The Revellers Part 32

George Pickering suddenly became the most composed person present. His hearers were face to face with a tragedy. After all, did he mean to tell the truth? Ah, it was well that his affianced wife was weeping in an adjoining room, that her soul was not pierced by the calm recital which would condemn her to prison, perchance to the scaffold.

"Her cry warned me," he went on. "I knew she could not hurt me. I was a strong and active man, she a weak, excited woman. She was very near, advancing down the path which runs close to the dividing hedge of the garden and the stackyard. To draw her away from Kitty, I ran toward this hedge and jumped over. It was dark there. I missed my footing and stumbled. I felt something run into my left breast. It was the p.r.o.ng of a pitchfork."

The pen ceased. A low gasp of relief came from the nurse, for she was a woman. The superintendent looked gravely at the floor. But the magistrate faltered:

"George--remember--you are a dying man!"

Pickering again lifted his body. His face was convulsed with a spasm of pain, but the strong voice cried fearlessly:

"Write what I have said. I'll swear it with my last breath. I'll tell the same story to either G.o.d or devil. Write, I say, or shall I finish it with my own hand?"

They thought that by some superhuman effort he would rise forthwith to reach the table. The nurse, the policeman, leaped to restrain him.

Mr. Beckett-Smythe was greatly agitated.

"If I cannot persuade you--" he began.

"Persuade me to do what? To bolster up a lying charge against the woman I am going to marry? By the Lord, do you think I'm mad?"

They released him. The set intensity of his face was terrible. It is hard to say what awful power could have changed George Pickering's purpose in that supreme moment. Yet he clenched his hands in the bedclothes, as if he would choke some mocking fiend that grinned at him, and his voice was hoa.r.s.e as he murmured:

"Oh, man, if you have a heart, end your inquisition, or I'll die too soon!"

Again the pen resumed its monotonous sc.r.a.pe. It paused at last. The fateful words were on record.

"And then what happened?"

The magistrate's question was judicially cold. He held strong convictions regarding the deeper mysteries of life; his faculties were benumbed by this utter defiance of all that he believed most firmly.

"I said something, swore very likely, and staggered into the moonlight, at the same time tearing the fork from my breast. Betsy saw what I was doing, and screamed. I managed to get over the hedge again, and she ran away in mortal fright, for I had pulled open my waistcoat, and she could see the blood on my s.h.i.+rt. She fell as she ran, and cut herself with the knife. By that time Kitty had reached the hotel, screaming wildly that Betsy was trying to murder me. That is all. Betsy never touched me. The wound I am suffering from was inflicted by myself, accidentally. It was not caused by the knife, as is shown by the fact that I am dying of blood poisoning, while Betsy's cuts are healing and have left her unharmed otherwise."

His hearers were greatly perturbed, but they knew that further protest would be unavailing. And there was an even greater shock in store.

Pickering turned in the bed and poised his pain-racked frame so as to reach the ma.n.u.script placed before him for signature. With unwavering hand he added the words:

"So help me G.o.d!"

Then he wrote his name.

"Now, sign that, all of you, as witnesses," he commanded, and they did not gainsay him. It was useless. Why prolong his torture and their own?

Mr. Beckett-Smythe handed the sheets of paper to Jonas. He seemed inclined to leave the room without another spoken word, but humane impulse was stronger than dogma; he held out his hand.

"Good-by, George," he said brokenly. "'Judge not,' it is written. Let my farewell be a prayer that you may die peacefully and painlessly, if, indeed, G.o.d in His mercy does not grant your recovery."

"Good-by, squire. You've got two sons. Find 'em plenty of work; they'll have less time for mischief. d.a.m.n it all, hark to that reaper! It'll soon be time to rouse the cubs. I'll miss the next hunt breakfast, eh?

Well, good luck to you all! I've had my last gallop. Good-by, Jonas! Do you remember the fight we had that morning with the poachers? Look here!

When you meet Rabbit Jack, tell him to go to Stockwell for a sovereign and swim in beer for a week. Nurse, where's Betsy? I want her before it is dark."

And in a few minutes Betsy, the forlorn, was bending over him and whispering:

"I'll do it for your sake, George! But, oh, it will be hard to face everybody with a lie in my mouth. The hand that struck you should wither. Indeed, indeed, I shall suffer worse than death. If the Lord took pity on me, He would let me be the first to go."

He stroked her hair gently, and there were tears in his eyes.

"Never cry about spilt milk, dearie. At best, or worst, the whole thing was an accident. Come, now, no more weeping. Sit down there and write what I tell you. I can remember every word, and Kitty and you must just fit in your stories to suit mine. Stockwell will defend you. He's a smart chap, and you need have no fear. Bless your heart, you'll be twice married before you know where you are!"

She obeyed him. With careful accuracy he repeated the deposition. He rehea.r.s.ed the evidence she would give. When the nurse came in, he bade her angrily to leave them alone, but recalled her in the next breath. He wanted Kitty. She, too, must be coached. At his command she had placed the fork where it was found. But she must learn her story with parrot-like accuracy. There must be no contradiction in the sisters'

evidence.

Martin was eating his supper when Mrs. Bolland, bustling about the kitchen, made a discovery.

"I must be fair wool-gatherin'," she said crossly. "Here's a little pile o' handkerchiefs browt by Dr. MacGregor, an' I clean forgot all about 'em. Martin, it's none ower let, an' ye can bide i' bed i' t' mornin'.

Just run along te t' vicarage wi' these, there's a good lad. They'll mebbe be wantin' 'em."

He hailed the errand not the less joyfully that it led him through the fair. But he did not loiter. Perhaps he gazed with longing eyes at its vanis.h.i.+ng glories, for some of the showmen were packing up in disgust, but he reached the vicarage quickly. It lay nearer the farm than The Elms, and, like that pretentious mansion, was shrouded from the highroad by leafy trees and cl.u.s.ters of laurels.

A broad drive led to the front door. The night was drawing in rapidly, and the moon would not rise until eleven o'clock. In the curving avenue it was pitch-dark, but a cheerful light shone from the drawing-room, and through an open French window he could see Elsie bending over a book.

She was not deeply interested, judging by the listless manner in which she turned the leaves. She was leaning with her elbows on the table, resting one knee on a chair, and the att.i.tude revealed a foot and ankle quite as gracefully proportioned as Angle's elegant limbs, though Elsie was more robust.

Hearing the boy's firm tread on the graveled approach, she straightened herself and ran to the window.

"Who is there?" she said. Martin stepped into the light.

"Oh, it's you!"

"Yes, Miss Herbert. Mother sent me with these."

He held out the parcel of linen.

"What is it?" she asked, extending a hesitating hand.

"It is perfectly harmless, if you stroke it gently."

She could see the mischief dancing in his eyes, and grabbed the package.

Then she laughed.

"Our handkerchiefs! It was very kind of Mrs. Bolland----"

"I think Dr. MacGregor had them washed."

This puzzled her, but a more personal topic was present in her mind.

"I saw you a little while ago," she said. "You were engaged, or I would have asked you if you were recovering all right. Your hands and arms are yet bound up, I see. Do they hurt you much?"

"No. Not a bit."

He felt absurdly tongue-tied, but bravely continued: