Nevertheless Dick went down to Highcombe on the following Saturday.
There are two ways in which advice can work: one by convincing the man
who receives it to abandon his own evil way, and adopt the good way set
before him, which of course is the object of all good advice, although
but rarely attained to; the other is to make him far more hotly and
determinedly bent upon his own way, with a sort of personal opposition
to the adviser, and angry sense that he has not properly understood the
subject, or entered into those subtle reasons below the surface which
make a certain course of action, not generally desirable, perhaps, the
only one that can be appropriately adopted in this particular case. This
was the effect produced upon Dick. He spent the intervening time in
turning it over and over in his mind, as he had already done so often,
until all the outlines were blurred. For a long time he had been able to
put that early, fatal, mad marriage out of his mind altogether, finding
himself actually able to forget it; so that if any one had suddenly
accused him of being, as his old friend said, a married man, he would
have, on the first shock, indignantly denied the imputation. It had
lasted so short a time, it had ended in such miserable disaster! Scarcely
a week had passed before he had discovered the horror and folly of what
he had done. He had not, like many men, laid the blame upon the unhappy
creature who had led him into these toils. She was no unhappy creature,
but one of those butterfly-women without any soul, to whom there are no
distinctions of right and wrong. He discovered afterwards that if he had
not himself been honourable, it was not she who would have insisted upon
the bond of marriage, and whether she had ever intended to be bound by
it he could not tell. Her easy, artless independence of all moral laws
had been a revelation to the young man such as arrested his very life,
and filled him with almost awe in the midst of his misery, disgust, and
horror. Without any soul, or heart, or shame, or sense that better was
required from her--this was what she was. All the evil elements of
corrupt civilisation and savage freedom seemed to have got mixed in
her blood: half of the worst of the old world, half of the rudest and
wildest of the new. She had been a captivating wonder to the young
Englishman, accustomed to all the domestic bonds and decorums, when he
saw her first, a fresh wild-flower, as he thought, with the purity as
well as the savagery of primitive nature. But afterwards it seemed an
uncertain matter whether she had ever known what purity was, or whether
those links which bound him to her had not bound other men even before
his day. She had flung in his face those marriage lines which women of
the lower classes generally hold in such reverence, and had laughed and
assured him that they were so much waste paper, and that as she did not
mean to be bound by them, neither need he; and then she had disappeared,
and for years he had not known that she existed. The awful discovery
that she was in the neighbourhood of his friends, and that he himself
might by chance meet her any moment on the common road, had turned him
to stone. Lizzie Hampson had been her maid during the brief period in
which she was his wife, and had loved and clung to her, the subject of a
fascination not uncommon between women, after every other trace of that
episode in her life had passed away. Dick Cavendish had not for years
thought of that miserable episode in his until he had by chance recognised
Lizzie at Underwood. He had even lent himself with no serious purpose,
yet with a light heart, to that scheme of his family and friends about
the nice girl who was to convert him into a steady member of society. No
doubt the moment it had become serious he must have felt himself brought
face to face with the burdens and hindrances of his previous career,
even had he not seen Lizzie Hampson. This reminder of what had been,
however, came at the exact crisis when Chatty Warrender had (as his
errant imagination always pictured her) pushed open lightly the door of
his heart and walked in with the bowl of roses in her hands: and hence
all the tumults and storms which had suddenly seized again upon a life
almost forgetful of any cause for these tempests. He knew what he ought
to have done then. He ought to have flown from Chatty and every other
"nice girl," as indeed he had done at once, to do him justice. But who
could have foreseen that meeting in London, who provided against the
necessity of "paying a little attention" to the mother and sister of his
friend? And now here was this invitation, which meant--what did it mean?
It meant at least that Mrs. Warrender did not object to the continuance
of that intercourse, that perhaps Chatty herself--perhaps Chatty---- His
pulses had been beating hotly enough before: but when this thought came,
the mingling of a delicious sort of intoxicating pleasure with the misery
was more than he could bear. When he got home to his rooms he opened the
despatch box which had accompanied him through all his wanderings, and
which, he suddenly recollected, should "anything happen to him," held
all the indications of a secret in his life without any explanation of
it, and went over its contents. He was interrupted in the midst of this
by a chance and inopportune visitor, no less than a younger brother,
who pulled the papers about, and cried, "Hallo, what's this?" with the
unjustifiable freedom of a near relation, bringing Dick's heart into his
mouth, and furnishing him with a dreadful example of what might be, were
a touch of more authority laid upon those scattered _debris_ of his life.
A young brother could be sent away, or otherwise disposed of, but there
might come those who could not be sent away. When he was alone again, he
found the few papers connected with his secret amid many others of no
consequence, and it gave Dick a curious thrill, half of amusement, to
think of the spring of astonished interest with which some problematical
person who might examine these papers after his death would come upon
this little trace of something so different from the tame relics of
every day. There was the letter which she had left behind her setting
him free, as the lawless creature intended; there was the marriage
certificate and some little jumble of mementos which somehow, without
any will of his, had got associated with the more important papers. Dick
looked over the bundle as if through the eyes of that man who would go
through them after his death, finding out this appalling mystery. The
man would be delighted, though it might not be a pleasant discovery--it
might (Dick went on imagining to himself) throw a horrible doubt, as old
What's-his-name said, upon the standing of his widow, upon the rights of
his child--but the man who found it would be delighted. It would come
so unexpectedly amid all these uninteresting letters and records of
expenditure. It would brighten them up with the zest of a story, of a
discovery; it would add an interest to all the lawyer's investigations
into his estate. All the men about would meet and shake their heads over
it, putting two and two together, making out what it meant. Probably they
would advertise cautiously (which was what Dick himself, as a budding
lawyer, would recommend in the circumstances) for _her_, poor creature,
sure to be dead and buried long before that. They would consult together
whether it was necessary to inform poor Mrs. Cavendish until they had
something more definite to say. Dick, looking down the vale of years,
saw, or thought he saw, with a curious quiver of his heart between
pleasure and pity, Chatty in a widow's cap, shedding tears at the sound
of his name, absolutely obtuse and incapable of understanding how any
dishonour could have come to her by him. They would think her stupid,
Dick believed, with a tear stealing to the corner of his eye. Yes, she
would be blank with a holy stupidity, God bless her, idiotic, if you
like, my fine gentleman, in that--not capable of understanding dishonour.
It was with a sort of grim pleasure that he got up after this and
lighted a candle, which shone strangely yellow and smoky in the clear
September sunshine. "I'll balk them," he said to himself, with fierce
satisfaction, as if those respectable imaginary executors of his had
been ill-natured gossips bent on exposing him. And he burnt the papers
one by one at his candle, watching the last fibre of each fade away in
redness and then in blackness, disappearing into nothing.
And then he packed his portmanteau and went down to Highcombe. There
are some people who will think this inconceivable, but then these good
persons perhaps have never had a strong overpowering inclination to
fight against, never been pressed and even menaced by an urgent adviser,
never recognised that necessity of doing one thing which seems to throw
the troubled mind into the arms of the other. And then below all these
contentions Dick had a stubborn, strong determination to conduct this
matter his own way. He had decided in his mind that it was the best way.
If there had been any latent doubt on the subject before he consulted
his old friend, that had been dissipated by the interview and by all the
old gentleman's cogent reasoning on the other side. Dick felt that he
had taken the bit in his teeth and would be guided by no man. It _was_
the best way, there was no risk in it, no wrong in it--certainly no
wrong. He had not dealt even harshly with that wretched creature. He
knew that he had been kind, that he had tried every way to reclaim her,
and she had freed him from every law, human or divine. He could get a
divorce anywhere, that he knew; and after all a divorce was but the
legal affirmation of that severance which had been made by nature, ay,
and by God. Even the pure law of Christianity permitted it for that one
cause. Therefore there was no wrong. And to spare publicity was merciful,
merciful to her as well as to himself.
Thus he reasoned, growing more certain on each repetition, and packed
his portmanteau. But yet he did not take Mrs. Warrender's invitation
in all its fulness. There was a little salve for any possible prick of
conscience in this. Instead of from Monday to Saturday, as she said, he
kept to the original proposal and went from Saturday to Monday. There
was something in that; it was a self-denial, a self-restraint--he felt
that it was something to the other side of the account.
The Eustace Thynnes were still at Highcombe when he arrived, and Mrs.
Warrender had a little foretaste of the gratification which she proposed
to herself in announcing to Minnie at some future period the name of her
brother-in-law, in perceiving how deeply Minnie was impressed by the
visitor, and the evident but very delicately indicated devotion with
which he regarded Chatty, a thing which took the young married lady
altogether by surprise and gave her much thought. As for Chatty herself,
it was with the sensation of one reluctantly awaked out of a dream, that
she suffered herself once more to glide into the brighter life which
seemed to come and go with Cavendish, an attendant atmosphere. The dream,
indeed, had not been happy, but there had been a dim and not unsweet
tranquillity in it--a calm which was congenial to Chatty's nature.
Besides that she was still young enough to feel a luxury in that soft
languor of disappointment and failure against which she had never
rebelled, which she had accepted as her lot. Was it possible that it was
not to be her lot after all? Was there something before her brighter,
more beautiful, after all? not an agitated happiness, more excitement
than bliss, like that of Theo, not the sort of copartnery of superior
natures laying down the law to all surroundings, like Minnie and her
Eustace: but something much more lovely, the true ideal, that which
poetry was full of--was it possible that to herself, Chatty, the simplest
and youngest (she was older than Theo it was true, but that did not seem
to count somehow now that Theo was a man and married), this beautiful
lot was to come? She was very shy to accept the thought, holding back
with a gentle modesty, trying not to see how Dick's thoughts and looks
turned to her--an attitude that was perfect in its conformity with her
nature and looks, and filled Dick with tender admiration mingled with
a little alarm, such as he had not heretofore felt, but which touched
Minnie with astonishment and indignation. "She can't be going to refuse
Mr. Cavendish," she said afterwards to the partner of all her thoughts.
"It would be very surprising," said Eustace. "Oh, it must not be allowed
for a moment," Minnie cried.
On the first evening, which was Saturday, Lady Markland and Theo came to
dinner: she very sweet, and friendly and gracious to every one, he full
of cloudy bliss, with all his nerves on the surface, ready to be wounded
by any chance touch. The differing characteristics of the family thus
assembled together might have given an observer much amusement, so full
was each of his and her special little circle of wishes and interests:
but time does not permit us to linger upon that little society. Lady
Markland attached herself most to the mother, with a curious fellow-feeling
which touched yet alarmed Mrs. Warrender. "I am more on your level than
on theirs," she whispered. "My dear, that is nonsense, Minnie is as old
as you are," Mrs. Warrender said. But then Minnie had never been anything
but a young lady until she married Eustace, and Lady Markland--ah, nothing
could alter the fact that Lady Markland had already lived a life with
which Theo had nothing to do. In the midst of this family party Chatty
and her affairs were a little thrown into the background. She fulfilled
all the modest little offices of the young lady of the house, made the
tea and served it sweetly, brought her mother's work and footstool, did
everything that was wanted. Dick could not talk to her much, indeed
talking was not Chatty's strong point; but he followed her about with
his eyes, and took the advantage of all her simple ministrations, in
which she shone much more than in talk.
But the Sunday morning was the best. The Rev. Eustace took the duty by
special request of the vicar in the chief church of Highcombe, and Dick
went with the mother and daughter to a humble little old church standing
a little out of the town, with its little inclosure round it full of
those rural graves where one cannot help thinking the inmates must sleep
sounder than anywhere else. Here, as it was very near, they were in the
habit of attending, and Chatty, though she was not a great musician,
played the organ, as so many young ladies in country places do. When
the little green curtain that veiled the organ loft was drawn aside
for a moment Dick had a glimpse of her, looking out her music before she
began, with a chubby-faced boy who was to "blow" for her at her hand:
and this foolish lover thought of Luca della Robbia's friezes, and
the white vision of Florentine singers and players on the lute. The
puffy-cheeked boy was just like one of those sturdy Tuscan urchins, but
the maiden was of finer ware, like a madonna. So Dick thought: although
Chatty had never called forth such fine imaginations before. They all
walked home together very peacefully in a tender quiet, which lasted
until the Eustace Thynnes came back with their remarks upon everybody.
And in the afternoon Dick told Mrs. Warrender that he must go over and
see Wilberforce at Underwood. There were various things he had to talk
to Wilberforce about, and he would be back to dinner, which was late
on Sunday to leave time for the evening church-going. Chatty had her
Sunday-school, so it was as well for him to go. He set out walking,
having first engaged the people at the Plough Inn to send a dog-cart
to bring him back. It was a very quiet unexciting road, rather dusty,
with here and there a break through the fields. His mind was full of a
hundred things to think of; his business was not with Wilberforce, but
with Lizzie Hampson, whom he must see, and ask--what was he to ask? He
could scarcely make out to himself. But she was the sole custodian of
this secret, and he must know how she could be silenced, or if it would
be necessary to silence her, to keep her from interfering. The walk,
though it was six long miles, was not long enough for him to decide what
he should say. He went round the longest way, passing the Elms in order
to see if the house was still empty, with a chill terror in his heart of
seeing some trace of those inhabitants whose presence had been an insult
to him. But all was shut up, cold and silent; he knew that they were
gone, and yet it was a relief to him when he saw with his eyes that this
was so. Then he paused and looked down the little path opening by a
rustic gate into the wood, which led to the Warren. It was a footpath
free to the villagers, and he saw one or two people at long intervals
passing along, for the road led by the farther side of the pond and was
a favourite Sunday walk. Dick thought he would like to see what changes
Warrender had made and also the spot where he had seen Chatty if not for
the first time, yet the first time with the vision which identified her
among all women. He went along, lingering to note the trees that had
been cut down and the improvements made, and his mind had so completely
abandoned its former course of thought for another, that when Lizzie
Hampson came out of the little wood, and met him, he started as if he
had not known she was here. There was nobody else in sight, and he had
time enough as she approached him to recover the former thread of his
musings. She did not recognise him until they were close to each other:
then she showed the same reluctance to speak to him which she had done
before, and after a hasty glance round as if looking for a way of escape,
cast down her eyes and head evidently with the intention of hurrying
past as if she had not seen him. He saw through the momentary conflict
of thought, and kept his eyes upon her. "I am glad that I have met you,"
he said; "I wanted to see you," standing in front of her so that she
could not escape.
"But I don't want to see you, sir," Lizzie said, respectfully enough.
"That may be: but still--I have some questions to ask you. Will you come
with me towards the house? We shall be less interrupted there."
"If I must, I'd rather hear you here, sir," said Lizzie. "I won't have
the folks say that I talk with a gentleman in out-of-the-way places.
It's better on the common road."
"As you please," said Dick. "You know what the subject is. I want to
know----"
"What, sir? You said as I was to let you know when trouble came. Now no
trouble's come, and there's no need, nor ever will be. She would never
take help from you."
"Why? She has done me harm enough," he said.
"She never says anything different. She will never take help from you.
She will never hear of you, nor you of her. Never, never. Consider her
as if she were dead, sir--that's all her desire."
"I might have done that before I saw you. But now----"
"You don't mean," said Lizzie, with a sudden eager gleam of curiosity,
"that you--that after all that's come and gone----?" The look that passed
over his face, a flush of indignation, a slight shudder of disgust, gave
her the answer to her unspoken question. She drew herself together again,
quickly, suddenly catching her breath. "I can't think," she said, "what
questions there can be."
"There is this," he said: "I had almost forgotten her existence--till I
saw you: but now that is not possible. Look here, I may have to try and
get a divorce--you know what that means--out there, not here: and she
must have warning. Will you let her know?"
The girl started a little, the word frightened her. "Oh, sir," she cried,
"you wouldn't punish her, you wouldn't put her in prison or that? Oh,
don't, sir. She would die--and you know she's not fit to die."
"You mistake," said Dick; "there is no question of punishment, only to
be free of each other--as if indeed, as you say, she were dead to me."
"And so she is," cried Lizzie earnestly. "She never will have her
name named to you, that's what she says, never if she should be ever
so---- She's given you your freedom as she's taken hers, and never,
never shall you hear word of her more: that is what she says."
"Yet she is in England, for all she says."
"Did she ever pass you her word not to come to England? But I don't say
as she's in England now. Oh, it was an ill wind, sir," cried Lizzie with
vehemence, "that brought you here!"
"It may be so," Dick said, with a gravity that went beyond any conscious
intention of regret he had. "There is but one thing now, and that is
that I must be free. Let her know that I must take proceedings for
divorce. I have no way of reaching her but through you."
"Sir, there is somebody coming," said Lizzie; "pass on as if you had been
asking me the way. I'll let her know. I'll never open my lips to you
more nor to any one, about her, but I'll do what you say. That's the
way to the house," she added, turning, pointing out the path that led
away from the side of the pond towards the Warren. He followed the
indication without another word, and in a minute stood in the peaceful
shadow of the deserted house. It came upon him chill, but wholesome,
life reviving after the agitation of that brief encounter. Divorce--it
was a bad word to breathe in such an honest place--a bad blasphemous
word, worse than an oath. He had not meant to say it, nor thought of
it before this meeting: but now he seemed to be pledged to this step
involuntarily, unwillingly; was it by some good angel, something that
was working in Chatty's interests and for her sweet sake?