“I can tell you,” she says, “that your wife died as she lived, a saintly woman; that she was the kindest, truest friend to me I ever had. I knew from her the falsehood you told me when you said you were divorced from her, and the base deception you practised on me in pretending to make me your wife.”
“For love of you, Agnes! There was no other way for me. Let my love be my excuse.”
She disdains any notice of this interruption, and continues:
“It was an infamous falsehood and treachery to me; but let that pass. I was almost equally to blame, for I had no real right to marry you.”
“How so? You, at least, were free,” he says.
“No; my husband lived. I was still John Thorndyke’s wife in the eyes of the church.”
“Church!” he repeats scornfully.
“Martin Vanderlyn, I am a Catholic. It may modify your tone and remarks to be aware of that. I am proud and thankful to be of Margaret’s faith.”
He frowns, but thinks quickly that he may turn this to his advantage.
“Why are you called Rodney, then, and Thorndyke on your door, if you are Mrs. Thorndyke still?”