CHAPTER FIVE
THE PIPER IS PAID
GILBERT'S illness became worse during the day—so alarmingly worse that Agatha did not leave his bedside. Though her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, though she could have slumped down to the floor in sheer weariness, the gaunt woman maintained her vigil. Every few moments her bony hand caressed the boy's fevered forehead, and at such times his ravings abated.
Timothy's endurance was not so great. In the afternoon he threw himself upon a bed on the lower floor, and fell into a deep sleep. He dozed off during one of the intervals in which Gilbert was quiet. And there, on the bed, he sprawled and emitted loud, rhythmic snores. Agatha listened—and somehow she sensed an intangible injustice in the situation. Why was she, who had extricated her husband from a dreadful danger, sitting awake, suffering at the bedside of her son, while Timothy slept?
That had ever been her husband's way. During moments of danger he was nervous, almost cowardly, relying entirely on his wife's ingenuity. When the danger had passed, he forgot it—left her with the after-effects while he slept. . . .
Yes, there was injustice in his attitude! She grumbled; her mouth hardened grimly. If it weren't for Gilbert she would not have tolerated Timothy's ways. For Agatha Cruze, though somber and unattractive and unsentimental, still retained one feminine virtue; she loved her son with all the passionate ardor a woman can bestow upon an only child. If ever she possessed a tender instinct, it was vented in motherly affection. She would have sacrificed everything for Gilbert; he was the one thing which made her colorless life worth living For him she did everything, gave everything.
And, even if she did not realize it, her husband shared those emotions. He felt no particular love for his wife; but for his son—the only offering he had ever made to the world—he nursed a strange, unexpressed masculine adoration. It was seldom shown, seldom permitted to evince itself in actions—but under his brusqueness the love for his child slumbered ever. It was deep, passionate. Were anything to happen to Gilbert; were the boy to die of his fever—life would have become worthless, empty.
And so these parents, merely tolerating each other, were held in family ties by their son. They were wondering what his fever would do to him—wondering in unexpressed fear. And yet Timothy could sleep. . . . A strange, unfathomable man.
He was roused when darkness had once more fallen over the countryside. He blinked up into the sallow, bony face of Agatha. She had lighted the oil lamp, and its sickly yellow light played upon her features. She shook his shoulder.
"Wake up, Tim, and get something to eat. Gil's fallen asleep."
With much grumbling, Timothy rose. They ate meagerly at the rickety table, the flickering lamp between them. As he peered at her weirdly illumined countenance, at the black shadows under the cheek-bones and under the eyes, he said:
"You look tired, Agatha."
It was an unusual attention on his part, even to notice her weariness. Quickly she glanced down at her plate.
"Been sitting with Gil," she explained.
"How is he? Seems quiet now."
"Yes. Just fell into a doze. But—but he's worse than yesterday—much worse."
"I wonder—"
His words were interrupted with stunning suddenness. Agatha jumped from her chair; he, too, rose, gaped at the wall.
From the upper floor had come the piercing scream; and Gilbert's voice shrieked wildly:
"The doctor's in the well! I see him, Pop, I see him! He's in the bottom of the well! I can see him, Pop; I can see him again!"
"Delirious again!" whispered Agatha.
Timothy rushed up the stairs, his wife behind him. They found the boy writhing in agony on his cot; his face was crimson, blistered. The lips, parched and sore, squirmed as he prattled insanely of the doctor in the well. Timothy caught his son's hands, gripped them tightly as if the pressure would ease the suffering of the child. Beside him Agatha looked on, stern and worried, breathing hard.
"He's worse than ever," she murmured. "Worse than ever. I'm afraid, Tim!"
"He'll be all right after a while," he assured her, though he felt no confidence in his assertion.
"All day he's been saying he wants to see the well—"
Timothy shuddered perceptibly; but he answered:
"He'll be all right; he'll be all right!"
"But I'm afraid, Tim—"
They remained at the bedside while Gilbert's delirium became steadily more turbulent. Gazing anxiously upon the stricken boy, Agatha forgot her fatigue, forgot that she had not slept in two days, that she had not eaten—even that murder had been committed in the lurking shadows of her home. She thought of Gilbert only, of the danger in which her son was.
And after an hour she seized her husband's arm and declared:
"Tim, we've got to get another doctor! Get Dr. Loop from Hurleyville. That's nearest. We've got to!"
At the suggestion Timothy changed.
His features had been lined with commiseration for the sick child. Now, as he turned in amazement to his wife, pity gave way to terror. His mouth opened wide.
"Get another doctor!" he gasped. "We can't!"
"And why can't we?"
"Because—because—don't you see, Agatha? The other doctor will hear Gil blabber about the well—and—and—"
"Blabber about the well—" she murmured, dazed.
And then she understood. For Timothy's safety no one must enter their home before Gilbert recovered from his delirium. . . . And for Gilbert's safety, a doctor must be called. . . . A predicament which brought into conflict her maternal instincts and her desire to shield her husband.
She paled as she stared at the boy. If she didn't summon a physician, who could say what might happen? If she did—a slight shudder coursed through her gaunt body. Appealingly she looked at Timothy.
This was a time when Agatha Cruze needed sympathy, needed a strong arm and a strong mind to guide her—needed them desperately. She was tired and shaken by the events which had fallen upon her; within her something was drooping hopelessly; the burdens she bore were fast becoming too heavy. She needed support.
Instead, she received from her husband a look of misery, of cowardice, of fear. She found herself forced to decide without help. And she did.
"Tim," she said softly as she rose, "I'm going to 'phone Dr. Loop."
Without another word, she descended the stairs creaking under her weight. In the dark chamber on the lower floor, she threw a shawl about her shoulders in preparation for the walk to Drakes'. It was an old shawl, gray and lifeless, conforming with her personality.
Though she eyed the food on the table rather wistfully, she determined to telephone for the physician of the neighboring town before she did anything else. The fantastic glow from the oil lamp fell
