A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 27

He held her fingers as in a vice.

"Hurt you! I wish I could strangle you and him too! Ha, you thought I was not looking this afternoon when he came! He went to the corner of the road with the parson, and when the parson was out of sight he came back!

I saw you!"

"You saw nothing!" answered his wife desperately. "How can you say so! If you knew how kind he has been, what a loyal gentleman he is, you would not dare to say such things."

"You used to say I was a loyal gentleman, Mary," retorted the convict. "I daresay he is of the same stamp as I. Look here, Mary, if I catch this loyal gentleman coming here any more I will cut his throat--so look out!"

"You do not mean to say you are going to remain here any longer, in danger of your life?" said Mary in great alarm.

"Well--a man can only hang once. Give me some more of that bread and cheese, Mary. It was exceedingly good."

"Then let me go," said his wife, trembling with horror at the threat she had just heard.

"Oh yes. I will let you go. But I will just hold the window open in case you don't come back soon enough. Look sharp!"

There was no need to hurry the unfortunate woman. In less than three minutes she returned, bringing a "quartern" loaf and a large piece of cheese. She thrust them out upon the window-sill and withdrew her hand before he could catch it. But he held the window open.

"Now go!" she said. "I cannot do more for you--for G.o.d's sake go!"

"You seem very anxious to see the last of me," he whispered. "I daresay if I am hanged you will get a ticket to see me turned off. Yes--we mention those things rather freely up in town. Don't be alarmed. I will come back to-morrow night--you had better listen. If you had shown a little more heart, I would have been satisfied, but you are so stony that I think I would like another fifty pounds to-morrow night. Those notes are so deliciously crisp--"

"Listen, Walter!" said Mary. "Unless you promise to go I will raise an alarm at once. I can face shame again well enough. I will have you--hus.h.!.+

For G.o.d's sake--hus.h.!.+ There is somebody coming!"

The convict's quick ear had caught the sound. Instantly he knelt and then lay down at full length upon the ground below the window. It was a fine night and the conscientious Mr. Gall was walking his beat. The steady tramp of his heavy shoes had something ominous in it which struck terror into the heart of the wretched fugitive. With measured tread he came from the direction of the village. Reaching the cottage he paused and dimly in the starlight Mrs. G.o.ddard could distinguish his glazed hat--the provincial constabulary still wore hats in those days. Mr. Gall stood not fifteen yards from the cottage, failed to observe that a window was open on the lower floor, nodded to himself as though satisfied with his inspection and walked on. Little by little the sound of his steps grew fainter in the distance. Walter slowly raised himself again from the ground, and put his head in at the window.

"You see it would not be hard to have you caught," whispered his wife, still breathless with the pa.s.sing excitement. "That was the policeman. If I had called him, it would have been all over with you. I tell you if you try to come again I will give you up."

"Oh, that's the way you treat me, is it?" said the convict with another oath. "Then you had better look out for your dear Mr. Juxon, that's all."

Without another word, G.o.ddard glided away from the window, let himself out by the wicket gate and disappeared across the road.

Mary G.o.ddard was in that moment less horrified by her husband's threat than by his base ingrat.i.tude to herself and by the accusation he seemed to make against her. Worn out with the emotions of fear and anxiety, she had barely the strength to close and fasten the window. Then she sank into the first chair she could find in the dark and stared into the blackness around her. It seemed indeed more than she could bear. She was placed in the terrible position of being obliged to betray her fugitive husband, or of living in constant fear lest he should murder the best friend she had in the world.

CHAPTER XVI.

On the morning after the events last described Mr. Ambrose sat at breakfast opposite his wife. The early post had just arrived, bringing the usual newspaper and two letters.

"Any news, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Ambrose with great suavity, as she rinsed her teacup in the bowl preparatory to repeating the dose. "Is not it time that we should hear from John?"

"There is a letter from him, strange to say. Wait a minute--my dear, the Tripos is over and he wants to know if he may stop here--"

"The Tripos over already! How has he done? Do tell me, Augustin!"

"He does not know," returned the vicar, quickly looking over the contents of the letter. "The lists are not out--he thinks he has done very well--he has had a hint that he is high up--wants to know whether he may stop on his way to London--he is going to see his father--"

"Of course he shall come," said Mrs. Ambrose with enthusiasm. "He must stop here till the lists are published and then we shall know--anything else?"

"The other is a note from a tutor of his side--my old friend Brown--he is very enthusiastic; says it is an open secret that John will be at the head of the list--begins to congratulate. Well, my dear, this is very satisfactory, very flattering."

"One might say very delightful, Augustin."

"Delightful, yes quite delightful," replied the vicar, burying his long nose in his teacup.

"I only hope it may be true. I was afraid that perhaps John had done himself harm by coming here at Christmas. Young men are so very light-headed, are they not, Augustin?" added Mrs. Ambrose with a prim smile. On rare occasions she had alluded to John's unfortunate pa.s.sion for Mrs. G.o.ddard, and when she spoke of the subject she had a tendency to a.s.sume something of the stiffness she affected towards strangers. As has been seen she had ceased to blame Mrs. G.o.ddard. Generally speaking the absent are in the wrong in such matters; she could not refer to John's conduct without a touch of severity. But the Reverend Augustin bent his s.h.a.ggy brows; John was now successful, probably senior cla.s.sic--it was evidently no time to censure his behaviour.

"You must be charitable, my dear," he said, looking sharply at his wife.

"We have all been young once you know."

"Augustin, I am surprised at you!" said Mrs. Ambrose sternly.

"For saying that I once was young?" inquired her husband. "Strange and paradoxical as such a statement must appear, I was once a baby."

"I think your merriment very unseemly," objected Mrs. Ambrose in a tone of censure. "Because you were once a baby it does not follow that you ever acted in such a very foolish way about a--"

"My dear," interrupted the vicar, handing his cup across the table, "I wish you would leave John alone, and give me another cup of tea. John will be here to-morrow. Let us receive him as we should. He has done us credit."

"He will never be received otherwise in this house, Augustin," replied Mrs. Ambrose, "whether you allow me to speak my mind or not. I am aware that Short has done us credit, as you express it. I only hope he always may do us credit in the future. I am sure, I was like a mother to him. He ought never to forget it. Why, my dear, cannot you remember how I always had his b.u.t.tons looked to and gave him globules when he wanted them? I think he might show some grat.i.tude."

"I do not think he has failed to show it," retorted the vicar.

"Oh, well, Augustin, if you are going to talk like that it is not possible to argue with you; but he shall be welcome, if he comes. I hope, however, that he will not go to the cottage--"

"My dear, I have a funeral this morning. I wish you would not disturb my mind with these trifles."

"Trifles! Who is dead? You did not tell me."

"Poor Judd's baby, of course. We have spoken of it often enough, I am sure."

"Oh yes, of course. Poor Tom Judd!" exclaimed Mrs. Ambrose with genuine sympathy. "It seems to me you are always burying his babies, Augustin!

It is very sad."

"Not always, my dear. Frequently," said the vicar correcting her. "It is very sad, as you say. Very sad. You took so much trouble to help them this time, too."

"Trouble!" Mrs. Ambrose cast up her eyes. "You don't know how much trouble. But I am quite sure it was the fault of that brazen-faced doctor. I cannot bear the sight of him! That comes of answering advertis.e.m.e.nts in the newspapers."

The present doctor had bought the practice abandoned by Mrs. Ambrose's son-in-law. He had paid well for it, but his religious principles had not formed a part of the bargain.

"It is of no use to cry over spilt milk, my dear."

"I do not mean to. No, I never do. But it is very unpleasant to have such people about. I really hope Tom Judd will not lose his next baby. When is John coming?"

"To-morrow. My dear, if I forget it this morning, will you remember to speak to Reynolds about the calf?"