Buchanan Robert Williams
Foxglove Manor, Volume III (of III)
CHAPTER XXIX. HUSH-MONEY
Mrs. Haldane had not exaggerated when, in her cross-examination of the vicar, she had described his intimate friendship to Miss Dove as the common talk of the parish. There beats about the life of an English clergyman a light as fierce, in its small way, as that other light which, according to the poet,=
````”… beats about the throne,
````And blackens every blot!”=
Charles Santley was very much mistaken if he imagined that his doings altogether escaped scandal. As usual, however, the darkest suspicions and ugliest innuendoes were reserved for the lady; and before very long Edith Dove was the subject of as pretty a piece of scandal as ever exercised the gossips of even an English village.
Now, the thing was a long time in the air before it reached the ears of the person most concerned. Tongues wagged, fingers pointed, all the machinery of gossip was set in motion for months before poor Edith had any suspicion whatever. Gradually, however, there came upon her the consciousness of a certain social change. Several families with which she had been on intimate terms showed, by signs unmistakable, their desire to avoid her visits, and their determination not to return them. One virtuous spinster, on whom she had expended a large amount of sympathy, not to speak of tea and sugar, openly cut her one morning at the post-office; and even the paupers of the village showed in their bearing a certain lessening of that servility which, in the mind of a properly constituted British pauper, indicates respect. Things were becoming ominous, when, late one evening, her aunt boldly broached the subject.
Edith had taken her hat and cloak, and was going out, when the old lady spoke.
“Where are you going so late? I hope – not down to the Vicarage?” Edith turned in astonishment.
“Yes, I am going there,” she replied.
“Then listen to my advice: take off your things and stay at home.”
The tone was so decided, the manner so peculiar, that Edith was startled in spite of herself. Before she could make any remark, her aunt continued —
“Sit down and listen to me. I mean to talk to you, for no one has a better right; and if I can put a stop to your folly, I will. Do you know the whole place is talking of you – that it has been talking of you for months? Yes, Edith, it is the truth; and I am bound to say you yourself are the very person to blame.”
Almost mechanically, Edith took off her hat and threw it on the table. Then she looked eagerly at her aunt.
“What do they say about me?” she cried.
“They say you are making a fool of yourself; but that is not all. They say worse – horrible things. Of course I know they are untrue, for you were always a good girl; but you are sometimes so indiscreet. When a young girl is always in the company of a young man, even a clergyman, and nothing comes of it, people will talk. Take my advice, dear, and put an end to it at once!”
Edith smiled – a curious, far-off, bitter smile. She was not surprised at her aunts warning; for she had expected it a long time, and had been rather surprised that it had not come before.
“Put an end to what?” she said quietly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know well enough, Edith.”
“Indeed I do not. If people talk, that is their affair; but I shall do as I please.”
And she took up her hat again, as if to go.
“Edith, I insist! You shall not go out to-night. It is shameful for Mr. Santley to encourage you! If you only knew how people talk! You are not engaged to Mr. Santley, and I tell you it is a scandal!”
Edith flushed nervously, as she replied: —
“There is no scandal, aunt! Mr. Santley – ”
“I have no patience with him. In a minister of the gospel, it is disgraceful.”
“What is disgraceful?”
“The encouragement he gives you, when he knows he has no intention of marrying you.”
“How do you know that?” said Edith again, with that far-off curious smile.
“He has not even proposed; you are not engaged? If you were, it would be different.”
With a quiet impulse of tenderness, Edith bent over her aunt and kissed her. The old lady looked up in surprise, and saw that her niece’s eyes were full of tears.
“Edith, what is it? What do you mean?”
“That we have been engaged a long time.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“He did not want it known, and even now it is a secret. You must promise to tell no one.”
“But why? There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It is his wish,” said the girl, gently.
Then kissing her aunt again, and leaving her much relieved in mind, she went away, strolling quietly in the direction of the Vicarage. As she walked, her tears continued to fall, and her face was very sorrowful; for there lay upon her spirit a heavy shadow of terror and distrust. With how different an emotion had she, only a year before, flown to meet the man she loved! How eagerly and gladly, then, he had awaited her coming! And now? Alas, she did not even know if she would find him at all. Sometimes he seemed to avoid her, to be weary of her company. All was so changed, she reflected, since the Haldanes came-home to the Manor. He was no longer the same, and she herself was different. Would it ever end? Would she ever be happy again?
The shadows of night were falling as she walked through the lanes, with her eyes sadly fixed on the dim spire of the village church. Close to a plantation on the roadside, she encountered a woman and a man in conversation. She recognized the woman at a glance, as Sal Bexley, the black sheep of the parish, who got her living by singing-from one public-house to another; and she had passed by without a word, when a voice called her.
“Here, mistress!”
She turned, and encountered a pair of bold black eyes. Sal, the pariah, stood facing her, swinging her old guitar and grinning mischievously.
“I’m afraid you’re growing proud, mistress. You didn’t seem to know me.”
There was something sinister in the girl’s manner. Edith drew aside, and would have passed on without any reply, but the other ran before her and blocked the way.
“No, you don’t go like that. I want a word with thee, my fine lady. Ah, you may toss your bead, but you’d best bide a bit, and listen.”
“What do you want? I cannot stay.”
“No call to hurry,” cried Sal, with a coarse laugh. “Thy man’s out, and don’t expect thee. Belike he’s gone courting some one else. Ah, he’s a rum chap, the minister, though he do set up for a saint.”
Edith shuddered and shrank back.
“Go away,” she said. “How dare you speak to me like that?”
“Dare? That’s a good one! No, you shan’t pass till I’ve done wi’ thee.” Edith was getting positively frightened, for the girl’s manner was so rude and threatening, when she saw a tall figure approaching, and in a moment recognized the clergyman. He was close to them, and paused in astonishment at seeing the two together.
“Miss Dove! Is anything the matter? Why are you here, so late, and in such company?”
He paused, looking suspiciously at Sal, who laughed impudently.
“I was passing by, and she stopped me. Do send her away!”
“Send me away?” cried the pariah. “I’ll come when I please, and I’ll go when I please. I’m as good as she.” Mr. Santley stepped forward, and placed his hand on her arm.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were far away.”
“So I were; but I’ve come back. Well?”
“Remember what I told you. I will not have my parish disgraced any longer by your conduct. I have warned you repeatedly before. Where are you staying?”
“Down by the river-side, master. I’ve joined the gipsies, d’ye see.”
“Always an outcast,” said Santley, with, a certain gloomy pity. “Will nothing reform you?”
“No, master,” answered the girl, grinning. “I’m a bad lot.”
“I’m afraid you are.”
“But mind this,” she continued, with some vehemence, “there’s others, fine ladies too, as bad as me. Though I like a chap, and ain’t afraid to own it, and though I gets my living anyhow, I’m no worse than my betters, master. You’ve no cause to bully me, so don’t try it on, master. I can speak when I like, and I can hold my tongue when I like. Gi’ me a guinea, and I’ll hold my tongue.”
She held out her brown hand, leering up into his face.
“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “I shall give you no money.”
She looked round at Edith, who stood by trembling.
“Tell him he’d best, mistress – for thy sake! Come, it’s worth a guinea! There’s many a folk hereabouts would gi’ five, to see what I saw t’other day, down to Omberley wood.”
Edith started in a new terror, while her face flushed scarlet and her head swam round. Santley winced, but preserving his composure, looked fixedly and sternly at the outcast.
“You’re a bold hussy,” he said, between his set teeth, “as bold as bad. But take care! Do you know that if I only say one word, I can have you up before the magistrates and sent back to prison?”
“What for?” snarled the girl.
“For vagrancy, begging, and threatening a lady on the roadside!”
“A pretty lady. And I bean’t begging, neither. Well, send me to prison, and when I’m up before the magistrates, I’ll tell’em why you were down upon me. Come!”
Santley was about to reply angrily, when Edith interposed. Trembling and almost fainting, she had taken out her purse.
“Here is some money,” she cried; “give it to her and let her go!”
“She does not deserve a farthing,” exclaimed Santley. “Still, if you wish it – ”
“Yes, yes! I – I am sorry for her.”
Santley opened the purse, and took out a sovereign.
“If I give you this, will you promise to go out of the parish?”
“Maybe.”
“And to conduct yourself properly – to turn over a new leaf?”
Sal grinned viciously from ear to ear.
“I take example by you, master, and your young lady there! Leastways, if I do go a-larking I’ll be like you gentry, and say naught about it. There, gi’ me the guinea! Stop, though, make it two, and I’ll go away out o’ Omberley this very night.”
Santley and Edith rapidly exchanged a look, and a second piece of gold was at once added to the first. Then, after giving Sal a few words of solemn warning, in his priestly character, Santley walked away with Edith. The pariah girl watched them until they disappeared; then, with a low laugh, she rejoined her companion, a one-eyed and middle-aged gipsy, who, during the preceding scene, had phlegmatically stretched himself on his back, along the roadside.
CHAPTER XXX. “AND LO! WITHIN HER, SOMETHING LEAPT!”
Santley and Edith walked along for some time without a word. At last, after looking round nervously to see that they were not observed or followed, the clergyman broke the silence. – :
“It is horrible! It is insufferable!” he cried. “I shall be ruined by your indiscretion.”
She looked at him in amazement. It was too dark to see his face, but his whole frame, as well as his voice, trembled with anger.
“My indiscretion!” she echoed.
“Yes.”
“But I have done nothing.”
“I found you talking to that creature, and it is evident that she knows our secret. I shall be ruined through you. What have you told her?”
“Nothing. I met her by accident, and she spoke to me; that is all.”
There was a pause. Then Santley stopped short, saying in a whisper —
“Go home now. After to-day we must not be seen together.”
But she clung to his arm, weeping.
“Charles, for Gods sake, do not be so unkind!”
“I am not unkind,” he said; “but I am thinking of your good name, as well as of my own reputation. What that woman knows others must know. It will be the talk of the place. Edith, think of it. We shall both be lost. Go home, I entreat you.”
“Charles, listen to me!” exclaimed the weeping girl. “If there is any scandal it will kill me. But there need to be none. You have only to keep your word, as you have promised, and then – ”
“What? and marry you?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot – at least, not yet.”
“Why not? Oh, Charles, have I not been patient? There is nothing but your own will to come between us. Make me your wife, as you have promised, before it is too late. Even my aunt begins to suspect something. My life is miserable – a daily falsehood. I have loved you next to God. For your sake I have even forgotten Him. I thought there was no sin; you yourself told me there was no sin – that we were man and wife in God’s sight.. But now I am terrified. I cannot sleep,’ I cannot pray. Sometimes I feel as if God had cast me out. And you – ”
She ceased, choked with tears, and, placing her head upon his shoulder, sobbed wildly. He shrank from her touch, and sought to disengage himself, gazing round on every side and searching the darkness; in dread of being watched.
“Control yourself. If we should be seen!”
But she did not seem to hear, and his anger increased in proportion to her terror.
“Do you want to compromise me?” he cried. “I begin to think you have no discretion, no respect for yourself – I hate these scenes. They make me wish that we had never met.”
“If I thought you wished that from your heart,” she sobbed, “I would not live another day.”
“There, again. You are so unreasonable, so violent. When I attempt to reason, you talk of suicide or some such mad thing. If you really loved me, as you say, you would be willing to make some sacrifice for my sake. But no; you have only one cry – marriage, marriage! – till I am sick of the very word. Cease crying. Dry your eyes, and listen to me. Go home tonight, and I will think it over. Yes, I will do what I can – anything, rather than be so tormented.”
She obeyed him passively, and tried to stifle her deep sorrow. Child as she was, and loving him as she did, she could not bear his words of blame; and her soul shuddered at the strange tones of the voice that had once been so kind. For it was as she had said. She had made an idol of this man, next to God. She had offered up to him, at his passionate request, her young life, her purity of heart, her very soul. He had been God’s voice and very presence to her; ah! so beautiful! She had been content to lie at his feet, to obey him like a slave, to accept his will as law, even when the law seemed evil. And now he was so changed. Not base – ah! no, she could not bear to think him base; not base – still good, but cruel. Was she losing him? Was she destined to lose him for ever, and, with him, surely her immortal soul?
“Good night,” she moaned. “I will go home.”
And she held up her face for his kiss; then, as he kissed her, she yielded again to her emotion, and clung, wildly crying, about his neck.
“Oh, Charles, be true to me! I have no one in the world but you.”
With that fond appeal she left him, turning her tearful face homeward. On reaching the cottage she found the door ajar, stole quietly up to her room, and locked herself in. A few minutes afterwards her aunt knocked.
“Are you there, Edith? Supper is ready.”
“I have a headache, and am going to bed,” she replied, stifling her sobs.
“May I not come in?” said the old lady. “I want to speak to you.”
“Not to-night. I am so tired.”.
She heard the feeble feet descending the stairs, and again resigned herself to sorrow. Presently, when she had grown a little calmer, she arose, lit a candle, and proceeded to undress.’ The moon, which had newly risen, shone through the cottage window, with its white blinds, and the faint rays, creeping in, mingled with the yellow candle-light. The room was like a white rose, all pale and pure; and the girl herself, when she was undressed and clad in her night-dress, seemed the purest thing there. But the night-dress felt like a shroud, and she felt ready for the grave.
She knelt by the bed to say her prayers.
How long she remained on her knees she knew not. While her lips repeated, half aloud, the prayers she had learned as a child, and those which, in later years, she had framed to include the name of the man. she loved, her tears still fell, and with her long hair streaming over her shoulders, and her little hands clasped together, she sobbed and sobbed. The moonlight crept further into the room, and touched her like a silver hand – not tenderly, not pityingly; ‘nay, it might have been the very hand of the Madonna herself, bidding her arise to face her fate.
She arose shivering; and at that very instant there came to her a warning, an omen, full of nameless terror. It seemed to her as if faces were flashing before her eyes, voices shrieking in her ears; her heart leapt, her head went round, and at the same moment she felt her whole being miraculously thrilled by the quickening of a new life within her own.
With a loud moan, she fainted away upon the floor.
When she returned to consciousness, she was lying, nearly naked, by the bedside, and the moonlight was flooding the little room. She arose, dazed, stupefied, and appalled. Her limbs shook beneath her, and she had to clutch the bedstead for support. Then she tottered to the dressing-table, and holding the candle, looked into the mirror.
Reflected there was a face of ghastly whiteness, with two great despairing eyes, wildly gazing into her own.
CHAPTER XXXI. A LAST APPEAL
The night had passed away, and the chilly light of dawn creeping into Edith’s; room, found her quietly sleeping. During that night, when the full horror of her situation had flashed for the first time upon her, she had passed through hours of agony similar to those which have turned pretty brown hair grey; then, overcome by a sense of thorough mental exhaustion, she had laid her head upon the pillow and slept.
She slept long and soundly.
When she opened her eyes she saw that it was broad daylight; indeed, the day was well spent, for her aunt, after tapping gently at her door and receiving no reply, had determined not to disturb her rest.
Her first feeling on opening her eyes was one of pleasure, such pleasure as is felt by a young matron, when the knowledge of approaching maternity first dawns upon her; but this feeling was only momentary, and was succeeded in this case by one of intense mental pain.
She lay for a time, thinking of the past, and trying to penetrate the future. She recalled her interviews with Santley; the last interview which had taken place only the night before. She remembered with pleasure the promise he had made, and she tried to think that all would yet be well. Yes, even when he knew nothing, he had yielded to her solicitations; and as soon as he knew– for of course at their next meeting she must tell him – he would not hesitate for a single day. He had a double duty now: not only had he to save her reputation, he had to think of the future of his child. He had said that he would think it over; that the next day, this very day, she should hear from him. He would appoint a meeting, then when she saw him, if he still hesitated, she would tell him, and he would hesitate no longer.
All that day Edith remained in the house, pale, silent, but expectant. At every sound she started and looked anxiously towards the door; but Mr. Santley made no sign. At last, disappointed and heart-broken, she went up to bed.
Several days passed thus. Edith fearing to cross the threshold, shrinking in horror at the thought of meeting any of her fellow-creatures, moved about the house in pale, sad silence; expectant sometimes’, at others crying her heart out in sickening despair. The suspense was terrible; and terrible too was the thought of having to bear her secret sorrow entirely alone. If she could only see him, tell him, feel his passionate kiss, and hear his whispered words of comfort, her trouble, she thought, would be lightened by one half. Never had she needed him so much; yet never, she thought, had she seemed so utterly alone.
And with this hopeless dread upon her, this sense of mental agony which seemed to be wearing her very life away, she waited and waited for the words which never came.
At last she felt she could wait no longer. Since it was evident he did not: intend to send to her, she determined to send to him. So she wrote —
“For Heaven’s sake come to me. I must see you at once. Charles, for both! our sakes, do not neglect my request: —
“Edith.”
It was a mad letter to write, and at another time Edith would not have written it; but now her trouble seemed to be turning her brain. She determined to trust it to no hands but her own; so, having written and sealed it, she put on her hat and cloak to take it to the post.
It was the first time she had been out! since that night when she had fainted: upon her bedroom floor, and nothing but a sense of utter desperation would have forced her from the house even now. For she felt as if her secret was known to all the world; that curious eyes looked questioningly into hers, and honest faces turned from her; and that by one and all she was left to walk along her troubled path alone.
It was not late in the afternoon, but the time for long bright evenings had long since passed away. Though the church clock had not long struck five, darkness was coming on, and a keen north wind was blowing. Edith, who was thickly veiled and well wrapped up in a large fur cloak, walked quickly as if to keep herself warm. She reached the village, slipped her letter into the post, then hurriedly turned to retrace her steps homewards. She had accomplished about half the distance, and was walking very hurriedly, when suddenly she stopped, and her heart gave a great bound. There in the road, quietly walking towards her, was Mr. Santley.
Edith stood for a moment, feeling almost suffocated through the quick beating of her heart; then, with the wild impetuosity of a child, she ran forward and, seizing his hand, exclaimed —
“Oh, I am glad, so very, very glad that I have met you! Oh, Charles! Charles! how could you leave me so long alone?”
Santley, utterly taken aback by this wild exhibition of feeling, stared at the girl in calm amazement; then he said impatiently, shaking her hands away —
“Edith, how many more times am I to tell you that these violent scenes of yours will be my ruin!”
But this time Edith was not to be cowed. She said —
“I cannot help it, Charles. You bring it on yourself by breaking every promise that you make to me.”
“Every promise? What promise? What have I done now?”
Edith looked up at him, her tearful eyes full of amazement as she said —
“Do you not remember? Have you really forgotten, dear, the last time we were together I asked you to do me justice – to reward my long patience by making me your wife? You said, ‘I will think of it. Yes, I think I will do as you wish, and I will let you know tomorrow.’ Well, Charles, to-morrow never came. I waited and waited, and you never sent a word. At last I could wait no longer. I have just been down to the village to post a letter, asking you to come to me.”
The clergyman’s brow darkened ominously, and a very angry light shone in his handsome eyes.
“It is ridiculous!” he exclaimed.
“Edith, you have no more reasoning power than a child. Why could you not have waited? A matter like that required serious deliberation; it could, not be decided in a day.”
In point of fact, he had never once deliberated over the matter at all. Having comfortably got rid of Edith that night, he had dismissed both the girl and the subject of their conversation entirely from his mind. It was not necessary to tell her this, however. So when, after waiting to hear more from him, she asked quietly, “Have you considered, Charles? Have you decided?” he answered —
“Yes. After thinking of it very deeply, and after having considered it from every point of view, I have decided it would be much better for us-both – to wait!”
She started, and the hand which lay on his arm trembled violently.
“No; you have not decided – that!” she exclaimed in a sort of gasp.
“I am not in the habit of lying to you, Edith.”
The girl clung piteously to his arm.
“No, no; I did not mean that,” she exclaimed. “But if you have decided so, you will change your mind, dear, will you not? I have been very patient. I have waited and waited, because you wished it, dear; but now it is different. I can wait no longer!”
“I tell you, Edith, it will be better – for us both!”
“Charles, Charles!” exclaimed the girl piteously, trembling more and more, “we have others besides ourselves to think of. We must not, dare not, injure an innocent life which never injured us. If you will not repair the wrong which you have done to me, you must think of – of – the child!”
She lowered her head as she spoke, and hid her face on his bosom.
There was silence. Then Santley spoke.
“Is this so, Edith?”
“Yes, dear; it is so!”
Again there was silence. Edith, trembling and almost happy, with her blushing face still hidden on his bosom, was waiting for him to bring her comfort, by gathering her fondly to his heart. But she waited in vain. The cold hands scarcely touched her shoulder; and the lovely eyes, gazing over her head, were fixed on vacancy. He was not thinking of her. Indeed, for the moment, he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. As usual, he was thinking of himself, wondering what, in this extremely unpleasant emergency, it would be better for him to do. The news was not altogether startling to him. It was an event which, under existing circumstances, might reasonably have been expected; but hitherto it had not been of sufficient importance to trouble the clergyman’s thoughts. “Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,” had hitherto been his motto; consequently, for the moment he felt as if a mine had suddenly sprung beneath his feet. So when Edith raised her head, and asked tearfully, “Are you very angry, Charles?” he answered coldly, almost irritably —
“You cannot expect me to be pleased, Edith. But there is no use in talking about that. What we must discuss is, what is the next thing to be done?”
What was best to be done? It seemed to Edith there was only one thing that could be done, and she said so, quietly and firmly. But Santley, frowning ominously, positively shook her in his irritable impatience.
“Always harping on the one string!” he exclaimed angrily; “and yet I tell you it is impossible.”
“But why is it impossible?”
“There are a dozen reasons why I cannot marry you just now.”
“Then what am I to do? Am I to be publicly disgraced and brought to shame? Is my whole life to be ruined because of my love for you? Oh, it is cruel, and piteously unjust!”
“Edith, will you listen to reason? Will you have patience?”
“Will I have patience?” repeated the poor girl. “Have I not had patience? And my forbearance is well-nigh gone; I cannot bear it. Charles, think for a moment of what all this means to me, and have some pity.”
“Edith, will you listen to me?”
“Yes. Speak; I will listen,” she returned wearily, trying to stifle the sobs which almost choked her.
“If you will only control your violence and be guided by me, there need be no disgrace in the matter – either to you or to me. No one knows of this; no one need know. All you have to do is to remain quietly at home until a further concealment of the truth would be impossible; then you will leave home, as you have done before, to visit your friends. Once free of the village, you will go to a place which I shall have found for you; and, afterwards, return home.”
She listened quietly while he spoke. When he ceased, she said nothing. Presently he said —
“Edith, have you been listening?”
“Yes; I have heard.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think,” returned the girl, in a voice of utter and hopeless despair – a voice which would have rent the heart of any man but this one, “I think, Charles, that your love for me, if it ever existed, is dead and buried. I think, nay, I am quite sure, that you have decided never to make me your wife.”
“This is folly.”
“Charles, it is the truth. If you had any love, any feeling for me, you would not, could not, speak as you have done to-night. If you meant to make me your wife, you would not subject me to such utter shame.”
The clergyman entirely lost his self-command. He uttered an exclamation, and impatiently freed himself from her touch.
“Your shame,” he said; “your disgrace – it is always that. But what of me? Have I no caste to lose? You talk of my love, but what of yours? If it exists, does it fill you with the least consideration for me? If you talk like this, you will make me wish that we had never met.”
“How much better it would have been for me!”
“You think so? Thank God, it is not too late to part.”
“But it is too late!” cried the girl, wildly. “I tell you, it is too late for me!”
“But it is not too late for me,” said. Santley, between his set teeth.
“Charles, what do you mean? Answer me, for God’s sake. Will you not make me your wife?”
“No.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, without a tremor of the voice, the pitiless-word was spoken. The girl staggered back, and clasped her hands to her head.’ It was as if a bullet had entered her brain. With a wild cry, she stretched forth her hands towards him, but he pushed her roughly away.
“You heard what I said. I mean it. You yourself have opened my eyes, and I see. If I can help you as – as your pastor, I will do so; but I cannot, I will not, make a sacrifice of my whole life. You always know where to find me. I repeat, I shall always be glad to give you such assistance as a clergyman can give.”
