The Man with a Shadow

“No?” said the curate inquiringly, as he looked sidewise at his friend’s wrinkled face.

“I seem to make no progress with Leo.”

“Is that so, or is it your fancy?” said the curate guardedly.

“It is so. She seems to tolerate me. You notice it.”

“I notice that she is very quiet and thoughtful with you, but really that is a good sign.”

“You would like to see her my wife, Salis?”

“If it were for your happiness and hers, I would gladly see you man and wife,” said the curate warmly; “but don’t be hasty, my dear fellow. It is for life, remember.”

“Remember? Oh, yes, I know all that,” said North hastily.

Salis extended his hand, which the other took.

“Don’t be offended with me, Horace, old friend. I wish to see you both happy.”

“I know it, I know it,” said the doctor; and then catching; sight of Moredock in the churchyard, he hesitated, half nervous as to what Salis might have to say to the old man, but, convinced the next moment that his fears were without base, he hurriedly said a few words and went away.

“I can’t see it,” said Salis bitterly. “They seem so thoroughly unsuited the one for the other. I wish it could have been so, for Leo’s sake. Ah, well,” he added, as he walked through the old gate, “time settles these things better than we can. Good morning, Moredock.”

“Mornin’, sir – mornin’.”

“Is the vestry open?”

“Yes, sir; door’s open, sir. You can go through the church or round at the back. Through the church is best.”

“I prefer going round,” said the curate gravely; and he went on round by the chancel, followed by the grim old sexton, who watched him furtively, and went up quite close, with his big yellow ears twitching, as Salis paused by the little path leading to the steps of the Candlish vault.

“What’s that?” he said. “Eh? What, sir?” said Moredock, hastily stepping before him to snatch up a pocket-handkerchief and crumple it in his hands. “Only a bit of white rag, sir. Blowed there from somebody’s washing hung out to dry.”

“Nonsense!” said the curate sternly. “Give it to me.”

“Doctor’s,” said Moredock to himself. “The fool!”

He handed the piece of linen unwillingly, and the curate took it, held it out, and turned to the corners, while the sexton’s countenance lightened up.

“Humph! ‘T. Candlish, 24,’” said Salis, reading aloud. “The new baronet is going to favour the church, then, with his presence, I suppose,” he added sarcastically, as Moredock drew a breath full of relief, but shivered again as he saw the curate glance at the mausoleum.

“Noo squire’s, is it, sir?”

“Yes, and I beg his pardon,” said the curate gravely, as he thought of how lately the young man’s brother had been laid there to rest. “Moredock, ask Mrs Page to carefully wash and iron the handkerchief, and then you can send one of the school children over with it to the Hall.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sexton, with a feeling of relief.

“Now come into the vestry. I want to talk to you.”

“Grumbling again – grumbling again,” muttered the old man, as he followed his superior, to stand before him, humbly waiting for the lecture he expected to receive, but with his conscience quite at rest respecting the vault.

“Now, Moredock,” said Salis, “I have received a letter from Mr May, in which he speaks very severely of the state of the churchyard.”

“Why, he never said nothing when he were here.”

“No; it seems as if he preferred to write, and in addition to complaining of the state of the grass, he thinks that the walks are in very bad condition.”

“Why didn’t he say so, then?”

“I tell you he preferred to write.”

“How can I help the place looking bad when they sheep as Churchwarden Candlish put in was always galloping over the graves!”

“Yes; the sheep do make the place untidy,” said the curate, with a sigh.

“And now it’ll be just as bad as ever, for Squire Tom sent a fresh lot in ’smorning by one of his men.”

“But the walks, Moredock – the weeds in the walks. You know I’ve complained before.”

“Well, look how bad my back’s been. How could I weed walks with a back as wouldn’t bend; and seems to me, parson, as a man as has seen a deal, as it ’d be better if you mended your own ways about church ’fore you finds fault wi’ an old servant like me.”

“What do you mean?” said the curate sternly.

“Why, I mean that,” said the old man, pointing to the floor with an extremely grubby finger. “I’ve got it to keep clean, and I do it; but you grumbled at me for smoking a pipe one day when I was digging a nasty grave. You said it wer’n’t decent to smoke in the churchyard.”

“I did, Moredock, and I repeat it.”

“And I say as ’tarn’t decent to smoke in vestry, and chuck the bits o’ cigars about. You’re always a-smoking now.”

Salis turned crimson as he followed the direction of the pointing finger, and saw several traces of white ash and the stump of a cigar.

“Why, Moredock, I – I – ”

“There, don’t go and deny it, parson. You’ve took to smoking bad as any one now; and I’ve allus done my best about church, and it comes hard to be found fault on, and if it’s coming to this, sooner I goes the better, and sooner Mr May finds fault with you the better, too.”

The old man walked defiantly out of the vestry, and went toward his cottage, while Salis picked up the cigar stump and thrust it into his pocket.

“How provoking!” he said. “Must be growing fearfully absent, and dropped it. I’m sure I did not smoke here when I came yesterday – no, it was the day before – to find out about that old baptismal entry. I must have walked in smoking, and thrown the end of the cigar down. Good gracious! If May had seen me – or anybody else. It is outrageous. I’m growing quite a slave to the habit, and forgetful of everything I do. Tut – tut – tut! How provoking! The old man is quite right. How can I reproach him again!”

He walked gloomily back home, meeting Mrs Berens, and so absorbed in his thoughts that he passed without looking at her, making the fair widow flush and return hastily to her house, to be seized with a hysterical fit, which became so bad that North was summoned to administer sal volatile, and calm the suffering woman down, as she asked herself what had she done that dear Mr Salis should treat her so.

Meanwhile Jonadab Moredock had reached his cottage, raised the big wooden latch, and passed in with a sudden bounce, but only to start, as he found himself confronted by Dally Watlock.

“Ah, gran’fa!” cried the girl hastily, trying to conceal her confusion and something-else; “why, there you are!”

“Yes,” said the old man suspiciously; “here I am, and what do you want?”

“Oh! only to say that you mustn’t forget what you promised.”