When the party got home from the opera, it was only half-past ten. They sat down to a frugal supper in the dining-room.
“I am sorry you did not wait till the last act,” said the young man, after an awkward silence. “Patti’s death scene is magnificent.”
“I’m thinking we heard enough,” his mother replied. “I never cared much for play-acting, and I see little sense in screeching about in a foreign tongue. I’d rather have half an hour of the Reverend Mr. Mactavish’s discourses than a night of fooling like yon.”
“What do you say, Edith? I’m sure the music was very pretty.”
“Yes, it was beautiful; but not knowing much of Italian, I could not gather what it was all about.”
“It is an operatic version of a story of the younger Dumas,” explained Walter, with an uncomfortable sense of treading on dangerous ground. “The story is that of a beautiful woman who has lived an evil life, and is reformed through her affection for a young Frenchman. His friends think he is degrading himself by offering to marry her, and to cure him she pretends to be false and wicked. In the end, she dies in his arms, broken-hearted. It is a very touching subject, I think, though some people consider it immoral.”
Here the matron broke in with quiet severity.
“I wonder yon woman—Patti, you call her—doesn’t think shame to appear in such dresses. One of them was scarcely decent, and I was almost ashamed to look at her—the creature!”
“But her singing, mother, her singing; was it not divine?”
“It was meeddling loud; but I’ve heard far finer in the kirk. Edith, my bairn, you’re tired, I’m thinking. We’ll just read a chapter, and get to bed.”
So the chapter was read, and the ladies retired, while Walter walked off to his studio to have a quiet pipe. He was too used to his mother’s peculiarities to be much surprised at the failure of the evening’s entertainment; but he felt really amazed that Edith had not been more impressed.
The next morning, when they met at breakfast, Edith astonished both her aunt and cousin by expressing her wish to return to Omberley as soon as possible.
“Go away already!” cried the young man. ‘“Why, you’ve hardly been here a week, and you’ve seen nothing of town, and we’ve all the picture-galleries to visit yet.”
“And you have not heard Mr. Mactavish discoorse,” cried his mother. “No, no; you must bide awhile.”
But Edith shook her head, and they saw her mind was made up.
“I can come again at Christmas, but I would rather go now,” she said.
“But why have you changed your mind?” inquired her cousin eagerly.
“I think they want me at home; and there is a great deal of church work to be done in the village.”
Walter was not deceived by this excuse, and tried persuasion, but it was of no avail. The girl was determined to return home immediately. He little knew the real cause of her determination. Haldane’s presence in London had filled her, in spite of herself, with jealous alarm. Ellen Haldane was alone at the Manor, with no husband’s eyes to trouble her; and, despite the clergyman’s oath of fidelity, Edith could not trust him.
Yes, she would go home. It was time to put an end to it all, to remind Santley of his broken promises, and to claim their fulfilment. If he refused to do her justice, she would part from him for ever; not, however, without letting the other woman, her rival, know his true character.
It was arranged that she should leave by an early train next morning. For the greater part of the day she kept her room, engaged in preparations for the journey; but towards evening Walter found her alone in the drawing-room. The old lady, his mother, who earnestly wished him to marry his cousin, had contrived to be out of the way.
“I am so sorry you are going,” the young man said. “We see so little of each other now.”
Edith was seated with her back to the window, her face in deep shade. She knew by her cousin’s manner that he was more than usually agitated, and she dreaded what was coming—what had come, indeed, on several occasions before. She did not answer, but almost unconsciously heaved a deep sigh.
“Does that mean that you are sorry too?” asked Walter, leaning towards her to see her face.
“Of course I am sorry,” she replied, with a certain constraint.
“I wish I could believe that. Somehow or other, Edith, it seems to me that you would rather be anywhere than here. Well, you have some cause; for the house is dreary enough, and we are all dull people. But you and I used to be such friends! More like brother and sister than mere cousins. Is that all over? Are we to drift farther and farther apart as the years pass on? It seems to me as if it might come to that.”
“How absurd you are!” said Edith, trying to force a laugh, but failing lamentably. “You know I was always fond of you and—and—of your mother.” Walter winced under the sting of the last sentence, so unconsciously given.
“I don’t mean that at all,” he exclaimed. “Of course you liked us, as relations like each other; but am I never to be more to you than a mere cousin? You know I love you, that I have loved you ever since we were boy and girl; and once—ah, yes, I thought you cared for me a little. Edith, what does it mean? Why are you so changed?”
Edith was more deeply changed than ever her cousin could guess. Had he been able to see her face, he would have been wonder-stricken at its expression of mingled shame and despair. She tried to reply; but before she could do so her voice was choked, and her tears began to fall. In a moment he was close beside her, and bending over her, with one hand outstretched to clasp her.
“Now, you are crying. Edith, my darling, what is it?”
“Don’t touch me,” she sobbed, shrinking from him. “I can’t bear it.”
“Forgive me, if I have said anything to pain you; and oh, my darling! remember it is my love that carries me away. I do love you, Edith. I wish to God I could prove to you how much!”
He took her hand in his; but she drew it forcibly from him, and, shrinking still further away, entirely losing her self-control, sobbed silently.
“Don’t!” she exclaimed. “For pity’s sake, be silent. You do not know what you are saying. I am not fit to become your wife.”
He moved a few steps from her, and waited until her wild, hysterical sobbing should have ceased. She commanded herself quickly, as it the wild outburst which she had not been able to control had terrified her. Then she rose, and would have left the room, but the young man stopped her.
“Edith,” he said, “surely you did not mean what you said just now, that you are not fit to become my wife?”
“Yes,” she replied quickly; “I did mean it.”
She was glad that her face, was turned from him, and that the room was in partial darkness. She was glad that she was able to steady her voice, and to give a direct reply.
He did not answer; she felt he was waiting for her to speak on.
“Even if two people love each other,” she said, trembling, “or only think they do, which is too often the case, they have no right to thoughtlessly contract that holy tie. There cannot be perfect happiness in this world without perfect spiritual communion. I know—I feel sure—that this does not exist between you and me.”
The young man flushed, and his brow contracted somewhat angrily.
“Take time to think it over,” he said quickly; “this is not your own heart that is speaking now. The seeds which that man, your clergyman, has been sowing in your heart have borne fruit. Religion is changing your whole nature. It is alienating you hopelessly from all to whom you are so dear; it is making you unjust, cruelly unkind, to yourself, but doubly so to others, under the shallow pretence that you are serving God!”
She did not interrupt him; but when he ceased, she put out her hand and said, quickly but firmly—
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “It is so early, surely you are not going to-your room already? This is our last night together, remember.”
“I am so tired,” returned the girl, wearily. “I must get a good night’s rest, since I am to start early in the morning.”
“And you will not say another word?”
“I don’t know that there is anything more that I can say.”
“You are angry with me, Edith. Before you go, say at least that you forgive me.”
“I am not angry; indeed, I am glad you have spoken. I know now I should never have come here. I know I must never come again.”
So, without another word, they parted. Edith went up to her room. Walter sought his, and there he remained all the evening, sitting in the darkness, pondering over the unaccountable change which had taken place in the girl.
Yes, she was changed; but was it hopeless, and altogether unexpected? Might she not, with gentle care, be freed from this hateful influence of the Church? Walter believed that might be so. Already he seemed to see light through the cloud, and to trace the secret of this man’s influence over her. Edith was imaginative and highly fanatical; he had appealed to her imagination. Being a High Church clergyman, he had employed two powerful agents—colour and form. He had scattered the shrine at which she worshipped with soft and durable perfumes, and had set up sacred symbols; and he had said, “Kneel before these; cast down all your worldly wishes and earthly affections.” She, being intoxicated, as it were, had yielded to the spell. It was part of his plan, thought Walter, that she must neither marry nor form any other earthly tie; for was it not through her, and such as her, that his beloved Church was able to sustain its full prestige? The Church must reign supreme in her heart, as it had done in that of many another vestal; it was at the altar alone that her gifts of love and devotion must be burned. She must be sacrificed, as many others had been before her, and the Church would stand.
This was the young man’s true view of the case. He believed it, for he had learnt in his home to hate other worldliness; but though he fancied he saw the nature of the discord, he could not as yet perceive the directest means of cure.
The next morning, when Edith, looking very pale and weary, but still very pretty in her simple travelling costume, came down to breakfast, she was a little surprised to find Walter already there. His manner was kind and considerate, as it had always been, and he made no reference whatever to what had passed between them on the previous night. They sat and carried on a constrained but polite conversation; but both were glad when it was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Hetherington. The old lady was filled with genuine regret at her niece’s sudden departure, and, while presiding at the breakfast-table, was so busy laying down plans for her speedy return that she did not notice that every morsel on Edith’s plate remained untouched, and that, while sipping her tea, her eyes wandered continually towards the window, as if anxiously watching for the cab which was to take her away. Walter noticed it with pain, and remained discreetly silent.
As soon as the cab arrived, he left the room, ostensibly to superintend the removal of Ediths luggage, but in reality to be absent at the leave-taking between his mother and his cousin.
He accompanied Edith to the station. It was merely an act of common courtesy, to which she could make no possible objection. On the way there was very little said on either side. She was silent from preoccupation, and he feared to tread on dangerous ground. But when they were near their parting, when Edith was comfortably seated in the train, and he stood by the open carriage door, he ventured in a covert manner to refer to what had passed.
“The house will be brighter in wintertime,” he said, “and we shall have more means of amusing you. You will come back at Christmas, Edith?”
She started, dropped his hand, and drew herself from him.
“No, I think not,” she said; “it is always a busy time with us at Christmas. There is much to be done in the church.”
This was their good-bye; for before he could say more the guard noisily closed the carriage doors, and whistled shrilly. Mechanically Walter took off his hat, and stood sadly watching the train as it moved away.
Edith was glad that the next day was Sunday. She rose early, dressed hurriedly, and went for a walk in the fresh morning air. She felt instinctively that she had a battle to fight, and that all her resources must be brought into play to gain her the victory. If her influence over the man was to continue, she knew there was one way by which she could regain it. With such pale cheeks and lacklustre eyes as she had brought with her from London, where, she asked, would her chances be against Ellen Haldane’s fresh country charms? She must banish all painful thoughts for the present, and try to win back the roses which he had caused to fade.
She walked for above an hour; and when she returned home, she went straight into the garden to gather a little bouquet of flowers. Then she went up to her room to dress for church. When she came down to breakfast, she wore her prettiest costume, and the bunch of flowers was fastened at her throat.
Her aunt had a headache, she said, and could not go to church. Edith was not sorry; indeed, when the time came for her to set out, she was glad she was alone.
She arrived at the church rather earlier than usual, nevertheless she walked straight in, and no sooner had she crossed the threshold than she obeyed a sudden impulse which seized her, and determined for that day at least not to occupy her usual seat. She selected one which was some distance from the pulpit, but from which she could command an excellent view of the pew belonging to Foxglove Manor.
The congregation gathered, but the Haldane’s pew was empty. Edith watched it with feverish impatience. Presently, just as the tolling bell was about to cease, she saw Mrs. Haldane enter and take her seat.
Two minutes later, Mr. Santley, clothed in his white, priestly robes, ascended the steps of the reading-desk, and bent his beautiful head in prayer. As he rose to his feet, Edith, who had been watching him in extreme fascination, saw his gaze wandering round the church, and finally fix upon the face of the mistress of Foxglove Manor. She saw, or thought she saw, the lady’s eyelids quiver and finally droop beneath that glance; while the clergyman arose, like a sick man suddenly restored to health, and began to read the lessons for the day.
How that morning passed Edith scarcely knew. She remained like one in a dream, mechanically going though the religious forms, but feeling as if her heart’s blood was slowly ebbing away. Of one thing only she was conscious—that of all those upturned faces before him the clergyman seemed to see but one, but that from this one face seemed to draw his inspiration, as the earth draws life and light from the shining rays of the sun.
At length the service was over, the congregation dispersed, and Edith found herself walking up and down the quiet lanes alone, panting for air, feeling sick at heart, and shivering through and through, though she stood in the warm rays of sunlight. Go home she could not. She must see Mr. Santley before she could face another human soul.
She turned, intending to go to the Vicarage, but when she was yet within some distance of the house, she saw coming towards her the very man she sought.
She paused, not knowing whether to feel glad or sorry. It was certainly better than having to go to the Vicarage, yet now that the meeting was so near, she shrank from it. She made a desperate effort to compose herself, and paused, waiting for him. The clergyman was evidently lost in deep thought, his head was bent, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was quite close to Edith before he saw her.
When their eyes met he paused, almost involuntarily, a momentary flush of mingled annoyance and surprise passed over his face, then he recovered himself, walked forward, and quietly extended his hand.
“Miss Dove!” he said, glancing nervously round. “I had no idea you were at home. How do you do?”
It had been agreed between them, long before, that so long as their secret remained a secret, no warmer greeting than this must be exchanged between them in public. When the proposition had been made, Edith had quietly assented. What was it to her that Santley should bow his head with a politeness even more frigid than he bestowed upon any one of his flock. Had she not seen the burning light of love in his half-lowered eyes? and had she not known that a few hours later she would feel his caressing arms about her, and hear his rich, mellow voice whispering tenderly in her ear?
But now all was changed. The frigid bow which had formerly been the prologue, had rapidly developed into the play. There were no stolen meetings now; no consoling whisperings. The clergyman had latterly become alive to the risk of such indulgences, and had gradually allowed them to cease; and Edith, receiving as her portion the cold bow and cold handshake that every eye might have seen, had watched the love light gradually fade from her hero’s eyes.
But she had never seen him so cold as to-day. When their eyes had met, she had noticed the look of positive annoyance which had passed across his face. It had soon fled, but when he spoke and extended his hand, his face had assumed a look of cold severity.
Edith did not speak; the painful beating of her heart almost stifled her, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She extended her hand; the cold, listless touch of his fingers throbbed through her like ice. The clergyman saw her trouble, and again that look of impatient annoyance passed across his face then he raised his brows in calm surprise.
“What is the matter?” he asked quickly. “Has some domestic trouble caused your sudden return home?”
She withdrew her hand from his cold, lax fingers, and answered, “No.”
Then she turned and walked along in silence by his side.
The good man was annoyed, seriously annoyed. First at her sudden appearance in the village, when he believed she was safely bestowed in London for several weeks to come; next at the rôle she thought fit to assume. He hated scenes at any time; just now he particularly wished to avoid one. So he walked on in silence, until he could command his voice to speak quietly; then he said, in the most careless manner possible—
“When did you return home?”
“Last night. I attended church this morning.”
She looked at him quickly, to see what effect her words produced. Apparently they produced none. The clergymans face remained as coldly impassive as before; he raised his brows slightly as he replied.
“Indeed! I did not see you there.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Your return was very sudden, was it not? I thought you intended staying away for some time.”
“I changed my mind. I thought you would have been glad to have me back again.”
Then, swept on by a wild impulse, which she could not possibly restrain, she added slowly, but tremulously—
“Charles, are you sorry I have come?”
The clergyman started, flushed, then quickly recovered himself, as he added—
“Sorry, my dear Edith? What a question! Why of course I am not sorry.”
“Then, why not say that you are glad? Why not let me know it? Don’t you see you are breaking my heart?”
Santley paused, and looked at her. He did not flush this time, his face grew white as marble, his eyes quite steel-like in their coldness. He had dreaded a scene, but this was so very much worse than he had expected; for by this time Edith had lost all self-control, and was sobbing violently. His face hardened terribly. He must put an end once and for ever to such unpleasant encounters.
“Edith, have you lost your senses?” he said; and the bitterness of his tone was like putting a knife into the girl’s heart. “If you wish to perform in such scenes as this, you could surely find some other time and place than the public road and the broad daylight. If you have anything to say to me, you must come to me again in private. At present I have no more time which I can place at your service. I have business with Mrs. Haldane, who is waiting for me at the Vicarage; and my duties at the church will soon begin again.”
He raised his hat, and would have moved away, but Edith laid her hand upon his arm and forcibly detained him.
“Stop!” she cried. “One word! You shall not go. I must speak.”
He turned upon her almost angrily; he attempted, but in vain, to shake off her detaining hand.
“Tell me,” she cried; “why are you going to meet Mrs. Haldane?” Then, before he could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to speak, she added, “You need not tell me, for I know. It is this woman who has come between you and me. Oh, do you think I don’t know that since she came to the village you have been a changed man? What did I come home for? Because I knew it was not right that you and she should be in the village alone.”
This time the clergyman succeeded in shaking off her hand. The face which he turned towards hers was almost livid in its pallor.
“You forget yourself,” he said, with a sternness which was even harder to bear than bitter reproach. “Well, I suppose you think you have a right to insult me; but permit me to remind you that your right does not extend to religious affairs, or to a lady who is the most esteemed member of my congregation.”
“I have not insulted you, Charles; I am only warning you.”
“You are very kind,” he interposed, with a sneer, “but I am, in no greater need of your warning than is the lady. Until you can learn how to control your own words and actions, it would be better for you that we should not meet.” Again he moved, as if about to leave her; again she put forth her hand, and held him fast. The scene had become more violent than she had intended. It was now too late to pause.
“One more word,” she sobbed. “Promise me that you will not see her, then I will promise never to mention this subject again.”
“Promise you what? To discontinue all communications with Mrs. Haldane?”
“Yes, yes; that is all. It is not much to ask you.”
“It is much more than you have any right to ask. You have chosen to connect my name dishonourably with a lady whom I esteem. Enough! I cannot control your actions, but I mean to regulate my own. Good morning, Edith. Since you have nothing more important to say to me, I suppose I am at liberty to go?”
He raised his hat and walked away, pausing a minute later to raise it again, and to address some pleasant remark to a member of his congregation, who happened at that moment to be coming along the road. It was the sight of this stranger which prevented Edith from following, which made her turn and walk with rapid steps towards her home. She felt cold and sick and heart-broken, and she shrank from the sight of any human face.
When she reached her home, she found her aunt, who had been surprised at her protracted absence, gazing uneasily up and down the road. The sight of the girl’s pale, tear-stained face alarmed her, but Edith silenced her inquiries by declaring that she had not been very well.
“It was foolish of me, but I could not help crying at the service,” she said. “Dear aunt, do not be anxious. I am better now, and only want rest.”
“Shall I send you up some dinner, darling?”
“No; nothing. I want to be alone—quite alone.”
So, with a weary, listless look upon her, the girl went up to her room, and, having locked the door, she threw herself upon the bed, and cried as if her heart were broken.
Meanwhile Mr. Santley went on his way, almost as much disturbed as Edith herself. He was angry, terribly angry; for if scenes similar to the one through which he had passed were allowed to continue, he anticipated a storm of troubles in the future. But how to avoid them? What would be the best and safest course to adopt? The good man was terribly perplexed. To openly defy the girl might cause her, in her bitterness and pain, to expose herself and him; which would certainly be awkward, since he wished, above all things, to stand well with his congregation. And yet to adopt any other course, he must at least pretend to subscribe to her conditions. He must be content to renounce, or pretend to renounce, his intimacy with Mrs. Haldane. The man of God was justly indignant.
Such a course, he knew, must not be thought of, and he resolved with pious determination to continue Ellen Haldane’s conversion, for which he was so zealous and to leave matters between himself and Edith exactly as they were.
He knew the girl’s disposition. She would soon acknowledge her folly, and make the first advances towards reconciliation. Well, then he would be inclined to meet her half-way, but she must be the first to move. If, on the other hand, she chose to take the unpleasant course of exposing him, why, he would have but one alternative: he would simply deny her statements, and who would believe her? It would be an unpleasant phase of experience to have to pass through, and it would compel him to sacrifice a fellow-creature.
Nevertheless, he acknowledged to himself, with the air of a Christian martyr, that if she pushed him to extremities it would be necessary.
After all, he hoped that Edith, shut up with her own grief, in the solitude of her own room, would soon be brought to see the error of her ways, and would make that first advance towards reconciliation which was necessary for the peace of mind of both.
But, whatever might happen in the future, Edith had succeeded for that day at least in completely destroying the good mans peace of mind. His agitation was so great that he was compelled to walk about the quiet lanes until his tranquillity was somewhat restored. Then he returned to the Vicarage, where Mrs. Haldane was comfortably seated with his sister, and enjoyed her society until the hour of his labours returned.
When he entered the church that afternoon, all the congregation thought he was looking more seraphic than ever. Many a young heart fluttered with holiness, and many an eyelid drooped reverently, before the calm serenity of his gaze. As he stood facing his people, he cast his eyes around the church. Edith was not there.
He turned the leaves of his gold-clasped volume, and as his rich voice filled the church, and the congregation rose, he gazed once more about him. This time his cheek flushed slightly, and a soft sigh of relief and happiness escaped his parted lips. Mrs. Haldane was again in her place, calmly joining in the prayers.
That afternoon the clergyman preached like one inspired; all were impressed but none were cognizant of the cause. Though the clergyman’s eyes wandered continually around the church, he saw only one face, was conscious only of one presence. So engrossed was he, and so wrapped up in his fervour of admiration, that he did not notice what was going on around him. Had he done so, he would have seen that there was another member of the congregation besides Mrs. Haldane who attracted a certain amount of interest. Seated in the gallery, calmly joining in the service and watching the minister, was the foreign “gentleman with the eyes.”
After Edith’s departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought long and deeply over the mysterious change in his cousin. The more he thought, the more uneasy he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably sure—that the girl had got into the hands of, a religious fanatic, who either consciously or unconsciously was completely destroying himself, his happiness—in this world at least. She was fairly possessed by the fever of other worldliness, he said to himself, and if left alone she would, like many others before her, probably end her days in a mad house.
Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based on what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should not be left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself, than that he should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a short visit to the picturesque little village where his aunt and cousin lived? Surely Edith would be glad to see him, and while he remained to watch over her, his time would not be entirely lost.
When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the country, the old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the unaccountable sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people had had a quarrel, and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous enough to make the first advances towards reconciliation. So she helped him to put a few things together, and on the spur of the moment he started off.
He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his coming.
—He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would be judicious of him to go to his aunt’s house at all. To be sure, he had always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed. Edith had left his mother’s house to avoid him; would it be fair to either of them that he should become his aunt’s guest? By living in the house he would force from her a communication which might be very grudgingly given, and at the same time his lips must be inevitably sealed. He finally decided that, during the visit at least, it would be better for every one that he should stay at the inn.
So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his relations until the following day.
The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream, perhaps work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his sketch-book under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his aunt’s cottage. When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it was suddenly opened by Edith, dressed in walking costume.
On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked manifestly angry.
“Walter, you here?” she said coldly; then she added quickly, “Is anything the matter at home?”
“Nothing whatever,” said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking no notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face. “I got tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the country might do me good. I am not going to bore you. I have brought my working tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.”
“But where is your luggage?”
“Down at the inn.”
“At the inn?”
“Yes; I had it taken direct there last night. I was fortunate enough, too, to secure rooms—a capital little parlour fit for a studio, and a bedroom leading out of it. I shall be able to do the host, and entertain you, if you’ll come.”
“You are going to stay at the inn?” said Edith. “You always stayed with us before!”
“Of course I did; but I am not going to be so inconsiderate as to plant myself upon you now.”
He laid the slightest possible stress upon the “now,” and Edith understood; nevertheless, she deemed it prudent to affect ignorance and read a different meaning in his words. She murmured something about being very much occupied, and having little time to attend to visitors; then led the way across the hall to their sitting-room, and brought him into the presence of his aunt.
Mrs. Russell welcomed him cordially, but when she heard of his domestic arrangements, her face went very blank indeed. She used every argument in her power to persuade the young man to change his mind, and to have his luggage brought up to the cottage. Walter, eager to accept her kindness, was listening for one word from Edith. It never came, and he expressed his intention to remain at the inn.
But, although he abided by his former decision and remained en garçon at the inn, a very great part of his time was spent at the cottage. The old lady, anxious to atone for the inhospitable behaviour of her niece, altered all her household arrangements to suit the erratic habits of the young painter. The heavy midday meal was replaced by a light luncheon; while for the light supper at six was substituted a substantial dinner, to which Walter was always bidden. On the afternoon of that day, when the young man had first made his appearance at the cottage, a rather unpleasant interview had taken place between the aunt and niece, almost the first which had come to ruffle the peaceful course of their evenly flowing lines. The old lady had been indignant at the coolness of Edith’s reception, and had accused the girl of inhospitality and ingratitude; while Edith had coolly given it as her opinion that the young man was much better located elsewhere.
“It is a tax to have a visitor always in the house, aunt,” said Edith, quietly; “and—and I haven’t the strength to bear it, I think.”
Mrs. Russell looked up, and was surprised to find that the girl, after bearing her reproaches so mildly, was now actually crying. She noted again, too, with a start of shocked surprise how sadly she had changed. The fresh, bright beauty which had once charmed every eye had gone, leaving scarcely a trace behind it, and the face was pale, careworn, and sad. She got up and kissed her, and that silent caress did more than a dozen reproaches. It made Edith hurriedly leave the room, to cast herself, crying bitterly, upon the bed, while Mrs. Russell sat down and wrote a note to Walter.
“You shall have your own way about staying at the inn,” she wrote, “and you shall also have every possible hour of the day that you can make use of for your work; but surely you can spare your evenings for us. I have arranged to dine every day at six, and I beg of you, for Edith’s sake, to make one of the party. Dear Edith is far from well, and sadly changing. She sees so few people, and the house is dull. Dear Walter, come often, for her sake if not for mine.”
Thus it happened that every night, when the little dining-room was laid out for dinner, Walter made his appearance at the cottage door, and that during those evening hours the family party was increased to three. Sometimes they left the dinner-table to lounge in the pretty little drawing-room, where Walter was permitted to smoke his cigar, while the old lady worked at wool-work, and Edith played to them in the slowly gathering darkness. Sometimes they strolled out on to the lawn, and had the tea brought out, and laughed and chatted while they watched the stars appear one by one in the heavens. Was it fancy, or since these social evenings commenced was Edith really changed’ for the better? Walter fancied that her eye was brighter, her cheek less pale, and that her manner towards himself was sometimes very tender, as if she wished in a measure to atone for her past coldness. This was particularly noticeable one night when the two sat alone in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Russell, murmuring something about household affairs, had left them together. Walter was reclining in an armchair, smoking his cigar and watching his cousin, who was busily engaged embroidering crosses upon a handsome altar-cloth, intended for the decoration of the church.
“These have been pleasant evenings,” he said—“pleasant for me, that is. I shall be sorry enough when they come to an end.”
Edith looked up and smiled sadly.
“If we always had pleasure it would become a pain,” she said. “Though we rebel against pain and suffering, it is, after all, a very great boon to the world.”
“Humph! Perhaps so, if it were better distributed. What about the poor creatures whose portion is only pain?—who, to put it vulgarly, get all the kicks, and none of the halfpence?”
“In this world, you should have said, Walter. Let us hope their measure of happiness will be greater in the world that is to come.”
Walter was silent. The conversation had taken precisely the turn which he would have avoided, and he was wondering how to bring it to the subject which was for ever uppermost in his mind. For a time he remained in a brown study. Edith stitched on. Then he rose, took a few turns about the room, and stopped near to her chair.
“Edith,” he said quietly, “do you know why I came down here?”
Something in his tone rather than his words made her start and flush painfully. She did not raise her eyes or cease her work. Before she could answer, he had taken her hand.
“I came for you, Edith,” he continued passionately. “Listen to me, my darling. Do not answer hastily, if you cannot give me a decided answer. At least let me hope.”
Decidedly yet tremblingly the girl put his hands from her, and half rose from her seat. His words had frozen her to ice again.
“Why did you come here?” she said. “Do you call it manly or kind to persecute me? I tell you I shall never marry.”
As she spoke her eye fell upon the altar-cloth, which she held in her hand: Walter saw the look, and as he was walking back to the inn that night it recurred to his mind again. The altar-cloth! There was the symbol of the thing which had come between them—which was blighting his life and hers. Edith was changing; but she was not utterly changed. He resolved to do the only thing which now remained to be done. He determined to appeal to her spiritual adviser.
All night his mind was filled with this idea; it troubled his sleeping as well as his waking moments, and when he rose in the morning it was the one thing which possessed him. Now, he had never seen the clergyman, but he had pictured him as a middle-aged, benevolent-looking man, perhaps with spectacles; a gentle fanatic in religion, willing, through the very bigotry of his nature, to sacrifice everything for the good of the Church, but still, perhaps, amiable. He might be open to reason, and an appeal made directly to him might be the means of putting an end to all the trouble.
Breakfast over, the young man issued from the inn, and strolled deliberately through the village in the direction of the Vicarage. It was early in the day to make a call, so he walked very slowly, meditating as he went on the nature of his errand; and the course he was about to take, after what had passed between him and his cousin, was, perhaps, a little unwarrantable, and Edith might be inclined to resent it if she knew. But then, he reflected, she need never know. Mr. Santley would surely grant him the favour of keeping the matter a secret; and afterwards, when the shadow of the Church had ceased to darken her life, and she was happy with him in her married home, she would be glad to hear that it was he who had saved her.
These were the kind of rose-coloured visions which filled his brain as he walked on towards the Vicarage, and by the time he had reached the hall door and pulled the bell, he had even converted Mr. Santley into the good fairy of the tale, or rather a sort of Father Christmas, in a surplice, smiling benevolently upon them and pairing their hands. A trim little servant came to the door, and, in answer to his inquiries, informed him that Mr. Santley was not at home. He was expected in immediately, however, if the gentleman would like to wait.. Yes; Walter would wait. So he followed the little maid across the hall, into a somewhat chilly but sufficiently gorgeous room, which was reserved solely for the comfort and convenience of Mr. Santley’s guests. As Walter sank down into an easy-chair, the arms of which seemed to enfold him in a close embrace, and looked about the room, he acknowledged that Mr. Santley at least did not give all his substance to the poor. Here at least there was no appearance of penury, or of sackcloth and ashes; all was comfortable and luxurious in the extreme. He walked about the room; examined the books upon the tables, which were all works of education, elegantly bound; noticed the engravings on the walls—one or two of Raphael’s Madonnas (coloured copies), and an old engraving after Andrea del Sarto. Mr. Santley did not come. He rang the bell, gave the little maid his card, told her he would call again, and left the Vicarage.
This time he walked in the direction of the schoolhouse. He had his sketchbook under his arm, and in it a half-finished sketch of the schoolmistress’s picturesque home. He would fill up his spare time by adding a few touches to the sketch before he returned to the Vicarage.
In this matter fortune favoured him. It being Saturday afternoon, there was no school, and the schoolmistress was leaning in a listless attitude upon the low trellised gate. She welcomed the young painter with a nod and a bright smile, and readily assented to his proposition that she should stand for the figure in the picture. He took out his book and set to work.
Dora meanwhile chatted and laughed to make the time pass pleasantly, and sometimes, in answer to an invitation from him, she would run round the easel to take a peep at the figure of herself, which was gradually growing under his hand. At last their pleasant interview was brought to an end. Walter remembered the appointment which this chattering lady had made him forget. He put up his sketching materials, and prepared to take his leave. Then Dora stopped him.
“Surely, Mr. Hetherington, you will do me one favour,” she said: “you will honour me by stepping for a moment into the cottage which you have transferred so beautifully to paper. I have some cream and milk, some fresh strawberries from our garden, if that is any inducement to you.”
The invitation was tempting. Nevertheless, Walter, while wishing to accept, was about to refuse, pleading an engagement at the Vicarage when another voice broke in—
“Good day, Miss Greatheart!” it said.
The schoolmistress smiled, made a prim curtsey, and answered, “Good day, sir!” Then she waited to see if her visitor had anything more to say.
The new arrival was a man, and Walter, who was looking at him, thought he was the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed as a clergyman, but the cut of his garments-was elegant and eminently becoming. As his eye fell upon Walter he raised his hat, and discovered a head beautifully shaped and slightly thinning at the temples. Walter remained fascinated, staring at the man, who moved here and there with easy grace, and whose face grew singularly handsome with every varying expression which flitted across it.
He had not much to say to the schoolmistress; and as he moved away his hat was again swept off to Walter, and the clergyman’s eyes rested upon him for a moment with a look one might love to paint in the eyes of a saint.
Walter turned to Miss Greatheart.
“A handsome fellow,” he said, “—a very handsome fellow; and a clergyman, I see, by his dress. Who is he? One of Mr. Santley’s curates, I suppose?”
The schoolmistress stared at him for a moment in amazement.
“One of Mr. Santley’s curates!” she said. “Why, my dear sir, that is our vicar himself!”