by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XIII
A DYING DEPOSITION
Before Mr. Beckett-Smythe sat down to dinner that evening a veryunpleasant duty had been thrust on him.
The superintendent of police drove over from Nottonby to show him thecounty analyst's report. Divested of technicalities, this documentproved that George Pickering's dangerous condition arose from bloodpoisoning caused by a stab from a contaminated knife. It was admittedthat a wound inflicted by a rusty pitchfork might have had equallyserious results, but the analysis of matter obtained from bothinstruments proved conclusively that the knife alone was impregnatedwith the putrid germs found in the blood corpuscles, which alsocontained an undue proportion of alcohol.
Moreover, Dr. MacGregor's statement on the one vital point wasunanswerable. Pickering was suffering from an incised wound which couldnot have been inflicted by the rounded prongs of a fork. The doctor wasequally emphatic in his belief that the injured man would succumbspeedily.
In the face of these documents it was necessary that George Pickering'sdepositions should be taken by a magistrate. Most unwillingly, Mr.Beckett-Smythe accompanied the superintendent to the "Black Lion Hotel"for the purpose.
They entered the sick room about the time that Mrs. Saumarez wascrossing the green on her way to the Methodist Chapel. A glance atPickering's face showed that the doctor had not exaggerated the gravityof the affair. He was deathly pale, save for a number of vivid red spotson his skin. His eyes shone with fever. Were not his malady identified,the unskilled observer might conclude that he was suffering from asevere attack of German measles.
Betsy was there, and the prim nurse. The contrast between the two womenwas almost as startling as the change for the worse in Pickering'sappearance. The nurse, strictly professional in deportment, paid heed tonaught save the rules of treatment. The word "hospital," "certificate,""method," shrieked silently from her flowing coif and list slippers,from the clinical thermometer on the table, and the temperature chart onthe mantelpiece.
Poor Betsy was sitting by the bedside, holding her lover's hand. She wassmiling wistfully, striving to chatter in cheerful strain, yet all thetime she wanted to wail her despair, to petition on her knees that hercrime might be avenged on herself, not on its victim.
When the magistrate stepped gingerly forward, Pickering turnedquerulously to see who the visitor was, for the nurse had noddedpermission to enter when the two men looked through the half-open door.
"Oh, it's you, squire," he said in a low voice. "I thought it might beMacGregor."
"How are you feeling now, George?"
"Pretty sick. I suppose you've heard the verdict?"
"The doctor says you are in a bad state."
"Booked, squire, booked! And no return ticket. I don't care. I've madeall arrangements--that is, I'll have a free mind this timeto-morrow--and then, well, I'll face the music."
He caught sight of the police officer.
"Hello, Jonas! You there? Come for my last dying depositions, eh? Allright. Fire away! Betsy, my lass, leave us for a bit. The nurse canstay. The more witnesses the merrier."
Betsy arose. There was no fear in her eyes now--only dumb agony. Shewalked steadily from the room. While Mr. Beckett-Smythe was thankingProvidence under his breath that a most distressing task was thus beingmade easy for him, they all heard a dreadful sob from the exteriorlanding, followed by a heavy thud. The nurse hurried out. Betsy hadfainted.
With a painful effort Pickering raised himself on one arm. His forcedgayety gave place to loud-voiced violence.
"Confound you all!" he roared. "Why come here to frighten the poorgirl's life out of her?"
He cursed both the magistrate and Superintendent Jonas by name; were heable to rise he would break their necks down the stairs. The policemancrept out on tip-toe; Mr. Beckett-Smythe sat down. Pickering stormedaway until the nurse returned.
"Miss Thwaites is better," she said. "She was overcome by the longstrain, but she is with her sister now, and quite recovered."
Betsy was crying her heart out in Kitty's arms: fortunately, the soundsof her grief were shut out from their ears. Jonas came back and closedthe door. The doomed man sank to the pillow and growled sullenly:
"Now, get on with your business, and be quick over it. I'll not haveBetsy worried again while I have breath left to protest."
"I am, indeed, very sorry to disturb you, George," said the magistratequietly. "It is a thankless office for an old friend. Try and calmyourself. I do not ask your forbearance toward myself and Mr. Jonas, butthere are tremendous issues at stake. For your own sake you must help usto face this ordeal."
"Oh, go ahead, squire. My bark is worse than my bite--not that I havemuch of either in me now. If I spoke roughly, forgive me. I couldn'tbear to hear yon lass suffering."
Thinking it best to avoid further delay, Mr. Beckett-Smythe nodded tothe police officer, who drew forward a small table, which, with writingmaterials, he placed before the magistrate.
A foolscap sheet bore already some written words. The magistrate bentover it, and said, in a voice shaken with emotion:
"Listen, George. I have written here: 'I, George Pickering, being ofsound mind, but believing myself to be in danger of death, solemnly takeoath and depose as follows': Now, I want you to tell me, in your ownwords, what took place last Monday night. You are going to the awfulpresence of your Creator. You must tell the truth, fully and fearlessly,not striving to determine the course of justice by your own judgment,but leaving matters wholly in the hands of God. You are conscious ofwhat you are doing, fully sensible that you will soon be called on tomeet One who knoweth all things. I hope, I venture to pray, that youwill give testimony in all sincerity and righteousness.... I am ready."
Pickering heard this solemn injunction with due gravity. His featureswere composed, his eyes fixed on the distant landscape through the openwindow. No disturbing noise reached him save the lowing of cattle andthe far-off rattle of a reaping machine, for the police had ordered theremoval of the shooting gallery and roundabout to the other end of thegreen.
He remained silent so long that the two men glanced at him anxiously,but were reassured by the belief that he was only collecting histhoughts. Indeed, it was not so. He was striving to bridge that darkchasm on whose perilous verge he tottered--striving to frame an excusethat would not be uttered by his mortal lips.
At last he spoke.
"On Monday night, about five minutes past ten, I met Kitty Thwaites, byappointment, at the wicket gate which opens into the garden from thebowling green of the 'Black Lion Hotel,' Elmsdale. We walked down thegarden together. We were talking and laughing about the antics of agroom in this hotel, a fellow named Fred--I do not know his surname--whowas jealous of me because I was in the habit of chaffing Kitty andplacing my arm around her waist if I encountered her on the stairs. Thisman Fred, I believe, endeavored to pay attentions to Kitty, which shealways refused to encourage. Kitty and I stopped at the foot of thegarden beneath a pear tree which stands in the boundary fence of thepaddock.
"I had my arm around her neck, but was only playing the fool, whichKitty knew as well as I. There was a bright moon, and, although almostinvisible ourselves in the shadow of the hedge and tree, we could seeclearly into both paddock and garden. My back was toward the hotel.Suddenly, we heard someone running down the gravel path. I turned andsaw that it was Betsy Thwaites, Kitty's sister, a girl whom I believedto be then in a situation at Hereford. I had promised to marry Betsy,and was naturally vexed at being caught in an apparently compromisingattitude with her sister. Betsy had a knife in her hand. I could see itglittering in the moonlight."
He paused. He was corpse-like in color. The red spots on his face weredarker than before by contrast with the wan cheeks. He motioned to thenurse, who gave him a glass of barley water. He emptied it at a gulp.Catching Mr. Beckett-Smythe's mournful glance, he smiled with ghastlypleasantry.
"It sounds like a coroner's inquest, doesn't it?" he said.
Then, while his eyes rove
d incessantly from the face of the policeman tothat of the magistrate, he continued:
"I imagined that Betsy meant to do her sister some harm, so sprangforward to meet her. Then I saw that she was minded to attack me, forshe screamed out: 'You have ruined my life. I'll take care you do notruin Kitty's.'"
The words, of course, were spoken very slowly. They alternated with thesteady scratching of the pen. Others in the room were pallid now. Eventhe rigid nurse yielded to the excitement of the moment. Her linenbands fluttered and her bosom rose and fell with the restraint sheimposed on her breathing.
George Pickering suddenly became the most composed person present. Hishearers were face to face with a tragedy. After all, did he mean to tellthe truth? Ah, it was well that his affianced wife was weeping in anadjoining room, that her soul was not pierced by the calm recital whichwould condemn her to prison, perchance to the scaffold.
"Her cry warned me," he went on. "I knew she could not hurt me. I was astrong and active man, she a weak, excited woman. She was very near,advancing down the path which runs close to the dividing hedge of thegarden and the stackyard. To draw her away from Kitty, I ran toward thishedge and jumped over. It was dark there. I missed my footing andstumbled. I felt something run into my left breast. It was the prong ofa pitchfork."
The pen ceased. A low gasp of relief came from the nurse, for she was awoman. The superintendent looked gravely at the floor. But themagistrate faltered:
"George--remember--you are a dying man!"
Pickering again lifted his body. His face was convulsed with a spasm ofpain, but the strong voice cried fearlessly:
"Write what I have said. I'll swear it with my last breath. I'll tellthe same story to either God or devil. Write, I say, or shall I finishit with my own hand?"
They thought that by some superhuman effort he would rise forthwith toreach 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 womanI 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 ishard to say what awful power could have changed George Pickering'spurpose in that supreme moment. Yet he clenched his hands in thebedclothes, as if he would choke some mocking fiend that grinned at him,and his voice was hoarse as he murmured:
"Oh, man, if you have a heart, end your inquisition, or I'll die toosoon!"
Again the pen resumed its monotonous scrape. It paused at last. Thefateful words were on record.
"And then what happened?"
The magistrate's question was judicially cold. He held strongconvictions regarding the deeper mysteries of life; his faculties werebenumbed 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 wasdoing, and screamed. I managed to get over the hedge again, and she ranaway in mortal fright, for I had pulled open my waistcoat, and she couldsee the blood on my shirt. She fell as she ran, and cut herself with theknife. By that time Kitty had reached the hotel, screaming wildly thatBetsy was trying to murder me. That is all. Betsy never touched me. Thewound I am suffering from was inflicted by myself, accidentally. It wasnot caused by the knife, as is shown by the fact that I am dying ofblood poisoning, while Betsy's cuts are healing and have left herunharmed otherwise."
His hearers were greatly perturbed, but they knew that further protestwould be unavailing. And there was an even greater shock in store.
Pickering turned in the bed and poised his pain-racked frame so as toreach the manuscript placed before him for signature. With unwaveringhand he added the words:
"So help me God!"
Then he wrote his name.
"Now, sign that, all of you, as witnesses," he commanded, and they didnot gainsay him. It was useless. Why prolong his torture and their own?
Mr. Beckett-Smythe handed the sheets of paper to Jonas. He seemedinclined to leave the room without another spoken word, but humaneimpulse was stronger than dogma; he held out his hand.
"Good-by, George," he said brokenly. "'Judge not,' it is written. Let myfarewell be a prayer that you may die peacefully and painlessly, if,indeed, God in His mercy does not grant your recovery."
"Good-by, squire. You've got two sons. Find 'em plenty of work; they'llhave less time for mischief. Damn it all, hark to that reaper! It'llsoon 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! Doyou 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 sovereignand swim in beer for a week. Nurse, where's Betsy? I want her before itis dark."
And in a few minutes Betsy, the forlorn, was bending over him andwhispering:
"I'll do it for your sake, George! But, oh, it will be hard to faceeverybody with a lie in my mouth. The hand that struck you shouldwither. Indeed, indeed, I shall suffer worse than death. If the Lordtook 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 thingwas an accident. Come, now, no more weeping. Sit down there and writewhat I tell you. I can remember every word, and Kitty and you must justfit in your stories to suit mine. Stockwell will defend you. He's asmart chap, and you need have no fear. Bless your heart, you'll be twicemarried before you know where you are!"
She obeyed him. With careful accuracy he repeated the deposition. Herehearsed the evidence she would give. When the nurse came in, he badeher angrily to leave them alone, but recalled her in the next breath. Hewanted Kitty. She, too, must be coached. At his command she had placedthe fork where it was found. But she must learn her story withparrot-like accuracy. There must be no contradiction in the sisters'evidence.
Martin was eating his supper when Mrs. Bolland, bustling about thekitchen, made a discovery.
"I must be fair wool-gatherin'," she said crossly. "Here's a little pileo' handkerchiefs browt by Dr. MacGregor, an' I clean forgot all about'em. Martin, it's none ower leaet, an' ye can bide i' bed i' t' mornin'.Just run along te t' vicarage wi' these, there's a good lad. They'llmebbe be wantin' 'em."
He hailed the errand not the less joyfully that it led him through thefair. But he did not loiter. Perhaps he gazed with longing eyes at itsvanishing glories, for some of the showmen were packing up in disgust,but he reached the vicarage quickly. It lay nearer the farm than TheElms, and, like that pretentious mansion, was shrouded from the highroadby leafy trees and clusters 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 avenueit was pitch-dark, but a cheerful light shone from the drawing-room, andthrough an open French window he could see Elsie bending over a book.
She was not deeply interested, judging by the listless manner in whichshe turned the leaves. She was leaning with her elbows on the table,resting one knee on a chair, and the attitude revealed a foot and anklequite as gracefully proportioned as Angele's elegant limbs, though Elsiewas more robust.
Hearing the boy's firm tread on the graveled approach, she straightenedherself 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."
&nbs
p; 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 wouldhave asked you if you were recovering all right. Your hands and arms areyet bound up, I see. Do they hurt you much?"
"No. Not a bit."
He felt absurdly tongue-tied, but bravely continued:
"I was told to take Miss Saumarez home. That is how you happened to meetus together."
"Indeed," she said, drawing back a little. Her tone conveyed that anyexplanation of Miss Saumarez's companionship was unnecessary. No otherattitude could have set Martin's wits at work more effectually. He, too,retreated a pace.
"I'm very sorry if I disturbed you," he said. "I was going to ring forone of the servants."
She tittered.
"Then I am glad you didn't. They are both out, and auntie would havewondered who our late visitor was. She has just gone to bed."
"But isn't your--isn't Mr. Herbert at home?"
"No; he is at the bazaar. He asked me to sit up until one of the maidsreturns."
Again she approached the window. One foot rested on the threshold.
"I've been reading 'Rokeby,'" ventured Martin.
"Do you like it?"
"It must be very interesting when you know the place. Just imagine hownice it would be if Sir Walter had seen Elmsdale and written about themoor, and the river, and the ghylls."
"Do you think he would have found a wildcat in Thor ghyll?"
"I hope not. It might have spoiled the verse; and Thor ghyll isbeautiful."
"I'll never forget that cat. I can see it yet. How its eyes blazed whenit sprang at me! Oh, I don't know how you dared seize it in your hands."
She was outside the window now, standing on a strip of turf that ranbetween house and drive.
"I didn't give a second thought to it," said Martin in his offhand way.
"I can never thank you enough for saving me," she murmured.
"Then I'll tell you what," he cried. "To make quite sure you won'tforget, I'll try and persuade mother to have the skin made into a mufffor you. One of the men is curing it, with spirits of ammonia andsaltpeter."
"Do you think I may need to have my memory jogged?"
"People forget things," he said airily. "Besides, I'm going away toschool. When I come back you'll be a grown-up young lady."
"I'm nearly as tall as you."
"Indeed you are not."
"Well, I'm much taller than Angele Saumarez, at any rate."
"There's no comparison between you in any respect."
And this young spark three short hours ago, behind the woodpile, hadgazed into Angele's eyes!
"Do you remember--we were talking about her when that creature flew atme?"
He laughed. It was odd how Angele's name kept cropping up. The churchclock struck nine. They listened to the chimes. Neither spoke until thetremulous booming of the bell ceased.
"I'm afraid I must be going," said Martin, without budging an inch.
"Did you--did you--find any difficulty--in opening the gate? It israther stiff. And your poor hands must be so sore."
From excessive politeness, or shyness, Elsie's tongue tripped somewhat.
"It was a bit stiff," he admitted. "I had to reach up, you know."
"Then I think I ought to come and open it for you."
"But you will be afraid to return alone."
"Afraid! Of what?"
"I really don't know," he said, "but I thought girls were always scaredin the dark."
"Then I am an exception."
She cast a backward glance into the room.
"The lamp is quite safe. It will not take me a minute."
They walked together down the short avenue. The gate was standing open.
"Really," laughed Martin, "I had quite forgotten."
"So boys have weak memories, too?"
"Of gates, perhaps."
"Well, now, I must be off. Good-night, and thank you so much."
She held out her hand. He took it in both of his.
"I do hope Mr. Herbert will ask me to another picnic," he said.
A boy on a bicycle rode past slowly. Instinctively, they shrank into theshadow of a tree.
"Wasn't that Frank Beckett-Smythe?" whispered Elsie, forgetting towithdraw her imprisoned hand, and turning a startled face to Martin.
"Yes."
"Where can he be going at this time?"
Martin guessed accurately, but sheer chivalry prevented him from sayingmore than:
"To the fair, I suppose."
"At this hour; after nine o'clock?"
"S-s-h. He's coming back."
She drew closer. There was an air of mystery in this nocturnal bicycleride that induced bewilderment. Martin's right hand still inclosed thegirl's. What more natural than that his left arm should go around herwaist, merely to emphasize the need for caution, concealment, secrecy?Most certainly his knowledge of womankind was striding onward inseven-leagued boots.
The trot of a horse sounded sharply on the hard road. It was beingridden by someone in a hurry. The young scion of the Hall, who appearedto be killing time, inclined his machine to the opposite hedge.
But the rider pulled up with the skill of a practiced horseman. Even inthe dim light the boy and girl recognized one of Mr. Beckett-Smythe'sgrooms.
"Is that you, Master Frank?" they heard him say.
"Hello, Williams! What's up?"
"What's up, indeed! T' Squire has missed ye. A bonny row there'll be. Yemun skip back lively, let me tell ye."
"Oh, the deuce!"
"Better lose nae mair time, Master Frank. I'll say I found ye yon sideo' T' Elms."
"What has The Elms got to do with it?"
The man grinned.
"Noo, Master Frank, just mount an' be off in front. T' Squire thinksye're efther that black-eyed lass o' Mrs. Saumarez's. Don't try an'humbug him. He telt me te lay my huntin'-crop across yer shoulders, butthat's none o' my business. Off ye go!"
The heir, sulky and in deep tribulation, obeyed. They heard the horse'shoofbeats dying away rapidly.
Elsie, an exceedingly nice-mannered girl, was essentially feminine. Theepisode thrilled her, and pleased her, too, in some indefinable way, forher companion was holding her tightly.
"Just fancy that!" she whispered.
"Oh, he will only get a hiding."
"But, surely, he could not expect to meet Angele?"
"It looks like it. But why should we trouble about it?"
"I think it is horrid. But I must be going. Good-night--Martin."
He felt a gentle effort to loosen his clasp.
"Good-night, Elsie."
Their faces were very close. Assuredly, the boy must have been a triflelight-headed that day, for he bent and kissed her.
She tore herself from the encircling arm. Her cheeks were burning. At alittle distance--a few feet--she halted.
"How dare you?" she cried.
He came to her with hands extended.
"Forgive me, Elsie; I couldn't help it."
"You must never, never do such a thing again."
He had nothing to say.
"Promise!" she cried, but her voice was less emphatic than she imagined.
"I won't," he said, and caught her arm.
"You--won't! How can you say such a thing?"
"Because I like you. I have known you for years, though we never spoketo each other until yesterday."
"Oh, dear! This is terrible! You frightened me so! I hope I didn't hurtyour poor arms?"
"The pain was awful," he laughed.
The girl's heart was beating so frantically that she could almost hearits pulsations. The white bandages on Martin's wrists and hands arouseda tumult of emotion. The scene in the ghyll flashed before her eyes; shesaw again the wild struggles of the snarling, tearing, biting animal,the boy's cool daring and endurance until he crushed the raging thing'slife out of it and flung it away contemptuously.
An impulse came to her,
and it was not to be repelled. She placed bothhands on his shoulders and kissed him, quite fearlessly, on the lips.
"I think I owed you that," she said, with a little sob, and then ranaway in good earnest, never turning her head until she was safe withinthe drawing-room.
Martin, his brain in a whirl and his blood on fire, closed the gate forhimself. When the vicar came, half an hour later, his daughter was busyover the same book.
"What, Elsie! None of the maids home yet?" he cried.
"No, father, dear. But Martin Bolland brought these."
"Oh, our handkerchiefs. What did he say?"
"Nothing--of any importance. I understood that Dr. MacGregor caused thelinen to be washed, but forgot to ask him why."
"Is that all?"
"Practically all, except that his arms and hands are all bound up, so Iwent with him as far as the gate. It is stiff, you know. And--yes--hehas been reading 'Rokeby.' He likes it."
The vicar filled his pipe. He had had a trying day.
"Martin is a fine lad," he said. "I hope John Bolland will see fit toeducate him. Such a youngster should not be allowed to vegetate in avillage like this."
"Ah!" said Elsie, "that reminds me. He told me he was going away toschool."
"Capital!" agreed the vicar. "Out of evil comes good. It required anearthquake to move a man like Bolland!"