“Well, the street—in what street did this clergyman, with the forgotten name, live?”
“I never knew,” answered the weeping girl; “but, oh! aunt, do not doubt me; for, as Heaven is my witness, we were married.”
“Oh, yes! the proofs are conclusive,” answered the lady, with bitter irony.
“Aunt, aunt, do believe me!” cried the girl, moving forward on her knees, and holding up her clasped hands. “He will tell you how true it is; he will get another certificate. He cannot be away much longer; let me live with you till he comes.”
“When he comes to own you, in my presence, you shall have shelter here. Till then, never enter my door again. Go now, and live, if you can, on this falsehood and its shamelessness.”
“Oh! aunt, aunt!” cried the wretched girl, “I am his wife—I am his wife! Look at me; do I blush? Do my eyes sink? Aunt, I am innocent of wrong as you are, and as truly a wedded wife as you ever were!”
It was painful to see the cold, stern pride which rose and swelled in that woman’s bosom, lifting her form haughtily upward, and quenching the color from her lips on which the last cruel words of that interview were forming.
“Leave the room; leave my house forever!” she cried, pointing to the door. “Go, hide your infamy, and tell those romances among your proper associates.”
“I shall neither disgrace nor use any name with which you have been connected,” she said in a voice so steady and low that it fell upon the ear with singular impressiveness. “In my misfortunes you will find no record which can wound your pride or bring disgrace on the name of my mother. I have no permission to use the name of my husband; but he will return, and standing by my side call on you to retract the insults you have heaped upon me. Until then I will perish in the streets, rather than look you in the face or darken your door.
“Oh, aunt!” she continued with a burst of feeling, “you have been very cruel to me, terribly cruel in your doubts, for I am honorably married and as honestly loved as you ever were.”