he same thoughtful look. Of
course I am not an artist, but I have always tried, in my way, to be a
reader of personality; and it didn't take a particularly keen observer
to discern the character and intellect in Mr. Vanderbridge's face. Even
now I remember it as the noblest face I have ever seen; and unless I had
possessed at least a shade of penetration, I doubt if I should have
detected the melancholy. For it was only when he was thinking deeply
that this sadness seemed to spread like a veil over his features. At
other times he was cheerful and even gay in his manner; and his rich
dark eyes would light up now and then with irrepressible humour. From
the way he looked at his wife I could tell that there was no lack of
love or tenderness on his side any more than there was on hers. It was
obvious that he was still as much in love with her as he had been before
his marriage, and my immediate perception of this only deepened the
mystery that enveloped them. If the fault wasn't his and wasn't hers,
then who was responsible for the shadow that hung over the house?

For the shadow was there. I could feel it, vague and dark, while we
talked about the war and the remote possibilities of peace in the
spring. Mrs. Vanderbridge looked young and lovely in her gown of white
satin with pearls on her bosom, but her violet eyes were almost black in
the candlelight, and I had a curious feeling that this blackness was the
colour of thought. Something troubled her to despair, yet I was as
positive as I could be of anything I had ever been told that she had
breathed no word of this anxiety or distress to her husband. Devoted as
they were, a nameless dread, fear, or apprehension divided them. It was
the thing I had felt from the moment I entered the house; the thing I
had heard in the tearful voice of the maid. One could scarcely call it
horror, because it was too vague, too impalpable, for so vivid a name;
yet, after all these quiet months, horror is the only word I can think
of that in any way expresses the emotion which pervaded the house.

I had never seen so beautiful a dinner table, and I was gazing with
pleasure at the damask and glass and silver--there was a silver basket
of chrysanthemums, I remember, in the centre of the table--when I
noticed a nervous movement of Mrs. Vanderbridge's head, and saw her
glance hastily toward the door and the staircase beyond. We had been
talking animatedly, and as Mrs. Vanderbridge turned away, I h