The Man with a Shadow
“Tell Dick to put the horse in the chaise.”
Mrs Milt tightened her lips, and made parallel lines in her forehead, but did not stir.
“Well?” said the doctor.
“Well?” said Mrs Milt.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Perfectly,” said Mrs Milt.
“Then, why don’t you do it? And for Heaven’s sake, my dear Mrs Milt, let’s have no more of this petty squabbling. Discharge cook; have a fresh house-maid; paper and clean up, and do whatever you please, but don’t bother me.”
“It is not my wish to bother you, Dr North,” said the lady austerely, and with considerable emphasis on the word, “bother.”
“Very well, then, let’s have peace. Such a scene as we had this morning interferes with my studies. Now, go and tell him to put to the horse.”
“Will you be good enough to tell me how, Dr North?”
“What do you mean?”
“You sent your man in that chaise to fetch some drugs from King’s Hampton.”
“Hah! so I did. He ought to be back by now. Yes; there are wheels.”
“The carrier,” said Mrs Milt.
“Pish! of course. Never mind, I’ll walk. There’s something else coming,” he said, listening. “Yes; that’s the chaise. Go and tell Dick not to take out the horse, but to come round here.”
“He’s coming round,” said Mrs Milt, going to the window; “and there’s a gentleman with him.”
The doctor looked up hastily, and frowned, as he caught sight of a dark, sleek-looking personage, about to descend from the chaise; while, as Mrs Milt went to open the door, Horace North exclaimed to himself:
“Now, why in the world is it that Nature will set one against one’s relations, and above all against Cousin Thompson, for – ”
“Ah! my dear Horace, this was very good and thoughtful of you,” exclaimed the object of his thoughts, entering the room with extended hands.
“Ah! Thompson, glad to see you,” said the doctor, innocently enough – for the lie was from habit, not intentional – “but you are not cyanide of potassium!”
“Sure I’m not, indeed; but I want to consult you.”
“I sent in my man for a portion of that unpleasant chemical; not to meet you.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, my dear boy. I was coming down, and I saw your chaise; and I know you like me to make myself at home, so give me some breakfast.”
“Yes, of course. Run down this morning?”
“Yes, by the six-thirty from Paddington. Early bird gets the first pick, you know.”
“There goes my gallop,” groaned the doctor, as a mental vision of Leo Salis appeared before him, while he rang the bell.
“Not ill, are you? Come to consult me?”
“No, I’m not ill; but I have come to consult you, my dear Horace.”
“Did you ring, sir?”
“Yes, Mrs Milt; my cousin would like some breakfast.”
“I am getting it ready, sir; but it can’t be done in two minutes and a half.”
“No, no, of course not, Mrs Milt. Thank you. Send word when it’s ready.”
“I’ll bring word myself, sir,” said Mrs Milt austerely.
“No, don’t trouble, my dear Mrs Milt,” said Cousin Thompson, who looked so sleek in skin and black cloth that he shone; “a cup of coffee and a sole, cutlet – anything.”
“Sole! cutlet! My dear fellow, this isn’t London. Give him some ham and eggs, Mrs Milt,” said the doctor. “Now, old fellow,” he continued, as the door closed after the housekeeper a little more loudly than was necessary, “business: what’s the matter? Liver?”
“No, no, my dear Horace. I’m quite well. To consult you about Mrs Berens.”
The doctor pushed back his chair.
“Why, how surprised you look! You recommended her to come to me about her money affairs.”
“Oh! Ah! Yes, of course; so I did. She asked me to give her the name of a London solicitor, and so I gave her yours – my cousin’s.”
“It was very good of you, Horace, for I am a poor man,” said the visitor sleekly. “Far be it from me to quarrel with Uncle Richard’s apportionment of his money, but – ”
“There, for goodness’ sake, don’t bring that up again! You know why the old man excluded you.”
“Yes. I had the misfortune to offend him, Horace,” said the visitor with a sigh.
“And now what about Mrs Berens?”
“Ah, yes; a very simple matter. You are a great friend of hers?”
“I am her doctor.”
“Yes, yes,” said the other, with an unpleasant chuckle, which made North long to kick him; “but if report is true, you are going to marry the handsome widow.”
“Then report is not true,” said North angrily. “Now to business.”
“Well, the fact is this,” said the visitor; “in my capacity of confidential solicitor to several people, I often have to give advice, and to raise money.”
“No doubt,” said the doctor drily.
“I have a client now who wants rather a heavy sum upon the security of some leasehold houses. Mrs Berens has money lying in the Three per Cents., and I thought that you, as her friend, might advise her. She would get six per cent, instead of three, and a word from you – ”
“Will never induce a lady patient of mine to run any risks,” said the doctor shortly.
“Risks?”
“Breakfast’s ready,” said the doctor abruptly, and he led the way into the other room. Having sufficient wisdom not to recommence the attack, Cousin Thompson contented himself with breakfasting heartily, but he was not pleasant over his feeding; and, what was more, he had a way of bringing into every room he entered an odour of mouldy parchment.
After breakfast Cousin Thompson had an interview with Mrs Berens; and after that, without consulting his cousin, he walked across to the Hall to hold a meeting, not unconnected with money matters, with Tom Candlish. Had he consulted his cousin, he would have known that in all probability Tom Candlish had gone to the meet, especially as he rarely missed a run.
Consequently, Cousin Thompson returned to the doctor’s, to find him chafing over his disappointment. Not that he was a hunting man; but the whim had seized him to go, and the appearance of Leo Salis had helped to make the ride more attractive than it might have appeared at another time.
“Ah, Horace, my dear fellow,” he said, “I shall have to trespass on your hospitality for dinner, and then ask you to give me a bed.”
“All right,” said the doctor gruffly. “Give you a dose too, if you like.”
“Thanks, no, unless you mean wine.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll give you a glass of port,” said the doctor. “I hope you haven’t persuaded that poor woman to invest in anything risky.”
“Now, my dear Horace, what do you take me for?” cried Cousin Thompson.
“A lawyer.”
“But there are good lawyers and bad lawyers.”
“Well, from a legal point of view, you’re a bad lawyer. I never gave you but one case to conduct for me, and that you lost.”
“The barrister lost it, my dear Horace. Don’t be afraid. I am not a legal pickpocket. I might retaliate, and say you’re a bad doctor.”
“Well, so I am – horribly bad. The amount of ignorance that exists in my brain, sir, is truly frightful.”
“But you go on curing people.”
“Trying to cure people, sir, you mean. Wading about in deep water; groping in the darkness. Thank Heaven, sir, that you were not made a doctor. Eh, what is it – some one ill?” he cried, as Mrs Milt entered the room with a note.
“Poor somebody!” said Cousin Thompson to himself.
“Note from the Rectory, sir.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the doctor; “shan’t be able to go, as you are here. Wants me to play a game at chess. Salis, you know.”
As he spoke he leisurely unfastened the envelope, and began to read.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Mrs Milt, attend to my cousin as if I were here. Very sorry. Serious case,” he continued, turning to his guest; and the next minute he had hurried from the house, to set off almost at a run for the Rectory.
For Hartley Salis’ note was very brief, but none the less urgent, containing as it did these words:
“For Heaven’s sake, come on! Leo has had a serious fall.”
Chapter Fifteen.
A Refractory Patient
Leo made light of her accident, though her shoulder was a good deal hurt, and she bore the bandaging of what was a serious wrench with the greatest fortitude. As North learned by degrees, there had been a magnificent run, but towards the last, when Leo was almost heading the field, the mare had become unmanageable, and had rushed at a dangerous jump, with the result that she fell, threw her rider on the bank of the deep little river, and, in her efforts to rise, entangled herself with Leo’s habit, and rolled with her right into the water.
“A most providential escape,” said Salis, who looked pale with anxiety.
“What nonsense, Hartley!” said the girl; “a bit of a bruise on the shoulder and a wetting.”
“Yes, but you would have been drowned if the gentlemen of the hunt had not galloped up to your aid.”
“But they always do gallop up to a lady’s aid if her horse falls,” said Leo, speaking excitedly. “There, don’t make so much of it; and it was utterly absurd, Hartley, for you to send for a doctor for such a trifle.”
“Trifle or no, Miss Salis,” said the doctor, “I should advise your seeking your bed at once.”
“Nonsense, Dr North!”
“Well, then, I must insist,” he said firmly.
“Oh, very well,” said Leo; “I suppose you are master, so I have no more to say. A little girl has had an accident, and so they put her to bed. Fudge!”
“Leo, dear,” said Mary, from her couch, “pray be advised. Dr North would not wish it if it were not necessary.”
“Certainly not,” said North shortly, for he was annoyed at Leo’s flippant manner, and ready to wonder why he had felt attracted that morning.
“What nonsense, Mary!” cried Leo. “Pray don’t you interfere.”
Mary sighed, and remained silent.
“Well, as you please,” said North. “I have given you good advice: act as you think best.”
He turned to go, but was followed into the hall by the curate.
“Come into my room,” said the latter, with a pained and perplexed look in his face. “This is very sad, old fellow.”
“What? being guardian to a couple of giddy girls?” said the doctor petulantly. “No, no: I beg your pardon; don’t take any notice of my bitter way; but really, Salis, old boy, you had better have got rid of that mare.”
“Yes, I wish I had,” said the curate sadly; “but Leo seems to take such pleasure in it – and who could foresee such a mishap as this?”
“I could,” said the doctor shortly. “Good thing she was not killed.”
“You don’t think the hurt serious?”
“Serious? No. Give her a good deal of pain, of course.”
“And the chill?”
“What chill?”
“The plunge into the river after a heated ride.”
“She changed her things at once, of course?”
“No,” said the curate. “It seems that out of bravado she insisted on mounting again, and then rode slowly home. She was shivering when she came in.”
“Why was I not told all this before?” said North sharply. “Look here, Salis, old fellow; she must go to bed directly, and take what I send her. Exercise your authority, or she will have a very serious cold.”
He hurried away, and did not send the promised medicine, but took it himself, leaving it with emphatic instructions as to its being taken; and the result was that Leo Salis laughed at the supposed necessity, as she termed it, and calmly declined to follow out the doctor’s views.
Chapter Sixteen.
“I am not Ill.”
Hartley Salis did not tell the doctor the whole of his trouble, neither did he say a word to Mary upon the subject; but she divined the cause of his auger as she lay helpless there, and sighed as she wished that she could set matters right.
For Tom Candlish had ridden home with Leo, and parted at the gate.
“I might have known that they would meet,” said Salis, as he sat thinking; “but I never imagined that he would have the assumption to come again to the house.”
But Tom Candlish had helped Leo when she was in great peril of being drowned; and as the curate learned this he felt his impotence, and was coldly courteous, while, on his side, Tom Candlish was defiant, almost to the point of insolence; and his manner to Leo seemed intimate enough to startle Salis, and make him wonder whether they had met since the scene at the river-side.
Hartley Salis soon had something to divert his attention from this point, for the next day Leo was not very well. She was tired, she said. It had been a very long run, but delightful all the same; and she allowed now that perhaps it would have been better if she had listened to the doctor’s advice.
“I shall be quite well to-morrow,” she cried. “Why, Hartley, how serious you look!”
“Do I?” he said, smiling, for he had been communing with himself as to whether he should ask Leo plainly if she had kept her word.
“Do you? Yes!” she cried angrily; and, without apparent cause, she flashed out into quite a fit of passion. “I declare it is miserable now to be at home. It is like living between two spies.”
“My dear Leo!” began Salis.
“I don’t care: it is. Mary here watches me as a cat does a mouse. You always follow me about whenever I stir from home; and then you two compare notes, and plot and plan together how to make my life a burden.”
“Leo, dear,” said Mary gently, “you are irritable and unwell, or you would not speak like this.”
“I would. I am driven to it by my miserable life at home. I am treated like a prisoner.”
“Leo, my child,” began Salis.
“Yes, that’s it – child! You treat me as if I were a child, and I will not bear it. Anything more cruel it is impossible to conceive.”
“Nonsense, dear,” said Salis, smiling gravely, as he took his sister’s hand.
She snatched it away; not so quickly, though, but that he had time to feel that it was burning hot, as her scarlet cheeks seemed to be, while her eyes were unusually brilliant.
It was no time to question or reproach, and the curate set himself to soothe.
“Why, Leo, my dear,” he said, smiling. “I shall begin to think you are cross.”
“If you mean indignant,” she retorted, “I am. My very soul seems to revolt against the wretched system of espionage you two have established against me.”
“No, no, Leo, dear!” said Mary. “How can you say such things of Hartley, whose every thought is for your good?”
“Good – good – good!” cried Leo; “I’m sick of the very word! Be good! Be a good girl! Oh! it’s sickening!”
Salis made a sign to Mary to be silent, but Leo detected it.
“There!” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “What did I say? You two are always plotting against me. Ah!”
She shivered as from a sudden chill, and drew her chair closer to the fire.
“Do you feel unwell, dear?” said Salis anxiously.
“No, no, no! I have told you both a dozen times over that I am quite well. It is a cold morning, and I shivered a little. Is there anything extraordinary in that?”
“I only felt anxious about you, dear.”
“Then, pray don’t feel anxious, but let me be in peace.”
She caught up a book, and tried to read; while, to avoid irritating her, Salis and Mary resumed their tasks – the one writing, the other busy over her needle; and to both it seemed as if they were performing penance, so intense was the desire to keep on glancing at Leo, while they felt the necessity for avoiding all appearance of noticing her.
She held her book before her, and appeared to be reading, but she did not follow a line; for the letters were blurred, and a curious, dull, aching sensation racked her from head to foot, rising, as it were, in waves which swept through her brain, and made it throb.
This, with its accompanying giddiness, passed off, and with obstinate determination she kept her place, and the pretence of reading was carried on till towards evening.
They had dined – a weary, comfortless meal – at which Leo had taken her place, and made an attempt to eat; but it was evident to the others that the food disgusted her, and almost everything was sent untasted away.
The irritability seemed to have died out, but every attempt to draw her into conversation failed; and after a time the meal progressed in silence, till they drew round the fire at the end to resume their tasks, almost without a word.
Salis was busy over a formal report of the state of the parish for the rector. Mary was hard at work stitching, to help a poor widow who gained a precarious living by needlework, and Leo still had her book before her eyes.
Mary’s were aching, and she was about to ring for the lamp, for the short December afternoon was closing in, and Salis was in the act of wiping his pen, when Leo suddenly let fall her book, to sit up rigidly, staring wildly at them.
“Leo, my child!”
“Well, what is it?” she said; and her voice sounded harsh and strange. “Why did you say that? You knew I should say yes.”
“Yes, yes, of course, my dear; but I did not speak.”
“You did. You said I lied unto you, quite aloud, and” – with a return of her irritable way – “are we never going to have dinner?”
Salis rose from the table where he had been writing, and laid his hand upon his sister’s arm.
“Leo, dear,” he said anxiously; and he gazed in her wild eyes, which softened and looked lovingly in his.
“No,” she said, as she nestled to him and laid her cheek upon his arm; “a bit of a wrench. My shoulder aches, but it will soon be well, dear.”
“Lie back in your chair,” said Salis, as he laid his hand upon her throbbing brow.
“Yes, that’s nice,” she said, smiling as she obeyed. “So cool and refreshing – so cool.”
“Do you feel drowsy? Would you like to have a nap?”
“Yes, if you wish it,” she said. “I am sleepy. Don’t tell them at home, dear.”
Salis started, and his face grew convulsed, as he exchanged glances with Mary, who read his wish, wrote a few lines in pencil, and softly rang the bell.
“Take that at once,” she whispered to Dally Watlock, who entered, round-eyed and staring.
“To Mr Tom Candlish, miss?”
“No, no, girl; to Mr North.”
Mary drew her breath hard as the door closed behind the girl, for she read in her words a tale of deceit and also who had been the messenger, perhaps, in many a love missive sent on either side.
She tried to rise, feeling that this was a time of urgent need; but her eyes became suffused with tears as she sank back helpless in her seat.
“Take my arm, Leo, dear,” said Salis. “You would be better if you went up to your room and lay down.”
“Yes, dear; if you wish it,” she said softly; and she started up, but caught at her brother, and clung to him as if she had been seized by a sudden vertigo, and then stared wildly round.
Salis gave Mary a nod, and then, drawing Leo’s arm through his, led her up to the door of her room, which she entered while he ran quickly down.
“Quite delirious,” he said quickly. “I hope North will not be long. I thought he would have been here this morning.”
He was busy as he spoke preparing for a task which he had performed twice daily since Mary’s convalescence. For, taking her in his arms as easily as if she had been a child, he bore her out of the room and up to Leo’s door.
As Mary, trembling with anxiety, pressed it open, Leo uttered an angry cry, dashed forward, and thrust the door back in her face.
“No, no!” she said hoarsely; “not you. Let me be. Let me rest in peace.”
“But Leo, dear, you are ill.”
“I am not ill,” she cried fiercely. “Go away!”
“Don’t irritate her,” whispered Salis gently. “Leo, dear, Mary will be in her own room. Lie down now.”
The phase of gentleness had passed, and Leo turned upon him almost savagely, in her furious contempt.
“Lie down! Lie down! as if I were a dog! Oh! there must be an end to this. There must be an end to this.”
She had partly opened the door so as to speak to her brother, but now she closed it loudly, and they heard her walking excitedly to and fro.
Chapter Seventeen.
What Dally was Doing
“I feared it,” said North, as he returned from the bedroom, where he had left Leo with the servants, who stood staring helplessly at her, and listening to her ravings about the mare, the plunge into the cold river, and the injured shoulder. “Violent fever and delirium. Poor girl! what could we expect? Heated with her ride, the fall, the sudden plunge into the water, and then a long, slow ride in the drenched garments.”
“Do you think she is very ill?” said Mary anxiously.
“Very; but not dangerously, I hope. There, trust to me, and I will do everything I can. You must have a good nurse at once. Those women are worse than useless. I’ll send on my housekeeper.”
“But you are not going?” cried Salis, with the look of alarm so commonly directed at a doctor.
“My dear boy – only to fetch medicine. I’ll not be long; and mind this: she must not leave her room now. She must be kept there at any cost.”
“And I am so helpless, Hartley,” whispered Mary piteously. “It is so hard to bear.”
The curate bent down and kissed her, and then, taking his place by the bedroom door, he remained to carry out the instructions he had received.
They were necessary, for he had not been there five minutes before the delirious girl rose from her couch, and there was an angry outcry on the part of the women. She insisted upon going to the stable to see to her mare. It was being neglected; and it was only by the exercise of force that she was kept in the room.
Before half-an-hour had passed, the doctor was back, and quiet, firm Mrs Milt, who put off her crotchety ways in the face of this trouble, took her place by the bedside, and with good effect; for, partly soothed by the old woman’s firm management, and partly by the strong opiate the doctor had administered, Leo sank into a restless sleep, in which she kept on muttering incoherently, the only portions of her speech at all connected being those dealing with her accident, which seemed to her to be repeated again and again.
It was towards ten o’clock, as the doctor was returning by the short cut of the fields to the Rectory, after having been home for a short time, that he caught sight of a couple of figures a short distance over the stile leading down to the meadows, through which the little river ran.
“Humph!” he muttered, as, in spite of the darkness, he recognised the figures, his own steps being hushed by the moist pasture, and the couple too intent upon their conversation to hear him pass.
“Humph!” he said; “poor old Moredock is right, perhaps, about the girl. Confounded hard upon the people to have such a scoundrel loose among them.”
He half-hesitated, as if he felt that it was his duty to interfere, but there was too much earnest work at the Rectory for him to speak at a time like this. And, besides, he could not have explained why, but the thought seemed to afford him something like satisfaction, for it was evident that if Tom Candlish had stooped to court pretty Dally Watlock, the Rectory servant, everything must have long been at an end between Leo and the squire’s brother, the thrashing administered by Mr Salis having been effectual in its way.
He was extremely anxious, too, about Leo; for unconsciously a new interest was awakening in him, and he felt that no case in which he had been engaged had ever caused him more anxiety than this. So he hurried on to his patient’s room, where the fever was growing more intense, and the flushed face was rolled from side to side upon the white pillow.
“Just the same, sir,” said Mrs Milt, as he asked a few eager questions. “She’s been going on like that ever since you left. Isn’t she very bad? Hark at her breath.”
“Very bad, Milt,” said the doctor gravely; “and if matters go on like this I shall send over to King’s Hampton for – ”
“No, no; don’t you do that, sir,” said the old housekeeper sharply. “If you can’t save her no one can.”
“Why, Milt!” exclaimed the doctor wonderingly.
“Oh! you needn’t look like that, sir. I know you. It’s a deal of wherrit you give me with your awkward ways and irregular hours; but I will say this for you, there isn’t a cleverer doctor going.”
“And yet you walked over to King’s Hampton to the other doctor when you were ill.”
“Well, you had put me out so just then, and I felt as if I would sooner have died than come to you.”
“Ugh! you obstinate old thing,” said North. “There, I’m going down to talk to Mr Salis for a while; then I shall come and take your place for six hours while you go and lie down.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs Milt; and she tightened her lips and remained silent for a few moments, while her master re-examined his patient. Then, drawing herself up: “I may be obstinate, sir, but I think I know my duty in a case of illness. I’m here to watch by Miss Leo Salis’s bedside, and here I’m going to stay.”