Volume Two—Chapter Four.
Mary’s Bell.
It had been a gloomy evening at the Rectory. Leo had been unusually silent, and Salis greatly disturbed by a letter he had received from the rector.
That gentleman had only spoken to him just so far as the sad business upon which they had been engaged demanded, and had gone back to King’s Hampton on his way to town, probably to treat his curate there in the same way, and had left a voluminous letter, like a sermon, written upon the text “Neglect,” for Salis to peruse.
He had read the letter and re-read it to his sisters, with the result that Leo had sighed, looked sympathetic, and then gone on with her book; while Mary had sat back in her easy-chair and listened and advised.
“I don’t know what more I could do,” said Salis, wrinkling his brow. “I suppose I do neglect the parish entrusted to me by my rector, but it is from ignorance. I want to do what’s right.”
He looked down in a perplexed way at his sister, who dropped her work upon her knee, and extended her hand with a tender smile.
“Come here,” she said. “Kneel down.”
Salis obeyed, and glanced at Leo, whose face was hidden by her book, before stooping down lower to accept the proffered kiss.
“My dear old brother,” whispered Mary, gliding her soft, white arm about his neck, “don’t talk like that. Neglect! My memory is too well stored with your deeds to accept that word. Why, your life here has been one long career of self-denial.”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“Of deeds of charity, of nights spent by sick-beds, facing death and the most infectious diseases. How much of your stipend do you ever spend upon yourself or us?”
“Well, not much, Mary,” he said, with his perplexed look deepening. “You see, there are so many poor.”
“Who would rise up in revolt if you were to leave.”
“Yes, I suppose so, dear; but I have been very remiss lately and extravagant.”
“Hartley!”—reproachfully.
“Well, I have, dear. I’ve smoked a great deal—and fished.”
“At your medical man’s desire; to give you strength; to refresh you for your work.”
“But these things grow upon one,” said Salis dismally.
“Nonsense, dear; you must have some relaxation. See what a slave you are to the parish—and to me.”
“Why, that’s my relaxation,” he said tenderly. “But really, dear, it almost seems as if he wants to drive me to resign.”
“Well, Hartley,” said Mary sadly, “if it must be so we will go. Surely there are hundreds of parishes where my brother would be welcome.”
“But how could I leave my people here? My dear Mary, I have grown so used to Duke’s Hampton that I believe it would break my heart to go.”
“And mine,” said Mary to herself, “if it be not already broken.”
“I must answer the letter, I suppose,” said Salis dolefully, “and promise to amend my ways.”
“Is it not bed-time, Hartley?” said Leo, with a yawn.
“Bless my soul, yes,” cried the curate, glancing at his watch. “Time does go so when one is talking.”
“I’m very tired,” said Leo. “It has been an anxious day.”
“I shall be obliged to sit down for an hour and set down the heads of my letter, I suppose,” said Salis.
“To-night, Hartley?” cried Leo, suddenly displaying great interest in her brother’s welfare. “No, no; don’t do that. You seem so fagged.”
“Yes, you seem tired out, dear,” said Mary.
“Go and have a good night’s rest,” said Leo, smiling, and rising to kiss him. “Good night, dear. Good night, Mary. But you will go to bed, Hartley?”
“Well,” he said, “if you two order it I suppose I must.”
“And we do order it,” said Leo playfully; “eh, Mary?”
“Yes, get up early and have a good morning’s walk,” said Mary, with the result that the lamp was extinguished after candles had been lit. Leo went to her room, and Hartley Salis performed his regular task of carrying his sister to her door; after which, by the help of a couple of crutch-handled sticks, she could manage to get about.
An hour later all was hushed at the Rectory, and another hour passed when Hartley Salis had been dreaming uneasily of listening to a lecture from the rector about his neglect of the parish, the rector striking hard on the principle of the rough who blunders against a person and exclaims—
“Where are yer shoving to?” The lecture had reached an imaginary point at which the rector had exclaimed, with his hand on the bell:
“And now we understand one another, Mr Salis. Good morning.”
The bell rang just over the curate’s head, and he jumped out of bed and hurried on his dressing-gown, for that bell communicated with Mary’s room, and had been there ever since her illness had assumed so serious a form.
“What is it, Mary; are you ill?”
“No, no, dear,” came back through the slightly opened door; “but there is something wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“Yes. I certainly heard a door open and close downstairs.”