“‘Seems,’ madam! nay, I know not ‘seems;’ but perhaps I am not so bad as you think me. I am of Hamlet’s temper—inquiring rather than disbelieving. To live is to doubt. And I own that I have seen enough of this life to discover that the richest gift Fate can give to man is the gift of forgetfulness.”
“I cannot think that. I would not forget, even if I could. It would be treason to forget the beloved ones we have lost.”
“Ah, Mrs. Greswold, most men have worse memories than the memory of the dead. The wounds we want healed are deeper than those made by Death; his scars we can afford to look upon. There are wounds that have gone deeper, and that leave an uglier mark.”
There was a pause. Mr. Castellani made no sign of departure. He evidently intended to wait for the Squire’s return. Through the open windows of a second drawing-room, divided from the first by an archway, they could see the servants setting out the tea-table on the lawn. A Turkey carpet was spread under the cedar, and there were basket-chairs of various shapes, cushioned, luxurious, and two or three small wicker-tables of different colours, and a milking-stool or two, and all the indications of out-door life. The one thing missing was that aerial figure, robed in white, which had been wont to flit about among the dancing shadows of branch and blossom—a creature as evanescent as they, it seemed to that mourning mother who remembered her to-day.
“Are you staying long at Riverdale?” asked Mildred presently, by way of conversation.
“If Mrs. Hillersdon would be good enough to have me, I would stay another fortnight. The place is perfect, the surrounding scenery has your true English charm, and my hostess is simply delightful.”
“You like her?” asked Mildred, interested.
No woman can help being curious about a woman with such a history as Mrs. Hillersdon’s. All the elements of romance and mystery seem, from the feminine standpoint, to concentre in such a career. How many hearts has such a woman broken; how many lives has she ruined; how often has she been on the brink of madness or suicide?—she, the placid matron, with her fat carriage-horses, and powdered footmen, and big prayer-book, and demure behaviour, and altogether bourgeois surroundings.
“Like her? Yes; she is such a clever woman.”
“Indeed!”