“I swear by all that's holy that you are really my wife. The marriage was a valid one. No law can break it. The banns were published in the village church. All the villagers heard them. Wiggins kept himself shut up so that he knew nothing about it. The clergyman is the vicar of Dalton—the Rev. Mr. Munn. It has been, published in the papers. In the eye of the law you are no longer Miss Dalton, you are Mrs. Leon Dudleigh. You are my wife!”
At these words, in spite of Edith's pride and courage, there came over her a dark fear that all this might indeed be as he said. The mention of the published banns disturbed her, and shook that proud and obstinate conviction which she had thus far entertained that the scene in the chapel was only a brutal practical joke. It might be far more. It might not be a mockery after all. It might be good in the eye of the law—that law whose injustice had been shown to her in the terrible experience of her father; and if this were so, what then?
A pang of anguish shot through her heart as this terrific thought occurred. But the pang passed away, and with it the terror passed also. Once more she called to her aid that stubborn Dalton fortitude and Dalton pride which had thus far so well sustained her.
“Your wife!” she exclaimed, with a loathing and a scorn in her face and in her voice that words could not express, at the sight of which even Leon, with all his insolence, was cowed—“your wife! Do you think you can affect me by lies like these?”
“Lies!” repeated Leon—“it's the truth. You are my wife, and you must sign these papers.”
“I don't think so,” said Edith, resuming her former coolness.
“Do you dare to refuse me this?”
“I don't see any daring about it. Of course I refuse.”
“Sign them!” roared Leon, with an oath.
Edith smiled lightly and turned away.