CHAPTER XIX.

       THE INVALID.

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      The following day being very fine, I walked to Oldcastle Hall; but I remember well how much slower I was forced to walk than I was willing. I found to my relief that Mrs Oldcastle had not yet returned. I was shown at once to Mr Stoddart's library. There I found the two ladies in attendance upon him. He was seated by a splendid fire, for the autumn days were now chilly on the shady side, in the most luxurious of easy chairs, with his furred feet buried in the long hair of the hearth-rug. He looked worn and peevish. All the placidity of his countenance had vanished. The smooth expanse of his forehead was drawn into fifty wrinkles, like a sea over which the fretting wind has been blowing all night. Nor was it only suffering that his face expressed. He looked like a man who strongly suspected that he was ill-used.

      After salutation,—

      "You are well off, Mr Stoddart," I said, "to have two such nurses."

      "They are very kind," sighed the patient

      "You would recommend Mrs Pearson and Mother Goose instead, would you not, Mr Walton?" said Judy, her gray eyes sparkling with fun.

      "Judy, be quiet," said the invalid, languidly and yet sharply.

      Judy reddened and was silent.

      "I am sorry to find you so unwell," I said.

      "Yes; I am very ill," he returned.

      Aunt and niece rose and left the room quietly.

      "Do you suffer much, Mr Stoddart?"

      "Much weariness, worse than pain. I could welcome death."

      "I do not think, from what Dr Duncan says of you, that there is reason to apprehend more than a lingering illness," I said—to try him, I confess.

      "I hope not indeed," he exclaimed angrily, sitting up in his chair. "What right has Dr Duncan to talk of me so?"

      "To a friend, you know," I returned, apologetically, "who is much interested in your welfare."

      "Yes, of course. So is the doctor. A sick man belongs to you both by prescription."

      "For my part I would rather talk about religion to a whole man than a sick man. A sick man is not a WHOLE man. He is but part of a man, as it were, for the time, and it is not so easy to tell what he can take."

      "Thank you. I am obliged to you for my new position in the social scale. Of the tailor species, I suppose."

      I could not help wishing he were as far up as any man that does such needful honest work.

      "My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I meant only a glance at the peculiar relation of the words WHOLE and HEAL."

      "I do not find etymology interesting at present."

      "Not seated in such a library as this?"

      "No; I am ill."

      Satisfied that, ill as he was, he might be better if he would, I resolved to make another trial.

      "Do you remember how Ligarius, in Julius Caesar, discards his sickness?—

      "'I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour.'"

      "I want to be well because I don't like to be ill. But what there is in this foggy, swampy world worth being well for, I'm sure I haven't found out yet."

      "If you have not, it must be because you have never tried to find out. But I'm not going to attack you when you are not able to defend yourself. We shall find a better time for that. But can't I do something for you? Would you like me to read to you for half an hour?"

      "No, thank you. The girls tire me out with reading to me. I hate the very sound of their voices."

      "I have got to-day's Times in my pocket."

      "I've heard all the news already."

      "Then I think I shall only bore you if I stay."

      He made me no answer. I rose. He just let me take his hand, and returned my good morning as if there was nothing good in the world, least of all this same morning.

      I found the ladies in the outer room. Judy was on her knees on the floor occupied with a long row of books. How the books had got there I wondered; but soon learned the secret which I had in vain asked of the butler on my first visit—namely, how Mr Stoddart reached the volumes arranged immediately under the ceiling, in shelves, as my reader may remember, that looked like beams radiating from the centre. For Judy rose from the floor, and proceeded to put in motion a mechanical arrangement concealed in one of the divisions of the book-shelves along the wall; and I now saw that there were strong cords reaching from the ceiling, and attached to the shelf or rather long box sideways open which contained the books.

      "Do take care, Judy," said Ethelwyn. "You know it is very venturous of you to let that shelf down, when uncle is as jealous of his books as a hen of her chickens. I oughtn't to have let you touch the cords."

      "You couldn't help it, auntie, dear; for I had the shelf half-way down before you saw me," returned Judy, proceeding to raise the books to their usual position under the ceiling.

      But in another moment, either from Judy's awkwardness, or from the gradual decay and final fracture of some cord, down came the whole shelf with a thundering noise, and the books were scattered hither and thither in confusion about the floor. Ethelwyn was gazing in dismay, and Judy had built up her face into a defiant look, when the door of the inner room opened and Mr Stoddart appeared. His brow was already flushed; but when he saw the condition of his idols, (for the lust of the eye had its full share in his regard for his books,) he broke out in a passion to which he could not have given way but for the weak state of his health.

      "How DARE you?" he said, with terrible emphasis on the word DARE. "Judy, I beg you will not again show yourself in my apartment till I send for you."

      "And then," said Judy, leaving the room, "I am not in the least likely to be otherwise engaged."

      "I am very sorry, uncle," began Miss Oldcastle.

      But Mr Stoddart had already retreated and banged the door behind him. So Miss Oldcastle and I were left standing together amid the ruins.

      She glanced at me with a distressed look. I smiled. She smiled in return.

      "I assure you," she said, "uncle is not a bit like himself."

      "And I fear in trying to rouse him, I have done him no good,—only made him more irritable," I said. "But he will be sorry when he comes to himself, and so we must take the reversion of his repentance now, and think nothing more of the matter than if he had already said he was sorry. Besides, when books are in the case, I, for one, must not be too hard upon my unfortunate neighbour."

      "Thank you, Mr Walton. I am so much obliged to you for taking my uncle's part. He has been very good to me; and that dear Judy is provoking sometimes. I am afraid I help to spoil her; but you would hardly believe how good she really is, and what a comfort she is to me—with all her waywardness."

      "I think I understand Judy," I replied; "and I shall be more mistaken than I am willing to confess I have ever been before, if she does not turn out a very fine woman. The marvel to me is that with all the