Man and Wife Read online

or ceremony, civil or religious; no notice before, or publication

  after; no cohabitation, no writing, no witnesses even, are

  essential to the constitution of this, the most important

  contract which two persons can enter into.'--There is a Scotch

  judge's own statement of the law that he administers! Observe, at

  the same time, if you please, that we make full legal provision

  in Scotland for contracts affecting the sale of houses and lands,

  horses and dogs. The only contract which we leave without

  safeguards or precautions of any sort is the contract that unites

  a man and a woman for life. As for the authority of parents, and

  the innocence of children, our law recognizes no claim on it

  either in the one case or in the other. A girl of twelve and a

  boy of fourteen have nothing to do but to cross the Border, and

  to be married--without the interposition of the slightest delay

  or restraint, and without the slightest attempt to inform their

  parents on the part of the Scotch law. As to the marriages of men

  and women, even the mere interchange of consent which, as you

  have just heard, makes them man and wife, is not required to be

  directly proved: it may be proved by inference. And, more even

  than that, whatever the law for its consistency may presume, men

  and women are, in point of fact, held to be married in Scotland

  where consent has never been interchanged, and where the parties

  do not even know that they are legally held to be married

  persons. Are you sufficiently confused about the law of Irregular

  Marriages in Scotland by this time, Mr. Delamayn? And have I said

  enough to justify the strong language I used when I undertook to

  describe it to you?"

  "Who's that 'authority' you talked of just now?" inquired

  Geoffrey. "Couldn't I ask _him?_"

  "You might find him flatly contradicted, if you did ask him by

  another authority equally learned and equally eminent," answered

  Sir Patrick. "I am not joking--I am only stating facts. Have you

  heard of the Queen's Commission?"

  "No."

  "Then listen to this. In March, 'sixty-five, the Queen appointed

  a Commission to inquire into the Marriage-Laws of the United

  Kingdom. The Report of that Commission is published in London;

  and is accessible to any body who chooses to pay the price of two

  or three shillings for it. One of the results of the inquiry was,

  the discovery that high authorities were of entirely contrary

  opinions on one of the vital questions of Scottish marriage-law.

  And the Commissioners, in announcing that fact, add that the

  question of which opinion is right is still disputed, and has

  never been made the subject of legal decision. Authorities are

  every where at variance throughout the Report. A haze of doubt

  and uncertainty hangs in Scotland over the most important

  contract of civilized life. If no other reason existed for

  reforming the Scotch marriage-law, there would be reason enough

  afforded by that one fact. An uncertain marriage-law is a

  national calamity."

  "You can tell me what you think yourself about my friend's

  case--can't you?" said Geoffrey, still holding obstinately to the

  end that he had in view.

  "Certainly. Now that I have given you due warning of the danger

  of implicitly relying on any individual opinion, I may give my

  opinion with a clear conscience. I say that there has not been a

  positive marriage in this case. There has been evidence in favor

  of possibly establishing a marriage--nothing more."

  The distinction here was far too fine to be appreciated by

  Geoffrey's mind. He frowned heavily, in bewilderment and disgust.

  "Not married!" he exclaimed, "when they said they were man and

  wife, before witnesses?"

  "That is a common popular error," said Sir Patrick. "As I have

  already told you, witnesses are not legally necessary to make a

  marriage in Scotland. They are only valuable--as in this case--to

  help, at some future time, in proving a marriage that is in

  dispute."

  Geoffrey caught at the last words.

  "The landlady and the waiter _might_ make it out to be a

  marriage, then?" he said.

  "Yes. And, remember, if you choose to apply to one of my

  professional colleagues, he might possibly tell you they were

  married already. A state of the law which allows the interchange

  of matrimonial consent to be proved by inference leaves a wide

  door open to conjecture. Your friend refers to a certain lady, in

  so many words, as his wife. The lady refers to your friend, in so

  many words, as her husband. In the rooms which they have taken,

  as man and wife, they remain, as man and wife, till the next

  morning. Your friend goes away, without undeceiving any body. The

  lady stays at the inn, for some days after, in the character of

  his wife. And all these circumstances take place in the presence

  o f competent witnesses. Logically--if not legally--there is

  apparently an inference of the interchange of matrimonial consent

  here. I stick to my own opinion, nevertheless. Evidence in proof

  of a marriage (I say)--nothing more."

  While Sir Patrick had been speaking, Geoffrey had been

  considering with himself. By dint of hard thinking he had found

  his way to a decisive question on his side.

  "Look here!" he said, dropping his heavy hand down on the table."

  I want to bring you to book, Sir! Suppose my friend had another

  lady in his eye?"

  "Yes?"

  "As things are now--would you advise him to marry her?"

  "As things are now--certainly not!"

  Geoffrey got briskly on his legs, and closed the interview.

  "That will do," he said, "for him and for me."

  With those words he walked back, without ceremony, into the main

  thoroughfare of the room.

  "I don't know who your friend is," thought Sir Patrick, looking

  after him. "But if your interest in the question of his marriage

  is an honest and a harmless interest, I know no more of human

  nature than the babe unborn!"

  Immediately on leaving Sir Patrick, Geoffrey was encountered by

  one of the servants in search of him.

  "I beg your pardon, Sir," began the man. "The groom from the

  Honorable Mr. Delamayn's--"

  "Yes? The fellow who brought me a note from my brother this

  morning?"

  "He's expected back, Sir--he's afraid he mustn't wait any

  longer."

  "Come here, and I'll give you the answer for him."

  He led the way to the writing-table, and referred to Julius's

  letter again. He ran his eye carelessly over it, until he reached

  the final lines: "Come to-morrow, and help us to receive Mrs.

  Glenarm." For a while he paused, with his eye fixed on that

  sentence; and with the happiness of three people--of Anne, who

  had loved him; of Arnold, who had served him; of Blanche,

  guiltless of injuring him--resting on the decision that guided

  his movements for the next day. After what had passed that

  morning between Arnold and Blanche, if he remained at Lady

  Lundie's, he had no alte
rnative but to perform his promise to

  Anne. If he returned to his brother's house, he had no

  alternative but to desert Anne, on the infamous pretext that she

  was Arnold's wife.

  He suddenly tossed the letter away from him on the table, and

  snatched a sheet of note-paper out of the writing-case. "Here

  goes for Mrs. Glenarm!" he said to himself; and wrote back to his

  brother, in one line: "Dear Julius, Expect me to-morrow. G. D."

  The impassible man-servant stood by while he wrote, looking at

  his magnificent breadth of chest, and thinking what a glorious

  "staying-power" was there for the last terrible mile of the

  coming race.

  "There you are!" he said, and handed his note to the man.

  "All right, Geoffrey?" asked a friendly voice behind him.

  He turned--and saw Arnold, anxious for news of the consultation

  with Sir Patrick.

  "Yes," he said. "All right."

  ------------ NOTE.--There are certain readers who feel a

  disposition to doubt Facts, when they meet with them in a work of

  fiction. Persons of this way of thinking may be profitably

  referred to the book which first suggested to me the idea of

  writing the present Novel. The book is the Report of the Royal

  Commissioners on The Laws of Marriage. Published by the Queen's

  Printers For her Majesty's Stationery Office. (London, 1868.)

  What Sir Patrick says professionally of Scotch Marriages in this

  chapter is taken from this high authority. What the lawyer (in

  the Prologue) says professionally of Irish Marriages is also

  derived from the same source. It is needless to encumber these

  pages with quotations. But as a means of satisfying my readers

  that they may depend on me, I subjoin an extract from my list of

  references to the Report of the Marriage Commission, which any

  persons who may be so inclined can verify for themselves.

  _Irish Marriages_ (In the Prologue).--See Report, pages XII.,

  XIII., XXIV.

  _Irregular Marriages in Scotland._--Statement of the law by Lord

  Deas. Report, page XVI.--Marriages of children of tender years.

  Examination of Mr. Muirhead by Lord Chelmsford (Question

  689).--Interchange of consent, established by inference.

  Examination of Mr. Muirhead by the Lord Justice Clerk (Question

  654)--Marriage where consent has never been interchanged.

  Observations of Lord Deas. Report, page XIX.--Contradiction of

  opinions between authorities. Report, pages XIX., XX.--Legal

  provision for the sale of horses and dogs. No legal provision for

  the marriage of men and women. Mr. Seeton's Remarks. Report, page

  XXX.--Conclusion of the Commissioners. In spite of the arguments

  advanced before them in favor of not interfering with Irregular

  Marriages in Scotland, the Commissioners declare their opinion

  that "Such marriages ought not to continue." (Report, page

  XXXIV.)

  In reference to the arguments (alluded to above) in favor of

  allowing the present disgraceful state of things to continue, I

  find them resting mainly on these grounds: That Scotland doesn't

  like being interfered with by England (!). That Irregular

  Marriages cost nothing (!!). That they are diminishing in number,

  and may therefore be trusted, in course of time, to exhaust

  themselves (!!!). That they act, on certain occasions, in the

  capacity of a moral trap to catch a profligate man (!!!!). Such

  is the elevated point of view from which the Institution of

  Marriage is regarded by some of the most pious and learned men in

  Scotland. A legal enactment providing for the sale of your wife,

  when you have done with her, or of your husband; when you "really

  can't put up with him any longer," appears to be all that is

  wanting to render this North British estimate of the "Estate of

  Matrimony" practically complete. It is only fair to add that, of

  the witnesses giving evidence--oral and written--before the

  Commissioners, fully one-half regard the Irregular Marriages of

  Scotland from the Christian and the civilized point of view, and

  entirely agree with the authoritative conclusion already

  cited--that such marriages ought to be abolished.

  W. C.

  CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST.

  DONE!

  ARNOLD was a little surprised by the curt manner in which

  Geoffrey answered him.

  "Has Sir Patrick said any thing unpleasant?" he asked.

  "Sir Patrick has said just what I wanted him to say."

  "No difficulty about the marriage?"

  "None."

  "No fear of Blanche--"

  "She won't ask you to go to Craig Fernie--I'll answer for that!"

  He said the words with a strong emphasis on them, took his

  brother's letter from the table, snatched up his hat, and went

  out.

  His friends, idling on the lawn, hailed him. He passed by them

  quickly without answering, without so much as a glance at them

  over his shoulder. Arriving at the rose-garden, he stopped and

  took out his pipe; then suddenly changed his mind, and turned

  back again by another path. There was no certainty, at that hour

  of the day, of his being left alone in the rose-garden. He had a

  fierce and hungry longing to be by himself; he felt as if he

  could have been the death of any body who came and spoke to him

  at that moment. With his head down and his brows knit heavily, he

  followed the path to see what it ended in. It ended in a

  wicket-gate which led into a kitchen-garden. Here he was well out

  of the way of interruption: there was nothing to attract visitors

  in the kitchen-garden. He went on to a walnut-tree planted in the

  middle of the inclosure, with a wooden bench and a broad strip of

  turf running round it. After first looking about him, he seated

  himself and lit his pipe.

  "I wish it was done!" he said.

  He sat, with his elbows on his knees, smoking and thinking.

  Before long the restlessness that had got possession of him

  forced him to his feet again. He rose, and paced round and round

  the strip of greensward under the walnut-tree, like a wild beast

  in a cage.

  What was the meaning of this disturbance in the inner man? Now

  that he had committed himself to the betrayal of the friend who

  had trusted and served him, was he torn by remorse?

  He was no more torn by remorse than you are while your eye is

  passing over this sentence. He was simply in a raging fever of

  impatience to see himself safely la nded at the end which he had

  in view.

  Why should he feel remorse? All remorse springs, more or less

  directly, from the action of two sentiments, which are neither of

  them inbred in the natural man. The first of these sentiments is

  the product of the respect which we learn to feel for ourselves.

  The second is the product of the respect which we learn to feel

  for others. In their highest manifestations, these two feelings

  exalt themselves, until the first he comes the love of God, and

  the second the love of Man. I have injured you, and I repent of

  it when it is done. Why sho
uld I repent of it if I have gained

  something by it for my own self and if you can't make me feel it

  by injuring Me? I repent of it because there has been a sense put

  into me which tells me that I have sinned against Myself, and

  sinned against You. No such sense as that exists among the

  instincts of the natural man. And no such feelings as these

  troubled Geoffrey Delamayn; for Geoffrey Delamayn was the natural

  man.

  When the idea of his scheme had sprung to life in his mind, the

  novelty of it had startled him--the enormous daring of it,

  suddenly self-revealed, had daunted him. The signs of emotion

  which he had betrayed at the writing-table in the library were

  the signs of mere mental perturbation, and of nothing more.

  That first vivid impression past, the idea had made itself

  familiar to him. He had become composed enough to see such

  difficulties as it involved, and such consequences as it implied.

  These had fretted him with a passing trouble; for these he

  plainly discerned. As for the cruelty and the treachery of the

  thing he meditated doing--that consideration never crossed the

  limits of his mental view. His position toward the man whose life

  he had preserved was the position of a dog. The "noble animal"

  who has saved you or me from drowning will fly at your throat or

  mine, under certain conditions, ten minutes afterward. Add to the

  dog's unreasoning instinct the calculating cunning of a man;

  suppose yourself to be in a position to say of some trifling

  thing, "Curious! at such and such a time I happened to pick up

  such and such an object; and now it turns out to be of some use

  to me!"--and there you have an index to the state of Geoffrey's

  feeling toward his friend when he recalled the past or when he

  contemplated the future. When Arnold had spoken to him at the

  critical moment, Arnold had violently irritated him; and that was

  all.

  The same impenetrable insensibility, the same primitively natural

  condition of the moral being, prevented him from being troubled

  by the slightest sense of pity for Anne. "She's out of my way!"

  was his first thought. "She's provided for, without any trouble

  to Me! was his second. He was not in the least uneasy about her.

  Not the slightest doubt crossed his mind that, when once she had

  realized her own situation, when once she saw herself placed

  between the two alternatives of facing her own ruin or of

  claiming Arnold as a last resource, she would claim Arnold. She

  would do it as a matter of course; because _he_ would have done

  it in her place.

  But he wanted it over. He was wild, as he paced round and round

  the walnut-tree, to hurry on the crisis and be done with it. Give

  me my freedom to go to the other woman, and to train for the

  foot-race--that's what I want. _They_ injured? Confusion to them

  both! It's I who am injured by them. They are the worst enemies I

  have! They stand in my way.

  How to be rid of them? There was the difficulty. He had made up

  his mind to be rid of them that day. How was he to begin?

  There was no picking a quarrel with Arnold, and so beginning with

  _him._ This course of proceeding, in Arnold's position toward

  Blanche, would lead to a scandal at the outset--a scandal which

  would stand in the way of his making the right impression on Mrs.

  Glenarm. The woman--lonely and friendless, with her sex and her

  position both against her if _she_ tried to make a scandal of

  it--the woman was the one to begin with. Settle it at once and

  forever with Anne; and leave Arnold to hear of it and deal with

  it, sooner or later, no matter which.

  How was he to break it to her before the day was out?

  By going to the inn and openly addressing her to her face as Mrs.

  Arnold Brinkworth? No! He had had enough, at Windygates, of

  meeting her face to face. The easy way was to write to her, and

  send the letter, by the first messenger he could find, to the

  inn. She might appear afterward at Windygates; she might follow

  him to his brother's; she might appeal to his father. It didn't