“Yes; you are my wife, but she who brings dishonour upon her husband is unworthy that name,” I said, in a tone of disgust.
“I have not brought you dishonour,” she declared, drawing herself up with dignity.
“You have, I tell you! Late last night you met a strange man in the Dene, and that man is your lover!” I retorted, decisively.
“That I am to blame, Frank, I admit,” she said, dashing the tears from her eyes, “but he is not my lover. I swear you are mistaken. Nothing was further from my thoughts.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that! I know enough of the world to distinguish the meaning of such clandestine meetings,” I replied, sickened at the manner she was endeavouring to clear herself.
“There is no love between us,” she exclaimed; “but,”—and she paused.
“Then why meet him in such a secret manner?” I demanded, adding with a sneer, “perhaps you will tell me next that it was not you I saw, but a twin sister.”
She still hesitated, with her eyes cast down as if in thought.
“You can give no answer,” I continued with warmth, “because you are guilty.”
“Guilty only of meeting him,” she said, drawing a deep breath: “but I assure you there is no love between us—nay, I swear it—only a secret tie.”