“She could not understand. She had seen marriages performed; but then it was in a church, with regular forms. She did not know until I told her. Besides, I ordered her; and, had my command been to throw herself from a high tower, she would have obeyed. She was not yet seventeen; she was country-bred, and she was innocence itself.”
“Poor child,” said my lord.
“She has left the Rules of the Fleet for some time. She knows that at any time she might claim the name and the honours of your wife, but she has refrained, though she has had hundreds of opportunities. Now, however, she declares that she will be no longer a party to the conspiracy, and she is desirous of restoring, into your own hands, the papers of the marriage. Will your lordship, first, forgive her?”
“Tell her,” said my lord, “that I forgive her freely. Where is she?”
“She waits without.”
Then he called me, but not by name.
My knees trembled and shook beneath me as I rose, pulled the hood tighter over my face, and followed the Doctor into the room. In my hand I held the papers.
“This,” said the Doctor, “is the young gentlewoman of whom we spoke. The papers are in her hands. Child, give his lordship the papers.”
I held them out, and he took them. All this time he never ceased gazing at me; but he could see nothing, not even my eyes.
“Are we playing a comedy?” he asked. “Doctor Shovel, are we dreaming, all of us?”