“And yet here you are, all shivering and nervous – too ill to attend service this morning; and you tell me you saw something in the church last night.”

“Ay, and so I did, doctor. I s’pose I swownded away, I was took so bad; and must have laid there for hours before I got up and crawled home; and Parson Salis must be in a fine taking this morning, for there’s nothing done in the church.”

“Oh! never mind that, Moredock; Mr Salis is sorry you are ill. He’s a good fellow, and he sent me on this morning. You’re a bit nervous and shaken at what you fancied you saw. Come, Moredock, old man, I’m a doctor, and you’re a sexton, and we’re too much men of the world – we’ve seen and known too much – to be afraid of ghosts, eh?”

“Ghosts! Sperits! I’m afraid of no ghosts, doctor; but I see that thing o’ Saturday night.”

“Thought you saw it, old chap!”

“Nay, doctor, I saw it; and that’s what scares me.”

“Pooh! You scared at something you saw – a hollow turnip and a sheet! A trick played by some scamp in the village.”

“Trick played? Nay, doctor; there isn’t a lad in the village dare do it. I know ’em. I aren’t scared at the thing I saw. It’s at what it means.”

“What it means! Then, what does it mean?”

“Notice to quit this here earthly habitation, as parson calls it, doctor. That’s what it means.”

“Rubbish!”

“Ah! you say that to hide your bad work, doctor, and because you know you arn’t done your duty by me.”

“Why, you ungrateful old humbug! I’ve done no end for you. Haven’t I gone on oiling your confounded old hinges for years past, to keep you from dropping off, rusted out?”

“Ah! I don’t say anything again that, doctor; but you’ve always thought me a poor man, and you’ve treated me like a poor man – exactly like. If you’d thought me well off, and you could send me in a big bill, you’d have had me in such condition that I shouldn’t have seen my fetch last night.”

“Seen your grandmother, man.”

“Ay, you may laugh, doctor; but what have you told me over and over again? ‘Moredock,’ says you, ‘a healthy man’s no business to die till he’s quite worn out.’ And ‘What age will that be, doctor?’ says I. ‘Oh! at any age,’ says you; and here am I, a hale, hearty man, only a little more’n ninety, and last night I see my fetch.”

“But you’re not a hale, hearty man, Moredock.”

“Tchah! Whatcher talking about? Why, I’d ’bout made up my mind to be married again.”

“You? Married? Why, even I don’t think of such a thing.”

“You? No,” said the old man, contemptuously. “You’re not half the man I’ve been. My son’s gal – Dally Watlock’s ’fended me, and if she don’t mind she’ll lose my bit o’ money.”

“You take my advice, Moredock, and don’t marry.”

“Shan’t leave you nothing, if I don’t marry, doctor,” said the old man, with a cunning leer; “and you needn’t send in no bills because you’ve found out I’ve got a bit saved up.”

“Why, you wicked old ruffian, I suppose you’ve scraped together a few pounds by trafficking in old bones, and of what you’ve robbed the church.”

“Never you mind, doctor, how I got it, or how much it is.”

“I don’t; but just you be wise, sir. You’re not going to marry again, and you’re going to leave your money to your grandchild.”

“Eh? What – what? Do you want to marry her?”

“No, I don’t, Moredock; but if you don’t behave yourself, hang me if I come and doctor you any more. You may send over to King’s Hampton for Dr Wellby, or die if you like: I won’t try and save you.”

“No, no, no; don’t talk like that, doctor – don’t talk like that,” whimpered the old man; “just now, too, when I’m so shook.”

“Then don’t you talk about disinheriting your poor grandchild. Come, hold up, Moredock! I didn’t mean it. There’s nothing much the matter.”

“Ah! but there is, doctor. I saw my fetch last night.”

“No, you did not. You were not strong enough to go up to the church, and you fancied you saw something.”

“I see it.”

“Well, suppose you did. Some one had gone into the church to fetch a hymn-book, or put in a new cushion.”

“Nobody couldn’t, but me and parson, and squire and you. I see it, and it was my fetch.”

“No, no, old fellow; you’re mistaken. You were in the dark, and your head weak.”

“I see it, and it was my fetch, doctor.”

“Very well, then, Moredock, it was your fetch; but we won’t let it fetch you for some years to come. What do you say to that?”

“Ah! now you’re talking sensible, doctor,” cried the old man, brightening up. “Look here, doctor, you do what’s right by me, and let me have the best o’ stuff – good physic, you know – and there isn’t anything I won’t do for you. A skull, or a bone of any kind, or a whole set, or – ”

“There, that will do, Moredock. I’ll do my duty by you, and I don’t want any reward.”

“No, you don’t. You’re a good fellow, doctor; and you do understand my complaint, don’t you?”

“Yes, thoroughly. There, sit back in your chair, and keep quiet. Mr Salis is coming in to see you by-and-by.”

“Nay, nay, nay! I don’t want he. It makes a man feel as if he’s very bad when parson comes to see him.”

“Why, I’m sure he’s a thoroughly good friend to you, old fellow.”

“Oh! yes, he’s right enough; but as soon as ever he comes in this here room, he’ll begin talking to me about what a sinner I’ve been.”

“Well, quite right, too.”

“Maybe, doctor, maybe,” said the old man, bursting into a loud cachinnation; “but he don’t know everything, doctor, do he? If he did, he’d lay it on thicker; and he wouldn’t be quite so friendly with you.”

“Come, come, Moredock,” said the doctor, laughing. “Suppose we leave professional secrets alone, eh?”

“Ay, ay, doctor, we will. I don’t forget what you’ve told me; but do go and tell parson I’m a deal better, and that he needn’t come.”

“Why? A visit won’t do you any harm.”

“Maybe not, doctor – p’r’aps not; but as soon as he comes he’ll want to read me a chapter and then pray over me; and I’m that soaked with it all, after these many years, that I haven’t room for no more.”

“But, Moredock – ”

“There, it’s of no use for you to talk. Think I don’t know! Why, I know more chapters and bits of the sarvice by heart than half-a-dozen parsons.”

“Ah, well! I’ll send you a bottle of mixture as soon as I get home, so sit up and make yourself comfortable.”

“May I smoke my pipe, doctor?”

“Oh, yes, as long as you like, man. You’re not bad; and take my advice: just you forget all about your fetch, as you call it, and don’t go to the church any more in the dark.”

Chapter Thirteen.
After Church

The doctor left the sexton’s cottage, thinking deeply on the way in which the brain is affected by the weakness of the body.

“Poor old fellow!” he muttered; “nearly a hundred years old, and clinging to life more tightly than ever. Believes he saw something, of course. Not fit to go out alone. But he’ll pull round, and perhaps last for years. Wonderful constitution, but also an exemplification of my pet theory. Humph! coming out of church. Well, I must meet ’em, I suppose. Hallo! what’s going to happen? Has Salis converted the pair of reprobates? Morning, Squire; morning, Mr Candlish.”

He shook hands – professionally, as he called it – with the young squire and his brother, who were just out of church, and walked slowly on with them, discussing the hunt, election matters, and the state of the country.

“Why don’t you hunt more, doctor?” said the squire, a florid, fine-looking man, singularly like his brother, but more athletic of build.

“Want of time,” said the doctor good-humouredly. “Too many irons in the fire.”

“You work too hard. But look here – don’t be offended; I’ve always a spare mount or two when you are disposed for a gallop.”

“Thanks; I’ll ask one of these days – which never come,” the doctor added to himself. “And now, good-day.”

“No, no; come on, and have a bit of dinner with us – early dinner to-day.”

“Thanks – no; I’ve a patient or two to see, and I want a word with the parson.”

“We don’t,” said the squire; “eh, Tom? We’ve had ours.”

Tom Candlish scowled.

“Well, always glad to see you, doctor – non-professionally,” said the squire; and they went on, while North turned back to meet Salis, wondering why Tom Candlish had condescended to come to church.

“To stare at Leo, I’ll be sworn, and Salis must have felt it. I’ll be bound to say he made a dozen mistakes in the service this morning through that fellow coming. And, as for the squire – that young man drinks, and he had better look out, or Moredock will have a grand funeral to attend.”

“Good morning, doctor. Were you coming to see me?”

“Ah, Mrs Berens! I beg your pardon; I didn’t see you.”

“No, doctor, you never do seem to see me. You forget your most anxious patients,” said the lady pathetically.

“But, really, you did not send me word.”

“No, I did not send you word. I lived in hope of your coming.”

“Thank goodness!” thought the doctor. “This woman is growing dangerous.”

His pious ejaculation was consequent upon the fact that his friend, the curate, was approaching in company with Leo.

Mrs Berens became aware of the fact at the same time, and though she uttered no pious ejaculation, she was equally pleased, for two reasons.

The first was that through the past two hours she had been seated in the same building with Leo Salis; the pews were high, and Leo could only have seen the top of her bonnet, whereas the handsome widow did not go to great expense for the most fashionable modes et robes, as the dressmakers express it, for nothing. The most elegant head-gear, though it may afford some satisfaction to the wearer, is hardly worth wearing, unless it be envied by those of the one sex and admired by the other. This encounter with the doctor would give handsome Leo a good opportunity for envious glances, and as Mrs Berens could not rival her neighbour in contour, she would have some chance of standing upon an equal footing.

The other reason was that she wished the curate to come up and speak to her at the same time as she was talking to the doctor. For Mrs Berens was not deeply in love; she only wished to be. The doctor and the curate were both fine, manly fellows, to either of whom she would have been willing to give herself and fortune; but somehow they had both been terribly unimpressionable, and though she had shown as plainly as she dared, any time during the past year, the tenderness waiting to burst forth, she was still Mrs Berens, and twelve months older.

Here was an opportunity of playing one-off against the other; for men could often be stirred, she knew, into learning the value of something when they saw that it was gliding from their grasp.

The couple from the Rectory came up, and Mrs Berens felt a pang as, after her warm salutations, in which her hand had rested in that of the curate for a few moments, to receive nothing more than a frank, friendly pressure, she saw that of Leo Salis rest in the doctor’s longer than she considered prudent. Leo seemed unusually handsome, too, that morning. There was a bright flush on her cheeks; her eyes sparkled, and she looked twenty, while Mrs Berens felt that she looked nearly forty.

Salis was glad of the encounter, for it was true that he had been making mistakes that morning. The very fact that Tom Candlish was in the church was disturbing, and when he knew that he must have come – he could not believe otherwise – expressly to stare at Leo, the presence of the man whom he had thrashed in so unclerical a way acted on his thoughts as a pointsman acts over trains at a busy junction – sent them flying in different directions beyond the drivers’ control.

The curate’s colour was heightened, for he knew that he had appeared at a disadvantage before the more thoughtful of his congregation. He was anxious, too, about Leo, who looked excited, and he dreaded any renewal of the past trouble; so that the encounter was satisfactory, if only from the fact that it afforded temporary relief from worrying thoughts and cares.

Mrs Berens was sweetness itself to all, and Leo seemed to rouse herself to be pleasant to the doctor, the result being that Mrs Berens was seen home – to part most affectionately from Leo, and with most tenderly friendly pressures of the hand to the gentlemen; after which she hurried into her room, to tear off her new bonnet and indulge in a passionate burst of sobbing.

“She’s as deceitful as she is young,” she cried. “She has thrown over Tom Candlish, and now she is winning over that foolish doctor; while Hartley Salis is as immovable as a stone.

“I’ll be even with her,” she cried. “Either Tom Candlish or the squire would be glad to marry me. I’ll have one of them, and I’ll make her half die with envy by asking her to my house, and – yes, there they go, and Horace North is going into the house with them. Ugh! the monster! He deserves to have the doorstep sink beneath his feet. But I’ll be revenged. No, no, no! they’re too bad,” she sobbed; “but I couldn’t stoop to that.”

Mrs Berens subsided into an easy-chair, to go on reddening her eyes; while the doctor accompanied his friends to the Rectory, and stopped chatting for a few minutes, but refused another invitation to dine even when Mary Salis and Leo both added their persuasions.

“No,” he said, “I’ve promised old Moredock his dose, and I’m going to see that he has it.” And then, after a few kindly words to Mary concerning her health – words that were almost tender, but which seemed to burn and sear the poor girl, as she read them aright – he went away, to hurry to his surgery in the Manor House.

“I’m very glad, for poor old Hartley’s sake, that the affair’s all off. It is, evidently; for Madam Leo seemed as cool as could be, and she’s as handsome and ladylike a girl as a man need wish to call wife. Humph! I’ll give him a little chloral – just a suspicion – to calm him down. Poor old boy! and he thinks he’s going to die. Well, it’s my theory,” he continued, as he compounded the sexton’s mixture and carefully corked it up; “and, think about it from whichever point I may, it seems to be quite right. There, Master Moredock, there’s your dose. That will lay any ghost in the United Kingdom, given sufficiently strong!”

Chapter Fourteen.
How Horace North did not go to the Meet

“What a morning for a run with the hounds!” said Horace North, as he stood at the door of the fine old Manor House, where he had come to cool himself, after a scene with Mrs Milt, his housekeeper, owing to a committee of ways and means.

Mrs Milt had wanted to have everything her way. The doctor had shown a desire to have everything his way, and the approach of the two forces had resulted in an explosion.

“Candlish offered me a mount, and I’ve a good mind to take the offer, just for once. A good gallop would do me a world of good. No; I’ll go and have a chat with old Moredock, see Mrs Berens, Biddy Tallis, and Brown’s baby, and then settle down to a good, quiet study. Hah!”

Horace North was dubious. A slight puff upon his vane would have sent it in either direction, and it seemed as if the decisive puff came just then in the shape of something as light as air. For there was the sound of hoofs; and directly after, looking exceedingly handsome in her tightly-fitting riding-habit and natty hat, Leo Salis passed on her pretty mare.

She caught sight of him, and returned a coquettish nod and smile to his low bow, but did not draw rein, though she must have seen his intention to hurry down to the gate; cantering gently on, as charming a specimen of early womanhood as ever rode gracefully upon a well-bred mare.

“By George! that settles it,” said the doctor. “Where’s the meet?”

He hurried in, snatched up the county paper, and found that it was at Fir Tree Hill, four miles beyond the Hall.

“The very thing,” he cried. “I’ll just get on my boots, and walk over to the Hall, get my mount, and go on. No, I won’t; I’ll drive.”

He rang the bell, and Mrs Milt – a very severe-looking, handsome, elderly lady – in the whitest of caps, bibs, and tuckers, appeared frowning, as if still charged with the remaining clouds of the late storm.

“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.”