Chapter Three.
Science at Work

Horace North was more of the student than the athlete, and he felt the blood rushing to his head – a strange sensation of vertigo which he could have aptly described in writing, and thoroughly expressed, with all due detail, the action going on by the compression of certain veins and an artery. But for a few moments, in the mêlée, he could do nothing to free himself of the savage grip, which threatened to injure him for life, if it did not quite destroy.

But science is a fine backer of brute force. A man with little muscle is the equal of a giant when both are armed with sword or pistol; and could Horace North have brought his science to bear in the shape of galvanism or some anaesthetic, he would have had the burly giant at his mercy instead of rapidly losing his senses.

Galvanism was, however, not at hand, the opportunity to administer a dose of ether or chloroform was also wanting, and as one of the young doctor’s hands vainly grasped the ruffian’s sinewy wrist, the other fell nearly nerveless upon the table against which he was borne.

Here, fortunately, he found the much-needed help of science in the shape of a pestle of marble comfortably reposing in its native mortar.

Horace North had often used a pestle in peace; he now used it in war, for his fingers closed upon the wooden handle, the heavy weapon described the arc of a circle, there was a sounding rap, half an oath – barely that – and the big ruffian fell all in a heap upon the floor.

For a few moments Horace North felt dazed, but the fighting instinct of the man was now roused, and as a couple of the leader’s friends came at him to avenge their comrade’s fall, one uttered a yell as the pestle was dashed in his face, and the other a howl as it came down with a crack upon his collarbone, both being rendered hors de combat, while the doctor now bestrode the prostrate body of the old surgeon, and kept the rest at bay.

Just at this time there was a burst of cheering, for the students were warming to the fray and fighting shoulder to shoulder. The mob, disheartened by their leader’s fall, began to give way. The atmosphere of the lecture-hall was evidently too warm, and their retrograde movement rapidly became a rout, in which they were swept bodily out of the place by door and window, too much governed by the laws of self-preservation to think even of those who were down.

Then, as the last scoundrel was driven out, and a tremendous cheer arose from the victors, a strong body of police marched into the hall, well buttoned up and beautifully cool, to find that the work was done – all save that of marching off half-a-dozen dizzy, unwashed savages to the cooling cell.

“Better, sir?”

“Eh? Better? Yes – a little contused. Water! Thank you. Yes; better now. Rather rough proceedings.”

The old man looked round rather piteously, till his eyes lighted upon the young doctor.

“Ah! you, Mr North. I remember now. Thank you. Would you mind helping me to my carriage? I’m rather giddy.”

The task was done: the old man being helped to the hospital, and through it to a private entrance, where his carriage was in attendance, away from the crowd.

“That’s right. Come home with me, Mr North. I should like a few words with you, if you would not mind.”

Horace North gladly entered the carriage, for he thought the old man not fit to go alone, and in the excitement at the hospital no one paid him the slightest attention.

“Now come to my room,” said the old man, as they were set down at his residence in Harley Street. “Hurt? Oh, no! – a trifle. I want to talk to you about your plans. We’ll have a cup of coffee, a cigar, and a chat.”

That chat in the great surgeon’s study lasted till daybreak, and then Horace North walked back to his hotel with his brain on fire. For, with his ideas to a certain extent endorsed by the great authority he had just quitted, he saw himself on the eve of a grand discovery, one which should immortalise his name and benefit his fellow-creatures to a vast extent.

“It is like taking a plunge into the unknown,” he cried, as he walked hurriedly on, excited beyond measure. For Horace North was like the rest of the world – blind as to what would happen. Had he been otherwise, he would have buried his secret thoughts for ever sooner than have faced that which was to come.

Chapter Four.
Parson Salis Takes off his Coat

Mary Salis was wrong, for her headstrong, passionate sister was ready to do whatever she pleased, and what pleased her then was to obey the summons contained in the note Dally Watlock delivered to her that morning.

Her brother’s face grew stern and hard as he walked on, to see from time to time small footprints in the soft track, for a southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaimed it a hunting morning. No dry wind had hardened the path, and Hartley Salis felt convinced that he knew his sister’s goal.

In half-an-hour he reached Red Cliff Wood, the great patch of ancient oaks on the Candlish estate through which the best trout-stream in the shire – the one which flowed through the Rectory meadows and down at the bottom of the Manor House garden – meandered.

His path was along by the stream, which here and there showed upon its bank the same traces of a pair of little feet, whose high-heeled boots left deep imprints; and Hartley Salis grew more stern as he walked on toward the depths of the wood, where the great mass of ruddy stone cropped out to give its name to the place, and form, as it overhung the stream, a glorious fernery, ever moist with the water that oozed from the strata from foot to top.

A dozen yards farther and there was a low whinnying noise, which came from a handsome sorrel hunter, secured by the bridle to a ragged old oak bough.

Not an unpleasant picture in that glorious old mossy wood, but sufficient to make Hartley Salis set his teeth, grip his stick tightly, and stride rapidly on to a green path a little farther away, where another picture met his gaze – to wit, his sister Leo with her back to him, and that back encircled by a broad scarlet band, which, on closer inspection, took the form of the arm of a well-built man in hunting-coat and top-boots.

Hartley Salis walked swiftly toward the group, the soft, mossy ground silencing his approach, till he trod upon a piece of rotten branch, which broke with a loud crack.

The couple started apart and turned to face the intruder, when Leo uttered a gasp of mingled shame and anger, and staggered back against a tree, leaving her brother face to face with Tom Candlish of the Hall.

For a few moments neither spoke, and then as the young man in scarlet got over his surprise, he half closed his dark eyes, and a mocking smile curved his lip.

“So it has come to this,” said the curate at last, speaking in a low voice full of suppressed anger.

“Hallo, parson! You here? Coming to the meet?” said the young man, half mockingly.

“After what has passed between us – ”

“Oh, come, that’ll do,” cried the young man insolently. “Do you suppose you have a right to begin preaching at me every time you see me?”

“Do you suppose, sir,” cried the curate, still mastering his anger, “that you, because your father was the great land-holder here, have a right to persevere with what I have expressly forbidden?”

“Confound your insolence, sir! Don’t speak to me like that. What the deuce do you mean?”

“What do I mean, sir? I mean this – and I beg that you will not adopt that bullying tone toward me.”

“Bullying tone! You shall find something else besides a bullying tone if you interfere with me;” and as the young man spoke he gave his hunting-whip a flourish.

The curate’s cheeks flushed, and his brow contracted with anger; but he maintained his calmness as he continued:

“You asked me what I mean. I mean this: I, as their elder brother, and a clergyman of the Church of England, occupy the post of guardian to my two orphan sisters. They are happy in their life with me at the old Rectory, and I naturally look with serious eyes at the man who tries to tamper with that happiness. I should feel troubled if a gentleman came to the house in a straightforward, honourable way, and said to me, ‘Sir, I love one of your sisters; I ask your permission to visit at your house; give sanction to the engagement:’ but when – ”

“Oh, if you are going to preach, I’m off. Finish it on Sunday.”

The curate’s colour grew deeper as he stepped before the young man, and stopped his departure.

“I am not going to preach, sir; but I am going to make you hear what I have to say.”

“Make?”

“Yes, sir, make, in spite of your insults. You are the brother of the chief man in this village, and I am only the curate; but you are to a certain extent under me; and now you have driven me to it, I am, I repeat, going to make you hear what I have to say.”

“Oh, are you?” mockingly.

“Yes. I say, when instead of approaching my sister in an honourable way, a man who is noted for his blackguardly conduct toward more than one poor girl in this village – ”

“Look here, parson, is this meant as an insult?”

” – Comes to my house, and is requested to cease his visits, and then lays siege to the affections of one of my sisters in a cowardly, contemptible, clandestine fashion, I say, that man is unworthy of the treatment I should accord to a gentleman, and calls for that which I would give to some low-lived cad.”

“Here, I say,” cried Tom Candlish fiercely; “do you mean to tell me I am not your sister’s equal?”

“I tell you, sir, that no one who makes himself the associate of betting men, racecourse touts, and low-lived jockeys is the equal of the lady you have named, while one who, in opposition to my wishes, insists upon writing to the weak, foolish girl, and persuades her to meet him as you have done, merits a sound castigation.”

“Once more, do you mean to tell me, I am not your sister’s equal?”

“I do; and no amount of repentance, sir, for your ill-deeds would make you so.”

“Look here!” cried the young fellow, “you’ve been talking to me like a man sometimes, and then you’ve been dodging into your clerical jargon again. I’ve listened to you pretty patiently, and have borne more than I should from any one else because you are a parson; but you’ve gone too far, and now it’s my turn. If Leo – ”

“Miss Leonora Salis, sir.”

“If Leo tells me she won’t have any more to say to me, I shall go; but as for you – hark here. I shall write to her, I shall meet her, and I shall ask her to meet me just as often as I please. Not her equal, I! Why, you miserable, beggarly, hundred-a-year, threadbare curate, how dare you address me as you do? Do you know who I am?”

“Yes: Tom Candlish, brother of Sir Luke Candlish, of Candlish Hall.”

“Yes, sir, descendants of one of our finest English families.”

“Descendants, sir,” retorted the curate, “of a miserly, money-spinning old scoundrel, who gave impecunious James the First so many hundred pounds for a contemptible baronetcy, which has come down to one of as disgraceful a pair as ever sat like a blight upon a pleasant English village.”

“You insolent hound!” roared Tom Candlish; “I’ll ride over to May and have you kicked out of your curacy.”

“Do,” said the curate.

“No, I won’t, for Leo’s sake. But, look here, master parson, don’t you interfere with me, or, by God, sir! I’ll give you the most cursed horsewhipping I ever gave man in my life. By George! if it wasn’t for your white neck-cloth and black coat, hang me. I’d do it now.”

He extended one hand, as if to grasp the curate’s collar, and raised his hunting-whip menacingly; but in an instant it was whisked out of his hand, and sent flying.

“You object to my white tie and black coat, eh, Tom Candlish?” said the curate, rapidly throwing them off and across a neighbouring oak branch; “there, then, for the time being they shall not afflict your eyes or put me out of your reach. Now then, we are on equal terms. Strip off that scarlet coat, you miserable popinjay.”

“What do you mean?” cried Tom Candlish, turning mottled in the face.

“I mean, sir, that words are no use to such a scoundrel as you: that a curate is also a man. In this case he is the lady’s brother, and in addition there are a score of insults to wipe away. Take off your coat.”

“What!” cried Tom Candlish, with a sneering laugh. “Look here – do you know that I can fight?”

“I know you were in a blackguardly prize-fight, sir, in a ring where your opponent was a sort of champion of the Bilston colliers.”

“Yes, so put on your coat and go home while you’re safe.”

“And I know that I have not clenched my fist in anger, sir, since I left Oxford, twelve years ago; but if you had beaten Tom Sayers it would not move me now. One of us two does not leave this wood without a sound thrashing, and, please goodness, that’s going to be you.”

The Reverend Hartley Salis, M.A., rapidly rolled up his shirt-sleeves over his white arms; while it was observable that the nearly new scarlet hunting-coat worn by handsome Tom Candlish, of Candlish Hall, came off very slowly, possibly on account of its excellent fit.