"A far more charming face," I heard him say. "But no--not a more beautiful figure. What figure was ever more beautiful than hers? Something--but not all--of her enchanting grace. Where is the resemblance which has brought her back to me? In the pose of the figure, perhaps. In the movement of the figure, perhaps. Poor martyred angel! What a life! And what a death! what a death!"
Was he comparing me with the victim of the poison--with my husband's first wife? His words seemed to justify the conclusion. If I were right, the dead woman had evidently been a favorite with him. There was no misinterpreting the broken tones of his voice when he spoke of her: he had admired her, living; he mourned her, dead. Supposing that I could prevail upon myself to admit this extraordinary person into my confidence, what would be the result? Should I be the gainer or the loser by the resemblance which he fancied he had discovered? Would the sight of me console him or pain him? I waited eagerly to hear more on the subject of the first wife. Not a word more escaped his lips. A new change came over him. He lifted his head with a start, and looked about him as a weary man might look if he was suddenly disturbed in a deep sleep.
"What have I done?" he said. "Have I been letting my mind drift again?" He shuddered and sighed. "Oh, that house of Gleninch!" he murmured, sadly, to himself. "Shall I never get away from it in my thoughts? Oh, that house of Gleninch!"
To my infinite disappointment, Mrs. Macallan checked the further revelation of what was passing in his mind.
Something in the tone and manner of his allusion to her son's country-house seemed to have offended her. She interposed sharply and decisively.
"Gently, my friend, gently!" she said. "I don't think you quite know what you are talking about."
His great blue eyes flashed at her fiercely. With one turn of his hand he brought his chair close at her side. The next instant he caught her by the arm, and forced her to bend to him, until he could whisper in her ear. He was violently agitated. His whisper was loud enough to make itself heard where I was sitting at the time.
"I don't know what I am talking about?" he repeated, with his eyes fixed attentively, not on my mother-in-law, but on me. "You shortsighted old woman! where are your spectacles? Look at her! Do you see no resemblance--the figure, not the face!--do you see no resemblance there to Eustace's first wife?"