“It’s so tiresome,” exclaimed Salis testily; “busy as I am this morning – letters to write. I must answer this last letter of May’s. More complaints – more complaints! Oh, what a wretched curate he has got!”

Mary looked up from her seat, with her gentle smile, for she knew how the harsh crystals of annoyance would melt away with the first cup of tea, and her brother be all smiles again.

“Wouldn’t you like to begin, dear?”

“Begin? Without Leo! You know, Mary, how particular she is, and how she would feel it as a slight. Tut – tut – tut! How late she is! Mrs Berens, too, been writing. Do you know, Mary, I wish that woman would leave the place!”

“She is not likely to, Hartley,” said Mary, who was propped up with cushions at the head of the table, having lately taken her old place once more; “and she is very kind and good.”

“Yes, that’s the worst of it,” said Salis grimly. “If she were a disagreeable old harridan, it would not matter so much. Oh! here she comes.”

Leo came quickly into the breakfast-room, looking strained about the eyes, to cross to Mary, put down her right cheek to be kissed, and then to go to her brother, extend him her hand, and lower her left cheek for a second salute.

“That’s right, dear,” said Salis cheerily; “but you are terribly late. I’m so busy this morning.”

“Why did you not begin?” said Leo, as she languidly took her place.

“Without you? Not likely. Pour out, Mary, dear. Why, Leo – not well?”

“Not well?” she said, repeating his words calmly enough. “I am quite well, dear.”

“But you look – ”

“As if I had overslept myself,” said Leo quietly. “Any letters?”

“Yes. One sent on by Mrs Berens about the parish poor. Must bring that up this morning. One from May. That wicked old man! I know he keeps on with this persecution – there, I can call it nothing else – on purpose to get me to resign.”

“And you will not resign, Hartley,” said Leo; “you will set him at defiance.”

“I don’t know. I do love a quiet life, and I cannot get it. Now, here’s this morning. Letters to write – more tea, Mary. Ten-o’clock meeting in the vestry.”

“Ah!”

“Why, Leo, dear!” cried the curate, half starting from his chair, while Mary gazed wonderingly at her sister.

“There’s nothing the matter, good people,” said Leo contemptuously. “A touch of toothache! The weather, I suppose.”

“You quite startled me,” said Salis cheerily. “Visit to the dentist imminent, my dear. Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes! Vestry meeting at ten,” he continued, turning to a memorandum-book; “Sir Thomas Candlish to preside, by special request.”

Leo’s face was ghastly, but she mastered her emotions by a tremendous effort of will; and, rising from her seat, she fetched a book from the sideboard, opened it as she returned to her place, and went on reading with her breakfast.

“Ah! you’ll be glad to hear this, Mary,” said Salis. “North is going to bring up the question of those four dilapidated cottages. He says they are regular fever generators, and that Sir Thomas shall have them pulled down, for they are a disgrace to the place.”

“They certainly are not fit for human habitation, Hartley,” said Mary, who could not keep her wondering eyes off her sister, making a pretence of eating and reading, but doing neither. She could do nothing but listen to the recital of peril after peril accumulating round her, and all following upon a pert, insolent reply given her by Dally Watlock as she was coming down.

“I expect we shall have a storm,” continued Salis, as if to himself. “It’s like asking the arbitrary landlord to have a tooth out, to pull down a labourer’s cottage.”

Leo Salis had the spirit and cruelty of heart of an old Roman woman. She could have viewed with a feeling of intense delight a gladiatorial exhibition, and turned down her thumb with the worst of them for the death-warrant of any poor wretch who had not displayed a sufficiency of courage. To her the new-born passion of Horace North had been a matter of intense satisfaction, and she had revelled with a malicious joy in the feeling that she had made him her slave – one who would never meet with the slightest reward. But while she was careless of the pain she inflicted upon others, she could suffer keenly at times, and this was one of these occasions. She loved as a tigress might love, and her affection had become centred upon the brutal, coarse-minded, athletic scoundrel, who ranked as a gentleman, but whose tastes and ways were those of a low-class stable helper; and now, after a night of miserable anxiety lest her lover should have been injured by North, while she dare make no inquiry as to what had occurred – she found herself obliged to sit there chained as much by inclination as by necessity to hear that Tom Candlish and the doctor were to be brought face to face before her brother in the scene of the previous night’s encounter.

After a short sleep, she had awoke at dawn to ask herself what she should do – whether she should fly from the Rectory, and bid Tom Candlish take her away, so that she should not be called upon to face the scornful looks and contempt of North.

But after a time her stubborn and determined nature had taught her that she would be at a great disadvantage with Tom Candlish if she went to him. He would be no longer the suer but the sued, and she was determined that he should make her his wife.

“North dare not speak to me; and if he did, what then? He is my slave, and I will meet him. Let him come, and say what he likes. I am no sickly, sentimental girl who feels bound to obey every one in turn. I will not go. I’ll face it all.”

She could not conceal her aspect, but her heart was strong when she came down that morning till the troubles seemed to accumulate, and a black cloud of care, which she could not penetrate, appeared to be rising.

Salis went on hurriedly with his breakfast, talking of the business in the vestry; and all the time Leo was wondering how it was that North could have known of their meetings – how the vestry looked that morning – what the old sexton would say, and how this trouble would settle down.

She glanced furtively aside, and saw that Mary was watching her.

This set her wondering whether her sister knew anything, and of whether her nocturnal escapades would reach her brother’s ears.

It was not likely, she told herself; and she was gradually growing more composed, when Dally presented herself briskly at the door, her eyes twinkling, and a quiet, satisfied look about her which seemed to show that she was pleased with the task she had in hand.

“Note from Dr North, sir! No answer.”

“Hah! about the cottages,” said Salis, smiling as he opened the note, Dally closing the door after darting a triumphant glance at Leo, which was not seen. “Ammunition to use against the enemy. How provoking!”

“Is anything wrong, Hartley?” said Mary, while Leo bent lower over her book.

“Wrong? Yes! There always is something wrong. Poor Horace is unwell this morning, and cannot attend the vestry.”

Leo’s heart gave a bound. Her brave, strong lover had beaten the wretched intruder, and he had curled up in his hole, afraid to come out. There was nothing to fear from Horace North but his contempt, and she could meet that with her scorn.

“My poor people’s cottages!” sighed Salis. “They’ll have to wait. Well, I’m not malignant, but if a fever is generated there, I hope the landlord will be the first to catch it.”

“Hartley!” cried Mary, in remonstrant tones.

“I didn’t say and be cut off,” cried Salis, laughing, glancing at the window. “I meant to read him a severe lesson. Hallo! Job redivivus! I’m Job. Here comes another messenger. Why, what does old Moredock want?”

Leo’s heart sank. She felt that she knew, and shrank from the ordeal, as Dally meekly opened the breakfast-room door.

“Please, sir, gran’fa says can he speak to you a minute?”

“Certainly, Dally; bring him in. Port wine, Mary!” he added, as soon as the maid had left the room; and he recalled certain words he had let fall about the missing bottles of tent, and his promise to give the old fellow wine if he were unwell.

“Surely, Hartley, you are not going to have that dreadful old man in here!” panted Leo, who felt half suffocated by her emotion, as she recalled the last night’s scene in the vestry. “Why not, dear?”

“It is too horrible – the sexton!”

“Nonsense, child! Poor old fellow! His stay on earth cannot be for long; let’s make it as free from social thorns as we can. Morning, Moredock!” he cried, as Dally ushered the old man in, to stand bowing to Mary and her sister before making a scrape or two before the curate.

“Mornin’, young ladies! Mornin’, sir! Smart mornin’, sir! Sorry to trouble you at braxfus, but I was obliged to come.”

Leo acknowledged the bow without rising, bent lower over her book, and, with teeth set hard, stole one hand under the cloth to grasp the edge of the table and grip it with all her might.

“What, about the vestry meeting – to tell me Dr North was ill?”

“Doctor ill! Is he though, sir?” croaked Moredock, as his red eyes wandered from face to face.

“Yes, he is unwell, Moredock, and cannot come.”

“Bad job – bad job, sir! Doctors has no business to be ill. S’p’ose I was took bad, I shouldn’t like to trust Dr Benson. I never did have no faith in King’s Hampton folk at all. But it warn’t about that.”

“What, then? Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Ay; but it be, sir,” croaked the old man, staring for a moment at Mary, and then fixing his eyes upon Leo. “It is very ser’ous. Some un’s been in the night and made a burgly in the chutch.”

“What!” cried Salis, starting up. “Great heavens, Moredock! is this true?”

“Ay, it be true enough, parson.”

“But they haven’t taken the plate?”

“Nay, the plate be safe, though.”

“The poor-boxes, then? Thank goodness, Mary, I emptied them the day before yesterday. How providential!”

“They never touched poor-boxes,” croaked Moredock: “and if I might make so bold, parson, I’m a bit weak i’ th’ legs yet, and I’d like to sit down.”

“Yes, yes, sit down, Moredock; but pray speak out.”

“Well, you see, sir, they didn’t get into my chutch: only into vestry.”

Leo felt that she must get up and leave the room, but she lacked the power.

“The vestry!” cried Salis. “What have they taken?”

“Well, as far as I can make out, sir, they broke in at window, and then they must ha’ been skeered, for they only thieved one thing.”

“What! – the wine?”

“Nay, nay, nay. Wine’s all right – locked up in the cupboard,” croaked Moredock. “They’ve stole your surplus, sir.”

“Impossible!” cried Salis, giving the table a sounding thump with his closed fist, and bursting into a roar of laughter.

“Impossible, Mary. I haven’t any surplus for them to steal.”

“Ay, well,” grumbled the old sexton, looking wonderingly at the curate and then at Leo and Mary in turn; “you may say so, parson, but I know. It were a hanging up on peg alongside o’ the gownd, and they’d pulled ’em both down to take away, when they must have been skeered, and they chowked the gownd down in the corner by the oak chesty, and the surplus is gone.”

“Ah, well, it might have been worse,” said Salis, with a sigh. “It was my new one, though, and the old one is terribly darned. Leo, dear, you will have to get out the old one again. Mary has the keys.”

“It be a bad job, parson.”

“It is, Moredock, a very bad job; but I’m glad the wretches were scared. I won’t believe it was any one from Duke’s Hampton.”

“Nay, it were some of the King’s Hampton lot, safe, parson. Ugh! they’re a bad set out yunder. I thought it my dooty to come on and tell you, sir, and now I’m going away back.”

“Let me give you a cup of tea, Moredock,” said Mary; “you look tired.”

“Bless your sweet eyes and heart, miss, and thankye kindly,” said Moredock. “Cup o’ tea’s a great comfort to a lone old man. And thankye kindly for undertaking to take care o’ my Dally, as wants it, like most young gels. Why, Miss Mary, I’ve know’d you since you was quite a little thin slip.”

“You have, Moredock,” said Mary, smiling, as she handed the tea to her brother for the old man, who paid no farther heed to Leo. “I was only fifteen when I first saw you.”

“Ay, and you was as bright and quick as now you’re – Well, never mind that, my dear. Better be an angel as can’t walk about than some beautiful gels as can.”

“Why, Moredock,” said Salis, laughing, “was that meant for a compliment?”

“I dunno, parson,” said the old man, staring hard at Mary; “’tis only what I felt. Heaven bless her! I never see her face wi’out thinking o’ stained glass windows, wi’ wire outside to keep away the stones; and I says, may no stones never be throwed at her.”

The old man gulped down his tea, and rose to go.

“You’ll be on at vestry room, sir?”

“Yes, Moredock; and once more I’m glad it’s no worse.”

“Like me to go over in Badley’s donkey-cart, sir, to tell the police?”

“Well, yes, Moredock. We must give notice about the scoundrels, I suppose, or they may come again.”

“Mornin’, then, sir, and my service to you, Miss Mary, and thankye kindly, my dear,” said the old man, hobbling off without a word or look at Leo; and, oddly enough, as he reached the road he wiped a tear from each of his watery eyes.

“And so she is,” he muttered, “a real angel. My Dally never said, ‘Have a cup o’ tea, gran’fa; you’re hot and tired.’ Ah! gels is made different, but my Dally’s worth two o’ that tother one.”

“Police, eh?” he muttered, as he went on. “I was ’bliged to take it away twissened up into a rag, and if it had been washed somebody would have known. Ah, well, I know what to do wi’ that.”

So the old man went straight home, and fastened the door, before taking the soiled and crumpled surplice from his oak chest; and then carefully picking it to pieces and rolling it up.

“My Dally shall wash that, first time she comes, and nobody’ll know it’s a surplus now. She might ha’ asked her old gran’fa to have a cup o’ tea.”

Volume Two – Chapter Eighteen.
At Candlish Hall

“My Dally” had been otherwise employed, for a messenger had come over from the Hall to see the curate; and at the time her grandfather was departing, Dally was cross-examining the good-tempered, loutish youth respecting his master, and getting out of him all she could glean.

“Job is having it this morning,” said Salis, for he heard a familiar step in the passage, as soon as the sexton had gone. “What now, Dally? No more bad news?”

“Bad news, sir?” said the girl, speaking to her master, and gazing at Leo, who did not look up. “I don’t think so, sir. It’s the young man from Candlish Hall, sir, to see you partikler.”

“I knew it,” cried Salis to Mary, as Leo bent lower. “Candlish has sent word that he cannot come. Now, how the de – ”

“Hartley!”

“Well, it’s enough to make a saint swear. How can a man carry on his parish work like this? I wish to goodness May had it to do himself. Show him in, Dally.”

The girl departed, and returned directly with the servant from the Hall, who looked stealthily at Salis, and then from Leo to Mary and back.

“Can I speak to you alone, sir?” he said.

“Yes, yes, my man, certainly. Is it anything serious?”

“Yes, sir – very, sir. I’ve come – ”

“Here, this way, to my study, my man,” said Salis, rising.

“Stop!”

Salis had reached the door – his hand was on the knob, and he was about to turn it; but the sharp, commanding voice made him turn in astonishment, to see Leo standing erect, with her head thrown back, her eyes flashing, and her hand resting upon the book – closed now – and one finger shut in to mark the place.

“Leo!”

“Yes; I said ‘stop.’ We are not children,” she cried, in an imperative voice. “Let the man speak here.”

“It was about Sir Thomas, ma’am – my master,” faltered the man, before Salis had recovered from his astonishment. “An accident.”

“An accident?” cried Leo, as Salis stepped to her side, and laid his hand upon her arm; but she shrank away. “Well, sir, why do you not speak?”

“Am I to speak, sir?” faltered the man.

“Yes; speak out,” said Salis quietly.

“My master did not come home last night, sir – I mean this morning. He often goes out of a night, sir, very late; but he always comes in at daybreak. I’ve seen him dozens of times.”

“Yes; go on,” said Leo harshly.

“He didn’t come back, miss – ma’am; and I was thinking about it when I went to the stables and took his mare and the pad-horse out for exercise.”

“Speak more quickly, man,” said Leo imperiously.

“Yes, ma’am. We’d got down nearly to the ford, when the mare – master’s mare, ma’am – shied at something, and nearly threw me.”

“The mare shied?” said Leo, with her eyes dilating.

“Yes, ma’am; and I saw it was at master lying there by the side of the road.”

“Dead?”

“No, ma’am, but very bad. His head was – ”

“Hush!” said Salis, interrupting sternly. “No particulars, my man; only answer me this – was it a fall?”

“Oh, no, sir! some one had been beating him about the head with a stick, I should say.”

“Had he been robbed?”

“Oh, no, sir! His watch and chain and pin were all right.”

“Was he insensible?” continued Salis.

“Yes, sir; quite, sir; and seemed to have been staggering about the road, trying to get home, for there was bl – ”

“Hush, man! Only answer my questions,” cried Salis hastily. “You got him home?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man, who could not keep his eyes off Leo, who was gazing at him wildly – in a way which taught her brother that the old love for Tom Candlish was far from dead.

“And then – ”

“And then, sir, as soon as we’d got him on his bed, I galloped off for Dr North, sir.”

“Yes.”

“But he’s ill, sir, and the housekeeper said he couldn’t come to the Hall.”

“Well?”

“I hardly knew what to do, then, sir; but as I was wondering what was best, Joe Chegg come up, sir – he used to be a groom, you know – and I jumped off the mare, and made him get up and go off to King’s Hampton to fetch Dr Benson, while I came on to you.”

“Quite right,” said Salis. “I’ll come on with you directly. Mary, my dear, send a line to Moredock to say that there will be no vestry meeting. Yes? You were going to speak, Leo.”

She shook her head, and half closed her eyes, as she turned away, shivering at the feeling of vindictive rage which ran through her, as in imagination she seemed to see the result of the encounter which had taken place, and that it was Tom Candlish who had fared by far the worse.

Salis’s countenance grew more stern, as he leaned over to Mary, and stooped over to say a few words in her ear.

“Try and keep her by your side. We must have no foolish excitement now.”

“I will try,” said Mary gently; and she looked up to see that Leo was watching them both inquiringly, her face contracted, and a singular look in her eyes.

For she was wondering what would be the result of her brother’s meeting with the young squire; and then as she drew her breath painfully, the thoughts of self and the dread of detection gave place to feelings of horror respecting the man she loved, and of hate, the most bitter and intense, against North, whom she now longed to meet that she might revile him – heap upon his head her bitterness and contempt.

“It’s scared us, sir, horrible,” said the man as he walked back with Salis.

“Have you any idea who attacked your master?” said Salis.

“Not a bit, sir. That’s the puzzle of it. If it had been for his money, they’d have taken it all, and his watch. We can’t understand it a bit.”

“I can,” said Salis to himself. “The scoundrel has been insulting some one’s child, or sweetheart, or wife, and been half killed for his pains. I wonder who was the guilty party? Well I know that,” he muttered with a half laugh – “Tom Candlish.”

“Yes, sir; beg pardon, sir.”

“What for, my man?” said Salis, feeling a little disconcerted.

“I thought you laughed, sir, and said something.”

“No, no, my man; only a way of mine.”

They walked on in silence after this, Salis feeling very sore at heart as he thought of his sister, and how painful it was that she should still care, as she evidently did, for such a worthless scoundrel.

“Even the knowledge of this new escapade would not move her, I’m afraid,” he muttered. “Well, matters like this must settle themselves.”

They now reached the Hall, to find the servants assembled, and in a state of the most intense excitement.

“Master was no worse,” the old butler said. “He had been asking for brandy.”

“What? You did not give it to him?” cried Salis excitedly.

“I was obliged to, sir. You can’t know Sir Thomas, or you wouldn’t talk like that. But I’m very glad you’ve come, sir. – It’s such a responsibility, having him so bad. He’s terribly cut about, sir. Please come in and see if you can do anything more than I have till the doctor comes.”

Salis followed the old butler up to the bedroom, where Tom Candlish lay upon the bed, and, as the butler said, terribly cut about the head; for, in addition to the bruises upon his head and temple, he had a cut lip, and the very perfection of two black eyes.

“I don’t think you need be alarmed,” whispered Salis to the old man, as the door was opened, and the young squire saluted the butler with a volley of good stable oaths.

What the something unmentionable did he mean by bringing the parson? he raved.

“Do you think I’m going to die, and want to be prayed for? Send for a doctor.”

“I did, Sir Thomas,” said the butler deprecatingly; “but Dr North – ”

“Curse Dr North!” roared the young man. “Send for Dr Benson.”

“I have, Sir Thomas, and – ”

“Be off, you old idiot! And you, Salis, you’d better go too, or I may say something to you that you will not like.”

“You can say what you please, my good fellow,” said Salis, coolly taking off his coat for the second time in the young man’s presence.

“You coward,” groaned the injured man; “and when I’m like that. Your cursed sister – ”

“Silence, you scoundrel!” roared Salis. “Here, fetch water in a basin, sponges, towels, and linen that I can cut up,” he continued to the butler, who gladly hurried out of the room. “And you, Candlish, unless you wish to rage yourself into a fever, be quiet; but I warn you that if you mention my sister again, sick or well, I will not be answerable for the consequences.”

“What are you going to do?” growled the young man suspiciously.

“Do, sir? What I would do for any other dog that I saw lying wounded in the road. I’m going to doctor you till proper qualified assistance comes.”

“He doesn’t know,” thought Tom Candlish. Then aloud: “I thought you were going to take a mean advantage of me now I was down.”

“You thought I was just such a cowardly, mean-spirited brute as you are, and as treacherous, eh?” said Salis bitterly, as he rapidly removed the clumsy bandage about the young man’s head. “Why, hallo! what does this mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“Your head. It has been bandaged.”

“Yes; that old idiot of a butler did it.”

“No; I mean this other. It has been properly strapped up.”

“Has it?”

“Yes,” said Salis. “The old man knows more about it than you think for. There, lie still.”

“Who’s to lie still with his head on fire?” growled the injured man. “Here, ring for some brandy.”

“You mean for the undertaker,” said Salis coolly.

“No; the brandy,” snarled Tom Candlish. “I’m sick and faint.”

“And you’ll be more sick and more faint if you take spirits now. There, lie still, and I’ll try and cool your head with this sponge and water.”

For the butler had re-entered, and for the next half hour the curious spectacle was visible of Hartley Salis playing the good Samaritan, with all the knowledge of experience, to the man who was doing his best to bring ruin and misery upon his peaceful home.

The delicate, almost feminine touch, soothed the pain Tom Candlish suffered; and he lay quietly upon the pillow, looking up at the curate, wondering whether he would do this if he knew all, and what he would say if he knew that he had deluded Leo into leaving her room night after night, to grant him meetings in the old vestry time after time, in spite of all that had been said.

The butler had gone, and Tom Candlish was lying with his eyes half closed, thinking about his last meeting with Leo, of the coming of the doctor, of their encounter, and of the way in which he had been struck down, when just after Salis had carefully laid a cool, moist towel upon his aching head, the door softly opened, and the baronet started up in bed with his ghastly face distorted as he uttered quite a yell.

“Ah, Horace, old fellow!” cried the curate excitedly. “I have been reproaching myself for not coming down to you. Here is my excuse. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

“Keep him off! Send him away!” yelled Tom Candlish, trying vainly to get to the other side of the bed, as North stood pale, choking, and suffering in the doorway.

“Don’t take any notice,” continued Salis; “a bit delirious, I’m afraid;” and then he gazed wonderingly at his friend as, with a fierce, implacable look, North strode up to the bed.