A Tale of a Lonely Parish

by F. Marion Crawford

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 pursuit, 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 impassable 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 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 surrounded by long horizontal niches. The floor, which was badly broken in some places, was of stone. Goddard 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 anything to eat," he said to himself.

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 formality 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 cottage, 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 anything 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 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 making himself a part of her life. He judged things very coldly and lost himself in no lofty flights of imagination. It was better that he should enjoy what fell in his way in at least seeing Mrs. Goddard and possessing her friendship, than that he should go out of his course in order to marry merely for the sake of marrying. 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 proposal, and that it was as well that it could not have been accepted; perhaps she would not have made him 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 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.

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 dressing-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 element which might have been most useful to him in his career, not to say useful to the State. Each rolling year was pricked in his leathern belt with a new hole as his heart grew more peaceful and his body throve. He had a goodly girth and weighed full fifteen stone in his uniform; his mild blue eye had inspired confidence in a maiden of Billingsfield parish 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.