George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

“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!”