Though in a dejected, perplexed mood, I felt utterly happy when at her side; for had she not given me words of hope for the future, and in these was a certain amount of consolation, however slight. Our clandestine meetings were so skilfully arranged as to keep the ever-grumbling Hertzen in entire ignorance, and Vera admitted such expeditions were her happiest hours.
One evening, a fortnight afterwards, we had driven to Pegli, a quaint old fishing village four miles from Genoa. It was a gorgeous sunset, the sea a glittering expanse of blue and gold stretching out toward the descending sky, with nothing to fleck its surface but the gleam of a white sail or two; and as we walked together, close to the lapping waves, I fancied she looked a trifle wan and anxious.
At first I took no heed of it, but presently her agitation became so apparent that I asked whether she were well.
“Yes, well enough in health,” she sighed, “but very unhappy.”
“Why, how is that?” I asked in concern.
“Ah! Frank,” she said, with her eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the ground, “I must not tell you all, so you cannot understand but I am one of those born to unhappiness.”
“Tell me something of this sorrow, that I may sympathise with you,” I said, looking into her eyes. “If it is in my power to help you I will do so willingly.”
“Ah! if you would?” she exclaimed wistfully, her face brightening at a suggestion which appeared to flash across her mind. “There is indeed one way by which you might render me a service, but it is impossible. I am afraid the commission is too great for you to undertake.”
“I am ready to serve you in any way, Vera. If a test of my devotion is required, I’m prepared for the ordeal,” I replied seriously.
She halted, and gazing into my face with eyes brimming with tears, said: “Believe me, I am in sore need of a friend. I will tell you something of my trouble, but do not ask for further explanations now, as I cannot give them. The man whom you know as my uncle holds me in his power. He is harsh, cruel, and—and—”