The Man with a Shadow

The two men ascended the steep pathway to the front of the church porch, and continued their journey round by the end of the chancel to the north, where the great mausoleum and the vestry stood side by side.

As they reached the end of the path where it stopped by the vestry door, Moredock paused to listen intently for a few moments.

“All right,” he said; “not so much as a cat about;” and stooping down, he unlocked the iron gates at the head of the steps and they swung softly back. “Iled ’em well,” whispered the sexton, “and the door below, too.”

“Now look here, my man,” whispered North, “you can let me into the tomb, and then keep watch for me; or I will open the place myself, and bring you back the keys.”

“Nay, doctor, I’m not skeared. I don’t like the job, but now you’ve got me to start on it, I’ll go on right to the end.”

“That’s right, Moredock; and you shall not regret it, man. As I’ve told you, it is for a special scientific reason.”

“I don’t know nothing ’bout scientific reason, doctor,” whispered the old man; “but you said it was some’at to do wi’ making men live longer.”

“Yes, and it is.”

“And that you’d stick to me, doctor, and make me live as long as Mephooslum if you could.”

“Yes, Moredock, I did.”

“And you’ll stick to that bargain?”

“I will, on my honour as a man.”

“Shak’ han’s on it once again, doctor. That’s enough for me. I like a bit o’ money, and I want it bad; but no money shouldn’t ha’ made me do this. I’m doing of it because it’s to make men live longer.”

“Yes, my man, it is.”

“Then in we goes. Stop!”

“What now?”

“You won’t bring him – Squire Luke – back to life again, will you? Because that won’t answer my book.”

“Silence, man, and keep to your bargain, as I will keep to mine.”

Moredock drew a long breath, inserted the key, opened the heavy door of the great vault, and it, too, swung easily upon its well-oiled hinges, carefully prepared by the sexton for the funeral.

“You won’t mind the dark for a minute, doctor?” whispered the old man.

“No,” said the doctor, stepping in, followed by the sexton, who carefully closed the grim portal, and they stood together in the utter darkness in presence of generations of the dead.

Volume Two – Chapter Four.

Mary’s Bell

It had been a gloomy evening at the Rectory. Leo had been unusually silent, and Salis greatly disturbed by a letter he had received from the rector.

That gentleman had only spoken to him just so far as the sad business upon which they had been engaged demanded, and had gone back to King’s Hampton on his way to town, probably to treat his curate there in the same way, and had left a voluminous letter, like a sermon, written upon the text “Neglect,” for Salis to peruse.

He had read the letter and re-read it to his sisters, with the result that Leo had sighed, looked sympathetic, and then gone on with her book; while Mary had sat back in her easy-chair and listened and advised.

“I don’t know what more I could do,” said Salis, wrinkling his brow. “I suppose I do neglect the parish entrusted to me by my rector, but it is from ignorance. I want to do what’s right.”

He looked down in a perplexed way at his sister, who dropped her work upon her knee, and extended her hand with a tender smile.

“Come here,” she said. “Kneel down.”

Salis obeyed, and glanced at Leo, whose face was hidden by her book, before stooping down lower to accept the proffered kiss.

“My dear old brother,” whispered Mary, gliding her soft, white arm about his neck, “don’t talk like that. Neglect! My memory is too well stored with your deeds to accept that word. Why, your life here has been one long career of self-denial.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“Of deeds of charity, of nights spent by sick-beds, facing death and the most infectious diseases. How much of your stipend do you ever spend upon yourself or us?”

“Well, not much, Mary,” he said, with his perplexed look deepening. “You see, there are so many poor.”

“Who would rise up in revolt if you were to leave.”

“Yes, I suppose so, dear; but I have been very remiss lately and extravagant.”

“Hartley!” – reproachfully.

“Well, I have, dear. I’ve smoked a great deal – and fished.”

“At your medical man’s desire; to give you strength; to refresh you for your work.”

“But these things grow upon one,” said Salis dismally.

“Nonsense, dear; you must have some relaxation. See what a slave you are to the parish – and to me.”

“Why, that’s my relaxation,” he said tenderly. “But really, dear, it almost seems as if he wants to drive me to resign.”

“Well, Hartley,” said Mary sadly, “if it must be so we will go. Surely there are hundreds of parishes where my brother would be welcome.”

“But how could I leave my people here? My dear Mary, I have grown so used to Duke’s Hampton that I believe it would break my heart to go.”

“And mine,” said Mary to herself, “if it be not already broken.”

“I must answer the letter, I suppose,” said Salis dolefully, “and promise to amend my ways.”

“Is it not bed-time, Hartley?” said Leo, with a yawn.

“Bless my soul, yes,” cried the curate, glancing at his watch. “Time does go so when one is talking.”

“I’m very tired,” said Leo. “It has been an anxious day.”

“I shall be obliged to sit down for an hour and set down the heads of my letter, I suppose,” said Salis.