The Man with a Shadow

“Thankye, parson. That’s han’some.”

“But let me have no more complaints. You must do your duty, as I try to do mine.”

“Ay, parson, and I will,” said the old sexton, following his superior to the door leading out to the churchyard, where Salis stopped and took a box of vestas from his pocket, as he stood just outside the old stone doorway, where a stone corbel with a demoniacal expression of countenance seemed to be leering by his shoulder as if in enjoyment of what had taken place.

It was a sheltered corner for lighting a cigar, and the curate, without pausing to think, struck a match, and began to puff out the smoke.

“Well, I’ve no right to speak, as between parson and sax’on, sir; but twix’ old man and young man, I do say – what would you ha’ said to me if you’d ketched me having a pipe in the churchyard?”

“Why, you old rascal, I’ve often seen you smoking when you’ve been digging a grave.”

“Not often, parson; because one never hardly gets a grave to dig. I have had a pipe sometimes when my chesty has felt a bit weak.”

“I deserve your reproof, Moredock,” said the curate, putting out his cigar. “I have taken to smoking so much that I find myself lighting cigars at all times and seasons, and I am greatly to blame here.”

“Nay, nay, I shan’t say no more,” said the old man, calmly taking the place of reprover instead of being reproved; “but try a pipe, parson. Worth a dozen cigars. Stop a moment, sir, I wants another word with you.”

“Yes. What about?”

“My gran’child, Dally, parson. I arn’t saddersfied there.”

“Why, Moredock?”

“Because I don’t think you looks arter her morals as you should. ‘Send her to me, Moredock,’ you says, ‘and me and the young ladies will take every care on her.’”

“I did, Moredock; and we have.”

“Nay, you haven’t, sir; or else she wouldn’t go on as she do.”

“What do you mean, man?”

“Along o’ young Tom Candlish, squire’s brother, sir.”

“Is this true?”

“True, sir? Course it is. Don’t I say so? I’ve ketched ’em together over and over again.”

“Tut – tut – tut! this must be stopped,” cried Salis angrily. “Did you speak to him?”

“Ay, I spoke to him.”

“What did he say?”

“Called I an old fool.”

“But your grandchild. Did you speak to her?”

“Ay, course I did; but you might as well talk to yon cobble. She just laughed, and give her pretty head a toss. She is a pretty gal, parson.”

“Far too pretty, Moredock.”

“Oh! I don’t know ’bout that, sir. Think young Tom wants to marry her? I’ll put down a hundred pound the day she’s wed.”

“You will, Moredock? Why, I thought you were very poor.”

“So I am, parson, so I am; but I’ve saved up for the gal. But you keep her in more; it’ll make him more hungry arter her, and I’d like to see her mistress up at the Hall.”

“Moredock!” cried the curate, in horrible perplexity.

“Well, I should,” said the old man, grinning. “Squire’s drinking hisself to death as fast as he can, and he won’t marry; so young Tom’s sure to get the place. But you keep her in.”

“I will, Moredock,” said the curate sternly, and, in grave perplexity at the loose ideas of morality existing in Duke’s Hampton, he went straight home, to find the doctor seated by Mary’s couch.

Chapter Twenty One.

“Something Particular to Say.”

Horace North had sternly determined on self-repression, and, from the moment when the crisis of Leo’s fever had left her utterly prostrate, he had set himself the almost superhuman task of saving her from the grave.

He had treated his patient with a gentleness and care that gradually won upon her, harsh and distant as she was by nature; so that at last, after the first fits of wearing fretfulness were over, she began to greet him with a welcoming smile, and seemed happier when he sat down and stayed chatting to her by her bed.

On that night when the passionate avowals had been uttered she had sunk back into a violent fit of delirium; and since then, in all his long hours of watching, no word of love had passed her lips – no kindly look her eyes.

North was disappointed and touched to the quick, for he watched for her loving looks, listened for her tender words.

On the other hand, in his calmer moments he was pleased, for it made his task the lighter. He could repress himself until such time as his patient were well and he could honourably approach her to ask her to be his wife.

He was not surprised at her petulance or her irritability; and even in her worst moods he only smiled, as he thought of her past sufferings and present weakness. This childlike temper was the natural outcome of such a fever, and would soon pass away.

“It is better as it is,” he said, and he toiled away, neglecting his studies, his great discovery, all for Leo’s sake, that she might live and grow strong once more.

“How beautiful!” he thought; and as she unconsciously suffered his attentions, receiving them as her right, as if she were a queen, Mary drank in all, and read the doctor’s heart to the very deepest cell.

But she made no sign. It was her lot to suffer, and she would bear all in silent patience to the end, working to make others happy if she could, but sorrowing the more, as she wished well to North, and tried to believe that, after all, Leo might change, and worthily return his love.

For, after seeing her home, Tom Candlish sent twice to know how Leo was. After that he seemed to take no further notice, though he really spent his time in asking Dally Watlock about her mistress, as he called it – questions which took a long time to ask and longer to gain replies.

Leo never mentioned his name, but lay back reading, setting aside the book wearily when any one seemed disposed to converse, and taking up the book again as soon as whoever it was had done.

Salis entered the room where North was seated conversing with Mary, whose pinched face bore a slight colour as she listened to his words, something he was saying being interrupted by the brother’s entrance.

“Ah, here you are!” cried North warmly. “I have stayed to see you, for I have something particular to say.”

“That’s right. At least, it is not bad news, I hope.”

“I hope good,” said the doctor warmly, and then he stopped awkwardly.

It had all seemed so easy to say in his own room. Here it was terrible.