|It was now Walters turn to look amazed.
“That Mr. Santley!” he said. “Why, he is quite a young man!”
“Of course he is--and handsome as good, and good as handsome. But
won’t you come in, Mr. Hetherington, and have some refreshment? It is
two hours quite since you opened out your sketch-book at the gate!”
This time Walter accepted her invitation, and followed her into the
quaint little parlour, where most of her days were spent. The little
maid who attended to the house had got a holiday with the children,
and Dora was left to attend to herself that day. Walter was glad of
it, since he was left free to sit by the window and follow the train
of his thoughts, while Dora busied herself spreading the snowy cloth
upon the table, and setting forth her simple fare. When it was ready,
he came to the table and ate some strawberries and drank some milk,
thinking all the while of Mr. Santley. Presently he spoke of him.
“You have known Mr. Santley some time, Miss Greatheart?” he said.
“I was schoolmistress here when he came.”
“He is a very good man, you said?”
“Yes, indeed. But it stands to reason that a man with Mr. Santley’s
gifts must be very good indeed not to get spoiled. In justice to at
least half of his congregation, he ought to marry.”
“Why, pray?”
“Why? If he had arrived here with a wife, many a young girl in the
village would have been saved a severe heartache. He is a prize in the
matrimonial lottery well worth striving for. He is idolized by every
female in the village. Now, it is certain he cannot marry them all,
and on the day when the happy one is chosen, fancy the hearts that
will break!”
“Yours amongst the number?”
“No, sir; I am happy to say I am free. But I take no credit to myself
on that account. If I had been idle like some of the young ladies
here, there might have been another victim added to the list; but I
have so much to do in the school, I have no time to think about the
vicar,” she added. “Have you heard him preach, Mr. Hetherington?”
“No, not yet.”
“Ah, you must go to the church tomorrow. He speaks magnificently, and
looks a picture in his robes; besides, his sister, Miss Santley, told
me he will wear for the first time to-morrow a new surplice and a
magnificent embroidered band, which has been worked for him by Miss
Dove!”
At the mention of his cousin’s name Walter felt his face flush and
his heart leap; but he made no direct reply. He went on eating his
strawberries, and turned his face to the open window, as he said--
“What have you made for him, Miss Greatheart?”
“I? Oh, nothing! He has so many beautiful presents from the young
ladies in the village that he has no need of them from me, even if I
had the time to make them, which I have not; all day I am teaching in
the school, and all the evening I am busy preparing lessons for the
following day.”
“Have you always lived here?”
“Not always. My mother was a prison matron at Preston, and we
lived together until she died, several years ago; then, through the
influence of some friends, I got this place, and have lived here ever
since!”
“Working and striving,” added Walter; “finding pleasure in things
which to some would mean only trouble and irritation. During the
holidays do you ever come to London, Miss Greatheart?”
“No; I generally remain here.”
“From choice?”
“Not at all. I should like a change; but then, to go alone to a city
where you have no friends, and to parade crowded streets alone, is a
holiday which I should not enjoy.”
Walter rose to go.
“You will come back and finish the sketch on Monday, perhaps?” said
Dora.
“I shall be glad to; I should like, above all, to finish the figure
leaning on the gate.”
“Then you must come in the evening. I promise to give you an hour
after school hours.”
Then Walter shook hands with her and left, taking the way to the inn
instead of to the Vicarage. He would make no appeal to the clergyman.
The sight of Mr. Santley, so different to the benevolent, elderly
gentleman of his imagination, had decided him on that point; it had
also brought with it other trouble, for it threw an entirely new light
on Edith’s religious fervour.
Was it, then, the man or the church, infatuation or fanaticism? He
asked himself the question for the first time. Was Edith among the
mass of simple girls who were breaking their hearts for his sake?
Probably. It remained now for him to watch her, and ascertain the
truth.
He went up to the cottage that evening, and regarded Edith with quite
a new light in his eyes. She also seemed changed. Her manner was
restless and ill at ease; her cheek was flushed. All through the
dinner she scarcely touched any food, but glanced furtively at her
aunt and cousin.
When the dinner was over, they all retired to the drawing-room as
usual.
Here Ediths restlessness asserted itself more strongly. Instead of
sitting quietly to her work, as was her usual custom, she flitted
restlessly about the room. Presently she declared that she had a
terrible headache, and wished her cousin “good night.”
“I have been trying to bear it,” she said, “but it gets worse instead
of better. You will excuse me for to-night, Walter, will you not?”
As he took her hand and held it for a moment in his, he felt that it
was trembling and very hot. He scarcely believed in the headache,
but he deemed silence the most prudent course; so he wished her “good
night” without more ado.
Her aunt rose to go with her to her room, but permission to do so was
firmly refused.
“You will stay and keep Walter company, or else you will make me
regret I did not bear the pain without a word. Indeed, dear aunt, all
I want is rest and quietness. I shall be quite well to-morrow.”
So she went. Mrs. Russell sat down again to her wool-work, and Walter
subsided into his chair.
There was not much talking done after that, and Walter, as soon as his
cigar was finished, rose to take his leave. The old lady looked at him
tenderly and sadly, but she said nothing. Instinct had told her
the true state of, things between the cousins; she was sorry, but
helpless. It would be better, she thought to herself, if the poor
boy would resign a useless courtship, since Edith had evidently no
affection to give, and take to himself some pretty little wife who
would make his home happy.
He did not return directly to the inn, but with head bent in deep
thought he strolled on, he knew not whither. He was wondering whether
or not this hopeless quest should end. If Edith had deceived him--if,
indeed, it was the man, and not religion, which held the girl so
entranced--why, then his task of regeneration would surely be a very
difficult one. It was strange, he thought, that Edith, knowing his
mistake, should have allowed it to remain. He had repeatedly spoken
to her of Mr. Santley as an elderly man; and, although she knew the
truth, she had never corrected him. It looked black, very black; the
more he thought over it, the more complicated matters became.
He had been so engrossed in his own thoughts, that he had been almost
unaware of his own actions. He was only conscious of strolling idly
on and on, he knew not in what direction. Suddenly he paused, looked
helplessly about him; then took a few stealthy steps forward, and
paused again. Where he was he did not know. The night had grown quite
dark and chilly, for heavy, rain-charged clouds were covering both
stars and moon. But his quick ear had detected what his eyes could not
at first perceive--the close neighbourhood of two figures in earnest
conversation--a man and a woman. The darkness shrouded their figures,
but the breeze brought to him the sound of their voices. Walter hated
to play the spy, yet for once in his life his feet refused to move.
For he had recognized one of the voices as belonging to his cousin
Edith.
Yes, the voice was Ediths.
Having wished her aunt and cousin “good night,” she had hastened to
her room and locked the door; but instead of throwing herself on the
bed, she had lit the candles, sat down near the dressing-table, drawn
forth a letter from her pocket, and begun to read.
The letter was as follows:--
“My dear Miss Dove,
“I am very sorry to hear that you have been suffering. You will find
what you require at Dr. Spruce’s surgery. You are right about the
time--nine o’clock will do very well.
“Yours faithfully,
“Charles Santley.”
This letter had come through the post in the ordinary way. It had been
handed to Edith in the morning; and the very sight of it had sent
the hot blood coursing through her veins, and kept her in a state of
feverish excitement the whole day. It was the knowledge of this piece
of paper in her pocket which had rendered her so uneasy during the
dinner; it was the knowledge of this letter also which had caused
her excitement after dinner, and which finally had made her wish her
cousin a hasty “good night.” And now, as she read it again, the flush
remounted to her cheeks and her heart beat pleasantly. She had not
seen Santley alone since that Sunday morning, nearly a week past,
when the two had parted in anger--an anger which to Edith meant utter
misery and prostration. And now, at the eleventh hour, he had written
to her appointing a meeting, and she was ready to fly to him with open
arms.
She sat for some time looking at the letter, reading it over and over
until she knew every word of it by heart; then she kissed it, returned
it to her pocket, opened the window, and looked out. It was a cloudy
but fine night, and the welcome darkness was gathering quickly.
If it would only rain, she thought, they would be sure to have the
road to themselves in that case; and for herself, why, what did it
matter so long as she felt her lovers arms about her again, and knew
that he was true? But now her first care was to effect her escape
stealthily from the house. She had decided upon her course of action;
the great difficulty which remained was to carry it through. She
hastily put on her walking boots, took up a cloak of sombre colour,
fastened it round her, drew the hood over her head, and stood ready to
set forth to the place of meeting--which she knew, by old experience,
well.
She opened her bedroom door and listened. She could hear nothing.
Perhaps her cousin was gone, perhaps he was still sitting in the
drawingroom, quietly smoking his cigar. In any case, it seemed, she
need not fear interruption; the way was clear. She hastily blew out
her candles, locked her door, and slipped the key into her pocket;
then noiselessly descending the stairs, she left the house unseen.
In the garden she hesitated, curious to know what they could all be
doing; so she crept round the house and peeped in at the drawing-room
window. Walter was still there, but he stood near the door, holding
his aunts hand, and evidently taking his leave. Edith turned, and
without more ado fled quickly in the darkness.
Even as Edith was leaving the cottage, Santley was already at the
meeting-place, walking with impatient strides up and down the lonely
lane selected for their interview, and wondering as every minute
passed away why Edith did not come.
A week’s reflection, and the frequent sight of Edith’s pale, careworn
face when they met in public, had brought him to this pass. He saw
that she was suffering, and for the sake of what she had been to
him he felt really sorry. Besides, he looked at the matter
philosophically, and he asked himself, why _should_ they quarrel?
After all, she had been very patient and forbearing; and for that
little fit of jealousy about Mrs. Haldane she had been sufficiently
punished.
But perhaps there was another and a stronger motive for this sudden
wish for a meeting and a reconciliation. So long as this absurd
quarrel continued, it was evident Edith had no intention of visiting
the Vicarage; and this fact alone subjected him to a series of
unpleasant questions from his sister. Santley therefore decided that
it would be better for him in every possible way to send the letter,
which would be certain to effect a reconciliation.
“Is it you, Edith? Quick! Is it you?”
His quick ear had caught the rustle of her dress on the grass. Even as
the words left his lips came the eager answer.
“Yes, Charles; I have come!” And the girl, forgetting all their
quarrels, leapt with a glad cry into his arms.
For a time no words were spoken. After that one cry of joy, Edith
had laid her head upon his shoulder and sobbed as if her heart would
break. At this manifestation of hysteria, Santley was not altogether
pleased; but he could say nothing, so he clasped his arms firmly about
her, and tried to soothe her sorrow. When at last Edith lifted her
head from his shoulder he kissed her lips, and whispered to her so
gently that the girl’s heart beat as gladly as it had done the first
day that words like these had been spoken.
“There, there,” said the good man, kissing her again, and patting her
head like that of a spoilt child. “You are better now, my darling; and
remember you must not quarrel with me again. You were breaking your
little heart for nothing at all.”
Part of the girls emotion had communicated itself to him; and for
the time being, while he stood there holding her to him, feeling
her breath upon her cheek, her clinging arms about his neck, he felt
almost as passionately disposed as he had done the first day that
he told her of his love. As for Edith, a serene happiness and
peace seemed to enter into her soul. They stood thus for some time,
exchanging whispered words and fond embraces; then the clergyman told
her she had better go. A spot or two of rain had fallen, and the sky
was clouding over as if for a storm.
“Will you play the organ to-morrow, Edith?” he asked, as they moved
away together.
“Yes, if you wish it.”
“I do wish it, Edith; for when you are playing, it seems as if you
were helping me with my work.”
Sweet words! She said nothing, but the hand which lay in his pressed
his fondly, and he knew that she was pleased.
“And will you come to the Vicarage to-morrow afternoon, and have tea
with us? I shall be so glad if you will!”
He did not add that his sister, wondering all the week at Edith’s
non-appearance, had threatened repeatedly to call at the cottage, when
she would doubtless have elicited something of the truth.
“No, I cannot come!” she said; “my cousin, Walter Hetherington, is
staying in the village, and so long as he remains here he is to spend
the evenings with us. As to-morrow is Sunday, and no work can be done,
my aunt has invited him up for the day.”
Santley was relieved, very much relieved indeed. He could now give his
sister a tangible reason for Edith’s absence from the Vicarage, while
he himself would be perfectly free to spend the afternoon with Mrs.
Haldane. He tried, to suppress the delight which he could not help
feeling, and said quietly, “Let us hope the young man will make a
speedy departure, if he means to monopolize you so much. But that
reminds me, Edith, a young man, a Mr. Walter Hetherington, called upon
me to-day and left his card. I suppose it is the same?”
“Of course it is,” returned Edith. “But what could he want with
_you?_”
“I don’t in the least know. Nothing of very great importance, I
suppose, since he promised to call again, and never reappeared.”
The clergyman paused.
They had come now to within a short distance of Edith’s home. Again,
after a furtive look round, he clasped her fondly to him, pressed her
lips, and murmured, “Good night, my Edith!”
“Good night,” returned the girl, withdrawing herself reluctantly
from his embrace. “Oh, I am so happy now! You were quite right, dear;
another week like the last would have broken my heart!”
Thus they parted--Edith, happy as a child, creeping quickly to the
cottage; the good man smiling celestially, and well pleased to have
made everything comfortable at little personal inconvenience, walking
back to his holy hearth, and thinking of his Sunday sermon.