After Edith’s departure from London, Walter Hetherington thought long and deeply over the mysterious change in his cousin. The more he thought, the more uneasy he grew. Of one thing he felt tolerably sure—that the girl had got into the hands of, a religious fanatic, who either consciously or unconsciously was completely destroying himself, his happiness—in this world at least. She was fairly possessed by the fever of other worldliness, he said to himself, and if left alone she would, like many others before her, probably end her days in a mad house.
Having arrived at this enlightened conclusion, which was chiefly based on what Edith had herself told him, Walter determined that she should not be left alone. What would be more rational, he said to himself, than that he should pack up his sketching paraphernalia and pay a short visit to the picturesque little village where his aunt and cousin lived? Surely Edith would be glad to see him, and while he remained to watch over her, his time would not be entirely lost.
When he told his mother of his determination to revisit the country, the old lady was unfeignedly glad. She suspected, from the unaccountable sudden departure of the girl, that the two young people had had a quarrel, and she was glad to see her son was magnanimous enough to make the first advances towards reconciliation. So she helped him to put a few things together, and on the spur of the moment he started off.
He had written neither to his cousin nor aunt to tell them of his coming.
—He had intended sending a telegram from the station, but at the last moment he changed his mind, and as he sat in the train which was rapidly whirling him onward, he began to ask himself whether it would be judicious of him to go to his aunt’s house at all. To be sure, he had always made it his head-quarters; but now things were changed. Edith had left his mother’s house to avoid him; would it be fair to either of them that he should become his aunt’s guest? By living in the house he would force from her a communication which might be very grudgingly given, and at the same time his lips must be inevitably sealed. He finally decided that, during the visit at least, it would be better for every one that he should stay at the inn.
So on arriving at the station he drove to the inn, secured at a cheap price a couple of cosy rooms, and determined to delay calling upon his relations until the following day.
The next day was fine, a fit day for an artist to lounge, dream, perhaps work. Walter hung about the inn till midday; then he took his sketch-book under his arm, and strolled forth in the direction of his aunt’s cottage. When he reached the door, and was about to knock, it was suddenly opened by Edith, dressed in walking costume.
On coming thus unexpectedly face to face with her cousin, she looked manifestly angry.
“Walter, you here?” she said coldly; then she added quickly, “Is anything the matter at home?”
“Nothing whatever,” said Walter, quietly giving his hand, and taking no notice whatever of the irritation so plainly visible on her face. “I got tired of London, that was all, and thought a few days in the country might do me good. I am not going to bore you. I have brought my working tools down with me, and mean to take some sketches back.”