The only other person in the room--the only person in the house related to
me--was my father. He was Mr. Ruthyn, of Knowl, so called in his county,
but he had many other places, was of a very ancient lineage, who had
refused a baronetage often, and it was said even a viscounty, being of a
proud and defiant spirit, and thinking themselves higher in station and
purer of blood than two-thirds of the nobility into whose ranks, it was
said, they had been invited to enter. Of all this family lore I knew but
little and vaguely; only what is to be gathered from the fireside talk of
old retainers in the nursery.

I am sure my father loved me, and I know I loved him. With the sure
instinct of childhood I apprehended his tenderness, although it was never
expressed in common ways. But my father was an oddity. He had been early
disappointed in Parliament, where it was his ambition to succeed. Though a
clever man, he failed there, where very inferior men did extremely well.
Then he went abroad, and became a connoisseur and a collector; took a part,
on his return, in literary and scientific institutions, and also in the
foundation and direction of some charities. But he tired of this mimic
government, and gave himself up to a country life, not that of a sportsman,
but rather of a student, staying sometimes at one of his places and
sometimes at another, and living a secluded life.

Rather late in life he married, and his beautiful young wife died, leaving
me, their only child, to his care. This bereavement, I have been told,
changed him--made him more odd and taciturn than ever, and his temper also,
except to me, more severe. There was also some disgrace about his younger
brother--my uncle Silas--which he felt bitterly.

He was now walking up and down this spacious old room, which, extending