"It will never pass away," she interrupted, with another burst of emotion. "It will be a weight and a grief upon me as long as life shall last. I almost wish I had died with my father, rather than have to live and bear it."
I took her hands in mine, and spoke deliberately. "If it be so serious a trouble as that, I must know it, Annabel."
"And if it were of a nature to be spoken of, you should know it. But it is not, and I can tell you nothing."
"Could you speak of it to your father, were he still living?"
"We should be compelled to speak of it, I fear. But——"
"Then, my dear, you can speak of it to me. From henceforth you must look upon me as in his place; your protector; your best friend: one who will share your cares, perhaps more closely than he could have done; who will strive to soothe them with a love that could not have been his. In a short time, Annabel, I shall ask you to give me the legal right to be and do this."
"It can never be," she replied, lifting her tearful eyes to mine.
I looked at her with an amused smile. I knew she loved me—and what other obstacle could exist? Mrs. Brightman might oppose it at first, but I did not despair of winning her over in the end.
"Not quite yet, I know," I answered her. "In a few months' time."
"Charles, you misunderstand me. I said it could never be. Never."