Theo came home neither late nor early; neither in joy nor in despair.
He came back harassed and impatient, eaten up with disquietude and
suspense. He was pale and red in succession ten times in a moment. He
was so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he hardly heard what was
said to him as the three sat down, a little forlorn, as the late summer
twilight began to close over all the brightness of that long fatiguing
day. The evening of the wedding, with its sense already of remoteness to
the great event of the morning so much prepared for and looked forward
to--with the atmosphere so dead and preternaturally silent which has
tingled with so much emotion, with the inevitable reaction after the
excitement--nothing could ever make this moment a cheerful one. It is
something more than the disappearance of a member of the family, it is
the end of anticipation, of excitement, of all that has been forming and
accelerating the domestic life for weeks or months, perhaps. Even if
there should happen to be an unexpressed and inexpressible relief in
having permanently escaped a rule of sharp criticism, a keen inspecting
eye which missed nothing, even that consciousness helps to take the edge
off life and make it altogether blurred and brief for the moment. The
very meal was suggestive: cold chickens, cold lamb, ham on the sideboard
with ornamentations upon it, remains of jellies, and preparations of
cream,--an altogether chilly dinner, implying in every dish a banquet
past.
And there was not very much said. Joseph, who was rather more tired than
everybody else, made no attempt to bring the lamp, and no one asked for
it. They sat in the waning light, which had less of day and more of
night in it in that room than anywhere else, and made a very slight
repast in a much subdued way, very tired, and with little interest in
the cold chicken. Once Mrs. Warrender made a remark about the evening.
"How dark it is! I think, Theo, if you don't do something soon the trees
will crush the house." "I don't see what the trees have to do with it,"
he answered with irritation; "I have always begged you not to wait for
me when I was late." "But you were not late, dear Theo," said Chatty,
with a certain timidity. "I suppose I ought to know whether I was late
or not," he replied. And the ladies were silent, and the salad was
handed round. Very suitable for a summer evening, but yet on the whole
a depressing meal.
When they rose from the table Mrs. Warrender asked Theo to take a turn
with her, which he did with great reluctance, fearing to be questioned.
But she had more discretion than to begin, at least on that subject. She
told him that if he did not particularly want her, she had made up her
mind to go away. "Chatty will be dull without her sister. I think she
wants a little change, and for that matter, so do I. And you don't want
us, Theo."
"That is a hard thing to say, mother."
"I do not mean any blame. I know that the time is critical for you too,
my dear boy. That is why I ask, do you wish me to remain? but I don't
think you do."
He did not answer for a full minute. Then, "No," he said, "I don't think
I do." They were walking slowly round the house, by the same path which
they had taken together when the father was lying dead, and before there
had been question of Lady Markland in the young man's life. "Mother," he
said after another interval, "I ought to tell you, perhaps. I know nothing
about myself or what I am going to do; it all depends on some one else.
Minnie would moralise finely on that, if she were to hear it. Things
have come to this, that I know nothing about what may happen to-morrow.
I may start off for the end of the world,--that is the most likely, I
think. I can't go on living as I am doing now. I may go to--where? I
don't know and I don't care much. If I were a Nimrod, as I ought to have
been, I should have gone to Africa for big game. But it will probably be
Greece or something conventional of that kind."
"Don't speak so wildly, dear. Perhaps you will not go away at all. You
have not made up your mind."
"When I tell you I know nothing, not even about to-morrow! But I don't
entertain much hope. That is how it will end, in all probability. And of
course I don't want you to stay like rooks among the trees here. Poor
old house! it will soon have no daylight at all, as you say."
"Theo, I hope you will do something before it is too late. It is not a
beautiful house, but you were born in it, and so was your father."
He pressed her arm almost violently within his. "Who knows, mother?
great days may be coming for the old place: or if not, let it drop to
pieces, what does it matter? I shall be the last of the Warrenders."
"Theo," she said with agitation, returning the pressure of his arm,
"have you said anything to-night?"
Her question was vague enough, but he had no difficulty in understanding.
He said, after a moment, "I had no opportunity, there were people there;
but to-morrow, to-morrow----"
They came out together as these words were said upon the edge of the
pond. In the depth of that dark mirror, broken by water-lilies and
floating growth of all kinds, there was a pale reflected sky, very
colourless and clear, the very soul and centre of the brooding evening.
Everything was dark around, the heavy summer foliage black in the absence
of light, the heart of June as gloomy as if the trees had been funeral
plumes. The two figures, dark like all the rest, stood for a moment on
the edge of the water, looking down upon that one pale, dispassionate,
reflected light. There was no cheer in it, nor anything of the movement
and pulsation of human existence. The whiteness of the reflection chilled
Mrs. Warrender, and made her shiver. "I suppose," she said, "I am fanciful
to-night; it looks to me like an unkindly spectator, who does not care
what becomes of us." She added, with a little nervous laugh, "Perhaps
it is not very probable that our little affairs should interest the
universe, after all."
Warrender did not make any reply. He heard what was said to him and saw
what was round him in a dim sort of confused way, as if every object and
every voice was at a distance; and with an impatience, too, which it was
painful to him to keep down. He went back with her to the house saying
little; but could not rest there, and came out again, groping his way
through the surrounding trees, and returned after a while to the pond,
where there was that light to think by, more congenial even in its chill
clearness than the oppressive dark. It changed beneath his eyes, but
he took no notice; a star came into it and looked him in the face from
under the shadow of the great floating shelf of the water-lily leaves;
and then came the blue of the dawn, the widening round him of the growing
light, the shimmer of the early midsummer morning, long, long before
those hours which men claim as the working day. That sudden bursting
forth of life and colour startled him in the midst of his dreams, and
he went home and stole into the sleeping, darkened house, where by dint
of curtains and shutters the twilight still reigned, with something of
the exhaustion and neglect of the morning after the feast. It was the
morning of the day which was to decide for him whether life should be
miserable or divine.
These were the words which the young man used in his infatuation. He
knew no others--miserable, so that he should no longer care what
happened to him, or believe in any good, which was the most probable
state of affairs; or divine, a life celestial, inconceivable, which was
indeed not to be dwelt upon for a moment as if under any suggestion of
possibility it could be.
Next day, Mrs. Warrender began at once her preparations for that removal
which she had so long contemplated, which had been so often postponed,
throwing Chatty into an excitement so full of conflicting elements,
that it was for some time difficult for the girl to know what her own
real sentiments were. She had been figuring to herself with a little
wistfulness, and an occasional escapade into dreams, the part which it
was now her duty to take up, that of her mother's chief companion, the
daughter of the house, the dutiful dweller at home, who should have no
heart and no thought beyond the Warren and its affairs. Chatty was
pleased enough with the former role. It had been delightful both to her
mother and herself to feel how much they had in common, when the great
authority on all family matters, the regulator of proprieties, the
mistress of the ceremonies, so to speak, was out of the way, and they
were left unmolested to follow their natural bent; but Chatty felt a
little sinking of the heart when she thought of being bound to the
Warren for ever; of the necessity there would be for her constant
services, and the unlikelihood of any further opening of life. While
there had been two, there was always a possibility of an invitation, of
a visit and little break of novelty: but it was one of Minnie's most
cherished maxims that a young lady in the house was indispensable, and
Chatty in the recollection of this felt a certain cheerful despair, if
the expression is permissible, seize her. She would be cheerful, she
said to herself, whatever happened. It was her duty: she loved her home,
and wanted nothing else, oh, nothing else! Home and one's mother, what
could one want more?
But when Chatty heard all in a moment those plans which promised,
instead of the monotonous life to which she was accustomed, a new world
of novelty, of undiscovered distance, of gaieties and pleasure unknown,
her despair changed into alarm. Was it right, however pleasant it might
be, to go away; to abandon the Warren; to be no longer the young lady
of the house, doing everything for those about her, but a young woman
at large, so to speak, upon the world, getting amusements in her own
person, having nothing to do for anybody? Chatty did not know what to
think, what to reply to her mother. She cried, "O mamma!" with a gleam
of delight; and then her countenance fell, and she asked, "What will
Theo do alone?" with all the conscious responsibility of a sister, the
only unmarried sister left. But the question that was uppermost in her
mind did not really concern Theo. It was "What will Minnie say?" She
turned this over in her mind all day with a breathless sense that among
so many new things Minnie's opinion was a sort of support to her in
the whirlwind of change. Minnie had often said that nothing short of
necessity would make her leave the Warren. But then the firmness of
that assertion was somewhat diminished by the fact that Minnie had not
hesitated to leave the Warren when Mr. Thynne asked her to do so. Was
necessity another name for a husband? Chatty blushed at this thought,
though it seemed very improbable that any husband would ever appear to
suggest such a step to herself. Would Minnie still think that the only
motive; would she disapprove? Chatty went out by herself to take the
usual afternoon walk which her sister had always insisted upon. The day
was dull and gray for midsummer, and Chatty had not yet recovered from
the fatigue of yesterday. She allowed to herself that the trees were
sadly overgrown, and that it was quite dark within the grounds of the
Warren when it was still light beyond; and she permitted herself to
think that it was a little dull having nowhere to walk to but Mrs.
Bagley's shop. To be sure there was the Rectory: but Mrs. Wilberforce
would be sure to question her so closely about all that had happened and
was going to happen that Chatty preferred not to risk that ordeal. There
was not a soul about the village on this particular afternoon. Chatty
thought she had never seen it so deserted. To make her walk a little
longer, she had come out by the farther gate of the Warren,--the one
that Theo always used; that which was nearest Markland. The only figures
she saw in all her line of vision, as she came out, making a little sound
with the gate, which in the silence sounded like a noise and startled
them, were two women, just parting as it seemed. One of them Chatty
saw at a glance was Lizzie Hampson. The other--she came hurrying along
towards Chatty, having parted, it seemed, with a kiss from her companion.
They met full without any possibility of avoiding each other, and
Chatty, in spite of herself, gave a long look at this woman whom she had
seen before in the high phaeton, and sometimes at the gate of the Elms.
She was as young, or it might be younger than Chatty, with a lovely
complexion, perhaps slightly aided by art, and quantities of curled and
wavy hair. But the chief feature in her was her eyes--of infantine blue,
surrounded with curves of distress like a child's who has been crying its
very heart out. It was evident that she had been crying, her eyelashes
were wet, her mouth quivering. Altogether, it seemed to Chatty the face
of a child that had been naughty and was being punished. Poor thing! she
said in her soft heart, looking at the other girl with infinite pity.
Oh, how miserable it must be to go wrong! Chatty felt as if she could
have found in her heart to stop this poor young creature, and entreat
her, like a child, not to be naughty any more. The other looked at her
with those puckered and humid eyes, with a stare into which there came
a little defiance, almost an intention of affronting and insulting the
young lady; but in a moment had hurried past and Chatty saw her no more.
Chatty, too, quickened her steps, feeling, she could not tell why, a
little afraid. Why should she be afraid? She did not like to look back,
but felt as if the woman she had just passed must be mocking her behind
her back, or perhaps threatening her, ready to do her a mischief. And
certainly it was Lizzie Hampson who was running on in front. Chatty
called to her in the sudden fright that had come over her, and was glad
when the girl stopped and turned round reluctantly, though Lizzie's face
was also stained with crying and wore a mutinous and sullen look.
"Did you call me, Miss Warrender? I am going home, Granny is waiting."
"Wait for me a moment, Lizzie. Oh, you have been crying too. What is the
matter? And that--that lady----"
"I won't tell you a lie, Miss Chatty, when you've just found me out.
But--if you're going to tell upon me, this is the truth. I have been
saying good-bye to her; and no one in Underwood will ever see her more."
Then Lizzie began to cry again, melting Chatty's soft heart.
"Why should I tell upon you? I have nothing to say. It appears that it
is some one you know; but I--don't know who it is."
"Oh, Miss Chatty, you are the real good one," said Lizzie, "you don't
think everybody's wicked. I don't love her ways, but I love her, that
poor, poor thing. Don't tell Granny I was with her; but it is only to
say good-bye;--that was all, for the last time, just to say good-bye."
"Is she--going away?" Chatty spoke in a low and troubled voice, knowing
that she ought not to show any interest, but with a pity and almost awe
of the sinner which was beyond all rule.
"Oh yes, Miss Warrender, she is going away; the gentleman spoke the
truth when he said it always comes to misery. There may be a fine
appearance for a time, and everything seem grand and gay; but it always
comes to misery in the end."
To this Chatty made no reply. It was not a lesson that she required in
her innocence and absence from all temptation, to learn; but she had an
awe of it as if a gulf had opened at her feet and she had seen the
blackness of darkness within.
"And if you'll believe me, she once was just as good and as innocent--!
Well, and she's a kind of innocent now for that matter. Oh, poor thing!
Oh, Miss Warrender, don't you be angry if I'm choking and crying, I
can't help it! She don't know what she's doing. She don't know bad from
good, or right from wrong. There's some like that. Just what pleases
them at the moment, that's all they think of. She once had as happy a
life before her! and a good husband, and served hand and foot."
"Lizzie," said Chatty, with a shudder, "don't please tell me any more.
If anything can be done----"
"Nothing," said the girl, shaking her head. "What could be done? If the
good ladies were to get her into their hands, they would put her in a
penitentiary or something. A penitentiary for her! Oh, Miss Chatty, it's
little they know. If they could put her in a palace, and give her horses
and carriages and plenty to amuse her, that might do. But she doesn't
want to repent; she doesn't know what it means. She wants to be well off
and happy. And she's so young. Oh, don't think I would be like that for
the world, not for the world, don't think it! But I can't help knowing
how she feels. Oh, my poor dear, my poor dear!"
The wonder with which Chatty heard this strange plea was beyond
description; but she would ask no more questions, and hear no more,
though Lizzie seemed ready enough to furnish her with all details. She
went back with the girl to the shop, thus disarming Mrs. Bagley, who
was always full of suspicions and alarm when Lizzie was out of the way,
and stood talking to the old woman while Lizzie stole into the parlour
behind and got rid of the traces of her tears. Chatty felt very solemn
as she stood and talked about her patterns, feeling as if she had come
from a death-bed or a funeral It was something still more terrible and
solemnising; it was her first glimpse into a darkness of which she knew
nothing, and her voice sounded in her own ears like a mockery as she
asked about the bundle of new things that had come from Highcombe.
"There's one as is called the honeysuckle," said Mrs. Bagley: "it will
just please you, Miss Chatty, as likes nice delicate little things."
The old woman thought she must be feeling her sister's loss dreadful,
looking as melancholy as if it was her coffin she was buying. And Chatty
accepted the honeysuckle pattern and looked out the materials for working
it, without relaxing from that seriousness which was so little habitual
to her. She even forgot all about her own problems, as she went home,
seeing constantly before her the pretty childlike face all blurred with
tears. Was it true, as Lizzie said, that there was no way to help or
deliver? If she had stopped, perhaps, as she had almost been impelled to
do, and said, as it was on her lips to say, "Oh, I am so sorry for you;
oh, don't do wrong any more," would the unhappy creature perhaps have
listened to her, and repented, though Lizzie said she did not want to
repent? Chatty could not forget that pitiful face. Would she ever, she
wondered, meet it again?