_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
wine-glass. '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, my dear Miss
Ruthyn, as you remember Doctor Clay so well remarked on Sunday last, though
birds of ill omen, yet spiritually resemble the ravens who supplied the
prophet; and when they visit the faithful, come charged with nourishment
for the soul.
'He is a good deal embarrassed pecuniarily, I should say,' continued the
curate, who was rather a good man than a very well-bred one. 'He found a
difficulty--in fact it was not in his power--to subscribe generally to our
little funds, and--and objects, and I used to say to him, and I really felt
it, that it was more gratifying, such were his feeling and his power of
expression, to be refused by him than assisted by others.'
'Did papa wish you to speak to me about my uncle?' I enquired, as a sudden
thought struck me; and then I felt half ashamed of my question.
He looked surprised.
'No, Miss Ruthyn, certainly not. Oh dear, no. It was merely a conversation
between Mr. Ruthyn and me. He never suggested my opening that, or indeed
any other point in my interview with you, Miss Ruthyn--not the least.'
'I was not aware before that Uncle Silas was so religious.'
He smiled tranquilly, not quite up to the ceiling, but gently upward, and
shook his head in pity for my previous ignorance, as he lowered his eyes--
'I don't say that there may not be some little matters in a few points of
doctrine which we could, perhaps, wish otherwise. But these, you know,
are speculative, and in all essentials he is Church--not in the perverted
modern sense; far from it--unexceptionably Church, strictly so. Would there
were more among us of the same mind that is in him! Ay, Miss Ruthyn, even
in the highest places of the Church herself.'
The Rev. William Fairfield, while fighting against the Dissenters with his
right hand, was, with his left, hotly engaged with the Tractarians. A good
man I am sure he was, and I dare say sound in doctrine, though naturally, I
think, not very wise. This conversation with him gave me new ideas about my
uncle Silas. It quite agreed with what my father had said. These principles
and his increasing years would necessarily quiet the turbulence of his
resistance to injustice, and teach him to acquiesce in his fate.
You would have fancied that one so young as I, born to wealth so vast, and
living a life of such entire seclusion, would have been exempt from care.
But you have seen how troubled my life was with fear and anxiety during the
residence of Madame de la Rougierre, and now there rested upon my mind a
vague and awful anticipation of the trial which my father had announced,
without defining it.
An 'ordeal' he called it, requiring not only zeal but nerve, which might
possibly, were my courage to fail, become frightful, and even intolerable.
What, and of what nature, could it be? Not designed to vindicate the fair
fame of the meek and submissive old man--who, it seemed, had ceased to care
for his bygone wrongs, and was looking to futurity--but the reputation of
our ancient family.
Sometimes I repented my temerity in having undertaken it. I distrusted my
courage. Had I not better retreat, while it was yet time? But there was
shame and even difficulty in the thought. How should I appear before my
father? Was it not important--had I not deliberately undertaken it--and was
I not bound in conscience? Perhaps he had already taken steps in the matter
which committed _him_. Besides, was I sure that, even were I free again, I
would not once more devote myself to the trial, be it what it might?
You perceive I had more spirit than courage. I think I had the mental
attributes of courage; but then I was but a hysterical girl, and in so far
neither more nor less than a coward.
No wonder I distrusted myself; no wonder also my will stood out against
my timidity. It was a struggle, then; a proud, wild resolve against
constitutional cowardice.
Those who have ever had cast upon them more than their strength
seemed framed to bear--the weak, the aspiring, the adventurous and
self-sacrificing in will, and the faltering in nerve--will understand the
kind of agony which I sometimes endured.
But, again, consolation would come, and it seemed to me that I must be
exaggerating my risk in the coming crisis; and certain at least, if my
father believed it attended with real peril, he would never have wished
to see me involved in it. But the silence under which I was bound was
terrifying--double so when the danger was so shapeless and undivulged.
I was soon to understand it all--soon, too, to know all about my father's
impending journey, whither, with what visitor, and why guarded from me with
so awful a mystery.
That day there came a lively and goodnatured letter from Lady Knollys. She
was to arrive at Knowl in two or three days' time. I thought my father
would have been pleased, but he seemed apathetic and dejected.
'One does not always feel quite equal to Monica. But for you--yes, thank
God. I wish she could only stay, Maud, for a month or two; I may be going
then, and would be glad--provided she talks about suitable things--very
glad, Maud, to leave her with you for a week or so.'
There was something, I thought, agitating my father secretly that day. He
had the strange hectic flush I had observed when he grew excited in our
interview in the garden about Uncle Silas. There was something painful,
perhaps even terrible, in the circumstances of the journey he was about
to make, and from my heart I wished the suspense were over, the annoyance
past, and he returned.
That night my father bid me good-night early and went upstairs. After I
had been in bed some little time, I heard his hand-bell ring. This was not
usual. Shortly after I heard his man, Ridley, talking with Mrs. Rusk in
the gallery. I could not be mistaken in their voices. I knew not why I was
startled and excited, and had raised myself to listen on my elbow. But they
were talking quietly, like persons giving or taking an ordinary direction,
and not in the haste of an unusual emergency.
Then I heard the man bid Mrs. Rusk good-night and walk down the gallery
to the stairs, so that I concluded he was wanted no more, and all must
therefore be well. So I laid myself down again, though with a throbbing at
my heart, and an ominous feeling of expectation, listening and fancying
footsteps.
I was going to sleep when I heard the bell ring again; and, in a few
minutes, Mrs. Rusk's energetic step passed along the gallery; and,
listening intently, I heard, or fancied, my father's voice and hers in
dialogue. All this was very unusual, and again I was, with a beating heart,
leaning with my elbow on my pillow.
Mrs. Rusk came along the gallery in a minute or so after, and stopping at
my door, began to open it gently. I was startled, and challenged my visitor
with--
'Who's there?'
'It's only Rusk, Miss. Dearie me! and are you awake still?'
'Is papa ill?'
'Ill! not a bit ill, thank God. Only there's a little black book as I took
for your prayer-book, and brought in here; ay, here it is, sure enough, and
he wants it. And then I must go down to the study, and look out this one,
"C, 15;" but I can't read the name, noways; and I was afraid to ask him
again; if you be so kind to read it, Miss--I suspeck my eyes is a-going.'
I read the name; and Mrs. Rusk was tolerably expert at finding out books,
as she had often been employed in that way before. So she departed.
I suppose that this particular volume was hard to find, for she must have
been a long time away, and I had actually fallen into a doze when I was
roused in an instant by a dreadful crash and a piercing scream from Mrs.
Rusk. Scream followed scream, wilder and more terror-stricken. I shrieked
to Mary Quince, who was sleeping in the room with me:--'Mary, do you hear?
what is it? It is something dreadful.'
The crash was so tremendous that the solid flooring even of my room
trembled under it, and to me it seemed as if some heavy man had burst
through the top of the window, and shook the whole house with his descent.
I found myself standing at my own door, crying, 'Help, help! murder!
murder!' and Mary Quince, frightened half out of her wits, by my side.
I could not think what was going on. It was plainly something most
horrible, for Mrs. Rusk's screams pealed one after the other unabated,
though with a muffled sound, as if the door was shut upon her; and by this
time the bells of my father's room were ringing madly.
'They are trying to murder him!' I cried, and I ran along the gallery to
his door, followed by Mary Quince, whose white face I shall never forget,
though her entreaties only sounded like unmeaning noises in my ears.
'Here! help, help, help!' I cried, trying to force open the door.
'Shove it, shove it, for God's sake! he's across it,' cried Mrs. Rusk's
voice from within; 'drive it in. I can't move him.'
I strained all I could at the door, but ineffectually. We heard steps
approaching. The men were running to the spot, and shouting as they did
so--
'Never mind; hold on a bit; here we are; all right;' and the like.
We drew back, as they came up. We were in no condition to be seen. We
listened, however, at my open door.
Then came the straining and bumping at the door. Mrs. Rusk's voice subsided
to a sort of wailing; the men were talking all together, and I suppose the
door opened, for I heard some of the voices, on a sudden, as if in the
room; and then came a strange lull, and talking in very low tones, and not
much even of that.
'What is it, Mary? what _can_ it be?' I ejaculated, not knowing what horror
to suppose. And now, with a counterpane about my shoulders, I called loudly
and imploringly, in my horror, to know what had happened.
But I heard only the subdued and eager talk of men engaged in some
absorbing task, and the dull sounds of some heavy body being moved.
Mrs. Rusk came towards us looking half wild, and pale as a spectre, and
putting her thin hands to my shoulders, she said--'Now, Miss Maud, darling,
you must go back again; 'tisn't no place for you; you'll see all, my
darling, time enough--you will. There now, there, like a dear, do get into
your room.'
What was that dreadful sound? Who had entered my father's chamber? It was
the visitor whom we had so long expected, with whom he was to make the
unknown journey, leaving me alone. The intruder was Death!