A Country Gentleman and His Family · Chapter 40 (2/2)

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 enclosure 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 churchgoing. 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 dogcart 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 anyone, 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?