“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.”
