"From what I had learned from Arthur about the law of the case, I determined to say nothing to him about the letters. I told him that William had left me twelve years before and never been heard from, and on that statement the divorce was granted without difficulty. Then you and I were married."
She paused, but they all felt that it was only to gather strength to go on, and no one spoke.
"The first intimation I had that there was going to be trouble came a year ago last summer. Mr. Fullerton was in New York and he came to see me. He wanted money. I could not understand at first, but he soon made it unmistakably clear. He had found out about the letters, and he said that the divorce was therefore fraudulent and without effect, and my marriage void."
Her voice fluttered as though, in spite of her will, it was slipping away from her control. Broughton groaned.
"Why didn't you tell me, Grace? Good heavens, that was a matter for a man to deal with."
"I didn't dare. I was afraid to have you know, I was afraid of the scandal,--of your scorn,--of everything. I was simply terrified out of my senses. I couldn't think straight. I only wanted to keep it from ever coming out,--to hush it up and keep it unknown. So--I sold some jewels and paid him the money he wanted and he went away. But I was sick for a month,--do you remember?"
"If you had only told me!"
"But what could you have done? There would have been nothing possible but to put me away,--and the thought of that was worst of all. Or I thought so then."
Broughton stared. He was just beginning to see the far-reaching effects involved in the situation.
"I hoped the matter was settled," Mrs. Broughton resumed, "but a few months later I received a letter from him, asking for more money. That was the beginning. They came after that every few months, and I lived in constant dread. He always wrote very politely, very guardedly, but I knew what he meant and I did not dare refuse him."