George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.

“My Dear North!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

North shrank again, but nodded sharply.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not me?”

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

“Certainly not.”

“Then it was she.”

“I do not understand you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir!”

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

“Horace North!” cried the curate indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

An Unsuitable Messenger.

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

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

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

“Extremely,” said Salis.

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

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

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

“Go back to him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About Leo?” said Salis uneasily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What shall you do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you very busy, Dally?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To Mrs Berens, miss?”

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

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

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

“Yes, miss.”

“Can I trust you?”

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

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

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

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

“To-night, then, after dark!”

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

“Yes, Dally, I will.”

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

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

Mrs Berens is Wounded.

“Is anything the matter, Mrs Berens?”

“Matter, my dear Mary?” said the lady, in a piteous voice. “Oh, yes; but how beautiful and soft and patient you look!”

She bent down and kissed the invalid, sighed, and wafted some scent about the room.

“I’m a great deal worried, dear, about money matters, and—and other things.”

“Money, Mrs Berens? I thought you were rich.”

“Not rich, dear, but well off. But money is a great trouble; for Mr Thompson, my agent in London, worries me a great deal, investing and putting it for me somewhere else. He says I am wasting my opportunities—that he could double my income; and when he comes down, really, my dear, his attentions are too marked for those of a solicitor.”

“Mr Thompson is a relative of Dr North, is he not?” said Mary gravely.

“Yes; he asked Dr North to introduce him, and the doctor did,” said Mrs Berens ruefully. “But it was not about the money; it was about Dr North himself I came to speak.”

“Indeed!” said Mary, with a faint tinge of colour showing.

“Yes, my dear; and I don’t want you to think me a busybody, but I could not help noticing that he seemed attached to Leo; and it is troubling me for Leo’s sake.”

“Will you speak plainly, Mrs Berens?”

“Yes, dear; but you frighten me—you are so severe. There! I will speak out! Leo is engaged to Dr North, is she not?”

“No,” said Mary, after a pause; “there is no engagement.”

“Ah, then that makes it not quite so bad.”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Oh, don’t be so severe, Mary. I was poorly yesterday—a little hysterical—the weather; and I sent for Dr North.”

“Yes.”

“He came, dear, and no medical man could have been nicer than he was at first; but all at once he seemed to change—to become as if he were two people!”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Yes, dear. I did not know what to make of him. He was like one possessed, my dear!”

“Mrs Berens!”

“Yes, dear; it’s quite true. One minute he was sympathetic and kind, and the next laughing at and bantering me in a strange tone.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“No, my dear. He told me it was all nonsense, and that I was as hearty as a brick. What an expression to use to a lady! And then he apologised, and spoke calmly, giving me excellent advice.”

Mary wiped the dew from her white forehead.

“And then, my dear,” continued Mrs Berens, “directly after he called me his pretty buxom widow. I felt as if I should sink through the floor with indignant shame.”

“Are you not mistaken, Mrs Berens?” said Mary, whose voice grew tremulous and almost inaudible.

“Mistaken, my dear? Oh, no; that is what he said; and then he seemed to feel ashamed of it, and I saw him colour up.”

“It seems impossible,” muttered Mary; and then she recalled her brother’s words, and a hand seemed to clutch her heart.

“Of course,” continued Mrs Berens, “I could not order him to leave the house; I could only look at him indignantly.”

“And he apologised?” said Mary eagerly.

“Apologised? No, my dear; he made matters worse by his low bantering—chaff, young men call it—till my face burned, and I felt so shocked that I was ready to burst into tears. For I always did like Dr North. Such a straightforward, gentlemanly man. You always felt such confidence in him.”

Mary looked at her wildly.

“Oh, no, my dear,” continued her visitor, taking her look as a question; “nothing of the kind. I should have smelt him directly. He kissed me. He had not been drinking. And it’s so horrible, for I could never call him in again.”

“Hush!” whispered Mary. “Pray don’t speak of it before my brother.”

“Before your brother! Oh, no, my dear. I should sink with shame. But why did you say that?”

“Because he might come in, and I must think about it all before I mention it to him.”

“But—but Mr Salis—”

“My brother is not out.”

“Not out? I understood your maid to say he had gone to the church,” cried Mrs Berens, starting up in alarm.

She was too late, for directly after Salis entered, with the presentation surplice over his arm.

Some one turned red in the face. It may have been Mrs Berens, or it may have been Salis; and, in either case, the colour was reflected. Certainly both looked warm.

Salis was the first to recover his equanimity and greet the visitor.

“I did not know you had company, Mary,” he said. “I was going to ask you to alter the buttons at the neck of this. It is too tight.”

“Then you are going to wear it?” said Mary, with the first display of malicious fun that had shone in her eyes since her accident.

“Wear it? Well, yes; I suppose I must,” said Salis gruffly. “I can’t afford to buy myself a new one. Only a beggarly, hard-up curate, you see, Mrs Berens.”

“Oh, Mr Salis!” faltered the lady.

“And I really was ashamed of my surplice on Sunday. Mary here patched and darned all she could; but I looked a sad tatterdemalion. Didn’t you think so?”

“I? Oh, no, Mr Salis; I was thinking of your discourse.”

“But I didn’t wear it during the discourse,” said Salis slowly.

“Oh, of course. I should not have noticed it during the prayers,” said Mrs Berens, who was strung up now.

“That means that the prayers are better worth listening to than my sermons?” said Salis quickly.

“I did not say so,” retorted Mrs Berens, who momentarily grew more dignified and distant of manner, while Mary looked from one to the other, surprised into enjoyment of the novel scene.

“Ah, well, never mind,” said Salis half-bitterly. “Never mind the sermon, Mrs Berens.”

“Is not that rather bad advice for one’s pastor to give to a member of his flock, Mr Salis?”

“I’m afraid it is,” said Salis, laughing. “I am beaten. Now it’s my turn, madam,” he added to himself. “What do you think of that, Mrs Berens?” and he held out and displayed the surplice, as a modiste would a dress.

“It looks very white, Mr Salis,” said the lady, fanning herself with a highly-scented handkerchief.

“Are you a judge of the quality of linen, Mrs Berens?”

“Well, not a judge; but I think I can tell that this is very fine.”

“Exactly,” said Salis; “very fine, ma’am. Do you know what this is?”

“What it is—ahem! I suppose it is a surplice.”

“Yes, ma’am, but it is something more,” said Salis sharply; “it is an insult!”

“An insult, Mr Salis?”

“Yes, ma’am, an insult; an anonymous insult! Somebody had said to himself or herself, ‘This poor curate has lost his surplice, and can’t afford another without going into debt; I’ll buy him one and send him—carriage paid.’”

“Mr Salis!”

“Yes, ma’am. That is the state of the case. All right, Mary, my dear; I know what I am saying. Perhaps Mrs Berens may know who sent it.”

“Mr Salis! I—”

“Stop, stop, ma’am; pray don’t tell me. I would rather not know; it would be too painful to me. I only wish you, if you happen to know, to tell the anonymous donor what I feel about the matter. I was going to send the robe back to the maker: but, on second thoughts, I said to myself, I cannot afford a new one, so will swallow my pride, and wear it regularly, as a garb of penance, as a standing reproach—to the giver.”

There was quite a strong odour of patchouli in the room, for Mrs Berens was whisking her handkerchief about wildly.

“That’s all I wanted to say, ma’am. Mary, you’ll alter those buttons. I’ve tried it on, and my breast swelled so much with honest indignation, I suppose, that the fastenings nearly flew off. Good-bye, Mrs Berens. Oh! pray shake hands, ma’am. We are not going to be bad friends because I spoke out honestly and plainly.”

“Oh, no! Mr Salis,” faltered the lady, who had hard work to keep back her tears.

“I only want the donor to know how I feel about an anonymous gift, which stings a poor man who has any pride in him.”

“But clergymen should not have any pride,” said Mary, coming to Mrs Berens’ help.

“Quite right, my dear, but they have, and a great deal too sometimes.”

He nodded shortly to both in turn, and stalked out of the room.

Mrs Berens had risen. So had the tears, in spite of a very gallant fight. She made one more effort to keep them back, but her emotion was too strong; and, woman-like, seeking sympathy of woman, she sank upon her knees by Mary’s side, sobbing as if her heart would break.

“Good-bye, Mary, dear,” she said at last. “I’m a weak, simple woman; but I can feel, and very deeply too.”

This, after a long weeping communion, during which Mary Salis understood the gentle-hearted widow better than she had ever grasped her character before.

There was a very tender embrace, and then, with her veil drawn down tightly, Mrs Berens left.

“Why not?” said Mary to herself as she lay back thinking. “She is very good and amiable, and she loves him very much. And if I die—poor Hartley will seem to be alone.—Why not?”

Then her mind reverted to her visitor’s words, and a cloud of trouble sat upon her brow.

“What can it mean?” she mused. “And I so helpless here!” she sighed at last; “compelled to hear everything from others, unable to do anything but lie here and think.”

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

Moredock Writes a Note.

“He’s took to it—he’s took to it!” muttered Moredock, as he scratched one side of his nose with the waxy end of his pipe.

“Ah, it’s wonderful what a many doctors do take to it, and gallop theirselves off with it. Begins with a drop to keep ’em up sometimes, I s’pose, and then takes a little more and a little more.”

The old man sat smoking and musing over a visit he had just had from North.

“I don’t like it,” he said to himself. “He mayn’t be quite right some day when I call him in, and then it may be serious for me; I don’t like it at all.

“It’s no wonder when a man’s got all sorts o’ things as he can mix up into cordles, if he feels a bit down. That was prime stuff as he give me in the morslem. Hah! that was stuff. Then that other as went down into your fingers and toes, as it did right to the very nails. Why, I shouldn’t ha’ been surprised if he’d brought Squire Luke back to life with it.

“Hi, hi, hi!” he chuckled; “never mind about Squire Luke; but I should like him by-and-by—by-and-by, of course—to have a bottle on it mixed ready to give me, and bring me back. Phew! that’s a nasty subject to think about.”

He smoked rather hurriedly for some time, and there was a curious, haggard expression in his face; but it died out under the influence of his tobacco, and, after a time, he gave a low chuckle and shook all over.

“‘Old Buck!’ that’s what he said. ‘Old Buck,’ and give me a slap i’ the chest, as nearly knocked all the wind out o’ me. Not a bit like him to do. Not professional. As soon have expected Parson Salis to call me Old Cock. Ah, well! doctor’s only a man after all, and no book-larning won’t make him anything else; but I don’t like a doctor as takes to his drops.

“’Tarn’t brandy, or gin, or rum, or whisky, or I should have smelt him, and he spoke straight enough d’rectly after. He takes some stuff as he mixes up, and it makes him ready to burst out rollicking like at times; but he recollects hisself quickly ag’in, and seems sorry.

“Ay, but he looks bad, that he do. Looks like a man who can’t sleep—white and wanly. Well, as long as he tends me right, it don’t matter. He paid up handsome for all I did for him. Hi! hi! hi! It was a rum game. How’s young squire now, I wonder, and how’s matters going on there? Ha! now that’s curus. So sure as I begins thinking about my Dally, she comes. Hallo, my little princess, how do?”

“Oh, I am quite well, gran’fa,” said Dally, entering the cottage, looking rather flushed and heated. “I’m in a great hurry, but I thought I’d just run down and see how you were.”

“He come with you?” said the old man, pointing over the little maid’s shoulder.

She looked sharply round, caught sight of Joe Chegg, and ran back and slammed the door.

“An idiot!” she cried sharply. “He’s always following me about.”

“Going to let him marry you, Dally?”

“I should think not, indeed! What nonsense, gran’fa.”

“Well, what have you come for, eh? How’s squire?”

“Getting nearly well again.”

“Is he? How do you know? Were you going up to Hall night afore last?”

“N—”

“Yes, you were, Dally,” said the old man, with a chuckle. “You needn’t tell a lie. I know. I often see you when you don’t know. You was going up to Hall.”

“Well, then, I was,” said Dally defiantly, “and I don’t care who knows.”

“’Cept Miss Leo, eh?”

The old man chuckled hugely, and rubbed his hands.

“I don’t mind Miss Leo knowing. She does know,” cried Dally. “Perhaps she sent me.”

“Did she, though—did she, though? Ay, but she’ll win him after all, Dally. She’s better and handsomer than you are, and she’s a leddy, Dally. You’ve got no chance against she.”

“Haven’t I, gran’fa? You’ll see. But not if I’m obliged to go up to the Hall looking shabby and mean. You said I should have a silk gown and a feather.”

“Did I? Did I? Oh, it was only my joking, Dally. You’re such a pretty gel, you don’t want silk dresses and feathers.”

“No, I don’t want ’em,” said Dally sharply; “but men do. They like to see us dressed up. Squire Tom thinks I look a deal nicer when I’ve got my best frock on.”

“Did he say so, Dally—did he say so?”

“Never you mind, gran’fa. Where’s the money you promised me?”

“Nay, I’ve thought better of it. You shall have it some day—when I’m dead and gone.”

“No, no, gran’fa, dear; I don’t want you to die,” whispered Dally, fondling him. “I want you to live a long time yet, and come and see me at the Hall.”

“Tchah! you’ll never get to be there. It’ll be Miss Leo.”

“Will it?” said Dally, with a toss of the head. “We shall see about that. You’ll give me some money, won’t you, gran’fa?”

“Nay. You’ve never made them new shirts yet.”

“I’ve been so busy, gran’fa dear,” cried the girl. “Why, I’ve been up to the Hall six times since I saw you last.”

“Up to Hall? Not alone?”

“Yes, and alone. Why not?” said Dally saucily. “Besides, Miss Leo sent me.”

“More than once?”

“Yes, gran’fa; often.”

“Ay, that’s it. I told you so. She’s a leddy, and she’ll win that game.”

“Will she?” said Dally drily; “when she can’t go up to see somebody, and sends me?”

The old man drew the corners of his mouth a long way apart in a hideous grin, and then burst into a series of chuckles.

“Why, Dally, my gel; you are a wicked one, and no mistake.”

“Oh, no, I’m not, gran’fa. I’m only fighting for myself; and you said you’d help me.”

“And so I will, my pet; but I can’t spare no money.”

“Well, I don’t know that I want it yet, gran’fa; but I want you to do something else.”

“Ay, ay. What is it?” said the old man eagerly. “Not buy anything?”

“No, not buy anything,” said Dally, diving her soft, round little arm down into her pocket, to reach which she had to raise one side of her dress. “I want you to write something, gran’fa.”

“Nay, I never write now. Write it yourself. What you want me to write for, after all the schooling you’ve had?”

“Well, I have written something, gran’fa, but I want you to do it, too.”

Dally had fished out a large, common-looking Prayer Book, which opened easily in two places, from each of which she took an envelope, and laid upon the table. One was directed, and on being opened she took out a note. The other was blank, and with a folded sheet of paper therein.

Dally was quite at home in the sexton’s cottage, and going to the mantelpiece she took down a corked penny ink-bottle, and a pen from out of a little common vase, while, from their special place, she took the old man’s spectacles.

“Now, gran’fa,” she said sharply, “I want you to write nicely, just what I’ve written there.”

“What for? what for?” he cried, taking up the note after adjusting his glasses.

“To help me, gran’fa. You said you would.”

“Yes, I said I would,” he grumbled. “I said I would.”

“And it won’t cost nothing, gran’fa; not even a stamp,” said the girl saucily.

“Hi—hi—hi! You’re a wicked one, Dally, that you are,” he chuckled, as he took the pen, and after a good many preliminaries, settled himself down to write.

“Do the envelope first, gran’fa,” whispered the girl excitedly.

“The envelope first, my pet. Ay, ay, ay.”

He bent over the table, and then, very slowly and laboriously, copied the address in a singularly good hand for one so old.

“That’s right,” cried Dally, who was in a fever of impatience, but dared not show it. “Now the letter, gran’fa.”

“Ay, ay, I’ll do it,” he said, chuckling as he mastered the contents. “Don’t you hurry, my pet. I don’t often use a pen now. But I used to at one time, and there wasn’t many as—”

“Oh, do go on writing, gran’fa! Quick, quick! I want to get back.”

“Ay, ay, I’ll do it,” said the old man; and he devoted himself assiduously to his task to the end.

“There!” he said; “will that help you, Dally?”

“Yes, gran’fa, dear,” she cried. “But you won’t tell.”

“Tell?” he cried with a chuckle. “Nay, I never tell. I’m as close as the holes I dig, Dally. No one won’t know from me.”

As he chuckled and talked, the girl hastily tore up the first note, and refolded and enclosed the second. Moistening the envelope flap with her little red tongue, which looked quite pretty and flower-like, as it darted from her petally lips to the poisonous gum, with a sharp “good-bye!” she thrust the envelope into her book, and the book into her pocket, to hurry back to the Rectory, conscious that she was followed by Joe Chegg, and never once turning her head.

That night Salis sat by the shaded lamp, apparently reading, but a good deal troubled about North, respecting whom he had heard several disquieting rumours. Mary was busily working, and Leo finishing a letter to some relative in town.

“Add anything you like to that for Mary,” she said, rising. “I’m very tired, and shall go to bed.”

Salis frowned slightly, for it jarred upon him that every now and then his sister should go off to her room just before he rang for the servants to come in to prayers.

He said nothing, however; the customary good-nights were said, and the curate and Mary were left alone.

Half-an-hour later, Dally and the homely cook were summoned, the lesson and prayers road, and after the closing of a door or two the Rectory became very still.

“I’ll just look round, dear, and then carry you up; or shall I take you first?”

“No, Hartley, dear,” said Mary; “go first. Perhaps I may have something to say.”

“No fresh trouble, I hope,” thought Salis, who remained ignorant that his sister intended a few words of reproach concerning Mrs Berens, for as he stepped into the hall, and stooped to slip the bolt, something white, which seemed to have been slipped under the door, caught his eye.

“Circulars here in Duke’s Hampton!” he said, picking up an envelope, and seeing that it was addressed to him.

“Here, Mary,” he said, as he returned; “some one wants us to lay in a stock of coals, and—”

He stopped short, and uttered quite a gasp.

“Hartley! Is anything wrong?”

He hesitated a moment, and then handed the letter to his sister.

It was very short—only a few lines:

“To Rev. H. Salis,

“I think you ought a know bout yure sister and her goins hon, ask her ware she is goin hout tow nite at 12 ’clock wen ure abed.

“A Nonnymus.”

Mary’s countenance looked drawn and old as she let the note fall in her lap.

“For Heaven’s sake don’t look like that, Mary,” cried Salis angrily. “I beg your pardon, dear. How absurd! An anonymous letter from some village busybody. It is not worth a second thought. There!”

He held the note to the candle, and retained it as long as he could before tossing the fragment left burning into the grate.

“That’s how the writer ought to be served,” he cried. “Now, bed.”

He carried Mary to her chamber, silencing her when she was about to speak; and then, after an affectionate “good night,” he sought his own room.

“It would be cowardly—cruel,” he said, “to take notice of such a letter as that. I can’t do it.”

He threw himself into a chair, and sat till his candle went out, thinking deeply about his sister and her unfortunate connection with Candlish.

“No,” he said, rising slowly; “I cannot act upon that note. It would be too paltry.”

He stopped short, for just then the church clock rang out clearly the first stroke of midnight.

It was the hour named in the letter, and the thought came to him with a flash.

“No,” he cried fiercely; “I cannot do that;” but in spite of his words the spirit within warned him that he occupied the position of parent to his sister, and, quickly throwing open his door, he walked across to Leo’s room and tapped sharply, and waited for a reply.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

The Open Window.

As a rule, repeated knockings at a bedroom door when there is no response create alarm; thoughts of accident, illness, murder, teeming to the brain of the one who summons, and the alarm soon spreads through the house.

But in this case Hartley Salis took steps to prevent the alarm spreading, as he thought, in happy ignorance of the fact that Dally was down on her knees breathing hard with her ear to the keyhole.

He tapped softly, and uttered Leo’s name again and again before trying the door and satisfying himself that it was locked on the inside.

He uttered a low, hissing sound as he stood there thinking, his brow knit, and an angry glare in his eye. He felt no dread of an accident or of illness, for the note he had received was a warning of what he might expect. He only wanted one proof of its truth.

He went back to where Mary was waiting, full of anxiety.

“I know nothing yet,” he said abruptly. “Wait!”

With his countenance growing more stern-looking and old, Salis went downstairs and into the drawing-room, which was the easiest way out on to the little lawn at the back.

The window fastening was removed without sound, the door opened, and he stepped out on to the short grass, with the stars overhead glimmering brightly enough for him to make out the dark patches of leafage trained against the house and the dim panes of the different casements.

He did not look in the direction of Dally Watlock’s room, or he might have made out a fat little hand holding the blind sufficiently on one side for a pair of dark eyes to watch keenly what was going on. He stepped straight at once for the summer-house, with his heart beating in a low, heavy throb, as he mentally prayed that the words written in that note might be a cruel lie.

Only a few moments, and then, feeling as if stricken by some mental blow—angry, jealous of the man who had stolen from him the love of his sister; enraged against the carefully-bred girl, whose life had been passed in the pure atmosphere of a country rectory, and to whose welfare he had devoted himself, to the exclusion of what might be dear to the heart of man. All contended in his heart for mastery, and seemed to suffocate him, as he dimly saw that it was true, and that the girl of refinement, to whom he and Mary had rendered up everything that her life might be smooth and pleasant, was behaving like some miserable drab who had the excuse of knowing no better, of looking at reputation as an intangible something, worthless for such as she.

The casement was wide open, pressing back the creepers; and the interior of Leo’s room showed like a black, oblong patch.

“She may have gone to bed, and left the window open,” Hartley whispered.

He shook his head, and a terrible sensation of despair beat down upon him.

“Poor Horace!” he muttered. “He must know more than I give him credit for. This explains his absence, and the strangeness of his ways.”

He walked back into the drawing-room, and, without closing the window, went up to where Mary sat, waiting in an agony of suspense.

“Oh, Hartley!” she said, as she saw the look of agony in his eyes.

“It would be cruel to keep anything from you, Mary, in your helpless state.”

“Yes, dear; pray—pray, speak!”

“It is quite true,” he said laconically.

Mary’s breath, as she drew it hard, sounded like the inspiring of one in agony; and she clasped her brother’s hands tightly in hers.

“This can’t be the first time by many,” said Salis wearily. “Mary, dear, I’ve tried to do all that a brother could for you both, and I’ve been too weak and indulgent, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Hartley, don’t talk like that!” cried Mary, with a sob. “My own dear, noble, self-denying brother.”

“Hush, hush! Mary!” he said sadly; “it has all been wrong, and here is the result!”

“What are you going to do, dear?”

“I know what I should like to do,” he said hoarsely; “go and half kill that scoundrel at the Hall.”

“Oh, Hartley!”

“This explains why North has not been. He knows too much. Heaven! how is it that a woman can be lost to all that is due to herself, leave alone to those she is supposed to love!”

There was an inexpressible bitterness in his tone as he spoke.

“But what are you going to do?”

“Do!” he said fiercely, but with a tinge of despair in his words; “I’m going to thank Heaven that the man whom I believe to be the soul of honour and manliness has been saved from linking his fate with that of such a woman as Leo Salis.”

“Oh, Hartley!” cried Mary, “she is our sister.”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “she is our sister. I shall not forget that.”

“But what are you going to do, dear?”

“What am I going to do?” said Salis, bending down and kissing Mary; “send you to bed to rest and be ready to bear the troubles of another day.”

“But Leo?”

“I am going down to wait till she comes.”

“And then?”

“And then? Ah, what then? What can I do, Mary?” he said despairingly. “You know Leo as well as I do. To speak to her would be waste of breath. There is only one thing I can do.”

“Yes, dear,” said Mary piteously.

“Strive hard to preserve your dignity and honour, and mine, in the eyes of the world.”

“But that letter, Hartley!”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “it is too late for that. Well, I must strive. Good heavens! she is only fit to be treated like a wilful child.”

“Oh, Hartley!”

“There, hush! little one,” he said tenderly; “we must bear it patiently.”

“You will wait up till she returns?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you will not be violent?”

“Violent! Cui bono? No, Mary; I shall say very little; but she will have to go from here.”

There was a desolate sound in his voice—a look of misery in his eyes, which brought a sigh from Mary.

“Perhaps I ought to go raging up to the Hall, and try and find Tom Candlish,” said the curate; “but I don’t wish to repeat my last encounter with the scoundrel. It might be worse. There, you are suffering. Go to bed.”

“But I could not sleep!”

“Never mind—lie down. There, I shall say very little to Leo. What I do say to the point shall be in your presence, dear. Good night.”

“Good night,” he repeated, as he walked softly downstairs, and out through the drawing-room into the garden, to see that Leo’s window remained open, when he sighed deeply, went back, and sat down to watch for his sister’s return.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

A Wayward Sister.

Hartley Salis was not the only watcher. Mary lay with her eyes burning and brain throbbing with contending emotions. She was in agony, for she had to combat, in addition to the horror of the discovery that her sister could be so shameless in her acts, a sensation of gratification that would force itself to the front.

It was terrible, but it was true; and she knew that she could not help a feeling of exultation that Horace North had discovered something of her sister’s character before it was too late. She felt ashamed of this feeling, but it was utterly unselfish, and born of the love she felt for North. He could never be more than a friend to her, but she would like to see him happy, and that he could never be with Leo for his wife.

She wept bitterly as she lay helplessly there, for it seemed like rejoicing that her sister was found out; but the thoughts would come, and they mastered her.

And there to share the watch of Hartley Salis was Dally Watlock, as she sat behind her curtained window with the casement just ajar. She could see nothing below, but she made sure that “Master” would not go to bed till “Miss Leo” returned.

“Bless her!” she said, with a little laugh that was like a baby born of old Moredock’s chuckle. “How she will catch it! Serve her right: trying to come between us. But she may try after this. She’ll get out to see him no more, and he’ll soon forget her.”

All was very still without, and Dally strained her ears to catch a sound, her eyes to make out some dark figure pacing the garden.

“I wonder where he is?” she said to herself. “He’d wait for her if it was for a month, and then my fine lady will catch it nicely.

“I wish I knew where he was,” she muttered, and her wish was gratified, for all at once, as she was pressing the casement open another quarter of an inch, there was a low cough from down to her left, as Salis altered his position in his chair.

“He’s watching just inside the drawing-room window,” Dally said to herself, as she clasped her little hands together; “and when my lady comes home—”

Dally paused.

“My lady! No, she shan’t never be my lady,” she hissed fiercely. “I’d kill her, and gran’fa should bury her first.”

“When she comes home,” continued Dally with another malicious little laugh, “she’ll wish she had never gone. I’ll hear some of the row if I have to leave.

“Ah! It’ll pay me for her getting a few kisses, and having his arm round her waist a bit. Ugh! how I hate the nasty, good-looking minx. I wish she was dead!”

Daily’s teeth gritted together in the darkness, and she uttered a low, hissing noise, as she writhed in her jealousy, and pictured to herself the scene that was probably going on at the Hall.

“I don’t care,” she muttered recklessly. “What are a few kisses? I shan’t miss ’em, and he’s obliged to keep it up for a bit before he quite breaks it off. Says it will kill her when he does. I hope it will.

“Wonder how long she’ll be?” continued Dally. “I don’t mind. I can easily get a nap to-morrow after dinner, but I don’t think she’ll care to go to sleep after master’s had his say.”

She settled herself in her place to watch if it were till doomsday, so determined did she seem; and meanwhile Hartley sat just inside the drawing-room, shrouded in complete darkness which accorded well with the blackness of spirit which was upon him.

Leo could not reach her window without passing close to him, and he thought bitterly now of his simplicity in not grasping the meaning of torn-down growth and broken trellis by the summer-house. It was all plain enough now. Thought succeeded thought. He could grasp clearly enough the meaning of North’s actions when he had attended Tom Candlish—how bitter he had seemed against him, and then the full light came.

“Why, it must have been North who had surprised Tom Candlish, and beaten him within an inch of his life, and, oh! shame—the woman must have been Leo!

“And every one must have known this but poor, weak, blind mole, Hartley Salis,” he groaned.

“Scoundrel! Base hound! Why, if I had been North!—but I’m forgetting myself,” he said, as he pressed his hands to his throbbing brows, and felt that the veins in his temples were full and turgid.

“Not a word to me! Well, how could he speak, and complain to me? Oh, shame, shame, shame!”

The hot tears of indignation started to his eyes; the first that had been there for many years, and they seemed to scald him till he dashed them fiercely away.

“I stand to her in the place of father,” he muttered sternly; “and I’ll do my duty by her, even if I have to keep her under lock and key.”

The time did not seem long, though he sat there for hours, so active was his brain, and so flooded with memories of Leo’s early life—her wilful disobedience, her determined opposition even in childish things, and Salis felt that the woman was the same in spirit as the child had been, and that if Leo was to be reclaimed he must pursue a very different course in the future.

All at once he started, for there was the faint chirp of a bird; then the loud chink! chink! of a blackbird, and he became on the alert, for it was the note uttered when the bird was alarmed.

Day was close at hand, for there was a faint line of light in the east, and sure enough directly after there was a faint, rustling sound, as of a dress brushing against some bush; directly after—ruff, ruff; ruff, ruff—the rustling of the dress as its wearer walked quickly up the green path, as if in fear of being overtaken by the coming day.

Then it seemed a little darker just in front of the drawing-room window; a shrub was blotted out by something black, which seemed to glide by—ruff, ruff; ruff ruff—and then there was a hard breathing, and the creak of a piece of lattice.

For the moment, now that the time had arrived, Salis sat there quite overcome, and ready to let the opportunity pass.

But it was only momentary. Stung into action by the feeling that this woman was cruelly wronging and disgracing brother and sister, he rose from his place, took half-a-dozen quick strides, and was over the grass and at Leo’s elbow as she clung to the side of the summer-house, and was about to raise herself higher.

The sound of his approach was covered by the noise Leo made in rustling the growth pressed against her breast, and the first hint she had of discovery was a strong, firm hand grasping her delicate shoulder with almost painful violence.

She could not turn her head so as to confront Salis, for she was above the ground, clinging with outstretched arms to the strong trellis-work of the summer-house, but she uttered a low, hoarse cry, and a shiver ran through her as she felt the touch.

“Horace North!” she hissed, with her chin pressed down upon her breast. “You are a mean coward and spy. Oh, if I were a man!” Salis could not speak for a moment or two as he heard this confirmation of his belief, but he tightened his grasp till Leo uttered a cry of pain.

“You coward!” she hissed again. “It is not Horace North,” said Salis, in a deep voice. “Thank Heaven he does not know of this.”

“Hartley!”

“Yes, Hartley!”

“And North has told you?”

“Nothing!”

He half dragged her down, and kept his grasp upon her shoulder till she was inside the drawing-room and he had closed the window.

“You can go up to your bedroom by the stairs,” he said sternly, “without stealing in like a thief. Had some one told me of this to my face I should have said he lied.”

“There, say what you have to say, and end this scene,” cried Leo, defiantly now.

“I have nothing to say—now,” said Salis sternly.

“Oh, say it! I am not a child.”

“I am under a promise to Mary that I will say nothing now.”

Salis knew that she turned upon him very sharply, but he could not see her face.

“Under a promise to Mary? There, if anything is to be said, say it.”

Salis drew in his breath sharply, and the words came rushing to his lips, but he mastered the passion within him, and walked to the door to open it.

A dim twilight now faintly filled the hall, showing the curate’s figure framed in the doorway. Then he stood aside, holding the way open.

“Go!” he said.

“Sent to bed like a naughty child,” she cried, in a harsh, mocking voice, which feebly hid the anger and defiance by which she was nerved.

Salis made no reply, nor did he speak again for some moments.

“Go to your room,” he said again, more sternly.

Leo made an angry gesture as if she would resist. Then, giving a childish, petulant stamp upon the floor, she walked quickly by him and ascended the stairs, Salis following closely behind.

As they reached the landing, it was to find Mary’s door open, and that the half-helpless invalid had dragged herself there, to stand clinging to the side.

“Leo—Hartley,” she said, in a low, pained voice: “come here.”

“I am sent to bed,” said Leo mockingly; and she was passing on, but Salis caught her by the arm and checked her. Then he led her to the far end of the room before returning to close the door and help Mary to her couch.

“I can speak now,” he said, in a low voice full of passion, but at the same time well under control. “Where have you been?”

“Hartley!” said Mary appealingly.

“Hush, my child,” he replied. “I know what I am saying. I wish to avoid the scandal of this being known to the servants, but your position and mine demand an explanation. Leo Salis, where have you been?”

She turned her handsome, defiant face towards where he stood, and now it was beginning; to be visible in the soft dawn, pale, fierce, and implacable as that of one who has recklessly set every law at defiance and is ready to dare all.

“Where have I been?” she said. “Out!”

“I insist upon a proper reply to my question. I say, where have you been?”

“There!” she cried; “there is no need to fence. You know where I have been?”

“To meet that man Candlish, after promising me that your intercourse with him should be at an end; and, to make things worse, you have stolen from the house in this disgraceful, clandestine way.”

“Is there any need for this?” said Leo sharply. “There, if you wish to know, I have been to Candlish Hall. Sir Thomas is forbidden this house, so you force me to go to him. You knew where I had been.”

“Yes, I knew where you had been,” assented Salis, as Mary looked from one to the other, not knowing what to say.

“Now, answer me a question,” cried Leo fiercely. “Was it Horace North, in his mean, contemptible, jealous spite, who set you to watch me?”

“Leo!” cried Mary, stung to words by her sister’s accusation.

“Silence! What is it to you, you miserable worm?” cried Leo furiously. “My home has been made a purgatory for months past by you and dear Hartley here. Plotting together both of you to make me miserable, to treat me as a little girl, and to check me at every turn. What Hartley did not try, you thought, and suggested to him till my very soul recoiled against you both and your miserable tyranny. I say it was North—the mean wretch—who set you to watch me.”

“Horace North is too true a man to give you a second thought; too stern and upright to speak of you after your cruel treachery to him.”

“It is not true. I was neither cruel nor treacherous to him,” cried Leo.

“He told me nothing. Your acts are growing public, or I should not have known what I know now; and this must have an end.”

“What end?” said Leo shrewishly. “Am I to be confined to my room? Bah! I have had enough of all this. Yes, I have been to see the man I love, and will go again and again.”

“To your disgrace.”

“To my disgrace, or to my death, if I like,” cried Leo fiercely. “I’ll have no more of this humdrum, miserable life, where I must neither move nor stir save as my brother and sister ordain.”

“Have you thought what this means?” said Salis sternly.

“Thought? No. I have no time for thinking. I know.”

The day was dawning fast, and the pale, soft light slanting into Mary’s bedroom at the sides of the curtain, giving to each face a ghastly, livid look.

Salis strode to the window, and snatched the curtain aside before turning to pour out upon his sister’s head the hot vial of his wrath. But as he turned and faced her his anger was swept away by a great flood of pity, and he approached her gently, for he read in the handsome face before him, flushed with defiant, reckless passion, that she had reached a point in her life when a word might turn her to a future of good or one of misery and despair. She gazed at him as if he were her greatest enemy, and then at Mary, to see her hands extended, and a look of tenderness and love in her pitying eyes.

But the time was unpropitious; there had been a scene with her lover an hour before, which had stirred her angry passions to their deepest depth, and then, as she encountered her brother with his stern words of reproach, it seemed to her that the time had come when she must strive for her freedom. Tom Candlish had reproached her for her cowardice, and laughed her obedience to those at home to scorn. He had brutally told her to go and trouble him no more with letter or message, for she was a poor puling thing, and she had returned heartbroken and in misery, for, defiant to all else, she was this man’s slave.

The encounter then had unloosed her angry passions, and flogging herself again and again with her lover’s words, she turned recklessly upon those who were ready to forgive and take her to their breasts.

“Leo, dear Leo, for pity’s sake!” cried Mary wildly. “Come to me, sister. I cannot even crawl to you.”

“And you ask me, worse than worm that you are, to go down on my knees to you; and for what, pray? For the heinous sin of being true to the man I love. There, do you hear me, to the man I love?”

“Leo! sister!” said Salis, trying to take her hand, but she struck his away with an angry gesture which he did not resent.

“Well, what have you to say?” she cried. “Do you want to preach to me, to ask me to repent and sorrow with you? For what? Is it a crime to love?”

“Leo, my child!”

“Leo, my child!” she cried scornfully, as she repeated his words. “I tell you I am a child no longer, and that I will think and act for myself. Fool, idiot that I have been!” she cried, as her passion grew more wild and her voice rose. “I have submitted to you both till it has become unbearable. From this day, if I stay here, I will be my own mistress, and suffer your dictation no more. Teach and torture Mary into her grave, if you like, but I will be free.”

“Say nothing, Hartley,” said Mary softly. “She will repent all this, dear, when she is calm. Leo, stay with me. Hartley, dear, pray say no more; she is not mistress of herself, and to-morrow, perhaps to-day, this painful scene will be forgiven and forgotten by us all.”

“Forgiven? No. Forgotten? Never,” cried Leo; “and I tell you both that if I am driven from the home that I should have shared, and my future becomes to me a curse, it is your work.”

She had lashed herself into a pitch of unreasoning fury, and invective was flowing fast from her lips, when, in the midst of one of her most furious bursts, and just as Salis was being driven to despair, there was a sharp tap at the door, and before it could be answered, another, and Dally came into the room.

“Is Miss Leo ill, sir?” she cried. “I heard her sobbing in my room. Can I do anything? Shall I light a fire?”

It was Dally’s idea of being of some help, that of lighting a fire.

“No, no. Go away,” cried Salis passionately; but he said no more, for Leo had crossed quickly to the little servant maid, and clung to her.

“Go with me to my room, Dally,” she said in a sharp, strained voice; “and let them follow me if they dare.”

“Oh, Leo, my child, for Heaven’s sake!” cried Salis.

“For Heaven’s sake!” she cried wildly, as she clung to Dally. “What have you to do with Heaven, who have made my life a curse? Take me, Dally, take me away, for I am almost blind.”

“My poor, darling mistress!” sobbed the little traitress, passing her hand round Leo’s waist, and helping her towards the door, Leo yielding to the girl’s guidance, and keeping her defiant eyes flashing from sister to brother and back.

The door closed, and as Salis and Mary gazed after the retreating pair, a wild hysterical sob, followed by a passionate cry, reached their ears, and it was as if misery and despair were henceforth to be their lot; but at that moment, from the dewy meadow at the bottom of the garden, a lark rose to begin circling round and round, scattering his jubilant, silvery notes of song far and wide on the morning air. And as it proclaimed, as it were, to every listening ear that a new day had begun, hope and light flashed into the hearts of those within the room.

“It will be a hard task, Mary,” said Salis, going down on one knee beside Mary, who clung to him with a look of appeal that went to his heart. “Yes, a hard task, dear,” he said again, as he kissed her. “There, you will not go to bed now, but lie back and have a few hours’ sleep. The darkness of the night has passed, and hope cometh with the day.”

“But Leo—Leo!” moaned Mary, and, unable to contain herself longer, she burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

“Hush! darling. Come: I want my sister’s help. There, fight it down. Hers were the words of a passionate, hysterical woman. She will be penitent when the fit is over. What now?”

“Miss Leo, sir—Miss Leo!” cried Dally, running into the room.

“Well, what, girl?” cried Salis, alarmed by the maid’s frantic, excited look.

“She sent me out of the room, sir, to fetch her cloak.”

“Hush! Come with me,” said Salis, hastily rising to accompany Dally from the room, but Mary clung spasmodically to his hand.

“No, no; let her speak. I cannot bear the suspense.”

Salis nodded his head sharply, and the girl went on:

“I went down, sir, and when I came back she was standing in the middle of the room with a glass on the table, and something spilled—”

Salis stopped to hear no more, but rushed into Leo’s room to find her clinging to the foot of the bed, her eyes dilated, a look of horror in her face, and in the same glance he took in that which Dally had described—a glass upon the table, overturned, and some fluid staining the cover and slowly sinking down the side towards the floor.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

The Doctor is Eccentric.

“Want me to attend Miss Leo Salis? Not I. Send to King’s Hampton for old—”

“But, please, sir.”

“Please, sir? Yes, you do please this sir. Why, you pretty little, apple-faced, sloe-eyed, cherry-cheeked piece of human fruit! Here, let’s have a look at your little face!”

“Oh, Dr North! For shame! You shouldn’t.”

There was the sound of a smart kiss, and then Horace North stood gazing wildly at Dally as she made believe to be very much hurt in her dignity.

“You shouldn’t, sir, and Miss Leo all the time a-dying.”

“Miss Leo—very ill?”

“Yes, sir; I told you so, and then you began talking nonsense and hauling me about. I feel quite ashamed.”

“But I cannot go to her, girl. It is impossible,” cried North excitedly.

“But master said I was to fetch you, sir. Oh, I wouldn’t ha’ thought it of you!”

“I beg your pardon, Dally, I was not thinking. I—I—when was she taken bad?”

“Sudden like—early this morning, sir. You will come, won’t you? We’re quite frightened.”

“Yes, I’ll come,” said North quickly. “By what strange irony of fate am I called upon again to attend on her?” he thought to himself, as he recalled her last illness, and the way in which she had declared her passion for him.

“Idiot! fool!” he said. “What a mere child! And I a medical man, and let my weak vanity carry me away so that I could not see that all was delirium.”

“Did you speak, sir?” said Dally, who trotted beside him as he walked with rapid strides towards the Rectory.

“No. Yes. How was it all?”

“Well, sir, I hardly know; only that I left Miss Leo this morning for a minute, and when I came back she’d been drinking something out of a glass, and looked as if she’d poisoned herself.”

“Absurd! But this morning? How came you to be with her this morning? Why, it is only five now.”

“No, sir. We were up very early.”

“Early? Why, you look as if you had not been to bed. Here, Dally, what has been going on at the Rectory?”

“Going on, sir? Oh, I couldn’t tell you. And here’s master, sir; ask him.”

In fact, Salis had just run down from Leo’s room to see if the doctor was coming, and, on catching sight of him, came to hurry him on.

“For Heaven’s sake be quick!” he cried. “Leo is dying!”

North hurried in with him, and upstairs, to find Leo lying upon the bed where her brother had placed her, pale, motionless, and with her eyes half closed.

“Don’t ask questions, but act,” panted Salis.

“I am acting,” said North sternly, as he bent over his patient, and rapidly grasped the position. “Do you know what she has taken?”

“No.”

“What poisons have you in the house?”

“None.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor, examining and smelling the glass. “She has got at something.”

“But, for pity’s sake, act—act,” said Salis, in horror. “You are letting her sink before your eyes.”

“Best thing too,” said North, laughing. “A miserable little jilt! I—”

He paused in horror at the words which had fallen from his lips, and met his friend’s wondering gaze. Then, as if mastering himself, he gave sundry orders in a quick, sharp way, and evidently bestirred himself to restore the patient.

For the moment Salis had felt disposed to bid him leave the house; but it was a case of emergency, and, keeping a watchful eye upon North, he helped where it was necessary, with the result that an hour later Mary was left seated beside her, Leo being utterly prostrate, and the doctor followed his friend down to the breakfast-room where the meal was spread.

“Hah!” cried North, “that’s better. Breakfast’s a glorious meal. Come, old chap, sit down. Never mind the jade; she’s all right now.”

“In Heaven’s name, North, what does this mean?” cried Salis.

North burst into a hearty laugh, which his wild eyes seemed to contradict.

“Mean, eh?” he cried. “Why, I ought to ask you. What game has the lively little witch been up to now?”

“North!” cried Salis piteously.

“There, you needn’t tell me,” cried North, laughing. “Tom, eh? Ah, he’s a sad dog!”

“North, for pity’s sake, have some decency. I suspected that you had found something out, and I can understand your throwing her over like this.”

“Throw her over?” laughed North.

“Why she threw me over for Tom. She’s a queer one, old chap.”

“Are you a man?” cried Salis fiercely, “that you torture me like this. Can you not see the shame of it—the disgrace to Mary and me? Horace North, I feel as if I were grovelling in the mire, and you, my oldest friend, come and set your heel upon my neck.”

“Eh? Heel? Your neck?”

“Yes; I know that you must have suffered heavily. It has been a terrible affliction to both Mary and me, for we felt with you; but for Heaven’s sake, Horace, don’t rush into this reckless extreme. Man, man, I want your sympathy and help, if ever I did, and you—you are so changed.”

“Yes, yes,” said North, in a hoarse whisper, and with a ghastly look in his eyes. “So changed—so horribly changed.”

“Ah!” cried Salis joyfully; “that’s like your old self again. Why, North, what has come to you?”

“Come to me? You dog! Come to me, eh? Look as if I’d been drinking, do I? Oh, I’m all right enough!”

Salis looked at him aghast once more, just as if he had been indeed drinking; but his friend’s acts belied his words, for he uttered a low groan, laid his arms upon the table and let his head sink down.

There was such desolation in his manner that Salis crossed to him and laid his hand upon his shoulder, when, to his horror, the poor fellow uttered a wild shriek, and started up to dash to the other side of the room.

“Oh, it was you,” said North huskily, as he gazed wildly at his friend, his piteous eyes seeming to ask what he thought of his acts.

“Why, North, old fellow, what is the matter? You can trust me.”

“Matter?” cried North excitedly—“matter? No, no, nothing is the matter. A little out of order. Don’t take any notice of what I say.”

“But I must take notice. Do you suppose I can see my oldest and best friend go on in this mad way?”

“No, no; don’t say that,” cried North, catching him fiercely by the wrist; “not ‘mad way.’ A little eccentric: that’s all. Don’t take any notice.”

“But—”

“No, no; don’t take any notice. Yes, I was upset about her. It was a shock.”

“I knew it was that,” cried Salis; “but, North, my dear fellow, you must master it: we are old friends. I will keep nothing from you. Let us be mutually helpful. Is it nothing to us to have such a horror as this in our midst?”

“It is terrible for you,” said North quietly. “The foolish girl!”

“Hah!” ejaculated Salis, beaming upon him; “that sounds like you.”

“I bear her no malice,” continued North dreamily. “It has all been one bitter mistake.”

“Yes, a bitter, bitter mistake!” assented Salis.

“But it is over now. It was in her delirium that she told me she loved me.”

“Leo told you this?”

“Yes. I ought to have known better. But I am only a weak man, Salis. It is over now.”

“It is for the best, my dear old fellow,” cried Salis warmly. “There, you are yourself again. Now tell me. What had she taken?”

“Some strong narcotic poison. I fancy it was belladonna. Did she use it for her eyes?”

“No. I think not. No,” said Salis thoughtfully. “Nature had not made it necessary for her to try and improve her looks.”

“No,” said North thoughtfully. “Had you quarrelled?”

Salis stood with his brows knit for a few moments, and then he turned sharply upon North.

“Tell me first,” he said, “you surprised my sister with that scoundrel, Candlish?”

North shuddered as he bowed his head.

“And I am right in thinking it was you who half killed him?”

“Yes,” said North; “it was I.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” said Salis quietly. “Now I’ll answer your question. Mary and I hoped we had broken all that affair off between my sister and Candlish; but last night I made a discovery, and we did quarrel.”

“And the weak, foolish girl flew to that narcotic poison to end her trouble,” said North thoughtfully. “Ah, well, you must watch her now. There is no danger. It is past.”

“Thanks to you!”

“Thanks to me? Perhaps so; but don’t send for me again unless it is a case of emergency. There, I must go now.”

He rose painfully, looking wild and haggard; but the next moment his whole appearance changed, and he gave his friend a tremendous back-handed blow in the chest.

“She’ll be all right, old chap, and ready to carry on her games again directly. She’s a lively one, parson; as sprightly a filly as was ever foaled. And you, too—you sham old saint; I can see through you, and Madame Crippleoria upstairs! I—”

He smote himself heavily in the mouth, uttered a low groan, and with a despairing look in his eyes that seemed mingled of horror and fright, he glanced wildly at Salis, and hurried from the place.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

Haunted.

“Leo, how could you do so foolish a thing?” said Mary Salis, a few days later, as she sat by her sister’s couch.

“What do you mean?” said Leo feebly.

“You know what I mean, dear. Is life so valueless that in a rash moment you would have cast it away?”

“Do you suppose, then, that I tried to take my life?” cried Leo, in a low, weak voice.

“Don’t let’s talk about it,” said Mary, with a shudder; “unless it is in sorrow.”

“Why was it placed there?” said Leo, catching her sister’s wrist.

“Placed there?”

“Yes. Was it Hartley’s doing?”

“Hartley’s doing?”

“Yes; the glass standing on my table as if it held water. Did Hartley do it, Mary?”

“Is your mind wandering, dear?” said Mary, laying her cool hand upon her sister’s white forehead.

“No; I’m as calm as you are. Hartley must have placed it ready for me—to get rid of his wicked sister, I suppose.”

“Leo! Don’t speak like that. How can you, dear? Hartley place a glass for you!”

“Yes. I thought it was water, and I drank it.”

“Hush, Leo, dear!”

“You don’t believe me! Very well; I cannot help it. The stuff was placed ready for me on the table, and I drank it.”

Mary sighed, but she kept her cool, soft hand pressed upon her sister’s brow.

“Why do you stop here?” said Leo, at last.

“Because I wish to talk to you—to try and be of some help.”

There was a silence which lasted some minutes, and then Leo turned her fierce dark eyes sharply on her sister.

“You have kept back his letters,” she said sternly.

“His letters!”

“Yes; he has written to me since I have been ill.”

Mary shook her head, and Leo gazed full in her eyes to satisfy herself that this was the truth.

“Has he sent to ask how I am?”

“No.”

Leo closed her eyes, and lay back with her lips moving slightly, while Mary watched and wondered whether North would come and see her sister again, and whether any fresh eccentricity had been noticed.

Had she known all she would have been less calm.

That morning Cousin Thompson had come down, gone straight to the Manor, and saluted Mrs Milt.

“Doctor in his room?”

“No, sir; master’s ill.”

“Not seriously?” said Cousin Thompson, with thoughts of being next of kin.

“I don’t know, sir,” said the housekeeper. “Master certainly don’t seem as I should like to see him.”

“Dear me!” said Cousin Thompson thoughtfully. “That’s bad, Mrs Milt; that’s bad. However, I’ll go up and see him.”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“What do you mean, Mrs Milt?”

“I mean that I don’t think he’ll see you, sir.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense! Go and tell him I’m here.”

The housekeeper went away, and came back in five minutes, looking troubled.

“Master says you must excuse him, sir. That you are to please ask for what you want, but he is too unwell to see you.”

“Dear me, Mrs Milt; I’m sorry to hear this,” said the solicitor, with a look of commiseration. “But, then, he is a doctor, and must know his symptoms. Has he had any one to see him?”

“No, sir.”

“Then he is not very bad. I mean no doctor?”

“No, sir; no doctor.”

“I didn’t mean solicitor, Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, laughing unpleasantly. “Of course, if he required a solicitor he would send for me, eh?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“He has not sent for a solicitor, of course—to make his will, eh?” jocularly. “No, no; of course not.”

“Perhaps you had better ask master about such things as that, sir,” said Mrs Milt, with asperity. “I know nothing about that.”

“You do, you hag!” said Cousin Thompson to himself: “you do, or you wouldn’t be so eager to disclaim all knowledge of such an act—and deed. This must be seen to, for I can’t afford to have you coming between me and my rights, madam. This must be seen to.”

“What would you like to take, sir?”

“Anything, my dear Mrs Milt, anything. Too busy a man to trouble about food. I’m going to see a client, and while I’m gone perhaps you will get a snack ready for me.”

“You will not sleep here, I suppose?”

“But I will sleep here, Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, smiling. “I do not feel as if I could go back to town without being able to take with me the knowledge that my cousin is in better health.”

“And not at the mercy of thieves and scheming people,” he muttered, as he went off to see Mrs Berens, as he put it, “re shares.”

North’s bedroom bell rang violently as Cousin Thompson disappeared down the road, and Mrs Milt went up to the door and knocked.

“Has that man gone?” came from within.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring up the brandy.”

Mrs Milt uttered a sigh.

“May I bring you up a little broth, sir, too?” she whispered, with her face close to the panel. “You’ve had nothing to-day, sir, and you must be growing faint.”

“Bring up the brandy!” roared North fiercely. “Do you hear?”

“And him to speak to me like that!” sighed the housekeeper, as she went down for the spirit decanter; “and for him, too, who never took anything but tea for days together, to be asking for brandy in this reckless way. Five times have I filled up the spirit decanter this week.”

She returned with the brandy and knocked.

No answer.

“I’ve brought the brandy, sir.”

“Set it down.”

“Can I speak to you, sir?”

There was a fierce stamp of the foot which made the jug rattle in the basin on the washstand, and Mrs Milt set down the decanter close to the door, and went down again, raising her apron to her eyes.

“I wouldn’t have any one know how bad he is for the world,” she sighed; and, resisting the temptation to stand and watch the opening of the door, the old lady went into her own room and shut herself in.

As the sound of the closing door rose to the upstair rooms, that of North’s chamber was cautiously opened and a hand was thrust out to go on feeling about till it came in contact with the decanter, which it seized and bore in, the door being reclosed as the hand and arm disappeared.

The room within was darkened, and the figure of Horace North looked shadowy and strange as he walked hastily to and fro, now here, now there, as some wild animal restlessly parades the sides of his cage.

He held the decanter in his hand, and seemed in no hurry to use the spirit; but at last he set it down upon the dressing-table, drew the curtain a little on one side, and went to the washstand, from which he brought the water-bottle and tumbler.

As he poured out some of the spirit into a glass, the light shone full upon his face, and he blinked as if his eyes were dazzled by the glare.

The decanter made a chattering noise against the glass till he rested his trembling hand upon the side, ceased pouring, and closed his eyes for a few moments to rest.

As he opened them again his gaze fell upon his reflection in the dressing-glass upon the table, and he stood fixed to the spot, glaring at the wild-looking object before him, with its sunken eyes, wrinkled brow, and horrified, hunted, and frightened look.

He had seen such a face as that hundreds of times in the case of patients suffering from some form of mania, generally in connection with drink, and it petrified him for the time, for his brain refused to accept the fact that he was gazing at his own reflection.

It was a strange scene in that darkened room, with the one broad band of light shining in through the half-drawn curtain, falling upon that haggard and ghastly face gazing at its counterpart, each displaying a haunted look of horror—a dread so terrible that it explained North’s next action, which was to let fall decanter and glass with a crash upon the floor, before slowly backing away right to the furthest portion of the room, where he stood against the wall, panting heavily.

The curtain fell back, as if an invisible hand had held it for a time, and once more the room was in semi-gloom, while the faint, sick odour of the brandy gradually diffused itself through the place till it reached the trembling man’s nostrils and made him shudder.

“Like the smell of that place—like the smell of that place! Is this to go on for ever?”

Again he determinedly argued the question, and felt that, failing to arrest the decay of Luke Candlish, he had imbibed the essence of the man which, needing a fleshy body in which to live, had possessed him, so that his fate seemed to be that he must evermore lead a double life, in which there was one soul under the control of his well-schooled brain; the other wild, independent, and for whose words and actions he must respond.