When Edith and Miss Santley reached the Vicarage, they went into the parlour, which, besides having a western exposure, commanded to a considerable distance a view of the high-road along which the vicar had passed.
“I always think this is the pleasantest room in the house,” said Miss Santley, as she drew an armchair into the recess of the open window, and Edith seated herself on the couch. “Charles prefers an eastern frontage, for the sake of the early morning, he says; but I am always. busy in the morning, so I suppose I like the afternoon light best, when I have a little time to sit and bask.”
“Isn’t it natural, too,” suggested Edith, “that men should prefer sunrise and women sunset? Men are so active and sanguine, and have so many interests to engage their attention, and women—well, as a rule—are such dreamers! Is it not almost constitutional?”
“And when did you ever see me dreaming, may I ask?” inquired Miss Santley.
“Oh no; you are not one of the dreamers,” replied Edith, quickly. “You should have been called Martha instead of Mary.”
“Insinuating that I am a bit of a busybody, eh?” said Miss Santley, with a sly twinkle of humour.
“You know I did not mean to insinuate that.”
“Or that you had yourself chosen the better part, eh?” she continued gaily.
Edith coloured deeply, and cast her eyes on the floor, while an expression of pain passed across her face.
“Nay, my dear, do not look hurt. You know that was only said in jest.”
“You cannot tell how such jests hurt me,” replied the girl, her lips beginning to tremble.
“Even between our two selves?” asked Miss Santley, taking Edith’s hand gently and stroking it with both of hers. “You know, my dear little girl, how I love you, and how pleased I was when I discovered the way in which that poor little heart of yours was beating. You know that there is no one in the world whom I would more gladly—ay, or a thousandth part so gladly—take for a sister. Don’t you, Edith? Answer me, dear.”
“Yes,” replied the girl, letting her head hang upon her bosom, and feeling her face on flame.
“And have I not tried to help you? I know Charles is fond of you—I am sure of that. I have eyes in my head, my dear, though they are not so young and pretty as yours. And I know, too, that a little while ago he was anxious to know what I would say if he should propose to take a wife. I shall be only too pleased when he makes up his mind. It will relieve me of a great deal of care and anxiety. And he could not in the wide world choose a better or a dearer little girl.”
Miss Santley was not ordinarily of a demonstrative disposition, but as she uttered those last words she drew Edith towards her and kissed her on the forehead.
The vicar’s sister was some twelve years his senior. A stout, homely, motherly little woman, with plain but pleasing features, brown hair, a shrewd but kindly expression, clear grey eyes, and a firm mouth and chin, she was as unlike the Vicar in personal appearance as she was unlike him in character and temperament. This family unlikeness, however, had had no prejudicial effect on their mutual affection, though in Miss Santley’s case it was the source of much secret uneasiness on her brother’s account. As unimaginative as she was practical, she was at a loss to understand her brother’s emotional mysticism and dreamy idealism; but her knowledge of human nature made her timorously aware of the dangers which beset the combination of a splendid physique with a glowing temperament which was almost febrile in its sensuous impulsiveness. She was spared the torture of sharing that darker secret of unbelief; but she was sufficiently conscious of the strong fervid nature of the vicar, to feel thankful that Edith had made a deep impression on him, and that when he did marry it would be a bright and congenial young creature who would be worthy of him and attached to herself.
“So why should it hurt you, if I do jest a little?” asked Miss Santley, as she kissed Edith. “Love cannot always be transcendental, otherwise two people will never come closely together. The best gift a couple of lovers can possess in common, is a capacity for a little fun and affectionate wit. Your solemn lovers are always misunderstanding each other, and quarrelling and making it up again.”
“But we are not lovers yet, Mary,” said Edith in a timid whisper.
“Not yet, perhaps; but you will be soon, if I am capable of forming any opinion.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Edith replied with a sigh; and her soft blue eyes filled with tears. Then raising her eyes imploringly to Miss Santley, and nervously taking her hand, she continued: “Oh, Mary, do not think me too forward and eager and unwomanly. Do not judge me too hardly. I know a girl should not give her heart away till she is asked for it. But I cannot help it—I love him—I love him so! I have done all I could to prevent myself from loving him, but it is no use—oh! it is no use.”
She burst into a paroxysm of passionate sobbing, and Miss Santley, without saying a word, put her arms about her and softly caressed her soft flaxen hair.
The outburst was gradually subdued, and Edith, with a hot glowing face hidden on her friend’s shoulder, was too ashamed to change her position.
“Do you feel better now, dear? asked Miss Santley in a kindly voice.
“Oh, Mary, are you not ashamed of me—disgusted?”
Miss Santley replied in a woman’s way with another kiss, and again fondled the girl’s head.
After a pause of a few moments, she gently raised her face and regarded it affectionately.
“You must come upstairs and wash away those tell-tales before he returns. And”—she added a little hesitatingly—“will you not trust me with the cause of all this trouble?”
“I am afraid you will laugh at me, dear, it must seem such a foolish cause to you. And I know you will say it was all simply my fancy.”
“What was it?”
“You know, dear, where I sit in church?” Edith began, nervously playing with the lace on Miss Santley’s dress. “Well, he always used to turn twice or thrice in my direction during the sermon. I used to think he did it because he knew I was there. And he did it this afternoon. But in the evening he never looked once during the whole time.”
Miss Santley began to smile in spite of herself.
“Then when he came out of the church he saw you and me waiting for him—I saw him give one single sharp look—and then he went on as if he had not perceived us. He would not have gone away like that, Mary, if I had not been with you.”
“And is that all?” inquired Mary as Edith paused.
“I think it is quite enough,” the latter replied sorrowfully. “It means that he is tired of me; he was displeased that I was with you; he did not want to speak to me.”
“My dear girl, all this is simply silly fancy; you will make your whole life miserable if you imagine things in this way.”
“I knew you would say that; but you do not understand. I hardly understand myself; but I know what I say is true. You remember old Harry Wilson down in the village—he has a wooden leg, you know, but when there is going to be a bad change of weather, he says he can feel it in the foot he has lost; and he is always right. I think I am like him, dear; I have lost something, and it makes me feel when there is a change, long before the storm breaks.”
“All this is nothing but nonsense, my little woman!” said Miss Santley reassuringly. “Come with me upstairs, and let us make ourselves presentable.” When Edith had bathed her face, the two came downstairs again, but instead of returning to the parlour they went into the library. This was specially the vicar’s room, and, more than any other, it indicated the tastes and character of its occupant. The whole house, indeed, was tinged with the mediaeval colouring of the church, and in all parts of it you came upon indications of the ecclesiastical spirit of the owner; but here the vicar had given fullest expression to his fancy, and the room had as much the appearance of an oratory as of a library. At one end a small alcove jutted out into the plantation, and the windows were filled with stained glass. On the walls hung several of Raphael’s cartoons; on the mantelpiece stood, under glass, a marble group of The Dead Christ; the furniture, which was of carved oak, suggested the stalls in the chancel; the brass gasalier and brackets were of ecclesiastical design; and, lastly, the library shelves were solemnly weighted with long rows of theology, sermons, and Biblical literature in several languages. In a separate bookcase, which was kept locked, were gathered together a number of scientific works and volumes of modern speculative philosophy. A third bookcase was devoted to history, poetry, travels, and miscellaneous works. The great bulk of the library, however, was clerical, and the vicar had within arm’s reach a fair epitome of all that the good men of all ages and many countries had discovered regarding the mystery of the world and the relationship of man.
In one corner of the room stood a tall richly carved triangular cupboard of black oak, and it too, like the bookcase of science, was kept perpetually locked.
As Edith entered the room her eyes fell upon it, and turning to her companion she asked—
“Oh, Mary, have you discovered the skeleton yet?”
“No,” replied Miss Santley, with a laugh. “Charles is forgetful enough in some things, but he has never yet left the key in that lock. I once asked him what it was he concealed so carefully, but he refused to satisfy my curiosity; so I resolved to trust to chance and his carelessness. I have waited so long, however, that my curiosity has at last been tired out. I don’t suppose, after all, it is anything worth knowing.”
“And why does he always keep this bookcase locked too? The books all look so fresh and new, and they are much more attractive than those dusty old fellows any one can look into. I should like to read several of those, one hears so much about them. There is Darwin, ‘The Descent of Man’—I have read articles about that book in the magazines, and I know he believes Adam and Eve were apes in Paradise or something like that.”
“Oh, my dear, Charles would never allow you to read those books on any account. They are all dreadfully wicked and blasphemous. He only reads them himself to refute them and to be able to show how false and dangerous they are.”
Edith, who had approached the window, now suddenly started back, and a bright flush rose to her face.
“Here is Mr. Santley, Mary! How pale and wearied he looks!”
A moment or two later the vicar entered the library. At the sight of Miss Dove he paused for an instant, and then advancing, held out his hand to her.
“You here, Miss Edith!” he said coldly. “How are you, and how is your aunt?”
He did not wait for an answer, but went to his writing-table and sat down.
The two women exchanged glances of surprise, and Edith’s face grew sad and white.
“Are you not well, Charles?” his sister asked, going up to him and looking solicitously into his face.
“I am not very well this evening,” replied the vicar; “it is the weather, I think. If Miss Edith will excuse me, I think I will leave you and lie down. I feel tired.”
He rose again abruptly, and Edith stood regarding him with large, wistful eyes. He moved towards the door, and then suddenly stopped and turned to her.
“Good evening,” he said once more, holding out his hand and speaking in a cold, distant manner. “Present my compliments to your aunt.”
“I hope you will be well in the morning,” said Edith, timidly.
“Thanks. Yes; I expect I shall be all right again after a little rest.”
He turned and left her, and Miss Santley, glancing at her significantly, followed him to his room.
“He has over-exerted himself to-day,” said Mary a little later, as she accompanied Miss Dove to the garden gate. “He had a sick call in the afternoon, and was unable to take his usual rest. You will excuse my not accompanying you home, will you not?”
“Oh certainly,” said Edith. “I hope it is nothing serious. Would you not like to see Dr. Spruce? I can call, you know.”
“He says he does not need the doctor; he knows what is the matter with him, and only requires rest. Good night, dear! I am so sorry I cannot go part of the way with you.”
“Do not think of that,” said Edith, shaking hands. “It is not late, and you must not leave him.”
The sunset had lowered down to its last red embers, but it was still quite light as Edith turned away from the Vicarage gate. She proceeded slowly down the road towards the village for a few moments, and then paused and looked back. No one was on the road. Retracing her steps, she passed the Vicarage at a quick pace, and took the direction which the vicar had taken an hour before. Strangely enough, she stopped at the top of the rising ground where he had stopped; went through the same gate, into the same field, and, following the same path, reached the stile on which he had sat. Here she sat down, with the great sea of corn whispering and murmuring about her, and the distant landscape growing-gradually more and more indistinct in the bluish vapour of the twilight. Alone and hidden from observation, she sat on the step with her arms on the cross-bar of the stile and her head laid on them, weeping bitterly.
“I have lost something, and it makes, me feel when there is a change!”
The low-lying landscape had vanished in the twilight, and the stars were twinkling in the clear blue sky before Edith rose, dried her eyes, and began to return homeward. The moon had risen, but had yet scarcely freed itself from the tops of the dark woods, through which it shone round and ruddy. As she passed the Vicarage, she paused and looked up at the windows. She felt prompted to steal quietly up to the door and inquire whether Mr. Santley was any better, but a fear arising from many causes held her back. Besides, the house was in darkness, and every one seemed to have retired to rest.
Since Edith had been in the habit of visiting the Vicarage, this was the first occasion on which she had returned home alone. Unreasonable as she acknowledged the suspicion to be, she could not rid herself of the belief that Mr. Santleys indisposition had been, assumed as an excuse for avoiding her. She strove to convince herself that she was foolishly sensitive and jealous, to hope that the change in the vicars manner was but an illusion of her excited fancy, to feel confident that when she saw him to-morrow she would recognize how childish she had been.
Miss Dove was exceedingly fond of music, and during the week she was accustomed to spend hours alone in the church, giving utterance to her thoughts, and feelings in dreamy voluntaries, which were the fugitive inspiration of the moment, or filling the cool, richly lighted aisles with the impassioned strains of Mozart, Haydn, and Mendelssohn. The sound of the organ could be heard at the Vicarage, and Mr. Santley had been in the habit of going into the church, and conversing with her while she played. It was with the hope that one of his favourite pieces would again bring him to her that, during the afternoon of the following day, Edith took her seat at the organ. With nervous, eager fingers she swept the key-board, and sent her troubled heart into the yearning anguish and clamorous impetration of the Agnus Dei of Haydn’s No. 2. When she had finished she rested for a little, and glanced expectantly down the aisle; but no footstep disturbed the quiet of the place. She then turned to another of the vicar’s favourites—a Gloria of Mozart’s. The volumes of throbbing sound vibrated through the stained windows, and floated across the bright churchyard to the Vicarage; but Ediths hope was not realized. She played till she felt wearied, rather with the hopelessness of her task than with the physical exertion; but the schoolboy who blew the organ for her was exhausted, and when she saw how red and hot he looked, she closed the instrument and dismissed him. Every day that week she repeated her experiment, but her music had apparently lost its magical influence. The vicar never came. She called thrice to see Miss Santley, but each time he was away from home. Once she saw him in the village, and her heart began to beat violently as he approached; but they were on different sides of the street, and instead of crossing over to her, as he had always done hitherto, he merely smiled, raised his hat, and passed on. Sunday came round at length, and she looked forward with a sad, painful wonder to the customary visit in the evening.
It was a bright, breezy sabbath morning, and the great limes and sycamores which buried Foxglove Manor in a wilderness of billowy verdure, rolled gladsomely in the sun, and filled the world with a vast sealike susurrus. On the stone terrace which ran along the front of the mansion the master of the Manor was lounging, with a cigar in his mouth, and a huge deer-hound basking at his feet; while in the shadow of the room his wife stood at an open French window, conversing with him.
Mr. Haldane was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful man of about forty years of age. His face, especially in repose, was by no means handsome. His grave, large, strongly marked features expressed decision, daring, and indomitable force. His forehead was broad, and deeply marked with the perpendicular lines of long mental labour. The poise of his head suggested a habit of boldly confronting an opponent. His short hair and closely trimmed beard were touched with gray, and gave a certain keenness and frostiness to his appearance. A grim, self-sufficing, iron-natured man, one would have said, until one had looked into his bright blue-gray eyes, which lit up his strong, rugged face with an expression of frankness and dry humour.
“My dear Nell,” he said at length, in answer to the persistent persuasion of his wife, “do not be cross. There are two things in the world which I abhor beyond all others: a damp church and a dry sermon. Invite your vicar as often as you please. I will do my best to entertain him; but do not press me to sit out an interminable farrago of irritating platitudes in a chilly, straight-backed pew.”
“I assure you, George, you will be charmed with him, if you will only let me prevail on you to come.”
“Why cannot you Christians dispense with incense, and allow smoking instead—at least during the sermon?”
Mrs. Haldane made a little grimace of horror.
“You would then have whole burnt offerings dedicated with a devout and cheerful heart.”
“George, you are shockingly profane! I see it is no use urging you any further; but I did think you would have put yourself to even some little inconvenience for my sake.”
“For your sake, Nell!” replied Mr. Haldane, laughing. “Why did you not say so sooner? You know I would do anything on those terms. Have I not often told you the married philosopher has but one moral law—to do his wife’s will in all things.”
“Then you will accompany me?”
“Certainly I will.”
“You are a dear, good old bear,” exclaimed Mrs. Haldane, slipping on to the terrace and caressing his head with both hands. “But you know you are a bear, and you will try for once to be nice and good-natured, will you not? And you will not be cold and cynical with him because he is ideal and enthusiastic? And if you do not acknowledge that he is a delightful preacher, and that the dear little church is charming——”
“You will not ask me to go again?”
“I was going to say that, but it will be wiser to make no promises. You know, dear, you should go to church, if it were only for the sake of giving a good example; and it is my duty to try and persuade you to go. And oh, George, seriously I do wish you could feel that it drew you nearer to God; that where two or three are gathered together, He is in the midst of them. Now, do not smile in that hard, derisive way. I know I cannot argue with you, but if I cannot reply to your reasoning, you cannot convince my heart. I do believe, in spite of all logic, that I have a heavenly Father who loves and watches over me and you too, dear; and I should be wretched——”
“My dear little woman,” said Mr. Haldane, taking both her hands in one of his, “you have no cause to be wretched. I have no wish to deprive you of your belief in a heavenly Father. With women the illusions of the heart last longer than with men; and perhaps, in these days of change and innovation, it is as well that women have still a creed to find comfort in. For my part, I confess I hardly understand what it is attracts you in your religion. The civilized world, so far as I can see, has outgrown the golden age of worship, and latria is one of the lost arts.”
The presence of the master of Foxglove Manor created considerable surprise and curiosity among the congregation at St. Cuthbert’s. Though he had lived in the neighbourhood for the last twelve years, this was the first time he had been seen inside a church. Much more attention was paid during the service to the beautiful lady of the Manor, and the grim, powerful man who sat beside her, than was in keeping with the sacred character of the occasion. Mr. Haldane, on his part, though he did his best by imitating the example of his wife to conform to the ritual, was keenly critical of the whole service. The dim religious light of the painted windows pleased his eye, but failed to exercise any influence on his feelings. The decorations of the church seemed to him insincere and artificial. He missed in the atmosphere that sense of reverence which he had experienced in the old cathedrals in Spain and Italy. The ceremonies appeared dry, joyless, and uninteresting, and as he watched the congregation bowing, kneeling, praying, singing, pageants of the jubilant mythic worship of the ancient world crowded upon his imagination.
“What are you thinking of?” his wife once whispered, as she caught a sidelong glance at his abstracted face.
“Diana at Ephesus!” he replied, with a curious twinkle in his keen gray eyes.
Once or twice during the sermon a saturnine smile passed across his face, and Mrs. Haldane pressed his foot by way of warning; but otherwise he listened gravely throughout, with his large, strongly marked features turned to the preacher.
“Well, have you been interested, dear?” asked Mrs. Haldane, when the service was over, and they were waiting in the churchyard for the vicar.
“Yes,” he replied drily; “your vicar is interesting.”
“Now, what do you mean by that?”
“He will repay study, my dear.”
Mrs. Haldane looked sharply into her husband’s face, but was dissatisfied with her scrutiny.
“You don’t like him?”
“I have no reason yet to like or dislike him. In a general way, I should prefer to say that I do like him.”
“But what do you mean by your remark that he will repay study?”
“Perhaps you will not understand me,” he answered thoughtfully. “Your vicar has a soul, Nell.”
“So have we all, I suppose.”
“At least he believes he has one,” said Mr. Haldane, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“Well!”
“And he is trying to save it.”
“We all are, I hope.”
“I beg your pardon, Nell; the phenomenon in these days is a psychological rarity, and, being rare, is naturally interesting. It is one of the obscure problems of cerebration. Ah! here comes your vicar.”
With a bright smile Mrs. Haldane advanced to meet him, and cordially shook hands with him. “You must allow me to introduce you to my husband. George, Mr. Santley.”
“My wife tells me,” said Mr. Haldane, as they shook hands, “that she was an old pupil of yours.”
“Yes,” said the vicar, with an uneasy glance towards her, “many years ago.”
“It is a little curious,” continued Mr. Haldane, “how people lose sight of each other for years, and then are unexpectedly thrown together into the same small social circle, after they have quite forgotten each others existence.”
The vicar winced at the last words, but replied with a faint smile, “The great world is, after all, a very little world.”
“Ah, my dear sir, I see I have started a familiar train of thought—the littleness of the world,” said Mr. Haldane, with a dry light in his eyes.
“And you fear I may improve the occasion?” asked the vicar a little coldly.
“Pray do not misunderstand my husband,” interposed Mrs. Haldane. “He was delighted with your sermon to-day; and I do not wonder, for you have the power of appealing to the heart and raising the mind beyond earthly things. It was only a few moments ago that he told me he was deeply interested.”
“I perceived that he was amused once or twice,” replied the vicar, with a smile.
“I confess that I may have smiled at one or two points in your discourse.”
“Excuse my interrupting you,” said Mrs. Haldane; “will you not walk? You can spare time to accompany us a little way?”
Mr. Santley bowed, and Mrs. Haldane signed to the coachman to drive on slowly towards the village.
“For example,” resumed Mr. Haldane, “I see you still stick to the old chronology and the mythic Eden.”
“Certainly I do.”
“And yet you should be aware that at least a thousand years before the date you fix for the creation of Adam, tribes of savage hunters and fishers peopled the old fir-woods of Denmark, and set their nets in the German Ocean.”
“It may eventually prove necessary to revise the chronology of the Bible,” replied the vicar; “but there is at present too much conflict of opinion among your archaeologists to decide on the absolute age of these tribes. After all, the question is one of minor importance.”
“Granted. But you cannot say the same of the efficacy of prayer.”
Mrs. Haldane laid her hand on her husband’s arm, and stopped abruptly. “Ask Mr. Santley to dinner, George, and then you can discuss as long and as profoundly as you like; but I will not allow you to argue now. Besides, I want to talk to Mr. Santley.”
Mr. Haldane laughed good-naturedly. “Just as you please, my dear. If Mr. Santley will favour us with his company, I shall be very glad. Your predecessor was a frequent visitor at our house. A jovial, rubicund fellow, whose troubles in this life were less of the world and the devil than of the flesh! A fat, ponderous man and a Tory, as all fat men are; a sort of Falstaff in pontificalibus; a man with a wit and a shrewd palate for old port. Poor fellow! he was snuffed out like a candle. One could have better spared a better man.”
“Will you come to-morrow?” asked Mrs. Haldane; “and, if your sister can accompany you, will you bring her? You will excuse our informality and so short a notice.”
“I shall be very happy to call tomorrow.”
“Then, if you can spare me a few moments I will have a better opportunity of speaking to you. I must learn all about the parish, and I have a whole catechism of questions to ask you. You will come to-morrow, then?” she concluded, with one of those flashing looks from her great dark eyes.
He watched them drive away with that look burning in his brain and the pressure of her hand tingling through every nerve. He stood gazing after her with a passionate light in his eyes and an eager, yearning expression on his pale, agitated face. This was the woman he had lost, and now they were again thrown together in the same small social circle, after she had completely forgotten his existence! Those words of her husband had cut him to the quick. Could she so soon, so easily, so completely have forgotten him? It seemed incredible. If she had used any such expression to her husband, was it not rather to forestall any jealous suspicion on his part? Clearly she had not divulged the secret of those schoolgirl days. He knew not the story of that sweet, imperishable romance; those burning kisses and unforgotten vows had been hidden from him; and in that concealment the vicar found a strange, subtle pleasure. It was at least one tie between him and her; one secret in common in which her husband had no share.
The vicar was standing close beside the village school, and as he turned to go back home he saw the schoolmistress in the doorway of her little cottage. He started as though she had been looking into his heart, instead of watching the carriage as it bowled along towards the village. Without a moment’s hesitation, however, he opened the schoolyard gate and went up to her.
“Well, Miss Greatheart, how are you to-day?”
Dora, a bright, merry-looking woman of about thirty, dropped a curtsy, and invited the vicar into the house.
“Thank you, no; I must not stay. I have just been speaking, as you have seen, to my new parishioners. I call them new, though I suppose they are older in the parish than I am myself.”
“Old as they are, this is the first time I ever set eyes on Mr. Haldane in our church, sir. His pretty wife must have converted him.”
“Then they have not been long married?”
“Somewhere about two years, I should think. All last year they were away in Egypt and Palestine; and perhaps now that he’s seen the Land, he believes in the Book.”
“Indeed!”
“Seeing’s believing, you know, sir; and if all tales be true, he used not to believe in anything from the roof upward. Oh, you may well look shocked, sir, but he was quite an atheist and an infidel; but you see he was so rich that the gentry round about didn’t care to give him the go-by. I suppose you haven’t been to the Manor yet, sir? The old vicar, Mr. Hart, was always there. People did say he paid more court to the people at the Manor than he should have done, considering the need for him in the parish; and when Mr. Hart got his second stroke, there were those that said it was a judgment on him for high living, and the company he kept. But you know, sir, how folks’ tongues will wag.”
“Is the Manor far from here? Of course I have heard of the place, but I have never been near it.”
“It’s about four miles, sir, and a lonely place it is, and dismal it must be in winter, with miles of wood about it. In summer it is not so bad, but it is awfully wild and solitary. I went over the grounds once, years ago. I became acquainted with one of the housemaids, you see, sir—quite a nice young person—and she invited me to tea. I remember it was getting dusk when I left, and she took me through the woods. Dear me, what a fright I got! I happened to look up, and there was a man, quite a giant, standing among the trees. I screamed, and would have run had not Jane—that was the maid, sir—laughed, and said it was only a statue. And so it was, for we went right up to it. All the woods are full of statues—quite improper and rude, and rather frightening to meet in the dusk. But now he is converted, Mrs. Haldane will have them all taken away, I should think. I don’t believe the place is haunted, though there are some strange stories told about it; but I do know that the chapel—there is an old chapel close by the house—is shut up, and no one goes near it but Mr. Haldane and his valet—a dark foreign person, with such eyes! Queer tales are told about lights being seen in it at all hours of the night, and some of the old folk believe that if any one could look in they would see that the foreign valet had horns and a cloven foot, and that his master was worshipping him. I think that’s all nonsense myself; but there’s no doubt Mr. Haldane used to be dreadfully wicked, and an atheist.”
“If he was so very bad,” said the vicar, smiling, “surely it was strange that Mr. Hart used to associate with him so much.”
“Well, you see, sir, he was always liberal, and kept a good table, and Mr. Hart was a cheerful liver. Then Mr. Haldane was always ready with his purse when there was a hard winter, or the crops were bad, or any poor person was ill.”
“I see, I see,” said the vicar.
“But his charity could not do him any good, people said, when he didn’t believe there was a God, or that he had a soul.”
“So they didn’t consider it worth while to be thankful?”
“I don’t think they did, sir.”
“And was Mrs. Haldane staying at the Manor the first year of their marriage?”
“Yes; he brought her back with him after the honeymoon.”
“And do they speak as kindly of her in the village as they do of her husband?”
“Oh, indeed, sir, they worship her. Even old Mother Grimsoll, who said she wanted to make a charity woman of her when you bought her that scarlet cloak last winter, has a good word for Mrs. Haldane. She isn’t the least bit conceited, and she knows that poor people have their proper pride; and when she helps any one she makes them feel that they are doing her a favour. When Mr. Hart was alive she used to go round with him, devising and dispensing charities. It’s only a pity she is married to—to—“—and Miss Greatheart beat impatiently on the ground with her foot in the effort to recall the word—“to an agnostic. Mr. Hart said he wasn’t an atheist, but an agnostic, though I dare say if the truth were known one is worse than the other.”
“You are not very charitable, Miss Greatheart; come, now, confess,” said the vicar, good-humouredly.
“Perhaps not, sir; but I have no patience with atheists and agnostics.”
“An atheist,” continued the vicar, “is a person who does not believe in a God; an agnostic is one who merely says he does not know whether there is a God or not.”
“Doesn’t know!” exclaimed Dora, indignantly. “Wherever was the man brought up?”
That evening, as Miss Santley and Edith went across from the church to the Vicarage together, the vicar joined them, and Miss Dove remained to supper as usual. The time passed pleasantly enough; but Edith was conscious of a certain restraint, in the conversation, a curious chilliness in the atmosphere. When at length she rose to go home, the vicar went to the window, and looked out for a few seconds.
“I think, Mary, you might accompany us; and when we have seen Miss Edith home, we could take a turn round together. It is a beautiful night.”
Mary nodded assent, and Edith felt her heart sink within her. She was certain now that he was avoiding her. As she followed Miss Santley upstairs to put on her things, a sudden thought flashed upon her.
“I shall be with you in a moment, Mary,” she said; “I have dropped my handkerchief, I think.”
She ran back to the parlour, and met the vicar face to face as he paced the room.
She stood still, and looked at him silently for a moment. She had taken him by surprise, and he too stood motionless.
“Well,” he said at last, with a faint smile.
“Do you hate me, Charles?” she asked in a low, steady voice.
“Hate you! Why should I hate you, my dear Edith? What should put such thoughts——”
“I have only a few seconds to speak to you,” Miss Dove continued hastily. “Answer me truly and directly. You do not hate me?”
“I shall never hate you, dear.”
“‘Why do you avoid me?”
“Have I avoided you?”
“You know you have. Why?”
“I have not avoided you, Edith.”
“Do you still love me?”
“You know I do.”
“As much as ever you did?”
“As much as ever.”
“Can I see you to-morrow—alone?”
“You know I am going to the Manor.”
“I know,” said Edith, with a slight tone of bitterness. “You will return in the evening, I suppose? I shall wait for you on the road till nine o’clock.”
“I may be detained, you know, Edith.”
“Then I shall be practising in the church on Tuesday afternoon as usual.”
“Very well,” he assented.
“Am I still to trust you, Charles?” she asked, raising her soft blue eyes earnestly to his face.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” She dwelt upon the word, still looking fondly up to him. He understood her, and bent over and kissed her.
“You will try to return home tomorrow before nine? I have been miserable all this week, and I have so much to say to you.”
“I will try to see you,” said the vicar.
“I must run now; Mary will wonder what has kept me.”
The great woods about Foxglove Manor were certainly lovely, and in the winter, with the snow on their black branches, and snow on the fallen leaves and the open spaces between the clumps of forestry, the place might have seemed dreary and dismal; but on this July afternoon the vicar experienced an indescribable sense of buoyancy and enlargement among these vast tossing masses of foliage. Their incessant murmur filled the air with an inarticulate music, which recalled to his memory the singing pines of Theocritus and the voices of the firs of the Hebrew prophets. A spirit of romance for ever haunts the woodland, as though the olden traditions of dryad and sylvan maiden had not yet been wholly superseded by the more accurate report of science. In the skirts of the great clusters of timber, cattle were grazing in groups of white and red; in the open spaces of pasture land between wood and wood, deer were visible among the patches of bracken. In the depths of the forest ways he came upon the colossal statues copied from the old masters; and at length, at a turn of the shadowy road, he found himself in view of the mansion—an ancient, square mass of brown sandstone, stained with weather and incrustations of moss and lichens, and covered all along the southern exposure with a dense growth of ivy. The grounds immediately in front were laid out in formal plots for flowers and breadths of turf traversed by gravelled pathways. A little withdrawn from the house stood the ruined chapel of which the schoolmistress had spoken. The ivy had invaded it, and scaled every wall to the very eaves, while patches of stonecrop and houseleek, which had established themselves on the slated roof, gave it a singular aspect of complete abandonment.
As Mr. Santley entered one of the walks which led to the terraced entrance, Mrs. Haldane, who had observed his approach, appeared on the stone steps, and descended to meet him.
“How good of you to come so early!” she exclaimed. “George will be delighted. He is in his laboratory, experimenting as usual. We shall join him, after you have had some refreshment.”
“No refreshment for me, thank you.”
“Are you quite sure? You must require something after so long a walk.”
“Nothing really, I assure you.”
“Well, I shall not press you, as we shall have dinner soon. Shall we go to Mr. Haldane? Have you visited the Manor before—not in our absence? How do you like it?”
“I envy you your magnificent woods.
“Yes; are they not charming? And you will like the house, too, when you have seen it.”
“Do you not find it dull, however?” asked the vicar, looking into her face with an expression of keen scrutiny. “You are still young—in the blossom of your youth—and society must still have its attractions for you.”
“One enjoys society all the more after a little seclusion.”
“No doubt.”
“And we have just returned, you must recollect, from a whole year of wandering and sight-seeing, so that it is a positive relief to awaken morning after morning and find the same peaceful landscape, the same quiet woods about one.”
“That is very natural; but the heart does not long remain content with the unchanging face of nature, however beautiful it may be. Even the best and strongest require sympathy, and when once we become conscious of that want——”
“Have you begun to feel it?” she asked suddenly, as he paused.
“I suppose it is the inevitable experience of a clergyman in a country parish,” he replied, with a smile.
“Yes, I suppose it is. So few can take an interest in your tastes, and aspirations, and intellectual pleasures, and pursuits. Is not that so?”
“It may seem vanity to think so.”
“Oh no; I think not. The people you meet every day are mostly concerned in their turnips or the wheat or their cattle, and their talk is the merest village gossip. It must indeed be very depressing to listen day after day to nothing but that. One has, of course, a refuge in books.”
“But books are not life. The daydreams of the library are a poor substitute for the real action of a mans own heart and brain.”
“Then one has also the great fields of natural science to explore. I think you will find the work of my husband interesting, and if you could turn your mind in the same direction, you would find in him inexhaustible sympathy.”
As she spoke, they reached the low-arched portal of the chapel. The thick oaken door, studded with big iron nails, was open, and before them stood a man who bowed profoundly to Mrs. Haldane, and then darted a swift, penetrating glance at the vicar.
“Mr. Haldane is within, Baptisto?” she asked.
“Yes, senora.”
He stood aside to allow them to pass, and as Mr. Santley entered he regarded the man with an eye which photographed every feature of his dark Spanish face. It was a face which, once seen, stamped itself in haunting lineaments on the memory. A dusky olive complexion; a fierce, handsome mouth and chin; a broad, intelligent forehead; short, crisp black hair sprinkled with grey; a thin, black moustache, twisted and pointed at the ends; and a pair of big, black, unfathomable eyes, filled with liquid fire. It was the man’s eyes that arrested the attention first, gave character not only to the face but to the man himself, and indeed served to identify him. In the village, “the foreign gentleman with the eyes” was the popular and sufficient description of Baptisto.