UC-NRLF 
 
 B 3 321 325 
 
GIFT OF 
 
 C 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH 
 
A TALE 
 
 OF 
 
 A LONELY PAEISH 
 
 BY 
 
 F. MARION CRAWFORD 
 
 AUTHOR OP "MB. ISAACS," " DB. CLAUDIUS," "A ROMAN SINSEK 
 "ZOROASTEB," ETC. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 
 1902 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1886, 
 BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. 
 
 Set up and clectrotyped January, 1893. Reprinted 
 January, 1894. January, 1895. January, 1896; July, 1902. 
 
 Twenty-fourth Thousand 
 
 Xortuooti ^3rfSS : 
 
 J. S. Gushing & Co. Berwick & Smith. 
 Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
TO 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS TALE 
 A MEAN TOKEN OF A LIFELONG AFFECTION 
 
 BORRINTO, Christmat Day, 1885 
 
 155247 
 
A TALE OP A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE Reverend Augustin Ambrose would gladly 
 have given up taking pupils. He was growing old 
 and his sight was beginning to trouble him; he was 
 very weary of Thucydides, of Homer, of the works 
 of Mr. Todhunter of which the green bindings ex 
 pressed a hope still unrealised, of conic sections 
 even of his beloved Horace. He was tired of the 
 stupidities of the dull young men who were sent to 
 him because they could not "keep up," and he had 
 long ceased to be surprised or interested by the 
 remarks of the clever ones who were sent to him 
 because their education had not prepared them for an 
 English University. The dull ones could never be 
 made to understand anything, though Mr. Ambrose 
 generally succeeded in making them remember enough 
 to matriculate, by dint of ceaseless repetition and a 
 system of memoria technica which embraced most 
 things necessary to the salvation of dull youth. The 
 clever ones, on the other hand, generally lacked al 
 together the solid foundation of learning; they could 
 construe fluently but did not know a long syllable 
 from a short one; they had vague notions of ele 
 mental algebra and no notion at all of arithmetic, but 
 
 1 
 
2 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 did very well in conic sections ; they knew nothing 
 of prosody, but dabbled perpetually in English blank 
 verse; altogether they knew most of those things 
 which they need not have known and they knew none 
 of those things thoroughly which they ought to have 
 known. After twenty years of experience Mr. 
 Ambrose ascertained that it was easier to teach a 
 stupid boy than a clever one, but that he would pre 
 fer not to teach at all. 
 
 Unfortunately the small tithes of a small country 
 parish in Essex did not furnish a sufficient income for 
 his needs. He had been a Fellow of Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, within a few years of taking his degree, 
 wherein he had obtained high honours. But he had 
 married and had found himself obliged to accept the 
 first living offered to him, to wit, the vicarage of 
 Billingsfield, whereof his college held the rectory and 
 received the great tithes. The entire income he ob 
 tained from his cure never at any time exceeded three 
 hundred and forty-seven pounds, and in the year when 
 it reached that high figure there had been an unusu 
 ally large number of marriages. It was not surprising 
 that the vicar should desire to improve his circum 
 stances by receiving one or two pupils. He had mar 
 ried young, as has been said, and there had been 
 children born to him, a son and a daughter. Mrs. 
 Ambrose was a good manager and a good mother, and 
 her husband had worked hard. Between them they 
 had brought up their children exceedingly well. 
 The son had in his turn entered the church, had ex 
 hibited a faculty of pushing his way which had not 
 characterised his father, had got a curacy in a fash 
 ionable Yorkshire watering-place, and was thought 
 to be on the way to obtain a first-rate living. In the 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 3 
 
 course of time, too, the daughter had lost her heart 
 to a young physician who had brilliant prospects and 
 some personal fortune, and the Reverend Augustin 
 Ambrose had given his consent to the union. Nor 
 had he been disappointed. The young physician 
 had risen rapidly in his profession, had been elected 
 a member of the London College, had transferred him 
 self to the capital and now enjoyed a rising practice 
 in Chelsea. So great was his success that it was 
 thought he would before long purchase the goodwill 
 of an old practitioner who dwelt in the neighbour 
 hood of Brompton Crescent, and who, it was said, 
 might shortly be expected to retire. 
 
 It will be seen, therefore, that if Mr. Ambrose s 
 life had not been very brilliant, his efforts had on 
 the whole been attended with success. His chil 
 dren were both happy and independent and no longer 
 needed his assistance or support; his wife, the excel 
 lent Mrs. Ambrose, enjoyed unfailing health and 
 good spirits ; he himself was still vigorous and active, 
 and as yet found no difficulty in obtaining a couple 
 of pupils at two hundred pounds a year each, for he 
 had early got a reputation for successfully preparing 
 young gentlemen with whom no other private tutor 
 could do anything, and he had established the scale 
 of his prices accordingly. It is true that he had 
 sacrificed other things for the sake of imparting tui 
 tion, and more than once he had hesitated and asked 
 himself whether he should go on. Indeed, when he 
 graduated, it was thought that he would soon make 
 himself remarkable by the publication of some 
 scholarly work; it was foretold that he might become 
 a famous preacher; it was asserted that he was a gen 
 eral favourite with the Fellows of Trinity and would 
 
4 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 get a proportionately fat living but he had com 
 mitted the unpardonable sin of allowing his chances 
 of fortune to slip from him. He had given up his 
 fellowship, had married and had accepted an insig 
 nificant country living. He asked nothing, and he got 
 nothing. He never attracted the notice of his bishop 
 by doing anything extraordinary, nor the notice of 
 the public by appearing in print. He baptized, mar 
 ried and buried the people of Billingsfield, Essex, 
 and he took private pupils. He wrote a sermon once 
 a fortnight, and revised old ones for the other three 
 occasions out of four. His sermons were good in 
 their way, but were intended for simple folk and did 
 no justice to the powers he had certainly possessed 
 in his youth. Indeed, as years went on, the dry 
 routine of his life produced its inevitable effect upon 
 his mind, and the productions of Mr. Ambrose grew 
 to be exceedingly commonplace ; and the more com 
 monplace he became, the more he regretted having 
 done so little with the faculties he enjoyed, and the 
 more weary he became of the daily task of galvanis 
 ing the dull minds of his pupils into a spasmodic 
 activity, just sufficient to leap the ditch that sepa 
 rates the schoolboy from the undergraduate. He had 
 not only educated his children and seen them pro 
 vided for in the world; he had also saved a little 
 money, and he had insured his life for five hundred 
 pounds. There was no longer any positive necessity 
 for continuing to teach, as there had been thirty years 
 ago, when he first married. 
 
 So much for the circumstances of the Reverend 
 Augustin Ambrose. Personally he was a man of 
 good presence, five feet ten inches in height, active 
 and strong, of a ruddy complexion with smooth, thick 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 5 
 
 grey hair and a plentiful grey beard. He shaved 
 his upper lip however, greatly to the detriment of 
 his appearance, for the said upper lip was very long 
 and the absence of the hirsute appendage showed a 
 very large mouth with very thin lips, generally com 
 pressed into an expression of remarkable obstinacy. 
 His nose was both broad and long and his grey eyes 
 were bright and aggressive in their glance. As a 
 matter of fact Mr. Ambrose was combative by nature, 
 but his fighting instincts seem to have been generally 
 employed in the protection of rights he already pos 
 sessed, rather than in pushing on in search of fresh 
 fields of activity. He was an active man, fond of 
 walking alone and able to walk any distance he 
 pleased ; a charitable man with the charity peculiar 
 to people of exceedingly economical tendencies and 
 possessing small fixed incomes. He would give 
 himself vast personal trouble to assist distress, as 
 though aware that since he could not give much 
 money to the poor he was bound to give the best of 
 himself. The good Mrs. Ambrose seconded him in 
 this as in all his works ; labouring hard when hard 
 work could do any good, but giving material assist 
 ance with a sparing hand. It sufficiently defines 
 the two to say that although many a surly labourer 
 in the parish grumbled that the vicar and his wife 
 were "oncommon near," when money was concerned, 
 there was nevertheless no trouble in which their aid 
 was not invoked and their advice asked. But the 
 indigent labourer not uncommonly retrieved his posi 
 tion by asking a shilling of one of the young gentle 
 men at the vicarage, who were generally open-handed, 
 good-looking boys, blessed with a great deal more 
 money than brains. 
 
6 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 At the time when this tale opens, however, it 
 chanced that one of the two young gentlemen at the 
 vicarage was by no means in the position peculiar to 
 the majority of youths who sought the good offices 
 of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose. John Short, 
 aged eighteen, was in all respects a remarkable con 
 trast to his companion the Honourable Cornelius 
 Angleside. John Short was apparently very poor; 
 the Honourable Cornelius on the other hand had 
 plenty of money. Short was undeniably clever; 
 Angleside was uncommonly dull. Short was the 
 son of a decayed literary man; Angleside was the 
 son of a nobleman. Short was by nature a hard 
 worker; Angleside was amazingly idle. Short meant 
 to do something in the world; Angleside had early 
 determined to do nothing. 
 
 It would not be easy to define the reasons which 
 induced Mr. Ambrose to receive John Short under 
 his roof. He had never before taken a pupil on any 
 but his usual terms, and at his time of life it was 
 strange that he should break through the rule. But 
 here his peculiar views of charity came into play. 
 Short s father had been his own chum at school, and 
 his friend at college, but had failed to reap any sub 
 stantial benefits from his education. He had been a 
 scholar in his way, but his way had not been the way 
 of other scholars, and when he had gone up for hon 
 ours he had got a bad third in classics. He would 
 not enter the church, he could not enter the law, he 
 had no interest whatever, and he found himself 
 naturally thrust into the profession of literature. 
 For a time he had nearly starved ; then he had met 
 with some success and had, of course, married with 
 out hesitation ; after this he had had more misfortunes. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 7 
 
 His wife had died leaving him an only son, whom in 
 course of time he had sent to school. But school 
 was too expensive and he had reluctantly taken the 
 boy home again. It was in a fit of despair that he 
 wrote to his old friend Augustin Ambrose, asking 
 his advice. The Reverend Augustin considered the 
 matter with the assistance of his wife, and being 
 charitable souls, they determined that they must 
 help Short to educate his son. Accordingly the 
 vicar of Billingsfield wrote to his old friend to say 
 that if he could manage to pay a small sum for the 
 lad s board, he, the vicar, would complete the boy s 
 education, so that he might at least have a chance 
 in the world. Short accepted the offer with bound 
 less gratitude and had hitherto not failed to pay the 
 vicar the small sum agreed upon. The result of all 
 this was that Mr. Ambrose had grown very fond of 
 John, and John had derived great advantage from 
 his position. He possessed precisely what his father 
 had lacked, namely a strong bent in one direction, 
 and there was no doubt that he would distinguish 
 himself if he had a chance. That chance the vicar 
 had determined to give him. He had made up his 
 mind that his old friend s son should go to college 
 and show what he was able to do. It was not an easy 
 thing to manage, but the vicar had friends in Cam 
 bridge and John had brains ; moreover the vicar and 
 John were both very obstinate people and had both 
 determined upon the same plan, so that there was a 
 strong probability of their succeeding. 
 
 John Short was eighteen years of age, neither par 
 ticularly good-looking nor by any means the reverse. 
 He had what bankers commonly call a lucky face ; 
 that is to say he had a certain veiy prepossessing 
 
8 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 look of honesty in his blue eyes, and a certain look 
 of energetic goodwill in his features. When he was 
 much older and wore a beard he passed for a hand 
 some man, but at eighteen he could only boast the 
 smallest of fair whiskers, and when anybody took 
 the trouble to look long at him, which was not often, 
 the verdict was that his jaw was too heavy and his 
 mouth too obstinate. In complexion he was fair, 
 and healthy to look at, generally sunburned in the 
 summer, for he had a habit .of reading out of doors ; 
 his laugh was very pleasant, though it was rarely 
 heard; his eyes were honest but generally thought 
 ful; his frame was sturdy and already inclined rather 
 to strength than to graceful proportion; his head 
 matched his body well, being broad and well-shaped 
 with plenty of prominence over the brows and plenty 
 of fulness above the temples. He had a way of 
 standing as though it would not be easy to move 
 him, and a way of expressing his opinion which 
 seemed to challenge contradiction. But he was not 
 a combative boy. If any one argued with him, it 
 soon appeared that he was not really argumentative, 
 but merely enthusiastic. It was not necessary to 
 agree with him, and there was small use in contra 
 dicting him. The more he talked the more enthusi 
 astic he grew as he developed his own views ; until 
 seeing that he was not understood or that he was 
 merely laughed at, he would end his discourse 
 with a merry laugh at himself, or a shy apology 
 for having talked so much. But the vicar assured 
 his wife that the boy s Greek and Latin verses 
 were something very extraordinary indeed, and 
 much better than his own in his best days. For 
 John was passionately fond of the classics and did 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 9 
 
 not propose to acquire any more mathematical knowl 
 edge than was strictly necessary for his matricula 
 tion and "little-go." He meant to be a famous 
 scholar and he meant to get a fellowship at his 
 college in order to be perfectly independent and to 
 help his father. 
 
 John was a constant source of wonder to his com 
 panion the Honourable Cornelius Angleside, who re 
 membered to have seen fellows of that sort at Eton 
 but had never got near enough to them to know what 
 they were really like. Cornelius had a vague idea 
 that there was some trick about appearing to know 
 so much and that those reading chaps were awful 
 humbugs. How the trick was performed he did not 
 venture to explain, but he was as firmly persuaded 
 that it was managed by some species of conjuring as 
 that Messrs. Maskelyne and Cook performed their 
 wonders by sleight of hand. That one human brain 
 should actually contain the amount of knowledge 
 John Short appeared to possess was not credible to 
 the Honourable Cornelius, and the latter spent more 
 of his time in trying to discover how John "did it" 
 than in trying to "do it" himself. Nevertheless, 
 young Angleside liked Short after his own fashion, 
 and Short did not dislike Angleside. John s father 
 had given him to understand that as a general rule 
 persons of wealth and good birth were a set of over 
 bearing, purse-proud bullies, who considered men of 
 genius to be little better than a set of learned mon 
 keys, certainly not good enough to black their boots. 
 For John s father in his misfortunes had imbibed 
 sundry radical notions formerly peculiar to poor 
 literary men, and not yet altogether extinct, and he 
 had accordingly warned his son that all mammon was 
 
10 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 the mammon of unrighteousness, and that the peo 
 ple who possessed it were the natural enemies of 
 people who had to live by their brains. But John 
 had very soon discovered that though Cornelius 
 Angleside possessed the three qualifications for per 
 dition, in the shape of birth, wealth and ignorance, 
 against which his poor father railed unceasingly, he 
 succeeded nevertheless in making himself very good 
 company. Angleside was not overbearing, he was 
 not purse-proud and he was not a bully. On the 
 contrary he was unobtrusive and sufficiently simple 
 in manner, and he certainly never mentioned the 
 subject of his family or fortune ; John rather pitied 
 him, on the whole, until he began to discover that 
 Angleside looked up to him on account of his mental 
 superiority, and then John, being very human, began 
 to like him. 
 
 The life at the vicarage of Billingsfield, Essex, 
 was not remarkable for anything but its extreme 
 regularity. Prayers, breakfast, work, lunch, a walk, 
 work, dinner, work, prayers, bed. The programme 
 never varied, save as the seasons introduced some 
 change in the hours of the establishment. The vicar, 
 who was fond of a little gardening and amused him 
 self with a variety of experiments in the laying of 
 asparagus beds, found occasional excitement in the 
 pursuit of a stray cat which had managed to climb 
 his wire netting and get at the heads of his favourite 
 vegetable, in which thrilling chase he was usually 
 aided by an old brown retriever answering, when he 
 answered at all, to the name of Carlo, and by the 
 Honourable Cornelius, whose skill in throwing stones 
 was as phenomenal as his ignorance of Latin quanti 
 ties. The play was invariably opened by old Rey- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 11 
 
 nolds, the ancient and bow-legged gardener, groom 
 and man of all work at the vicarage. 
 
 "Please sir, there s Simon Gunn s cat in the spar- 
 rergrass." The information was accompanied by a 
 sort of chuckle of evil satisfaction which at once 
 roused the sleeping passions of the Reverend Augus- 
 tin Ambrose. 
 
 "Dear me, Reynolds, then why don t you turn 
 her out?" and without waiting for an answer, the 
 excellent vicar would spring from his seat and rush 
 down the lawn in the direction of the beds, closely 
 followed by the Honourable Cornelius, who picked 
 up stones from the gravel path as he ran, and whose 
 long legs made short work of the iron fence at the 
 bottom of the garden. Meanwhile the aged Rey 
 nolds let Carlo loose from the yard and the hunt was 
 prosecuted with great boldness and ingenuity. The 
 vicar s object was to get the cat out of the asparagus 
 bed as soon as possible without hurting her, for he 
 was a humane man and would not have hurt a fly. 
 Cornelius, on the other hand, desired the game to 
 last as long as possible, and endeavoured to prevent 
 the cat s escape by always hitting the wire netting 
 at the precise spot where she was trying to get over 
 it. In this way he would often succeed in getting 
 as much as half an hour s respite from Horace. At 
 last the vicar, panting with his exertions and bathed 
 in perspiration, would protest against the form of 
 assault. 
 
 "Really, Angleside," he would say, "I believe I 
 could throw straighter myself. I m quite sure Carlo 
 can get her out if you leave him alone." 
 
 Whereupon Cornelius would put his hands in his 
 pockets and look on, and in a few minutes, when the 
 
12 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 cat had been driven out and the vicar s back was 
 turned, he would slip a sixpence into old Reynold s 
 hand, and follow his tutor reluctantly back to the 
 study. Whether there was any connection between 
 the cat and the sixpence is uncertain, but during the 
 last months of Angleside s stay at the vicarage the 
 ingenuity of Simon Gunn s yellow cat in getting 
 over the wire netting reached such a pitch that the 
 vicar began to prepare a letter to the Bishop Stort- 
 ford Chronicle on the relations generally existing 
 between cats and asparagus beds. 
 
 Another event in the life of the vicarage was the 
 periodical lameness of the vicar s strawberry mare, 
 followed by the invariable discovery that George 
 Horsnell the village blacksmith had run a nail into 
 her foot when he shoed her last. Invariably, also, 
 the vicar threatened that in future the mare should 
 be shod by Hawkins the rival blacksmith, who was 
 a dissenter and had consequently never been employed 
 by the vicarage. Moreover it was generally rumoured 
 once every year that old Nat Barker, the octogenarian 
 cripple who had not been able to stand upon his feet 
 for twenty years, was at the point of death. He in 
 variably recovered, however, in time to put in an 
 appearance by proxy at the distribution of a certain 
 dole of a loaf and a shilling on boxing day. It was 
 told also that in remote times the Puckeridge hounds 
 had once come that way and that the fox had got into 
 the churchyard. A repetition of this stirring event 
 was anxiously looked for during many years, every 
 time that the said pack met within ten miles of 
 Billingsfield, but hitherto it had been looked for in 
 vain. On the whole the life at the vicarage was not 
 eventful, and the studies of the two young men who 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 13 
 
 imbibed learning at the feet of the Reverend Augus- 
 tin Ambrose were rarely interrupted. 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose herself represented the feminine 
 element in the society of the little place. The new 
 doctor was a strange man, suspected of being a free 
 thinker, and he was not married. The Hall, for 
 there was a Hall at Billingsfield, was uninhabited, 
 and had been uninhabited for years. The estate 
 which belonged to it was unimportant and moreover 
 was in Chancery and seemed likely to stay there, for 
 reasons no one ever mentioned at Billingsfield, be 
 cause no one knew anything about them. From 
 time to time a legal looking personage drove up to 
 the Duke s Head, which was kept by Mr. Abraham 
 Boosey, who was also undertaker to the parish, and 
 which was thought to be a very good inn. The legal 
 personage stayed a day or two, spending most of his 
 time at the Hall and in driving about to the scattered 
 farms which represented the estate, but he never 
 came to the vicarage, nor did the vicar ever seem to 
 know what he was doing nor why he came. " He 
 came on business " that was all that anybody knew. 
 His business was to collect rents, of course ; but what 
 he did with them, no one was bold enough to sur 
 mise. The estate was in Chancery, it was said, and 
 the definition conveyed about as much to the mind 
 of the average inhabitant of Billingsfield, as if he had 
 been informed that the moon was in perigee or the 
 sun in Scorpio. The practical result of its being in 
 Chancery was that no one lived there. 
 
 John Short liked Mrs. Ambrose and the Honour 
 able Cornelius behaved to her with well bred affa 
 bility. She always said Cornelius had very nice 
 manners, as indeed he had and had need to have. 
 
14 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Occasionally, perhaps four or five times in the year, 
 the Reverend Edward Pewlay, who had what he 
 called a tenor voice, and his wife, who played the 
 pianoforte very fairly, came over to assist at a Penny 
 Reading. He lived "over Harlow way," as the 
 natives expressed it ; he was what was called in those 
 parts a rabid Anglican, because he preached in his 
 surplice and had services on the Saints days, and 
 the vicar of Billingsfield did not sympathise in his 
 views. Nevertheless he was very useful at Penny 
 Readings, and on one of these occasions produced a 
 very ingenious ghost for the delectation of the rus 
 tics, by means of a piece of plate glass and a couple 
 of lamps. 
 
 There had indeed been festivities at the vicarage 
 to which as many as three clergymen s wives had 
 been invited, but these were rare indeed. For 
 months at a time Mrs. Ambrose reigned in undis 
 puted possession of the woman s social rights in 
 Billingsfield. She was an excellent person in every 
 way. She had once been handsome and even now 
 she was fine-looking, of goodly stature, if also of 
 goodly weight ; rosy, even rubicund, in complexion, 
 and rotund of feature ; looking at you rather severely 
 out of her large grey eyes, but able to smile very 
 cheerfully and to show an uncommonly good set of 
 teeth ; twisting her thick grey hair into a small knot 
 at the back of her head and then covering it with a 
 neatly made cap which she considered becoming to 
 her time of life ; dressed always with extreme sim 
 plicity and neatness, glorying in her good sense and 
 in her stout shoes; speaking of things which she 
 called "neat" with a devotional admiration and ex- 
 
A TA^E OF A LONELY PARISH. 15 
 
 pressing the extremest height of her disapprobation 
 when she said anything was "very untidy." A 
 motherly woman, a practical woman, a good house 
 keeper and a good wife, careful of small things 
 because generally only small things came in her way, 
 devotedly attached to her husband, whom she re 
 garded with perfect justice as the best man of her 
 acquaintance, adding, however, with somewhat pre 
 cipitous rashness that he was the best man in the 
 world. She took also a great interest in his pupils 
 and busied herself mightily with their welfare. 
 Since the arrival of the new doctor who was sus 
 pected of free-thinking, she had shown a strong lean 
 ing towards homoeopathy, and prescribed small pellets 
 of belladonna for the Honourable Cornelius s cold 
 and infinitesimal drops of aconite for John Short s 
 headaches, until she observed that John never had a 
 headache unless he had worked too much, and An- 
 gleside always had a cold when he did not want to 
 work at all. Especially in the department of the 
 commissariat she showed great activity, and the repu 
 tation the vicar had acquired for feeding his pupils 
 well had perhaps more to do with his success than he 
 imagined. She was never tired of repeating that 
 Englishmen needed plenty of good food, and she had 
 no principles which she did not practise. She even 
 thought it right to lecture young Angleside upon 
 his idleness at stated intervals. He always replied 
 with great gentleness that he was awfully stupid, 
 you know, and Mr. Ambrose was awfully good about 
 it and he hoped he should not be pulled when he 
 went up. And strange to relate he actually passed 
 his examination and matriculated, to his own im- 
 
16 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 mense astonishment and to the no small honour and 
 glory of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose, vicar 
 of Billingsfield, Essex. But when that great day 
 arrived certain events occurred which are worthy to 
 be chronicled and remembered. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN the warm June weather young Angleside went 
 up to pass his examination for entrance at Trinity. 
 There is nothing particularly interesting or worthy 
 of note in that simple process, though at that time 
 the custom of imposing an examination had only 
 been recently imported from Oxford. For one whole 
 day forty or fifty young fellows from all parts of the 
 country sat at the long din ing-tables in the beauti 
 ful old hall and wrote as busily as they could, answer 
 ing the printed questions before them, and eyeing 
 each other curiously from time to time. The 
 weather was warm and sultry, the trees were all in 
 full leaf and Cambridge was deserted. Only a few 
 hard-reading men, who stayed up during the Long, 
 wandered out with books at the backs of the colleges 
 or strayed slowly through the empty courts, objects 
 of considerable interest to the youths who had come 
 up for the entrance examination chiefly pale men 
 in rather shabby clothes with old gowns and battered 
 caps, and a general appearance of being the worse 
 for wear. 
 
 Angleside had been in Cambridge before and con 
 sequently lost no time in returning to Billingsfield 
 when the examination was over. Short was to spend 
 the summer at the vicarage, reading hard until the 
 term began, when he was to go up and compete for 
 a minor scholarship ; Angleside was to wait until he 
 
18 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 heard whether he had passed, and was then going 
 abroad to meet his father and to rest from the ex 
 treme exertion of mastering the "Apolog} " and the 
 first books of the "Memorabilia." John drove over 
 to meet the Honourable Cornelius, who was in a ter 
 rible state of anxiety and left him no peace on the 
 way asking him again and again to repeat the an 
 swers to the questions which had been proposed, 
 reckoning up the ones he had answered wrong and 
 the ones he thought he might have answered right, 
 and coming each time to a different conclusion, 
 finally lighting a huge brierwood pipe and swearing 
 "that it was a beastly shame to subject human 
 beings to such awful torture." John calmed him by 
 saying he fancied Cornelius had "got through"; for 
 John s words were a species of gospel to Cornelius. 
 By the time they reached the vicarage Angleside felt 
 sanguine of his success. 
 
 The vicar was not visible. It was a strange and 
 unheard of thing there were visitors in the drawing- 
 room. This doubtless accounted for the fact that the 
 fly from the Duke s Head was standing on the oppo 
 site side of the road. The two young men went into 
 their study, which was on the ground floor and opened 
 upon the passage which led to the drawing-room from 
 the little hall. Angleside remarked that by leaving 
 the door open they would catch a glimpse of the 
 visitor when he went out. But the visitor stayed 
 long. The curiosity of the two was wrought up to 
 a high pitch ; it was many months since there had 
 been a real visitor at the vicarage. Angleside sug 
 gested going out and finding old Reynolds he 
 always knew everything that was going on. 
 
 "If we only wait long enough," said Short phil 
 osophically, "they are sure to come out," 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 19 
 
 "Perhaps," returned Cornelius rather doubtfully. 
 
 " They " did come out. The drawing-room door 
 opened and there was a sound of voices. It was a 
 woman s voice, and a particularly sweet voice, too. 
 Still no one came down the passage. The lady 
 seemed to be lingering in taking her leave. Then 
 there was a sound of small feet and suddenly a little 
 girl stood before the open door of the study, looking 
 wonderingly at the two young men. Short thought 
 he had never seen such a beautiful child. She could 
 not have been more than seven or eight years old, 
 and was not tall for her age ; a delicate little figure, 
 all in black, with long brown curls upon her shoul 
 ders, flowing abundantly from beneath a round black 
 sailor s hat that was set far back upon her head. 
 The child s face was rather pale than very fair, of a 
 beautiful transparent paleness, with the least tinge 
 of colour in the cheeks ; her great violet eyes gazed 
 wonderingly into the study, and her lips parted in 
 childlike uncertainty, while her little gloved hand 
 rested on the door-post as though to get a sense of 
 security from something so solid. 
 
 It was only for a moment. Both the young fel 
 lows smiled at the child unconsciously. Perhaps she 
 thought they were laughing at her; she turned and 
 ran away again ; then passed a second time, stealing 
 a long glance at the two strangers, but followed 
 immediately by the lady, who was probably her 
 mother, and whose voice had been heard for the last 
 few moments. The lady, too, glanced in as she 
 went by, and John Short lost his heart then and 
 there ; not that the lady was beautiful as the little 
 girl was, but because there was something in her 
 face, in her figure, in her whole carriage, that moved 
 
20 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 the boy suddenly as she looked at him and sent the 
 blood rushing to his cheeks and forehead. 
 
 She seemed young, but he never thought of her 
 age. In reality she was nine-and-twenty years old 
 but looked younger. She was pale, far paler than 
 the little girl, but she had those same violet eyes, 
 large, deep and sorrowful, beneath dark, smooth 
 eyebrows that arched high and rose a little in the 
 middle. Her mouth was perhaps large for her face 
 but her full lips curved gently and seemed able to 
 smile, though she was not smiling. Her nose was 
 perhaps too small her face was far from faultless 
 and it had the slightest tendency to turn up in 
 stead of down, but it was so delicately modelled that 
 an artist would have pardoned it that deviation from 
 the classic. Thick brown hair waved across her 
 white forehead and was hidden under the black 
 bonnet and the veil thrown back over it. She was 
 dressed in black and the close-fitting gown showed 
 off with unconscious vanity the lines of a per 
 fectly moulded and perfectly supple figure. But it 
 was especially her eyes which attracted John s sud 
 den attention at that first glance, her violet eyes, 
 tender, sad, almost pathetic, seeming to ask sym 
 pathy and marvellously able to command it. 
 
 It was but for a moment that she paused. Then 
 came the vicar, following her from the drawing- 
 room, and all three went on. Presently Short heard 
 the front door open and Mr. Ambrose shouted to 
 the fly. 
 
 " Muggins ! Muggins ! " 
 
 No one had ever been able to say why Abraham 
 Boosey, the publican, had christened his henchman 
 with an appellation so vulgar, to say the least of it 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 21 
 
 so amazingly cacophonous. The man s real name 
 was plain Charles Bird; but Abraham Boosey had 
 christened him Muggins and Muggins he remained. 
 Muggins had had some beer and was asleep, for the 
 afternoon was hot and he had anticipated his "fours." 
 
 Short saw his opportunity and darted out of the 
 study to the hall where the lady and her little girl 
 were waiting while the vicar tried to rouse the 
 driver of the fly by shouting at him. John blushed 
 again as he passed close to the woman with the sad 
 eyes ; he could not tell why, but the blood mounted 
 to the very roots of his hair, and for a moment he 
 felt very foolish. 
 
 "I ll wake him up, Mr. Ambrose," he said, run 
 ning out hatless into the summer s sun. 
 
 "Wake up, you lazy beggar! " he shouted in the 
 ear of the sleeping Muggins, shaking him violently 
 by the arm as he stood upon the wheel. Muggins 
 grunted something and smiled rather idiotically. 
 "It was only the young gentleman s play," he would 
 have said. Bless you ! he did not mind being shaken 
 and screamed at! He slowly turned his horses and 
 brought the fly up to the door. John walked back 
 and stood waiting. 
 
 "Thank you," said the lady in a voice that made 
 his heart jump, as she came out from under the porch 
 and the vicar helped her to get in. Then it was the 
 turn of the little girl. 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear," said the vicar kindly as he 
 took her hand. 
 
 "Good-bye," said the child. Then she hesitated 
 and looked at John, who was standing beside the 
 clergyman. " Good-bye, " she repeated, holding out 
 her little hand shyly towards him. John took it 
 
22 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 and grew redder than ever as he felt that the lady 
 was watching him. Then the little girl blushed 
 and laughed in her small embarrassment, and climbed 
 into the carriage. 
 
 "You will write, then?" asked Mr. Ambrose as 
 he shut the door. 
 
 " Yes and thank you again. You are very, very 
 kind to me," answered the lady, and John thought 
 that as she spoke there were tears in her voice. 
 She seemed very unhappy and to John she seemed 
 very beautiful. Muggins cracked his whip and the 
 fly moved off, leaving the vicar and his pupil stand 
 ing together at the iron wicket gate before the house. 
 
 "Well? Do you think Angleside got through?" 
 asked Mr. Ambrose, rather anxiously. 
 
 Short said he thought Angleside was safe. He 
 hoped the vicar would say something about the lady, 
 but to his annoyance, he said nothing at all. John 
 could not ask questions, seeing it was none of his 
 business and was fain to content himself with think 
 ing of the lady s face and voice. He felt very un 
 comfortable at dinner. He thought the excellent 
 Mrs. Ambrose eyed him with unusual severity, as 
 though suspecting what he was thinking about, and 
 he thought the vicar s grey eye twinkled occasionally 
 with the pleasant sense of possessing a secret he had 
 no intention of imparting. As a matter of fact Mrs. 
 Ambrose was supremely unconscious of the fact that 
 John had seen the lady, and looked at him with 
 some curiosity, observing that he seemed nervous 
 and blushed from time to time and was more silent 
 than usual. She came to the conclusion that he had 
 been working too hard, as usual, and that night 
 requested him to take two little pellets of aconite, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 23 
 
 and to repeat the dose in the morning. Whether it 
 was the result of the homoeopathic medicine or of the 
 lapse of a few hours and a good night s rest, it is 
 impossible to say; John, however, was himself again 
 the next morning and showed no further signs of 
 nervousness. But he kept his eyes and ears open, 
 hoping for some news of the exquisite creature who 
 had made so profound an impression on his heart. 
 
 In due time the joyful news arrived from Cam 
 bridge that the Honourable Cornelius had passed his 
 examination and was at liberty to matriculate at the 
 beginning of the term. The intelligence was duly 
 telegraphed to his father, and in a few hours came a 
 despatch in answer, full of affectionate congratula 
 tion and requesting that Cornelius should proceed at 
 once to Paris, where his father was waiting for him. 
 The young man took an affectionate leave of the 
 vicar, of Mrs. Ambrose and especially of John Short, 
 for whom he had conceived an almost superstitious 
 admiration; old Reynolds was not forgotten in the 
 farewell, and for several days after Angleside s de 
 parture the aged gardener was observed to walk some 
 what unsteadily and to wear a peculiarly thoughtful 
 expression ; while the vicar observed w r ith annoyance 
 that Strawberry, the old mare, was less carefully 
 groomed than usual. Strangely coincident with 
 these phenomena was the fact that Simon Gunn s 
 yellow cat seemed to have entirely repented of her 
 evil practices, renouncing from the day when Cor 
 nelius left for Paris her periodical invasion of the 
 asparagus beds at the foot of the garden. But the 
 vicar was too practical a man to waste time in specu 
 lating upon the occult relations of seemingly discon 
 nected facts. He applied himself with diligence to 
 
24 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 the work of preparing John Short to compete for the 
 minor scholarship. The labour was congenial. He 
 had never taken a pupil so far before, and it was a 
 genuine delight to him to bring his own real powers 
 into play at last. As the summer wore on, he pre 
 dicted all manner of success for John Short, and his 
 predictions were destined before long to be realised, 
 for John did all he promised to do and more also. 
 To have succeeded in pushing the Honourable Corne 
 lius through his entrance examination was a triumph 
 indeed, but an uninteresting one at best, and one 
 which had no further consequences. But to be the 
 means of turning out the senior classic of the Uni 
 versity was an honour which would not only greatly 
 increase the good vicar s reputation but would be to 
 him a source of the keenest satisfaction during the 
 remainder of his life ; moreover the prospects which 
 would be immediately opened to John in case he 
 obtained such a brilliant success would be a very 
 material benefit to his unlucky father, whose talents 
 yielded him but a precarious livelihood and whose 
 pitiable condition had induced his old schoolfellow 
 to undertake the education of his son. 
 
 Much depended upon John s obtaining one or 
 more scholarships during his career at college. To a 
 man of inferior talents the vicar would have sug 
 gested that it would be wiser to go to a smaller 
 college than Trinity where he would have less com 
 petition to expect; but as soon as he realised John s 
 powers, he made up his mind that it would be pre 
 cisely where competition was hottest that his pupil 
 would have the greatest success. He would get 
 something perhaps his father would make a little 
 more money the vicar even dreamed of lending 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 25 
 
 John a small sum something would turn up; at 
 all events he must go to the largest college and do 
 everything in the best possible way. Meanw r hile he 
 must work as hard as he could during the few months 
 remaining before the beginning of his first term. 
 
 Whether the lady ever wrote to Mr. Ambrose, 
 John could not ascertain; she was never mentioned 
 at the vicarage, and it seemed as though the mystery 
 were never to be solved. But the impression she 
 had made upon the young man s mind remained and 
 even gained strength by the working of his imagina 
 tion; for he thought of her night and day, treasuring 
 up every memory of her that he could recall, build 
 ing romances in his mind, conceiving the most in 
 genious reasons for the solitary visit she had made 
 to the vicarage, and inwardly vowing that if ever he 
 should be at liberty to follow his own inclinations he 
 would go out into the world and search for her. He 
 was only eighteen then, and of a strongly susceptible 
 temperament. He had seen nothing of the world, 
 for even when living in London, in a dingy lodging, 
 with his father, he had been perpetually occupied 
 with books, reading much and seeing little. Then 
 he had been at school, but he had seen the dark side 
 of school life the side which boys who are known 
 to be very poor generally see ; and more than ever he 
 had resorted to study for comfort and relief from out 
 ward ills. Then at last he had been transferred to a 
 serener state in the vicarage of Billingsfield and had 
 grown up rapidly from a schoolboy to a young man ; 
 but, as has been said, the feminine element at the 
 vicarage was solely represented by Mrs. Ambrose and 
 the monotony of her maternal society was varied only 
 by the occasional visits of the mild young Mrs. Edward 
 
26 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Pewlay. John Short had indeed a powerful and as 
 piring imagination, but it would have been impos 
 sible even by straining that faculty to its utmost 
 activity to think in the same breath of romance and 
 of Mrs. Ambrose, for even in her youth Mrs. 
 Ambrose had not been precisely a romantic character. 
 John s fancy was not stimulated by his surround 
 ings, but it fed upon itself and grew fast enough to 
 acquire an influence over everything he did. It was 
 not surprising that, when at last chance threw in 
 his way a being who seemed instantly to realise and 
 fulfil his wildest dreams of beauty and feminine fas 
 cination, he should have yielded without a struggle 
 to the delicious influence, feeling that henceforth his 
 ideal had taken shape and substance, and had thereby 
 become more than ever the ideal in which he de 
 lighted. 
 
 He gave her names, a dozen of them every day, 
 christening her after every heroine in fiction and 
 history of whom he had ever read. But no name 
 seemed to suit her well enough ; whereupon he wrote 
 a Greek ode and a Latin epistle to the fair unknown, 
 but omitted to show them to the Reverend Augustin 
 Ambrose, though he was quite certain that they were 
 the best he had ever produced. Then he began to 
 write a novel, but suddenly recollected that a famous 
 author had written one entitled "No Name," and as 
 that was the only title he could possibly give to the 
 work he contemplated he of course had no choice but 
 to abandon the work itself. He wrote more verses, 
 and he dreamed more dreams, and he meanwhile ac 
 quired much learning and in process of time realised 
 that he had but a few days longer to stay at Billings- 
 field. The Michaelmas term was about to open and 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 27 
 
 he must bid farewell to the hospitable roof and the 
 learned conversation of the good vicar. But when 
 those last days came he realised that he was leaving 
 the scene of his only dream, and his heart grew sad. 
 
 Indeed he loved the old red brick vicarage with its 
 low porch, overgrown with creepers, its fragrant old 
 flower garden, surrounding it on three sides, its 
 gabled roof, its south wall whereon the vicar con 
 stantly attempted to train fig trees, maintaining that 
 the climate of England had grown warmer and that 
 he would prove it John loved it all, and especially 
 he loved the little study, lined with the books grown 
 familiar to him, and the study door, the door through 
 which he had seen that lovely face which he firmly 
 believed was to inspire him to do great things and 
 to influence his whole life for ever after. He would 
 leave the door open and place himself just where he 
 had sat that day, and then he would look suddenly 
 up with beating heart, almost fancying he could again 
 see those violet eyes gazing at him from the dusky 
 passage blushing then to himself, like any girl, 
 and burying himself in his book till the fancy was 
 grown too strong and he looked up again. He 
 had attempted to sketch her face on a bit of paper; 
 but he had no skill and he thrust the drawing into 
 the paper basket, horrified at having made anything 
 so hideous in the effort to represent anything so 
 beautiful, and returned to making odes upon her, 
 and Latin epistles, in which he succeeded much 
 better. 
 
 And now the time had come when he must leave 
 all this dreaming, or at least the scene of it, and go 
 to college and win scholarships and renown. It was 
 hard to go and he showed his regret so plainly that 
 
28 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose was touched at what she took for his 
 affection for the place and for herself and for the 
 vicar. John Short was indeed very grateful to her 
 for all the kindness she had shown him, and to Mr. 
 Ambrose for the learning he had acquired; for John 
 was a fine fellow and never forgot an obligation nor 
 undervalued one. But when we are very young our 
 hearts are far more easily touched to joy and sadness 
 by the chords and discords of our own dreaming, 
 than by the material doings of the world around us, 
 or by the strong and benevolent interest our elders 
 are good enough to take in us. We feel grateful to 
 those same elders if we have any good in us, but 
 we are far from feeling a similar interest in them. 
 We see in our imaginations wonderful pictures, and 
 we hear wonderful words, for everything we dream 
 of partakes of an unknown perfection and completely 
 throws into the shade the inartistic commonplaces of 
 daily life. As John Short grew older, he often 
 regretted the society of his old tutor and in the fre 
 quent absence of important buttons from his raiment 
 he bitterly realised that there was no longer a motherly 
 Mrs. Ambrose to inspect his linen ; but when he took 
 leave of them what hurt him most was to turn his 
 back upon the beloved old study, upon the very door 
 through which he had once, and only once, beheld 
 the ideal of his first love dream. 
 
 Though the vicar was glad to see the boy started 
 upon what he already regarded as a career of certain 
 victory, he was sorry to lose him, not knowing when 
 he should see him again. John intended to read 
 through all the vacations until he got his degree. 
 He might indeed have come down for a day or two at 
 Christmas, but with his very slender resources even 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 29 
 
 so short a pleasure trip was not to be thought of 
 lightly. It was therefore to be a long separation, so 
 long to look forward to that when John saw the 
 shabby little box which contained all his worldly 
 goods put up into the back of the vicar s dogcart, 
 and stood at last in the hall, saying good-bye, he felt 
 as though he was being thrust out into the world 
 never to return again ; his heart seemed to rise in his 
 throat, the tears stood in his eyes and he could hardly 
 speak a word. Even then he thought of that day 
 when he had waked up the sleepy Muggins to take 
 away the beautiful unknown lady. He felt he must 
 be quick about his leave-taking, or he would break 
 down. 
 
 "You have been very good to me. I I shall 
 never forget it," he murmured as he shook hands 
 with Mrs. Ambrose. "And you, too, sir " he 
 added turning to the vicar. But the old clergyman 
 cut him short, being himself rather uncertain about 
 the throat. 
 
 "Good-bye, my lad. God bless you. We shall 
 hear of you soon showing them what you can do 
 with your Alcaics Good-bye." 
 
 So John got into the dogcart and was driven off 
 by the ancient Reynolds past the "Duke s Head," 
 past the "Feathers," past the churchyard and the 
 croft the "croat," they called it in Billingsfield 
 and on by the windmill on the heath, a hideous 
 bit of grassless common euphemistically so named, 
 and so out to the high-road towards the railway 
 station, feeling very miserable indeed. It is a curi 
 ous fact, too, in the history of his psychology that in 
 proportion as he got farther from the vicarage he 
 thought more and more of his old tutor and less and 
 
30 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 less of his unfinished dream, and he realised pain 
 fully that the vicar was nearly the only friend he 
 had in the world. He would of course find Corne 
 lius Angleside at Cambridge, but he suspected that 
 Cornelius, turned loose among a merry band of un 
 dergraduates of his own position would be a very 
 different person from the idle youth he had known 
 at Billingsfield, trembling in the intervals of his idle 
 ness at the awful prospect of the entrance examina 
 tion, and frantically attempting to master some bit 
 of stray knowledge which might possibly be useful 
 to him. Cornelius would hunt, would gamble, would 
 go to the races and would give wines at college; 
 John was to be a reading man who must avoid such 
 things as he would avoid the devil himself, not only 
 because he was too wretchedly poor to have any share 
 whatever in the amusements of Cornelius and his set, 
 but because every minute was important, every hour 
 meant not only learning but meant, most emphati 
 cally, money. He thought of his poor father, grinding 
 out the life of a literary hack in a wretched London 
 lodging, dining Heaven knew where and generally 
 supping not at all, saving every penny to help his 
 son s education, hard working, honest, lacking no 
 virtue except the virtue of all virtues success. 
 Then he thought how he himself had been favoured 
 by fortune during these last years, living under the 
 vicar s roof, treated with the same consideration as 
 the high-born young gentlemen who had been his com 
 panions, living well, sleeping well and getting the 
 best education in England for nothing or next to 
 nothing, while that same father of his had never 
 ceased to slave day and night with his pen, honestly 
 doing his best and yet enjoying none of the good 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 31 
 
 things of life. John thought of all this and set his 
 teeth boldly to face the world. A few months, he 
 thought, and he might have earned a scholarship 
 he might be independent. Then a little longer 
 less than three years and he might, nay, he would, 
 take high honours in the university and come back 
 crowned with glory, with the prospect of a fellow 
 ship, with every profession open to him, with the 
 world at his feet and with money in his hand to 
 help his father out of all his troubles. 
 
 That was how John Short went to Trinity. It 
 was a hard struggle at first, for he found himself 
 much poorer than he had imagined, and it seemed as 
 though the ends could not possibly meet. There 
 was no question of denying himself luxuries; that 
 would have been easy enough. In those first months 
 it was the necessities that he lacked, the coals for his 
 little grate, the oil for his one small lamp. But he 
 fought bravely through it, having, like many another 
 young fellow who has weathered the storms of poverty 
 in pursuit of learning, an iron constitution, and an 
 even stronger will. He used to say long afterwards 
 that feeling cold was a mere habit and that when one 
 thoroughly understood the construction of Greek 
 verses, some stimulus of physical discomfort was 
 necessary to make the imagination work well; in 
 support of which assertion he said that he had never 
 done such good things by the comfortable fire in the 
 study at Billingsfield vicarage as he did afterwards 
 on winter nights by the light of a tallow candle, high 
 up in Neville s Court. Moreover, if any one argued 
 that it was better for an extremely poor man not to 
 go to Trinity, but to some much smaller college, he 
 answered that as far as he himself was concerned he 
 
32 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 could not have done better, which was quite true and 
 therefore perfectly unanswerable. Where the com 
 petition was less, he would have been satisfied with 
 less, he said; where it was greatest a man could only 
 be contented when he had reached the highest point 
 possible. But before he attained his end he suffered 
 more than any one knew, especially during those 
 first months. For when he had got his first scholar 
 ship, he insisted upon sending back the little sums 
 of hard-earned money his father sent him from time 
 to time, and he consequently had nearly as hard work 
 as before to keep himself warm and to keep oil in his 
 lamp during the long winter s evenings. But he 
 succeeded, nevertheless. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 33 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN the month of October of that year, a short 
 time after John had taken up his abode in Trinity 
 College, an event occurred which shook Billings- 
 field to its foundations; no less an event than the 
 occupation of the dwelling known as the "cottage." 
 What the cottage was will appear hereafter. The 
 arrival of the new tenants occurred in the following 
 manner. 
 
 The Reverend Augustin Ambrose received a let 
 ter, which he immediately showed to his wife, as he 
 showed most of his correspondence ; for he was of the 
 disposition which may be termed wife-consulting. 
 Married men are generally of two kinds ; those who 
 tell their wives everything and those who tell them 
 nothing. It is evident that the relative merits of the 
 two systems depend chiefly upon the relative merits 
 of the wives in question. Mr. Ambrose had no 
 doubt of the advantages of his own method and he 
 carried it to its furthest expression, for he never did 
 anything whatever without consulting his better 
 half. On the whole the plan worked well, for the 
 vicar had learning and his wife had common sense. 
 He therefore showed the letter to her and she read 
 it, and read it again, and finally put it away, writing 
 across the envelope in her own large, clear hand the 
 words Goddard, Cottage indicative of the con 
 tents. 
 
34 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "My DEAR SIR It is now nearly five months 
 since I saw you last. Need I tell you that the sense 
 of your kindness is still fresh in my memory? You 
 do not know, indeed you cannot know, what an 
 impression your goodness made upon me. You 
 showed me that I was acting rightly. It has been 
 so hard to act rightly. Of course you quite under 
 stand what I mean. I cannot refer to the great sor 
 row which has overtaken me and my dear innocent 
 little Nellie. There is no use in referring to it, for I 
 have told you all. You allowed me to unburden my 
 heart to you during my brief visit, and ever since 
 that day I have felt very much, I may say infinitely, 
 relieved. 
 
 "I am again about to ask you a favour; I trust 
 indeed that I am not asking too much, but I know 
 by experience how kind you are and so I am not 
 afraid to ask this too. Do you remember speaking 
 to me of the little cottage? The picture you drew 
 of it quite charmed me, and I have determined to 
 take it, that is, if it is still to be let and if it is not 
 asking quite too much of you. I mean, if you will 
 take it for me. You cannot think how grateful I 
 shall be and I enclose a cheque. I am almost sure 
 you said thirty-six pounds. It was thirty-six, was 
 it not? The reason I venture to enclose the money 
 is because you are so very kind, but of course you do 
 not know anything certain about me. But I am sure 
 you will understand. You said you were sure I 
 could live with my little girl in Billingsfield for 
 three hundred a year. I find I have a little more, in 
 fact nearly five hundred. If you tell me that I can 
 have the cottage, I will come down at once, for town 
 is very dreary and we have been here all summer 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 35 
 
 except a week at Margate. Let me thank you again, 
 you have been so very kind, and believe me, my dear 
 sir, very sincerely yours, 
 
 "MARY GODDARD." 
 
 "Augustin, my dear, this is very exciting," said 
 Mrs. Ambrose, as she handed the cheque to her hus 
 band for inspection and returned the letter to its 
 envelope, preparatory to marking it for future refer 
 ence; and when, as has been said, she had written 
 upon the outside the words Goddard, Cottage, and 
 had put it away she turned upon her husband with 
 an inquiring manner peculiar to her. Mr. Ambrose 
 was standing before the window, looking out at the 
 rain and occasionally glancing at the cheque he still 
 held in his hand. 
 
 "Just like a woman to send a cheque to bearer 
 through the post," he remarked, severely. "How 
 ever since I have got it, it is all right." 
 
 "I don t think it is all right, Augustin," said his 
 wife. "We are taking a great responsibility in 
 bringing her into the parish. I am quite sure she is 
 a dissenter or a Romanist or something dreadful, to 
 begin with." 
 
 "My dear," answered the vicar, mildly, "you make 
 very uncharitable suppositions. It seems to me that 
 the most one can say of her is that she is very un 
 happy and that she does not write very good English." 
 
 " Oh, I have no doubt she is very unhappy. But 
 as you say we must not be uncharitable. I suppose 
 you will have to write about the cottage." 
 
 "I suppose so," said Mr. Ambrose doubtfully. "I 
 cannot send her back the money, and the cottage is 
 certainly to let." 
 
36 A TALE OP A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 He deposited the cheque in the drawer of his writ 
 ing-table and began to walk up and down the room, 
 glancing up from time to time at his wife who was 
 lifting one after another the ornaments which stood 
 upon the chimney-piece, in order to ascertain whether 
 Susan had dusted underneath them. She had many 
 ways of assuring herself that people did their work 
 properly. 
 
 "No," said she, "you cannot send her back the 
 money. But it is a very solemn responsibility. I 
 hope we are doing quite right." 
 
 "I certainly would not hesitate to return the 
 cheque, my dear, if I thought any harm would come 
 of Mrs. Goddard s living here. But I don t think 
 there is any reason to doubt her story." 
 
 " Of course not. It was in the Standard, so there 
 is no doubt about it. I only hope no one else reads 
 the papers here." 
 
 "They read them in the kitchen," added Mrs. 
 Ambrose presently, "and they probably take a paper 
 at the Duke s Head. Mr. Boosey is rather a literary 
 character." 
 
 "Nobody will suppose it was that Goddard, my 
 dear," said the vicar in a reassuring tone of voice. 
 
 "No you had better write about the cottage. 
 
 "I will," said the vicar; and he forthwith did. 
 And moreover, with his usual willingness to give 
 himself trouble for other people, he took a vast deal 
 of pains to see that the cottage was really habitable. 
 It turned out to be in very good condition. It was 
 a pretty place enough, standing ten yards back from 
 the road, beyond the village, just opposite the gates 
 of the park ; a little square house of red brick with 
 a high pointed roof and a little garden. The walls 
 
A TALE OF A LOXELY PARISH. 37 
 
 were overgrown with creepers which had once been 
 trained with considerable care, but which during the 
 last two years had thriven in untrimmed luxuriance 
 and now covered the whole of the side of the house 
 which faced the road. So thickly did they grow that 
 it was with difficulty that the windows could at first 
 be opened. The vicar sighed as he entered the dark 
 ened rooms. His daughter had lived in the cottage 
 when she first married the young doctor who had 
 now gone to London, and the vicar had been, and 
 was, very fond of his daughter. He had almost 
 despaired of ever seeing her again in Billingsfield; 
 the only glimpses of her he could obtain were got by 
 going himself to town, for the doctor was so busy 
 that he always put off the projected visit to the coun 
 try and his wife was so fond of him that she refused 
 to go alone. The vicar sighed as he forced open the 
 windows upon the lower floor and let the light into 
 the bare and empty rooms which had once been so 
 bright and full of happiness. He wondered what 
 sort of person Mrs. Goddard would turn out to be 
 upon nearer acquaintance, and made vague, uncon 
 scious conjectures about her furniture as he stumbled 
 up the dark stairs to the upper story. 
 
 He was not left long in doubt. The arrangements 
 were easily concluded, for the cottage belonged to 
 the estate in Chancery and the lawyer in charge was 
 very busy with other matters. The guarantee 
 afforded by the vicar s personal application, together 
 with the payment of a year s rent in advance so far 
 facilitated matters that four days after she had written 
 to Mr. Ambrose the latter informed Mrs. Goddard 
 that she was at liberty to take possession. The 
 vicar suggested that the Billingsfield carrier, who 
 
38 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 drove his cart to London once a week, could bring 
 her furniture down in two trips and save her a con 
 siderable expense; Mrs. Goddard accepted this ad 
 vice and in the course of a fortnight was installed 
 with all her goods in the cottage. Having completed 
 her arrangements at last, she came to call upon the 
 vicar s wife. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard had not changed since she had first 
 visited Billingsfield, five months earlier, though 
 little Eleanor had grown taller and was if possible 
 prettier than ever. Something of the character of 
 the lady in black may have been gathered from the 
 style of her letter to Mr. Ambrose ; that communica 
 tion had impressed the vicar s wife unfavourably 
 and had drawn from her husband a somewhat com 
 passionate remark about the bad English it contained. 
 Nevertheless when Mrs. Goddard came to live in 
 Billingsfield the Ambroses soon discovered that she 
 was a very well-educated woman, that she appeared 
 to have read much and to have read intelligently, 
 and that she was on the whole decidedly interesting. 
 It was long, however, before Mrs. Ambrose entirely 
 conquered a certain antipathy she felt for her, and 
 which she explained after her own fashion. Mrs. 
 Goddard was not a dissenter and she was not a 
 Romanist; on the contrary she appeared to be a very 
 good churchwoman. She paid her bills regularly 
 and never gave anybody any trouble. She visited 
 the vicarage at stated intervals, and the vicarage 
 graciously returned her visits. The vicar himself 
 even went to the cottage more often than Mrs. 
 Ambrose thought strictly necessary, for the vicar was 
 strongly prejudiced in her favour. But Mrs. Am 
 brose did not . share that prejudice. Mrs. Goddard, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 39 
 
 she said, was too effusive, talked too much about 
 herself and her troubles, did not look thoroughly 
 straightforward, probably had foreign blood. Ay, 
 there was the rub Mrs. Ambrose suspected that 
 Mrs. Goddard was not quite English. If she was 
 not, why did she not say so, and be done with it? 
 
 Mrs. Goddard was English, nevertheless, and 
 would have been very much surprised could she have 
 guessed the secret cause of the slight coldness she 
 sometimes observed in the manner of the clergyman s 
 wife towards her. She herself, poor thing, believed 
 it was because she was in trouble, and considering 
 the nature of the disaster which had befallen her, 
 she was not surprised. She was rather a weak 
 woman, rather timid, and if she talked a little too 
 much sometimes it was because she felt embarrassed ; 
 there were times, too, when she was very silent and 
 sad. She had been very happy and the great catas 
 trophe had overtaken her suddenly, leaving her abso 
 lutely without friends. She wanted to be hidden 
 from the world, and by one of those strange con 
 trasts often found in weak people she had suddenly 
 made a very bold resolution and had successfully car 
 ried it out. She had come straight to a man she had 
 never seen, but whom she knew very well by repu 
 tation, and had told him her story and asked him to 
 help her; and she had not come in vain. The per 
 son who advised her to go to the Reverend Augustin 
 Ambrose knew that there was not a better man to 
 whom she could apply. She had found what she 
 wanted, a sort of deserted village where she would 
 never be obliged to meet any one, since there was 
 absolutely no society; she had found a good man 
 upon whom she felt she could rely in case of further 
 
40 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 difficulty ; and she had not come upon false pretences, 
 for she had told her whole story quite frankly. For 
 a woman who was naturally timid she had done a 
 thing requiring considerable courage, and she was 
 astonished at her own boldness after she had done 
 it. But in her peaceful retreat, she reflected that she 
 could not possibly have left England, as many women 
 in her position would have done, simply because the 
 idea of exile was intolerable to her ; she reflected also 
 that if she had settled in any place where there was 
 any sort of society her story would one day have 
 become known, and that if she had spent years in 
 studying her situation she could not have done bet 
 ter than in going boldly to the vicar of Billingsfield 
 and explaining her sad position to him. She had 
 found a haven of rest after many months of terrible 
 anxiety and she hoped that she might end her days 
 in peace and in the spot she had chosen. But she 
 was very young not thirty years of age yet and 
 her little girl would soon grow up and then ? Evi 
 dently her dream of peace was likely to be of limited 
 duration ; but she resigned herself to the unpleasant 
 possibilities of the future with a good grace, in con 
 sideration of the advantages she enjoyed in the 
 present. 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose was at home when Mrs. Goddard 
 and little Eleanor came to the vicarage. Indeed Mrs. 
 Ambrose was rarely out in the afternoon, unless 
 something very unusual called her away. She re 
 ceived her visitor with the stern hospitality she 
 exercised towards strangers. The strangers she saw 
 were generally the near relations of the young gen 
 tlemen whom her husband received for educational 
 purposes. She stood in the front drawing-room, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 41 
 
 that is to say, in the most impressive chamber of that 
 fortress which is an Englishman s house. It was a 
 formal room, arranged by a fixed rule and the order 
 of it was maintained inflexibly; no event could be 
 imagined of such terrible power as to have caused 
 the displacement of one of those chairs, of one of 
 those ornaments upon the chimney-piece, of one of 
 those engravings upon the walls. The walls were 
 papered with one shade of green, the furniture was 
 covered with material of another shade of green and 
 the well-spared carpet exhibited still a third variety 
 of the same colour. Mrs. Ambrose s sense of order 
 did not extend to the simplest forms of artistic har 
 mony, but when it had an opportunity of impressing 
 itself upon inanimate objects which were liable to 
 be moved, washed or dusted, its effects were formi 
 dable indeed. She worshipped neatness and clean 
 liness ; she left the question of taste to others. And 
 now she stood in the keep of her stronghold, the 
 impersonation of moral rectitude and of practical 
 housekeeping. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard entered rather timidly, followed by 
 little Eleanor whose ideas had been so much dis 
 turbed by the recent change in her existence, that she 
 had grown unusually silent and her great violet eyes 
 were unceasingly opened wide to take in the grow 
 ing wonders of her situation. Mrs. Goddard was 
 still dressed in black, as when John Short had seen 
 her five months earlier. There was something a lit 
 tle peculiar in her mourning, though Mrs. Ambrose 
 would have found it hard to define the peculiarity. 
 Some people would have said that if she was really 
 a widow her gown fitted a little too well, her bonnet 
 was a little too small, her veil a little too short. 
 
42 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose supposed that those points were sug 
 gested by the latest fashions in London and summed 
 up the difficulty by surmising that Mrs. Goddard had 
 foreign blood, 
 
 "I should have called before," said the latter, 
 deeply impressed by the severe appearance of the 
 vicar s wife, " but I have been so busy putting my 
 things into the cottage " 
 
 "Pray don t think of it," answered Mrs. Ambrose. 
 Then she added after a pause, " I am very glad to see 
 you." She appeared to have been weighing in her 
 conscience the question whether she could truthfully 
 say so or not. But Mrs. Goddard was grateful for 
 the smallest advances. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, "you are so very kind. 
 Will you tell Mr. Ambrose how thankful I am for 
 his kind assistance? Yes, Nellie and I have had 
 hard work in moving, have not we, dear?" She 
 drew the beautiful child close to her and gazed lov 
 ingly into her eyes. But Nellie was shy; she hid 
 her face on her mother s shoulder, and then looked 
 doubtfully at Mrs. Ambrose, and then hid herself 
 again. 
 
 "How old is your little girl?" asked Mrs. Am 
 brose more kindly. She was fond of children, and 
 actually pitied any child whose mother perhaps had 
 foreign blood. 
 
 " Eleanor I call her Nellie is eight years old. 
 She will be nine in January. She is tall for her 
 age," added Mrs. Goddard with affectionate pride. 
 As a matter of fact Nellie was small for her years, 
 and Mrs. Ambrose, who was the most truthful of 
 women, felt that she could not conscientiously agree 
 in calling her tall. She changed the subject. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 43 
 
 "I am afraid you will find it very quiet in Bil- 
 lingsfield," she said presently. 
 
 "Oh, I am used that is, I prefer a very quiet 
 place. I want to live very quietly for some years, 
 indeed I hope for the rest of my life. Besides it 
 will be so good for Nellie to live in the country 
 she will grow so strong." 
 
 "She looks very well, I am sure," answered Mrs. 
 Ambrose rather bluntly, looking at the child s 
 clear complexion and bright eyes. "And have you 
 always lived in town until now, Mrs. Goddard?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " Oh no, not always, but most of the year, perhaps. 
 Indeed I think so." Mrs. Goddard felt nervous 
 before the searching glance of the elder woman. 
 Mrs. Ambrose concluded that she was not absolutely 
 s t r a igh tf or war d . 
 
 " Do you think you can make the cottage comfort 
 able?" asked the vicar s wife, seeing that the con 
 versation languished. 
 
 "Oh, I think so," answered her visitor, glad to 
 change the subject, and suddenly becoming very 
 voluble as she had previously been very shy. " It is 
 really a charming little place. Of course it is not 
 very large, but as we have not got very many belong 
 ings that is all the better; and the garden is small 
 but extremely pretty and wild, and the kitchen is 
 very convenient ; really I quite wonder how the peo 
 ple w T ho built it could have made it all so comfort 
 able. You see there are one two the pantry, 
 the kitchen and two rooms on the ground floor and 
 plenty of room upstairs for everybody, and as for the 
 sun! it streams into all the windows at once from 
 morning till night. And such a pretty view, too, 
 
44 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 of that old gate opposite where does it lead to, 
 Mrs. Ambrose? It is so very pretty." 
 
 "It leads to the park and the Hall," answered 
 Mrs. Ambrose. 
 
 "Oh " Mrs. Goddard s tone changed. "But 
 nobody lives there?" she asked suddenly. 
 
 "Oh no it is in Chancery, you know." 
 
 "What what is that, exactly?" asked Mrs. 
 Goddard, timidly. " Is there a young heir waiting 
 to grow up I mean waiting to take possession?" 
 
 " No. There is a suit about it. It has been going 
 on for forty years my husband says, and they cannot 
 decide to whom it belongs." 
 
 "I see," answered Mrs. Goddard. "I suppose 
 they will never decide now." 
 
 "Probably not for some time." 
 
 " It must be a very pretty place. Can one go in, 
 do you think ? I am so fond of trees what a 
 beautiful garden you have yourself, Mrs. Ambrose." 
 
 "Would you like to see it?" asked the vicar s 
 wife, anxious to bring the visit to a conclusion. 
 
 " Oh, thank you of all things ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Goddard. "Would not you like to run about the 
 garden, Nellie?" 
 
 The little girl nodded slowly and stared at Mrs. 
 Ambrose. 
 
 "My husband is a very good gardener," said the 
 latter, leading the way out to the hall. "And so 
 was John Short, but he has left us, you know." 
 
 "Who was John Short?" asked Mrs. Goddard 
 rather absently, as she watched Mrs. Ambrose who 
 was wrapping herself in a huge blue waterproof cloak 
 and tying a sort of worsted hood over her head. 
 
 "He was one of the boys Mr. Ambrose prepared 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 45 
 
 for college such a good fellow. You may have 
 seen him when you came last June, Mrs. Goddard?" 
 
 " Had he very bright blue eyes a nice face ? " 
 
 " Yes that is, it might have been Mr. Angleside 
 Lord Scatterbeigh s son he was here, too." 
 
 "Oh," said Mrs. Goddard, "perhaps it was." 
 
 "Mamma," asked little Nellie, "what is Laws 
 Catterbay?" 
 
 "A peer, darling." 
 
 "Like the one at Brighton, mamma, with a band?" 
 
 "No, child," answered the mother laughing. "P, 
 double E, R, peer a rich gentleman." 
 
 "Like poor papa then?" inquired the irrepressible 
 Eleanor. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard turned pale and pressed the little girl 
 close to her side, leaning down to whisper in her ear. 
 
 " You must not ask foolish questions, darling I 
 will tell you by and by." 
 
 "Papa was a rich gentleman," objected the child. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard looked at Mrs. Ambrose, and the 
 ready tears came into her eyes. The vicar s wife 
 smiled kindly and took little Nellie by the hand. 
 
 "Come, dear," she said in the motherly tone that 
 was natural to her when she was not receiving vis 
 itors. " Come and see the garden and you can play 
 with Carlo." 
 
 "Can t I see Laws Catterbay, too?" asked the lit 
 tle girl rather wistfully. 
 
 "Carlo is a great, big, brown dog," said Mrs. 
 Ambrose, leading the child out into the garden, 
 while Mrs. Goddard followed close behind. Before 
 they had gone far they came upon the vicar, arrayed 
 in an old coat, his hands thrust into a pair of gigan 
 tic gardening gloves and a battered old felt hat upon 
 
46 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 his head. Mrs. Goddard had felt rather uncomfort 
 able in the impressive society of Mrs. Ambrose and 
 the sight of the vicar s genial face was reassuring in 
 the extreme. She was not disappointed, for he 
 immediately relieved the situation by asking all 
 manner of kindly questions, interspersed with re 
 marks upon his garden, while Mrs. Ambrose intro 
 duced little Nellie to the acquaintance of Carlo who 
 had not seen so pretty a little girl for many a day, 
 and capered and wagged his feathery tail in a man 
 ner most unseemly for so clerical a dog. 
 
 So it came about that Mrs. Goddard established 
 herself at Billingsfield and made her first visit to 
 the vicarage. After that the ice was broken and 
 things went on smoothly enough. Mrs. Ambrose s 
 hints concerning foreign blood, and her husband s 
 invariable remonstrance to the effect that she ought 
 to be more charitable, grew more and more rare as 
 time went on, and finally ceased altogether. Mrs. 
 Goddard became a regular institution, and ceased to 
 astonish the inhabitants. Mr. Thomas Reid, the 
 sexton, was heard to remark from time to time that 
 he "didn t hold with th m newfangle fashins in 
 dress ; " but he was a regular old conservative, and 
 most people agreed with Mr. Abraham Boosey of the 
 Duke s Head, who had often been to London, and 
 who said she did "look just A one, slap up, she did! " 
 
 Mrs. Goddard became an institution, and in the 
 course of the first year of her residence in the cottage 
 it came to be expected that she should dine at the 
 vicarage at least once a week ; and once a week, also, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose went up and had tea with 
 her and little Eleanor at the cottage. It came to 
 pass also that Mrs. Goddard heard a vast deal of talk 
 about John Short and his successes at Trinity, and 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 47 
 
 she actually developed a lively interest in his career, 
 and asked for news of him almost as eagerly as 
 though he had been already a friend of her own. 
 In very quiet places people easily get into the sym 
 pathetic habit of regarding their neighbours inter 
 ests as very closely allied to their own. The constant 
 talk about John Short, the vicar s sanguine hopes for 
 his brilliant future, and Mrs. Ambrose s unlimited 
 praise of his moral qualities, repeated day by day and 
 week by week produced a vivid impression on Mrs. 
 Goddard s mind. It would have surprised her and 
 even amused her beyond measure had she had any 
 idea that she herself had for a long time absorbed the 
 interest of this same John Short, that he had written 
 hundreds of Greek and Latin verses in her praise, 
 while wholly ignorant of her name, and that at the 
 very time when without knowing him, she was con 
 stantly mentioning him as though she knew him 
 intimately well, he himself was looking back to the 
 one glimpse he had had of her, as to a dream of un 
 speakable bliss. 
 
 It never occurred to Mr. Ambrose s mind to tell 
 John in the occasional letters he wrote that Mrs. 
 Goddard had settled in Billingsfield. John, he 
 thought, could take no possible interest in knowing 
 about her, and moreover, Mrs. Goddard herself was 
 most anxious never to be mentioned abroad. She 
 had come to Billingsfield to live in complete obscu 
 rity, and the good vicar had promised that as far as 
 he and his wife were concerned she should have her 
 wish. To tell even John Short, his own beloved 
 pupil, would be to some extent a breach of faith, and 
 there was assuredly no earthly reason why John 
 should be told. It might do harm, for of course the 
 young fellow had made acquaintances at Cambridge ; 
 
48 A TALE OP A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 he had probably read about the Goddard case in the 
 papers, and might talk about it. If he should hap 
 pen to come down for a day or two he would probably 
 meet her; but that could not be avoided. It was 
 not likely that he would come for some time. The 
 vicar himself intended to go up to Cambridge for a 
 day or two after Christmas to see him; but the 
 winter flew by and Mr. Ambrose did not go. Then 
 came Easter, then the summer and the Long vaca 
 tion. John wrote that he could not leave his books 
 for a day, but that he hoped to run down next Christ 
 mas. Again he did not come, but there came the 
 news of his having won another and a more important 
 scholarship; the news also that he was already re 
 garded as the most promising man in the university, 
 all of which exceedingly delighted the heart of the 
 Reverend Augustin Ambrose, and being told with 
 eulogistic comments to Mrs. Goddard, tended to 
 increase the interest she felt in the existence of John 
 Short, so that she began to long for a sight of him, 
 without exactly knowing why. 
 
 Gradually, too, as she and her little girl passed 
 many peaceful days in the quiet cottage, the sad 
 woman s face grew less sorrowful. She spoke of 
 herself more cheerfully and dwelt less upon the sub 
 ject of her grief. She had at first been so miserable 
 that she could hardly talk at all without referring to 
 her unhappy situation though, after her first inter 
 view with Mrs. Ambrose, no one had ever heard her 
 mention any details connected with her trouble. But 
 now she never approached the subject at all. Her 
 face lost none of its pathetic beauty, it is true, but 
 it seemed to express sorrow past rather than present. 
 Meanwhile little Nellie grew daily more lovely, and 
 absorbed more and more of her mother s attention. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 49 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 EVENTS of such stirring interest as the establish 
 ment of Mrs. Gocldard in Billingsfield rarely come 
 alone; for it seems to be in the nature of great 
 changes to bring other changes with them, even 
 when there is no apparent connection whatever 
 between them. It took nearly two years for Bil 
 lingsfield to recover from its astonishment at Mrs. 
 Goddard s arrival, and before the excitement had 
 completely worn off the village was again taken off 
 its feet by unexpected news of stupendous import, 
 even as of old Pompeii was overthrown by a second 
 earthquake before it had wholly recovered from the 
 devastation caused by the first. The shock was 
 indeed a severe one. The Juxon estate was reported 
 to be out of Chancery, and a new squire was coming 
 to take up his residence at the Hall. 
 
 It is not known exactly how the thing first became 
 known, but there was soon no doubt whatever that it 
 was true. Thomas Reid, the sexton, who remem 
 bered that the old squire died forty years ago come 
 Michaelmas, and had been buried in a "wonderful 
 heavy " coffin, Thomas Reid the stern censor of the 
 vicar s sermons, a melancholic and sober man, so far 
 lost his head over the news as to ask Mr. Ambrose s 
 leave to ring the bells, Mr. Abraham Boosey having 
 promised beer for the ringers. Even to the vicar s 
 enlightened mind it seemed fitting that there should 
 
50 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 be some festivity over so great an event and the bells 
 were accordingly rung during one whole afternoon. 
 Thomas Reid s ringers never got beyond the first 
 "bob" of a peal, for with the exception of the sexton 
 himself and old William Speller the wheelwright, 
 who pulled the treble bell, they were chiefly dull 
 youths who with infinite difficulty had been taught 
 what changes they knew by rote and had very little 
 idea of ringing by scientific rule. Moreover Mr. 
 Boosey was liberal in the matter of beer that day and 
 the effect of each successive can that was taken up 
 the stairs of the old tower was immediately apparent 
 to every one within hearing, that is to say as far as 
 five miles around. 
 
 The estate was out of Chancery at last. For forty 
 years, ever since the death of the old squire, no one 
 had rightfully called the Hall his own. The heir 
 had lived abroad, and had lived in such an exceed 
 ingly eccentric manner as to give ground for a suit 
 de lunatico inquirendo, brought by another heir. 
 With the consistency of judicial purpose which 
 characterises such proceedings the courts appeared to 
 have decided that though the natural possessor, the 
 eccentric individual who lived abroad, was too mad 
 to be left in actual possession, he was not mad enough 
 to justify actual possession in the person of the next 
 of kin. Proceedings continued, fees were paid, a cer 
 tain legal personage already mentioned came down 
 from time to time and looked over the estate, but the 
 matter was not finally settled until the eccentric 
 individual died, after forty years of eccentricity, to 
 the infinite relief and satisfaction of all parties and 
 especially of his lawful successor Charles James 
 Juxon now, at last, "of Billingsfield Hall, in the 
 county of Essex, Esquire." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 51 
 
 In due time also Mr. Juxon appeared. It was 
 natural that he should come to see the vicar, and 
 as it happened that he called late in the afternoon 
 upon the day when Mrs. Goddard and little Eleanor 
 were accustomed to dine at the vicarage, he at once 
 had an opportunity of making the acquaintance of 
 his tenant ; thus, if we except the free-thinking doc 
 tor, it will be seen that Mr. Juxon was in the course 
 of five minutes introduced to the whole of the Bil- 
 lingsfield society. 
 
 He was a man inclining towards middle age, of an 
 active and vigorous body, of a moderate intelligence 
 and of decidedly prepossessing appearance. His 
 features were of the strong, square type, common to 
 men whose fathers for many generations have lived 
 in the country. His eyes were small, blue and very 
 bright, and to judge from the lines in his sunburned 
 face he was a man who laughed often and heartily. 
 He had an abundance of short brown hair, parted 
 very far upon one side and brushed to a phenomenal 
 smoothness, and he wore a full brown beard, cut 
 rather short and carefully trimmed. He immediately 
 won the heart of Mrs. Ambrose on account of his 
 extremely neat appearance. There was no foreign 
 blood in him, she was sure. He had large clean 
 hands with large and polished nails. He wore very 
 well made clothes, and he spoke like a gentleman. 
 The vicar, too, was at once prepossessed in his fa 
 vour, and even little Eleanor, who was generally 
 very shy before strangers, looked at him admiringly 
 and showed little of her usual bashfulness. But 
 Mrs. Goddard seemed ill at ease and tried to keep 
 out of the conversation as much as possible. 
 
 " There have been great rejoicings at the prospect 
 
52 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 of your arrival," said the vicar when the new-comer 
 had been introduced to both the ladies. "I fancy 
 that if you had let it be known that you were com 
 ing down to-day the people would have turned out 
 to meet you at the station." 
 
 "The truth is, I rather avoid that sort of thing," 
 said the squire, smiling. "I would rather enter 
 upon my dominions as quietly as possible." 
 
 "It is much better for the people, too," remarked 
 Mrs. Ambrose. " Their idea of a holiday is to do no 
 work and have too much beer." 
 
 "I daresay that would not hurt them much," an 
 swered Mr. Juxon cheerfully. " By the bye, I know 
 nothing about them. I have never been here before. 
 My man of business wanted to come down and show 
 me over the estate, and introduce me to the farmers 
 and all that, but I thought it would be such a bore 
 that I would not have him." 
 
 "There is not much to tell, really," said Mr. Am 
 brose. "The society of Billingsfield is all here," 
 he added with a smile, "including one of your 
 tenants." 
 
 " Are you my tenant? " asked Mr. Juxon pleasantly, 
 and he looked at Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 "Yes," said she, "I have taken the cottage." 
 
 " The cottage ? Excuse me, but you know I am a 
 stranger here what is the cottage ? " 
 
 "Such a pretty place," answered Mrs. Ambrose, 
 " just opposite the park gate. You must have seen 
 it as you came down." 
 
 "Oh, is that it?" said the squire. "Yes, I saw 
 it, and I wished I lived there instead of in the Hall. 
 It looks so comfortable and small. The Hall is a 
 perfect wilderness." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 53 
 
 Mrs. Goddard felt a sudden fear lest her new land 
 lord should take it into his head to give her notice. 
 She only took the cottage by the year and her pres 
 ent lease ended in October. The arrival of a squire 
 in possession at the Hall was a catastrophe to which 
 she had not looked forward. The idea troubled her. 
 She had accidentally made Mr. Juxon s acquaintance, 
 and she knew enough of the world to understand that 
 in such a place he would regard her as a valuable 
 addition to the society of the vicar and the vicar s 
 wife. She would meet him constantly; there would 
 be visitors at the Hall she would have to meet 
 them, too. Her dream of solitude was at an end. 
 For a moment she seemed so nervous that Mr. Juxon 
 observed her embarrassment and supposed it was due 
 to his remark about living in the cottage himself. 
 
 " Do not be afraid, Mrs. Goddard," he said quickly, 
 " I am not going to do anything so uncivil as to ask 
 you to give up the cottage. Besides, it would be 
 too small, you know." 
 
 "Have you any family, Mr. Juxon?" inquired 
 Mrs. Ambrose with a severity which startled the 
 squire. Mrs. Ambrose thought that if there was a 
 Mrs. Juxon, she had been unpardonably deceived. 
 Of course Mr. Juxon should have said that he was 
 married as soon as he entered the room. 
 
 "I have a very large family," answered the squire, 
 and after enjoying for a moment the surprise he saw 
 in Mrs. Ambrose s face, he added with a laugh, "I 
 have a library of ten thousand volumes a very 
 large family indeed. Otherwise I have no encum 
 brances, thank heaven." 
 
 "You are a scholar?" asked Mr. Ambrose eagerly. 
 
 "A book fancier, only a book fancier," returned 
 
54 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 the squire modestly. "But I am very fond of the 
 fancy." 
 
 "What is a book fancier, mamma?" asked little 
 Eleanor in a whisper. But Mr. Juxon heard the 
 child s question. 
 
 " If your mamma will bring you up to the Hall 
 one of these days, Miss Goddard, I will show you. 
 A book fancier is a terrible fellow who has lots of 
 books, and is pursued by a large evil genius telling 
 him he must buy every book he sees, and that he will 
 never by any possibility read half of them before he 
 dies." 
 
 Little Eleanor stared for a moment with her great 
 violet eyes, and then turning again to her mother, 
 whispered in her ear. 
 
 "Mamma, he called me Miss Goddard! " 
 
 "Run out and play in the garden, darling," said 
 her mother with a smile. But the child would not 
 go and sat down on a stool and stared at the squire, 
 who was immensely delighted. 
 
 "So you are going to bring all your library, 
 Mr. Juxon?" asked the vicar returning to the 
 charge. 
 
 " Yes and I beg you will make any use of it you 
 please," answered the visitor. "I have a great fond 
 ness for books and I think I have some valuable vol 
 umes. But I am no great scholar, as you are, though 
 I read a great deal. I have always noticed that the 
 men who accumulate great libraries do not know 
 much, and the men who know a great deal have very 
 few books. Now I will wager that you have not a 
 thousand volumes in your house, Mr. Ambrose." 
 
 "Five hundred would be nearer the mark," said 
 the vicar. 
 
A TALE OF A LOXELY PARISH. 55 
 
 " The fewer one has the nearer one approaches to 
 Aquinas s homo unius libri," returned the squire. 
 " You are nine thousand five hundred degrees nearer 
 to ideal wisdom than I am." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose laughed. 
 
 "Nevertheless," he said, "you may be sure that if 
 you give me leave to use your books, I will take 
 advantage of the permission. It is in writing ser 
 mons that one feels the want of a good library." 
 
 " I should think it would be an awful bore to write 
 sermons," remarked the squire with such perfect 
 innocence that both the vicar and Mrs. Goddard 
 laughed loudly. But Mrs. Ambrose eyed Mr. Juxon 
 with renewed severity. 
 
 " I should fancy it would be a much greater bore, 
 as you call it, to the congregation if my husband 
 never wrote any new ones," she said stiffly. Whereat 
 the squire looked rather puzzled, and coloured a little. 
 But Mr. Ambrose came to the rescue. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, my wife is quite right. There are 
 no people with such terrible memories as church 
 wardens. They remember a sermon twenty years 
 old. But as you say, the writing of sermons is not 
 an easy task when a man has been at it for thirty 
 years and more. A man begins by being enthusias 
 tic, then his mind gets into a groove and for some 
 time, if he happens to like the groove, he writes very 
 well. But by and by he has written all there is to 
 be said in the particular line he has chosen and he 
 does not know how to choose another. That is the 
 time when a man needs a library to help him." 
 
 " I really don t think you have reached that point, 
 Mr. Ambrose," remarked Mrs. Goddard. She ad 
 mired the vicar and liked his sermons. 
 
56 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "You are fortunately not in the position of my 
 churchwardens," answered Mr. Ambrose. "You 
 have not been listening to me for thirty years." 
 
 " How long have you been my tenant, Mrs. God- 
 dard?" asked the squire. 
 
 "Nearly two years," she answered thoughtfully, 
 and her sad eyes rested a moment upon Mr. Juxon s 
 face with an expression he remembered. Indeed he 
 looked at her very often and as he looked his admira 
 tion increased, so that when he rose to take his leave 
 the predominant impression of the vicarage which 
 remained in his mind was that of her face. Some 
 thing of the same fascination took hold of him which 
 had seized upon John Short when he caught sight of 
 Mrs. Goddard through the open door of the study, 
 something of that unexpected interest which in Mrs. 
 Ambrose had at first aroused a half suspicious dis 
 like, now long forgotten. 
 
 Before the squire left he invited the whole party 
 to come and dine with him at the Hall on the fol 
 lowing Saturday. He must have some kind of a 
 house warming, he said, for he was altogether too 
 lonely up there. Mrs. Goddard would bring Eleanor, 
 of course ; they would dine early it would not be 
 late for the little girl. If they all liked they could 
 call it tea instead of dinner. Of course everything 
 was topsy-turvy in the Hall, but they would excuse 
 that. He hoped to establish friendly relations with 
 his vicar and with his tenant his fair tenant. 
 Might he call soon and see whether there was any 
 thing that could be done to improve the cottage? 
 Before the day when they were all coming to dine? 
 He would call to-morrow, then. Anything that 
 needed doing should be done, Mrs. Goddard might 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 57 
 
 be sure. When the books arrived he would let Mr. 
 Ambrose know, of course, and they would have a day 
 together. 
 
 So he went away, leaving the impression that he 
 was a very good-natured and agreeable man. Even 
 Mrs. Ambrose was mollified. He had shocked her 
 by his remark about sermon writing, but he had of 
 course not meant it, and he appeared to mean to be 
 very civil. It was curious to see how all severity 
 vanished from Mrs. Ambrose s manner so soon as 
 the stranger who aroused it was out of sight and 
 hearing. She appeared as a formidably stern type of 
 the British matron to the chance visitors who came 
 to the vicarage ; but they were no sooner gone than 
 her natural temper was restored and she was kind 
 ness and geniality itself. 
 
 But Mrs. Goddard was very thoughtful. She was 
 not pleased at the fact of an addition to the Billings- 
 field community, and yet she liked the appearance of 
 the squire. He had declared his intention of call 
 ing upon her on the following day, and she would 
 be bound to receive him. She was young, she had 
 been shut off from the world for two years, and the 
 prospect of Mr. Juxon s acquaintance was in itself 
 not unpleasant ; but the idea that he was to be per 
 manently established in the Hall frightened her. 
 She had felt since she came to Billingsfield that 
 from the very first she had put herself upon a footing 
 of safety by telling her story to the vicar. But the 
 vicar would not without her permission repeat that 
 story to Mr. Juxon. Was she herself called upon to 
 do so? She was a very sensitive woman, and her 
 impressionable nature had been strongly affected by 
 what she had suffered. An almost morbid fear of 
 
58 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 seeming to make false pretences possessed her. She 
 was more than thirty years of age, it is true, but she 
 saw plainly enough in her glass that she was more 
 than passably good-looking still. There were one 
 or two grey threads in her brown waving hair and 
 she took no trouble to remove them; no one ever 
 noticed them. There were one or two lines, very 
 faint lines, in her forehead; no one ever saw them. 
 She could hardly see them herself. Supposing 
 why should she not suppose it? supposing Mr. 
 Juxon were to take a fancy to her, as a lone bachelor 
 of forty and odd might easily take a fancy to a pretty 
 woman who was his tenant and lived at his gate, 
 what should she do? He was an honest man, and 
 she was a conscientious woman ; she could not deceive 
 him, if it came to that. She would have to tell him 
 the whole truth. As she thought of it, she turned 
 pale and trembled. And yet she had liked his face, 
 she had told him he might call at the cottage, and 
 her woman s instinct foresaw that she was to see him 
 often. It was not vanity which made her think that 
 the squire might grow to like her too much. She 
 had had experiences in her life and he knew that 
 she was attractive; the very fear she .1 id felt for the 
 last two years lest she should be th ,vn into the 
 society of men who might be attracted by her, in 
 creased her apprehension tenfold. She could not 
 look forward with indifference to the expected visit, 
 for the novelty of seeing any one besides the vicar 
 and his wife was too great ; she could not refuse to 
 see the squire, for he would come again and again 
 until she received him; and yet, she could not get 
 rid of the idea that there was danger in seeing him. 
 Call it as one may, that woman s instinct of peril is 
 rarely at fault. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 59 
 
 In the late twilight of the June evening Mrs. God- 
 dard and Eleanor walked home together by the broad 
 road which led towards the park gate. 
 
 "Don t you think Mr. Juxon is very kind, 
 mamma?" asked the child. 
 
 "Yes, darling, I have no doubt he is. It was 
 very good of him to ask you to go to the Hall." 
 
 "And he called me Miss Goddard," said Eleanor. 
 "I wonder whether he will always call me Miss 
 Goddard." 
 
 "He did not know your name was Nellie," ex 
 plained her mother. 
 
 "Oh, I wish nobody knew, mamma. It was so 
 nice. When shall I be grown up, mamma?" 
 
 "Soon, my child too soon," said Mrs. Goddard 
 with a sigh. Nellie looked at her mother and was 
 silent for a minute. 
 
 "Mamma, do you like Mr. Juxon?" she asked 
 presently. 
 
 " No, dear how can one like anybody one has 
 only seen once?" 
 
 "Oh but I thought you might," said Nellie. 
 "Don t you think you will, mamma? Say you will 
 do!" 
 
 "Why?" asked her mother in some surprise. "I 
 cannot say anything about it. I daresay he is very 
 nice." 
 
 " It will be so delightful to go to the Hall to din 
 ner and be waited on by big real servants not like 
 Susan at the vicarage, or Martha. Won t you like 
 it, mamma? Of course Mr. Juxon will have real 
 servants, just like like poor papa." Nellie finished 
 her speech rather doubtfully as though not sure how 
 her mother would take it. Mrs. Goddard sighed 
 
60 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 again, but said nothing. She could not* stop the 
 child s talking why should Nellie not speak of her 
 father? Nellie did not kno\v. 
 
 "I think it will be perfectly delightful," said 
 Nellie, seeing she got no answer from her mother, 
 and as though putting the final seal of affirmation to 
 her remarks about the Hall. But she appeared to be 
 satisfied at not having been contradicted and did not 
 return to the subject that evening. 
 
 Mr. Juxon lost no time in keeping his word and 
 on the following morning at about eleven o clock, 
 when Mrs. Goddard was just hearing the last of 
 Nellie s lesson in geography and little Nellie herself 
 was beginning to be terribly tired of acquiring 
 knowledge in such very warm weather, the squire s 
 square figure was seen to emerge from the park gate 
 opposite, clad in grey knickerbockers and dark green 
 stockings, a rose in his buttonhole and a thick stick 
 in his hand, presenting all the traditional appearance 
 of a thriving country gentleman of the period. He 
 crossed the road, stopped a moment and whistled his 
 dog to heel and then opened the wicket gate that led 
 to the cottage. Nellie sprang to the window in wild 
 excitement. 
 
 "Oh what a dog! " she cried. "Mamma, do come 
 and see! And Mr. Juxon is coming, too he has 
 green stockings ! " 
 
 But Mrs. Goddard, who was not prepared for so 
 early a visit, hastily put away what might be 
 described as the debris of Nellie s lessons, to wit, a 
 much thumbed book of geography, a well worn spell 
 ing book, a very particularly inky piece of blotting 
 paper, a pen of which most of the stock had been 
 subjected to the continuous action of Nellie s teeth 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 61 
 
 for several months, and an ancient doll, without the 
 assistance of which, as a species of Stokesite memoria 
 technics Nellie declared that she could not say her 
 lessons at all. Those things disappeared, and, with 
 them, Nellie s troubles, into a large drawer set apart 
 for the purpose. By the time Mr. Juxon had rung 
 the bell and Martha s answering footstep was begin 
 ning to echo in the small passage, Mrs. Goddard 
 had passed to the consideration of Nellie herself. 
 Nellie s fingers were mightily inky, but in other 
 respects she was presentable. 
 
 " Run and wash your hands, child, and then you 
 may come back," said her mother. 
 
 " Oh mamma, must I go? He s just coming in." 
 She gave one despairing look at her little hands, and 
 then ran away. The idea of missing one moment of 
 Mr. Juxon s visit was bitter, but to be caught with 
 inky fingers by a beautiful gentleman with green 
 stockings and a rose in his coat would be more 
 terribly humiliating still. There was a sound as 
 of some gigantic beast plunging into the passage 
 as the front door was opened, and a scream of terror 
 from Martha followed by a good-natured laugh from 
 the squire. 
 
 "You ll excuse me, sir, but he don t bite, sir, does 
 he? Oh my! what a dog he is, sir " 
 
 "Is Mrs. Goddard in?" inquired Mr. Juxon, hold 
 ing the hound lay the collar. Martha opened the 
 door of the little sitting-room and the squire looked 
 in. Martha fled down the passage. 
 
 "Oh my! What a tremendious dog that is, to be 
 sure ! " she was heard to exclaim as she disappeared 
 into the back of the cottage. 
 
 " May I come in ? " asked Mr. Juxon, rather timidly 
 
blJ A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 and with an expression of amused perplexity on his 
 brown face. "Lie down, Stamboul!" 
 
 "Oh, bring him in, too," said Mrs. Goddard com 
 ing forward and taking Mr. Juxon s hand. "I am 
 so fond of dogs." Indeed she was rather embarrassed 
 and was glad of the diversion. 
 
 "He is really very quiet," said the squire apolo 
 getically, " only he is a little impetuous about get 
 ting into a house." Then, seeing that Mrs. Goddard 
 looked at the enormous animal with some interest 
 and much wonder, he added, "he is a Russian blood 
 hound perhaps you never saw one ? He was given 
 to me in Constantinople, so I call him Stamboul 
 good name for a big dog is not it?" 
 
 "Very," said Mrs. Goddard rather nervously. 
 Stamboul was indeed an exceedingly remarkable 
 beast. Taller than the tallest mastiff, he combined 
 with his gigantic strength and size a grace and 
 swiftness of motion which no mastiff can possess. 
 His smooth clean coat, of a perfectly even slate 
 colour throughout, was without folds, close as a grey 
 hound s, showing every articulation and every swell 
 ing muscle of his body. His broad square head and 
 monstrous jaw betrayed more of the quickness and 
 sudden ferocity of the tiger than those suggested by 
 the heavy, lion-like jowl of the English mastiff. 
 His ears, too, were close cropped, in accordance with 
 the Russian fashion, and somehow the compactness 
 this gave to his head seemed to throw forward and 
 bring into prominence his great fiery eyes, that 
 reflected red lights as he moved, and did not tend to 
 inspire confidence in the timid stranger. 
 
 "Do sit down," said Mrs. Goddard, and when the 
 squire was seated Stamboul sat himself down upon 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 63 
 
 his haunches beside him, and looked slowly from his 
 master to the lady and back again, his tongue hang 
 ing out as though anxious to hear what they might 
 have to say to each other. 
 
 "I thought I should be sure to find you in the 
 morning," began Mr. Juxon, after a pause. "I hope 
 I have not disturbed you?" 
 
 44 Oh, not at all. Nellie has just finished her 
 lessons." 
 
 "The fact is," continued the squire, "that I was 
 going to survey the nakedness of the land which has 
 fallen to my lot, and as I came out of the park I saw 
 the cottage right before me and I could not resist the 
 temptation of calling. I had no idea we were such 
 near neighbours." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Goddard, "it is very near." 
 
 Mr. Juxon glanced round the room. He was not 
 exactly at a loss for words, but Mrs. Goddard did 
 not seem inclined to encourage the conversation. 
 He saw that the room was not only exceedingly com 
 fortable but that its arrangement betrayed a consider 
 able taste for luxury. The furniture was of a kind 
 not generally seen in cottages, and appeared to have 
 formed part of some great establishment. The car 
 pet itself was of a finer and softer kind than any at 
 the Hall. The writing-table was a piece of richly 
 inlaid work, and the implements upon it were of the 
 solid, severe and valuable kind that are seen in rich 
 men s houses. A clock which was undoubtedly of 
 the Louis Quinze period stood upon the chimney- 
 piece. On the walls were hung three or four pict 
 ures which, Mr. Juxon thought, must be both old 
 and of great value. Upon a little table by the fire 
 place lay four or five objects of Chinese jade and 
 
64 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Japanese ivory and a silver chatelaine of old work 
 manship. The squire saw, and wondered why such 
 a very pretty woman, who possessed such very pretty 
 things, should choose to come and live in his cottage 
 in the parish of Billingsfield. And having seen and 
 wondered he became interested in his charming ten 
 ant and endeavoured to carry on the conversation in 
 a more confidential strain. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "You have done more towards beautifying the 
 cottage than I could have hoped to do," said Mr. 
 Juxon, leaning back in his chair and resting one 
 hand on Stamboul s great head. 
 
 "It was very pretty of itself," answered Mrs. God- 
 dard, "and fortunately it is not very big, or my 
 things would look lost in it." 
 
 " I should not say that you have so many beauti 
 ful things. They seem to suit the place so well. I 
 am sure you will never think of taking them away." 
 
 "Not if I can help it I am too glad to be quiet." 
 
 "You have travelled a great deal, Mrs. Goddard?" 
 asked the squire. 
 
 "No not exactly that only a little, after all. 
 I have not been to Constantinople for instance," she 
 added looking at the hound Mr. Juxon had brought 
 from the East. "You are indeed a traveller." 
 
 "I have travelled all my life," said the squire, 
 indifferently, as though the subject of his wander 
 ings did not interest him. "From what little I 
 have seen of Billingsfield I fancy you will find all 
 the quiet you could wish, here. Really, I realise 
 that at my own gate I must come to you for informa 
 tion. What sort of man is that excellent rector 
 down there, whom I met last night?" 
 
 The squire s tone became more confidential as he 
 put the question. 
 
66 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Well he is not a rector, to begin with," an 
 swered Mrs. Goddard with a smile, "he is the vicar, 
 and he is a most good man, whom I have always 
 found most kind." 
 
 "I can readily fancy that," said Mr. Juxon. 
 "But his wife seems to be of the severe type." 
 
 " No she struck me so at first, too. I think it is 
 only with strangers. She is such a motherly sort of 
 woman, you do not know ! She only has that little 
 manner when you first meet her." 
 
 " What a strange thing that is ! " remarked the 
 squire, looking at Mrs. Goddard. "The natural 
 belief of English people in each other s depravity 
 until they have had time to make acquaintance! 
 And is there no one else here no doctor no doc 
 tor s wife ? " 
 
 "Not a soul," answered Mrs. Goddard. "There 
 is a doctor, but the vicarage suspects him of free 
 thought. He certainly never goes to church. He 
 has no wife." 
 
 " This is the most Arcadian retreat I ever was in. 
 Upon my word, I am a very lucky man." 
 
 " I suppose that it must be a relief when one has 
 travelled so much," replied Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 "Or suffered very much," added the squire, half 
 unconsciously, looking at her sad face. 
 
 "Yes," she answered. At that moment the door 
 opened and Nellie entered the room, having success 
 fully grappled with the inkstains. She went straight 
 to the squire, and held out her hand, blushing a lit 
 tle, but looking very pretty. Then she saw the huge 
 head of Stamboul who looked up at her with a fero 
 ciously agreeable canine smile, and thwacked the 
 carpet with his tail as he sat; Nellie started back. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 67 
 
 " Oh, what a dog! " she exclaimed. But very soon 
 she was on excellent terms with him ; little Nellie 
 was not timid, and Stamboul, who liked people who 
 were not afraid of him and was especially fond of 
 children, did his best to be amusing. 
 
 "He is a very good dog," remarked Mr. Juxon. 
 "He once did me a very good service." 
 
 "How was that?" 
 
 "I was riding in the Belgrade forest one summer. 
 I was alone with Stamboul following. A couple of 
 ruffians tried to rob me. Stamboul caught one oi 
 them." 
 
 " Did he hurt him very much? " 
 
 "I don t know he killed him before the fellow 
 could scream, and I shot the other," replied the 
 squire calmly. 
 
 " What a horrible story! " exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, 
 turning pale. " Come here, Nellie don t touch 
 that dreadful dog!" 
 
 " Do not be afraid he is perfectly harmless. 
 Come here Stamboul ! " The huge beast obeyed, wag 
 ging his tail, and sat down at his master s feet, still 
 looking rather wistfully at Nellie who had been play 
 ing with him. "You see," continued Mr. Juxon, 
 "he is as quiet as a lamb would not hurt a fly! " 
 
 " I think it is dreadful to have such animals about," 
 said Mrs. Goddard in a low voice, still looking at 
 the dog with horror. 
 
 "I am sorry I told you. It may prejudice you 
 against him. I only meant to explain how faithful 
 he is, that is all. You see a man grows fond of a 
 creature that has saved his life." 
 
 " I suppose so, but it is rather startling to see such 
 an animal so near to one. I fear I am very nervous." 
 
68 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "By the bye," said the squire with the bold ir 
 relevancy of a man who wants to turn the subject, 
 " are you fond of flowers ? " 
 
 " I ? " said Mrs. Goddard in surprise. " Yes very. 
 Why?" 
 
 " I thought you would not mind if I had the garden 
 here improved a little. One might put in a couple 
 of frames. I did not see any flowers about. I am 
 so fond of them myself, you see, that I always look 
 for. them." 
 
 "You are very kind," answered Mrs. Goddard. 
 "But I would not have you take any trouble on my 
 account. We are so comfortable and so fond of the 
 cottage already " 
 
 " Well, I hope you will grow to like it even better," 
 returned the squire with a genial smile. " Anything 
 I can do, you know " he rose as though to take his 
 leave. " Excuse me, but may I look at that picture ? 
 Andrea del Sarto ? Yes, I thought so wonderful 
 upon my word, in a cottage in Billingsfield. Where 
 did you find it?" 
 
 " It was my husband s," said Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 "Ah ah, yes," said the squire in a subdued tone. 
 " I beg your pardon," he added, as people often do, 
 unconsciously, when they fancy they have acciden 
 tally roused in another a painful train of thought. 
 Then he turned to go. " We dine at half-past seven, 
 you know, so as to be early for Miss Nellie," he said, 
 as he went out. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard was glad he was gone, though she 
 felt that he was not unsympathetic. The story of 
 the dog had frightened her, and her own mention of 
 her husband had made her nervous and sad. More 
 than ever she felt that fear of being in a false posi- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 69 
 
 tion, which had assailed her when she had first met 
 the squire on the previous evening. He had at once 
 opened relations with her in a way which showed 
 that he intended to be intimate; he had offered to 
 improve her cottage, had insisted upon making 
 frames in her garden, had asked her to dinner with 
 the Ambroses and had established the right to talk 
 to her whenever he got a chance. He interested her, 
 too, which was worse. His passing references to his 
 travels and to his adventures, of which he spoke with 
 the indifference of a man accustomed to danger, his 
 unassuming manner, his frank ways everything 
 about him awakened her interest. She had supposed 
 that in two years the very faculty of being interested 
 by a man would be dulled if not destroyed; she 
 found to her annoyance that though she had seen 
 Mr. Juxon only twice she could not put him out of 
 her thoughts. She was, moreover, a nervous, almost 
 morbid, woman, and the natural result of trying to 
 forget his existence was that she could think of 
 nothing else. 
 
 How much better it would be, she thought, if he 
 knew her story from the first. He might then be as 
 friendly as he pleased ; there would be no danger in 
 it, to him or to her. She almost determined to go 
 at once and ask the vicar s advice. But by the time 
 she had nearly made up her mind it was the hour for 
 luncheon, and little Nellie s appetite was exigent. 
 By the time lunch was over her determination had 
 changed. She had reflected that the vicar would 
 think her morbid, that, with his usual good sense, he 
 would say there was no necessity for telling the 
 squire anything; indeed, that to do so would be 
 undignified. If the squire were indeed going to 
 
70 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 lead the life of a recluse as he proposed doing, he 
 was not really a man to cause her any apprehension. 
 If he had travelled about the world for forty years 
 without having his heart disturbed by any of the 
 women he must have met in that time, he was cer 
 tainly not the kind of man, when once he had de 
 termined to settle in his home, to fall in love with 
 the first pretty woman he met. It was absurd ; there 
 was no likelihood of it; it was her own miserable 
 vanity, she told herself, which made the thing seem 
 probable, and she would not think any more about 
 it. She, a woman thirty-one years of age, with a 
 daughter who ere long would be growing up to 
 womanhood! To be afraid of a mere stranger like 
 Mr. Juxon afraid lest he should fall in love with 
 her! Could anything be more ridiculous? Her 
 duty was to live quietly as she had lived before, to 
 take no more notice of the squire than was necessary 
 in order to be civil, and so all would be well. 
 
 And so it seemed for a long time. The squire 
 improved the garden of the cottage and Mrs. Goddard 
 and Nellie, with the Ambroses, dined at the Hall, 
 which at first seemed an exceedingly dreary and dis 
 mal place, but which, as they returned thither again 
 and again, grew more and more luxurious, till the 
 transformation was complete. Mr. Juxon brought 
 all manner of things to the house; vans upon vans 
 arrived, laden with boxes of books and pictures and 
 oriental carpets and rare objects which the squire had 
 collected in his many years of travel, and which he 
 appeared to have stored in London until he had at 
 last inherited the Hall. The longer the Ambroses 
 and Mrs. Goddard knew him, the more singularly 
 impressed they were with his reticence concerning 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 71 
 
 himself. He appeared to have been everywhere, to 
 have seen everything, and he had certainly brought 
 back a vast collection of more or less valuable objects 
 from his travels, besides the large library he had 
 accumulated and which contained many rare and 
 curious editions of ancient books. He was evidently 
 a man of very good education, and a much better 
 scholar than he was willing to allow. The vicar 
 delighted in his society and when the two found 
 themselves together in the great room which Mr. 
 Juxon had lined with well-filled shelves, they re 
 mained for hours absorbed in literary and scholastic 
 talk. But whenever the vicar approached the sub 
 ject of the squire s past life, the latter became vague 
 and gave ambiguous answers to any direct questions 
 addressed to him. He evidently disliked talking of 
 himself, though he would talk about anything else 
 that occurred to him with a fluency which Mrs. 
 Ambrose declared was the only un-English thing 
 about him. The consequence was that the vicar 
 became more and more interested in his new acquaint 
 ance, and though the squire was so frank and honest 
 a man that it was impossible to suspect him of any 
 doubtful action in the past, Mr. Ambrose suspected 
 that he had a secret. Indeed after hearing the story 
 Mrs. Goddard had confided to his ears, nothing 
 would have surprised the vicar. After finding that 
 so good, so upright and so honourable a woman as 
 the fair tenant of the cottage could be put into such 
 a singularly painful position as that in which she 
 now found herself, it was not hard to imagine that 
 this singular person who had inherited the Hall 
 might also have some weighty reason for loving the 
 solitude of Billingsfield. 
 
72 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 To chronicle the small events which occurred in 
 that Arcadian parish, would be to overstep the 
 bounds of permissible tediousness. In such places 
 all events move slowly and take long to develop to 
 their results. The passions which in our own 
 quickly moving world spring up, flourish, wither 
 and are cut down in a month require, when they are 
 not stimulated by the fertilising heat of artificial sur 
 roundings, a longer period for their growth; and 
 when that growth is attained they are likely to be 
 stronger and more deeply rooted. It is not true that 
 the study of them is less interesting, nor that they 
 have less importance in themselves. The difficulty 
 of narrative is greater when they are to be described, 
 for it is necessary to carry the imagination in a short 
 time over a long period, to show how from small 
 incidents great results follow, and to show also how 
 the very limited and trivial nature of the surround 
 ings may cause important things to be overlooked. 
 Amidst such influences acquaintance is soon made 
 between the few persons so thrown together, but 
 each is apt to regard such new acquaintance merely 
 as bearing upon his or her own particular interests. 
 It is surprising to see how people will live side by 
 side in solitude, even in danger, in distant settle 
 ments, in the mining districts of the West, in up- 
 country stations in India, on board ship, even, for 
 months and years, without knowing anything of each 
 other s previous history; whereas in the crowded 
 centres of civilisation and society the first questions 
 are "Where does he come from?" "What are his 
 antecedents?" "What has he done in the world?" 
 And unless a man can answer such inquiries to 
 the general satisfaction he is likely to be heavily 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 73 
 
 handicapped in the social race. But in more primi 
 tive situations men are ruled by more primitive feel 
 ings of mutual respect; it is considered that a man 
 should not be pressed to speak of things he shows no 
 desire to discuss and that, provided he does not in 
 terfere with his neighbour s wellbeing, his past life 
 is nobody s business. One may feel curiosity con 
 cerning him, but under no circumstances is one jus 
 tified in asking questions. 
 
 For these reasons, although Mr. Juxon s arrival 
 and instalment in the Hall were regarded with satis 
 faction by the little circle at Billingsfield, while he 
 himself was at once received into intimacy and 
 treated with cordial friendliness, he nevertheless 
 represented in the minds of all an unsolved enigma. 
 And to the squire the existence of one of the circle 
 was at least as problematical as his own life could 
 seem to any of them. The more he saw of Mrs. 
 Goddard, the more he wondered at her and specu 
 lated about her and the less he dared to ask her any 
 questions. But he understood from Mr. Ambrose s 
 manner, that the vicar at least was in possession of 
 her secret, and he inferred from what he was able to 
 judge about the vicar s character that the latter was 
 not a man to extend his friendship to any one who 
 did not deserve it. Whatever Mrs. Goddard s story 
 was, he felt sure that her troubles had not been 
 caused by her own misconduct. She was in every 
 respect what he called a good woman. Of course, 
 too, she was a w r idow; the way in which she spoke 
 of her husband implied that, on those rare occasions 
 when she spoke of him at all. Charles James Juxon 
 was a gentleman, whatever course of life he had fol 
 lowed before settling in the country, and he did not 
 
74 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 feel that he should be justified in asking questions 
 about Mrs. Goddard of the vicar. Besides, as time 
 went on and he found his own interest in her increas 
 ing, he began to nourish the hope that he might one 
 day hear her story from her own lips. In his sim 
 plicity it did not strike him that he himself had 
 grown to be an object of interest to her. 
 
 Somehow, during the summer and autumn of that 
 year, Mrs. Goddard contracted a habit of watching 
 the park gate from the window of the cottage, par 
 ticularly at certain hours of the day. It was only a 
 habit, but it seemed to amuse her. She used to sit 
 in the small bay window with her books, reading to 
 herself or teaching Nellie, and it was quite natural 
 that from time to time she should look out across the 
 road. But it rarely happened, when she was installed 
 in that particular place, that Mr. Juxon failed to 
 appear at the gate, with his dog Stamboul, his green 
 stockings, his stick and the inevitable rose in his 
 coat. Moreover he generally crossed the road and, 
 if he did not enter the cottage and spend a quarter 
 of an hour in conversation, he at least spoke to Mrs. 
 Goddard through the open window. It was remark 
 able, too, that as time went on what at first had 
 seemed the result of chance, recurred with such 
 invariable regularity as to betray the existence of a 
 fixed rule. Nellie, too, who was an observant child, 
 had ceased asking questions but watched her mother 
 with her great violet eyes in a way that made Mrs. 
 Goddard nervous. Nellie liked the squire very 
 much but though she asked her mother very often at 
 first whether she, too, was fond of that nice Mr. 
 Juxon, the answers she received were not encourag 
 ing. How was it possible, Mrs. Goddard asked, to 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 75 
 
 speak of liking anybody one had known so short a 
 time? And as Nellie was quite unable to answer 
 such an inquiry, she desisted from her questions and 
 applied herself to the method of personal observation. 
 But here, too, she was met by a hopeless difficulty. 
 The squire and her mother never seemed to have 
 any secrets, as Nellie would have expressed it. They 
 met daily, and daily exchanged very much the same 
 remarks concerning the weather, the garden, the 
 vicar s last sermon. When they talked about any 
 thing else, they spoke of books, of which the squire 
 lent Mrs. Goddard a great number. But this was a 
 subject which did not interest Nellie very much ; she 
 was not by any means a prodigy in the way of learn 
 ing, and though she was now nearly eleven years 
 old was only just beginning to read the Waverley 
 novels. On one occasion she remarked to her 
 mother that she did not believe a word of them and 
 did not think they were a bit like real life, but the 
 momentary fit of scepticism soon passed and Nellie 
 read on contentedly, not omitting however to watch 
 her mother in order to find out, as her small mind 
 expressed it, " whether mamma really liked that nice 
 Mr. Juxon." Events were slowly preparing them 
 selves which would help her to come to a satisfactory 
 conclusion upon that matter. 
 
 Mr. Juxon himself was in a very uncertain state 
 of mind. After knowing Mrs. Goddard for six 
 months, and having acquired the habit of seeing 
 her almost every day, he found to his surprise that 
 she formed a necessary part of his existence. It 
 need not have surprised him, for in spite of that 
 lady s surmise with regard to his early life, he was 
 in reality a man of generous and susceptible tempera- 
 
76 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 ment. He recognised in the charming tenant of the 
 cottage many qualities which he liked, and he could 
 not deny that she was exceedingly pretty. Being a 
 strong man he was particularly attracted by the 
 pathetic expression of her face, the perpetual sadness 
 that was visible there when she was not momentarily 
 interested or amused. Had he suspected her pale 
 ness and air of secret suffering to be the result of 
 any physical infirmity, she would not have inter 
 ested him so much. But Mrs. Goddard s lithe figure 
 and easy grace of activity belied all idea of weak 
 ness. It was undoubtedly some hidden suffering of 
 mind which lent that sadness to her voice and feat 
 ures, and which so deeply roused the sympathies of 
 the squire. At the end of six months Mr. Juxon 
 was very much interested in Mrs. Goddard, but 
 despite all his efforts to be agreeable he seemed to 
 have made no progress whatever in the direction of 
 banishing her cares. To tell the truth, it did not 
 enter his mind that he was in love with her. She 
 was his tenant; she was evidently very unhappy 
 about something; it was therefore undeniably his 
 duty as a landlord and as a gentleman to make life 
 easy for her. 
 
 He wondered what the matter could be. At first 
 he had been inclined to think that she was poor and 
 was depressed by poverty. But though she lived 
 very simply, she never seemed to be in difficulties. 
 Five hundred pounds a year go a long way in the 
 village of Billingsfield. It was certainly not want 
 of money which made her unhappy. The interest of 
 the sum represented by the pictures hung in her lit 
 tle sitting-room, not to mention the other objects of 
 value she possessed, would have been alone sufficient 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 77 
 
 to afford her a living. The squire himself would 
 have given her a high price for these things, but in 
 six months she never in the most distant manner 
 suggested that she wished to part with them. The 
 idea then naturally suggested itself to Mr. Juxon s 
 mind that she was still mourning for her husband, 
 and that she would probably continue to mourn for 
 him until some one, himself for instance, succeeded 
 in consoling her for so great a loss. 
 
 The conclusion startled the squire. That was not 
 precisely the part he contemplated playing, nor the 
 species of consolation he proposed to offer. Mrs. 
 Goddard was indeed a charming woman, and the 
 squire liked charming women and delighted in their 
 society. But Mr. Juxon was a bachelor of more 
 than forty years standing, and he had never regarded 
 marriage as a thing of itself, for himself, desirable. 
 He immediately thrust the idea from his mind with 
 a mental " vade retro Satanas ! and determined that 
 things were very agreeable in their present state, and 
 might go on for ever; that if Mrs. Goddard was 
 unhappy that did not prevent her from talking very 
 pleasantly whenever he saw her, which was nearly 
 every day, and that her griefs were emphatically 
 none of his business. Before very long however Mr. 
 Juxon discovered that though it was a very simple 
 thing to make such a determination it was a very 
 different thing to keep it. Mrs. Goddard interested 
 him too much. When he was with her he was per 
 petually longing to talk about herself instead of about 
 the weather and the garden and the books, and once 
 or twice he was very nearly betrayed into talking 
 about himself, a circumstance so extraordinary that 
 Mr. Juxon imagined he must be either ill or going 
 
78 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 mad, and thought seriously of sending for the doc 
 tor. He controlled the impulse, however, and tem 
 porarily recovered ; but strange to say from that time 
 forward the conversation languished when he found 
 himself alone with Mrs. Goddard, and it seemed 
 very hard to maintain their joint interest in the 
 weather, the garden and the books at the proper 
 standard of intensity. They had grown intimate, 
 and familiarity had begun to breed a contempt of 
 those petty subjects upon which their intimacy had 
 been founded. It is not clear why this should be so, 
 but it is true, nevertheless, and many a couple before 
 Charles Juxon and Mary Goddard had found it out. 
 As the interest of two people in each other increases 
 their interest in things, as things, diminishes in like 
 ratio, and they are very certain ultimately to reach 
 that point described by the Frenchman s maxim 
 " a man should never talk to a woman except of her 
 self or himself." 
 
 If Mr. Juxon was not in love with Mary Goddard 
 he was at least rapidly approaching a very dangerous 
 state ; for he saw her every day and could not let one 
 day go by without seeing her, and moreover he grew 
 silent in her company, to a degree which embarrassed 
 her and made him feel himself more stupid than he 
 had ever dreamed possible ; so that he would some 
 times stay too long, in the hope of finding something 
 to say, and sometimes he would leave her abruptly 
 and go and shut himself up with his books, and busy 
 himself with his catalogues and his bindings and the 
 arrangement of his rare editions. One day at last, 
 he felt that he had behaved so very absurdly that he 
 was ashamed of himself, and suddenly disappeared 
 for nearly a week. When he returned he said he 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 79 
 
 had been to town to attend a great sale of books, 
 which was perfectly true ; he did not add that the 
 learned expert he employed in London could have 
 done the business for him just as well. But the trip 
 had done him no good, for he grew more silent than 
 ever, and Mrs. Goddard even thought his brown face 
 looked a shade paler ; but that might have been the 
 effect of the winter weather. Ordinary sunburn she 
 reflected, as she looked at her own white skin in the 
 mirror, will generally wear off in six months, though 
 freckles will not. 
 
 If Mr. Juxon was not in love, it would be very 
 hard to say what Mary Goddard felt. It was not 
 true that time was effacing the memory of the great 
 sorrow she had suffered. It was there still, that 
 memory, keen and sharp as ever; it would never go 
 away again so long as she lived. But she had been 
 soothed by the quiet life in Billingsfield; the evi 
 dences of the past had been removed far from her, 
 she had found in the Reverend Augustin Ambrose 
 one of those rare and manly natures who can keep a 
 secret for ever without ever referring to its existence 
 even with the person who has confided it. For a few 
 days she had hesitated whether to ask the vicar s 
 advice about Mr. Juxon or not. She had thought it 
 her duty to allow Mr. Ambrose to tell the squire 
 whatever he thought fit of her own story. But she 
 had changed her mind, and the squire had remained 
 in ignorance. It was best so, she thought; for now, 
 after more than six months, Mr. Juxon had taken 
 the position of a friend towards her, and, as she 
 thought, showed no disposition whatever to overstep 
 the boundaries of friendship. The regularity of his 
 visits and the sameness of the conversation seemed 
 
80 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 of themselves a guarantee of his simple goodwill. 
 It did not strike her as possible that if he were going 
 to fall in love with her at all, that catastrophe should 
 be postponed beyond six months from their first 
 acquaintance. Nor did it seem extraordinary to her 
 that she should actually look forward to those visits, 
 and take pleasure in that monotonous intercourse. 
 Her life was very quiet; it was natural that she 
 should take whatever diversion came in her way, and 
 should even be thankful for it. Mr. Juxon was an 
 honest gentleman, a scholar and a man who had seen 
 the world. If what he said was not always very 
 original it was always very true, a merit not always 
 conceded to the highest originality. He spoke in 
 telligently; he told her the news; he lent her the 
 newest books and reviews, and offered her his opin 
 ions upon them, with the regularity of a daily paper. 
 In such a place, where communications with the 
 outer world seemed as difficult as at the antipodes, 
 and where the remainder of society was limited to 
 the household of the vicarage, what wonder was it if 
 she found Mr. Juxon an agreeable companion, and 
 believed the companionship harmless ? 
 
 But far down in the involutions of her feminine 
 consciousness there was present a perpetual curiosity 
 in regard to the squire, a curiosity she never expected 
 to satisfy, but was wholly unable to repress. Under 
 the influence of this feeling she made remarks from 
 time to time of an apparently harmless nature, but 
 which in the squire promoted that strange inclina 
 tion to talk about himself, which he had lately 
 observed and which caused him so much alarm. He 
 said to himself that he had nothing to be concealed, 
 and that if any one had asked him direct questions 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 81 
 
 concerning his past he would have answered them 
 boldly enough. But he knew himself to be so 
 singularly averse to dwelling on his own affairs that 
 he wondered why he should now be impelled to break 
 through so good a rule. Indeed he had not the in 
 sight to perceive that Mrs. Goddard lost no oppor 
 tunity of leading him to the subject of his various 
 adventures, and, if he had suspected it, he would 
 have been very much surprised. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose were far from guessing what 
 an intimacy had sprung up between the two. Both 
 the cottage and the Hall lay at a considerable dis 
 tance from the vicarage, and though Mrs. Ambrose 
 occasionally went to see Mrs. Goddard at irregular 
 hours in the morning and afternoon, it was remark 
 able that the squire never called when she was there. 
 Once Mrs. Ambrose arrived during one of his visits, 
 but thought it natural enough that Mr. Juxon should 
 drop in to see his tenant. Indeed when she called 
 the two were talking about the garden as usual. 
 
82 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 JOHN SHORT had almost finished his hard work at 
 college. For two years and a half he had laboured on 
 acquiring for himself reputation and a certain amount 
 of more solid advantage in the shape of scholarships. 
 Never in that time had he left Cambridge even for a 
 day unless compelled to do so by the regulations of 
 his college. His father had found it hard to induce 
 him to come up to town ; and, being in somewhat 
 easier circumstances since John had declared that he 
 needed no further help to complete his education, he 
 had himself gone to see his son more than once. But 
 John had never been to Billingsfield and he knew 
 nothing of the changes that had taken place there. 
 At last, however, Short felt that he must have some 
 rest before he went up for honours ; he had grown 
 thin and even pale ; his head ached perpetually, and 
 his eyes no longer seemed so good as they had been. 
 He went to a doctor, and the doctor told him that 
 with his admirable constitution a few days of abso 
 lute rest would do all that was necessary. John 
 wrote to Mr. Ambrose to say that he would at last 
 accept the invitation so often extended and would 
 spend the week between Christmas and New Year s 
 day at Billingsfield. 
 
 There were great rejoicings at the vicarage. John 
 had never been forgotten for a day since he had left, 
 each successive step in his career had been hailed with 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 83 
 
 hearty delight, and now that at last he was coming 
 back to rest himself for a week before the final effort 
 Mrs. Ambrose was as enthusiastic as her husband. 
 Even Mrs. Goddard, who was not quite sure whether 
 she had ever seen John or not, and the squire who had 
 certainly never seen him, joined in the general excite 
 ment. Mrs. Goddard asked the entire party to tea at 
 the cottage and the squire asked them to come and 
 skate at the Hall and to dine afterwards; for the 
 weather was cold and the vicar said John was a very 
 good skater. Was there anything John could not do ? 
 There was nothing he could not do much better than 
 anybody else, answered Mr. Ambrose ; and the good 
 clergyman s pride in his pupil was perhaps not the 
 less because he had at first received him on chari 
 table considerations, and felt that if he had risked 
 much in being so generous he had also been amply 
 rewarded by the brilliant success of his undertaking. 
 
 When John arrived, everybody said he was "so 
 much improved." He had got his growth now, being 
 close upon one and twenty years of age ; his blue eyes 
 were deeper set ; his downy whiskers had disappeared 
 and a small moustache shaded his upper lip ; he looked 
 more intellectual but not less strong, though Mrs. 
 Ambrose said he was dreadfully pale perhaps he 
 owed some of the improvement observed in his appear 
 ance to the clothes he wore. Poor boy, he had been 
 but scantily supplied in the old days ; he looked pros 
 perous, now, by comparison. 
 
 " We have had great additions to our society, since 
 you left us," said the vicar. " We have got a squire 
 at the Hall, and a lady with a little girl at the 
 cottage." 
 
 " Such a nice little girl," remarked Mrs. Ambrose. 
 
84 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 When John found out that the lady at the cottage 
 was no other than the lady in black to whom he had 
 lost his heart two years and a half before, he was con 
 siderably surprised. It would be absurd to suppose 
 that the boyish fancy which had made so much romance 
 in his life for so many months could outlast the 
 excitements of the University. It would be absurd 
 to dignify such a fancy by any serious name. He had 
 grown to be a man since those days and he had put 
 away childish things. He blushed to remember that 
 he had spent hours in writing odes to the beautiful 
 unknown, and whole nights in dreaming of her face. 
 And yet he could remember that as much as a year 
 after he had left Billingsfield he still thought of her as 
 his highest ideal of woman, and still occasionally com 
 posed a few verses to her memory, regretting, perhaps, 
 the cooling of his poetic ardour. Then he had gradu 
 ally lost sight of her in the hard work which made up 
 his life. Profound study had made him more prosaic 
 and he believed that he had done with ideals for ever, 
 after the manner of many clever young fellows who at 
 one and twenty feel that they are separated from the 
 follies of eighteen by a great and impassable gulf. 
 The gulf, however, was not in John s case so wide nor 
 so deep but what, at the prospect of being suddenly 
 brought face to face, and made -acquainted, with her 
 who for so long had seemed the object of a romantic 
 passion, he felt a strange thrill of surprise and embar 
 rassment. Those meetings of later years generally 
 bring painful disillusion. How many of us carTf 
 remember some fair-haired little girl who in our child 
 hood represented to us the very incarnation of femi- ; 
 nine grace and beauty, for whom we fetched and 
 carried, for whom we bound nosegays on the heath 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 85 
 
 and stole apples from the orchard and climbed upon 
 the table after desert, if we were left alone in the 
 dining-room, to lay hands on some beautiful sweet 
 meat wrapped in tinsel and fringes of pink paper 
 have we not met her again in after-life, a grown woman, 
 very, very far from our ideal of feminine grace and 
 beauty ? And still in spite of changes in herself and 
 ourselves there has clung to her memory through all 
 those years enough of romance to make our heart 
 beat a little faster at the prospect of suddenly meet 
 ing her, enough to make us wonder a little regretfully 
 if she was at all like the little golden-haired child we 
 loved long ago. J 
 
 But with John the feeling was stronger than that. 
 It was but two years and a half since he had seen 
 Mrs. Goddard, and, not even knowing her name, had 
 erected for her a pedestal in his boyish heart. There 
 was moreover about her a mystery still unsolved. 
 There was something odd and strange in her one visit 
 to the vicarage, in the fact that the vicar had never 
 referred to that visit and, lastly, it seemed unlike Mr. 
 Ambrose to have said nothing of her settlement in 
 Billingsfield in the course of all the letters he had 
 written to John since the latter had left him. John 
 dwelt upon the name Goddard but it held no 
 association for him. It was not at all like the names 
 he had given her in his imagination. He wondered 
 what she would be like and he felt nervously anxious 
 to meet her. Somehow, too, what he heard of the 
 squire did not please him ; he felt an immediate an 
 tagonism to Mr. Juxon, to his books, to his amateur 
 scholarship, even to his appearance as described by Mrs. 
 Ambrose, who said he was such a thorough English 
 man and wondered how he kept his hair so smooth. 
 
86 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 It was not long before he had an opportunity of 
 judging for himself of what Mr. Ambrose called the 
 recent addition to Billingsfield society. On the very 
 afternoon of his arrival the vicar proposed to walk 
 up to the Hall and have a look at the library, and 
 John readily assented. It was Christmas Eve and the 
 weather, even in Essex, was sharp and frosty. The 
 muddy road was frozen hard and the afternoon sun, 
 slanting through the oak trees that bordered the road 
 beyond the village, made no perceptible impression on 
 the cold. The two men walked briskly in the direc 
 tion of the park gate. Before they had quite reached 
 it however, the door of the cottage opposite was 
 opened, and Stamboul, the Russian bloodhound, 
 bounded down the path, cleared the wicket gate in 
 his vast stride, and then turning suddenly crouched 
 in the middle of the road to wait for his master. But 
 the dog instantly caught sight of the vicar, with 
 whom he was on very good terms, and trotted slowly 
 up to him, thrusting his great nose into his hand, and 
 then proceeding to make acquaintance with John. 
 He seemed to approve of the stranger, for he gave 
 a short sniff of satisfaction and trotted back to the 
 wicket of the cottage. At this moment Mrs. God- 
 dard and Nellie came out, followed by the squire 
 arrayed in his inevitable green stockings. There was 
 however no rose in his coat. Whether the green 
 houses at the Hall had failed to produce any in 
 the bitter weather, or whether Mr. Juxon had trans 
 ferred the rose from his coat to the possession of Mrs. 
 Goddard, is uncertain. The three came out into the 
 road where the vicar and John stood still to meet 
 them. 
 
 " Mrs. Goddard," said the clergyman, " this is Mr. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 87 
 
 Short, of whom you have heard John, let me intro 
 duce you to Mr. Juxon." 
 
 John felt that he blushed violently as he took Mrs. 
 Goddard s hand. He would not have believed that 
 he could feel so much embarrassed, and he hated 
 himself for betraying it. But nobody noticed his 
 colour. The weather was bright and cold, and even 
 Mrs. Goddard s pale and delicate skin had a rosy 
 tinge. 
 
 " We were just going for a walk," she explained. 
 
 " And we were going to see you at the Hall," said 
 the vicar to Mr. Juxon. 
 
 " Let us do both," said the latter. " Let us walk to 
 the Hall and have a cup of tea. We can look at the 
 ice and see whether it will bear to-morrow." 
 
 Everybody agreed to the proposal, and it so fell out 
 that the squire and the vicar went before while John 
 and Mrs. Goddard followed and Nellie walked be 
 tween them, holding Stamboul by the collar, and 
 talking to him as she went. John looked at his 
 companion, and saw with a strange satisfaction that 
 his first impression, the impression he had cher 
 ished so long, had not been a mistaken one. Her 
 deep violet eyes were still sad, beautiful and dreamy. 
 Her small nose was full of expression, and was not 
 reddened by the cold as noses are wont to be. Her 
 rich brown hair waved across her forehead as it did 
 on that day when John first saw her; and now 
 as he spoke with her, her mouth smiled, as he had 
 been sure it would. John felt a curious sense of 
 pride in her, in finding that he had not been de 
 ceived, that this ideal of whom he had dreamed was 
 really and truly very good to look at. He knew 
 little of the artist s rules of beauty; he had often 
 
88 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 looked with wonder at the faces in the illustrations 
 to Dr. Smith s classical dictionary, and had tried to 
 understand where the beauty of them lay, and at 
 Cambridge he had seen and studied with interest 
 many photographs and casts from the antiques. 
 But to his mind the antique would not bear compari 
 son for a moment with Mrs. Goddard, who resembled 
 no engraving nor photograph nor cast he had ever 
 seen. 
 
 And she, too, looked at him, and said to herself 
 that he did not look like what she had expected. He 
 looked like a lean, fresh young Englishman of moder 
 ate intelligence and in moderate circumstances. And 
 yet she knew that he was no ordinary young fellow, 
 that he was wonderfully gifted, in fact, and likely to 
 make a mark in the world. She resolved to take a 
 proper interest in him. 
 
 " Do you know," she said, " I have heard so much 
 about you, that I feel as though I had met you before, 
 Mr. Short." 
 
 " We really have met," said John. " Do you re 
 member that hot day when you came to the vicarage 
 and I waked up Muggins for you ? " 
 
 " Yes was that you ? You have changed. That 
 is, I suppose I did iiot see you very well in the 
 hurry." 
 
 "I suppose I have changed in two years and a half. 
 I was only a boy then, you know. But how have 
 you heard so much about me ? " 
 
 " Billingsfield," said Mrs. Goddard with a faint 
 smile, " is not a large place. The Ambroses are 
 very fond of you and always talk of what you are 
 doing." 
 
 "And so you really live here, Mrs. Goddard? 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 89 
 
 How long is it since you came ? Mr. Ambrose never 
 told me " 
 
 "I have been here more than two years two 
 years last October," she answered quietly. 
 
 " The very year I left only a month after I was 
 gone. How strange ! " 
 
 Mrs. Goddard looked up nervously. She was 
 frightened lest John should have made any deduc 
 tions from the date of her arrival. But John was 
 thinking in a very different train of thought. 
 
 " Why is it strange ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, I hardly know," said John in considerable 
 embarrassment. " I was only thinking about you 
 that is, about it all." 
 
 The answer did not tend to quiet Mrs. Goddard s 
 apprehensions. 
 
 " About me ? " she exclaimed. " Why should you 
 think about me ? " 
 
 "It was very foolish, of course," said John. 
 " Only, when I caught sight of you that day I was 
 very much struck. You know, I was only a boy, 
 then. I hoped you would come back but you 
 did not." He blushed violently, and then glanced 
 at his companion to see whether she had noticed 
 it. 
 
 " No," she said, " I did not come back for some 
 time." 
 
 " And then I was gone. Mr. Ambrose never told 
 me you had come." 
 
 "Why should he?" 
 
 " Oh, I don t know. I think he might. You see 
 Billingsfield has been a sort of home to me, and it is 
 a small place ; so I thought he might have told me 
 the news." 
 
90 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " I suppose he thought it would not interest you," 
 said Mrs. Goddard. " I am sure I do not know why 
 it should. But you must be very fond of the place, 
 are you not?" 
 
 " Very. As I was saying, it is very like home to 
 me. My father lives in town you know that is not 
 at all like home. One always associates the idea of 
 home with the country, and a vicarage and a Hall, and 
 all that." 
 
 " Does one ? " said Mrs. Goddard, picking her way 
 over the frozen mud of the road. " Take care, Nellie, 
 it is dreadfully slippery ! " 
 
 " How much she has grown," remarked John, look 
 ing at the girl s active figure as she walked before 
 them. " She was quite a little girl when I saw her 
 first." 
 
 " Yes, she grows very fast," answered Mrs. Goddard 
 rather regretfully. 
 
 " You say that as though you were sorry." 
 
 "I? No. I am glad to see her grow. What a 
 funny remark." 
 
 " I thought you spoke sadly," explained John. 
 
 " Oh, dear no. Only she is coming to the awkward 
 age." 
 
 " She is coming to it very gracefully," said John, 
 who wanted to say something pleasant. 
 
 " That is the most any of us can hope to do," 
 answered Mrs. Goddard with a little smile. "We 
 all have our awkward age, I suppose." 
 
 " I should not think you could remember yours." 
 
 " Why? Do you think it was so very long ago ? " 
 Mrs. Goddard laughed. 
 
 "No I cannot believe you ever had any," said 
 John. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 91 
 
 The boyish compliment pleased Mrs. Goddard. It 
 was long since any one had flattered her, for flattery 
 did not enter into the squire s system for making him 
 self agreeable. 
 
 " Do they teach that sort of thing at Cambridge ? " 
 she asked demurely. 
 
 "What sort of thing?" 
 
 " Making little speeches to ladies," said she. 
 
 "No I wish they did," said John, laughing. " I 
 should know much better how to make them. We 
 learn how to write Greek odes to moral abstrac 
 tions." 
 
 " What a dreadful thing to do ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Goddard. 
 
 "Do you think so? I do not know. Now, for 
 instance, I have written a great many Greek odes to 
 you " 
 
 "To me?" interrupted his companion in surprise. 
 
 " Do you think it is so very extraordinary ? " 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "Well you see I only saw you once you 
 won t laugh?" 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Goddard, who was very much 
 amused, and was beginning to think that John Short 
 was the most original young man she had ever met. 
 
 " I only saw you once, when you came to the vicar 
 age, and I had not the least idea what your name 
 was. But I I hoped you would come back ; and so 
 I used to write poems to you. They were very good, 
 too," added John in a meditative tone, " I have never 
 written any nearly so good as they were." 
 
 "Really?" Mrs. Goddard looked at him rather 
 incredulously and then laughed. 
 
 " You said you would not laugh," objected John. 
 
92 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "I cannot help it in the least," said she. "It 
 seems so funny." 
 
 " It did not seem funny to me, I can assure you," 
 replied John rather warmly. "I thought it very 
 serious." 
 
 " You don t do it now, do you ? " asked Mrs. God- 
 dard, looking up at him quietly. 
 
 " Oh no a man s ideals change so much, you 
 know," answered John, who felt he had been fool 
 ishly betrayed into telling his story, and hated to be 
 laughed at. 
 
 " I am very glad of that. How long are you going 
 to stay here, Mr. Short?" 
 
 " Until New Year s Day, I think," he answered. 
 "Perhaps you will have time to forget about the 
 poetry before I go." 
 
 " I don t know why," said Mrs. Goddard, noticing 
 his hurt tone. " I think it was very pretty I mean 
 the way you did it. You must be a born poet to 
 write verses to a person you did not know and had 
 only seen once ! " 
 
 "It is much easier than writing verses to moral 
 abstractions one has never seen at all," explained 
 John, who was easily pacified. " When a man writes 
 a great deal he feels the necessity of attaching all 
 those beautiful moral qualities to some real, living 
 person whom he can see " 
 
 " Even if he only sees her once," remarked Mrs. 
 Goddard demurely. 
 
 " Yes, even if he only sees her once. You have no 
 idea how hard it is to concentrate one s faculties upon 
 a mere idea ; but the moment a man sees a woman 
 whom he can endow with all sorts of beautiful quali 
 ties why it s just as easy as hunting." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 93 
 
 " I am glad to have been of so much service to you, 
 even unconsciously but, don t you think perhaps 
 Mrs. Ambrose would have done as well ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Ambrose ? " repeated John. Then he broke 
 into a hearty laugh. " No I have no hesitation in 
 saying that she would not have done as well. I am 
 deeply indebted to Mrs. Ambrose for a thousand kind 
 nesses, for a great deal more than I can tell but, on 
 the whole, I say, no ; I could not have written odes 
 to Mrs. Ambrose." 
 
 "No, I suppose not. Besides, fancy the vicar s 
 state of mind ! She would have had to call him in 
 to translate your poetry." 
 
 " It is very singular," said John in a tone of reflec 
 tion. "But, if I had not done all that, we should 
 not be talking as we are now, after ten minutes 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " Probably not," said Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 u No certainly not. By the bye, there is the 
 Hall. I suppose you have often been there since 
 Mr. Juxon came what kind of man is he ? " 
 
 " He has been a great traveller," answered his com 
 panion. u And then well, he is a scholar and has 
 an immense library 
 
 "And an immense dog yes, but I mean, what 
 kind of man is he himself ? " 
 
 " He is very agreeable," said Mrs. Goddard quietly. 
 " Very well bred, very well educated. We find him 
 a great addition in Billingsfield." 
 
 " I should think so, if he is all you say," said John 
 discontentedly. His antagonism against Mr. Juxon 
 was rapidly increasing. Mrs. Goddard looked at him 
 in some surprise, being very far from understanding 
 his tone. 
 
94 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " I think you will like him," she said. " He knows 
 all about you from the Ambroses, and he always 
 speaks of you with the greatest admiration." 
 
 "Really? It is awfully kind of him, I am sure. 
 I am very much obliged," said John rather con 
 temptuously. 
 
 " Why do you speak like that ? " asked Mrs. God- 
 dard gravely. " You cannot possibly have any cause 
 for disliking him. Besides, he is a friend of ours " 
 
 " Oh, of course, then it is different," said John. 
 " If he is a friend of yours " 
 
 " Do you generally take violent dislikes to people 
 at first sight, Mr. Short?" 
 
 " Oh, dear no. Not at all at least, not dislikes. 
 I suppose Mr. Juxon s face reminds me of somebody 
 I do not like. I will behave like an angel. Here 
 we are." 
 
 The effect of this conversation upon the two per 
 sons between whom it took place was exceedingly 
 different. Mrs. Goddard was amused, without being 
 altogether pleased. She had made the acquaintance 
 of a refreshingly young scholar whom she understood 
 to be full of genius. He was enthusiastic, simple, 
 seemingly incapable of concealing anything that 
 passed through his mind, unreasonable and evidently 
 very susceptible. On the whole, she thought she 
 should like him, though his scornful manner in speak 
 ing of the squire had annoyed her. The interest she 
 could feel in him, if she felt any at all, would be 
 akin to that of the vicar in the boy. He was only a 
 boy ; brilliantly talented, they said, but still a mere 
 boy. She was fully ten years older than he she 
 might almost be his mother well, not quite that, 
 but very nearly. It was amusing to think of his 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 95 
 
 writing odes to her. She wished she could see trans 
 lations of them, and she almost made up her mind to 
 ask him to show them to her. 
 
 John on the other hand experienced a curious 
 sensation. He had never before been in the society 
 of so charming a woman. He looked at her and 
 looked again, and came to the conclusion that she 
 was not only charming but beautiful. He had not 
 the least idea of her age ; it is not the manner of his 
 kind to think much about the age of a woman, pro 
 vided she is not too young. The girl might be ten. 
 Mrs. Goddard might have married at sixteen 
 twenty-six, twenty-seven what was that ? John 
 called himself twenty-two. Five years was simply 
 no difference at all ! Besides, who cared for age ? 
 
 He had suddenly found himself almost on a footing 
 of intimacy with this lovely creature. His odes had 
 served him well ; it had pleased her to hear the story. 
 She had laughed a little, of course ; but women, as 
 John knew, always laugh when they are pleased. 
 He would like to show her his odes. As he walked 
 through the park by her side he felt a curious sense 
 of possession in her which gave him a thrill of exqui 
 site delight ; and when they entered the Hall he felt 
 as though he were resigning her to the squire, which 
 gave him a corresponding sense of annoyance. When 
 an Englishman experiences these sensations, he is in 
 love. John resolved that whatever happened he 
 would walk back with Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 " Come in," said the squire cheerily. " We are 
 not so cold as we used to be up here." 
 
 A great fire of logs was burning upon the hearth 
 in the Hall. Stamboul stalked up to the open chim 
 ney, scratched the tiger s skin which served for a rug, 
 
96 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 and threw himself down as though his day s work 
 were done. Mr. Juxon went up to Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 " I think you had better take off your coat," he 
 said. " The house is very warm." 
 
 Mrs. Goddard allowed the squire to help her in re 
 moving the heavy black jacket lined and trimmed 
 with fur, which she wore. John eyed the proceeding 
 uneasily and kept on his greatcoat. 
 
 "Thank you I don t mind the heat," he said 
 shortly when the squire suggested to him that he 
 might be too warm. John was in a fit of contrariety. 
 Mrs. Goddard glanced at him, as he spoke, and he 
 thought he detected a twinkle of amusement in her 
 eyes, which did not tend to smooth his temper. 
 
 "You will have some tea, Mrs. Goddard?" said 
 Mr. Juxon, leading the way into the library, which 
 he regarded as the most habitable room in the 
 house. Mrs. Goddard walked by his side and the 
 vicar followed, while John and Nellie brought up 
 the rear. 
 
 " Is not it a beautiful place ? " said Nellie, who was 
 anxious that the new-comer should appreciate the 
 magnificence of the Hall. 
 
 " Can t see very well," said John, " it is so dark." 
 
 " Oh, but it is beautiful," insisted Miss Nellie. 
 " And they have lots of lamps here in the evening. 
 Perhaps Mr. Juxon will have them lighted before we 
 go. He is always so kind." 
 
 "Is he? " asked John with a show of interest. 
 
 " Yes he brings mamma a rose every day," said 
 Nellie. 
 
 " Not really?" said John, beginning to feel that he 
 was justified in hating the squire with all his might. 
 
 " Yes and books, too. Lots of them but then, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 97 
 
 he has so many. See, this is the library. Is not it 
 splendid ! " 
 
 John looked about him and was surprised. The 
 last rays of the setting sun fell across the open lawn 
 and through the deep windows of the great room, 
 illuminating the tall carved bookcases, the heavily gilt 
 bindings, the rich, dark Russia leather and morocco 
 of the folios. The footsteps of the party fell noise 
 lessly upon the thick carpet and almost insensibly 
 the voices of the visitors dropped to a lower key. 
 A fine large wood fire was burning on the hearth, 
 carefully covered with a metal netting lest any spark 
 should fly out and cause damage to the treasures 
 accumulated in the neighbouring shelves. 
 
 " Pray make yourself at home, Mr. Short," said the 
 squire, coming up to John. " You may find something 
 of interest here. There are some old editions of the 
 classics that are thought rare some specimens of 
 Venetian printing, too, that you may like to look at. 
 Mr. Ambrose can tell you more about them than I." 
 
 John s feeling of antagonism, and even his resent 
 ment against Mr. Juxon, roused by Nellie s innocent 
 remark about the roses, were not proof against the 
 real scholastic passion aroused by the sight of rare and 
 valuable books. In a few minutes he had divested 
 himself of his greatcoat and was examining the books 
 with an expression of delight upon his face which was 
 pleasant to see. He glanced from time to time at 
 the other persons in the room and looked very often 
 at Mrs. Goddard, but on the whole he was profoundly 
 interested in the contents of the library. Mrs. God 
 dard was installed in a huge leathern easy-chair by the 
 fire, and the squire Avas handing her one after another 
 a number of new volumes which lay upon a small 
 
98 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 table, and which she appeared to examine with inter 
 est. Nellie knew where to look for her favourite 
 books of engravings and had curled herself up in a 
 corner absorbed in " Hyde s Royal Residences." The 
 vicar went to look for something he wanted to con 
 sult. 
 
 " What do you think of our new friend ? " asked 
 Mrs. Goddard of the squire. She spoke in a low tone 
 and did not look up from the new book he had just 
 handed her. 
 
 " He appears to have a very peculiar temper," said 
 Mr. Juxon. " But he looks clever." 
 
 " What do you think he was talking about as we 
 came through the park ? " asked Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " He was saying that he saw me once before he 
 went to college, and fancy how deliciously boyish ! 
 he said he had written ever so many Greek odes to 
 my memory since ! " Mrs. Goddard laughed a little 
 and blushed faintly. 
 
 " Let us hope, for the sake of his success, that you 
 may continue to inspire him," said the squire gravely. 
 "I have no doubt the odes were very good." 
 
 "So he said. Fancy!" 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 99 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MRS. GODDARD did not mean to walk home with 
 John; but on the other hand she did not mean to 
 walk with the squire. She revolved the matter in 
 her mind as she sat in the library talking in an un 
 dertone with Mr. Juxon. She liked the great room, 
 the air of luxury, the squire s tea and the squire s 
 conversation. It is worth noticing that his flow of 
 talk was more abundant to-day than it had been for 
 some time; whether it was John s presence which 
 stimulated Mr. Juxon s imagination, or whether 
 Mrs. Goddard had suddenly grown more interesting 
 since John Short s appearance it is hard to say ; it is 
 certain that Mr. Juxon talked better than usual. 
 
 The afternoon, however, was far spent and the 
 party had only come to make a short visit. Mrs. 
 Goddard rose from her seat. 
 
 "Nellie, child, we must be going home," she said, 
 calling to the little girl who was still absorbed in 
 the book of engravings which she had taken to the 
 window to catch the last of the waning light. 
 
 John started and came forward with alacrity. 
 The vicar looked up ; Nellie reluctantly brought her 
 book back. 
 
 "It is very early," objected the squire. "Really, 
 the days have no business to be so short." 
 
 " It would not seem like Christmas if they were 
 long," said Mrs. Goddard. 
 
100 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "It does not seem like Christmas anyhow," re 
 marked John, enigmatically. No one understood 
 his observation and no one paid any attention to it. 
 Whereupon John s previous feeling of annoyance 
 returned and he went to look for his greatcoat in the 
 dark corner where he had laid it. 
 
 "You must not come all the way back with us," 
 said Mrs. Goddard as they all went out into the hall 
 and began to put on their warm things before the 
 fire. " Really it is late. Mr. Ambrose will give 
 me his arm." 
 
 The squire insisted however, and Stamboul, who 
 had had a comfortable nap by the fire, was of the 
 same opinion as his master and plunged wildly at 
 the door. 
 
 "Will you give me your arm, Mr. Ambrose?" said 
 Mrs. Goddard, looking rather timidly at the vicar as 
 they stood upon the broad steps in the sparkling 
 evening air. She felt that she was disappointing 
 both the squire and John, but she had quite made up 
 her mind. She had her own reasons. The vicar, 
 good man, was unconsciously a little flattered by her 
 choice, as with her hand resting on the sleeve of his 
 greatcoat he led the way down the park. The squire 
 and John were fain to follow together, but Nellie took 
 her mother s hand, and Stamboul walked behind 
 affecting an unusual gravity. 
 
 " You must come again when there is more day 
 light," said Mr. Juxon to his companion. 
 
 "Thank you," said John. "You are very good." 
 He intended to relapse into silence, but his instinct 
 made him ashamed of seeming rude. " You have a 
 magnificent library," he added presently in a rather 
 cold tone. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 101 
 
 " You have been used to much better ones in Cam 
 bridge," said the squire, modestly. 
 
 " Do you know Cambridge well, Mr. Juxon ? " 
 
 "Very well. I am a Cambridge man, myself." 
 
 "Indeed?" exclaimed John, immediately discover 
 ing that the squire was not so bad as he had thought. 
 " Indeed ! I had no idea. Mr. Ambrose never told 
 me that." 
 
 "I am not sure that he is aware of it," said Mr. 
 Juxon quietly. "The subject never happened to 
 come up." 
 
 "How odd! " remarked John, who could not con 
 ceive of associating with a man for any length of 
 time without asking at what University he had 
 been. 
 
 "I don t know," answered Mr. Juxon. "There 
 are lots of other things to talk about." 
 
 "Oh of course," said John, in a tone which did 
 not express conviction. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Ambrose and Mrs. Goddard walked 
 briskly in front; so briskly in fact that Nellie occa 
 sionally jumped a step, as children say, in order to 
 keep up with them. 
 
 " What a glorious Christmas eve ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Goddard, as they turned a bend in the drive and 
 caught sight of the western sky still clear and red. 
 "And there is the new moon!" The slender cres 
 cent was hanging just above the fading glow. 
 
 "Oh mamma, have you wished?" cried Nellie. 
 "You must, you know, when you see the new 
 moon ! " 
 
 Mrs. Goddard did not answer, but she sighed 
 faintly and drew a little closer to the worthy vicar 
 as she walked. She always wished, whether there 
 
102 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 was a new moon or not, and she always wished the 
 same wish. Perhaps Mr. Ambrose understood, for 
 he was not without tact. He changed the subject. 
 
 "How do you like our John Short?" he asked. 
 
 "Very much, I think," answered Mrs. Goddard. 
 "He is so fresh and young." 
 
 " He is a fine fellow. I was sure you would like 
 him. Is he at all like what you fancied he would be ? " 
 
 "Well no not exactly. I know you told me 
 how he looked, but I always thought he would be 
 rather Byronic the poetical type, if you know what 
 I mean." 
 
 "He has a great deal of poetry in him," said Mr. 
 Ambrose in a tone of profound admiration. "He 
 writes the best Greek verse I ever saw." 
 
 "Oh yes I daresay," replied Mrs. Goddard smil 
 ing in the dusk. " I am sure he must be very clever." 
 
 So they chatted quietly as they walked down the 
 park. But the squire and John did not make prog 
 ress in their conversation, and by the time they 
 reached the gate they had yielded to an awkward 
 silence. They had both been annoyed because Mrs. 
 Goddard had taken the vicar s arm instead of choos 
 ing one of themselves, but the joint sense of disap 
 pointment did not constitute a common bond of 
 interest. Either one would have suffered anything 
 rather than mention Mrs. Goddard to the other in the 
 course of the walk. And yet Mr. Juxon might have 
 been John s father. At the gate of the cottage they 
 separated. The squire said he would turn back. 
 Mrs. Goddard had reached her destination. John 
 and the vicar would return to the vicarage. John 
 tried to linger a moment, to get a word with Mrs. 
 Goddard. He was so persistent that she let him fol- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 103 
 
 low her through the wicket gate and then turned 
 quickly. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, rather suddenly, hold 
 ing out her hand to say good-bye. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, " answered John. " That is would 
 you like to see one of those those little odes of 
 mine?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly, if you like," she answered frankly, 
 and then laughed. "Of course I would. Good 
 night." 
 
 He turned and fled. The vicar was waiting for 
 him, and eyed him rather curiously as he came back. 
 Mr. Juxon was standing in the middle of the road, 
 making Stamboul jump over his stick, backwards and 
 forwards. 
 
 "Good-night," he said, pausing in his occupation. 
 The vicar and John turned away and walked home 
 wards. Before they turned the corner towards the 
 village John instinctively looked back. Mr. Juxon 
 was still making Stamboul jump the stick before the 
 cottage, but as far as he could see in the dusk, Mrs. 
 Goddard and Nellie had disappeared within. John 
 felt that he was very unhappy. 
 
 "Mr. Ambrose," he began. Then he stopped and 
 hesitated. "Mr. Ambrose," he continued at last, 
 "you never told me half the news of Billingsfield in 
 your letters." 
 
 " You mean about Mrs. Goddard ? Well no I 
 did not think it would interest you very much." 
 
 "She is a very interesting person," said John. 
 He could have added that if he had known she was 
 in Billingsfield he would have made a great sacrifice 
 in order to come down for a day to make her acquaint 
 ance. But he did not say it. 
 
104 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "She is a great addition," said the vicar. 
 
 "Oh very great, I should think." 
 
 Christmas eve was passed at the vicarage in prep 
 aration for the morrow. Mrs. Ambrose was very 
 active in binding holly wherever it was possible to 
 put it. The mince-pies were tasted and pronounced 
 a success, and old Reynolds was despatched to the 
 cottage with a small basket containing a certain 
 number of them as a present to Mrs. Goddard. An 
 emissary appeared from the Hall with a variety of 
 articles which the squire begged to contribute tow 
 ards the vicar s Christmas dinner; among others a 
 haunch of venison which Mrs. Ambrose pronounced 
 to be in the best condition. The vicar retorted by 
 sending to the Hall a magnificent Cottenham cheese 
 which, as a former Fellow of Trinity, he had suc 
 ceeded in obtaining. Moreover Mr. Ambrose him 
 self descended to the cellar and brought up several 
 bottles of Audit ale which he declared must be 
 allowed to stand some time in the pantry in order 
 to bring out the flavour and to be thoroughly settled. 
 John gave his assistance wherever it was needed and 
 enjoyed vastly the old-fashioned preparations for 
 Christmas day. It was long since the season had 
 brought him such rejoicing and he intended to rejoice 
 with a good will towards men and especially towards 
 the Ambroses. After dinner the whole party, con 
 sisting of three highly efficient persons and old Rey 
 nolds, adjourned to the church to complete the 
 decorations for the morrow. 
 
 The church of Billingsfield, known as St. Mary s, 
 was quite large enough to contain twice the entire 
 population of the parish. It was built upon a part 
 of the foundations of an ancient abbey, and the vicar 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 105 
 
 was very proud of the monument of a crusading Earl 
 of Oxford which he had caused to be placed in the 
 chancel, it having been discovered in the old chancel 
 of the abbey in the park, far beyond the present lim 
 its of the church. The tower was the highest in the 
 neighbourhood. The whole building was of gray 
 rubble, irregular stones set together with a crum 
 bling cement, and presented an appearance which, if 
 not architecturally imposing, was at least sufficiently 
 venerable. At the present time the aisles were full 
 of heaped-up holly and wreaths ; a few lamps and a 
 considerable number of tallow candles shed a rather 
 feeble light amongst the pillars ; a crowd of school 
 children, not yet washed for the morrow, were busy 
 under the directions of the schoolmistress in decorat 
 ing the chancel ; Mr. Thomas Reid the conservative 
 sexton was at the top of a tall ladder, presumably 
 using doubtful language to himself as every third 
 nail he tried to drive into the crevices of the stone 
 "crooked hisself and larfed at him," as he expressed 
 it; the organ was playing and a dozen small boys 
 with three or four men were industriously practising 
 the anthem "Arise, Shine," producing strains which 
 if not calculated altogether to elevate the heart by 
 their harmony, would certainly have caused the hair 
 of a sensitive musician to rise on end; three or four 
 of the oldest inhabitants were leaning on their sticks 
 in the neighbourhood of the great stove in the mid 
 dle aisle, warming themselves and grumbling that 
 "times warn t as they used to be;" Mr. Abraham 
 Boosey was noisily declaring that he had "cartlods 
 more o thirn greens " to come, and Muggins, who 
 had had some beer, was stumbling cheerfully against 
 the pews in his efforts to bring a huge load of fir 
 
106 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 branches to the foot of Mr. Thomas Reid s long 
 ladder. It was a thorough Christmas scene and John 
 Short s heart warmed as he came back suddenly to 
 the things which for three years had been so familiar 
 to him and which he had so much missed in his soli 
 tude at Cambridge. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose set to 
 work and John followed their example. Even the 
 prickly holly leaves were pleasant to touch and there 
 was a homely joy in the fir branches dripping with 
 half melted snow. 
 
 Before they had been at work very long, John was 
 aware of a little figure, muffled in furs and standing 
 beside him. He looked up and saw little Nellie s 
 lovely face and long brown curls. 
 
 "Can t I help you, Mr. Short?" she asked timidly. 
 "I like to help, and they won t let me." 
 
 "Who are they ?" asked John kindly, but look 
 ing about for the figure of Nellie s mother. 
 
 "The schoolmistress and Mrs. Ambrose. They 
 said I should dirty my frock." 
 
 "Well," said John, doubtfully, "I don t know. 
 Perhaps you would. But you might hold the string 
 for me that won t hurt your clothes, you know." 
 
 "There are more greens this year," remarked 
 Nellie, sitting down upon the end of the choir bench 
 where John was at work and taking the ball of string 
 in her hand. " Mr. Juxon has sent a lot from the 
 park." 
 
 "He seems to be always sending things," said 
 John, who had no reason whatever for saying so, 
 except that the squire had sent a hamper to the vicar 
 age. "Did he stay long before dinner?" he added, 
 in the tone people adopt when they hope to make 
 children talk. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 107 
 
 "Stay long where?" asked Nellie innocently. 
 
 " Oh, I thought he went into your house after we 
 left you," answered John. 
 
 " Oh no he did not come in," said Nellie. John 
 continued to work in silence. At some distance 
 from where he was, Mrs. Goddard was talking to 
 Mrs. Ambrose. He could see her graceful figure, 
 but he could hardly distinguish her features in the 
 gloom of the dimly-lighted church. He longed to 
 leave Nellie and to go and speak to her, but an un 
 defined feeling of hurt pride prevented him. He 
 would not forgive her for having taken the vicar s 
 arm in coming home through the park; so he stayed 
 where he was, pricking his fingers with the holly 
 and rather impatiently pulling the string off the ball 
 which Nellie held. If Mrs. Goddard wanted to 
 speak to him, she might come of her own accord, he 
 thought, for he felt that he had behaved foolishly in 
 asking if she wished to see his odes. Somehow, 
 when he thought about it, the odes did not seem so 
 good now as they had seemed that afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard had not seen him at first, and for 
 some time she remained in consultation with Mrs. 
 Ambrose. At last she turned and looking for Nellie 
 saw that she was seated beside John; to his great 
 delight she came towards him. She looked more 
 lovely than ever, he thought; the dark fur about her 
 throat set off her delicate, sad face like a frame. 
 
 " Oh are you here, too, Mr. Short ? " she said. 
 
 "Hard at work, as you see," answered John. 
 "Are you going to help, Mrs. Goddard? Won t you 
 help me?" 
 
 "I wanted to," said Nellie, appealing to her 
 mother, " but they would not let me, so I can only 
 hold the string." 
 
108 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Well, dear we will see if we can help Mr. 
 Short," said Mrs. Goddard good-naturedly, and she 
 sat down upon the choir bench. 
 
 John never forgot that delightful Christmas Eve. 
 For nearly two hours he never left Mrs. Goddard s 
 side, asking her advice about every branch and bit 
 of holly and following out to the letter her most 
 minute suggestions. He forgot all about the squire 
 and about the walk back from the park, in the delight 
 of having Mrs. Goddard to himself. He pushed the 
 school children about and spoke roughly to old Rey 
 nolds if her commands were not instantly executed; 
 he felt in the little crowd of village people that he 
 was her natural protector, and he wished he might 
 never have anything in the world to do save to deco 
 rate a church in her company. He grew more and 
 more confidential and when the work was all done 
 he felt that he had thoroughly established himself in 
 her good graces and went home to dream of the hap 
 piest day he had ever spent. The organ ceased play 
 ing, the little choir dispersed, the school children 
 were sent home, Mr. Abraham Boosey retired to the 
 bar of the Duke s Head, Muggins tenderly embraced 
 every tombstone he met on his way through the 
 churchyard, the "gentlefolk" followed Reynolds 
 lantern towards the vicarage, and Mr. Thomas Reid, 
 the conservative and melancholic sexton, put out the 
 lights and locked the church doors, muttering a sour 
 laudation of more primitive times, when "the gen 
 tlefolk minded their business." 
 
 For the second time that day, John and Mr. 
 Ambrose walked as far as the cottage, to see Mrs. 
 Goddard to her home. When they parted from her 
 and Nellie, John was careful not to say anything 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 109 
 
 more about the odes, a subject to which Mrs. God- 
 dard had not referred in the course of the evening. 
 John thanked her rather effusively for her help he 
 could never have got through those choir benches 
 without her, he said; and the vicar added that he 
 was very much obliged, too, and surreptitiously con 
 veyed to Mrs. Goddard s hand a small package in 
 tended for Miss Nellie s Christmas stocking, from 
 him and his wife, and which he had forgotten to give 
 earlier. Nellie was destined to have a fuller stock 
 ing than usual this year, for the squire had remem 
 bered her as well as Mr. Ambrose. 
 
 John went to bed in his old room at the vicarage 
 protesting that he had enjoyed the first da} of his 
 holiday immensely. As he blew out the light, he 
 thought suddenly how often in that very room he had 
 gone to bed dreaming about the lady in black and 
 composing verses to her, till somehow the Greek ter 
 minations would get mixed up with the Latin roots, 
 the quantities all seemed to change places, and he 
 used to fall asleep with a delicious half romantic sense 
 of happiness always unfulfilled yet always present. 
 And now at last it began to be fulfilled in earnest ; 
 he had met the lady in black at last, had spent nearly 
 half a day in her company and was more persuaded 
 than ever that she was really and truly his ideal. 
 He did not go to sleep so soon as in the old days, and 
 he was sorry to go to sleep at all ; he wanted to enjoy 
 all his delicious recollections of that afternoon before 
 he slept and, as he recapitulated the events which 
 had befallen him and recalled each expression of the 
 face that had charmed him and every intonation of 
 the charmer s voice, he felt that he had never been 
 really happy before, that no amount of success at 
 
110 A TALE OF A LONELY PAIUSH. 
 
 Cambridge could give him half the delight he had 
 experienced during one hour in the old Billingsfield 
 church, and that altogether life anywhere else was 
 not worth living. To-morrow he would see Mrs. 
 Goddard again, and the next day and the day after 
 that and then "bother the future!" ejaculated 
 John, and went to sleep. 
 
 He awoke early, roused by the loud clanging of 
 the Christmas bells, and looking out he saw that the 
 day was fine and cold and bright as Christmas day 
 should be, and generally is. The hoar frost was 
 frozen into fantastic shapes upon his little window, 
 the snow was clinging to the yew branches out 
 side and the robins were hopping and chirping over 
 the thin crust of frozen snow that just covered the 
 ground. The road was hard and brown as on the 
 previous day, and the ice in the park would probably 
 bear. Perhaps Mrs. Goddard would skate in the 
 afternoon between the services, but then Juxon 
 would be there. "Never mind Juxon," quoth John 
 to himself, " it is Christmas day ! " 
 
 At the vicarage and elsewhere, all over the land, 
 those things were done which delight the heart of 
 Englishmen at the merry season. Everybody shook 
 hands with everybody else, everybody cried "Merry 
 Christmas ! " to his neighbour in the street, with an 
 intonation as though he were saying something 
 startlingly new and brilliant which had never been 
 said before. Every labourer who had a new smock- 
 frock put it on, and those who had none had at least 
 a bit of new red worsted comforter about their throats 
 and began the day by standing at their doors in the 
 cold morning, smoking a "ha p orth o shag" in a 
 new clay pipe, greeting each other across the village 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. Ill 
 
 street. Muggins, who had spent a portion of the 
 night in exchanging affectionate Christmas wishes 
 with the tombstones in the churchyard, appeared fresh 
 and ruddy at an early hour, clad in the long black 
 coat and tall hat which he was accustomed to wear 
 when he drove Mr. Boosey s fly on great festivals. 
 Most of the cottages in the single street sported a bit 
 of holly in their windows, and altogether the appear 
 ance of Billingsfield was singularly festive arid 
 mirthful. At precisely ten minutes to eleven the 
 vicar and Mrs. Ambrose, accompanied by John, 
 issued from the vicarage and went across the road 
 by the private path to the church. As they entered 
 the porch Mr. Reid, who stood solemnly tolling the 
 small bell, popularly nicknamed the "Ting-tang," 
 and of which the single rope passed down close to 
 the south door, vouchsafed John a sour smile of 
 recognition. John felt as though he had come home. 
 Mrs. Goddard and Nellie appeared a moment after 
 wards and took their seats in the pew traditionally 
 belonging to the cottage, behind that of the squire 
 who was always early, and the sight of whose 
 smoothly brushed hair and brown beard was a con 
 stant source of satisfaction to Mrs. Ambrose. John 
 and Mrs. Ambrose sat on the opposite side of the 
 aisle, but John s eyes strayed very frequently tow 
 ards Mrs. Goddard; so frequently indeed that she 
 noticed it and leaned far back in her seat to avoid 
 his glance. Whereupon John blushed and felt that 
 the vicar, who was reading the Second Lesson, had 
 probably noticed his distraction. It was hard to 
 realise that two years and a half had passed since he 
 had sat in that same pew; perhaps, however, the 
 presence of Mrs. Goddard helped him to understand 
 
112 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 the lapse of time. But for her it would have been 
 very hard; for the vicar s voice sounded precisely as 
 it used to sound; Mrs. Ambrose had not lost her 
 habit of removing one glove and putting it into her 
 prayer book as a mark while she found the hymn in 
 the accompanying volume; the bright decorations 
 looked as they looked years ago above the organ and 
 round the chancel; from far down the church, just 
 before the sermon, came the old accustomed sound 
 of small boys shuffling their hobnailed shoes upon 
 the stone floor and the audible guttural whisper of 
 the churchwarden admonishing them to "mind the 
 stick; " the stained-glass windows admitted the same 
 pleasant light as of yore all was unchanged. But 
 Mrs. Goddard and Nellie occupied the cottage pew, 
 and their presence alone was sufficient to mark to 
 John the fact that he was now a man. 
 
 The service was sympathetic to John Short. He 
 liked the simplicity of it, even the rough singing of 
 the choir, as compared with the solemn and magnifi 
 cent musical services of Trinity College Chapel. But 
 it seemed very long before it was all over and he was 
 waiting for Mrs. Goddard outside the church door. 
 
 There were more greetings, more " Merry Christ 
 mas " and "Many happy returns." Mrs. Goddard 
 looked more charming than ever and was quite as 
 cordial as on the previous evening. 
 
 " How much better it all looked this morning by 
 daylight," she said. 
 
 "I think it looked very pretty last night," an 
 swered John. "There is nothing so delightful as 
 Christmas decorations, is there?" 
 
 " Perhaps you will come down next year and help 
 us again?" suggested Mrs. Goddard. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 113 
 
 "Yes well, I might come at Easter, for that 
 matter," answered the young man, who after fincL 
 ing it impossible to visit Billingsfield during two 
 years and a half, now saw no difficulty whatever in 
 the way of making two visits in the course of six 
 months. " Do you still decorate at Easter ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh yes do you think you can come ? " she said 
 pleasantly. "I thought you were to be very busy 
 just then." 
 
 "Yes, that is true," answered John. "But of 
 course I could come, you know, if it were necessary." 
 
 "Hardly exactly necessary " Mrs. Goddard 
 laughed. 
 
 "The doctor told me some relaxation was abso 
 lutely indispensable for my health," said John rather 
 sententiously. 
 
 "You don t really look very ill are you?" She 
 seemed incredulous. 
 
 " Oh no, of course not only a little overworked 
 sometimes." 
 
 "In that case I have no doubt it would do you 
 good," said Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 "Do you really think so?" asked John, hopefully. 
 
 "Oh that is a matter for your doctor to decide. 
 I cannot possibly tell," she answered. 
 
 " I think you would make a very good doctor, Mrs. 
 Goddard," said John venturing on a bolder flight. 
 
 "Really I never thought of trying it," she re 
 plied with a little laugh. " Good morning, Mr. Am 
 brose. Nellie wants to thank you for your beautiful 
 present. It was really too good of you." 
 
 The vicar came out of the vestry and joined the 
 group in the path. Mrs. Ambrose, who had been 
 asking Tom Judd s wife about her baby, also came 
 
114 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 up, and the squire, who had been presenting Mr. 
 Reid with ten shillings for his Christmas box and 
 who looked singularly bereaved without the faithful 
 Stamboul at his heels, sauntered up and began con 
 gratulating everybody. In the distance the last of 
 the congregation, chiefly the old women and cripples 
 who could not keep up with the rest, hobbled away 
 through the white gate of the churchyard. 
 
 It had been previously agreed that if the ice would 
 bear there should be skating in the afternoon and the 
 squire was anxious to inform the party that the pond 
 was in excellent condition. 
 
 "As black as your hat," he said cheerfully. 
 " Stamboul and I have been sliding all over it, so of 
 course it would bear an ox. It did not crack any 
 where." 
 
 "Do you skate, Mrs. Goddard?" asked John. 
 
 "Not very well not nearly so well as Nellie. 
 But I am very fond of it." 
 
 " Will you let me push you about in a chair, then ? 
 It is capital fun." 
 
 "Very good fun for me, no doubt," answered Mrs. 
 Goddard, laughing. 
 
 "I would rather do it than anything else," said 
 John in a tone of conviction. " It is splendid exer 
 cise, pushing people about in chairs." 
 
 "So it is," said the squire, heartily. "We will 
 take turns, Mr. Short." The suggestion did not 
 meet with any enthusiastic response from John, who 
 wished Mr. Juxon were not able to skate. 
 
 Poor John, he had but one idea, which consisted 
 simply in getting Mrs. Goddard to himself as often 
 and as long as possible. Unfortunately this idea did 
 not coincide with Mr. Juxon s views. Mr. Juxon 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 115 
 
 was an older, slower and calmer man than the en 
 thusiastic young scholar, and though very far from 
 obtruding his views or making any assertion of his 
 rights, was equally far from forgetting them. He 
 was a man more of actions than words. He had been 
 in the habit of monopolising Mrs. Goddard s society 
 for months and he had no intention of relinquishing 
 his claims, even for the charitable purpose of allow 
 ing a poor student to enjoy his Christmas holiday 
 and bit of romance undisturbed. If John had pre 
 sented himself as a boy, it might have been different; 
 but John emphatically considered himself a man, and 
 the squire was quite willing to treat him as such, 
 since he desired it. That is to say he would not 
 permit him to " cut him out " as he would have ex 
 pressed it. The result of the position in which John 
 and Mr. Juxon soon found themselves was to be 
 expected. 
 
116 A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 JOHN did not sleep so peacefully nor dream so 
 happily that night as on the night before. The 
 course of true love had not run smooth that after 
 noon. The squire had insisted upon having his 
 share of the lovely Mrs. Goddard s society and she 
 herself had not seemed greatly disturbed at a tem 
 porary separation from John. The latter amused 
 her for a little while ; the former held the position 
 of a friend whose conversation she liked better than 
 that of other people. John was disappointed and 
 thought of going back to Cambridge the next day. 
 So strong, indeed, was his sudden desire to leave 
 Billingsfield without finishing his visit, that before 
 going to bed he had packed some of his belongings 
 into his small portmanteau; the tears almost stood 
 in his eyes as he busied himself about his room and 
 he muttered certain formula of self-accusation as he 
 collected his things, saying over and over in his 
 heart " What a fool I am ! Why should she care 
 for me? What am I that she should care for me?" 
 etc. etc. Then he opened his window and looked 
 at the bright stars which shone out over the old yew 
 tree ; but it was exceedingly cold, and so he shut it 
 again and went to bed, feeling very uncomfortable 
 and unhappy. 
 
 But when he awoke in the morning he looked at 
 his half-packed portmanteau and laughed, and in- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 117 
 
 stead of saying "What a fool I am! " he said "What 
 a fool I was ! " which is generally and in most con 
 ditions of human affairs a much wiser thing to say. 
 Then he carefully took everything out of the port 
 manteau again and replaced things as they had lain 
 before in his room, lest perchance Susan, the house 
 maid, should detect what had passed through his 
 mind on the previous evening and should tell Mrs. 
 Ambrose. And from all this it appears that John 
 was exceedingly young, as indeed he was, in spite 
 of his being nearly one and twenty years of age. 
 But doubtless if men were willing to confess their 
 disappointments and foolish, impetuous resolutions, 
 many would be found who have done likewise, being 
 in years much older than John Short. Unfortu 
 nately for human nature most men would rather 
 confess to positive wrong-doing than to any such 
 youthful follies as these, while they are young; and 
 when they are old they would rather be thought 
 young and foolish than confess the evil deeds they 
 have actually done. 
 
 John, however, did not moralise upon his situa 
 tion. The weather was again fine and as he dressed 
 his spirits rose. He became magnanimous and re 
 solved to forget yesterday and make the most of to 
 day. He would see Mrs. Goddard of course ; perhaps 
 he would show her a little coldness at first, giving 
 her to understand that she had not treated him well 
 on the previous afternoon; then he would interest 
 her by his talk he would repeat to her one of those 
 unlucky odes and translate it for her benefit, making 
 use of the freedom he would thus get in order to 
 make her an unlimited number of graceful compli 
 ments. Perhaps, too, he ought to pay more atten- 
 
118 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 tion to Nellie, if he wished to conciliate her mother. 
 Women, he reflected, have such strange prejudices! 
 
 He wondered whether it would be proper for him 
 to call upon Mrs. Goddard. He was not quite sure 
 about it, and he was rather ashamed of having so 
 little knowledge of the world; but he believed that 
 in Billingsfield he might run the risk. There had 
 been talk of skating again that morning, and so, 
 about ten o clock, John told Mr. Ambrose he would 
 go for a short walk and then join them all at the pond 
 in the park. The project seemed good, and he put 
 it into execution. As he walked up the frozen road, 
 he industriously repeated in his mind the Greek verses 
 he was going to translate to Mrs. Goddard; he had 
 no copy of them but his memory was very good. He 
 met half a dozen labourers, strolling about with their 
 pipes until it was time to go and have a pint of beer, 
 as is their manner upon holidays ; they touched their 
 hats to him, remembering his face well, and he 
 smiled happily at the rough fellows, contrasting his 
 situation with theirs, who from the misfortune of 
 social prejudice were not permitted to go and call 
 upon Mrs. Goddard. His heart beat rather fast as 
 he went up to the door of the cottage, and for one 
 unpleasant moment he again doubted whether it was 
 proper for him to make such an early visit. But 
 being bent on romantic adventure he rang boldly 
 and inquired for Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 She was surprised to see John at that hour and 
 alone; but it did not enter her head to refuse him 
 admittance. Indeed as he stood in the little passage 
 he heard the words which passed between her and 
 Martha. 
 
 "What is it, Martha?" 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 119 
 
 "It s a young gentleman, mam. I rather think, 
 mam, it s the young gentleman that s stopping at 
 the vicarage." 
 
 "Oh ask him to come in." 
 
 "In ere, mam?" 
 
 "No into the sitting-room," said Mrs. Goddard, 
 who was busy in the dining-room. 
 
 John was accordingly ushered in and told to wait 
 a minute ; which he did, surveying with surprise the 
 beautiful pictures, the rich looking furniture and 
 the valuable objects that lay about upon the tables. 
 He experienced a thrill of pleasure, for he felt sure 
 that Mrs. Goddard possessed another qualification 
 which he had unconsciously attributed to her that 
 of being accustomed to a certain kind of luxury, 
 which in John s mind was mysteriously connected 
 with his romance. It is one of the most undefinable 
 of the many indefinite feelings to which young men 
 in love are subject, especially young men who have 
 been, or are, very poor. They like to connect ideas 
 of wealth and comfort, even of a luxurious existence, 
 with the object of their affections. They desire the 
 world of love to be new to them, and in order to be 
 wholly new in their experience, it must be rich. 
 The feeling is not so wholly unworthy as it might 
 seem; they instinctively place their love upon a 
 pedestal and require its surroundings to be of a 
 better kind than such as they have been accustomed 
 to in their own lives. King Cophetua, being a 
 king, could afford to love the beggar maid, and a 
 very old song sings of a "lady who loved a swine," 
 but the names of the poor young men who have loved 
 above their fortune and station are innumerable as 
 the swallows in spring. John saw that Mrs. God- 
 
120 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 dard was much richer than he had ever been, and 
 without the smallest second thought was pleased. 
 In a few moments she entered the room. John had 
 his speech ready. 
 
 " I thought, if you were going to skate, I would 
 call and ask leave to go with you," he said glibly, 
 as she gave him her hand. 
 
 " Oh thanks. But is not it rather early ? " 
 
 "It is twenty minutes past ten," said John, look 
 ing at the clock. 
 
 "Well, let us get warm before starting," said Mrs. 
 Goddard, sitting down by the fire. "It is so cold 
 this morning." 
 
 John thought she was lovely to look at as she sat 
 there, warming her hands and shielding her face from 
 the flame with them at the same time. She looked 
 at him and smiled pleasantly, but said nothing. 
 She was still a little surprised to see him and won 
 dered whether he himself had anything to say. 
 
 "Yes," said John, "it is very cold traditional 
 Christmas weather. Could not be finer, in fact, 
 could it?" 
 
 " No< it could not be finer," echoed Mrs. Goddard, 
 suppressing a smile. Then as though to help him 
 out of his embarrassment by giving an impulse to 
 the conversation, she added, " By the bye, Mr. Short, 
 while we are warming ourselves why do not you let 
 me hear one of your odes ? " 
 
 She meant it kindly, thinking it would give him 
 pleasure, as indeed it did. John s heart leaped and 
 he blushed all over his face with delight. Mrs. 
 Goddard was not quite sure whether she had done 
 right, but she attributed his evident satisfaction to 
 his vanity as a scholar. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 121 
 
 "Certainly," he said with alacrity, "if you would 
 like to hear it. Would you care to hear me repeat 
 the Greek first?" 
 
 " Oh, of all things. I do not think I have ever 
 heard Greek." 
 
 John cleared his throat and began, glancing at his 
 hostess rather nervously from time to time. But 
 his memory never failed him, and he went on to the 
 end without a break or hesitation. 
 
 " How do you think it sounds ? " he asked timidly 
 when he had finished. 
 
 "It sounds very funny," said Mrs. Goddard. "I 
 had no idea Greek sounded like that but it has a 
 pleasant rhythm." 
 
 "That is the thing," said John, enthusiastically. 
 " I see you really appreciate it. Of course nobody 
 knows how the ancients pronounced Greek, and if 
 one pronounced it as the moderns do, it would sound 
 all wrong but the rhythm is the thing, you know. 
 It is impossible to get over that." 
 
 Mrs. Goddard was not positively sure what he 
 meant by "getting over the rhythm; " possibly John 
 himself could not have defined his meaning very 
 clearly. But his cheeks glowed and he was very 
 much pleased. 
 
 "Yes, of course," said Mrs. Goddard confidently. 
 "But what does it all mean, Mr. Short?" 
 
 " Would you really like to know ? " asked John in 
 fresh embarrassment. He suddenly realised how 
 wonderfully delightful it was to be repeating his 
 own poetry to the woman for whom it was written. 
 
 " Indeed yes what is the use of your telling me 
 all sorts of things in Greek, if you do not tell me 
 what they mean ? " 
 
122 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Yes you will promise not to be offended?" 
 
 "Of course," said Mrs. Goddard; then blushing a 
 little she added, " it is quite I mean quite the 
 sort of thing, is not it?" 
 
 "Oh quite," said John, blushing too, but looking 
 grave for a moment. Then he repeated the English 
 translation of the verses which, as they were cer 
 tainly not so good as the original, may be omitted 
 here. They set forth that in the vault of the world s 
 night a new star had appeared which men had not 
 yet named, nor would be likely to name until the 
 power of human speech should be considerably in 
 creased, and the verses dwelt upon the theme, turning 
 it and revolving it in several ways, finally declaring 
 that the far-darting sun must look out for his inter 
 ests unless he meant to be outshone by the new star. 
 Translated into English there was nothing very re 
 markable about the performance though the original 
 Greek ode was undoubtedly very good of its kind. 
 But Mrs. Goddard was determined to be pleased. 
 
 "I think it is charming," she said, when John had 
 reached the end and paused for her criticism. 
 
 " The Greek is very much better," said John doubt 
 fully. " I cannot write English verses they seem 
 to me so much harder." 
 
 "I daresay," said Mrs. Goddard. "But did you 
 really write that when " she stopped not knowing 
 exactly how to express herself. But John had his 
 answer ready. 
 
 "Oh, I wrote ever so many," he said, "and I have 
 got them all at Cambridge. But that is the only 
 one I quite remember. I wrote them just after the 
 day when I waked up Muggins the only time I 
 had seen you till now. I think I could " 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 123 
 
 "How funny it seems," said Mrs. Goddard, "with 
 out knowing a person, to write verses to them! How 
 did you manage to do it?" 
 
 " I was going to say that I think I am quite sure 
 
 I could write much better things to you now." 
 
 " Oh, that is impossible quite absurd, Mr. Short," 
 said Mrs. Goddard, laughing more gaily than usual. 
 
 "Why?" asked John, somewhat emboldened by 
 his success. " I do not see why, if one has an ideal, 
 you know, one should not understand it much better 
 when one comes near to it." 
 
 " Yes but how can I possibly be your ideal ? " 
 She felt herself so much older than John that she 
 thought it was out of the question to be annoyed ; so 
 she treated him in a matter of fact way, and was 
 really amused at his talk. 
 
 "I don t see why not," answered John stoutly. 
 "You might be any man s ideal." 
 
 "Oh, really " ejaculated Mrs. Goddard, some 
 what startled at the force of the sweeping compliment. 
 To be told point-blank, even by an enthusiastic youth 
 of one and twenty, that one is the ideal woman, must 
 be either very pleasant or very startling. 
 
 "Excuse me," she said quickly, before he could 
 answer her, " you know of course I am very ignorant 
 
 yes I am but will you please tell me what is an 
 ideal ?" 
 
 "Why yes," said John, "it is very easy. Ideal 
 comes from idea. Plato meant, by the idea, the per 
 fect model well, do you see ? " 
 
 "Not exactly," said Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 " It is very simple. When I, when anybody, says 
 you are the ideal woman, it is meant that you are 
 the perfect model, the archetype of a woman." 
 
124 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Yes but that is absurd," said his companion 
 rather coldly. 
 
 "I am sorry that it should seem absurd," said 
 John in a persuasive tone ; " it seems very natural to 
 me. A man thinks for a long time about everything 
 that most attracts him and then, on a sudden, he sees 
 it all before him, quite real and alive, and then he 
 says he has realised his ideal. But you liked the 
 verses, Mrs. Goddard?" he added quickly, hoping 
 to bring back the smile that had vanished from her 
 face. He had a strong impression that he had been 
 a little too familiar. Probably Mrs. Goddard thought 
 so too. 
 
 " Oh yes, I think they are very nice," she answered. 
 But the smile did not come back. She was not dis 
 pleased, but she was not pleased either; she was 
 wondering how far this boy would go if she would 
 let him. John, however, felt unpleasantly doubtful 
 about what he had done. 
 
 "I hope you are not displeased," he said. 
 
 "Oh, not in the least," said she. "Shall we go to 
 the park and skate ? " 
 
 "I am not sure that I will skate to-day," said 
 John, foolishly. Mrs. Goddard looked at him in 
 unfeigned surprise. 
 
 " Why not ? I thought it was for that - 
 
 "Oh, of course," said John quickly. "Only it is 
 not very amusing to skate when Mr. Juxon is push 
 ing you about in a chair." 
 
 "Really why should not he push me about, if I 
 like it?" 
 
 "If you like it that is different," answered John 
 impatiently. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard began to think that John was very 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAHISH. 125 
 
 like a spoiled child, and she resented his evident 
 wish to monopolise her society. She left the room 
 to get ready for the walk, vaguely wishing that he 
 had not come. 
 
 "I have made a fool of myself again," said John 
 to himself, when he was left alone ; and he suddenly 
 wished he could get out of the house without seeing 
 her again. But before he had done wishing, she 
 returned. 
 
 "Where is Miss Nellie?" he asked gloomily, as 
 they walked down the path. " I hope she is coming 
 too." 
 
 " She went up to the pond with Mr. Juxon, just 
 before you came." 
 
 " Do you let her go about like that, without you ? " 
 asked John severely. 
 
 "Why not? Really, Mr. Short," said Mrs. God- 
 dard, glancing up at his face, "either you dislike 
 Mr. Juxon very much, or else I think you take a 
 good deal upon yourself in remarking in this 
 way " 
 
 She was naturally a little timid, but John s youth 
 and what she considered as his extraordinary pre 
 sumption inspired her with courage to protest The 
 effect upon John was instantaneous. 
 
 "Pray forgive me," he said humbly, "I am very 
 silly. I daresay you are quite right and I do not 
 like Mr. Juxon. Not that I have the smallest reason 
 for not liking him," he continued quickly, "it is a 
 mere personal antipathy, a mere idea, I daresay 
 very foolish of me." 
 
 "It is very foolish to take unreasonable dislikes to 
 people one knows nothing about," she said quietly. 
 " Will you please open the gate ? " They were stand- 
 
126 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 ing before the bars, but John was so much disturbed 
 in mind that he stood still, quite forgetting to raise 
 the long iron latch. 
 
 " Dear me I beg your pardon I cannot imagine 
 what I was thinking of," he said, making the most 
 idiotic excuse current in English idiom. 
 
 "Nor I," said Mrs. Goddard, with a little laugh, 
 as he held the gate back for her to pass. It was a 
 plain white gate with stone pillars, and there was 
 no gatehouse. People who came to the Hall were 
 expected to open it for themselves. Mrs. Goddard 
 was so much amused at John s absence of mind that 
 her good humour returned, and he felt that since that 
 object was attained he no longer regretted his folly 
 in the least. The cloud that had darkened the hori 
 zon of his romance had passed quickly away, and 
 once more he said inwardly that he was enjoying the 
 happiest days of his life. If for a moment the image 
 of Mr. Juxon entered the field of his imaginative 
 vision in the act of pushing Mrs. Goddard s chair 
 upon the ice, he mentally ejaculated "bother the 
 squire ! " as he had done upon the previous night, 
 and soon forgot all about him. The way through 
 the park was long, the morning was delightful and 
 Mrs. Goddard did not seem to be in a hurry. 
 
 "I wish the winter would last for ever," he said 
 presently. 
 
 "So do I," answered his companion, "it is the 
 pleasantest time of the year. One does not feel that 
 nature is dead because one is sure she will very soon 
 be alive again." 
 
 "That is a charming idea," said John, "one might 
 make a good subject of it." 
 
 " It is a little old, perhaps. I think I have heard 
 it before have not you? " 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 127 
 
 "All good ideas are old. The older the better," 
 said John confidently. Mrs. Goddard could not 
 resist the temptation of teazing him a little. They 
 had grown very intimate in forty-eight hours ; it had 
 taken six months for Mr. Juxon to reach the point 
 John had won in two days. 
 
 "Are they?" she asked quietly. "Is that the 
 reason you selected me for the idea of your ode, 
 which you explained to me?" 
 
 "You?" said John in astonishment. Then he 
 laughed. " Why, you are not any older than I am ! " 
 
 " Do you think so ?" she inquired with a demure 
 smile. "I am very much older than you think." 
 
 " You must be I mean, you know, you must be 
 older than you look." 
 
 "Thank you," said Mrs. Goddard, still smiling, 
 and just resting the tips of her fingers upon his arm 
 as she stepped across a slippery place in the frozen 
 road. "Yes, I am a great deal older than you." 
 
 John would have liked very much to ask her age, 
 but even to his youthful and unsophisticated mind 
 such a question seemed almost too personal. He did 
 not really believe that she was more than five years 
 older than he, and that seemed to be no difference at 
 all. 
 
 "I don t know," he said. "I am nearly one and 
 twenty." 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Mrs. Goddard, who had heard 
 every detail concerning John from Mr. Ambrose, 
 again and again. "Just think," she added with a 
 laugh, " only one and twenty ! Why when I was one 
 and twenty I was " she stopped short. 
 
 " What were you doing then ? " asked John, trying 
 not to seem too curious. 
 
128 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "I was living in London," she said quietly. She 
 half enjoyed his disappointment. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I daresay. But what well, I 
 suppose I ought not to ask any questions." 
 
 " Certainly not," said she. " It is very rude to ask 
 a lady questions about her age." 
 
 "I do not mean to be rude again," said John, pre 
 tending to laugh. " Have you always been fond of 
 skating?" he asked, fixing his eye upon a distant 
 tree, and trying to look unconscious. 
 
 " No I only learned since I came here. Besides, 
 I skate very badly." 
 
 "Did Mr. Juxon teach you?" asked John, still 
 gazing into the distance. From not looking at the 
 path he slipped on a frozen puddle and nearly fell. 
 Whereat, as usual, when he did anything awkward, 
 he blushed to the brim of his hat. 
 
 "Take care," said Mrs. Goddard, calmly. "You 
 will fall if you don t look where you are going. No; 
 Mr. Juxon was not here last year. He only came 
 here in the summer." 
 
 "It seems to me that he has always been here," 
 said John, trying to recover his equanimity. " Then 
 I suppose Mr. Ambrose taught you to skate ? " 
 
 "Exactly Mr. Ambrose taught me. He skates 
 very well." 
 
 "So will you, with a little more practice," an 
 swered her companion in a rather patronising tone. 
 He intended perhaps to convey the idea that Mrs. 
 Goddard would improve in the exercise if she would 
 actually skate, and with him, instead of submitting 
 to be pushed about in a chair by Mr. Juxon. 
 
 "Oh, I daresay," said Mrs. Goddard indifferently. 
 " We shall soon be there, now. I can hear them on 
 the ice." 
 
A TALE OF A LOXELY PAEISH. 129 
 
 "Too soon," said John with regret. 
 
 "I thought you liked skating so much." 
 
 "I like walking with you much better," he replied, 
 and he glanced at her face to see if his speech pro 
 duced any sign of sympathy. 
 
 " You have walked with me ; now you can skate 
 with Nellie," suggested Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 "You talk as though I were a child," said John, 
 suddenly losing his temper in a very unaccountable 
 way. 
 
 "Because I said you might skate with Nellie? 
 Really, I don t see why. Mr. Juxon is not a child, 
 and he has been skating with her all the morning." 
 
 "That is different," retorted John growing very 
 red. 
 
 " Yes Nellie is much nearer to your age than to 
 Mr. Juxon s," answered Mrs. Goddard, with a calm 
 ness which made John desperate. 
 
 "Really, Mrs. Goddard," he said stiffly, "I cannot 
 see what that has to do with it." 
 
 " The atrocious crime of being a young man, which 
 the lady so much older than myself has charged 
 How does the quotation end, Mr. Short?" 
 
 " Has, with such spirit and decency, charged 
 upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor 
 deny, " said John savagely. "Quite so, Mrs . God 
 dard. I shall not attempt to palliate it, nor will I 
 venture to deny it." 
 
 " Then why in the world are you so angry with 
 me?" she asked, suddenly turning her violet eyes 
 upon him. "I was only laughing, you know." 
 
 "Only laughing!" repeated John. "It is more 
 pleasant to laugh than to be laughed at." 
 
 " Yes would not you allow me the pleasure then, 
 just for once?" 
 
130 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " Certainly, if you desire it. You are so extremely 
 merry " 
 
 " Come, Mr. Short, we must not seem to have been 
 quarrelling when we reach the pond. It would be 
 too ridiculous." 
 
 " Everything seems to strike you in a humorous 
 light to-day," answered John, beginning to be paci 
 fied by her tone. 
 
 "Do you know, you are much more interesting 
 when you are angry," said Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 "And you only made me angry in order to see 
 whether I was interesting?" 
 
 " Perhaps but then, I could not help it in the 
 least." 
 
 "I trust you are thoroughly satisfied upon the 
 point, Mrs. Goddard? If there is anything more 
 that I can do to facilitate your researches in psy 
 chology " 
 
 "You would help me? Even to the extent of 
 being angry again ? " She smiled so pleasantly and 
 frankly that John s wrath vanished. 
 
 " It is impossible to be angry with you. I am very 
 sorry if I seemed to be," he answered. "A man who 
 has the good fortune to be thrown into your society 
 is a fool to waste his time in being disagreeable. " 
 
 "I agree with the conclusion, at all events that 
 is, it is much better to be agreeable. Is it not? Let 
 us be friends." 
 
 "Oh, by all means," said John. 
 
 They walked on for some minutes in silence. 
 John reflected that he had witnessed a phase of Mrs. 
 Goddard s character of which he had been very far 
 from suspecting the existence. He had not hitherto 
 imagined her to be a woman of quick temper or sharp 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 131 
 
 speech. His idea of her was formed chiefly upon her 
 appearance. Her sad face, with its pathetic expres 
 sion, suggested a melancholy humour delighting in 
 subdued and tranquil thoughts, inclined naturally to 
 the romantic view, or to what in the eyes of youths 
 of twenty appears to be the romantic view of life. 
 He had suddenly found her answering him with a 
 sharpness which, while it roused his wits, startled 
 his sensibilities. But he was flattered as well. His 
 instinct and his observation of Mrs. Goddard when 
 in the society of others led him to believe that with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose, or even with Mr. Juxon, she 
 was not in the habit of talking as she talked with 
 him. He was therefore inwardly pleased, so soon as 
 his passing annoyance had subsided, to feel that she 
 made a difference between him and others. 
 
 It was quite true that she made a distinction, 
 though she did so almost unconsciously. It was per 
 fectly natural, too. She was young in heart, in spite 
 of her thirty years and her troubles ; she had an elas 
 tic temperament; to a physiognomist her face would 
 have shown a delicate sensitiveness to impressions 
 rather than any inborn tendency to sadness. In spite 
 of everything she was still young, and for two years 
 and a half she had been in the society of persons 
 much older than herself, persons she respected and 
 regarded as friends, but persons in whom her youth 
 found no sympathy. It was natural, therefore, that 
 when time to some extent had healed the wound she 
 had suffered and she suddenly found herself in the 
 society of a young and enthusiastic man, something 
 of the enforced soberness of her manner should un 
 bend, showing her character in a new light. She 
 herself enjoyed the change, hardly knowing wiry; 
 
132 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 she enjoyed a little passage of arms with John, and 
 it amused her more than she could have expected to 
 be young again, to annoy him, to break the peace and 
 heal it again in five minutes. But what happened 
 entirely failed to amuse the squire, who did not 
 regard such diversions as harmless; and moreover 
 she was far from expecting the effect which her 
 treatment of John Short produced upon his scholarly 
 but enthusiastic temper. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 133 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE squire had remarked that John Short seemed 
 to have a peculiar temper, and Mrs. Goddard had ob 
 served the same thing. What has gone before suffi 
 ciently explains the change in John s manner, and the 
 difference in his behaviour was plainly apparent even 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose. The vicar indeed was wise 
 enough to see that John was very much attracted by 
 Mrs. Goddard, but he was also wise enough to say 
 nothing about it. His wife, however, who had wit 
 nessed no love-making for nearly thirty years, except 
 the courtship of the young physician who had married 
 her daughter, attributed John s demeanour to no such 
 disturbing cause. He was overworked, she said ; he 
 was therefore irritable ; he had of course never taken 
 that excellent homoeopathic remedy, highly diluted 
 aconite, since he had left the vicarage ; the conse 
 quence was that he was subject to nervous headache 
 she only hoped he would not be taken ill on the 
 eve of the examination for honours. She hoped, too, 
 that he would prolong his holiday to the very last 
 moment, for the country air and the rest he enjoyed 
 were sure to do him so much good. With regard to 
 the extension of John s visit, the vicar thought differ 
 ently, although he held his peace. There were many 
 reasons why John should not become attached to Mrs. 
 Goddard both for her sake and his own, and if he 
 staid long, the vicar felt quite sure that he would 
 
134 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 fall in love with her. She was dangerously pretty, 
 she was much older than John which in the case 
 of very young men constitutes an additional probabil 
 ity she evidently took an innocent pleasure in his 
 society, and altogether such a complication as was 
 likely to ensue was highly undesirable. Therefore, 
 when Mrs. Ambrose pressed John to stay longer than 
 he had intended, the vicar not only gave him no 
 encouragement, but spoke gravely of the near ap 
 proach of the contest for honours, of the necessity of 
 concentrating every force for the coming struggle, 
 and expressed at the same time the firm conviction 
 that, if John did his best, he ought to be the senior 
 classic in the year. 
 
 Even Mrs. Goddard urged him to go. Of course 
 he asked her advice. He would not have lost that 
 opportunity of making her speak of himself, nor of 
 gauging the exact extent of the interest he hoped she 
 felt in him. 
 
 It was two or three days after the long conversa 
 tion he had enjoyed with her. In that time they had 
 met often and John s admiration for her, strengthened 
 by his own romantic desire to be really in love, had 
 begun to assume proportions which startled Mrs. God 
 dard and annoyed Mr. Juxon. The latter felt that 
 the boy was in his way ; whenever he wanted to see 
 Mrs. Goddard, John was at her side, talking eagerly 
 and contesting his position against the squire with a 
 fierceness which in an older and wiser man would 
 have been in the worst possible taste. Even as it 
 was, Mr. Juxon looked considerably annoyed as he 
 stood by, smoothing his smooth hair from time to 
 time with his large white hand and feeling that even 
 at his age, and with his experience, a man might 
 sometimes cut a poor figure. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 135 
 
 On the particular occasion when the relations 
 between John and the squire became an object of 
 comment to Mrs. Ambrose, the whole party were 
 assembled at Mrs. Goddard s cottage. She had in 
 vited everybody to tea, a meal which in her little 
 household represented a compromise between her 
 appetite and Nellie s. She had felt that in the small 
 festivities of the Billingsfield Christmas season she 
 was called upon to do her share with the rest and, 
 being a simple woman, she took her part simply, and 
 did not dignify the entertainment of her four friends 
 by calling it a dinner. The occasion was none the 
 less hospitable, for she gave both time and thought 
 to her preparations. Especially she had considered 
 the question of precedence ; it was doubtful, she 
 thought, whether the squire or the vicar should sit 
 upon her right hand. The squire, as being lord of 
 the manor, represented the powers temporal, the 
 vicar on the other hand represented the church, 
 which on ordinary occasions takes precedence of the 
 lay faculty. She had at last privately consulted Mr. 
 Juxon, in whom she had the greatest confidence, 
 asking him frankly which she should do, and Mr. 
 Juxon had unhesitatingly yielded the post of honour 
 to the vicar, adding to enforce his opinion the very 
 plausible argument that if he, the squire, took Mrs. 
 Goddard in to tea, the vicar would have to give his 
 arm either to little Nellie or to his own wife. Mrs. 
 Goddard was convinced and the affair was a complete 
 success. 
 
 John felt that he could not complain of his position, 
 but as he was separated from the object of his admira 
 tion during the whole meal, he resolved to indemnify 
 himself for his sufferings by monopolising her conver- 
 
136 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 sation during the rest of the evening. The squire on 
 the other hand, who had been obliged to talk to Mrs. 
 Ambrose during most of the time while they were 
 at table, and who, moreover, was beginning to feel 
 that he had seen almost enough of John Short, deter 
 mined to give the young man a lesson in the art of 
 interesting women in general and Mrs. Goddard in 
 particular. She, indeed, would not have been a 
 woman at all had she not understood the two men 
 and their intentions. After tea the party congregated 
 round the fire in the little drawing-room, standing 
 in a circle, of which their hostess formed the centre. 
 Mr. Juxon and John, anticipating that Mrs. Goddard 
 must ultimately sit upon one side or other of the 
 fireplace had at first chosen opposite sides, each hop 
 ing that she would take the chair nearest to himself. 
 But Mrs. Goddard remained standing an unreasonably 
 long time, for the very reason that she did not choose 
 to sit beside either of them. Seeing this the squire, 
 who had perhaps a greater experience than his adver 
 sary in this kind of strategic warfare, left his place 
 and put himself on the same side as John. He argued 
 that Mrs. Goddard would probably then choose the 
 opposite side, whereas John who was younger would 
 think she would come towards the two where they 
 stood ; John would consequently lose time, Mr. Juxon 
 would cross again and instal himself by her side while 
 his enemy was hesitating. 
 
 While these moves and counter-moves were pro 
 ceeding, the conversation was general. The vicar was 
 for the hundredth time admiring the Andrea del Sarto 
 over the chimney-piece and his wife was explaining 
 her general objections to the representation of sacred 
 subjects upon canvas, while Mrs. Goddard answered 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 137 
 
 each in turn and endeavoured to disagree with neither. 
 What the squire had foreseen when he made his last 
 move, however, actually took place at last. Mrs. 
 Goddard established herself upon the side opposite the 
 two men. Mr. Juxon crossed rapidly to where she 
 was seated, and Mrs. Ambrose, who had turned with 
 the intention of speaking to the squire, found herself 
 confronted by John. He saw that he had been 
 worsted by his foe and immediately lost his temper ; 
 but being brought face to face with Mrs. Ambrose 
 was obliged to control it as he might. That excellent 
 lady beamed upon him with a maternal smile of the 
 kind which is peculiarly irritating to young men. He 
 struggled to get away however, glancing over Mrs. 
 Ambrose s shoulder at the squire and longing to be 
 " at him " as he would have expressed it. But the 
 squire was not to be got at so easily, for the vicar s 
 wife was of a fine presence and covered much ground. 
 John involuntarily thought of the dyke before Troy, 
 of Hector and his heroes attempting to storm it and 
 of the Ajaces and Sarpedon defending it and glaring 
 down from above. He could appreciate Hector s 
 feelings Mrs. Ambrose was very like the dyke. 
 
 The squire smiled serenely and smoothed his hair 
 as he talked to Mrs. Goddard and she herself looked 
 by no means discontented, thereby adding, as it were, 
 an insult to the injury done to John. 
 
 " I shall always envy you the cottage," the squire 
 was saying. " I have not a single room in the Hall 
 that is half so cheery in the evening." 
 
 " I shall never forget my terror when we first met," 
 answered Mrs. Goddard, u do you remember? You 
 frightened me by saying you would like to live here. 
 I thought you meant it." 
 
138 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " You must have thought I was the most unman 
 nerly of barbarians." 
 
 " Instead of being the best of landlords," added 
 Mrs. Goddard with a grateful smile. 
 
 " I hardly know whether I am that," said Mr. Juxon, 
 settling himself in his chair. "But I believe I am 
 by nature an exceedingly comfortable man, and I 
 never fail to consult the interests of my comfort." 
 
 "And of mine. Think of all you have done to 
 improve this place. I can never thank you enough. 
 I suppose one always feels particularly grateful at 
 Christmas time does not one ? " 
 
 44 One has more to be grateful for, it seems to me 
 in our climate, too. People in southern countries 
 never really know what comfort means, because 
 nature never makes them thoroughly uncomfortable. 
 Only a man who is freezing can appreciate a good 
 fire." 
 
 44 I suppose you have been a good deal in such 
 places," suggested Mrs. Goddard, vaguely. 
 
 " Oh yes everywhere," answered the squire with 
 equal indefmiteness. " By the bye, talking of travel 
 ling, when is our young friend going away ? " There 
 was not a shade of ill-humour in the question. 
 
 44 The day after New Year s I believe." 
 
 44 He has had a very pleasant visit." 
 
 44 Yes," replied Mrs. Goddard, 44 1 hope it will do 
 him a great deal of good." 
 
 44 Why? Was he ill? Ah I remember, they 
 said he had worked too hard. It is a great mistake 
 to work too hard, especially when one is very young." 
 
 44 He is very young, is not he ? " remarked Mrs. 
 Goddard with a faint smile, remembering the many 
 conversations she had had with him. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 139 
 
 "Very. Did it ever strike you that well, that 
 he was losing his head a little ? " 
 
 " No," answered his companion innocently. " What 
 about?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing. Only he has rather a peculiar tem 
 per. He is perpetually getting very angry with no 
 ostensible reason and then he glares at one like an 
 angry cat." 
 
 " Take care," said Mrs. Goddard, " he might hear 
 you." 
 
 "Do him good," said the squire cheerfully. 
 
 " Oh, no ! It would hurt his feelings dreadfully. 
 How can you be so unkind ? " 
 
 " He is a very good boy, you know. Really, I 
 believe he is. Only he is inclined to be rather 
 too unreasonable; I should think he might be 
 satisfied." 
 
 "Satisfied with what?" inquired Mrs. Goddard, 
 who did not wish to understand. 
 
 "With the way you have treated him," returned 
 the squire bluntly. "You have been wonderfully 
 good to him." 
 
 " Have I ? " The faint colour rose to her cheek. 
 " I don t know poor fellow ! I daresay his life at 
 Cambridge is very dull." 
 
 "Yes. Entirely devoid of that species of amuse 
 ment which he has enjoyed so abundantly in Billings- 
 field. It is not every undergraduate who has a chance 
 to talk to you for a week at a time." 
 
 Mr. Juxon made the remark very calmly, without 
 seeming to be in the least annoyed. He was much 
 too wise a man to appear to be displeased at Mrs. 
 Goddard s treatment of John. Moreover, he felt 
 that on the present occasion, at least, John had 
 
140 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 been summarily worsted; it was his turn to be 
 magnanimous. 
 
 a If you are going to make compliments, I will go 
 away," said Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 " I ? I never made a compliment in my life," 
 replied the squire complacently. " Do you think it is 
 a compliment to tell you that Mr. Short probably 
 enjoys your conversation much more than the study 
 of Greek roots?" 
 
 " Well not exactly " 
 
 " Besides, in general," continued the squire, " com 
 pliments are mere waste of breath. If a woman has 
 any vanity she knows her own good points much 
 better than any man who attempts to explain them to 
 her ; and if she has no vanity, no amount of explana 
 tion of her merits will make her see them in a proper 
 light." 
 
 "That is very true," answered Mrs. Goddard, 
 thoughtfully. " It never struck me before. I wonder 
 whether that is the reason women always like men 
 who never make any compliments at all?" 
 
 The squire s face assumed an amusing expression 
 of inquiry and surprise. 
 
 " Is that personal ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh of course not," answered Mrs. Goddard in 
 some confusion. She blushed and turning towards 
 the fire took up the poker and pretended to stir the 
 coals. Women always delight in knocking a good 
 fire to pieces, out of pure absence of mind. John 
 Short saw the movement and, escaping suddenly from 
 the maternal conversation of Mrs. Ambrose, threw 
 himself upon his knee on the hearth-rug and tried to 
 take the poker from his hostess s hand. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Goddard, don t ! Let me do it 
 please ! " he exclaimed. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 141 
 
 "But I can do it very well myself," said she 
 protesting and not relaxing her hold upon the poker. 
 But John was obstinate in his determination to save 
 her trouble, and rudely tried to get the instrument 
 away. 
 
 " Please don t you hurt me," said Mrs. Goddard 
 petulantly. 
 
 " Oh I beg your pardon I wanted to help you," 
 said John leaving his hold. " I did not really hurt 
 you did I ? " he asked, almost tenderly. 
 
 " Dreadfully," replied Mrs. Goddard, half angry and 
 half amused at his impatience and subsequent con 
 trition. The squire sat complacently in his chair, 
 watching the little scene. John hated him more than 
 ever, and grew very red. Mrs. Goddar d saw the boy s 
 embarrassment and presently relented. 
 
 " I daresay you will do it better than I," she said, 
 handing him the poker, which John seized with alac 
 rity. " That big coal there," she added, pointing 
 to a smouldering block in the corner of the grate. 
 
 " I did not mean to be rude," said John. " I only 
 wanted to help you." He knelt by her side poking 
 the fire industriously. "I only wanted to get a 
 chance to talk to you," he added, in a low voice, 
 barely audible to Mrs. Goddard as she leaned for 
 ward. 
 
 " I am afraid you cannot do that just now," she 
 said, not unkindly, but with the least shade of severity 
 in her tone. " You will get dreadfully hot if you stay 
 there, so near the fire." 
 
 " I don t mind the heat in the least," said John 
 heroically. Nevertheless as she did not give him any 
 further encouragement he was presently obliged to re 
 tire, greatly discomfited. He could not spend the 
 evening on his knees with the poker in his hand. 
 
142 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Bad failure," remarked the squire in an under 
 tone as soon as John had rejoined Mrs. Ambrose, who 
 had not quite finished her lecture on homoeopathy. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard leaned back in her chair and looked 
 at Mr. Juxon rather coolly. She did not want him 
 to laugh at John, though she was not willing to 
 encourage John herself. 
 
 " You should not be unkind," she said. " He is 
 such a nice boy why should you wish him to be 
 uncomfortable ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don t in the least. I could not help being 
 amused a little. I am sure I don t want to be un 
 kind." 
 
 Indeed the squire had not shown himself to be so, 
 on the whole, and he did not refer to the matter 
 again during the evening. He kept his place for 
 some time by Mrs. Goddard s side and then, judging 
 that he had sufficiently asserted his superiority, rose 
 and talked to Mrs. Ambrose. But John, being now 
 in a thoroughly bad humour, could not take his 
 vacant seat with a good grace. He stood aloof and 
 took up a book that lay upon the table and avoided 
 looking at Mrs. Goddard. By and by, when the 
 party broke up, he said good-night in such a particu 
 larly cold and formal tone of voice that she stared at 
 him in surprise. But he took no notice of her look 
 and went away after the Ambroses, in that state of 
 mind which boys call a huff. 
 
 But on the following day John repented of his 
 behaviour. All day long he wandered about the gar 
 den of the vicarage, excusing himself from joining 
 the daily skating which formed the staple of amuse 
 ment during the Christmas week, by saying that he 
 had an idea for a copy of verses and must needs work 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 143 
 
 it out. But he inwardly hoped that Mrs. Goddard 
 would come to the vicarage late in the afternoon, 
 without the inevitable Mr. Juxon, and that he might 
 then get a chance of talking to her. He was not quite 
 sure what he should say. He would find words on 
 the spur of the moment; it would at all events be 
 much easier than to meet her on the ice at the Hall 
 with all the rest of them and to see Mr. Juxon push 
 ing her about in that detestable chair, with the un 
 ruffled air of superiority which John so hated to see 
 upon his face. The vicar suspected more than ever 
 that there was something wrong ; he had seen some 
 of the by-play on the previous evening, and had 
 noticed John s ill-concealed disappointment at being 
 unable to dislodge the sturdy squire from his seat. 
 But Mrs. Ambrose seemed to be very obtuse, and the 
 vicar would have been the last to have spoken of his 
 suspicions, even to the wife of his bosom. It was his 
 duty to induce John to go back to his work at the 
 end of the week ; it was not his duty to put imputa 
 tions upon him which Mrs. Ambrose would naturally 
 exaggerate and which would drive her excellent heart 
 into a terrible state of nervous anxiety. 
 
 But Mrs. Goddard did not come back to the vicarage 
 on that day, and John went to dinner with a sad heart. 
 It did not seem like a day at all if he had not seen her 
 and talked with her. He had now no doubt whatever 
 that he was seriously in love, and he set himself to 
 consider his position. The more he considered it, the 
 more irreconcilable it seemed to be with the passion 
 which beset him. A child could see that for several 
 years, at least, he would not be in a position to marry. 
 With Mr. Juxon at hand from year s end to year s 
 end, the owner of the Hall, of the Billingsfield prop- 
 
144 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 erty and according to all appearances of other resources 
 besides, with such a man constantly devoted to her, 
 could Mrs. Goddard be expected to wait for poor 
 John three years, even two years, from the time of 
 the examination for the classical Tripos? Nothing 
 was more improbable, he was forced to admit. And 
 yet, the idea of life if he did not marry Mrs. Goddard 
 was dismal beyond all expression ; he would probably 
 not survive it. He did not know what he should do. 
 He shrank from the thought of declaring his love to 
 her at once. He remembered with pain that she had 
 a terrible way of laughing at him when he grew con 
 fidential or too complimentary, and he dreaded lest at 
 the supreme moment of his life he should appear 
 ridiculous in her eyes he, a mere undergraduate. 
 If he came out at the head of the Tripos it would be 
 different ; and yet that seemed so long to wait, espe 
 cially while Mr. Juxon lived at the Hall and Mrs. 
 Goddard lived at the park gates. Suddenly a thought 
 struck him which filled him with delight ; it was just 
 possible that Mr. Juxon had no intention of marrying 
 Mrs. Goddard. If he had any such views he would 
 probably have declared them before now, for he had 
 met her every day during more than half a year. 
 John longed to ask some one the question. Perhaps 
 Mr. Ambrose, who might be supposed to know every 
 thing connected with Mrs. Goddard, could tell him. 
 He felt very nervous at the idea of speaking to the 
 vicar on the subject, and yet it seemed to him that 
 no one else could set his mind at rest. If he were 
 quite certain that Mr. Juxon had no intention of 
 offering himself to the charming tenant of the cottage, 
 he might return to his work with some sense of secu 
 rity in the future. Otherwise he saw only the des- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 145 
 
 perate alternative of throwing himself at her feet and 
 declaring that he loved her, or of going back to Cam 
 bridge with the dreadful anticipation of hearing any 
 day that she had married the squire. To be laughed 
 at would be bad, but to feel that he had lost her 
 irrevocably, without a struggle, would be awful. 
 No one but the vicar could and would tell him the 
 truth ; it would be bitter to ask such a question, but 
 it must be done. Having at last come to this for 
 midable resolution, towards the conclusion of dinner, 
 his spirits rose a little. He took another glass of 
 the vicar s mild ale and felt that he could face his 
 fate. 
 
 " May I speak to you a moment in the study, Mr. 
 Ambrose ? " he said as they rose from table. 
 
 " Certainly," replied the vicar ; and having con 
 ducted his wife to the drawing-room, he returned to 
 find John. There was a low, smouldering fire in the 
 study grate, and John had lit a solitary candle. The 
 room looked very dark and dismal and John was 
 seated in one of the black leather chairs, waiting. 
 
 " Anything about those verses you were speaking 
 of to-day ? " asked the vicar cheerfully, in anticipation 
 of a pleasant classical chat. 
 
 " No," said John, gloomily. " The fact is " he 
 cleared his throat, " the fact is, I want to ask you 
 rather a delicate question, sir." 
 
 The vicar s heavy eyebrows contracted ; the lines 
 of his face all turned downwards, and his long, clean 
 s-have d upper lip closed sharply upon its fellow, like 
 a steel trap. He turned his grey eyes upon John s 
 averted face with a searching look. 
 
 " Have you got into any trouble at Trinity, John ? " 
 he asked severely. 
 
146 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Oh no no indeed," said John. Nothing was 
 further from his thoughts than his college at that 
 moment. " I want to ask you a question, which no 
 one else can answer. Is do you think that that 
 Mr. Juxon has any idea of marrying Mrs. Goddard?" 
 
 The vicar started in astonishment and laid both 
 hands upon the arms of his chair. 
 
 "What in the world put that into your 
 head?" he asked very slowly, emphasising every 
 word of his question. John was prepared to see his 
 old tutor astonished but was rather taken aback at 
 the vicar s tone. 
 
 " Do you think it is likely, sir ? " he insisted. 
 
 " Certainly not," answered the vicar, still eyeing 
 him suspiciously. " Certainly not. I have positive 
 reasons to prove the contrary. But, my dear John, 
 why, in the name of all that is sensible, do you ask 
 me such a question? You don t seriously think of 
 proposing " 
 
 " I don t see why I should not," said John doggedly, 
 seeing that he was found out. 
 
 "You don t see why you should not? Why the 
 thing is perfectly absurd, not to say utterly impossible ! 
 John, you are certainly mad." 
 
 " I don t see why," repeated John. " I am a grown 
 man. I have good prospects " 
 
 " Good prospects ! " ejaculated the vicar in horror. 
 " Good prospects ! Why, you are only an undergradu 
 ate at Cambridge." 
 
 " I may be senior classic in a few months," objected 
 John. " That is not such a bad prospect, it seems to 
 me." 
 
 " It means that you may get a fellowship, probably 
 will in the course of a few years. But you lose it 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 147 
 
 if you marry. Besides do you know that Mrs. 
 Goddard is ten years older than you, and more ? " 
 
 " Impossible," said John in a tone of conviction. 
 
 " I know that she is. She will be two and thirty 
 on her next birthday, and you are not yet one and 
 twenty." 
 
 "I shall be next month," argued John, who was 
 somewhat taken aback, however, by the alarming news 
 of Mrs. Goddard s age. " Besides, I can go into the 
 church, before I get a fellowship " 
 
 " No, you can t," said the vicar energetically. " You 
 won t be able to manage it. If you do, you will have 
 to put up with a poor living." 
 
 " That would not matter. Mrs. Goddard has some 
 thing " 
 
 " An honourable prospect ! " exclaimed Mr. Am 
 brose, growing more and more excited. " To marry 
 a woman ten years older than yourself because she 
 has a little money of her own ! You ! I would not 
 have thought it of you, John indeed I would not I " 
 
 Indeed no one was more surprised than John Short 
 himself, when he found himself arguing the possibili 
 ties of his marriage with his old tutor. But he was 
 an obstinate young fellow enough and was not in 
 clined to give up the fight easily. 
 
 " Really," he objected, " I cannot see anything so 
 very terrible in the idea. I shall certainly make my 
 way in the world. You know that it is not for the 
 sake of her money. Many men have married women 
 ten years older than themselves, and not half so beau 
 tiful and charming, I am sure." 
 
 "I don t believe it," said the vicar, "and if they 
 have, why it has been very different, that is all. Be 
 sides, you have not known Mrs, Goddard a week 
 
148 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 positively not more than five days why, it is mad 
 ness ! Do you mean to tell me that at the end of five 
 days you believe you are seriously attached to a lady 
 you never saw in your life before ? " 
 
 " I saw her once," said John. " That day when I 
 waked Muggins " 
 
 " Once ! Nearly three years ago ! I have no 
 patience with you, John! That a young fellow of 
 your capabilities should give way to such a boyish 
 fancy ! It is absolutely amazing ! I thought you 
 were growing to like her society very much, but I 
 did not believe it would come to this ! " 
 
 " It is nothing to be ashamed of," said John stoutly. 
 
 "It is something to be afraid of," answered the 
 vicar. 
 
 " Oh, do not be alarmed," retorted John. " I will 
 do nothing rash. You have set my mind at rest in 
 assuring me that she will not marry Mr. Juxon. I 
 shall not think of offering myself to Mrs. Goddard 
 until after the Tripos." 
 
 " Offering myself " how deliciously important 
 the expression sounded to John s own ears ! It con 
 veyed such a delightful sense of the possibilities of 
 life when at last he should feel that he was in a 
 position to offer himself to any woman, especially to 
 Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 " I have a great mind not to ask you to come down, 
 even if you do turn out senior classic," said the vicar, 
 still fuming with excitement. " But if you put off 
 your rash action until then, you will probably have 
 changed your mind." 
 
 "I will never change my mind," said John con 
 fidently. It was evident, nevertheless, that if the 
 romance of his life were left to the tender mercies 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 149 
 
 of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose, it was likely to 
 come to an abrupt termination. When the two re 
 turned to the society of Mrs. Ambrose, the vicar was 
 still very much agitated and John was plunged in a 
 gloomy melancholy. 
 
150 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE vicar s suspicions were more than realised 
 and he passed an uncomfortable day after his inter 
 view with John, in debating what he ought to do, 
 whether he ought to do anything at all, or whether 
 he should merely hasten his old pupil s departure 
 and leave matters to take care of themselves. He 
 was a very conscientious man, and he felt that he 
 was responsible for John s conduct towards Mrs. 
 Goddard, seeing that she had put herself under his 
 protection, and that John was almost like one of 
 his family. His first impulse was to ask counsel of 
 his wife, but he rejected the plan, reflecting with 
 great justice that she was very fond of John and had 
 at first not been sure of liking Mrs. Goddard ; she 
 would be capable of thinking that the latter had " led 
 Short on," as she would probably say. The vicar 
 did not believe this, and was therefore loath that any 
 one else should. He felt that circumstances had 
 made him Mrs. Goddard s protector, and he was more 
 over personally attached to her ; he would not there 
 fore do or say anything whereby she was likely to 
 appear to any one else in an unfavourable light. It 
 was incredible that she should have given John 
 any real encouragement. Mr. Ambrose wondered 
 whether he ought to warn her of his pupil s mad 
 ness. But when he thought about that, it seemed 
 unnecessary. It was unlikely that John would 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 151 
 
 betray himself during his present visit, since the 
 vicar had solemnly assured him that there was no 
 possibility of a marriage so far as Mr. Juxon was 
 concerned. It was undoubtedly a very uncomfort 
 able situation but there was evidently nothing to 
 be done; Mr. Ambrose felt that to speak to Mrs. 
 Goddard would be to precipitate matters in a way 
 which could not but cause much humiliation to 
 John Short and much annoyance to herself. He 
 accordingly held his peace, but his upper lip set 
 itself stiffly and his eyes had a combative expres 
 sion which told his wife that there was something 
 the matter. 
 
 After breakfast John went out, on pretence of 
 walking in the garden, and Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose 
 were left alone. The latter, as usual after the morn 
 ing meal, busied herself about the room, searching 
 out those secret corners which she suspected Susan 
 of having forgotten to dust. The vicar stood looking 
 out of the window. The weather was grey and it 
 seemed likely that there would be a thaw which 
 would spoil the skating. 
 
 "I think," said Mrs. Ambrose, "that John is far 
 from well." 
 
 " What makes you say that ? " inquired the vicar, 
 who was thinking of him at that very moment. 
 
 " Anybody might see it. He has no appetite he 
 ate nothing at breakfast this morning. He looks 
 pale. My dear, that boy will certainly break 
 down." 
 
 "I don t believe it," answered Mr. Ambrose still 
 looking out of the window. His hands were in his 
 pockets, thrusting the skirts of his clerical coat to 
 right and left; he slowly raised himself upon his 
 
152 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 toes and let himself down again, repeating the opera 
 tion as though it helped him to think. 
 
 " That is the way you spoil all your coats, Au- 
 gustin," said his wife looking at him from behind. 
 44 I assure you, my dear, that boy is not well. Poor 
 fellow, all alone at college with nobody to look after 
 him " 
 
 " We have all had to go through that. I do not 
 think it hurts him a bit," said the vicar, slowly re 
 moving his hands from his pockets in deference to his 
 wife s suggestion. 
 
 " Then what is it, I would like to know ? There 
 is certainly something the matter. Now I ask you 
 whether he looks like himself? " 
 
 " Perhaps he does look a little tired." 
 
 " Tired ! There is something on his mind, Augus- 
 tin. I am positively certain there is something on his 
 mind. Why won t you tell me ? " 
 
 44 My dear " began the vicar, and then stopped 
 short. He was a very truthful man, and as he knew 
 very well what was the matter with John he was em 
 barrassed to find an answer. " My dear," he repeated, 
 44 1 do not think he is ill." 
 
 "Then I am right," retorted Mrs. Ambrose, trium 
 phantly. 44 It is just as I thought, there is something 
 on his mind. Don t deny it, Augustin ; there is some 
 thing on his mind." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose was silent ; he glared fiercely at the 
 window panes. 
 
 44 Why don t you tell me ? " insisted his better half. 
 44 1 am quite sure you know all about it. Augustin, 
 do you know, or do you not? " 
 
 Thus directly questioned the vicar turned sharply 
 round, sweeping the window with his coat tails. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 153 
 
 " My dear," he said, shortly, " I do know. Can you 
 not imagine that it may be a matter which John does 
 not care to have mentioned ? " 
 
 Mrs. Ambrose grew red with annoyance. She had 
 set her heart on finding out what had disturbed John, 
 and the vicar had apparently made up his mind that 
 she should not succeed. Such occurrences were very 
 rare between that happy couple. 
 
 " I cannot believe he has done anything wrong," 
 said Mrs. Ambrose. " Anything which need be 
 concealed from me the interest I have always 
 taken " 
 
 " He has not done anything wrong," said the vicar 
 impatiently. " I do wish you would drop the sub 
 ject " 
 
 " Then why should it be concealed from me ? " 
 objected his wife with admirable logic. " If it is any 
 thing good he need not hide his light under a bushel, 
 I should think." 
 
 " There are plenty of things which are neither bad 
 nor good," argued the vicar, who felt that if he could 
 draw Mrs. Ambrose into a Socratic discussion he was 
 safe. 
 
 " That is a distinct prevarication, Augustin," said 
 she severely. u I am surprised at you." 
 
 " Not at all," retorted the vicar. " What has oc 
 curred to John is not owing to any fault of his." In 
 his own mind the good man excused himself by say 
 ing that John could not have helped falling in love 
 with Mrs. Goddard. But his wife turned quickly 
 upon him. 
 
 " That does not prevent what has occurred to him, 
 as you call it, from being good, or more likely bad, to 
 judge from his looks." 
 
154 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " My dear," said Mr. Ambrose, driven to bay, " I 
 entirely decline to discuss the point." 
 
 " I thought you trusted me, Augustin." 
 
 " So I do certainly and I always consult you 
 about my own affairs." 
 
 " I think I have as much right to know about John as 
 you have," retorted his wife, who seemed deeply hurt. 
 
 " That is a point then which you ought to settle 
 with John," said the vicar. "I cannot betray his 
 confidence, even to you." 
 
 " Oh then he has been making confidences to 
 you?" 
 
 " How in the world should I know about his affairs 
 unless he told me ? " 
 
 " One may see a great many things without being 
 told about them, you know," answered Mrs. Ambrose, 
 assuming a prim expression as she examined a small 
 spot in the tablecloth. The vicar was walking up 
 and down the room. Her speech, which was made 
 quite at random, startled him. She, too, might easily 
 have observed John s manner when he was with 
 Mrs. Goddard ; she might have guessed the secret, and 
 have put her own interpretation on John s sudden 
 melancholy. 
 
 " What may one see ? " asked the vicar quickly. 
 
 "I did not say one could see anything," answered 
 his wife. " But from your manner I infer that there 
 really is something to see. Wait a minute what 
 can it be ? " 
 
 "Nothing my dear, nothing," said the vicar 
 desperately. 
 
 " Oh, Augustin, I know you so well," said the im 
 placable Mrs. Ambrose. " I am quite sure now, that 
 it is something I have seen. Deny it, my dear." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 155 
 
 The vicar was silent and bit his long upper lip as 
 he marched up and down the room. 
 
 " Of course you cannot deny it," she continued. 
 " It is perfectly clear. The very first day he arrived 
 when you came down from the Hall, in the even 
 ing Augustin, I have got it ! It is Mrs. Goddard 
 now don t tell me it is not. I am quite sure it is 
 Mrs. Goddard. How stupid of me ! Is it not Mrs. 
 Goddard?" 
 
 " If you are so positive," said the vicar, resorting to 
 a form of defence generally learned in the nursery, 
 " why do you ask me ? " 
 
 " I insist upon knowing, Augustin, is it, or is it not, 
 Mis. Goddard?" 
 
 " My dear, I positively refuse to answer any more 
 questions," said the vicar with tardy firmness. 
 
 " Oh, it is no matter," retorted Mrs. Ambrose in 
 complete triumph, "if it were not Mrs. Goddard of 
 course you would say so at once." 
 
 A form of argument so unanswerable, that the vicar 
 hastily left the room feeling that he had basely be 
 trayed John s confidence, and muttering something 
 about intolerable curiosity. Mrs. Ambrose had van 
 quished her husband, as she usually did on those rare 
 occasions when anything approaching to a dispute arose 
 between them. Having come to the conclusion that 
 "it" was Mrs. Goddard, the remainder of the secret 
 needed no discovery. It was plain that John must be 
 in love with the tenant of the cottage, and it seemed 
 likely that it would devolve upon Mrs. Ambrose to 
 clear up the matter. She was very fond of John and 
 her first impression was that Mrs. Goddard, whom she 
 now again suspected of having foreign blood, had " led 
 him on " an impression which the vicar had antici- 
 
156 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 pated when he rashly resolved not to tell his wife 
 John s secret. She knew very well that the vicar 
 must have told John his mind in regard to such an 
 attachment, and she easily concluded that he must 
 have done so on the previous evening when John 
 called him into the study. But she had just won a 
 victory over her husband, and she consequently felt 
 that he was weak, probably too weak to save the situ 
 ation, and it was borne in upon her that she ought to 
 do something immediately. Unhappily she did not 
 see quite clearly what was to be done. She might go 
 straight to Mrs. Goddard and accuse her of having 
 engaged John s affections ; but the more she thought 
 of that, the more diffident she grew in regard to the 
 result of such an interview. Curiosity had led her to 
 a certain point, but caution prevented her from going 
 any further. Mrs. Ambrose was very cautious. The 
 habit of living in a small place, feeling that all her 
 actions were watched by the villagers and duly com 
 mented upon by them, had made her even more 
 careful than she was by nature. It would be very 
 unwise to bring about a scene with Mrs. Goddard un 
 less she were very sure of the result. Mrs. Goddard 
 was hardly a friend. In Mrs. Ambrose s opinion an 
 acquaintance of two years and a half standing involv 
 ing almost daily meetings and the constant exchange 
 of civilities did not constitute friendship. Neverthe 
 less the vicar s wife would have been ashamed to own 
 that after such long continued intercourse she was 
 wholly ignorant of Mrs. Goddard s real character ; 
 especially as the latter had requested the vicar to 
 tell Mrs. Ambrose her story when she first appeared 
 at Billingsfield. Moreover, as her excitement at the 
 victory she had gained over her husband began to 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 157 
 
 subside, she found herself reviewing mentally the 
 events of the last few days. She remembered dis 
 tinctly that John had perpetually pursued Mrs. God- 
 dard, and that although the latter seemed to find him 
 agreeable enough, she had never to Mrs. Ambrose s 
 knowledge given him any of those open encourage 
 ments in the way of smiles and signals, which in the 
 good lady s mind were classified under the term 
 "flirting." Mrs. Ambrose s ideas of flirtation may 
 have been antiquated; thirty years of Billingsfield 
 in the society of the Reverend Augustin had not con 
 tributed to their extension ; but, on the whole, they 
 were just. Mrs. Goddard had not flirted with John. 
 It is worthy of notice that in proportion as the diffi 
 culties she would enter upon by demanding an ex 
 planation from Mrs. Goddard seemed to grow in 
 magnitude, she gradually arrived at the conclusion 
 that it was John s fault. Half an hour ago, in the 
 flush of triumph she had indignantly denied that 
 anything could be John s fault. She now resolved 
 to behave to him with great austerity. Such an 
 occurrence as his falling in love could not be passed 
 over with indifference. It seemed best that he should 
 leave Billingsfield very soon. 
 
 John thought so too. Existence would not be 
 pleasant now that the vicar knew his secret, and he 
 cursed the folly and curiosity which had led him to 
 betray himself in order to find out whether Mr. Juxon 
 thought of marrying Mrs. Goddard. He had now 
 resolved to return to Cambridge at once and to work 
 his hardest until the Tripos was over. He would 
 then come back to Billingsfield and, with his honours 
 fresh upon him and the prospect of immediate success 
 before him, he would throw himself at Mrs. Goddard s 
 
158 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 feet. But of course he must have one farewell inter 
 view. Oh, those farewell interviews ! Those leave- 
 takings, wherein often so much is taken without 
 leave ! 
 
 Accordingly at luncheon he solemnly announced his 
 intention of leaving the vicarage on the morrow. Mrs. 
 Ambrose received the news with an equanimity which 
 made John suspicious, for she had heretofore con 
 stantly pressed him to extend his holiday, expressing 
 the greatest solicitude for his health. She now sat 
 stony as a statue and said very coldly that she was 
 sorry he had to go so soon, but that, of course, it 
 could not be helped. The vicar was moved by his 
 wife s apparent indifference. John, he said, might 
 at least have stayed till the end of the promised 
 week; but at this suggestion Mrs. Ambrose darted 
 at her husband a look so full of fierce meaning, that 
 the vicar relapsed into silence, returning to the con 
 sideration of bread and cheese and a salad of mustard 
 and cress. John saw the look and was puzzled ; he 
 did not believe the vicar capable of going straight 
 to Mrs. Ambrose with the story of the last night s 
 interview. But he was already so much disturbed 
 that he did not attempt to explain to himself what 
 was happening. 
 
 But when lunch was over, and he realised that he 
 had declared his intention of leaving Billingsfield on 
 the next day, he saw that if he meant to see Mrs. 
 Goddard before he left he must go to her at once. 
 He therefore waited until he heard Mr. and Mrs. 
 Ambrose talking together in the sitting-room and 
 then slipped quietly out by the garden to the road. 
 
 He had no idea what he should say when he met 
 Mrs. Goddard. He meant, of course, to let her under- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 159 
 
 stand, or at least suppose, that he was leaving sud 
 denly on her account, but he did not know in the 
 least how to accomplish it. He trusted that the 
 words necessary to him would come into his head 
 spontaneously. His heart beat fast and he was con 
 scious that he blushed as he rang the bell of the cot 
 tage. Almost before he knew where he was, he 
 found himself ushered into the little drawing-room 
 and in the presence of the woman he now felt sure 
 that he loved. But to his great annoyance she was 
 not alone ; Nellie was with her. Mrs. Goddard sat 
 near the fire, reading a review ; Nellie was curled up 
 in a corner of the deep sofa with a book, her thick 
 brown curls falling all over her face and hands as 
 she read. Mrs. Goddard extended her hand, without 
 rising. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Short? " she said. The young 
 man stood hat in hand in the middle of the room, 
 feeling very nervous. It was strange that he should 
 experience any embarrassment now, considering how 
 many hours he had spent in her company during the 
 last few days. He blushed and stammered. 
 
 " How do you do ? I, in fact I have come to say 
 good-bye," he blurted out. 
 
 " So soon ? " said Mrs. Goddard calmly. " Pray sit 
 down." 
 
 "Are you really going away, Mr. Short?" asked 
 Nellie. " We are so sorry to lose you." The child 
 had caught the phrase from a book she had been 
 reading, and thought it very appropriate. Her 
 mother smiled. 
 
 "Yes as Nellie says we are soriy to lose you," 
 she said. "I thought you were to stay until 
 Monday ? " 
 
160 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " So I was but very urgent business not ex 
 actly business of course, but work calls me away 
 sooner." Having delivered himself of this master 
 piece of explanation John looked nervously at Nellie 
 and then at his hat and then, with an imploring 
 glance, at Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 " But we shall hear of you, Mr. Short after the 
 examinations, shall we not ? " 
 
 " Oh yes," said John eagerly. " I will come down 
 as soon as the lists are out." 
 
 " You have my best wishes, you know," said Mrs. 
 Goddard kindly. " I feel quite sure that you will 
 really be senior classic." 
 
 " Mamma is always saying that it is quite true," 
 explained Nellie. 
 
 John blushed again and looked gratefully at Mrs. 
 Goddard. He wished Nellie would go away, but there 
 was not the least chance of that. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Goddard, " I often say it. We all 
 take a great interest in your success here." 
 
 " You are very kind," murmured John. " Of course 
 I shall come down at once and tell you all about it, 
 if I succeed. I do not really expect to be first, of 
 course. I shall be satisfied if I get a place in the 
 first ten. But I mean to do my best." 
 
 " No one can do more," said Mrs. Goddard, leaning 
 back in her chair and looking into the fire. Her face 
 was quiet, but not sad as it sometimes was. There 
 was a long silence which John did not know how to 
 break. Nellie sat upon a carved chair by the side of 
 the fireplace dangling her legs and looking at her toes, 
 turning them alternately in and out. She wished John 
 would go for she wanted to get back to her book, but 
 had been told it was not good manners to read when 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 161 
 
 there were visitors. John looked at Mrs. Goddard s 
 face and was about to speak, and then changed his 
 mind and grew red and said nothing. Had she noticed 
 his shyness she would have made an effort at conver 
 sation, but she was absent-minded to-day, and was 
 thinking of something else. Suddenly she started and 
 laughed a little. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said. " What were you 
 saying, Mr. Short ? " Had John been saying anything 
 he would have repeated it, but being thus interrogated 
 he grew doubly embarrassed. 
 
 "I I have not much to say except good-bye, 
 he answered. 
 
 " Oh, don t go yet," said Mrs. Goddard. " You are 
 not going this afternoon? It is always so unpleasant 
 to say good-bye, is it not ? " 
 
 "Dreadfully," answered John. "I would rather 
 say anything else in the world. No ; I am going 
 early to-morrow morning. There is no help for it," 
 he added desperately. " I must go, you know." 
 
 " The next time you come, you will be able to stay 
 much longer," said Mrs. Goddard in an encouraging 
 way. " You will have no more terms, then." 
 
 "No indeed nothing but to take my degree." 
 
 " And what will you do then ? You said the other 
 day that you thought seriously of going into the 
 church." 
 
 " Oh mamma," interrupted Nellie suddenly looking 
 up, " fancy Mr. Short in a black gown, preaching like 
 Mr. Ambrose! How perfectly ridiculous he would 
 look ! " 
 
 " Nellie Nellie ! " exclaimed Mrs. Goddard, " do 
 not talk nonsense. It is very rude to say Mr. Short 
 would look ridiculous." 
 
162 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "I didn t mean to be rude, mamma," returned 
 Nellie, blushing scarlet and pouting her lips, " only it 
 would be very funny, wouldn t it?" 
 
 " I daresay it would," said John, relieved by the 
 interruption. "I wish you would advise me what 
 to do, Mrs. Goddard," he added in a confidential 
 tone. 
 
 " I ? " she exclaimed, and then laughed. " How 
 should I be able to advise you ? " 
 
 " I am sure you could," said John, insisting. " You 
 have such wonderfully good judgment " 
 
 " Have I ? I did not know it. But, tell me, if you 
 come out very high are you not sure of getting a fel 
 lowship?" 
 
 " It is likely," answered John indifferently. " But 
 I should have to give it up if I married " 
 
 " Surely, Mr. Short," cried Mrs. Goddard, with a 
 laugh that cut him to the quick, " you do not think 
 of marrying for many years to come ? " 
 
 " Oh I don t know," he said, blushing violently, 
 " why should not I ? " 
 
 " In the first place, a man should never marry until 
 he is at least five and twenty years old," said Mrs. 
 Goddard, calmly. 
 
 " Well I may be as old as that before I get the 
 fellowship." 
 
 " Yes, I daresay. But even then, why should you 
 want to resign a handsome independence as soon as 
 you have got it? Is there anything else so good 
 within your reach ? " 
 
 " There is the church, of course," said John. " But 
 Miss Nellie seems to think that ridiculous " 
 
 " Never mind Nellie," answered Mrs. Goddard. 
 " Seriously, Mr. Short, do you approve of entering 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 163 
 
 the church merely as a profession, a means of earning 
 money ? " 
 
 " Well no I did not put it in that way. But 
 many people do." 
 
 "That does not prove that it is either wise or 
 decent," said Mrs. Goddard. " If you felt impelled 
 to take orders from other motives, it would be differ 
 ent. As I understand you, you are choosing a pro 
 fession for the sake of becoming independent." 
 
 " Certainly," said John. 
 
 " Well, then, there is nothing better for you to do 
 than to get a fellowship and hold it as long as you 
 can, and during that time you can make up your 
 mind." She spoke with conviction, and the plan 
 seemed good. " But I cannot imagine," she con 
 tinued, " why you should ask my advice." 
 
 "And not to marry?" inquired John nervously. 
 
 " There is plenty of time to think of that when you 
 are thirty even five and thirty is not too late." 
 
 " Dear me ! " exclaimed John, " I think that is 
 much too old ! " 
 
 "Do you call me old?" asked Mrs. Goddard 
 serenely. " I was thirty-one on my last birthday." 
 
 For the twentieth time, John felt himself growing 
 uncomfortably hot. Not only had he said an uncon 
 scionably stupid thing, but Mrs. Goddard, after ad 
 vising him not to marry for ten years, had almost 
 hinted that she might meanwhile be married herself. 
 What else could she mean by the remark? But 
 John was hardly a responsible being on that day. 
 His views of life and his understanding were equally 
 disturbed. 
 
 "No indeed," he protested on hearing her confession 
 of age. "No indeed why, you are the youngest 
 
164 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 person I ever saw, of course. But with men it is 
 quite different." 
 
 " Is it ? I always thought women were supposed 
 to grow old faster than men. That is the reason why 
 women always marry men so much older than them 
 selves." 
 
 " Oh in that case I have nothing more to say," 
 replied John in very indistinct tones. The perspira 
 tion was standing upon his forehead ; the room swam 
 with him and he felt a terrible, prickly sensation all 
 over his body. 
 
 "Mamma, shan t I open the door? Mr. Short is 
 so very hot," said Nellie looking at him in some 
 astonishment. At that moment John felt as though 
 he could have eaten little Nellie, long legs, ringlets 
 and all, with infinite satisfaction. He rose suddenly 
 to his feet. 
 
 " The fact is it is late I must really be saying 
 good-bye," he stammered. 
 
 u Must you?" said Mrs. Goddard, suspecting that 
 something was the matter. " Well, I am very sorry 
 to say good-bye. But you will be coming back soon, 
 will you not ? " 
 
 "Yes I don t know perhaps I shall not come 
 back at all. Good-bye Mrs. Goddard good-bye, 
 Miss Nellie." 
 
 " Good-bye, Mr. Short," said Mrs. Goddard, look 
 ing at him with some anxiety. " You are not ill ? 
 What is the matter ? " 
 
 " Oh dear no, nothing," answered John with an 
 unnatural laugh. " No thank you good-bye." 
 
 He managed to get out of the door and rushed 
 down to the road. The cold air steadied his nerves. 
 He felt better. With a sudden revulsion of feeling, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 165 
 
 he began to utter inward imprecations against his 
 folly, against the house he had just left, against every 
 body and everything in general, not forgetting poor 
 little Nellie. 
 
 "If ever I cross that threshold again " he mut 
 tered with tragic emphasis. His face was still red, 
 and he swung his stick ferociously as he strode 
 towards the vicarage. Several little boys in ragged 
 smock-frocks saw him and thought he had had some 
 beer, even as their own fathers, and made vulgar 
 gestures when his back was turned. 
 
 So poor John packed his portmanteau and left the 
 vicarage early on the following morning. He sent an 
 excuse to Mr. Juxon explaining that the urgency of 
 his work called him back sooner than he had expected, 
 and when the train moved fairly off towards Cam 
 bridge he felt that in being spared the ordeal of shak 
 ing hands with his rival he had at least escaped some 
 of the bitterness of his fate ; as he rolled along he 
 thought very sadly of all that had happened in that 
 short time which was to have been so gay and which 
 had come to such a miserable end. 
 
 Reflecting calmly upon his last interview with Mrs. 
 Goddard, he was surprised to find that his memory 
 failed him. He could not recall anything which could 
 satisfactorily account for the terrible disappointment 
 and distress he had felt. She had only said that she 
 was thirty-one years old, precisely as the vicar had 
 stated on the previous evening, and she had advised 
 him not to marry for some years to come. But she 
 had laughed, and his feelings had been deeply 
 wounded he could not tell precisely at what point 
 in the conversation, but he was quite certain that slu 
 had laughed, and oh ! that terrible Nellie ! It was very 
 
166 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 bitter, and John felt that the best part of his life was 
 lived out. He went back to his books with a dark and 
 melancholy tenacity of purpose, flavoured by a hope 
 that he might come to some sudden and awful end 
 in the course of the next fortnight, thereby causing 
 untold grief and consternation to the hard-hearted 
 woman he had loved. But before the fortnight had 
 expired he found to his surprise that he was intensely 
 interested in his work, and once or twice he caught 
 himself wondering how Mrs. Goddard would look 
 when he went back to Billingsfield and told her he 
 had come out at the head of the classical Tripos 
 though, of course, he had no intention of going there, 
 nor of ever seeing her again. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 MR. JUXON was relieved to hear that John Short 
 had suddenly gone back to Cambridge. He had 
 indeed meant to like him from the first and had 
 behaved towards him with kindness and hospitality; 
 but while ready to admire his good qualities and to 
 take a proper amount of interest in his approaching 
 contest for honours, he had found him a troublesome 
 person to deal with and, in his own words, a nuisance. 
 Matters had come to a climax after the tea at the 
 cottage, when the squire had so completely vanquished 
 him, but since that evening the two had not met. 
 
 The opposition which John brought to bear against 
 Mr. Juxon was not, however, without its effect. The 
 squire was in that state of mind in which a little 
 additional pressure sufficed to sway his resolutions. 
 It has been seen that he had for some time regarded 
 Mrs. Goddard s society as an indispensable element 
 in his daily life ; he had been so much astonished at 
 discovering this that he had absented himself for 
 several days and had finally returned ready to submit 
 to his fate, in so far as his fate required that he 
 should see Mrs. Goddard every day. Shortly after 
 wards John had appeared and by his persistent 
 attempts to monopolise Mrs. Goddard s conversation 
 had again caused an interruption in the squire s hab 
 its, which the latter had resented with characteristic 
 firmness. The very fact of having resisted John had 
 
168 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 strengthened and given a new tone to Mr. Juxon s 
 feelings towards his tenant. He began to watch the 
 hands of the clock with more impatience than for 
 merly when, after breakfast, he sat reading the papers 
 before the library fire, waiting for the hour when he 
 was accustomed to go down to the cottage. His 
 interest in the papers decreased as his interest in the 
 time of day grew stronger, and for the first time in 
 his life he found to his great surprise that after read 
 ing the news of the day with the greatest care, he 
 was often quite unable to remember a word of what 
 he had read. Then, at first, he would be angry with 
 himself and would impose upon himself the task of 
 reading the paper again before going to the cottage. 
 But very soon he found that he had to read it twice 
 almost every day, and this seemed such an unreason 
 able waste of time that he gave it up, and fell into 
 very unsystematic habits. 
 
 For some days, as though by mutual consent, 
 neither Mrs. Goddard nor the squire spoke of John 
 Short. The squire was glad he was gone and hoped 
 that he would not come back, but was too kind- 
 hearted to say so ; Mrs. Goddard instinctively under 
 stood Mr. Juxon s state of mind and did not disturb 
 his equanimity by broaching an unpleasant subject. 
 Several days passed by after John had gone and he 
 would certainly not have been nattered had he known 
 that during that time two, out of the four persons 
 he had met so often in his short holiday, had never 
 so much as mentioned him. 
 
 One afternoon in January the squire found himself 
 alone with Mrs. Goddard. It was a great exception, 
 and she herself doubted whether she were wise to 
 receive him when she had not Nellie with her. Nellie 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 169 
 
 had gone to the vicarage to help Mrs. Ambrose with 
 some work she had in hand for her poor people, but 
 Mrs. Goddard had a slight headache and had stayed 
 at home in consequence. The weather was very bad ; 
 heavy clouds were driving overhead and the north-east 
 wind howled and screamed through the leafless oaks 
 of the park, driving a fine sleet against the cottage 
 windows and making the dead creepers rattle against 
 the wall. It was a bitter January day, and Mrs. 
 Goddard felt how pleasant a thing it was to stay at 
 home with a book beside her blazing fire. She was 
 all alone, and Nellie would not be back before four 
 o clock. Suddenly a well-known step echoed upon 
 the slate flags without and there was a ring at the 
 bell. Mrs. Goddard had hardly time to think what 
 she should do, as she laid her book upon her knee and 
 looked nervously over her shoulder towards the door. 
 It was awkward, she thought, but it could not be 
 helped. In such weather it seemed absurd to send 
 the squire away because her little girl was not with 
 her. He had come all the way down from the Hall 
 to spend this dreary afternoon at the cottage she 
 could not send him away. There were sounds in the 
 passage as of some one depositing a waterproof coat 
 and an umbrella, the door opened and Mr. Juxon 
 appeared upon the threshold. 
 
 "Come in," said Mrs. Goddard, banishing her 
 scruples as soon as she saw him. " I am all alone," 
 she added rather apologetically. The squire, who 
 was a simple man in many ways, understood the re 
 mark and felt slightly embarrassed. 
 
 "Is Miss Nellie out?" he asked, coming forward 
 and taking Mrs. Goddard s hand. He had not yet 
 reached the point of calling the child plain "Nellie ; " 
 he would have thought it an undue familiarity. 
 
170 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " She is gone to the vicarage," answered Mrs. God- 
 dard. "What a dreadful day ! You must be nearly 
 frozen. Will you have a cup of tea ? " 
 
 " No thanks no, you are very kind. I have had 
 a good walk ; I am not cold never am. As you say, 
 in such weather I could not resist the temptation to 
 come in. This is a capital day to test that India-rubber 
 tubing we have put round your windows. Excuse me 
 I will just look and see if the air comes through." 
 
 Mr. Juxon carefully examined the windows of the 
 sitting-room and then returned to his seat. 
 
 " It is quite air-tight, I think," he said with some 
 satisfaction, as he smoothed his hair with his hand. 
 
 " Oh, quite," said Mrs. Goddard. " It was so very 
 good of you." 
 
 "Not a bit of it," returned the squire cheerily. 
 " A landlord s chief pre-occupation ought to be the 
 comfort of his tenants and his next thought should 
 be to keep his houses in repair. I never owned any 
 houses before, so I have determined to start with good 
 principles." 
 
 " I am sure you succeed. You walked down ? " 
 
 "Always walk, in any weather. It is much less 
 trouble and much cheaper. Besides, I like it." 
 
 " The best of all reasons. Then you will not have 
 any tea? I almost wish you would, because I want 
 some myself." 
 
 " Oh of course in that case I shall be delighted. 
 Shall I ring?" 
 
 He rang and Martha brought the tea. Some time 
 was consumed in the preparations which Mr. Juxon 
 watched with interest as though he had never seen tea 
 made before. Everything that Mrs. Goddard did in 
 terested him. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 171 
 
 " I do not know why it is," she said at last, " but 
 weather like this is delightful when one is safe at 
 home. I suppose it is the contrast " 
 
 " Yes indeed. It is like the watch below in dirty 
 weather." 
 
 " Excuse me I don t quite understand " 
 
 "At sea," explained the squire. "There is no 
 luxury like being below when the decks are wet and 
 there is heavy weather about." 
 
 " I should think so," said Mrs. Goddard. " Have 
 you been at sea much, Mr. Juxon ? " 
 
 "Thirty years," returned the squire laconically. 
 Mrs. Goddard looked at him in astonishment. 
 
 " You don t mean to say you have been a sailor all 
 your life ? " 
 
 "Does that surprise you? I have been a sailor 
 since I was twelve years old. But I got very tired 
 of it. It is a hard life." 
 
 " Were you in the navy, Mr. Juxon ? " asked Mrs. 
 Goddard eagerly, feeling that she was at last upon the 
 track of some information in regard to his past life. 
 
 " Yes I was in the navy," answered the squire, 
 slowly. " And then I was at college, and then in the 
 navy again. At last I entered the merchant service 
 and commanded my own ships for nearly twenty 
 years." 
 
 " How very extraordinary ! Why then, you must 
 have been everywhere." 
 
 "Very nearly. But I would much rather be in 
 Billingsfield." 
 
 "You never told me," said Mrs. Goddard almost 
 reproachfully. " What a change it must have been 
 for you, from the sea to the life of a country gentle 
 man ! " 
 
172 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " It is what I always wanted." 
 
 " But you do not seem at all like the sea captains 
 one hears about " 
 
 "Well, perhaps not," replied the squire thought 
 fully. " There are a great many different classes of 
 sea captains. I always had a taste for books. A 
 man can read a great deal on a long voyage. I have 
 sometimes been at sea for more than two years at a 
 time. Besides, I had a fairly good education and 
 well, I suppose it was because I was a gentleman to 
 begin with and was more than ten years in the Royal 
 Navy. All that makes a great difference. Have you 
 ever made a long voyage, Mrs. Goddard?" 
 
 " I have crossed the channel, * said she. " But I 
 wish you would tell me something more about your 
 life."" 
 
 " Oh no it is very dull, all that. You always 
 make me talk about myself," said the squire in a 
 tone of protestation. 
 
 "It is very interesting." 
 
 "But could we not vary the conversation by 
 talking about you a little ? " suggested Mr. Juxon. 
 
 "Oh no! Please " exclaimed Mrs. Goddard 
 rather nervously. She grew pale and busied herself 
 again with the tea. " Do tell me more about your 
 voyages. I suppose that was the way you collected 
 so many beautiful things, was it not ? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," answered the squire, looking 
 at her curiously. " In fact of course it was. I was 
 a great deal in China and South America and India, 
 and in all sorts of places where one picks up things." 
 
 "And in Turkey, too, where you got Stamboul?" 
 
 " Yes. He was so wet that I left him outside to 
 day. Did not want to spoil your carpet." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. , 173 
 
 The squire had a way of turning the subject when 
 he seemed upon the point of talking about himself 
 which was very annoying to Mrs. Goddard. But she 
 had not entirely recovered her equanimity and for the 
 moment had lost control of the squire. Besides she 
 had a headache that day. 
 
 " Stamboul does not get the benefit of the contrast 
 we were talking about at first," she remarked, in order 
 to say something. 
 
 " I could not possibly bring him in, % returned the 
 squire looking at her again. " Excuse me, Mrs. God 
 dard I don t mean to be inquisitive you know, but 
 I always want to be of any use." 
 
 She looked at him inquiringly. 
 
 " I mean, to be frank, I am afraid that something 
 is giving you trouble. I have noticed it for some 
 time. You know, if I can be of any use, if I can 
 help you in any way you have only to say the 
 word." 
 
 Again she looked at him. She did not know why 
 it was so, but the genuinely friendly tone in which 
 he made the offer touched her. She was surprised, 
 however; she could not understand why he should 
 think she was in trouble, and indeed she was in no 
 greater distress than she had suffered during the 
 greater part of the last three years. 
 
 "You are very kind, Mr. Juxon. But there is 
 nothing the matter I have a headache." 
 
 " Oh," said the squire, " I beg your pardon." He 
 looked away and seemed embarrassed. 
 
 "You have done too much already," said Mrs. 
 Goddard, fearing that she had not sufficiently ac 
 knowledged his offer of assistance. 
 
 " I cannot do too much. That is impossible," he 
 
174 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 said in a tone of conviction. "I have very few 
 friends, Mrs. Goddard, and I like to think that you 
 are one of the best of them." 
 
 "I am sure I don t know what to say, Mr. 
 Juxon," she answered, somewhat startled by the 
 directness of his speech. "I am sure you have 
 always been most kind, and I hope you do not think 
 me ungrateful." 
 
 " I ? You ? No dear me, please never mention 
 it ! The fact is, Mrs. Goddard " he stopped and 
 smoothed his hair. " What particularly disagreeable 
 weather," he remarked irrelevantly, looking out of 
 the window at the driving sleet. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard looked down and slowly stirred her 
 tea. She was pale and her hand trembled a little, 
 but no one could have guessed that she was suffering 
 any strong emotion. Mr. Juxon looked towards the 
 window, and the grey light of the winter s afternoon 
 fell coldly upon his square sunburned face and care 
 fully trimmed beard. He was silent for a moment, 
 and then, still looking away from his companion, he 
 continued in a less hesitating tone. 
 
 " The fact is, I have been thinking a great deal of 
 late," he said, "and it has struck me that your friend 
 ship has grown to be the most important thing in my 
 life." He paused again and turned his hat round 
 upon his knee. Still Mrs. Goddard said nothing, and 
 as he did not look at her he did not perceive that she 
 was unnaturally agitated. 
 
 " I have told you what my life has been," he con 
 tinued presently. " I have been a sailor. I made a 
 little money. I finally inherited my uncle s estate 
 here. I will tell you anything else you would like to 
 ask I don t think I ever did anything to conceal. I 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 175 
 
 am forty-two years old. I have about five thousand a 
 year and I am naturally economical. I would like to 
 make you a proposal a very respectful proposal, 
 Mrs. Goddard " 
 
 Mrs. Goddard uttered a faint exclamation of sur 
 prise and fell back in her chair, staring with wide 
 eyes at the squire, her cheeks very pale and her lips 
 white. He was too much absorbed in what he was 
 saying to notice the short smothered ejaculation, and 
 he was too much embarrassed to look at her. 
 
 "Mrs. Goddard," he said, his voice trembling 
 slightly, " will you marry me ? " 
 
 He was not prepared for the result of his speech. 
 He had pondered it for some time and had come to 
 the conclusion that it was best to say as little as 
 possible and to say it plainly. It was an honourable 
 proposal of marriage from a man in middle life to a 
 lady he had known and respected for many months ; 
 there was very little romance about it ; he did not 
 intend that there should be any. As soon as he had 
 spoken he turned his head and looked to her for his 
 answer. Mrs. Goddard had clasped her small white 
 hands over her face and had turned her head away 
 from him against the cushion of the high backed 
 chair. The squire felt very uncomfortable in the 
 dead silence, broken only by the sleet driving against 
 the window panes with a hissing, rattling sound, and 
 by the singing of the tea-kettle. For some seconds, 
 which to Juxon seemed like an eternity, Mrs. God 
 dard did not move. At last she suddenly dropped 
 her hands and looked into the squire s eyes. He 
 was startled by the ashen hue of her face. 
 
 " It is impossible," she said, shortly, in broken tones. 
 But the squire was prepared for some difficulties. 
 
176 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " I do not see the impossibility," he said quite 
 calmly. " Of course, I would not press you for an 
 answer, my dear Mrs. Goddard. I am afraid I have 
 been very abrupt, but I will go away, I will leave you 
 to consider " 
 
 44 Oh no, no ! " cried the poor lady in great distress. 
 44 It is quite impossible I assure you it is quite, 
 quite impossible ! " 
 
 44 1 don t know," said Mr. Juxon, who saw that she 
 was deeply moved, but was loath to abandon the field 
 without a further struggle. 4t I am not a very young 
 man, it is true but I am not a very old one either. 
 You, my dear Mrs. Goddard, have been a widow for 
 some years " 
 
 44 1 ? " cried Mrs. Goddard with a wild hysterical 
 laugh. 44 1 ! Oh God of mercy ! I wish I were." 
 Again she buried her face in the cushion. Her 
 bosom heaved violently. 
 
 The squire started as though he had been struck, 
 and the blood rushed to his brown face so that the 
 great veins on his temples stood out like cords. 
 
 44 Did I did I understand you to say that your 
 husband is living ? " he asked in a strong, loud voice, 
 ringing with emotion. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard moved a little and seemed to make a 
 great effort to speak. 
 
 44 Yes," she said very faintly. The squire rose to 
 his feet and paced the room in terrible agitation. 
 
 44 But where? " he asked, stopping suddenly in his 
 walk. 44 Mrs. Goddard, I think I have a right to ask 
 where he is why you have never spoken of him ? " 
 
 By a supreme effort the unfortunate lady raised 
 herself from her seat supporting herself upon one 
 hand, and faced the squire with wildly staring eyes. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 177 
 
 " You have a right to know," she said. " He is in 
 Portland sentenced to twelve years hard labour for 
 forgery." 
 
 She said it all, to the end, and then fell back into 
 her chair. But she did not hide her face this time. 
 The fair pathetic features were quite motionless and 
 white, without any expression, and her hands lay 
 with the palms turned upwards on her knees. 
 
 Charles James Juxon was a man of few words, not 
 given to using strong language on any occasion. But 
 he was completely overcome by the horror of the 
 thing. He turned icy cold as he stood still, rooted 
 to the spot, and he uttered aloud one strong and 
 solemn ejaculation, more an invocation than an oath, 
 as though he called on heaven to witness the misery 
 he looked upon. He gazed at the colourless, inani 
 mate face of the poor lady and walked slowly to the 
 window. There he stood for fully five minutes, 
 motionless, staring out at the driving sleet. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard had fainted away, but it did not 
 occur to the squire to attempt to recall her to her 
 senses. It seemed merciful that she should have 
 lost consciousness even for a moment. Indeed she 
 needed no help, for in a few minutes she slowly 
 opened her eyes and closed them, then opened them 
 again and saw Mr. Juxon s figure darkening the win 
 dow against the grey light. 
 
 " Mr. Juxon," she said faintly, " come here, please." 
 
 The squire started and turned. Then he came and 
 sat down beside her. His face was very stern and 
 grave, and he said nothing. 
 
 "Mr. Juxon," said Mrs. Goddard, speaking in a 
 low voice, but with far more calm than he could 
 have expected, " you have a right to know my story. 
 
178 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 You have been very kind to me, you have made an 
 honourable offer to me, you have said you were my 
 friend. I ought to have told you before. If I had 
 had any idea of what was passing in your mind, I 
 would have told you, cost what it might." 
 
 Mr. Juxon gravely bowed his head. She was quite 
 right, he thought. He had a right to know all. 
 With all his kind-heartedness he was a stern man by 
 nature. 
 
 " Yes," continued Mrs. Goddard, " you have every 
 right to know. My husband," her voice trembled, 
 " was the head of an important firm in London. I 
 was the only child of his partner. Not long after my 
 father s death I married Mr. Goddard. He was an 
 extravagant man of brilliant tastes. I had a small 
 fortune of my own which my father had settled upon 
 me, independent of his share in the firm. My guar 
 dians, of whom my husband was one, advised me to 
 leave my father s fortune in the concern. When I 
 came of age, a year after my marriage, I agreed to do 
 it. My husband I never knew it till long after 
 wards was very rash. He speculated on the Ex 
 change and tampered with the deposits placed in his 
 hands. We lived in great luxury. I knew nothing 
 of his affairs. Three years ago, after we had been 
 married nearly ten years, the firm failed. It was a 
 fraudulent bankruptcy. My husband fled but was 
 captured and brought back. It appeared that at the 
 last moment, in the hope of retrieving his position and 
 saving the firm, he had forged the name of one of his 
 own clients for a large amount. We had a country 
 place at Putney which he had given to me. I sold 
 it, with all my jewels and most of my possessions. 
 I would have given up everything I possessed, but I 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 179 
 
 thought of Nellie poor little Nellie. The lawyers 
 assured me that I ought to keep my own little fort 
 une. I kept about five hundred a year. It is more 
 than I need, but it seemed very little then. The 
 lawyer who conducted the defence, such as it was, 
 advised me to go abroad, but I would not. Then he 
 spoke of Mr. Ambrose, who had educated his son, 
 and gave me a note to him. I came here and I told 
 Mr. Ambrose my whole story. I only wanted to be 
 alone I thought I did right " 
 
 Her courage had sustained her so far, but it had 
 been a great effort. Her voice trembled and broke 
 and at last the tears began to glisten in her eyes. 
 
 "Does Nellie know?" asked the squire, who had 
 sat very gravely by her side, but who was in reality 
 deeply moved. 
 
 "No she thinks he that he is dead," faltered 
 Mrs. Goddard. Then she fairly burst into tears and 
 sobbed passionately, covering her face and rocking 
 herself from side to side. 
 
 " My dear friend," said Mr. Juxon very kindly and 
 laying one hand upon her arm, "pray try and calm 
 yourself. Forgive me I beg you to forgive me for 
 having caused you so much pain " 
 
 "Do you still call me a friend?" sobbed the poor 
 lady. 
 
 " Indeed I do," quoth the squire stoutly. And he 
 meant it. Mrs. Goddard dropped her hands and 
 stared into the fire through her falling tears. 
 
 " I think you behaved very honourably very 
 generously," continued Mr. Juxon, who did not 
 know precisely how to console her, and indeed 
 stood much in need of consolation himself. "Per 
 haps I had better leave you you are very much 
 
180 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 agitated you must need rest would you not rather 
 that I should go?" 
 
 " Yes it is better," said she, still staring at the 
 fire. " You know all about me now," she added in a 
 tone of pathetic regret. The squire rose to his feet. 
 
 "I hope," he said with some hesitation, "that this 
 this very unfortunate day will not prevent our 
 being friends better friends than before ? " 
 
 Mrs. Goddard looked up gratefully through her 
 tears. 
 
 " How good you are ! " she said softly. 
 
 " Not at all I am not at all good I only want 
 to be your friend. Good-bye G God bless you ! " 
 He seized her hand and squeezed it and then hurried 
 out of the room. A moment later he was crossing 
 the road with Stamboul, who was very tired of wait 
 ing, bounding before him. 
 
 The squire was not a romantic character. He was 
 a strong plain man, who had seen the world and was 
 used to most forms of danger and to a good many 
 forms of suffering. He was kind-hearted and gener 
 ous, capable of feeling sincere sympathy for others, 
 and under certain circumstances of being deeply 
 wounded himself. He had indeed a far more refined 
 nature than he himself suspected and on this memo 
 rable day he had experienced more emotions than 
 he remembered to have felt in the course of many 
 years. 
 
 After long debate and after much searching inquiry 
 into his own motives he had determined to offer him 
 self to Mre. Goddard, and he had accordingly done so 
 in his own straightforward manner. It had seemed 
 a very important action in his life, a very solemn step, 
 but he was not prepared for the acute sense of disap- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 181 
 
 pointment which he felt when Mrs. Goddard first said 
 it was impossible for her to accept him, still less had 
 he anticipated the extraordinary story which she had 
 told him, in explanation of her refusal. His ideas 
 were completely upset. That Mrs. Goddard was not 
 a widow after all, was almost as astounding as that 
 she should prove to be the wife of a felon. But Mr. 
 Juxon was no less persuaded that she herself was a 
 perfectly good and noble woman, than he had been 
 before. He felt that he would like to cut the throat 
 of the villain himself ; but he resolved that he would 
 more than ever try to be a good friend to Mrs. 
 Goddard. 
 
 He walked slowly through the storm towards his 
 house, his broad figure facing the" wind and sleet with 
 as much ease as a steamer forging against a head sea. 
 He was perfectly indifferent to the weather; but 
 Stamboul slunk along at his heels, shielding himself 
 from the driving wet snow behind his master s sturdy 
 legs. The squire was very much disturbed. The 
 sight of his own solemn butler affected him strangely. 
 He stared about the library in a vacant way, as 
 though he had never seen the place before. The 
 realisation of his own calm and luxurious life seemed 
 unnatural, and his thoughts went back to the poor 
 weeping woman he had just left. She, too, had 
 enjoyed all this, and more also. She had probably 
 been richer than he. And now she was living on five 
 hundred a year in one of his own cottages, hiding her 
 shame in desolate Billingsfield, the shame of her 
 husband, the forger. 
 
 It was such a hopeless position, the squire thought. 
 No one could help her, no one could do anything for 
 her. For many weeks, revolving the situation in his 
 
182 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 mind, he had amused himself by thinking how she 
 would look when she should be mistress of the Hall, 
 and wondering whether little Nellie would call him 
 "father," or merely "Mr. Juxon." And now, she 
 turned out to be the wife of a forger, sentenced to 
 hard labour in a convict prison, for twelve years. 
 For twelve years nearly three must have elapsed 
 already. In nine years more Goddard would be out 
 again. Would he claim his wife? Of course he 
 would come back to her for support. And poor little 
 Nellie thought he was dead ! It would be a terrible 
 day when she had to be told. If he only would die 
 in prison ! but men sentenced to hard labour rarely 
 die. They are well cared for. It is a healthy life. 
 He would certainly live through it and come back to 
 claim his wife. Poor Mrs. Goddard! her troubles 
 were not ended yet, though the State had provided 
 her with a respite of twelve years. 
 
 The squire sat long in his easy-chair in the great 
 library, and forgot to dress for dinner he always 
 dressed, even though he was quite alone. But the 
 solemn face of his butler betrayed neither emotion 
 nor surprise when the master of the Hall walked into 
 the dining-room in his knickerbockers. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WHEN Nellie came home from the vicarage she 
 found her mother looking very ill. There were dark 
 rings under her eyes, and her features were drawn 
 and tear-stained, while the beautiful waves of her 
 brown hair had lost their habitual neatness and sym 
 metry. The child noticed these things, with a 
 child s quickness, but explained them on the ground 
 that her mother s headache was probably much worse. 
 Mrs. Goddard accepted the explanation and on the 
 following day Nellie had forgotten all about it; but 
 her mother remembered it long, and it was many 
 days before she recovered entirely from the shock of 
 her interview with the squire. The latter did not 
 come to see her as usual, but on the morning after 
 his visit he sent her down a package of books and 
 some orchids from his hothouses. He thought it 
 best to leave her to herself for a little while ; the very 
 sight of him, he argued, would be painful to her, and 
 any meeting with her would be painful to himself. 
 He did not go out of the house, but spent the whole 
 day in his library among his books, not indeed read 
 ing, but pretending to himself that he was very 
 busy. Being a strong and sensible man he did not 
 waste time in bemoaning his sorrows, but he thought 
 about them long and earnestly. The more he thought, 
 the more it appeared to him that Mrs. Goddard was 
 the person who deserved pity rather than he himself. 
 
184 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 His mind dwelt on the terrors of her position in case 
 her husband should return and claim his wife and 
 daughter when the twelve years were over, and he 
 thought with horror of Nellie s humiliation, if at the 
 age of twenty she should discover that her father 
 during all these years had not been honourably dead 
 and buried, but had been suffering the punishment 
 of a felon in Portland. That the only attempt he 
 had ever made to enter the matrimonial state should 
 have been so singularly unfortunate was indeed a 
 matter which caused him sincere sorrow; he had 
 thought too often of being married to Mary Goddard 
 to be able to give up the idea without a sigh. But 
 it is due to him to say that in the midst of his own 
 disappointment he thought much more of her sorrows 
 than of his own, a state of mind most probably due to 
 his temperament. 
 
 He saw also how impossible it was to console Mrs. 
 Goddard or even to alleviate the distress of mind 
 which she must constantly feel. Her destiny was 
 accomplished in part, and the remainder seemed 
 absolutely inevitable. No one could prevent her 
 husband from leaving his prison when his crime was 
 expiated ; and no one could then prevent him from 
 joining his wife and ending his life under her roof. 
 At least so it seemed. Endless complications would 
 follow. Mrs. Goddard would certainly have to leave 
 Billingsfield no one could expect the Ambroses or 
 the squire himself to associate with a convict forger. 
 Mr. Juxon vaguely wondered whether he should live 
 another nine years to see the end of all this, and he 
 inwardly determined to go to sea again rather than 
 to witness such misery. He could not see, no one 
 could see how things could possibly turn out in any 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 185 
 
 other way. It would have been some comfort to have 
 gone to the vicar, and to have discussed with him the 
 possibilities of Mrs. Goddard s future. The vicar 
 was a man after his own heart, honest, reliable, 
 charitable and brave; but Mr. Juxon thought that 
 it would not be quite loyal towards Mrs. Goddard if 
 he let any one else know that he was acquainted with 
 her story. 
 
 For two days he stayed at home and then he went 
 to see her. To his surprise she received him very 
 quietly, much as she usually did, without betraying 
 any emotion ; whereupon he wished that he had not 
 allowed two days to pass without making his usual 
 visit. Mrs. Goddard almost wished so too. She had 
 been so much accustomed to regard the squire as a 
 friend, and she had so long been used to the thought 
 that Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose knew of her past trouble, 
 that the fact of the squire becoming acquainted with 
 her history seemed to her less important, now that it 
 was accomplished, than it seemed to the squire him 
 self. She had long thought of telling him all ; she had 
 seriously contemplated doing so when he first came 
 to Billingsfield, and now at last the thing was done. 
 She was glad of it. She was no longer in a false 
 position; he could never again think of marrying 
 her; they could henceforth meet as friends, since he 
 was so magnanimous as to allow their friendship to 
 exist. Her pride had suffered so terribly in the 
 beginning that it was past suffering now. She felt 
 that she was in the position of a suppliant asking 
 only for a quiet resting-place for herself and her 
 daughter, and she was grateful to the people who 
 gave her what she asked, feeling that she had fallen 
 among good Samaritans, whereas in merry England 
 
186 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 it would have been easy for her to have fallen among 
 priests and Pharisees. 
 
 So it came about that in a few days her relations 
 with Mr. Juxon were re-established upon a new basis, 
 but more firmly and satisfactorily than before, seeing 
 that now there was no possibility of mistake. And 
 for a long time it seemed as though matters would 
 go on as before. Neither Mrs. Goddard nor the 
 squire ever referred to the interview on that memo 
 rable stormy afternoon, and so far as the squire could 
 judge his life and hers might go on with perfect tran 
 quillity until it should please the powers that be and 
 the governor of Portland to set Mr. Walter Goddard 
 at liberty. Heaven only knew what would happen 
 then, but it was provided that there should be plenty 
 of time to prepare for anything which might ensue. 
 The point upon which Mrs. Goddard had not spoken 
 plainly was that which concerned her probable treat 
 ment of her husband after his liberation. She had 
 passed that question over in silence. She had prob 
 ably never dared to decide. Most probably she would 
 at the last minute seek some safer retreat than Bil- 
 lingsfield and make up her mind to hide for the rest 
 of her life. But Mr. Juxon had heard of women v r ho 
 had carried charity as far as to receive back their hus 
 bands under even worse circumstances ; women were 
 soft-hearted creatures, reflected the squire, and capa 
 ble of anything. 
 
 Few people in such a situation could have acted 
 consistently as though nothing had happened. But 
 Mr. Juxon s extremely reticent nature found it easy 
 to bury other people s important secrets at least as 
 deeply as he buried the harmless details of his own 
 honest life. Not a hair of his smooth head was 
 
A TALE OF A LOXELY PARISH. 187 
 
 ruffled, not a line of his square manly face was dis 
 turbed. He looked and acted precisely as he had 
 looked and acted before. His butler remarked that 
 he ate a little less heartily of late, and that on one 
 evening, as has been recorded, the squire forgot to 
 dress for dinner. But the butler in his day had seen 
 greater eccentricities than these ; he had the greatest 
 admiration for Mr. Juxon and was not inclined to 
 cavil at small things. A real gentleman, of the good 
 sort, who dressed for dinner when he was alone, who 
 never took too much wine, who never bullied the 
 servants nor quarrelled unjustly with the bills, was, 
 as the butler expressed it, " not to be sneezed at, on 
 no account." The place was a little dull, but the 
 functionary was well stricken in years and did not 
 like hard work. Mr. Juxon seemed to be conscious 
 that as he never had visitors at the Hall and as there 
 were consequently no "tips," his staff was entitled 
 to an occasional fee, which he presented always with 
 great regularity, and which had the desired effect. 
 He was a generous man as well as a just. 
 
 The traffic in roses and orchids and new books 
 continued as usual between the Hall and the cottage, 
 and for many weeks nothing extraordinary occurred. 
 Mrs. Ambrose and Mrs. Goddard met frequently, 
 and the only difference to be observed in the manner 
 of the former was that she mentioned John Short 
 very often, and every time she mentioned him she 
 fixed her grey eyes sternly upon Mrs. Goddard, who 
 however did not notice the scrutiny, or, if she did, 
 was not in the least disturbed by it. For a long time 
 Mrs. Ambrose entertained a feeble intention of ad 
 dressing Mrs. Goddard directly upon the subject of 
 John s affections, but the longer she put off doing 
 
188 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 so, the harder it seemed to do it. Mrs. Ambrose had 
 great faith in the sternness of her eye under certain 
 circumstances, and seeing that Mrs. Goddard never 
 winced, she gradually fell into the belief that John 
 had been the more to blame, if there was any blame 
 in the matter. She had indeed succeeded in the first 
 instance, by methods of her own which have been 
 heretofore detailed, in extracting a sort of reluctant 
 admission from her husband; but since that day he 
 had proved obdurate to all entreaty. Once only he 
 had said with considerable impatience that John was 
 a very silly boy, and was much better engaged with 
 his books at college than in running after Mrs. God 
 dard. That was all, and gradually as the regular 
 and methodical life at the vicarage effaced the mem 
 ory of the doings -at Christmas time, the good Mrs. 
 Ambrose forgot that anything unpleasant had ever 
 occurred. There was no disturbance of the existing 
 relations and everything went on as before for many 
 weeks. The February thaw set in early and the 
 March winds began to blow before February was 
 fairly out. Nat Barker the octogenarian cripple, 
 who had the reputation of being a weather prophet, 
 was understood to have said that the spring was 
 "loike to be forrard t year," and the minds of the 
 younger inhabitants were considerably relieved. Not 
 that Nat Barker s prophecies were usually fulfilled ; 
 no one ever remembered them at the time when they 
 might have been verified. But they were always 
 made at the season when people had nothing to do 
 but to talk about them. Mr. Thomas Reid, the con 
 servative sexton, turned up his nose at them, and 
 said he " wished Nat Barker had to dig a parish depth 
 grave in three hours without a drop of nothin to wet 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 189 
 
 his pipe with, and if he didden fine that groun on- 
 common owdacious Thomas Reid he didden know. 
 They didden know nothin , sir, them parish crip 
 ples." Wherewith the worthy sexton took his way 
 with a battered tin can to get his "fours" at the 
 Feathers. He did not patronise the Duke s Head. 
 It was too new-fangled for him, and he suspected his 
 arch enemy, Mr. Abraham Boosey, of putting a rat 
 or two into the old beer to make it "draw," which 
 accounted for its being so "hard." But Mr. Abra 
 ham Boosey was the undertaker, and he, Thomas 
 Reid, was the sexton, and it did not do to express 
 these views too loudly, lest perchance Mr. Boosey 
 should, just in his play, construct a coffin or two just 
 too big for the regulation grave, and thereby leave 
 Mr. Reid in the lurch. For the undertaker and the 
 gravedigger are as necessary to each other, as Mr. 
 Reid maintained, as a pair of blackbirds in a hedge. 
 But the spring was " forrard t year " and the weather 
 was consequently even more detestable than usual at 
 that season. The roads were heavy. The rain 
 seemed never weary of pouring down and the wind 
 never tired of blowing. The wet and leafless creep 
 ers beat against the walls of the cottage, and the 
 chimneys smoked both there and at the vicarage. 
 The rooms were pervaded with a disagreeable smell 
 of damp coal smoke, and the fires struggled desper 
 ately to burn against the overwhelming odds of rain 
 and wind which came down the chimneys. Mrs. 
 Goddard never remembered to have been so uncom 
 fortable during the two previous winters she had 
 spent in Billingsfield, and even Nellie grew im 
 patient and petulant. The only bright spot in those 
 long days seemed to be made by the regular visits of 
 
190 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Mr. Juxon, by the equally regular bi-weekly appear 
 ance of the Ambroses when they came to tea, and by 
 the little dinners at the vicarage. The weather had 
 grown so wet and the roads so bad that on these latter 
 occasions the vicar sent his dogcart with Reynolds 
 and the old mare, Strawberry, to fetch his two guests. 
 Even Mr. Juxon, who always walked when he could, 
 had got into the habit of driving down to the cottage 
 in a strange-looking gig which he had imported from 
 America, and which, among all the many possessions 
 of the squire, alone attracted the unfavourable com 
 ment of his butler. He would have preferred to see 
 a good English dogcart, high in the seat and wheels, 
 at the door of the Hall, instead of that outlandish 
 vehicle; but Joseph Ruggles, the groom, explained 
 to him that it was easier to clean than a dogcart, and 
 that when it rained he sat inside with the squire. 
 
 On a certain evening in February, towards the end 
 of the month, Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose and Mr. Juxon 
 came to have tea with Mrs. Goddard. Mr. Juxon 
 had at first not been regularly invited to these enter 
 tainments. They were perhaps not thought worthy 
 of his grandeur; at all events both the vicar s wife 
 and Mrs. Goddard had asked him very rarely. But 
 as time went on and Mr. Juxon s character developed 
 under the eyes of the little Billingsfield society, it 
 had become apparent to every one that he was a very 
 simple man, making no pretensions whatever to any 
 superiority on account of his station. They grew 
 more and more fond of him, and ended by asking him 
 to their small sociable evenings. On these occasions 
 it generally occurred that the squire and the vicar fell 
 into conversation about classical and literary subjects 
 while the two ladies talked of the little incidents 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 191 
 
 of Billingsfield life, of Tom Judd s wife and baby, 
 of Joe Staines, the choir boy, who was losing his 
 voice, and of similar topics of interest in the very 
 small world in which they lived. 
 
 The present evening had not been at all a remark 
 able one so far as the talk was concerned. The 
 drenching rain, the tendency of the fire to smoke, 
 the general wetness and condensed depravity of the 
 atmosphere had affected the spirits of the little 
 party. They were not gay, and they broke up early. 
 It was not nine o clock when all had gone, and Mrs. 
 Goddard and little Eleanor were left alone by the 
 side of their drawing-room fire. The child sat upon 
 a footstool and leaned her head against her mother s 
 knee. Mrs. Goddard herself was thoughtful and 
 sad, without precisely knowing why. She generally 
 looked forward with pleasure to meeting the Am 
 broses, but this evening she had been rather disap 
 pointed. The conversation had dragged, and the 
 excellent Mrs. Ambrose had been more than usually 
 prosy. Nellie had complained of a headache and 
 leaned wearily against her mother s knee. 
 
 " Tell me a story, mamma won t you ? Like the 
 ones you used to tell me when I was quite a little girl. " 
 
 "Dear child," said her mother, who was not think 
 ing of story-telling, "I am afraid I have forgotten 
 all the ones I ever knew. Besides, darling, it is 
 time for you to go to bed." 
 
 "I don t want to go to bed, mamma. It is such a 
 horrid night. The wind keeps me awake." 
 
 "You will not sleep at all if I tell you a story," 
 objected Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 "Mr. Juxon tells me such nice stories," said 
 Nellie, reproachfully. 
 
192 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "What are they about, dear?" 
 
 "Oh, his stories are beautiful. They are always 
 about ships and the blue sea and wonderful desert 
 islands where he has been. What a wonderful man 
 he is, mamma, is not he ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear, he talks very interestingly." Mrs. 
 Goddard stroked Nellie s brown curls and looked into 
 the fire. 
 
 " He told me that once, ever so many years ago 
 he must be very old, mamma " Nellie paused and 
 looked up inquiringly. 
 
 " Well, darling not so very, very old. I think 
 he is over forty." 
 
 "Over forty four times eleven he is not four 
 times as old as I am. Almost, though. All his 
 stories are ever so many years ago. He said he was 
 sailing away ever so far, in a perfectly new ship, and 
 the name of the ship was let me see, what was the 
 name ? I think it was 
 
 Mrs. Goddard started suddenly and laid her hand 
 on the child s shoulder. 
 
 "Did you hear anything, Nellie?" she asked 
 quickly. Nellie looked up in some surprise. 
 
 " No, mamma. When ? Just now ? It must have 
 been the wind. It is such a horrid night. The 
 name of the ship was the Zephyr I remember, 
 now." She looked up again to see if her mother was 
 listening to the story. Mrs. Goddard looked pale 
 and glanced uneasily towards the closed window. 
 She had probably been mistaken. 
 
 " And where did the ship sail to, Nellie dear ? " she 
 asked, smoothing the child s curls again and forcing 
 herself to smile. 
 
 " Oh the ship was a perfectly new ship and it 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 193 
 
 was the most beautiful weather in the world. They 
 were sailing away ever so far, towards the straits of 
 Magellan. I was so glad because I knew where the 
 straits of Magellan were and Mr. Juxon was im 
 mensely astonished. But I had been learning about 
 the Terra del Fuego, and the people who were frozen 
 there, in my geography that very morning was not 
 it lucky? So I knew all about it mamma, how 
 nervous you are! It is nothing but the wind. I 
 wish you would listen to my story " 
 
 "I am listening, darling, " said Mrs. Goddard, mak 
 ing a strong effort to overcome her agitation and draw 
 ing the child closer to her. " Go on, sweetheart 
 you were in the straits of Magellan, you said, sailing 
 away " 
 
 "Mr. Juxon was, mamma," said Nellie correcting 
 her mother with the asperity of a child who does not 
 receive all the attention it expects. 
 
 " Of course, dear, Mr. Juxon, and the ship was the 
 Zephyr. " 
 
 "Yes the Zephyr, " repeated Nellie, who was 
 easily pacified. " It was at Christmas time he said 
 but that is summer in the southern hemisphere," 
 she added, proud of her knowledge. " So it was ve^ 
 fine weather. And Mr. Juxon was walking up and 
 down the deck in the afternoon, smoking a cigar " 
 
 "He never smokes, dear," interrupted Mrs. God 
 dard, glad to show Nellie that she was listening. 
 
 "Well, but he did then, because he said so," re 
 turned Nellie unmoved. "And as he walked and 
 looked out sailors always look out, you know he 
 saw the most wonderful thing, close to the ship the 
 most wonderful thing he ever saw," added Nellie 
 with some redundance of expression. 
 
194 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Was it a whale, child?" asked her mother, star 
 ing into the fire and trying to pay attention. 
 
 "A whale, mamma!" repeated Nellie contemptu 
 ously. " As if there were anything remarkable about 
 a whale ! Mr. Juxon has seen billions of whales, I 
 am sure." 
 
 "Well, what was it, dear?" 
 
 " It was the most awfully tremendous thing with 
 green and blue scales, a thousand times as big as the 
 ship oh mamma ! What was that ? " 
 
 Nellie started up from her stool and knelt beside 
 her mother, looking towards the window. Mrs. 
 Goddard was deathly pale and grasped the arm of her 
 chair. 
 
 " Somebody knocked at the window, mamma," said 
 Nellie breathlessly. "And then somebody said 
 4 Mary quite loud. Oh mamma, what can it be ? " 
 
 "Mary?" repeated Mrs. Goddard as though she 
 were in a dream. 
 
 " Yes quite loud. Oh mamma ! it must be 
 Mary s young man he does sometimes come in the 
 evening." 
 
 "Mary s young man, child?" Mrs. Goddard s 
 heart leaped. Her cook s name was Mary, as well 
 as her own. Nellie naturally never associated the 
 name with her mother, as she never heard anybody 
 call her by it. 
 
 "Yes mamma. Don t you know? The postman 
 the man with the piebald horse." The explana 
 tion was necessary, as Mrs. Goddard rarely received 
 any letters and probably did not know the postman 
 by sight. 
 
 "At this time of night!" exclaimed Mrs. God 
 dard. "It is too bad. Mary is gone to bed." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 195 
 
 " Perhaps he thinks 3^011 are gone to the vicarage 
 and that Mary is sitting up for you in the drawing- 
 room," suggested Nellie with much good sense. 
 "Well, he can t come in, can he, mamma?" 
 
 "Certainly not," said her mother. "But I think 
 you had much better go to bed, my dear. It is half- 
 past nine." She spoke indistinctly, almost thickly, 
 and seemed to be making a violent effort to control 
 herself. But Nellie had settled down upon her stool 
 again, and did not notice her mother. 
 
 "Oh not yet," said she. "I have not nearly fin 
 ished about the sea-serpent. Mr. Juxon said it was 
 not like anything in the world. Do listen, mamma ! 
 It is the most wonderful story you ever heard. It was 
 all covered with blue and green scales, and it rolled, 
 and rolled, and rolled, and rolled, till at last it rolled 
 up against the side of the ship with such a tremendous 
 bump that Mr. Juxon fell right down on his back." 
 
 "Yes dear," said Mrs. Goddard mechanically, as 
 the child paused. 
 
 "You don t seem to mind at all! " cried Nellie, 
 who felt that her efforts to amuse her mother were 
 not properly appreciated. "He fell right down on 
 his back and hurt himself awfully." 
 
 "That was very sad," said Mrs. Goddard. "Did 
 he catch the sea-serpent afterwards ? " 
 
 "Catch the sea-serpent! Why mamma, don t you 
 know that nobody has ever caught the sea-serpent? 
 Why, hardly anybody has ever seen him, even! " 
 
 " Yes dear, but I thought Mr. Juxon - 
 
 " Of course, Mr. Juxon is the most wonderful man 
 but he could not catch the sea-serpent. Just 
 fancy ! When he got up from his fall, he looked and 
 he saw him quite half a mile away. He must have 
 
196 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 gone awfully fast, should not you think so ? Because, 
 you know, it was only a minute." 
 
 "Yes, my child; and it is a beautiful story, and 
 you told it so nicely. It is very interesting and you 
 must tell me another to-morrow. But now, dear, 
 you must really go to bed, because I am going to bed, 
 too. That man startled me so," she said, passing her 
 small white hand over her pale forehead and then 
 staring into the fire. 
 
 "Well, I don t wonder," answered Nellie in a 
 patronising tone. "Such a dreadful night too! Of 
 course, it would startle anybody. But he won t try 
 again, and you can scold Mary to-morrow and then 
 she can scold her young man." 
 
 The child spoke so naturally that all doubts van 
 ished from Mrs. Goddard s mind. She reflected that 
 children are much more apt to see things as they 
 are, than grown people whose nerves are out of order. 
 Nellie s conclusions were perfectly logical, and it 
 seemed folly to doubt them. She determined that 
 Mary should certainly be scolded on the morrow and 
 she unconsciously resolved in her mind the words she 
 should use ; for she was rather a timid woman and 
 stood a little in awe of her stalwart Berkshire cook, 
 with her mighty arms and her red face, and her un 
 commonly plain language. 
 
 "Yes dear," she said more quietly than she had 
 been able to speak for some time, " I have no doubt 
 you are quite right. I thought I heard his footsteps 
 just now, going down the path. So he will not 
 trouble us any more to-night. And now darling, 
 kneel down and say your prayers, and then we will 
 go to bed." 
 
 So Nellie, reassured by the news that her mother 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 197 
 
 was going to bed, too, knelt down as she had done 
 every night during the eleven years of her life, and 
 clasped her hands together, beneath her mother s. 
 Then she cleared her throat, then she glanced at the 
 clock, then she looked for one moment into the sweet 
 serious violet eyes that looked down on her so lov 
 ingly, and then at last she bent her lovely little 
 head and began to say her prayers, there, by the fire, 
 at her mother s knees, while angry storm howled 
 fiercely without and shook the closed panes and shut 
 ters and occasional drops of rain, falling down the 
 short chimney, sputtered in the smouldering coal 
 fire. 
 
 " Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be 
 Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come " 
 
 Nellie gave a loud scream and springing up from 
 her knees flung her arms around her mother s neck, 
 in uttermost, wildest terror. 
 
 "Mamma, mamma!" she cried looking, and yet 
 hardly daring to look, back towards the closed win 
 dow. "It called MARY GODDARD ! It is you, 
 mamma! Oh!" 
 
 There was no mistaking it this time. While 
 Nellie was saying her prayer there had come three 
 sharp and distinct raps upon the wooden shutter, and 
 a voice, not loud but clear, penetrating into the room 
 in spite of wind and storm and rain. 
 
 "Mary Goddard! Mary Goddard! " it said. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard started to her feet, lifting Nellie 
 bodily from the ground in her agony of terror; star 
 ing round the room wildly as though in search of 
 some possible escape. 
 
 " I must come in! I will come in ! " said the voice 
 again. 
 
198 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Oh don t let him in! Mamma! Don t let him 
 in I " moaned the terrified child upon her breast, 
 clinging to her and weighing her down, and grasping 
 her neck and arm with convulsive strength. 
 
 But in moments of great agitation timid people, 
 or people who are thought timid, not uncommonly do 
 brave things. Mrs. Goddard unclasped Nellie s hold 
 and forced the terror-struck child into a deep chair. 
 
 "Stay there, darling," she said with unnatural 
 calmness. " Do not be afraid. I will go and open 
 the door." 
 
 Nellie was now too much frightened to resist. 
 Mrs. Goddard went out into the little passage which 
 was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp, and closed the 
 door of the drawing-room behind her. She could 
 hear Nellie s occasional convulsive sobs distinctly. 
 For one moment she paused, her right hand on the 
 lock of the front door, her left hand pressed to her 
 side, leaning against the wall of the passage. Then 
 she turned the key and the handle and drew the door 
 in towards her. A violent gust of wind, full of cold 
 and drenching rain, whirled into the passage and 
 almost blinded her. The lamp flickered in the lan 
 tern overhead. But she looked boldly out, facing 
 the wind and weather. 
 
 " Come in ! " she called in a low voice. 
 
 Immediately there was a sound as of footsteps 
 coming from the direction of the drawing-room win 
 dow, across the wet slate flags which surrounded the 
 cottage, and a moment afterwards, peering through 
 the darkness, Mrs. Goddard saw a man with a ghastly 
 face standing before her in the rain. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 199 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MRS. GODDARD S heart stood still as she looked at 
 the wretched man, and tried to discover her hus 
 band s face, even a resemblance to him, in the hag 
 gard features she saw close before her. But he gave 
 her small time for reflection ; so soon as he had rec 
 ognised her he sprang past her into the passage and 
 pulling her after him closed the door. 
 
 "Mary don t you know me?" he said, in low 
 tones. " You must save me they are after me " 
 He stood close beside her in the narrow way, beneath 
 the small lamp ; he tried to put his arm around her 
 and he bent down and brought his ghastly face close 
 to hers. But she drew back as from a contamina 
 tion. She was horrified, and it was a natural move 
 ment. She knew his voice even better than his 
 features, now that he spoke. He pressed nearer to 
 her and she thrust him back with her hands. Then 
 suddenly a thought struck her; she took him by the 
 sleeve and led him into the dining-room. There 
 was no light there ; she pushed him in. 
 
 " Stay there one minute " 
 
 u No no, you won t call " 
 
 " I will save you there is there is somebody in 
 the drawing-room." Before he could answer her she 
 was gone, leaving him alone in the dark. He lis 
 tened intently, not venturing to leave the spot where 
 she had placed him; he thought he heard voices and 
 
200 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 footsteps, but no one came out into the passage. It 
 seemed an eternity to wait. At last she came, bear 
 ing a lighted candle in her hand. She carefully 
 shut the door of the dining-room behind her and put 
 the light upon the table. She moved like a person 
 in a dream. 
 
 "Sit down," she said, pointing to a chair. "Are 
 you hungry?" His sunken eyes sparkled. She 
 brought food and ale and set them before him. He 
 ate and drank voraciously in silence. She sat at 
 the opposite side of the table the solitary candle 
 between them, and shading her eyes with one hand 
 she gazed at his face. 
 
 Walter Goddard was a man at least forty years of 
 age. He had been thought veiy handsome once. He 
 had light blue eyes and a fair skin with flaxen hair 
 now cropped short and close to his head. There was 
 nearly a fortnight s growth of beard upon his face, 
 but it was not yet sufficient to hide his mouth and 
 chin. He had formerly worn a heavy moustache and 
 it was chiefly the absence of it which now made it 
 hard for his wife to recognise him. A battered 
 hat, drenched and dripping with rain, shaded his 
 brows. Possibly he was ashamed to remove it. His 
 mouth was small and weak and his jaw was pointed. 
 His whole expression was singularly disagreeable 
 his hands were filthy, and his face was not clean. 
 About his neck was twisted a ragged woollen com 
 forter, and he wore a smock-frock which was now 
 soaked with water and clung to his thin figure. He 
 devoured the food his wife had brought him, shiver 
 ing from time to time as though he were still cold. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard watched him in silence. She had 
 done mechanically according to her first instinct, had 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 201 
 
 led him in and had given him food. But she had not 
 recovered herself sufficiently from her first horror and 
 astonishment to realise her situation. At last she 
 spoke. 
 
 " How did you escape ? " she asked. He bent lower 
 than before, over his plate and would not look at her. 
 
 "Don t ask me," he answered shortly. 
 
 "Why did you do it?" she inquired again. God- 
 dard laughed harshly; his voice was hoarse and 
 cracked. 
 
 " Why did I do it! " he repeated. " Did you ever 
 hear of any one who would not escape from prison if 
 he had the chance? Don t look at me like that, 
 Mary" 
 
 "I am sorry for you," she said. 
 
 " You don t seem very glad to see me," he answered 
 roughly. "I might have known it." 
 
 "Yes, you might have known it." 
 
 It seemed a very hard and cruel thing to say, and 
 Mary Goddard was very far from being a cruel woman 
 by nature ; but she was stunned by fear and disgust 
 and horrified by the possibilities of harm suddenly 
 brought before her. 
 
 Goddard pushed his plate away and leaned his 
 elbows upon the table supporting his chin in his 
 hands. He scowled at her defiantly. 
 
 "You have given me a warm reception, after nearly 
 three years of separation." There was a bitter 
 sneer in the word. 
 
 "I am horrified to see you here," she said simply. 
 " You know very well that I cannot conceal you " 
 
 "Oh, I don t expect miracles," said Goddard con 
 temptuously. "I don t know that, when I came 
 here, I expected to cause you any particularly agree- 
 
202 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 able sensation. I confess, when a woman has not 
 seen her beloved husband for three years, one might 
 expect her to show a little feeling " 
 
 "I will do what I can for you, Walter," said his 
 wife, whose unnatural calm was fast yielding to an 
 overpowering agitation. 
 
 " Then give me fifty pounds and tell me the near 
 est way east," answered the convict savagely. 
 
 "I have not got fifty pounds in the house," pro 
 tested Mary Goddard, in some alarm. " I never keep 
 much money I can get it for you " 
 
 "I have a great mind to look," returned her hus 
 band suspiciously. "How soon can you get it?" 
 
 "To-morrow night the time to get a cheque 
 cashed " 
 
 "So you keep a banker s account?" 
 
 " Of course. But a cheque would be of no use to 
 you I wish it were ! " 
 
 "Naturally you do. You would get rid of me at 
 once." Suddenly his voice changed. "Oh, Mary 
 you used to love me!" cried the wretched man, 
 burying his face in his hands. 
 
 "I was very wrong," answered his wife, looking 
 away from him. "You did not deserve it you 
 never did." 
 
 "Because I was unfortunate! " 
 
 "Unfortunate! " repeated Mary Goddard with ris 
 ing scorn. "Unfortunate when you were deceiv 
 ing me every day of your life. I could have forgiven 
 a great deal Walter but not that, not that! " 
 
 "What? About the money?" he asked with sud 
 den fierceness. 
 
 "The money no. Even though you were dis 
 graced and convicted, Walter, I would have forgiven 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 203 
 
 that, I would have tried to see you, to comfort you. 
 I should have been sorry for you ; I would have done 
 what I could to help you. But I could not forgive 
 you the rest; I never can." 
 
 " Bah ! I never cared for her, " said the convict. But 
 under his livid skin there rose a faint blush of shame. 
 
 " You never cared for me that is the reason I 
 I am not glad to see you " 
 
 " I did, Mary. Upon my soul I did. I love you 
 still! " He rose and came near to his wife, and again 
 he would have put his arm around her. But she 
 sprang to her feet with an angry light in her eyes. 
 
 "If you dare to touch me, I will give you up!" 
 she cried. Goddard shrank back to his chair, very 
 pale and trembling violently. 
 
 " You would not do that, Mary," he almost whined. 
 But she remained standing, looking at him very 
 menacingly. 
 
 "Indeed I would you don t know me," she said, 
 between her teeth. 
 
 "You are as hard as a stone," he answered, sul 
 lenly, and for some minutes there was silence between 
 them. 
 
 " I suppose you are going to turn me out into the 
 rain again ? " asked the convict. 
 
 "You cannot stay here you are not safe for a 
 minute. You will have to go. You must come back 
 to-morrow and I will give you the money. You had 
 better go now " 
 
 "Oh, Mary, I would not have thought it of you," 
 moaned Goddard. 
 
 "Why what else can I do? I cannot let you 
 sleep in the house I have no barn. If any one saw 
 you here it would be all over. People know about 
 it" 
 
204 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "What people?" 
 
 "The vicar and his wife and Mr. Juxon at the 
 Hall." 
 
 " Mr. Juxon ? What is he like ? Would he give 
 me up if he knew ? " 
 
 "I think he would," said Mary Goddard, thought 
 fully. " I am almost sure he would. He is the jus 
 tice of the peace here he would be bound to." 
 
 "Do you know him?" Goddard thought he de 
 tected a slight nervousness in his wife s manner. 
 
 "Very well. This house belongs to him." 
 
 "Oh! " ejaculated the convict. "I begin to see." 
 
 "Yes you see you had better go," said his wife 
 innocently. " How can you manage to come here to 
 morrow? You cannot go on without the money " 
 
 " No and I don t mean to," he answered roughly. 
 Money was indeed an absolute necessity to him. 
 " Give me what you have got in the house, anyhow. 
 You may think better of it to-morrow. I don t trust 
 people of your stamp." 
 
 Mary Goddard rose without a word and left the 
 room. When she was gone the convict set himself 
 to finish the jug of ale she had brought, and looked 
 about him. He saw objects that reminded him of 
 his former home. He examined the fork with which 
 he had eaten and remembered the pattern and the en 
 graved initials as he turned it over in his hand. The 
 very table itself had belonged to his house the car 
 pet beneath his feet, the chair upon which he sat. It 
 all seemed too unnatural to be true. That very night, 
 that very hour, he must go forth again into the wild 
 February weather and hide himself, leaving all these 
 things behind him ; leaving behind too his wife, the 
 woman he had so bitterly injured, but who was still 
 
A TALE OP A LONELY PARISH. 205 
 
 his wife. It seemed impossible. Surely he might 
 stay if he pleased; it was not true that detectives 
 were on his track it was all a dream, since that 
 dreadful day when he had written that name, which 
 was not his, upon a piece of paper. He had waked 
 up and was again at home. But he started as he 
 heard a footstep in the passage, being now accustomed 
 to start at sounds which suggested pursuit; he started 
 and he felt the wet smock-frock, which was his dis 
 guise, clinging to him as he moved, and the reality 
 of the present returned to him with awful force. His 
 wife again entered the room. 
 
 "There are over nine pounds," she said. "It is 
 all I have." She laid the money upon the table 
 before him and remained standing. " You shall have 
 the rest to-morrow," she added. 
 
 "Can t I see Nellie?" he asked suddenly. It was 
 the first time he had spoken of his child. Mrs. God- 
 dard hesitated. 
 
 " No," she said at last. " You cannot see her now. 
 She must not be told ; she thinks you are dead. You 
 may catch a glimpse of her to-morrow " 
 
 " Well it is better she should not know, I sup 
 pose. You could not explain." 
 
 "No, Walter, I could not explain. Come later 
 to-morrow night to the same window. I will undo 
 the shutters and give you the money." Mary God- 
 dard was almost overcome with exhaustion. It was 
 a terrible struggle to maintain her composure under 
 such circumstances; but necessity does wonders. 
 "Where will you sleep to-night?" she asked pres 
 ently. She pitied the wretch from her heart, though 
 she longed to see him leave her house. 
 
 "I will get into the stables of some public-house. 
 
206 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 I pass for a tramp." There was a terrible earnest 
 ness in the simple statement, which did more to 
 make Mary Goddard realise her husband s position 
 than anything else could have done. To people who 
 live in the country the word "tramp" means so 
 much. 
 
 "Poor Walter!" said Mrs. Goddard softly, and 
 for the first time since she had seen him the tears 
 stood in her eyes. 
 
 "Don t waste your pity on me," he answered. 
 "Let me be off." 
 
 There was half a loaf and some cheese left upon 
 the table. Mrs. Goddard put them together and 
 offered them to him. 
 
 "You had better take it," she said. He took the 
 food readily enough and hid it under his frock. He 
 knew the value of it. Then he got upon his feet. 
 He moved painfully, for the cold and the wet had 
 stiffened his limbs already weakened with hunger 
 and exhaustion. 
 
 "Let me be off," he said again, and moved towards 
 the door. His wife followed him in silence. In the 
 passage he paused again. 
 
 "Well, Mary," he said, "I suppose I ought to be 
 grateful to you for not giving me up to the police." 
 
 "You know very well," answered Mrs. Goddard, 
 " that what I can do to save you, I will do. You 
 know that." 
 
 "Then do it, and don t forget the money. It s 
 hanging this time if I m caught." 
 
 Mrs. Goddard uttered a low cry and leaned against 
 the wall. 
 
 " What ? " she faltered. " You have not " 
 
 "I believe I killed somebody in getting away," 
 
A TALE OF A LOXELY PARISH. 207 
 
 answered the felon with a grim laugh. Then, with 
 out her assistance, he opened the door and went out 
 into the pouring rain. The door shut behind him 
 and Mary Goddard heard his retreating footsteps on 
 the path outside. When he was fairly gone she sud 
 denly broke down, and falling upon her knees in the 
 passage beat her forehead against the wall in an 
 agony of despair. 
 
 Murderer thief, forger and murderer, too! It 
 was more than she could bear. Even now he was 
 within a stone s throw of her house; a moment ago 
 he had been here, beside her there beyond, too, in 
 the dining-room, sitting opposite to her at her own 
 table as he had sat in his days of innocence and 
 honour for many a long year before his crime. In 
 the sudden necessity of acting, in the unutterable sur 
 prise of finding herself again face to face with him, 
 she had been calm ; now that he was gone she felt as 
 though she must go mad. She asked herself if this 
 filthy tramp, this branded villain, was the husband 
 she had loved and cherished for years, whose beauty 
 she had admired, whose hand she had held so often, 
 whose lips she had kissed if this was the father of 
 her lovely child. It was all over now. There was 
 blood upon his hands as well as other guilt. If he 
 were caught he must die, or at the very least be im 
 prisoned for life. He could never again be free to 
 come forth after the expiation of his crimes and to 
 claim her and his child. If he escaped now, it must 
 be to live in a distant country under a perpetual dis 
 guise. If he were caught, the news of his capture 
 would be in all the papers, the news of his trial for 
 murder, the very details of his execution. The Am 
 broses would know and the squire, even the country 
 
208 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 folk, would perhaps at last know the truth about her. 
 Life even in the quiet spot she had chosen would 
 become intolerable, and she would be obliged to go 
 forth again into a more distant exile. She bitterly 
 repented having written to her husband in his prison 
 to tell him where she was settled. It would have 
 been sufficient to acquaint the governor with the 
 fact, so that Goddard might know where she was 
 when his term expired. She had never written but 
 once, and he had perhaps not been allowed to answer 
 the letter. His appearance at her door proved that 
 he had received it. Would to God he had not, she 
 thought. 
 
 There were other things besides his crime of 
 forgery which had acted far more powerfully upon 
 Mary Goddard s mind, and which had broken for 
 ever all ties of affection; circumstances which had 
 appeared during his trial and which had shown that 
 he had not only been unfaithful to those who trusted 
 him, but had been unfaithful to the wife who loved 
 him. That was what she could not forgive ; it was 
 the memory of that which rose like an impassable 
 wall between her and him, worse than his frauds, 
 his forgery, worse almost than his murder. He had 
 done that which even a loving woman could not 
 pardon, that which was past all forgiveness. That 
 was why his sudden appearance roused no tender 
 memories, elicited seemingly so little sympathy from 
 her. She was too good a woman to say it, but she 
 knew in her heart that she wished him dead, the 
 very possibility of ever seeing him again gone from 
 her life for ever, no matter how. 
 
 But she must see him again, nevertheless, and 
 to-morrow. To-morrow, too, she would have to 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 209 
 
 meet the squire, and appear to act and talk as 
 though nothing had happened in this terrible night. 
 That would be the hardest of all, perhaps; even 
 harder than meeting her husband for a brief moment 
 in order to give him the means of escape. She 
 felt that in helping him she was participating in 
 his crimes, and yet, she asked herself, what woman 
 would have acted differently? What woman, even 
 though she might hate her husband with her whole 
 soul, and justly, would yet be so hard-hearted as to 
 refuse him assistance when he was flying for his life ? 
 It would be impossible. She must help him at any 
 cost ; but it was hard to feel that she must see the 
 squire and behave with indifference, while her hus 
 band was lurking in the neighbourhood, when a 
 detective might at any moment come to the door, and 
 demand to search the house. 
 
 These thoughts passed very quickly through her 
 overwrought brain, as she knelt in the passage; 
 kneeling because she felt she could no longer stand, 
 the passionate tears streaming down her face, her 
 small hands pressing her temples. Then she strug 
 gled to her feet and dried her eyes, steadying herself 
 against the wall for a moment. She had almost for 
 gotten little Nellie whom she had left in the draw 
 ing-room. She had told the child, when she went 
 back to her, leaving Goddard alone in the dark, that 
 the man was a poor starving tramp, but that she did 
 not want Nellie to see him, because he looked so 
 miserable. She would give him something to eat 
 and send him away, she said, and meanwhile Nellie 
 should sit by the drawing-room fire and wait for her. 
 The child trusted her mother implicitly and was 
 completely reassured. Mrs. Goddard dried her eyes, 
 
210 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 and re-entered the room. Nellie was curled up in a 
 big chair with a book ; she looked up quickly. 
 
 "Why, mamma," she said, "you have been cry- 
 ing!" 
 
 "Have I, darling? I daresay it was the sight of 
 that poor man. He was very wretched." 
 
 "Is he gone?" asked the child. 
 
 It was unusually late and Nellie was beginning to 
 be sleepy, so that she was more easily quieted than 
 she could have been in ordinary circumstances. It 
 might have struck her as strange that a wandering 
 tramp should know her mother s Christian name, as 
 still more inexplicable that her mother should have 
 been willing to admit such a man at so late an hour. 
 She had been badly frightened, but trusting her 
 mother as she did, her terror had quickly disappeared 
 and had been quickly followed by sleepiness. 
 
 But Mrs. Goddard did not sleep that night. She 
 felt as though she could never sleep again, and for 
 many hours she lay thinking of the new element of 
 fear which had so suddenly come into her life at the 
 very time when she believed herself to be safe for 
 many years to come. She longed to know where her 
 wretched husband was ; whether he had found shelter 
 for the night, whether he was still free or whether 
 he had even then fallen into the hands of his pur 
 suers. She knew that she could not have concealed 
 him in the house and that she had done all that lay 
 in her power for him. But she started at every 
 sound, as the rain rattled against the shutters and 
 the wind howled down the chimney. 
 
 Walter Goddard, however, was safe for the present 
 and was even luxuriously lodged, considering his cir 
 cumstances, for he was comfortably installed amongst 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 211 
 
 the hay in the barn of the " Feathers " inn. He had 
 been in Billingsfield since early in the afternoon and 
 had considered carefully the question of his quarters 
 for the night. He had observed from a distance the 
 landlord of the said inn, and had boldly offered to do 
 a "day s work for a night s lodging." He said he 
 was " tramping " his way back from London to his 
 home in Yorkshire ; he knew enough of the sound of 
 the rough Yorkshire dialect to pass for a native of 
 that county amongst ignorant labourers who had 
 never heard the real tongue. The landlord of the 
 Feathers consented to the bargain and Goddard was 
 told that he might sleep in the barn if he liked, and 
 should take a turn at cutting chaff the next day to 
 pay for the convenience. The convict slept soundly; 
 he was past lying awake in useless fits of remorse, 
 and he was exhausted with his day s journey. 
 Moreover he had now the immediate prospect of 
 obtaining sufficient money to carry him safely out of 
 the country, and once abroad he felt sure of baffling 
 pursuit. He was an accomplished man and spoke 
 French with a fluency unusual in Englishmen; he 
 determined to get across the channel in some fishing 
 craft; he would then make his way to Paris and 
 enlist in the Foreign Legion. It would be safer 
 than trying to go to America, where people were 
 invariably caught as they landed. It was a race for 
 life and death, and he knew it. Had he been able 
 to obtain clothes, money and a disguise in London 
 he would have travelled by rail. But that had been 
 impossible and it now seemed a wiser plan to " tramp " 
 it. His beard was growing rapidly and would soon 
 make a complete disguise. Village constables are 
 generally simple people, easily imposed upon, very 
 
 or THf 
 
 ,HVERS1TY ; 
 
 OF J 
 
 r. .. . ~JVt>^/^ 
 
212 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 different from London detectives; and hitherto he 
 felt sure that he had baffled pursuit by the mere sim 
 plicity of his proceedings. The intelligent officials 
 of Scotland Yard were used to forgers and swin 
 dlers who travelled by express trains and crossed to 
 America by fashionable steamers. It did not strike 
 them as very likely that a man of Walter Goddard s 
 previous tastes and habits could get through the 
 country in the guise of a tramp. If he had been 
 possessed at the time of his escape of the money he 
 so much desired he would probably have been caught ; 
 as it was, he got away without difficulty, and at the 
 very time when every railway station and every port 
 in the kingdom were being watched for him, he was 
 lurking in the purlieus of Whitechapel, and then 
 tramping his way east in comparative safety, half 
 starved, it is true, but unmolested. 
 
 That he was disappointed at the reception his wife 
 had given him did not prevent him from sleeping 
 peacefully that night. One thing alone disturbed 
 him, and that was her mention of Mr. Juxon, in 
 whose house, as she had told him, she lived. It seems 
 incredible that a man in Walter Goddard s position, 
 lost to every sense of honour, a criminal of the worst 
 type, who had deceived his wife before he was indicted 
 for forgery, who had certainly cared very little for her 
 at any time, should now, in a moment of supreme 
 danger, feel a pang of jealousy on hearing that his 
 wife lived in the vicinity of the squire and occupied 
 a house belonging to him. But he was too bad him 
 self not to suspect others, especially those whom he 
 had wronged, and the feeling was mingled with a 
 strong curiosity to know whether this woman, who 
 now treated him so haughtily and drew back from 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 213 
 
 him as from some monstrous horror, was as good as 
 she pretended to be. He said to himself that on the 
 next day at dawn he would slip out of the barn and 
 try whether he could not find some hiding-place 
 within easy reach of the cottage, so as to be able 
 to watch her dwelling at his ease throughout the day. 
 The plan seemed a good one. Since he was obliged 
 to wait twenty-four hours in order to get the money 
 he wanted, he might as well employ the time profit 
 ably in observing his wife s habits. It would be 
 long, he said to himself with a bitter sneer, before he 
 troubled her again he would just like to see. 
 
 Having come to this decision he drew some of the 
 hay over his body and in spite of cold and wet was 
 soon peacefully asleep. But at early dawn he awoke 
 with the alacrity of a man who constantly expects pur 
 suit, and slipped down from the hayloft into the barn. 
 There was no one stirring and he got over the fence 
 at the back of the yard and skirted the fields in the 
 direction of the church, finally climbing another stile 
 and entering what he supposed to be the park. On 
 this side the back of the church ran out into a broad 
 meadow, where the larger portion of the ancient 
 abbey had once stood. Goddard walked along close 
 by the church walls. He knew from his observation 
 on the previous afternoon that he could thus come 
 out into the road in the vicinity of the cottage, unless 
 his way through the park were interrupted by impas 
 sable wire fences. The ground was very heavy and 
 he was sure not to meet anybody in the meadows in 
 such weather. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped and looked at a buttress that 
 jutted out from the church and for the existence of 
 which there seemed to be no ostensible reason. He 
 
214 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 examined it and found that it was not a buttress but 
 apparently a half ruined chamber, which at some 
 former period had been built upon the side of the 
 abbey. Low down by the ground there was a hole, 
 where a few stones seemed to have been removed and 
 not replaced. Goddard knelt down in the long wet 
 grass and put in his head; then he crept in on his 
 hands and knees and presently disappeared. 
 
 He found himself in a room about ten feet square, 
 dimly lighted by a small window at the top, and sur 
 rounded by long horizontal niches. The floor, which 
 was badly broken in some places, was of stone. God 
 dard examined the place carefully. It was evidently 
 an old vault of the kind formerly built above ground 
 for the lords of the manor ; but the coffins, if there 
 had ever been any, had been removed elsewhere. 
 Goddard laughed to himself. 
 
 " I might stay here for a year, if I could get any 
 thing to eat," he said to himself. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 215 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE squire had grown used to the position in 
 which he found himself after Mary Goddard had told 
 him her story. He continued his visits as formerly, 
 and it could hardly be said that there was any change 
 in his manner towards her ; there was no need of any 
 change, for even at the time when he contemplated 
 making her his wife there had been nothing lover- 
 like in his behaviour. He had been a friend and had 
 treated her with all the respect due to a lonely lady 
 who was his tenant, and even with a certain formal 
 ity which had sometimes seemed unnecessary. But 
 though there was no apparent alteration in his mode 
 of talking, in his habit of bringing her flowers and 
 books and of looking after the condition of the cot 
 tage, both she and he were perfectly conscious of the 
 fact that they understood each other much better than 
 before. They were united by the common bond of a 
 common secret which very closely concerned one of 
 them. Things were not as they had formerly been. 
 Mrs. Goddard no longer felt that she had anything to 
 hide; the squire knew that he no longer had any 
 thing to hope. If he had been a selfish man, if she 
 had been a less sensible woman, their friendship 
 might have ended then and there. But Mr. Juxon 
 was not selfish, and Mary Goddard did not lack good 
 sense. Having ascertained that in the ordinary 
 course of events there was no possibility of ever 
 
216 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 marrying her, the squire did not at once give her 
 over and go elsewhere; on the contrary he showed 
 himself more desirous than ever of assisting her and 
 amusing her. He was a patient man ; his day might 
 come yet, if Goddard died. It did not follow that if 
 he could not marry Mrs. Goddard he must needs 
 marry some one else ; for it was not a wife that he 
 sought, but the companionship of this particular 
 woman as his wife. If he could not marry he could 
 still enjoy at least a portion of that companionship, 
 by visiting her daily and talking with her, and mak 
 ing himself a part of her life. He judged things very 
 coldly and lost himself in no lofty flights of imagina 
 tion. It was better that he should enjoy what fell in 
 his way in at least seeing Mrs. Goddard and possess 
 ing her friendship, than that he should go out of his 
 course in order to marry merely for the sake of marry 
 ing. He had seen so much of the active side of life 
 that he was well prepared to revel in the peace which 
 had fallen to his lot. He cared little whether he left 
 an heir to the park ; there were others of the name, 
 and since the park had furnished matter for litigation 
 during forty years before he came into possession of 
 it, it might supply the lawyers with fees for forty 
 years more after his death, for all he cared. It would 
 have been very desirable to marry Mrs. Goddard if it 
 had been possible, but since the thing could not be 
 done at present it was best to submit with a good 
 grace. Since the day when his suit had suddenly 
 come to grief in the discovery of her real position, 
 Mr. Juxon had philosophically said to himself that 
 he had perhaps been premature in making his pro 
 posal, and that it was as well that it could not have 
 been accepted; perhaps she would not have made him 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 217 
 
 a good wife; perhaps he had deceived himself in 
 thinking that because he liked her and desired her 
 friendship he really wished to marry her ; perhaps all 
 was for the best in the best of all possible worlds, 
 after all and in spite of all. 
 
 But these reflections, which tended to soothe the 
 squire s annoyance at the failure of a scheme which 
 he had contemplated with so much delight, did not 
 prevent him from feeling the most sincere sympathy 
 for Mrs. Goddard, nor from constantly wishing that 
 he could devise some plan for helping her. She 
 seemed never to have thought of divorcing herself 
 from her husband. The squire was not sure whether 
 such a thing were possible ; he doubted it, and prom 
 ised himself that he would get a lawyer s opinion 
 upon the matter. He believed that English law did 
 not grant divorces on account of the husband s being 
 sentenced to any limited period of penal servitude. 
 But in any case it would be a very delicate subject to 
 approach, and Mr. Juxon amused himself by con 
 structing conversations in his mind which should 
 lead up to this point without wounding poor Mrs. 
 Goddard s sensibilities. He was the kindest of men ; 
 he would not for worlds have said a word which 
 should recall to her that memorable day when she 
 had told him her story. And yet it would be quite 
 impossible to broach such a scheme without going at 
 once into all the details of the chief cause of her sor 
 rows. The consequence was that in the windings of 
 his imagination the squire found himself perpetually 
 turning in a vicious circle; but since the exercise 
 concerned Mrs. Goddard and her welfare it was not 
 uncongenial. He founded all his vague hopes upon 
 one expression she had used. When in making his 
 
218 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 proposal he had spoken of her as being a widow, 
 she had said, "Would to God that I were!" She 
 had said it with such vehemence that he had felt sure 
 that if she had indeed been a widow her answer to 
 himself would have been favourable. Men easily 
 retain such impressions received in moments of great 
 excitement, and found hopes upon them. 
 
 So the days had gone by and the squire had 
 thought much but had come to no conclusion. On 
 the morning when Walter Goddard crept into the 
 disused vault at the back of the church, the squire 
 awoke from his sleep at his usual early hour. He 
 was not in a very good humour, if so equable a man 
 could be said to be subject to such weaknesses as 
 humours. The weather was very depressing day 
 after day brought only more rain, more wind, more 
 mud, more of everything disagreeable. The previ 
 ous evening had been unusually dull. He was never 
 weary of being with Mary Goddard, but occasionally, 
 when the Ambroses were present, the conversation 
 became oppressive. Mr. Juxori almost wished that 
 John Short would come back and cause a diversion. 
 His views concerning John had undergone some 
 change since he had discovered that nobody could 
 marry Mrs. Goddard because she was married already. 
 He believed he could watch John s efforts to attract 
 her attention with indifference now, or if without 
 indifference with a charitable forbearance. John at 
 least would help to make conversation, and the con 
 versation on the previous evening had been intoler 
 ably wearisome. Almost unconsciously, since the 
 chief interest and hope of his daily life had been 
 removed the squire began to long for a change ; he 
 had been a wanderer by profession during thirty 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 219 
 
 years of his life and he was perhaps not yet old 
 enough to settle into that absolute indifference to 
 novelty which seems to characterise retired sailors. 
 
 But as he brushed his smooth hair and combed his 
 beard that morning, neither change nor excitement 
 were very far from him. He looked over his dress 
 ing-glass at the leafless oaks of the park, at the grey 
 sky and the driving rain and he wished something 
 would happen. He wished somebody might die and 
 leave a great library to be sold, that he might indulge 
 his favourite passion; he wished he had somebody 
 stopping in the Hall he almost decided to send 
 and ask the vicar to come to lunch and have a day 
 among the books. As he entered the breakfast-room 
 at precisely half-past eight o clock, according to his 
 wont, the butler informed him that Mr. Gall, the 
 village constable, was below and wanted to see him 
 after breakfast. He received the news in silence and 
 sat down to eat his breakfast and read the morning 
 paper. Gall had probably come about some petty 
 summons, or to ask what he should do about the 
 small boys who threw stones at the rooks and broke 
 the church windows. After finishing his meal and 
 his paper in the leisurely manner peculiar to country 
 gentlemen who have nothing to do, the squire rang 
 the bell, sent for the policeman and went into his 
 study, a small room adjoining the library. 
 
 Thomas Gall, constable, was a tall fair man with a 
 mild eye and a cheerful face. Goodwill towards 
 men and plentiful good living had done their work 
 in eradicating from the good man all that stern ele 
 ment which might have been most useful to him in 
 his career, not to say useful to the State. Each roll 
 ing year was pricked in his leathern belt with a new 
 
220 A TALE OF A LONELY PAEISH. 
 
 hole as his heart grew more peaceful and his body 
 throve. He had a goodly girth and weighed full fif 
 teen stone in his uniform; his mild blue eye had 
 inspired confidence in a maiden of Billingsfield par 
 ish and Mrs. Gall was now rearing a numerous family 
 of little Galls, all perhaps destined to become mild- 
 eyed and portly village constables in their turn. 
 
 The squire, who was not destitute of a sense of 
 humour, never thought of Mr. Gall without a smile, 
 so much out of keeping did the man s occupation 
 seem with his jovial humour. Mr. Gall, he said, 
 was the kind of policeman who would bribe a refrac 
 tory tramp to move on by the present of a pint of 
 beer. But Gall had a good point. He was very 
 proud of his profession, and in the exercise of it he 
 showed a discretion which, if it was the better part 
 of his valour, argued unlimited natural courage. It 
 was a secret profession, he was wont to say, and a 
 man who could not keep a secret would never do for 
 a constable. He shrouded his ways in an amiable 
 mystery and walked a solitary beat on fine nights ; 
 when the nights were not fine there was nobody to 
 see whether he walked his beat or not. Probably, he 
 faithfully fulfilled his obligations ; but his constitu 
 tion seemed to bear exposure to the weather wonder 
 fully well. Whether he ever saw anything worth 
 mentioning upon those lonely walks of his, is un 
 certain; at all events he never mentioned anything 
 he saw, unless it was in the secrecy of the reports he 
 was supposed to transmit from time to time to his 
 superiors. 
 
 On the present occasion as he entered the study, 
 the squire observed with surprise that he looked 
 grave. He had never witnessed such a phenomenon 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 221 
 
 before and argued that it was just possible that some 
 thing of real importance might have occurred. 
 
 "Good morning, sir," said Mr. Gall, approaching 
 the squire respectfully, after carefully closing the 
 door behind him. 
 
 " Good morning, Gall. Nothing wrong, I hope ? " 
 
 "Not yet, sir. I hope not, sir. Only a little 
 matter of business, Mr. Juxon. In point of fact, sir, 
 I wished to consult you." 
 
 "Yes," said the squire who was used to the con 
 stable s method of circumlocution. "Yes what is 
 it?" 
 
 "Well, sir it s this," said the policeman, run 
 ning his thumb round the inside of his belt as though 
 to test the pressure, and clearing his throat. " There 
 has been a general order sent down to be on the look 
 out, sir. So I thought it would be best to take your 
 opinion." 
 
 "My opinion," said the squire with great gravity, 
 " is that if you are directed to be on the look-out, 
 you should be on the look-out; by all means. 
 What are you to be on the look-out for?" 
 
 "In point of fact, sir," said the constable, lowering 
 his voice, "we are informed that a criminal has 
 escaped from Portland. I never heard of a convict 
 getting out of that strong old o the law, sir, and I 
 would like to have your opinion upon it." 
 
 "But if you are informed that some one has 
 escaped," remarked the squire, "you had better take 
 it for granted that it is true." 
 
 " Juss so, sir. But the circumstances wasn t com 
 municated to us, sir; so we don t know." 
 
 Mr. Gall paused, and the squire smoothed his hair 
 a little. 
 
222 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Well, Gall," said Mr. Juxon, "have you any rea 
 son for believing that this escaped convict is likely 
 to come this way?" 
 
 "Well sir, there is some evidence," answered the 
 policeman, mysteriously. "Leastways what seems 
 like evidence to me, sir." 
 
 "Of what kind?" the squire fixed his quiet eyes 
 on Mr. Gall s face. 
 
 " His name, sir. The name of the convict. There 
 is a party of that name residin here." 
 
 The squire suddenly guessed what was coming, or 
 at least a possibility of it crossed his mind. If Mr. 
 Gall had been a more observant man he would have 
 seen that Mr. Juxon grew a shade paler and changed 
 one leg over the other as he sat. But in that moment 
 he had time to nerve himself for the worst. 
 
 "And what is the name, if you please?" he asked 
 calmly. 
 
 "The name in the general orders is Goddard, sir 
 Walter Goddard. He was convicted of forgery 
 three years ago, sir, a regular bad lot. But discre 
 tion is recommended in the orders, sir, as the busi 
 ness is not wanted to get into the papers." 
 
 The squire was ready. If Gall did not know that 
 Mary Goddard was the wife of the convict Walter, 
 he should certainly not find it out. In any other 
 country of Europe that would have been the first fact 
 communicated to the local police. Very likely, 
 thought Mr. Juxon, nobody knew it. 
 
 "I do not see," he said very slowly, "that the fact 
 of there being a Mrs. Goddard residing here in the 
 least proves that she is any relation to this criminal. 
 The name is not so uncommon as that, you know." 
 
 "Nor I either, sir. In point of fact, sir, 1 was 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 223 
 
 only thinking. It s what you may call a striking 
 coincidence, that s all." 
 
 " It would have been a still more striking coinci 
 dence if his name had been Juxon like mine, or 
 Ambrose like the vicar s," said the squire calmly. 
 " There are other people of the name in England, and 
 the local policemen will be warned to be on the look 
 out. If this fellow was called Juxon instead of God- 
 dard, Gall, would you be inclined to think he was a 
 relation of mine?" 
 
 "Oh no, sir. Ha! ha! Very good sir! Very 
 good indeed! No indeed, sir, and she such a real 
 lady too!" 
 
 " Well then, I do not see that you can do anything 
 more than keep a sharp look-out. I suppose they sent 
 you some kind of description ? " 
 
 "Well, yes. There was a kind of a description 
 as you say, sir, but I m not anyways sure of recog 
 nising the party by it. In point of fact, sir, the 
 description says the convict is a fair man." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " Neither particular tall, nor yet particular short, 
 sir. Not a very big tin nor a very little un, sir. 
 In point of fact, sir, a fair man. Clean shaved and 
 close cropped he is, sir, being a criminal." 
 
 "I hope you may recognise him by that account," 
 said the squire, suppressing a smile. "I don t be 
 lieve I should." 
 
 "Well, sir, it does say as he s a fair man," re 
 marked the constable. 
 
 "Supposing he blacked his face and passed for a 
 chimney-sweep?" suggested the squire. The idea 
 seemed to unsettle Gall s views. 
 
 "In that case, sir, I don t know as I should know 
 him, for certain," he answered. 
 
224 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Probably not probably not, Gall. And judg 
 ing from the account they have sent you I don t 
 think you would be to blame." 
 
 "Leastways it can t be said as I ve failed to carry 
 out superior instructions," replied Mr. Gall, proudly. 
 "Then it s your opinion, sir, that I d better keep a 
 sharp look-out ? Did I understand you to say so, sir ? " 
 
 "Quite so," returned the squire with great calm 
 ness. " By all means keep a sharp look-out, and be 
 careful to be discreet, as the orders instruct you." 
 
 "You may trust me for that, sir," said the police 
 man, who dearly loved the idea of mysterious impor 
 tance. "Then I wish you good morning, sir." He 
 prepared to go. 
 
 " Good morning, Gall good morning. The but 
 ler will give you some ale." 
 
 Again Mr. Gall passed his thumb round the inside 
 of his belt, testing the local pressure in anticipation 
 of a pint. He made a sort of half-military salute at 
 the door and went out. When the squire was alone 
 he rose from his chair and paced the room, giving 
 way to the agitation he had concealed in the presence 
 of the constable. He was very much disturbed at 
 the news of Goddard s escape, as well he might be. 
 Not that he was aware that the convict knew of his 
 wife s whereabouts; he did not even suppose that 
 Goddard could ascertain for some time where she was 
 living, still less that he would boldly present himself 
 in Billingsfield. But it was bad enough to know 
 that the man was again at large. So long as he was 
 safely lodged in prison, Mrs. Goddard was herself 
 safe ; but if once he regained his liberty and baffled 
 the police he would certainly end by finding out 
 Mary s address and there was no telling to what 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 225 
 
 annoyance, to what danger, to what sufferings she 
 might be exposed. Here was a new interest, indeed, 
 and one which promised to afford the squire occupa 
 tion until the fellow was caught. 
 
 Mr. Juxon knew that he was right in putting the 
 policeman off the track in regard to Mrs. Goddard. 
 He himself was a better detective than Gall, for he 
 went daily to the cottage and if anything was wrong 
 there, was quite sure to discover it. If Goddard 
 ever made his way to Billingsfield it could only be 
 for the purpose of seeing his wife, and if he succeeded 
 in this, Mrs. Goddard could not conceal it from the 
 squire. She was a nervous woman who could not 
 hide her emotions ; she would find herself in a terri 
 ble difficulty and she would perhaps turn to her 
 friend for assistance. If Mr. Juxon could lay his 
 hands on Goddard, he flattered himself he was much 
 more able to arrest a desperate man than mild-eyed 
 Policeman Gall. He had not been at sea for thirty 
 years in vain, and in his time he had handled many 
 a rough customer. He debated however upon the 
 course he should pursue. As in his opinion it was 
 unlikely that Goddard would find out his wife for 
 some time, and improbable that he would waste such 
 precious time in looking for her, it seemed far from 
 advisable to warn her that the felon had escaped. 
 On the other hand he mistrusted his own judgment ; 
 if she were not prepared it was just possible that the 
 man should come upon her unawares, and the shock 
 of seeing him might be very much worse than the 
 shock of being told that he was at large. He might 
 consult the vicar. 
 
 At first, the old feeling that it would be disloyal 
 to Mrs. Goddard even to hint to Mr. Ambrose that 
 
226 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 he was acquainted with her story withheld him from 
 pursuing such a course. But as he turned the matter 
 over in his mind it seemed to him that since it was 
 directly for her good, he would now be justified in 
 speaking. He liked the vicar and he trusted him. 
 He knew that the vicar had been a good friend to 
 Mrs. Goddard and that he would stand by her in any 
 difficulty so far as he might be able. The real ques 
 tion was how to make sure that the vicar should not 
 tell his wife. If Mrs. Ambrose had the least suspi 
 cion that anything unusual was occurring, she would 
 naturally try and extract information from her hus 
 band, and she would probably be successful ; women, 
 the squire thought, very generally succeed in opera 
 tions of that kind. But if once Mr. Ambrose could 
 be consulted without arousing his wife s suspicions, 
 he was a man to be trusted. Thereupon Mr. Juxon 
 wrote a note to the vicar, saying that he had some 
 thing of great interest to show him, and begging 
 that, if not otherwise engaged, he would come up to 
 the Hall to lunch. When he had despatched his 
 messenger, being a man of his word, he went into 
 the library to hunt for some rare volume or manu 
 script which the vicar had not yet seen, and which 
 might account in a spirit of rigid veracity for the 
 excuse he had given. Meanwhile, as he turned over 
 his rare and curious folios he debated further upon 
 his conduct; but having once made up his mind to 
 consult Mr. Ambrose, he determined to tell him 
 boldly what had occurred, after receiving from him a 
 promise of secrecy. The messenger brought back 
 word that the vicar would be delighted to come, and 
 at the hour named the sound of wheels upon the 
 gravel announced the arrival of Strawberry, the old 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 227 
 
 mare, drawing behind her the vicar and his aged 
 henchman, Reynolds, in the traditional vicarage dog 
 cart. A moment later the vicar entered the library. 
 
 "I am very glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose," said 
 the squire in hospitable tones. "I have something 
 to show you and I have something to say to you." 
 The two shook hands heartily. Independently of 
 kindred scholarly tastes, they were sympathetic to 
 each other and were always glad to meet. 
 
 "It is just the weather for bookworms," answered 
 the vicar in cheerful tones. "Dear me, I never come 
 here without envying you and wishing that life were 
 one long rainy afternoon." 
 
 " You know I am inclined to think I am rather an 
 enviable person," said Mr. Juxon, slowly passing his 
 hand over his glossy hair and leading his guest tow 
 ards a large table near the fire. Several volumes lay 
 together upon the polished mahogany. The squire 
 laid his hand on one of them. 
 
 "I have not deceived you," he said. "That is a 
 very interesting volume. It is the black letter 
 Paracelsus I once spoke of. I have succeeded in 
 getting it at last." 
 
 " Dear me ! What a piece of fortune ! " said Mr. 
 Ambrose bending down until his formidable nose 
 almost touched the ancient page. 
 
 "Yes," said the squire, "uncommonly lucky as 
 usual. Now, excuse my abruptness in changing the 
 subject I want to consult you upon an important 
 matter." 
 
 The vicar looked up quickly with that vague, far 
 away expression which comes into the eyes of a 
 student when he is suddenly called away from con 
 templating some object of absorbing interest. 
 
228 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Certainly," he said, "certainly a by all 
 means." 
 
 "It is about Mrs. Goddard," said the squire, look 
 ing hard at his visitor. " Of course it is between 
 ourselves," he added. 
 
 The vicar s long upper lip descended upon its fel 
 low and he bent his rough grey eyebrows, returning 
 Mr. Juxon s sharp look with interest. He could not 
 imagine what the squire could have to say about 
 Mrs. Goddard, unless, like poor John, he had fallen 
 in love with her and wanted to marry her; which 
 appeared improbable. 
 
 "What is it?" he said sharply. 
 
 " I daresay you do not know that I am acquainted 
 with her story," began Mr. Juxon. "Do not be sur 
 prised. She saw fit to tell it me herself." 
 
 "Indeed?" exclaimed the vicar in considerable 
 astonishment. In that case, he argued quickly, Mr. 
 Juxon was not thinking of marrying her. 
 
 "Yes it is not necessary to go into that," said 
 Mr. Juxon quickly. " The thing I want to tell you 
 is this Goddard the forger has escaped " 
 
 " Escaped ? " echoed the vicar in real alarm. " You 
 don t mean to say so! " 
 
 "Gall the constable came here this morning," con 
 tinued Mr. Juxon. "He told me that there were 
 general orders out for his arrest." 
 
 "How in the world did he get out?" cried the 
 vicar. " I thought nobod}^ was ever known to escape 
 from Portland!" 
 
 " So did I. But this fellow has somehow. Gall 
 did not know. Now, the question is, what is to be 
 done?" 
 
 "I am sure I don t know," returned the vicar, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 229 
 
 thrusting his hands into his pockets and marching to 
 the window, the wide skirts of his coat seeming to 
 wave with agitation as he walked. 
 
 Mr. Juxon also put his hands into his pockets, but 
 he stood still upon the hearth-rug and looked at the 
 ceiling, softly whistling a little tune, a habit he had 
 in moments of great anxiety. For three or four 
 minutes neither of the two spoke. 
 
 " Would you tell Mrs. Goddard or not?" asked 
 Mr. Juxon at last. 
 
 "I don t know," said the vicar. "I am amazed 
 beyond measure." He turned and slowly came back 
 to the table. 
 
 "I don t know either," replied the squire. " That 
 is precisely the point upon which I think we ought 
 to decide. I have known about the story for some 
 time, but I did not anticipate that it would take this 
 turn." 
 
 "I think," said Mr. Ambrose after another pause, 
 " I think that if there is any likelihood of the fellow 
 finding her out, we ought to tell her. If not I think 
 we had better wait until he is caught. He is sure 
 to be caught, of course." 
 
 "I entirely agree with you," returned Mr. Juxon. 
 " Only how on earth are we to find out whether he 
 is likely to come here or not? If any one knows 
 where he is, he is as good as caught already. If no 
 body knows, we can certainly have no means of 
 telling." 
 
 The argument was unanswerable. Again there 
 was a long silence. The vicar walked about the 
 room in great perplexity. 
 
 " Dear me ! Dear me ! What a terrible business I " 
 he repeated, over and over again. 
 
230 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Do you think we are called upon to do any 
 thing?" he asked at last, stopping in his walk 
 immediately in front of Mr. Juxon. 
 
 "If we can do anything to save Mrs. Goddard from 
 annoyance or further trouble, we are undoubtedly 
 called upon to do it," replied the squire. "If that 
 wretch finds her out, he will try to break into the 
 cottage at night and force her to give him money." 
 
 " Do you really think so ? Dear me ! I hope he 
 will do no such thing! " 
 
 "So do I, I am sure," said Mr. Juxon, with a grim 
 smile. " But if he finds her out, he will. I almost 
 think it would be better to tell her in any case." 
 
 " But think of the anxiety she will be in until he 
 is caught!" cried the vicar. "She will be expect 
 ing him ever} r day every night. Well I suppose 
 we might tell Gall to watch the house." 
 
 "That will not do," said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It 
 would be a great injustice to allow Gall or any of the 
 people in the village to know anything about her. 
 She might be subjected to all kinds of insult. You 
 know what these people are. A 4 real lady, who is 
 at the same time the wife of a convict, is a thing they 
 can hardly understand. I am sure both you and I 
 secretly flatter ourselves that we have shown an un 
 usual amount of good sense and generosity in under 
 standing her position as we do." 
 
 "I daresay we do," said the vicar with a smile. 
 He was too honest to deny it. " Indeed it took me 
 some time to get used to the idea myself." 
 
 " Precisely. The village people would never get 
 used to it. Of all things to do, we should certainly 
 not tell Gall, who is an old woman and a great chat 
 terbox. I wish you could have heard his statement 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 231 
 
 this morning it filled me with admiration for the 
 local police, I assure you. But I think it would 
 be better to tell her. I did not think so before you 
 came, I believe. But talking always brings the 
 truth out." 
 
 The vicar hesitated, rising and falling upon his 
 toes and heels in profound thought, after his manner. 
 
 "I daresay you are right," he said at last. " Will 
 you do it? Or shall I?" 
 
 "I would rather not," said the squire, thought 
 fully. " You know her better, you have known her 
 much longer than I." 
 
 " But she will ask me where I heard of it," objected 
 the vicar. " I shall be obliged to say that you told 
 me. That will be as bad as though you told her 
 yourself." 
 
 " You need not say you heard it from me. You 
 can say that Gall has received instructions to look 
 out for Goddard. She will not question you any 
 further, I am sure." 
 
 "I would much rather that you told her, Mr. 
 Juxon," said the vicar. 
 
 " I would much rather that you told her, Mr. Am 
 brose," said the squire, almost in the same breath. 
 Both laughed a little. 
 
 "Not that I would not do it at once, if necessary," 
 added Mr. Juxon. 
 
 "Or I, in a moment," said Mr. Ambrose. 
 
 "Of course," returned Mr. Juxon. "Only it is 
 such a very delicate matter, you see." 
 
 "Dear me, yes," murmured the vicar, "a most 
 delicate matter. Poor lady! " 
 
 " Poor lady! " echoed the squire. " But I suppose 
 it must be done." 
 
232 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " Oh yes we cannot do otherwise," answered Mr. 
 Ambrose, still hoping that his companion would 
 volunteer to perform the disagreeable office. 
 
 " Well then, will you will you do it ? " asked Mr. 
 Juxon, anxious to have the matter decided. 
 
 "Why not go together?" suggested the vicar. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Juxon firmly. "It would be an 
 intolerable ordeal for the poor woman. I think I 
 see your objection. Perhaps you think that Mrs. 
 Ambrose " 
 
 "Exactly, Mrs. Ambrose," echoed the vicar with 
 a grim smile. 
 
 " Oh precisely then I will do it," said the squire. 
 And he forthwith did, and was very much surprised 
 at the result. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 233 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IT was late in the afternoon when Mr. Juxon walked 
 down towards the cottage, accompanied by the vicar. 
 In spite of their mutual anxiety to be of service to 
 Mrs. Goddard, when they had once decided how to 
 act they had easily fallen into conversation about 
 other matters, the black letter Paracelsus had re 
 ceived its full share of attention and many another 
 rare volume had been brought out and examined. 
 Neither the vicar nor his host believed that there was 
 any hurry ; if Goddard ever succeeded in getting to 
 Billingsfield it would not be to-day, nor to-morrow 
 either. 
 
 The weather had suddenly changed; the east was 
 already clear and over the west, where the sun was 
 setting in a fiery mist, the huge clouds were banked 
 up against the bright sky, fringed with red and pur 
 ple, but no longer threatening rain or snow. The 
 air was sharp and the plentiful mud in the roads was 
 already crusted with a brittle casing of ice. 
 
 The squire took leave of Mr. Ambrose at the turn 
 ing where the road led into the village and then 
 walked back to the cottage. Even his solid nerves 
 were a little unsettled at the prospect of the inter 
 view before him; but he kept a stout heart and asked 
 for Mrs. Goddard in his usual quiet voice. Martha 
 told him that Mrs. Goddard had a bad headache, but 
 on inquiry found that she would see the squire. He 
 
234 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 entered the drawing-room softly and went forward to 
 greet her ; she was sitting in a deep chair propped by 
 cushions. 
 
 Mary Goddard had spent a miserable day. The 
 grey morning light seemed to reveal her troubles and 
 fears in a new and more terrible aspect. During the 
 long hours of darkness it seemed as though those 
 things were mercifully hidden which the strong glare 
 of day must inevitably reveal, and when the night 
 was fairly past she thought all the world must surely 
 know that Walter Goddard had escaped and that his 
 wife had seen him. Hourly she expected a ringing 
 at the bell, announcing the visit of a party of detec 
 tives on his track; every sound startled her and her 
 nerves were strung to such a pitch that she heard 
 with supernatural acuteness. She had indeed two 
 separate causes for fear. The one was due to her 
 anxiety for Goddard s safety; the other to her appre 
 hensions for Nellie. She had long determined that 
 at all hazards the child must be kept from the knowl 
 edge of her father s disgrace, by being made to believe 
 in his death. It was a falsehood indeed, but such a 
 falsehood as may surely be forgiven to a woman as 
 unhappy as Mary Goddard. It seemed monstrous 
 that the innocent child, who seemed not even to have 
 inherited her father s looks or temper, should be 
 brought up with the perpetual sense of her disgrace 
 before her, should be forced to listen to explanations 
 of her father s crimes and tutored to the comprehen 
 sion of an inherited shame. From the first Mary 
 Goddard had concealed the whole matter from the 
 little girl, and when Walter was at last convicted, 
 she had told her that her father was dead. Dead he 
 might be, she thought, before twelve years were out, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 235 
 
 and Nellie would be none the wiser. In twelve years 
 from the time of his conviction Nellie would be in 
 her twenty-first year ; if it were ever necessary to tell 
 her, it would be time enough then, for the girl would 
 have at least enjoyed her youth, free of care and of 
 the horrible consciousness of a great crime hang 
 ing over her head. No child could grow up in such 
 a state as that implied. No mind could develop 
 healthily under the perpetual pressure of so hideous 
 a secret ; from her earliest childhood her impressions 
 would be warped, her imagination darkened and her 
 mental growth stunted. It would be a great cruelty 
 to tell her the truth; it was a great mercy to tell her 
 the falsehood. It was no selfish timidity which had 
 prompted Mary Goddard, but a carefully weighed 
 consideration for the welfare of her child. 
 
 If now, within these twenty-four hours, Nellie 
 should discover who the poor tramp was, who had 
 frightened her so much on the previous evening, all 
 this would be at an end. The child s life would be 
 made desolate for ever. She would never recover 
 from the shock, and to injure lovely Nellie so bitterly 
 would be worse to Mary Goddard than to be obliged 
 to bear the sharpest suffering herself. For, from the 
 day when she had waked to a comprehension of her 
 husband s baseness, the love for her child had taken 
 in her breast the place of the love for Walter. 
 
 She did not think connectedly ; she did not realise 
 her fears ; she was almost wholly unstrung. But she 
 had procured the fifty pounds her husband required 
 and she waited for the night with a dull hope that 
 all might yet be well as w T ell as anything so horri 
 ble could be. If only her husband were not caught 
 in Billingsfield it would not be so bad, perhaps. 
 
236 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 And yet it may be that her wisest course would 
 have been to betray him that very night. Many just 
 men would have said so; but there are few women 
 who would do it. There are few indeed, so stony 
 hearted as to betray a man once loved in such a case ; 
 and Mary Goddard in her wildest fear never dreamed 
 of giving up the fugitive. She sat all day in her 
 chair, wishing that the day were over, praying that 
 she might be spared any further suffering or that at 
 least it might be spared to her child whom she so 
 loved. She had sent Nellie down to the vicarage 
 with Martha. Mrs. Ambrose loved Nellie better 
 than she loved Nellie s mother, and there was a 
 standing invitation for her to spend the afternoons at 
 the vicarage. Nellie said her mother had a terrible 
 headache and wanted to be alone. 
 
 But when the squire came Mrs. Goddard thought 
 it wiser to see him. She had, of course, no inten 
 tion of confiding to him an account of the events of 
 the previous night, but she felt that if she could talk 
 to him for half an hour she would be stronger. He 
 was himself so strong and honest that he inspired 
 her with courage. She knew, also, that if she were 
 driven to the extremity of confiding in any one she 
 would choose Mr. Juxon rather than Mr. Ambrose. 
 The vicar had been her first friend and she owed him 
 much ; but the squire had won her confidence by his 
 noble generosity after she had told him her story. 
 She said to herself that he was more of a man 
 than the vicar. And now he had come to her at 
 the time of her greatest distress, and she was glad 
 to see him. 
 
 Mr. Juxon entered the room softly, feeling that he 
 was in the presence of a sick person. Mrs. Goddard 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 237 
 
 turned her pathetic face towards him and held out 
 her hand. 
 
 "I am so glad to see you," she said, trying to 
 seem cheerful. 
 
 "I fear you are ill, Mrs. Goddard," answered the 
 squire, looking at her anxiously and then seating 
 himself by her side. "Martha told me you had a 
 headache I hope it is not serious." 
 
 "Oh no not serious. Only a headache," she 
 said with a smile so unlike her own that Mr. Juxon 
 began to feel nervous. His resolution to tell her his 
 errand began to waver ; it seemed cruel, he thought, 
 to disturb a person who was evidently so ill with a 
 matter so serious. He remembered that she had 
 almost fainted on a previous occasion when she had 
 spoken to him of her husband. She had not been ill 
 then; there was no knowing what the effect of a 
 shock to her nerves might be at present. He sat 
 still in silence for some moments, twisting his hat 
 upon his knee. 
 
 "Do not be disturbed about me," said Mrs. God 
 dard presently. " It will pass very quickly. I shall 
 be quite well to-morrow I hope," she added with 
 a shudder. 
 
 "I am very much disturbed about you," returned 
 Mr. Juxon in an unusually grave tone. Mrs. God 
 dard looked at him quickly, and was surprised when 
 she saw the expression on his face. He looked sad, 
 and at the same time perplexed. 
 
 " Oh, pray don t be ! " she exclaimed as though 
 deprecating further remark upon her ill health. 
 
 "I wish I knew," said the squire with some hesi 
 tation, "whether whether you are really very ill. 
 I mean, of course, I know you have a bad headache, 
 
238 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 a very bad headache, as I can see. But indeed, Mrs. 
 Goddard, I have something of importance to say." 
 
 "Something of importance?" she repeated, star 
 ing hard at him. 
 
 "Yes but it will keep till to-morrow, if you 
 would rather not hear it now," he replied, looking 
 at her doubtfully. 
 
 "I would rather hear it now," she answered after 
 some seconds of silence. Her heart beat fast. 
 
 " You were good enough some time ago to tell me 
 about Mr. Goddard," began Mr. Juxon in woful 
 trepidation. 
 
 "Yes," answered his companion under her breath. 
 Her hands were clasped tightly together upon her 
 knees and her eyes sought the squire s anxiously and 
 then looked away again in fear. 
 
 "Well, it is about him," continued Mr. Juxon in 
 a gentle voice. " Would you rather put it off ? It 
 is well, rather startling." 
 
 Mrs. Goddard closed her eyes, like a person ex 
 pecting to suffer some terrible pain. She thought 
 Mr. Juxon was going to tell her that Walter had 
 been captured in the village. 
 
 "Mr. Goddard has escaped," said the squire, mak 
 ing a bold plunge with the whole truth. The sick 
 lady trembled violently, and unclasping her hands 
 laid them upon the arms of her chair as though to 
 steady herself to bear the worse shock to come. But 
 Mr. Juxon was silent. He had told her all he knew. 
 
 "Yes," she said faintly. "Is there anything 
 anything more ? " Her voice was barely audible in 
 the still and dusky room. 
 
 " No except that, of course, there are orders out 
 for his arrest, all over the country." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 239 
 
 " He has not been arrested yet? " asked Mrs. God- 
 dard. She had expected to hear that he was caught ; 
 she thought the squire was trying to break the shock 
 of the news. Her courage rose a little now. 
 
 " No, he is not arrested but I have no doubt he 
 soon will be," added Mr. Juxon in a tone intended 
 to convey encouragement. 
 
 " How did you hear this ? " 
 
 " Gall the policeman, told me this morning. I 
 I am afraid I have something else to confess to you, 
 Mrs. Goddard, I trust you will not " 
 
 "What?" she asked so suddenly as to startle him. 
 Walter might have been heard of in the neighbour 
 hood, perhaps. 
 
 "I think I was right," continued Mr. Juxon. "I 
 hope you will forgive me. It does not seem quite 
 loyal, but I did not know w r hat to do. I consulted 
 the vicar as to whether we should tell you." 
 
 "The vicar? What did he say?" Again Mrs. 
 Goddard felt relieved. 
 
 "He quite agreed with me," answered the squire. 
 " You see we feared that Mr. Goddard might find his 
 way here and come upon you suddenly. We thought 
 you would be terribly pained and startled." 
 
 Mrs. Goddard could almost have laughed at that 
 moment. The excellent man had taken all this trou 
 ble in order to save her from the very thing which 
 had already occurred on the previous night. There 
 was a bitter humour in the situation, in the squire s 
 kind-hearted way of breaking to her that news which 
 she already knew so well, in his willingness to put 
 off telling her until the morrow. What would Mr. 
 Juxon say, could he guess that she had herself already 
 spoken with her husband and had promised to see 
 
240 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 him again that very night ! Forgetting that his last 
 words required an answer, she leaned back in her 
 chair and again folded her hands before her. Her 
 eyes were half closed and from beneath the drooping 
 lids she gazed through the gathering gloom at the 
 squire s anxious face. 
 
 "I hope you think I did right," said the latter in 
 considerable doubt. 
 
 " Quite right. I think you were both very kind to 
 think of me as you did," said she. 
 
 "I am sure, I always think of you," answered Mr. 
 Juxon simply. " I hope that this thing will have no 
 further consequences. Of course, until we know of 
 Mr. Goddard s whereabouts we shall feel very anx 
 ious. It seems probable that if he can get here unob 
 served he will do so. He will probably ask you for 
 some money." 
 
 " Do you really think he could get here at all?" 
 asked Mrs. Goddard. She wanted to hear what he 
 would say, for she thought she might judge from his 
 words whether her husband ran any great risk. 
 
 "Oh no," replied the squire. "I think it is very 
 improbable. I fear this news has sadly disturbed 
 you, Mrs. Goddard, but let us hope all may turn out 
 for the best." Indeed he thought she showed very 
 little surprise, though she had evidently been much 
 moved. Perhaps she had been accustomed to expect 
 that her husband might one day escape. She was ill, 
 too, and her nerves were unstrung, he supposed. 
 
 She had really passed through a very violent emo 
 tion, but it had not been caused by her surprise, but 
 by her momentary fear for the fugitive, instantly 
 allayed by Mr. Juxon s explanation. She felt that 
 for to-day at least Walter was safe, and by to-morrow 
 
A TALE OF A LOXELY PARISH. 241 
 
 he would be safe out of the neighbourhood. But she 
 reflected that it was necessary to say something; that 
 if she appeared to receive the news too indifferently 
 the squire s suspicions might be aroused with fatal 
 results. 
 
 "It is a terrible thing," she said presently. "You 
 see I am not at all myself. " 
 
 It was not easy for her to act a part. The words 
 were commonplace. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Juxon, "I see you are not." He 
 on his part, instead of looking for a stronger expres 
 sion of fear or astonishment, was now only too glad 
 that she should be so calm. 
 
 " Would you advise me to do anything? " she asked 
 presently. 
 
 "There is nothing to be done," he answered 
 quickly, glad of a chance to relieve the embarrass 
 ment of the situation. " Of course we might put you 
 under the protection of the police but what is the 
 matter, Mrs. Goddard?" She had started as though 
 in pain. 
 
 " Only this dreadful headache," she said. " Go on 
 please." 
 
 " Well, we might set Gall the policeman to watch 
 your house ; but that would be very unpleasant for 
 you. It would be like telling him and all the vil 
 lage people of your situation " 
 
 "Oh don t! "Please don t!" 
 
 "No, certainly not. I think it very unwise. 
 Besides " he stopped short. He was about to say 
 that he felt much better able to watch over Mrs. 
 Goddard himself than Gall the constable could possi 
 bly be ; but he checked himself in time- 
 
 " Besides what ? " she asked. 
 
242 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Nothing Gall is not much of a policeman, that 
 is all. I do not believe you would be any the safer 
 for his protection. But you must promise me, my 
 dear Mrs. Goddard, that if anything occurs you will 
 let me know. I may be of some assistance." 
 
 "Thank you, so much," said she. "You are 
 always so kind! " 
 
 " Not at all. I am very glad if you think I was 
 right to tell you about it." 
 
 "Oh, quite right," she answered. "And now, 
 Mr. Juxon, I am really not at all well. All this has 
 quite unnerved me " 
 
 "You want me to go?" said the squire smiling 
 kindly as he rose. "Yes, I understand. Well, 
 good-bye, my dear friend I hope everything will 
 clear up." 
 
 "Good-bye. Thank you again. You always do 
 understand me," she answered giving him her small 
 cold hand. " Don t think me ungrateful," she added, 
 looking up into his eyes. 
 
 "No indeed not that there is anything to be 
 grateful for." 
 
 In a moment more he was gone, feeling that he 
 had done his duty like a man, and that it had not 
 been so hard after all. He was glad it was done, 
 however, and he felt that he could face the vicar 
 with a bold front at their next meeting. He went 
 quickly down the path and crossed the road to his 
 own gate with a light step. As he entered the park 
 he was not aware of a wretched-looking tramp who 
 slouched along the quickset hedge and watched his 
 retreating figure far up the avenue, till he was out of 
 sight among the leafless trees. If Stamboul had been 
 with the squire the tramp would certainly not have 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 248 
 
 passed unnoticed; but for some days the roads had 
 been so muddy that Stamboul had been left behind 
 when Mr. Juxon made his visits to the cottage, lest 
 the great hound should track the mud into the spot 
 less precincts of the passage. The tramp stood still 
 and looked after the squire so long as he could see 
 him, and then slunk off across the wet meadows, 
 where the standing water was now skimmed with ice. 
 Walter Goddard had spent the day in watching for 
 the squire and he had seen him at last. He had seen 
 him go down the road with the vicar till they were 
 both out of sight, and he had seen him come back and 
 enter the cottage. This proceeding, he argued, be 
 trayed that the squire did not wish to be seen going 
 into Mary s house by the vicar. The tortuous intel 
 ligences of bad men easily impute to others courses 
 which they themselves would naturally pursue. 
 Three words on the previous evening had sufficed to 
 rouse the convict s jealousy. What he saw to-day 
 confirmed his suspicions. The gentleman in knicker 
 bockers could be no other than the squire himself, of 
 course. He was evidently in the habit of visiting 
 Mary Goddard and he did not wish his visits to be 
 observed by the clergyman, who was of course the 
 vicar or rector of the parish. That proved conclu 
 sively in the fugitive s mind that there was some 
 thing wrong. He ground his teeth together and said 
 to himself that it would be worth while to run some 
 risk in order to stop that little game, as he expressed 
 it. He had, as he himself had confessed to his wife, 
 murdered one man in escaping ; a man, he reflected, 
 could only hang once, and if he had ot been taken 
 in the streets of London he was not likely to be 
 caught in the high street of Billingsfield, Essex. It 
 
244 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 would be a great satisfaction to knock the squire on 
 the head before he went any farther. Moreover he 
 had found a wonderfully safe retreat in the disused 
 vault at the back of the church. He discovered loose 
 stones inside the place which he could pile up 
 against the low hole which served for an entrance. 
 Probably no one knew that there was any entrance 
 at all the very existence of the vault was most 
 likely forgotten. It was not a cheerful place, but 
 Goddard s nerves were excited to a pitch far beyond 
 the reach of supernatural fears. Whatever he might 
 be condemned to feel in the future, his conscience 
 troubled him very little in the present. The vault 
 was comparatively dry and was in every way prefer 
 able, as a resting-place for one night, to the interior 
 of a mouldy haystack in the open fields. He did not 
 dare show himself again at the " Feathers " inn, lest 
 he should be held to do the day s work he had prom 
 ised in payment for his night in the barn. All that 
 morning and afternoon he had lain hidden in the 
 quickset hedge near the park gate, within sight of 
 the cottage, and he had been rewarded. The food he 
 had taken with him the night before had sufficed him 
 and he had quenched his thirst with rain-water from 
 the ditch. Having seen that the squire went back 
 towards the Hall, Goddard slunk away to his hiding- 
 place to wait for the night. He lay down as best he 
 might, and listened for the hours and half-hours as 
 the church clock tolled them out from the lofty tower 
 above. 
 
 Mary Goddard had told him to come later than 
 before, and it was after half-past ten when he tapped 
 upon the shutter of the little drawing-room. All 
 was dark within, and he held his breath as he stood 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 245 
 
 among the wet creepers, listening intently for the 
 sound of his wife s coming. Presently the glass 
 window inside was opened. 
 
 " Is that you ? " asked Mary s voice in a tremulous 
 whisper. 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "Let me in." Then the 
 shutter was cautiously unfastened and opened a little 
 and in the dim starlight Goddard recognised his 
 wife s pale face. Her hand went out to him, with 
 something in it. 
 
 "There is the money," she whispered. "Go as 
 quickly as you can. They are looking for you 
 there are orders out to arrest you." 
 
 Goddard seized her fingers and took the money. 
 She would have withdrawn her hand but he held it 
 firmly. 
 
 "Who told you that they were after me?" he 
 asked in a fierce whisper. 
 
 "Mr. Juxon let me go." 
 
 " Mr. Juxon ! " The convict uttered a rough oath. 
 " Your friend Mr. Juxon, eh ? He is after me, is he ? 
 Tell him " 
 
 " Hush, hush ! " she whispered. " He has no idea 
 you are here " 
 
 "I should think not," muttered Walter. "He 
 would not be sneaking in here on the sly to see you 
 if he knew I were about! " 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Mary. "Oh, 
 Walter, let me go you hurt me so! " 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 after 
 noon 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! " 
 
246 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "You saw nothing!" answered his wife desper 
 ately. "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 God 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 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 247 
 
 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 
 hush ! For God s sake hush ! 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. Goddard could distinguish his glazed 
 hat the provincial constabulary still wore hats iii 
 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 pass 
 ing 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 
 
248 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 convict with another oath. "Then you had better 
 look out for your dear Mr. Juxon, that s all." 
 
 Without another word, Goddard glided away from 
 the window, let himself out by the wicket gate and 
 disappeared across the road. 
 
 Mary Goddard was in that moment less horrified 
 by her husband s threat than by his base ingratitude 
 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 posi 
 tion 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. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 249 
 
 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 news 
 paper 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 I " 
 
 "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 
 
250 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 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 passion for Mrs. Goddard, and 
 when she spoke of the subject she had a tendency to 
 assume something of the stiffness she affected towards 
 strangers. As has been seen she had ceased to blame 
 Mrs. Goddard. 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 shaggy brows ; John 
 was now successful, probably senior classic it was 
 evidently no time to censure his behaviour. 
 
 " You must be charitable, my dear," he said, look 
 ing 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 state 
 ment 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, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 251 
 
 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 re 
 member how I always had his buttons looked to and 
 gave him globules when he wanted them ? I think 
 he might show some gratitude." 
 
 " 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 
 
252 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 sure it was the fault of that brazen-faced doctor. I 
 cannot bear the sight of him ! That comes of answer 
 ing advertisements in the newspapers." 
 
 The present doctor had bought the practice aban 
 doned 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?" 
 
 " Certainly, Augustin," said his wife. Therewith 
 the good vicar left her and went to bury Tom Judd s 
 baby, divided in his mind between rejoicing over his 
 favourite pupil s success and lamenting, as he sin 
 cerely did, the misfortunes which befell his parish 
 ioners. When he left the churchyard an hour later 
 he was met by Martha, who came from the cottage 
 with a message begging that the vicar would come to 
 Mrs. Goddard as soon as possible. Martha believed 
 her mistress was ill, she wanted to see Mr. Ambrose 
 at once. Without returning to the vicarage he turned 
 to the left towards the cottage. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard had slept that night, being exhausted 
 and almost broken down with fatigue. But she woke 
 only to a sense of the utmost pain and distress, realis 
 ing that to-day s anxiety was harder to bear than yes 
 terday s, and that to-morrow might bring forth even 
 worse disasters than those which had gone before. 
 Her position was one of extreme doubt and peril. To 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 253 
 
 tell any one that her husband was in the neighbour 
 hood seemed to be equivalent to rooting out the very 
 last remnant of consideration for him which remained 
 in her heart, the very last trace of what had once 
 been the chief joy and delight of her life. She hesi 
 tated long. There is perhaps nothing in human 
 nature more enduring than the love of man and 
 wife ; or perhaps one should rather say than the love 
 of a woman for her husband. There appear to be 
 some men capable of being so completely estranged 
 from their wives that there positively does not remain 
 in them even the faintest recollection of what they 
 have once felt, nor the possibility of feeling the least 
 pity for what the women they once loved so well may 
 suffer. There is no woman, I believe, who having 
 once loved her husband truly, could see him in pain 
 or distress, or in danger of his life, without earnestly 
 endeavouring to help him. A woman may cease to 
 love her husband ; in some cases she is right in for 
 getting her love, but it would be hard to find a case 
 where, were he the worst criminal alive, had he 
 deceived her a thousand times, she would not at least 
 help him to escape from his pursuers or give him a 
 crust to save him from starvation. 
 
 Mary Goddard had done her best for the wretch 
 who had claimed her assistance. She had fed him, 
 provided him with money, refused to betray him. 
 But if it were to be a question of giving him up to 
 the law, or of allowing her best friend to be mur 
 dered by him, or even seriously injured, she felt that 
 pity must be at an end. It would be doubtless a very 
 horrible thing to give him up, and she had gathered 
 from what he had said that if he were taken he would 
 pay the last penalty of the law. It was so awful a 
 
254 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 thing that she groaned when she thought of it. But 
 she remembered his ghastly face in the starlight and 
 the threat he had hissed out against the squire ; he 
 was a desperate man, with blood already on his hands. 
 It was more than likely that he would do the deed he 
 had threatened to do. What could be easier than to 
 watch the squire 011 one of those evenings when he 
 went up the park alone, to fall upon him and take 
 his life ? Of late Mr. Juxon did not even take his 
 dog with him. The savage bloodhound would be a 
 good protector ; but even when he took Stamboul 
 with him by day, he never brought him at night. It 
 was too long for the beast to wait, he used to say, 
 from six to nine or half past ; he was so savage that 
 he did not care to leave him out of his sight; he 
 brought mud into the cottage, or into the vicarage as 
 the case might be if Stamboul had been an ordi 
 nary dog it would have been different. Those Rus 
 sian bloodhounds were not to be trifled with. But 
 the squire must be warned of his danger before an 
 other night came on. 
 
 It was a difficult question. Mrs. Goddard at first 
 thought of telling him herself ; but she shrank from 
 the thought, for she was exhausted and overwrought. 
 A few days ago she would have been brave enough to 
 say anything if necessary, but now she had no longer 
 the courage nor the strength. It seemed so hard to 
 face the squire with such a warning ; it seemed as 
 though she were doing something which would make 
 her seem ungrateful in his eyes, though she hardly 
 knew why it seemed so. She turned more naturally 
 to the vicar, to whom she had originally come in her 
 first great distress ; she had only once consulted him, 
 but that one occasion seemed to establish a prece- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 255 
 
 dent in her mind, the precedent of a thing familiar. 
 It would certainly be easier. After much thought 
 and inward debate, she determined to send for Mr. 
 Ambrose. 
 
 The fatigue and anxiety she had undergone during 
 the last two days had wrought great changes in her 
 face. A girl of eighteen or twenty years may gain 
 delicacy and even beauty from the physical effects of 
 grief, but a woman over thirty years old gains neither. 
 Mrs. Goddard s complexion, naturally pale, had taken 
 a livid hue ; her lips, which were never very red, were 
 almost white ; heavy purple shadows darkened her 
 eyes ; the two or three lines that were hardly notice 
 able, but which were the natural result of a sad ex 
 pression in her face, had in two days become distinctly 
 visible and had almost assumed the proportions of 
 veritable wrinkles. Her features were drawn and 
 pinched she looked ten years older than she was. 
 Nothing remained of her beauty but her soft waving 
 brown hair and her deep, pathetic, violet eyes. Even 
 her small hands seemed to have grown thin and looked 
 unnaturally white and transparent. 
 
 She was sitting in her favourite chair by the fire, 
 when the vicar arrived. She had not been willing to 
 seem ill, in spite of what Martha had said, and she 
 had refused to put cushions in the chair. She was 
 making an effort, and even a little sense of physical 
 discomfort helped to make the effort seem easier. She 
 was so much exhausted that she felt she must not for 
 one moment relax the tension she imposed upon her 
 self lest her whole remaining strength should suddenly 
 collapse and leave her at the mercy of events. But 
 Mr. Ambrose was startled when he saw her and feared 
 that she was very ill. 
 
256 A TALE OF A LONELY PAEISH. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Goddard," he said, " what is the 
 matter ? Are you ill ? Has anything happened ? " 
 
 As he spoke he changed the form of his question, 
 suddenly recollecting that Mr. Juxon had probably 
 on the previous afternoon told her of her husband s 
 escape, as he had meant to do. This might be the 
 cause of her indisposition. 
 
 "Yes," she said in a voice that did not sound like 
 her own, " I have asked you to come because I am in 
 great trouble in desperate trouble." 
 
 " Dear me," said the vicar, " I hope not ! " 
 
 "Not desperate? Perhaps not. Dear Mr. Ambrose, 
 you have always been so kind to me I am sure you 
 can help me now." Her voice trembled. 
 
 " Indeed I will do my best," said the vicar who 
 judged from so unusual an outburst that there must 
 be really something wrong. "If you could tell me 
 what it is " he suggested. 
 
 " That is the hardest part of it," said the unhappy 
 woman. She paused a moment as though to collect 
 her strength. " You know," she began again, " that 
 my husband has escaped ? " 
 
 " A terrible business ! " exclaimed the good man, 
 nodding, however, in affirmation to the question she 
 asked. 
 
 " I have seen him," said Mary Goddard very faintly, 
 looking down at her thin hands. The vicar started 
 in astonishment. 
 
 " My dear friend dear me ! Dear, dear, how 
 very painful ! " 
 
 " Indeed, you do not know what I have suffered. 
 It is most dreadful, Mr. Ambrose. You cannot im 
 agine what a struggle it was. I am quite worn out." 
 
 She spoke with such evident pain that the vicar was 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAEISH. 257 
 
 moved. He felt that she had more to tell, but he 
 had hardly recovered from his surprise. 
 
 "But, you know," he said, "that was the whole 
 object of warning you. We did not really believe 
 that he would come here. We were so much afraid 
 that he would startle you. Of course Mr. Juxon told 
 you he consulted me " 
 
 " Of course," answered Mrs. Goddard. " It was 
 too late. I had seen him the night before." 
 
 " Why, that was the very night we were here ! " 
 exclaimed Mr. Ambrose, more and more amazed. 
 Mrs. Goddard nodded. She seemed hardly able to 
 speak. 
 
 " He came and knocked at that window," she said, 
 very faintly. " He came again last night." 
 
 " Dear me I will send for Gall at once ; he will 
 have no difficulty in arresting him " 
 
 " Oh please ! " interrupted Mrs. Goddard in hys 
 terical tones. "Please, please, dear Mr. Ambrose, 
 don t!" 
 
 The vicar was silent. He rose unceremoniously 
 from his chair and walked to the window, as he gener 
 ally did when in any great doubt. He realised at 
 once and very vividly the awful position in which the 
 poor lady was placed. 
 
 "Pray do not think I am very bad, 9 said she, 
 almost sobbing with fear and emotion. " Of course it 
 must seem dreadful to you that I should wish him to 
 escape ! " 
 
 The vicar came slowly back and stood beside her 
 leaning against the chimney-piece. It did not take 
 him long to make up his mind. Kind-hearted people 
 are generally impulsive. 
 
 "I do not, my dear lady. I assure you I fully 
 
258 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 understand your position. The fact is, I was too 
 much surprised and I am too anxious for your safety 
 not to think immediately of securing that ahem 
 that unfortunate man." 
 
 " Oh, it is not my safety ! It is not only my 
 safety " 
 
 " I understand yes of course you are anxious 
 about him. But it is doubtless not our business to 
 aid the law in its course, provided we do not oppose 
 it." 
 
 " It is something else," murmured Mrs. Goddard. 
 " Oh ! how shall I tell you," she moaned turning her 
 pale cheek to the back of the chair. 
 
 The vicar looked at her and began to think it was 
 perhaps some strange case of conscience with which 
 he had to deal. He had very little experience of such 
 things save in the rude form they take among the 
 labouring classes. But he reflected that it was likely 
 to be something of the kind; in such a case Mrs. 
 Goddard would naturally enough have sent for him, 
 more as her clergyman than as her friend. She looked 
 like a person suffering from some great mental strain. 
 He sat down beside her and took her passive hand. 
 He was moved, and felt as though he might have 
 been her father. 
 
 "My dear," he said kindly, almost as though he 
 were speaking to a child, " have you anything upon 
 your mind, anything which distresses you? Do you 
 wish to tell me ? If so I will do my very best to help 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Goddard s fingers pressed his hand a little, 
 but her face was still turned away. 
 
 " It is Mr. Juxon," she almost whispered. If she 
 had been watching the vicar she would have noticed 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 259 
 
 the strange air of perplexity which came over his face 
 when he heard the squire s name. 
 
 "Yes Mr. Juxon," she moaned. Then the 
 choked-down horror rose in her throat. " Walter 
 means to murder him ! " she almost screamed. " Oh, 
 my God, my God, what shall I do ! " she cried aloud 
 clasping her hands suddenly over her face and rock 
 ing herself to and fro. 
 
 The vicar was horror-struck ; he could hardly be 
 lieve his ears, and believing them his senses swam. 
 In his wildest dreams and the good man s dreams 
 were rarely wild he had never thought that such 
 things could come near him. Being a very good 
 man and, moreover, a wise man when he had plenty 
 of time for reflection, he folded his hands quietly and 
 bent his head, praying fervently for the poor tortured 
 woman who moaned and tossed herself beside him. 
 It was a terrible moment. Suddenly she controlled 
 herself and grasping one of the arms of the chair 
 looked round at her silent companion. 
 
 " You must save him," she said in agonised tones, 
 "you must save them both! Do not tell me you 
 cannot oh, do not tell me that ! " 
 
 It was a passionate and heart-broken appeal, such 
 a one as few men would or could resist, coming as it 
 did from a helpless and miserably unhappy woman. 
 Whether the vicar was wise in giving the answer he 
 did, it would be hard to say : but he was a man who 
 honestly tried to do his best. 
 
 "I will try, my dear lady," he said, making a 
 great resolution. Mrs. Goddard took his hand and 
 pressed it in both of hers, and the long restrained 
 tears flowed fast and softly over her worn cheeks. 
 For some moments neither spoke. 
 
260 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " If you cannot save both you must save Mr. 
 Juxon," she said at last, breathing the words rather 
 than speaking them. 
 
 The vicar knew or guessed what it must cost her 
 to hint that her husband might be captured. He 
 recognised that the only way in which he could con 
 tribute towards the escape of the convict was by not 
 revealing his hiding-place, and he accordingly re 
 frained from asking where he was concealed. He 
 shuddered as he thought that Goddard might be 
 lying hidden in the cottage itself, for all he could 
 tell, but he was quite sure that he ought not to know 
 it. So long as he did not know where the forger 
 was* it was easy to hold his peace ; but if once he 
 knew, the vicar was not capable of denying the 
 knowledge. He had never told a lie in his life. 
 
 " I will try," he repeated ; and growing calmer, he 
 added, " You are quite sure this was not an empty 
 threat, my dear friend? Was there any reason 
 a I mean to say, had this unfortunate man ever 
 known Mr. Juxon ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! " answered Mrs. Goddard, sinking back 
 into her chair. "He never knew him." Her tears 
 were still flowing but she no longer sobbed aloud ; it 
 had been a relief to her overwrought and sensitive 
 temperament to give way to the fit of weeping. She 
 actually felt better, though ten minutes earlier she 
 would not have believed it possible. 
 
 " Then why? " asked Mr. Ambrose, hesitating. 
 
 " My poor husband was a very jealous man," she 
 answered. " I accidentally told him that the cottage 
 belonged to Mr. Juxon and yesterday do you re 
 member? You walked on with Mr. Juxon beyond 
 the turning, and then he came back to see me to 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 261 
 
 tell me of my husband s escape. Walter saw that 
 and and he thought, I suppose that Mr. Juxon 
 did not want you to see him coming here." 
 
 " But Mr. Juxon had just promised me to go and 
 see you," said the honest vicar. 
 
 " Yes," said poor Mrs. Goddard, beginning to sob 
 again, " but Walter my husband thinks that I I 
 care for Mr. Juxon he is so jealous," cried she, again 
 covering her face with her hands. The starting tears 
 trickled through her fingers and fell upon her black 
 dress. She was ashamed, this time, for she hated even 
 to speak of such a possibility. 
 
 " I understand," answered Mr. Ambrose gravely. It 
 certainly did not strike him that it might be true, and 
 his knowledge of such characters as Walter Goddard 
 was got chiefly from the newspapers. He had often 
 noticed in reports of trials and detailed descriptions 
 of crimes that criminals seem to become entirely ir 
 rational after a certain length of time, and it was one 
 of the arguments he best understood for demonstrat 
 ing that bad men either are originally, or ultimately 
 become mad. To men like the vicar, almost the only 
 possible theory of crime is the theory of insanity. It 
 is positively impossible for a man who has passed 
 thirty or forty years in a quiet country parish to com 
 prehend the motives or the actions of great criminals. 
 He naturally says they must be crazy or they would 
 not do such things. If Goddard were crazy enough 
 to commit a forgery, he was crazy enough for any 
 thing, even to the extent of suspecting that his wife 
 loved the squire. 
 
 " I think," said Mr. Ambrose, " that if you agree 
 with me it will be best to warn Mr. Juxon of his 
 danger." 
 
262 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " Of course," murmured Mrs. Goddard. " You must 
 warn him at once ! " 
 
 " I will go to the Hall now," said the vicar bravely. 
 " But I am very sorry to have to dwell on the sub 
 ject, my dear lady, but, without wishing in the least 
 to know where the your husband is, could you tell 
 me anything about his appearance ? For instance, if 
 you understand what I mean, supposing that Mr. 
 Juxon knew how he looked and should happen to 
 meet him, knowing that he wished to kill him he 
 might perhaps avoid him, if you understand me ? " 
 
 The vicar s English was a little disturbed by his 
 extreme desire not to hurt Mrs. Goddard s feelings. 
 
 c5 
 
 If the squire and his dog chanced to meet Walter 
 Goddard they would probably not avoid him as the 
 vicar expressed it; that was a point Mr. Ambrose was 
 willing to leave to Mrs. Goddard s imagination. 
 
 " Yes must you know? " she asked anxiously. 
 
 " We must know that," returned the vicar. 
 
 " He is disguised as a poor tramp," she said sorrow 
 fully. " He wears a smock-frock and an old hat I 
 think. He is pale oh, poor, poor Walter ! " she 
 cried again bursting into tears. 
 
 Mr. Ambrose could say nothing. There was noth 
 ing to be said. He rose and took his hat the old 
 tall hat he wore to his parishioners funerals. They 
 
 IT J 
 
 were very primitive people in Billingsfield. 
 
 " I will go at once," he said. " Believe me, you 
 have all my sympathy I will do all I can." 
 
 Mary Goddard thanked him more by her looks 
 than with any words she was able to speak. But she 
 was none the less truly grateful for his sympathy and 
 aid. She had a kind of blind reliance on him which 
 made her feel that since she had once confided her 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 263 
 
 trouble and danger nothing more could possibly be 
 done. When he was gone, she sobbed with relief, as 
 before she had wept for fear ; she was hysterical, un 
 strung, utterly unlike herself. 
 
 But as the vicar went up towards the Hall he felt 
 that he had his hands full, and he felt moreover an 
 uneasy sensation which he could not have explained. 
 He was certainly no coward, but he had never been 
 in such a position before and he did not like it ; there 
 was an air of danger about, an atmosphere which gave 
 him a peculiarly unpleasant thrill from time to time. 
 He was not engaged upon an agreeable errand, and 
 he had a vague feeling, due, the scientists would have 
 told him, to unconscious ratiocination, which seemed 
 to tell him that something was going to happen. 
 People who are very often in danger know that sin 
 gular uneasiness which warns them that all is not 
 well ; it is not like anything else that can be felt. 
 No one really knows its cause, unless it be true that 
 the mind sometimes reasons for itself without the con 
 sciousness of the body, and communicates to the latter 
 a spasmodic warning, the result of its cogitations. 
 
 To say to the sturdy squire, " Beware of a man in 
 a smock-frock, one Goddard the forger, who means to 
 murder you," seemed of itself simple enough. But 
 for the squire to distinguish this same Goddard from 
 all other men in smock-frocks was a less eas}^ matter. 
 The vicar, indeed, could tell a strange face at a hun 
 dred yards, for he knew every man, woman and child 
 in his parish ; but the squire s acquaintance was more 
 limited. Obviously, said Mr. Ambrose to himself, the 
 squire s best course would be to stay quietly at home 
 until the danger was passed, and to pass word to 
 Policeman Gall to lay hands on any particularly 
 
264 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 seedy-looking tramps he happened to see in the vil 
 lage. It was Gall s duty to do so in any case, as he 
 had been warned to be on the look-out. Mr. Ambrose 
 inwardly wondered where the man could be hiding. 
 Billingsfield was not, he believed, an easy place to 
 hide in, for every ploughman knew his fellow, and a 
 new face was always an object of suspicion. Not a 
 gipsy tinker entered the village but what every one 
 heard of it, and though tramps came through from 
 time to time, it would be a difficult matter for one of 
 them to remain two days in the place without attract 
 ing a great deal of attention. It was possible that 
 Walter Goddard might have been concealed for one 
 night in his wife s house, but even there he could not 
 have remained hidden for two days without being seen 
 by Mrs. Goddard s two women servants. The vicar 
 walked rapidly through the park, looking about him 
 suspiciously as he went. Goddard might at that very 
 moment be lurking behind any one of those oaks ; it 
 would be most unpleasant if he mistook the vicar for 
 the squire. But that, the vicar reflected, was impos 
 sible on account of his clerical dress. He reached 
 the Hall in safety and stood looking down among the 
 leafless trees, waiting for the door to be opened. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MR. JUXON received the vicar in the library as he 
 had received him on the previous day; but on the 
 present occasion Mr. Ambrose had not been sent for 
 and the squire s face wore an expression of inquiry. 
 He supposed his friend had come to ask him the re 
 sult of the interview with Mrs. Goddard, and as he 
 himself was on the point of going towards the cottage 
 he wished the vicar had come at a later or an earlier 
 hour. 
 
 " I have a message to give you," said Mr. Ambrose, 
 " a very important message." 
 
 "Indeed?" answered the squire, observing his 
 serious face. 
 
 "Yes. I had better tell you at once. Mrs. 
 Goddard sent for me this morning. She has actually 
 seen her husband, who must be hiding in the neigh 
 bourhood. He came to her drawing-room window last 
 night and the night before." 
 
 " Dear me ! " exclaimed Mr. Juxon. " You don t 
 tell me so ! " 
 
 " That is not the worst of the matter," continued 
 the vicar, looking very grave and fixing his eyes on 
 the squire s face. " This villainous fellow has been 
 threatening to take your life, Mr. Juxon." 
 
 Mr. Juxon stared at the vicar for a moment in sur 
 prise, and then broke into a hearty laugh. 
 
 " My life ! " he cried. " Upon my word, the fellow 
 
266 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 does not know what he is talking about ! Do you 
 mean to say that this escaped convict, who can be 
 arrested at sight wherever he is found, imagines that 
 he could attack me in broad daylight without being 
 caught?" 
 
 "Well, no, I suppose not but you often walk 
 home at night, Mr. Juxon alone through the 
 park." 
 
 "I think that dog of mine could manage Mr. 
 Goddard," remarked the squire calmly. " And pray, 
 Mr. Ambrose, now that we know that the man is in 
 the neighbourhood, what is to prevent us from finding 
 him?" 
 
 " We do not know where he is," replied the vicar, 
 thanking the inspiration which had prevented him 
 from asking Mrs. Goddard more questions. He had 
 promised to save Goddard, too, or at least not to 
 facilitate his capture. But though he was glad to be 
 able to say honestly that he did not know where he 
 was, he began to doubt whether in the eyes of the 
 law he was acting rightly. 
 
 "You do not know?" asked the squire. 
 
 "No ; and besides I think perhaps we ought to 
 consider poor Mrs. Goddard s position." 
 
 "Mrs. Goddard s position!" exclaimed Mr. Juxon 
 almost angrily. " And who should consider her posi 
 tion more than I, Mr. Ambrose ? My dear sir, I con 
 sider her position before all things of course I do. 
 But nothing could be of greater advantage to her 
 position than the certainty that her husband is safely 
 lodged in prison. I cannot imagine ho\v he contrived 
 to escape can you?" 
 
 "No, I cannot," answered Mr. Ambrose, thrusting 
 his hands into his pockets and biting his long upper lip. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAEISH. 267 
 
 " By the bye, did the fellow happen to say why he 
 meant to lay violent hands on me?" inquired Mr. 
 Juxon. 
 
 " Since you ask he did. It appears that he saw 
 you going into the cottage, and immediately became 
 jealous " 
 
 " Of me ? " Mr. Juxon coloured a little beneath 
 his bronzed complexion, and grew more angry. "Well, 
 upon my word! But if that is true I am much 
 obliged for your warning. Fellows of that sort never 
 reason he will very likely attack me as you say. 
 It will be quite the last time he attacks anybody 
 the devil shall have his own, Mr. Ambrose, if I can 
 help him to it " 
 
 "Dear me! Mr. Juxon you surprise me," said 
 the vicar, who had never heard his friend use such 
 strong language before. 
 
 " It is enough to surprise anybody," remarked the 
 squire. "I trust we shall surprise Mr. Goddard 
 before night. Excuse me, but when did he express 
 his amiable intentions towards me ? " 
 
 "Last night, I believe," replied Mr. Ambrose, 
 reluctantly. 
 
 "And when did he see me going into the cot 
 tage?" 
 
 "Yesterday afternoon, I believe." The vicar felt 
 as though he were beginning to break his promise of 
 shielding the fugitive, but he could not refuse to 
 answer a direct question. 
 
 "Then, when he saw me, he was either in the 
 cottage or in the park. There was no one in the 
 road, I am quite sure." 
 
 " I do not know," said the vicar, delighted at being 
 able to say so. He was such a simple man that Mr. 
 
268 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Juxon noticed the tone of relief in which he denied 
 any knowledge of Goddard s whereabouts on the 
 previous day as compared with his reluctance to 
 answer upon those points of which he was certain. 
 
 "You are not anxious that Goddard should be 
 caught," said the squire rather sharply. 
 
 " Frankly," returned the vicar, " I do not wish to 
 be instrumental in his capture not that I am likely 
 to be." 
 
 "That is none of my business, Mr. Ambrose. I 
 will try and catch him alone. But it would be better 
 that he should be taken alive and quietly " 
 
 "Surely," cried the vicar in great alarm, "you 
 would not kill him ? " 
 
 "Oh no, certainly not. But my dog might, Mr. 
 Ambrose. They are ugly dogs when they are angry, 
 and they have a remarkable faculty for finding people 
 who are lost. They used to use them in Russia for 
 tracking fugitive serfs and convicts who escaped from 
 Siberia." 
 
 Mr. Ambrose shuddered. The honest squire seemed 
 almost as bloodthirsty in his eyes as the convict 
 Goddard. He felt that he did not understand Mr. 
 Juxon. The idea of hunting people with blood 
 hounds 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 your 
 self with the means provided by the law. Considera 
 tions of humanity " 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 269 
 
 " 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 Goddard 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 barbar 
 ous scheme, Goddard would have a far better chance 
 of escape. 
 
 "I think that with the assistance 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 con 
 venience ? I will not do any such thing. Besides, 
 in twenty-four hours Goddard may have changed his 
 mind and may have taken himself off. For the rest 
 of her life Mrs. Goddard 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. Goddard from 
 
270 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 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. Goddard lived here." 
 
 "I wonder how Goddard himself knew it, * re 
 marked 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 Bil- 
 lingsfield 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. Goddard 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. Am 
 brose, quite right, I assure you." 
 
 " Well, I hope all may yet be for the best," said 
 the vicar. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 271 
 
 "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 Goddard should contemplate killing the squire 
 was bad enough, in all conscience, but that the squire 
 should deliberately purpose to hunt down Goddard 
 with his bloodhound seemed somehow even worse. 
 The vicar had indeed promised Mrs. Goddard 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 bul 
 lets 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 Goddard, had shaken the good vicar s belief 
 in his friend. He doubted whether he were not now 
 bound to return to Mrs. Goddard and to warn her in 
 
272 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 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 dur 
 ing the day, and the squire s language led him to 
 think that the day would not pass without some 
 attempt to discover Walter Goddard s hiding-place. 
 Besides, the vicar s mind was altogether more dis 
 turbed 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. Goddard what the squire 
 had said. 
 
 When he was gone, Mr. Juxon paced his library 
 alone in the greatest uncertainty. He had told the 
 vicar in his anger that he would find Goddard with 
 the help of Stamboul. That the hound was able to 
 accomplish the feat in the present weather, and if 
 Goddard had actually stood some time at the cottage 
 window on the previous night, he did not doubt for a 
 moment. The vicar had mentioned the window to 
 him when he told him that Mrs. Goddard had seen 
 her husband. He had probably been at the window 
 as late as midnight, and the scent, renewed by his 
 visit, would not be twelve hours old. Stamboul 
 could find the man, unless he had got into a cart, 
 which was improbable. But a new and startling con 
 sideration presented itself to the squire s mind when 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 273 
 
 the vicar was gone and his anger had subsided ; a 
 consideration which made him hesitate what course 
 to pursue. 
 
 That he would be justified in using any means in 
 his power to catch the criminal seemed certain. It 
 would be for the public good that he should be de 
 livered up to justice as soon as possible. So long as 
 Goddard was at large the squire s own life was not 
 safe, and Mrs. Goddard was liable to all kinds of 
 annoyances at any moment. There was every reason 
 why the fellow should be captured. But to capture 
 him, safe and sound, was one thing ; to expose him to 
 the jaws of Stamboul was quite another. Mr. Juxon 
 had a lively recollection of the day in the Belgrade 
 forest when the great hound had pulled down one of 
 his assailants, making his fangs meet through flesh 
 and bone. If Stamboul were set upon Goddard s 
 track, the convict could hardly escape with his life. 
 In the first flush of the squire s anger this seemed of 
 little importance. But on mature reflection the thing 
 appeared in a different light. 
 
 He loved Mrs. Goddard in his own way, which was 
 a very honourable way, if not very passionate. He 
 had asked her to marry him. She had expressed a 
 wish that she were a widow, implying perhaps that if 
 she had been free she would have accepted him. If 
 the obstacle of her living husband were removed, it 
 was not improbable that she would look favourably 
 upon the squire s suit; to bring Goddard to an un 
 timely end would undoubtedly be to clear the way for 
 the squire. It was not then, a legitimate desire for 
 justice which made him wish to catch the convict and 
 almost to wish that Stamboul might worry him to 
 death ; it was the secret hope that Goddard might be 
 
274 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 killed and that he, Charles James Juxon, might have 
 the chance to marry his widow. " In other words," he 
 said to himself, " I really want to murder Goddard 
 and take his wife." 
 
 It was not easy to see where legitimate severity 
 ended and unlawful and murderous selfishness began. 
 The temptation was a terrible one. The very uncer 
 tainty which there was, tempted the squire to disre 
 gard the possibility of Goddard s death as compared 
 with the importance of his capture. It was quite 
 likely, he unconsciously argued, that the bloodhound 
 would not kill him after all; it was even possible 
 that he might not find him ; but it would be worth 
 while to make the attempt, for the results to be ob 
 tained by catching the fugitive were very great 
 Mrs. Goddard s peace was to be considered before all 
 things. But still before the squire s eyes arose the 
 picture of Stamboul tearing the throat of the man he 
 had killed in the Belgrade forest. If he killed the 
 felon, Juxon would know that to all intents and pur 
 poses he had himself done the deed in order to marry 
 Mrs. Goddard. But still the thought remained with 
 him and would not leave him. 
 
 The fellow had threatened his own life. It was 
 then a fair fight, for a man cannot be blamed if he 
 tries to get the better of one who is going about to 
 kill him. On one of his many voyages, he had once 
 shot a man in order to quell a mutiny ; he had not 
 killed him it is true, but he had disabled him for the 
 time he had handled many a rough customer in his 
 day. The case, he thought, was similar, for it was 
 the case of self-defence. The law, even, would say 
 he was justified. But to slay a man in self-defence 
 and then to marry his widow, though justifiable in 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 275 
 
 law, is a very delicate case for the conscience ; and in 
 spite of the wandering life he had led, Mr. Juxon s 
 conscience was sensitive. He was an honest man and 
 a gentleman, he had tried all his life to do right as 
 he saw it, and did not mean to turn murderer now, 
 no matter how easy it would be for him to defend his 
 action. 
 
 At the end of an hour he had decided that it would 
 be murder, and no less, to let Stamboul track Goddard 
 to his hiding-place. The hound might accompany 
 him in his walks, and if anybody attacked him it 
 would be so much the worse for his assailant. Mur 
 der or no murder, he was entitled to take any pre 
 cautions he pleased against an assault. But he 
 would not willingly put the bloodhound on the scent, 
 and he knew well enough that the dog would not 
 run upon a strange trail unless he were put to it. 
 The squire went to his lunch, feeling that he had 
 made a good resolution ; but he ate little and soon 
 afterwards began to feel the need of going down to 
 see Mrs. Goddard. No day was complete without 
 seeing her, and considering the circumstances which 
 had occurred on the previous afternoon, it was nat 
 ural that he should call to inquire after her state. In 
 the hall, the gigantic beast which had played such an 
 important part in his thoughts during the morning, 
 came solemnly up to him, raising his great red eyes as 
 though asking whether he were to accompany his 
 master. The squire stood still and looked at him for 
 a moment. 
 
 " Come along, Stamboul ! " he said suddenly, as he 
 put on his hat. The hound leaped up and laid his 
 heavy paws on the squire s shoulders, trying to lick 
 his face in his delight, then, almost upsetting the 
 
276 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 sturdy man he sprang back, slipped on the polished 
 floor, recovered himself and with an enormous stride 
 bounded past Mr. Juxon, out into the park. But Mr. 
 Juxon quickly called him back, and presently he was 
 following close at heel in his own stately way, looking 
 neither to the right nor to the left. The squire felt 
 nervous, and the sensation was new to him. He did 
 not believe that Goddard would really attack him at 
 all, certainly not that he would dare to attack him in 
 broad daylight. But the knowledge of the threat the 
 fellow had uttered made him watchful. He glanced 
 to the right and left as he walked and gripped his 
 heavy blackthorn stick firmly in his hand. He wished 
 that if the man were to appear he would come quickly 
 it might be hard to hold Stamboul back if he were 
 attacked unawares. 
 
 He reached the gate, crossed the road and rang the 
 bell of the cottage. As he stood waiting, Stamboul 
 smelled the ground, put up his head, smelled it again 
 and with his nose down trotted slowly to the window 
 on the left hand of the door. He smelled the ground, 
 the wall and presently put both his fore paws upon 
 the outer ledge of the window. Then he dropped 
 again, and looked at his master. Martha was a long 
 time in coming to the door. 
 
 " After him, Stamboul ! " said the squire, almost 
 unconsciously. The dog put his nose down and began 
 to move slowly about. At that moment the door 
 opened. 
 
 " Oh, sir," said Martha, " it s you, sir. I was to say, 
 if you please, that if you called, Mrs. Goddard was 
 poorly to-day, sir." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Mr. Juxon, " I hope she is not ill. 
 Is it anything serious, Martha ? " 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 277 
 
 " Well, sir, she s been down this mornin , but her 
 head ached terrible bad and she went back to her 
 room oh, sir, your dog he s a runnin home." 
 
 As she spoke a sound rang in the air that made 
 Martha start back. It was a deep, resounding, bell- 
 like note, fierce and wild, rising and falling, low but 
 full, with a horror indescribable in its echo the 
 sound which no man who has heard it ever forgets 
 the baying of a bloodhound on the track of a man. 
 
 The squire turned deadly pale, but he shouted with 
 all his might, as he would have shouted to a man on 
 the topsail yard in a gale at sea. 
 
 " Stamboul ! Stamboul ! Stamboul ! " Again and 
 again he yelled the dog s name. 
 
 Stamboul had not gone far. The quickset hedge 
 had baffled the scent for a moment and he was not a 
 dozen yards beyond it in the park when his master s 
 cry stopped him. Instantly he turned, cleared the 
 six-foot hedge and double ditch at a bound and came 
 leaping back across the road. The squire breathed 
 hard, for it had been a terrible moment. If he had 
 not succeeded in calling the beast back, it might have 
 been all over with Walter Goddard, wherever he was 
 hidden. 
 
 "It is only his play," said Mr. Juxon, still very 
 white and holding Stamboul by the collar. " Please 
 tell Mrs. Goddard, Martha, that I am very sorry in 
 deed to hear that she is ill, and that I will inquire 
 this evening." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Martha, who eyed the panting beast 
 timidly and showed an evident desire to shut the door 
 as soon as possible. 
 
 The squire felt more nervous than ever as he walked 
 slowly along the road in the direction of the village, 
 
278 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 his hand still on the bloodhound s collar. He felt 
 what a narrow escape Goddard had probably had, and 
 the terrible sound of Stamboul s baying had brought 
 back to him once again and very vividly the scene in 
 the woods by the Bosphorus. He felt that for a few 
 minutes at least he would rather not enter the park 
 with the dog by him, and he naturally turned towards 
 the vicarage, not with any intention of going in, but 
 from sheer force of custom, as people under the influ 
 ence of strong emotions often do things unconsciously 
 which they are in the habit of doing. He walked 
 slowly along, and had almost reached Mr. Ambrose s 
 pretty old red brick house, when he found himself face 
 to face with the vicar s wife. She presented an im 
 posing appearance, as usual ; her grey skirt, drawn up 
 a little from the mud, revealed a bright red petticoat 
 and those stout shoes which she regarded as so essen 
 tial to health ; she wore moreover a capacious sealskin 
 jacket and a dark bonnet with certain jet flowers, 
 which for many years had been regarded by the in 
 habitants of Billingsfield as the distinctive badge of a 
 gentlewoman. Mrs. Ambrose was wont to smile and 
 say that they were indestructible and would last as 
 long as she did. She greeted Mr. Juxon cordially. 
 
 " How do you, Mr. Juxon were you going to see 
 us ? I was just going for a walk perhaps you will 
 come with me ? " 
 
 Mr. Juxon turned back and prepared to accompany 
 her. 
 
 " Such good news this morning, from John Short," 
 she said. " He has finished his examinations, and it 
 seems almost certain that he will be senior classic. 
 His tutor at Trinity has written already to congratu 
 late my husband upon his success," 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 279 
 
 " 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 remark 
 able 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 w^hich had passed 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 impos 
 sible to marry Mrs. Goddard, he had forgiven the 
 young scholar his shortcomings and felt very chari 
 tably 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 incon 
 venience to himself. The effect upon Mrs. Ambrose 
 was greater even than he had expected. She was 
 hospitable, good and kind, but she was also economi 
 cal, 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 
 
280 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 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 confiden 
 tial 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 explana 
 tion 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 agree 
 able to him at the present time. 
 
 " Besides," added Mrs. Ambrose, " if you would 
 like to have him first there is a little repair neces 
 sary 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." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 281 
 
 "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." 
 
282 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MRS. GODDARD S head ached "terrible bad" ac 
 cording 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 Goddard 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 par 
 ish. 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 men- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 283 
 
 tal 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 machind by whom she suddenly obtained peace of 
 mind and a sense of security in the hour of her great 
 est 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 passionately 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. Goddard 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 hap 
 pened if Stamboul had once got beyond earshot, gal 
 loping along the trail towards the disused vault at 
 the back of the church. Mrs. Goddard 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. God 
 dard comfortable, she said, when she found she was 
 ill, and she did her best, being a kind and motherly 
 
284 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 woman when not hardened by the presence of stran 
 gers. 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. Goddard 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. Goddard 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. Goddard 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, how 
 ever, 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 communi 
 cated with great pride the squire s message, to the 
 effect that he expected John at the Hall that very 
 day. 
 
 John s heart leaped with delight at the idea. It 
 was natural. He was indeed most sincerely attached 
 to the Ambroses, and most heartily glad to be with 
 them ; but he had never in his life had an opportu 
 nity of staying in a " big " house, as he would have 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 285 
 
 described it. It seemed as though he were already 
 beginning to taste the sweet first-fruits of success 
 after all his labour and all his privations ; it was the 
 first taste of another world, the first mouthful of the 
 good things of life which had fallen to his lot. In 
 stantly there rose before him delicious visions of hot- 
 water cans brought by a real footman, of luxurious 
 meals served by a real butler, of soft carpets perpetu 
 ally beneath his feet, of liberty to lounge in magnifi 
 cent chairs in the magnificent library; and last, 
 though not least, there was a boyish feeling of delight 
 in the thought that when he went to see Mrs. God- 
 dard he would go from the Hall, that she would per 
 haps associate him henceforth with a different kind 
 of existence, in a word, that he was sure to acquire 
 importance in her eyes from the fact of his visit to 
 the squire. Many a young fellow of one and twenty 
 is as familiar with all that money can give and as 
 tired of luxury as a broken-down hard liver of forty 
 years; for this is an age of luxurious living. But 
 poor John had hardly ever tasted the least of those 
 things too familiar to the golden youth of the period 
 to be even noticed. He had felt when he first en 
 tered the little drawing-room of the cottage that Mrs. 
 Goddard herself belonged, or had belonged, to that 
 delicious unknown world of ease where the question 
 of expense was never considered, much less men 
 tioned. In her own eyes she was indeed living in a 
 state approaching to penury, but the spectacle of her 
 pictures, her furniture and her bibelots had impressed 
 John with a very different idea. The squire s invi 
 tation, asking him to spend a week at the Hall, 
 seemed in a moment to put him upon the same level 
 as the woman to whom he believed himself so 
 
286 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 devotedly attached. To his mind the ideal woman 
 could not but be surrounded by a luxurious atmos 
 phere of her own. To enter the charmed precincts of 
 those surroundings seemed to John equivalent to 
 being transported from the regions of the Theocritan 
 to the level of the Anacreontic ode, from the pastoral, 
 of which he had had too much, to the aristocratic, 
 of which he felt that he could not have enough. It 
 was a natural feeling in a very young man of his 
 limited experience. 
 
 He stayed some hours at the vicarage. Both Mr. 
 and Mrs. Ambrose thought him changed in the short 
 time which had elapsed since they had seen him. 
 He had grown more grave ; he was certainly more of 
 a man. The great contest he had just sustained 
 with so much honour had left upon his young face 
 its mark, an air of power which had not formerly been 
 visible there ; even his voice seemed to have grown 
 deeper and rounder, and his words carried more 
 weight. The good vicar, who had seen several gen 
 erations of students, already distinguished in John 
 Short the budding "don," and rubbed his hands 
 with great satisfaction. 
 
 John asked few questions but found himself obliged 
 to answer many concerning his recent efforts. He 
 would have liked to say something about Mrs. God- 
 dard, but he remembered with some awe and much 
 aversion the circumstances in which he had last 
 quitted the vicarage, and he held his peace ; whereby 
 he again rose in Mrs. Ambrose s estimation. He 
 made up for his silence by speaking effusively of the 
 squire s kindness in asking him to the Hall; forget 
 ting perhaps the relief he had felt when he escaped 
 from Billingsfield after Christinas without being 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 287 
 
 again obliged to shake hands with Mr. Juxon. 
 Things looked very differently now, however. He 
 felt himself to be somebody in the world, and that 
 distressing sense of inferiority which had perhaps 
 been at the root of his jealousy against the squire 
 was gone, swallowed in the sense of triumph. His 
 face was pale, perhaps, from overwork, but there was 
 a brilliancy in his eyes and an incisiveness in his 
 speech which came from the confidence of victory. 
 He now desired nothing more than to meet the squire, 
 feeling sure that he should receive his congratula 
 tions, and though he stayed some hours in conversa 
 tion with his old friends, in imagination he was 
 already at the Hall. The squire had not come down 
 to meet him, as he had proposed, but he had sent his 
 outlandish American gig with his groom to fetch 
 John. While he was at the vicarage the latter was 
 probably too much occupied with conversation to 
 notice that Mr. Ambrose seemed preoccupied and 
 changed, and the vicar was to some extent recalled 
 to his usual manner by the presence of his pupil. 
 Mrs. Ambrose had taxed her husband with conceal 
 ing something from her ever since the previous day, 
 but the good man was obstinate and merely said that 
 he felt unaccountably nervous and irritable, and 
 begged her to excuse his mood. Mrs. Ambrose post 
 poned her cross-examination until a more favourable 
 opportunity should present itself. 
 
 John got into the gig and drove away. He was 
 to return with the squire to dinner in the evening, 
 and he fully expected that Mrs. Goddard and Nellie 
 would be of the party it seemed hardly likely that 
 they should be omitted. Indeed, soon after John 
 had left a note arrived at the vicarage explaining 
 
288 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 that Mrs. Goddard was much better and would cer 
 tainly come, according to Mrs. Ambrose s very kind 
 invitation. 
 
 It is unnecessary to dwell upon the meeting which 
 took place between Mr. Juxon and John Short. The 
 squire was hospitable in the extreme and expressed 
 his great satisfaction at having John under his own 
 roof at last. He was perhaps, like the vicar, a little 
 nervous, but the young man did not notice it, being 
 much absorbed by the enjoyment of his good fortune 
 and of the mental rest he so greatly needed. Mr. 
 Juxon congratulated him warmly and expressed a 
 hope, amounting to certainty, that John might actu 
 ally be at the head of the Tripos; to which John 
 modestly replied that he would be quite satisfied to 
 be in the first ten, knowing in his heart that he 
 should be most bitterly disappointed if he were 
 second to any one. He sat opposite to his host in a 
 deep chair beside the fire in the library and revelled 
 in comfort and ease, enjoying every trifle that fell in 
 his way, feeling only a very slight diffidence in 
 regard to himself for the present and none at all for 
 the future. The squire was so cordial that he felt 
 himself thoroughly at home. Indeed Mr. Juxon 
 already rejoiced at his wisdom in asking John to the 
 Hall. The lad was strong, hopeful, well-balanced 
 in every respect and his presence was an admirable 
 tonic to the almost morbid state of anxiety in which 
 the squire had lived ever since his interview with 
 Policeman Gall, two days before. In the sunshine 
 of John s young personality, fears grew small and 
 hope grew big. The ideas which had passed through 
 Mr. Juxon s brain on the previous evening, just after 
 Mr. Ambrose had warned him of Goddard s inten- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 289 
 
 tions, seemed now like the evil shadows of a night 
 mare. All apprehension lest the convict should 
 attempt to execute his threats disappeared like dark 
 ness before daylight, and in the course of an hour or 
 two the squire found himself laughing and chatting 
 with his guest as though there were no such things 
 as forgery or convicts in the world. The afternoon 
 passed very pleasantly between the examination of 
 Mr. Juxon s treasures and the conversation those 
 objects elicited. For John, who was an accomplished 
 scholar, had next to no knowledge of bibliology and 
 took delight in seeing for the first time many a rare 
 edition which he had heard mentioned or had read of 
 in the course of his studies. He would not have 
 believed that he could be now talking on such 
 friendly terms with a man for whom he had once 
 felt the strongest antipathy, and Mr. Juxon on his 
 part felt that in their former meetings he had not 
 done full justice to the young man s undoubted 
 talents. 
 
 As they drove down to the vicarage that evening 
 Mrs. Goddard s name was mentioned for the first 
 time. John, with a fine affectation of indifference, 
 asked how she was. 
 
 "She has not been very well lately," answered Mr. 
 Juxon. 
 
 "What has been the matter?" inquired John, who 
 could not see his companion s face in the dark shade 
 of the trees. 
 
 "Headache, I believe," returned the squire laconi 
 cally, and silence ensued for a few moments. "I 
 should not wonder if it rained again this evening," 
 he added presently as they passed through the park 
 gate, out into the road. The sky was black and it 
 
290 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 was hard to see anything beyond the yellow streak of 
 light which fell from the lamps and ran along the 
 road before the gig. 
 
 "If it turns out a fine night, don t come for us. 
 We will walk home," said the squire to the groom 
 as they descended before the vicarage and Stamboul, 
 who had sat on the floor between them, sprang down 
 to the ground. 
 
 John was startled when he met Mrs. Goddard. He 
 was amazed at the change in her appearance for which 
 no one had prepared him. She met him indeed very 
 cordially but he felt as though she were not the same 
 woman he had known so short a time before. There 
 was still in her face that delicate pathetic expression 
 which had at first charmed him, there was still the 
 same look in her eyes ; but what had formerly seemed 
 so attractive seemed now exaggerated. Her cheeks 
 looked wari and hollow and there were deep shadows 
 about her eyes and temples ; her lips had lost their 
 colour and the lines about her mouth had suddenly 
 become apparent where John had not before suspected 
 them. She looked ten years older as she put her thin 
 hand in his and smiled pleasantly at his greeting. 
 Some trite phrase about the "ravages of time " crossed 
 John s mind and gave him a disagreeable sensation, 
 for which it was hard to account. He felt as though 
 his dream were suddenly dead and a strange reality 
 had taken life in its place. Could this be she to 
 whom he had written verses by the score, at whose 
 smile he had swelled with pride, at whose careless 
 laugh he had trembled with shame? She was terri 
 bly changed, she looked positively old what John 
 called old. As he sat by her side talking and won 
 dering whether he would fall back into those same 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 291 
 
 grooves of conversation he had associated with her 
 formerly, he felt something akin to pity for her, 
 which he had certainly never expected to feel. She 
 was not the same as before even the tone of her 
 voice was different; she was gentle, pathetic, en 
 dowed even now with many charms, but she was not 
 the woman he had dreamed of and tried to speak to 
 of the love he fancied was in his heart. She talked 
 yes ; but there were long pauses, and her eyes wan 
 dered strangely from him, often towards the windows 
 of the vicarage drawing-room, often towards the 
 doors ; her answers were not always to the point and 
 her interest seemed to flag in what was said. John 
 could not fail to notice too that both Mr. Ambrose 
 and Mr. Juxon treated her with the kind of attention 
 which is bestowed upon invalids, and the vicar s wife 
 was constantly doing something to make her comfort 
 able, offering her a footstool, shading the light from 
 her eyes, asking if she felt any draught where she 
 sat. These were things no one had formerly thought 
 of doing for Mrs. Goddard, who in spite of her sad 
 face had been used to laugh merrily enough with the 
 rest, and whose lithe figure had seemed to John the 
 embodiment of youthful activity. At last he ven 
 tured to ask her a question. 
 
 "Have you been ill, Mrs. Goddard?" he inquired 
 in a voice full of interest. Her soft eyes glanced 
 uneasily at him. He was now the only one of the 
 party who was not in some degree acquainted with 
 her troubles. 
 
 " Oh no ! " she answered nervously. " Only a lit 
 tle headache. It always makes me quite wretched 
 when I have it." 
 
 "Yes. I often have headaches, too," answered 
 John. "The squire told me as we came down." 
 
292 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "What did he tell you?" asked Mrs. Goddard so 
 quickly as to startle her companion. 
 
 "Oh only that you had not been very well. 
 Where is it that you suffer?" he asked sympatheti 
 cally. " I think it is worst when it seems to be in 
 the very centre of one s head, like a red-hot nail 
 being driven in with a hammer is that like what 
 you feel?" 
 
 "I yes, I daresay. I don t quite know," she 
 answered, her eyes wandering uneasily about the 
 room. " I suppose you have dreadful headaches over 
 your work, do you not, Mr. Short?" she added 
 quickly, feeling that she must say something. 
 
 "Oh, it is all over now," said John rather proudly. 
 But as he leaned back in his chair he said to himself 
 that this meeting was not precisely what he had an 
 ticipated ; the subject of headaches might have a fine 
 interest in its way, but he had expected to have 
 talked of more tender things. To his own great 
 surprise he felt no desire to do so, however. He had 
 not recovered from the shock of seeing that Mrs. 
 Goddard had grown old. 
 
 "Yes," said she, kindly. "How glad you must 
 be ! To have done so splendidly too you must feel 
 that you have realised a magnificent dream." 
 
 "No, "said John. "I cannot say I do. I have 
 done the thing I meant to do, or I have good reason 
 to believe that I have ; but I have not realised my 
 dream. I shall never write any more odes, Mrs. 
 Goddard." 
 
 "Why not? Oh, you mean to me, Mr. Short?" 
 she added with something of her old manner. " Well, 
 you know, it is much better that you should not." 
 
 "Perhaps so," answered John rather sadly. "I 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 293 
 
 don t know. Frankly, Mrs. Goddard, did not you 
 sometimes think I was very foolish last Christmas?" 
 
 "Very," she said, smiling at him kindly. "But 
 I think you have changed. I think you are more of a 
 man, now you have something more serious " 
 
 "I used to think I was very serious, and so I was," 
 said John, with the air of a man who refers to the 
 follies of his long past youth. " Do you remember 
 how angry I was when you wanted me to skate with 
 Miss Nellie?" 
 
 "Oh, I only said that to teaze you," Mrs. Goddard 
 answered. " I daresay you would be angry now, if I 
 suggested the same thing." 
 
 "No," said John quietly. "I do not believe I 
 should be. As you say, I feel very much older now 
 than I did then." 
 
 "The older we grow the more we like youth," said 
 Mary Goddard, unconsciously uttering one of the fun 
 damental truths of human nature, and at the same 
 time so precisely striking the current of John s 
 thoughts that he started. He was wondering within 
 himself why it was that she now seemed too old for 
 him, whereas a few short months ago she had seemed 
 to be of his own age. 
 
 " How true that is ! " he exclaimed. Mrs. Goddard 
 laughed faintly. 
 
 " You are not old enough to have reached that point 
 yet, Mr. Short," she said. "Really, here we are 
 moralising like a couple of old philosophers ! " 
 
 "This is a moralising season," answered John. 
 "When we last met, it was all holly-berries and 
 Christmas and plum-pudding." 
 
 "How long ago that seems!" exclaimed the poor 
 lady with a sigh. 
 
294 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Ages!" echoed John, sighing in his turn, but 
 not so much for sadness, it may be, as from relief 
 that the great struggle was over. That time of 
 anxiety and terrible effort seemed indeed very far 
 removed from him, but its removal was a cause of 
 joy rather than of sadness. He sighed like a man 
 who, sitting over his supper, remembers the hard 
 fought race he has won in the afternoon, feeling yet 
 in his limbs the ability to race and win again but 
 feeling in his heart the delicious consciousness that 
 the question of his superiority has been decided 
 beyond all dispute. 
 
 "And now you will stay here a long time, of 
 course," said Mrs. Goddard presently. 
 
 "I am stopping at the Hall, just now," said John 
 with a distinct sense of the importance of the fact, 
 " and after a week I shall stay here a few days. Then 
 I shall go to London to see my father." 
 
 "No one will be so glad as he to hear of your 
 success." 
 
 " No indeed. I really think it is more for his sake 
 that I want to be actually first," said John. "Do 
 you know, I have so often thought how he will look 
 when I meet him and tell him I am the senior 
 classic." 
 
 John s voice trembled and as Mrs. Goddard looked 
 at him, she thought she saw a moisture in his eyes. 
 It pleased her to see it, for it showed that John Short 
 had more heart than she had imagined. 
 
 "I can fancy that," she said, warmly. "I envy 
 you that moment." 
 
 Presently the squire came over to where they were 
 sitting and joined them; and then Mrs. Ambrose 
 spoke to John, and Nellie came and asked him ques- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 tions. Strange to say John felt none of that annoy 
 ance which he formerly felt when his conversations 
 with Mrs. Goddard were interrupted, and he talked 
 with Nellie and Mrs. Ambrose quite as readily as 
 with her. He felt very calm and happy that night, 
 as though he had done with the hard labour of life. 
 In half an hour he had realised that he was no more 
 in love with Mrs. Goddard than he was with Mrs. 
 Ambrose, and he was trying to explain to himself how 
 it was that he had ever believed in such a palpable 
 absurdity. Love was doubtless blind, he thought, 
 but he was surety not so blind as to overlook the evi 
 dences of Mrs. Goddard s age. All the dreams of 
 that morning faded away before the sight of her face, 
 and so deep is the turpitude of the best of human 
 hearts that John was almost ashamed of having once 
 thought he loved her. That was probably the best 
 possible proof that his love had been but a boyish 
 fancy. 
 
 What the little party at the vicarage would have 
 been like, if John s presence had not animated it, 
 would be hard to say. The squire and Mr. Ambrose 
 treated Mrs. Goddard with the sort of paternal but 
 solemn care which is usually bestowed either upon 
 great invalids or upon persons bereaved of some very 
 dear relation. The two elder men occasionally looked 
 at her and exchanged glances when they were not 
 observed by Mrs. Ambrose, wondering perhaps what 
 would next befall the unfortunate lady and whether 
 she could bear much more of the excitement and 
 anxiety to which she had of late been subjected. On 
 the whole the conversation was far from being lively, 
 and Mrs. Goddard herself felt that it was a relief 
 when the hour came for going home. 
 
296 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 The vicar had ordered his dog-cart for her and 
 Nellie, but as the night had turned out better than 
 had been expected Mr. Juxon s groom had not come 
 down from the Hall. Both he and John would be 
 glad of the walk ; it had not rained for two days and 
 the roads were dry. 
 
 "Look here," said the squire, as they rose to take 
 their leave, " Mr. Short had better go as far as the 
 cottage in the dog-cart, to see Mrs. Goddard home. 
 I will go ahead on foot I shall probably be there 
 as soon as you. There is not room for us all, and 
 somebody must go with her, you know. Besides," 
 he added, "I have got Stamboul with me." 
 
 Mrs. Goddard, who was standing beside the squire, 
 laid her hand beseechingly upon his arm. 
 
 "Oh, pray don t," she said in low voice. "Why 
 have you not got your carriage ? " 
 
 "Never mind me," he answered in the same tone. 
 "I am all right, I like to walk." 
 
 Before she could say anything more, he had shaken 
 hands with Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose and was gone. 
 Perhaps in his general determination to be good to 
 everybody he fancied that John would enjoy the short 
 drive with Mrs. Goddard better than the walk with 
 himself. 
 
 But when he was gone, Mrs. Goddard grew very 
 nervous. One of her wraps could not be found, and 
 while search was being made for it the motherly Mrs. 
 Ambrose insisted upon giving her something hot, in 
 the way of brandy and water. She looked very ill, 
 but showed the strongest desire to go. It was no 
 matter about the shawl, she said ; Mr. Ambrose could 
 send it in the morning; but the thing was found and 
 at last Mrs. Goddard and Nellie and John got into 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 297 
 
 the dog-cart with old Reynolds and drove off. All 
 these things consumed some time. 
 
 The squire on the other hand strode briskly forward 
 towards the cottage, not wishing to keep John wait 
 ing for him. As he walked his mind wandered back 
 to the consideration of the almost tragic events which 
 were occurring in the peaceful village. He forgot 
 all about John, as he looked up at the half moon 
 which struggled to give some light through the driv 
 ing clouds; he fell to thinking of Mrs. Goddard and 
 to wondering where her husband might be lying 
 hidden. The road was lonely and he walked fast, 
 with Stamboul close at his heel. The dog-cart did 
 not overtake him before he reached the cottage, and 
 he forgot all about it. By sheer force of habit he 
 opened the white gate and, closing it behind him, 
 entered the park alone. 
 
298 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 JOHN S impression of Mrs. Goddard was strength 
 ened by the scene at the vicarage at the moment of 
 leaving. The extraordinary nervousness she be 
 trayed, the anxiety for her welfare shown by Mrs. 
 Ambrose and the grave face of the vicar all fa 
 voured the idea that she had become an invalid since 
 he had last met her. He himself fell into the man 
 ner of those about him and spoke in low tones and 
 moved delicately as though fearing to offend her sen 
 sitive nerves. The vicar alone understood the situa 
 tion and had been very much surprised at the squire s 
 sudden determination to walk home ; he would gladly 
 have seized his hat and run after his friend, but he 
 feared Mrs. Ambrose s curiosity and moreover on 
 reflection felt sure that the dog-cart would overtake 
 Mr. Juxon before he was half way to the cottage. 
 He was very far from suspecting him of the absence 
 of mind which he actually displayed, but it was a 
 great relief to him to see the little party safe in the 
 dog-cart and on the way homeward. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard was on the front seat with old Rey 
 nolds, and John, who would have preferred to sit by 
 her side a few months ago, was glad to find himself 
 behind with Nellie. It was a curious instinct, but 
 he felt it strongly and was almost grateful to the old 
 man for stolidly keeping his seat. So he sat beside 
 Nellie and talked to her, to the child s intense 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 299 
 
 delight ; she had not enjoyed the evening very much, 
 for she felt the general sense of oppression as keenly 
 as children always feel such things, and she had long 
 exhausted the slender stock of illustrated books which 
 lay upon the table in the vicarage drawing-room. 
 
 "There is no more skating now," said John. 
 " What do you do to amuse yourselves ? " 
 
 "I am studying history with mamma," answered 
 Nellie, " and that takes ever so much time, you know. 
 And then oh, we are beginning to think of the 
 spring, and we look after the violet plants in the 
 frames." 
 
 "It does not feel much like spring," remarked 
 John. 
 
 "No and mamma has not been well lately, so 
 we have not done much of anything." 
 
 "Has she been ill long?" asked John. 
 
 " No oh no ! Only the last two or three days, 
 ever since " Nellie stopped herself. Her mother 
 had told her not to mention the tramp s visit. 
 
 "Ever since when?" asked John, becoming sud 
 denly interested. 
 
 " Ever since the last time the Ambroses came to 
 tea," said Nellie with a readiness beyond her years. 
 "But she looks dreadfully, does not she?" 
 
 "Dreadfully," answered John. Then, leaning 
 back and turning his head he spoke to Mrs. Goddard. 
 "I hope you are quite warm enough?" he said. 
 
 "Quite thanks," answered she, but her voice 
 sounded tremulous in the night. It might have been 
 the shaking of the dog- cart. In a few minutes they 
 drew up before the door of the cottage. John sprang 
 to the ground and almost lifted Mrs. Goddard from 
 the high seat. 
 
300 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Juxon ? " she asked anxiously. 
 
 John looked round, peering into the gloom. A 
 black cloud driven by the strong east wind was pass 
 ing over the moon, and for some moments it was 
 almost impossible to see anything. The squire was 
 nowhere to be seen. John turned and helped Nellie 
 off the back seat of the dog-cart. 
 
 "I am afraid we must have passed him," he said 
 quietly. Formerly Mrs. Goddard s tone of anxiety 
 as she asked for the squire would have roused John s 
 resentment ; he now thought nothing of it. Reynolds 
 prepared to move off. 
 
 "Won t you please wait a moment, Reynolds?" 
 said Mrs. Goddard, going close to the old man. She 
 could not have told why she asked him to stay, it was 
 a nervous impulse. 
 
 "Why?" asked John. "You know I am going to 
 the Hall." 
 
 " Yes, of course. I only thought, perhaps, you and 
 Mr. Juxon would like to drive up it is so dark. 
 I am sure Mr. Ambrose would not mind you taking 
 the gentlemen up to the Hall, Reynolds?" 
 
 "No m m. I m quite sure as he wouldn t," ex 
 claimed Reynolds with great alacrity. He immedi 
 ately had visions of a pint of beer in the Hall kitchen. 
 
 " You do not think Mr. Juxon may have gone on 
 alone, Mr. Short?" said Mrs. Goddard, leaning upon 
 the wicket gate. Her face looked very pale in the 
 gloom. 
 
 "No it would be very odd if he did," replied 
 John, who had his hands in his greatcoat pockets and 
 slowly stamped one foot after another on the hard 
 ground, to keep himself warm. 
 
 "Then we must have passed him on the road," 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 301 
 
 said Mrs. Goddard. "But I was so sure I saw 
 nobody " 
 
 "I think he will come presently," answered John 
 in a reassuring tone. " Why do you wait, Mrs. God 
 dard ? You must be cold, and it is dangerous for you 
 to be out here. Don t wait, Reynolds," he added; 
 "we will walk up." 
 
 "Oh please don t," cried Mrs. Goddard, implor 
 ingly. 
 
 John looked at her in some surprise. The cloud 
 suddenly passed from before the moon and he could 
 see her anxious upturned face quite plainly. He 
 could not in the least understand the cause of her 
 anxiety, but he supposed her nervousness was con 
 nected with her indisposition. Reynolds on his part, 
 being anxious for beer, showed no disposition to 
 move, but sat with stolid indifference, loosely hold 
 ing the reins while Strawberry, the old mare, hung 
 down her head and stamped from time to time in a 
 feeble and antiquated fashion. For some minutes 
 there was total silence. Not a step was to be heard 
 upon the road, not a sound of any kind, save the 
 strong east wind rushing past the cottage and 
 losing itself among the withered oaks of the park 
 opposite. 
 
 Suddenly a deep and bell-mouthed note resounded 
 through the air. Strawberry started in the shafts 
 and trembled violently. 
 
 "Stamboul! Stamboul!" The squire s ringing 
 voice was heard far up the park. The bloodhound s 
 distant baying suddenly ceased. John thought he 
 heard a fainter cry, inarticulate, and full of distress, 
 through the sighing wind. Then there was silence 
 again. Mrs. Goddard leaned back against the wicket 
 
302 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 gate, and Nellie, startled by the noises, pressed close 
 to her mother s side. 
 
 "Why he has gone up the park!" exclaimed 
 John in great surprise. "He was calling to his 
 dog-" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Short! " cried Mrs. Goddard in agonised 
 tones, as soon as she could speak, " I am sure some 
 thing dreadful has happened do go, Mr. Short 
 do go and see " 
 
 Something of the extreme alarm that sounded in 
 her voice seized upon John. 
 
 "Stay with Mrs. Goddard, Reynolds, * he said 
 quickly and darted across the road towards the park 
 gate. John was strong and active. He laid his 
 hands upon the highest rails and vaulted lightly 
 over, then ran at the top of his speed up the dark 
 avenue. 
 
 Mr. Juxon, in his absence of mind, had gone 
 through the gate alone, swinging his blackthorn 
 stick in his hand, Stamboul stalking at his heel in 
 the gloom. He was a fearless man and the presence 
 of John during the afternoon had completely dis 
 solved that nervous presentiment of evil he had felt 
 before his guest s coming. But in the short walk of 
 scarcely half a mile, from the vicarage to the cottage, 
 his thoughts had become entirely absorbed in con 
 sidering Mrs. Goddard s strange position, and for the 
 moment John was quite forgotten. He entered the 
 park and the long iron latch of the wooden gate fell 
 into its socket behind him with a sharp click. Mr. 
 Juxon walked quickly on and Stamboul trod noise 
 lessly behind him. At about a hundred yards from 
 the gate the avenue turned sharply to the right, wind 
 ing about a little elevation in the ground, where the 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 303 
 
 trees stood thicker than elsewhere. As he came tow 
 ards this hillock the strong east wind blew sharply 
 behind him. Had the wind been in the opposite 
 direction, Stamboul s sharp nostrils would have 
 scented danger. As it was he gave no sign but 
 stalked solemnly at the squire s heels. The faint 
 light of the half moon was obscured at that moment, 
 as has been seen, by a sweeping cloud. The squire 
 turned to the right and tramped along the hard road. 
 At the darkest spot in the way a man sprang out 
 suddenly before him and struck a quick blow at his 
 head with something heavy. But it was very dark. 
 The blow was aimed at his head, but fell upon the 
 heavy padded frieze of his ulster greatcoat, grazing 
 the brim of his hat as it passed and knocking it off his 
 head. Mr. Juxon staggered and reeled to one side. 
 At the same instant it all happened in the space of 
 two seconds, Stamboul sprang past his master and his 
 bulk, striking the squire at the shoulder just as he 
 was staggering from the blow he had received, sent 
 him rolling into the ditch; by the same cause the 
 hound s direction as he leaped was just so changed 
 that he missed his aim and bounded past the mur 
 derer into the darkness. Before the gigantic beast 
 could recover himself and turn to spring again, 
 Walter Goddard, who had chanced never to see 
 Stamboul and little suspected his presence, leaped 
 the ditch and fled rapidly through the dark shadow. 
 But death was at his heels. Before the squire, who 
 was very little hurt, could get upon his feet, the 
 bloodhound had found the scent and, uttering his 
 deep-mouthed baying note, sprang upon the track of 
 the flying man. Mr. Juxon got across the ditch and 
 followed him into the gloom. 
 
304 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " Stamboul ! Stamboul ! " he roared as he ran. But 
 before he had gone thirty yards he heard a heavy fall. 
 The hound s cry ceased and a short scream broke the 
 silence. 
 
 A moment later the squire was dragging the in 
 furiated animal from the prostrate body of Walter 
 Goddard. Stamboul had tasted blood ; it was no easy 
 matter to make him relinquish his prey. The cloud 
 passed from the moon, driven before the blast, and a 
 ray of light fell through the trees upon the scene. 
 Juxon stood wrestling with his hound, holding to 
 his heavy collar with both hands with all his might. 
 He dared not let go for an instant, well knowing 
 that the frenzied beast would tear his victim limb 
 from limb. But Juxon s hands were strong, and 
 though Stamboul writhed and his throat rattled he 
 could not free himself. The squire glanced at the 
 body of the fallen man, just visible in the flickering 
 moonlight. Walter Goddard lay quite still upon 
 his back. If he was badly wounded it was not pos 
 sible to say where the wound was. 
 
 It was a terrible moment. Mr. Juxon felt that he 
 could not leave the man thus, not knowing whether 
 he were alive or dead ; and yet while all his strength 
 was exerted to the full in controlling the bloodhound, 
 it was impossible to approach a step nearer. He was 
 beginning to think that he should be obliged to take 
 Stamboul to the Hall and return again to the scene 
 of the disaster. 
 
 " Mr. Juxon ! Juxon ! Juxon ! " John was shout 
 ing as he ran up the park. 
 
 "This way! look sharp!" yelled the squire, fore 
 seeing relief. John s quick footsteps rang on the 
 hard road. The squire called again and in a moment 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 305 
 
 the young man had joined him and stood horror- 
 struck at what he saw. 
 
 " Don t touch the dog ! " cried the squire. " Don t 
 come near him, I say! " he added as John came for 
 ward. "There there has been an accident, Mr. 
 Short," he added in calmer tones. "Would you 
 mind seeing if the fellow is alive ? " 
 
 John was too much startled to say anything, but 
 he went and knelt down by Goddard s body and 
 looked into his face. 
 
 "Feel his pulse," said the squire. "Listen at his 
 heart." To him it seemed a very simple matter to 
 ascertain whether a man were alive or dead. But 
 John was nervous ; he had never seen a dead man in 
 his life and felt that natural repulsion to approach 
 ing death which is common to all living creatures. 
 There was no help for it, however, and he took 
 "Walter Goddard s limp hand in his and tried to find 
 his pulse; he could not distinguish any beating. 
 The hand fell nerveless to the ground. 
 
 "I think he is dead," said John very softly, and 
 he rose to his feet and drew back a little way from 
 the body. 
 
 "Then just wait five minutes for me, if you do 
 not mind," said Mr. Juxon, and he turned away 
 dragging the reluctant and still struggling Stamboul 
 by his side. 
 
 John shuddered when he was left alone. It was in 
 deed a dismal scene enough. At his feet lay Walter 
 Goddard s body, faintly illuminated by the strug 
 gling moonbeams ; all around and overhead the east 
 wind was howling and whistling and sighing in the 
 dry oak branches, whirling hither and thither the few 
 brown leaves that had clung to their hold throughout 
 
306 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 the long winter; the sound of the squire s rapidly 
 retreating footsteps grew more faint in the distance ; 
 John felt that he was alone and was very uncomfort 
 able. He would have liked to go back to the cottage 
 and tell Mrs. Goddard of what had happened, and 
 that Mr. Juxon was safe; but he thought the squire 
 might return and find that he had left his post and 
 accuse him of cowardice. He drew back from the 
 man s body and sheltered himself from the wind, 
 leaning against the broad trunk of an old oak tree. 
 He had not stood thus many minutes when he heard 
 the sound of wheels upon the hard road. It might 
 be Mrs. Goddard, he thought. With one more glance 
 at the prostrate body, he turned away and hurried 
 through the trees towards the avenue. The bright 
 lamps of the dog-cart were almost close before him. 
 He shouted to Reynolds. 
 
 "Whoa, January!" ejaculated that ancient func 
 tionary as he pulled up Strawberry close to John 
 Short. Why the natives of Essex and especially of 
 Billingsfield habitually address their beasts of bur 
 den as " January " is a matter best left to the dis 
 crimination of philologers; obedient to the familiar 
 words however, Strawberry stood still in the middle 
 of the road. John could see that Mrs. Goddard was 
 seated by the side of Reynolds but that Nellie was 
 not in the cart. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Goddard, is that you?" said John. 
 "Mr. Juxon will be here in a moment. Don t be 
 frightened he is not hurt in the least; awfully bad 
 luck for the tramp, though! " 
 
 "The tramp?" repeated Mrs. Goddard with a faint 
 cry of horror. 
 
 "Yes," said John, whose spirits rose wonderfully 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 307 
 
 in the light of the dog-cart lamps. " There was a 
 poor tramp hanging about the park poaching, very 
 likely and Mr. Juxon s dog got after him, some 
 how, I suppose. I do not know how it happened, 
 but when I came up oh ! here is Mr. Juxon him 
 self he will tell you all about it." 
 
 The squire came up in breathless haste, having 
 locked Stamboul into the house. 
 
 "Good Heavens! Mrs. Goddard! " he ejaculated in 
 a tone of profound surprise. But Mrs. Goddard gave 
 no answer. The squire sprang upon the step and 
 looked closely at her. She lay back against old Rey 
 nolds s shoulder, very pale, with her eyes shut. It 
 was evident that she had fainted. The old man 
 seemed not to comprehend what had happened; he 
 had never experienced the sensation of having a lady 
 leaning upon his shoulder, and he looked down at 
 her with a half idiotic smile on his deeply furrowed 
 face. 
 
 "She s took wuss, sir," he remarked. "She was 
 all for comin up the park as soon as Master John 
 was gone. She warn t feelin herself o no account 
 t eveninV 
 
 "Look here, Mr. Short," said the squire decisively. 
 "I must ask you to take Mrs. Goddard home again 
 and call her women to look after her. I fancy she 
 will come to herself before long. Do you mind? " 
 
 "Not in the least, "said John cheerfully, mounting 
 at the back of the dog-cart. 
 
 " And Reynolds bring Mr. Short back to the 
 Hall immediately, please, and you shall have some 
 beer." 
 
 "All right, sir." 
 
 John supported the fainting lady with one arm, 
 
308 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 turning round upon his seat at the back. Old Straw 
 berry wheeled quickly in her tracks and trotted down 
 the avenue under the evident impression that she 
 was going home. Mr. Juxon dashed across the ditch 
 again to the place where Walter Goddard had fallen. 
 The squire knelt down and tried to ascertain the 
 extent of the man s injuries ; as far as he could see 
 there was a bad wound at his throat, and one hand 
 was much mangled. But there seemed to have been 
 no great flow of blood. He tore open the smock- 
 frock and shirt and put his ear to the heart. Faintly, 
 very faintly, he could hear it beat. Walter Goddard 
 was alive still alive to live for years perhaps, the 
 squire reflected; to live in a prison, it was true, but 
 to live. To describe his feelings in that moment 
 would be impossible. Had he found the convict dead, 
 it would be useless to deny that he would have felt a 
 very great satisfaction, tempered perhaps by some 
 pity for the wretched man s miserable end, but still 
 very great. It would have seemed such a just end, 
 after all ; to be killed in the attempt to kill, and to 
 have died not by the squire s hand but by the sharp 
 strong jaws of the hound who had once before saved 
 the squire s life. But he was alive. It would not 
 take much to kill him; a little pressure on his 
 wounded throat would be enough. Even to leave 
 him there, uncared for, till morning in the bleak 
 wind, lying upon the cold ground, would be almost 
 certain to put an end to his life. But to the honour 
 of Charles James Juxon be it said that such thoughts 
 never crossed his mind. He pulled off his heavy 
 ulster greatcoat, wrapped it about the felon s insen 
 sible body, then, kneeling, raised up his head and 
 shoulders, got his strong arms well round him and 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 309 
 
 with some difficulty rose to his feet. Once upright, 
 it was no hard matter to carry his burthen through the 
 trees to the road, and up the avenue to his own door. 
 
 "Holmes," said Mr. Juxon to his butler, "this 
 man is badly hurt, but he is alive. Help me to carry 
 him upstairs." 
 
 There was that in the squire s voice which brooked 
 neither question nor delay when he was in earnest. 
 The solemn butler took Walter Goddard by the feet 
 and the squire took him by the shoulders ; so they 
 carried him up to a bedroom and laid him down, feel 
 ing for the bed in the dark as they moved. Holmes 
 then lit a candle with great calmness. 
 
 "Shall I send for the medical man, sir?" he asked 
 quietly. 
 
 " Yes. Send the gig as fast as possible. If he is 
 not at home, or cannot be found, send on to the town. 
 If anybody asks questions say the man is a tramp 
 who attacked me in the park and Stamboul pulled 
 him down. Send at once, and bring me some brandy 
 and light the fire here." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Holmes, and left the room. 
 
 Mr. Juxon lighted other candles and examined the 
 injured man. There was now no doubt that he was 
 alive. He breathed faintly but regularly; his pulse 
 beat less rapidly and more firmly. His face was 
 deadly pale and very thin, and his half -opened eyes 
 stared unconsciously upwards, but they were not 
 glazed nor death-like. He seemed to have lost little 
 blood, comparatively speaking. 
 
 "Bah!" ejaculated the squire. "I believe he is 
 only badly frightened, after all." 
 
 Holmes brought brandy and warm water and again 
 left the room. Mr. Juxon bathed Goddard s face 
 
310 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 and neck with a sponge, eying him suspiciously all 
 the while. It would not have surprised him at any 
 moment if he had leaped from the bed and attempted 
 to escape. To guard against surprise, the squire 
 locked the door and put the key in his pocket, watch 
 ing the convict to see whether he noticed the act or 
 was really unconscious. But Goddard never moved 
 nor turned his motionless eyeballs. Mr. Juxon re 
 turned to his side, and with infinite care began to 
 remove his clothes. They were almost in rags. He 
 examined each article, and was surprised to find 
 money in the pockets, amounting to nearly sixty 
 pounds ; then he smiled to himself, remembering that 
 the convict had visited his wife and had doubtless 
 got the money from her to aid him in his escape. 
 He put the notes and gold carefully together in a 
 drawer after counting them, and returning to his 
 occupation succeeded at last in putting Goddard to 
 bed, after staunching his wounds as well as he could 
 with handkerchiefs. 
 
 He stood long by the bedside, watching the man s 
 regular breathing, and examining his face atten 
 tively. Many strange thoughts passed through his 
 mind, as he stood there, looking at the man who had 
 caused such misery to himself, such shame and sor 
 row to his fair wife, such disappointment to the 
 honest man who was now trying to save him from 
 the very grasp of death. So this was Mary God- 
 dard s husband, little Nellie s father this grimy 
 wretch, whose foul rags lay heaped there in the cor 
 ner, whose miserable head pressed the spotless linen 
 of the pillow, whose half-closed eyes stared up so 
 senselessly at the squire s face. This was the man 
 for whose sake Mary Goddard started and turned 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 311 
 
 pale, fainted and grew sick, languished and suffered 
 so much pain. No wonder she concealed it from 
 Nellie no wonder she had feared lest after many 
 years he should come back and claim her for his wife 
 no wonder either that a man with such a face 
 should do bad deeds. 
 
 Mr. Juxon was a judge of faces; persons accus 
 tomed for many years to command men usually are. 
 He noted Walter Goddard s narrow jaw and pointed 
 chin, his eyes set near together, his wicked lips, 
 parted and revealing sharp jagged teeth, his ill-shaped 
 ears and shallow temples, his flat low forehead, shown 
 off by his cropped hair. And yet this man had once 
 been called handsome, he had been admired and 
 courted. But then his hair had hidden the shape of 
 his head, his long golden moustache had covered his 
 mouth and disguised all his lower features, he had 
 been arrayed by tailors of artistic merit, and he had 
 had much gold in his pockets. He was a very differ 
 ent object now the escaped convict, close cropped, 
 with a half-grown beard upon his ill-shaped face, 
 and for all ornament a linen sheet drawn up under 
 his chin. 
 
 The squire was surprised that he did not recover 
 consciousness, seeing that he breathed regularly and 
 was no longer so pale as at first. A faint flush 
 seemed to rise to his sunken cheeks, and for a long 
 time Mr. Juxon stood beside him, expecting every 
 moment that he would speak. Once he thought his 
 lips moved a little. Then Mr. Juxon took a little 
 brandy in a spoon and raising his head poured it 
 down his throat. The effect was immediate. God- 
 dard opened wide his eyes, the blood mounted to his 
 cheeks with a deep flush, and he uttered an inarticu 
 late sound. 
 
312 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "What did you say?" asked the squire, bending 
 over him. 
 
 But there was no answer. The sick man s head 
 fell back upon the pillow, though his eyes remained 
 wide open and the flush did not leave his cheeks. 
 His pulse was now very high, and his breathing grew 
 heavy and stertorous. 
 
 "I hope I have not made him any worse," re 
 marked Mr. Juxon aloud, as he contemplated his 
 patient. "But if he is going to die, I wish he 
 would die now." 
 
 The thought was charitable, on the whole. If 
 Walter Goddard died then and there, he would be 
 buried in a nameless grave under the shadow of the 
 old church ; no one would ever know that he was the 
 celebrated forger, the escaped convict, the husband 
 of Mary Goddard. If he lived heaven alone knew 
 what complications would follow if he lived. 
 
 There was a knock at the door. Mr. Juxon drew 
 the key from his pocket and opened it. Holmes the 
 butler stood outside. 
 
 "Mr. Short has come back, sir. He asked if you 
 wished to see him." 
 
 "Ask him to come here," replied the squire, to 
 whom the tension of keeping his solitary watch was 
 becoming very irksome. In a few moments John 
 entered the room, looking pale and nervous. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 313 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 JOHN SHORT was in absolute ignorance of what 
 was occurring. He attributed Mrs. Goddard s 
 anxiety to her solicitude for Mr. Juxon, and if he 
 had found time to give the matter serious considera 
 tion, he would have argued very naturally that she 
 was fond of the squire. It had been less easy than 
 the latter had supposed to take her home and per 
 suade her to stay there, for she was in a state in 
 which she hardly understood reason. Nothing but 
 John s repeated assurances to the effect that Mr. 
 Juxon was not in the least hurt, and that he would 
 send her word of the condition of the wounded 
 tramp, prevailed upon her to remain at the cottage ; 
 for she had come back to consciousness before the 
 dog-cart was fairly out of the park and had almost 
 refused to enter her own home. 
 
 The catastrophe had happened, after eight and 
 forty hours of suspense, and her position was one of 
 extreme fear and doubt. She had indeed seen the 
 squire at the very moment when she fainted, but the 
 impression was uncertain as that of a dream, and it 
 required all John s asseverations to persuade her that 
 Mr. Juxon had actually met her and insisted that she 
 should return to the cottage. Once there, in her own 
 house, she abandoned herself to the wildest excite 
 ment, shutting herself into the drawing-room and 
 refusing to see anyone ; she gave way to all her sor- 
 
814 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 row and fear, feeling that if she controlled herself 
 any longer she must go mad. Indeed it was the best 
 thing she could do, for her nerves were overstrained, 
 and the hysterical weeping which now completely 
 overpowered her for some time, was the natural relief 
 to her overwrought system. She had not the slightest 
 doubt that the tramp of whom John had spoken, and 
 whom he had described as badly hurt, was her hus 
 band; and together with her joy at Mr. Juxon s 
 escape, she felt an intolerable anxiety to know 
 Walter s fate. If in ordinary circumstances she had 
 been informed that he had died in prison, it would 
 have been absurd to expect her to give way to any 
 expressions of excessive grief; she would perhaps 
 have shed a few womanly tears and for some time 
 she would have been more sad than usual ; but she 
 no longer loved him and his death could only be re 
 garded as a release from all manner of trouble and 
 shame and evil foreboding. With his decease would 
 have ended her fears for poor Nellie, her apprehen 
 sions for the future in case he should return and 
 claim her, the whole weight of her humiliation, and 
 if she was too kind to have rejoiced over such a 
 termination of her woes, she was yet too sensible not 
 to have fully understood and appreciated the fact of 
 her liberation and of the freedom given to the child 
 she loved, by the death of a father whose return could 
 bring nothing but disgrace. But now she did not 
 know whether Walter were alive or dead. If he was 
 alive he was probably so much injured as to preclude 
 all possibility of his escaping, and he must inevitably 
 be given up to justice, no longer to imprisonment 
 merely, but by his own confession to suffer the death 
 of a murderer. If on the other hand he was already 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 315 
 
 dead, he bad died a death less shameful indeed, but 
 of which the circumstances were too horrible for his 
 wife to contemplate, for he must have been torn to 
 pieces by Stamboul the bloodhound. 
 
 She unconsciously comprehended all these consider 
 ations, which entirely deprived her of the power to 
 weigh them in her mind, for her mind was temporarily 
 loosed from all control of the reasoning faculty. She 
 had borne much during the last three days, but she 
 could bear no more ; intellect and sensibility were 
 alike exhausted and gave way together. There were 
 indeed moments, intervals in the fits of hysteric tears 
 and acute mental torture, when she lay quite still in 
 her chair and vaguely asked herself what it all meant, 
 but her disturbed consciousness gave no answer to the 
 question, and presently her tears broke out afresh and 
 she tossed wildly from side to side, or walked hurriedly 
 up and down the room, wringing her hands in despair, 
 sobbing aloud in her agony and again abandoning her 
 self to the uncontrolled exaggerations of her grief and 
 terror. One consolation alone presented itself at in 
 tervals to her confused intelligence ; Mr. Juxon was 
 safe. Whatever other fearful thing had happened, 
 he was safe, saved perhaps by her warning but 
 what was that, if Walter had escaped death only to 
 die at the hands of the hangman, or had found it in 
 the jaws of that fearful bloodhound? What was the 
 safety even of her best friend, if poor Nellie was to 
 know that her father was alive, only to learn that he 
 was to die again ? 
 
 But human suffering cannot outlast human 
 strength; as a marvellous adjustment of forces has 
 ordered that even at the pole, in the regions of bound 
 less and perpetual cold, the sea shall not freeze to the 
 
316 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 bottom, so there is also in human nature a point 
 beyond which suffering cannot extend. The wildest 
 emotions must expend themselves in time, the fiercest 
 passions must burn out. At the end of two hours 
 Mary Goddard was exhausted by the vehemence of 
 her hysteric fear, and woke as from a dream to a dull 
 sense of reality. She knew, now that some power of 
 reflection was restored to her, that the squire would 
 give her intelligence of what had happened, so soon 
 as he was able, and she knew also that she must wait 
 until the morning before any such message could reach 
 her. She took the candle from the table and went 
 upstairs. Nellie was asleep, but her mother felt a 
 longing to look at her again that night, not knowing 
 what misery for her child the morrow might bring 
 forth. 
 
 Nellie lay asleep in her bed, her rich brown hair 
 plaited together and thrown back across the pillow. 
 The long dark fringes of her eyelashes cast a shade 
 upon the transparent colour of her cheek, and the 
 light breath came softly through her parted lips. 
 But as Mary Goddard looked she saw that there were 
 still tears upon her lovely face and that the pillow 
 was still wet. She had cried herself to sleep, for 
 Martha had told her that her mother was very ill and 
 would not see her that night ; Nellie was accustomed 
 to say her prayers at her mother s knee every evening 
 before going to bed, she was used to having her 
 mother smooth her pillow and kiss her and put out 
 her light, leaving her with sweet words, to wake her 
 with sweet words on the next morning, and to-night 
 she had missed all this and had been told moreover 
 that her mother was very ill and was acting very 
 strangely. She had gone to bed and had cried her- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 317 
 
 self to sleep, and the tears were still upon her cheeks. 
 Shading the light carefully from the child s eyes, Mary 
 Goddard bent down and kissed her forehead once and 
 then feeling that her sorrow was rising again she 
 turned and passed noiselessly from the room. 
 
 But Nellie was dreaming peacefully and knew noth 
 ing of her mother s visit ; she slept on not knowing 
 that scarcely a quarter of a mile away her own father, 
 whom she had been taught to think of as dead, was 
 lying at the Hall, wounded and unconscious while 
 half the detectives in the kingdom were looking for 
 him. Had Nellie known that, her sleep would have 
 been little and her dreams few. 
 
 There was little rest at the Hall that night. When 
 Reynolds had driven John back to the great house he 
 found his way to the kitchen and got his beer, and he 
 became at once a centre of interest, being overwhelmed 
 with questions concerning the events of the evening. 
 But he was able to say very little except that while 
 waiting before the cottage he had heard strange noises 
 from the park, that Master John had run up the 
 avenue, that Mrs. Goddard had taken Miss Nellie into 
 the house and had then insisted upon being driven 
 towards the Hall, that they had met Master John and 
 the squire and that Mrs. Goddard had been "took 
 wuss." 
 
 Meanwhile John entered the room where Mr. Juxon 
 was watching over Walter Goddard. John looked 
 pale and nervous ; he had not recovered from the un 
 pleasant sensation of being left alone with what he 
 believed to be a dead body, in the struggling moon 
 light and the howling wind. He was by no means 
 timid by nature, but young nerves are not so tough 
 as old ones and he had felt exceedingly uncomfortable. 
 
318 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 He stood a moment within the room, then glanced at 
 the bed and started with surprise. 
 
 " Why he is not dead after all ! " he exclaimed, and 
 going nearer he looked hard at Goddard s flushed face. 
 
 " No," said Mr. Juxon, " he is not dead. He may 
 be dying for all I know. I have sent for the doctor." 
 
 " Was he much hurt ? " asked John, still looking at 
 the sick man. " He looks to me as though he were in 
 a fever." 
 
 " He does not seem so badly hurt. I cannot make 
 it out at all. At first I thought he was badly fright 
 ened, but I cannot bring him to consciousness. Per 
 haps he has a fever, as you say. This is a most 
 unpleasant experience, Mr. Short your first night 
 at the Hall, too. Of course I am bound to look after 
 the man, as Stamboul did the damage it would have 
 served him right if he had been killed. It was a vil 
 lainous blow he gave me I can feel it still. The 
 moral of it is that one should always wear a thick 
 ulster when one walks alone at night." 
 
 " I did not know he struck you," said John in some 
 surprise. 
 
 " Jumped out of the copse at the turning and struck 
 at me with a bludgeon," said Mr. Juxon. " Knocked 
 my hat off, into the bargain, and then ran away with 
 Stamboul after him. If I had not come up in time 
 there would have been nothing left of him." 
 
 "I should say the dog saved your life," remarked 
 John, much impressed by the squire s unadorned tale. 
 " What object can the fellow have had in attacking 
 you ? Strange his eyes are open, but he does not 
 seem to understand us." 
 
 Mr. Juxon walked to the bedside and contemplated 
 the sick man s features with undisguised disgust. 
 
A TALE OF A LOXELY PARISH. 319 
 
 " You villain ! " lie said roughly. " Why don t you 
 answer for yourself ? " The man did not move, and 
 the squire began to pace the room. John was struck 
 by Mr. Juxon s tone: it was not like him, he thought, 
 to speak in that way to a helpless creature. He could 
 not understand it. There was a long silence, broken 
 only by the heavy breathing of Goddard. 
 
 "Really, Mr. Short," said the squire at last, "I 
 have no intention of keeping you up all night. The 
 village doctor must have been out. It may be more 
 than an hour before my man finds another." 
 
 "Never mind," said John quietly. "I will wait 
 till he comes at all events. You may need me before 
 it is over." 
 
 " Do you think he looks as if he were going to 
 die ? " asked the squire doubtfully, as he again ap 
 proached the bedside. 
 
 " I don t know," answered John, standing on the 
 other side. "I never saw any one die. He looks 
 very ill." 
 
 " Very ill. I have seen many people die but 
 somehow I have a strong impression that this fellow 
 will live." 
 
 " Let us hope so," said John. 
 
 "Well " The squire checked himself. Prob 
 ably the hope he would have expressed would not 
 have coincided with that to which John had given 
 utterance. " Well," he repeated, " I daresay he will. 
 Mr. Short, are you at all nervous ? Since you are so 
 good as to say you will wait until the doctor comes, 
 would you mind very much being left alone here for 
 five minutes ? " 
 
 " No," answered John, stoutly, " not in the least." 
 To be left in a well-lighted room by the bedside of 
 
320 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Walter Goddard, ill indeed, but alive and breathing 
 vigorously, was very different from being requested 
 to watch his apparently dead body out in the park 
 under the moonlight. 
 
 With a word of thanks, the squire left the room, 
 and hastened to his study, where he proceeded to 
 write a note, as follows : 
 
 "My DEAR MR. AMBROSE The man we were 
 speaking of yesterday morning actually attacked me 
 this evening. Stamboul worried him badly, but he is 
 not dead. He is lying here, well cared for, and I 
 have sent for the doctor. If convenient to you, 
 would you come in the morning ? I need not recom 
 mend discretion. Sincerely yours, 
 
 " C. J. JUXON. 
 
 " N.B. I am not hurt." 
 
 Having ascertained that Reynolds was still in the 
 kitchen, the missive was given to the old man with 
 an injunction to use all speed, as the vicar might be 
 going to bed and the note was important. 
 
 John, meanwhile, being left alone sat down near 
 the wounded man s bed and waited, glancing at the 
 flushed face and staring eyes from time to time, and 
 wondering whether the fellow would recover. The 
 young scholar had been startled by all that had 
 occurred, and his ideas wandered back to the begin 
 ning of the evening, scarcely realising that a few 
 hours ago he had not met Mrs. Goddard, had not 
 experienced a surprising change in his feelings 
 towards her, had not witnessed the strange scene 
 under the trees. It seemed as though all these 
 things had occupied a week at the very least, whereas 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 321 
 
 on that same afternoon he had been speculating upon 
 his meeting with Mrs. Goddard, calling up her feat 
 ures to his mind as he had last seen them, framing 
 speeches which when the meeting came he had not 
 delivered, letting his mind run riot in the delicious 
 anticipation of appearing before her in the light of a 
 successful competitor for one of the greatest honours 
 of English scholarship. And yet in a few hours all 
 his feelings were changed, and to his infinite surprise, 
 were changed without any suffering to himself; he 
 knew well that, for some reason, Mrs. Goddard had 
 lost the mysterious power of making him blush, and 
 of sending strange thrills through his whole nature 
 when he sat at her side ; with some justice he attrib 
 uted his new indifference to the extraordinary altera 
 tion in her appearance, whereby she seemed now so 
 much older than himself, and he forthwith moralised 
 upon the mutability of human affairs, with all the 
 mental fluency of a very young man whose affairs are 
 still extremely mutable. He fell to musing on the 
 accident in the park, wondering how he would have 
 acted in Mr. Juxon s place, wondering especially 
 what object could have led the wretched tramp to 
 attack the squire, wondering too at the very great 
 anxiety shown by Mrs. Goddard. 
 
 As he sat by the bedside, the sick man suddenly 
 moved and turning his eyes full upon John s face 
 stared at him with a look of dazed surprise. He 
 thrust out his wounded hand, bound up in a white 
 handkerchief through which a little blood was slowly 
 oozing, and to John s infinite surprise he spoke. 
 
 " Who are you ? " he asked in a strange, mumbling 
 voice, as though he had pebbles in his mouth. 
 
 John started forward in his chair and looked in 
 tently at Goddard s face. 
 
322 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "My name is Short," he answered mechanically. 
 But the passing flash of intelligence was already 
 gone, and Goddard s look became a glassy and idiotic 
 stare. Still his lips moved. John came nearer and 
 listened. 
 
 44 Mary Goddard ! Mary Goddard ! Let me in ! " 
 said the sick man quite intelligibly, in spite of his 
 uncertain tone. John uttered an exclamation of as 
 tonishment; his heart beat fast and he listened in 
 tently. The sick man mumbled inarticulate sounds ; 
 not another word could be distinguished. John looked 
 for the bell, thinking that Mr. Juxon should be in 
 formed of the strange phenomenon at once ; but before 
 he could ring the squire himself entered the room, 
 having finished and despatched his note to Mr. 
 Ambrose. 
 
 " It is most extraordinary," said John. " He spoke 
 just now " 
 
 " What did he say ? " asked Mr. Juxon very 
 quickly. 
 
 a He said first, 4 Who are you ? and then he said 
 Mary Goddard, let me in! Is it not most ex 
 traordinary? How in the world should he know 
 about Mrs. Goddard ? " 
 
 The squire turned a little pale and was silent for a 
 moment. He had left John with the wounded man 
 feeling sure that, for some time at least, the latter 
 would not be likely to say anything intelligible. 
 
 " Most extraordinary ! " he repeated presently. 
 Then he looked at Goddard closely, and turned 
 him again upon his back and put his injured hand 
 beneath the sheet. 
 
 " Do you understand me ? Do you know who I 
 am ? " he asked in a loud tone close to his ear. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 323 
 
 But the unfortunate man gave no sign of intelli 
 gence, only his inarticulate mumbling grew louder 
 though not more distinct. Mr. Juxon turned away 
 impatiently. 
 
 " The fellow is in a delirium," he said. " I wish 
 the doctor would come." He had hardly turned his 
 back when the man spoke again. 
 
 " Mary Goddard ! " he cried. " Let me in ! " 
 
 " There ! " said John. " The same words ! " 
 
 Mr. Juxon shuddered, and looked curiously at his 
 companion ; then thrust his hands into his pockets and 
 whistling softly walked about the room. John was 
 shocked at what seemed in the squire a sort of inde 
 cent levity ; he could not understand that his friend 
 felt as though he should go mad. 
 
 Indeed the squire suffered intensely. The name of 
 Mary Goddard, pronounced by the convict in his 
 delirium brought home more vividly than anything 
 could have done the relation between the wounded 
 tramp and the woman the squire loved. It was posi 
 tively true, then there was not a shadow of doubt 
 left, since this wretch lay there mumbling her name 
 in his ravings ! This was the husband of that gentle 
 creature with sad pathetic eyes, so delicate, so refined 
 that it seemed as though the coarser breath of the 
 world of sin and shame could never come near her 
 this was her husband ! It was horrible. This was the 
 father of lovely Nellie, too. Was anything wanting 
 to make the contrast more hideous ? 
 
 Mr. Juxon felt that it was impossible to foresee 
 what Walter Goddard might say in the course of an 
 other hour. He had often seen people in a delirium 
 and knew how strangely that inarticulate murmuring 
 sometimes breaks off into sudden incisive speech, as- 
 
324 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 tonishing every one who hears. The man had already 
 betrayed that he knew Mary Goddard; at the next 
 interval in his ravings he might betray that she was 
 his wife. John was still standing by the bedside, not 
 having recovered from his astonishment ; if John heard 
 any more, he would be in possession of Mrs. Goddard s 
 secret. The squire was an energetic man, equal to 
 most emergencies ; he suddenly made up his mind. 
 
 " Mr. Short," he said, " I will tell you something. 
 You will see the propriety of being very discreet, in 
 fact it is only to ensure your discretion that I wish to 
 tell you this much. I have reason to believe that this 
 fellow is a convict do not be surprised escaped 
 from prison. He is a man who once was in love 
 with Mrs. Goddard, which accounts for his having 
 found his way to Billingsfield. Yes I know what 
 you are going to say Mrs. Goddard is aware of his 
 presence, and that accounts for her excitement and her 
 fainting. Do you understand?" 
 
 "But good heavens ! " exclaimed John in amaze 
 ment. "Why did she not give information, if she 
 knew he was in the neighbourhood ? " 
 
 " That would be more than could be expected of 
 any woman, Mr. Short. You forget that the man once 
 loved her." 
 
 " And how did you well, no. I won t ask any 
 questions." 
 
 " No," said the squire, " please don t. You would 
 be placing me in a disagreeable position. Not that 
 I do not trust you implicitly, Mr. Short," he added 
 frankly, " but I should be betraying a confidence. If 
 this fellow dies here, he will be buried as an unknown 
 tramp. I found no trace of a name upon his clothes. 
 If he recovers, we will decide what course to pursue. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 325 
 
 We will do our best for him it is a delicate case of 
 conscience. Possibly the poor fellow would very much 
 prefer being allowed to die ; but we cannot let him. 
 Humanity, for some unexplained reason, forbids eu 
 thanasia and the use of the hemlock in such cases." 
 
 " Was he sentenced for a long time ? " asked John, 
 very much impressed by the gravity of the situation. 
 
 " Twelve years originally, I believe. Aggravated 
 by his escape and by his assault on me, his term 
 might very likely be extended to twenty years if he 
 were taken again." 
 
 " That is to say, if he recovers?" inquired John. 
 
 "Precisely. I do not think I would hesitate to 
 send him back to prison if he recovered." 
 
 " I do not wonder you think he would rather die 
 here, if he were consulted," said John. " It would 
 not be murder to let him die peacefully " 
 
 " In the opinion of the law it might be called man 
 slaughter, though I do not suppose anything would 
 be said if I had simply placed him here and omitted 
 to call in a physician. He cannot live very long in 
 this state, unless something is done for him immedi 
 ately. Look at him." 
 
 There was no apparent change in Goddard s con 
 dition. He lay upon his back staring straight up 
 ward and mumbling aloud with every breath he 
 drew. 
 
 " He must have been ill, before he attacked me," 
 continued Mr. Juxon, very much as though he were 
 talking to himself. " He evidently is in a raging 
 fever brain fever I should think. That is probably 
 the reason why he missed his aim that and the 
 darkness. If he had been well he would have killed 
 me fast enough with that bludgeon. As you say, Mr. 
 
326 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Short, there is no doubt whatever that he would pre 
 fer to die here, if he had his choice. In my opinion, 
 too, it would be far more merciful to him and to 
 to him in fact. Nevertheless, neither you nor I 
 would like to remember that we had let him die 
 without doing all we could to keep him alive. It is 
 a very singular case." 
 
 " Most singular," echoed John. 
 
 " Besides there is another thing. Suppose that 
 he had attacked me as he did, but that I had killed 
 him with my stick or that Stamboul had made an 
 end of him then and there. The law would have 
 said it served him right would it not? Of course. 
 But if I had not quite killed him, or, as has actually 
 happened, he survived the embraces of my dog, the 
 law insists that I ought to do everything in my power 
 to save the remnant of his life. What for ? In order 
 that the law may give itself the satisfaction of dealing 
 with him according to its lights. I think the law is 
 very greedy, I object to it, I think it is ridiculous 
 from that point of view, but then, when I come to 
 examine the thing I find that my own conscience 
 tells me to save him, although I think it best that he 
 should die. Therefore the law is not ridiculous. 
 Pleasant dilemma the impossible case ! The law 
 is at the same time ridiculous and not ridiculous. 
 The question is, does the law deduce itself from con 
 science, or is conscience the direct result of existing 
 law?" 
 
 The squire appeared to be in a strangely moralising 
 mood, and John listened to him with some surprise. 
 He could not understand that the good man was talk 
 ing to persuade himself, and to concentrate his facul 
 ties, which had been almost unbalanced by the events 
 of the evening. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 327 
 
 " I think," said John with remarkable good sense, 
 " that the instinct of man is to preserve life when he 
 is calm. When a man is fighting with another he is 
 hot and tries to kill his enemy ; when the fight is 
 over, the natural instinct returns." 
 
 " The only thing worth knowing in such cases is 
 the precise point at which the fight may be said to be 
 over. I once knew a young surgeon in India who 
 thought he had killed a cobra and proceeded to extract 
 the fangs in order to examine the poison. Unfortu 
 nately the snake was not quite dead; he bit the 
 surgeon in the finger and the poor fellow died in 
 thirty-five minutes." 
 
 "Dreadful!" said John. "But you do not think 
 this poor fellow could do anything very dangerous 
 now do you?" 
 
 " Oh, dear me, no ! " returned the squire. " I was 
 only stating a case to prove that one is sometimes 
 justified in going quite to the end of a fight. No 
 indeed! He will not be dangerous for some time, 
 if he ever is again. But, as I was saying, he must 
 have been ill some time. Delirium never comes on 
 in this way, so soon " 
 
 Some one knocked at the door. It was Holmes, 
 who came to say that the physician, Doctor Long- 
 street, had arrived. 
 
 " Oh it is Doctor Longstreet is it ? " said the 
 squire. " Ask him to come up." 
 
328 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 DOCTOR LONGSTREET was not the freethinking 
 physician of Billingsfield. The latter was out when 
 Mr. Juxon s groom went in search of him, and the 
 man had driven on to the town, six miles away. 
 The doctor was an old man with a bright eye, a 
 deeply furrowed forehead, a bald head and clean 
 shaved face. He walked as though his frame were 
 set together with springs and there was a curious 
 snapping quickness in his speech. He seemed full 
 of vitality and bore his years with a jaunty air of 
 merriment which inspired confidence, for he seemed 
 perpetually laughing at the ills of the flesh and 
 ready to make other people laugh at them too. But 
 his bright eyes had a penetrating look and though he 
 judged quickly he generally was right in his opinion. 
 He entered the room briskly, not knowing that the 
 sick man was there. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Juxon," he said cheerfully, " I am with 
 you." He had the habit of announcing his presence 
 in this fashion, as though his brisk and active person 
 ality were likely to be overlooked. A moment later 
 he caught sight of the bed. " Dear me," he added in 
 a lower voice, " I did not know our patient was here." 
 
 He went to Walter Goddard s side, looked at him 
 attentively, felt his pulse, and his forehead, glanced 
 at the bandages the squire had roughly put upon his 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 329 
 
 throat and hand, drew up the sheet again beneath his 
 chin and turned sharply round. 
 
 "Brain fever, sir," he said cheerfully. "Brain 
 fever. You must get some ice and have some beef 
 tea made as soon as possible. He is in a very bad 
 way curious, too ; he looks like a cross between a 
 ticket of leave man and a gentleman. Tramp, you 
 say? That would not prevent his being either. You 
 cannot disturb him don t be afraid. He hears 
 nothing is off, the Lord knows where, raving 
 delirious. Must look to his scratches though dan 
 gerous inflammation. Do you mind telling me 
 what happened how long he has been here?" 
 
 The squire in a few words informed Doctor Long- 
 street of the attack made upon him in the park. The 
 doctor looked at his watch. 
 
 " Only two hours and a half since," he remarked. 
 " It is just midnight now, very good the man must 
 have been in a fever all day yesterday, too, perhaps. 
 He is not badly hurt by the dog like to see that 
 dog, if you don t mind the fright most likely sent 
 him into delirium. You have nothing to accuse 
 yourself of, Mr. Juxon : it was certainly not your 
 fault. Even if the dog had not bitten him, he would 
 most likely have been in his present state by this 
 time. Would you mind sending for some ice at once ? 
 Thank you. It was very lucky for the fellow that he 
 attacked you just when he did secured him the 
 chance of being well taken care of. If he had gone 
 off like this in the park he would have been dead 
 before morning." 
 
 The squire rang and sent for the ice the doctor 
 demanded. 
 
 " Do you think he will live ? " he asked nervously. 
 
330 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " I don t know," answered Doctor Longstreet, 
 frankly. "Nobody can tell. He is very much 
 exhausted may live two or three days in this state 
 and then die or go to sleep and get well may die 
 in the morning often do cannot say. With a 
 great deal of care, I think he has a chance." 
 
 " I am very anxious to save him," said the squire, 
 looking hard at the physician. 
 
 " Very good of you, I am sure," replied Doctor 
 Longstreet, cheerfully. "It is not everybody who 
 would take so much trouble for a tramp. Of course 
 if he dies people will say your dog killed him ; but I 
 will sign a paper to the effect that it is not true. If 
 he had left you and your dog alone, he would have 
 been dead in the morning to an absolute certainty." 
 
 " How very extraordinary ! " exclaimed the squire, 
 suddenly realising that instead of causing the man s 
 death Stamboul had perhaps saved his life. 
 
 "It was certainly very odd that he should have 
 chosen the best moment for assaulting you," con 
 tinued the doctor. "It is quite possible that even 
 then he was under some delusion took you for 
 somebody else some old enemy. People do queer 
 things in a brain fever. By the bye has he said any 
 thing intelligible since he has been here ? " 
 
 John Short who had been standing silently by the 
 bedside during the whole interview looked up quickly 
 at the squire, wondering how he would answer. But 
 Mr. Juxon did not hesitate. 
 
 " Yes. Twice he repeated a woman s name. That 
 is very natural, I suppose. Do you think he will 
 have any lucid moments for some time ? " 
 
 " May," said the doctor, " may. When he does it 
 is likely to be at the turning point; he will either 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 331 
 
 die or be better very soon after. If it comes soon he 
 may say something intelligible. If he is much more 
 exhausted than he is now, he will understand you, 
 but you will not understand him. Meningitis always 
 brings a partial paralysis of the tongue, when the 
 patient is exhausted. Most probably he will go on 
 moaning and mumbling, as he does now, for another 
 day. You will be able to tell by his eye whether he 
 understands anything; perhaps he will make some 
 sign with his head or hand. Ah here is the ice." 
 
 Doctor Longstreet went about his operations in a 
 rapid and business like fashion and John gave what 
 assistance he could. The squire stood leaning against 
 the chimney-piece in deep thought. 
 
 Indeed he had enough to think of, when he had 
 fully weighed the meaning of the doctor s words. He 
 was surprised beyond measure at the turn things had 
 taken ; for although, as he had previously told John, 
 he suspected that Goddard must have been in a fever 
 for several hours before the assault, it had not struck 
 him that Stamboul s attack had been absolutely harm 
 less, still less that it might prove to have been the 
 means of saving the convict s life. It was terribly 
 hard to say that he desired to save the man, and yet 
 the honest man in his heart prayed that he might 
 really hope for that result. It would be far worse, 
 should Goddard die, to remember that he had wished 
 for his death. But it would be hard to imagine a 
 more unexpected position than that in which the 
 squire found himself ; by a perfectly natural chain 
 of circumstances he was now tending with the utmost 
 care the man who had tried to murder him, and who 
 of all men in the world, stood most in the way of the 
 accomplishment of his desires. 
 
332 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 He could not hide from himself the fact that he 
 hated the sick man, even though he hoped, or tried 
 to hope for his recovery. He hated him for the 
 shame and suffering he had brought upon Mary 
 Goddard in the first instance, for the terrible anxiety 
 he had caused her by his escape and sudden appear 
 ance at her house ; he hated him for being what he 
 was, being also the father of Nellie, and he hated him 
 honestly for his base attempt upon himself that night. 
 He had good cause to hate him, and perhaps he was 
 not ashamed of his hatred. To be called upon, how 
 ever, to return good for such an accumulated mass of 
 evil was almost too much for his human nature. It 
 was but a faint satisfaction to think that if he re 
 covered he was to be sent back to prison. Mr. Juxon 
 did not know that there was blood upon the man s 
 hands he had yet to learn that ; he would not deign 
 to mention the assault in the park when he handed 
 him over to the authorities ; the man should simply 
 go back to Portland to suffer the term of his imprison 
 ment, as soon as he should be well enough to be 
 moved if that time ever came. If he died, he 
 should be buried decently in a nameless grave, " six 
 feet by four, by two," as Thomas Reid would have 
 said if he died. 
 
 Meanwhile, however, there was yet another con 
 sideration which disturbed the squire s meditations. 
 Mrs. Goddard had a right to know that her husband 
 was dying and, if she so pleased, she had a right to 
 be at his bedside. But at the same time it would be 
 necessary so to account for her presence as not to 
 arouse Doctor Longstreet s suspicions, nor the com 
 ments of Holmes, the butler, and of his brigade in 
 the servants hall. It was no easy matter to do this 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 333 
 
 unless Mrs. Goddard were accompanied by the vicar s 
 wife, the excellent and maternally minded Mrs. Am 
 brose. To accomplish this it would be necessary to 
 ask the latter lady to spend a great part of her time 
 at the Hall in taking care of the wretched Goddard, 
 who would again be the gainer. But Mrs. Ambrose 
 was as yet ignorant of the fact that he had escaped 
 from prison ; she must be told then, and an effort 
 must be made to elicit her sympathy. Perhaps she 
 and the vicar would come and stop a few days, 
 thought the squire. Mrs. Goddard might then come 
 and go as she pleased. Her presence by her husband s 
 bedside would then be accounted for on the ground 
 of her charitable disposition. 
 
 While Mr. Juxon was revolving these things in his 
 mind he watched the doctor and John who were doing 
 what was necessary for the sick man. Goddard 
 moaned helplessly with every breath, in a loud, mo 
 notonous tone, very wearing to the nerves of those 
 who heard it. 
 
 " There is little to be done," said Doctor Longstreet 
 at last. " He must be fed alternately a little beef 
 tea and then a little weak brandy and water. We 
 must try and keep the system up. That is his only 
 chance. I will prescribe something and send it back 
 by the groom." 
 
 " You are not going to leave us to-night?" exclaimed 
 the squire in alarm. 
 
 "Must. Very sorry. Bad case of diphtheria in 
 town probably die before morning, unless I get 
 there in time I would not have come here for 
 any one else. I will certainly be here before ten 
 he will live till then, I fancy, and I don t believe 
 there will be any change in his condition. Good-night, 
 
334 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 Mr. Juxon beef tea and brandy every quarter of an 
 hour. Good-night, Mr. " he turned to John. 
 
 " Short," said John. " Good-night, doctor." 
 
 "Ah I remember used to be with Mr. Ambrose 
 yes. Delighted to meet you again, Mr. Short 
 good-night." 
 
 The doctor vanished, before either the squire or 
 John had time to follow him. His departure left an 
 unpleasant sense of renewed responsibility in the 
 squire s mind. 
 
 " You had better go to bed, Mr. Short," he said 
 kindly. " I will sit up with him." 
 
 But John would not hear of any such arrangement ; 
 he insisted upon bearing his share of the watching and 
 stoutly refused to leave the squire alone. There was 
 a large dressing-room attached to the room where 
 Goddard was lying ; the squire and John finally agreed 
 to watch turn and turn about, one remaining with 
 Goddard, while the other rested upon the couch in the 
 dressing-room aforesaid. The squire insisted upon 
 taking his watch first, and John lay down. It was 
 past midnight and he was very tired, but it seemed 
 impossible to sleep with the sound of that loud, mo 
 notonous mumbling perpetually in his ears. It was 
 a horrible night, and John Short never forgot it so 
 long as he lived. Years afterwards he could not 
 enter the room where Goddard had lain without 
 fancying he heard that perpetual groaning still ring 
 ing in his ears. For many hours it continued un 
 abated and unchanging, never dying away to silence 
 nor developing to articulate words. From time to 
 time John could hear the squire s step as he moved 
 about, administering the nourishment prescribed. If 
 he had had the slightest idea of Mr. Juxon s state of 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 335 
 
 mind he would hardly have left him even to rest 
 awhile in the next room. 
 
 Fortunately the squire s nerves were solid. A firm 
 constitution hardened by thirty years of seafaring and 
 by the consistent and temperate regularity which was 
 part of his character, had so toughened his natural 
 strength as to put him almost beyond the reach of 
 mortal ills; otherwise he must have broken down 
 under the mental strain thus forced upon him. It is 
 no light thing to do faithfully the utmost to save 
 a man one has good reason to hate, and whose death 
 would be an undoubted blessing to every one who has 
 anything to do with him. Walter Goddard was to 
 Charles Juxon at once an enemy, an obstacle and a 
 rival; an enemy, for having attempted his life, an 
 obstacle, because while he lived he prevented the 
 squire from marrying Mrs. Goddard and a rival be 
 cause she had once loved him and for the sake of that 
 love was still willing to sacrifice much for him. And 
 yet the very fact that she had loved him made it 
 easier to be kind to him ; it seemed to the squire that, 
 after all, in taking care of Goddard he was in some 
 measure serving her, too, seeing that she would have 
 done the same thing herself could she have been 
 present. 
 
 Yet there was something very generous and large- 
 hearted in the way Charles Juxon did his duty by the 
 sick man. There are people who seem by nature 
 designed to act heroic parts in life, whose actions 
 habitually take an heroic form, and whose whole 
 character is of another stamp from that of average 
 humanity. Of such people much is expected, because 
 they seem to offer much ; no one is surprised to hear 
 of their making great sacrifices, no one is astonished if 
 
336 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 they exhibit great personal courage in times of danger. 
 Very often they are people of large vanity, whose 
 chiefest vanity is not to seem vain ; gifted with great 
 powers and always seeking opportunities of using 
 them, holding high ideas upon most subjects but 
 rarely conceiving themselves incapable of attaining 
 to any ideal they select for their admiration ; brave in 
 combat partly from real courage, partly, as I have 
 often heard officers say of a dandy soldier in the 
 ranks, because they are too proud to run away ; but, 
 on the whole, heroic by temperament and in virtue 
 of a singular compound of pride, strength and virtue, 
 often accomplishing really great things. They are 
 almost always what are called striking people, for 
 their pride and their strength generally attract 
 attention by their magnitude, and something in their 
 mere appearance distinguishes them from the average 
 mass. 
 
 But Charles Juxon did not in any way belong to 
 this type, any more than the other persons who found 
 themselves concerned in the events which culminated 
 in Goddard s illness. He was a very simple man 
 whose pride was wholly unconscious, who did not 
 believe himself destined to do anything remarkable, 
 who regarded his own personality as rather uninter 
 esting and who, had he been asked about himself, 
 would have been the first to disclaim any sentiments 
 of the heroic kind. With very little imagination, 
 he possessed great stability himself and great belief 
 in the stability of things in general, a character of 
 the traditional kind known as " northern," though it 
 would be much more just to describe it as the " tem 
 perate " or " central " type of man. Wherever there 
 is exaggeration in nature, there is exaggerated imag- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 337 
 
 ination in man. The solid and unimaginative part of 
 the English character is undeniably derived from the 
 Angles or from the Flemish ; it is morally the best 
 part, but it is by all odds the least interesting it is 
 found in the type of man belonging to the plains in a 
 temperate zone, who differs in every respect from the 
 real northman, his distant cousin and hereditary enemy. 
 If Charles Juxon was remarkable for anything it was 
 for his modesty and reticence, in a word, for his ap 
 parent determination not to be remarkable at all. 
 
 And now, in the extremest anxiety and difficulty, 
 his character served him well ; for he unconsciously 
 refused to allow to himself that his position was ex 
 traordinary or his responsibility greater than he was 
 able to bear. He disliked intensely the idea of being 
 put forward or thrust into a dramatic situation, and 
 he consequently failed signally to fulfil the dramatic 
 necessities. There was not even a struggle in his 
 heart between the opposite possibilities of letting 
 Goddard die, by merely relaxing his attention, and of 
 redoubling his care and bringing about his recovery. 
 He never once asked himself, after the chances of the 
 patient surviving the fever were stated, whether he 
 would not be justified in sending for some honest 
 housewife from the village to take care of the tramp 
 instead of looking to his wants himself. He simply 
 did his best to save the man s life, without hesitation, 
 without suspecting that he was doing anything extraor 
 dinary, doing, as he had always done, the best thing 
 that came in his way according to the best of his abil 
 ity. He could not wholly suppress the reflection that 
 much good might ensue from Goddard s death, but 
 the thought never for a moment interfered with his 
 efforts to save the convict alive. 
 
338 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 But John lay in the next room, kept awake by the 
 sick man s perpetual groaning and by the train of 
 thought which ran through his brain. There were 
 indeed more strange things than his philosophy could 
 account for, but the strangest of all was that the 
 squire should know who the tramp was; he must 
 know it, John thought, since he knew all about him, 
 his former love for Mrs. Goddard and his recent pres 
 ence in the neighbourhood. The young man s curi 
 osity was roused to its highest pitch and he longed to 
 know more. He at once guessed that there must have 
 been much intimate confidence between Mr. Juxon 
 and Mrs. Goddard ; he suspected moreover that there 
 must be some strange story connected with her, some 
 thing which accounted for the peculiar stamp of a 
 formerly luxurious life which still clung to her, and 
 which should explain her residence in Billingsfield. 
 But John was very far from suspecting the real truth. 
 
 His mind was restless and the inaction became in 
 tolerable to him. He rose at last and went again into 
 the room where his friend was watching. Mr. Juxon 
 sat by the bedside, the very picture of patience, one 
 leg crossed over the other and his hands folded to 
 gether upon his knee, his face paler than usual but 
 perfectly calm, his head bent a little to one side and 
 his smooth hair, which had been slightly ruffled in the 
 encounter in the park, as smooth as ever. It was a 
 very distinctive feature of him; it was part of the 
 sleek and spotless neatness which Mrs. Ambrose so 
 much admired. 
 
 " It is my turn, now," said John. " Will you lie 
 down for a couple of hours?" 
 
 The squire rose. Being older and less excitable 
 than John, he was beginning to feel the need of rest. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 339 
 
 People who have watched often by the sick know how 
 terribly long are those hours of the night between 
 three o clock and dawn ; long always, but seeming 
 interminable when one is obliged to listen perpetually 
 to a long-drawn, inarticulate moaning, a constant 
 effort to speak which never results in words. 
 
 "You are very good," said Mr. Juxon, quietly. 
 " If you will give him the things from time to time, 
 I will take a nap." 
 
 With that he went and lay down upon the couch, 
 and in three minutes was as sound asleep as though 
 he were in bed. John sat by the sick man and looked 
 at his flushed features and listened to the hard-drawn 
 breath followed each time by that terrible, monot 
 onous, mumbling groan. 
 
 It might have been three-quarters of an hour since 
 the squire had gone to sleep when John thought he 
 saw a change in Goddard s face ; it seemed to him 
 that the flush subsided from his forehead, very slowly, 
 leaving only a bright burning colour in his cheeks- 
 His eyes seemed suddenly to grow clearer and a 
 strange look of intelligence came into them ; his 
 whole appearance was as though illuminated by a 
 flash of some light different from that of the candles 
 which burned upon the table. John rose to his feet 
 and came and looked at him. The groaning sud 
 denly ceased and Goddard s eyelids, which had been 
 motionless for hours, moved naturally. He appeared 
 to be observing John s face attentively. 
 
 44 Where is the squire ? " he asked quite naturally 
 so naturally that John was startled. 
 
 " Asleep in the next room," replied the latter. 
 
 " I did not kill him after all," said Goddard, turn 
 ing himself a little as though to be more at his ease. 
 
340 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "No," answered John. "He is not hurt at all. 
 Can you tell me who you are?" For his life, he 
 could not help asking the question. It seemed so 
 easy to find out who the fellow was, now that he 
 could speak intelligibly. But Goddard s face con 
 tracted suddenly, in a hideous smile. 
 
 "Don t you wish you knew?" he said roughly. 
 "But I know you, my boy, I know you ha! ha! 
 There s no getting away from you, my boy, is there ? " 
 
 " Who am I ? " asked John in astonishment. 
 
 " You are the hangman," said Goddard. " I know 
 you very well. The hangman is always so well 
 dressed. I say, old chap, turn us off quick, you know 
 no fumbling about the bolt. Look here I like 
 your face," he lowered his voice " there are nearly 
 sixty pounds in my right-hand trouser pocket there 
 are Mary ah gave M a " 
 
 Again his eyes fixed themselves and the moaning 
 began and continued. John was horror-struck and 
 stood for a moment gazing at his face, over which 
 the deep flush had spread once more, seeming to 
 obliterate all appearance of intelligence. Then the 
 young man put his hand beneath Goddard s head and 
 gently replaced him in his former position, smoothing 
 the pillows, and giving him a little brandy. He de 
 bated whether or not he should call the squire from 
 his rest to tell him what had happened, but seeing 
 that Goddard had now returned to his former state? 
 he supposed such moments of clear speech were to be 
 expected from time to time. He sat down again, and 
 waited ; then after a time he went to the window and 
 looked anxiously for the dawn. It seemed an intoler 
 ably long night. 
 
 But the day came at last and shed a ghastly grey 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 341 
 
 tinge upon the sick-room, revealing as it were the out 
 lines of all that was bad to look at, which the warm 
 yellow candle-light had softened with a kindlier 
 touch. John accidentally looked at himself in the 
 mirror as he passed and was startled at his own pale 
 face ; but the convict, labouring in the ravings of his 
 fever, seemed unconscious of the dawning day; he 
 was not yet exhausted and his harsh voice never 
 ceased its jarring gibber. John wondered whether 
 he should ever spend such a night again, and shud 
 dered at the recollection of each moment. 
 
 The daylight waked the squire from his slumbers, 
 however, and before the sun was up he came out of 
 the dressing-room, looking almost as fresh as though 
 nothing had happened to him in the night. Accus 
 tomed for years to rise at all hours, in all weathers, 
 unimpressionable, calm and strong, he seemed supe 
 rior to the course of events. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Short, you allowed me a long nap. 
 You must be quite worn out, I should think. How 
 is the patient ? " 
 
 John told what had occurred. 
 
 " Took you for the hangman, did he ? " said the 
 squire. "I wonder why but you say he asked 
 after me very sensibly ? " 
 
 " Quite so. It was when I asked him his own name, 
 that he began raving again," answered John innocently. 
 
 " What made you ask him that ? " asked Mr. 
 Juxon, who did not seem pleased. 
 
 " Curiosity," was John s laconic answer. 
 
 " Yes but I fancy it frightened him. If I were 
 you I would not do it again, if he has a lucid moment. 
 I imagine it was fright that made him delirious in 
 the first instance." 
 
342 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "All right," quoth John. "I won t." But he 
 made his own deductions. The squire evidently 
 knew who he was, and did not want John to know, 
 for some unexplained reason. The young man won 
 dered what the reason could be ; the mere name of 
 the wretched man was not likely to convey any idea 
 to his mind, for it was highly improbable that he 
 had ever met him before his conviction. So John 
 departed to his own room and refreshed himself with 
 a tub, while the squire kept watch by daylight. 
 
 It was not yet eight o clock when Holmes brought 
 a note from the vicar, which Mr. Juxon tore open 
 and read with anxious interest. 
 
 "Mr DEAR MR. JUXON I received your note 
 late last night, but I judged it better to answer this 
 morning, not wishing to excite suspicion by sending 
 to you at so late an hour. The intelligence is indeed 
 alarming and you will, I daresay, understand me, 
 when I tell you that I found it necessary to commu 
 nicate it to Mrs. Ambrose " 
 
 The squire could not refrain from smiling at the 
 vicar s way of putting the point ; but he read quickly 
 on. 
 
 "She however and I confess my surprise and 
 gratification desires to accompany me to the Hall 
 this morning, volunteering to take all possible care 
 of the unfortunate man. As she has had much 
 experience in visiting the sick, I fancy that she will 
 render us very valuable assistance in saving his life. 
 Pray let me know if the plan has your approval, as 
 it may be dangerous to lose time. Yours sincerely, 
 
 "AuGUSTiN AMBROSE." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 343 
 
 Mr. Juxon was delighted to find that the difficult 
 task of putting Mrs. Ambrose in possession of the 
 facts of the case had been accomplished in the ordi 
 nary, the very ordinary, course of events by her own 
 determination to find out what was to be known. In 
 an hour she might be at Goddard s bedside, and Mrs. 
 Goddard would be free to see her husband. He 
 despatched a note at once and redoubled his atten 
 tions to the sick man whose condition, however, 
 showed no signs of changing. 
 
344 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MRS. AMBROSE kept her word and arrived with 
 the vicar before nine o clock, protesting her determi 
 nation to take care of poor Goddard, so long as he 
 needed any care. Mr. Juxon warned her that John 
 did not know who the man was, and entreated her to 
 be careful of her speech when John was present. 
 There was no reason why John should ever know any 
 thing more about it, he said; three could keep a 
 secret, but no one knew whether four could be as 
 discreet. 
 
 The squire took Mrs. Ambrose and her husband to 
 Goddard s room and telling her that Doctor Long- 
 street was expected in an hour, by which time he 
 himself hoped to have returned, he left the two good 
 people in charge of the sick man and went to see 
 Mrs. Goddard. He sent John a message to the effect 
 that all was well and that he should take some rest 
 while the Ambroses relieved the watch, and having 
 thus disposed his household he went out, bound upon 
 one of the most disagreeable errands he had ever un 
 dertaken. But he set his teeth and walked boldly 
 down the park. 
 
 At the turn of the avenue he paused, at the spot 
 where Goddard had attacked him. There was noth 
 ing to be seen at first, for the road was hard and dry 
 and there was no trace of the scuffle; but as the 
 squire looked about he spied his hat, lying in the 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 345 
 
 ditch, and picked it up. It was heavy with the 
 morning dew and the brim was broken and bent 
 where Goddard s weapon had struck it. Hard by in 
 a heap of driven oak leaves lay the weapon itself, 
 which Mr. Juxon examined curiously. It was a 
 heavy piece of hewn oak, evidently very old, and at 
 one end a thick iron spike was driven through, the 
 sharp point projecting upon one side and the wrought 
 head upon the other. He turned it over in his hands 
 and realised that he had narrowly escaped his death. 
 Then he laid the hat and the club together and threw 
 a handful of leaves over them, intending to take them 
 to the Hall at a later hour, and he turned to go upon 
 his way towards the cottage. But as he turned he 
 saw two men coming towards him, and now not 
 twenty yards away. His heart sank, for one of the 
 two was Thomas Gall the village constable ; the other 
 was a quiet-looking individual with grey whiskers, 
 plainly dressed and unassuming in appearance. In 
 stinctively the squire knew that Gall s companion 
 must be a detective. He was startled, and taken 
 altogether unawares ; but the men were close upon 
 him and there was nothing to be done but to face 
 them boldly. 
 
 Gall made his usual half military salute as he came 
 up, and the man in plain clothes raised his hat 
 politely. 
 
 4 The gentleman from Lunnon, sir," said Gall by 
 way of introduction, assuming an air of mysterious 
 importance. 
 
 "Yes?" said Mr. Juxon interrogatively. "Do 
 you wish to speak to me ? " 
 
 4% The gentleman s come on business, sir. In point 
 of fact, sir, it s the case we was speakin of lately/ 
 
346 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 The squire knew very well what was the matter. 
 Indeed, he had wondered that the detective had not 
 arrived sooner. That did not make it any easier to 
 receive him, however; on the contrary, if he had 
 come on the previous day matters would have been 
 much simpler. 
 
 "Very well, Gall," answered Mr. Juxon. "I am 
 much obliged to you for bringing Mr. "he paused 
 and looked at the man in plain clothes. 
 
 "Booley, sir," said the detective. 
 
 "Thank you yes for bringing Mr. Booley so 
 far. You may go home, Gall. If we need your ser 
 vices we will send to your house." 
 
 "It struck me, sir," remarked Gall with a bland 
 smile, " as perhaps I might be of use pref eshnal in 
 fact, sir." 
 
 "I will send for you," said the detective, shortly. 
 The manners of the rural constabulary had long 
 ceased to amuse him. 
 
 Gall departed rather reluctantly, but to make up 
 for being left out of the confidential interview which 
 was to follow, he passed his thumb round his belt 
 and thrust out his portly chest as he marched down 
 the avenue. He subsequently spoke very roughly to 
 a little boy who was driving an old sheep to the 
 butcher s at the other end of the village. 
 
 Mr. Juxon and the detective turned back and 
 walked slowly towards the Hall. 
 
 " Will you be good enough to state exactly what 
 the business is," said the squire, well knowing that 
 it was best to go straight to the point. 
 
 "You are Mr. Juxon, I believe?" inquired Mr. 
 Booley looking at his companion sharply. The squire 
 nodded. "Very good, Mr. Juxon," continued the 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PAKISH. 347 
 
 official. " I am after a man called Walter Goddard. 
 Do you know anything about him? His wife, Mrs. 
 Mary Goddard, lives in this village." 
 
 "Walter Goddard is at this moment in my house," 
 said the squire calmly. "I know all about him. 
 He lay in wait for me at this very spot last night and 
 attacked me. My dog pulled him down." 
 
 The detective was somewhat surprised at the intel 
 ligence, and at the cool manner in which his com 
 panion conveyed it. 
 
 " I am very glad to hear that. In that case I will 
 take him at once." 
 
 "I fear that is impossible," answered the squire. 
 " The man is raving in the delirium of a brain fever. 
 Meanwhile I shall be glad if you will stay in the 
 house, until he is well enough to be moved. The 
 doctor will be here at ten o clock, and he will give 
 you the details of the case better than I can. It would 
 be quite impossible to take him away at present." 
 
 "May I ask," inquired Mr. Booley severely, "why 
 you did not inform the local police?" 
 
 "Because it would have been useless. If he had 
 escaped after attacking me, I should have done so. 
 But since I caught him, and found him to be very ill 
 utterly unable to move, I proposed to take charge 
 of him myself. Mrs. Goddard is a friend of mine, 
 and of the vicar, who knows her story perfectly well. 
 To publish the story in the village would be to do 
 her a great injury. Mrs. Ambrose, the vicar s wife, 
 who is also acquainted with the circumstances, is at 
 this moment taking care of the sick man. I pre 
 sume that my promise I am a retired officer of the 
 Navy and the promise of Mr. Ambrose, the vicar, 
 are sufficient guarantee " 
 
348 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Oh, there is no question of guarantee," said 
 Mr. Booley. "I assure you, Mr. Juxon, I have no 
 doubt whatever that you have acted for the best. 
 Can you tell me how long Goddard has been in the 
 neighbourhood?" 
 
 The squire told the detective what he knew, tak 
 ing care not to implicate Mrs. Goddard, even adding 
 with considerable boldness, for he was not positively 
 certain of the statement, that neither she nor any one 
 else had known where the man was hiding. Mr. 
 Booley being sure that Goddard could not escape him, 
 saw that he could claim the reward offered for the 
 capture of the convict. He asked whether he might 
 see him. 
 
 "That is doubtful," said the squire. "When I 
 left him just now he was quite unconscious, but he 
 has lucid moments. To frighten him at such a time 
 might kill him outright." 
 
 " It is very easy for me to say that I am another 
 medical man," remarked Mr. Booley. "Perhaps I 
 might say it in any case, just to keep the servants 
 quiet. I would like to see Mrs. Goddard, too." 
 
 " That is another matter. She is very nervous. I 
 am going to her house, now, and probably she will 
 come back to the Hall with me. I might perhaps 
 tell her that you are here, but I think it would be 
 likely to shock her very much." 
 
 "Well, well, we will see about it," answered Mr. 
 Booley. They reached the house and the squire 
 ushered the detective into the study, begging him to 
 wait for his return. 
 
 It was a new complication, though it had seemed 
 possible enough. But the position was not pleasant. 
 To feel that there was a detective in the house wait- 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 349 
 
 ing to carry off Goddard, so soon as he should be well 
 enough to be moved, was about as disagreeable as 
 anything well could be. The longer the squire 
 thought of it, the more impossible and at the same 
 time unnecessary it seemed to be to inform Mrs. 
 Goddard of Booley s arrival. He hastened down the 
 park, feeling that no time must be lost in bringing 
 her to her husband s bedside. 
 
 He found her waiting for him, and was struck by 
 the calmness she displayed. To tell the truth the 
 violence of her emotions had been wholly expended 
 on the previous night and the reaction had brought 
 an intense melancholy quiet, which almost frightened 
 Mr. Juxon. The habit of bearing great anxiety had 
 not been wholly forgotten, for the lesson had been 
 well learned during those terrible days of her hus 
 band s trial, and it was as though his sudden return 
 had revived in her the custom of silent suffering. 
 She hardly spoke, but listened quietly to Mr. Juxon s 
 account of what had happened. 
 
 "You are not hurt?" she asked, almost incredu 
 lously. Her eyes rested on her friend s face with a 
 wistful look. 
 
 "No, I assure you, not in the least," he said. 
 "But your poor husband is very ill very ill 
 indeed." 
 
 "Tell me," said she quietly, "is he dead? Are 
 you trying to break it to me ? " 
 
 "No no indeed. He is alive he may even 
 recover. But that is very uncertain. It might be 
 best to wait until the doctor has been again. I will 
 come back and fetch you " 
 
 " Oh, no, I will go at once. I would like to walk. 
 It will do me good." 
 
350 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 So the two set out without further words upon 
 their errand. Mr. Juxon had purposely omitted to 
 speak of Mr. Booley s arrival. It would be easy, he 
 thought, to prevent them from meeting in the great 
 house. 
 
 "Do you know," said Mary Goddard, as they 
 walked together, "it is very hard to wish that he 
 may recover " she stopped short. 
 
 "Very hard," answered the squire. "His life 
 must be one of misery, if he lives." 
 
 "Of course you would send him back?" she asked 
 nervously. 
 
 " My dear friend, there is no other course open to 
 me. Your own safety requires it." 
 
 "God knows you would only be doing right," 
 she said and was silent again. She knew, though 
 the squire did not, what fate awaited Walter God 
 dard if he were given up to justice. She knew that 
 he had taken life and must pay the penalty. Yet she 
 was very calm; her senses were all dulled and yet 
 her thoughts seemed to be consecutive and rational. 
 She realised fully that the case of life and death was 
 ill balanced; death had it which ever course events 
 might take, and she could not save her husband. She 
 thought of it calmly and calmly hoped that he might 
 die now, in his bed, with her by his side. It was a 
 better fate. 
 
 " You say that the doctor thinks he must have been 
 ill some time?" she asked after a time. 
 
 "Yes he was quite sure of it," answered the 
 squire. 
 
 "Perhaps that was why he spoke so roughly to 
 me," she said in a low voice, as though speaking to 
 herself. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 351 
 
 The tears came into the squire s eyes for sheer pity. 
 Even in this utmost extremity the unhappy woman 
 tried to account for her husband s rude and cruel 
 speech. Mr. Juxon did not answer but looked away. 
 They passed the spot where the scuffle had occurred 
 on the previous night, but still he said nothing, fear 
 ing to disturb her by making his story seem too 
 vividly real. 
 
 "Where is he?" she asked as they reached the 
 Hall, looking up at the windows. 
 
 "On the other side." 
 
 They went in and mounted the stairs towards the 
 sick man s chamber. Mr. Juxon went in, leaving 
 Mrs. Goddard outside for a moment. She could 
 hear that hideous rattling monotonous moan, and she 
 trembled from head to foot. Presently Mr. and Mrs. 
 Ambrose came out, looking very grave and passed by 
 her with a look of sympathy. 
 
 "Will you come in?" said the squire in a low 
 voice. 
 
 Mrs. Goddard entered the room quickly. On see 
 ing her husband, she uttered a low cry and laid her 
 hand upon Mr. Juxon s arm. For some seconds she 
 stood thus, quite motionless, gazing with intense and 
 sympathetic interest at the sick man s face. Then 
 she went to his side and laid her hand upon his burn 
 ing forehead and looked into his eyes. 
 
 " Walter! Walter! " she cried. " Don t you know 
 me ? Oh, why does he groan like that ? Is he suffer 
 ing?" she asked turning to Mr. Juxon. 
 
 "No I do not think he suffers much. He is 
 quite unconscious. He is talking all the time but 
 cannot pronounce the words." 
 
 The squire stood at a distance looking on, noting 
 
352 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 the womanly though tfulness Mrs. Goddard displayed 
 as she smoothed her husband s pillow and tried to 
 settle his head more comfortably upon the bags of 
 ice ; and all the while she never took her eyes from 
 Goddard s face, as though she were fascinated by her 
 own sorrow and his suffering. She moved about the 
 bed with that instinctive understanding of sickness 
 which belongs to delicate women, but her glance 
 never strayed to Mr. Juxon ; she seemed forced by a 
 mysterious magnetism to look at Walter and only 
 at him. 
 
 " Has he been long like this ? " she asked. 
 
 "Ever since last night. He called you once he 
 said, Mary Goddard, let me in! And then he said 
 something else he said I cannot remember what 
 he said." Mr. Juxon checked himself, remembering 
 the words John had heard, and of which he only half 
 understood the import. But Mrs. Goddard hardly 
 noticed his reply. 
 
 "Will you leave me alone with him?" she said 
 presently. "There is a bell in the room I could 
 ring if anything happened," she added with mourn 
 ful hesitation. 
 
 "Certainly," answered the squire. "Only, I beg 
 of you my dear friend do not distress yourself 
 needlessly " 
 
 "Needlessly!" she repeated with a sorrowful 
 smile. "It is all I can do for him to watch by his 
 side. He will not live he will not live, I am 
 
 sure." 
 
 The squire inwardly prayed that she might be 
 right, and left her alone with the sick man. Who, 
 he thought, was better fitted, who had a stronger 
 right to be at his bedside at such a time ? If only 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 353 
 
 he might die ! For if he lived, how much more ter 
 rible would the separation be, when Booley the detec 
 tive came to conduct him back to his prison! In 
 truth, it would be more terrible even than Mr. 
 Juxon imagined. 
 
 Meanwhile he must go and see to the rest of the 
 household. He must speak to John Short; he must 
 see Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose, and he must take precau 
 tions against any of them seeing Mr. Booley. This 
 was, he thought, very important, and he resolved to 
 speak with the latter first. John was probably 
 asleep, worn out with the watching of the night. 
 
 Mr. Booley sat in the squire s study where he had 
 been left almost an hour earlier. He had installed 
 himself in a comfortable corner by the fire and was 
 reading the morning paper which he had found un 
 opened upon the table. He seemed thoroughly at 
 home as he sat there, a pair of glasses upon his nose 
 and his feet stretched out towards the flame upon the 
 hearth. 
 
 "Thank you, I am doing very well, Mr. Juxon," 
 he said as the squire entered. 
 
 "Oh I am very glad," answered Mr. Juxon 
 politely. The information was wholly voluntary as 
 he had not asked an}^ question concerning the detec 
 tive s comfort. 
 
 "And how is the patient?" inquired Mr. Booley. 
 " Do you think there is any chance of removing him 
 this afternoon?" 
 
 "This afternoon?" repeated the squire, in some 
 astonishment. "The man is very ill. It may be 
 weeks before he can be removed." 
 
 " Oh! " ejaculated the other. "I was not aware of 
 that. I cannot possibly stay so long. To-morrow, 
 at the latest, he will have to go." 
 
354 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "But, my dear sir," argued Mr. Juxon, "the thing 
 is quite impossible. The doctor can testify to that " 
 
 "We are apt to be our own doctors in these cases," 
 said Mr. Booley, calmly. " At all events he can be 
 taken as far as the county gaol." 
 
 " Upon my word, it would be murder to think of it 
 a man in a brain fever, in a delirium, to be taken 
 over jolting roads dear me ! It is not to be thought 
 of!" 
 
 Mr. Booley smiled benignly, for the first time 
 since the squire had made his acquaintance. 
 
 " You seem to forget, Mr. Juxon, that my time is 
 very valuable," he observed. 
 
 " Yes no doubt but the man s life, Mr. Booley, 
 is valuable too." 
 
 "Hardly, I should say," returned the detective 
 coolly. "But since you are so very pressing, I will 
 ask to see the man at once. I can soon tell you 
 whether he will die on the road or not. I have had 
 considerable experience in that line." 
 
 "You shall see him, as soon as the doctor comes," 
 replied the squire, shocked at the man s indifference 
 and hardness. 
 
 " It certainly cannot hurt him to see me, if he is 
 still unconscious or raving," objected Mr. Booley. 
 
 "He might have a lucid moment just when you 
 are there the fright would very likely kill him." 
 
 "That would decide the question of moving him," 
 answered Booley, taking his glasses from his nose, 
 laying down the paper and rising to his feet. 
 " There is clearly some reason why you object to my 
 seeing him now. I would not like to insist, Mr. 
 Juxon, but you must please remember that it may be 
 my duty to do so." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 355 
 
 The squire was beginning to be angry; even his 
 calm temper was not proof against the annoyance 
 caused by Mr. Booley s appearance at the Hall, but 
 he wisely controlled himself and resorted to other 
 means of persuasion. 
 
 "There is a reason, Mr. Booley; indeed there are 
 several very good reasons. One of them is that it 
 might be fatal to frighten the man ; another is that 
 at this moment his wife is by his bedside. She 
 has entirely made up her mind that when he is 
 recovered he must return to prison, but at present 
 it would be most unkind to let her know that you 
 are in the house. The shock to her nerves would 
 be terrible." 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Booley, "if there is a lady in the 
 case we must make some allowances, I presume. 
 Only, put yourself in my place, Mr. Juxon, put 
 yourself in my place." 
 
 The squire doubted whether he would be willing 
 to exchange his personality for that of Mr. Booley. 
 
 " Well what then ? " he said. " I think I would 
 try to be merciful." 
 
 " Yes ; but suppose that in being merciful, you just 
 allowed that lady the time necessary to present her 
 beloved husband with a convenient little pill, just to 
 shorten his sufferings ? And suppose that " 
 
 "Really, Mr. Booley, I think you make very un 
 warrantable suppositions," said Mr. Juxon severely. 
 "I cannot suppose any such thing." 
 
 "Many women ladies too have done that to 
 save a man from hanging," returned Mr. Booley, fix 
 ing his grey eye on the squire. 
 
 "Hanging?" repeated the latter in surprise. 
 "But Goddard is not to be hanged." 
 
356 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "Of course he is. What did you expect?" Mr. 
 Booley looked surprised in his turn. 
 
 "But what for?" asked the squire very anx 
 iously. "He has not killed anybody " 
 
 "Oh then you don t know how he escaped?" 
 
 "No I have not the least idea pray tell me." 
 
 "I don t wonder you don t understand me, then," 
 said Mr. Booley. "Well, it is a short tale but a 
 lively one, as they say. Of course it stands to rea 
 son in the first place that he could not have got out 
 of Portland. He was taken out for a purpose. You 
 know that after his trial was over, all sorts of other 
 things besides the forgery came out about him, prov 
 ing that he was altogether a very bad lot. Now 
 about three weeks ago there was a question of iden 
 tifying a certain person it was a very long story, 
 with a bad murder case and all the rest of it com 
 monplace, you know the sort never mind the story, 
 it will all be in the papers before long when they 
 have got it straight, which is more than I have, see 
 ing that these affairs do get a little complicated occa 
 sionally, you know, as such things will." Mr. Booley 
 paused. It was evident that his command of the 
 English tongue was not equal to the strain of con 
 structing a long sentence. 
 
 " This person, whom he was to identify, was the 
 person murdered?" inquired Mr. Juxon. 
 
 "Exactly. It was not the person, but the per 
 son s body, so to say. Somebody who had been con 
 nected with the Goddard case was sure that if 
 Goddard could be got out of prison he could do the 
 identifying all straight. It did not matter about his 
 being under sentence of hard labour it was a pri 
 vate case, and the officer only wanted Goddard s 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 357 
 
 opinion for his personal satisfaction. So he goes to 
 the governor of Portland, and finds that Goddard had 
 a very good character in that institution he was a 
 little bit of a gay deceiver, you see, and knew how 
 to fetch the chaps in there and particularly the par 
 son. So he had a good character. Very good. The 
 governor consents to send him to town for this private 
 job, under a strong force that means three police 
 men with irons on his hands. When they reached 
 London they put him in a fourwheeler. Those 
 things are done sometimes, and nobody is the wiser, 
 because the governor does it on his own responsi 
 bility, for the good of the law, I suppose. I never 
 approved of it. Do you follow me, Mr. Juxon?" 
 
 " Perfectly, " answered the squire. " He was driven 
 from the station with three policemen in a hackney- 
 coach, you say." 
 
 " Exactly so. It was a queer place where the body 
 was away down in the Minor ies. Ever been there, 
 Mr. Juxon ? Queer place it is, and no mistake. I 
 would like to show you some little bits of London. 
 Well, as I was saying, the fourwheeler went along, 
 with two policemen inside with Goddard and one 
 on the box. Safe, you would say. Not a bit of it. 
 Just the beggar s luck, too. It was dusk. That is 
 always darker than when the lamps are well going. 
 The fourwheeler ran into a dray-cart, round a corner 
 where they were repairing the street. The horse 
 went down with a smash, shafts, lamp, everything 
 broken to smithereens, as they say. The policeman 
 jumps off the box with the cabby to see what is 
 the matter. One of the bobbies the policemen I 
 would say it s a technical term, Mr. Juxon 
 gets out of the cab to see what s up, leaving God- 
 
358 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 dard in charge of the other. Then there is a terrific 
 row ; more carts come up, more f ourwheelers every 
 body swearing at once. Presently the policeman who 
 had got out comes back and looks in to see if every 
 thing is straight. Not a bit of it again. Other door 
 of the cab was open and no Goddard. But the 
 policeman was lying back in the corner and when 
 they struck a light and looked, they found he was 
 stone dead. Goddard had brained him with the irons 
 on his wrists. No one ever saw him from that day 
 to this. He must have known London well they 
 say he did, and he was a noted quick runner. Being 
 nightfall and rather foggy as it generally is in those 
 parts he got clear off. But he killed the man who 
 had him in charge and if he lives he will have to 
 swing for it. May be Mrs. Goddard does not know 
 that may be she does. That is the reason I don t 
 want her to be left alone with him. No doubt she is 
 very good and all that, but she might just take it 
 into her head to save the government twenty feet of 
 rope." 
 
 "I am very much surprised, and very much 
 shocked," said the squire gravely. "I had no idea 
 of this. But I will answer for Mrs. Goddard. 
 Why was all this never in the papers or was there 
 an account of it, Mr. Booley?" 
 
 " Oh no it was never mentioned. We felt sure 
 that we should catch him and until we did we I 
 mean the profession thought it just as well to say 
 nothing. The governor remembered to have read a 
 letter from Goddard s wife, just telling him where 
 she was living, about two years ago. Being harm 
 less, he passed it and never copied the address ; then 
 he could not remember it. At last they found it in 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 359 
 
 his cell, hidden away somehow. The beggar had 
 kept it." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Juxon. In the 
 silence which followed, the sound of wheels was 
 heard outside. Doctor Longstreet had arrived. 
 
360 A TALE OF A LONELY PAKlSil. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 WHILE Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose were together in 
 the library downstairs, while John Short was waking 
 from the short sleep he had enjoyed, and while the 
 squire was listening in the study to Mr. Booley s 
 graphic account of the convict s escape, Mrs. God- 
 dard was alone with her husband, watching every 
 movement and listening intently to every moaning 
 breath he drew. 
 
 In the desperate anxiety for his fate, she forgot 
 herself and seemed no longer to feel fatigue or ex 
 haustion from all she herself had suffered. She 
 stood long by his bedside, hoping that he might 
 recognise her and yet fearing the moment when he 
 should recover his senses. Then she noticed that 
 the morning sun was pouring in through the window 
 and she drew a curtain across, to shade his eyes from 
 the glare. Whether the sudden changing of the 
 light affected Goddard, as it does sometimes affect 
 persons in the delirium of a brain fever, or whether 
 it was only a natural turn in his condition, she never 
 knew. His expression changed and acquired that 
 same look of strange intelligence which John Short 
 had noticed in the night; the flush sank from his 
 forehead and gave place to a luminous, transparent 
 colour, his eyelids once more moved naturally, and 
 he looked at his wife as she stood beside him, and 
 recognised her. He was weaker now than when he 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 361 
 
 had spoken with John Short six hours earlier, but he 
 was more fully in possession of his faculties for a 
 brief moment. Mary Goddard trembled and felt her 
 hands turn cold with excitement. 
 
 "Walter, do you know me now?" she asked very 
 softly. 
 
 "Yes," he said faintly, and closed his eyes. She 
 laid her hand upon his forehead; the coldness of it 
 seemed pleasant to him, for a slight smile flickered 
 over his face. 
 
 "You are better, I think," she said again, gazing 
 intently at him. 
 
 "Mary it is Mary?" he murmured, slowly open 
 ing his eyes and looking up to her. " Yes I know 
 you I have been dreaming a long time. I m so 
 tired " 
 
 "You must not talk," said she. "It will tire you 
 more." Then she gave him some drink. "Try and 
 sleep," she said in a soothing tone. 
 
 "I cannot oh, Mary, I am very ill." 
 
 " But you will get well again " 
 
 Goddard started suddenly, and laid his hand upon 
 her arm with more force than she suspected he 
 possessed. 
 
 " Where am I ? " he asked, staring about the room. 
 "Is this your house, Mary? What became of 
 Juxon?" 
 
 "He is not hurt. He brought you home in his 
 arms, Walter, to his own house, and is taking care 
 of you." 
 
 "Good heavens! He will give me up. No, no, 
 don t hold me I must be off! " 
 
 He made a sudden effort to rise, but he was very 
 weak. He fell back exhausted upon his pillow ; his 
 
362 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 fingers gripped the sheet convulsively, and his face 
 grew paler. 
 
 "Caught like a rat! " he muttered. Mary God- 
 dard 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 rem 
 nant 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 God 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 Goddard, 
 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 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 363 
 
 her last meeting with him, and the horrible ingrati 
 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 Goddard, endeavouring to 
 calm him, though she turned pale at his strange quo 
 tation. "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 Goddard shuddered but made a great effort 
 to control herself. 
 
 "Yes," she said gently, "it is like old times. Try 
 
364 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 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, deter 
 mined to carry her husband away so soon as the doctor 
 pronounced 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 
 friendship for her, down to this present time, when 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 365 
 
 after being basely attacked by her own husband, he 
 had nobly 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 
 unassuming 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 Goddard 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 
 friendship, she would have called herself the most 
 ungrateful of women. If ever man deserved respect, 
 esteem and friendship, it was the squire. 
 
366 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 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. 
 
 Goddard 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 nobody can catch me. I am 
 
 "Oh, Walter!" cried Mary Goddard, "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. Nobody 
 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." 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 367 
 
 "Oh Walter," cried his wife in genuine distress, 
 "don t don t! Think you must not die so 
 think of of the other world, Walter you must 
 not die so! " 
 
 Goddard smiled faintly scornfully, his wife 
 thought. 
 
 " I daresay I shall not die till to-morrow, or next 
 day but I will not live," he said with sudden 
 energy. " Do you understand me, I will not live ! 
 Bah!" he cried, falling back upon his pillow, "the 
 grapes are sour I can t live if I would. Oh yes, I 
 know all about that my sins. Well, I am sorry 
 for them. I am sorry, Mary. But it is very little 
 good people always laugh at deathbed repent 
 ance " 
 
 He stopped and his thoughts seemed wandering. 
 Mary Goddard gave him something to drink and tried 
 to calm him. But he moved restlessly, though 
 feebly. 
 
 "Softly, softly," he murmured again. "He is 
 coming close to me. Get ready now no not 
 yet, yes now. Ugh!" yelled Goddard, suddenly 
 springing up, his eyes starting from his head. " Ugh ! 
 the dog oh!" 
 
 " Hush, Walter," cried his wife, pushing him back. 
 "Hush no one will hurt you." 
 
 " What is that you, Mary ? " asked the sick man, 
 trembling violently. Then he laughed harshly. " I 
 was off again . Pshaw ! I did not really mean to hurt 
 him he need not have set that beast at me. He did 
 not catch me though Mary, I am going to die will 
 you pray for me ? You are a good woman somebody 
 will hear your prayers, I daresay. Do, Mary I 
 shall feel better somehow, though I daresay it is very 
 foolish of me." 
 
368 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 "No, Walter not foolish, not foolish. Would 
 you like me to call Mr. Ambrose ? he is a clergyman 
 he is in the house." 
 
 " No, no. You Mary, you nobody will hear any 
 body else s prayers for me for poor me " 
 
 "Try and pray with me, Walter," said Mary God- 
 dard, very quietly. She seemed to have an unnatural 
 strength given to her in that hour of distress and 
 horror. She knelt down by the bedside and took his 
 wounded hand in hers, tenderly, and she prayed aloud 
 in such words as she could find. 
 
 Below, in the study, the detective had just fin 
 ished telling his tale to the squire, and the wheels of 
 Doctor Longstreet s dog-cart ground upon the gravel 
 outside. The two men looked at each other for a 
 moment, and Mr. Juxon spoke first. 
 
 " That is the doctor," said he. " I will ask you to 
 have patience for five minutes, Mr. Booley. He will 
 give you his opinion. I am still very much shocked 
 at what you have told me I had no idea what had 
 happened." 
 
 "No I suppose not," answered Mr. Booley 
 calmly. "If you will ask the medical man to step 
 in here for one moment, I will explain matters to 
 him. I don t think he will differ much from me." 
 
 "Very well," returned the squire, leaving the 
 room. He went to meet Doctor Longstreet, intending 
 to warn him of the presence of Mr. Booley, and 
 meaning to entreat his support for the purpose of 
 keeping Goddard in the house until he should be 
 recovered. He passed through the library and ex 
 changed a few words with Mr. Ambrose, explaining 
 that the doctor had come. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose 
 were sitting on opposite sides of the fireplace in 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 369 
 
 huge chairs, with a mournful air of resigned ex 
 pectation upon their worthy faces. The detective 
 remained alone in the study. 
 
 Meanwhile John Short had refreshed himself from 
 his fatigues, and came down stairs in search of some 
 breakfast. He had recovered from his excitement 
 and was probably the only one who thought of eating, 
 as he was also the one least closely concerned in what 
 was occurring. Instead of going to the library he 
 went to the dining-room, and, seeing no one about, 
 entered the study from the door which on that side 
 connected the two rooms. To his surprise he saw 
 Mr. Booley standing before the fireplace, his hands 
 in his pockets and his feet wide apart. He had not 
 the least idea who he was. 
 
 " Oh ! " he exclaimed, staring hard at him. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Booley, who took him for the 
 physician whom he expected. " I am George Booley 
 of the detective service. I was expecting you, sir. 
 There is very little to be said. My time, as I told 
 Mr. Juxon, is very valuable. I must have Goddard 
 out of the house by to-morrow afternoon at the latest. 
 Now, doctor, it is of no use your talking to me about 
 fever and all that " 
 
 John had stood with his mouth open, staring in 
 blank astonishment at the detective, unable to find 
 words in which to question the man. At last he got 
 his breath. 
 
 "What in the world are you talking about?" he 
 asked slowly. " Are you a raving lunatic or what 
 are you ? " 
 
 "Come, come, doctor," said Mr. Booley in persua 
 sive accents, " none of that with me, you know. If 
 the man must be moved why he must, that is all, 
 and you must make it possible, somehow." 
 
370 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " You are crazy ! " exclaimed John. " I am not the 
 doctor, to begin with 
 
 " 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 pre 
 cipitately 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 si 
 lence 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 per 
 haps it must be prevented! " 
 
 "A detective! " cried the vicar and his wife in the 
 same breath. 
 
 "My dear John," said the vicar immediately after 
 wards, "where is he? I will reason with him." 
 
 " Augustin," said Mrs. Ambrose with extreme se 
 verity, " 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 excite 
 ment, and not precisely appreciating the proposition 
 to which he gave so willing an assent. 
 
 "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 passed rapidly 
 up the staircase to Goddard s room, but she paused 
 as she kid her hand upon the latch. From within 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 371 
 
 she could hear Mary Goddard s voice, praying aloud, 
 as she had never heard any one pray before. She 
 paused and listened, hesitating to interrupt the un 
 happy 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 Goddard 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. 
 
 Goddard 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 Goddard 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 wishing to be disturbed. 
 But Mrs. Ambrose came quickly to her side, and 
 glancing once at Goddard, 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 
 
372 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 him away but I will protect you they shall not 
 doit." 
 
 Mary Goddard 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 Goddard 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 Goddard! Mary Goddard! Let me in!" 
 he moaned faintly. 
 
 "It is I here I am, Walter, dear Walter I 
 am with you," ansAvered Mary, raising him and put 
 ting 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. Am 
 brose 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 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 373 
 
 looking with astonishment at Mrs. Goddard who still 
 propped the sick man in her arms and hardly noticed 
 him. 
 
 "Why ?" he ejaculated and then checked him 
 self, 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 doc 
 tor 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. Goddard here?" asked John 
 unable to control his curiosity any longer. He did 
 not mean that she should hear, but as she laid God- 
 dard 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. 
 
 John laid his hand on Mrs. Ambrose s arm in 
 utmost bewilderment and looked at her as though to 
 ask if it were true. She nodded gravely. Before 
 John had time to recover himself from the shock of 
 the news, footsteps were heard outside, and the loud 
 altercation of angry voices. John Short leaned his 
 shoulder against the door and put his foot against it 
 below, expecting an attack. 
 
374 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 WHEN Mr. Ambrose undertook to reason with the 
 detective he went directly towards the study where 
 John said the man was waiting. But Mr. Booley 
 was beginning to suspect that the doctor was not 
 coming to speak with him as the squire had prom 
 ised, and after hesitating for a few moments followed 
 John into the library, determining to manage mat 
 ters himself. As he opened the door he met Mr. 
 Ambrose coming towards him, and at the same mo 
 ment Mr. Juxon and Doctor Longstreet entered from 
 the opposite end of the long room. The cheerful and 
 active physician was talking in a rather excited tone. 
 
 "My dear sir," said he, "I cannot pretend to say 
 that the man will or will not recover. I must see 
 him again. Things look quite differently by day 
 light, and six or seven hours may make all the change 
 in the world. To say that he can be moved to-day 
 or even to-morrow, is absurd. I will stake my repu 
 tation as a practitioner Hulloa! " 
 
 The exclamation was elicited by Mr. Booley, who 
 had pushed past Mr. Ambrose and stood confront 
 ing the doctor with a look which was intended to 
 express a combination of sarcasm, superior cunning 
 and authority. 
 
 "This is Mr. Booley," explained the squire. 
 " Doctor Longstreet will tell you what he has been 
 telling me," he added turning to the detective. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 375 
 
 "I must see this man instantly," said the latter 
 somewhat roughly. "I believe I am being trifled 
 with, and I will not submit to it. No, sir, I will 
 not be trifled with, I assure you ! I must see this 
 man at once. It is absolutely necessary to identify 
 him." 
 
 "And I say," said Doctor Longstreet with equal 
 firmness, " that I must see him first, in order to judge 
 whether you can see him or not " 
 
 " It is for me to judge of that," returned Mr. Booley, 
 with more haste than logic. 
 
 " After you have seen him, you cannot judge 
 whether you ought to see him or not," retorted Doctor 
 Longstreet growing red in the face. The detective 
 attempted to push past him. At this moment John 
 Short hastily left the room and fled upstairs to warn 
 Mrs. Ambrose of what was happening. 
 
 " Really," said Mr. Ambrose, making a vain attempt 
 to stop the course of events, " this is very unwarrant 
 able." 
 
 "Unwarrantable!" cried Mr. Booley. "Unwar 
 rantable, indeed ! I have the warrant in my pocket. 
 Mr. Juxon, sir, I fear I must insist." 
 
 "Permit me," said Mr. Juxon, planting his square 
 and sturdy form between the door and the detective. 
 "You may certainly insist, but you must begin by 
 listening to reason." 
 
 Charles Juxon had been accustomed to command 
 others for the greater part of his life, and though he 
 was generally the most unobtrusive and gentle of 
 men, when he raised his voice in a tone of authority 
 his words carried weight. His blue eyes stared hard 
 at Mr. Booley, and there was something imposing in 
 his square head even in the unruffled smoothness 
 
376 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 of his brown hair. Mr. Booley paused and discon 
 tentedly thrust his hands into his pockets. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 "Simply this," answered the squire. "You may 
 accompany us to the door of the room ; you may wait 
 with me, while Doctor Longstreet goes in to look at 
 the patient. If the man is unconscious you may go 
 in and see him. If he chances to be in a lucid inter 
 val, you must wait until he is unconscious again. It 
 will not be long. That is perfectly reasonable." 
 
 "Perfectly," echoed Mr. Ambrose, biting his long 
 upper lip and glaring as fiercely at Mr. Booley as 
 though he had said it all himself. 
 
 " Absolutely reasonable," added Doctor Longstreet. 
 
 "Well, we will try it," said the detective moodily. 
 "But I warn you I will not be trifled with." 
 
 "Nobody is trifling with you," answered the squire 
 coldly. "This way if you please." And he forth 
 with led the way upstairs, followed by Mr. Booley, 
 the physician and the vicar. 
 
 Before they reached the door, however, the discus 
 sion broke out again. Mr. Booley had been held in 
 check for a few moments by Mr. Juxon s determined 
 manner, but as he followed the squire he began to 
 regret that he had yielded so far and he made a fresh 
 assertion of his rights. 
 
 "I cannot see why you want to keep me outside," 
 he said. "What difference can it make, I should 
 like to know?" 
 
 " You will have to take my word for it that it does 
 make a difference," said the doctor, testily. "If you 
 frighten the man, he will die. Now then, here we 
 
 are." 
 
 "I don t like your tone, sir," said Booley angrily, 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 377 
 
 again trying to push past the physician. " I think I 
 must insist, after all. I will go in with you I tell 
 you I will, sir don t stop me." 
 
 Doctor Longstreet, who was fifteen or twenty years 
 older than the detective but still strong and active, 
 gripped his arm quickly, and held him back. 
 
 " If you go into that room without my permission, 
 and if the man dies of fright, I will have an action 
 brought against you for manslaughter," he said in a 
 loud voice. 
 
 "And I will support it," said the squire. "I am 
 justice of the peace here, and what is more, I am in 
 my own house. Do not think your position will 
 protect you." 
 
 Again Mr. Juxon s authoritative tone checked the 
 detective, who drew back, making some angry retort 
 which no one heard. The squire tried the door and 
 finding it locked, knocked softly, not realising that 
 every word of the altercation had been heard within. 
 
 "Who is there?" asked John, who though he had 
 heard all that had been said was uncertain of the 
 issue. 
 
 "Let in Doctor Longstreet," said the squire s 
 voice. 
 
 But meanwhile Mrs. Ambrose and Mary Goddard 
 were standing on each side of the sick man. He must 
 have heard the noises outside, and they conveyed some 
 impression to his brain. 
 
 "Mary, Mary!" he groaned indistinctly. "Save 
 me they are coming I cannot get away softly, 
 he is coming now I shall just catch him as he 
 goes by Ugh ! that dog oh ! oh ! " 
 
 With a wild shriek, the wretched man sprang up, 
 upon his knees, his eyes starting out, his face trans- 
 
378 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 figured with horror. For one instant he remained 
 thus, half-supported by the two terror-struck women ; 
 then with a groan his head drooped forward upon his 
 breast and he fell back heavily upon the pillows, 
 breathing still but quite unconscious. 
 
 Doctor Longstreet entered at that moment and ran 
 to his side. But when he saw him he paused. Even 
 Mrs. Ambrose was white with horror, and Mary God- 
 dard stood motionless, staring down at her husband, 
 her hands gripping the disordered coverlet convul 
 sively. 
 
 Mr. Juxon had entered, too, while Mr. Ambrose 
 remained outside with the detective, who had been 
 frightened into submission by the physician s last 
 threat. The squire saw what was happening and 
 paced the room in the greatest agitation, wringing 
 his hands together and biting his lips. John had 
 closed the door and came to the foot of the bed and 
 looked at Goddard s face. After a pause, Doctor 
 Longstreet spoke. 
 
 " We might possibly restore him to consciousness 
 for a moment " 
 
 "Don t! " cried Mary Goddard, starting as though 
 some one had struck her. " That is " she added 
 quickly, in broken tones, " unless he can live ! " 
 
 "No," answered the physician, gravely, but look 
 ing hard at the unhappy woman. " He is dying." 
 
 Goddard s staring eyes were glazed and white. 
 Twice and three times he gasped for breath, and then 
 lay quite still. It was all over. Mary gazed at his 
 dead face for one instant, then a faint smile parted 
 her lips: she raised one hand to her forehead as 
 though dazed. 
 
 "He is safe now," she murmured very faintly. 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 379 
 
 Her limbs relaxed suddenly, and she fell straight 
 backwards. Charles Juxon, who was watching her, 
 sprang forward and caught her in his arms. Then he 
 bore her from the room, swiftly, while John Short 
 who was as white and speechless as the rest opened 
 the door. 
 
 "You may go in now," said Juxon as he passed 
 Booley and Mr. Ambrose in the passage, with his 
 burden in his arms. A few steps farther on he met 
 Holmes the butler, who carried a telegram on a salver. 
 
 "For Mr. Short, sir," said the impassive servant, 
 not appearing to notice anything strange in the fact 
 that his master was carrying the inanimate body of 
 Mary Goddard. 
 
 "He is in there go in," said Juxon hurriedly as 
 he went on his way. 
 
 The detective and the vicar had already entered the 
 room where the dead convict was lying. All stood 
 around the bed, gazing at his pale face as he lay. 
 
 "A telegram for Mr. Short," said Holmes from the 
 door. John started and took the despatch from the 
 butler s hands. He hastily tore it open, glanced at 
 the contents and thrust it into his pocket. Every 
 one looked round. 
 
 "What is it, John?" whispered the vicar, who 
 was nearest to him. 
 
 " Oh nothing. I am first in the Tripos, that is 
 all," answered John very simply, as though it were 
 not a matter of the least consequence. 
 
 Through all those months of untiring labour, 
 through privation and anxiety, through days of 
 weariness and nights of study, he had looked for 
 ward to the triumph, often doubting but never de 
 spairing. But he had little guessed that the news 
 
380 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 of victory would reach him at such a moment. It 
 was nothing, he said ; and indeed as he stood with 
 the group of pale and awe-struck spectators by the 
 dead man s bed, he felt that the greatest thing which 
 had ever happened to him was as nothing compared 
 with the tragedy of which he had witnessed the last 
 act. 
 
 It was all over. There was nothing more to be 
 said; the convict had escaped the law in the end, at 
 the very moment when the hand of the law was upon 
 him. Thomas Reid, the conservative sexton, buried 
 him "four by six by two," grumbling at the parish 
 depth as of yore, and a simple stone cross marked his 
 nameless grave. There it stands to this day in the 
 churchyard of Billingsfield, Essex, in the shadow of 
 the ancient abbey. 
 
 All these things happened a long time ago, accord 
 ing to Billingsfield reckoning, but the story of the 
 tramp who attacked Squire Juxon and was pulled 
 down by the bloodhound is still told by the villagers, 
 and Mr. Gall, being once in good cheer, vaguely 
 hinted that he knew who the tramp was; but from 
 the singular reticence he has always shown in the 
 matter, and from the prosperity which has attended 
 his constabulary career, it may well be believed that 
 he has a life interest in keeping his counsel. Indeed 
 as it is nearly ten years since Mr. Reid buried the 
 poor tramp, it is possible that Mr. Gall s memory 
 may be already failing in regard to events which oc 
 curred at so remote a date. 
 
 It was but an incident, though it was perhaps the 
 only incident of any interest which ever occurred in 
 Billingsfield; but until it reached its termination it 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 381 
 
 agitated the lives of the quiet people at the vicarage, 
 at the cottage and at the Hall as violently as human 
 nature can be moved. It was long, too, before those 
 who had witnessed the scene of Goddard s death could 
 shake off the impression of those awful last moments. 
 Yet time does all things wonderful and in the course 
 of not many months there remained of Goddard s 
 memory only a great sense of relief that he was no 
 longer alive. Mary Goddard, indeed, was very ill 
 for a long time; and but for Mrs. Ambrose s tender 
 care of her, might have followed her husband within 
 a few weeks of his death. But the good lady never 
 left her, until she was herself again absolutely her 
 self, saving that as time passed and her deep wounds 
 healed her sorrows were forgotten, and she seemed to 
 bloom out into a second youth. 
 
 So it came to pass that within two years Charles 
 Juxon once more asked her to be his wife. She hesi 
 tated long fully half an hour, the squire thought; 
 but in the end she put out her small hand and laid it 
 in his, and thanked God that a man so generous and 
 true, and whom she so honestly loved, was to be her 
 husband as well as her friend and protector. Charles 
 James Juxon smoothed his hair with his other hand, 
 and his blue eyes were a little moistened. 
 
 "God bless you, Mary," he said; and that was all. 
 
 Then the Reverend Augustin Ambrose married 
 them in the church of Saint Mary s, between Christ 
 mas and New Year s Day; and the wedding-party 
 consisted of Mrs. Ambrose and Eleanor Goddard and 
 John Short, Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 And again years passed by, and Nellie grew in beauty 
 as John grew in reputation; and Nellie had both 
 brothers and sisters, as she had longed to have, and 
 
382 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 to her, their father was as her own ; so that there was 
 much harmony and peace and goodwill towards men 
 in Billingsfield Hall. John came often and stayed 
 long, and was ever welcome ; for though Mary God- 
 dard s youth returned with the daffodils and the roses 
 of the first spring after Walter s death, John s fleet 
 ing passion returned not, and perhaps its place was 
 better taken. Year by year, as he came to refresh 
 himself from hard work with a breath of the country 
 air, he saw the little girl grow to the young maiden 
 of sixteen, and he saw her beauty ripen again to the 
 fulness of womanhood ; and at last, when she was one 
 and twenty years of age he in his turn put out his 
 hand and asked her to take him which she did, for 
 better or worse, but to all appearances for better. For 
 John Short had prospered mightily in the world, and 
 had come to think his first great success as very small 
 and insignificant as compared with what he had done 
 since. But his old simplicity was in him yet, and 
 was the cause of much of his prosperity, as it gener 
 ally is when it is found together with plenty of 
 brains. It was doubtless because he was so very 
 simple that when he found that he loved Eleanor 
 Goddard he did not hesitate to ask the convict s 
 daughter to be his wife. His interview with Mr. 
 Juxon was characteristic. 
 
 "You know what you are doing, John?" asked 
 the squire. He always called him John, now. 
 
 "Perfectly," replied the scholar, "I am doing pre 
 cisely what my betters have done before me with such 
 admirable result." 
 
 "Betters?" 
 
 " You. You knew about it all and you married her 
 mother. I know all about it, and I wish to marry 
 herself." 
 
A TALE OF A LOXELY PARISH. 383 
 
 "You know that she never heard the story? " 
 
 "Yes. She never shall." 
 
 " No, John she never must. Well, all good go 
 with you." 
 
 So Charles Juxon gave his consent. And Mary 
 Juxon consented too ; but for the first time in many 
 years the tears rose again to her eyes, and she laid 
 her hand on John s arm, as they walked together in 
 the park. 
 
 "Oh, John," she said, "do you think it is right 
 for you yourself?" 
 
 "Of course I think so," quoth John stoutly. 
 
 " You John with your reputation, your success, 
 with the whole world at your feet you ought not 
 to marry the daughter of of such a man." 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Juxon," said John Short, "is she 
 not your daughter as well as his ? Pray, pray do not 
 mention that objection. I assure you I have thought 
 it all over. There is really nothing more to be said, 
 which I have not said to myself. Dear Mrs. Juxon 
 do say Yes ! " 
 
 "You are very generous, John, as well as great," 
 she answered looking up to his face. "Well I 
 have nothing to say. You must do as you think best. 
 I am sure you will be kind to Nellie, for I have 
 known you for ten years you may tell her I am 
 very glad " she stopped, her eyes brimming over 
 with tears. 
 
 " Do you remember how angry I was once, when 
 you told me to go and talk to Nellie?" said John. 
 "It was just here, too " 
 
 Mary Juxon laughed happily and brushed the tears 
 from her eyes. So it was all settled. 
 
 Once more the Reverend Augustin Ambrose united 
 
384 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 two loving hearts before the altar of Saint Mary s. 
 He was well stricken in years, and his hair and beard 
 were very white. Mrs. Ambrose also grew more 
 imposing with each succeeding season, but her face 
 was softer than of old, and her voice more gentle. 
 For the sorrow and suffering of a few days had drawn 
 together the hearts of all those good people with 
 strong bands, and a deep affection had sprung up 
 between them all. The good old lady felt as though 
 Mary Juxon were her daughter Mary Juxon, by 
 whom she had stood in the moment of direst trial and 
 terror, whom she had tended in illness and cheered 
 in recovery. And the younger woman s heart had 
 gone out towards her, feeling how good a thing it is 
 to find a friend in need, and learning to value in her 
 happiness the wealth of human kindness she had 
 found in her adversity. 
 
 They are like one family, now, having a common 
 past, a common present, and a common future, and 
 there is no dissension among them. Honest and loyal 
 men and women may meet day after day, and join 
 hands and exchange greetings, without becoming firm 
 friends, for the very reason that they have no need 
 of each other. But if the storm of a great sorrow 
 breaks among them and they call out to each other for 
 help, and bear the brunt of the weather hand in hand, 
 the seed of a deeper affection is brought into their 
 midst ; and when the tempest is past the sweet flower 
 of friendship springs up in the moistened furrows of 
 their lives. 
 
 So those good people in the lonely parish of Bil- 
 lingsfield gathered round Mary Goddard, as they 
 called her then, and round poor little Nellie, and 
 did their best to protect the mother and the child 
 
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 385 
 
 from harm and undeserved suffering; and afterwards, 
 when it was all over, and there was nothing more to 
 be feared in the future, they looked into each other s 
 faces and felt that they were become as brothers and 
 sisters, and that so long as they should live may it 
 be long indeed ! there was a bond between them 
 which could never be broken. So it was that Mrs. 
 Ambrose s face softened and her voice was less severe 
 than it had been. 
 
 Mary Juxon is the happiest of women ; happy in 
 her husband, in her eldest daughter, in John Short 
 and in the little children with bright faces and ring 
 ing voices who nestle at her knee or climb over the 
 sturdy sailor-squire, and pull his great beard and 
 make him laugh. They will never know, any more 
 than Nellie knew, all that their mother suffered; 
 and as she looks upon them and strokes their long 
 fair hair and listens to their laughter, she says to 
 herself that it was perhaps almost worth while to have 
 been dragged down towards the depths of shame for 
 the sake of at last enjoying such pride and glory of 
 happy motherhood. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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