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.'