The Revellers Part 17

A mist obscured his sight. The presence of the magistrate and superintendent ceased to have any awe-inspiring effect. What disgrace was this so suddenly blurted out by this stolid policeman? Whose child was he, then, if not theirs? Could he ever hold up his head again in face of the youthful host over which he lorded it by reason of his advanced intelligence and greater strength? There was comfort in the thought that no one had ever taunted him in this relation. The veiled hint in Pickering's words to the farmer was the only reference he could recall.

Benson seemed to regard the facts as to his birth as matters of common knowledge. Perhaps there was some explanation which would lift him from the sea of ignominy into which he had been pitched so unexpectedly.

He was aroused by Mr. Beckett-Smythe saying:

"Now, my lad, was it you who fought my son last night?"

"Yes--sir," stammered Martin.

The question sharpened his wits to some purpose. A spice of dread helped the process. Was he going to be tried on some dire charge of malicious a.s.sault?

"Hum," muttered the squire, surveying him with a smile. "A proper trouncing you gave him, too. I shall certainly thrash him now for permitting it. What was the cause of the quarrel?"

"About a girl, sir."

"You young rascals! A girl! What girl?"

"Perhaps it was all my fault, sir."

"That is not answering my question."

"I would rather not tell, sir."

Then Mr. Beckett-Smythe leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

"'Pon my honor," he said to the superintendent, "these young sparks are progressive. They don't care what happens, so long as the honor of the lady is safeguarded. My son refused point-blank to say even why he fought. Well, well, Martin, I see you did not come out of the fray scatheless; but you are not brought here because you decorated Frank's ingenuous countenance. I want you to tell me exactly what took place in the garden when Mr. Pickering was wounded."

Somewhat rea.s.sured, Martin told all he knew, which was not a great deal.

The magistrate, who, of course, was only a.s.sisting the police inquiry, was perplexed.

"There were others present?" he commented.

"Yes, sir. Master Frank and Master Ernest----"

"Master Frank could not see much at the moment, eh?"

Martin blushed.

"But Ernest--surely, he might have noted something that you missed?"

"I think not, sir. He was--er--looking after his brother."

"And the other children?"

"Several boys and girls of the village, but they were frightened by the screaming, sir, and ran away."

"Including the young lady who caused the combat?"

No answer. Martin thought it best to leave the point open. Again Mr.

Beckett-Smythe laughed.

"I suppose this village belle is one of Mrs. Atkinson's daughters. Gad!

I never heard tell of such a thing. All right, Martin, you can go now, but let me give you a parting word of advice. Never again fight for a woman, unless to protect her from a blackguard, which, I presume, was hardly the cause of the dispute with Frank."

"I don't think he was to blame at all, sir."

"Thank you. Good-day, Martin. Here's a half-crown to plaster that damaged lip of yours."

Left to themselves, the magistrate and superintendent discussed the advisability of taking proceedings against Betsy Thwaites.

"I'm sure Pickering made up his story in order to screen the woman,"

said the police officer. "A rusty fork was found in the stackyard, but it was thirty feet away from the nearest point of the track made by the drops of blood, and separated from the garden by a stout hedge.

Moreover, Pickering and Kitty were undoubtedly standing in the orchard, many yards farther on. Then, again, the girl was collared by Thomas Metcalfe, of the Leas Farm, and the knife, one of Mrs. Atkinson's, fell from her hand; while a dozen people will swear they heard her sister calling out that she had murdered George Pickering."

Beckett-Smythe shook his head doubtfully.

"It is a queer affair, looked at in any light. Do you think I ought to see Pickering himself? You can arrest Betsy Thwaites without a warrant, I believe, and, in any event, I'll not sit on the bench if the case comes before the court."

The superintendent was only too glad to have the squire's counsel in dealing with a knotty problem. The social position of the wounded man required some degree of caution before proceedings were commenced, in view of his emphatic declaration that his wound was self-inflicted. If his state became dangerous, there was only one course open to the representatives of the law; but the doctor's verdict was that penetration of the lung had been averted by a hair's breadth, and Pickering would recover. Indeed, he might be taken home in a carriage at the end of the week. Meanwhile, the hayfork and the blood-stained knife were impounded.

The two men went upstairs and were shown to the room occupied by the injured gallant. Kitty Thwaites, pale as a ghost, was flitting about attending to her work, the hotel being crowded with stock-breeders and graziers. Her unfortunate sister, even more woebegone in appearance, was nursing the invalid, at his special request. It was a puzzling situation, and Mr. Beckett-Smythe, who knew Pickering intimately, was inclined to act with the utmost leniency that the law allowed.

Betsy Thwaites, who was sitting at the side of the bed, rose when they entered. Her white face became suffused with color, and she looked at the police officer with frightened eyes.

The magistrate saw this, and he said quite kindly:

"If Mr. Pickering is able to speak with us for a little while, you may leave us with him."

"No, no," interrupted the invalid in an astonishingly strong and hearty voice. "There's nothing to be said that Betsy needn't hear. Is there, la.s.s?"

She began to tremble, and lifted a corner of her ap.r.o.n. Notwithstanding her faithless swain's statement to her sister, she was quite as good-looking as Kitty, and sorrow had given her face a pathetic dignity that in no wise diminished its charm.

She knew not whether to stay or go. The superintendent took the hint given by the squire.

"It would be best, under the circ.u.mstances, if we were left alone while we talk over last night's affair, Mr. Pickering."

"Not a bit of it. Don't go, Betsy. What is there to talk over? I made a fool of myself--not for the first time where a woman was concerned--and Betsy here, brought from Hereford by a meddlesome scamp, lost her temper. No wonder! Poor girl, she had traveled all day in a hot train, without eatin' a bite, and found me squeezing her sister at the bottom of the garden. There's no denying that she meant to do me a mischief, and serve me right, too. I'll admit I was scared, and in running away I got into worse trouble, as, of course, I could easily have mastered her.

Kitty, too, what between fear and shame, lost her senses, and poor Betsy cut her own arm. You see, a plain tale stops all the nonsense that has been talked since ten o'clock last night."

"Not quite, George." Mr. Beckett-Smythe was serious and magisterial.

"You forget, or perhaps do not know, that there were witnesses."

Pickering looked alarmed.

"Witnesses!" he cried. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, no outsider saw the blow, or accident, whichever it was; but a number of children saw and heard incidents which, putting it mildly, tend to discredit your story."