CHAPTER III.
Which, though perfectly natural, contains matters that not the most ingenious person could foresee.
IN the bar of the little tavern at Bramleigh, Doctor Rowel was seated before a round table, on which stood a glass of cold sherry and water, with a thin biscuit on a little plate beside it.
Now, during the former part of his life, the doctor had not by any means been in the general habit of passing his time at such a place, and in such a manner. Latterly, however, fear had made him suspicious; and during the few years which I have said elapsed after his attempt to bribe the lawyer, and while Fanny remained in the house of this latter worthy, he had been haunted with certain undefinable terrors lest the lawyer should at some time or other discover anything relating to the subject on which they had so seriously differed, and on which he could not but feel that he lay very much at Mr. Skin-well's mercy. To be prepared for, and to counteract as far as he could, anything of this kind, Mr. Rowel had mingled somewhat more than hitherto had been his wont with the people of the village; although it was not until this identical evening that he had heard anything tending to involve his opponent, the lawyer, in the charge of having made use against him of the results of that professional and confidential communication between them already described. The information which had thus come to the doctor's knowledge was of a nature to decide, in his opinion, the existence of a plot on the part of Skinwell to discover the whole secret to Fanny Woodruff, and then, with her concurrence, and in her name, to take proceedings for the liberation of her father, and the recovery of his property. Whether that information was true remains to be seen; though certain enough it is, that Mr. Skinwell had employed the intervening time in cultivating Fanny's friendship, and rendering himself as agreeable to her as any middle-aged bachelor can reasonably expect to be to a young maid.
Under these circumstances, the reflections which crowded on the mind of Rowel were bitterness itself, and the more bitter, because he stood indebted to no one save himself for being placed in his present position. In imagination he saw himself reduced to the lowest extremity, at which point he began to form resolutions for his own protection against such a dreaded end. He fancied, perhaps, the lawyer might fall sick before his plans were ripe, and that he himself might have to attend him. Would that he might die suddenly!—that a fever would take him off, or a plague seize him—or—yes—nobody questions a physician's medicine—if—nay, he dare not trust his bewildered brain to think it. He must be mad—worse than mad—to suffer such a thought to cross his mind—and yet it came again and again—it would come. He began to feel fearful of himself,—to doubt whether he could trust himself to do right rather than wrong, should misfortune place his opponent in his power. While Skinwell lived, the doctor himself held all he had upon the slender tenure of a dozen words, which might be spoken for the gain they would bring,—or be uttered recklessly in a moment of anger,—or might even drop out thoughtlessly, as one of those true things spoken in jest which they who hear never forget.
Doctor Rowel looked up, and beheld the village lawyer before him, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. Rowel did not acknowledge his entrance nor his presence, until after a few minutes of dead silence, in which his face became as white as ashes with the secret emotions of his mind. He then abruptly, and with hurried speech, put this question to him, “Mr. Skinwell, I have heard something lately respecting you,—and now I wish to know what it is you intend to do about that business of mine?”
“Having already given my opinion, Doctor,” replied Skinwell, “I have nothing more to say to you.”
“But I have something to say to you,” responded the physician. “I intend to know for what purpose you have had that girl in your house so long, before you and I part again.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Skinwell, sarcastically, though still somewhat flushed to find that his intentions had somehow become suspected; “then you are not the first man, Doctor, I can assure you, who has intended a great deal more than he could achieve. Do you imagine, because I am not quite knave enough for you, that I am quite fool enough to make myself accountable to you for what I choose to do?”
“I intend to know that,” repeated Rowel, doggedly. “Do you mean to blow to the world what has been made known to you in strict confidence as a professional man? Because, if that is your principle, I tell you beforehand, and to your face, that you are a disgrace to your profession, and a d——d dishonourable scoundrel to boot.”