“No, I have been married.”
“And is this your husband’s name?”
Catharine clasped her hands so tightly, that the blood left them even to the rounded nails. She looked at Mary Margaret and at her cold, hard questioner, as if she would have asked pity even with those eyes upon her.
“No,” she answered, at last, “it is not his name; I have never borne it.”
“Why?”
“We were married privately, and without his mother’s consent.”
“I thought so—I was sure of it,” exclaimed the woman, softly, caressing her hands again, as if they had detected the wrong in this young girl’s character, and she was assuring them of her approbation. “And so you were married privately, without his mother’s consent, and without certificate, I dare say?”
“No, I had a certificate,” replied Catharine, with tears of shame and anger in her eyes. “I had a certificate, but it is gone—lost or stolen, I suppose.”
“Lost or stolen—where?”
“At the hospital, when I was sick.”