|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.