|On the morning after Christmas Day, 18--, the Rev. Charles Santley,
vicar of Omberley, rose early from that sweet slumber which only the
righteous enjoy, and from those nightly visions of celestial bliss which
only the pure of heart are suffered to behold. Although, infant-like, he
had been “talking with angels in his sleep” all night, he looked pale,
careworn, and anxious. He dressed himself with unusual care, surveyed
himself again and again in the mirror, sighed softly, and descended
to the sitting-room, where his sister was already awaiting him at the
breakfast-table.
To his surprise, she looked unusually agitated, and addressed him
eagerly the moment he appeared.
“I am so glad you are come down. Rachel has just been here from the
cottage, where they are in a terrible state of alarm.”
Rachel was the name of Miss Russell’s maidservant.
“But what is the matter?”
“Edith went out early yesterday evening, and she has not returned. They
cannot guess what has become of her. Oh, Charles, go over at once! If
anything has happened to her!”
The clergyman listened in no little agitation.
“Did she leave no message?” he asked.
“None. She is such a strange girl; and lately, I am afraid, she has
been, unhappy. I am going down to the station to make inquiries, and
they fancy she may have taken the train to London.”
“It is very strange!”
“Strange? It is horrible! Oh, Charles, she has never been quite the same
since her cousin came down here visiting. I thought that you were
her choice, and I hoped you would some day marry her; but since young
Hetherington was here----”
Santley, who had broken a little bread and drunk a cup of tea, rose
impatiently.
“You women think of nothing but marrying and giving in marriage,” he
said. “Well, I will go over and speak to Miss Russell. I cannot think
that any harm has happened to Edith.”
“I hope and pray not. But to be-away all night--it is unaccountable.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Santley, more troubled than he cared to show, “she
has gone to London.”
“But why go without a word?”
“I really cannot tell. Young ladies-take strange fancies; and if, as you
suggest, there is anything between young Hetherington and herself----”
“I did not suggest anything of the kind.”
“Excuse me, Mary, you did.”
“I am sure she cares nothing for her cousin,” returned Miss Santley.
Her brother shrugged his shoulders, and, putting on his hat and
overcoat, walked out of the Vicarage. On reaching the open air, where
all looked dark and cold, he trembled like a leaf. What could it mean?
What last freak had come over the infatuated girl? Could it be possible
that she had carried out her wild threat to leave the place, and take
her secret with her--perhaps to some nameless grave? He remembered their
last conversation, when she had first told him of her condition, and
beseeched him at once to make her his wife. He remembered how wild she
had seemed, how despairing, and of how little avail, to calm her, his
words had been. If any harm had come to her, the evil lay at his door.
It was horrible to think of! Although another woman had come between
them, although he no longer loved her with that wild frenzy which had
first urged him to evil, he had still a conscience, and he could not
bear to think that any harm had come to her. Then, again, he shuddered
at the thought of any exposure. He had meant to marry her, sooner or
later; and he had already made arrangements to’ hide from the world, any
knowledge of her condition. She was to have gone away to a secret place;
and then, when her travail was over, he had meant to act honourably by
her. And now, by some act of madness, she had perhaps put it out of his
power! Surely, if she had gone away in accordance with the plan they had
made together, she would have sent him some intimation of her purpose.
It was extraordinary, altogether.
On reaching the cottage, he found Miss Russell in violent grief, and
quite bewildered what to do. He tried to console her, pointing out that
perhaps some little lover’s quarrel with her cousin had taken her niece
up to town; and the old lady listened eagerly, hoping against hope.
‘“Of late she has been so strange,” sobbed the old lady, “so unlike
herself. Often, listening at her door o’ nights, I have heard her crying
as if her heart was like to break; and she would never tell me what was
the matter. Do you think--do you really think, sir, it was her cousin
Walter?”
“I am almost certain of it,” said the good shepherd. “Did they
correspond?”
“I think so--sometimes; but latterly they were estranged. Oh dear! Oh
dear!”
“Depend upon it, she has gone to London to see him. You will no doubt
have a letter from her in the course of the day. Keep up your spirits!
Miss Dove is a good young lady, and I am sure God will protect her. Is
there anything more that I can do for you?”
“It was so kind of you to come,” said the poor soul. “Your words are
indeed a comfort.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. Your dear niece was always a favourite of
mine.”
“Oh, sir, I know that; and sometimes I thought---- But there, it’s no
time to talk of that _now_. If she had only gone to you for advice, you
would have guided her for her good, and this would never have happened.
She was always pious-minded, but latterly, I’m afraid, she didn’t go to
church as often as she ought.”
“Don’t say that, Miss Russell. She was most regular in her religious
duties--a pattern, indeed, to all my flock. There, there! I feel
satisfied there is no cause for alarm. I will go myself and make every
inquiry.”
“Oh, sir, you are an angel!” cried the old lady, looking at him in
admiration. And she really meant what she said.
“Alas! no,” he answered, shaking his head solemnly--“only a poor
miserable sinner. We are all miserable sinners. Good morning. Put your
trust in God.”
“I do indeed, sir. But, sir, before you go, may I ask you a favour?”
“Certainly.”
“If you would kindly kneel down with me a moment, and say a prayer for
my poor girl, I think it might help to bring her back. The Lord hears
the prayers of the righteous, Mr. Santley.”
Thus entreated, Santley could not refuse. To do him justice, he felt
no little moral nausea at the proposal; but he was helpless under the
circumstances. So they knelt down in the parlour together, and the
good man extemporized a short but eloquent prayer for the occasion,
entreating the Lord to bring back the stray lamb to the fold, and
beseeching a blessing then and for ever on all that house. Miss Russell
wept profusely. His words were so beautiful, his voice so musical, his
manner so seraphic. At last he rose to his feet, looking pale and almost
scared at a proceeding which (to his own conscience) looked something
like blasphemy; and then, amidst profuse blessings from the distracted
old lady, he respectfully took his leave.
While on his way to make inquiries in the village, he met his sister
returning. She had discovered nothing, save that several persons had
gone on to London by the midnight train the previous night, and that one
of them was a lady who _might_ have been Miss Dove. There was nothing
for it but to wait out the day, and see if any communication came. In
the mean time Miss Santley said she would hasten up to the cottage, to
condole and consult with Mrs. Dove.
“Shall you be in to lunch?” she asked, as they parted on the roadside.
“No; not till evening. I think I shall walk over to Lewstone, to see
about some books. I will make inquiries on the way, in case Edith has
gone in that direction.”
Lewstone was a small county town, seven miles off, where there was
a library, a newspaper, and a great brewery. The way to it lay past
Foxglove Manor. Santley did not care to tell his sister that he had
an appointment with Mrs. Haldane for that morning. He knew that Miss
Santley regarded with some anxiety her brother’s relations with the
handsome lady of the Manor. Much as she admired him, and great as was
her faith in his spiritual purity, she knew him sufficiently well to be
aware that his weak point was his admiration for beauty in the opposite
sex. Not for a moment did she dream--indeed, she would have supposed
the idea as almost blasphemous--that that admiration was not perfectly
harmless and honourable; but it led him, she thought, to take delight in
feminine society generally, and to overlook the attractions of the woman
she wanted him to marry. He would marry some day--it was inevitable; and
she had made up her mind that he was to marry Edith, who was her friend,
and would doubtless allow her to keep her place at the Vicarage, whereas
another woman a stranger, might take possession of him and resent all
sisterly interference.
“Shall you call at the Manor as you pass?” she inquired.
“I think so; I am not quite sure.”
“Perhaps it will be better,” she said, thoughtfully. “They may know
something about Edith.”
The sun was now high up in the heavens, but deeply veiled in wintry
cloud. It was a dark, dismal day-darkness in the sky and whiteness on
the ground. The road which led to the Manor was unusually cheerless and
dismal, and few people were abroad. Before long Santley came into the
shadow of the Manor woods, which skirted one side of the highway for
several miles. It was a gloomy walk.
Nevertheless, Santley soon forgot his anxiety, in the prospect of a
meeting with Ellen Haldane. He had been greatly troubled the previous
Christmas Day, by the fact that she had not put in an appearance at
church; but her message, making the appointment, which had been duly
conveyed to him by Baptisto had filled him with eager expectation. It
was the first time she had actually desired him to come to her, and
his hopes rose high. Perhaps his devotion had at last moved her heart;
perhaps she had at last discovered that true happiness was only to be
found, not with her heretic husband, but with the man whom she had loved
when a girl. In the eyes of the world, there might be wickedness in
tempting her from her wifely duty; but surely, in the eyes of heaven,
there was no great sin. By living on with an unbeliever, she was in
danger of losing her soul alive. The man was admittedly an atheist,
an enemy of the Church, and she was wretched in his society, without
sympathy, without conservation, without religion. And on one point the
clergyman’s mind was now made up. If Ellen was willing, he would take
her with him to some foreign land, where he might labour in some way
useful to the Lord, and forget all the petty humiliations of an English
village. There might be, there would be, a scandal; but what need they
care, when they were far away? In any case, scandal was likely to come,
now that Edith Dove was in so sad a predicament. No; after all, he would
not marry Edith. She was a foolish girl, and would soon find a more
suitable husband; and whether or not, he had long ago discovered that
they were not at all suited to each other.
Thus musing, Santley drew nearer and nearer to the Manor gates.
From the glimpse we have given of his thoughts, it may be gathered that
the man’s moral deterioration was at last complete. What had been at
first a mere religious amorousness, a soft sensuous delight in female
sympathy and female beauty, much the same as that which filled him
when the organ played, and the scented incense rose, and the
dainty congregation fluttered and flushed beneath him, had
gradually developed, through self-indulgence, into a determined and
uncontrollable sensuality. The devil, with a bait of warm nakedness,
had hooked him fast. And already, in his own heart, he knew that he was
lost; and so long as he reached the summit of his desires, he did not
care. One sign of his degeneration was unmistakable: he had lost
for ever his old faith in the chastity and purity of women. He could
remember the time, not long past, when a beautiful woman was to him a
spiritual thing, something sanctified, to be approached with awe--such
as fills the worshipper who gazes on the Madonna of some great painter.
Now he often found himself gazing on the Madonnas in his own study, with
a satyr’s delight in their plumpness, their naked arms, their swelling
breasts. His nature was subdued to what it worked in, like the dyer’s
hand. His easy conquest over Edith Dove, whose sin was in loving so
madly and so much, had degraded his whole nature. Once having snapped
the chain of conventional morality, which is the only band to bind such
men as this, he was reckless and exultant; and to possess Ellen Haldane,
in her superb beauty and glowing womanhood, was his daily thought and
his nightly dream.
This is speaking plainly, but it is a simple statement of the fact. As
for the ultimate consequence of his acts, he was quite unable to realize
them, having lost the power of reason and self-control.
He approached the lodge. How cold and chill it looked, in the darkness
of the overhanging, snow-clad boughs! He put on his stereotyped smile,
expecting to see little Mrs. Feme step out, as was her custom, and drop
him a country curtsey. But the lodge seemed empty that morning.
He passed through the side gate, which was unfastened, and stepped into
the avenue--the long, dreary colonnade of trees, a mile long, winding up
to the steps of the Manor house. Glancing up it, he fancied he saw in
the distance the figure of a man, looking his way; but in another moment
it was gone.
Bleak, lonely, and inexpressibly dismal looked the avenue, with its
white road of snow between the dark trees, and the one dark figure of
the clergyman slowly advancing. The gloom of the place seemed to settle
upon his spirit, and to dispel it he quickened his footsteps.
Suddenly, he heard from the distance a low, deep sound, like the tolling
of a church bell.
He started, listening, and at first he could not believe the evidence of
his ears. There was no church near, and the sound seemed unaccountable
and strangely ominous. After a pause, slow as the drawing of a deep,
long breath, it was repeated.
Toll! toll!
Santley was by nature a superstitious man, and, though no coward, he was
terrified. What could it mean? It was like a funeral bell, tolling for
the dead. Listening attentively, he found that the sound came down the
avenue, and that at every step he took it was more plainly heard. He
hastened on, with increasing wonder and alarm.
Toll! toll! toll!
Yes, there could be no mistake--it was the tolling of a bell. Hollow and
faint, yet filling the dark silence, it fell upon the wintry air. There
was no stir in the shrouded woods, which closed dismally on every side;
no answer from the dull, leaden, brooding sky--only the dull, dreadful,
dreary peal, like a chime from the very gates of the tomb.
It was horrible.
He advanced, coming ever nearer to the sound, and at last, to his
amazement, he discovered from whence it came. At a turning of the
avenue, he came in full view of the ruined chapel, and, looking up to
the naked belfry, he saw the old bell slowly swinging, while giving
forth that solemn, melancholy peal.
Toll! toll! toll! with measured intervals, just as those which are
counted when the bell rings for the dead.
Shocked and surprised, Santley hurried up to the chapel door, and looked
in. Standing in the doorway was Baptisto, dressed from head to foot in
solemn black, holding the rope, and with face turned upward, leisurely
ringing the bell.