|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.”