Directions which, coming from another person would have had no great weight, were spoken by my father with an earnest look and a weight of emphasis that made them irresistibly impressive, and I went away with the seal of silence upon my lips. Sit down, Maud, there. You have not been very happy with Madame de la Rougierre. It is time you were relieved. This occurrence decides it. He rang the bell. Tell Madame de la Rougierre that I request the honour of seeing her for a few minutes here. My fathers communications to her were always equally ceremonious. In a few minutes there was a knock at the door, and the same figure, smiling, courtesying, that had scared me on the threshold last night, like the spirit of evil, presented itself. My father rose, and Madame having at his request taken a chair opposite, looking, as usual in his presence, all amiability, he proceeded at once to the point. Madame de la Rougierre, I have to request you that you will give me the key now in your possession, which unlocks this desk of mine. With which termination he tapped his gold pencilcase suddenly on it. Madame, who had expected something very different, became instantly so pale, with a dull purplish hue upon her forehead, that, especially when she had twice essayed with her white lips, in vain, to answer, I expected to see her fall in a fit. She was not looking in his face; her eyes were fixed lower, and her mouth and cheek sucked in, with a strange distortion at one side. She stood up suddenly, and staring straight in his face, she succeeded in saying, after twice clearing her throat I cannot comprehend, Monsieur Ruthyn, unless you intend to insult me. It wont do, Madame; I must have that false key. I give you the opportunity of surrendering it quietly here and now. But who dares to say I possess such thing? demanded Madame, who, having rallied from her momentary paralysis, was now fierce and voluble as I had often seen her before. You know, Madame, that you can rely on what I say, and I tell you that you were seen last night visiting this room, and with a key in your possession, opening this desk, and reading my letters and papers contained in it. Unless you forthwith give me that key, and any other false keys in your possessionin which case I shall rest content with dismissing you summarilyI will take a different course. You know I am a magistrate;and I shall have you, your boxes, and places upstairs, searched forthwith, and I will prosecute you criminally. The thing is clear; you aggravate by denying; you must give me that key, if you please, instantly, otherwise I ring this bell, and you shall see that I mean what I say. There was a little pause. He rose and extended his hand towards the bellrope. Madame glided round the table, extended her hand to arrest his. I will do everything, Monsieur Ruthynwhatever you wish. And with these words Madame de la Rougierre broke down altogether. She sobbed, she wept, she gabbled piteously, all manner of incomprehensible roulades of lamentation and entreaty; coyly, penitently, in a most interesting agitation, she produced the very key from her breast, with a string tied to it. My father was little moved by this piteous tempest. He coolly took the key and tried it in the desk, which it locked and unlocked quite freely, though the wards were complicated. He shook his head and looked her in the face. Pray, who made this key? It is a new one, and made expressly to pick this lock. But Madame was not going to tell any more than she had expressly bargained for; so she only fell once more into her old paroxysm of sorrow, selfreproach, extenuation, and entreaty. Well, said my father, I promised that on surrendering the key you should go. It is enough. I keep my word. You shall have an hour and a half to prepare in. You must then be ready to depart. I will send your money to you by Mrs. Rusk; and if you look for another situation, you had better not refer to me. Now be so good as to leave me. Madame seemed to be in a strange perplexity. She bridled up, dried her eyes fiercely, and dropped a great courtesy, and then sailed away towards the door. Before reaching it she stopped on the way, turning half round, with a peaked, pallid glance at my father, and she bit her lip viciously as she eyed him. At the door the same repulsive pantomime was repeated, as she stood for a moment with her hand upon the handle. But she changed her bearing again with a sniff, and with a look of scorn, almost heightened to a sneer, she made another very low courtesy and a disdainful toss of her head, and so disappeared, shutting the door rather sharply behind her. XIX Au Revoir Mrs. Rusk was fond of assuring me that Madame did not like a bone in my skin. Instinctively I knew that she bore me no goodwill, although I really believe it was her wish to make me think quite the reverse. At all events I had no desire to see Madame again before her departure, especially as she had thrown upon me one momentary glance in the study, which seemed to me charged with very peculiar feelings. You may be very sure, therefore, that I had no desire for a formal leavetaking at her departure. I took my hat and cloak, therefore, and stole out quietly. My ramble was a sequestered one, and well screened, even at this late season, with foliage; the pathway devious among the stems of old trees, and its flooring interlaced and groined with their knotted roots. Though near the house, it was a sylvan solitude; a little brook ran darkling and glimmering through it, wild strawberries and other woodland plants strewed the ground, and the sweet notes and flutter of small birds made the shadow of the boughs cheery. I had been fully an hour in this picturesque solitude when I heard in the distance the ring of carriagewheels, announcing to me that Madame de la Rougierre had fairly set out upon her travels. I thanked heaven; I could have danced and sung with delight; I heaved a great sigh and looked up through the branches to the clear blue sky. But things are oddly timed. Just at this moment I heard Madames voice close at my ear, and her large bony hand was laid on my shoulder. We were instantly face to faceI recoiling, and for a moment speechless with fright. In very early youth we do not appreciate the restraints which act upon malignity, or know how effectually fear protects us where conscience is wanting. Quite alone, in this solitary spot, detected and overtaken with an awful instinct by my enemy, what might not be about to happen to me at that moment? Frightened as usual, Maud, she said quietly, and eyeing me with a sinister smile, and with cause you think, no doubt. Wat av you done to injure poor Madame? Well, I think I know, little girl, and have quite discover the cleverness of my sweet little Maud. Ehis not so? Petite carogneah, ha, ha! I was too much confounded to answer. You see, my dear cheaile, she said, shaking her uplifted finger with a hideous archness at me, you could not hide what you av done from poor Madame. You cannot look so innocent but I can see your pretty little villany quite plainyou dear little diablesse. Wat I av done I av no reproach of myself for it. If I could explain, your papa would say I av done right, and you should thank me on your knees; but I cannot explain yet. She was speaking, as it were, in little paragraphs, with a momentary pause between each, to allow its meaning to impress itself. If I were to choose to explain, your papa he would implore me to remain. But noI would notnotwithstanding your so cheerful house, your charming servants, your papas amusing society, and your affectionate and sincere heart, my sweet little maraude. I am to go to London first, where I av, oh, so good friends! next I will go abroad for some time; but be sure, my sweetest Maud, wherever I may appen to be, I will remember youah, ha! Yes; most certainly, I will remember you. And although I shall not be always near, yet I shall know everything about my charming little Maud; you will not know how, but I shall indeed, everything. And be sure, my dearest cheaile, I will some time be able to give you the sensible proofs of my gratitude and affectionyou understand. The carriage is waiting at the yewtree stile, and I must go on. You did not expect to see mehere; I will appear, perhaps, as suddenly another time. It is great pleasure to us boththis opportunity to make our adieux. Farewell! my dearest little Maud. I will never cease to think of you, and of some way to recompense the kindness you av shown for poor Madame. My hand hung by my side, and she took, not it, but my thumb, and shook it, folded in her broad palm, and looking on me as she held it, as if meditating mischief. Then suddenly she said You will always remember Madame, I think, and I will remind you of me beside; and for the present farewell, and I hope you may be as appy as you deserve. The large sinister face looked on me for a second with its latent sneer, and then, with a sharp nod and a spasmodic shake of my imprisoned thumb, she turned, and holding her dress together, and showing her great bony ankles, she strode rapidly away over the gnarled roots into the perspective of the trees, and I did not awake, as it were, until she had quite disappeared in the distance. Events of this kind made no difference with my father; but every other face in Knowl was gladdened by the removal. My energies had returned, my spirits were come again. The sunlight was happy, the flowers innocent, the songs and flutter of the birds once more gay, and all nature delightful and rejoicing. After the first elation of relief, now and then a filmy shadow of Madame de la Rougierre would glide across the sunlight, and the remembrance of her menace return with an unexpected pang of fear. Well, if there isnt impittens! cried Mrs. Rusk. But never you trouble your head about it, Miss. Them sorts all alikeyou never saw a rogue yet that was found out and didnt threaten the honest folk as he was leaving behind with all sorts; there was Martin the gamekeeper, and Jervis the footman, I mind well how hard they swore all they would not do when they was agoing, and who ever heard of them since? They always threatens that waythem sort always does, and none ever the worsenot but she would if she could, mind ye, but there it is; she cant do nothing but bite her nails and cuss usnot sheha, ha, ha! So I was comforted. But Madames evil smile, nevertheless, from time to time, would sail across my vision with a silent menace, and my spirits sank, and a Fate, draped in black, whose face I could not see, took me by the hand, and led me away, in the spirit, silently, on an awful exploration from which I would rouse myself with a start, and Madame was gone for a while. She had, however, judged her little parting well. She contrived to leave her glamour over me, and in my dreams she troubled me. I was, however, indescribably relieved. I wrote in high spirits to Cousin Monica; and wondered what plans my father might have formed about me, and whether we were to stay at home, or go to London, or go abroad. Of the lastthe pleasantest arrangement, in some respectsI had nevertheless an occult horror. A secret conviction haunted me that were we to go abroad, we should there meet Madame, which to me was like meeting my evil genius. I have said more than once that my father was an odd man; and the reader will, by this time, have seen that there was much about him not easily understood. I often wonder whether, if he had been franker, I should have found him less odd than I supposed, or more odd still. Things that moved me profoundly did not apparently affect him at all. The departure of Madame, under the circumstances which attended it, appeared to my childish mind an event of the vastest importance. No one was indifferent to the occurrence in the house but its master. He never alluded again to Madame de la Rougierre. But whether connected with her exposure and dismissal, I could not say, there did appear to be some new care or trouble now at work in my fathers mind. I have been thinking a great deal about you, Maud. I am anxious. I have not been so troubled for years. Why has not Monica Knollys a little more sense? This oracular sentence he spoke, having stopped me in the hall; and then saying, We shall see, he left me as abruptly as he appeared. Did he apprehend any danger to me from the vindictiveness of Madame? A day or two afterwards, as I was in the Dutch garden, I saw him on the terrace steps. He beckoned to me, and came to meet me as I approached. You must be very solitary, little Maud; it is not good. I have written to Monica in a matter of detail she is competent to advise; perhaps she will come here for a short visit. I was very glad to hear this. You are more interested than for my time I can be, in vindicating his character. Whose character, sir? I ventured to enquire during the pause that followed. One trick which my father had acquired from his habits of solitude and silence was this of assuming that the context of his thoughts was legible to others, forgetting that they had not been spoken. Whose?your uncle Silass. In the course of nature he must survive me. He will then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to clear that name, Maud? I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm. He turned on me such an approving smile as you might fancy lighting up the rugged features of a pale old Rembrandt. I can tell you, Maud; if my life could have done it, it should not have been undoneubi lapsus, quid feci. But I had almost made up my mind to change my plan, and leave all to timeedax rerumto illuminate or to consume. But I think little Maud would like to contribute to the restitution of her family name. It may cost you somethingare you willing to buy it at a sacrifice? Is thereI dont speak of fortune, that is not involvedbut is there any other honourable sacrifice you would shrink from to dispel the disgrace under which our most ancient and honourable name must otherwise continue to languish? Oh, nonenone indeed, sirI am delighted! Again I saw the Rembrandt smile. Well, Maud, I am sure there is no risk; but you are to suppose there is. Are you still willing to accept it? Again I assented. You are worthy of your blood, Maud Ruthyn. It will come soon, and it wont last long. But you must not let people like Monica Knollys frighten you. I was lost in wonder. If you allow them to possess you with their follies, you had better recede in timethey may make the ordeal as terrible as hell itself. You have zealhave you nerve? I thought in such a cause I had nerve for anything. Well, Maud, in the course of a few monthsand it may be soonerthere must be a change. I have had a letter from London this morning that assures me of that. I must then leave you for a time; in my absence be faithful to the duties that will arise. To whom much is committed, of him will much be required. You shall promise me not to mention this conversation to Monica Knollys. If you are a talking girl, and cannot trust yourself, say so, and we will not ask her to come. Also, dont invite her to talk about your uncle SilasI have reasons. Do you quite understand my conditions? Yes, sir. Your uncle Silas, he said, speaking suddenly in loud and fierce tones that sounded from so old a man almost terrible, lies under an intolerable slander. I dont correspond with him; I dont sympathise with him; I never quite did. He has grown religious, and thats well; but there are things in which even religion should not bring a man to acquiesce; and from what I can learn, he, the person primarily affectedthe cause, though the innocent causeof this great calamitybears it with an easy apathy which is mistaken, and liable easily to be mistaken, and such as no Ruthyn, under the circumstances, ought to exhibit. I told him what he ought to do, and offered to open my purse for the purpose; but he would not, or did not; indeed, he never took my advice; he followed his own, and a foul and dismal shoal he has drifted on. It is not for his sakewhy should I?that I have longed and laboured to remove the disgraceful slur under which his illfortune has thrown us. He troubles himself little about it, I believehes meek, meeker than I. He cares less about his children than I about you, Maud; he is selfishly sunk in futuritya feeble visionary. I am not so. I believe it to be a duty to take care of others beside myself. The character and influence of an ancient family is a peculiar heritagesacred but destructible; and woe to him who either destroys or suffers it to perish! This was the longest speech I ever heard my father speak before or after. He abruptly resumed Yes, we will, Maudyou and Iwell leave one proof on record, which, fairly read, will go far to convince the world. He looked round, but we were alone. The garden was nearly always solitary, and few visitors ever approached the house from that side. I have talked too long, I believe; we are children to the last. Leave me, Maud. I think I know you better than I did, and I am pleased with you. Go, childIll sit here. If he had acquired new ideas of me, so had I of him from that interview. I had no idea till then how much passion still burned in that aged frame, nor how full of energy and fire that face, generally so stern and ashen, could appear. As I left him seated on the rustic chair, by the steps, the traces of that storm were still discernible on his features. His gathered brows, glowing eyes, and strangely hectic face, and the grim compression of his mouth, still showed the agitation which, somehow, in grey old age, shocks and alarms the young. XX Austin Ruthyn Sets Out on His Journey The Rev. William Fairfield, Doctor Clays somewhat bald curate, a mild, thin man, with a high and thin nose, who was preparing me for confirmation, came next day; and when our catechetical conference was ended, and before lunch was announced, my father sent for him to the study, where he remained until the bell rang out its summons. We have had some interestingI may say very interestingconversation, your papa and I, Miss Ruthyn, said my reverend visvis, so soon as nature was refreshed, smiling and shining, as he leaned back in his chair, his hand upon the table, and his finger curled gently upon the stem of his wineglass. It never was your privilege, I believe, to see your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, of BartramHaugh? Nonever; he leads so retiredso very retired a life. Oh, noof course, no; but I was going to remark a likenessI mean, of course, a family likenessonly that sort of thingyou understandbetween him and the profile of Lady Margaret in the drawingroomis not it Lady Margaret?which you were so good as to show me on Wednesday last. There certainly is a likeness. I think you would agree with me, if you had the pleasure of seeing your uncle. You know him, then? I have never seen him. Oh dear, yesI am happy to say, I know him very well. I have that privilege. I was for three years curate of Feltram, and I had the honour of being a pretty constant visitor at BartramHaugh during that, I may say, protracted period; and I think it really never has been my privilege and happiness, I may say, to enjoy the acquaintance and society of so very experienced a Christian, as my admirable friend, I may call him, Mr. Ruthyn, of BartramHaugh. I look upon him, I do assure you, quite in the light of a saint; not, of course, in the Popish sense, but in the very highest, you will understand me, which our Church allowsa man built up in faithfull of faithfaith and gracealtogether exemplary; and I often ventured to regret, Miss Ruthyn, that Providence in its mysterious dispensations should have placed him so far apart from his brother, your respected father. His influence and opportunities would, no doubt, we may venture to hope, at least have been blessed; and, perhaps, wemy valued rector and Imight possibly have seen more of him at church, than, I deeply regret, we have done. He shook his head a little, as he smiled with a sad complacency on me through his blue steel spectacles, and then sipped a little meditative sherry. And you saw a good deal of my uncle? Well, a good deal, Miss RuthynI may say a good dealprincipally at his own house. His health is wretchedmiserable healtha sadly afflicted man he has been, as, no doubt, you are aware. But afflictions, my dear Miss Ruthyn, as you remember Doctor Clay so well remarked on Sunday last, though birds of ill omen, yet spiritually resemble the ravens who supplied the prophet; and when they visit the faithful, come charged with nourishment for the soul. He is a good deal embarrassed pecuniarily, I should say, continued the curate, who was rather a good man than a very wellbred one. He found a difficultyin fact it was not in his powerto subscribe generally to our little funds, andand objects, and I used to say to him, and I really felt it, that it was more gratifying, such were his feeling and his power of expression, to be refused by him than assisted by others. Did papa wish you to speak to me about my uncle? I enquired, as a sudden thought struck me; and then I felt half ashamed of my question. He looked surprised. No, Miss Ruthyn, certainly not. Oh dear, no. It was merely a conversation between Mr. Ruthyn and me. He never suggested my opening that, or indeed any other point in my interview with you, Miss Ruthynnot the least. I was not aware before that Uncle Silas was so religious. He smiled tranquilly, not quite up to the ceiling, but gently upward, and shook his head in pity for my previous ignorance, as he lowered his eyes I dont say that there may not be some little matters in a few points of doctrine which we could, perhaps, wish otherwise. But these, you know, are speculative, and in all essentials he is Churchnot in the perverted modern sense; far from itunexceptionably Church, strictly so. Would there were more among us of the same mind that is in him! Ay, Miss Ruthyn, even in the highest places of the Church herself. The Rev. William Fairfield, while fighting against the Dissenters with his right hand, was, with his left, hotly engaged with the Tractarians. A good man I am sure he was, and I dare say sound in doctrine, though naturally, I think, not very wise. This conversation with him gave me new ideas about my uncle Silas. It quite agreed with what my father had said. These principles and his increasing years would necessarily quiet the turbulence of his resistance to injustice, and teach him to acquiesce in his fate. You would have fancied that one so young as I, born to wealth so vast, and living a life of such entire seclusion, would have been exempt from care. But you have seen how troubled my life was with fear and anxiety during the residence of Madame de la Rougierre, and now there rested upon my mind a vague and awful anticipation of the trial which my father had announced, without defining it. An ordeal he called it, requiring not only zeal but nerve, which might possibly, were my courage to fail, become frightful, and even intolerable. What, and of what nature, could it be? Not designed to vindicate the fair fame of the meek and submissive old manwho, it seemed, had ceased to care for his bygone wrongs, and was looking to futuritybut the reputation of our ancient family. Sometimes I repented my temerity in having undertaken it. I distrusted my courage. Had I not better retreat, while it was yet time? But there was shame and even difficulty in the thought. How should I appear before my father? Was it not importanthad I not deliberately undertaken itand was I not bound in conscience? Perhaps he had already taken steps in the matter which committed him. Besides, was I sure that, even were I free again, I would not once more devote myself to the trial, be it what it might? You perceive I had more spirit than courage. I think I had the mental attributes of courage; but then I was but a hysterical girl, and in so far neither more nor less than a coward. No wonder I distrusted myself; no wonder also my will stood out against my timidity. It was a struggle, then; a proud, wild resolve against constitutional cowardice. Those who have ever had cast upon them more than their strength seemed framed to bearthe weak, the aspiring, the adventurous and selfsacrificing in will, and the faltering in nervewill understand the kind of agony which I sometimes endured. But, again, consolation would come, and it seemed to me that I must be exaggerating my risk in the coming crisis; and certain at least, if my father believed it attended with real peril, he would never have wished to see me involved in it. But the silence under which I was bound was terrifyingdouble so when the danger was so shapeless and undivulged. I was soon to understand it allsoon, too, to know all about my fathers impending journey, whither, with what visitor, and why guarded from me with so awful a mystery. That day there came a lively and goodnatured letter from Lady Knollys. She was to arrive at Knowl in two or three days time. I thought my father would have been pleased, but he seemed apathetic and dejected. One does not always feel quite equal to Monica. But for youyes, thank God. I wish she could only stay, Maud, for a month or two; I may be going then, and would be gladprovided she talks about suitable thingsvery glad, Maud, to leave her with you for a week or so. There was something, I thought, agitating my father secretly that day. He had the strange hectic flush I had observed when he grew excited in our interview in the garden about Uncle Silas. There was something painful, perhaps even terrible, in the circumstances of the journey he was about to make, and from my heart I wished the suspense were over, the annoyance past, and he returned. That night my father bid me good night early and went upstairs. After I had been in bed some little time, I heard his handbell ring. This was not usual. Shortly after I heard his man, Ridley, talking with Mrs. Rusk in the gallery. I could not be mistaken in their voices. I knew not why I was startled and excited, and had raised myself to listen on my elbow. But they were talking quietly, like persons giving or taking an ordinary direction, and not in the haste of an unusual emergency. Then I heard the man bid Mrs. Rusk good night and walk down the gallery to the stairs, so that I concluded he was wanted no more, and all must therefore be well. So I laid myself down again, though with a throbbing at my heart, and an ominous feeling of expectation, listening and fancying footsteps. I was going to sleep when I heard the bell ring again; and, in a few minutes, Mrs. Rusks energetic step passed along the gallery; and, listening intently, I heard, or fancied, my fathers voice and hers in dialogue. All this was very unusual, and again I was, with a beating heart, leaning with my elbow on my pillow. Mrs. Rusk came along the gallery in a minute or so after, and stopping at my door, began to open it gently. I was startled, and challenged my visitor with Whos there? Its only Rusk, Miss. Dearie me! and are you awake still? Is papa ill? Ill! not a bit ill, thank God. Only theres a little black book as I took for your prayerbook, and brought in here; ay, here it is, sure enough, and he wants it. And then I must go down to the study, and look out this one, C, 15; but I cant read the name, noways; and I was afraid to ask him again; if you be so kind to read it, MissI suspeck my eyes is agoing. I read the name; and Mrs. Rusk was tolerably expert at finding out books, as she had often been employed in that way before. So she departed. I suppose that this particular volume was hard to find, for she must have been a long time away, and I had actually fallen into a doze when I was roused in an instant by a dreadful crash and a piercing scream from Mrs. Rusk. Scream followed scream, wilder and more terrorstricken. I shrieked to Mary Quince, who was sleeping in the room with meMary, do you hear? what is it? It is something dreadful. The crash was so tremendous that the solid flooring even of my room trembled under it, and to me it seemed as if some heavy man had burst through the top of the window, and shook the whole house with his descent. I found myself standing at my own door, crying, Help, help! murder! murder! and Mary Quince, frightened half out of her wits, by my side. I could not think what was going on. It was plainly something most horrible, for Mrs. Rusks screams pealed one after the other unabated, though with a muffled sound, as if the door was shut upon her; and by this time the bells of my fathers room were ringing madly. They are trying to murder him! I cried, and I ran along the gallery to his door, followed by Mary Quince, whose white face I shall never forget, though her entreaties only sounded like unmeaning noises in my ears. Here! help, help, help! I cried, trying to force open the door. Shove it, shove it, for Gods sake! hes across it, cried Mrs. Rusks voice from within; drive it in. I cant move him. I strained all I could at the door, but ineffectually. We heard steps approaching. The men were running to the spot, and shouting as they did so Never mind; hold on a bit; here we are; all right; and the like. We drew back, as they came up. We were in no condition to be seen. We listened, however, at my open door. Then came the straining and bumping at the door. Mrs. Rusks voice subsided to a sort of wailing; the men were talking all together, and I suppose the door opened, for I heard some of the voices, on a sudden, as if in the room; and then came a strange lull, and talking in very low tones, and not much even of that. What is it, Mary? what can it be? I ejaculated, not knowing what horror to suppose. And now, with a counterpane about my shoulders, I called loudly and imploringly, in my horror, to know what had happened. But I heard only the subdued and eager talk of men engaged in some absorbing task, and the dull sounds of some heavy body being moved. Mrs. Rusk came towards us looking half wild, and pale as a spectre, and putting her thin hands to my shoulders, she saidNow, Miss Maud, darling, you must go back again; tisnt no place for you; youll see all, my darling, time enoughyou will. There now, there, like a dear, do get into your room. What was that dreadful sound? Who had entered my fathers chamber? It was the visitor whom we had so long expected, with whom he was to make the unknown journey, leaving me alone. The intruder was Death! XXI Arrivals My father was deadas suddenly as if he had been murdered. One of those fearful aneurisms that lie close to the heart, showing no outward sign of giving way in a moment, had been detected a good time since by Dr. Bryerly. My father knew what must happen, and that it could not be long deferred. He feared to tell me that he was soon to die. He hinted it only in the allegory of his journey, and left in that sad enigma some words of true consolation that remained with me ever after. Under his rugged ways was hidden a wonderful tenderness. I could not believe that he was actually dead. Most people for a minute or two, in the wild tumult of such a shock, have experienced the same skepticism. I insisted that the doctor should be instantly sent for from the village. Well, Miss Maud, dear, I will send to please you, but it is all to no use. If only you saw him yourself youd know that. Mary Quince, run you down and tell Thomas, Miss Maud desires hell go down this minute to the village for Dr. Elweys. Every minute of the interval seemed to me like an hour. I dont know what I said, but I fancied that if he were not already dead, he would lose his life by the delay. I suppose I was speaking very wildly, for Mrs. Rusk said My dear child, you ought to come in and see him; indeed but you should, Miss Maud. Hes quite dead an hour ago. Youd wonder all the blood thats come from himyou would indeed; its soaked through the bed already.


Oh, dont, dont, dont, Mrs. Rusk. Will you come in and see him, just? Oh, no, no, no, no! Well, then, my dear, dont of course, if you dont like; theres no need. Would not you like to lie down, Miss Maud? Mary Quince, attend to her. I must go into the room for a minute or two. I was walking up and down the room in distraction. It was a cool night; but I did not feel it. I could only cryOh, Mary, Mary! what shall I do? Oh, Mary Quince! what shall I do? It seemed to me it must be near daylight by the time the Doctor arrived. I had dressed myself. I dared not go into the room where my beloved father lay. I had gone out of my room to the gallery, where I awaited Dr. Elweys, when I saw him walking briskly after the servant, his coat buttoned up to his chin, his hat in his hand, and his bald head shining. I felt myself grow cold as ice, and colder and colder, and with a sudden sten my heart seemed to stand still. I heard him ask the maid who stood at the door, in that low, decisive, mysterious tone which doctors cultivate In here? And then, with a nod, I saw him enter. Would not you like to see the Doctor, Miss Maud? asked Mary Quince. The question roused me a little. Thank you, Mary; yes, I must see him. And so, in a few minutes, I did. He was very respectful, very sad, semiundertakerlike, in air and countenance, but quite explicit. I heard that my dear father had died palpably from the rupture of some great vessel near the heart. The disease had, no doubt, been long established, and is in its nature incurable. It is consolatory in these cases that in the act of dissolution, which is instantaneous, there can be no suffering. These, and a few more remarks, were all he had to offer; and having had his fee from Mrs. Rusk, he, with a respectful melancholy, vanished. I returned to my room, and broke into paroxysms of grief, and after an hour or more grew more tranquil. From Mrs. Rusk I learned that he had seemed very wellbetter than usual, indeedthat night, and that on her return from the study with the book he required, he was noting down, after his wont, some passages which illustrated the text on which he was employing himself. He took the book, detaining her in the room, and then mounting on a chair to take down another book from a shelf, he had fallen, with the dreadful crash I had heard, dead upon the floor. He fell across the door, which caused the difficulty in opening it. Mrs. Rusk found she had not strength to force it open. No wonder she had given way to terror. I think I should have almost lost my reason. Everyone knows the reserved aspect and the taciturn mood of the house, one of whose rooms is tenanted by that mysterious guest. I do not know how those awful days, and more awful nights, passed over. The remembrance is repulsive. I hate to think of them. I was soon draped in the conventional black, with its heavy folds of crape. Lady Knollys came, and was very kind. She undertook the direction of all those details which were to me so inexpressibly dreadful. She wrote letters for me beside, and was really most kind and useful, and her society supported me indescribably. She was odd, but her eccentricity was leavened with strong common sense; and I have often thought since with admiration and gratitude of the tact with which she managed my grief. There is no dealing with great sorrow as if it were under the control of our wills. It is a terrible phenomenon, whose laws we must study, and to whose conditions we must submit, if we would mitigate it. Cousin Monica talked a great deal of my father. This was easy to her, for her early recollections were full of him. One of the terrible dislocations of our habits of mind respecting the dead is that our earthly future is robbed of them, and we thrown exclusively upon retrospect. From the long look forward they are removed, and every plan, imagination, and hope henceforth a silent and empty perspective. But in the past they are all they ever were. Now let me advise all who would comfort people in a new bereavement to talk to them, very freely, all they can, in this way of the dead. They will engage in it with interest, they will talk of their own recollections of the dead, and listen to yours, though they become sometimes pleasant, sometimes even laughable. I found it so. It robbed the calamity of something of its supernatural and horrible abruptness; it prevented that monotony of object which is to the mind what it is to the eye, and prepared the faculty for those mesmeric illusions that derange its sense. Cousin Monica, I am sure, cheered me wonderfully. I grow to love her more and more, as I think of all her trouble, care, and kindness. I had not forgotten my promise to dear papa about the key, concerning which he had evinced so great an anxiety. It was found in the pocket where he had desired me to remember he always kept it, except when it was placed, while he slept, under his pillow. And so, my dear, that wicked woman was actually found picking the lock of your poor papas desk. I wonder he did not punish heryou know that is burglary. Well, Lady Knollys, you know she is gone, and so I care no more about herthat is, I mean, I need not fear her. No, my dear, but you must call me Monicado you mindIm your cousin, and you call me Monica, unless you wish to vex me. No, of course, you need not be afraid of her. And shes gone. But Im an old thing, you know, and not so tenderhearted as you; and I confess I should have been very glad to hear that the wicked old witch had been sent to prison and hard labourI should. And what do you suppose she was looking forwhat did she want to steal? I think I can guesswhat do you think? To read the papers; maybe to take banknotesIm not sure, I answered. Well, I think most likely she wanted to get at your poor papas willthats my idea. There is nothing surprising in the supposition, dear, she resumed. Did not you read the curious trial at York, the other day? There is nothing so valuable to steal as a will, when a great deal of property is to be disposed of by it. Why, you would have given her ever so much money to get it back again. Suppose you go down, dearIll go with you, and open the cabinet in the study. I dont think I can, for I promised to give the key to Dr. Bryerly, and the meaning was that he only should open it. Cousin Monica uttered an inarticulate Hm! of surprise or disapprobation. Has he been written to? No, I do not know his address. Not know his address! come, that is curious, said Knollys, a little testily. I could notno one now living in the house could furnish even a conjecture. There was even a dispute as to which train he had gone bynorth or souththey crossed the station at an interval of five minutes. If Dr. Bryerly had been an evil spirit, evoked by a secret incantation, there could not have been more complete darkness as to the immediate process of his approach. And how long do you mean to wait, my dear? No matter; at all events you may open the desk; you may find papers to direct youyou may find Dr. Bryerlys addressyou may find, heaven knows what. So down we wentI assentingand we opened the desk. How dreadful the desecration seemsall privacy abrogatedthe shocking compensation for the silence of death! Henceforward all is circumstantial evidenceall conjecturalexcept the litera scripta, and to this evidence every notebook, and every scrap of paper and private letter, must contributeransacked, bare in the light of daywhat it can. At the top of the desk lay two notes sealed, one to Cousin Monica, the other to me. Mine was a gentle and loving little farewellnothing morewhich opened afresh the fountains of my sorrow, and I cried and sobbed over it bitterly and long. The other was for Lady Knollys. I did not see how she received it, for I was already absorbed in mine. But in awhile she came and kissed me in her girlish, goodnatured way. Her eyes used to fill with tears at sight of my paroxysms of grief. Then she would begin, I remember it was a saying of his, and so she would repeat itsomething maybe wise, maybe playful, at all events consolatoryand the circumstances in which she had heard him say it, and then would follow the recollections suggested by these; and so I was stolen away half by him, and half by Cousin Monica, from my despair and lamentation. Along with these lay a large envelope, inscribed with the words Directions to be complied with immediately on my death. One of which was, Let the event be forthwith published in the county and principal London papers. This step had been already taken. We found no record of Dr. Bryerlys address. We made search everywhere, except in the cabinet, which I would on no account permit to be opened except, according to his direction, by Dr. Bryerlys hand. But nowhere was a will, or any document resembling one, to be found. I had now, therefore, no doubt that his will was placed in the cabinet. In the search among my dear fathers papers we found two sheafs of letters, neatly tied up and labelledthese were from my uncle Silas. My cousin Monica looked down upon these papers with a strange smile; was it satirewas it that indescribable smile with which a mystery which covers a long reach of years is sometimes approached? These were odd letters. If here and there occurred passages that were querulous and even abject, there were also long passages of manly and altogether noble sentiment, and the strangest rodomontade and maunderings about religion. Here and there a letter would gradually transform itself into a prayer, and end with a doxology and no signature; and some of them expressed such wild and disordered views respecting religion, as I imagine he can never have disclosed to good Mr. Fairfield, and which approached more nearly to the Swedenborg visions than to anything in the Church of England. I read these with a solemn interest, but my cousin Monica was not similarly moved. She read them with the same smilefaint, serenely contemptuous, I thoughtwith which she had first looked down upon them. It was the countenance of a person who amusedly traces the working of a character that is well understood. Uncle Silas is very religious? I said, not quite liking Lady Knollys looks. Very, she said, without raising her eyes or abating her old bitter smile, as she glanced over a passage in one of his letters. You dont think he is, Cousin Monica? said I. She raised her head and looked straight at me. Why do you say that, Maud? Because you smile incredulously, I think, over his letters. Do I? said she; I was not thinkingit was quite an accident. The fact is, Maud, your poor papa quite mistook me. I had no prejudice respecting himno theory. I never knew what to think about him. I do not think Silas a product of nature, but a child of the Sphinx, and I never could understand himthats all. I always felt so too; but that was because I was left to speculation, and to glean conjectures as I might from his portrait, or anywhere. Except what you told me, I never heard more than a few sentences; poor papa did not like me to ask questions about him, and I think he ordered the servants to be silent. And much the same injunction this little note lays upon menot quite, but something like it; and I dont know the meaning of it. And she looked enquiringly at me. You are not to be alarmed about your uncle Silas, because your being afraid would unfit you for an important service which you have undertaken for your family, the nature of which I shall soon understand, and which, although it is quite passive, would be made very sad if illusory fears were allowed to steal into your mind. She was looking into the letter in poor papas handwriting, which she had found addressed to her in his desk, and emphasised the words, I suppose, which she quoted from it. Have you any idea, Maud, darling, what this service may be? she enquired, with a grave and anxious curiosity in her countenance. None, Cousin Monica; but I have thought long over my undertaking to do it, or submit to it, be it what it may; and I will keep the promise I voluntarily made, although I know what a coward I am, and often distrust my courage. Well, I am not to frighten you. How could you? Why should I be afraid? Is there anything frightful to be disclosed? Do tell meyou must tell me. No, darling, I did not mean thatI dont mean that;I could, if I would; II dont know exactly what I meant. But your poor papa knew him better than Iin fact, I did not know him at allthat is, ever quite understood himwhich your poor papa, I see, had ample opportunities of doing. And after a little pause, she addedSo you do not know what you are expected to do or to undergo. Oh! Cousin Monica, I know you think he committed that murder, I cried, starting up, I dont know why, and I felt that I grew deadly pale. I dont believe any such thing, you little fool; you must not say such horrible things, Maud, she said, rising also, and looking both pale and angry. Shall we go out for a little walk? Come, lock up these papers, dear, and get your things on; and if that Dr. Bryerly does not turn up tomorrow, you must send for the Rector, good Doctor Clay, and let him make search for the willthere may be directions about many things, you know; and, my dear Maud, you are to remember that Silas is my cousin as well as your uncle. Come, dear, put on your hat. So we went out together for a little cloistered walk. XXII Somebody in the Room with the Coffin When we returned, a young gentleman had arrived. We saw him in the parlour as we passed the window. It was simply a glance, but such a one as suffices to make a photograph, which we can study afterwards, at our leisure. I remember him at this momenta man of sixandthirtydressed in a grey travelling suit, not overwell made; lighthaired, fatfaced, and clumsy; and he looked both dull and cunning, and not at all like a gentleman. Branston met us, announced the arrival, and handed me the strangers credentials. My cousin and I stopped in the passage to read them. Thats your uncle Silass, said Lady Knollys, touching one of the two letters with the tip of her finger. Shall we have lunch, Miss? Certainly. So Branston departed. Read it with me, Cousin Monica, I said. And a very curious letter it was. It spoke as follows How can I thank my beloved niece for remembering her aged and forlorn kinsman at such a moment of anguish? I had written a note of a few, I dare say, incoherent words by the next post after my dear fathers death. It is, however, in the hour of bereavement that we most value the ties that are broken, and yearn for the sympathy of kindred. Here came a little distich of French verse, of which I could only read ciel and lamour. Our quiet household here is clouded with a new sorrow. How inscrutable are the ways of Providence! Ithough a few years youngerhow much the more infirmhow shattered in energy and in mindhow mere a burdenhow entirely de tropam spared to my sad place in a world where I can be no longer useful, where I have but one businessprayer, but one hopethe tomb; and heapparently so robustthe centre of so much goodso necessary to youso necessary, alas! to meis taken! He is gone to his restfor us, what remains but to bow our heads, and murmur, His will be done? I trace these lines with a trembling hand, while tears dim my old eyes. I did not think that any earthly event could have moved me so profoundly. From the world I have long stood aloof. I once led a life of pleasurealas! of wickednessas I now do one of austerity; but as I never was rich, so my worst enemy will allow I never was avaricious. My sins, I thank my Maker, have been of a more reducible kind, and have succumbed to the discipline which Heaven has provided. To earth and its interests, as well as to its pleasures, I have long been dead. For the few remaining years of my life I ask but quietan exemption from the agitations and distractions of struggle and care, and I trust to the Giver of all Good for my deliverancewell knowing, at the same time, that whatever befalls will, under His direction, prove best. Happy shall I be, my dearest niece, if in your most interesting and, in some respects, forlorn situation, I can be of any use to you. My present religious adviserof whom I ventured to ask counsel on your behalfstates that I ought to send someone to represent me at the melancholy ceremony of reading the will which my beloved and now happy brother has, no doubt, left behind; and the idea that the experience and professional knowledge possessed by the gentleman whom I have selected may possibly be of use to you, my dearest niece, determines me to place him at your disposal. He is the junior partner in the firm of Archer and Sleigh, who conduct any little business which I may have from time to time; may I entreat your hospitality for him during a brief stay at Knowl? I write, even for a moment, upon these small matters of business with an efforta painful one, but necessary. Alas! my brother! The cup of bitterness is now full. Few and evil must the remainder of my old days be. Yet, while they last, I remain always for my beloved niece, that which all her wealth and splendour cannot purchasea loving and faithful kinsman and friend, Silas Ruthyn. Is not it a kind letter? I said, while tears stood in my eyes. Yes, answered Lady Knollys, drily. But dont you think it so, really? Oh! kind, very kind, she answered in the same tone, and perhaps a little cunning. Cunning!how? Well, you know Im a peevish old Tabby, and of course I scratch now and then, and see in the dark. I dare say Silas is sorry, but I dont think he is in sackcloth and ashes. He has reason to be sorry and anxious, and I say I think he is both; and you know he pities you very much, and also himself a good deal; and he wants money, and youhis beloved niecehave a great dealand altogether it is an affectionate and prudent letter and he has sent his attorney here to make a note of the will; and you are to give the gentleman his meals and lodging; and Silas, very thoughtfully, invites you to confide your difficulties and troubles to his solicitor. It is very kind, but not imprudent. Oh, Cousin Monica, dont you think at such a moment it is hardly natural that he should form such petty schemes, even were he capable at other times of practising so low? Is it not judging him hardly? and you, you know, so little acquainted with him. I told you, dear, Im a cross old thingand theres an end; and I really dont care two pence about him; and of the two Id much rather he were no relation of ours. Now, was not this prejudice? I dare say in part it was. So, too, was my vehement predisposition in his favour. I am afraid we women are factionists; we always take a side, and nature has formed us for advocates rather than judges; and I think the function, if less dignified, is more amiable. I sat alone at the drawingroom window, at nightfall, awaiting my cousin Monicas entrance. Feverish and frightened I felt that night. It was a sympathy, I fancy, with the weather. The sun had set stormily. Though the air was still, the sky looked wild and stormswept. The crowding clouds, slanting in the attitude of flight, reflected their own sacred aspect upon my spirits. My grief darkened with a wild presaging of danger, and a sense of the supernatural fell upon me. It was the saddest and most awful evening that had come since my beloved fathers death. All kinds of shapeless fears environed me in silence. For the first time, dire misgivings about the form of faith affrighted me. Who were these Swedenborgians who had got about himno one could tell howand held him so fast to the close of his life? Who was this bilious, bewigged, blackeyed Doctor Bryerly, whom none of us quite liked and all a little feared; who seemed to rise out of the ground, and came and went, no one knew whence or whither, exercising, as I imagined, a mysterious authority over him? Was it all good and true, or a heresy and a witchcraft? Oh, my beloved father! was it all well with you? When Lady Knollys entered, she found me in floods of tears, walking distractedly up and down the room. She kissed me in silence; she walked back and forward with me, and did her best to console me. I think, Cousin Monica, I would wish to see him once more. Shall we go up? Unless you really wish it very much, I think, darling, you had better not mind it. It is happier to recollect them as they were; theres a change, you know, darling, and there is seldom any comfort in the sight. But I do wish it very much. Oh! wont you come with me? And so I persuaded her, and up we went hand in hand, in the deepening twilight; and we halted at the end of the dark gallery, and I called Mrs. Rusk, growing frightened. Tell her to let us in, Cousin Monica, I whispered. She wishes to see him, my ladydoes she? enquired Mrs. Rusk, in an undertone, and with a mysterious glance at me, as she softly fitted the key to the lock. Are you quite sure, Maud, dear? Yes, yes. But when Mrs. Rusk entered bearing the candle, whose beam mixed dismally with the expiring twilight, disclosing a great black coffin standing upon trestles, near the foot of which she took her stand, gazing sternly into it, I lost heart again altogether and drew back. No, Mrs. Rusk, she wont; and I am very glad, dear, she added to me. Come, Mrs. Rusk, come away. Yes, darling, she continued to me, it is much better for you; and she hurried me away, and downstairs again. But the awful outlines of that large black coffin remained upon my imagination with a new and terrible sense of death. I had no more any wish to see him. I felt a horror even of the room, and for more than an hour after a kind of despair and terror, such as I have never experienced before or since at the idea of death. Cousin Monica had had her bed placed in my room, and Mary Quinces moved to the dressingroom adjoining it. For the first time the superstitious awe that follows death, but not immediately, visited me. The idea of seeing my father enter the room, or open the door and look in, haunted me. After Lady Knollys and I were in bed, I could not sleep. The wind sounded mournfully outside, and the small sounds, the rattlings, and strainings that responded from within, constantly startled me, and simulated the sounds of steps, of doors opening, of knockings, and so forth, rousing me with a palpitating heart as often as I fell into a doze. At length the wind subsided, and these ambiguous noises abated, and I, fatigued, dropped into a quiet sleep. I was awakened by a sound in the gallerywhich I could not define. A considerable time had passed, for the wind was now quite lulled. I sat up in my bed a good deal scared, listening breathlessly for I knew not what. I heard a step moving stealthily along the gallery. I called my cousin Monica softly; and we both heard the door of the room in which my fathers body lay unlocked, someone furtively enter, and the door shut. What can it be? Good Heavens, Cousin Monica, do you hear it? Yes, dear; and it is two oclock. Everyone at Knowl was in bed at eleven. We knew very well that Mrs. Rusk was rather nervous, and would not, for worlds, go alone, and at such an hour, to the room. We called Mary Quince. We all three listened, but we heard no other sound. I set these things down here because they made so terrible an impression upon me at the time. It ended by our peeping out, all three in a body, upon the gallery. Through each window in the perspective came its blue sheet of moonshine; but the door on which our attention was fixed was in the shade, and we thought we could discern the glare of a candle through the keyhole. While in whispers we were debating this point together, the door opened, the dusky light of a candle emerged, the shadow of a figure crossed it within, and in another moment the mysterious Doctor Bryerlyangular, ungainly, in the black cloth coat that fitted little better than a coffinissued from the chamber, candle in hand; murmuring, I suppose, a prayerit sounded like a farewellas he looked back, pallid and grim, into the room; and then stepped cautiously upon the gallery floor, shutting and locking the door upon the dead; and then having listened for a second, the saturnine figure, casting a gigantic and distorted shadow upon the ceiling and sidewall from the lowered candle, strode lightly down the long dark passage, away from us. I can only speak for myself, and I can honestly say that I felt as much frightened as if I had just seen a sorcerer stealing from his unhallowed business. I think Cousin Monica was also affected in the same way, for she turned the key on the inside of the door when we entered. I do not think one of us believed at the moment that what we had seen was a Doctor Bryerly of flesh and blood, and yet the first thing we spoke of in the morning was Doctor Bryerlys arrival. The mind is a different organ by night and by day. XXIII I Talk with Doctor Bryerly Doctor Bryerly had, indeed, arrived at halfpast twelve oclock at night. His summons at the halldoor was little heard at our remote side of the old house of Knowl; and when the sleepy, halfdressed servant opened the door, the lank Doctor, in glossy black clothing, was standing alone, his portmanteau on its end upon the steps, and his vehicle disappearing in the shadows of the old trees. In he came, sterner and sharper of aspect than usual. Ive been expected? Im Doctor Bryerly. Havent I? So, let whoever is in charge of the body be called. I must visit it forthwith. So the Doctor sat in the back drawingroom, with a solitary candle; and Mrs. Rusk was called up, and, grumbling much and very peevish, dressed and went down, her illtemper subsiding in a sort of fear as she approached the visitor. How do you do, Madam? A sad visit this. Is anyone watching in the room where the remains of your late master are laid? No. So much the better; it is a foolish custom. Will you please conduct me to the room? I must pray where he liesno longer he! And be good enough to show me my bedroom, and so no one need wait up, and I shall find my way. Accompanied by the man who carried his valise, Mrs. Rusk showed him to his apartment; but he only looked in, and then glanced rapidly about to take the bearings of the door. Thank youyes. Now well proceed, here, along here? Let me see. A turn to the right and another to the leftyes. He has been dead some days. Is he yet in his coffin? Yes, sir; since yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Rusk was growing more and more afraid of this lean figure sheathed in shining black cloth, whose eyes glittered with a horrible sort of cunning, and whose long brown fingers groped before him, as if indicating the way by guess. But, of course, the lids not on; youve not screwed him down, hey? No, sir. Thats well. I must look on the face as I pray. He is in his place; I here on earth. He in the spirit; I in the flesh. The neutral ground lies there. So are carried the vibrations, and so the light of earth and heaven reflected back and forwardapaugasma, a wonderful though helpless engine, the ladder of Jacob, and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it. Thanks, Ill take the key. Mysteries to those who will live altogether in houses of clay, no mystery to such as will use their eyes and read what is revealed. This candle, it is the longer, please; nono need of a pair, thanks; just this, to hold in my hand. And remember, all depends upon the willing mind. Why do you look frightened? Where is your faith? Dont you know that spirits are about us at all times? Why should you fear to be near the body? The spirit is everything; the flesh profiteth nothing. Yes, sir, said Mrs. Rusk, making him a great courtesy in the threshold. She was frightened by his eerie talk, which grew, she fancied, more voluble and energetic as they approached the corpse. Remember, then, that when you fancy yourself alone and wrapt in darkness, you stand, in fact, in the centre of a theatre, as wide as the starry floor of heaven, with an audience, whom no man can number, beholding you under a flood of light. Therefore, though your body be in solitude and your mortal sense in darkness, remember to walk as being in the light, surrounded with a cloud of witnesses. Thus walk; and when the hour comes, and you pass forth unprisoned from the tabernacle of the flesh, although it still has its relations and its rightsand saying this, as he held the solitary candle aloft in the doorway, he nodded towards the coffin, whose large black form was faintly traceable against the shadows beyondyou will rejoice; and being clothed upon with your house from on high, you will not be found naked. On the other hand, he that loveth corruption shall have enough thereof. Think upon these things. Good night. And the Swedenborgian Doctor stepped into the room, taking the candle with him, and closed the door upon the shadowy stilllife there, and on his own sharp and swarthy visage, leaving Mrs. Rusk in a sort of panic in the dark alone, to find her way to her room the best way she could. Early in the morning Mrs. Rusk came to my room to tell me that Doctor Bryerly was in the parlour, and begged to know whether I had not a message for him. I was already dressed, so, though it was dreadful seeing a stranger in my then mood, taking the key of the cabinet in my hand, I followed Mrs. Rusk downstairs. Opening the parlour door, she stepped in, and with a little courtesy said Please, sir, the young mistressMiss Ruthyn. Draped in black and very pale, tall and slight, the young mistress was; and as I entered I heard a newspaper rustle, and the sound of steps approaching to meet me. Face to face we met, near the door; and, without speaking, I made him a deep courtesy. He took my hand, without the least indication on my part, in his hard lean grasp, and shook it kindly, but familiarly, peering with a stern sort of curiosity into my face as he continued to hold it. His illfitting, glossy black cloth, ungainly presence, and sharp, dark, vulpine features had in them, as I said before, the vulgarity of a Glasgow artisan in his Sabbath suit. I made an instantaneous motion to withdraw my hand, but he held it firmly. Though there was a grim sort of familiarity, there was also decision, shrewdness, and, above all, kindness, in his dark facea gleam on the whole of the masterly and the honestthat along with a certain paleness, betraying, I thought, restrained emotion, indicated sympathy and invited confidence. I hope, Miss, you are pretty well? He pronounced pretty as it is spelt. I have come in consequence of a solemn promise exacted more than a year since by your deceased father, the late Mr. Austin Ruthyn of Knowl, for whom I cherished a warm esteem, being knit besides with him in spiritual bonds. It has been a shock to you, Miss? It has, indeed, sir. Ive a doctors degree, I haveDoctor of Medicine, Miss. Like St. Luke, preacher and doctor. I was in business once, but this is better. As one footing fails, the Lord provides another. The stream of life is black and angry; how so many of us get across without drowning, I often wonder. The best way is not to look too far beforejust from one steppingstone to another; and though you may wet your feet, He wont let you drownHe has not allowed me. And Doctor Bryerly held up his head, and wagged it resolutely. You are born to this worlds wealth; in its way a great blessing, though a great trial, Miss, and a great trust; but dont suppose you are destined to exemption from trouble on that account, any more than poor Emmanuel Bryerly. As the sparks fly upwards, Miss Ruthyn! Your cushioned carriage may overturn on the high road, as I may stumble and fall upon the footpath. There are other troubles than debt and privation.


Who can tell how long health may last, or when an accident may happen the brain; what mortifications may await you in your own high sphere; what unknown enemies may rise up in your path; or what slanders may asperse your nameha, ha! It is a wonderful equilibriuma marvellous dispensationha, ha! and he laughed with a shake of his head, I thought a little sarcastically, as if he was not sorry my money could not avail to buy immunity from the general curse. But what money cant do, prayer canbear that in mind, Miss Ruthyn. We can all pray; and though thorns and snares, and stones of fire lie strewn in our way, we need not fear them. He will give His angels charge over us, and in their hands they will bear us up, for He hears and sees everywhere, and His angels are innumerable. He was now speaking gently and solemnly, and paused. But another vein of thought he had unconsciously opened in my mind, and I said And had my dear papa no other medical adviser? He looked at me sharply, and flushed a little under his dark tint. His medical skill was, perhaps, the point on which his human vanity vaunted itself, and I dare say there was something very disparaging in my tone. And if he had no other, he might have done worse. Ive had many critical cases in my hands, Miss Ruthyn. I cant charge myself with any miscarriage through ignorance. My diagnosis in Mr. Ruthyns case has been verified by the result. But I was not alone; Sir Clayton Barrow saw him, and took my view; a note will reach him in London. But this, excuse me, is not to the present purpose. The late Mr. Ruthyn told me I was to receive a key from you, which would open a cabinet where he had placed his willha! thanksin his study. And, I think, as there may be directions about the funeral, it had better be read forthwith. Is there any gentlemana relative or man of businessnear here, whom you would wish sent for? No, none, thank you; I have confidence in you, sir. I think I spoke and looked frankly, for he smiled very kindly, though with closed lips. And you may be sure, Miss Ruthyn, your confidence shall not be disappointed. Here was a long pause. But you are very young, and you must have someone by in your interest, who has some experience in business. Let me see. Is not the Rector, Dr. Clay, at hand? In the town?very good; and Mr. Danvers, who manages the estate, he must come. And get Grimstonyou see I know all the namesGrimston, the attorney; for though he was not employed about this will, he has been Mr. Ruthyns solicitor a great many years we must have Grimston; for, as I suppose you know, though it is a short will, it is a very strange one. I expostulated, but you know he was very decided when he took a view. He read it to you, eh? No, sir. Oh, but he told you so much as relates to you and your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, of BartramHaugh? No, indeed, sir. Ha! I wish he had. And with these words Doctor Bryerlys countenance darkened. Mr. Silas Ruthyn is a religious man? Oh, very! said I. Youve seen a good deal of him? No, I never saw him, I answered. Hm? Odder and odder! But hes a good man, isnt he? Very good, indeed, sira very religious man. Doctor Bryerly was watching my countenance as I spoke, with a sharp and anxious eye; and then he looked down, and read the pattern of the carpet like bad news, for a while, and looking again in my face, askance, he said He was very near joining uson the point. He got into correspondence with Henry Voerst, one of our best men. They call us Swedenborgians, you know; but I dare say that wont go much further, now. I suppose, Miss Ruthyn, one oclock would be a good hour, and I am sure, under the circumstances, the gentlemen will make a point of attending. Yes, Dr. Bryerly, the notes shall be sent, and my cousin, Lady Knollys, would I am sure attend with me while the will is being readthere would be no objection to her presence? None in the world. I cant be quite sure who are joined with me as executors. Im almost sorry I did not decline; but it is too late regretting. One thing you must believe Miss Ruthyn in framing the provisions of the will I was never consultedalthough I expostulated against the only very unusual one it contains when I heard it. I did so strenuously, but in vain. There was one other against which I protestedhaving a right to do sowith better effect. In no other way does the will in any respect owe anything to my advice or dissuasion. You will please believe this; also that I am your friend. Yes, indeed, it is my duty. The latter words he spoke looking down again, as it were in soliloquy; and thanking him, I withdrew. When I reached the hall, I regretted that I had not asked him to state distinctly what arrangements the will made so nearly affecting, as it seemed, my relations with my uncle Silas, and for a moment I thought of returning and requesting an explanation. But then, I bethought me, it was not very long to wait till one oclockso he, at least, would think. I went upstairs, therefore, to the schoolroom, which we used at present as a sittingroom, and there I found Cousin Monica awaiting me. Are you quite well, dear? asked Lady Knollys, as she came to meet and kiss me. Quite well, Cousin Monica. No nonsense, Maud! youre as white as that handkerchiefwhats the matter? Are you illare you frightened? Yes, youre tremblingyoure terrified, child. I believe I am afraid. There is something in poor papas will about Uncle Silasabout me. I dont knowDoctor Bryerly says, and he seems so uncomfortable and frightened himself, I am sure it is something very bad. I am very much frightenedI amI am. Oh, Cousin Monica! you wont leave me? So I threw my arms about her neck, clasping her very close, and we kissed one another, I crying like a frightened childand indeed in experience of the world I was no more. XXIV The Opening of the Will Perhaps the terror with which I anticipated the hour of one, and the disclosure of the unknown undertaking to which I had bound myself, was irrational and morbid. But, honestly, I doubt it; my tendency has always been that of many other weak characters, to act impetuously, and afterwards to reproach myself for consequences which I have, perhaps, in reality, had little or no share in producing. It was Doctor Bryerlys countenance and manner in alluding to a particular provision in my fathers will that instinctively awed me. I have seen faces in a nightmare that haunted me with an indescribable horror, and yet I could not say wherein lay the fascination. And so it was with hisan omen, a menace, lurked in its sallow and dismal glance. You must not be so frightened, darling, said Cousin Monica. It is foolish; it is, really; they cant cut off your head, you know they cant really harm you in any essential way. If it involved a risk of a little money, you would not mind it; but men are such odd creaturesthey measure all sacrifices by money. Doctor Bryerly would look just as you describe, if you were doomed to lose five hundred pounds, and yet it would not kill you. A companion like Lady Knollys is reassuring; but I could not take her comfort altogether to heart, for I felt that she had no great confidence in it herself. There was a little French clock over the mantelpiece in the schoolroom, which I consulted nearly every minute. It wanted now but ten minutes of one. Shall we go down to the drawingroom, dear? said Cousin Knollys, who was growing restless like me. So downstairs we went, pausing by mutual consent at the great window at the stairhead, which looks out on the avenue. Mr. Danvers was riding his tall, grey horse at a walk, under the wide branches toward the house, and we waited to see him get off at the door. In his turn he loitered there, for the good Rectors gig, driven by the Curate, was approaching at a smart ecclesiastical trot. Doctor Clay got down, and shook hands with Mr. Danvers; and after a word or two, away drove the Curate with that upward glance at the windows from which so few can refrain. I watched the Rector and Mr. Danvers loitering on the steps as a patient might the gathering of surgeons who are to perform some unknown operation. They, too, glanced up at the window as they turned to enter the house, and I drew back. Cousin Monica looked at her watch. Four minutes only. Shall we go to the drawingroom? Waiting for a moment to let the gentlemen get by on the way to the study, we, accordingly, went down, and I heard the Rector talk of the dangerous state of Grindleston bridge, and wondered how he could think of such things at a time of sorrow. Everything about those few minutes of suspense remains fresh in my recollection. I remember how they loitered and came to a halt at the corner of the oak passage leading to the study, and how the Rector patted the marble head and smoothed the inflexible tresses of William Pitt, as he listened to Mr. Danvers details about the presentment; and then, as they went on, I recollect the boisterous noseblowing that suddenly resounded from the passage, and which I then referred, and still refer, intuitively to the Rector. We had not been five minutes in the drawingroom when Branston entered, to say that the gentlemen I had mentioned were all assembled in the study. Come, dear, said Cousin Monica; and leaning on her arm I reached the study door. I entered, followed by her. The gentlemen arrested their talk and stood up, those who were sitting, and the Rector came forward very gravely, and in low tones, and very kindly, greeted me. There was nothing emotional in this salutation, for though my father never quarrelled, yet an immense distance separated him from all his neighbours, and I do not think there lived a human being who knew him at more than perhaps a point or two of his character. Considering how entirely he secluded himself, my father was, as many people living remember, wonderfully popular in his county. He was neighbourly in everything except in seeing company and mixing in society. He had magnificent shooting, of which he was extremely liberal. He kept a pack of hounds at Dollerton, with which all his side of the county hunted through the season. He never refused any claim upon his purse which had the slightest show of reason. He subscribed to every fund, social, charitable, sporting, agricultural, no matter what, provided the honest people of his county took an interest in it, and always with a princely hand; and although he shut himself up, no one could say that he was inaccessible, for he devoted hours daily to answering letters, and his checquebook contributed largely in those replies. He had taken his turn long ago as High Sheriff; so there was an end of that claim before his oddity and shyness had quite secluded him. He refused the LordLieutenancy of his county; he declined every post of personal distinction connected with it. He could write an able as well as a genial letter when he pleased; and his appearances at public meetings, dinners, and so forth were made in this epistolary fashion, and, when occasion presented, by magnificent contributions from his purse. If my father had been less goodnatured in the sporting relations of his vast estates, or less magnificent in dealing with his fortune, or even if he had failed to exhibit the intellectual force which always characterised his letters on public matters, I dare say that his oddities would have condemned him to ridicule, and possibly to dislike. But every one of the principal gentlemen of his county, whose judgment was valuable, has told me that he was a remarkably able man, and that his failure in public life was due to his eccentricities, and in no respect to deficiency in those peculiar mental qualities which make men feared and useful in Parliament. I could not forbear placing on record this testimony to the high mental and the kindly qualities of my beloved father, who might have passed for a misanthrope or a fool. He was a man of generous nature and powerful intellect, but given up to the oddities of a shyness which grew with years and indulgence, and became inflexible with his disappointments and affliction. There was something even in the Rectors kind and ceremonious greeting which oddly enough reflected the mixed feelings in which awe was not without a place, with which his neighbours had regarded my dear father. Having done the honoursI am sure looking woefully paleI had time to glance quietly at the only figure there with which I was not tolerably familiar. This was the junior partner in the firm of Archer and Sleigh who represented my uncle Silasa fat and pallid man of sixandthirty, with a sly and evil countenance, and it has always seemed to me, that ill dispositions show more repulsively in a pale fat face than in any other. Doctor Bryerly, standing near the window, was talking in a low tone to Mr. Grimston, our attorney. I heard good Dr. Clay whisper to Mr. Danvers Is not that Doctor Bryerlythe person with the blackthe blackits a wig, I thinkin the window, talking to Abel Grimston? Yes; thats he. Oddlooking personone of the Swedenborg people, is not he? continued the Rector. So I am told. Yes, said the Rector, quietly; and he crossed one gaitered leg over the other, and, with fingers interlaced, twiddled his thumbs, as he eyed the monstrous sectary under his orthodox old brows with a stern inquisitiveness. I thought he was meditating theologic battle. But Dr. Bryerly and Mr. Grimston, still talking together, began to walk slowly from the window, and the former said in his peculiar grim tones I beg pardon, Miss Ruthyn; perhaps you would be so good as to show us which of the cabinets in this room your late lamented father pointed out as that to which this key belongs. I indicated the oak cabinet. Very good, maamvery good, said Doctor Bryerly, as he fumbled the key into the lock. Cousin Monica could not forbear murmuring Dear! what a brute! The junior partner, with his dumpy hands in his pocket, poked his fat face over Mr. Grimstons shoulder, and peered into the cabinet as the door opened. The search was not long. A handsome white paper enclosure, neatly tied up in pink tape, and sealed with large red seals, was inscribed in my dear fathers handWill of Austin R. Ruthyn, of Knowl. Then, in smaller characters, the date, and in the corner a noteThis will was drawn from my instructions by Gaunt, Hogg, and Hatchett, Solicitors, Great Woburn Street, London, ARR. Let me have a squint at that endorsement, please, gentlemen, half whispered the unpleasant person who represented my uncle Silas.  Tisnt an endorsement. There, looka memorandum on an envelope, said Abel Grimston, gruffly. Thanksall rightthat will do, he responded, himself making a pencilnote of it, in a long claspbook which he drew from his coatpocket. The tape was carefully cut, and the envelope removed without tearing the writing, and forth came the will, at sight of which my heart swelled and fluttered up to my lips, and then dropped down dead as it seemed into its place. Mr. Grimston, you will please to read it, said Doctor Bryerly, who took the direction of the process. I will sit beside you, and as we go along you will be good enough to help us to understand technicalities, and give us a lift where we want it. Its a short will, said Mr. Grimston, turning over the sheets veryconsidering. Heres a codicil. I did not see that, said Doctor Bryerly. Dated only a month ago. Oh! said Doctor Bryerly, putting on his spectacles. Uncle Silass ambassador, sitting close behind, had insinuated his face between Doctor Bryerlys and the readers of the will. On behalf of the surviving brother of the testator, interposed the delegate, just as Abel Grimston had cleared his voice to begin, I take leave to apply for a copy of this instrument. It will save a deal of trouble, if the young lady as represents the testator here has no objection. You can have as many copies as you like when the will is proved, said Mr. Grimston. I know that; but supposing as alls right, wheres the objection? Just the objection there always is to acting irregular, replied Mr. Grimston. You dont object to act disobliging, it seems. You can do as I told you, replied Mr. Grimston. Thank you for nothing, murmured Mr. Sleigh. And the reading of the will proceeded, while he made elaborate notes of its contents in his capacious pocketbook. I, Austin Alymer Ruthyn Ruthyn, being, I thank God, of sound mind and perfect recollection, etc., etc.; and then came a bequest of all his estates real, chattels real, copyrights, leases, chattels, money, rights, interests, reversions, powers, plate, pictures, and estates and possessions whatsoever, to four personsLord Ilbury, Mr. Penrose Creswell of Creswell, Sir William Aylmer, Bart., and Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, Doctor of Medicine, to have and to hold, etc., etc. Whereupon my Cousin Monica ejaculated Eh? and Doctor Bryerly interposed Four trustees, maam. We take little but troubleyoull see; go on. Then it came out that all this multifarious splendour was bequeathed in trust for me, subject to a bequest of fifteen thousand pounds to his only brother, Silas Aylmer Ruthyn, and three thousand five hundred pounds each to the two children of his said brother; and lest any doubt should arise by reason of his, the testators decease as to the continuance of the arrangement by way of lease under which he enjoyed his present habitation and farm, he left him the use of the mansionhouse and lands of BartramHaugh, in the county of Derbyshire, and of the lands of soandso and soandso, adjoining thereto, in the said county, for the term of his natural life, on payment of a rent of five shillings per annum, and subject to the like conditions as to waste, etc., as are expressed in the said lease. By your leave, may I ask is them dispositions all the devises to my client, which is his only brother, as it seems to me youve seen the will before? enquired Mr. Sleigh. Nothing more, unless there is something in the codicil, answered Dr. Bryerly. But there was no mention of him in the codicil. Mr. Sleigh threw himself back in his chair, and sneered, with the end of his pencil between his teeth. I hope his disappointment was altogether for his client. Mr. Danvers fancied, he afterwards said, that he had probably expected legacies which might have involved litigation, or, at all events, law costs, and perhaps a stewardship; but this was very barren; and Mr. Danvers also remarked, that the man was a very low practitioner, and wondered how my uncle Silas could have commissioned such a person to represent him. So far the will contained nothing of which my most partial friend could have complained. The codicil, too, devised only legacies to servants, and a sum of 1,000, with a few kind words, to Monica, Lady Knollys, and a further sum of 3,000 to Dr. Bryerly, stating that the legatee had prevailed upon him to erase from the draft of his will a bequest to him to that amount, but that, in consideration of all the trouble devolving upon him as trustee, he made that bequest by his codicil; and with these arrangements the permanent disposition of his property was completed. But that direction to which he and Doctor Bryerly had darkly alluded, was now to come, and certainly it was a strange one. It appointed my uncle Silas my sole guardian, with full parental authority over me until I should have reached the age of twentyone, up to which time I was to reside under his care at BartramHaugh, and it directed the trustees to pay over to him yearly a sum of two thousand pounds during the continuance of the guardianship for my suitable maintenance, education, and expenses. You have now a sufficient outline of my fathers will. The only thing I painfully felt in this arrangement was, the breakupthe dismay that accompanies the disappearance of home. Otherwise, there was something rather pleasurable in the idea. As long as I could remember, I had always cherished the same mysterious curiosity about my uncle, and the same longing to behold him. This was about to be gratified. Then there was my cousin Milicent, about my own age. My life had been so lonely, that I had acquired none of those artificial habits that induce the finelady naturea second, and not always a very amiable one. She had lived a solitary life, like me. What rambles and readings we should have together! what confidences and castlebuildings! and then there was a new country and a fine old place, and the sense of interest and adventure that always accompanies change in our early youth. There were four letters all alike with large, red seals, addressed respectively to each of the trustees named in the will. There was also one addressed to Silas Alymer Ruthyn, Esq., BartramHaugh Manor, etc., etc., which Mr. Sleigh offered to deliver. But Doctor Bryerly thought the postoffice was the more regular channel. Uncle Silass representative was questioning Doctor Bryerly in an undertone. I turned my eyes on my cousin MonicaI felt so inexpressibly relievedexpecting to see a corresponding expression in her countenance. But I was startled. She looked ghastly and angry. I stared in her face, not knowing what to think. Could the will have personally disappointed her? Such doubts, though we fancy in afterlife they belong to maturity and experience only, do sometimes cross our minds in youth. But the suggestion wronged Lady Knollys, who neither expected nor wanted anything, being rich, childless, generous, and frank. It was the unexpected character of her countenance that scared me, and for a moment the shock called up corresponding moral images. Lady Knollys, starting up, raised her head, so as to see over Mr. Sleighs shoulder, and biting her pale lip, she cleared her voice and demanded Doctor Bryerly, pray, sir, is the reading concluded? Concluded? Quite. Yes, nothing more, he answered with a nod, and continued his talk with Mr. Danvers and Abel Grimston. And to whom, said Lady Knollys, with an effort, will the property belong, in casein case my little cousin here should die before she comes of age? Eh? Wellwouldnt it go to the heiratlaw and next of kin? said Doctor Bryerly, turning to Abel Grimston. Ayto be sure, said the attorney, thoughtfully. And who is that? pursued my cousin. Well, her uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn. Hes both heiratlaw and next of kin, pursued Abel Grimston. Thank you, said Lady Knollys. Doctor Clay came forward, bowing very low, in his standing collar and singlebreasted coat, and graciously folded my hand in his soft wrinkled grasp Allow me, my dear Miss Ruthyn, while expressing my regret that we are to lose you from among our little flockthough I trust but for a short, a very short timeto say how I rejoice at the particular arrangement indicated by the will we have just heard read. My curate, William Fairfield, resided for some years in the same spiritual capacity in the neighbourhood of your, I will say, admirable uncle, with occasional intercourse with whom he was favouredmay I not say blessed?a true Christian Churchmana Christian gentleman. Can I say more? A most happy, happy choice. A very low bow here, with eyes nearly closed, and a shake of the head. Mrs. Clay will do herself the honour of waiting upon you, to pay her respects, before you leave Knowl for your temporary sojourn in another sphere. So, with another deep bowfor I had become a great personage all at oncehe let go my hand cautiously and delicately, as if he were setting down a curious china teacup. And I courtesied low to him, not knowing what to say, and then to the assembly generally, who all bowed. And Cousin Monica whispered, briskly, Come away, and took my hand with a very cold and rather damp one, and led me from the room. XXV I Hear from Uncle Silas Without saying a word, Cousin Monica accompanied me to the schoolroom, and on entering she shut the door, not with a spirited clang, but quietly and determinedly. Well, dear, she said, with the same pale, excited countenance, that certainly is a sensible and charitable arrangement. I could not have believed it possible, had I not heard it with my ears. About my going to BartramHaugh? Yes, exactly so, under Silas Ruthyns guardianship, to spend twothreeof the most important years of your education and your life under that roof. Is that, my dear, what was in your mind when you were so alarmed about what you were to be called upon to do, or undergo? No, no, indeed. I had no notion what it might be. I was afraid of something serious, I answered. And, my dear Maud, did not your poor father speak to you as if it was something serious? said she. And so it is, I can tell you, something serious, and very serious; and I think it ought to be prevented, and I certainly will prevent it if I possibly can. I was puzzled utterly by the intensity of Lady Knollys protest. I looked at her, expecting an explanation of her meaning; but she was silent, looking steadfastly on the jewels on her righthand fingers, with which she was drumming a staccato march on the table, very pale, with gleaming eyes, evidently thinking deeply. I began to think she had a prejudice against my uncle Silas. He is not very rich, I commenced. Who? said Lady Knollys. Uncle Silas, I replied. No, certainly; hes in debt, she answered. But then, how very highly Doctor Clay spoke of him! I pursued. Dont talk of Doctor Clay. I do think that man is the greatest goose I ever heard talk. I have no patience with such men, she replied. I tried to remember what particular nonsense Doctor Clay had uttered, and I could recollect nothing, unless his eulogy upon my uncle were to be classed with that sort of declamation. Danvers is a very proper man and a good accountant, I dare say; but he is either a very deep person, or a foolI believe a fool. As for your attorney, I suppose he knows his business, and also his interest, and I have no doubt he will consult it. I begin to think he best man among them, the shrewdest and the most reliable, is that vulgar visionary in the black wig. I saw him look at you, Maud, and I liked his face, though it is abominably ugly and vulgar, and cunning, too; but I think hes a just man, and I dare say with right feelingsIm sure he has. I was quite at a loss to divine the gist of my cousins criticism. Ill have some talk with Dr. Bryerly; I feel convinced he takes my view, and we must really think what had best be done. Is there anything in the will, Cousin Monica, that does not appear? I asked, for I was growing very uneasy. I wish you would tell me. What view do you mean? No view in particular; the view that a desolate old park, and the house of a neglected old man, who is very poor, and has been desperately foolish, is not the right place for you, particularly at your years. It is quite shocking, and I will speak to Doctor Bryerly. May I ring the bell, dear? Certainly; and I rang it. When does he leave Knowl? I could not tell. Mrs. Rusk, however, was sent for, and she could tell us that he had announced his intention of taking the night train from Drackleton, and was to leave Knowl for that station at halfpast six oclock. May Rusk give or send him a message from me, dear? asked Lady Knollys. Of course she might. Then please let him know that I request he will be so good as to allow me a very few minutes, just to say a word before he goes. You kind cousin! I said, placing my two hands on her shoulders, and looking earnestly in her face; you are anxious about me, more than you say. Wont you tell me why? I am much more unhappy, really, in ignorance, than if I understood the cause. Well, dear, havent I told you? The two or three years of your life which are to form you are destined to be passed in utter loneliness, and, I am sure, neglect. You cant estimate the disadvantage of such an arrangement. It is full of disadvantages. How it could have entered the head of poor Austinalthough I should not say that, for I am sure I do understand itbut how he could for any purpose have directed such a measure is quite inconceivable. I never heard of anything so foolish and abominable, and I will prevent it if I can. At that moment Mrs. Rusk announced that Doctor Bryerly would see Lady Knollys at any time she pleased before his departure. It shall be this moment, then, said the energetic lady, and up she stood, and made that hasty general adjustment before the glass, which, no matter under what circumstances, and before what sort of creature ones appearance is to be made, is a duty that every woman owes to herself. And I heard her a moment after, at the stairhead, directing Branston to let Dr. Bryerly know that she awaited him in the drawingroom. And now she was gone, and I began to wonder and speculate. Why should my cousin Monica make all this fuss about, after all, a very natural arrangement? My uncle, whatever he might have been, was now a good mana religious manperhaps a little severe; and with this thought a dark streak fell across my sky. A cruel disciplinarian! had I not read of such characters?lock and key, bread and water, and solitude! To sit locked up all night in a dark outoftheway room, in a great, ghosty, oldfashioned house, with no one nearer than the other wing. What years of horror in one such night! Would not this explain my poor fathers hesitation, and my cousin Monicas apparently disproportioned opposition? When an idea of terror presents itself to a young persons mind, it transfixes and fills the vision, without respect of probabilities or reason. My uncle was now a terrible old martinet, with long Bible lessons, lectures, pages of catechism, sermons to be conned by rote, and an awful catalogue of punishments for idleness, and what would seem to him impiety. I was going, then, to a frightful isolated reformatory, where for the first time in my life I should be subjected to a rigorous and perhaps barbarous discipline. All this was an exhalation of fancy, but it quite overcame me. I threw myself, in my solitude, on the floor, upon my knees, and prayed for deliveranceprayed that Cousin Monica might prevail with Doctor Bryerly, and both on my behalf with the Lord Chancellor, or the High Sheriff, or whoever else my proper deliverer might be; and when my cousin returned, she found me quite in an agony. Why, you little fool! what fancy has taken possession of you now? she cried. And when my new terror came to light, she actually laughed a little to reassure me, and she said My dear child, your uncle Silas will never put you through your duty to your neighbour; all the time you are under his roof youll have idleness and liberty enough, and too much, I fear. It is neglect, my dear, not discipline, that Im afraid of. I think, dear Cousin Monica, you are afraid of something more than neglect, I said, relieved, however. I am afraid of more than neglect, she replied promptly; but I hope my fears may turn out illusory, and that possibly they may be avoided. And now, for a few hours at least, let us think of something else. I rather like that Doctor Bryerly. I could not get him to say what I wanted. I dont think hes Scotch, but he is very cautious, and I am sure, though he would not say so, that he thinks of the matter exactly as I do. He says that those fine people, who are named as his cotrustees, wont take any trouble, and will leave everything to him, and I am sure he is right. So we must not quarrel with him, Maud, nor call him hard names, although he certainly is intolerably vulgar and ugly, and at times very nearly impertinentI suppose without knowing, or indeed very much caring. We had a good deal to think of, and talked incessantly. There were bursts and interruptions of grief, and my kind cousins consolations. I have often since been so lectured for giving way to grief, that I wonder at the patience exercised by her during this irksome visit. Then there was some reading of that book whose claims are always felt in the terrible days of affliction. After that we had a walk in the yew garden, that quaint little cloistered quadranglethe most solemn, sad, and antiquated of gardens.