Chapter 11

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_ CHAPTER XI

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 afterwards John had appeared and by his persistent attempts to monopolise Mrs. Goddard's conversation had again caused an interruption in the squire's habits, which the latter had resented with characteristic firmness. The very fact of having resisted John had 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 formerly 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 reading 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 unreasonable 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 understood 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 flattered 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 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 remark 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.

"She is gone to the vicarage," answered Mrs. Goddard. "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 interested him.

"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 gentleman!"

"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 thoughtfully. "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."

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. Goddard--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 acknowledged his offer of assistance.

"I cannot do too much. That is impossible," he 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 Ms 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 carefully 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 friendship 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 continued 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 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 surprise 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. Goddard 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.

"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--"

"Oh no, no!" cried the poor lady in great distress. "It is quite impossible--I assure you it is quite, quite impossible!"

"I don't know," said Mr. Juxon, who saw that she was deeply moved, but was loath to abandon the field without a further struggle. "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--"

"I?" cried Mrs. Goddard with a wild hysterical laugh. "I! 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.

"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.

"Yes," she said very faintly. The squire rose to his feet and paced the room in terrible agitation.

"But where?" he asked, stopping suddenly in his walk. "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.

"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, inanimate 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 window 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. 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 guardians, 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 afterwards--was very rash. He speculated on the Exchange 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 thought of Nellie--poor little Nellie. The lawyers assured me that I ought to keep my own little fortune. 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. "Perhaps I had better leave you--you are very much 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 waiting, 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 generous, 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 memorable 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 himself to Mrs. 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 disappointment 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 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. _

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