"Very hard," answered the squire. "His life must be one of misery, if he lives."
"Of course you would send him back?" she asked nervously.
"My dear friend, there is no other course open to me. Your own safety requires it."
"God knows—you would only be doing right," she said and was silent again. She knew, though the squire did not, what fate awaited Walter Goddard if he were given up to justice. She knew that he had taken life and must pay the penalty. Yet she was very calm; her senses were all dulled and yet her thoughts seemed to be consecutive and rational. She realised fully that the case of life and death was ill balanced; death had it which ever course events might take, and she could not save her husband. She thought of it calmly and calmly hoped that he might die now, in his bed, with her by his side. It was a better fate.
"You say that the doctor thinks he must have been ill some time?" she asked after a time.
"Yes—he was quite sure of it," answered the squire.
"Perhaps that was why he spoke so roughly to me," she said in a low voice, as though speaking to herself.
The tears came into the squire's eyes for sheer pity. Even in this utmost extremity the unhappy woman tried to account for her husband's rude and cruel speech. Mr. Juxon did not answer but looked away. They passed the spot where the scuffle had occurred on the previous night, but still he said nothing, fearing to disturb her by making his story seem too vividly real.
"Where is he?" she asked as they reached the Hall, looking up at the windows.
"On the other side."