CHAPTER XIX. HE IS BUT A LANDSCAPE PAINTER
After Edith’s departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought long and deeply over the mysterious change in his cousin. The more he thought, the more uneasy he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably sure—that the girl had got into the hands of, a religious fanatic, who either consciously or unconsciously was completely destroying himself, his happiness—in this world at least. She was fairly possessed by the fever of other worldliness, he said to himself, and if left alone she would, like many others before her, probably end her days in a mad house.
Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based on what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should not be left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself, than that he should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a short visit to the picturesque little village where his aunt and cousin lived? Surely Edith would be glad to see him, and while he remained to watch over her, his time would not be entirely lost.
When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the country, the old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the unaccountable sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people had had a quarrel, and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous enough to make the first advances towards reconciliation. So she helped him to put a few things together, and on the spur of the moment he started off.
He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his coming.
—He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would be judicious of him to go to his aunt’s house at all. To be sure, he had always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed. Edith had left his mother’s house to avoid him; would it be fair to either of them that he should become his aunt’s guest? By living in the house he would force from her a communication which might be very grudgingly given, and at the same time his lips must be inevitably sealed. He finally decided that, during the visit at least, it would be better for every one that he should stay at the inn.
So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his relations until the following day.
The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream, perhaps work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his sketch-book under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his aunt’s cottage. When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it was suddenly opened by Edith, dressed in walking costume.
On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked manifestly angry.
“Walter, you here?” she said coldly; then she added quickly, “Is anything the matter at home?”
“Nothing whatever,” said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking no notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face. “I got tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the country might do me good. I am not going to bore you. I have brought my working tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.”
“But where is your luggage?”
“Down at the inn.”
“At the inn?”
“Yes; I had it taken direct there last night. I was fortunate enough, too, to secure rooms—a capital little parlour fit for a studio, and a bedroom leading out of it. I shall be able to do the host, and entertain you, if you’ll come.”
“You are going to stay at the inn?” said Edith. “You always stayed with us before!”
“Of course I did; but I am not going to be so inconsiderate as to plant myself upon you now.”
He laid the slightest possible stress upon the “now,” and Edith understood; nevertheless, she deemed it prudent to affect ignorance and read a different meaning in his words. She murmured something about being very much occupied, and having little time to attend to visitors; then led the way across the hall to their sitting-room, and brought him into the presence of his aunt.
Mrs. Russell welcomed him cordially, but when she heard of his domestic arrangements, her face went very blank indeed. She used every argument in her power to persuade the young man to change his mind, and to have his luggage brought up to the cottage. Walter, eager to accept her kindness, was listening for one word from Edith. It never came, and he expressed his intention to remain at the inn.
But, although he abided by his former decision and remained en garçon at the inn, a very great part of his time was spent at the cottage. The old lady, anxious to atone for the inhospitable behaviour of her niece, altered all her household arrangements to suit the erratic habits of the young painter. The heavy midday meal was replaced by a light luncheon; while for the light supper at six was substituted a substantial dinner, to which Walter was always bidden. On the afternoon of that day, when the young man had first made his appearance at the cottage, a rather unpleasant interview had taken place between the aunt and niece, almost the first which had come to ruffle the peaceful course of their evenly flowing lines. The old lady had been indignant at the coolness of Edith’s reception, and had accused the girl of inhospitality and ingratitude; while Edith had coolly given it as her opinion that the young man was much better located elsewhere.
“It is a tax to have a visitor always in the house, aunt,” said Edith, quietly; “and—and I haven’t the strength to bear it, I think.”
Mrs. Russell looked up, and was surprised to find that the girl, after bearing her reproaches so mildly, was now actually crying. She noted again, too, with a start of shocked surprise how sadly she had changed. The fresh, bright beauty which had once charmed every eye had gone, leaving scarcely a trace behind it, and the face was pale, careworn, and sad. She got up and kissed her, and that silent caress did more than a dozen reproaches. It made Edith hurriedly leave the room, to cast herself, crying bitterly, upon the bed, while Mrs. Russell sat down and wrote a note to Walter.
“You shall have your own way about staying at the inn,” she wrote, “and you shall also have every possible hour of the day that you can make use of for your work; but surely you can spare your evenings for us. I have arranged to dine every day at six, and I beg of you, for Edith’s sake, to make one of the party. Dear Edith is far from well, and sadly changing. She sees so few people, and the house is dull. Dear Walter, come often, for her sake if not for mine.”
Thus it happened that every night, when the little dining-room was laid out for dinner, Walter made his appearance at the cottage door, and that during those evening hours the family party was increased to three. Sometimes they left the dinner-table to lounge in the pretty little drawing-room, where Walter was permitted to smoke his cigar, while the old lady worked at wool-work, and Edith played to them in the slowly gathering darkness. Sometimes they strolled out on to the lawn, and had the tea brought out, and laughed and chatted while they watched the stars appear one by one in the heavens. Was it fancy, or since these social evenings commenced was Edith really changed’ for the better? Walter fancied that her eye was brighter, her cheek less pale, and that her manner towards himself was sometimes very tender, as if she wished in a measure to atone for her past coldness. This was particularly noticeable one night when the two sat alone in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Russell, murmuring something about household affairs, had left them together. Walter was reclining in an armchair, smoking his cigar and watching his cousin, who was busily engaged embroidering crosses upon a handsome altar-cloth, intended for the decoration of the church.
“These have been pleasant evenings,” he said—“pleasant for me, that is. I shall be sorry enough when they come to an end.”
Edith looked up and smiled sadly.
“If we always had pleasure it would become a pain,” she said. “Though we rebel against pain and suffering, it is, after all, a very great boon to the world.”
“Humph! Perhaps so, if it were better distributed. What about the poor creatures whose portion is only pain?—who, to put it vulgarly, get all the kicks, and none of the halfpence?”
“In this world, you should have said, Walter. Let us hope their measure of happiness will be greater in the world that is to come.”
Walter was silent. The conversation had taken precisely the turn which he would have avoided, and he was wondering how to bring it to the subject which was for ever uppermost in his mind. For a time he remained in a brown study. Edith stitched on. Then he rose, took a few turns about the room, and stopped near to her chair.
“Edith,” he said quietly, “do you know why I came down here?”
Something in his tone rather than his words made her start and flush painfully. She did not raise her eyes or cease her work. Before she could answer, he had taken her hand.
“I came for you, Edith,” he continued passionately. “Listen to me, my darling. Do not answer hastily, if you cannot give me a decided answer. At least let me hope.”
Decidedly yet tremblingly the girl put his hands from her, and half rose from her seat. His words had frozen her to ice again.
“Why did you come here?” she said. “Do you call it manly or kind to persecute me? I tell you I shall never marry.”
As she spoke her eye fell upon the altar-cloth, which she held in her hand: Walter saw the look, and as he was walking back to the inn that night it recurred to his mind again. The altar-cloth! There was the symbol of the thing which had come between them—which was blighting his life and hers. Edith was changing; but she was not utterly changed. He resolved to do the only thing which now remained to be done. He determined to appeal to her spiritual adviser.
All night his mind was filled with this idea; it troubled his sleeping as well as his waking moments, and when he rose in the morning it was the one thing which possessed him. Now, he had never seen the clergyman, but he had pictured him as a middle-aged, benevolent-looking man, perhaps with spectacles; a gentle fanatic in religion, willing, through the very bigotry of his nature, to sacrifice everything for the good of the Church, but still, perhaps, amiable. He might be open to reason, and an appeal made directly to him might be the means of putting an end to all the trouble.
Breakfast over, the young man issued from the inn, and strolled deliberately through the village in the direction of the Vicarage. It was early in the day to make a call, so he walked very slowly, meditating as he went on the nature of his errand; and the course he was about to take, after what had passed between him and his cousin, was, perhaps, a little unwarrantable, and Edith might be inclined to resent it if she knew. But then, he reflected, she need never know. Mr. Santley would surely grant him the favour of keeping the matter a secret; and afterwards, when the shadow of the Church had ceased to darken her life, and she was happy with him in her married home, she would be glad to hear that it was he who had saved her.
These were the kind of rose-coloured visions which filled his brain as he walked on towards the Vicarage, and by the time he had reached the hall door and pulled the bell, he had even converted Mr. Santley into the good fairy of the tale, or rather a sort of Father Christmas, in a surplice, smiling benevolently upon them and pairing their hands. A trim little servant came to the door, and, in answer to his inquiries, informed him that Mr. Santley was not at home. He was expected in immediately, however, if the gentleman would like to wait.. Yes; Walter would wait. So he followed the little maid across the hall, into a somewhat chilly but sufficiently gorgeous room, which was reserved solely for the comfort and convenience of Mr. Santley’s guests. As Walter sank down into an easy-chair, the arms of which seemed to enfold him in a close embrace, and looked about the room, he acknowledged that Mr. Santley at least did not give all his substance to the poor. Here at least there was no appearance of penury, or of sackcloth and ashes; all was comfortable and luxurious in the extreme. He walked about the room; examined the books upon the tables, which were all works of education, elegantly bound; noticed the engravings on the walls—one or two of Raphael’s Madonnas (coloured copies), and an old engraving after Andrea del Sarto. Mr. Santley did not come. He rang the bell, gave the little maid his card, told her he would call again, and left the Vicarage.
This time he walked in the direction of the schoolhouse. He had his sketchbook under his arm, and in it a half-finished sketch of the schoolmistress’s picturesque home. He would fill up his spare time by adding a few touches to the sketch before he returned to the Vicarage.
In this matter fortune favoured him. It being Saturday afternoon, there was no school, and the schoolmistress was leaning in a listless attitude upon the low trellised gate. She welcomed the young painter with a nod and a bright smile, and readily assented to his proposition that she should stand for the figure in the picture. He took out his book and set to work.
Dora meanwhile chatted and laughed to make the time pass pleasantly, and sometimes, in answer to an invitation from him, she would run round the easel to take a peep at the figure of herself, which was gradually growing under his hand. At last their pleasant interview was brought to an end. Walter remembered the appointment which this chattering lady had made him forget. He put up his sketching materials, and prepared to take his leave. Then Dora stopped him.
“Surely, Mr. Hetherington, you will do me one favour,” she said: “you will honour me by stepping for a moment into the cottage which you have transferred so beautifully to paper. I have some cream and milk, some fresh strawberries from our garden, if that is any inducement to you.”
The invitation was tempting. Nevertheless, Walter, while wishing to accept, was about to refuse, pleading an engagement at the Vicarage when another voice broke in—
“Good day, Miss Greatheart!” it said.
The schoolmistress smiled, made a prim curtsey, and answered, “Good day, sir!” Then she waited to see if her visitor had anything more to say.
The new arrival was a man, and Walter, who was looking at him, thought he was the handsomest man he had ever seen in his life. He was dressed as a clergyman, but the cut of his garments-was elegant and eminently becoming. As his eye fell upon Walter he raised his hat, and discovered a head beautifully shaped and slightly thinning at the temples. Walter remained fascinated, staring at the man, who moved here and there with easy grace, and whose face grew singularly handsome with every varying expression which flitted across it.
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!”