“Dear me, yes,” murmured the vicar, “a
most delicate matter. Poor lady!”
“Poor lady!” echoed the squire. “But
I suppose it must be done.”
“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.
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 received
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 purple, 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 turning
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 interview
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 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 detectives on his
track; every sound startled her and her nerves were
strung to such a pitch that she heard with supernatural
