The Man with a Shadow

Mary’s heart began to flutter, and a piteous look came into her eyes; but she closed them gently, and a tear slowly welled through from each.

“Well, what is it? Nothing fresh about Tom Candlish, I hope?”

“About him? No; nonsense! I wanted to tell you that there is no further need for me to attend your sister,” Slid the doctor clumsily. “She is nearly well now, and – ”

“My dear Horace, you have saved her life!”

“No, no; nonsense! Only did as any other medical man would have done.”

“I say she owes you her life, and it will be Leo’s duty to remember that, and to strive henceforth to render back to you – ”

“If she only will!” cried North excitedly, as he sprang up and clasped his old friend’s hand.

For the ice was broken. He could speak now, and as Mary looked up through a mist of blinding tears he seemed to her like the hero she had always painted – as the man whom some day she might love. But for her love was dead.

“Why, Horace, old man, what do you mean?” cried Salis, as Mary fought down a wail of agony which strove to escape her lips.

“What do I mean, Salis?” cried the doctor passionately; “why, that I love Leo dearly, and I ask you to let me approach her, and beg her to be my wife.”

The curate sank into the nearest chair, and sat gazing up at his friend.

“Why, you don’t seem – I had hoped – Hartley, old fellow, don’t look at me like that.”

“I am very sorry.”

“No, no; don’t speak in that way – so cold and bitter.”

“Have you spoken to Leo – of your love?”

“Not a word. On my honour.”

A sigh escaped Mary.

“You need not say your honour, Horace, old fellow,” said the curate sadly. “I did once hope this, but that time has gone by, and I can only say again I am very sorry.”

“But why? – why?”

“Because,” said the curate slowly, “Leo is not the woman to make you a happy husband.”

“Nonsense, my dear boy. I – I believe she loves me.”

The curate shook his head.

“Ah! well,” cried the young doctor joyously; “we shall see. Tell me this: would you accept me as your brother?”

“I already look upon you as a brother.”

“Then you will let me speak to Leo?”

The curate paused a few moments, and then in the gravest of tones said:

“Yes.”

“Now? At once?”

“If you wish it,” said Salis, after another pause.

“Then I will,” said North. “I have waited months, and borne agonies all through her illness. Now I will be at rest.”

“But – ”

Salis was too late, for hot, excited, and strung up hard to the highest pitch of excitement, North strode from the room, while Salis stooped over Mary and kissed her.

“I am very sorry,” he repeated: and a couple of loving arms closed round his neck, as Mary sobbed gently upon his breast.

Then brother and sister sat talking, for the drawing-room door had closed, and they could hear the low, dull murmurings of the doctor’s voice.

He had entered the drawing-room, where, looking extremely beautiful in her négligée habit, and refined by illness, Leo lay upon her couch by the fire, for the spring was cold, and as he entered she lowered her book and smiled.

It was a good augury, and with beating heart Horace North advanced and took her hand – to ask this woman to be his wife.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Dr North Proposes

As Horace North took the hand of Leo Salis in his, it was to find it soft and cool and moist – very different from the burning palm he had so often held a few months since. It was without a tremble, but it sent a thrill through him; and with eyes flashing and revelling in his new joy, he was about to speak, when she half threw herself back in her chair with a movement of resignation which came upon him like a douche.

He knew it so well. He read it and understood it as plainly as if she had spoken. It was the patient waiting for him to feel her pulse.

“I thought you had given me up,” she said lightly.

“Given you up – you whom I love!”

Those were the words he wanted to say, but they would not come now after the damping he had received, and involuntarily his fingers glided slowly to her wrist, and he held them pressed against the calmly-beating pulse, gazing down at her half-averted eyes the while.

There was no coquetry, no playful manner; she was as calm and resigned as any patient he had ever visited, and yet, time back, she had clung to him, gazed passionately into his eyes, and whispered of her love.

Was it delirium?

He could not bring himself to say; but even if it were, she must at heart have loved him, and in her abnormal state have confessed what she would sooner have died than said when well.

The moments glided by, and he still held her wrist in the most professional manner, till, apparently surprised, she raised her eyebrows, opened her languid eyes, and looked up at him.

“Well, doctor,” she said, half laughing, “loth to part with your patient? I am quite well.”

He was dumb. A whirlwind of emotion was sweeping through him, as he vainly sought to shape his course. Could he tell her of her passionate avowal, or would it be too cowardly to take advantage of her past weakness?

He could not recall that – not now. Some day, perhaps, he might; but now he felt that he must approach her unarmed. She was delirious, and her brain must be a blank to all that had passed, and he would speak plainly – conventionally.