“Poor girl! poor girl!” murmured Mildred, with a stifled sob, and then she asked with intense earnestness, “but, Lady Lochinvar, you who knew George Ransome, surely you never suspected him of murder?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Greswold. I believe he was a gentleman, and a man of an open, generous nature; but, upon my word, I should be sorry to pledge myself to a positive belief in his innocence as to his wife’s death. Who can tell what a man might do, harassed and tormented as that man may have been by that woman’s tongue? I know what pestilential things she could say—what scorpions and adders dropped out of her mouth when she was in her jealous fits—and she may have gone just one step too far—walking by his side upon that narrow path—and he may have turned upon her, exasperated to madness, and—one push—and the thing was done. The edge of a cliff must be an awful temptation under such circumstances,” added Lady Lochinvar solemnly. “I am sure I would not answer for myself in such a situation.”
“I will answer for him,” said Mildred firmly.
“You know him, then?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“Where is he? What is he doing? Has he prospered in life?”
“Yes, and no. He was a happy man—or seemed to be happy—for thirteen years of married life; and then God’s hand was stretched out to afflict him, and his only child was snatched away.”
“He married again, then?”
“Yes, he married a second wife fourteen years ago. Forgive me, Lady Lochinvar, for having suppressed the truth till now. I wanted you to answer me more freely than you might have done had you known all. George Ransome is my husband; he assumed the name of Greswold when he succeeded to his mother’s property.”
“Then Mr. Greswold, your husband, is my old acquaintance. Is he with you here?”