reality pa.s.sionately fond of her mother and suffered almost as much at the sight of her suffering as she could have done had she been in pain herself.

Both Mrs. G.o.ddard and the child started at the sound of Stamboul's baying, which was unlike anything they had ever heard before, and Nellie ran to the window.

”It is only Mr. Juxon and Stamboul having a game,” said Nellie. ”What a noise he made, though! Did not he?”

Poor Nellie--had she had any idea of what the ”game” was from which the squire found it so hard to make his hound desist, she must have gone almost mad with horror. For the game was her own father, poor child. But she came back and sat beside her mother utterly unconscious of what might have happened if Stamboul had once got beyond earshot, galloping along the trail towards the disused vault at the back of the church. Mrs.

G.o.ddard had started at the sounds and had put her hand to her forehead, but Nellie's explanation was enough to quiet her, and she smiled faintly and closed her eyes again. Then, half an hour later, Mrs. Ambrose came, and would not be denied. She wanted to make Mrs. G.o.ddard comfortable, she said, when she found she was ill, and she did her best, being a kind and motherly woman when not hardened by the presence of strangers. She told her that John was coming on the next day, speaking with vast pride of his success and omitting to look sternly at Mrs. G.o.ddard as she had formerly been accustomed to do when she spoke of the young scholar. Then at last she went away, after exacting a promise from Mrs. G.o.ddard to come and dine, bringing Nellie with her, on the following day, in case she should have recovered by that time from her headache.

But during all that night Mrs. G.o.ddard lay awake, listening for the sound she so much dreaded, of a creeping footstep on the slated path outside and for the tapping at the window. Nothing came, however, and as the grey dawn began to creep in through the white curtains, she fell peacefully asleep. Nellie would not let her be waked, and breakfasted without her, enjoying with childish delight the state of being waited on by Martha alone.

Meanwhile, at an early hour, John arrived at the vicarage and was received with open arms by Mr. Ambrose and his wife. The latter seemed to forget, in the pleasure of seeing him again, that she had even once spoken doubtfully of him or hinted that he was anything short of perfection itself. And to prove how much she had done for him she communicated with great pride the squire's message, to the effect that he expected John at the Hall that very day.