‘Perhaps they would rather be able to take care of themselves,’ Beatrix had replied, a speech which was not agreeable to Miss Scales. ‘But I must ask you,’ said Beatrix, as she drove her pony carriage up the moorland road. ‘Whom else can I ask? Have I so many friends ready to give me information? You must answer me.’ ‘I do not recognise any obligation to do so unless I choose, Beatrix,’ Miss Scales replied, severely. ‘The question you put is a very painful one. I cannot deny that there is an unpleasant feeling about you in people’s minds. Your purchasing laudanum at different shops--forgive me if I say in an underhand and crafty manner----’ ‘They would not have given me enough at one shop,’ interrupted Beatrix, ‘and I was almost mad for want of sleep.’ ‘My dear, I am not finding fault with you. God forbid that I should judge you. But, altogether, the circumstance was most unfortunate, and it has had a painful effect upon people’s minds. I am not sure, Beatrix, that it would not be well for you to leave Little Yafford.’ ‘What! run away from these people because they are cruel enough to believe this hideous thing?’ cried Beatrix, passionately. ‘No, that is a thing I will never do. I will live here till my hair is gray, rather than let them think their false judgment has driven me away.’ ‘Well, Beatrix, I am very sorry,’ said Miss Scales. ‘I think a tour in Switzerland--or a residence in Hanover--where you might acquire the German language with the best accent--would be good for you in every way. And, perhaps, before you came back something would transpire to convince people they had misjudged you. However, you must do as you please, of course. I have no authority. Mr. Dulcimer is your guardian. So long as he is satisfied I cannot complain. And now, my dear, with regard to myself, I have been wishing to mention it for some time, but I did not like to say anything while your papa’s death was so recent. I am going to leave you, and settle in Devonshire.’ Beatrix was petrified. She had considered Miss Scales as much a fixture as the old eight-day clock in the hall--nay, as the Water House itself, or as the massive old bridge with its single arch, which had spanned the river ever since the time of the Romans. Miss Scales was tiresome, and given to much preaching, and to the use of Johnsonian locutions, without the correctness of Johnson. She easily degenerated into a nuisance, but Beatrix was used to her, and regarded her as a part of life. Such fondness as grows out of time and custom, Beatrix had for Miss Scales, though not the affection that springs from merit and sweetness in the object of it. That Miss Scales could wish to remove herself permanently from the Water House was of all things most startling. It was as if the cedar on the lawn had uprooted itself and walked away to shade some other garden. ‘Leave me!’ cried Beatrix, pale with surprise. ‘You can’t really mean it.’