“Her death was a sad one, I know. Did she go out of her mind before she died?”
“No.”
“Did she leave you—or do you any great wrong?”
“No.”
“Were you false to her, George—O, forgive me, forgive me—but there must have been something more sad than common sadness, and it might be that some new and fatal love—”
“There was no such thing,” he answered sternly. “I was true to my duties as a husband. It was not a long trial—only a year. Even a profligate might keep faith for so short a span.”
“I see you will not confide in me. I will ask no more questions, George. That kind of catechism will not make us more in sympathy with each other. I will ask you nothing more—except—just one question—a woman’s question. Was your first wife beautiful in your eyes.”
“She was not beautiful; but she was intellectual, and she had an interesting countenance—a face that attracted me at first sight. It was even more attractive to me than the faces of handsomer women. But if you want to know what your fancied rival was like you need not languish in ignorance,” with some touch of scorn. “I have her photograph in this desk. I have kept it for my days of humiliation, to remind me of what I have been and what I may be again. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, George, if it will not pain you too much to show it to me.”
“Do not talk of pain. You have stirred the waters of Marah so deeply that one more bitter drop cannot signify.” He unlocked his desk as he spoke, lifted the lid, which was sustained by a movable upright, and groped among the accumulation of papers and parchments inside.