"Two little girls. He came over to tell us yesterday. Poor Theo! He is
pleased, of course, but I think half ashamed too. It seems a little
ridiculous to have twins, and the first."
"I can't think how you can say it is ridiculous. It is very interesting.
But nowadays people seem to be ashamed of having children at all. It
used to be thought the strength of a country, and doing your duty to the
state. But people have different notions now."
"Well," said the rector, "I should have thought Theo would be pleased;
for he likes to be original in everything, and two little girls are as
unlike as possible to one little boy."
Mrs. Warrender's eyes shot forth a gleam, half of humorous acquiescence,
half of irritation, that Mr. Wilberforce should have divined her son's
state of mind. She had come to the Warren with Chatty for a few weeks,
for what they called "change," though the change of a six miles' journey
was not much. The Warren bore a very different aspect now from that which
it had borne in former days. It was light and cheerful; some new rooms
had been built, which broke the commonplace outlines of the respectable
house. It was newly furnished with furniture as unlike as possible to
the mahogany catafalques. Only the hall, which had been old-fashioned
and harmonious, in which Chatty was attending to the flowers, was the
same; and so far as that went, it might have been the very same day on
which Dick Cavendish had paid his first visit, when Chatty with her bowl
of roses had walked in, as he said, into his heart. There were still
roses of the second bloom, with the heat of July in their fervent heart,
and she stood at the table arranging them, changed, indeed, but not so
changed as to affect the indifferent spectator, to whom she still seemed
a part of the background, a figure passive though sweet, with no immediate
vocation in life. Old Joseph, too, was in the depths of the hall, just
visible, doing something,--something that was not of the least urgency
or importance, but which kept him about and hearing all that passed. He
and his old wife were in charge of the Warren, in the present changed
days, and though they both half resented the fact that the young master
had abandoned his own house, they were yet more than half pleased to
have this tranquillity and ease at the end of their long service. To do
them justice, they had been glad to receive their old mistress and her
daughter, welcoming them as visitors with a sense of hospitality, and
declaring that they did not mind the trouble, notwithstanding that
Joseph's health was bad, and late dinners had always been an affliction
to his wife.
"I hope," Mrs. Warrender said, "that the two little girls will soon make
their own welcome, as babies have a way of doing--and make everybody
certain that they are much sweeter than any one little boy."
This was how Theo's mother took the sting out of the rector's speech,
which was not intended to have any sting, and was only a stray gleam of
insight out of a confused realisation of the state of affairs; but it
was so true that it was difficult to believe it was that, and no more.
The Wilberforces had come to inquire, not only for Lady Markland and her
babies, but into many other things, could they have found the opportunity.
But Chatty's presence stopped even Mrs. Wilberforce's mouth. And when
they went in to inspect all the improvements and the new decorations and
furniture, Chatty came after them, and followed everywhere, which seemed
very strange to the rector's wife. Did she mean to prevent them from
talking? Was that her purpose? She took little part in the conversation.
She was more silent than she had ever been, though she had never been
given to much talk; and yet she came with them wherever they went, putting
an effectual stop to the questions that quivered on the very edge of
Mrs. Wilberforce's lips. Nor had the rector the sense, which he might
so easily have had, to engage her in talk, to occupy her attention, and
leave his wife free to speak. Anybody but a man would have had the sense
to have done so, but a man is an unteachable creature, and never will
divine the things that are required of him which cannot be told him in
plain words. Accordingly, the whole party strolled from one room to
another, commenting upon the new arrangements without a possibility of
any enlightenment as to the real state of affairs. Mrs. Wilberforce was
very indignant with her husband as they left,--an indignation that
seemed very uncalled for to this injured man.
"What you could have done? Why, you could have talked to Chatty. You
could have interested her on some subject or another, about where they
were abroad, or about the parish, or---- Dear me, there are always
plenty of subjects. When you knew how anxious I was to find out all
about it! Dick Cavendish is a great deal more a friend of yours than he
was of theirs until this unfortunate business came about, and it seems
very strange that we should know nothing. Why, I don't know even what to
call her,--whether she is still Miss Warrender, or what she is."
"You would not call her Miss Warrender in any case," said the rector,
with a little self-assertion. "And you know that is nonsense, for the
moment the other wife was proved to be living, poor Chatty's marriage
was as if it had not been."
"Well, that is what I cannot understand, Herbert: to be married just
like anybody else, and the ring put on, and everything (by the way, I
did notice that she does not wear her ring), and that it is as if it had
not been. Bigamy one can understand: but how it should mean nothing! And
do you mean to say she could marry somebody else, the same as if it had
never happened?"
"To-morrow if she likes,--and I wish she would, poor Chatty! It would be
the best way of cutting the knot."
"Then I can tell you one thing that all your superior information would
never teach you," cried Mrs. Wilberforce, --"_that she never will!_ You
may take my word for it, Chatty has far too much principle. What! be
married to one man in church, and then go and be married to another!
Never, Herbert! Oh, you may tell me the ceremony is nothing, and that
they must have nothing to say to each other, and all that: it may be
quite true, but that Chatty will ever marry any one else is not true.
She will never do it. For anything I can tell, or you can tell, she may
never see Dick Cavendish again. But she will never marry any one else.
It is very hard to be sure of anything nowadays, when all the landmarks
are being changed, and the country going headlong to---- But if I know
anything, I hope I know Chatty Warrender, and _that_, you may be sure,
she will never do."
This flood of eloquence silenced the rector, and indeed he had no
objection to make: for he was aware of all those sacred prejudices that
live in the hearts of ladies in the country, and he thought it very
likely that Chatty would feel herself bound for ever by what was no bond
at all.
In the meantime there had been only one letter from Dick, a short and
hasty one, telling that he was better, explaining that he had not been
able to let them know of his illness, and announcing that he was off
again as soon as he should be able to move upon his search. Chatty and
her mother wondered over this, without communicating its contents to any
one. His search!--what did his search mean? There was no search wanted
for those proceedings which he had declared were so easy and so certain
at that far end of the world. Evidently they had not been so easy, and
the words that he used were very strange to the ladies. He had no doubt,
he said, of his success. Doubt! he had spoken of it before he went away
as a thing which only required asking for, to have; and the idea that
there was no doubt at once gave embodiment and force to the doubt which
had never existed. Mrs. Warrender joined the forces of the opposing
party from the moment she had read this letter. After a day or two of
great depression and seriousness, she had taken Chatty into her arms and
advised her to give up the lover, the husband, who was no husband, and
perhaps an unfaithful lover. "I said nothing at first," Mrs. Warrender
had said with tears. "I stood by him when there was so much against him.
I believed every word he said, notwithstanding everything. But now, my
darling,--oh, Chatty, now! He was to be gone for three months at the
outside, and now it is eight: and he was quite sure of being able to
do his business at once. But now he says he has no doubt, and that he
is off on his search. His search for what? Oh, my dearest, I am most
reluctant to say it, but I fear Theo is right. To think of a man trying,
and perhaps trying in vain, to get a divorce in order to marry _you_!
Chatty, it is a thing that cannot be; it is impossible, it is disreputable.
A divorced man is bad enough,--you know how Minnie spoke even of
that,--but a man who is trying for a divorce with the object---- Chatty,
my darling, it is a thing which cannot be."
Chatty was not a girl of many words, nor did she commit herself to
argument: she would enter into no controversy with her mother. She said
only that she was married to Dick. Perhaps he was not married to her:
that might be: and she might never see him again: but she was bound for
ever. And in the meantime, until they knew all the circumstances, how
could they discuss the matter? When Dick returned and gave them the
necessary information, then it would be time enough. In the meantime she
had nothing to say. And nothing more could be got from her. Minnie came
and quoted Eustace: but Chatty only walked out of the room, leaving her
sister in possession of the field, but without any of the satisfaction
of a victory. And Theo came, but he contented himself with talking to
his mother. Something of natural diffidence or feeling prevented him
from assailing Chatty in the stronghold of that modest determination
which they all called obstinacy.
Theo came and made his mother miserable, almost commanding her to use
her authority, declaring that it would be her fault if this farce went
on,--this disreputable farce he called it; while poor Mrs. Warrender,
now as much opposed to it as he, had to bear the brunt of his objurgations
until she was driven to make a stand upon the very arguments which she
most disapproved. In the midst of all this Chatty stood firm. If she
wept, it was in the solitude of her own chamber, from which even her
mother was shut out; if she ever wavered or broke down, it was in secret.
Externally, to the view of the world, she was perfectly calm and cheerful,
fulfilling all her little duties with the composure of one who has never
known what tragedy means. A hundred eager eyes had been upon her, but
no one had been able to tell how Chatty "bore it." She said nothing to
anybody. It was thought that she held her head a little higher than
usual and was less disposed for society: but then she had never loved
society. She arranged her flowers, she took her walks, she carried
beef-tea and port wine to the sick people. She even sat down daily at
the usual hour and took out her muslin work, a height of tranquillity to
which it was indeed difficult to reach. But what woman could do, Chatty
would do, and she had accomplished even that. There are many in the
world who must act and cannot sit still, but there are also some who,
recognising action to be impossible, can wait with the whole passive
force of their being, until that passiveness becomes almost sublime.
Chatty was of this kind. Presumably she did not torment herself hour by
hour and day by day, as her mother did, by continual re-arguments of the
whole question, but if she did, she kept the process altogether to
herself.
There had been one interview, indeed, which had tried her very much, and
that had taken place a day or two after her arrival at the Warren, when
she had met Lizzie Hampson on the road. Lizzie had shrunk from the young
lady in whose life she had interfered with such extraordinary effect,
but Chatty had insisted on speaking to her, and had called her almost
imperiously. "Why do you run away? Do you think I am angry with you?"
she said.
"Oh, Miss Chatty!" The girl had no breath or courage to say more.
"You did right, I believe," Chatty said. "It would have been better if
you had come and told me quietly at home, before--anything had happened.
But I do not blame you. I think you did right."
"I never knew till the last minute that it would hurt you so!" Lizzie
cried. "I knew it might be bad for the gentleman, and that he could be
tried and put in prison; but she would never, never have done that. She
wanted him to be free. It was only when I knew, Miss Chatty, what it
would do to you--and then it was too late. I went to Highcombe, but you
had gone from there; and then when I got to London----"
A flush came over Chatty's face, as all the extraordinary scene came
back to her. "It seems strange that it should be you who were mixed up
with all," she said. "Things happen very strangely, I think, in life;
one can never tell--If you have no objection, I should like you to tell
me something of--. I saw her--do you remember? here, on this very road:
and you told me--ah! that to put such people in penitentiaries would not
do; that they wanted to enjoy themselves. Do you remember? It seemed
very strange to me then. And to think that----" This moved Chatty more
than all the rest had done. Her soft face grew crimson, her eyes filled
with tears.
"To think that she--oh, Miss Chatty, I feel as if I ought to go down on
my knees and ask you to forgive me for ever having anything to do with
her."
"That was no fault of yours, I think," said Chatty very softly. "It can
have been nobody's fault. It is just because--it has happened so: that
makes it harder and harder: none of us meant any harm--except
perhaps----"
"Miss Chatty, she didn't mean any harm to you. She meant no harm to any
one. She was never brought up to care for what was good. She was brought
up just to please her fancy. Oh, the like of you can't understand, if
you were to be told ever so: nor should I if I hadn't seen it. They make
a sort of principle of that, just to please their fancy. We're taught
here that to please ourselves is mostly wrong: but not there. It's their
religion in a kind of a way, out in these wild places, just to do whatever
they like; and then when you come to grief, if you are plucky and take
it cheerful---- The very words sound dreadful, here where everything is
so different," Lizzie said, with a shudder, looking round her, as if
there might be ears in the trees.
Chatty did not ask any further questions. She walked along very gravely,
with her head bent. "It makes one's heart ache," she said. There was an
ease in speaking to this girl who had played so strange a part in her
life, who knew her trouble as no one else did. "It makes one's heart
ache," she repeated. She was not thinking of herself. "And where is she
now? Do you hear of her? Do you know what has become of her?"
"Only one thing can become of her," said Lizzie. "She'll fall lower and
lower. Oh, you don't think a poor creature can fall any lower, I know,"
for Chatty had looked at her with wonder, shaking her head; "but lower and
lower in her dreadful way. One day there," said Lizzie philosophically,
but sadly, pointing to the high wall of the Elms, "with her fine dresses
and her horses and carriages: and the next in dirt and misery. And then
she'll die, perhaps in the hospital. Oh, she'll not be long in anybody's
way. They die soon, and then they are done with, and everybody is glad
of it--" the girl cried, with a burst of sudden tears.
Chatty stopped suddenly upon the road. They were opposite to the gate
from which so often the woman they were discussing had driven forth
in her short-lived finery; a stillness as of death had fallen on the
uninhabited house, and all was tranquil on the country road, stretching
on one side across the tranquil fields, on the other towards the
clustering houses of the village and the low spire which pointed to
heaven. "Lizzie," she said, "if it is never put right,--and perhaps it
will never be put right, for who can tell?--if you will come with me
who know so much about it, we will go and be missionaries to these poor
girls. I will tell them my story, and how I am married but have no
husband, and how three lives are all ruined,--all ruined for ever. And
we will tell them that love is not like that; that it is faithful and
true: and that women should never be like that--that women should
be--oh, I do not believe it, I do not believe it! Of her own free
will no woman could ever be like that!" Chatty cried, like Desdemona,
suddenly clenching her soft hands in a passion of indignation and pity.
"We will go and tell them, Lizzie!"
"Oh, Miss Chatty! They know it all, every word," Lizzie cried.