And my father, in the view of the honest rector who shook his head over him--'a cloud without water, carried about of winds, and a wandering star to whom is reserved the blackness of darkness'-- corresponded with the 'minister' of his church, and was provokingly contented with his own fertility and illumination; and Mrs.Rusk, who was a sound and bitter churchwoman, said he fancied he saw visions and talked with angels like the rest of that 'rubbitch.' I don't know that she had any better foundation than analogy and conjecture for charging my father with supernatural pretensions; and in all points when her orthodoxy was not concerned, she loved her master and was a loyal housekeeper.
I found her one morning superintending preparations for the reception of a visitor, in the hunting-room it was called, from the pieces of tapestry that covered its walls, representing scenes _a la Wouvermans_, of falconry, and the chase, dogs, hawks, ladies, gallants, and pages.

In the midst of whom Mrs.Rusk, in black silk, was rummaging drawers, counting linen, and issuing orders.
'Who is coming, Mrs.Rusk ?' Well, she only knew his name.

It was a Mr.Bryerly.My papa expected him to dinner, and to stay for some days.
'I guess he's one of those creatures, dear, for I mentioned his name just to Dr.Clay (the rector), and he says there _is_ a Doctor Bryerly, a great conjurer among the Swedenborg sect--and that's him, I do suppose.' In my hazy notions of these sectaries there was mingled a suspicion of necromancy, and a weird freemasonry, that inspired something of awe and antipathy.
Mr.Bryerly arrived time enough to dress at his leisure, before dinner.

He entered the drawing-room--a tall, lean man, all in ungainly black, with a white choker, with either a black wig, or black hair dressed in imitation of one, a pair of spectacles, and a dark, sharp, short visage, rubbing his large hands together, and with a short brisk nod to me, whom he plainly regarded merely as a child, he sat down before the fire, crossed his legs, and took up a magazine.
This treatment was mortifying, and I remember very well the resentment of which _he_ was quite unconscious.
His stay was not very long; not one of us divined the object of his visit, and he did not prepossess us favourably.

He seemed restless, as men of busy habits do in country houses, and took walks, and a drive, and read in the library, and wrote half a dozen letters.
His bed-room and dressing-room were at the side of the gallery, directly opposite to my father's, which had a sort of ante-room _en suite_, in which were some of his theological books.
The day after Mr.Bryerly's arrival, I was about to see whether my father's water caraffe and glass had been duly laid on the table in this ante-room, and in doubt whether he was there, I knocked at the door.
I suppose they were too intent on other matters to hear, but receiving no answer, I entered the room.