“Yours faithfully,
“Charles Santley.”
This letter had come through the post in the ordinary way. It had been handed to Edith in the morning; and the very sight of it had sent the hot blood coursing through her veins, and kept her in a state of feverish excitement the whole day. It was the knowledge of this piece of paper in her pocket which had rendered her so uneasy during the dinner; it was the knowledge of this letter also which had caused her excitement after dinner, and which finally had made her wish her cousin a hasty “good night.” And now, as she read it again, the flush remounted to her cheeks and her heart beat pleasantly. She had not seen Santley alone since that Sunday morning, nearly a week past, when the two had parted in anger—an anger which to Edith meant utter misery and prostration. And now, at the eleventh hour, he had written to her appointing a meeting, and she was ready to fly to him with open arms.
She sat for some time looking at the letter, reading it over and over until she knew every word of it by heart; then she kissed it, returned it to her pocket, opened the window, and looked out. It was a cloudy but fine night, and the welcome darkness was gathering quickly.
If it would only rain, she thought, they would be sure to have the road to themselves in that case; and for herself, why, what did it matter so long as she felt her lovers arms about her again, and knew that he was true? But now her first care was to effect her escape stealthily from the house. She had decided upon her course of action; the great difficulty which remained was to carry it through. She hastily put on her walking boots, took up a cloak of sombre colour, fastened it round her, drew the hood over her head, and stood ready to set forth to the place of meeting—which she knew, by old experience, well.
She opened her bedroom door and listened. She could hear nothing. Perhaps her cousin was gone, perhaps he was still sitting in the drawingroom, quietly smoking his cigar. In any case, it seemed, she need not fear interruption; the way was clear. She hastily blew out her candles, locked her door, and slipped the key into her pocket; then noiselessly descending the stairs, she left the house unseen.
In the garden she hesitated, curious to know what they could all be doing; so she crept round the house and peeped in at the drawing-room window. Walter was still there, but he stood near the door, holding his aunts hand, and evidently taking his leave. Edith turned, and without more ado fled quickly in the darkness.
Even as Edith was leaving the cottage, Santley was already at the meeting-place, walking with impatient strides up and down the lonely lane selected for their interview, and wondering as every minute passed away why Edith did not come.
A week’s reflection, and the frequent sight of Edith’s pale, careworn face when they met in public, had brought him to this pass. He saw that she was suffering, and for the sake of what she had been to him he felt really sorry. Besides, he looked at the matter philosophically, and he asked himself, why should they quarrel? After all, she had been very patient and forbearing; and for that little fit of jealousy about Mrs. Haldane she had been sufficiently punished.
But perhaps there was another and a stronger motive for this sudden wish for a meeting and a reconciliation. So long as this absurd quarrel continued, it was evident Edith had no intention of visiting the Vicarage; and this fact alone subjected him to a series of unpleasant questions from his sister. Santley therefore decided that it would be better for him in every possible way to send the letter, which would be certain to effect a reconciliation.