The Man with a Shadow

“Cursed slowly. Now, then, what do you want?”

“Oh, it is a mere trifling business.”

“A trifle.”

“It would have been serious to you once; but it is a trifle now.”

“Well, let’s have it.”

“No, no, not yet. There, I’ll take a cigar and a B. and S.”

“Ah, do,” said Candlish sarcastically. “Make yourself at home, pray.”

“To be sure I will. I’ve come to doctor you and do you good.”

“Damn all doctors!” sneered Candlish.

“Amen,” said Cousin Thompson merrily, as he took a cigar, lit it, and helped himself to the brandy. “Look here, sir; you sit alone and mope too much. You want exercise.”

“How the devil am I to take exercise, when, as soon as I get on a horse, my head begins to swim?”

“And a pretty girl or two to see you.”

Tom Candlish uttered a low, blackguardly, self-satisfied chuckle.

“Eh? I say. Hallo!” cried Cousin Thompson. “Oh, I see. Well, mum’s the word. But, come; you do want change; you’re too much alone. Now I’ve come – ”

“Oh, yes, you’ve come, and on a deuced friendly visit too.”

“Business and friendliness combined, my dear sir. Why, you used not to snub me like this. There, I meant to chat over a little money matter with you. Let’s do it pleasantly. Come up to that capital table, and let’s do it over a friendly game of billiards.”

Tom Candlish started from his seat, overturning his glass, which fell to the floor, and was shattered to atoms.

“My dear Sir Thomas! what is the matter?”

“Nothing – nothing,” he replied hoarsely. “Not well yet. A confounded spasm.”

“How unfortunate! Let me refill your glass, or shall I do it upstairs in the billiard-room?”

“Curse the billiards! I tell you I don’t play now.”

“Not play?”

“The sight of the balls rolling makes me giddy,” cried the wretched man, glaring at his visitor.

“Why, my dear sir, I’m very sorry I mentioned the game. There, let me give you a light. You’re out. That’s it. Really you ought to have the advice of a doctor.”

“Damn all doctors!” growled the baronet again.

“I can’t afford to have you ill, my dear Sir Thomas,” said Thompson, with an unpleasant laugh.

“No, you can’t afford to have me ill. Too good a cow to milk.”

Cousin Thompson laughed, and felt that he had made a mistake.

“I cannot advise you to have my cousin up, because he, too, is ill.”

Tom Candlish’s lips parted to utter a fierce oath, but he checked it, and swung himself round in his chair.

“Is he very ill?” he said eagerly.

“Yes; he seems to me to be very ill.”

“I’m glad of it – I’m very glad of it,” cried Candlish. “Come, you needn’t stare at me. I wish the beast was dead.”

“I was not staring at you,” said Cousin Thompson; “only listening. I think you and he don’t get on well; but he’s a very clever man – my cousin Horace; and if I could get a little advice from him on your case, I’m sure I would.”

“I want no advice. Only a little time. I’m coming round, I tell you – fast. But about North. Is he very bad?”

“Well, ye-es; I should say he was very bad.”

“What’s the matter? Has he caught some fever?”

“No. Oh dear, no! It’s mental. He seems a good deal unstrung. A little off his head, perhaps.”

“Why, curse it all, Thompson,” cried Candlish excitedly; “you don’t mean that the blackguard is going mad?”

“My dear Sir Thomas – my dear Sir Thomas,” said the lawyer, in a voice full of protestation; “I really cannot sit here and listen to you calling my cousin a blackguard.”

“Then stand up, man, and hear it. He is a blackguard, and I hate him, and I’d say it to his face if he were here. Now tell me, is he really bad?”

“Only a temporary attack. He is suffering, I’m afraid, from overstudy. But now to business.”

“Stop a minute, man: let me think. Hang the business! How much is it? I’ll write you a cheque. I can now, Thompson, old chap. Times are altered, eh?”

“Ah, and for the better, Sir Thomas.”

“Here, hold your tongue. Don’t talk. Let me see: not married; neither chick nor child; no brother. Why, Thompson, if North – curse him! – died, you’d have the Manor House!”

“Should I!” said Cousin Thompson, raising his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Well, yes, I suppose I am next of kin. But Horace North will outlive me.”

“Is he quite off his head?”

“Hush! don’t talk about it, my dear sir. Poor fellow, he is ill; but not so very bad. I shouldn’t like it to get about amongst his patients. People chatter and exaggerate to such an extent.”

Tom Candlish smoked furiously for a few moments, and then cast away the end of his cigar, and lit another, biting the end, and frowning at his visitor.

“Now about business,” said Thompson, at last.