He was now speaking gently and solemnly, and paused. But another vein of thought he had unconsciously opened in my mind, and I said —
“And had my dear papa no other medical adviser?”
He looked at me sharply, and flushed a little under his dark tint. His medical skill was, perhaps, the point on which his human vanity vaunted itself, and I dare say there was something very disparaging in my tone.
“And if he had no other, he might have done worse. I’ve had many critical cases in my hands, Miss Ruthyn. I can’t charge myself with any miscarriage through ignorance. My diagnosis in Mr. Ruthyn’s case has been verified by the result. But I was not alone; Sir Clayton Barrow saw him, and took my view; a note will reach him in London. But this, excuse me, is not to the present purpose. The late Mr. Ruthyn told me I was to receive a key from you, which would open a cabinet where he had placed his will — ha! thanks — in his study. And, I think, as there may be directions about the funeral, it had better be read forthwith. Is there any gentleman — a relative or man of business — near here, whom you would wish sent for?”
“No, none, thank you; I have confidence in you, sir.”
I think I spoke and looked frankly, for he smiled very kindly, though with closed lips.
“And you may be sure, Miss Ruthyn, your confidence shall not be disappointed.” Here was a long pause. “But you are very young, and you must have some one by in your interest, who has some experience in business. Let me see. Is not the Rector, Dr. Clay, at hand? In the town? — very good; and Mr. Danvers, who manages the estate, he must come. And get Grimston — you see I know all the names — Grimston, the attorney; for though he was not employed about this will, he has been Mr. Ruthyn’s solicitor a great many years: we must have Grimston; for, as I suppose you know, though it is a short will, it is a very strange one. I expostulated, but you know he was very decided when he took a view. He read it to you, eh?”
“No, sir.”
“Oh, but he told you so much as relates to you and your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, of Bartram–Haugh?”
“No, indeed, sir.”
“Ha! I wish he had.”
And with these words Doctor Bryerly’s countenance darkened.
“Mr. Silas Ruthyn is a religious man?”
“Oh, very!” said I.
“You’ve seen a good deal of him?”
“No. I never saw him,” I answered.
“H’m? Odder and odder! But he’s a good man, isn’t he?”
“Very good, indeed, sir — a very religious man.”
Doctor Bryerly was watching my countenance as I spoke with a sharp and anxious eye; and then he looked down and read the pattern of the carpet like bad news, for a while, and looking again in my face, askance, he said —
“He was very near joining us — on the point. He got into correspondence with Henry Voerst, one of our best men. They call us Swedenborgians, you know; but I dare say that won’t go much further, now. I suppose, Miss Ruthyn, one o’clock would be a good hour, and I am sure, under the circumstances, the gentlemen will make a point of attending.”
“Yes, Dr. Bryerly, the notes shall be sent, and my cousin, Lady Knollys, would I am sure attend with me while the will is being read — there would be no objection to her presence?”
“None in the world. I can’t be quite sure who are joined with me as executors. I’m almost sorry I did not decline; but it is too late regretting. One thing you must believe, Miss Ruthyn: in framing the provisions of the will I was never consulted — although I expostulated against the only very unusual tone it contains when I heard it. I did so strenuously, but in vain. There was one other against which I protested — having a right to do so — with better effect. In no other way does the will in any respect owe anything to my advice or dissuasion. You will please believe this; also that I am your friend. Yes, indeed, it is my duty.”
The latter words he spoke looking down again, as it were in soliloquy; and thanking him, I withdrew.
When I reached the hall, I regretted that I had not asked him to state distinctly what arrangements the will made so nearly affecting, as it seemed, my relations with my uncle Silas, and for a moment I thought of returning and requesting an explanation. But then, I bethought me, it was not very long to wait till one o’clock — so he, at least, would think. I went up-stairs, therefore, to the “school-room,” which we used at present as a sitting-room, and there I found Cousin Monica awaiting me.
“Are you quite well, dear?” asked Lady Knollys, as she came to meet and kiss me.
“Quite well, Cousin Monica.”
“No nonsense, Maud! you’re as white as that handkerchief — what’s the matter? Are you ill — are you frightened? Yes, you’re trembling — you’re terrified, child.”
“I believe I am afraid. There is something in poor papa’s will about Uncle Silas — about me. I don’t know — Doctor Bryerly says, and he seems so uncomfortable and frightened himself. I am sure it is something very bad. I am very much frightened — I am — I am. Oh, Cousin Monica! you won’t leave me?”
So I threw my arms about her neck, clasping her very close, and we kissed one another, I crying like a frightened child — and indeed in experience of the world I was no more.
Chapter 24.
The Opening of the Will
PERHAPS THE TERROR with which I anticipated the hour of one, and the disclosure of the unknown undertaking to which I had bound myself, was irrational and morbid. But, honestly, I doubt it; my tendency has always been that of many other weak characters, to act impetuously, and afterwards to reproach myself for consequences which I have, perhaps, in reality, had little or no share in producing.
It was Doctor Bryerly’s countenance and manner in alluding to a particular provision in my father’s will that instinctively awed me. I have seen faces in a nightmare that haunted me with an indescribably horror, and yet I could not say wherein lay the fascination. And so it was with his — an omen, a menace, lurked in its sallow and dismal glance.
“You must not be so frightened, darling,” said Cousin Monica. “It is foolish; it is, really; they can’t cut off your head, you know: they can’t really harm you in any essential way. If it involved a risk of a little money, you would not mind it; but men are such odd creatures — they measure all sacrifices by money. Doctor Bryerly would look just as you describe, if you were doomed to lose 500l., and yet it would not kill you.”
A companion like Lady Knollys is reassuring; but I could not take her comfort altogether to heart, for I felt that she had no great confidence in it herself.
There was a little French clock over the mantelpiece in the school-room, which I consulted nearly every minute. It wanted now but ten minutes of one.
“Shall we go down to the drawing-room, dear?” said Cousin Knollys, who was growing restless like me.
So down-stairs we went, pausing by mutual consent at the great window at the stair-head, which looks out on the avenue. Mr. Danvers was riding his tall, grey horse at a walk, under the wide branches toward the house, and we waited to see him get off at the door. In his turn he loitered there, for the good Rector’s gig, driven by the Curate, was approaching at a smart ecclesiastical trot.
Doctor Clay got down, and shook hands with Mr. Danvers; and after a word or two, away drove the Curate with that upward glance at the windows from which so few can refrain.
I watched