must quite give that up. Except me, if he will allow me, and the clergyman, not a soul in the country will visit at Bartram–Haugh. They may pity you, and think the whole thing the climax of folly and cruelty; but they won’t visit at Bartram, or know Silas, or have anything to do with his household.”
“They will see, at all events, what my dear papa’s opinion was.”
“They know that already,” answered she, “and it has not, and ought not to have, the slightest weight with them. There are people there who think themselves just as great as the Ruthyns, or greater; and your poor father’s idea of carrying it by a demonstration was simply the dream of a man who had forgotten the world, and learned to exaggerate himself in his long seclusion. I know he was beginning himself to hesitate; and I think if he had been spared another year that provision of his will would have been struck out.”
Doctor Bryerly nodded, and he said —
“And if he had the power to dictate now, would he insist on that direction? It is a mistake every way, injurious to you, his child; and should you happen to die during your sojourn under your uncle’s care, it would woefully defeat the testator’s object, and raise such a storm of surmise and inquiry as would awaken all England, and sent he old scandal on the wing through the world again.”
“Doctor Bryerly will, I have no doubt, arrange it all. In fact, I do not think it would be very difficult to bring Silas to terms; and if you do not consent to his trying, Maud, mark my words, you will live to repent it.”
Here were two persons viewing the question from totally different points; both perfectly disinterested; both in their different ways, I believe, shrewd and even wise; and both honourable, urging me against it, and in a way that undefinably alarmed my imagination, as well as moved my reason. I looked form one to the other — there was a silence. By this time the candles had come, and we could see one another.
“I only wait your decision, Miss Ruthyn,” said the trustee, “to see your uncle. If his advantage was the chief object contemplated in this arrangement, he will be the best judge whether his interest is really best consulted by it or no; and I think he will clearly see that it is not so, and will answer accordingly.”
“I cannot answer now — you must allow me to think it over — I will do my best. I am very much obliged, my dear Cousin Monica, you are so very good, and you too, Doctor Bryerly.”
Doctor Bryerly by this time was looking into his pocket-book, and did not acknowledge my thanks even by a nod.
“I must be in London the day after to-morrow. Bartram–Haugh is nearly sixty miles from here, and only twenty of that by rail, I find. Forty miles of posting over those Derbyshire mountains is slow work; but if you say try, I’ll see him to-morrow morning.”
“You must say try — you must, my dear Maud.”
“But how can I decide in a moment? Oh, dear Cousin Monica, I am so distracted!”
“But you need not decide at all; the decision rests with him. Come; he is more competent than you. You must say yes.”
Again I looked from her to Doctor Bryerly, and from him to her again. I threw my arms about her neck, and hugging her closely to me, I cried —
“Oh, Cousin Monica, dear Cousin Monica, advise me. I am a wretched creature. You must advise me.”
I did not know till now how irresolute a character was mine.
I knew somehow by the tone of her voice that she was smiling as she answered —
“Why, dear, I have advised you; I do advise you;” and then she added, impetuously, “I entreat and implore, if you really think I love you, that you will follow my advice. It is your duty to leave your uncle Silas, whom you believe to be more competent than you are, to decide, after full conference with Doctor Bryerly, who knows more of your poor father’s views and intentions in making that appointment than either you or I.”
“Shall I say, yes?” I cried, drawing her close, and kissing her helplessly. “Oh, tell me — rtell me to say, yes.”
“Yes, of course, yes. She agrees, Doctor Bryerly, to your kind proposal.”
“I am to understand so?” he asked.
“Very well — yes, Doctor Bryerly,” I replied.
“You have resolved wisely and well,” said he, briskly, like a man who has got a care off his mind.
“I forgot to say, Doctor Bryerly — it was very rude — that you must stay here to-night.”
“He can’t, my dear,” interposed Lady Knollys; “it is a long way.”
“He will dine. Won’t you, Doctor Bryerly?”
“No; he can’t. You know you can’t, sir,” said my cousin, peremptorily. “You must not worry him, my dear, with civilities he can’t accept. He’ll bid us good-bye this moment. Good-bye, Doctor Bryerly. You’ll write immediately; don’t wait till you reach town. Bid him good-bye, Maud. I’ll say a word to you in the hall.”
And thus she literally hurried him out of the room, leaving me in a state of amazement and confusion, not able to review my decision — unsatisfied, but still unable to recall it.
I stood where they had left me, looking after them, I suppose, like a fool.
Lady Knollys returned in a few minutes. If I had been a little cooler I was shrewd enough to perceive that she had sent poor Doctor Bryerly away upon his travels, to find board and lodging half-way to Bartram, to remove him forthwith from my presence, and thus to make my decision — if mine it was — irrevocable.
“I applaud you, my dear,” said Cousin Knollys, in her turn embracing me heartily. “You are a sensible little darling, and have done exactly what you ought to have done.”
“I hope I have,” I faltered.
“Hope? fiddle! stuff! the thing’s as plain as a pikestaff.”
And in came Branstone to say that dinner was served.
Chapter 29.
How the Ambassador Fared
LADY KNOLLYS, I could plainly see, when we got into the brighter lights at the dinner table, was herself a good deal excited; she was relieved and glad, and was garrulous during our meal, and told me all her early recollections of dear papa. Most of them I had heard before; but they could not be told too often.
Notwithstanding my mind sometimes wandered, often indeed, to the conference so unexpected, so suddenly decisive, possibly so momentous; and with a dismayed uncertainty, the question — had I done right? — was always before me.
I dare say my cousin understood my character better, perhaps, after all my honest self-study, then I do even now. Irresolute, suddenly reversing my own decisions, impetuous in action as she knew me, she feared, I am sure, a revocation of my commission to Doctor Bryerly, and thought of the countermand I might send galloping after him.
So,
