It is desirable that improper marriages should never be solemnized: and
the Christian Church saw this many hundred years ago, and ordained that
before a marriage, the banns should be cried in a church three Sundays,
and any person there present might forbid the union of the parties, and
allege the just impediment.
This precaution was feeble, but not wholly inadequate--in the
middle ages; for we know by good evidence that the priest was often
interrupted and the banns forbidden.
But in modern days the banns are never forbidden: in other words, the
precautionary measure that has come down to us from the thirteenth
century is out of date and useless. It rests, indeed, on an estimate
of publicity, that has become childish. If persons about to marry were
compelled to inscribe their names and descriptions in a Matrimonial
Weekly Gazette, and a copy of this were placed on a desk in ten
thousand churches, perhaps we might stop one lady per annum from
marrying her husband's brother, and one gentleman from wedding his
neighbour's wife. But the crying of banns in a single parish church is
a waste of the people's time and the parson's breath.
And so it proved in Griffith Gaunt's case. The Rev. William Wentworth
published, in the usual recitative, the banns of marriage between
Thomas Leicester, of the parish of Marylebone in London, and Mercy
Vint, spinster, of this parish: and creation, present ex hypothesi
mediævale, but absent in fact, assented, by silence, to the union.
So Thomas Leicester wedded Mercy Vint, and took her home to the
"Packhorse."
It would be well if those who stifle their consciences, and commit
crimes, would set up a sort of medico-moral diary, and record their
symptoms minutely day by day. Such records might help to clear away
some vague, conventional notions.
To tell the truth, our hero, and now malefactor (the combination is of
high antiquity), enjoyed, for several months, the peace of mind that
belongs of right to innocence; and his days passed in a state of smooth
complacency. Mercy was a good, wise, and tender wife; she naturally
looked up to him after marriage more than she did before: she studied
his happiness, as she had never studied her own: she mastered his
character, admired his good qualities, discerned his weaknesses, but
did not view them as defects; only as little traits to be watched, lest
she should give pain to "her master," as she called him.
Affection, in her, took a more obsequious form than it could ever
assume in Kate Peyton. And yet she had great influence, and softly
governed "her master" for his good. She would come into the room and
take away the bottle, if he was committing excess; but she had a way
of doing it, so like a good but resolute mother, and so unlike a
termagant, that he never resisted. Upon the whole, she nursed his mind
as, in earlier days, she had nursed his body.
And then she made him so comfortable; she observed him minutely to that
end. As is the eye of a maid to the hand of her mistress, so Mercy
Leicester's dove-like eye was ever watching "her master's" face, to
learn the minutest features of his mind.
One evening he came in tired, and there was a black fire in the
parlour. His countenance fell the sixteenth of an inch. You and I, sir,
should never have noticed it. But Mercy did, and, ever after, there
was a clear fire when he came in.
She noted, too, that he loved to play the viol da gambo; but disliked
the trouble of tuning it. So then she tuned it for him.
When he came home at night, early or late, he was sure to find a dry
pair of shoes on the rug, his six-stringed viol tuned to a hair, a
bright fire, and a brighter wife smiling and radiant at his coming, and
always neat: for, said she, "Shall I don my bravery for strangers, and
not for my Thomas, that is the best of company?"
They used to go to church, and come back together, hand in hand like
lovers: for the arm was rarely given in those days. And Griffith said
to himself every Sunday, "What a comfort to have a Protestant wife."
But one day he was off his guard, and called her "Kate, my dear."
"Who is Kate?" said she, softly; but with a degree of trouble and
intelligence that made him tremble.
"No matter," said he, all in a flutter: then, solemnly, "Whoever she
was, she is dead; dead."
"Ah!" said Mercy, very tenderly and solemnly, and under her breath.
"You loved her; yet she must die." She paused; then, in a tone so
exquisite I can only call it an angel's whisper, "Poor Kate!"
Griffith groaned aloud. "For God's sake never mention that name to me
again. Let me forget she ever lived. She was not the true friend to me
that you have been."
Mercy replied, softly, "Say not so, Thomas. You loved her well. Her
death had all but cost me thine. Ah, well! we cannot all be the first.
I am not very jealous, for my part; and I thank God for't. Thou art a
dear good husband to me, and that is enow."
Paul Carrick, unable to break off his habits, came to the "Packhorse"
now and then; but Mercy protected her husband's heart from pain.
She was kind, and even pitiful; but so discreet and resolute, and
contrived to draw the line so clearly between her husband and her old
sweetheart, that Griffith's foible could not burn him, for want of
fuel.
And so passed several months, and the man's heart was at peace. He
could not love Mercy passionately as he had loved Kate; but he was full
of real regard and esteem for her: it was one of those gentle, clinging
attachments that outlast grand passions, and survive till death; a
tender, pure affection; though built upon a crime.
They had been married, and lived in sweet content, about three quarters
of a year--when trouble came; but in a vulgar form. A murrain carried
off several of Harry Vint's cattle; and it then came out that he had
purchased six of them on credit, and had been induced to set his hands
to bills of exchange for them. His rent was also behind, and, in fact,
his affairs were in a desperate condition.
He hid it as long as he could from them all; but, at last, being
served with a process for debt, and threatened with a distress, and an
execution, he called a family council and exposed the real state of
things.
Mrs. Vint rated him soundly for keeping all this secret so long.
He whom they called Thomas Leicester remonstrated with him. "Had you
told me in time," said he, "I had not paid forfeit for 'The Vine,' but
settled there, and given you a home."
Mercy said never a word but "Poor father!"
As the peril drew nearer, the conversation became more animated and
agitated, and soon the old people took to complaining of Thomas
Leicester to his wife.
"Thou hast married a gentleman; and he hath not the heart to lift a
hand to save thy folk from ruin."
"Say not so," pleaded Mercy: "to be sure he hath the heart, but not
the means. 'Twas but yestreen he bade me sell his jewels for you. But,
mother, I think they belonged to some one he loved; and she died. So,
poor thing, how could I? Then, if you love me, blame me, and not him."
"Jewels, quotha! will they stop such a gap as ours?" was the
contemptuous reply.
From complaining of him behind his back, the old people soon came to
launching innuendoes obliquely at him. Here is one specimen out of a
dozen.
"Wife, if our Mercy had wedded one of her own sort, mayhap he'd have
helped us a bit."
"Ay, poor soul; and she so near her time: if the bailiffs come down on
us next month 'tis my belief we shall lose her as well as house and
home."
The false Thomas Leicester let them run on, in dogged silence; but
every word was a stab.
And, one day, when he had been baited sore with hints, he turned round
on them fiercely, and said, "Did I get you into this mess? It's all
your own doing. Learn to see your own faults, and not be so hard on one
that has been the best servant you ever had, gentleman or not."
Men can resist the remonstrances that wound them, and so irritate them,
better than they can those gentle appeals that rouse no anger, but
soften the whole heart. The old people stung him; but Mercy, without
design, took a surer way. She never said a word; but sometimes, when
the discussions were at their height, she turned her dove-like eyes on
him, with a look so loving, so humbly inquiring, so timidly imploring,
that his heart melted within him.
Ah, that is a true touch of nature, and genuine observation of the
sexes, in the old song--
My feyther urged me sair;
My mither didna speak;
But she looked me in the face,
Till my hairt was like to break.
These silent, womanly, imploring looks of patient Mercy, were mightier
than argument, or invective.
The man knew all along where to get money, and how to get it. He had
only to go to Hernshaw Castle. But his very soul shuddered at the idea.
However, for Mercy's sake, he took the first step: he compelled himself
to look the thing in the face, and discuss it with himself. A few
months ago he could not have done this, he loved his lawful wife too
much; hated her too much. But now, Mercy, and Time, had blunted both
those passions; and he could ask himself whether he could not encounter
Kate and her priest without any very violent emotion.
When they first set up house together, he had spent his whole fortune,
a sum of two thousand pounds, on repairing and embellishing Hernshaw
Castle and grounds. Since she had driven him out of the house, he had a
clear right to have back the money; and now he resolved he would have
it; only what he wanted was to get it without going to the place in
person.
And now Mercy's figure, as well as her imploring looks, moved him
greatly. She was in that condition which appeals to a man's humanity,
and masculine pity, as well as to his affection. To use the homely
words of Scripture, she was great with child: and, in that condition,
moved slowly about him, filling his pipe, and laying his slippers, and
ministering to all his little comforts; she would make no difference:
and when he saw the poor dove move about him so heavily, and rather
languidly, yet so zealously and tenderly, the man's very bowels yearned
over her, and he felt as if he could die to do her a service.
So, one day, when she was standing by him, bending over his little
round table, and filling his pipe with her neat hand, he took her by
the other hand and drew her gently on his knee, her burden and all.
"Child!" said he, "do not thou fret. I know how to get money; and I'll
do't, for thy sake."
"I know that," said she, softly; "can I no read thy face by this
time?" and so laid her cheek to his. "But, Thomas, for my sake, get it
honestly; or not at all," said she, still filling his pipe, with her
cheek to his, "I'll but take back my own," said he; "fear nought."
But, after thus positively pledging himself to Mercy, he became
thoughtful and rather fretful; for he was still most averse to go to
Hernshaw, and yet could hit upon no other way; since to employ an agent
would be to let out that he had committed bigamy; and so risk his own
neck, and break Mercy's heart.
After all his scale was turned by his foible.
Mrs. Vint had been weak enough to confide her trouble to a friend: it
was all over the parish in three days.
Well, one day, in the kitchen of the inn, Paul Carrick having drunk two
pints of good ale, said to Vint, "Landlord, you ought to have married
her to me. I've got two hundred pounds laid by. I'd have pulled you out
of the mire, and welcome."
"Would you, though, Paul?" said Harry Vint; "then, by G----, I wish I
had."
Now Carrick bawled that out, and Griffith, who was at the door, heard
it.
He walked into the kitchen, ghastly pale, and spoke to Harry Vint
first.
"I take your inn, your farm, and your debts, on me," said he; "not one
without t'other."
"Spoke like a man!" cried the landlord, joyfully: "and so be it--before
these witnesses."
Griffith turned on Carrick: "This house is mine. Get out on't, ye
jealous, mischief-making cur." And he took him by the collar and
dragged him furiously out of the place, and sent him whirling into the
middle of the road; then ran back for his hat and flung it out after
him.
This done, he sat down boiling, and his eyes roved fiercely round the
room in search of some other antagonist. But his strength was so great,
and his face so altered with this sudden spasm of reviving jealousy,
that nobody cared to provoke him farther.
After a while, however, Harry Vint muttered, drily, "There goes one
good customer."
Griffith took him up sternly: "If your debts are to be mine, your
trade shall be mine too, that you had not the head to conduct."
"So be it, son-in-law," said the old man; "only you go so fast: you do
take possession afore you pays the fee."
Griffith winced. "That shall be the last of your taunts, old man." He
turned to the ostler, "Bill, give Black Dick his oats at sunrise: and
in ten days at farthest I'll pay every shilling this house and farm do
owe. Now, Master White, you'll put in hand a new sign-board for this
inn; a fresh 'Packhorse,' and paint him jet black, with one white
hoof (instead of chocolate), in honour of my nag Dick; and in place of
Harry Vint you'll put in Thomas Leicester. See that is done against I
come back, or come you here no more." Soon after this scene he retired
to tell Mercy: and on his departure, the suppressed tongues went like
mill-clacks.
Dick came round saddled at peep of day; but Mercy had been up more
than an hour, and prepared her man's breakfast. She clung to him at
parting, and cried a little; and whispered something in his ear, for
nobody else to hear: it was an entreaty that he would not be long gone,
lest he should be far from her in the hour of her peril.
Thereupon he promised her, and kissed her tenderly, and bade her be of
good heart; and so rode away northwards with dogged resolution.
As soon as he was gone, Mercy's tears flowed without restraint.
Her father set himself to console her. "Thy good man," he said, "is but
gone back to the high road for a night or two, to follow his trade of
'stand and deliver.' Fear nought, child; his pistols are well primed; I
saw to that myself; and his horse is the fleetest in the county; you'll
have him back in three days, and money in both pockets. I warrant you
his is a better trade than mine; and he is a fool to change it."
Griffith was two days upon the road, and all that time he was turning
over and discussing in his mind how he should conduct the disagreeable
but necessary business he had undertaken.
He determined, at last, to make the visit one of business only: no
heat; no reproaches. That lovely, hateful woman might continue to
dishonour his name, for he had himself abandoned it. He would not deign
to receive any money that was hers; but his own two thousand pounds he
would have: and two or three hundred on the spot by way of instalment.
And, with these hard views, he drew near to Hernshaw; but the nearer he
got, the slower he went; for, what at a distance had seemed tolerably
easy, began to get more and more difficult, and repulsive. Moreover,
his heart, which he thought he had steeled, began now to flutter a
little, and somehow to shudder at the approaching interview.