That sentence stood out against the dark background of mystery as if written in fire. That one fact was absolute. George Greswold’s first wife had died under circumstances of peculiar sadness; so painful that Castellani’s countenance grew pale and troubled at the very thought of her death.
“I cannot endure it,” Mildred thought at last, in an agony of doubt. “I will not suffer this torture for another day. I will appeal to him. I will question him. If he values my love and my esteem he will answer faithfully. It must be painful for him, painful for me; but it will be far better for us both in the long-run. Anything will be better than these torturing fears. I am his wife, and I have a right to know the truth.”
The dressing-gong summoned her back to the house. Her husband was in the drawing-room half-an-hour afterwards, when she went down to dinner. He was still in his jacket and knickerbockers, just as he had come in from a long ramble.
“Will you forgive me if I dine with you in these clothes, Mildred, and you, Pamela?” to the damsel in white muslin, whom he had just surprised at the piano still warbling her honeyed strain about death and the roses; “I came in five minutes ago—dead beat. I have been in the forest, and had a tramp with the deerhounds over Bramble Hill.”
“You walk too far, George. You are looking dreadfully tired.”
“I’m sure you needn’t apologise for your dress on my account,” said Pamela. “Henry is a perfect disgrace half his time. He hates evening-clothes, and I sometimes fear he hates soap-and-water. He can reconcile his conscience to any amount of dirt so long as he has his cold tub in the morning. He thinks that one sacrifice to decency justifies anything. I have had to sit next him at dinner when he came straight from rats,” concluded Pamela, with a shudder. “But Rosalind is so foolishly indulgent. She would spoil twenty husbands.”
“And you, I suppose, would be a martinet to one?” said Greswold, smiling at the girl’s animated face.
“It would depend. If I were married to an artist I could forgive any neglect of the proprieties. One does not expect a man of that kind to be the slave of conventionalities; but a commonplace person like Sir Henry Mountford has nothing to recommend him but his tailor.”
They went to dinner, and Pamela’s prattle relieved the gloom which had fallen upon husband and wife. George Greswold saw that there were signs of a new trouble in his wife’s face. He sat for nearly an hour alone with the untouched decanters before him, and with Kassandra’s head upon his knee. The dog always knew when his thoughts were darkest, and would not be repulsed at such times. She was not obtrusive: she only wanted to bear him company.
It was nearly ten o’clock when he left the dining-room. He looked in at the drawing-room door, and saw his wife and his niece sitting at work, silent both.