“Did you mean what you said when you told me I was not your wife?” “I did not. Mary, I meant to make you my wife--God knows that I did!” “Am I not your wife?” “I do not know.” “You do not know!” she gasped, for his words sounded like an equivocation; and indeed all his promises and protestations had been much too violent to seem real to her. Now she had discovered that he was a drunkard, she had no confidence in him. He had deceived her--he did not know whether or not she was his wife! “I do not know, Mary,” he repeated. “You are not sincere now, Eliot.” “God knows that I am sincere--that I love you with all my soul!” “Were we married that evening in Providence, Eliot?” she demanded, sternly. “I do not know, Mary. If I intended to deceive you, I would not answer you thus,” replied he, with much meekness in his tones and manner. “How dare you tell me you do not know?” continued Mary, with energy. “I do not know; but whether you are or are not my wife, Mary, you shall be.” “You mock me, Eliot.” “Hear me, Mary, and you shall know the truth, just as it is. As God is my judge, I would not deceive you for all the world.” “You have done it already, if you do not know whether we were married or not.” “I intended to make you my wife. When we reached Providence, we went to the house of my friend, Mr. Dorning.” “The artist, you mean?” “Yes; I acknowledge that he is not the best man in the world.” “Then why did you take me there?” “Because I had no other friend in Providence.” “If he is a bad man, why is he your friend?” “We studied art together. I was acquainted with him--perhaps he was not my friend, in the truest sense of the word. We went to his house, and I told him as much of our story as I could relate in five minutes. He laughed----” “Why should he laugh?” demanded Mary, indignantly. “Probably he took a wrong view of the matter, and did not suppose I wished to be really married. He was mistaken; I intended to make you my wife--God knows that I did!” Mary wept bitterly. Eliot should have smote the man to the earth when he laughed, for the laugh was an insult; it was trifling over the innocence and purity of her he pretended to love. She lost hope, as he went on with his story; her worst fears were gradually confirmed. His frequent use of the sacred name of God to fortify his statements did not inspire her with confidence. To her it was not the simple tale of truth. “Go on, Eliot,” said Mary, in despair. “In ten minutes Mr. Dorning appeared with the gentleman who married us: whether he was a clergyman or not. I do not know to this day.” “He pretended to be one?” “And he may be, for aught I know.” “What reason have you to suppose that he was not a clergyman, as he assumed to be?” “A remark which Dorning made to me, as we were leaving his house.” “What was it?” “It was to the effect that I was married or not, just as I chose to regard it.” “O, Eliot! You knew it then, and you did not tell me.”