"Ah! Horace, old man, back again?"
"Yes. I should have come on sooner, but I--Hallo! gloves! Why, what's
the matter with your hands?"
"Oh! nothing. Rubbed the skin off my knuckles. That's all."
"Humph!" said the curate's visitor--Horace North; and there was a
curious twinkle in his eyes. "I say, I should have been over sooner,
but I found a letter from Luke Candlish, asking me to go across to the
Hall, as his brother was unwell."
"Oh!" said the curate quietly.
"Went over and found the squire nearly drunk. He's killing himself
fast."
"They're a nice pair," said the curate grimly.
"More shame for you to say so," cried North. "They're your moral
patients. You ought to improve them."
"Yes," said the curate drily.
"The squire was sober enough, though, to tell me that his brother had
had a nasty accident--was going to the meet yesterday, when his horse
bolted with him, and somehow raced off into Red Cliff Wood, where Tom
was only able to check him right up at the top there, where the beast
threw him and he fell crashing down from the top of the cliff to the
bottom."
"Into the stream?" said the curate quietly.
"No; I didn't hear anything about the stream," said the doctor. "I went
up and found him swearing at one of the maids because she was putting a
poultice on his right eye too hot. Then he began to swear at me for not
coming sooner. That raised my dander, and I told him I'd give him a
dose that would keep him in bed for a month if he wasn't civil."
"Yes?"
"Well, then he cooled down and sent the maid away."
"Yes?"
"And I went to work. He has had one of the most curious falls I ever
met with in practice. His eyes are closed up--beautiful pair of black
eyes; lip cut; right canine tooth in upper jaw broken short off; several
contusions on the lower jaw; rib broken; and the skin off his
knuckles.--Been doing anything to your bees?"
"Bees? What, this time of year? No. Why?"
"Cheek looks a little puffy. Curious fall that of Tom Candlish. Looked
more like having been in another prize-fight. Let me see your
knuckles."
"No; they're all right. Don't humbug, Horace, old man. You've guessed
it. I gave him a most awful thrashing."
"Bless you, my son!" cried the doctor, clapping him on the shoulder.
"And I feel miserable at having disgraced myself so."
"Nonsense! Church militant. Thrashed a confounded scoundrel. But what
for? He has never had the insolence to--?"
He gave his head a short nod towards the drawing-room.
"Yes, and--There, I caught them together. He has been sending notes to
her to meet him. I was in a passion, and he insulted me; and--and--"
"You pitched into the scoundrel, and you've given him the loveliest
thrashing a man ever deserved. My dear Salis, you've done one of the
grandest deeds of your life."
"I'm a clergyman, and I've behaved like a blackguard."
"Nonsense! There's only one drawback to what you have done."
"What's that?"
"Did it when I was not there to see the fun. Why, it's glorious."
"I shall never forgive myself."
"Then I'll forgive you. Why, you soft-hearted old parson, you know you
cannot touch him and his rascal of a brother with words, and you know
that they are the curses of the neighbourhood."
"No reason for me to give way to temper, and degrade myself."
"Degrade your grandmother, sir! You've treated them as the Irish
priests treat their flocks. Metaphorically given Tom Candlish the
stick. It was your duty, sir, and there's an end of it."
"No; I'm afraid there's not an end to it. He threatens to go to May."
"Bah!"
"And to lay my conduct before the bishop."
"And goes to bed and pretends his horse threw him. Get out, you old
humbug; you'll never hear another word."
"I, who wish to live at peace with all men, have made a deadly enemy."
"Pooh! He's a wind-bag. You've taken the right course, and nipped that
affair in the bud. Does Leo know of it?"
"Yes."
"And Mary?"
"Not a word, so be careful--hist! some one coming."
"May I come in?" said a sweet, musical voice.
"Come in? Yes," said the young doctor, leaping up to throw open the
door, and greet Mary Salis with a frank smile and so hearty a shake of
the hand that she had hard work not to wince. "There, don't come
nearer; I smell of London smoke and blacks. Thank goodness, I'm back
home."
"The place does not seem the same without you," said Mary, going behind
her brother's chair, to stand with her hands resting upon his shoulders.
"I don't know about the place, but I know I do not feel the same out of
it. Must go sometimes, though, to pick up a few facts, or one would be
left behind. Did you go to the house?"
"Yes, and found Mrs Milt very busy."
"Bless her! Nice game she has had, Salis. General clear up, and my
study turned upside down. Seen old Moredock?"
"Yes, went yesterday," said the curate. "The old mail was lying down,
and fretting because you were away. Said he knew he should die before
you returned."
"Stuff. He'll live to a hundred; but I'll go and see the old boy.
There, now you're laughing," he said, turning to Mary; "now, don't say
Mrs Berens has been ill and wanted me."
"Why not?" said Mary, with her pleasant face lighting up, and a slight
flush coming into her soft cheeks. "I told you the place did not seem
the same without you."
"Mrs Berens met me twice, and sighed large sighs," said the curate,
laughing. "Hah! I wish they'd all be as anxious about their souls as
they are about their bodies."
"And they're not, old fellow?" said the doctor.
"No. I begin to wish you were out of the place, North, for you are my
hated rival."
"Hartley!" said Mary reprovingly.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the doctor. "Jealous. Never mind, old fellow.
It'll all come right in the end. There, can't stop. I've no end to
do."
"But how did you get on in London?"
"Splendidly. Horribly. No end of adventures. Tell you all about it
when I come again. Must see patients now. Must wind up old Moredock,
and set him going again, or no bells, no clock, and no `Amens' on
Sunday."
"Well, we could do without the last," said the curate, smiling. "Going
to see Mrs Berens?"
The doctor made a comical grimace.
"Must," he said; "but, 'pon my word, I always feel ashamed to charge for
my visits. She's as well as you are, Miss Salis."
"But she's always better when you've been to feel her pulse," said the
curate, laughing.
"Get out!" cried the doctor merrily.
"I say, North, don't be shabby."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't slip off, and be married in London. Have it here, and let me get
my fees."
"Now, beware," said the doctor, shaking his fist playfully. "I never
have slain a man wilfully; but if you tempt me there's no knowing what I
may do when I have you stretched helpless in bed."
"I defy you," cried the curate, laughing. "See how guilty he looks,
Mary."
"Hartley!" said Mary reprovingly, and she pressed his shoulder.
"Now that proves it," said the doctor. "Go to, thou miserable impostor!
Have I not seen the fair, plump, sweet widow smiling softly on thee?
Have not I heard her sigh over her soup when you have been laying down
the law at dinner?"
"Nonsense, nonsense!" said the curate, frowning.
"And have I not seen her look grave when you came to _firstly_ in your
Sunday sermon; take out her scent-bottle at _secondly_; lean back in
rapt adoration at _thirdly_; and when it got to _ninthly_ begin to shed
tears, shake her head softly, and look as if she were mentally saying,
`Oh, what a sermon we have had.'"
"I say, North, don't banter," said the curate, with a half-vexed
expression.
"Why, you hit me first. Didn't he, Miss Salis?"
Mary nodded.
"There, sir. Judged by our fair Portia herself. But I must go.
Good-bye, old fellow. Chess to-night?"
"By all means," said the curate.
"Here or there?"
"Oh, come on here," cried the curate; and, with a kindly message for Leo
and a hearty shake of the hand to each, the doctor hurried away.
"I am glad he's back," said the curate seriously. "Aren't you, Mary?"
"Very," she replied. "We miss our friends."
"Yes, and he is a good old fellow as ever stepped; so frank, so manly,
and straightforward. I don't know what the poor people here would do if
he were to leave."
"You don't think he will leave?" said Mary anxiously.
"Leave? Not he. He likes his old home too well. I say, though,
seriously, dear, you don't think he cares for Mrs Berens?"
"Oh, no, Hartley," said Mary, with a confident smile. "I am sure he
thinks of nothing but his profession."
"Exactly. I often think the same, but I often wish something."
"What, dear?" said Mary earnestly.
"That he had taken a fancy to Leo. It would have been a happy day for
me to have seen her with such a protector for life."
"Yes," said Mary softly. "He is a true gentleman at heart."
"Why, Mary," cried the curate enthusiastically, "he never takes a penny
of any of the poor folk, and he works for them like a slave. The nights
I've known him pass at a sick bedside. Well, thank God, we have such a
man here."
"Amen," said Mary softly.
"There's Leo," said the curate, as she was seen to pass down one of the
paths of the garden. "Mary, my child, if that could be brought about,
it would be her saving, and make me a happy man."
Mary rested her hands more firmly upon her brother's shoulder, and
turned to watch her sister; and, as she did so, her sweet, pensive face
grew more grave and her brother's was averted, so that he could not read
its secret, neither did he hear the sigh that softly rose as her eyes
were suffused with tears.