Man and Wife HTML version
ARNOLD was a little surprised by the curt manner in which Geoffrey answered him.
"Has Sir Patrick said any thing unpleasant?" he asked.
"Sir Patrick has said just what I wanted him to say."
"No difficulty about the marriage?"
"No fear of Blanche--"
"She won't ask you to go to Craig Fernie--I'll answer for that!" He said the words with a
strong emphasis on them, took his brother's letter from the table, snatched up his hat, and
His friends, idling on the lawn, hailed him. He passed by them quickly without
answering, without so much as a glance at them over his shoulder. Arriving at the rose-
garden, he stopped and took out his pipe; then suddenly changed his mind, and turned
back again by another path. There was no certainty, at that hour of the day, of his being
left alone in the rose-garden. He had a fierce and hungry longing to be by himself; he felt
as if he could have been the death of any body who came and spoke to him at that
moment. With his head down and his brows knit heavily, he followed the path to see
what it ended in. It ended in a wicket-gate which led into a kitchen-garden. Here he was
well out of the way of interruption: there was nothing to attract visitors in the kitchen-
garden. He went on to a walnut-tree planted in the middle of the inclosure, with a wooden
bench and a broad strip of turf running round it. After first looking about him, he seated
himself and lit his pipe.
"I wish it was done!" he said.
He sat, with his elbows on his knees, smoking and thinking. Before long the restlessness
that had got possession of him forced him to his feet again. He rose, and paced round and
round the strip of greensward under the walnut-tree, like a wild beast in a cage.
What was the meaning of this disturbance in the inner man? Now that he had committed
himself to the betrayal of the friend who had trusted and served him, was he torn by
He was no more torn by remorse than you are while your eye is passing over this
sentence. He was simply in a raging fever of impatience to see himself safely la nded at
the end which he had in view.
Why should he feel remorse? All remorse springs, more or less directly, from the action
of two sentiments, which are neither of them inbred in the natural man. The first of these
sentiments is the product of the respect which we learn to feel for ourselves. The second
is the product of the respect which we learn to feel for others. In their highest
manifestations, these two feelings exalt themselves, until the first he comes the love of
God, and the second the love of Man. I have injured you, and I repent of it when it is
done. Why should I repent of it if I have gained something by it for my own self and if