The Man with a Shadow

“What’s that?” cried Mary excitedly, as the sound of the breaking door was heard. North uttered a sigh.

“They are coming,” he cried, “and I shall be too late. Loose my arm – loose my arm!”

“No, no, no!” panted Mary, as she flung herself upon his breast. “It is what I feared; I believed it, and I came. Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t do that!”

“Yes: I must. You do not know,” he whispered hoarsely, as he tried to unlace her arms from about him.

“Yes, I know that you were about to commit self-murder, and you shall not do this thing,” cried Mary wildly.

“Would you see me dragged away to a living death?” he said. “Listen – do you not hear? Loose me, I say!”

He spoke almost savagely now, as he struggled to get the enlacing hands away; but, as he tore at them, Mary clung the closer, drawing herself more tightly to his breast as her face approached his, and her lips parted, her eyes dilated, and she cried as wildly:

“Then kill me too!” He ceased struggling to look at the flushed, love-illumined face that approached his, unable to grasp the whole meaning of what was said, mentally incapable of interpreting the words and looks, the whole scene being like the phantasm of some delirious fit.

A louder crack of the baize door aroused him, and he started away.

“Don’t you hear?” he whispered. “Don’t you hear?”

“Yes,” cried Mary, still clinging to him; “I hear, and it is help.”

“No, no!” he whispered; “it is those men. Ah, I am too late!”

For at that moment there was a sharp rustling of the bushes, and a man ran up over the lawn, to pause bewildered at the scene before him.

“You, miss – here?” he panted breathlessly. “Old Missus Milt said as the maddus folk was taking the doctor away.”

“What?” cried Mary; and a mist floated before her eyes.

“The maddus folk, miss; and they’ve got a carriage round the front.”

With a strength that was almost superhuman, Mary recovered herself, and grasping the situation, she whispered to North:

“Is this true?”

“Listen,” he said.

Mary clung to him tightly as the sounds of the doors being forced bore unanswerable witness to the words; and then, as if to shield him from the threatened danger, she thrust him from her and followed across the surgery.

“No, no!” she panted. “Quick, before it is too late.”

“Go?” he said, in answer to her frenzied appeal.

“Yes, yes; quick – quick! The garden – the meadows.”

North seemed dazed, but Joe Chegg, who had run excitedly to the Manor after meeting the old housekeeper, more with the idea of seeing what was going on than affording help, now caught North’s arm and hurried him out of the surgery and down the nearest path, then in and out among the dense shrubs, so that they were well out of sight before the door yielded, and Cousin Thompson’s emissaries found their prey had gone.

North made no opposition to the efforts of those who held him on either side; but, weak with long fasting, and now utterly dazed, he staggered from time to time, and would have fallen but for the sustaining arms.

“Rect’ry, miss? All right,” said Joe Chegg. “Hold up, sir, or you’ll be down.”

For North had made a lurch, and clung wildly to the sturdy young fellow.

“Oh, try – pray try!” moaned Mary, as she gazed back. “Now; I’ll help all I can.”

“I’ll manage him,” said Joe, who took the appeal to himself. “You let him lean on me. Why, I thought, miss, as how you couldn’t walk.”

“Hush! don’t speak. They may hear us,” whispered Mary, gazing fearfully back as they pressed on through the meadows with the bottom of the Rectory garden still a couple of hundred yards away, when, as Mary glanced sidewise at North, she saw his eyes close, and at the same moment his legs gave way, and he sank towards the grass.

Mary uttered a piteous groan and gazed at Chegg, who had loosened his hold on North’s arm, and now stood with hat raised, scratching his head.

“Now, if some one else was here,” he muttered; and then, in answer to an unspoken question, he cried aloud: “Well, I d’know, miss; but, anyhow, I’ll try.”

A life of toil had made the young fellow’s muscles pretty tough, or else he could not have risen so sturdily after kneeling down, and, contriving to get North upon his shoulder, to start off once more, with Mary urging him to use every exertion, for a shout from behind had thrilled her, and on looking back it was to see two men coming along the meadow at a quick trot, while a third was walking swiftly behind.

Volume Three – Chapter Twenty.

A Race for Liberty

It was a close race, and Mary Salis felt that, ere many minutes had passed, the strange force which had nerved her so that she had traversed the distance between the two houses, and then enabled her to go through the scene which followed, would fail; but still she struggled on, with their pursuers gaining so rapidly that the gate which gave upon the meadows had hardly been passed and dashed to, and the feeling that at last they were in comparative safety, given her fresh strength, when the two keepers came up, and without hesitation threw open the gate, and followed into the Rectory orchard.

Joe Chegg had lowered his burden on to the ground as the men reached the gate.

“What’ll I do, miss?”

“Stand by me,” panted Mary, stooping to catch Horace’s hand in hers; and then, sinking on one knee, she held to it tightly with both her own.

“Stand by you, miss?” cried Joe. “Yes; I’ll do that; but you run and call for help.”

“No, no,” cried Mary; “I will not go.”

“Now, then,” cried Joe, “what is it? You know you’re a-trespassing here?”

“You get out,” growled one of the men; and he thrust the sturdy young fellow roughly aside.

It was a mistake on the keeper’s part, for Joe Chegg’s father was a Bilston man, notorious in his time for the pugnacity of his life.

His mantle, or rather his disposition to take off his coat, had fallen upon his son, and the result of the rude thrust was that Joe Chegg rebounded so violently that the keeper went staggering back, and by the time he recovered, and his companion was about to join in the attack, Joe had proved himself to be the son of his father, for his coat was lying on the ground.

This was awkward. The keepers were accustomed to tussles with insane patients, and they were ready for a fight with Horace North, and to do anything to force him into the carriage waiting at the Manor House. But Joe Chegg was sane, sturdy, and had begun to square.

A fight with the stout young Warwick man was not in their instructions, and they called a parley.

“Look here, miss,” said the one who had been struck surlily; “just call your bulldog off. We don’t want no trouble, and you’re doing a very foolish thing; so let us do our dooty and go.”

As he spoke he advanced, but a feint from Joe made him flinch, though he gave the young fellow a very ugly look.

“This is an outrage,” cried Mary, rising and speaking now firmly. “What does it mean?”