“Why, Jasper,” she cried, starting, and gazing at him wildly, “_that_ were impossible; all the world knows that we have met—that we have lived together here—that I _am_ your wife. What do you mean? Are you jesting with me? No, no! God help me! that resolute, stern, dark expression! No, no, no, no! Do not frown on me, Jasper; but keep me not in this suspense—only tell me, Jasper.” “The whole world—that is to say, the whole world of villagers and peasants here, do know that we have met—that we have lived together; but they do not _know_—nay, more, they do not _believe_, that you _are_ my wife, Theresa.” “Not your wife—not your wife! What, in God’s name, then, do they believe me to be? But I _am_—I _am_—yes, before God and man, I _am_ your wife, Jasper St. Aubyn! That shame will I never bear. The parish register will prove it.” “Before God, dearest, most assuredly you _are_ my wife; but before man, I grieve to say, it is not so; nor will the register, to which you appeal—as I did, when I first heard the scandal—prove any thing, but against you. It seems the rascal sexton cut out the record of our marriage from the register, so soon as the old rector died. He is gone, so that he can witness nothing. Alderly and the sexton will not speak, for to do so would implicate themselves in the guilt of having mutilated the church-register. Alderly’s mother is an idiot. We can _prove_ nothing.” “And when did you learn all this, Jasper?” she asked, calmly; for a light, a fearful yet most clear illumination began to dawn upon her mind. “Last night. And I rode down this morning to the church, to inspect the register. It is as I was told; there is no trace of the record which we signed, and saw witnessed, on its pages.” “And to what end should Verity and Alderly have done this great crime needlessly?” “Villains themselves, they fancied that I too was a villain; and that, if not then, at some after time, I should desire to profit by their villainy, and should then be in their power.” “Ha!” she said, still maintaining perfect self-possession. “It seems, at least, that their villainy was wise, was prophetical.” “Theresa!” his voice was stern, and harsh, and threatening—his brow as black as midnight. “Pardon me!” she said. “Pardon me, Jasper; but you should make allowance for some feeling in a woman. I am, then, looked upon as a lost, fallen wretch, as a disgrace to my name and my sex, a concubine, a harlot—is it not so, Jasper?” “Alas! alas! Theresa!” “And you would have me?—speak!” “I would not have you do it; God knows! it goes nigh to break my heart to think of it—I only tell you what alone can save us—” “I understand—it needs not to mince the matter; what is it, then, that can save us—save _you_, I should say rather, and _your_ friends?”