“And if I do—if I do, it is useless—all useless,” she murmured.
“Yes,” I observed, “it is useless. You are already married.”
“No!” she cried, holding up her tiny hand as though to stay my words. “Do not let us talk of it. I cannot bear to think. The truth hangs like a shadow over my life.”
“Does Chetwode know?” I inquired. “Is he aware that you can never be his?”
“He knows nothing. He loves me, and believes that one day we shall many. Indeed, now that he has succeeded to the estate, he sees no reason why our marriage should be delayed, and is pressing me for an answer.”
Her breast heaved and fell quickly beneath her starched blouse. I saw how agitated she was, and how, with difficulty, she was restraining her tears.
“What answer can you give him?”
“Ah!” she cried, “what answer, indeed. Was there ever woman before who knew not her husband, or who suffered as I am suffering?”
“Your case is absolutely unique,” I said. “Have you not endeavoured to solve the problem? Surely, from the official record of the marriage, it is possible to obtain your husband’s name? You have a wedding-ring, I suppose?” I said, my thoughts running back to that fateful moment when I had placed the golden bond of matrimony upon her hand.
“Yes,” she answered, and, placing her hand within her bodice, drew forth the ring suspended by a narrow blue ribbon; “it is here.”