“Yes, of course!” said the curate impatiently. “But you heard what I said about May coming down?”
“Yes; but what does that matter?”
“Only a long series of lectures to me, which makes my blood boil. I’ve had another unpleasantly, too. I went up to the Hall to see—Sir Thomas—I suppose I must call him now, and he sent me out an insolent message; at least, I thought it so.”
“Never mind, old fellow; we all have our troubles.”
“Not going to trouble,” said the curate quietly. “Coming my way?”
“No. I want another word with Moredock, and then I’m going home.”
“Ah, he’s a queer old fellow,” said the curate, glancing towards the sexton as he went round the chancel with a crowbar over his shoulder, the old man turning to give both a cunning, magpie-like look, as he went out of sight.
The two friends parted, and then North followed the sexton.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Salis would be horrified; he would never forgive me; and yet to win the sister’s, I am risking the brother’s love. Oh, but it is more than that,” he said excitedly; “far more than that. It is in the service of science and of humanity at large. I can’t help it. I must—I will!”
There was tremendous emphasis on that “I will!” and, as if now fully resolved, he went to where the old sexton was scraping and chopping about the entrance of the mausoleum, and sometimes stooping to drag out a luxuriant weed.