Uncle Silas, J. Sheridan Le Fanu [10 ebook reader .txt] 📗

I must then leave you for a time; in my absence be faithful to the duties that will arise. To whom much is committed, of him will much be required. You shall promise me not to mention this conversation to Monica Knollys. If you are a talking girl, and cannot trust yourself, say so, and we will not ask her to come. Also, don’t invite her to talk about your uncle Silas⁠—I have reasons. Do you quite understand my conditions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your uncle Silas,” he said, speaking suddenly in loud and fierce tones that sounded from so old a man almost terrible, “lies under an intolerable slander. I don’t correspond with him; I don’t sympathise with him; I never quite did. He has grown religious, and that’s well; but there are things in which even religion should not bring a man to acquiesce; and from what I can learn, he, the person primarily affected⁠—the cause, though the innocent cause⁠—of this great calamity⁠—bears it with an easy apathy which is mistaken, and liable easily to be mistaken, and such as no Ruthyn, under the circumstances, ought to exhibit. I told him what he ought to do, and offered to open my purse for the purpose; but he would not, or did not; indeed, he never took my advice; he followed his own, and a foul and dismal shoal he has drifted on. It is not for his sake⁠—why should I?⁠—that I have longed and laboured to remove the disgraceful slur under which his ill-fortune has thrown us. He troubles himself little about it, I believe⁠—he’s meek, meeker than I. He cares less about his children than I about you, Maud; he is selfishly sunk in futurity⁠—a feeble visionary. I am not so. I believe it to be a duty to take care of others beside myself. The character and influence of an ancient family is a peculiar heritage⁠—sacred but destructible; and woe to him who either destroys or suffers it to perish!”

This was the longest speech I ever heard my father speak before or after. He abruptly resumed⁠—

“Yes, we will, Maud⁠—you and I⁠—we’ll leave one proof on record, which, fairly read, will go far to convince the world.”

He looked round, but we were alone. The garden was nearly always solitary, and few visitors ever approached the house from that side.

“I have talked too long, I believe; we are children to the last. Leave me, Maud. I think I know you better than I did, and I am pleased with you. Go, child⁠—I’ll sit here.”

If he had acquired new ideas of me, so had I of him from that interview. I had no idea till then how much passion still burned in that aged frame, nor how full of energy and fire that face, generally so stern and ashen, could appear. As I left him seated on the rustic chair, by the steps, the traces of that storm were still discernible on his features. His gathered brows, glowing eyes, and strangely hectic face, and the grim compression of his mouth, still showed the agitation which, somehow, in grey old age, shocks and alarms the young.

XX Austin Ruthyn Sets Out on His Journey

The Rev. William Fairfield, Doctor Clay’s somewhat bald curate, a mild, thin man, with a high and thin nose, who was preparing me for confirmation, came next day; and when our catechetical conference was ended, and before lunch was announced, my father sent for him to the study, where he remained until the bell rang out its summons.

“We have had some interesting⁠—I may say very interesting⁠—conversation, your papa and I, Miss Ruthyn,” said my reverend vis-à-vis, so soon as nature was refreshed, smiling and shining, as he leaned back in his chair, his hand upon the table, and his finger curled gently upon the stem of his wineglass. “It never was your privilege, I believe, to see your uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, of Bartram-Haugh?”

“No⁠—never; he leads so retired⁠—so very retired a life.”

“Oh, no⁠—of course, no; but I was going to remark a likeness⁠—I mean, of course, a family likeness⁠—only that sort of thing⁠—you understand⁠—between him and the profile of Lady Margaret in the drawing-room⁠—is not it Lady Margaret?⁠—which you were so good as to show me on Wednesday last. There certainly is a likeness. I think you would agree with me, if you had the pleasure of seeing your uncle.”

“You know him, then? I have never seen him.”

“Oh dear, yes⁠—I am happy to say, I know him very well. I have that privilege. I was for three years curate of Feltram, and I had the honour of being a pretty constant visitor at Bartram-Haugh during that, I may say, protracted period; and I think it really never has been my privilege and happiness, I may say, to enjoy the acquaintance and society of so very experienced a Christian, as my admirable friend, I may call him, Mr. Ruthyn, of Bartram-Haugh. I look upon him, I do assure you, quite in the light of a saint; not, of course, in the Popish sense, but in the very highest, you will understand me, which our Church allows⁠—a man built up in faith⁠—full of faith⁠—faith and grace⁠—altogether exemplary; and I often ventured to regret, Miss Ruthyn, that Providence in its mysterious dispensations should have placed him so far apart from his brother, your respected father. His influence and opportunities would, no doubt, we may venture to hope, at least have been blessed; and, perhaps, we⁠—my valued rector and I⁠—might possibly have seen more of him at church, than, I deeply regret, we have done.” He shook his head a little, as he smiled with a sad complacency on me through his blue steel spectacles, and then sipped a little meditative sherry.

“And you saw a good deal of my uncle?”

“Well, a good deal, Miss Ruthyn⁠—I may say a good deal⁠—principally at his own house. His health is wretched⁠—miserable health⁠—a sadly afflicted man he has been, as, no doubt, you are aware. But afflictions,