“But the end came at last. De Marke entered proceedings for a divorce. I employed counsel. I spent half my substance in defending the honor of my child. But it was all in vain. The divorce was granted, and our daughter branded forever—forever separated from her husband and child. Now listen. That Frenchwoman was the principal witness against Elsie, and in six months De Marke married her. It was this news which drove our daughter wholly mad.”
The old man ceased. The perspiration stood in drops on his forehead. This renewal of sorrow had exhausted him.
Catharine looked at him sadly.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I have given you pain. But for this knowledge, I too must have gone mad! One word more. This Frenchwoman? Have you seen her?”
“Yes,” answered the old man, “was the woman, you remember her. See how sin levels down the soul. Tell me, is not the fate of my child preferable to that?”
“I know this woman!” said Catharine, gently; “she is indeed punished through the degradation of her own nature. But the son? Did Elsie never see her son?”
“Poor Elsie! She would not have known him. For many years we were compelled to keep her in the asylum, from whence she was removed to the care of Mrs. Barr. I believe that De Marke thought her dead, for until the day that miserable woman appeared at the library window, we never saw either of them.”
“And you have never seen her son?”
“He has never inquired after his mother—nor attempted to open any communication with us. He may even be dead.”
“Is it not possible that he may have been brought up in ignorance of these facts? I almost think so,” said Catharine.