“You heard her play—and sing?” faltered Mildred, avoiding a direct reply.
The sudden mention of her dead rival’s name had quickened the beating of her heart. She had longed to question him and had refrained; and now, without any act of hers, he had spoken, and she was going to hear something about that woman whose existence was a mystery to her, whose Christian name she had never heard.
“Yes, I heard her several times at parties at Nice. She was much admired for her musical talents. She was not a grand singer, but she had been well taught, and she had exquisite taste, and knew exactly the kind of music that suited her best. She was one of the attractions at the Palais Montano, where one heard only the best music.”
“I think you said the other day that you did not meet her often,” said Mildred. “My husband could hardly have forgotten you had you met frequently.”
“I can scarcely say that we met frequently, and our meetings were such as Mr. Greswold would not be very likely to remember. I am not a remarkable man now, and I was a very insignificant person fifteen years ago. I was only asked to people’s houses because I could sing a little, and because my father had a reputation in the South as a composer. I was never introduced to your husband, but I was presented to his wife—as a precocious youth with some pretensions to a tenor voice—and I found her very charming—after her own particular style.”
“Was she a beautiful woman?” asked Mildred. “I—I—have never talked about her to my husband, she died so young, and—”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” interrupted Castellani, as she hesitated. “Of course you would not speak of her. There are things that cannot be spoken about. There is always a skeleton in every life—not more in Mr. Greswold’s past than in that of other people, perhaps, could we know all histories. I was wrong to speak of her. Her name escaped me unawares.”
“Pray don’t apologise,” said Mildred, indignant at something in his tone, which hinted at wrong-doing on her husband’s part. “There can be no reason why you should keep silence—to me; though any mention of an old sorrow might wound him. I know my husband too well not to know that he must have behaved honourably in every relation of life—before I married him as well as afterwards. I only asked a very simple question: was my predecessor as beautiful as she was gifted?”
“No. She was charming, piquant, elegant, spirituelle, but she was not handsome. I think she was conscious of that want of beauty, and that it made her sensitive, and even bitter. I have heard her say hard things of women who were handsomer than herself. She had a scathing tongue and a capricious temper, and she was not a favourite with her own sex, though she was very much admired by clever men. I know that as a lad I thought her one of the brightest women I had ever met.”
“It was sad that she should die so young,” said Mildred.