CHAPTER XVIII. CHURCH BELLS—AND A DISCORD.
Edith was glad that the next day was Sunday. She rose early, dressed hurriedly, and went for a walk in the fresh morning air. She felt instinctively that she had a battle to fight, and that all her resources must be brought into play to gain her the victory. If her influence over the man was to continue, she knew there was one way by which she could regain it. With such pale cheeks and lacklustre eyes as she had brought with her from London, where, she asked, would her chances be against Ellen Haldane’s fresh country charms? She must banish all painful thoughts for the present, and try to win back the roses which he had caused to fade.
She walked for above an hour; and when she returned home, she went straight into the garden to gather a little bouquet of flowers. Then she went up to her room to dress for church. When she came down to breakfast, she wore her prettiest costume, and the bunch of flowers was fastened at her throat.
Her aunt had a headache, she said, and could not go to church. Edith was not sorry; indeed, when the time came for her to set out, she was glad she was alone.
She arrived at the church rather earlier than usual, nevertheless she walked straight in, and no sooner had she crossed the threshold than she obeyed a sudden impulse which seized her, and determined for that day at least not to occupy her usual seat. She selected one which was some distance from the pulpit, but from which she could command an excellent view of the pew belonging to Foxglove Manor.
The congregation gathered, but the Haldane’s pew was empty. Edith watched it with feverish impatience. Presently, just as the tolling bell was about to cease, she saw Mrs. Haldane enter and take her seat.
Two minutes later, Mr. Santley, clothed in his white, priestly robes, ascended the steps of the reading-desk, and bent his beautiful head in prayer. As he rose to his feet, Edith, who had been watching him in extreme fascination, saw his gaze wandering round the church, and finally fix upon the face of the mistress of Foxglove Manor. She saw, or thought she saw, the lady’s eyelids quiver and finally droop beneath that glance; while the clergyman arose, like a sick man suddenly restored to health, and began to read the lessons for the day.
How that morning passed Edith scarcely knew. She remained like one in a dream, mechanically going though the religious forms, but feeling as if her heart’s blood was slowly ebbing away. Of one thing only she was conscious—that of all those upturned faces before him the clergyman seemed to see but one, but that from this one face seemed to draw his inspiration, as the earth draws life and light from the shining rays of the sun.
At length the service was over, the congregation dispersed, and Edith found herself walking up and down the quiet lanes alone, panting for air, feeling sick at heart, and shivering through and through, though she stood in the warm rays of sunlight. Go home she could not. She must see Mr. Santley before she could face another human soul.
She turned, intending to go to the Vicarage, but when she was yet within some distance of the house, she saw coming towards her the very man she sought.
She paused, not knowing whether to feel glad or sorry. It was certainly better than having to go to the Vicarage, yet now that the meeting was so near, she shrank from it. She made a desperate effort to compose herself, and paused, waiting for him. The clergyman was evidently lost in deep thought, his head was bent, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was quite close to Edith before he saw her.
When their eyes met he paused, almost involuntarily, a momentary flush of mingled annoyance and surprise passed over his face, then he recovered himself, walked forward, and quietly extended his hand.
“Miss Dove!” he said, glancing nervously round. “I had no idea you were at home. How do you do?”
It had been agreed between them, long before, that so long as their secret remained a secret, no warmer greeting than this must be exchanged between them in public. When the proposition had been made, Edith had quietly assented. What was it to her that Santley should bow his head with a politeness even more frigid than he bestowed upon any one of his flock. Had she not seen the burning light of love in his half-lowered eyes? and had she not known that a few hours later she would feel his caressing arms about her, and hear his rich, mellow voice whispering tenderly in her ear?
But now all was changed. The frigid bow which had formerly been the prologue, had rapidly developed into the play. There were no stolen meetings now; no consoling whisperings. The clergyman had latterly become alive to the risk of such indulgences, and had gradually allowed them to cease; and Edith, receiving as her portion the cold bow and cold handshake that every eye might have seen, had watched the love light gradually fade from her hero’s eyes.
But she had never seen him so cold as to-day. When their eyes had met, she had noticed the look of positive annoyance which had passed across his face. It had soon fled, but when he spoke and extended his hand, his face had assumed a look of cold severity.
Edith did not speak; the painful beating of her heart almost stifled her, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She extended her hand; the cold, listless touch of his fingers throbbed through her like ice. The clergyman saw her trouble, and again that look of impatient annoyance passed across his face then he raised his brows in calm surprise.
“What is the matter?” he asked quickly. “Has some domestic trouble caused your sudden return home?”
She withdrew her hand from his cold, lax fingers, and answered, “No.”
Then she turned and walked along in silence by his side.
The good man was annoyed, seriously annoyed. First at her sudden appearance in the village, when he believed she was safely bestowed in London for several weeks to come; next at the rôle she thought fit to assume. He hated scenes at any time; just now he particularly wished to avoid one. So he walked on in silence, until he could command his voice to speak quietly; then he said, in the most careless manner possible—
“When did you return home?”
“Last night. I attended church this morning.”
She looked at him quickly, to see what effect her words produced. Apparently they produced none. The clergymans face remained as coldly impassive as before; he raised his brows slightly as he replied.
“Indeed! I did not see you there.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Your return was very sudden, was it not? I thought you intended staying away for some time.”
“I changed my mind. I thought you would have been glad to have me back again.”
Then, swept on by a wild impulse, which she could not possibly restrain, she added slowly, but tremulously—
“Charles, are you sorry I have come?”
The clergyman started, flushed, then quickly recovered himself, as he added—
“Sorry, my dear Edith? What a question! Why of course I am not sorry.”
“Then, why not say that you are glad? Why not let me know it? Don’t you see you are breaking my heart?”
Santley paused, and looked at her. He did not flush this time, his face grew white as marble, his eyes quite steel-like in their coldness. He had dreaded a scene, but this was so very much worse than he had expected; for by this time Edith had lost all self-control, and was sobbing violently. His face hardened terribly. He must put an end once and for ever to such unpleasant encounters.
“Edith, have you lost your senses?” he said; and the bitterness of his tone was like putting a knife into the girl’s heart. “If you wish to perform in such scenes as this, you could surely find some other time and place than the public road and the broad daylight. If you have anything to say to me, you must come to me again in private. At present I have no more time which I can place at your service. I have business with Mrs. Haldane, who is waiting for me at the Vicarage; and my duties at the church will soon begin again.”
He raised his hat, and would have moved away, but Edith laid her hand upon his arm and forcibly detained him.
“Stop!” she cried. “One word! You shall not go. I must speak.”
He turned upon her almost angrily; he attempted, but in vain, to shake off her detaining hand.
“Tell me,” she cried; “why are you going to meet Mrs. Haldane?” Then, before he could recover from his astonishment sufficiently to speak, she added, “You need not tell me, for I know. It is this woman who has come between you and me. Oh, do you think I don’t know that since she came to the village you have been a changed man? What did I come home for? Because I knew it was not right that you and she should be in the village alone.”
This time the clergyman succeeded in shaking off her hand. The face which he turned towards hers was almost livid in its pallor.
“You forget yourself,” he said, with a sternness which was even harder to bear than bitter reproach. “Well, I suppose you think you have a right to insult me; but permit me to remind you that your right does not extend to religious affairs, or to a lady who is the most esteemed member of my congregation.”
“I have not insulted you, Charles; I am only warning you.”
“You are very kind,” he interposed, with a sneer, “but I am, in no greater need of your warning than is the lady. Until you can learn how to control your own words and actions, it would be better for you that we should not meet.” Again he moved, as if about to leave her; again she put forth her hand, and held him fast. The scene had become more violent than she had intended. It was now too late to pause.
“One more word,” she sobbed. “Promise me that you will not see her, then I will promise never to mention this subject again.”
“Promise you what? To discontinue all communications with Mrs. Haldane?”
“Yes, yes; that is all. It is not much to ask you.”
“It is much more than you have any right to ask. You have chosen to connect my name dishonourably with a lady whom I esteem. Enough! I cannot control your actions, but I mean to regulate my own. Good morning, Edith. Since you have nothing more important to say to me, I suppose I am at liberty to go?”
He raised his hat and walked away, pausing a minute later to raise it again, and to address some pleasant remark to a member of his congregation, who happened at that moment to be coming along the road. It was the sight of this stranger which prevented Edith from following, which made her turn and walk with rapid steps towards her home. She felt cold and sick and heart-broken, and she shrank from the sight of any human face.
When she reached her home, she found her aunt, who had been surprised at her protracted absence, gazing uneasily up and down the road. The sight of the girl’s pale, tear-stained face alarmed her, but Edith silenced her inquiries by declaring that she had not been very well.
“It was foolish of me, but I could not help crying at the service,” she said. “Dear aunt, do not be anxious. I am better now, and only want rest.”
“Shall I send you up some dinner, darling?”
“No; nothing. I want to be alone—quite alone.”
So, with a weary, listless look upon her, the girl went up to her room, and, having locked the door, she threw herself upon the bed, and cried as if her heart were broken.
Meanwhile Mr. Santley went on his way, almost as much disturbed as Edith herself. He was angry, terribly angry; for if scenes similar to the one through which he had passed were allowed to continue, he anticipated a storm of troubles in the future. But how to avoid them? What would be the best and safest course to adopt? The good man was terribly perplexed. To openly defy the girl might cause her, in her bitterness and pain, to expose herself and him; which would certainly be awkward, since he wished, above all things, to stand well with his congregation. And yet to adopt any other course, he must at least pretend to subscribe to her conditions. He must be content to renounce, or pretend to renounce, his intimacy with Mrs. Haldane. The man of God was justly indignant.
Such a course, he knew, must not be thought of, and he resolved with pious determination to continue Ellen Haldane’s conversion, for which he was so zealous and to leave matters between himself and Edith exactly as they were.
He knew the girl’s disposition. She would soon acknowledge her folly, and make the first advances towards reconciliation. Well, then he would be inclined to meet her half-way, but she must be the first to move. If, on the other hand, she chose to take the unpleasant course of exposing him, why, he would have but one alternative: he would simply deny her statements, and who would believe her? It would be an unpleasant phase of experience to have to pass through, and it would compel him to sacrifice a fellow-creature.
Nevertheless, he acknowledged to himself, with the air of a Christian martyr, that if she pushed him to extremities it would be necessary.
After all, he hoped that Edith, shut up with her own grief, in the solitude of her own room, would soon be brought to see the error of her ways, and would make that first advance towards reconciliation which was necessary for the peace of mind of both.
But, whatever might happen in the future, Edith had succeeded for that day at least in completely destroying the good mans peace of mind. His agitation was so great that he was compelled to walk about the quiet lanes until his tranquillity was somewhat restored. Then he returned to the Vicarage, where Mrs. Haldane was comfortably seated with his sister, and enjoyed her society until the hour of his labours returned.
When he entered the church that afternoon, all the congregation thought he was looking more seraphic than ever. Many a young heart fluttered with holiness, and many an eyelid drooped reverently, before the calm serenity of his gaze. As he stood facing his people, he cast his eyes around the church. Edith was not there.
He turned the leaves of his gold-clasped volume, and as his rich voice filled the church, and the congregation rose, he gazed once more about him. This time his cheek flushed slightly, and a soft sigh of relief and happiness escaped his parted lips. Mrs. Haldane was again in her place, calmly joining in the prayers.
That afternoon the clergyman preached like one inspired; all were impressed but none were cognizant of the cause. Though the clergyman’s eyes wandered continually around the church, he saw only one face, was conscious only of one presence. So engrossed was he, and so wrapped up in his fervour of admiration, that he did not notice what was going on around him. Had he done so, he would have seen that there was another member of the congregation besides Mrs. Haldane who attracted a certain amount of interest. Seated in the gallery, calmly joining in the service and watching the minister, was the foreign “gentleman with the eyes.”