Volume Three—Chapter One.
An Unsuitable Messenger.
“Hartley, you horrify me,” said Mary, after she had listened to her brother’s account of his visit. “He must have been ill or under some strange influence.”
“Influence?” cried Salis drily; “well, that means drink, Mary.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried the poor girl warmly. “He told you he was ill, and he may have been taking some very potent medicine.”
“Extremely,” said Salis.
“Hartley, for shame!” cried Mary, with her eyes flashing. “You left here an hour ago full of faith and trust in the friend of many years’ standing. You find him ill and peculiar in his manner, and you come back here ready to think all manner of evil of him. Is this just?”
“But he was so very strange and peculiar, my child. You cannot imagine how queer.”
“Hartley!” cried Mary warmly; “how can you! Horace North must be very ill, and needs his friend’s help. Your account of his acts and words suggests delirium. Go back to him at once.”
“Go back to him?”
“Yes; at once. Have you forgotten his goodness to us—how he snatched Leo back from the jaws of death?”
“You think I ought to go, Mary?” said Salis dubiously.
“I shall think my brother is under some strange influence—suffering from wounded pride—if he does not frankly go to our old friend’s help.”
“I’ll go back at once,” cried Salis excitedly. “Why, Mary, when you were active and strong, I always thought I had to teach and take care of you. Now you are an invalid, you seem to teach and guide me.”
“No, no,” said Mary tenderly. “It is only that I lie here for many hours alone, thinking of what is best for us all. Not yet, Hartley: I want to say something else.”
“Yes,” he said, going down on one knee by her couch, and holding her hand; “what is it?”
“I want to say a few words to you about Leo,” said Mary, after a pause.
“About Leo?” said Salis uneasily.
“Yes, dear. I tell you I lie here for many hours thinking about you both. I want to speak about Leo and—Mr North.”
“Yes,” said Salis gravely, as Leo’s manner when the servant came from the Hall flashed upon his mind. “What do you wish to say?”
“Do you consider that there is any engagement between them?”
“I hardly know what to say. North seemed deeply attached to her.”
“Yes,” said Mary; “but I have felt puzzled by his manner lately. He has not been.”
“And he has not sent her flowers as he used.”
“No; I have noticed that. Has Mr North felt that Leo has slighted him in any way.”
“Why, Mary,” cried Salis excitedly, “what a brain you have! My dear child, you have hit upon the cause of his strange manner. You noticed—you noticed Leo’s manner when the news came of Candlish’s illness—for I suppose I must call it so.”
“Yes,” said Mary, with a sigh. “I noticed it.”
“And North must have seen something. Mary, my girl, what shall I do?”
“What shall you do?”
“Yes; I am divided between my sister and my friend. There! I must speak out. It would be the saving of Leo if she could become North’s wife; and yet, much as I love her and wish for her happiness, I feel as if I am being unjust to North to let matters go farther.”
Mary lay back with her eyes half closed for some minutes before she felt that she could trust her voice so that it should not betray her.
“It would be for Leo’s happiness could she say truly that she could love and honour Horace North,” Mary whispered at last; “but it will never be, Hartley. Leo will never marry as we wish.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Salis sadly; “and the more I think of it, the more it seems to me that you have hit upon North’s trouble. Leo’s anxiety about that scoundrel has disgusted poor Horace. What shall I do?”
“Your friend is ill,” said Mary sadly; “act as a friend should. Leave the rest: we can do nothing there.”
“My poor darling!” said Salis, “you are the good angel of our little home. There, I’ll go to North at once.”
Meanwhile a conversation was going on in Leo’s room.
She had suffered intensely during the past few days, which had seemed to her like months of suspense and agony. Every stroke at the door had seemed to be a visitor to expose her to her brother, or else she believed it was North coming to reproach her; and, though she told herself that she would be defiant and could tell him he was mad ever to have thought about her, she shivered at each step upon the gravel.
The scene in the vestry had shaken her nerves terribly. The news of Tom Candlish’s serious injuries had added to her trouble; and, combined with this, there was the horrible suspense as to her lover’s state. In a way, she was a prisoner, and any attempt to hear news of the sufferer at the Hall would bring down upon her an angry reproof from her brother.
After the news of his state, Tom Candlish’s name was not mentioned at the Rectory. She dared not ask or show by word or look the anxiety she felt, and yet there were times when she would have given years of her life for a few words of tidings.
Unable to bear the suspense any longer, and after thinking of a dozen schemes, she at last decided upon one, which was the most unlucky she could have devised.
It was the nearest to her hand, and, in quite a gambling spirit, she snatched at it recklessly.
She was in her room, reading, when Dally entered.
“Is my brother in?” she said quietly. “Yes, miss; along with Miss Mary, talking.”
“Are you very busy, Dally?”
“Yes, miss, ’most worked to death,” said the girl tartly.
“But a walk would do you good, Dally. Would you take a note for me?”
“Take a note, miss?” said Dally with her eyes twinkling; “oh, of course, miss! I’ll go and ask Miss Mary to let me go!”
“No, no—stop, you foolish girl!” said Leo, with a half laugh. “There, I’ll be plain with you. I don’t want my sister to know. You would take a letter for me to Mrs Berens, Dally?”
“Master said I was never to take any notes for anybody,” said Dally sharply.
“But you will make an exception, Dally! Take a note for me, and bring me an answer, and I will give you a sovereign.”
“To Mrs Berens, miss?”
Leo looked at her meaningly, and the girl returned the gaze.
“Very well, miss; I’ll take it,” she said. “Must I go right to the Hall?”
“Yes, Dally, this evening, and nobody must know. Insist upon seeing him yourself, and bring me back an answer by word of mouth, if he cannot write.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Trust me, miss? Why, of course!” cried Dally, for Leo was giving her the opportunity she had sought. For days past she had been trying to find some way of getting a word with Tom Candlish; but, so far, it had been impossible. Now the way had been put into her hands.
“Thankye, miss,” she said, dropping a curtsy, as she slipped a long letter and a sovereign into her pocket. “And if I don’t settle your affair there, madam,” she said to herself, “I don’t know Tom Candlish, and he don’t know quite what Dally Watlock can do when she’s served like this.”
“Then I may trust you, Dally?” whispered Leo.
“Trust me, miss?” said the girl, looking at her innocently; “why, of course you can.”
“To-night, then, after dark!”
“Yes, miss, after dark; and if I’m asked for, you’ll say you give me leave to go and see poor gran’fa, who isn’t well.”
“Yes, Dally, I will.”
“And she’s been to boarding school, and thinks herself clever,” said Dally, as soon as she was alone. “Go after dark, miss? Yes, I will. They say people’s soft when they’re sick and weak. Perhaps so. Tom may be so now. After dark!” she muttered with a little cough. “Yes, miss; you may trust me! I’ll go after dark!”