The Man with a Shadow

“Well, to whom better?” said Mary, smiling.

“For advice over her sins it would be right enough,” said Salis.

“I don’t think Mrs Berens has any. If so, dear, they must be only small ones.”

“But to come to the parson for help on money matters is absurd. This is the third time she has been.”

“Yes, dear.”

“It is not as if the investments had gone wrong.”

“No, dear; she mistrusts Mr Thompson.”

“Perhaps without reason. Let her get the money back, then, at as little loss as she can, and put it in consols.”

“There, you see, you can give good advice, Hartley.”

“Oh, any noodle could give advice like that. It isn’t perfect.”

“No, dear,” said Mary sadly; “for Mrs Berens says that this Mr Thompson tells her it is impossible to withdraw now, and it seems he has been very angry with her – almost threatening.”

“Confound his insolence!”

“He told her she ought not to have invested if she meant to change her mind, and that she is making a fool of him.”

“Impossible!” said Salis sharply. “She might make him a rogue.”

“You will help her, will you not, Hartley?”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do; but I shall be an unfair advocate, for I hate that man.”

“And you will go and see Mr North to-day.”

“Perhaps,” said Salis. “He faithfully promised to send for me when I could be of any use, and I may do more harm than good by forcing myself there.”

Three days had passed since the last visit, and the suspicions which had flashed through the curate’s brain had faded away as soon as he had found himself questioned by Mary, and felt how much she would be alarmed if he alluded to several little matters in connection with his interview.

“The fact is,” he had said to himself, “my imagination is too active, and I am ready to invent horrors and troubles which are never likely to exist.”

It had been a busy morning, for one of the rector’s customary lectures on the management of the parish had arrived; and it was only by Mary’s special request that a sharp retort had not been sent back to a remark in the rector’s letter to the effect that he was glad Mr Salis had taken his advice respecting his sister’s appearance in the hunting-field, and had put down the unnecessary horse.

“It makes me feel disposed to go and borrow of Horace North, and immediately set up a carriage and pair, with servants in livery of mustard and washing blue.”

This was an attempt at being comic in allusion to the rector’s showy liveries, which generally created a sensation in King’s Hampton when he came down to the neighbouring place and went for a drive.

Mary smiled and went on with her work.

“How is Leo this morning?”

“Much better, I think. She was sitting with me for a long time yesterday evening. Hartley, I am sure she is undergoing a great change.”

“I am very glad, dear,” said Salis sadly.

“She seemed so quiet and affectionate to me.”

“Why, of course. Who would not be?” said the curate affectionately.

“She seemed unwilling to leave me, and kissed me very tenderly when she went to bed.”

“I’m very glad, dear,” said Salis; “but I wish she would give up confining herself so to her room. It will grow into a habit.”

“Let us wait,” said Mary. “Yes, dear,” said Salis, looking sadly from the window as he dwelt upon the lives of his two sisters. “Time cures a great many ills.”

“Yes,” said Mary gravely. “What did Moredock want this morning?”

“Wine,” said Salis shortly. “And it’s my belief the old rascal can afford to buy it far better than I can.”

“And you gave him some?”

“No,” said Salis, with a droll look; “the last bottle in number one bin, of the four we stood up six weeks ago, went to poor Sally Drugate.”

“To be sure, yes,” said Mary. “She had two of the others, had she not?”

“Yes, dear,” said Salis, who was trying hard to get a hair out of his pen. “Old Mrs Soames had the other. By the way, Mary, oughtn’t we to have laid down that wine?”

“I believe wine drinkers do generally lay down wine,” said Mary, smiling. “But what difference does it make?”

“They say it keeps better,” said the curate drily. “Ours keeps very badly. By the way, Moredock incidentally gave me a bit of news.”

“What, dear?”

“Tom Candlish has gone from the Hall for a tour they say, to restore his health.”

“Left the Hall?”

“Yes, and I hope it will be many months before he returns.”

“Yes,” said Mary softly; “it will be better. There, now you will go on and see Mr North.”

“Oh, dear! who would be a slave?” sighed the curate. “Yes, madam, I will go, and when I come back I ought to go and see Mrs Berens, and then I shall be led into acts which will cause Mr Thompson to commence an action against me. Result: ruin, and our quitting Duke’s Hampton.”

“Did you not say to me that your imagination was too active?” said Mary, smiling.

“Yes, I did. What then?”

“You were quite right,” said Mary; “it is.”

Salis laughed and went on his mission, but in half-an-hour he was back, and Mary looked up at him wonderingly.