_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 pocket-book here, and I said--
'But I am really quite sure it was a story of Dickon's, he is such a surly,
disobliging man.'
'And what sort is that old servant that came in and out of his room?'
'Oh, that is old L'Amour,' I answered, rather indirectly, and forgetting
that I was using Milly's nickname.
'And is _she_ civil?' he asked.
No, she certainly was not; a most disagreeable old woman, with a vein of
wickedness. I thought I had heard her swearing.
'They don't seem to be a very engaging lot,' said Doctor Bryerly; 'but
where there's one, there will be more. See here, I was just reading a
passage,' and he opened the little volume at the place where his finger
marked it, and read for me a few sentences, the purport of which I well
remember, although, of course, the words have escaped me.
It was in that awful portion of the book which assumes to describe the
condition of the condemned; and it said that, independently of the physical
causes in that state operating to enforce community of habitation, and an
isolation from superior spirits, there exist sympathies, aptitudes,
and necessities which would, of themselves, induce that depraved
gregariousness, and isolation too. 'And what of the rest of the servants,
are they better?' he resumed.
We saw little or nothing of the others, except of old 'Giblets,' the
butler, who went about like a little automaton of dry bones, poking here
and there, and whispering and smiling to himself as he laid the cloth; and
seeming otherwise quite unconscious of an external world.
'This room is not got up like Mr. Ruthyn's: does he talk of furnishings and
making things a little smart? No! Well, I must say, I think he might.'
Here there was a little silence, and Doctor Bryerly, with his accustomed
simultaneous glance at the door, said in low, cautious tones, very
distinctly--
'Have you been thinking at all over that matter again, I mean about getting
your uncle to forego his guardianship? I would not mind his first refusal.
You could make it worth his while, unless he--that is--unless he's very
unreasonable indeed; and I think you would consult your interest, Miss
Ruthyn, by doing so and, if possible, getting out of this place.'
'But I have not thought of it at all; I am much happier here than I had at
all expected, and I am very fond of my cousin Milly.'
'How long have you been here exactly?'
I told him. It was some two or three months.
'Have you seen your other cousin yet--the young gentleman?'
'No.'
'H'm! Aren't you very lonely?' he enquired.
'We see no visitors here; but that, you know, I was prepared for.'
Doctor Bryerly read the wrinkles on his splay boot intently and peevishly,
and tapped the sole lightly on the ground.
'Yes, it is very lonely, and the people a bad lot. You'd be pleasanter
somewhere else--with Lady 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
note-book.
'Here's my fly at the door, and you must--you must' (he was looking at his
watch)--'mind you _must_ think of it seriously; and so, you see, don't let
anyone see that. You'll be sure to leave it throwing about. The best way
will be just to scratch it on the door of your press, inside, you know; and
don't put my name--you'll remember that--only the rest of the address; and
burn this. Quince is with you?'
'Yes,' I answered, glad to have a satisfactory word to say.
'Well, don't let her go; it's a bad sign if they wish it. Don't consent,
mind; but just tip me a hint and you'll have me down. And any letters you
get from Lady Knollys, you know, for she's very plain-spoken, you'd better
burn them off-hand. And I've stayed too long, though; mind what I say,
scratch it with a pin, and burn that, and not a word to a mortal about it.
Good-bye; oh, I was taking away your book.'
And so, in a fuss, with a slight shake of the hand, getting up his
umbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room; and in a minute
more, I heard the sound of his vehicle as it drove away.
I looked after it with a sigh; the uneasy sensations which I had
experienced respecting my sojourn at Bartram-Haugh were re-awakened.
My 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 over-arching 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 up-stairs 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 good-natured 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.
'Some one left here last night, I think, Miss,' said Mary Quince, with a
mysterious nod, one morning. ''Twas two o'clock, and I was bad with the
toothache, and went down to get a pinch o' red pepper--leaving the candle
a-light here lest you should awake. When I was coming up--as I was crossing
the lobby, at the far end of the long gallery--what should I hear, but a
horse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet like. So I looks
out o' the window; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay,
and a fellah a-pullin' a box up o' top; and out comes a walise and a bag;
and I think it was old Wyat, please'm, that Miss Milly calls L'Amour, that
stood in the doorway a-talking to the driver.'
'And who got into the chaise, Mary?' I asked.
'Well, Miss, I waited as long as I could; but the pain was bad, and me so
awful cold; I gave it up at last, and came back to bed, for I could not say
how much longer they might wait. And you'll find, Miss,'twill be kep' a
secret, like the shay as you saw'd, Miss, last week. I hate them dark ways,
and secrets; and old Wyat--she does tell stories, don't she?--and she as
ought to be partickler, seein' her time be short now, and she so old. It is
awful, an old un like that telling such crams as she do.'
Milly was as curious as I, but could throw no light on this. We both
agreed, however, that the departure was probably that of the person whose
arrival I had accidentally witnessed. This time the chaise had drawn up
at the side door, round the corner of the left side of the house; and, no
doubt, driven away by the back road.
Another accident had revealed this nocturnal move. It was very provoking,
however, that Mary Quince had not had resolution to wait for the appearance
of the traveller. We all agreed, however, that we were to observe a strict
silence, and that even to Wyat--L'Amour I had better continue to call
her--Mary Quince was not to hint what she had seen. I suspect, however,
that injured curiosity asserted itself, and that Mary hardly adhered to
this self-denying resolve.
But cheerful wintry suns and frosty skies, long nights, and brilliant
starlight, with good homely fires in our snuggery--gossipings, stories,
short readings now and then, and brisk walks through the always beautiful
scenery of Bartram-Haugh, and, above all, the unbroken tenor of our life,
which had fallen into a serene routine, foreign to the idea of danger
or misadventure, gradually quieted the qualms and misgivings which my
interview with Doctor Bryerly had so powerfully resuscitated.
My cousin Monica, to my inexpressible joy, had returned to her
country-house; and an active diplomacy, through the post-office, was
negotiating the re-opening of friendly relations between the courts of
Elverston and of Bartram.
At length, one fine day, Cousin Monica, smiling pleasantly, with her cloak
and bonnet on, and her colour fresh from the shrewd air of the Derbyshire
hills, stood suddenly before me in our sitting-room. Our meeting was that
of two school-companions long separated. Cousin Monica was always a girl in
my eyes.
What a hug it was; what a shower of kisses and ejaculations, enquiries
and caresses! At last I pressed her down into a chair, and, laughing, she
said--
'You have no idea what self-denial I have exercised to bring this visit
about. I, who detest writing, have actually written five letters to Silas;
and I don't think I said a single impertinent thing in one of them! What a
wonderful little old thing your butler is! I did not know what to make of
him on the steps. Is he a struldbrug, or a fairy, or only a ghost? Where on
earth did your uncle pick him up? I'm sure he came in on All Hallows E'en,
to answer an incantation--not your future husband, I hope--and he'll vanish
some night into gray smoke, and whisk sadly up the chimney. He's the most
venerable little thing I ever beheld in my life. I leaned back in the
carriage and thought I should absolutely die of laughing. He's gone up to
prepare your uncle for my visit; and I really am very glad, for I'm sure I
shall look as young as Hebe after _him_. But who is this? Who are you, my
dear?'
This was addressed to poor Milly, who stood at the corner of the
chimney-piece, staring with her round eyes and plump cheeks in fear and
wonder upon the strange lady.
'How stupid of me,' I exclaimed. 'Milly, dear, this is your cousin, Lady
Knollys.'
'And so _you_ are Millicent. Well, dear, I am very glad to see you.' And
Cousin Monica was on her feet again in an instant, with Milly's hand very
cordially in hers; and she gave her a kiss upon each cheek, and patted her
head.
Milly, I must mention, was a much more presentable figure than when I first
encountered her. Her dresses were at least a quarter of a yard longer.
Though very rustic, therefore, she was not so barbarously grotesque, by any
means.