A Country Gentleman and His Family

law, at which the better instructed laugh, but which are to the poor and unlearned like the canons of faith. It was the very eve of the wedding before her growing anxiety forced her to action. When Mr. Wilberforce was told that a young woman wanted to see him, he was arranging with his wife the train by which they were to go up to town to the wedding, not without comments on the oddness of the proceeding, which Mrs. Wilberforce thought was but another of the many signs of the times⁠—which severed all bonds, and made a nasty big hotel better than your own house. The rector was in the habit of taking his wife’s comments very calmly, for he himself was not so much alarmed about our national progress to destruction as she was. But yet he had his own opinion on the subject, and thought it was undignified on the part of Mrs. Warrender not to have her daughter married at home. He was only to be the second in importance in point of view of the ceremony itself, having no more to do than to assist a bishop who was of the Cavendish clan: whereas he felt himself quite man enough to have married Chatty out of hand without any assistance at all. However, to assist a bishop in the capacity of the parish clergyman of the bride was a position not without dignity, and he felt that he had, on the whole, little to complain of. He went into his study to speak to the young woman when that little consultation was over. Lizzie was seated, as they always were, upon the edge of one of the chairs. He was surprised to see her, though he could scarcely have said why.

“Oh, Lizzie! I am sorry to have kept you waiting: but I had something to do for Mrs. Wilberforce,” the rector said.

“It doesn’t matter, sir. I came to ask your advice, if I may make so bold.”

“Certainly, certainly, Lizzie⁠—anything that I can do.”

“It isn’t for me, sir, it’s for a friend,” she said, with the same device which Dick had employed, but in her case with more appropriateness. “I want to ask you, sir, about marriages. Oh, it’s very serious, sir, there’s nothing to smile about.”

“I will not smile then, Lizzie. I shall be as serious as you please.”

“It’s just this, sir. When a man has been married and has had his wife run away from him and hasn’t seen her nor heard of her for years⁠—for six or seven years⁠—he’s free to marry again?”

“Do you think so? I should not like to affirm so much as that.”

“But what I want you to tell me,” said Lizzie, running on very quickly and taking no notice of his interruption, “is whether, if it could be proved that he had heard of her though he hadn’t seen her, if that would make any difference?”

“I have no doubt it would make all the difference in the world. Even your first statement is doubtful, I fear. I don’t think seven years is a sacred period that would justify a second marriage.”

“I didn’t say seven, sir, for certain. Six or seven.”

“That is of little importance. The presumption is, that if he has heard nothing of her for a long period she must be dead; but of course, if he has heard of her existence⁠—”

“But dead to him, oh, dead to him!” cried Lizzie, “leading a dreadful life, not a woman he could ever touch, or so much as look at again.”

“I am afraid,” said the rector, shaking his head, “though it is a very hard case for him, that there is nothing to be done. He should try and get a divorce⁠—but that is a serious business. I don’t know what else there is in his power.”

“Would he be punished for it, sir?”

“It is not so much the punishment to him. In a hard case like this, the circumstances would be very much taken into consideration. Very likely it would be only a nominal punishment. The fatal consequences are not to the man, but to the woman⁠—I mean the second wife.”

“But she knows nothing about it, sir. Why should she be punished? It’s no doing of hers. She don’t know.”

“Then, my good girl, you should warn her. Though she knows nothing about it, and is quite innocent, it is upon her chiefly that the consequences will fall. She will not be his wife at all; her children, if she has any, will be illegitimate. She will have no claim upon him, if he should happen to be a bad fellow. In short, if she was married, even as Miss Warrender is going to be tomorrow, by a bishop, Lizzie, it would be simply no marriage at all.”

Lizzie uttered a wild exclamation, clasping her hands⁠—and said, “Oh, sir, is there anything that a woman that wishes her well could do?”

“There is only one thing you can do: to warn her before it is too late. Tell her she must break it off if it were at the last moment⁠—if it were at the very altar. She must not be allowed to sacrifice herself in ignorance. I’ll see her myself, if that will do any good.”

“She’s going to be married tomorrow,” cried Lizzie breathlessly. “Oh, sir, don’t deceive me! there’s not a creature that knows about it, not one⁠—and she the least of all. Oh, Mr. Wilberforce, how could any judge or jury, or anyone, have the heart to punish her?”

“Neither judge nor jury, my poor girl: but the law which says a man must not marry another woman while his first wife is living. There are many even who will not allow of a divorce in any circumstances; but I am not so sure of that. Tell me who this poor girl is, and I will do my best to warn her while there is time.”

Lizzie rose up and sat down again, in nervous excitement. She made a hall of her