“Thank God you did not sign your name to a lie,” said Mildred, with a sigh of relief.
“I am sorry my wife of fourteen years should think me capable of falsehood on the document that sealed my fate with hers.”
“O, George, I know how true you are—how true and upright you have been in every word and act of your life since we two have been one. It is not in my nature to misjudge you. I cannot think you capable of wrong-doing to any one under strongest temptation. I cannot believe that Fate could set such a snare for you as could entrap you into one dishonourable act; but I am tortured by the thought of a past life of which I know nothing. Why did you hide your marriage from me when we were lovers? Why are you silent and secret now, when I am your wife, the other half of yourself, ready to sympathise with you, to share the burden of dark memories? Trust me, George. Trust me, dear love, and let us be again as we have been, united in every thought.”
“You do not know what you are asking me, Mildred,” said George Greswold, in his deep, grave voice, looking at her with haggard reproachful eyes. “You cannot measure the torture you are inflicting by this aimless curiosity.”
“You cannot measure the agony of doubt which I have suffered since I knew that you loved another woman before you loved me—loved her so well that you cannot bear even to speak of that past life which you lived with her—regret her so intensely that now, after fourteen years of wedded life with me, the mere memory of that lost love can plunge you into gloom and despair,” said Mildred passionately.
That smothered fire of jealousy which had been smouldering in her breast for weeks broke out all at once in impetuous speech. She no longer cared what she said. Her only thought was that the dead love had been dearer than the living, that she had been cozened by a lover whose heart had never been wholly hers.
“You are very cruel, Mildred,” her husband answered quietly. “You are probing an old wound, and a deep one, to the quick. You wrong yourself more than you wrong me by causeless jealousy and unworthy doubts. Yes, I did conceal the fact of my first marriage—not because I had loved my wife too well, but because I had not loved her well enough. I was silent about a period of my life which was one of intense misery—which it was my duty to myself to forget, if it were possible to forget—which it was perilous to remember. My only chance of happiness—or peace of mind—lay in oblivion of that bitter time. It was only when I loved you that I began to believe forgetfulness was possible. I courted oblivion by every means in my power. I told myself that the man who had so suffered was a man who had ceased to exist. George Ransome was dead. George Greswold stood on the threshold of a new life, with infinite capacities for happiness. I told myself that I might be a beloved and honoured husband—which I had never been—a useful member of society—which I had not been hitherto. Until that hour all things had been against me. With you for my wife all things would be in my favour. For thirteen happy years this promise of our marriage morning was fully realised; then came our child’s death; and now comes your estrangement.”
“I am not estranged, George. It is only my dread of the beginning of estrangement which tortures me. Since that man spoke of your first wife, I have brooded perpetually upon that hidden past. It is weak, I know, to have done so. I ought to trust unquestioningly: but I cannot, I cannot. I love you too well to love without jealousy.”
“Well, let the veil be lifted then, since it must be so. Ask what questions you please, and I will answer them—as best I can.”
“You are very good,” she faltered, drawing a little nearer to him, leaning her head against his shoulder as she talked to him, and laying her hand on his as it lay before him on the desk, tightly clenched. “Tell me, dear, were you happy with your first wife?”