"No."
"Was the woman who never loved me, my wife in any true sense for all the spoken words?"
"No," I answered again, but my voice faltered.
"Was the man who loved her, her husband simply by reason of those few spoken words?"
"No—but—"
"Yes, I know what you would say; the words, at least, were spoken that made us before the world man and wife in the law—but how about the 'before God'?"
I could not answer. The man who was cross-questioning me was trying to get at the truth as I saw it.
"The law can be put aside, and I put it aside; I was divorced from her. But what difference, except to you, does that make? Marcia Farrell, I was never your mother's husband. Had I been, had I taken her once in my arms as wife, can you think for one moment that I would have stayed in the manor, continued in your presence—watching, waiting, longing for some sign of love for me on your part? You cannot think it—it is not possible."
His voice shook with passion, with indignation. He bent to me.
"Tell me, in mercy tell me, what stands between us two? Speak out now from the depths of your very soul. Lay aside fear; there is nothing to fear, believe me. I am fighting now not only for my life, but for yours which is dearer to me than my own. Speak."