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.

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 appearance 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, however, 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 recovered 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 imprisonment, 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 consideration 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 comments of Holmes, the butler, and of his brigade in the servants’ hall.  It was no easy matter to do this unless Mrs. Goddard were accompanied by the vicar’s wife, the excellent and maternally minded Mrs. Ambrose.  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, monotonous tone, very wearing to the nerves of those who heard it.