‘But don’t you think it so, really?’

‘Oh! kind, very kind,’ she answered in the same tone, ’and perhaps a little cunning.’

‘Cunning!—­how?’

’Well, you know I’m a peevish old Tabby, and of course I scratch now and then, and see in the dark.  I dare say Silas is sorry, but I don’t think he is in sackcloth and ashes.  He has reason to be sorry and anxious, and I say I think he is both; and you know he pities you very much, and also himself a good deal; and he wants money, and you—­his beloved niece—­have a great deal—­and altogether it is an affectionate and prudent letter:  and he has sent his attorney here to make a note of the will; and you are to give the gentleman his meals and lodging; and Silas, very thoughtfully, invites you to confide your difficulties and troubles to his solicitor.  It is very kind, but not imprudent.’

’Oh, Cousin Monica, don’t you think at such a moment it is hardly natural that he should form such petty schemes, even were he capable at other times of practising so low?  Is it not judging him hardly? and you, you know, so little acquainted with him.’

’I told you, dear, I’m a cross old thing—­and there’s an end; and I really don’t care two pence about him; and of the two I’d much rather he were no relation of ours.’

Now, was not this prejudice?  I dare say in part it was.  So, too, was my vehement predisposition in his favour.  I am afraid we women are factionists; we always take a side, and nature has formed us for advocates rather than judges; and I think the function, if less dignified, is more amiable.

I sat alone at the drawing-room window, at nightfall, awaiting my cousin Monica’s entrance.

Feverish and frightened I felt that night.  It was a sympathy, I fancy, with the weather.  The sun had set stormily.  Though the air was still, the sky looked wild and storm-swept.  The crowding clouds, slanting in the attitude of flight, reflected their own sacred aspect upon my spirits.  My grief darkened with a wild presaging of danger, and a sense of the supernatural fell upon me.  It was the saddest and most awful evening that had come since my beloved father’s death.

All kinds of shapeless fears environed me in silence.  For the first time, dire misgivings about the form of faith affrighted me.  Who were these Swedenborgians who had got about him—­no one could tell how—­and held him so fast to the close of his life?  Who was this bilious, bewigged, black-eyed Doctor Bryerly, whom none of us quite liked and all a little feared; who seemed to rise out of the ground, and came and went, no one knew whence or whither, exercising, as I imagined, a mysterious authority over him?  Was it all good and true, or a heresy and a witchcraft?  Oh, my beloved father! was it all well with you?

When Lady Knollys entered, she found me in floods of tears, walking distractedly up and down the room.  She kissed me in silence; she walked back and forward with me, and did her best to console me.