Foxglove Manor, Volume II (of III)
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.
CHAPTER XXII. AT THE VICARAGE
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.
