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 promised 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 constructing 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 sorrows.  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 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 previous 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. Juxon 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 conversation on the previous evening had been intolerably 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 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.