“You will stay and keep Walter company, or else you will make me regret I did not bear the pain without a word. Indeed, dear aunt, all I want is rest and quietness. I shall be quite well to-morrow.”
So she went. Mrs. Russell sat down again to her wool-work, and Walter subsided into his chair.
There was not much talking done after that, and Walter, as soon as his cigar was finished, rose to take his leave. The old lady looked at him tenderly and sadly, but she said nothing. Instinct had told her the true state of, things between the cousins; she was sorry, but helpless. It would be better, she thought to herself, if the poor boy would resign a useless courtship, since Edith had evidently no affection to give, and take to himself some pretty little wife who would make his home happy.
He did not return directly to the inn, but with head bent in deep thought he strolled on, he knew not whither. He was wondering whether or not this hopeless quest should end. If Edith had deceived him—if, indeed, it was the man, and not religion, which held the girl so entranced—why, then his task of regeneration would surely be a very difficult one. It was strange, he thought, that Edith, knowing his mistake, should have allowed it to remain. He had repeatedly spoken to her of Mr. Santley as an elderly man; and, although she knew the truth, she had never corrected him. It looked black, very black; the more he thought over it, the more complicated matters became.
He had been so engrossed in his own thoughts, that he had been almost unaware of his own actions. He was only conscious of strolling idly on and on, he knew not in what direction. Suddenly he paused, looked helplessly about him; then took a few stealthy steps forward, and paused again. Where he was he did not know. The night had grown quite dark and chilly, for heavy, rain-charged clouds were covering both stars and moon. But his quick ear had detected what his eyes could not at first perceive—the close neighbourhood of two figures in earnest conversation—a man and a woman. The darkness shrouded their figures, but the breeze brought to him the sound of their voices. Walter hated to play the spy, yet for once in his life his feet refused to move. For he had recognized one of the voices as belonging to his cousin Edith.
Yes, the voice was Ediths.
Having wished her aunt and cousin “good night,” she had hastened to her room and locked the door; but instead of throwing herself on the bed, she had lit the candles, sat down near the dressing-table, drawn forth a letter from her pocket, and begun to read.
The letter was as follows:—
“My dear Miss Dove,
“I am very sorry to hear that you have been suffering. You will find what you require at Dr. Spruce’s surgery. You are right about the time—nine o’clock will do very well.