“Good-by, squire. You’ve got two sons. Find ’em plenty of work; they’ll have less time for mischief. Damn it all, hark to that reaper! It’ll soon 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! Do you 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 sovereign and swim in beer for a week. Nurse, where’s Betsy? I want her before it is dark.”
And in a few minutes Betsy, the forlorn, was bending over him and whispering:
“I’ll do it for your sake, George! But, oh, it will be hard to face everybody with a lie in my mouth. The hand that struck you should wither. Indeed, indeed, I shall suffer worse than death. If the Lord took 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 thing was an accident. Come, now, no more weeping. Sit down there and write what I tell you. I can remember every word, and Kitty and you must just fit in your stories to suit mine. Stockwell will defend you. He’s a smart chap, and you need have no fear. Bless your heart, you’ll be twice married before you know where you are!”
She obeyed him. With careful accuracy he repeated the deposition. He rehearsed the evidence she would give. When the nurse came in, he bade her angrily to leave them alone, but recalled her in the next breath. He wanted Kitty. She, too, must be coached. At his command she had placed the fork where it was found. But she must learn her story with parrot-like accuracy. There must be no contradiction in the sisters’ evidence.
Martin was eating his supper when Mrs. Bolland, bustling about the kitchen, made a discovery.
“I must be fair wool-gatherin’,” she said crossly. “Here’s a little pile o’ handkerchiefs browt by Dr. MacGregor, an’ I clean forgot all about ’em. Martin, it’s none ower leät, an’ ye can bide i’ bed i’ t’ mornin’. Just run along te t’ vicarage wi’ these, there’s a good lad. They’ll mebbe be wantin’ ’em.”
He hailed the errand not the less joyfully that it led him through the fair. But he did not loiter. Perhaps he gazed with longing eyes at its vanishing glories, for some of the showmen were packing up in disgust, but he reached the vicarage quickly. It lay nearer the farm than The Elms, and, like that pretentious mansion, was shrouded from the highroad by leafy trees and clusters of laurels.