‘I know that there would have been danger for you had I not been here, Churchill,’ his wife answered gently. ‘I have been able to keep others out, which nothing less than my influence would have done. Half the gossips of Penwyn village would have been round this wretched creature’s bed but for me. And her ravings have been dreadful,’ with a shudder.
‘What has she talked about?’
‘All that happened—at Eborsham—that night,’ answered Madge, in an awe-stricken whisper. ‘She has forgotten no detail. Again and again, again and again, she has repeated the same words. But Mr. Price says she cannot last many hours—life is ebbing fast.’
‘Did Price hear her raving?’
‘Not much. She was quieter while he was here, and I was trying to engage his attention, to prevent his taking much notice of her wild talk.’
‘Oh, Madge, Madge, what have you not borne for me! And now you expose yourself to the risk of typhoid fever for my sake.’
‘There is no risk of typhoid. This poor creature is dying of delirium-tremens, Mr. Price assured me. She has lived on brandy for ever so long, and brain and body are alike exhausted.’
A wild scream broke from Rebecca’s pale lips, and then, with an awful distinctness, Churchill heard her tell the story of his crime.
‘Drunk was I?’ cried the gipsy, with a wild laugh. ‘Not so drunk but I could see—not so drunk but I could hear. I heard him fire the shot. I saw him creep out from behind the hedge. I saw him wipe his blood-stained hands. I have the handkerchief still. It’s worth more to me than a love-token—it’s helped me to a comfortable home. Brandy—give me some brandy, my throat is like a lime-kiln!’
Madge took a glass of weak brandy and water from the table, and held it to the tremulous lips. The gipsy drank eagerly, but frowningly, and then struggled to free herself from Madge Penwyn’s embrace.