I did not half understand this piece of worldly psychology, at which Lady Knollys seemed to laugh.

’Poor Silas, certainly he struggled honestly against the consequences, for he tried after the honeymoon to prove the marriage bad.  But the Welsh parson and the innkeeper papa were too strong for him, and the young lady was able to hold her struggling swain fast in that respectable noose—­and a pretty prize he proved!’

‘And she died, poor thing, broken-hearted, I heard.’

’She died, at all events, about ten years after her marriage; but I really can’t say about her heart.  She certainly had enough ill-usage, I believe, to kill her; but I don’t know that she had feeling enough to die of it, if it had not been that she drank:  I am told that Welsh women often do.  There was jealousy, of course, and brutal quarrelling, and all sorts of horrid stories.  I visited at Bartram-Haugh for a year or two, though no one else would.  But when that sort of thing began, of course I gave it up; it was out of the question.  I don’t think poor Austin ever knew how bad it was.  And then came that odious business about wretched Mr. Charke.  You know he—­he committed suicide at Bartram.’

‘I never heard about that,’ I said; and we both paused, and she looked sternly at the fire, and the storm roared and ha-ha-ed till the old house shook again.

‘But Uncle Silas could not help that,’ I said at last.

‘No, he could not help it,’ she acquiesced unpleasantly.

’And Uncle Silas was’—­I paused in a sort of fear.

’He was suspected by some people of having killed him’—­she completed the sentence.

There was another long pause here, during which the storm outside bellowed and hooted like an angry mob roaring at the windows for a victim.  An intolerable and sickening sensation overpowered me.

‘But you did not suspect him, Cousin Knollys?’ I said, trembling very much.

‘No,’ she answered very sharply.  ’I told you so before.  Of course I did not.’

There was another silence.

‘I wish, Cousin Monica,’ I said, drawing close to her, ’you had not said that about Uncle Silas being like a wizard, and sending his spirits on the wind to listen.  But I’m very glad you never suspected him.’  I insinuated my cold hand into hers, and looked into her face I know not with what expression.  She looked down into mine with a hard, haughty stare, I thought.

’Of course I never suspected him; and never ask me that question again, Maud Ruthyn.’

Was it family pride, or what was it, that gleamed so fiercely from her eyes as she said this?  I was frightened—­I was wounded—­I burst into tears.

’What is my darling crying for?  I did not mean to be cross. Was I cross?’ said this momentary phantom of a grim Lady Knollys, in an instant translated again into kind, pleasant Cousin Monica, with her arms about my neck.