“Roger,” he said, “go drink his lordship’s health; and hark ye—silence. If I hear that you have told of this morning’s doings, it shall be the worst day in all your life. I threaten not in vain. Go!”
Then the Doctor took up the tankard of ale which stood in the window-seat.
“Your health, my lord;” he drank a little and passed it to his lordship, who drained it; and then, with a strange, wild look, he reeled to the Doctor’s arm-chair and instantly fell fast asleep.
“Your husband is not a drunkard, Kitty, though this morning he appears in that light.”
“But am I married?” I asked.
“You are really married. You are no longer Kitty Pleydell; you are Catherine, Lady Chudleigh. I wish your ladyship joy.”
I stared at him.
“But he does not know me; he never saw me,” I remonstrated.
“That he does not know you yet is very true,” replied the Doctor. “When the fitting time comes for him to know you, be sure that I will remind him. For the present he shall not know whom he has married.
“I perceive,” he went on, seeing that I made no reply, “that thou art a good and obedient child. Ask no questions of me. Say not one word to any one of this day’s work. Be silent, and thou shalt have thy reward. Remember—be silent. Now go, child. Go, Lady Chudleigh.”