"He's took to it--he's took to it!" muttered Moredock, as he scratched
one side of his nose with the waxy end of his pipe.
"Ah, it's wonderful what a many doctors do take to it, and gallop
theirselves off with it. Begins with a drop to keep 'em up sometimes, I
s'pose, and then takes a little more and a little more."
The old man sat smoking and musing over a visit he had just had from
North.
"I don't like it," he said to himself. "He mayn't be quite right some
day when I call him in, and then it may be serious for me; I don't like
it at all.
"It's no wonder when a man's got all sorts o' things as he can mix up
into cordles, if he feels a bit down. That was prime stuff as he give
me in the morslem. Hah! that was stuff. Then that other as went down
into your fingers and toes, as it did right to the very nails. Why, I
shouldn't ha' been surprised if he'd brought Squire Luke back to life
with it.
"Hi, hi, hi!" he chuckled; "never mind about Squire Luke; but I should
like him by-and-by--by-and-by, of course--to have a bottle on it mixed
ready to give me, and bring me back. Phew! that's a nasty subject to
think about."
He smoked rather hurriedly for some time, and there was a curious,
haggard expression in his face; but it died out under the influence of
his tobacco, and, after a time, he gave a low chuckle and shook all
over.
"`Old Buck!' that's what he said. `Old Buck,' and give me a slap i' the
chest, as nearly knocked all the wind out o' me. Not a bit like him to
do. Not professional. As soon have expected Parson Salis to call me
Old Cock. Ah, well! doctor's only a man after all, and no book-larning
won't make him anything else; but I don't like a doctor as takes to his
drops.
"'Tarn't brandy, or gin, or rum, or whisky, or I should have smelt him,
and he spoke straight enough d'rectly after. He takes some stuff as he
mixes up, and it makes him ready to burst out rollicking like at times;
but he recollects hisself quickly ag'in, and seems sorry.
"Ay, but he looks bad, that he do. Looks like a man who can't sleep--
white and wanly. Well, as long as he tends me right, it don't matter.
He paid up handsome for all I did for him. Hi! hi! hi! It was a rum
game. How's young squire now, I wonder, and how's matters going on
there? Ha! now that's curus. So sure as I begins thinking about my
Dally, she comes. Hallo, my little princess, how do?"
"Oh, I am quite well, gran'fa," said Dally, entering the cottage,
looking rather flushed and heated. "I'm in a great hurry, but I thought
I'd just run down and see how you were."
"He come with you?" said the old man, pointing over the little maid's
shoulder.
She looked sharply round, caught sight of Joe Chegg, and ran back and
slammed the door.
"An idiot!" she cried sharply. "He's always following me about."
"Going to let him marry you, Dally?"
"I should think not, indeed! What nonsense, gran'fa."
"Well, what have you come for, eh? How's squire?"
"Getting nearly well again."
"Is he? How do you know? Were you going up to Hall night afore last?"
"N--"
"Yes, you were, Dally," said the old man, with a chuckle. "You needn't
tell a lie. I know. I often see you when you don't know. You was
going up to Hall."
"Well, then, I was," said Dally defiantly, "and I don't care who knows."
"'Cept Miss Leo, eh?"
The old man chuckled hugely, and rubbed his hands.
"I don't mind Miss Leo knowing. She does know," cried Dally. "Perhaps
she sent me."
"Did she, though--did she, though? Ay, but she'll win him after all,
Dally. She's better and handsomer than you are, and she's a leddy,
Dally. You've got no chance against she."
"Haven't I, gran'fa? You'll see. But not if I'm obliged to go up to
the Hall looking shabby and mean. You said I should have a silk gown
and a feather."
"Did I? Did I? Oh, it was only _my_ joking, Dally. You're such a
pretty gel, you don't want silk dresses and feathers."
"No, I don't want 'em," said Dally sharply; "but men do. They like to
see us dressed up. Squire Tom thinks I look a deal nicer when I've got
my best frock on."
"Did he say so, Dally--did he say so?"
"Never you mind, gran'fa. Where's the money you promised me?"
"Nay, I've thought better of it. You shall have it some day--when I'm
dead and gone."
"No, no, gran'fa, dear; I don't want you to die," whispered Dally,
fondling him. "I want you to live a long time yet, and come and see me
at the Hall."
"Tchah! you'll never get to be there. It'll be Miss Leo."
"Will it?" said Dally, with a toss of the head. "We shall see about
that. You'll give me some money, won't you, gran'fa?"
"Nay. You've never made them new shirts yet."
"I've been so busy, gran'fa dear," cried the girl. "Why, I've been up
to the Hall six times since I saw you last."
"Up to Hall? Not alone?"
"Yes, and alone. Why not?" said Dally saucily. "Besides, Miss Leo sent
me."
"More than once?"
"Yes, gran'fa; often."
"Ay, that's it. I told you so. She's a leddy, and she'll win that
game."
"Will she?" said Dally drily; "when she can't go up to see somebody, and
sends me?"
The old man drew the corners of his mouth a long way apart in a hideous
grin, and then burst into a series of chuckles.
"Why, Dally, my gel; you are a wicked one, and no mistake."
"Oh, no, I'm not, gran'fa. I'm only fighting for myself; and you said
you'd help me."
"And so I will, my pet; but I can't spare no money."
"Well, I don't know that I want it yet, gran'fa; but I want you to do
something else."
"Ay, ay. What is it?" said the old man eagerly. "Not buy anything?"
"No, not buy anything," said Dally, diving her soft, round little arm
down into her pocket, to reach which she had to raise one side of her
dress. "I want you to write something, gran'fa."
"Nay, I never write now. Write it yourself. What you want me to write
for, after all the schooling you've had?"
"Well, I have written something, gran'fa, but I want you to do it, too."
Dally had fished out a large, common-looking Prayer Book, which opened
easily in two places, from each of which she took an envelope, and laid
upon the table. One was directed, and on being opened she took out a
note. The other was blank, and with a folded sheet of paper therein.
Dally was quite at home in the sexton's cottage, and going to the
mantelpiece she took down a corked penny ink-bottle, and a pen from out
of a little common vase, while, from their special place, she took the
old man's spectacles.
"Now, gran'fa," she said sharply, "I want you to write nicely, just what
I've written there."
"What for? what for?" he cried, taking up the note after adjusting his
glasses.
"To help me, gran'fa. You said you would."
"Yes, I said I would," he grumbled. "I said I would."
"And it won't cost nothing, gran'fa; not even a stamp," said the girl
saucily.
"Hi--hi--hi! You're a wicked one, Dally, that you are," he chuckled, as
he took the pen, and after a good many preliminaries, settled himself
down to write.
"Do the envelope first, gran'fa," whispered the girl excitedly.
"The envelope first, my pet. Ay, ay, ay."
He bent over the table, and then, very slowly and laboriously, copied
the address in a singularly good hand for one so old.
"That's right," cried Dally, who was in a fever of impatience, but dared
not show it. "Now the letter, gran'fa."
"Ay, ay, I'll do it," he said, chuckling as he mastered the contents.
"Don't you hurry, my pet. I don't often use a pen now. But I used to
at one time, and there wasn't many as--"
"Oh, do go on writing, gran'fa! Quick, quick! I want to get back."
"Ay, ay, I'll do it," said the old man; and he devoted himself
assiduously to his task to the end.
"There!" he said; "will that help you, Dally?"
"Yes, gran'fa, dear," she cried. "But you won't tell."
"Tell?" he cried with a chuckle. "Nay, I never tell. I'm as close as
the holes I dig, Dally. No one won't know from me."
As he chuckled and talked, the girl hastily tore up the first note, and
refolded and enclosed the second. Moistening the envelope flap with her
little red tongue, which looked quite pretty and flower-like, as it
darted from her petally lips to the poisonous gum, with a sharp
"good-bye!" she thrust the envelope into her book, and the book into her
pocket, to hurry back to the Rectory, conscious that she was followed by
Joe Chegg, and never once turning her head.
That night Salis sat by the shaded lamp, apparently reading, but a good
deal troubled about North, respecting whom he had heard several
disquieting rumours. Mary was busily working, and Leo finishing a
letter to some relative in town.
"Add anything you like to that for Mary," she said, rising. "I'm very
tired, and shall go to bed."
Salis frowned slightly, for it jarred upon him that every now and then
his sister should go off to her room just before he rang for the
servants to come in to prayers.
He said nothing, however; the customary good-nights were said, and the
curate and Mary were left alone.
Half-an-hour later, Dally and the homely cook were summoned, the lesson
and prayers road, and after the closing of a door or two the Rectory
became very still.
"I'll just look round, dear, and then carry you up; or shall I take you
first?"
"No, Hartley, dear," said Mary; "go first. Perhaps I may have something
to say."
"No fresh trouble, I hope," thought Salis, who remained ignorant that
his sister intended a few words of reproach concerning Mrs Berens, for
as he stepped into the hall, and stooped to slip the bolt, something
white, which seemed to have been slipped under the door, caught his eye.
"Circulars here in Duke's Hampton!" he said, picking up an envelope, and
seeing that it was addressed to him.
"Here, Mary," he said, as he returned; "some one wants us to lay in a
stock of coals, and--"
He stopped short, and uttered quite a gasp.
"Hartley! Is anything wrong?"
He hesitated a moment, and then handed the letter to his sister.
It was very short--only a few lines:
"To Rev H. Salis,
"I think you ought a know bout yure sister and her goins hon, ask her
ware she is goin hout tow nite at 12 'clock wen ure abed.
"A Nonnymus."
Mary's countenance looked drawn and old as she let the note fall in her
lap.
"For Heaven's sake don't look like that, Mary," cried Salis angrily. "I
beg your pardon, dear. How absurd! An anonymous letter from some
village busybody. It is not worth a second thought. There!"
He held the note to the candle, and retained it as long as he could
before tossing the fragment left burning into the grate.
"That's how the writer ought to be served," he cried. "Now, bed."
He carried Mary to her chamber, silencing her when she was about to
speak; and then, after an affectionate "good night," he sought his own
room.
"It would be cowardly--cruel," he said, "to take notice of such a letter
as that. I can't do it."
He threw himself into a chair, and sat till his candle went out,
thinking deeply about his sister and her unfortunate connection with
Candlish.
"No," he said, rising slowly; "I cannot act upon that note. It would be
too paltry."
He stopped short, for just then the church clock rang out clearly the
first stroke of midnight.
It was the hour named in the letter, and the thought came to him with a
flash.
"No," he cried fiercely; "I cannot do that;" but in spite of his words
the spirit within warned him that he occupied the position of parent to
his sister, and, quickly throwing open his door, he walked across to
Leo's room and tapped sharply, and waited for a reply.
Volume 3, Chapter IV.