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Title: The Man with a Shadow

Author: George Manville Fenn

Release date: November 8, 2010 [eBook #34248]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WITH A SHADOW ***

George Manville Fenn

"The Man with a Shadow"

Chapter One.

The Curate Grows Suspicious; and Takes his Stick.

“Do what, miss?” said Dally Watlock. “That! There, you did it again.”

“La, miss; I on’y thought my face might be a bit smudgy, and I wiped it.”

“Don’t tell me a falsehood, Dally. I know what it means. You felt guilty, and your face burned.”

“La, miss; I don’t know what you mean.”

“Then I’ll tell you, Dally. You are growing too light and free, and your conduct is far from becoming, or what it should be for a maid-servant at the Rectory. If girls are so foolish they must not be surprised at young men—gentlemen—taking such liberties. Now go. And mind this: if it ever occurs again, I shall acquaint my brother.”

“Well, I couldn’t help it, miss. I didn’t ask Mr Tom Candlish to kiss me.”

“Silence! How dare you? Leave the room.”

“I was a-going to, miss. He popped out from behind the hedge just as Billy Wilkins had given me the letters, and he says, ‘Give this note to Miss Leo, Dally,’ he says, ‘and mind no one else sees.’”

“I told you to leave the room, girl.”

“Well, miss, I’m a-going, ain’t I? And then, before I could help it, he put his arm round me and said my cheeks were like apples.”

“Will—you—leave—the—room?”

“Yes, miss, of course I will; and then he kissed me just as Billy Wilkins looked back, and now he’ll go and tell Joe Chegg, and he’ll scold me too. I’m a miserable girl.”

Red-cheeked, ruddy-lipped Dally Watlock—christened Delia as a compromise for Delilah—covered her round face with her apron, and began to sob and try to pump up a few tears to her bright dark eyes, as her young mistress seized her by the shoulders, and literally forced her out of the room, when Dally went sobbing down the passage and through the baize door before she dropped her apron and began to laugh.

“She’s as jealous as jel!” cried the girl. “It made her look quite yellow. Deal she’s got to talk about, too. Tell master! She daren’t! The minx! I could tell too. Who cares for her—tallow-face? Thinks she’s precious good-looking; but she ain’t everybody, after all. Master Joe Chegg, too, had better mind. I don’t care if he does know now.”

Then as if the spot burned, or as if a natural instinct taught her that the kiss imprinted upon her cheek was not as cleanly as it should have been, or as one of the honest salutes of the aforesaid Joe Chegg, Dally Watlock lifted her neat white apron, and wiped the place again.

“How dare he kiss her?” said Leo Salis, frowning, as she laid the post letters beside her brother’s place at the breakfast-table, and then stood with the note in her hand. “I’ll punish him for this!”

She hastily tore open the note, which was written in a good, manly hand, but contained in ten lines four specimens of faulty spelling, and a “you was” which looked as big as a blot.

The note was brief and contained a pressing invitation to meet the writer in Red Cliff Wood that morning, as soon after breakfast as she could.

“I won’t go,” she said passionately. “I’ll punish him!”

Then, as if feeling that she would punish herself, the girl stood thinking, and then hastily crushed the note in her hand and walked to the window, to be apparently studying the pretty Warwickshire landscape as her brother and sister entered the room.

“Morning, Leo, dear,” said Mary Salis, the elder of the two; a fair English girl, grey-eyed, with high forehead and dark-brown, wavy hair, her type of countenance, allowing for feminine softness, being wonderfully like that of the robust, manly-looking clergyman who entered with his hand resting upon her shoulder.

“Morning, Mary,” said Leo quietly; and her handsome dark, almost Spanish, features seemed perfectly calm and inanimate as she returned her sister’s salute; and then, in a half weary way, rather distantly held up her cheek for her brother to kiss.

“Get out!” said the latter boisterously, as he caught the handsome girl by the shoulders, and tried to look in her eyes which avoided his. “No nonsense, Leo, my dear. No grumps. Give me a good, honest kiss. Lips—lips—lips.”

She raised her face in obedience to the emphatic demand, and then extricated herself from the two strong hands, to take her place at the table; while her sister, who seemed nervous and anxious, and kept glancing from one to the other, went to the head of the table, and began to make the tea.

“You and I must not be on two sides, Leo, my dear,” said the brother, smiling, but with a troubled look on his face, which seemed the reflection of that in the eyes of the elder sister. “I’m like a grandfather to you, my darling, and what I say and advise is for the best.”

“Do you wish to send me back to my room, Hartley?” said the girl, half rising.

“Name of a little fiddler in France, no!” cried Hartley Salis. “There—mum! I’ve done, dear. Breakfast! I’m as hungry as two curates this morning. What is it, Dally?”

“Ammonegs, sir,” said the little maid, who entered with a covered dish.

“Didn’t know Ammon ever laid ’em,” muttered the curate, with a dry look at his sisters. “Now then: letters. Let me see.”

He proceeded to open his letters, and read and partook of his breakfast at the same time, making comments the while for the benefit of his sisters, when he thought the news would please.

“Humph! May!” he said aloud; and then skimmed the ill-written, crabbed lines in silence.

“Hang him!” he said to himself. “What mischief-making wretch inspired that?” and he re-read the letter. “‘Not becoming of the sister of a clergyman to be seen so often in the hunting-field—better be engaged over parish work—excites a good deal of remark—hope shall not have to make this painful allusion again’—Humph!”

The curate’s face was full of the lines of perplexity, and rapidly doubling up the letter, he swallowed half a cup of tea at a gulp, much hotter than was good for him, and quite sufficiently so to cause pain.

“Phew! More milk, Mary, dear.”

A long white hand raised the milk-jug quickly, and the earnest grey eyes which belonged sought the curate’s as he held out his cup.

“Any bad news, Hartley, dear?”

“Bad news? No, no, dear, only one of May’s old worries. The old boy’s got gout again.”

“Has he, dear?”

“Well, he doesn’t say so, but it breathes in that style. He feels it his duty to stir me up now and then, and he generally does it with a sharp stick.”

He glanced as he spoke at Leo, who sipped her tea and read a novel, without apparently heeding what was going on.

“It’s a great shame, Hartley, working so hard in the parish as you do,” said Mary quietly; “while he—”

“Oh, silence! thou reviler of those in high clerical places,” cried the curate merrily, as he inserted his knife in the envelope fold of another missive, and slit it open. “Here’s a letter from North.”

The face of Mary Salis was perfectly composed, but there was a flash from her eyes and an eager look of inquiry as the letter was opened.

“Ha! Busy as a bee! Conferences; lectures. Going to be present at a great operation. Nasty wretch! How he does glory in great operations!”

“It is his love of his profession,” said Mary quietly.

“Too enthusiastic,” said the curate. “Why doesn’t he, a man with his income, make himself happy by doing what good he can to his patients, and have his game of chess here when his work is done?”

“It is his desire to do good to his patients which makes him so earnest about scientific matters, dear,” said Mary, smiling at her brother.

“Very kind of you to do battle for him, my child; but Horace North works far too hard, and he’ll end by going mad.”

“Or becoming one of the ornaments of his profession,” said Mary, smiling.

“Ornaments be hanged! One of the useful corners, if you like.”

“Does he say when he is coming home?” said Mary quietly.

“Yes; day after to-morrow. Good news for Mrs Berens.”

The curate burst into a hearty laugh, and a very, very faint flush of colour came into Mary’s cheek.

“Saw her yesterday, and with a face as innocent of guile as could be she told me that she was very poorly, and should not feel safe to live long in a village where there was no medical man. Glad old Horace is coming back, though. What have we here? Oh, I see. Letter about the horse—no, it’s a mare.”

Leo put down her book and listened attentively now.

“Hah! Yes! North was right. The fellow will take ten pounds less for her, after all.”

“Ah!”

There was a faint sigh, expressive of gratification, and the curate looked up.

“Are you satisfied, Leo?” he said gravely.

“Yes.”

“It goes against the grain,” he said, laying his hand involuntarily upon the letter he had that morning received from the rector.

“Don’t say that, Hartley,” cried Leo, with her face now full of animation. “We can afford the horse, and it was absolutely disgraceful to appear on poor old Grey Joe.”

“Grey Joe was a good safe horse, and I never felt nervous when you were mounted. Splendid fellow in harness too.”

“Yes, admirable!” cried Leo. “And now you can keep him always for the chaise. It will be so much better.”

The curate shook his head.

“No,” he said; “poor old Joe will have to so, and I wish him a wood master.”

“Poor old Joe!” said Mary, sighing, as she thought of many pleasant drives.

“Grey Joe! Go!” said Leo, with her lips apart. “Then what will you do for the chaise?”

“Use the new mare.”

Leo looked at him with speechless indignation.

“Put the new mare in the chaise?” she faltered.

“Yes, my dear. The man says she goes well in harness.”

“Oh, Hartley,” cried Leo, flushing now with indignation, “that would be too absurd!”

“Why, my dear?”

“You get me a mount because it is so unpleasant to go to the meet on an old chaise-horse, and then talk of putting my hunter in the chaise.”

“Grey Joe was not good enough for the purpose,” said the curate gravely, “and at your earnest wish, my dear Leo, I have pinched in several ways that my sister, who is so fond of hunting, may not be ashamed before her friends.”

“Pinched!”

“Yes, my dear, pinched myself and Mary. Our consols money only gives three per cent., and it is hard work to make both ends meet. You have your mount, and I cannot afford to keep two horses, so Grey Joe must go. We must have the use of a horse in the chaise, so the mare will have to run in harness sometimes.”

Leo rose from her chair with her eyes flashing and cheek aflame.

“I declare it’s insufferable,” she cried, with a stamp of the foot. “Oh, I am so sick of this life of beggary and pinching! All through this season I have been disgraced by that wretched old horse, and now when people who know me—Oh, I cannot bear to speak of it!”

“My dear sister!”

“It’s cruel—it’s abominable. If it had been Mary, she could have had what she pleased.”

“My dear Leo,” began Mary, looking up at her in a troubled way.

“Hold your tongue! You make mischief enough as it is. You always side with Hartley, who has no more feeling than a stone.”

“But, my dear child,” began the curate.

“Child! Yes; that’s how you treat me—like a child. You check me in every way. I suppose you’ll want to make me a nun, and keep me shut up always in this dreary hole. You check me in everything, and Mary helps you.”

Mary looked up at her brother now, for he had slowly risen from his seat, and she knew the meaning of the stern aspect of his countenance.

“I had hoped, Leo,” he said, “that you would have accepted my decision about that to which you have thought it wise to allude.”

“I am driven to it,” cried the girl passionately.

“No: I try to lead,” said the curate, “as a father might lead. I shall be sorry when the time comes for you to quit our pleasant old home, but if a good man and true comes and says, ‘I love your sister; give her me to wife’—”

“If you cannot speak plain English, pray hold your tongue,” cried Leo scornfully.

“I should hold out my hands to him, and greet him as a new brother, Leo,” said the curate solemnly; “but when I find that my young, innocent sister is being made the toy of a worthless, degraded—”

“How dare you?” cried Leo, flashing out in her rage, while Mary went to her side, and laid her hand upon the trembling arm half raised.

“I dare,” said the curate gravely, “because I have right upon my side. I think—and Mary joins me in so thinking—”

“Of course!” said Leo scornfully. “That Thomas Candlish is no fit companion for my sister. I have told you so, and to cease all further communication. I have told him so; forbidden him the house; and he has accepted my judgment.”

“Mr Candlish is a gentleman,” cried Leo fiercely.

“People call him so, and his brother by the same name, because of the old family property; but if they are gentlemen, thank Heaven I am a poor curate!”

“Your conduct—”

“Hush!” said the curate firmly. “We will say no more about this, Leo, my dear. You are angry without cause. I have acceded to your request for a fresh horse, so as to indulge you in your love of hunting, and at more cost than you imagine. I shall always be glad to do anything that I can to make my sisters happy; but I must be judge and master here, though I fear I am often very weak.”

“It is insufferable,” cried Leo indignantly; and she raised quite a little whirlwind as she swept out of the room.

The curate sighed, and sank back in his chair with his brow knit, till he felt a soft arm encircle his neck and a rounded cheek rest against his temple.

“Ah!” he exclaimed; “that’s better;” and he passed his arm round the graceful form. “This is very sad, Mary. But, there; we will not brood over it; difficulties often settle themselves.”

“Yes, Hartley.”

“But that Candlish business must not go on.”

“No, Hartley. It is impossible.”

She kissed his forehead, and the breakfast was finished in silence—supposed to be finished. It had really ended when Leo Salis quitted the room.

It was about an hour later that as the Reverend Hartley Salis was hard at work over his sermon, striving his best to keep out college lore, and to write in language that the Duke’s Hampton villagers could easily understand, that he came to the sentence following—

“Now a man’s duty, my friends—and a woman’s”—he added parenthetically.

“Now, what shall I tell them a man’s duty is—and a woman’s?”

That required thought, and he laid down his pen, rose, and walked to the study window, to look out on the pleasant landscape; beautiful still, though not in the most goodly time of year.

“Obedience!” he cried angrily, for just passing out of the little rustic gate at the bottom of the Rectory grounds he saw his sister Leo.

She was in hat and cloak. Her movements were rapid, and the furtive look she darted back told tales.

“No,” said the curate; “it would be spying. I cannot.”

“It is your duty,” something seemed to whisper to him.

“Perhaps I am contemptibly mean and suspicious,” he muttered. “I hope I am. If it is so, I’ll—No, no, no, Hartley, my son! Recollect what you are. Such as the bishop should be, such must you be—no brawler—no striker. No: it must be a favourable opportunity for a quiet chat with Leo, for we cannot go on like this, poor child.”

He went into the hall, took down his hat, reached a stout cudgel-like stick which his hand gripped firmly, as his nerves tingled, while his left hand clenched, and felt as if it were grasping some one by the collar.

“A scoundrel!” he muttered.

“Going out, dear?”

“Ah, Mary! You there! You go about like a mouse. Yes, I’ve just got to ‘a man’s duty is’ in my sermon, and can’t get any farther, so I’ll go as far as Red Cliff Wood and back for a refresher.”

He nodded and went out.

“Poor Mary!” he muttered; “she must not know; but if I had stayed a minute longer she would have found me out. Now, Master Tom Candlish, if you are there, I’ll—”

He gave himself a sharp slap on the mouth.

“Steady! Man, man, man! how you do forget your cloth! But if Tom Candlish—Pish! Steady, man! Let’s go and see.”

Mary Salis stood in the deep old mullioned window, gazing after him.

“Hartley never leaves and speaks like that unless there is something wrong,” she said to herself. “If that wretched man has persuaded Leo—she has just gone out—without a word. Oh, no, no! she would not do such a thing as that. How I do picture troubles where there are none!”

She stood watching until her brother disappeared, and then went back into the dining-room, telling herself that it was folly, but her heart refused to be convinced, and set up a low, heavy, ominous throb.

Chapter Two.

Dr North Gets in Hot Water.

“Yah!”

A virtuous mob’s war-cry. The favourite ejaculation of the unwashed scoundrels who are always ready to redress grievances and hunt down their fellow-creatures for the crimes they glory in themselves—when they can commit them safely.

There is always a large floating contingent ready for this duty, and also—to use their own expression—“to have a go at any think;” and upon several occasions they had had “a go” at the lecture-room of St. Sector’s Hospital, Florsbury, the consequence of such “goes” being that the neighbouring glaziers had a large job; but the authorities preferred to content themselves with keeping out the wind and water, and left the exterior unpainted, showing the stone dents, chipped paint, and batterings of the insensate crew of virtuous beings who revel in destruction whenever they have a chance.

The “Yahoos” had their own theory about St. Sector’s, and allowed themselves to smoulder for a time, but every now and then they burst forth into eruption, and then the consequences were not pleasant to behold.

Lecture night at St. Sector’s, and a goodly gathering present to witness an operation performed by one of the greatest surgical savants of the day. There were medical students present, but some of the cleverest surgeons of London and the country had made a point of being there to see the operation and learn how to combat a terrible disease which, up to that date, had been considered certain death to the unfortunate being who contracted that ill.

The old savant had thought, had experimented, and had given years of his life to studying that evil, and now, having proclaimed the result of his discoveries, and coming as the announcement did from a man of such weight in the profession, a strong band of the lights of surgical science had gathered together to witness the experiment; and also hear a paper read by a young surgeon from the country—Dr Horace North.

Precedence was given to the paper, and a keen, intelligent, handsome young man of thirty stepped up to the lecturer’s table with a roll of papers in his hand. He looked rather pale, and there was a slight twitching at the corners of his lips as he bowed to his audience, after a few words of introduction from the grey-haired chairman of the evening. Then the buzz of conversation, which had ceased for a few moments, began again.

He felt that he had a task before him, that of stopping a gap in front of which an eager crowd were ready to clamour for the treat they had come to hear. Dr Horace North was nothing to them, and the young students voted his paper a bore.

He began to read in a calm, clear voice, expounding his views, and the buzz of voices increased as first one and then another page was read and turned over, scarcely a word being heard.

He stopped and poured out a glass of water, and the carafe was heard to clatter against the glass as the lecturer’s hand trembled.

This was the signal for a titter, which was repeated by some thoughtless student, as the reading was resumed without the water being tasted.

Then five minutes of painful reading ensued, with the buzz of voices increasing.

There was a sudden stoppage, and all were attentive.

For, with an angry gesture, the young doctor rolled up his papers, threw them aside, and took a step forward.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, in a voice which rang through the theatre, “I am addressing you who in the conceit of youth believe that there is little more to learn, and who have treated my reading with such contempt.”

“Hear, hear!” cried the old chairman.

Those two encouraging words touched the speaker, and, with a dramatic earnestness of manner, he exclaimed:

“I have not much to say, but it is the result of years of study, and that you shall hear.”

Then, for the space of half-an-hour, in fluent, forcible language, he poured forth the result of his observations and belief that they, the followers of the noble science of surgery, had a great discovery before them waiting to be made, one which it was the duty of all to endeavour to drag forth from the dark depths in which Nature hid away her treasures.

He declared that death should only follow upon old age, when the fruit was quite ripe, and ready to fall from the tree of life. He left it to the followers of medicine to attack and conquer disease, so that plague and pestilence should no longer carry off their hecatombs of victims, and addressed the surgeon alone, telling him that in case of accident or after operation, no man of health or vigour should be allowed to die.

There was a half laugh here, and a sneer or two.

“I repeat it,” cried the speaker. “No such man should be allowed to die.” Previous to his accident he was in robust health, and his apparent death was only, as it were, a trance, into which he fell while Nature busily commenced her work of restoration, the building-up again of the injured tissues. How the sustaining of the patient while Nature worked her cure was to be carried out, it was the duty of them all to discover, and for one he vowed that he would not rest till the discovery was made.

In the case of drowning it was often but suspended animation. In the case of accident and apparent death, it would be the same. Death by shock, he maintained, was a blot upon the science of the present day. Those who died by shock merely slept. Such body was in full health and vigour, and Nature would repair all damages by the aid of man; and he was convinced that the time would come when surgeons would save a hundred lives where they now saved one.

The speaker sat down amidst a whirlwind of applause, for his manner, his thorough belief, and his earnestness carried away his audience; and the result would have been a most exciting discussion but for the intervention of the chairman, who pointed to the clock, and at once introduced the great surgeon, while a murmur ran through the theatre as a large table was wheeled into the centre of the building from behind a curtain, and those present knew what the draping of the table concealed.

A burst of applause greeted the grave, grey-headed surgeon; and as it ceased, he expressed, in a few well-selected words, the pleasure he had felt in listening to Dr Horace North, to whose theory he expressed himself ready to pin his faith.

“And I say this, gentlemen, for the reason that I am here to-night—to point out to you how great a stride can be made in surgery—how much we have yet to learn.”

Then, explaining in a calm, clear voice as he went on, he turned back his sleeves, and selected a long, keen blade from a velvet-lined case, signed to his assistants, and the subject upon which he was to operate lay there grim, cold, and ghastly.

No: not ghastly to the earnest men who saw in it the martyr immolated to the saving of thousands, as, with deft fingers and unerring skill, the great surgeon made his incisions; and exemplifying step by step each act and its reasons, he performed his wonderful experiment to the last stroke; and then, having finished, was about to draw back when there was a volley of stones upon door and window, and, amid the creaking of woodwork and the tinkling of falling glass, came the yelling of the virtuous mob—“Yah!”

And directly afterwards—“Body-snatchers! Yah!” For a moment there was a stillness, as if the audience in the lecture theatre had been paralysed; then there was a general stampede towards the door, and a burst of rage, excitement, and dread, as a voice loudly announced that the mob had scaled the wall and were in the yard—a tremendous volley of stones and brickbats endorsing the announcement.

For a few minutes only one present seemed to keep his head, and that was the old operator, who whispered a few orders to his assistants, and with rapid action the table, with its burden, was draped and wheeled beyond the curtained arch from which it had been drawn, the banging of a heavy door and the shooting of bolts following directly after.

The beating of heavy sticks upon the doors, the smashing in of the windows, glass and wire-work giving way at every volley, and the yelling of the mob, made a deafening uproar, during which the old surgeon calmly began returning his favourite operating knives to their purple velvet-lined cases, locking them up carefully, as he turned to Horace North, who stood beside him, and said, with a smile:

“Now what have we done to deserve such treatment as this?”

“Yah! Body-snatchers!” came with a burst of yells from without.

“Done, sir?” said the young doctor, flushing. “Toiled hard to discover means of alleviating pain and saving life. This is our reward.”

“Yes,” said the old man, smiling, as he patted his cases. “My pets; I shouldn’t like to lose them. Yes, sir, ignorance in Christian England in the nineteenth century!”

“Yah! Body-snatchers!” came again; and the howling and yelling mob were evidently forcing their way in.

“Never mind them, Mr North,” continued the old man. “Let me see and hear from you. I believe in your theory. You have gone too far, my dear sir; youth is sanguine. You have aimed at the top of the mountain. You will not get there, but to a good high place, and I am proud to have met so clever, so talented a young man.”

“Thank you, sir; thank you,” cried North, as the old man lowered his cases into his pockets; “but hadn’t we better try and get away?”

“Try?” said the old man. “I do not see how we can. The mob are arranging for seizing by escalade.”

“Yah! Body-snatchers!” came in a fierce yell, louder, too, as it followed upon a tremendous crash.

The irruption of the London “Yahoos” had taken place, and they were pouring in, headed by a fierce-looking, crop-eared, bullet-headed ruffian, and the fight began.

Medical students can fight; and upon this occasion they used their fists scientifically and well; but the odds were against them. The mob swept on, and the big ruffian and a dozen companions made a dash over the seats, treating them as they would those of the gallery of a theatre on a night when they wished to express their displeasure.

Before Horace North realised the fact, they were upon the group by where the operating table had stood, and close to another table upon which were bottles, glasses, basins, sponges, and a pestle and mortar.

The young doctor was borne back as the yell—the war-cry, “Yah! Body-snatchers!”—once more arose, and as he struggled with one scoundrel who tried to take vengeance upon him by stealing his watch, he saw the grey-headed old surgeon struck down by the bullet-headed, butcher-like ruffian who led the gang; and the fellow was about to follow up his attack by performing a war-dance upon the defenceless old man.

He had not time, for Horace North literally flung himself upon the savage and drove him from his prey, but only to be grasped in turn by one whose greatest pleasure was destruction, and whose unpleasant mouth expanded into a satisfied grin as he bore back the body of his weaker adversary, and with it a good deal of the future of Mary and Leo Salis linked in with that of half the village of Duke’s Hampton.

“Ah, would yer! it’s my turn now.”

The vengeance of his class against what he called a “swell.”

Chapter Three.

Science at Work.

Horace North was more of the student than the athlete, and he felt the blood rushing to his head—a strange sensation of vertigo which he could have aptly described in writing, and thoroughly expressed, with all due detail, the action going on by the compression of certain veins and an artery. But for a few moments, in the mêlée, he could do nothing to free himself of the savage grip, which threatened to injure him for life, if it did not quite destroy.

But science is a fine backer of brute force. A man with little muscle is the equal of a giant when both are armed with sword or pistol; and could Horace North have brought his science to bear in the shape of galvanism or some anaesthetic, he would have had the burly giant at his mercy instead of rapidly losing his senses.

Galvanism was, however, not at hand, the opportunity to administer a dose of ether or chloroform was also wanting, and as one of the young doctor’s hands vainly grasped the ruffian’s sinewy wrist, the other fell nearly nerveless upon the table against which he was borne.

Here, fortunately, he found the much-needed help of science in the shape of a pestle of marble comfortably reposing in its native mortar.

Horace North had often used a pestle in peace; he now used it in war, for his fingers closed upon the wooden handle, the heavy weapon described the arc of a circle, there was a sounding rap, half an oath—barely that—and the big ruffian fell all in a heap upon the floor.

For a few moments Horace North felt dazed, but the fighting instinct of the man was now roused, and as a couple of the leader’s friends came at him to avenge their comrade’s fall, one uttered a yell as the pestle was dashed in his face, and the other a howl as it came down with a crack upon his collarbone, both being rendered hors de combat, while the doctor now bestrode the prostrate body of the old surgeon, and kept the rest at bay.

Just at this time there was a burst of cheering, for the students were warming to the fray and fighting shoulder to shoulder. The mob, disheartened by their leader’s fall, began to give way. The atmosphere of the lecture-hall was evidently too warm, and their retrograde movement rapidly became a rout, in which they were swept bodily out of the place by door and window, too much governed by the laws of self-preservation to think even of those who were down.

Then, as the last scoundrel was driven out, and a tremendous cheer arose from the victors, a strong body of police marched into the hall, well buttoned up and beautifully cool, to find that the work was done—all save that of marching off half-a-dozen dizzy, unwashed savages to the cooling cell.

“Better, sir?”

“Eh? Better? Yes—a little contused. Water! Thank you. Yes; better now. Rather rough proceedings.”

The old man looked round rather piteously, till his eyes lighted upon the young doctor.

“Ah! you, Mr North. I remember now. Thank you. Would you mind helping me to my carriage? I’m rather giddy.”

The task was done: the old man being helped to the hospital, and through it to a private entrance, where his carriage was in attendance, away from the crowd.

“That’s right. Come home with me, Mr North. I should like a few words with you, if you would not mind.”

Horace North gladly entered the carriage, for he thought the old man not fit to go alone, and in the excitement at the hospital no one paid him the slightest attention.

“Now come to my room,” said the old man, as they were set down at his residence in Harley Street. “Hurt? Oh, no!—a trifle. I want to talk to you about your plans. We’ll have a cup of coffee, a cigar, and a chat.”

That chat in the great surgeon’s study lasted till daybreak, and then Horace North walked back to his hotel with his brain on fire. For, with his ideas to a certain extent endorsed by the great authority he had just quitted, he saw himself on the eve of a grand discovery, one which should immortalise his name and benefit his fellow-creatures to a vast extent.

“It is like taking a plunge into the unknown,” he cried, as he walked hurriedly on, excited beyond measure. For Horace North was like the rest of the world—blind as to what would happen. Had he been otherwise, he would have buried his secret thoughts for ever sooner than have faced that which was to come.

Chapter Four.

Parson Salis Takes off his Coat.

Mary Salis was wrong, for her headstrong, passionate sister was ready to do whatever she pleased, and what pleased her then was to obey the summons contained in the note Dally Watlock delivered to her that morning.

Her brother’s face grew stern and hard as he walked on, to see from time to time small footprints in the soft track, for a southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaimed it a hunting morning. No dry wind had hardened the path, and Hartley Salis felt convinced that he knew his sister’s goal.

In half-an-hour he reached Red Cliff Wood, the great patch of ancient oaks on the Candlish estate through which the best trout-stream in the shire—the one which flowed through the Rectory meadows and down at the bottom of the Manor House garden—meandered.

His path was along by the stream, which here and there showed upon its bank the same traces of a pair of little feet, whose high-heeled boots left deep imprints; and Hartley Salis grew more stern as he walked on toward the depths of the wood, where the great mass of ruddy stone cropped out to give its name to the place, and form, as it overhung the stream, a glorious fernery, ever moist with the water that oozed from the strata from foot to top.

A dozen yards farther and there was a low whinnying noise, which came from a handsome sorrel hunter, secured by the bridle to a ragged old oak bough.

Not an unpleasant picture in that glorious old mossy wood, but sufficient to make Hartley Salis set his teeth, grip his stick tightly, and stride rapidly on to a green path a little farther away, where another picture met his gaze—to wit, his sister Leo with her back to him, and that back encircled by a broad scarlet band, which, on closer inspection, took the form of the arm of a well-built man in hunting-coat and top-boots.

Hartley Salis walked swiftly toward the group, the soft, mossy ground silencing his approach, till he trod upon a piece of rotten branch, which broke with a loud crack.

The couple started apart and turned to face the intruder, when Leo uttered a gasp of mingled shame and anger, and staggered back against a tree, leaving her brother face to face with Tom Candlish of the Hall.

For a few moments neither spoke, and then as the young man in scarlet got over his surprise, he half closed his dark eyes, and a mocking smile curved his lip.

“So it has come to this,” said the curate at last, speaking in a low voice full of suppressed anger.

“Hallo, parson! You here? Coming to the meet?” said the young man, half mockingly.

“After what has passed between us—”

“Oh, come, that’ll do,” cried the young man insolently. “Do you suppose you have a right to begin preaching at me every time you see me?”

“Do you suppose, sir,” cried the curate, still mastering his anger, “that you, because your father was the great land-holder here, have a right to persevere with what I have expressly forbidden?”

“Confound your insolence, sir! Don’t speak to me like that. What the deuce do you mean?”

“What do I mean, sir? I mean this—and I beg that you will not adopt that bullying tone toward me.”

“Bullying tone! You shall find something else besides a bullying tone if you interfere with me;” and as the young man spoke he gave his hunting-whip a flourish.

The curate’s cheeks flushed, and his brow contracted with anger; but he maintained his calmness as he continued:

“You asked me what I mean. I mean this: I, as their elder brother, and a clergyman of the Church of England, occupy the post of guardian to my two orphan sisters. They are happy in their life with me at the old Rectory, and I naturally look with serious eyes at the man who tries to tamper with that happiness. I should feel troubled if a gentleman came to the house in a straightforward, honourable way, and said to me, ‘Sir, I love one of your sisters; I ask your permission to visit at your house; give sanction to the engagement:’ but when—”

“Oh, if you are going to preach, I’m off. Finish it on Sunday.”

The curate’s colour grew deeper as he stepped before the young man, and stopped his departure.

“I am not going to preach, sir; but I am going to make you hear what I have to say.”

“Make?”

“Yes, sir, make, in spite of your insults. You are the brother of the chief man in this village, and I am only the curate; but you are to a certain extent under me; and now you have driven me to it, I am, I repeat, going to make you hear what I have to say.”

“Oh, are you?” mockingly.

“Yes. I say, when instead of approaching my sister in an honourable way, a man who is noted for his blackguardly conduct toward more than one poor girl in this village—”

“Look here, parson, is this meant as an insult?”

”—Comes to my house, and is requested to cease his visits, and then lays siege to the affections of one of my sisters in a cowardly, contemptible, clandestine fashion, I say, that man is unworthy of the treatment I should accord to a gentleman, and calls for that which I would give to some low-lived cad.”

“Here, I say,” cried Tom Candlish fiercely; “do you mean to tell me I am not your sister’s equal?”

“I tell you, sir, that no one who makes himself the associate of betting men, racecourse touts, and low-lived jockeys is the equal of the lady you have named, while one who, in opposition to my wishes, insists upon writing to the weak, foolish girl, and persuades her to meet him as you have done, merits a sound castigation.”

“Once more, do you mean to tell me, I am not your sister’s equal?”

“I do; and no amount of repentance, sir, for your ill-deeds would make you so.”

“Look here!” cried the young fellow, “you’ve been talking to me like a man sometimes, and then you’ve been dodging into your clerical jargon again. I’ve listened to you pretty patiently, and have borne more than I should from any one else because you are a parson; but you’ve gone too far, and now it’s my turn. If Leo—”

“Miss Leonora Salis, sir.”

“If Leo tells me she won’t have any more to say to me, I shall go; but as for you—hark here. I shall write to her, I shall meet her, and I shall ask her to meet me just as often as I please. Not her equal, I! Why, you miserable, beggarly, hundred-a-year, threadbare curate, how dare you address me as you do? Do you know who I am?”

“Yes: Tom Candlish, brother of Sir Luke Candlish, of Candlish Hall.”

“Yes, sir, descendants of one of our finest English families.”

“Descendants, sir,” retorted the curate, “of a miserly, money-spinning old scoundrel, who gave impecunious James the First so many hundred pounds for a contemptible baronetcy, which has come down to one of as disgraceful a pair as ever sat like a blight upon a pleasant English village.”

“You insolent hound!” roared Tom Candlish; “I’ll ride over to May and have you kicked out of your curacy.”

“Do,” said the curate.

“No, I won’t, for Leo’s sake. But, look here, master parson, don’t you interfere with me, or, by God, sir! I’ll give you the most cursed horsewhipping I ever gave man in my life. By George! if it wasn’t for your white neck-cloth and black coat, hang me. I’d do it now.”

He extended one hand, as if to grasp the curate’s collar, and raised his hunting-whip menacingly; but in an instant it was whisked out of his hand, and sent flying.

“You object to my white tie and black coat, eh, Tom Candlish?” said the curate, rapidly throwing them off and across a neighbouring oak branch; “there, then, for the time being they shall not afflict your eyes or put me out of your reach. Now then, we are on equal terms. Strip off that scarlet coat, you miserable popinjay.”

“What do you mean?” cried Tom Candlish, turning mottled in the face.

“I mean, sir, that words are no use to such a scoundrel as you: that a curate is also a man. In this case he is the lady’s brother, and in addition there are a score of insults to wipe away. Take off your coat.”

“What!” cried Tom Candlish, with a sneering laugh. “Look here—do you know that I can fight?”

“I know you were in a blackguardly prize-fight, sir, in a ring where your opponent was a sort of champion of the Bilston colliers.”

“Yes, so put on your coat and go home while you’re safe.”

“And I know that I have not clenched my fist in anger, sir, since I left Oxford, twelve years ago; but if you had beaten Tom Sayers it would not move me now. One of us two does not leave this wood without a sound thrashing, and, please goodness, that’s going to be you.”

The Reverend Hartley Salis, M.A., rapidly rolled up his shirt-sleeves over his white arms; while it was observable that the nearly new scarlet hunting-coat worn by handsome Tom Candlish, of Candlish Hall, came off very slowly, possibly on account of its excellent fit.

Chapter Five.

The Doctor’s Patients Want him at Home.

“Ah! Horace, old man, back again?”

“Yes. I should have come on sooner, but I—Hallo! gloves! Why, what’s the matter with your hands?”

“Oh! nothing. Rubbed the skin off my knuckles. That’s all.”

“Humph!” said the curate’s visitor—Horace North; and there was a curious twinkle in his eyes. “I say, I should have been over sooner, but I found a letter from Luke Candlish, asking me to go across to the Hall, as his brother was unwell.”

“Oh!” said the curate quietly.

“Went over and found the squire nearly drunk. He’s killing himself fast.”

“They’re a nice pair,” said the curate grimly.

“More shame for you to say so,” cried North. “They’re your moral patients. You ought to improve them.”

“Yes,” said the curate drily.

“The squire was sober enough, though, to tell me that his brother had had a nasty accident—was going to the meet yesterday, when his horse bolted with him, and somehow raced off into Red Cliff Wood, where Tom was only able to check him right up at the top there, where the beast threw him and he fell crashing down from the top of the cliff to the bottom.”

“Into the stream?” said the curate quietly.

“No; I didn’t hear anything about the stream,” said the doctor. “I went up and found him swearing at one of the maids because she was putting a poultice on his right eye too hot. Then he began to swear at me for not coming sooner. That raised my dander, and I told him I’d give him a dose that would keep him in bed for a month if he wasn’t civil.”

“Yes?”

“Well, then he cooled down and sent the maid away.”

“Yes?”

“And I went to work. He has had one of the most curious falls I ever met with in practice. His eyes are closed up—beautiful pair of black eyes; lip cut; right canine tooth in upper jaw broken short off; several contusions on the lower jaw; rib broken; and the skin off his knuckles.—Been doing anything to your bees?”

“Bees? What, this time of year? No. Why?”

“Cheek looks a little puffy. Curious fall that of Tom Candlish. Looked more like having been in another prize-fight. Let me see your knuckles.”

“No; they’re all right. Don’t humbug, Horace, old man. You’ve guessed it. I gave him a most awful thrashing.”

“Bless you, my son!” cried the doctor, clapping him on the shoulder.

“And I feel miserable at having disgraced myself so.”

“Nonsense! Church militant. Thrashed a confounded scoundrel. But what for? He has never had the insolence to—?”

He gave his head a short nod towards the drawing-room.

“Yes, and—There, I caught them together. He has been sending notes to her to meet him. I was in a passion, and he insulted me; and—and—”

“You pitched into the scoundrel, and you’ve given him the loveliest thrashing a man ever deserved. My dear Salis, you’ve done one of the grandest deeds of your life.”

“I’m a clergyman, and I’ve behaved like a blackguard.”

“Nonsense! There’s only one drawback to what you have done.”

“What’s that?”

“Did it when I was not there to see the fun. Why, it’s glorious.”

“I shall never forgive myself.”

“Then I’ll forgive you. Why, you soft-hearted old parson, you know you cannot touch him and his rascal of a brother with words, and you know that they are the curses of the neighbourhood.”

“No reason for me to give way to temper, and degrade myself.”

“Degrade your grandmother, sir! You’ve treated them as the Irish priests treat their flocks. Metaphorically given Tom Candlish the stick. It was your duty, sir, and there’s an end of it.”

“No; I’m afraid there’s not an end to it. He threatens to go to May.”

“Bah!”

“And to lay my conduct before the bishop.”

“And goes to bed and pretends his horse threw him. Get out, you old humbug; you’ll never hear another word.”

“I, who wish to live at peace with all men, have made a deadly enemy.”

“Pooh! He’s a wind-bag. You’ve taken the right course, and nipped that affair in the bud. Does Leo know of it?”

“Yes.”

“And Mary?”

“Not a word, so be careful—hist! some one coming.”

“May I come in?” said a sweet, musical voice.

“Come in? Yes,” said the young doctor, leaping up to throw open the door, and greet Mary Salis with a frank smile and so hearty a shake of the hand that she had hard work not to wince. “There, don’t come nearer; I smell of London smoke and blacks. Thank goodness, I’m back home.”

“The place does not seem the same without you,” said Mary, going behind her brother’s chair, to stand with her hands resting upon his shoulders.

“I don’t know about the place, but I know I do not feel the same out of it. Must go sometimes, though, to pick up a few facts, or one would be left behind. Did you go to the house?”

“Yes, and found Mrs Milt very busy.”

“Bless her! Nice game she has had, Salis. General clear up, and my study turned upside down. Seen old Moredock?”

“Yes, went yesterday,” said the curate. “The old mail was lying down, and fretting because you were away. Said he knew he should die before you returned.”

“Stuff. He’ll live to a hundred; but I’ll go and see the old boy. There, now you’re laughing,” he said, turning to Mary; “now, don’t say Mrs Berens has been ill and wanted me.”

“Why not?” said Mary, with her pleasant face lighting up, and a slight flush coming into her soft cheeks. “I told you the place did not seem the same without you.”

“Mrs Berens met me twice, and sighed large sighs,” said the curate, laughing. “Hah! I wish they’d all be as anxious about their souls as they are about their bodies.”

“And they’re not, old fellow?” said the doctor.

“No. I begin to wish you were out of the place, North, for you are my hated rival.”

“Hartley!” said Mary reprovingly.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the doctor. “Jealous. Never mind, old fellow. It’ll all come right in the end. There, can’t stop. I’ve no end to do.”

“But how did you get on in London?”

“Splendidly. Horribly. No end of adventures. Tell you all about it when I come again. Must see patients now. Must wind up old Moredock, and set him going again, or no bells, no clock, and no ‘Amens’ on Sunday.”

“Well, we could do without the last,” said the curate, smiling. “Going to see Mrs Berens?”

The doctor made a comical grimace.

“Must,” he said; “but, ’pon my word, I always feel ashamed to charge for my visits. She’s as well as you are, Miss Salis.”

“But she’s always better when you’ve been to feel her pulse,” said the curate, laughing.

“Get out!” cried the doctor merrily.

“I say, North, don’t be shabby.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t slip off, and be married in London. Have it here, and let me get my fees.”

“Now, beware,” said the doctor, shaking his fist playfully. “I never have slain a man wilfully; but if you tempt me there’s no knowing what I may do when I have you stretched helpless in bed.”

“I defy you,” cried the curate, laughing. “See how guilty he looks, Mary.”

“Hartley!” said Mary reprovingly, and she pressed his shoulder.

“Now that proves it,” said the doctor. “Go to, thou miserable impostor! Have I not seen the fair, plump, sweet widow smiling softly on thee? Have not I heard her sigh over her soup when you have been laying down the law at dinner?”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” said the curate, frowning.

“And have I not seen her look grave when you came to firstly in your Sunday sermon; take out her scent-bottle at secondly; lean back in rapt adoration at thirdly; and when it got to ninthly begin to shed tears, shake her head softly, and look as if she were mentally saying, ‘Oh, what a sermon we have had.’”

“I say, North, don’t banter,” said the curate, with a half-vexed expression.

“Why, you hit me first. Didn’t he, Miss Salis?”

Mary nodded.

“There, sir. Judged by our fair Portia herself. But I must go. Good-bye, old fellow. Chess to-night?”

“By all means,” said the curate.

“Here or there?”

“Oh, come on here,” cried the curate; and, with a kindly message for Leo and a hearty shake of the hand to each, the doctor hurried away.

“I am glad he’s back,” said the curate seriously. “Aren’t you, Mary?”

“Very,” she replied. “We miss our friends.”

“Yes, and he is a good old fellow as ever stepped; so frank, so manly, and straightforward. I don’t know what the poor people here would do if he were to leave.”

“You don’t think he will leave?” said Mary anxiously.

“Leave? Not he. He likes his old home too well. I say, though, seriously, dear, you don’t think he cares for Mrs Berens?”

“Oh, no, Hartley,” said Mary, with a confident smile. “I am sure he thinks of nothing but his profession.”

“Exactly. I often think the same, but I often wish something.”

“What, dear?” said Mary earnestly.

“That he had taken a fancy to Leo. It would have been a happy day for me to have seen her with such a protector for life.”

“Yes,” said Mary softly. “He is a true gentleman at heart.”

“Why, Mary,” cried the curate enthusiastically, “he never takes a penny of any of the poor folk, and he works for them like a slave. The nights I’ve known him pass at a sick bedside. Well, thank God, we have such a man here.”

“Amen,” said Mary softly.

“There’s Leo,” said the curate, as she was seen to pass down one of the paths of the garden. “Mary, my child, if that could be brought about, it would be her saving, and make me a happy man.”

Mary rested her hands more firmly upon her brother’s shoulder, and turned to watch her sister; and, as she did so, her sweet, pensive face grew more grave and her brother’s was averted, so that he could not read its secret, neither did he hear the sigh that softly rose as her eyes were suffused with tears.

Chapter Six.

Dr North Visits the Sexton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Hartley! How absurd!” cried Leo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then leave it to me in your will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, sell it. I’ll buy it of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you’re better now.”

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

“And die?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

“All right. Good-day, Moredock.”

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

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

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

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

“What? The skull?”

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

“Oh! I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But this will do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your customers, eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good, eh?”

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

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

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

“No, I shall say nothing, Moredock.”

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

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

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

“About another glassful, I dare say.”

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Seven.

A Fresh Patient.

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

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

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

“Oh, doctor!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, doctor, I do,” she sighed.

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

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

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

“Oh, doctor, I could not go alone.”

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

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

“The other, then,” said the doctor.

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

“But you don’t want medicine.”

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Patients to see, my dear madam.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wheels, by George!” exclaimed the doctor.

“If you only knew—”

“There’s something bolted.”

“The dead vacancy in my poor heart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eight.

“How I do Hate That Girl!”

“Oh! my poor darling!”

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

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

“Is she—is she—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! no—soon disappear.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, doctor!” she cried.

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

“Is she?”

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

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

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

“Yes. Send—for a doctor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at him strangely.

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

But still she did not move.

“Did you try?” he said rather hoarsely.

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

“Did I hurt you?” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s hope not, old friend.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Nine.

Dr North Sees a White Mark.

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

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

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

Mr Delton came down and held a consultation with North.

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

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

“Tell me the worst.”

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

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

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

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

“Faint hope, doctor?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of her regaining her strength, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So North thought.

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

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

Chapter Ten.

The Doctor Prescribes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Granted. But what’s the matter?”

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

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

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

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

“No. It isn’t about that.”

“What then?”

“Oh! nothing.”

“Come, out with it!”

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

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

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

The curate shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nonsense!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mr North, quite true.”

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

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

“I won’t take it,” said the curate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, what about myself?”

“The great idea—the crotchet—the cr—”

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

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

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

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

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

At that moment the curate returned.

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

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

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

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

“She never mentions him to you now?”

“No, Hartley.”

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

Mary was silent, and looked at her brother uneasily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Eleven.

Jonadab Moredock Sees a Ghost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nay—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twelve.

The Sexton’s Fetch.

“Why, Moredock, you are not going to tell me that you believe in ghosts?”

“No, doctor, for I don’t; and I’ve been in that church and the vaults sometimes all night.”

“All night, eh? What for, eh?”

“That’s my business, doctor. P’r’aps I was on the look out for body-snatchers; but I’ve been there all night, and no ghosts never troubled me.”

“And yet here you are, all shivering and nervous—too ill to attend service this morning; and you tell me you saw something in the church last night.”

“Ay, and so I did, doctor. I s’pose I swownded away, I was took so bad; and must have laid there for hours before I got up and crawled home; and Parson Salis must be in a fine taking this morning, for there’s nothing done in the church.”

“Oh! never mind that, Moredock; Mr Salis is sorry you are ill. He’s a good fellow, and he sent me on this morning. You’re a bit nervous and shaken at what you fancied you saw. Come, Moredock, old man, I’m a doctor, and you’re a sexton, and we’re too much men of the world—we’ve seen and known too much—to be afraid of ghosts, eh?”

“Ghosts! Sperits! I’m afraid of no ghosts, doctor; but I see that thing o’ Saturday night.”

“Thought you saw it, old chap!”

“Nay, doctor, I saw it; and that’s what scares me.”

“Pooh! You scared at something you saw—a hollow turnip and a sheet! A trick played by some scamp in the village.”

“Trick played? Nay, doctor; there isn’t a lad in the village dare do it. I know ’em. I aren’t scared at the thing I saw. It’s at what it means.”

“What it means! Then, what does it mean?”

“Notice to quit this here earthly habitation, as parson calls it, doctor. That’s what it means.”

“Rubbish!”

“Ah! you say that to hide your bad work, doctor, and because you know you arn’t done your duty by me.”

“Why, you ungrateful old humbug! I’ve done no end for you. Haven’t I gone on oiling your confounded old hinges for years past, to keep you from dropping off, rusted out?”

“Ah! I don’t say anything again that, doctor; but you’ve always thought me a poor man, and you’ve treated me like a poor man—exactly like. If you’d thought me well off, and you could send me in a big bill, you’d have had me in such condition that I shouldn’t have seen my fetch last night.”

“Seen your grandmother, man.”

“Ay, you may laugh, doctor; but what have you told me over and over again? ‘Moredock,’ says you, ‘a healthy man’s no business to die till he’s quite worn out.’ And ‘What age will that be, doctor?’ says I. ‘Oh! at any age,’ says you; and here am I, a hale, hearty man, only a little more’n ninety, and last night I see my fetch.”

“But you’re not a hale, hearty man, Moredock.”

“Tchah! Whatcher talking about? Why, I’d ’bout made up my mind to be married again.”

“You? Married? Why, even I don’t think of such a thing.”

“You? No,” said the old man, contemptuously. “You’re not half the man I’ve been. My son’s gal—Dally Watlock’s ’fended me, and if she don’t mind she’ll lose my bit o’ money.”

“You take my advice, Moredock, and don’t marry.”

“Shan’t leave you nothing, if I don’t marry, doctor,” said the old man, with a cunning leer; “and you needn’t send in no bills because you’ve found out I’ve got a bit saved up.”

“Why, you wicked old ruffian, I suppose you’ve scraped together a few pounds by trafficking in old bones, and of what you’ve robbed the church.”

“Never you mind, doctor, how I got it, or how much it is.”

“I don’t; but just you be wise, sir. You’re not going to marry again, and you’re going to leave your money to your grandchild.”

“Eh? What—what? Do you want to marry her?”

“No, I don’t, Moredock; but if you don’t behave yourself, hang me if I come and doctor you any more. You may send over to King’s Hampton for Dr Wellby, or die if you like: I won’t try and save you.”

“No, no, no; don’t talk like that, doctor—don’t talk like that,” whimpered the old man; “just now, too, when I’m so shook.”

“Then don’t you talk about disinheriting your poor grandchild. Come, hold up, Moredock! I didn’t mean it. There’s nothing much the matter.”

“Ah! but there is, doctor. I saw my fetch last night.”

“No, you did not. You were not strong enough to go up to the church, and you fancied you saw something.”

“I see it.”

“Well, suppose you did. Some one had gone into the church to fetch a hymn-book, or put in a new cushion.”

“Nobody couldn’t, but me and parson, and squire and you. I see it, and it was my fetch.”

“No, no, old fellow; you’re mistaken. You were in the dark, and your head weak.”

“I see it, and it was my fetch, doctor.”

“Very well, then, Moredock, it was your fetch; but we won’t let it fetch you for some years to come. What do you say to that?”

“Ah! now you’re talking sensible, doctor,” cried the old man, brightening up. “Look here, doctor, you do what’s right by me, and let me have the best o’ stuff—good physic, you know—and there isn’t anything I won’t do for you. A skull, or a bone of any kind, or a whole set, or—”

“There, that will do, Moredock. I’ll do my duty by you, and I don’t want any reward.”

“No, you don’t. You’re a good fellow, doctor; and you do understand my complaint, don’t you?”

“Yes, thoroughly. There, sit back in your chair, and keep quiet. Mr Salis is coming in to see you by-and-by.”

“Nay, nay, nay! I don’t want he. It makes a man feel as if he’s very bad when parson comes to see him.”

“Why, I’m sure he’s a thoroughly good friend to you, old fellow.”

“Oh! yes, he’s right enough; but as soon as ever he comes in this here room, he’ll begin talking to me about what a sinner I’ve been.”

“Well, quite right, too.”

“Maybe, doctor, maybe,” said the old man, bursting into a loud cachinnation; “but he don’t know everything, doctor, do he? If he did, he’d lay it on thicker; and he wouldn’t be quite so friendly with you.”

“Come, come, Moredock,” said the doctor, laughing. “Suppose we leave professional secrets alone, eh?”

“Ay, ay, doctor, we will. I don’t forget what you’ve told me; but do go and tell parson I’m a deal better, and that he needn’t come.”

“Why? A visit won’t do you any harm.”

“Maybe not, doctor—p’r’aps not; but as soon as he comes he’ll want to read me a chapter and then pray over me; and I’m that soaked with it all, after these many years, that I haven’t room for no more.”

“But, Moredock—”

“There, it’s of no use for you to talk. Think I don’t know! Why, I know more chapters and bits of the sarvice by heart than half-a-dozen parsons.”

“Ah, well! I’ll send you a bottle of mixture as soon as I get home, so sit up and make yourself comfortable.”

“May I smoke my pipe, doctor?”

“Oh, yes, as long as you like, man. You’re not bad; and take my advice: just you forget all about your fetch, as you call it, and don’t go to the church any more in the dark.”

Chapter Thirteen.

After Church.

The doctor left the sexton’s cottage, thinking deeply on the way in which the brain is affected by the weakness of the body.

“Poor old fellow!” he muttered; “nearly a hundred years old, and clinging to life more tightly than ever. Believes he saw something, of course. Not fit to go out alone. But he’ll pull round, and perhaps last for years. Wonderful constitution, but also an exemplification of my pet theory. Humph! coming out of church. Well, I must meet ’em, I suppose. Hallo! what’s going to happen? Has Salis converted the pair of reprobates? Morning, Squire; morning, Mr Candlish.”

He shook hands—professionally, as he called it—with the young squire and his brother, who were just out of church, and walked slowly on with them, discussing the hunt, election matters, and the state of the country.

“Why don’t you hunt more, doctor?” said the squire, a florid, fine-looking man, singularly like his brother, but more athletic of build.

“Want of time,” said the doctor good-humouredly. “Too many irons in the fire.”

“You work too hard. But look here—don’t be offended; I’ve always a spare mount or two when you are disposed for a gallop.”

“Thanks; I’ll ask one of these days—which never come,” the doctor added to himself. “And now, good-day.”

“No, no; come on, and have a bit of dinner with us—early dinner to-day.”

“Thanks—no; I’ve a patient or two to see, and I want a word with the parson.”

“We don’t,” said the squire; “eh, Tom? We’ve had ours.”

Tom Candlish scowled.

“Well, always glad to see you, doctor—non-professionally,” said the squire; and they went on, while North turned back to meet Salis, wondering why Tom Candlish had condescended to come to church.

“To stare at Leo, I’ll be sworn, and Salis must have felt it. I’ll be bound to say he made a dozen mistakes in the service this morning through that fellow coming. And, as for the squire—that young man drinks, and he had better look out, or Moredock will have a grand funeral to attend.”

“Good morning, doctor. Were you coming to see me?”

“Ah, Mrs Berens! I beg your pardon; I didn’t see you.”

“No, doctor, you never do seem to see me. You forget your most anxious patients,” said the lady pathetically.

“But, really, you did not send me word.”

“No, I did not send you word. I lived in hope of your coming.”

“Thank goodness!” thought the doctor. “This woman is growing dangerous.”

His pious ejaculation was consequent upon the fact that his friend, the curate, was approaching in company with Leo.

Mrs Berens became aware of the fact at the same time, and though she uttered no pious ejaculation, she was equally pleased, for two reasons.

The first was that through the past two hours she had been seated in the same building with Leo Salis; the pews were high, and Leo could only have seen the top of her bonnet, whereas the handsome widow did not go to great expense for the most fashionable modes et robes, as the dressmakers express it, for nothing. The most elegant head-gear, though it may afford some satisfaction to the wearer, is hardly worth wearing, unless it be envied by those of the one sex and admired by the other. This encounter with the doctor would give handsome Leo a good opportunity for envious glances, and as Mrs Berens could not rival her neighbour in contour, she would have some chance of standing upon an equal footing.

The other reason was that she wished the curate to come up and speak to her at the same time as she was talking to the doctor. For Mrs Berens was not deeply in love; she only wished to be. The doctor and the curate were both fine, manly fellows, to either of whom she would have been willing to give herself and fortune; but somehow they had both been terribly unimpressionable, and though she had shown as plainly as she dared, any time during the past year, the tenderness waiting to burst forth, she was still Mrs Berens, and twelve months older.

Here was an opportunity of playing one-off against the other; for men could often be stirred, she knew, into learning the value of something when they saw that it was gliding from their grasp.

The couple from the Rectory came up, and Mrs Berens felt a pang as, after her warm salutations, in which her hand had rested in that of the curate for a few moments, to receive nothing more than a frank, friendly pressure, she saw that of Leo Salis rest in the doctor’s longer than she considered prudent. Leo seemed unusually handsome, too, that morning. There was a bright flush on her cheeks; her eyes sparkled, and she looked twenty, while Mrs Berens felt that she looked nearly forty.

Salis was glad of the encounter, for it was true that he had been making mistakes that morning. The very fact that Tom Candlish was in the church was disturbing, and when he knew that he must have come—he could not believe otherwise—expressly to stare at Leo, the presence of the man whom he had thrashed in so unclerical a way acted on his thoughts as a pointsman acts over trains at a busy junction—sent them flying in different directions beyond the drivers’ control.

The curate’s colour was heightened, for he knew that he had appeared at a disadvantage before the more thoughtful of his congregation. He was anxious, too, about Leo, who looked excited, and he dreaded any renewal of the past trouble; so that the encounter was satisfactory, if only from the fact that it afforded temporary relief from worrying thoughts and cares.

Mrs Berens was sweetness itself to all, and Leo seemed to rouse herself to be pleasant to the doctor, the result being that Mrs Berens was seen home—to part most affectionately from Leo, and with most tenderly friendly pressures of the hand to the gentlemen; after which she hurried into her room, to tear off her new bonnet and indulge in a passionate burst of sobbing.

“She’s as deceitful as she is young,” she cried. “She has thrown over Tom Candlish, and now she is winning over that foolish doctor; while Hartley Salis is as immovable as a stone.

“I’ll be even with her,” she cried. “Either Tom Candlish or the squire would be glad to marry me. I’ll have one of them, and I’ll make her half die with envy by asking her to my house, and—yes, there they go, and Horace North is going into the house with them. Ugh! the monster! He deserves to have the doorstep sink beneath his feet. But I’ll be revenged. No, no, no! they’re too bad,” she sobbed; “but I couldn’t stoop to that.”

Mrs Berens subsided into an easy-chair, to go on reddening her eyes; while the doctor accompanied his friends to the Rectory, and stopped chatting for a few minutes, but refused another invitation to dine even when Mary Salis and Leo both added their persuasions.

“No,” he said, “I’ve promised old Moredock his dose, and I’m going to see that he has it.” And then, after a few kindly words to Mary concerning her health—words that were almost tender, but which seemed to burn and sear the poor girl, as she read them aright—he went away, to hurry to his surgery in the Manor House.

“I’m very glad, for poor old Hartley’s sake, that the affair’s all off. It is, evidently; for Madam Leo seemed as cool as could be, and she’s as handsome and ladylike a girl as a man need wish to call wife. Humph! I’ll give him a little chloral—just a suspicion—to calm him down. Poor old boy! and he thinks he’s going to die. Well, it’s my theory,” he continued, as he compounded the sexton’s mixture and carefully corked it up; “and, think about it from whichever point I may, it seems to be quite right. There, Master Moredock, there’s your dose. That will lay any ghost in the United Kingdom, given sufficiently strong!”

Chapter Fourteen.

How Horace North did not go to the Meet.

“What a morning for a run with the hounds!” said Horace North, as he stood at the door of the fine old Manor House, where he had come to cool himself, after a scene with Mrs Milt, his housekeeper, owing to a committee of ways and means.

Mrs Milt had wanted to have everything her way. The doctor had shown a desire to have everything his way, and the approach of the two forces had resulted in an explosion.

“Candlish offered me a mount, and I’ve a good mind to take the offer, just for once. A good gallop would do me a world of good. No; I’ll go and have a chat with old Moredock, see Mrs Berens, Biddy Tallis, and Brown’s baby, and then settle down to a good, quiet study. Hah!”

Horace North was dubious. A slight puff upon his vane would have sent it in either direction, and it seemed as if the decisive puff came just then in the shape of something as light as air. For there was the sound of hoofs; and directly after, looking exceedingly handsome in her tightly-fitting riding-habit and natty hat, Leo Salis passed on her pretty mare.

She caught sight of him, and returned a coquettish nod and smile to his low bow, but did not draw rein, though she must have seen his intention to hurry down to the gate; cantering gently on, as charming a specimen of early womanhood as ever rode gracefully upon a well-bred mare.

“By George! that settles it,” said the doctor. “Where’s the meet?”

He hurried in, snatched up the county paper, and found that it was at Fir Tree Hill, four miles beyond the Hall.

“The very thing,” he cried. “I’ll just get on my boots, and walk over to the Hall, get my mount, and go on. No, I won’t; I’ll drive.”

He rang the bell, and Mrs Milt—a very severe-looking, handsome, elderly lady—in the whitest of caps, bibs, and tuckers, appeared frowning, as if still charged with the remaining clouds of the late storm.

“Tell Dick to put the horse in the chaise.”

Mrs Milt tightened her lips, and made parallel lines in her forehead, but did not stir.

“Well?” said the doctor.

“Well?” said Mrs Milt.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Perfectly,” said Mrs Milt.

“Then, why don’t you do it? And for Heaven’s sake, my dear Mrs Milt, let’s have no more of this petty squabbling. Discharge cook; have a fresh house-maid; paper and clean up, and do whatever you please, but don’t bother me.”

“It is not my wish to bother you, Dr North,” said the lady austerely, and with considerable emphasis on the word, “bother.”

“Very well, then, let’s have peace. Such a scene as we had this morning interferes with my studies. Now, go and tell him to put to the horse.”

“Will you be good enough to tell me how, Dr North?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sent your man in that chaise to fetch some drugs from King’s Hampton.”

“Hah! so I did. He ought to be back by now. Yes; there are wheels.”

“The carrier,” said Mrs Milt.

“Pish! of course. Never mind, I’ll walk. There’s something else coming,” he said, listening. “Yes; that’s the chaise. Go and tell Dick not to take out the horse, but to come round here.”

“He’s coming round,” said Mrs Milt, going to the window; “and there’s a gentleman with him.”

The doctor looked up hastily, and frowned, as he caught sight of a dark, sleek-looking personage, about to descend from the chaise; while, as Mrs Milt went to open the door, Horace North exclaimed to himself:

“Now, why in the world is it that Nature will set one against one’s relations, and above all against Cousin Thompson, for—”

“Ah! my dear Horace, this was very good and thoughtful of you,” exclaimed the object of his thoughts, entering the room with extended hands.

“Ah! Thompson, glad to see you,” said the doctor, innocently enough—for the lie was from habit, not intentional—“but you are not cyanide of potassium!”

“Sure I’m not, indeed; but I want to consult you.”

“I sent in my man for a portion of that unpleasant chemical; not to meet you.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, my dear boy. I was coming down, and I saw your chaise; and I know you like me to make myself at home, so give me some breakfast.”

“Yes, of course. Run down this morning?”

“Yes, by the six-thirty from Paddington. Early bird gets the first pick, you know.”

“There goes my gallop,” groaned the doctor, as a mental vision of Leo Salis appeared before him, while he rang the bell.

“Not ill, are you? Come to consult me?”

“No, I’m not ill; but I have come to consult you, my dear Horace.”

“Did you ring, sir?”

“Yes, Mrs Milt; my cousin would like some breakfast.”

“I am getting it ready, sir; but it can’t be done in two minutes and a half.”

“No, no, of course not, Mrs Milt. Thank you. Send word when it’s ready.”

“I’ll bring word myself, sir,” said Mrs Milt austerely.

“No, don’t trouble, my dear Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, who looked so sleek in skin and black cloth that he shone; “a cup of coffee and a sole, cutlet—anything.”

“Sole! cutlet! My dear fellow, this isn’t London. Give him some ham and eggs, Mrs Milt,” said the doctor. “Now, old fellow,” he continued, as the door closed after the housekeeper a little more loudly than was necessary, “business: what’s the matter? Liver?”

“No, no, my dear Horace. I’m quite well. To consult you about Mrs Berens.”

The doctor pushed back his chair.

“Why, how surprised you look! You recommended her to come to me about her money affairs.”

“Oh! Ah! Yes, of course; so I did. She asked me to give her the name of a London solicitor, and so I gave her yours—my cousin’s.”

“It was very good of you, Horace, for I am a poor man,” said the visitor sleekly. “Far be it from me to quarrel with Uncle Richard’s apportionment of his money, but—”

“There, for goodness’ sake, don’t bring that up again! You know why the old man excluded you.”

“Yes. I had the misfortune to offend him, Horace,” said the visitor with a sigh.

“And now what about Mrs Berens?”

“Ah, yes; a very simple matter. You are a great friend of hers?”

“I am her doctor.”

“Yes, yes,” said the other, with an unpleasant chuckle, which made North long to kick him; “but if report is true, you are going to marry the handsome widow.”

“Then report is not true,” said North angrily. “Now to business.”

“Well, the fact is this,” said the visitor; “in my capacity of confidential solicitor to several people, I often have to give advice, and to raise money.”

“No doubt,” said the doctor drily.

“I have a client now who wants rather a heavy sum upon the security of some leasehold houses. Mrs Berens has money lying in the Three per Cents., and I thought that you, as her friend, might advise her. She would get six per cent, instead of three, and a word from you—”

“Will never induce a lady patient of mine to run any risks,” said the doctor shortly.

“Risks?”

“Breakfast’s ready,” said the doctor abruptly, and he led the way into the other room. Having sufficient wisdom not to recommence the attack, Cousin Thompson contented himself with breakfasting heartily, but he was not pleasant over his feeding; and, what was more, he had a way of bringing into every room he entered an odour of mouldy parchment.

After breakfast Cousin Thompson had an interview with Mrs Berens; and after that, without consulting his cousin, he walked across to the Hall to hold a meeting, not unconnected with money matters, with Tom Candlish. Had he consulted his cousin, he would have known that in all probability Tom Candlish had gone to the meet, especially as he rarely missed a run.

Consequently, Cousin Thompson returned to the doctor’s, to find him chafing over his disappointment. Not that he was a hunting man; but the whim had seized him to go, and the appearance of Leo Salis had helped to make the ride more attractive than it might have appeared at another time.

“Ah, Horace, my dear fellow,” he said, “I shall have to trespass on your hospitality for dinner, and then ask you to give me a bed.”

“All right,” said the doctor gruffly. “Give you a dose too, if you like.”

“Thanks, no, unless you mean wine.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll give you a glass of port,” said the doctor. “I hope you haven’t persuaded that poor woman to invest in anything risky.”

“Now, my dear Horace, what do you take me for?” cried Cousin Thompson.

“A lawyer.”

“But there are good lawyers and bad lawyers.”

“Well, from a legal point of view, you’re a bad lawyer. I never gave you but one case to conduct for me, and that you lost.”

“The barrister lost it, my dear Horace. Don’t be afraid. I am not a legal pickpocket. I might retaliate, and say you’re a bad doctor.”

“Well, so I am—horribly bad. The amount of ignorance that exists in my brain, sir, is truly frightful.”

“But you go on curing people.”

“Trying to cure people, sir, you mean. Wading about in deep water; groping in the darkness. Thank Heaven, sir, that you were not made a doctor. Eh, what is it—some one ill?” he cried, as Mrs Milt entered the room with a note.

“Poor somebody!” said Cousin Thompson to himself.

“Note from the Rectory, sir.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the doctor; “shan’t be able to go, as you are here. Wants me to play a game at chess. Salis, you know.”

As he spoke he leisurely unfastened the envelope, and began to read.

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Mrs Milt, attend to my cousin as if I were here. Very sorry. Serious case,” he continued, turning to his guest; and the next minute he had hurried from the house, to set off almost at a run for the Rectory.

For Hartley Salis’ note was very brief, but none the less urgent, containing as it did these words:

“For Heaven’s sake, come on! Leo has had a serious fall.”

Chapter Fifteen.

A Refractory Patient.

Leo made light of her accident, though her shoulder was a good deal hurt, and she bore the bandaging of what was a serious wrench with the greatest fortitude. As North learned by degrees, there had been a magnificent run, but towards the last, when Leo was almost heading the field, the mare had become unmanageable, and had rushed at a dangerous jump, with the result that she fell, threw her rider on the bank of the deep little river, and, in her efforts to rise, entangled herself with Leo’s habit, and rolled with her right into the water.

“A most providential escape,” said Salis, who looked pale with anxiety.

“What nonsense, Hartley!” said the girl; “a bit of a bruise on the shoulder and a wetting.”

“Yes, but you would have been drowned if the gentlemen of the hunt had not galloped up to your aid.”

“But they always do gallop up to a lady’s aid if her horse falls,” said Leo, speaking excitedly. “There, don’t make so much of it; and it was utterly absurd, Hartley, for you to send for a doctor for such a trifle.”

“Trifle or no, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I should advise your seeking your bed at once.”

“Nonsense, Dr North!”

“Well, then, I must insist,” he said firmly.

“Oh, very well,” said Leo; “I suppose you are master, so I have no more to say. A little girl has had an accident, and so they put her to bed. Fudge!”

“Leo, dear,” said Mary, from her couch, “pray be advised. Dr North would not wish it if it were not necessary.”

“Certainly not,” said North shortly, for he was annoyed at Leo’s flippant manner, and ready to wonder why he had felt attracted that morning.

“What nonsense, Mary!” cried Leo. “Pray don’t you interfere.”

Mary sighed, and remained silent.

“Well, as you please,” said North. “I have given you good advice: act as you think best.”

He turned to go, but was followed into the hall by the curate.

“Come into my room,” said the latter, with a pained and perplexed look in his face. “This is very sad, old fellow.”

“What? being guardian to a couple of giddy girls?” said the doctor petulantly. “No, no: I beg your pardon; don’t take any notice of my bitter way; but really, Salis, old boy, you had better have got rid of that mare.”

“Yes, I wish I had,” said the curate sadly; “but Leo seems to take such pleasure in it—and who could foresee such a mishap as this?”

“I could,” said the doctor shortly. “Good thing she was not killed.”

“You don’t think the hurt serious?”

“Serious? No. Give her a good deal of pain, of course.”

“And the chill?”

“What chill?”

“The plunge into the river after a heated ride.”

“She changed her things at once, of course?”

“No,” said the curate. “It seems that out of bravado she insisted on mounting again, and then rode slowly home. She was shivering when she came in.”

“Why was I not told all this before?” said North sharply. “Look here, Salis, old fellow; she must go to bed directly, and take what I send her. Exercise your authority, or she will have a very serious cold.”

He hurried away, and did not send the promised medicine, but took it himself, leaving it with emphatic instructions as to its being taken; and the result was that Leo Salis laughed at the supposed necessity, as she termed it, and calmly declined to follow out the doctor’s views.

Chapter Sixteen.

“I am not Ill.”

Hartley Salis did not tell the doctor the whole of his trouble, neither did he say a word to Mary upon the subject; but she divined the cause of his auger as she lay helpless there, and sighed as she wished that she could set matters right.

For Tom Candlish had ridden home with Leo, and parted at the gate.

“I might have known that they would meet,” said Salis, as he sat thinking; “but I never imagined that he would have the assumption to come again to the house.”

But Tom Candlish had helped Leo when she was in great peril of being drowned; and as the curate learned this he felt his impotence, and was coldly courteous, while, on his side, Tom Candlish was defiant, almost to the point of insolence; and his manner to Leo seemed intimate enough to startle Salis, and make him wonder whether they had met since the scene at the river-side.

Hartley Salis soon had something to divert his attention from this point, for the next day Leo was not very well. She was tired, she said. It had been a very long run, but delightful all the same; and she allowed now that perhaps it would have been better if she had listened to the doctor’s advice.

“I shall be quite well to-morrow,” she cried. “Why, Hartley, how serious you look!”

“Do I?” he said, smiling, for he had been communing with himself as to whether he should ask Leo plainly if she had kept her word.

“Do you? Yes!” she cried angrily; and, without apparent cause, she flashed out into quite a fit of passion. “I declare it is miserable now to be at home. It is like living between two spies.”

“My dear Leo!” began Salis.

“I don’t care: it is. Mary here watches me as a cat does a mouse. You always follow me about whenever I stir from home; and then you two compare notes, and plot and plan together how to make my life a burden.”

“Leo, dear,” said Mary gently, “you are irritable and unwell, or you would not speak like this.”

“I would. I am driven to it by my miserable life at home. I am treated like a prisoner.”

“Leo, my child,” began Salis.

“Yes, that’s it—child! You treat me as if I were a child, and I will not bear it. Anything more cruel it is impossible to conceive.”

“Nonsense, dear,” said Salis, smiling gravely, as he took his sister’s hand.

She snatched it away; not so quickly, though, but that he had time to feel that it was burning hot, as her scarlet cheeks seemed to be, while her eyes were unusually brilliant.

It was no time to question or reproach, and the curate set himself to soothe.

“Why, Leo, my dear,” he said, smiling. “I shall begin to think you are cross.”

“If you mean indignant,” she retorted, “I am. My very soul seems to revolt against the wretched system of espionage you two have established against me.”

“No, no, Leo, dear!” said Mary. “How can you say such things of Hartley, whose every thought is for your good?”

“Good—good—good!” cried Leo; “I’m sick of the very word! Be good! Be a good girl! Oh! it’s sickening!”

Salis made a sign to Mary to be silent, but Leo detected it.

“There!” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “What did I say? You two are always plotting against me. Ah!”

She shivered as from a sudden chill, and drew her chair closer to the fire.

“Do you feel unwell, dear?” said Salis anxiously.

“No, no, no! I have told you both a dozen times over that I am quite well. It is a cold morning, and I shivered a little. Is there anything extraordinary in that?”

“I only felt anxious about you, dear.”

“Then, pray don’t feel anxious, but let me be in peace.”

She caught up a book, and tried to read; while, to avoid irritating her, Salis and Mary resumed their tasks—the one writing, the other busy over her needle; and to both it seemed as if they were performing penance, so intense was the desire to keep on glancing at Leo, while they felt the necessity for avoiding all appearance of noticing her.

She held her book before her, and appeared to be reading, but she did not follow a line; for the letters were blurred, and a curious, dull, aching sensation racked her from head to foot, rising, as it were, in waves which swept through her brain, and made it throb.

This, with its accompanying giddiness, passed off, and with obstinate determination she kept her place, and the pretence of reading was carried on till towards evening.

They had dined—a weary, comfortless meal—at which Leo had taken her place, and made an attempt to eat; but it was evident to the others that the food disgusted her, and almost everything was sent untasted away.

The irritability seemed to have died out, but every attempt to draw her into conversation failed; and after a time the meal progressed in silence, till they drew round the fire at the end to resume their tasks, almost without a word.

Salis was busy over a formal report of the state of the parish for the rector. Mary was hard at work stitching, to help a poor widow who gained a precarious living by needlework, and Leo still had her book before her eyes.

Mary’s were aching, and she was about to ring for the lamp, for the short December afternoon was closing in, and Salis was in the act of wiping his pen, when Leo suddenly let fall her book, to sit up rigidly, staring wildly at them.

“Leo, my child!”

“Well, what is it?” she said; and her voice sounded harsh and strange. “Why did you say that? You knew I should say yes.”

“Yes, yes, of course, my dear; but I did not speak.”

“You did. You said I lied unto you, quite aloud, and”—with a return of her irritable way—“are we never going to have dinner?”

Salis rose from the table where he had been writing, and laid his hand upon his sister’s arm.

“Leo, dear,” he said anxiously; and he gazed in her wild eyes, which softened and looked lovingly in his.

“No,” she said, as she nestled to him and laid her cheek upon his arm; “a bit of a wrench. My shoulder aches, but it will soon be well, dear.”

“Lie back in your chair,” said Salis, as he laid his hand upon her throbbing brow.

“Yes, that’s nice,” she said, smiling as she obeyed. “So cool and refreshing—so cool.”

“Do you feel drowsy? Would you like to have a nap?”

“Yes, if you wish it,” she said. “I am sleepy. Don’t tell them at home, dear.”

Salis started, and his face grew convulsed, as he exchanged glances with Mary, who read his wish, wrote a few lines in pencil, and softly rang the bell.

“Take that at once,” she whispered to Dally Watlock, who entered, round-eyed and staring.

“To Mr Tom Candlish, miss?”

“No, no, girl; to Mr North.”

Mary drew her breath hard as the door closed behind the girl, for she read in her words a tale of deceit and also who had been the messenger, perhaps, in many a love missive sent on either side.

She tried to rise, feeling that this was a time of urgent need; but her eyes became suffused with tears as she sank back helpless in her seat.

“Take my arm, Leo, dear,” said Salis. “You would be better if you went up to your room and lay down.”

“Yes, dear; if you wish it,” she said softly; and she started up, but caught at her brother, and clung to him as if she had been seized by a sudden vertigo, and then stared wildly round.

Salis gave Mary a nod, and then, drawing Leo’s arm through his, led her up to the door of her room, which she entered while he ran quickly down.

“Quite delirious,” he said quickly. “I hope North will not be long. I thought he would have been here this morning.”

He was busy as he spoke preparing for a task which he had performed twice daily since Mary’s convalescence. For, taking her in his arms as easily as if she had been a child, he bore her out of the room and up to Leo’s door.

As Mary, trembling with anxiety, pressed it open, Leo uttered an angry cry, dashed forward, and thrust the door back in her face.

“No, no!” she said hoarsely; “not you. Let me be. Let me rest in peace.”

“But Leo, dear, you are ill.”

“I am not ill,” she cried fiercely. “Go away!”

“Don’t irritate her,” whispered Salis gently. “Leo, dear, Mary will be in her own room. Lie down now.”

The phase of gentleness had passed, and Leo turned upon him almost savagely, in her furious contempt.

“Lie down! Lie down! as if I were a dog! Oh! there must be an end to this. There must be an end to this.”

She had partly opened the door so as to speak to her brother, but now she closed it loudly, and they heard her walking excitedly to and fro.

Chapter Seventeen.

What Dally was Doing.

“I feared it,” said North, as he returned from the bedroom, where he had left Leo with the servants, who stood staring helplessly at her, and listening to her ravings about the mare, the plunge into the cold river, and the injured shoulder. “Violent fever and delirium. Poor girl! what could we expect? Heated with her ride, the fall, the sudden plunge into the water, and then a long, slow ride in the drenched garments.”

“Do you think she is very ill?” said Mary anxiously.

“Very; but not dangerously, I hope. There, trust to me, and I will do everything I can. You must have a good nurse at once. Those women are worse than useless. I’ll send on my housekeeper.”

“But you are not going?” cried Salis, with the look of alarm so commonly directed at a doctor.

“My dear boy—only to fetch medicine. I’ll not be long; and mind this: she must not leave her room now. She must be kept there at any cost.”

“And I am so helpless, Hartley,” whispered Mary piteously. “It is so hard to bear.”

The curate bent down and kissed her, and then, taking his place by the bedroom door, he remained to carry out the instructions he had received.

They were necessary, for he had not been there five minutes before the delirious girl rose from her couch, and there was an angry outcry on the part of the women. She insisted upon going to the stable to see to her mare. It was being neglected; and it was only by the exercise of force that she was kept in the room.

Before half-an-hour had passed, the doctor was back, and quiet, firm Mrs Milt, who put off her crotchety ways in the face of this trouble, took her place by the bedside, and with good effect; for, partly soothed by the old woman’s firm management, and partly by the strong opiate the doctor had administered, Leo sank into a restless sleep, in which she kept on muttering incoherently, the only portions of her speech at all connected being those dealing with her accident, which seemed to her to be repeated again and again.

It was towards ten o’clock, as the doctor was returning by the short cut of the fields to the Rectory, after having been home for a short time, that he caught sight of a couple of figures a short distance over the stile leading down to the meadows, through which the little river ran.

“Humph!” he muttered, as, in spite of the darkness, he recognised the figures, his own steps being hushed by the moist pasture, and the couple too intent upon their conversation to hear him pass.

“Humph!” he said; “poor old Moredock is right, perhaps, about the girl. Confounded hard upon the people to have such a scoundrel loose among them.”

He half-hesitated, as if he felt that it was his duty to interfere, but there was too much earnest work at the Rectory for him to speak at a time like this. And, besides, he could not have explained why, but the thought seemed to afford him something like satisfaction, for it was evident that if Tom Candlish had stooped to court pretty Dally Watlock, the Rectory servant, everything must have long been at an end between Leo and the squire’s brother, the thrashing administered by Mr Salis having been effectual in its way.

He was extremely anxious, too, about Leo; for unconsciously a new interest was awakening in him, and he felt that no case in which he had been engaged had ever caused him more anxiety than this. So he hurried on to his patient’s room, where the fever was growing more intense, and the flushed face was rolled from side to side upon the white pillow.

“Just the same, sir,” said Mrs Milt, as he asked a few eager questions. “She’s been going on like that ever since you left. Isn’t she very bad? Hark at her breath.”

“Very bad, Milt,” said the doctor gravely; “and if matters go on like this I shall send over to King’s Hampton for—”

“No, no; don’t you do that, sir,” said the old housekeeper sharply. “If you can’t save her no one can.”

“Why, Milt!” exclaimed the doctor wonderingly.

“Oh! you needn’t look like that, sir. I know you. It’s a deal of wherrit you give me with your awkward ways and irregular hours; but I will say this for you, there isn’t a cleverer doctor going.”

“And yet you walked over to King’s Hampton to the other doctor when you were ill.”

“Well, you had put me out so just then, and I felt as if I would sooner have died than come to you.”

“Ugh! you obstinate old thing,” said North. “There, I’m going down to talk to Mr Salis for a while; then I shall come and take your place for six hours while you go and lie down.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs Milt; and she tightened her lips and remained silent for a few moments, while her master re-examined his patient. Then, drawing herself up: “I may be obstinate, sir, but I think I know my duty in a case of illness. I’m here to watch by Miss Leo Salis’s bedside, and here I’m going to stay.”

“Mrs Milt,” said the doctor sternly, “the first duty of a nurse is to obey instructions, as you well know. Now, no more talking, but sit down till I return.”

Mrs Milt looked tighter than ever, and her rigid stay-bone gave a crack, but she obeyed; while the doctor went down to where Salis and Mary were anxiously awaiting his report.

“I meant to have had some tea ready for you,” said Mary, after hearing what he had to say; “but Dally is missing. She must have gone to her grandfather’s cottage.”

The doctor uttered a loud “Humph!” and then remarked that he could wait.

He had to wait some time, as Dally had gone to keep an appointment in the meadows, and had come upon a figure leaning against a great willow pollard on the river’s brink.

The figure started forward out of the darkness and caught her arm, with the result that Dally uttered a little affected squeal.

“La, Mr Candlish! how you made me jump!”

“Why, what brings you here?” he cried, passing his arm round the girl’s waist.

“Now, do adone, sir; you’ve no business to touch me like that. What would Joe Chegg say?”

“That I was a wise man, and that it was the prettiest little waist in Duke’s Hampton.”

“Please keep your fine speeches for Miss Leo, and talk about her waist, sir, and let me go. I only come for a walk.”

“Nonsense! tell me. You’ve got a message?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“You—you have a letter?”

“No,” said Dally, shaking her head, and struggling just a little for appearance’ sake.

“Is she coming, then?”

“No, she isn’t; for she’s too ill.”

“Eh? Nonsense!”

“But indeed she is, sir, and confined to her bed.”

“And she sent you, Dally. Oh! how good of her.”

“No, nor she didn’t send me neither, Mr Candlish; and do let go. You shouldn’t.”

“Has she caught a cold, Dally?”

“Horrid bad one; and she’s gone right off her head.”

“Gammon!”

“She has, indeed, sir; and me and cook had to hold her down: she was so bad.”

“Hold her down?”

“Yes; and she kept on talking in a hurry like, all about the hunting and falling in the water.”

“Did she say anything about me?” said Tom Candlish eagerly.

“About you? I should think not, indeed. You men seem to think that ladies are always thinking about you. Such stuff!”

Then a long amount of whispering took place, Tom Candlish being one of those gentlemen who never fret after the absent, but possess a sailor-like power of taking the good the gods provide.

At the end of five minutes there was the sound of a smart smack—not a kiss, but the contact of a palm upon a cheek.

Then, from out the darkness came the expression, “You saucy jade!” following upon the rush of feet in flight.

A minute later the swing gate leading into the Rectory grounds was heard to clap to, and Tom Candlish stopped in his pursuit and walked home across the fields.

Chapter Eighteen.

Leo makes a Confession.

“Yes, doctor, I’m better, and you needn’t come again.”

“Yes, you’re better, Moredock. Seen any more ghosts?”

“Nay; I never see no ghosts. I only see what I did see; but how’s young miss up yonder?”

Horace North’s brow wrinkled, and his voice sounded stern.

“Ill, Moredock—seriously ill. Violent fever.”

“Fever—fever!” said the old man, backing away with unwonted excitement.

“Yes, fever, you selfish old rascal!” cried the doctor irascibly. “You oughtn’t to be afraid of catching a fever at your time of life.”

“But I am, doctor—I am,” said the old man, with a peculiar change in his voice. “You see, I’ve just been ill, and it would be very hard to be ill again. Is—is it ketching?”

“No!” roared the doctor angrily; “not at all. There, take care of yourself, and don’t go to the church again in the dark.”

“I shall go to the church as often as I like and when I like,” grumbled the old man. “It’s my church; but, I say, doctor, is it likely to be—eh?—you know—job for me?”

North looked at him with an expression of horror and loathing that made the old man stare.

“Why, you hideous old ghoul!” he cried; “do you want me to strangle you? Ugh!”

He hurried out of the cottage, and Moredock rose slowly and followed him as far as the door.

“What’s he mean by that? Gool? What’s a gool? He’s been drinking. I see his hand shake; that’s what’s the matter with him; and I’m glad he hasn’t got to mix no physic for me this morning. Now, I wonder what he takes. Them doctors goes into their sudgeries, and mixes theirselves drops as makes ’em on direckly. Old Borton used to, and I buried him. He’s making a bad job of it up at the Rectory, and he’s drinking, but I put him out by speaking of it. Ay, there he goes in at the Rect’ry gate. Wonder whether they’ll have a tomb for her, or a plain grave.”

Leo Salis had looked for some hours past as if one or the other would be necessary, and Moredock’s words had seemed to North as if each bore a sting.

So bad was the patient that when he reached the Rectory that day he decided to stay.

“I’d say, send for other advice directly, Salis,” he said drearily; “but if you had the heads of the profession here, they could do nothing but wait. The fever will run its course. We can do nothing but watch.”

“And pray,” said Salis sternly.

“And pray,” said the doctor, repeating his words. “Will you send over to the town, and telegraph?”

“No,” replied the curate. “I have confidence in you, North.”

He said no more, but turned into his study to hide his emotion, while North crossed to where poor helpless Mary lay back in her chair, looking white and ten years older as her eyes sought his, dumbly asking for comfort.

He took her hand, and kissed it, retaining it in his for a few minutes, as he stood talking to her, trying to instil hope, and little thinking of the agony he caused.

“I’ll go to her now,” he said. “There, try and be hopeful and help me to cheer up poor Hartley. He wants comfort badly. I’ll come and tell you myself if there is any change.”

“The truth,” said Mary faintly.

“The truth? Yes: to you,” he said meaningly; and his words seemed to convey that she was so old in suffering that she could bear to be told anything, though perhaps it might be withheld from her brother.

Mrs Milt, who had been an untiring watcher by the sick-bed, made her report—one that she had had to repeat again and again—of restless mutterings and delirium: otherwise no change.

“No, Mrs Milt, we have not reached the climax yet,” said North, sighing.

“There, go and lie down, my good soul,” he added after a short examination; “you must be tired out.”

“Tired, but not tired out, sir,” said the old lady. “Poor child! she has something on her mind, too, which frets her.”

“Indeed!” said North. “Yes,” continued Mrs Milt, in a whisper. “She keeps muttering about telling him something—confessing, she calls it sometimes.”

“Some old trouble come up into her brain,” said the doctor; and he sat down by the bedside, to gaze at Leo’s flushed face as she lay there with her eyes half closed, apparently sleeping heavily now.

“Not yet, not yet,” sighed North, as he took the hot, dry hand in his, and a shiver ran through him as he thought of the old sexton’s words, and wondered whether he would be able to save her—so young and beautiful—from so sad a fate.

“Poor child!” he said, half aloud; and then he sat on, hour after hour, wondering whether it would be possible to do more; whether he had done everything that medical skill could devise; and finally, as he came to the conclusion that he had thoroughly done his duty by his patient, his heart sank, and he owned to himself that in some instances he and the rest of the disciples of the great profession were singularly impotent, and merely attendants on Nature’s will.

Salis came up from time to time, to enter the room softly, and mutely interrogate his friend, and then go sadly back to his study—where Mary sat with him—to give her such news as he had to bear, and join with her in watching and praying for the wilful sister they both so dearly loved.

It was getting towards nine o’clock on the gloomy, stormy winter’s night when, after softly replenishing the fire, as North was returning to his place by the bed, he heard a faint sigh, and bending down over his patient, he found that her eyes were wide open—not in a fixed, delirious stare, full of excitement, but calm and subdued, while a sweet smile passed into her expression as his face neared hers.

“Is that dreadful old woman there?” she whispered.

“No,” he said, laying his hand upon her forehead. “I am alone.”

“Then I will speak,” she said, in a low, passionate voice. “You have not known—you have not believed it possible—but tell me, I have been very ill?”

“Yes,” he said gently, “you have been ill; but don’t talk—try and rest.”

“I have been very ill, and I may die, and then you would never know,” she whispered quickly. “It is no time, then, for a foolish, girlish reserve. I may have been light and frivolous—coquettish too—but beneath it all I have loved you, and you alone. I do love you with all my heart.”

Two soft, white arms were thrown about Horace North’s neck, to draw him closer to his patient’s gently heaving breast.

Chapter Nineteen.

Was it Delirium?

“Leo, my child, think what you are saying,” cried North.

“I do think. I have lain here and thought for hours. I am not ashamed to confess it. Why should I be?”

She looked up at him inquiringly; while he for the moment felt giddy with emotion, but recovered himself directly.

“She is delirious, poor child,” he said to himself; and he tried to remove the enlacing arms from his neck.

“No, no; don’t leave me,” she said softly. “Don’t be angry with me for saying this.”

“I am not angry, but you are weak. You have been very ill, and you must not be excited now.”

“No, I am not excited. I only feel happy—so happy. You are not angry?”

“Angry? No,” he said tenderly. “There, let me lay you back upon your pillow. Try and sleep.”

“No. I do not wish to sleep. Only tell me once again that you are not cross, and then sit down by me, and let me hold your hand.”

“Poor girl!” muttered North, as he felt the hands which had clasped his neck steal down his arm softly and lingeringly, as if they delighted in its strength and muscularity, resting for a few moments upon his wrist, and then grasping his hand tightly, while their owner uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.

He seated himself by the bedside, and Leo said softly, as she lay gazing into his eyes:

“I feel so happy and restful now.”

“And as if you can sleep?”

“Sleep? No. Let me lie and look at you. Don’t speak. I want to think. Shall I die?”

“Die? No; you must get better now, and grow strong, for Mary’s sake and for Hartley’s.”

“And for yours,” said Leo softly, as she smiled lovingly in his face. “I shall be your wife if I live.”

“You shall live, and grow to be happy with all who love you.”

“Yes,” she said softly, “with all who love me;” and she closed her eyes.

“It is delirium, poor child,” said North to himself. “Good heavens! am I such a scoundrel as to think otherwise?”

He sat back in his chair startled by the thoughts which had surged up to his brain. He was horrified. For, in spite of medical teaching, of his thorough command over himself, and of the fact that he had always been one whose love was his profession, he had found that he was strongly moved by the words and acts of the beautiful girl who had seemed to be laying bare the secrets of her heart.

“Delirium—delirium! the workings of a distempered brain,” he said to himself fiercely. “Good heavens! am I going to be delirious too?”

At that moment Leo opened her eyes again, with a calm, soft light seeming to burn therein, as she smiled in his face and drew his hand more to her pillow so that she could rest her cheek upon it, and once more her eyes half closed; but he knew that she was gazing at him still with the same soft, loving look which, in spite of his self-control, made his heart beat with a dull, heavy throb.

“I have so longed to tell you all this,” she whispered; “but I never dared till now. It has made me bitter, and distant, and strange to you. I was angry with myself for loving you; and yet I could not help it. You made me love you. I always did—I always shall.”

“It is delirium,” panted North. “I will not listen to her. Pah! it is absurd. Where is my manliness—where are all my honourable feelings? I can master such folly, and I will.”

He set his teeth, and his face grew hard and cold; but all the same his pulses quickened, and as he sat prisoned there, with those soft, lustrous eyes gazing into his, he found that he was dreaming of another life in which his scientific researches would be forgotten in the sweet, dreamy, sensuous existence which would be his—enlaced in that loving embrace, while those eyes gazed in his as they were gazing now, and those curved lips returned his kisses or murmured tenderly as once more they whispered the secrets of her breast.

“It has been so long. I have been so ill: but I do not complain, for it has made me free to speak to you as I speak now. No, no; don’t take away your hand. Let me rest like that.”

He was softly stealing away his hand, but she clung to it the more tightly, and her white teeth glistened between her ruby lips in a smile that was half mocking.

He heaved a deep sigh, and resigned himself to his position, while the new thoughts which came surging on in a flood began to sweep everything before them. She had been delirious, but there was no delirium here. She loved him. This young and beautiful girl, to whom for years he had given no thought save as the sister of his old friend, loved him passionately, and he knew now the meaning of the ideas which had troubled him for days—he must—he did love her in return.

But he was not beaten yet. A flush rose to his forehead and he set his teeth hard, as he recalled his position—the confidence reposed in him as a medical man—a confidence which he seemed to be abusing; and drawing his breath deeply, he resolved that he would be man enough to resist this temptation now Leo was weak and excited. She was yielding to her impulse as she would not have yielded had she been strong and well; hence he would be taking an unmanly advantage if he trespassed upon her weakness now.

His course was open; his mind clear. He would be tender and kind to her now. After she was well he could listen to her confessions of love as a lover should; and as the thought expanded in his brain that he would call this loving girl wife, he wondered how it was that he could have been so dull and cold before—how it was that love should have been shut from his mental vision as by a veil? And he sat gazing at his patient, almost dazzled by the bright light which seemed to be shed upon his future, till Hartley softly entered the room.

“Any change?” he whispered.

North glanced at the bed, and his heart beat fast. Leo was again sleeping uneasily, and muttering in a low whisper. To an ordinary observer there seemed to be none, but to Horace North there was an enormous change, and he asked himself whether he should speak now or wait.

He could not speak then of the subject nearest to his heart. He and Salis had always been the most intimate of friends—almost brothers—and they would be quite brothers in the future; but he could not tell him then.

“She seems calmer,” he whispered. “She was awake and talking a little while ago.”

“What—lucidly—sensibly?”

In spite of himself North could not help a start as he turned and met his friend’s eye, while his words were slow and constrained as he said, in a hesitating manner:

“Yes; I think so. But she is very weak.” And the mental question insisted upon being heard—Was she speaking sensibly, and as one in the full possession of her senses?

“North, old fellow, this is great news,” cried the curate. “Heaven be thanked! I must go and tell Mary.”

He was hurrying from the room, but his friend caught his arm.

“No, no; not yet,” he said hurriedly. “I would not raise her hopes too much.”

“Not when she is starving for the merest crumb of comfort? I must tell her.”

“Then be content to say I think she is a trifle better,” whispered North.

“But the climax must have come and gone?”

“I—I am not sure. The case is peculiar. Do as I say, and give her the crumb of comfort of which you spoke. To-morrow, perhaps, I can speak more definitely.”

Hartley Salis left the room, and North once more bent over the bed. His heart beat, his pulses throbbed, and the nerves in his temples seemed to tingle, as he laid his hand upon the burning brow, placed a finger upon the wrist, where the pulse beat so hard and pitifully, while, when he softly raised one of the blue-veined eyelids and gazed at the pupil, he drew back slowly, and shaded the sick girl’s face from the light.

It was growing late, the wind howled mournfully about the house, and from time to time there was a soft, patting noise at the window, as of some one tapping the panes with finger-tips. So high was the wind without that the candle flames were at times wafted to and fro.

Horace North had left the bedside, and was standing with his foot upon the fender, gazing down into the tiny glowing caverns in the fire, where the cinders fell together from time to time with a peculiar musical sound—the sound that strikes a watcher’s ear so strangely in the long hours of the night.

His thoughts were wild, and a tempest was raging in his breast as furious as that without. Love had made its first attack upon a strong man, and the wound was rankling. His brain was confused. He was almost giddy with his new sensations, astonished at the position in which he found himself.

He had been keen enough man of the world to understand Mrs Berens’ tender, shrinking advances, and they had been to him by turns a cause of annoyance and of mirth. But this was a novel and an intense delight. He could not have believed that he could be so moved.

It was a hard fight, but the man of honour won.

“I am her brother’s friend; I am her medical attendant,” he mused; “and neither by word nor look will I betray what passes in my heart till she is well. Then I, too, will lay bare the secret I shall hide.”

“And if she speaks to you again as she spoke a while ago—what then?”

It was as if a soft voice had whispered those words in his ear, and he shivered as he asked himself, “What shall I say?”

“It is all madness,” he cried fiercely—“utter madness. They were the outpourings of her diseased brain. Am I growing into an idiot? Has much study of the occult wonders of our life half turned my brain?”

He walked quickly to the bed, took up the candle, and let its light fall upon the flushed face for a few moments, a face looking so beautifully attractive with its wealth of rich hair tossed away over the white pillow.

He set down the candle, and pressed his hand softly once more upon her burning brow, listening the while to the dull throbbings of his heart.

“Yes, Horace North,” he said at last, “you, the much-praised would-be savant, are as weak as the weakest of your sex, ready to be flattered into a passion by the first sweet words which fall from a woman’s lips. You are strong in knowledge, you have mastered endless difficulties, but you have not mastered Horace North.”

“Fool—fool—fool!” he whispered to himself, after a pause; “with all your study to be so ready to rush to such a belief—ready to forget the trust reposed in you by a true man, by his sweet-minded sister, and, as it were, by you, my poor helpless girl. Spoken in your wild delirium, my child—the emanations of a young girl’s brain, of one whose waking thoughts must, Nature taught, be almost always of who is to be your mate through life. You opened the secret casket of your heart, my child, when helpless and without control, and I have gazed therein with prying eyes. But sleep in peace; they shall be secrets still. Yes,” he added, once more, as he drew steadily back—“delirium: she knows not what she says.”

A sigh from the sleeper made him pause, and then a low, musical laugh rang out, followed by a quick muttering.

Then once more the low laugh was heard, and the muttering became louder—then plainly heard, as if the speaker were in a merry protesting mood.

“You ask so much. Again? Well, I will confess. Yes, I do love you—with all my poor weak heart!”

Chapter Twenty.

A Venerable Old Man.

“No, Moredock, I am not going to find more fault, and I am not going to complain to the rector. If you had been a young man, with chances of getting work elsewhere, I should have had you discharged at once.”

“Ay, discharged at once,” said the old man, trying to bite his livid lip with one very yellow old tooth, as he stood in the vestry doorway, looking down at the curate.

“But as you are a venerable old man—”

“Gently, Parson Salis; a bit old, but not venerable,” grumbled the sexton.

“I shall look over it, and not disturb you for the short time you have to live upon this earth. But—”

“Now, don’t go on like that, sir, and don’t get talking about little time on earth. I may live a many years.”

“I hope you will, Moredock,” said the curate, taking out the cigar-case he had started at North’s recommendation, and carefully selecting a cigar before replacing it; “and I hope you will bitterly repent. If you had come to me and asked me I would have given you a bottle of wine, but for a trusted servant of the church to take advantage of his position and steal—”

“On’y borri’d it, sir.”

“I say steal, Moredock. It was a wicked theft,” said Salis sternly. “The wine kept here for sacramental purposes—”

“But it was only in the cupboard.”

“It was a wicked theft, sir.”

“And it’s poor sweet stuff; no more like the drop o’ port Squire Candlish give me than treacle and water’s like gin.”

“You’re a scoundrelly old reprobate, Moredock.”

“No, I arn’t, parson. I’m a good old sarvant o’ the church. Here have I been ill, as doctor ’ll tell you, and I was took bad in the church o’ Saturday, and you’d ha’ done the same, and took a drop o’ the wine.”

“And you’ve been taken bad Saturday after Saturday for months past, eh, sir?” said the curate sternly.

“Been out of order for a long bit, sir,” grumbled Moredock, shuffling from foot to foot like a scolded schoolboy.

“You old scoundrel!” said the curate, half rising from his seat in the dim vestry, where the surplices and gowns, hung against the old oak panels, seemed like a jury listening to the sexton’s impeachment. “You old scoundrel!” he said again, shaking the cigar at him, as if it were a little staff. “It’s quite a year since I began missing the wine, and I would not—I could not—suspect you. Why, I should as soon have thought that you would rob the alms box.”

The old man started, as if his guilty conscience needed no accuser, for he had more than once helped himself to a silver coin from the box within the south door, telling himself that the alms were for the poor, and that he was one of that extremely large fringe of rags upon civilisation.

“Well,” continued the curate, “I shall to some extent condone this very serious offence, Moredock, for I cannot find it in my heart to prosecute an old man of over ninety; so now go, and I sincerely hope that you will repent.”

“Ay, I’ll repent, parson; but it wouldn’t ha’ been much loss to ha’ been turned out o’ being saxton. Nobody dies now, and no one gets married. How’s Miss Leo?”

“Getting quite strong again.”

“That’s a blessing, sir,” grumbled the old man, who in spirit abused the young girl for defrauding him of certain fees. “Health’s a blessing, sir.”

“Yes, Moredock, it is,” said the curate, rising.

“And I thankye kindly, sir, for looking over the wine, I do. You needn’t lock it up. I won’t touch it again.”

“I shall not lock it up, Moredock. My forgiveness is full. I shall trust you as if this had never occurred.”

“Thankye, parson. That’s han’some.”

“But let me have no more complaints. You must do your duty, as I try to do mine.”

“Ay, parson, and I will,” said the old sexton, following his superior to the door leading out to the churchyard, where Salis stopped and took a box of vestas from his pocket, as he stood just outside the old stone doorway, where a stone corbel with a demoniacal expression of countenance seemed to be leering by his shoulder as if in enjoyment of what had taken place.

It was a sheltered corner for lighting a cigar, and the curate, without pausing to think, struck a match, and began to puff out the smoke.

“Well, I’ve no right to speak, as between parson and sax’on, sir; but twix’ old man and young man, I do say—what would you ha’ said to me if you’d ketched me having a pipe in the churchyard?”

“Why, you old rascal, I’ve often seen you smoking when you’ve been digging a grave.”

“Not often, parson; because one never hardly gets a grave to dig. I have had a pipe sometimes when my chesty has felt a bit weak.”

“I deserve your reproof, Moredock,” said the curate, putting out his cigar. “I have taken to smoking so much that I find myself lighting cigars at all times and seasons, and I am greatly to blame here.”

“Nay, nay, I shan’t say no more,” said the old man, calmly taking the place of reprover instead of being reproved; “but try a pipe, parson. Worth a dozen cigars. Stop a moment, sir, I wants another word with you.”

“Yes. What about?”

“My gran’child, Dally, parson. I arn’t saddersfied there.”

“Why, Moredock?”

“Because I don’t think you looks arter her morals as you should. ‘Send her to me, Moredock,’ you says, ‘and me and the young ladies will take every care on her.’”

“I did, Moredock; and we have.”

“Nay, you haven’t, sir; or else she wouldn’t go on as she do.”

“What do you mean, man?”

“Along o’ young Tom Candlish, squire’s brother, sir.”

“Is this true?”

“True, sir? Course it is. Don’t I say so? I’ve ketched ’em together over and over again.”

“Tut—tut—tut! this must be stopped,” cried Salis angrily. “Did you speak to him?”

“Ay, I spoke to him.”

“What did he say?”

“Called I an old fool.”

“But your grandchild. Did you speak to her?”

“Ay, course I did; but you might as well talk to yon cobble. She just laughed, and give her pretty head a toss. She is a pretty gal, parson.”

“Far too pretty, Moredock.”

“Oh! I don’t know ’bout that, sir. Think young Tom wants to marry her? I’ll put down a hundred pound the day she’s wed.”

“You will, Moredock? Why, I thought you were very poor.”

“So I am, parson, so I am; but I’ve saved up for the gal. But you keep her in more; it’ll make him more hungry arter her, and I’d like to see her mistress up at the Hall.”

“Moredock!” cried the curate, in horrible perplexity.

“Well, I should,” said the old man, grinning. “Squire’s drinking hisself to death as fast as he can, and he won’t marry; so young Tom’s sure to get the place. But you keep her in.”

“I will, Moredock,” said the curate sternly, and, in grave perplexity at the loose ideas of morality existing in Duke’s Hampton, he went straight home, to find the doctor seated by Mary’s couch.

Chapter Twenty One.

“Something Particular to Say.”

Horace North had sternly determined on self-repression, and, from the moment when the crisis of Leo’s fever had left her utterly prostrate, he had set himself the almost superhuman task of saving her from the grave.

He had treated his patient with a gentleness and care that gradually won upon her, harsh and distant as she was by nature; so that at last, after the first fits of wearing fretfulness were over, she began to greet him with a welcoming smile, and seemed happier when he sat down and stayed chatting to her by her bed.

On that night when the passionate avowals had been uttered she had sunk back into a violent fit of delirium; and since then, in all his long hours of watching, no word of love had passed her lips—no kindly look her eyes.

North was disappointed and touched to the quick, for he watched for her loving looks, listened for her tender words.

On the other hand, in his calmer moments he was pleased, for it made his task the lighter. He could repress himself until such time as his patient were well and he could honourably approach her to ask her to be his wife.

He was not surprised at her petulance or her irritability; and even in her worst moods he only smiled, as he thought of her past sufferings and present weakness. This childlike temper was the natural outcome of such a fever, and would soon pass away.

“It is better as it is,” he said, and he toiled away, neglecting his studies, his great discovery, all for Leo’s sake, that she might live and grow strong once more.

“How beautiful!” he thought; and as she unconsciously suffered his attentions, receiving them as her right, as if she were a queen, Mary drank in all, and read the doctor’s heart to the very deepest cell.

But she made no sign. It was her lot to suffer, and she would bear all in silent patience to the end, working to make others happy if she could, but sorrowing the more, as she wished well to North, and tried to believe that, after all, Leo might change, and worthily return his love.

For, after seeing her home, Tom Candlish sent twice to know how Leo was. After that he seemed to take no further notice, though he really spent his time in asking Dally Watlock about her mistress, as he called it—questions which took a long time to ask and longer to gain replies.

Leo never mentioned his name, but lay back reading, setting aside the book wearily when any one seemed disposed to converse, and taking up the book again as soon as whoever it was had done.

Salis entered the room where North was seated conversing with Mary, whose pinched face bore a slight colour as she listened to his words, something he was saying being interrupted by the brother’s entrance.

“Ah, here you are!” cried North warmly. “I have stayed to see you, for I have something particular to say.”

“That’s right. At least, it is not bad news, I hope.”

“I hope good,” said the doctor warmly, and then he stopped awkwardly.

It had all seemed so easy to say in his own room. Here it was terrible.

Mary’s heart began to flutter, and a piteous look came into her eyes; but she closed them gently, and a tear slowly welled through from each.

“Well, what is it? Nothing fresh about Tom Candlish, I hope?”

“About him? No; nonsense! I wanted to tell you that there is no further need for me to attend your sister,” Slid the doctor clumsily. “She is nearly well now, and—”

“My dear Horace, you have saved her life!”

“No, no; nonsense! Only did as any other medical man would have done.”

“I say she owes you her life, and it will be Leo’s duty to remember that, and to strive henceforth to render back to you—”

“If she only will!” cried North excitedly, as he sprang up and clasped his old friend’s hand.

For the ice was broken. He could speak now, and as Mary looked up through a mist of blinding tears he seemed to her like the hero she had always painted—as the man whom some day she might love. But for her love was dead.

“Why, Horace, old man, what do you mean?” cried Salis, as Mary fought down a wail of agony which strove to escape her lips.

“What do I mean, Salis?” cried the doctor passionately; “why, that I love Leo dearly, and I ask you to let me approach her, and beg her to be my wife.”

The curate sank into the nearest chair, and sat gazing up at his friend.

“Why, you don’t seem—I had hoped—Hartley, old fellow, don’t look at me like that.”

“I am very sorry.”

“No, no; don’t speak in that way—so cold and bitter.”

“Have you spoken to Leo—of your love?”

“Not a word. On my honour.”

A sigh escaped Mary.

“You need not say your honour, Horace, old fellow,” said the curate sadly. “I did once hope this, but that time has gone by, and I can only say again I am very sorry.”

“But why?—why?”

“Because,” said the curate slowly, “Leo is not the woman to make you a happy husband.”

“Nonsense, my dear boy. I—I believe she loves me.”

The curate shook his head.

“Ah! well,” cried the young doctor joyously; “we shall see. Tell me this: would you accept me as your brother?”

“I already look upon you as a brother.”

“Then you will let me speak to Leo?”

The curate paused a few moments, and then in the gravest of tones said:

“Yes.”

“Now? At once?”

“If you wish it,” said Salis, after another pause.

“Then I will,” said North. “I have waited months, and borne agonies all through her illness. Now I will be at rest.”

“But—”

Salis was too late, for hot, excited, and strung up hard to the highest pitch of excitement, North strode from the room, while Salis stooped over Mary and kissed her.

“I am very sorry,” he repeated: and a couple of loving arms closed round his neck, as Mary sobbed gently upon his breast.

Then brother and sister sat talking, for the drawing-room door had closed, and they could hear the low, dull murmurings of the doctor’s voice.

He had entered the drawing-room, where, looking extremely beautiful in her négligée habit, and refined by illness, Leo lay upon her couch by the fire, for the spring was cold, and as he entered she lowered her book and smiled.

It was a good augury, and with beating heart Horace North advanced and took her hand—to ask this woman to be his wife.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Dr North Proposes.

As Horace North took the hand of Leo Salis in his, it was to find it soft and cool and moist—very different from the burning palm he had so often held a few months since. It was without a tremble, but it sent a thrill through him; and with eyes flashing and revelling in his new joy, he was about to speak, when she half threw herself back in her chair with a movement of resignation which came upon him like a douche.

He knew it so well. He read it and understood it as plainly as if she had spoken. It was the patient waiting for him to feel her pulse.

“I thought you had given me up,” she said lightly.

“Given you up—you whom I love!”

Those were the words he wanted to say, but they would not come now after the damping he had received, and involuntarily his fingers glided slowly to her wrist, and he held them pressed against the calmly-beating pulse, gazing down at her half-averted eyes the while.

There was no coquetry, no playful manner; she was as calm and resigned as any patient he had ever visited, and yet, time back, she had clung to him, gazed passionately into his eyes, and whispered of her love.

Was it delirium?

He could not bring himself to say; but even if it were, she must at heart have loved him, and in her abnormal state have confessed what she would sooner have died than said when well.

The moments glided by, and he still held her wrist in the most professional manner, till, apparently surprised, she raised her eyebrows, opened her languid eyes, and looked up at him.

“Well, doctor,” she said, half laughing, “loth to part with your patient? I am quite well.”

He was dumb. A whirlwind of emotion was sweeping through him, as he vainly sought to shape his course. Could he tell her of her passionate avowal, or would it be too cowardly to take advantage of her past weakness?

He could not recall that—not now. Some day, perhaps, he might; but now he felt that he must approach her unarmed. She was delirious, and her brain must be a blank to all that had passed, and he would speak plainly—conventionally.

“Why, doctor,” she said at last, half-wonderingly, “of what are you thinking?”

“Thinking?” he said hoarsely.

“Yes; you look so serious. Surely I am not going to have a relapse?”

“Oh, no!” he cried.

“Then why do you look at me like this?”

She asked him the question so naïvely, as she half lay back in her place, that a cold chill came upon him again, and, letting her hand fall, he took a turn to the window and back, half ready to say nothing then; but nerving himself once more, he took a chair, drew it to the lounge, and, seating himself again, took her hand.

“Another inspection, doctor?” she said, half laughingly; and then, as she met his eyes, she seemed to comprehend his meaning, and tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it tightly.

“Do you know what I want to say to you?” he said gravely.

“What you wish to say?”

“Yes. There! I cannot speak to you in set terms, but do you think I could know you as I have known, have watched by you, and tended you through all this terrible illness, with any other result? Leo, I love you! Will you be my wife?”

“Dr North!”

Yes; her mind must be a blank. There was so much genuine surprise in her tone, such a look of astonishment in her eyes, that he knew it now without doubt, and his emotion choked him for the moment, so great was the disappointment and despair her tone evoked.

“You wonder at it, but why should you? Listen to me, Leo—”

“No, no; stop—stop! You are too hasty. Let me think.”

She put her hands to her temples, and looked at him half-wonderingly, half amusedly, but to him it seemed as if she were trying to recall something, and he once more caught her hand.

“You will listen to me. You will give me your promise, Leo—dear Leo! You seem to belong to me, for I have, as it were, brought you back from the dead. Tell me you will be my wife.”

She gave him a quick, keen glance that was as if full of horror and revolt, but he could not interpret it, and drew her hand towards his breast. Then, with a quick movement, and a pitying look at the man for whom she felt something approaching gratitude:

“No, no,” she exclaimed; “it is impossible.”

“I have spoken hastily. I have taken you by surprise,” he cried. “Only tell me this: you do not hate me, Leo?”

“Hate you? Oh, no, Dr North,” she cried. “Have we not always been great friends? Have you not saved my life?”

“Let me be more than friend,” he exclaimed; and a curious look came into her eyes, as he went on pouring forth in almost incoherent terms his love for her, the intense longing she had inspired. He could not interpret it—that it was full of mockery and suppressed mirth, mingled with contempt.

“You do not speak,” he said, at last. “Give me some hope.”

“What shall I say?” she cried. “It is too much to ask of me. You want me to promise.”

“Yes,” he said; “and I will wait patiently for the fulfilment of that promise.”

“But I have thought so little of such a thing,” she said calmly. “You have taken me so by surprise. I cannot—oh, I cannot promise.”

“But I may hope?” he said.

“I cannot—I will not—promise,” she said firmly. “If I marry it must be some one who has distinguished himself, who has made himself a name among the great people of the world. I hate this humdrum life, and this dull existence in the country. The man I loved should be one of whom his fellow-men talked because he had become great and done something of which I could be proud. No, no, Dr North; you must not ask me to promise this.”

He sat gazing into her eyes, for her words had struck a chord in his breast. They seemed to rouse up in him the thoughts and theories which had been set aside during the months of her illness while she had been his only care; and with an eager burst of fervid passion in his tones, he exclaimed:

“If I distinguished myself in some way—if I set men talking about my discoveries, and made my name famous, would you listen to me then?”

The same mocking light was in her eye, the same half-contemptuous smile played for a moment about the corners of her lips, as she said, in a low voice:

“Wait and see.”

“Wait? I will wait,” he cried eagerly; “and you shall share my triumph. Leo, you do not know, you cannot tell, what thoughts I have—what investigations I am making into a science which is full of wonders waiting to be discovered. You have roused once more in me the great desire to win fame: to make researches that shall benefit humanity for all time to come. I can, I will, win these secrets from Nature, and we will together go hand-in-hand, learning more and more. I shall succeed!” he cried excitedly. “Ah! you smile. You do give me hope.”

She did not speak, but veiled her eyes, to hide the mocking light within them.

“My darling—my love!” he exclaimed.

She drew back from his embrace.

“No, no,” she said. “We are only friends.”

“Yes, friends,” he cried—“friends now.”

“Say no more,” she continued. “I am still weak, and this troubles me. Pray go now.”

“Yes, I am going,” he said eagerly, “to fight a hard fight. I used to think of it as for fame alone. Now it is for love—your love—the love of the woman who first taught me that I had a heart.”

Raising the hand she surrendered, he kissed it tenderly, and was about to speak again, but he could not trust himself; and giving her a look full of love, trust, and devotion, he hurried back to the study, where Salis sat with Mary, waiting his return.

“Well?” said Salis, as Mary sat with pinched lips, and eyes wild with emotion.

“Congratulate me, my dear boy!” cried North excitedly.

“She has promised to be your wife?”

“No, no; I am to wait and work. She is quite right. It was assumption on my part.”

“Then she has refused you?”

“Oh, no! She is quite right. She bids me do something to make me worthy of her love, and—ah! Hartley, old fellow, I did not know what life was before. There! I am the happiest fool on earth.”

He turned to Mary, who was gazing at him with a look so full of pain that it would have betrayed her secret at another time. But just then the love madness was strong, and its effect sufficient to blind North, who, in his joy, raised Mary’s hand and kissed it, as he had kissed her sister’s.

Mary shrank at the contact of his lips with her soft, white hand; and a look of despair that she could not control shot from her lustrous eyes.

North did not see it, but Hartley Salis made a mental note thereof as the doctor exclaimed, laughing:

“There, good folks, let me go. Don’t laugh at me and be too hard when I am gone.”

“Hard!” said the curate sadly.

“Well, I know I’m behaving like a lunatic. I’m going away to study hard, and work myself back into a state of sanity—if I can.”

He nodded and left the house; and, as the door closed, Mary closed her eyes as the sank back helplessly in her place.

“Asleep, dear?” said Hartley tenderly, a few minutes later, and he had risen from where he sat, with a dejected look upon his face.

“No, Hartley; only thinking,” she said, smiling sweetly in his face.

“Thinking?”

“Of Leo.”

“And so was I,” he said sadly.

But Leo Salis was not thinking of brother or sister. She was writing rapidly, with a blotting-book held half open, and the book she had been reading held in the same hand, so that she could close the blotter instantly and seem to be reading if any one came.

Leo’s lips formed the words she wrote:—

“It is ridiculous of you to have such jealous thoughts. He has tended me patiently as any other doctor would. I will tell you more to-morrow night, but to-day I tell you this: I think him very clever as a doctor; as an ordinary being I think him an idiot. At the old time as nearly as I can. Do be punctual this time, pray.”

It was about five o’clock the next morning that, after sitting up reading hard, and trying to recover lost time, till half-past three, North was plunged in a deep sleep, in which he dreamed that Leo was smiling in his eyes, and repeating the words she had uttered in her delirium, when there was a heavy dragging at the night-bell.

“What is it?” cried the doctor from his window.

“My young master, sir,” cried the voice of the butler from the Hall.

“Taken ill?”

“Ill, sir? Oh, Heaven help us! it’s worse than that!”

Chapter Twenty Three.

Tom Candlish Plays Badly.

Squire Luke Candlish looked flushed and angry, as he stood facing his brother in the billiard-room, over the dining-room, at the Hall. Dinner had been ended an hour, and in company with his brother he had partaken of enough wine for three ordinary men, after which they had gone upstairs to smoke and play two or three games.

Tom Candlish played horribly that night. The strokes he made were vile; and so transparent were some of his blunders that any one but Squire Luke would have seen and asked what it meant.

Squire Luke only chuckled and smoked, and spilled the cigar-ash over the green cloth and played; but played more vilely than his brother, with the result that, in spite of all his efforts, Tom won game after game.

It was very awkward, for Tom had a request to make, and unless he could get his brother in a good temper, the request would certainly be in vain.

He made misses and his brother scored one each time. Then went straight into the pocket without touching a ball; and his opponent scored three; but directly afterwards, when his turn came round, the balls seemed as if they would make cannons and winning and losing hazards, so that his score kept rising, and Squire Luke raved.

Tom won every game, and his brother grew more silent, till quite in despair at the failure of his plan to put the squire in a good temper, Tom blurted out his business. He wanted a hundred pounds.

“I should think you do want a hundred pounds!” said the squire coolly; “say two.”

“Two!” cried Tom merrily.

“Twopence!” cried his brother, driving his ball off the table with a tremendous clatter. “What for?”

“Meet a couple of bills,” said Tom, picking up the ball. “No! Your play again.”

“No business to accept them.”

“Couldn’t help it, old fellow. Come, let’s have a hundred.”

“Not a stiver.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve had your allowance for the year, and fifty over.”

“Nonsense, old man; I’m hard pushed, and if I don’t meet the bills, they’ll be dishonoured.”

“Well, what of that?” said Squire Luke coolly, as he made a stroke.

“What of it! eh? Why, the glorious name of Candlish will be dragged in the mire.”

“Bah!” ejaculated the squire, playing again.

“Why, Luke, that stroke was not emblematic, was it, of your turning into a screw?”

“None of your hints. I put on no screw, and I am no screw. You have your five hundred a year to spend, and I keep you besides.”

“Oh, yes: and keep me well; but a man can’t always keep just inside a certain line.”

“You always keep outside a certain line,” retorted the squire. “You have your five hundred regularly.”

“And you have your five thousand regularly,” said Tom, who was beginning to flush up.

“Well, what of that?”

“Why, it isn’t fair that you should have all this big place and a large income, and I nearly nothing.”

“That’s right,” said the squire; “abuse your father.”

“I don’t abuse my father!” retorted Tom hotly; “but I say it was an infernal shame!”

“He knew what a blackguard you are, Tommy. Ah! that’s a good stroke: six!”

“Blackguard, eh? Come, I like that. Because I am open and above-board, and you are about the most underhanded ruffian that ever lived, I’m a blackguard, and you are only Squire Luke. Why, you sneaking—”

“Don’t call names, Tom,” said the squire, laughing huskily, with his heavy face bloated and red from the wine he had taken. “Little boy, younger brother, if you are rude I may use the stick in the shape of a billiard cue.”

“I only wish you would,” said Tom, grinding his teeth as he played, striking the balls viciously, and scoring now every time.

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” cried the squire; “going to win, are you? We shall see.”

“Win? Curse the game! I could give you fifty out of a hundred, and beat you easily. Look here, are you going to let me have that money?”

“No, I am not; mind your play.”

“Then I’ll have it somehow.”

“Burglary?”

“No; I’ll make it so unpleasant for a certain person about some things I know that he shall be glad to lay down the hundred instead of lending it, as one brother should to another.”

The squire’s face grew dark, and the cue quivered in his grasp, as he gazed full at Tom Candlish, the brothers looking singularly alike in their anger. But the elder turned it off with a curious, unpleasant laugh, and leant over the table to make a stroke.

“Don’t be a fool, Tom,” he said, playing. “You always did have too much tongue.”

“Too much or too little, I mean to use it more, instead of submitting to the tyranny of such a mean-spirited hound as you. What the old man could have been thinking of to leave the estate to such a miserly cur—”

“Mean-spirited hound! miserly cur, eh!” paid the squire, between his teeth.

“Yes; and I repeat it,” cried Tom Candlish, who was furious with disappointment. He found that humility was useless, and that now they had begun to quarrel, his only chance of getting money was by bullying and threats; so without heeding the gathering anger in his brother’s eyes as he went on playing rapidly in turn and out of turn, he kept up his attack. “What the governor could have been thinking of, I say—”

“Leave the governor alone, Tom,” growled the squire. “He knew that if he left the money to me with the title, the estate would be kept out of the lawyers’ hands, and the money would not be found in pretty women’s laps.”

“But down your throat, you sot!” The squire looked up at him again, and he was going to make some furious retort, when the old butler’s steps were heard ascending the flight of stairs, and he entered the room.

“Can I bring anything else, Sir Luke, before I go to bed?”

“No, Smith,” said the squire; “what time is it?”

“Half-past ten, sir.”

“All locked up? Servants gone to bed?”

“Yes, Sir Luke.”

“That’ll do, then, without Mr Tom wants some more hot water.”

“No; I’m in hot water enough,” growled Tom, lighting a cigar, and the butler withdrew.

For some few minutes there was no sound but the click of the billiard balls, as the squire, forgetful entirely of the game, kept on knocking the red here, the white there, while Tom Candlish paced up and down, cue in hand, emitting regular puffs of smoke, as if he were some angry machine moved by an internal fire.

Doors were heard to shut here and there, and then all was silent in the old place save the regular pacing about of Tom, the squire’s hasty tread, and the clicking of the billiard balls.

“Now, then!” cried Tom, at last; “are you going to let me have that money?”

“No,” said the squire, coolly enough. “I wouldn’t let you have it now for your bullying. I’m a hound and a cur, am I, my lad?”

“Yes, you are a despicable hound and a miserable cur, and if the old man had known—”

“Let the old man rest,” said the squire, with a lurid look.

“I say, if the old man had known how you were going to spend his money, sotting from morning to night—”

“He’d have left it to you to spend on the loose, eh?”

“Loose? Why, you are ten times as loose as I am; but you are so proud of your good name that you sneak about in the dark to do your dissipation. I am manly and straightforward in mine.”

“Yes, you’re a beauty,” said the squire mockingly. “Which of those girls are you going to marry—Leo Salis or Dally Watlock?”

“You mind your own affairs, and leave me to manage mine!” said Tom Candlish fiercely.

“But I should like to know,” said the squire, “because then I could arrange about the paper and furniture for the rooms.”

“Do you want to quarrel, Luke?”

“Quarrel?” chuckled the squire; “not I. Trying to be brotherly and to make things pleasant. If it is to be Leo, of course we must have greys and sage greens and terra cottas. If it is to be Dally Watlock, we must go in for red and yellow and purple. How delightful to have the sexton’s granddaughter for a sister! I say, Tom, how happy we shall be!”

Tom Candlish turned upon his brother furiously, as if about to strike; and the squire, though apparently laughing over his banter, and about to play, kept upon his guard.

But no blow was struck. Tom uttered a low sound, like the muttering growl of an angry dog, and smoked quickly, giving the butt of his cue a thump down upon the floor from time to time as he walked.

“I shan’t mind your marrying, Tom; and there’s plenty of room for you to bring a wife to. I shan’t marry, so your boy will get the title—and the coin.”

“Coin?” cried Tom savagely; “there’ll be none left. Do you think I don’t know how you are spending it?”

“Never mind how I spend it, my lad. I only spend what is my own; and if I had spent all, I shouldn’t come begging to you.”

“Lucky for you,” cried Tom Candlish tauntingly. “Look here, Luke, how many years does it take a man to drink himself to death?”

“Don’t know,” said the squire, wincing.

“Well, you’re hard at work, and I shall watch the experiment with some curiosity. I’ve a good chance.”

“Healthier man than you, Tom; and it’ll take me longer to kill myself than it will take you. I shall be a hale man long after you’ve broken your neck hunting.”

“Look here!” cried Tom savagely, “once more: do you want to quarrel?”

“Not I,” said the squire; “and I don’t want to fight. Cain might kill Abel over again with an unlucky blow.”

“’Pon my soul, Luke, if I could feel sure that Cain would be hung for it, I shouldn’t mind playing Abel.”

“Look at that!” cried the squire, as, after a random shot, the red ball went into one pocket, the white into another. “There’s a shot!”

“Yes—a fluke,” sneered Tom. “Your life has been a series of flukes. It was one that you were born first, and another that you ever lived; while in earnest, as in play, it’s always flake, fluke, fluke!”

“Anchor flukes take fast hold of the ground, Tom,” said the squire, with a sneering laugh.

“Yes, and of the money, too,” cried Tom. “Come, I’ll give you another chance. Will you let me have that cash?”

“No.”

“Not to save me from a writ?”

“Who holds the bills?”

“That scoundrel Thompson. North’s cousin.”

“Then he’ll worry you well for it,” said the squire. “Let him. It’ll be a lesson for you, and bring you to your senses. You’ll be more careful.”

“Nonsense! Let me have the money.”

“I might have let you have it, and precious unwillingly, too,” said the squire. “I might, I say, have let you have the money to save you for the last time, but your bullying tone, and the way in which you have spoken to me to-night, have quite settled it. You may have writs and he arrested, and turn bankrupt if you like: it doesn’t make any difference to me. Yes, it would; for perhaps I should get rid of you for a time.”

“You cursed, mean, unbrotherly hound!” cried Tom furiously; and, throwing down the cue upon the table just as his brother was about to play, he swung out of the room, descended the stairs, and went up to his bedroom.

“Hang him!” muttered the squire, going to a side table and pouring himself out half a tumbler of strong brandy, which he diluted a little, and then drank off half at a draught.

“I wish to goodness he’d go altogether. I won’t pay his debts any more. That’s not a bad stroke. How a drop of brandy does steady a man’s hand! Let him swear and growl. Five hundred’s enough for him for a year, and the old man was quite right.”

He went on playing for another half-hour, practising strokes with very little success, till, glancing at his watch, he found it was close upon midnight, and placing his cue in the rack, he poured himself out some more brandy, drank it, turned down the lamp, and was moving towards the baize swing-door, when it opened, and Tom Candlish stood in the opening.

“Hallo!” said the squire; “thought you’d gone to bed.”

“What’s the good of my going to bed with that money trouble to think about.”

“Have some brandy? Make you forget it. I’ve left some on the table.”

“No fooling, Luke. I was out of temper. I’ve been worried, and I said things I didn’t mean.”

“Always do. Here, let me come by. I want to go to bed.”

“All right, you shall directly, old fellow; but you’ll let me have that money?”

“Not a sou.”

“I want it horribly; and it will save me no end of worry. You’ll let me have it?”

“Not a sou, I tell you.”

“Come, Luke, old chap, don’t be hard upon me. I’ve been waiting patiently till I got cool, and you had finished playing, before I came and spoke to you again. Now, then, it’s only a hundred.”

“And it’ll be a hundred next week, and a hundred next month. I won’t lend you a penny.”

“Then, give it me. I’ve a right to some of the old man’s coin.”

“Not a sou, I tell you, and get out of my way. I want to go to bed.”

“You’ll help me, Luke?”

“No! Stand aside!”

“Come, don’t be hard. I’m your brother.”

“Worse luck!” said the squire, whose face was flushed by the brandy he had taken.

“Never mind that. Let me have the hundred.”

“I tell you again, not a sou. Curse you! Will you let me come by?” cried the squire savagely; for the spirit had taken an awkward turn, and his face grew purple.

“Once more; will you let me have the money?”

“No!” roared the squire. “Get out of the way—dog!”

“Dog, yourself! Curse you for a mean hound!” cried Tom Candlish, with a savage look. “You don’t go by here till you’ve given me a cheque.”

The squire’s temper was fully roused now. He had restrained it before; though, several times when he had uttered a low laugh and kept on handling his cue, his anger had been seething, and ready to brim over.

Now, at his brother’s threat, that he should not pass until he had signed a cheque, he seized Tom by the shoulder as he blocked the way, and flung him aside.

Luke Candlish cleared the passage for his descent; but roused the evil in his brother, so that Tom closed with him in a fierce grip.

The struggle was almost momentary. There was a wrestling here and there, and then Luke Candlish put forth his whole strength as he practised a common Cornish trick, and Tom was thrown heavily upon the landing.

“There!” cried the squire; “lie there, you idiot! You’ll get no cheque from me.”

The squire had to pass over his brother’s body to reach the stairs, and he was in the act of rapidly crossing him, when, with a desperate effort, Tom made a savage snatch at his leg.

The result was what might have been expected: the sudden check caused the squire to lose his balance, and he literally pitched head foremost down the stairs, to fall with a heavy crash at the bottom.

Tom Candlish rose to his hands and knees, and gazed at where his brother lay, just beneath the lamp in the lobby, head downwards, and in a curiously-awkward position for a living man.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Terrible Silence.

“Serve him right,” muttered Tom. Then rising and pushing the door, which had swung to, he entered the dark billiard-room, where he felt his way to the spirit stand, and took a hearty draught. “Curse him! he’s as strong as a horse. I wish he had broken his neck.”

The brandy gave him nerve, and he returned through the baize door into the light.

“Must lend him a hand, I suppose,” he muttered, as he descended the stairs to where the squire lay in a heap, his head upon the mat, one leg doubled beneath him, and the other through the balustrade, which held it fast.

Tom Candlish stood peering down at him for a few moments, and then, as his brother did not move, he stooped towards him.

“Here,” he said roughly, as he took hold of his wrist; “don’t lie like that; you’ll have a blood-vessel burst.”

There was no reply; and, as the wrist was loosed, the arm fell in an absolutely nerveless way.

“Here, Luke!” he cried; “get up. Don’t fool. Get up, man!”

Still no reply, and, beginning to be startled, Tom Candlish went down upon one knee and tried to move his brother’s head into a more comfortable position.

As he did so, the light fell athwart so ghastly and strange a countenance, from whose lips the blood was slowly trickling, that he let the head glide from his hands, for it to sink suddenly with a dull thud upon the stairs.

“Good God!” ejaculated the young man, in a low, excited voice. “Here, Luke! Luke, old man: hold up!”

There was no movement—not even a sigh; and Tom Candlish ran to alarm the house; but, as he reached the swing-door at the end of the passage, and stood gazing into the hall, he stopped and ran back to lay his hand upon his brother’s heart; then caught his wrist, and afterwards thrust a hand right into his breast, but only to withdraw it quite aghast.

“Here! a doctor!” he gasped, his voice being like a hoarse whisper. “Smith! Somebody! Here!”

He rose and hurried to the door leading into the entrance hall once more, but stopped again as he reached it, and stood gazing back at the distorted figure at the foot of the stairs.

Then he turned and looked up the dimly-lit staircase, but all was perfectly still. No one appeared to have heard the altercation or the fall. All seemed to be sleeping; and, panting heavily, as wild thoughts full of wonder and dread flooded his brain, Tom Candlish closed the door softly, ran back along the passage, ascended the stairs, and gained the billiard-room, where he groped his way once more to the spirit stand, removed the stopper, and drank heavily from the brandy decanter.

“Hah!” he ejaculated, as he took a long breath, and turned to see that the oval pane in the baize door seemed to have assumed the aspect of a huge, dull eye glaring at him.

“Am I going mad?” he muttered, as he staggered to the door. “I must call help; perhaps—perhaps—he is seriously hurt.”

He stole softly down the stairs, and paused by the prostrate figure, still lying perfectly motionless, and in its hideously-distorted position.

“I must call help—call help!” whispered the young man, whose face was now ghastly; but though there were bells that might have been rung and people were within call, he only crept along the passage, without attempting to touch the fallen man, pushed the spring-door gently, so that it should make no noise, closed it again, stood listening, and then, in the midst of the dead silence, stole on tip-toe up the grand staircase to his bedroom, where he once more stopped to listen, and then crept softly in and closed the door.

The silence in the old Hall was as that of death for a few moments, before it was broken by a faint click, as of the bolt of a lock just shot.

Once more silence, and then on the dim staircase there was a musical purring noise, followed by the pleasant chimes of a clock, which rang out the half-hour after midnight.

Then once again the stillness as of death.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Smith Finds Something Wrong.

“You heard nothing?” said the doctor.

“Nothing at all. I went to bed at the usual time, sir,” said the butler—“half-past ten—yes, sir, I’ve the chaise waiting; won’t you come in that, and I can tell you as we drive over?”

“Yes; all right,” said the doctor, and five minutes later they were rattling along the road towards the Hall.

“Now, go on,” said North. “Yes, sir; I went to bed as usual, and slept very soundly till about an hour ago, and then I suddenly woke. I don’t know what made me wake; but I did, and somehow began thinking, as I’ve often thought before, about the plate in the pantry, and whether it was safe.”

“Don’t you sleep in the pantry?”

“No, sir; it’s so damp. So I lay telling myself it was all nonsense and fancy; but the more I thought so, the more uncomfortable I grew, till I could stand it no longer, and I got up, slipped on my trousers and great-coat, and went to the top of the stairs, where I felt quite a chill, as I knew something was not as it should be, for the lamp was not turned out on the hall table.”

“What lamp?”

“The hall lamp that Sir Luke always puts out himself when he goes up to bed.”

“Where do you say you left him last night?”

“In the billiard-room, sir, playing with Mr Tom, sir.”

“Yes; go on.”

“So I went down, sir; and there saw through the baize door that the lamp was burning at the end of the passage at the foot of the billiard-room stairs.”

“Yes.”

“And as soon as I got through the baize door, there, under the lamp, lay my poor master, all like of a heap.”

“What did you do?”

“Ran to him, and tried to put him in a more comfortable position, sir; but—”

“Yes; I understand.”

“Then I rushed up and called Mr Tom, sir; and we went to the squire together, and rang the bells and alarmed the house. Then, as soon as the boy had put the horse in the chaise, sir, I drove over to fetch you.”

“But did you do nothing to try and revive him?”

“Oh! yes, sir; but—”

“I understand,” said the doctor. “And Mr Tom?”

“He couldn’t believe it, sir. He said he played billiards with the squire for some time, and then grew tired and went to bed, leaving him knocking the balls about, and it’s all very plain, sir. I tell you of course, though I wouldn’t say so to another soul, poor Sir Luke used to take a great deal too much. I filled the spirit stand only this morning, and the brandy decanter was quite empty. He had a deal too, at dinner, before.”

“And you think he pitched downstairs, Smith?”

“Yes, sir; that is my belief,” said the butler; “and Mr Tom seemed to think so too.”

They reached the Hall to find every one in a state of the most intense excitement, but an ominous silence reigning through the place.

“Thank goodness you’ve come at last,” cried a familiar voice, and Tom hurried to meet North. “Pray be quick; he is insensible still.”

The doctor looked at the young man curiously.

“Where is he?”

“We carried him into the dining-room, and laid him on a sofa; but he has not stirred since. I’m afraid something is broken.”

As he spoke he led North into the dining-room, where the candles were burning, the shutters were closed, and curtains drawn; and there, upon a couch in the middle of the room, lay Sir Luke Candlish, as his brother had said, without having moved since he had been borne carefully in.

The doctor’s examination was short, and Tom Candlish stood looking on, apparently too much overcome to speak.

“Well,” he said at last, “is he very bad? Is anything broken?”

The doctor raised his eyebrows, and could have replied “his neck,” but he said simply: “Bad, sir? Can you not see that he is dead?”

“Dead?” ejaculated Tom; and his jaw dropped, while his face assumed a look of intense horror.

“Yes, sir. The butler’s theory seems to be quite correct. Sir Luke must have pitched headlong from the top of the stairs to the bottom.”

“And there is no hope?”

The doctor shook his head, and laid his hand upon the young man’s arm, signing to him to quit the room.

Tom followed mechanically.

“So horrible!” he said, as soon as they were in the drawing-room. “We were playing billiards together till late last night, while now—Yes, what is it?”

“I beg pardon. Sir Thomas,” said the old butler softly, “the housekeeper said would you and Dr North like a cup of tea?”

“Sir Thomas!” The title made Tom Candlish thrill as he stood gazing at the speaker. So soon! Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!

He was Sir Thomas Candlish. The estate was his and the rent-roll of at least five thousand a year. Last night he was enraged at the possibility of trouble arising from Thompson. Now he was a free man: he was rich.

And his brother?

It was his secret. And why should he trouble about the sudden death? It was an accident, and his own counsel could easily be kept. There was none to reveal the truth. The dead could never speak.

As he mused like this, and the butler brought in the tea, Dr North was lost in a fit of musing, for, like a flash, the scientific fancy upon which he had so long pondered came to him, so that for the moment he stood breathless and gazing wildly at the door which seemed to open before him.

The idea was bewildering. Leo had bidden her suitor distinguish himself as the price at which her love was to be won; and the more he thought, the more the idea shone out, dazzling him by its intense light—shining into the dark places of his soul.

What was his theory? That if a hale, hearty man were suddenly cut off by some accident, and apparently dead, could he arrest decay, Nature herself would repair the injury done, even as a fractured bone rapidly knits together and becomes stronger than before.

Here, then, was a hale, hearty man suddenly cut down; he was the medical man in attendance, and the opportunity served for restoring this man to life. Why should he not make his first essay now?

The idea grew more terrible in its intensity hour by hour. It was his chance if he would grasp it. Impious? No, not more so than performing an operation or trying to save a sufferer from death. But he was dead.

“What we call dead,” muttered North; “but why not suspended animation? For her sake, for my own fame, to achieve a success such as the world has not heard of before, I must—I will make the essay.”

“But how?”

“And suppose I make him live once more—what then?”

The idea blinded him, and he covered his eyes to think.

Chapter Twenty Six.

“Ah!”

“How horrible!” the curate said, when he heard the news from North, who came in at breakfast time.

As he spoke these words, Leo entered the room, and stopped short, gazing from one to the other.

She had come down looking happy and contented, with a satisfied smile upon her curved lips, heightened by a rather mocking light which danced in her eyes, as they encountered those of the doctor. There was a feeling of triumph, the satisfaction of a vain, weak woman at the sight of the slave ready to cast himself at her feet, and her manner was coquettish as she held out her hand.

But her brother’s ejaculation, the stern look on the doctor’s face, chilled her, and she stopped short, looking from one to the other, her lips parting as if for the utterance of words which would not come.

“What is it?” she said at last, wildly. “What is horrible?”

“Hush, Leo!” said the curate, taking her hand; “don’t be alarmed.”

“But you said—”

“Yes; North has brought in terrible news from the Hall.”

Leo’s face turned ghastly, and she clung to her brother, while North hurriedly placed a chair, into which she sank, but only to sit up rigidly, as she stared with widely opened eyes at the doctor.

“Be calm,” he said tenderly. “You are still weak.”

“What is it?” she said, in a voice that did not sound like her own.

“It would be better that you should not know,” said North. “There has been a sad accident at the Hall.”

“I must know now,” panted Leo, as she opened and closed her hands in her excitement.

“It would be better to speak,” said the curate. “My sisters have been schooled to trouble, North. There has been a terribly sudden calamity at the Hall, Leo, dear. North was called up in the night, and—”

“Is he dead?” she whispered hoarsely; and then reading her answer in the eyes of both, she uttered a long, low, “Ah!” and sat with her hand tightening upon her brother’s, while she closed her eyes, and an agonising spasm seemed to contract her beautiful face.

“A fit of giddiness seems to have seized Sir Luke, and he fell headlong from the top of the stairs to the bottom.”

“Ah!”

Once more that strange expiration of the breath, which sounded to the listeners precisely the same, for their senses were not attuned with sufficient keenness to detect the difference.

“I am sorry to have given you this terrible shock, Leo,” said North tenderly; “but I felt bound to come and let Salis know.”

She did not reply directly, but sat there spasmodically clinging to her brother’s hand with fingers that were damp and cold.

“I am better now,” she said at last, in a low whisper. “It is very terrible. Does Mary know?”

“Not yet,” said Salis. “I am going to fetch her down. Has the faintness passed away?”

“Yes—yes!” she said hastily. “It was the suddenness of the news. Try not to startle Mary, Hartley; but she is not such a coward as I am.”

“You have been so ill,” said North tenderly. “Your nerves are unstrung. Besides, it is a great shock to hear of so awfully sudden a death.”

“Go and tell Mary,” said Leo, rising. “I am quite well now. Speak gently.”

“Yes,” said the curate; and he left the room.

“Tell me,” said Leo, as soon as the door closed. “How was it? Was there any quarrel? It was an accident?”

She spoke in a hurriedly excited manner, and there was a wildly anxious look in her eyes.

“You are excited,” said North, taking her hand, half professionally, half with the anxious touch of a lover; but she snatched it away with an angry flash from her eyes.

She saw his pained look, and held out her hand the next moment.

“If the pulse beats quickly,” she said, smiling, “it is no wonder.”

“No, no, of course not,” he cried, taking her hand, and holding it in his.

“Now, tell me.”

“Oh, it was an accident,” he said, “undoubtedly. I’m afraid there was a reason for it.”

Leo was silent, looking at North searchingly.

“Oh, yes, I understand now,” she said quickly. “He drank very much, did he not?”

“I’m afraid so,” replied North, feeling half troubled at the intimate knowledge displayed by the woman he loved.

“It is very horrible,” said Leo, closing her eyes. “Hush! they are coming down. Say as little as you can. Mary is very weak.”

For the curate’s heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and directly after, as North hastened to open the door, Salis entered, carrying Mary in his arms, she looking white and anxious, and gazing quickly from her sister to North and back.

There was an interchange of glances all round, and then, as if by common consent, the subject of the past night was avoided for a time, and North turned to go.

“But you will stay breakfast?” said Mary. “You look tired and worn out.”

She coloured slightly, for the words, full of anxiety for North’s welfare, had escaped her inadvertently; and the colour deepened as, in his pleasantly frank way, he smiled in her face.

“It is very good of you,” he said. “You are always so thoughtful. If Leo will only endorse the invitation, I shall be very glad to stay.”

“I’m sure we shall be very pleased,” said Leo calmly; and he crossed to her side, bent down, and said, in low tone:

“I like that.”

“You like what?” she said coolly enough.

“The brave way in which you have mastered your weakness.”

She smiled and looked furtively at her sister, who was less successful in controlling her feelings.

The breakfast passed over without further allusion to the catastrophe at the Hall till towards the end, when Salis said suddenly:

“I have a very unpleasant duty to perform.”

Mary looked up anxiously.

“Yes, dear; I must go over and see Thomas Candlish.”

Leo bent over her cup.

“It is a duty that I must fulfil, North.”

“Yes,” said the doctor gravely; “especially at a time like this.”

“How horrible!”

And when the doctor left soon after, and he shook hands with his friend again, the latter once more exclaimed:

“How horrible!”

But it was in allusion to the sudden termination of the career of a man who drank heavily, and there was no arrière pensée as to the possibility of a quarrel between the two young men.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Doctor’s Opportunity.

About midday, on his return from visiting his patients, North looked rather black.

Perhaps it was the reflection from the sleek, superfine garments of his cousin, for that gentleman was walking slowly up and down on the lawn in front of the old Manor House, and in no way adding to the attractions of the quaintly-cut, well-kept place. “You here, Thompson!”

“Yes, my dear Horace; I had to come down on business to-day, and I thought you would give me a bit of lunch before I went on.”

“To see Mrs Berens?”

“Well—er—perhaps I may give her a call; but my business was with—dear me, how strange that you should take any interest in social matters that have nothing to do with the body!”

“Am I such a very eccentric man, then, that I should study my profession hard?”

“Not at all, my dear fellow—not at all. I study mine hard, my dear Horace. Left almost penniless, it was a necessity, and I have, I am proud to say, been very successful, and am practically independent. But my visit here to-day was not to see the handsome widow—there, don’t blush, old fellow.”

“Don’t be a fool, Thompson,” said the doctor testily. “Now, then, what were you going to say?”

“I was going to tell you that my visit would be to the Hall.”

“To the Hall?” cried North excitedly. “Yes. Here, what’s the matter?” said Cousin Thompson excitedly. “He hasn’t given me the slip?”

“If you mean Sir Luke Candlish—”

“No,” said Thompson harshly; “I don’t mean Luke Candlish. Here, why don’t you speak, man? Has Tom Candlish gone?”

“No; he is at the Hall; but—”

“That’s all right, then,” said Cousin Thompson, drawing a breath of relief. “Oh, I see, you’ve been over.”

“Yes, I have been over.”

“And he is shamming illness again because he expected me to-day. But it won’t do, Horace—it won’t do. Come, now, he’s quite well, isn’t he? Don’t turn against your own cousin, and back him up.”

“Tom Candlish is as well as a man can be under such horrible circumstances. His brother is dead.”

“Phew!” whistled the lawyer—a long-drawn, low, deep whistle. “Then he is now Sir Thomas Candlish.”

“Yes, and if you have lent him money at usury it will be all right.”

“At usury!” snarled the lawyer; “don’t you be so fond of using that word. I must make money, and lending at interest is fair enough.”

“Where are you going?”

“Going down to the Hall at once.”

“You said you had come to lunch.”

“Hang your lunch! I must see Tom Candlish.”

“Impossible. It would not be decent to go on business now.”

“Decent or indecent, I must see him at once.”

“My cousin; and how cordially I do dislike him!” muttered the doctor, as he watched the sleek, black back of his visitor as he went down towards the gate. “To go at a time like this! Well, thank goodness, I am not a money-grubber.”

He sat down in his study, and took a manuscript book from his drawer. Over this book he began to pore, but the words danced before his eyes, and he could think of nothing but Luke Candlish, the hale, strong man, suddenly cut off by accident, and of Leo’s words bidding him distinguish himself.

“No rest last night,” he said, throwing the book back into the drawer; “I can’t read, or think, or do anything.”

“Are you ready for your lunch, sir?” said Mrs Milt. “Mr Thompson will join you, I suppose?”

“No; but I dare say he will come to dinner.”

“Ho! Lunch is quite ready, sir,” said the old lady, in an ill-used tone, as the doctor moved towards the door.

“Never mind; I can’t eat to-day. Going out,” said North hastily; and he hurriedly left the house, and passed down the village, where every one was discussing the accident at the Hall, and longed to question him, if such a thing could have been ventured upon.

He had not seen Moredock for two or three days, and almost immediately, to avoid the torture of his thoughts, and what was rapidly approaching the stage of a great temptation, he walked to the old sexton’s cottage.

The door was ajar, and he tapped, but there was no reply, and the only sound within was the regular beat of the great clock as the heavy pendulum swung to and fro.

“Asleep, perhaps,” he said to himself, and pushing the door, he walked in; but the big arm-chair was vacant, and after a glance round, in which his eyes rested for a moment upon the old carved oak coffer, the doctor went slowly out, and, without considering which way he should go, walked straight on towards the church.

A sound, as of something falling, made him raise his eyes, and he saw that the chancel door was open.

“What’s Salis doing there?” he said to himself; and, entering the gate, he walked up the steps to the open doorway.

“You here, Salis?” he said.

“Nay, sir,” came back, in a harsh, familiar tone; “parson’s been and gone. Things is looking up again, doctor.”

“Looking up?”

“Ay. Been trebble quiet lately: only a bit of a child as hasn’t been chrissen’ this month past. Horrible healthy place, Dook’s Hampton.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Doing? Here? Why, haven’t you heard as the young squire—why, of course you have; you were called up this morning. Well, he’s got to be buried, hasn’t he?”

“Buried? Yes, of course,” said the doctor thoughtfully.

“Yes; he’s got to be buried,” said Moredock. “Some says it arn’t decent and like Christians, as ought to be buried tight in the brown earth. But they don’t know, doctor. They can’t tell what a lot o’ water there is in the ground o’ winters. I know, and I know what ’matics is. Nobody knows how damp that there churchyard is better than I do, doctor.”

North stood looking at the sexton, but his thoughts were far away.

“Ay, Squire Luke ’ll be buried in the morslem—he’ll lie with his fathers, as Scripter says; and when I die, which won’t be this twenty year, that’s how I’d like to lie with my fathers. Stretched out nice and warm in his lead coffin, that’s how he’s going to be, and put on a nice dry shelf. Ay, it’s a nasty damp old churchyard, doctor, and well they folk in Church Row know it. He, he, he! their wells is allus full o’ nice clean water, but I allus goes to the fur pump.”

North did not seem to hear a word, but stood holding on by the rail of the Candlish tomb, thinking. His head swam with the dazzling light that blazed into his understanding. He was confused, and full of wonder, hesitation, and doubt.

Luke Candlish—dead—the mausoleum—the hale, hearty young man—struck down.

“Good heavens!” he ejaculated; “has my opportunity come—at last?”

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

The First Baronet’s Tomb.

As Horace North battled with his thoughts, Moredock chuckled and went on:

“They drinks it, doctor, the idiots, and all the time they say it’s horrid to eat a bit o’ churchyard mutton. Squire Luke didn’t care, though. He wouldn’t have said no to a bit o’ mutton ’cause it was pastured in the churchyard. But he has to send they sheep right t’other side o’ the county to sell ’em. Folks ’bout here wouldn’t touch a bit o’ churchyard mutton. Such stuff! Keeps the graves nibbled off clean and neat. Don’t hurt they. Mutton’s sweet enough, and so they goes on drinking the water all round the yard, as is piled up with dead folk as I’ve buried, and my father and grandfather before me. Ay, they drinks the water, but wouldn’t touch the mutton; they’d rather starve. Damp churchyard; and squire ’ll lay snug on his dry shelf, and me—some day—in the cold, wet ground.”

“It all comes to the same thing, Moredock,” said the doctor, rousing himself.

“May be, doctor: may be as you’re right,” said the old man, shaking his head solemnly—“‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;’ but there’s a deal o’ differ, and it takes a deal longer to come to that. I say, doctor, ’member what I said to you ’bout squire drinking himself to death?” said the old man, stooping to pick up a crowbar that he had let fall a few minutes before.

“Yes,” said North, gazing thoughtfully at the old man, and hardly realising what he said.

“More strange things happen than what I told you. I knowed it wouldn’t be long before he drank himself to death.”

“The squire died from an accident, Moredock,” said the doctor sternly.

“Ay, but what made the accident?” said the old man, with a chuckle. “Was it steps, was it bottles, was it corks? Nay, it were something inside the bottle. Drop o’ brandy’s good, but when you gets too much, it’s poison.”

The doctor did not speak, only stood just inside the chancel door, gazing fixedly at the old man, with his thoughts wandering from the mausoleum built by the vestry, to the squire’s remains lying up at the Hall, and his strange schemes, by which humanity might, perhaps, be spared much pain and care.

“I’ve took the last o’ that there physic, doctor.”

“Perhaps be of incalculable benefit to coming generations,” mused the doctor, as he went on dreaming, standing there with one hand resting on the tomb rail, and seeming to look through the present in the shape of the crabbed and gnarled old sexton to a future where all was health and strength.

“It was rare stuff, doctor,” continued old Moredock, with a chuckle, as he glanced sidewise at the dreaming man. “Mussy me! a drop o’ that allus seemed to make my toes tingle, and it went right up into the roots of my hair.”

“Why not—why not try?” It seemed a great experiment, but how little as compared with what had been done of old! “Why not—why not try?”

“You’ll let me have another bottle, doctor. It does me a sight of good.”

“I must. It seems like fate urging me on. It is for her—to do something to distinguish myself. Here is the opportunity, and I hesitate.”

“One day I took a dose, doctor, and I thought it was trubble nasty, but five minutes after I said to myself, this beats brandy from the inn. They sperrets don’t make your fingers go cricking and your toes tingle. Rare stuff, doctor. What’s he gone to sleep?”

“Yes, I will do it; but how? No; it is impossible.”

“You’ll let me have another bottle o’ that there physic, doctor, won’t yer?”

“Physic, Moredock? Physic?” said the doctor, starting. “You don’t require more now.”

“Ah! but I do. See what a lot o’ good last lot did me. I’m a deal stronger than I used to were. You’ll let me have another bottle, doctor?”

“Well, well, I’ll see. Terrible job this, Moredock.”

“Ay, it be trubble job, doctor. I’m going to open the morslem. Say, doctor, ’member what I said ’bout my Dally. Be strange thing if she got to be missus up at Hall now. Why, he be dreaming like again,” he added to himself.

“Remember what?” said the doctor. “Your Dally—the Rectory maid?”

“Ay, doctor; seems as if them as is maids may be missuses. Who knows, eh?”

“Who knows, you old wretch!” cried the doctor angrily. “You look sharply after your grandchild, for fear trouble should come.”

“All right, doctor, I will. I’ll look out, and I’m not going to quarrel with you. I arn’t forgot what you did when I cut my hand with the spade.”

“And suffered from blood poisoning, eh? Ah! I saved your life then, Moredock.”

“And you will again, won’t you, doctor?” said the old man smoothly; “for I’ve a deal to do yet. Don’t be jealous, doctor. If my gal gets to be my lady you shall ’tend her. You’re a clever one, doctor; but there, I must go on, for I’ve a deal to do.”

The old man gave the doctor a ghoul-like smile, and went off to busy himself, doing nothing apparently, though he was busier than might have been supposed; while, as if unable to tear himself away, Horace North stood holding on to the railing of the tomb in the chancel—the tomb where the founder of the family lay—the next in descent of the line of baronets having preferred to build the noble mausoleum on the opposite side, where it looked like a handsome chapel of the fine old ecclesiastical structure; and it would be there that the last dead baronet would in a few days lie.

North gazed straight before him, as he held on by that metal rail of the Candlish tomb, with a dark plunge before him, and beyond that, after battling with the waters of discovery, a wonderland opening out, wherein he was about to explore, to find fame and win the woman he told himself he loved, and who, he believed, loved him as dearly in return. And yet all the while, as, from time to time, Moredock looked in with a smile, after pottering about the entrance to the mausoleum, whose keys he held, the doctor seemed to be staring at the Candlish tomb, which took up so much of the chancel, just as its occupant had taken up space when he was alive.

It was a curious structure, that tomb, curious as the railings which the doctor held. The edifice resembled nothing so much as an ornamental, extremely cramped, four-post bedstead, built in marble, with the palisade to keep the vulgar from coming too close to the stony effigy of the great Sir Wyckeley Candlish, Baronet, of the days of good King James; the more especially that, in company with his wife, Dame Candlish, he had apparently gone to bed with all his clothes on. He had been, unless the sculptor’s chisel had lied, a man like a bull-headed butcher who had married a cook, and she was represented in her puffs and furbelows, and he in his stuffed breeches and rosetted shoes, feathered cap, and short cape. His feet had the appearance of ornaments, not members for use; and his lady’s hands, joined in prayer, were like small gloves, as they lay there side by side. A pair of ornaments upon which their posterity might gaze what time they came to read the eulogy in Latin carved in a panel of the stone bedstead, with arms and escutcheons, and mottoes and puffs that were not true, after the fashion of the time.

It was a curious specimen of old-world vanity, so large that it seemed as if it were the principal object of the place—an idol altar, with its gods, about which the chancel had been built for protection.

“What trash!” exclaimed North, when he suddenly seemed to awaken to the object at which he gazed, “as if a Candlish was ever of any value in this world—ever did one good or virtuous act.”

“Any good in this world? Why not at last. Everything seems to point to it. Even the worst of the race might do some good. I’ll hesitate no longer. He can’t refuse me.”

“Doctor! Been asleep?”

“Asleep, man? No. Never more thoroughly awake.”

“I asked you to let me have another bottle of that—the tingling stuff. It done me a mort o’ good.”

“Yes, yes,” said North huskily. “You shall have some more, old man!”

“Ay; that’s right,” said the old fellow, giving his hands a rub. “Couldn’t tell me what it is, could you, so as I might get some of it myself without troubling you?”

“What is it? One of my secrets, Moredock, just as you have yours. Trust me, and you shall have as much as is for your good.”

“Hah! that’s right, doctor; that’s right,” chuckled the old fellow horribly. “I mean to live a long time yet, and may as well do it comfortably. I’ll come round to your surgery to-night, and—hist!” he whispered; “is there anything I can bring?”

“No—no,” said the doctor hastily; “but, Moredock, I do want you to do something for me.”

“Eh? I do something for you, doctor? It isn’t money, is it?”

“Money, man? No; I’ll tell you what I want.”

“Hist! parson!” said the old man, giving him a nudge, as a familiar step was heard upon the gravel path of the churchyard; and, directly after, the tall figure of the curate darkened the door.

“Ah! North; you here? Having a look round?”

“Yes,” said the doctor; “and a chat with my old patient.”

“Ah!” said the curate, shaking his head at the sexton.

“Doctor’s going to let me have another bottle of the stuff as I told you ’bout, sir.”

“Indeed!” said Salis, rather gruffly. “I wish you could do without so many bottles of stuff, Moredock. But, there, I wanted to see you about the preparations.”

“Don’t you trouble yourself about that, sir,” grumbled the old fellow. “It ain’t the first time a Candlish has died, and I’ve put things ready. That’ll be all right, sir. That’s my business. You shan’t have no cause to complain.”

“Be a little extra particular about the church and the yard, Moredock; and, above all, have those sheep out. Mr May writes me word that he shall come down from town on purpose to read the service over Sir Luke, and he hates to see sheep in the churchyard.”

“’Member what I said, doctor?” chuckled the old man. “But what am I to do, sir? Churchwarden Sir Luke had ’em put there; who’s to order ’em to be took away?”

“I will!” said the curate sharply. “There, that will do.”

Moredock trudged away.

“I’m afraid I have a morbid antipathy to that old man,” said the curate.

“Ah, he’s a character.”

“Yes, and a bad one, too: I’m glad we have his grandchild away from him.”

“So am I, and if I were you, Salis, I’d keep a sharp look-out on the girl.”

“Yes, of course!” said the curate impatiently. “But you heard what I said about May coming down?”

“Yes; but what does that matter?”

“Only a long series of lectures to me, which makes my blood boil. I’ve had another unpleasantly, too. I went up to the Hall to see—Sir Thomas—I suppose I must call him now, and he sent me out an insolent message; at least, I thought it so.”

“Never mind, old fellow; we all have our troubles.”

“Not going to trouble,” said the curate quietly. “Coming my way?”

“No. I want another word with Moredock, and then I’m going home.”

“Ah, he’s a queer old fellow,” said the curate, glancing towards the sexton as he went round the chancel with a crowbar over his shoulder, the old man turning to give both a cunning, magpie-like look, as he went out of sight.

The two friends parted, and then North followed the sexton.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Salis would be horrified; he would never forgive me; and yet to win the sister’s, I am risking the brother’s love. Oh, but it is more than that,” he said excitedly; “far more than that. It is in the service of science and of humanity at large. I can’t help it. I must—I will!”

There was tremendous emphasis on that “I will!” and, as if now fully resolved, he went to where the old sexton was scraping and chopping about the entrance of the mausoleum, and sometimes stooping to drag out a luxuriant weed.

“Ah, doctor,” he said; “back again? Parson’s a bit hard on me. I hope he hasn’t been running me down.”

“Nonsense! No. Look here, Moredock, you have always expressed a desire to serve me?”

“Yes, doctor; of course.”

“Then, look here,” said North, bending down towards the old man. “I want you to—”

He finished his speech in a low voice by the old man’s ear.

“You want what?” was the reply.

The doctor whispered to him again more earnestly than before.

The old man let the crowbar fall to his side, his jaw dropped, and he stood in a stooping position, staring.

“You want me to do that, doctor?” he whispered, with a tremble in his voice.

“Yes, I want your help in this.”

“No, no, doctor; I couldn’t indeed!”

“You could, Moredock; and you will!”

The old man shivered.

“I’ve done a deal,” he whispered; “and I’ve seen a deal; but oh, doctor! don’t ask me to do this.”

“I don’t ask you,” said the doctor sternly. “I only say you must—you shall!”

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

“A Fine Berrin’.”

Boom!

The big tenor bell made the louvres rattle in the tower windows, as it sent forth its sonorous note to announce far and wide that the Candlish mausoleum was open and ready to receive the remains of the last owner of the title conferred by King James.

Boom! again: so heavy and deep a sound that it seemed to strike the cottage windows and rebound like a wave, to go quivering off upon the wind and collect the people from far and near.

It was early yet, but one little trim-looking body was astir, in the person of Dally Watlock, who stole out of the back door at the Rectory, made her way into the meadows, hurried down to the river, and along behind the Manor House, and so reached the churchyard at the back, where the vestry door in the north-east corner was easily accessible.

Dally walked and ran, looking sharply from side to side to see if she were noticed, gave a quick glance at the steps leading down to the mausoleum, and longed to peep in, but refrained, and darted in at the vestry door.

She knew the vestry would be empty, for she had left the curate at home, and she had heard that the Reverend Maurice May would not be over for nearly an hour, so there was an excellent chance for her to obtain the seat she wished, and see the funeral, and to that end she had come.

“How tiresome!” she cried, giving the oaken door in the corner of the vestry an angry thump. “Locked!”

Boom! went the big bell.

“And gran’fa’s got the key,” she cried. “I’ll make him give it to me.”

Dally looked a good deal like a big black rabbit turned by a fairy into a girl, as she darted out of the vestry, and dodged in and out among the tombstones and old vaults on her way round to the big west door in the tower, from which came another loud boom to fly quivering away upon the air.

The big door was ajar, and yielded readily to her touch as she thrust, and the next minute she had entered, and pushed it to, to stand facing old Moredock, as he dragged away at the rope and brought forth from the big tenor another heavy boom.

The old man was in his shirt-sleeves, and his coat hung up behind the door, with his cap above it, so that it bore a strong resemblance to the old sexton, who had apparently been bringing his existence to an end by means of a piece of rope belonging to a bell.

“Hallo, Dally!” said the old man, giving her one of his ghoulish grins, as if proud of the yellow tooth still left; “what have you come for?”

“I want to see squire’s funeral, gran’fa. To get a good place.”

“Ah, I know’d you’d come,” said the old man. “I say, Dally; Sir Tom Candlish, eh? Have you tried how it sounds?”

“What nonsense, gran’fa! and do a-done. You’ll have some one hear you.”

“He—he—he! Let ’em,” chuckled the old man; “let ’em. Sir Thomas Candlish, eh?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the girl, giving her head a vain toss.

Boom! went the bell, after the rope had rattled; and the old man groaned with the effort.

“He—he—he! No, no, you don’t know,” he chuckled, moving sidewise, and giving the girl a sharp nudge with his elbow. “But, my word, Dally, you do look pretty this morning.”

“Don’t, gran’fa. What stuff!”

“Oh, but you do,” said the old man, looking at her critically; “and fine and smart too for coming to a funeral.”

“Why, you wouldn’t have had me wear black, gran’fa, would you?”

They were quite alone in the belfry, and as the old man talked, he from time to time gave a steady pull at the rope, and a heavy, jarring boom was the result.

“Ah, and I might have said wear black, if I’d ha’ thought of it,” said the old man, examining the girl from top to toe.

“Then I hadn’t got any black, and if I had I would not have worn it, because it makes one look so ugly,” said the girl, giving her head another toss. “Now do tell me where to go. I want to see well. Can’t you put me up in that loft place over the vestry?”

“What! where you could see down into squire’s pew?” said the old man, giving another tug at the rope.

“Yes, gran’fa; it’s a nice snug place, where no one could see me.”

“Oh, yes, they could,” said the old man, chuckling. “Anybody looked up from the squire’s pew he could see your bonny face.”

“I’m sure I didn’t know,” said the girl; “and you’re very fond of calling it a bonny face all at once. You said one day I was an ugly little witch.”

“Did I?” said the old man, whose voice was nearly drowned by the boom he produced from the bell. “I s’pose I was cross that day. But, Dally, why didn’t you come and ask your old grandfather for some money to buy black?”

“Because he’d have called me an idle hussy, and told me to go about my business,” said the girl pertly.

“No, he wouldn’t, my dear,” said the old man, tugging at the rope. “He’d have given you enough to buy a new silk dress, and a bonnet and feather—black ’uns, so that you might have come to the berrin’ looking as well as the best of ’em.”

“Would you, gran’fa?” cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling.

“Ay, that I would, my chuck, and the noo squire could have seen you, and—hist!”—boom!—“he’d have thought more of you than ever.”

“Oh, for shame, gran’fa,” said Dally. “You shouldn’t. But will you give me the money now?”

“It’s too late, my chucky.”

“No, no, it isn’t, gran’fa.”

“But you must mind what you’re doing, Dally.”

Another tug at the bell-rope, and a loud boom! made the place quiver.

“I don’t understand you, gran’pa.”

“Oh, yes, you do. There, you come and see me to-night—no, to-morrow morning, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“You dear old gran’fa!” cried the girl. “But make haste; I want to go into that loft. You’ve got the key.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, and if you don’t make haste, Mr Salis and Mr May will be here, and I can’t get through the vestry.”

“Ah well, you feel in my pocket there—in the coat behind the door. It’s the littlest key.”

The girl darted to the old coat, and the next minute had drawn out four keys, all polished by long usage, the littlest being a great implement, big enough to use for a weapon of war.

“There,” said old Moredock, chuckling; “bring it back to me when you’ve done.”

“Yes, gran’fa.”

“And mind young squire don’t see you.”

“Oh, gran’fa, of course I will.”

Rope rattle, boom, and a loud chuckle.

“Ah, that you will, Dally. There, be off, and don’t forget to come to me to-morrow morning.”

“I shan’t forget, gran’fa,” cried the girl, hurrying out, and going round by the back of the church to the vestry door, as another loud boom rang out from the church tower.

People were gathering, but Dally was not seen, and passing into the vestry, she opened the old oaken door in the corner, drew out the key to insert it on the other side, draw it to after her and lock herself in, and stand panting for a few moments before ascending the narrow, corkscrew staircase, which led to the traceried opening in the side of the chancel, from which place she could have an excellent view of all that was about to take place.

For it was to be “a fine berrin’.”

This was the accepted term for Luke Candlish’s funeral.

His brother, Tom, heir to the title and estate, consequent upon Luke’s single life, had given orders to the London undertaker—very much to the disgust of the King’s Hampton carpenter and upholsterer, as his sign-board announced, for this individual wanted to know why he couldn’t bury the squire as well as a Londoner—that everything should be worthy of the family. So the London man had brought down his third best suite of funeral paraphernalia. The first was retained for magnates: the second for London folk of rank; the third for the leading country families, who always ordered and believed they had the beat.

But it was very nearly the same. The ostrich plumes of sable hue were common to all ranks, and the velvet and silk palls and carriages that were used for the higher magnates one year, descended to the second place a year or so later, and then came into country use. It was only a question of freshness, and what could that matter when the eyes of the mourners were so veiled with tears that they could not tell the new from the old?

So it was a fine berrin’, with the carriages of all the neighbouring gentry sent down to follow, and a most impressive service, which, read impressively by the rector, who had driven over from King’s Hampton, sounded almost blasphemous to Hartley Salis, who had the misfortune to know the character of the deceased by heart. The coffin of polished mahogany, with gilt handles, had been greatly admired; the favoured few had read the inscription; and when it was borne from the Hall to the church, that edifice was fairly well filled, and the carriages extended from the lych-gate right away down to Moredock’s cottage—three hundred yards.

It was a funeral, but to very few was it a scene of sadness, being looked upon as a sight quite as interesting as a wedding, and the lookers-on had duly noted who descended from the various carriages to enter the church, among the followers being Cousin Thompson, who had found it necessary to stay down at his cousin’s house with Horace North, to transact a certain amount of business for the new baronet.

The doctor was not well pleased, for the society of his cousin bored him just at a time when his mind was full of great ideas which he was anxious to carry out; but he submitted with as good a grace as he could assume, and at the funeral they sat side by side in one of the carriages, and then occupied the same position in a pew. And while the Reverend Maurice May spoke with tears in his throat of the departed brother, the doctor thought of science, and his cousin of money, and of the brother who had not departed.

Mrs Berens uttered a loud, hysterical sob once during the service, for she had gone so far as to hope at one time that she might become the mistress at the Hall.

This sob came from one part of the church, while a second sob came from the Rectory pew, where Leo sat—another who had once thought it possible that she might become the lady of the Hall through the deceased; and, as she sat there, she recalled certain love passages which had taken place between them, prior to Luke Candlish displaying a greater fondness for a love of a more spirituous character, when his brother stepped into his place, and the fierce quarrels which had been common nearly ceased.

There were spectators in all parts of the church, Dally Watlock being the best placed, and out of sight of the congregation. She sat aloft, with her elbows on her knees, and her chin in her hands, watching two people—Leo Salis and Sir Thomas Candlish.

The girl’s eyes flashed, and displayed her nervous excitement, as, with her head perfectly motionless, she watched, with her gaze now in one pew, now in the other, ready to trap the first glance. For to her it was no solemn scene, only a worldly battle, in which she had made up her little mind to come out victor.

The service proceeded, and Tom Candlish half sat, half knelt in his rarely occupied place, close to the grotesque effigy of his ancestors. He did not kneel, for he had an antipathy to making the knees of his new black trousers dusty; but his mien was quite contrary to established custom. When he did attend Duke’s Hampton church, he spent as much as possible of his time standing, with his hands resting over the side of the pew, staring at every woman in the place. Now, to Dally’s great satisfaction, he did not once look about him, but kept his chin upon his breast—his way of displaying his grief.

Leo, in her place in the Rectory pew, was as careful of mien, and an ordinary watcher would have been content. But Dally Watlock was not an ordinary watcher, and she had settled in her own mind that Tom Candlish and Leo would, sooner or later, look at one another, if only for a moment, and it was to catch that glance she waited.

Dally was right, and the glance was so keen and quick that she was the only one who noticed it. But there it was, sure enough, just at the moment when the rector stepped down from the reading-desk, and there was a shuffling noise in the centre aisle, where the undertaker’s men were busy. One quick interchange at one moment, as if those two instinctively knew that the time had come, and Dally Watlock drew a long breath between her set teeth, while her little eyes glittered, and again seemed to flash.

Then the church slowly emptied, the churchyard filled, and the people formed a half-circle about the mausoleum, whose railing-gates stood open, and whose door at the foot of the stone steps gaped, while a faint glare came from within, to shine upon an end of the coffin, as the sun shone upon the other.

The Reverend Maurice May’s pathetic voice rose and sank through the rest of the service to the time when the coffin was borne down the steps, and there rested once more; and his words sounded even more tearful still as he finished, closed the book, and with bent head took four steps into the vestry, and sat down and sighed, before removing his gown, bowing to his curate as if too much overcome to speak, and returning to his carriage, to follow the others to the Hall.

Meanwhile, with a great show of importance, Moredock assisted the undertaker’s men in the closing of the yawning door of the vault, afterwards shutting the iron gates with a strange, echoing clang, and turning the key; while North, who seemed wrapped in thought, stood watching him.

At that moment Salis came out of the vestry, with his sister, and was about to go up to North and speak; but he drew back as Cousin Thompson came round the end of the chancel.

“Why, here you are!” exclaimed the latter. “The carriage is waiting, and all the rest are gone.”

“Gone?” said the doctor dreamily. “Gone where?”

“Where? Why, up to the Hall, of course. We must hear the will.”

“No,” said North coldly; “the will does not concern me. I am not coming.”

“Not coming?” cried Cousin Thompson. “Why, the man must be mad.”

He hurried along the path, to spring into the carriage waiting at the gate, while after a glance round at the knots of people waiting about the churchyard, North walked slowly up to old Moredock.

The old man saw him coming, and half turned away as if to speak to his grandchild, but North checked him.

“Moredock,” he said quietly, “you’ll want that medicine to-night.”

“No, no, doctor,” said the old man uneasily, “no more—no more.”

“Yes, you will want some more,” said the doctor meaningly; and the old man returned his fixed look, and then stood rubbing his withered yellow cheek with the key of the vault as the doctor walked away.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “I don’t like it. Not in my way. Ah, Dally, my lass, going home?”

“I’m going back to the Rectory, if that’s what you mean,” said the girl shortly, as she turned away.

“Ah, there she goes,” muttered the old man, “and why not? She’s handsome enough. But the doctor—the doctor, coming down to-night. Well, I must do it; I must do it, I suppose, for I can’t get on without him, and it’s too soon to die just yet. Bit o’ money, too—a bit o’ money. Man must save up, so as not to go in the workhouse. Dally, too. Fine clothes and feathers, and make a lady of her. Why not, eh? How do I know he wouldn’t poison me next time if I didn’t mind what he said?”

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

For a Special Reason.

Jonadab Moredock sat smoking his pipe on the night of the funeral, after Luke Candlish had been laid to his rest. The old man sat in the dark for economical reasons, and whenever he drew hard at his pipe, the glow in the bowl faintly lit up his weird old face.

He was communing with himself, for apparently his conscience was pricking him with reminders of the past.

“Well,” he muttered, “it was only lead, and bits o’ zinc did just as well. Sold one of the bells if I could? Well, so I would, if they hadn’t been so heavy. Much mine as anybody else’s. I’m ’bout the oldest man in Hampton!”

He smoked on furiously, and shifted about in his chair.

“What was a man to do? Go to workhouse when he got old? No, I wouldn’t do that. Only a few bones as the doctors wanted, and as would ha’ rotted in the ground if they’d been left. Do good, too. Them as they b’longed to’s glad they’re able to do good with them, I know.

“Wish I’d a drop o’ that physic, now. Seems to stir a man up like, and give him strength. Nasty job, but I’m not skeared! It was fancy that night. If I’d had a drop o’ doctor’s stuff I shouldn’t ha’ seen that head going along above the pews. No, I’m not skeared; but will he see—will he see?”

The old man fidgeted about uneasily in his chair, and had to refill and relight his pipe.

“Tchah! What would he know about ’em? How could he tell? Nobody but me’s ever been down there, ’cept at funerals, and them as lives don’t want ’em; they b’long to the dead. Dead don’t want ’em, so they b’long to me. Ah!”

“Why, Moredock, did I frighten you?”

“Frighten me! No. Nothing frightens me; but you shouldn’t come so sudden like upon a man.”

“You shouted as if you had been hurt. What makes you sit in the dark?”

“’Cause I arn’t afraid o’ the dark,” grumbled the old man. “Candles is candles, and costs money; don’t they? Nobody gives me candles.”

“Well, are you ready?”

“Ready? What for?”

“No nonsense, man. I’m not to be trifled with.”

“Humph!” growled Moredock. “Brought that physic?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Give’s a drop, now. I’m about beat out. Hard work to-day.”

North took a bottle from his pocket and set it on the table.

“Get a light, and you shall take a dose,” he said.

“Nay; I want no light. I can see to do all I want without a light.”

Moredock rose, went to a shelf, and took down a cup; the squeaking of the cork was followed by the gurgle of some fluid, and then there was a sound represented by the word “glug,” and the sexton drew a long breath.

“Hah! that puts life in a man,” he said. “Be careful not to take too much.”

“Ay! don’t be skeared, doctor; I know,” said the old man. “One thumb deep. I’ve measured it times enough. I didn’t leave a light. Might take attention. Young Joe Chegg gets hanging about. Thinks he wants my Polly, but he won’t get her. Comes peeping in at this window sometimes to see if she’s here. Now I’m ready.”

“Got everything you want?” said North. “Keys—lanthorn?”

“Ay! Got everything I want; but have you got everything you want?”

“Yes, man, yes.”

“And look here, doctor; mind this: it’s your job, and you’re making me do it.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean as I arn’t going to stand the racket if it’s found out. Spose Parson Salis comes down upon me about it?”

“I understand you now,” said the doctor sternly; “and I promise to hold you free.”

“But it is for money, isn’t it, doctor?” said Moredock insinuatingly.

“Money!” cried the doctor scornfully. “Do you think I would do this for money?”

The old man made a curious sound in his throat, which might have been laughing, but it was impossible to say, and then led the way out of the cottage, merely closing the door after them, and going on towards the church.

It was a singularly dark night, with not a breath of wind. Away to their left lay the principal part of the village; but not a light was visible; and, save for the uneasy barking of a dog at a distance, there was not a sound.

“Not like this i’ the morning, doctor,” whispered Moredock. “Place was like a fair.”

“Don’t talk,” said the doctor sternly; and after emitting a grunt, the old sexton trudged steadily on to the lych-gate, which he opened, the key clicking a little, and the lock giving a sharp snap.

“Shall I lock it, or leave it?”

“Leave it. No one will come here.”

“Nay, I’ll make sure,” said the old man; and passing his hand through the open woodwork, he locked the gate and withdrew the key.

The two men ascended the steep pathway to the front of the church porch, and continued their journey round by the end of the chancel to the north, where the great mausoleum and the vestry stood side by side.

As they reached the end of the path where it stopped by the vestry door, Moredock paused to listen intently for a few moments.

“All right,” he said; “not so much as a cat about;” and stooping down, he unlocked the iron gates at the head of the steps and they swung softly back. “Iled ’em well,” whispered the sexton, “and the door below, too.”

“Now look here, my man,” whispered North, “you can let me into the tomb, and then keep watch for me; or I will open the place myself, and bring you back the keys.”

“Nay, doctor, I’m not skeared. I don’t like the job, but now you’ve got me to start on it, I’ll go on right to the end.”

“That’s right, Moredock; and you shall not regret it, man. As I’ve told you, it is for a special scientific reason.”

“I don’t know nothing ’bout scientific reason, doctor,” whispered the old man; “but you said it was some’at to do wi’ making men live longer.”

“Yes, and it is.”

“And that you’d stick to me, doctor, and make me live as long as Mephooslum if you could.”

“Yes, Moredock, I did.”

“And you’ll stick to that bargain?”

“I will, on my honour as a man.”

“Shak’ han’s on it once again, doctor. That’s enough for me. I like a bit o’ money, and I want it bad; but no money shouldn’t ha’ made me do this. I’m doing of it because it’s to make men live longer.”

“Yes, my man, it is.”

“Then in we goes. Stop!”

“What now?”

“You won’t bring him—Squire Luke—back to life again, will you? Because that won’t answer my book.”

“Silence, man, and keep to your bargain, as I will keep to mine.”

Moredock drew a long breath, inserted the key, opened the heavy door of the great vault, and it, too, swung easily upon its well-oiled hinges, carefully prepared by the sexton for the funeral.

“You won’t mind the dark for a minute, doctor?” whispered the old man.

“No,” said the doctor, stepping in, followed by the sexton, who carefully closed the grim portal, and they stood together in the utter darkness in presence of generations of the dead.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

Mary’s Bell.

It had been a gloomy evening at the Rectory. Leo had been unusually silent, and Salis greatly disturbed by a letter he had received from the rector.

That gentleman had only spoken to him just so far as the sad business upon which they had been engaged demanded, and had gone back to King’s Hampton on his way to town, probably to treat his curate there in the same way, and had left a voluminous letter, like a sermon, written upon the text “Neglect,” for Salis to peruse.

He had read the letter and re-read it to his sisters, with the result that Leo had sighed, looked sympathetic, and then gone on with her book; while Mary had sat back in her easy-chair and listened and advised.

“I don’t know what more I could do,” said Salis, wrinkling his brow. “I suppose I do neglect the parish entrusted to me by my rector, but it is from ignorance. I want to do what’s right.”

He looked down in a perplexed way at his sister, who dropped her work upon her knee, and extended her hand with a tender smile.

“Come here,” she said. “Kneel down.”

Salis obeyed, and glanced at Leo, whose face was hidden by her book, before stooping down lower to accept the proffered kiss.

“My dear old brother,” whispered Mary, gliding her soft, white arm about his neck, “don’t talk like that. Neglect! My memory is too well stored with your deeds to accept that word. Why, your life here has been one long career of self-denial.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“Of deeds of charity, of nights spent by sick-beds, facing death and the most infectious diseases. How much of your stipend do you ever spend upon yourself or us?”

“Well, not much, Mary,” he said, with his perplexed look deepening. “You see, there are so many poor.”

“Who would rise up in revolt if you were to leave.”

“Yes, I suppose so, dear; but I have been very remiss lately and extravagant.”

“Hartley!”—reproachfully.

“Well, I have, dear. I’ve smoked a great deal—and fished.”

“At your medical man’s desire; to give you strength; to refresh you for your work.”

“But these things grow upon one,” said Salis dismally.

“Nonsense, dear; you must have some relaxation. See what a slave you are to the parish—and to me.”

“Why, that’s my relaxation,” he said tenderly. “But really, dear, it almost seems as if he wants to drive me to resign.”

“Well, Hartley,” said Mary sadly, “if it must be so we will go. Surely there are hundreds of parishes where my brother would be welcome.”

“But how could I leave my people here? My dear Mary, I have grown so used to Duke’s Hampton that I believe it would break my heart to go.”

“And mine,” said Mary to herself, “if it be not already broken.”

“I must answer the letter, I suppose,” said Salis dolefully, “and promise to amend my ways.”

“Is it not bed-time, Hartley?” said Leo, with a yawn.

“Bless my soul, yes,” cried the curate, glancing at his watch. “Time does go so when one is talking.”

“I’m very tired,” said Leo. “It has been an anxious day.”

“I shall be obliged to sit down for an hour and set down the heads of my letter, I suppose,” said Salis.

“To-night, Hartley?” cried Leo, suddenly displaying great interest in her brother’s welfare. “No, no; don’t do that. You seem so fagged.”

“Yes, you seem tired out, dear,” said Mary.

“Go and have a good night’s rest,” said Leo, smiling, and rising to kiss him. “Good night, dear. Good night, Mary. But you will go to bed, Hartley?”

“Well,” he said, “if you two order it I suppose I must.”

“And we do order it,” said Leo playfully; “eh, Mary?”

“Yes, get up early and have a good morning’s walk,” said Mary, with the result that the lamp was extinguished after candles had been lit. Leo went to her room, and Hartley Salis performed his regular task of carrying his sister to her door; after which, by the help of a couple of crutch-handled sticks, she could manage to get about.

An hour later all was hushed at the Rectory, and another hour passed when Hartley Salis had been dreaming uneasily of listening to a lecture from the rector about his neglect of the parish, the rector striking hard on the principle of the rough who blunders against a person and exclaims—

“Where are yer shoving to?” The lecture had reached an imaginary point at which the rector had exclaimed, with his hand on the bell:

“And now we understand one another, Mr Salis. Good morning.”

The bell rang just over the curate’s head, and he jumped out of bed and hurried on his dressing-gown, for that bell communicated with Mary’s room, and had been there ever since her illness had assumed so serious a form.

“What is it, Mary; are you ill?”

“No, no, dear,” came back through the slightly opened door; “but there is something wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Yes. I certainly heard a door open and close downstairs.”

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

The Sexton has a Glass.

The Candlish mausoleum had been built by an architect who had an excellent idea of the beauties of the Jacobean style, and he had got over the many-windowed difficulty by making those windows blank. The stone mullions, with their tracery, were handsome, and the way in which the arms of the Candlish family had been introduced where there was room reflected great credit upon him. In places where the arms would not stand there was always room for a crest or a shield, so that the chapel-like structure was an improvement to the old church.

But after the exterior had been named, with its grand roof, massive door, and finely forged gate and rails, the less said about design the better. Mausoleums were evidently not the architect’s strong point; and when he came to the interior he was at his worst.

This was to be a partly underground structure, and the architect’s ideas of underground structures were divided between coal-cellars and cellars to hold wine.

Now the former, he felt, would be antiseptic, and a great improvement upon the unhealthy contrivance designed by the sculptors of a past generation to do honour to the first baronet at the expense of his fellow-creatures who have malefited to a horrible extent by the proceedings of our forefathers in regard to the disposal of their mortal remains; but this architect wisely decided that the coal-cellar idea would be repugnant to the builder; so he fell back upon the other.

Consequently for generations the Candlishes had been regularly stowed away in so many stone bins, with labels at the ends of the coffins, to tell who and what they were.

But the great family did not resemble wine, for they did not improve by keeping; and when Moredock struck a match, and lit his lanthorn to hold it above his head, there were traces on all sides of the touch of time.

The wine-cellar idea was there, for the floor was deeply covered with turpentiny sawdust; cobwebs hung in folds; here and there loathsome-looking, slimy fungi had sprung up; mouldering destruction everywhere nearly; and Moredock watched the doctor eagerly as he gazed round, seeing much, but not that which the sexton wished concealed, for if the light of careful inspection had been brought to bear here, sad recollections respecting costly handles and plates would have been brought to light, while, had the inspection been carried further by the modern representatives of the family, the number of uncles and aunts and grandparents who were wholly or partially missing, as well as their leaden homes, would have been startling, and about all of whom Jonadab Moredock could have told a tale.

But the doctor’s was only a cursory glance round at the niches containing the dead, for he turned at once to the coffin lying upon a stone table in the very centre of the vault, which place it would occupy till the doors yawned for another of the Candlishes, when the late Sir Luke would be stowed somewhere on one side.

It was a weird scene as the doctor set down a small leather bag upon the stone table beside the coffin, and produced a lamp with chimney and shade. This lamp when lit cast a yellow glare all over the place, and reflections were cast by tarnished plates and gilded nail-heads from the more obscure portions of the vault.

The sexton looked on curiously after setting his lanthorn, with open door, just inside one of the vacant niches, and his yellow features gave him the aspect of some ghastly old demon come hither for the performance of hideous rites.

“I’ve brought some tools, doctor,” he whispered, as he took a large screw-driver from his pocket.

“I too have come provided,” said the doctor, taking sundry implements from his black bag. “Now, Moredock, I want everything to remain here night after night, just as I leave it, ready for me when I come again.”

“Come again?” growled the sexton.

“What, shan’t you finish to-night?”

“Perhaps not this month,” was the stern answer.

Moredock stared. “Why, you—”

“Hush!” said the doctor sternly. “Now, what are you going to do—stay and assist me, or go? If you have the slightest nervous dread, pray leave me at once.”

“Nay, I’m not skeared, doctor,” said the old man grimly. “I’ve seen too much o’ this sort o’ thing. I was a bit frightened when I saw that head going along through the church without the body, but I’m not feared of this.”

“Stop, then, and help,” said the doctor. “I’ll pay you well. Can you use a screw-driver?”

Moredock chuckled and took off his coat, which he hung upon one of the ornamental handles of an old coffin foot. Then rolling up his shirt-sleeves over his thin, sinewy arms, he took up a screw-driver—one that he had brought—and as deftly as a carpenter began removing the screws from the handsome coffin-lid.

As Moredock attacked the head, the doctor busied himself at the foot, with the result that in a few minutes the screws were all laid together upon the stone ledge at the side of the vault, and the coffin-lid, with its engraved breast-plate, setting forth the name, age, and date, was lifted up, and stood on end out of the way.

“What will be the best way of opening this?” said the doctor, as he held the lamp over the gleaming lead inner coffin, with its diamond pattern and silvery-looking solder marks along the sides. “Had we better melt the solder?”

“Melt the sawder?” said Moredock, with a chuckle. “I’ll show you a trick worth two of that.”

He went to where his coat hung, and took out of one of the pockets a short, curved, chisel-looking tool with a keen point and a stout handle.

“There, doctor, that’s the jockey for this job. Want it right open?”

“Yes; I want the lid right off. Can you manage it?”

“Can I manage it!” chuckled the old man derisively. “Look!”

Strange thoughts invaded the doctor’s breast as to what at different times had been the pursuits of the old sexton, as he saw him take the singular-looking tool, place its point at the extreme right-hand corner of the leaden coffin, place his shoulder against the butt of the handle, and press down, when the point penetrated the thin lead at once, right over the top of the curved blade. The rest was simple, for the old man only worked the handle up and down close to the side where, acting as a lever, the curved steel cut through the metal with the greatest ease, an inch slit at a time, so that in a very few minutes the top corner was reached. Then the head was cut across, and the old man paused to go back to the foot and cut across there.

“Why didn’t you continue cutting round?” said the doctor, speaking in a low, subdued tone.

“You let me be, doctor,” said Moredock, with an unpleasant laugh. “If it was a leg, I shouldn’t say naught, but let you do it. This is more in my way. Look here.”

He finished cutting the lead as he spoke, and then with a grim laugh inserted his fingers in the slit, raised it a little, and then going to the uncut side, hooked his fingers in again, placed his knee against the coffin, and after the exercise of some little force, drew the long leaf of lead over towards him, the uncut side acting like the hinges of a lid, and laying bare the contents of the ghastly case.

“There,” said the old sexton; “that means less trouble when we come to shut him up again.”

“You seem to know,” said the doctor quickly.

“Man in my line picks up a few things, doctor,” replied the sexton. “But there you are. What next?”

The doctor took the lamp once more, and held it over the head of the coffin, to scan with the deepest interest the head and face revealed.

“Sheared!” said Moredock grimly; “what is there to be skeared on? Only seems to be asleep.”

“Yes,” said the doctor, gazing down and thoughtfully repeating the sexton’s words; “seems to be asleep. Suppose he is?”

The old man stared with his jaw dropping, and his features full of wonder.

“Asleep? Nay, you said he’d broke his neck. No sleep that, poor chap.”

“Hush!” said the doctor.

Moredock looked at him curiously, as he bent lower over the occupant of the coffin.

“Rum game for us if he were only asleep,” muttered the sexton uneasily. “Dally wouldn’t like that, and I shouldn’t like it. That wouldn’t do.”

“Hale, strong—life arrested by that sudden accident,” said the doctor, as he laid his hand upon the cold forehead. “It must be possible. I am satisfied now, and I will.”

“Did you speak, doctor?” said Moredock.

“No. Yes,” said North, setting down the lamp quickly. “Here, help me.”

Moredock approached, wondering what was to be done next, and with a vague idea in his brain that the doctor was about to test whether the body before them contained any remains of life before making some examination for increasing his anatomical knowledge.

“Now, quick. Lift.”

“We two can’t lift that, doctor. It takes four men. Why, there was eight to bring it down.”

“Can we shift it to the edge of this slab?”

“Ay, we might do that.” And lifting first at the head, and then at the foot, they moved the coffin to the extreme edge of the stone table, leaving a good space on one side.

“Now, then, lift again. I will take the head; you the feet.”

“What! lift him out, doctor?”

“Yes, man, yes. Don’t waste time.”

Moredock hesitated for a moment, and drew a long breath. Then, obeying the orders he had received, he helped to lift the body out upon the table, where it lay white and strange-looking in the yellow light.

“Now we can easily lift the coffin,” said North. “Over yonder—out of the way.”

The sexton uttered a low whistle, as he once more obeyed, taking the bottom handle of the massive casket, and it was placed on one side close to where a generation or two of the passed-away Candlishes lay in their bin-like niches.

This done, the old man passed his arm across his damp forehead.

“Mind me having a pipe, doctor?” he said uneasily. “This is a bit extry like. I didn’t know—”

“No, no; you must not smoke here,” said the doctor hastily. “One moment—into the middle of the table here.”

Moredock obeyed again, and the recumbent figure of the dead squire was placed exactly where the coffin had stood.

“That will do,” said North. “Now, Moredock, what do you say to a glass?”

“Glass? Ay, doctor. Want it badly,” cried the old man eagerly, as the doctor produced a silver flask, drew the cup from the bottom, and gave it to the sexton.

Before doing so, however, North gave the flask a sharp shake, and the old man’s eyes sparkled as his countenance assumed a suspicious look at this movement, so suggestive of medicine.

“I say, what is it?” he said.

“What is it? Cordial.”

“Brandy?”

“No.”

“Look here, doctor,” said the old sexton hoarsely; “no games.”

North paused.

“Shall I tell you what you are thinking, Moredock?” he said.

“Nay, you can’t do that, clever as you are,” cried the old man with a chuckle.

“I can. You are thinking that I have poison here, ready to give you a dose, so that you may die out of the way, and never be able to expose me by betraying what you have seen.”

The old man’s jaw dropped again, and his face grew more wrinkled and puckered up, if possible, as he scratched his head with one yellow claw.

“Well, it were some’at o’ that kind,” he said, with a grim chuckle.

“You old fool!” exclaimed the doctor; “don’t I know that you could not expose me without exposing yourself? Do you think me blind?”

“Nay, doctor, nay; you’re a sharp one. You can see too much.”

“Have I not seen how dexterous you are at work of this kind? Do you think I cannot read what it all means? Moredock, I’ll be bound to say that one way or another you have made yourself a rich man.”

“No, no, doctor; no, no!” cried the sexton. “A few pounds gathered together to keep me out of the workus some day when I grow old.”

“You think that I want to poison you, then, and to hide your body here?”

“Nay, nay, doctor, I don’t. You haven’t got no need, have you? Give us a drop of the stuff.”

“Yes, we are wasting time,” said North, pouring out a portion of the contents of his flask, and handing it to the old man, who took it, and, in spite of all said, smelt it suspiciously.

“’Tarn’t poison, is it, doctor?” he said piteously.

“Yes, if you took enough of it. But that drop will not hurt you. There, don’t be afraid. Toss it off. It is a liqueur.”

The old man hesitated for a moment, gazing wildly at the doctor, and then tossed it off at a draught.

“There! Do you feel as if you are going to fall down dead, old man, and do you wonder which of these old niches I shall put you in?”

“Tchah! don’t talk stuff, doctor,” said the old fellow, putting his hand to his throat; “you wouldn’t do such a thing. That’s good! That’s prime stuff. I never tasted nothing like that afore. It warms you like, and makes you feel ready to do anything. Skeared! Who’s skeared? Tchah! What is there to mind? I’m ready, doctor. I’ll help you. What shall I do next?”

“Sit down on that ledge for a bit till I want you.”

“Ay, to be sure,” chuckled the old sexton, as he seated himself on a low projection at the far end of the vault. “That’s prime stuff. I could drink another drop of that, doctor. But you go on. Nobody can’t see from outside, for I’ve put lights in here before now, and shut the doors of a night, and tried it. There isn’t a crack to show; so you go on.”

The doctor watched the weird-looking old man, as he settled himself comfortably, with his back in the corner, and went on muttering and chuckling.

“Brandy’s nothing to it,” he went on—“tasted many a good drop in my time. Eh? What say, doctor?”

“You shall have some more another time.”

“Can’t see outside. Sheared? Tchah! It wouldn’t frighten a child.”

The doctor approached him, but the old man took no notice, and went on muttering:

“He! he! he! I could tell you something. I will some day. Frighten a child. Old man? Tchah! Mean to live—long—Ah!”

The last ejaculation was drawn out into a long sigh, followed by a heavy, regular breathing.

North placed his fingers in the sexton’s neckcloth to make sure that there was no danger of strangulation, and then turned away.

“Good for four or five hours, Master Moredock,” he said; and then, with his face lighting up strangely—“in the service of science—ambition—yes, and for the sake of love. Shall I succeed?”

He paused for a few minutes, bending over the body on the table.

“It seems very horrible, but it is only the dread of a man about to venture into the unknown. The first doctor who performed a serious operation must have felt as I do now, and—What’s that?”

He started upright, throwing his head back, and shaking it quickly, as if he had suffered from a sudden vertigo.

“Pooh! nothing; a little excitement. Now for my great discovery, for I must—I will succeed.”

He stooped down quickly, and took a bottle and a case of instruments from his black bag, when once more the curious sensation came over him, and he shook his head again.

“The air is close and stifling,” he said, as he recovered himself. “I could have fancied that something brushed by my face.”

Then, bending over the prostrate figure he rapidly laid bare again, four hours quickly passed away in the gloomy vault, where the yellowish rays of the shaded lamp shone directly down upon his busy fingers, and the stony face of him who lay motionless in his deep sleep.

Four hours, and then he laid his hand upon the old sexton, who started up wildly, and extended his claw-like hands, as if about to seize him by the throat.

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

The Doctor is Nervous.

“It’s all very well, Master North, for you to come here bullying me about my health, and ordering me to go fishing, and half ruin myself with cigars,” said the curate; “but I feel disposed to retort, ‘Physician, heal thyself.’ Why, you’re as white as so much dough.”

“Nonsense!” cried the doctor hastily.

“Prisoner denies the impeachment,” said Salis. “First witness—Mary Salis—what do you say?”

Mary smiled at North, as she said quietly:

“I think Doctor North looks worn and pale.”

“There, you hear,” cried Salis triumphantly.

“I’m not convinced,” said North. “I shall call a witness on my side. Leo, will you speak for me?”

“Certainly I will,” said Leo quietly, as she looked up from her inevitable book. “Do I look pale and worn out?” Leo shook her head.

“No,” she said quietly. “I think you look very well. Only, perhaps, a little more earnest than of old.”

“Thank you—thank you,” cried the doctor eagerly.

“Why, he looks bad,” said Salis; “and it’s a horrible piece of imposture for him to come here bullying me and wanting to give me abominable decoctions, besides leading me into idleness and debauchery, when all the time he cannot keep himself right.”

“Nonsense!” cried the doctor pettishly. “I never was better: never more busy.”

“The fellow’s a humbug,” said Salis, bringing his hand down on the table with a rap. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter.”

North turned upon him a look so full of mingled entreaty and annoyance that he checked himself.

“No,” he said, laughing, “I am as bad as Horace North. I can’t tell you what’s the matter unless it is that he is working too hard over his craze.”

North looked at him keenly, and his pallor increased.

“Well, I must be off up to the church. I want to see my friend, Moredock.”

“To see Moredock?” said the doctor, with a quick, uneasy look at the speaker.

“Yes. I’m not satisfied with the old man’s proceedings.”

“What has he been doing?” said the doctor, who fidgeted in his seat, and seemed anything but himself.

“Oh, I’m going to make no special charges against him,” said the curate. “Coming my way?”

“N-no, yes,” said North, rising, and going to Mary’s couch to shake hands, her eyes looking up into his with a calm, patient smile full of resignation and desire for his happiness, which he could not read.

He turned then to Leo, who was reading, and evidently deeply engrossed in her book.

“Going?” she said, letting it fall, and looking up with a placid smile. “What lovely weather, is it not?”

North said it was delightful, as he bent impressively over the extended hand, and gazed with something of a lover’s rapture in the beautiful eyes that looked up into his; but there was no returning pressure of the hand; the look was merely pleasant and friendly, and, worn out with anxiety, sleeplessness, and watching, he could not help feeling a thirst for something more, if it were merely sympathy, instead of those calmly bland smiles and gently tolerant reception of his advances.

“Why, Horace, old man, I did not hurt you with my banter?” said Salis, as they walked up towards the church.

“Hurt me? No. I’m a little upset; that’s all. Salis, old fellow, I’m not quite happy.”

“No?” said the curate inquiringly, as he looked sidewise at his friend’s wrinkled face.

“I seem to make no progress with Leo.”

“Is that so, or is it your fancy?” said the curate guardedly.

“It is so. She seems to tolerate me. You notice it.”

“I notice that she is very quiet and thoughtful with you, but really that is a good sign.”

“You would like to see her my wife, Salis?”

“If it were for your happiness and hers, I would gladly see you man and wife,” said the curate warmly; “but don’t be hasty, my dear fellow. It is for life, remember.”

“Remember? Oh, yes, I know all that,” said North hastily.

Salis extended his hand, which the other took.

“Don’t be offended with me, Horace, old friend. I wish to see you both happy.”

“I know it, I know it,” said the doctor; and then catching; sight of Moredock in the churchyard, he hesitated, half nervous as to what Salis might have to say to the old man, but, convinced the next moment that his fears were without base, he hurriedly said a few words and went away.

“I can’t see it,” said Salis bitterly. “They seem so thoroughly unsuited the one for the other. I wish it could have been so, for Leo’s sake. Ah, well,” he added, as he walked through the old gate, “time settles these things better than we can. Good morning, Moredock.”

“Mornin’, sir—mornin’.”

“Is the vestry open?”

“Yes, sir; door’s open, sir. You can go through the church or round at the back. Through the church is best.”

“I prefer going round,” said the curate gravely; and he went on round by the chancel, followed by the grim old sexton, who watched him furtively, and went up quite close, with his big yellow ears twitching, as Salis paused by the little path leading to the steps of the Candlish vault.

“What’s that?” he said. “Eh? What, sir?” said Moredock, hastily stepping before him to snatch up a pocket-handkerchief and crumple it in his hands. “Only a bit of white rag, sir. Blowed there from somebody’s washing hung out to dry.”

“Nonsense!” said the curate sternly. “Give it to me.”

“Doctor’s,” said Moredock to himself. “The fool!”

He handed the piece of linen unwillingly, and the curate took it, held it out, and turned to the corners, while the sexton’s countenance lightened up.

“Humph! ‘T. Candlish, 24,’” said Salis, reading aloud. “The new baronet is going to favour the church, then, with his presence, I suppose,” he added sarcastically, as Moredock drew a breath full of relief, but shivered again as he saw the curate glance at the mausoleum.

“Noo squire’s, is it, sir?”

“Yes, and I beg his pardon,” said the curate gravely, as he thought of how lately the young man’s brother had been laid there to rest. “Moredock, ask Mrs Page to carefully wash and iron the handkerchief, and then you can send one of the school children over with it to the Hall.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sexton, with a feeling of relief.

“Now come into the vestry. I want to talk to you.”

“Grumbling again—grumbling again,” muttered the old man, as he followed his superior, to stand before him, humbly waiting for the lecture he expected to receive, but with his conscience quite at rest respecting the vault.

“Now, Moredock,” said Salis, “I have received a letter from Mr May, in which he speaks very severely of the state of the churchyard.”

“Why, he never said nothing when he were here.”

“No; it seems as if he preferred to write, and in addition to complaining of the state of the grass, he thinks that the walks are in very bad condition.”

“Why didn’t he say so, then?”

“I tell you he preferred to write.”

“How can I help the place looking bad when they sheep as Churchwarden Candlish put in was always galloping over the graves!”

“Yes; the sheep do make the place untidy,” said the curate, with a sigh.

“And now it’ll be just as bad as ever, for Squire Tom sent a fresh lot in ’smorning by one of his men.”

“But the walks, Moredock—the weeds in the walks. You know I’ve complained before.”

“Well, look how bad my back’s been. How could I weed walks with a back as wouldn’t bend; and seems to me, parson, as a man as has seen a deal, as it ’d be better if you mended your own ways about church ’fore you finds fault wi’ an old servant like me.”

“What do you mean?” said the curate sternly.

“Why, I mean that,” said the old man, pointing to the floor with an extremely grubby finger. “I’ve got it to keep clean, and I do it; but you grumbled at me for smoking a pipe one day when I was digging a nasty grave. You said it wer’n’t decent to smoke in the churchyard.”

“I did, Moredock, and I repeat it.”

“And I say as ’tarn’t decent to smoke in vestry, and chuck the bits o’ cigars about. You’re always a-smoking now.”

Salis turned crimson as he followed the direction of the pointing finger, and saw several traces of white ash and the stump of a cigar.

“Why, Moredock, I—I—”

“There, don’t go and deny it, parson. You’ve took to smoking bad as any one now; and I’ve allus done my best about church, and it comes hard to be found fault on, and if it’s coming to this, sooner I goes the better, and sooner Mr May finds fault with you the better, too.”

The old man walked defiantly out of the vestry, and went toward his cottage, while Salis picked up the cigar stump and thrust it into his pocket.

“How provoking!” he said. “Must be growing fearfully absent, and dropped it. I’m sure I did not smoke here when I came yesterday—no, it was the day before—to find out about that old baptismal entry. I must have walked in smoking, and thrown the end of the cigar down. Good gracious! If May had seen me—or anybody else. It is outrageous. I’m growing quite a slave to the habit, and forgetful of everything I do. Tut—tut—tut! How provoking! The old man is quite right. How can I reproach him again!”

He walked gloomily back home, meeting Mrs Berens, and so absorbed in his thoughts that he passed without looking at her, making the fair widow flush and return hastily to her house, to be seized with a hysterical fit, which became so bad that North was summoned to administer sal volatile, and calm the suffering woman down, as she asked herself what had she done that dear Mr Salis should treat her so.

Meanwhile Jonadab Moredock had reached his cottage, raised the big wooden latch, and passed in with a sudden bounce, but only to start, as he found himself confronted by Dally Watlock.

“Ah, gran’fa!” cried the girl hastily, trying to conceal her confusion and something-else; “why, there you are!”

“Yes,” said the old man suspiciously; “here I am, and what do you want?”

“Oh! only to say that you mustn’t forget what you promised.”

“Oh! I shan’t forget,” said the old man. “But you arn’t—you arn’t been meddlin’ with anything, have you?” and he looked inquisitively round.

“Meddling; oh no, gran’fa, dear! I’ve only just come in, and I can’t stop. But do help me. I should like some nice dresses, and you would like to see me there.”

“What, missus up at the Hall, my lass? Yes, and you shall be, too. There, give’s a kiss. Be a good gel, and you shall have some money and fine clothes and feathers; and I’ll get a strong lot o’ chaps together as shall ring the bells for hours the day you’re wed.”

“Oh, you dear old gran’fa. He shall marry me, shan’t he?”

“Ay, that he shall, my pretty. Well, if you must go, good-bye.”

“Yes, and he shall marry me, my fine madam,” muttered Dally, as with flushed face and sparkling eyes she turned back to the Rectory. “Well, if it isn’t Joe Chegg,” she cried in a vexed tone, as she saw the young man coming, and turned through a gate into the river meadows, to avoid that rustic and get in by the back way.

“You think you can be very clever,” continued Dally; “but other people can be clever, too. Let’s be sure this is the right one,” she added, as she drew a big key out of her pocket.

“Yes; that’s the one he give me before. Two can play at that game, Miss,” she continued, with a vicious look, as she thrust the stolen key into her pocket. “Ha—ha—ha! how foolish I can make her look. Jealous? No, I’m not jealous; for I’m going to win the day as soon as I’ve made quite sure.”

Joe Chegg was in pursuit, but Dally took the back way through the Rectory orchard, and passed Leo on her way in. “Been out, Dally?”

“Yes, Miss. And I’m very busy. And yes, Miss!” she added, as soon as she was alone; “I’ve got the key in my pocket. You’re very clever; but perhaps Dally Watlock can be clever, too.”

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

Joe Chegg Fetches his Tools.

“I don’t like it, and I mean to find it out,” said Joe, scratching his head on one side. “And if I find as there be anything going on twix’ new squire and she, why I’ll—”

Joe Chegg did not say what he would do, but raised the other hand to give his head a good scratch on the far side.

He then paused in his work to stand and examine it, his mind wandering amid the flowers which hung in wreaths; and these wreaths of brilliant hues naturally associated themselves with Dally Watlock, the young lady who had made a very deep impression, and was now causing the young man great uneasiness of spirit.

Joe Chegg was the universal genius of Duke’s Hampton, and was ready to turn his hand to anything. Did a neighbour’s saucepan leak, Joe said it was a pity to send it over to the town, when maybe he would set it right by clumsily melting a dab of solder over the hole. Did Mrs Berens’ gate want mending, Joe Chegg would bring up a hammer and nails and armour-clothe the woodwork with the amount of iron he attached. He was great upon locks. As a rule they did not lock much when he had attacked them; but Joe generally got the credit of having done them good.

He worked in iron and in lead, but he was more wooden than anything else, and delighted in having an opportunity to use a saw.

Nothing, however, pleased him better than being sent for at times to do up the Rectory or Mrs Berens’ garden, where he would in one day do more mischief to flower and vegetable than an ordinary jobbing gardener would achieve in three: and if it were the time of year when he had an opportunity to prune, why, then the poor trees had a holiday, for they had neither flower nor fruit to carry for the next two or three seasons.

On the present occasion, Mrs Berens had found half-a-dozen rolls of paper-hanging of one pattern stored away in the attic, and had decided to have a small room papered therewith.

Now, being a sensitive lady with but little knowledge of human nature, in her ignorance of the fact that the party appealed to would have come at once and made a good job of it for Mrs Berens and himself, this lady now felt that the King’s Hampton painter would not care to come and paper her room as she had not purchased the paper of him, so Joe Chegg was thought of, and set to work.

It had taken him a long time to begin, for he had to make his own paste. Then while the paste was cooling, he had to fetch his scissors, and it was while fetching these that he had seen, given chase to, and missed Dally Watlock.

He had returned to his work and trimmed the rolls of paper, frowning very severely the while.

That took him to dinner-time, with the paper suggesting Dally at every turn. It rustled like Dally’s clothes did when she whisked round; the selvage he cut off ran up into curls like Dally’s hair; it smelt like Dally—a peculiarly fresh, soapy odour; it suggested a snug cottage that he would paper with his own hands; and then, too, the pattern—how he would like to buy Dally a dress like that.

After dinner the paper still suggested Dally so much, as aforesaid, with its wreaths and flowers that as Joe Chegg worked away he had slowly achieved to the hanging of three pieces, when Mrs Berens, all silk and scent and lace, rustled into the room to see how he was getting on.

“Why, Joe,” she exclaimed; “you’ve hung it upside down!”

It was no wonder, for ever since he had seen Dally that morning, Joe Chegg had been upside down.

He did not, like Mr Sullivan’s immortalised British workman, say, “It’ll be all right when it’s dry,” but looked sheepish, and stared hard at the paper, to see that the roses were all hanging their heads, and the stems pointing straight up.

“Upside down, ma’am?” he said, with a feeble smile.

“Yes, Joe; and you a gardener. Now, did you ever see flowers grow like that?”

“When they’ve come unnailed, ma’am,” said Joe, with a happy thought.

“Nonsense, man! It looks ridiculous.”

“Shall I peel it off, ma’am?”

“No; absurd! You must paper all over that again. It’s just so much waste of paper-hanging. There, don’t stare, man, but go on.”

Mrs Berens was rather cross, and she snubbed Joe Chegg in a way that brought tears to the young man’s eyes, which he concealed by stooping over the paste pail, and slopping about the contents so vigorously that Mrs Berens, in dread for her garments, hastily beat a retreat.

“It’s of no good,” said Joe Chegg, “a man can’t hang paper properly when he’s in love; and when he’s crossed and crissed and bothered as I am, he feels a deal more fit to hang himself. I’ll go and do it!”

This expression of a determination, however, alluded to something in Joe Chegg’s mind which had nothing whatever to do with what lawyers term in legal language sus per col. He had made certain plans in his own head, and the cogitating over these had resulted in Mrs Berens’ paper-hangings being upside down; and for the furtherance of these plans he packed up his work for the day, went down into the kitchen, where he announced to the maids that he was going to fetch his tools, and then started off home.

That night Joe Chegg behaved furtively. He waited until it was dusk, and then went out cautiously as a conspirator, as he thought, but made enough noise to put any one upon his guard, while he felt satisfied himself that his secrecy and care were surprising.

“She can’t deceive me,” he said to himself with a satisfied grin, and, going along by fence-side and hedge, he placed himself in a position to watch, which would not have deceived a child.

The place he chose was opposite the sexton’s, where he waited till Moredock came out, somewhere about the time when other people went to bed.

Joe Chegg hailed this as a sign that the coast would be clear, and Dally Watlock soon make her appearance to keep an appointment, for he had good reason to believe that she did meet somebody, and it was to have a certain proof that he was there.

But the hours wore on, and no Dally made her appearance, and Joe Chegg’s hands went very far down into his pockets, and his forehead grew deeply knit.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

Why Dally Borrowed the Key.

There was a reason for Dally’s non-appearance at the sexton’s cottage, and that reason was that she did not stir out of the Rectory that evening, but was exceedingly attentive if the bell was rung, and about ten o’clock presented herself at the study door to know if there was anything else wanted before she went up to bed, for it was to be a busy morning, and she wanted to be up early, etcetera, etcetera.

Mary wanted nothing more, and Leo gave consent, so Dally Watlock went up to bed, but did not go.

On the contrary, she bustled about for some little time without attempting to undress, spoke to her fellow-servant through the plaster wall, and ended by yawning loudly and extinguishing her candle. Then softly opening her window she sat down by it to enjoy the softness and beauty of the dark, calm night.

The old Rectory at Duke’s Hampton stood back fifty yards from the road, with its back to the meadows through which ran the sparkling trout-stream. There was a fine old garden full of bushy evergreens and tall, flowering shrubs, so that partly through the efforts of nature, partly through the running of the ancient gardener who had planned the place ingeniously, it was quite possible for half-a-dozen people to be about the place at once without being aware of each other’s presence.

The beautiful old ivy-clad place was built in the shape of an L, with steep gable-ends; and matters had been so arranged that while Salis and poor invalid Mary slept in the front, Leo’s pretty bedroom was placed so that she could look straight down the green-embowered path right to the meadows. Just below her window was an old rustic summer-house, covered with clematis and jasmine; a little more to the right, in the angle of the L, was a tiny vinery, and beyond that the lean-to tool-house—made an object of beauty by the dense mass of ivy which clustered over the thatched roof and walls.

Hence it was that while Leo could look down on the creeper-covered summer-house, and across at the ivy-clad tool-house and the rose-encircled bedroom window of Dally Watlock, the latter apple-cheeked young lady enjoyed the reverse view, with the slight disadvantage that when she looked across at Leo’s window, she could not see roses, but the long, laurel-like leaves of a great magnolia, carefully trained all round—a matter not of the smallest importance, for Dally preferred the window to its surroundings.

Daily’s proceedings were strange that night. She sat there eager and watchful till there was a sudden glow in Leo’s window, indicating that her young mistress had gone up to bed. Then as she watched she saw the blind drawn aside, and a shadowy hand unfasten the casement, throw it open, and put in the iron hook.

Dally drew a long breath full of satisfaction, and then waiting till the blind dropped and the shadow of Leo appeared upon it from time to time, she proceeded to behave in a remarkably strange manner for a young person whose character means her life as a domestic servant.

Dally said softly through her nipped-together teeth:

“I thought as much, ma’am!” and then, with all the activity of a boy of fourteen, she tied a dark handkerchief tightly over her head and under her chin, stepped from her chair on to the window-sill, lowered herself on to the top of the tool-house, where she lay flat down in the bed of leaves, to form, had it been light, as prettily rustic-looking an idea for an artist of a Dryad in her leafy wreath as he need wish to have.

But Dally Watlock was not going to have a night’s rest al fresco, for she was exceedingly wide awake, and as soon as she was extended at full length parallel with her part of the house, and with her feet towards that portion where her superiors slept, she began to revolve upon her own axis in a very slow and careful manner, down and down the ivy slope of the lean—to thatched shed, there being plenty of stout ivy-boughs for her to grasp, so as to act as breaks and govern her speed. Now she was on her side, then as she slowly turned, her little red face was buried in the dark green leaves. A little more and it came up, and she was on the other side, and soon after upon her back. And so on and on till, merely crushing down the leaves a little, and without breaking a twig, she rolled down to the very edge, when, holding on tightly by the ivy, she let her legs drop, and touched the earth, making scarcely any more noise than a cat.

She remained perfectly motionless for a few minutes, and then crept stealthily to the main green walk in the garden, gazed watchfully back at Leo’s window, where the head and shoulders of her young mistress could be plainly seen upon the illuminated blind, and then ran swiftly down the grass path to the iron hurdle which separated the garden from the meadow, climbed it like a boy and as quickly, and then ran rapidly across the meadows in the direction of the church.

Dally Watlock had not gambolled about the old sexton’s knees as a child for nothing. She had been with the old man constantly, and been furnished by him with strange playthings in her time. To wit, there was a bag of buttons that had afforded her endless amusement, some being black, others silvered, while a certain portion were of superior make and richly gilt. Moredock called them buttons, but their shapes were peculiar, and looked as if they had been driven into the material to which they had been attached, instead of sewn. There were some ornaments, too, of stamped metal which had always been great favourites with Dally, from the fact of their containing the plump faces of baby boys with curly hair and wings.

Dally had many a time sat perched upon a tombstone and eaten apples while “gran’fa” dug graves, and the sight of the old man growing lower and lower as he dug, till from being buried to his knees he went down to his waist, to his chest, and then quite out of sight, was always full of fascination for the child.

As a natural result, the church had been a familiar playground on Saturdays, when, as the old man dusted and arranged cushions and hassocks, Dally would have scandalised a looker-on, for she played at visiting, treating the pews as houses, the aisles of the church as streets, and made calls after duly knocking at all the pew doors, the knocker being temporary in every case, and formed of a large, old, tarnished gilt coffin handle, which she held up with her left chubby fingers while she knocked with the right.

Moredock used to grin and enjoy it, petting the child, and humouring her in every way. She would be his companion in the belfry when he tolled or chimed the bells, and was even allowed to take a pull at one of the ropes, while they had often afforded her opportunities for a swing.

Dally Watlock, then, in earlier life had stolen away from home as often as possible, and was as familiar with the church roof, tower, and interior, as her grandfather; hence, on the night when she stole out of the Rectory and ran across the meadows, she had no difficulty in the way of the plan she had designed, which was to reach the old lych-gate, try whether it was locked, and, if so, climb it.

It was locked, and she clambered over quickly and silently, took a short cut among the graves to the old railed tomb, close to the big buttress by the centre south window that had once contained stained glass. Here the smaller casement used for ventilation readily opened at the insertion of the blade of a pocket-knife, leaving room for the active girl, who had reached it by climbing up and standing upon the tomb railings, to pass through and lower herself into the dark interior of the church.

Here, standing upon the cushions of one of the primitive old square pews, she crouched and listened breathlessly; but all was still, and after satisfying herself as far as she could that she was alone, she slipped down, passed through the door into the aisle, and then on and on, bent almost double, so as to keep below the level of the pew tops, where the darkness was intense.

The girl’s every movement was as lithe and stealthy as that of some wild animal; always on the alert for danger and ready for instant flight; but there seemed to be no cause for fear, and she crept on and on till the rood-screen was reached, and she passed into the chancel, where she soon lay down by the ornamental railings of the Candlish tomb, between it and the oak panels of that family’s pew, where there was an interval quite large enough to hide her compact little frame.

It was not so dark here, for a faint twilight streamed in through the great east window; but still the gloom was too deep for any one who passed to be recognisable.

Dally listened, and still crouched there, with her heart beating fast and her keen eyes roving from place to place as her ears strove to catch the faintest sound. The two grotesque effigies of the Candlishes reclined just above her head, the tablets on the walls faintly shimmered, and a dark mass—the pulpit—loomed up beyond the rood-screen, and all was so still that her breath sounded to her laboured, and as if passing through rustling paper.

After carefully scrutinising the place in all directions, she fixed her eyes upon the dark patch with pointed top which represented the way into the vestry. It was just opposite to her, and seemed to be the great object of her nocturnal journey.

For a few minutes all was still. Then there was a faint chirruping noise which emanated from Dally’s lips, as she backed softly a little more into her hiding-place.

No response!

She chirruped again, and failing to obtain any reply, she made a quick motion with one hand, the result being a sharp rap as if a tiny stone had struck the vestry door to make a second sound as it fell upon the stone floor.

No response!

“Safe!” whispered Dally to herself, and making a faint rustling sound, she glided out from her hiding-place, and crossing the chancel, raised the heavy latch of the vestry door.

There was a faint click as she passed in and closed it after her. Then another rustling sound, and a peculiar rattling noise, for Dally had drawn the large key she had borrowed from the sexton’s cottage, placed it in the lock of the spiral staircase leading up to the rood-loft, opened it, and after withdrawing and inserting the key on the inner side, she crept in, locked the door, went rapidly up to the opening where she had sat during the funeral service, and then resting her arms upon the carved stone tracery, she thrust her head and shoulders as far forward as she could, and listened and waited for what was to come.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

Watchers.

The old church at Duke’s Hampton, a fine old structure, built in the latter part of the thirteenth century, stood calm and still upon its eminence that dark night. The older folks at the village said it was terribly haunted “arter dark,” and the younger believed. Strange sights and sounds were said to have been seen and heard. Ghostly forms glided on silent wing round the tower and swept low amongst the tombs, uttering weird shrieks. Curious mutterings and croaks were heard on high among the corbels and demoniacal gargoyles, the holes in the tower among the ivy, and low moans often proceeded from the shuttered windows where the big bells hung.

All true, for down there in leafy Warwickshire there were plenty of owls, daws, starlings, and pigeons to make the old ivy-clothed building a bird sanctuary where they were never touched. They seemed to belong to “my church;” to Moredock; and he never took nest or destroyed their young.

On the night when Dally Watlock took upon herself to watch, high up in the rood-loft, steps approached the church from the back, about half an hour later, and a dark figure entered the churchyard, to walk cautiously and silently up towards the outer door of the vestry.

As it silently crossed the yard, a head slowly appeared above the wall, and watched the tall dark figure for a few minutes, as it seemed to glide in and out among the tombstones, and then fade completely away.

The watcher held on by the churchyard wall for a few minutes, rigid and paralysed. There was a faint sound of breathing heard, but it was catching and spasmodic, as if the watcher were in pain. But at last, after gazing in the direction where the dark figure had disappeared, with starting eyes, and a sensation on the top of the head as if the cap there was being softly lifted, the gentleman of inquiring mind tried to wrench his hands from where they clutched the top of the wall.

It was a momentary act, resulting in his grasping the coping-stone more tightly, and uttering the words:

“Ha’ mussy upon us!” For Joe Chegg felt his legs give way at the knees, and that he was bathed in a cold perspiration.

“If I can only get back safe home again,” he moaned to himself, “never no more—never no more!”

He felt that he had gazed for the first time at one of the peripatetic horrors of which he had heard since he was a child, and in which he had always religiously believed. In fact, he would never have ventured to the churchyard at midnight had he not been moved by one of the strongest passions of our nature. He had gone there most fully convinced that somewhere about he would encounter the gentleman who met Dally Watlock; and to emphasise their meeting, he had brought his smallest mallet from his tool-basket, as being a handy kind of tool.

But he had not reckoned upon seeing a tall dark figure draped in a long black cloak glide silently by him, growing taller and taller as it disappeared, leaving him with his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, and without the wit to consider that where he stood in the meadow he was in the dry ditch, that the churchyard wall formed a kind of haha at that spot by the rise of the earth resulting from centuries of interments; and that, in addition, there was a steep slope up to the church, sufficient to make any one standing by the vestry door ten feet above his head.

But Joe Chegg would not have believed these simple physical facts had they been explained to him. He had seen a veritable spirit that might mean his own “fetch.” Whether or no, he wanted to go home and keep his own counsel, mentally vowing—as he at last wrenched himself away, and ran as hard as he could over the dewy grass—that, come what might, he would, if he were spared, never run such a risk again.

He was in the act of dragging himself away, thankful that he was on the meadow-side of the wall, when a low muttering moan rose upon the night air, from the direction in which the monstrous figure had disappeared; and that moan acted as a spur to the frightened man.

It was simple enough, as simple as the explanation of other supernatural sounds, for as the dark figure stood close to the vestry door for a few moments and at last uttered an impatient “tut-tut-tut,” there was a grumbling, muttering sound from a horizontal stone, and Moredock rose, saying in a low voice:

“All right, doctor—all right. I was half asleep, and didn’t hear you come.”

The next moment they had entered the Candlish vault, and the door was closed, Moredock directly after proceeding to strike a match.

“How much longer’s this a-going on?” he grumbled.

“Till I have finished,” said the doctor sternly; but there was a strange intonation of the voice—a peculiar manner—which made the sexton, as he struck the light and held it to the candle in his lanthorn, gaze sharply at the speaker.

“All right, doctor. I don’t grumble; you’ll give me my dose again—seems to settle and comfort a man while he’s waiting.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said North hastily.

“You can rouse me up if I drop off to sleep, doctor. Couldn’t get my nap i’ the chair ’safternoon, and it makes a man a bit drowsy.”

North lit his lamp, which stood ready upon the stone table, and the yellow light filled the grim place with its soft glow once more—a pleasantly subdued light which displayed the surrounding niches and the empty coffin of the late squire, and shone softly upon gilt plate, handle, and tarnished nail, but lay in an intense ring of brightness upon the table that bore it and the sawdust around.

The customary portion from the flask was poured out, and swallowed by the old sexton with a satisfied smack of the lips before he set down the glass upon a coffin-lid.

“Ha! that’s fine, doctor,” he said with a loud laugh, as his countenance puckered into a goblin grin. “Cordial that is. Goes down into a man’s toes and the tips of his fingers, and makes his heart beat. You’re a clever one, doctor—a clever one, that you are. Rouse me up if you want me. I may go to sleep again—I may go to sleep.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll call you,” said North, as the old man seated himself once more in his corner with head against the wall, while before the doctor had settled the shade of his lamp to his satisfaction, a stertorous snore came from Moredock’s corner, accompanied at intervals by a low moaning gasp.

“How easy to produce death!” said North, in a low voice. “Science gives us the power to cause that and sleep, which is its semblance, at our will. Why should it be more difficult to produce life?”

“How many nights is this?” he continued. “Ten, and I seem no nearer—nay, further away, for—ah!” he ejaculated savagely, “there is that wretched coward shrinking again.”

He shivered and looked hastily round as he drew in his breath hard and with a curious catch.

“Good heavens! of what am I afraid? The first amputator, the first explorer into Nature’s hidden paths, where she guards her secrets so religiously—they only felt the same. Have I gone so far only to hesitate to go further?”

He stood shrinking, with his hand clutching the white cloth spread over the table, and his eyes fixed on vacancy.

“Am I—an experienced medical man—to be frightened by a shadow? I say that there is nothing wrong in my researches,” he cried passionately, as if addressing some one in the corner of the vault. “It is for the benefit of posterity. My experiments upon this vile body here are right.

“And yet I feel as if I cannot go further,” he muttered, with the same abject shiver attacking him again; “as if I dared not—as if I must pause, and I have learned so much. I dare not! It is as if the hand of one’s guardian angel were laid upon my breast, and a voice whispered—‘Rash man, pause before it is too late!’”

He caught at the nearest object for support, for he was weak with excitement, and his face looked ghastly in the gloom, as he stood there trembling till he realised what he, the living, had seized to sustain him—a coffin handle—and snatched his fingers away with a cry of horror, to shrink back and rest against the further side of the vault, but only to start away again, for his shoulder was against another coffin.

He glanced at Moredock, but the old man was sleeping heavily, and once more he looked wildly round the vault.

“I cannot go on,” he groaned; “it is too horrible. There is a terror beyond that dark veil which seems to hold me back. I’ll wake him up. This night shall end it all, and I’ll rest in peace, contented with what I know. I dare go no further.”

He drew a long breath, as if relieved, and felt stimulated by his thoughts. It was all so simple to try and leave everything as nearly as possible in its old state, generously recompense the old sexton, and return to his regular course. The proceedings of the past would be the joint secret of Moredock and himself.

“I’ve done,” he said. “I’ll be satisfied. It is too horrible to go on.”

He crossed to the old man, who was now sleeping quite peacefully, and had raised his hand to shake him and bid him rise and help, but his hand stopped within a few inches of the old sexton’s shoulder, and he stepped back with an ejaculation full of anger.

“Coward! idiot!” he exclaimed. “That ignorant old boor sleeps as calmly as a child among these grisly relics of mortality, and you, enlightened by science, educated, a seeker after wisdom, shrink and shiver and dare do no more.

“No,” he added, after a pause; “it is too horrible. There is a something holds me back.

“And fame—the praise of men? And love? The kisses of Leo? Her bright looks—her pride in the man she will call husband? Horace North, are you going mad? Pause? Now? When there is triumph waiting, and a little further research will teach me all I want—maybe give me the great success?

“No; not if fifty guardian angels barred my way. I will win now in spite of all.”

The coward fit of shrinking had gone, and, with a laugh full of contempt for himself, he took a step to the table and snatched the white cloth from the great stone slab.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

A Friendly Visit.

A week had passed since Horace North’s straggle with the strange fits of repugnance and dread that had assailed him on his researches: six nights, during each of which he had battled with the same feelings and mastered, and gone on, with Moredock revelling in his opiate-produced sleep in the corner.

Night after night the old man slept in that vault for hours, among the remains of the Candlishes whom he had robbed, and enjoying a voluptuous pleasure in his sleep, which made him the doctor’s willing servant, whose dread was lest the visits to the mausoleum should come to an end.

But these nightly visits were not without their effects, and these intense studies could not be carried on without leaving their traces on the man.

Mrs Berens was taken ill, and the doctor was called in.

In her lonely widowed state, with nothing but her money, her dress, her mirror, and the visits and gossip of Duke’s Hampton to amuse her, thirsting the while for the communings of a kindred spirit who would tell her she was far too young yet to give up thoughts of love, Mrs Berens felt that she must have some relaxation, and she took it in the form of fits of illness of the body and ditto ditto of the mind.

For the former she called in Dr North, and told her pains.

For the latter, the Reverend Hartley Salis, to whom she recounted her doubts, her sorrows, and her sufferings of mind; and in each case she felt better, though she did not take the medicine of the one nor follow out the precepts of the other.

It was very wrong, no doubt, but it was very natural; and Mrs Berens, not middle-aged, and plump, and pleasing, and anxious to please, was very full of human nature.

There was such satisfaction, too, in having her hand held by the doctor. So there was, too, when it was grasped at coming, and again at leaving, by bluff, manly Parson Salis; but they neither of them proposed, or went a step further than to be gently courteous and kind to the loving and lovable weak woman, who longed to empty the urn of her affection upon either head.

And now poor Mrs Berens was in sad trouble.

“I know it,” she sobbed to herself, after a visit from the doctor. “Mary Salis will not confess, and Leo always holds one off; but he does love Leo, and she is holding him in her wicked chains, like one of those terrible witches we read about; and, poor dear man, she is breaking his heart. I’ve tried so hard to wean him from that dreadful love of a bad, base girl, and the more I try the worse he is.”

Mrs Berens sobbed till her eyes ached, and she bathed them with eau-de-cologne and water.

“How dare I say she is bad and base?” she said half aloud, speaking to herself in the glass, as her handsome, large, blue swimming eyes looked appealingly at her; “because I know it. I’m sure of it. I can always feel it. I’m weak and foolish, but I should love him and cherish him, while she is trifling with him—I’m sure—and breaking his heart.

“Oh, poor man, poor man!” she sighed; “how worn out and ill he looks! What shall I do? What shall I do?”

Mrs Berens made up her mind what she would do. She could not send for the curate. She was not sufficiently ill for that.

“And it would look so.”

She could not go and see him, for that would also “look so.” Leo detested her, she knew, quite as much as she detested Leo, whom she declared to be so horribly young. But she could go and see poor Mary; and after well bathing her eyes, she stripped her little conservatory to get a good bunch of flowers for the invalid, and then went across to the Rectory.

Leo was out for a ride, to Mrs Berens’ great delight.

“Master’s in his study over his sermon, ma’am,” said Dally Watlock; “but Miss Mary’s in, ma’am.”

“Yes, Dally, it is Miss Mary I want to see,” sighed Mrs Berens; and then, as much out of genuine kindness as with the idea of making a friend at the Rectory: “How pretty, and young, and well you do look, Dally!”

“Thank ye, ma’am,” said Dally, with a distant bob, but gratified all the same.

“Do you know, Dally, I’ve got a silk dress, a pale red, that would make up so nicely for you? It isn’t old, but I shall not wear it any more.”

Daily’s eyes sparkled at pale red silk.

“It wouldn’t fit you,” continued the widow, “but you could make it up nicely with your clever little fingers;” and she compared her own redundant charms with the trim, tight little figure of the maid.

“Thank ye, ma’am. May I come for it?”

“Yes, Dally, do. Now show me in to Miss Mary.”

Dally ushered in the widow, and then stood in the passage thinking.

“I wouldn’t go for it, that I wouldn’t, if I was quite sure. I don’t want to wear her old dresses. Nice thing for a lady who’s going to have a title and live up at the Hall to have to wear somebody else’s old silk frocks.

“I think I’ll go, though,” said Dally. “No, I won’t, for it’s coming to a nice blow up for some one I know, and I’ll let ’em all see.”

“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs Berens, entering the room, flower-bearing, and bending down over the invalid with a good deal of gushing sentiment, but plenty of genuine affection.

“It’s very good of you to come, Mrs Berens,” cried Mary, flushing. “And the flowers—for me?”

“For you? Yes,” said the widow, plumping down on her knees by Mary’s couch, and playfully laying the bouquet upon Mary’s bosom, and holding it there beneath her chin. “Now it’s perfect. It only wanted your sweet rose of a face added to it. My dear, what an angel’s face you have!”

“Mrs Berens!” cried Mary, flushing more deeply, half annoyed, half amused at her visitor’s flattering words; but there was no feeling anything but pleasure at the affectionate kiss pressed upon her lips, and the tender touches of the two well-gloved hands.

“There, I’ve come to have a quiet chat with you,” said the widow. “I ought to have been in before, but I have been so unwell, my dear; obliged to send for Dr North.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs Berens,” said Mary, laying her hand in those of the widow.

“I knew you would be, dear; and, oh, I have been so poorly.”

“But you are better now?” said Mary kindly.

“No, no, my dear. I’m a poor, weak, unhappy woman, and—oh! I ought to be ashamed of myself, that I ought, to go on like that when there you are so ill and yet so patient that one never hears a murmur escape your lips.”

“I don’t think I’m very ill, Mrs Berens.”

“Then I do, my dear; and I shall come and see you more often, for you’ve done me no end of good. It’s like a lesson to me, and I’ll never complain any more.”

“That’s right,” said Mary, smiling. “Do come oftener; I’m very much alone. We will not talk about our ailments,” she added with a smile.

“No, of course not; but I have been very poorly, dear, and I sent for Dr North. Do you take any interest in Dr North?”

Mrs Berens was not subtle enough of intellect to note the change in Mary’s countenance. At first there was a faint flush; then a waxen pallor; but she mastered her emotion, though her heart beat heavily as she said:

“Of course. He was very good and kind to me all through my illness.”

“Yes, poor man—poor, dear man!” sighed the widow. “And of course Mr Salis likes him very much?”

“Yes; they are very warm friends,” said Mary quietly.

“Then do—do pray talk to your brother,” cried Mrs Berens, with pathetic eagerness.

“No, no, Mrs Berens,” said a bluff, deep voice. “I’m always with my sisters, and they talk to me too much.”

“Oh, Mr Salis! You shouldn’t, you know,” cried the widow, all of a flutter. “You shouldn’t come in so suddenly.”

“Why, I only came in to say ‘how do?’” replied Salis pleasantly, as he shook hands. “There, sit down again, and tell me what I am to be talked to about.”

“Oh, really, Mr Salis, I—I—I was only going to say, pray talk to or see to poor Dr North. I’m afraid he’s very far from well.”

“So am I,” cried Salis. “I have just been telling him so.”

“He—he has been here, then—just now?”

“Not exactly just now; I mean this morning. You noticed, then, that he seemed ill and over-excited?”

“Oh, yes,” cried Mrs Berens, as Mary tried to lie back perfectly calm, but with her eyes glancing rapidly from one to the other, and her trembling fingers telling the agitation from which she suffered. “I was so poorly that I sent for him, and he quite startled me: his manner was so strange and abrupt. I’m sure he’s being worried over something.”

“Studies too hard,” said Salis quietly. “He will do it, and advice is of no avail. Mrs Milt tells me that he sits up at night. Doctors are like clergymen, I’m afraid, Mrs Berens: they are fond of teaching and curing other people, but they neglect themselves.”

“There, I hope you will give him a good talking to, Mr Salis,” said the widow, rising to go; “for I should really not like to ask him to see me again until he is better. He seemed to be so wild and eccentric: he quite startled me.”

“Just for the sake of saying something, Mary,” said the curate as soon as they were alone; and, in answer to Mary’s inquiring eyes, “Horace has made up his mind to distinguish himself for Leo’s sake, and, heigho! my dear, things seem to be very awkward, and I don’t know how to set them right.”

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

An Interruption.

Other people, too, noticed the doctor’s strangely intent manner, as he went hurriedly about among his patients every morning, and then returned to his study to pore over sundry manuscript notes and refer to certain books.

Mrs Milt had to almost insist upon his taking his meals, for on two occasions his dinner had gone out untasted, and she had found him sitting, with his head resting upon his hands, deep in thought.

He started upon being spoken to, and seemed once more himself; but as soon as he was alone again, he relapsed into another fit of abstraction.

A few more days passed, and his task was telling upon him terribly; but he persevered, for each night he felt that he was getting nearer to success.

“I shall succeed,” he said to himself, with a wild excitability of manner that was startling; but he was alone when he said these words, and no one heard them.

“Arn’t it a very long experiment, doctor?” said Moredock, one night, looking at the doctor seriously, and rubbing his cheek slowly.

“Yes. It is taking me longer than I thought, but I shall soon finish now.”

“Glad o’ that,” said the old man drily; “because a pitcher as goes too often to the well, doctor, gets broke at last.”

“What do you mean?”

“Naught, only we might be found out.”

“Nonsense!” said the doctor uneasily. “Nobody is likely to be about except any person should be ill, and I know exactly who is likely to want the doctor by night.”

“Ah, well, let’s be careful, doctor, for it would be awkward for both if we was to be found out.”

“Pish! Who would find us out, man?”

“Well, say parson.”

“Absurd! He is in bed, and sound asleep. There, take your glass; I want to begin.”

“Nay,” said the old man, looking at the rich liqueur North poured out for him, “I don’t think I’ll have no drop to-night.”

“Nonsense, man!” said North, holding out the glass, at which the old man gazed longingly. But he shook his head and thrust it away.

“Nay, doctor; I’m going to keep watch to-night.”

“Keep watch, man?” said North, who seemed staggered at this determination.

“Yes, doctor, I’m going to keep watch. I can’t afford to have aught go wrong, if you can. You get on with your work, and I’ll be on the look-out.”

“Here?”

“Nay, nay. I’ll hang about outside.”

“Yes, do,” said North, who seemed relieved; and he turned down the lamp to let Moredock out.

“I shall give three taps on the door, doctor, when I come back,” whispered the old man. “You go on just as if I was here; but when I tap, you turn down the light again, and let me in. Don’t s’pose I shall see anybody, but I must take care.”

“Yes, do,” said North hurriedly; and, as the old man passed out, he closed the door after him and made it fast.

“It would have been like checking my experiment now I am so near success,” he said to himself, as, now quite alone, he once more turned up the shaded lamp, when the warm yellow glow shone out full upon the recumbent figure, carefully draped with the great white sheet.

Horace North stood bending over the subject of his ghastly experiment, the remains of Luke Candlish lying apparently unchanged, and as if decay had been completely arrested.

There was a strange odour of chemicals in the place, and, as the doctor removed the cloth, it was to uncover, just as they had been left on the previous night, a powerful galvanic battery, syringes, and other surgical paraphernalia.

For the next hour the doctor continued his labours, feeling more and more assured that he should triumph; and, as he toiled on, he talked rapidly to himself of the apparently complete arrest of decay, and the perfectly calm manner in which his subject lay, as it were, placidly waiting for the awakening which North felt, in his excitement, absolutely sure would come.

“It is so near now that I have but to vitalise and obtain positive proof that, when carried to its full extent, I have performed what is almost a miracle, and proved that what I worked out in theory is possible in practice.”

He stood gazing down at the calm, cold face, with its closed eyes, hesitating, not from the horror that had half paralysed him before, but from dread lest, now he had gone so far that he could apply his final test, he should be disappointed.

His head burned, his pulses throbbed heavily, and his hesitation increased.

Rousing himself at last, he laid his hand upon the icy-cold forehead before him, the contact sending a chill through his frame; but he did not notice it.

“Why do I stop?” he said. “It only wants this. I am alone, and no better opportunity could come. Oh, if I had but the aiding hand of that old savant, how easy it would be!”

This brought back the scene in the theatre—the lecture, the applause; and his heart beat more rapidly in anticipation of his grand triumph when he could demonstrate this, the greatest surgical feat that had ever been performed.

“And yet I hesitate,” he exclaimed excitedly; “hesitate when I have but to plunge boldly to succeed.”

“And I will,” he said firmly, after a pause.

The scene which followed was weird and horrible, had there been an onlooker; to North it had all the fascination of an intense scientific experiment. For he had arrived at the pitch when, according to his theory, he had but to make the warm living blood pass from his own veins, as in a case of transfusion, to prove that his studies bore the fruit of success.

The preliminaries were all arranged, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, North took a bright, keen lancet from its case, but only to let it fall back, starting violently, for he was, as it were, snatched back from his scientific dream by a faint rap upon the door of the great vault, and this was followed directly after by two more.

North rapidly replaced the great sheet, and turned down the light before going softly to the entry.

“Well?” he said harshly; “returned?”

“Hist!” whispered the old sexton. “Out here!”

He caught the doctor’s hand and drew him out from the entry of the vault to stand within the iron railings.

“Why have—”

“Hist!” whispered the old man again. “Come with me.”

North hesitated again, but yielded to his companion and followed him softly right round the church to the belfry door, which yielded to the old man’s touch.

“What does this mean?” said the doctor angrily. “Why have you brought me here?”

“Come and see,” whispered the old man so earnestly that North hesitated no longer, but followed him wonderingly into the church, and along the matting-covered aisle, to the old oak screen, where Moredock paused and caught his arm.

“Some one watching?” whispered North, as they stood together in the darkness; “in yonder?”

For the old man had indicated the vestry door with his outstretched hand.

It seemed strange, for a minute before they had been beside the outer door of the vestry, and now he had been brought in to stand by the inner door in the chancel.

“You’re wanted there,” whispered Moredock—“yonder!”

“Watchers?”

“You’re wanted there, doctor,” whispered the old man. “Go in and see.”

The silence was painful in the extreme, as North stood wondering there, but the next moment, feeling attracted by he knew not what desire to see who was within there face to face, he took a couple of steps forward to the old oak door, when a faint whispering seemed to come from the other side, followed by a low cough, which sent the blood surging to his brain.

There was no hesitation now, for, half-mad with excitement and the strange passion that seemed for the moment to stifle him, he seized the great latch, which snapped loudly as he threw it up, and strode into the little stone-walled room.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

Dally’s Appeal.

“Nay! nay! nay! I know what you want. There, give me my pipe,” said Moredock, settling himself down in his big-armed Windsor chair.

“Yes, gran’fa, dear,” cried Dally, bustling about and fetching the clay pipe with a clean white bowl, consequent upon its having been thoroughly burned in the fire before it was stood up in the corner on the hob. “There’s your pipe, dear, and there’s your tobacco box. Oh, how heavy it is!”

“It arn’t heavy with ’bacco, lass. Should ha’ thought a girl as I’ve brought up, as I’ve brought up you ever since your mother and father died, would have give her poor old gaffer a pinch o’ ’bacco now and agen.”

“And so I will, gran’fa, dear,” cried Dally, taking the lid off the heavy leaden pot. “Next time I go into town I’ll bring you a beautiful packet of the best. Let me fill your pipe, dear, same as I used to.”

“Ay, you was a good little gel then,” said Moredock, as he watched the brown, plump fingers busily charging the bowl, while a grim smile puckered his face, and he lay back with a satisfied air.

“So I am now, gran’fa, dear.”

“Nay; you’ve come to bother your poor old gran’fa about money for silk dresses, and feathers, and gloves. I know.”

“No, you don’t, gran’fa, dear,” cried Dally. “There, now it’s nice and full.”

“You’ve jammed it in too tight.”

“No, I haven’t, gran’fa. I know exactly how you like it. There! hold still while I fetch you a light. There! there, then. Now pull. Don’t you remember how you used to puff the smoke in my face and make me cough?”

“Ay; and I ’member how you tried to smoke my pipe, and how sick it made you.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Dally, clapping her hands. “Ah! how happy I used to be then with you, gran’fa! Do you remember how you used to take me to the church?”

“Ay,” grunted the old man, puffing away, with a dreamy look in his face.

“And how you used to pretend to bury yourself in the graves when you were digging, so as to frighten me?”

“Ah!” grunted Moredock.

“Then there was that old skull, gran’fa, that I had to play with. What became of that skull?”

“Up in the cupboard in your old bedroom,” grunted Moredock.

“How happy I used to be then!” sighed Dally, stroking a thin wisp off her grandfather’s hideous old forehead.

“Ah, you was a good little gel then, and thought about your poor old gran’fa, and didn’t come bothering him for money.”

“Yes, I did, gran’fa—for sweeties,” said Dally.

“Ay; but I wouldn’t give you none, gel.”

“Yes, you did sometimes, gran’fa; and so you would now to buy some nice things—a pretty bonnet—if I asked you.”

“Nay, I wouldn’t. And I knew it. You’ve come a-purpose to worry me out of some money.”

“No, I haven’t, gran’fa.”

“Ay, but you have. I know. Look here, how’s that going on? If it’s going to be my leddy, you shall have as much as you want; but not without. Is he courting of you?”

“No, gran’fa.”

“Whaaart?”

“Only sometimes, gran’fa; and that’s what made me come to you.”

“You—you haven’t come for the brass?”

“No, gran’fa, I want you to help me, for I’m such a miserable little girl.”

“What about?—what about?” cried the old man, smoking furiously, and staring with a peculiarly angry look at the girl.

“I wanted to tell you, gran’fa,” cried Dally, plumping herself down at the old man’s feet, and laying her rosy cheek upon his corduroy-covered knee, stained with the clay from many a grave. “It’s all such a muddle.”

“What is?—what is?”

“Why, everything,” cried Dally, with a petulant twitch; “but he’s not going to play with me. He’s told me many a time that he’d marry me, and make me Lady Candlish; and he shall, shan’t he, gran’fa?”

“Ay, that he shall,” cried the old man, patting Dally’s curly head. “That’s sperrit, that is. You keep him to it. But what’s all a muddle?”

“Why, everything, gran’fa,” cried Dally, bursting into tears, and speaking in an excited, passionate way. “But he shall marry me; and you’ll help me make him, won’t you, gran’fa?”

“Ay, that I will, my pretty. That’s the way. Don’t you be beat.”

“I won’t; and I won’t have him come courting Leo Salis.”

“Nay, you won’t,” said the old man, smoking away as he patted the fierce little creature’s head.

“He said it was all nonsense, and I believed him because he was so fond of me; but he courts her, too.”

“Nay, does he, Dally?”

“Yes, gran’fa; and he shan’t. He shall marry me. If he don’t, I’ll kill him!”

“So you shall, my pretty,” chuckled the old man; “and I’ll bury him. And then the doctor—”

He checked himself and chuckled again. “What’s the use of the doctor when he’s dead?” cried Dally pettishly, as she tugged angrily at a fold of the old man’s trousers. “And Doctor North’s a fool!”

“Nay! nay! nay! Doctor’s a very clever man, Dally.”

“He isn’t; he’s a fool, gran’fa!”

“Tut, tut! Shoo, shoo!”

“I say he is, or he wouldn’t be courting and making love to Miss Leo.”

“Do he, Dally?—do he?”

“Why, yes, gran’fa, of course he does and she’s carrying on all the time with Tom. Oh, how I do hate her! Wish he’d let her die!”

“Ay, would ha’ been a good job for everybody—and for me, Dally. But doctor don’t know?”

“Know? Of course not. He’s too stupid. He’s a fool!”

“Nay, he’s not a fool,” said the old man, smoking rapidly. “Doctor’s head’s screwed on right way. He don’t know, or—”

“Or what, gran’fa—or what?”

“He! he! he!” chuckled the old man, as Dally screwed herself round and gazed eagerly in his face. “Here, gently, gently! Don’t stick your little claws into my legs like that, pussy.”

“But what, gran’fa, what?—what would the doctor do?”

“Give him a nasty dose, I should say, Dally,” chuckled the old man. “Doctor don’t know—he arn’t no fool. Does Miss Leo know young squire courts you?”

“I don’t know,” cried Dally thoughtfully.

“She be a bad ’un,” grunted the old man.

“She’s a wretch, and I hate her! Oh, I wish master was the doctor instead of the parson!”

“Why, Dally, my lass?” said the old man, whose lips were drawn open to a terrible extension—a savage grin—as if he gloried in the display of fierce vindictive spite which the girl displayed.

“I’d get something out of the surgery and poison her!”

“Nay, nay, Dally, that wouldn’t do,” he chuckled. “They’d find you out and hang you.”

“I wouldn’t care if I killed her first,” said Dally fiercely. “She shouldn’t have him.”

“What—the doctor?”

“No. Don’t be so stupid. You know—Tom.”

“Ah, well, wait a bit. Dessay the things ’ll come right. Wait till doctor finds it out; he’ll half kill Tom Candlish, same as Parson Salis did when squire was after Miss Leo.”

“Did he? Oh, I know! It was when master’s knuckles was all cut.”

“That’s right, Dally. I was in the wood and see it all, but I never said a word till now. And don’t you. I thought it was all over between young Tom and pretty Miss up at the Rect’ry.”

“But it isn’t all over, gran’fa, and I won’t have it. They shan’t meet. I’ll tear her eyes out first. Nice one she is to lecture me!”

“You wait till doctor finds it out, if he’s courting Leo Salis. He’ll half kill Tom Candlish.”

“But I don’t want him half killed,” cried Dally. “Yes I do; it’ll bring him to his senses, and when he’s ill I can go and give him a bit of my mind.”

“Ah, to be sure; so you can, my pretty.”

“I’ll let him know. He shall marry me, that he shall.”

“Ay, so he shall, Dally.”

“And you’ll help me, gran’fa?”

“Of course I will, my pretty.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I came to say.”

“Wasn’t it for money, then?”

“Money? No. A girl with a face like mine don’t want money, and I shall have plenty when I’m up at the Hall.”

“Toe be sure, Dally. Toe be sure. Ay, but you are a clever gel!”

“Then, look here, gran’fa, you’ll help me to make doctor give Tom Candlish a big thrashing.”

“Ay, if I can. I should like it. He threatened me wi’ his whip t’other day ’cause I said the sheep mustn’t come in th’ churchyard. Parson May found fault, and Squire ca’d me an old mummy, and said he’d put in pigs if he liked. I’d like to see doctor mummying him, same as he does his brother—eh; help you, lass?”

“Yes; but it wasn’t the doctor, it was master made a mummy of Squire Tom. You’re mixing ’em up.”

“Ay, I s’pose I am, Dally; but I’m not very old yet.”

“Then you’ll help me, gran’fa?”

“Will it help you to get to be my lady at the Hall?” said the old man dubiously. “Of course, gran’fa, or I wouldn’t do it,” said the girl, who had wrenched herself round, kneeling at the old man’s feet, and resting her elbows on his knees, her little dimpled chin upon her hands.

“What do you want me to do, then?”

“I want you to help me serve them out.”

“Ay, and how?”

“I want doctor to find out that Leo Salis is a down bad one.”

“Ay, she is, my lass; and not good enough for him.”

“And I want the doctor to beat Tom Candlish and stop him from going after Leo Salis, and then he’d come altogether to me.”

“Ay, that’s right, Dally; that’s right. I want to see thee my leddy up at the Hall.”

“Then, look here: you take the doctor some night, and show him when Leo—ugh! how I hate the minx!—is along with my Tom.”

“Ay, but how, lass, how?”

“I’ll tell you, gran’fa,” whispered Dally vindictively. “Master ordered Squire Tom never to come to the Rectory again.”

“Ay.”

“So he gave me notes to take to Miss Leo.”

“And you was fool enough to take ’em?”

“Yes, gran’fa; but that’s how it began with me, and he soon told me he didn’t care for her, and that he only wrote to Leo so as to make her send me out with notes to him, so that we could court.”

“Oh! He’s a nice ’un,” growled Moredock. “He allus was. Well?”

“And now Tom’s fooling me and meets Leo, and they court, and I dare say they laugh at me,” cried Dally vindictively.

“I dessay; but you’ll make him marry you, Dally.”

“I will, gran’fa. Now listen: because Tom can’t come to the Rectory, and Leo can’t go to him because master watches her, they meet of a night.”

“Nay. Tchah!”

“They do, gran’fa.”

“What? Does he come to the Rect’ry o’ nights?”

“No. She waits till every one’s asleep, and then she goes to him.”

“Nay, do she, lass?” cried the old man. “Yes, gran’fa. She gets out of her bedroom window, and down on to the summer-house, and then goes.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen her out of my window, gran’fa, night after night: and then she runs down the green path to the meadows, and—”

“Meets him there?”

“No,” said Dally, shaking her head.

“Where does she go, then?”

“Can’t you guess, gran’fa?”

“Nay. Yes. Up to the Hall.”

“Where the servants would find it out? No; they’re too cunning for that.”

“Where then?” cried the old man, chuckling, and evidently enjoying it all.

“Why, to a place where nobody would go of a night—where it would all be quiet and still, and people would be afraid to walk for fear of seeing ghosts. Where would that be, gran’fa?”

Old Moredock’s jaw dropped, and he gazed down at his grandchild in a startled way.

“Not to the old morslem?” he whispered, in an awe-stricken tone.

“Pooh! No; but next door to it.”

“Not to my church, gel?”

“Not quite, gran’fa; but to the vestry.”

“What?”

“Yes, gran’fa,” whispered Dally excitedly. “Leo Salis gets out of the window and goes straight to the vestry, and meets Tom Candlish there night after night.”

“And she gets parson’s keys, and goes in at the south door, and through the porch, and ’long the south aisle, and then across to the chancel?”

“Yes, gran’fa, with a great veil all over her head; but how did you know?”

“Why, you’re telling me, arn’t you?” said the old man testily, as he recalled the draped head he had seen hastily gliding above the pews. “And Squire Tom?”

“He goes across the meadows and over the churchyard wall, and in at the vestry door by the big vault.”

“Does he, though?” said Moredock, with his jaw dropped still more; “and how does he get the keys?—of course, he’s churchwarden! Hah! nice game in my church! Tchah!” he cried, after a pause. “Stuff! You dreamt it.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t,” said Dally. “I watched her, and saw her go. And another night I watched and followed, and I saw a man go up to the Candlish vault.”

“Eh! You saw that?” cried the old man, catching the girl’s arm.

She nodded.

“Who was it, eh? Not me?”

“You? No, gran’fa!”

“Nor the doctor?”

“The doctor? No! It was my Tom Candlish!”

“Are you sure, gel?”

“I am now, gran’fa; I wasn’t then. I half thought it was the doctor, and I did hope it was him. It was so dark, I couldn’t quite be sure; and he stopped by the gate in the iron railings and looked about so that I daren’t go and make sure.”

“Phew!” whistled the old man, dropping his pipe and wiping his brow as the fragile stem broke into atoms. “And you there, Dally, watching?”

“Yes, gran’fa; for I was, oh, so jealous!”

“And you’re not sure now?”

“Yes I am, gran’fa; for I made sure.”

“You went again—in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, gran’fa. I got out of my bedroom window next time and went first.”

“And you saw them go. Did you see—?”

The old man stopped short.

“No, I didn’t see much, gran’fa; but I heard. I went into the church.”

“How did you get in?”

“Through one of the lead windows, as I’ve often climbed through when I was a little girl; and then went into the vestry and up the screw stairs, and into the little place in the loft.”

“How did you get the key?”

“How did I get the key? Why, I came and took it from here.”

“You jade.”

“And you came and caught me.”

“Did you take anything else?”

“No, gran’fa, of course not,” cried the girl. “I was obliged to do it. Then I waited till I could just see Leo Salis come in along the church, and she passed under me and went into the vestry.”

“Sure?”

“Sure? Of course I am; and then I stole down the screw stairs and waited by the door till I heard him come in from the churchyard.”

“And me about there in the morslem all the time!” muttered Moredock. “Well,” he added aloud, “was it young Squire Tom?”

“Yes, gran’fa; it was him, safe enough, and it was Leo Salis, and she scolded him for being so late, and they stopped together for ever so long; him smoking.”

“Smoking?”

“Yes; I heard him strike a match, and I could smell it—a wretch!”

“And I thought it was the parson,” said Moredock, chuckling.

“They stayed there two hours, gran’fa; and they go regular, and I had to wait till they’d gone before I could go back.”

“And weren’t you afraid, Dally?” said the old man with a grin.

“’Fraid! What of?” said the girl. “I wasn’t afraid, but I felt as if I could have killed them both.”

“Ay, you must, my pretty. And now what do you mean me to do?”

“Do? Take the doctor there, and let him find Leo out, and beat Tom. It’ll stop it all, and serve him right. You will, won’t you, gran’fa?”

“Ay, lass, I will.”

“You good old, darling old gran’fa; and—look—look!”

The old man’s eyes caught sight of a face at the lattice window at the same moment; and almost before she had spoken, Moredock had caught up the heavy leaden tobacco jar, and hurled it with so good an aim that it went out through the diamond panes with a loud crash.

Daily stood in the fire-lit room half paralysed; but the old man had hobbled to the door, and gazed out in the darkness for a few moments, listening to the sound of retreating feet.

“Who was it, gran’fa?” whispered Dally.

“Well, I arn’t quite sure,” said the old man with asperity; “but I should say it was that Joe Chegg.”

“And he heard all I said?”

“Nay, I shouldn’t think he did; but I just give him warning if he comes spying and listening about my place, he’ll get it with the maddick or the spade.”

“I don’t think he came to spy, gran’fa.”

“Then it was after you, and I won’t have it.”

“Never mind him, gran’fa,” said Dally, with quiet confidence; “even if he did hear, I can silence him.”

“No courtin’, for I won’t have it.”

“Courting with him!” cried Dally scornfully. “Don’t be afraid that I shall do that, gran’fa! But you’ll tell doctor?”

“Don’t you be afraid, my gel.”

“And when?”

“First chance I have,” said the old man grimly; and then to himself: “He shan’t call me a mummy for naught.”

“Good night, gran’fa.”

“Good night, my leddy,” cried the old man, chuckling. “Don’t you be skeered. I’ll do it, and p’r’aps to-night.”

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

Moredock Keeps his Word.

Old Moredock kept his word, for after leaving North alone to carry out his experiment, he went round the old church, proceeding cautiously from tombstone to tombstone, his red, watery eyes twinkling with excitement, till he reached the belfry door.

This yielded to the key he always carried, deep down in his old coat pocket, and passing through into the lower part of the tower, he continued his way by the low, arched doorway to the font.

Here he paused and listened, but all was perfectly still, and, running his hand along the tops of the pews, he went slowly on till he reached the screen, where he hesitated for a few moments, and then littering a low chuckle, that sounded like that of a cuckoo over a caterpillar feast, he turned aside, mounted the stairs, and seated himself in the pulpit, where he made himself comfortable with the big purple velvet cushion, and waited patiently for what was to come.

He had not to wait long, for as he sat, with his arms resting on the front of the oaken erection, his ears twitching, a familiar sound in the church porch warned him that some one was at hand.

Drawing in his breath he strained his eyes, and before long he had the satisfaction of seeing the matter-of-fact elucidation of the mystery which had shaken his well-hardened nerves, for though much less plainly seen, and from a different point of view, there was the draped head which had alarmed him passing before the pulpit, round into the chancel, and into the vestry, whose latch gave a slight click.

“Yes,” he muttered; “doctor shall find you, and to-night, my lady. You don’t stand between her and her rights.”

He chuckled in anticipation of the scene that was to come, and, slowly descending from the pulpit, followed the figure till he was pretty close to the chancel door, but inside the rectory pew, over whose side he could listen as he knelt on the cushion of one of the seats, but quite ready to bob down into sheltering darkness should there be a risk of being seen.

Again he had not long to wait, for as he listened he heard the sound of a key in the outer door, the entering of some one, the withdrawal of the key, its insertion on the vestry side, and the locking of the door, followed by a low murmuring of voices.

“Pretty doves!” muttered the old sexton. “Coo away, sweet, soft critters! Mummy, am I, Squire Tom? Hideous old figure, am I, Miss Leo? Oh, you needn’t deny it. You’ve told my Dally I was, scores of times. All right. He! he! he! Chilly place to make love. Dessay you’ll catch colds, so I’ll bring the doctor!”

He kept his word, and North had his hand upon the latch, while Moredock gleefully rubbed his hands in anticipation of a scene that should relieve some of the tedium of his existence, and advance his grandchild’s ends, but quietly slipped away home.

“I’d like to see it,” he said; “but there may be trouble, and I’m best away.”

As if fate had determined that Horace North should be fully enlightened as to the character of the woman he worshipped, it so happened that as the door was thrown open, Tom Candlish was striking a flaming fusee.

The sharp crick—crick—crack of the explosive end overcame the sound made by the latch, and the match burst into a reddish blue flame, illuminating the whole place, for the young squire for the moment was too much taken aback to cast it down.

North uttered a hoarse groan as he gazed at the group before him: Tom Candlish seated in the curate’s chair by the oaken table, and Leo upon his knee with her arm about his neck, and her head resting upon his shoulder, while seen by the lurid light there appeared to be a couple of clergymen, one in black, the other in white, standing behind them in the background, as if to give sanction to their proceedings by performing some holy rite.

“The devil!” shouted Candlish, as Leo leaped from his lap, and crouched away in one corner of the vestry, her shame concealed by the sudden darkness that fell as Tom Candlish cast down the match.

“You scoundrel!” cried North, as, furious with rage, he dashed at the man whom he felt to have been the cause of his agonising pang.

For a moment he had turned towards where he had seen Leo shrink away, his eyes flashing as if he could have withered the wretched creature whom he had believed to be all that was good and true, but who, in spite of his passion for her, seemed now to be too base to be worthy even of a word.

He could not crush her. He could not assail her with the bitterness of the words which rushed to his lips. The veil had fallen from his eyes, and in that dire moment, as he saw her hanging upon the neck of the brutal, coarse young squire, his doting love turned to a savage hate.

But he could not crush her; he could not strike her even with his contempt; but a fierce laugh escaped his throat as he felt how good and kind fate had been to him in giving him the opportunity for taking ample revenge.

And how sweet it seemed as he sprang in the dusk at Tom Candlish.

Fate was kind to him again for the moment, for, as if instinctively, North’s hands caught the sturdy young giant in his fierce grip, and for a few moments they swayed here and there, striking against the wall, the simple furniture of the place, crashing against the closet where the registers were kept, and tearing down the surplice and gown to trample them on the floor.

“Are you mad, doctor?” panted Tom Candlish.

“Yes,” came hissing through the doctor’s teeth.

“Don’t be a cursed fool. Recollect where you are.”

“Recollect where I am!” cried North with a bitter laugh. “You say that to me, you sacrilegious hound!”

They swayed here and there again, North striving hard to get a hand free to strike a blow, but in vain; and the struggle was one savage wrestle, in which the weaker man seemed to be made the equal of the stronger by the passion in his breast.

Meanwhile Leo Salis, trembling in every limb, crouched in the dark far corner of the vestry, and half lay huddled up, listening to the fierce struggle, too much unnerved to move.

At last, though, the desire to escape—to make her way home—mastered all else, and she made for the nearest point of exit—the door into the churchyard; but though she passed her hand over it again and again, the key was not there. Tom Candlish had it in his pocket, and he was unable to set her free.

She tried to creep past the contending couple to the chancel door, but as she strove for it, Tom Candlish was driven against her, nearly fell, and uttered a savage curse, which drowned her cry of agony, for he had crushed her delicate hand beneath his heel.

She shrank back into the corner again, sobbing with fear: but as the struggle continued she nerved herself once more, and this time rose to her feet and tried the other way, just as Tom Candlish was gaining the mastery, and swung North round so savagely that he struck the wretched girl, and drove her heavily against the wall.

Leo uttered a hoarse gasp, and stretched out her hands to save herself, when her left touched the oaken door leading into the chancel.

This revived her just as her feelings were overcoming her and she was turning faint.

With a quick motion she caught the latch, dragged it up, passed through the opening, and, closing the heavy oaken door, sped along the chancel and south aisle to the big door, unlatched it, and, hardly knowing what she did, passed into the porch, and relocked the door before running down to the lych-gate, round to the meadows, and then breathlessly back to the Rectory garden.

“Safe!” she panted; “safe!” as she reached the rustic summer-house, and climbed rapidly up to gain her room, and, after softly closing the casement, sink down sobbing on the floor, bathed in perspiration, and with her breath coming in sobs. “That idiot will not dare to speak. I hope Tom will half kill him. What an escape! But no one will know.”

At this thought she breathed more freely, in happy ignorance of the fact that Dally was just closing her window, gleefully hoping that there had been a scene.

That scene was over now, for as the big south door closed on Leo the struggle was at its fiercest, and Tom Candlish was getting the worst of the encounter.

“Loose my throat, North!” he cried. “So cursedly ungentlemanly.”

“Yes; I am dealing with a scoundrel, whom Hartley Salis thrashed, and I’ll thrash you too, you dog!”

As he spoke, he dealt with his now freed hand a fierce blow right between Tom Candlish’s eyes, making him stagger back.

But the triumph was momentary, for, rendered savage by the pain, the young squire flung himself upon his adversary, and bore him back as a jingling of a falling key was heard. The wrestling grew wilder and fiercer, and then Horace North felt as if his legs were suddenly enmeshed. He strove to free them, but in vain; and before he could recover the ground he had lost he was flung heavily, his head coming with a crash upon the stone floor, just where the matting did not cover it, and he lay without motion, and made no sound.

“Curse him for a fool! Let him lie there till he comes to,” panted Tom Candlish. “Where’s the key? What a fool! I heard it fall as we struggled. Matches? They went too, and if they didn’t I daren’t light one.”

He felt his way to the chancel door, but in his confusion he could not open it, as Leo had made it fast.

“She’s got away home by now,” muttered Candlish. “Where’s my hat? All right; I put it on the window-ledge. Hah!—yes, that will do.”

He stepped up on the oaken chest beneath the long, narrow window, opened the iron-framed casement, and, squeezing himself through, stood in a bent attitude, holding on for a few moments, and then leaped down into the black darkness.

A dull thud as he came down on the gravel, a crushing blow, followed by another rapidly given; a heavy groan, and then silence.

A minute later a rustling sound as of some one stealing away.

Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.

“What Have! Done?”

“Where am I?”

No answer. All was pitchy dark, but a pleasant, cool air fanned the speaker’s burning brow.

“Moredock! Are you asleep? The light’s out. What’s the matter? What’s this cloth about my legs?”

There was a rustling sound as Horace North rose to his feet, dragged a fallen surplice from his feet, and began to feel about him in a confused way.

But that was a wall, not the ends of coffins; that was an overturned table, not the stone slab with its hideous burden; and that—

“Oh!”

Horace North reeled against the wall, and rested there as he uttered that piteous groan; for, like a flash of lightning, the ray of memory had shot into his darkened brain, and he saw once more the wretched idol he had worshipped gazing wildly at him with starting eyes—she, the woman he had set upon a pinnacle, grovelling before him in her shame! The moment before, the lady of his frank, honest love; the next moment revealed to him as low in mind, as degraded as some miserable rustic wench, ready to accept the kisses of the first man who called her “dear!”

“Am I going mad?” he groaned. “Poor Salis! Poor Mary Salis! They must never know. And poor me! Fool! blind idiot! But I loved her,” he moaned: “and I thought her so sweet and pure and true—a woman for whom I would have shed my heart’s best blood—a woman for whom I—Pah! I must not stand puling here! Blood? Yes, blood! The brute! He’s strong as a horse.”

He took out a pocket-handkerchief, doubled it, and roughly bandaged his head; for it was bleeding from a cut at the back.

“Clear my brain,” he muttered; “I must not stand here. That place left open! Is Moredock there?”

He felt his way to the door; and, as he stepped cautiously along, his foot kicked against something which jingled on the tiled floor.

He felt about, touched the surplice which had been dragged down and entangled his legs; and, as he snatched it away, the key jingled once more, and he caught it up.

He opened and relocked the door after he had passed out, breathing more freely as he stood in the cool, dark night.

“Moredock!” he whispered. “Are you there?”

There was no reply, but he did not stir; for a curious feeling of confusion attacked him once more, and he put his hand to his head to try and master his thoughts.

“Yes,” he muttered; “of course I must go and close that place up. Even if I go mad, that must not be known.”

He took a few steps instinctively towards the vault, and fell over something in the path, contriving, however, to save himself, so that he only came down upon his hands and knees.

The shock acted like a spell, and brought back his wandering mind.

“Who’s this?” he muttered. “Moredock?”

He passed his hands rapidly about the body before him, lying flat upon its back.

“Tom Candlish!” he ejaculated, as his hands came in contact, the one with a curiously-shaped breast-pin the young squire wore, the other with the bunch of charms and the locket he wore on his chain.

“Good heavens! What have I done? The man is dead!”

North started to his feet, trying hard to collect his wandering ideas, for he was at sea once more. He could not comprehend how Tom Candlish had contrived to get there, till he recalled the window, and at the same time recollected that he had struck at him again and again with all his might.

“Have I killed him?” he muttered; and, suffering still from the blow upon his head, his mental faculties seemed to be quite off their balance. The calm medical man, with his accurate judgment, was no longer there; but one full of wild excitement—one moment bubbling over with delirious joy at having triumphed over his enemy, of whom he had been madly jealous; the next, ready to shrink and tremble at the deed he had done.

He did not—he could not—pause to calculate how it had happened, beyond feeling that he must have beaten his enemy horribly, till he had in his last efforts struck him down, and then crawled out from the window to fall and die. He could not arrange all this in an orderly manner, for he was now seized with a frantic horror of discovery; and the question filled his mind, what was he—a murderer—to do?

Only one idea occurred to him, and that was the natural one that occurs to the most ignorant under the circumstances: he had slain this man, and the penalty was death for death. He did not know that he wanted to live, the shock had been too horrible that night; but he must act—he must do something; and, yielding entirely to his impulses, he bent down, and, with a wonderful effort of nervous force, raised the fallen man, and stood thinking for a few moments.

Impulse moved him then; and, without further hesitation, he bore the body down the steps to the door of the mausoleum.

The door yielded to his pressure, and he stepped in with his load, the darkness proving no hindrance to him, for he knew the place so well that he could come and go without touching the sides for guidance.

He stood right in the middle of the place for a few moments, thinking; one brother hanging over his left shoulder, the other lying motionless upon that cold stone slab, as he had lain all through the series of experiments which had been tried.

“It is fate,” he muttered, as he softly lowered his burden down upon the sawdust-covered floor, the brothers side by side, save that the younger was lower—nearer to his mother earth.

Then, in a quick, business-like way, North stepped to the door, passed through, and locked it, and then served the iron gate in the railings the same.

“I must fetch my instruments away some day,” he muttered—“if I stay. No one will seek him there. He will be supposed to have fled from me. But Moredock?

“Moredock can be trusted; I can silence him,” he said grimly. “He knew who was there.”

North stood thinking for a few minutes in the churchyard, half startled, but feeling a certain relief as well as pleasure in the fact that his rival was removed from his path.

Then that word “rival” seemed to strike him a mental blow, for it brought up to his confused intellect why it was that he and Tom Candlish had been rivals; and at this thought he once again saw Leo, the woman he had loved, gazing wildly in his face; and, with a low moan, he staggered, more than walked, from the churchyard, making instinctively for home; but as he reached the sexton’s cottage, the faint light therein attracted him, and, feeling dizzy, he put his hand to his head, to find that it was bleeding freely.

As he hesitated whether to go in or hurry on, the door, which had been ajar, opened more widely, and a great, claw-like hand was thrust out, and he was guided to the big Windsor chair.

“Hurt, doctor? All over blood? Don’t say you didn’t dress him down.”

North made no answer, for the low-ceiled room seemed sailing round as he turned his ghastly face and gazed in the speaker’s eyes.

Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.

A Terrible Accident.

“My turn now,” said Moredock, with a low chuckle. “Times as he’s given me doses. He, he, he! I can give him one now.”

The old sexton took a key from his vest, and opened a curious old oaken corner cupboard, upon whose shelves were ranged a variety of objects which gleamed out from their prison, and seemed to suggest that they had not been honestly come by. The most prominent object, however, was a square, black schnapps bottle, with a footless glass turned upside down beside it.

“There, doctor,” chuckled the old man, as he made the cork squeak and the liquid gurgle when he poured some out; “that arn’t the same physic as you give me, but it’s real line, and was sent down to me by a London gent as I’ve dealt with many a time.”

North did not hesitate, but drank the dram of strong brandy at a gulp.

“That puts life into you, don’t it, doctor, eh? Better now?”

“Hah!” sighed North, returning the glass, and leaning back in the chair. “No, no; that will do.”

The stimulus did more than carry off the sensation of fainting, it gave back the power to think consistently; and North sat up as if considering what he should do next.

“He’s knocked you about a bit, doctor,” said Moredock, breaking in upon his musings.

“Eh? Yes; we had a sharp struggle,” said North, starting.

“Sent him home like a cur with his tail between his legs, haven’t you, doctor?”

North shuddered and caught Moredock’s arm.

“How did you know that—that he was there?”

“Oh, I foun’ it out!” said the old man evasively. “I’ve seen ends of cigars there and ashes on the floor; and I thought at first that parson smoked, and told him of it.”

“And—and what did he say?”

“Looked guilty,” chuckled the old man.

North was silent for a few moments, sitting with one hand across his eyes, trying to think out what he should do.

“Moredock,” he said, sharply turning on the old man; “why did you show me that to-night?”

The sexton gazed at him fixedly.

“Tell me—the truth.”

“Well, doctor, it didn’t do for young Squire Tom to be dessicating my church.”

“You had some other reason.”

“Well, it warn’t safe for us. He might ha’ foun’ us out.”

“Yes, exactly; but you would have warned me instead of taking me there. Why did you do that?”

“Well, doctor, of course I warn’t blind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you see,” said the old man, with a grin, “the saxun’s pay arn’t much; and a man looks out for what’s coming to help him on.”

“I don’t understand you, man.”

“Well, berrin’s and christenin’s and marriagein’s as all bring in a bit more. I’ve sin it for long enough.”

“Seen what?”

“That you was doin’ a bit o’ courting up at the Rect’ry; and it didn’t seem nice for your young lady to be going out o’ nights to meet Squire Tom, and in my church.”

North groaned.

“Never you mind, doctor; I like you,” said Moredock soothingly.

“Was this—was this known about the village?”

“’Bout you, or ’bout young miss?”

“Both, man, both!”

“Nay, not it. I see a deal, because I’m a man as thinks, doctor. No; I don’t s’pose any one knows on it. But never you mind, doctor; gels always will be gels and listen to chaps like Squire Tom. But I say,” whispered the old man, with a chuckle, after crossing to the window and seeing that the print curtain was well drawn over the broken patch through which the leaden tobacco jar had been hurled, “did you give it him well?”

North groaned.

“Why, doctor! Took more bad?”

The old man glanced at the hand he had laid upon the doctor’s shoulder, and wiped it, for it was wet with blood; and the sight of the hideous smear seemed to raise a terrible thought in his brain.

“Why, doctor,” he said, in a low whisper; “you haven’t—you haven’t hurt him much?”

North seized the old man’s arm, and sat gazing wildly at him for a few moments without speaking. He was battling with the mental confusion that troubled him and kept him in a state of hesitancy, in which his mind drifted like a derelict at sea.

He mastered it at last, and began to see clearly that, from what the old sexton knew, he must continue to make him his confidant. There could be no half measures. For his own safety he must tell him all; though even now there was Leo, who knew of the encounter.

No; she dare not speak, suspect what she might. For her reputation’s sake, she must hold her tongue.

Meanwhile, the old man glanced at his hand again, and, with a look of disgust, went through the action of wiping it.

“Why, doctor—doctor!” he whispered; “don’t say you’ve—!”

“I couldn’t help it, Moredock,” said North excitedly. “It was in the struggle: it was a fight for life. We were both mad with rage, and I—I struck him.”

“Ay, ay, doctor; but you needn’t ha’ hit him so hard. Look at the blood! Deary, deary; and all this trouble about a gel.”

“I don’t know how it happened,” panted North, clinging tightly to the old man’s arm. “I must have given him a terrible blow.”

“But it’s a hanging matter, doctor—a hanging matter!” whispered the sexton. “Don’t hold me, man; I didn’t do it! I won’t be dragged into it! I didn’t know you’d go and do that!”

“I didn’t mean to, Moredock. It was in my rage.”

“But it’s murder, doctor; it’s murder, and they’ll try you for your life!”

“It must not be known. We must—”

“Nay, nay: it isn’t we,” protested the old man. “It was you did it. I was skeered about you both getting wild, and I thought I’d be out of it, and came home.”

“But you must help me, Moredock! You shall help me, man!”

“I can’t help you, doctor: it’s murder!” protested the sexton, trying to escape from the fierce grasp which held him.

“It was not murder! It was fair fight!” cried North fiercely. “And, look here, man, you cannot help yourself. You must help me to hide this terrible night’s work.”

The old man ceased struggling: for the doctor’s words impressed him, and he felt how thoroughly they two were linked together.

“But it’s like cutting short a man’s days,” he half whimpered.

“Silence! Do what I say, and no one need know what has occurred.”

“But—”

“Silence, I say!” cried North, firmly now. “Get your hat; we must go to the church at once.”

Moredock stood half bent, and with his head turned to his companion.

“Where—where is he, doctor?”

“In the Candlish vault. I carried him there!”

“Hah!”

The sexton drew a long breath. “You must come on and remove all traces of the struggle in the vestry, and then—”

“In the morslem, eh, doctor?” said the old man thoughtfully, and growing resigned to the difficulties of his position. “Well, we can put him where no one’s likely to find him there. Hey, doctor, but it’s been a bad thing for me to ha’ met you!”

“Your lanthorn and matches—quick!” said North. “There is no time to lose!”

“But if—if—doctor?”

“If what?”

“If it is found out, you’ll say a word for me. You’ve made me do all this. I do want to live my fifteen or twenty years more in peace.”

“Trust me as you’ve trusted me before,” said North, who was now speaking calmly enough, and had grasped the situation. “I tell you it was an accident—a horrible accident. It was in fair fight; and I have come off none too well.”

“I’ll stand by you, doctor,” said the old man; “and we’ll hide it safe. But there’s Dally,” he muttered to himself—“Dally. She’ll know there’s something wrong, for she won’t believe. Not that he has gone away out o’ fear o’ doctor? Ay, she’ll have to think that. My poor little lass—my poor little lass!”

Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.

The Doctor is Relieved.

The old clock wheezed, and rattled, and spun round, and its weights ran down as the doctor and old Moredock entered the belfry door. Then, as the portal was closed, the dark place seemed to be filled with sound as the chimes rang out the four quarters, and then the deep-toned strokes of hammer upon bell proclaimed that it was nearing day.

“Only three o’clock,” thought North, “and it seems as many days as hours.”

They passed into the church as soon as the old man had lit his lanthorn and covered it with the skirt of his coat, which he held so that the light fell only upon the matting, and here and there upon a brass or some half-worn letters cut in the stones.

The chancel door stuck and refused to open till the old man had held down his lanthorn to see what held it.

“What’s here?” he whispered, as something glittered. “Young miss’s bracelet,” he added, as he dragged out the shining gewgaw, which Leo had dropped in her flight, and which had fallen close to the bottom of the door, and acted as a wedge. “Take hold, doctor.”

“Pah!” ejaculated North, drawing back. “Throw it away.”

“Ay, I’ll throw it away,” muttered the old man, stuffing the heavy gold circle into his pocket: “I’ll throw it away. Hey, but lookye here.”

He held up the lanthorn, and revealed the state of the vestry—the chair overturned, the table driven into a corner, and the gown and surplice torn from the pegs on which they had hung, trampled and twisted, while in one place the tiles close to the wainscot were stained with blood, a few drops of which had splashed the panelled oak.

“Shut that window, man—quick! Hide your light.”

Moredock obeyed, screening his lanthorn, and then climbing on to the oak chest and drawing in and fastening the hasp.

“Shall I—” he began, as he got down.

“Hang it, man, no!”

“Hist! Don’t say that there word,” whispered Moredock excitedly.

“You can come up here to-morrow, and clean up, and arrange the place. Let’s get to the vault at once.”

The old sexton’s hands trembled as he opened the vestry door, but as he felt how calm and decisive his companion seemed to be, he took courage and followed North through the iron gate and down the steps to the mausoleum door.

“Keep that lanthorn well covered,” whispered North, as he unlocked the door; “and you have not locked the gates.”

The old man stepped back, feeling the wisdom of his companion’s proceedings as far as caution was concerned; and by the time he had stepped back, North was inside the great vault, holding the door for him to enter.

“There, let’s have the light now,” said the doctor bitterly. “Be firm. You are not afraid to face a dead man?”

“Nay, I’m not sheered now, doctor,” whispered Moredock; “but you’ll—you’ll—you’ll—”

“Pay you?”

“Ay, doctor. You see, it’s—it’s—”

“Don’t halt and stammer, man,” said the doctor sternly. “This is a terrible business, but I can trust you, and you can trust me. Stand by me firmly over this, and I will give you enough every year to make you comfortable to the end of your days.”

“Hi, doctor, that’s speaking out like a man,” said Moredock, smiling hideously as he opened the horn lanthorn to snuff the candle with his fingers, when the light shone full in his face. “And he warn’t no good, were he?”

“I dare say he valued his life as highly as I valued mine—yesterday,” added the doctor softly.

“And he tried to kill you, didn’t he?” whispered Moredock, closing the lanthorn again.

“As much as I tried to kill him, I suppose,” said North. “We were fighting like two brute beasts.”

“Ay, and it was for life, like,” said Moredock, in a satisfied tone. “It warn’t murder, doctor, were it?”

“By law, I suppose not,” said North quietly, as he stood in his former attitude with his hand over his eyes. “There, we must not waste time. My experiment is over now, and we must restore this place to its old state.”

“Not murder,” said Moredock, with a chuckle; “of course not. I feel easy now.”

He held the lanthorn over the extended form of Tom Candlish, which looked strangely ghastly by the feeble yellow light; and as he bent down, he could see that the young squire had received two terrible blows—one on his forehead, and the other on the right temple—both of which had bled and left a hideous stain upon the sawdust.

“Dally ’ll have to try again,” said the old man to himself. “Enough a year to make me comf’table, and the doctor to keep me alive. You wouldn’t ha’ done that, Tom Candlish, over the money; and you couldn’t ha’ kept me alive when I was badly. You’d ha’ been a brute to the gel too ’fore you’d had her long. There, it’s all a blessing in disguise, as Parson Salis says.”

He grinned in his ghoul-like way, and turned to touch North on the elbow.

“Doctor!” he whispered.

North’s hands fell from before his eyes, and he turned to gaze wildly at the old man, as one gazes when suddenly awakened from a too heavy sleep.

“Yes! What is it? I’d forgotten. My head, man.”

“Look here,” whispered the old sexton, leading him to the far right-hand corner of the vault, where a particularly florid old tarnished coffin handle dimly reflected the light in its ancient niche.

The old man gave the end of the coffin a rap with his knuckles.

“Empty,” he whispered, grinning; and he tapped it again, so that it emitted a hollow sound.

“Empty?”

“Ay; empty now, doctor. An old Squire Candlish lay in there two hundred years ago a’most; now a new Squire Candlish can lie in it, eh?”

“Conceal the body there?” said North, who looked dazed.

“Tchah! Only put him in there to sleep: that’s all, doctor; and nobody but us’ll know.”

“Quick, then,” said North; “I’m a good deal hurt, man, and my head feels confused.”

“Ay, to be sure, doctor, I’ll be quick, and then you can go home and put yourself to rights, and go on again here just as before. Take hold.”

North obeyed in a dreamy way, apparently not knowing what he did; and as Moredock dragged out the old coffin, with its tattered velvet and tarnished ornamentations, he took the handle at the far end, and it was lifted down into the sawdust.

The old man took the screw-driver from where it lay on the new coffin, where Sir Luke should have reposed, and rapidly turned the screws, leaving each standing up in its hole, and then lifted off the lid, to disclose some yellow lining and faded flowers, turning rapidly to so much dust—nothing more.

“It’ll fit him,” whispered Moredock. “All the men Candlishes are ’bout the same size.

“There, doctor,” he continued, as he set the lid down. “Now, then, to make all safe.”

The old man’s words seemed to rouse North from his dreamy state, and with a start he looked at the old wretch before him, then at the empty coffin, and his quick medical appreciation of the situation seemed for the first time to have fully returned.

“Here; hold the light,” he said.

“Better set it down there,” whispered Moredock. “We can see better, then.”

“Hold the light, I say,” cried the doctor sternly; and he went down on one knee by the young squire’s side.

Moredock looked on wonderingly, for it had not occurred to him to make any inquiry into the young man’s state. North had as good as told him that he was slain, and to have questioned the doctor’s verdict would have been unnatural. He stood there then in a bent position, holding the lanthorn, as North made a rapid examination of the young baronet, and then rose to his feet in a calm, practical manner, uttering a sigh of relief.

“Ready, doctor?” whispered Moredock, to whom all this seemed in the highest degree unnecessary.

“Ready, man? No. Put that ghastly thing away. Tom Candlish will go on working wickedness for years after you’ve been under ground.”

Moredock straightened himself up, and held the lanthorn above his head, so that its light could fall upon the doctor’s face. Then, apparently not satisfied, he lowered it, moved the wire slide, and opened the little door, before turning the light on the doctor’s face again.

“Well?” said North.

“What yer talking about, doctor? You don’t mean—mean as—as—”

“I mean that the man is only stunned,” said North, frowning, as he stood gazing down at his rival; “and we must alter all our plans, Moredock. Neither you nor I will be hung for murdering Tom Candlish,” he added, with a half-savage laugh, as resentment against the man began to take the place of the horror which had pervaded his soul.

“Why, doctor,” whispered Moredock, “you’re a bit off your head. Come, man, quick; and let’s get it done. No one will know.”

“Pshaw! I’m as sane as you are when this confused feeling is not here.”

“But Tom Candlish—the squire?”

“I tell you he’s alive, man! Do you not understand?”

And the party in question endorsed his rival’s statement by uttering a low moan.

At that moment, by natural magnetism, or influence, or occult action of mind upon mind, or whatever it may have been, two people who had lain wakeful and excited in their separate beds, now feverish, now perspiring profusely from horror and abject fear, turned their weary heads upon their pillows, and dropped off fast asleep.

The name of one of the sleepers was Leo Salis, and of the other Joe Chegg.

“But he’s nearly dead, doctor,” whispered Moredock, and he glanced round at the coffin.

“Don’t you think that—”

He made a significant sign towards the coffin, and there was a strange leer upon his ghoulish face.

Dr North turned swiftly round, and caught his tempter by the throat!

Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.

The Sexton’s News.

“You ring, sir?”

“Yes, Dally; go up to Miss Leo’s room, and say we are waiting breakfast.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dally, and her blackcurrant eyes gave a malicious twinkle.

“Oh, how I should like to know,” she muttered to herself, as she left the room.

“It’s so tiresome,” exclaimed Salis testily; “busy as I am this morning—letters to write. I must answer this last letter of May’s. More complaints—more complaints! Oh, what a wretched curate he has got!”

Mary looked up from her seat, with her gentle smile, for she knew how the harsh crystals of annoyance would melt away with the first cup of tea, and her brother be all smiles again.

“Wouldn’t you like to begin, dear?”

“Begin? Without Leo! You know, Mary, how particular she is, and how she would feel it as a slight. Tut—tut—tut! How late she is! Mrs Berens, too, been writing. Do you know, Mary, I wish that woman would leave the place!”

“She is not likely to, Hartley,” said Mary, who was propped up with cushions at the head of the table, having lately taken her old place once more; “and she is very kind and good.”

“Yes, that’s the worst of it,” said Salis grimly. “If she were a disagreeable old harridan, it would not matter so much. Oh! here she comes.”

Leo came quickly into the breakfast-room, looking strained about the eyes, to cross to Mary, put down her right cheek to be kissed, and then to go to her brother, extend him her hand, and lower her left cheek for a second salute.

“That’s right, dear,” said Salis cheerily; “but you are terribly late. I’m so busy this morning.”

“Why did you not begin?” said Leo, as she languidly took her place.

“Without you? Not likely. Pour out, Mary, dear. Why, Leo—not well?”

“Not well?” she said, repeating his words calmly enough. “I am quite well, dear.”

“But you look—”

“As if I had overslept myself,” said Leo quietly. “Any letters?”

“Yes. One sent on by Mrs Berens about the parish poor. Must bring that up this morning. One from May. That wicked old man! I know he keeps on with this persecution—there, I can call it nothing else—on purpose to get me to resign.”

“And you will not resign, Hartley,” said Leo; “you will set him at defiance.”

“I don’t know. I do love a quiet life, and I cannot get it. Now, here’s this morning. Letters to write—more tea, Mary. Ten-o’clock meeting in the vestry.”

“Ah!”

“Why, Leo, dear!” cried the curate, half starting from his chair, while Mary gazed wonderingly at her sister.

“There’s nothing the matter, good people,” said Leo contemptuously. “A touch of toothache! The weather, I suppose.”

“You quite startled me,” said Salis cheerily. “Visit to the dentist imminent, my dear. Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes! Vestry meeting at ten,” he continued, turning to a memorandum-book; “Sir Thomas Candlish to preside, by special request.”

Leo’s face was ghastly, but she mastered her emotions by a tremendous effort of will; and, rising from her seat, she fetched a book from the sideboard, opened it as she returned to her place, and went on reading with her breakfast.

“Ah! you’ll be glad to hear this, Mary,” said Salis. “North is going to bring up the question of those four dilapidated cottages. He says they are regular fever generators, and that Sir Thomas shall have them pulled down, for they are a disgrace to the place.”

“They certainly are not fit for human habitation, Hartley,” said Mary, who could not keep her wondering eyes off her sister, making a pretence of eating and reading, but doing neither. She could do nothing but listen to the recital of peril after peril accumulating round her, and all following upon a pert, insolent reply given her by Dally Watlock as she was coming down.

“I expect we shall have a storm,” continued Salis, as if to himself. “It’s like asking the arbitrary landlord to have a tooth out, to pull down a labourer’s cottage.”

Leo Salis had the spirit and cruelty of heart of an old Roman woman. She could have viewed with a feeling of intense delight a gladiatorial exhibition, and turned down her thumb with the worst of them for the death-warrant of any poor wretch who had not displayed a sufficiency of courage. To her the new-born passion of Horace North had been a matter of intense satisfaction, and she had revelled with a malicious joy in the feeling that she had made him her slave—one who would never meet with the slightest reward. But while she was careless of the pain she inflicted upon others, she could suffer keenly at times, and this was one of these occasions. She loved as a tigress might love, and her affection had become centred upon the brutal, coarse-minded, athletic scoundrel, who ranked as a gentleman, but whose tastes and ways were those of a low-class stable helper; and now, after a night of miserable anxiety lest her lover should have been injured by North, while she dare make no inquiry as to what had occurred—she found herself obliged to sit there chained as much by inclination as by necessity to hear that Tom Candlish and the doctor were to be brought face to face before her brother in the scene of the previous night’s encounter.

After a short sleep, she had awoke at dawn to ask herself what she should do—whether she should fly from the Rectory, and bid Tom Candlish take her away, so that she should not be called upon to face the scornful looks and contempt of North.

But after a time her stubborn and determined nature had taught her that she would be at a great disadvantage with Tom Candlish if she went to him. He would be no longer the suer but the sued, and she was determined that he should make her his wife.

“North dare not speak to me; and if he did, what then? He is my slave, and I will meet him. Let him come, and say what he likes. I am no sickly, sentimental girl who feels bound to obey every one in turn. I will not go. I’ll face it all.”

She could not conceal her aspect, but her heart was strong when she came down that morning till the troubles seemed to accumulate, and a black cloud of care, which she could not penetrate, appeared to be rising.

Salis went on hurriedly with his breakfast, talking of the business in the vestry; and all the time Leo was wondering how it was that North could have known of their meetings—how the vestry looked that morning—what the old sexton would say, and how this trouble would settle down.

She glanced furtively aside, and saw that Mary was watching her.

This set her wondering whether her sister knew anything, and of whether her nocturnal escapades would reach her brother’s ears.

It was not likely, she told herself; and she was gradually growing more composed, when Dally presented herself briskly at the door, her eyes twinkling, and a quiet, satisfied look about her which seemed to show that she was pleased with the task she had in hand.

“Note from Dr North, sir! No answer.”

“Hah! about the cottages,” said Salis, smiling as he opened the note, Dally closing the door after darting a triumphant glance at Leo, which was not seen. “Ammunition to use against the enemy. How provoking!”

“Is anything wrong, Hartley?” said Mary, while Leo bent lower over her book.

“Wrong? Yes! There always is something wrong. Poor Horace is unwell this morning, and cannot attend the vestry.”

Leo’s heart gave a bound. Her brave, strong lover had beaten the wretched intruder, and he had curled up in his hole, afraid to come out. There was nothing to fear from Horace North but his contempt, and she could meet that with her scorn.

“My poor people’s cottages!” sighed Salis. “They’ll have to wait. Well, I’m not malignant, but if a fever is generated there, I hope the landlord will be the first to catch it.”

“Hartley!” cried Mary, in remonstrant tones.

“I didn’t say and be cut off,” cried Salis, laughing, glancing at the window. “I meant to read him a severe lesson. Hallo! Job redivivus! I’m Job. Here comes another messenger. Why, what does old Moredock want?”

Leo’s heart sank. She felt that she knew, and shrank from the ordeal, as Dally meekly opened the breakfast-room door.

“Please, sir, gran’fa says can he speak to you a minute?”

“Certainly, Dally; bring him in. Port wine, Mary!” he added, as soon as the maid had left the room; and he recalled certain words he had let fall about the missing bottles of tent, and his promise to give the old fellow wine if he were unwell.

“Surely, Hartley, you are not going to have that dreadful old man in here!” panted Leo, who felt half suffocated by her emotion, as she recalled the last night’s scene in the vestry. “Why not, dear?”

“It is too horrible—the sexton!”

“Nonsense, child! Poor old fellow! His stay on earth cannot be for long; let’s make it as free from social thorns as we can. Morning, Moredock!” he cried, as Dally ushered the old man in, to stand bowing to Mary and her sister before making a scrape or two before the curate.

“Mornin’, young ladies! Mornin’, sir! Smart mornin’, sir! Sorry to trouble you at braxfus, but I was obliged to come.”

Leo acknowledged the bow without rising, bent lower over her book, and, with teeth set hard, stole one hand under the cloth to grasp the edge of the table and grip it with all her might.

“What, about the vestry meeting—to tell me Dr North was ill?”

“Doctor ill! Is he though, sir?” croaked Moredock, as his red eyes wandered from face to face.

“Yes, he is unwell, Moredock, and cannot come.”

“Bad job—bad job, sir! Doctors has no business to be ill. S’p’ose I was took bad, I shouldn’t like to trust Dr Benson. I never did have no faith in King’s Hampton folk at all. But it warn’t about that.”

“What, then? Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Ay; but it be, sir,” croaked the old man, staring for a moment at Mary, and then fixing his eyes upon Leo. “It is very ser’ous. Some un’s been in the night and made a burgly in the chutch.”

“What!” cried Salis, starting up. “Great heavens, Moredock! is this true?”

“Ay, it be true enough, parson.”

“But they haven’t taken the plate?”

“Nay, the plate be safe, though.”

“The poor-boxes, then? Thank goodness, Mary, I emptied them the day before yesterday. How providential!”

“They never touched poor-boxes,” croaked Moredock: “and if I might make so bold, parson, I’m a bit weak i’ th’ legs yet, and I’d like to sit down.”

“Yes, yes, sit down, Moredock; but pray speak out.”

“Well, you see, sir, they didn’t get into my chutch: only into vestry.”

Leo felt that she must get up and leave the room, but she lacked the power.

“The vestry!” cried Salis. “What have they taken?”

“Well, as far as I can make out, sir, they broke in at window, and then they must ha’ been skeered, for they only thieved one thing.”

“What!—the wine?”

“Nay, nay, nay. Wine’s all right—locked up in the cupboard,” croaked Moredock. “They’ve stole your surplus, sir.”

“Impossible!” cried Salis, giving the table a sounding thump with his closed fist, and bursting into a roar of laughter.

“Impossible, Mary. I haven’t any surplus for them to steal.”

“Ay, well,” grumbled the old sexton, looking wonderingly at the curate and then at Leo and Mary in turn; “you may say so, parson, but I know. It were a hanging up on peg alongside o’ the gownd, and they’d pulled ’em both down to take away, when they must have been skeered, and they chowked the gownd down in the corner by the oak chesty, and the surplus is gone.”

“Ah, well, it might have been worse,” said Salis, with a sigh. “It was my new one, though, and the old one is terribly darned. Leo, dear, you will have to get out the old one again. Mary has the keys.”

“It be a bad job, parson.”

“It is, Moredock, a very bad job; but I’m glad the wretches were scared. I won’t believe it was any one from Duke’s Hampton.”

“Nay, it were some of the King’s Hampton lot, safe, parson. Ugh! they’re a bad set out yunder. I thought it my dooty to come on and tell you, sir, and now I’m going away back.”

“Let me give you a cup of tea, Moredock,” said Mary; “you look tired.”

“Bless your sweet eyes and heart, miss, and thankye kindly,” said Moredock. “Cup o’ tea’s a great comfort to a lone old man. And thankye kindly for undertaking to take care o’ my Dally, as wants it, like most young gels. Why, Miss Mary, I’ve know’d you since you was quite a little thin slip.”

“You have, Moredock,” said Mary, smiling, as she handed the tea to her brother for the old man, who paid no farther heed to Leo. “I was only fifteen when I first saw you.”

“Ay, and you was as bright and quick as now you’re—Well, never mind that, my dear. Better be an angel as can’t walk about than some beautiful gels as can.”

“Why, Moredock,” said Salis, laughing, “was that meant for a compliment?”

“I dunno, parson,” said the old man, staring hard at Mary; “’tis only what I felt. Heaven bless her! I never see her face wi’out thinking o’ stained glass windows, wi’ wire outside to keep away the stones; and I says, may no stones never be throwed at her.”

The old man gulped down his tea, and rose to go.

“You’ll be on at vestry room, sir?”

“Yes, Moredock; and once more I’m glad it’s no worse.”

“Like me to go over in Badley’s donkey-cart, sir, to tell the police?”

“Well, yes, Moredock. We must give notice about the scoundrels, I suppose, or they may come again.”

“Mornin’, then, sir, and my service to you, Miss Mary, and thankye kindly, my dear,” said the old man, hobbling off without a word or look at Leo; and, oddly enough, as he reached the road he wiped a tear from each of his watery eyes.

“And so she is,” he muttered, “a real angel. My Dally never said, ‘Have a cup o’ tea, gran’fa; you’re hot and tired.’ Ah! gels is made different, but my Dally’s worth two o’ that tother one.”

“Police, eh?” he muttered, as he went on. “I was ’bliged to take it away twissened up into a rag, and if it had been washed somebody would have known. Ah, well, I know what to do wi’ that.”

So the old man went straight home, and fastened the door, before taking the soiled and crumpled surplice from his oak chest; and then carefully picking it to pieces and rolling it up.

“My Dally shall wash that, first time she comes, and nobody’ll know it’s a surplus now. She might ha’ asked her old gran’fa to have a cup o’ tea.”

Volume Two—Chapter Eighteen.

At Candlish Hall.

“My Dally” had been otherwise employed, for a messenger had come over from the Hall to see the curate; and at the time her grandfather was departing, Dally was cross-examining the good-tempered, loutish youth respecting his master, and getting out of him all she could glean.

“Job is having it this morning,” said Salis, for he heard a familiar step in the passage, as soon as the sexton had gone. “What now, Dally? No more bad news?”

“Bad news, sir?” said the girl, speaking to her master, and gazing at Leo, who did not look up. “I don’t think so, sir. It’s the young man from Candlish Hall, sir, to see you partikler.”

“I knew it,” cried Salis to Mary, as Leo bent lower. “Candlish has sent word that he cannot come. Now, how the de—”

“Hartley!”

“Well, it’s enough to make a saint swear. How can a man carry on his parish work like this? I wish to goodness May had it to do himself. Show him in, Dally.”

The girl departed, and returned directly with the servant from the Hall, who looked stealthily at Salis, and then from Leo to Mary and back.

“Can I speak to you alone, sir?” he said.

“Yes, yes, my man, certainly. Is it anything serious?”

“Yes, sir—very, sir. I’ve come—”

“Here, this way, to my study, my man,” said Salis, rising.

“Stop!”

Salis had reached the door—his hand was on the knob, and he was about to turn it; but the sharp, commanding voice made him turn in astonishment, to see Leo standing erect, with her head thrown back, her eyes flashing, and her hand resting upon the book—closed now—and one finger shut in to mark the place.

“Leo!”

“Yes; I said ‘stop.’ We are not children,” she cried, in an imperative voice. “Let the man speak here.”

“It was about Sir Thomas, ma’am—my master,” faltered the man, before Salis had recovered from his astonishment. “An accident.”

“An accident?” cried Leo, as Salis stepped to her side, and laid his hand upon her arm; but she shrank away. “Well, sir, why do you not speak?”

“Am I to speak, sir?” faltered the man.

“Yes; speak out,” said Salis quietly.

“My master did not come home last night, sir—I mean this morning. He often goes out of a night, sir, very late; but he always comes in at daybreak. I’ve seen him dozens of times.”

“Yes; go on,” said Leo harshly.

“He didn’t come back, miss—ma’am; and I was thinking about it when I went to the stables and took his mare and the pad-horse out for exercise.”

“Speak more quickly, man,” said Leo imperiously.

“Yes, ma’am. We’d got down nearly to the ford, when the mare—master’s mare, ma’am—shied at something, and nearly threw me.”

“The mare shied?” said Leo, with her eyes dilating.

“Yes, ma’am; and I saw it was at master lying there by the side of the road.”

“Dead?”

“No, ma’am, but very bad. His head was—”

“Hush!” said Salis, interrupting sternly. “No particulars, my man; only answer me this—was it a fall?”

“Oh, no, sir! some one had been beating him about the head with a stick, I should say.”

“Had he been robbed?”

“Oh, no, sir! His watch and chain and pin were all right.”

“Was he insensible?” continued Salis.

“Yes, sir; quite, sir; and seemed to have been staggering about the road, trying to get home, for there was bl—”

“Hush, man! Only answer my questions,” cried Salis hastily. “You got him home?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man, who could not keep his eyes off Leo, who was gazing at him wildly—in a way which taught her brother that the old love for Tom Candlish was far from dead.

“And then—”

“And then, sir, as soon as we’d got him on his bed, I galloped off for Dr North, sir.”

“Yes.”

“But he’s ill, sir, and the housekeeper said he couldn’t come to the Hall.”

“Well?”

“I hardly knew what to do, then, sir; but as I was wondering what was best, Joe Chegg come up, sir—he used to be a groom, you know—and I jumped off the mare, and made him get up and go off to King’s Hampton to fetch Dr Benson, while I came on to you.”

“Quite right,” said Salis. “I’ll come on with you directly. Mary, my dear, send a line to Moredock to say that there will be no vestry meeting. Yes? You were going to speak, Leo.”

She shook her head, and half closed her eyes, as she turned away, shivering at the feeling of vindictive rage which ran through her, as in imagination she seemed to see the result of the encounter which had taken place, and that it was Tom Candlish who had fared by far the worse.

Salis’s countenance grew more stern, as he leaned over to Mary, and stooped over to say a few words in her ear.

“Try and keep her by your side. We must have no foolish excitement now.”

“I will try,” said Mary gently; and she looked up to see that Leo was watching them both inquiringly, her face contracted, and a singular look in her eyes.

For she was wondering what would be the result of her brother’s meeting with the young squire; and then as she drew her breath painfully, the thoughts of self and the dread of detection gave place to feelings of horror respecting the man she loved, and of hate, the most bitter and intense, against North, whom she now longed to meet that she might revile him—heap upon his head her bitterness and contempt.

“It’s scared us, sir, horrible,” said the man as he walked back with Salis.

“Have you any idea who attacked your master?” said Salis.

“Not a bit, sir. That’s the puzzle of it. If it had been for his money, they’d have taken it all, and his watch. We can’t understand it a bit.”

“I can,” said Salis to himself. “The scoundrel has been insulting some one’s child, or sweetheart, or wife, and been half killed for his pains. I wonder who was the guilty party? Well I know that,” he muttered with a half laugh—“Tom Candlish.”

“Yes, sir; beg pardon, sir.”

“What for, my man?” said Salis, feeling a little disconcerted.

“I thought you laughed, sir, and said something.”

“No, no, my man; only a way of mine.”

They walked on in silence after this, Salis feeling very sore at heart as he thought of his sister, and how painful it was that she should still care, as she evidently did, for such a worthless scoundrel.

“Even the knowledge of this new escapade would not move her, I’m afraid,” he muttered. “Well, matters like this must settle themselves.”

They now reached the Hall, to find the servants assembled, and in a state of the most intense excitement.

“Master was no worse,” the old butler said. “He had been asking for brandy.”

“What? You did not give it to him?” cried Salis excitedly.

“I was obliged to, sir. You can’t know Sir Thomas, or you wouldn’t talk like that. But I’m very glad you’ve come, sir.—It’s such a responsibility, having him so bad. He’s terribly cut about, sir. Please come in and see if you can do anything more than I have till the doctor comes.”

Salis followed the old butler up to the bedroom, where Tom Candlish lay upon the bed, and, as the butler said, terribly cut about the head; for, in addition to the bruises upon his head and temple, he had a cut lip, and the very perfection of two black eyes.

“I don’t think you need be alarmed,” whispered Salis to the old man, as the door was opened, and the young squire saluted the butler with a volley of good stable oaths.

What the something unmentionable did he mean by bringing the parson? he raved.

“Do you think I’m going to die, and want to be prayed for? Send for a doctor.”

“I did, Sir Thomas,” said the butler deprecatingly; “but Dr North—”

“Curse Dr North!” roared the young man. “Send for Dr Benson.”

“I have, Sir Thomas, and—”

“Be off, you old idiot! And you, Salis, you’d better go too, or I may say something to you that you will not like.”

“You can say what you please, my good fellow,” said Salis, coolly taking off his coat for the second time in the young man’s presence.

“You coward,” groaned the injured man; “and when I’m like that. Your cursed sister—”

“Silence, you scoundrel!” roared Salis. “Here, fetch water in a basin, sponges, towels, and linen that I can cut up,” he continued to the butler, who gladly hurried out of the room. “And you, Candlish, unless you wish to rage yourself into a fever, be quiet; but I warn you that if you mention my sister again, sick or well, I will not be answerable for the consequences.”

“What are you going to do?” growled the young man suspiciously.

“Do, sir? What I would do for any other dog that I saw lying wounded in the road. I’m going to doctor you till proper qualified assistance comes.”

“He doesn’t know,” thought Tom Candlish. Then aloud: “I thought you were going to take a mean advantage of me now I was down.”

“You thought I was just such a cowardly, mean-spirited brute as you are, and as treacherous, eh?” said Salis bitterly, as he rapidly removed the clumsy bandage about the young man’s head. “Why, hallo! what does this mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“Your head. It has been bandaged.”

“Yes; that old idiot of a butler did it.”

“No; I mean this other. It has been properly strapped up.”

“Has it?”

“Yes,” said Salis. “The old man knows more about it than you think for. There, lie still.”

“Who’s to lie still with his head on fire?” growled the injured man. “Here, ring for some brandy.”

“You mean for the undertaker,” said Salis coolly.

“No; the brandy,” snarled Tom Candlish. “I’m sick and faint.”

“And you’ll be more sick and more faint if you take spirits now. There, lie still, and I’ll try and cool your head with this sponge and water.”

For the butler had re-entered, and for the next half hour the curious spectacle was visible of Hartley Salis playing the good Samaritan, with all the knowledge of experience, to the man who was doing his best to bring ruin and misery upon his peaceful home.

The delicate, almost feminine touch, soothed the pain Tom Candlish suffered; and he lay quietly upon the pillow, looking up at the curate, wondering whether he would do this if he knew all, and what he would say if he knew that he had deluded Leo into leaving her room night after night, to grant him meetings in the old vestry time after time, in spite of all that had been said.

The butler had gone, and Tom Candlish was lying with his eyes half closed, thinking about his last meeting with Leo, of the coming of the doctor, of their encounter, and of the way in which he had been struck down, when just after Salis had carefully laid a cool, moist towel upon his aching head, the door softly opened, and the baronet started up in bed with his ghastly face distorted as he uttered quite a yell.

“Ah, Horace, old fellow!” cried the curate excitedly. “I have been reproaching myself for not coming down to you. Here is my excuse. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

“Keep him off! Send him away!” yelled Tom Candlish, trying vainly to get to the other side of the bed, as North stood pale, choking, and suffering in the doorway.

“Don’t take any notice,” continued Salis; “a bit delirious, I’m afraid;” and then he gazed wonderingly at his friend as, with a fierce, implacable look, North strode up to the bed.

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 over mauvais 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 round in forma pauperis for 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 the éclaircissement had 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 Hampton re the 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.

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 was in 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 of delirium 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 is compos 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.

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!”

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Mrs Berens is Wounded.

“Is anything the matter, Mrs Berens?”

“Matter, my dear Mary?” said the lady, in a piteous voice. “Oh, yes; but how beautiful and soft and patient you look!”

She bent down and kissed the invalid, sighed, and wafted some scent about the room.

“I’m a great deal worried, dear, about money matters, and—and other things.”

“Money, Mrs Berens? I thought you were rich.”

“Not rich, dear, but well off. But money is a great trouble; for Mr Thompson, my agent in London, worries me a great deal, investing and putting it for me somewhere else. He says I am wasting my opportunities—that he could double my income; and when he comes down, really, my dear, his attentions are too marked for those of a solicitor.”

“Mr Thompson is a relative of Dr North, is he not?” said Mary gravely.

“Yes; he asked Dr North to introduce him, and the doctor did,” said Mrs Berens ruefully. “But it was not about the money; it was about Dr North himself I came to speak.”

“Indeed!” said Mary, with a faint tinge of colour showing.

“Yes, my dear; and I don’t want you to think me a busybody, but I could not help noticing that he seemed attached to Leo; and it is troubling me for Leo’s sake.”

“Will you speak plainly, Mrs Berens?”

“Yes, dear; but you frighten me—you are so severe. There! I will speak out! Leo is engaged to Dr North, is she not?”

“No,” said Mary, after a pause; “there is no engagement.”

“Ah, then that makes it not quite so bad.”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Oh, don’t be so severe, Mary. I was poorly yesterday—a little hysterical—the weather; and I sent for Dr North.”

“Yes.”

“He came, dear, and no medical man could have been nicer than he was at first; but all at once he seemed to change—to become as if he were two people!”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Yes, dear. I did not know what to make of him. He was like one possessed, my dear!”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Yes, dear; it’s quite true. One minute he was sympathetic and kind, and the next laughing at and bantering me in a strange tone.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“No, my dear. He told me it was all nonsense, and that I was as hearty as a brick. What an expression to use to a lady! And then he apologised, and spoke calmly, giving me excellent advice.”

Mary wiped the dew from her white forehead.

“And then, my dear,” continued Mrs Berens, “directly after he called me his pretty buxom widow. I felt as if I should sink through the floor with indignant shame.”

“Are you not mistaken, Mrs Berens?” said Mary, whose voice grew tremulous and almost inaudible.

“Mistaken, my dear? Oh, no; that is what he said; and then he seemed to feel ashamed of it, and I saw him colour up.”

“It seems impossible,” muttered Mary; and then she recalled her brother’s words, and a hand seemed to clutch her heart.

“Of course,” continued Mrs Berens, “I could not order him to leave the house; I could only look at him indignantly.”

“And he apologised?” said Mary eagerly.

“Apologised? No, my dear; he made matters worse by his low bantering—chaff, young men call it—till my face burned, and I felt so shocked that I was ready to burst into tears. For I always did like Dr North. Such a straightforward, gentlemanly man. You always felt such confidence in him.”

Mary looked at her wildly.

“Oh, no, my dear,” continued her visitor, taking her look as a question; “nothing of the kind. I should have smelt him directly. He kissed me. He had not been drinking. And it’s so horrible, for I could never call him in again.”

“Hush!” whispered Mary. “Pray don’t speak of it before my brother.”

“Before your brother! Oh, no, my dear. I should sink with shame. But why did you say that?”

“Because he might come in, and I must think about it all before I mention it to him.”

“But—but Mr Salis—”

“My brother is not out.”

“Not out? I understood your maid to say he had gone to the church,” cried Mrs Berens, starting up in alarm.

She was too late, for directly after Salis entered, with the presentation surplice over his arm.

Some one turned red in the face. It may have been Mrs Berens, or it may have been Salis; and, in either case, the colour was reflected. Certainly both looked warm.

Salis was the first to recover his equanimity and greet the visitor.

“I did not know you had company, Mary,” he said. “I was going to ask you to alter the buttons at the neck of this. It is too tight.”

“Then you are going to wear it?” said Mary, with the first display of malicious fun that had shone in her eyes since her accident.

“Wear it? Well, yes; I suppose I must,” said Salis gruffly. “I can’t afford to buy myself a new one. Only a beggarly, hard-up curate, you see, Mrs Berens.”

“Oh, Mr Salis!” faltered the lady.

“And I really was ashamed of my surplice on Sunday. Mary here patched and darned all she could; but I looked a sad tatterdemalion. Didn’t you think so?”

“I? Oh, no, Mr Salis; I was thinking of your discourse.”

“But I didn’t wear it during the discourse,” said Salis slowly.

“Oh, of course. I should not have noticed it during the prayers,” said Mrs Berens, who was strung up now.

“That means that the prayers are better worth listening to than my sermons?” said Salis quickly.

“I did not say so,” retorted Mrs Berens, who momentarily grew more dignified and distant of manner, while Mary looked from one to the other, surprised into enjoyment of the novel scene.

“Ah, well, never mind,” said Salis half-bitterly. “Never mind the sermon, Mrs Berens.”

“Is not that rather bad advice for one’s pastor to give to a member of his flock, Mr Salis?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Salis, laughing. “I am beaten. Now it’s my turn, madam,” he added to himself. “What do you think of that, Mrs Berens?” and he held out and displayed the surplice, as a modiste would a dress.

“It looks very white, Mr Salis,” said the lady, fanning herself with a highly-scented handkerchief.

“Are you a judge of the quality of linen, Mrs Berens?”

“Well, not a judge; but I think I can tell that this is very fine.”

“Exactly,” said Salis; “very fine, ma’am. Do you know what this is?”

“What it is—ahem! I suppose it is a surplice.”

“Yes, ma’am, but it is something more,” said Salis sharply; “it is an insult!”

“An insult, Mr Salis?”

“Yes, ma’am, an insult; an anonymous insult! Somebody had said to himself or herself, ‘This poor curate has lost his surplice, and can’t afford another without going into debt; I’ll buy him one and send him—carriage paid.’”

“Mr Salis!”

“Yes, ma’am. That is the state of the case. All right, Mary, my dear; I know what I am saying. Perhaps Mrs Berens may know who sent it.”

“Mr Salis! I—”

“Stop, stop, ma’am; pray don’t tell me. I would rather not know; it would be too painful to me. I only wish you, if you happen to know, to tell the anonymous donor what I feel about the matter. I was going to send the robe back to the maker: but, on second thoughts, I said to myself, I cannot afford a new one, so will swallow my pride, and wear it regularly, as a garb of penance, as a standing reproach—to the giver.”

There was quite a strong odour of patchouli in the room, for Mrs Berens was whisking her handkerchief about wildly.

“That’s all I wanted to say, ma’am. Mary, you’ll alter those buttons. I’ve tried it on, and my breast swelled so much with honest indignation, I suppose, that the fastenings nearly flew off. Good-bye, Mrs Berens. Oh! pray shake hands, ma’am. We are not going to be bad friends because I spoke out honestly and plainly.”

“Oh, no! Mr Salis,” faltered the lady, who had hard work to keep back her tears.

“I only want the donor to know how I feel about an anonymous gift, which stings a poor man who has any pride in him.”

“But clergymen should not have any pride,” said Mary, coming to Mrs Berens’ help.

“Quite right, my dear, but they have, and a great deal too sometimes.”

He nodded shortly to both in turn, and stalked out of the room.

Mrs Berens had risen. So had the tears, in spite of a very gallant fight. She made one more effort to keep them back, but her emotion was too strong; and, woman-like, seeking sympathy of woman, she sank upon her knees by Mary’s side, sobbing as if her heart would break.

“Good-bye, Mary, dear,” she said at last. “I’m a weak, simple woman; but I can feel, and very deeply too.”

This, after a long weeping communion, during which Mary Salis understood the gentle-hearted widow better than she had ever grasped her character before.

There was a very tender embrace, and then, with her veil drawn down tightly, Mrs Berens left.

“Why not?” said Mary to herself as she lay back thinking. “She is very good and amiable, and she loves him very much. And if I die—poor Hartley will seem to be alone.—Why not?”

Then her mind reverted to her visitor’s words, and a cloud of trouble sat upon her brow.

“What can it mean?” she mused. “And I so helpless here!” she sighed at last; “compelled to hear everything from others, unable to do anything but lie here and think.”

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

Moredock Writes a Note.

“He’s took to it—he’s took to it!” muttered Moredock, as he scratched one side of his nose with the waxy end of his pipe.

“Ah, it’s wonderful what a many doctors do take to it, and gallop theirselves off with it. Begins with a drop to keep ’em up sometimes, I s’pose, and then takes a little more and a little more.”

The old man sat smoking and musing over a visit he had just had from North.

“I don’t like it,” he said to himself. “He mayn’t be quite right some day when I call him in, and then it may be serious for me; I don’t like it at all.

“It’s no wonder when a man’s got all sorts o’ things as he can mix up into cordles, if he feels a bit down. That was prime stuff as he give me in the morslem. Hah! that was stuff. Then that other as went down into your fingers and toes, as it did right to the very nails. Why, I shouldn’t ha’ been surprised if he’d brought Squire Luke back to life with it.

“Hi, hi, hi!” he chuckled; “never mind about Squire Luke; but I should like him by-and-by—by-and-by, of course—to have a bottle on it mixed ready to give me, and bring me back. Phew! that’s a nasty subject to think about.”

He smoked rather hurriedly for some time, and there was a curious, haggard expression in his face; but it died out under the influence of his tobacco, and, after a time, he gave a low chuckle and shook all over.

“‘Old Buck!’ that’s what he said. ‘Old Buck,’ and give me a slap i’ the chest, as nearly knocked all the wind out o’ me. Not a bit like him to do. Not professional. As soon have expected Parson Salis to call me Old Cock. Ah, well! doctor’s only a man after all, and no book-larning won’t make him anything else; but I don’t like a doctor as takes to his drops.

“’Tarn’t brandy, or gin, or rum, or whisky, or I should have smelt him, and he spoke straight enough d’rectly after. He takes some stuff as he mixes up, and it makes him ready to burst out rollicking like at times; but he recollects hisself quickly ag’in, and seems sorry.

“Ay, but he looks bad, that he do. Looks like a man who can’t sleep—white and wanly. Well, as long as he tends me right, it don’t matter. He paid up handsome for all I did for him. Hi! hi! hi! It was a rum game. How’s young squire now, I wonder, and how’s matters going on there? Ha! now that’s curus. So sure as I begins thinking about my Dally, she comes. Hallo, my little princess, how do?”

“Oh, I am quite well, gran’fa,” said Dally, entering the cottage, looking rather flushed and heated. “I’m in a great hurry, but I thought I’d just run down and see how you were.”

“He come with you?” said the old man, pointing over the little maid’s shoulder.

She looked sharply round, caught sight of Joe Chegg, and ran back and slammed the door.

“An idiot!” she cried sharply. “He’s always following me about.”

“Going to let him marry you, Dally?”

“I should think not, indeed! What nonsense, gran’fa.”

“Well, what have you come for, eh? How’s squire?”

“Getting nearly well again.”

“Is he? How do you know? Were you going up to Hall night afore last?”

“N—”

“Yes, you were, Dally,” said the old man, with a chuckle. “You needn’t tell a lie. I know. I often see you when you don’t know. You was going up to Hall.”

“Well, then, I was,” said Dally defiantly, “and I don’t care who knows.”

“’Cept Miss Leo, eh?”

The old man chuckled hugely, and rubbed his hands.

“I don’t mind Miss Leo knowing. She does know,” cried Dally. “Perhaps she sent me.”

“Did she, though—did she, though? Ay, but she’ll win him after all, Dally. She’s better and handsomer than you are, and she’s a leddy, Dally. You’ve got no chance against she.”

“Haven’t I, gran’fa? You’ll see. But not if I’m obliged to go up to the Hall looking shabby and mean. You said I should have a silk gown and a feather.”

“Did I? Did I? Oh, it was only my joking, Dally. You’re such a pretty gel, you don’t want silk dresses and feathers.”

“No, I don’t want ’em,” said Dally sharply; “but men do. They like to see us dressed up. Squire Tom thinks I look a deal nicer when I’ve got my best frock on.”

“Did he say so, Dally—did he say so?”

“Never you mind, gran’fa. Where’s the money you promised me?”

“Nay, I’ve thought better of it. You shall have it some day—when I’m dead and gone.”

“No, no, gran’fa, dear; I don’t want you to die,” whispered Dally, fondling him. “I want you to live a long time yet, and come and see me at the Hall.”

“Tchah! you’ll never get to be there. It’ll be Miss Leo.”

“Will it?” said Dally, with a toss of the head. “We shall see about that. You’ll give me some money, won’t you, gran’fa?”

“Nay. You’ve never made them new shirts yet.”

“I’ve been so busy, gran’fa dear,” cried the girl. “Why, I’ve been up to the Hall six times since I saw you last.”

“Up to Hall? Not alone?”

“Yes, and alone. Why not?” said Dally saucily. “Besides, Miss Leo sent me.”

“More than once?”

“Yes, gran’fa; often.”

“Ay, that’s it. I told you so. She’s a leddy, and she’ll win that game.”

“Will she?” said Dally drily; “when she can’t go up to see somebody, and sends me?”

The old man drew the corners of his mouth a long way apart in a hideous grin, and then burst into a series of chuckles.

“Why, Dally, my gel; you are a wicked one, and no mistake.”

“Oh, no, I’m not, gran’fa. I’m only fighting for myself; and you said you’d help me.”

“And so I will, my pet; but I can’t spare no money.”

“Well, I don’t know that I want it yet, gran’fa; but I want you to do something else.”

“Ay, ay. What is it?” said the old man eagerly. “Not buy anything?”

“No, not buy anything,” said Dally, diving her soft, round little arm down into her pocket, to reach which she had to raise one side of her dress. “I want you to write something, gran’fa.”

“Nay, I never write now. Write it yourself. What you want me to write for, after all the schooling you’ve had?”

“Well, I have written something, gran’fa, but I want you to do it, too.”

Dally had fished out a large, common-looking Prayer Book, which opened easily in two places, from each of which she took an envelope, and laid upon the table. One was directed, and on being opened she took out a note. The other was blank, and with a folded sheet of paper therein.

Dally was quite at home in the sexton’s cottage, and going to the mantelpiece she took down a corked penny ink-bottle, and a pen from out of a little common vase, while, from their special place, she took the old man’s spectacles.

“Now, gran’fa,” she said sharply, “I want you to write nicely, just what I’ve written there.”

“What for? what for?” he cried, taking up the note after adjusting his glasses.

“To help me, gran’fa. You said you would.”

“Yes, I said I would,” he grumbled. “I said I would.”

“And it won’t cost nothing, gran’fa; not even a stamp,” said the girl saucily.

“Hi—hi—hi! You’re a wicked one, Dally, that you are,” he chuckled, as he took the pen, and after a good many preliminaries, settled himself down to write.

“Do the envelope first, gran’fa,” whispered the girl excitedly.

“The envelope first, my pet. Ay, ay, ay.”

He bent over the table, and then, very slowly and laboriously, copied the address in a singularly good hand for one so old.

“That’s right,” cried Dally, who was in a fever of impatience, but dared not show it. “Now the letter, gran’fa.”

“Ay, ay, I’ll do it,” he said, chuckling as he mastered the contents. “Don’t you hurry, my pet. I don’t often use a pen now. But I used to at one time, and there wasn’t many as—”

“Oh, do go on writing, gran’fa! Quick, quick! I want to get back.”

“Ay, ay, I’ll do it,” said the old man; and he devoted himself assiduously to his task to the end.

“There!” he said; “will that help you, Dally?”

“Yes, gran’fa, dear,” she cried. “But you won’t tell.”

“Tell?” he cried with a chuckle. “Nay, I never tell. I’m as close as the holes I dig, Dally. No one won’t know from me.”

As he chuckled and talked, the girl hastily tore up the first note, and refolded and enclosed the second. Moistening the envelope flap with her little red tongue, which looked quite pretty and flower-like, as it darted from her petally lips to the poisonous gum, with a sharp “good-bye!” she thrust the envelope into her book, and the book into her pocket, to hurry back to the Rectory, conscious that she was followed by Joe Chegg, and never once turning her head.

That night Salis sat by the shaded lamp, apparently reading, but a good deal troubled about North, respecting whom he had heard several disquieting rumours. Mary was busily working, and Leo finishing a letter to some relative in town.

“Add anything you like to that for Mary,” she said, rising. “I’m very tired, and shall go to bed.”

Salis frowned slightly, for it jarred upon him that every now and then his sister should go off to her room just before he rang for the servants to come in to prayers.

He said nothing, however; the customary good-nights were said, and the curate and Mary were left alone.

Half-an-hour later, Dally and the homely cook were summoned, the lesson and prayers road, and after the closing of a door or two the Rectory became very still.

“I’ll just look round, dear, and then carry you up; or shall I take you first?”

“No, Hartley, dear,” said Mary; “go first. Perhaps I may have something to say.”

“No fresh trouble, I hope,” thought Salis, who remained ignorant that his sister intended a few words of reproach concerning Mrs Berens, for as he stepped into the hall, and stooped to slip the bolt, something white, which seemed to have been slipped under the door, caught his eye.

“Circulars here in Duke’s Hampton!” he said, picking up an envelope, and seeing that it was addressed to him.

“Here, Mary,” he said, as he returned; “some one wants us to lay in a stock of coals, and—”

He stopped short, and uttered quite a gasp.

“Hartley! Is anything wrong?”

He hesitated a moment, and then handed the letter to his sister.

It was very short—only a few lines:

“To Rev. H. Salis,

“I think you ought a know bout yure sister and her goins hon, ask her ware she is goin hout tow nite at 12 ’clock wen ure abed.

“A Nonnymus.”

Mary’s countenance looked drawn and old as she let the note fall in her lap.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t look like that, Mary,” cried Salis angrily. “I beg your pardon, dear. How absurd! An anonymous letter from some village busybody. It is not worth a second thought. There!”

He held the note to the candle, and retained it as long as he could before tossing the fragment left burning into the grate.

“That’s how the writer ought to be served,” he cried. “Now, bed.”

He carried Mary to her chamber, silencing her when she was about to speak; and then, after an affectionate “good night,” he sought his own room.

“It would be cowardly—cruel,” he said, “to take notice of such a letter as that. I can’t do it.”

He threw himself into a chair, and sat till his candle went out, thinking deeply about his sister and her unfortunate connection with Candlish.

“No,” he said, rising slowly; “I cannot act upon that note. It would be too paltry.”

He stopped short, for just then the church clock rang out clearly the first stroke of midnight.

It was the hour named in the letter, and the thought came to him with a flash.

“No,” he cried fiercely; “I cannot do that;” but in spite of his words the spirit within warned him that he occupied the position of parent to his sister, and, quickly throwing open his door, he walked across to Leo’s room and tapped sharply, and waited for a reply.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

The Open Window.

As a rule, repeated knockings at a bedroom door when there is no response create alarm; thoughts of accident, illness, murder, teeming to the brain of the one who summons, and the alarm soon spreads through the house.

But in this case Hartley Salis took steps to prevent the alarm spreading, as he thought, in happy ignorance of the fact that Dally was down on her knees breathing hard with her ear to the keyhole.

He tapped softly, and uttered Leo’s name again and again before trying the door and satisfying himself that it was locked on the inside.

He uttered a low, hissing sound as he stood there thinking, his brow knit, and an angry glare in his eye. He felt no dread of an accident or of illness, for the note he had received was a warning of what he might expect. He only wanted one proof of its truth.

He went back to where Mary was waiting, full of anxiety.

“I know nothing yet,” he said abruptly. “Wait!”

With his countenance growing more stern-looking and old, Salis went downstairs and into the drawing-room, which was the easiest way out on to the little lawn at the back.

The window fastening was removed without sound, the door opened, and he stepped out on to the short grass, with the stars overhead glimmering brightly enough for him to make out the dark patches of leafage trained against the house and the dim panes of the different casements.

He did not look in the direction of Dally Watlock’s room, or he might have made out a fat little hand holding the blind sufficiently on one side for a pair of dark eyes to watch keenly what was going on. He stepped straight at once for the summer-house, with his heart beating in a low, heavy throb, as he mentally prayed that the words written in that note might be a cruel lie.

Only a few moments, and then, feeling as if stricken by some mental blow—angry, jealous of the man who had stolen from him the love of his sister; enraged against the carefully-bred girl, whose life had been passed in the pure atmosphere of a country rectory, and to whose welfare he had devoted himself, to the exclusion of what might be dear to the heart of man. All contended in his heart for mastery, and seemed to suffocate him, as he dimly saw that it was true, and that the girl of refinement, to whom he and Mary had rendered up everything that her life might be smooth and pleasant, was behaving like some miserable drab who had the excuse of knowing no better, of looking at reputation as an intangible something, worthless for such as she.

The casement was wide open, pressing back the creepers; and the interior of Leo’s room showed like a black, oblong patch.

“She may have gone to bed, and left the window open,” Hartley whispered.

He shook his head, and a terrible sensation of despair beat down upon him.

“Poor Horace!” he muttered. “He must know more than I give him credit for. This explains his absence, and the strangeness of his ways.”

He walked back into the drawing-room, and, without closing the window, went up to where Mary sat, waiting in an agony of suspense.

“Oh, Hartley!” she said, as she saw the look of agony in his eyes.

“It would be cruel to keep anything from you, Mary, in your helpless state.”

“Yes, dear; pray—pray, speak!”

“It is quite true,” he said laconically.

Mary’s breath, as she drew it hard, sounded like the inspiring of one in agony; and she clasped her brother’s hands tightly in hers.

“This can’t be the first time by many,” said Salis wearily. “Mary, dear, I’ve tried to do all that a brother could for you both, and I’ve been too weak and indulgent, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Hartley, don’t talk like that!” cried Mary, with a sob. “My own dear, noble, self-denying brother.”

“Hush, hush! Mary!” he said sadly; “it has all been wrong, and here is the result!”

“What are you going to do, dear?”

“I know what I should like to do,” he said hoarsely; “go and half kill that scoundrel at the Hall.”

“Oh, Hartley!”

“This explains why North has not been. He knows too much. Heaven! how is it that a woman can be lost to all that is due to herself, leave alone to those she is supposed to love!”

There was an inexpressible bitterness in his tone as he spoke.

“But what are you going to do?”

“Do!” he said fiercely, but with a tinge of despair in his words; “I’m going to thank Heaven that the man whom I believe to be the soul of honour and manliness has been saved from linking his fate with that of such a woman as Leo Salis.”

“Oh, Hartley!” cried Mary, “she is our sister.”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “she is our sister. I shall not forget that.”

“But what are you going to do, dear?”

“What am I going to do?” said Salis, bending down and kissing Mary; “send you to bed to rest and be ready to bear the troubles of another day.”

“But Leo?”

“I am going down to wait till she comes.”

“And then?”

“And then? Ah, what then? What can I do, Mary?” he said despairingly. “You know Leo as well as I do. To speak to her would be waste of breath. There is only one thing I can do.”

“Yes, dear,” said Mary piteously.

“Strive hard to preserve your dignity and honour, and mine, in the eyes of the world.”

“But that letter, Hartley!”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “it is too late for that. Well, I must strive. Good heavens! she is only fit to be treated like a wilful child.”

“Oh, Hartley!”

“There, hush! little one,” he said tenderly; “we must bear it patiently.”

“You will wait up till she returns?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you will not be violent?”

“Violent! Cui bono? No, Mary; I shall say very little; but she will have to go from here.”

There was a desolate sound in his voice—a look of misery in his eyes, which brought a sigh from Mary.

“Perhaps I ought to go raging up to the Hall, and try and find Tom Candlish,” said the curate; “but I don’t wish to repeat my last encounter with the scoundrel. It might be worse. There, you are suffering. Go to bed.”

“But I could not sleep!”

“Never mind—lie down. There, I shall say very little to Leo. What I do say to the point shall be in your presence, dear. Good night.”

“Good night,” he repeated, as he walked softly downstairs, and out through the drawing-room into the garden, to see that Leo’s window remained open, when he sighed deeply, went back, and sat down to watch for his sister’s return.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

A Wayward Sister.

Hartley Salis was not the only watcher. Mary lay with her eyes burning and brain throbbing with contending emotions. She was in agony, for she had to combat, in addition to the horror of the discovery that her sister could be so shameless in her acts, a sensation of gratification that would force itself to the front.

It was terrible, but it was true; and she knew that she could not help a feeling of exultation that Horace North had discovered something of her sister’s character before it was too late. She felt ashamed of this feeling, but it was utterly unselfish, and born of the love she felt for North. He could never be more than a friend to her, but she would like to see him happy, and that he could never be with Leo for his wife.

She wept bitterly as she lay helplessly there, for it seemed like rejoicing that her sister was found out; but the thoughts would come, and they mastered her.

And there to share the watch of Hartley Salis was Dally Watlock, as she sat behind her curtained window with the casement just ajar. She could see nothing below, but she made sure that “Master” would not go to bed till “Miss Leo” returned.

“Bless her!” she said, with a little laugh that was like a baby born of old Moredock’s chuckle. “How she will catch it! Serve her right: trying to come between us. But she may try after this. She’ll get out to see him no more, and he’ll soon forget her.”

All was very still without, and Dally strained her ears to catch a sound, her eyes to make out some dark figure pacing the garden.

“I wonder where he is?” she said to herself. “He’d wait for her if it was for a month, and then my fine lady will catch it nicely.

“I wish I knew where he was,” she muttered, and her wish was gratified, for all at once, as she was pressing the casement open another quarter of an inch, there was a low cough from down to her left, as Salis altered his position in his chair.

“He’s watching just inside the drawing-room window,” Dally said to herself, as she clasped her little hands together; “and when my lady comes home—”

Dally paused.

“My lady! No, she shan’t never be my lady,” she hissed fiercely. “I’d kill her, and gran’fa should bury her first.”

“When she comes home,” continued Dally with another malicious little laugh, “she’ll wish she had never gone. I’ll hear some of the row if I have to leave.

“Ah! It’ll pay me for her getting a few kisses, and having his arm round her waist a bit. Ugh! how I hate the nasty, good-looking minx. I wish she was dead!”

Daily’s teeth gritted together in the darkness, and she uttered a low, hissing noise, as she writhed in her jealousy, and pictured to herself the scene that was probably going on at the Hall.

“I don’t care,” she muttered recklessly. “What are a few kisses? I shan’t miss ’em, and he’s obliged to keep it up for a bit before he quite breaks it off. Says it will kill her when he does. I hope it will.

“Wonder how long she’ll be?” continued Dally. “I don’t mind. I can easily get a nap to-morrow after dinner, but I don’t think she’ll care to go to sleep after master’s had his say.”

She settled herself in her place to watch if it were till doomsday, so determined did she seem; and meanwhile Hartley sat just inside the drawing-room, shrouded in complete darkness which accorded well with the blackness of spirit which was upon him.

Leo could not reach her window without passing close to him, and he thought bitterly now of his simplicity in not grasping the meaning of torn-down growth and broken trellis by the summer-house. It was all plain enough now. Thought succeeded thought. He could grasp clearly enough the meaning of North’s actions when he had attended Tom Candlish—how bitter he had seemed against him, and then the full light came.

“Why, it must have been North who had surprised Tom Candlish, and beaten him within an inch of his life, and, oh! shame—the woman must have been Leo!

“And every one must have known this but poor, weak, blind mole, Hartley Salis,” he groaned.

“Scoundrel! Base hound! Why, if I had been North!—but I’m forgetting myself,” he said, as he pressed his hands to his throbbing brows, and felt that the veins in his temples were full and turgid.

“Not a word to me! Well, how could he speak, and complain to me? Oh, shame, shame, shame!”

The hot tears of indignation started to his eyes; the first that had been there for many years, and they seemed to scald him till he dashed them fiercely away.

“I stand to her in the place of father,” he muttered sternly; “and I’ll do my duty by her, even if I have to keep her under lock and key.”

The time did not seem long, though he sat there for hours, so active was his brain, and so flooded with memories of Leo’s early life—her wilful disobedience, her determined opposition even in childish things, and Salis felt that the woman was the same in spirit as the child had been, and that if Leo was to be reclaimed he must pursue a very different course in the future.

All at once he started, for there was the faint chirp of a bird; then the loud chink! chink! of a blackbird, and he became on the alert, for it was the note uttered when the bird was alarmed.

Day was close at hand, for there was a faint line of light in the east, and sure enough directly after there was a faint, rustling sound, as of a dress brushing against some bush; directly after—ruff, ruff; ruff, ruff—the rustling of the dress as its wearer walked quickly up the green path, as if in fear of being overtaken by the coming day.

Then it seemed a little darker just in front of the drawing-room window; a shrub was blotted out by something black, which seemed to glide by—ruff, ruff; ruff ruff—and then there was a hard breathing, and the creak of a piece of lattice.

For the moment, now that the time had arrived, Salis sat there quite overcome, and ready to let the opportunity pass.

But it was only momentary. Stung into action by the feeling that this woman was cruelly wronging and disgracing brother and sister, he rose from his place, took half-a-dozen quick strides, and was over the grass and at Leo’s elbow as she clung to the side of the summer-house, and was about to raise herself higher.

The sound of his approach was covered by the noise Leo made in rustling the growth pressed against her breast, and the first hint she had of discovery was a strong, firm hand grasping her delicate shoulder with almost painful violence.

She could not turn her head so as to confront Salis, for she was above the ground, clinging with outstretched arms to the strong trellis-work of the summer-house, but she uttered a low, hoarse cry, and a shiver ran through her as she felt the touch.

“Horace North!” she hissed, with her chin pressed down upon her breast. “You are a mean coward and spy. Oh, if I were a man!” Salis could not speak for a moment or two as he heard this confirmation of his belief, but he tightened his grasp till Leo uttered a cry of pain.

“You coward!” she hissed again. “It is not Horace North,” said Salis, in a deep voice. “Thank Heaven he does not know of this.”

“Hartley!”

“Yes, Hartley!”

“And North has told you?”

“Nothing!”

He half dragged her down, and kept his grasp upon her shoulder till she was inside the drawing-room and he had closed the window.

“You can go up to your bedroom by the stairs,” he said sternly, “without stealing in like a thief. Had some one told me of this to my face I should have said he lied.”

“There, say what you have to say, and end this scene,” cried Leo, defiantly now.

“I have nothing to say—now,” said Salis sternly.

“Oh, say it! I am not a child.”

“I am under a promise to Mary that I will say nothing now.”

Salis knew that she turned upon him very sharply, but he could not see her face.

“Under a promise to Mary? There, if anything is to be said, say it.”

Salis drew in his breath sharply, and the words came rushing to his lips, but he mastered the passion within him, and walked to the door to open it.

A dim twilight now faintly filled the hall, showing the curate’s figure framed in the doorway. Then he stood aside, holding the way open.

“Go!” he said.

“Sent to bed like a naughty child,” she cried, in a harsh, mocking voice, which feebly hid the anger and defiance by which she was nerved.

Salis made no reply, nor did he speak again for some moments.

“Go to your room,” he said again, more sternly.

Leo made an angry gesture as if she would resist. Then, giving a childish, petulant stamp upon the floor, she walked quickly by him and ascended the stairs, Salis following closely behind.

As they reached the landing, it was to find Mary’s door open, and that the half-helpless invalid had dragged herself there, to stand clinging to the side.

“Leo—Hartley,” she said, in a low, pained voice: “come here.”

“I am sent to bed,” said Leo mockingly; and she was passing on, but Salis caught her by the arm and checked her. Then he led her to the far end of the room before returning to close the door and help Mary to her couch.

“I can speak now,” he said, in a low voice full of passion, but at the same time well under control. “Where have you been?”

“Hartley!” said Mary appealingly.

“Hush, my child,” he replied. “I know what I am saying. I wish to avoid the scandal of this being known to the servants, but your position and mine demand an explanation. Leo Salis, where have you been?”

She turned her handsome, defiant face towards where he stood, and now it was beginning; to be visible in the soft dawn, pale, fierce, and implacable as that of one who has recklessly set every law at defiance and is ready to dare all.

“Where have I been?” she said. “Out!”

“I insist upon a proper reply to my question. I say, where have you been?”

“There!” she cried; “there is no need to fence. You know where I have been?”

“To meet that man Candlish, after promising me that your intercourse with him should be at an end; and, to make things worse, you have stolen from the house in this disgraceful, clandestine way.”

“Is there any need for this?” said Leo sharply. “There, if you wish to know, I have been to Candlish Hall. Sir Thomas is forbidden this house, so you force me to go to him. You knew where I had been.”

“Yes, I knew where you had been,” assented Salis, as Mary looked from one to the other, not knowing what to say.

“Now, answer me a question,” cried Leo fiercely. “Was it Horace North, in his mean, contemptible, jealous spite, who set you to watch me?”

“Leo!” cried Mary, stung to words by her sister’s accusation.

“Silence! What is it to you, you miserable worm?” cried Leo furiously. “My home has been made a purgatory for months past by you and dear Hartley here. Plotting together both of you to make me miserable, to treat me as a little girl, and to check me at every turn. What Hartley did not try, you thought, and suggested to him till my very soul recoiled against you both and your miserable tyranny. I say it was North—the mean wretch—who set you to watch me.”

“Horace North is too true a man to give you a second thought; too stern and upright to speak of you after your cruel treachery to him.”

“It is not true. I was neither cruel nor treacherous to him,” cried Leo.

“He told me nothing. Your acts are growing public, or I should not have known what I know now; and this must have an end.”

“What end?” said Leo shrewishly. “Am I to be confined to my room? Bah! I have had enough of all this. Yes, I have been to see the man I love, and will go again and again.”

“To your disgrace.”

“To my disgrace, or to my death, if I like,” cried Leo fiercely. “I’ll have no more of this humdrum, miserable life, where I must neither move nor stir save as my brother and sister ordain.”

“Have you thought what this means?” said Salis sternly.

“Thought? No. I have no time for thinking. I know.”

The day was dawning fast, and the pale, soft light slanting into Mary’s bedroom at the sides of the curtain, giving to each face a ghastly, livid look.

Salis strode to the window, and snatched the curtain aside before turning to pour out upon his sister’s head the hot vial of his wrath. But as he turned and faced her his anger was swept away by a great flood of pity, and he approached her gently, for he read in the handsome face before him, flushed with defiant, reckless passion, that she had reached a point in her life when a word might turn her to a future of good or one of misery and despair. She gazed at him as if he were her greatest enemy, and then at Mary, to see her hands extended, and a look of tenderness and love in her pitying eyes.

But the time was unpropitious; there had been a scene with her lover an hour before, which had stirred her angry passions to their deepest depth, and then, as she encountered her brother with his stern words of reproach, it seemed to her that the time had come when she must strive for her freedom. Tom Candlish had reproached her for her cowardice, and laughed her obedience to those at home to scorn. He had brutally told her to go and trouble him no more with letter or message, for she was a poor puling thing, and she had returned heartbroken and in misery, for, defiant to all else, she was this man’s slave.

The encounter then had unloosed her angry passions, and flogging herself again and again with her lover’s words, she turned recklessly upon those who were ready to forgive and take her to their breasts.

“Leo, dear Leo, for pity’s sake!” cried Mary wildly. “Come to me, sister. I cannot even crawl to you.”

“And you ask me, worse than worm that you are, to go down on my knees to you; and for what, pray? For the heinous sin of being true to the man I love. There, do you hear me, to the man I love?”

“Leo! sister!” said Salis, trying to take her hand, but she struck his away with an angry gesture which he did not resent.

“Well, what have you to say?” she cried. “Do you want to preach to me, to ask me to repent and sorrow with you? For what? Is it a crime to love?”

“Leo, my child!”

“Leo, my child!” she cried scornfully, as she repeated his words. “I tell you I am a child no longer, and that I will think and act for myself. Fool, idiot that I have been!” she cried, as her passion grew more wild and her voice rose. “I have submitted to you both till it has become unbearable. From this day, if I stay here, I will be my own mistress, and suffer your dictation no more. Teach and torture Mary into her grave, if you like, but I will be free.”

“Say nothing, Hartley,” said Mary softly. “She will repent all this, dear, when she is calm. Leo, stay with me. Hartley, dear, pray say no more; she is not mistress of herself, and to-morrow, perhaps to-day, this painful scene will be forgiven and forgotten by us all.”

“Forgiven? No. Forgotten? Never,” cried Leo; “and I tell you both that if I am driven from the home that I should have shared, and my future becomes to me a curse, it is your work.”

She had lashed herself into a pitch of unreasoning fury, and invective was flowing fast from her lips, when, in the midst of one of her most furious bursts, and just as Salis was being driven to despair, there was a sharp tap at the door, and before it could be answered, another, and Dally came into the room.

“Is Miss Leo ill, sir?” she cried. “I heard her sobbing in my room. Can I do anything? Shall I light a fire?”

It was Dally’s idea of being of some help, that of lighting a fire.

“No, no. Go away,” cried Salis passionately; but he said no more, for Leo had crossed quickly to the little servant maid, and clung to her.

“Go with me to my room, Dally,” she said in a sharp, strained voice; “and let them follow me if they dare.”

“Oh, Leo, my child, for Heaven’s sake!” cried Salis.

“For Heaven’s sake!” she cried wildly, as she clung to Dally. “What have you to do with Heaven, who have made my life a curse? Take me, Dally, take me away, for I am almost blind.”

“My poor, darling mistress!” sobbed the little traitress, passing her hand round Leo’s waist, and helping her towards the door, Leo yielding to the girl’s guidance, and keeping her defiant eyes flashing from sister to brother and back.

The door closed, and as Salis and Mary gazed after the retreating pair, a wild hysterical sob, followed by a passionate cry, reached their ears, and it was as if misery and despair were henceforth to be their lot; but at that moment, from the dewy meadow at the bottom of the garden, a lark rose to begin circling round and round, scattering his jubilant, silvery notes of song far and wide on the morning air. And as it proclaimed, as it were, to every listening ear that a new day had begun, hope and light flashed into the hearts of those within the room.

“It will be a hard task, Mary,” said Salis, going down on one knee beside Mary, who clung to him with a look of appeal that went to his heart. “Yes, a hard task, dear,” he said again, as he kissed her. “There, you will not go to bed now, but lie back and have a few hours’ sleep. The darkness of the night has passed, and hope cometh with the day.”

“But Leo—Leo!” moaned Mary, and, unable to contain herself longer, she burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

“Hush! darling. Come: I want my sister’s help. There, fight it down. Hers were the words of a passionate, hysterical woman. She will be penitent when the fit is over. What now?”

“Miss Leo, sir—Miss Leo!” cried Dally, running into the room.

“Well, what, girl?” cried Salis, alarmed by the maid’s frantic, excited look.

“She sent me out of the room, sir, to fetch her cloak.”

“Hush! Come with me,” said Salis, hastily rising to accompany Dally from the room, but Mary clung spasmodically to his hand.

“No, no; let her speak. I cannot bear the suspense.”

Salis nodded his head sharply, and the girl went on:

“I went down, sir, and when I came back she was standing in the middle of the room with a glass on the table, and something spilled—”

Salis stopped to hear no more, but rushed into Leo’s room to find her clinging to the foot of the bed, her eyes dilated, a look of horror in her face, and in the same glance he took in that which Dally had described—a glass upon the table, overturned, and some fluid staining the cover and slowly sinking down the side towards the floor.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

The Doctor is Eccentric.

“Want me to attend Miss Leo Salis? Not I. Send to King’s Hampton for old—”

“But, please, sir.”

“Please, sir? Yes, you do please this sir. Why, you pretty little, apple-faced, sloe-eyed, cherry-cheeked piece of human fruit! Here, let’s have a look at your little face!”

“Oh, Dr North! For shame! You shouldn’t.”

There was the sound of a smart kiss, and then Horace North stood gazing wildly at Dally as she made believe to be very much hurt in her dignity.

“You shouldn’t, sir, and Miss Leo all the time a-dying.”

“Miss Leo—very ill?”

“Yes, sir; I told you so, and then you began talking nonsense and hauling me about. I feel quite ashamed.”

“But I cannot go to her, girl. It is impossible,” cried North excitedly.

“But master said I was to fetch you, sir. Oh, I wouldn’t ha’ thought it of you!”

“I beg your pardon, Dally, I was not thinking. I—I—when was she taken bad?”

“Sudden like—early this morning, sir. You will come, won’t you? We’re quite frightened.”

“Yes, I’ll come,” said North quickly. “By what strange irony of fate am I called upon again to attend on her?” he thought to himself, as he recalled her last illness, and the way in which she had declared her passion for him.

“Idiot! fool!” he said. “What a mere child! And I a medical man, and let my weak vanity carry me away so that I could not see that all was delirium.”

“Did you speak, sir?” said Dally, who trotted beside him as he walked with rapid strides towards the Rectory.

“No. Yes. How was it all?”

“Well, sir, I hardly know; only that I left Miss Leo this morning for a minute, and when I came back she’d been drinking something out of a glass, and looked as if she’d poisoned herself.”

“Absurd! But this morning? How came you to be with her this morning? Why, it is only five now.”

“No, sir. We were up very early.”

“Early? Why, you look as if you had not been to bed. Here, Dally, what has been going on at the Rectory?”

“Going on, sir? Oh, I couldn’t tell you. And here’s master, sir; ask him.”

In fact, Salis had just run down from Leo’s room to see if the doctor was coming, and, on catching sight of him, came to hurry him on.

“For Heaven’s sake be quick!” he cried. “Leo is dying!”

North hurried in with him, and upstairs, to find Leo lying upon the bed where her brother had placed her, pale, motionless, and with her eyes half closed.

“Don’t ask questions, but act,” panted Salis.

“I am acting,” said North sternly, as he bent over his patient, and rapidly grasped the position. “Do you know what she has taken?”

“No.”

“What poisons have you in the house?”

“None.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor, examining and smelling the glass. “She has got at something.”

“But, for pity’s sake, act—act,” said Salis, in horror. “You are letting her sink before your eyes.”

“Best thing too,” said North, laughing. “A miserable little jilt! I—”

He paused in horror at the words which had fallen from his lips, and met his friend’s wondering gaze. Then, as if mastering himself, he gave sundry orders in a quick, sharp way, and evidently bestirred himself to restore the patient.

For the moment Salis had felt disposed to bid him leave the house; but it was a case of emergency, and, keeping a watchful eye upon North, he helped where it was necessary, with the result that an hour later Mary was left seated beside her, Leo being utterly prostrate, and the doctor followed his friend down to the breakfast-room where the meal was spread.

“Hah!” cried North, “that’s better. Breakfast’s a glorious meal. Come, old chap, sit down. Never mind the jade; she’s all right now.”

“In Heaven’s name, North, what does this mean?” cried Salis.

North burst into a hearty laugh, which his wild eyes seemed to contradict.

“Mean, eh?” he cried. “Why, I ought to ask you. What game has the lively little witch been up to now?”

“North!” cried Salis piteously.

“There, you needn’t tell me,” cried North, laughing. “Tom, eh? Ah, he’s a sad dog!”

“North, for pity’s sake, have some decency. I suspected that you had found something out, and I can understand your throwing her over like this.”

“Throw her over?” laughed North.

“Why she threw me over for Tom. She’s a queer one, old chap.”

“Are you a man?” cried Salis fiercely, “that you torture me like this. Can you not see the shame of it—the disgrace to Mary and me? Horace North, I feel as if I were grovelling in the mire, and you, my oldest friend, come and set your heel upon my neck.”

“Eh? Heel? Your neck?”

“Yes; I know that you must have suffered heavily. It has been a terrible affliction to both Mary and me, for we felt with you; but for Heaven’s sake, Horace, don’t rush into this reckless extreme. Man, man, I want your sympathy and help, if ever I did, and you—you are so changed.”

“Yes, yes,” said North, in a hoarse whisper, and with a ghastly look in his eyes. “So changed—so horribly changed.”

“Ah!” cried Salis joyfully; “that’s like your old self again. Why, North, what has come to you?”

“Come to me? You dog! Come to me, eh? Look as if I’d been drinking, do I? Oh, I’m all right enough!”

Salis looked at him aghast once more, just as if he had been indeed drinking; but his friend’s acts belied his words, for he uttered a low groan, laid his arms upon the table and let his head sink down.

There was such desolation in his manner that Salis crossed to him and laid his hand upon his shoulder, when, to his horror, the poor fellow uttered a wild shriek, and started up to dash to the other side of the room.

“Oh, it was you,” said North huskily, as he gazed wildly at his friend, his piteous eyes seeming to ask what he thought of his acts.

“Why, North, old fellow, what is the matter? You can trust me.”

“Matter?” cried North excitedly—“matter? No, no, nothing is the matter. A little out of order. Don’t take any notice of what I say.”

“But I must take notice. Do you suppose I can see my oldest and best friend go on in this mad way?”

“No, no; don’t say that,” cried North, catching him fiercely by the wrist; “not ‘mad way.’ A little eccentric: that’s all. Don’t take any notice.”

“But—”

“No, no; don’t take any notice. Yes, I was upset about her. It was a shock.”

“I knew it was that,” cried Salis; “but, North, my dear fellow, you must master it: we are old friends. I will keep nothing from you. Let us be mutually helpful. Is it nothing to us to have such a horror as this in our midst?”

“It is terrible for you,” said North quietly. “The foolish girl!”

“Hah!” ejaculated Salis, beaming upon him; “that sounds like you.”

“I bear her no malice,” continued North dreamily. “It has all been one bitter mistake.”

“Yes, a bitter, bitter mistake!” assented Salis.

“But it is over now. It was in her delirium that she told me she loved me.”

“Leo told you this?”

“Yes. I ought to have known better. But I am only a weak man, Salis. It is over now.”

“It is for the best, my dear old fellow,” cried Salis warmly. “There, you are yourself again. Now tell me. What had she taken?”

“Some strong narcotic poison. I fancy it was belladonna. Did she use it for her eyes?”

“No. I think not. No,” said Salis thoughtfully. “Nature had not made it necessary for her to try and improve her looks.”

“No,” said North thoughtfully. “Had you quarrelled?”

Salis stood with his brows knit for a few moments, and then he turned sharply upon North.

“Tell me first,” he said, “you surprised my sister with that scoundrel, Candlish?”

North shuddered as he bowed his head.

“And I am right in thinking it was you who half killed him?”

“Yes,” said North; “it was I.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” said Salis quietly. “Now I’ll answer your question. Mary and I hoped we had broken all that affair off between my sister and Candlish; but last night I made a discovery, and we did quarrel.”

“And the weak, foolish girl flew to that narcotic poison to end her trouble,” said North thoughtfully. “Ah, well, you must watch her now. There is no danger. It is past.”

“Thanks to you!”

“Thanks to me? Perhaps so; but don’t send for me again unless it is a case of emergency. There, I must go now.”

He rose painfully, looking wild and haggard; but the next moment his whole appearance changed, and he gave his friend a tremendous back-handed blow in the chest.

“She’ll be all right, old chap, and ready to carry on her games again directly. She’s a lively one, parson; as sprightly a filly as was ever foaled. And you, too—you sham old saint; I can see through you, and Madame Crippleoria upstairs! I—”

He smote himself heavily in the mouth, uttered a low groan, and with a despairing look in his eyes that seemed mingled of horror and fright, he glanced wildly at Salis, and hurried from the place.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

Haunted.

“Leo, how could you do so foolish a thing?” said Mary Salis, a few days later, as she sat by her sister’s couch.

“What do you mean?” said Leo feebly.

“You know what I mean, dear. Is life so valueless that in a rash moment you would have cast it away?”

“Do you suppose, then, that I tried to take my life?” cried Leo, in a low, weak voice.

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Mary, with a shudder; “unless it is in sorrow.”

“Why was it placed there?” said Leo, catching her sister’s wrist.

“Placed there?”

“Yes. Was it Hartley’s doing?”

“Hartley’s doing?”

“Yes; the glass standing on my table as if it held water. Did Hartley do it, Mary?”

“Is your mind wandering, dear?” said Mary, laying her cool hand upon her sister’s white forehead.

“No; I’m as calm as you are. Hartley must have placed it ready for me—to get rid of his wicked sister, I suppose.”

“Leo! Don’t speak like that. How can you, dear? Hartley place a glass for you!”

“Yes. I thought it was water, and I drank it.”

“Hush, Leo, dear!”

“You don’t believe me! Very well; I cannot help it. The stuff was placed ready for me on the table, and I drank it.”

Mary sighed, but she kept her cool, soft hand pressed upon her sister’s brow.

“Why do you stop here?” said Leo, at last.

“Because I wish to talk to you—to try and be of some help.”

There was a silence which lasted some minutes, and then Leo turned her fierce dark eyes sharply on her sister.

“You have kept back his letters,” she said sternly.

“His letters!”

“Yes; he has written to me since I have been ill.”

Mary shook her head, and Leo gazed full in her eyes to satisfy herself that this was the truth.

“Has he sent to ask how I am?”

“No.”

Leo closed her eyes, and lay back with her lips moving slightly, while Mary watched and wondered whether North would come and see her sister again, and whether any fresh eccentricity had been noticed.

Had she known all she would have been less calm.

That morning Cousin Thompson had come down, gone straight to the Manor, and saluted Mrs Milt.

“Doctor in his room?”

“No, sir; master’s ill.”

“Not seriously?” said Cousin Thompson, with thoughts of being next of kin.

“I don’t know, sir,” said the housekeeper. “Master certainly don’t seem as I should like to see him.”

“Dear me!” said Cousin Thompson thoughtfully. “That’s bad, Mrs Milt; that’s bad. However, I’ll go up and see him.”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“What do you mean, Mrs Milt?”

“I mean that I don’t think he’ll see you, sir.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense! Go and tell him I’m here.”

The housekeeper went away, and came back in five minutes, looking troubled.

“Master says you must excuse him, sir. That you are to please ask for what you want, but he is too unwell to see you.”

“Dear me, Mrs Milt; I’m sorry to hear this,” said the solicitor, with a look of commiseration. “But, then, he is a doctor, and must know his symptoms. Has he had any one to see him?”

“No, sir.”

“Then he is not very bad. I mean no doctor?”

“No, sir; no doctor.”

“I didn’t mean solicitor, Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, laughing unpleasantly. “Of course, if he required a solicitor he would send for me, eh?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“He has not sent for a solicitor, of course—to make his will, eh?” jocularly. “No, no; of course not.”

“Perhaps you had better ask master about such things as that, sir,” said Mrs Milt, with asperity. “I know nothing about that.”

“You do, you hag!” said Cousin Thompson to himself: “you do, or you wouldn’t be so eager to disclaim all knowledge of such an act—and deed. This must be seen to, for I can’t afford to have you coming between me and my rights, madam. This must be seen to.”

“What would you like to take, sir?”

“Anything, my dear Mrs Milt, anything. Too busy a man to trouble about food. I’m going to see a client, and while I’m gone perhaps you will get a snack ready for me.”

“You will not sleep here, I suppose?”

“But I will sleep here, Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, smiling. “I do not feel as if I could go back to town without being able to take with me the knowledge that my cousin is in better health.”

“And not at the mercy of thieves and scheming people,” he muttered, as he went off to see Mrs Berens, as he put it, “re shares.”

North’s bedroom bell rang violently as Cousin Thompson disappeared down the road, and Mrs Milt went up to the door and knocked.

“Has that man gone?” came from within.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring up the brandy.”

Mrs Milt uttered a sigh.

“May I bring you up a little broth, sir, too?” she whispered, with her face close to the panel. “You’ve had nothing to-day, sir, and you must be growing faint.”

“Bring up the brandy!” roared North fiercely. “Do you hear?”

“And him to speak to me like that!” sighed the housekeeper, as she went down for the spirit decanter; “and for him, too, who never took anything but tea for days together, to be asking for brandy in this reckless way. Five times have I filled up the spirit decanter this week.”

She returned with the brandy and knocked.

No answer.

“I’ve brought the brandy, sir.”

“Set it down.”

“Can I speak to you, sir?”

There was a fierce stamp of the foot which made the jug rattle in the basin on the washstand, and Mrs Milt set down the decanter close to the door, and went down again, raising her apron to her eyes.

“I wouldn’t have any one know how bad he is for the world,” she sighed; and, resisting the temptation to stand and watch the opening of the door, the old lady went into her own room and shut herself in.

As the sound of the closing door rose to the upstair rooms, that of North’s chamber was cautiously opened and a hand was thrust out to go on feeling about till it came in contact with the decanter, which it seized and bore in, the door being reclosed as the hand and arm disappeared.

The room within was darkened, and the figure of Horace North looked shadowy and strange as he walked hastily to and fro, now here, now there, as some wild animal restlessly parades the sides of his cage.

He held the decanter in his hand, and seemed in no hurry to use the spirit; but at last he set it down upon the dressing-table, drew the curtain a little on one side, and went to the washstand, from which he brought the water-bottle and tumbler.

As he poured out some of the spirit into a glass, the light shone full upon his face, and he blinked as if his eyes were dazzled by the glare.

The decanter made a chattering noise against the glass till he rested his trembling hand upon the side, ceased pouring, and closed his eyes for a few moments to rest.

As he opened them again his gaze fell upon his reflection in the dressing-glass upon the table, and he stood fixed to the spot, glaring at the wild-looking object before him, with its sunken eyes, wrinkled brow, and horrified, hunted, and frightened look.

He had seen such a face as that hundreds of times in the case of patients suffering from some form of mania, generally in connection with drink, and it petrified him for the time, for his brain refused to accept the fact that he was gazing at his own reflection.

It was a strange scene in that darkened room, with the one broad band of light shining in through the half-drawn curtain, falling upon that haggard and ghastly face gazing at its counterpart, each displaying a haunted look of horror—a dread so terrible that it explained North’s next action, which was to let fall decanter and glass with a crash upon the floor, before slowly backing away right to the furthest portion of the room, where he stood against the wall, panting heavily.

The curtain fell back, as if an invisible hand had held it for a time, and once more the room was in semi-gloom, while the faint, sick odour of the brandy gradually diffused itself through the place till it reached the trembling man’s nostrils and made him shudder.

“Like the smell of that place—like the smell of that place! Is this to go on for ever?”

Again he determinedly argued the question, and felt that, failing to arrest the decay of Luke Candlish, he had imbibed the essence of the man which, needing a fleshy body in which to live, had possessed him, so that his fate seemed to be that he must evermore lead a double life, in which there was one soul under the control of his well-schooled brain; the other wild, independent, and for whose words and actions he must respond.

“I cannot bear it,” he muttered, as he stood back against the wall, as far from the faint light as the room would allow. “It must be like madness in others’ eyes, and yet I am sane. I feel like a man haunted by a shadow, and yet it is a fancy—a terrible waking dream. But I will—Heaven help me!—I will look at it from a scientific point of view; say it is so—that I have arrested spirit and not body. Well, what then? Is there anything to fear?

“No; and I will not fear it,” he muttered, “any more than I would the dead; but,” he added, after a pause, “it is the living I fear. I cannot explain—I cannot control—this horror—bah! this essence—when it speaks, and the living give me the blame. No, I cannot, I dare not, explain. Who would believe? No one. They would say I was mad.”

A gentle tap at the door, but no response. A louder tapping, and no answer.

“Mr Thompson, sir, says he must see you on very particular business.”

North heard the words. His crafty, keen-eyed cousin was there. How could he see him now? It was impossible. He had declined before, and he was persisting again.

“Will you come down and see him, sir?”

“No: don’t do that, Horace, if you are ill. Open the door and I’ll come and chat to you there.”

No sound in reply; but directly after there was a loud noise of mocking laughter from within the room, a boisterous shout, and a partly-heard speech.

“Oh, my dear master!” cried Mrs Milt. “Ah!” ejaculated Cousin Thompson, across whose imagination glided the fair prospect of the beautiful Manor House estate, and his eyes glistened as he said softly, “I’m afraid he is very ill.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

Cousin Thompson’s Duty.

“Oh, no; it’s nothing at all, sir—nothing at all,” said Mrs Milt hastily; “and I didn’t know you’d come upstairs behind me, sir.”

“It was to save you a journey, my dear Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson smoothly. “Yes, I’m afraid he is very ill. A little delirious, I think.”

“Delirious, sir? Oh, nonsense! Master’s often like that.”

“Indeed!” said Cousin Thompson, in a tone of voice which made the housekeeper wish she had bitten off her tongue before she had committed herself to such a speech. “You heard him utter that laugh?”

“Well, surely to goodness, sir, that don’t signify anything. A laugh! I wish I could laugh.”

“But he gave a ‘view halloo!’ and said something about a fox.”

“Well, really, sir, what if he did? There’s nothing master likes better after a hard week’s work and a lot of anxiety than a gallop after the hounds. It does him good. Why, a doctor wants taking out of himself sometimes, specially one who works as hard as master does. A medical man’s anxiety sometimes is enough to drive him mad.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Cousin Thompson smoothly. “Hadn’t you better knock again?”

“No, sir, I hadn’t,” said Mrs Milt tartly. “I’m quite sure master don’t want to be disturbed.”

“But really, my good woman, it seems to me that he ought to have medical advice.”

“And it seems to me, sir, as he oughtn’t to. If master’s not well and can’t do himself good, nobody else can, I’m sure; and if you please, sir, will you come downstairs? He’d be very angry if we stopped here.”

“Oh, certainly, Mrs Milt. Pray forgive me. I could not help feeling a little bit anxious about my cousin.”

“I haven’t got nothing to forgive, sir,” said the old lady; “only I’d have you know that I’m as anxious about my dear master as anybody.”

“Of course, Mrs Milt. Quite natural. Dr North is a remarkable man, and will some day become very famous.”

“I dessay, sir,” said Mrs Milt drily. “I think you said you should stop all night?”

“Yes, Mrs Milt; and I’m afraid my business here will keep me another day, if it is not troubling you too much.”

“Oh, that don’t matter at all, sir. I’m sure master wishes you to be made very comfortable, and as far as in me lies, sir, I shall carry out his wishes.”

“Thank you, Mrs Milt. I’m sure you will,” said Cousin Thompson; and Mrs Milt rustled out of the room, looking very hard and determined, but as soon as she was out of sight deep lines of anxiety began to appear about her eyes, and she wrung her hands.

“Yes,” said Cousin Thompson, going at once to North’s table and sitting down to write a letter; “I shall sleep here to-night, Mrs Milt, and I shall sleep here to-morrow night, and perhaps a great many other nights. It is no use to be a legal adviser unless I legally look after my sick cousin’s affairs.”

Cousin Thompson’s anxiety about his cousin gave his countenance a very happy and contented look.

“Things are looking up,” he said, as he finished and fastened his letter. “Everything comes to the man who waits. Even pleasant-looking, plump Mrs Berens may—who knows?”

He carefully tore off a stamp from a sheet in the writing-table drawer, moistened it upon a very large, unpleasant-looking tongue, and affixed it to the envelope.

“Perhaps she is right, and he will be better without medical advice,” he said, with a pleasant smile upon his countenance. “Why should I interfere? That is where some people make such a mistake: they will dig up a plant to look at its roots. I prefer letting a well-growing plant alone. Yes, things are looking up. Now for my genial baronet.”

He walked out into the ball, and took his hat, just as there was a ring at the gate bell.

“Who’s this?” he said; and he walked into the dining-room and nearly closed the door, but not quite.

The next minute there were steps in the hall, the door was opened, and the curate’s bluff voice rang through the place in an inquiry after the doctor.

“He’s very poorly, sir,” said Mrs Milt, in a low and cautious voice. “I don’t really know what to make of him.”

“I do,” said Salis. “He wants rest and change, Mrs Milt.”

“Yes, sir; I think that’s it, sir.”

“I wish I could get him away. I will.”

“Will you?” said Cousin Thompson softly.

“Here, I’ll go up and see him. In his room, I suppose?”

“Excuse me, sir; I think you had better not. It irritates him. Old Moredock came last night about some trifling ailment, and poor master was quite angry about it. Then Mr Thompson went up to his door, and it seemed to irritate him. You know how tetchy and fretful it makes any one when he’s ill.”

“I want to see him, Mrs Milt. I want to talk to him.”

Cousin Thompson’s eyes twitched.

“But I’ll go by your advice.”

Mrs Milt said something in reply which the listener missed, and consequently exaggerated largely as to its value, and directly after Salis went away in a new character—to wit, that of Cousin Thompson’s mortal enemy; though Salis himself was in utter ignorance of the fact.

“Well, and how are we to-day?” said the lawyer on entering the old library at the Hall.

Sir Thomas Candlish was lying back in his chair, with a cigar in his mouth, a sporting paper on his lap, and a soda and brandy—or, rather, two brandies and a soda—at his elbow.

“How are we to-day!” he snarled. “Don’t come here talking like a cursed smooth humbug of a doctor about to feel one’s pulse.”

“But I am a doctor, and I have come to feel your pulse, my dear sir,” said Cousin Thompson laughingly.

“Eh?—what? Again! Why, there’s nothing due yet.”

“There, there, there! don’t trouble yourself, my dear Sir Thomas. There is a little amount to meet; but you are not, as you used to be, worried about money matters. You can pay.”

“Yes,” snarled Tom Candlish; “and you seem to know it, too.”

“Come, that’s unkind. It isn’t generous, my dear sir. Surely if a man lends money he has a right to claim repayment.”

“Oh, yes, I know all about that—the old, old jargon of the craft. I don’t want to borrow now. If I did I suppose I should hear all about your friend in the City, eh?—your client who advances the money, eh?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Thompson. “One needn’t ask how you are. The old vein of fun is coming back flushed with health and strength.”

“Cursed slowly. Now, then, what do you want?”

“Oh, it is a mere trifling business.”

“A trifle.”

“It would have been serious to you once; but it is a trifle now.”

“Well, let’s have it.”

“No, no, not yet. There, I’ll take a cigar and a B. and S.”

“Ah, do,” said Candlish sarcastically. “Make yourself at home, pray.”

“To be sure I will. I’ve come to doctor you and do you good.”

“Damn all doctors!” sneered Candlish.

“Amen,” said Cousin Thompson merrily, as he took a cigar, lit it, and helped himself to the brandy. “Look here, sir; you sit alone and mope too much. You want exercise.”

“How the devil am I to take exercise, when, as soon as I get on a horse, my head begins to swim?”

“And a pretty girl or two to see you.”

Tom Candlish uttered a low, blackguardly, self-satisfied chuckle.

“Eh? I say. Hallo!” cried Cousin Thompson. “Oh, I see. Well, mum’s the word. But, come; you do want change; you’re too much alone. Now I’ve come—”

“Oh, yes, you’ve come, and on a deuced friendly visit too.”

“Business and friendliness combined, my dear sir. Why, you used not to snub me like this. There, I meant to chat over a little money matter with you. Let’s do it pleasantly. Come up to that capital table, and let’s do it over a friendly game of billiards.”

Tom Candlish started from his seat, overturning his glass, which fell to the floor, and was shattered to atoms.

“My dear Sir Thomas! what is the matter?”

“Nothing—nothing,” he replied hoarsely. “Not well yet. A confounded spasm.”

“How unfortunate! Let me refill your glass, or shall I do it upstairs in the billiard-room?”

“Curse the billiards! I tell you I don’t play now.”

“Not play?”

“The sight of the balls rolling makes me giddy,” cried the wretched man, glaring at his visitor.

“Why, my dear sir, I’m very sorry I mentioned the game. There, let me give you a light. You’re out. That’s it. Really you ought to have the advice of a doctor.”

“Damn all doctors!” growled the baronet again.

“I can’t afford to have you ill, my dear Sir Thomas,” said Thompson, with an unpleasant laugh.

“No, you can’t afford to have me ill. Too good a cow to milk.”

Cousin Thompson laughed, and felt that he had made a mistake.

“I cannot advise you to have my cousin up, because he, too, is ill.”

Tom Candlish’s lips parted to utter a fierce oath, but he checked it, and swung himself round in his chair.

“Is he very ill?” he said eagerly.

“Yes; he seems to me to be very ill.”

“I’m glad of it—I’m very glad of it,” cried Candlish. “Come, you needn’t stare at me. I wish the beast was dead.”

“I was not staring at you,” said Cousin Thompson; “only listening. I think you and he don’t get on well; but he’s a very clever man—my cousin Horace; and if I could get a little advice from him on your case, I’m sure I would.”

“I want no advice. Only a little time. I’m coming round, I tell you—fast. But about North. Is he very bad?”

“Well, ye-es; I should say he was very bad.”

“What’s the matter? Has he caught some fever?”

“No. Oh dear, no! It’s mental. He seems a good deal unstrung. A little off his head, perhaps.”

“Why, curse it all, Thompson,” cried Candlish excitedly; “you don’t mean that the blackguard is going mad?”

“My dear Sir Thomas—my dear Sir Thomas,” said the lawyer, in a voice full of protestation; “I really cannot sit here and listen to you calling my cousin a blackguard.”

“Then stand up, man, and hear it. He is a blackguard, and I hate him, and I’d say it to his face if he were here. Now tell me, is he really bad?”

“Only a temporary attack. He is suffering, I’m afraid, from overstudy. But now to business.”

“Stop a minute, man: let me think. Hang the business! How much is it? I’ll write you a cheque. I can now, Thompson, old chap. Times are altered, eh?”

“Ah, and for the better, Sir Thomas.”

“Here, hold your tongue. Don’t talk. Let me see: not married; neither chick nor child; no brother. Why, Thompson, if North—curse him!—died, you’d have the Manor House!”

“Should I!” said Cousin Thompson, raising his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Well, yes, I suppose I am next of kin. But Horace North will outlive me.”

“Is he quite off his head?”

“Hush! don’t talk about it, my dear sir. Poor fellow, he is ill; but not so very bad. I shouldn’t like it to get about amongst his patients. People chatter and exaggerate to such an extent.”

Tom Candlish smoked furiously for a few moments, and then cast away the end of his cigar, and lit another, biting the end, and frowning at his visitor.

“Now about business,” said Thompson, at last.

“Curse business!” cried the squire, as he kept on watching the lawyer keenly. “Look here, Thompson, how was it that you two being cousins, he has so much money, and you’re as poor as Job?”

“Way of the world, my dear sir—way of the world.”

Tom Candlish sat back, chewing the end of his cigar and smoking hard.

“Look here, you Thompson! Now out with it; you don’t like Dr North?”

“Like him? I hate all doctors; just as you do.”

“That’s shuffling out of it,” said Candlish scornfully; “but you needn’t be afraid of me. I’m open enough. I’m not above speaking out and telling you I hate him. I wish you’d make a set on his pocket, and bleed him as you are so precious fond of bleeding me.”

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” said Cousin Thompson laughingly; and then the two men sat smoking and gazing one at the other in silence till their cigars were finished.

“Take another,” said the squire, handing the case lying upon the table.

Thompson took another, and Tom Candlish lit his third, to lie back in his chair, smoking very placidly, and staring from time to time at Thompson, who watched him in turn in a very matter-of-fact, amused way.

They rarely spoke, and when they did it was upon indifferent themes; but by degrees a mutual understanding seemed to be growing up between them, dealing in some occult way with Horace North’s health and his position in Duke’s Hampton. The Manor House estate, too, seemed to have something to do with their silent communings.

This lasted till the lawyer’s second and the squire’s third cigar were finished, and a certain amount of liquid refreshment had been consumed as well. Then Cousin Thompson suddenly threw away the stump of tobacco-leaf he had left.

“Now suppose we finish our bit of business?”

“All right,” said Candlish sulkily; and after reference to certain memoranda laid before him, he opened a secretary, wrote a cheque, and handed it to the lawyer.

“Thanks; that’s right,” said the latter, doubling the slip, and placing it in his pocket-book.

“Going back to town to-night?” said Candlish. “No.”

“To-morrow?”

“No.”

“When then?”

“Depends on how matters turn out,” said Thompson meaningly. “I suppose if I wanted a friend I might depend on you?”

“Of course, of course,” cried the squire eagerly.

“Thanks,” said Cousin Thompson. “I shall not forget, but I don’t think I shall want any help. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Tom Candlish warmly.

A wish of a mutual character, expressed in a contraction—that God might be with two as utter scoundrels as ever communed together over a half-hatched plot.

“Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, as he entered the Manor that night, “I have been thinking over matters, and you need not say much to your master, but I feel it to be my duty to stay here for the present, and look after his affairs.”

“But really, sir—”

“Have the goodness to remember who you are, Mrs Milt. Leave the room!”

“And him going about in the dark watches of the night like a madman,” sighed Mrs Milt, as soon as she was alone. “If that wretch sees him, what will he think?”

“That wretch,” to wit, Cousin Thompson, was biting his nails in North’s library, and listening to a regular tramp upstairs.

“Strange thing,” he said, “but as soon as a man’s head is touched, he grows more and more like a four-footed beast.”

He smiled and listened. All was very still now, and he set to work searching drawers and the bureau for material that might be useful to him in the settlement of Horace North’s affairs, and as he searched he talked to himself.

“Let me see: it was Nebuchadnezzar—wasn’t it?—who used to go about on hands and knees eating grass.”

He examined a document or two, but did not seem satisfied with the result.

“Hah! poor Horace!” he said. “I’m very sorry for him, but I must do my duty to society, and to him as well.”

He started, for the door-handle had been touched, and, quick as lightning, he dropped the papers he held, and blew down the chimney of the lamp.

The door cracked, and as it opened slightly he could hear the church clock chiming, and then a deep-toned one boomed forth.

There was a something beside sound entered, for by the faint light which streamed in over the top of the shutters he could see a dark blotch moving slightly, and, as he felt chilled to the marrow, the dark patch changed slowly to a dimly-seen face of so ghastly a kind that he stood there gazing wildly, and fixed helplessly to the spot.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

Cousin Thompson’s Tooth-ache.

Regularly day after day.

The restless, wild-beast pace went on upstairs with intervals hour after hour, as, for the first time for many years, Horace North felt the terrible side of his lonely life, and the want of some one in whom he could really confide—mother, wife, sister—who would believe in him fully; but there were none.

His life of study had made him self-sustaining until now. He had had no great call made upon him. But now there was the want, and he sat for hours thinking of his state, only to spring up again and tramp his room.

To whom could he fly for counsel—Salis? The old housekeeper? The old doctor in London? Thompson, his cousin, then in the place?

“No, no, no! How could I explain myself? If I told all my feelings, all I have done, they would say that I was mad.

“It is impossible to speak,” he panted.

“I am chained—thoroughly chained.”

He paused in his wearying tramp, for, like a light, there seemed to come in upon him the soft, sweet face of Mary, with her gentle look and luminous eye. She might help him, poor suffering woman. But no, no, no! It was impossible: he could not speak.

The time had come round again when, to relieve the terrible tedium of his life, he went out of his room—waiting always till the house was silent and all asleep.

He opened his door and went out cautiously, to descend to the hall, and after hesitating for a few minutes, he laid his hand upon the fastening of the front door, as if to go out, but shook his head and turned away.

Going silently into the cheerless drawing-room, he paced that, and then the dining-room in turn, till, wearying of this, he crossed to the study to open the door, paused for a moment or two, startled by the loud crack it gave, for the study seemed associated in his mind with the horror of the position he had brought upon himself.

Then, thrusting in his head slowly, it seemed to him that he was at last free, for there before him, embodied for the time, was Luke Candlish rising from a chair, much as we had last seen him at his home; and as he gazed wildly at the face dimly-seen in the dark, it seemed to him the time had indeed come when he could crush his haunting enemy beneath his heel, and, rushing forward, he tried to catch him by the throat.

“Now,” shouted North fiercely, “I have given you back your life; take it, and give me back mine in rest and peace, or, as I restored, so will I destroy.”

His hands dropped to his side, and he uttered a low moan and shrank away.

Not that it was all imagination, for he knew that he had tightly grasped a living, breathing form, which had uttered a cry of dread, and then exclaimed:

“Horace—Horace, old fellow, are you mad?”

There was a loud rustling, a faint rattling sound, as North staggered to the side of the room and sank upon the couch. Then came a scratching noise, the flash of a match, and the tiny wax light emitting a bluish flame threw up the pale, smooth face of Cousin Thompson, whose eyes were dilated with fear.

He hurried to the chimney-piece, and lit one of the candles in a bronze stand.

“Why, Horace, old fellow, what are you about?” he cried, trembling. “Thank goodness, it is you.”

North muttered some words inaudibly, afraid to trust himself to speak, and covered his face with his hands.

“Why, what’s the matter, old fellow?” said Thompson, laughing. “Oh, I see; you’ve been shut up so long, you can’t bear the light. How ridiculous, isn’t it?”

North remained silent.

“I heard a noise, and knowing you were ill, felt it my duty to come down. I could tell that some one was prowling about, and backed in here with my fist ready doubled to strike, but you were too quick for me. I’m glad I spoke.”

Still no answer.

“By Jove! what a joke! You took me for a burglar; I took you for one. What a blessing that we were not armed!”

“Armed?” said North slowly.

“Yes. Why, you might have sent a bullet through me. Well, I am glad that confounded tooth kept me awake. It has given me a chance of seeing you. Why, I had only just lain down in my clothes, after stamping about the room till I was afraid I should disturb the house. Give me something for it, there’s a good fellow.”

North hesitated for a few moments, trembling lest he should say words that would excite his cousin’s attention; but at last he rose with one hand across his eyes.

“What, are your eyes so bad?” said Cousin Thompson.

“Yes,” was the laconic reply; and North went to the surgery, took a small bottle from a drawer, the clink of a stopper or two was heard, and a peculiar smell arose, as Thompson noted, with eager eyes, how his cousin kept his back to him while dropping a small quantity from each of the bottles he took down.

“Can you see?” said Cousin Thompson, holding the candle.

“Yes, I can see, thank you,” said North, replacing the bottles on the shelf, and fitting a cork to that he held, before labelling it “poison.”

“Rub a little of that upon the outside of your face; it will allay the pain.”

“It’s awfully good of you,” said Thompson smoothly, “specially now you’re so ill. Thanks. Rub a little outside, don’t you say? I suppose this ‘poison’ is only a scarecrow. It wouldn’t hurt me if I took the lot.”

“No,” said North quietly. “It would not hurt you. The sensation would he rather pleasant.”

“I thought as much,” said Cousin Thompson, who, while he played with the bottle, watched North narrowly.

“But,” added the doctor impressively, “I should make my will first, if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Because to-morrow morning you would be past the power of doing so.”

“Oh, I say, old fellow, is it so bad as that? Make my will, eh? Physician, heal thyself! Why, you haven’t made yours.”

“No,” said North quietly; “I have not made mine. Good night, I am going to my room.”

“One moment—shall I see you to-morrow?”

“No.”

“Well, the next day, then?”

“Doubtful,” said North hurriedly, and he walked brusquely by his cousin to hurry to the staircase, and up to his own room.

“I thought not,” muttered Cousin Thompson. “That was a good bold shot right in the bull’s-eye. Now, Master Horace, the old adage is going to be proved. Every dog has his day, and this dog is going to have his. How many times have you lent him money in a cursed grudging, curmudgeon-like spirit? How often have I come here, worn out with worry and scheming to get an honest living, and you have received me—you rolling in riches—with a churlish hospitality such as I should have thrown back at you if I had not been so poor? Never mind, my dear boy; the world turns round, and those who are down to-day are up to-morrow. I can make Squire Tom squeak to a pretty tune whenever I like, and the widow—well, she’s not a bad sort of woman to come and sit in the nest she has helped to line. ‘Manor House, Duke’s Hampton: Manor House, Duke’s Hampton!’ Not a bad address. There are worse things than being a country gentleman—county magistrate is the proper term. Yes, my dear cousin, things look brighter than they have looked for years. What a blessed thing is the British law, especially where a medical question comes in. The fruit’s about ripe, and if I do not stretch out my hand to pick it, why, I must be a fool.”

“Fool!” he said, as he stood there smiling, with the lighted candle in his hand, casting strange shadows upon the lower portions of his countenance. “Fool—fool—fool! No,” he said softly, as he shook his head. “I have a few failings: I am a little weak. I admire a soft, plump, pleasant-looking widow—with money—like Mrs Berens. I like money—plenty of money, and I like Duke’s Hampton; but those are only amiable weaknesses, and I don’t think I’m a fool.”

He held up the candle and looked round as if enjoying the sense of possession, and his eyes rested on the good old-fashioned furniture, the choice selection of books, a bronze or two, and a couple of paintings by a master hand: all of which his twinkling eyes seemed to appraise and catalogue at a glance.

“Yes,” he said, smiling softly, “things look a good deal brighter now, and I like Duke’s Hampton quite well enough to come and live in—with a wife.”

He took a step or two towards the door, and paused once more, evidently enjoying his self-communings.

“No! There was a decision about that no which I liked, my dear cousin. No: he has not made his will. But it does not matter, my dear boy—not in the least, for, as far as I know, you are not going to die.”

His face lost its smile here, and he took the little bottle he had received softly from his pocket, and held it to the light.

“Poison. For outward application only.”

He read the words slowly.

“Yes,” he said, “that would be a dangerous thing in the hands of some men who saw a life standing between them and a goodly property. But no, my pretty drops! You may go back again. Not for me. I am a lawyer, and I know the law. What idiots some men have been, and at what cost to themselves! But, then, they were not lawyers, and did not know the law. Now, then, for a good night’s rest. And to-morrow. Hah!”

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

A Visit in the Dark.

“I don’t like it, Mary. North has completely shut himself up. He will not even see Mrs Milt, so she tells me, and she is getting very uneasy about his state.”

Mary looked up at her brother. She could not trust herself to speak.

“I pity him, and yet I feel annoyed and hurt, for I gave him credit for greater strength of mind.”

Mary felt that she knew what was coming, but she dared not open her lips.

“Of course it was very painful to find out the woman he had made his idol was trifling with him, but I should have thought that Horace North would have proved himself to be a man of the world, borne his burden patiently, and been enough of a philosopher to go on his way without breaking down.”

“But he is very ill.”

“Ill!” said Salis. “I feel disposed to go and shake him, and rouse him up. To tell him that this is not manly on his part.”

“And yet you own that he is suffering, Hartley.”

“Suffering? Yes; but he has no business to be suffering about a woman like—there, there, I am forgetting myself. Poor fellow! he must be very ill. You see, the upset came when he was worn out with the study and intricacies of that pet theory of his, and hence it is that he is now so low.”

Mary lay back with her eyes half closed for some time, and there was silence in the room.

“Where is Leo?” said Salis, at length.

“In her room—reading.”

“Thank Heaven she seems to be settling down calmly now. Surely this life-storm is past, Mary.”

“I pray that it may be, Hartley,” she said softly; but there was a shadow of doubt in her words.

“Well,” said Salis, rising, “I must go and have a look round.”

“Going out, dear?”

“Yes. I seem to have been very neglectful of the people lately.”

“Stop a minute, Hartley,” said Mary, with a vivid colour in her cheeks.

“You want to say something?”

“Yes, dear; I wish—I wish to speak to you about Dr North.”

“Well, what about him, my child?”

“Hartley, when we were ill, he was always here. No pains seemed to be too great for him to take.”

“Yes, no man could have been more attentive.”

“And now, Hartley, he, too, is ill—seriously ill.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Then don’t you think it is a duty to try everything possible to help him in turn?”

“Of course, and I have tried; but what can I do? He will not see me, and that cousin of his, who, by the way, seems to have a great deal of business with Mrs Berens, evidently does not want me there.”

“But ought you to study that, Hartley, when your friend is ill?”

“I have thought all this out, Mary, and I feel sometimes as if I could do nothing. You see it is like this: I feel certain that North does not want to see me.”

“Why, dear?” said Mary earnestly.

“Because it reminds him too much of his trouble with Leo. He feels that very bitterly, and I know my presence would bring it up. Would it not be better to keep away, and let his nerves settle themselves?”

“No,” said Mary, in a quiet, firm way. “It was no fault of yours. It was Dr North’s own seeking, and he needs help. Go to him, Hartley.”

“Go to him?”

“Yes. He must be in sore trouble in every way. You say his cousin is there?”

“Yes, and if I went much I should quarrel with that man.”

“No, no; you must not quarrel. But recollect how Horace North used to say that he felt obliged to be civil to him, but he wished he would not come.”

“Yes: I remember.”

“Then go to him, and be at his side, dear, in case he requires help and counsel. Remember you are his friend. Even if he seemed querulous and fretful, I should stay.”

“You are right, Mary; I’ll go. I shall have some one to help me in Mrs Milt. I will stand by him.”

Mary’s eyes brightened, and she held out her hand.

“He will thank you some day, dear; even if he seems strange now.”

“He may say what he likes and do what he likes,” said Salis warmly. “I ought not to have needed telling this; but I’m going to make up for past neglect now and play the part of dog.”

Salis was a little late in his promise to play the part of watch-dog for his friend, for as he walked up to the Manor House it was to meet a carriage just driving out.

“The fly from the ‘Bull’ at King’s Hampton and a pair of horses,” said Salis as he walked on, apparently paying no heed to the inmates of the carriage. “Now, whoever would these be? White cravat, one of them; the other thin, spare, and dark. Doctors, for a sovereign, I’d say, if I were not a parson.”

Mrs Milt opened the door to him, and showed him into the drawing-room, whose window looked down the back-garden with its great clump of evergreens and shady walks, beyond which were the meadows through which the river ran.

“I’m very glad,” said Salis eagerly; “your master has had a couple of doctors to see him, has he not?”

“No, sir; oh, dear, no!” said the housekeeper sadly. “If you would only see him, and persuade him to, and get him to see a clever man, sir, it would be the best day’s work you ever did.”

“I’ll try, Mrs Milt,” said Salis; “but I’m disappointed.”

“So am I, sir. He wants doing good to, instead of trying to do good to other people. Those are some friends of Mr Thompson, sir. One of them’s got a very curious complaint that Mr Thompson said master was almost the only man who knew how to cure.”

“And did he see them?”

“Yes, sir, after a great deal of persuasion, and almost a quarrel, sir. I could hear master and Mr Thompson, sir, talking through the door, and he said master ought to be ashamed of himself if he let a gentleman who was suffering come down from town and drive all the way across from King’s Hampton in the hope of being cured, and then let him go back without seeing him.”

“Yes, Mrs Milt; go on,” said the curate eagerly.

“Well, sir, after a long fight Mr Thompson went away, but he went and tried again and master gave way directly, and went down in his dressing-gown, looking all white and scared, and saw those two gentlemen who have just gone away.”

“Well, I’m glad of that—heartily glad,” said Salis. “It is the thin end of the wedge, Mrs Milt, and we have good cause to be grateful to Mr Thompson for what he has done. Seeing patients again! This is good news indeed. He will see me now.”

Mrs Milt shook her head.

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“I must be a patient.”

“You, sir? Why, you look the picture of health.”

“But I have been very patient, Mrs Milt,” said Salis, laughing.

“Ah, sir, and so have I,” said the housekeeper dolefully: “and a deal I’ve suffered, what with master’s illness, and my conscience.”

The old lady put her apron to her eyes, and gave vent to a low sob.

“Your conscience, Mrs Milt,” said Salis, smiling. “Why, I should have thought that was clear enough.”

“Clear, sir? Oh, no! It’s many a bitter night I’ve spent thinking of my temper, and the way I’ve worried poor master when he’s had all his work on his shoulders. I’ve helped to make him what he is. Oh, there’s that man, sir!”

She drew the curate within and closed the door, for steps were heard, and Cousin Thompson passed round from the back-garden to go down to the gate.

“He’s gone out, sir; and I’ll try now if master will see you. It worries him dreadfully his cousin being here, and it always did.”

Closing and fastening the door the housekeeper led the way to the first-floor landing, and, signing to Salis to be silent, she tapped gently at the doctor’s door.

The moment before they had faintly heard the sound of some one pacing to and fro, but at the first tap on the door this ceased. There was no answer.

The housekeeper knocked again, and in simple, old English, country fashion called gently:

“Master, master!”

Still there was no response; but she persevered, and knocked again.

“Master, master!”

“Yes, what is it?” came from within; and Mrs Milt turned and gave the curate a satisfied nod, as she said:

“Mr Salis, sir. He would like to see you.”

There was a pause, and then hoarsely: “Tell Mr Salis I am ill, and can see no one.”

The curate was about to speak, but Mrs Milt hastily raised her hand.

“But I’m sure he’d like to see you very much, sir. Mr Thompson’s gone out.”

“Tell Mr Salis—”

There was a pause, and the curate went close to the door.

“North, old fellow,” he said gently; “don’t turn your back on all your friends. What have I done to be treated thus?”

There was another pause, during which those on the landing listened anxiously fulsome response from within.

But all remained perfectly still, and Salis ventured to appeal again.

“I will not stop longer than you like, old fellow,” he said; “but I am uneasy, and—”

He was interrupted by the sharp snap made by the lock of the door. Then the handle was turned, and a long slit of darkness was revealed.

“Come in,” said a harsh voice; and Salis turned and gave Mrs Milt a satisfied nod and smile, as he entered North’s room and closed the door.

The sensation was strange, that passing from broad daylight into intense darkness, and Salis tried to recall the configuration of the room, and the position of window and bed, as he felt North brush past him, and lock the door.

For it was evident that an attempt had been made to exclude every ray of light, and not without success.

“Well, I am glad—I was going to say to see you, old fellow,” cried Salis. “Hadn’t you better open the curtains and the window? This room smells very faint.”

“Brandy spilt,” said North, alluding to his accident of many days before.

“Brandy? Why, the place smells of laudanum and chloroform, and goodness knows what besides.”

“You wanted to speak to me,” said North.

“Yes, I’ve a great deal to say; but I should like to sit down.”

“There is a chair on your left.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks,” said Salis, feeling about until he touched it, and sitting down. “Where are you?”

“Sitting on the bed.”

“Well, I suppose you have a reason for this blind-man’s-buff work. Eyes bad?”

“Very.”

“May I say a few words to you about getting advice?”

“Aren’t you afraid of shutting yourself up with me here in the dark? There are razors in that drawer. There’s a bottle of prussic acid on the dressing-table. Why, parson, you’re a fool!”

The voice seemed changed, and this speech was followed by a curious mocking laugh which ran through Salis and made him shrink; but he recovered himself directly.

“No,” he said stoutly; “I am not afraid.”

“No, you are not afraid,” came softly from out of the darkness.

“Come, North, old fellow,” continued Salis; “we are old friends. You have helped me when I have been in sore distress; forgive me, now that I know you are in trouble, for thrusting myself upon you.”

“I have nothing to forgive.”

“Then let me help you. Believe me that Mary and I are both terribly concerned about your health. Tell me what I can do.”

There was a pause; then a low, piteous sigh; and from out of the darkness came the word—

“Nothing—!”

“I can’t understand your complaint, of course, old fellow; but tell me one thing. Are you sufficiently compos mentis to know what to do for yourself for the best?”

“Quite, Salis, quite,” said North slowly.

“And you are ill, and are carrying out a definite line of action?”

“I am doing what is really—what is for the best.”

“And you do not need help—additional advice?”

“If I did, a letter or telegram would bring down a couple of London’s most eminent men; but they could do nothing.”

Salis sighed.

“But can I do nothing?”

“Only help me to have perfect rest and peace.”

“But about your patients? Moredock is complaining bitterly.”

“My patients must go elsewhere,” said North slowly. “I cannot see anybody.”

“Don’t think I am moved by curiosity; but are you sure that you are doing what is best for yourself?”

“Quite sure. Let me cure myself my own way, and—and—”

“Well—what, old fellow?” said Salis, for the doctor had ceased speaking.

“Don’t take any notice of what I say at times. I’ve—I’ve been working a little too hard, and—at times—”

“Yes, at times?”

“I feel a little delirious, and say things I should not say at other times—times I say, at other times.”

There was a singularity in his utterance, and his repetitions, which struck Salis; and these broken sentences were strange even to the verge of being terrible, coming as they did out of the darkness before him.

“Oh, yes; I understand,” he hastened to say cheerfully. “I know, old fellow. Want a wet towel about your head and rest.”

“Yes—and rest,” said North quietly.

“Rest and plenty of sleep. I set your disorder down to that,” said Salis, as a feeling of uneasiness which he could not master seemed to increase. At one moment he felt that his friend was not in a proper condition to judge what was best for him; at another he concluded that he was; and that, after all, it was a strange thing that a man could not do as he liked in his own house, even to shutting himself up in a dark room to rest his eyes.

A strange silence had fallen upon the place, and, in spite of his efforts, Salis could not bear it. A dozen subjects sprang to his lips, and he was about to utter them, but he felt that they would be inappropriate; and as North remained perfectly silent, and the uneasy feeling consequent upon sitting there in the darkness, conversing, as it were, with the invisible, increasing, Salis rose.

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad I came, old fellow. I haven’t bothered you much?”

“No.”

“And I may come again?” A pause. Then—“Yes.”

“And you’ll see me?”

“I cannot see you. I shall be glad if you’ll come. I feel safer and better when you are here.”

Salis winced a little. Then a thought struck him.

“Look here, old fellow. Come and stay with us for a change.”

North seemed to start violently, and Salis felt how grave a mistake he had made. For the moment he had forgotten everything about Leo, and he bit his lip at his folly.

“No. Go now.”

“Will you shake hands?”

“No, no,” said North passionately. “Go, man; go now. Don’t come again for some days.”

“As you will, North; only remember this—a message will fetch me at any time. You will summon me if I can be of any use?”

North seemed to utter some words of assent, and then Salis heard a faint rustling sound approaching in the darkness, which, in spite of his manhood and firmness, made the curate wince, as he felt how much he was at North’s mercy if this complaint took an unpleasant mental turn.

But the rustling was explained directly after by the click of the door-lock. Then a pale bar of light shone into the room as the opening enlarged, and as it was evidently held ready Salis passed out, the door closed sharply behind him, the lock snapped into its place, and he shuddered as he heard a low, mocking laugh, followed by the vibration of the floor as the invalid began to pace rapidly up and down.

“What ought I to do?” muttered Salis, as he stood irresolutely upon the mat, till he felt a touch upon his arm, and, turning, found that Mrs Milt had evidently been waiting for him to come out.

“Well, sir?” she whispered, as they went down.

“Well, Mrs Milt?”

“You don’t think that he is—a little—you don’t think that is coming on?”

“What, lunacy?” The housekeeper nodded. “Absurd, Mrs Milt!” cried Salis, “absurd!”

“Thank goodness, sir!”

“A little out of order and eccentric. But what made you ask that question?”

“Well, sir, it was something Mr Thompson said.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

Salis Makes a Discovery.

“I cannot interfere, really, my dear Mary—I cannot interfere. Mrs Berens is a friend of yours, and one of my parishioners, but what can I do?”

“She is alone in the world, and in great trouble.”

“But here is a foolish woman; goes and listens to a plausible lawyer, and makes at his suggestion a number of investments, and then repents and comes to the parson.”

“Well, to whom better?” said Mary, smiling.

“For advice over her sins it would be right enough,” said Salis.

“I don’t think Mrs Berens has any. If so, dear, they must be only small ones.”

“But to come to the parson for help on money matters is absurd. This is the third time she has been.”

“Yes, dear.”

“It is not as if the investments had gone wrong.”

“No, dear; she mistrusts Mr Thompson.”

“Perhaps without reason. Let her get the money back, then, at as little loss as she can, and put it in consols.”

“There, you see, you can give good advice, Hartley.”

“Oh, any noodle could give advice like that. It isn’t perfect.”

“No, dear,” said Mary sadly; “for Mrs Berens says that this Mr Thompson tells her it is impossible to withdraw now, and it seems he has been very angry with her—almost threatening.”

“Confound his insolence!”

“He told her she ought not to have invested if she meant to change her mind, and that she is making a fool of him.”

“Impossible!” said Salis sharply. “She might make him a rogue.”

“You will help her, will you not, Hartley?”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do; but I shall be an unfair advocate, for I hate that man.”

“And you will go and see Mr North to-day.”

“Perhaps,” said Salis. “He faithfully promised to send for me when I could be of any use, and I may do more harm than good by forcing myself there.”

Three days had passed since the last visit, and the suspicions which had flashed through the curate’s brain had faded away as soon as he had found himself questioned by Mary, and felt how much she would be alarmed if he alluded to several little matters in connection with his interview.

“The fact is,” he had said to himself, “my imagination is too active, and I am ready to invent horrors and troubles which are never likely to exist.”

It had been a busy morning, for one of the rector’s customary lectures on the management of the parish had arrived; and it was only by Mary’s special request that a sharp retort had not been sent back to a remark in the rector’s letter to the effect that he was glad Mr Salis had taken his advice respecting his sister’s appearance in the hunting-field, and had put down the unnecessary horse.

“It makes me feel disposed to go and borrow of Horace North, and immediately set up a carriage and pair, with servants in livery of mustard and washing blue.”

This was an attempt at being comic in allusion to the rector’s showy liveries, which generally created a sensation in King’s Hampton when he came down to the neighbouring place and went for a drive.

Mary smiled and went on with her work.

“How is Leo this morning?”

“Much better, I think. She was sitting with me for a long time yesterday evening. Hartley, I am sure she is undergoing a great change.”

“I am very glad, dear,” said Salis sadly.

“She seemed so quiet and affectionate to me.”

“Why, of course. Who would not be?” said the curate affectionately.

“She seemed unwilling to leave me, and kissed me very tenderly when she went to bed.”

“I’m very glad, dear,” said Salis; “but I wish she would give up confining herself so to her room. It will grow into a habit.”

“Let us wait,” said Mary. “Yes, dear,” said Salis, looking sadly from the window as he dwelt upon the lives of his two sisters. “Time cures a great many ills.”

“Yes,” said Mary gravely. “What did Moredock want this morning?”

“Wine,” said Salis shortly. “And it’s my belief the old rascal can afford to buy it far better than I can.”

“And you gave him some?”

“No,” said Salis, with a droll look; “the last bottle in number one bin, of the four we stood up six weeks ago, went to poor Sally Drugate.”

“To be sure, yes,” said Mary. “She had two of the others, had she not?”

“Yes, dear,” said Salis, who was trying hard to get a hair out of his pen. “Old Mrs Soames had the other. By the way, Mary, oughtn’t we to have laid down that wine?”

“I believe wine drinkers do generally lay down wine,” said Mary, smiling. “But what difference does it make?”

“They say it keeps better,” said the curate drily. “Ours keeps very badly. By the way, Moredock incidentally gave me a bit of news.”

“What, dear?”

“Tom Candlish has gone from the Hall for a tour they say, to restore his health.”

“Left the Hall?”

“Yes, and I hope it will be many months before he returns.”

“Yes,” said Mary softly; “it will be better. There, now you will go on and see Mr North.”

“Oh, dear! who would be a slave?” sighed the curate. “Yes, madam, I will go, and when I come back I ought to go and see Mrs Berens, and then I shall be led into acts which will cause Mr Thompson to commence an action against me. Result: ruin, and our quitting Duke’s Hampton.”

“Did you not say to me that your imagination was too active?” said Mary, smiling.

“Yes, I did. What then?”

“You were quite right,” said Mary; “it is.”

Salis laughed and went on his mission, but in half-an-hour he was back, and Mary looked up at him wonderingly.

“Back so soon?” she said; and then with her heart beating frightfully, and a look of agony in her face that came as a revelation to Salis, she stretched out her hands to her brother, her fingers twitching spasmodically, as she uttered a wild cry, which brought him to her feet.

“Mary! My dear child! Be calm!” he panted, for he was evidently out of breath.

“Speak!” she cried. “Have pity on my helplessness. I am chained here by my affliction, and depend on you alone. Don’t torture me—don’t keep me in suspense. Horace North?”

“Yes; only be calm, dear.”

“You are temporising,” cried the poor girl wildly, as she clung to his hands and began to kiss them passionately. “Hartley—Hartley, for pity’s sake, speak!”

“If you will only be calm,” he cried angrily. “This is hysterical madness. You are hindering me when I come back to you for help and advice.”

Mary uttered a piteous moan, and set her teeth, as she clung still to her brother’s hands.

“Tell me the worst,” she implored. “I can bear that more easily than this suspense.”

Salis gazed at his sister more wildly, as he, for the first time, read, in her anguished looks and broken words, the secret which she had kept so well.

For the moment he was as one in a nightmare. He strove to speak, but something seemed to keep him dumb, while all the time she kept on moaning appeal after appeal to him to tell her all.

“I thought little of it then,” he said; “but now the idea seems to have grown stronger and more terrible. Words he used which I did not heed then seem to bear a terrible import now, and I cannot help thinking that something ought to be done.”

“You saw him just now?” said Mary hastily.

“No, but I spoke with Mrs Milt, and she is terribly uneasy. Mary, dear, for your own sake, spare me this.”

“No,” said the suffering woman sternly; “you can tell me nothing so bad as I shall imagine if you are silent. Tell me the very worst. He is dead?”

“No, no, no!” cried Salis; “but I fear for him. He is not in a condition to be left, and yet, strive how I may, I cannot get him to listen to reason.”

“But you have not seen him again?”

“No; he is now shut up in the library, and Mrs Milt has a terrible account of his eccentricity; she fears that he is going—”

“No, no, no! Don’t say that,” cried Mary; “it is too horrible. But quick! What are you going to do?”

“Drive over to King’s Hampton, take the train to Lowcaster, and come back with two of the principal physicians.”

“No,” said Mary sharply. “Telegraph at once to Mr Delton. Tell him his friend North is in urgent need of his help. He believes in North, and looks upon him almost as a son. His advice will be worth that of a dozen Lowcaster physicians.”

“Mary, you’re a pearl among women,” cried Salis.

“Don’t stop to speak,” she cried, with an energy that startled him. “Your friend’s life—his reason—is in peril. Go!”

“My friend; the man that poor broken-spirited creature loves,” muttered Salis, as he hurried away, and was soon after urging his hired pony to a gallop.

“Oh, what moles we men are!” he said, as the hedges and trees flew by him. “But who could have suspected her of caring for him? Lying crushed and broken there, and no one suspecting the agonies she must have suffered.”

Realising by slow degrees the depth of his sister’s love for North, and the life she must have led, Salis urged the pony on to reach King’s Hampton at last, and hurry to the post-office, to despatch his telegram beseeching the old doctor to send a reply; and for this he determined to sit down and wait, but only to pace the coffee-room of the nearest hotel, with his mind a chaos of bewildering ideas, as he wondered what was to be the end of this new trouble which had come upon his house.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

A Stormy Interview.

The old housekeeper had indeed a long series of eccentricities to record to Salis, speaking freely to him, as to her master’s firmest friend, though what she knew and had diminished in intensity more than magnified was but a tithe of that which had occurred.

For it had been a terrible period for the young doctor. Half wrecked by the mental and bodily injuries he had received, the course he had pursued in shutting himself up alone, dreading to be surprised in suddenly uttering some wild speech or committing some vagary, had intensified the abnormal condition of his brain till his sufferings seemed to grow unbearable.

One hour he felt at peace, the next he had none, and asked himself what he was to do to escape the terrible unseen presence that was always with him, never addressing him, but, as it were, making his body the medium by which he communicated with the world.

“I can bear it no longer,” North said to himself at last. “There must be rest for me if I cannot shake it off.”

He shuddered slightly as he paced his darkened room, knowing instinctively how many steps to take in each direction, and what to avoid. For Death, familiar as it was to him, was not without its terrors.

He was so young, and, as it seemed now, the hopes of the past arose once more before him, the faith in the prizes of fame which he would win, his love for Leo, and the promises which had led him on.

But so sure as these thoughts assumed form there was another to rise like a dense cloud of horror and cover everything, as he felt that, come what might, he would be haunted ever by this unseen presence—the spirit which he had freed from its envelope of clay—and this could have but one end.

He felt that he had tried everything. He had forced himself to calmness, and marked out course after course of treatment such as he would have prescribed to some poor wretch who had consulted him in such a case; and when all was still at night he had stolen down to his surgery, and mingled for his own use sedatives and tonics, but all to no effect. If anything, his malady increased.

Two days before Salis had gone over to King’s Hampton, Cousin Thompson came once more to his bedroom door, to beg that he would come down and see his friend.

“It is impossible,” he had replied hoarsely.

“But he has come down again, vastly improved by your treatment; and without you he feels that he would be a dying man. Come, you cannot refuse.”

North held out for a time, and at last gave way, more from the desire of getting rid of his cousin and the patient than from any wish to repeat his advice.

“I’ll come this time,” he said; “but this visit must be final. There are hundreds of doctors who can advise the man better than I.”

“Doubtless,” said Cousin Thompson; “but that is not the point. There is not one in any of those hundreds in whom my poor friend will have the faith that he has in you.”

The argument was unanswerable.

“I will be down in a few minutes,” North said; and trying hard to master the nervous feeling which came over him, and wondering whether he could get through the interview without some absurd utterance, he drew aside the blind to accustom his eyes once more to the light.

It was some moments before he could face it, and then he looked despairingly at the wan, haggard face before him in the glass.

He shrank from it at first, but looked again and again, without the feeling of horror that had pervaded him before. His countenance was changed, and terribly wan and drawn; eyes and cheeks were sunken, so that the former seemed set in deep, cavernous holes; but as he gazed he did not seem to dread the sound of mocking laughter, or of some strange utterance which he could not control, and proceeded to make himself somewhat more presentable for those below.

“And they come to me for help,” he muttered, “who want it more than any man on earth.”

As he opened his door he frowned, for he caught sight of the old housekeeper hastily beating a retreat, and a shiver ran through him as he felt how he was watched.

But he went on down into the hall, where a low murmur of voices told him that his visitors were in the drawing-room.

What followed was a matter of a minute or two.

He entered the room quickly, his coming having been unheard; and Cousin Thompson, who was speaking earnestly to the two gentlemen from town, started quickly away and then said hastily:

“Ah, North! Why, you seem better. Let me get you a chair. You want no introductions, and I’ll leave you together.”

He approached North with a chair, and the latter took it, gazing keenly at the visitors the while; but as Thompson was passing he caught him by the collar and checked him, holding him fast, as he threw the chair from him with a crash.

Thompson turned white as so much curd, and tried for a moment to extricate himself, but his cousin’s grasp was like iron, and he turned a pitiable face to the two visitors, the taller of whom advanced quickly.

“My dear Dr North,” he said, “pray be calm. Another seat, my dear sir; pray sit down.”

North seemed as if he had not heard him. He had searchingly gazed from one to the other, and then his eyes appeared to blaze as his left hand joined his right at Thompson’s throat.

“You cursed, treacherous, cowardly hound!” he literally yelled, and dashing him backward, so that he fell with a crash against a table, which was overturned, North strode from the room without another word, and made the house echo with the bang he gave the door.

Thompson did not attempt to rise till the visitors held out their hands to assist him to a couch.

“My dear sir, are you hurt?” asked the first man.

“Hurt!” cried Thompson savagely. “Could you be half strangled and then thrown down without being hurt? But you see now. You doubted before: you see now.”

“Yes, perfectly,” said the second visitor calmly. “Oh, yes, I think that we are quite satisfied now. What do you say?”

“Perfectly,” said the first slowly; and as soon as the lawyer had satisfied himself that he was not seriously hurt, they adjourned to the library, where Mrs Milt was summoned to provide sherry and biscuits; and soon after the two visitors re-entered their carriage, and were driven back to King’s Hampton in time to catch the first train back to town.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

Mrs Milt Takes up Lunch.

“The last hope gone!” cried North, as he rushed upstairs and entered his room, to close and lock the door, overcome, as it were, with a despairing dread.

“I might have known it,” he panted excitedly. “The cruel, treacherous hound! I might have known that he had some hidden meaning in what he was doing. Friend from town—no faith in any one but me, forsooth! And I such a miserable, easily deceived child that I was ready to believe it all.”

Without thinking of what he did, he seated himself at the dressing-table, rested his elbows thereon, and gazed straight before him in the glass, but without seeing his distorted, haggard face.

“And it has come to that!” he groaned.

He, in his cunning, is taking all the necessary steps, such as a legal practitioner would know to be necessary, and I am to be carried off on these men’s certificates to some death in life, while my affectionate Cousin Thompson takes possession here.

“And he could,” he mused; “everything has been arranged for him. I am not mad; I am perfectly sane, but, Heaven knows, I am acting like a madman—like one possessed. I go always with this terrible shadow enveloping me, and I cannot shake it off, try how I may.

“What shall I do?

“Salis! No, I cannot tell him. Mr Delton? No, no, no! I could not speak out. What would they say? They must declare it to be a mania if I tell them the simple truth, and how dare I confess to having instituted those experiments on Luke Candlish?

“Was ever man so cursed for his endeavours? I have branded myself as one who is mad, and I must bear the stigma.”

He clenched his fist and glared before him, recalling the scene in his drawing-room, and burst into a scornful laugh—a laugh so full of savage anger that he started and looked wildly about him in dread.

He calmed down though in a few minutes, and sat repeating the words that had passed.

“I must have been blind not to have seen it before,” he cried aloud; “and now what is to follow?”

He looked up at the light shining down through the drawn curtain, and hurriedly shut it out, to reseat himself and think.

Flight! Yes, he could easily escape from his cousin and his machinations—the Continent—America—or he might boldly face him, and prove that the charge of lunacy was without basis.

But how, when he dared not show his face anywhere lest he should betray himself before his fellow-men?

“It is of no use,” he sighed bitterly; “I am conquered and I must succumb.

“But Cousin Thompson?

“Curse him!” he cried passionately, as he rose and began his old wild-beast tramp again. “What fate is too bad for such a man? Why did I not keep my hold when I had him by the throat?”

He stopped short, and in a paroxysm of mental agony threw himself upon a chair, nerveless, helpless, ready to give up and think that his cousin was right, and that the sooner he was placed under restraint the better, or else sought that other way of escape from his troubles.

As he writhed there in his agony, Mrs Milt was coming up the stairs with a tray covered with a fair white napkin, and on which was a covered dish exhaling an odour which the old dame had settled in her own mind would be certain to tempt her master.

“Poor fellow!” she said to herself; “he’s half starving himself, and perhaps I’ve done wrong in letting him have his own way. I ought to have gone up and made him eat. He’d have scolded and abused me, but I should have done him good.”

Mrs Milt had nearly reached the room, when she uttered an ejaculation of horror, and, setting down the tray upon the carpet, ran swiftly back to close a baize door.

“If he heard it,” she half sobbed, “he would think poor master mad, and heaven knows what would happen then.”

She hurried again to where she had left the tray, and then on to the door, as from within she heard a wild burst of boisterous laughter, and then a fierce oath, and the sounds of a struggle, ending in a crash as of a table being overturned.

“What shall I do?” groaned the poor woman, as, for the moment, she clapped her hands to her face, and stopped her ears, but only to snatch them down wildly, as the strange sounds continued. “He must be alone here, and if I call for help they’ll say he’s mad.”

She stood wringing her hands for a time as a terrible scene appeared to be taking place within that closed room. There was the trampling of feet—the sound as of a struggle. North’s voice in angry denunciation of some one who kept bursting forth into mocking peals of laughter, and then shouting as men shout when excited with the chase, till the room re-echoed. Then again North’s voice came, as if speaking furiously in a low voice, which changed directly afterwards to one of piteous appeal, breaking off into a moan. As the doctor’s voice ceased there was another mocking laugh, apparently from close by the door, and directly after came a crash as if a chair had been used as a weapon, a blow had been struck, and the chair shivered. While vividly painting the scene in her own mind, helped as she was by the sounds, the old housekeeper seemed to see her master hurl the portion of a broken chair which remained in his hands into the corner of the room, where it rattled upon the floor.

“There’s murder being done,” panted the old woman, as she caught at the handle of the door now, and stood clinging to it, while she pressed her other hand upon her heaving bosom.

As if in answer to her words, there was another coarse burst of laughter, and the sound of some one bounding to the door, two hands seeming to shake the panel, and her master’s voice came through, muffled but distinct.

“Curse you! I have you now! Is there no way of forcing you back into your grave?”

A loud rustling sound as of a struggle which was continued to the other side of the room, and the housekeeper’s hair felt to her as if something cold and strange were moving it, while a deathly perspiration broke out upon her face.

“Who is in there with him?” she thought. “What does it mean? There must be some one there, and murder is being done. Help! help!” she shrieked in her agony of fear, as she rattled the handle of the door, and beat upon the panels. “Help! help!” and then in her horror she turned and staggered towards the stairs, as the door was flung open, she felt herself seized from behind and dragged into the room, the door swinging to, and she was forced backwards in the utter darkness, listening to the hoarse sound of the hot breath which fanned her cheek as a hand was pressed heavily over her mouth.

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

An Opportune Arrival.

“Silence, you mad woman! Do you want to bring them here? Do you want to have me dragged away like some miserable prisoner?”

“Oh, master—dear master,” sobbed the frightened woman piteously, as the hand was removed from her lips, and she sank at North’s knees and embraced them. “What does it all mean?—what does it all mean?”

“What does all what mean?”

“All that noise—that noise?” sobbed the housekeeper in a broken voice. “Have you—have you killed him?”

“Killed him?” cried North harshly. “Killed whom? There is no one here.”

“There is—there is, sir. I heard it all.”

“Hush!” cried North. “Listen. Is any one coming? Did they hear in the kitchen?”

“No, sir. I couldn’t bear for any one else but me to hear it all,” sobbed the trembling woman. “I went back and shut the door.”

“Then no one has heard—no one knows—but you?”

“No, sir.”

“My cousin?”

“He has gone out, sir.”

“Hah! Then it is a secret still,” muttered North.

The old housekeeper struggled to her feet, for his words and manner horrified her. She alone had heard what had taken place, and it seemed to her that within a few steps her master’s victim must be lying prone, and that even her life was not safe now.

Her first instinct was to make for the door, but he had hold of her wrist, and she sank once more at his feet, with a low sobbing cry.

“I’m an old woman, now,” she cried, “and a year or two more or less don’t matter much.”

The same harsh, mocking laugh broke out again, chilling her to the marrow, and then North uttered a hoarse, harsh expiration of the breath, and stamped his foot angrily.

Then there was a pause, broken only by the old woman’s painful sobs.

“My poor old Milt,” said North gently, as he raised her from the ground. “Why, what were you thinking—that I would do you any harm?”

“I—I couldn’t help it, sir; but—but I don’t think so now. Oh, master—dear master, I thought you had killed some one. What does it mean?—what does it mean?”

He did not answer for a few moments, and when he spoke again there was an indescribable, mournful sadness in his voice. “What are you thinking?” he said. She answered with a sob. “I’ll tell you,” he said; “you think that I am mad.”

“No, no, no! master—my great, clever, noble master,” cried the old woman passionately. “Only ill—only very ill; and you can cure yourself. Yes, yes; pray say that you can!”

“No,” he said bitterly. “No. It has come to the worst. There, go: I am worn out, and want to rest.”

“But you will let me help you, dear,” she said, speaking with the tenderness of a mother towards the boy she worshipped with a lavish love. “Let me do something—let me help you, dear. It is overwork. Your poor brain is troubled. Let me open the window, and let in light and air, and then you shall go to bed; and I’ll bathe your poor head, and you shall tell me what to mix. You know how I can nurse and tend you now you are ill.”

North took the old woman’s head between his hands as they stood there in the darkness, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Yes, the best and gentlest of nurses,” he said quietly.

“And you will let me help you, sir?”

“Yes; but not now. It was a kind of fit you heard—nothing more. Now go. See that I am not disturbed. Perhaps I can sleep. There: you know there is no one here.”

“Yes, my dear, of course—of course. I ought to have known better; I know now. And you will try to sleep?”

“Yes—I promise you, yes.

“Let me go down and get something for you; tell me what, and the quantities.”

“Yes,” said North eagerly, for she seemed to be opening before him the gates of release from his life of horror; but he shook his head as he called to mind how familiar she was with his surgery, and that if he bade her mix what he wished, she would turn suspicious and refuse.

“What shall I do, my dear?” said the old woman tenderly.

“Nothing now,” he said; “sleep will be best. Let me go to sleep.”

The old housekeeper sighed; but she made no opposition, and let him gently lead her to the door and shut her out, where she stood with her apron to her eyes, listening for a few moments to the loud snap given by the lock, and the dull, low sound of his pacing feet.

Then the old woman seemed to change.

She let fall her apron and tightened her lips. Her eyes grew keen and eager, and she gazed straight before her, deep in thought.

In a few moments her mind was made up.

“He must have proper help,” she said softly; and with an activity not to be expected of one at her time of life, she hurried up to her bedroom, to come out in a few minutes dressed for going out.

“I must fetch help,” she said eagerly, and going to North’s door she listened for a few moments more before hurrying down to the door, when a step on the gravel made her utter a cry of joy.

The man she was going to seek was coming up to the house, and the next minute she had confided to Salis all she felt and knew, and he had gone back to Mary, before hurrying away to telegraph to town.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Dally’s Plans.

“It’s little better than murder: it’s cruel, that’s what it is. What does he mean by being ill and shutting hisself up, and won’t see anybody? What right has a doctor to go and be ill? Yah!”

Old Moredock stared his clock full in the face as it ticked away slowly and regularly in the most unconcerned way.

“Yes! go it!” cried the old man, “go on marking it off, all your minutes and hours, but I don’t mean to die yet, so you needn’t think it. I’m not so old as all that, and if doctor ’ll only get well, I’ll astonish some on ’em.”

He changed his position, stared at his fire, and laboriously, and with many a groan, got down his old leaden tobacco box and pipe, filled slowly, lit up, and began to smoke; but somehow he did not seem to enjoy his pipe, and removed it again and again to go on muttering to himself.

“Well, suppose I did? A man must make a few pounds to keep himself out of the workhouse. They should pay the saxon better if they didn’t want him to. Tchah! What’s a few old bones?”

There was an interval of smoking, and then the old man resumed his complainings.

“Turning ill like that. What did he go and turn ill like that for, just as I wanted him so badly? It’s too bad o’ doctor. I wouldn’t ha’ let him go to the old morslem if I’d known he’d turn queer arterward. It’s my b’leef that young Tom Candlish gave him an ugly knock that night. But I warn’t there. Hi—hi—hi! I warn’t there. I didn’t want to be mixed up with it.”

He shifted his seat, and as he did so painfully, his jaw dropped, and he sat fixed and staring at the window, where at one corner there was a curious, rough-looking object, which remained stationary for some time and then moved slowly till first one and then a second eye appeared, gazed into the little cottage interior, and slowly descended again.

“Who—who—what’s that?” faltered the old man. “Is it—is it—tchah! It’s Joe Chegg, peeping and prying again to see if my Dally’s here.”

Recovering from his scare, the old man smoked away viciously for a time, and then grinned hideously.

“If I’d only been well,” he muttered, “and that doctor had let me have some more of his stuff, I’d ha’ took my spade and crope round by the back, and I’d ha’ come ahint that iddit and give him such a flop. Sneaking allus after my Dally, as if it was like she’d wed a thing like him.”

“Why don’t doctor come?” he groaned, as a twinge made him twist painfully in his seat. “It’s about murder: that’s what it is; and they all want to get rid of me now—parson and all; and then things ’ll go to ruin about the old church. But they may get a new saxon if they like. Let ’em have Joe Chegg: I don’t care. Much good he’ll do ’em. Disgrace to the old church: that’s what he’ll be; and go in o’ Sundays smelling of paint and putty, till he most drives Parson Salis mad. Disgrace to the church: that’s what he’ll be. Eh? eh? Who’s that? Who’s that? Hallo! Eh? Who’s that at the door? You, Dally? Oh, you’ve come at last!”

“Yes, gran’fa, I’ve come at last,” said the girl in a sullen tone.

“I might ha’ died for all you’d ha’ cared,” grumbled the old man; “but I wouldn’t—nay, I wouldn’t do that.”

Dally made no answer, but plumped herself down on the old shred hearthrug, and put her hands round one knee, so as to stare at the fire.

“Well,” said the old man after a pause, “ain’t you going to speak?”

Dally turned and looked at him sharply, with her brow knit and her mouth tightened up; but she only shook her head.

“Never been a-nigh me for three days,” grumbled Moredock; “after all I’ve done for you. But don’t you make too sure. Young ’uns often goes ’fore old folk, and maybe I’ll bury you, and Joe Chegg too, if he don’t mind what he’s about.”

Dally paid no heed, but stared at the fire.

“Seen doctor?” said Moredock.

Dally looked round again as if she did not quite hear his question, and then shook her head again.

“Never mind; I don’t want him,” grumbled the old man. “Let him doctor hisself. I’m not so bad but what I can get well without him. I’m not worn out yet! I’m not worn out yet!”

Dally paid no heed, and her curious attitude and her silence took the old man’s attention at last. He reached round painfully till he could get hold of a thick oak stick, whose hook held it upon the back of the covered arm-chair.

With this the old man poked at his grandchild to draw her attention to him.

“Here, Dally, what’s the matter? Here!”

“Don’t!” cried the girl angrily; but he poked at her again.

“Don’t, gran’fa! do you hear?” she cried, giving herself a vicious twist; but the old man only chuckled, and deliberately changing his hold upon his stick, he leaned forward, with one hand upon the arm-chair, till he could reach Dally easily as she crouched there, half turned from the old sexton, staring thoughtfully at the fire.

The old man chuckled softly as he extended the stick as a shepherd might his crook, till he could hook Dally by the neck, and drew her slowly towards him, grasping the stick now with both hands.

“Don’t, gran’fa!” cried the girl fiercely, as she started up and took hold of the stick with both hands, getting her neck out of the hook, and struggling with her grandfather for its possession, in which she was triumphant, and ending by nearly dragging Moredock from his seat, as she made a final snatch, obtained the stick, and threw it viciously across the room.

“You—you—you nearly—you fetch that stick!”

“I won’t stand it, gran’fa!” cried Dally, ignoring his command, and stamping her foot as she stared at him. “I won’t have it! If he thinks he’s got a baby to deal with, like Leo Salis, he’s mistaken.”

“Eh? eh?” croaked the old man, staring at her, and forgetting the stick, as he saw the girl’s excitement.

“He’s not going to play with me, gran’fa, and so I’ll tell him.”

“Eh? Who, Dally? Joe Chegg?”

“He said he’d marry me.”

Then sharply:

“He’s not going to play with me, and so I precious soon mean to tell him. He should marry me if I followed him all round the world for ever. There!”

She emphasised her words with a stamp, and then, taking the old man by the shoulders, she pushed him back in his chair, and arranged his collar and tie—the one, a limp piece of linen; the other, something a little more limp and loose.

“What’s the matter, Dally? What’s wrong, my gel?”

“After the way he has talked to me, and then to go off like that without a word!”

“But you don’t want him, Dally, and I don’t want him.”

“Yes, I do; and I’ll have him, too!” cried the girl, with savage vehemence.

“Nay, nay. He’s an iddit.”

“Yes, I know that,” cried Dally vindictively; “and a drunken idjut; but I don’t care for that.”

“He was here to-night, staring in at the corner of the windy there.”

“What, Tom Candlish?” cried Dally excitedly.

“Nay, nay; Joe Chegg.”

“Joe Chegg!” cried Dally, in a tone of disgust that would have cut the village Jack-of-all-trades to the heart. “Who said anything about Joe Chegg? I was talkin’ about young squire.”

“Eh? About young squire? Well, Dally, well? When’s it to be?”

“It’s going to be soon, gran’fa, or I’ll know the reason why; I’m not going to have him playing Miss Leo off against me.”

“Nay, that I wouldn’t, Dally,” cried the old man.

“She’s got to mind, or she may be ill again,” cried the girl, with a vindictive look in her eyes.

“Ill again! Has she, Dally? Nay, nay, nay, my gel; you mustn’t talk like that.”

“Mustn’t I, gran’fa? but I will,” cried the girl. “I’m not going to be played with, and if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into a coffin—”

“Eh? What?—what?” cried Moredock, the last word making him prick up his ears. “Nay, nay; don’t you talk like that, my gel. He’s a young, strong man yet.”

“I say if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into his coffin, he may. But he’s got to make me Lady Candlish first.”

“Lady Candlish of the Hall, eh, Dally? Lady Candlish of the Hall? Ay, ay! Let him make you Lady Candlish first, Dally.”

“Yes, and then he may drink himself into his coffin as soon as he likes.”

“And I’ll bury him, eh, Dally? In the old morslem, eh? And doctor can—”

He stopped short with a chuckle, and rubbed his hands.

“Yes, the doctor can try and stop him from drinking, for I can’t,” said Dally acidly. “It’s of no use to talk to him.”

“And you wouldn’t break your heart, Dally, if he was to die, would you?” said the old man, with a chuckle.

“I should if he was to die now, gran’fa,” said the girl; “but when he marries me he can do what he likes.”

“Ay, when he’s married you, Dally, and you’ve got the Hall and all his money. But, look here, Dally; I want doctor to come and see me and bring me some of his stuff. You go up and tell him he must come—that I say he must come; I want him. Tell him I say he is to come, and that he is to bring some o’ that stuff he give me those nights. You say o’ those nights, and he’ll know. Rare stuff, Dally, as goes right down into your toes. Rare stuff, as sets you up and makes you have a good nap sometimes.”

Dally looked at the sexton searchingly.

“You’re not looking well, gran’fa,” she said.

“Nay, I look well enough, but I do want the doctor a bit.”

“You see you’re a very old man now.”

“Tchah! stuff! Old? I’m not an old man yet. Lots o’ go in me. Man takes care of himself, and he ought to live to two hundred.”

“Two hundred, gran’fa!” cried the girl, looking at him wonderingly.

“Ay. Why not? Look at the paytrarchs, seven and eight and nine hundred. I don’t mean to die yet, Dally,” he chuckled; “and you’ll have a long time to wait if you think you want the bit o’ money I’ve saved up.”

“Where do you keep that stuff now, gran’fa?”

“What stuff?” said the old man.

“That stuff you used to keep in the blue bottle in the corner cupboard.”

“How did you know I kept stuff in that corner cupboard?”

“Because I looked,” said the girl pertly. “Then I won’t have you look in my cupboards. I—”

“Why not?” said Dally calmly. “There, I know, gran’fa, most everything you’ve got. Now, tell me, what have you done with that bottle that you used to use for your eyes?”

“Poured it away, and put the bottle in the fire.”

“Oh, gran’fa!”

“My eyes are right enough now, and I didn’t want to go some night in the dark—candles cost money, Dally—and take the wrong stuff. Doctor gives me some drops in a little bottle, and I shouldn’t ha’ liked to make a mistake.”

“And you’ve thrown it all away?” said the girl in a disappointed tone.

“Ay, my gel. It was poison, only to use outside, and you wouldn’t ha’ liked your poor old gran’fa to make a mistake?”

“Gone!” said Dally, to herself.

“Now, you go to doctor and say your gran’fa wants him. Tell him I say it’s all nonsense for him to be ill, and he must come.”

“Yes, gran’fa.”

“And you wait, Dally. I arn’t an old man yet, but I shall be sure to die some day, and then there’ll be a bit o’ money for you.”

“I don’t want your money, gran’fa,” she said sourly, as the old man grinned and rubbed his hands.

“That’s right. Good gel. Be independent,” he said. “Now go and tell doctor he must come.”

Dally did not stir, but stood gazing straight before her thoughtfully.

“How much does it cost to go to London, gran’fa?” she said, at last, as the old man beat upon the arm of his chair to take her attention.

“Heaps o’ money—heaps o’ money. What do you want to know for?”

“Because I’m going there.”

“Going? What for?”

“To find him and bring him back.”

“Whatcher talking about? You go and fetch doctor.”

“About Tom Candlish. I went to the Hall last night, and he was gone.”

“What, young squire? Well, you mustn’t go after him, gel.”

“Yes, I must,” said Dally, with a lurid look in her dark eyes. “I’m going after him to bring him back here, gran’fa. But are you sure you threw that stuff away?”

“Ay, I’m sure enough. Now go and fetch doctor, I tell you; and ask him to give you some more of it if your eyes are bad. Now go.”

Dally nodded shortly, neither displaying, nor being expected to display, any affection for her grandfather, as she left the cottage; when the old man relit his pipe and sat back thinking as he smoked.

“What does she want with that stuff?” he said thoughtfully; “’tis poison, and she knowed where it was. She wouldn’t want to take none herself. She wouldn’t do that; and she wouldn’t want to give none to Tom Candlish, because that wouldn’t make him marry her. I dessay she wants it—she wants it—to—”

The old man’s drowsy head had sunk back, his pipe-holding hand fell in his lap, and he slept heavily, to wake, after a few hours, cold and shivering, ready to creep to bed, murmuring against the doctor for not coming, and forgetting all about Dally and her desire to get that bottle which used to stand in the corner cupboard.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

Moredock’s Medicine.

“It’s like a shadow following me always,” muttered North, “and it is hopeless for me to try longer. I’ve fought and battled with it as bravely as a man could fight, and for what? I have failed; there is nothing to keep me here. Why should I stay?”

“Yes,” he repeated, “I have failed—failed in my daring attempt—failed in my love—and I want rest. I can bear it no longer; what I want is rest. Ah!”

He drew a long breath and then sighed, and went straight to the window, drew aside the curtain, and for the first time for many days spent about half-an-hour at his toilet, to stand at last, weak and ghastly pale, but looking, otherwise, more like the frank, manly young doctor of the past.

By this time his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light, and he went and stood gazing out of the window at the pleasant woodland landscape spread before him, thinking of his future, and ignorant of the fact that the sight was soothing to his troubled brain.

It seemed to him that his shadow slept, and turning from the window, after a final look across the meadows, where now and again he could see the sun glancing from the stream in the direction of the Rectory, he walked, with a fair amount of steadiness, across the floor, just as the figure of a woman appeared in the lower meadow walking hurriedly and keeping close to the hedges and clumps of trees, which gave the place the aspect of a park.

As North opened the door and made for the stairs he could see that the baize door at the foot, which cut off communication with the rest of the house, was ajar, and then it moved slightly and closed.

“Watched,” he said to himself; “poor old Milt! I must not forget her.”

He went slowly down into the hall, and as he reached it the dining-room door, which was also ajar, closed softly, and North knit his brow and bit his lip as he turned his back to it and entered the study.

He closed and locked the door after him; and, as he did so, the housekeeper’s face appeared at the baize door, and Cousin Thompson’s at that of the dining-room.

Mrs Milt noticed the movement of the dining-room door, and stole softly back with a sigh, while, after waiting for a few minutes, with a peculiarly low cunning expression of countenance, Cousin Thompson took a little brass wedge from his pocket, and stuck it beneath the door, so as to hold it a few inches open, sufficiently to enable him to hear when the study was opened again, and then seated himself watchfully by the window, where he could command a good view of the principal gate.

As soon as he was in the study, North looked sadly round at his books and tables, where everything was methodically arranged, and scrupulously neat and clean, the old housekeeper’s hand being visible on every side.

“Poor old woman!” muttered the doctor. “As if she felt sure that I should not be ill long.”

He walked to the French window, which looked out upon the green lawn with its shrubbery surroundings, beyond which were the meadows and the purling stream.

It was a scene of peace and beauty that should have been welcome to the most exacting, and it was not without its effect upon the doctor, who carefully closed and fastened the window before crossing to the door leading into his surgery, which he opened, and looked in to see that the outer door was closed.

Returning to the study table, the baize communication swung to, and North sat down, quite calm and collected now, and began to write.

He paused to think several times, but only to go on more earnestly, till he had done, when he read that which he had written, made a slight alteration or two, and then carefully folded and placed the papers in large envelopes, one of which he directed, “To my executors,” and laid in a prominent place upon the table, where it could not fail to be seen; the other to his London medical friend.

Apparently not satisfied, he took up the envelope, and placed it in another, after which he wrote upon a sheet of paper:

“Mrs Milt. Place this enclosure in my executors’ hands yourself.”

Then directing the outer envelope to the housekeeper, he smiled with satisfaction, and had just laid it upon the table, duly fastened down, when a faint chink made him turn his head in the direction of the surgery.

North listened, and the faint sound of a bottle touching another was repeated.

He rose and went softly to the door, which was not latched, opened it, and saw a hand dart down that was extended, as he stood face to face with Dally Watlock.

In his surprise North did not speak, for he had been under the impression that he had fastened the door, and this gave the girl time to recover herself.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, with a smile; “I only pushed that bottle back in its place. It was nearly off the shelf.”

“What do you want?” said North sharply.

“Gran’fa, please sir, said I was to come on and tell you he wanted you.”

“Tell him I can’t come,” said North shortly. “Why did you come here, and not to the front?”

“Oh, wasn’t this right, sir?” said Dally apologetically. “I am so sorry, sir. But gran’fa said: ‘Go to Dr North’s surgery,’ and I came here. Please, sir, he says you’re to send him some of that same stuff you gave him before.”

North stood with his brows knit for a moment, and then went to a cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy, half full, and handed it to the girl.

“Take that,” he said, “and tell him to use it discreetly. I cannot come.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. Gran’fa ’ll be so pleased, sir; and master ’ll be so glad when I tell him you’re so much better; and Miss Mary, too.”

North winced, and then frowned, as he passed the girl to open the outer door, and feign her to go.

She smiled and curtsied as she passed out, the door being closed sharply behind her, and she heard a bolt shoot.

“Yes,” she muttered, with her countenance changing as she thrust the bottle carefully into her dress-pocket, with the result that there was another faint chink; “you may lock it now. I don’t care. But wasn’t it near?”

She hesitated for a moment, as if about to go out by the front, but Cousin Thompson was not puzzled by seeing her pass, for she returned by the way she came, down the kitchen garden to the meadows, and through them and down by the river till she reached the nearest point to the Rectory garden, through which she passed, after stopping to pick a handful of parsley to carry into the house.

Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.

Besieged.

Dally had not reached the Rectory, and Horace North had not sat long thinking over the girl’s words in a way which puzzled him, as it brought a curious feeling of rest and satisfaction to his brain, before a carriage came sharply along the King’s Hampton road, and passed Moredock’s cottage and Mrs Berens’ pretty villa-like home. North was seated, with his head resting upon his hand, thinking.

Miss Mary would be so pleased, the girl had said—pleased that he was better.

It seemed strange to him, but the words set him picturing Mary Salis in the old days at the Rectory; then her accident, and how he had tended her. Then he thought of the sweet, pale, patient face, as she passed through that long time of bodily suffering, to be followed by the lasting period of what must have been terrible mental anguish as she found herself to be a hopeless, helpless invalid—changed, as it were by one sad blow, from a young and active girl to a dependent cripple.

“Poor, gentle, patient Mary!” he said softly; and then, like a flash, his mind turned to the sister—her sick couch, her delirious declaration of her love, and his weak, blind folly in not grasping the fact that the tenderness she lavished upon him was meant for another.

“No, you can’t. Master’s better, and he’s engaged, and can’t see patients.”

North started up on his seat, rigid, and with a wild look in his eyes, as he heard these loudly uttered words, and then sprang to the door.

“Now, my dear Mrs Milt,” said a soft, unctuous voice, which he knew only too well, “pray do not be excited. How can you speak like that?”

“I speak what I think and feel, sir,” retorted the old lady sharply. “What do these people want with master?”

“To ask him to go and attend upon a patient who is in a dying state. There: pray come away. Really, Mrs Milt, you must not interfere like this.”

“I tell you, sir, master don’t want to see patients, and he can’t come out; so you must send them away.”

“Really, Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, “this is insufferable. My good woman, you forget yourself.”

Every word reached North as he stood close to the door and realised that there was one woman ready to fight in his defence.

North stood there, with his hands clenched and his brow rugged, glaring angrily, for he well knew what this meant. The voices were heard retiring, and the sound of the dining-room door closing, and muffling them suddenly, told him as plainly as if he had seen that the housekeeper had followed Cousin Thompson into that room, where an angry altercation seemed to be in progress.

“Hah!” ejaculated the miserable man; “canting and unscrupulous to the end. He is keeping her in parley while his people do their work.”

He laughed bitterly, for at that moment the door was tried softly, and then there was a gentle tapping on the panel.

“May my money prove a curse to him, and the whole place constantly remind him of his treachery,” he muttered, as the soft tapping was repeated, and a low voice, which he did not recognise, said:

“Dr North—Dr North! Can I speak to you a minute?”

He made no answer, but drew back to the table.

“Will they dare to break in?” he said to himself, as his face wore a look of bitter scorn and contempt.

Just then Mrs Milt’s voice could be heard raised loudly in protest; but it was in vain. Cousin Thompson, under the pretext of holding a parley, had entrapped her in the dining-room, and then interposed his person whenever she attempted to leave by door or window.

The tapping at the door ceased, and there was a sound of whispering; whilst a minute after a stoutly-built, rather hard-faced man, with a determined look, suddenly appeared at the French window looking on the garden, and tried the handle.

It was fast on the inside.

He passed on and went round to the surgery door, which he tried, too; but North had fastened this when he let Dally out, and the man came back, looked in and tapped gently on the pane to take North’s attention. Then seeing that he did not stir from where he stood at the table, the man smiled and beckoned to him.

This he repeated again and again, but North did not stir. Then his lips moved, and he involuntarily repeated Hamlet’s words:

“I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a hernshaw.”

The man nodded and smiled again, and passed away.

There was another low murmuring outside the door, and a fresh tapping, as a persuasive voice said:

“Dr North, will you be kind enough to open the door, and come into the dining-room? Mrs Milt, the housekeeper, would like to speak to you.”

“What a child—what a weak lunatic they must think me!” muttered North; but he did not move, and, as he fully expected, the last speaker, as he supposed, went round to the window and tapped softly.

The fresh comer might have been twin brother of the first, so similar was his expression, so exactly a repetition were his acts.

They were of as much avail, and he returned to the hall, when a few words were exchanged in a low tone of voice, followed by a sharp tapping at the dining-room door.

This was opened, and Mrs Milt’s voice rose loudly:

“Stop me if you dare, any of you! and I’ll have the law of you.”

This was followed by a sharp, rustling noise, and the dull thud made by the banging of the baize door.

Then there was the sound of the gravel as some one walked over it hurriedly, and the clicking of the swing-gate before it caught.

“Give the word, sir, and it’s done,” said a deep voice.

“Quick, then!” said Cousin Thompson sharply. “Quick, before that cursed woman returns with help.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eighteen.

One Way of Escape.

North drew a deep breath as one of the men stationed himself at the study window and looked in.

He strode towards him, and the man smiled and beckoned to him to come out; but the smile became a scowl as the cord was seized and the blind drawn down.

Just then the door cracked as some one pressed it hard, and then a whispering penetrated to where North stood looking round before crossing to the surgery, entering, and locking himself in.

His first act was to go to the window, where he expected to find that there was another sentry; but window and outer door faced in another direction, and were shut off from the part of the garden where the man stood by a dense patch of ancient shrubbery and a tall yew hedge.

North felt perfectly calm now, but his soul was full of a terrible despair.

He told himself that for him hope was dead; that in dealing with the occult secrets of Nature he had nearly mastered that which he wished to discover, but had failed, and must pay the penalty; while in the future some more fortunate student would profit by that which he had done; and, avoiding the pitfall into which he had fallen, take another turning and triumph.

To this end in the hours of his misery—when it had seemed to him that the strange essence which pervaded him slept—he had committed to paper the whole history of his experiments, from the first start to the time when he had awakened to the fact that he could no longer arrest the decomposition of the important organs, or do more than make a kind of mummy of his subject; but the essence or spirit was, as it were, taken captive, and at the same time held him in thrall.

This, to the most extreme point, he had carefully written out, showing, in addition, the time when he felt that he must have gone wrong, as that where a different course must be pursued by the daring scientist who would venture so much in the great cause.

For he wrote clearly and impressively: failure meant such a fate as his, the constant presence of the spirit of the person who had died, and with it the being compelled to suffer for every wild act or speech this essence would do or make. He told how helpless he was, how he had striven to bring scientific knowledge to bear, fought with his position as a man should who was in the full possession of his faculties, but that he could do no more.

Success meant a crown of triumphant honour; failure, a kind of sane madness, whose only end could be death—a death he was compelled to seek to save himself at once—to save himself from being treated as a maniac, and then to spend a few weeks or months of torture which he knew he could not bear.

In his last paragraphs he pointed out his position. He was believed to be mad, and to clear himself he would have to explain his experiment and his abnormal position, which he owned that no one would or could be expected to believe, save such a savant as the one he addressed—a man who had made the brain his study, and who could feel for the sufferings of the writer.

This letter was enclosed in the packet addressed to his executors for delivery to Mr Delton, and lay in the study, waiting till those executors should receive the last commands.

All was at an end now, and with a feeling of calmness approaching to content, Horace North looked round his surgery with its many familiar objects; and without the slightest feeling of dread took down a small medicine glass from the set standing all ready upon a shelf, and then lifted a large bottle from one particular spot at the end where it always stood, veiling a little recess wherein were a couple of smaller bottles, carefully labelled and marked as to their degree of strength.

“Is it cowardly?” he said quietly. “Is it a sin? Surely not, when I know my position, and—yes, that is my fate.”

For at that moment there was a sharp crack: the door had yielded, and he knew that his cousin’s emissaries—the people from some private asylum—had forced their way into the study, and their next step would be to make their way to where he was.

He could have opened the door, and fled by way of the meadows; but where? To whom? Perhaps at the moment when he made his first appeal for help, the living shadow that he had, as it were, taken to him, would utter some wild cry or absurd jest, and people would believe his pursuers in spite of all that he could declare.

No, it was not cowardice, this hastening of his end; and, withdrawing the stopper, he began pouring out the liquid contents of the little bottle, as the handle of the surgery door was turned, and the panel gave an ominous crack.

“You shall let me pass away in peace,” he said quietly, as he drew away a chair which propped back an inner door of baize, let it swing to, and thrust in both its bolts.

“Cousin Thompson,” he said bitterly, “you were always a miserable wretch, but I withdraw my curse. Take all, and enjoy your wretched life as well as such a reptile can.”

He paused for a few moments, with his lips moving slowly, and a calm look of resignation softening the harsh austerities of his face.

“To forgiveness!” he said softly. “To oblivion!” and he raised the glass to his lips.

Volume Three—Chapter Nineteen.

Vision or Real.

The shivering of glass as the fragments of a pane fell tinkling upon the carpet.

The shivering of glass as the little crystal fell from Horace North’s hand, and a pungent odour filled the room.

“Mary Salis! or am I mad indeed?” ejaculated the wretched man.

He stood motionless, staring at the window as a white arm was forced through the broken glass, and the catch thrust back, but not so quickly but that a deep red stain had time to show; for the jagged glass made an ugly gash above the white wrist, though it was unheeded, and the casement was flung open.

“The door—open that door!” North did not stir, but stood gazing wildly at the pallid face before him, and then he passed his hands across his eyes and tottered to the window, as if drawn there by the eyes which gazed into his.

“Quick! the door—open this door!” was panted forth.

He obeyed mechanically without taking his eyes from the window, feeling his way to the door, and slowly opening it, to stand gazing at Mary Salis, as she caught his hands in hers.

“What were you going to do?” she cried piteously. “You, too, of all men! You must be mad—you must be mad!”

“Yes,” he said vacantly; “they say so. I must be mad, or is—is it past—a dream? Mary Salis—you!”

“What’s that?” cried Mary excitedly, as the sound of the breaking door was heard. North uttered a sigh.

“They are coming,” he cried, “and I shall be too late. Loose my arm—loose my arm!”

“No, no, no!” panted Mary, as she flung herself upon his breast. “It is what I feared; I believed it, and I came. Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t do that!”

“Yes: I must. You do not know,” he whispered hoarsely, as he tried to unlace her arms from about him.

“Yes, I know that you were about to commit self-murder, and you shall not do this thing,” cried Mary wildly.

“Would you see me dragged away to a living death?” he said. “Listen—do you not hear? Loose me, I say!”

He spoke almost savagely now, as he struggled to get the enlacing hands away; but, as he tore at them, Mary clung the closer, drawing herself more tightly to his breast as her face approached his, and her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she cried as wildly:

“Then kill me too!” He ceased struggling to look at the flushed, love-illumined face that approached his, unable to grasp the whole meaning of what was said, mentally incapable of interpreting the words and looks, the whole scene being like the phantasm of some delirious fit.

A louder crack of the baize door aroused him, and he started away.

“Don’t you hear?” he whispered. “Don’t you hear?”

“Yes,” cried Mary, still clinging to him; “I hear, and it is help.”

“No, no!” he whispered; “it is those men. Ah, I am too late!”

For at that moment there was a sharp rustling of the bushes, and a man ran up over the lawn, to pause bewildered at the scene before him.

“You, miss—here?” he panted breathlessly. “Old Missus Milt said as the maddus folk was taking the doctor away.”

“What?” cried Mary; and a mist floated before her eyes.

“The maddus folk, miss; and they’ve got a carriage round the front.”

With a strength that was almost superhuman, Mary recovered herself, and grasping the situation, she whispered to North:

“Is this true?”

“Listen,” he said.

Mary clung to him tightly as the sounds of the doors being forced bore unanswerable witness to the words; and then, as if to shield him from the threatened danger, she thrust him from her and followed across the surgery.

“No, no!” she panted. “Quick, before it is too late.”

“Go?” he said, in answer to her frenzied appeal.

“Yes, yes; quick—quick! The garden—the meadows.”

North seemed dazed, but Joe Chegg, who had run excitedly to the Manor after meeting the old housekeeper, more with the idea of seeing what was going on than affording help, now caught North’s arm and hurried him out of the surgery and down the nearest path, then in and out among the dense shrubs, so that they were well out of sight before the door yielded, and Cousin Thompson’s emissaries found their prey had gone.

North made no opposition to the efforts of those who held him on either side; but, weak with long fasting, and now utterly dazed, he staggered from time to time, and would have fallen but for the sustaining arms.

“Rect’ry, miss? All right,” said Joe Chegg. “Hold up, sir, or you’ll be down.”

For North had made a lurch, and clung wildly to the sturdy young fellow.

“Oh, try—pray try!” moaned Mary, as she gazed back. “Now; I’ll help all I can.”

“I’ll manage him,” said Joe, who took the appeal to himself. “You let him lean on me. Why, I thought, miss, as how you couldn’t walk.”

“Hush! don’t speak. They may hear us,” whispered Mary, gazing fearfully back as they pressed on through the meadows with the bottom of the Rectory garden still a couple of hundred yards away, when, as Mary glanced sidewise at North, she saw his eyes close, and at the same moment his legs gave way, and he sank towards the grass.

Mary uttered a piteous groan and gazed at Chegg, who had loosened his hold on North’s arm, and now stood with hat raised, scratching his head.

“Now, if some one else was here,” he muttered; and then, in answer to an unspoken question, he cried aloud: “Well, I d’know, miss; but, anyhow, I’ll try.”

A life of toil had made the young fellow’s muscles pretty tough, or else he could not have risen so sturdily after kneeling down, and, contriving to get North upon his shoulder, to start off once more, with Mary urging him to use every exertion, for a shout from behind had thrilled her, and on looking back it was to see two men coming along the meadow at a quick trot, while a third was walking swiftly behind.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.

A Race for Liberty.

It was a close race, and Mary Salis felt that, ere many minutes had passed, the strange force which had nerved her so that she had traversed the distance between the two houses, and then enabled her to go through the scene which followed, would fail; but still she struggled on, with their pursuers gaining so rapidly that the gate which gave upon the meadows had hardly been passed and dashed to, and the feeling that at last they were in comparative safety, given her fresh strength, when the two keepers came up, and without hesitation threw open the gate, and followed into the Rectory orchard.

Joe Chegg had lowered his burden on to the ground as the men reached the gate.

“What’ll I do, miss?”

“Stand by me,” panted Mary, stooping to catch Horace’s hand in hers; and then, sinking on one knee, she held to it tightly with both her own.

“Stand by you, miss?” cried Joe. “Yes; I’ll do that; but you run and call for help.”

“No, no,” cried Mary; “I will not go.”

“Now, then,” cried Joe, “what is it? You know you’re a-trespassing here?”

“You get out,” growled one of the men; and he thrust the sturdy young fellow roughly aside.

It was a mistake on the keeper’s part, for Joe Chegg’s father was a Bilston man, notorious in his time for the pugnacity of his life.

His mantle, or rather his disposition to take off his coat, had fallen upon his son, and the result of the rude thrust was that Joe Chegg rebounded so violently that the keeper went staggering back, and by the time he recovered, and his companion was about to join in the attack, Joe had proved himself to be the son of his father, for his coat was lying on the ground.

This was awkward. The keepers were accustomed to tussles with insane patients, and they were ready for a fight with Horace North, and to do anything to force him into the carriage waiting at the Manor House. But Joe Chegg was sane, sturdy, and had begun to square.

A fight with the stout young Warwick man was not in their instructions, and they called a parley.

“Look here, miss,” said the one who had been struck surlily; “just call your bulldog off. We don’t want no trouble, and you’re doing a very foolish thing; so let us do our dooty and go.”

As he spoke he advanced, but a feint from Joe made him flinch, though he gave the young fellow a very ugly look.

“This is an outrage,” cried Mary, rising and speaking now firmly. “What does it mean?”

“It means, madam,” said a voice, as the tall, dark medical man who had visited twice at the Manor now came upon the scene, after a very hurried walk through the meadows—“it means, madam,” he repeated, for he was breathless, “that Dr North is not in a fit condition to be at large.”

“It is not true!” cried Mary indignantly; though the recollection of what she had witnessed made her quail.

“It is quite true, madam; and his nearest friends have taken steps to have him placed under proper treatment, where he can be restored to health.”

“Where what little reason left to him will be wrecked,” something seemed to say within Mary; and she held on more tightly to North’s hand.

“There, madam,” said the doctor; “I have explained this to you, but I will also add, so that there may be no further unpleasantry, that all these steps have been taken after proper advice, and in strict legal manner. Now, be kind enough to let my men assist the patient to rise, and let us get this sad matter settled as quickly as we can.”

Mary wavered, and the doctor saw it.

“Jones,” he said, “you go and get the carriage round here. It will be much the shortest way.”

“Dr North is a very old and dear friend of ours,” said Mary, recovering herself, and speaking with dignity; “and I cannot stand by, in my brother’s absence, and see what seems to me to be an outrage committed.”

“Ah, your brother is away,” said the doctor. “It is a pity, for gentlemen are better to deal with than ladies in a case like this. There, my dear madam, pray accept my assurances that everything is right, and that Dr North will be taken the greatest care of, and restored to you soon perfectly sane and well. Pray be good enough to stand aside.”

“No,” cried Mary firmly; “he shall not go.”

“Just say the word, miss,” whispered Joe Chegg.

“Jones!” shouted the doctor; “come back!”

The second keeper, who was nearly through the orchard, came back, and it was a case of three to one; but Joe Chegg was not intimidated.

“Look here,” he said. “Miss Salis says he isn’t to go, and you’re trespassing here. Hi! you Dally Watlock!” he shouted, as he caught sight of the little maid coming down the orchard; “you let loose that there dog.”

Dally hesitated while, in response to a word from the doctor, the keepers advanced; and they would have succeeded in their task—Joe Chegg’s brave efforts being doomed to failure by the baffling movements of the well-dressed doctor, whom he hesitated to strike—but succour arrived in the person of Salis, who came running down the orchard, red-faced and excited.

The odds were so reduced that a fresh parley ensued, the doctor giving his explanations now once more in answer to the indignant questions of Salis:

“How dare you insult my sister?” followed by another, “How dare you insult my friend?”

“Law or no law, sir,” cried Salis, at last, “Dr North is on my premises, where, so to speak, he has taken sanctuary. You are acting at the wish of Mr Thompson?”

The doctor bowed.

“Then fetch Mr Thompson here.”

“Really, sir—” began the doctor.

“That will do, sir,” cried Salis. “You have heard my decision. If the law forces me to give up my friend, I may be compelled; but I will not give him up to you and these men now. Chegg, see these persons off the Rectory grounds.”

There was no help for it. A struggle would have resulted in the raising of the village, and, shrugging his shoulders, the doctor beat an ignominious retreat with his men.

“Mary!” exclaimed Salis, now for the first time realising the miracle that seemed to have occurred; “is this you?”

The poor girl did not speak, but stood gazing at him with her eyes growing dim, while before he could catch her she sank, first upon her knees, and then forward with her head upon North’s breast, while her soft, fair hair escaped from the bands which held it, and fell loosely about her marble face.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.

Cleaning a Room.

Earlier on that day Dally sat in her bedroom watching from the window, as she had often watched before when it was night.

Her little, rosy face was a study, and her dark eyes glistened like those of an eager rat.

She had well calculated her time, and before long saw Leo come out, book in hand, for her customary walk up and down the garden.

Dally wasted no time, but hurried to Mary’s room to listen for a few moments, and then steal into Leo’s, where she peered in for a moment, and then hurried out to return with a dustpan and brush and a duster. These she placed upon chair and floor to cover her appearance should Leo return; while, after a rummage in her pocket, she brought out a little key.

Before using this she darted to the window, and waited till she could see Leo going from the house, when, with rat-like action, she made for a chest of drawers, upon which stood a desk, opened it with the speed of one accustomed to the task, and lifting one side, thrust in her hand, to draw out a packet of letters tied with a ribbon.

The top one bore a postmark only two days old, and this the girl drew out, skimmed over as rapidly as her illiterate brain would allow, and as she read her countenance changed again and again.

“Ah!” she ejaculated, at last. “You would, would you?” and taking up a pencil from the tray, and a new envelope, she laboriously copied out what seemed to be an address.

Then, with a smile of triumph, she hurriedly refolded the letter and replaced it in the packet, thrust the newly addressed envelope in her bosom, re-locked the desk, and had hardly destroyed all signs of her action, when she heard a slight cough.

Dally ran more rat-like than ever to the place where the dustpan and brush lay, plumped down on her knees, and began to work with her back to the door, humming away in a low tone as busily as could be amongst the dust she raised.

“Dally!” cried Leo, opening the door.

“Yes, miss.”

“Oh, what a dreadful dust! You know I don’t like this unnecessary sweeping going on.”

“But it wanted doing so badly, miss, and you were gone out in the garden.”

“Yes, yes; but leave off, that’s a good girl, now. I want to sit down and read.”

“Yes, miss,” said Dally, hurriedly using the duster.

“Do you know where my brother has gone?”

“No, miss; don’t you?”

“No,” said Leo wearily.

“Oh, yes, I do, miss; he went to the Manor House, and then he come back to Miss Mary, and I think now he’s gone to King’s Hampton.”

“Oh,” said Leo wearily. “That will do; and don’t come to tidy up my room again without asking leave.”

“No, miss,” said Dally, retreating and going back to her own room, where she threw her housemaid’s utensils on the bed, and took out and read the address on the envelope, “Telacot’s Hotel, Craven Street, Strand.”

“Don’t you be afraid, miss,” she muttered, “I won’t tidy up your room again. Oh, what treachery there is in this world! But wait, my dear, and you shall see!”

She replaced the envelope, and stood thinking for a few moments before coming to a decision, and then—

“I haven’t been there dozens of time for gran’fa for nothing,” she said, half aloud. “I know, and I will.

“But suppose—

“He wouldn’t,” she said, after a pause. “They say he never comes out of his room except at night—I will.”

Five minutes after she was going down the garden ostensibly to pick that bunch of parsley, and to obtain it she went to the very bottom of the kitchen garden, and thence into the meadows, through which she almost ran till she reached the bottom of the Manor House grounds, and then, knowing the place as she had from childhood, she easily made her way, unseen, to the surgery, to be found by North.

Dally returned triumphantly, but she did not take the brandy to her grandfather, but deposited it in her box in the bedroom before going about her work as calmly as if she had nothing more important in her mind than dusters and brooms, and the keeping tidy of the portions of the Rectory within her province.

But nothing missed her piercing little eyes, which seemed to glitter as the various matters occurred, and in the intervals she packed a few necessaries in a large reticule bag, which she hung over the iron knob of her bedstead in company with her jacket and hat.

No servant could have been more attentive, or apparently innocent-looking as she stared at Joe Chegg, who, after helping Salis to bear North into the drawing-room, was relegated to the kitchen to be refreshed.

Joe stared hard at her with an indignant frown, as he slowly ground up masses of bread and cheese, and washed them down with copious draughts of ale.

But Joe’s frowns had no effect upon Dally, and her aspect was simplicity itself, as, after a time, he took to shaking his head at her solemnly, following up each shake of the head with a sigh, and then apparently easing his sufferings by an angry bite at the bread.

Each time Joe looked and frowned, Dally replied with a simple, innocent maiden’s round-eyed, wondering gaze, which seemed to ask why he did not speak and say what he had to say.

But Joe Chegg said nothing, only ate, and frowned, and shook his head till he had done; and after a time Dally, having nothing else to do, thrust a little plump hand right down a black stocking till her knuckles represented the heel which had been peering through a large hole, and then and there she began to make worsted trellis-work which looked to Joe Chegg very similar to what he had often done in wood.

The drawing-room bell rang, but before Dally could answer it, Salis appeared at the door.

“Don’t go away, Chegg, my lad,” he said. “I don’t know what visitors may come, and I should like you to hang about the place and watch.”

“Well, you see, sir,” said Joe sturdily, “there’s a man’s time.”

“Oh, yes,” said Salis, smiling; “you shall be paid double time.”

“For how long, sir?”

“Wait and see; and keep a good lookout about the premises.”

He said these words as he was leaving the kitchen door, and met Leo in the hall, directly after, with her handsome eyes looking at him inquiringly.

It was observable, too, in the kitchen that Dally’s countenance looked a little more intent and she bent a little more over her stocking, and began to hum as she darned, while Joe Chegg took up the ale mug, and, after looking into it meditatively, began to work the table-spoonful left at the bottom round and round as if he were preparing an experiment whose aim was to keep one little blot of froth right in the centre like a tiny island of foam in a small sea of beer.

“Yes; I’ll watch,” he said to the mug; “and it won’t be the first time. It arn’t much goes on as I don’t see.”

Dally hummed and ceased to look catlike in her quiescence, for her aspect was kittenish now, and her hum deepened every now and then into a purr.

“Strange things goes on in this here village,” continued Joe, gazing into the mug; “and I sees a deal of what young ladies and persons does.”

Daily’s purr would now have done credit to a Persian puss: it was so soft and pleasant and round.

“But of all the things as ever I’ve see o’ young ladies, I never see aught as ekalled the way as Miss Mary’s got strong and well.”

Dally hummed now, and her tones were those of a musical bee, while the trellis-work in the stocking grew and grew.

“Well,” said Joe, after getting the drop of froth to stand very high out of its beery-whirlpool, “I’m a-goin’ to play policeman now.”

He tossed the remainder of the beer into his throat, and set down the mug.

“There arn’t many jobs as comes amiss to me.”

He rose and walked out of the kitchen, and as Dally saw him from the window on his way round to the front, she gave her stocking-covered fist a dab down on the table and uttered an angry “Ugh!”

Joe Chegg was not playing policeman long before he ran to the front door and knocked.

“Mist—Salis, sir! Mist—Salis. Here’s one on ’em.”

Salis was with North, and did not hear, so that when a keen old gentleman with white hair alighted from a fly, it was to find the door barred by the sturdy young workman.

“Is Dr North here?”

“What do you want with Dr North?” cried Joe surlily.

“I am a medical man, my lad,” said the old gentleman, smiling. “I have come down from London to see him.”

“Yes, I thought you had,” said Joe; “and you can’t see him, so you may just go back, as the t’others have done before. Eh? Oh, I beg pardon, sir. I thought it was the wrong sort.”

For Salis, hearing the altercation, had hurried out, and a brief explanation had set all straight.

“Poor fellow, poor fellow!” said the doctor, after following Salis into his room and hearing an explanation of the case. “Overwrought, I suppose. Well, let’s see him.”

They went to the darkened drawing-room to pause at the door, the doctor making a sign to Salis to stay while he watched the patient, who was ignorant of his presence.

North was lying back on the sofa with his eyes nearly closed, and Mary seated near, holding his hand, and bent towards him as if listening to his breathing.

Suddenly he started—crying out wildly as his eyes opened with a dilated stare; but as he tried to rise, Mary’s soft white hand was laid upon his forehead, and he sank back with a sigh of restfulness; his eyes closed again, and he lay breathing calmly.

Salis looked at Mr Delton, but the old man did not stir. Here was the case developing itself before him, and he could not study it better than unobserved.

Salis was about to re-enter the room, when Dally came and summoned him by pulling his sleeve.

“What is it?” he said sharply, as he turned.

“Mrs Milt, to see you, sir.”

Salis hesitated.

“I will wait till you return,” whispered the old doctor. “I am well employed.”

Salis hurried to where the old housekeeper was waiting.

“I’ve just heard that master is here, sir,” cried the old woman excitedly. “Oh, I am thankful! I found these papers in the study, sir; they were in an envelope directed to me, sir, and this one for the doctor master knows in London.”

Salis uttered a cry of joy.

“Mr Delton is with your master,” he said.

Mrs Milt sighed.

“Let me go to him, sir, please.”

Salis signed to her to follow, and led the way to where North lay now as if asleep, with Mary’s hand held to his brow.

The old housekeeper stood for a few moments watching, and then drew back.

“No, sir,” she said; “I won’t disturb him. I haven’t seen him look like that for weeks.”

“And I will not disturb him,” said the old doctor. “Rest like that must be good.”

He followed Salis into the dining-room, where he sat down to read the communication North had written, and after studying it carefully for some time, he looked up to find the curate’s eyes fixed upon him intently.

“Well?”

“Well, Mr Salis, I think I can say a comforting word or two. By the way, I thought I would come on straight to you instead of calling first at the Manor House, and it is as well I did.”

“But the letter, sir—the letter from my poor friend?”

“Ah, yes, the letter,” said the old doctor dreamily. “I have read and studied it well.”

“And you think?”

“A great deal, my dear sir—a great deal; but I have not finished yet. A clear case of overtaxed brain. I should say that he had worked himself into a state of exhaustion, and then some shock must have occurred to destroy the tottering balance. Not a money trouble, for I think Mr North is well off. Not a love trouble, for judging from what I saw—”

“You are mistaken in that, sir,” said Salis. “My poor friend suffered a grievous shock a short time since.”

“Ah! just as I expected. That is quite sufficient to account for it all.”

“But the future, sir? For goodness’ sake, speak! Your reticence tortures me.”

“I beg your pardon. I am thoughtful and slow, Mr Salis. Let me try and set you at rest. As far as I can judge without further study of the case, I should say that you need be under very little uneasiness.”

“You do not consider his case necessitates his being placed in a private asylum?”

“I should say the people who placed him in one deserved to be hanged. Well, no,” he added, smiling; “not so bad as that, but to be placed in a private asylum themselves.”

“Thank God!” said Salis fervently, and the tears stood in his eyes as he grasped the old doctor’s hands.

The evening was growing old as Mr Delton sat facing Salis in his study, nursing his knee, and calmly watching the curate smoking his one per diem cigar.

“No,” said the old man, smiling; “I rarely smoke now; but North was right; it is good for you. I don’t mind a bit. Pray go on.”

So Salis smoked and sat talking with the tea-things on the table.

Leo had begged to be excused. The excitement had upset her, she said, and she was in her room, where Dally had taken her up some tea, and paused for some moments on the landing, in the dark, to set the saucer down upon the large window sill, and as she bent over the tray a faint gurgling sound was heard, and click as of glass against glass.

The doctor had been in twice to see North, who was sleeping heavily, with Mary and the old housekeeper seated by him, the lamp being shaded and placed where the light could not trouble the patient; and, after a stormy day, all seemed to have settled down to calm repose.

“My dear sir,” said the doctor, “it is not the first time that Nature has performed a miracle of this kind. Your sister’s nervous excitement did what we doctors were unable to perform—triumphed over the inert muscles. They obeyed; the latent force was set in action, and she rose from her couch to go to her poor friend’s help—in time to save him from a very terrible fate, whether that fate was the private asylum, or that which he had evidently in mind. Poor fellow! I wish I had seen him sooner. No; it is better as it is, and he will say so when we have him once more himself.”

“Then you really do feel hopeful?”

“My dear Mr Salis,” said the old man, “if I am not wrong in my ideas, that sweet-faced lady in the next room will slowly and patiently repay our poor friend for unknowingly restoring her to a life of activity. She will bring him back to calm reason.”

“You think this?” said Salis hoarsely.

“Indeed I do. His long and lucid statement to me shows that in every point but one he was as sane as you or I. He had one little crotchet, due to the overstrain, and that will, I feel sure, with a little help, soon disappear. Mr Salis, take my word for it, you may be perfectly at rest.”

“Good heavens!” cried Salis, springing to his feet, for at that moment a wild shriek resounded through the house, followed by a heavy fall in the room above.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.

Missing the Mail Train.

Ten o’clock had just struck, and the old tower was still vibrating, when Dally Watlock’s bedroom door was softly opened, and the little lady, clad in her tightly-fitting jacket and natty hat, came softly out, to stand upon the landing listening.

The lamp was burning on the hall table, and it sent up a faint yellow glow which shone strangely upon the girl’s face, as she stood listening to the murmur of voices proceeding from the curate’s study, and she could just make out a faint line of light coming from beneath the drawing-room door.

Dally went slowly and softly across the landing till she reached Leo’s door, where she paused to listen; but all was perfectly still, and stealing one gloved hand to the latch, she tried the door cautiously, but it did not yield, and though she tapped twice there was no response.

Dally drew her breath softly between her teeth, and uttered a low, vicious little laugh.

“Good night, dear,” she said softly; “it’ll be ten o’clock to-morrow when you wake, and then—we shall see!”

One of the stairs gave a loud warning creak as she stopped, bag in hand, holding on by the balustrade, and ready, rat-like, to dart back to her room should any one open the study door.

But the murmur of voices still went on, and Dally stole down the rest of the way to reach the hall, creep softly to a swing-door, and pass through into the neatly-kept kitchen, where a fire still glowed and a kettle sang its own particular song.

Dally closed the kitchen door after her, darted across the broad patch of warm light cast by the fire into the darkness of a scullery beyond, and closed a door after her to stand thinking.

“Craven Street, Strand,” she muttered. “Ten miles to King’s Hampton. Ten o’clock to half-past one; I can do it easy, and at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, my dear, we shall see!”

She said these words with a vicious little hiss, and the next minute two well-oiled bolts were shot, the key was turned, the door opened with a sharp crack, and then there was a rustle as Dally passed through, closed the door with a light click of the latch, and stood in the semi-darkness of a soft starlight night.

Drawing a long breath, as if to get a reserve of force, the girl stepped quickly along the path leading round to the front, passing as soon as she could on to the closely-cut lawn, and over it to the gate.

She had nearly reached it, bag in one hand and umbrella in the other, when she turned quickly round to see that she was not observed by any one in the curate’s study; and as she did so she plumped up against something hard and yet soft.

“Oh!” she involuntarily ejaculated, and she started back, as that which she had thumped against took a step forward, and she found that she was face to face with Joe Chegg.

“Where are you going?” he said sourly.

Dally was too much startled for a moment to speak. Then, recovering herself, she said shortly:

“What’s that to you?”

“Heverything,” replied Joe, in a low growl. “Parson said I was to look out about the place; and I’m a-looking. Where are you going?”

Dally drew her breath with a hiss. It was maddening to be stopped at a time like this, when every minute was of importance; and the mail train was always punctual at King’s Hampton at half-past one.

“D’yer hear?” said Joe. “Well, if you won’t answer me, come on to parson, and tell him.”

“No, no, Joe Chegg; don’t stop me, please,” she said softly. “Gran’fa’s ill, and I’m going to take him something.”

“At quarter arter ten, eh? No, you arn’t. Old Moredock went to bed at half-past eight, for I run down and looked in at his windy ’fore he drawed the blind. Yes, I run down and see.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” cried Dally. “How dare you stop me?”

“Parson said I was to look out.”

“Master didn’t tell you to stop me, you great stupid. Let me go by.”

“Nay, I shan’t,” said Joe. “You’re off on larks, and he arn’t here now.”

“Who isn’t here?” cried Dally.

“You know. He’s gone to London, where he’d better stop.”

Daily’s wrath hissed again, and she was about to say something angrily, but she dreaded a scene, and tried the other tack.

“Now, don’t be foolish, there’s a dear, good man,” she said softly. “I just want to go a little way.”

“Wi’ an umbrella and a bag, eh?” said Joe. “Parson Salis don’t know you’re off out, I know.”

“What nonsense, Joe!”

“Don’t you Joe me, ma’am; my name’s Mr Chegg, and you wouldn’t whisper and carny and be civil if you weren’t up to some games.”

“Oh, what a foolish man you are, Joe Chegg!”

“Oh, I am, arn’t I?” said Joe. “Always going up to the Hall of a night, eh? Gets out o’ my bedroom windy, and steals off to meet squires in vestry rooms, I do, don’t I?”

“Joe Chegg!”

“And carries on as no decent female would wi’ my missus’s young man.”

“Joe Chegg! Oh, please let me go by,” whispered Dally. “I want to go somewhere particular.”

“Then want’ll be your master, for you’re not going without parson says you are to. Come on and ask him.”

Joe caught her by the wrist, but she wrested it away, and nearly got through the gate, but he was too quick for her.

“That shows as you’re up to no good,” said Joe. “You wouldn’t fight against seeing your master if you weren’t off on the sly at half arter ten.”

“Half-past ten!” cried Dally. “It isn’t.”

At that moment the chimes ran out the half-hour, and Dally drew her breath hard, and made a desperate effort to pass; but this time Joe caught her round the waist and held her, avoiding a scratched face from the fact that the girl’s hands were gloved.

“How dare you?” she panted, ready to cry hysterically from vexation.

“I dare ’cause I’m told, and I don’t believe I did right in letting Miss Leo go.”

“What?”

Dally suddenly grew limp and ceased to struggle.

“I said I didn’t think I did right in letting Miss Leo go, but I didn’t like to stop her.”

“Miss Leo?” panted Dally. “When?”

“Hour and half ago.”

“It’s a story. She’s fast asleep in bed.”

“Where you ought to be,” said Joe. “So back you go.”

“It’s a story, I say,” panted Dally. “Miss Leo hasn’t been out of her room to-night.”

“Miss Leo went out of this here gate hour and half ago, just as I come back from your gran’father’s, and she arn’t come back.”

“Oh!”

Dally uttered a low, hoarse cry, and turning sharply round ran swiftly back to the place from which she had come, closely followed by Joe, in whose face the door was closed and the bolt slipped.

In another minute Dally had reached the landing, and was listening at Leo’s door, which she tried again.

All was still, and, her breath coming and going as if she were suppressing hysterical sobs, the girl ran into her bedroom, locked the door, threw bag, umbrella, hat and jacket on the bed, opened the window, crept out with wonderful activity, rolled down the sloping roof, dropped to the ground, and ran over the lawn to the summer-house.

Leo Salis had scaled that rustic edifice many a time with great agility, but her skill was poor in comparison with that of the sexton’s grandchild. In a few moments she was on the roof, and reaching up to Leo’s window, the casement yielding to her touch.

She uttered a low sob of rage and doubt now, as, without hesitation, she clambered in to run to the bed, and pass her hands over it.

Tenantless; and the cup of tea, heavily drugged with a solution of chloral, stood where it had been placed, untouched, upon the table.

Even then the girl was not convinced. She would not believe in the ill success of her plans, and that the handsome woman she despised was as keen of wit as herself.

She darted to the wardrobe.

Leo’s jacket was gone!

To another part of the room.

The hat she wore was missing!

Then for a moment the girl stood as if dumbfounded, as the thoughts crushed down upon her that even if she started now, and could get away, she would be too late to catch the London mail. Worse still: Leo must have caught the last up-train at twelve, and long before she could reach the great city, would have joined Tom Candlish at the place he had named in the note Dally herself had borne; and, though she had planned so well, her chances of being Lady Candlish were for ever gone.

She ground her teeth together and panted hoarsely, hardly able to breathe for the sobs which struggled for utterance.

“It isn’t true. It’s a trick!” she cried at last. “I won’t believe it! I’ll go and be there first, and then—

“Oh! what shall I do—what shall I do?” she cried hoarsely; and then, uttering a wild and passionate shriek of misery and despair, she threw herself heavily upon the floor, to tear at the carpet, like some savage creature, with tooth and nail.

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Three.

Dally’s Hysterics.

Salis ran out into the hall, followed by the doctor, to meet Mary and the housekeeper from the other side.

“North?” gasped Salis; he could say no more.

“Sleeping peacefully,” said the housekeeper; “what is the matter?” For Mary could not speak.

“Leo must be ill,” said Salis, rushing up the stairs to his sister’s room.

“Leo! Leo!” he cried, rattling the door-handle.

For answer there was a moaning, almost inhuman, sound.

“Can you open the door?” said the old doctor, who had followed him. “It must be a fit.”

“Stand back,” cried Salis; and going to the other side of the broad landing, he rushed forward, literally hurling himself at the door, which flew open with a crash.

The light carried by Mary streamed into the room, and lit up the figure grovelling upon the carpet.

In an instant Salis was down upon one knee, and had raised her upon his arm.

“Dally!” he cried wonderingly, as the girl writhed and fought and moaned in his arms. The doctor glanced at the hysterical girl. “Light here,” he said sternly; and as Mary wonderingly bore forward the lamp, the old man lifted the tea-cup, upon which his eyes had instantly lit, smelled, and then cautiously tasted it. He shook his head. “Is she poisoned?” gasped Salis. “No,” said the old doctor promptly. “The lamp a little nearer, please.”

Mary held it towards him, and the old man bent down over Dally and made a rapid examination; no easy task, for she was throwing herself about wildly, and one hand struck the lamp shade and tore it away.

“That will do,” said the doctor in stern, hard tones. “Here: have you another servant? Get her to bed at once.”

As he spoke he seized Dally’s wrist, and gave it a jerk.

“Get up!” he said harshly.

“What a shame!” murmured Mrs Milt indignantly.

“Of this girl to make such a disturbance?” said the old doctor, who had caught her words. “Yes, disgraceful, when there is so much trouble. That’s right; get up. Not your room, I suppose?”

To the surprise of all, Dally had risen, and stood with her hands clenched, looking wildly from one to the other.

“Can you walk to your room, Dally?” said Mary.

The girl nodded sharply, then looked around wildly, and the full force of her trouble coming back, she burst into a passion of tears.

“But where is Leo?” cried Salis. “Where is my sister?”

He darted to the open window and looked out.

“Want me, sir?” said a voice.

“You there, Chegg? How’s that?”

“You telled me to watch, sir.”

“Have you seen any one pass?”

“Only Miss Leo, sir,” replied the man.

Salis turned from the window, looking as if stunned.

“Gone!” he said wonderingly.

“Yes,” cried Dally, mingling her words with sobs of rage and spite. “She’s gone off with Tom Candlish.”

“And you—you wretch—you have helped her,” cried Salis, seizing the girl by the arm.

“I didn’t. It isn’t true. I’ve done everything to keep ’em apart; but they’ve cheated and deceived me,” cried Dally. “She’s gone up to London to meet him—and—and they’ve gone there.”

She tore an envelope from her pocket, and Salis snatched it from her hand to read the address in Craven Street.

“Hartley,” whispered Mary, clinging to him now, “is it true?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely, “it must be true. Hush! I must leave you now. Mr Delton, will you stay in the house, and watch over my sister and my friend? I must go away at once.”

“There’s no train till to-morrow morning at eight,” sobbed Dally passionately; and she stamped her feet like an angry child as her hysterical fit began to return.

“That will do!” said the old doctor sternly, as he grasped the girl’s wrist once more, and she looked up at him in a startled way, and then quailed and subsided into a fit of sobbing.

“Anything I can do, Mr Salis, you may depend on being done.”

Salis nodded; he could not speak for a moment, but gazed full in his sister’s eyes.

“Did you suspect this?” he whispered.

“Oh, no, Hartley,” she replied.

“No; you could not have suspected.”

He drew a long breath, and seemed to be making an effort to check his agony of spirit, and to be forcing himself to act firmly.

“Chegg,” he cried from the window, “go round to the front door. I’ll meet you there. Mrs Milt,” he said, closing the window, “will you be good enough to see this girl to her room? Stay with her for the present. Mary, poor North is alone,” he added; “go down.”

“And you, Hartley?”

“I’ll follow directly,” he said; and as soon as the room was cleared, he turned to the old doctor.

“You tasted that tea,” he said sharply.

“Yes; strongly flavoured with chloral,” he said.

“Chloral? How could that have got into the tea? And the girl’s fit? Not epilepsy?”

“Hysteria. Rage and disappointment,” said the old doctor. “So it seems to me. There is more beneath the surface than appears. Mr Salis, what can I do to help you?”

“Give me your prayers and ask me nothing,” he replied sadly. “There is more beneath the surface, sir.”

“I will respect your silence,” said the old man, taking his hand. “You are Horace North’s friend, sir, and that is sufficient for me. You are going to town?”

Salis nodded.

“My house is at your disposal,” said the doctor, and he handed Salis his card.

At five o’clock, after due arrangements had been made, Joe Chegg was at the door with a chaise, ready to drive Salis over to the station at King’s Hampton; but, long before that, Dally had begged Mrs Milt to “fetch Miss Mary,” to whom the half-wild, sobbing girl had made a clean breast, of all she knew, and this had been communicated to the curate.

“I need not fear leaving North—I mean on my sister’s behalf?” said Salis, as he stood by the chaise.

“Trust to me, my dear sir, and go without fear.”

Salis climbed into the chaise, and, with his head bent, was driven off through the chilly morning air in search of the fugitive who had nine hours’ start; and as he recalled this he muttered: “I am too late!”

Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Four.

Out of the Shadow.

Hartley Salis found that his words were correct.

He was too late!

He learned that “a gentleman,” as the people at the hotel called him, had been staying at the hotel, that a lady, evidently Leo, had come in by the early train, and that they had gone.

“Heaven only knows where, Mary, dear,” said Salis a week later, as he lay upon the couch, utterly worn out with his efforts to trace the fugitives. “I am broken down. Thank God, dear, I am once more at home. And you?”

“My dearest brother,” she said tenderly, as she knelt beside him and laid her hand upon his burning brow.

“Ah, that’s cool and pleasant,” he sighed, with his eyes closed. “Tell me about North—more than your letters said.”

“He is better—much better,” said Mary, with an eagerness she made no attempt to conceal.

“Yes,” said Salis wearily; “so Mr Delton said.”

“Yes; so Mr Delton said, and he also said, my dear sir, that you too must have rest; your sister, recovering from her own illness, cannot afford to have two invalids on her hands.”

Salis looked up, and held out his hand to the old doctor, who had uttered the words softly, as doctors do: “You have hardly had a good night’s rest since you left.”

“I have not been to bed,” said Salis simply. “There, I will try and sleep now.”

The doctor made Mary a sign, and she drew back as Salis closed his eyes, and the breakfast which had been prepared as he drove in that morning from King’s Hampton after travelling all night remained untasted.

That was at seven o’clock, and it was seven at night when he awoke to look sharply round, and see Mary at the head of the couch.

“I—where am—? Have I been asleep?”

“Yes,” said Mary softly.

“Hah!” he ejaculated, springing up. “I have done all I could, Mary,” he said almost appealingly. “I think they are married. It’s a proud thing for us, dear, to have a lady of title for sister,” he added bitterly, as he took Mary to his heart, and she felt it throbbing with his emotion.

“There,” he said, after a few minutes’ struggle, “now for other duties. I still have you.”

The pressure of Mary’s hand spoke more than words, and the poor fellow sat at last, feeling that, after all, there were great compensations in life.

The sight of a well-dressed visitor coming up to the house interrupted their quiet communion, just as they had felt that no more could be done respecting Leo, after Salis had been placed au courant with the state of affairs at the Rectory. Among others that Dally had been to and fro several times to see her grandfather, but had settled down to her work as of old.

In fact that young lady entered the room directly after the ringing of the gate bell, to state that Mrs Berens was in the drawing-room, and wanted to see master “partickler.”

“I will see her for you, Hartley,” said Mary.

“No,” replied Salis firmly; “I want work to keep my brain quiet, or I shall be ill. Show her in here, Dally.”

“No, no, I will fetch her,” said Mary, smiling at her brother’s want of etiquette.

She left the room to return directly.

“Come and see her, Hartley,” she said. “Poor woman, she is in sad trouble.”

“Hah! I am glad,” cried Salis. “Something to think about. The best medicine for me.”

“Oh, Mr Salis, what shall I do? What you have so often said!” sobbed Mrs Berens, as he entered the room, and she clung to his extended hand.

“What I have so often said?”

“Yes; about riches. I’m a poor, helpless woman now. All gone—all gone!”

It was a long story about how she had allowed herself to be influenced by Cousin Thompson, whom she had permitted to make investment after investment till he seemed to have got the whole of the widow’s money into his hands.

“And all went so well till that day when I offended him, dear Mr Salis. Since then I have had nothing but bad news about my property, and now I can get no answers from him at all.”

“A scoundrel!” cried Salis; “but what day do you mean?”

“That day when—must I tell you everything?”

“If you wish for my help,” said Salis sharply.

“I do, Mr Salis; but pray don’t speak angrily to me. I am so broken and unhappy now.”

“My dear madam, I want to help you. Pray tell me all.”

“He came down to me one day—I have the date somewhere—and he proposed to me. I refused him at once, for I quite disliked the man, and he went away my enemy, I’m sure, and when I heard of his conduct towards his cousin, I felt that I had had a narrow escape from a perfect fiend. And now, Mr Salis, what shall I do?”

“The dog!” ejaculated Salis. “I’m longing for occupation; leave it to me, Mrs Berens. I’ve been seeing a friend—my solicitor—in town about North’s affair with his cousin; we’ll work the two together, and if Mr Thompson does not mind, he’ll find himself in a strange fix.”

Cousin Thompson did find himself in a strange fix, and what with threats of proceedings against him for conspiracy and fraud, he was very glad to compound matters in a way which restored two-thirds of her comfortable little fortune to Mrs Berens.

What time these proceedings were going on, North was gradually improving under Mr Delton’s care, though the old gentleman laughed, and said that the improvement was not due to him.

Certainly it was the case that when North had his often-recurring fits of imagination, when he was fully convinced that the essence of Luke Candlish was with him still, and he turned wild with horror, the touch of Mary Salis’ soft, cool hand laid across his eyes, where he held it as a talisman, invariably exorcised the fancied spirit, and the ghost was laid.

From recurring daily and with terrible force, the fits came at last weekly, and then a month passed before one came, and that was slight.

Then more and more feeble, and then they came no more.

There could only be one result to such intercourse as this. Horace North gradually awakened to the fact that he had been blind as well as partly demented; but a year had elapsed before one day Salis and Mrs Berens entered the Rectory drawing-room to find Mary sobbing gently on the young doctor’s breast, and heard her say:

“I always loved you from the first.”

“Ah, Salis, you here?” said North, rising without a shade of discomposure on his face. “Mens sana in corpore sano, old fellow. I have been asking dear Mary if she will be my wife.”

“My dear Horace,” cried Salis, his face flushing with pleasure, “Heaven bless you both! I am glad: but—er—the fact is, I have been betrayed into asking Mrs Berens—er—to—”

“Dear, dear Mary!” sobbed the homely, simple-hearted woman; “don’t, don’t be angry with me. I do love him so.”

Another year had passed, but there had been nothing definite heard about Leo.

Then came a black-bordered envelope, with the direction in her hand, asking her brother to help her, for she was in terrible straits in London with her child. There was plenty of money to be had, she said, but everything was in confusion, and the agent of Sir Thomas Candlish refused to acknowledge her as the late baronet’s wife.

But the energy of Hartley Salis soon set this right.

For old Moredock’s notion had proved to be correct. Tom Candlish had literally drunk himself to death, and the old man, who had been giving Horace North a good deal of trouble lately, and who was exceedingly fractious and jealous of his grandchild’s young husband, his deputy at the church, suddenly perked up on hearing that “young Squire Tom” was to be brought down from London to the family mausoleum.

There was a grand funeral, and the old man, helped by Joe Chegg, got through his part of the business with a good deal of his old energy.

All was over, and Horace North, who had been one of the mourners, as brother-in-law of Lady Candlish of the Hall, was about to turn away, with his mind strongly exercised by the scene, and the recollections it evoked, when he started, for he felt his sleeve plucked.

He turned sharply round to find himself alone, gazing at the old sexton, as he gave him one of his ghoulish grins—more hideous than ever.

“Now, gran’fa,” said a quick voice, and a rosy little woman, who had evidently been crying, took his arm, “you’re tired out, and must come home. Joe will finish what’s to be done.”

“Go ’way! go ’way!” cried the old man angrily.

“No, no, dear; don’t worrit Dr North now. He’ll come and see you another time.”

“Go ’way! go ’way!” cried the old man again; and then, laying his hideous, gnarled hand upon the doctor’s arm: “Don’t want to try no more ’speriments, do you, doctor, eh?”

North looked at him wildly, and could hardly keep back a shudder.

“No, no, Moredock,” he said, recovering himself.

“But you’ll come and see me to-morrow, doctor, won’t you?”

North nodded, and walked away to Salis, who was waiting for him at the vestry door, and they entered one of the carriages to return to the Hall, while, after watching them go, the old man seated himself upon the mausoleum steps, where he could watch while his new grandson and deputy finished his duty, and the great door was closed.

“Too terrible to attempt,” muttered North to himself. “A narrow escape from a living death, but I still think that I was right.”

“Ay, Joe; ay, Dally; doctor’s a clever man, and I could tell you some strange tales about he; but no, no; no, no! Lock that gate quickly, and help me home. I’m a little stiff about the back. Lock him up, lad! lock him up! Now, Dally, let’s get back. Another Candlish there; eh! my lady, eh!”

“Gran’fa!” cried Dally furiously; and the old man broke out into a chuckling laugh, which nearly killed him, and he had to sit down on a tomb and be patted on the back, and his collar loosened, and then helped slowly home, looking very limp and strange, though with the doctor’s help he managed to survive another year.

The night of the funeral, when the doctor and his young wife returned from the Hall, where the handsome young widow sat alone with her weak, sickly child, North had a return of his imaginative malady; but Mary’s hand was talismanic still, and the shadow passed away, never to return.

The End.

| Volume 2 Chapter 1 | | Volume 2 Chapter 2 | | Volume 2 Chapter 3 | | Volume 2 Chapter 4 | | Volume 2 Chapter 5 | | Volume 2 Chapter 6 | | Volume 2 Chapter 7 | | Volume 2 Chapter 8 | | Volume 2 Chapter 9 | | Volume 2 Chapter 10 | | Volume 2 Chapter 11 | | Volume 2 Chapter 12 | | Volume 2 Chapter 13 | | Volume 2 Chapter 14 | | Volume 2 Chapter 15 | | Volume 2 Chapter 16 | | Volume 2 Chapter 17 | | Volume 2 Chapter 18 | | Volume 2 Chapter 19 | | Volume 2 Chapter 20 | | Volume 2 Chapter 21 | | Volume 2 Chapter 22 | | Volume 2 Chapter 23 | | Volume 3 Chapter 1 | | Volume 3 Chapter 2 | | Volume 3 Chapter 3 | | Volume 3 Chapter 4 | | Volume 3 Chapter 5 | | Volume 3 Chapter 6 | | Volume 3 Chapter 7 | | Volume 3 Chapter 8 | | Volume 3 Chapter 9 | | Volume 3 Chapter 10 | | Volume 3 Chapter 11 | | Volume 3 Chapter 12 | | Volume 3 Chapter 13 | | Volume 3 Chapter 14 | | Volume 3 Chapter 15 | | Volume 3 Chapter 16 | | Volume 3 Chapter 17 | | Volume 3 Chapter 18 | | Volume 3 Chapter 19 | | Volume 3 Chapter 20 | | Volume 3 Chapter 21 | | Volume 3 Chapter 22 | | Volume 3 Chapter 23 | | Volume 3 Chapter 24 |

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