A Tale of a Lonely Parish

by F. Marion Crawford

"Certainly not. You were quite right, Mr. Ambrose, quite right, I assure you."

"Well, I hope all may yet be for the best," said the vicar.

"Let us hope so," replied Mr. Juxon gravely. "By all means, let us hope that all may be for the best."

Whether the squire doubted the possibility of so happy an issue to events or not, is uncertain. He felt almost more sorry for the vicar than for himself; the vicar was such a good man, so unused to the violent deeds of violent people, of which the squire in his wanderings had seen more than was necessary to convince him that all was not always for the best in this best of all possible worlds.

Mr. Ambrose left his friend and as he retraced his steps through the park was more disturbed than ever. That Goddard should contemplate killing the squire was bad enough, in all conscience, but that the squire should deliberately purpose to hunt down Goddard with his bloodhound seemed somehow even worse. The vicar had indeed promised Mrs. Goddard that he would not help to capture her husband, but he would have been as glad as any one to hear that the convict was once more lodged in his prison. There lurked in his mind, nevertheless, an impression that even a convict should have a fair chance. The idea was not expressed, but existed in him. Everybody, he would have said, ought to have a fair chance, and as the law of nations forbids the use of explosive bullets in warfare, the laws of humanity seemed to forbid the use of bloodhounds in the pursuit of criminals. He had a very great respect for the squire's character and principles, but the cold-blooded way in which Mr. Juxon had spoken of catching and probably killing Walter Goddard, had shaken the good vicar's belief in his friend. He doubted whether he were not now bound to return to Mrs. Goddard and to warn her in his turn of her husband's danger, whether he ought not to do something to save the wretched convict from his fate. It seemed hideous to think that in peaceful Billingsfield, in his own lonely parish, a human being should be exposed to such peril. But at this point the vicar's continuity forsook him. He had not the heart to tell the tale of his interview with Mr. Juxon to the unhappy lady he had left that morning. It was extremely improbable, he thought, that she should be able to communicate with her husband during the day, and the squire's language led him to think that the day would not pass without some attempt to discover Walter Goddard's hiding-place. Besides, the vicar's mind was altogether more disturbed than it had been in thirty years, and he was no longer able to account to himself with absolute accuracy for what he did. At all events, he felt that it was better not to tell Mrs. Goddard what the squire had said.

When he was gone, Mr. Juxon paced his library alone in the greatest uncertainty. He had told the vicar in his anger that he would find Goddard with the help of Stamboul. That the hound was able to accomplish the feat in the present weather, and if Goddard had actually stood some time at the cottage window on the previous night, he did not doubt for a moment. The vicar had mentioned the window to him when he told him that Mrs. Goddard had seen her husband. He had probably been at the window as late as midnight, and the scent, renewed by his visit, would not be twelve hours old. Stamboul could find the man, unless he had got into a cart, which was improbable. But a new and startling consideration presented itself to the squire's mind when the vicar was gone and his anger had subsided; a consideration which made him hesitate what course to pursue.

That he would be justified in using any means in his power to catch the criminal seemed certain. It would be for the public good that he should be delivered up to justice as soon as possible. So long as Goddard was at large the squire's own life was not safe, and Mrs. Goddard was liable to all kinds of annoyances at any moment. There was every reason why the fellow should be captured. But to capture him, safe and sound, was one thing; to expose him to the jaws of Stamboul was quite another. Mr. Juxon had a lively recollection of the day in the Belgrade forest when the great hound had pulled down one of his assailants, making his fangs meet through flesh and bone. If Stamboul were set upon Goddard's track, the convict could hardly escape with his life. In the first flush of the squire's anger this seemed of little importance. But on mature reflection the thing appeared in a different light.

He loved Mrs. Goddard in his own way, which was a very honourable way, if not very passionate. He had asked her to marry him. She had expressed a wish that she were a widow, implying perhaps that if she had been free she would have accepted him. If the obstacle of her living husband were removed, it was not improbable that she would look favourably upon the squire's suit; to bring Goddard to an untimely end would undoubtedly be to clear the way for the squire. It was not then, a legitimate desire for justice which made him wish to catch the convict and almost to wish that Stamboul might worry him to death; it was the secret hope that Goddard might be killed and that he, Charles James Juxon, might have the chance to marry his widow. "In other words," he said to himself, "I really want to murder Goddard and take his wife."

It was not easy to see where legitimate severity ended and unlawful and murderous selfishness began. The temptation was a terrible one. The very uncertainty which there was, tempted the squire to disregard the possibility of Goddard's death as compared with the importance of his capture. It was quite likely, he unconsciously argued, that the bloodhound would not kill him after all; it was even possible that he might not find him; but it would be worth while to make the attempt, for the results to be obtained by catching the fugitive were very great—Mrs. Goddard's peace was to be considered before all things. But still before the squire's eyes arose the picture of Stamboul tearing the throat of the man he had killed in the Belgrade forest. If he killed the felon, Juxon would know that to all intents and purposes he had himself done the deed in order to marry Mrs. Goddard. But still the thought remained with him and would not leave him.

The fellow had threatened his own life. It was then a fair fight, for a man cannot be blamed if he tries to get the better of one who is going about to kill him. On one of his many voyages, he had once shot a man in order to quell a mutiny; he had not killed him it is true, but he had disabled him for the time—he had handled many a rough customer in his day. The case, he thought, was similar, for it was the case of self-defence. The law, even, would say he was justified. But to slay a man in self-defence and then to marry his widow, though justifiable in law, is a very delicate case for the conscience; and in spite of the wandering life he had led, Mr. Juxon's conscience was sensitive. He was an honest man and a gentleman, he had tried all his life to do right as he saw it, and did not mean to turn murderer now, no matter how easy it would be for him to defend his action.