The Man with a Shadow

“No.”

“Not to save me from a writ?”

“Who holds the bills?”

“That scoundrel Thompson. North’s cousin.”

“Then he’ll worry you well for it,” said the squire. “Let him. It’ll be a lesson for you, and bring you to your senses. You’ll be more careful.”

“Nonsense! Let me have the money.”

“I might have let you have it, and precious unwillingly, too,” said the squire. “I might, I say, have let you have the money to save you for the last time, but your bullying tone, and the way in which you have spoken to me to-night, have quite settled it. You may have writs and he arrested, and turn bankrupt if you like: it doesn’t make any difference to me. Yes, it would; for perhaps I should get rid of you for a time.”

“You cursed, mean, unbrotherly hound!” cried Tom furiously; and, throwing down the cue upon the table just as his brother was about to play, he swung out of the room, descended the stairs, and went up to his bedroom.

“Hang him!” muttered the squire, going to a side table and pouring himself out half a tumbler of strong brandy, which he diluted a little, and then drank off half at a draught.

“I wish to goodness he’d go altogether. I won’t pay his debts any more. That’s not a bad stroke. How a drop of brandy does steady a man’s hand! Let him swear and growl. Five hundred’s enough for him for a year, and the old man was quite right.”

He went on playing for another half-hour, practising strokes with very little success, till, glancing at his watch, he found it was close upon midnight, and placing his cue in the rack, he poured himself out some more brandy, drank it, turned down the lamp, and was moving towards the baize swing-door, when it opened, and Tom Candlish stood in the opening.

“Hallo!” said the squire; “thought you’d gone to bed.”

“What’s the good of my going to bed with that money trouble to think about.”

“Have some brandy? Make you forget it. I’ve left some on the table.”

“No fooling, Luke. I was out of temper. I’ve been worried, and I said things I didn’t mean.”

“Always do. Here, let me come by. I want to go to bed.”

“All right, you shall directly, old fellow; but you’ll let me have that money?”

“Not a sou.”

“I want it horribly; and it will save me no end of worry. You’ll let me have it?”

“Not a sou, I tell you.”

“Come, Luke, old chap, don’t be hard upon me. I’ve been waiting patiently till I got cool, and you had finished playing, before I came and spoke to you again. Now, then, it’s only a hundred.”

“And it’ll be a hundred next week, and a hundred next month. I won’t lend you a penny.”

“Then, give it me. I’ve a right to some of the old man’s coin.”

“Not a sou, I tell you, and get out of my way. I want to go to bed.”

“You’ll help me, Luke?”

“No! Stand aside!”

“Come, don’t be hard. I’m your brother.”

“Worse luck!” said the squire, whose face was flushed by the brandy he had taken.

“Never mind that. Let me have the hundred.”

“I tell you again, not a sou. Curse you! Will you let me come by?” cried the squire savagely; for the spirit had taken an awkward turn, and his face grew purple.

“Once more; will you let me have the money?”

“No!” roared the squire. “Get out of the way – dog!”

“Dog, yourself! Curse you for a mean hound!” cried Tom Candlish, with a savage look. “You don’t go by here till you’ve given me a cheque.”

The squire’s temper was fully roused now. He had restrained it before; though, several times when he had uttered a low laugh and kept on handling his cue, his anger had been seething, and ready to brim over.

Now, at his brother’s threat, that he should not pass until he had signed a cheque, he seized Tom by the shoulder as he blocked the way, and flung him aside.

Luke Candlish cleared the passage for his descent; but roused the evil in his brother, so that Tom closed with him in a fierce grip.

The struggle was almost momentary. There was a wrestling here and there, and then Luke Candlish put forth his whole strength as he practised a common Cornish trick, and Tom was thrown heavily upon the landing.

“There!” cried the squire; “lie there, you idiot! You’ll get no cheque from me.”

The squire had to pass over his brother’s body to reach the stairs, and he was in the act of rapidly crossing him, when, with a desperate effort, Tom made a savage snatch at his leg.

The result was what might have been expected: the sudden check caused the squire to lose his balance, and he literally pitched head foremost down the stairs, to fall with a heavy crash at the bottom.

Tom Candlish rose to his hands and knees, and gazed at where his brother lay, just beneath the lamp in the lobby, head downwards, and in a curiously-awkward position for a living man.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Terrible Silence

“Serve him right,” muttered Tom. Then rising and pushing the door, which had swung to, he entered the dark billiard-room, where he felt his way to the spirit stand, and took a hearty draught. “Curse him! he’s as strong as a horse. I wish he had broken his neck.”

The brandy gave him nerve, and he returned through the baize door into the light.

“Must lend him a hand, I suppose,” he muttered, as he descended the stairs to where the squire lay in a heap, his head upon the mat, one leg doubled beneath him, and the other through the balustrade, which held it fast.

Tom Candlish stood peering down at him for a few moments, and then, as his brother did not move, he stooped towards him.

“Here,” he said roughly, as he took hold of his wrist; “don’t lie like that; you’ll have a blood-vessel burst.”

There was no reply; and, as the wrist was loosed, the arm fell in an absolutely nerveless way.

“Here, Luke!” he cried; “get up. Don’t fool. Get up, man!”