And so, in a fuss, with a slight shake of the hand, getting up his umbrella, his bag, and tin box, he hurried from the room; and in a minute more, I heard the sound of his vehicle as it drove away.

I looked after it with a sigh; the uneasy sensations which I had experienced respecting my sojourn at Bartram-Haugh were re-awakened.

My ugly, vulgar, true friend was disappearing beyond those gigantic lime trees which hid Bartram from the eyes of the outer world.  The fly, with the doctor’s valise on top, vanished, and I sighed an anxious sigh.  The shadow of the over-arching trees contracted, and I felt helpless and forsaken; and glancing down the torn leaf, Doctor Bryerly’s address met my eye, between my fingers.

I slipt it into my breast, and ran up-stairs stealthily, trembling lest the old woman should summon me again, at the head of the stairs, into Uncle Silas’s room, where under his gaze, I fancied, I should be sure to betray myself.

But I glided unseen and safely by, entered my room, and shut my door.  So listening and working, I, with my scissors’ point, scratched the address where Doctor Bryerly had advised.  Then, in positive terror, lest some one should even knock during the operation, I, with a match, consumed to ashes the tell-tale bit of paper.

Now, for the first time, I experienced the unpleasant sensations of having a secret to keep.  I fancy the pain of this solitary liability was disproportionately acute in my case, for I was naturally very open and very nervous.  I was always on the point of betraying it apropos des bottes—­always reproaching myself for my duplicity; and in constant terror when honest Mary Quince approached the press, or good-natured Milly made her occasional survey of the wonders of my wardrobe.  I would have given anything to go and point to the tiny inscription, and say:—­’This is Doctor Bryerly’s address in London.  I scratched it with my scissors’ point, taking every precaution lest anyone—­you, my good friends, included—­should surprise me.  I have ever since kept this secret to myself, and trembled whenever your frank kind faces looked into the press.  There—­you at last know all about it.  Can you ever forgive my deceit?’

But I could not make up my mind to reveal it; nor yet to erase the inscription, which was my alternative thought.  Indeed I am a wavering, irresolute creature as ever lived, in my ordinary mood.  High excitement or passion only can inspire me with decision.  Under the inspiration of either, however, I am transformed, and often both prompt and brave.

‘Some one left here last night, I think, Miss,’ said Mary Quince, with a mysterious nod, one morning. ’’Twas two o’clock, and I was bad with the toothache, and went down to get a pinch o’ red pepper—­leaving the candle a-light here lest you should awake.  When I was coming up—­as I was crossing the lobby, at the far end of the long gallery—­what should I hear, but a horse snorting, and some people a-talking, short and quiet like.  So I looks out o’ the window; and there surely I did see two horses yoked to a shay, and a fellah a-pullin’ a box up o’ top; and out comes a walise and a bag; and I think it was old Wyat, please’m, that Miss Milly calls L’Amour, that stood in the doorway a-talking to the driver.’