this time, have seen that there was much about him not easily understood. I often wonder whether, if he had been franker, I should have found him less odd than I supposed, or more odd still. Things that moved me profoundly did not apparently affect him at all. The departure of Madame, under the circumstances which attended it, appeared to my childish mind an event of the vastest importance. No one was indifferent to the occurrence in the house but its master. He never alluded again to Madame de la Rougierre. But whether connected with her exposure and dismissal, I could not say, there did appear to be some new care or trouble now at work in my father’s mind.
“I have been thinking a great deal about you, Maud. I am anxious. I have not been so troubled for years. Why has not Monica Knollys a little more sense?”
This oracular sentence he spoke, having stopped me in the hall; and then saying, “We shall see,” he left me as abruptly as he appeared.
Did he apprehend any danger to me from the vindictiveness of Madame?
A day or two afterwards, as I was in the Dutch garden, I saw him on the terrace steps. He beckoned to me, and came to meet me as I approached.
“You must be very solitary, little Maud; it is not good. I have written to Monica; in a matter of detail she is competent to advise; perhaps she will come here for a short visit.”
I was very glad to hear this.
“You are more interested than for my time I can be, in vindicating his character.”
“Whose character, sir?” I ventured to enquire during the pause that followed.
One trick which my father had acquired from his habits of solitude and silence was this of assuming that the context of his thoughts was legible to others, forgetting that they had not been spoken.
“Whose? — your uncle Silas’s. In the course of nature he must survive me. He will then represent the family name. Would you make some sacrifice to clear that name, Maud?”
I answered briefly; but my face, I believe, showed my enthusiasm.
He turned on me such an approving smile as you might fancy lighting up the rugged features of a pale old Rembrandt.
“I can tell you, Maud; if my life could have done it, it should not have been undone — ubi lapsus, quid feci. But I had almost made up my mind to change my plan, and leave all to time — edax rerum — to illuminate or to consume. But I think little Maud would like to contribute to the restitution of her family name. It may cost you something — are you willing to buy it at a sacrifice? Is there — I don’t speak of fortune, that is not involved — but is there any other honourable sacrifice you would shrink from to dispel the disgrace under which our most ancient and honourable name must otherwise continue to languish?”
“Oh, none — none, indeed, sir — I am delighted!”
Again I saw the Rembrandt smile.
“Well, Maud, I am sure there is no risk; but you are to suppose there is. Are you still willing to accept it?”
Again I assented.
“You are worthy of your blood, Maud Ruthyn. It will come soon, and it won’t last long. But you must not let people like Monica Knollys frighten you.”
I was lost in wonder.
“If you allow them to possess you with their follies, you had better recede in time — they may make the ordeal as terrible as hell itself. You have zeal — have you nerve?”
I thought in such a cause I had nerve for anything.
“Well, Maud, in the course of a few months — and it may be sooner — there must be a change. I have had a letter from London this morning that assures me of that. 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 much will 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 had 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 of age, shocks and alarms the young.
Chapter 20.
Austin Ruthyn Sets Out on His Journey
THE REV. WILLIAM FAIRCHILD, 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 wine-glass. “It never was your privilege, I believe, to see you 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