THE surprising statement made by Mrs. Broughton was in fact so
surprising that it was difficult for her hearers to grasp at once what
was involved in it.
"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 forestall 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 annoyance. 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 technically impossible for me to assert
that he had deserted 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 perjury. 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 shuddered 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
determined 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 spoke.
"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 groaned.
"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 hush 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 dread. 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 frankly 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
sarcastic. 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!" gasped Broughton, half rising. "You don't mean--Good
heavens!"
"_I_ didn't kill him," she said, steadily. "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 tangle that had mixed her movements on that
evening so confusingly with those of Fullerton and of the other woman
who had also been entangled 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 collapsed
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 simultaneously, as she paused
in her speech.
Mrs. Broughton glanced irresolutely 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[oe]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 decided 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 biding 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 uncertainty. 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
confession, was too much for her nerves.