“I shall be glad to; I should like, above all, to finish the figure leaning on the gate.”
“Then you must come in the evening. I promise to give you an hour after school hours.”
Then Walter shook hands with her and left, taking the way to the inn instead of to the Vicarage. He would make no appeal to the clergyman. The sight of Mr. Santley, so different to the benevolent, elderly gentleman of his imagination, had decided him on that point; it had also brought with it other trouble, for it threw an entirely new light on Edith’s religious fervour.
Was it, then, the man or the church, infatuation or fanaticism? He asked himself the question for the first time. Was Edith among the mass of simple girls who were breaking their hearts for his sake? Probably. It remained now for him to watch her, and ascertain the truth.
He went up to the cottage that evening, and regarded Edith with quite a new light in his eyes. She also seemed changed. Her manner was restless and ill at ease; her cheek was flushed. All through the dinner she scarcely touched any food, but glanced furtively at her aunt and cousin.
When the dinner was over, they all retired to the drawing-room as usual.
Here Ediths restlessness asserted itself more strongly. Instead of sitting quietly to her work, as was her usual custom, she flitted restlessly about the room. Presently she declared that she had a terrible headache, and wished her cousin “good night.”
“I have been trying to bear it,” she said, “but it gets worse instead of better. You will excuse me for to-night, Walter, will you not?”
As he took her hand and held it for a moment in his, he felt that it was trembling and very hot. He scarcely believed in the headache, but he deemed silence the most prudent course; so he wished her “good night” without more ado.
Her aunt rose to go with her to her room, but permission to do so was firmly refused.