|The night had passed away, and the chilly light of dawn creeping into
Edith’s; room, found her quietly sleeping. During that night, when the
full horror of her situation had flashed for the first time upon her,
she had passed through hours of agony similar to those which have turned
pretty brown hair grey; then, overcome by a sense of thorough mental
exhaustion, she had laid her head upon the pillow and slept.
She slept long and soundly.
When she opened her eyes she saw that it was broad daylight; indeed, the
day was well spent, for her aunt, after tapping gently at her door and
receiving no reply, had determined not to disturb her rest.
Her first feeling on opening her eyes was one of pleasure, such
pleasure as is felt by a young matron, when the knowledge of approaching
maternity first dawns upon her; but this feeling was only momentary, and
was succeeded in this case by one of intense mental pain.
She lay for a time, thinking of the past, and trying to penetrate the
future. She recalled her interviews with Santley; the last interview
which had taken place only the night before. She remembered with
pleasure the promise he had made, and she tried to think that all would
yet be well. Yes, even when he knew nothing, he had yielded to her
solicitations; and as soon as he _knew_--for of course at their next
meeting she must tell him--he would not hesitate for a single day. He
had a double duty now: not only had he to save her reputation, he had
to think of the future of his child. He had said that he would think
it over; that the next day, this very day, she should hear from him. He
would appoint a meeting, then when she saw him, if he still hesitated,
she would tell him, and he would hesitate no longer.
All that day Edith remained in the house, pale, silent, but expectant.
At every sound she started and looked anxiously towards the door; but
Mr. Santley made no sign. At last, disappointed and heart-broken, she
went up to bed.
Several days passed thus. Edith fearing to cross the threshold,
shrinking in horror at the thought of meeting any of her
fellow-creatures, moved about the house in pale, sad silence; expectant
sometimes’, at others crying her heart out in sickening despair. The
suspense was terrible; and terrible too was the thought of having to
bear her secret sorrow entirely alone. If she could only see him, tell
him, feel his passionate kiss, and hear his whispered words of comfort,
her trouble, she thought, would be lightened by one half. Never had she
needed him so much; yet never, she thought, had she seemed so utterly
alone.
And with this hopeless dread upon her, this sense of mental agony which
seemed to be wearing her very life away, she waited and waited for the
words which never came.
At last she felt she could wait no longer. Since it was evident he
did not: intend to send to her, she determined to send to him. So she
wrote--
“For Heaven’s sake come to me. I must see you at once. Charles, for
both! our sakes, do not neglect my request:--
“Edith.”
It was a mad letter to write, and at another time Edith would not have
written it; but now her trouble seemed to be turning her brain. She
determined to trust it to no hands but her own; so, having written and
sealed it, she put on her hat and cloak to take it to the post.
It was the first time she had been out! since that night when she
had fainted: upon her bedroom floor, and nothing but a sense of utter
desperation would have forced her from the house even now. For she felt
as if her secret was known to all the world; that curious eyes looked
questioningly into hers, and honest faces turned from her; and that by
one and all she was left to walk along her troubled path alone.
It was not late in the afternoon, but the time for long bright evenings
had long since passed away. Though the church clock had not long struck
five, darkness was coming on, and a keen north wind was blowing. Edith,
who was thickly veiled and well wrapped up in a large fur cloak, walked
quickly as if to keep herself warm. She reached the village, slipped
her letter into the post, then hurriedly turned to retrace her steps
homewards. She had accomplished about half the distance, and was walking
very hurriedly, when suddenly she stopped, and her heart gave a great
bound. There in the road, quietly walking towards her, was Mr. Santley.
Edith stood for a moment, feeling almost suffocated through the quick
beating of her heart; then, with the wild impetuosity of a child, she
ran forward and, seizing his hand, exclaimed--
“Oh, I am glad, so very, very glad that I have met you! Oh, Charles!
Charles! how could you leave me so long alone?”
Santley, utterly taken aback by this wild exhibition of feeling, stared
at the girl in calm amazement; then he said impatiently, shaking her
hands away--
“Edith, how many more times am I to tell you that these violent scenes
of yours will be my ruin!”
But this time Edith was not to be cowed. She said--
“I cannot help it, Charles. You bring it on yourself by breaking every
promise that you make to me.”
“Every promise? What promise? What have I done now?”
Edith looked up at him, her tearful eyes full of amazement as she said--
“Do you not remember? Have you really forgotten, dear, the last time we
were together I asked you to do me justice--to reward my long patience
by making me your wife? You said, ‘I will think of it. Yes, I think I
will do as you wish, and I will let you know tomorrow.’ Well, Charles,
to-morrow never came. I waited and waited, and you never sent a word.
At last I could wait no longer. I have just been down to the village to
post a letter, asking you to come to me.”
The clergyman’s brow darkened ominously, and a very angry light shone in
his handsome eyes.
“It is ridiculous!” he exclaimed.
“Edith, you have no more reasoning power than a child. Why could you not
have waited? A matter like that required serious deliberation; it could,
not be decided in a day.”
In point of fact, he had never once deliberated over the matter at all.
Having comfortably got rid of Edith that night, he had dismissed both
the girl and the subject of their conversation entirely from his mind.
It was not necessary to tell her this, however. So when, after waiting
to hear more from him, she asked quietly, “Have you considered, Charles?
Have you decided?” he answered--
“Yes. After thinking of it very deeply, and after having considered it
from every point of view, I have decided it would be much better for
us-both--to wait!”
She started, and the hand which lay on his arm trembled violently.
“No; you have not decided--that!” she exclaimed in a sort of gasp.
“I am not in the habit of lying to you, Edith.”
The girl clung piteously to his arm.
“No, no; I did not mean that,” she exclaimed. “But if you have decided
so, you will change your mind, dear, will you not? I have been very
patient. I have waited and waited, because you wished it, dear; but now
it is different. I can wait no longer!”
“I tell you, Edith, it will be better--for us both!”
“Charles, Charles!” exclaimed the girl piteously, trembling more and
more, “we have others besides ourselves to think of. We must not, dare
not, injure an innocent life which never injured us. If you will not
repair the wrong which you have done to me, you must think of--of--the
child!”
She lowered her head as she spoke, and hid her face on his bosom.
There was silence. Then Santley spoke.
“Is this so, Edith?”
“Yes, dear; it is so!”
Again there was silence. Edith, trembling and almost happy, with her
blushing face still hidden on his bosom, was waiting for him to bring
her comfort, by gathering her fondly to his heart. But she waited in
vain. The cold hands scarcely touched her shoulder; and the lovely eyes,
gazing over her head, were fixed on vacancy. He was not thinking of her.
Indeed, for the moment, he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence.
As usual, he was thinking of himself, wondering what, in this extremely
unpleasant emergency, it would be better for him to do. The news was
not altogether startling to him. It was an event which, under existing
circumstances, might reasonably have been expected; but hitherto it had
not been of sufficient importance to trouble the clergyman’s thoughts.
“Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,” had hitherto been his
motto; consequently, for the moment he felt as if a mine had suddenly
sprung beneath his feet. So when Edith raised her head, and asked
tearfully, “Are you very angry, Charles?” he answered coldly, almost
irritably--
“You cannot expect me to be pleased, Edith. But there is no use in
talking about that. What we must discuss is, what is the next thing to
be done?”
What was best to be done? It seemed to Edith there was only one thing
that could be done, and she said so, quietly and firmly. But Santley,
frowning ominously, positively shook her in his irritable impatience.
“Always harping on the one string!” he exclaimed angrily; “and yet I
tell you it is impossible.”
“But why is it impossible?”
“There are a dozen reasons why I cannot marry you just now.”
“Then what am I to do? Am I to be publicly disgraced and brought to
shame? Is my whole life to be ruined because of my love for you? Oh, it
is cruel, and piteously unjust!”
“Edith, will you listen to reason? Will you have patience?”
“Will I have patience?” repeated the poor girl. “Have I not had
patience? And my forbearance is well-nigh gone; I cannot bear it.
Charles, think for a moment of what all this means to me, and have some
pity.”
“Edith, will you listen to me?”
“Yes. Speak; I will listen,” she returned wearily, trying to stifle the
sobs which almost choked her.
“If you will only control your violence and be guided by me, there need
be no disgrace in the matter--either to you or to me. No one knows of
this; no one need know. All you have to do is to remain quietly at home
until a further concealment of the truth would be impossible; then you
will leave home, as you have done before, to visit your friends. Once
free of the village, you will go to a place which I shall have found for
you; and, afterwards, return home.”
She listened quietly while he spoke. When he ceased, she said nothing.
Presently he said--
“Edith, have you been listening?”
“Yes; I have heard.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think,” returned the girl, in a voice of utter and hopeless
despair--a voice which would have rent the heart of any man but this
one, “I think, Charles, that your love for me, if it ever existed, is
dead and buried. I think, nay, I am quite sure, that you have decided
never to make me your wife.”
“This is folly.”
“Charles, it is the truth. If you had any love, any feeling for me, you
would not, could not, speak as you have done to-night. If you meant to
make me your wife, you would not subject me to such utter shame.”
The clergyman entirely lost his self-command. He uttered an exclamation,
and impatiently freed himself from her touch.
“Your shame,” he said; “your disgrace--it is always that. But what of
me? Have I no caste to lose? You talk of my love, but what of yours? If
it exists, does it fill you with the least consideration for me? If you
talk like this, you will make me wish that we had never met.”
“How much better it would have been for me!”
“You think so? Thank God, it is not too late to part.”
“But it is too late!” cried the girl, wildly. “I tell you, it is too
late for me!”
“But it is not too late for me,” said. Santley, between his set teeth.
“Charles, what do you mean? Answer me, for God’s sake. Will you not make
me your wife?”
“No.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, without a tremor of the voice, the
pitiless-word was spoken. The girl staggered back, and clasped her hands
to her head.’ It was as if a bullet had entered her brain. With a
wild cry, she stretched forth her hands towards him, but he pushed her
roughly away.
“You heard what I said. I mean it. You yourself have opened my eyes, and
I see. If I can help you as--as your pastor, I will do so; but I cannot,
I will not, make a sacrifice of my whole life. You always know where to
find me. I repeat, I shall always be glad to give you such assistance as
a clergyman can give.”