Bromley.  ‘I do believe in my heart,’ said Mr. Bromley, ’that the verdict is wrong.’  But Mr. Smirkie, with much eloquence, averred that that had nothing to do with the question.  Mr. Bromley opened his eyes very wide.  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Mr. Smirkie.  ’It is the verdict of the jury, confirmed by the judge, and the verdict itself dissolves the marriage.  Whether the verdict be wrong or right, that marriage ceremony is null and void.  They are not man and wife;—­not now, even if they ever were.  Of course you are aware of that.’

Mr. Smirkie was altogether wrong in his law.  Such men generally are.  Mr. Bromley in vain endeavoured to point out to him that the verdict could have no such power as was here claimed for it, and that if any claim was to be brought up hereafter as to the legitimacy of the child, the fact of the verdict could only be used as evidence, and that that evidence would or would not be regarded as true by another jury, according to the views which that other jury might take.  Mr. Smirkie would only repeat his statements with increased solemnity,—­’That marriage is no marriage.  That poor lady is not Mrs. John Caldigate.  She is Miss Hester Bolton, and, therefore, every breath of air which she draws under that roof is a sin.’  As he said this out upon the dike-side he looked about him with manifest regret that he had no other audience than his brother-in-law.

And at last, after much persevering assiduity, Mr. Smirkie succeeded in reaching Mr. Caldigate himself, and expressed himself with boldness.  He was a man who had at any rate the courage of his opinions.  ’You have to think of her future life in this world and in the next,’ he said.  ’And in the next,’ he repeated with emphasis, when Mr. Caldigate paused.

‘As to what will affect her happiness in this world, sir,’ said the old man very gravely, ‘I think you can hardly be a judge.’

‘Good repute,’ suggested the clergyman.

’Has she done anything that ought to lessen the fair fame of a woman in the estimation of other women?  And as to the next world, in the rewards and punishments of which you presume it to be your peculiar duty to deal, has she done anything which you think will subject her to the special wrath of an offended Deity?’ This question he asked with a vehemence of voice which astounded his companion.  ’She has loved her husband with a peculiar love,’ he continued.  ’She has believed herself to be joined to him by ties which you shall call romantic, if you will,—­superstitious, if you will.’

‘I hope not,—­I hope not,’ said Mr. Smirkie, holding up both his hands, not at all understanding the old man’s meaning, but intending to express horror at ‘superstition,’ which he supposed to be a peculiar attribute of the Roman Catholic branch of the Christian Church.  ‘Not that I hope.’