And so he does. After the attention of the two is, as he supposes, removed from himself, the chubby fingers come down, and the bright eyes gaze steadily at Mrs. Vanderlyn. She, becoming aware of this, turns, saying, “What is your name, darling?”
“Martin Van’lyn,” proudly speaks out little George, using the name by which his father had nearly always called him, and which he now seems to choose in a spirit of sheer mischief, for Agnes has rarely called him by that name. She had opposed it because it confused the address she used for his father. The child speaks out the “Martin” with unusual distinctness too, although he has oftener called himself “Marty” than Martin. Agnes has never thought of the boy thus betraying her, and she has said truly that his name is George. She is confused, and looks distressed, feeling that Mrs. Vanderlyn will naturally suspect her of falsifying, if not much more.
That lady seems equally disturbed, but in a different way from that which the child’s blunder might be supposed to create. She pauses, stammers, and, in great agitation, looking at Agnes, exclaims:
“Whose child is this? I could almost think I had my own again! Holy Mother, help me!” Then reaching for a little velvet miniature case, she opens it with trembling fingers, saying, “Look at that!”
Agnes looks, and sees the face of a child nearly the age of her own, which is so good a likeness of George that it might be taken for him. What wonder? It is the picture of his half-sister. These children of the same father had inherited a resemblance to his family rather than to himself, and here is little George looking at Mrs. Vanderlyn with the eyes and smile of her own child. Who has not observed how wonderfully lineage will proclaim itself in this way? The poor lady is more overcome by this sight than by any question as to George’s name; but that has not escaped her notice. She lays her wasted hand on the arm of Agnes, and says appealingly:
“Tell me the name of this child’s father! Pardon me! See, I will tell you first why I ask, that you may know why I take this liberty with you. I am Martin Vanderlyn’s deserted wife. This is his child’s face, and that is your child. He says his name is Martin. Pardon me, dear lady, again, for asking. I do not wish to pain you as I am pained; but what that man did to one woman he may have done to another—deserted her. I have heard that he did deceive another, and married her. I had not believed it, because he came to me for money within the past year, and spoke of returning to me after he had done travelling. I could not believe he had pretended to marry another woman; but with this” (pointing to the picture and to the boy), “you see I cannot help believing it. Are you that unfortunate woman?”
She speaks with tender commiseration for Agnes rather than with any animosity toward her. Agnes has stood during all this time, with her hands nervously clutching her dress, and vainly trying to be composed. Of what need, after all, is concealment from this woman, evidently not long for this life, and so full of pity and forgiveness? So she answers:
“You have rightly guessed. This is Martin Vanderlyn’s son, and I am what you truly call that unfortunate woman whom he has deserted. But I knew you immediately to be his divorced wife.”
“Divorced! who says so? No; I am not that. He would have made me so, but I am a Catholic, and I would not consent to it. I could not. He is my husband still, and, while I live, no law can make another woman his wife. But, oh! this is too cruel to you!” she says, seeing Agnes droop at once. “Did you really believe, dear, that you had the law on your side? You thought he was divorced from me. Ah! no; not even that doubtful right had he to marry you. He has not even the Protestant permission, for he is not divorced from me. Even if the law had so parted us, he ought not to have married another, and I, as a Catholic, could not do so; for you remember our Lord’s words that “he who shall marry her that is put away, committeth adultery.” I pain you, madam, very much, I know, but I must not deceive you more than you have been deceived already. I have not much longer to live, and I must speak truth. If he ever returns to you, as I once hoped he would return to me, I may be in my grave then. Beg him, in that case, to marry you, else you will never be his wife. I say this for your good. I am sure you cannot think it is in malice. Look at me. I have nearly done with this life—above all, with Martin Vanderlyn. You have shown me kindness. I say to you what I do now, that you may see to it that no more wrong in the sight of Heaven is done. I cannot look into your face, and think that you will live with him again while I live.”
“Oh! no, no! God forbid!” cried Agnes. “I am not that, I could not be!”