“You should have seen my daughter,” faltered Mildred sadly.
“You have a daughter?” said the stranger eagerly.
“I had a daughter. She is gone. I only put off my black gown yesterday; but my heart and mind will wear mourning for her till I go to my grave.”
“Ah, madam, how deeply I sympathise with such a grief!” murmured Castellani.
He had a voice of peculiar depth and beauty—one of those rare voices whose every tone is music. The pathos and compassion in those few commonplace words moved Mildred to sudden tears. She commanded herself with an effort.
“I am much interested in your reminiscences,” she said, after a brief pause. “My father was very dear to me. My mother came of an old Irish family, and the Irish, as you know, are apt to be over-proud of high birth. I had never heard my father’s commercial life spoken about until to-day. I only knew him as an idle man, without business cares of any kind, able to take life pleasantly. He used to spend two or three months of every year under this roof. It was a terrible blow to me when we lost him six years ago, and I think my husband mourned him almost as deeply as I did. But tell me about your book. Are you really the author of Nepenthe, that nameless author who has been so much discussed?”
“And who has been identified with so many distinguished people—Mr. Gladstone—Cardinal Newman.”
“Mr. Swinburne—Mr. Browning. I have heard all kinds of speculations. And is it really you?”
“Yes, it is I. To you I may plead guilty, since, unfortunately, the authorship of Nepenthe is now le secret de Polichinelle.”
“It is a—strange book,” said Mildred. “My husband and I were both interested in it, and impressed by it. But your book saddened us both. You seem to believe in nothing.”