CHAPTER X

DEEPENING SHADOWS

The doctor came late next morning. He did not reach Elmsdale until after eleven o'clock. He called first at the White House and handed Mrs. Bolland a small package.

"These are the handkerchiefs I took away yesterday," he said. "I suppose they belong to Mr. Herbert's household. My servant has washed them. Will you see that they are returned?"

"Mercy o' me!" cried Martha. "I nivver knew ye took 'em. What did ye want 'em for, docthor?"

"There might have been some malignant substance--some poisonous matter--in the cat's claws, and as the county analyst was engaged at my place on some other business I--Oh, come now, Mrs. Bolland, there's no need to be alarmed. Martin's wounds were cleansed, and the salt applied to the raw edges so promptly, that any danger which might have existed was stopped effectually."

Yet the doctor's cheery face was grave that morning and his brow was wrinkled as he unfastened the bandages. Beyond a slight stiffness of certain sinews and the natural soreness of the cut flesh, Martin had never felt better in his life. After a disturbed slumber, when he dreamed that he was choking a wildcat--a cat with Angele's face which changed suddenly in death to Elsie Herbert's smiling features--he lay awake for some hours. Then the pain in his wrists abated gradually, he fell sound asleep, and Mrs. Bolland took care that he was left alone until he awoke of his own accord at half-past eight, an unprecedented hour.

So the boy laughed at his mother's fears. Her lips quivered, and she tried to choke back a sob. The doctor turned on her angrily.

"Stop that!" he growled. "I suppose you think I'm hoodwinking you. It is not so. I am very much worried about another matter altogether, so please accept my assurance that Martin is all right. He can run about all day, if he likes. The only consequence of disturbing these cuts will be that they cannot heal rapidly. Otherwise, they will be closed completely by the end of the week."

While he talked he worked. The dressings were changed and fresh lint applied. He handed Mrs. Bolland a store of materials.

"There," he said, "I need not come again, but I'll call on Monday, just to satisfy you. Apply the lotion morning and night. Good-by, Martin. You did a brave thing, I hear. Good-by, Mrs. Bolland."

He closed his bag hurriedly and rushed away. Mrs. Bolland, drying her eyes, and quite satisfied now, went to the door and gazed after him.

"He's fair rattled wi' summat," she told another portly dame who labored up the incline at the moment. "He a'most snapped my head off. Did he think a body wouldn't be scared wi' his talk about malignous p'ison i' t' lad's bluid, I wonder?"

The doctor did not pull up outside the "Black Lion." He drove to the Vicarage--a circumstance which would most certainly have given Mrs. Bolland renewed cause for alarm, were she aware of it--and asked Mr. Herbert to walk in the garden with him for a few minutes.

The two conversed earnestly, and the vicar seemed to be greatly shocked at the outcome of their talk. At last they arrived at a decision. The doctor hastened back to the "Black Lion." He did not remain long in the sick room, but scribbled a note downstairs and gave it to his man.

"Take that to Mr. Herbert," he said. "I'll make a few calls on foot and meet you at the bridge in a quarter of an hour."

The note read:

"There is no hope. Things are exactly as I feared."

The vicar, looking most woebegone, murmured that there was no answer. He procured his hat and walked slowly to the inn, which was crowded, inside and out. Nearly every man knew him and spoke to him, and many noted that "t' passon looked varra down i' t' mooth this mornin'."

He went upstairs. The conjecture flew around at once that Pickering was worse. Someone remembered that Kitty Thwaites said the patient had experienced a touch of fever overnight. Surely, his wound had not developed serious symptoms. The chief herd of his Nottonby estate had seen him during the preceding afternoon and found his master looking wonderfully well. Indeed, Pickering spoke of attending to some business matter in person on Saturday, or on Monday for certain. Why, then, the vicar's visit? What did it portend? People gathered in small groups and their voices softened. By contrast, the blare of lively music and the whistle of the roundabout were intolerably loud.

In the quiet room at the back of the hotel, with its scent of iodoform mingling with the sweet breath of the garden wafted in through an open window, Pickering moved restlessly in bed. His face was flushed, his eyes singularly bright, with a glistening sheen that was abnormal.

By his side sat the pallid Betsy, reading a newspaper aloud. She followed the printed text with difficulty. Her mind was troubled. The fatigue of nursing was nothing to one of her healthy frame, but her thoughts were terrifying. She lived in a waking nightmare. Had she dared to weep, she might have felt relief, but this sure solace of womankind was denied her.

The vicar's entrance caused a sensation. Betsy, in a quick access of fear, dropped the paper, and Pickering's face blanched. Some secret doubt, some inner monitor, brought a premonition of what was to come. He flinched from the knowledge, but only for a moment.

Mr. Herbert essayed most gallantly to adopt his customary cheerful mien.

"Dr. MacGregor asked me to call and see you, George," he said. "I hope you are not suffering greatly."

"Not at all, thanks, vicar. Just a trifle restless with fever, perhaps, but the wound is nothing, a mere cut. I've had as bad a scratch and much more painful when thrusting through a thorn hedge after hounds."

"Ah. That is well."

The reverend gentleman seemed to be strangely at a loss for words. He glanced at Betsy.

"Would you mind leaving me alone with Mr. Pickering for a little while?" he said.

The wounded man laughed, and there was a note in his voice that showed how greatly the tension had relaxed.

"If that's what you're after, Mr. Herbert," he said promptly, "you may rest assured that the moment I'm able to stir we'll be married. I told Mr. Beckett-Smythe so yesterday."

"Indeed; I am glad to hear it. Nevertheless, I want to talk with you alone."

The vicar's insistence was a different thing to the wish expressed by a magistrate and a police superintendent. Betsy went out at once.

For an appreciable time after the door had closed no word was spoken by either of the men. The vicar's eyes were fixed mournfully on the valley, through which a train was winding its way. The engine left in its track white wraiths of steam which vanished under the lusty rays of the sun. The drone of the showman's organ playing "Tommy Atkins" reached the hardly conscious listeners as through a telephone. From a distant cornfield came the busy rattle of a reaping machine. The harvest had commenced a fortnight earlier than usual. Once again was the bounteous earth giving to man a hundredfold what he had sown. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap." Out there in the field were garnered the wages of honest endeavor; here in the room, with its hospital perfume, were being awarded the wages of sin, for George Pickering was condemned to death, and it was the vicar's most doleful mission to warn him of his doom.

"Now, Mr. Herbert, pitch into me as much as you like," said the patient, breaking an uneasy silence. "I've been a bad lot, but I'll try to make amends. Betsy's case is a hard one. You're a man of the world and you know what the majority of these village lasses are like; but Betsy----"

The vicar could bear the suspense no longer. He must perform his task, no matter what the cost.

"George," he broke in tremulously, "my presence here to-day is due to a very sad and irrevocable fact. Dr. MacGregor tells me that your condition is serious, most serious. Indeed--indeed--there is no hope of your recovery."

Pickering, who had raised himself on an elbow, gazed at the speaker for an instant with fiery eyes. Then, as though he grasped the purport of the words but gradually, he sank back on the pillow in the manner of one pressed down by overwhelming force. The vicar moved his chair nearer and grasped his friend's right hand.

"George," he murmured, "bear up, and try to prepare your soul for that which is inevitable. What are you losing? A few years of joys and sorrows, to which the end must come. And the end is eternity, compared with which this life is but a passing shadow."

Pickering did not answer immediately. He raised his body again. He moved his limbs freely. He looked at a square bony wrist and stretched out the free hand until he caught an iron rail, which he clenched fiercely. In his veins ran the blood of a race of yeomen. His hardy ancestors had exchanged blow for blow with Scottish raiders who sought to steal their cattle. They had cracked the iron rind of many a marauder, broken many a border skull in defense of their lives and property. Never had they feared death by flood or field, and their descendant scoffed at the grim vision now.

"What nonsense is this MacGregor has been talking?" he shouted. "Die! A man like me! By gad, vicar, I'd laugh, if I wasn't too vexed!"

"Be patient, George, and hear me. Things are worse than you can guess. Your wound alone is a small matter, but, unfortunately, the knife----"

"There was no knife! It was a pitchfork!"

"Bear with me, I pray you. You will need to conserve your energy, and your protest only makes my duty the harder. The knife has been submitted to analysis, as well as corpuscles of your blood. Alas, that it should fall to me to tell it! Alas, for the poor girl whom you have declared your intention to marry! The knife had been used to carve grouse, and some putrid matter from a shot wound had dried on the blade. This was communicated to your system. The wound was cleansed too late. Your blood was poisoned before the doctor saw you, and--and--there is no hope now."

The vicar bowed his head. He dared not look in the eyes of the man to whom he was conveying this dire sentence. He felt Pickering subsiding gently to the pillow and straightening his limbs.

"How long?"

The words were uttered in a singularly calm voice--so calm that the pastor ventured to raise his sorrow-laden face.

"Soon. Perhaps three days. Perhaps a week. But you will be delirious. You have little time in which to prepare."

Again a silence. A faint shriek reached them from afar, the whistle of the train entering Nottonby, the pleasant little town which Pickering would never more see.

"What a finish!" he muttered. "I'd have liked it better in the saddle. I wouldn't have cared a damn if I broke my neck after hounds."

Another pause, and the vicar said gently:

"Have you made your will?"

"No."

"Then it must be attended to at once."

"Yes, of course. Then, there's Betsy. Oh, God, I've treated her badly. Now, help me, won't you? There's a hundred pounds in notes and some twenty-odd in gold in that drawer. Telegraph first to Stockwell, my lawyer in Nottonby. Bring him here. Then, spare no money in getting a license for my marriage. I can't die unless that is put right. Don't delay, there's a good chap. You have to apply to the Archbishop, don't you? You'll do everything, I know. Will you be a trustee under my will?"

"Yes, if you wish it."

"It'll please me more than anything. Of course, I'll make it worth your while. I insist, I tell you. Go, now! Don't lose a moment. Send Betsy. And, vicar, for Heaven's sake, not a word to her until we are married. I'll tell her the fever is serious; just that, and no more."

"One other matter, George. Mr. Beckett-Smythe will come here to-day or to-morrow to take your sworn deposition. You must not die with a lie on your conscience, however good the motive."

"I'll jump that fence when I reach it, Mr. Herbert. Meanwhile, the lawyer and the license. They're all-important."

The vicar left it at that. He deemed it best to take the urgent measures of the hour off the man's mind before endeavoring to turn his thoughts toward a fitting preparation for the future state. With a reassuring handclasp, he left him.

The two sisters waylaid him in the passage.

"Ye had but ill news, I fear, sir," said Betsy despairingly, catching Mr. Herbert by the arm.

The worried man stooped to deception.

"Now, why should you jump to conclusions?" he cried. "Dr. MacGregor asked me to look up his patient. Am I a harbinger of disaster, like Mother Carey's chickens?"

"Oh, parson," she wailed, "I read it i' yer face, an' in t' doctor's. Don't tell me all is well. I know better. Pray God I may die----"

"Hush, my poor girl, you know not what you say. Go to Mr. Pickering. He wants you."

He knew the appeal would be successful. She darted off. Before Kitty, in turn, could question him, he escaped.

It was easier to run the gantlet of friendly inquirers outside. He telegraphed to the solicitor and sent a telegraphic remittance of the heavy fees demanded for the special license. Within two hours he had the satisfaction of knowing that the precious document was in the post and would reach him next morning.

Mr. Stockwell's protests against Pickering's testamentary designs were cut short by his client.

"Look here, Stockwell," was the irritated comment, "you are an old friend of mine and I'd like this matter to remain in your hands, but if you say another word I'll be forced to send for someone else."

"If you put it that way----" began the lawyer.

"I do, most emphatically. Now, what is it to be? Yes or no?"

For answer the legal man squared some foolscap sheets on a small table and produced a stylographic pen.

"Let me understand clearly," he said. "You intend to marry this--er--lady, and mean to settle four hundred a year on her for life?"

"Yes."

"Suppose she marries again?"

"God in heaven, man, do you think I want to play dog-in-the-manger in my grave?"

"Then it had better take the form of a marriage settlement. It is the strongest instrument known in the law and avoids the death duties."

Pickering winced, but the lawyer went on remorselessly. He regarded the marriage as a wholly quixotic notion, and knew only too well that Betsy Thwaites would be tried for murder if Pickering died.

"Have you no relatives?" he said. "I seem to recollect----"

"My cousin Stanhope? He's quite well off, an M.P., and likely to be made a baronet."

"He will not object to the chance of dropping in for L1,500 a year."

"Do you think the estate will yield so much?"

"More, I imagine. Did you ever know what you spent?"

"No."

"Well, is it to be this Mr. Stanhope?"

"No. He never gave me a thought. Why should I endow him and his whelps? Let the lot go to the County Council in aid of the county orphanage. By Jove, that's a good idea! I like that."

"Anything else?" demanded the lawyer.

"Yes. You and Mr. Herbert are to be the trustees."

"The deuce we are. Who said so?"

"I say so. You are to receive L50 a year each from the estate for administering it."

"Ah. That gilds the pill. Next?"

"I have nearly a thousand in the bank. Keep half as working capital, give a hundred to my company in the Territorials, and divide the balance, according to salary, among all my servants who have more than five years' service. And--Betsy is to have the use of the house and furniture, if she wishes it."

"Anything else?"

Pickering was exhausted, but continued to laugh weakly.

"Yes; I had almost forgotten. I bequeath to John Bolland the shorthorn cow he sold me, and to that lad of his--you must find out his proper name--my pair of hammerless guns and my sword. He frames to be a sportsman, and I think he'll make a soldier. He picked up a poker like a shot the other day when I quarreled with old John."

"What was the quarrel about?"

"When you send back the cow, you'll be told."

Mr. Stockwell scanned his notes rapidly.

"I'll put my clerks to work at this to-night," he said. "As I am a trustee, my partner will attend to-morrow to get your signature. Of course, you know you must be married before you make your will, or it will be invalid? Before I go, George, are you sure it is all over with you?"

"MacGregor says so. I suppose he knows."

"Yes, he knows, if any man does. Yet I can't believe it. It seems monstrous, incredible."

They gazed fixedly at each other. Of the two, the man of law was the more affected. Before either could speak again they heard Betsy's agonized cry:

"Oh, for God's sake, miss, don't tell me I may not be with him always! I've done my best; I have, indeed. I'll give neither him nor you any trouble. Don't keep me away from him now, or I'll go mad!"

The lawyer, wondering what new frenzy possessed the woman who had struck down his friend, opened the door. He was confronted by a hospital nurse sent by Dr. MacGregor. She looked like a strong-minded person and was probably a stickler for the etiquette of the sick room. He took in the situation at a glance.

"There need be no difficulty, nurse, where Miss Thwaites is concerned," he said. "She is to be married to Mr. Pickering to-morrow, and as he has only a few days to live they should see as much of each other as possible. Any other arrangement would irritate your patient greatly, and be quite contrary to Dr. MacGregor's wishes, I am sure."

The nurse bowed, and Betsy sobbed as the secret that was no secret to her was revealed. None of the three realized that several men standing in the hall beneath, whose talk had been silenced by Betsy's frenzied exclamation, must have heard every word the lawyer uttered.