"But you will get well again—"
Goddard started suddenly, and laid his hand upon her arm with more force than she suspected he possessed.
"Where am I?" he asked, staring about the room. "Is this your house,
Mary? What became of Juxon?"
"He is not hurt. He brought you home in his arms, Walter, to his own house, and is taking care of you."
"Good heavens! He will give me up. No, no, don't hold me—I must be off"
He made a sudden effort to rise, but he was very weak. He fell back exhausted upon his pillow; his fingers gripped the sheet convulsively, and his face grew paler.
"Caught—like a rat!" he muttered. Mary Goddard sighed.
Was she to give him hope of escape? Or should she try to calm him now, and when he was better, break the truth to him? Was she to make him believe that he was safe for the present, and hold out a prospect of escape when he should be better, or should she tell him now, once for all, while he was in his senses, that he was lost? It was a terrible position. Love she had none left for him, but there was infinite pity still in her heart and there would be while he breathed. She hesitated one moment only, and it may be that she decided for the wrong; but it was her pity that moved her, and not any remnant of love.
"Hush, Walter," she said. "You may yet escape, when you are strong enough. You are quite safe here, for the present. Mr. Juxon would not think of giving you up now. By and by—the window is not high, Walter, and I shall often be alone with you. I will manage it."
"Is that true? Are you cheating me?" cried the wretched man in broken tones. "No—you are speaking the truth—I know it—God bless you, Mary!" Again he closed his eyes and drew one or two long deep breaths.