"I am not your wife, and never have been. Horace Valdana is alive--has never been dead!"
In the solemn mute moments that followed the curlew wailed again.
"What are you saying?" muttered Westenra, hoarsely. He had risen to his feet.
Then Val began to laugh, not hysterically, but just soft light-hearted laughter. She really felt light-hearted at that moment. It was as though something very, very heavy had been lifted from her shoulders, and she could stand up straight at last.
"It can't be true!" He was muttering like a man stunned. "How long have you known?"
"Oh, what does that matter!" she said. "It is true--that is all that concerns you." She reflected a moment. "But of course my mere word is of no value to you ... I have proofs in the house ... letters from him asking me to go to Canada with him." She began to laugh again.
"Good God!" muttered Westenra still dazed. "And Bran?"
That sobered her, drying the strange laughter on her lips and in her heart.
"Ah, Bran! ... Yes. My Brannie!" she said softly, her voice in those few low-spoken words expressing all that the woman voice can express of pity, sorrow, and love. It was Bran who would be the victim--Bran who would go fatherless, homeless, nameless--a vagabond like his mother with restless heart and wandering feet!
"He is mine," said Westenra suddenly.