I entered the room, then, in some trepidation, but was instantly relieved. Uncle Silas was in the same health apparently, and, as nearly as I could recollect it, in precisely the same rather handsome though negligent garb in which I had first seen him.
Doctor Bryerly — what a marked and vulgar contrast, and yet, somehow, how reassuring! — sat at the table near him, and was tying up papers. His eyes watched me, I thought, with an anxious scrutiny as I approached; and I think it was not until I had saluted him that he recollected suddenly that he had not seen me before at Bartram, and stood up and greeted me in his usual abrupt and somewhat familiar way. It was vulgar and not cordial, and yet it was honest and indefinably kind.
Up rose my uncle, that strangely venerable, pale portrait, in his loose Rembrandt black velvet. How gentle, how benignant, how unearthly, and inscrutable!
‘I need not say how she is. Those lilies and roses, Doctor Bryerly, speak their own beautiful praises of the air of Bartram. I almost regret that her carriage will be home so soon. I only hope it may not abridge her rambles. It positively does me good to look at her. It is the glow of flowers in winter, and the fragrance of a field which the Lord hath blessed.’
‘Country air, Miss Ruthyn, is a right good kitchen to country fare. I like to see young women eat heartily. You have had some pounds of beef and mutton since I saw you last,’ said Dr. Bryerly.
And this sly speech made, he scrutinised my countenance in silence rather embarrassingly.
‘My system, Doctor Bryerly, as a disciple of Aesculapius you will approve — health first, accomplishment afterwards. The Continent is the best field for elegant instruction, and we must see the world a little, by-and-by, Maud; and to me, if my health be spared, there would be an unspeakable though a melancholy charm in the scenes where so many happy, though so many wayward and foolish, young days were passed; and I think I should return to these picturesque solitudes with, perhaps, an increased relish. You remember old Chaulieu’s sweet lines —
Désert, aimable solitude,
Séjour du calme et de la paix,
Asile où n’entrèrent jamais
Le tumulte et l’inquiétude.
I can’t say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated these sylvan fastnesses; but the tumults of the world, thank Heaven! — never.’
There was a sly scepticism, I thought, in Doctor Bryerly’s sharp face; and hardly waiting for the impressive ‘never,’ he said —
‘I forgot to ask, who is your banker?’
‘Oh! Bartlet and Hall, Lombard Street,’ answered Uncle Silas, dryly and shortly.
Dr. Bryerly made a note of it, with an expression of face which seemed, with a sly resolution, to say, ‘You shan’t come the anchorite over me.’
I saw Uncle Silas’s wild and piercing eye rest suspiciously on me for a moment, as if to ascertain whether I felt the spirit of Doctor Bryerly’s almost interruption; and, nearly at the same moment, stuffing his papers into his capacious coat pockets, Doctor Bryerly rose and took his leave.
When he was gone, I bethought me that now was a good opportunity of making my complaint of Dickon Hawkes. Uncle Silas having risen, I hesitated, and began,
‘Uncle, may I mention an occurrence — which I witnessed?’
‘Certainly, child,’ he answered, fixing his eye sharply on me. I really think he fancied that the conversation was about to turn upon the phantom chaise.
So I described the scene which had shocked Milly and me, an hour or so ago, in the Windmill Wood.
‘You see, my dear child, they are rough persons; their ideas are not ours; their young people must be chastised, and in a way and to a degree that we would look upon in a serious light. I’ve found it a bad plan interfering in strictly domestic misunderstandings, and should rather not.’
‘But he struck her violently on the head, uncle, with a heavy cudgel, and she was bleeding very fast.’
‘Ah?’ said my uncle, dryly.
‘And only that Milly and I deterred him by saying that we would certainly tell you, he would have struck her again; and I really think if he goes on treating her with so much violence and cruelty he may injure her seriously, or perhaps kill her.’
‘Why, you romantic little child, people in that rank of life think absolutely nothing of a broken head,’ answered Uncle Silas, in the same way.
‘But is it not horrible brutality, uncle?’
‘To be sure it is brutality; but then you must remember they are brutes, and it suits them,’ said he.
I was disappointed. I had fancied that Uncle Silas’s gentle nature would have recoiled from such an outrage with horror and indignation; and instead, here he was, the apologist of that savage ruffian, Dickon Hawkes.
‘And he is always so rude and impertinent to Milly and to me,’ I continued.
‘Oh! impertinent to you — that’s another matter. I must see to that. Nothing more, my dear child?’
‘Well, there was nothing more.’
‘He’s a useful servant, Hawkes; and though his looks are not prepossessing, and his ways and language rough, yet he is a very kind father, and a most honest man — a thoroughly moral man, though severe — a very rough diamond though, and has no idea of the refinements of polite society. I venture to say he honestly believes that he has been always unexceptionably polite to you, so we must make allowances.’
And Uncle Silas smoothed my hair with his thin aged hand, and kissed my forehead.
‘Yes, we must make allowances; we must be kind. What says the Book?— “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Your dear father acted upon that maxim — so noble and so awful — and I strive to do so. Alas! dear Austin, longo intervalle, far behind! and you are removed — my example and my help; you are gone to your rest, and I remain beneath my burden, still marching on by bleak and alpine paths, under the awful night.
O nuit, nuit douloureuse! O toi, tardive aurore!
Viens-tu? vas-tu venir? es-tu bien loin encore?
And repeating these lines of Chenier, with upturned eyes, and one hand lifted, and an indescribable expression of grief and fatigue, he sank stiffly into his chair, and remained mute, with eyes closed for some time. Then applying his scented handkerchief to them hastily, and looking very kindly at me, he said —
‘Anything more, dear child?’
‘Nothing, uncle, thank you, very much, only about that man, Hawkes; I dare say that he does not mean to be so uncivil as he is, but I am really afraid of him, and he makes our walks in that direction quite unpleasant.’
‘I understand quite, my dear. I will see to it; and you must remember that nothing is to be allowed to vex my beloved niece and ward during her stay at Bartram — nothing that her old kinsman, Silas Ruthyn, can remedy.’
So with a tender smile, and a charge to shut the door ‘perfectly, but without clapping it,’ he dismissed me.
Doctor Bryerly had not slept at Bartram, but at the little inn in Feltram, and he was going direct to London, as I afterwards learned.
‘Your ugly doctor’s gone away in a fly,’ said Milly, as we met on the stairs, she running up, I down.
On reaching the little apartment which was our sitting-room, however, I found that she was mistaken; for Doctor Bryerly, with his hat and a great pair of woollen gloves on, and an old Oxford grey surtout that showed his lank length to advantage, buttoned all the way up to his chin, had set down his black leather bag on the table, and was reading at the window a little volume which I had borrowed from my uncle’s library.
It was Swedenborg’s account of the other worlds, Heaven and Hell.
He closed it on his finger as I entered, and without recollecting to remove his hat, he made a step or two towards me with his splay, creaking boots. With a quick glance at the door, he said —
‘Glad to see you alone for a minute — very glad.’
But his countenance, on the contrary, looked very anxious.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
A MIDNIGHT DEPARTURE
‘I
’m going this minute — I — I want to know’ — another glance at the door— ‘are you really quite comfortable here?’
‘Quite,’ I answered promptly.
‘You have only your cousin’s company?’ he continued, glancing at the table, which was laid for two.
‘Yes; but Milly and I are very happy together.’
‘That’s very nice; but I think there are no teachers, you see — painters, and singers, and that sort of thing that is usual with young ladies. No teachers of that kind — of any kind — are there?’ ‘No; my uncle thinks it better I should lay in a store of health, he says.’
‘I know; and the carriage and horses have not come; how soon are they expected?’
‘I really can’t say, and I assure you I don’t much care. I think running about great fun.’
‘You walk to church?’
‘Yes; Uncle Silas’s carriage wants a new wheel, he told me.’
‘Ay, but a young woman of your rank, you know, it is not usual she should be without the use of a carriage. Have you horses to ride?’
I shook my head.
‘Your uncle, you know, has a very liberal allowance for your maintenance and education.’
I remembered something in the will about it, and Mary Quince was constantly grumbling that ‘he did not spend a pound a week on our board.’
I answered nothing, but looked down.
Another glance at the door from Doctor Bryerly’s sharp black eyes.
‘Is he kind to you?’
‘Very kind — most gentle and affectionate.’
‘Why doesn’t he keep company with you? Does he ever dine with you, or drink tea, or talk to you? Do you see much of him?’
‘He is a miserable invalid — his hours and regimen are peculiar. Indeed I wish very much you would consider his case; he is, I believe, often insensible for a long time, and his mind in a strange feeble state sometimes.’
‘I dare say — worn out in his young days; and I saw that preparation of opium in his bottle — he takes too much.’
‘Why do you think so, Doctor Bryerly?’
‘It’s made on water: the spirit interferes with the use of it beyond a certain limit. You have no idea what those fellows can swallow. Read the “Opium Eater.” I knew two cases in which the quantity exceeded De Quincy’s. Aha! it’s new to you?’ and he laughed quietly at my simplicity.
‘And what do you think his complaint is?’ I asked.
‘Pooh! I haven’t a notion; but, probably, one way or another, he has been all his days working on his nerves and his brain. These men of pleasure, who have no other pursuit, use themselves up mostly, and pay a smart price for their sins. And so he’s kind and affectionate, but hands you over to your cousin and the servants. Are his people civil and obliging?’
‘Well, I can’t say much for them; there is a man named Hawkes, and his daughter, who are very rude, and even abusive sometimes, and say they have orders from my uncle to shut us out from a portion of the grounds; but I don’t believe that, for Uncle Silas never alluded to it when I was making my complaint of them to-day.’
‘From what part of the grounds is that?’ asked Doctor Bryerly, sharply.
I described the situation as well as I could.
‘Can we see it from this?’ he asked, peeping from the window.
‘Oh, no.’
Doctor Bryerly made a note in his pocketbook here, and I said —
‘But I am really quite sure it was a story of Dickon’s, he is such a surly, disobliging man.’
‘And what sort is that old servant that came in and out of his room?’
‘Oh, that is old L’Amour,’ I answered, rather indirectly, and forgetting that I was using Milly’s nickname.
‘And is she civil?’ he asked.
No, she certainly was not; a most disagreeable old woman, with a vein of wickedness. I thought I had heard her swearing.
‘They don’t seem to be a very engaging lot,’ said Doctor Bryerly;’ but where there’s one, there will be more. See here, I was just reading a passage,’ and he opened the little volume at the place where his finger marked it, and read for me a few sentences, the purport of which I well remember, although, of course, the words have escaped me.
It was in that awful portion of the book which assumes to describe the condition of the condemned; and it said that, independently of the physical causes in that state operating to enforce community of habitation, and an isolation from superior spirits, there exist sympathies, aptitudes, and necessities which would, of themselves, induce that depraved gregariousness, and isolation too.
‘And what of the rest of the servants, are they better?’ he resumed.
We saw little or nothing of the others, except of old ‘Giblets,’ the butler, who went about like a little automaton of dry bones, poking here and there, and whispering and smiling to himself as he laid the cloth; and seeming otherwise quite unconscious of an external world.
‘This room is not got up like Mr. Ruthyn’s: does he talk of furnishings and making things a little smart? No! Well, I must say, I think he might.’
Here there was a little silence, and Doctor Bryerly, with his accustomed simultaneous glance at the door, said in low, cautious tones, very distinctly —
‘Have you been thinking at all over that matter again, I mean about getting your uncle to forego his guardianship? I would not mind his first refusal. You could make it worth his while, unless he — that is — unless he’s very unreasonable indeed; and I think you would consult your interest, Miss Ruthyn, by doing so and, if possible, getting out of this place.’
‘But I have not thought of it at all; I am much happier here than I had at all expected, and I am very fond of my cousin Milly.’
‘How long have you been here exactly?’
I told him. It was some two or three months.
‘Have you seen your other cousin yet — the young gentleman?’
‘No.’
‘H’m! Aren’t you very lonely?’ he enquired.
‘We see no visitors here; but that, you know, I was prepared for.’
Doctor Bryerly read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently and peevishly, and tapped the sole lightly on the ground.
‘Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You’d be pleasanter somewhere else — with Lady Knollys, for instance, eh?’
‘Well, there certainly. But I am very well here: really the time passes very pleasantly; and my uncle is so kind. I have only to mention anything that annoys me, and he will see that it is remedied: he is always impressing that on me.’
‘Yes, it is not a fit place for you,’ said Doctor Bryerly. ‘Of course, about your uncle,’ he resumed, observing my surprised look, ‘it is all right: but he’s quite helpless, you know. At all events, think about it. Here’s my address — Hans Emmanuel Bryerly, M.D., 17 King Street, Covent Garden, London — don’t lose it, mind,’ and he tore the leaf out of his notebook.
‘Here’s my fly at the door, and you must — you must’ (he was looking at his watch)— ‘mind you must think of it seriously; and so, you see, don’t let anyone see that. You’ll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best way will be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know; and don’t put my name — you’ll remember that — only the rest of the address; and burn this. Quince is with you?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say.
‘Well, don’t let her go; it’s a bad sign if they wish it. Don’t consent, mind; but just tip me a hint and you’ll have me down. And any letters you get from Lady Knollys, you know, for she’s very plain-spoken, you’d better burn them offhand. And I’ve stayed too long, though; mind what I say, scratch it with a pin, and burn that, and not a word to a mortal about it. Goodbye; oh, I was taking away your book.’
And so, in a fuss, with a slight shake of the hand, getting up his umbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room; and in a minute more, I heard the sound of his vehicle as it d
rove away.
I looked after it with a sigh; the uneasy sensations which I had experienced respecting my sojourn at Bartram-Haugh were re-awakened.
My ugly, vulgar, true friend was disappearing beyond those gigantic lime trees which hid Bartram from the eyes of the outer world. The fly, with the doctor’s valise on top, vanished, and I sighed an anxious sigh. The shadow of the overarching trees contracted, and I felt helpless and forsaken; and glancing down the torn leaf, Doctor Bryerly’s address met my eye, between my fingers.
I slipt it into my breast, and ran upstairs stealthily, trembling lest the old woman should summon me again, at the head of the stairs, into Uncle Silas’s room, where under his gaze, I fancied, I should be sure to betray myself.
But I glided unseen and safely by, entered my room, and shut my door. So listening and working, I, with my scissors’ point, scratched the address where Doctor Bryerly had advised. Then, in positive terror, lest some one should even knock during the operation, I, with a match, consumed to ashes the tell-tale bit of paper.
Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensations of having a secret to keep. I fancy the pain of this solitary liability was disproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally very open and very nervous. I was always on the point of betraying it apropos des bottes — always reproaching myself for my duplicity; and in constant terror when honest Mary Quince approached the press, or goodnatured Milly made her occasional survey of the wonders of my wardrobe. I would have given anything to go and point to the tiny inscription, and say:— ‘This is Doctor Bryerly’s address in London. I scratched it with my scissors’ point, taking every precaution lest anyone — you, my good friends, included — should surprise me. I have ever since kept this secret to myself, and trembled whenever your frank kind faces looked into the press. There — you at last know all about it. Can you ever forgive my deceit?’
But I could not make up my mind to reveal it; nor yet to erase the inscription, which was my alternative thought. Indeed I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived, in my ordinary mood. High excitement or passion only can inspire me with decision. Under the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 240
