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.”