The Revellers

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 reassured, Martin told all he knew, which was not a great deal. The magistrate, who, of course, was only assisting 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, lass?”

She began to tremble, and lifted a corner of her apron. 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 circumstances, 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.”

Betsy began to sob.

“I told you you had better leave the room,” went on the squire in a low tone.

Pickering endeavored to raise himself in the bed, but sank back with a groan. The unfortunate girl forgot her own troubles at the sound, and rushed to arrange the pillow beneath his head.

“It comes to this, then,” he said huskily; “you want to arrest, on a charge of attempting to murder me, a woman whom I intend to marry long before she can be brought to trial!”

Betsy broke down now in real earnest. Beckett-Smythe and the superintendent gazed at Pickering with blank incredulity. This development was wholly unlooked for. They both thought the man was light-headed. He smiled dryly.

“Yes, I mean it,” he continued, placing his hand on the brown hair of the girl, whose face was buried in the bedclothes. “I – I didn’t sleep much last night, and I commenced to see things in a different light to that which presented itself before. I treated Betsy shamefully – not in a monied sense, but in every other way. She’s not one of the general run of girls. I promised to marry her once, and now I’m going to keep my promise. That’s all.”

He was desperately in earnest. Of that there could be no manner of doubt. The superintendent stroked his chin reflectively, and the magistrate could only murmur:

“Gad, that changes the venue, as the lawyers say.”

One thought dominated the minds of both men; Pickering was behaving foolishly. He was a wealthy man, owner of a freehold farm of hundreds of acres; he might aspire to marry a woman of some position in the county and end his days in all the glory of J. P. – dom and County Aldermanship. Yet, here he was deliberately throwing himself away on a dairymaid who, not many hours since, had striven to kill him during a burst of jealous fury. The thing was absurd. Probably when he recovered he would see this for himself; but for the time it was best to humor him and give official sanction to his version of the overnight quarrel.

“Don’t keep us in suspense, squire,” cried the wounded man, angered by his friend’s silence. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, George; nothing, I think. I only hope your accident with the pitchfork will not have serious results – in any shape.”

The policeman nodded a farewell. As they quitted the room they heard Pickering say faintly:

“Now, Betsy, my dear, no more crying. I can’t stand it. Damn it all, one doesn’t get engaged to be married and yelp over it!”

On the landing they saw Kitty, a white shadow, anxious, but afraid to speak.

“Cheer up,” said Beckett-Smythe pleasantly. “This affair looks like ending in smoke.”

Gaining courage from the magistrate’s affability, the girl said brokenly: