“Oh, Mary, have you discovered the skeleton yet?”
“No,” replied Miss Santley, with a laugh. “Charles is forgetful enough in some things, but he has never yet left the key in that lock. I once asked him what it was he concealed so carefully, but he refused to satisfy my curiosity; so I resolved to trust to chance and his carelessness. I have waited so long, however, that my curiosity has at last been tired out. I don’t suppose, after all, it is anything worth knowing.”
“And why does he always keep this bookcase locked too? The books all look so fresh and new, and they are much more attractive than those dusty old fellows any one can look into. I should like to read several of those, one hears so much about them. There is Darwin, ‘The Descent of Man’—I have read articles about that book in the magazines, and I know he believes Adam and Eve were apes in Paradise or something like that.”
“Oh, my dear, Charles would never allow you to read those books on any account. They are all dreadfully wicked and blasphemous. He only reads them himself to refute them and to be able to show how false and dangerous they are.”
Edith, who had approached the window, now suddenly started back, and a bright flush rose to her face.
“Here is Mr. Santley, Mary! How pale and wearied he looks!”
A moment or two later the vicar entered the library. At the sight of Miss Dove he paused for an instant, and then advancing, held out his hand to her.
“You here, Miss Edith!” he said coldly. “How are you, and how is your aunt?”
He did not wait for an answer, but went to his writing-table and sat down.
The two women exchanged glances of surprise, and Edith’s face grew sad and white.