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Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen.
An Opportune Arrival
“Silence, you mad woman! Do you want to bring them here? Do you want to have me dragged away like some miserable prisoner?”
“Oh, master – dear master,” sobbed the frightened woman piteously, as the hand was removed from her lips, and she sank at North’s knees and embraced them. “What does it all mean? – what does it all mean?”
“What does all what mean?”
“All that noise – that noise?” sobbed the housekeeper in a broken voice. “Have you – have you killed him?”
“Killed him?” cried North harshly. “Killed whom? There is no one here.”
“There is – there is, sir. I heard it all.”
“Hush!” cried North. “Listen. Is any one coming? Did they hear in the kitchen?”
“No, sir. I couldn’t bear for any one else but me to hear it all,” sobbed the trembling woman. “I went back and shut the door.”
“Then no one has heard – no one knows – but you?”
“No, sir.”
“My cousin?”
“He has gone out, sir.”
“Hah! Then it is a secret still,” muttered North.
The old housekeeper struggled to her feet, for his words and manner horrified her. She alone had heard what had taken place, and it seemed to her that within a few steps her master’s victim must be lying prone, and that even her life was not safe now.
Her first instinct was to make for the door, but he had hold of her wrist, and she sank once more at his feet, with a low sobbing cry.
“I’m an old woman, now,” she cried, “and a year or two more or less don’t matter much.”
The same harsh, mocking laugh broke out again, chilling her to the marrow, and then North uttered a hoarse, harsh expiration of the breath, and stamped his foot angrily.
Then there was a pause, broken only by the old woman’s painful sobs.
“My poor old Milt,” said North gently, as he raised her from the ground. “Why, what were you thinking – that I would do you any harm?”
“I – I couldn’t help it, sir; but – but I don’t think so now. Oh, master – dear master, I thought you had killed some one. What does it mean? – what does it mean?”
He did not answer for a few moments, and when he spoke again there was an indescribable, mournful sadness in his voice. “What are you thinking?” he said. She answered with a sob. “I’ll tell you,” he said; “you think that I am mad.”
“No, no, no! master – my great, clever, noble master,” cried the old woman passionately. “Only ill – only very ill; and you can cure yourself. Yes, yes; pray say that you can!”
“No,” he said bitterly. “No. It has come to the worst. There, go: I am worn out, and want to rest.”
“But you will let me help you, dear,” she said, speaking with the tenderness of a mother towards the boy she worshipped with a lavish love. “Let me do something – let me help you, dear. It is overwork. Your poor brain is troubled. Let me open the window, and let in light and air, and then you shall go to bed; and I’ll bathe your poor head, and you shall tell me what to mix. You know how I can nurse and tend you now you are ill.”
North took the old woman’s head between his hands as they stood there in the darkness, and kissed her on the forehead.
“Yes, the best and gentlest of nurses,” he said quietly.
“And you will let me help you, sir?”
“Yes; but not now. It was a kind of fit you heard – nothing more. Now go. See that I am not disturbed. Perhaps I can sleep. There: you know there is no one here.”
“Yes, my dear, of course – of course. I ought to have known better; I know now. And you will try to sleep?”
“Yes – I promise you, yes.
“Let me go down and get something for you; tell me what, and the quantities.”
“Yes,” said North eagerly, for she seemed to be opening before him the gates of release from his life of horror; but he shook his head as he called to mind how familiar she was with his surgery, and that if he bade her mix what he wished, she would turn suspicious and refuse.
“What shall I do, my dear?” said the old woman tenderly.
“Nothing now,” he said; “sleep will be best. Let me go to sleep.”
The old housekeeper sighed; but she made no opposition, and let him gently lead her to the door and shut her out, where she stood with her apron to her eyes, listening for a few moments to the loud snap given by the lock, and the dull, low sound of his pacing feet.
Then the old woman seemed to change.
She let fall her apron and tightened her lips. Her eyes grew keen and eager, and she gazed straight before her, deep in thought.
In a few moments her mind was made up.
“He must have proper help,” she said softly; and with an activity not to be expected of one at her time of life, she hurried up to her bedroom, to come out in a few minutes dressed for going out.
“I must fetch help,” she said eagerly, and going to North’s door she listened for a few moments more before hurrying down to the door, when a step on the gravel made her utter a cry of joy.
The man she was going to seek was coming up to the house, and the next minute she had confided to Salis all she felt and knew, and he had gone back to Mary, before hurrying away to telegraph to town.
Volume Three – Chapter Fifteen.
Dally’s Plans
“It’s little better than murder: it’s cruel, that’s what it is. What does he mean by being ill and shutting hisself up, and won’t see anybody? What right has a doctor to go and be ill? Yah!”
Old Moredock stared his clock full in the face as it ticked away slowly and regularly in the most unconcerned way.
“Yes! go it!” cried the old man, “go on marking it off, all your minutes and hours, but I don’t mean to die yet, so you needn’t think it. I’m not so old as all that, and if doctor ’ll only get well, I’ll astonish some on ’em.”
He changed his position, stared at his fire, and laboriously, and with many a groan, got down his old leaden tobacco box and pipe, filled slowly, lit up, and began to smoke; but somehow he did not seem to enjoy his pipe, and removed it again and again to go on muttering to himself.
“Well, suppose I did? A man must make a few pounds to keep himself out of the workhouse. They should pay the saxon better if they didn’t want him to. Tchah! What’s a few old bones?”
There was an interval of smoking, and then the old man resumed his complainings.
“Turning ill like that. What did he go and turn ill like that for, just as I wanted him so badly? It’s too bad o’ doctor. I wouldn’t ha’ let him go to the old morslem if I’d known he’d turn queer arterward. It’s my b’leef that young Tom Candlish gave him an ugly knock that night. But I warn’t there. Hi – hi – hi! I warn’t there. I didn’t want to be mixed up with it.”
He shifted his seat, and as he did so painfully, his jaw dropped, and he sat fixed and staring at the window, where at one corner there was a curious, rough-looking object, which remained stationary for some time and then moved slowly till first one and then a second eye appeared, gazed into the little cottage interior, and slowly descended again.
“Who – who – what’s that?” faltered the old man. “Is it – is it – tchah! It’s Joe Chegg, peeping and prying again to see if my Dally’s here.”
Recovering from his scare, the old man smoked away viciously for a time, and then grinned hideously.
“If I’d only been well,” he muttered, “and that doctor had let me have some more of his stuff, I’d ha’ took my spade and crope round by the back, and I’d ha’ come ahint that iddit and give him such a flop. Sneaking allus after my Dally, as if it was like she’d wed a thing like him.”
“Why don’t doctor come?” he groaned, as a twinge made him twist painfully in his seat. “It’s about murder: that’s what it is; and they all want to get rid of me now – parson and all; and then things ’ll go to ruin about the old church. But they may get a new saxon if they like. Let ’em have Joe Chegg: I don’t care. Much good he’ll do ’em. Disgrace to the old church: that’s what he’ll be; and go in o’ Sundays smelling of paint and putty, till he most drives Parson Salis mad. Disgrace to the church: that’s what he’ll be. Eh? eh? Who’s that? Who’s that? Hallo! Eh? Who’s that at the door? You, Dally? Oh, you’ve come at last!”
“Yes, gran’fa, I’ve come at last,” said the girl in a sullen tone.
“I might ha’ died for all you’d ha’ cared,” grumbled the old man; “but I wouldn’t – nay, I wouldn’t do that.”
Dally made no answer, but plumped herself down on the old shred hearthrug, and put her hands round one knee, so as to stare at the fire.
“Well,” said the old man after a pause, “ain’t you going to speak?”
Dally turned and looked at him sharply, with her brow knit and her mouth tightened up; but she only shook her head.
“Never been a-nigh me for three days,” grumbled Moredock; “after all I’ve done for you. But don’t you make too sure. Young ’uns often goes ’fore old folk, and maybe I’ll bury you, and Joe Chegg too, if he don’t mind what he’s about.”
Dally paid no heed, but stared at the fire.
“Seen doctor?” said Moredock.
Dally looked round again as if she did not quite hear his question, and then shook her head again.
“Never mind; I don’t want him,” grumbled the old man. “Let him doctor hisself. I’m not so bad but what I can get well without him. I’m not worn out yet! I’m not worn out yet!”
Dally paid no heed, and her curious attitude and her silence took the old man’s attention at last. He reached round painfully till he could get hold of a thick oak stick, whose hook held it upon the back of the covered arm-chair.
With this the old man poked at his grandchild to draw her attention to him.
“Here, Dally, what’s the matter? Here!”
“Don’t!” cried the girl angrily; but he poked at her again.
“Don’t, gran’fa! do you hear?” she cried, giving herself a vicious twist; but the old man only chuckled, and deliberately changing his hold upon his stick, he leaned forward, with one hand upon the arm-chair, till he could reach Dally easily as she crouched there, half turned from the old sexton, staring thoughtfully at the fire.
The old man chuckled softly as he extended the stick as a shepherd might his crook, till he could hook Dally by the neck, and drew her slowly towards him, grasping the stick now with both hands.
“Don’t, gran’fa!” cried the girl fiercely, as she started up and took hold of the stick with both hands, getting her neck out of the hook, and struggling with her grandfather for its possession, in which she was triumphant, and ending by nearly dragging Moredock from his seat, as she made a final snatch, obtained the stick, and threw it viciously across the room.
“You – you – you nearly – you fetch that stick!”
“I won’t stand it, gran’fa!” cried Dally, ignoring his command, and stamping her foot as she stared at him. “I won’t have it! If he thinks he’s got a baby to deal with, like Leo Salis, he’s mistaken.”
“Eh? eh?” croaked the old man, staring at her, and forgetting the stick, as he saw the girl’s excitement.
“He’s not going to play with me, gran’fa, and so I’ll tell him.”
“Eh? Who, Dally? Joe Chegg?”
“He said he’d marry me.”
Then sharply:
“He’s not going to play with me, and so I precious soon mean to tell him. He should marry me if I followed him all round the world for ever. There!”
She emphasised her words with a stamp, and then, taking the old man by the shoulders, she pushed him back in his chair, and arranged his collar and tie – the one, a limp piece of linen; the other, something a little more limp and loose.
“What’s the matter, Dally? What’s wrong, my gel?”
“After the way he has talked to me, and then to go off like that without a word!”
“But you don’t want him, Dally, and I don’t want him.”
“Yes, I do; and I’ll have him, too!” cried the girl, with savage vehemence.
“Nay, nay. He’s an iddit.”
“Yes, I know that,” cried Dally vindictively; “and a drunken idjut; but I don’t care for that.”
“He was here to-night, staring in at the corner of the windy there.”
“What, Tom Candlish?” cried Dally excitedly.
“Nay, nay; Joe Chegg.”
“Joe Chegg!” cried Dally, in a tone of disgust that would have cut the village Jack-of-all-trades to the heart. “Who said anything about Joe Chegg? I was talkin’ about young squire.”
“Eh? About young squire? Well, Dally, well? When’s it to be?”
“It’s going to be soon, gran’fa, or I’ll know the reason why; I’m not going to have him playing Miss Leo off against me.”
“Nay, that I wouldn’t, Dally,” cried the old man.
“She’s got to mind, or she may be ill again,” cried the girl, with a vindictive look in her eyes.
“Ill again! Has she, Dally? Nay, nay, nay, my gel; you mustn’t talk like that.”
“Mustn’t I, gran’fa? but I will,” cried the girl. “I’m not going to be played with, and if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into a coffin – ”
“Eh? What? – what?” cried Moredock, the last word making him prick up his ears. “Nay, nay; don’t you talk like that, my gel. He’s a young, strong man yet.”
“I say if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into his coffin, he may. But he’s got to make me Lady Candlish first.”
“Lady Candlish of the Hall, eh, Dally? Lady Candlish of the Hall? Ay, ay! Let him make you Lady Candlish first, Dally.”
“Yes, and then he may drink himself into his coffin as soon as he likes.”
“And I’ll bury him, eh, Dally? In the old morslem, eh? And doctor can – ”
He stopped short with a chuckle, and rubbed his hands.
“Yes, the doctor can try and stop him from drinking, for I can’t,” said Dally acidly. “It’s of no use to talk to him.”
“And you wouldn’t break your heart, Dally, if he was to die, would you?” said the old man, with a chuckle.
“I should if he was to die now, gran’fa,” said the girl; “but when he marries me he can do what he likes.”
“Ay, when he’s married you, Dally, and you’ve got the Hall and all his money. But, look here, Dally; I want doctor to come and see me and bring me some of his stuff. You go up and tell him he must come – that I say he must come; I want him. Tell him I say he is to come, and that he is to bring some o’ that stuff he give me those nights. You say o’ those nights, and he’ll know. Rare stuff, Dally, as goes right down into your toes. Rare stuff, as sets you up and makes you have a good nap sometimes.”
Dally looked at the sexton searchingly.
“You’re not looking well, gran’fa,” she said.
“Nay, I look well enough, but I do want the doctor a bit.”
“You see you’re a very old man now.”
“Tchah! stuff! Old? I’m not an old man yet. Lots o’ go in me. Man takes care of himself, and he ought to live to two hundred.”
“Two hundred, gran’fa!” cried the girl, looking at him wonderingly.
“Ay. Why not? Look at the paytrarchs, seven and eight and nine hundred. I don’t mean to die yet, Dally,” he chuckled; “and you’ll have a long time to wait if you think you want the bit o’ money I’ve saved up.”
“Where do you keep that stuff now, gran’fa?”
“What stuff?” said the old man.
“That stuff you used to keep in the blue bottle in the corner cupboard.”
“How did you know I kept stuff in that corner cupboard?”
“Because I looked,” said the girl pertly. “Then I won’t have you look in my cupboards. I – ”
“Why not?” said Dally calmly. “There, I know, gran’fa, most everything you’ve got. Now, tell me, what have you done with that bottle that you used to use for your eyes?”
“Poured it away, and put the bottle in the fire.”
“Oh, gran’fa!”
“My eyes are right enough now, and I didn’t want to go some night in the dark – candles cost money, Dally – and take the wrong stuff. Doctor gives me some drops in a little bottle, and I shouldn’t ha’ liked to make a mistake.”
“And you’ve thrown it all away?” said the girl in a disappointed tone.
“Ay, my gel. It was poison, only to use outside, and you wouldn’t ha’ liked your poor old gran’fa to make a mistake?”
“Gone!” said Dally, to herself.
“Now, you go to doctor and say your gran’fa wants him. Tell him I say it’s all nonsense for him to be ill, and he must come.”
“Yes, gran’fa.”
“And you wait, Dally. I arn’t an old man yet, but I shall be sure to die some day, and then there’ll be a bit o’ money for you.”
“I don’t want your money, gran’fa,” she said sourly, as the old man grinned and rubbed his hands.
“That’s right. Good gel. Be independent,” he said. “Now go and tell doctor he must come.”
Dally did not stir, but stood gazing straight before her thoughtfully.
“How much does it cost to go to London, gran’fa?” she said, at last, as the old man beat upon the arm of his chair to take her attention.
“Heaps o’ money – heaps o’ money. What do you want to know for?”
“Because I’m going there.”
“Going? What for?”
“To find him and bring him back.”
“Whatcher talking about? You go and fetch doctor.”
“About Tom Candlish. I went to the Hall last night, and he was gone.”
“What, young squire? Well, you mustn’t go after him, gel.”
“Yes, I must,” said Dally, with a lurid look in her dark eyes. “I’m going after him to bring him back here, gran’fa. But are you sure you threw that stuff away?”
“Ay, I’m sure enough. Now go and fetch doctor, I tell you; and ask him to give you some more of it if your eyes are bad. Now go.”
Dally nodded shortly, neither displaying, nor being expected to display, any affection for her grandfather, as she left the cottage; when the old man relit his pipe and sat back thinking as he smoked.
“What does she want with that stuff?” he said thoughtfully; “’tis poison, and she knowed where it was. She wouldn’t want to take none herself. She wouldn’t do that; and she wouldn’t want to give none to Tom Candlish, because that wouldn’t make him marry her. I dessay she wants it – she wants it – to – ”
The old man’s drowsy head had sunk back, his pipe-holding hand fell in his lap, and he slept heavily, to wake, after a few hours, cold and shivering, ready to creep to bed, murmuring against the doctor for not coming, and forgetting all about Dally and her desire to get that bottle which used to stand in the corner cupboard.
Volume Three – Chapter Sixteen.
Moredock’s Medicine
“It’s like a shadow following me always,” muttered North, “and it is hopeless for me to try longer. I’ve fought and battled with it as bravely as a man could fight, and for what? I have failed; there is nothing to keep me here. Why should I stay?”
“Yes,” he repeated, “I have failed – failed in my daring attempt – failed in my love – and I want rest. I can bear it no longer; what I want is rest. Ah!”
He drew a long breath and then sighed, and went straight to the window, drew aside the curtain, and for the first time for many days spent about half-an-hour at his toilet, to stand at last, weak and ghastly pale, but looking, otherwise, more like the frank, manly young doctor of the past.
By this time his eyes had grown more accustomed to the light, and he went and stood gazing out of the window at the pleasant woodland landscape spread before him, thinking of his future, and ignorant of the fact that the sight was soothing to his troubled brain.
It seemed to him that his shadow slept, and turning from the window, after a final look across the meadows, where now and again he could see the sun glancing from the stream in the direction of the Rectory, he walked, with a fair amount of steadiness, across the floor, just as the figure of a woman appeared in the lower meadow walking hurriedly and keeping close to the hedges and clumps of trees, which gave the place the aspect of a park.
As North opened the door and made for the stairs he could see that the baize door at the foot, which cut off communication with the rest of the house, was ajar, and then it moved slightly and closed.
“Watched,” he said to himself; “poor old Milt! I must not forget her.”
He went slowly down into the hall, and as he reached it the dining-room door, which was also ajar, closed softly, and North knit his brow and bit his lip as he turned his back to it and entered the study.
He closed and locked the door after him; and, as he did so, the housekeeper’s face appeared at the baize door, and Cousin Thompson’s at that of the dining-room.
Mrs Milt noticed the movement of the dining-room door, and stole softly back with a sigh, while, after waiting for a few minutes, with a peculiarly low cunning expression of countenance, Cousin Thompson took a little brass wedge from his pocket, and stuck it beneath the door, so as to hold it a few inches open, sufficiently to enable him to hear when the study was opened again, and then seated himself watchfully by the window, where he could command a good view of the principal gate.
As soon as he was in the study, North looked sadly round at his books and tables, where everything was methodically arranged, and scrupulously neat and clean, the old housekeeper’s hand being visible on every side.
“Poor old woman!” muttered the doctor. “As if she felt sure that I should not be ill long.”
He walked to the French window, which looked out upon the green lawn with its shrubbery surroundings, beyond which were the meadows and the purling stream.
It was a scene of peace and beauty that should have been welcome to the most exacting, and it was not without its effect upon the doctor, who carefully closed and fastened the window before crossing to the door leading into his surgery, which he opened, and looked in to see that the outer door was closed.
Returning to the study table, the baize communication swung to, and North sat down, quite calm and collected now, and began to write.
He paused to think several times, but only to go on more earnestly, till he had done, when he read that which he had written, made a slight alteration or two, and then carefully folded and placed the papers in large envelopes, one of which he directed, “To my executors,” and laid in a prominent place upon the table, where it could not fail to be seen; the other to his London medical friend.
Apparently not satisfied, he took up the envelope, and placed it in another, after which he wrote upon a sheet of paper:
“Mrs Milt. Place this enclosure in my executors’ hands yourself.”
Then directing the outer envelope to the housekeeper, he smiled with satisfaction, and had just laid it upon the table, duly fastened down, when a faint chink made him turn his head in the direction of the surgery.
North listened, and the faint sound of a bottle touching another was repeated.
He rose and went softly to the door, which was not latched, opened it, and saw a hand dart down that was extended, as he stood face to face with Dally Watlock.
In his surprise North did not speak, for he had been under the impression that he had fastened the door, and this gave the girl time to recover herself.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, with a smile; “I only pushed that bottle back in its place. It was nearly off the shelf.”
“What do you want?” said North sharply.
“Gran’fa, please sir, said I was to come on and tell you he wanted you.”
“Tell him I can’t come,” said North shortly. “Why did you come here, and not to the front?”
“Oh, wasn’t this right, sir?” said Dally apologetically. “I am so sorry, sir. But gran’fa said: ‘Go to Dr North’s surgery,’ and I came here. Please, sir, he says you’re to send him some of that same stuff you gave him before.”
North stood with his brows knit for a moment, and then went to a cupboard, took out a bottle of brandy, half full, and handed it to the girl.
“Take that,” he said, “and tell him to use it discreetly. I cannot come.”
“Oh, thank you, sir. Gran’fa ’ll be so pleased, sir; and master ’ll be so glad when I tell him you’re so much better; and Miss Mary, too.”
North winced, and then frowned, as he passed the girl to open the outer door, and feign her to go.
She smiled and curtsied as she passed out, the door being closed sharply behind her, and she heard a bolt shoot.
“Yes,” she muttered, with her countenance changing as she thrust the bottle carefully into her dress-pocket, with the result that there was another faint chink; “you may lock it now. I don’t care. But wasn’t it near?”
She hesitated for a moment, as if about to go out by the front, but Cousin Thompson was not puzzled by seeing her pass, for she returned by the way she came, down the kitchen garden to the meadows, and through them and down by the river till she reached the nearest point to the Rectory garden, through which she passed, after stopping to pick a handful of parsley to carry into the house.
