Then, with a light laugh, she repeated word for word what she had already said, throwing in descriptive touches about the Methodist chapel and its pews.
“Father and mother had the third from the pulpit on the right-hand side. I don’t call myself a Methodist now; it stands in your way sometimes, and the Church is always respectable; but I ought to like the Methodists, for it was there it happened. You had better take down the address and the day. I can tell you all the particulars.”
Edgar did not know much about the law, but he had heard, at least, of one ordinary formula.
“Have you got your marriage certificate?” he said.
“Oh! they don’t have such things among the Methodists,” said Miss Lockwood. “Now I’ll tell you about the second time—for it was done twice over, to make sure. You remember all that was in the papers about that couple who were first married in Ireland, and then in Scotland, and turned out not to be married at all? We went off to Scotland, him and me, for our wedding tour, and I thought I’d just make certain sure, in case there should be anything irregular, you know. So when we were at the hotel, I got the landlady in, and one of the men, and I said he was my husband before them, and made them put their names to it. He was dreadfully angry—so angry that I knew I had been right, and had seen through him all the while, and that he meant to deceive me if he could; but he couldn’t deny it all of a sudden, in a moment, with the certainty that he would be turned out of the house then and there if he did. I’ve got that, if you like to call that a marriage certificate. They tell me it’s hard and fast in Scotch law.”
“But we are in England,” said Edgar, feebly. “I don’t think Scotch law tells here.”
“Oh! it does, about a thing like this,” said Miss Lockwood. “If I’m married in Scotland, I can’t be single in England, and marry again, can I? Now that’s my story. If his new wife hadn’t have been so proud——”
“She is not proud,” said Edgar, with a groan; “it is—her manner—she does not mean it. And then she has been so petted and flattered all her life. Poor girl! she has done nothing to you that you should feel so unfriendly towards her.”
“Oh! hasn’t she?” said Miss Lockwood. “Only taken my place, that’s all. Lived in my house, and driven in my carriage, and had everything I ought to have had—no more than that!”
Edgar was like a man stupefied. He stood holding his head with his hands, feeling that everything swam around him. Miss Lockwood’s defender?—ah! no, but the defender of another, whose more than life was assailed. This desperation at last made things clearer before him, and taught him to counterfeit calm.