'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 the 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. 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.