"It is too late NOW," she murmured. "The clergyman has just gone who united me to Philemon."
The next minute her back was towards me; she had faced her father and her new-made husband.
"Father, you knew this thing!" Keen, sharp, incisive, the words rang out. "I saw it in your face when he began to speak."
Mr. Gilchrist drooped slightly; he was a very sick man and the scene had been a trying one.
"If I did," was his low response, "it was but lately. You were engaged then to Philemon. Why break up this second match?"
She eyed him as if she found it difficult to credit her ears. Such indifference to the claims of innocence was incredible to her. I saw her grand profile quiver, then the slow ebbing from her cheek of every drop of blood indignation had summoned there.
"And you, Philemon?" she suggested, with a somewhat softened aspect.
"You committed this wrong ignorantly. Never having heard of this crime,
you could not know on what false grounds I had been separated from
James."
I had started to escape, but stopped just beyond the threshold of the door as she uttered these words. Philemon was not as ignorant as she supposed. This was evident from his attitude and expression.
"Agatha," he began, but at this first word, and before he could clasp the hands held helplessly out before her, she gave a great cry, and staggering back, eyed both her father and himself in a frenzy of indignation that was all the more uncontrollable from the superhuman effort which she had hitherto made to suppress it.
"You too!" she shrieked. "You too! and I have just sworn to love, honour, and obey you! Love YOU! Honour YOU! the unconscionable wretch who—"