“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.”