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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 be 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 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 aced upon that maxim — so noble and so awful — and I strive to do so. Alas! dear Austin, longo intervallo, 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 38.
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