The Man with a Shadow

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

“Seen your grandmother, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, quite right, too.”

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

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

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

“Why? A visit won’t do you any harm.”

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

“But, Moredock – ”

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

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

“May I smoke my pipe, doctor?”

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

Chapter Thirteen.

After Church

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

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

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

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

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

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