You remember old Chaulieu's sweet lines--
Desert, aimable solitude,
Sejour du calme et de la paix,
Asile ou n'entrerent jamais
Le tumulte et l'inquietude.
I can't say that care and sorrow have not sometimes penetrated these sylvan
fastnesses; but the tumults of the world, thank Heaven!--never.'
There was a sly scepticism, I thought, in Doctor Bryerly's sharp face; and
hardly waiting for the impressive 'never,' he said--
'I forgot to ask, who is your banker?'
'Oh! Bartlet and Hall, Lombard Street,' answered Uncle Silas, dryly and
shortly.
Dr. Bryerly made a note of it, with an expression of face which seemed,
with a sly resolution, to say, 'You shan't come the anchorite over me.'
I saw Uncle Silas's wild and piercing eye rest suspiciously on me for a
moment, as if to ascertain whether I felt the spirit of Doctor Bryerly's
almost interruption; and, nearly at the same moment, stuffing his papers
into his capacious coat pockets, Doctor Bryerly rose and took his leave.
When he was gone, I bethought me that now was a good opportunity of making
my complaint of Dickon Hawkes.
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