‘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.