|After Edith’s departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought
long and deeply over the mysterious change in his cousin. The more
he thought, the more uneasy he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably
sure--that the girl had got into the hands of, a religious fanatic,
who either consciously or unconsciously was completely destroying
himself, his happiness--in this world at least. She was fairly
possessed by the fever of other worldliness, he said to himself, and
if left alone she would, like many others before her, probably end her
days in a mad house.
Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based
on what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should
not be left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself,
than that he should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a
short visit to the picturesque little village where his aunt and
cousin lived? Surely Edith would be glad to see him, and while he
remained to watch over her, his time would not be entirely lost.
When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the
country, the old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the
unaccountable sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people
had had a quarrel, and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous
enough to make the first advances towards reconciliation. So she
helped him to put a few things together, and on the spur of the moment
he started off.
He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his
coming.
--He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the
last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was
rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would
be judicious of him to go to his aunt’s house at all. To be sure, he
had always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed.
Edith had left his mother’s house to avoid _him_; would it be fair to
either of them that he should become his aunt’s guest? By living in
the house he would force from her a communication which might be very
grudgingly given, and at the same time his lips must be inevitably
sealed. He finally decided that, during the visit at least, it would
be better for every one that he should stay at the inn.
So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap
price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his
relations until the following day.
The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream,
perhaps work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his
sketch-book under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his
aunt’s cottage. When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it
was suddenly opened by Edith, dressed in walking costume.
On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked
manifestly angry.
“Walter, you here?” she said coldly; then she added quickly, “Is
anything the matter at home?”
“Nothing whatever,” said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking
no notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face.
“I got tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the
country might do me good. I am not going to bore _you_. I have brought
my working tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.”
“But where is your luggage?”
“Down at the inn.”
“At the inn?”
“Yes; I had it taken direct there last night. I was fortunate enough,
too, to secure rooms--a capital little parlour fit for a studio, and
a bedroom leading out of it. I shall be able to do the host, and
entertain you, if you’ll come.”
“You are going to stay at the inn?” said Edith. “You always stayed
with _us_ before!”
“Of course I did; but I am not going to be so inconsiderate as to
plant myself upon you _now_.”
He laid the slightest possible stress upon the “now,” and Edith
understood; nevertheless, she deemed it prudent to affect ignorance
and read a different meaning in his words. She murmured something
about being very much occupied, and having little time to attend to
visitors; then led the way across the hall to their sitting-room, and
brought him into the presence of his aunt.
Mrs. Russell welcomed him cordially, but when she heard of his
domestic arrangements, her face went very blank indeed. She used every
argument in her power to persuade the young man to change his mind,
and to have his luggage brought up to the cottage. Walter, eager to
accept her kindness, was listening for one word from Edith. It never
came, and he expressed his intention to remain at the inn.
But, although he abided by his former decision and remained _en
garçon_ at the inn, a very great part of his time was spent at the
cottage. The old lady, anxious to atone for the inhospitable behaviour
of her niece, altered all her household arrangements to suit the
erratic habits of the young painter. The heavy midday meal was
replaced by a light luncheon; while for the light supper at six was
substituted a substantial dinner, to which Walter was always bidden.
On the afternoon of that day, when the young man had first made his
appearance at the cottage, a rather unpleasant interview had taken
place between the aunt and niece, almost the first which had come to
ruffle the peaceful course of their evenly flowing lines. The old
lady had been indignant at the coolness of Edith’s reception, and had
accused the girl of inhospitality and ingratitude; while Edith had
coolly given it as her opinion that the young man was much better
located elsewhere.
“It is a tax to have a visitor always in the house, aunt,” said Edith,
quietly; “and--and I haven’t the strength to bear it, I think.”
Mrs. Russell looked up, and was surprised to find that the girl, after
bearing her reproaches so mildly, was now actually crying. She
noted again, too, with a start of shocked surprise how sadly she had
changed. The fresh, bright beauty which had once charmed every eye
had gone, leaving scarcely a trace behind it, and the face was pale,
careworn, and sad. She got up and kissed her, and that silent caress
did more than a dozen reproaches. It made Edith hurriedly leave the
room, to cast herself, crying bitterly, upon the bed, while Mrs.
Russell sat down and wrote a note to Walter.
“You shall have your own way about staying at the inn,” she wrote,
“and you shall also have every possible hour of the day that you can
make use of for your work; but surely you can spare your evenings for
us. I have arranged to dine every day at six, and I beg of you, for
Edith’s sake, to make one of the party. Dear Edith is far from well,
and sadly changing. She sees so few people, and the house is dull.
Dear Walter, come often, for her sake if not for mine.”
Thus it happened that every night, when the little dining-room was
laid out for dinner, Walter made his appearance at the cottage door,
and that during those evening hours the family party was increased to
three. Sometimes they left the dinner-table to lounge in the pretty
little drawing-room, where Walter was permitted to smoke his cigar,
while the old lady worked at wool-work, and Edith played to them in
the slowly gathering darkness. Sometimes they strolled out on to the
lawn, and had the tea brought out, and laughed and chatted while they
watched the stars appear one by one in the heavens. Was it fancy, or
since these social evenings commenced was Edith really changed’ for
the better? Walter fancied that her eye was brighter, her cheek less
pale, and that her manner towards himself was sometimes very tender,
as if she wished in a measure to atone for her past coldness. This
was particularly noticeable one night when the two sat alone in the
drawing-room.
Mrs. Russell, murmuring something about household affairs, had left
them together. Walter was reclining in an armchair, smoking his cigar
and watching his cousin, who was busily engaged embroidering crosses
upon a handsome altar-cloth, intended for the decoration of the
church.
“These have been pleasant evenings,” he said--“pleasant for me, that
is. I shall be sorry enough when they come to an end.”
Edith looked up and smiled sadly.
“If we always had pleasure it would become a pain,” she said. “Though
we rebel against pain and suffering, it is, after all, a very great
boon to the world.”
“Humph! Perhaps so, if it were better distributed. What about the poor
creatures whose portion is only pain?--who, to put it vulgarly, get
all the kicks, and none of the halfpence?”
“In this world, you should have said, Walter. Let us hope their
measure of happiness will be greater in the world that is to come.”
Walter was silent. The conversation had taken precisely the turn which
he would have avoided, and he was wondering how to bring it to the
subject which was for ever uppermost in his mind. For a time he
remained in a brown study. Edith stitched on. Then he rose, took a few
turns about the room, and stopped near to her chair.
“Edith,” he said quietly, “do you know why I came down here?”
Something in his tone rather than his words made her start and flush
painfully. She did not raise her eyes or cease her work. Before she
could answer, he had taken her hand.
“I came for _you_, Edith,” he continued passionately. “Listen to me,
my darling. Do not answer hastily, if you cannot give me a decided
answer. At least let me hope.”
Decidedly yet tremblingly the girl put his hands from her, and half
rose from her seat. His words had frozen her to ice again.
“Why _did_ you come here?” she said. “Do you call it manly or kind to
persecute me? I tell you I shall never marry.”
As she spoke her eye fell upon the altar-cloth, which she held in her
hand: Walter saw the look, and as he was walking back to the inn that
night it recurred to his mind again. The altar-cloth! There was the
symbol of the thing which had come between them--which was blighting
his life and hers. Edith was changing; but she was not utterly
changed. He resolved to do the only thing which now remained to be
done. He determined to appeal to her spiritual adviser.
All night his mind was filled with this idea; it troubled his sleeping
as well as his waking moments, and when he rose in the morning it
was the one thing which possessed him. Now, he had never seen
the clergyman, but he had pictured him as a middle-aged,
benevolent-looking man, perhaps with spectacles; a gentle fanatic
in religion, willing, through the very bigotry of his nature, to
sacrifice everything for the good of the Church, but still, perhaps,
amiable. He might be open to reason, and an appeal made directly to
him might be the means of putting an end to all the trouble.
Breakfast over, the young man issued from the inn, and strolled
deliberately through the village in the direction of the Vicarage.
It was early in the day to make a call, so he walked very slowly,
meditating as he went on the nature of his errand; and the course he
was about to take, after what had passed between him and his cousin,
was, perhaps, a little unwarrantable, and Edith might be inclined to
resent it if she knew. But then, he reflected, she need never know.
Mr. Santley would surely grant him the favour of keeping the matter
a secret; and afterwards, when the shadow of the Church had ceased to
darken her life, and she was happy with him in her married home, she
would be glad to hear that it was he who had saved her.
These were the kind of rose-coloured visions which filled his brain as
he walked on towards the Vicarage, and by the time he had reached the
hall door and pulled the bell, he had even converted Mr. Santley into
the good fairy of the tale, or rather a sort of Father Christmas, in
a surplice, smiling benevolently upon them and pairing their hands. A
trim little servant came to the door, and, in answer to his inquiries,
informed him that Mr. Santley was not at home. He was expected in
immediately, however, if the gentleman would like to wait.. Yes;
Walter would wait. So he followed the little maid across the hall,
into a somewhat chilly but sufficiently gorgeous room, which was
reserved solely for the comfort and convenience of Mr. Santley’s
guests. As Walter sank down into an easy-chair, the arms of which
seemed to enfold him in a close embrace, and looked about the room, he
acknowledged that Mr. Santley at least did not give all his substance
to the poor. Here at least there was no appearance of penury, or of
sackcloth and ashes; all was comfortable and luxurious in the extreme.
He walked about the room; examined the books upon the tables, which
were all works of education, elegantly bound; noticed the engravings
on the walls--one or two of Raphael’s Madonnas (coloured copies), and
an old engraving after Andrea del Sarto. Mr. Santley did not come. He
rang the bell, gave the little maid his card, told her he would call
again, and left the Vicarage.
This time he walked in the direction of the schoolhouse. He had his
sketchbook under his arm, and in it a half-finished sketch of the
schoolmistress’s picturesque home. He would fill up his spare time by
adding a few touches to the sketch before he returned to the Vicarage.
In this matter fortune favoured him. It being Saturday afternoon,
there was no school, and the schoolmistress was leaning in a listless
attitude upon the low trellised gate. She welcomed the young painter
with a nod and a bright smile, and readily assented to his proposition
that she should stand for the figure in the picture. He took out his
book and set to work.
Dora meanwhile chatted and laughed to make the time pass pleasantly,
and sometimes, in answer to an invitation from him, she would run
round the easel to take a peep at the figure of herself, which was
gradually growing under his hand. At last their pleasant interview
was brought to an end. Walter remembered the appointment which
this chattering lady had made him forget. He put up his sketching
materials, and prepared to take his leave. Then Dora stopped him.
“Surely, Mr. Hetherington, you will do me one favour,” she said: “you
will honour me by stepping for a moment into the cottage which you
have transferred so beautifully to paper. I have some cream and milk,
some fresh strawberries from our garden, if that is any inducement to
you.”
The invitation was tempting. Nevertheless, Walter, while wishing to
accept, was about to refuse, pleading an engagement at the Vicarage
when another voice broke in--
“Good day, Miss Greatheart!” it said.
The schoolmistress smiled, made a prim curtsey, and answered, “Good
day, sir!” Then she waited to see if her visitor had anything more to
say.
The new arrival was a man, and Walter, who was looking at him, thought
he was the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed
as a clergyman, but the cut of his garments-was elegant and eminently
becoming. As his eye fell upon Walter he raised his hat, and
discovered a head beautifully shaped and slightly thinning at the
temples. Walter remained fascinated, staring at the man, who moved
here and there with easy grace, and whose face grew singularly
handsome with every varying expression which flitted across it.
He had not much to say to the schoolmistress; and as he moved away
his hat was again swept off to Walter, and the clergyman’s eyes rested
upon him for a moment with a look one might love to paint in the eyes
of a saint.
Walter turned to Miss Greatheart.
“A handsome fellow,” he said, “--a very handsome fellow; and a
clergyman, I see, by his dress. Who is he? One of Mr. Santley’s
curates, I suppose?”
The schoolmistress stared at him for a moment in amazement.
“One of Mr. Santley’s curates!” she said. “Why, my dear sir, that is
our vicar himself!”