Part 40 (1/2)
”Caught--like a rat!” he muttered. Mary G.o.ddard sighed.
Was she to give him hope of escape? Or should she try to calm him now, and when he was better, break the truth to him? Was she to make him believe that he was safe for the present, and hold out a prospect of escape when he should be better, or should she tell him now, once for all, while he was in his senses, that he was lost? It was a terrible position. Love she had none left for him, but there was infinite pity still in her heart and there would be while he breathed. She hesitated one moment only, and it may be that she decided for the wrong; but it was her pity that moved her, and not any remnant of love.
”Hush, Walter,” she said. ”You may yet escape, when you are strong enough. You are quite safe here, for the present. Mr. Juxon would not think of giving you up now. By and by--the window is not high, Walter, and I shall often be alone with you. I will manage it.”
”Is that true? Are you cheating me?” cried the wretched man in broken tones. ”No--you are speaking the truth--I know it--G.o.d bless you, Mary!”
Again he closed his eyes and drew one or two long deep breaths.
Strange to say, the blessing the miserable convict called down upon her was sweet to Mary G.o.ddard, sweeter than anything she remembered for a long time. She had perhaps done wrong in giving him hopes of escaping, but at least he was grateful to her. It was more than she expected, for she remembered her last meeting with him, and the horrible ingrat.i.tude he had then shown her. It seemed to her that his heart had been softened a little; anything was better than that rough indifference he had affected before. Presently he spoke again.
”Not that it makes much difference now, Mary,” he said. ”I don't think there is much left of me.”
”Do not say that, Walter,” she answered gently. ”Rest now. The more you rest the sooner you will be well again. Try and sleep.”
”Sleep--no--I cannot sleep. I have murdered sleep--like Macbeth, Mary, like Macbeth--Do you remember Macbeth?”
”Hush,” said Mary G.o.ddard, endeavouring to calm him, though she turned pale at his strange quotation. ”Hush--”
”That is to say,” said the sick man, heedless of her exhortation and soothing touch, ”that is to say, I did not. He was very wide awake, and if I had not been quick, I should never have got off. Ugh! How damp that cellar was, that first night. That is where I got my fever. It is fever, I suppose?” he asked, unable to keep his mind for long in one groove.
”What does the doctor say? Has he been here?”
”Yes. He said you would soon be well; but he said you must be kept very quiet. So you must not talk, or I will go away.”
”Oh Mary, don't go--don't go! It's like--ha! ha! it's quite like old times, Mary!” He laughed harshly, a hideous, half-delirious laugh.
Mary G.o.ddard shuddered but made a great effort to control herself.
”Yes,” she said gently, ”it is like old times. Try and think that it is the old house at Putney, Walter. Do you hear the sparrows chirping, just as they used to do? The curtains are the same colour, too. You used to sleep so quietly at the old house. Try and sleep now. Then you will soon get well. Now, I will sit beside you, but I will not talk any more--there--are you quite comfortable? A little higher? Yes--so. Go to sleep.”
Her quiet voice soothed him, and her gentle hands made his rest more easy. She sat down beside him, thinking from his silence that he would really go to sleep; hoping and yet not hoping, revolving in her mind the chances of his escape, so soon as he should be strong enough to attempt it, shuddering at the thought of what his fate must be if he again fell into the hands of the police. She did not know that a detective was at that moment in the house, determined to carry her husband away so soon as the doctor p.r.o.nounced it possible. Nothing indeed, not even that knowledge could have added much to the burden of her sorrows as she sat there, a small and graceful figure with a sad pathetic face, leaning forward as she sat and gazing drearily at the carpet, where the sunlight crept in beneath the curtains from the bright world without. It seemed to her that the turning point in her existence had come, and that this day must decide all; yet she could not see how it was to be decided, think of it as she might. One thing stood prominent in her thoughts, and she delighted to think of it--the generosity of Charles Juxon. From first to last, from the day when she had frankly told him her story and he had accepted it and refused to let it bring any difference to his friends.h.i.+p for her, down to this present time, when after being basely attacked by her own husband, he had n.o.bly brought the wretch home and was caring for him as for one of his own blood--through all and in spite of all, the squire had shown the same una.s.suming but unfailing generosity. She asked herself, as she sat beside the sick man, whether there were many like Charles Juxon in the world. There was the vicar, but the case was very different. He too had been kind and generous from the first; but he had not asked her to marry him--she blushed at the thought--he had not loved her. If Charles Juxon loved her, his generosity to G.o.ddard was all the greater.
She could not tell whether she loved him, because her ideas were what the world calls simple, and what, in heaven, would be called good. Her husband was alive; none the less so because he had been taken away and separated from her by the law--he was alive, and now was brought face to face with her again. While he was living, she did not suppose it possible to love another, for she was very simple. She said to herself truly that she had a very high esteem for the squire and that he was the best friend she had in the world; that to lose him would be the most terrible of imaginable losses; that she was deeply indebted to him, and she even half unconsciously allowed that if she were free she might marry him. There was no harm in that, she knew very well. She owed her own husband no longer either respect or affection, even while she still felt pity for him. Her esteem at least, she might give to another; nay, she owed it, and if she had refused Charles Juxon her friends.h.i.+p, she would have called herself the most ungrateful of women. If ever man deserved respect, esteem and friends.h.i.+p, it was the squire.
Even in the present anxiety she thought of him, for his conduct seemed the only bright spot in the gloom of her thoughts; and she sincerely rejoiced that he had escaped unhurt. Had any harm come to him, she would have been, if it were possible, more miserable than she now was. But he was safe and sound, and doing his best to help her--doing more than she knew, in fact, at that very moment. There was at least something to be thankful for.
G.o.ddard stirred again, and opened his eyes.
”Mary,” he said faintly, ”they won't catch me after all.”
”No, Walter,” said she, humouring him. ”Sleep quietly, for no one will disturb you.”
”I am going where n.o.body can catch me. I am dying--”
”Oh, Walter!” cried Mary G.o.ddard, ”you must not speak like that. You will be better soon. The doctor is expected every moment.”
”He had better make haste,” said the sick man with something of the roughness he had shown at their first meetings. ”It is no use, Mary. I have been thinking about it. I have been mad for--for very long, I am sure. I want to die, Mary. n.o.body can catch me if I die--I shall be safe then. You will be safe too--that is a great thing.”
His voice had a strange and meditative tone in it, which frightened his wife, as she stood close beside him. She could not speak, for her excitement and fear had the mastery of her tongue.
”I have been thinking about it--I am not good for much, now--Mary--I never was. It will do some good if I die--just because I shall be out of the way. It will be the only good thing I ever did for you.”