The Man with a Shadow

“For Heaven’s sake don’t look like that, Mary,” cried Salis angrily. “I beg your pardon, dear. How absurd! An anonymous letter from some village busybody. It is not worth a second thought. There!”

He held the note to the candle, and retained it as long as he could before tossing the fragment left burning into the grate.

“That’s how the writer ought to be served,” he cried. “Now, bed.”

He carried Mary to her chamber, silencing her when she was about to speak; and then, after an affectionate “good night,” he sought his own room.

“It would be cowardly – cruel,” he said, “to take notice of such a letter as that. I can’t do it.”

He threw himself into a chair, and sat till his candle went out, thinking deeply about his sister and her unfortunate connection with Candlish.

“No,” he said, rising slowly; “I cannot act upon that note. It would be too paltry.”

He stopped short, for just then the church clock rang out clearly the first stroke of midnight.

It was the hour named in the letter, and the thought came to him with a flash.

“No,” he cried fiercely; “I cannot do that;” but in spite of his words the spirit within warned him that he occupied the position of parent to his sister, and, quickly throwing open his door, he walked across to Leo’s room and tapped sharply, and waited for a reply.

Volume Three – Chapter Four.

The Open Window

As a rule, repeated knockings at a bedroom door when there is no response create alarm; thoughts of accident, illness, murder, teeming to the brain of the one who summons, and the alarm soon spreads through the house.

But in this case Hartley Salis took steps to prevent the alarm spreading, as he thought, in happy ignorance of the fact that Dally was down on her knees breathing hard with her ear to the keyhole.

He tapped softly, and uttered Leo’s name again and again before trying the door and satisfying himself that it was locked on the inside.

He uttered a low, hissing sound as he stood there thinking, his brow knit, and an angry glare in his eye. He felt no dread of an accident or of illness, for the note he had received was a warning of what he might expect. He only wanted one proof of its truth.

He went back to where Mary was waiting, full of anxiety.

“I know nothing yet,” he said abruptly. “Wait!”

With his countenance growing more stern-looking and old, Salis went downstairs and into the drawing-room, which was the easiest way out on to the little lawn at the back.

The window fastening was removed without sound, the door opened, and he stepped out on to the short grass, with the stars overhead glimmering brightly enough for him to make out the dark patches of leafage trained against the house and the dim panes of the different casements.

He did not look in the direction of Dally Watlock’s room, or he might have made out a fat little hand holding the blind sufficiently on one side for a pair of dark eyes to watch keenly what was going on. He stepped straight at once for the summer-house, with his heart beating in a low, heavy throb, as he mentally prayed that the words written in that note might be a cruel lie.

Only a few moments, and then, feeling as if stricken by some mental blow – angry, jealous of the man who had stolen from him the love of his sister; enraged against the carefully-bred girl, whose life had been passed in the pure atmosphere of a country rectory, and to whose welfare he had devoted himself, to the exclusion of what might be dear to the heart of man. All contended in his heart for mastery, and seemed to suffocate him, as he dimly saw that it was true, and that the girl of refinement, to whom he and Mary had rendered up everything that her life might be smooth and pleasant, was behaving like some miserable drab who had the excuse of knowing no better, of looking at reputation as an intangible something, worthless for such as she.

The casement was wide open, pressing back the creepers; and the interior of Leo’s room showed like a black, oblong patch.

“She may have gone to bed, and left the window open,” Hartley whispered.

He shook his head, and a terrible sensation of despair beat down upon him.

“Poor Horace!” he muttered. “He must know more than I give him credit for. This explains his absence, and the strangeness of his ways.”

He walked back into the drawing-room, and, without closing the window, went up to where Mary sat, waiting in an agony of suspense.

“Oh, Hartley!” she said, as she saw the look of agony in his eyes.

“It would be cruel to keep anything from you, Mary, in your helpless state.”

“Yes, dear; pray – pray, speak!”

“It is quite true,” he said laconically.

Mary’s breath, as she drew it hard, sounded like the inspiring of one in agony; and she clasped her brother’s hands tightly in hers.

“This can’t be the first time by many,” said Salis wearily. “Mary, dear, I’ve tried to do all that a brother could for you both, and I’ve been too weak and indulgent, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, Hartley, don’t talk like that!” cried Mary, with a sob. “My own dear, noble, self-denying brother.”

“Hush, hush! Mary!” he said sadly; “it has all been wrong, and here is the result!”

“What are you going to do, dear?”

“I know what I should like to do,” he said hoarsely; “go and half kill that scoundrel at the Hall.”

“Oh, Hartley!”

“This explains why North has not been. He knows too much. Heaven! how is it that a woman can be lost to all that is due to herself, leave alone to those she is supposed to love!”

There was an inexpressible bitterness in his tone as he spoke.

“But what are you going to do?”

“Do!” he said fiercely, but with a tinge of despair in his words; “I’m going to thank Heaven that the man whom I believe to be the soul of honour and manliness has been saved from linking his fate with that of such a woman as Leo Salis.”

“Oh, Hartley!” cried Mary, “she is our sister.”

“Yes,” he said bitterly; “she is our sister. I shall not forget that.”

“But what are you going to do, dear?”

“What am I going to do?” said Salis, bending down and kissing Mary; “send you to bed to rest and be ready to bear the troubles of another day.”

“But Leo?”

“I am going down to wait till she comes.”

“And then?”

“And then? Ah, what then? What can I do, Mary?” he said despairingly. “You know Leo as well as I do. To speak to her would be waste of breath. There is only one thing I can do.”