|Nearly the whole of this interview had been witnessed by Walter
Hetherington. He had heard, yet he had not heard; for, though instinct
told him that the voice was Edith’s, he could only catch fragments of
what she said. Nevertheless, as he remained crouched in the shadow of
the trees, he was conscious of sobs and tears, of stolen kisses and
softly murmured words. He remained until the interview was over; then,
when the two walked together back towards the village, he still
very stealthily followed them. When they stopped again, he heard the
passionate words of parting. His suspicions were, in his own despite,
fast becoming certainties; they were soon established certainties
beyond a doubt. He followed the girl after she had left her lover,
and saw her stealthily open the door and disappear across the
threshold of Edith’s home.
Then Walter turned, and feeling like one who has had a terrible
nightmare, he walked back to his lodgings at the inn. He was sorry he
had not had time to follow the man, for he remained completely in the
dark as to who he might be. He got little sleep that night. The next
morning he awoke sadly unrefreshed. After breakfast he strolled out
among the meadows; and when he heard the bells ring, calling the
villagers to prayer, he entered the church with the rest.
When the congregation had assembled and the clergyman was in his
place, Walter looked about for Edith. He felt almost a sense of relief
when he saw that she was present; it repulsed him to think of her
calmly joining in the service after the events of last night. He
looked at the gallery where the school children bestowed themselves,
and saw Dora, quiet, unobtrusive, and happy, sitting serenely amongst
her flaxen-haired flock. How cosy, how comfortable she was! but
the very bitterness of his heart compelled him to ask himself the
question: was she as bad as the rest? At one time, yes, even so
late as the preceding night, he had possessed so much blind faith in
genuine human nature as to believe that the face indicated the soul.
Now, however, he felt that such a belief was puerile and false. No
woman on earth could possess a more spiritual countenance than his
cousin Edith--yet his eyes had assured him of the blackness and
impurity of her soul. Disappointment was turning his heart to gall.
At last the service was ended: the congregation streamed forth,
Walter amongst the rest. The crush was so great he could hardly
get along--for Mr. Santley was a popular preacher. Once outside the
edifice, Walter paused to draw his breath and look about him. He
started, turned first hot, then cold, for not many yards from him was
Edith herself, calmly leaving the church with the rest. Almost before
he could recover himself she saw him, and advanced with a bright smile
and outstretched hand.
“I saw you in church,” she said, “and thought you looked dreadfully
pale. Are you not well, Walter?”
He murmured something about late hours and a sleepless night; then he
had to confess he had been looking about for her, for he added--
“I did not see _you_ in church.”
“No, you would not. I was in the organ-room. It is my Sunday for
playing, you remember!”
To this he made no reply. He was wondering how it was that Edith could
manage so effectually to play such a double part. He expected at least
a downcast eye, and a blush of guilt upon her cheek; with this he
might have been tolerably satisfied. But Edith’s face looked brighter
than it had done for many a day.
“I forgot to ask you,” he said suddenly, “if your headache was
better.”
“My headache?” she replied. She had been so engrossed with happy
thoughts at the reconciliation, that the question took her completely
by surprise.
“Ah yes,” she added, suddenly recollecting herself; “it is so much
better, that I had quite forgotten it. You see what a good night’s
rest will do!”
Walter uttered an impatient sigh, and turned on his heel; while Edith
added--
“You are coming up to dine with us to-day, you know. Shall we walk
together?”
“I am not coming!”
“Not coming? I thought----”
“Yes, I did accept your aunt’s invitation; but I feel upset to-day,
and am not fit company for anyone. Will you make my excuses at home?”
“Yes, certainly I will; and I hope that to-morrow you will be so much
better. Good-bye.”
She shook hands with him, and tripped away.
For a time Walter made no attempt to move, but gazed after her with
eyes full of sadness and despair. Although he said to himself that
henceforth Edith must be nothing to him, he felt pained at the
curtness with which she could dismiss him. He had noticed that she had
never once attempted to persuade him to alter his decision; indeed,
she had not been able to hide from him her delight at hearing it, and
he felt very bitter.
He turned from the church, walked away, and, after strolling about for
some time he knew not whither, he raised his head and found himself
quite close to the schoolmistress’s cottage. Dora stood in the
doorway, surrounded by her flowers.
She came forward when she saw him, and, after giving him a bright
smile and a warm handshake, stood by the gate and continued to talk.
She was a wise little woman, and knew exactly what to say and what
to leave unsaid; she had been a witness of the interview between the
cousins in the churchyard that morning, and her woman’s instinct
had divined something of the true state of things. So she chatted
pleasantly to the young man, and took no notice whatever of his pale
cheek and peculiarity of manner; and when he said suddenly, “Are you
not going to ask me in to-day, Miss Greatheart?” she threw open the
gate at once, and said that she was sadly neglectful and inhospitable,
and that if Mr. Hetherington would like to come in, he would be more
than welcome. So he followed her again into the quaint little parlour,
and again took his seat by the open window, to gaze with strange,
meditative eyes upon the little garden where the sun was shining. It
was a ragged little garden enough, and by no means well cared for,
since Dora was not rich enough to pay for labour, like her more
fortunate neighbours in the village.
During her leisure hours she worked among the flower-beds until her
plump hands ached again; but, after all, her leisure hours were very
few, and the grass and weeds grew so quickly. Walter saw that the
grass was many inches too long, and that it was scattered thickly with
withered rose-leaves; that here and there a rose tree was sadly in
want of the pruning knife. But that did not make the scent of the
flowers any the less delicious; nor did it take from the quiet beauty
of their place. There was plenty of light and colour everywhere, and
there was beauty.
While looking at the garden, Walter began to think of the gardens
mistress--quiet little Dora, living so contented among her children;
and in the winter still living here alone, when the flowers had faded,
when withered rose-leaves were scattered profusely on the grass, and
the leafless branches of the trees bent before the biting breath of
the bitter winter wind. It was a pretty picture of Dora--he loved it
as we love the creatures of our imagination; it seemed to make Dora
belong to him, artistically, as it were, and bring him consolation.
Then his reflections took another turn, and he began, for the first
time, to think it strange that the little woman should be so much
alone.
He said something of this to Dora; and she laughed and blushed, and
answered frankly enough.
“Yes, I am a good deal alone. You see, I am in an equivocal position.
I am too good for the servants, and not good enough for their
mistresses. I am only the governess!”
“At any rate,” said Walter, “you have contrived to brighten up what
would otherwise have been a very cheerless visit. As a token of my
gratitude, will you accept a little present from me?”
“I want no present, sir; your friendly words are quite enough.”
“Nonsense! I should like to give you some of the sketches I have made
of the village.”
“To me! give them to me?” said Dora, with wide-open eyes. “Why, Mr.
Hetherington, I thought you wanted them to--to-------”
“To--what?”
“Well, to remind you of this visit!”
“Perhaps when I began them I had some notion of that kind in my head;
we are all fools sometimes, you know. But I have changed my mind; I
don’t want to be reminded of this visit. Yes, I shall give you the
sketches--that is to say, if you will accept them; and when I have
taken my departure--and I shall do so soon--I shall try to forget that
such a village as Omberley ever existed at all.”
“And the people,” said Dora; “of course you will try to forget the
people?”
“That is the first thing I shall try to do!”
We are most of us selfish in our grief, and Walter was no exception to
the rule. Mortified and suffering himself, it never once entered his
head that he might be unpolite, and even rude, to another. But the
knife entered Dora’s little heart, and made her wince. She had been
happy in the knowledge that she had met a fellow-creature who could
treat her exactly as an equal--a man whom she could call a friend; and
lo! when her interest is strongest, when she has been telling herself
that the memory of the few days which he has brightened for ever will
linger in her memory and never die, he came to tell her that his first
effort would be to forget the place--and _her_.
“I will take the pictures, if you like, Mr. Hetherington, but merely
as a loan. You will change your mind again.. I am convinced that some
day you will ask me for them back again, and when you do they shall
certainly be yours. But the sketch of the cottage--is it finished
already?”
“The sketch of the cottage? Oh, I should like to keep _that_. It
contains the picture of a lady whom I should certainly not like to
forget.”
Then, while the glad light danced in Dora’s eyes again, he rose and
took her hand, as he said--
“Good-bye, Miss Greatheart. When I said I should forget the village
and the people I was wrong. Your kindness and hospitality I shall
always remember.”
So he crossed the threshold of the happy little schoolhouse, to stroll
out again into the sunshine; and again he thought very bitterly of the
woman who had effectually taken all the sunshine from his life.
He need not have thought so bitterly of her. If she had wounded him
she was receiving her punishment.
Having left Walter in the churchyard, Edith flew home like one walking
on air. She had accepted his decision gleefully, never attempting to
alter it by word or look, for she was thinking all the time of the
invitation she had received from Mr. Santley, and which had cost
her such a pang to refuse. Walter’s sudden determination left her
free--free to spend a few hours in the company of the man who was more
to her than the whole world. Lighthearted and happy, she hurried home,
gave Walter’s message to her aunt, and then sat down and made a very
hearty meal. After it was over, and a reasonable time had elapsed,
she again put on her hat, and told her aunt she was going down to the
Vicarage.
“I shan’t be back till late, aunt,” she added, “for, as I have to
go to the Vicarage, I may as well walk to evening service with Miss
Santley. If Walter changes his mind and comes, you will look after him
well, won’t you?”
And Mrs. Russell, promising implicit obedience, kissed her niece
fondly, and watched her go down the road. On reaching the Vicarage,
Edith was admitted at once. There was no necessity to take her card
and keep her waiting while she ascertained if master or mistress was
at home. She was known to the servants as a visitor who was always
welcome--at any rate to the mistress of the house. So, without any
preamble at all, she was shown into the sitting-room, and into the
presence of Miss Santley.
The room was as luxuriously furnished as any in the Vicarage, and
charmingly decorated with the choicest of hothouse flowers. The lady
sat in a low wicker chair, with a book in her hand, and at her elbow
a little gipsy table, holding a tea-service of Dresden china. The
opening of the door disturbed the lady. She let her book fall upon her
knee, and looked up dreamily; but the moment her eye fell upon Edith
she rose, smiling brightly, gave the girl both her hands, and kissed
her fondly.
“My dear Edith, I am so glad!” she exclaimed; and there was a ring of
genuine welcome in her voice. “Why, you are a perfect stranger.--Jane,
bring a cup for Miss Dove.--Now, dear, select your chair, take off
your hat, and make yourself comfortable.”
Edith did as she was bidden. She placed her hat on one of the many
little tables with which the room abounded, stood before one of
the glasses for a moment to rectify any disarrangement of hair and
costume; then she drew forth a little wicker chair similar to that
occupied by her hostess, and sat down. By this time the teapot was
brought in, and the tea poured, so Edith sat and sipped it, talking
and laughing meanwhile like a happy child.
“Well, dear,” said Miss Santley, “and what have you been doing with
yourself all the week? Charles tells me you have a cousin in the
village, who completely monopolizes you. By the way, he told me that
he had tried to persuade you to come to tea to-day, but that you had
positively refused. That could not have been true.”
“Yes, it was true,” returned Edith. “I did refuse when he asked me,
because I thought I could not come. I thought my cousin would dine
with us as usual; but I met him at church this morning, and he said he
was rather unwell and could not come. So I thought it would not matter
if I came after all.”
“Matter! My dear, I am delighted.” And so, having thus satisfactorily
arranged matters, the two sat chatting to their hearts’ content.
It was very pleasant, exceedingly pleasant--at any other time Edith
would have enjoyed it hugely; but as the hands of the bronze clock on
the chimneypiece travelled so quickly round, she began to grow uneasy,
and to wonder at the protracted absence of her lover. Miss Santley was
a very pleasant person indeed, and Edith was very fond of her; but it
had been a stronger inducement than Miss Santley that had brought
her to the Vicarage that afternoon. Santley must know she was in the
house, thought Edith; it was strange he did not come.
Suddenly Miss Santley glanced at the clock. In a moment she was on her
feet.
“My dear,” she exclaimed, “how the time has flown! Do you play again
to-night?”
“Yes.”
The lady nodded.
“Well walk to church together, dear,” she said. “Amuse yourself by
looking at the books, while I run away to get my bonnet and mantle
on.”
Ere the lady had reached the door of the room, Edith spoke. Prolonged
disappointment had given her courage.
“Mr. Santley is busy, I suppose?” she said.
“Mr. Santley--Charles? Oh, my dear, he’s not at home!”
“Not at home?”
“No. If he had been, do you suppose for a moment, my dear, he would
have allowed you to be all this time in the house without coming out
to say ‘How do you do’? If he had known you had been coming, of course
he would have stayed in; but he didn’t know, so immediately after
afternoon service he went to Foxglove Manor. He wanted to see Mrs.
Haldane, and he said he should go straight from there to the church.”
Miss Santley was near the door. The moment she had finished speaking
she passed out of the room, and left Edith alone.
It was not a pleasant task to her, this mentioning of Mrs. Haldane.
She knew that people had already begun to speak somewhat unkindly of
the relations between that lady and her brother. But since this
was so, it was well that she should show to the world that she, his
sister, thought nothing of it. Therefore she had made up her mind
that, whenever it was necessary for her to mention that lady’s name,
she would do so without reserve of any kind. It was the only way, she
thought, to prevent such absurd rumours from taking root.
A very few minutes sufficed to make her toilet. At the end of that
time she returned to the room where she had left Edith, to get her
Prayer-book and the handkerchief which had fallen from her hand, and
lay beside her chain.
“Ready, dear?” she asked brightly; then she paused, amazed.
There sat Edith, pale as a ghost, reclining in an easy-chair, with her
head thrown back, and her forehead covered by a handkerchief soaked
with eau-de-cologne.
“Why, my dear!” exclaimed Miss Santley. “Whatever is the matter? Has
anything happened?”
“No, nothing,” said Edith, faintly. “I have got a very bad headache,
that is all; and--and--I cannot go to church again to-day, Miss
Santley.”
“Go to church,” echoed Miss Santley. “Why, my dearest girl, of course
you cant go to church! I will send Jane with a message to Charles, and
stay and take care of you.”
But this Edith would not allow. She pulled the handkerchief from her
forehead, and declared her intention of going home.
Miss Santley kissed her kindly. At this exhibition of tenderness Edith
fairly broke down. She threw her arms around the lady’s neck, and
burst into tears.
“I--I am so sorry,” she said at last, when her sobs had somewhat
subsided; “but I could not help it. I--I am such a coward when I am
ill!”
Miss Santley said nothing; she knew she could do nothing. There was
some mystery here which she could not fathom, so she yielded to the
girl’s solicitations and allowed her to go home.