“Sir!”
“Go along with you! What are you to do with the surplice? Why, wear it, and lend it to old May afterwards when he comes down to marry you and the pretty widow.”
“Horace North!” cried the curate indignantly.
“Sit down, and none of your gammon, you transparent old humbug! Why, I can see right through you, just as if you were so much glass.”
Salis had pushed back his chair, and now rose, just as North burst out passionately:
“No, no, Salis; don’t go—for pity’s sake don’t go. I have so much to say to you.”
“If it is of a piece with what you have already said, Horace North, I would prefer to be ignorant of its import.”
The doctor had risen too, and caught the back of his chair, which he stood grasping with spasmodic force, as, suffering an agony he could not have expressed, he saw his friend stalk solemnly along the path to the great gate, which swung after him to and fro for some seconds before the iron latch closed with a loud click.
“Heaven help me!—what shall I do?” groaned North, as he threw himself upon the couch, and covered his face with his hands. “What does this mean? What new horror is this? Have I lost all power over thought and tongue?”
“May I clear away, sir?” said a sharp, clear voice.