The Man with a Shadow. Fenn George Manville
he say when he is coming home?” said Mary quietly.
“Yes; day after to-morrow. Good news for Mrs Berens.”
The curate burst into a hearty laugh, and a very, very faint flush of colour came into Mary’s cheek.
“Saw her yesterday, and with a face as innocent of guile as could be she told me that she was very poorly, and should not feel safe to live long in a village where there was no medical man. Glad old Horace is coming back, though. What have we here? Oh, I see. Letter about the horse – no, it’s a mare.”
Leo put down her book and listened attentively now.
“Hah! Yes! North was right. The fellow will take ten pounds less for her, after all.”
“Ah!”
There was a faint sigh, expressive of gratification, and the curate looked up.
“Are you satisfied, Leo?” he said gravely.
“Yes.”
“It goes against the grain,” he said, laying his hand involuntarily upon the letter he had that morning received from the rector.
“Don’t say that, Hartley,” cried Leo, with her face now full of animation. “We can afford the horse, and it was absolutely disgraceful to appear on poor old Grey Joe.”
“Grey Joe was a good safe horse, and I never felt nervous when you were mounted. Splendid fellow in harness too.”
“Yes, admirable!” cried Leo. “And now you can keep him always for the chaise. It will be so much better.”
The curate shook his head.
“No,” he said; “poor old Joe will have to so, and I wish him a wood master.”
“Poor old Joe!” said Mary, sighing, as she thought of many pleasant drives.
“Grey Joe! Go!” said Leo, with her lips apart. “Then what will you do for the chaise?”
“Use the new mare.”
Leo looked at him with speechless indignation.
“Put the new mare in the chaise?” she faltered.
“Yes, my dear. The man says she goes well in harness.”
“Oh, Hartley,” cried Leo, flushing now with indignation, “that would be too absurd!”
“Why, my dear?”
“You get me a mount because it is so unpleasant to go to the meet on an old chaise-horse, and then talk of putting my hunter in the chaise.”
“Grey Joe was not good enough for the purpose,” said the curate gravely, “and at your earnest wish, my dear Leo, I have pinched in several ways that my sister, who is so fond of hunting, may not be ashamed before her friends.”
“Pinched!”
“Yes, my dear, pinched myself and Mary. Our consols money only gives three per cent., and it is hard work to make both ends meet. You have your mount, and I cannot afford to keep two horses, so Grey Joe must go. We must have the use of a horse in the chaise, so the mare will have to run in harness sometimes.”
Leo rose from her chair with her eyes flashing and cheek aflame.
“I declare it’s insufferable,” she cried, with a stamp of the foot. “Oh, I am so sick of this life of beggary and pinching! All through this season I have been disgraced by that wretched old horse, and now when people who know me – Oh, I cannot bear to speak of it!”
“My dear sister!”
“It’s cruel – it’s abominable. If it had been Mary, she could have had what she pleased.”
“My dear Leo,” began Mary, looking up at her in a troubled way.
“Hold your tongue! You make mischief enough as it is. You always side with Hartley, who has no more feeling than a stone.”
“But, my dear child,” began the curate.
“Child! Yes; that’s how you treat me – like a child. You check me in every way. I suppose you’ll want to make me a nun, and keep me shut up always in this dreary hole. You check me in everything, and Mary helps you.”
Mary looked up at her brother now, for he had slowly risen from his seat, and she knew the meaning of the stern aspect of his countenance.
“I had hoped, Leo,” he said, “that you would have accepted my decision about that to which you have thought it wise to allude.”
“I am driven to it,” cried the girl passionately.
“No: I try to lead,” said the curate, “as a father might lead. I shall be sorry when the time comes for you to quit our pleasant old home, but if a good man and true comes and says, ‘I love your sister; give her me to wife’ – ”
“If you cannot speak plain English, pray hold your tongue,” cried Leo scornfully.
“I should hold out my hands to him, and greet him as a new brother, Leo,” said the curate solemnly; “but when I find that my young, innocent sister is being made the toy of a worthless, degraded – ”
“How dare you?” cried Leo, flashing out in her rage, while Mary went to her side, and laid her hand upon the trembling arm half raised.
“I dare,” said the curate gravely, “because I have right upon my side. I think – and Mary joins me in so thinking – ”
“Of course!” said Leo scornfully. “That Thomas Candlish is no fit companion for my sister. I have told you so, and to cease all further communication. I have told him so; forbidden him the house; and he has accepted my judgment.”
“Mr Candlish is a gentleman,” cried Leo fiercely.
“People call him so, and his brother by the same name, because of the old family property; but if they are gentlemen, thank Heaven I am a poor curate!”
“Your conduct – ”
“Hush!” said the curate firmly. “We will say no more about this, Leo, my dear. You are angry without cause. I have acceded to your request for a fresh horse, so as to indulge you in your love of hunting, and at more cost than you imagine. I shall always be glad to do anything that I can to make my sisters happy; but I must be judge and master here, though I fear I am often very weak.”
“It is insufferable,” cried Leo indignantly; and she raised quite a little whirlwind as she swept out of the room.
The curate sighed, and sank back in his chair with his brow knit, till he felt a soft arm encircle his neck and a rounded cheek rest against his temple.
“Ah!” he exclaimed; “that’s better;” and he passed his arm round the graceful form. “This is very sad, Mary. But, there; we will not brood over it; difficulties often settle themselves.”
“Yes, Hartley.”
“But that Candlish business must not go on.”
“No, Hartley. It is impossible.”
She kissed his forehead, and the breakfast was finished in silence – supposed to be finished. It had really ended when Leo Salis quitted the room.
It was about an hour later that as the Reverend Hartley Salis was hard at work over his sermon, striving his best to keep out college lore, and to write in language that the Duke’s Hampton villagers could easily understand, that he came to the sentence following —
“Now a man’s duty, my friends – and a woman’s” – he added parenthetically.
“Now, what shall I tell them a man’s duty is – and a woman’s?”
That required thought, and he laid down his pen, rose, and walked to the study window, to look out on the pleasant landscape; beautiful still, though not in the most goodly time of year.
“Obedience!” he cried angrily, for just passing out of the little rustic gate at the bottom of the Rectory grounds he saw his sister