A Tale of a Lonely Parish

by F. Marion Crawford

"Oh yes. I will let you go. But I will just hold the window open in case you don't come back soon enough. Look sharp!"

There was no need to hurry the unfortunate woman. In less than three minutes she returned, bringing a "quartern" loaf and a large piece of cheese. She thrust them out upon the window-sill and withdrew her hand before he could catch it. But he held the window open.

"Now go!" she said. "I cannot do more for you—for God's sake go!"

"You seem very anxious to see the last of me," he whispered. "I daresay if I am hanged you will get a ticket to see me turned off. Yes—we mention those things rather freely up in town. Don't be alarmed. I will come back to-morrow night—you had better listen. If you had shown a little more heart, I would have been satisfied, but you are so stony that I think I would like another fifty pounds to-morrow night. Those notes are so deliciously crisp—"

"Listen, Walter!" said Mary. "Unless you promise to go I will raise an alarm at once. I can face shame again well enough. I will have you—hush! For God's sake—hush! There is somebody coming!"

The convict's quick ear had caught the sound. Instantly he knelt and then lay down at full length upon the ground below the window. It was a fine night and the conscientious Mr. Gall was walking his beat. The steady tramp of his heavy shoes had something ominous in it which struck terror into the heart of the wretched fugitive. With measured tread he came from the direction of the village. Reaching the cottage he paused and dimly in the starlight Mrs. Goddard could distinguish his glazed hat—the provincial constabulary still wore hats in those days. Mr. Gall stood not fifteen yards from the cottage, failed to observe that a window was open on the lower floor, nodded to himself as though satisfied with his inspection and walked on. Little by little the sound of his steps grew fainter in the distance. Walter slowly raised himself again from the ground, and put his head in at the window.

"You see it would not be hard to have you caught," whispered his wife, still breathless with the passing excitement. "That was the policeman. If I had called him, it would have been all over with you. I tell you if you try to come again I will give you up."

"Oh, that's the way you treat me, is it?" said the convict with another oath. "Then you had better look out for your dear Mr. Juxon, that's all."

Without another word, Goddard glided away from the window, let himself out by the wicket gate and disappeared across the road.

Mary Goddard was in that moment less horrified by her husband's threat than by his base ingratitude to herself and by the accusation he seemed to make against her. Worn out with the emotions of fear and anxiety, she had barely the strength to close and fasten the window. Then she sank into the first chair she could find in the dark and stared into the blackness around her. It seemed indeed more than she could bear. She was placed in the terrible position of being obliged to betray her fugitive husband, or of living in constant fear lest he should murder the best friend she had in the world.