Mr. Santley did not attempt to renew the conversation. Clearly she was not in the mood, and he believed that what he had said had fallen as seed in a generous soil, and would germinate in the warmth of her fervid temperament. It was enough that she knew he still loved her.
Such a knowledge is ever dangerous to an imaginative woman. For several days after that incident Mrs. Haldane never thought of the vicar, never heard his name mentioned without at the same time unconsciously recalling—or rather without having flashed upon her a mental picture not only of that little wood near the moss, but of the romantic shore at Seacombe. She felt a strange tender interest in the man who had loved her so long, and still loved her so hopelessly, so unselfishly. Hitherto in their relationship she had only thought of herself, of her own needs and her own happiness. She had looked up to him. But that avowal had changed their position towards one another in a singular way. He to whom every one felt entitled to appeal to for advice, assistance, consolation, was evidently himself in need of human affection. She had hitherto regarded the priest rather than the man, but now the man chiefly engaged her attention, and attracted her sympathy while he excited and perplexed her imagination. What could she do to be of service to him? She set her woman’s wit to work in a woman’s way, and speedily arrived at one means of serving him.
“George,” she said to her husband one morning at breakfast, “I have been thinking of asking an old schoolfellow of mine, Hettie Taylor, to come and spend a few weeks with us. She lives in London, and she will be delighted with the change to the country, I know. What do you say?”
“Beginning to feel lonely already?” he asked, glancing up at her.
“Oh no, not at all. Only I have been thinking of her, and should like to have her with me again for a little while. I am sure you will like her. She is very pretty—such beautiful brown hair and eyes—and decidedly intellectual.”
“Ask her by all means, then.”
“Thanks. I will write to her to-day. No, not to-day—I shall be busy seeing after the children’s picnic. Will you not come, dear? You know you love children.”
“To a picnic, my dear girl!” cried Mr. Haldane aghast.
“Yes, in Barton Wood. The children are all going in a couple of waggons. And there will be some of the old people there if the weather is fine. Do come.”
“A picnic, my dear Nell, is pure atavism—it is one of those lapses into savagery which betray the aboriginal arboreal blood,” said Mr. Haldane, laughing. “No, no; I have too much respect for the civilization of the century and for my personal comfort to willingly retrograde to the Drift Period.”