And now, in the extremest anxiety and difficulty, his character served him well; for he unconsciously refused to allow to himself that his position was extraordinary or his responsibility greater than he was able to bear.  He disliked intensely the idea of being put forward or thrust into a dramatic situation, and he consequently failed signally to fulfil the dramatic necessities.  There was not even a struggle in his heart between the opposite possibilities of letting Goddard die, by merely relaxing his attention, and of redoubling his care and bringing about his recovery.  He never once asked himself, after the chances of the patient surviving the fever were stated, whether he would not be justified in sending for some honest housewife from the village to take care of the tramp instead of looking to his wants himself.  He simply did his best to save the man’s life, without hesitation, without suspecting that he was doing anything extraordinary, doing, as he had always done, the best thing that came in his way according to the best of his ability.  He could not wholly suppress the reflection that much good might ensue from Goddard’s death, but the thought never for a moment interfered with his efforts to save the convict alive.

But John lay in the next room, kept awake by the sick man’s perpetual groaning and by the train of thought which ran through his brain.  There were indeed more strange things than his philosophy could account for, but the strangest of all was that the squire should know who the tramp was; he must know it, John thought, since he knew all about him, his former love for Mrs. Goddard and his recent presence in the neighbourhood.  The young man’s curiosity was roused to its highest pitch, and he longed to know more.  He at once guessed that there must have been much intimate confidence between Mr. Juxon and Mrs. Goddard; he suspected moreover that there must be some strange story connected with her, something which accounted for the peculiar stamp of a formerly luxurious life which still clung to her, and which should explain her residence in Billingsfield But John was very far from suspecting the real truth.

His mind was restless and the inaction became intolerable to him.  He rose at last and went again into the room where his friend was watching.  Mr. Juxon sat by the bedside, the very picture of patience, one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded together upon his knee, his face paler than usual but perfectly calm, his head bent a little to one side and his smooth hair, which had been slightly ruffled in the encounter in the park, as smooth as ever.  It was a very distinctive feature of him; it was part of the sleek and spotless neatness which Mrs. Ambrose so much admired.

“It is my turn, now,” said John.  “Will you lie down for a couple of hours?”

The squire rose.  Being older and less excitable than John, he was beginning to feel the need of rest.  People who have watched often by the sick know how terribly long are those hours of the night between three o’clock and dawn; long always, but seeming interminable when one is obliged to listen perpetually to a long-drawn, inarticulate moaning, a constant effort to speak which never results in words.