“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, kind creature, she laboured to occupy my thoughts, and when one theme was exhausted found another, and had always her party prepared as often as I directed a reflection or an enquiry to the re-opening of the quesiton which she had taken so much pains to close.
That night I was troubled. I was already upbraiding myself. I could not sleep, and at last sat up in bed, and cried. I lamented my weakness in having assented to Doctor Bryerly’s and my cousin’s advice. Was I not departing from my engagement to my dear papa? Was I not consenting that my Uncle Silas should be induced to second my breach of faith by a corresponding perfidy?
Lady Knollys had done wisely in despatching Doctor Bryerly so promptly; for, most assuredly, had he been at Knowl next morning when I came down I should have recalled my commission.
That day in the study I found four papers which increased my perturbation. They were in dear papa’s handwriting, and had an indorsement in these words —“Copy of my letter addressed to — — one of the trustees named in my will.” Here, then, were the contents of those four sealed letters which had excited mine and Lady Knollys’ curiosity on the agitating day on which the will was read.
It contained these words:—
“I name my oppressed and unhappy brother, Silas Ruthyn, residing at my house of Bartram–Haugh, as guardian of the person of my beloved child, to convince the world if possible, and failing that, to satisfy at least all future generations of our family, that his brother, who knew him best, had implicit confidence in him, and that he deserved it. A cowardly and preposterous slander, originating in political malice, and which would never have been whispered had he not been poor and imprudent, is best silenced by this ordeal of purification. All I possess goes to him if my child dies under age; and the custody of her person I commit meanwhile to him alone, knowing that she is as safe in his as she could have been under my own care. I rely upon your remembrance of our early friendship to make this known wherever an opportunity occurs, and also to say what your sense of justice may warrant.”
The other letters were in the same spirit. My heart sank like lead as I read them. I quaked with fear. What had I done? My father’s wise and noble vindication of our dishonoured name I had presumed to frustrate. I had, like a coward, receded from my easy share in the task; and, merciful Heaven, I had broken my faith with the dead!
With these letters in my hand, white with fear, I flew like a shadow to the drawing-room where Cousin Monica was, and told her to read them. I saw by her countenance how much alarmed she was by my looks, but she said nothing, only read the letters hurriedly, and then exclaimed —
“Is this all, my dear child? I really fancied you had found a second will, and had lost everything. Why, my dearest Maud, we knew all this before. We quite understood poor dear Austin’s motive. Why are you so easily disturbed?”
“Oh, Cousin Monica, I think he was right; it all seems quite reasonable now; and I— oh, what a crime! — it must be stopped.”
“My dear Maud, listen to reason. Doctor Bryerly has seen your uncle at Bartram at least two hours ago. You can’t stop it, and why on earth should you if you could? Don’t you think your uncle should be consulted?” said she.
“But he has decided. I have his letter speaking of it as settled; and Doctor Bryerly — oh, Cousin Monica, he’s gone to tempt him.”
“Nonsense, girl! Doctor Bryerly is a good and just man, I do believe, and has, beside, no imaginable motive to pervert either his conscience or his judgment. He’s not gone to tempt him — stuff! —