was spoken with a high head and an insufferable smile; and I more haughtily, but quite gravely, turned without disputing, and descended the steps to the quaint little garden she had indicated.
I was surprised and very glad to see my father there. I ran to him, and began, “Oh! papa!” and then stopped short, adding only, “may I speak to you now?”
He smiled kindly and gravely on me.
“Well, Maud, say your say.”
“Oh, sir, it is only this: I entreat that our walks, mine and Madame’s may be confined to the grounds.”
“And why?”
“I— I’m afraid to go with her.”
“Afraid!” he repeated, looking hard at me. “Have you lately had a letter from Lady Knollys?”
“No, papa, not for two months or more.”
There was a pause.
“And why afraid, Maud?”
“She brought me one day to Church Scarsdale; you know what a solitary place it is, sir; and she frightened me so that I was afraid to go with her into the churchyard. But she went and left me alone on the other side of the stream, and an impudent man passing by stopped and spoke to me, and seemed inclined to laugh at me, and altogether frightened me very much, and he did not go till Madame happened to return.”
“What kind of man — young or old?”
“A young man; he looked like a farmer’s son, but very impudent, and stood there talking to me whether I would or not; and Madame did not care at all, and laughed at me for being frightened; and, indeed, I am very uncomfortable with her.”
He gave me another shrewd look, and then looked down cloudily and thought.
“You say you are uncomfortable and frightened. How is this — what causes these feelings?”
“I don’t know, sir; she likes frightening me; I am so afraid of her — we are all afraid of her, I think. The servants, I mean, as well as I.”
My father nodded his head contemptuous, twice or thrice, and muttered, “A pack of fools?”
“And she was so very angry to-day with me, because I would not walk again with her to Church Scarsdale. I am very much afraid of her. I—” and quite unpremeditatedly I burst into tears.
“There, there, little Maud, you must not cry. She is here only for your good. If you are afraid — even foolishly afraid — it is enough. Be it as you say; your walks are henceforward confined to the grounds; I’ll tell her so.”
I thanked him through my tears very earnestly.
“But, Maud, beware of prejudice; women are unjust and violent in their judgments. Your family has suffered in some of its members by such injustice. It behoves us to be careful not to practise it.”
That evening in the drawing-room my father said, in his usual abrupt way —
“About my departure, Maud: I’ve had a letter from London this morning, and I think I shall be called away sooner than I at first supposed, and for a little time we must manage apart from one another. Do not be alarmed. You shall not be in Madame de la Rougierre’s charge, but under the care of a relation; but even so, little Maud will miss her old father, I think.”
His tone was very tender, so were his looks; he was looking down on me with a smile, and tears were in his eyes. This softening was new to me. I felt a strange thrill of surprise, delight, and love, and springing up, I threw my arms about his neck and wept in silence. He, I think, shed tears also.
“You said a visitor was coming; some one, you mean, to go away with. Ah, yes, you love him better than me.”
“No, dear, no; but I fear him; and I am sorry to leave you, little Maud.”
“It won’t be very long,” I pleaded.
“No, dear,” he answered with a sigh.
I was tempted almost to question him more closely on the subject, but he seemed to divine what was in my mind, for he said —
“Let us speak no more of it, but only bear in mind, Maud, what I told you about the oak cabinet, the key of which is here,” and he held it up as formerly; “you remember what you are to do in case Doctor Bryerly should come while I am away?”
“Yes, sir.”
His manner had changed, and I had returned to my accustomed formalities.
It was only a few days later that Dr. Bryerly actually did arrive at Knowl, quite unexpectedly, except, I suppose, by my father. He was to stay only one night.
He was twice closeted in the little study up-stairs with my father, who seemed to me, even for him, unusually dejected, and Mrs. Rusk inveighing against “them rubbitch,” as she always termed the Swedenborgians, told me “they were making him quite shaky-like, and he would not last no time, if that lanky, lean ghost of a fellow in black was to keep prowling in and out of his room like a tame cat.”
I lay awake that night, wondering what the mystery might be that connected my father and Dr. Bryerly. There was something more than the convictions of their strange religion could account for. There was something that profoundly agitated my father. It may not be reasonable, but so it is. The person whose presence, though we know nothing of the cause of that effect, is palpably attended with pain to anyone who is dear to us, grown odious, and I began to detest Dr. Bryerly.
It was a grey, dark morning, and in a dark pass in the gallery, near the staircase, I came full upon the ungainly Doctor, in his glossy black suit.
I think, if my mind had been less anxiously excited on the subject of his visit, or if I had not disliked him so much, I should not have found courage to accost him as I did. There was something sly, I thought, in his dark, lean face; and he looked so low, so like a Scotch artisan in his Sunday clothes, that I felt a sudden pang of indignation, at the thought that a great gentleman, like my father, should have suffered under his influence, and I stopped suddenly, instead of passing him by with a mere salutation, as he expected, “May I ask a question, Doctor Bryerly?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you the friend whom my father expects?”
“I don’t quite see.”
“The friend, I mean, with whom he is to make an expedition to some distance, I think, and for some little time?”
“No,” said the Doctor, with a shake of his head.
“And who is he?”
“I really have not a notion, Miss.”
“Why, he said that you knew,” I replied.
The Doctor looked honestly puzzled.
“Will he stay long away? pray tell me.”
The Doctor looked into my troubled face with inquiring and darkened eyes, like one who half reads another’s
