The Man with a Shadow

“Yes, and found Mrs Milt very busy.”

“Bless her! Nice game she has had, Salis. General clear up, and my study turned upside down. Seen old Moredock?”

“Yes, went yesterday,” said the curate. “The old mail was lying down, and fretting because you were away. Said he knew he should die before you returned.”

“Stuff. He’ll live to a hundred; but I’ll go and see the old boy. There, now you’re laughing,” he said, turning to Mary; “now, don’t say Mrs Berens has been ill and wanted me.”

“Why not?” said Mary, with her pleasant face lighting up, and a slight flush coming into her soft cheeks. “I told you the place did not seem the same without you.”

“Mrs Berens met me twice, and sighed large sighs,” said the curate, laughing. “Hah! I wish they’d all be as anxious about their souls as they are about their bodies.”

“And they’re not, old fellow?” said the doctor.

“No. I begin to wish you were out of the place, North, for you are my hated rival.”

“Hartley!” said Mary reprovingly.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the doctor. “Jealous. Never mind, old fellow. It’ll all come right in the end. There, can’t stop. I’ve no end to do.”

“But how did you get on in London?”

“Splendidly. Horribly. No end of adventures. Tell you all about it when I come again. Must see patients now. Must wind up old Moredock, and set him going again, or no bells, no clock, and no ‘Amens’ on Sunday.”

“Well, we could do without the last,” said the curate, smiling. “Going to see Mrs Berens?”

The doctor made a comical grimace.

“Must,” he said; “but, ’pon my word, I always feel ashamed to charge for my visits. She’s as well as you are, Miss Salis.”

“But she’s always better when you’ve been to feel her pulse,” said the curate, laughing.

“Get out!” cried the doctor merrily.

“I say, North, don’t be shabby.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t slip off, and be married in London. Have it here, and let me get my fees.”

“Now, beware,” said the doctor, shaking his fist playfully. “I never have slain a man wilfully; but if you tempt me there’s no knowing what I may do when I have you stretched helpless in bed.”

“I defy you,” cried the curate, laughing. “See how guilty he looks, Mary.”

“Hartley!” said Mary reprovingly, and she pressed his shoulder.

“Now that proves it,” said the doctor. “Go to, thou miserable impostor! Have I not seen the fair, plump, sweet widow smiling softly on thee? Have not I heard her sigh over her soup when you have been laying down the law at dinner?”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” said the curate, frowning.

“And have I not seen her look grave when you came to firstly in your Sunday sermon; take out her scent-bottle at secondly; lean back in rapt adoration at thirdly; and when it got to ninthly begin to shed tears, shake her head softly, and look as if she were mentally saying, ‘Oh, what a sermon we have had.’”

“I say, North, don’t banter,” said the curate, with a half-vexed expression.

“Why, you hit me first. Didn’t he, Miss Salis?”

Mary nodded.

“There, sir. Judged by our fair Portia herself. But I must go. Good-bye, old fellow. Chess to-night?”

“By all means,” said the curate.

“Here or there?”

“Oh, come on here,” cried the curate; and, with a kindly message for Leo and a hearty shake of the hand to each, the doctor hurried away.

“I am glad he’s back,” said the curate seriously. “Aren’t you, Mary?”

“Very,” she replied. “We miss our friends.”

“Yes, and he is a good old fellow as ever stepped; so frank, so manly, and straightforward. I don’t know what the poor people here would do if he were to leave.”

“You don’t think he will leave?” said Mary anxiously.

“Leave? Not he. He likes his old home too well. I say, though, seriously, dear, you don’t think he cares for Mrs Berens?”

“Oh, no, Hartley,” said Mary, with a confident smile. “I am sure he thinks of nothing but his profession.”

“Exactly. I often think the same, but I often wish something.”

“What, dear?” said Mary earnestly.

“That he had taken a fancy to Leo. It would have been a happy day for me to have seen her with such a protector for life.”

“Yes,” said Mary softly. “He is a true gentleman at heart.”

“Why, Mary,” cried the curate enthusiastically, “he never takes a penny of any of the poor folk, and he works for them like a slave. The nights I’ve known him pass at a sick bedside. Well, thank God, we have such a man here.”

“Amen,” said Mary softly.

“There’s Leo,” said the curate, as she was seen to pass down one of the paths of the garden. “Mary, my child, if that could be brought about, it would be her saving, and make me a happy man.”

Mary rested her hands more firmly upon her brother’s shoulder, and turned to watch her sister; and, as she did so, her sweet, pensive face grew more grave and her brother’s was averted, so that he could not read its secret, neither did he hear the sigh that softly rose as her eyes were suffused with tears.

Chapter Six.

Dr North Visits the Sexton

“Nonsense, Hartley, she is as quiet as a lamb.”