FOXGLOVE MANOR
A Novel
By Robert W. Buchanan
In Three Volumes, Vol. I.
London
Chatto And Windos, Piccadilly
1884
FOXGLOVE MANOR.
CHAPTER XXVIII. A MONKISH TALE (FROM THE NOTE-BOOK).
_Sunday, Sept. 19_. My wife has gone to church.
I can hear the bells ringing in the distance as I write.... Now
they cease, and at this very moment the clergyman, “snowy-banded,
delicate-handed,” is ascending the pulpit stairs, amid the reverent hush
of his congregation.
Though several times of late she has suggested that a little
church-going would do me good, Ellen did not ask me to accompany her on
this occasion; indeed, I thought at first that she was going to stay at
home herself. At breakfast she was irritable and absent-minded, and she
did not dress or order the carriage until the last moment. There was
evidently a hard struggle in her mind whether she should go to church or
not. Ultimately, she decided to go.
Out of this and other unpleasant indications, I have made a discovery.
My wife, despite her purity, despite her lofty sense of honour, is
_jealous_ of the clergyman.
The day after my fishing expedition, I quietly told her what I had seen
in the woodland. It was not without due deliberation that I determined
to do so. One portion of the truth, however, I carefully concealed:
namely, the references made by the lovers to herself. For the same
reason, I showed no sign of personal suspicion, but treated the affair
lightly, as a thing of indifference.
I began the conversation in this way, while beating the shell of my
second egg at breakfast--
“By the way, my dear Nell, I have made a discovery.”
She looked up and smiled unsuspiciously. “Something terrible, I suppose;
like Dr. Dupré’s elixir?”
“Oh dear no, nothing nearly so scientific; a mere social discovery, my
dear. I have found out that I was right; that if your pet parson is not
married, he ought to be.”
I saw her change colour; but, bending her head over her teacup, she
forced a laugh.
“What nonsense you’re talking!”
“Don’t call it nonsense till you hear my story. It will interest you,
being quite piscatorial and idyllic. Conceive to yourself, first, the
primaeval woodland; then two figures, a nymph in a frock and a satyr in
a clerical coat. The nymph, your friend Miss Dove; the satyr, your
other friend, Mr. Santley. She was crying; he consoling. I heard their
conversation; I saw them quarrel, make it up, embrace, kiss, and
disappear. I think you will agree with me that so pretty a pastoral
should have, in a moral country, but one sequel--marriage.”
How white and strange she seemed! How nervously she fought with her
agitation!
“I don’t believe a word of what you say!” she cried. “You saw all this,
but how?”
I told her how, and she uttered a cry of virtuous indignation.
“It is shameful!” she exclaimed. “I will never speak to him
again--never!”
“On the contrary, I think you _should_ speak to him, and, like a true
matchmaker, produce the _dénouement._ You need not tell him that
I played Peeping Tom; but, without doing so, you can act on the
information I have given you. After all, if he really loves the
girl----”
“But he does _not_ love her!”
She paused, trembling and flushing, conscious of her blunder.
“Then is he a greater scoundrel than even I suspected!”
“There must be some mistake. I am sure Mr. Santley would do nothing
dishonourable. As to marrying, his ideas are those of the High Church.
He does not think that a priest has any right to marry.”
I looked at her in amazement. After what I had told her, could she
possibly be attempting to justify him? If so, the case was worse than I
had foreseen, and her moral sense had already been effectually poisoned.
She continued rapidly and eagerly, as if contending in argument with her
own thoughts.
“A clergyman’s position is very difficult. If he is unmarried, as a true
priest should be, he is persecuted by all the marriageable girls of his
parish. His slightest attentions are misconstrued, his most innocent
acts exaggerated; and if he shows a friendly interest in any young
person, he is sure to be misunderstood. I have no doubt, after all, that
what you saw could be easily explained; and that, in any case, Miss Dove
is the person really to blame.”
I was right, then: justification, and ‘--jealousy.
“You forget,” I answered quickly, “that I heard the whole conversation.
Besides, though the language of words may be distorted, that of kisses
and embraces is unmistakable.”
“He did not kiss her; he did not embrace her! I will never believe it.”
“Then, you simply assume that I am stating an untruth?”
“I know how glad you are,” she cried passionately, “to put this slur
upon him.”
With some difficulty I mastered my indignation. Sick of the discussion,
I rose and prepared to leave the room; but before leaving I spoke, with
cold decision, to the following effect:--
“I have told you precisely what I saw; it is for you to impeach my
motives, if you please, and to think, in your infatuation, that I
dislike Mr. Santley because of the cloth he wears. If you doubt me,
question the girl; you can possibly get the truth from her. In any case,
remember that, from this moment, I forbid you to entertain that man in
my house.”
So I left her, leaving my words to work.
The next day, i.e. yesterday, Santley called. She did not see him, but
sent out a message that she was engaged. I saw him creeping, pale and
crestfallen, past my laboratory door.
Since the conversation recorded above, Ellen and I have not alluded to
the subject; indeed, we have seen little of each other, and spoken still
less. Possibly our temporary estrangement might account for the fixed
pallor, the cold look of sorrow and reproach, on my wife’s face; but I
am inclined to fear otherwise. At all events, the thing had gone so far,
and I knew so much, that the overtures to reconciliation could not come
from me. I had to conquer my struggling tenderness, and watch.
The great struggle came this morning. I observed it with sickening
suspense. Had honest indignation conquered, had Ellen held to her first
decision of not returning into that man’s church, I think I should have
taken her into my arms and begged her pardon for suspecting her. But no!
she has gone; not, I am sure, to pray. Surely I am a model husband, to
sit so tamely here!
_Sunday Evening._--She drove home immediately after morning service, and
I saw by the expression of her face that she was greatly agitated. We
lunched in silence, and afterwards she took a volume of sermons and sat
reading on the terrace. Later on in the afternoon, while I sat writing
alone, she came in behind me, and before I could speak, put her arms
around my neck and kissed me.
“Forgive me,” she cried, with her beautiful eyes full of tears. “Oh,
George, I am so unhappy! I cannot bear to quarrel.”
And she knelt by my side, looking pitifully up into my face.
I returned her kiss, and for the time being, in her soft embrace, forgot
my suspicions. It was a happy hour! Neither of us spoke of the subject
of our disagreement.
_Tuesday_.--After a temporary calm, the storm has again broken, and the
weather is still charged with thunder. Let me try to record calmly what
has taken place.
This afternoon, as I sat at work, Baptisto entered quietly.
“I think you are wanted, senor; there is some one here.”
“What do you mean? Who is it?”
“The clergyman, senor. He is with my lady.”
I started angrily; then, conquering myself, I demanded--
“Did they send you for me?”
“No, senor,” replied Baptisto, with his mysterious look; “but I thought
you would like to know.”
I could have struck the fellow, for I saw that he had been playing the
spy. Nevertheless, I remembered that I had forbidden Ellen to entertain
Santley again at the Manor, and I felt my indignation rapidly rising
at the thought of her disobedience. Angry and humiliated, I rose to my
feet.
“Where are they?” I asked.
“In the drawing-room, senor.”
I at once went thither, uncertain what to say or do; for I was
determined, if possible, not to make a scene. Now, the great
drawing-rooms of the Manor house consist of two old-fashioned
apartments, communicating with a curtained archway, where there was once
a folding-door. The inner room opens on a lobby communicating with the
house; the outer opens on the terrace. I approached from within, and
finding the door open, entered softly. No one was visible; but I heard
voices whispering in the outer room.
After a moment’s hesitation, I sat down in an armchair, and took up a
book from the table. My back was to the curtained archway, and facing
me was a large mirror, in which the archway and the dimly lighted,
rose-coloured chamber beyond were clearly reflected.
The whispering continued.
I could bear the suspense no longer, and was about to rise and make my
presence known, when the voices were raised, and I heard the clergyman
exclaim--
“Ellen, for God’s sake! I can explain everything!”
Ellen! My satyr was familiar. I crouched in my armchair, listening, as
my wife replied--
“Why should you explain to me? I have no wish to listen, Mr. Santley.
Only I am shocked and indignant at what I have heard.”
“But there is not one word of truth in it. Who is your informant? I
demand to know his name.”
I strained my ears in suspense, wondering how she would reply, for I
already guessed the bearings of the conversation. To my surprise, she
replied parabolically--
“It is the common talk of the place.”
“Then it is a simple scandal!”
“You are not engaged to Miss Dove?”
“Certainly not. She herself can tell you that there is nothing of the
kind between us. I will admit freely that she has a great esteem for
me--that, in short, she is attached to me; and that possibly, if I
desired it, she would marry me.”
There was a silence. Then I heard Ellen say, quietly and firmly--
“Will you answer me a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Did you meet Miss Dove alone, last Thursday?”
I felt that her eyes were fixed upon his face as she put the question,
and I guessed how it startled and amazed him; but he was unabashed, and
replied instantly--
“Where?”
She waited a moment, like one pausing to give the _coup de grâce,_
before she said--“Close to the river-side, among Lord ------s
plantations.”
Greatly to my astonishment, for I naturally expected a denial, the
answer came at once, in a clear, decided voice. “Yes, I did meet her.”
I could imagine, though I could not see, my wife’s start of virtuous
indignation. Almost instantly, I saw her image in the mirror before me,
as she rapidly crossed the room beyond; then he followed, black-suited,
like the devil. In the dim distance of the mirror, I now saw their two
figures reflected, floating faintly in the rose-coloured light beyond
the curtains. Their backs were turned to me, their faces were looking
out upon the terrace.
“I have nothing to conceal,” he continued passionately. “Some enemy has
been spying upon me; but I repeat, I have nothing to conceal. Only, I
wished to spare Miss Dove. Now that you have made reserve impossible,
I will admit, frankly, that she has misconstrued certain harmless
attentions, and that, on the day you mention, she came upon me by
accident, and reproached me for my coldness, my want of sympathy. She
even went further, and asked me to marry her. I tell you this in sacred
confidence, for I have no right to inform others of the young lady’s
indiscretion.”
“Was that all that passed?”
“All, I assure you.”
Ellen gave a peculiar laugh, the sound of which I did not like at all.
There is nothing more significant than a woman’s light laugh--nothing,
sometimes, more horrible.
“She was reproachful, and you--consoled her?”
“Consoled her?”
“As a true lover should,--with kisses and embraces? You see, I know
everything!”
“It is a calumny,” cried the clergyman, with seeming indignation.
“True, I was gentle with her, for I felt very sorry. I reasoned and
remonstrated with the foolish child: after all, she is a child only.
Oh, Ellen, how could you listen to such an accusation? You who know that
there is but one woman in the world who has my love, my life’s devotion,
and that _you_ are that woman.”
Did my eyes deceive me, or had he stretched out an arm to embrace her?
No, I was right!
“Take away your arm!” she cried. “I will not suffer it!”
She did suffer it, notwithstanding.
“Ellen! dearest Ellen!”
He drew her towards him, and I thought she was going to yield to his
embrace; but she shook herself free, and in a moment, before he knew
her purpose, had opened the window and glided out upon the terrace. He
followed her with a cry, and so--my mirror was empty. I rose to my feet,
sick and dazed with what I had seen, and prepared to follow.
What should I do? Should I at once avow my knowledge of what had taken
place, and seize my satyr by the throat; or, smiting him in the face,
fling him from my door? Should I stand by tamely, and see my hearth
violated, my wife tempted, by a common snake of the parish? If I had
been less angry with my wife herself, I am sure I should have taken
the violent course. But I saw now, to my horror, that she was neither
adamantine nor marble. She had allowed him to know his evil power upon
her, and to see that the knowledge of his power over another woman, so
far from shocking and repulsing her, had increased the fascination. If
I denounced him openly, it would be to admit his rivalry, and, by
inference, to complete her degradation.
Fortunately, I have been accustomed, from youth upward, to control my
strongest feelings, whether of tenderness or anger; and though I am
capable enough of strong passion, I have generally the power to disguise
it. In the present emergency, I found my habit of self-restraint stand
me in good stead. I advanced into the outer room. By the time I had
reached it, I was calm and cool to all outward appearances.
Quite quietly, I approached the window, and gazed out upon the terrace.
There they stood, he talking eagerly, she with face averted from him,
and looking my way. She saw me in a moment, and started in agitation. I
nodded grimly, and opening the folding windows, looked out. Then, all at
once, I drew back apologetically.
“Ah, there you are!” I said to my wife. “I was looking for you.”
She stepped over to the window, looking strangely pale and scared. I
had not even looked at, much less addressed, her companion; but he
approached, with a ghastly smile.
“I’m afraid I interrupt you,” I continued. “Some religious business, I
suppose? Shall I retire till it is settled?” He looked at me doubtfully;
but Ellen immediately replied--
“Do not go away. Mr. Santley is just leaving.”
Still preserving my _sang froid_, I sat down in one of the garden seats
on the terrace, and opened the book which I had lifted at random from
the drawing-room table. Curiously enough, it was a work which is rather
a favourite of mine, one of Sebastiano’s “Tales in Verse.” I knew the
thing, particularly the passage on which the page had opened, and which,
strange to say, had a certain reference to the present situation.
“Pray proceed with your talk,” I said. “I have something here to amuse
me, till you have done.”
So I sat reading, or pretending to read. I did not even glance up, but
I felt that they were looking uneasily at one another. There was a long
pause. At last I lifted my eyes.
“I’m sure I’m in the way,” I said; and rose as if to go.
“No, no!” cried Ellen, more and more uneasy at my manner, which I’m
afraid was ominous. “We were only discussing some foolish village
matters, on which Mr. Santley wished to have my advice.”
“Very well,” I replied. Then, turning to Santley, I inquired quietly,
“Do you read Spanish?”
He shook his head.
“That’s a pity,” I continued. “Otherwise, you might have been much
amused by this little work, written by a priest like yourself, though
not quite of your persuasion.”
“Is it a tale?” asked Ellen, bending over me.
“Yes; one of old Sebastiano’s ‘Tales in Verse.’ Its author, I may tell
you, was a Castilian monk, who abandoned the Church for the heretical
pursuit of story-writing, and took ‘Sebastiano’ as a pseudonym. The
story I am reading here is considered, by many, his masterpiece. The
verse is assonantic throughout, the subject----”
Here my satyr could not forbear a gesture of impatience and irritation.
“I’m afraid I bore you, sir,” I said, smiling. “Your tastes are not
literary, I fear?”
“I seldom read fiction,” he answered. “I consider it too trivial, and a
waste of time.”
“Do you really think so? I grant you, if the work is not of a truly
moral nature, like the present. As I was going to tell you, the subject
of this story, or tragedy in narrative, is edifying in the extreme.
There was once in Castile a parish priest, an exceedingly handsome
fellow, who, in a moment of impulse, fell deeply in love with a Spanish
lady.”
There was no need to look up now. I felt that they were both fascinated,
not knowing what was to come. Ellen’s hand was on my chair, which
vibrated with the violent beating of her heart.
“Very prettily does Sebastiano describe the course of this amour. The
priest’s first struggles to resist temptation, his frequent fastings and
spiritual purgings, his growing desperation, his final yielding to the
spell. To be brief, he at last spoke to her, avowed his passion, and
flung himself, despairing and imploring, at her feet.”
“And she?” asked Ellen, in a voice so low that I scarcely heard her.
“Oh, the story says but little of her answer, though doubtless it was
to the purpose, as the sequel proves. They understood one another, and
might doubtless have been happy, but for one unfortunate impediment,
which both had forgotten. The lady had--a _husband!_”
Ah, that frightened, beating heart! how it leapt and struggled, as the
little hand still clutched my chair! I just glanced up, and meeting my
gaze, she made an appealing gesture; for she began to understand. As for
him, he stood pale and sullen, scowling at me with his seraphic face,
and as yet imperfectly comprehending.
“A husband!” I repeated, turning over a leaf. “He, poor devil, was an
alchemist, a dreary, doting seeker for the elixir of immortal life, and
they thought him--blind. In this they were mistaken. As the poor flat
flounder on the bottom of the sea, lying half buried and invisible in
the sand and mud, still with its watery jelly of an eye surveys the
liquid welkin overhead, so he, our alchemist, was marking much in
silence. Well, sir, the thing grew, till at last, out of that obscure
laboratory where the dreamer toiled there came a thunderbolt. One fine
morning the lady was found--dead!”
“Dead!”
They both echoed the word involuntarily.
“Yes; but the curious part of the affair has yet to be told. They found
her lying, as if sleeping, in her bed; so sweet, so quiet, so peaceful,
no one in the world would have dreamed that she had been destroyed by a
malignant poison. Such, however, was the case.”
Santley buttoned his coat, and moved nervously towards the door.
“A horrible story!” he said. “I detest these tales of violence and
murder. Besides, though I am not a Roman Catholic, I look upon such
rubbish as a calumny upon the Christian Church.”
I smiled.
“The Church’s history, I am afraid, offers endless corroborations.”
“I do not believe it; and I hold that the Church should be saved from
such attacks.”
“Pardon me,” I persisted; while Ellen’s hand was softly laid upon my
shoulder, as if beseeching me to cease, “the Church may be sacred, but
so, you will admit, is the marriage tie. For myself, I am old-fashioned
enough to sympathize with that poor alchemist, and applaud his
rough-and-ready mode of vengeance.”
“Then you justify a cowardly murder?” he returned, trembling violently.
“But, there, I must really go.”
“Pardon me, I don’t call it murder at all.”
“Not murder?” he ejaculated.
“No, sir; righteous vengeance. Were such a state of things possible
_now_--though, of course, wives are now all pure, and priests all
immaculate--I should recommend the same remedy. What, _must_ you go?
Well, good day; and pray excuse a scholar’s warmth. Actually, as I
discussed that old monkish nonsense, I almost thought it _real_.”
He forced a feeble laugh, and then, with one long look at my wife, and a
murmured “Good afternoon” to us both, retreated through the drawing-room
doors. I sat still, as if intent on my book.
The moment he had gone, Ellen caught me wildly by the arm.
“George! look at me--speak to me!”
“Well?” I said, looking up quietly.
“What does it mean? Why did you tell that wild tale? You did not do it
without a purpose.”
“Certainly not.”
She stood pale as death, clasping her hands together.
“You did not think--you could not, dare not--that----”
“That what, pray?” I demanded coldly, seeing that she paused.
“That you suspect--that you can believe--that----”
She paused again; then she added pleadingly--
“Oh, George, you would never do me such a wrong!”
“I have done you no wrong,” I replied. “You, on the other hand, have
disobeyed me?”
“How?”
“I forbade you to entertain that man in my house.”
“He came unexpectedly. Indeed, indeed, I wish he had not come.”
She looked so pretty and so despairing, that I should have straightway
forgiven her, had I not suddenly called to mind the conversation in the
drawingroom. Women are strange creatures.
At that moment, I am certain she fervently believed that she was
innocent, and I cruel. And yet.... I knew, by her humility and by her
sorrow, that she partially reproached herself for having awakened my
anger.
“Let there be an end to this,” I said. “You must never speak to that man
again.”
“Never speak to him!” she repeated imploringly. “But he is our
clergyman, and if I break with him there will be a scandal. Indeed,
George, he is not as bad as you think him. He is very earnest and
impetuous, but he is good and noble.”
“What! do you defend him?”
She did not reply.
“You must choose between him and me; between the man whom you know to be
a hypocrite, and the man who is your husband. If he comes here again,
I shall deal with him in my own fashion; remember that! I spared him
to-day, because I thought him too contemptible for any kind of violence.
But I know his character, and you know it; that is enough. I shall not
warn you again.”
With these words, I walked to my den. There, once alone, I gave way
to my overmastering agitation. I found myself trembling like a leaf;
looking in a mirror, I saw that I was pale as a ghost.
An hour passed thus. Then I heard a knock at the door.
Enter Baptisto.
“Well, what do you want?” I cried, angrily enough.
Before I knew it he was on his knees, seizing and kissing my hand.
“Senor, I know everything!” he cried. “I have known it all along. That
was why I remained at home when you were away--to watch, to play the
spy. Senor, give me leave! Let me avenge you!”
I shook him off with an oath, for I hated the fellow’s sympathy.
“You fool,” I said, “I want no one to play the spy for me. Stop, though!
What do you mean? What would you like to do?”
In a moment he had sprung to his feet, and flashed before my eyes one of
those long knives that Spaniards carry. His eyes flashed with homicidal
fire.
“I would plunge this into his heart!”
I could not help laughing,--a little furiously.
“Put up that knife, you idiot! Put it up, I say! This is England, not
Spain, and here we manage matters very differently. And now, let me have
no more of this nonsense. Be good enough to go about your business.”
He yielded almost instantly to my old mastery over him, and, with a
respectful bow, withdrew. So ended the curious events of the day. I have
set them down in their order as they occurred. I wonder if this is the
last act of my little domestic drama? If not, what is to happen next?
Well, we shall soon see.
CHAPTER XXIX. HUSH-MONEY.
|Mrs. Haldane had not exaggerated when, in her cross-examination of the
vicar, she had described his intimate friendship to Miss Dove as the
common talk of the parish. There beats about the life of an English
clergyman a light as fierce, in its small way, as that other light
which, according to the poet,=
````”... beats about the throne,
````And blackens every blot!”=
Charles Santley was very much mistaken if he imagined that his doings
altogether escaped scandal. As usual, however, the darkest suspicions
and ugliest innuendoes were reserved for the lady; and before very
long Edith Dove was the subject of as pretty a piece of scandal as ever
exercised the gossips of even an English village.
Now, the thing was a long time in the air before it reached the ears
of the person most concerned. Tongues wagged, fingers pointed, all the
machinery of gossip was set in motion for months before poor Edith had
any suspicion whatever. Gradually, however, there came upon her the
consciousness of a certain social change. Several families with which
she had been on intimate terms showed, by signs unmistakable, their
desire to avoid her visits, and their determination not to return
them. One virtuous spinster, on whom she had expended a large amount of
sympathy, not to speak of tea and sugar, openly cut her one morning at
the post-office; and even the paupers of the village showed in their
bearing a certain lessening of that servility which, in the mind of
a properly constituted British pauper, indicates respect. Things were
becoming ominous, when, late one evening, her aunt boldly broached the
subject.
Edith had taken her hat and cloak, and was going out, when the old lady
spoke.
“Where are you going so late? I hope--not down to the Vicarage?” Edith
turned in astonishment.
“Yes, I am going there,” she replied.
“Then listen to my advice: take off your things and stay at home.”
The tone was so decided, the manner so peculiar, that Edith was
startled in spite of herself. Before she could make any remark, her aunt
continued--
“Sit down and listen to me. I mean to talk to you, for no one has a
better right; and if I can put a stop to your folly, I will. Do you know
the whole place is talking of you--that it has been talking of you for
months? Yes, Edith, it is the truth; and I am bound to say you yourself
are the very person to blame.”
Almost mechanically, Edith took off her hat and threw it on the table.
Then she looked eagerly at her aunt.
“What do they say about me?” she cried.
“They say you are making a fool of yourself; but that is not all. They
say worse--horrible things. Of course I know they are untrue, for you
were always a good girl; but you are sometimes so indiscreet. When a
young girl is always in the company of a young man, even a clergyman,
and nothing comes of it, people will talk. Take my advice, dear, and put
an end to it at once!”
Edith smiled--a curious, far-off, bitter smile. She was not surprised
at her aunts warning; for she had expected it a long time, and had been
rather surprised that it had not come before.
“Put an end to what?” she said quietly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know well enough, Edith.”
“Indeed I do not. If people talk, that is their affair; but I shall do
as I please.”
And she took up her hat again, as if to go.
“Edith, I insist! You shall _not_ go out to-night. It is shameful for
Mr. Santley to encourage you! If you only knew how people talk! You are
not engaged to Mr. Santley, and I tell you it is a scandal!”
Edith flushed nervously, as she replied:--
“There is no scandal, aunt! Mr. Santley----”
“I have no patience with him. In a minister of the gospel, it is
disgraceful.”
“What is disgraceful?”
“The encouragement he gives you, when he knows he has no intention of
marrying you.”
“How do you know that?” said Edith again, with that far-off curious
smile.
“He has not even proposed; you are not engaged? If you were, it would be
different.”
With a quiet impulse of tenderness, Edith bent over her aunt and kissed
her. The old lady looked up in surprise, and saw that her niece’s eyes
were full of tears.
“Edith, what is it? What do you mean?”
“That we have been engaged a long time.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“He did not want it known, and even now it is a secret. You must promise
to tell no one.”
“But why? There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It is his wish,” said the girl, gently.
Then kissing her aunt again, and leaving her much relieved in mind, she
went away, strolling quietly in the direction of the Vicarage. As she
walked, her tears continued to fall, and her face was very sorrowful;
for there lay upon her spirit a heavy shadow of terror and distrust.
With how different an emotion had she, only a year before, flown to meet
the man she loved! How eagerly and gladly, _then_, he had awaited her
coming! And now? Alas, she did not even know if she would find him at
all. Sometimes he seemed to avoid her, to be weary of her company.
All was so changed, she reflected, since the Haldanes came-home to the
Manor. He was no longer the same, and she herself was different. Would
it ever end? Would she ever be happy again?
The shadows of night were falling as she walked through the lanes, with
her eyes sadly fixed on the dim spire of the village church. Close to
a plantation on the roadside, she encountered a woman and a man in
conversation. She recognized the woman at a glance, as Sal Bexley,
the black sheep of the parish, who got her living by singing-from one
public-house to another; and she had passed by without a word, when a
voice called her.
“Here, mistress!”
She turned, and encountered a pair of bold black eyes. Sal, the pariah,
stood facing her, swinging her old guitar and grinning mischievously.
“I’m afraid you’re growing proud, mistress. You didn’t seem to know me.”
There was something sinister in the girl’s manner. Edith drew aside, and
would have passed on without any reply, but the other ran before her and
blocked the way.
“No, you don’t go like that. I want a word with thee, my fine lady. Ah,
you may toss your bead, but you’d best bide a bit, and listen.”
“What do you want? I cannot stay.”
“No call to hurry,” cried Sal, with a coarse laugh. “Thy man’s out, and
don’t expect thee. Belike he’s gone courting some one else. Ah, he’s a
rum chap, the minister, though he do set up for a saint.”
Edith shuddered and shrank back.
“Go away,” she said. “How dare you speak to me like that?”
“Dare? That’s a good one! No, you shan’t pass till I’ve done wi’ thee.”
Edith was getting positively frightened, for the girl’s manner was so
rude and threatening, when she saw a tall figure approaching, and in
a moment recognized the clergyman. He was close to them, and paused in
astonishment at seeing the two together.
“Miss Dove! Is anything the matter? Why are you here, so late, and in
such company?”
He paused, looking suspiciously at Sal, who laughed impudently.
“I was passing by, and she stopped me. Do send her away!”
“Send me away?” cried the pariah. “I’ll come when I please, and I’ll
go when I please. I’m as good as she.” Mr. Santley stepped forward, and
placed his hand on her arm.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were far away.”
“So I were; but I’ve come back. Well?”
“Remember what I told you. I will not have my parish disgraced any
longer by your conduct. I have warned you repeatedly before. Where are
you staying?”
“Down by the river-side, master. I’ve joined the gipsies, d’ye see.”
“Always an outcast,” said Santley, with, a certain gloomy pity. “Will
nothing reform you?”
“No, master,” answered the girl, grinning. “I’m a bad lot.”
“I’m afraid you are.”
“But mind this,” she continued, with some vehemence, “there’s others,
fine ladies too, as bad as me. Though I like a chap, and ain’t afraid
to own it, and though I gets my living anyhow, I’m no worse than my
betters, master. You’ve no cause to bully _me_, so don’t try it on,
master. I can speak when I like, and I can hold my tongue when I like.
Gi’ me a guinea, and I’ll hold my tongue.”
She held out her brown hand, leering up into his face.
“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “I shall give you no money.”
She looked round at Edith, who stood by trembling.
“Tell him he’d best, mistress--for _thy_ sake! Come, it’s worth a
guinea! There’s many a folk hereabouts would gi’ five, to see what I saw
t’other day, down to Omberley wood.”
Edith started in a new terror, while her face flushed scarlet and her
head swam round. Santley winced, but preserving his composure, looked
fixedly and sternly at the outcast.
“You’re a bold hussy,” he said, between his set teeth, “as bold as bad.
But take care! Do you know that if I only say one word, I can have you
up before the magistrates and sent back to prison?”
“What for?” snarled the girl.
“For vagrancy, begging, and threatening a lady on the roadside!”
“A pretty lady. And I bean’t begging, neither. Well, send me to prison,
and when I’m up before the magistrates, I’ll tell’em why you were down
upon me. Come!”
Santley was about to reply angrily, when Edith interposed. Trembling and
almost fainting, she had taken out her purse.
“Here is some money,” she cried; “give it to her and let her go!”
“She does not deserve a farthing,” exclaimed Santley. “Still, if you
wish it----”
“Yes, yes! I--I am sorry for her.”
Santley opened the purse, and took out a sovereign.
“If I give you this, will you promise to go out of the parish?”
“Maybe.”
“And to conduct yourself properly--to turn over a new leaf?”
Sal grinned viciously from ear to ear.
“I take example by you, master, and your young lady there! Leastways,
if I _do_ go a-larking I’ll be like you gentry, and say naught about it.
There, gi’ me the guinea! Stop, though, make it two, and I’ll go away
out o’ Omberley this very night.”
Santley and Edith rapidly exchanged a look, and a second piece of gold
was at once added to the first. Then, after giving Sal a few words of
solemn warning, in his priestly character, Santley walked away with
Edith. The pariah girl watched them until they disappeared; then, with a
low laugh, she rejoined her companion, a one-eyed and middle-aged gipsy,
who, during the preceding scene, had phlegmatically stretched himself on
his back, along the roadside.