Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
can’t afford to let Consuelo have these lies circulating about her. Why don’t you talk to her and find out the truth?”
I am not ashamed to confess that I rather shrank from the prospect. Mrs. Sawyer had always been so singularly uncommunicative that it seemed impertinence to peer behind the veil. And the more so when she was one’s guest. I don’t think I could have screwed up courage, if Will’s forethought had not shewn me the way; but I did tell her as gently and sweetly as I could that there was always a certain idle curiosity about foreigners who came to live in England and that, in her case, the curiosity was increased by her beauty and immediate success. I coaxed her to tell me a little about her life. . .
“What do you want to know?,” she asked.
Those great black eyes—how I wish you had seen her!—became cold as stone. I was frightened. . .
“Your husband. . .” I began.
“He is dead.”
Truly honestly, do you know, I couldn’t go on. I did find out that he had been dead eighteen months and they had been married for less than a year and there were no children. That, at least, was her story ; one had no opportunity of testing it or catching her out . . . even if one had wanted to. Who she was
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