"Do what, miss?" said Dally Watlock. "That! There, you did it again."
"La, miss; I on'y thought my face might be a bit smudgy, and I wiped
it."
"Don't tell me a falsehood, Dally. I know what it means. You felt
guilty, and your face burned."
"La, miss; I don't know what you mean."
"Then I'll tell you, Dally. You are growing too light and free, and
your conduct is far from becoming, or what it should be for a
maid-servant at the Rectory. If girls are so foolish they must not be
surprised at young men--gentlemen--taking such liberties. Now go. And
mind this: if it ever occurs again, I shall acquaint my brother."
"Well, I couldn't help it, miss. I didn't ask Mr Tom Candlish to kiss
me."
"Silence! How dare you? Leave the room."
"I was a-going to, miss. He popped out from behind the hedge just as
Billy Wilkins had given me the letters, and he says, `Give this note to
Miss Leo, Dally,' he says, `and mind no one else sees.'"
"I told you to leave the room, girl."
"Well, miss, I'm a-going, ain't I? And then, before I could help it, he
put his arm round me and said my cheeks were like apples."
"Will--you--leave--the--room?"
"Yes, miss, of course I will; and then he kissed me just as Billy
Wilkins looked back, and now he'll go and tell Joe Chegg, and he'll
scold me too. I'm a miserable girl."
Red-cheeked, ruddy-lipped Dally Watlock--christened Delia as a
compromise for Delilah--covered her round face with her apron, and began
to sob and try to pump up a few tears to her bright dark eyes, as her
young mistress seized her by the shoulders, and literally forced her out
of the room, when Dally went sobbing down the passage and through the
baize door before she dropped her apron and began to laugh.
"She's as jealous as jel!" cried the girl. "It made her look quite
yellow. Deal she's got to talk about, too. Tell master! She daren't!
The minx! I could tell too. Who cares for her--tallow-face? Thinks
she's precious good-looking; but she ain't everybody, after all. Master
Joe Chegg, too, had better mind. I don't care if he does know now."
Then as if the spot burned, or as if a natural instinct taught her that
the kiss imprinted upon her cheek was not as cleanly as it should have
been, or as one of the honest salutes of the aforesaid Joe Chegg, Dally
Watlock lifted her neat white apron, and wiped the place again.
"How dare he kiss her?" said Leo Salis, frowning, as she laid the post
letters beside her brother's place at the breakfast-table, and then
stood with the note in her hand. "I'll punish him for this!"
She hastily tore open the note, which was written in a good, manly hand,
but contained in ten lines four specimens of faulty spelling, and a "you
was" which looked as big as a blot.
The note was brief and contained a pressing invitation to meet the
writer in Red Cliff Wood that morning, as soon after breakfast as she
could.
"I won't go," she said passionately. "I'll punish him!"
Then, as if feeling that she would punish herself, the girl stood
thinking, and then hastily crushed the note in her hand and walked to
the window, to be apparently studying the pretty Warwickshire landscape
as her brother and sister entered the room.
"Morning, Leo, dear," said Mary Salis, the elder of the two; a fair
English girl, grey-eyed, with high forehead and dark-brown, wavy hair,
her type of countenance, allowing for feminine softness, being
wonderfully like that of the robust, manly-looking clergyman who entered
with his hand resting upon her shoulder.
"Morning, Mary," said Leo quietly; and her handsome dark, almost
Spanish, features seemed perfectly calm and inanimate as she returned
her sister's salute; and then, in a half weary way, rather distantly
held up her cheek for her brother to kiss.
"Get out!" said the latter boisterously, as he caught the handsome girl
by the shoulders, and tried to look in her eyes which avoided his. "No
nonsense, Leo, my dear. No grumps. Give me a good, honest kiss.
Lips--lips--lips."
She raised her face in obedience to the emphatic demand, and then
extricated herself from the two strong hands, to take her place at the
table; while her sister, who seemed nervous and anxious, and kept
glancing from one to the other, went to the head of the table, and began
to make the tea.
"You and I must not be on two sides, Leo, my dear," said the brother,
smiling, but with a troubled look on his face, which seemed the
reflection of that in the eyes of the elder sister. "I'm like a
grandfather to you, my darling, and what I say and advise is for the
best."
"Do you wish to send me back to my room, Hartley?" said the girl, half
rising.
"Name of a little fiddler in France, no!" cried Hartley Salis. "There--
mum! I've done, dear. Breakfast! I'm as hungry as two curates this
morning. What is it, Dally?"
"Ammonegs, sir," said the little maid, who entered with a covered dish.
"Didn't know Ammon ever laid 'em," muttered the curate, with a dry look
at his sisters. "Now then: letters. Let me see."
He proceeded to open his letters, and read and partook of his breakfast
at the same time, making comments the while for the benefit of his
sisters, when he thought the news would please.
"Humph! May!" he said aloud; and then skimmed the ill-written, crabbed
lines in silence.
"Hang him!" he said to himself. "What mischief-making wretch inspired
that?" and he re-read the letter. "`Not becoming of the sister of a
clergyman to be seen so often in the hunting-field--better be engaged
over parish work--excites a good deal of remark--hope shall not have to
make this painful allusion again'--Humph!"
The curate's face was full of the lines of perplexity, and rapidly
doubling up the letter, he swallowed half a cup of tea at a gulp, much
hotter than was good for him, and quite sufficiently so to cause pain.
"Phew! More milk, Mary, dear."
A long white hand raised the milk-jug quickly, and the earnest grey eyes
which belonged sought the curate's as he held out his cup.
"Any bad news, Hartley, dear?"
"Bad news? No, no, dear, only one of May's old worries. The old boy's
got gout again."
"Has he, dear?"
"Well, he doesn't say so, but it breathes in that style. He feels it
his duty to stir me up now and then, and he generally does it with a
sharp stick."
He glanced as he spoke at Leo, who sipped her tea and read a novel,
without apparently heeding what was going on.
"It's a great shame, Hartley, working so hard in the parish as you do,"
said Mary quietly; "while he--"
"Oh, silence! thou reviler of those in high clerical places," cried the
curate merrily, as he inserted his knife in the envelope fold of another
missive, and slit it open. "Here's a letter from North."
The face of Mary Salis was perfectly composed, but there was a flash
from her eyes and an eager look of inquiry as the letter was opened.
"Ha! Busy as a bee! Conferences; lectures. Going to be present at a
great operation. Nasty wretch! How he does glory in great operations!"
"It is his love of his profession," said Mary quietly.
"Too enthusiastic," said the curate. "Why doesn't he, a man with his
income, make himself happy by doing what good he can to his patients,
and have his game of chess here when his work is done?"
"It is his desire to do good to his patients which makes him so earnest
about scientific matters, dear," said Mary, smiling at her brother.
"Very kind of you to do battle for him, my child; but Horace North works
far too hard, and he'll end by going mad."
"Or becoming one of the ornaments of his profession," said Mary,
smiling.
"Ornaments be hanged! One of the useful corners, if you like."
"Does he say when he is coming home?" said Mary quietly.
"Yes; day after to-morrow. Good news for Mrs Berens."
The curate burst into a hearty laugh, and a very, very faint flush of
colour came into Mary's cheek.
"Saw her yesterday, and with a face as innocent of guile as could be she
told me that she was very poorly, and should not feel safe to live long
in a village where there was no medical man. Glad old Horace is coming
back, though. What have we here? Oh, I see. Letter about the horse--
no, it's a mare."
Leo put down her book and listened attentively now.
"Hah! Yes! North was right. The fellow will take ten pounds less for
her, after all."
"Ah!"
There was a faint sigh, expressive of gratification, and the curate
looked up.
"Are you satisfied, Leo?" he said gravely.
"Yes."
"It goes against the grain," he said, laying his hand involuntarily upon
the letter he had that morning received from the rector.
"Don't say that, Hartley," cried Leo, with her face now full of
animation. "We can afford the horse, and it was absolutely disgraceful
to appear on poor old Grey Joe."
"Grey Joe was a good safe horse, and I never felt nervous when you were
mounted. Splendid fellow in harness too."
"Yes, admirable!" cried Leo. "And now you can keep him always for the
chaise. It will be so much better."
The curate shook his head.
"No," he said; "poor old Joe will have to so, and I wish him a wood
master."
"Poor old Joe!" said Mary, sighing, as she thought of many pleasant
drives.
"Grey Joe! Go!" said Leo, with her lips apart. "Then what will you do
for the chaise?"
"Use the new mare."
Leo looked at him with speechless indignation.
"Put the new mare in the chaise?" she faltered.
"Yes, my dear. The man says she goes well in harness."
"Oh, Hartley," cried Leo, flushing now with indignation, "that would be
too absurd!"
"Why, my dear?"
"You get me a mount because it is so unpleasant to go to the meet on an
old chaise-horse, and then talk of putting my hunter in the chaise."
"Grey Joe was not good enough for the purpose," said the curate gravely,
"and at your earnest wish, my dear Leo, I have pinched in several ways
that my sister, who is so fond of hunting, may not be ashamed before her
friends."
"Pinched!"
"Yes, my dear, pinched myself and Mary. Our consols money only gives
three per cent., and it is hard work to make both ends meet. You have
your mount, and I cannot afford to keep two horses, so Grey Joe must go.
We must have the use of a horse in the chaise, so the mare will have to
run in harness sometimes."
Leo rose from her chair with her eyes flashing and cheek aflame.
"I declare it's insufferable," she cried, with a stamp of the foot.
"Oh, I am so sick of this life of beggary and pinching! All through
this season I have been disgraced by that wretched old horse, and now
when people who know me--Oh, I cannot bear to speak of it!"
"My dear sister!"
"It's cruel--it's abominable. If it had been Mary, she could have had
what she pleased."
"My dear Leo," began Mary, looking up at her in a troubled way.
"Hold your tongue! You make mischief enough as it is. You always side
with Hartley, who has no more feeling than a stone."
"But, my dear child," began the curate.
"Child! Yes; that's how you treat me--like a child. You check me in
every way. I suppose you'll want to make me a nun, and keep me shut up
always in this dreary hole. You check me in everything, and Mary helps
you."
Mary looked up at her brother now, for he had slowly risen from his
seat, and she knew the meaning of the stern aspect of his countenance.
"I had hoped, Leo," he said, "that you would have accepted my decision
about that to which you have thought it wise to allude."
"I am driven to it," cried the girl passionately.
"No: I try to lead," said the curate, "as a father might lead. I shall
be sorry when the time comes for you to quit our pleasant old home, but
if a good man and true comes and says, `I love your sister; give her me
to wife'--"
"If you cannot speak plain English, pray hold your tongue," cried Leo
scornfully.
"I should hold out my hands to him, and greet him as a new brother,
Leo," said the curate solemnly; "but when I find that my young, innocent
sister is being made the toy of a worthless, degraded--"
"How dare you?" cried Leo, flashing out in her rage, while Mary went to
her side, and laid her hand upon the trembling arm half raised.
"I dare," said the curate gravely, "because I have right upon my side.
I think--and Mary joins me in so thinking--"
"Of course!" said Leo scornfully. "That Thomas Candlish is no fit
companion for my sister. I have told you so, and to cease all further
communication. I have told him so; forbidden him the house; and he has
accepted my judgment."
"Mr Candlish is a gentleman," cried Leo fiercely.
"People call him so, and his brother by the same name, because of the
old family property; but if they are gentlemen, thank Heaven I am a poor
curate!"
"Your conduct--"
"Hush!" said the curate firmly. "We will say no more about this, Leo,
my dear. You are angry without cause. I have acceded to your request
for a fresh horse, so as to indulge you in your love of hunting, and at
more cost than you imagine. I shall always be glad to do anything that
I can to make my sisters happy; but I must be judge and master here,
though I fear I am often very weak."
"It is insufferable," cried Leo indignantly; and she raised quite a
little whirlwind as she swept out of the room.
The curate sighed, and sank back in his chair with his brow knit, till
he felt a soft arm encircle his neck and a rounded cheek rest against
his temple.
"Ah!" he exclaimed; "that's better;" and he passed his arm round the
graceful form. "This is very sad, Mary. But, there; we will not brood
over it; difficulties often settle themselves."
"Yes, Hartley."
"But that Candlish business must not go on."
"No, Hartley. It is impossible."
She kissed his forehead, and the breakfast was finished in silence--
supposed to be finished. It had really ended when Leo Salis quitted the
room.
It was about an hour later that as the Reverend Hartley Salis was hard
at work over his sermon, striving his best to keep out college lore, and
to write in language that the Duke's Hampton villagers could easily
understand, that he came to the sentence following--
"Now a man's duty, my friends--and a woman's"--he added parenthetically.
"Now, what shall I tell them a man's duty is--and a woman's?"
That required thought, and he laid down his pen, rose, and walked to the
study window, to look out on the pleasant landscape; beautiful still,
though not in the most goodly time of year.
"Obedience!" he cried angrily, for just passing out of the little rustic
gate at the bottom of the Rectory grounds he saw his sister Leo.
She was in hat and cloak. Her movements were rapid, and the furtive
look she darted back told tales.
"No," said the curate; "it would be spying. I cannot."
"It is your duty," something seemed to whisper to him.
"Perhaps I am contemptibly mean and suspicious," he muttered. "I hope I
am. If it is so, I'll--No, no, no, Hartley, my son! Recollect what you
are. Such as the bishop should be, such must you be--no brawler--no
striker. No: it must be a favourable opportunity for a quiet chat with
Leo, for we cannot go on like this, poor child."
He went into the hall, took down his hat, reached a stout cudgel-like
stick which his hand gripped firmly, as his nerves tingled, while his
left hand clenched, and felt as if it were grasping some one by the
collar.
"A scoundrel!" he muttered.
"Going out, dear?"
"Ah, Mary! You there! You go about like a mouse. Yes, I've just got
to `a man's duty is' in my sermon, and can't get any farther, so I'll go
as far as Red Cliff Wood and back for a refresher."
He nodded and went out.
"Poor Mary!" he muttered; "she must not know; but if I had stayed a
minute longer she would have found me out. Now, Master Tom Candlish, if
you are there, I'll--"
He gave himself a sharp slap on the mouth.
"Steady! Man, man, man! how you do forget your cloth! But if Tom
Candlish--Pish! Steady, man! Let's go and see."
Mary Salis stood in the deep old mullioned window, gazing after him.
"Hartley never leaves and speaks like that unless there is something
wrong," she said to herself. "If that wretched man has persuaded Leo--
she has just gone out--without a word. Oh, no, no! she would not do
such a thing as that. How I do picture troubles where there are none!"
She stood watching until her brother disappeared, and then went back
into the dining-room, telling herself that it was folly, but her heart
refused to be convinced, and set up a low, heavy, ominous throb.