Volume Three—Chapter Ten.
A Visit in the Dark.
“I don’t like it, Mary. North has completely shut himself up. He will not even see Mrs Milt, so she tells me, and she is getting very uneasy about his state.”
Mary looked up at her brother. She could not trust herself to speak.
“I pity him, and yet I feel annoyed and hurt, for I gave him credit for greater strength of mind.”
Mary felt that she knew what was coming, but she dared not open her lips.
“Of course it was very painful to find out the woman he had made his idol was trifling with him, but I should have thought that Horace North would have proved himself to be a man of the world, borne his burden patiently, and been enough of a philosopher to go on his way without breaking down.”
“But he is very ill.”
“Ill!” said Salis. “I feel disposed to go and shake him, and rouse him up. To tell him that this is not manly on his part.”
“And yet you own that he is suffering, Hartley.”
“Suffering? Yes; but he has no business to be suffering about a woman like—there, there, I am forgetting myself. Poor fellow! he must be very ill. You see, the upset came when he was worn out with the study and intricacies of that pet theory of his, and hence it is that he is now so low.”
Mary lay back with her eyes half closed for some time, and there was silence in the room.
“Where is Leo?” said Salis, at length.
“In her room—reading.”
“Thank Heaven she seems to be settling down calmly now. Surely this life-storm is past, Mary.”
“I pray that it may be, Hartley,” she said softly; but there was a shadow of doubt in her words.
“Well,” said Salis, rising, “I must go and have a look round.”
“Going out, dear?”
“Yes. I seem to have been very neglectful of the people lately.”
“Stop a minute, Hartley,” said Mary, with a vivid colour in her cheeks.
“You want to say something?”
“Yes, dear; I wish—I wish to speak to you about Dr North.”
“Well, what about him, my child?”
“Hartley, when we were ill, he was always here. No pains seemed to be too great for him to take.”
“Yes, no man could have been more attentive.”
“And now, Hartley, he, too, is ill—seriously ill.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Then don’t you think it is a duty to try everything possible to help him in turn?”
“Of course, and I have tried; but what can I do? He will not see me, and that cousin of his, who, by the way, seems to have a great deal of business with Mrs Berens, evidently does not want me there.”
“But ought you to study that, Hartley, when your friend is ill?”
“I have thought all this out, Mary, and I feel sometimes as if I could do nothing. You see it is like this: I feel certain that North does not want to see me.”
“Why, dear?” said Mary earnestly.
“Because it reminds him too much of his trouble with Leo. He feels that very bitterly, and I know my presence would bring it up. Would it not be better to keep away, and let his nerves settle themselves?”
“No,” said Mary, in a quiet, firm way. “It was no fault of yours. It was Dr North’s own seeking, and he needs help. Go to him, Hartley.”
“Go to him?”
“Yes. He must be in sore trouble in every way. You say his cousin is there?”
“Yes, and if I went much I should quarrel with that man.”
“No, no; you must not quarrel. But recollect how Horace North used to say that he felt obliged to be civil to him, but he wished he would not come.”
“Yes: I remember.”
“Then go to him, and be at his side, dear, in case he requires help and counsel. Remember you are his friend. Even if he seemed querulous and fretful, I should stay.”
“You are right, Mary; I’ll go. I shall have some one to help me in Mrs Milt. I will stand by him.”
Mary’s eyes brightened, and she held out her hand.
“He will thank you some day, dear; even if he seems strange now.”
“He may say what he likes and do what he likes,” said Salis warmly. “I ought not to have needed telling this; but I’m going to make up for past neglect now and play the part of dog.”
Salis was a little late in his promise to play the part of watch-dog for his friend, for as he walked up to the Manor House it was to meet a carriage just driving out.
“The fly from the ‘Bull’ at King’s Hampton and a pair of horses,” said Salis as he walked on, apparently paying no heed to the inmates of the carriage. “Now, whoever would these be? White cravat, one of them; the other thin, spare, and dark. Doctors, for a sovereign, I’d say, if I were not a parson.”
Mrs Milt opened the door to him, and showed him into the drawing-room, whose window looked down the back-garden with its great clump of evergreens and shady walks, beyond which were the meadows through which the river ran.
“I’m very glad,” said Salis eagerly; “your master has had a couple of doctors to see him, has he not?”
“No, sir; oh, dear, no!” said the housekeeper sadly. “If you would only see him, and persuade him to, and get him to see a clever man, sir, it would be the best day’s work you ever did.”
“I’ll try, Mrs Milt,” said Salis; “but I’m disappointed.”
“So am I, sir. He wants doing good to, instead of trying to do good to other people. Those are some friends of Mr Thompson, sir. One of them’s got a very curious complaint that Mr Thompson said master was almost the only man who knew how to cure.”
“And did he see them?”
“Yes, sir, after a great deal of persuasion, and almost a quarrel, sir. I could hear master and Mr Thompson, sir, talking through the door, and he said master ought to be ashamed of himself if he let a gentleman who was suffering come down from town and drive all the way across from King’s Hampton in the hope of being cured, and then let him go back without seeing him.”
“Yes, Mrs Milt; go on,” said the curate eagerly.
“Well, sir, after a long fight Mr Thompson went away, but he went and tried again and master gave way directly, and went down in his dressing-gown, looking all white and scared, and saw those two gentlemen who have just gone away.”
“Well, I’m glad of that—heartily glad,” said Salis. “It is the thin end of the wedge, Mrs Milt, and we have good cause to be grateful to Mr Thompson for what he has done. Seeing patients again! This is good news indeed. He will see me now.”
Mrs Milt shook her head.
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“I must be a patient.”
“You, sir? Why, you look the picture of health.”
“But I have been very patient, Mrs Milt,” said Salis, laughing.
“Ah, sir, and so have I,” said the housekeeper dolefully: “and a deal I’ve suffered, what with master’s illness, and my conscience.”
The old lady put her apron to her eyes, and gave vent to a low sob.
“Your conscience, Mrs Milt,” said Salis, smiling. “Why, I should have thought that was clear enough.”
“Clear, sir? Oh, no! It’s many a bitter night I’ve spent thinking of my temper, and the way I’ve worried poor master when he’s had all his work on his shoulders. I’ve helped to make him what he is. Oh, there’s that man, sir!”
She drew the curate within and closed the door, for steps were heard, and Cousin Thompson passed round from the back-garden to go down to the gate.
“He’s gone out, sir; and I’ll try now if master will see you. It worries him dreadfully his cousin being here, and it always did.”
Closing and fastening the door the housekeeper led the way to the first-floor landing, and, signing to Salis to be silent, she tapped gently at the doctor’s door.
The moment before they had faintly heard the sound of some one pacing to and fro, but at the first tap on the door this ceased. There was no answer.
The housekeeper knocked again, and in simple, old English, country fashion called gently:
“Master, master!”
Still there was no response; but she persevered, and knocked again.
“Master, master!”
“Yes, what is it?” came from within; and Mrs Milt turned and gave the curate a satisfied nod, as she said:
“Mr Salis, sir. He would like to see you.”
There was a pause, and then hoarsely: “Tell Mr Salis I am ill, and can see no one.”
The curate was about to speak, but Mrs Milt hastily raised her hand.
“But I’m sure he’d like to see you very much, sir. Mr Thompson’s gone out.”
“Tell Mr Salis—”
There was a pause, and the curate went close to the door.
“North, old fellow,” he said gently; “don’t turn your back on all your friends. What have I done to be treated thus?”
There was another pause, during which those on the landing listened anxiously fulsome response from within.
But all remained perfectly still, and Salis ventured to appeal again.
“I will not stop longer than you like, old fellow,” he said; “but I am uneasy, and—”
He was interrupted by the sharp snap made by the lock of the door. Then the handle was turned, and a long slit of darkness was revealed.
“Come in,” said a harsh voice; and Salis turned and gave Mrs Milt a satisfied nod and smile, as he entered North’s room and closed the door.
The sensation was strange, that passing from broad daylight into intense darkness, and Salis tried to recall the configuration of the room, and the position of window and bed, as he felt North brush past him, and lock the door.
For it was evident that an attempt had been made to exclude every ray of light, and not without success.
“Well, I am glad—I was going to say to see you, old fellow,” cried Salis. “Hadn’t you better open the curtains and the window? This room smells very faint.”
“Brandy spilt,” said North, alluding to his accident of many days before.
“Brandy? Why, the place smells of laudanum and chloroform, and goodness knows what besides.”
“You wanted to speak to me,” said North.
“Yes, I’ve a great deal to say; but I should like to sit down.”
“There is a chair on your left.”
“Ah, yes. Thanks,” said Salis, feeling about until he touched it, and sitting down. “Where are you?”
“Sitting on the bed.”
“Well, I suppose you have a reason for this blind-man’s-buff work. Eyes bad?”
“Very.”
“May I say a few words to you about getting advice?”
“Aren’t you afraid of shutting yourself up with me here in the dark? There are razors in that drawer. There’s a bottle of prussic acid on the dressing-table. Why, parson, you’re a fool!”
The voice seemed changed, and this speech was followed by a curious mocking laugh which ran through Salis and made him shrink; but he recovered himself directly.
“No,” he said stoutly; “I am not afraid.”
“No, you are not afraid,” came softly from out of the darkness.
“Come, North, old fellow,” continued Salis; “we are old friends. You have helped me when I have been in sore distress; forgive me, now that I know you are in trouble, for thrusting myself upon you.”
“I have nothing to forgive.”
“Then let me help you. Believe me that Mary and I are both terribly concerned about your health. Tell me what I can do.”
There was a pause; then a low, piteous sigh; and from out of the darkness came the word—
“Nothing—!”
“I can’t understand your complaint, of course, old fellow; but tell me one thing. Are you sufficiently compos mentis to know what to do for yourself for the best?”
“Quite, Salis, quite,” said North slowly.
“And you are ill, and are carrying out a definite line of action?”
“I am doing what is really—what is for the best.”
“And you do not need help—additional advice?”
“If I did, a letter or telegram would bring down a couple of London’s most eminent men; but they could do nothing.”
Salis sighed.
“But can I do nothing?”
“Only help me to have perfect rest and peace.”
“But about your patients? Moredock is complaining bitterly.”
“My patients must go elsewhere,” said North slowly. “I cannot see anybody.”
“Don’t think I am moved by curiosity; but are you sure that you are doing what is best for yourself?”
“Quite sure. Let me cure myself my own way, and—and—”
“Well—what, old fellow?” said Salis, for the doctor had ceased speaking.
“Don’t take any notice of what I say at times. I’ve—I’ve been working a little too hard, and—at times—”
“Yes, at times?”
“I feel a little delirious, and say things I should not say at other times—times I say, at other times.”
There was a singularity in his utterance, and his repetitions, which struck Salis; and these broken sentences were strange even to the verge of being terrible, coming as they did out of the darkness before him.
“Oh, yes; I understand,” he hastened to say cheerfully. “I know, old fellow. Want a wet towel about your head and rest.”
“Yes—and rest,” said North quietly.
“Rest and plenty of sleep. I set your disorder down to that,” said Salis, as a feeling of uneasiness which he could not master seemed to increase. At one moment he felt that his friend was not in a proper condition to judge what was best for him; at another he concluded that he was; and that, after all, it was a strange thing that a man could not do as he liked in his own house, even to shutting himself up in a dark room to rest his eyes.
A strange silence had fallen upon the place, and, in spite of his efforts, Salis could not bear it. A dozen subjects sprang to his lips, and he was about to utter them, but he felt that they would be inappropriate; and as North remained perfectly silent, and the uneasy feeling consequent upon sitting there in the darkness, conversing, as it were, with the invisible, increasing, Salis rose.
“Well,” he said, “I’m glad I came, old fellow. I haven’t bothered you much?”
“No.”
“And I may come again?” A pause. Then—“Yes.”
“And you’ll see me?”
“I cannot see you. I shall be glad if you’ll come. I feel safer and better when you are here.”
Salis winced a little. Then a thought struck him.
“Look here, old fellow. Come and stay with us for a change.”
North seemed to start violently, and Salis felt how grave a mistake he had made. For the moment he had forgotten everything about Leo, and he bit his lip at his folly.
“No. Go now.”
“Will you shake hands?”
“No, no,” said North passionately. “Go, man; go now. Don’t come again for some days.”
“As you will, North; only remember this—a message will fetch me at any time. You will summon me if I can be of any use?”
North seemed to utter some words of assent, and then Salis heard a faint rustling sound approaching in the darkness, which, in spite of his manhood and firmness, made the curate wince, as he felt how much he was at North’s mercy if this complaint took an unpleasant mental turn.
But the rustling was explained directly after by the click of the door-lock. Then a pale bar of light shone into the room as the opening enlarged, and as it was evidently held ready Salis passed out, the door closed sharply behind him, the lock snapped into its place, and he shuddered as he heard a low, mocking laugh, followed by the vibration of the floor as the invalid began to pace rapidly up and down.
“What ought I to do?” muttered Salis, as he stood irresolutely upon the mat, till he felt a touch upon his arm, and, turning, found that Mrs Milt had evidently been waiting for him to come out.
“Well, sir?” she whispered, as they went down.
“Well, Mrs Milt?”
“You don’t think that he is—a little—you don’t think that is coming on?”
“What, lunacy?” The housekeeper nodded. “Absurd, Mrs Milt!” cried Salis, “absurd!”
“Thank goodness, sir!”
“A little out of order and eccentric. But what made you ask that question?”
“Well, sir, it was something Mr Thompson said.”