Horace North stood in the old mausoleum for a while, appalled by the
thoughts that flooded his soul. The silence was awful. At other times,
wrapped up in his pursuit, the presence of the dead had been as nothing
to him; the fact that he was surrounded by the grisly relics of
generations of the Candlishes had not troubled him in the least. There
was a professional air about everything he did, and he watched results
with the keen eagerness that a chemist watches his experiments.
But now, all at once, a change seemed to have come over him. He had
lost the spur given to him by his love for Leo; but, after fighting hard
with his misery, he had conquered, and forced himself to go on with his
task solely in the cause of science, and a strange awakening had been
the result.
He had brought all the knowledge he could collect to bear upon his task,
and had reached a certain point. Then he had been checked, and the
whole of his work had been thrown out of gear; so that now, when he had
taken it up again, feverishly determined to carry it on to the end, he
found himself face to face with a horror which at first his mind could
hardly conceive.
He stood listening, and for a time it seemed that he was alone--that
Moredock had been overcome by the close he had administered; but by
degrees his stunned senses took in the fact that the old man was
breathing calmly and peacefully, and that he was not alone with the
appalling thought which troubled him.
"I ought not to have gone on with it now," he said, at last. "I am
mentally and bodily shaken, and unfit to undertake such a task. I'm
ready to imagine all manner of follies--weak as a frightened child. How
idiotic to fancy that!"
For the time being his mental strength was _in statu quo_, and, striding
forward, he made up his mind to clear away the apparatus of instruments
and chemicals, rouse up Moredock to help restore everything to its
normal state, and continue his experiment when a fresh opportunity
occurred.
He glanced down at the uncovered body, and then, turning to his various
preparations, he replaced instruments in cases, bottles in the black
bag, and nothing now remained to do but to lay Luke Candlish where he
might continue his long sleep with his fathers.
"Poor wretch!" muttered North; "if that miserable interruption had not
taken place, you might have been the means of doing more good to
posterity than all your predecessors could have achieved had they lived
on right until now.
"Yes," he continued, as he made a final examination previous to
awakening Moredock, "I had succeeded up to then. Decay was arrested,
and Nature seemed to be working on my side to prove that I was right.
Now I must begin again, for it is as if I had done nothing. No, no; the
toil has not been thrown away. I have learned more than I think for; I
have--"
He shrank back, and looked sharply round, as if puzzled. He turned his
gaze upon the sleeping figure before him, and saw only too plainly that
the decay he had held at defiance for a time had now definitely set in,
and yet how he could not tell, for mentally all seemed misty and
obscure. Something seemed to suggest that after all he had arrested the
progress of death.
"Pish! What strange fancy is upon me now?" he exclaimed angrily.
But even as he said this in a low whisper, he felt a consciousness that
in some manner his work had not been in vain. There before him, surely
enough, lay the remains of Luke Candlish, passing back into the elements
of which they were composed--ashes to ashes, dust to dust; but the man
did not seem to him to be dead. There was a feeling almost like
oppression troubling him and making him feel that he had succeeded--that
he had stayed the flight of the hale, strong man, but not wholly; that
his work had partially been successful, and that had he continued, a
complete triumph would have been the result.
"Absurd!" he muttered, jerking the cloth over the subject of his
experiment, and going towards Moredock, but only to spin round, as if he
had been arrested by a hand clapped suddenly upon his shoulder.
He stared sharply round the vault again and then laughed aloud.
"How childish!" he exclaimed. "Well, no," he added thoughtfully; "it is
a lesson worth learning how, under certain circumstances connected with
violence and terrible mental distress, the brain acts as in a case of
_delirium tremens_. I was not fit to come here to-night. Better
finish, go home, and sleep--and forget," he added softly, "if I can.
"I must be going mad," he exclaimed the next moment; and, making an
effort over himself, he sat down upon the edge of the stone slab to try
and think out consistently the mental trouble which kept attacking him.
"It cannot be that," he said, at last. "I am perfectly cool and
consistent; I know everything about me. I can go right back through my
experiments to the beginning, analyse every thought and feeling, and yet
I cannot master this idea."
He sat thinking and gazing at the body by his side, with its form
grotesquely marked through the covering sheet.
"It is getting the better of me," he said aloud, "and I must not give
way. Lunacy is often the development of one idea, while, in other
respects, the patient is _compos mentis_. No, no; a lunatic could not
feel as I do. I am too calm and self-contained, and yet here it is.
Great Heaven! is it possible that I could have arrested the ethereal,
the spiritual, part of this man--have retained his essence here, while
the body is going back to decay?"
He stood staring down at the slab from which he had started, his eyes
dilated, and a wild look of horror in his countenance, till once more
the teachings of his scientific education combined with the man's strong
common-sense to bring calm matter-of-fact reasoning to bear.
"Yes," he said, "it's time I went home to bed; and to-morrow I'll ask
old Benson to come over and look after my patients while I go to the
seaside and look after myself. I want bodily and mental rest. Here,
old chap, wake up!"
Moredock started to his feet and stared at the doctor, for he had been
rudely awakened by a heavy slap on the back, while North in turn shrank
back and stared at the sexton, as if astounded at what had taken place--
an act so foreign to his ordinary way.
"You shouldn't do that, doctor," grumbled the old man, rubbing his
shoulder in a testy way. "Works is a bit shaky, and you jar 'em up."
"I--I beg your pardon, Moredock," stammered North confusedly.
"Oh, it don't matter much, doctor, only I was in a beautiful sleep, and
dreaming I'd gone to see my Dally as was living in a great house--quite
the lady, and the man going to give me a glass o' something when you hit
me on the back and woke me. Done?"
"Yes. Help me," said North hastily. "The experiment is at an end."
"Well, I arn't sorry, doctor. I arn't sorry for some things. Hey! but
you have been busy clearing up. Quite done, then?"
"Yes, quite done. We'll leave everything as it should be to-night."
"Mornin', you mean, doctor. Well, all right."
The ghastly task was quickly performed, the old man displaying a
surprising activity as he replaced the ornamental coffin-lid and screws,
after which the place seemed to have resumed its former state.
"No one won't come to see whether the lead coffin's soddered down, eh,
doctor?" chuckled the old man, after giving the heavy casket a final
thrust with his shoulder to get it exactly in its place. "They don't do
that only when the coroner's set to work, and people think there's been
poisoning."
"No, old chap," cried North, slapping the sexton on the shoulder in a
jocular way. "Here, have a drop of brandy. After me; I'd rather drink
first."
Moredock stared again as the doctor produced a second flask from his
pocket, poured some spirit gurgling out into the flattened silver cup,
and tossed it off.
"That's good brandy, old man. Stunning. Here you are."
"Doctor's glad he's finished his job," laughed the sexton. "No wonder.
I wouldn't ha' been a patticary for no money. Thankye, sir. Hah!
that's good stuff. That goes into your finger-ends; but that other
stuff's best: goes right to the roots of your hair and into your toes.
Rare stuff; good brandy."
"Yes, you old toper," cried North; and then he seemed to drag his hand
down just as he was raising it to slap the old man once more upon the
shoulder.
"Toper, eh, doctor? No; I like a drop now and then, just to do a man
good. He was a toper--Squire Luke, yonder."
"Yes," said North slowly, as he poured out some more brandy and tossed
it off. "The poor fellow used to drink."
"Hi--hi--hi!" chuckled Moredock. "Yes; they say he used to drink,
doctor. Job's done, eh?"
He stared hard at the flask, and in so peculiar a manner that North
poured out some more.
"Here, have another drop, old chap," he cried; "it'll warm you up."
"Thankye, doctor, thankye. Hah! yes; it's good stuff. Does you good
too. Makes you cheery like, and free. Why, doctor, I didn't know you
could be so hearty; you keep a man like me a long ways off in general.
What's the matter--not well?"
"Eh?" said North, speaking strangely. "I'm not well, Moredock. I'll
get out of this stifling place."
"Stifling? Nay, it's not stifling; you only say so because you're done.
Here, let me carry the tool bag, as you may say."
The bag was heavy, for packed within it was the lamp as well as the
doctor's bottles, and such instruments as he had not put in his pocket.
"Looks precious queer," muttered the old man, going to and unfastening
the door.
"Ready, sir?"
North did not answer, but followed the sexton, after a hurried glance
round.
"It's all right, sir; nothing left," muttered Moredock, extinguishing
the candle in his lanthorn. "Why, any one would think he was growing
skeered. Brandy upsets some, and does others good."
The old man closed the massive door of the mausoleum, and locked the
gates of the iron railing, and as he did so, North uttered a low sigh
full of relief, as if with the shutting up of the grim receptacle
certain troublous feelings had been dismissed, and a strange haunting
sensation had gone.
"S'pose you'd like me to take the bag on to my place, doctor, and bring
it up to the Manor House to-night?"
"Yes, I should," said North hastily; "I'll talk to you then, Moredock.
I'll--"
He shuddered, and in place of parting at once from the old man, he kept
close to his side, and followed him into his cottage, where he sat down
while the old sexton drew the thin curtain over the casement and struck
a light.
"Why, doctor," he said, looking wonderingly at the white, scared face
before him; "you'd better go home and mix yourself a dose. You've got
something coming on."
"Yes," said North, with a ghastly smile; "I'm afraid I have something
coming on. No--no! Nonsense! I'm tired. Not quite got over my fall.
I shall be better soon."
The old sexton shook his head and went to his locked-up chest, in which,
with a good deal of rattling of keys, he deposited the doctor's bag. He
was in the act of shutting the heavy lid, when something made him turn
to where he had left his companion seated, and he stared in amazement,
for the chair was tenantless!
He had not heard North start from his seat and literally rush out of the
cottage, as if pursued by some invisible force.
Volume 2, Chapter XXIII.
"MY DEAR NORTH!"
"No, sir, he isn't at home," said Mrs Milt, trying to smile at the
curate, but only succeeding in producing two icy wrinkles--one on either
side of her lips. "Some one ill, Mrs Milt?"
"Well, really, sir, I can't say. Master shut himself in his study last
thing--as he will persist in ruining his health and his pocket in lamps
and candles--and I went to bed as usual, although mortally in dread of
fire, for master is so careless with a light. Then I s'pose some one
must have come in the night and fetched him. His breakfast has been
waiting hours, and--oh, here he comes!"
For at that moment North came round the end of the house, having entered
his garden right at the bottom by the meadow, his dew-wet boots and the
dust upon his trousers showing that he must have been walking far.
"Breakfast's quite ready, sir," said Mrs Milt austerely, as soon as
North came within hearing.
"Yes--yes," he said impatiently, as he waved her away. "Ah, Salis!
Come in."
"Why, how fagged you look! Who is ill?"
"Ill? Who is ill?" said North wonderingly. "Oh, I see! Well, I am."
"Yes, that's plain enough," said Salis anxiously. "My dear fellow, you
are not at all up to the mark."
"Not up to the mark, old chap? Right as the mail! Here, come in, and
have some breakfast."
This was said with so much boisterous, coarse jollity, that the curate
could not help a wondering look. North saw it, and his countenance
assumed a look of intense pain.
"Did you want me?" he said, closing the breakfast-room door, and
speaking in a different tone entirely.
"Well, old fellow, I thought I'd run over just to consult you."
"Not ill?" said North, in a voice full of anxiety, but only to
supplement it with a sharp, back-handed blow in the chest, and exclaim,
in quite a rollicking way: "See! you! I say, you're in tip-top
condition!" And then he burst into a hearty roar.
"I don't know about tip-top condition," said Salis tartly, "for I'm not
at all well. I'm a good deal bothered, old fellow, about--about some
matters; and you'll not mind my coming to see you about things that one
would not go to a doctor about, but to a friend."
"I am very, very glad to have you come to me as a friend, Salis," said
North earnestly. "Anything I can do I--is it money?"
"Money? Tut--tut! No! When did you ever know me a borrower, man? I
beg your pardon, North," he added, beaming at his friend. "That's just
like you--so good and thoughtful; but no, no--no money! Old Polonius
was right."
Just then Mrs Milt entered with the coffee, toast, and a covered dish,
a second cup and saucer being on her tray.
"Well, yes; I'll have another cup," said Salis, smiling and nodding;
and, directly after, the old friends were seated together opposite to
each other, but with North leaving his breakfast untasted, while Salis
seemed to enjoy his number two.
"You're not eating, old fellow! I say, you know you're ill. It's my
turn now to prescribe."
"Only a little feverish. I have been and had a long walk."
"Ah, that's right. Nature is splendid for that sort of thing."
"Yes," said North quickly. "Now, what can I do for you?"
He winced as he spoke, for he expected to hear something about Leo.
"Well, the fact is, old fellow, you know that my surplice was stolen."
North shrank again, but nodded sharply.
"Well, old fellow, I banteringly said something about the loss being
severe to a poor man."
"I--I wish I had known," said North, with a frank smile.
"You mean if you had you would have given me one."
"Yes, that is what I mean," said North.
"And if you had, I'd have cut you, sir, dead! Sure it was not you?"
"Not me?"
"Who sent me a present of a remarkably fine new surplice."
"Certainly not."
"Then it was she."
"I do not understand you."
"Look here! there is only one person who could have sent such a present,
and it must be Mrs Berens."
"Ah, you sly dog! Oh, shame! shame! Ha--ha--ha!" roared North. "The
pretty widow--eh? That's pulse-feeling, and putting out the tongue, and
how are we this morning! Ha--ha--ha!"
Hartley Salis had a small piece of broiled ham upon his fork, being a
man of excellent appetite; and at his friend's first words, uttered in a
most singular tone, he let the fork drop with a clatter, pushed his
chair a little way back, and stared!
"I--I'm very sorry," faltered North, in a most penitent tone.
"My dear North! Why, what is the matter with you?"
"A little--er--feverish, I think; that is all!"
"One is not used to hear such outbursts from you, old fellow," said
Salis; and there was a tinge of annoyance in his tone.
"Pray, pray go on. I--er--hardly know what I said."
Salis drew his chair up again, picked up the fork, raised the piece of
brown ham once, set it down, and then took up his cup and sipped the
coffee, with his face resuming its unruffled aspect.
"I'm not cross, old fellow--only nettly. It's so unlike you to attempt
to--well, to use our old term--chaff me. Besides which, this thing is a
great source of annoyance to me. I feel as if I cannot accept the
present--as if it laid me under an obligation to Mrs Berens; and,
really, I should be glad to have your advice. What would you do?"
"What would I do?" cried North, in a coarse, rasping voice. "Why, you
know what you want me to say. Get out, you jolly old humbug!"
"Sir!"
"Go along with you! What are you to do with the surplice? Why, wear
it, and lend it to old May afterwards when he comes down to marry you
and the pretty widow."
"Horace North!" cried the curate indignantly.
"Sit down, and none of your gammon, you transparent old humbug! Why, I
can see right through you, just as if you were so much glass."
Salis had pushed back his chair, and now rose, just as North burst out
passionately:
"No, no, Salis; don't go--for pity's sake don't go. I have so much to
say to you."
"If it is of a piece with what you have already said, Horace North, I
would prefer to be ignorant of its import."
The doctor had risen too, and caught the back of his chair, which he
stood grasping with spasmodic force, as, suffering an agony he could not
have expressed, he saw his friend stalk solemnly along the path to the
great gate, which swung after him to and fro for some seconds before the
iron latch closed with a loud click.
"Heaven help me!--what shall I do?" groaned North, as he threw himself
upon the couch, and covered his face with his hands. "What does this
mean? What new horror is this? Have I lost all power over thought and
tongue?"
"May I clear away, sir?" said a sharp, clear voice.
North started as if he had been stung, but he did not uncover his face;
and he dared not speak, lest words should gush forth for which he could
not hold himself accountable--and to Mrs Milt!
Under the circumstances, he nodded his head quickly, and lay back with
his eyes closed.
"You do too much, sir," said the housekeeper, speaking authoritatively.
"You work too hard."
North's irritability was terrible, but he kept it down.
"It's my impression that you're going to be ill," continued Mrs Milt,
as she went on clearing the table.
Strange words seemed to be effervescing in Horace North's breast, and he
set his teeth hard, for he felt that if he spoke he should say something
which would horrify the old housekeeper and startle himself.
"Well, you can't blame me," cried Mrs Milt, going out and shutting the
door too sharply to be polite.
North was alone, and he rose up with his hands clenched to utter words
of wonder as to what his friend would think; but, instead, he burst into
a curious fit of laughter and uttered a mocking curse.
The next moment he had sunk back upon his couch with his hands clasped,
as he gazed with bent head straight before him between his thick brows,
right away into the future, and mentally asking himself what that future
was to be.