"What do you mean?" asked Broughton. But already the sternness of the righteous judge began to drain away from his face, leaving instead the uneasiness of the lover who has no ground on which to make a claim of rights. "You say--what do you mean?"
That she meant something was very clear, and Lyon, glancing swiftly at Miss Wolcott, saw that to her, at least, the meaning was quite plain. She was troubled, anxious, but not surprised. Indeed, it was she who now took the situation in hand.
"If you will come into the library, we can talk without arousing my grandfather," she said, in guarded tones. "If he hears voices he will come down, and then--"
It was unnecessary to complete the sentence. They followed her into the library, and she closed the great doors softly. Broughton was still looking dazed. Mrs. Broughton, who had not spoken since she made the startling declaration that she was not his wife, sank into a low chair. Her eyes were lowered and her hands were pressed hard together, but there was steadiness and self-control in her attitude. Lyon drew a little apart where he could observe them both.
"Are you strong enough to tell them your story, or shall I?" asked Edith Wolcott, quietly.
"No, no, I must tell him. That at least is his right--and mine," Mrs. Broughton answered quickly. She freed herself from her wraps, and turned toward Woods Broughton. During all that followed she looked straight at him, talked to him. The others in the room did not seem to enter her consciousness. It was obvious that her one concern was to be understood by the man she loved.
"When you first met me," she said, "you knew that though I was not living with my husband, there was no legal separation. He had been away from me so long that I did not think of him very often, and had long ceased to consider that I had any wifely obligations to him. But legally I was his wife."
"You got a divorce before we were married," said Broughton, staring at her.
She went on with her story as though he had not spoken.
"The only ground on which I could obtain a divorce under the laws of this state was that of desertion. Do you understand? I could make no other charge against him. Unless I could secure a separation on that ground, I could not get one at all. I could not marry again."
"Yes, but he had been away twelve years. That surely was sufficient."
"He had been away twelve years, but--he did not wish to give me an opportunity to get my freedom. So--he wrote to me from time to time."
"He wrote to you! What of that?"
"It was enough to defeat the claim of desertion. He would always offer to provide a home for me if I would come and live with him. He did not expect me to consider it, or, I am sure, wish me to, but he took the attitude of willingness, so as to forestall2 any attempt I might make to set myself free. He made the same offer, ironically as I well knew, when he first went away. He renewed it whenever he wrote. I did not understand at the time what his object was. I thought it only a petty form of annoyance3. But when I went to Arthur Lawrence to ask him to take up the matter of my divorce, I found out what William's purpose had been. His letters made it technically4 impossible for me to assert that he had deserted5 me."
"Wait a moment. You say you went to Arthur Lawrence. It was Warren Fullerton who conducted your suit."
"After Arthur had refused to take it. He told me that under the circumstances I could not sustain the charge of desertion without--without perjury6. He tried to persuade me to follow some other course, and when I persisted he refused to act for me."
Broughton was leaning forward, following every word with absorbed attention. His eyes never left her face.
"How did Lawrence know about these letters?" he asked.
"William always sent them under cover to Arthur. He wanted to make sure, not only that I received them, but that Arthur should know I received them, so that he could call upon him to testify to the fact if he should ever wish to. All this I have learned since. Then I only knew that Arthur saw a legal difficulty and refused to prepare the papers."
"Was that his only reason for opposing your divorce? There was no--personal feeling?"
"Personal feeling? Why, no, how could there be? He would have been glad to help me. He always disliked William. But he foresaw trouble, and advised me earnestly to wait until some other plan could be considered. I would not, and went to Mr. Fullerton."
She shuddered7 involuntarily as she mentioned the name, but after only an instant's pause went on.
"From what I had learned from Arthur about the law of the case, I determined8 to say nothing to him about the letters. I told him that William had left me twelve years before and never been heard from, and on that statement the divorce was granted without difficulty. Then you and I were married."
She paused, but they all felt that it was only to gather strength to go on, and no one spoke1.
"The first intimation I had that there was going to be trouble came a year ago last summer. Mr. Fullerton was in New York and he came to see me. He wanted money. I could not understand at first, but he soon made it unmistakably clear. He had found out about the letters, and he said that the divorce was therefore fraudulent and without effect, and my marriage void."
Her voice fluttered as though, in spite of her will, it was slipping away from her control. Broughton groaned9.
"Why didn't you tell me, Grace? Good heavens, that was a matter for a man to deal with."
"I didn't dare. I was afraid to have you know, I was afraid of the scandal,--of your scorn,--of everything. I was simply terrified out of my senses. I couldn't think straight. I only wanted to keep it from ever coming out,--to hush10 it up and keep it unknown. So--I sold some jewels and paid him the money he wanted and he went away. But I was sick for a month,--do you remember?"
"If you had only told me!"
"But what could you have done? There would have been nothing possible but to put me away,--and the thought of that was worst of all. Or I thought so then."
Broughton stared. He was just beginning to see the far-reaching effects involved in the situation.
"I hoped the matter was settled," Mrs. Broughton resumed, "but a few months later I received a letter from him, asking for more money. That was the beginning. They came after that every few months, and I lived in constant dread11. He always wrote very politely, very guardedly, but I knew what he meant and I did not dare refuse him."
"One moment. How had he learned about those letters? From Lawrence?"
"No. William had seen the newspaper reports and had written to him, giving him the facts. So Mr. Fullerton said, and I don't know how else he could have found out. Arthur would never have spoken of it. I got so desperate that finally I wrote to Arthur."
"Ah!"
"He was the only one who knew the whole case. He knew about the letters, had known William, and had warned me that William would make trouble, and that I was going to build up unhappiness for myself. I wrote him what had happened. He urged me to tell you frankly12 the whole situation and to pay Fullerton nothing more. But I could not bring myself to the point of telling you. Perhaps I would if--if you had been as kind as you were at first, but I thought you were growing cold and distant, and--I could not speak. Then you went away on that sudden trip. I thought it would be a good chance to see Arthur and have a talk with him, and perhaps to appeal to Mr. Fullerton's mercy. So I came out here the moment you had gone. Were you surprised to find me gone when you returned?"
"Never mind that now," said Broughton. "Let me get your story straight first, and then I'll give you mine. When you came to Waynscott you went to Lawrence's office first, didn't you? That was Monday forenoon?"
"Yes," she said, looking a little surprised at the form of his question. "I went there, and he was very positive that I must not see Mr. Fullerton. He said he would see him for me and 'settle' him, but I was afraid to let him meet him,--Arthur has a quick temper and he was very angry,--you can't think how angry. You know I have known Arthur Lawrence since a boy. He has really been the best friend a woman ever could have, and now-- Oh, I can't go on. It is so terrible."
"But you must, Grace. It is very important. Tell me exactly what happened and where you went."
"When I left Arthur I went to Miss Elliott's. I knew she would be glad to have me stay with her a few days, and that was all I intended, at that time. I had promised Arthur not to see Mr. Fullerton, but after I left him, it seemed to me that I simply had to have it out with him. I couldn't believe that it would be impossible for me to move him in a personal interview. I found out he lived at the Wellington and went there. He was not in, but the boy said he would be there in the evening, so I went again."
"That was a mad thing to do."
"I was mad. I could think of nothing but my own troubles. And I had so firmly persuaded myself that in a personal interview I could somehow move him to mercy that I took the chances without considering anything else."
It was perhaps an accident, but she glanced at Lyon. He had not moved. Intensely interested as he was in reaching certain points, he knew that to get the story they must let her tell it in her own way, without interruption.
"I did find him. I had a terrible half hour with him. Oh, he was a man to fear. He was polite and smiling,--and hard as ice. He was not even sarcastic13. He did not show any feeling. It was merely a question of money. He said it wasn't pleasant to get money from a woman in this way, but a woman's money was as good as a man's, and since I had money, and since I had put myself in a box where my whole life and reputation were at his mercy, it would be sheer foolishness on his part not to use his opportunity. Those were his very words. Oh, it was right to kill him,--it was right!"
"Grace!" gasped14 Broughton, half rising. "You don't mean--Good heavens!"
"I didn't kill him," she said, steadily15. "But I want you to understand that--that whoever killed him was removing from the earth a cruel, wicked man. I saw I was making no impression on him and I left the Wellington. He was going out that evening, and he accompanied me for a block or two. I told him to leave me, and finally he did. I returned to Miss Elliott's,--"
"Do you know at what hour?" asked Lyon, quickly.
"It was half past eight when I got into my room."
Lyon unconsciously sighed. That statement. If it accorded with the facts, would completely knock out the theory he had cherished so long, based on the assumption that the woman who had fled across the street at ten o'clock was Mrs. Broughton. There was something so convincing in her manner of telling the details of her story that it was very hard to believe she was not presenting the facts truthfully. Yet certainly it was a curious tangle16 that had mixed her movements on that evening so confusingly with those of Fullerton and of the other woman who had also been entangled17 with his murder.
"The next morning," she resumed, "I saw the news of his--death in the papers. You cannot imagine my relief. It was as though a terrible weight had been lifted. I wanted to fly. I was wild with joy. Then, just as I was on the point of returning home, came the news of the arrest of Arthur Lawrence. It was a terrible blow. I felt that he had done it for me--because of what I had told him in the morning,--and that I was really guilty not only of Fullerton's death,--I don't think I should have minded that much,--but of Arthur's. My nerves collapsed18 under the shock and I could not be moved. Gradually, as I saw how little actual proof there was against him, some composure returned. Perhaps, after all, he might not be convicted. No one but myself knew how angry he had been with Mr. Fullerton that day. I was trying, oh, so hard, to get enough of my strength back to get away, to go somewhere, anywhere, when yesterday a man came to see me,--a Mr. Bede."
"What did he come for?"
"What did he want?"
Lyon and Broughton asked their questions simultaneously19, as she paused in her speech.
Mrs. Broughton glanced irresolutely20 at Edith Wolcott. That self-controlled young woman had been sitting silent, with her chin in her palm, listening to Mrs. Broughton's story with sympathetic attention. It was obvious the story was already well known to her. Now she answered the men's questions.
"Mr. Bede had discovered that Mrs. Broughton was at Fullerton's rooms that evening. It seems he had also discovered or guessed that I was there. He trapped her into admitting that she had seen me in the hall when she left the building with Fullerton. He told her that he would have to have her subp?naed as a witness, to tell about seeing me. He didn't know that we were old friends, or he would not have said that, perhaps. As soon as he left she came to me, secretly, and told me the whole thing. We decided21 that the best thing would be to get away from Waynscott, away from the country, until this thing was settled. Now that you have spoiled our plan, what are you going to do with us instead? The responsibility is with you, now!"
"I will take the responsibility of caring for my wife," Broughton said, in a ringing voice. He rose and shook himself, as if throwing off some intolerable burden. "Oh, Grace, Grace, if you had only told me the whole in the beginning! But I will not blame you now. You have had a terrible time. Now I will try to make it all up to you. We will do anything you like,--go anywhere you like,--"
"You forget," she said, quietly, "I cannot go back to you at all. I am not your wife."
She put her hands up and pressed her fingers hard against her closed eyes.
"All the trouble has come from that,--all the trouble for me first, and now for you, and for poor Arthur in prison and for Edith here. I tried to take what I had no right to and I lied to get it. Oh, do you think I could have laid my whole heart bare to you as I have done tonight if I were not through with all that false claim? I have told you everything as though I were on my deathbed, because I can never see you again. Somewhere in the world, watching his chance to strike, William Vanderburg is waiting. I will never go back to him,--never, so help me God,--but while he lives, I will never dare to take any happiness that may offer. He is biding22 his time. Oh, I did wrong, but I have paid for it. I am paying now, and will pay over and over every year that I live."
"Dear Mrs. Broughton," said Lyon, gently, "I can at least relieve you of that uncertainty23. William Vanderburg is dead. I was with him when he died."
She stared at him for a moment as though she had not understood his words. Then, with a sighing breath, she sank back in a dead faint. This astonishing statement, following the long strain of her confession24, was too much for her nerves.
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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2
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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3
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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4
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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5
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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6
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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7
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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8
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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9
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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10
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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11
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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12
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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13
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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14
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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15
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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16
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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17
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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21
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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22
biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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23
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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24
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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