George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“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.