Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.Salis Makes a Discovery.“I cannot interfere, really, my dear Mary—I cannot interfere. Mrs Berens is a friend of yours, and one of my parishioners, but what can I do?”“She is alone in the world, and in great trouble.”“But here is a foolish woman; goes and listens to a plausible lawyer, and makes at his suggestion a number of investments, and then repents and comes to the parson.”“Well, to whom better?” said Mary, smiling.“For advice over her sins it would be right enough,” said Salis.“I don’t think Mrs Berens has any. If so, dear, they must be only small ones.”“But to come to the parson for help on money matters is absurd. This is the third time she has been.”“Yes, dear.”“It is not as if the investments had gone wrong.”“No, dear; she mistrusts Mr Thompson.”“Perhaps without reason. Let her get the money back, then, at as little loss as she can, and put it in consols.”“There, you see, you can give good advice, Hartley.”“Oh, any noodle could give advice like that. It isn’t perfect.”“No, dear,” said Mary sadly; “for Mrs Berens says that this Mr Thompson tells her it is impossible to withdraw now, and it seems he has been very angry with her—almost threatening.”“Confound his insolence!”“He told her she ought not to have invested if she meant to change her mind, and that she is making a fool of him.”“Impossible!” said Salis sharply. “She might make him a rogue.”“You will help her, will you not, Hartley?”“Well, I’ll see what I can do; but I shall be an unfair advocate, for I hate that man.”“And you will go and see Mr North to-day.”“Perhaps,” said Salis. “He faithfully promised to send for me when I could be of any use, and I may do more harm than good by forcing myself there.”Three days had passed since the last visit, and the suspicions which had flashed through the curate’s brain had faded away as soon as he had found himself questioned by Mary, and felt how much she would be alarmed if he alluded to several little matters in connection with his interview.“The fact is,” he had said to himself, “my imagination is too active, and I am ready to invent horrors and troubles which are never likely to exist.”It had been a busy morning, for one of the rector’s customary lectures on the management of the parish had arrived; and it was only by Mary’s special request that a sharp retort had not been sent back to a remark in the rector’s letter to the effect that he was glad Mr Salis had taken his advice respecting his sister’s appearance in the hunting-field, and had put down the unnecessary horse.“It makes me feel disposed to go and borrow of Horace North, and immediately set up a carriage and pair, with servants in livery of mustard and washing blue.”This was an attempt at being comic in allusion to the rector’s showy liveries, which generally created a sensation in King’s Hampton when he came down to the neighbouring place and went for a drive.Mary smiled and went on with her work.“How is Leo this morning?”“Much better, I think. She was sitting with me for a long time yesterday evening. Hartley, I am sure she is undergoing a great change.”“I am very glad, dear,” said Salis sadly.“She seemed so quiet and affectionate to me.”“Why, of course. Who would not be?” said the curate affectionately.“She seemed unwilling to leave me, and kissed me very tenderly when she went to bed.”“I’m very glad, dear,” said Salis; “but I wish she would give up confining herself so to her room. It will grow into a habit.”“Let us wait,” said Mary. “Yes, dear,” said Salis, looking sadly from the window as he dwelt upon the lives of his two sisters. “Time cures a great many ills.”“Yes,” said Mary gravely. “What did Moredock want this morning?”“Wine,” said Salis shortly. “And it’s my belief the old rascal can afford to buy it far better than I can.”“And you gave him some?”“No,” said Salis, with a droll look; “the last bottle in number one bin, of the four we stood up six weeks ago, went to poor Sally Drugate.”“To be sure, yes,” said Mary. “She had two of the others, had she not?”“Yes, dear,” said Salis, who was trying hard to get a hair out of his pen. “Old Mrs Soames had the other. By the way, Mary, oughtn’t we to have laid down that wine?”“I believe wine drinkers do generally lay down wine,” said Mary, smiling. “But what difference does it make?”“They say it keeps better,” said the curate drily. “Ours keeps very badly. By the way, Moredock incidentally gave me a bit of news.”“What, dear?”“Tom Candlish has gone from the Hall for a tour they say, to restore his health.”“Left the Hall?”“Yes, and I hope it will be many months before he returns.”“Yes,” said Mary softly; “it will be better. There, now you will go on and see Mr North.”“Oh, dear! who would be a slave?” sighed the curate. “Yes, madam, I will go, and when I come back I ought to go and see Mrs Berens, and then I shall be led into acts which will cause Mr Thompson to commence an action against me. Result: ruin, and our quitting Duke’s Hampton.”“Did you not say to me that your imagination was too active?” said Mary, smiling.“Yes, I did. What then?”“You were quite right,” said Mary; “it is.”Salis laughed and went on his mission, but in half-an-hour he was back, and Mary looked up at him wonderingly.“Back so soon?” she said; and then with her heart beating frightfully, and a look of agony in her face that came as a revelation to Salis, she stretched out her hands to her brother, her fingers twitching spasmodically, as she uttered a wild cry, which brought him to her feet.“Mary! My dear child! Be calm!” he panted, for he was evidently out of breath.“Speak!” she cried. “Have pity on my helplessness. I am chained here by my affliction, and depend on you alone. Don’t torture me—don’t keep me in suspense. Horace North?”“Yes; only be calm, dear.”“You are temporising,” cried the poor girl wildly, as she clung to his hands and began to kiss them passionately. “Hartley—Hartley, for pity’s sake, speak!”“If you will only be calm,” he cried angrily. “This is hysterical madness. You are hindering me when I come back to you for help and advice.”Mary uttered a piteous moan, and set her teeth, as she clung still to her brother’s hands.“Tell me the worst,” she implored. “I can bear that more easily than this suspense.”Salis gazed at his sister more wildly, as he, for the first time, read, in her anguished looks and broken words, the secret which she had kept so well.For the moment he was as one in a nightmare. He strove to speak, but something seemed to keep him dumb, while all the time she kept on moaning appeal after appeal to him to tell her all.“I thought little of it then,” he said; “but now the idea seems to have grown stronger and more terrible. Words he used which I did not heed then seem to bear a terrible import now, and I cannot help thinking that something ought to be done.”“You saw him just now?” said Mary hastily.“No, but I spoke with Mrs Milt, and she is terribly uneasy. Mary, dear, for your own sake, spare me this.”“No,” said the suffering woman sternly; “you can tell me nothing so bad as I shall imagine if you are silent. Tell me the very worst. He is dead?”“No, no, no!” cried Salis; “but I fear for him. He is not in a condition to be left, and yet, strive how I may, I cannot get him to listen to reason.”“But you have not seen him again?”“No; he is now shut up in the library, and Mrs Milt has a terrible account of his eccentricity; she fears that he is going—”“No, no, no! Don’t say that,” cried Mary; “it is too horrible. But quick! What are you going to do?”“Drive over to King’s Hampton, take the train to Lowcaster, and come back with two of the principal physicians.”“No,” said Mary sharply. “Telegraph at once to Mr Delton. Tell him his friend North is in urgent need of his help. He believes in North, and looks upon him almost as a son. His advice will be worth that of a dozen Lowcaster physicians.”“Mary, you’re a pearl among women,” cried Salis.“Don’t stop to speak,” she cried, with an energy that startled him. “Your friend’s life—his reason—is in peril. Go!”“My friend; the man that poor broken-spirited creature loves,” muttered Salis, as he hurried away, and was soon after urging his hired pony to a gallop.“Oh, what moles we men are!” he said, as the hedges and trees flew by him. “But who could have suspected her of caring for him? Lying crushed and broken there, and no one suspecting the agonies she must have suffered.”Realising by slow degrees the depth of his sister’s love for North, and the life she must have led, Salis urged the pony on to reach King’s Hampton at last, and hurry to the post-office, to despatch his telegram beseeching the old doctor to send a reply; and for this he determined to sit down and wait, but only to pace the coffee-room of the nearest hotel, with his mind a chaos of bewildering ideas, as he wondered what was to be the end of this new trouble which had come upon his house.
“I cannot interfere, really, my dear Mary—I cannot interfere. Mrs Berens is a friend of yours, and one of my parishioners, but what can I do?”
“She is alone in the world, and in great trouble.”
“But here is a foolish woman; goes and listens to a plausible lawyer, and makes at his suggestion a number of investments, and then repents and comes to the parson.”
“Well, to whom better?” said Mary, smiling.
“For advice over her sins it would be right enough,” said Salis.
“I don’t think Mrs Berens has any. If so, dear, they must be only small ones.”
“But to come to the parson for help on money matters is absurd. This is the third time she has been.”
“Yes, dear.”
“It is not as if the investments had gone wrong.”
“No, dear; she mistrusts Mr Thompson.”
“Perhaps without reason. Let her get the money back, then, at as little loss as she can, and put it in consols.”
“There, you see, you can give good advice, Hartley.”
“Oh, any noodle could give advice like that. It isn’t perfect.”
“No, dear,” said Mary sadly; “for Mrs Berens says that this Mr Thompson tells her it is impossible to withdraw now, and it seems he has been very angry with her—almost threatening.”
“Confound his insolence!”
“He told her she ought not to have invested if she meant to change her mind, and that she is making a fool of him.”
“Impossible!” said Salis sharply. “She might make him a rogue.”
“You will help her, will you not, Hartley?”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do; but I shall be an unfair advocate, for I hate that man.”
“And you will go and see Mr North to-day.”
“Perhaps,” said Salis. “He faithfully promised to send for me when I could be of any use, and I may do more harm than good by forcing myself there.”
Three days had passed since the last visit, and the suspicions which had flashed through the curate’s brain had faded away as soon as he had found himself questioned by Mary, and felt how much she would be alarmed if he alluded to several little matters in connection with his interview.
“The fact is,” he had said to himself, “my imagination is too active, and I am ready to invent horrors and troubles which are never likely to exist.”
It had been a busy morning, for one of the rector’s customary lectures on the management of the parish had arrived; and it was only by Mary’s special request that a sharp retort had not been sent back to a remark in the rector’s letter to the effect that he was glad Mr Salis had taken his advice respecting his sister’s appearance in the hunting-field, and had put down the unnecessary horse.
“It makes me feel disposed to go and borrow of Horace North, and immediately set up a carriage and pair, with servants in livery of mustard and washing blue.”
This was an attempt at being comic in allusion to the rector’s showy liveries, which generally created a sensation in King’s Hampton when he came down to the neighbouring place and went for a drive.
Mary smiled and went on with her work.
“How is Leo this morning?”
“Much better, I think. She was sitting with me for a long time yesterday evening. Hartley, I am sure she is undergoing a great change.”
“I am very glad, dear,” said Salis sadly.
“She seemed so quiet and affectionate to me.”
“Why, of course. Who would not be?” said the curate affectionately.
“She seemed unwilling to leave me, and kissed me very tenderly when she went to bed.”
“I’m very glad, dear,” said Salis; “but I wish she would give up confining herself so to her room. It will grow into a habit.”
“Let us wait,” said Mary. “Yes, dear,” said Salis, looking sadly from the window as he dwelt upon the lives of his two sisters. “Time cures a great many ills.”
“Yes,” said Mary gravely. “What did Moredock want this morning?”
“Wine,” said Salis shortly. “And it’s my belief the old rascal can afford to buy it far better than I can.”
“And you gave him some?”
“No,” said Salis, with a droll look; “the last bottle in number one bin, of the four we stood up six weeks ago, went to poor Sally Drugate.”
“To be sure, yes,” said Mary. “She had two of the others, had she not?”
“Yes, dear,” said Salis, who was trying hard to get a hair out of his pen. “Old Mrs Soames had the other. By the way, Mary, oughtn’t we to have laid down that wine?”
“I believe wine drinkers do generally lay down wine,” said Mary, smiling. “But what difference does it make?”
“They say it keeps better,” said the curate drily. “Ours keeps very badly. By the way, Moredock incidentally gave me a bit of news.”
“What, dear?”
“Tom Candlish has gone from the Hall for a tour they say, to restore his health.”
“Left the Hall?”
“Yes, and I hope it will be many months before he returns.”
“Yes,” said Mary softly; “it will be better. There, now you will go on and see Mr North.”
“Oh, dear! who would be a slave?” sighed the curate. “Yes, madam, I will go, and when I come back I ought to go and see Mrs Berens, and then I shall be led into acts which will cause Mr Thompson to commence an action against me. Result: ruin, and our quitting Duke’s Hampton.”
“Did you not say to me that your imagination was too active?” said Mary, smiling.
“Yes, I did. What then?”
“You were quite right,” said Mary; “it is.”
Salis laughed and went on his mission, but in half-an-hour he was back, and Mary looked up at him wonderingly.
“Back so soon?” she said; and then with her heart beating frightfully, and a look of agony in her face that came as a revelation to Salis, she stretched out her hands to her brother, her fingers twitching spasmodically, as she uttered a wild cry, which brought him to her feet.
“Mary! My dear child! Be calm!” he panted, for he was evidently out of breath.
“Speak!” she cried. “Have pity on my helplessness. I am chained here by my affliction, and depend on you alone. Don’t torture me—don’t keep me in suspense. Horace North?”
“Yes; only be calm, dear.”
“You are temporising,” cried the poor girl wildly, as she clung to his hands and began to kiss them passionately. “Hartley—Hartley, for pity’s sake, speak!”
“If you will only be calm,” he cried angrily. “This is hysterical madness. You are hindering me when I come back to you for help and advice.”
Mary uttered a piteous moan, and set her teeth, as she clung still to her brother’s hands.
“Tell me the worst,” she implored. “I can bear that more easily than this suspense.”
Salis gazed at his sister more wildly, as he, for the first time, read, in her anguished looks and broken words, the secret which she had kept so well.
For the moment he was as one in a nightmare. He strove to speak, but something seemed to keep him dumb, while all the time she kept on moaning appeal after appeal to him to tell her all.
“I thought little of it then,” he said; “but now the idea seems to have grown stronger and more terrible. Words he used which I did not heed then seem to bear a terrible import now, and I cannot help thinking that something ought to be done.”
“You saw him just now?” said Mary hastily.
“No, but I spoke with Mrs Milt, and she is terribly uneasy. Mary, dear, for your own sake, spare me this.”
“No,” said the suffering woman sternly; “you can tell me nothing so bad as I shall imagine if you are silent. Tell me the very worst. He is dead?”
“No, no, no!” cried Salis; “but I fear for him. He is not in a condition to be left, and yet, strive how I may, I cannot get him to listen to reason.”
“But you have not seen him again?”
“No; he is now shut up in the library, and Mrs Milt has a terrible account of his eccentricity; she fears that he is going—”
“No, no, no! Don’t say that,” cried Mary; “it is too horrible. But quick! What are you going to do?”
“Drive over to King’s Hampton, take the train to Lowcaster, and come back with two of the principal physicians.”
“No,” said Mary sharply. “Telegraph at once to Mr Delton. Tell him his friend North is in urgent need of his help. He believes in North, and looks upon him almost as a son. His advice will be worth that of a dozen Lowcaster physicians.”
“Mary, you’re a pearl among women,” cried Salis.
“Don’t stop to speak,” she cried, with an energy that startled him. “Your friend’s life—his reason—is in peril. Go!”
“My friend; the man that poor broken-spirited creature loves,” muttered Salis, as he hurried away, and was soon after urging his hired pony to a gallop.
“Oh, what moles we men are!” he said, as the hedges and trees flew by him. “But who could have suspected her of caring for him? Lying crushed and broken there, and no one suspecting the agonies she must have suffered.”
Realising by slow degrees the depth of his sister’s love for North, and the life she must have led, Salis urged the pony on to reach King’s Hampton at last, and hurry to the post-office, to despatch his telegram beseeching the old doctor to send a reply; and for this he determined to sit down and wait, but only to pace the coffee-room of the nearest hotel, with his mind a chaos of bewildering ideas, as he wondered what was to be the end of this new trouble which had come upon his house.
Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.A Stormy Interview.The old housekeeper had indeed a long series of eccentricities to record to Salis, speaking freely to him, as to her master’s firmest friend, though what she knew and had diminished in intensity more than magnified was but a tithe of that which had occurred.For it had been a terrible period for the young doctor. Half wrecked by the mental and bodily injuries he had received, the course he had pursued in shutting himself up alone, dreading to be surprised in suddenly uttering some wild speech or committing some vagary, had intensified the abnormal condition of his brain till his sufferings seemed to grow unbearable.One hour he felt at peace, the next he had none, and asked himself what he was to do to escape the terrible unseen presence that was always with him, never addressing him, but, as it were, making his body the medium by which he communicated with the world.“I can bear it no longer,” North said to himself at last. “There must be rest for me if I cannot shake it off.”He shuddered slightly as he paced his darkened room, knowing instinctively how many steps to take in each direction, and what to avoid. For Death, familiar as it was to him, was not without its terrors.He was so young, and, as it seemed now, the hopes of the past arose once more before him, the faith in the prizes of fame which he would win, his love for Leo, and the promises which had led him on.But so sure as these thoughts assumed form there was another to rise like a dense cloud of horror and cover everything, as he felt that, come what might, he would be haunted ever by this unseen presence—the spirit which he had freed from its envelope of clay—and this could have but one end.He felt that he had tried everything. He had forced himself to calmness, and marked out course after course of treatment such as he would have prescribed to some poor wretch who had consulted him in such a case; and when all was still at night he had stolen down to his surgery, and mingled for his own use sedatives and tonics, but all to no effect. If anything, his malady increased.Two days before Salis had gone over to King’s Hampton, Cousin Thompson came once more to his bedroom door, to beg that he would come down and see his friend.“It is impossible,” he had replied hoarsely.“But he has come down again, vastly improved by your treatment; and without you he feels that he would be a dying man. Come, you cannot refuse.”North held out for a time, and at last gave way, more from the desire of getting rid of his cousin and the patient than from any wish to repeat his advice.“I’ll come this time,” he said; “but this visit must be final. There are hundreds of doctors who can advise the man better than I.”“Doubtless,” said Cousin Thompson; “but that is not the point. There is not one in any of those hundreds in whom my poor friend will have the faith that he has in you.”The argument was unanswerable.“I will be down in a few minutes,” North said; and trying hard to master the nervous feeling which came over him, and wondering whether he could get through the interview without some absurd utterance, he drew aside the blind to accustom his eyes once more to the light.It was some moments before he could face it, and then he looked despairingly at the wan, haggard face before him in the glass.He shrank from it at first, but looked again and again, without the feeling of horror that had pervaded him before. His countenance was changed, and terribly wan and drawn; eyes and cheeks were sunken, so that the former seemed set in deep, cavernous holes; but as he gazed he did not seem to dread the sound of mocking laughter, or of some strange utterance which he could not control, and proceeded to make himself somewhat more presentable for those below.“And they come to me for help,” he muttered, “who want it more than any man on earth.”As he opened his door he frowned, for he caught sight of the old housekeeper hastily beating a retreat, and a shiver ran through him as he felt how he was watched.But he went on down into the hall, where a low murmur of voices told him that his visitors were in the drawing-room.What followed was a matter of a minute or two.He entered the room quickly, his coming having been unheard; and Cousin Thompson, who was speaking earnestly to the two gentlemen from town, started quickly away and then said hastily:“Ah, North! Why, you seem better. Let me get you a chair. You want no introductions, and I’ll leave you together.”He approached North with a chair, and the latter took it, gazing keenly at the visitors the while; but as Thompson was passing he caught him by the collar and checked him, holding him fast, as he threw the chair from him with a crash.Thompson turned white as so much curd, and tried for a moment to extricate himself, but his cousin’s grasp was like iron, and he turned a pitiable face to the two visitors, the taller of whom advanced quickly.“My dear Dr North,” he said, “pray be calm. Another seat, my dear sir; pray sit down.”North seemed as if he had not heard him. He had searchingly gazed from one to the other, and then his eyes appeared to blaze as his left hand joined his right at Thompson’s throat.“You cursed, treacherous, cowardly hound!” he literally yelled, and dashing him backward, so that he fell with a crash against a table, which was overturned, North strode from the room without another word, and made the house echo with the bang he gave the door.Thompson did not attempt to rise till the visitors held out their hands to assist him to a couch.“My dear sir, are you hurt?” asked the first man.“Hurt!” cried Thompson savagely. “Could you be half strangled and then thrown down without being hurt? But you see now. You doubted before: you see now.”“Yes, perfectly,” said the second visitor calmly. “Oh, yes, I think that we are quite satisfied now. What do you say?”“Perfectly,” said the first slowly; and as soon as the lawyer had satisfied himself that he was not seriously hurt, they adjourned to the library, where Mrs Milt was summoned to provide sherry and biscuits; and soon after the two visitors re-entered their carriage, and were driven back to King’s Hampton in time to catch the first train back to town.
The old housekeeper had indeed a long series of eccentricities to record to Salis, speaking freely to him, as to her master’s firmest friend, though what she knew and had diminished in intensity more than magnified was but a tithe of that which had occurred.
For it had been a terrible period for the young doctor. Half wrecked by the mental and bodily injuries he had received, the course he had pursued in shutting himself up alone, dreading to be surprised in suddenly uttering some wild speech or committing some vagary, had intensified the abnormal condition of his brain till his sufferings seemed to grow unbearable.
One hour he felt at peace, the next he had none, and asked himself what he was to do to escape the terrible unseen presence that was always with him, never addressing him, but, as it were, making his body the medium by which he communicated with the world.
“I can bear it no longer,” North said to himself at last. “There must be rest for me if I cannot shake it off.”
He shuddered slightly as he paced his darkened room, knowing instinctively how many steps to take in each direction, and what to avoid. For Death, familiar as it was to him, was not without its terrors.
He was so young, and, as it seemed now, the hopes of the past arose once more before him, the faith in the prizes of fame which he would win, his love for Leo, and the promises which had led him on.
But so sure as these thoughts assumed form there was another to rise like a dense cloud of horror and cover everything, as he felt that, come what might, he would be haunted ever by this unseen presence—the spirit which he had freed from its envelope of clay—and this could have but one end.
He felt that he had tried everything. He had forced himself to calmness, and marked out course after course of treatment such as he would have prescribed to some poor wretch who had consulted him in such a case; and when all was still at night he had stolen down to his surgery, and mingled for his own use sedatives and tonics, but all to no effect. If anything, his malady increased.
Two days before Salis had gone over to King’s Hampton, Cousin Thompson came once more to his bedroom door, to beg that he would come down and see his friend.
“It is impossible,” he had replied hoarsely.
“But he has come down again, vastly improved by your treatment; and without you he feels that he would be a dying man. Come, you cannot refuse.”
North held out for a time, and at last gave way, more from the desire of getting rid of his cousin and the patient than from any wish to repeat his advice.
“I’ll come this time,” he said; “but this visit must be final. There are hundreds of doctors who can advise the man better than I.”
“Doubtless,” said Cousin Thompson; “but that is not the point. There is not one in any of those hundreds in whom my poor friend will have the faith that he has in you.”
The argument was unanswerable.
“I will be down in a few minutes,” North said; and trying hard to master the nervous feeling which came over him, and wondering whether he could get through the interview without some absurd utterance, he drew aside the blind to accustom his eyes once more to the light.
It was some moments before he could face it, and then he looked despairingly at the wan, haggard face before him in the glass.
He shrank from it at first, but looked again and again, without the feeling of horror that had pervaded him before. His countenance was changed, and terribly wan and drawn; eyes and cheeks were sunken, so that the former seemed set in deep, cavernous holes; but as he gazed he did not seem to dread the sound of mocking laughter, or of some strange utterance which he could not control, and proceeded to make himself somewhat more presentable for those below.
“And they come to me for help,” he muttered, “who want it more than any man on earth.”
As he opened his door he frowned, for he caught sight of the old housekeeper hastily beating a retreat, and a shiver ran through him as he felt how he was watched.
But he went on down into the hall, where a low murmur of voices told him that his visitors were in the drawing-room.
What followed was a matter of a minute or two.
He entered the room quickly, his coming having been unheard; and Cousin Thompson, who was speaking earnestly to the two gentlemen from town, started quickly away and then said hastily:
“Ah, North! Why, you seem better. Let me get you a chair. You want no introductions, and I’ll leave you together.”
He approached North with a chair, and the latter took it, gazing keenly at the visitors the while; but as Thompson was passing he caught him by the collar and checked him, holding him fast, as he threw the chair from him with a crash.
Thompson turned white as so much curd, and tried for a moment to extricate himself, but his cousin’s grasp was like iron, and he turned a pitiable face to the two visitors, the taller of whom advanced quickly.
“My dear Dr North,” he said, “pray be calm. Another seat, my dear sir; pray sit down.”
North seemed as if he had not heard him. He had searchingly gazed from one to the other, and then his eyes appeared to blaze as his left hand joined his right at Thompson’s throat.
“You cursed, treacherous, cowardly hound!” he literally yelled, and dashing him backward, so that he fell with a crash against a table, which was overturned, North strode from the room without another word, and made the house echo with the bang he gave the door.
Thompson did not attempt to rise till the visitors held out their hands to assist him to a couch.
“My dear sir, are you hurt?” asked the first man.
“Hurt!” cried Thompson savagely. “Could you be half strangled and then thrown down without being hurt? But you see now. You doubted before: you see now.”
“Yes, perfectly,” said the second visitor calmly. “Oh, yes, I think that we are quite satisfied now. What do you say?”
“Perfectly,” said the first slowly; and as soon as the lawyer had satisfied himself that he was not seriously hurt, they adjourned to the library, where Mrs Milt was summoned to provide sherry and biscuits; and soon after the two visitors re-entered their carriage, and were driven back to King’s Hampton in time to catch the first train back to town.
Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.Mrs Milt Takes up Lunch.“The last hope gone!” cried North, as he rushed upstairs and entered his room, to close and lock the door, overcome, as it were, with a despairing dread.“I might have known it,” he panted excitedly. “The cruel, treacherous hound! I might have known that he had some hidden meaning in what he was doing. Friend from town—no faith in any one but me, forsooth! And I such a miserable, easily deceived child that I was ready to believe it all.”Without thinking of what he did, he seated himself at the dressing-table, rested his elbows thereon, and gazed straight before him in the glass, but without seeing his distorted, haggard face.“And it has come to that!” he groaned.He, in his cunning, is taking all the necessary steps, such as a legal practitioner would know to be necessary, and I am to be carried off on these men’s certificates to some death in life, while my affectionate Cousin Thompson takes possession here.“And he could,” he mused; “everything has been arranged for him. I am not mad; I am perfectly sane, but, Heaven knows, I am acting like a madman—like one possessed. I go always with this terrible shadow enveloping me, and I cannot shake it off, try how I may.“What shall I do?“Salis! No, I cannot tell him. Mr Delton? No, no, no! I could not speak out. What would they say? They must declare it to be a mania if I tell them the simple truth, and how dare I confess to having instituted those experiments on Luke Candlish?“Was ever man so cursed for his endeavours? I have branded myself as one who is mad, and I must bear the stigma.”He clenched his fist and glared before him, recalling the scene in his drawing-room, and burst into a scornful laugh—a laugh so full of savage anger that he started and looked wildly about him in dread.He calmed down though in a few minutes, and sat repeating the words that had passed.“I must have been blind not to have seen it before,” he cried aloud; “and now what is to follow?”He looked up at the light shining down through the drawn curtain, and hurriedly shut it out, to reseat himself and think.Flight! Yes, he could easily escape from his cousin and his machinations—the Continent—America—or he might boldly face him, and prove that the charge of lunacy was without basis.But how, when he dared not show his face anywhere lest he should betray himself before his fellow-men?“It is of no use,” he sighed bitterly; “I am conquered and I must succumb.“But Cousin Thompson?“Curse him!” he cried passionately, as he rose and began his old wild-beast tramp again. “What fate is too bad for such a man? Why did I not keep my hold when I had him by the throat?”He stopped short, and in a paroxysm of mental agony threw himself upon a chair, nerveless, helpless, ready to give up and think that his cousin was right, and that the sooner he was placed under restraint the better, or else sought that other way of escape from his troubles.As he writhed there in his agony, Mrs Milt was coming up the stairs with a tray covered with a fair white napkin, and on which was a covered dish exhaling an odour which the old dame had settled in her own mind would be certain to tempt her master.“Poor fellow!” she said to herself; “he’s half starving himself, and perhaps I’ve done wrong in letting him have his own way. I ought to have gone up and made him eat. He’d have scolded and abused me, but I should have done him good.”Mrs Milt had nearly reached the room, when she uttered an ejaculation of horror, and, setting down the tray upon the carpet, ran swiftly back to close a baize door.“If he heard it,” she half sobbed, “he would think poor master mad, and heaven knows what would happen then.”She hurried again to where she had left the tray, and then on to the door, as from within she heard a wild burst of boisterous laughter, and then a fierce oath, and the sounds of a struggle, ending in a crash as of a table being overturned.“What shall I do?” groaned the poor woman, as, for the moment, she clapped her hands to her face, and stopped her ears, but only to snatch them down wildly, as the strange sounds continued. “He must be alone here, and if I call for help they’ll say he’s mad.”She stood wringing her hands for a time as a terrible scene appeared to be taking place within that closed room. There was the trampling of feet—the sound as of a struggle. North’s voice in angry denunciation of some one who kept bursting forth into mocking peals of laughter, and then shouting as men shout when excited with the chase, till the room re-echoed. Then again North’s voice came, as if speaking furiously in a low voice, which changed directly afterwards to one of piteous appeal, breaking off into a moan. As the doctor’s voice ceased there was another mocking laugh, apparently from close by the door, and directly after came a crash as if a chair had been used as a weapon, a blow had been struck, and the chair shivered. While vividly painting the scene in her own mind, helped as she was by the sounds, the old housekeeper seemed to see her master hurl the portion of a broken chair which remained in his hands into the corner of the room, where it rattled upon the floor.“There’s murder being done,” panted the old woman, as she caught at the handle of the door now, and stood clinging to it, while she pressed her other hand upon her heaving bosom.As if in answer to her words, there was another coarse burst of laughter, and the sound of some one bounding to the door, two hands seeming to shake the panel, and her master’s voice came through, muffled but distinct.“Curse you! I have you now! Is there no way of forcing you back into your grave?”A loud rustling sound as of a struggle which was continued to the other side of the room, and the housekeeper’s hair felt to her as if something cold and strange were moving it, while a deathly perspiration broke out upon her face.“Who is in there with him?” she thought. “What does it mean? There must be some one there, and murder is being done. Help! help!” she shrieked in her agony of fear, as she rattled the handle of the door, and beat upon the panels. “Help! help!” and then in her horror she turned and staggered towards the stairs, as the door was flung open, she felt herself seized from behind and dragged into the room, the door swinging to, and she was forced backwards in the utter darkness, listening to the hoarse sound of the hot breath which fanned her cheek as a hand was pressed heavily over her mouth.
“The last hope gone!” cried North, as he rushed upstairs and entered his room, to close and lock the door, overcome, as it were, with a despairing dread.
“I might have known it,” he panted excitedly. “The cruel, treacherous hound! I might have known that he had some hidden meaning in what he was doing. Friend from town—no faith in any one but me, forsooth! And I such a miserable, easily deceived child that I was ready to believe it all.”
Without thinking of what he did, he seated himself at the dressing-table, rested his elbows thereon, and gazed straight before him in the glass, but without seeing his distorted, haggard face.
“And it has come to that!” he groaned.
He, in his cunning, is taking all the necessary steps, such as a legal practitioner would know to be necessary, and I am to be carried off on these men’s certificates to some death in life, while my affectionate Cousin Thompson takes possession here.
“And he could,” he mused; “everything has been arranged for him. I am not mad; I am perfectly sane, but, Heaven knows, I am acting like a madman—like one possessed. I go always with this terrible shadow enveloping me, and I cannot shake it off, try how I may.
“What shall I do?
“Salis! No, I cannot tell him. Mr Delton? No, no, no! I could not speak out. What would they say? They must declare it to be a mania if I tell them the simple truth, and how dare I confess to having instituted those experiments on Luke Candlish?
“Was ever man so cursed for his endeavours? I have branded myself as one who is mad, and I must bear the stigma.”
He clenched his fist and glared before him, recalling the scene in his drawing-room, and burst into a scornful laugh—a laugh so full of savage anger that he started and looked wildly about him in dread.
He calmed down though in a few minutes, and sat repeating the words that had passed.
“I must have been blind not to have seen it before,” he cried aloud; “and now what is to follow?”
He looked up at the light shining down through the drawn curtain, and hurriedly shut it out, to reseat himself and think.
Flight! Yes, he could easily escape from his cousin and his machinations—the Continent—America—or he might boldly face him, and prove that the charge of lunacy was without basis.
But how, when he dared not show his face anywhere lest he should betray himself before his fellow-men?
“It is of no use,” he sighed bitterly; “I am conquered and I must succumb.
“But Cousin Thompson?
“Curse him!” he cried passionately, as he rose and began his old wild-beast tramp again. “What fate is too bad for such a man? Why did I not keep my hold when I had him by the throat?”
He stopped short, and in a paroxysm of mental agony threw himself upon a chair, nerveless, helpless, ready to give up and think that his cousin was right, and that the sooner he was placed under restraint the better, or else sought that other way of escape from his troubles.
As he writhed there in his agony, Mrs Milt was coming up the stairs with a tray covered with a fair white napkin, and on which was a covered dish exhaling an odour which the old dame had settled in her own mind would be certain to tempt her master.
“Poor fellow!” she said to herself; “he’s half starving himself, and perhaps I’ve done wrong in letting him have his own way. I ought to have gone up and made him eat. He’d have scolded and abused me, but I should have done him good.”
Mrs Milt had nearly reached the room, when she uttered an ejaculation of horror, and, setting down the tray upon the carpet, ran swiftly back to close a baize door.
“If he heard it,” she half sobbed, “he would think poor master mad, and heaven knows what would happen then.”
She hurried again to where she had left the tray, and then on to the door, as from within she heard a wild burst of boisterous laughter, and then a fierce oath, and the sounds of a struggle, ending in a crash as of a table being overturned.
“What shall I do?” groaned the poor woman, as, for the moment, she clapped her hands to her face, and stopped her ears, but only to snatch them down wildly, as the strange sounds continued. “He must be alone here, and if I call for help they’ll say he’s mad.”
She stood wringing her hands for a time as a terrible scene appeared to be taking place within that closed room. There was the trampling of feet—the sound as of a struggle. North’s voice in angry denunciation of some one who kept bursting forth into mocking peals of laughter, and then shouting as men shout when excited with the chase, till the room re-echoed. Then again North’s voice came, as if speaking furiously in a low voice, which changed directly afterwards to one of piteous appeal, breaking off into a moan. As the doctor’s voice ceased there was another mocking laugh, apparently from close by the door, and directly after came a crash as if a chair had been used as a weapon, a blow had been struck, and the chair shivered. While vividly painting the scene in her own mind, helped as she was by the sounds, the old housekeeper seemed to see her master hurl the portion of a broken chair which remained in his hands into the corner of the room, where it rattled upon the floor.
“There’s murder being done,” panted the old woman, as she caught at the handle of the door now, and stood clinging to it, while she pressed her other hand upon her heaving bosom.
As if in answer to her words, there was another coarse burst of laughter, and the sound of some one bounding to the door, two hands seeming to shake the panel, and her master’s voice came through, muffled but distinct.
“Curse you! I have you now! Is there no way of forcing you back into your grave?”
A loud rustling sound as of a struggle which was continued to the other side of the room, and the housekeeper’s hair felt to her as if something cold and strange were moving it, while a deathly perspiration broke out upon her face.
“Who is in there with him?” she thought. “What does it mean? There must be some one there, and murder is being done. Help! help!” she shrieked in her agony of fear, as she rattled the handle of the door, and beat upon the panels. “Help! help!” and then in her horror she turned and staggered towards the stairs, as the door was flung open, she felt herself seized from behind and dragged into the room, the door swinging to, and she was forced backwards in the utter darkness, listening to the hoarse sound of the hot breath which fanned her cheek as a hand was pressed heavily over her mouth.
Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.An Opportune Arrival.“Silence, you mad woman! Do you want to bring them here? Do you want to have me dragged away like some miserable prisoner?”“Oh, master—dear master,” sobbed the frightened woman piteously, as the hand was removed from her lips, and she sank at North’s knees and embraced them. “What does it all mean?—what does it all mean?”“What does all what mean?”“All that noise—that noise?” sobbed the housekeeper in a broken voice. “Have you—have you killed him?”“Killed him?” cried North harshly. “Killed whom? There is no one here.”“There is—there is, sir. I heard it all.”“Hush!” cried North. “Listen. Is any one coming? Did they hear in the kitchen?”“No, sir. I couldn’t bear for any one else but me to hear it all,” sobbed the trembling woman. “I went back and shut the door.”“Then no one has heard—no one knows—but you?”“No, sir.”“My cousin?”“He has gone out, sir.”“Hah! Then it is a secret still,” muttered North.The old housekeeper struggled to her feet, for his words and manner horrified her. She alone had heard what had taken place, and it seemed to her that within a few steps her master’s victim must be lying prone, and that even her life was not safe now.Her first instinct was to make for the door, but he had hold of her wrist, and she sank once more at his feet, with a low sobbing cry.“I’m an old woman, now,” she cried, “and a year or two more or less don’t matter much.”The same harsh, mocking laugh broke out again, chilling her to the marrow, and then North uttered a hoarse, harsh expiration of the breath, and stamped his foot angrily.Then there was a pause, broken only by the old woman’s painful sobs.“My poor old Milt,” said North gently, as he raised her from the ground. “Why, what were you thinking—that I would do you any harm?”“I—I couldn’t help it, sir; but—but I don’t think so now. Oh, master—dear master, I thought you had killed some one. What does it mean?—what does it mean?”He did not answer for a few moments, and when he spoke again there was an indescribable, mournful sadness in his voice. “What are you thinking?” he said. She answered with a sob. “I’ll tell you,” he said; “you think that I am mad.”“No, no, no! master—my great, clever, noble master,” cried the old woman passionately. “Only ill—only very ill; and you can cure yourself. Yes, yes; pray say that you can!”“No,” he said bitterly. “No. It has come to the worst. There, go: I am worn out, and want to rest.”“But you will let me help you, dear,” she said, speaking with the tenderness of a mother towards the boy she worshipped with a lavish love. “Let me do something—let me help you, dear. It is overwork. Your poor brain is troubled. Let me open the window, and let in light and air, and then you shall go to bed; and I’ll bathe your poor head, and you shall tell me what to mix. You know how I can nurse and tend you now you are ill.”North took the old woman’s head between his hands as they stood there in the darkness, and kissed her on the forehead.“Yes, the best and gentlest of nurses,” he said quietly.“And you will let me help you, sir?”“Yes; but not now. It was a kind of fit you heard—nothing more. Now go. See that I am not disturbed. Perhaps I can sleep. There: you know there is no one here.”“Yes, my dear, of course—of course. I ought to have known better; I know now. And you will try to sleep?”“Yes—I promise you, yes.“Let me go down and get something for you; tell me what, and the quantities.”“Yes,” said North eagerly, for she seemed to be opening before him the gates of release from his life of horror; but he shook his head as he called to mind how familiar she was with his surgery, and that if he bade her mix what he wished, she would turn suspicious and refuse.“What shall I do, my dear?” said the old woman tenderly.“Nothing now,” he said; “sleep will be best. Let me go to sleep.”The old housekeeper sighed; but she made no opposition, and let him gently lead her to the door and shut her out, where she stood with her apron to her eyes, listening for a few moments to the loud snap given by the lock, and the dull, low sound of his pacing feet.Then the old woman seemed to change.She let fall her apron and tightened her lips. Her eyes grew keen and eager, and she gazed straight before her, deep in thought.In a few moments her mind was made up.“He must have proper help,” she said softly; and with an activity not to be expected of one at her time of life, she hurried up to her bedroom, to come out in a few minutes dressed for going out.“I must fetch help,” she said eagerly, and going to North’s door she listened for a few moments more before hurrying down to the door, when a step on the gravel made her utter a cry of joy.The man she was going to seek was coming up to the house, and the next minute she had confided to Salis all she felt and knew, and he had gone back to Mary, before hurrying away to telegraph to town.
“Silence, you mad woman! Do you want to bring them here? Do you want to have me dragged away like some miserable prisoner?”
“Oh, master—dear master,” sobbed the frightened woman piteously, as the hand was removed from her lips, and she sank at North’s knees and embraced them. “What does it all mean?—what does it all mean?”
“What does all what mean?”
“All that noise—that noise?” sobbed the housekeeper in a broken voice. “Have you—have you killed him?”
“Killed him?” cried North harshly. “Killed whom? There is no one here.”
“There is—there is, sir. I heard it all.”
“Hush!” cried North. “Listen. Is any one coming? Did they hear in the kitchen?”
“No, sir. I couldn’t bear for any one else but me to hear it all,” sobbed the trembling woman. “I went back and shut the door.”
“Then no one has heard—no one knows—but you?”
“No, sir.”
“My cousin?”
“He has gone out, sir.”
“Hah! Then it is a secret still,” muttered North.
The old housekeeper struggled to her feet, for his words and manner horrified her. She alone had heard what had taken place, and it seemed to her that within a few steps her master’s victim must be lying prone, and that even her life was not safe now.
Her first instinct was to make for the door, but he had hold of her wrist, and she sank once more at his feet, with a low sobbing cry.
“I’m an old woman, now,” she cried, “and a year or two more or less don’t matter much.”
The same harsh, mocking laugh broke out again, chilling her to the marrow, and then North uttered a hoarse, harsh expiration of the breath, and stamped his foot angrily.
Then there was a pause, broken only by the old woman’s painful sobs.
“My poor old Milt,” said North gently, as he raised her from the ground. “Why, what were you thinking—that I would do you any harm?”
“I—I couldn’t help it, sir; but—but I don’t think so now. Oh, master—dear master, I thought you had killed some one. What does it mean?—what does it mean?”
He did not answer for a few moments, and when he spoke again there was an indescribable, mournful sadness in his voice. “What are you thinking?” he said. She answered with a sob. “I’ll tell you,” he said; “you think that I am mad.”
“No, no, no! master—my great, clever, noble master,” cried the old woman passionately. “Only ill—only very ill; and you can cure yourself. Yes, yes; pray say that you can!”
“No,” he said bitterly. “No. It has come to the worst. There, go: I am worn out, and want to rest.”
“But you will let me help you, dear,” she said, speaking with the tenderness of a mother towards the boy she worshipped with a lavish love. “Let me do something—let me help you, dear. It is overwork. Your poor brain is troubled. Let me open the window, and let in light and air, and then you shall go to bed; and I’ll bathe your poor head, and you shall tell me what to mix. You know how I can nurse and tend you now you are ill.”
North took the old woman’s head between his hands as they stood there in the darkness, and kissed her on the forehead.
“Yes, the best and gentlest of nurses,” he said quietly.
“And you will let me help you, sir?”
“Yes; but not now. It was a kind of fit you heard—nothing more. Now go. See that I am not disturbed. Perhaps I can sleep. There: you know there is no one here.”
“Yes, my dear, of course—of course. I ought to have known better; I know now. And you will try to sleep?”
“Yes—I promise you, yes.
“Let me go down and get something for you; tell me what, and the quantities.”
“Yes,” said North eagerly, for she seemed to be opening before him the gates of release from his life of horror; but he shook his head as he called to mind how familiar she was with his surgery, and that if he bade her mix what he wished, she would turn suspicious and refuse.
“What shall I do, my dear?” said the old woman tenderly.
“Nothing now,” he said; “sleep will be best. Let me go to sleep.”
The old housekeeper sighed; but she made no opposition, and let him gently lead her to the door and shut her out, where she stood with her apron to her eyes, listening for a few moments to the loud snap given by the lock, and the dull, low sound of his pacing feet.
Then the old woman seemed to change.
She let fall her apron and tightened her lips. Her eyes grew keen and eager, and she gazed straight before her, deep in thought.
In a few moments her mind was made up.
“He must have proper help,” she said softly; and with an activity not to be expected of one at her time of life, she hurried up to her bedroom, to come out in a few minutes dressed for going out.
“I must fetch help,” she said eagerly, and going to North’s door she listened for a few moments more before hurrying down to the door, when a step on the gravel made her utter a cry of joy.
The man she was going to seek was coming up to the house, and the next minute she had confided to Salis all she felt and knew, and he had gone back to Mary, before hurrying away to telegraph to town.
Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.Dally’s Plans.“It’s little better than murder: it’s cruel, that’s what it is. What does he mean by being ill and shutting hisself up, and won’t see anybody? What right has a doctor to go and be ill? Yah!”Old Moredock stared his clock full in the face as it ticked away slowly and regularly in the most unconcerned way.“Yes! go it!” cried the old man, “go on marking it off, all your minutes and hours, but I don’t mean to die yet, so you needn’t think it. I’m not so old as all that, and if doctor ’ll only get well, I’ll astonish some on ’em.”He changed his position, stared at his fire, and laboriously, and with many a groan, got down his old leaden tobacco box and pipe, filled slowly, lit up, and began to smoke; but somehow he did not seem to enjoy his pipe, and removed it again and again to go on muttering to himself.“Well, suppose I did? A man must make a few pounds to keep himself out of the workhouse. They should pay the saxon better if they didn’t want him to. Tchah! What’s a few old bones?”There was an interval of smoking, and then the old man resumed his complainings.“Turning ill like that. What did he go and turn ill like that for, just as I wanted him so badly? It’s too bad o’ doctor. I wouldn’t ha’ let him go to the old morslem if I’d known he’d turn queer arterward. It’s my b’leef that young Tom Candlish gave him an ugly knock that night. But I warn’t there. Hi—hi—hi! I warn’t there. I didn’t want to be mixed up with it.”He shifted his seat, and as he did so painfully, his jaw dropped, and he sat fixed and staring at the window, where at one corner there was a curious, rough-looking object, which remained stationary for some time and then moved slowly till first one and then a second eye appeared, gazed into the little cottage interior, and slowly descended again.“Who—who—what’s that?” faltered the old man. “Is it—is it—tchah! It’s Joe Chegg, peeping and prying again to see if my Dally’s here.”Recovering from his scare, the old man smoked away viciously for a time, and then grinned hideously.“If I’d only been well,” he muttered, “and that doctor had let me have some more of his stuff, I’d ha’ took my spade and crope round by the back, and I’d ha’ come ahint that iddit and give him such a flop. Sneaking allus after my Dally, as if it was like she’d wed a thing like him.”“Why don’t doctor come?” he groaned, as a twinge made him twist painfully in his seat. “It’s about murder: that’s what it is; and they all want to get rid of me now—parson and all; and then things ’ll go to ruin about the old church. But they may get a new saxon if they like. Let ’em have Joe Chegg: I don’t care. Much good he’ll do ’em. Disgrace to the old church: that’s what he’ll be; and go in o’ Sundays smelling of paint and putty, till he most drives Parson Salis mad. Disgrace to the church: that’s what he’ll be. Eh? eh? Who’s that? Who’s that? Hallo! Eh? Who’s that at the door? You, Dally? Oh, you’ve come at last!”“Yes, gran’fa, I’ve come at last,” said the girl in a sullen tone.“I might ha’ died for all you’d ha’ cared,” grumbled the old man; “but I wouldn’t—nay, I wouldn’t do that.”Dally made no answer, but plumped herself down on the old shred hearthrug, and put her hands round one knee, so as to stare at the fire.“Well,” said the old man after a pause, “ain’t you going to speak?”Dally turned and looked at him sharply, with her brow knit and her mouth tightened up; but she only shook her head.“Never been a-nigh me for three days,” grumbled Moredock; “after all I’ve done for you. But don’t you make too sure. Young ’uns often goes ’fore old folk, and maybe I’ll bury you, and Joe Chegg too, if he don’t mind what he’s about.”Dally paid no heed, but stared at the fire.“Seen doctor?” said Moredock.Dally looked round again as if she did not quite hear his question, and then shook her head again.“Never mind; I don’t want him,” grumbled the old man. “Let him doctor hisself. I’m not so bad but what I can get well without him. I’m not worn out yet! I’m not worn out yet!”Dally paid no heed, and her curious attitude and her silence took the old man’s attention at last. He reached round painfully till he could get hold of a thick oak stick, whose hook held it upon the back of the covered arm-chair.With this the old man poked at his grandchild to draw her attention to him.“Here, Dally, what’s the matter? Here!”“Don’t!” cried the girl angrily; but he poked at her again.“Don’t, gran’fa! do you hear?” she cried, giving herself a vicious twist; but the old man only chuckled, and deliberately changing his hold upon his stick, he leaned forward, with one hand upon the arm-chair, till he could reach Dally easily as she crouched there, half turned from the old sexton, staring thoughtfully at the fire.The old man chuckled softly as he extended the stick as a shepherd might his crook, till he could hook Dally by the neck, and drew her slowly towards him, grasping the stick now with both hands.“Don’t, gran’fa!” cried the girl fiercely, as she started up and took hold of the stick with both hands, getting her neck out of the hook, and struggling with her grandfather for its possession, in which she was triumphant, and ending by nearly dragging Moredock from his seat, as she made a final snatch, obtained the stick, and threw it viciously across the room.“You—you—you nearly—you fetch that stick!”“I won’t stand it, gran’fa!” cried Dally, ignoring his command, and stamping her foot as she stared at him. “I won’t have it! If he thinks he’s got a baby to deal with, like Leo Salis, he’s mistaken.”“Eh? eh?” croaked the old man, staring at her, and forgetting the stick, as he saw the girl’s excitement.“He’s not going to play with me, gran’fa, and so I’ll tell him.”“Eh? Who, Dally? Joe Chegg?”“He said he’d marry me.”Then sharply:“He’s not going to play with me, and so I precious soon mean to tell him. He should marry me if I followed him all round the world for ever. There!”She emphasised her words with a stamp, and then, taking the old man by the shoulders, she pushed him back in his chair, and arranged his collar and tie—the one, a limp piece of linen; the other, something a little more limp and loose.“What’s the matter, Dally? What’s wrong, my gel?”“After the way he has talked to me, and then to go off like that without a word!”“But you don’t want him, Dally, and I don’t want him.”“Yes, I do; and I’ll have him, too!” cried the girl, with savage vehemence.“Nay, nay. He’s an iddit.”“Yes, I know that,” cried Dally vindictively; “and a drunken idjut; but I don’t care for that.”“He was here to-night, staring in at the corner of the windy there.”“What, Tom Candlish?” cried Dally excitedly.“Nay, nay; Joe Chegg.”“Joe Chegg!” cried Dally, in a tone of disgust that would have cut the village Jack-of-all-trades to the heart. “Who said anything about Joe Chegg? I was talkin’ about young squire.”“Eh? About young squire? Well, Dally, well? When’s it to be?”“It’s going to be soon, gran’fa, or I’ll know the reason why; I’m not going to have him playing Miss Leo off against me.”“Nay, that I wouldn’t, Dally,” cried the old man.“She’s got to mind, or she may be ill again,” cried the girl, with a vindictive look in her eyes.“Ill again! Has she, Dally? Nay, nay, nay, my gel; you mustn’t talk like that.”“Mustn’t I, gran’fa? but I will,” cried the girl. “I’m not going to be played with, and if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into a coffin—”“Eh? What?—what?” cried Moredock, the last word making him prick up his ears. “Nay, nay; don’t you talk like that, my gel. He’s a young, strong man yet.”“I say if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into his coffin, he may. But he’s got to make me Lady Candlish first.”“Lady Candlish of the Hall, eh, Dally? Lady Candlish of the Hall? Ay, ay! Let him make you Lady Candlish first, Dally.”“Yes, and then he may drink himself into his coffin as soon as he likes.”“And I’ll bury him, eh, Dally? In the old morslem, eh? And doctor can—”He stopped short with a chuckle, and rubbed his hands.“Yes, the doctor can try and stop him from drinking, for I can’t,” said Dally acidly. “It’s of no use to talk to him.”“And you wouldn’t break your heart, Dally, if he was to die, would you?” said the old man, with a chuckle.“I should if he was to die now, gran’fa,” said the girl; “but when he marries me he can do what he likes.”“Ay, when he’s married you, Dally, and you’ve got the Hall and all his money. But, look here, Dally; I want doctor to come and see me and bring me some of his stuff. You go up and tell him he must come—that I say he must come; I want him. Tell him I say he is to come, and that he is to bring some o’ that stuff he give me those nights. You say o’ those nights, and he’ll know. Rare stuff, Dally, as goes right down into your toes. Rare stuff, as sets you up and makes you have a good nap sometimes.”Dally looked at the sexton searchingly.“You’re not looking well, gran’fa,” she said.“Nay, I look well enough, but I do want the doctor a bit.”“You see you’re a very old man now.”“Tchah! stuff! Old? I’m not an old man yet. Lots o’ go in me. Man takes care of himself, and he ought to live to two hundred.”“Two hundred, gran’fa!” cried the girl, looking at him wonderingly.“Ay. Why not? Look at the paytrarchs, seven and eight and nine hundred. I don’t mean to die yet, Dally,” he chuckled; “and you’ll have a long time to wait if you think you want the bit o’ money I’ve saved up.”“Where do you keep that stuff now, gran’fa?”“What stuff?” said the old man.“That stuff you used to keep in the blue bottle in the corner cupboard.”“How did you know I kept stuff in that corner cupboard?”“Because I looked,” said the girl pertly. “Then I won’t have you look in my cupboards. I—”“Why not?” said Dally calmly. “There, I know, gran’fa, most everything you’ve got. Now, tell me, what have you done with that bottle that you used to use for your eyes?”“Poured it away, and put the bottle in the fire.”“Oh, gran’fa!”“My eyes are right enough now, and I didn’t want to go some night in the dark—candles cost money, Dally—and take the wrong stuff. Doctor gives me some drops in a little bottle, and I shouldn’t ha’ liked to make a mistake.”“And you’ve thrown it all away?” said the girl in a disappointed tone.“Ay, my gel. It was poison, only to use outside, and you wouldn’t ha’ liked your poor old gran’fa to make a mistake?”“Gone!” said Dally, to herself.“Now, you go to doctor and say your gran’fa wants him. Tell him I say it’s all nonsense for him to be ill, and he must come.”“Yes, gran’fa.”“And you wait, Dally. I arn’t an old man yet, but I shall be sure to die some day, and then there’ll be a bit o’ money for you.”“I don’t want your money, gran’fa,” she said sourly, as the old man grinned and rubbed his hands.“That’s right. Good gel. Be independent,” he said. “Now go and tell doctor he must come.”Dally did not stir, but stood gazing straight before her thoughtfully.“How much does it cost to go to London, gran’fa?” she said, at last, as the old man beat upon the arm of his chair to take her attention.“Heaps o’ money—heaps o’ money. What do you want to know for?”“Because I’m going there.”“Going? What for?”“To find him and bring him back.”“Whatcher talking about? You go and fetch doctor.”“About Tom Candlish. I went to the Hall last night, and he was gone.”“What, young squire? Well, you mustn’t go after him, gel.”“Yes, I must,” said Dally, with a lurid look in her dark eyes. “I’m going after him to bring him back here, gran’fa. But are you sure you threw that stuff away?”“Ay, I’m sure enough. Now go and fetch doctor, I tell you; and ask him to give you some more of it if your eyes are bad. Now go.”Dally nodded shortly, neither displaying, nor being expected to display, any affection for her grandfather, as she left the cottage; when the old man relit his pipe and sat back thinking as he smoked.“What does she want with that stuff?” he said thoughtfully; “’tis poison, and she knowed where it was. She wouldn’t want to take none herself. She wouldn’t do that; and she wouldn’t want to give none to Tom Candlish, because that wouldn’t make him marry her. I dessay she wants it—she wants it—to—”The old man’s drowsy head had sunk back, his pipe-holding hand fell in his lap, and he slept heavily, to wake, after a few hours, cold and shivering, ready to creep to bed, murmuring against the doctor for not coming, and forgetting all about Dally and her desire to get that bottle which used to stand in the corner cupboard.
“It’s little better than murder: it’s cruel, that’s what it is. What does he mean by being ill and shutting hisself up, and won’t see anybody? What right has a doctor to go and be ill? Yah!”
Old Moredock stared his clock full in the face as it ticked away slowly and regularly in the most unconcerned way.
“Yes! go it!” cried the old man, “go on marking it off, all your minutes and hours, but I don’t mean to die yet, so you needn’t think it. I’m not so old as all that, and if doctor ’ll only get well, I’ll astonish some on ’em.”
He changed his position, stared at his fire, and laboriously, and with many a groan, got down his old leaden tobacco box and pipe, filled slowly, lit up, and began to smoke; but somehow he did not seem to enjoy his pipe, and removed it again and again to go on muttering to himself.
“Well, suppose I did? A man must make a few pounds to keep himself out of the workhouse. They should pay the saxon better if they didn’t want him to. Tchah! What’s a few old bones?”
There was an interval of smoking, and then the old man resumed his complainings.
“Turning ill like that. What did he go and turn ill like that for, just as I wanted him so badly? It’s too bad o’ doctor. I wouldn’t ha’ let him go to the old morslem if I’d known he’d turn queer arterward. It’s my b’leef that young Tom Candlish gave him an ugly knock that night. But I warn’t there. Hi—hi—hi! I warn’t there. I didn’t want to be mixed up with it.”
He shifted his seat, and as he did so painfully, his jaw dropped, and he sat fixed and staring at the window, where at one corner there was a curious, rough-looking object, which remained stationary for some time and then moved slowly till first one and then a second eye appeared, gazed into the little cottage interior, and slowly descended again.
“Who—who—what’s that?” faltered the old man. “Is it—is it—tchah! It’s Joe Chegg, peeping and prying again to see if my Dally’s here.”
Recovering from his scare, the old man smoked away viciously for a time, and then grinned hideously.
“If I’d only been well,” he muttered, “and that doctor had let me have some more of his stuff, I’d ha’ took my spade and crope round by the back, and I’d ha’ come ahint that iddit and give him such a flop. Sneaking allus after my Dally, as if it was like she’d wed a thing like him.”
“Why don’t doctor come?” he groaned, as a twinge made him twist painfully in his seat. “It’s about murder: that’s what it is; and they all want to get rid of me now—parson and all; and then things ’ll go to ruin about the old church. But they may get a new saxon if they like. Let ’em have Joe Chegg: I don’t care. Much good he’ll do ’em. Disgrace to the old church: that’s what he’ll be; and go in o’ Sundays smelling of paint and putty, till he most drives Parson Salis mad. Disgrace to the church: that’s what he’ll be. Eh? eh? Who’s that? Who’s that? Hallo! Eh? Who’s that at the door? You, Dally? Oh, you’ve come at last!”
“Yes, gran’fa, I’ve come at last,” said the girl in a sullen tone.
“I might ha’ died for all you’d ha’ cared,” grumbled the old man; “but I wouldn’t—nay, I wouldn’t do that.”
Dally made no answer, but plumped herself down on the old shred hearthrug, and put her hands round one knee, so as to stare at the fire.
“Well,” said the old man after a pause, “ain’t you going to speak?”
Dally turned and looked at him sharply, with her brow knit and her mouth tightened up; but she only shook her head.
“Never been a-nigh me for three days,” grumbled Moredock; “after all I’ve done for you. But don’t you make too sure. Young ’uns often goes ’fore old folk, and maybe I’ll bury you, and Joe Chegg too, if he don’t mind what he’s about.”
Dally paid no heed, but stared at the fire.
“Seen doctor?” said Moredock.
Dally looked round again as if she did not quite hear his question, and then shook her head again.
“Never mind; I don’t want him,” grumbled the old man. “Let him doctor hisself. I’m not so bad but what I can get well without him. I’m not worn out yet! I’m not worn out yet!”
Dally paid no heed, and her curious attitude and her silence took the old man’s attention at last. He reached round painfully till he could get hold of a thick oak stick, whose hook held it upon the back of the covered arm-chair.
With this the old man poked at his grandchild to draw her attention to him.
“Here, Dally, what’s the matter? Here!”
“Don’t!” cried the girl angrily; but he poked at her again.
“Don’t, gran’fa! do you hear?” she cried, giving herself a vicious twist; but the old man only chuckled, and deliberately changing his hold upon his stick, he leaned forward, with one hand upon the arm-chair, till he could reach Dally easily as she crouched there, half turned from the old sexton, staring thoughtfully at the fire.
The old man chuckled softly as he extended the stick as a shepherd might his crook, till he could hook Dally by the neck, and drew her slowly towards him, grasping the stick now with both hands.
“Don’t, gran’fa!” cried the girl fiercely, as she started up and took hold of the stick with both hands, getting her neck out of the hook, and struggling with her grandfather for its possession, in which she was triumphant, and ending by nearly dragging Moredock from his seat, as she made a final snatch, obtained the stick, and threw it viciously across the room.
“You—you—you nearly—you fetch that stick!”
“I won’t stand it, gran’fa!” cried Dally, ignoring his command, and stamping her foot as she stared at him. “I won’t have it! If he thinks he’s got a baby to deal with, like Leo Salis, he’s mistaken.”
“Eh? eh?” croaked the old man, staring at her, and forgetting the stick, as he saw the girl’s excitement.
“He’s not going to play with me, gran’fa, and so I’ll tell him.”
“Eh? Who, Dally? Joe Chegg?”
“He said he’d marry me.”
Then sharply:
“He’s not going to play with me, and so I precious soon mean to tell him. He should marry me if I followed him all round the world for ever. There!”
She emphasised her words with a stamp, and then, taking the old man by the shoulders, she pushed him back in his chair, and arranged his collar and tie—the one, a limp piece of linen; the other, something a little more limp and loose.
“What’s the matter, Dally? What’s wrong, my gel?”
“After the way he has talked to me, and then to go off like that without a word!”
“But you don’t want him, Dally, and I don’t want him.”
“Yes, I do; and I’ll have him, too!” cried the girl, with savage vehemence.
“Nay, nay. He’s an iddit.”
“Yes, I know that,” cried Dally vindictively; “and a drunken idjut; but I don’t care for that.”
“He was here to-night, staring in at the corner of the windy there.”
“What, Tom Candlish?” cried Dally excitedly.
“Nay, nay; Joe Chegg.”
“Joe Chegg!” cried Dally, in a tone of disgust that would have cut the village Jack-of-all-trades to the heart. “Who said anything about Joe Chegg? I was talkin’ about young squire.”
“Eh? About young squire? Well, Dally, well? When’s it to be?”
“It’s going to be soon, gran’fa, or I’ll know the reason why; I’m not going to have him playing Miss Leo off against me.”
“Nay, that I wouldn’t, Dally,” cried the old man.
“She’s got to mind, or she may be ill again,” cried the girl, with a vindictive look in her eyes.
“Ill again! Has she, Dally? Nay, nay, nay, my gel; you mustn’t talk like that.”
“Mustn’t I, gran’fa? but I will,” cried the girl. “I’m not going to be played with, and if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into a coffin—”
“Eh? What?—what?” cried Moredock, the last word making him prick up his ears. “Nay, nay; don’t you talk like that, my gel. He’s a young, strong man yet.”
“I say if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into his coffin, he may. But he’s got to make me Lady Candlish first.”
“Lady Candlish of the Hall, eh, Dally? Lady Candlish of the Hall? Ay, ay! Let him make you Lady Candlish first, Dally.”
“Yes, and then he may drink himself into his coffin as soon as he likes.”
“And I’ll bury him, eh, Dally? In the old morslem, eh? And doctor can—”
He stopped short with a chuckle, and rubbed his hands.
“Yes, the doctor can try and stop him from drinking, for I can’t,” said Dally acidly. “It’s of no use to talk to him.”
“And you wouldn’t break your heart, Dally, if he was to die, would you?” said the old man, with a chuckle.
“I should if he was to die now, gran’fa,” said the girl; “but when he marries me he can do what he likes.”
“Ay, when he’s married you, Dally, and you’ve got the Hall and all his money. But, look here, Dally; I want doctor to come and see me and bring me some of his stuff. You go up and tell him he must come—that I say he must come; I want him. Tell him I say he is to come, and that he is to bring some o’ that stuff he give me those nights. You say o’ those nights, and he’ll know. Rare stuff, Dally, as goes right down into your toes. Rare stuff, as sets you up and makes you have a good nap sometimes.”
Dally looked at the sexton searchingly.
“You’re not looking well, gran’fa,” she said.
“Nay, I look well enough, but I do want the doctor a bit.”
“You see you’re a very old man now.”
“Tchah! stuff! Old? I’m not an old man yet. Lots o’ go in me. Man takes care of himself, and he ought to live to two hundred.”
“Two hundred, gran’fa!” cried the girl, looking at him wonderingly.
“Ay. Why not? Look at the paytrarchs, seven and eight and nine hundred. I don’t mean to die yet, Dally,” he chuckled; “and you’ll have a long time to wait if you think you want the bit o’ money I’ve saved up.”
“Where do you keep that stuff now, gran’fa?”
“What stuff?” said the old man.
“That stuff you used to keep in the blue bottle in the corner cupboard.”
“How did you know I kept stuff in that corner cupboard?”
“Because I looked,” said the girl pertly. “Then I won’t have you look in my cupboards. I—”
“Why not?” said Dally calmly. “There, I know, gran’fa, most everything you’ve got. Now, tell me, what have you done with that bottle that you used to use for your eyes?”
“Poured it away, and put the bottle in the fire.”
“Oh, gran’fa!”
“My eyes are right enough now, and I didn’t want to go some night in the dark—candles cost money, Dally—and take the wrong stuff. Doctor gives me some drops in a little bottle, and I shouldn’t ha’ liked to make a mistake.”
“And you’ve thrown it all away?” said the girl in a disappointed tone.
“Ay, my gel. It was poison, only to use outside, and you wouldn’t ha’ liked your poor old gran’fa to make a mistake?”
“Gone!” said Dally, to herself.
“Now, you go to doctor and say your gran’fa wants him. Tell him I say it’s all nonsense for him to be ill, and he must come.”
“Yes, gran’fa.”
“And you wait, Dally. I arn’t an old man yet, but I shall be sure to die some day, and then there’ll be a bit o’ money for you.”
“I don’t want your money, gran’fa,” she said sourly, as the old man grinned and rubbed his hands.
“That’s right. Good gel. Be independent,” he said. “Now go and tell doctor he must come.”
Dally did not stir, but stood gazing straight before her thoughtfully.
“How much does it cost to go to London, gran’fa?” she said, at last, as the old man beat upon the arm of his chair to take her attention.
“Heaps o’ money—heaps o’ money. What do you want to know for?”
“Because I’m going there.”
“Going? What for?”
“To find him and bring him back.”
“Whatcher talking about? You go and fetch doctor.”
“About Tom Candlish. I went to the Hall last night, and he was gone.”
“What, young squire? Well, you mustn’t go after him, gel.”
“Yes, I must,” said Dally, with a lurid look in her dark eyes. “I’m going after him to bring him back here, gran’fa. But are you sure you threw that stuff away?”
“Ay, I’m sure enough. Now go and fetch doctor, I tell you; and ask him to give you some more of it if your eyes are bad. Now go.”
Dally nodded shortly, neither displaying, nor being expected to display, any affection for her grandfather, as she left the cottage; when the old man relit his pipe and sat back thinking as he smoked.
“What does she want with that stuff?” he said thoughtfully; “’tis poison, and she knowed where it was. She wouldn’t want to take none herself. She wouldn’t do that; and she wouldn’t want to give none to Tom Candlish, because that wouldn’t make him marry her. I dessay she wants it—she wants it—to—”
The old man’s drowsy head had sunk back, his pipe-holding hand fell in his lap, and he slept heavily, to wake, after a few hours, cold and shivering, ready to creep to bed, murmuring against the doctor for not coming, and forgetting all about Dally and her desire to get that bottle which used to stand in the corner cupboard.
Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.Moredock’s Medicine.“It’s like a shadow following me always,” muttered North, “and it is hopeless for me to try longer. I’ve fought and battled with it as bravely as a man could fight, and for what? I have failed; there is nothing to keep me here. Why should I stay?”“Yes,” he repeated, “I have failed—failed in my daring attempt—failed in my love—and I want rest. I can bear it no longer; what I want is rest. Ah!”He drew a long breath and then sighed, and went straight to the window, drew aside the curtain, and for the first time for many days spent about half-an-hour at his toilet, to stand at last, weak and ghastly pale, but looking, otherwise, more like the frank, manly young doctor of the past.By this time his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light, and he went and stood gazing out of the window at the pleasant woodland landscape spread before him, thinking of his future, and ignorant of the fact that the sight was soothing to his troubled brain.It seemed to him that his shadow slept, and turning from the window, after a final look across the meadows, where now and again he could see the sun glancing from the stream in the direction of the Rectory, he walked, with a fair amount of steadiness, across the floor, just as the figure of a woman appeared in the lower meadow walking hurriedly and keeping close to the hedges and clumps of trees, which gave the place the aspect of a park.As North opened the door and made for the stairs he could see that the baize door at the foot, which cut off communication with the rest of the house, was ajar, and then it moved slightly and closed.“Watched,” he said to himself; “poor old Milt! I must not forget her.”He went slowly down into the hall, and as he reached it the dining-room door, which was also ajar, closed softly, and North knit his brow and bit his lip as he turned his back to it and entered the study.He closed and locked the door after him; and, as he did so, the housekeeper’s face appeared at the baize door, and Cousin Thompson’s at that of the dining-room.Mrs Milt noticed the movement of the dining-room door, and stole softly back with a sigh, while, after waiting for a few minutes, with a peculiarly low cunning expression of countenance, Cousin Thompson took a little brass wedge from his pocket, and stuck it beneath the door, so as to hold it a few inches open, sufficiently to enable him to hear when the study was opened again, and then seated himself watchfully by the window, where he could command a good view of the principal gate.As soon as he was in the study, North looked sadly round at his books and tables, where everything was methodically arranged, and scrupulously neat and clean, the old housekeeper’s hand being visible on every side.“Poor old woman!” muttered the doctor. “As if she felt sure that I should not be ill long.”He walked to the French window, which looked out upon the green lawn with its shrubbery surroundings, beyond which were the meadows and the purling stream.It was a scene of peace and beauty that should have been welcome to the most exacting, and it was not without its effect upon the doctor, who carefully closed and fastened the window before crossing to the door leading into his surgery, which he opened, and looked in to see that the outer door was closed.Returning to the study table, the baize communication swung to, and North sat down, quite calm and collected now, and began to write.He paused to think several times, but only to go on more earnestly, till he had done, when he read that which he had written, made a slight alteration or two, and then carefully folded and placed the papers in large envelopes, one of which he directed, “To my executors,” and laid in a prominent place upon the table, where it could not fail to be seen; the other to his London medical friend.Apparently not satisfied, he took up the envelope, and placed it in another, after which he wrote upon a sheet of paper:“Mrs Milt. Place this enclosure in my executors’ hands yourself.”Then directing the outer envelope to the housekeeper, he smiled with satisfaction, and had just laid it upon the table, duly fastened down, when a faintchinkmade him turn his head in the direction of the surgery.North listened, and the faint sound of a bottle touching another was repeated.He rose and went softly to the door, which was not latched, opened it, and saw a hand dart down that was extended, as he stood face to face with Dally Watlock.In his surprise North did not speak, for he had been under the impression that he had fastened the door, and this gave the girl time to recover herself.“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, with a smile; “I only pushed that bottle back in its place. It was nearly off the shelf.”“What do you want?” said North sharply.“Gran’fa, please sir, said I was to come on and tell you he wanted you.”“Tell him I can’t come,” said North shortly. “Why did you come here, and not to the front?”“Oh, wasn’t this right, sir?” said Dally apologetically. “I am so sorry, sir. But gran’fa said: ‘Go to Dr North’s surgery,’ and I came here. Please, sir, he says you’re to send him some of that same stuff you gave him before.”North stood with his brows knit for a moment, and then went to a cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy, half full, and handed it to the girl.“Take that,” he said, “and tell him to use it discreetly. I cannot come.”“Oh, thank you, sir. Gran’fa ’ll be so pleased, sir; and master ’ll be so glad when I tell him you’re so much better; and Miss Mary, too.”North winced, and then frowned, as he passed the girl to open the outer door, and feign her to go.She smiled and curtsied as she passed out, the door being closed sharply behind her, and she heard a bolt shoot.“Yes,” she muttered, with her countenance changing as she thrust the bottle carefully into her dress-pocket, with the result that there was another faintchink; “you may lock it now. I don’t care. But wasn’t it near?”She hesitated for a moment, as if about to go out by the front, but Cousin Thompson was not puzzled by seeing her pass, for she returned by the way she came, down the kitchen garden to the meadows, and through them and down by the river till she reached the nearest point to the Rectory garden, through which she passed, after stopping to pick a handful of parsley to carry into the house.
“It’s like a shadow following me always,” muttered North, “and it is hopeless for me to try longer. I’ve fought and battled with it as bravely as a man could fight, and for what? I have failed; there is nothing to keep me here. Why should I stay?”
“Yes,” he repeated, “I have failed—failed in my daring attempt—failed in my love—and I want rest. I can bear it no longer; what I want is rest. Ah!”
He drew a long breath and then sighed, and went straight to the window, drew aside the curtain, and for the first time for many days spent about half-an-hour at his toilet, to stand at last, weak and ghastly pale, but looking, otherwise, more like the frank, manly young doctor of the past.
By this time his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light, and he went and stood gazing out of the window at the pleasant woodland landscape spread before him, thinking of his future, and ignorant of the fact that the sight was soothing to his troubled brain.
It seemed to him that his shadow slept, and turning from the window, after a final look across the meadows, where now and again he could see the sun glancing from the stream in the direction of the Rectory, he walked, with a fair amount of steadiness, across the floor, just as the figure of a woman appeared in the lower meadow walking hurriedly and keeping close to the hedges and clumps of trees, which gave the place the aspect of a park.
As North opened the door and made for the stairs he could see that the baize door at the foot, which cut off communication with the rest of the house, was ajar, and then it moved slightly and closed.
“Watched,” he said to himself; “poor old Milt! I must not forget her.”
He went slowly down into the hall, and as he reached it the dining-room door, which was also ajar, closed softly, and North knit his brow and bit his lip as he turned his back to it and entered the study.
He closed and locked the door after him; and, as he did so, the housekeeper’s face appeared at the baize door, and Cousin Thompson’s at that of the dining-room.
Mrs Milt noticed the movement of the dining-room door, and stole softly back with a sigh, while, after waiting for a few minutes, with a peculiarly low cunning expression of countenance, Cousin Thompson took a little brass wedge from his pocket, and stuck it beneath the door, so as to hold it a few inches open, sufficiently to enable him to hear when the study was opened again, and then seated himself watchfully by the window, where he could command a good view of the principal gate.
As soon as he was in the study, North looked sadly round at his books and tables, where everything was methodically arranged, and scrupulously neat and clean, the old housekeeper’s hand being visible on every side.
“Poor old woman!” muttered the doctor. “As if she felt sure that I should not be ill long.”
He walked to the French window, which looked out upon the green lawn with its shrubbery surroundings, beyond which were the meadows and the purling stream.
It was a scene of peace and beauty that should have been welcome to the most exacting, and it was not without its effect upon the doctor, who carefully closed and fastened the window before crossing to the door leading into his surgery, which he opened, and looked in to see that the outer door was closed.
Returning to the study table, the baize communication swung to, and North sat down, quite calm and collected now, and began to write.
He paused to think several times, but only to go on more earnestly, till he had done, when he read that which he had written, made a slight alteration or two, and then carefully folded and placed the papers in large envelopes, one of which he directed, “To my executors,” and laid in a prominent place upon the table, where it could not fail to be seen; the other to his London medical friend.
Apparently not satisfied, he took up the envelope, and placed it in another, after which he wrote upon a sheet of paper:
“Mrs Milt. Place this enclosure in my executors’ hands yourself.”
Then directing the outer envelope to the housekeeper, he smiled with satisfaction, and had just laid it upon the table, duly fastened down, when a faintchinkmade him turn his head in the direction of the surgery.
North listened, and the faint sound of a bottle touching another was repeated.
He rose and went softly to the door, which was not latched, opened it, and saw a hand dart down that was extended, as he stood face to face with Dally Watlock.
In his surprise North did not speak, for he had been under the impression that he had fastened the door, and this gave the girl time to recover herself.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, with a smile; “I only pushed that bottle back in its place. It was nearly off the shelf.”
“What do you want?” said North sharply.
“Gran’fa, please sir, said I was to come on and tell you he wanted you.”
“Tell him I can’t come,” said North shortly. “Why did you come here, and not to the front?”
“Oh, wasn’t this right, sir?” said Dally apologetically. “I am so sorry, sir. But gran’fa said: ‘Go to Dr North’s surgery,’ and I came here. Please, sir, he says you’re to send him some of that same stuff you gave him before.”
North stood with his brows knit for a moment, and then went to a cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy, half full, and handed it to the girl.
“Take that,” he said, “and tell him to use it discreetly. I cannot come.”
“Oh, thank you, sir. Gran’fa ’ll be so pleased, sir; and master ’ll be so glad when I tell him you’re so much better; and Miss Mary, too.”
North winced, and then frowned, as he passed the girl to open the outer door, and feign her to go.
She smiled and curtsied as she passed out, the door being closed sharply behind her, and she heard a bolt shoot.
“Yes,” she muttered, with her countenance changing as she thrust the bottle carefully into her dress-pocket, with the result that there was another faintchink; “you may lock it now. I don’t care. But wasn’t it near?”
She hesitated for a moment, as if about to go out by the front, but Cousin Thompson was not puzzled by seeing her pass, for she returned by the way she came, down the kitchen garden to the meadows, and through them and down by the river till she reached the nearest point to the Rectory garden, through which she passed, after stopping to pick a handful of parsley to carry into the house.