They entered the sick room about the time that Mrs. Saumarez was crossing the green on her way to the Methodist Chapel. A glance at Pickering’s face showed that the doctor had not exaggerated the gravity of the affair. He was deathly pale, save for a number of vivid red spots on his skin. His eyes shone with fever. Were not his malady identified, the unskilled observer might conclude that he was suffering from a severe attack of German measles.
Betsy was there, and the prim nurse. The contrast between the two women was almost as startling as the change for the worse in Pickering’s appearance. The nurse, strictly professional in deportment, paid heed to naught 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 on the mantelpiece.
Poor Betsy was sitting by the bedside, holding her lover’s hand. She was smiling wistfully, striving to chatter in cheerful strain, yet all the time she wanted to wail her despair, to petition on her knees that her crime might be avenged on herself, not on its victim.
When the magistrate stepped gingerly forward, Pickering turned querulously to see who the visitor was, for the nurse had nodded permission 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 be MacGregor.”
“How are you feeling now, George?”
“Pretty sick. I suppose you’ve heard the verdict?”
“The doctor says you are in a bad state.”