Theo and his wife both “came round” in the evening; she with a fragile look as of impaired health, and an air of watching anxiety which it was painful to see. She seemed to have one eye upon Theo always, whatever she was doing, to see that he was pleased, or at least not displeased. It had been her idea to go to Lady Horton’s on the way and bring the last news of Dick. Much better, going on quite well, will soon be allowed to communicate with his friends, was the bulletin which Lady Markland took Chatty aside to give.
“He has not been able to write himself all the time. The people who have taken care of him—rough people, but very kind, from all that can be presumed—found his father’s address, and sent him word. Otherwise for six or seven weeks there has been nothing from himself.”
This gave Chatty a little consolation. “Theo says—it is all wrong, that it ought to be dropped,” she said.
“Theo has become severe in his judgments, Chatty.”
“Has he? he was always a little severe. He got angry”—Chatty did not observe the look of recognition in Lady Markland’s face, as of a fact connu. She went on slowly: “I wish that you would give me your opinion. I thought for a long time I was the first person to be thought of, and that Dick must do everything that could be done to set us right. But now it seems that is not the right view. Mamma hesitates—she will not speak. Oh, will you tell me what you think—!”
“About,” said Lady Markland, faltering, “the divorce?”
“I don’t seem to know what it means; that poor creature—do people think she is—anything to him?”
“She is his wife, my dear.”
“His—wife! But then I—am married to him.”
“Dear Chatty, not except in form, a form which her appearance broke at once.”
Chatty began to tremble, as if with cold. “I shall always feel that I am married to him. He may not be bound, but I am bound—till death do ye part.”
“My dear, all that was made as if it never had been said by the appearance of the—wife.”
Chatty shivered again, though the evening was warm. “That cannot be,” she cried. “He may not be bound, but I am bound. I promised. It is an oath before God.”
“Oh, Chatty, it was all, all made an end of when that woman appeared. You are not bound, you are free; and I hope, dear, when a little time has passed—”
Chatty put up her hand with a cry. “Don’t!” she said. “And do you mean that he is bound to her?—oh, I am sorry for her, I am sorry for her—to one who has forsaken him and gone so far, so very far astray, to one who has done things that cannot be borne, and not to me—by the same words, the same words—which have no meaning to her, for she has left him, she has never held by him, never; and not to me, who said them with all my heart, and meant them with all my heart, and am bound by them forever and ever?” She paused a little, and the flush of vehemence on her cheek and of light in her eye calmed down. “It is not just,” she said.
“Dear Chatty, it is very hard, harder than can be said.”
“It is not just,” said Chatty once more, her soft face falling into lines in which Lady Markland saw a reflection of those which made Theo’s countenance so severe.
“So far as that goes, the law will release him. It would do so even here. I do not think there is any doubt of that—though Theo says—but I feel sure there is not any doubt.”
“And though the law does release him,” said Chatty, “and he comes back, you will all say to me it must be dropped, that it is not right, that he is divorced, that I must not marry him, though I have married him. I know now what will happen. There will be Minnie and Theo—and even mamma will hesitate, and her voice will tremble. And I don’t know if I will have strength to hold out,” she cried, with a sudden burst of tears. “I have never struggled or fought for myself. Perhaps I may be a coward. I may not have the strength. If they are all against me, and no one to stand by me, perhaps I may be unjust too, and sacrifice him—and myself.”
This burst of almost inaudible passion from a creature so tranquil and passive took Lady Markland altogether by surprise. Chatty, so soft, so simple, so yielding, driven by cruel fate into a position so terrible, feeling everything at stake, not only her happiness but the life already spoiled and wasted of the man she loved, feeling too that on herself would depend the decision of all that was to follow, and yet seized by a prophetical terror, a fear which was tragic, lest her own habit of submission should still overwhelm all the personal impulse, and sweep away her very life. The girl’s face, moved out of all its gentle softness into the gravity almost stern which this consciousness brought,
