CHAPTER XXI. IN THE VICARAGE PARLOUR.
Nearly the whole of this interview had been witnessed by Walter Hetherington. He had heard, yet he had not heard; for, though instinct told him that the voice was Edith’s, he could only catch fragments of what she said. Nevertheless, as he remained crouched in the shadow of the trees, he was conscious of sobs and tears, of stolen kisses and softly murmured words. He remained until the interview was over; then, when the two walked together back towards the village, he still very stealthily followed them. When they stopped again, he heard the passionate words of parting. His suspicions were, in his own despite, fast becoming certainties; they were soon established certainties beyond a doubt. He followed the girl after she had left her lover, and saw her stealthily open the door and disappear across the threshold of Edith’s home.
Then Walter turned, and feeling like one who has had a terrible nightmare, he walked back to his lodgings at the inn. He was sorry he had not had time to follow the man, for he remained completely in the dark as to who he might be. He got little sleep that night. The next morning he awoke sadly unrefreshed. After breakfast he strolled out among the meadows; and when he heard the bells ring, calling the villagers to prayer, he entered the church with the rest.
When the congregation had assembled and the clergyman was in his place, Walter looked about for Edith. He felt almost a sense of relief when he saw that she was present; it repulsed him to think of her calmly joining in the service after the events of last night. He looked at the gallery where the school children bestowed themselves, and saw Dora, quiet, unobtrusive, and happy, sitting serenely amongst her flaxen-haired flock. How cosy, how comfortable she was! but the very bitterness of his heart compelled him to ask himself the question: was she as bad as the rest? At one time, yes, even so late as the preceding night, he had possessed so much blind faith in genuine human nature as to believe that the face indicated the soul. Now, however, he felt that such a belief was puerile and false. No woman on earth could possess a more spiritual countenance than his cousin Edith—yet his eyes had assured him of the blackness and impurity of her soul. Disappointment was turning his heart to gall.
At last the service was ended: the congregation streamed forth, Walter amongst the rest. The crush was so great he could hardly get along—for Mr. Santley was a popular preacher. Once outside the edifice, Walter paused to draw his breath and look about him. He started, turned first hot, then cold, for not many yards from him was Edith herself, calmly leaving the church with the rest. Almost before he could recover himself she saw him, and advanced with a bright smile and outstretched hand.
“I saw you in church,” she said, “and thought you looked dreadfully pale. Are you not well, Walter?”
He murmured something about late hours and a sleepless night; then he had to confess he had been looking about for her, for he added—
“I did not see you in church.”