A Country Gentleman and His Family · Chapter 44 (2/2)

Here Warrender caught Lizzie somewhat roughly by the arm. “If this woman is here, find her,” he cried peremptorily, pushing her to the door before him. The church was still full of excited spectators whom the vergers were endeavouring to get rid of. In the aisle stood Geoff with someone veiled and muffled to the eyes. The boy was standing in front of her, like a little dog who has been set to watch. She could not move a step without a movement on his part. He gave to Warrender a sort of invitation with a nod of his little head. “I’ve got her here,” he said; then whispering, “It is the lady⁠—the lady that ran you over, that picked me up⁠—the lady at the Elms.”

“At the Elms!” There rushed over Theo’s mind a recollection of Dick’s visit to the village, of his hurried departure, of agitation unnoticed at the time. “I must ask you to step into the vestry,” he said.

“Oh, Mr. Warrender, I know you, though you don’t know me; don’t ask me to do that. What, among all those nicely dressed people, and me so!⁠—oh no, please do not ask me, please don’t ask me! What good could I do? It seems to me I’ve done harm, but I meant none. I thought I’d just come and have a peep after hearing so much about you all, and knowing him so long.”

“Will you tell me who you are, and what is your connection with Cavendish? Come, and let us know before his face.”

“Oh, my connection with⁠—Dear, dear! is it necessary to go into that⁠—a thing of an age ago? Oh, Lord, Lizzie, let me alone, will you! it’s all your doing. Why couldn’t you let things alone?”

“Whatever you have to say, it had better be said before us all,” said Warrender sternly, for various members of the bridal party had straggled out, and were listening from the vestry door. He took her by the arm and led her into the room. “What is your relation to that man?” he said, keeping his hand upon her arm.

The wedding guests made a circle round, the clergyman in his white surplice among the ladies’ gay dresses, the white figure of Chatty leaning with her hand on the table, her mother’s anxious face close behind her. Poor Dick in his spruce wedding clothes, with his ghostly face, stood drawing back a little, staring with eyes that seemed to sink deeper in their sockets as he gazed. He had never looked upon that face since he parted with her in utter disgust and misery six years before. She came in, almost forced into the enclosure of all those fine people gazing at her, with all her meretricious graces, not an imposing sinner, a creature ready to cry and falter, yet trying to set up against the stare of the ladies the piteous impudence of her kind.

“What are you to that man?” Theo asked.

“Oh⁠—what should I be to him? a gentleman doesn’t ask such questions. I⁠—I⁠—have been the same to him as I’ve been⁠—you know well enough,” she added, with a horrible little laugh that echoed all about, and made a stir among the people round.

“Are you his wife?”

She shuddered, and began to cry. “I⁠—I’m nobody’s wife. I’ve been⁠—a number of things. I like my freedom⁠—I⁠—” She stopped hysterical, overcome by the extraordinary circumstances, and the audience which listened and looked at her with hungry ears and eyes.

Dick put out his arms as if to wave the crowd away. What were all these spectators doing here, looking on at his agony? He spoke in a hoarse and husky voice. “Why did you deceive me? why did you pretend you were dead, and lead me to this?”

“Because I’ve nothing to do with you, and I don’t want nothing to do with you,” she cried; “because I’ve been dead to you these long years; because I’m not a bad, cruel woman. I wanted to leave you free. He’s free for me,” she said, turning to Warrender. “It’s not I that wants to bind him. If I made believe it was me that died, where was the wrong? I wanted to set him free. That’s not deceiving him, it was for his good, that he might feel he was free.”

“Answer, woman. Are you his wife?”

“What right have you to call me a woman? His wife? How can you tell whether I wasn’t married before ever I set eyes upon him?” she cried, with a hysterical laugh. “They don’t think so much of that where I came from. There! I hope you’ve had enough of me now. Lizzie, you fool, you spoilsport, you hateful creature, give me hold of your arm, and let’s go away. We’ve done you harm, Mr. Cavendish, instead of doing you good, but that is no fault of mine.”

There was a pause as she went out of the vestry, holding Lizzie’s arm, whose sobs were audible all the way down the aisle. It did not last long, but it was as the silence of death. Then Dick spoke.

“You see how it is. I married her when I was a boy. She deserted me in a very short time, and I have never seen her from that day to this, nearly seven years ago. Six weeks since I received information that she was dead. She tells you it was a trick, a device⁠—but I⁠—had every reason to believe it. God knows I wanted to believe it! but I thought I spared no pains. Then I went to Chatty, whom I had long loved.” Here he paused to regain his voice, which had become almost inaudible. “I thought all was right. Don’t you believe me?” he cried hoarsely, holding out his hands in appeal. At first his little sister was the only one who responded. She threw herself weeping upon one of his outstretched arms and clasped it. Chatty had been put into a chair, where she sat now very pale, under the white mist of the veil, beginning to realise what it was that had happened. When she heard the anguish in Dick’s voice, she suddenly rose to her feet, taking them all by surprise. Instinctively the party had separated into two factions, his side and her side. The group about Chatty started when she moved, and Theo seized hold almost roughly of her elbow. But Chatty did not seem sensible of this clutch. She went forward to the bridegroom so disastrously taken from her, and took his other hand in hers. “I believe you⁠—with all my heart,” Chatty said. “I blame you for nothing, oh, for nothing. I am sorry⁠—for us both.”

“Take her away, mother. The carriage has come round to the vestry door. Chatty! This is no longer any place for you.”

Chatty looked round upon her faction, who were encircling her with dark or miserable looks. “We are very unfortunate,” she said, “but we have done nothing that is wrong.”

“Chatty, O Chatty, my darling, come away. You cannot stay any longer here.”

“What, without a word to Dick, mother! Speak to him. He is the most to be pitied. We never thought we should have to say goodbye again.” Here she paused and the tears came. She repeated in a voice that went to the hearts of all the staring, excited spectators, “I am sorry⁠—for us both.”

“God bless you, Chatty! God bless you, my own love! And must we part so?” cried poor Dick, falling down upon his knees, and sobbing over the hands which held his. He was altogether broken down. He knew there was nothing to be said to him, or for him. He was without help or hope. For a moment even Warrender, who was the most severe, could say nothing in sight of this lamentable scene⁠—the bride and her bridegroom, who had been pronounced man and wife half-an-hour before, and now were parting⁠—perhaps forever⁠—two people between whom there was now no bond, whose duty would be to keep apart. Chatty stooped over him, whom she must see no more, her white veil fell over him covering them both, she laid her pale cheek against his. “It is not our fault. We are very unfortunate. We must have patience,” she said.

He kept on kneeling there, following her with his eyes, while her brother and her mother led her away, then with a groan covered his face with his hands. Was this the end?