"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."