The vast fabric of the cathedral rose black against a saffron sky, and the bells were ringing for the evening service. Stephen led the way towards a far corner of the square, and turned into a dingy side street sloping down the other side of the hill. Stopping at a tall narrow house three doors down, he admitted himself by means of his latch-key and conducted his companion into a dark passage. A woman with a candle held high above her head appeared at the end. She was very old, with white hair and fierce black eyes, a foreigner, as Herrick guessed.
"How is my mother, Petronella?" asked Stephen hurriedly.
"Eh Gran' Dio, bad, very bad Signor," replied the old Italian, "she die if no doctor come!"
"I have brought one, Petronella."
"Thanks be to the saints!" cried Petronella. "This way Signor Dottore. My signora is up the stair. Piano! Piano. She is bad so bad. Piano!"
Herrick suppressed a laugh. The "Piano! Piano" of Petronella reminded him of the opening chorus in the Barber of Seville. However he recovered his grave air when introduced into the bedroom of Mrs. Marsh. A few minutes examination convinced him that she was extremely ill. Her pulse was rapid, she was in a high fever, and her face looked scarlet. Still she was conscious, and when the doctor had finished with her for the time being she beckoned to her step-son.
"The death--the examination?" she asked hoarsely.
"The jury have brought in a verdict of wilful murder against Frisco."
In spite of the pain she was suffering Mrs. Marsh sank back on her pillow with a smile. "I always thought that man would kill Carr some day" she muttered. "Who is the doctor Stephen?"
Marsh detailed all he knew about Herrick while that gentleman was giving directions to Petronella. His step-mother listened attentively, and nodded when he finished. "I am glad he had the decency to come," she said. "These wretches here should be punished by the law. I don't want to die now there is a chance of being comfortable for the rest of my life."
"You must not talk Mrs. Marsh," said Herrick coming to her bedside, "and I think your son had better go downstairs."
"Am I very ill?" asked the woman.
"Oh, you are not so bad as you might be," replied Jim cheerfully, "do not excite yourself, obey my directions, and you will be all right shortly."
"I suffer such pains," moaned Mrs. Marsh, "I can get no sleep. Chloral."
"What's that?" asked Herrick sharply.
"Chloral or morphia. Give me something to soothe the pain."
"I'll see to it," said the doctor cheerfully, and looked at the handsome face of his patient. He saw that she was a highly-strung woman, and from the word she had used he guessed that she was in the habit of taking chloral to induce sleep. Mrs. Marsh was the kind of person who would end her days in a mad-house, if not soothed by artificial means. From the passionate expression in her eyes, the wrinkles on her face, her impatient gestures, Herrick saw that she had absolutely no control over her temper. Perhaps the rumours he had heard of her influenced such a judgment; but afterwards he found that he was absolutely right. The outbursts of rage to which Mrs. Marsh was subject were little removed from madness. The only person who could deal with her was Petronella, who (as Herrick learned) had been her nurse, and knew how to manage and humour her.
"I shall stay here all night," he said to the Italian, after certain remedies had been applied. "Make up a bed for me somewhere and send out to the chemist for this prescription to be made up."
It was late when Jim descended. He found Stephen waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, and was conducted by him into a small bare room, sparsely furnished with two arm chairs, a few 'books and a table covered with writing materials. Herrick rather tired, threw himself into one of the chairs, and informed Stephen that he would stay the night.
"Is my mother so ill?" asked the young man anxiously.
"Pretty bad, but I have seen worse cases. Don't you trouble yourself Marsh. I'll do the best I can to save her life."
"Save her life," echoed Stephen sadly. "Ah, what a terrible thing it will be if she dies now, when wealth is coming. She always wanted to be rich and now--life is very cruel."
"That depends upon the way you look at it," said Jim. "Give me some supper Marsh, and a whisky. I feel rather played out."
The meal was waiting in a poverty-stricken looking dining-room. Jim saw that the pauperism of the Marshes was no fiction. They were evidently terribly poor. Certainly the Colonel had done nothing to alleviate their distress. "He would not give us a penny," said Stephen after supper, and when they were smoking in the small room which proved to be the young man's special sanctum. "All the time he kept telling me that I was his heir, but refused to help my mother and me. I do not want to speak evil of the dead" added Stephen, "but Colonel Carr--" he shook his head.
By this time Herrick had seen his patient sinking into a sleep, and leaving Petronella to call him should anything go wrong, was prepared for a little conversation. He utilised the time by asking Marsh about himself and his uncle. The young man answered him with the utmost frankness, and indeed seemed glad to have a friend in whom he could confide.
"My father was a gentleman farmer," he said, "but he attended more to pleasure than to business. While out hunting, he saved the life of Miss Carr the Colonel's sister. Afterwards she married him. I was their only child, for my mother died when I was born. My father lost all his money from reckless living, and went abroad for economy. In Italy he met my step-mother, who is the daughter of an English consul by an Italian mother. He met her in a little town on the Adriatic coast. Her father was dead and she was alone save for Petronella. It was her intention to become a singer; but she fell in love with my father. He brought her home to Beorminster, along with Petronella, who would not leave her. With what remained of his money, my father bought this house. Five years ago he died, leaving my mother two hundred a year. With this freehold and that income we have managed to scrape along. I was educated at Bedford, and afterwards went to Oxford. My father said that though he could give me no money, he could at least afford me a decent education. I believe he pinched himself to do so. Mrs. Marsh helped me; for she has always been good to me. I was twenty-one years old when my father died, and after the funeral I wanted to go to London and become a journalist. Mrs. Marsh however would not hear of this. She insisted that I was the Colonel's heir and that I should wait till he died.----"
"Ah!" interrupted Herrick shaking his head, "bad thing waiting for dead men's shoes."
"Do you think it was my wish to do so?" protested Stephen passionately. "I should much have preferred to earn my own living, and fight my way in London. I have some talent as a poet and a writer, and I was prepared to battle with the world like other people. But Mrs. Marsh made me stop with her. I am twenty-six years of age now, and I have done nothing. I write poetry and send it to the American magazines, also a few prose articles. These keep me supplied with pocket-money. It was Bess who put me on to the New York papers. There, the editors are more open to new talent."
"And the Colonel refused to help you?"
"Always. But I never asked him. I hated that man," said Marsh between his teeth. "I never went near his house. At times my mother called to see him. She always fought viciously with him, and I think he liked her for that. Most people were afraid of him, and he admired her for standing up to him. Colonel Carr thought me a fool and a weakling because I stayed with Mrs. Marsh instead of going out into the world. But I ask you Herrick, what else could I have done? Mrs. Marsh had always been good to me; she sacrificed
