Chapter Twelve.The Sexton’s Fetch.“Why, Moredock, you are not going to tell me that you believe in ghosts?”“No, doctor, for I don’t; and I’ve been in that church and the vaults sometimes all night.”“All night, eh? What for, eh?”“That’s my business, doctor. P’r’aps I was on the look out for body-snatchers; but I’ve been there all night, and no ghosts never troubled me.”“And yet here you are, all shivering and nervous—too ill to attend service this morning; and you tell me you saw something in the church last night.”“Ay, and so I did, doctor. I s’pose I swownded away, I was took so bad; and must have laid there for hours before I got up and crawled home; and Parson Salis must be in a fine taking this morning, for there’s nothing done in the church.”“Oh! never mind that, Moredock; Mr Salis is sorry you are ill. He’s a good fellow, and he sent me on this morning. You’re a bit nervous and shaken at what you fancied you saw. Come, Moredock, old man, I’m a doctor, and you’re a sexton, and we’re too much men of the world—we’ve seen and known too much—to be afraid of ghosts, eh?”“Ghosts! Sperits! I’m afraid of no ghosts, doctor; but I see that thing o’ Saturday night.”“Thought you saw it, old chap!”“Nay, doctor, I saw it; and that’s what scares me.”“Pooh! You scared at something you saw—a hollow turnip and a sheet! A trick played by some scamp in the village.”“Trick played? Nay, doctor; there isn’t a lad in the village dare do it. I know ’em. I aren’t scared at the thing I saw. It’s at what it means.”“What it means! Then, what does it mean?”“Notice to quit this here earthly habitation, as parson calls it, doctor. That’s what it means.”“Rubbish!”“Ah! you say that to hide your bad work, doctor, and because you know you arn’t done your duty by me.”“Why, you ungrateful old humbug! I’ve done no end for you. Haven’t I gone on oiling your confounded old hinges for years past, to keep you from dropping off, rusted out?”“Ah! I don’t say anything again that, doctor; but you’ve always thought me a poor man, and you’ve treated me like a poor man—exactly like. If you’d thought me well off, and you could send me in a big bill, you’d have had me in such condition that I shouldn’t have seen my fetch last night.”“Seen your grandmother, man.”“Ay, you may laugh, doctor; but what have you told me over and over again? ‘Moredock,’ says you, ‘a healthy man’s no business to die till he’s quite worn out.’ And ‘What age will that be, doctor?’ says I. ‘Oh! at any age,’ says you; and here am I, a hale, hearty man, only a little more’n ninety, and last night I see my fetch.”“But you’re not a hale, hearty man, Moredock.”“Tchah! Whatcher talking about? Why, I’d ’bout made up my mind to be married again.”“You? Married? Why, even I don’t think of such a thing.”“You? No,” said the old man, contemptuously. “You’re not half the man I’ve been. My son’s gal—Dally Watlock’s ’fended me, and if she don’t mind she’ll lose my bit o’ money.”“You take my advice, Moredock, and don’t marry.”“Shan’t leave you nothing, if I don’t marry, doctor,” said the old man, with a cunning leer; “and you needn’t send in no bills because you’ve found out I’ve got a bit saved up.”“Why, you wicked old ruffian, I suppose you’ve scraped together a few pounds by trafficking in old bones, and of what you’ve robbed the church.”“Never you mind, doctor, how I got it, or how much it is.”“I don’t; but just you be wise, sir. You’re not going to marry again, and you’re going to leave your money to your grandchild.”“Eh? What—what? Do you want to marry her?”“No, I don’t, Moredock; but if you don’t behave yourself, hang me if I come and doctor you any more. You may send over to King’s Hampton for Dr Wellby, or die if you like: I won’t try and save you.”“No, no, no; don’t talk like that, doctor—don’t talk like that,” whimpered the old man; “just now, too, when I’m so shook.”“Then don’t you talk about disinheriting your poor grandchild. Come, hold up, Moredock! I didn’t mean it. There’s nothing much the matter.”“Ah! but there is, doctor. I saw my fetch last night.”“No, you did not. You were not strong enough to go up to the church, and you fancied you saw something.”“I see it.”“Well, suppose you did. Some one had gone into the church to fetch a hymn-book, or put in a new cushion.”“Nobody couldn’t, but me and parson, and squire and you. I see it, and it was my fetch.”“No, no, old fellow; you’re mistaken. You were in the dark, and your head weak.”“I see it, and it was my fetch, doctor.”“Very well, then, Moredock, it was your fetch; but we won’t let it fetch you for some years to come. What do you say to that?”“Ah! now you’re talking sensible, doctor,” cried the old man, brightening up. “Look here, doctor, you do what’s right by me, and let me have the best o’ stuff—good physic, you know—and there isn’t anything I won’t do for you. A skull, or a bone of any kind, or a whole set, or—”“There, that will do, Moredock. I’ll do my duty by you, and I don’t want any reward.”“No, you don’t. You’re a good fellow, doctor; and you do understand my complaint, don’t you?”“Yes, thoroughly. There, sit back in your chair, and keep quiet. Mr Salis is coming in to see you by-and-by.”“Nay, nay, nay! I don’t want he. It makes a man feel as if he’s very bad when parson comes to see him.”“Why, I’m sure he’s a thoroughly good friend to you, old fellow.”“Oh! yes, he’s right enough; but as soon as ever he comes in this here room, he’ll begin talking to me about what a sinner I’ve been.”“Well, quite right, too.”“Maybe, doctor, maybe,” said the old man, bursting into a loud cachinnation; “but he don’t know everything, doctor, do he? If he did, he’d lay it on thicker; and he wouldn’t be quite so friendly with you.”“Come, come, Moredock,” said the doctor, laughing. “Suppose we leave professional secrets alone, eh?”“Ay, ay, doctor, we will. I don’t forget what you’ve told me; but do go and tell parson I’m a deal better, and that he needn’t come.”“Why? A visit won’t do you any harm.”“Maybe not, doctor—p’r’aps not; but as soon as he comes he’ll want to read me a chapter and then pray over me; and I’m that soaked with it all, after these many years, that I haven’t room for no more.”“But, Moredock—”“There, it’s of no use for you to talk. Think I don’t know! Why, I know more chapters and bits of the sarvice by heart than half-a-dozen parsons.”“Ah, well! I’ll send you a bottle of mixture as soon as I get home, so sit up and make yourself comfortable.”“May I smoke my pipe, doctor?”“Oh, yes, as long as you like, man. You’re not bad; and take my advice: just you forget all about your fetch, as you call it, and don’t go to the church any more in the dark.”
“Why, Moredock, you are not going to tell me that you believe in ghosts?”
“No, doctor, for I don’t; and I’ve been in that church and the vaults sometimes all night.”
“All night, eh? What for, eh?”
“That’s my business, doctor. P’r’aps I was on the look out for body-snatchers; but I’ve been there all night, and no ghosts never troubled me.”
“And yet here you are, all shivering and nervous—too ill to attend service this morning; and you tell me you saw something in the church last night.”
“Ay, and so I did, doctor. I s’pose I swownded away, I was took so bad; and must have laid there for hours before I got up and crawled home; and Parson Salis must be in a fine taking this morning, for there’s nothing done in the church.”
“Oh! never mind that, Moredock; Mr Salis is sorry you are ill. He’s a good fellow, and he sent me on this morning. You’re a bit nervous and shaken at what you fancied you saw. Come, Moredock, old man, I’m a doctor, and you’re a sexton, and we’re too much men of the world—we’ve seen and known too much—to be afraid of ghosts, eh?”
“Ghosts! Sperits! I’m afraid of no ghosts, doctor; but I see that thing o’ Saturday night.”
“Thought you saw it, old chap!”
“Nay, doctor, I saw it; and that’s what scares me.”
“Pooh! You scared at something you saw—a hollow turnip and a sheet! A trick played by some scamp in the village.”
“Trick played? Nay, doctor; there isn’t a lad in the village dare do it. I know ’em. I aren’t scared at the thing I saw. It’s at what it means.”
“What it means! Then, what does it mean?”
“Notice to quit this here earthly habitation, as parson calls it, doctor. That’s what it means.”
“Rubbish!”
“Ah! you say that to hide your bad work, doctor, and because you know you arn’t done your duty by me.”
“Why, you ungrateful old humbug! I’ve done no end for you. Haven’t I gone on oiling your confounded old hinges for years past, to keep you from dropping off, rusted out?”
“Ah! I don’t say anything again that, doctor; but you’ve always thought me a poor man, and you’ve treated me like a poor man—exactly like. If you’d thought me well off, and you could send me in a big bill, you’d have had me in such condition that I shouldn’t have seen my fetch last night.”
“Seen your grandmother, man.”
“Ay, you may laugh, doctor; but what have you told me over and over again? ‘Moredock,’ says you, ‘a healthy man’s no business to die till he’s quite worn out.’ And ‘What age will that be, doctor?’ says I. ‘Oh! at any age,’ says you; and here am I, a hale, hearty man, only a little more’n ninety, and last night I see my fetch.”
“But you’re not a hale, hearty man, Moredock.”
“Tchah! Whatcher talking about? Why, I’d ’bout made up my mind to be married again.”
“You? Married? Why, even I don’t think of such a thing.”
“You? No,” said the old man, contemptuously. “You’re not half the man I’ve been. My son’s gal—Dally Watlock’s ’fended me, and if she don’t mind she’ll lose my bit o’ money.”
“You take my advice, Moredock, and don’t marry.”
“Shan’t leave you nothing, if I don’t marry, doctor,” said the old man, with a cunning leer; “and you needn’t send in no bills because you’ve found out I’ve got a bit saved up.”
“Why, you wicked old ruffian, I suppose you’ve scraped together a few pounds by trafficking in old bones, and of what you’ve robbed the church.”
“Never you mind, doctor, how I got it, or how much it is.”
“I don’t; but just you be wise, sir. You’re not going to marry again, and you’re going to leave your money to your grandchild.”
“Eh? What—what? Do you want to marry her?”
“No, I don’t, Moredock; but if you don’t behave yourself, hang me if I come and doctor you any more. You may send over to King’s Hampton for Dr Wellby, or die if you like: I won’t try and save you.”
“No, no, no; don’t talk like that, doctor—don’t talk like that,” whimpered the old man; “just now, too, when I’m so shook.”
“Then don’t you talk about disinheriting your poor grandchild. Come, hold up, Moredock! I didn’t mean it. There’s nothing much the matter.”
“Ah! but there is, doctor. I saw my fetch last night.”
“No, you did not. You were not strong enough to go up to the church, and you fancied you saw something.”
“I see it.”
“Well, suppose you did. Some one had gone into the church to fetch a hymn-book, or put in a new cushion.”
“Nobody couldn’t, but me and parson, and squire and you. I see it, and it was my fetch.”
“No, no, old fellow; you’re mistaken. You were in the dark, and your head weak.”
“I see it, and it was my fetch, doctor.”
“Very well, then, Moredock, it was your fetch; but we won’t let it fetch you for some years to come. What do you say to that?”
“Ah! now you’re talking sensible, doctor,” cried the old man, brightening up. “Look here, doctor, you do what’s right by me, and let me have the best o’ stuff—good physic, you know—and there isn’t anything I won’t do for you. A skull, or a bone of any kind, or a whole set, or—”
“There, that will do, Moredock. I’ll do my duty by you, and I don’t want any reward.”
“No, you don’t. You’re a good fellow, doctor; and you do understand my complaint, don’t you?”
“Yes, thoroughly. There, sit back in your chair, and keep quiet. Mr Salis is coming in to see you by-and-by.”
“Nay, nay, nay! I don’t want he. It makes a man feel as if he’s very bad when parson comes to see him.”
“Why, I’m sure he’s a thoroughly good friend to you, old fellow.”
“Oh! yes, he’s right enough; but as soon as ever he comes in this here room, he’ll begin talking to me about what a sinner I’ve been.”
“Well, quite right, too.”
“Maybe, doctor, maybe,” said the old man, bursting into a loud cachinnation; “but he don’t know everything, doctor, do he? If he did, he’d lay it on thicker; and he wouldn’t be quite so friendly with you.”
“Come, come, Moredock,” said the doctor, laughing. “Suppose we leave professional secrets alone, eh?”
“Ay, ay, doctor, we will. I don’t forget what you’ve told me; but do go and tell parson I’m a deal better, and that he needn’t come.”
“Why? A visit won’t do you any harm.”
“Maybe not, doctor—p’r’aps not; but as soon as he comes he’ll want to read me a chapter and then pray over me; and I’m that soaked with it all, after these many years, that I haven’t room for no more.”
“But, Moredock—”
“There, it’s of no use for you to talk. Think I don’t know! Why, I know more chapters and bits of the sarvice by heart than half-a-dozen parsons.”
“Ah, well! I’ll send you a bottle of mixture as soon as I get home, so sit up and make yourself comfortable.”
“May I smoke my pipe, doctor?”
“Oh, yes, as long as you like, man. You’re not bad; and take my advice: just you forget all about your fetch, as you call it, and don’t go to the church any more in the dark.”
Chapter Thirteen.After Church.The doctor left the sexton’s cottage, thinking deeply on the way in which the brain is affected by the weakness of the body.“Poor old fellow!” he muttered; “nearly a hundred years old, and clinging to life more tightly than ever. Believes he saw something, of course. Not fit to go out alone. But he’ll pull round, and perhaps last for years. Wonderful constitution, but also an exemplification of my pet theory. Humph! coming out of church. Well, I must meet ’em, I suppose. Hallo! what’s going to happen? Has Salis converted the pair of reprobates? Morning, Squire; morning, Mr Candlish.”He shook hands—professionally, as he called it—with the young squire and his brother, who were just out of church, and walked slowly on with them, discussing the hunt, election matters, and the state of the country.“Why don’t you hunt more, doctor?” said the squire, a florid, fine-looking man, singularly like his brother, but more athletic of build.“Want of time,” said the doctor good-humouredly. “Too many irons in the fire.”“You work too hard. But look here—don’t be offended; I’ve always a spare mount or two when you are disposed for a gallop.”“Thanks; I’ll ask one of these days—which never come,” the doctor added to himself. “And now, good-day.”“No, no; come on, and have a bit of dinner with us—early dinner to-day.”“Thanks—no; I’ve a patient or two to see, and I want a word with the parson.”“We don’t,” said the squire; “eh, Tom? We’ve had ours.”Tom Candlish scowled.“Well, always glad to see you, doctor—non-professionally,” said the squire; and they went on, while North turned back to meet Salis, wondering why Tom Candlish had condescended to come to church.“To stare at Leo, I’ll be sworn, and Salis must have felt it. I’ll be bound to say he made a dozen mistakes in the service this morning through that fellow coming. And, as for the squire—that young man drinks, and he had better look out, or Moredock will have a grand funeral to attend.”“Good morning, doctor. Were you coming to see me?”“Ah, Mrs Berens! I beg your pardon; I didn’t see you.”“No, doctor, you never do seem to see me. You forget your most anxious patients,” said the lady pathetically.“But, really, you did not send me word.”“No, I did not send you word. I lived in hope of your coming.”“Thank goodness!” thought the doctor. “This woman is growing dangerous.”His pious ejaculation was consequent upon the fact that his friend, the curate, was approaching in company with Leo.Mrs Berens became aware of the fact at the same time, and though she uttered no pious ejaculation, she was equally pleased, for two reasons.The first was that through the past two hours she had been seated in the same building with Leo Salis; the pews were high, and Leo could only have seen the top of her bonnet, whereas the handsome widow did not go to great expense for the most fashionablemodes et robes, as the dressmakers express it, for nothing. The most elegant head-gear, though it may afford some satisfaction to the wearer, is hardly worth wearing, unless it be envied by those of the one sex and admired by the other. This encounter with the doctor would give handsome Leo a good opportunity for envious glances, and as Mrs Berens could not rival her neighbour in contour, she would have some chance of standing upon an equal footing.The other reason was that she wished the curate to come up and speak to her at the same time as she was talking to the doctor. For Mrs Berens was not deeply in love; she only wished to be. The doctor and the curate were both fine, manly fellows, to either of whom she would have been willing to give herself and fortune; but somehow they had both been terribly unimpressionable, and though she had shown as plainly as she dared, any time during the past year, the tenderness waiting to burst forth, she was still Mrs Berens, and twelve months older.Here was an opportunity of playing one-off against the other; for men could often be stirred, she knew, into learning the value of something when they saw that it was gliding from their grasp.The couple from the Rectory came up, and Mrs Berens felt a pang as, after her warm salutations, in which her hand had rested in that of the curate for a few moments, to receive nothing more than a frank, friendly pressure, she saw that of Leo Salis rest in the doctor’s longer than she considered prudent. Leo seemed unusually handsome, too, that morning. There was a bright flush on her cheeks; her eyes sparkled, and she looked twenty, while Mrs Berens felt that she looked nearly forty.Salis was glad of the encounter, for it was true that he had been making mistakes that morning. The very fact that Tom Candlish was in the church was disturbing, and when he knew that he must have come—he could not believe otherwise—expressly to stare at Leo, the presence of the man whom he had thrashed in so unclerical a way acted on his thoughts as a pointsman acts over trains at a busy junction—sent them flying in different directions beyond the drivers’ control.The curate’s colour was heightened, for he knew that he had appeared at a disadvantage before the more thoughtful of his congregation. He was anxious, too, about Leo, who looked excited, and he dreaded any renewal of the past trouble; so that the encounter was satisfactory, if only from the fact that it afforded temporary relief from worrying thoughts and cares.Mrs Berens was sweetness itself to all, and Leo seemed to rouse herself to be pleasant to the doctor, the result being that Mrs Berens was seen home—to part most affectionately from Leo, and with most tenderly friendly pressures of the hand to the gentlemen; after which she hurried into her room, to tear off her new bonnet and indulge in a passionate burst of sobbing.“She’s as deceitful as she is young,” she cried. “She has thrown over Tom Candlish, and now she is winning over that foolish doctor; while Hartley Salis is as immovable as a stone.“I’ll be even with her,” she cried. “Either Tom Candlish or the squire would be glad to marry me. I’ll have one of them, and I’ll make her half die with envy by asking her to my house, and—yes, there they go, and Horace North is going into the house with them. Ugh! the monster! He deserves to have the doorstep sink beneath his feet. But I’ll be revenged. No, no, no! they’re too bad,” she sobbed; “but I couldn’t stoop to that.”Mrs Berens subsided into an easy-chair, to go on reddening her eyes; while the doctor accompanied his friends to the Rectory, and stopped chatting for a few minutes, but refused another invitation to dine even when Mary Salis and Leo both added their persuasions.“No,” he said, “I’ve promised old Moredock his dose, and I’m going to see that he has it.” And then, after a few kindly words to Mary concerning her health—words that were almost tender, but which seemed to burn and sear the poor girl, as she read them aright—he went away, to hurry to his surgery in the Manor House.“I’m very glad, for poor old Hartley’s sake, that the affair’s all off. It is, evidently; for Madam Leo seemed as cool as could be, and she’s as handsome and ladylike a girl as a man need wish to call wife. Humph! I’ll give him a little chloral—just a suspicion—to calm him down. Poor old boy! and he thinks he’s going to die. Well, it’s my theory,” he continued, as he compounded the sexton’s mixture and carefully corked it up; “and, think about it from whichever point I may, it seems to be quite right. There, Master Moredock, there’s your dose. That will lay any ghost in the United Kingdom, given sufficiently strong!”
The doctor left the sexton’s cottage, thinking deeply on the way in which the brain is affected by the weakness of the body.
“Poor old fellow!” he muttered; “nearly a hundred years old, and clinging to life more tightly than ever. Believes he saw something, of course. Not fit to go out alone. But he’ll pull round, and perhaps last for years. Wonderful constitution, but also an exemplification of my pet theory. Humph! coming out of church. Well, I must meet ’em, I suppose. Hallo! what’s going to happen? Has Salis converted the pair of reprobates? Morning, Squire; morning, Mr Candlish.”
He shook hands—professionally, as he called it—with the young squire and his brother, who were just out of church, and walked slowly on with them, discussing the hunt, election matters, and the state of the country.
“Why don’t you hunt more, doctor?” said the squire, a florid, fine-looking man, singularly like his brother, but more athletic of build.
“Want of time,” said the doctor good-humouredly. “Too many irons in the fire.”
“You work too hard. But look here—don’t be offended; I’ve always a spare mount or two when you are disposed for a gallop.”
“Thanks; I’ll ask one of these days—which never come,” the doctor added to himself. “And now, good-day.”
“No, no; come on, and have a bit of dinner with us—early dinner to-day.”
“Thanks—no; I’ve a patient or two to see, and I want a word with the parson.”
“We don’t,” said the squire; “eh, Tom? We’ve had ours.”
Tom Candlish scowled.
“Well, always glad to see you, doctor—non-professionally,” said the squire; and they went on, while North turned back to meet Salis, wondering why Tom Candlish had condescended to come to church.
“To stare at Leo, I’ll be sworn, and Salis must have felt it. I’ll be bound to say he made a dozen mistakes in the service this morning through that fellow coming. And, as for the squire—that young man drinks, and he had better look out, or Moredock will have a grand funeral to attend.”
“Good morning, doctor. Were you coming to see me?”
“Ah, Mrs Berens! I beg your pardon; I didn’t see you.”
“No, doctor, you never do seem to see me. You forget your most anxious patients,” said the lady pathetically.
“But, really, you did not send me word.”
“No, I did not send you word. I lived in hope of your coming.”
“Thank goodness!” thought the doctor. “This woman is growing dangerous.”
His pious ejaculation was consequent upon the fact that his friend, the curate, was approaching in company with Leo.
Mrs Berens became aware of the fact at the same time, and though she uttered no pious ejaculation, she was equally pleased, for two reasons.
The first was that through the past two hours she had been seated in the same building with Leo Salis; the pews were high, and Leo could only have seen the top of her bonnet, whereas the handsome widow did not go to great expense for the most fashionablemodes et robes, as the dressmakers express it, for nothing. The most elegant head-gear, though it may afford some satisfaction to the wearer, is hardly worth wearing, unless it be envied by those of the one sex and admired by the other. This encounter with the doctor would give handsome Leo a good opportunity for envious glances, and as Mrs Berens could not rival her neighbour in contour, she would have some chance of standing upon an equal footing.
The other reason was that she wished the curate to come up and speak to her at the same time as she was talking to the doctor. For Mrs Berens was not deeply in love; she only wished to be. The doctor and the curate were both fine, manly fellows, to either of whom she would have been willing to give herself and fortune; but somehow they had both been terribly unimpressionable, and though she had shown as plainly as she dared, any time during the past year, the tenderness waiting to burst forth, she was still Mrs Berens, and twelve months older.
Here was an opportunity of playing one-off against the other; for men could often be stirred, she knew, into learning the value of something when they saw that it was gliding from their grasp.
The couple from the Rectory came up, and Mrs Berens felt a pang as, after her warm salutations, in which her hand had rested in that of the curate for a few moments, to receive nothing more than a frank, friendly pressure, she saw that of Leo Salis rest in the doctor’s longer than she considered prudent. Leo seemed unusually handsome, too, that morning. There was a bright flush on her cheeks; her eyes sparkled, and she looked twenty, while Mrs Berens felt that she looked nearly forty.
Salis was glad of the encounter, for it was true that he had been making mistakes that morning. The very fact that Tom Candlish was in the church was disturbing, and when he knew that he must have come—he could not believe otherwise—expressly to stare at Leo, the presence of the man whom he had thrashed in so unclerical a way acted on his thoughts as a pointsman acts over trains at a busy junction—sent them flying in different directions beyond the drivers’ control.
The curate’s colour was heightened, for he knew that he had appeared at a disadvantage before the more thoughtful of his congregation. He was anxious, too, about Leo, who looked excited, and he dreaded any renewal of the past trouble; so that the encounter was satisfactory, if only from the fact that it afforded temporary relief from worrying thoughts and cares.
Mrs Berens was sweetness itself to all, and Leo seemed to rouse herself to be pleasant to the doctor, the result being that Mrs Berens was seen home—to part most affectionately from Leo, and with most tenderly friendly pressures of the hand to the gentlemen; after which she hurried into her room, to tear off her new bonnet and indulge in a passionate burst of sobbing.
“She’s as deceitful as she is young,” she cried. “She has thrown over Tom Candlish, and now she is winning over that foolish doctor; while Hartley Salis is as immovable as a stone.
“I’ll be even with her,” she cried. “Either Tom Candlish or the squire would be glad to marry me. I’ll have one of them, and I’ll make her half die with envy by asking her to my house, and—yes, there they go, and Horace North is going into the house with them. Ugh! the monster! He deserves to have the doorstep sink beneath his feet. But I’ll be revenged. No, no, no! they’re too bad,” she sobbed; “but I couldn’t stoop to that.”
Mrs Berens subsided into an easy-chair, to go on reddening her eyes; while the doctor accompanied his friends to the Rectory, and stopped chatting for a few minutes, but refused another invitation to dine even when Mary Salis and Leo both added their persuasions.
“No,” he said, “I’ve promised old Moredock his dose, and I’m going to see that he has it.” And then, after a few kindly words to Mary concerning her health—words that were almost tender, but which seemed to burn and sear the poor girl, as she read them aright—he went away, to hurry to his surgery in the Manor House.
“I’m very glad, for poor old Hartley’s sake, that the affair’s all off. It is, evidently; for Madam Leo seemed as cool as could be, and she’s as handsome and ladylike a girl as a man need wish to call wife. Humph! I’ll give him a little chloral—just a suspicion—to calm him down. Poor old boy! and he thinks he’s going to die. Well, it’s my theory,” he continued, as he compounded the sexton’s mixture and carefully corked it up; “and, think about it from whichever point I may, it seems to be quite right. There, Master Moredock, there’s your dose. That will lay any ghost in the United Kingdom, given sufficiently strong!”
Chapter Fourteen.How Horace North did not go to the Meet.“What a morning for a run with the hounds!” said Horace North, as he stood at the door of the fine old Manor House, where he had come to cool himself, after a scene with Mrs Milt, his housekeeper, owing to a committee of ways and means.Mrs Milt had wanted to have everything her way. The doctor had shown a desire to have everything his way, and the approach of the two forces had resulted in an explosion.“Candlish offered me a mount, and I’ve a good mind to take the offer, just for once. A good gallop would do me a world of good. No; I’ll go and have a chat with old Moredock, see Mrs Berens, Biddy Tallis, and Brown’s baby, and then settle down to a good, quiet study. Hah!”Horace North was dubious. A slight puff upon his vane would have sent it in either direction, and it seemed as if the decisive puff came just then in the shape of something as light as air. For there was the sound of hoofs; and directly after, looking exceedingly handsome in her tightly-fitting riding-habit and natty hat, Leo Salis passed on her pretty mare.She caught sight of him, and returned a coquettish nod and smile to his low bow, but did not draw rein, though she must have seen his intention to hurry down to the gate; cantering gently on, as charming a specimen of early womanhood as ever rode gracefully upon a well-bred mare.“By George! that settles it,” said the doctor. “Where’s the meet?”He hurried in, snatched up the county paper, and found that it was at Fir Tree Hill, four miles beyond the Hall.“The very thing,” he cried. “I’ll just get on my boots, and walk over to the Hall, get my mount, and go on. No, I won’t; I’ll drive.”He rang the bell, and Mrs Milt—a very severe-looking, handsome, elderly lady—in the whitest of caps, bibs, and tuckers, appeared frowning, as if still charged with the remaining clouds of the late storm.“Tell Dick to put the horse in the chaise.”Mrs Milt tightened her lips, and made parallel lines in her forehead, but did not stir.“Well?” said the doctor.“Well?” said Mrs Milt.“Did you hear what I said?”“Perfectly,” said Mrs Milt.“Then, why don’t you do it? And for Heaven’s sake, my dear Mrs Milt, let’s have no more of this petty squabbling. Discharge cook; have a fresh house-maid; paper and clean up, and do whatever you please, but don’t bother me.”“It is not my wish to bother you, Dr North,” said the lady austerely, and with considerable emphasis on the word, “bother.”“Very well, then, let’s have peace. Such a scene as we had this morning interferes with my studies. Now, go and tell him to put to the horse.”“Will you be good enough to tell me how, Dr North?”“What do you mean?”“You sent your man in that chaise to fetch some drugs from King’s Hampton.”“Hah! so I did. He ought to be back by now. Yes; there are wheels.”“The carrier,” said Mrs Milt.“Pish! of course. Never mind, I’ll walk. There’s something else coming,” he said, listening. “Yes; that’s the chaise. Go and tell Dick not to take out the horse, but to come round here.”“He’s coming round,” said Mrs Milt, going to the window; “and there’s a gentleman with him.”The doctor looked up hastily, and frowned, as he caught sight of a dark, sleek-looking personage, about to descend from the chaise; while, as Mrs Milt went to open the door, Horace North exclaimed to himself:“Now, why in the world is it that Nature will set one against one’s relations, and above all against Cousin Thompson, for—”“Ah! my dear Horace, this was very good and thoughtful of you,” exclaimed the object of his thoughts, entering the room with extended hands.“Ah! Thompson, glad to see you,” said the doctor, innocently enough—for the lie was from habit, not intentional—“but you are not cyanide of potassium!”“Sure I’m not, indeed; but I want to consult you.”“I sent in my man for a portion of that unpleasant chemical; not to meet you.”“Well, it doesn’t matter, my dear boy. I was coming down, and I saw your chaise; and I know you like me to make myself at home, so give me some breakfast.”“Yes, of course. Run down this morning?”“Yes, by the six-thirty from Paddington. Early bird gets the first pick, you know.”“There goes my gallop,” groaned the doctor, as a mental vision of Leo Salis appeared before him, while he rang the bell.“Not ill, are you? Come to consult me?”“No, I’m not ill; but I have come to consult you, my dear Horace.”“Did you ring, sir?”“Yes, Mrs Milt; my cousin would like some breakfast.”“I am getting it ready, sir; but it can’t be done in two minutes and a half.”“No, no, of course not, Mrs Milt. Thank you. Send word when it’s ready.”“I’ll bring word myself, sir,” said Mrs Milt austerely.“No, don’t trouble, my dear Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, who looked so sleek in skin and black cloth that he shone; “a cup of coffee and a sole, cutlet—anything.”“Sole! cutlet! My dear fellow, this isn’t London. Give him some ham and eggs, Mrs Milt,” said the doctor. “Now, old fellow,” he continued, as the door closed after the housekeeper a little more loudly than was necessary, “business: what’s the matter? Liver?”“No, no, my dear Horace. I’m quite well. To consult you about Mrs Berens.”The doctor pushed back his chair.“Why, how surprised you look! You recommended her to come to me about her money affairs.”“Oh! Ah! Yes, of course; so I did. She asked me to give her the name of a London solicitor, and so I gave her yours—my cousin’s.”“It was very good of you, Horace, for I am a poor man,” said the visitor sleekly. “Far be it from me to quarrel with Uncle Richard’s apportionment of his money, but—”“There, for goodness’ sake, don’t bring that up again! You know why the old man excluded you.”“Yes. I had the misfortune to offend him, Horace,” said the visitor with a sigh.“And now what about Mrs Berens?”“Ah, yes; a very simple matter. You are a great friend of hers?”“I am her doctor.”“Yes, yes,” said the other, with an unpleasant chuckle, which made North long to kick him; “but if report is true, you are going to marry the handsome widow.”“Then report is not true,” said North angrily. “Now to business.”“Well, the fact is this,” said the visitor; “in my capacity of confidential solicitor to several people, I often have to give advice, and to raise money.”“No doubt,” said the doctor drily.“I have a client now who wants rather a heavy sum upon the security of some leasehold houses. Mrs Berens has money lying in the Three per Cents., and I thought that you, as her friend, might advise her. She would get six per cent, instead of three, and a word from you—”“Will never induce a lady patient of mine to run any risks,” said the doctor shortly.“Risks?”“Breakfast’s ready,” said the doctor abruptly, and he led the way into the other room. Having sufficient wisdom not to recommence the attack, Cousin Thompson contented himself with breakfasting heartily, but he was not pleasant over his feeding; and, what was more, he had a way of bringing into every room he entered an odour of mouldy parchment.After breakfast Cousin Thompson had an interview with Mrs Berens; and after that, without consulting his cousin, he walked across to the Hall to hold a meeting, not unconnected with money matters, with Tom Candlish. Had he consulted his cousin, he would have known that in all probability Tom Candlish had gone to the meet, especially as he rarely missed a run.Consequently, Cousin Thompson returned to the doctor’s, to find him chafing over his disappointment. Not that he was a hunting man; but the whim had seized him to go, and the appearance of Leo Salis had helped to make the ride more attractive than it might have appeared at another time.“Ah, Horace, my dear fellow,” he said, “I shall have to trespass on your hospitality for dinner, and then ask you to give me a bed.”“All right,” said the doctor gruffly. “Give you a dose too, if you like.”“Thanks, no, unless you mean wine.”“Oh, yes, I’ll give you a glass of port,” said the doctor. “I hope you haven’t persuaded that poor woman to invest in anything risky.”“Now, my dear Horace, what do you take me for?” cried Cousin Thompson.“A lawyer.”“But there are good lawyers and bad lawyers.”“Well, from a legal point of view, you’re a bad lawyer. I never gave you but one case to conduct for me, and that you lost.”“The barrister lost it, my dear Horace. Don’t be afraid. I am not a legal pickpocket. I might retaliate, and say you’re a bad doctor.”“Well, so I am—horribly bad. The amount of ignorance that exists in my brain, sir, is truly frightful.”“But you go on curing people.”“Trying to cure people, sir, you mean. Wading about in deep water; groping in the darkness. Thank Heaven, sir, that you were not made a doctor. Eh, what is it—some one ill?” he cried, as Mrs Milt entered the room with a note.“Poor somebody!” said Cousin Thompson to himself.“Note from the Rectory, sir.”“Oh!” ejaculated the doctor; “shan’t be able to go, as you are here. Wants me to play a game at chess. Salis, you know.”As he spoke he leisurely unfastened the envelope, and began to read.“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Mrs Milt, attend to my cousin as if I were here. Very sorry. Serious case,” he continued, turning to his guest; and the next minute he had hurried from the house, to set off almost at a run for the Rectory.For Hartley Salis’ note was very brief, but none the less urgent, containing as it did these words:“For Heaven’s sake, come on! Leo has had a serious fall.”
“What a morning for a run with the hounds!” said Horace North, as he stood at the door of the fine old Manor House, where he had come to cool himself, after a scene with Mrs Milt, his housekeeper, owing to a committee of ways and means.
Mrs Milt had wanted to have everything her way. The doctor had shown a desire to have everything his way, and the approach of the two forces had resulted in an explosion.
“Candlish offered me a mount, and I’ve a good mind to take the offer, just for once. A good gallop would do me a world of good. No; I’ll go and have a chat with old Moredock, see Mrs Berens, Biddy Tallis, and Brown’s baby, and then settle down to a good, quiet study. Hah!”
Horace North was dubious. A slight puff upon his vane would have sent it in either direction, and it seemed as if the decisive puff came just then in the shape of something as light as air. For there was the sound of hoofs; and directly after, looking exceedingly handsome in her tightly-fitting riding-habit and natty hat, Leo Salis passed on her pretty mare.
She caught sight of him, and returned a coquettish nod and smile to his low bow, but did not draw rein, though she must have seen his intention to hurry down to the gate; cantering gently on, as charming a specimen of early womanhood as ever rode gracefully upon a well-bred mare.
“By George! that settles it,” said the doctor. “Where’s the meet?”
He hurried in, snatched up the county paper, and found that it was at Fir Tree Hill, four miles beyond the Hall.
“The very thing,” he cried. “I’ll just get on my boots, and walk over to the Hall, get my mount, and go on. No, I won’t; I’ll drive.”
He rang the bell, and Mrs Milt—a very severe-looking, handsome, elderly lady—in the whitest of caps, bibs, and tuckers, appeared frowning, as if still charged with the remaining clouds of the late storm.
“Tell Dick to put the horse in the chaise.”
Mrs Milt tightened her lips, and made parallel lines in her forehead, but did not stir.
“Well?” said the doctor.
“Well?” said Mrs Milt.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Perfectly,” said Mrs Milt.
“Then, why don’t you do it? And for Heaven’s sake, my dear Mrs Milt, let’s have no more of this petty squabbling. Discharge cook; have a fresh house-maid; paper and clean up, and do whatever you please, but don’t bother me.”
“It is not my wish to bother you, Dr North,” said the lady austerely, and with considerable emphasis on the word, “bother.”
“Very well, then, let’s have peace. Such a scene as we had this morning interferes with my studies. Now, go and tell him to put to the horse.”
“Will you be good enough to tell me how, Dr North?”
“What do you mean?”
“You sent your man in that chaise to fetch some drugs from King’s Hampton.”
“Hah! so I did. He ought to be back by now. Yes; there are wheels.”
“The carrier,” said Mrs Milt.
“Pish! of course. Never mind, I’ll walk. There’s something else coming,” he said, listening. “Yes; that’s the chaise. Go and tell Dick not to take out the horse, but to come round here.”
“He’s coming round,” said Mrs Milt, going to the window; “and there’s a gentleman with him.”
The doctor looked up hastily, and frowned, as he caught sight of a dark, sleek-looking personage, about to descend from the chaise; while, as Mrs Milt went to open the door, Horace North exclaimed to himself:
“Now, why in the world is it that Nature will set one against one’s relations, and above all against Cousin Thompson, for—”
“Ah! my dear Horace, this was very good and thoughtful of you,” exclaimed the object of his thoughts, entering the room with extended hands.
“Ah! Thompson, glad to see you,” said the doctor, innocently enough—for the lie was from habit, not intentional—“but you are not cyanide of potassium!”
“Sure I’m not, indeed; but I want to consult you.”
“I sent in my man for a portion of that unpleasant chemical; not to meet you.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, my dear boy. I was coming down, and I saw your chaise; and I know you like me to make myself at home, so give me some breakfast.”
“Yes, of course. Run down this morning?”
“Yes, by the six-thirty from Paddington. Early bird gets the first pick, you know.”
“There goes my gallop,” groaned the doctor, as a mental vision of Leo Salis appeared before him, while he rang the bell.
“Not ill, are you? Come to consult me?”
“No, I’m not ill; but I have come to consult you, my dear Horace.”
“Did you ring, sir?”
“Yes, Mrs Milt; my cousin would like some breakfast.”
“I am getting it ready, sir; but it can’t be done in two minutes and a half.”
“No, no, of course not, Mrs Milt. Thank you. Send word when it’s ready.”
“I’ll bring word myself, sir,” said Mrs Milt austerely.
“No, don’t trouble, my dear Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, who looked so sleek in skin and black cloth that he shone; “a cup of coffee and a sole, cutlet—anything.”
“Sole! cutlet! My dear fellow, this isn’t London. Give him some ham and eggs, Mrs Milt,” said the doctor. “Now, old fellow,” he continued, as the door closed after the housekeeper a little more loudly than was necessary, “business: what’s the matter? Liver?”
“No, no, my dear Horace. I’m quite well. To consult you about Mrs Berens.”
The doctor pushed back his chair.
“Why, how surprised you look! You recommended her to come to me about her money affairs.”
“Oh! Ah! Yes, of course; so I did. She asked me to give her the name of a London solicitor, and so I gave her yours—my cousin’s.”
“It was very good of you, Horace, for I am a poor man,” said the visitor sleekly. “Far be it from me to quarrel with Uncle Richard’s apportionment of his money, but—”
“There, for goodness’ sake, don’t bring that up again! You know why the old man excluded you.”
“Yes. I had the misfortune to offend him, Horace,” said the visitor with a sigh.
“And now what about Mrs Berens?”
“Ah, yes; a very simple matter. You are a great friend of hers?”
“I am her doctor.”
“Yes, yes,” said the other, with an unpleasant chuckle, which made North long to kick him; “but if report is true, you are going to marry the handsome widow.”
“Then report is not true,” said North angrily. “Now to business.”
“Well, the fact is this,” said the visitor; “in my capacity of confidential solicitor to several people, I often have to give advice, and to raise money.”
“No doubt,” said the doctor drily.
“I have a client now who wants rather a heavy sum upon the security of some leasehold houses. Mrs Berens has money lying in the Three per Cents., and I thought that you, as her friend, might advise her. She would get six per cent, instead of three, and a word from you—”
“Will never induce a lady patient of mine to run any risks,” said the doctor shortly.
“Risks?”
“Breakfast’s ready,” said the doctor abruptly, and he led the way into the other room. Having sufficient wisdom not to recommence the attack, Cousin Thompson contented himself with breakfasting heartily, but he was not pleasant over his feeding; and, what was more, he had a way of bringing into every room he entered an odour of mouldy parchment.
After breakfast Cousin Thompson had an interview with Mrs Berens; and after that, without consulting his cousin, he walked across to the Hall to hold a meeting, not unconnected with money matters, with Tom Candlish. Had he consulted his cousin, he would have known that in all probability Tom Candlish had gone to the meet, especially as he rarely missed a run.
Consequently, Cousin Thompson returned to the doctor’s, to find him chafing over his disappointment. Not that he was a hunting man; but the whim had seized him to go, and the appearance of Leo Salis had helped to make the ride more attractive than it might have appeared at another time.
“Ah, Horace, my dear fellow,” he said, “I shall have to trespass on your hospitality for dinner, and then ask you to give me a bed.”
“All right,” said the doctor gruffly. “Give you a dose too, if you like.”
“Thanks, no, unless you mean wine.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll give you a glass of port,” said the doctor. “I hope you haven’t persuaded that poor woman to invest in anything risky.”
“Now, my dear Horace, what do you take me for?” cried Cousin Thompson.
“A lawyer.”
“But there are good lawyers and bad lawyers.”
“Well, from a legal point of view, you’re a bad lawyer. I never gave you but one case to conduct for me, and that you lost.”
“The barrister lost it, my dear Horace. Don’t be afraid. I am not a legal pickpocket. I might retaliate, and say you’re a bad doctor.”
“Well, so I am—horribly bad. The amount of ignorance that exists in my brain, sir, is truly frightful.”
“But you go on curing people.”
“Trying to cure people, sir, you mean. Wading about in deep water; groping in the darkness. Thank Heaven, sir, that you were not made a doctor. Eh, what is it—some one ill?” he cried, as Mrs Milt entered the room with a note.
“Poor somebody!” said Cousin Thompson to himself.
“Note from the Rectory, sir.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the doctor; “shan’t be able to go, as you are here. Wants me to play a game at chess. Salis, you know.”
As he spoke he leisurely unfastened the envelope, and began to read.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Mrs Milt, attend to my cousin as if I were here. Very sorry. Serious case,” he continued, turning to his guest; and the next minute he had hurried from the house, to set off almost at a run for the Rectory.
For Hartley Salis’ note was very brief, but none the less urgent, containing as it did these words:
“For Heaven’s sake, come on! Leo has had a serious fall.”
Chapter Fifteen.A Refractory Patient.Leo made light of her accident, though her shoulder was a good deal hurt, and she bore the bandaging of what was a serious wrench with the greatest fortitude. As North learned by degrees, there had been a magnificent run, but towards the last, when Leo was almost heading the field, the mare had become unmanageable, and had rushed at a dangerous jump, with the result that she fell, threw her rider on the bank of the deep little river, and, in her efforts to rise, entangled herself with Leo’s habit, and rolled with her right into the water.“A most providential escape,” said Salis, who looked pale with anxiety.“What nonsense, Hartley!” said the girl; “a bit of a bruise on the shoulder and a wetting.”“Yes, but you would have been drowned if the gentlemen of the hunt had not galloped up to your aid.”“But they always do gallop up to a lady’s aid if her horse falls,” said Leo, speaking excitedly. “There, don’t make so much of it; and it was utterly absurd, Hartley, for you to send for a doctor for such a trifle.”“Trifle or no, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I should advise your seeking your bed at once.”“Nonsense, Dr North!”“Well, then, I must insist,” he said firmly.“Oh, very well,” said Leo; “I suppose you are master, so I have no more to say. A little girl has had an accident, and so they put her to bed. Fudge!”“Leo, dear,” said Mary, from her couch, “pray be advised. Dr North would not wish it if it were not necessary.”“Certainly not,” said North shortly, for he was annoyed at Leo’s flippant manner, and ready to wonder why he had felt attracted that morning.“What nonsense, Mary!” cried Leo. “Pray don’t you interfere.”Mary sighed, and remained silent.“Well, as you please,” said North. “I have given you good advice: act as you think best.”He turned to go, but was followed into the hall by the curate.“Come into my room,” said the latter, with a pained and perplexed look in his face. “This is very sad, old fellow.”“What? being guardian to a couple of giddy girls?” said the doctor petulantly. “No, no: I beg your pardon; don’t take any notice of my bitter way; but really, Salis, old boy, you had better have got rid of that mare.”“Yes, I wish I had,” said the curate sadly; “but Leo seems to take such pleasure in it—and who could foresee such a mishap as this?”“I could,” said the doctor shortly. “Good thing she was not killed.”“You don’t think the hurt serious?”“Serious? No. Give her a good deal of pain, of course.”“And the chill?”“What chill?”“The plunge into the river after a heated ride.”“She changed her things at once, of course?”“No,” said the curate. “It seems that out of bravado she insisted on mounting again, and then rode slowly home. She was shivering when she came in.”“Why was I not told all this before?” said North sharply. “Look here, Salis, old fellow; she must go to bed directly, and take what I send her. Exercise your authority, or she will have a very serious cold.”He hurried away, and did not send the promised medicine, but took it himself, leaving it with emphatic instructions as to its being taken; and the result was that Leo Salis laughed at the supposed necessity, as she termed it, and calmly declined to follow out the doctor’s views.
Leo made light of her accident, though her shoulder was a good deal hurt, and she bore the bandaging of what was a serious wrench with the greatest fortitude. As North learned by degrees, there had been a magnificent run, but towards the last, when Leo was almost heading the field, the mare had become unmanageable, and had rushed at a dangerous jump, with the result that she fell, threw her rider on the bank of the deep little river, and, in her efforts to rise, entangled herself with Leo’s habit, and rolled with her right into the water.
“A most providential escape,” said Salis, who looked pale with anxiety.
“What nonsense, Hartley!” said the girl; “a bit of a bruise on the shoulder and a wetting.”
“Yes, but you would have been drowned if the gentlemen of the hunt had not galloped up to your aid.”
“But they always do gallop up to a lady’s aid if her horse falls,” said Leo, speaking excitedly. “There, don’t make so much of it; and it was utterly absurd, Hartley, for you to send for a doctor for such a trifle.”
“Trifle or no, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I should advise your seeking your bed at once.”
“Nonsense, Dr North!”
“Well, then, I must insist,” he said firmly.
“Oh, very well,” said Leo; “I suppose you are master, so I have no more to say. A little girl has had an accident, and so they put her to bed. Fudge!”
“Leo, dear,” said Mary, from her couch, “pray be advised. Dr North would not wish it if it were not necessary.”
“Certainly not,” said North shortly, for he was annoyed at Leo’s flippant manner, and ready to wonder why he had felt attracted that morning.
“What nonsense, Mary!” cried Leo. “Pray don’t you interfere.”
Mary sighed, and remained silent.
“Well, as you please,” said North. “I have given you good advice: act as you think best.”
He turned to go, but was followed into the hall by the curate.
“Come into my room,” said the latter, with a pained and perplexed look in his face. “This is very sad, old fellow.”
“What? being guardian to a couple of giddy girls?” said the doctor petulantly. “No, no: I beg your pardon; don’t take any notice of my bitter way; but really, Salis, old boy, you had better have got rid of that mare.”
“Yes, I wish I had,” said the curate sadly; “but Leo seems to take such pleasure in it—and who could foresee such a mishap as this?”
“I could,” said the doctor shortly. “Good thing she was not killed.”
“You don’t think the hurt serious?”
“Serious? No. Give her a good deal of pain, of course.”
“And the chill?”
“What chill?”
“The plunge into the river after a heated ride.”
“She changed her things at once, of course?”
“No,” said the curate. “It seems that out of bravado she insisted on mounting again, and then rode slowly home. She was shivering when she came in.”
“Why was I not told all this before?” said North sharply. “Look here, Salis, old fellow; she must go to bed directly, and take what I send her. Exercise your authority, or she will have a very serious cold.”
He hurried away, and did not send the promised medicine, but took it himself, leaving it with emphatic instructions as to its being taken; and the result was that Leo Salis laughed at the supposed necessity, as she termed it, and calmly declined to follow out the doctor’s views.
Chapter Sixteen.“I am not Ill.”Hartley Salis did not tell the doctor the whole of his trouble, neither did he say a word to Mary upon the subject; but she divined the cause of his auger as she lay helpless there, and sighed as she wished that she could set matters right.For Tom Candlish had ridden home with Leo, and parted at the gate.“I might have known that they would meet,” said Salis, as he sat thinking; “but I never imagined that he would have the assumption to come again to the house.”But Tom Candlish had helped Leo when she was in great peril of being drowned; and as the curate learned this he felt his impotence, and was coldly courteous, while, on his side, Tom Candlish was defiant, almost to the point of insolence; and his manner to Leo seemed intimate enough to startle Salis, and make him wonder whether they had met since the scene at the river-side.Hartley Salis soon had something to divert his attention from this point, for the next day Leo was not very well. She was tired, she said. It had been a very long run, but delightful all the same; and she allowed now that perhaps it would have been better if she had listened to the doctor’s advice.“I shall be quite well to-morrow,” she cried. “Why, Hartley, how serious you look!”“Do I?” he said, smiling, for he had been communing with himself as to whether he should ask Leo plainly if she had kept her word.“Do you? Yes!” she cried angrily; and, without apparent cause, she flashed out into quite a fit of passion. “I declare it is miserable now to be at home. It is like living between two spies.”“My dear Leo!” began Salis.“I don’t care: it is. Mary here watches me as a cat does a mouse. You always follow me about whenever I stir from home; and then you two compare notes, and plot and plan together how to make my life a burden.”“Leo, dear,” said Mary gently, “you are irritable and unwell, or you would not speak like this.”“I would. I am driven to it by my miserable life at home. I am treated like a prisoner.”“Leo, my child,” began Salis.“Yes, that’s it—child! You treat me as if I were a child, and I will not bear it. Anything more cruel it is impossible to conceive.”“Nonsense, dear,” said Salis, smiling gravely, as he took his sister’s hand.She snatched it away; not so quickly, though, but that he had time to feel that it was burning hot, as her scarlet cheeks seemed to be, while her eyes were unusually brilliant.It was no time to question or reproach, and the curate set himself to soothe.“Why, Leo, my dear,” he said, smiling. “I shall begin to think you are cross.”“If you mean indignant,” she retorted, “I am. My very soul seems to revolt against the wretched system of espionage you two have established against me.”“No, no, Leo, dear!” said Mary. “How can you say such things of Hartley, whose every thought is for your good?”“Good—good—good!” cried Leo; “I’m sick of the very word! Be good! Be a good girl! Oh! it’s sickening!”Salis made a sign to Mary to be silent, but Leo detected it.“There!” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “What did I say? You two are always plotting against me. Ah!”She shivered as from a sudden chill, and drew her chair closer to the fire.“Do you feel unwell, dear?” said Salis anxiously.“No,no, no! I have told you both a dozen times over that I am quite well. It is a cold morning, and I shivered a little. Is there anything extraordinary in that?”“I only felt anxious about you, dear.”“Then, pray don’t feel anxious, but let me be in peace.”She caught up a book, and tried to read; while, to avoid irritating her, Salis and Mary resumed their tasks—the one writing, the other busy over her needle; and to both it seemed as if they were performing penance, so intense was the desire to keep on glancing at Leo, while they felt the necessity for avoiding all appearance of noticing her.She held her book before her, and appeared to be reading, but she did not follow a line; for the letters were blurred, and a curious, dull, aching sensation racked her from head to foot, rising, as it were, in waves which swept through her brain, and made it throb.This, with its accompanying giddiness, passed off, and with obstinate determination she kept her place, and the pretence of reading was carried on till towards evening.They had dined—a weary, comfortless meal—at which Leo had taken her place, and made an attempt to eat; but it was evident to the others that the food disgusted her, and almost everything was sent untasted away.The irritability seemed to have died out, but every attempt to draw her into conversation failed; and after a time the meal progressed in silence, till they drew round the fire at the end to resume their tasks, almost without a word.Salis was busy over a formal report of the state of the parish for the rector. Mary was hard at work stitching, to help a poor widow who gained a precarious living by needlework, and Leo still had her book before her eyes.Mary’s were aching, and she was about to ring for the lamp, for the short December afternoon was closing in, and Salis was in the act of wiping his pen, when Leo suddenly let fall her book, to sit up rigidly, staring wildly at them.“Leo, my child!”“Well, what is it?” she said; and her voice sounded harsh and strange. “Why did you say that? You knew I should say yes.”“Yes, yes, of course, my dear; but I did not speak.”“You did. You said I lied unto you, quite aloud, and”—with a return of her irritable way—“are we never going to have dinner?”Salis rose from the table where he had been writing, and laid his hand upon his sister’s arm.“Leo, dear,” he said anxiously; and he gazed in her wild eyes, which softened and looked lovingly in his.“No,” she said, as she nestled to him and laid her cheek upon his arm; “a bit of a wrench. My shoulder aches, but it will soon be well, dear.”“Lie back in your chair,” said Salis, as he laid his hand upon her throbbing brow.“Yes, that’s nice,” she said, smiling as she obeyed. “So cool and refreshing—so cool.”“Do you feel drowsy? Would you like to have a nap?”“Yes, if you wish it,” she said. “I am sleepy. Don’t tell them at home, dear.”Salis started, and his face grew convulsed, as he exchanged glances with Mary, who read his wish, wrote a few lines in pencil, and softly rang the bell.“Take that at once,” she whispered to Dally Watlock, who entered, round-eyed and staring.“To Mr Tom Candlish, miss?”“No, no, girl; to Mr North.”Mary drew her breath hard as the door closed behind the girl, for she read in her words a tale of deceit and also who had been the messenger, perhaps, in many a love missive sent on either side.She tried to rise, feeling that this was a time of urgent need; but her eyes became suffused with tears as she sank back helpless in her seat.“Take my arm, Leo, dear,” said Salis. “You would be better if you went up to your room and lay down.”“Yes, dear; if you wish it,” she said softly; and she started up, but caught at her brother, and clung to him as if she had been seized by a sudden vertigo, and then stared wildly round.Salis gave Mary a nod, and then, drawing Leo’s arm through his, led her up to the door of her room, which she entered while he ran quickly down.“Quite delirious,” he said quickly. “I hope North will not be long. I thought he would have been here this morning.”He was busy as he spoke preparing for a task which he had performed twice daily since Mary’s convalescence. For, taking her in his arms as easily as if she had been a child, he bore her out of the room and up to Leo’s door.As Mary, trembling with anxiety, pressed it open, Leo uttered an angry cry, dashed forward, and thrust the door back in her face.“No, no!” she said hoarsely; “not you. Let me be. Let me rest in peace.”“But Leo, dear, you are ill.”“I am not ill,” she cried fiercely. “Go away!”“Don’t irritate her,” whispered Salis gently. “Leo, dear, Mary will be in her own room. Lie down now.”The phase of gentleness had passed, and Leo turned upon him almost savagely, in her furious contempt.“Lie down! Lie down! as if I were a dog! Oh! there must be an end to this. There must be an end to this.”She had partly opened the door so as to speak to her brother, but now she closed it loudly, and they heard her walking excitedly to and fro.
Hartley Salis did not tell the doctor the whole of his trouble, neither did he say a word to Mary upon the subject; but she divined the cause of his auger as she lay helpless there, and sighed as she wished that she could set matters right.
For Tom Candlish had ridden home with Leo, and parted at the gate.
“I might have known that they would meet,” said Salis, as he sat thinking; “but I never imagined that he would have the assumption to come again to the house.”
But Tom Candlish had helped Leo when she was in great peril of being drowned; and as the curate learned this he felt his impotence, and was coldly courteous, while, on his side, Tom Candlish was defiant, almost to the point of insolence; and his manner to Leo seemed intimate enough to startle Salis, and make him wonder whether they had met since the scene at the river-side.
Hartley Salis soon had something to divert his attention from this point, for the next day Leo was not very well. She was tired, she said. It had been a very long run, but delightful all the same; and she allowed now that perhaps it would have been better if she had listened to the doctor’s advice.
“I shall be quite well to-morrow,” she cried. “Why, Hartley, how serious you look!”
“Do I?” he said, smiling, for he had been communing with himself as to whether he should ask Leo plainly if she had kept her word.
“Do you? Yes!” she cried angrily; and, without apparent cause, she flashed out into quite a fit of passion. “I declare it is miserable now to be at home. It is like living between two spies.”
“My dear Leo!” began Salis.
“I don’t care: it is. Mary here watches me as a cat does a mouse. You always follow me about whenever I stir from home; and then you two compare notes, and plot and plan together how to make my life a burden.”
“Leo, dear,” said Mary gently, “you are irritable and unwell, or you would not speak like this.”
“I would. I am driven to it by my miserable life at home. I am treated like a prisoner.”
“Leo, my child,” began Salis.
“Yes, that’s it—child! You treat me as if I were a child, and I will not bear it. Anything more cruel it is impossible to conceive.”
“Nonsense, dear,” said Salis, smiling gravely, as he took his sister’s hand.
She snatched it away; not so quickly, though, but that he had time to feel that it was burning hot, as her scarlet cheeks seemed to be, while her eyes were unusually brilliant.
It was no time to question or reproach, and the curate set himself to soothe.
“Why, Leo, my dear,” he said, smiling. “I shall begin to think you are cross.”
“If you mean indignant,” she retorted, “I am. My very soul seems to revolt against the wretched system of espionage you two have established against me.”
“No, no, Leo, dear!” said Mary. “How can you say such things of Hartley, whose every thought is for your good?”
“Good—good—good!” cried Leo; “I’m sick of the very word! Be good! Be a good girl! Oh! it’s sickening!”
Salis made a sign to Mary to be silent, but Leo detected it.
“There!” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “What did I say? You two are always plotting against me. Ah!”
She shivered as from a sudden chill, and drew her chair closer to the fire.
“Do you feel unwell, dear?” said Salis anxiously.
“No,no, no! I have told you both a dozen times over that I am quite well. It is a cold morning, and I shivered a little. Is there anything extraordinary in that?”
“I only felt anxious about you, dear.”
“Then, pray don’t feel anxious, but let me be in peace.”
She caught up a book, and tried to read; while, to avoid irritating her, Salis and Mary resumed their tasks—the one writing, the other busy over her needle; and to both it seemed as if they were performing penance, so intense was the desire to keep on glancing at Leo, while they felt the necessity for avoiding all appearance of noticing her.
She held her book before her, and appeared to be reading, but she did not follow a line; for the letters were blurred, and a curious, dull, aching sensation racked her from head to foot, rising, as it were, in waves which swept through her brain, and made it throb.
This, with its accompanying giddiness, passed off, and with obstinate determination she kept her place, and the pretence of reading was carried on till towards evening.
They had dined—a weary, comfortless meal—at which Leo had taken her place, and made an attempt to eat; but it was evident to the others that the food disgusted her, and almost everything was sent untasted away.
The irritability seemed to have died out, but every attempt to draw her into conversation failed; and after a time the meal progressed in silence, till they drew round the fire at the end to resume their tasks, almost without a word.
Salis was busy over a formal report of the state of the parish for the rector. Mary was hard at work stitching, to help a poor widow who gained a precarious living by needlework, and Leo still had her book before her eyes.
Mary’s were aching, and she was about to ring for the lamp, for the short December afternoon was closing in, and Salis was in the act of wiping his pen, when Leo suddenly let fall her book, to sit up rigidly, staring wildly at them.
“Leo, my child!”
“Well, what is it?” she said; and her voice sounded harsh and strange. “Why did you say that? You knew I should say yes.”
“Yes, yes, of course, my dear; but I did not speak.”
“You did. You said I lied unto you, quite aloud, and”—with a return of her irritable way—“are we never going to have dinner?”
Salis rose from the table where he had been writing, and laid his hand upon his sister’s arm.
“Leo, dear,” he said anxiously; and he gazed in her wild eyes, which softened and looked lovingly in his.
“No,” she said, as she nestled to him and laid her cheek upon his arm; “a bit of a wrench. My shoulder aches, but it will soon be well, dear.”
“Lie back in your chair,” said Salis, as he laid his hand upon her throbbing brow.
“Yes, that’s nice,” she said, smiling as she obeyed. “So cool and refreshing—so cool.”
“Do you feel drowsy? Would you like to have a nap?”
“Yes, if you wish it,” she said. “I am sleepy. Don’t tell them at home, dear.”
Salis started, and his face grew convulsed, as he exchanged glances with Mary, who read his wish, wrote a few lines in pencil, and softly rang the bell.
“Take that at once,” she whispered to Dally Watlock, who entered, round-eyed and staring.
“To Mr Tom Candlish, miss?”
“No, no, girl; to Mr North.”
Mary drew her breath hard as the door closed behind the girl, for she read in her words a tale of deceit and also who had been the messenger, perhaps, in many a love missive sent on either side.
She tried to rise, feeling that this was a time of urgent need; but her eyes became suffused with tears as she sank back helpless in her seat.
“Take my arm, Leo, dear,” said Salis. “You would be better if you went up to your room and lay down.”
“Yes, dear; if you wish it,” she said softly; and she started up, but caught at her brother, and clung to him as if she had been seized by a sudden vertigo, and then stared wildly round.
Salis gave Mary a nod, and then, drawing Leo’s arm through his, led her up to the door of her room, which she entered while he ran quickly down.
“Quite delirious,” he said quickly. “I hope North will not be long. I thought he would have been here this morning.”
He was busy as he spoke preparing for a task which he had performed twice daily since Mary’s convalescence. For, taking her in his arms as easily as if she had been a child, he bore her out of the room and up to Leo’s door.
As Mary, trembling with anxiety, pressed it open, Leo uttered an angry cry, dashed forward, and thrust the door back in her face.
“No, no!” she said hoarsely; “not you. Let me be. Let me rest in peace.”
“But Leo, dear, you are ill.”
“I am not ill,” she cried fiercely. “Go away!”
“Don’t irritate her,” whispered Salis gently. “Leo, dear, Mary will be in her own room. Lie down now.”
The phase of gentleness had passed, and Leo turned upon him almost savagely, in her furious contempt.
“Lie down! Lie down! as if I were a dog! Oh! there must be an end to this. There must be an end to this.”
She had partly opened the door so as to speak to her brother, but now she closed it loudly, and they heard her walking excitedly to and fro.
Chapter Seventeen.What Dally was Doing.“I feared it,” said North, as he returned from the bedroom, where he had left Leo with the servants, who stood staring helplessly at her, and listening to her ravings about the mare, the plunge into the cold river, and the injured shoulder. “Violent fever and delirium. Poor girl! what could we expect? Heated with her ride, the fall, the sudden plunge into the water, and then a long, slow ride in the drenched garments.”“Do you think she is very ill?” said Mary anxiously.“Very; but not dangerously, I hope. There, trust to me, and I will do everything I can. You must have a good nurse at once. Those women are worse than useless. I’ll send on my housekeeper.”“But you are not going?” cried Salis, with the look of alarm so commonly directed at a doctor.“My dear boy—only to fetch medicine. I’ll not be long; and mind this: she must not leave her room now. She must be kept there at any cost.”“And I am so helpless, Hartley,” whispered Mary piteously. “It is so hard to bear.”The curate bent down and kissed her, and then, taking his place by the bedroom door, he remained to carry out the instructions he had received.They were necessary, for he had not been there five minutes before the delirious girl rose from her couch, and there was an angry outcry on the part of the women. She insisted upon going to the stable to see to her mare. It was being neglected; and it was only by the exercise of force that she was kept in the room.Before half-an-hour had passed, the doctor was back, and quiet, firm Mrs Milt, who put off her crotchety ways in the face of this trouble, took her place by the bedside, and with good effect; for, partly soothed by the old woman’s firm management, and partly by the strong opiate the doctor had administered, Leo sank into a restless sleep, in which she kept on muttering incoherently, the only portions of her speech at all connected being those dealing with her accident, which seemed to her to be repeated again and again.It was towards ten o’clock, as the doctor was returning by the short cut of the fields to the Rectory, after having been home for a short time, that he caught sight of a couple of figures a short distance over the stile leading down to the meadows, through which the little river ran.“Humph!” he muttered, as, in spite of the darkness, he recognised the figures, his own steps being hushed by the moist pasture, and the couple too intent upon their conversation to hear him pass.“Humph!” he said; “poor old Moredock is right, perhaps, about the girl. Confounded hard upon the people to have such a scoundrel loose among them.”He half-hesitated, as if he felt that it was his duty to interfere, but there was too much earnest work at the Rectory for him to speak at a time like this. And, besides, he could not have explained why, but the thought seemed to afford him something like satisfaction, for it was evident that if Tom Candlish had stooped to court pretty Dally Watlock, the Rectory servant, everything must have long been at an end between Leo and the squire’s brother, the thrashing administered by Mr Salis having been effectual in its way.He was extremely anxious, too, about Leo; for unconsciously a new interest was awakening in him, and he felt that no case in which he had been engaged had ever caused him more anxiety than this. So he hurried on to his patient’s room, where the fever was growing more intense, and the flushed face was rolled from side to side upon the white pillow.“Just the same, sir,” said Mrs Milt, as he asked a few eager questions. “She’s been going on like that ever since you left. Isn’t she very bad? Hark at her breath.”“Very bad, Milt,” said the doctor gravely; “and if matters go on like this I shall send over to King’s Hampton for—”“No, no; don’t you do that, sir,” said the old housekeeper sharply. “If you can’t save her no one can.”“Why, Milt!” exclaimed the doctor wonderingly.“Oh! you needn’t look like that, sir. I know you. It’s a deal of wherrit you give me with your awkward ways and irregular hours; but I will say this for you, there isn’t a cleverer doctor going.”“And yet you walked over to King’s Hampton to the other doctor when you were ill.”“Well, you had put me out so just then, and I felt as if I would sooner have died than come to you.”“Ugh! you obstinate old thing,” said North. “There, I’m going down to talk to Mr Salis for a while; then I shall come and take your place for six hours while you go and lie down.”“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs Milt; and she tightened her lips and remained silent for a few moments, while her master re-examined his patient. Then, drawing herself up: “I may be obstinate, sir, but I think I know my duty in a case of illness. I’m here to watch by Miss Leo Salis’s bedside, and here I’m going to stay.”“Mrs Milt,” said the doctor sternly, “the first duty of a nurse is to obey instructions, as you well know. Now, no more talking, but sit down till I return.”Mrs Milt looked tighter than ever, and her rigid stay-bone gave a crack, but she obeyed; while the doctor went down to where Salis and Mary were anxiously awaiting his report.“I meant to have had some tea ready for you,” said Mary, after hearing what he had to say; “but Dally is missing. She must have gone to her grandfather’s cottage.”The doctor uttered a loud “Humph!” and then remarked that he could wait.He had to wait some time, as Dally had gone to keep an appointment in the meadows, and had come upon a figure leaning against a great willow pollard on the river’s brink.The figure started forward out of the darkness and caught her arm, with the result that Dally uttered a little affected squeal.“La, Mr Candlish! how you made me jump!”“Why, what brings you here?” he cried, passing his arm round the girl’s waist.“Now, do adone, sir; you’ve no business to touch me like that. What would Joe Chegg say?”“That I was a wise man, and that it was the prettiest little waist in Duke’s Hampton.”“Please keep your fine speeches for Miss Leo, and talk about her waist, sir, and let me go. I only come for a walk.”“Nonsense! tell me. You’ve got a message?”“No, I haven’t.”“You—you have a letter?”“No,” said Dally, shaking her head, and struggling just a little for appearance’ sake.“Is she coming, then?”“No, she isn’t; for she’s too ill.”“Eh? Nonsense!”“But indeed she is, sir, and confined to her bed.”“And she sent you, Dally. Oh! how good of her.”“No, nor she didn’t send me neither, Mr Candlish; and do let go. You shouldn’t.”“Has she caught a cold, Dally?”“Horrid bad one; and she’s gone right off her head.”“Gammon!”“She has, indeed, sir; and me and cook had to hold her down: she was so bad.”“Hold her down?”“Yes; and she kept on talking in a hurry like, all about the hunting and falling in the water.”“Did she say anything about me?” said Tom Candlish eagerly.“About you? I should think not, indeed. You men seem to think that ladies are always thinking about you. Such stuff!”Then a long amount of whispering took place, Tom Candlish being one of those gentlemen who never fret after the absent, but possess a sailor-like power of taking the good the gods provide.At the end of five minutes there was the sound of a smart smack—not a kiss, but the contact of a palm upon a cheek.Then, from out the darkness came the expression, “You saucy jade!” following upon the rush of feet in flight.A minute later the swing gate leading into the Rectory grounds was heard to clap to, and Tom Candlish stopped in his pursuit and walked home across the fields.
“I feared it,” said North, as he returned from the bedroom, where he had left Leo with the servants, who stood staring helplessly at her, and listening to her ravings about the mare, the plunge into the cold river, and the injured shoulder. “Violent fever and delirium. Poor girl! what could we expect? Heated with her ride, the fall, the sudden plunge into the water, and then a long, slow ride in the drenched garments.”
“Do you think she is very ill?” said Mary anxiously.
“Very; but not dangerously, I hope. There, trust to me, and I will do everything I can. You must have a good nurse at once. Those women are worse than useless. I’ll send on my housekeeper.”
“But you are not going?” cried Salis, with the look of alarm so commonly directed at a doctor.
“My dear boy—only to fetch medicine. I’ll not be long; and mind this: she must not leave her room now. She must be kept there at any cost.”
“And I am so helpless, Hartley,” whispered Mary piteously. “It is so hard to bear.”
The curate bent down and kissed her, and then, taking his place by the bedroom door, he remained to carry out the instructions he had received.
They were necessary, for he had not been there five minutes before the delirious girl rose from her couch, and there was an angry outcry on the part of the women. She insisted upon going to the stable to see to her mare. It was being neglected; and it was only by the exercise of force that she was kept in the room.
Before half-an-hour had passed, the doctor was back, and quiet, firm Mrs Milt, who put off her crotchety ways in the face of this trouble, took her place by the bedside, and with good effect; for, partly soothed by the old woman’s firm management, and partly by the strong opiate the doctor had administered, Leo sank into a restless sleep, in which she kept on muttering incoherently, the only portions of her speech at all connected being those dealing with her accident, which seemed to her to be repeated again and again.
It was towards ten o’clock, as the doctor was returning by the short cut of the fields to the Rectory, after having been home for a short time, that he caught sight of a couple of figures a short distance over the stile leading down to the meadows, through which the little river ran.
“Humph!” he muttered, as, in spite of the darkness, he recognised the figures, his own steps being hushed by the moist pasture, and the couple too intent upon their conversation to hear him pass.
“Humph!” he said; “poor old Moredock is right, perhaps, about the girl. Confounded hard upon the people to have such a scoundrel loose among them.”
He half-hesitated, as if he felt that it was his duty to interfere, but there was too much earnest work at the Rectory for him to speak at a time like this. And, besides, he could not have explained why, but the thought seemed to afford him something like satisfaction, for it was evident that if Tom Candlish had stooped to court pretty Dally Watlock, the Rectory servant, everything must have long been at an end between Leo and the squire’s brother, the thrashing administered by Mr Salis having been effectual in its way.
He was extremely anxious, too, about Leo; for unconsciously a new interest was awakening in him, and he felt that no case in which he had been engaged had ever caused him more anxiety than this. So he hurried on to his patient’s room, where the fever was growing more intense, and the flushed face was rolled from side to side upon the white pillow.
“Just the same, sir,” said Mrs Milt, as he asked a few eager questions. “She’s been going on like that ever since you left. Isn’t she very bad? Hark at her breath.”
“Very bad, Milt,” said the doctor gravely; “and if matters go on like this I shall send over to King’s Hampton for—”
“No, no; don’t you do that, sir,” said the old housekeeper sharply. “If you can’t save her no one can.”
“Why, Milt!” exclaimed the doctor wonderingly.
“Oh! you needn’t look like that, sir. I know you. It’s a deal of wherrit you give me with your awkward ways and irregular hours; but I will say this for you, there isn’t a cleverer doctor going.”
“And yet you walked over to King’s Hampton to the other doctor when you were ill.”
“Well, you had put me out so just then, and I felt as if I would sooner have died than come to you.”
“Ugh! you obstinate old thing,” said North. “There, I’m going down to talk to Mr Salis for a while; then I shall come and take your place for six hours while you go and lie down.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs Milt; and she tightened her lips and remained silent for a few moments, while her master re-examined his patient. Then, drawing herself up: “I may be obstinate, sir, but I think I know my duty in a case of illness. I’m here to watch by Miss Leo Salis’s bedside, and here I’m going to stay.”
“Mrs Milt,” said the doctor sternly, “the first duty of a nurse is to obey instructions, as you well know. Now, no more talking, but sit down till I return.”
Mrs Milt looked tighter than ever, and her rigid stay-bone gave a crack, but she obeyed; while the doctor went down to where Salis and Mary were anxiously awaiting his report.
“I meant to have had some tea ready for you,” said Mary, after hearing what he had to say; “but Dally is missing. She must have gone to her grandfather’s cottage.”
The doctor uttered a loud “Humph!” and then remarked that he could wait.
He had to wait some time, as Dally had gone to keep an appointment in the meadows, and had come upon a figure leaning against a great willow pollard on the river’s brink.
The figure started forward out of the darkness and caught her arm, with the result that Dally uttered a little affected squeal.
“La, Mr Candlish! how you made me jump!”
“Why, what brings you here?” he cried, passing his arm round the girl’s waist.
“Now, do adone, sir; you’ve no business to touch me like that. What would Joe Chegg say?”
“That I was a wise man, and that it was the prettiest little waist in Duke’s Hampton.”
“Please keep your fine speeches for Miss Leo, and talk about her waist, sir, and let me go. I only come for a walk.”
“Nonsense! tell me. You’ve got a message?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“You—you have a letter?”
“No,” said Dally, shaking her head, and struggling just a little for appearance’ sake.
“Is she coming, then?”
“No, she isn’t; for she’s too ill.”
“Eh? Nonsense!”
“But indeed she is, sir, and confined to her bed.”
“And she sent you, Dally. Oh! how good of her.”
“No, nor she didn’t send me neither, Mr Candlish; and do let go. You shouldn’t.”
“Has she caught a cold, Dally?”
“Horrid bad one; and she’s gone right off her head.”
“Gammon!”
“She has, indeed, sir; and me and cook had to hold her down: she was so bad.”
“Hold her down?”
“Yes; and she kept on talking in a hurry like, all about the hunting and falling in the water.”
“Did she say anything about me?” said Tom Candlish eagerly.
“About you? I should think not, indeed. You men seem to think that ladies are always thinking about you. Such stuff!”
Then a long amount of whispering took place, Tom Candlish being one of those gentlemen who never fret after the absent, but possess a sailor-like power of taking the good the gods provide.
At the end of five minutes there was the sound of a smart smack—not a kiss, but the contact of a palm upon a cheek.
Then, from out the darkness came the expression, “You saucy jade!” following upon the rush of feet in flight.
A minute later the swing gate leading into the Rectory grounds was heard to clap to, and Tom Candlish stopped in his pursuit and walked home across the fields.
Chapter Eighteen.Leo makes a Confession.“Yes, doctor, I’m better, and you needn’t come again.”“Yes, you’re better, Moredock. Seen any more ghosts?”“Nay; I never see no ghosts. I only see what I did see; but how’s young miss up yonder?”Horace North’s brow wrinkled, and his voice sounded stern.“Ill, Moredock—seriously ill. Violent fever.”“Fever—fever!” said the old man, backing away with unwonted excitement.“Yes, fever, you selfish old rascal!” cried the doctor irascibly. “You oughtn’t to be afraid of catching a fever at your time of life.”“But I am, doctor—I am,” said the old man, with a peculiar change in his voice. “You see, I’ve just been ill, and it would be very hard to be ill again. Is—is it ketching?”“No!” roared the doctor angrily; “not at all. There, take care of yourself, and don’t go to the church again in the dark.”“I shall go to the church as often as I like and when I like,” grumbled the old man. “It’s my church; but, I say, doctor, is it likely to be—eh?—you know—job for me?”North looked at him with an expression of horror and loathing that made the old man stare.“Why, you hideous old ghoul!” he cried; “do you want me to strangle you? Ugh!”He hurried out of the cottage, and Moredock rose slowly and followed him as far as the door.“What’s he mean by that? Gool? What’s a gool? He’s been drinking. I see his hand shake; that’s what’s the matter with him; and I’m glad he hasn’t got to mix no physic for me this morning. Now, I wonder what he takes. Them doctors goes into their sudgeries, and mixes theirselves drops as makes ’em on direckly. Old Borton used to, and I buried him. He’s making a bad job of it up at the Rectory, and he’s drinking, but I put him out by speaking of it. Ay, there he goes in at the Rect’ry gate. Wonder whether they’ll have a tomb for her, or a plain grave.”Leo Salis had looked for some hours past as if one or the other would be necessary, and Moredock’s words had seemed to North as if each bore a sting.So bad was the patient that when he reached the Rectory that day he decided to stay.“I’d say, send for other advice directly, Salis,” he said drearily; “but if you had the heads of the profession here, they could do nothing but wait. The fever will run its course. We can do nothing but watch.”“And pray,” said Salis sternly.“And pray,” said the doctor, repeating his words. “Will you send over to the town, and telegraph?”“No,” replied the curate. “I have confidence in you, North.”He said no more, but turned into his study to hide his emotion, while North crossed to where poor helpless Mary lay back in her chair, looking white and ten years older as her eyes sought his, dumbly asking for comfort.He took her hand, and kissed it, retaining it in his for a few minutes, as he stood talking to her, trying to instil hope, and little thinking of the agony he caused.“I’ll go to her now,” he said. “There, try and be hopeful and help me to cheer up poor Hartley. He wants comfort badly. I’ll come and tell you myself if there is any change.”“The truth,” said Mary faintly.“The truth? Yes: to you,” he said meaningly; and his words seemed to convey that she was so old in suffering that she could bear to be told anything, though perhaps it might be withheld from her brother.Mrs Milt, who had been an untiring watcher by the sick-bed, made her report—one that she had had to repeat again and again—of restless mutterings and delirium: otherwise no change.“No, Mrs Milt, we have not reached the climax yet,” said North, sighing.“There, go and lie down, my good soul,” he added after a short examination; “you must be tired out.”“Tired, but not tired out, sir,” said the old lady. “Poor child! she has something on her mind, too, which frets her.”“Indeed!” said North. “Yes,” continued Mrs Milt, in a whisper. “She keeps muttering about tellinghimsomething—confessing, she calls it sometimes.”“Some old trouble come up into her brain,” said the doctor; and he sat down by the bedside, to gaze at Leo’s flushed face as she lay there with her eyes half closed, apparently sleeping heavily now.“Not yet, not yet,” sighed North, as he took the hot, dry hand in his, and a shiver ran through him as he thought of the old sexton’s words, and wondered whether he would be able to save her—so young and beautiful—from so sad a fate.“Poor child!” he said, half aloud; and then he sat on, hour after hour, wondering whether it would be possible to do more; whether he had done everything that medical skill could devise; and finally, as he came to the conclusion that he had thoroughly done his duty by his patient, his heart sank, and he owned to himself that in some instances he and the rest of the disciples of the great profession were singularly impotent, and merely attendants on Nature’s will.Salis came up from time to time, to enter the room softly, and mutely interrogate his friend, and then go sadly back to his study—where Mary sat with him—to give her such news as he had to bear, and join with her in watching and praying for the wilful sister they both so dearly loved.It was getting towards nine o’clock on the gloomy, stormy winter’s night when, after softly replenishing the fire, as North was returning to his place by the bed, he heard a faint sigh, and bending down over his patient, he found that her eyes were wide open—not in a fixed, delirious stare, full of excitement, but calm and subdued, while a sweet smile passed into her expression as his face neared hers.“Is that dreadful old woman there?” she whispered.“No,” he said, laying his hand upon her forehead. “I am alone.”“Then I will speak,” she said, in a low, passionate voice. “You have not known—you have not believed it possible—but tell me, I have been very ill?”“Yes,” he said gently, “you have been ill; but don’t talk—try and rest.”“I have been very ill, and I may die, and then you would never know,” she whispered quickly. “It is no time, then, for a foolish, girlish reserve. I may have been light and frivolous—coquettish too—but beneath it all I have loved you, and you alone. I do love you with all my heart.”Two soft, white arms were thrown about Horace North’s neck, to draw him closer to his patient’s gently heaving breast.
“Yes, doctor, I’m better, and you needn’t come again.”
“Yes, you’re better, Moredock. Seen any more ghosts?”
“Nay; I never see no ghosts. I only see what I did see; but how’s young miss up yonder?”
Horace North’s brow wrinkled, and his voice sounded stern.
“Ill, Moredock—seriously ill. Violent fever.”
“Fever—fever!” said the old man, backing away with unwonted excitement.
“Yes, fever, you selfish old rascal!” cried the doctor irascibly. “You oughtn’t to be afraid of catching a fever at your time of life.”
“But I am, doctor—I am,” said the old man, with a peculiar change in his voice. “You see, I’ve just been ill, and it would be very hard to be ill again. Is—is it ketching?”
“No!” roared the doctor angrily; “not at all. There, take care of yourself, and don’t go to the church again in the dark.”
“I shall go to the church as often as I like and when I like,” grumbled the old man. “It’s my church; but, I say, doctor, is it likely to be—eh?—you know—job for me?”
North looked at him with an expression of horror and loathing that made the old man stare.
“Why, you hideous old ghoul!” he cried; “do you want me to strangle you? Ugh!”
He hurried out of the cottage, and Moredock rose slowly and followed him as far as the door.
“What’s he mean by that? Gool? What’s a gool? He’s been drinking. I see his hand shake; that’s what’s the matter with him; and I’m glad he hasn’t got to mix no physic for me this morning. Now, I wonder what he takes. Them doctors goes into their sudgeries, and mixes theirselves drops as makes ’em on direckly. Old Borton used to, and I buried him. He’s making a bad job of it up at the Rectory, and he’s drinking, but I put him out by speaking of it. Ay, there he goes in at the Rect’ry gate. Wonder whether they’ll have a tomb for her, or a plain grave.”
Leo Salis had looked for some hours past as if one or the other would be necessary, and Moredock’s words had seemed to North as if each bore a sting.
So bad was the patient that when he reached the Rectory that day he decided to stay.
“I’d say, send for other advice directly, Salis,” he said drearily; “but if you had the heads of the profession here, they could do nothing but wait. The fever will run its course. We can do nothing but watch.”
“And pray,” said Salis sternly.
“And pray,” said the doctor, repeating his words. “Will you send over to the town, and telegraph?”
“No,” replied the curate. “I have confidence in you, North.”
He said no more, but turned into his study to hide his emotion, while North crossed to where poor helpless Mary lay back in her chair, looking white and ten years older as her eyes sought his, dumbly asking for comfort.
He took her hand, and kissed it, retaining it in his for a few minutes, as he stood talking to her, trying to instil hope, and little thinking of the agony he caused.
“I’ll go to her now,” he said. “There, try and be hopeful and help me to cheer up poor Hartley. He wants comfort badly. I’ll come and tell you myself if there is any change.”
“The truth,” said Mary faintly.
“The truth? Yes: to you,” he said meaningly; and his words seemed to convey that she was so old in suffering that she could bear to be told anything, though perhaps it might be withheld from her brother.
Mrs Milt, who had been an untiring watcher by the sick-bed, made her report—one that she had had to repeat again and again—of restless mutterings and delirium: otherwise no change.
“No, Mrs Milt, we have not reached the climax yet,” said North, sighing.
“There, go and lie down, my good soul,” he added after a short examination; “you must be tired out.”
“Tired, but not tired out, sir,” said the old lady. “Poor child! she has something on her mind, too, which frets her.”
“Indeed!” said North. “Yes,” continued Mrs Milt, in a whisper. “She keeps muttering about tellinghimsomething—confessing, she calls it sometimes.”
“Some old trouble come up into her brain,” said the doctor; and he sat down by the bedside, to gaze at Leo’s flushed face as she lay there with her eyes half closed, apparently sleeping heavily now.
“Not yet, not yet,” sighed North, as he took the hot, dry hand in his, and a shiver ran through him as he thought of the old sexton’s words, and wondered whether he would be able to save her—so young and beautiful—from so sad a fate.
“Poor child!” he said, half aloud; and then he sat on, hour after hour, wondering whether it would be possible to do more; whether he had done everything that medical skill could devise; and finally, as he came to the conclusion that he had thoroughly done his duty by his patient, his heart sank, and he owned to himself that in some instances he and the rest of the disciples of the great profession were singularly impotent, and merely attendants on Nature’s will.
Salis came up from time to time, to enter the room softly, and mutely interrogate his friend, and then go sadly back to his study—where Mary sat with him—to give her such news as he had to bear, and join with her in watching and praying for the wilful sister they both so dearly loved.
It was getting towards nine o’clock on the gloomy, stormy winter’s night when, after softly replenishing the fire, as North was returning to his place by the bed, he heard a faint sigh, and bending down over his patient, he found that her eyes were wide open—not in a fixed, delirious stare, full of excitement, but calm and subdued, while a sweet smile passed into her expression as his face neared hers.
“Is that dreadful old woman there?” she whispered.
“No,” he said, laying his hand upon her forehead. “I am alone.”
“Then I will speak,” she said, in a low, passionate voice. “You have not known—you have not believed it possible—but tell me, I have been very ill?”
“Yes,” he said gently, “you have been ill; but don’t talk—try and rest.”
“I have been very ill, and I may die, and then you would never know,” she whispered quickly. “It is no time, then, for a foolish, girlish reserve. I may have been light and frivolous—coquettish too—but beneath it all I have loved you, and you alone. I do love you with all my heart.”
Two soft, white arms were thrown about Horace North’s neck, to draw him closer to his patient’s gently heaving breast.