The Man with a Shadow

“He – he – he! Let ’em,” chuckled the old man; “let ’em. Sir Thomas Candlish, eh?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the girl, giving her head a vain toss.

Boom! went the bell, after the rope had rattled; and the old man groaned with the effort.

“He – he – he! No, no, you don’t know,” he chuckled, moving sidewise, and giving the girl a sharp nudge with his elbow. “But, my word, Dally, you do look pretty this morning.”

“Don’t, gran’fa. What stuff!”

“Oh, but you do,” said the old man, looking at her critically; “and fine and smart too for coming to a funeral.”

“Why, you wouldn’t have had me wear black, gran’fa, would you?”

They were quite alone in the belfry, and as the old man talked, he from time to time gave a steady pull at the rope, and a heavy, jarring boom was the result.

“Ah, and I might have said wear black, if I’d ha’ thought of it,” said the old man, examining the girl from top to toe.

“Then I hadn’t got any black, and if I had I would not have worn it, because it makes one look so ugly,” said the girl, giving her head another toss. “Now do tell me where to go. I want to see well. Can’t you put me up in that loft place over the vestry?”

“What! where you could see down into squire’s pew?” said the old man, giving another tug at the rope.

“Yes, gran’fa; it’s a nice snug place, where no one could see me.”

“Oh, yes, they could,” said the old man, chuckling. “Anybody looked up from the squire’s pew he could see your bonny face.”

“I’m sure I didn’t know,” said the girl; “and you’re very fond of calling it a bonny face all at once. You said one day I was an ugly little witch.”

“Did I?” said the old man, whose voice was nearly drowned by the boom he produced from the bell. “I s’pose I was cross that day. But, Dally, why didn’t you come and ask your old grandfather for some money to buy black?”

“Because he’d have called me an idle hussy, and told me to go about my business,” said the girl pertly.

“No, he wouldn’t, my dear,” said the old man, tugging at the rope. “He’d have given you enough to buy a new silk dress, and a bonnet and feather – black ’uns, so that you might have come to the berrin’ looking as well as the best of ’em.”

“Would you, gran’fa?” cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling.

“Ay, that I would, my chuck, and the noo squire could have seen you, and – hist!” —boom! – “he’d have thought more of you than ever.”

“Oh, for shame, gran’fa,” said Dally. “You shouldn’t. But will you give me the money now?”

“It’s too late, my chucky.”

“No, no, it isn’t, gran’fa.”

“But you must mind what you’re doing, Dally.”

Another tug at the bell-rope, and a loud boom! made the place quiver.

“I don’t understand you, gran’pa.”

“Oh, yes, you do. There, you come and see me to-night – no, to-morrow morning, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“You dear old gran’fa!” cried the girl. “But make haste; I want to go into that loft. You’ve got the key.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, and if you don’t make haste, Mr Salis and Mr May will be here, and I can’t get through the vestry.”

“Ah well, you feel in my pocket there – in the coat behind the door. It’s the littlest key.”

The girl darted to the old coat, and the next minute had drawn out four keys, all polished by long usage, the littlest being a great implement, big enough to use for a weapon of war.

“There,” said old Moredock, chuckling; “bring it back to me when you’ve done.”

“Yes, gran’fa.”

“And mind young squire don’t see you.”

“Oh, gran’fa, of course I will.”

Rope rattle, boom, and a loud chuckle.

“Ah, that you will, Dally. There, be off, and don’t forget to come to me to-morrow morning.”

“I shan’t forget, gran’fa,” cried the girl, hurrying out, and going round by the back of the church to the vestry door, as another loud boom rang out from the church tower.

People were gathering, but Dally was not seen, and passing into the vestry, she opened the old oaken door in the corner, drew out the key to insert it on the other side, draw it to after her and lock herself in, and stand panting for a few moments before ascending the narrow, corkscrew staircase, which led to the traceried opening in the side of the chancel, from which place she could have an excellent view of all that was about to take place.

For it was to be “a fine berrin’.”

This was the accepted term for Luke Candlish’s funeral.

His brother, Tom, heir to the title and estate, consequent upon Luke’s single life, had given orders to the London undertaker – very much to the disgust of the King’s Hampton carpenter and upholsterer, as his sign-board announced, for this individual wanted to know why he couldn’t bury the squire as well as a Londoner – that everything should be worthy of the family. So the London man had brought down his third best suite of funeral paraphernalia. The first was retained for magnates: the second for London folk of rank; the third for the leading country families, who always ordered and believed they had the beat.

But it was very nearly the same. The ostrich plumes of sable hue were common to all ranks, and the velvet and silk palls and carriages that were used for the higher magnates one year, descended to the second place a year or so later, and then came into country use. It was only a question of freshness, and what could that matter when the eyes of the mourners were so veiled with tears that they could not tell the new from the old?

So it was a fine berrin’, with the carriages of all the neighbouring gentry sent down to follow, and a most impressive service, which, read impressively by the rector, who had driven over from King’s Hampton, sounded almost blasphemous to Hartley Salis, who had the misfortune to know the character of the deceased by heart. The coffin of polished mahogany, with gilt handles, had been greatly admired; the favoured few had read the inscription; and when it was borne from the Hall to the church, that edifice was fairly well filled, and the carriages extended from the lych-gate right away down to Moredock’s cottage – three hundred yards.

It was a funeral, but to very few was it a scene of sadness, being looked upon as a sight quite as interesting as a wedding, and the lookers-on had duly noted who descended from the various carriages to enter the church, among the followers being Cousin Thompson, who had found it necessary to stay down at his cousin’s house with Horace North, to transact a certain amount of business for the new baronet.

The doctor was not well pleased, for the society of his cousin bored him just at a time when his mind was full of great ideas which he was anxious to carry out; but he submitted with as good a grace as he could assume, and at the funeral they sat side by side in one of the carriages, and then occupied the same position in a pew. And while the Reverend Maurice May spoke with tears in his throat of the departed brother, the doctor thought of science, and his cousin of money, and of the brother who had not departed.

Mrs Berens uttered a loud, hysterical sob once during the service, for she had gone so far as to hope at one time that she might become the mistress at the Hall.

This sob came from one part of the church, while a second sob came from the Rectory pew, where Leo sat – another who had once thought it possible that she might become the lady of the Hall through the deceased; and, as she sat there, she recalled certain love passages which had taken place between them, prior to Luke Candlish displaying a greater fondness for a love of a more spirituous character, when his brother stepped into his place, and the fierce quarrels which had been common nearly ceased.

There were spectators in all parts of the church, Dally Watlock being the best placed, and out of sight of the congregation. She sat aloft, with her elbows on her knees, and her chin in her hands, watching two people – Leo Salis and Sir Thomas Candlish.

The girl’s eyes flashed, and displayed her nervous excitement, as, with her head perfectly motionless, she watched, with her gaze now in one pew, now in the other, ready to trap the first glance. For to her it was no solemn scene, only a worldly battle, in which she had made up her little mind to come out victor.

The service proceeded, and Tom Candlish half sat, half knelt in his rarely occupied place, close to the grotesque effigy of his ancestors. He did not kneel, for he had an antipathy to making the knees of his new black trousers dusty; but his mien was quite contrary to established custom. When he did attend Duke’s Hampton church, he spent as much as possible of his time standing, with his hands resting over the side of the pew, staring at every woman in the place. Now, to Dally’s great satisfaction, he did not once look about him, but kept his chin upon his breast – his way of displaying his grief.

Leo, in her place in the Rectory pew, was as careful of mien, and an ordinary watcher would have been content. But Dally Watlock was not an ordinary watcher, and she had settled in her own mind that Tom Candlish and Leo would, sooner or later, look at one another, if only for a moment, and it was to catch that glance she waited.

Dally was right, and the glance was so keen and quick that she was the only one who noticed it. But there it was, sure enough, just at the moment when the rector stepped down from the reading-desk, and there was a shuffling noise in the centre aisle, where the undertaker’s men were busy. One quick interchange at one moment, as if those two instinctively knew that the time had come, and Dally Watlock drew a long breath between her set teeth, while her little eyes glittered, and again seemed to flash.

Then the church slowly emptied, the churchyard filled, and the people formed a half-circle about the mausoleum, whose railing-gates stood open, and whose door at the foot of the stone steps gaped, while a faint glare came from within, to shine upon an end of the coffin, as the sun shone upon the other.

The Reverend Maurice May’s pathetic voice rose and sank through the rest of the service to the time when the coffin was borne down the steps, and there rested once more; and his words sounded even more tearful still as he finished, closed the book, and with bent head took four steps into the vestry, and sat down and sighed, before removing his gown, bowing to his curate as if too much overcome to speak, and returning to his carriage, to follow the others to the Hall.

Meanwhile, with a great show of importance, Moredock assisted the undertaker’s men in the closing of the yawning door of the vault, afterwards shutting the iron gates with a strange, echoing clang, and turning the key; while North, who seemed wrapped in thought, stood watching him.

At that moment Salis came out of the vestry, with his sister, and was about to go up to North and speak; but he drew back as Cousin Thompson came round the end of the chancel.

“Why, here you are!” exclaimed the latter. “The carriage is waiting, and all the rest are gone.”

“Gone?” said the doctor dreamily. “Gone where?”

“Where? Why, up to the Hall, of course. We must hear the will.”

“No,” said North coldly; “the will does not concern me. I am not coming.”

“Not coming?” cried Cousin Thompson. “Why, the man must be mad.”

He hurried along the path, to spring into the carriage waiting at the gate, while after a glance round at the knots of people waiting about the churchyard, North walked slowly up to old Moredock.

The old man saw him coming, and half turned away as if to speak to his grandchild, but North checked him.

“Moredock,” he said quietly, “you’ll want that medicine to-night.”

“No, no, doctor,” said the old man uneasily, “no more – no more.”

“Yes, you will want some more,” said the doctor meaningly; and the old man returned his fixed look, and then stood rubbing his withered yellow cheek with the key of the vault as the doctor walked away.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “I don’t like it. Not in my way. Ah, Dally, my lass, going home?”

“I’m going back to the Rectory, if that’s what you mean,” said the girl shortly, as she turned away.

“Ah, there she goes,” muttered the old man, “and why not? She’s handsome enough. But the doctor – the doctor, coming down to-night. Well, I must do it; I must do it, I suppose, for I can’t get on without him, and it’s too soon to die just yet. Bit o’ money, too – a bit o’ money. Man must save up, so as not to go in the workhouse. Dally, too. Fine clothes and feathers, and make a lady of her. Why not, eh? How do I know he wouldn’t poison me next time if I didn’t mind what he said?”

Volume Two – Chapter Three.

For a Special Reason

Jonadab Moredock sat smoking his pipe on the night of the funeral, after Luke Candlish had been laid to his rest. The old man sat in the dark for economical reasons, and whenever he drew hard at his pipe, the glow in the bowl faintly lit up his weird old face.

He was communing with himself, for apparently his conscience was pricking him with reminders of the past.

“Well,” he muttered, “it was only lead, and bits o’ zinc did just as well. Sold one of the bells if I could? Well, so I would, if they hadn’t been so heavy. Much mine as anybody else’s. I’m ’bout the oldest man in Hampton!”

He smoked on furiously, and shifted about in his chair.

“What was a man to do? Go to workhouse when he got old? No, I wouldn’t do that. Only a few bones as the doctors wanted, and as would ha’ rotted in the ground if they’d been left. Do good, too. Them as they b’longed to’s glad they’re able to do good with them, I know.

“Wish I’d a drop o’ that physic, now. Seems to stir a man up like, and give him strength. Nasty job, but I’m not skeared! It was fancy that night. If I’d had a drop o’ doctor’s stuff I shouldn’t ha’ seen that head going along above the pews. No, I’m not skeared; but will he see – will he see?”

The old man fidgeted about uneasily in his chair, and had to refill and relight his pipe.

“Tchah! What would he know about ’em? How could he tell? Nobody but me’s ever been down there, ’cept at funerals, and them as lives don’t want ’em; they b’long to the dead. Dead don’t want ’em, so they b’long to me. Ah!”

“Why, Moredock, did I frighten you?”

“Frighten me! No. Nothing frightens me; but you shouldn’t come so sudden like upon a man.”

“You shouted as if you had been hurt. What makes you sit in the dark?”

“’Cause I arn’t afraid o’ the dark,” grumbled the old man. “Candles is candles, and costs money; don’t they? Nobody gives me candles.”

“Well, are you ready?”

“Ready? What for?”

“No nonsense, man. I’m not to be trifled with.”

“Humph!” growled Moredock. “Brought that physic?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Give’s a drop, now. I’m about beat out. Hard work to-day.”

North took a bottle from his pocket and set it on the table.

“Get a light, and you shall take a dose,” he said.

“Nay; I want no light. I can see to do all I want without a light.”

Moredock rose, went to a shelf, and took down a cup; the squeaking of the cork was followed by the gurgle of some fluid, and then there was a sound represented by the word “glug,” and the sexton drew a long breath.

“Hah! that puts life in a man,” he said. “Be careful not to take too much.”

“Ay! don’t be skeared, doctor; I know,” said the old man. “One thumb deep. I’ve measured it times enough. I didn’t leave a light. Might take attention. Young Joe Chegg gets hanging about. Thinks he wants my Polly, but he won’t get her. Comes peeping in at this window sometimes to see if she’s here. Now I’m ready.”

“Got everything you want?” said North. “Keys – lanthorn?”

“Ay! Got everything I want; but have you got everything you want?”

“Yes, man, yes.”

“And look here, doctor; mind this: it’s your job, and you’re making me do it.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean as I arn’t going to stand the racket if it’s found out. Spose Parson Salis comes down upon me about it?”

“I understand you now,” said the doctor sternly; “and I promise to hold you free.”

“But it is for money, isn’t it, doctor?” said Moredock insinuatingly.

“Money!” cried the doctor scornfully. “Do you think I would do this for money?”

The old man made a curious sound in his throat, which might have been laughing, but it was impossible to say, and then led the way out of the cottage, merely closing the door after them, and going on towards the church.

It was a singularly dark night, with not a breath of wind. Away to their left lay the principal part of the village; but not a light was visible; and, save for the uneasy barking of a dog at a distance, there was not a sound.

“Not like this i’ the morning, doctor,” whispered Moredock. “Place was like a fair.”

“Don’t talk,” said the doctor sternly; and after emitting a grunt, the old sexton trudged steadily on to the lych-gate, which he opened, the key clicking a little, and the lock giving a sharp snap.

“Shall I lock it, or leave it?”

“Leave it. No one will come here.”

“Nay, I’ll make sure,” said the old man; and passing his hand through the open woodwork, he locked the gate and withdrew the key.

The two men ascended the steep pathway to the front of the church porch, and continued their journey round by the end of the chancel to the north, where the great mausoleum and the vestry stood side by side.

As they reached the end of the path where it stopped by the vestry door, Moredock paused to listen intently for a few moments.

“All right,” he said; “not so much as a cat about;” and stooping down, he unlocked the iron gates at the head of the steps and they swung softly back. “Iled ’em well,” whispered the sexton, “and the door below, too.”

“Now look here, my man,” whispered North, “you can let me into the tomb, and then keep watch for me; or I will open the place myself, and bring you back the keys.”

“Nay, doctor, I’m not skeared. I don’t like the job, but now you’ve got me to start on it, I’ll go on right to the end.”

“That’s right, Moredock; and you shall not regret it, man. As I’ve told you, it is for a special scientific reason.”

“I don’t know nothing ’bout scientific reason, doctor,” whispered the old man; “but you said it was some’at to do wi’ making men live longer.”

“Yes, and it is.”

“And that you’d stick to me, doctor, and make me live as long as Mephooslum if you could.”

“Yes, Moredock, I did.”

“And you’ll stick to that bargain?”

“I will, on my honour as a man.”

“Shak’ han’s on it once again, doctor. That’s enough for me. I like a bit o’ money, and I want it bad; but no money shouldn’t ha’ made me do this. I’m doing of it because it’s to make men live longer.”

“Yes, my man, it is.”

“Then in we goes. Stop!”

“What now?”

“You won’t bring him – Squire Luke – back to life again, will you? Because that won’t answer my book.”

“Silence, man, and keep to your bargain, as I will keep to mine.”

Moredock drew a long breath, inserted the key, opened the heavy door of the great vault, and it, too, swung easily upon its well-oiled hinges, carefully prepared by the sexton for the funeral.

“You won’t mind the dark for a minute, doctor?” whispered the old man.

“No,” said the doctor, stepping in, followed by the sexton, who carefully closed the grim portal, and they stood together in the utter darkness in presence of generations of the dead.

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.”

Volume Two – Chapter Five.