Ere the lady had reached the door of the room, Edith spoke. Prolonged disappointment had given her courage.
“Mr. Santley is busy, I suppose?” she said.
“Mr. Santley—Charles? Oh, my dear, he’s not at home!”
“Not at home?”
“No. If he had been, do you suppose for a moment, my dear, he would have allowed you to be all this time in the house without coming out to say ‘How do you do’? If he had known you had been coming, of course he would have stayed in; but he didn’t know, so immediately after afternoon service he went to Foxglove Manor. He wanted to see Mrs. Haldane, and he said he should go straight from there to the church.”
Miss Santley was near the door. The moment she had finished speaking she passed out of the room, and left Edith alone.
It was not a pleasant task to her, this mentioning of Mrs. Haldane. She knew that people had already begun to speak somewhat unkindly of the relations between that lady and her brother. But since this was so, it was well that she should show to the world that she, his sister, thought nothing of it. Therefore she had made up her mind that, whenever it was necessary for her to mention that lady’s name, she would do so without reserve of any kind. It was the only way, she thought, to prevent such absurd rumours from taking root.
A very few minutes sufficed to make her toilet. At the end of that time she returned to the room where she had left Edith, to get her Prayer-book and the handkerchief which had fallen from her hand, and lay beside her chain.
“Ready, dear?” she asked brightly; then she paused, amazed.
There sat Edith, pale as a ghost, reclining in an easy-chair, with her head thrown back, and her forehead covered by a handkerchief soaked with eau-de-cologne.