George Manville Fenn (continued 7)

“I cannot bear it,” he muttered, as he stood back against the wall, as far from the faint light as the room would allow. “It must be like madness in others’ eyes, and yet I am sane. I feel like a man haunted by a shadow, and yet it is a fancy—a terrible waking dream. But I will—Heaven help me!—I will look at it from a scientific point of view; say it is so—that I have arrested spirit and not body. Well, what then? Is there anything to fear?

“No; and I will not fear it,” he muttered, “any more than I would the dead; but,” he added, after a pause, “it is the living I fear. I cannot explain—I cannot control—this horror—bah! this essence—when it speaks, and the living give me the blame. No, I cannot, I dare not, explain. Who would believe? No one. They would say I was mad.”

A gentle tap at the door, but no response. A louder tapping, and no answer.

“Mr Thompson, sir, says he must see you on very particular business.”

North heard the words. His crafty, keen-eyed cousin was there. How could he see him now? It was impossible. He had declined before, and he was persisting again.

“Will you come down and see him, sir?”

“No: don’t do that, Horace, if you are ill. Open the door and I’ll come and chat to you there.”

No sound in reply; but directly after there was a loud noise of mocking laughter from within the room, a boisterous shout, and a partly-heard speech.

“Oh, my dear master!” cried Mrs Milt. “Ah!” ejaculated Cousin Thompson, across whose imagination glided the fair prospect of the beautiful Manor House estate, and his eyes glistened as he said softly, “I’m afraid he is very ill.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

Cousin Thompson’s Duty.

“Oh, no; it’s nothing at all, sir—nothing at all,” said Mrs Milt hastily; “and I didn’t know you’d come upstairs behind me, sir.”

“It was to save you a journey, my dear Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson smoothly. “Yes, I’m afraid he is very ill. A little delirious, I think.”

“Delirious, sir? Oh, nonsense! Master’s often like that.”

“Indeed!” said Cousin Thompson, in a tone of voice which made the housekeeper wish she had bitten off her tongue before she had committed herself to such a speech. “You heard him utter that laugh?”

“Well, surely to goodness, sir, that don’t signify anything. A laugh! I wish I could laugh.”

“But he gave a ‘view halloo!’ and said something about a fox.”

“Well, really, sir, what if he did? There’s nothing master likes better after a hard week’s work and a lot of anxiety than a gallop after the hounds. It does him good. Why, a doctor wants taking out of himself sometimes, specially one who works as hard as master does. A medical man’s anxiety sometimes is enough to drive him mad.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Cousin Thompson smoothly. “Hadn’t you better knock again?”

“No, sir, I hadn’t,” said Mrs Milt tartly. “I’m quite sure master don’t want to be disturbed.”

“But really, my good woman, it seems to me that he ought to have medical advice.”

“And it seems to me, sir, as he oughtn’t to. If master’s not well and can’t do himself good, nobody else can, I’m sure; and if you please, sir, will you come downstairs? He’d be very angry if we stopped here.”

“Oh, certainly, Mrs Milt. Pray forgive me. I could not help feeling a little bit anxious about my cousin.”

“I haven’t got nothing to forgive, sir,” said the old lady; “only I’d have you know that I’m as anxious about my dear master as anybody.”

“Of course, Mrs Milt. Quite natural. Dr North is a remarkable man, and will some day become very famous.”

“I dessay, sir,” said Mrs Milt drily. “I think you said you should stop all night?”

“Yes, Mrs Milt; and I’m afraid my business here will keep me another day, if it is not troubling you too much.”

“Oh, that don’t matter at all, sir. I’m sure master wishes you to be made very comfortable, and as far as in me lies, sir, I shall carry out his wishes.”

“Thank you, Mrs Milt. I’m sure you will,” said Cousin Thompson; and Mrs Milt rustled out of the room, looking very hard and determined, but as soon as she was out of sight deep lines of anxiety began to appear about her eyes, and she wrung her hands.

“Yes,” said Cousin Thompson, going at once to North’s table and sitting down to write a letter; “I shall sleep here to-night, Mrs Milt, and I shall sleep here to-morrow night, and perhaps a great many other nights. It is no use to be a legal adviser unless I legally look after my sick cousin’s affairs.”

Cousin Thompson’s anxiety about his cousin gave his countenance a very happy and contented look.

“Things are looking up,” he said, as he finished and fastened his letter. “Everything comes to the man who waits. Even pleasant-looking, plump Mrs Berens may—who knows?”

He carefully tore off a stamp from a sheet in the writing-table drawer, moistened it upon a very large, unpleasant-looking tongue, and affixed it to the envelope.

“Perhaps she is right, and he will be better without medical advice,” he said, with a pleasant smile upon his countenance. “Why should I interfere? That is where some people make such a mistake: they will dig up a plant to look at its roots. I prefer letting a well-growing plant alone. Yes, things are looking up. Now for my genial baronet.”

He walked out into the ball, and took his hat, just as there was a ring at the gate bell.

“Who’s this?” he said; and he walked into the dining-room and nearly closed the door, but not quite.

The next minute there were steps in the hall, the door was opened, and the curate’s bluff voice rang through the place in an inquiry after the doctor.

“He’s very poorly, sir,” said Mrs Milt, in a low and cautious voice. “I don’t really know what to make of him.”

“I do,” said Salis. “He wants rest and change, Mrs Milt.”

“Yes, sir; I think that’s it, sir.”

“I wish I could get him away. I will.”

“Will you?” said Cousin Thompson softly.

“Here, I’ll go up and see him. In his room, I suppose?”

“Excuse me, sir; I think you had better not. It irritates him. Old Moredock came last night about some trifling ailment, and poor master was quite angry about it. Then Mr Thompson went up to his door, and it seemed to irritate him. You know how tetchy and fretful it makes any one when he’s ill.”

“I want to see him, Mrs Milt. I want to talk to him.”

Cousin Thompson’s eyes twitched.

“But I’ll go by your advice.”

Mrs Milt said something in reply which the listener missed, and consequently exaggerated largely as to its value, and directly after Salis went away in a new character—to wit, that of Cousin Thompson’s mortal enemy; though Salis himself was in utter ignorance of the fact.

“Well, and how are we to-day?” said the lawyer on entering the old library at the Hall.

Sir Thomas Candlish was lying back in his chair, with a cigar in his mouth, a sporting paper on his lap, and a soda and brandy—or, rather, two brandies and a soda—at his elbow.

“How are we to-day!” he snarled. “Don’t come here talking like a cursed smooth humbug of a doctor about to feel one’s pulse.”

“But I am a doctor, and I have come to feel your pulse, my dear sir,” said Cousin Thompson laughingly.

“Eh?—what? Again! Why, there’s nothing due yet.”

“There, there, there! don’t trouble yourself, my dear Sir Thomas. There is a little amount to meet; but you are not, as you used to be, worried about money matters. You can pay.”

“Yes,” snarled Tom Candlish; “and you seem to know it, too.”

“Come, that’s unkind. It isn’t generous, my dear sir. Surely if a man lends money he has a right to claim repayment.”

“Oh, yes, I know all about that—the old, old jargon of the craft. I don’t want to borrow now. If I did I suppose I should hear all about your friend in the City, eh?—your client who advances the money, eh?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Thompson. “One needn’t ask how you are. The old vein of fun is coming back flushed with health and strength.”

“Cursed slowly. Now, then, what do you want?”

“Oh, it is a mere trifling business.”

“A trifle.”

“It would have been serious to you once; but it is a trifle now.”

“Well, let’s have it.”

“No, no, not yet. There, I’ll take a cigar and a B. and S.”

“Ah, do,” said Candlish sarcastically. “Make yourself at home, pray.”

“To be sure I will. I’ve come to doctor you and do you good.”

“Damn all doctors!” sneered Candlish.

“Amen,” said Cousin Thompson merrily, as he took a cigar, lit it, and helped himself to the brandy. “Look here, sir; you sit alone and mope too much. You want exercise.”

“How the devil am I to take exercise, when, as soon as I get on a horse, my head begins to swim?”

“And a pretty girl or two to see you.”

Tom Candlish uttered a low, blackguardly, self-satisfied chuckle.

“Eh? I say. Hallo!” cried Cousin Thompson. “Oh, I see. Well, mum’s the word. But, come; you do want change; you’re too much alone. Now I’ve come—”

“Oh, yes, you’ve come, and on a deuced friendly visit too.”

“Business and friendliness combined, my dear sir. Why, you used not to snub me like this. There, I meant to chat over a little money matter with you. Let’s do it pleasantly. Come up to that capital table, and let’s do it over a friendly game of billiards.”

Tom Candlish started from his seat, overturning his glass, which fell to the floor, and was shattered to atoms.

“My dear Sir Thomas! what is the matter?”

“Nothing—nothing,” he replied hoarsely. “Not well yet. A confounded spasm.”

“How unfortunate! Let me refill your glass, or shall I do it upstairs in the billiard-room?”

“Curse the billiards! I tell you I don’t play now.”

“Not play?”

“The sight of the balls rolling makes me giddy,” cried the wretched man, glaring at his visitor.

“Why, my dear sir, I’m very sorry I mentioned the game. There, let me give you a light. You’re out. That’s it. Really you ought to have the advice of a doctor.”

“Damn all doctors!” growled the baronet again.

“I can’t afford to have you ill, my dear Sir Thomas,” said Thompson, with an unpleasant laugh.

“No, you can’t afford to have me ill. Too good a cow to milk.”

Cousin Thompson laughed, and felt that he had made a mistake.

“I cannot advise you to have my cousin up, because he, too, is ill.”

Tom Candlish’s lips parted to utter a fierce oath, but he checked it, and swung himself round in his chair.

“Is he very ill?” he said eagerly.

“Yes; he seems to me to be very ill.”

“I’m glad of it—I’m very glad of it,” cried Candlish. “Come, you needn’t stare at me. I wish the beast was dead.”

“I was not staring at you,” said Cousin Thompson; “only listening. I think you and he don’t get on well; but he’s a very clever man—my cousin Horace; and if I could get a little advice from him on your case, I’m sure I would.”

“I want no advice. Only a little time. I’m coming round, I tell you—fast. But about North. Is he very bad?”

“Well, ye-es; I should say he was very bad.”

“What’s the matter? Has he caught some fever?”

“No. Oh dear, no! It’s mental. He seems a good deal unstrung. A little off his head, perhaps.”

“Why, curse it all, Thompson,” cried Candlish excitedly; “you don’t mean that the blackguard is going mad?”

“My dear Sir Thomas—my dear Sir Thomas,” said the lawyer, in a voice full of protestation; “I really cannot sit here and listen to you calling my cousin a blackguard.”

“Then stand up, man, and hear it. He is a blackguard, and I hate him, and I’d say it to his face if he were here. Now tell me, is he really bad?”

“Only a temporary attack. He is suffering, I’m afraid, from overstudy. But now to business.”

“Stop a minute, man: let me think. Hang the business! How much is it? I’ll write you a cheque. I can now, Thompson, old chap. Times are altered, eh?”

“Ah, and for the better, Sir Thomas.”

“Here, hold your tongue. Don’t talk. Let me see: not married; neither chick nor child; no brother. Why, Thompson, if North—curse him!—died, you’d have the Manor House!”

“Should I!” said Cousin Thompson, raising his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Well, yes, I suppose I am next of kin. But Horace North will outlive me.”

“Is he quite off his head?”

“Hush! don’t talk about it, my dear sir. Poor fellow, he is ill; but not so very bad. I shouldn’t like it to get about amongst his patients. People chatter and exaggerate to such an extent.”

Tom Candlish smoked furiously for a few moments, and then cast away the end of his cigar, and lit another, biting the end, and frowning at his visitor.

“Now about business,” said Thompson, at last.

“Curse business!” cried the squire, as he kept on watching the lawyer keenly. “Look here, Thompson, how was it that you two being cousins, he has so much money, and you’re as poor as Job?”

“Way of the world, my dear sir—way of the world.”

Tom Candlish sat back, chewing the end of his cigar and smoking hard.

“Look here, you Thompson! Now out with it; you don’t like Dr North?”

“Like him? I hate all doctors; just as you do.”

“That’s shuffling out of it,” said Candlish scornfully; “but you needn’t be afraid of me. I’m open enough. I’m not above speaking out and telling you I hate him. I wish you’d make a set on his pocket, and bleed him as you are so precious fond of bleeding me.”

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” said Cousin Thompson laughingly; and then the two men sat smoking and gazing one at the other in silence till their cigars were finished.

“Take another,” said the squire, handing the case lying upon the table.

Thompson took another, and Tom Candlish lit his third, to lie back in his chair, smoking very placidly, and staring from time to time at Thompson, who watched him in turn in a very matter-of-fact, amused way.

They rarely spoke, and when they did it was upon indifferent themes; but by degrees a mutual understanding seemed to be growing up between them, dealing in some occult way with Horace North’s health and his position in Duke’s Hampton. The Manor House estate, too, seemed to have something to do with their silent communings.

This lasted till the lawyer’s second and the squire’s third cigar were finished, and a certain amount of liquid refreshment had been consumed as well. Then Cousin Thompson suddenly threw away the stump of tobacco-leaf he had left.

“Now suppose we finish our bit of business?”

“All right,” said Candlish sulkily; and after reference to certain memoranda laid before him, he opened a secretary, wrote a cheque, and handed it to the lawyer.

“Thanks; that’s right,” said the latter, doubling the slip, and placing it in his pocket-book.

“Going back to town to-night?” said Candlish. “No.”

“To-morrow?”

“No.”

“When then?”

“Depends on how matters turn out,” said Thompson meaningly. “I suppose if I wanted a friend I might depend on you?”

“Of course, of course,” cried the squire eagerly.

“Thanks,” said Cousin Thompson. “I shall not forget, but I don’t think I shall want any help. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Tom Candlish warmly.

A wish of a mutual character, expressed in a contraction—that God might be with two as utter scoundrels as ever communed together over a half-hatched plot.

“Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, as he entered the Manor that night, “I have been thinking over matters, and you need not say much to your master, but I feel it to be my duty to stay here for the present, and look after his affairs.”

“But really, sir—”

“Have the goodness to remember who you are, Mrs Milt. Leave the room!”

“And him going about in the dark watches of the night like a madman,” sighed Mrs Milt, as soon as she was alone. “If that wretch sees him, what will he think?”

“That wretch,” to wit, Cousin Thompson, was biting his nails in North’s library, and listening to a regular tramp upstairs.

“Strange thing,” he said, “but as soon as a man’s head is touched, he grows more and more like a four-footed beast.”

He smiled and listened. All was very still now, and he set to work searching drawers and the bureau for material that might be useful to him in the settlement of Horace North’s affairs, and as he searched he talked to himself.

“Let me see: it was Nebuchadnezzar—wasn’t it?—who used to go about on hands and knees eating grass.”

He examined a document or two, but did not seem satisfied with the result.

“Hah! poor Horace!” he said. “I’m very sorry for him, but I must do my duty to society, and to him as well.”

He started, for the door-handle had been touched, and, quick as lightning, he dropped the papers he held, and blew down the chimney of the lamp.

The door cracked, and as it opened slightly he could hear the church clock chiming, and then a deep-toned one boomed forth.

There was a something beside sound entered, for by the faint light which streamed in over the top of the shutters he could see a dark blotch moving slightly, and, as he felt chilled to the marrow, the dark patch changed slowly to a dimly-seen face of so ghastly a kind that he stood there gazing wildly, and fixed helplessly to the spot.

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

Cousin Thompson’s Tooth-ache.

Regularly day after day.

The restless, wild-beast pace went on upstairs with intervals hour after hour, as, for the first time for many years, Horace North felt the terrible side of his lonely life, and the want of some one in whom he could really confide—mother, wife, sister—who would believe in him fully; but there were none.

His life of study had made him self-sustaining until now. He had had no great call made upon him. But now there was the want, and he sat for hours thinking of his state, only to spring up again and tramp his room.

To whom could he fly for counsel—Salis? The old housekeeper? The old doctor in London? Thompson, his cousin, then in the place?

“No, no, no! How could I explain myself? If I told all my feelings, all I have done, they would say that I was mad.

“It is impossible to speak,” he panted.

“I am chained—thoroughly chained.”

He paused in his wearying tramp, for, like a light, there seemed to come in upon him the soft, sweet face of Mary, with her gentle look and luminous eye. She might help him, poor suffering woman. But no, no, no! It was impossible: he could not speak.

The time had come round again when, to relieve the terrible tedium of his life, he went out of his room—waiting always till the house was silent and all asleep.

He opened his door and went out cautiously, to descend to the hall, and after hesitating for a few minutes, he laid his hand upon the fastening of the front door, as if to go out, but shook his head and turned away.

Going silently into the cheerless drawing-room, he paced that, and then the dining-room in turn, till, wearying of this, he crossed to the study to open the door, paused for a moment or two, startled by the loud crack it gave, for the study seemed associated in his mind with the horror of the position he had brought upon himself.

Then, thrusting in his head slowly, it seemed to him that he was at last free, for there before him, embodied for the time, was Luke Candlish rising from a chair, much as we had last seen him at his home; and as he gazed wildly at the face dimly-seen in the dark, it seemed to him the time had indeed come when he could crush his haunting enemy beneath his heel, and, rushing forward, he tried to catch him by the throat.

“Now,” shouted North fiercely, “I have given you back your life; take it, and give me back mine in rest and peace, or, as I restored, so will I destroy.”

His hands dropped to his side, and he uttered a low moan and shrank away.

Not that it was all imagination, for he knew that he had tightly grasped a living, breathing form, which had uttered a cry of dread, and then exclaimed:

“Horace—Horace, old fellow, are you mad?”

There was a loud rustling, a faint rattling sound, as North staggered to the side of the room and sank upon the couch. Then came a scratching noise, the flash of a match, and the tiny wax light emitting a bluish flame threw up the pale, smooth face of Cousin Thompson, whose eyes were dilated with fear.

He hurried to the chimney-piece, and lit one of the candles in a bronze stand.

“Why, Horace, old fellow, what are you about?” he cried, trembling. “Thank goodness, it is you.”

North muttered some words inaudibly, afraid to trust himself to speak, and covered his face with his hands.

“Why, what’s the matter, old fellow?” said Thompson, laughing. “Oh, I see; you’ve been shut up so long, you can’t bear the light. How ridiculous, isn’t it?”

North remained silent.

“I heard a noise, and knowing you were ill, felt it my duty to come down. I could tell that some one was prowling about, and backed in here with my fist ready doubled to strike, but you were too quick for me. I’m glad I spoke.”

Still no answer.

“By Jove! what a joke! You took me for a burglar; I took you for one. What a blessing that we were not armed!”

“Armed?” said North slowly.

“Yes. Why, you might have sent a bullet through me. Well, I am glad that confounded tooth kept me awake. It has given me a chance of seeing you. Why, I had only just lain down in my clothes, after stamping about the room till I was afraid I should disturb the house. Give me something for it, there’s a good fellow.”

North hesitated for a few moments, trembling lest he should say words that would excite his cousin’s attention; but at last he rose with one hand across his eyes.

“What, are your eyes so bad?” said Cousin Thompson.

“Yes,” was the laconic reply; and North went to the surgery, took a small bottle from a drawer, the clink of a stopper or two was heard, and a peculiar smell arose, as Thompson noted, with eager eyes, how his cousin kept his back to him while dropping a small quantity from each of the bottles he took down.

“Can you see?” said Cousin Thompson, holding the candle.

“Yes, I can see, thank you,” said North, replacing the bottles on the shelf, and fitting a cork to that he held, before labelling it “poison.”

“Rub a little of that upon the outside of your face; it will allay the pain.”

“It’s awfully good of you,” said Thompson smoothly, “specially now you’re so ill. Thanks. Rub a little outside, don’t you say? I suppose this ‘poison’ is only a scarecrow. It wouldn’t hurt me if I took the lot.”

“No,” said North quietly. “It would not hurt you. The sensation would he rather pleasant.”

“I thought as much,” said Cousin Thompson, who, while he played with the bottle, watched North narrowly.

“But,” added the doctor impressively, “I should make my will first, if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Because to-morrow morning you would be past the power of doing so.”

“Oh, I say, old fellow, is it so bad as that? Make my will, eh? Physician, heal thyself! Why, you haven’t made yours.”

“No,” said North quietly; “I have not made mine. Good night, I am going to my room.”

“One moment—shall I see you to-morrow?”

“No.”

“Well, the next day, then?”

“Doubtful,” said North hurriedly, and he walked brusquely by his cousin to hurry to the staircase, and up to his own room.

“I thought not,” muttered Cousin Thompson. “That was a good bold shot right in the bull’s-eye. Now, Master Horace, the old adage is going to be proved. Every dog has his day, and this dog is going to have his. How many times have you lent him money in a cursed grudging, curmudgeon-like spirit? How often have I come here, worn out with worry and scheming to get an honest living, and you have received me—you rolling in riches—with a churlish hospitality such as I should have thrown back at you if I had not been so poor? Never mind, my dear boy; the world turns round, and those who are down to-day are up to-morrow. I can make Squire Tom squeak to a pretty tune whenever I like, and the widow—well, she’s not a bad sort of woman to come and sit in the nest she has helped to line. ‘Manor House, Duke’s Hampton: Manor House, Duke’s Hampton!’ Not a bad address. There are worse things than being a country gentleman—county magistrate is the proper term. Yes, my dear cousin, things look brighter than they have looked for years. What a blessed thing is the British law, especially where a medical question comes in. The fruit’s about ripe, and if I do not stretch out my hand to pick it, why, I must be a fool.”

“Fool!” he said, as he stood there smiling, with the lighted candle in his hand, casting strange shadows upon the lower portions of his countenance. “Fool—fool—fool! No,” he said softly, as he shook his head. “I have a few failings: I am a little weak. I admire a soft, plump, pleasant-looking widow—with money—like Mrs Berens. I like money—plenty of money, and I like Duke’s Hampton; but those are only amiable weaknesses, and I don’t think I’m a fool.”

He held up the candle and looked round as if enjoying the sense of possession, and his eyes rested on the good old-fashioned furniture, the choice selection of books, a bronze or two, and a couple of paintings by a master hand: all of which his twinkling eyes seemed to appraise and catalogue at a glance.

“Yes,” he said, smiling softly, “things look a good deal brighter now, and I like Duke’s Hampton quite well enough to come and live in—with a wife.”

He took a step or two towards the door, and paused once more, evidently enjoying his self-communings.

“No! There was a decision about that no which I liked, my dear cousin. No: he has not made his will. But it does not matter, my dear boy—not in the least, for, as far as I know, you are not going to die.”

His face lost its smile here, and he took the little bottle he had received softly from his pocket, and held it to the light.

“Poison. For outward application only.”

He read the words slowly.

“Yes,” he said, “that would be a dangerous thing in the hands of some men who saw a life standing between them and a goodly property. But no, my pretty drops! You may go back again. Not for me. I am a lawyer, and I know the law. What idiots some men have been, and at what cost to themselves! But, then, they were not lawyers, and did not know the law. Now, then, for a good night’s rest. And to-morrow. Hah!”

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

A Visit in the Dark.

“I don’t like it, Mary. North has completely shut himself up. He will not even see Mrs Milt, so she tells me, and she is getting very uneasy about his state.”

Mary looked up at her brother. She could not trust herself to speak.

“I pity him, and yet I feel annoyed and hurt, for I gave him credit for greater strength of mind.”

Mary felt that she knew what was coming, but she dared not open her lips.

“Of course it was very painful to find out the woman he had made his idol was trifling with him, but I should have thought that Horace North would have proved himself to be a man of the world, borne his burden patiently, and been enough of a philosopher to go on his way without breaking down.”

“But he is very ill.”

“Ill!” said Salis. “I feel disposed to go and shake him, and rouse him up. To tell him that this is not manly on his part.”

“And yet you own that he is suffering, Hartley.”

“Suffering? Yes; but he has no business to be suffering about a woman like—there, there, I am forgetting myself. Poor fellow! he must be very ill. You see, the upset came when he was worn out with the study and intricacies of that pet theory of his, and hence it is that he is now so low.”

Mary lay back with her eyes half closed for some time, and there was silence in the room.

“Where is Leo?” said Salis, at length.

“In her room—reading.”

“Thank Heaven she seems to be settling down calmly now. Surely this life-storm is past, Mary.”

“I pray that it may be, Hartley,” she said softly; but there was a shadow of doubt in her words.

“Well,” said Salis, rising, “I must go and have a look round.”

“Going out, dear?”

“Yes. I seem to have been very neglectful of the people lately.”

“Stop a minute, Hartley,” said Mary, with a vivid colour in her cheeks.

“You want to say something?”

“Yes, dear; I wish—I wish to speak to you about Dr North.”

“Well, what about him, my child?”

“Hartley, when we were ill, he was always here. No pains seemed to be too great for him to take.”

“Yes, no man could have been more attentive.”

“And now, Hartley, he, too, is ill—seriously ill.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Then don’t you think it is a duty to try everything possible to help him in turn?”

“Of course, and I have tried; but what can I do? He will not see me, and that cousin of his, who, by the way, seems to have a great deal of business with Mrs Berens, evidently does not want me there.”

“But ought you to study that, Hartley, when your friend is ill?”

“I have thought all this out, Mary, and I feel sometimes as if I could do nothing. You see it is like this: I feel certain that North does not want to see me.”

“Why, dear?” said Mary earnestly.

“Because it reminds him too much of his trouble with Leo. He feels that very bitterly, and I know my presence would bring it up. Would it not be better to keep away, and let his nerves settle themselves?”

“No,” said Mary, in a quiet, firm way. “It was no fault of yours. It was Dr North’s own seeking, and he needs help. Go to him, Hartley.”

“Go to him?”

“Yes. He must be in sore trouble in every way. You say his cousin is there?”

“Yes, and if I went much I should quarrel with that man.”

“No, no; you must not quarrel. But recollect how Horace North used to say that he felt obliged to be civil to him, but he wished he would not come.”

“Yes: I remember.”

“Then go to him, and be at his side, dear, in case he requires help and counsel. Remember you are his friend. Even if he seemed querulous and fretful, I should stay.”

“You are right, Mary; I’ll go. I shall have some one to help me in Mrs Milt. I will stand by him.”

Mary’s eyes brightened, and she held out her hand.

“He will thank you some day, dear; even if he seems strange now.”

“He may say what he likes and do what he likes,” said Salis warmly. “I ought not to have needed telling this; but I’m going to make up for past neglect now and play the part of dog.”

Salis was a little late in his promise to play the part of watch-dog for his friend, for as he walked up to the Manor House it was to meet a carriage just driving out.

“The fly from the ‘Bull’ at King’s Hampton and a pair of horses,” said Salis as he walked on, apparently paying no heed to the inmates of the carriage. “Now, whoever would these be? White cravat, one of them; the other thin, spare, and dark. Doctors, for a sovereign, I’d say, if I were not a parson.”

Mrs Milt opened the door to him, and showed him into the drawing-room, whose window looked down the back-garden with its great clump of evergreens and shady walks, beyond which were the meadows through which the river ran.

“I’m very glad,” said Salis eagerly; “your master has had a couple of doctors to see him, has he not?”

“No, sir; oh, dear, no!” said the housekeeper sadly. “If you would only see him, and persuade him to, and get him to see a clever man, sir, it would be the best day’s work you ever did.”

“I’ll try, Mrs Milt,” said Salis; “but I’m disappointed.”

“So am I, sir. He wants doing good to, instead of trying to do good to other people. Those are some friends of Mr Thompson, sir. One of them’s got a very curious complaint that Mr Thompson said master was almost the only man who knew how to cure.”

“And did he see them?”

“Yes, sir, after a great deal of persuasion, and almost a quarrel, sir. I could hear master and Mr Thompson, sir, talking through the door, and he said master ought to be ashamed of himself if he let a gentleman who was suffering come down from town and drive all the way across from King’s Hampton in the hope of being cured, and then let him go back without seeing him.”

“Yes, Mrs Milt; go on,” said the curate eagerly.

“Well, sir, after a long fight Mr Thompson went away, but he went and tried again and master gave way directly, and went down in his dressing-gown, looking all white and scared, and saw those two gentlemen who have just gone away.”

“Well, I’m glad of that—heartily glad,” said Salis. “It is the thin end of the wedge, Mrs Milt, and we have good cause to be grateful to Mr Thompson for what he has done. Seeing patients again! This is good news indeed. He will see me now.”

Mrs Milt shook her head.

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“I must be a patient.”

“You, sir? Why, you look the picture of health.”

“But I have been very patient, Mrs Milt,” said Salis, laughing.

“Ah, sir, and so have I,” said the housekeeper dolefully: “and a deal I’ve suffered, what with master’s illness, and my conscience.”

The old lady put her apron to her eyes, and gave vent to a low sob.

“Your conscience, Mrs Milt,” said Salis, smiling. “Why, I should have thought that was clear enough.”

“Clear, sir? Oh, no! It’s many a bitter night I’ve spent thinking of my temper, and the way I’ve worried poor master when he’s had all his work on his shoulders. I’ve helped to make him what he is. Oh, there’s that man, sir!”

She drew the curate within and closed the door, for steps were heard, and Cousin Thompson passed round from the back-garden to go down to the gate.

“He’s gone out, sir; and I’ll try now if master will see you. It worries him dreadfully his cousin being here, and it always did.”

Closing and fastening the door the housekeeper led the way to the first-floor landing, and, signing to Salis to be silent, she tapped gently at the doctor’s door.

The moment before they had faintly heard the sound of some one pacing to and fro, but at the first tap on the door this ceased. There was no answer.

The housekeeper knocked again, and in simple, old English, country fashion called gently:

“Master, master!”

Still there was no response; but she persevered, and knocked again.

“Master, master!”

“Yes, what is it?” came from within; and Mrs Milt turned and gave the curate a satisfied nod, as she said:

“Mr Salis, sir. He would like to see you.”

There was a pause, and then hoarsely: “Tell Mr Salis I am ill, and can see no one.”

The curate was about to speak, but Mrs Milt hastily raised her hand.

“But I’m sure he’d like to see you very much, sir. Mr Thompson’s gone out.”

“Tell Mr Salis—”

There was a pause, and the curate went close to the door.

“North, old fellow,” he said gently; “don’t turn your back on all your friends. What have I done to be treated thus?”

There was another pause, during which those on the landing listened anxiously fulsome response from within.

But all remained perfectly still, and Salis ventured to appeal again.

“I will not stop longer than you like, old fellow,” he said; “but I am uneasy, and—”

He was interrupted by the sharp snap made by the lock of the door. Then the handle was turned, and a long slit of darkness was revealed.

“Come in,” said a harsh voice; and Salis turned and gave Mrs Milt a satisfied nod and smile, as he entered North’s room and closed the door.

The sensation was strange, that passing from broad daylight into intense darkness, and Salis tried to recall the configuration of the room, and the position of window and bed, as he felt North brush past him, and lock the door.

For it was evident that an attempt had been made to exclude every ray of light, and not without success.

“Well, I am glad—I was going to say to see you, old fellow,” cried Salis. “Hadn’t you better open the curtains and the window? This room smells very faint.”

“Brandy spilt,” said North, alluding to his accident of many days before.

“Brandy? Why, the place smells of laudanum and chloroform, and goodness knows what besides.”

“You wanted to speak to me,” said North.

“Yes, I’ve a great deal to say; but I should like to sit down.”

“There is a chair on your left.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks,” said Salis, feeling about until he touched it, and sitting down. “Where are you?”

“Sitting on the bed.”

“Well, I suppose you have a reason for this blind-man’s-buff work. Eyes bad?”

“Very.”

“May I say a few words to you about getting advice?”

“Aren’t you afraid of shutting yourself up with me here in the dark? There are razors in that drawer. There’s a bottle of prussic acid on the dressing-table. Why, parson, you’re a fool!”

The voice seemed changed, and this speech was followed by a curious mocking laugh which ran through Salis and made him shrink; but he recovered himself directly.

“No,” he said stoutly; “I am not afraid.”

“No, you are not afraid,” came softly from out of the darkness.

“Come, North, old fellow,” continued Salis; “we are old friends. You have helped me when I have been in sore distress; forgive me, now that I know you are in trouble, for thrusting myself upon you.”

“I have nothing to forgive.”

“Then let me help you. Believe me that Mary and I are both terribly concerned about your health. Tell me what I can do.”

There was a pause; then a low, piteous sigh; and from out of the darkness came the word—

“Nothing—!”

“I can’t understand your complaint, of course, old fellow; but tell me one thing. Are you sufficiently compos mentis to know what to do for yourself for the best?”

“Quite, Salis, quite,” said North slowly.

“And you are ill, and are carrying out a definite line of action?”

“I am doing what is really—what is for the best.”

“And you do not need help—additional advice?”

“If I did, a letter or telegram would bring down a couple of London’s most eminent men; but they could do nothing.”

Salis sighed.

“But can I do nothing?”

“Only help me to have perfect rest and peace.”

“But about your patients? Moredock is complaining bitterly.”

“My patients must go elsewhere,” said North slowly. “I cannot see anybody.”

“Don’t think I am moved by curiosity; but are you sure that you are doing what is best for yourself?”

“Quite sure. Let me cure myself my own way, and—and—”

“Well—what, old fellow?” said Salis, for the doctor had ceased speaking.

“Don’t take any notice of what I say at times. I’ve—I’ve been working a little too hard, and—at times—”

“Yes, at times?”

“I feel a little delirious, and say things I should not say at other times—times I say, at other times.”

There was a singularity in his utterance, and his repetitions, which struck Salis; and these broken sentences were strange even to the verge of being terrible, coming as they did out of the darkness before him.

“Oh, yes; I understand,” he hastened to say cheerfully. “I know, old fellow. Want a wet towel about your head and rest.”

“Yes—and rest,” said North quietly.

“Rest and plenty of sleep. I set your disorder down to that,” said Salis, as a feeling of uneasiness which he could not master seemed to increase. At one moment he felt that his friend was not in a proper condition to judge what was best for him; at another he concluded that he was; and that, after all, it was a strange thing that a man could not do as he liked in his own house, even to shutting himself up in a dark room to rest his eyes.

A strange silence had fallen upon the place, and, in spite of his efforts, Salis could not bear it. A dozen subjects sprang to his lips, and he was about to utter them, but he felt that they would be inappropriate; and as North remained perfectly silent, and the uneasy feeling consequent upon sitting there in the darkness, conversing, as it were, with the invisible, increasing, Salis rose.

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad I came, old fellow. I haven’t bothered you much?”

“No.”

“And I may come again?” A pause. Then—“Yes.”

“And you’ll see me?”

“I cannot see you. I shall be glad if you’ll come. I feel safer and better when you are here.”

Salis winced a little. Then a thought struck him.

“Look here, old fellow. Come and stay with us for a change.”

North seemed to start violently, and Salis felt how grave a mistake he had made. For the moment he had forgotten everything about Leo, and he bit his lip at his folly.

“No. Go now.”

“Will you shake hands?”

“No, no,” said North passionately. “Go, man; go now. Don’t come again for some days.”

“As you will, North; only remember this—a message will fetch me at any time. You will summon me if I can be of any use?”

North seemed to utter some words of assent, and then Salis heard a faint rustling sound approaching in the darkness, which, in spite of his manhood and firmness, made the curate wince, as he felt how much he was at North’s mercy if this complaint took an unpleasant mental turn.

But the rustling was explained directly after by the click of the door-lock. Then a pale bar of light shone into the room as the opening enlarged, and as it was evidently held ready Salis passed out, the door closed sharply behind him, the lock snapped into its place, and he shuddered as he heard a low, mocking laugh, followed by the vibration of the floor as the invalid began to pace rapidly up and down.

“What ought I to do?” muttered Salis, as he stood irresolutely upon the mat, till he felt a touch upon his arm, and, turning, found that Mrs Milt had evidently been waiting for him to come out.

“Well, sir?” she whispered, as they went down.

“Well, Mrs Milt?”

“You don’t think that he is—a little—you don’t think that is coming on?”

“What, lunacy?” The housekeeper nodded. “Absurd, Mrs Milt!” cried Salis, “absurd!”

“Thank goodness, sir!”

“A little out of order and eccentric. But what made you ask that question?”

“Well, sir, it was something Mr Thompson said.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

Salis Makes a Discovery.

“I cannot interfere, really, my dear Mary—I cannot interfere. Mrs Berens is a friend of yours, and one of my parishioners, but what can I do?”

“She is alone in the world, and in great trouble.”

“But here is a foolish woman; goes and listens to a plausible lawyer, and makes at his suggestion a number of investments, and then repents and comes to the parson.”

“Well, to whom better?” said Mary, smiling.

“For advice over her sins it would be right enough,” said Salis.

“I don’t think Mrs Berens has any. If so, dear, they must be only small ones.”

“But to come to the parson for help on money matters is absurd. This is the third time she has been.”

“Yes, dear.”

“It is not as if the investments had gone wrong.”

“No, dear; she mistrusts Mr Thompson.”

“Perhaps without reason. Let her get the money back, then, at as little loss as she can, and put it in consols.”

“There, you see, you can give good advice, Hartley.”

“Oh, any noodle could give advice like that. It isn’t perfect.”

“No, dear,” said Mary sadly; “for Mrs Berens says that this Mr Thompson tells her it is impossible to withdraw now, and it seems he has been very angry with her—almost threatening.”

“Confound his insolence!”

“He told her she ought not to have invested if she meant to change her mind, and that she is making a fool of him.”

“Impossible!” said Salis sharply. “She might make him a rogue.”

“You will help her, will you not, Hartley?”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do; but I shall be an unfair advocate, for I hate that man.”

“And you will go and see Mr North to-day.”

“Perhaps,” said Salis. “He faithfully promised to send for me when I could be of any use, and I may do more harm than good by forcing myself there.”

Three days had passed since the last visit, and the suspicions which had flashed through the curate’s brain had faded away as soon as he had found himself questioned by Mary, and felt how much she would be alarmed if he alluded to several little matters in connection with his interview.

“The fact is,” he had said to himself, “my imagination is too active, and I am ready to invent horrors and troubles which are never likely to exist.”

It had been a busy morning, for one of the rector’s customary lectures on the management of the parish had arrived; and it was only by Mary’s special request that a sharp retort had not been sent back to a remark in the rector’s letter to the effect that he was glad Mr Salis had taken his advice respecting his sister’s appearance in the hunting-field, and had put down the unnecessary horse.

“It makes me feel disposed to go and borrow of Horace North, and immediately set up a carriage and pair, with servants in livery of mustard and washing blue.”

This was an attempt at being comic in allusion to the rector’s showy liveries, which generally created a sensation in King’s Hampton when he came down to the neighbouring place and went for a drive.

Mary smiled and went on with her work.

“How is Leo this morning?”

“Much better, I think. She was sitting with me for a long time yesterday evening. Hartley, I am sure she is undergoing a great change.”

“I am very glad, dear,” said Salis sadly.

“She seemed so quiet and affectionate to me.”

“Why, of course. Who would not be?” said the curate affectionately.

“She seemed unwilling to leave me, and kissed me very tenderly when she went to bed.”

“I’m very glad, dear,” said Salis; “but I wish she would give up confining herself so to her room. It will grow into a habit.”

“Let us wait,” said Mary. “Yes, dear,” said Salis, looking sadly from the window as he dwelt upon the lives of his two sisters. “Time cures a great many ills.”

“Yes,” said Mary gravely. “What did Moredock want this morning?”

“Wine,” said Salis shortly. “And it’s my belief the old rascal can afford to buy it far better than I can.”

“And you gave him some?”

“No,” said Salis, with a droll look; “the last bottle in number one bin, of the four we stood up six weeks ago, went to poor Sally Drugate.”

“To be sure, yes,” said Mary. “She had two of the others, had she not?”

“Yes, dear,” said Salis, who was trying hard to get a hair out of his pen. “Old Mrs Soames had the other. By the way, Mary, oughtn’t we to have laid down that wine?”

“I believe wine drinkers do generally lay down wine,” said Mary, smiling. “But what difference does it make?”

“They say it keeps better,” said the curate drily. “Ours keeps very badly. By the way, Moredock incidentally gave me a bit of news.”

“What, dear?”

“Tom Candlish has gone from the Hall for a tour they say, to restore his health.”

“Left the Hall?”

“Yes, and I hope it will be many months before he returns.”

“Yes,” said Mary softly; “it will be better. There, now you will go on and see Mr North.”

“Oh, dear! who would be a slave?” sighed the curate. “Yes, madam, I will go, and when I come back I ought to go and see Mrs Berens, and then I shall be led into acts which will cause Mr Thompson to commence an action against me. Result: ruin, and our quitting Duke’s Hampton.”

“Did you not say to me that your imagination was too active?” said Mary, smiling.

“Yes, I did. What then?”

“You were quite right,” said Mary; “it is.”

Salis laughed and went on his mission, but in half-an-hour he was back, and Mary looked up at him wonderingly.

“Back so soon?” she said; and then with her heart beating frightfully, and a look of agony in her face that came as a revelation to Salis, she stretched out her hands to her brother, her fingers twitching spasmodically, as she uttered a wild cry, which brought him to her feet.

“Mary! My dear child! Be calm!” he panted, for he was evidently out of breath.

“Speak!” she cried. “Have pity on my helplessness. I am chained here by my affliction, and depend on you alone. Don’t torture me—don’t keep me in suspense. Horace North?”

“Yes; only be calm, dear.”

“You are temporising,” cried the poor girl wildly, as she clung to his hands and began to kiss them passionately. “Hartley—Hartley, for pity’s sake, speak!”

“If you will only be calm,” he cried angrily. “This is hysterical madness. You are hindering me when I come back to you for help and advice.”

Mary uttered a piteous moan, and set her teeth, as she clung still to her brother’s hands.

“Tell me the worst,” she implored. “I can bear that more easily than this suspense.”

Salis gazed at his sister more wildly, as he, for the first time, read, in her anguished looks and broken words, the secret which she had kept so well.

For the moment he was as one in a nightmare. He strove to speak, but something seemed to keep him dumb, while all the time she kept on moaning appeal after appeal to him to tell her all.

“I thought little of it then,” he said; “but now the idea seems to have grown stronger and more terrible. Words he used which I did not heed then seem to bear a terrible import now, and I cannot help thinking that something ought to be done.”

“You saw him just now?” said Mary hastily.

“No, but I spoke with Mrs Milt, and she is terribly uneasy. Mary, dear, for your own sake, spare me this.”

“No,” said the suffering woman sternly; “you can tell me nothing so bad as I shall imagine if you are silent. Tell me the very worst. He is dead?”

“No, no, no!” cried Salis; “but I fear for him. He is not in a condition to be left, and yet, strive how I may, I cannot get him to listen to reason.”

“But you have not seen him again?”

“No; he is now shut up in the library, and Mrs Milt has a terrible account of his eccentricity; she fears that he is going—”

“No, no, no! Don’t say that,” cried Mary; “it is too horrible. But quick! What are you going to do?”

“Drive over to King’s Hampton, take the train to Lowcaster, and come back with two of the principal physicians.”

“No,” said Mary sharply. “Telegraph at once to Mr Delton. Tell him his friend North is in urgent need of his help. He believes in North, and looks upon him almost as a son. His advice will be worth that of a dozen Lowcaster physicians.”

“Mary, you’re a pearl among women,” cried Salis.

“Don’t stop to speak,” she cried, with an energy that startled him. “Your friend’s life—his reason—is in peril. Go!”

“My friend; the man that poor broken-spirited creature loves,” muttered Salis, as he hurried away, and was soon after urging his hired pony to a gallop.

“Oh, what moles we men are!” he said, as the hedges and trees flew by him. “But who could have suspected her of caring for him? Lying crushed and broken there, and no one suspecting the agonies she must have suffered.”

Realising by slow degrees the depth of his sister’s love for North, and the life she must have led, Salis urged the pony on to reach King’s Hampton at last, and hurry to the post-office, to despatch his telegram beseeching the old doctor to send a reply; and for this he determined to sit down and wait, but only to pace the coffee-room of the nearest hotel, with his mind a chaos of bewildering ideas, as he wondered what was to be the end of this new trouble which had come upon his house.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.

A Stormy Interview.

The old housekeeper had indeed a long series of eccentricities to record to Salis, speaking freely to him, as to her master’s firmest friend, though what she knew and had diminished in intensity more than magnified was but a tithe of that which had occurred.

For it had been a terrible period for the young doctor. Half wrecked by the mental and bodily injuries he had received, the course he had pursued in shutting himself up alone, dreading to be surprised in suddenly uttering some wild speech or committing some vagary, had intensified the abnormal condition of his brain till his sufferings seemed to grow unbearable.

One hour he felt at peace, the next he had none, and asked himself what he was to do to escape the terrible unseen presence that was always with him, never addressing him, but, as it were, making his body the medium by which he communicated with the world.

“I can bear it no longer,” North said to himself at last. “There must be rest for me if I cannot shake it off.”

He shuddered slightly as he paced his darkened room, knowing instinctively how many steps to take in each direction, and what to avoid. For Death, familiar as it was to him, was not without its terrors.

He was so young, and, as it seemed now, the hopes of the past arose once more before him, the faith in the prizes of fame which he would win, his love for Leo, and the promises which had led him on.

But so sure as these thoughts assumed form there was another to rise like a dense cloud of horror and cover everything, as he felt that, come what might, he would be haunted ever by this unseen presence—the spirit which he had freed from its envelope of clay—and this could have but one end.

He felt that he had tried everything. He had forced himself to calmness, and marked out course after course of treatment such as he would have prescribed to some poor wretch who had consulted him in such a case; and when all was still at night he had stolen down to his surgery, and mingled for his own use sedatives and tonics, but all to no effect. If anything, his malady increased.

Two days before Salis had gone over to King’s Hampton, Cousin Thompson came once more to his bedroom door, to beg that he would come down and see his friend.

“It is impossible,” he had replied hoarsely.

“But he has come down again, vastly improved by your treatment; and without you he feels that he would be a dying man. Come, you cannot refuse.”

North held out for a time, and at last gave way, more from the desire of getting rid of his cousin and the patient than from any wish to repeat his advice.

“I’ll come this time,” he said; “but this visit must be final. There are hundreds of doctors who can advise the man better than I.”

“Doubtless,” said Cousin Thompson; “but that is not the point. There is not one in any of those hundreds in whom my poor friend will have the faith that he has in you.”

The argument was unanswerable.

“I will be down in a few minutes,” North said; and trying hard to master the nervous feeling which came over him, and wondering whether he could get through the interview without some absurd utterance, he drew aside the blind to accustom his eyes once more to the light.

It was some moments before he could face it, and then he looked despairingly at the wan, haggard face before him in the glass.

He shrank from it at first, but looked again and again, without the feeling of horror that had pervaded him before. His countenance was changed, and terribly wan and drawn; eyes and cheeks were sunken, so that the former seemed set in deep, cavernous holes; but as he gazed he did not seem to dread the sound of mocking laughter, or of some strange utterance which he could not control, and proceeded to make himself somewhat more presentable for those below.

“And they come to me for help,” he muttered, “who want it more than any man on earth.”

As he opened his door he frowned, for he caught sight of the old housekeeper hastily beating a retreat, and a shiver ran through him as he felt how he was watched.

But he went on down into the hall, where a low murmur of voices told him that his visitors were in the drawing-room.

What followed was a matter of a minute or two.

He entered the room quickly, his coming having been unheard; and Cousin Thompson, who was speaking earnestly to the two gentlemen from town, started quickly away and then said hastily:

“Ah, North! Why, you seem better. Let me get you a chair. You want no introductions, and I’ll leave you together.”

He approached North with a chair, and the latter took it, gazing keenly at the visitors the while; but as Thompson was passing he caught him by the collar and checked him, holding him fast, as he threw the chair from him with a crash.

Thompson turned white as so much curd, and tried for a moment to extricate himself, but his cousin’s grasp was like iron, and he turned a pitiable face to the two visitors, the taller of whom advanced quickly.

“My dear Dr North,” he said, “pray be calm. Another seat, my dear sir; pray sit down.”

North seemed as if he had not heard him. He had searchingly gazed from one to the other, and then his eyes appeared to blaze as his left hand joined his right at Thompson’s throat.

“You cursed, treacherous, cowardly hound!” he literally yelled, and dashing him backward, so that he fell with a crash against a table, which was overturned, North strode from the room without another word, and made the house echo with the bang he gave the door.

Thompson did not attempt to rise till the visitors held out their hands to assist him to a couch.

“My dear sir, are you hurt?” asked the first man.

“Hurt!” cried Thompson savagely. “Could you be half strangled and then thrown down without being hurt? But you see now. You doubted before: you see now.”

“Yes, perfectly,” said the second visitor calmly. “Oh, yes, I think that we are quite satisfied now. What do you say?”

“Perfectly,” said the first slowly; and as soon as the lawyer had satisfied himself that he was not seriously hurt, they adjourned to the library, where Mrs Milt was summoned to provide sherry and biscuits; and soon after the two visitors re-entered their carriage, and were driven back to King’s Hampton in time to catch the first train back to town.

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.

Mrs Milt Takes up Lunch.

“The last hope gone!” cried North, as he rushed upstairs and entered his room, to close and lock the door, overcome, as it were, with a despairing dread.

“I might have known it,” he panted excitedly. “The cruel, treacherous hound! I might have known that he had some hidden meaning in what he was doing. Friend from town—no faith in any one but me, forsooth! And I such a miserable, easily deceived child that I was ready to believe it all.”

Without thinking of what he did, he seated himself at the dressing-table, rested his elbows thereon, and gazed straight before him in the glass, but without seeing his distorted, haggard face.

“And it has come to that!” he groaned.

He, in his cunning, is taking all the necessary steps, such as a legal practitioner would know to be necessary, and I am to be carried off on these men’s certificates to some death in life, while my affectionate Cousin Thompson takes possession here.

“And he could,” he mused; “everything has been arranged for him. I am not mad; I am perfectly sane, but, Heaven knows, I am acting like a madman—like one possessed. I go always with this terrible shadow enveloping me, and I cannot shake it off, try how I may.

“What shall I do?

“Salis! No, I cannot tell him. Mr Delton? No, no, no! I could not speak out. What would they say? They must declare it to be a mania if I tell them the simple truth, and how dare I confess to having instituted those experiments on Luke Candlish?

“Was ever man so cursed for his endeavours? I have branded myself as one who is mad, and I must bear the stigma.”

He clenched his fist and glared before him, recalling the scene in his drawing-room, and burst into a scornful laugh—a laugh so full of savage anger that he started and looked wildly about him in dread.

He calmed down though in a few minutes, and sat repeating the words that had passed.

“I must have been blind not to have seen it before,” he cried aloud; “and now what is to follow?”

He looked up at the light shining down through the drawn curtain, and hurriedly shut it out, to reseat himself and think.

Flight! Yes, he could easily escape from his cousin and his machinations—the Continent—America—or he might boldly face him, and prove that the charge of lunacy was without basis.

But how, when he dared not show his face anywhere lest he should betray himself before his fellow-men?

“It is of no use,” he sighed bitterly; “I am conquered and I must succumb.

“But Cousin Thompson?

“Curse him!” he cried passionately, as he rose and began his old wild-beast tramp again. “What fate is too bad for such a man? Why did I not keep my hold when I had him by the throat?”

He stopped short, and in a paroxysm of mental agony threw himself upon a chair, nerveless, helpless, ready to give up and think that his cousin was right, and that the sooner he was placed under restraint the better, or else sought that other way of escape from his troubles.

As he writhed there in his agony, Mrs Milt was coming up the stairs with a tray covered with a fair white napkin, and on which was a covered dish exhaling an odour which the old dame had settled in her own mind would be certain to tempt her master.

“Poor fellow!” she said to herself; “he’s half starving himself, and perhaps I’ve done wrong in letting him have his own way. I ought to have gone up and made him eat. He’d have scolded and abused me, but I should have done him good.”

Mrs Milt had nearly reached the room, when she uttered an ejaculation of horror, and, setting down the tray upon the carpet, ran swiftly back to close a baize door.

“If he heard it,” she half sobbed, “he would think poor master mad, and heaven knows what would happen then.”

She hurried again to where she had left the tray, and then on to the door, as from within she heard a wild burst of boisterous laughter, and then a fierce oath, and the sounds of a struggle, ending in a crash as of a table being overturned.

“What shall I do?” groaned the poor woman, as, for the moment, she clapped her hands to her face, and stopped her ears, but only to snatch them down wildly, as the strange sounds continued. “He must be alone here, and if I call for help they’ll say he’s mad.”

She stood wringing her hands for a time as a terrible scene appeared to be taking place within that closed room. There was the trampling of feet—the sound as of a struggle. North’s voice in angry denunciation of some one who kept bursting forth into mocking peals of laughter, and then shouting as men shout when excited with the chase, till the room re-echoed. Then again North’s voice came, as if speaking furiously in a low voice, which changed directly afterwards to one of piteous appeal, breaking off into a moan. As the doctor’s voice ceased there was another mocking laugh, apparently from close by the door, and directly after came a crash as if a chair had been used as a weapon, a blow had been struck, and the chair shivered. While vividly painting the scene in her own mind, helped as she was by the sounds, the old housekeeper seemed to see her master hurl the portion of a broken chair which remained in his hands into the corner of the room, where it rattled upon the floor.

“There’s murder being done,” panted the old woman, as she caught at the handle of the door now, and stood clinging to it, while she pressed her other hand upon her heaving bosom.

As if in answer to her words, there was another coarse burst of laughter, and the sound of some one bounding to the door, two hands seeming to shake the panel, and her master’s voice came through, muffled but distinct.

“Curse you! I have you now! Is there no way of forcing you back into your grave?”

A loud rustling sound as of a struggle which was continued to the other side of the room, and the housekeeper’s hair felt to her as if something cold and strange were moving it, while a deathly perspiration broke out upon her face.

“Who is in there with him?” she thought. “What does it mean? There must be some one there, and murder is being done. Help! help!” she shrieked in her agony of fear, as she rattled the handle of the door, and beat upon the panels. “Help! help!” and then in her horror she turned and staggered towards the stairs, as the door was flung open, she felt herself seized from behind and dragged into the room, the door swinging to, and she was forced backwards in the utter darkness, listening to the hoarse sound of the hot breath which fanned her cheek as a hand was pressed heavily over her mouth.

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.

An Opportune Arrival.

“Silence, you mad woman! Do you want to bring them here? Do you want to have me dragged away like some miserable prisoner?”

“Oh, master—dear master,” sobbed the frightened woman piteously, as the hand was removed from her lips, and she sank at North’s knees and embraced them. “What does it all mean?—what does it all mean?”

“What does all what mean?”

“All that noise—that noise?” sobbed the housekeeper in a broken voice. “Have you—have you killed him?”

“Killed him?” cried North harshly. “Killed whom? There is no one here.”

“There is—there is, sir. I heard it all.”

“Hush!” cried North. “Listen. Is any one coming? Did they hear in the kitchen?”

“No, sir. I couldn’t bear for any one else but me to hear it all,” sobbed the trembling woman. “I went back and shut the door.”

“Then no one has heard—no one knows—but you?”

“No, sir.”

“My cousin?”

“He has gone out, sir.”

“Hah! Then it is a secret still,” muttered North.

The old housekeeper struggled to her feet, for his words and manner horrified her. She alone had heard what had taken place, and it seemed to her that within a few steps her master’s victim must be lying prone, and that even her life was not safe now.

Her first instinct was to make for the door, but he had hold of her wrist, and she sank once more at his feet, with a low sobbing cry.

“I’m an old woman, now,” she cried, “and a year or two more or less don’t matter much.”

The same harsh, mocking laugh broke out again, chilling her to the marrow, and then North uttered a hoarse, harsh expiration of the breath, and stamped his foot angrily.

Then there was a pause, broken only by the old woman’s painful sobs.

“My poor old Milt,” said North gently, as he raised her from the ground. “Why, what were you thinking—that I would do you any harm?”

“I—I couldn’t help it, sir; but—but I don’t think so now. Oh, master—dear master, I thought you had killed some one. What does it mean?—what does it mean?”

He did not answer for a few moments, and when he spoke again there was an indescribable, mournful sadness in his voice. “What are you thinking?” he said. She answered with a sob. “I’ll tell you,” he said; “you think that I am mad.”

“No, no, no! master—my great, clever, noble master,” cried the old woman passionately. “Only ill—only very ill; and you can cure yourself. Yes, yes; pray say that you can!”

“No,” he said bitterly. “No. It has come to the worst. There, go: I am worn out, and want to rest.”

“But you will let me help you, dear,” she said, speaking with the tenderness of a mother towards the boy she worshipped with a lavish love. “Let me do something—let me help you, dear. It is overwork. Your poor brain is troubled. Let me open the window, and let in light and air, and then you shall go to bed; and I’ll bathe your poor head, and you shall tell me what to mix. You know how I can nurse and tend you now you are ill.”

North took the old woman’s head between his hands as they stood there in the darkness, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Yes, the best and gentlest of nurses,” he said quietly.

“And you will let me help you, sir?”

“Yes; but not now. It was a kind of fit you heard—nothing more. Now go. See that I am not disturbed. Perhaps I can sleep. There: you know there is no one here.”

“Yes, my dear, of course—of course. I ought to have known better; I know now. And you will try to sleep?”

“Yes—I promise you, yes.

“Let me go down and get something for you; tell me what, and the quantities.”

“Yes,” said North eagerly, for she seemed to be opening before him the gates of release from his life of horror; but he shook his head as he called to mind how familiar she was with his surgery, and that if he bade her mix what he wished, she would turn suspicious and refuse.

“What shall I do, my dear?” said the old woman tenderly.

“Nothing now,” he said; “sleep will be best. Let me go to sleep.”

The old housekeeper sighed; but she made no opposition, and let him gently lead her to the door and shut her out, where she stood with her apron to her eyes, listening for a few moments to the loud snap given by the lock, and the dull, low sound of his pacing feet.

Then the old woman seemed to change.

She let fall her apron and tightened her lips. Her eyes grew keen and eager, and she gazed straight before her, deep in thought.

In a few moments her mind was made up.

“He must have proper help,” she said softly; and with an activity not to be expected of one at her time of life, she hurried up to her bedroom, to come out in a few minutes dressed for going out.

“I must fetch help,” she said eagerly, and going to North’s door she listened for a few moments more before hurrying down to the door, when a step on the gravel made her utter a cry of joy.

The man she was going to seek was coming up to the house, and the next minute she had confided to Salis all she felt and knew, and he had gone back to Mary, before hurrying away to telegraph to town.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.

Dally’s Plans.

“It’s little better than murder: it’s cruel, that’s what it is. What does he mean by being ill and shutting hisself up, and won’t see anybody? What right has a doctor to go and be ill? Yah!”

Old Moredock stared his clock full in the face as it ticked away slowly and regularly in the most unconcerned way.

“Yes! go it!” cried the old man, “go on marking it off, all your minutes and hours, but I don’t mean to die yet, so you needn’t think it. I’m not so old as all that, and if doctor ’ll only get well, I’ll astonish some on ’em.”

He changed his position, stared at his fire, and laboriously, and with many a groan, got down his old leaden tobacco box and pipe, filled slowly, lit up, and began to smoke; but somehow he did not seem to enjoy his pipe, and removed it again and again to go on muttering to himself.

“Well, suppose I did? A man must make a few pounds to keep himself out of the workhouse. They should pay the saxon better if they didn’t want him to. Tchah! What’s a few old bones?”

There was an interval of smoking, and then the old man resumed his complainings.

“Turning ill like that. What did he go and turn ill like that for, just as I wanted him so badly? It’s too bad o’ doctor. I wouldn’t ha’ let him go to the old morslem if I’d known he’d turn queer arterward. It’s my b’leef that young Tom Candlish gave him an ugly knock that night. But I warn’t there. Hi—hi—hi! I warn’t there. I didn’t want to be mixed up with it.”

He shifted his seat, and as he did so painfully, his jaw dropped, and he sat fixed and staring at the window, where at one corner there was a curious, rough-looking object, which remained stationary for some time and then moved slowly till first one and then a second eye appeared, gazed into the little cottage interior, and slowly descended again.

“Who—who—what’s that?” faltered the old man. “Is it—is it—tchah! It’s Joe Chegg, peeping and prying again to see if my Dally’s here.”

Recovering from his scare, the old man smoked away viciously for a time, and then grinned hideously.

“If I’d only been well,” he muttered, “and that doctor had let me have some more of his stuff, I’d ha’ took my spade and crope round by the back, and I’d ha’ come ahint that iddit and give him such a flop. Sneaking allus after my Dally, as if it was like she’d wed a thing like him.”

“Why don’t doctor come?” he groaned, as a twinge made him twist painfully in his seat. “It’s about murder: that’s what it is; and they all want to get rid of me now—parson and all; and then things ’ll go to ruin about the old church. But they may get a new saxon if they like. Let ’em have Joe Chegg: I don’t care. Much good he’ll do ’em. Disgrace to the old church: that’s what he’ll be; and go in o’ Sundays smelling of paint and putty, till he most drives Parson Salis mad. Disgrace to the church: that’s what he’ll be. Eh? eh? Who’s that? Who’s that? Hallo! Eh? Who’s that at the door? You, Dally? Oh, you’ve come at last!”

“Yes, gran’fa, I’ve come at last,” said the girl in a sullen tone.

“I might ha’ died for all you’d ha’ cared,” grumbled the old man; “but I wouldn’t—nay, I wouldn’t do that.”

Dally made no answer, but plumped herself down on the old shred hearthrug, and put her hands round one knee, so as to stare at the fire.

“Well,” said the old man after a pause, “ain’t you going to speak?”

Dally turned and looked at him sharply, with her brow knit and her mouth tightened up; but she only shook her head.

“Never been a-nigh me for three days,” grumbled Moredock; “after all I’ve done for you. But don’t you make too sure. Young ’uns often goes ’fore old folk, and maybe I’ll bury you, and Joe Chegg too, if he don’t mind what he’s about.”

Dally paid no heed, but stared at the fire.

“Seen doctor?” said Moredock.

Dally looked round again as if she did not quite hear his question, and then shook her head again.

“Never mind; I don’t want him,” grumbled the old man. “Let him doctor hisself. I’m not so bad but what I can get well without him. I’m not worn out yet! I’m not worn out yet!”

Dally paid no heed, and her curious attitude and her silence took the old man’s attention at last. He reached round painfully till he could get hold of a thick oak stick, whose hook held it upon the back of the covered arm-chair.

With this the old man poked at his grandchild to draw her attention to him.

“Here, Dally, what’s the matter? Here!”

“Don’t!” cried the girl angrily; but he poked at her again.

“Don’t, gran’fa! do you hear?” she cried, giving herself a vicious twist; but the old man only chuckled, and deliberately changing his hold upon his stick, he leaned forward, with one hand upon the arm-chair, till he could reach Dally easily as she crouched there, half turned from the old sexton, staring thoughtfully at the fire.

The old man chuckled softly as he extended the stick as a shepherd might his crook, till he could hook Dally by the neck, and drew her slowly towards him, grasping the stick now with both hands.

“Don’t, gran’fa!” cried the girl fiercely, as she started up and took hold of the stick with both hands, getting her neck out of the hook, and struggling with her grandfather for its possession, in which she was triumphant, and ending by nearly dragging Moredock from his seat, as she made a final snatch, obtained the stick, and threw it viciously across the room.

“You—you—you nearly—you fetch that stick!”

“I won’t stand it, gran’fa!” cried Dally, ignoring his command, and stamping her foot as she stared at him. “I won’t have it! If he thinks he’s got a baby to deal with, like Leo Salis, he’s mistaken.”

“Eh? eh?” croaked the old man, staring at her, and forgetting the stick, as he saw the girl’s excitement.

“He’s not going to play with me, gran’fa, and so I’ll tell him.”

“Eh? Who, Dally? Joe Chegg?”

“He said he’d marry me.”

Then sharply:

“He’s not going to play with me, and so I precious soon mean to tell him. He should marry me if I followed him all round the world for ever. There!”

She emphasised her words with a stamp, and then, taking the old man by the shoulders, she pushed him back in his chair, and arranged his collar and tie—the one, a limp piece of linen; the other, something a little more limp and loose.

“What’s the matter, Dally? What’s wrong, my gel?”

“After the way he has talked to me, and then to go off like that without a word!”

“But you don’t want him, Dally, and I don’t want him.”

“Yes, I do; and I’ll have him, too!” cried the girl, with savage vehemence.

“Nay, nay. He’s an iddit.”

“Yes, I know that,” cried Dally vindictively; “and a drunken idjut; but I don’t care for that.”

“He was here to-night, staring in at the corner of the windy there.”

“What, Tom Candlish?” cried Dally excitedly.

“Nay, nay; Joe Chegg.”

“Joe Chegg!” cried Dally, in a tone of disgust that would have cut the village Jack-of-all-trades to the heart. “Who said anything about Joe Chegg? I was talkin’ about young squire.”

“Eh? About young squire? Well, Dally, well? When’s it to be?”

“It’s going to be soon, gran’fa, or I’ll know the reason why; I’m not going to have him playing Miss Leo off against me.”

“Nay, that I wouldn’t, Dally,” cried the old man.

“She’s got to mind, or she may be ill again,” cried the girl, with a vindictive look in her eyes.

“Ill again! Has she, Dally? Nay, nay, nay, my gel; you mustn’t talk like that.”

“Mustn’t I, gran’fa? but I will,” cried the girl. “I’m not going to be played with, and if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into a coffin—”

“Eh? What?—what?” cried Moredock, the last word making him prick up his ears. “Nay, nay; don’t you talk like that, my gel. He’s a young, strong man yet.”

“I say if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into his coffin, he may. But he’s got to make me Lady Candlish first.”

“Lady Candlish of the Hall, eh, Dally? Lady Candlish of the Hall? Ay, ay! Let him make you Lady Candlish first, Dally.”

“Yes, and then he may drink himself into his coffin as soon as he likes.”

“And I’ll bury him, eh, Dally? In the old morslem, eh? And doctor can—”

He stopped short with a chuckle, and rubbed his hands.

“Yes, the doctor can try and stop him from drinking, for I can’t,” said Dally acidly. “It’s of no use to talk to him.”

“And you wouldn’t break your heart, Dally, if he was to die, would you?” said the old man, with a chuckle.

“I should if he was to die now, gran’fa,” said the girl; “but when he marries me he can do what he likes.”

“Ay, when he’s married you, Dally, and you’ve got the Hall and all his money. But, look here, Dally; I want doctor to come and see me and bring me some of his stuff. You go up and tell him he must come—that I say he must come; I want him. Tell him I say he is to come, and that he is to bring some o’ that stuff he give me those nights. You say o’ those nights, and he’ll know. Rare stuff, Dally, as goes right down into your toes. Rare stuff, as sets you up and makes you have a good nap sometimes.”

Dally looked at the sexton searchingly.

“You’re not looking well, gran’fa,” she said.

“Nay, I look well enough, but I do want the doctor a bit.”

“You see you’re a very old man now.”

“Tchah! stuff! Old? I’m not an old man yet. Lots o’ go in me. Man takes care of himself, and he ought to live to two hundred.”

“Two hundred, gran’fa!” cried the girl, looking at him wonderingly.

“Ay. Why not? Look at the paytrarchs, seven and eight and nine hundred. I don’t mean to die yet, Dally,” he chuckled; “and you’ll have a long time to wait if you think you want the bit o’ money I’ve saved up.”

“Where do you keep that stuff now, gran’fa?”

“What stuff?” said the old man.

“That stuff you used to keep in the blue bottle in the corner cupboard.”

“How did you know I kept stuff in that corner cupboard?”

“Because I looked,” said the girl pertly. “Then I won’t have you look in my cupboards. I—”

“Why not?” said Dally calmly. “There, I know, gran’fa, most everything you’ve got. Now, tell me, what have you done with that bottle that you used to use for your eyes?”

“Poured it away, and put the bottle in the fire.”

“Oh, gran’fa!”

“My eyes are right enough now, and I didn’t want to go some night in the dark—candles cost money, Dally—and take the wrong stuff. Doctor gives me some drops in a little bottle, and I shouldn’t ha’ liked to make a mistake.”

“And you’ve thrown it all away?” said the girl in a disappointed tone.

“Ay, my gel. It was poison, only to use outside, and you wouldn’t ha’ liked your poor old gran’fa to make a mistake?”

“Gone!” said Dally, to herself.

“Now, you go to doctor and say your gran’fa wants him. Tell him I say it’s all nonsense for him to be ill, and he must come.”

“Yes, gran’fa.”

“And you wait, Dally. I arn’t an old man yet, but I shall be sure to die some day, and then there’ll be a bit o’ money for you.”

“I don’t want your money, gran’fa,” she said sourly, as the old man grinned and rubbed his hands.

“That’s right. Good gel. Be independent,” he said. “Now go and tell doctor he must come.”

Dally did not stir, but stood gazing straight before her thoughtfully.

“How much does it cost to go to London, gran’fa?” she said, at last, as the old man beat upon the arm of his chair to take her attention.

“Heaps o’ money—heaps o’ money. What do you want to know for?”

“Because I’m going there.”

“Going? What for?”

“To find him and bring him back.”

“Whatcher talking about? You go and fetch doctor.”

“About Tom Candlish. I went to the Hall last night, and he was gone.”

“What, young squire? Well, you mustn’t go after him, gel.”

“Yes, I must,” said Dally, with a lurid look in her dark eyes. “I’m going after him to bring him back here, gran’fa. But are you sure you threw that stuff away?”

“Ay, I’m sure enough. Now go and fetch doctor, I tell you; and ask him to give you some more of it if your eyes are bad. Now go.”

Dally nodded shortly, neither displaying, nor being expected to display, any affection for her grandfather, as she left the cottage; when the old man relit his pipe and sat back thinking as he smoked.

“What does she want with that stuff?” he said thoughtfully; “’tis poison, and she knowed where it was. She wouldn’t want to take none herself. She wouldn’t do that; and she wouldn’t want to give none to Tom Candlish, because that wouldn’t make him marry her. I dessay she wants it—she wants it—to—”

The old man’s drowsy head had sunk back, his pipe-holding hand fell in his lap, and he slept heavily, to wake, after a few hours, cold and shivering, ready to creep to bed, murmuring against the doctor for not coming, and forgetting all about Dally and her desire to get that bottle which used to stand in the corner cupboard.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.

Moredock’s Medicine.

“It’s like a shadow following me always,” muttered North, “and it is hopeless for me to try longer. I’ve fought and battled with it as bravely as a man could fight, and for what? I have failed; there is nothing to keep me here. Why should I stay?”

“Yes,” he repeated, “I have failed—failed in my daring attempt—failed in my love—and I want rest. I can bear it no longer; what I want is rest. Ah!”

He drew a long breath and then sighed, and went straight to the window, drew aside the curtain, and for the first time for many days spent about half-an-hour at his toilet, to stand at last, weak and ghastly pale, but looking, otherwise, more like the frank, manly young doctor of the past.

By this time his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light, and he went and stood gazing out of the window at the pleasant woodland landscape spread before him, thinking of his future, and ignorant of the fact that the sight was soothing to his troubled brain.

It seemed to him that his shadow slept, and turning from the window, after a final look across the meadows, where now and again he could see the sun glancing from the stream in the direction of the Rectory, he walked, with a fair amount of steadiness, across the floor, just as the figure of a woman appeared in the lower meadow walking hurriedly and keeping close to the hedges and clumps of trees, which gave the place the aspect of a park.

As North opened the door and made for the stairs he could see that the baize door at the foot, which cut off communication with the rest of the house, was ajar, and then it moved slightly and closed.

“Watched,” he said to himself; “poor old Milt! I must not forget her.”

He went slowly down into the hall, and as he reached it the dining-room door, which was also ajar, closed softly, and North knit his brow and bit his lip as he turned his back to it and entered the study.

He closed and locked the door after him; and, as he did so, the housekeeper’s face appeared at the baize door, and Cousin Thompson’s at that of the dining-room.

Mrs Milt noticed the movement of the dining-room door, and stole softly back with a sigh, while, after waiting for a few minutes, with a peculiarly low cunning expression of countenance, Cousin Thompson took a little brass wedge from his pocket, and stuck it beneath the door, so as to hold it a few inches open, sufficiently to enable him to hear when the study was opened again, and then seated himself watchfully by the window, where he could command a good view of the principal gate.

As soon as he was in the study, North looked sadly round at his books and tables, where everything was methodically arranged, and scrupulously neat and clean, the old housekeeper’s hand being visible on every side.

“Poor old woman!” muttered the doctor. “As if she felt sure that I should not be ill long.”

He walked to the French window, which looked out upon the green lawn with its shrubbery surroundings, beyond which were the meadows and the purling stream.

It was a scene of peace and beauty that should have been welcome to the most exacting, and it was not without its effect upon the doctor, who carefully closed and fastened the window before crossing to the door leading into his surgery, which he opened, and looked in to see that the outer door was closed.

Returning to the study table, the baize communication swung to, and North sat down, quite calm and collected now, and began to write.

He paused to think several times, but only to go on more earnestly, till he had done, when he read that which he had written, made a slight alteration or two, and then carefully folded and placed the papers in large envelopes, one of which he directed, “To my executors,” and laid in a prominent place upon the table, where it could not fail to be seen; the other to his London medical friend.

Apparently not satisfied, he took up the envelope, and placed it in another, after which he wrote upon a sheet of paper:

“Mrs Milt. Place this enclosure in my executors’ hands yourself.”

Then directing the outer envelope to the housekeeper, he smiled with satisfaction, and had just laid it upon the table, duly fastened down, when a faint chink made him turn his head in the direction of the surgery.

North listened, and the faint sound of a bottle touching another was repeated.

He rose and went softly to the door, which was not latched, opened it, and saw a hand dart down that was extended, as he stood face to face with Dally Watlock.

In his surprise North did not speak, for he had been under the impression that he had fastened the door, and this gave the girl time to recover herself.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, with a smile; “I only pushed that bottle back in its place. It was nearly off the shelf.”

“What do you want?” said North sharply.

“Gran’fa, please sir, said I was to come on and tell you he wanted you.”

“Tell him I can’t come,” said North shortly. “Why did you come here, and not to the front?”

“Oh, wasn’t this right, sir?” said Dally apologetically. “I am so sorry, sir. But gran’fa said: ‘Go to Dr North’s surgery,’ and I came here. Please, sir, he says you’re to send him some of that same stuff you gave him before.”

North stood with his brows knit for a moment, and then went to a cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy, half full, and handed it to the girl.

“Take that,” he said, “and tell him to use it discreetly. I cannot come.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. Gran’fa ’ll be so pleased, sir; and master ’ll be so glad when I tell him you’re so much better; and Miss Mary, too.”

North winced, and then frowned, as he passed the girl to open the outer door, and feign her to go.

She smiled and curtsied as she passed out, the door being closed sharply behind her, and she heard a bolt shoot.

“Yes,” she muttered, with her countenance changing as she thrust the bottle carefully into her dress-pocket, with the result that there was another faint chink; “you may lock it now. I don’t care. But wasn’t it near?”