Buchanan Robert Williams
Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III)
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!”
CHAPTER XX. IN THE GLOAMING
I t 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.
CHAPTER XXI. IN THE VICARAGE PARLOUR
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.
