"My husband?—Never!—Yes, to MY HUSBAND." The first part of the sentence was full of fierce contempt; the latter, smothered, and slowly desperate. "Tell me, Ursula, what constitutes a man one's husband? Brutality, tyranny—the tyranny which the law sanctions? Or kindness, sympathy, devotion, everything that makes life beautiful—everything that constitutes happiness and—"
"Sin."
The word in her ear was so low, that she started as if conscience only had uttered it—conscience, to whom only her intents were known.
John came forward, speaking gravely, but not unkindly.
"Lady Caroline, I am deeply grieved that this should have happened in my house, and through your visiting us against your husband's will."
"His will!"
"Pardon me; but I think a wife is bound to the very last to obey in all things, not absolutely wrong, her husband's will. I am glad you thought of writing to Mr. Brithwood."
She shook her head, in mocking denial.
"May I ask, then—since I am to have the honour of sending it—to whom is this letter?"
"To—" I think she would have told a falsehood, if John's eyes had not been so keenly fixed upon her. "To—a friend."