The Man with a Shadow

“Mrs Berens!” cried Mary, flushing more deeply, half annoyed, half amused at her visitor’s flattering words; but there was no feeling anything but pleasure at the affectionate kiss pressed upon her lips, and the tender touches of the two well-gloved hands.

“There, I’ve come to have a quiet chat with you,” said the widow. “I ought to have been in before, but I have been so unwell, my dear; obliged to send for Dr North.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs Berens,” said Mary, laying her hand in those of the widow.

“I knew you would be, dear; and, oh, I have been so poorly.”

“But you are better now?” said Mary kindly.

“No, no, my dear. I’m a poor, weak, unhappy woman, and – oh! I ought to be ashamed of myself, that I ought, to go on like that when there you are so ill and yet so patient that one never hears a murmur escape your lips.”

“I don’t think I’m very ill, Mrs Berens.”

“Then I do, my dear; and I shall come and see you more often, for you’ve done me no end of good. It’s like a lesson to me, and I’ll never complain any more.”

“That’s right,” said Mary, smiling. “Do come oftener; I’m very much alone. We will not talk about our ailments,” she added with a smile.

“No, of course not; but I have been very poorly, dear, and I sent for Dr North. Do you take any interest in Dr North?”

Mrs Berens was not subtle enough of intellect to note the change in Mary’s countenance. At first there was a faint flush; then a waxen pallor; but she mastered her emotion, though her heart beat heavily as she said:

“Of course. He was very good and kind to me all through my illness.”

“Yes, poor man – poor, dear man!” sighed the widow. “And of course Mr Salis likes him very much?”

“Yes; they are very warm friends,” said Mary quietly.

“Then do – do pray talk to your brother,” cried Mrs Berens, with pathetic eagerness.

“No, no, Mrs Berens,” said a bluff, deep voice. “I’m always with my sisters, and they talk to me too much.”

“Oh, Mr Salis! You shouldn’t, you know,” cried the widow, all of a flutter. “You shouldn’t come in so suddenly.”

“Why, I only came in to say ‘how do?’” replied Salis pleasantly, as he shook hands. “There, sit down again, and tell me what I am to be talked to about.”

“Oh, really, Mr Salis, I – I – I was only going to say, pray talk to or see to poor Dr North. I’m afraid he’s very far from well.”

“So am I,” cried Salis. “I have just been telling him so.”

“He – he has been here, then – just now?”

“Not exactly just now; I mean this morning. You noticed, then, that he seemed ill and over-excited?”

“Oh, yes,” cried Mrs Berens, as Mary tried to lie back perfectly calm, but with her eyes glancing rapidly from one to the other, and her trembling fingers telling the agitation from which she suffered. “I was so poorly that I sent for him, and he quite startled me: his manner was so strange and abrupt. I’m sure he’s being worried over something.”

“Studies too hard,” said Salis quietly. “He will do it, and advice is of no avail. Mrs Milt tells me that he sits up at night. Doctors are like clergymen, I’m afraid, Mrs Berens: they are fond of teaching and curing other people, but they neglect themselves.”

“There, I hope you will give him a good talking to, Mr Salis,” said the widow, rising to go; “for I should really not like to ask him to see me again until he is better. He seemed to be so wild and eccentric: he quite startled me.”

“Just for the sake of saying something, Mary,” said the curate as soon as they were alone; and, in answer to Mary’s inquiring eyes, “Horace has made up his mind to distinguish himself for Leo’s sake, and, heigho! my dear, things seem to be very awkward, and I don’t know how to set them right.”

Volume Two – Chapter Eleven.

An Interruption

Other people, too, noticed the doctor’s strangely intent manner, as he went hurriedly about among his patients every morning, and then returned to his study to pore over sundry manuscript notes and refer to certain books.

Mrs Milt had to almost insist upon his taking his meals, for on two occasions his dinner had gone out untasted, and she had found him sitting, with his head resting upon his hands, deep in thought.

He started upon being spoken to, and seemed once more himself; but as soon as he was alone again, he relapsed into another fit of abstraction.

A few more days passed, and his task was telling upon him terribly; but he persevered, for each night he felt that he was getting nearer to success.

“I shall succeed,” he said to himself, with a wild excitability of manner that was startling; but he was alone when he said these words, and no one heard them.

“Arn’t it a very long experiment, doctor?” said Moredock, one night, looking at the doctor seriously, and rubbing his cheek slowly.

“Yes. It is taking me longer than I thought, but I shall soon finish now.”

“Glad o’ that,” said the old man drily; “because a pitcher as goes too often to the well, doctor, gets broke at last.”

“What do you mean?”

“Naught, only we might be found out.”

“Nonsense!” said the doctor uneasily. “Nobody is likely to be about except any person should be ill, and I know exactly who is likely to want the doctor by night.”

“Ah, well, let’s be careful, doctor, for it would be awkward for both if we was to be found out.”

“Pish! Who would find us out, man?”

“Well, say parson.”

“Absurd! He is in bed, and sound asleep. There, take your glass; I want to begin.”

“Nay,” said the old man, looking at the rich liqueur North poured out for him, “I don’t think I’ll have no drop to-night.”

“Nonsense, man!” said North, holding out the glass, at which the old man gazed longingly. But he shook his head and thrust it away.

“Nay, doctor; I’m going to keep watch to-night.”

“Keep watch, man?” said North, who seemed staggered at this determination.

“Yes, doctor, I’m going to keep watch. I can’t afford to have aught go wrong, if you can. You get on with your work, and I’ll be on the look-out.”

“Here?”

“Nay, nay. I’ll hang about outside.”