CHAPTER XXV. “BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!”
If Baptisto’s object in describing a dream so ominous was to attract his master’s attention to the intimate relations between Mrs. Haldane and the clergyman, he certainly succeeded. Once assured in this direction, Haldane’s perceptions were keen enough. He noticed that the mere mention of Santley’s name filled Ellen with a sort of nervous constraint; that, although the clergyman’s visits were frequent, they were generally made at times when Haldane himself was busy and preoccupied—that is to say, during his well-known hours of work; and that, moreover, Santley, however much he liked the society of the lady, invariably avoided the husband, or, if they met, contrived to frame some excuse for speedy parting. Now, Haldane trusted his wife implicitly, and believed her incapable of any infidelity, even in thought. Still, he did not quite like the aspect of affairs. Much as he trusted his wife, he had a strong moral distrust for anything in the shape of a priest; and he determined, therefore, to keep his eyes upon the clergyman.
A few days after that curious physiological experiment, he had the following conversation with Baptisto. It was the first day of the week.
“Baptisto, I thought you were a good Catholic?”
“So I am, senor,” returned the Spaniard, smiling.
“Yet you went to an English church-yesterday, I hear?”
“Yes, senor. I go there very often.”
“Why, pray?”
“Simply out of curiosity. Mr. Santley is a beautiful preacher, and has a silvery voice. While you were away, I went once, twice, three times. There is a young senora there who plays sweetly upon the great organ; I like to listen, to-watch the congregation.”
“Humph! By-the-bye, Baptisto, I have been thinking over the dream of yours, when—when you were lying there.”
“Yes, senor?”
“Pray, what put such a foolish idea in your head?”
“I cannot tell, senor; all I know is, it came. A foolish dream, do you say? I suppose it is because the clergyman was here so often, when you were away. And madame is so devout! I trust, senor, my dream has not given you offence; perhaps I was wrong to speak of it at all.”
Haldanes face had gone black as a thunder-cloud. Placing his hand on the other’s shoulder, and looking firmly into his face, he said—
“Listen to me, Baptisto.”
“I am listening, senor.”
“If I thought you would come back to life to tell lies about your mistress, I would have let you lie the other day and rot like a dead dog, rather than have recovered you at all. You hear? Take care! I know you do not love your mistress, but if you dare to whisper one word against her, I will drive you for ever from my door.”
Baptisto bowed his head respectfully before the storm, but retained his usual composure.
“Senor, may I speak?”
“Yes; but again, take care!”
“You should not blame me if I am jealous for your honour!”
Haldane started, and uttered an expletive.
“My honour, you dog? What do you mean?”
“This, senor. I would rather die than give you offence; and as for the senora, I love her also, for is she not your wife? But will you be angry still, when I tell you, when I warn you, to beware of that man, that priest? He is a bad man, very bad. Ah, I have watched—and seen!”
“What have you seen?” cried Haldane, clutching him by the arm. “Come, out with it!”
“Enough to show me that he is not your friend—that he is dangerous.”
“Bah! is that all? Now, listen to me, and be sure I mean what I say. I will have no servant of mine spying upon my wife. I will have no servant of mine insinuating that my honour is in danger. If I hear another word of this, if you convey to me by one look the fact that you are still prying, spying, and suspecting, I shall take you by the collar and send you flying out of my house. Now, go!”
Baptisto, who knew his master’s temper perfectly, bowed and withdrew. He had no wish to say one word more. He had thrown out a dark hint, a black seed of suspicion, and he knew that he might safely let it work. It did work, rapidly and terribly. Left alone, Haldane became a prey to the wildest fears and suspicions. He remembered now that his wife had been acquainted with this man in her girlhood; that there had even been some passage of love between them. He remembered how eagerly she had renewed the acquaintance, and with what admiring zeal the clergyman had responded. He pictured to himself the sympathetic companionship, the zealous meetings, the daily religious intercourse, of these two young people, each full of the fervour of a blind superstition. Could it be possible that they loved each other? Questioning his memory, he recalled looks, words, tones, which, although scarcely noticed at the time, seemed now of painful significance. The mere thought was sickening. Already he realized the terrible phrase-of the poet Young—“the jealous are the damned.”
Haldane was not habitually a violent man. Though passionate and headstrong by temperament, he had schooled himself to gentleness after a stormy youth, and the chilly waters of philosophy, at which he drank daily, kept his head cool and his pulses calm. But the stormy spirit, though hushed, was not altogether dead within him, and under his habitual reticence and good-humoured cynicism, there lay the most passionate idolatry for his beautiful wife. He had set her up in his heart of hearts, with a faith too perfect for much expression; and it had not occurred to him, in his remotest dreams, that any other man could ever come between them.
And now, suddenly as a lightning flash illumining a dark landscape, the fear came upon him that perhaps he had been unwary and unwise. Was it possible, he asked himself, that he had’ been too studious and too book-loving, too reticent also in all those little attentions which by women, who always love sweetmeats, are so tenderly prized? Moreover, he was ten years his wife’s, elder—was that disparity of years also a barrier between their souls? No; he was sure it was not. He was sure that she was not hypocritical, and that she loved him. Wherever the blame might be, if blame there were, it was certainly not hers. She had been in all respects, a tender and a sympathetic wife; encouraging his deep study of science, even when she most distrusted its results; proud of his attainments, and eager for his success; in short, a perfect helpmate, but for her old-fashioned prejudices in the sphere of religion. Ah, religion! There was the one word which solved the enigma, and aroused in our philosopher’s bosom that fierce indignation which long ago led Lucretius into such passionate hate against the Phantom,=
Which with horrid head
Leered hideously from all the gates of heaven!”
It needed only this to complete his loathing for the popular theology, for all its teachers. Yes, he reflected, religion only was to blame. In its name, his wife’s sympathies had been tampered with, her spirit more or less turned against himself; in its name, his house had been secretly invaded, his domestic happiness poisoned, his peace of mind destroyed. It was the old story! Wherever this shadow of superstition crawled, craft and dissimulation began. Now, as in the beginning, it came between father and child, sister and brother, man and wife.
It so happened that when George Haldane came forth from having his dark hour alone, he rather avoided meeting his wife at once, and, taking his hat, stepped out from the laboratory on to the shrubbery path. He had scarcely done so, when his eye fell upon two figures standing together in the distance, upon the terrace of the house. One was Mrs. Haldane, wearing her garden hat and a loose shawl thrown over her shoulders. The other was the clergyman of the parish.
Haldane drew back, and watched. In that moment he knew the extent of his humiliation; for never before had he been a spy upon his wife’s actions.
Their backs were towards him. Santley was talking eagerly; Ellen was looking down. Presently they began to move slowly along the terrace, side by side.
Haldane watched them gloomily. The sunlight fell brightly upon them, and on the old Manor house, with its brilliant creepers and glittering panes, while the old chapel, with the watcher in its ruined porch, remained in shadow. It seemed like an omen. In the darkness of his hiding-place, Haldane felt satanic. Yes, there they walked—children of God, as they called themselves—in God’s sunlight; and he, the searcher for light, the unbeliever, was forgotten.
Presently Santley paused again, and, with an impassioned gesture, pointed upward. Ellen raised her head, and looked upward too, listening eagerly to his words. Haldane laughed fiercely to himself, with all the ugliness of his jealousy upon him.
Presently they disappeared into the house. A little afterwards Santley emerged from the front door, and came walking rapidly down the avenue. His manner was eager and happy, almost jubilant, and Haldane saw, when he approached, that his face looked positively radiant.
He was passing, when Haldane stepped out and confronted him. He started, paused, and a shadow fell instantaneously upon his handsome face. Recovering himself, he held out his hand. Haldane did not seem to see the gesture, but, nodding a careless greeting, said, with his habitual sang froid—
“Well met, Mr. Santley. Here I am again, you see, hard at work. Have you come from the house?”
“Yes,” answered Santley.
“On some new message of Christian charity and beneficence, I suppose? Ah, my dear sir, you are indefatigable. And the old women of the parish must indeed find you a Good Shepherd. Did you find my wife at home?”
“Yes.”
“And zealous, as usual, I suppose?’ Ah, what a thing it is to be pious! But let me beg you not to encourage her too much. Charity begins at home; and what with soup-kitchens, offertories, subscriptions for church repairs, and societies for the gratuitous distribution of flannel waistcoats, I am in a fair way of being ruined.”
Santley forced a laugh.
“Don’t be afraid. My errand to-day was not a begging one, I assure you.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“I was merely bringing Mrs. Haldane a book I promised to lend her. To tell the truth, she finds your library rather destitute of works of a religious nature.”
“Do you really think so?” exclaimed Haldane, drily. “Why, I thought it unusually well provided in that respect. Let me see! There are Volney’s ‘Ruins of Empire,’ Monboddo’s ‘Dissertations,’ Drummond’s ‘Academical Questions,’ excellent translations of Schopenhauer and Hartmann, not to speak of thirty-six volumes of Diderot, and fifty of Arouet.”
Santley opened his eyes in horror and astonishment.
“Arouet!” he ejaculated. “Do you actually mean to call Voltaire a religious writer?”
“Highly so. There is religion even in ‘La Pucelle,’ but it reaches its culmination in the ‘Philosophical Dictionary.’”
“And you would actually let Mrs. Haldane read such works as those?”
“Certainly; though, am sorry to say, she prefers ‘The Old Helmet’ and the ‘Heir of Redclyffe.’ May I ask the name of the work you have been good enough to lend her?”
“It is a book from which I myself have received great benefit—Père Hyacinthes ‘Sermons.’”
“Père Hyacinthe?” repeated Haldane. “Ah! the jolly priest who reverenced celibacy, and proclaimed himself the father of a strapping boy. Well, the man was at least honest. I think all clergymen should marry, and at as early an age as possible. What is your opinion?”
Santley flushed to the temples, while Haldane watched him with a gloomy smile.
“I think—I am sure,” he stammered, “that the married state is the happiest—perhaps the holiest.”
“With these sentiments, of which I cordially approve, why the deuce are you a bachelor?”
The clergyman winced at the question, and his colour deepened; then, as if musing, he glanced round towards the house—a look which was observed and fully appreciated by his tormentor.
“I am sure my wife would encourage you to change your condition. Like most women, she is by instinct a matchmaker.”
Santley did not seem to hear; at any rate, he made no reply, but, holding out his hand quickly, exclaimed—
“I must go now. I am rather in haste.”
Haldane did not take the hand, but put his arm upon the clergyman’s shoulder.
“Well, good day,” he said. “Take my advice, though, and get a sensible wife as soon as possible.”
Santley tried to smile, but only succeeded in looking more pale and nervous than usual. With a few murmured words of adieu, he moved rapidly away.
Haldane watched him thoughtfully until he disappeared down the avenue.
“I wonder if that man can smile?” he said to himself. “No; I am afraid he is too horribly in earnest. I suppose, the women would call him handsome—spiritual; but I hate such pallid, waxen-featured, handsome dolls. A pretty shepherd, that, for a Christian flock to follow; a fellow who makes his very ignorance of this world constitute his claim to act as cicerone to the next. Fancy being jealous, actually jealous, of such a thing as that!”
He turned back into his laboratory and tried to dismiss Baptisto’s suggestion from his mind; but it was impossible. He could not disguise from himself that Santley, with his seraphic face and sad, earnest eyes, was the kind of creature whom the weaker sex adore, and that he was rendered doubly dangerous to women by the radiant mesmerism of a fascinating and voluptuous celestial superstition.