“Perhaps I am contemptibly mean and suspicious,” he muttered. “I hope I am. If it is so, I’ll—No, no, no, Hartley, my son! Recollect what you are. Such as the bishop should be, such must you be—no brawler—no striker. No: it must be a favourable opportunity for a quiet chat with Leo, for we cannot go on like this, poor child.”
He went into the hall, took down his hat, reached a stout cudgel-like stick which his hand gripped firmly, as his nerves tingled, while his left hand clenched, and felt as if it were grasping some one by the collar.
“A scoundrel!” he muttered.
“Going out, dear?”
“Ah, Mary! You there! You go about like a mouse. Yes, I’ve just got to ‘a man’s duty is’ in my sermon, and can’t get any farther, so I’ll go as far as Red Cliff Wood and back for a refresher.”
He nodded and went out.
“Poor Mary!” he muttered; “she must not know; but if I had stayed a minute longer she would have found me out. Now, Master Tom Candlish, if you are there, I’ll—”
He gave himself a sharp slap on the mouth.
“Steady! Man, man, man! how you do forget your cloth! But if Tom Candlish—Pish! Steady, man! Let’s go and see.”
Mary Salis stood in the deep old mullioned window, gazing after him.