Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.
A Race for Liberty.
It was a close race, and Mary Salis felt that, ere many minutes had passed, the strange force which had nerved her so that she had traversed the distance between the two houses, and then enabled her to go through the scene which followed, would fail; but still she struggled on, with their pursuers gaining so rapidly that the gate which gave upon the meadows had hardly been passed and dashed to, and the feeling that at last they were in comparative safety, given her fresh strength, when the two keepers came up, and without hesitation threw open the gate, and followed into the Rectory orchard.
Joe Chegg had lowered his burden on to the ground as the men reached the gate.
“What’ll I do, miss?”
“Stand by me,” panted Mary, stooping to catch Horace’s hand in hers; and then, sinking on one knee, she held to it tightly with both her own.
“Stand by you, miss?” cried Joe. “Yes; I’ll do that; but you run and call for help.”
“No, no,” cried Mary; “I will not go.”
“Now, then,” cried Joe, “what is it? You know you’re a-trespassing here?”
“You get out,” growled one of the men; and he thrust the sturdy young fellow roughly aside.
It was a mistake on the keeper’s part, for Joe Chegg’s father was a Bilston man, notorious in his time for the pugnacity of his life.
His mantle, or rather his disposition to take off his coat, had fallen upon his son, and the result of the rude thrust was that Joe Chegg rebounded so violently that the keeper went staggering back, and by the time he recovered, and his companion was about to join in the attack, Joe had proved himself to be the son of his father, for his coat was lying on the ground.
This was awkward. The keepers were accustomed to tussles with insane patients, and they were ready for a fight with Horace North, and to do anything to force him into the carriage waiting at the Manor House. But Joe Chegg was sane, sturdy, and had begun to square.
A fight with the stout young Warwick man was not in their instructions, and they called a parley.
“Look here, miss,” said the one who had been struck surlily; “just call your bulldog off. We don’t want no trouble, and you’re doing a very foolish thing; so let us do our dooty and go.”
As he spoke he advanced, but a feint from Joe made him flinch, though he gave the young fellow a very ugly look.
“This is an outrage,” cried Mary, rising and speaking now firmly. “What does it mean?”
“It means, madam,” said a voice, as the tall, dark medical man who had visited twice at the Manor now came upon the scene, after a very hurried walk through the meadows—“it means, madam,” he repeated, for he was breathless, “that Dr North is not in a fit condition to be at large.”
“It is not true!” cried Mary indignantly; though the recollection of what she had witnessed made her quail.
“It is quite true, madam; and his nearest friends have taken steps to have him placed under proper treatment, where he can be restored to health.”
“Where what little reason left to him will be wrecked,” something seemed to say within Mary; and she held on more tightly to North’s hand.
“There, madam,” said the doctor; “I have explained this to you, but I will also add, so that there may be no further unpleasantry, that all these steps have been taken after proper advice, and in strict legal manner. Now, be kind enough to let my men assist the patient to rise, and let us get this sad matter settled as quickly as we can.”
Mary wavered, and the doctor saw it.
“Jones,” he said, “you go and get the carriage round here. It will be much the shortest way.”
“Dr North is a very old and dear friend of ours,” said Mary, recovering herself, and speaking with dignity; “and I cannot stand by, in my brother’s absence, and see what seems to me to be an outrage committed.”
“Ah, your brother is away,” said the doctor. “It is a pity, for gentlemen are better to deal with than ladies in a case like this. There, my dear madam, pray accept my assurances that everything is right, and that Dr North will be taken the greatest care of, and restored to you soon perfectly sane and well. Pray be good enough to stand aside.”
“No,” cried Mary firmly; “he shall not go.”
“Just say the word, miss,” whispered Joe Chegg.
“Jones!” shouted the doctor; “come back!”
The second keeper, who was nearly through the orchard, came back, and it was a case of three to one; but Joe Chegg was not intimidated.
“Look here,” he said. “Miss Salis says he isn’t to go, and you’re trespassing here. Hi! you Dally Watlock!” he shouted, as he caught sight of the little maid coming down the orchard; “you let loose that there dog.”
Dally hesitated while, in response to a word from the doctor, the keepers advanced; and they would have succeeded in their task—Joe Chegg’s brave efforts being doomed to failure by the baffling movements of the well-dressed doctor, whom he hesitated to strike—but succour arrived in the person of Salis, who came running down the orchard, red-faced and excited.
The odds were so reduced that a fresh parley ensued, the doctor giving his explanations now once more in answer to the indignant questions of Salis:
“How dare you insult my sister?” followed by another, “How dare you insult my friend?”
“Law or no law, sir,” cried Salis, at last, “Dr North is on my premises, where, so to speak, he has taken sanctuary. You are acting at the wish of Mr Thompson?”
The doctor bowed.
“Then fetch Mr Thompson here.”
“Really, sir—” began the doctor.
“That will do, sir,” cried Salis. “You have heard my decision. If the law forces me to give up my friend, I may be compelled; but I will not give him up to you and these men now. Chegg, see these persons off the Rectory grounds.”
There was no help for it. A struggle would have resulted in the raising of the village, and, shrugging his shoulders, the doctor beat an ignominious retreat with his men.
“Mary!” exclaimed Salis, now for the first time realising the miracle that seemed to have occurred; “is this you?”
The poor girl did not speak, but stood gazing at him with her eyes growing dim, while before he could catch her she sank, first upon her knees, and then forward with her head upon North’s breast, while her soft, fair hair escaped from the bands which held it, and fell loosely about her marble face.