Moira faltered. But Barry Quinlevin's eyes were upon her, alive, it seemed, with the old affection. And across her brain flitted quick visions of their careless past, their years of plenty, their years of privation, in which this man, her father she had thought, had always loomed the dominant figure, reckless perhaps, aloof at times—but always kindly—considerate.... But there was Jim Horton just beside her.... She felt his presence too—the strength of him—the honesty and the love of her that gave him the courage to face oblivion for her sake. The silence was deathly, and seemed to have gone on for hours. Jim did not speak. There was Harry too, standing like a pale image, the ghost of her happiness—staring at her. Were they all dumb? Something seemed to be required of her and her instinct answered for her. She moved toward Jim Horton, her fingers seeking his.
"I—I love him," she found herself saying. "I—want you both to know. It has all been a horrible mistake—But it's too late to cry over. It has just happened—that's all. I can never love any one else——"
"Moira——," whispered Jim.
"But I know that—that there's nothing to be done. I only wanted you to know," she finished firmly, "that any one who harms him, harms me——"
"Moira," Jim's voice broke in pleadingly at her ear. "Come away with me—now. You can't stay here. The situation is impossible."
She felt Barry Quinlevin's eyes before he spoke.
"I don't need to remind ye, Moira—of yer vows at the altar——"
"What vows!" broke in Jim, fiercely facing his brother. "A travesty—a cruel hoax. There's no law that will keep it binding——"
"She married me—with her eyes open," muttered Harry. "And unless I release her——"
"Stop! For God's sake," Moira's voice found itself in pity for her own humiliation. "There's no release—no hope for either of us. There's no divorce—except death——"