She lowered her head as she spoke, and hid her face on his bosom.
There was silence. Then Santley spoke.
“Is this so, Edith?”
“Yes, dear; it is so!”
Again there was silence. Edith, trembling and almost happy, with her blushing face still hidden on his bosom, was waiting for him to bring her comfort, by gathering her fondly to his heart. But she waited in vain. The cold hands scarcely touched her shoulder; and the lovely eyes, gazing over her head, were fixed on vacancy. He was not thinking of her. Indeed, for the moment, he seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. As usual, he was thinking of himself, wondering what, in this extremely unpleasant emergency, it would be better for him to do. The news was not altogether startling to him. It was an event which, under existing circumstances, might reasonably have been expected; but hitherto it had not been of sufficient importance to trouble the clergyman’s thoughts. “Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,” had hitherto been his motto; consequently, for the moment he felt as if a mine had suddenly sprung beneath his feet. So when Edith raised her head, and asked tearfully, “Are you very angry, Charles?” he answered coldly, almost irritably—
“You cannot expect me to be pleased, Edith. But there is no use in talking about that. What we must discuss is, what is the next thing to be done?”
What was best to be done? It seemed to Edith there was only one thing that could be done, and she said so, quietly and firmly. But Santley, frowning ominously, positively shook her in his irritable impatience.
“Always harping on the one string!” he exclaimed angrily; “and yet I tell you it is impossible.”
“But why is it impossible?”
“There are a dozen reasons why I cannot marry you just now.”