“He is your husband!” I interrupted in a low voice, for somehow I felt convinced that such was the case.
“No! no!” she cried hoarsely; “no, I swear that is not so. He is neither husband, nor even friend. Though my uncle, he is unworthy the name of relation. I am unfortunately in his thrall, and dare not disobey his will. To do so would mean—”
“What?—tell me.”
“Impossible. The longer I live the more I learn to hate his presence. Ah, if you could but know!”
There was an intensity of bitterness in that utterance, a flash in her clear dark eyes that spoke of a fierce passion. Could it be hatred?
“Vera; why not trust me?” I implored, taking her hand, and seeking to penetrate the indomitable reserve in which her words were shrouded.
“Once and for all, Frank, it cannot be.”
Her answer came short, sharp, decisive, firm, yet with ineffable sadness.
“Heaven knows! I would willingly share your burden, Vera.”
She paused, as if in doubt.