Chapter Five.
The Doctor’s Patients Want him at Home

“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.

Chapter Six.
Dr North Visits the Sexton

“Nonsense, Hartley, she is as quiet as a lamb.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said the curate, who looked rather anxiously at a handsome, weedy grey cob just led round to the front.

His sisters were standing ready to go and make a call, and his brow wrinkled a little as he noted a peculiar fidgety expression about the mare’s ears.

“Why, Hartley, how foolish you are!” cried Leo. “You stop indoors reading till you are as nervous as Mrs Berens.”

“Eh? Yes. Well, I suppose I am,” said the curate good-humouredly. “But be careful; I’m always a little uncomfortable about strange mares. Will you have an extra rein?”

“Absurd!” said Leo. “There, you shall be humoured. Tell him to buckle it lower down.”

The girl looked very handsome and animated, and, since the scene in the wood with Tom Candlish, had been so penitent and patient that her brother had shrunk from checking her in any way.

The mare had duly arrived, and, apparently bending to her brother’s will, Leo had patiently seen it put in harness – degraded, as she called it – and as it went very well they were going on the present morning drive.

Hartley Salis tried to hide his anxiety, and turned to chat with Mary, who looked rather pale – the consequence of a headache, as she said; and as he talked he felt more and more between the horns of a dilemma.

Mary did not want to go, he knew. He did not want her to go, but, paradoxical as it may sound, he did want her to go. For choice he would have gone himself; but he knew that if he did Leo would look upon it as distrust – not of her power to manage the new mare, but of her word. For she had as good as promised him that she would see Tom Candlish no more, and he felt that he was bound to show in every way possible that he enjoyed a confidence that he really did not feel. With Mary to bear Leo company he knew that she was safe, and even that would bear the aspect of espionage; but the girl had accepted the position, and they were ready to start.

The trio were on their way to the gate when the new mare uttered a loud whinnying noise which was answered from a distance. There was the sound of hoofs, and directly after North trotted up.

Mary drew a deep breath, and her nervousness in connection with her ride was killed by one greater, which forced her to rouse all, her energies, so as to be calm during the coming encounter.

“Morning,” cried the doctor merrily, as he shook hands with all in turn. “Going to try the new mare?”

“Yes,” said the curate eagerly, while Leo was quiet and distant, and Mary her own calm self. “What do you think of her?”

The doctor, who, like most country gentlemen who keep a nag, considered himself a bit of a judge, looked the mare over, and grew critical.

“Well bred,” he said, at the end of a few moments.

“Oh! I am glad,” said Mary, eager to break the chilly silence that prevailed.

“I meant by descent,” said the doctor merrily. “I don’t know how she behaves.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Mary, in a disappointed tone, while Leo looked on scornfully.

“But she seems quiet?” said the curate anxiously.

“Ye-es,” replied the doctor dubiously, as he continued his examination. “Rather a wicked look about one eye.”

“Don’t, pray, Dr North,” said Leo petulantly. “My brother is quite fidgety enough about the mare. She is of course a little more mettlesome than our poor old plodding horse; but a child might drive her.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said the doctor, in a tone which seemed to say, “But I would not answer for the consequences.” Then aloud: “Bit swollen about that hock. May mean nothing. Nice-looking little thing, Salis.”

“I’m glad you like her,” said the curate eagerly.

“I did not say I liked her, old fellow,” replied North. “I said she was well bred.”

“But you don’t think she is dangerous for ladies?”

“Oh, Hartley! How absurd!” cried Leo.

“Dangerous? surely not,” said the doctor. “Have tried her yourself, of course?”

“Well, no,” replied the curate. “I have been so busy: but the man has driven her several times.”

“And says she goes very quietly,” said Leo pettishly. “Hartley never has any confidence in my driving.”

“Indeed, yes,” said the curate, smiling at his sister affectionately. “I know that you drive well, and are a clever horsewoman. I am only anxious about your driving a strange horse.”

“But Leo will be very careful,” said Mary, interposing to end a scene which was agony to her. “I am quite ready, Leo.”

“Yes, let’s go,” said the latter. “Hartley wants to sell you the horse at a profit, Dr North,” she added banteringly. “Good morning all.”

The curate said no more, but handed his sisters into the light low phaeton, Leo taking the reins in the most business-like manner before mounting, and then sitting upright on the raised seat in a way that would have satisfied the most exacting whip.

The mare started off at a touch, with her neck arched and her head well down, the wheels spinning merrily in unison with the sharp trot of the well-shaped hoofs.

“An uncommonly pretty little turn-out, old fellow,” said the doctor, as he sat in the saddle watching critically till the chaise turned the corner; “and your sister drives admirably.”

“Yes,” said the curate rather dolefully; “she drives like she rides.”