Lizzie Hampson heard, like everybody in the village, of what was about
to happen. Miss Chatty was going to be married. At first all that was
known was that the bridegroom was a gentleman from London, which in
those days was a description imposing to rustics. He was a gentleman
who had once been visiting at the Rectory, who had been seen in the
rector's pew at church, and walking about the village, and on the road
to the Warren. Many of the village gossips remembered, or thought they
remembered, to have seen him, and they said to each other, with a
natural enjoyment of a love story which never fails in women, that no
doubt that was when "it was all made up." It gave many of them a great
deal of pleasure to think that before Miss Minnie had ever seen "that
parson," her more popular sister had also had a lover, though he hadn't
spoken till after, being mayhap a shy gentleman, as is seen often and
often. He was a fair-haired gentleman and very pleasant spoken. What
his name was nobody cared so much; the villagers found it more easy to
recollect him by the colour of his hair than by his name. It was some
time before Lizzie identified the gentleman whom Miss Chatty was about
to marry. She had a small part of the trousseau to prepare, one or two
morning dresses to make, a commission which made her proud and happy,
and gave her honour in the sight of her friends and detractors, a
thing dear to all. And then at the very last Lizzie discovered who the
bridegroom was. The discovery affected her very greatly. It was the
occasion of innumerable self-arguments, carried on in the absolute
seclusion of a mind occupied by matters, its acquaintance with which
is unknown. Old Mrs. Bagley talked about the marriage to every one who
came into the shop. It was, she said, almost as if it was a child of her
own.
Thus Lizzie heard--all that there was to hear: and her mind grew more
perplexed as time went on. She had the strange ignorances and the still
more strange beliefs common to her kind. She put her faith in those
popular glosses of the law, at which the better instructed laugh, but
which are to the poor and unlearned like the canons of faith. It was the
very eve of the wedding before her growing anxiety forced her to action.
When Mr. Wilberforce was told that a young woman wanted to see him,
he was arranging with his wife the train by which they were to go
up to town to the wedding, not without comments on the oddness of the
proceeding, which Mrs. Wilberforce thought was but another of the many
signs of the times--which severed all bonds, and made a nasty big hotel
better than your own house. The rector was in the habit of taking his
wife's comments very calmly, for he himself was not so much alarmed
about our national progress to destruction as she was. But yet he had
his own opinion on the subject, and thought it was undignified on the
part of Mrs. Warrender not to have her daughter married at home. He was
only to be the second in importance in point of view of the ceremony
itself, having no more to do than to assist a bishop who was of the
Cavendish clan: whereas he felt himself quite man enough to have married
Chatty out of hand without any assistance at all. However, to assist
a bishop in the capacity of the parish clergyman of the bride was a
position not without dignity, and he felt that he had, on the whole,
little to complain of. He went into his study to speak to the young
woman when that little consultation was over. Lizzie was seated, as they
always were, upon the edge of one of the chairs. He was surprised to see
her, though he could scarcely have said why.
"Oh, Lizzie! I am sorry to have kept you waiting: but I had something to
do for Mrs. Wilberforce," the rector said.
"It doesn't matter, sir. I came to ask your advice, if I may make so
bold."
"Certainly, certainly, Lizzie--anything that I can do."
"It isn't for me, sir, it's for a friend," she said, with the same device
which Dick had employed, but in her case with more appropriateness. "I
want to ask you, sir, about marriages. Oh, it's very serious, sir, there's
nothing to smile about."
"I will not smile then, Lizzie. I shall be as serious as you please."
"It's just this, sir. When a man has been married and has had his wife
run away from him and hasn't seen her nor heard of her for years--for
six or seven years--he's free to marry again?"
"Do you think so? I should not like to affirm so much as that."
"But what I want you to tell me," said Lizzie, running on very quickly
and taking no notice of his interruption, "is whether, if it could be
proved that he _had_ heard of her though he hadn't seen her, if that
would make any difference?"
"I have no doubt it would make all the difference in the world. Even
your first statement is doubtful, I fear. I don't think seven years is a
sacred period that would justify a second marriage."
"I didn't say seven, sir, for certain. Six or seven."
"That is of little importance. The presumption is, that if he has heard
nothing of her for a long period she must be dead; but of course, if he
has heard of her existence----"
"But dead to him, oh, dead to him!" cried Lizzie, "leading a dreadful
life, not a woman he could ever touch, or so much as look at again."
"I am afraid," said the rector, shaking his head, "though it is a very
hard case for him, that there is nothing to be done. He should try and
get a divorce--but that is a serious business. I don't know what else
there is in his power."
"Would he be punished for it, sir?"
"It is not so much the punishment to him. In a hard case like this, the
circumstances would be very much taken into consideration. Very likely
it would be only a nominal punishment. The fatal consequences are not to
the man, but to the woman---- I mean the second wife."
"But she knows nothing about it, sir. Why should she be punished? It's
no doing of hers. She don't know."
"Then, my good girl, you should warn her. Though she knows nothing about
it, and is quite innocent, it is upon her chiefly that the consequences
will fall. She will not be his wife at all; her children, if she has any,
will be illegitimate. She will have no claim upon him, if he should
happen to be a bad fellow. In short, if she was married, even as Miss
Warrender is going to be to-morrow, by a bishop, Lizzie, it would be
simply no marriage at all."
Lizzie uttered a wild exclamation, clasping her hands--and said, "Oh,
sir, is there anything that a woman that wishes her well could do?"
"There is only one thing you can do: to warn her before it is too late.
Tell her she must break it off if it were at the last moment--if it
were at the very altar. She must not be allowed to sacrifice herself in
ignorance. I'll see her myself, if that will do any good."
"She's going to be married to-morrow," cried Lizzie breathlessly. "Oh,
sir, don't deceive me! there's not a creature that knows about it, not
one--and she the least of all. Oh, Mr. Wilberforce, how could any judge
or jury, or any one, have the heart to punish _her_?"
"Neither judge nor jury, my poor girl: but the law which says a man must
not marry another woman while his first wife is living. There are many
even who will not allow of a divorce in any circumstances; but I am not
so sure of that. Tell me who this poor girl is, and I will do my best to
warn her while there is time."
Lizzie rose up and sat down again, in nervous excitement She made a hall
of her handkerchief and pressed it alternately to each of her wet eyes.
"Oh, I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do!" she cried.
"If there is anything that can be done to-night," he said,--"Quick,
Lizzie, there is no time to lose, for I must leave early to-morrow for
Miss Warrender's marriage."
"And there's not another train leaves to-night," cried Lizzie; then she
made an effort to compose herself, and a curtsy, rising from her seat.
"I must do it myself, sir, thank you all the same," she said, and went
away tottering and unsteady in her great trouble: yet only half believing
him after all. For how, oh how, ye heavens, could the law punish one that
meant no harm and knew no evil? a question which minds more enlightened
than that of Lizzie have often asked in vain.