walk to church?”
“Yes; Uncle Silas’s carriage wants a new wheel, he told me.”
“Ay, but a young woman of your rank, you know, it is not usual she should be without the use of a carriage. Have you horses to ride?”
I shook my head.
“Your uncle, you know, has a very liberal allowance for your maintenance and education.”
I remembered something in the will about it, and Mary Quince was constantly grumbling that “he did not spend a pound a week on our board.”
I answered nothing, but looked down.
Another glance at the door from Doctor Bryerly’s sharp black eyes.
“Is he kind to you?”
“Very kind — most gentle and affectionate.”
“Why doesn’t he keep company with you? Does he ever dine with you, or drink tea, or talk to you? Do you see much of him?”
“He is a miserable invalid — his hours and regimen are peculiar. Indeed I wish very much you would consider his case; he is, I believe, often insensible for a long time, and his mind in a strange feeble state sometimes.”
“I dare say — worn out in his young days; and I saw that preparation of opium in his bottle — he takes too much.”
“Why do you think so, Doctor Bryerly?”
“It’s made on water: the spirit interferes with the use of it beyond a certain limit. You have no idea what those fellows can swallow. Read the ‘Opium Eater.’ I knew two cases in which the quantity exceeded De Quincey’s. Aha! it’s new to you?” and he laughed quietly at my simplicity.
“And what do you think his complaint is?” I asked.
“Pooh! I haven’t a notion; but, probably, one way or another, he has been all his days working on his nerves and his brain. These men of pleasure, who have no other pursuit, use themselves up mostly, and pay a smart price for their sins. And so he’s kind and affectionate, but hands you over to your cousin and the servants. Are his people civil and obliging?”
“Well, I can’t say much for them; there is a man named Hawkes, and his daughter, who are very rude, and even abusive sometimes, and say they have orders from my uncle to shut us out from a portion of the grounds; but I don’t believe that, for Uncle Silas never alluded to it when I was making my complaint of them to-day.”
“From what part of the grounds is that?” asked Doctor Bryerly, sharply.
I described the situation as well as I could.
“Can we see it from this?” he asked, peeping from the window.
“Oh, no.”
Doctor Bryerly made a note in his pocket-book here, and I said —
“But I am really quite sure it was a story of Dickon’s, he is such a surly, disobliging man.”
“And what sort is that old servant that came in and out of his room?”
“Oh, that is old L’Amour,” I answered, rather indirectly, and forgetting that I was using Milly’s nickname.
“And is she civil?” he asked.
No, she certainly was not; a most disagreeable old woman, with a vein of wickedness. I thought I had heard her swearing.
“They don’t seem to be a very engaging lot,” said Doctor Bryerly; “but where there’s one, there will be more. See here, I was just reading a passage,” and he opened the little volume at the place where his finger marked it, and read for me a few sentences, the purport of which I well remember, although, of course, the words have escaped me.
It was in that awful portion of the book which assumes to describe the condition of the condemned; and it said that, independently of the physical causes in that state operating to enforce community of habitation, and an isolation from superior spirits, there exist sympathies, aptitudes, and necessities which would, of themselves, induce that depraved gregariousness, and isolation too.
“And what of the rest of the servants, are they better?” he resumed.
We saw little or nothing of the others, except of old “Giblets,” the butler, who went about like a little automaton of dry bones, poking here and there, and whispering and smiling to himself as he laid the cloth; and seeming otherwise quite unconscious of an external world.
“This room is not got up like Mr. Ruthyn’s; does he talk of furnishings and making things a little smart? No! Well, I must say, I think he might.”
Here there was a little silence, and Doctor Bryerly, with his accustomed simultaneous glance at the door, said in low, cautious tones, very distinctly —
“Have you been thinking at all over that matter again, I mean about getting your uncle to forego his guardianship? I would not mind his first refusal. You could make it worth his while, unless he — that is — unless he’s very unreasonable indeed; and I think you would consult your interest, Miss Ruthyn, by doing so and, if possible, getting out of this place.”
“But I have not thought of it at all; I am much happier here than I had at all expected, and I am very fond of my cousin Milly.”
“How long have you been here exactly?”
I told him. It was some two or three months.
“Have you seen your other cousin yet — the young gentleman?”
“No.”
“H’m! Aren’t you very lonely?” he enquired.
“We see no visitors here; but that, you know, I was prepared for.”
Doctor Bryerly read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently and peevishly, and tapped the sole lightly on the ground.
“Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You’d be pleasanter somewhere else — with Lady Knolly’s, for instance, eh?”
“Well, there certainly. But I am very well here: really the time passes very pleasantly; and my uncle is so kind. I have only to mention anything that annoys me, and he will see that it is remedied: he is always impressing that on me.”
“Yes, it is not a fit place for you,” said Doctor Bryerly. “Of course, about your uncle,” he resumed, observing my surprised look, “it is all right: but he’s quite helpless, you know. At all events, think about it. Here’s my address — Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, M. D., 17 King Street, Covent Garden, London — don’t lose it, mind,” and he tore the leaf out of his note-book.
“Here’s my fly at the door, and you must — you must” (he was looking at his watch)—“mind you must think of it seriously; and so, you see, don’t let anyone see that. You’ll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best way will be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know; and don’t put my name — you’ll remember that — only the rest of the address; and burn this. Quince is with you?”
“Yes,” I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say.
“Well, don’t let her go; it’s a bad sign if they wish it. Don’t consent, mind; but just tip me a hint and you’ll have me down. And any letters you get from Lady Knollys, you know, for she’s very plain-spoken, you’d better burn them off-hand. And I’ve stayed too long, though; mind what I say, scratch it with a pin, and burn that, and not a word to a mortal about it. Good-bye; oh, I was taking away your book.”
And so, in a fuss, with a slight shake of the hand, getting up his umbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room; and in a minute more, I heard the sound of his vehicle as it drove away.
I looked after it with a sigh; the uneasy sensations which I had experienced respecting my sojourn at Bartram–Haugh were re-awakened.
My