Armadale (82 page)

‘Page two-hundred-and-eighty,' he began. ‘Law of husband and wife. Here's a bit I don't understand, to begin with: “It may be observed generally, that the law considers marriage in the light of a Contract.” What does that mean? I thought a contract was the sort of thing a builder signs, when he promises to have the workmen out of the house in a given time, and when the time comes (as my poor mother used to say) the workmen never go.'

‘Is there nothing about Love?' asked Neelie. ‘Look a little lower down.'

‘Not a word. He sticks to his confounded “Contract” all the way through.'

‘Then he's a brute! Go on to something else that's more in our way.'

‘Here's a bit that's more in our way: “Incapacities. If any persons under legal incapacities come together, it is a meretricious, and not a matrimonial union.” (Blackstone's a good one at long words, isn't he? I wonder what he means by meretricious?) “The first of these legal disabilities is a prior marriage, and having another husband or wife living—”'

‘Stop!' said Neelie. ‘I must make a note of that.' She gravely made her first entry on the page headed ‘Good,' as follows: ‘I have no husband, and Allan has no wife. We are both entirely unmarried at the present time.'

‘A11 right, so far,' remarked Allan, looking over her shoulder.

‘Go on,' said Neelie. ‘What next?'

‘“The next disability,”' proceeded Allan, ‘“is want of age. The age for consent to matrimony is, fourteen in males, and twelve in females.” Come!' cried Allan cheerfully, ‘Blackstone begins early enough at any rate!'

Neelie was too business-like to make any other remark, on her side, than the necessary remark in the pocket-book. She made another
entry under the head of ‘Good' – ‘“I am old enough to consent, and so is Allan too.” Go on,' resumed Neelie, looking over the reader's shoulder. ‘Never mind all that prosing of Blackstone's, about the husband being of years of discretion, and the wife under twelve. Abominable wretch! the wife under twelve! Skip to the third incapacity, if there is one.'

‘The third incapacity,' Allan went on, ‘is want of reason.'

Neelie immediately made a third entry on the side of ‘Good': ‘“Allan and I are both perfectly reasonable.” – Skip to the next page.'

Allan skipped. ‘A fourth incapacity is in respect of proximity of relationship.'

A fourth entry followed instantly on the cheering side of the pocket-book: ‘“He loves me and I love him – without our being in the slightest degree related to each other.” Any more?' asked Neelie, tapping her chin impatiently with the end of the pencil.

‘Plenty more,' rejoined Allan; ‘all in hieroglyphics. Look here: “Marriage Acts, 4 Geo. iv. c. 76, and 6 and 7 Will. iv. c. 85
(q)
.” Blackstone's intellect seems to be wandering here. Shall we take another skip, and see if he picks himself up again on the next page.'

‘Wait a little,' said Neelie; ‘what's that I see in the middle?' She read for a minute in silence, over Allan's shoulder, and suddenly clasped her hands in despair. ‘I knew I was right!' she exclaimed. ‘Oh, heavens, here it is!'

‘Where?' asked Allan. ‘I see nothing about languishing in prison, and cropping a fellow's hair close to his head, unless it's in the hieroglyphics. Is “4 Geo. iv.” short for “Lock him up”? and does “c. 85
(q)”
mean, “Send for the hair-cutter”?'

‘Pray be serious,' remonstrated Neelie. ‘We are both sitting on a volcano. There!' she said, pointing to the place. ‘Read it! If anything can bring you to a proper sense of our situation,
that
will.'

Allan cleared his throat, and Neelie held the point of her pencil ready on the depressing side of the account – otherwise the ‘Bad' page of the pocket-book.

‘“And as it is the policy of our law,” Allan began, “to prevent the marriage of persons under the age of twenty-one, without the consent of parents and guardians”' – (Neelie made her first entry on the side of ‘Bad.' ‘I am only seventeen next birthday, and circumstances forbid me to confide my attachment to papa') – ‘“it is provided that in the case of the publication of banns of a person under twenty-one, not being a widower or widow, who are deemed emancipated”' – (Neelie made another entry on the depressing side. ‘Allan is not a widower, and I am
not a widow; consequently, we are neither of us emancipated,') – ‘“if the parent or guardian openly signifies his dissent at the time the banns are published'” – (‘which papa would be certain to do') – ‘“such publication shall be void.” I'll take breath here, if you'll allow me,' said Allan. ‘Blackstone might put it in shorter sentences, I think, if he can't put it in fewer words. Cheer up, Neelie! there must be other ways of marrying, besides this roundabout way, that ends in a Publication and a Void. Infernal gibberish! I could write better English myself.'

‘We are not at the end of it yet,' said Neelie. ‘The Void is nothing to what is to come.'

‘Whatever it is,' rejoined Allan, ‘we'll treat it like a dose of physic – we'll take it at once, and be done with it.' He went on reading: ‘“And no licence to marry without banns shall be granted, unless oath shall be first made by one of the parties that he or she believes that there is no impediment of kindred or alliance” – well, I can take my oath of that with a safe conscience! What next? “And one of the said parties must, for the space of fifteen days immediately preceding such licence, have had his or her usual place of abode within the parish or chapelry within which such marriage is to be solemnized!” Chapelry! I'd live fifteen days in a dog-kennel with the greatest pleasure. I say, Neelie, all this seems like plain sailing enough. What are you shaking your head about? Go on, and I shall see? Oh, all right; I'll go on. Here we are – “And where one of the said parties, not being a widower or widow, shall be under the age of twenty-one years, oath must first be made that the consent of the person or persons whose consent is required, has been obtained, or that there is no person having authority to give such consent. The consent required by this Act is that of the father—”' At those last formidable words Allan came to a full stop. ‘The consent of the father,' he repeated, with all needful seriousness of look and manner. ‘I couldn't exactly swear to that, could I?'

Neelie answered in expressive silence. She handed him the pocket-book, with the final entry completed, on the side of ‘Bad,' in these terms – ‘Our marriage is impossible, unless Allan commits perjury.'

The lovers looked at each other across the insuperable obstacle of Blackstone, in speechless dismay.

‘Shut up the book,' said Neelie, resignedly. ‘I have no doubt we should find the police, and the prison, and the hair-cutting – all punishments for perjury, exactly as I told you! – if we looked at the next page. But we needn't trouble ourselves to look; we have found out quite enough already. It's all over with us. I must go to school on Saturday, and you must manage to forget me as soon as you can. Perhaps we may
meet in after-life, and you may be a widower and I may be a widow, and the cruel law may consider us emancipated, when it's too late to be of the slightest use. By that time no doubt I shall be old and ugly, and you will naturally have ceased to care about me, and it will all end in the grave, and the sooner the better. Good-by,' concluded Neelie, rising mournfully, with the tears in her eyes. ‘It's only prolonging our misery to stop here, unless – unless you have anything to propose?'

‘I've got something to propose,' cried the headlong Allan. ‘It's an entirely new idea. Would you mind trying the blacksmith at Gretna Green? '
¹

‘No earthly consideration,' answered Neelie indignantly, ‘would induce me to be married by a blacksmith!'

‘Don't be offended,' pleaded Allan; ‘I meant it for the best. Lots of people in our situation have tried the blacksmith, and found him quite as good as a clergyman, and a most amiable man, I believe, into the bargain. Never mind! We must try another string to our bow.'

‘We haven't got another to try,' said Neelie.

‘Take my word for it,' persisted Allan stoutly, ‘there must be ways and means of circumventing Blackstone (without perjury), if we only knew of them. It's a matter of law, and we must consult somebody in the profession. I daresay it's a risk. But nothing venture, nothing have. What do you say to young Pedgift? He's a thorough good fellow. I'm sure we could trust young Pedgift to keep our secret.'

‘Not for worlds!' exclaimed Neelie. ‘You may be willing to trust your secrets to the vulgar little wretch, I won't have him trusted with mine. I hate him. No!' she continued, with a mounting colour and a peremptory stamp of her foot on the grass. ‘I positively forbid you to take any of the Thorpe-Ambrose people into your confidence. They would instantly suspect
me
, and it would be all over the place in a moment. My attachment may be an unhappy one,' remarked Neelie, with her handkerchief to her eyes, ‘and papa may nip it in the bud, but I won't have it profaned by the town-gossip!'

‘Hush! hush!' said Allan. ‘I won't say a word at Thorpe-Ambrose, I won't indeed!' He paused, and considered for a moment. ‘There's another way!' he burst out, brightening up on the instant. ‘We've got the whole week before us. I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go to London!'

There was a sudden rustling – heard neither by one nor the other – among the trees behind them that screened Miss Gwilt. One more of the difficulties in her way (the difficulty of getting Allan to London), now promised to be removed by an act of Allan's own will.

‘To London?' repeated Neelie, looking up in astonishment.

‘To London!' reiterated Allan. ‘That's far enough away from Thorpe-Ambrose, surely? Wait a minute, and don't forget that this is a question of law. Very well, I know some lawyers in London who managed all my business for me when I first came in for this property; they are just the men to consult. And if they decline to be mixed up in it, there's their head clerk, who is one of the best fellows I ever met with in my life. I asked him to go yachting with me, I remember; and though he couldn't go, he said he felt the obligation all the same. That's the man to help us. Blackstone's a mere infant to him. Don't say it's absurd; don't say it's exactly like
me
. Do pray hear me out. I won't breathe your name or your father's. I'll describe you as “a young lady to whom I am devotedly attached”. And if my friend the clerk asks where you live, I'll say the north of Scotland, or the west of Ireland, or the Channel Islands, or anywhere else you like. My friend the clerk is a total stranger to Thorpe-Ambrose and everybody in it (which is one recommendation); and in five minutes' time, he'd put me up to what to do (which is another). If you only knew him! He's one of those extraordinary men who appear once or twice in a century – the sort of man who won't allow you to make a mistake if you try. All I have got to say to him (putting it short) is, “My dear fellow, I want to be privately married, without perjury.” All he has got to say to me (putting it short) is, “You must do So-and-So, and So-and-So; and you must be careful to avoid This, That, and The other. I have nothing in the world to do but to follow his directions; and you have nothing in the world to do but what the bride always does when the bridegroom is ready and waiting!' His arm stole round Neelie's waist, and his lips pointed the moral of the last sentence with that inarticulate eloquence which is so uniformly successful in persuading a woman against her will.

All Neelie's meditated objections dwindled, in spite of her, to one feeble little question. ‘Suppose I allow you to go, Allan?' she whispered, toying nervously with the stud in the bosom of his shirt, ‘shall you be very long away?'

‘I'll be off to-day,' said Allan, ‘by the eleven o'clock train. And I'll be back to-morrow, if I and my friend the clerk can settle it all in time. If not, by Wednesday at latest.'

‘You'll write to me every day?' pleaded Neelie, clinging a little closer to him. ‘I shall sink under the suspense, if you don't promise to write to me every day.'

Allan promised to write twice a day, if she liked – letter-writing, which was such an effort to other men, was no effort to
him
!

‘And mind, whatever those people may say to you in London,'
proceeded Neelie, ‘I insist on your coming back for me. I positively decline to run away, unless you promise to fetch me.'

Allan promised for the second time, on his sacred word of honour, and at the full compass of his voice. But Neelie was not satisfied even yet. She reverted to first principles, and insisted on knowing whether Allan was quite sure he loved her. Allan called heaven to witness how sure he was; and got another question directly for his pains. Could he solemnly declare that he would never regret taking Neelie away from home? Allan called heaven to witness again, louder than ever. All to no purpose! The ravenous female appetite for tender protestations still hungered for more. ‘I know what will happen one of these days,' persisted Neelie. ‘You will see some other girl who is prettier than I am; and you will wish you had married her instead of Me!'

As Allan opened his lips for a final outburst of asseveration, the stable-clock at the great house was faintly audible in the distance, striking the hour. Neelie started guiltily. It was breakfast-time at the cottage – in other words, time to take leave. At the last moment her heart went back to her father; and her head sank on Allan's bosom as she tried to say, Good-by. ‘Papa has always been so kind to me, Allan,' she whispered, holding him back tremulously when he turned to leave her. ‘It seems so guilty and so heartless to go away from him and be married in secret. Oh, do, do think before you really go to London; is there no way of making him a little kinder and juster to
you
?' The question was useless; the major's resolutely unfavourable reception of Allan's letter rose in Neelie's memory, and answered her as the words passed her lips. With a girl's impulsiveness, she pushed Allan away before he could speak, and signed to him impatiently to go. The conflict of contending emotions, which she had mastered thus far, burst its way outward in spite of her after he had waved his hand for the last time, and had disappeared in the depths of the dell. When she turned from the place, on her side, her long-restrained tears fell freely at last, and made the lonely way back to the cottage the dimmest prospect that Neelie had seen for many a long day past.