|One evening about the middle of the week, as the Rev. Mr. Santley sat
alone in his study a card was brought to him, on which was printed--
Mr. Walter Hetherington.
The clergyman raised his brows as he read, and asked the maid, who
waited respectfully at the door, if the gentleman had not called upon
him before.
“Once before, sir!”
“Did he state his business?”
“He did not, sir; he only said he would not detain you long.”
“Well, ask the gentleman to be good enough to walk this way.”
The maid retired, and a moment afterwards Walter entered the room.
The two men bowed to each other. One glance had assured Santley that
any attempt at a warmer greeting would be injudicious; the other might
not respond, and it would never do for the vicar of the parish to be
snubbed by an itinerant painter whom nobody knew--besides, under the
circumstances, a bow was ample greeting. He infused into it as much
politeness as possible, welcomed his young friend to the Vicarage,
and, pointing to a chair which he had drawn forward, begged him to
be seated. Decidedly the clergyman was the most self-possessed of
the two. For Walter took his seat in nervous silence; while Santley,
wondering greatly in his own mind what could possibly have procured
him the honour of that visit, kept the scene from flagging by that
wonderful gift of small talk with which he was possessed.
He was very pleased indeed to meet Mr. Hetherington. He had done him
the honour to call upon him once before he thought--yes, he was sure
of it; and he had also had the pleasure of meeting him once
before, when he had not had the honour of his acquaintance. Was Mr.
Hetherington thinking of making a long stay amongst them?
“Not very long,” said Walter.
“I suppose you have made some charming sketches?” continued the
clergyman. “There are pretty little spots about the village, spots
well worthy of a painters brush. I used to do a little in that way
myself when I was a youngster at college; but the vicar of a parish
has onerous duties. I suppose at the present moment I should hardly
know how to handle a brush. Are you thinking of leaving us soon, Mr.
Hetherington?”
“I am not quite sure!”
“Ah! well, if you stay and would like to make use of my library, I
should feel greatly honoured. It is the only thing I have to offer
you, I fear; but I shall be very pleased indeed to put it at your
service. It contains a few books on your own art, which might interest
you.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Santley.”
“Not at all, my dear sir; I am merely neighbourly. Life would be
dreary indeed if one could not be neighbourly in a place like this!”
“Mr. Santley, I have come to you for your advice.”
The clergyman, nervously dreading what was to follow, looked at his
visitor with a calm smile, and answered pleasantly enough.
“My advice? My dear sir, I place it freely at your service, and myself
also if I can be of the slightest use to you.”
“You can be of very great use to me.”
The clergyman merely bowed this time and waited, so Walter continued--
“You know my cousin, Miss Edith Dove?”
As he spoke he fixed his eyes keenly upon the clergyman’s face, but
the latter made no sign; he neither winced nor changed colour, but
answered calmly enough.
“I have the pleasure of the lady’s acquaintance. She is one of the
most esteemed members of my congregation.”
“It is about Miss Dove I wished to speak to you.”
Again the clergyman bowed; again he found it unnecessary to make a
reply.
Walter, growing somewhat ill at ease, continued--
“I don’t mind confessing to you, Mr. Santley, that at one period of my
career I hoped most earnestly, and indeed confidently believed, that
at no very remote date I should have the happiness of making her my
wife. I was sincerely attached to her; I believe she was attached to
me. But recently all has changed. She is wasting her life; throwing
aside all chance of happiness, through some mad infatuation about the
Church.”
“Some mad infatuation about the Church!” returned the clergyman,
methodically. “Really, my dear sir, I am afraid you forget you are
speaking to a clergyman of the Church. As to Miss Dove, she is a
lady whose conduct is without reproach; she is one of the Church’s
staunchest supporters!”
“Then you approve her present mode of life; you uphold it? You will
not advise her to shake her morbid fancies away? to accept an honest
affection and a happy home?”
Santley seemed to reflect.
“As a clergyman of the Church, I should advise her the other way,
I think. Surely the fulfilment of religious duties points to a more
elevated mode of existence than mere marrying and giving in marriage.
I am sorry for you, since I believe that any man possessed of that
lady’s esteem might deem himself fortunate; still, I could not advise
her to act against her conscience and the promptings of religion.”
“And me, what do you advise me to do?”
The clergyman shrugged his shoulders. “It seems to me that there is
only one thing that you can do. If the lady finds your attentions
disagreeable, surely the most honourable course for you to adopt would
be to leave her--in peace.” Walter rose, and the clergyman breathed
more freely, believing that the interview had come to a satisfactory
end. Neither of them spoke for a minute or so, till the clergyman
looked up, and said quietly--
“You have something more to say, Mr. Hetherington?”
“Yes,” 9 answered Walter; “I have something more to say.” Then, going
a few steps nearer to the clergyman, he added, “You are a hypocrite,
Mr. Santley!”
The clergyman’s face grew pale. He rose hastily from his seat; but
before he could speak Walter continued, vehemently--
“Do you think I don’t know you? Do you think I haven’t discovered that
it is you, and not the Church, who has taken my cousin from me? You
talk to me of religion, of religious duties, and yet you know that you
are playing the hypocrite to her, as you have done to me, and that you
are breaking her heart.”
He paused, flushed, excited, and angry. The clergyman stood calm and
very pale.
“You do well to seek this interview in my house, sir,” he said. “Now
you have insulted me with impunity, perhaps you will take your leave.”
But Walter made no attempt to move.
“Before I go,” he said, “I wish to know what are your plans regarding
my cousin?”
“And I should like to ask you, sir,” returned the clergyman, “what
authority you have for interfering in my private affairs?”
“I have no authority; your private affairs are nothing to me. I speak
in the interest of my cousin!”
“Really! I should fancy your interference would be hardly likely to do
her much good.” #
“Mr. Santley, I shall ask you one more question. Do you, or do you
not, mean to marry my cousin?”
“And if I refuse to answer?”
“I shall make it my duty, before tomorrow night, to expose you.”
“Really!” returned the clergyman, with an exasperating smile. “You
will draw your cousin’s good name through the mire in order to throw a
little mud at me. I should think, young man, you must be a treasure
to your family. Good evening. I will ring for the servant to show you
out.”
And he did ring--at the most opportune moment too; for Walter,
staggered by that last thrust, perceived that his enemy was on the
side of power. So, when in answer to her master’s summons the servant
appeared, Walter followed her; he was afraid to utter another word,
for Edith’s sake.
When he was gone, all Santley’s calmness deserted him, and he walked
up and down the room in a fit of uncontrollable rage. When he had
grown calmer, he sat down and wrote one of his neatly worded epistles
to Edith, making an appointment for the following day.
He half believed that Walter had come to him, as Edith’s authorized
messenger, to attempt to force upon him those bonds which he was
so very reluctant to wear. The clergyman could not in any other way
account for his knowledge of the relations existing between the
two. It was well for Edith that at that moment she was not near her
lover--well for her, also, that no meeting could take place between
them until the following day.
The next day Santley was very much more composed, and when he walked
towards the trysting-place none would have known, from his outward
appearance, that anything was materially wrong. He had made the
appointment in daylight this time; since embraces could be dispensed
with, so also could darkness and night. There was really nothing in
this meeting after all; nothing but what might have been witnessed by
a dozen pair of eyes. Those who did see it would see only an event of
ordinary everyday life.
Miss Edith Dove, walking leisurely towards the village, was overtaken
by the clergyman, who paused to shake hands with her, and to walk with
her a part of the way. Had any one looked closely at these two, he
would have seen that the clergyman, though calm, was very pale; that
Edith, pale too, had a weary, listless look about her face; that after
she had shaken hands with her pastor, she quickly turned away her
head, for her eyes grew dim with tears.
If Santley saw the tears he did not care to notice them. He had
found, directly they met, that she was suffering from one of those
deplorable fits of temper which had more than once caused trouble
between them; but that could not be taken any notice of now. If she
chose to wear herself to a shadow, it was her own affair; he had
something more important on hand. The interview could not be a long
one, therefore he must reach the heart of the matter at once.
So he began abruptly--
“Edith, this new course you have adopted is a dangerous one, and had
better be abandoned without loss of time.”
The girl raised her eyes to his face, and asked wearily--
“What do you mean? What have I done?”
“I suppose you are responsible for your cousin’s visit to my house;
you must have instigated it, if you did not actually advise him!”
Again she raised her troubled eyes to his face, and said sadly--
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then I will tell you, Edith. Your cousin, a hot-headed, ill-mannered
youth, has thought fit to take upon himself the part of protector, or
guardian, of your happiness. In this capacity he paid me a domiciliary
visit yesterday, and treated me to some most violent abuse. He
threatened to make known to the public the relations between us. I
advised him to think it over, for your sake!”
“My cousin--Walter Hetherington, do you mean?”
“Most certainly.”
“But how does he know? how has he learned?”
“From you, I suppose.”
“No; it is not from me,” returned Edith, whose listlessness was fast
disappearing. “I have said nothing; I have never even mentioned your
name to him. It must be known; it must be talked of in the village.
Oh, Charles, spare me! Keep your promise to me, for God’s sake! Any
open disgrace would be more than I could bear. I should die.”
The girl, overcome by her emotion, had forgotten for the moment that
their present interview was a perfectly public one. The clergyman
coldly reminded her of the fact. Then, after she had forced upon
herself a composure which she was far from feeling, he continued--“You
had better understand, Edith, once and for ever, that whatever
my conduct may be, I do not choose to have it questioned by this
exceedingly officious young man. A repetition of the scene of
yesterday I will not bear. And as it is evident to me that my actions
are under surveillance, I must refuse either to see or hear from you
again, until that young man has removed himself from the village.”
“Charles, you surely don’t mean that?” exclaimed the girl.
But he certainly did mean it, and though she pleaded and argued, he
remained firm. At last she resolved that she would speak to Walter,
resent his interference, and, if possible, induce him to return home.
Then the two shook hands and parted.
That evening Walter dined at the-cottage. During the dinner Edith
scarcely looked at him; while he himself was silent and distrait. But
after dinner, when they had all retired to the drawing-room, when the
old lady had settled down to her wool-work, and Walter had lit his
cigar, Edith threw a light shawl over her head, and asked him if he
would come with her into the garden.
Wondering very much at the request, Walter rose at once, and offered
her his arm. She took it; but the moment they were alone she withdrew
her hand and turned angrily upon him. Walter listened, and he found
that he had some chance of being heard. He acknowledged that she had
spoken the truth; he _had_ interfered; he had deemed it quite right
that he should do so for her sake.
“For my sake!” returned Edith. “It seems to me there is more of
selfishness than benevolence in what you have done. What is it to
you if I am engaged to Mr. Santley? and if we choose to keep our
engagement a secret, what is that to you? I am my own mistress; I can
act just as I think fit, without the fear of coercion from any one.
_You_, at any rate, have no right to regulate my actions or to dictate
them. I suppose you think I have no right to marry any one, simply
because I refuse to be coerced into marrying you!”
It was a cruel thing to say; but Edith was simply dealing him,
secondhand, some of the stabs which she herself had received from her
beloved pastor in the morning. The stabs went deep into his heart, and
the wounds remained for many a day. When Edith had uttered a few more
truisms with the characteristic selfishness of love and hatred, Walter
coldly suggested that their pleasant stroll in the garden might be
brought to a termination.
They returned together to the house. As the old lady, beaming with
delight at what she believed to be the sudden and happy reconciliation
of the cousins, had prepared the tea, Walter pleased her by sitting
down to take some before he said good night.
But the next day he returned to town.