SQUIRE GOOD ALL

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 68, Issue 139, 24 March 1948, Page 7

SQUIRE GOOD ALL

Serial Story m

By W. RILEY I

(Copyright). j|

CHAPTER XXV.

INTERVENTION WITH HAL CLARK

“Glad to see you about again, sir, and lookin’ like yerself,” he said. “Thank you, Mr Smithies,” Squire Goodall replied. “Yes, I’m beginning to feel as if my legs really belong to my body. I’m walking back as far as the lodge. Spence didn’t quite approve, I fancy, but I’m tired of all this coddling.” “Go easy, sir; go easy,” the man replied, “we want no backenings, you know;” and immediately went on. “My word, sir, but it’s a grand little place you're building for us.” “Yes,” Squire Goodall agreed; “I’m quite pleased with it. It does the architect credit. Another month or so and you’ll be in it, they tell me.” > “An’ I hope we shall see you at the opening, sir,” Mr Smithies ventured, “an’ happen now and again at a service.”

“If I live you certainly will,” Squire Goodall replied. “Praise the Lord!” Mr Smithies’ face was a picture of satisfaction. » “How is you wife getting on with Hal Clark?” Squire Gipodall enquired, and the man’s expression changed. “She doesn’t go, sir. Hal told her he’d like a change; ’at she was altogether too cheerful-like, and he couldn’t abide her hummin’ hymntunes. He’s fixed up with Bert Newbold’s missus, and she goes reg’lar.” “I must call to see Hal,” said Squire Goodall. He turned this development o„ver in his mind, and was still pondering it when he entered the fold and saw Mrs Newbold standing in the open doorway of her home. At sight of him she was about to turn away, but he called her by name, and she came forward, reluctantly, he thought. “How is grannie?” he asked. “Worse nor ever, sir,” she replied. “Her mind’s clean gone, and she babbles same as a bairn. She wouldn’t know you, sir.” “What news have ybu of Sarah?’ ( The woman’s face hardened. “She’s in that nursing home you sent her to, sir; but I’ve had only one letter and I don’t care if I get no-more. If she goes west when her baby comes, and takes it with her, I won’t fret.” . . .“I don’t think that is true, Squire Goodall answered, “You are the poor child’s mother—”

“Excuse me, sir,” the woman interrupted boldly; “I’m going through somethin’ you’ll never have to go through. I’m poor; but it’s as bad for poor folks to ’bide shame as it is for them ’at’s rich.” , She looked defiantly in her landlord’s face, but saw no resentment there. , . . “That is true,” he answered quietly; “but we must not let shame destroy love and pity, and breed thoughts of murder. Sarah was sinned against.^ “Vicar and his wife don’t say so, said Mrs Newbold bitterly. “They lay all t’ blame on her. “They know I warned-her, and they say it was her own fault when her eyes had been opened, and she ought to ’a kept herself respectable. And so she ought, for that matter.” She was angry and sore, and Squire Goodall saw that whilst she was m this mood anything he could say was likely to be unheeded. “We must make things as easy as we can for Sarah,” he said. “Don t forget, Mrs Newbold, that week by week in church we all acknowledge—the Vicar with the rest of us—that we have offended against God’s holy laws 'and done the things we ought not to have done. And we pray God to forgive us as we forgive those who have done us wrong. We must be sorry for Sarah.” “Vicar and his lot are sorry for Sir Stephen,” the woman muttered. “You and I will be sorry for him, too,”’ said Squire Goodall, “when we know he is sorry for the wrongs he has done.” “When!” she ejaculated with emphasis. , Hal Clark’s door was open and Hat himself dozing on the hearth when Squire Goodall entered, but he leaped to his feet at the sound of footsteps. “Don’t excite yourself, my friend, said his visitor. “You recognise my voice. I’ll turn the key in the lock so that we shan’t be interrupted. Sit down again. - The voice was low and the tone authoritative. After one angry exclamation the man had not spoken a word ‘ and when Squire Goodall drew up a chair and seated himself he noticed that Hal was trembling. “You are ill, friend,” he said. “I’m not ill,” thq other replied. I m never ill. Strong men sicken and die but naught touches me. God lets me live till I’ve done my work. It s all the kindness He does me—just lets me live for that: . Squire Goodall was,about to speak but the man stretched out a hand and gripped his arm. “I bungled it, squire, bungled it badly. Oh, my God, when I heardj tell it was you I’d struck down and not him I Avas in torment. You sat down where he’d been sitting, and God forgive me I thought it was you that had gone away. They said you were dead, and once over I was for giving myself up, but better thoughts came. I had to kill him after that, you see; on your account as well as hers. I had to. live for that; I am living for that.” “Mad!” said Squire Goodall to himself. His heart was compassionate but he made his voice stern.

“Listen to me, my friend,” he said. “One word from me and you will bo locked up where you can go no harm either to yourself or anyone else. Your liberty is in my hands—do you understand that? Do you realise that this very day if I choose I can have you taken away, and all your murderous schemes will come to naught? I say do you take that in?” • A piteous expression of fear and dismay appeared in the man’s eyes and spread over his face, and he stretched out a hand and groped for his landlord’s arm again. “You won’t do it, squire,” he groaned; and the trembling which had moderated was renewed. “Rector said you had forgiven. God knows 1 meant you no harm; I meant you naught but good. You were angry with him, with yon devil. I heard what you said, and I knew it ’ud ease your way if I was to kill him. But I’m blind and I blundered. God alone knows what I suffered when I found out ’at I’d killed the only man that -calls me friend. But you weren’t killed and now all I want is to finish the job. You must let me finish it, squire, and then naught else matters. God’s executioner that’s what I am.” “Heed carefully what I have to say, Squire Goodall replied firmly. “I forgive you willingly the blow that nearly

cost me my life; but unless you promise me to drop this mad scheme and keep 'your hands off Sir Stephen I will have you taken away before you become a murderer in deed as you already are in intent. You are not altogether mad, but you will be soon unless you rid yourself of this wicked design. Mage up your mind now —you have sense enough to know what I mean. Either put yourself under control and leave Sir Stephen's punishment to God, or I will have you put under restraint without delay.” “I can’t do it,” -said the man. “Give up my revenge and let the man go free! My God, I never will!” Squire Goodall rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, friend,” he said; “there is then only one course that I can take, and it hurts me to have to do it.”

He picked up hie hat and unlocked the door, but before he opened it he turned and saw on Hal’s face a look of such utter misery that he came back. “Think better of it, friend,” he said. “You said won could see your folk here and that you couldn’t bear to leave them behind. Are you willing to leave them behind for ever? They are, 1 trust in heaven —will you shut yourself oil from them in hell? Your folk would bid you give me the promise I require.” “It’s hard,” said the man, in a broken, but more rational voice. ‘“Your way is harder,” Squire Goodall replied. “Your way leads to hell, I tell you. The way 1 want you to go leads to heaven.’ ( “And you’ll have me taken away if I don’t promise?” “I will; and it is no idle threat!”

Tears of disappointment and bitter resentment appeared in the man’s eyes. He ground his teeth, clenched his lists and assumed an attitude that appeared threatening; but Squire Goodall remained unmoved. By and by the man’s features relaxed.

“‘lf I must, I must,” he muttered. “I’ll promise you not to lay hands on him.”

Squire Goodall’s eyes fixed themselves on Hal’s face and the man shuffled uncomfortably. “Very well; I’ll let it go at that,” said Squire Goodall; “but I shall keep you under observation. You must have Mrs Smithies back—why did you turn her away and get Mrs Newbold in?” “Because Poll Newbold ’ud kill him too,” Hal replied with feeling. “She and me’ud like to crush the life out of him. She’d sing a Psalm to see him laid dead at her feet.” “Then you are best apart,” said Squire Goodall. “I shall ask Mrs Newbold to stay away, and Mias Smithiesto come as before. And Hal He came nearer and laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.

« —p ray God to take away from you these thoughts of hate, and to give you a better spirit. It’ll pay you, friend.” When* the door closed behind the squire Hal clenched his fists and muttered. “What, does such as him know about thoughts of hate —a man (at lias all heart could wish, and none to cross him? He may force a promise out of me; but we shall see —we shall see. (To Be Continued).