Chapter Six.

Chapter Six.Dr North Visits the Sexton.“Nonsense, Hartley, she is as quiet as a lamb.”“I’m not so sure of that,” said the curate, who looked rather anxiously at a handsome, weedy grey cob just led round to the front.His sisters were standing ready to go and make a call, and his brow wrinkled a little as he noted a peculiar fidgety expression about the mare’s ears.“Why, Hartley, how foolish you are!” cried Leo. “You stop indoors reading till you are as nervous as Mrs Berens.”“Eh? Yes. Well, I suppose I am,” said the curate good-humouredly. “But be careful; I’m always a little uncomfortable about strange mares. Will you have an extra rein?”“Absurd!” said Leo. “There, you shall be humoured. Tell him to buckle it lower down.”The girl looked very handsome and animated, and, since the scene in the wood with Tom Candlish, had been so penitent and patient that her brother had shrunk from checking her in any way.The mare had duly arrived, and, apparently bending to her brother’s will, Leo had patiently seen it put in harness—degraded, as she called it—and as it went very well they were going on the present morning drive.Hartley Salis tried to hide his anxiety, and turned to chat with Mary, who looked rather pale—the consequence of a headache, as she said; and as he talked he felt more and more between the horns of a dilemma.Mary did not want to go, he knew. He did not want her to go, but, paradoxical as it may sound, he did want her to go. For choice he would have gone himself; but he knew that if he did Leo would look upon it as distrust—not of her power to manage the new mare, but of her word. For she had as good as promised him that she would see Tom Candlish no more, and he felt that he was bound to show in every way possible that he enjoyed a confidence that he really did not feel. With Mary to bear Leo company he knew that she was safe, and even that would bear the aspect of espionage; but the girl had accepted the position, and they were ready to start.The trio were on their way to the gate when the new mare uttered a loud whinnying noise which was answered from a distance. There was the sound of hoofs, and directly after North trotted up.Mary drew a deep breath, and her nervousness in connection with her ride was killed by one greater, which forced her to rouse all, her energies, so as to be calm during the coming encounter.“Morning,” cried the doctor merrily, as he shook hands with all in turn. “Going to try the new mare?”“Yes,” said the curate eagerly, while Leo was quiet and distant, and Mary her own calm self. “What do you think of her?”The doctor, who, like most country gentlemen who keep a nag, considered himself a bit of a judge, looked the mare over, and grew critical.“Well bred,” he said, at the end of a few moments.“Oh! I am glad,” said Mary, eager to break the chilly silence that prevailed.“I meant by descent,” said the doctor merrily. “I don’t know how she behaves.”“Oh!” ejaculated Mary, in a disappointed tone, while Leo looked on scornfully.“But she seems quiet?” said the curate anxiously.“Ye-es,” replied the doctor dubiously, as he continued his examination. “Rather a wicked look about one eye.”“Don’t, pray, Dr North,” said Leo petulantly. “My brother is quite fidgety enough about the mare. She is of course a little more mettlesome than our poor old plodding horse; but a child might drive her.”“Oh, yes, of course,” said the doctor, in a tone which seemed to say, “But I would not answer for the consequences.” Then aloud: “Bit swollen about that hock. May mean nothing. Nice-looking little thing, Salis.”“I’m glad you like her,” said the curate eagerly.“I did not say I liked her, old fellow,” replied North. “I said she was well bred.”“But you don’t think she is dangerous for ladies?”“Oh, Hartley! How absurd!” cried Leo.“Dangerous? surely not,” said the doctor. “Have tried her yourself, of course?”“Well, no,” replied the curate. “I have been so busy: but the man has driven her several times.”“And says she goes very quietly,” said Leo pettishly. “Hartley never has any confidence in my driving.”“Indeed, yes,” said the curate, smiling at his sister affectionately. “I know that you drive well, and are a clever horsewoman. I am only anxious about your driving a strange horse.”“But Leo will be very careful,” said Mary, interposing to end a scene which was agony to her. “I am quite ready, Leo.”“Yes, let’s go,” said the latter. “Hartley wants to sell you the horse at a profit, Dr North,” she added banteringly. “Good morning all.”The curate said no more, but handed his sisters into the light low phaeton, Leo taking the reins in the most business-like manner before mounting, and then sitting upright on the raised seat in a way that would have satisfied the most exacting whip.The mare started off at a touch, with her neck arched and her head well down, the wheels spinning merrily in unison with the sharp trot of the well-shaped hoofs.“An uncommonly pretty little turn-out, old fellow,” said the doctor, as he sat in the saddle watching critically till the chaise turned the corner; “and your sister drives admirably.”“Yes,” said the curate rather dolefully; “she drives like she rides.”“And that’s better than any lady who follows our pack of hounds,” cried the doctor. “Now, if I had been anything of a fellow, I should have cantered along by their side, and shown myself off.”“You would,” assented the curate; and his countenance seemed to say, “I wish you had.”“But, there, I am not anything of a fellow, and I have patients waiting, so here goes.”He pressed his horse’s flanks, and went off in the other direction at a trot, while the curate, with his troubled look increasing, walked into the house.“I suppose the mare’s quite safe,” he said; “and it pleases her. May take her attention off him. Poor Leo! It is very sad.”Meanwhile the doctor continued his way till he reached the stocks—a dilapidated set, as ancient-looking as the whipping-post which kept them company, and both dying their worm-eaten death, as the custom of using them had died generations before.But they had their use still, the doctor’s horse stopping short by them, as if he knew his goal, and his master dismounting, and throwing his rein over the post before entering a low cottage, with red tile sides and thick thatch roof. The door was so low that he had to stoop his head to enter a scrupulously clean cottage room, with uneven red brick floor, brightly-polished stove, with a home-made shred hearthrug in front, and for furniture a well-scrubbed deal table, a high Windsor chair, a beautifully—carved old oaken chest or coffer, and a great, old-fashioned, eight-day clock, whose heavy pendulum, visible through a glazed hole in its door, swung ponderously to right and saidchick! and then to left and saidchack!Empty as the old room was in one respect it was full in another, and that was of a faint ancient smell of an indescribable nature. It was not very unpleasant; it was not the reverse; but it had one great peculiarity—to wit, that of exciting a desire on the part of a visitor to know what it was, till his or her eye rested upon the occupant of the tall armed Windsor chair, in which sat Jonadab Moredock, clerk and sexton of Duke’s Hampton, when the idea came that the strange ancient odour must be that of decay.“Well, old chap, how are we this morning?” said the doctor cheerily.The red-eyed, yellow-skinned, withered old man placed his hands on the arms of his chair, raised himself an inch or two, gave his head a bob, and subsided again, as he shook his head.“Bad, doctor—mortal bad; and if you goes away again like that you’ll find me dead and buried when back you comes.”“Nonsense, Moredock; there are years upon years of good life in you yet.”“Nay, doctor, nay,” moaned the old fellow.“But I say yes. Why, you’re only ninety.”“Ninety-three, doctor—ninety-three, and ’most worn out.”“Nonsense; there’s a deal of work to be got out of you yet. Had your pipe?”“Pipe? No. How can a man have a pipe who has no tobacco?”“Ah well, never mind,” said the doctor, “I’ve brought you some physic.”“Then I won’t take it,” cried the old man angrily. “I won’t take it, and I won’t pay for it, not a penny.”“Wait till you’re asked,” said the doctor drily, as he threw a packet of tobacco in the old fellow’s lap. “There’s your medicine. Now say you will not take it if you dare.”The old man’s red-rimmed eyes twinkled at the sight of the shredded-up weed, around which his hand closed like the claws of a hawk. Then rising slowly, he took down from the chimneypiece a curious-looking old tobacco-box, which seemed as if it had been hammered out of a piece of sheet lead, and began to stuff the tobacco in.“Where did you get that leaden box? Moredock?” said the visitor.“I—I made it,” said the old man, with a furtive look.“Made it! I thought as much. Coffin lead, eh?”“Never you mind about that, doctor. I found the lead when I was digging.”“And did you find that oak chest when you were digging, you old rascal?”“Nay, nay, nay, that’s nowt to do wi’ you, doctor. Physic’s your business, and not bits o’ furnitur’ in people’s houses.”“Ah, well, we won’t quarrel about that, Moredock; only I’ve taken a fancy to that old chest. I’ll buy it of you.”“Nay, you won’t, doctor; it isn’t for sale.”“Then leave it to me in your will.”“Nay, and I shan’t do that. It’s for my grandchild, Dalily, who’s up yonder at the Rectory, you know—her as had the measles when she was seventeen.”“Ah, yes, I know—the dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked hussy. Lucky girl to inherit that chest.”“Ay, but I don’t know as she’ll get it, doctor. Hussy! Yes, that’s it. That’s what she is, and if I see her talking to young Squire Luke Candlish’s brother, Tom Candlish, again, she shan’t have the chest.”“Then I’ll set Tom Candlish to talk to her again, and then you’ll leave it to me.”“Nay, you won’t, doctor. I know you better than that. But he’s a bad ’un. So’s the squire. They’re both bad ’uns. I know more about ’em than they think, and if Squire Luke warn’t churchwarden, I could say a deal.”“And you will not?” said the doctor. “Well, I must be going. I say, though, did you get me that skull?”“Nay, nay, nay,” said the old man, shaking his head, as he lit his pipe, and began smoking very contentedly, with his eyes half closed. “I couldn’t get no skulls, doctor. It would be sackerlidge and dessercation, and as long; as I’m saxton there shall be nothing of that kind at Duke’s Hampton. Bowdles doos it at King’s Hampton: but no such doings here.”“But I want it for anatomical purposes, my good man.”“Can’t help it, sir. I couldn’t do it.”“Now what nonsense; it’s only lending me a bone.”“You said sell it to you,” said the old man sharply.“Well, sell it. I’ll buy it of you.”“Nay, nay, nay. What would Parson Salis say if I did such a thing? He’d turn me out of being saxton, neck and crop.”“Ah, well, I won’t worry you, old fellow; and I must go now.”“Nay, don’t go yet, doctor,” cried the old man querulously. “You haven’t sounded me, nor feeled me, nor nothing.”“Haven’t I given you some comforting medicine?”“Yes, doctor; bit o’ ’bacco does me good; but do feel my pulse and look at my tongue.”“Ah, well, let’s look,” said the doctor, and he patiently examined according to rote. “It’s Anno Domini, Moredock—Anno Domini.”“Is it, now, doctor? Ah, you always did understand my complaint. If it hadn’t been for you, doctor—”“We should have had a new sexton at Duke’s Hampton before now, eh?”“Yes, doctor,” said the old man, with a shudder.“Well, without boasting, old chap, I think I did pull you through that last illness.”“Yes, doctor, you did, you did; and don’t go away again. You were away seven days—seven mortal days of misery to me.”“Oh, but you’re all right,” said the doctor, looking curiously at the old man.“Nay, nay, nay. I thought I should have died before you come back, doctor; that I did.”“But you’re better now.”“Yes, I’m better now, doctor. I feel safer-like, and I’ve got so much to do that I can’t afford to be ill.”“And die?”“Nay, nay, nay; not yet, not yet, not yet, doctor!”“Ah, well, I’m glad I do you good, Moredock; but I think you might have lent me that skull.”“You said sell, doctor,” cried the old man.“Of course I should have paid you. But I suppose I must respect your scruples.”“Ay, do, doctor, and come oftener. Anno Domini, is it?”“Yes.”“’Tain’t a killing disease, is it, doctor?”“Indeed but it is, old fellow. But, there, I’ll come in now and then and oil your works, and keep you going as long as I can.”“Do, doctor, do, please. I shall feel so much safer when you’ve been.”“All right. Good-day, Moredock.”“Good-day, doctor,” said the old man, gripping his visitor’s arm tightly with a hook-like claw.“Good-day; and if you do overcome your scruples, I should like that skull. It would be useful to me now.”The old man kept tightly hold of his visitor’s arm, and hobbled to the door to look out, and then, still gripping hard at the arm, he said in a strange, cachinnatory way, as he laid down his pipe:“He-he-he! hi-hi-hi! I’ve got it for you, doctor.”“What? The skull?”“Hush! Of course I have; only one must make a bit o’ fuss over it. Sackerlidge and dessercation, you know.”“Oh! I see.”“I wouldn’t do such a thing for any one but a doctor, you know. Anno Domical purposes, eh?”“You’re getting the purpose mixed up with your disease, Moredock,” said the doctor, as the old man took out a key from the pocket of his coat, and, after blowing in it and tapping it on the table, prior to drawing a pin from the edge of his waistcoat and treating the key as if it were a periwinkle, he crossed to the old oak coffer.“Just shut that door, doctor,” he said. “That’s right. Now shove the bolt. Nobody aren’t likely to come unless Dally Watlock does, for she always runs over when she aren’t wanted, and stops away when she is. Thankye, doctor.”He stooped down, looking like some curious old half-bald bird, to unlock the chest, and then, after raising the lid a short distance, in a cunningly secretive way, he thrust in one arm, and brought out a dark-looking human skull.“Ha! yes,” cried the doctor, taking the grisly relic of mortality in his hands. “Yes, that’s a very perfect specimen; but it’s a woman’s, evidently. I wanted a man’s.”“You said sell you a skull,” said the old man angrily. “You never said nowt about man or woman.”“No. It was an oversight. There, never mind.”“Ay, but I do mind,” grumbled the old man. “I like to sadersfy my customers. Give it me back.”“But this will do.”“Nay, nay, nay; it won’t do,” cried the old man peevishly. “Give it to me.”The doctor handed back the skull, and the old man hastily replaced it in the coffer, hesitated a few moments, and then brought out another skull.“Ah! that’s right,” cried the doctor eagerly; “the very thing. How much?”“Nay, nay, nay; I’m not going to commit sackerlidge and dessercation. I can’t sell it.”“But you are not going to give it to me?”“Nay; I only thought as you might put anything you like on the chimbley-piece.”“I see,” said the doctor, smiling, and placing a small gold coin there, the old man watching eagerly the while. “But I say, Moredock, how many more have you got in that chest?”“Got?—there?” said the old man suspiciously. “Oh! only them two. Nothing more—nothing more.” But the next instant, as if won over to confidence in his visitor, or feeling bound to trust him, he screwed up his face in a strange leering way and opened the coffer wide.“You may look in,” he said. “You’re a doctor, and won’t tell. They’re for the doctors.”“Your customers, eh?”“Customers?” said the old man sharply; “who said a word about customers?”“You did. So you deal in those things?”“No, no; not deal in ’em. I find one sometimes—very old—very old. Been in the earth a mort o’ years.”As he spoke he watched the doctor curiously while he inspected the specimens of osteology in the oak chest. Then, taking up a tin canister from the bottom, he gave it a shake, the contents rattling loudly, and upon opening it he displayed it half full of white, sound teeth.“Dentists,” he said, with a grin, which showed his own two or three blackened fangs. “They uses ’em. False teeth. People thinks they’re ivory. So they are.”“Why, Moredock, what a wicked old wretch you are,” said the doctor. “I don’t wonder you feel afraid to die.”“Wicked? No more wicked than my neighbours, doctor. Every one’s afraid to die, and wants to live longer. Wicked! How could I save a few pounds together, to keep me out o’ the workus when I grow’s old, if I didn’t do something like this?”“Ah, how indeed?” said the doctor, looking half-wonderingly at the strange old being.“And my grandchild, Dalily, up at the Rectory. Man must save—must save. Besides, it’s doing good.”“Good, eh?”“Yes,” said the old fellow, with a hideous grin. “Lots o’ them never did no good in their lives, and maybe they’re thankful now they’re dead to find that, after all, they’re some use to their fellow-creatures.”“Ah! Moredock, people are always ready to find an excuse for their wrong-doing. Seems to me that I ought to expose you up at the Rectory.”“Nay, you won’t tell the parson, doctor?” said the old man, with a chuckle.“No, I shall say nothing, Moredock.”“No, doctor, you can’t. You’re in it. You set me to get that for you.”“There, stop that confounded laugh of yours, and take this quietly to the Manor House to-night. Shall you be well enough?”“Have—have you got any more o’ that Hollands gin, doctor?” whispered the old man, with a leer.“About another glassful, I dare say.”“Then I shall be well enough to come, doctor. Nobody shall see what it is. And look here: you keep me alive and well, and you shall have anything you want, doctor. Parson’s master in the church, but I’m master outside, and in the tombs, and in the old Candlish morslem. Like to see in it, doctor?”“Pah! not I. See enough of the miserable breed alive without seeing them dead. Good morning.”He remounted his horse, and rode out of the village by the main road, to draw rein at a pretty ivy-covered villa, whose well-kept garden and general aspect betokened wealth and some refinement.“Mrs Berens at home?” he asked, as the drag at a bell sent a silvery tinkle through the house.The neat maid-servant drew back with a smile, and the doctor entered, and was shown into a pretty drawing-room, where he stood beating his boot with his riding-whip, and looking scornfully at the ornaments, lace, and gimcracks around.

“Nonsense, Hartley, she is as quiet as a lamb.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said the curate, who looked rather anxiously at a handsome, weedy grey cob just led round to the front.

His sisters were standing ready to go and make a call, and his brow wrinkled a little as he noted a peculiar fidgety expression about the mare’s ears.

“Why, Hartley, how foolish you are!” cried Leo. “You stop indoors reading till you are as nervous as Mrs Berens.”

“Eh? Yes. Well, I suppose I am,” said the curate good-humouredly. “But be careful; I’m always a little uncomfortable about strange mares. Will you have an extra rein?”

“Absurd!” said Leo. “There, you shall be humoured. Tell him to buckle it lower down.”

The girl looked very handsome and animated, and, since the scene in the wood with Tom Candlish, had been so penitent and patient that her brother had shrunk from checking her in any way.

The mare had duly arrived, and, apparently bending to her brother’s will, Leo had patiently seen it put in harness—degraded, as she called it—and as it went very well they were going on the present morning drive.

Hartley Salis tried to hide his anxiety, and turned to chat with Mary, who looked rather pale—the consequence of a headache, as she said; and as he talked he felt more and more between the horns of a dilemma.

Mary did not want to go, he knew. He did not want her to go, but, paradoxical as it may sound, he did want her to go. For choice he would have gone himself; but he knew that if he did Leo would look upon it as distrust—not of her power to manage the new mare, but of her word. For she had as good as promised him that she would see Tom Candlish no more, and he felt that he was bound to show in every way possible that he enjoyed a confidence that he really did not feel. With Mary to bear Leo company he knew that she was safe, and even that would bear the aspect of espionage; but the girl had accepted the position, and they were ready to start.

The trio were on their way to the gate when the new mare uttered a loud whinnying noise which was answered from a distance. There was the sound of hoofs, and directly after North trotted up.

Mary drew a deep breath, and her nervousness in connection with her ride was killed by one greater, which forced her to rouse all, her energies, so as to be calm during the coming encounter.

“Morning,” cried the doctor merrily, as he shook hands with all in turn. “Going to try the new mare?”

“Yes,” said the curate eagerly, while Leo was quiet and distant, and Mary her own calm self. “What do you think of her?”

The doctor, who, like most country gentlemen who keep a nag, considered himself a bit of a judge, looked the mare over, and grew critical.

“Well bred,” he said, at the end of a few moments.

“Oh! I am glad,” said Mary, eager to break the chilly silence that prevailed.

“I meant by descent,” said the doctor merrily. “I don’t know how she behaves.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Mary, in a disappointed tone, while Leo looked on scornfully.

“But she seems quiet?” said the curate anxiously.

“Ye-es,” replied the doctor dubiously, as he continued his examination. “Rather a wicked look about one eye.”

“Don’t, pray, Dr North,” said Leo petulantly. “My brother is quite fidgety enough about the mare. She is of course a little more mettlesome than our poor old plodding horse; but a child might drive her.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the doctor, in a tone which seemed to say, “But I would not answer for the consequences.” Then aloud: “Bit swollen about that hock. May mean nothing. Nice-looking little thing, Salis.”

“I’m glad you like her,” said the curate eagerly.

“I did not say I liked her, old fellow,” replied North. “I said she was well bred.”

“But you don’t think she is dangerous for ladies?”

“Oh, Hartley! How absurd!” cried Leo.

“Dangerous? surely not,” said the doctor. “Have tried her yourself, of course?”

“Well, no,” replied the curate. “I have been so busy: but the man has driven her several times.”

“And says she goes very quietly,” said Leo pettishly. “Hartley never has any confidence in my driving.”

“Indeed, yes,” said the curate, smiling at his sister affectionately. “I know that you drive well, and are a clever horsewoman. I am only anxious about your driving a strange horse.”

“But Leo will be very careful,” said Mary, interposing to end a scene which was agony to her. “I am quite ready, Leo.”

“Yes, let’s go,” said the latter. “Hartley wants to sell you the horse at a profit, Dr North,” she added banteringly. “Good morning all.”

The curate said no more, but handed his sisters into the light low phaeton, Leo taking the reins in the most business-like manner before mounting, and then sitting upright on the raised seat in a way that would have satisfied the most exacting whip.

The mare started off at a touch, with her neck arched and her head well down, the wheels spinning merrily in unison with the sharp trot of the well-shaped hoofs.

“An uncommonly pretty little turn-out, old fellow,” said the doctor, as he sat in the saddle watching critically till the chaise turned the corner; “and your sister drives admirably.”

“Yes,” said the curate rather dolefully; “she drives like she rides.”

“And that’s better than any lady who follows our pack of hounds,” cried the doctor. “Now, if I had been anything of a fellow, I should have cantered along by their side, and shown myself off.”

“You would,” assented the curate; and his countenance seemed to say, “I wish you had.”

“But, there, I am not anything of a fellow, and I have patients waiting, so here goes.”

He pressed his horse’s flanks, and went off in the other direction at a trot, while the curate, with his troubled look increasing, walked into the house.

“I suppose the mare’s quite safe,” he said; “and it pleases her. May take her attention off him. Poor Leo! It is very sad.”

Meanwhile the doctor continued his way till he reached the stocks—a dilapidated set, as ancient-looking as the whipping-post which kept them company, and both dying their worm-eaten death, as the custom of using them had died generations before.

But they had their use still, the doctor’s horse stopping short by them, as if he knew his goal, and his master dismounting, and throwing his rein over the post before entering a low cottage, with red tile sides and thick thatch roof. The door was so low that he had to stoop his head to enter a scrupulously clean cottage room, with uneven red brick floor, brightly-polished stove, with a home-made shred hearthrug in front, and for furniture a well-scrubbed deal table, a high Windsor chair, a beautifully—carved old oaken chest or coffer, and a great, old-fashioned, eight-day clock, whose heavy pendulum, visible through a glazed hole in its door, swung ponderously to right and saidchick! and then to left and saidchack!

Empty as the old room was in one respect it was full in another, and that was of a faint ancient smell of an indescribable nature. It was not very unpleasant; it was not the reverse; but it had one great peculiarity—to wit, that of exciting a desire on the part of a visitor to know what it was, till his or her eye rested upon the occupant of the tall armed Windsor chair, in which sat Jonadab Moredock, clerk and sexton of Duke’s Hampton, when the idea came that the strange ancient odour must be that of decay.

“Well, old chap, how are we this morning?” said the doctor cheerily.

The red-eyed, yellow-skinned, withered old man placed his hands on the arms of his chair, raised himself an inch or two, gave his head a bob, and subsided again, as he shook his head.

“Bad, doctor—mortal bad; and if you goes away again like that you’ll find me dead and buried when back you comes.”

“Nonsense, Moredock; there are years upon years of good life in you yet.”

“Nay, doctor, nay,” moaned the old fellow.

“But I say yes. Why, you’re only ninety.”

“Ninety-three, doctor—ninety-three, and ’most worn out.”

“Nonsense; there’s a deal of work to be got out of you yet. Had your pipe?”

“Pipe? No. How can a man have a pipe who has no tobacco?”

“Ah well, never mind,” said the doctor, “I’ve brought you some physic.”

“Then I won’t take it,” cried the old man angrily. “I won’t take it, and I won’t pay for it, not a penny.”

“Wait till you’re asked,” said the doctor drily, as he threw a packet of tobacco in the old fellow’s lap. “There’s your medicine. Now say you will not take it if you dare.”

The old man’s red-rimmed eyes twinkled at the sight of the shredded-up weed, around which his hand closed like the claws of a hawk. Then rising slowly, he took down from the chimneypiece a curious-looking old tobacco-box, which seemed as if it had been hammered out of a piece of sheet lead, and began to stuff the tobacco in.

“Where did you get that leaden box? Moredock?” said the visitor.

“I—I made it,” said the old man, with a furtive look.

“Made it! I thought as much. Coffin lead, eh?”

“Never you mind about that, doctor. I found the lead when I was digging.”

“And did you find that oak chest when you were digging, you old rascal?”

“Nay, nay, nay, that’s nowt to do wi’ you, doctor. Physic’s your business, and not bits o’ furnitur’ in people’s houses.”

“Ah, well, we won’t quarrel about that, Moredock; only I’ve taken a fancy to that old chest. I’ll buy it of you.”

“Nay, you won’t, doctor; it isn’t for sale.”

“Then leave it to me in your will.”

“Nay, and I shan’t do that. It’s for my grandchild, Dalily, who’s up yonder at the Rectory, you know—her as had the measles when she was seventeen.”

“Ah, yes, I know—the dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked hussy. Lucky girl to inherit that chest.”

“Ay, but I don’t know as she’ll get it, doctor. Hussy! Yes, that’s it. That’s what she is, and if I see her talking to young Squire Luke Candlish’s brother, Tom Candlish, again, she shan’t have the chest.”

“Then I’ll set Tom Candlish to talk to her again, and then you’ll leave it to me.”

“Nay, you won’t, doctor. I know you better than that. But he’s a bad ’un. So’s the squire. They’re both bad ’uns. I know more about ’em than they think, and if Squire Luke warn’t churchwarden, I could say a deal.”

“And you will not?” said the doctor. “Well, I must be going. I say, though, did you get me that skull?”

“Nay, nay, nay,” said the old man, shaking his head, as he lit his pipe, and began smoking very contentedly, with his eyes half closed. “I couldn’t get no skulls, doctor. It would be sackerlidge and dessercation, and as long; as I’m saxton there shall be nothing of that kind at Duke’s Hampton. Bowdles doos it at King’s Hampton: but no such doings here.”

“But I want it for anatomical purposes, my good man.”

“Can’t help it, sir. I couldn’t do it.”

“Now what nonsense; it’s only lending me a bone.”

“You said sell it to you,” said the old man sharply.

“Well, sell it. I’ll buy it of you.”

“Nay, nay, nay. What would Parson Salis say if I did such a thing? He’d turn me out of being saxton, neck and crop.”

“Ah, well, I won’t worry you, old fellow; and I must go now.”

“Nay, don’t go yet, doctor,” cried the old man querulously. “You haven’t sounded me, nor feeled me, nor nothing.”

“Haven’t I given you some comforting medicine?”

“Yes, doctor; bit o’ ’bacco does me good; but do feel my pulse and look at my tongue.”

“Ah, well, let’s look,” said the doctor, and he patiently examined according to rote. “It’s Anno Domini, Moredock—Anno Domini.”

“Is it, now, doctor? Ah, you always did understand my complaint. If it hadn’t been for you, doctor—”

“We should have had a new sexton at Duke’s Hampton before now, eh?”

“Yes, doctor,” said the old man, with a shudder.

“Well, without boasting, old chap, I think I did pull you through that last illness.”

“Yes, doctor, you did, you did; and don’t go away again. You were away seven days—seven mortal days of misery to me.”

“Oh, but you’re all right,” said the doctor, looking curiously at the old man.

“Nay, nay, nay. I thought I should have died before you come back, doctor; that I did.”

“But you’re better now.”

“Yes, I’m better now, doctor. I feel safer-like, and I’ve got so much to do that I can’t afford to be ill.”

“And die?”

“Nay, nay, nay; not yet, not yet, not yet, doctor!”

“Ah, well, I’m glad I do you good, Moredock; but I think you might have lent me that skull.”

“You said sell, doctor,” cried the old man.

“Of course I should have paid you. But I suppose I must respect your scruples.”

“Ay, do, doctor, and come oftener. Anno Domini, is it?”

“Yes.”

“’Tain’t a killing disease, is it, doctor?”

“Indeed but it is, old fellow. But, there, I’ll come in now and then and oil your works, and keep you going as long as I can.”

“Do, doctor, do, please. I shall feel so much safer when you’ve been.”

“All right. Good-day, Moredock.”

“Good-day, doctor,” said the old man, gripping his visitor’s arm tightly with a hook-like claw.

“Good-day; and if you do overcome your scruples, I should like that skull. It would be useful to me now.”

The old man kept tightly hold of his visitor’s arm, and hobbled to the door to look out, and then, still gripping hard at the arm, he said in a strange, cachinnatory way, as he laid down his pipe:

“He-he-he! hi-hi-hi! I’ve got it for you, doctor.”

“What? The skull?”

“Hush! Of course I have; only one must make a bit o’ fuss over it. Sackerlidge and dessercation, you know.”

“Oh! I see.”

“I wouldn’t do such a thing for any one but a doctor, you know. Anno Domical purposes, eh?”

“You’re getting the purpose mixed up with your disease, Moredock,” said the doctor, as the old man took out a key from the pocket of his coat, and, after blowing in it and tapping it on the table, prior to drawing a pin from the edge of his waistcoat and treating the key as if it were a periwinkle, he crossed to the old oak coffer.

“Just shut that door, doctor,” he said. “That’s right. Now shove the bolt. Nobody aren’t likely to come unless Dally Watlock does, for she always runs over when she aren’t wanted, and stops away when she is. Thankye, doctor.”

He stooped down, looking like some curious old half-bald bird, to unlock the chest, and then, after raising the lid a short distance, in a cunningly secretive way, he thrust in one arm, and brought out a dark-looking human skull.

“Ha! yes,” cried the doctor, taking the grisly relic of mortality in his hands. “Yes, that’s a very perfect specimen; but it’s a woman’s, evidently. I wanted a man’s.”

“You said sell you a skull,” said the old man angrily. “You never said nowt about man or woman.”

“No. It was an oversight. There, never mind.”

“Ay, but I do mind,” grumbled the old man. “I like to sadersfy my customers. Give it me back.”

“But this will do.”

“Nay, nay, nay; it won’t do,” cried the old man peevishly. “Give it to me.”

The doctor handed back the skull, and the old man hastily replaced it in the coffer, hesitated a few moments, and then brought out another skull.

“Ah! that’s right,” cried the doctor eagerly; “the very thing. How much?”

“Nay, nay, nay; I’m not going to commit sackerlidge and dessercation. I can’t sell it.”

“But you are not going to give it to me?”

“Nay; I only thought as you might put anything you like on the chimbley-piece.”

“I see,” said the doctor, smiling, and placing a small gold coin there, the old man watching eagerly the while. “But I say, Moredock, how many more have you got in that chest?”

“Got?—there?” said the old man suspiciously. “Oh! only them two. Nothing more—nothing more.” But the next instant, as if won over to confidence in his visitor, or feeling bound to trust him, he screwed up his face in a strange leering way and opened the coffer wide.

“You may look in,” he said. “You’re a doctor, and won’t tell. They’re for the doctors.”

“Your customers, eh?”

“Customers?” said the old man sharply; “who said a word about customers?”

“You did. So you deal in those things?”

“No, no; not deal in ’em. I find one sometimes—very old—very old. Been in the earth a mort o’ years.”

As he spoke he watched the doctor curiously while he inspected the specimens of osteology in the oak chest. Then, taking up a tin canister from the bottom, he gave it a shake, the contents rattling loudly, and upon opening it he displayed it half full of white, sound teeth.

“Dentists,” he said, with a grin, which showed his own two or three blackened fangs. “They uses ’em. False teeth. People thinks they’re ivory. So they are.”

“Why, Moredock, what a wicked old wretch you are,” said the doctor. “I don’t wonder you feel afraid to die.”

“Wicked? No more wicked than my neighbours, doctor. Every one’s afraid to die, and wants to live longer. Wicked! How could I save a few pounds together, to keep me out o’ the workus when I grow’s old, if I didn’t do something like this?”

“Ah, how indeed?” said the doctor, looking half-wonderingly at the strange old being.

“And my grandchild, Dalily, up at the Rectory. Man must save—must save. Besides, it’s doing good.”

“Good, eh?”

“Yes,” said the old fellow, with a hideous grin. “Lots o’ them never did no good in their lives, and maybe they’re thankful now they’re dead to find that, after all, they’re some use to their fellow-creatures.”

“Ah! Moredock, people are always ready to find an excuse for their wrong-doing. Seems to me that I ought to expose you up at the Rectory.”

“Nay, you won’t tell the parson, doctor?” said the old man, with a chuckle.

“No, I shall say nothing, Moredock.”

“No, doctor, you can’t. You’re in it. You set me to get that for you.”

“There, stop that confounded laugh of yours, and take this quietly to the Manor House to-night. Shall you be well enough?”

“Have—have you got any more o’ that Hollands gin, doctor?” whispered the old man, with a leer.

“About another glassful, I dare say.”

“Then I shall be well enough to come, doctor. Nobody shall see what it is. And look here: you keep me alive and well, and you shall have anything you want, doctor. Parson’s master in the church, but I’m master outside, and in the tombs, and in the old Candlish morslem. Like to see in it, doctor?”

“Pah! not I. See enough of the miserable breed alive without seeing them dead. Good morning.”

He remounted his horse, and rode out of the village by the main road, to draw rein at a pretty ivy-covered villa, whose well-kept garden and general aspect betokened wealth and some refinement.

“Mrs Berens at home?” he asked, as the drag at a bell sent a silvery tinkle through the house.

The neat maid-servant drew back with a smile, and the doctor entered, and was shown into a pretty drawing-room, where he stood beating his boot with his riding-whip, and looking scornfully at the ornaments, lace, and gimcracks around.

Chapter Seven.A Fresh Patient.“I always feel like a fly,” the doctor muttered—“a fly alighted upon a spider’s web. The widow wants a husband. I wish some one would snap her up.”“Ah! doctor—at last,” said a pleasant voice, which sounded as if it had passed through swan’s-down, while a strong odour of violets helped the illusion.“Yes, at last, Mrs Berens,” said the doctor, taking the extended, soft, white hand of the pleasant, plump lady of eight-and-thirty or forty, whose whole aspect was suggestive of a very pretty, delicate-skinned baby grown large. “Why, how well you look.”“Oh, doctor!”“Indeed you do. Why, from your note I was afraid that you were seriously ill.”“And I have been, doctor. In such a low, nervous state. At one time I felt as if I should sink. But”—with a sigh—“I am better now.”The lady waved her kerchief towards a chair, and seated herself upon an ottoman, where, in obedience to the suggestion, she once more laid her hand in the doctor’s firm white palm, wherein Jonadab Moredock’s gnarled, yellow, horny paw had so lately lain: and as the strong fingers closed over the delicate white flesh, and a couple glided to the soft round wrist, the patient sighed.“Oh, doctor, I do feel so safe when you are here. It would be too hard to die so young.”The doctor looked up quickly. “Now that’s wicked,” said the lady reproachfully, “because I said ‘so young.’ Well, I’m not quite forty, and that is young. Is my pulse very rapid?”“No, no. A little accelerated, perhaps. You seem to have been fretting.”“Yes, that’s it, doctor. I have,” said the lady.“What a fool I am!” he said to himself, as he released the hand. Then aloud: “I see, I see. Little mental anxiety. You want tone, Mrs Berens.”“Yes, doctor, I do,” she sighed.“Now what should you say if I prescribed a complete change?”“A complete change, doctor?” said the lady, whose pulse was now certainly accelerated.“Yes. That will be better than any of my drugs. A pleasant little two months’ trip to Baden or Homburg, where you can take the waters and enjoy the fresh air.”“Oh, doctor, I could not go alone.”“Humph! No. It would be dull. Well, take a companion. Why not one of the parson’s sisters? Mary Salis—or, no,” he added, quickly, as he recalled certain family troubles that had been rumoured. “Why not Leo Salis?”“Oh, no, doctor,” said the lady, with a decisive shake of the head. “I don’t think Miss Leo Salis and I would get on together long.”“The other, then,” said the doctor.“No, no. Prescribe some medicine for me.”“But you don’t want medicine.”“Indeed, doctor, but I do. I’ll take anything you like to prescribe.”“But—”“Now, doctor, I am low and nervous, and you must humour me a little. I could not bear to be sent away. I should feel as if I had gone over there to die.”“When I guarantee that you would come back strong and well?”“No, doctor, no. You must not send me away. Deal gently with me, and let me stop in my own nest. Ah, if you only knew my sufferings.”Dr Horace North felt as if he fully knew, and was content to stand off at a distance, for though everything was extremely ladylike and refined, and there was a touch of delicacy mingled with her words, he could not help interpreting the meaning of the widow’s sighs and the satisfied look of pleasure which came over her countenance when he was at hand to feel her pulse.“I do know your sufferings,” he said gravely, “and you may rely upon me to bring any little skill I can command to bear upon your complaint. Think again over the idea of change.”“Oh, no, doctor,” said the lady quickly. “I could not go.”“Ah, well, I will not press you,” he said, rising. “I’ll try and prescribe something that will give you tone.”“You are not going, doctor,” said the lady, in alarm. “Why, you have only this moment come.”“Patients to see, my dear madam.”“No, it is not that. I worry you with my complaints. I am very, very tiresome, I own.”“Nonsense, nonsense,” said the doctor; “but really I must hurry away.”“Without seeing my drawings, and the books I have had down from town! Ah! I am sure I bore you with my murmuring. A sick woman is a burden to her friends.”“If some one would only fetch me away in a hurry, I’d bless him,” thought the doctor.“There are times, doctor, when a few words of sympathy would make me bear my lot more easily, and—”“Wheels, by George!” exclaimed the doctor.“If you only knew—”“There’s something bolted.”“The dead vacancy in my poor heart.”“A regular smash if they don’t look out. Woa, Tom! Steady, my lad!” cried the doctor, opening the French window and stepping out on to the lawn.“Doctor, for pity’s sake,” sobbed Mrs Berens, in anguished tones.The patient’s voice was so pitiful that the doctor could not resist the appeal, and though called as it were on both sides, he stepped rapidly back into the little drawing-room in time to catch the fainting widow in his arms.Unfortunately for poor Mrs Berens, who had for long felt touched by the young doctor, a lady in distress, mental or bodily, or both, was always a patient to Dr North, and he only retained her in his arms just long enough to lower her down in a corner of a soft couch, before rushing out of the window and through the gate, where his tied-up horse was snorting and kicking.The poor brute had cause, for the rapid running of wheels and beat of hoofs were produced by Hartley Salis’s phaeton and the new mare, which came down the road at a frantic gallop, with Mary clinging to the side of the vehicle, pale with dread, and Leo, apparently quite retaining her nerve, seated perfectly upright in her place, but unable to control the mare, one rein having given way at the buckle hole, and a pull at the other being so much madness.They had come along for quite a mile at a headlong pace, till nearing Mrs Berens’ house, Leo caught sight of the doctor’s cob, which pricked up its ears and began to rear and plunge.To have kept on as they were meant a collision, and there was nothing left now for the driver to do but draw gently upon the sound rein.The pull given was vain, and a sharp one followed, just in time to make the half-bred mare swerve and avoid the doctor’s cob; but the consequence was that the fore wheel of the phaeton caught a post on the other side of the road. There was a crashing sound, a wild scream, and the cause of the accident went off at a more furious pace than ever, with the shafts dangling and flying about her legs.“Hurt? No, not much,” cried the doctor, half lifting Leo from the grass at the side of the road; and hurrying to where Mary lay staring wildly, entangled among the fragments of the chaise.“My poor child!” he cried. “Oh, this is bad work. Try and—Here! Miss Leo—Mrs Berens. Water—brandy—for Heaven’s sake, quick!”

“I always feel like a fly,” the doctor muttered—“a fly alighted upon a spider’s web. The widow wants a husband. I wish some one would snap her up.”

“Ah! doctor—at last,” said a pleasant voice, which sounded as if it had passed through swan’s-down, while a strong odour of violets helped the illusion.

“Yes, at last, Mrs Berens,” said the doctor, taking the extended, soft, white hand of the pleasant, plump lady of eight-and-thirty or forty, whose whole aspect was suggestive of a very pretty, delicate-skinned baby grown large. “Why, how well you look.”

“Oh, doctor!”

“Indeed you do. Why, from your note I was afraid that you were seriously ill.”

“And I have been, doctor. In such a low, nervous state. At one time I felt as if I should sink. But”—with a sigh—“I am better now.”

The lady waved her kerchief towards a chair, and seated herself upon an ottoman, where, in obedience to the suggestion, she once more laid her hand in the doctor’s firm white palm, wherein Jonadab Moredock’s gnarled, yellow, horny paw had so lately lain: and as the strong fingers closed over the delicate white flesh, and a couple glided to the soft round wrist, the patient sighed.

“Oh, doctor, I do feel so safe when you are here. It would be too hard to die so young.”

The doctor looked up quickly. “Now that’s wicked,” said the lady reproachfully, “because I said ‘so young.’ Well, I’m not quite forty, and that is young. Is my pulse very rapid?”

“No, no. A little accelerated, perhaps. You seem to have been fretting.”

“Yes, that’s it, doctor. I have,” said the lady.

“What a fool I am!” he said to himself, as he released the hand. Then aloud: “I see, I see. Little mental anxiety. You want tone, Mrs Berens.”

“Yes, doctor, I do,” she sighed.

“Now what should you say if I prescribed a complete change?”

“A complete change, doctor?” said the lady, whose pulse was now certainly accelerated.

“Yes. That will be better than any of my drugs. A pleasant little two months’ trip to Baden or Homburg, where you can take the waters and enjoy the fresh air.”

“Oh, doctor, I could not go alone.”

“Humph! No. It would be dull. Well, take a companion. Why not one of the parson’s sisters? Mary Salis—or, no,” he added, quickly, as he recalled certain family troubles that had been rumoured. “Why not Leo Salis?”

“Oh, no, doctor,” said the lady, with a decisive shake of the head. “I don’t think Miss Leo Salis and I would get on together long.”

“The other, then,” said the doctor.

“No, no. Prescribe some medicine for me.”

“But you don’t want medicine.”

“Indeed, doctor, but I do. I’ll take anything you like to prescribe.”

“But—”

“Now, doctor, I am low and nervous, and you must humour me a little. I could not bear to be sent away. I should feel as if I had gone over there to die.”

“When I guarantee that you would come back strong and well?”

“No, doctor, no. You must not send me away. Deal gently with me, and let me stop in my own nest. Ah, if you only knew my sufferings.”

Dr Horace North felt as if he fully knew, and was content to stand off at a distance, for though everything was extremely ladylike and refined, and there was a touch of delicacy mingled with her words, he could not help interpreting the meaning of the widow’s sighs and the satisfied look of pleasure which came over her countenance when he was at hand to feel her pulse.

“I do know your sufferings,” he said gravely, “and you may rely upon me to bring any little skill I can command to bear upon your complaint. Think again over the idea of change.”

“Oh, no, doctor,” said the lady quickly. “I could not go.”

“Ah, well, I will not press you,” he said, rising. “I’ll try and prescribe something that will give you tone.”

“You are not going, doctor,” said the lady, in alarm. “Why, you have only this moment come.”

“Patients to see, my dear madam.”

“No, it is not that. I worry you with my complaints. I am very, very tiresome, I own.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” said the doctor; “but really I must hurry away.”

“Without seeing my drawings, and the books I have had down from town! Ah! I am sure I bore you with my murmuring. A sick woman is a burden to her friends.”

“If some one would only fetch me away in a hurry, I’d bless him,” thought the doctor.

“There are times, doctor, when a few words of sympathy would make me bear my lot more easily, and—”

“Wheels, by George!” exclaimed the doctor.

“If you only knew—”

“There’s something bolted.”

“The dead vacancy in my poor heart.”

“A regular smash if they don’t look out. Woa, Tom! Steady, my lad!” cried the doctor, opening the French window and stepping out on to the lawn.

“Doctor, for pity’s sake,” sobbed Mrs Berens, in anguished tones.

The patient’s voice was so pitiful that the doctor could not resist the appeal, and though called as it were on both sides, he stepped rapidly back into the little drawing-room in time to catch the fainting widow in his arms.

Unfortunately for poor Mrs Berens, who had for long felt touched by the young doctor, a lady in distress, mental or bodily, or both, was always a patient to Dr North, and he only retained her in his arms just long enough to lower her down in a corner of a soft couch, before rushing out of the window and through the gate, where his tied-up horse was snorting and kicking.

The poor brute had cause, for the rapid running of wheels and beat of hoofs were produced by Hartley Salis’s phaeton and the new mare, which came down the road at a frantic gallop, with Mary clinging to the side of the vehicle, pale with dread, and Leo, apparently quite retaining her nerve, seated perfectly upright in her place, but unable to control the mare, one rein having given way at the buckle hole, and a pull at the other being so much madness.

They had come along for quite a mile at a headlong pace, till nearing Mrs Berens’ house, Leo caught sight of the doctor’s cob, which pricked up its ears and began to rear and plunge.

To have kept on as they were meant a collision, and there was nothing left now for the driver to do but draw gently upon the sound rein.

The pull given was vain, and a sharp one followed, just in time to make the half-bred mare swerve and avoid the doctor’s cob; but the consequence was that the fore wheel of the phaeton caught a post on the other side of the road. There was a crashing sound, a wild scream, and the cause of the accident went off at a more furious pace than ever, with the shafts dangling and flying about her legs.

“Hurt? No, not much,” cried the doctor, half lifting Leo from the grass at the side of the road; and hurrying to where Mary lay staring wildly, entangled among the fragments of the chaise.

“My poor child!” he cried. “Oh, this is bad work. Try and—Here! Miss Leo—Mrs Berens. Water—brandy—for Heaven’s sake, quick!”

Chapter Eight.“How I do Hate That Girl!”“Oh! my poor darling!”It was Mrs Berens who spoke; the accident, and its consequent call upon her for aid, having in an instant swept away all thought of self, and shown her at once in her best colours, full of true womanly sympathy.Leo stood leaning against the hedge, dazed and perfectly helpless, while Mrs Berens came running out to help; but only to rush in again and return with a decanter and water.“Is she—is she—”“Hush!” whispered the doctor sternly; “try and pour a few more drops between her lips, and keep on bathing her forehead till I get her out.”Mrs Berens was down upon her knees on one side of Mary Salis, with her hands and delicate dress bedabbled with blood; but she did not heed the dust or hideous stains as she passed her left arm beneath the poor girl’s neck, and held her with her cut and bruised face resting upon her bosom, while the doctor tore hard at the crooked woodwork and iron which held the sufferer pinned down.“Leo Salis,” said the doctor impatiently, “if you’re not hurt, don’t stand dreaming there, but run off to the village for help.”Leo stared at him wildly for a moment or two, and then walked hastily away, holding her left wrist in her right hand, as if she were in pain.“Hah! That’s better,” cried the doctor, as he set one foot against a portion of the iron-work, and pulled with all his might, his effort being followed by a loud cracking noise, and the iron bent. “Now, Mrs Berens, I think we can lift her out.”“Yes; let me help,” cried the widow energetically, and seeming quite transformed as she assisted in bearing the inanimate girl into the drawing-room.“Quick, Mary, pillows,” she cried; and her round-eyed, helpless maid ran upstairs, to return with the pillows, by whose aid Mary Salis was placed in a comfortable position.Without its being suggested. Mrs Berens herself fetched basin, sponge, and towels, with which the blood and dust were removed, the widow colouring once highly as the doctor awarded her a word of praise.“Cut in the temple. Hair will cover it,” said the doctor, as he rapidly dressed the insensible girl’s injuries. “Nasty contusion there on the cheek—slight abrasion.”“Will it disfigure her, doctor?” said Mrs Berens anxiously.“Oh! no—soon disappear.”“What a comfort,” sighed the widow, who evidently believed that a young lady’s face was her fortune. “Is she much hurt, doctor?”“No; I am in hopes that she is only suffering from the concussion. That bleeding has been good for her. She is coming round.”“Poor darling!” cried Mrs Berens, tenderly kissing Mary’s hand.“You’re an uncommonly good, useful woman, Mrs Berens,” said the doctor bluntly. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”“Oh, doctor!” she cried.“Spoilt your dress and lace too. But, never mind, it will bring her round. Ah! that’s better; she’s coming to.”“Is she?”The doctor pointed to the quivering lips, as the next minute there was a weary sigh, and Mary Salis opened her eyes to gaze wildly round, and then made an effort as if to rise, but she only raised her head and let it fall back with a moan.“Are you in pain?” said the doctor, as he took her hand.She looked at him wildly, and a faint colour came into her cheek as she whispered hoarsely:“Yes. Send—for a doctor.”“He is here, my poor dove,” cried Mrs Berens. “Don’t you know him—Dr North?”“Yes; but send—for some one—a doctor.”“A little wandering,” whispered North, bending over Mary, who tried to shrink from him. “Now,” he said gently, “try and tell me where you feel pain. I must see to it at once.”“No, no. Don’t touch me—a doctor—send for a doctor,” answered Mary.“But Mr North is a doctor, my poor dear,” cried Mrs Berens.“Send—for a doctor,” whispered Mary again; and then she uttered a faint cry of indignation and dread commingled as, thinking of nothing but the case before him, the doctor began to make the necessary preliminary examination, to stop short at the end of a minute, and lay his hand upon the patient’s forehead, aghast at the discovery he felt that he had made.“Don’t resent this,” he said kindly. “Believe me, it is necessary, and I will not give you more pain than I can help.”“Mrs Berens,” sobbed the poor girl, “your hand.”“My darling!” cried the widow, taking the extended hand, to hold it pressed against her lips.“Now, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I want you to move yourself gently—a little more straight upon the couch.”She looked at him strangely.“Now, please,” he said. “It will be an easier position.”But still she did not move.“Did you try?” he said rather hoarsely.“Yes—I tried,” she said faintly; and then the flush deepened in her face again, as the doctor bent over the couch, and changed the position in which she lay.“Did I hurt you?” he said.“No. Did you move me?” she faltered; and Mrs Berens looked at him inquiringly.“Just a trifle,” he said gravely. “Ah! here’s Salis.”There was a quick step outside, and the curate rushed in, followed more slowly by Leo, who looked ghastly.“Mary, my dear child,” he cried, throwing himself upon his knees beside his sister, “are you much hurt?”“I think not, Hartley, dear,” she replied, with a smile. “My head is not so giddy now.”“Oh! what a madman I was to let you go,” he cried.“Hush, dear! It was an accident,” said the poor girl tenderly. “I shall soon be better. You are hurting Leo. She suffers more than I.”“That cursed mare, North. She looked vicious. How was it, Leo?”“She pulled, and one of the reins broke,” said Leo hoarsely. “There would have been an accident with any horse.”“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mary faintly; “and I am very sorry, Hartley. The chaise—the expense. Thank dear Mrs Berens, and now let me try and walk home.”“No, no, my dear,” said Mrs Berens, “you must not think of going. Stay here, and be nursed. I’ll try so hard to make you well.”“I know you would,” said Mary gently; “but I shall be better at home. Leo, dear, help me up. No, no, Hartley; I did not want to send you away. I’m better now.”She made an effort to rise, as the doctor looked on with eager eyes awaiting the result, at which his lips tightened, and he glanced at Mrs Berens.For Mary Salis moved her hands and arms, and slightly raised her head, but let it fall again, and looked from one to the other wildly, as if her perplexity were greater than she could bear.Hartley Salis caught his friend by the wrist, and then yielded himself, and followed the doctor as he moved from the room.“North, old fellow,” he said, in an eager whisper, “what does that mean? Is she much hurt?”“Try and bear it like a man, Salis. It may not be so bad as I fear, but I cannot hide from you the truth.”“The truth! Good heavens, man, speak out!”“Hush! She is too weak from the shock to bear it now. Let her learn it by degrees, only thinking at present that she is nerveless and stunned.”“But you don’t mean—Oh, North!” cried the curate, in agony.“Salis, old friend, it would be cruel to keep back the truth,” said the doctor, taking his hand. “It may not be so bad, but I fear there is some terrible injury to the spine.”“Good heavens!” cried Salis wildly; “that means paralysis and death.”“Let’s hope not, old friend.”“Hope!” cried the curate wildly. “How has that poor girl sinned that she should suffer this?”At that moment the truth had come home to Mary Salis that her injury was terrible in extent, and she lay there gazing wildly at her handsome sister, but seeing beyond her in the long, weary vista of her own life a helpless cripple, dragging her way slowly onward towards the end.Then there was a low, piteous sigh, and Mrs Berens came quickly to the door.“Doctor,” she whispered, “come back. Fainted!”North hurried back into the room, to find Mary Salis lying back, white as if cut in marble, while her sister stood gazing at her in silence, making no movement to be of help.“How I do hate that girl!” he muttered, as he went down on one knee by the couch.

“Oh! my poor darling!”

It was Mrs Berens who spoke; the accident, and its consequent call upon her for aid, having in an instant swept away all thought of self, and shown her at once in her best colours, full of true womanly sympathy.

Leo stood leaning against the hedge, dazed and perfectly helpless, while Mrs Berens came running out to help; but only to rush in again and return with a decanter and water.

“Is she—is she—”

“Hush!” whispered the doctor sternly; “try and pour a few more drops between her lips, and keep on bathing her forehead till I get her out.”

Mrs Berens was down upon her knees on one side of Mary Salis, with her hands and delicate dress bedabbled with blood; but she did not heed the dust or hideous stains as she passed her left arm beneath the poor girl’s neck, and held her with her cut and bruised face resting upon her bosom, while the doctor tore hard at the crooked woodwork and iron which held the sufferer pinned down.

“Leo Salis,” said the doctor impatiently, “if you’re not hurt, don’t stand dreaming there, but run off to the village for help.”

Leo stared at him wildly for a moment or two, and then walked hastily away, holding her left wrist in her right hand, as if she were in pain.

“Hah! That’s better,” cried the doctor, as he set one foot against a portion of the iron-work, and pulled with all his might, his effort being followed by a loud cracking noise, and the iron bent. “Now, Mrs Berens, I think we can lift her out.”

“Yes; let me help,” cried the widow energetically, and seeming quite transformed as she assisted in bearing the inanimate girl into the drawing-room.

“Quick, Mary, pillows,” she cried; and her round-eyed, helpless maid ran upstairs, to return with the pillows, by whose aid Mary Salis was placed in a comfortable position.

Without its being suggested. Mrs Berens herself fetched basin, sponge, and towels, with which the blood and dust were removed, the widow colouring once highly as the doctor awarded her a word of praise.

“Cut in the temple. Hair will cover it,” said the doctor, as he rapidly dressed the insensible girl’s injuries. “Nasty contusion there on the cheek—slight abrasion.”

“Will it disfigure her, doctor?” said Mrs Berens anxiously.

“Oh! no—soon disappear.”

“What a comfort,” sighed the widow, who evidently believed that a young lady’s face was her fortune. “Is she much hurt, doctor?”

“No; I am in hopes that she is only suffering from the concussion. That bleeding has been good for her. She is coming round.”

“Poor darling!” cried Mrs Berens, tenderly kissing Mary’s hand.

“You’re an uncommonly good, useful woman, Mrs Berens,” said the doctor bluntly. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Oh, doctor!” she cried.

“Spoilt your dress and lace too. But, never mind, it will bring her round. Ah! that’s better; she’s coming to.”

“Is she?”

The doctor pointed to the quivering lips, as the next minute there was a weary sigh, and Mary Salis opened her eyes to gaze wildly round, and then made an effort as if to rise, but she only raised her head and let it fall back with a moan.

“Are you in pain?” said the doctor, as he took her hand.

She looked at him wildly, and a faint colour came into her cheek as she whispered hoarsely:

“Yes. Send—for a doctor.”

“He is here, my poor dove,” cried Mrs Berens. “Don’t you know him—Dr North?”

“Yes; but send—for some one—a doctor.”

“A little wandering,” whispered North, bending over Mary, who tried to shrink from him. “Now,” he said gently, “try and tell me where you feel pain. I must see to it at once.”

“No, no. Don’t touch me—a doctor—send for a doctor,” answered Mary.

“But Mr North is a doctor, my poor dear,” cried Mrs Berens.

“Send—for a doctor,” whispered Mary again; and then she uttered a faint cry of indignation and dread commingled as, thinking of nothing but the case before him, the doctor began to make the necessary preliminary examination, to stop short at the end of a minute, and lay his hand upon the patient’s forehead, aghast at the discovery he felt that he had made.

“Don’t resent this,” he said kindly. “Believe me, it is necessary, and I will not give you more pain than I can help.”

“Mrs Berens,” sobbed the poor girl, “your hand.”

“My darling!” cried the widow, taking the extended hand, to hold it pressed against her lips.

“Now, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I want you to move yourself gently—a little more straight upon the couch.”

She looked at him strangely.

“Now, please,” he said. “It will be an easier position.”

But still she did not move.

“Did you try?” he said rather hoarsely.

“Yes—I tried,” she said faintly; and then the flush deepened in her face again, as the doctor bent over the couch, and changed the position in which she lay.

“Did I hurt you?” he said.

“No. Did you move me?” she faltered; and Mrs Berens looked at him inquiringly.

“Just a trifle,” he said gravely. “Ah! here’s Salis.”

There was a quick step outside, and the curate rushed in, followed more slowly by Leo, who looked ghastly.

“Mary, my dear child,” he cried, throwing himself upon his knees beside his sister, “are you much hurt?”

“I think not, Hartley, dear,” she replied, with a smile. “My head is not so giddy now.”

“Oh! what a madman I was to let you go,” he cried.

“Hush, dear! It was an accident,” said the poor girl tenderly. “I shall soon be better. You are hurting Leo. She suffers more than I.”

“That cursed mare, North. She looked vicious. How was it, Leo?”

“She pulled, and one of the reins broke,” said Leo hoarsely. “There would have been an accident with any horse.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mary faintly; “and I am very sorry, Hartley. The chaise—the expense. Thank dear Mrs Berens, and now let me try and walk home.”

“No, no, my dear,” said Mrs Berens, “you must not think of going. Stay here, and be nursed. I’ll try so hard to make you well.”

“I know you would,” said Mary gently; “but I shall be better at home. Leo, dear, help me up. No, no, Hartley; I did not want to send you away. I’m better now.”

She made an effort to rise, as the doctor looked on with eager eyes awaiting the result, at which his lips tightened, and he glanced at Mrs Berens.

For Mary Salis moved her hands and arms, and slightly raised her head, but let it fall again, and looked from one to the other wildly, as if her perplexity were greater than she could bear.

Hartley Salis caught his friend by the wrist, and then yielded himself, and followed the doctor as he moved from the room.

“North, old fellow,” he said, in an eager whisper, “what does that mean? Is she much hurt?”

“Try and bear it like a man, Salis. It may not be so bad as I fear, but I cannot hide from you the truth.”

“The truth! Good heavens, man, speak out!”

“Hush! She is too weak from the shock to bear it now. Let her learn it by degrees, only thinking at present that she is nerveless and stunned.”

“But you don’t mean—Oh, North!” cried the curate, in agony.

“Salis, old friend, it would be cruel to keep back the truth,” said the doctor, taking his hand. “It may not be so bad, but I fear there is some terrible injury to the spine.”

“Good heavens!” cried Salis wildly; “that means paralysis and death.”

“Let’s hope not, old friend.”

“Hope!” cried the curate wildly. “How has that poor girl sinned that she should suffer this?”

At that moment the truth had come home to Mary Salis that her injury was terrible in extent, and she lay there gazing wildly at her handsome sister, but seeing beyond her in the long, weary vista of her own life a helpless cripple, dragging her way slowly onward towards the end.

Then there was a low, piteous sigh, and Mrs Berens came quickly to the door.

“Doctor,” she whispered, “come back. Fainted!”

North hurried back into the room, to find Mary Salis lying back, white as if cut in marble, while her sister stood gazing at her in silence, making no movement to be of help.

“How I do hate that girl!” he muttered, as he went down on one knee by the couch.

Chapter Nine.Dr North Sees a White Mark.Patient never had more assiduous attention than Mary Salis received from Dr North. He had formed his opinions about her case, but insisted upon having further advice, and Mr Delton—the oldsavantof the lecture—was proposed.“I’m afraid he will want a heavy fee, Salis,” said North; “but you ought to make a sacrifice at a time like this, and his opinion is the best.”“Any sacrifice; every sacrifice,” said the curate. “Send for him at once.”Mr Delton came down and held a consultation with North.He seated himself afterwards by Mary’s couch, where she, poor girl, lay, flushed, and suffering agony mentally and bodily, consequent upon this visit.But when the grey-headed old man took her hand between both his, and sat gazing in her eyes, those eyes brimmed over with tears. The fatherly way won upon her, and she said softly, as she clung to him:“Tell me the worst.”He remained silent, gazing at her fixedly for some time, but at last he raised and kissed her hand.“I will speak out,” he said gently, “because I can read in your sweet young face resignation and patience. To another, perhaps, I should have preached patience and hope; to you I feel that it would be a mockery, and I only say, bear your misfortune by palliating it with the work your intellect will supply.”“Always to be a cripple, doctor—a helpless cripple?” she moaned.“My child, your life has been spared. Patience. What seems so black now may appear brighter in time. You have those you love about you, and there is the faint hope that some day you may recover.”“Faint hope, doctor?”“I must say faint, my child. And now good-bye. I shall hear about you from our friend North. I congratulate you on having so able a friend. You may trust him implicitly. Good-bye.”He raised her hand to his lips—a very unprofessional proceeding, but it did not seem so to Mary, as she lay there and watched the bedroom door close.“Trust him? Yes,” sighed Mary, as she lay with her hands clasped, thinking of Horace North’s many kindly attentions to his patient. “Yes, to his patient!” she said bitterly. “A hopeless cripple! Oh, God, give me strength to bear it without repining. Good-bye, good-bye, my love—my love!”There was a little scene going on in the dining-room at the Rectory, for in spite of Mrs Berens’ protestations, Mary Salis had been carried home.The curate had thanked the old surgeon for coming down, and the old man had nodded, to stand thoughtfully, hat in hand, gazing out of the window with Salis.“A very sad case, Mr Salis—a very sad case. So young and innocent and sweet.”“Then there is no hope, sir?” said the curate hoarsely.“Of her regaining her strength, sir?”“Very little. But of her recovering sufficiently to lead a gentle, resigned, patient life, yes. You are a clergyman, sir. I need not preach to you of duty. Ah, Mr North, what about the train?”“One moment, sir,” said the doctor, interrupting the whispered conversation he was holding with the curate.The next minute he had asked the great surgeon a question, and received a short decisive answer, which was communicated to Salis.“But, my dear sir,” he said, in remonstrance, “I have brought you down here on professional business. I am not a rich man. but still not so poor that—”“My dear Mr Salis, I am a rich man,” said the old surgeon, smiling, “and partly from my acquaintance with Dr North, partly from the pleasure it has given me to meet your sweet sister, I feel so much interest in her case that I must beg of you not to spoil a pleasant friendly meeting by introducing money matters. No, no; don’t be proud, my dear sir. I possess certain knowledge. Don’t deprive me of the pleasure of trying to benefit Miss Salis.”“He’s a fine old fellow as ever breathed,” said North, returning to the Rectory, after seeing the great surgeon to the station.“A true gentleman,” said the curate sadly. “How can I ever repay him?”“He told me—by helping your poor sister to get well.”“Ah!” sighed the curate; “it is a terrible blow.”“Terrible,” acquiesced North. “But she’ll bear it, sir, ten times better than her sister Leo would. By the way, I haven’t seen her.”“No; I have just been asking about her. The scene was too painful for her, poor girl, and she went out so as to be away.”“Oh!” said North quietly; and then to himself: “I can’t bear that girl!”Just as he spoke he saw Leo Salis enter the meadow gate after her walk, and soon after she came into the room, looking perfectly quiet and composed.“What does the London doctor say?” she asked, after shaking hands with North.“Don’t ask, Leo,” said the curate, with a groan.“Poor Mary!” said Leo, with a sigh, but she did not seem stirred. There were no tears in her eyes, and she might have been making inquiry about the health of some parishioner.So North thought.“I’ll go up and sit with her now, Hartley,” she said quickly, and turned to leave the room, when Horace North’s eyes became fixed upon a white mark at the back of the young girl’s sleeve—a mark which looked exactly as if her arm had been held by some one wearing a well pipe-clayed glove.The next moment the young girl, the dark sleeve, and the white mark had passed from Horace North’s sight, and soon after from his mind.

Patient never had more assiduous attention than Mary Salis received from Dr North. He had formed his opinions about her case, but insisted upon having further advice, and Mr Delton—the oldsavantof the lecture—was proposed.

“I’m afraid he will want a heavy fee, Salis,” said North; “but you ought to make a sacrifice at a time like this, and his opinion is the best.”

“Any sacrifice; every sacrifice,” said the curate. “Send for him at once.”

Mr Delton came down and held a consultation with North.

He seated himself afterwards by Mary’s couch, where she, poor girl, lay, flushed, and suffering agony mentally and bodily, consequent upon this visit.

But when the grey-headed old man took her hand between both his, and sat gazing in her eyes, those eyes brimmed over with tears. The fatherly way won upon her, and she said softly, as she clung to him:

“Tell me the worst.”

He remained silent, gazing at her fixedly for some time, but at last he raised and kissed her hand.

“I will speak out,” he said gently, “because I can read in your sweet young face resignation and patience. To another, perhaps, I should have preached patience and hope; to you I feel that it would be a mockery, and I only say, bear your misfortune by palliating it with the work your intellect will supply.”

“Always to be a cripple, doctor—a helpless cripple?” she moaned.

“My child, your life has been spared. Patience. What seems so black now may appear brighter in time. You have those you love about you, and there is the faint hope that some day you may recover.”

“Faint hope, doctor?”

“I must say faint, my child. And now good-bye. I shall hear about you from our friend North. I congratulate you on having so able a friend. You may trust him implicitly. Good-bye.”

He raised her hand to his lips—a very unprofessional proceeding, but it did not seem so to Mary, as she lay there and watched the bedroom door close.

“Trust him? Yes,” sighed Mary, as she lay with her hands clasped, thinking of Horace North’s many kindly attentions to his patient. “Yes, to his patient!” she said bitterly. “A hopeless cripple! Oh, God, give me strength to bear it without repining. Good-bye, good-bye, my love—my love!”

There was a little scene going on in the dining-room at the Rectory, for in spite of Mrs Berens’ protestations, Mary Salis had been carried home.

The curate had thanked the old surgeon for coming down, and the old man had nodded, to stand thoughtfully, hat in hand, gazing out of the window with Salis.

“A very sad case, Mr Salis—a very sad case. So young and innocent and sweet.”

“Then there is no hope, sir?” said the curate hoarsely.

“Of her regaining her strength, sir?”

“Very little. But of her recovering sufficiently to lead a gentle, resigned, patient life, yes. You are a clergyman, sir. I need not preach to you of duty. Ah, Mr North, what about the train?”

“One moment, sir,” said the doctor, interrupting the whispered conversation he was holding with the curate.

The next minute he had asked the great surgeon a question, and received a short decisive answer, which was communicated to Salis.

“But, my dear sir,” he said, in remonstrance, “I have brought you down here on professional business. I am not a rich man. but still not so poor that—”

“My dear Mr Salis, I am a rich man,” said the old surgeon, smiling, “and partly from my acquaintance with Dr North, partly from the pleasure it has given me to meet your sweet sister, I feel so much interest in her case that I must beg of you not to spoil a pleasant friendly meeting by introducing money matters. No, no; don’t be proud, my dear sir. I possess certain knowledge. Don’t deprive me of the pleasure of trying to benefit Miss Salis.”

“He’s a fine old fellow as ever breathed,” said North, returning to the Rectory, after seeing the great surgeon to the station.

“A true gentleman,” said the curate sadly. “How can I ever repay him?”

“He told me—by helping your poor sister to get well.”

“Ah!” sighed the curate; “it is a terrible blow.”

“Terrible,” acquiesced North. “But she’ll bear it, sir, ten times better than her sister Leo would. By the way, I haven’t seen her.”

“No; I have just been asking about her. The scene was too painful for her, poor girl, and she went out so as to be away.”

“Oh!” said North quietly; and then to himself: “I can’t bear that girl!”

Just as he spoke he saw Leo Salis enter the meadow gate after her walk, and soon after she came into the room, looking perfectly quiet and composed.

“What does the London doctor say?” she asked, after shaking hands with North.

“Don’t ask, Leo,” said the curate, with a groan.

“Poor Mary!” said Leo, with a sigh, but she did not seem stirred. There were no tears in her eyes, and she might have been making inquiry about the health of some parishioner.

So North thought.

“I’ll go up and sit with her now, Hartley,” she said quickly, and turned to leave the room, when Horace North’s eyes became fixed upon a white mark at the back of the young girl’s sleeve—a mark which looked exactly as if her arm had been held by some one wearing a well pipe-clayed glove.

The next moment the young girl, the dark sleeve, and the white mark had passed from Horace North’s sight, and soon after from his mind.

Chapter Ten.The Doctor Prescribes.“There, my dear, I shall give you up now,” said North one day, about three months after the accident. “Ah! you look bad!”Mary was downstairs, lying back in an easy-chair, and she coloured slightly, and there was a faint gathering of wrinkles on her white forehead at his easy-going, paternal way.“Yes,” said Mary. “Do advise him, doctor. He is far from well.”“Yes; he’s a bad colour,” said North bluffly.“Hadn’t you better suggest that I should be painted?” said the curate tartly.“Another bad sign,” said North, with a good-tempered look at Mary. “He talks to his old friend in that way. Bile, Miss Salis—bile.”“It’s bother, not bile,” cried the curate sharply. “I beg your pardon, old fellow.”“Granted. But what’s the matter?”“Everything. I’m troubled about the church matters. The squire is rector’s churchwarden, and somehow we don’t get on.”“That’s a wonder,” said the doctor drily.“Then, I’m in trouble with the rector.”“Why, what’s he got to say for himself? He’s nearly always in London, so as to be within reach of his club. It isn’t time for him to come down and give us another of his sermons, is it?”“No. It isn’t about that.”“What then?”“Oh! nothing.”“Come, out with it!”The curate glanced at Mary, who shook her head slightly, but he went on.“The fact is, old fellow, May takes upon himself to write me most unpleasant, insolent letters. He learns from some mischief-making body that Leo hunts, and I never hear the last of it.”“Humph! Why not put a stop to it, and sell the mare?”The curate shook his head.“I don’t like her,” said the doctor. “She’ll be getting your sister into some fresh scrape.”“Don’t talk like that, man. She has done mischief enough. What nonsense! Leo can do anything she likes with her now.”“Glad to hear it; and now I want to do what I like with you.”“So you do,” said the curate good-humouredly.“Not quite. You’re horribly snappish. Sure sign of being a little out of order. I shall prescribe for you.”“Do,” said Salis grimly, “and I’ll take the medicine and poison some one else with it.”“No need; plenty of people are doing that. Now, look here, you worry yourself too much about everyday matters.”“Nonsense!”“It is quite true, Mr North,” said Mary, smiling.“There, sir, you hear. Then you don’t take enough exercise.”“Indeed, but I do. I spend half my time going about.”“Visiting the poor,” cried the doctor. “Harassing yourself with other folks’ troubles, and listening to endless stories of worry.”“Yes, Mr North, quite true.”“What nonsense, Mary!” cried the curate piteously. “I must do my duty.”“Of course, my dear sir, so do it; but don’t overdo it. Recipe—”“I won’t take it,” said the curate.“Miss Salis here shall make you, sir. Recipe: ‘One good cigar or two pipes of bird’s-eye per diem, and three hours to be spent in gardening or fishing every day.’”Mary’s eyes brightened in forgetfulness of her own trouble as she rejoiced in the advice given to her brother.“It’s all rubbish, North. I’ve no time to give to fishing or gardening. As to the cigar, I might manage that.”“Pills no use without the draught,” said the doctor.“But you a doctor, and prescribe tobacco—a poison!”“Does people good to poison them a little when they’re out of order.”“But May grumbles as it is, and is never satisfied. What will he say if he hears of my smoking, and pottering about with a fishing-rod?”“Tell May to mind his points at whist and leave us alone. There, I must be off. Take my advice, too, about the mare. I shall always hate her for the injury she did to poor Miss Salis here. Good-bye, both of you.”“Stop a minute,” said the curate. “What about yourself?”“Well, what about myself?”“The great idea—the crotchet—the cr—”“Well, say it—the craze, man! Every inventor is considered a lunatic till his invention works. Wait, my dear fellow—wait. I may astonish you yet. Good-bye, Miss Salis.”He shook hands, and left the Rectory-parlour with Salis, the saddle creaking loudly as he mounted and then rode away.“Good fellow, Horace,” sighed the curate, “but only fit for a West End practice, among people with plenty of time and money. I fancy myself smoking on the river bank, throwing flies and pitching in ground bait. It’s absurd!”“Poor Miss Salis!” said Mary to herself, as she repeated the doctor’s sympathetic, pitying words; and it was forced upon her more and more plainly in what light he regarded her. She was his patient—nothing more. No; this was unjust, for he always treated her most warmly—as a friend—almost as a sister.But her old hopes and aspirations seemed to be dead for ever, without promise of revival.At that moment the curate returned.“Poor Leo!” he said. “I could not do that,” as he again thought of how attached she had become to the mare, and how the handsome little creature had seemed to divert her attention from the past.“It would not do, Mary,” he said aloud. “Poor girl! I seem to have been very hard upon her about Tom Candlish, and it would be too bad to deprive her of the mare.”“She appears very fond of it,” said Mary gravely.“And the more fond she gets of it the less she thinks about anything else, eh?” Mary was silent.“She never mentions him to you now?”“No, Hartley.”“Hah! That’s a good job. It was hard work and painful; but I nipped that in the bud.”Mary was silent, and looked at her brother uneasily.“Well, what is it, dear? Not comfortable?”“Yes, Hartley, I am quite comfortable,” said Mary, smiling sadly.“But you looked at me in a peculiar way. You don’t believe that Leo thinks about him now?”“I don’t know, Hartley. I am not sure.”“Oh! but I am. It’s all right, my dear. The girl’s ideas are quite changed now, and I am beginning to be hopeful that she thinks a little of North. Why, my dear Mary, how ghastly pale you do look to-day. Are you worse?”“No, no, dear; indeed no. I—I fancy I am getting better.”“That’s right; but I am trespassing on you by talking too much. How thoughtless man can be!”“And how thoughtful,” said Mary, as she took his hand in hers, and held it to her cheek. “Don’t reproach yourself, Hartley; you give me pain.”The curate bent down and kissed her, and she leaned back and closed her eyes, so that her brother should not see how they were suffused with tears.“Patience,” she said softly; “give me patience to be unselfish, and bear my bitter lot.”

“There, my dear, I shall give you up now,” said North one day, about three months after the accident. “Ah! you look bad!”

Mary was downstairs, lying back in an easy-chair, and she coloured slightly, and there was a faint gathering of wrinkles on her white forehead at his easy-going, paternal way.

“Yes,” said Mary. “Do advise him, doctor. He is far from well.”

“Yes; he’s a bad colour,” said North bluffly.

“Hadn’t you better suggest that I should be painted?” said the curate tartly.

“Another bad sign,” said North, with a good-tempered look at Mary. “He talks to his old friend in that way. Bile, Miss Salis—bile.”

“It’s bother, not bile,” cried the curate sharply. “I beg your pardon, old fellow.”

“Granted. But what’s the matter?”

“Everything. I’m troubled about the church matters. The squire is rector’s churchwarden, and somehow we don’t get on.”

“That’s a wonder,” said the doctor drily.

“Then, I’m in trouble with the rector.”

“Why, what’s he got to say for himself? He’s nearly always in London, so as to be within reach of his club. It isn’t time for him to come down and give us another of his sermons, is it?”

“No. It isn’t about that.”

“What then?”

“Oh! nothing.”

“Come, out with it!”

The curate glanced at Mary, who shook her head slightly, but he went on.

“The fact is, old fellow, May takes upon himself to write me most unpleasant, insolent letters. He learns from some mischief-making body that Leo hunts, and I never hear the last of it.”

“Humph! Why not put a stop to it, and sell the mare?”

The curate shook his head.

“I don’t like her,” said the doctor. “She’ll be getting your sister into some fresh scrape.”

“Don’t talk like that, man. She has done mischief enough. What nonsense! Leo can do anything she likes with her now.”

“Glad to hear it; and now I want to do what I like with you.”

“So you do,” said the curate good-humouredly.

“Not quite. You’re horribly snappish. Sure sign of being a little out of order. I shall prescribe for you.”

“Do,” said Salis grimly, “and I’ll take the medicine and poison some one else with it.”

“No need; plenty of people are doing that. Now, look here, you worry yourself too much about everyday matters.”

“Nonsense!”

“It is quite true, Mr North,” said Mary, smiling.

“There, sir, you hear. Then you don’t take enough exercise.”

“Indeed, but I do. I spend half my time going about.”

“Visiting the poor,” cried the doctor. “Harassing yourself with other folks’ troubles, and listening to endless stories of worry.”

“Yes, Mr North, quite true.”

“What nonsense, Mary!” cried the curate piteously. “I must do my duty.”

“Of course, my dear sir, so do it; but don’t overdo it. Recipe—”

“I won’t take it,” said the curate.

“Miss Salis here shall make you, sir. Recipe: ‘One good cigar or two pipes of bird’s-eye per diem, and three hours to be spent in gardening or fishing every day.’”

Mary’s eyes brightened in forgetfulness of her own trouble as she rejoiced in the advice given to her brother.

“It’s all rubbish, North. I’ve no time to give to fishing or gardening. As to the cigar, I might manage that.”

“Pills no use without the draught,” said the doctor.

“But you a doctor, and prescribe tobacco—a poison!”

“Does people good to poison them a little when they’re out of order.”

“But May grumbles as it is, and is never satisfied. What will he say if he hears of my smoking, and pottering about with a fishing-rod?”

“Tell May to mind his points at whist and leave us alone. There, I must be off. Take my advice, too, about the mare. I shall always hate her for the injury she did to poor Miss Salis here. Good-bye, both of you.”

“Stop a minute,” said the curate. “What about yourself?”

“Well, what about myself?”

“The great idea—the crotchet—the cr—”

“Well, say it—the craze, man! Every inventor is considered a lunatic till his invention works. Wait, my dear fellow—wait. I may astonish you yet. Good-bye, Miss Salis.”

He shook hands, and left the Rectory-parlour with Salis, the saddle creaking loudly as he mounted and then rode away.

“Good fellow, Horace,” sighed the curate, “but only fit for a West End practice, among people with plenty of time and money. I fancy myself smoking on the river bank, throwing flies and pitching in ground bait. It’s absurd!”

“Poor Miss Salis!” said Mary to herself, as she repeated the doctor’s sympathetic, pitying words; and it was forced upon her more and more plainly in what light he regarded her. She was his patient—nothing more. No; this was unjust, for he always treated her most warmly—as a friend—almost as a sister.

But her old hopes and aspirations seemed to be dead for ever, without promise of revival.

At that moment the curate returned.

“Poor Leo!” he said. “I could not do that,” as he again thought of how attached she had become to the mare, and how the handsome little creature had seemed to divert her attention from the past.

“It would not do, Mary,” he said aloud. “Poor girl! I seem to have been very hard upon her about Tom Candlish, and it would be too bad to deprive her of the mare.”

“She appears very fond of it,” said Mary gravely.

“And the more fond she gets of it the less she thinks about anything else, eh?” Mary was silent.

“She never mentions him to you now?”

“No, Hartley.”

“Hah! That’s a good job. It was hard work and painful; but I nipped that in the bud.”

Mary was silent, and looked at her brother uneasily.

“Well, what is it, dear? Not comfortable?”

“Yes, Hartley, I am quite comfortable,” said Mary, smiling sadly.

“But you looked at me in a peculiar way. You don’t believe that Leo thinks about him now?”

“I don’t know, Hartley. I am not sure.”

“Oh! but I am. It’s all right, my dear. The girl’s ideas are quite changed now, and I am beginning to be hopeful that she thinks a little of North. Why, my dear Mary, how ghastly pale you do look to-day. Are you worse?”

“No, no, dear; indeed no. I—I fancy I am getting better.”

“That’s right; but I am trespassing on you by talking too much. How thoughtless man can be!”

“And how thoughtful,” said Mary, as she took his hand in hers, and held it to her cheek. “Don’t reproach yourself, Hartley; you give me pain.”

The curate bent down and kissed her, and she leaned back and closed her eyes, so that her brother should not see how they were suffused with tears.

“Patience,” she said softly; “give me patience to be unselfish, and bear my bitter lot.”

Chapter Eleven.Jonadab Moredock Sees a Ghost.Moredock was better by the next Saturday, and he got up with the intention of having a good long day at the church.“Must keep friends with the doctor,” he muttered. “Can’t afford to die yet. So much to do first.”He looked up at his clock, and the clock’s sallow round face looked down at him, pointing out how time was getting on, and kept on its monotonouschick chack, as the old pendulum swung from side to side.“Mornin’, old Moredock,” cried a cheery rustic voice, and a rough, fair, curly head was thrust in at the doorway, the owner of the body keeping it carefully outside, as he held in at arm’s length an old patched boot, which had evidently been soaked in water to allow for a series of great stitches to be put into the upper leather.For the moment it seemed as if Moredock was some grim old idol, carved in yellowish-brown wood, as he sat in his chair in the middle of his sanctuary, and the new comer was an idolater, bringing him a peace offering; but the idea died away as the old man snarled out:“Mornin’, young Chegg. So you’ve brought it at last.”“At last! Well, I haven’t had it so very long. Sixpence.”“Sixpence! What, for sewing up that crack?”“Yes, and cheap, too. Why, I’d ha’ charged parson a shilling. How are you?”“How am I? Ah! that’s it, is it? That’s what you’ve come for. Not dead yet, Joe Chegg, and they don’t want another clerk and saxton for the old church.”“Nay—”“Hold your tongue when I’m speaking. Think I don’t know you. Want to step in my shoes, do you? Want to marry my grandchild Dally, do you? Well, you’re not going to while I’m alive, and I’m going to live another ten year.”“That’s all right,” said the young man, rubbing his face with a hard hand, much tanned, and coated with wax. “I don’t want you to die.”“Yes, you do,” cried the old man fiercely. “I see you looking me up and down, and taking my measure. Think you’re going to dig my grave, do you? Well, you’re not going to these ten years to come; and p’r’aps I shall dig yours first, Joe Chegg; p’r’aps I shall dig yours.”It was a cool morning, in the hunting season, but the young man perspired, and shifted uneasily from foot to foot.“Oh! I don’t know, Mr Moredock, sir,” he muttered awkwardly.“Then I do,” cried the old sexton, dragging his hand out of his trousers’ pocket. “There’s a fourpenny piece. Quite enough for your job, and I tell you now as I mean to tell you ten year hence, you ain’t going to be saxton o’ Dook’s Hampton while Jonadab Moredock’s alive, so be off.”“I don’t want nothing but what’s friendly like, Mr Moredock, sir. I thought as when you was out o’ sorts I might be a kind o’ depitty like, to ring the bells for you, and dig a grave for you.”“Ah!” shouted the old man, “that’s it—that’s what Parson Salis calls showing the cloven hoof. You said it, and you can’t take it back. You’d like to dig a grave for me.”“I meant to put some one else in,” said the young man, staring.“No, you didn’t; you meant to put me in; but I’ll live to spite you. I’ll ring my own bells, and say my own amens and ’sponses, and dig my own graves; and if you marry Dally Watlock, not a penny does she have o’ my money, and I’ll burn the cottage down.”The young man wiped his forehead and backed slowly towards the door, just inside which he had been standing during the latter part of the interview, and as soon as he was outside he hurried away.“Not going to die yet,” muttered the old man. “I can’t and won’t die yet. I’ll let ’em see. Doctor said a man’s no business to die till he’s quite wore out, and I’m not wore out yet—nothing like. I’ll show ’em. Only wish somebody would die, and I’d show ’em. Give up, indeed!”A sharp fit of coughing interrupted the old man, and left him so exhausted that he took his seat and leaned back, staring at the fire, and only moving at times to put on a lump of coal, till towards evening, when he rose and made himself some tea. Then, putting a piece of candle loose in his pocket, with happy indifference to the fact that it was not wax, he took a box of matches from the mantelpiece and thrust them in with the candle, as he believed, felt in another pocket for his key, and trudged off to the church to put things in order for the next day’s service.Moredock reached the old lych gate in the dark autumnal evening, passed through, and ascended the path, which looked like a cutting in the churchyard, six hundred years of interments having raised the ground till it formed a bank, while the church itself seemed to have become sunken.Half-way up he struck off along a narrower path which curved round to the old iron-studded door in the tower, a door whose hinges resembled Norse runes, so twisted and twined was the iron-work.The heavy old key was inserted, turned, and taken out, and as the door yielded to pressure the key was inserted on the other side. The next minute the door was closed and locked, and Moredock stood in the old tower, fumbling in the darkness for the horn lantern which stood in a stone niche.The lantern was found, opened, and the piece of candle inserted in the socket. The next thing was a search for the matches, which, however, were not found, for they were reposing on the rug in the sexton’s cottage.And there he stood fumbling and muttering for some minutes in the total darkness, till, believing that the matches must have been left behind, he uttered a loud grunt, and prepared to do without.It was no great difficulty; for, as he stood in the basement of the old square tower, with the five bells high above his head, and the ropes hanging therefrom, he knew that to his right ran the rickety old flight of stairs leading to the different floors and the leads of the tower; on his left his tools leaning against the stone wall, and the great cupboard in which, in company with planks and ropes, were sundry grisly-looking relics, dug up from time to time, but never seen by any one but himself; behind him was the door by which he had entered, and facing him the lancet-shaped little opening through the tower wall, leading into the west end of the church.It was dark enough where he next stood, for he was beneath the loft where the school children and the singers sat on Sundays; but in front of him, dimly seen by the great east window being beyond it, and looking like an uncouth, dwarf, one-legged monster, was the massive stone font, round which he passed slowly, and then walked straight along the centre aisle towards the tomb-encumbered chancel, cut off by its antique oaken screen.His steps were hushed by the matting, and the darkness, in spite of the windows on either side, was intense behind, though above the old deal unpainted pews there seemed to float a dim haze, as if from the great east window, as he made his way towards the door on the north side of the chancel.Moredock could have walked swiftly along the church in the dark, and he had often done so when he was younger. He could recall the time, too, when he had whistled softly as he went about dusting cushions and rearranging hassocks and matting. But now he had no breath left for whistling, and he walked—almost shuffled—along slowly towards the vestry, where he had nothing to do but give the gown and surplice a shake and hang them up again, and refill the large water-bottle from Gumley’s pump, which drew water from a well in remarkably close proximity to the churchyard.The big pews shut him in right and left, so that had he been visible to any one at a distance, it would have seemed as if a head and shoulders were gliding along the church; but there was no one to see him. All the same, though, Moredock could see, and as well as was possible he saw something which made him stop short just half-way between the font and the eagle lectern, to shade his eyes and gaze towards the chancel.He did not believe in ghosts. He had been night and day in that old church too many hundred times to be scared at anything—at least so he thought. But perhaps owing to the fact that he had been ill, he was ready to be weak and nervous, and hence it was that he stood as if sealed to the spot, gazing at a dimly seen head, draped in long folds like that of the lady on the old mural slab on the south wall by the door. It was grey and dim as that always seemed in its recess, and as it glided along the south aisle it disappeared behind a pillar, all so dimly seen as to be next to invisible, and then reappeared in front of the pulpit, passed through the screen into the chancel, where it was seen a trifle more plainly; and then, as the old man gazed, the draped head grew for a moment more distinct, and then seemed to melt into thin air.

Moredock was better by the next Saturday, and he got up with the intention of having a good long day at the church.

“Must keep friends with the doctor,” he muttered. “Can’t afford to die yet. So much to do first.”

He looked up at his clock, and the clock’s sallow round face looked down at him, pointing out how time was getting on, and kept on its monotonouschick chack, as the old pendulum swung from side to side.

“Mornin’, old Moredock,” cried a cheery rustic voice, and a rough, fair, curly head was thrust in at the doorway, the owner of the body keeping it carefully outside, as he held in at arm’s length an old patched boot, which had evidently been soaked in water to allow for a series of great stitches to be put into the upper leather.

For the moment it seemed as if Moredock was some grim old idol, carved in yellowish-brown wood, as he sat in his chair in the middle of his sanctuary, and the new comer was an idolater, bringing him a peace offering; but the idea died away as the old man snarled out:

“Mornin’, young Chegg. So you’ve brought it at last.”

“At last! Well, I haven’t had it so very long. Sixpence.”

“Sixpence! What, for sewing up that crack?”

“Yes, and cheap, too. Why, I’d ha’ charged parson a shilling. How are you?”

“How am I? Ah! that’s it, is it? That’s what you’ve come for. Not dead yet, Joe Chegg, and they don’t want another clerk and saxton for the old church.”

“Nay—”

“Hold your tongue when I’m speaking. Think I don’t know you. Want to step in my shoes, do you? Want to marry my grandchild Dally, do you? Well, you’re not going to while I’m alive, and I’m going to live another ten year.”

“That’s all right,” said the young man, rubbing his face with a hard hand, much tanned, and coated with wax. “I don’t want you to die.”

“Yes, you do,” cried the old man fiercely. “I see you looking me up and down, and taking my measure. Think you’re going to dig my grave, do you? Well, you’re not going to these ten years to come; and p’r’aps I shall dig yours first, Joe Chegg; p’r’aps I shall dig yours.”

It was a cool morning, in the hunting season, but the young man perspired, and shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

“Oh! I don’t know, Mr Moredock, sir,” he muttered awkwardly.

“Then I do,” cried the old sexton, dragging his hand out of his trousers’ pocket. “There’s a fourpenny piece. Quite enough for your job, and I tell you now as I mean to tell you ten year hence, you ain’t going to be saxton o’ Dook’s Hampton while Jonadab Moredock’s alive, so be off.”

“I don’t want nothing but what’s friendly like, Mr Moredock, sir. I thought as when you was out o’ sorts I might be a kind o’ depitty like, to ring the bells for you, and dig a grave for you.”

“Ah!” shouted the old man, “that’s it—that’s what Parson Salis calls showing the cloven hoof. You said it, and you can’t take it back. You’d like to dig a grave for me.”

“I meant to put some one else in,” said the young man, staring.

“No, you didn’t; you meant to put me in; but I’ll live to spite you. I’ll ring my own bells, and say my own amens and ’sponses, and dig my own graves; and if you marry Dally Watlock, not a penny does she have o’ my money, and I’ll burn the cottage down.”

The young man wiped his forehead and backed slowly towards the door, just inside which he had been standing during the latter part of the interview, and as soon as he was outside he hurried away.

“Not going to die yet,” muttered the old man. “I can’t and won’t die yet. I’ll let ’em see. Doctor said a man’s no business to die till he’s quite wore out, and I’m not wore out yet—nothing like. I’ll show ’em. Only wish somebody would die, and I’d show ’em. Give up, indeed!”

A sharp fit of coughing interrupted the old man, and left him so exhausted that he took his seat and leaned back, staring at the fire, and only moving at times to put on a lump of coal, till towards evening, when he rose and made himself some tea. Then, putting a piece of candle loose in his pocket, with happy indifference to the fact that it was not wax, he took a box of matches from the mantelpiece and thrust them in with the candle, as he believed, felt in another pocket for his key, and trudged off to the church to put things in order for the next day’s service.

Moredock reached the old lych gate in the dark autumnal evening, passed through, and ascended the path, which looked like a cutting in the churchyard, six hundred years of interments having raised the ground till it formed a bank, while the church itself seemed to have become sunken.

Half-way up he struck off along a narrower path which curved round to the old iron-studded door in the tower, a door whose hinges resembled Norse runes, so twisted and twined was the iron-work.

The heavy old key was inserted, turned, and taken out, and as the door yielded to pressure the key was inserted on the other side. The next minute the door was closed and locked, and Moredock stood in the old tower, fumbling in the darkness for the horn lantern which stood in a stone niche.

The lantern was found, opened, and the piece of candle inserted in the socket. The next thing was a search for the matches, which, however, were not found, for they were reposing on the rug in the sexton’s cottage.

And there he stood fumbling and muttering for some minutes in the total darkness, till, believing that the matches must have been left behind, he uttered a loud grunt, and prepared to do without.

It was no great difficulty; for, as he stood in the basement of the old square tower, with the five bells high above his head, and the ropes hanging therefrom, he knew that to his right ran the rickety old flight of stairs leading to the different floors and the leads of the tower; on his left his tools leaning against the stone wall, and the great cupboard in which, in company with planks and ropes, were sundry grisly-looking relics, dug up from time to time, but never seen by any one but himself; behind him was the door by which he had entered, and facing him the lancet-shaped little opening through the tower wall, leading into the west end of the church.

It was dark enough where he next stood, for he was beneath the loft where the school children and the singers sat on Sundays; but in front of him, dimly seen by the great east window being beyond it, and looking like an uncouth, dwarf, one-legged monster, was the massive stone font, round which he passed slowly, and then walked straight along the centre aisle towards the tomb-encumbered chancel, cut off by its antique oaken screen.

His steps were hushed by the matting, and the darkness, in spite of the windows on either side, was intense behind, though above the old deal unpainted pews there seemed to float a dim haze, as if from the great east window, as he made his way towards the door on the north side of the chancel.

Moredock could have walked swiftly along the church in the dark, and he had often done so when he was younger. He could recall the time, too, when he had whistled softly as he went about dusting cushions and rearranging hassocks and matting. But now he had no breath left for whistling, and he walked—almost shuffled—along slowly towards the vestry, where he had nothing to do but give the gown and surplice a shake and hang them up again, and refill the large water-bottle from Gumley’s pump, which drew water from a well in remarkably close proximity to the churchyard.

The big pews shut him in right and left, so that had he been visible to any one at a distance, it would have seemed as if a head and shoulders were gliding along the church; but there was no one to see him. All the same, though, Moredock could see, and as well as was possible he saw something which made him stop short just half-way between the font and the eagle lectern, to shade his eyes and gaze towards the chancel.

He did not believe in ghosts. He had been night and day in that old church too many hundred times to be scared at anything—at least so he thought. But perhaps owing to the fact that he had been ill, he was ready to be weak and nervous, and hence it was that he stood as if sealed to the spot, gazing at a dimly seen head, draped in long folds like that of the lady on the old mural slab on the south wall by the door. It was grey and dim as that always seemed in its recess, and as it glided along the south aisle it disappeared behind a pillar, all so dimly seen as to be next to invisible, and then reappeared in front of the pulpit, passed through the screen into the chancel, where it was seen a trifle more plainly; and then, as the old man gazed, the draped head grew for a moment more distinct, and then seemed to melt into thin air.

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