“Then see to it when I am dead,” says Mrs. Vanderlyn, and she sinks back exhausted in her chair. Agnes kneels before her, and does everything in her power to restore her; but, in the meantime, her own condition is almost as pitiable. Little George has got hold of Mrs. Vanderlyn’s rosary, and is quietly playing with it during all this time. When Mrs. Vanderlyn is more composed, Agnes gives way herself. Drawing her boy to her heart, she cries:
“Oh! what am I, and what is he? What is our name, and what can we call ourselves? Can a few words more or less from judge or jury thus disgrace us? If I am not his wife, what am I? God knows I insisted on marriage with him, and entered upon it in good faith.”
“I do not doubt you,” Mrs. Vanderlyn says gently. “But, my dear, call yourself by your own name again. Try to put yourself, as far as possible, back into your old life, until you can get him to make it right.”
Alas! she little knows how these words pierce Agnes, and enlighten her as to the great wrong that has been done. Her own name again? Why, what is it? Not Thorndyke now. Her old life! She shall
“Hear the ‘Never, never,’ whispered by the phantom years.”
Another woman fills her place, closed now for ever to her, even if she could wish to take it. No honored wife can she be now; only a dishonored woman, deceived, betrayed, deserted. Her child without a father’s name to call his own—in the eyes of the law, “nobody’s child.” Where shall she go? What shall she do? To earn their bread she expected, but she had not thought to do it in disgrace. The two women weep together, Mrs. Vanderlyn trying to comfort Agnes, who now tells all her former history to this new and strange friend. Strange, indeed, that to Martin Vanderlyn’s true wife this shameful story should be confessed by his victim; but Agnes feels that she has not a wiser, kinder friend.
“Oh! where shall I go? What shall I do!” she sobs, with her head in Mrs. Vanderlyn’s lap.
“My dear, if you were a Catholic, I should answer: ‘Go to your confessor.’ As it is, could you not seek advice of your pastor? What kind of Protestant are you, dear?”
“Alas! I have no pastor. I was a Presbyterian. I am nothing now. He destroyed all my faith.”
“Yes, yes; I can well believe it; only a faith rooted deep as mine is, and as invulnerable, could withstand his assaults,” Mrs. Vanderlyn says sadly. “But, my poor child, you need some counsel wiser than I can give you, and a strength greater than your own or mine to lean upon in this sore trial. Are you too prejudiced to let me bespeak for you the aid of my own pastor, F. Francis? Our fates seem so to meet in this great trouble of our lives (though I know yours is the greater burthen) that I feel sure F. Francis will give you the advice and consolation you need.”