Stephen hardly heard the conclusion of the sentence. He looked at his watch.
"You will forgive me, inspector, I must go over and see how the boy is."
The inspector stood up and buttoned his coat. "I must be getting back too, sir. There may be some news waiting for me. If you will be so good as to give me a lift, I shall be greatly obliged."
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Crasster cordially. "Though I wish you would stay, inspector."
"Not to-day thank you, sir."
It was a drive of nine miles from Talgarth to Heron's Carew, but Stephen's powerful car made short work of the distance. The night was dark and threatening. The air was sultry and heavy with the weight that presages the coming of the storm, To Stephen it seemed prophetic; the very elements were in sympathy with his mood, with the tragedy that overhung Heron's Carew. He put the inspector down at the Carew Arms and drove on to Heron's Carew. As he passed the Dower House he caught sight of a white figure leaning against the gate. With a quick exclamation he stopped the car and sprang out. "Peggy, what are you doing here?"
"Waiting for Dr. Bennett." The girl let him take her cold hand in his; she looked at him with dull, uncomprehending eyes. "Paul is ill, you know, they say he is dying. They—Judith—sent me to tell Mother, because she always loved him, and the shock has made her quite ill, so ill that I can't leave her and go back to Heron's Carew. So I came down here to watch for Dr. Bennett to ask him—"
"You poor child," Stephen said tenderly. "Let me take you back to the house, Peggy. I will go up to Heron's Carew and bring you back word how he is."
She let him draw her arm through his and lead her up the drive. She shivered, her fingers clung more closely to Stephen's arm.
"I—I am frightened, Stephen," she whispered.
He looked down at her with a smile. "Of what, Peggy?"
She gave a little hoarse sob. "Of—of everything."
"Of everything. Nonsense!" Stephen spoke in a tone of calm authority. "Paul's illness has upset you, of course."
Presently, there rose the low rumbling of distant thunder.
"There!" Peggy caught her breath. "It is coming. I can feel it. And—and—" She drew Stephen onward quickly. She looked up at him with big, fear-laden eyes; her lips trembled; the hand lying on his arm shook as if with ague. "I have helped to bring trouble. What shall I do, Stephen? What shall I do?"
Inside the hall Crasster stopped determinedly. "You are overwrought, tired out, Peggy. And there is thunder in the air. It upsets many people. Promise me you will put these fears aside, and to-morrow, when Paul is better—"
Peggy had dropped his arm now. She stood apart, her white face lifted to the sky. To his last sentence she apparently paid no heed at all.
"There are other things in the air to-night as well as thunder," she said breathlessly. "There is trouble and treachery and—and worse. It is terrible not to know, to wait here and imagine the horrors the darkness hides. Oh, Stephen, when shall we—"
A forked, zigzag tongue of blue flame seemed to shoot right between them, almost simultaneously the thunder broke overhead, and pealed and reverberated around.
With a despairing cry Peggy turned and rushed into the house.
Chapter XXVI
Dawn was breaking slowly, as the first rays of the rising sun filtered through the unclosed windows of the nursery. Judith, with her child in her arms looked up wildly into the doctor's face. But the doctor's expression was inscrutable, his watch was in his hand, his gaze fixed on the tiny waxen face.
Sir Anthony stood opposite; daylight made him look haggard. There were wearied circles round his eyes. Suddenly the doctor stooped, looked more closely at the child in Judith's arms, then with an imperative gesture he pointed to the white cot. "Lay him there," he whispered. "Nay, my dear Lady Carew, you must! It is most important that he should have all the air he can possibly get."
Judith obeyed. Then she waited, standing back, waited for the doctor's word that should bid her look for the fluttering of the wings of the Angel Azrael.
On the other side of the cot the doctor stood, his eyes bent on his little patient. Sir Anthony crossed over to his wife, he took her ice-cold hands in his.
"Judith," he said softly. "My poor darling."
For the time being the dark abyss of sin and horror that lay between them was forgotten; they were not the estranged husband and wife now; they were simply Paul's father and mother, watching together by their sick child's bed.
Judith let her hands rest in her husband's; she rested herself against him as if she were too much exhausted to stand alone. "Anthony, will he live—will my little baby Paul live?" she questioned beneath her breath. Sir Anthony put one strong arm round her and held her up. "Pray we may keep him, Judith, our dear little Paul," he whispered, his whole frame quivering, strong man though he was.
As in a vision all that the future might hold rose before her, the torturing shame, the horrible fear and disgrace. A long shiver shook her from head to foot.
"Perhaps it is best that he should go," she said dully. "Perhaps it is best, Anthony."
She felt his form stiffen, then very gently he put her from him; he moved away and stood by the mantelpiece, waiting.
Dr. Bennett was standing at the foot of the cot, his eyes fixed intently upon his little patient. He bent forward now, then beckoned to the nurse who was standing behind. She handed him the cup from which she had been trying to get Paul to take some nourishment, and with a spoon he managed to get a few drops between the parted lips. Then he set the cup down on the table and glanced round.
Sir Anthony stepped quickly to his side. Surely the last moment had come, he thought, but the doctor looked beyond him at the mother's face.
"It is good news, Lady Carew," he said softly. "The one chance that I had hardly dared to hope for has come to pass. Nature is righting herself, the stupor has passed into natural sleep, and little Paul is saved. Please God he will do well now!"
"Please God!" Judith echoed the words mechanically, staring at Dr. Bennett as though her benumbed brain failed to grasp the meaning of his words, then her whole face quivered, she burst into tears. "He is going to live, our little Paul," she gasped. Sir Anthony drew her to an easy chair and made her sit down.
Dr. Bennett eyed her benevolently. "The best thing for her," he said in answer to Sir Anthony's look of anxious inquiry. "She is worn out by anxiety and watching. Now, if you could get her to her room—I shall be here for some hours yet, and I want the patient kept as quiet as possible."
But for some time Judith resisted both his and her husband's entreaties to rest, to leave Paul to his nurse and the doctor. At last, however, the night's vigil, coming on the top of her previous weakness, made of her compliance a thing outside her own will, and Sir Anthony half carried her from the room. She clung to him as he laid her fully dressed on the bed, and drew the quilt around her. "Anthony," she whispered, "don't leave me. Stay with me here, where I can see you." For the moment, Sir Anthony hesitated; then he laid his hand on hers as he sat down beside her.
"Try to sleep, Judith," he urged. "Nothing will do you so much good as that. And when Paul wakes we will call you."
Judith closed her eyes obediently, but her brain had been too thoroughly overtaxed to rest at once; one thought obsessed it now; there was something she must tell Anthony, something she had promised to tell Anthony, but she could not remember what it was.
She turned feebly to her husband. "Anthony, there is something you ought to know, something I ought to tell you—"
Sir Anthony's face was very sombre. His mind was revolving that sentence