Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.

Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.Doctor and Patient.“Keep him off! He wants to murder me!”“My good fellow,” said Salis sternly, “you are trying to murder yourself. Sit still, or I’ll hold you down. If you don’t know what’s good for yourself, it’s fit some one should.”“But I tell you—”“And I tell you,” cried Salis angrily, for Tom Candlish’s fierce obstinacy was teaching him that the clerical garb and years of mental repression will not quite crush out the natural man.“It’s very good of you to come, North,” he said, crossing to his friend. “Getting up out of a sick bed, too, for the cause of this brute. I wish sometimes that education did not force us to be so extremely benevolent and philanthropic overmauvais sujets; but it does. Are you better?”“Yes,” said North hastily; and his face being free from marks, he was able to confront his friend boldly. “I knew there was no doctor within reach, and I was afraid the case might be turning serious. Let’s see.”He walked up to the bed, with Tom Candlish quailing before him, and watching his eyes as some timid animal might when expecting capture or a blow.“I protest—I—”“Hold your tongue, sir,” cried Salis sternly. “Dr North is here for your good. Lie still.”“I don’t know whether my way is right,” he added to himself, “but firmness appears to be best with the brute.”North seemed to hesitate a few minutes—fighting between routine, the desire to do what was right by the man he believed he had nearly killed, and his intense dislike, even hatred, of the scoundrel for whom he told himself he had been jilted by a wretched, shameless girl.Salis looked on curiously.“Effect of the power of the eye,” he said to himself, as he saw North lay his hands upon the injured man’s shoulders, and, bending down, gaze into his eyes for a few moments. “By George! Horace North is a big fellow in his profession, and I shall begin to believe in psychology, mesmerism, animal magnetism, and the rest of it, before I’ve done.”He leaned forward to gaze intently at what was going on.“Quells him at once,” he said to himself. “Humph! he needn’t be quite so rough.”This was consequent upon a quick, brusque examination of the patient, which evidently gave Tom Candlish a great deal of pain.“Here, parson!” he yelled; “this man’s—”He did not finish, for North’s teeth grated together, and he tightened his grasp so firmly that Tom Candlish’s head sank back, his battered face elongated, and he lay perfectly still, feeling quite at the mercy of his enemy.North ended his examination by literally thrusting Tom Candlish back upon his pillow in a way which made Salis stare.“He will not hurt, save to do plenty more mischief, Salis. Look here; have you sent for Dr Benson?”“Yes, sir,” said the butler wonderingly.“Your master will be all right till he comes. Tell Dr Benson that I only came in upon the emergency. I have nothing to do with the case.”“Certainly, sir.”“And,” said North savagely, and evidently for Tom Candlish to hear, “if your master wishes to commit suicide, put that brandy decanter by his side. He smells of it now like poison. Come along, Salis.”“You think him fit to be left?”“Fit to be left!” cried North, whose uneasy conscience was now at rest. “Here: come away.”“Why, Horace, old man, this is not like you,” cried Salis, as they were going down to the lodge gate.“Like me!” cried North, turning upon him with a searching look, and reading in his eyes his thorough ignorance of the state of affairs. “No, it is not, old boy. I’m ill. My head aches fit to split, and the sight of that man, now my nerves are on the rack, exasperates me.”“Well, never mind. It was very good of you to get up and come; but, all the same, I’m glad you did, for it has set my mind at rest as to danger. There’s no danger—you are sure?”“Sure? Yes. He has the physique of a bull. Curse him!”“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!” roared Salis, laughing in the most undignified manner, and then raising his eyes to encounter the fierce gaze of his friend.“What are you laughing at?” cried North angrily.“At Tom Candlish—the noble Sir Thomas! It’s comic, now that I know there is no danger. Why, Horace, old fellow, don’t you know how it happened?”North paused as he stared wildly at Leo’s brother.“Don’t I know how it happened?” he faltered.“It’s over some love affair, and the scoundrel has been caught.”“What?”“Yes; that’s it,” cried Salis joyously. “I don’t know for certain, and this is confoundedly unclerical, but it’s glorious. The brute! Some father or brother or lover has caught him, and thrashed him within an inch of his life. My dear Horace, I don’t know when I’ve felt so pleased.”The doctor’s face was a study of perplexity in its most condensed form. The injury to his head had tended to confuse him, so that he could not think clearly according to his wont, and he felt a longing to explain everything to, and confide in, his old friend; but he could not speak, for how could he tell him that his sister had been so base? It must come from another, or Salis must find it out for himself; he could not speak.“I’ve talked to the fellow before,” continued the curate. “I’ve preached to him; I’ve preached at him; and all the time I’ve felt like a bee upon the back of a rhinoceros, hard at work blunting my sting. Stick, sir, stick is the only remedy for an ill like that of Squire Tom, and, by George! Horace, he has had a tremendous dose.”“Yes,” said North, whose conscience felt more at ease now that he had satisfied himself as to the young man’s state.“Did you see his eyes?” cried Salis, laughing again; “swollen up till they look like slits; and won’t they be a glorious colour, too—eh, Horace, old fellow! There, don’t bully me for saying it, but you know what used to trouble me. How I should like Leo to have her disenchantment completed. I should have liked her to see the miserable brute as he is—battered and flushed with brandy.”North started violently.“There, there, I ought not to have said it, but I’m speaking of my own sister, and of something of the past which you know all about. How can girls be such idiots?”North did not speak, but walked swiftly on beside his friend, who, repenting of what he had said, and feeling that it had been in execrable taste, hastened to change the subject, so as to place the doctor at ease.“Did you hear this morning’s news?” he said.“News?” said North, turning sharply.“No; of course you could not, being ill in bed, where you’d better go again. Burglary, my boy. We’re getting on.”“Burglary?”“Yes: sacrilegious burglary, sir. One of those King’s Hampton rascals—one of May’s lambs—broke into the vestry last night.”It was on North’s lips to say furiously, “There, speak out, man! If you know all about this, say so at once;” but the words seemed to halt there, and he only gazed wonderingly as Salis talked on in his easy, good-tempered way.“Moredock came up to tell me this morning.”“Moredock?”“Yes; we were to have had the vestry meeting, you know.”“Of course: I said I was too ill to come,” said North hoarsely.“So you are. Well, the old fellow went up to dust and put the place straight, and he found that some one had broken in by the window, and had evidently been interrupted, for my gown was torn down and thrown on the floor, and they had carried off my new surplice.”“Carried off your surplice!” stammered North.“Yes,” said the curate, looking at his friend wonderingly, and thinking how ill he seemed. “Nearly new surplice, sir; and I shall have to come roundin forma pauperisfor subscriptions to get another. You will have to fund up among the rest, if you don’t want to see your poor parson in rags, or sister Mary working her poor little fingers to the bone to keep the old one darned. Ah! here we are.”The curate uttered a sigh of relief, for he had been chattering away with a purpose—to keep his friend’s attention from his state, for, as he held his arm, he could feel him reel from time to time.“Thank Heaven!” muttered North, as he staggered in at the gates of the Manor. “Good-bye, Salis, good-bye.”“Yes, I’ll say good-bye presently, old chap. It’s no use disguising the fact. You’re ill, and ought not to have come out. I shall see you to bed, and you must tell me what to do.”“No, no; I can manage,” protested North.But Salis would not go.“My dear boy, it’s of no use. You know how obstinate I am. I should stop with you if it were small-pox, so just hold your tongue. Hah! Now Mrs Milt, the doctor’s got his turn after laughing at us poor mortals so long. Let’s get him to bed, and you must help me to keep him there.”“I’m not a bit surprised,” began Mrs Milt, in a vinegary, snappish way; and then the tears started to her eyes, and she caught North’s hand in hers and kissed it. “Oh, my poor, dear master!” she sobbed.It was all momentary. The spasm passed off, and in a busy, tender, matter-of-fact way, she helped the half-delirious man to bed, when, acting upon a hint or two he gave, the old housekeeper and Salis laid their heads together to prescribe.

“Keep him off! He wants to murder me!”

“My good fellow,” said Salis sternly, “you are trying to murder yourself. Sit still, or I’ll hold you down. If you don’t know what’s good for yourself, it’s fit some one should.”

“But I tell you—”

“And I tell you,” cried Salis angrily, for Tom Candlish’s fierce obstinacy was teaching him that the clerical garb and years of mental repression will not quite crush out the natural man.

“It’s very good of you to come, North,” he said, crossing to his friend. “Getting up out of a sick bed, too, for the cause of this brute. I wish sometimes that education did not force us to be so extremely benevolent and philanthropic overmauvais sujets; but it does. Are you better?”

“Yes,” said North hastily; and his face being free from marks, he was able to confront his friend boldly. “I knew there was no doctor within reach, and I was afraid the case might be turning serious. Let’s see.”

He walked up to the bed, with Tom Candlish quailing before him, and watching his eyes as some timid animal might when expecting capture or a blow.

“I protest—I—”

“Hold your tongue, sir,” cried Salis sternly. “Dr North is here for your good. Lie still.”

“I don’t know whether my way is right,” he added to himself, “but firmness appears to be best with the brute.”

North seemed to hesitate a few minutes—fighting between routine, the desire to do what was right by the man he believed he had nearly killed, and his intense dislike, even hatred, of the scoundrel for whom he told himself he had been jilted by a wretched, shameless girl.

Salis looked on curiously.

“Effect of the power of the eye,” he said to himself, as he saw North lay his hands upon the injured man’s shoulders, and, bending down, gaze into his eyes for a few moments. “By George! Horace North is a big fellow in his profession, and I shall begin to believe in psychology, mesmerism, animal magnetism, and the rest of it, before I’ve done.”

He leaned forward to gaze intently at what was going on.

“Quells him at once,” he said to himself. “Humph! he needn’t be quite so rough.”

This was consequent upon a quick, brusque examination of the patient, which evidently gave Tom Candlish a great deal of pain.

“Here, parson!” he yelled; “this man’s—”

He did not finish, for North’s teeth grated together, and he tightened his grasp so firmly that Tom Candlish’s head sank back, his battered face elongated, and he lay perfectly still, feeling quite at the mercy of his enemy.

North ended his examination by literally thrusting Tom Candlish back upon his pillow in a way which made Salis stare.

“He will not hurt, save to do plenty more mischief, Salis. Look here; have you sent for Dr Benson?”

“Yes, sir,” said the butler wonderingly.

“Your master will be all right till he comes. Tell Dr Benson that I only came in upon the emergency. I have nothing to do with the case.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And,” said North savagely, and evidently for Tom Candlish to hear, “if your master wishes to commit suicide, put that brandy decanter by his side. He smells of it now like poison. Come along, Salis.”

“You think him fit to be left?”

“Fit to be left!” cried North, whose uneasy conscience was now at rest. “Here: come away.”

“Why, Horace, old man, this is not like you,” cried Salis, as they were going down to the lodge gate.

“Like me!” cried North, turning upon him with a searching look, and reading in his eyes his thorough ignorance of the state of affairs. “No, it is not, old boy. I’m ill. My head aches fit to split, and the sight of that man, now my nerves are on the rack, exasperates me.”

“Well, never mind. It was very good of you to get up and come; but, all the same, I’m glad you did, for it has set my mind at rest as to danger. There’s no danger—you are sure?”

“Sure? Yes. He has the physique of a bull. Curse him!”

“Ha—ha—ha—ha—ha!” roared Salis, laughing in the most undignified manner, and then raising his eyes to encounter the fierce gaze of his friend.

“What are you laughing at?” cried North angrily.

“At Tom Candlish—the noble Sir Thomas! It’s comic, now that I know there is no danger. Why, Horace, old fellow, don’t you know how it happened?”

North paused as he stared wildly at Leo’s brother.

“Don’t I know how it happened?” he faltered.

“It’s over some love affair, and the scoundrel has been caught.”

“What?”

“Yes; that’s it,” cried Salis joyously. “I don’t know for certain, and this is confoundedly unclerical, but it’s glorious. The brute! Some father or brother or lover has caught him, and thrashed him within an inch of his life. My dear Horace, I don’t know when I’ve felt so pleased.”

The doctor’s face was a study of perplexity in its most condensed form. The injury to his head had tended to confuse him, so that he could not think clearly according to his wont, and he felt a longing to explain everything to, and confide in, his old friend; but he could not speak, for how could he tell him that his sister had been so base? It must come from another, or Salis must find it out for himself; he could not speak.

“I’ve talked to the fellow before,” continued the curate. “I’ve preached to him; I’ve preached at him; and all the time I’ve felt like a bee upon the back of a rhinoceros, hard at work blunting my sting. Stick, sir, stick is the only remedy for an ill like that of Squire Tom, and, by George! Horace, he has had a tremendous dose.”

“Yes,” said North, whose conscience felt more at ease now that he had satisfied himself as to the young man’s state.

“Did you see his eyes?” cried Salis, laughing again; “swollen up till they look like slits; and won’t they be a glorious colour, too—eh, Horace, old fellow! There, don’t bully me for saying it, but you know what used to trouble me. How I should like Leo to have her disenchantment completed. I should have liked her to see the miserable brute as he is—battered and flushed with brandy.”

North started violently.

“There, there, I ought not to have said it, but I’m speaking of my own sister, and of something of the past which you know all about. How can girls be such idiots?”

North did not speak, but walked swiftly on beside his friend, who, repenting of what he had said, and feeling that it had been in execrable taste, hastened to change the subject, so as to place the doctor at ease.

“Did you hear this morning’s news?” he said.

“News?” said North, turning sharply.

“No; of course you could not, being ill in bed, where you’d better go again. Burglary, my boy. We’re getting on.”

“Burglary?”

“Yes: sacrilegious burglary, sir. One of those King’s Hampton rascals—one of May’s lambs—broke into the vestry last night.”

It was on North’s lips to say furiously, “There, speak out, man! If you know all about this, say so at once;” but the words seemed to halt there, and he only gazed wonderingly as Salis talked on in his easy, good-tempered way.

“Moredock came up to tell me this morning.”

“Moredock?”

“Yes; we were to have had the vestry meeting, you know.”

“Of course: I said I was too ill to come,” said North hoarsely.

“So you are. Well, the old fellow went up to dust and put the place straight, and he found that some one had broken in by the window, and had evidently been interrupted, for my gown was torn down and thrown on the floor, and they had carried off my new surplice.”

“Carried off your surplice!” stammered North.

“Yes,” said the curate, looking at his friend wonderingly, and thinking how ill he seemed. “Nearly new surplice, sir; and I shall have to come roundin forma pauperisfor subscriptions to get another. You will have to fund up among the rest, if you don’t want to see your poor parson in rags, or sister Mary working her poor little fingers to the bone to keep the old one darned. Ah! here we are.”

The curate uttered a sigh of relief, for he had been chattering away with a purpose—to keep his friend’s attention from his state, for, as he held his arm, he could feel him reel from time to time.

“Thank Heaven!” muttered North, as he staggered in at the gates of the Manor. “Good-bye, Salis, good-bye.”

“Yes, I’ll say good-bye presently, old chap. It’s no use disguising the fact. You’re ill, and ought not to have come out. I shall see you to bed, and you must tell me what to do.”

“No, no; I can manage,” protested North.

But Salis would not go.

“My dear boy, it’s of no use. You know how obstinate I am. I should stop with you if it were small-pox, so just hold your tongue. Hah! Now Mrs Milt, the doctor’s got his turn after laughing at us poor mortals so long. Let’s get him to bed, and you must help me to keep him there.”

“I’m not a bit surprised,” began Mrs Milt, in a vinegary, snappish way; and then the tears started to her eyes, and she caught North’s hand in hers and kissed it. “Oh, my poor, dear master!” she sobbed.

It was all momentary. The spasm passed off, and in a busy, tender, matter-of-fact way, she helped the half-delirious man to bed, when, acting upon a hint or two he gave, the old housekeeper and Salis laid their heads together to prescribe.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.A Parcel by Carrier.Dr Benson drove over daily from King’s Hampton to attend Sir Thomas Candlish, and, to do Dr Benson justice, he made a very good professional job of the injury to the young baronet, both from his own and the ordinary point of view.Tom Candlish protested, but the doctor was inexorable.“No, sir,” he said, “injuries like yours require time. Nature must be able to thoroughly mend the damage done. I could have helped her to patch you up—to cobble you, so to speak; but the tender spot would break out again. I must do my work thoroughly.”“But your drives over here—your bill will be monstrous.”“Large, but not monstrous, my dear sir,” said Dr Benson, smiling; “and what are a few pounds compared to your valuable life?”Tom Candlish lay thinking that there was something in this, and that it was far better to pay even a hundred pounds than to have been carried to the Candlish mausoleum, and without paying out North for the injuries he had received.“How’s North?” he said.“Oh, very well, I believe. Dr North and I do not meet very often. A clever young man, though—a very clever young man.”“Humph! Don’t believe in him,” said Tom Candlish. “But he has been very ill.”“Little touch of sunstroke, or something of that kind, sir. I saw his patients for two days only; then he was about again.”“Humph!” ejaculated Tom Candlish. “Doctor, I’m low to-day; I must have some champagne.”“My dear sir! out of the question.”“Brandy, then!”“Worse and worse.”“But I’m sinking. This cursed low feeling is horrible.”“Well, well!” said the doctor smoothly, as, after a moment’s consideration, he felt that the wine would only throw his patient back for a few days, and give him a longer period for attendance; “perhaps a drop—say, half a glass—would not hurt you, but I would not exceed half a glass; champagne glass, mind. Good morning.”Dr Benson took his departure, perfectly aware that the young baronet would be exceedingly ill the next morning; and so he was, for Tom Candlish had a medical sanction for taking a little champagne; and the butler produced the bottle—one of many dozens laid in by Squire Luke, who had purchased them through a friend as a special brand.It was a special brand of paraffin quality, well doctored with Hambro’ spirit; and as, after the first glass, Tom Candlish argued that the rest would be wasted or drunk by the servants, an opened bottle of the effervescent wine being useless if not utilised at once, he, in spite of the protestations of the butler, finished the bottle, and threw himself back for another week.At the Rectory, matters had settled down somewhat, the hours gliding by without any discovery being made; and, after the first excitement and dread, Leo began to feel that she would soon be able to resume her meetings with her lover.North had ceased to call at the Rectory, and they had not yet come face to face. But this troubled Leo less and less. As the days had passed on, and theéclaircissementhad halted, so had her strength of mind and feeling of defiance increased.“He dare not face me after his brutal treatment of poor Tom,” she had said; “and he knows the contempt in which I hold him. He cannot be so pitiful as to tell Hartley, intimate as he and my brother are. I have nothing to fear.”She feared, though, all the same, though she did not know from whence the stroke she anticipated would fall. Dally was extremely pert, but then she always had been. She could know nothing; and in a defiant spirit, Leo settled herself down in a fool’s paradise, eagerly waiting for the recovery of the squire.The one policeman from King’s Hampton had been over and discoursed with the one policeman of Duke’s Hamptonrethe sacrilege at the church, and they had taken into their counsel the one policeman stationed at Chidley Beauwells, a village five miles away, but they had made nothing out of that. There was the attack, though, upon the squire, which seemed very promising, and the trio waited upon him as soon as he was pronounced well enough to be seen.The injury must have had an acerbating effect upon Tom Candlish, for, to use the constables’ words, they came down out of the bedroom with fleas in their ears; and after having a horn of ale apiece, went back to the village.Their way was by the churchyard, where Moredock was sunning himself by leaning over the wall, so that the heat could play well upon his back, and he entered into conversation with the three myrmidons of the law in a questioning spirit.“Wouldn’t give you any information, would he?”“No,” said he of King’s Hampton. “Told us to go to—you know.”“No, I don’t,” said Moredock grimly, as if the allusion to this knowledge at his time of life was unsavoury. “But why wouldn’t he tell you? Don’t he want who it was caught?”“Said it was nothing of the kind,” said he of Chidley Beauwells.“Yes,” said the Duke’s Hampton man; “said it was an accident, old boy—a fall.”“Hi! Yes. I s’pose it would be,” said Moredock drily. “Squire had a nasty accident before—a fall. Some people do have accidents of that sort.”“Well,” said the Duke’s Hampton policeman, “we’ve done our duty, and that’s enough for us.”“Ay,” said Moredock. “You’ve done your dooty, and that’s enough for you.”They parted, and Moredock chuckled.“Bats is nothing and moles is telescopes to ’em. Uniforms seems to make constables blind. Well, all the better for me. Hallo! where’s carrier going to-day? Doctor’s, p’raps, with some new stuff.”The carrier was, however, not going to the doctor’s, but passed on.“Don’t quite know what to make of him,” muttered Moredock. “That crack o’ the head don’t seem to have healed up, for he looks queer sometimes. I don’t like the look of things, somehow; but we shall see—we shall see. Why don’t Dally come down, too? I wanted to know how things is going there, and she ought to ha’ got that shirt made by now.“Hi! hi! hi!” the old man laughed. “Make me two noo best shirts o’ fine linen as a man may be proud on. Ill wind as blows nobody any good.”The old man went chuckling away, as he thought over the two new Sunday shirts he was to have made out of the surplice, which, after unpicking and cutting off edgings, he had washed and dried and handed as so much new material to Dally to make up, long immunity from detection having made him daring enough to trust the linen to the very place that, to an ordinary observer, would have seemed most dangerous.But the shirts were not made yet, for Dally had declared it to be all bother, and had put the roll of linen in her drawer, inspired by a feeling that gran’fa couldn’t live much longer, and then the linen would do for her.Oddly enough, as Moredock mused upon the whiteness and coolness of the coming undergarments, the carrier stopped at the Rectory gate, and delivered a parcel, carriage paid by North Midland Railway to King’s Hampton station, but sixpence to pay for the ten miles by cart.“Dear me!” said Salis, turning over the package, which was evidently a box done up in very stout brown paper. “‘The Reverend Hartley Salis, Duke’s Hampton Rectory, Warwickshire. By N.M. Rail and Thompson, carrier. Carriage paid to King’s Hampton.’ Well, that’s plain enough, Mary.”“Yes, dear; it’s evidently for you.”“Yes, evidently for me; eh, Leo?”“Yes,” said Leo, looking up from her book for a moment, and dropping her eyes again without displaying any further interest.“It’s very curious,” said Salis, rather excitedly. “‘From Irish and Lawn, robe makers, Southampton Street.’ Why, surely—bless my soul, I never sent. I—”He busily cut the string, and opened the paper and the neatly-tied box within, to find, as, after reading the label, he had expected, that the contents consisted of a new surplice of the finest quality with a note pinned thereto, and written within, in a tremulous, disguised hand:“From an admirer.”The word “admirer” had been lightly scratched across, and “constant attendant” placed above.Salis looked at the note, and then at his sister Mary, colouring with excitement as ingenuously as a girl.“Why, Mary,” he said, “who could have sent this? Do you know?”Mary shook her head, but her eyes brightened with pleasure, as she felt how gratified her brother would be.“Did not you and Leo contrive this as a surprise?”Mary shook her head again, and Leo looked up languidly.“What is it?” she said. “A present? No,” she added, with a frown, as she saw what it was, and lowered her eyes to her book to read apparently with great interest.“Then it must be one of North’s tricks,” cried Salis. “It’s very kind and thoughtful of him, but I cannot think of letting him give me such a present as this. Look, Mary, dear. It is his writing disguised, is it not?”Mary’s hand trembled a little as she took the note and glanced at it, to detect the writer at once from a peculiarity which had not been concealed.“Well,” cried Salis, “I am right?”Mary shook her head again.“No, Hartley, it is certainly not Mr North’s writing.”“Then, in the name of all that’s wonderful, whose is it? The people would not subscribe for it. Besides, it says ‘from a constant attendant.’ Why, good heavens! it cannot be from—”Mary glanced at Leo, who was intent upon her reading, and then looked back at her brother, with a half-mischievous and amused smile, as she nodded her head.“You think so, too,” he exclaimed, in a whisper. “Oh!”There was a look of trouble and perplexity in his face that was intensely droll, for, though no name had been mentioned, both had hit upon the donor; and as the trouble deepened in the curate’s face, Mary stretched out her hand to him, and he took it, and sat down by her side.“It’s impossible,” he whispered. “I could not think of taking it. How could she be so foolish?”“It seems cruel to call it foolish,” said Mary gently. “The idea was prompted by a very kindly feeling.”“Of course, of course; but, my dear Mary, it is putting me in a false position.”“Not if you treat it as an anonymous gift.”“How can I, when I feel certain that she sent it?”“But even if you are, I think you might keep it, Hartley. See how common it is for ladies of a congregation to present the curate with slippers or braces.”“Yes,” said Salis drily; “and all out of gratitude to their spiritual teacher. Bless ’em, they throw their gifts, and the weak man thinks they are bladders to enable him to float lightly along the social current of air, when, lo! and behold, he finds, poor weak, fluttering butterfly, that one of the fair naturalists has stuck a pin through him, right into the cork, and he is ‘set up’ for life.”“Nonsense, you vain coxcomb!”“No, my dear Mary, I am not a vain man; but I can generally tell which way the wind blows. I have a certain duty to perform in connection with my two sisters—a sort of paternal rôle to play, and consequently I am rather afraid of Mrs Berens.”“Hartley, dear!”“Yes, Mary. This surplice is going to be paid for by H. Salis, clerk in holy orders, ill as he can afford to do it, or it is going back to the donor.”“But what can she do with it if your idea is correct?”“Cut it up to make little garments for the poor children, if she likes. Bother the woman: I wish she would go.”

Dr Benson drove over daily from King’s Hampton to attend Sir Thomas Candlish, and, to do Dr Benson justice, he made a very good professional job of the injury to the young baronet, both from his own and the ordinary point of view.

Tom Candlish protested, but the doctor was inexorable.

“No, sir,” he said, “injuries like yours require time. Nature must be able to thoroughly mend the damage done. I could have helped her to patch you up—to cobble you, so to speak; but the tender spot would break out again. I must do my work thoroughly.”

“But your drives over here—your bill will be monstrous.”

“Large, but not monstrous, my dear sir,” said Dr Benson, smiling; “and what are a few pounds compared to your valuable life?”

Tom Candlish lay thinking that there was something in this, and that it was far better to pay even a hundred pounds than to have been carried to the Candlish mausoleum, and without paying out North for the injuries he had received.

“How’s North?” he said.

“Oh, very well, I believe. Dr North and I do not meet very often. A clever young man, though—a very clever young man.”

“Humph! Don’t believe in him,” said Tom Candlish. “But he has been very ill.”

“Little touch of sunstroke, or something of that kind, sir. I saw his patients for two days only; then he was about again.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Tom Candlish. “Doctor, I’m low to-day; I must have some champagne.”

“My dear sir! out of the question.”

“Brandy, then!”

“Worse and worse.”

“But I’m sinking. This cursed low feeling is horrible.”

“Well, well!” said the doctor smoothly, as, after a moment’s consideration, he felt that the wine would only throw his patient back for a few days, and give him a longer period for attendance; “perhaps a drop—say, half a glass—would not hurt you, but I would not exceed half a glass; champagne glass, mind. Good morning.”

Dr Benson took his departure, perfectly aware that the young baronet would be exceedingly ill the next morning; and so he was, for Tom Candlish had a medical sanction for taking a little champagne; and the butler produced the bottle—one of many dozens laid in by Squire Luke, who had purchased them through a friend as a special brand.

It was a special brand of paraffin quality, well doctored with Hambro’ spirit; and as, after the first glass, Tom Candlish argued that the rest would be wasted or drunk by the servants, an opened bottle of the effervescent wine being useless if not utilised at once, he, in spite of the protestations of the butler, finished the bottle, and threw himself back for another week.

At the Rectory, matters had settled down somewhat, the hours gliding by without any discovery being made; and, after the first excitement and dread, Leo began to feel that she would soon be able to resume her meetings with her lover.

North had ceased to call at the Rectory, and they had not yet come face to face. But this troubled Leo less and less. As the days had passed on, and theéclaircissementhad halted, so had her strength of mind and feeling of defiance increased.

“He dare not face me after his brutal treatment of poor Tom,” she had said; “and he knows the contempt in which I hold him. He cannot be so pitiful as to tell Hartley, intimate as he and my brother are. I have nothing to fear.”

She feared, though, all the same, though she did not know from whence the stroke she anticipated would fall. Dally was extremely pert, but then she always had been. She could know nothing; and in a defiant spirit, Leo settled herself down in a fool’s paradise, eagerly waiting for the recovery of the squire.

The one policeman from King’s Hampton had been over and discoursed with the one policeman of Duke’s Hamptonrethe sacrilege at the church, and they had taken into their counsel the one policeman stationed at Chidley Beauwells, a village five miles away, but they had made nothing out of that. There was the attack, though, upon the squire, which seemed very promising, and the trio waited upon him as soon as he was pronounced well enough to be seen.

The injury must have had an acerbating effect upon Tom Candlish, for, to use the constables’ words, they came down out of the bedroom with fleas in their ears; and after having a horn of ale apiece, went back to the village.

Their way was by the churchyard, where Moredock was sunning himself by leaning over the wall, so that the heat could play well upon his back, and he entered into conversation with the three myrmidons of the law in a questioning spirit.

“Wouldn’t give you any information, would he?”

“No,” said he of King’s Hampton. “Told us to go to—you know.”

“No, I don’t,” said Moredock grimly, as if the allusion to this knowledge at his time of life was unsavoury. “But why wouldn’t he tell you? Don’t he want who it was caught?”

“Said it was nothing of the kind,” said he of Chidley Beauwells.

“Yes,” said the Duke’s Hampton man; “said it was an accident, old boy—a fall.”

“Hi! Yes. I s’pose it would be,” said Moredock drily. “Squire had a nasty accident before—a fall. Some people do have accidents of that sort.”

“Well,” said the Duke’s Hampton policeman, “we’ve done our duty, and that’s enough for us.”

“Ay,” said Moredock. “You’ve done your dooty, and that’s enough for you.”

They parted, and Moredock chuckled.

“Bats is nothing and moles is telescopes to ’em. Uniforms seems to make constables blind. Well, all the better for me. Hallo! where’s carrier going to-day? Doctor’s, p’raps, with some new stuff.”

The carrier was, however, not going to the doctor’s, but passed on.

“Don’t quite know what to make of him,” muttered Moredock. “That crack o’ the head don’t seem to have healed up, for he looks queer sometimes. I don’t like the look of things, somehow; but we shall see—we shall see. Why don’t Dally come down, too? I wanted to know how things is going there, and she ought to ha’ got that shirt made by now.

“Hi! hi! hi!” the old man laughed. “Make me two noo best shirts o’ fine linen as a man may be proud on. Ill wind as blows nobody any good.”

The old man went chuckling away, as he thought over the two new Sunday shirts he was to have made out of the surplice, which, after unpicking and cutting off edgings, he had washed and dried and handed as so much new material to Dally to make up, long immunity from detection having made him daring enough to trust the linen to the very place that, to an ordinary observer, would have seemed most dangerous.

But the shirts were not made yet, for Dally had declared it to be all bother, and had put the roll of linen in her drawer, inspired by a feeling that gran’fa couldn’t live much longer, and then the linen would do for her.

Oddly enough, as Moredock mused upon the whiteness and coolness of the coming undergarments, the carrier stopped at the Rectory gate, and delivered a parcel, carriage paid by North Midland Railway to King’s Hampton station, but sixpence to pay for the ten miles by cart.

“Dear me!” said Salis, turning over the package, which was evidently a box done up in very stout brown paper. “‘The Reverend Hartley Salis, Duke’s Hampton Rectory, Warwickshire. By N.M. Rail and Thompson, carrier. Carriage paid to King’s Hampton.’ Well, that’s plain enough, Mary.”

“Yes, dear; it’s evidently for you.”

“Yes, evidently for me; eh, Leo?”

“Yes,” said Leo, looking up from her book for a moment, and dropping her eyes again without displaying any further interest.

“It’s very curious,” said Salis, rather excitedly. “‘From Irish and Lawn, robe makers, Southampton Street.’ Why, surely—bless my soul, I never sent. I—”

He busily cut the string, and opened the paper and the neatly-tied box within, to find, as, after reading the label, he had expected, that the contents consisted of a new surplice of the finest quality with a note pinned thereto, and written within, in a tremulous, disguised hand:

“From an admirer.”

The word “admirer” had been lightly scratched across, and “constant attendant” placed above.

Salis looked at the note, and then at his sister Mary, colouring with excitement as ingenuously as a girl.

“Why, Mary,” he said, “who could have sent this? Do you know?”

Mary shook her head, but her eyes brightened with pleasure, as she felt how gratified her brother would be.

“Did not you and Leo contrive this as a surprise?”

Mary shook her head again, and Leo looked up languidly.

“What is it?” she said. “A present? No,” she added, with a frown, as she saw what it was, and lowered her eyes to her book to read apparently with great interest.

“Then it must be one of North’s tricks,” cried Salis. “It’s very kind and thoughtful of him, but I cannot think of letting him give me such a present as this. Look, Mary, dear. It is his writing disguised, is it not?”

Mary’s hand trembled a little as she took the note and glanced at it, to detect the writer at once from a peculiarity which had not been concealed.

“Well,” cried Salis, “I am right?”

Mary shook her head again.

“No, Hartley, it is certainly not Mr North’s writing.”

“Then, in the name of all that’s wonderful, whose is it? The people would not subscribe for it. Besides, it says ‘from a constant attendant.’ Why, good heavens! it cannot be from—”

Mary glanced at Leo, who was intent upon her reading, and then looked back at her brother, with a half-mischievous and amused smile, as she nodded her head.

“You think so, too,” he exclaimed, in a whisper. “Oh!”

There was a look of trouble and perplexity in his face that was intensely droll, for, though no name had been mentioned, both had hit upon the donor; and as the trouble deepened in the curate’s face, Mary stretched out her hand to him, and he took it, and sat down by her side.

“It’s impossible,” he whispered. “I could not think of taking it. How could she be so foolish?”

“It seems cruel to call it foolish,” said Mary gently. “The idea was prompted by a very kindly feeling.”

“Of course, of course; but, my dear Mary, it is putting me in a false position.”

“Not if you treat it as an anonymous gift.”

“How can I, when I feel certain that she sent it?”

“But even if you are, I think you might keep it, Hartley. See how common it is for ladies of a congregation to present the curate with slippers or braces.”

“Yes,” said Salis drily; “and all out of gratitude to their spiritual teacher. Bless ’em, they throw their gifts, and the weak man thinks they are bladders to enable him to float lightly along the social current of air, when, lo! and behold, he finds, poor weak, fluttering butterfly, that one of the fair naturalists has stuck a pin through him, right into the cork, and he is ‘set up’ for life.”

“Nonsense, you vain coxcomb!”

“No, my dear Mary, I am not a vain man; but I can generally tell which way the wind blows. I have a certain duty to perform in connection with my two sisters—a sort of paternal rôle to play, and consequently I am rather afraid of Mrs Berens.”

“Hartley, dear!”

“Yes, Mary. This surplice is going to be paid for by H. Salis, clerk in holy orders, ill as he can afford to do it, or it is going back to the donor.”

“But what can she do with it if your idea is correct?”

“Cut it up to make little garments for the poor children, if she likes. Bother the woman: I wish she would go.”

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.Dr North is Startled.“You puzzle me, doctor,” said Moredock; “you do, indeed. I’ve been a-going to church all my life, and I’ve listened to hundreds o’ sarmons, and I know all about the Good Samaritan and duty towards your neighbour; but how, after what happened, you could tie him up and sticking-plaster him, and then go next mornin’ to see how he was, caps me.”“Never mind about that, Moredock,” said North quickly, and looking restlessly about the cottage interior. “I think we may feel satisfied he did not revive while he was in the mausoleum.”“Not he. I thought he was never going to ’vive any more. So you mean to go there again?”“Yes, Moredock—yes,” said North, with his eyes moving wildly round. “I must go on now. I have lost too much time as it is.”“All right, doctor. If you say as we’ll go, that’s enough.”“You feel convinced that no one has observed us?”“Yes, I’m convinced, as you call it, of that, doctor. I’ve kept the secret too well. And so you mean to go again?”“Go again, man! Yes. Did I not tell you so?” cried North, with an angry excitement in his voice. “Yes, to-night.”“To-night, eh? Very well, doctor. I’ll be there; but you’ll take a drop o’ that cordle with you. There won’t be no need for me to watch the vestry to-night.”North made an impatient gesture, and walked to the door as if to go, but turned sharply, and walked back to where the sexton was seated smoking.“What was it you said?” he asked, in an absent way.“What did I ask, doctor?”“Yes, yes, man,” cried North impatiently, as he kept glancing towards the door.“Oh, ’bout that there cordle, doctor. I haven’t been quite right since that night, and I thought a drop or two might do me good, and—”Moredock stopped in the middle of his sentence, and sat staring, for North had suddenly turned and walked straight out of the place.“Doctor’s not got over his tumble that night,” muttered the old man. “He’s shook, that’s what’s the matter with him; and he haven’t got his thinking tackle quite put right again. It’s worried him, too, about that there gel. Well, she won’t come to the vestry to-night, and there’s no fear o’ Squire Tom coming, for he won’t be out o’ bed, they say, for days. Miss won’t want to go and sit there all by herself wi’out she thinks as the doctor would do now. A baggage!—that’s what she is—a baggage! and looking all the time so smooth and good. Wonder what parson would say if he knowed of her goings on?”The old man sat musing and smoking for an hour, and then, by way of preparation for his night work, he let his head go down upon his chest, and sat sleeping in front of his fire for hours.As the evening wore on, Joe Chegg came sauntering by, and then returned, so as to get a casual glance in at the window. Then he had another, and satisfied at last that the old man was fast asleep, he stood watching him till he saw by the failing fire that the sleeper was about to awaken, when he drew back, and softly and thoughtfully went away.Just before twelve the old man took his lanthorn, went to the door, and looked out; stood for a while, and then, with an activity not to be expected of one of his years, he walked sharply and silently in the direction of the churchyard, keeping a keen lookout for interlopers. But his walk beneath the glittering stars was uninterrupted, and he made his way silently to the back of the church, looked about him, and, seeing no one, unlocked the iron gate and the mausoleum door, and then turned to wait.But as he turned, he started, for a hand was laid upon his shoulder.“Why, doctor, I didn’t hear you come.”“I was sitting there waiting,” said North. “Quick!”He pressed the door, and looked right into the dark place, where he had not been since Tom Candlish was lifted out and placed by the roadside on the night of the encounter; while now it seemed to the sexton that his companion was beset by a feverish energy and desire to continue his task.“All right, doctor—all right! Wait till I get a light,” grumbled the old man, after he had closed the door. “That’s it. There you are. Brought the cordle?”“Yes.”“You won’t want me, and I’m a bit tired and wearied out to-night. Ha, that’s it! Good stuff, doctor. Thankye, doctor. Hah-h-h!”He tossed off the potent dram that was handed to him, and gave back the silver cup, which fitted upon the end of the doctor’s little flask. Then, quite as a matter of habit, he went to the ledge where he had so often sat, and, after muttering for a few minutes, fell off into an easy sleep.North had stood motionless after lighting his shaded lamp, evidently deep in thought; but a heavy breathing from the corner of the solemn place roused him, and he lifted the lanthorn, crossed to the sleeper, and held the light to his face.“Asleep!” he muttered, returning to the great stone slab, and setting down the light. “What’s that?” he cried sharply; and, starting back, he looked wildly about the place.“How absurd!” he muttered, after satisfying himself that they were alone. “Want of sleep. My nerves are shaken, and this incessant pain seems too much for me. But I will succeed. She shall see my success, and learn that I am not a man to be cast aside and crushed by her. Yes, I will succeed. It cannot be too late.”He seized the white sheet that covered the subject of his study, but instead of drawing it gently aside, as was his wont, he gave it a sharp snatch, lifted the lamp, and gazed down, thinking of what steps he should take next.“So many days since,” he muttered; “so many days. It cannot be too late. Now to make up for lost time.”He turned up his cuffs, took a small bottle from where it stood upon the slab, and was in the act of removing the stopper, when he uttered a cry of horror, and darted towards the door, dropping the bottle upon the sawdust which covered the stone floor, as he clapped his hands to his face, and then reeled against the wall, to stand clinging to the stone-work of one of the niches.There was a light there on the stone slab, but it was as nothing to the light which had flashed in, as it were, to his brain; for he had come there that night to finish his task, and it was as though that task were already complete, and that which he had been waiting to achieve was ready to his hand, but in a way which he had never anticipated, and the revelation seemed more than he could bear.

“You puzzle me, doctor,” said Moredock; “you do, indeed. I’ve been a-going to church all my life, and I’ve listened to hundreds o’ sarmons, and I know all about the Good Samaritan and duty towards your neighbour; but how, after what happened, you could tie him up and sticking-plaster him, and then go next mornin’ to see how he was, caps me.”

“Never mind about that, Moredock,” said North quickly, and looking restlessly about the cottage interior. “I think we may feel satisfied he did not revive while he was in the mausoleum.”

“Not he. I thought he was never going to ’vive any more. So you mean to go there again?”

“Yes, Moredock—yes,” said North, with his eyes moving wildly round. “I must go on now. I have lost too much time as it is.”

“All right, doctor. If you say as we’ll go, that’s enough.”

“You feel convinced that no one has observed us?”

“Yes, I’m convinced, as you call it, of that, doctor. I’ve kept the secret too well. And so you mean to go again?”

“Go again, man! Yes. Did I not tell you so?” cried North, with an angry excitement in his voice. “Yes, to-night.”

“To-night, eh? Very well, doctor. I’ll be there; but you’ll take a drop o’ that cordle with you. There won’t be no need for me to watch the vestry to-night.”

North made an impatient gesture, and walked to the door as if to go, but turned sharply, and walked back to where the sexton was seated smoking.

“What was it you said?” he asked, in an absent way.

“What did I ask, doctor?”

“Yes, yes, man,” cried North impatiently, as he kept glancing towards the door.

“Oh, ’bout that there cordle, doctor. I haven’t been quite right since that night, and I thought a drop or two might do me good, and—”

Moredock stopped in the middle of his sentence, and sat staring, for North had suddenly turned and walked straight out of the place.

“Doctor’s not got over his tumble that night,” muttered the old man. “He’s shook, that’s what’s the matter with him; and he haven’t got his thinking tackle quite put right again. It’s worried him, too, about that there gel. Well, she won’t come to the vestry to-night, and there’s no fear o’ Squire Tom coming, for he won’t be out o’ bed, they say, for days. Miss won’t want to go and sit there all by herself wi’out she thinks as the doctor would do now. A baggage!—that’s what she is—a baggage! and looking all the time so smooth and good. Wonder what parson would say if he knowed of her goings on?”

The old man sat musing and smoking for an hour, and then, by way of preparation for his night work, he let his head go down upon his chest, and sat sleeping in front of his fire for hours.

As the evening wore on, Joe Chegg came sauntering by, and then returned, so as to get a casual glance in at the window. Then he had another, and satisfied at last that the old man was fast asleep, he stood watching him till he saw by the failing fire that the sleeper was about to awaken, when he drew back, and softly and thoughtfully went away.

Just before twelve the old man took his lanthorn, went to the door, and looked out; stood for a while, and then, with an activity not to be expected of one of his years, he walked sharply and silently in the direction of the churchyard, keeping a keen lookout for interlopers. But his walk beneath the glittering stars was uninterrupted, and he made his way silently to the back of the church, looked about him, and, seeing no one, unlocked the iron gate and the mausoleum door, and then turned to wait.

But as he turned, he started, for a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

“Why, doctor, I didn’t hear you come.”

“I was sitting there waiting,” said North. “Quick!”

He pressed the door, and looked right into the dark place, where he had not been since Tom Candlish was lifted out and placed by the roadside on the night of the encounter; while now it seemed to the sexton that his companion was beset by a feverish energy and desire to continue his task.

“All right, doctor—all right! Wait till I get a light,” grumbled the old man, after he had closed the door. “That’s it. There you are. Brought the cordle?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t want me, and I’m a bit tired and wearied out to-night. Ha, that’s it! Good stuff, doctor. Thankye, doctor. Hah-h-h!”

He tossed off the potent dram that was handed to him, and gave back the silver cup, which fitted upon the end of the doctor’s little flask. Then, quite as a matter of habit, he went to the ledge where he had so often sat, and, after muttering for a few minutes, fell off into an easy sleep.

North had stood motionless after lighting his shaded lamp, evidently deep in thought; but a heavy breathing from the corner of the solemn place roused him, and he lifted the lanthorn, crossed to the sleeper, and held the light to his face.

“Asleep!” he muttered, returning to the great stone slab, and setting down the light. “What’s that?” he cried sharply; and, starting back, he looked wildly about the place.

“How absurd!” he muttered, after satisfying himself that they were alone. “Want of sleep. My nerves are shaken, and this incessant pain seems too much for me. But I will succeed. She shall see my success, and learn that I am not a man to be cast aside and crushed by her. Yes, I will succeed. It cannot be too late.”

He seized the white sheet that covered the subject of his study, but instead of drawing it gently aside, as was his wont, he gave it a sharp snatch, lifted the lamp, and gazed down, thinking of what steps he should take next.

“So many days since,” he muttered; “so many days. It cannot be too late. Now to make up for lost time.”

He turned up his cuffs, took a small bottle from where it stood upon the slab, and was in the act of removing the stopper, when he uttered a cry of horror, and darted towards the door, dropping the bottle upon the sawdust which covered the stone floor, as he clapped his hands to his face, and then reeled against the wall, to stand clinging to the stone-work of one of the niches.

There was a light there on the stone slab, but it was as nothing to the light which had flashed in, as it were, to his brain; for he had come there that night to finish his task, and it was as though that task were already complete, and that which he had been waiting to achieve was ready to his hand, but in a way which he had never anticipated, and the revelation seemed more than he could bear.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.Something Coming On.Horace North stood in the old mausoleum for a while, appalled by the thoughts that flooded his soul. The silence was awful. At other times, wrapped up in his pursuit, the presence of the dead had been as nothing to him; the fact that he was surrounded by the grisly relics of generations of the Candlishes had not troubled him in the least. There was a professional air about everything he did, and he watched results with the keen eagerness that a chemist watches his experiments.But now, all at once, a change seemed to have come over him. He had lost the spur given to him by his love for Leo; but, after fighting hard with his misery, he had conquered, and forced himself to go on with his task solely in the cause of science, and a strange awakening had been the result.He had brought all the knowledge he could collect to bear upon his task, and had reached a certain point. Then he had been checked, and the whole of his work had been thrown out of gear; so that now, when he had taken it up again, feverishly determined to carry it on to the end, he found himself face to face with a horror which at first his mind could hardly conceive.He stood listening, and for a time it seemed that he was alone—that Moredock had been overcome by the close he had administered; but by degrees his stunned senses took in the fact that the old man was breathing calmly and peacefully, and that he was not alone with the appalling thought which troubled him.“I ought not to have gone on with it now,” he said, at last. “I am mentally and bodily shaken, and unfit to undertake such a task. I’m ready to imagine all manner of follies—weak as a frightened child. How idiotic to fancy that!”For the time being his mental strength wasin statu quo, and, striding forward, he made up his mind to clear away the apparatus of instruments and chemicals, rouse up Moredock to help restore everything to its normal state, and continue his experiment when a fresh opportunity occurred.He glanced down at the uncovered body, and then, turning to his various preparations, he replaced instruments in cases, bottles in the black bag, and nothing now remained to do but to lay Luke Candlish where he might continue his long sleep with his fathers.“Poor wretch!” muttered North; “if that miserable interruption had not taken place, you might have been the means of doing more good to posterity than all your predecessors could have achieved had they lived on right until now.“Yes,” he continued, as he made a final examination previous to awakening Moredock, “I had succeeded up to then. Decay was arrested, and Nature seemed to be working on my side to prove that I was right. Now I must begin again, for it is as if I had done nothing. No, no; the toil has not been thrown away. I have learned more than I think for; I have—”He shrank back, and looked sharply round, as if puzzled. He turned his gaze upon the sleeping figure before him, and saw only too plainly that the decay he had held at defiance for a time had now definitely set in, and yet how he could not tell, for mentally all seemed misty and obscure. Something seemed to suggest that after all he had arrested the progress of death.“Pish! What strange fancy is upon me now?” he exclaimed angrily.But even as he said this in a low whisper, he felt a consciousness that in some manner his work had not been in vain. There before him, surely enough, lay the remains of Luke Candlish, passing back into the elements of which they were composed—ashes to ashes, dust to dust; but the man did not seem to him to be dead. There was a feeling almost like oppression troubling him and making him feel that he had succeeded—that he had stayed the flight of the hale, strong man, but not wholly; that his work had partially been successful, and that had he continued, a complete triumph would have been the result.“Absurd!” he muttered, jerking the cloth over the subject of his experiment, and going towards Moredock, but only to spin round, as if he had been arrested by a hand clapped suddenly upon his shoulder.He stared sharply round the vault again and then laughed aloud.“How childish!” he exclaimed. “Well, no,” he added thoughtfully; “it is a lesson worth learning how, under certain circumstances connected with violence and terrible mental distress, the brain acts as in a case ofdelirium tremens. I was not fit to come here to-night. Better finish, go home, and sleep—and forget,” he added softly, “if I can.“I must be going mad,” he exclaimed the next moment; and, making an effort over himself, he sat down upon the edge of the stone slab to try and think out consistently the mental trouble which kept attacking him.“It cannot be that,” he said, at last. “I am perfectly cool and consistent; I know everything about me. I can go right back through my experiments to the beginning, analyse every thought and feeling, and yet I cannot master this idea.”He sat thinking and gazing at the body by his side, with its form grotesquely marked through the covering sheet.“It is getting the better of me,” he said aloud, “and I must not give way. Lunacy is often the development of one idea, while, in other respects, the patient iscompos mentis. No, no; a lunatic could not feel as I do. I am too calm and self-contained, and yet here it is. Great Heaven! is it possible that I could have arrested the ethereal, the spiritual, part of this man—have retained his essence here, while the body is going back to decay?”He stood staring down at the slab from which he had started, his eyes dilated, and a wild look of horror in his countenance, till once more the teachings of his scientific education combined with the man’s strong common-sense to bring calm matter-of-fact reasoning to bear.“Yes,” he said, “it’s time I went home to bed; and to-morrow I’ll ask old Benson to come over and look after my patients while I go to the seaside and look after myself. I want bodily and mental rest. Here, old chap, wake up!”Moredock started to his feet and stared at the doctor, for he had been rudely awakened by a heavy slap on the back, while North in turn shrank back and stared at the sexton, as if astounded at what had taken place—an act so foreign to his ordinary way.“You shouldn’t do that, doctor,” grumbled the old man, rubbing his shoulder in a testy way. “Works is a bit shaky, and you jar ’em up.”“I—I beg your pardon, Moredock,” stammered North confusedly.“Oh, it don’t matter much, doctor, only I was in a beautiful sleep, and dreaming I’d gone to see my Dally as was living in a great house—quite the lady, and the man going to give me a glass o’ something when you hit me on the back and woke me. Done?”“Yes. Help me,” said North hastily. “The experiment is at an end.”“Well, I arn’t sorry, doctor. I arn’t sorry for some things. Hey! but you have been busy clearing up. Quite done, then?”“Yes, quite done. We’ll leave everything as it should be to-night.”“Mornin’, you mean, doctor. Well, all right.”The ghastly task was quickly performed, the old man displaying a surprising activity as he replaced the ornamental coffin-lid and screws, after which the place seemed to have resumed its former state.“No one won’t come to see whether the lead coffin’s soddered down, eh, doctor?” chuckled the old man, after giving the heavy casket a final thrust with his shoulder to get it exactly in its place. “They don’t do that only when the coroner’s set to work, and people think there’s been poisoning.”“No, old chap,” cried North, slapping the sexton on the shoulder in a jocular way. “Here, have a drop of brandy. After me; I’d rather drink first.”Moredock stared again as the doctor produced a second flask from his pocket, poured some spirit gurgling out into the flattened silver cup, and tossed it off.“That’s good brandy, old man. Stunning. Here you are.”“Doctor’s glad he’s finished his job,” laughed the sexton. “No wonder. I wouldn’t ha’ been a patticary for no money. Thankye, sir. Hah! that’s good stuff. That goes into your finger-ends; but that other stuff’s best: goes right to the roots of your hair and into your toes. Rare stuff; good brandy.”“Yes, you old toper,” cried North; and then he seemed to drag his hand down just as he was raising it to slap the old man once more upon the shoulder.“Toper, eh, doctor? No; I like a drop now and then, just to do a man good. He was a toper—Squire Luke, yonder.”“Yes,” said North slowly, as he poured out some more brandy and tossed it off. “The poor fellow used to drink.”“Hi—hi—hi!” chuckled Moredock. “Yes; they say he used to drink, doctor. Job’s done, eh?”He stared hard at the flask, and in so peculiar a manner that North poured out some more.“Here, have another drop, old chap,” he cried; “it’ll warm you up.”“Thankye, doctor, thankye. Hah! yes; it’s good stuff. Does you good too. Makes you cheery like, and free. Why, doctor, I didn’t know you could be so hearty; you keep a man like me a long ways off in general. What’s the matter—not well?”“Eh?” said North, speaking strangely. “I’m not well, Moredock. I’ll get out of this stifling place.”“Stifling? Nay, it’s not stifling; you only say so because you’re done. Here, let me carry the tool bag, as you may say.”The bag was heavy, for packed within it was the lamp as well as the doctor’s bottles, and such instruments as he had not put in his pocket.“Looks precious queer,” muttered the old man, going to and unfastening the door.“Ready, sir?”North did not answer, but followed the sexton, after a hurried glance round.“It’s all right, sir; nothing left,” muttered Moredock, extinguishing the candle in his lanthorn. “Why, any one would think he was growing skeered. Brandy upsets some, and does others good.”The old man closed the massive door of the mausoleum, and locked the gates of the iron railing, and as he did so, North uttered a low sigh full of relief, as if with the shutting up of the grim receptacle certain troublous feelings had been dismissed, and a strange haunting sensation had gone.“S’pose you’d like me to take the bag on to my place, doctor, and bring it up to the Manor House to-night?”“Yes, I should,” said North hastily; “I’ll talk to you then, Moredock. I’ll—”He shuddered, and in place of parting at once from the old man, he kept close to his side, and followed him into his cottage, where he sat down while the old sexton drew the thin curtain over the casement and struck a light.“Why, doctor,” he said, looking wonderingly at the white, scared face before him; “you’d better go home and mix yourself a dose. You’ve got something coming on.”“Yes,” said North, with a ghastly smile; “I’m afraid I have something coming on. No—no! Nonsense! I’m tired. Not quite got over my fall. I shall be better soon.”The old sexton shook his head and went to his locked-up chest, in which, with a good deal of rattling of keys, he deposited the doctor’s bag. He was in the act of shutting the heavy lid, when something made him turn to where he had left his companion seated, and he stared in amazement, for the chair was tenantless!He had not heard North start from his seat and literally rush out of the cottage, as if pursued by some invisible force.

Horace North stood in the old mausoleum for a while, appalled by the thoughts that flooded his soul. The silence was awful. At other times, wrapped up in his pursuit, the presence of the dead had been as nothing to him; the fact that he was surrounded by the grisly relics of generations of the Candlishes had not troubled him in the least. There was a professional air about everything he did, and he watched results with the keen eagerness that a chemist watches his experiments.

But now, all at once, a change seemed to have come over him. He had lost the spur given to him by his love for Leo; but, after fighting hard with his misery, he had conquered, and forced himself to go on with his task solely in the cause of science, and a strange awakening had been the result.

He had brought all the knowledge he could collect to bear upon his task, and had reached a certain point. Then he had been checked, and the whole of his work had been thrown out of gear; so that now, when he had taken it up again, feverishly determined to carry it on to the end, he found himself face to face with a horror which at first his mind could hardly conceive.

He stood listening, and for a time it seemed that he was alone—that Moredock had been overcome by the close he had administered; but by degrees his stunned senses took in the fact that the old man was breathing calmly and peacefully, and that he was not alone with the appalling thought which troubled him.

“I ought not to have gone on with it now,” he said, at last. “I am mentally and bodily shaken, and unfit to undertake such a task. I’m ready to imagine all manner of follies—weak as a frightened child. How idiotic to fancy that!”

For the time being his mental strength wasin statu quo, and, striding forward, he made up his mind to clear away the apparatus of instruments and chemicals, rouse up Moredock to help restore everything to its normal state, and continue his experiment when a fresh opportunity occurred.

He glanced down at the uncovered body, and then, turning to his various preparations, he replaced instruments in cases, bottles in the black bag, and nothing now remained to do but to lay Luke Candlish where he might continue his long sleep with his fathers.

“Poor wretch!” muttered North; “if that miserable interruption had not taken place, you might have been the means of doing more good to posterity than all your predecessors could have achieved had they lived on right until now.

“Yes,” he continued, as he made a final examination previous to awakening Moredock, “I had succeeded up to then. Decay was arrested, and Nature seemed to be working on my side to prove that I was right. Now I must begin again, for it is as if I had done nothing. No, no; the toil has not been thrown away. I have learned more than I think for; I have—”

He shrank back, and looked sharply round, as if puzzled. He turned his gaze upon the sleeping figure before him, and saw only too plainly that the decay he had held at defiance for a time had now definitely set in, and yet how he could not tell, for mentally all seemed misty and obscure. Something seemed to suggest that after all he had arrested the progress of death.

“Pish! What strange fancy is upon me now?” he exclaimed angrily.

But even as he said this in a low whisper, he felt a consciousness that in some manner his work had not been in vain. There before him, surely enough, lay the remains of Luke Candlish, passing back into the elements of which they were composed—ashes to ashes, dust to dust; but the man did not seem to him to be dead. There was a feeling almost like oppression troubling him and making him feel that he had succeeded—that he had stayed the flight of the hale, strong man, but not wholly; that his work had partially been successful, and that had he continued, a complete triumph would have been the result.

“Absurd!” he muttered, jerking the cloth over the subject of his experiment, and going towards Moredock, but only to spin round, as if he had been arrested by a hand clapped suddenly upon his shoulder.

He stared sharply round the vault again and then laughed aloud.

“How childish!” he exclaimed. “Well, no,” he added thoughtfully; “it is a lesson worth learning how, under certain circumstances connected with violence and terrible mental distress, the brain acts as in a case ofdelirium tremens. I was not fit to come here to-night. Better finish, go home, and sleep—and forget,” he added softly, “if I can.

“I must be going mad,” he exclaimed the next moment; and, making an effort over himself, he sat down upon the edge of the stone slab to try and think out consistently the mental trouble which kept attacking him.

“It cannot be that,” he said, at last. “I am perfectly cool and consistent; I know everything about me. I can go right back through my experiments to the beginning, analyse every thought and feeling, and yet I cannot master this idea.”

He sat thinking and gazing at the body by his side, with its form grotesquely marked through the covering sheet.

“It is getting the better of me,” he said aloud, “and I must not give way. Lunacy is often the development of one idea, while, in other respects, the patient iscompos mentis. No, no; a lunatic could not feel as I do. I am too calm and self-contained, and yet here it is. Great Heaven! is it possible that I could have arrested the ethereal, the spiritual, part of this man—have retained his essence here, while the body is going back to decay?”

He stood staring down at the slab from which he had started, his eyes dilated, and a wild look of horror in his countenance, till once more the teachings of his scientific education combined with the man’s strong common-sense to bring calm matter-of-fact reasoning to bear.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s time I went home to bed; and to-morrow I’ll ask old Benson to come over and look after my patients while I go to the seaside and look after myself. I want bodily and mental rest. Here, old chap, wake up!”

Moredock started to his feet and stared at the doctor, for he had been rudely awakened by a heavy slap on the back, while North in turn shrank back and stared at the sexton, as if astounded at what had taken place—an act so foreign to his ordinary way.

“You shouldn’t do that, doctor,” grumbled the old man, rubbing his shoulder in a testy way. “Works is a bit shaky, and you jar ’em up.”

“I—I beg your pardon, Moredock,” stammered North confusedly.

“Oh, it don’t matter much, doctor, only I was in a beautiful sleep, and dreaming I’d gone to see my Dally as was living in a great house—quite the lady, and the man going to give me a glass o’ something when you hit me on the back and woke me. Done?”

“Yes. Help me,” said North hastily. “The experiment is at an end.”

“Well, I arn’t sorry, doctor. I arn’t sorry for some things. Hey! but you have been busy clearing up. Quite done, then?”

“Yes, quite done. We’ll leave everything as it should be to-night.”

“Mornin’, you mean, doctor. Well, all right.”

The ghastly task was quickly performed, the old man displaying a surprising activity as he replaced the ornamental coffin-lid and screws, after which the place seemed to have resumed its former state.

“No one won’t come to see whether the lead coffin’s soddered down, eh, doctor?” chuckled the old man, after giving the heavy casket a final thrust with his shoulder to get it exactly in its place. “They don’t do that only when the coroner’s set to work, and people think there’s been poisoning.”

“No, old chap,” cried North, slapping the sexton on the shoulder in a jocular way. “Here, have a drop of brandy. After me; I’d rather drink first.”

Moredock stared again as the doctor produced a second flask from his pocket, poured some spirit gurgling out into the flattened silver cup, and tossed it off.

“That’s good brandy, old man. Stunning. Here you are.”

“Doctor’s glad he’s finished his job,” laughed the sexton. “No wonder. I wouldn’t ha’ been a patticary for no money. Thankye, sir. Hah! that’s good stuff. That goes into your finger-ends; but that other stuff’s best: goes right to the roots of your hair and into your toes. Rare stuff; good brandy.”

“Yes, you old toper,” cried North; and then he seemed to drag his hand down just as he was raising it to slap the old man once more upon the shoulder.

“Toper, eh, doctor? No; I like a drop now and then, just to do a man good. He was a toper—Squire Luke, yonder.”

“Yes,” said North slowly, as he poured out some more brandy and tossed it off. “The poor fellow used to drink.”

“Hi—hi—hi!” chuckled Moredock. “Yes; they say he used to drink, doctor. Job’s done, eh?”

He stared hard at the flask, and in so peculiar a manner that North poured out some more.

“Here, have another drop, old chap,” he cried; “it’ll warm you up.”

“Thankye, doctor, thankye. Hah! yes; it’s good stuff. Does you good too. Makes you cheery like, and free. Why, doctor, I didn’t know you could be so hearty; you keep a man like me a long ways off in general. What’s the matter—not well?”

“Eh?” said North, speaking strangely. “I’m not well, Moredock. I’ll get out of this stifling place.”

“Stifling? Nay, it’s not stifling; you only say so because you’re done. Here, let me carry the tool bag, as you may say.”

The bag was heavy, for packed within it was the lamp as well as the doctor’s bottles, and such instruments as he had not put in his pocket.

“Looks precious queer,” muttered the old man, going to and unfastening the door.

“Ready, sir?”

North did not answer, but followed the sexton, after a hurried glance round.

“It’s all right, sir; nothing left,” muttered Moredock, extinguishing the candle in his lanthorn. “Why, any one would think he was growing skeered. Brandy upsets some, and does others good.”

The old man closed the massive door of the mausoleum, and locked the gates of the iron railing, and as he did so, North uttered a low sigh full of relief, as if with the shutting up of the grim receptacle certain troublous feelings had been dismissed, and a strange haunting sensation had gone.

“S’pose you’d like me to take the bag on to my place, doctor, and bring it up to the Manor House to-night?”

“Yes, I should,” said North hastily; “I’ll talk to you then, Moredock. I’ll—”

He shuddered, and in place of parting at once from the old man, he kept close to his side, and followed him into his cottage, where he sat down while the old sexton drew the thin curtain over the casement and struck a light.

“Why, doctor,” he said, looking wonderingly at the white, scared face before him; “you’d better go home and mix yourself a dose. You’ve got something coming on.”

“Yes,” said North, with a ghastly smile; “I’m afraid I have something coming on. No—no! Nonsense! I’m tired. Not quite got over my fall. I shall be better soon.”

The old sexton shook his head and went to his locked-up chest, in which, with a good deal of rattling of keys, he deposited the doctor’s bag. He was in the act of shutting the heavy lid, when something made him turn to where he had left his companion seated, and he stared in amazement, for the chair was tenantless!

He had not heard North start from his seat and literally rush out of the cottage, as if pursued by some invisible force.

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.“My Dear North!”“No, sir, he isn’t at home,” said Mrs Milt, trying to smile at the curate, but only succeeding in producing two icy wrinkles—one on either side of her lips. “Some one ill, Mrs Milt?”“Well, really, sir, I can’t say. Master shut himself in his study last thing—as he will persist in ruining his health and his pocket in lamps and candles—and I went to bed as usual, although mortally in dread of fire, for master is so careless with a light. Then I s’pose some one must have come in the night and fetched him. His breakfast has been waiting hours, and—oh, here he comes!”For at that moment North came round the end of the house, having entered his garden right at the bottom by the meadow, his dew-wet boots and the dust upon his trousers showing that he must have been walking far.“Breakfast’s quite ready, sir,” said Mrs Milt austerely, as soon as North came within hearing.“Yes—yes,” he said impatiently, as he waved her away. “Ah, Salis! Come in.”“Why, how fagged you look! Who is ill?”“Ill? Who is ill?” said North wonderingly. “Oh, I see! Well, I am.”“Yes, that’s plain enough,” said Salis anxiously. “My dear fellow, you are not at all up to the mark.”“Not up to the mark, old chap? Right as the mail! Here, come in, and have some breakfast.”This was said with so much boisterous, coarse jollity, that the curate could not help a wondering look. North saw it, and his countenance assumed a look of intense pain.“Did you want me?” he said, closing the breakfast-room door, and speaking in a different tone entirely.“Well, old fellow, I thought I’d run over just to consult you.”“Not ill?” said North, in a voice full of anxiety, but only to supplement it with a sharp, back-handed blow in the chest, and exclaim, in quite a rollicking way: “See! you! I say, you’re in tip-top condition!” And then he burst into a hearty roar.“I don’t know about tip-top condition,” said Salis tartly, “for I’m not at all well. I’m a good deal bothered, old fellow, about—about some matters; and you’ll not mind my coming to see you about things that one would not go to a doctor about, but to a friend.”“I am very, very glad to have you come to me as a friend, Salis,” said North earnestly. “Anything I can do I—is it money?”“Money? Tut—tut! No! When did you ever know me a borrower, man? I beg your pardon, North,” he added, beaming at his friend. “That’s just like you—so good and thoughtful; but no, no—no money! Old Polonius was right.”Just then Mrs Milt entered with the coffee, toast, and a covered dish, a second cup and saucer being on her tray.“Well, yes; I’ll have another cup,” said Salis, smiling and nodding; and, directly after, the old friends were seated together opposite to each other, but with North leaving his breakfast untasted, while Salis seemed to enjoy his number two.“You’re not eating, old fellow! I say, you know you’re ill. It’s my turn now to prescribe.”“Only a little feverish. I have been and had a long walk.”“Ah, that’s right. Nature is splendid for that sort of thing.”“Yes,” said North quickly. “Now, what can I do for you?”He winced as he spoke, for he expected to hear something about Leo.“Well, the fact is, old fellow, you know that my surplice was stolen.”North shrank again, but nodded sharply.“Well, old fellow, I banteringly said something about the loss being severe to a poor man.”“I—I wish I had known,” said North, with a frank smile.“You mean if you had you would have given me one.”“Yes, that is what I mean,” said North.“And if you had, I’d have cut you, sir, dead! Sure it was not you?”“Not me?”“Who sent me a present of a remarkably fine new surplice.”“Certainly not.”“Then it was she.”“I do not understand you.”“Look here! there is only one person who could have sent such a present, and it must be Mrs Berens.”“Ah, you sly dog! Oh, shame! shame! Ha—ha—ha!” roared North. “The pretty widow—eh? That’s pulse-feeling, and putting out the tongue, and how are we this morning! Ha—ha—ha!”Hartley Salis had a small piece of broiled ham upon his fork, being a man of excellent appetite; and at his friend’s first words, uttered in a most singular tone, he let the fork drop with a clatter, pushed his chair a little way back, and stared!“I—I’m very sorry,” faltered North, in a most penitent tone.“My dear North! Why, what is the matter with you?”“A little—er—feverish, I think; that is all!”“One is not used to hear such outbursts from you, old fellow,” said Salis; and there was a tinge of annoyance in his tone.“Pray, pray go on. I—er—hardly know what I said.”Salis drew his chair up again, picked up the fork, raised the piece of brown ham once, set it down, and then took up his cup and sipped the coffee, with his face resuming its unruffled aspect.“I’m not cross, old fellow—only nettly. It’s so unlike you to attempt to—well, to use our old term—chaff me. Besides which, this thing is a great source of annoyance to me. I feel as if I cannot accept the present—as if it laid me under an obligation to Mrs Berens; and, really, I should be glad to have your advice. What would you do?”“What would I do?” cried North, in a coarse, rasping voice. “Why, you know what you want me to say. Get out, you jolly old humbug!”“Sir!”“Go along with you! What are you to do with the surplice? Why, wear it, and lend it to old May afterwards when he comes down to marry you and the pretty widow.”“Horace North!” cried the curate indignantly.“Sit down, and none of your gammon, you transparent old humbug! Why, I can see right through you, just as if you were so much glass.”Salis had pushed back his chair, and now rose, just as North burst out passionately:“No, no, Salis; don’t go—for pity’s sake don’t go. I have so much to say to you.”“If it is of a piece with what you have already said, Horace North, I would prefer to be ignorant of its import.”The doctor had risen too, and caught the back of his chair, which he stood grasping with spasmodic force, as, suffering an agony he could not have expressed, he saw his friend stalk solemnly along the path to the great gate, which swung after him to and fro for some seconds before the iron latch closed with a loud click.“Heaven help me!—what shall I do?” groaned North, as he threw himself upon the couch, and covered his face with his hands. “What does this mean? What new horror is this? Have I lost all power over thought and tongue?”“May I clear away, sir?” said a sharp, clear voice.North started as if he had been stung, but he did not uncover his face; and he dared not speak, lest words should gush forth for which he could not hold himself accountable—and to Mrs Milt!Under the circumstances, he nodded his head quickly, and lay back with his eyes closed.“You do too much, sir,” said the housekeeper, speaking authoritatively. “You work too hard.”North’s irritability was terrible, but he kept it down.“It’s my impression that you’re going to be ill,” continued Mrs Milt, as she went on clearing the table.Strange words seemed to be effervescing in Horace North’s breast, and he set his teeth hard, for he felt that if he spoke he should say something which would horrify the old housekeeper and startle himself.“Well, you can’t blame me,” cried Mrs Milt, going out and shutting the door too sharply to be polite.North was alone, and he rose up with his hands clenched to utter words of wonder as to what his friend would think; but, instead, he burst into a curious fit of laughter and uttered a mocking curse.The next moment he had sunk back upon his couch with his hands clasped, as he gazed with bent head straight before him between his thick brows, right away into the future, and mentally asking himself what that future was to be.End of Volume Two.

“No, sir, he isn’t at home,” said Mrs Milt, trying to smile at the curate, but only succeeding in producing two icy wrinkles—one on either side of her lips. “Some one ill, Mrs Milt?”

“Well, really, sir, I can’t say. Master shut himself in his study last thing—as he will persist in ruining his health and his pocket in lamps and candles—and I went to bed as usual, although mortally in dread of fire, for master is so careless with a light. Then I s’pose some one must have come in the night and fetched him. His breakfast has been waiting hours, and—oh, here he comes!”

For at that moment North came round the end of the house, having entered his garden right at the bottom by the meadow, his dew-wet boots and the dust upon his trousers showing that he must have been walking far.

“Breakfast’s quite ready, sir,” said Mrs Milt austerely, as soon as North came within hearing.

“Yes—yes,” he said impatiently, as he waved her away. “Ah, Salis! Come in.”

“Why, how fagged you look! Who is ill?”

“Ill? Who is ill?” said North wonderingly. “Oh, I see! Well, I am.”

“Yes, that’s plain enough,” said Salis anxiously. “My dear fellow, you are not at all up to the mark.”

“Not up to the mark, old chap? Right as the mail! Here, come in, and have some breakfast.”

This was said with so much boisterous, coarse jollity, that the curate could not help a wondering look. North saw it, and his countenance assumed a look of intense pain.

“Did you want me?” he said, closing the breakfast-room door, and speaking in a different tone entirely.

“Well, old fellow, I thought I’d run over just to consult you.”

“Not ill?” said North, in a voice full of anxiety, but only to supplement it with a sharp, back-handed blow in the chest, and exclaim, in quite a rollicking way: “See! you! I say, you’re in tip-top condition!” And then he burst into a hearty roar.

“I don’t know about tip-top condition,” said Salis tartly, “for I’m not at all well. I’m a good deal bothered, old fellow, about—about some matters; and you’ll not mind my coming to see you about things that one would not go to a doctor about, but to a friend.”

“I am very, very glad to have you come to me as a friend, Salis,” said North earnestly. “Anything I can do I—is it money?”

“Money? Tut—tut! No! When did you ever know me a borrower, man? I beg your pardon, North,” he added, beaming at his friend. “That’s just like you—so good and thoughtful; but no, no—no money! Old Polonius was right.”

Just then Mrs Milt entered with the coffee, toast, and a covered dish, a second cup and saucer being on her tray.

“Well, yes; I’ll have another cup,” said Salis, smiling and nodding; and, directly after, the old friends were seated together opposite to each other, but with North leaving his breakfast untasted, while Salis seemed to enjoy his number two.

“You’re not eating, old fellow! I say, you know you’re ill. It’s my turn now to prescribe.”

“Only a little feverish. I have been and had a long walk.”

“Ah, that’s right. Nature is splendid for that sort of thing.”

“Yes,” said North quickly. “Now, what can I do for you?”

He winced as he spoke, for he expected to hear something about Leo.

“Well, the fact is, old fellow, you know that my surplice was stolen.”

North shrank again, but nodded sharply.

“Well, old fellow, I banteringly said something about the loss being severe to a poor man.”

“I—I wish I had known,” said North, with a frank smile.

“You mean if you had you would have given me one.”

“Yes, that is what I mean,” said North.

“And if you had, I’d have cut you, sir, dead! Sure it was not you?”

“Not me?”

“Who sent me a present of a remarkably fine new surplice.”

“Certainly not.”

“Then it was she.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Look here! there is only one person who could have sent such a present, and it must be Mrs Berens.”

“Ah, you sly dog! Oh, shame! shame! Ha—ha—ha!” roared North. “The pretty widow—eh? That’s pulse-feeling, and putting out the tongue, and how are we this morning! Ha—ha—ha!”

Hartley Salis had a small piece of broiled ham upon his fork, being a man of excellent appetite; and at his friend’s first words, uttered in a most singular tone, he let the fork drop with a clatter, pushed his chair a little way back, and stared!

“I—I’m very sorry,” faltered North, in a most penitent tone.

“My dear North! Why, what is the matter with you?”

“A little—er—feverish, I think; that is all!”

“One is not used to hear such outbursts from you, old fellow,” said Salis; and there was a tinge of annoyance in his tone.

“Pray, pray go on. I—er—hardly know what I said.”

Salis drew his chair up again, picked up the fork, raised the piece of brown ham once, set it down, and then took up his cup and sipped the coffee, with his face resuming its unruffled aspect.

“I’m not cross, old fellow—only nettly. It’s so unlike you to attempt to—well, to use our old term—chaff me. Besides which, this thing is a great source of annoyance to me. I feel as if I cannot accept the present—as if it laid me under an obligation to Mrs Berens; and, really, I should be glad to have your advice. What would you do?”

“What would I do?” cried North, in a coarse, rasping voice. “Why, you know what you want me to say. Get out, you jolly old humbug!”

“Sir!”

“Go along with you! What are you to do with the surplice? Why, wear it, and lend it to old May afterwards when he comes down to marry you and the pretty widow.”

“Horace North!” cried the curate indignantly.

“Sit down, and none of your gammon, you transparent old humbug! Why, I can see right through you, just as if you were so much glass.”

Salis had pushed back his chair, and now rose, just as North burst out passionately:

“No, no, Salis; don’t go—for pity’s sake don’t go. I have so much to say to you.”

“If it is of a piece with what you have already said, Horace North, I would prefer to be ignorant of its import.”

The doctor had risen too, and caught the back of his chair, which he stood grasping with spasmodic force, as, suffering an agony he could not have expressed, he saw his friend stalk solemnly along the path to the great gate, which swung after him to and fro for some seconds before the iron latch closed with a loud click.

“Heaven help me!—what shall I do?” groaned North, as he threw himself upon the couch, and covered his face with his hands. “What does this mean? What new horror is this? Have I lost all power over thought and tongue?”

“May I clear away, sir?” said a sharp, clear voice.

North started as if he had been stung, but he did not uncover his face; and he dared not speak, lest words should gush forth for which he could not hold himself accountable—and to Mrs Milt!

Under the circumstances, he nodded his head quickly, and lay back with his eyes closed.

“You do too much, sir,” said the housekeeper, speaking authoritatively. “You work too hard.”

North’s irritability was terrible, but he kept it down.

“It’s my impression that you’re going to be ill,” continued Mrs Milt, as she went on clearing the table.

Strange words seemed to be effervescing in Horace North’s breast, and he set his teeth hard, for he felt that if he spoke he should say something which would horrify the old housekeeper and startle himself.

“Well, you can’t blame me,” cried Mrs Milt, going out and shutting the door too sharply to be polite.

North was alone, and he rose up with his hands clenched to utter words of wonder as to what his friend would think; but, instead, he burst into a curious fit of laughter and uttered a mocking curse.

The next moment he had sunk back upon his couch with his hands clasped, as he gazed with bent head straight before him between his thick brows, right away into the future, and mentally asking himself what that future was to be.

Volume Three—Chapter One.An Unsuitable Messenger.“Hartley, you horrify me,” said Mary, after she had listened to her brother’s account of his visit. “He must have been ill or under some strange influence.”“Influence?” cried Salis drily; “well, that means drink, Mary.”“Oh, no, no, no!” cried the poor girl warmly. “He told you he was ill, and he may have been taking some very potent medicine.”“Extremely,” said Salis.“Hartley, for shame!” cried Mary, with her eyes flashing. “You left here an hour ago full of faith and trust in the friend of many years’ standing. You find him ill and peculiar in his manner, and you come back here ready to think all manner of evil of him. Is this just?”“But he was so very strange and peculiar, my child. You cannot imagine how queer.”“Hartley!” cried Mary warmly; “how can you! Horace North must be very ill, and needs his friend’s help. Your account of his acts and words suggests delirium. Go back to him at once.”“Go back to him?”“Yes; at once. Have you forgotten his goodness to us—how he snatched Leo back from the jaws of death?”“You think I ought to go, Mary?” said Salis dubiously.“I shall think my brother is under some strange influence—suffering from wounded pride—if he does not frankly go to our old friend’s help.”“I’ll go back at once,” cried Salis excitedly. “Why, Mary, when you were active and strong, I always thought I had to teach and take care of you. Now you are an invalid, you seem to teach and guide me.”“No, no,” said Mary tenderly. “It is only that I lie here for many hours alone, thinking of what is best for us all. Not yet, Hartley: I want to say something else.”“Yes,” he said, going down on one knee by her couch, and holding her hand; “what is it?”“I want to say a few words to you about Leo,” said Mary, after a pause.“About Leo?” said Salis uneasily.“Yes, dear. I tell you I lie here for many hours thinking about you both. I want to speak about Leo and—Mr North.”“Yes,” said Salis gravely, as Leo’s manner when the servant came from the Hall flashed upon his mind. “What do you wish to say?”“Do you consider that there is any engagement between them?”“I hardly know what to say. North seemed deeply attached to her.”“Yes,” said Mary; “but I have felt puzzled by his manner lately. He has not been.”“And he has not sent her flowers as he used.”“No; I have noticed that. Has Mr North felt that Leo has slighted him in any way.”“Why, Mary,” cried Salis excitedly, “what a brain you have! My dear child, you have hit upon the cause of his strange manner. You noticed—you noticed Leo’s manner when the news came of Candlish’s illness—for I suppose I must call it so.”“Yes,” said Mary, with a sigh. “I noticed it.”“And North must have seen something. Mary, my girl, what shall I do?”“What shall you do?”“Yes; I am divided between my sister and my friend. There! I must speak out. It would be the saving of Leo if she could become North’s wife; and yet, much as I love her and wish for her happiness, I feel as if I am being unjust to North to let matters go farther.”Mary lay back with her eyes half closed for some minutes before she felt that she could trust her voice so that it should not betray her.“It would be for Leo’s happiness could she say truly that she could love and honour Horace North,” Mary whispered at last; “but it will never be, Hartley. Leo will never marry as we wish.”“I’m afraid not,” said Salis sadly; “and the more I think of it, the more it seems to me that you have hit upon North’s trouble. Leo’s anxiety about that scoundrel has disgusted poor Horace. What shall I do?”“Your friend is ill,” said Mary sadly; “act as a friend should. Leave the rest: we can do nothing there.”“My poor darling!” said Salis, “you are the good angel of our little home. There, I’ll go to North at once.”Meanwhile a conversation was going on in Leo’s room.She had suffered intensely during the past few days, which had seemed to her like months of suspense and agony. Every stroke at the door had seemed to be a visitor to expose her to her brother, or else she believed it was North coming to reproach her; and, though she told herself that she would be defiant and could tell him he was mad ever to have thought about her, she shivered at each step upon the gravel.The scene in the vestry had shaken her nerves terribly. The news of Tom Candlish’s serious injuries had added to her trouble; and, combined with this, there was the horrible suspense as to her lover’s state. In a way, she was a prisoner, and any attempt to hear news of the sufferer at the Hall would bring down upon her an angry reproof from her brother.After the news of his state, Tom Candlish’s name was not mentioned at the Rectory. She dared not ask or show by word or look the anxiety she felt, and yet there were times when she would have given years of her life for a few words of tidings.Unable to bear the suspense any longer, and after thinking of a dozen schemes, she at last decided upon one, which was the most unlucky she could have devised.It was the nearest to her hand, and, in quite a gambling spirit, she snatched at it recklessly.She was in her room, reading, when Dally entered.“Is my brother in?” she said quietly. “Yes, miss; along with Miss Mary, talking.”“Are you very busy, Dally?”“Yes, miss, ’most worked to death,” said the girl tartly.“But a walk would do you good, Dally. Would you take a note for me?”“Take a note, miss?” said Dally with her eyes twinkling; “oh, of course, miss! I’ll go and ask Miss Mary to let me go!”“No, no—stop, you foolish girl!” said Leo, with a half laugh. “There, I’ll be plain with you. I don’t want my sister to know. You would take a letter for me to Mrs Berens, Dally?”“Master said I was never to take any notes for anybody,” said Dally sharply.“But you will make an exception, Dally! Take a note for me, and bring me an answer, and I will give you a sovereign.”“To Mrs Berens, miss?”Leo looked at her meaningly, and the girl returned the gaze.“Very well, miss; I’ll take it,” she said. “Must I go right to the Hall?”“Yes, Dally, this evening, and nobody must know. Insist upon seeing him yourself, and bring me back an answer by word of mouth, if he cannot write.”“Yes, miss.”“Can I trust you?”“Trust me, miss? Why, of course!” cried Dally, for Leo was giving her the opportunity she had sought. For days past she had been trying to find some way of getting a word with Tom Candlish; but, so far, it had been impossible. Now the way had been put into her hands.“Thankye, miss,” she said, dropping a curtsy, as she slipped a long letter and a sovereign into her pocket. “And if I don’t settle your affair there, madam,” she said to herself, “I don’t know Tom Candlish, and he don’t know quite what Dally Watlock can do when she’s served like this.”“Then I may trust you, Dally?” whispered Leo.“Trust me, miss?” said the girl, looking at her innocently; “why, of course you can.”“To-night, then, after dark!”“Yes, miss, after dark; and if I’m asked for, you’ll say you give me leave to go and see poor gran’fa, who isn’t well.”“Yes, Dally, I will.”“And she’s been to boarding school, and thinks herself clever,” said Dally, as soon as she was alone. “Go after dark, miss? Yes, I will. They say people’s soft when they’re sick and weak. Perhaps so. Tom may be so now. After dark!” she muttered with a little cough. “Yes, miss; you may trust me! I’ll go after dark!”

“Hartley, you horrify me,” said Mary, after she had listened to her brother’s account of his visit. “He must have been ill or under some strange influence.”

“Influence?” cried Salis drily; “well, that means drink, Mary.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cried the poor girl warmly. “He told you he was ill, and he may have been taking some very potent medicine.”

“Extremely,” said Salis.

“Hartley, for shame!” cried Mary, with her eyes flashing. “You left here an hour ago full of faith and trust in the friend of many years’ standing. You find him ill and peculiar in his manner, and you come back here ready to think all manner of evil of him. Is this just?”

“But he was so very strange and peculiar, my child. You cannot imagine how queer.”

“Hartley!” cried Mary warmly; “how can you! Horace North must be very ill, and needs his friend’s help. Your account of his acts and words suggests delirium. Go back to him at once.”

“Go back to him?”

“Yes; at once. Have you forgotten his goodness to us—how he snatched Leo back from the jaws of death?”

“You think I ought to go, Mary?” said Salis dubiously.

“I shall think my brother is under some strange influence—suffering from wounded pride—if he does not frankly go to our old friend’s help.”

“I’ll go back at once,” cried Salis excitedly. “Why, Mary, when you were active and strong, I always thought I had to teach and take care of you. Now you are an invalid, you seem to teach and guide me.”

“No, no,” said Mary tenderly. “It is only that I lie here for many hours alone, thinking of what is best for us all. Not yet, Hartley: I want to say something else.”

“Yes,” he said, going down on one knee by her couch, and holding her hand; “what is it?”

“I want to say a few words to you about Leo,” said Mary, after a pause.

“About Leo?” said Salis uneasily.

“Yes, dear. I tell you I lie here for many hours thinking about you both. I want to speak about Leo and—Mr North.”

“Yes,” said Salis gravely, as Leo’s manner when the servant came from the Hall flashed upon his mind. “What do you wish to say?”

“Do you consider that there is any engagement between them?”

“I hardly know what to say. North seemed deeply attached to her.”

“Yes,” said Mary; “but I have felt puzzled by his manner lately. He has not been.”

“And he has not sent her flowers as he used.”

“No; I have noticed that. Has Mr North felt that Leo has slighted him in any way.”

“Why, Mary,” cried Salis excitedly, “what a brain you have! My dear child, you have hit upon the cause of his strange manner. You noticed—you noticed Leo’s manner when the news came of Candlish’s illness—for I suppose I must call it so.”

“Yes,” said Mary, with a sigh. “I noticed it.”

“And North must have seen something. Mary, my girl, what shall I do?”

“What shall you do?”

“Yes; I am divided between my sister and my friend. There! I must speak out. It would be the saving of Leo if she could become North’s wife; and yet, much as I love her and wish for her happiness, I feel as if I am being unjust to North to let matters go farther.”

Mary lay back with her eyes half closed for some minutes before she felt that she could trust her voice so that it should not betray her.

“It would be for Leo’s happiness could she say truly that she could love and honour Horace North,” Mary whispered at last; “but it will never be, Hartley. Leo will never marry as we wish.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Salis sadly; “and the more I think of it, the more it seems to me that you have hit upon North’s trouble. Leo’s anxiety about that scoundrel has disgusted poor Horace. What shall I do?”

“Your friend is ill,” said Mary sadly; “act as a friend should. Leave the rest: we can do nothing there.”

“My poor darling!” said Salis, “you are the good angel of our little home. There, I’ll go to North at once.”

Meanwhile a conversation was going on in Leo’s room.

She had suffered intensely during the past few days, which had seemed to her like months of suspense and agony. Every stroke at the door had seemed to be a visitor to expose her to her brother, or else she believed it was North coming to reproach her; and, though she told herself that she would be defiant and could tell him he was mad ever to have thought about her, she shivered at each step upon the gravel.

The scene in the vestry had shaken her nerves terribly. The news of Tom Candlish’s serious injuries had added to her trouble; and, combined with this, there was the horrible suspense as to her lover’s state. In a way, she was a prisoner, and any attempt to hear news of the sufferer at the Hall would bring down upon her an angry reproof from her brother.

After the news of his state, Tom Candlish’s name was not mentioned at the Rectory. She dared not ask or show by word or look the anxiety she felt, and yet there were times when she would have given years of her life for a few words of tidings.

Unable to bear the suspense any longer, and after thinking of a dozen schemes, she at last decided upon one, which was the most unlucky she could have devised.

It was the nearest to her hand, and, in quite a gambling spirit, she snatched at it recklessly.

She was in her room, reading, when Dally entered.

“Is my brother in?” she said quietly. “Yes, miss; along with Miss Mary, talking.”

“Are you very busy, Dally?”

“Yes, miss, ’most worked to death,” said the girl tartly.

“But a walk would do you good, Dally. Would you take a note for me?”

“Take a note, miss?” said Dally with her eyes twinkling; “oh, of course, miss! I’ll go and ask Miss Mary to let me go!”

“No, no—stop, you foolish girl!” said Leo, with a half laugh. “There, I’ll be plain with you. I don’t want my sister to know. You would take a letter for me to Mrs Berens, Dally?”

“Master said I was never to take any notes for anybody,” said Dally sharply.

“But you will make an exception, Dally! Take a note for me, and bring me an answer, and I will give you a sovereign.”

“To Mrs Berens, miss?”

Leo looked at her meaningly, and the girl returned the gaze.

“Very well, miss; I’ll take it,” she said. “Must I go right to the Hall?”

“Yes, Dally, this evening, and nobody must know. Insist upon seeing him yourself, and bring me back an answer by word of mouth, if he cannot write.”

“Yes, miss.”

“Can I trust you?”

“Trust me, miss? Why, of course!” cried Dally, for Leo was giving her the opportunity she had sought. For days past she had been trying to find some way of getting a word with Tom Candlish; but, so far, it had been impossible. Now the way had been put into her hands.

“Thankye, miss,” she said, dropping a curtsy, as she slipped a long letter and a sovereign into her pocket. “And if I don’t settle your affair there, madam,” she said to herself, “I don’t know Tom Candlish, and he don’t know quite what Dally Watlock can do when she’s served like this.”

“Then I may trust you, Dally?” whispered Leo.

“Trust me, miss?” said the girl, looking at her innocently; “why, of course you can.”

“To-night, then, after dark!”

“Yes, miss, after dark; and if I’m asked for, you’ll say you give me leave to go and see poor gran’fa, who isn’t well.”

“Yes, Dally, I will.”

“And she’s been to boarding school, and thinks herself clever,” said Dally, as soon as she was alone. “Go after dark, miss? Yes, I will. They say people’s soft when they’re sick and weak. Perhaps so. Tom may be so now. After dark!” she muttered with a little cough. “Yes, miss; you may trust me! I’ll go after dark!”

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