Part 41 (1/2)

”Not the doctor!” cried Mr. Booley. ”Then who are you? I beg your pardon, I am sure--”

”I am John Short,” said John, quickly, heedless of the fact that his name conveyed no idea whatever to the mind of the detective. He cared little, for he began to comprehend the situation, and he fled precipitately into the library, leaving Mr. Booley alone to wait for the coming of the real physician. But in the library a fresh surprise awaited him; there he found Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose seated in solemn silence opposite to each other. He had not suspected their presence in the house, but he was relieved to see them--anything was a relief at that moment.

”Mr. Ambrose,” he said hurriedly, ”there is a detective in the next room who means to carry off that poor man at once--as he is--sick--dying perhaps--it must be prevented!”

”A detective!” cried the vicar and his wife in the same breath.

”My dear John,” said the vicar immediately afterwards, ”where is he? I will reason with him.”

”Augustin,” said Mrs. Ambrose with extreme severity, ”it is barbarous. I will go upstairs. If he enters the room it shall be across my body.”

”Do, my dear,” replied the vicar in great excitement, and not precisely appreciating the proposition to which he gave so willing an a.s.sent.

”Of course I will,” said his wife, who had already reached the door. From which it appears that Mrs. Ambrose was a brave woman. She pa.s.sed rapidly up the staircase to G.o.ddard's room, but she paused as she laid her hand upon the latch. From within she could hear Mary G.o.ddard's voice, praying aloud, as she had never heard any one pray before. She paused and listened, hesitating to interrupt the unhappy lady in such a moment.

Moreover, though her goodwill was boundless, she had not any precise idea how to manage the defence. But as she stood there, the thought that the detective might at any moment follow her was predominant. The voice within the room paused for an instant and Mrs. Ambrose entered, raising one finger to her lips as though expecting that Mary G.o.ddard would speak to her. But Mary was not looking, and at first did not notice the intrusion. She knelt by the bedside, her face buried in the coverlet, her hands clasped and clasping the sick man's wounded hand.

G.o.ddard's face was pale but not deathlike, and his breathing seemed regular and gentle; but his eyes were almost closed and he seemed not aware that any one had entered. Mrs. Ambrose was struck by his appearance which was greatly changed since she had left him half an hour earlier, his face purple and his harsh moaning continuing unceasingly. She said to herself that he was probably better. There was all the more reason for warning Mary G.o.ddard of the new danger that awaited him. She shut the door and locked it and withdrew the key. At the sound Mary looked up--then rose to her feet with a sad look of reproach, as though not wis.h.i.+ng to be disturbed. But Mrs. Ambrose came quickly to her side, and glancing once at G.o.ddard, to see whether he was unconscious, she led her away from the bed.

”My dear,” she said very kindly, but in a voice trembling with excitement, ”I had to come. There are detectives in the house, clamouring to take him away--but I will protect you--they shall not do it.”

Mary G.o.ddard started and her eyes stared wildly at her friend. But presently the look of resigned sadness returned, and a faint and mournful smile flickered on her lips.

”I think it is all over,” she said. ”He is still alive--but he will not live till they come.”

Then she bit her lip tightly, and all the features of her face trembled a little. The tears would rise spasmodically, though they were only tears of pity, not of love. Mrs. Ambrose, the severe, the stern, the eternally vigilant Mrs. Ambrose, sat down by the window; she put her arm about Mary G.o.ddard's waist and took her upon her knee as though she had been a little child and laid her head upon her breast, comforting her as best she could. And their tears flowed down and mingled together, for many minutes.

But once more the sick man's voice was heard; both women started to their feet and went to his side.

”Mary G.o.ddard! Mary G.o.ddard! Let me in!” he moaned faintly.

”It is I--here I am, Walter, dear Walter--I am with you,” answered Mary, raising him and putting her arm about his neck, while Mrs. Ambrose arranged the pillows behind him. He opened his eyes as though with a great effort.

Some one knocked softly at the door. Mrs. Ambrose left the bedside quickly and put the key in the lock.

”Who is there?” she asked, before she opened.

”I--John. Please let me in.”

Mrs. Ambrose opened and John entered, very pale; she locked the door again after him. He stood still looking with astonishment at Mrs. G.o.ddard who still propped the sick man in her arms and hardly noticed him.

”Why--?” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed and then checked himself, or rather was checked by Mrs. Ambrose's look. Then he spoke to her in a whisper.

”There is an awful row going on between the doctor and the detective,” he said hurriedly under his breath. ”They are coming upstairs and the vicar and Mr. Juxon are trying to part them--I don't know what they are not saying to each other--”

”Hush,” replied Mrs. Ambrose, ”do not disturb him--he was conscious again just now. This may be the crisis--he may recover. The door is locked--try and prevent anybody--that is, the detective, from coming in. They will not dare to break open the door in Mr. Juxon's house.”

”But why is Mrs. G.o.ddard here?” asked John unable to control his curiosity any longer. He did not mean that she should hear, but as she laid G.o.ddard's head gently upon the pillows, trying to soothe him to rest again, if rest it were, she looked up and met John's eyes.

”Because he is my husband,” said she very quietly.