closed. “I saw all the trees bend that way this evening. That way stands the great lonely wood, where my darling father and mother lie. Oh, how dreadful on nights like this, to think of them — a vault! — damp, and dark, and solitary — under the storm.”
Cousin Monica looked wistfully in the same direction, and with a short sigh she said —
“We think too much of the poor remains, and too little of the spirit which lives for ever. I am sure they are happy.” And she sighed again. “I wish I dare hope as confidently for myself. Yes, Maud, it is sad. We are such materialists, we can’t help feeling so. We forget how well it is for us that our present bodies are not to last always. They are constructed for a time and place of trouble — plainly mere temporary machines that wear out, constantly exhibiting failure and decay, and with such tremendous capacity for pain. The body lies alone, and so it ought for it is plainly its good Creator’s will; it is only the tabernacle, not the person, who is clothed upon after death, Saint Paul says, ‘with a house which is from heaven.’ So Maud, darling, although the thought will trouble us again and again, there is nothing in it; and the poor mortal body is only the cold ruin of a habitation which they have forsaken before we do. So this great wind, you say, is blowing toward us from the wood there. If so, Maud, it is blowing from Bartram–Haugh, too, over the trees and chimneys of that old place, and the mysterious old man, who is quite right in thinking I don’t like him; and I can fancy him an old enchanter in his castle, waving his familiar spirits on the wind to fetch and carry tidings of our occupations here.”
I lifted my head and listened to the storm, drying away to the distance sometimes — sometimes swelling and pealing around and above us — and through the dark and solitude my thoughts sped away to Bartram–Haugh and Uncle Silas.
“This letter,” I said at last,” makes me feel differently. I think he is a stern old man — is he?”
“It is twenty years, now, since I saw him,” answered Lady Knollys. “I did not choose to visit at his house.”
“Was that before the dreadful occurrence at Bartram–Haugh?”
“Yes — before, dear. He was not a reformed rake, but only a ruined one then. Austin was very good to him. Mr. Danvers says it is quite unaccountable how Silas can have made away with the immense sums he got from his brother from time to time without benefiting himself in the least. But, my dear, he played; and trying to help a man who plays, and is unlucky — and some men are, I believe, habitually unlucky — is like trying to fill a vessel that has no bottom. I think, by-the-by, my hopeful nephew, Charles Oakley, plays. Then Silas went most unjustifiably into all manner of speculations, and your poor father had to pay everything. He lost something quite astounding in that bank that ruined so many country gentlemen — poor Sir Harry Shackleton, in Yorkshire, had to sell half his estate. But your kind father went on helping him, up to his marriage — I mean in that extravagant way which was really totally useless.”
“Has my aunt been long dead?”
“Twelve or fifteen years — more, indeed — she died before your poor mamma. She was very unhappy, and I am sure would have given her right hand she had never married Silas.”
“Did you like her?”
“No, dear; she was a coarse, vulgar woman.”
“Coarse and vulgar, and Uncle Silas’s wife;” I echoed in extreme surprise, for Uncle Silas was a man of fashion — a beau in his day — and might have married women of good birth and fortune, I had no doubt, and so I expressed myself.”
“Yes, dear; so he might, and poor dear Austin was very anxious he should, and would have helped him with a handsome settlement, I dare say, but he chose to marry the daughter of a Denbigh innkeeper.”
“How utterly incredible!” I exclaimed.
“Not the least incredible, dear — a kind of thing not at all so uncommon as you fancy.”
“What! — a gentleman of fashion and refinement marry a person ——”
“A barmaid! — just so,” said Lady Knollys. “I think I could count half a dozen men of fashion who, to my knowledge, have ruined themselves just in a similar way.”
“Well, at all events, it must be allowed that in this he proved himself altogether unworldly.”
“Not a bit unworldly, but very vicious,” replied Cousin Monica, with a careless little laugh. “She was very beautiful, curiously beautiful, for a person in her station. She was very like that Lady Hamilton who was Nelson’s sorceress — elegantly beautiful, but perfectly low and stupid. I believe, to do him justice, he only intended to ruin her; but she was cunning enough to insist upon marriage. Men who have never in all their lives denied themselves an indulgence of a single fancy, cost what it may, will not be baulked even by that condition if the penchant be only violent enough.”
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. Clarke. 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 fir, 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 pause din 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
