"Didn't they—the doctor and the notary—didn't they tell you when you saw my signature that I was—guilty?"
"Yes," said Roger firmly, "they did. The doctor spoke of you with great respect, but he did think so. But you have told me you were not. That is enough for me. Will you marry me, Annette?"
"You are good, Roger," she said, looking at him with a great tenderness,—"good all through. That is why you think I am good too. But the will remains. My signature to it remains. That must be known when the will is proved. Mrs. Stoddart says so. She said my good name must suffer. I am afraid if I married you that you and Janey would be the only two people in Riff who would believe that I was innocent."
"And is not my belief enough?"
She looked at him with love unspeakable.
"It is enough for me," she said, "but not for you. You would not be happy, or only for a little bit, not for long, with a wife whom every one, every one from the Bishop to the cowman, believed to be Dick's cast-off mistress."
Roger set his teeth, and became his usual plum colour.
"We would live it down."
"No," she said. "That is the kind of thing that is never lived down—at least, not in places like this. I know enough to know that."